New Year's Suggestions

Here we are, on the cusp of a brand-new year. In the first few days of a new year, I always think about the fact that there are twelve whole months of possibility ahead of us. Three hundred and sixty-some-odd days in which we can make choices to do whatever we like. I love this feeling. It's quite a bit better than the "oh crap, I've let another year go by without [insert unkept resolution here]", so I try to hold on to it as long as I can - but I must admit, the tremendous feeling of hope and possible adventure does tend to fade and become a bit tattered around the edges by Valentine's Day. (In fact, usually on Valentine's Day, come to think of it - evil and ridiculous holiday that it is.)

Anyway ...

I am not a New Year's Resolution-maker. I am not, in fact, any sort of resolution-maker. I don't set goals, I don't have a five-year-plan, and I grimly suspect that I will be spending my twilight years in some broken-down, dirty old folks' home, because I cannot seem to start saving for retirement for the life of me. Yep, I'm a grasshopper. Not an ant. Can't help it.

This year, though, I thought up a few things I'd like to try to resolve to do in 2014 ... I'm thinking of them more as "New Year's Suggestions", which really seems a lot more friendly, if you ask me. I wanted to have more than just one thing, in case I got bored and needed to concentrate on something else - but I also thought that it needed to be less than 5 things, since more than that would just overwhelm me. So, here we go. Suggestions for Erin in 2014:

1. Write more on this blog. I'm certain anyone who ever started a blog has "suggested" this to themselves at the start of a year, but I'm going with this one, anyhow. Writing more may mean less interesting posts for all of you ... but hey, let's be realistic. There are like five people who read this! Plus, since I almost never, ever write my blog, then exceeding past performance in terms of quantity is going to be easy, easy, easy.

2. Take a damned walk. I am gloriously and unhealthily sedentary. I suggest that this year, I get up off of my ass and take a walk every so often. Again, I'm shooting low here ... I think a ten-minute walk, versus no walk at all - it's obvious which one is better. (The walk ... right?) I'll admit - sort of hoping that walking springboards into fast walking and then into that awkward sort-of jogging thing and then, maybe, eventually, into running. But - this year, I'm only aiming for getting out of the chair. Small steps, folks. Small steps.

3. Sing. I love to belt 'em out, and I used to open up iTunes and do a sing-a-long about once a week, but I have, sadly, fallen out of the habit. But singing makes me feel joyful, so here's to singing at the top of my lungs in my car, my shower, and my living room. Let's hope my neighbors own earplugs, and I hope I remember to keep my windows rolled up while I'm driving.

4. Model my living space on the average ship's galley. My apartment is the approximate size of a Ritz cracker box, with an animal cracker box tacked on the side (my tiny screened-in porch). While I have much less stuff than I used to, I still seem to always have just a little too much to fit comfortably into my apartment's nooks and crannies. So this year, I am hoping to use Ikea and The Container Store frequently and make everything "ship-shape" ... a place for everything, and everything in its place. Ambitious, I know (as I am a self-avowed slob), but if I make any inroads at all with this one, I will feel most triumphant.

So ... yep. 4 things. Suggestions, not resolutions. I will ease into them with care and apprehension. 
I will only look at them via my peripheral vision, so that I don't scare myself into thinking that the suggestions are mandates, and therefore something I want to run away from. It will all be oh-so-nice-and-easy.

Or not. Either way, glad to see you, 2014. We've got a lot to do this year - just wait and see.

A Man Named Sacleux

So, tomorrow I am officially getting divorced. I feel like that statement should be accompanied by a thunderclap, perhaps – or maybe a drumroll, but actually, this feels kind of anticlimactic. I mean, I haven’t laid eyes on my husband in over two years; how much different will my life really be when this is “officially” finished? Still, it seems as though I ought to mark the occasion in some significant way, so here I am. Writing. Surprised?

I think I’ve always felt that the real moment of our divorce was the morning I rode away from La Canourgue in the back of a car driven by my honorary French parents (who were, at that time, little more than strangers to me). It was November; it was raining and cold, and I have never felt so completely empty – before or since. I wanted to be strong, and instead I cried silently and tried to answer questions that my hosts had for me without sounding all slurpy. I turned around in the backseat and watched the tiny village I had thought would be my home dwindle into the distance, and wondered why I couldn’t live in a book or a movie. If this were a story, then as I drove away my husband would come running out of a nearby building and chase the car down, then apologize with tears in his own eyes and beg me to stay. Instead, I rode silently for seven hours in the back of a car and wondered how in the hell I had managed to screw this up, too. That was divorce.

Tomorrow, I just have to go stand in front of a judge and answer a few questions. He will sign some papers, I will take them to a clerk and arrange for copies to be sent to my ex, and then that part of my life will be done. Over. I will even have my own last name back. It will be as if I never met Patrick, never fell in love with him, never moved across the Atlantic to try to build a life in France. Only, I don’t think that I can ever pretend that any of this just didn’t happen (no matter how that man chooses to behave). It makes me question my sanity a little. Will I ever look back on this time in my life fondly? Oh, God, I hope I can grow into that, because the bitter taste of the loss is still in my mouth, and I truly don’t want to keep that with me forever. It’s not there every day, but it lingers … kind of like black licorice-flavored things. Ew. You’ve gotta do a lot of mouth-rinsing to eliminate those. Yep.

It seems such a big thing, getting married. (At least, it did to me.) I didn’t do this and then think to myself, “Well, there’s always divorce!” I intended to stay married, to live with my husband for better or for worse (and the house in France was “for worse”, believe me), to adjust to being part of couple instead of eternally single. And here I am. Life is just a fucking hoot, isn’t it?

I know that, at the very least, I will feel immeasurably lighter after tomorrow morning. A task which has been waiting to be finished for two and a half years will be completed, and there will be a sense of closure with that, and perhaps even a small sense of accomplishment. (Filed divorce papers? Check. Stood in front of judge? Check. Sent copies of documents to ex-hubby? Check check.) But I will still have all of the same questions in my head about why I did this in the first place, why I agreed to move to a foreign country, why I loved him, and why, ultimately, he didn’t love me. These are questions that have no real answers. I will live the rest of my life without ever knowing what that man was thinking or feeling within the context of our relationship. I’ve gained enough distance and perspective, I think, to say that having no answers: it will be okay. It will be okay because it has to be. I have gotten all the closure I am ever going to get, and I just need to be thankful that things didn’t turn out any worse than they did. I’m a little bit broken, but it’s the kind of broken that eventually mends. I’ll be all right, because I’m me, and because I have the most amazing and supportive family and friends, and they will continue to love me and laugh with me and simply be there to help me up when I fall down. Not everyone has that kind of support system, and I am so, so grateful. The people in my life are a gift – thank God I am near them, and not far away across the ocean.

So bring on the courtroom, then. I will go, I will become Erin Andress once again, and I will officially shake off the shackles that bound me to a man named Sacleux. In case you didn’t know – he didn’t deserve me, anyway. Vive le divorce!

It's Just a List, I Think

I love lists. Big ones, little ones .. any size at all, really. I make lists in notebooks, on my phone, on Post-It notes that collect in the bottom of my purse like dust bunnies. I can't seem to help myself. Most of the time, my lists are just standard jottings of what to pick up at the grocery store, or the errands I need to run on Saturday; sometimes I really go wild and make a quick list of upcoming birthdays that I need to buy cards for - which I never get around to doing, by the way. (I just make the list and forget about buying the cards approximately 15 minutes later.) Occasionally, however, I make a different kind of list. An out-of-the-ordinary list. A mysterious list. A list that defies definition (and interpretation). Intrigued?

I found just such a list about a month ago, hanging around on a mini legal pad that I use at work for all sorts of odds and ends. I can't remember writing this list, and there was no title at the top to help me figure out what in God's name I was thinking while I composed it. It is, quite simply, just another list in a long list of lists, but I keep coming back to it because I can't figure it out! Why did I make this list? How are these things connected? Is it something I brainstormed, or did I copy this list from another source? Why didn't I put any sort of heading on it, knowing (as well as anyone can know themselves, I suppose) that I wouldn't frigging remember anything about this within a week of penning it? It is a total mystery and completely infuriating.

And so, I return to the world of blogging to beseech all of you - my dear readers - to tell me, based upon the list I've included for you below ... what is this a list of? Why did I make it? Of what possible use was this list going to be to me? Because though it is in my handwriting, I have absolutely no recollection of thinking about it or writing it down ... and it's driving me nuts.

