Finding me in France

by Bobbi French

  Dr. me: “ Yes I know. I think you’ve made some real progress today but I see that our time is up.”

  Retired me: “Great, I feel better already. Send my husband the bill.”

  QUESTIONS

  AND ANSWERS

  Most days I don’t give this charmed life a second thought. I roll out of bed at the crack of noon and do whatever comes naturally. It’s become routine and mindless and thoroughly effortless. Life just moves along. But because I am still a recovering psychiatrist I remain somewhat prone to over-thinking with a slight tendency toward endless self-evaluation. Every now and then I’m overwhelmed with what I’ve done with my life and it comes over me like a wave. It could be hormonal or it could be that I realize what I’ve given up and what I’ve left behind—friends and family to sit and chat with over a drawn out meal on a warm summer evening, the people I loved working with, financial independence, sour cream.

  The other day as we were driving along a quiet country road, with no warning whatsoever the mind game began. Do you know that you haven’t had a haircut since January or set foot in a gym in almost a year? Do you realize that your Canadian residency will lapse in less than two months? You do understand that you have not one job prospect in the foreseeable future, right? (Heart rate rising, skin cold and clammy). I mean what in god’s name are you doing here, woman? And then, in the middle of my internal interrogation, France answered me with a whisper, “Stop the car and get out. Stop thinking for a minute and look at me.”

  “Step back, quiet your mind and be still.”

  “Now, step back a little more and you’ll understand what you are doing here.”

  “Tell me, right now, in this moment, what else is there to know?” And I knew France was right.

  GLOBAL VILLAGE

  Being from St. John’s automatically makes me a townie, a self-important individual reputed to regard herself as more cultured and sophisticated than anyone in Newfoundland who isn’t from St. John’s. For the record, let me say that baymen—people not from St. John’s reputed to smell of fish and to rely on all-terrain vehicles for transportation—are the true heart and soul of the Rock, the salt of the earth. Of course I have to say that for fear the Sullivan brothers from Dildo (the real name of a real town in Newfoundland) will show up on my doorstep, ready to beat me to a bloody pulp. This townie vs. bayman issue is not to be taken lightly. Anyway, beyond a lesson in my culture, the point is here I am, glamorous townie, installed in France’s version of “around the bay.” Now there’s no actual bay or fish and chips take-out here, but I can’t understand a word people say and there’s a big tractor garage at the entrance to town, so it’s close. But I’m discovering that being a townie brings you little prestige here.

  In this little backwater of Semur, apart from our other worldly friends, we’ve met American physicists/inventors who clearly have a brain cell or two between them, and just last week there were Danish filmmakers hanging about. There’s the Russian artist who left New York City to peacefully paint here in the Burgundy countryside, the luxury hotel executive from Hong Kong and his physician partner from New Zealand, and the café owners from Senegal. Sure we could have the Olympics here next week if we wanted to. I’d be heavily favoured for the gold in nagging and self-recrimination.

  Last week, we had drinks with two international journalists from Paris who have a weekend house here. She (an American) covers France for the U.S. and Canada and he (un Parisien) works in French news television after stints in Washington and Moscow. We were chatting about the state of the economy and it came out that he knows Christine Lagarde, the first female head of the International Monetary Fund (and a rocking silver fox). We were talking about my endless difficulties with French when he mentioned that UN Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon was learning French and doing quite well with it. How did he know this? Because he knows Ban Ki-Moon. I thought about breaking out my story of how I met Kathy Bates (a more enchanting woman cannot be found) in a restaurant bathroom one time, but I decided it was a tale for another time. And to top it all off, this week, no more than five doors down the hill, Semur welcomes a famous ultra right wing, misogynistic CNN/FOX news political pundit/freak of a man. Clearly, this peaceful life has rendered me serene and free from judging others. I haven’t met him yet, but I’ve seen him a couple of times now through the scope of my rifle. Oh I’m just kidding. It’s a water gun.

  It’s fascinating to be around this kind of energy and to have the opportunity to learn so much about the world. And here I thought I was coming to a place that might be too “small town” for someone as suave and cosmopolitan as myself. Oh, we townies talk a good game and we think we’re big fish in a small sea, but the folks here are the ones casting their nets far and wide.

