Praying for a Miracle

Not the greatest day on record. We have so much uncertainty for this move and as much as I have been trying to go with the flow, today I fell apart a little. I have been dealing with 2 French banks and a French mortgage broker trying to get financing for this venture. I am actually feeling somewhat confident since we both have jobs and our income to debt ratio is well within what the banks require. What is killing us is the complete lack of interest in our Topanga home. I mean, people come to see it and like it alright, but we have not had one serious buyer. We also have to contend with the short sales that just keep getting worse and worse and today when I spoke to our agent, she said that the last two short sales will really hurt our appraisal, and thus, asking price which we recently reduced another $25,000 just a week or so ago. Suffice it to say that we will probably have to go even lower than we ever imagined and that will cut into our renovation budget and our savings and retirement. Scary concept. The euro's devaluation will help us make up some, but we need to lock in this lower rate before it starts to creep up again.

On the goofier side, our St. Joseph statue finally arrived and we buried it in the garden facing east (toward petit clos). we even said the prayer included in the little kit. I'm not quite sure about this superstition working for us as not a half hour after we buried it, we received the call from Fariba with the bad news reality of the Topanga housing market. But, you could also look at it as telling us what we needed to do to sell our house.

On an emotional note, I'm feeling pretty devastated after reading a written conversation between Caleigh and a friend saying how much she "couldn't stand my parents anymore." I really was not being nosey. I began picking up her room while she was at the movies and mall with a friend (mean old mom that I am gave her money and dropped her off earlier) and when I picked up some pieces of paper on the floor, I noticed something written on about taking pills. That obviously piqued my interest, but it ended up only being about her friend being given something for pain after having her braces tightened. I guess I should have put the correspondence away after that, but I couldn't and that's when I found out just how Caleigh feels about us.

What is weird is I ask her on a very regular basis how she is about this whole thing because I know it is not, nor has ever been, easy for her. I've explained countless times that we would be moving no matter what due to the expense of living in LA. At least in France she knows people and I do know that she enjoyed much of her time there. If we moved up to Oregon, for example, she would have to start all over again. Anyway, it is what it is and yes, I know it's typical for a teenage daughter to hate her parents - especially ones that relocate them to France in middle school. But, it breaks my heart just the same. She has no idea now, but I'm doing this for her as much as myself. She will be able to go anywhere and be anything she wants to after this experience. She has always had confidence, but this experience will make her stand out even more. She has always been exceptionally smart, but with another language under her belt, not to mention, knowledge of other cultures, she will be that much more interesting; so worldly. I really think it will open doors for her as well as give her an appreciation of the "rest of the world" that we do not always get living in the U.S. She will also learn that outside of Los Angeles, not everyone drives brand new fancy cars, has the latest and greatest toys due to having unlimited allowances. She'll learn that you don't have to be completely grown up when you are only 13 years old.

Anyway, I realize that it is impossible for her to see that vision now, so I won't push it. I just really don't want her to hate me. Is that totally unrealistic at this age?

Later that day: Caleigh learns that I have discovered this letter and tells me that of course she loves me and was really just being overly dramatic. Thank God.

Petit Clos "coup de foudre"

Well, a lot can change in a few days. Especially when you have decided to go for it - "it" being to take the biggest risk you have ever taken or probably ever will, in your life. We loved our first farmhouse down the hill from the village of Sumensac and were able to view it the day after Paul had called the owner for us. Since the owner lived out of the area, his neighbor (who happened to be Theirry's mother of course because things like this just keep happening to us) was able to show us the house and property which we loved. It had so much potential and we were seriously entertaining how we could turn the barns into gites. Only problem was, there was a neighbor living in one of the barns who had not paid rent for years. A "freeloader," as Isabelle was so keen on saying after I introduced her to this new English word, whom the current owner could not legally force out. French law is very interesting in this regard and once again, the people are very well protected, except in the case of the owner in this situation.

