Dommage

The visitor season has begun. And though it's not a long one this year, my visitors are arriving back to back. So in the few hours in between, I'm washing sheets, toilets and my hair (yes, in that order) and trying to put some order back into the refrigerator.

Last week, I picked up my friend Judy from the Marseille airport. I haven't been to Terminal One since last fall and this time I was greeted by a nasty surprise. Gone is the little coffee bistro where you could get yourself a tiny cup of coffee and perhaps a pastry. I don't even think they had sandwiches. Nonetheless, it was a typical cafe and well within the ambiance that should greet visitors as they arrive in France.

However, all that has changed. The bistro is gone and in its place they've built this.

And if you want a cup of coffee, you've now got this.

Both are a bad idea in my opinion and it never ceases to amaze me why nobody asks ME before they embark on projects such as this. This is like the 'malling of America' only worse.  C'est tellement dommage. It's really too bad.

My friend and business partner, Libby, is on the train from Paris as I write this and I'll be picking her up at the TGV station in a few hours. I know they've been doing some work on the interior. I hope I'm not going to be greeted with any more horrible surprises.

Have a great week,

Close Just Ain't Good Enough

"Oh my god, I think I called the mayor at prostitute this morning!"

These were the first words out of my friend Tenley's mouth when she came to visit the other day. Tenley used to be my neighbor here in Aix but last fall she moved up to a tiny village in the Luberon. And I'm not kidding when I say tiny. Four hundred people and not even a bakery. How does one live without a bakery, I ask?

Sorry, I digress. And in the first paragraph, no less. It's just that I get so upset about that bakery business!

Anyway, as she drove down here to Aix, she was ruminating over the conversation she'd had with Madame mayor that morning and it dawned on her what she may have said. But she isn't sure. And neither am I.

I'm just NEVER sure. I'm not afraid to talk and not afraid to try.  Generally. But language screw-ups are part of daily life when you aren't a native speaker and are often just too funny. Certainly there are those times when you get the word completely wrong but usually it's words that are just...so...close.  Like the time I was on a date and the monsieur pointed out to me, kindly I thought, that there was a little fleck of something just under my nose. I had a little scab there and I said brightly, "Oh don't worrry, it's just a booger". I used the word crotte (crotte de nez is a booger; crotte de chien is dog poop) instead of croute (scab). I didn't realized my mistake until I saw the look on his face which was something between dismay and disgust. Crotte….croute…close, but not close enough.

This past weekend, a team of masseuses and I volunteered our services at a charity regatta in Marseille. Beforehand, I was trying to describe our project to a friend. I explained that we would be massaging teams of…well, this is where it got tricky because I wanted to say 'teams of sailors' and the word for sail is voile. Instead, I said  'teams of voleurs'. WRONG! We were not going to massage teams of thieves. I corrected myself and said "teams of violeurs". WRONG again! Nor did we have any plans to massage teams of rapists. I never did arrive at the word I needed because it apparently doesn't exist. The word sailor does not even have the word "sail" in it! We eventually got to the point but not without a lot of both confusion and hilarity. Close but no cigar.


My friend Doreen and I were laughing about this story and she recounted her latest horror. She is German and is but is also considered fluent in both French and English.  But fluency doesn't make her immune to these faux pas. She works for a distributor of grains, seeds and other health-foody sorts of things. She was speaking to a customer last week to tell him that his shipment would be late because they didn't have enough of the algae he needed in order to fill his order. She kindly assured him that it would only be a few days before the manufacturer could produce his full half-ton of fetuses and she would send them to him directly.  Fucus...fetus....I mean they're almost the same, aren't they?

But often, it's not a question of getting the words wrong, it's simply a question of pronunciation. There are some words that sound so similar that I can't hear the difference much less pronounce it. Like the words dessous (underneath) and dessus (on top of). Opposite meanings but they sound exactly the same to me. It has something to do with the horrible "u" sound that we don't have in English. I've been tutored on this. I'm supposed to make the long e sound at the same time I'm forming my mouth into a tight "o" while sticking out my lips. Hey, you try that! Then pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time.

