Riding The Line

I drive a lot these days. When I lived in Orlando, my daily commute to work was about 11 miles or so, and all of those miles were through residential/suburban/urban areas. It took me about 25 minutes or so, once I stopped at all the inevitable red lights and waited in the lines of traffic caused by said lights. Pretty run-of-the-mill, and something most Americans are familiar with on some level.

Now, my commute to and from work is a little less than 30 kilometers. Don't ask me what this translates to in miles, because the conversion ratio has never stuck in my brain, no matter how many times it is told to me, and, frankly (my dear), I don't give a damn. They use kilometers here; therefore I think in kilometers. 30 of them is not really very far away, I realize, but it is the nature of the drive that makes my daily back-and-forth seem so long and arduous.

The way to work is, first of all, on roads that are way out in the country. My village is in the least-populated section of France, and the surface roads reflect that. If the highway got me to my destination more directly, I would take that, but, unfortunately, the major tourist attraction for the area (the Gorges du Tarn, known to English-speaking peoples as 'the French Grand Canyon') is not accessible via highway. You gotta take these little itty-bitty, twisty, curvy mountain roads. The views are fantastic - I will say that. the trouble is that, if you are the driver, and you take your eyes off the road for one moment to enjoy the sweeping vistas opening in front of you, it is very possible you may find yourself suddenly approaching a hairpin turn, overcorrect, and go plummeting to the bottom of the canyon, cursing "the scenic route" all the long, long way down.

Not only do I putt-putt through kilometers of scenic beauty that makes me feel as if I live in a postcard, I also pass through some lovely farmland and pastures before I reach the mountainous region. Fields of wheat and hay and just plain old grass, picturesque with poppies blowing in the breeze, are around every bend in the road. There are horses and goats and sheep and cows all over the damn place. the smell of manure wafts in my windows on the morning breeze. (I imagine that it is sort of like this in Idaho, or maybe Montana. Has anyone ever been there?) Two mornings ago, and I kid you not, I came around a curve and had to stop for about five minutes, because an entire herd of shorn sheep were crossing the road in front of me. The herd was complete with its own barking sheepdog and craggy-faced farmer (shepherd?), who was helpfully wearing a fluorescent yellow vest (the farmer, not the dog - the dog was not wearing any sort of vest at all) to catch the eyes of any early-morning passers-by on this road in the middle of nowhere. He seemed surprised to see me, and the sight of the sheep tickled me so much I spent the entire five minutes grinning maniacally and laughing. As the last of the sheep crossed and the farmer gave me the high sign, indicating I could go, I could see that my jack-o'lantern grin was puzzling him. I just waved merrily and rode on - but it lifted my whole day, let me tell you.

So, the most important thing about my 30-kilometer trek is that, when these roads were built, it seems that their engineers never thought about the fact that perhaps more than one car might like to travel on them at the same time. They do have a dividing line (dotted and white in most places, indicating that passing is fine) in the middle of the road all the way there and back, but the issue is that in some places, it is just short of being too narrow for two cars to pass each other if they are going in opposite directions.If you are willing to let your right tires sort of drag on the shoulder, and there is not a tall guardrail, stone wall, or rock face on that side, you can just squeak by with no damage to yourself, your car, or the passing vehicle. From these delightful thoroughfares (on which there is a surprising amount of traffic) I have come up with a theory of French driving in rural areas that I like to call "riding the line".

Riding the line means that, as long as you are on your particular stretch of road by yourself, you drive, more or less, with your two left tires riding on top of that dotted white line. Think of the line not as a division between your lane and oncoming traffic's lane ... think of that dotted line as more of a, well, guideline. A suggestion, if you will, of where you might like to steer your car. You ride on this line, and usually cross right over it into the oncoming lane's side when you're rounding a sharp turn, but you always keep an eye ahead for oncoming vehicles. When you see one, you wait until the last possible second, and then you swing your own vehicle to just a few inches to the right of that line. You hold your breath and pray that the oncoming vehicle will not take your driver's side mirror along with them when you pass each other. Then ... whoosh! A gust of air, you can let your breath out now, and you're past them and once again free to use as much of the road as seems necessary. You might now say a Hail Mary or Our Father as you pass one of the numerous roadside stone crosses, because once again, you have escaped with your life intact. Simple.

Simple, maybe, if you were born in this part of the country and have never driven anywhere else. (Or maybe if you learned to drive in Paris, Beirut, or New York City. I think any one of the three would qualify you to be at ease driving anywhere else.) For an outlander, every day is a lesson in how much fear I can sustain and how much adrenalin I can produce in one forty-minute drive. Did I mention that the suggested speed limit, almost all the way there and back, is between 70 and 90 kilometers and hour? Again, I have no idea what that is in mph, but it seems awfully damned fast when there is an RV rumbling towards you around a curve, and you realize that to your right is a shoulder about three feet wide, and then a yawning chasm that seems to be magnetically pulling you toward it. (And also, the fact that the road ahead, where you estimate you will pass by this road behemoth, appears to have been engineered for the contestants of a soapbox derby.) In some of the narrower areas, if another car is approaching, I actually just stop and let the other car come through first, and then proceed. I know it marks me as a tourist, but hey - better than spazzing out and throwing up sparks as I scrape the entire right side of my tiny hatchback against a stone guardrail.

