Finding me in France

by Bobbi French

  I suppose there’s nothing to do but keep at it with CDs, books, lessons, practice and perhaps a little intervention from above. At this point I’d be happy to resume my previous role as the woman who says inappropriate shit on a regular basis. Is it too much to ask the gods to rub a bit of garlic on my foot and serve it to me on a silver platter?

  BON COURAGE

  The dreaded 15th of January is nigh. Even before we left for France this date has been an ever-present whisper of doom floating around in my head. Tomorrow Neil begins his long journey back to Canada. Poor man, he’s been run ragged all week preparing for his monster workweek across the pond, but someone has to pay the bills and I nominate him. But what about me? I’m the one being abandoned in the land of butter and verbs to fend for myself, woman vs. wild, without so much as a vague clue how to communicate beyond, “I’ll have all remaining croissants in the bakery please.” It’s just not safe. Yesterday I left a folder in the unlocked car with all our banking information inside—account numbers, codes, everything. Just the other day I broke off a cork in a very nice bottle of wine and it was almost ruined. Last night I left the front door unlocked all night. Does this sound like a person who can be left unattended?

  I was fine until my bilingual neighbour, who knows every single thing there is to know about Semur, had to leave town unexpectedly for two weeks. She was my go-to gal in case of disaster. But as always, there’s an upside. I get the whole bed to myself without having to turn the snoring beast beside me every couple of hours like a giant rotisserie chicken. I get to pick the movies so I can guarantee myself a Matrix-free week. Also, for some strange reason, when Neil’s not here there’s far less laundry to do. Still, there is the river that’s rising by the hour, the watery cave, and the threat of starvation to contend with. But more than that, it’s about being by myself for a full week. I know all the parents out there are pulling their hair out and would kill for a week by themselves. For me it’s really about missing my sidekick. I realized that in almost ten years we’ve never been apart for more than a couple of days at a time. I’ll just miss him. But I’m supposed to be challenging myself in every way possible. I know I’m tougher than I think I am so bring it on I say. If anyone’s looking for me, I’ll be locked in the bathroom.

  DRIVEN TO DISTRACTION

  Who has time to feel frightened and forsaken with a calendar as full as mine? The best defense against loneliness, fear and panic is to keep yourself occupied. Or when all else fails get someone else to do it for you, an approach I favour for just about anything in life.

  My first night of solitude was easy. I cleaned myself up and joined my new friend Francis, a dapper retired English teacher and master gardener, to take in a Parisian string trio at the tiny town theatre. It’s such a blessing to hear world-class musicians this way. My French teacher Patricia was with us, and when I told her I was on my own she offered to take me on a field trip to Beaune for a bit of cultural exchange—a badly needed haircut. I imagine she thinks this will make up for her springing a whole new verb tense on me the other day. She’s a fascinating woman who previously ran a bed and breakfast in the Loire Valley for many years and taught language courses for multinational corporations. She’s ripping apart a big house here in Semur having just finished converting a riverside ruin into a sweet vacation cottage. She spent Christmas touring Morocco by camel and sleeping in a tent in the desert and she’s lived everywhere from Virginia to Portugal. Now she is starting an immersion language program here in town, which will apparently include makeovers for women abandoned by their husbands.

  Barring any unforeseen disaster the rest of my week should be smooth sailing. I have a coffee date with our new friend Anne, who was born and raised near Chicago. In the early ’60s she met her Swiss husband Michel, a gifted painter, and they settled in Burgundy to live off the land, hippiestyle. And I have a lunch date with Jacqueline, who I’m excited about getting to know better. I’m dying to hear all about her life in Paris where she was once a model (finally a woman as tall as I am). She also sold luxury Parisian apartments before setting up her lingerie shop here in Semur, and I imagine she has a story or two to tell.