Last year after going to see a movie, I announced to my friend that I had spent a half-an-hour in line just to get in. He looked at me with astonishment and asked me to repeat what I'd said. I said it again with authority. And then he began to laugh…and laugh….and I knew I'd done it again, whatever it was this time. My sentence was "j'ai passé un demi heure dans une queue". It seems to me this sentence is correct.  But apparently what I really said was the word cul, which in common language means ass, and not the donkey kind. Yes, I know, they look completely different when written but they sound exactly the same to me.  The second, however, involves the aforementioned convoluted mouth/lip formation. Which I obviously haven't yet mastered. This explains why the 3 elderly ladies at the end of the line that day did not respond well when I asked if they were the end of the ass.

The word queue can also mean tail, or dick. Cul can also mean porn or screwing, among other things. Both words, with all their meanings, are truly useful in conversation. But not in MY conversation. You will never, ever hear me mention my cat's tail and I now wait in a file d'attente.

We still don't know what Tenley actually said to the mayor but they're still talking so apparently either there was no insult, or people in her village are still talking to her just to see what she'll say next. My bets are on the latter.

P.S. I want to take this opportunity to wish my beautiful mother a very Happy Birthday. Je t'aime Maman. xo

Cubism

The first time I saw a box of wine in France, I was shocked. SHOCKED!

Boxed wine in France? This is an aberration. It can't be true!

I was at a village picnic and I was told to go get myself a glass of wine at the beverage table set up in the field. This was my first summer here and certainly my first village picnic. You can probably imagine what my visions were, but just to make it clear, it involved buckets and buckets of chilling bottles of wine, refracting the rays of the late afternoon sunshine...blah...blah…blah.

Sort of like this.

Except it wasn't.

Instead, what I found on the long, plastic table were boxes of white, red and rosé, lined up like soldiers along the table's edge. The villagers, who obviously were not shocked about this outrageous oddity had brought pitchers along with their picnic and continuously passed by the table to fill and refill as the evening went on. If truth be told, the more I poured from our table's pitcher, the more I found the whole thing kind of charming. And the wine was actually good.

So yes, sorry to break it to you, but French people do drink boxed wine, or a cubi as they call it. To prove it, here's the aisle of Rosé at the supermarché. This being the beginning of Rosé season, they're well stocked.

Red and white fans have a pretty good selection as well.

Of course, these are generally not the high end varieties, but even our low and medium end can be pretty damned good. The advantages are, as with all boxed wine, it's cheaper, it lasts for 6 weeks, or so they tell me, and you can drink a glass or two at a time without losing the rest of the bottle. This is also hearsay, since I'll be damned if I'm going to ever let half a bottle go to waste

My last box sat on my kitchen counter for a day or two, but then I hid it from myself.

Too much of a good thing is, well, just too much. And this one turned out to be not so great. The giant Hyper U symbol on the side might have been my first clue! That is the negative side of boxed wine. If you don't like it ,you've got 3 to 5 litres to finish before you get to try something else.

But if you liked it, and after you've removed the bladder from the box and squeezed out every last drop (my friend Holly has experimented extensively with the bladder squeeze and says there is always another glass and 3/4 left in the bag) the effect can be rather tragic.

Isn't this just a sad photo?

 Poor, broken down, shell of a bag.

Now if boxed wine isn't to your liking, we also have wine fill-in stations.  I'm not kidding! Take your plastic 5 litre jug to the local wine co-op which you'll find in every other village,  and they'll fill it up with their table wine variety in any color.

This has to be consumed or bottled pretty quickly since it won't last more than a day or two but it's great for a party and it amuses the hell out of my visitors. 

My box of wine is gone, consumed during a long and very late table conversation which probably wouldn't have been nearly so long and late if I hadn't had that ginormous box of wine. I think for now, at least until visitor season starts in two weeks, I'll stick with bottles. It's safer. 

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?

Another Day, Another Dollar

It's been 3 weeks since I arrived back on my doorstep and its subsequent 4 flights of stairs here in Aix en Provence.  Three weeks in which I've seemed to do nothing but sleep. Okay, the first week I had visitors so sleep wasn't an option but these last two I've been behaving like a teenager. Snooze till 11…3 hour nap….sleep till 9…2 hour nap.  I've spent several full days enrobed in my deliciously enormous, Memorial High School Baseball hoodie and my plaid flannel pajama bottoms. No exit…no reason to. It's been lovely.