Plus, we found out that the owner was not interested in selling this barn even if we could get the man out. So, as much of we loved our first farmhouse that we had been fantasizing about since January, we had to set our sights elsewhere which just happened to come up the next day.

While "websurfing," as my old fart husband likes to say, Hank found this sweet little farmhouse with large barns and loads of land on our British acquaintance/realtor's website: http://www.duras-immobilier.com/ . Rosalind is the same woman that we almost rented a beautiful apartment in Duras that she and her husband renovated when we thought we could stay through the end of June. Anyway, as he is driving through the countryside looking for this farm (with no address mind you), Rosalind phones to let me know that the farm is in a village called St. Jean de Duras, just past village's only boulangerie and just down the road. With Hank on the other line, I begin to relay this while he informs me that he is right in front of the exact boulangerie as we speak. Another sign perhaps?

So, he sees it, falls in love, picks me up. I see it, it's "coup de foudre" (love at first sight) and with just days before we are due to leave the area, we make an offer, meet with our bank representative at Banque Populaire to discuss a loan, have our offer accepted, schedule the "diagostic de l'existant," prepare a complete inventory of the house and barns as the owner has asked us if we would like him to leave any house's contents (why, yes please, we'll take all the antiques, tools and equipment thank you!), meet with the notary and sign a "compromis de vente" the day before we depart. Oh, and Thierry informs us on our last night that when he worked on this farm as a teen (bien sur), there was a bucket of gold found under one of the trees. Maybe there was more buried long ago and now Thierry and Hank plan to be partners when we return and of course, Hank is already shopping online for metal detectors. All we need now is the rainbow to guide us.

Italy

I’m not sure whom I have told, but as many of you know, we have decided to return to the States on April 15, when our rental agreements at both our current gite and the one back home in Topanga, are up. We return a bit reluctantly as we would actually have liked to stay to at least the end of the school year (late June), if not longer, but dealing with weekly issues of house and pets from 7000 miles away, became just too frustrating, not to mention, expensive. And if not for our dear friend, Fariba, who has really been the one dealing with these problems in our absence, we probably would have returned much earlier.

Anyway, even though it is quite a disappointment, we still appreciate just how fortunate we have been to have this 4-month experience at all. And since we still have a little over a month remaining, we decided to make the most of every second we have left. At least, that was our mindset when we set out to plan a 10-day trip to the north of Italy. I mean, “why not? We’re here, who knows when we will return? Sure, it’s thousands of miles to be driven in a relatively short period of time, but we are Americans and as such, this little jaunt is a cake walk.” Well, yes and no, I think in retrospect. A drive like this could be if you were just with your partner and broke up the drive by stopping in cute, little romantic villages or having leisurely picnics along the way. A drive like this could definitely be doable if someone didn’t have the asinine idea of taking not one, but two 13-year-old girls. I believe Hank’s quote some 12 days ago was something like, “it will be much better having two…they will keep each other entertained.”

Well, that they did. Actually, I do think that they had a great time (and I really do hope they did) as they were completely oblivious to the effect that their annoying behavior had on anyone.

I’ll start with the slob factor. Both girls had no idea the effect of leaving their clothes, toiletries and towels all over the small confinement of the rooms that the four of us shared. Which brings me to what they brought with them and what we were lugging around for the first few days until we realized the extent of their “packing.” When I decide to be “cool mom” and let them have some control over what they are bringing on vacation (with some guidelines), it inevitably backfires with “mean mom” returning to demand in frustration, “what the hell were you thinking when you packed short-shorts, light weight summer skirts and dresses, strappy, high-heeled sandals (remember it is winter still and COLD), FIVE toiletry bags (because caleigh didn’t want to have to go through her stuff so instead, threw them all into the already bloated suitcase), about 20 lbs of fashion and gossip magazines?!” So, after this discovery, we bagged up the unnecessary items and left them in the trunk of the car for the remainder of the trip.