Without further ado - "The List":

If you cannot view the above picture, "The List" reads as follows:

1. picnic table
2. purse
3. candy jar
4. bookend
5. building block
6. birdhouse
7. piggy bank
8. desk organizer (?)
9. vase/planter
10. Halloween candy collector
11. drawer dividers
12. magazine stands/rack
13. a really tall hat ?
14. Kleenex keeper or toilet roll keeper
15. a really hard pillow

There is no title; there are no notes other than these numbered items, and there is nothing written on the back of the page. I am completely stumped as to when or why I made this list of seemingly unrelated things.

You know, if I was going to be possessed by an evil spirit that caused me to write something in my own handwriting that I had no recollection whatsoever of writing, I had kind of hoped it would be something more along the lines of "The body is buried in Greenwood Park" or "Beware men with red hair unless you wish to DIE" ... but I guess my automatic writing was just me being distracted, not any message from the beyond.

Anyone who comments on this with an appropriate explanation (and yes, of course I alone determine "appropriate"!) will receive a surprise gift in the mail as a token of my thanks. (You will have to give me your address for me to do this, as my list-making mania unfortunately does not extend to anything so organized as an up-to-date address book. Ahem.) I'd love an explanation for why I took the time to make this list, and I just can't come up with one. Since I discovered it here at work, I've been carrying it around in my wallet. I take it out and look at it at least once a week, but no bells have rung.

Any and all suggestions are welcome. Really. Help me solve the mystery, or at least make up a lie palatable enough to make me stop thinking about it!

10 Things That Scare Me

As usual, I start this by apologizing. I think about writing blog entries all the time, but, as my brother and I recently agreed, our family motto ought to be "I'll do it later" ... and so thinking is often as far as I get. Oops.

Also, just lately, as I have been increasingly consumed by responsibilities at work, I get home at night and feel like I might have enough energy - just - to make myself dinner, read for an hour, and then fall into bed. Sometimes I don't even get to the dinner part - I eat a bowl of cereal and call it done. I wonder if life will always be like this. On the whole, I think not - I am still getting used to being single again - but I do lose myself in the day-to-day scramble, like everyone else. Creativity is tough to mine in these conditions.

And so, in thinking what to post next, I thought, "What am I scared of?" Whatever the topic ends up being, it's not as if I have some giant readership - just family and friends, people who roll with the punches as I throw them. I try to write with your entertainment in mind, but this blog is also therapy for me, of a sort. And where else to admit what freaks me out? Yep, that's right - here, with all of you, and hang the consequences. You'll understand - you always do.
 

What Scares Erin (in no particular order):

1. Roller coasters. That breathless feeling you get on the drops? Frightens the pants off of me. My palms are sweating just writing about it. 

2. The thought that I will not be able to quit smoking, ever. I am smoking right now, in fact. Cold turkey, gum, lozenges, cold laser therapy, stop-smoking pills, electronic cigarettes - I've tried it all. And here I am, still puffing. It's ludicrous and stupid and willfully blind.

3. Cockroaches and alligators. Both are scary and prehistoric, and I can't figure out why either of these horrifying creatures has not been wiped out by some evolutionary twist. What do we need either one for? Yech. One is always lurking behind baseboards and under toilets- waiting to surprise you and give you the willies, the other looks like a log, but can actually outrun you on flat land and chomp off your leg when it catches you. Urg.

4. Being forgotten. Whether it's being left out of a party invite or ignored by an absent spouse, what is more terrifying than believing you're not important enough to remember? We're all the stars of our own lives, but I worry, as time marches on, of losing all of the connections that came before. Who have I forgotten, and who has forgotten me?

5. My comfort in my current cat-lady state. I feel like I should be much more anxious to find a partner in life, but boy, is living alone with just the cats a relief'! If I start talking about increasing the cat-count, or begin to mess around with a lot of potted plants and take up knitting clothes for said cats, can someone please come over and make me go out? Thanks.

6. Driving long distances by myself. I am, despite what you may have heard, a VERY good driver, but hours on the road alone? Not freeing, not exciting, not at all. I always imagine scenarios that end with me and an exploded engine and a dead cell phone, on a dark and deserted stretch of highway. Even when I'm driving in daylight ... I know. Completely mental.

7. Speaking French. Yeah, this one's kinda obvious ... I know the words, I know the grammar, but put me in a situation where I need to chat with a native speaker, and the stage fright and shyness that plagued me as a child tie my tongue in knots! I end up talking about the weather, every time. Il fait beau will only take you so far when trying to make friends, believe me.

8. Having kids. Or NOT having kids. Well, both really. It's completely scary, either way.

9. Energy drinks, especially Red Bull. They make me feel like my head is going to start spinning around like in The Exorcist. I am pretty sure that no one needs QUITE that much energy. What is the attraction with these things? They taste like fluoride treatments at the dentist, and make your ears buzz. Ew.

10. Boa constrictors. This one's completely nuts - I will probably never see one in my life, other than at the zoo, but I used to have a recurring nightmare when I was a kid about a boa constrictor eating my grandpa whole. I have no idea what the hell that was about, but a fear of them has pursued me into adulthood. Well, we all have our idiosyncrasies.

Thanks for reading, folks. What scares the pants off of you? I must admit, there are a lot more things that frighten me ... but like when we were children, sometimes the naming of something gives it power, and I don't want to do that. So I name only what is listed above, and I defy the rest.

Erin Confronts Her Mortality

Holy crap, it's happened. The first one this past weekend, and now another today. I can't believe it.

I have found the first grey hairs on my head.

There I was, just minding my business, checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror after washing my hands ... and a glint caught my eye. A glint of silver. I tilted my head, thinking that the bathroom light was just playing tricks. My mind stubbornly thought, that can't be ... but it was a grey hair. A long one. Right there on top of my head. Winking at me. My mouth went dry, my heart started to pound. And then I reached up, almost without thinking, and yanked that bugger out. (Took quite a few other strands, too, to be honest. Kind of hurt.) I walked out of the bathroom, determined to forget it.

Only I couldn't - because, today, at work, I found another. Just as long, just as silvery. I suppose I should be thankful it wasn't growing out of my left nostril or my ear - but truthfully, I'm not feeling too thankful here. I'm thirty-five! (Okay, a month shy of 36, but who's counting, really?) Grey hairs are for OLD people! Is this it? Have I just crossed the threshold from "still young" to "getting up there"? Holy cats, when I was 10, I thought that grey hair equaled "old". No ifs, ands, or buts. Shamefully, I don't think I've ever really revised that world view ... but now I have to. Paradigm shift! I am on the ropes here, people! Reeling and punch-drunk, at the mercy of a couple of strands of stuff that are measured using words I don't even know (microns? miniliters? harrities?). It's the stuff of nightmares - wait, should I go to sleep tonight? What if they multiply? WHEN will they multiply?!

I always imagined myself aging "gracefully"; obviously, I was delusional. Will I get used to this? It's bad enough that gravity is slowly dragging my ass earthward  ... now this! It's self-indulgent and wacko to go on like this, I know - it's just so weird. I've never liked my hair, but I don't think I fully appreciated the fact that it was soft and shiny, at least. If these two initial hairs are anything to go by, I will soon have a head full of toilet brush bristles. And, let's face it, men who go gray just look "distinguished" - women don't often have that adjective applied to them. I am envisioning something more along the lines of a mangy zebra. Where are the good adjectives for that? Well, shit.

My conclusion? There's only one answer here, folks: L'Oreal. On my way to the store now, for some preventive maintenance. Wish me luck. Perhaps it's time I found out if blondes really DO have more fun. (Just kidding ... or am I?)

When I am an old woman, I will NOT wear purple ... I will wear a damned hat, and visit my colorist twice a month. So there. Graceful, my ass.

Tiny Apartment, Big Freedom

Faithful blog readers, I’m sorry I have left you alone for so long. I have no idea why on earth I wait so long between posts … I think there’s something in me that holds on to the idea that if I do not procrastinate as long as is humanly possible, then the ultimate, completed task is just not worth it. Or, I could just be tremendously lazy. You pick.

I’ve been reveling, just lately, in my tiny apartment. I moved in at the end of May, and I’m now completely settled in. I don’t know how many square feet it is – before you even ask -, and I’m not sure I would even know how to begin to measure it to find out. The point is, it is delightfully small and cozy, and it is all mine.


Those of you who have lived in a house or apartment all by yourself, I ask you: isn’t it friggin’ marvelous? In the past, I have always had family or roommates (sometimes both!) as a part of my living space, and I didn’t even think of the possibility of living alone. Now that I’ve taken that step, I don’t know how I’ll ever live with another person again. I don’t care if I have to live on pasta and lentils because all my money goes to the rent and the utilities! The ability to vacuum or to cook breakfast while clad in only my underwear is one of the greatest satisfactions I have ever known. I never realized how luxurious it is to leave your bathroom door wide open ALL of the time.