  Of course, there’s a mountain of French study to get through, boxes and boxes of cereal to eat and toilets to clean. It’s a non-stop barrage of bonne vivante activities. Before I know it Sunday will be here when I know there’s something else I have to do; I just can’t recall it at the moment. Let me check my calendar. Oh yes, there it is, “pick Neil up at train station.” If anyone’s buying what I’m selling with that one, then I’m a better BS artist than I thought.

  CO-DEPENDENCY

  The King has returned and once more peace reigns in the palace. So happy was the Queen to receive him. I survived, of course I did, but I will say that his absence got me to thinking about this sense of dependency to which I have previously referred. I now know that I can be in France on my own, I just don’t like it. Apart from all the love business, it’s just easier when Rusty’s around as he allows for the convenient division of labour or, in my case, the absolute delegation of duties.

  The other day I was talking to an American man here and when I told him about my fear of being here on my own, he simply didn’t believe me. He told me it was not possible as I came across as such an “independent woman.” This is a phrase I’ve heard all my life and it’s always confused me. It is almost always used to characterize women. You never hear, “Oh, he’s very independent,” (Mommy groups do not count). And independent as opposed to what … tethered?

  Then a friend of mine gave me the gears when I told her of my misgivings about being here without Neil. She expressed her disappointment in me for becoming so dependent on a man and for single handedly bringing down the feminist movement. Before she called Ms. Steinem to turn me in, I tried to explain. I told her that I choose to see my relationship with Neil as mutually parasitic. Yes, I need him for many a thing, but in other ways he needs me too. For example, stain removal. If one desires the knowledge of what Neil has eaten in a day one need only sweep one’s gaze over his shirt. Breakfast will be found near the belt, while dinner is always slightly higher. Some people carry those Epi-Pens for their life threatening allergies. He needs a Tide stick.

  Then there was the time I found this grown man, a man who can do calculus in his head, standing naked at the top of the stairs with the shower running, his voice cracking with alarm, “Bobbi, I’m out of soap!” Of course, I directed him to the magic cupboard found in every house that seems to fall within the domain of those with ovaries—the linen closet. Finally, I am the chief of “have you seen my…?” Apparently I’m the only one who’s aware of the location of everything we own. So all this will need to be kept in mind as come April we do it all over again. Me, starving, mute, paralyzed with fear of water both inside and outside the little French house, and him, parading about Canada sporting the latest foodwear with no soap in sight.

  THE PLOT THICKENS

  Whenever god has laughed at my plans in the past it’s always been a kind and gentle chuckle, just to remind me of my place in things. But today the cackling from the great beyond is positively deafening. I find it convenient to direct blame towards a deity when I’ve just made one of the most startling decisions of my life.

  Behind the scenes and little by little, Neil and I have been moving forward with our work here in France. Day by day we were discovering what our new life would be like. And while it began peacefully and full of promise, as the bigger picture came into view, I began to have some serious doubts. The more I saw, the more uncomfortable I felt. I could see that come high season, my life would be relentlessly hectic, 24 hours a day, seven days a week. I kept my apprehension to myself, wrote it off as new career jitters and hoped it would go away. It did not, and by the time Neil left for Canada, I was incredibly conflicted. I decided that some time on my own was the perfect opportunity to sort it all out.

  I gave myself a thorough assessment. I took myself back to the days when I
was gainfully employed and I remembered what it was about all those kids that impressed me so much. It was how carefully they considered their futures; their tireless evaluation of all the options before them. It was their clear knowledge, even in the context of significant illness, that the decisions they made would forever alter the courses of their lives. They knew that if they got it wrong at the beginning, it would be wrong at the end. They also knew that the only opinions that really mattered were their own. Thankfully, the concept of doing things simply because they are expected has been lost on this generation. I somehow missed this my first go around, but there was no way I was missing it now.