Then, there was the constant battle between Caleigh and I over what exactly constitutes hoochie attire. Caleigh definitely used the “we’re in Florence and want to shop” argument which I countered with, “if you cannot wear your purchases, then why waste the money?” Every day she would drag me to some store to hoping that I would give my blessing on some high-heeled, sequined cfm boot and to avoid yet another argument, I would just sigh and say, “ask you dad what he thinks” which knowing better, she never did. And after a few days of this, rather than get hit up for money every day for shopping, we gave them each of the girls a 70 euro budget (about $100) to be spent between Florence and Venice any way they saw fit, but emphasized that they should only purchase items that they could actually wear. Unfortunately for Caleigh, I did not have the same control or influence over her friend and she was forced to jealously watch as her friend used part of her stipend to buy the cheapest suede and plastic made-in-china knock-off boots that she awkwardly teetered in over cobblestone streets for the remainder of the trip. It got to the point that just hearing the click-clack of those heels would cause me to grimace because it was so uncomfortable to watch. But then, a part of me also remembered being that age and having that 13-year old perception of what glamour and beauty was and I did understand, if just a little bit, just how glamorous she must have perceived herself when wearing those damned shoes.

In Florence, I did manage to find a nice mom-and-pop leather store (Gioia Chiara) on my way back from the Officina Profumo Farmaceutica di Santa Maria Novella (long fancy name for the coolest and one of the oldest perfumerias around today that was recommended by Patsy – thanks!). I spied some fun colorful leather wallets in the window and was pleasantly surprised that they were reasonably priced. I decided to splurge a little on the girls as I really wanted them to have something from Florence that they might actually keep beyond this week’s trend and I was so happy that they liked them and wanted me to take them back when I mentioned that there were plenty of cute purses as well. Since we had already seen the prices at some of the expensive leather stores and didn’t want to risk being arrested for buying the cheap designer knockoffs outside the Duomo, this moderate shop seemed to suit everyone and both girls found purses that we were all very happy about.

While in Florence, we also managed to drag them to the Galleria digli Uffizi (Da Vinci, Botecelli), Galleria dell’ Accademia (Michaelangelo’s David & much statuary and religious tempera on wood panels), Museo dell’ Opera del Duomo & Cattedrale di Santa Maria del Fiore (all 460 steps to the top!), Plaza Signoria for a very overpriced and wonderful snack, Ponte Vecchio Bridge & the Salvatoree Ferragamo museum (tres importante for any girl).

Onward to Venice which was prettier than I could have imagined. We had a great first day getting lost and just smiling stupidly over how quaint and beautiful the buildings and canals were. The water appeared clean and didn’t smell as I had heard it could. In the evening, we had dinner in a cute little osteria called “La Patatina.” Retired to our cozy little quad room at Hotel Alex which was a nice, clean and modest family run place with hand painted furniture and views to some of the canals. Nothing fancy and I was really hoping for more of a suite setup, but it was adequate, or so I thought. At this point, I didn’t realize just how much the girls were beginning to get under my skin.

So, the next day we decide to see some sights and go to the Rialto Bridge and Piazza San Marco. After lunch, the thought of just returning to the hotel for a few hours was unbearable to the girls as there was no internet and since they refused to read books or even play a game of cards (do anything, other than stare into space, literally). We found an internet café and it wasn’t cheap and since I am (by this time in the trip we have spent about twice what we had originally planned), I put my foot down and said that they needed to entertain themselves without the internet. Well, that goes over about as well as you can expect and for some crazy reason (okay, maybe I was acting a little irrational by this time), Hank sort of sides with them which completely sets me off. We’re in this shabby little pizza joint run by pimply teenagers for lunch and I just get up and leave…without my map of Venice. But I don’t care, I cannot stand the thought of spending one more minute with these whiney, ungrateful and spoiled girls (well, my daughter at least) and now Hank is the enemy as well. So, I walk. And I walk. And I get lost. And I cry a little. And I really, really want to find a super nice and fancy hotel for myself and have a very nice glass of wine. If I hadn’t gotten lost, I probably would have found that hotel, but I wouldn’t have had time to cool off, which I eventually did and finally figured out my way back to the hotel. When I returned, Hank and I smoothed things over (i.e. he apologized and admitted his digression) and decided that as much as we loved Venice, it just was not the place to spend with two 13-year-old girls and we decided to cut our visit short and leave the next day.

