Le Vent Rend Fou

Translation: The wind makes you crazy. 

Here in Provence, we are treated periodically to the crazy wind that comes in from the north/northwest, called the Mistral. It can blow for one day or many and after several days of the constant onslaught, it just plain wears you out... or makes you nuts. After trying to navigate one particularly nasty mistral in Isle sur la Sorgue, I ended up with vertigo for several hours afterward and really thought I was going bonkers until someone assured me that this feeling is common. Local lore says that if the wind lasts for more than one day, it will last three. If it continues longer than three, it will last six. After that it's a nine-dayer. By the time we get to nine days, which I've never experienced, everyone in Provence would be completely off their rocker and the psych wards would be overflowing, I'm sure.

Here in Aix en Provence we are partially protected from the wind because we are situated in a valley. Don't get me wrong, we get the Mistral, but in Arles or Avignon, for instance,  it can be far worse. If you're the economical type, there you can treat yourself to a free, full facial exfoliation simply by situating yourself properly during the mistral and its ensuing blowing sand.

The mistral wind has truly moulded the landscape of this region with its ferocity. In many places in Provence our trees grow at a slant because of the wind's force. Growers anchor their fruit trees on 3 sides to guard against toppling, and farmers plant rows of Cypress around their fields to protect against its violence. Traditional Provencal architecture has also taken the wind into account. Farm houses, particularly in the Camargue, are built facing south with very few or no windows on the north wall, and our bell towers are often fashioned out of lacy iron so the wind can blow through them rather than blow them over.

Yes, the Mistral can be a bad thing. In the summer when the landscape is hot and dry, it can pick up a spark and turn it into a ferocious and devastating fire in minutes. I was having dinner near Martigue one night last summer as one of these balls of fire roared past us. Everybody told me not to worry because the wind would move it south so fast it wouldn't touch us. They were right, it didn't, but an entire town  that was unfortunate enough to be in its path had to be evacuated. And the Mistral can turn a perfectly warm, inviting Mediterranean sea into an ice bath overnight with no thought at all for anyone's weekend beach plans.

There are good things about the Mistral however. The mistral is precisely the reason that Provence is Provence. First and most importantly, it helps us grow great grapes! But also, this cold, dry wind generally blows away the clouds and clears the air giving us the exceptional Provençal light that so many painters have spent decades trying to capture on canvas. Though the winds generally come in winter or spring, on a hot summer day a mistral can drastically change the temperature and the humidity in all of 5 minutes. The first time I felt this I was sure I was going to see a major tornado blowing down the Cours Mirabeau (a natural thought from one born in "Tornado Alley") and I got out my video camera in anticipation.

And the Mistral brings gifts. I have received several pots, laundry baskets and mop buckets that have blown in from elsewhere, as well as some completely useless things like (ick) various and sundry socks and underwear.

Several weeks ago after a particularly maniacal three day mistral, I opened my terrace door and found this.

Yes, a another gift from the Wind Gods. The barbecue grill had blown in from somebody else's terrace and landed smack dab in the middle of my terrace, on its feet and in perfect working order (I did put the grill on straight for the photo). The mistral also brought a gift for Arthur-the-Cat. You can just see his ears peaking up from that cozy comforter that landed so conveniently on his chair and which he accepted as if it were his due. Of course Monsieur Mistral also brought all the other debris that is laying on the terrace and I'm finally getting around to cleaning it up today so I can do the planting.

I don't need this present since I already have a little one that is just the right size for me and my little terrace but I'm leaving it exactly where it landed, at least for a little while.  I'm thinking that the next wind might drop a couple of steaks or some nice, fat sausages directly on the grill. Come to think of it, I'd better get the fire laid in advance for this great moment. 

And if I'm really lucky, or unlucky depending on where I'm sitting at the time, this might blow in as well.

The guy above and behind me stores his bike on the roof. There is another one on the roof above that. If the Wind Gods stay with me, my terrace should be their direct target. 

