by Bobbi French
Of course it was like it at first sight but even after just a few days here I’m in love. A few more nights together and I think the housette and I could live happily ever after, boiler and all.
THE EYE OF
THE BEHOLDER
A wise woman once said, “Beauty’s where you find it.” Of course I am referring to the greatest philosopher of our time, Madonna, who had the wisdom to finish it off with, “Not just where you bump and grind it.” I’ve always been able to look at things that are shabby and worn and see them in my mind’s eye, remodeled and reborn, which might explain a few interesting relationships in my past but I’m getting off track.
I remain sans desk so I doodle away on my laptop while sitting at the dining table located dangerously close to the kitchen, the perfect storm for creating body parts that will need some remodeling. In between bonbons and emails I find myself staring out the window and there it is every time.
Sure, it’s seen better days, but I look at it, close my eyes and the transformation immediately materializes in my mind. I see the door and windows painted that lovely shade of pale blue-grey so often seen in these parts. I see clay flowerpots on the windowsills overflowing with bright pansies and geraniums. I can even see the soft linen curtains billowing from the open window while the sound of a scratchy French record drifts across the breeze. I spend far too much time staring at this rough diamond, redoing it over and over, when really I should be spending a bit more time looking at my very own eyesore.
The inside of our new home needs no changing, apart from the addition of a servant wing, so I shall have to turn my Obsessive Change Disorder outward. It’s already started but as anyone can see, it still needs some attention. We’ve done plenty of gardens before, once a huge Japanese garden with an elaborate waterfall, but I suspect ornamental grasses and dwarf maple trees won’t do here. No, here I see lavender and roses along the low stone wall, huge white hydrangeas in the back corner and ivy-covered walls. I close my eyes and I can see a clematis snaking up the stone wall behind a small park bench that sits on pale gravel, a little piece of French heaven. Neil sees tomato plants and basil, a barbecue and lounge chair, a little piece of husband heaven. The problem is, I want it done yesterday. How hard could it be to metamorphose this mess to its maximum potential (a question I typically ask myself as I enter a gym)? I asked Neil to come and look at it with me, to stand in the middle of the weeds and nettles and close his eyes to conjure up a mental image of it all taking shape. My vision featured a sweaty, sunburned, swearing redheaded man digging and planting to save his life. For some reason, he couldn’t see that at all.
PARADISE FOUND
I slaved and I toiled. I reaped and I sowed. I tilled and I filled. And like magic, this appeared …
Mon petit jardin. When I said I toiled and all that, what I meant was that I called a guy named Sebastien who came and did it in a day and for dirt-cheap. I’m so happy to finally have my own little French garden but truthfully it scares me a little. In my old life, finishing a garden was always somehow the cue to put the For Sale sign on the lawn. Dear demons of moving and chaos: please let me have this one for a while. I’ll give up swearing. I’ll learn the French conditional tense. I’ll even consider (I said consider) getting an actual job. Anything, just as long as I don’t have to move again anytime soon.
I love the bench the most. I sit there with my cup of tea or glass of wine and I admire the terraced gardens, ancient red tiled roofs and the medieval church as its bells echo across the river every hour, as if I really ever need to know what time it is. And I love the pale gravel, so Frenchy with the added bonus of no need for mowing. Obviously any garden is never as lovely as it will be next year, but I think it’s a good start. It still needs something, like a fountain or a statue. Or maybe just a big old rooster like the one I found today sound asleep in his new lounge chair. Oh god love him, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Neil look so peaceful. As I gazed upon my sleeping beauty I thought, this moment calls for quiet reflection. This moment calls for serene contemplation. This moment calls for a bucket of ice water.
THE YEAR OF LOUNGING
DANGEROUSLY
Last week, our blue bubble car was checked into the garage for some TLC and it stayed there for two days. I didn’t even notice it was gone which got my old noodle cooking. A year ago, this insignificant event would have sent me into an out-and-out tailspin. I used to have to book car service months in advance to fit it into my hectic schedule and, thanks be to Acura, I never had a breakdown, not a vehicular one anyway. Small things, big things, everything actually, revolved around my all-consuming job. What a difference a year makes. In fact, it was exactly one year ago today that I woke, unassisted by a jarring alarm clock, to face to my first day of unemployment. Twelve months and 3000 croissants later, here I am, a person I often don’t recognize. And I don’t mean all the times I’m frightened half to death by that grey-haired woman in the mirror.
So two things on this very fine day. First, reflection, on how quickly time is passing and how extraordinarily fortunate I’ve been to experience this past year which leads me to the second, gratitude. People often ask each other what’s the best gift they’ve ever gotten? For sure I’ve received many a fine cadeau in my day, but now I don’t even have to think about my answer: “One time my husband gave me a year off.” I know I make fun of him because it’s just so easy, but all jokes aside, not a day has gone by in the last year when I don’t fully understand just what he’s given me. He is an uncommonly beautiful person, he is love in its purest form, and he is my heart.