Do not fear for my safety, though, scary as the above revelations may be. I am getting better and better at negotiating these spine-tingling encounters, and by this time next year, I doubt I will even think of it at all. I've even managed to get my speed up enough on most sections of the road to get into fourth (and even fifth!) gear. What was originally a 45-minute, harrowing trek through the mountainous wilderness has become a 35-minute, only slightly and/or occasionally terrifying trip through some lovely countryside. I am learning. I even passed someone (an actual car, not just a crazy person on a bicycle) the other day on my way home because I thought they were going too slow. Hah! I was very proud of myself, and what did I do for the remainder of my drive home? well, I'll tell you - I rode the line.

Stranger In A Strange Land

Today is a rather momentous day for me. I have just completed my first full week of working in a foreign country. In that week, I have learned, each day, many things concerning the customs and habits of the local inhabitants, and how much my own upbringing and culture are different. It has been eye-opening, and I am looking forward to continuing to learn and become accustomed to the new place in which I find myself living.

That being said, I have some observations, culled from the interactions of the past week, which some of you might find ... enlightening? Amusing? Slightly interesting? You'll have to tell me. I am going to do my best to keep from poking fun or bitching - it has been a monster of a week, for sure. I definitely have been close to tears a few times! But I just keep soldiering on, and I know I will figure this place out if it kills me (though I'm resonably sure it won't - I hardly think people meet their doom as a direct result of culture shock). And so, on to the main event:

• I work at a campground. This means I sell drinks and breakfast pastries from behind a bar, I clean things, I wait on people sitting on our terrace, I make coffee, I answer the phone, I enter registration info into a computer. Not tough, right? Even with the language barrier, I can generally manage to figure out what someone wants and, in turn, make myself understood. Coming from a community where there are many, many people who speak English as a second language, I never really considered how tough it is to be the person who doesn't understand the local language all that well. Now, finding myself on that side of the river, so to speak, I am humbled and ashamed of my prior attitude towards those folks. Being spoken to like you are a five-year-old (and a mentally deficient one, at that) when you are, in fact, over thirty years of age, can only be defined as a "if it doesn't kill you, it makes you stronger" sort of experience. Throwing a temper tantrum to protest this sort of treatment would probably not help bolster my image, and so I have so far refrained. (Just barely.) Though if I hear another "Tu comprends?" (You understand?) after someone re-explains yet again how something like the dishwasher works (there are three buttons, come on), I may revise my strategy.
• Clothing. Most precisely, women's clothing. I've mentioned before, I think, that I have never considered myself to be any sort of a fashion plate. I wear what I like, and what is comfortable, usually, and consider myself good to go. And, working at a campground in summertime, I was reasonably certain that my wardrobe, such as it is, would be just fine. Instead, I stick out like the proverbial sore thumb amongst my female co-workers. No one told me I needed to have garments made only of linen or very thin jersey. Or that, apparently, French women consider bright colors to be de trop (too much),  and seem to only wear muted shades of brown, blue, grey, and, of course, the ever-serviceable black and white. One of the girls I work with had on a sweater the other day with some stripes of the palest imaginable coral hue the other day, and I caught myself staring, thinking, wow, that really stands out. My purples and grass greens and reds and swimming pool blues make me look like I just strolled out of a bordello, compared to the ladies around me. Ah, well, American I am, I guess - but all the same, I think I'll save my brighter dresses for leisure time. Yikes. At least everyone there seems to have flip-flops of one stripe or another - and in that department, I am well-prepared (yay, Florida!). 
• Co-worker conversation is a bit of a minefield. I am really lucky that most of my co-workers speak at least some English. (Thank God.) However, even though I can converse with them in a somewhat tortured Frenglish, there isn't too much of that, other than pleasantires about the weather and comments on the job itself. In the States, if someone new starts at your job, and you work on a small staff, by the end of week one, you generally know all there is to know about them. You can ask questions about where they live, where they've worked before, their families, their hobbies, and where they were born, if you like. Here, not so much. As my husband patiently explained to me, for the French, it is considered tremendously ill-mannered to ask where someone is from, and you never ask any personal information, you simply wait until it is volunteered. I guess the theory is that none of this background information is relevant to your work relationship, and, if the person wishes you to know about them, they will offer up these tidbits in the course of one conversation or another. As an American, of course, I find this wildly strange and very limiting. (and, of course, I am nosy.) And so I take my cues from my counterparts, and don't ask about anything they don't offer willingly, but it really limits conversational topics. You can only talk about the weather and how busy/not busy it is for so long before lapsing into a rather uncomfortable silence. I, of course, continue to offer up my own personal comments concerning my life, as they seem appropriate, but so far the reaction seems to be, "Oh dear, how embarassing. The American is telling me information I don't need to know. How on earth can she think this is in any way relevant to me?" This is accompanied by a polite and remote smile, accompanied by a minute shrug of the shoulders. And me, being the irrepressible American, keep on trying. 
• I  think also that, in many cases, American bosses try to keep reprimands a little more, shall we say, private than their French counterparts. In the U.S., if you screw something up, your boss is apt to take you aside, away from other ears, and lay it out for you. (And then you spend weeks trying to get out from under the cloud of incompetence which has settled upon you.) In my experience so far here in France, that is not the case. If you make a mistake, your boss is much more likely to put it all out there, chapter and verse, in front of the other employees, customers, or even the postmistress, should she happen to be there delivering the day's mail. I will say, however, that after they've set you straight, it's done. No residual hard feelings or undercurrent of dissatisfaction. It's done, they've told you about it, and it's over. C'est tout. ("That's all", or "That's it".) And the conclusion I've drawn? You're now so embarassed over it that you strive mightily to never do something so goshdarn stupid ever again.
• Customer service is a mighty different thing here. At my job, it's a little closer to what you'd see in the U.S., but still there are some strange differences. We're face to face with people all the time, so we tend to be somewhat more conciliatory than if you, say, called up your internet provider or phone company. (And that's a whole 'nother ball of wax, by the way - French customer service via phone. Holy shit.) At my job, we're expected to greet everyone who comes in the door - and when I say "we", that means everyone working at that time, which results in a flurry or "bonjour"s to every person who wanders in our direction. I take a lot of joy in doing this, and try to vary my inflection so that it sounds as though I truly wish each person a good day. (I have to amuse myself somehow. And I do hope they're having a good day.) And, of course, as a person leaves our reception area, they go on their way with an assortment of "Au revoir"s, "Merci, monsieur/madame"s, and "Bonne journee"s as they go. It's nice. But, I notice that the French are not as inclined to smile as we are in the U.S., and so at times I feel like a circus clown because I can't seem to stop from grinning at customers, while my co-workers adopt a more formal, Mona-Lisa-type half-smile that could be misinterpreted as a smirk, if you didn't know any better. Also, the habit of the French saying, "Ce n'est pas possible, " meaning, "It's not possible," in response to customers' inquiries, always knocks me for a loop. Someone will ask a question, and then, in response, you hear, "Non. Ce n'est pas possible," in a very definite and firm tone, and then a long pause. If the customer is stalwart enough and hangs around looking at you for further elucidation, the speaker will then indeed explain the reasons why it is not possible. (Usually, this is very logical and sensible.) But oftentimes, especially if the customer is also French, they'll just say, "D'accord - merci", which is basically, "Okay, thanks" and meander off. I am so accustomed to saying something like, "I'm so sorry, but we can't offer that option at present. Perhaps instead you'd like to ...", and then bending over backwards to try to find some small thing to make the customer happy - the French response just takes my breath away. I gotta say, though, I kinda like the sheer chutzpah of it - like it or lump it, this is the answer, and me offering you ridiculous options won't change the fact that the real answer is 'no'. It's very upfront and forthright, and I have to admire a culture that doesn't waste its time (or yours) trying to make positives out of negatives all the time. Sometimes, the answer is 'no'.