But now that I look at this photo, I realize that my neighbor's lush forest of pot plants has disappeared. Pouf! Gone with the wind. Well shitballs, I wonder who got those?

Guest Pest

I got to do a guest post yesterday! I feel like I've arrived. Several weeks ago, Lindsey over at The American Girl  asked me to write about my best day ever here in France as part of a series she's doing. The kind of moment that makes you realize you made the right decision or the kind that reawakens your courage when you're SURE you've made the wrong decision. I couldn't come up with the BEST. I'm terrible at choosing favorite things.

I love reading Lindsey's blog because it's about a young woman who has chosen to live in France. And I love looking at this whole business from her perspective. She's joyous, optimistic, open and a cutie patootie to boot. I mean what can you say about a young woman who can't sew but owns a sewing maching....just because she wants to sew...someday? Please take the time to check out her blog. For self-serving purposes, I'll link you up with MY article here! But take the time to read some more, okay?

Bon Week-end

Home Is Where the Tarte Is

Easter isn't exactly the same and not always easy when you live far away from your family. If I were in Minnesota, I probably would have spent Easter Day at my sister's house with my boys, my family and friends. I would have made baskets for the boys (one is never too old for an Easter basket), we would have eaten ham and cheesey potatoes and then sat around a groaned about how full we are. In fact, because of the miracles of skype, late Easter Sunday I was able to join my mom, my sister and her family and friends as they were sitting outside enjoying the brand new spring (however, it snowed there last night) as they were groaning about how full they were. It was wonderful to be able to share it like that. And I talked to the boys, who both spent Easter at their respective girlfriends' homes and both seemed content and well-fed.

But holidays away from family are a little easier these days. With time, one finds people who become family and though they don't replace those who you can't be with, they're a hell of a good substitute. My Easter weekend began Thursday when I picked Claire up from the train station and turned over her precious car keys. We drove down to the Camargue to spend a couple of days with her mom (and my friend) Saro. Going to Saro's is a bit like going home for me. Not only do I arrive to a warm and inviting home and a good friendship, but the Carmargue is one of those places that feels strangely familiar to me. Perhaps you know the feeling...like I've lived there before.

My "job" was to feed Saro's retired, 35 year old horse and Pedro, her adorable donkey... after being shown the ropes, of course.

We ate, laughed, drank, and when we finally left the house to do a little shopping in the village, which is right on the sea, winter-like weather kicked in. It became cold, rainy, and windy and our shopping venture into town produced not much more than a bone-chilling cold, sand in our teeth and an urgent need to get back to the house, put on our woolies, and turn the heat on.

Saturday afternoon, Claire and I returned to Aix where I made my tarte au citron for Sunday's lunch at my friend, Holly's. Okay, it's not my tarte au citron...the recipe came from Sharon over at My French Country Home and you really need to try it. It's a perfect blend of sweet and sour, so simple to make and always a hit.

Sunday, I boarded the early bus to my friend Brigitte's in Rogne, carrying my tarte and a bottle of Rosé. (For some reason, I always seem to be traveling by bus with baked goods!)  Since it was a beautiful day and the only really nice one of the weekend, Brigitte and I freed her 1967 Triumph from it's parking space in the garage....

took off the roof, and headed out to traverse the Luberon Valley to Holly's house in Peypin d'Aigues. I wish I'd taken more photos because it was a beautiful drive, through all the suprisingly busy villages (I assumed they'd all be shut down tight for the holiday) and the lush green of the countryside. I was really wishing I had an elegant headscarf and a giant pair of sunglasses however!

Holly made us a superb lunch of smoked salmon, gnocchi and salad. We drank our share of champagne and Rosé on the sunny terrace and finished off with the lemon tarte.

Afterwards, we did the normal, holiday thing. We moved from chair to chair in a well-fed, semi-stupor, groaning and complaining about how full we were, and finally decided to walk off our meal with a tour  of Holly's village. The tour of tiny Peypin d'aigue, a village of no more than 400 people, one bar and no other commerce whatsoever, took all of 7 1/2 minutes at which point we were back on the couches...groaning.

