by Bobbi French
BREATHE OUT
Meanwhile it’s been grey and gloomy here since winter began. I’ve never seen such persistent weather in my life. The temperature goes up and down but the skies remain dark, making the town seem a little shabby and sad. I think we’ve seen the sun twice since late October. But this morning I woke to Neil raving about a yellow glowing object in an oddly blue sky and I thought a road trip was in order. We hopped in our little voiture and visited a few nearby villages and our spirits brightened considerably.
And while I’m in the car, allow me to veer off for just a minute. For some reason, I can’t seem to stay awake for more than ten minutes as a passenger over here. This is a completely new experience for me so we think it has something to do with the engine vibrations or maybe the diesel fumes, hence Neil’s latest term of endearment for me, diesel head. Picture me barely conscious but desperately trying to stay awake so I don’t miss a single bit of France. I resist it with all my might, my head bobbing and drifting to the side until it finally hits the window, snapping me back from a dream like state with a snort, followed by me shouting, “What did I miss?” Then, 30 seconds later, it starts all over again and lasts for as long as it takes for us to get there. Neil thinks it’s très amusant but for me it’s très frustrant. By the time we get to wherever we’re going I’m like a wet noodle.
So we were driving home after our leisurely day and I was in fine form when Neil slammed on the brakes, yelling, “Did you see that?” I saw nothing but my life before my eyes but apparently we’d just missed hitting a large deer. At least now I was half awake to see what happened next. We picked up some speed, rounded a corner and there, in the middle of the road, stood three men with their arms in the air. In my stuporous state I wondered what the odds were of them all being dressed alike. We stopped and the officer walked up to the window and asked Neil a question. I have no idea what. Between my fuzzy head and the French I didn’t have a hope of knowing what the hell was going on. Although Neil’s emphatic, “Non, Monsieur,” did register with me. And I perked up considerably when I saw him come face to face with a breathalyzer. Of course being the ever-helpful wife I added, “Well, there was that glass of wine at lunch.”
The officer guffawed at the couple of lightweights before him but persisted in waving the nozzle in Neil’s face and instructed him to blow. It registered 0.0 and we were on our way. Afterwards it seemed so odd. No, “Let’s see your licence and registration sir,” no polite or impolite chitchat, just blow. Middle of a country road, five o’clock on a Saturday afternoon and the gendarmes were out doing roadblocks for boozers. Just before descending into oblivion and resuming my slack-jawed, drooling pose, I managed to slur, “I wonder why they singled us out?”
ZEN AND THE ART OF
MACARON MAINTENANCE
The Great Canadian Purge was merciless. Not even my precious book collection survived. Out they went, Pablo Neruda, Carol Shields, Henry James. Even David Sedaris didn’t make the cut. I kept one book and one book only, The Places That Scare You: A Guide To Fearlessness in Difficult Times by Pema Chödrön, a Buddhist nun who teaches at a Tibetan monastery in, of all places, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. The reasons I kept this one for my current caper should be fairly obvious.
Well, today’s a day when I wish I still had my faithful admin assistant Bonny with me. I’d race up to her yelling, “Get me Pema Chödrön on the phone right now! While you’re at it, see where Karen Maezen Miller is and what the Dalai Lama’s up to, because I have single-handedly discovered the pathway to inner peace.” But first let me explain my terms of enlightenment. The answer came to me after a long period of, let’s call it reflection, that involved lounging in bed for half the day, then sitting in a chair for the other half followed by some quality time on the couch, ending with a return to bed. Cripes, this inner peace is hard work.
I started with thinking about how I ended up here; about how I happened to find myself in a small town in France; about how I wound up jobless, bookless, hairless. Then I launched into pondering the future. What will become of me? What if I can’t ever speak French any better than I do today? What if I get really sick over here? What if I have nowhere to live come September? What if skinny jeans stay in style forever? As usual, I let my brain run on autopilot and propel me into a state of absolute paralysis. It was in this moment of self-generated turmoil that the meaning of life revealed itself to me. My husband passed me these …
Macarons. The famous French cookie with its egg shell-like crust and delicate meringue texture followed by a layer of dark chocolate crème that would arrest even the most rampant stream of consciousness. These are no ordinary macarons. These are the Semur version and no words can capture their power. Butter and cocoa, the only two things required to ease the tortured soul.