I meant to come home in January. But then this happened.

Yes, my sister and I bought another house. Isn't it cute?

As I've mentioned before, my biggest dilemma in France is that I don't have the right to work. I'm a resident yes, but I cannot work. The only way that I've found to solve this is to get hitched and…um…well…I've already done my time. I can receive the right to work (and pay taxes in France) in another year but truthfully, my chances of getting hired here are dismal to none. The French system of employment is pretty linear. Employers want a CV (resume) that shows your field of study and that you've worked in that field. And that's where they want you to stay. Not a lot of coloring outside of the lines here. And to top it off, they simply don't seem to hire older workers. There is a very high unemployment rate for those over 50 and it doesn't look to be changing soon. So, a middle-aged woman who speaks French like a child with a mid-western accent to boot, who has a television journalism degree but hasn't been on camera for 30 years, but who has done just about everything else and can handle just about every situation thrown at her, is not a good prospect. Tant pis pour eux! Too bad for them.

But this situation obviously poses some big ol' problems. I have to earn my money in the states, which in turn poses a problem since I'm not there. Most of the time. So this time home, as the last time, my sissie and I bought a house to redo and rent. In fact, since this is our second, we ended up forming a business and not only do I now know how to tile a bathroom, cut copper pipe, rip a board and install a ceiling,  I also have to learn to be an accountant (what the hell is double-entry bookkeeping anyway?) and a business manager. Holy Heat Duct Batman, doesn't life just keep getting more interesting?

The sale was delayed and delayed and in the end we had 30 days to turn over the house before I had to leave.  The day we signed the papers, we were at the house in our well-used work clothes (winter models this time) and back at it again. Twelve to fifteen hours a day we worked. On the days she had to work at the fire station, I joined her there in the evenings where she has cable, and we watched DIY television, which is how I learned to cut copper pipe, by the way! My work clothes left my body in a heap each night and were pulled back up again very early each morning. And we had a ball. Seriously.

 I learned that 3 days without a toilet on-site is not a problem whatsoever.

This should say "pee bucket" but it was -15 degrees and the marker didn't want to work.

She learned that her new favorite tool is a grout mixer that attaches to the drill.

 I learned that mine is a tile saw.

We learned that you can, in fact, tile over old mastic…no matter what anyone says. Is this not the most magnificent, though elementary, tile job you've ever seen?

We learned that the best way to order plumbing parts is to just take a picture of the damned thing before you go to the hardware store. 

"I'll have one of these please!"

And this project brought home what we already knew. Your team is the most important thing!

So these are some of the before and afters.

I think we were destined to do this sort of work together. After all, we have matching roto zips!

On our last day, after we hung our sign and gotten ready for our party (of course we had a party there. Every house needs to be baptised!), we cracked a beer in the frozen garage and congratulated ourselves. And we both got all sad. Not because it was time for me to go but because this work is way too much fun and so rewarding. We not only were so much better at it this time, but we realized that the first house and our ability to work together was not a fluke. We're good at it!

We are "Sisters Saving Houses"

And we gotta get ourselves another one. Quick.

But first I've got to get out of my bathrobe and enjoy the life I'm working so hard to keep.

Happy Spring my friends,

Ice Cold

This week here in Minneapolis (yes, I'm STILL here) the temperature has descended to -17 F. (-23C)  with windchills somewhere near -30 (-34C). I'd like to puff up my buffalo plaid bound chest, hook my thumbs under my red suspenders and boast that as a born and bred Minnesotan, this insanity doesn't affect me. You know, "awwwh, this is nothin'. You should a been here in '68. Now that was cold".

The fact is, it's colder than I can imagine anymore and I often wonder how people here can stand it.  Especially when it continues for months on end. But I have to hand it to these people, they seem to find ways to enjoy this nasty, bitter, mind-numbing cold. In fact, many would describe it as crisp, refreshing, and mind-numbingly beautiful. It's a cup half full sort of thing. And, I'm serious, they really do take advantage of the season.