As I hiked home from the bus station Sunday night, my ever-present bag holding the empty tarte pan and a bottle of Sirop Châtaigne (chestnut syrup that is really good in a sparkling white) that I bought from Holly's next door neighbor (after I found him surveying the Triumph and complaining that somebody had parked that car like a Parisienne...taking up two spots) , I returned home to start my skype/ telephone Easter.

I had a fabulous easter weekend. No it wasn't with family...and come to think of it, the boys would have probably spent Easter with their girlfriends' families anyway, but I got to spend it with some of the family  I've created in my new home. How wonderful to have both.

 

Hit the Road, Jack!

I have a car. I have a car! I HAVE A CAR!  Okay, it's not my car but I have one for a week. Last week my friend Claire went on a trip and she gave me her car to use in her absence. I don’t know why.  But when she proposed that I take her to the train station and pick her up when she returns and in exchange, she would give me her car for the week, I kept my mouth shut and accepted. Because, in fact, I would have taken her to the train station with or without her generous offer. The theory here being “never look gift horsepower in the mouth”.

The first thing I did, on the way home from the train station, was stop at the grocery store. Yes, the supermarché….the BIG ONE!  I will sometimes stop here on my way home from work, because the selection is better than the little, tiny supermarket down the street (the one where two people can’t get past each other in one of the two miniscule aisles). But Thursday afternoon,  I was free to buy what I wanted…no matter how heavy. Because I could drop it directly at my door without lugging it to the bus stop, onto the crowded bus and then across town and up 3 flights of stairs.

I bought big bags of cat food and litter, large sized quantities of toilet paper and paper towels, laundry detergent and softener…..and bottles. Bottles and bottles! Sparkling water, vodka, wine, olive oil, milk, diet coke, juice…it's a good thing I bought toilet paper. I have no place to store these things but I'm ready for a draught, in any case.

And when I got home, the little “parking spot” on the sidewalk in front of my door was magically available, just for me (mine is the green door. Whoever lives behind the blue door, although I believe it's vacant, cannot get in or out at this point). So I only had to lug the kilos and kilos of groceries up the stairs. Wow!

Friday morning I drove to work. I didn’t have to get up an hour early in order to catch the bus. Oh man, this is so cool!  

Saturday afternoon after market, (I don't buy vegetables at the supermarché) I got in the car with my map of Provence and a bottle of water (what? No drink holders?), set my course for a general direction, deliberately avoiding all tourist spots that I now know by heart and I’m not sure I ever want to see again, refolded my giant sized map into a small square that I could handle, and took off.

With the windows wide open, I drove the country roads northwest of Aix, most of which are only wide enough for one car.  Oh man, I miss driving. I miss the road. There is something just so delightful about driving to no place in particular, stopping and starting wherever I want, playing the radio at full blast, and having a gas needle that cooperates with my joy by barely moving to the left.

I drove through the vineyards just outside of Aix where the vines are now glowing with their halos of lime green leaves. I stopped in a couple of larger villages…okay I slowed down….no parking places….anywhere! I turned into a nobody-wants-this-junk-at-its-real-price-discount store and found a bunch of stuff that I wanted at a price I could never find in Aix. I now am the proud owner of several apero bowls exactly like the ones I wanted to buy at a shop in Aix and a vase for the lilacs I pilfered from a roadside bush. 

I arrived in a region that my map told me was Les Alpilles (little Alps) where the stark, white, limestone rock of the mountains are timelessly settled into the acres and acres of almost ghostly, silvery green olive trees. Van Gogh painted this range often while living in St. Remy.

I stopped for all the great views, passed a few really OLD places that seem to need a little fixing up...

and made stops in the smaller villages where I could find a place to park. At the entrance to one village, there was a sign that said “Attention, village en fête” which literally translates to "Careful. Village in Festival". I was very careful, although the festival looked to be over. But apparently this festival thing is serious stuff. I passed another sign at the gateway to another village that said “Danger. Cimetière”. "Danger, Cemetary”. Now what do you suppose that means, exactly?