  I methodically examined my resistance and, just for the record, excessive laziness was ruled out as the culprit. Yes, I came to France committed to making this opportunity work. And yes, I cut every cord possible to be free to focus on this new beginning. But instead of seeing all that as an imperative to continue, I saw it as all the more reason to make sure I didn’t find myself right back where I started, locked into a life that didn’t fit me. In the end my choice was less about rational method and more about intuition. I just knew this path was not the right one; that it had to be a means to another end. So, once I had convinced myself, all that remained was to convince one other person. Despite my many years of breaking bad news to people I can honestly say the thought of handing this little gem to Neil made me slightly dizzy.

  Once he settled in after his big week in Canada, we sat down for the talk. But before I could even get into my concerns he told me that he was having second thoughts about our venture. He had been offered an opportunity with a new client in Canada that he really wanted to pursue but he had no idea how to make it all work without making his life all about work. He had come to the same conclusion I had. In that moment I knew once and for all that my intuition was reliable. After all, it was what had led me to him.

  Well, I always say you’re never safe from surprise until you’re dead. So where does all this leave me exactly? I’d say nowhere. I am now officially adrift, a broad abroad with no Plan B. As for what’s next, I have no answer. The immediate plan is to keep calm and carry on wrestling with vocabulary. I suspect the ability to participate in a basic conversation is a requirement for most jobs around here and I’ll need all the help I can get. It’s not like I have a wide range of experience to fall back on, although I did work at a video store when I was in high school. Unless there’s a shop on the Rue de la Liberté that rents English movies to suicidal teenagers, I’m shit out of luck. I suppose I could just continue to be a kept woman. Of course such a situation is so far beneath me and yet so far, it’s not half bad.

  Intuition aside, I tend to have a high need for the known and limited knowledge of possible outcomes represents uncharted waters for me. But now I find myself floating in a sea of the unpredictable. Obviously, without the promise of a career here in France, everything changes for me. It also makes house buying all the more difficult. We’re still waiting to hear from the second bank on the Wreck which we now understand from the locals would take at least a year to 18 months to renovate. I’m not sure I can think about what will be happening in a year and a half. I don’t even know what’s happening next week. We’ve managed to negotiate to stay in this house until September, so that takes a little pressure off. But I’m surprised that I don’t feel more concerned than I do. It’s the strangest thing. It’s exactly the way I felt before I left Canada. I’m aware that things are happening but I’m oddly disconnected and willing to step back a little and see how it all plays out. Hopefully, an opportunity for me to make a living will make an appearance, as will the lodging fairy.

  I’ll have to put this dilemma out into the universe and see what comes back to me. I’ll make lemons from lemonade. The world is my oyster. This will turn out to be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Everything unfolds as it’s supposed to. Where’s the wine? It’s flowing like mud around here.

  FEBRUARY

  THE REAL HOUSEWIFE

  OF SEMUR-EN-AUXOIS

  So here I am, supposedly living the dream. The trouble is I’m not quite sure yet what the dream actually is. The property management idea was pretty much the only one I had. Now I’m left with The Question. What’s an unemployed unilingual psychiatrist in the middle of France to do with her time? Now that Neil has more work than he originally anticipated, he spends most of his day up in his makeshift office, which I try to avoid. Obviously I don’t wish to disturb him in the sacred place where his big ideas generate small bits of coloured paper that can be exchanged for food, heat and Kindle books. And, like every office he’s ever had, it’s a space that somehow, without warning, becomes overtaken by disarray and makes me feel sweaty and vaguely faint. Despite this, most days I fear that I might have to duct tape myself to my chair to prevent me racing up the stairs every half hour to show him the frivolity I’ve just unearthed on Twitter. Clearly I need to flesh out my role in the new regime, so I sat down with mon amour to discuss just how this was going to play out.

  We decided that I would keep on with the laundry, oh a big surprise that one. Also I will do the housecleaning, dare to dream I say, and be chief of supply management, the duties of which are noticing that we are low on toilet paper and adding it to the shopping list. It was a very interesting chat. He seems very pleased with this “new” arrangement. To me it feels quite uneven. He works a lot and I just keep doing things I’ve always done.