Some days I simply sit on the floor of my tiny living room and smile at the silence and the mine-ness of it all. My cats prowl around ceaselessly, enchanted with the small screened-in porch, and I can hang the paintings and curtains that I choose, with no regard for anybody else’s feelings or wishes. It’s liberating. I can’t believe I made it to 35 years old without ever experiencing this before … it’s like discovering diamonds in the bottom of your sock drawer! A precious treasure hidden under things you have pawed through a million times … this definitely feels like a gift.

After spending so much time last year with someone who needed, for some reason, to make me justify the ways in which I chose to spend my time, it is a beautiful thing to, just now, owe explanations to no one but myself. If that sentiment is selfish, childish, or any other –ish … well, that’s fine and dandy. My tiny apartment and I – we understand each other. I’m finally starting to once again feel at home in my own skin, and to realize that the core of who I am isn’t at all broken, only a little battered. As the magnificent Ms. Gaynor told us, “I will survive”. And I’ll do it in my miniscule apartment, wearing only my undies. So there.

Weird Robot Baby

Someone at work this morning brought up the subject of dreams. She said that she had a “weird” dream last night, which turned out to be a nightmare of sorts that involved an aspect of her job and her supervisor. The adjective “weird” threw me a little, as a “weird” dream for me is something a little different than anxiety about my job translated into dream form.


For instance, one of my own dreams last night concerned a married couple that I know, who for some reason were living in my old high school. (?) The baby (which is not, in real life, due until the autumn) had already been born, and I was visiting them. After I saw the baby (who had no teeth and couldn’t walk but was already speaking in complete sentences like Stewie on The Family Guy), I realized that (gasp!) he was a robot child. I didn’t see any wires or anything, but the kid knew that I knew. At first, I tried to hide this fact from my friends, but as the kid got weirder (and after I discovered his owner’s manual and remote control in a box shoved in a corner of the gym), I tried to warn my friends about him. Understandably, they got mad and told me to leave. As I walked out of my old freshman English classroom, I turned around. My friends’ backs were to me, but the robot kid peeked over one of their shoulders and smiled toothlessly and evilly. I woke up.

I’m sure there are all sorts of psychobabble explanations that could decipher that dream, but I choose to think that I have a tiny, tiny file clerk inside my brain who runs around at night, desperately trying to organize my head files before I wake up. My dreams are just different files getting pulled from one place and re-filed in another. If I tried to interpret every one of the dreams I have, there’d be no room for anything else in my life. (Especially the dream about the room with thousands of pictures of oranges taped to the walls, or the one where I was sitting on a walrus in some kind of circus act … I had a spangly outfit on in that one, with a big headdress. Awesome.)

But … the robot baby example is a completely normal specimen of dream for me. Am I wacko? I was always under the impression that most people’s dreams were like mine – a jumble of things and places and people that are in their heads and get let out of their cages to dance around together while they’re sleeping. My co-worker’s explanation of her own “weird” dream makes me re-think that conclusion!

Does anyone else have the wacky dreams regularly? By this, I mean – without eating spicy foods or being sleep-deprived or taking loopy drugs, do any of you dream vividly and frequently? Outside of my family, I’ve never really asked anyone about this, and I wonder. I don’t often have lingering visual memories of my dreams, but it’s pretty common for a feeling or phrase someone said in it to stay with me until I next go to sleep, or sometimes through several days. I guess I thought that was how it worked for everybody.
Drop me a comment and tell me, do you dream of tiny purple doughnuts and tap-dancing tigers? Of everyday places, people, and things? Or do you simply never remember your dreams?

U.S. versus France, Final Tally

I’ve put off continuing my blog for months and months. Life has brightened up for me considerably since my somewhat ignominious return to the States back in November … enjoying my old job, reconnecting with friends and family, moving into my own place again, and mostly just … healing. My blog was sort of tied up in all of that “over there” stuff. I avoided thinking about it because I wrote it in such hope and with enthusiasm and optimism, and somehow, it all came falling down around my ears. I wasn’t ready to face that.

People have been asking me since I returned, “When are you going to start blogging again?” I was, and am, flattered by the positive responses to my writing – I guess we are all our own worst critics, right? I am surprised that so many of you have enjoyed reading about my travails and travels, and it’s given me food for thought over the past months. But – I still wasn’t ready.

Then, recently, another thought popped into my head. It’s a mean thought, a petty thought, and one might even say a childish thought … but it kept returning to me. It is simply this: my husband hated my blog. He thought that I used it to hide my unhappiness and that it was offensive to French people. (I’m not sure that he fully understands that blogs are about one person’s point of view and opinion, but we’ll let that go. Let’s concentrate on the important thing here.) The point is – he hated it, and I’ve spent all these months feeling powerless, like there was nothing I could do to assert myself because he had already made all the decisions, and, after all, we’re not in contact and I suspect he could care less if I flung myself off of a bridge or paraded naked through a biker bar … but there is something I can do. I can write.

Not about his faults, or my unhappiness, or the flaming conflagration that was our marriage – those things just are there, and a lot of them are private. But I can continue to write about my opinions and my views and my observations on the world around me. I don’t need to feel half-ashamed as I write this, thinking about what he will think of it when he reads it later, because A) he probably won’t ever read this again, and B) even if he did – his opinions and emotions are no longer something upon which my happiness depends. Ah! The freedom!

So, in an attempt to exorcise the demon, so to speak, I’ve prepared for all of you a little list showing the results – in my opinion – of France versus the U.S. in several broad categories (with commentary, of course). Enjoy it and thank you, thank you, THANK YOU for reading. 

U.S Versus France - A Short List

FOOD: It's a draw

France is an eye-opener, in terms of food, for the American eater. If you're adventurous (which I am, in terms of food!) and you love simple, fresh tastes, France satisfies on many levels. I have never had so many kinds of cheese in my life, and the bread is, quite simply, a revelation. The French adhere to the "eat what's in season" mantra, and the result is fruits and veggies that are at their peak, always. Wholesome, uncomplicated tastes - and I had the added benefit of a weekly farmer's market literally on my front stoop. (And seriously, I miss pate ... deeply.)

What the U.S. has going for it is, simply put, variety. In Orlando, I can go out to restaurants in almost every imaginable cuisine, and at my local Publix I can purchase produce from around the world. Do I feel like trying a starfruit? Do I want to make a Mexican fiesta in my own kitchen? Here, I can do that, whenever I want. Is it in season? Who cares! I can almost always find the ingredients I need to make any strange recipe I choose. In France? Couldn't make my salsa there, folks. A sad thing, indeed.

TRANSPORTATION: France wins this one, hands down

I don't care if there are tolls every 30 kilometers - France's road system is a joy to drive on. Once you figure out the road signs, you're golden. Immaculately maintained and dotted with delightful rest stops that promise CLEAN toilets, hot coffee, gas, and a place for you to picnic or let your dog out to poop ... the French have cornered the market on pleasant roadways. And if you don't want to drive? You don't have to! In all but the most remote places, the train station is nearby, and the major cities are connected by the wondrous thing that is high-speed rail. The U.S. could take some notes - we have way too many people driving way too many cars, for serious.

HOSPITALITY: Different, but the same. A winner in both nations

People always seem to fall back on the generalization, "The French - they're so rude!" Pardonnez-moi, but that was not my experience at all. I met many people in France, from different backgrounds and areas, and not only was I welcomed (with my sub-par language skills) by them, but I was invited into their homes and their lives with great grace and friendliness. I will never be done saying "thank you" to several people I met last year, people who made me feel like I wasn't just some ridiculous foreigner. 

In the U.S., most of us are automatically friendly, which can lead other cultures to think us guilty of some level of superficiality. I choose to think, instead, that we were all of us from "somewhere else" not so many generations ago, and our national character is one of inclusion, not exclusion. I know that's idealistic, but we are a pretty welcoming bunch, on the whole. Just remember that, sometime in the future, you may be the odd man out. Act accordingly.

LEISURE: Um, this one goes to my native land
This is kind of an unfair category, because I went from living in a suburban/urban setting here to a rural setting in France. But I have to be who I am, and the leisure activities of the French mystify me. First of all, everyone rides bikes. Like, a lot. (Well, not everyone, probably, but an awful lot do.) It is not my idea of a grand time to bike fifteen miles just "for the fun of it".  And they love the outdoors. So do I, when it comes down to it - but mostly when looking out a window at it, or when sitting on a comfy chaise by the pool. The French want to be out in the air - especially when it's warm - and they look askance at you if you say you'd prefer to sit inside and read this really good book, thanks. I think the U.S. wins this one simply because I'm a city mouse. Perhaps if I'd lived first in, say, Montana, then fun in the French mountains would have been delightful.

I could go on for pages, but I think my first blog after my hiatus has gone on long enough. Leave me a comment, and let me know if you have suggestions for future topics. I'm open to suggestions!