I found what I’m sure must be Rapunzel’s tower! I'll never find it again because I don't know where I was so the secret's safe with me.

I passed these guys, playing in the sky and wished I could be up there with them. I AM going to hang glide…one day very soon. I am, I am, I am!

I followed a little sign to a local olive oil vendor, and was invited into her house, where she gave me a lengthy and very complete run down on everything I ever wanted to know about olive oil and how it’s produced. To hear her talk, you’d think this stuff was a magic elixar for everything that ails you. Of course, I bought-in to her theories and purchased two, beautiful bottles of the liquid gold.

At some point, fairly early in the journey my map ended up on the floor, forgotten and unwanted. Taking whatever road I felt like was just far more fun. It was freedom times ten.

As the light changed into it's evening clothes, I made my way home…the long way I’m sure, and I found my little parking spot waiting for me again. As I parked, jumped the curb and settled in behind the posts placed there to prevent people from parking, a police car pulled up and parked in front of me.  Two of the officers got out and took off to places unknown and the remaining officer seemed completely uninterested in my criminal activities. I finally went up to his window and asked if I could just leave my car there while I unloaded my things.

He said, “Madam, I’m not going to ask you to move. Don’t worry. I’m not the parking police. That’s not my job. You do whatever you want.”

Sometimes, you’ve just gotta love France! And I've got 3 1/2 more days to love it in a car!

Whatever your voyage is today, I hope it's a fine one.

La vie est dure!

I've gotta say, this skiing-in-the-Swiss-Alps thing is really a pain. It involves all sorts of difficult daily routines beginning with an hour and a half of skiing and then...breakfast and champagne on the terrace.

Where I am continually subjected to this view.

After breakfast, there's a little of this on the other terrace

I MUST sleep here...if not, I have to stare at this scene.

After a little repose, it's back to the slopes.

We do ski. Really. Here is proof. These are my feet. In ski boots.

Of course, I'm sitting in a snowbank here and there are no skiis attached to my boots. But really...we do ski!

But not without a few breaks to rest our weary...well, whatever happens to be weary at the moment.

Like here

And here...okay, same place, different day.

And then, we need to nourish ourselves. A little extra-charged cafe and pastry...

Maybe a brief moment to take in a high protein snack..... and a bottle of wine...

Then of course, late afternoon schnapps...like I've never seen schapps!

After a hard day of skiing there are numerous local medicines to kill the pain.

And then after all this strenuous activity, it's back to the house to change out of those oh, so sweaty clothes...and read a little.

Like I said, this is all really a big pain!

Charm School

In a post this past fall, I mentioned that I was learning to charm and be charmed here in France. I suppose that seems like an odd thing to say, but the fact is, charm is a revered art form in French culture. I’m not sure if they look at is an art, but I have come to think of it that way.

The French have a certain something, I don’t know what it is, that is completely different from what I’m accustomed to. They are not afraid to turn on the charm. Not afraid to be laughed at by their peers because they said something slightly flowery and over the top. Not afraid to offend women by complimenting them or looking at them with admiration. Mostly because the women seem to expect it and practice the same captivating techniques on men. It’s normal and happens everywhere, including the workplace.

Being charming is not the same thing as being a drageur or womanizer/skirt chaser/player. France has its share of schmucks as much as the next country. But this je ne sais quoi seems to be just a part of this world that I’m living in.  I’m not even sure how to explain it so I’ll give you some examples.

Last year a friend had a small party for me on my birthday. I wore a dress and my red high heels because I had NO crown to wear on this momentous occasion. I was sitting on a stool having a conversation with my friend Pierre when he began to shake his head and finally said, “C’est dommage”.

I asked him, "What is too bad?"

He said, “tu es éduqué à mort”. You are educated to death.