I realized that every single decision I’ve ever made has led me to this moment, to these cookies. Today, the past and future are not my business. There is only the now of macarons. I asked the macaron, “What the hell am I doing here?” And the macaron said, “You think too much. Shut up and eat.”
TOWN AND COUNTRY
Almost every weekend now there’s a distant plume of smoke that releases the sharp aroma of chestnut wood that will forever be locked in my senses as France. So when the lovely Anne and Michel offered us a most intriguing invitation, “Please come to our fire on Sunday,” I thought call me Smoky the Giraffe, I’m in.
We presented ourselves in our puffy down coats, fleece gloves and fur lined winter boots and were welcomed by a local man who looked us up and down and declared, “You two look very urban.” We’re Canadians, what do you expect? We spend half the year in below zero weather so to me a metallic silver North Face coat is entirely acceptable gear for any occasion. But who the hell knows what to wear to a bonfire in the French countryside? Apparently everyone at le cookout. I could immediately see that we were lacking the tweed, wool and rubber that would have allowed us to blend in. Quite excitedly, Neil turned to me, “I’m going to have to get a whole country ensemble.” Ah, this explains the many times our gay friends have reacted to my husband with a raised eyebrow and a hopeful smile. While I never doubt his loyalty to our side, he does show signs of wanting to defect from time to time—the key to the super husband I always say.
Of course this was no ordinary bonfire. It was a full-scale gourmet event. Fine wines in stemmed glasses, marinated chicken and local sausages tossed on the grill at the base of the fire, elaborate salads, baskets of baguettes, creamy cheeses on wooden boards, vanilla spice loaf, almond cake, beignets and, of course, espresso served fireside. Mon Dieu. I was expecting a wiener on a stick and a few marshmallows. What a day. I met a nine-year-old girl who speaks French and English and is now about to embark on a six-month exchange trip to Germany for the linguistic hat trick. I also met her mother, miraculously taller than me, who told me that she either has to buy her clothes in Germany or Switzerland or have them made by a couturière. Now I want a couturière, and the minute I can say it I’m getting one. Anne showed me her incredible atelier where she makes her stunning silver jewelry. And now I want an atelier. I can’t actually make anything, I just want to say, “If you need me, I’ll be in my atelier consulting with my couturière.”
Despite the dreary weather, we were once again wrapped in the warmth of Burgundians. Maybe I’ll scrap this whole town concept and become a country girl. At least I know who’ll help me put together the perfect outfit.
MARCH
SHOCK TO THE SYSTEM
Now I knew before I moved to France that at some point I’d have to deal with the whole spine of glass issue. But for the last six months I’ve deluded myself that maybe it was all behind me, that by some miracle, retirement coupled with copious amounts of pastry and wine had cured me of my woes. That is, until I woke up one day and could no longer move my head. Privacy desires aside, I can endure some indecent exposure for the sake of international relations and cultural exchange. I’ll skip the gory details and stick to the diving-into
-the-medical-system-in-a-foreign-country ones. And oh what a system it is.
My week was a full out onslaught of tests and examinations that started with a trip to the local family doctor, who referred me to a neurologist in Dijon. Just three days later I was sitting on a velvet baroque chair in his office. I can almost hear Canadians gasping in amazement. When things got a little worse, I wound up in the local ER. After five minutes of waiting, a very pleasant young doctor examined me and ordered an X-ray and a CT scan. Forty-five minutes later I was walking to the car with the films in my hand. I hope none of the Canadians hit their heads as they pass out cold-junk on the floor from this one.