And ... the bombshell

I’ve been thinking for some time now how exactly to write this entry in my blog. Some of you reading this are people I know very well; some of you are old acquaintances; some of you are even people I’ve met since I left the U.S. and traveled to France. All of you, though, have been so positive and supportive about reading my adventures that I couldn’t just abruptly stop writing and give no reasons, and so – here we are.

I am moving back to the United States. I have already, in fact, left the village of La Canourgue, where I have been living since June of this year. You notice that I say “I”, and not “we” … my husband is staying in France. We are separating and will soon be divorced. All I can say in reference to this revelation is that my husband and I, on many levels, cannot and do not understand each other. As I’m sure you can infer, this does not make for a solid marriage. I cannot say that I am not heartbroken, because I am; I can say, however, that under the circumstances, I am making the best choice I can for myself. From this point forward, I need to be focused on putting the pieces of my life in the States back together, and I am certain that, given time, I will do just that. 

Since last Sunday, I have been staying with two marvelous people I met through a mutual friend in Orlando. I will call them “M & M” to simplify (and protect their privacy, hee hee). M & M live just south of Paris, and they came to pick up me and the cats and my luggage in La Canourgue, and then they took me back to their home and installed me there as if I were a long-lost daughter. This weekend, we went to Brittany, where they have a charming summer home in a tiny place called Uzel. I stood on the shore of the English Channel on Saturday afternoon and felt the wind in my face and smelled the sea and longed for home. Yesterday we headed back to Paris, and my flight back to the States is on Wednesday. The Thanksgiving holiday will certainly be full of gratitude this year, and all of my immediate family will be there, along with many assorted others. I cannot wait.

M & M have pampered me and made my last days in France a better experience than I could have hoped for. They were strangers to me a month ago; today the two of them are the best friends I have here in France. Just when you think the world is cold and that you are completely alone, you find that you aren’t, and that there are people who do kind things simply because it is the right thing to do. I don’t know what I would’ve done without them. 

Luckily for me as well, my angel of a boss at my old job contacted me recently to let me know that my position there was open again! This means that, upon returning to Orlando, I have a job ready and waiting. It will be a tremendous relief to be back and be doing something I am good at once again. Ironically, I don’t think I ever truly understood the word “serendipitous” before my marriage collapsed – isn’t that just a kick in the pants?

I have no idea if I will keep blogging. The idea behind this particular blog – to record my experiences in a foreign land – is now, sadly, a thing of the past. I am not sure that my regular, day-to-day life in Orlando, Florida is sufficiently interesting for blog fodder! If I continue, I hope to keep most of you as readers; if I don’t, I want to thank you all for every comment and positive word you’ve offered to me. It has meant more than I can say. Writing these entries and telling my stories helped me through the worst of my homesickness, and also helped as my personal situation deteriorated. It was good to know someone was out there listening and reading. Here’s to future inspiration, I suppose, and also here’s to family, friends, and familiarity. 

Even with the end result being what it is - I had to try this thing out. I learned things about myself that I would never have discovered living in the U.S.! Now that this particular adventure is over, I can’t say I’m unhappy to be returning to the land of my birth ... but I have a parting message for this country that has seen me through the summer and autumn of my discontent:  France, even though you’ve put some roadblocks in my way, I’m still in love with you for everything you’ve shown me these past six months and for everything that you are. We’ll meet again; don’t you worry about that. As the Terminator once said, "I'll be back."

Erin Goes Back To School

Maybe you've heard: my French language skills suck. The four years of French in high school, as well as the two years in college and the early instruction I got way back in kindergarten and first grade seem to have left almost no impression on me, and so it has been deemed by the French government, that, for my own good and the good of the realm, I must take language lessons. Thank God. It was getting awfully tiring to be sitting in a cafe, listening to conversation and trying desperately to follow what was going on, but eventually giving up and having to be satisfied with recognizing one word in every four or five. When you listen for five minutes and only catch "bird", "bike", "good" and "recycling", well ... it's a good thing I've never been of a suicidal temperment, because there are a lot of upper-story windows big enough for me to fit through around these parts.

I started classes at the beginning of September, and I think my word comprehension has increased to maybe one word in every three or so! I am starting to actually be able to piece together the meaning of conversations, and, at least in class, can even respond with only a minimal delay (in which my brain frantically pages through its French-to-English dictionary to search for the appropriate words). It's delightful. I think I may even be able to make friends soon, now that I am beginning to retain the correct vocabulary for more than just the weather, ordering in a bar, and standard greetings. I'll be able to strike up actual conversations! If you've never been in another country and not comfortable with the language, you can't even imagine the absolute relief in starting to solve the puzzle that lets you comprehend the world around you more fully. 

I go to the nearby town of Marvejols three times a week, from 8:30 in the morning until 4:30 in the afternoon to learn the intricacies of the French language and prepare for an exam called the DILF (Diplome initial de langue francaise) that I must take in December. My teacher is a lady of great patience and energy, and I love her. I won't give her name here, to protect her identity, but, trust me, the woman is a saint. We have never had a conversation in English, although if I get really stuck and say a word in English, she will give it back to me in French with nary a delay. I don't know what I will do when the class ends - maybe ask her to move in with me? Or adopt me? Maybe her kids won't mind a new, older, American sister.  

There are twelve of us in the class currently, and everyone is at different levels, but somehow it works and it's comfortable. We do a lot of spoken exercises together, which often includes what is called "presenting" yourself to the others: your name, your nationality, when you arrived in France, your marital status, if you have kids, your hobbies ... that sort of thing. And so I know that, out of the three Moroccan ladies who are in the class, two of them consider "cleaning" to be a hobby. Also, one gentleman from Portugal apparently has no hobbies at all except for weight training. (Since he is roughly the size and weight of a bantam rooster, I find this hard to believe.)  One lady, also from Portugal, insists she has no hobbies, and seems to get more and more offended each time we do this exercise. Considering that she has five children, I guess maybe she needs words for things other than "faire du ski" or "jouer au tennis". Makes sense. There are also two guys from Turkey, and we haven't been able to get any hobbies out of them yet, but I think that's because they don't understand what the hell we're asking - they only arrived in August. Luckily, one of them speaks a little English, so if all else fails, the teacher asks if I can explain in English. Some of the time, it even works! 

All kidding aside, it does help an awful lot to be a classroom and go through the rote exercises over and over - it cements them in your head. I almost swooned with pleasure when I went to the market today and had an actual conversation with a stranger that I could understand and make the appropriate responses to! Of course, it was about the weather and what I was buying, so it's not like we were discussing philosophy or quantum theory, but he said things, I understood them, and I answered him. I felt like bursting into song. (That probably would've seemed a little weird, though, so I refrained. I did hum on the way home.)

I still feel dumb almost every day. But, I've started to feel slightly less dumb, which to my mind is a huge improvement. And I have to say that most every person I've encountered here is willing to help. If you attempt their language, they're willing to cut you some slack. They'll repeat themselves, speak slower, whatever will help you gain understanding of a few more syllables. If they giggle at my accent or dismal grammar later, well, at least they had the good breeding to keep it to themselves until I was out of earshot. I'm gonna get there, folks. God bless the French government and my teacher and my classmates. One day, I'll actually be able to tell them all what their help and support meant to me, and I'll be able to do it in French. Yay!

This is just a test!

I am in the process of trying to find a few ways to get paid for my writing, and this post is as the title suggests: just a test. In order to get myself listed with a particular service that may assign me some blog topics to write about, I need to post the words a dollar sign is the cheesiest within a post. And so, my mission is complete. 'Bye for now.

Presents

A few people have asked me what to send, should they feel generous and send me a "care package" here in France. and so, with the holiday season just around the corner, I decided I would post a small list of things I can't get here but that I really, really miss and would love to see at any time arriving in my mailbox:

-peanut butter (Jif makes these little single-serve thingies that are a lot lighter in weight to send than a big ol' jar. my dad sent me some - which I have already eaten - and they got here fine in a padded envelope)
-Kraft Mac 'n Cheese (my preference is the Spirals, mmm)
-Twinkies
-Arm & Hammer baking soda (seriously, can't bake anything good without it, and can't get it here)
-Colgate Sensitive toothpaste - the paste kind (no sensitive teeth toohpaste except Sensodyne here, yeck)
-celery salt
-marshmallows - little or big
-Jolly Ranchers
-Necco wafers
-Twizzlers licorice - the Nibs are my favorite, or the cherry twists
-Mrs. Grass chicken soup - it comes in a blue box, usually two together. Lipton Chicken Noodle soup envelopes are good, too
-Hidden Valley Ranch Dressing seasoning packets
-Orbit chewing gum, sweet Mint or any of the weird flavors, like Mojito or berry or pina colada
-small ponytail holders (remember, I have about five hairs, so the ones that are about the circumference of a silver dollar are more than adequate)
-Triscuits
-Nerds
-tubes of Blistex or Chapstick - plain or anything minty/mentholated is best
-legal pads. Yellow, white, colored, it doesn't matter. All the notebooks, etc. here are made with graph paper, and it sucks for writing letters.
-Lubriderm fragrance-free body lotion, or Banana Boat After-Sun lotion. All the lotions I've tried here so far are perfumed and make my skin feel funky.
-disposable emery boards

That's all I can think of, and please don't think this is a cry for presents - it's not, really ... just helpful hints in case anyone was already thinking of sending something my way. I welcome all requests for packages TO the States, just tell me what you'd like to try and I'll do my best to send it! And remember, I would be just as tickled to get a letter from you in my mailbox as I would to get a box with goodies in it. Love you all!