  THE BUCK STOPS HERE

  Or I should say the euro. While the world markets shake, rattle and roll and the global economy implodes, here in Semur the value of a dollar is as solid as a rock. I mean what can you get for a dollar these days? A handful of candy? Nope. A coffee? I couldn’t even buy the foam on a latte for that.

  Almost every day since I’ve been here I’ve walked past these magnificent doors and longed to see what treasure was hidden behind them. When out of nowhere a brass plaque appeared announcing daily visits every half-hour, “Deux billets s’il vous plait,” was the only French I needed to know.

  The doors alone were enough to make me bow down to the French as masters of the universe and were well worth the one-euro entry fee, but this is what was behind Door Number 1 …

  The house itself was off limits, apparently because there’s someone living in it. This is somebody’s actual house, as in this is what’s waiting for them after a long hard day of … yachting or purchasing fine art.

  A sweet teenaged guy who seemed very jazzed by the history of it gave us the tour. He told us how it had been taken back by the people during the Revolution and how Voltaire and his ladylove, the Marquise du Châtelet, hung out here concocting the Age Of Reason.

  We walked around the grounds for about half an hour while the kid told us everything there was to know about this spectacular place. How’s that for a summer job? It has to be better than flipping burgers, or maybe not. He was a compelling and competent guide, but the whole time he was talking I wondered how much flak he takes for being the town’s resident history geek. Poor garçon, spending all day watching older women order their bedraggled husbands to pick up the pace on the picture taking. My friend Jill’s clever theory is that the garçon’s family owns the house and while his parents frolic on the Italian Riviera, he whips up that plaque right about the same time he finds that he’s depleted the pile of cash left by his parents. He can’t show us inside the house because his leather-bikini-clad girlfriend is passed out on the 18th century chaise and his stoner buddies are in the middle of a three-day non-stop Xbox tournament. She may be right. About an hour after we left I saw him sauntering down the cobblestone street looking very impressed with himself, trailing a thick cloud of French cigarette smoke while grooving to the sounds from his super-slick headphones. Cool or not, he’s still got a thing or two left to learn. I would’ve paid him any price he asked.

  CHANT, RATTLE

  AND ROLL

  Before I ran away from the circus, I spent my weekends either working or trying to recover from working to be ready to face the next week of disaster known as crisis psychiatry. I can’t count how many times I’ve worked a 30-plus-hour workday without so much as a 15-minute break. I once did it every three days for several years in a row. I don’t miss it. My rambling point is that I now have the time, and more importantly, the energy (a relative term at my stage of greyness) to do the things I want to do. This weekend there was actually too much to choose from: live music at a restaurant in town, more music at a local winery and even more music at a monastery just down the road. I love living in a place where there’s a 12th- century abbey next to a Citroën dealership. I’d visited this solemn compound before. Neil and I stumbled upon it one su
nny morning a few months ago. On that day we had the entire place to ourselves.

  It was so peaceful and serene, completely silent except for a soft recording of monks singing. It was one of those chilling moments when your entire body is one big goose bump. Of course I was not content to have only one chilling moment. Behind the original buildings were several large houses of such staggering architectural beauty that they just had to be seen close-up. In my defense, I was too busy oohing and aahing to see the ridiculously tiny sign that said Private—Not Part of Tour (in French, so double not my fault). I climbed the stairs of the most impressive of the lot and started wiggling the doorknob. I called back to my photographer who, strangely, was no longer by my side. “Neil, Neil, look at me, I’m pretending I live here. Take my picture. Go on, it’ll be fantastique.” It was not. I mean first, who actually owns a monastery and second, who actually lives in one? Apparently, rich French people.