As is par for the course for me, an MRI was ordered, for which I waited a total of six days. In addition to a large hospital, Semur has its own ritzy radiology clinic, set in the middle of a field and completely funded by the state, where you can walk in and make an appointment for an ultrasound or a mammogram for whenever it’s convenient for you. But the nearest MRI is located in Chenove, about a 40-minute drive from Semur. The clinic is exclusively for MRI examinations and, bien sûr, is named after a wine. Ten minutes after my scan, I met with the radiologist who gave me a full verbal report (in French, naturally), but I was too impressed by the process to be concerned. I was then handed a written report along with CDs of the scan tucked into a glossy folder, all for a little more than half the cost in Canada. All medical reporting here is done this way. Anytime something gets poked, prodded, swabbed or scraped, the results are either provided immediately or mailed to your home the minute they are available. I suspect by now any Canadian reading this has succumbed to an irreversible state of shock.
As a physician, I was astounded by the efficiency of this public system. I was equally impressed by the pleasant and cordial manner of the health care personnel here. The morale seems high and it appears to be quite important to them that they offer patients high quality service. I too must remember to be courteous when I craft my letter to the Canadian minister of health and refrain from closing with, “I suggest you bureaucratic meatheads stop discussing it to death, get on a goddamn plane and let the French show you how it’s done.”
Thankfully, it looks like I’m going to recover without having to meet any French surgeons. While I was certainly unhappy to need it, I was more than happy to have a first-hand experience of this famous system. On the whole, I’d say the best part of the whole rigmarole was going sans one of those wretched hospital gowns, as I tend not to do well with arse-tothe-world situations. Here in France, they wouldn’t dream of requiring their patients to wear such distasteful garb. Instead, all that’s needed is the removal of clothing that has any metal. They know how to do it all right, I thought as the handsome French technician in his designer jeans and patent leather shoes escorted me to the scanning room. How sophisticated, how extraordinarily dignified, to saunter down a cold corridor under fluorescent lighting wearing a grey cashmere sweater, black tube socks and $1.99 blue cotton underpants.
LA MAN CAVE
I’m not up to 100 per cent but at least I’m up and about. After four weeks of taking it easy, also known as lying on a bed and staring at the ceiling until you descend into madness, I’m finally getting out of the house. And not a moment too soon, because the weather is suddenly glorious. Who knew that there are places in the world where spring actually arrives before the end of May? Why, it seems like only yesterday that I rolled out of my tent in Terra Nova Park on May 24th weekend, hungover and blue from the cold, into half a foot of snow. Ah, those were the days. Here in Semur, the forsythia is in bloom, the willow trees are coming to life and the window boxes are already full of flowers. So spine be damned, a walk was in order.
We stopped in front of the Wreck for a moment and in the warm sunshine we dreamed of the finished product for the millionth time. Everything seems easy in the first blush of spring. A little further up the street we stopped to admire a fully renovated house when, out of nowhere, a man appeared who greeted us enthusiastically, congratulated us on moving to France and asked us what we liked about his house. Oh, where to start? He told us that the house dates back to the 1600s and then he bolted down the hill to get his keys because we just had to see his cave. He raced back like an excited child, swung open the doors and voilà, la cave, which, as far as I could tell, was basically a garage with a curved stone ceiling. Inside there were tools and all kinds of crap that one usually finds in places where cars are supposed to be kept. I was a bit underwhelmed to say the least. I was thinking, this is your man cave? Where’s your massive flat screen television and framed Montreal Canadiens jersey? Then I looked a little closer and behind all the rakes and shovels, resting against the dark walls, were bottles and bottles of wine, too many to count. He went to the back wall where there was a large piece of cloth hanging in front of several milk crates. He reached in behind and with dramatic flair started pulling out wine from his collection, dusty bottles from the ’40s to the ’80s with beautifully ornate labels from all over France.
Now North American men, take note. This is a man cave. Not some panelled rec room with orange shag carpet, a bar with brown vinyl padding, a neon beer sign and posters of NASCAR drivers. Not that I would frown on such a room. I’m not that one of those wives who tries to own every inch of the house. I’ve decided that my man can have a room all for himself if he wants, his very own sanctuary, a mantuary if you will, and he can fill it with any vintage he likes.