I'm a permanent resident

Did you know I am now a permanent resident of France? Well, almost. The appropriate page with its fancy stamp has been put into my passport, and when I go to renew my visa in March, I will get my actual carte de sejour, which is, I guess, the French equivalent of a green card. I actually got this taken care of a couple of weeks ago, and neglected to write about it, but when I told one of my sisters the story on the phone recently, she decreed that it should be described on the blog as soon as possible. And so, here we go.

You may have read about my first forays into the world of French immigration in much earlier blogs, back when I was getting the visa I needed to travel here. I have, since I arrived, and with the help of my husband, been to visit the French unemployment office (Pole d'Emploi) and the French equivalent of Social Security, to get myself registered and on their books. Both these things were done in the early days here, and neither was very traumatic. Registering with unemployment, also, made it possible for me to get hooked up with French language classes, which I finally started this week. More on that later.

I was told to expect, soon after I arrived, a summons to meet with someone or other in the French government for a "welcome meeting" - whatever that might entail, and a medical exam. I duly sent the necessary form to the appropriate office upon arriving (well, Patrick did, thank God for Patrick) and waited for word on this meeting. And waited, and waited some more. It seems that a whole hell of a lot of people have been immigrating/emigrating (and what exactly is the difference there? I've never known) just lately, and the welcome visits were a bit on the backed-up side. Finally, last month, a summons arrived. I was scheduled to appear in Montpellier (about two hours' drive) in early September, and a list was kindly included of the paperwork I needed to bring with me, and the fee that would be required.

Though many things in France are blessedly free of charge (like my French language classes, for example), some things - like a green card - do indeed carry a cost. A weighty one! Three hundred and thirty euros, to be exact. And you can't just write a check or present your debit card, either - oh, no, you must purchase these things that are sort of like postage stamps, instead. And it's not like you can get 3 hundred-euro ones, a 20, a 10, and 3 ones ... no, you're instructed instead to purchase a weird mix of 55 and 12 and 8-euro stamps, or something similar. It's a darned good thing they send you instructions, or you'd be liable to show up with the wrong mixture, and then I'm pretty sure you would go back on a waiting list for your meeting, and possibly be deported in the meantime. Anyway, it's no worse than some of the shenanigans I've lived through at an American DMV or the Social Security administration - bureaucracy is bureaucracy, no matter what country it is in. And besides, Patrick again came to my rescue and went to procure the weird stamps at city hall. He's my hero.

So, we arrived at the OFII (Office Francais de l'Immigration et de l'Integration) for The Visit. First, we went into a waiting room with chairs around the perimeter, which slowly filled with other people anxious to immigrate or integrate. There were folks from all over, but not much English, until a couple of Thai ladies entered with their French husbands - English was apparently the language they shared. Neither one of the Thai  women appeared to understand a whole lot of French. We were also joined by what appeared to be a teenage mother with her vocally precocious (and by this, I mean he yelled a lot) son in a stroller and her dad. But wait - it wasn't her father, but actually her husband. (Seriously, the girl looked about 16 or 17.) Ew. Anyway, the room filled up, and then in came Really Skinny French Lady, to make a bored-sounding speech about a video we were all required to watch. Since I think everyone but me and the Thai ladies spoke French, her instructions were heeded, and we watched a lovely ten-minute film outlining the basic structure of French society and government. It had lots of lovely shots of Paris and of happy French people. I understood maybe half of it. Patrick whispered translations of salient points in my ear.

After that, the meetings began. This was a five-part process. You had to see one of the officials, so they could go over all your info and find out if you had a job, etc. You also had to have a visit with a nurse, a visit with a doctor, AND a visit to the x-ray room so that a chest x-ray could be taken, and then back to the original official to complete the final paperwork. Okay, then.

First, we met with Really Skinny French Lady. Patrick came with me for this one, and translated. We went over basic info, talked about the job I worked over the summer, the fact that I was already registered with the unemployment people, and what kind of jobs I might be looking for, based upon my job experience in the States. Then she told us I needed language classes (which we already pretty much knew) and attempted to give us the number of someone in Mende, where I would need to drive for classes. Patrick, having already talked to a lady in Marvejols (oodles closer than Mende) about classes there, told Skinny Lady we had already made arrangements. I was, in fact, scheduled to meet with Marvejols Lady the very next day. Skinny Lady pursed up her mouth and asserted that, very possibly, classes with Marvejols Lady would not fulfill my immigration and integration requirements. Patrick very coolly observed that since her name had been provided to us by the unemployment office, also a government office, she should be just fine. A number of terse telephone calls were made, and at the end of things, it was determined that the name of Marvejols Lady was actually the same (as was the phone number) as the woman that was on Skinny Lady's list for Mende. I promised to be sure to ask about this discrepancy when I saw Marvejols Lady tomorrow. Skinny Lady looked like she wanted to be more sure, but hey, there was a waiting room full of folks to see. We were dismissed.

Patrick escaped for some fresh air and a smoke, and I waited for Meeting Two. It was the nurse. I followed her into a small consult room and, through the use of my much-mangled French and her very few words of English, the first day of my last period was established, along with the facts that I had no major illnesses or diseases, was not pregnant, had not been hospitalized for anything in the past several years, and that I thought my vaccinations were up-to-date. When I said I didn't have my vaccination records with me, she was completely nonchalant, shrugged, and said I could see a doctor in my village if I was concerned about it. Okay, then. Stage Two, complete.

Back to the waiting room, which was starting to thin out as people were off to their various meetings. A few minutes later, I was called back for the chest x-ray. The tech took me to a changing room and explained (in English, actually - boy, was I glad of that) that in France, they don't use lead vests, and that you must be unclothed from the waist up for a chest x-ray. Oh-kay. As I was wearing a dress, I asked her should I shuck the whole thing? She replied that yep, that was what was called for, but I could, of course, leave my underwear on. Delightful. She closed the door and I undressed and then sat reading a book in my panties until she knocked for me to come out. In this interval, I heard her try to retrieve one of the Thai women from the cubicle next to mine - she had come to get her, and Thai Lady was still fully dressed. When the tech explained again that upper-body nekkid was needful, Thai Lady asked if there was a paper gown or something. The tech she sounded like she was trying not to laugh when she said that no, there was nothing. Poor Thai Lady. The knock came on my own door, and I sashayed out into the room - thankfully, I had put on good undies that morning. I was ushered into the x-ray machine, which looked like a photo booth, and had to press my front side to what looked like one of those targets at a shooting range. A big breath and a few seconds later, and I retired to my cube to dress. A few minutes after that and bam! I had my very own chest x-ray in hand.

Back in the waiting room once more, we waited for the next-to-last summons: the doctor. Patrick rode along on this one, now that he was back from his "break", and I expected a regular examining room and some poking and prodding, perhaps. I wanted Patrick there in case I needed words I didn't have in French. Nope, wrong again. The woman simply greeted us, grabbed the chest x-ray, slapped it on a light box, peered at it for a few seconds, said okay, and then asked me the same questions as the nurse. She did, as a doctor must, plead with me to quit smoking, but in a very nice way. She signed and stamped a piece of paper, gave it to me, and then we were "au revoir"ed out the door. Phew!

Lastly, it was back to Skinny Lady to give her the doc's signed okay that I wasn't a some sort of Typhoid Mary, and to give her the funny money-stamp-thingies. She carefully pasted them to a page with my info on it, clipped it to a lot of other paperwork we had sent to OFII previously, and then proceeded to print up a nifty little page that got plastered right into my passport, along with a very official-looking stamp (the rubber kind) and a shiny, holograph-y clear sticker that went right on top to seal it in. It looks very fancy and indicates that I am now firmly on the road to being Immigrated and Integrated.

I still have to go to a one-day French civics class in November (I am actually looking forward to it - I don't have to bring Patrick, as they will have English speakers there to help if I don't understand), and my carte de sejour is contingent upon my passing an oral and written test called the DILF in December, but I am not worried. I blithely walked while almost completely nekkid in front of a strange x-ray tech, and I didn't even blush. If I can ever figure out those stamp thingies on my own, I will be well on my way to really being at home here.