Of course, I didn’t know what the he was talking about and he explained that each time I laughed, I unconsciously pulled my skirt down over my knees.  And he thought that was just such an awful shame.

He wasn’t chatting me up.... or beginning one of THOSE uncomfortable conversations. He was just doing what Frenchmen do. No harm intended and certainly none taken.

Last fall I was at the market in Marseille with my sister. We hadn’t had sugar in at least an hour and we stopped by the table of a bisquit  (a sort of French cookie) vendor. I asked him a few questions about a certain treat that caught our eye and after his explanation we bought a couple.

As he was putting our caloric indulgence in a little bag, he said to me (all the following conversations were in French which is, of course, part of the charm), “You speak French very well and your accent is charming.”  Well we all know this isn’t true and I told him so, but he was not to be deterred.

He said,  “If you will permit me, I must tell you that you have the most beautiful eyes. Absolutely beautiful”.

I smiled (most likely batted my eyelashes) and thanked him for saying such a nice thing.

He said, “it may be nice but it’s also true”.

He then picked up two bisquits and put them in our bag. He said, “a gift from me. Bisquits made from the flower of the oranges, especially for the flowers (meaning us). Wow! I can’t say that I’ve ever been likened to a flower!

This past summer I got on the bus one day to be greeted by a smiling driver. I tried to run my ticket through the machine, but it wouldn’t take it. I smoothed it out and tried again. Finally the bus driver said, “slowly. Go very slowly. The machine is very romantic”. And then he beamed at me again.

I was walking home from the University recently and reading a brochure about a belly dancing class I wanted to take. I passed a table full of men gathered around an outdoor table and one of them said something to me. I looked up, apologized for not understanding (after all, I was walking, reading and most likely chewing gum…ALL at the same time!), told him I speak only a little French and if he talked VERY slowly, I MIGHT be able to understand. He repeated himself, slowly, and said, “if you continue to walk while you read you might just fall…. into my arms …and I would like that very much. When I laughed and smiled and told him that was a nice compliment, he asked if I might join him and his friends for champagne.  And when I (charmingly) turned him down, he smiled broadly and told me it was his loss and I was très charmant.

This must be something French, like understanding wine. Whatever it is, each time it happens, it just makes me feel good. Charm for charm’s sake is a good thing. And I’m practicing with all my might.

In October I was at the office of Securité Sociale, trying to figure out how I might be able to get health insurance now that I’m a student (after all, doesn’t college life involve at least one or two beer drinking accidents? I need to be prepared!).  When I was finished and trying to put my 17 different documents that I had needed back in some sort of order, I was chatting with an older gentleman who was also waiting. At the end of the conversation, he told me I was ravissante. I smiled broadly and said thank you and then came home and looked up what he had said because I had no idea (someday this problem is going to get me in a heap of trouble).  Now, he could have possibly said I’m a kidnapper…but he’s French…and I’m betting that he was telling me I was charming/ delightful or maybe even possibly ravishing…. or something like that. And that sure as hell made the trip to a French government office a little easier to take.

I wish everyone a Joyeuse St. Valentin. Did anything charming happen to you today?

The silhouette and more cool clip art from The Graphics Fairy

Life Ring

Today is Monday which means I'm posting an article written for the newspaper, one year ago this week. I began writing those articles...I believe it was supposed to be four in all, when I moved here to France. When I wrote this article a year ago, I was on article 29. Today, deadline day, I'm writing number 70. I don't know what the subject will be today. Any ideas?

Last week I arrived home to find cardboard package, exuberantly bound in duct tape, sitting in my living room. It had obviously come a long way and this wasn’t just some itty-bitty package. This box had some heft! My name was right there on the shipping label, so I dug in. I’ve only received one other package here and once again it felt like a grand occasion.

I slashed the tape with my best kitchen knife (my mother would kill me if she saw me do that) and the first thing I found inside was a typewritten note. In it, a couple from the Wittenburg area introduced themselves and explained that they read my articles each week in the newspaper  and wanted to send me a package of things I had mentioned in a previous article. Things that I missed that I couldn’t find in France. They said it was an early Thanksgiving present.