  Anyway, normally after I humiliate myself somewhere (pharmacies, any bar on the east coast of Canada) I try my best not to go back to the scene of the crime, but I figured under the cover of darkness no one would be the wiser. It’s not every Saturday night that I can witness Gregorian chanting by candlelight at an ancient French monastery, so I took the risk. Now I’ve taken in a few great shows in my life, Springsteen, Clapton, U2, Aerosmith, The Stones, Bob Dylan, and my sister has experienced everybody else. But we both concede defeat to our mother who wins hands down as she once went to a dance where the music was supplied by Diana Ross and The Supremes. Then, a short time later, she sat bewildered among throngs of screaming women while four lads from Britain sang songs she could hardly hear. I can’t top the Beatles, but these monks sure know how to show a girl a good time, and it was a performance I won’t soon forget.

  The light show was nothing short of spectacular, gravel pathways lit by torches, thousands of white candles everywhere and a dramatically clear night with a luminous full moon and shooting stars. We strolled around the grounds under the brightest blue moonlight I have ever seen until the huge wooden doors opened and the chorus of ancient voices began. I don’t know who does the costumes for these guys, but the monks were styling in long white robes that seemed to glow in the soft candlelight. And they must have a killer sound crew because their voices rose to the curved stone ceilings with a clarity and timbre that caused even the flapping bats to settle and listen. Security was a little on the slack side though, as people were allowed to meander freely or sit on the ancient stone staircases and see the show from any angle. Even the kids were enraptured. Our friend Carmel’s ten-year-old daughter Lily, tipped her sweet, smiling face forward and in her Irish lilt exclaimed, “It’s really good, isn’t it?” And it was.

  At one point I begged Neil to let fly his best concert whistle but for some reason he wasn’t keen, nor was he in favour of me performing my patented concert “whoooooyeeaaahh!” He also wasn’t down with me asking the lead singer to sign my chest; does this man know anything about the art of concert attendance? I had heard that the abbey was available for private parties and I couldn’t imagine getting my groove on here. I thought I’d be too busy blessing woodland creatures and begging for forgiveness, but now I’m not so sure. We did manage to get backstage access and capture a rare glimpse of the after show party.

  I can only imagine the trail of trashed hotel rooms all throughout France not to mention the line of groupies waiting at the back door. But of all the shows I’ve seen, this one is now in the running to be my all time favourite, even if I didn’t get to sit on Neil’s shoulders and rip my top off to reveal MONKS ROCK scrawled in black marker across my boobs. Next time.

  SMOOTH TALKER

  One thing I know for sure is I hit the jackpot in the husband lottery. And while he’s perfect for me, that doesn’t mean he’s perfect. Oh if there’s a fence that needs building or a meal that needs cooking, he’s your man. But if there’s a conversation that needs finessing, I’d have better luck with a plant. I’ll be offering a fascinating perspective on the nuances of some Victorian novel and I’ll see the clouds pass over his face, a dull faraway look forming in his eyes, and it’s at that moment I realize he is clearly not hanging on my every word. At the best of times he’s the king of one-word responses and anytime after ten o’clock at night, grunts reign supreme. Of course the silence is often a welcome change from some of his “compliments.” I’ve had this husband for a while now so I should know better than to expect anything different, but ever the optimist, I keep thinking any day now he’ll come around. And already there are signs of the turning tide.

  Over the last few weeks he’s been talking up a storm on exhilarating topics like withholding taxes and transfer pricing, RRSPs, TFSAs, health care affiliation and international incorporation. It seems it’s true what they say about reaping what you sow, because the minute he starts in on this stuff I feel my whole body starting to go limp. By the time he gets to a point where he needs a reply from me, I manage to slur out, “Whatever you think is best, my love,” before I slide off the chair with my chin on my chest and a line of drool down the side of my face. But today it’s occurring to me that it might’ve been a good idea to pay a little more attention to his sweet nothings. While I’ve been busy lounging and scrounging, little by little he’s been setting up a life for us here and, in doing so, cutting the cord to Canada.

  I know my psychiatric colleagues will shake their heads at my tenuous grasp of the obvious but I have a sneaking suspicion that we might be staying in France. I guess my first clue should’ve been signing a long-term lease and buying major appliances, but denial’s not just a river in Egypt, it’s a powerful thing. Truth be told, I don’t really want to think about anything more complicated than where my next pain au chocolat is coming from. So technically it’s suppression rather than denial, but I’m retired, so who gives a merde? At any rate the fat lady’s song is long finished. Very soon we’ll have French driver’s licences, French health cards and the right to protest in the street about paying exorbitant taxes. Being former Canadians, we’ll have that one down in no time.