Oui!

The Lure of Ricard

Hello, my lovelies. It's been a while, hasn't it? I'm afraid I've been caught up in my day-to-day living, and have shamefully neglected you. Ah, well, let's try to remedy the neglect, shall we?

For all of you out there who have never visited France, there is something you should know. The French love anything anise-flavored. Candy, mints, and most especially ... Ricard. Every bar and cafe hereabouts has a bottle or ten of this aperitif ready to pour at all times, and I am going to do my best to explain it. In my own opinion, it is possibly the foulest-tasting stuff on the planet, but the French enjoy it mightily, and perhaps, as the years go by, my taste buds will become accustomed. Who knows.

Ricard (and other local variants of the liqueur, called pastis) is simply an anise-flavored liqueur, somewhat like  Galliano, or Jagermeister, or ouzo. What really differs is the serving of it. You don't drink Ricard neat; instead,  a couple of ounces are poured into a snifter (usually with the Ricard logo printed on it - the Ricard folks are no slouches when it comes to promotional materials, especially glassware), either with or without an ice cube, according to taste ... and then, you top it off by pouring in a measure of cold water before drinking. This still sounds pretty typical for any sort of liquor, but the water actually changes the color of it, so that the clear, kind of light amber of the liqueur itself now is a milky yellowish-white, looking disturbingly like skim milk. And then you drink it. And it tastes like black jellybeans. As an old friend of mine would always say, oy vey.

I've noticed that, on the whole, it seems to be much more a man's drink than a ladies' drink, but that doesn't mean I haven't seen plenty of women quaffing this beverage from time to time. One would think that the French national drink would have to be wine - and wine is important here, no doubt - but Ricard seems to give the vineyards a run for their money in terms of customer loyalty. People sit and chat with each other for hours, with a bottle of Ricard on the bar and a flagon of water between them, refilling and topping off their glasses countless times as the evening goes by. I've tasted it myself, and almost ran screaming down the street as my taste buds were saturated with the oily and slightly medicinal taste of licorice, but I am definitely in the minority here, as far as the wonders of Ricard are concerned. Again, maybe this is how I will know that I have assimilated into French society - when offered a Ricard, I will happily accept and even drink it without wanting to tear out my own tongue. But then, I was never a fan of Jagermeister or anything similar, either. Ew.

Instead, I stick to beer when I can (mostly light lagers, which are most popular here), the occasional glass of house red or white, and, more and more increasingly, whiskey and water. I haven't had a gin and tonic in quite some time - gin seems to be missing from the drinks menu in most establishments hereabouts - not too popular, I gather. Although to me, the leap from anise flavoring to juniper is not all that far, and you can always get a tonic water, wherever you go ... but I can buy gin in the liquor store or at the grocery, so my love of a good G&T can at least be indulged at home!

One last note: here, it is perfectly acceptable to order a beer sweetened with flavored sirop. I am not kidding. Grenadine, mint, or peach syrup are the most common, though I guess you could tell them to put in whatever they had on hand - strawberry, blackcurrant, lemon, orange ... There is a disturbing concoction called a Monaco that is beer, grenadine syrup, and limonade, which is like 7-UP. Basically, a Shirley Temple with beer in it. I made several of these for people while I was working at the campground, and the expression on people's faces as they sipped them always seemed to be, Ah - how refreshing. I myself am not convinced of this, and have steered clear. Between licorice-flavored stuff and sweet beers, there is enough evidence, in my opinion, to stick with the old tried-and-true staples of beer, wine, and whiskey. No surprises there. If you like licorice, though, then France is the place for you. There is a bar stool, pitcher of water, snifter glass, and bottle of Ricard right here waiting for you.

Pronunciation guide:

Ricard: ree-CAHR
pastis: pass-TEE
sirop: sear-OH
Monaco: mohn-ah-COH
limonade: lee-moh-NOD

Things French People Love

I've been watching and learning, here in La Canourgue, for three months now, and I've noticed a few things that the folks around here seem to adore. These are generalizations, of course, and I'm sure that with time, I'll discover that it's not true of everyone, but for the time being - a few Things That French People Love.

Cantaloupe: For some reason, the French adore cantaloupe melons. It's called "melon", as if cantaloupe are the only melons cultivated to be consumed by the masses. I rarely see watermelons in the store or at the market, and honeydews seem to be non-existent. There are occasionally some weird-looking African yellow-y things in the supermarket, but by and large, cantaloupe is the melon of choice. In the summer, it seems, no picnic or barbeque or quiet lunch at home is complete without this orange fruit sliced and served to each person. They eat it as a first course, and everyone exclaims with pleasure how sweet (but not too sweet) and delicious it is ... I have eaten so much cantaloupe this summer that I would be perfectly happy to never encounter it ever again. There is a huge one reposing on my kitchen table as I write this, a gift from the melon vendor whose table sits beside my front door every market day. I know my husband will happily suggest cutting into this piece of fruit when he gets home from work for his midday break, and I will smile, and say, of course, and eat it, and try very hard to enjoy it. Maybe a love for it will eventually sink in? I am living in hope.

Peanuts:  Do you like peanuts? I've always considered them to be sort of the poor cousins of the nut family. You eat them when all the other nuts in the mixed nuts can are gone. Or you crush them up and use them to garnish pad thai. Or, best of all, you can pulverize them and mix in a little oil and sugar to create peanut butter, one of the best substances known to man. Not so in France. Here, you go to someone's house for dinner, and bam! The bag of peanuts comes out. Everyone happily digs in and eats them by the handful as an appetizer. There are crackers, potato chips, and things that look like Cheetos, but are peanut-flavored. (Yuck, by the way.) If you bring a bag of mixed nuts (this is if you can find one in the store) to the party, the peanuts are winkled out and eaten first! It boggles the mind. And, as I may have mentioned before - no peanut butter. It is, quite literally, an unknown quantity here. The "exotic foods" section of the grocery store might have a jar or two available, but it will inevitably be the extra-super-chunky variety that consists of mostly chopped-up peanuts and hardly any "butter" to be going on with. I have no idea where the love of plain peanuts came from, but it is bewildering. A country noted for its love of food and cooking, and most of its denizens think peanuts are an appropriate snack. I just don't know. Also, the French word for peanut is "cacahuete", and, you know, being American, I don't like to eat things that have "caca" in the name.

Peach iced tea: I was excited to find bottled and canned iced tea available in France. I thought I would be making my own sun tea, if I wanted this particular beverage, and was pleased to see that wouldn't always be necessary. But ... if you don't like peach flavoring, you're up shit creek on this one. Fortunately, I do! Just about every grocery chain has a house brand for bottled beverages - soda, juice, etc. And apparently, for the French, "iced tea" and "peach" are inseparable. (I have seen a few bottles of mango iced tea here and there, but never in any quantity, and always with the word "nouveau" -  new - prominently featured on the label.) There is even an iced tea syrup available (I have a bottle in my own kitchen, in fact) that you just add water to and, voila!, a delicious iced tea beverage is waiting for your consumption. However, it is always peach iced tea syrup. Never lemon, never raspberry, never plain. Perhaps I should contact some beverage manufacturers here and suggest the lemon, raspberry, or mint options? If Lipton doesn't get in ahead of me, I might be able to open up whole new vistas in the French ready-made beverage market.

Outdoor activities: I come from a very suburban/urban area of the U.S. When people there have leisure time, they generally go to the movies, or shopping, or to an amusement park. Maybe they head to a public park with some friends for a summertime cookout. In this part of the world (the least-populated area of France, actually),though, when people have down time, they head outdoors. Hiking, biking, camping, swimming, canoeing ... I imagine there are places in the U.S. where this is the case, as well - I just never lived in any of them. My husband and I spend countless hours in our yard, gardening, mucking out the stream that flows through it, and inviting people over to barbeque and eat al fresco. And I've learned to be careful when someone invites me on "une petite balade" ("a little walk") ... because, depending upon the person, that could mean a hike of twenty kilometers through the mountainous terrain that surrounds us, or it could mean a short stroll to the outskirts of town and back. You just never know, and it appears that you should be prepared for either outcome when you accept their offer. I am hoping that, with time, my mind reading abilities become better and I will know when I should bring water, sunscreen, and Power Bars along for "a little walk". I'm sure I'll get there some day - and I'll probably be walking, when I do.