I'm sure I'll have other observations as time goes by, but these were the big things I've been thinking about this week as I embarked upon a summer of assisting people in getting closer to nature. (Boy, oh boy, do Europeans like to go camping. It's an overwhelmingly popular pastime.) No major catastrophes (well, this morning I did break 4 beer glasses in a seriously clumsy move that could have been in a Mr. Bean movie - thank God the glasses were freebies we get from the beer distributor, or I'd probably be ending my first week with a pink slip), though I am still getting sweaty palms every time I answer the phone, and end up having to hand it off to a co-worker half the time, because I can't understand a damned word the person on the line is saying. But, I think overall, I'm winning more than I'm losing, and the balance is shifting into that "win" column every day. My boss even smiled at me - unsolicited - today, after hearing me answer a question for an English-speaking couple who were checking in. I am proud of myself. And very thankful that there are so many German and Dutch tourists in the area who prefer speaking English over speaking French.

So, a summertime campground job today, but tomorrow? Who knows? (I hear that not everyone likes the president - what do you think are the odds ... nevermind.) Until next time ...

French Towns Can Be Funny

So. I've been busy! This past weekend, Patrick and his girls and I made the LONG drive up to Paris and back for his brother's wedding. It was a lovely occasion, the weather was beautiful, and I had the opportunity to meet pretty much all of Patrick's family, as well as a great many friends. We did not take the main interstates up north, as the tolls are fairly momentous on these well-maintained and well-traveled roads; instead, we took the scenic route, using the smaller (but still lovely) national roads that were the only things there used to be, before the advent of the larger "superhighways". It was a long (about eight hours) trip, but a nice one. And, along the way, I started noticing the names of towns and villages that we were passing - they triggered some very interesting conversations, let me tell you. Here's a quick list of the more interesting ones:

• Attainville - is it the fulfillment of a higher purpose to live here??
• Riossy en Brie - a town covered in delicious cheese?
• Combs la Ville - do you get your own official hair-grooming implement upon settling here?
• St. Fargeau - we drove Patrick crazy with our English pronunciaton on this one. Visions of Frances McDormand in a hat with earflaps, transplanted to the French countryside flew through my mind.
• Fleury-en-Biere - you gotta love a town named after the world's greatest beverage
• Malesherbes - bad plants? masculine herbs? who knows?
• Nevers - this one was a favorite, and many bad jokes were made (we would "never" get there, etc.), despite the fact that in French, the name sounds more like "neh-vair', with the aspirated "r" at the end
• Vierzon - I wondered if the Verizon people are aware of this town - maybe whoever named it has a relative from there, thought it was a nice name, and accidentally switched the placement of the I and the E when spelling it?
• Macon - there's actually a little accent mark over the A (a circonflex? it looks like a carat mark), but of course, we immediately thought of that place we all know and love in Georgia ... who knew? Apparently, there is also a "Bacon" somewhere in France. Love it.
• Aigueperse - this one sounds a little like "egg purse" in French, and the girls and I giggled over that nonsense notion for miles. A satchel to carry eggs? A carry-all made of eggshells?
• Cellule - this conjured past biology classes, although I can't say I am absolutely positive there is indeed such a thing as a "cellule' in English - it sounded like something you'd read in a bio textbook, though.
• Pontmort - I think this translates as something like "dead bridge", and that just made me laugh. I mean, really? Where're you from? Oh, I hail from Dead Bridge, it's really nice there this time of year.
• Mozac - A new and improved incarnation of Prozac? Makes you even "mo" calm?
• Coudes - we liked this a lot, because "coude" is french for "elbow" ... any town named after a body part is simply funny for its own sake
• La Ribeyre - Looked to me like a fancy name in a menu for a steak
• St. Flour - I never knew there was a patron saint of bakers. (Nevermind if in French, it sounds like "san floo" ... it's much funnier in English.) I'm picturing a plump-faced fella with a tall white hat who has flour dust in a cloud around his head like a halo. Priceless.

Better even than some of the town names are the store and shop signs ... I love seeing any English at all here, it gives me a charge and helps me feel at home. Sometimes, though, I feel like a little has been lost in the translation. A few examples:

• Babymoov - appeared to be some sort of indoor kids' playground ... pronounced, of course, "bah-bee-moov". Move that kid - NOW!
• Crapa'hutte - I have no idea what this actually is, or if the inspiration came from English, but it certainly made me laugh out loud at the time. It was painted on the covered back of a truck that appeared to be some sort of mobile eating establishment. Hate to tell you, but I ain't never eatin' at a place with "crap" in the name.
• Too Much - name on a trendy-looking clothing store. Do they mean to say that everything costs a lot? Or that this is what folks will say about you, should you purchase and wear their clothing? Either way, I'm thinking - not so much.
• 911 Taxis - Um, so of course the emergency number here in France is NOT 911. But I laughed out loud, thinking of some poor, stranded, injured American dialing 911 hoping for immediate assistance, and instead getting a surly French taxi dispatcher. Oh, Lord.
• Merlot TP - I am guessing that this is some sort of wine designation of which I am not aware, but seeing this painted on the side of an old gas station almost made me pee my pants. In which case, I would have been in dire need of good old Merlot TP. Wipe your ass and experience one of France's greatest products, all at once.

I wish I could've stopped to take pictures of every one of these, but with an eight-hour trip underway, I could only jot them down in my notebook and hope to come this way again someday to snap pics for my scrapbook. Anyway, I definitely enjoyed the trip northward (and then south again) to lovely Paree, and wonder if a day will come when these little French-English bombs will cease to amuse me. God, I hope not.

Stinky Spain

Sorry this pic is so tiny - I can't get the cropped version to save on my computer - another example of technology getting the better of me. It says "Benvinguts A Barcelona", which is apparently Catalan for "Welcome to Barcelona." All the signs here are in Catalan first, then Spanish, and then usually also in French.

We drove to Spain this past Tuesday, to pick up Patrick's daughters at the airport in Barcelona - they're here to spend the summer with us. (I am, by the way, still just knocked out that I can write things like, "we drove to Spain this past Tuesday", just like I would've written, "we drove to Miami this past Tuesday" when I lived in Florida. Countries are so close together in Europe. It's crazy.) It took us about five hours, mostly because we stopped several times to let the dog out to go pee (yep, Sadie came with us) and for Patrick to get another tiny cup of coffee in an attempt to stay awake. Did I mention we left the house at 5:30am? I had no coffee, and a sore throat to boot, so I will admit to falling asleep a few times, once with the directions in one hand and a can of soda in the other. (Only for about five seconds, mind you.) I missed about ten minutes' worth of downtown Barcelona and woke up as we arrived at the airport parking structure.

Hmmm. What about Spain? you ask. What's it like? Well, I'll tell you - Spain is stinky. I am not speaking figuratively or making any sort of judgement on the peoples of Spain, their attitudes, etc. I am simply saying that, from the moment we crossed the border and began bumping along the highway in this country, we were suddenly aware of some new and not very welcome odors. At first, we thought that it was the dog farting. (She hadn't poo'd at any of the rest stops, something which was vaguely worrying us.) As the miles rolled by, it became apparent that the smells that would disappear for a few minutes and then reassert themselves even more strongly were not, in fact, emanating from Sadie's hind end. They were coming from outside.