Anyway, enough about that fool, it’s all about me. Who knows what the next year will bring? Really, can we ever predict what even the next moment in time will bring? And while it’s wonderful to spend all my time sipping French wine and complaining to my husband that dinner is late, there’s always the risk of becoming too settled in a state of repose and relaxation with no way out. But I had my big girl pants on when I came into this and hopefully I’ll be wearing the same pants if the merde hits the fan. I still have a little more down time left before I have to figure it all out. My work will be to keep doing what I’ve been doing and quietly consider my options. It’s a dangerous job, but somebody has to do it.
OH. MY. GUEUX.
This little town continues to reveal itself to me and bring me wonders I could never have imagined. Once again medieval is the theme du jour and this past weekend les Semurois were in fine form.
For days I’d been watching people down by the river preparing for some unknown event. Then yesterday morning, I saw that our street was blocked off with big strapping gendarmes all about, so we wandered down the hill to see what was going on. Holy mackerel! The place was an absolute mardi gras. The Lessive Des Gueux was in full swing, a festival celebrating “hygiene” rituals from the Dark Ages. Now medieval and cleanliness are not words that naturally occur together in my mind and I knew that this was going to get smelly. With great fanfare, the most disgusting souls in France descended an ancient staircase to greet their many fans.
All Hail the Queen of Filth ...
And the Princess of Pestilence ...
Any woman who comes this close while cackling, ”A kiss for the fish?” is a kindred spirit in my view. She reminded me so much of my beloved homeland, where we too ask anyone who wants to become an honorary member of our fair society to make out with a dead fish. But this beauty was tame in comparison to this “lady”...
In her raised hand is a piece of half-rotted fish that she’s about to let fly, as is the tradition. I had to duck into a fellow foreigner’s house to avoid a wet slimy slap on the head, although several pieces managed to find their way through the open windows. But I have to give the French their due, what exactly are they heaving about? Salmon. Thick filets fit for a delicate sauce and a bottle of chilled Chablis. No kippers will do for this crowd.
So, while the town was being fish bombed, the Gueux stormed the river.
Clearly, antibiotics
should be handed out by the bucket load for this activity. It’s hard to describe the energy and excitement of this day. Everyone was united in spirit and having the time of their lives including us. The festivities went on late into the night, and what a show they put together. They performed an elaborate re-enactment of peasant life with feudal lords, armour clad knights, huge, Xena-like warrior princesses led by the leather-clad Eczema, all narrated by a booming voice from the sky. It was hilarious, which I knew only because Elodie patiently translated for me. Under the bright moon and stars, people juggled torches and danced to music from the Middle Ages as red smoke billowed around the ancient ramparts.
The night ended with a stunning fireworks display while the Gueux and all the townspeople sang an ancient Burgundian song, a tradition at any event here whether it’s a festival like this one or a feisty handball tournament. It’s a song with elaborate hand movements and complicated clapping and is just one of the many things I have to learn if I want to really fit in here. In fact, I’m going to get started on next year’s festival right now. As soon as Neil comes out of that office, I’m going to haul a piece of cod out of the freezer and whack him in the head with it. Cultural assimilation is a very high priority for me.
THERE’S NO PLACE
LIKE HOME
We’ve made friends with a couple here who live an enviable life. They met in Hong Kong, were married in South Africa and then embarked on a journey of epic proportions moving from country to country on a whim. They would find work wherever they went and were so successful in doing so that they now have a life that allows them to live half time on the coast of Spain and half time by the river here in Semur. They spend their days meandering about France led entirely by their appetites for the finer things in life. They travel all around this great land in search of the best restaurants and hotels. If I didn’t like them so much, I’d hate them. She sends me web links to all the places they visit, and for sure these two really know how to roll in style.
Moi? Not so much. Oh I’ve been to a few places: Beaune, Dijon, Chablis and a few other wine villages, but for the most part these days I stay put. What with Neil’s busy schedule, setting up the housette and a limited budget, it’s what’s on my plate at the moment. But I can’t say it’s a bad deal this. Every day for me is a Michelin three star experience. I get up when I feel like it and, beyond laundry and the odd toilet scrub, my time is my own. I have delicious meals served to me by a man who could be on the cover of Scottish GQ. I drink exquisite wine for centimes a glass and I meet intriguing people from all over the world every day. Plus, why would I need to go anywhere else when every time I leave my house the first thing I lay eyes on is this …
Never mind the rest of the country, the only travelling I want to do is over the wall to see what’s hidden behind that green door. Someday, maybe I’ll see all of France, but for now the yellow brick road ends here.
MODELOF RESTRAINT
You know the more things change, the more they stay the same. Take Sundays. A new life in France was no reason for me not to spend a grey afternoon watching The Fugitive while eating dry cereal out of the box. That is, until I got a call from my husband out on a walk saying he’d landed smack in the middle of a vide grenier in the centre of town. Now this was worth abandoning the couch for. Vide grenier means empty attic and, despite the moratorium on spending and acquisition, I just had to see if one country’s junk is another woman’s treasure. Basically, it’s a big community wide garage sale, speaking of which I passed a garage on the way that I wish was for sale …
But really, where would I put it? Unfortunately, there’s nothing quite like stall after stall of things you don’t need to bring on a serious case of the “I wants.” The problem over here is that even the stuff people are trying to get rid of sends me swooning. I want these chairs …
I want all this stuff, even the Pile Wonder sign.