  So maybe I have to remind him how nice I look whenever we go out and maybe he’s never going to want to chat late into the night about books and music and films. But when it comes to getting things done no man can top him, and for that I’m eternally grateful. But let’s be perfectly clear on who’s the real smoothie in this mess. If this turns out to be a disaster it’ll be entirely his fault and I know for a fact that no matter how hard he tries, he’ll never be able to talk his way out of it.

  SEEK AND YE

  SHALL FIND

  Yes, poor Neil. He has to work. He has to do all the things that need doing to build a life here. He has to feed me and deal with me on a 24-hour basis and it’s that last one that will finally see him curled in the fetal position on the cold floor, sucking his thumb and begging for salvation. Cry me a river. What about me? I too have had to carry my share of the burden.

  While French bureaucracy has taken its toll on him, the King has made the official decree that since we’re ready to fake being French we will be staying. I’m well aware of the importance of tax complications and immigration laws, but steady on Your Majesty, the Queen wishes to speak. Earlier I said that if I couldn’t find some sour cream I was bailing. Very well, I’m willing to concede defeat on that one. However, it is with great pride and not a shred of humility that I announce my victory over the two most crucial problems impeding my ability to commit to a life here.

  Victory Number One: my arse, specifically the future of my arse. I’ve discovered the holy of holies, a gym. It’s small, 20 minutes away, I have to join an association sportive and have a certificat médical before they let me in the door, but they have a discount for people who are retired or unemployed, so either way I’m saving. Plus, all grey-haired women six feet tall and over actually get paid to go so people have something to point at and laugh. I made that last bit up but the rest is true. Oh the relief when I saw all the leg machines. I jo
ke a lot about my arse, and for sure it’s worth a snigger or two, but I need that gym for my bum leg and that’s no laughing matter.

  Victory Number Two: my head. At long last a razor-wielding hairstylist has been found, right here in Semur. A while back Elodie, amie and physiotherapist to the star, mentioned a promising prospect, Cedric. Then a few days later a local woman took my picture for my French driver’s licence application—I call it anemic criminal with no lips. I won’t show it here because, naturally, it’ll be the one plastered all over the news if anything untoward happens to me over here. The photographer had the first funky do I’ve seen here in town so, poor grammar aside, I weaseled out of her who was responsible: Cedric. I was off like a shot and voilà, there he was, totally fabulous, a dachshund in one hand and a razor in the other, my kind of guy.

  So now, apart from the whole Miracle Whip issue, as in there isn’t any, I have no more excuses, no reasons at all why I can’t stay in this strange and wonderful place where somehow I seem to be finding everything I’ve been looking for. Unless I count being jobless, language-less and generally scared to death. But who’s counting?

  HOT AND HEAVY

  All is not lost on the language acquisition front. The good news is this week I’ve learned a new word, la canicule. The bad news is it means heat wave. It’s 40-odd degrees here and the famous Burgundy snails are moving faster than I am these days. I mean it’s like hair-plastered-to-your-head, change-your-underpants-three-times-a-day hot.

  Our bedroom is actually an attic and all it needs is a few cedar benches and a stocky Scandinavian woman named Grunhilda and we’re in the sauna business. I refuse to keep the windows open at night because a woman I know here slept with hers open and woke up with a bat on her face. A bat. On her face. I’d never survive that, nor would Neil if I woke up and saw a bat on his face. I can see the headlines now, Crazed Canadian “Batwoman” Beats Husband To Death With Alarm Clock. Ah, but there’s nothing quite like sweat-soaked sheets, a man who, at the best of times, generates enough heat to keep Alaska toasty and a fear of flying rodents to stoke the fires of romance. One more night of this mess and we’ll be divorced or dead. I’m no good for this. By two o’clock in the afternoon I’m like an oil spill, greasy, grimy and toxic to seabirds and husbands. The only thing saving the marriage at this point is I’m too wilted to talk. I can’t even open the front door until the sun goes down.