The most frustrating thing here is that, during the rides to and from Barcelona, we simply could identify the source of these unpleasant stinks. It was sort of a cowpie/sulphur/skunk aroma that waxed and waned ... never really strong enough to make you gag, or anything, but there in enough force so that every few breaths you'd become aware of it again, and wonder what in the seven hells could be making that damned stink. We never figured it out. It is a mystery. If anyone has any theories, I'd be glad to hear them. I must say, though, that the smell somewhat colored my opinion of what I am sure must be an overall lovely country. What I have seen (and smelled) so far was really nothing to write home about.

As for the actual sights in the coutryside and city ... yawn. Barcelona was not as impressive as I thought it would be. Of course, we only drove through a portion on our way to the airport, and didn't stop at any tourist attractions or anything. Mostly what I saw was just what you see in any large urban area - lots of highrise buildings, lots of concrete, lots of cars ... and the undersides of the bridges were warrens filled with homeless folks' makeshift camps, acres of them. Nothing so very different from a lot of large American cities. I would like, I think, to be able to stay a little longer when we take the girls back for their trip home in August, and see some of the historic buildings in town, etc. I'd like to have more of a memory of Barcelona than a bad smell, homeless camps, and the airport.

I did get to see my first view of the Mediterranean Sea on our way home - you can, of course, see it from the Port of Barcelona, but we thought to perhaps find a little more congenial spot for gawking once we were back in France. We stopped for a late lunch in a seaside tourist town called Collioure, and it is right on the sea. The town itself is famous for its anchovies, of all things, and all the restaurants and cafes have menu items involving these tiny fishies. Patrick ate an anchovy sandwich for lunch. (The girls and I did not.) We all walked around this charming little seaside town after lunch, though, and I really enjoyed it. I'd like to go back sometime when we could spend the day and when we didn't have to wear sweatshirts and jeans (it's been partly cloudy and in the low 60's during the day for this whole past week). The beach there was all stones, but still, the Med looked pretty good to me. The place could have been somewhere in the Caribbean islands, had there been any palm trees - it's very evident, seeing all these small villages here, where the European flair in the Caribbean came from. I've spent so much time in tropical places - it's funny and weird to see echoes of that here, in such a different climate, and then to realize that - duh! - this is where the whole shebang originated.

So ... Spain = stinky disappointment, and French anchovy capital of Collioure = surprisingly charming. Who knew anchovies were such a draw for tourists?!

Looking down on Collioure while driving in

Part of the small marina of boats docked in the harbor

The beach at Collioure and the old fort

Another beach view and the clock tower (still operational)

This one's purely for my Mom - saw this place next to the beach and thought, yep, my Mom is gonna love visiting here!!!

A Land Without Salsa

I have discovered something rather unfortunate. Not, not unfortunate - tragic. I am not able to make my delicious salsa in France, not with the ingredients available here. I am just about on the verge of tears ... how will I live my life, without the comfort of salsa? Let me tell you how I've made this discovery, but brace yourselves. You may want to cry, too, before this is over.

It started with an armoire. Our house is very old, and has almost nothing in the way of storage, especially in terms of closets. Patrick and I needed to get an armoire - something as large as a closet, with space for lots of clothing. We looked at a few used furniture stores and found nothing that really fit the bill, or our budget. We resigned ourselves to waiting until we could make the trip to Ikea and pick something out there. Then, while telling his boss, Jacques, about our predicament, he thrilled us by saying, "Oh! But I have an armoire we don't use - you'd be doing me a favor if you'd take it off of my hands." And just like, that, we had an armoire. We picked it up, put it back together, and voila! We had a place to put away our clothes. Lovely.

The day after receiving this largesse, Patrick said to me, "I'd like to get Jacques a gift to thank him. What do you think would be good." We tossed around a few ideas - and then Patrick said that perhaps we should make him something - a cake, or something (Vote for Pedro!). And then he sealed my fate with, "Hey! Why don't you make him your dip?" Meaning, in Patrick-speak, why didn't I whip up a batch of my incomparable fresh salsa and we could present that as a thank-you, along with, perhaps, a bag of tortilla chips and a bottle of beer. I said (unaware of the pitfalls lurking ahead), "Sure! I'd be happy to do that." Hmmm.

So, the next day, I set out for our local grocery store, called Intermarche (en-tair-mar-shay). I had some other things to pick up, and eventually made my way to the produce section. Strike one - they didn't carry red onions, cilantro, or any sort of hot peppers. And after viewing the canned tomatoes on offer in the canned foods aisle, I knew I would have to investigate a larger market in order to get my salsa concocted. Disappointing, but not altogether unexpected. Intermarche, is, after all, just a small market in a small town. Of course they wouldn't have any "exotic" ingredients available - makes sense, I thought.