Minnesota is a state that boasts 11, 482 lakes (15,291 is the total if you add all the unnamed lakes). That makes for a lot of mosquitos in the summer and a lot of ice in the winter. We are literally surrounded. Even here in the city, there are lakes everywhere. And people use them. There's just nothing more fun than a vast, flat, slippery expanse where the wind blows like a buggar and there is no shelter from its assault. Doesn't that sound inviting?

Of course people skate and play hockey on the ice. That's just a given.

But there are all sorts of options for moving along the ice. You can two wheel across it 

or choose the 4 wheel version if you prefer.

Three wheels work too when it's time to freeze the babies to sleep. 

Snow Kiting gets you across with only one "wheel" and it looks like way too much fun.

I am going to do this one of these days...really!

A lake full of unending, frozen water makes for a great midnight walk under a full moon. The noises  emanating from the shifting ice sound like the underwater cry of whales. It's both creepy and cool. While you're there, a little body curling is an option. If you don't know what curling is, you're obviously not from around these parts. Body curling is my family's version of this time-honored, northern game.

 My mom resting after joining us in aforementioned sport. Who body curls at 75 anyway?

Midnight ice art is also amusing.

Afterwards, at about 1 am, you can build a fire and enjoy a cold beverage next to the eerily beautiful field of frozen water. 

Ice fishing is a favorite pastime.

 I have said I'd never do it. I was wrong, as I am about most things I've said I'd never do.

And some nuts even work on it.

 My sister, the firefighter, doing ice rescue maneuvers. Because not all Minnesotans are smart enough to know when the ice is too thin to be enjoyed.

And then there's just the sheer beauty of it all. 

The end of the day at the fishing shack. Sort of reminds me of the movie Grumpy Old Men.

Of course, it's not always below zero here. Yesterday it got to 10 degrees and my sister and I were remarking how warm it felt. Considering it was 20 degrees warmer than the day before, relatively speaking, it was warm! And this weekend it should get to 30 degrees. I heard the guy on the radio describe the coming warm front as "spring break"! 

Minnesota is not the south of France but it certainly has it's own delights. I've got another project I'm working on here and must stay until the end of February. It will still be winter here at that point. But I'll get to return to Aix en Provence, just as the almond trees are beginning their bloom. And next year, the family has decided to spend Christmas in Jamaica. I'm game. I don't know how we'll manage to have any fun with no ice and all, but we'll manage.

Warm thoughts to all,

France Factor

They say the best way to kill a blog is to stop posting for awhile. I do this frequently. I'm truly surprised this puppy is not dead in the water and my New Year's resolution is to try to post more regularly while I'm traveling. And to get rid of belly fat.

However, my blog is supposed to be about my life in France. The ups and downs of my daily, normal life wouldn't be very interesting without the France Factor. I mean, writing about belly fat would just be a bummer unless it's been directly caused by an overabundance of French cheese and wine. The subject of shedding it is equally stale unless I'm consistently tempted by said items.  And how do I write about France when I've been spending so much time in the United States lately?

So today, my France Factor is the book giveaway from my last post. Yes folks, we have a winner of Paulita Kincer's new book, The Summer of France. As usual, it was a secure drawing done with the utmost professionalism. . . .scraps of paper in a bowl on the patio.

And was overseen by the keen eye of Nelsen, my former canine whom I abandoned to my son when I moved to France four years ago (obviously he's still really troubled by my rejection).

The winner of Paulita's book is Jacqui from The French Village Diaries. Congratulations Jacqui. I know it was supposed to be a Christmas present but you'll now have to consider it your first read of the New Year. And those of you who didn't win it, thank you for reading and entering. Now, buy it!

 I WILL write next week when I get back to Minnesota (I'm currently freezing my plump, after-Christmas-butt off in Mesa, Arizona where I'm visiting my son). After all, I only have two New Year's resolutions and this seems to be the easiest to accomplish. That belly fat issue is going to take some real work!

I wish all of you a New Year full of contentment, prosperity, love and rockin' attitude!

 See you on the flip side of 2012.