Meat: First, there's saucisson. It's a kind of dried sausage, kind of like pepperoni. You slice off little pieces and eat it with bread or by itself. The people around here eat it all the time, and there are an infinite number of varieties. I have no real idea exactly what goes into the making of these things, but they taste fantastic (despite the sort of vague feet-like aroma before you cut into them). Then, of course, there are pates and terrines and mousses. All made out of some sort of meat (usually organ meat, like livers) and sometimes veggies, like mushrooms or onions, and molded into a sort of loaf that you then slice hunks off of and spread on bread. Again, delicious. Think of it sort of as meat jelly or jam - makes a great sandwich. So, these are the before-the-meal meat products, and then you move on to the entree portion of your lunch or dinner, which is always ... surprise! More meat. Sausages - pork or lamb, usually - or perhaps pork chops, or thin beef steaks. Maybe a roasted chicken - boneless, skinless chicken breasts are not very popular here. Sometimes people will have turkey steaks or perhaps a piece of fish (usually salmon, unfortunately). But always, always, the main course around these parts is meat. Here is the crazy part: I've never, since I've been here, seen anyone marinate a piece of meat. There is this little packet of dry herbs that comes with any steak or chop you buy in the market that most folks will rub on the meat before they cook it, but that's it! (And it always consists of mostly rosemary. Mom, watch out.) I made an herb butter with some fresh chives and parsley last week to put on some steaks I was broiling for dinner for myself and my husband, and he looked horrified as I applied it to the meat prior to putting it in the oven. Thank God I had rejected the balsamic vinaigrette and shallot marinade that was my other idea - he might have left the house, and me, upon seeing that perpetrated on a steak he intended to eat. I have been afraid to broach the subject of marinating with my new French friends - it seems so universally neglected that I feel sure there is some big, glaring reason for NOT doing it that I haven't yet discovered. I will continue, of course, to marinate in the privacy of my own home, but in front of others ... rosemary, anyone?

I discover new things every day, and will continue to parade those things past all of you. Thanks for reading and sharing in my adventures!

Pronunciation Guide:

melon: meh-LOW(n)
cacahuete: ka-ka-WEHT
nouveau: noo-VOH
voila: vwah-LAH
une petite balade: ewn puh-TEET bah-LAHD
saucisson: so-see-SOHN
pate: pah-TAY
terrine: teh-REEN

Bread and Bonjour

I've been pondering two things that, to me, seem quintessentially French - and that you really need to understand, absorb, and participate in to become comfortable living in France or with the French. As my title suggests, these things are bread and greetings such as "bonjour". Let me break it down for you:

Bread: The staff (or stuff) of life, right? In France, you simply MUST eat bread. There is no conversation about it, like, "Hey. Should we go buy some bread for [insert meal here]?" You go to the bakery every single day and you purchase whatever bread supplies you need to lay in for that day. End of story. People here eat bread with any and every meal they consume. Bread with their coffee or hot chocolate in the morning. Bread for their sandwiches at lunch. Bread (of course) with dinner and most especially with cheese, which you eat at dessert time. And I'm not talking Wonder Bread here. Mention sliced sandwich bread like that, and most French-born citizens will give you an incredulous look, as if you just announced you like to eat dog poo for dinner. No, French bread is the long, crusty on the outside, chewy on the inside baguette, first and foremost. There are many other kinds - I am most partial to the bigger cousin of the baguette, the flute, because it is a little less dense than the baguette and has a fluffier interior. (My husband rolls his eyes at me when I state this preference.) There are breakfast breads (pain au lait, pain au mie, brioche) that don't have a hard crust and are excellent for dipping in beverages, there are sweet pastries (pain au raisin and pain au chocolat) that are related to the illustrious, flaky and delicious croissant, and there are literally thousands of regional specialties in both sweet and non-sweet, hard and soft varieties. For example, in my village they make a big ring of country bread called a couronne, and this is apparently impossible to get in Paris. It's very good, but I am a little stumped as to why you just don't eat something else while you're in Paris that they don't make here? (Like Chinese take-out or kebabs from the 24-hour kebab stand.)

But this is the thing about bread: it is not just a staple in your diet. It is part and parcel of the French man or woman's identity. Bread is not just sustenance; it is religion. I am pretty sure that there have been wars here (or at least really big arguments) over where you could get the tastiest bread. Everyone has their particular preferences, not just for the type of breads they prefer to eat on a given day, but also for the actual bakery where these are procured. People don't just buy bread from anywhere, all willy-nilly. No. Absolutely not. You go to the bakery you have ALWAYS gone to, and there is no deviation. I think when you move someplace new, you get a window of time to sample the local bakeries, but once you've gone there multiple times in a week, you're committed. And if your bakery runs out of something you want? You go without. No running across town and picking up a loaf from the other bakery, oh no. Perhaps, if you wear a wig, dark glasses, and a cape, you could drive to the next village over and buy bread there, maybe. If you had house guests, for instance, and needed bread to feed them. But you are loyal to your baker, and he or she will be loyal to you. Our bakery is literally about fifteen steps from our front door, and Patrick is now such a good and regular customer he can even take home bread if he forgets his money - he just brings payment to them later on, or even on the next day. Can you believe it??? I am working hard on ingratiating myself with the people who work there, as well, and it will be a happy day when I can say more to them than "hello", "good bye", and "one flute, please".

Bonjour: Literally, it means "good day". French people use it as an all purpose "Hello," or "Hey there!" What's different about this greeting is that you use it, um, all the time, and with everyone, whether you know them or not. First, you must greet (and say good-bye to, by the way) whoever is at the cash register in any shop or store you enter. Ditto for bars, pharmacies, the library, the post office, hotels, government offices ... anywhere, really. Even if you're just entering that building to browse around and have no intention whatsoever of buying anything or asking for any further assistance, you MUST greet them with "bonjour". (Or "bon soir", if it is after 6pm or so.) When you exit said establishment, it must be accompanied by a "au revoir", or "merci, au revoir", if they have assisted you in any way. This is gospel. It is the only civilized way to behave here, and if you don't, those employees of wherever you have just exited will gossip about you and comment on your rudeness. I am not kidding - I've now done it myself, at the campground. Wow.

And greeting people is not limited to interior spaces. We have a really deep windowsill on our ground floor window, which I sit on quite a bit, enjoying a book and/or a cigarette. Since we live in the village center, people are walking by all the time. Whether they are people I happen to know or tourists gawking at the architecture, they all will toss out a "bonjour" or "bonsoir" as they drift past me - even kids! In fact, it is now easy to tell the tourists who are from countries other than France, because they are the people who don't greet me as they walk in front of my house. (Well, there are also several long-time residents of La Canourgue who studiously ignore me and refuse to let out a bonjour in my direction. I generally pretend to be completely absorbed in my book when I see one of them coming, so I don't have to meet their eyes and recognize the slight. Or, if I'm feeling froggy, I say bonjour first, and watch the sound speed up their steps. I am hoping that, eventually - like in five years, maybe - they will get accustomed to the sight of me and grace me with a greeting.) If you're taking a walk, you say "bonjour" to anyone who makes eye contact with you, in general. Can you imagine it? Try - imagine you are walking down a street in your own town or city. Now imagine saying hello to complete strangers as you go. Strange, right? It seemed that way to me until I started doing it, and now I just can't stop. It's an addiction. But it's also 100% really and truly French. Of course, in Paris, people don't greet every person they see - the city's too enormous for that. But in the suburbs of Paris? Yep, bonjours abound. The really fun part? If you actually know the people, more often than not you also get to do the cheek-kissing thing. And that's a whole 'nother ball of wax ... I'll save cheek kissing for next time, sportsfans.

Take care of yourselves and each other, and make sure to give a nice greeting to the person behind the counter the next time you go to a bakery. Or your mechanic's. Or Target. If people look at you funny, just tell them you are experimenting with other cultural norms. If they still are giving you the hairy eyeball, just say, "merci, au revoir" and walk away. You can't win 'em all.

Pronunciation and definition guide:
baguette: bah-GETT (crusty loaf of bread, about a foot long)
flute: FLOO-tuh (crusty loaf of bread, about twice the size of the baguette)
pain au lait: pahn-oh-LAY (soft breakfast bread, made with milk)
pain au mie: pahn-oh-MEE (soft breakfast bread, as above, sweeter. Both are similar to Hawaiian rolls.)
brioche: BREE-ohsh (soft rolls with an egg wash on top to make them shiny. Sometimes have giant sugar crystals decorating them.)
pain au raisin: pahn-oh-ray-SAHN (croissant-like pastry with raisins baked in)
pain au chocolat: pahn-oh-shock-oh-LAH (croissant-like pastry with a seam or two of dark chocolate baked inside)
couronne: koo-RUN (a hearty whole-grain country bread, baked in a ring like a crown)
croissant: KWAH-sahn (you know what these are)
bonjour: BOHN-jewr (hello! or good day!)
bon soir: BOHN-swahr (good evening)
merci: MEHR-see (thank you)
au revoir: oh-vwa (good bye)

The Ice Cream Incident, Part Deux

Before Mrs. Boss could continue, I tried to interject. "Uh, I am very, very sorry about this. I can understand why you are so upset. It was a bad mistake, but I did think that I plugged it in, and I'll understand if you need to take the money you've lost from my wages ..." That's as far as I got. She cut me off.