Yesterday, we had to go to Mende (mahnd) to take care of some bureaucratic-type stuff. Luckily for me, Mende is home to Hyper-U (ee-pair-ew), one of what is called an hypermarche (ee-pair-mar-shay) by the French. Think Super Target or one of those Walmarts with the grocery store included, and you get the idea. They sell everything from clothing and lawn furniture to fresh seafood, produce, and meats. A BIG place. Surely, I thought, I will find my salsa ingredients here. We set out in good spirits.

My spirits rapidly fell. They did indeed have red onions, which was a relief, but these red onions are about a third of the size of the typical Bermuda onion I am accustomed to dealing with. I bought four, just to be on the safe side. There were no jalapenos, Scotch bonnet peppers, serranos, or anything else that might be termed a "hot" pepper - oh, wait - I finally uncovered a few greenish smaller peppers, looking a bit like a cubanelle pepper, and the sign says they were from Morocco, and are spicy. Hmmm. Well, beggars can't be choosers - into the cart it goes. On to cilantro ... but nary a trace of anything even remotely cilantro-ey can I find. There's parsley everywhere, but nothing that will finish off a salsa. Well, I've made salsa without cilantro before - it's preferred,but not essential. I'll survive, I thought.

Tomatoes. Here's a big secret - I almost never used fresh tomatoes for my salsa. The perfect base, in my opinion, are cans of diced tomatoes and mild green chiles that you find in the Hispanic food sections. I made my way to the "World Foods" section, and, gasp! no canned tomatoes with green chiles. No canned green chiles, for that matter. Nothin'. In the regular canned foods section, I chose plain chopped tomatoes in water. Maybe with some fresh tomatoes, these would work out. (I find that fresh tomatoes can be a little overpowering, and also impart a bit of a mealy texture - thus I started using the canned ones.) Thankfully, I remembered, I had my trusty container of Adobo seasoning at the house - shipped with my things over the Atlantic - and that is the real linchpin of my salsa, so I crossed my fingers and hoped it would be all right.

I compounded the salsa last night. I had a cucumber and fresh garlic in the house already, so I was good there. I bravely chopped up and combined the other ingredients found at Hyper-U. I stirred and smelled and added and prayed. I decanted the stuff into small containers and put it in the fridge overnight to let the flavors meld.

I just tasted it. Oh, it's serviceable enough to come out of a jar labeled "El Paso" or "Pace", but it's most certainly not my salsa. The tomatoes are overpowering, and have developed a sweet, almost ketchup-y flavor. The garlic and red onion are not even on speaking terms, and the cucumber seems to have disappeared altogether, instead of bringing that deliciously cool note to the acidity of the salsa. The "hot" pepper has not lived up to its name. I cannot give this to anyone as a gift - it tastes like it rolled off of a conveyor belt in Indiana. Worse than that, I am despondent - I was not kidding when I asked above, how will I live without salsa? Those of you who know me know how much I love the stuff. When I would make this back in the States, I would pretty much eat it, to the exclusion of all other things, until it ran out. Now, without any cilantro or decent canned tomatoes/green chiles, I think I am quietly doomed to only be able to make it when I go back to Florida for visits.

Don't get me wrong, the French know how to eat. At the Hyper-U, their cheese counter makes your head spin. They have more varieties of sausage and pate and terrines than I can count, all of them delicious (except the blood sausage, of course. Gross.). Their prepared foods are completely unlike those in American grocery stores - these are fine foods, prepared simply and ready for you to take home and heat up and truly enjoy. The produce section is a thing of beauty, everything looking fresh, and ripe, and wonderful. And I can't express my joy in French soft drinks - the sodas and the sirops (seer-oh) that you add to a glass of water for a delightfully tasty beverage, just as sweet or unsweet as you like ... but I am mourning the absence of a decent Hispanic foods section, with multiple flour tortillas to choose from, guava paste, canned chiles and tomatillos, ranchero sauce for enchiladas, and so much more. What will I do????

Maybe I can find a mail-order service that can send me things like this through the mail. Cilantro paste in a tube, jars of chiles and jalapenos, vaccuum-sealed flour tortillas. And white corn chips (only yellow available here.) Perhaps when we head up to Paris at the end of June for Patrick's brother's wedding, we can locate some place in the city that would sell such things. Until I figure it out, salsa is not on the menu, that's for certain. And now I've gotta think of something else to give Jacques - any suggestions??

Petanque and pantacourts

I have witnessed something 100% French, folks. My village hosted a petanque (peh-tahnk) tournament this past week. Actually, we have a permanent petanque court across from the town square, but so far I've only seen a few old men lurching around it unpredictably. I had no idea it was actually for a game of some sort.