Now I want this copper thingy even though I haven’t the faintest idea what it’s for.
And I want all three of these.
Regardless of my desire, I was profoundly disciplined and well-behaved. I didn’t buy one thing because, as everyone knows, I am a solid and sensible human being. And it wasn’t even that difficult. Ten, maybe fifteen reminders from my wise husband that we had neither space nor need for such bric-a-brac was all it took. Although I did come really close on this one …
And I was convinced that, no matter what the cost, I just had to have it, until I remembered … I have one at home exactly like it.
RESTRAINT, MY ASS
Okay, I might not have told the whole story about my afternoon at the Semur vide grenier. Those who know me were likely suspicious when I said that a rummage sale would be enough to drag me away from an afternoon with Tommy Lee Jones. I left out something Neil said to me on the phone that had me sprinting up the stairs, one leg already out of the sweatpants that have taken root to me. It seems that a man need only utter one word to get me undressed: donkeys. I love donkeys. We see them around here all the time but always from a speeding car, so when he called and said there were dozens of donkeys in the middle of Semur, I was off like a shot. As expected there were donkeys at work pulling gleeful children around in wooden carts. But the surprise was that the rest of these adorable creatures were for sale! Now, is this the time to talk about fiscal responsibility or space constraints when a donkey or un ane (literally translated, an ass) named Tulipe was looking for a good home?
Or what about this one, who reminded me so much of myself that I found it hard to believe that Neil didn’t agree we could pass her off as our progeny?
But my favourite of the lot was this little guy. So poised, so agile, so refined and dignified.
I really, really wanted one. But Neil just wouldn’t hear of it, he of the great austerity and all that. He just didn’t understand that this was not the time to focus on things as petty as money. I mean what woman in her right mind wouldn’t break the bank for a new ass?
AUGUST
MEETING
OF THE MINDS
Now that I’m all set up housette-wise, there’s really no excuse. I have all the tools at my disposal, three dictionaries, two grammar books, comprehensive conjugation texts, CDs and of course, the ultimate language acquisition strategy—access to an entire population that speaks nothing but the language I’m meant to be learning. But over the last six weeks or so I’ve let the language study fall so far to the wayside that I’ve forgotten half of what I’ve learned. No excuses, but plenty of obvious reasons. Ah, nothing quite like the word obvious to spring a recovering psychiatrist into action. Perhaps there are darker, more sinister, dare I say, unconscious forces at work here. There’s only one way to sort this one out. To the Couch.
Retired me: “I must learn to speak French and I want to, I really do.”
Dr. me: “Hmm. And yet all I’ve seen you do today is scarf down enough pastry to choke a pig.”
Retired me: “Doc, a girl’s gotta eat right? Look, I’m old, well old-ish. I’m lazy. And learning a new language is way more romantic in theory than in practice. It’s really hard. Doctor, you just don’t understand.”
Dr. me: “I understand very well that you’ve perfected the art of whining and dining. Now here’s what else I understand, there’s a poor red-headed man sitting at his desk deciphering international tax statutes, in French I might add, to avoid white-collar prison, while a grey-haired woman lounges on the terrace, a Kindle in one hand and a Mai Tai in the other.”
Retired me: ‘Yes, but I think he likes doing everything. I suspect it makes him feel manly and superior and all that. What are you trying to get at, exactly?”
Dr. me: “Well, it’s entirely possible that you are avoiding French study so you don’t actually have to do anything, so things get magically taken care of without any effort on your part. You know, as a way to escape responsibility for anything.”
Retired me: “All right, all right, you might be on to something there. I did hear that you were the
best psychiatrist in the world, but I don’t know, just once couldn’t a cigar just be a cigar? Maybe I’m not cut out for a new language in my state of advanced decrepitude.”
Dr. me: “Nonsense. Look at you, why I’ve never seen a 43-year-old woman of such staggering youthfulness. I mean why you’re not the new face of Lancôme here in France is beyond me, but I’m going off track. Remember the other day when your husband presented a bunch of papers for you to sign?”
Retired me: “You mean the driver’s licence stuff?”
Dr. me: “Exactly. Somehow this man discovered that France would grant you a driver’s licence without having to take a driver’s test but only if 25 pages of documents were submitted before a certain date. How he knew this you had no idea, but like everything else he took care of it and all you had to do was sign your name. How does that make you feel?”
Retired me: “Smart. I’m a genius for marrying him.”
Dr. me: “Hmm. Interesting. So as long as you avoid French, he’ll have to continue to do everything and you can just smile, play dumb and all will be well. How does that make you feel?”
Retired me: “Downright crafty. I have to tell you Doc, the evidence for this I’m-a-genius theory is piling up.”
Dr. me: “I think you’re not being true to yourself here. I think you might be a little worried that you’re not carrying your weight, that maybe you’re even taking advantage of his kindness, unconsciously of course.”
Retired me: “What is it with you shrinks and this unconscious business? I wish you were unconscious. Okay, okay. I see what you’re saying, learn French or be dependent forever. Merde or get off the pot. Oh, you are good.”