  The potential drawback here is somehow sliding into a permanent arrangement that sees me becoming a servant for my husband. But what if I just saw it for what it is? Not a woman who is subservient to her husband, nor a man who expects his wife to serve. Rather two people trying to figure out how to wear this new life; two partners who have come to an agreement. We remain equal in all things, respectful of one another’s tasks and each other’s role in things. Why, just last night you could’ve cut the equality with a knife when my better two-thirds turned to me and said, “How about giving me a pedicure?”

  WRECKLESS

  While my career plans have changed radically, other areas of my life haven’t changed in the slightest. We are still waiting to hear from the second bank. Today I spent an hour filling out medical questionnaires for mortgage insurance. Now I already have insurance up the wazoo in Canada, but French law says no French insurance, no Wreck, probably not a bad policy given my state of affairs. After all this finagling I’m not even sure I want it anymore. Just to recap, we’ve been at this since early October. With the benefit of time and distance, it’s starting to feel foolhardy. There’s nothing quite like signing documents you can’t understand to stir up a bit of caution. It’s absurd really, signing and initialling very official looking papers based on having only the gist of things. Of course I’ve done it many times before in Canada. I mean does anyone actually read every word of all the papers involved in a real estate deal? Not that I’m advising this, I’m just talking about how I tend to do things. Real estate, divorce, who has time for all the jargon?

  Now that any real income for me seems far off, maybe abandoning the Wreck is the smart thing to do. While we wait for yet another bank to determine if we are indeed too rickety for their tastes we’ll poke around for other options. On Saturday we’re going to see a place that’s supposedly all done. Nothing to do but unpack, hang a few pictures and voilà, instant life in France. See, I could get into that. After all the house drama we’ve created over the years, I wonder if two compulsive changers can renovate themselves into people who can just leave well enough alone?

  Certainly this morning it was clear that we’re not entirely prepared to change our barrel ahead approach as we signed papers that agree to who knows what. For all I know we’ve offered ourselves to be sacrificed at the next medieval feast here in the village. I’m not worried. There’s no way they’ve got a spit long enough for me. As for Neil, he’s a good bet, tender and sweet.

  WARNING:

  GIRAFFE CROSSING

  When I was a kid
my parents took me to Disney World and I remember those signs that said You Must Be This Tall To Enjoy This Ride, signs that never once excluded my gangly self. Perhaps there should be a big sign at the French border that says You Must Be This Short To Shower Here.

  We visited the elusive no work required property, which was charming enough despite the dirt and dust from being closed up for so long. It had an exposed wall of stone, an open fireplace, great views and even a large office space for the one of us who actually works. So far, so good I thought, lots of cleaning and only one bright orange wall to paint. For us, small pommes de terre. But on the second floor things went awry. Instead of two decent sized bedrooms there were three small, weirdly shaped rooms with very low beams. Okay, I can live with that, I thought, I’ll just take my helmet off when we invite people for dinner. Then the bathrooms, plural. Well, now we’re talking. I always say the success of every relationship depends on an extra toilet. Of course good personal hygiene also helps maintain domestic bliss and therein lies the problem. The slope of the ceiling in the showers is not giraffe friendly. Particularly so if you are one that has plates and screws in your neck that prevent even the simple task of draining the last drop from a skinny wine glass. So walk away or rip them out and start over. Is there no end to this silliness for us? But in a town with so few possibilities, all must be considered carefully.

  So we’re actually thinking about this one long and hard. Unless I shrink four inches over the next couple of weeks, I might find myself renovating, albeit on a much smaller scale. Smaller scale. Somehow this phrase is not the least bit reassuring. From where I stand it doesn’t make a damn bit of difference if I’m in quicksand up to my ankles or up to my neck, no matter how great the distance between them.

  BREATHE IN,