Bellagio, Italy

I think this is where Maxfield Parrish must have found his inspiration. What an awe-inspiring place Lake Como is and Bellagio in particular. We drive north on the west side of the lake and end up in Bellagio sometime around 2pm and find a pizza/gellateria called Carillon to compliment the road food of Italian cheese puffs (not bad!) and cokes that we have been consuming on the drive up. It is really a nondescript place that is nothing like the super chi-chi hotels and restaurants that are still closed up at this time of year. We are so glad we stopped here though. The owner was incredibly friendly (similar to the nature of all the Italians we met on this trip. In fact, I don’t think I have met a warmer or friendlier nationality as a whole in my life). When he found out that we were from LA, he informed us that he had lived and worked in Santa Monica and his buddy still does run the Locanda del Lago restaurant on 3^rd St. Promenade that we will definitely check out when we return. We asked him if he could recommend any place to stay for the night and since just about every hotel was still closed (and was probably out of our price range anyway), he called a friend who ran a sort of residence & resort up the road. It was called Borgoleterrazze (borgoleterrazze.com) and our room was amazing. Again, not the little suite I would have preferred, but large, and beautifully decorated, a view to DIE over and most important, a beautiful bathtub that I planned to take the nicest soak in.

So, we feel like we are in heaven for a bit. All that nasty, negative vibe has left my body. Caleigh and her friend seem happy too, so Hank and I decide to go back to town and scout around for a dinner place and take some late afternoon pictures as the girls begin their baths. We are gone for at least 2 hours and when we return, the girls are still in the bathroom. My big, beautiful fluffy towels are wet and scattered on the ground. The nice hotel toiletries are completely drained. Their clothes, including dirty undies are strewn about and lastly, I notice that the hair conditioner is emptied and the container in the trash can. On a scale of 1 to 10, conditioner is a 10 to me in beauty product importance as I may as well forego a shampoo without it unless I feel like looking like a puffed up poodle after a grooming. So, it was with more than a little bit of annoyance that I walked into our beautiful room and now, trashed bathroom. “What the hell?!” Caleigh’s friend suggests that I put some water in the conditioner bottle that they just finished because “sometimes that works.” I want to suggest something else, but I don’t. I start the bath water, sink into the large, luxurious tub and l think to myself that we are almost finished with this adventure so I had better make the most of it, with or without conditioner.

We end up going back to the same restaurant for dinner, which was mainly due to the niceness of the owner and also the fact that nothing else seemed to be open. We are all glad that did as I think that this dinner with her friend in her first pair of wobbly heels and Caleigh and Hank was one of our best. The manager on duty was told by the owner to expect some nice Americans from LA and they gave us incredible service. Today, I cannot remember what we ordered (and all shared) or laughed nonstop about, but I do remember that our last night in Italy was extremely special for us all.

A Sign

28 March 2010

Today we spent the day with friends following them to 3-4 "vide-greniers" (french flea markets or the closest thing to a garage sale which are held on various days in different villages every week). They were good people to go with as they used to sell their own brocante finds at these venues and knew the prices that things should be sold for. It was quite an interesting shopping experience as there are beautiful antique fois gras pots displayed next to an old man's used slippers, so you have to be willing to go through quite a bit of junk in order to find the treasures. But, it was a fun way to spend the morning and I cannot wait to return when I do not have to worry about the logistics of trying to ship my purchases back to the states.