Please pause here…..because I sure did. I was absolutely floored! Literally. I sat on my old terra cotta tiles, paring knife in one hand and this note in the other, staring at the page and shaking my head. I eventually gathered my wits about me and realized that I had a package to open!

I tore threw the crumpled newspaper that protected my treasures and eventually uncovered 2 bottles of molasses, 2 tins of baking soda, 6 boxes of Mac and Cheese, 2 bags of brown sugar, 1 bottle of ranch dressing, 2 boxes of Bisquick, 3 jars of Skippy and several containers of spices! I was squealing…yes, I think I can definitely call it squealing…with delight and arranged all the items in a little tableau on the floor so I could admire them.

On the outside of the box was plastered the international shipping label…a mass of paper, in triplicate, which discloses the value of the items and the dollar amount that was required to send the package. Now, I know it’s extraordinarily expensive to send a package here, which is precisely why it never happens. But I had to look. The shipping total was $110!

Time for another pause…...a really long one. I just received a package of some of my most needed or wanted things, all involving food mind you, from a couple of Wisconsinites whom I do not know and who do not know me. They spent a lot of time and a lot of money to do this thing and the only reason I can come up with is plain and simple kindess.

In last week's article I finished with a mention of the little lifeboat that always travels beside me. This wonderful thing that happened to me is a prime example of the life rings that are continually thrown to me. Always.

Several weeks ago, during an on-line conversation with my editor at the newspaper, I said that I often feel that I’m in some sort of weird, one-sided relationship. I write every week about the details of my life, some of them trivial and some more significant. I write about the good days and the days when I feel absolutely finished. And at least a few people in Wisconsin read my articles, and have for 29 weeks now. At least, I hope they do. Anyway, those people know me and I know absolutely nothing about them. I don’t know their names and I don’t know their stories, which are most assuredly as interesting or much more interesting than mine.  They are strangers to me and it just seems a little off-balance.

But then this package came. It could have been a book of matches or a coloring book; it wouldn’t have mattered. But it tipped the scales a little bit. I don’t know this couple…. yet…. but I know of them now, I know their names, and a little something about them. This package delivered to me here in France was more than flavors, carbohydrates and proteins. It was a box of good-will and thoughtfulness. And appreciated more than I can ever explain in writing.  I sent a thank you note immediately. But I wanted to also say thank you here. Because this gesture was a significant detail of my day…a good day…. and it was anything but trivial.

Je vous remercie, Monsieur et Madame Block. C’etait tellement sympa. Vous êtes très gentils et vous m’avez donné beaucoup de plaisir.

La Mer

Another Monday Memories. Publishing articles that I wrote one year ago at this very same time are so interesting for me. Sometimes, they just bring back memories of discovery, sometimes they open my eyes to the progress that I've made. And that is a good thing. I'm back in school again. And now...this time.... I can actually understand what the teacher is saying! What I'm doing is no different than what millions of people have done...most under far more difficult circumstances. But now, I can truly empathize. 

This morning I came downstairs to find my mess from the night before. It was a pile of papers, books, notes, frustration and anger…. and a couple of half-empty wine glasses. The night before, Simon and I had been cooking, talking and studying (me studying and whining, him drilling me and making an attempt to teach me the correct usage of pronouns) and finally the fatigue got to me and I had to quit and go to bed. I moaned about all I had to do the next morning and all I had not accomplished that night because of my studying. Simon, my young British friend who is staying with me until he finds a new apartment, told me he would be my ghostwriter and write my article for me…. as if he were me. I nodded an affirmation, which was all I could produce at that moment.

This morning I read the article. It was good. Many of the things I’ve said before but he doesn’t know that. So I’m going to rewrite it a little. But in fact, this is Simon’s article. He knows, first hand, exactly what I’m going through and just reading it was a little spooky.