"No, no, no," she said, impatiently. "I want you to go through this freezer. Take the ones like this (she held up the squooshy fruit pop I mentioned before) and put them in this trash bag. Count them. I want you to think about the damage you've caused. Throw them out when you're done counting them. The others can go back into the fridge outside, and you will take them there when you've finished with the bad ones. Put them underneath the ice creams already in there so they will have time to freeze again. I hope you understand the damage you've caused." And with that last, memorable sally, she swept out the door with Mr. Boss in front of her, and actually (and I swear to gosh this happened, I wouldn't make it up) slammed the door behind her. I stood there for a few seconds, a little breathless at what had just happened. Then I picked up the trash bag and began to count.

All told, we lost 42 ice cream bars because of my supposed screw-up. Nevermind that I very definitely plugged it in, and therefore was not really the culprit - Mrs. Boss is not inclined to hear excuses or explanations, once she has made up her mind as to what the story is. For the next few days, I let whomever I was working with plug in the damned thing every day, and I watched the outlet inside like a hawk. I walked outside to put my hand on the glass front of the fridge every half an hour or so, to make sure it was still cool. I only left off with my new obssession when I observed something very interesting. There are two outlets in the wall, you see, side by side. Mostly, people use the right-hand one to plug things in, but they both work. One day, one of my co-workers plugged in the extension cord for the ice cream freezer on the left-hand side. About twenty minutes later, Mrs. Boss came along, saw it, and unplugged it from the left, switching the extension cord to the right-hand socket. A few minutes later, I investigated. The plug wiggled in the right-hand socket ... it wasn't connected all the way. I pushed it the rest of the way in and checked the fridge - it was now humming along. I asked another co-worker if there was anything wrong with the left-hand socket. "No," she said, and we tested it with another appliance, to make sure. Interesting. Mostly because, on the day of The Incident, I saw that the plug was in the socket furthest away from me - i.e., the left-hand one. I wonder, I thought ... and then I put that thought away. Days had elapsed, The Incident was fading from Mrs. Boss' mind, and I hadn't done much of anything too dumb in the last couple of shifts.

So I let it go. Well, kinda. I'm still writing about it here, aren't I? and truthfully, though nothing else of that magnitude has happened since, there are plenty of little things that happen every day that incur Mrs. Boss' displeasure. Not just things that I do - there have been other Incidents, with other employees, where I saw them being told off right in front of everyone else ... so I guess I should be happy she at least allowed my delicate American sensibility a bit of privacy for my own dressing-down. I am not alone, that is for sure.

The few startled tears her words provoked on the day of The Incident have long since dried, and now I do my best to ignore her when she snaps about something silly. I smile a lot and concentrate on being nice to our customers. I remind myself fifty times a day that this charade ends on August 29, and that the money is needed and welcome. And mostly, I thank whatever powers there be that I am me, and not Mrs. Boss. I think I will survive.

The Disastrous Incident of the Ice Cream in the Daytime

Have you ever had a boss that you really, really disliked? Someone who made all your workdays into a sort of nightmarish odyssey that you weren't certain would ever end? I thought that I had had some pretty awful superiors, in times and jobs gone by, but I found out that I was mistaken. All my bad bosses from the past could be rolled up into one, and they wouldn't even begin to approach the unpleasantness of my current boss. I won't tell you her name; I won't even give the name of the place where I work - it's best to be somewhat circumspect about these sorts of things, don't you think? But I do need to tell you all a little about the lady who currently signs my paycheck. It's time.

I've always considered myself to be a fairly competent individual. No matter what the job was, I have, in the past, managed to learn quickly and discharge my work duties with intelligence and, yes, competence. Even though some jobs had a bit of a steep learning curve, I always was able to get into a groove with any new employer fairly easily. Until now.

At first, I thought it was a language thing. My boss speaks English to me, but I thought maybe things were getting lost in translation, because I certainly couldn't be as stupid and slow as she seemed to think (these thoughts of hers are communicated mostly via angry sighs, sullen facial expressions, and once, a stamp of her foot on the floor, accompanied by a loud, "Non!" Seriously.) Once I stopped to look around me, though, I saw that it wasn't just me getting the "you're a moron" treatment. She does it to her French employees, too.

Let me give an example of the behavior of this woman who is currently in charge of my immediate destiny. I call it "The Ice Cream Incident" in my head, and it was maybe the most unpleasant experience I've ever had at a job. If it had happened in the U.S., I would have left that day and never gone back - here, though, there are actual employment contracts for these short-time summer jobs, and I can't go anywhere, unless I get fired. In retrospect, I'm glad I stayed - things are getting slightly better - but for now, listen to this nonsense:

I work at a campground, in the reception building. There's a bar, a small grocery store with food and sundry items, and a terrace outside where folks can sit at tables and enjoy a beverage and the sunshine. We also have (as many places do, in the summertime) a big deep-freeze on wheels, filled with different types of ice cream treats. We call it "the fridge", and it stays inside the reception buidling all night, and in the morning, those of us who open up the place (that's me!) unplug it, wheel it outdoors, and plug it back in through a window, as the outlet is indoors. About a week after I started, when my co-worker and I wheeled the fridge outdoors, we saw that someone had, the day before, bored a small hole through the window frame above the area where the fridge sits outside and threaded the business end of an extension cord though it.

"That's new, " I remarked to my co-worker. (She speaks some English, too, and we converse in mostly English, with some French mixed in for good measure.)

"Oh, yes," she replied. "Go ahead and plug it in there," and so I did. She then headed indoors, to finish up, and I remained outside, straightening chairs and tables, putting up the table umbrellas, etc. When I went back in, I glanced at the wall socket and saw a plug already jacked in. Great, right? Wrong.

I finished my shift, went home, and returned the next day. My boss appeared from nowhere and made a beeline for me.

"Erin?" She met my eyes. My stomach immediately knotted up - so far, she hadn't talked to me at work, except to point out when I had done something wrong, or when I hadn't done something that apparently I was supposed to do. Completely unnerving.

"Yes?" I said, and tried out a small smile. It wasn't returned.

"Erin, when you bring the fridge outside every morning, what is the first thing you check, the first thing you must do?" She seemed oddly intense, even for her. She had been complaining the day before about the umbrella near the ice cream fridge, saying it wasn't shading it properly, so I tried that first.

"Um, make sure that the umbrella is shading the fridge?" I tried.

"No. Before that," she said.

I hoped my second try would be correct. "Well, you have to plug it in, of course," I began, and she pounced.

"Yes." Her voice was hard and steely. "Yesterday, someone (read here: YOU) forgot to plug in the fridge, and we did not notice until two o'clock. Many ice creams were melted and ruined. Please do not forget this again. You must check every morning." Her eyes were burning holes in my face. I started to stammer an explanation, an apology - actually, I don't know what I was going to say, as I felt like my bowels might explode at any moment, just from her furious stance and glare - but she cut me off. "Just remember next time." And she abruptly wheeled around and marched back to her office.

I blindly went through my morning opening routine (making double and triple sure that the fridge was frigging plugged in, you can imagine), and the day started. It was busy, people coming in all morning to buy bread, drink coffee, and ask various questions. I stayed out of my boss' way as much as possible, but was sure I could feel her contempuous gaze on me from time to time. Around eleven, things slowed down, and I settled into some cleaning duties. I had barely begun to sweep up the crumbs made by about 60 croissants and 100 baguettes, when the boss' voice came from the storage room in the back of the building.

"Erin, please come here." My stomach sank. It wasn't over.

I hied myself to the storage room to find Mrs. Boss, and her husband, Mr. Boss (they run the place together) standing there. He had a very sad, disappointed look on his face, she still looked like the wrath of God. Oh, Jesus, I thought. What now? I soon found out.

"Erin," Mrs. Boss began, still in her I'm so-angry-I-can-barely-keep-myself-from-strangling-you voice, "because you didn't plug in the fridge yesterday, we lost most of our ice creams. She yanked open the storage freezer we have back there and fished out some sort of frozen fruit bar. "Look at this!" She was dangerously close to shrieking now. She squeezed the wrapper and it was evident it was still mushy from melting the day before. "We put these into this freezer to try to save them, but most are still like this. Look at it - look at what you did!" She threw it back into the freezer. Mr. Boss looked chagrined, as well.

"It is a very bad mistake, Erin," he said, sadly and with great gravity. "A very bad mistake."

Part 2 ... next post

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.