Later that afternoon, I dropped Caleigh and her friend off at her house and on my drive back to the gite, I can’t really explain it, but I felt so at home, so comfortable driving through the idyllic countryside. I could not imagine myself driving back in LA, or living there again.

Later I wrote to my mom about how it just felt like this place was "right for my soul". I explained further that I was really at peace and for the first time in years, I wanted to venture out and try new things (i.e. build and sell/rent houses or gites, write travel stories with Hank, make homemade jam to sell to the toursits...i know, i know, that last one sounds like a stretch, but the thing is, i really think I could do it!).

It just feels like that I'm meant to be here for some reason.

The next morning, Fariba writes an informative, somewhat positive email about the showings of our house and the market in Topanga in general, but suggests that we lower the price slightly so it will move and we agree. Then, a little later, when Hank goes to the marche in Duras so he can also scout properties on his way to and fro, he gets a call from an British friend asking if he would be interested in seeing a dilapidated farmhouse with great potential. Hank agreed that it was a great property, but way to much work and money for us. But, as they were driving back toward Sumensac, they passed the first farmhouse that we fell in love with back in January. Back then, we had inquired with a few realtors in the village about it, but no one seemed to know if it was actually for sale so we did not pursue it. Since there was a hand painted sign with a phone number out front, they called and spoke to the owner who confirmed that it was indeed for sale for $240,000 euros.

We felt like it was a sign. Or maybe, we twisted the feeling into a "sign" that we were indeed supposed to stay in France. Knowing that we could use Hank's skills and expertise in building and renovating home and my passion for entertaining, cooking, gardening, and so on, we began dreaming of what we could do to actually make this work. Rather than build our farmhouse in "Farmville," maybe we could do the real thing!

The Big Night

27 March 2010

“The Big Night” La Sauvetat du Dropt sans frontiers Village presentation

Well, we survived it. Hank, Caleigh and I, along with eight other foreigners or “gavaches” as we are called thanks to a word given to outsiders in the 15^th century, put together our presentations in front of about 100 villagers explaining where we were from and why we chose La Sauvetat du Dropt as our home in France.

First, Danny from Belgium described how he accidentally came upon this area some 10 years ago when his motorcycle broke down. Ended up finding a farmhouse and later meeting his beautiful wife, Claire from England, whom we had previously met during our first month here when looking for a rental beyond April. Such a small world.

Next, John & Carol presented their hometown of Cornwall and they described how different it looked and felt when compared to the rest of England; so much that I would really like to visit there someday, especially because of it’s “Pagen” celebrations. Who knew and it ‘s probably the part of England some of my ancestors came from I am sure.

Then, there was flamboyant Petra from East Germany, who I could hardly understand, but I couldn’t stop cracking up as she took us through a comical look at life in East Berlin before the wall was torn down. Comparing ultra serious black and white photos of her in her school uniform in the 70’s to her present day attire of a leopard skin blouse, short-short skirt and go-go boots proved yet again that complete deprivation will ultimately cause the opposite effect – for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction…Petra and I instantly took to each other but unfortunately could not commuicate until her English-speaking boyfriend, Phillipe saved the day and we all agreed to exchange emails since I was able to read and write in French (which she spoke fluently).

Mini American flag (thanks to isabelle I’m sure). Then it was our turn. Although Hank started off a little bit nervously, he recovered quickly and had the audience laughing with his “merci pour le cadeax” as he pointed to the picture of the Statue of Liberty. I was calm for some unknown reason and was even able to make an unscripted joke at Hank’s expense about his being a comediene that also illicited laughter. Caleigh handled her segment like a pro and everyone said how amazing her accent and delivery were.

We also had two wonderful Scottish couples – Peter & Maggie and Helen and Gerry who we befriended easily at the previous few meetings. In fact, Peter and Maggie had us over for a Scottish Whiskey nightcap after the event joined by the sweet Brit couple, Julie and Bob until 2am.