THE OLD GREY MARE
According to Wikipedia, 43 years ago today GM produced its 100 millionth car and, according to my mother, on the very same day, she produced me. I’m 43 but I don’t look a day over 55. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always taken the day off work, the one day a year when I can do whatever the hell I please. So I called Neil to tell him that I wouldn’t be coming in to do the laundry or clean the bathroom. I also told him that I needed his Visa number and I got busy with the very important business of trolling the web for the perfect present.
I’ve decided that I want a pair of pretty French shoes for summer. Girly shoes, not my usual orthopedic canoes, but strappy lady shoes that require nail polish and maybe even a flowy skirt. Bear in mind that the last time I wore a dress there was a guy in a dark suit next to me vowing to make my dinner for the rest of his life. I bookmarked a few pairs and set off for a walk. After scaling the stone stairs and navigating century-old cobblestone streets, all while avoiding pile after pile of dog poop, it occurred to me that maybe shiny red sandals are more than a little ambitious for my petite ville life. And as I walked to the edge of town and saw what my neighbours were wearing I realized that I might need to rethink my plans for my husband’s money.
Maybe I’m not just another year older. Maybe I’m actually getting wiser in my middle age. After chatting a bit with these gals, it dawned on me that I don’t need new shoes to fit in. I can blend in without spending a dime.
I have to admit the resemblance is uncanny. Next time I see her, I have to remember to ask her who cuts her hair.
THE RUBBER STAMP
I’ve finally learned how long it takes for two Canadians to get approved for a mortgage in France. To be fair, I have no idea how long it takes for immigrants in Canada, something to think about, but here it takes six months. Six bloody months. While I was laying in the MRI scanner last week, the bank manager called Neil with the good news. It’s a good thing I was confined within a giant magnetic tube. All I could think of was that scene in Terms Of Endearment where Shirley MacLaine runs around the hospital screaming like a bedraggled banshee, “GIVE MY DAUGHTER THE SHOT!” Well, that would have been me grabbing anyone I saw by the lapels screaming, “GIVE ME THE FRENCH WORD FOR IRONY!” Turns out it’s ironie. Of course it is.
Now I say irony because now that we have a mortgage we have nothing to buy. We had been holding back a little for a couple of reasons. The word on the street was that the seller of the Wreck wanted to up the already high price. Mais oui, spring is here and soon foreigners will turn to t
hinking about French Wreck-buying, so why not jack it up? Good for her, but not so good for us. And then there was the plumbing thing. Every time we asked someone about the extrusion path of excrement, the answer was the same: somewhere, who knows? I know where this is going. Half the budget will get eaten up with carving sewer lines through the granite hill that the house sits on, so we’ll know where our food goes but have no kitchen to make any.
While all the waiting was going on we had gone to see an apartment for rent, which didn’t work for us but presented renting as a viable option. After plenty of discussion we came to the conclusion that renting was indeed the path to continued mental health. No pressure, no long-term commitment and plenty of time to kick back and see what happens. We know now (I knew all along) that this is the truly sensible thing to do, and I was so proud of us saying no to madness and yes to sanity. But as usual, it was only temporary sanity. Once the mortgage approval came through, with a limited time to either accept or not, we went right back to the house idea. What a pair of morons, but after six months of tireless effort it felt wrong not to put it to use somehow.
Here’s where it gets really interesting. While we figure out this house issue we need to hedge our bets. At the very least we’ll need somewhere to live if the renovation ever actually comes to pass. Now there is a whole new approval process that requires the same mountain of paperwork to determine if we’re fit to be renters here in France. And here I thought I was done seeking the approval of others. As for the application for a simple life … denied.
GIRAFFE OF STEEL
Everyone had a favourite superhero. I used to dream of being Wonder Woman. But now that I’m a woman myself, I wonder how I ever took a superhero in a bustier and satin underpants seriously. How can you be expected to stave off criminal masterminds with satin panties wedged halfway up your arse and a boob hanging out? Anyway, the point is that I too am a superhero. Today I managed to successfully mail a package at the post office all by myself. Oh I can just imagine the ribbing I’d receive from my friends at home. I mean who the hell can’t mail a parcel? But I challenge anyone to head on up to the local UPS and try to mail a package in Swahili. Trust me, it’s major.