What is petanque, you might well ask. As far as I can gather, it is sort of a French national game, and people of all ages play it, generally just when the weather is warm. (Look it up on Wikipedia, if you'd like a better explanation - my grasp of sprting events is usually somewhat skewed.) It's a summertime game, like croquet or bocce or lawn darts, and has elements of all those in it! It's played with teams of either two or three players each, and each player (depending upon how many there are, total) gets either two or three small, heavy steel balls to throw. (They are about the size of medium apples or oranges.)In a tournament, there are six balls total for each side, so if there are two teams of two, each player gets three balls each. If there are two teams of three, each player gets only two balls. There is also a small, hard wooden ball, about the size of a big gumball, called the cochonnet (koh-shone-ay) that is thrown out before play starts, and this marker is the place to aim - where you want your balls to go. (And, as you can imagine - and as I heard many times that afternoon - jokes about "your balls" abound when you're around any number of people playing this game.)

Each player takes turns tossing these hard, steel projectiles at the cochonnet, trying to get closest to it. You use a strange, underhand throw, along the lines of a softball pitch, but much slower and more controlled. The ball you're aiming at is between 18 and 30 or so feet from where you're throwing, so they've developed all these different sorts of throws, to do different things. One of the more popular defensive moves is to throw your ball so that it lands right next to an opponent's ball, knocking it away from the cochonnet and further out of play. (Sort of like croquet, non?) The tournament players take the game really seriously, and apparently you have to be licensed to even play in one of these things. Yep. At the end, after all players on both teams have thrown, the winning team is the one whose ball or balls is closest to the cochonnet. It's that simple.

And that complicated! These tourneys actually have a dude assigned to be there with a regulation measuring tape, and it's his job to measure distances between the players' balls and the cochonnet, to see whose is closest, if there is any dispute and it's not clear who is really closest. Seriously, he has this dippy little case on a strap with his measuring tools in it and everything. And the competitors are very, very serious about the game. There is some smiling and back-patting when a throw goes well, but mostly it's just a bunch of guys (at tournaments, I'm told, it's almost exclusively a male game, in lots of places. No one seems to know why. Lots of women play with their families, but I guess not so much in competitions) pacing around on a semi-smooth patch of gravel and hard-packed dirt, eyeing the court and looking like they're trying to do calculus and geometry proofs in their heads, simultaneously. (Perhaps they are.) I saw very little in the way of poor sportsmanship - when a bad shot occurred, the man involved would generally just grimace slightly and look at the ground for a while, and there seemed to be little in the way of cat-calling or general ribbing, like you'd see in practically any American sport. Very civilized, indeed.

I didn't see the very end of the tournament, so I've no idea whose team finally triumphed, but there were some shiny trophies and (I think) a cash award for the winners of the day. The tournament started at 3; Patrick and I watched a little more around 10 that evening, when things were down to the last eight teams. The locals we talked to seemed to think things would be wrapped up by 11:30 or so. Almost nine hours of play! On a Thursday. I love it. Patrick has a "non-regulation" set of petanque balls; he's going to teach me to play. I'm looking forward to trying it out myself, although the balls seem to weigh about 2-3 pounds apiece, so passersby had better be wary when I'm throwin'. Yikes.

Watching petanque in the afternoon sun and heat (well, we'll call it "heat", as it was warmer than it has been - maybe 72 or 75 degrees. Nothing for a Floridian!), I became aware of something else very European that I've seen more and more as the temperatures warm up in this region. French men, apparently, do not approve of shorts as we know them. You almost never see a French man wearing anything that leaves all of his knees bare. Bermuda-length shorts are seen here and there, but by and large they wear something called pantacourts (pahn-tah-coor), which translates roughly to "short pants". You Americans may know them as "capri pants", or, as my sisters and I have often said, "man-prees". About three out of every five men were wearing some sort of capri-length pant - the rest were in regular long pants. Maybe five or ten men out of the whole crowd there that day had on what we'd call "shorts", and maybe ONE of them in anything shorter than knee-length.

                                                                           

I asked Patrick about the man-prees. He confirmed that French men, in general, find regular, American-style shorts "too confining" and prefer the pantacourts much more for summer wear. "Confining"? Really? This is a country where, at most public pools, men are required to wear Speedos, for heaven's sake! And shorts are too confining? I am frankly mystified. And a little tickled, truthfully. Seeing lots of what seem to be very manly men wearing a type of clothing I have heretofore classified as women's wear is pretty entertaining. (Especially when they pair it with a fanny pack - no, I am not kidding.) I worried, before I came to France, that my fashion sense would be completely outrun, even out here in the country. I imagined an effortless stylishness that I'd never be able to live up to or replicate. After seeing the dress code at the petanque tournament, I am greatly relieved. I have nothing to fear - not as long as my pantacorts hold out.

Erin Finds A Job

Yesterday was a pretty interesting day. I did two completely new things: one, I got into our little Citroen hatchback and drove to St. Enimie, about 25km away ALL BY MYSELF, and two, I got my first French job.

Patrick had, a month or so ago, inquired about a job at a campground in St. Enimie (part of the Gorges du Tarn tourist area). As it turned out, the job was not really what he was looking for himself, but he suggested to the manager that his wife might be interested. When he called back a couple weeks later to check,  she told him she'd already hired someone, so sorry. We figured, oh well.