Dino, originally from Italy, had moved to the area back in 1954 when he was 10 years had a great presentation and represented the many Italian immigrants who came to this area in the 1950s.

Finally, Jean-Luc, the Maire of La Sauvetat de Dropt, spoke about why they had wanted to sponsor this event as he described the desire to bridge the differences between the natives and the “gavaches” and hopefully bring everyone together.

Afterwards, we took group pictures for the local newspaper and there was a little cake, juice and wine as we got to mingle with the villagers and town council. We had a few interesting encounters after the event. A mysterious man came up to Hank immediately after the presentation and told him of an elderly bed-ridden man from LA in the area that would love to have another American’s company. I also attracted two sweet French women who were so excited to tell me of their “American connections”; one having a daughter living in Virginia and two grandchildren with dual citizenship of which she was so proud and she said that she loved to visit in America. The other woman just smiled a lot and made me feel like a true celebrity just by virtue of being from America.

We also spoke to the kind Maire who I had previously thought was sort of standoffish, but he opened up and it ends up, he was very interested in the history of the Hollywood sign of which we really could not help much except to explain how it originated in the 20’s or 30’s as a housing development called, “Hollywoodland.”

And of course, there was dear Colette, who we brought to and from the event. For someone who was not even sure if she could actually be able to go out a few weeks ago, she dressed up and looked beautiful and walked with very little assistance (thanks to the nicer weather and fact that she did her exercises before hand).

Isabelle and Thierry were of course there as she was instrumental in organizing this event and Thierry is always so supportive of her, not to mention all of their parents and some of their friends.

We left with such a feeling of community and wishes that we did not have to leave in two weeks. In just 3 short months, we have made such dear friends, feel like we have our own little village and a sense of belonging in France. If we just had some magic beans to pay for an extended stay.

Love you all,

Cindy

La Sauvetat de Dropt - 1

19 March 2010 Dress Rehearsal for village presentation, “La Sauvetat du Dropt sans Frontiers” (La Sauvetat without borders)

About a month ago, our gite proprietor extraordinaire, Isabelle, (not to mention cow farmer, house builder, sheet metal hauler and local village activist) asked us if we would like to participate in an event she was working on with the local village’s Mairie (mayor’s office). She described it as a presentation to be held in the nearby village of La Sauvetat du Dropt that would bring together the “gavache,” or outsider residents with the locals. As the “gavaches,” we were being asked to put together a presentation that would describe where we came from, what it was like in our native countries and why we all chose to live in La Sauvetat. The residents in turn would get to spend an evening “traveling to distant lands” and hopefully get to know some of their foreign neighbors which I know can be tricky thing to do here (or at least can take years), especially in such small communities such as ours where the locals have lived here for generations.

So at first, I told Isabelle “mais, bien sur” (but, of course) we would love to participate and I quickly volunteered Hank as my mind seems to go completely blank, my face turn beet red and I begin sweating (nice imagery I know) whenever I have the undivided attention of a room full of people. Fortunately, Hank was actually game back in February, especially since it seemed so far off and we truly thought that this would be a little local event of no more than 20 or so people as there is exactly one main street with one boulangerie, one tabac, one petit poste and only two restaurants in the whole town, one of which is not open most of the year.

Well, I guess I kind of underestimated things in retrospect. Super Woman Isabelle does not do anything half-ass and the busier she is (last week alone, she sold a few cows, helped install insulation in their third rental home, prepared the fields for planting, and I believe updated her farm’s blog), the more thinly she seems to be able to stretch herself. She planned and coordinated numerous introduction and rehearsal meetings over the past month between all 12 of the presenters, the Mairie, various “Conseiller Municipale” officials as well as members of the newly formed, Les Associations Sauvetatoises which was in charge of sponsoring this event. In fact, I am pretty sure that just about everyone who is anyone from the La Sauvetat had been included in these early meetings. I am also beginning to get the idea that this is going to be considered quite the village event with many more people attending than I could have imagined, especially now that the posters for it include the number 1, to denote that this is just first in a series of future events.