In class the other day, as I was trying to discuss groundwater pollution in Wisconsin  (don’t even ask me why), I was unable to pull up the words for a point I was trying to make. I mean why would I know the word for pesticides anyway? Or seeping? My teacher told me to keep on going and traverse the sentence in another way…whatever way I could manage to get my point across.  I did and though everyone understood me, I think I heard a tiny snore by the time I reached the end of my convoluted story. But the fact is, it worked.

I was at a party Friday night with a group of French people and the woman next to me asked me a question. I tried to answer but couldn’t find the words…so I did what my teacher told me and tried to get to the point in another way. Finally, after a lot of pain and agony, most of it hers, she interrupted me and said to me “how long have you been in France anyway?” She knew the answer because I’ve known her since the beginning. It was a little dig…I think…. and it shut me up completely. And later, I went home and cried.

The truth is, spending all this time in school and the evenings with textbooks working through the exercises…. I am probably starting to know a little bit about the French language. Enough, sometimes, to be able to express what I mean. Enough to understand many of the sounds. But for every little bit I understand, I realize how much more there is to learn…. like someone who has dreamed forever about swimming the English channel and who, having set out, now realizes how much distance REALLY lies ahead. How every stroke involves an effort, and act of strength, and how quickly the fatigue promises to set into the muscles.

The question “how long have you been here anyway?” The answer is 10 months. TEN MONTHS! And me still floundering like a fish out of water. I should be speaking better after all this time. What have I been doing wrong? Progress report: not good.

Her question not only made me feel ridiculous, it made me feel bad for bringing her to the end of her patience. I can’t blame her entirely. To be honest, how much patience would I have with a foreigner who, not speaking English, insists on producing the facts of her little life in such a painful manner when all I was doing was being nice? What had been this woman’s act of courteousness, a triviality of dinner conversation, was for me a review of the present, past and imperfect tenses, expressions of time and place…. added to the problem of using one’s voice as if it were an altogether different instrument, straining to produce sounds that it has never uttered before…”eu”….”ieu”…”uis”…. ellE…. She asked a simple question and I reacted as if I were trying to work out the square root of the year we are in, or solve some bushy white-eye browed mathematician’s formula!

Someone told me (it was Simon) that George Orwell  wrote that the life of an ex-patriot is a permanent struggle against being laughed at. He was right. And I don’t mind being laughed at…sometimes. But sometimes I’m just too tender to take it. To come to live in a foreign country is to volunteer yourself for an experience that is fundamentally different from the one you knew and to try to adopt a system of signs and sounds that people around you have held unquestioningly from birth. For whom nothing could ever have been different but which for you is completely…foreign.

The French language has logic of its own, which is not our logic. When the French say ‘je t’ai envoyé or ‘je te l’ai dèja ennvoyé, they are not saying ‘I sent you a letter’ or ‘I’ve already sent you a letter’. What they are saying is ‘I you have sent a letter’ or I you it have already sent’. Geez, what planet am I on? And to add to the mess, the language has irregularities and incongruities that even the French don’t understand!

I’ve started to grasp a little about how I’ll eventually manage this language…manage being the key word here. I’m learning what’s different about it…it’s rules and regulations…its bizarre and confounded system of genders (la soleil, le lune). And how the distinction between masculine and feminine is not just a cosmetic nicety but something that has rules and specifications of it’s own…. gender agreement, the preceding direct object….ya da, ya da, ya da.

I come back to this every evening. To how much I don’t know about something so vast and unknowable. I write often about the moments of joy…like walking out of my new apartment to see an incredible evening sky as the setting sun lights up this little ochre town. But to be honest, the joy and the pain have been in equal measures.

So I’m swimming and starting to feel the pull of the tide…the hardship settling into my body.  I can see I’ve not traveled far from the shore and I certainly can’t even make out the opposite shore. I could turn back.  But I can’t. It’s going to have to be long, slow strokes and good breathing techniques that get me there. And maybe a few provisions from the lifeboat that always seems to travel beside me.