Then this manager called the house on Thursday, asking if I was still looking for something, and we told her, yep. She said, well, come on over around 5pm on Friday and we'll see what's what. And thus, I had a job interview. The problem was, Patrick had to work, so I'd have to go by myself. Keep in mind that, up until yesterday, I'd not driven a car in France, navigated my way anyplace further than the grocery store that's three-quarters of a mile up the road, or had a job interview without Patrick present for translation purposes. Patrick assured me that Severine spoke a bit of English, and that he had complete faith in me. Comforting as that was, I was still plenty nervous, but I figured - hey, what have I got to lose? Might as well give it a go, right?  And so, at about ten after four yesterday afternoon, I found myself with a copy of my CV in hand, piloting our trusty car through the twisty mountain roads, on my way to St. Enimie.

Driving in the mountains, for those of you who haven't experienced it, is kind of exhilirating. Despite my nervousness about the interview, I found I enjoyed the trip very much. I had been on this road before with Patrick, so it was somewhat familiar, but negotiating the hairpin turns yourself is quite another thing altogether. I am pretty sure that, though the speed limit is 90km per hour in most places, I never got much about 60. I don't think I put the car into fourth gear for the first half of the way there! In some areas, the stone guardrails are so close to the edge of the road - and the edge of the road is simply a straight drop-off into a valley. The roads are MUCH narrower than we are used to in the States, and sometimes you just blindly hope no other car will come from the opposite direction, because it doesn't seem possible that two cars can possibly fit on it side by side. There was hardly anyone on the road, though, and apart from a fraught moment right before I got into St. Enimie when a tour bus seemed bent upon squeezing me off the road and crushing me into the guardrail (well, maybe I'm exaggerating - buses just look so BIG when you're accustomed to seeing only little cars, like most people drive here), I arrived at Les Fayards with no troubles.

The campground I work for is like a lot of other campgrounds in the Gorges du Tarn area. There are about 90 campsites, and somewhere around 20 or 30 mobile homes and cottages scattered throughout, for those who are without a mobile home, RV, or tent themselves. There is a little building at the entrance, which houses the reception desk, a small bar, and a little epicierie, or grocery store. They also have a nice selection of books and pamphlets about the area, so people can familiarize themselves, read about its history, and plan day trips. Les Fayards can arrange canoe trips down the river for you, has a playground and a volleyball court/soccer field, and a very well-equipped and clean bathhouse. There's a nice outdoor patio outside of the reception building where you can sit and have a drink, and they'll even make up picnic lunches for you if you choose to go hiking.

The manager and her husband own this campground, and I met her immediately upon entering the small reception building. She is perhaps a bit older than me - maybe 40 - and just a tiny wisp of a thing, with a short cap of brown hair and a big smile. After she offered me a drink, we got down to business. I explained, in my halting French, my work history, and handed her my CV to explain a little better. She spoke slowly for my benefit, and went over what the job would entail. It would be for just July and August (a lot of jobs in this area are contracted just for the busy season or the summer months), about 38 hours a week, and would be mostly receptionist work. Greeting customers as they come to check in, helping them choose a site from what is available, entering their information into the computer system, etc. I would also be responsible for manning the tiny bar area when necessary (making coffee and pouring beers, mostly), and for ringing up any purchases from the epicerie. In a first-work-experience-in-France kind of way, it sounded ideal. We talked about my French skills - the manager had now shifted to her own halting English - and we both agreed that after another month in-country (so to speak), my French comprehension would be fine to be able to communicate with the French customers who arrived to check in. Apparently, the bulk of their visitors happen to be from other countries - mostly England, Germany, Ireland, etc. - so being fluent in English would also be very important. She also asked if I would speak in English to her and any other members of the staff who wished to practice their English - and they would respond in French. I think that could get a bit confusing, but hey - whatever works. I told her I'd be delighted.

She showed me around a bit, and we agreed I would come back on Monday to get in a little early training on the computer, etc. I plan to take copious notes, as the computer system is, obviously, all in French. (Thank God for desktop icons.) She also made sure I  knew that, after coming in a couple of times for training, if I decided the job was too boring or I thought it would be too overwhelming ... well, no harm done. They'd simply pay me in cash for the training time and no hard feelings. If I decide to go for it, they'll fold in those training hours into my two-month contract with them. (You get paid once a month in France. Weird, right?) I think I'll be equal to the task, and as for "boring", well - how can you be bored when you have to concentrate so hard every moment on selecting the right words? I mean, imagine the upheaval if someone asked you if you had any open campsites and you replied that yes, you did indeed have several nice pairs of underwear available? (Not that the words for "campsite" and "underwear" are indistinguishable in French - it's just an example!)

So we shook hands, said au revoir, and I climbed back into my trusty little automobile and headed off into the sunset. I sang show tunes at the top of my voice most of the way home, and giggled a little at my small triumph. I arrived back home in time to catch Patrick on his break, and he was suitably admiring of my go-getter-ness. Now, just cross your fingers that I get my residency card before June is over ... but hey, we'll worry about that another day. Today, I'm simply happy I've found gainful employment and driven someplace and back without damaging myself, the car, or others. Delightful!

Now, the sun is shining and my garden beckons. I'll leave you until next time ....