We meet with our fellow presenters over the course of a month. They are all real nice people from England, Scotland, Ireland, Belgium & Italy and we work together to fine tune our newly evolved power point audiovisual presentations. And now seeing how serious everyone seems to be taking this event (the Brits have flags; the Scot bagpipes and a kilt), I have decided to enlist the help of my trusty 81-year old French buddy from Eymet to assist us with some of our translations. Also, because Hank had helped Colette with some floorplan drawings of the new flat in La Sauvetat du Dropt that she plans to move into later this Spring, I suggest that she plan to attend the event as well so she can hopefully meet some future neighbors.

At first she was quite hesitant as she confided, “I have not been ‘out’ in years.” I also know that she was probably worried if her legs would be strong enough for her to walk on her own. I told her to just think about it as Hank and I could pick her up and bring her home and that she could decide at the last minute since it was still a few weeks away. Well, I think that she thought about it for two minutes after I left that day and then began drafting a beautifully composed letter to Les Associations Sauvetatoises offering her translation services at the event to which they graciously accepted. In fact, they asked further, could she come to the rehearsal?

Oh boy. As ecstatic as I am that Colette is going to socialize and get to feel needed again, I also hope I have not created even more work for Isabelle. Colette is amazing and I love her, but with her old Catholic School teaching background, she is quite the perfectionist and she had already taken it upon herself to proof and of course, find mistakes in the Association’s French portion of their newsletter. I could not imagine what she would do to the English speakers’ segments. I try warning Isabelle that they might want to reconsider sticking with the woman that they already had in mind to do the translations, but Isabelle just laughs and tells us to bring Colette anyway and not to worry.

So, Hank and I arrive at Colette’s house about 8pm and although she is slow, her legs have improved considerably and she can walk without assistance. Her complexion is glowing and her shiny, long white and gray hair is pulled up in a bun. She looks stunning and quite alive that evening. Everyone enjoys her company and she mingles effortlessly between the French and British. We make it through our rehearsal, although Hank has chosen a terrible time to tell me that he hates speaking in front of groups and that he is very nervous. After going through everyone’s presentations and sharing some cake and a glass of wine, we drive Colette back home. She is tired, but so excited about her first night out in years and she wants to assist us with our translations and pronunciations as much as we need her the following week. She says that she wants us to really look and sound perfect as our presentation is the most foreign to the French and that the people will be especially interested in our segment. Oh shit…I mean, great.

We help her out of the car and make sure that both she and her cat, Lord Nelson, are safely inside. We talk a little more about how nice the evening was and about our hopes of staying in France should our house in Topanga sell. She becomes quiet for a moment (which is really rare for Madame Delaport) and says with much heartfelt emotion, “I really, really hope that you can find a way to return.” With that, she leans over to signal the ok for the much awaited bissous (the double or triple French kiss that young people give you automatically, but with older people, you must take their lead on this – at least what I have been told). I lean it to the left, when apparently I should have been going to the right according to Hank (there really has not been any consistency to this rule though) and voila! I smack her right on the nose. I’m sure I can hear Hank chuckle as he sits waiting in the car. “Damn,” I think to myself. And although I know she doesn’t think less of me, I’m sure she was thinking something like, “oh, another thing to teach my little Americane friend” when I see her next week J

Jamais Arretez

15 March 2010 “Jamais arretez” or Never Stop

If you didn’t already know, a few years ago, Hank, Caleigh and I started taking French with Arlette in Topanga. It was a wonderful weekly conversational course taught over a class of Rose (Provence being where Arlette is from) & bon bons and although Arlette was/is an incredible teacher, we definitely did not deserve all of the A++’s she often gave us (well, Hank generally received A- for misbehaving and thinking that saying “voulez vous couche avec moi, ce soir” more than once was actually funny). For one thing, we did not practice or study as we should have, but our lives were crazy and we did what we could. At least we had this weekly family night and also met wonderful Arlette and her husband, Andrew, who have since returned to Provence and have been inspirational to us in considering this move to France.

In addition to taking a weekly French class, I also listened to French CD’s on my drive to and from work for over two years, wrote and emailed in French with our current proprietor, not to mention, a few French schools, visa officials and even tried reading French literature. Okay, “Le Petit Prince” and Caleigh’s children’s books don’t count as literature, but let’s just say I tried. All the while, Hank and Caleigh did not study at all, unless you can call Hank’s daily, “Et, voila!” or “Merde” a form of practice.

So, after arriving in France, one would think that out of the three of us, I would be our “guide,” our French interpreter. I imagined translating menus, and signs and thinking that Hank and Caleigh would be so jealous and wish that they had practiced more. Well, it could not have been more the opposite. Caleigh gets tossed into an all French-speaking school and although there are some bilingual American and British kids to help her with translations, everyone speaks French in class and her teachers make a point not to speak any English and expect her to do the same. Does she complain, cry in frustration or refuse to go to school like I am pretty certain I would? Not once. Yes, she was frustrated since she could not understand anything for the first few weeks, but she eventually began to get it and her grades have continued climbing to the point that she is sometimes scores highest in her classes. Damn, I am proud of her.

Then there is Hank. Oh, he’s going to need my help, I am sure I think to myself. Well, after our first soiree at Isabelle & Thierry’s when we met the carpool parents, he not only pulls what little French he knows out of his ass and has the whole French-speaking table cracking up, he speaks it with a Spanish accent. I kid you not. He is now known as the American with the Spanish-accented-French. What Hank does successfully is remain confident and since he has an uncanny ability to remember everything he has ever heard or read, he really manages to pull it off. So much in fact, I am sure that he inadvertently criticized a winemaker’s process when discussing his filtration process and I doubt we will ever be invited back to his vineyard.

Then there is moi. I have written about my little struggles and of course, the petite successes. But all in all, I have had to come to the realization that I really have not gotten it. When my buddy, Richard in England asked me how my French was coming, I was honest and said, it was just more difficult than I had imagined.

“So you were willing, but not able” he joked while reciting my supposed humorous family motto.

“Yeah, so I was.”

So, once we knew we were returning next month, I initially thought to myself, just give yourself a break and stop with the studying and setting yourself up in these constant situations to fail. It felt like a huge relief for about a second, but then it just didn’t feel right. I did not want to give up. I remembered this expression that Thierry kept saying over and over one night at volleyball when we were behind. “Jamais arretez!” as I looked at him blankly or quizzically or a combination of both as I typically do when someone speaks French to me. Instead, I kept hearing, “ja-may saret-tay” and just could not figure it out. “sarettez?, sarettez?, what the hell verb is that?!” and then I couldn’t remember if “jamais” meant “never” or “always”. I never did end up understanding him at the game (we lost that night). But later that night I looked up “jamais”and confirmed it meant “never”(go with your gut next time Cindy) and that the sound of “SA – retay” was just the “s” blending into the verb “arretez” which of course everyone knows, means “stop.” Of course.

Never stop.

So that’s what I have decided to do. Never stop trying. I found this new BBC series on language that I am practicing every morning. I am going to finally finish reading “Le Petit Prince” and who knows, maybe I’ll progress to a non-children’s book next. I boldly went up to the boucher the other day and ordered 1 kilo of de daube du boucher (special cut for making the most incredible beef stew) and later went back to ask for 200g de petit sale (non smokey or salty bacon product). I almost asked a fellow shopper where I could find a “faille de laurier” (bay leaf), but located it before needing too. We are also preparing a powerpoint presentation in French for a local event in the nearby village of La Sauvetat du Dropt being held later this month. In fact, Isabelle comes by in a few minutes to check our translations so I better get going.

So in the meantime, don’t forget, “Jamais arretez!”