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!”

Spring

12 March –Searching for signs of Spring

I know we’re another week out, but this Dordogne winter has been brutal (locals have repeatedly told us that this winter has been atypical) and I have been scouring every shrub, tree and grass patch for signs of Spring. I’ve never in my life been so bud crazy as I am now and I am just waiting for those suckers to bloom. Living here in the country in the dead of winter has definitely taught me a lot about the seasonal plant lifecycle and I actually appreciate the fact that I got to know the winter cycle very intimately this year. Got to try everything once, right? For one thing, I finally understand what, “plant after all danger of frost” means on the back of a seed packet. I never quite understood it before and definitely never considered that this instruction applied to me living in Southern California.

When we arrived here in Dordogne on January 1, most of the vines had been pruned back to one or two single vines (depending on the grape variety or growing style apparently). Most would probably think this the most unattractive season for a vineyard and I guess I would have to agree, but at least I could finally see firsthand how a grape vine is pruned which is something this avid wine drinker has a certain interest in. And speaking of pruning, my lord, the French do love to prune their trees. I have never seen anything like it and it is hard to believe that they survive after such a hatchet job, but I do know for a fact that indeed they do in the most beautiful way.

We have also been following the farmer’s tending their fields and preparing them for planting soon (after all danger of frost is gone I’m sure). I know it is very hard work, but there is something so peaceful about watching a farmer plow his field in the late afternoon. I haven’t changed my mind about still wanting to be a farmer when I grow up, but I just cannot figure out how to make a living at it (not to mention having absolutely no knowledge of farming really). It just seems so much more noble a field than advertising. I still have to figure this one out though. It’s been the million-dollar question on this trip and I’m unfortunately no closer to the answer after three months.

But, I digress, we also witnessed many of the lambs and calves that were born this winter, being raised for Spring and it is definitely a bit more difficult to order agneau or veau in a restaurant when you see the little cuties taking their first steps in the fields. But I do (still order both as they are prepared so incredibly well here) so, so much for that brief nod at sensitivity.

Luckily the hills and fields stayed beautiful and green all winter and the leafless trees actually made it possible to see the many chateaux and rivers that are usually hidden during the Spring and Summer.

Spring came a little early back home with the birth of Aiden Brown, my brand new adorable nephew on March 5^th.

But I am afraid that it won’t feel like Spring comes this year for a dear friend whose mom is battling cancer.

Such is the cycle of life & death with its own joyous or equally, devastating season.

All in all, winter in the Dordogne has been amazing and as Hank and I like to joke about how we “wintered in the southwest of France,” I really wouldn’t change a thing or the season we visited. Although some of the sights were closed in January and February, we have been able to see and do just about everything we wanted without lines or crowds. It has felt slightly apocalyptic at times without a soul at some of the major sights and restaurants, but we have been with the crowds on previous trips and this time it was quite different while we received un-divided and always, kind attention from the French. Yeah, those people “who hate Americans.” Hardly.Oh, I have been frustrated like you would not believe about my inability to get the language on this trip. It’s been a little over three months and even though I do have my “moments” of clarity when buying a rabbit for example, but for the majority of the time, I’m pretty damn pathetic. And as our countdown to return home looms over me, I am desperate to absorb as much as possible as I will no longer have these wonderful audio and visual aides (not to mention, real, live people to converse with) to assist me when we’re back.

Beef Bordeaux Faux Pas

15 February 2010

After having been invited over to Isabelle and Thierry’s twice now, I decided it was time to get over my fears of having French people over for dinner and we invite them over for Boeuf Bourguignon on Sunday night. After they accepted our invite, I couldn’t help but question my judgement. I am going to have a French family over for a traditional French dish? Geez, do I not remember all of my faux pas in the kitchen?! Even though Isabelle assured me that she wasn’t the greatest cook and was annoyed by some of her food snob friends, there is just something so intimidating about having people over who have lived their entire lives around great food. Great, organic and fresh ingredients. Beautiful presentation. Saviour faire. I’m just a girl from Orange County who learned many of her first dishes by opening a can or sauce packet and whose favorite snack food was, is and probably also will be, les cheetos.

But, I have always enjoyed cooking and am generally pretty good at it, especially when people are not coming over for dinner. Unfortunately, I have a bad history of screwing up the simplest meal when we are actually having company. Anyway, so I have invited our hosts to share a meal that I have made successfully a number of times back home. Difference is, I have made it in the U.S. where stores are open 24-hours a day when you need those last minute ingredients. Well, in France, stores close at the most inconvenient times. Of course, everyone knows that they close from noon to 2:30 during the magical dejeuner hours. But, they also close on Sundays and Mondays. And in the winter, they close even more often and we never quite know when that is. Luckily, there is always a store in some town that is open during these times. Problem is, we can never seem to remember which store, which village and what time. So as we were driving around yesterday trying to find Burgundy wine (you would think that I would have made this purchase a priority before the day of) and pearl onions and an upgrade in the beouf (since we are having guests). Also, I would really like to find some special fresh cheese for dessert, but we cannot find an open store anywhere.

“Okay,” I decide. “We have the basic ingredients. I’ll just make a slight variation and call it ‘Boeuf Bordeaux” which I do and it is not bad and Isabelle thought that was kind of funny. It was really just the little things that bothered me. Having “store-bought” cheese versus the type bought at the fromagerie or marche. In fact, Thierry said as kindly as possible (I genuinely think he was just trying to give us helpful advise) that we could find much better cheeses if purchased from local merchants. “I know, I really do,” I think to myself while turning rouge. We offered a good foie gras that we had previously purchased at a gourmet store and we offered it with the appropriate glass of sweet Monbazillac wine, but I was afraid that the cornichons we had bought at the discount store were not up to par, so we did not serve them. Hank went a little OCD slicing the baquette into precise ¼” slices and fanned them out on a plate that I ended up tossing about so they would look so well designed. Caleigh questioned his manhood in jest. We were also a little nervous I think and rushed through the courses which was somewhat awkward. But, all and all, everything went fine. Dinner was not bad although the Bordeaux wine was quite strong (burgundy would have been better) and the meat a bit chewy. But, I survived the evening without having hotflashes that I typically do when having a dinner party and Isabelle and Thierry could not have been more gracious guests. I’ll do it again, but maybe next time I will pay a little more attention to the store hours in France.

Peter the Donkey

Peter the Donkey – 10/2/10

So, as you all know, we are staying on a farm. We feed the goats, sheep, rabbits and Elsa the Pig all of our produce, bread and grain leftovers and bring carrots or apples to Tequila, the white, but extremely muddy mare and her donkey companion in the field, Peter. Since the weather has improved and Caleigh’s social life has subsided just a bit, she began to eye Tequila with the way only a 13-year-old girl who adores horses could. “Mom, do you think I could ride her?” “Could you ask Isabelle?” “There’s tack in the shed. Do you think I could as least brush her?” Anyone that knows Caleigh knows that she won’t let up until we get some answers. So, I talk to Isabelle about it and she and Thierry say that it is fine, but since she has not been ridden in quite some time, she might be a little difficult to ride. “Oh,” they add, “be careful of Peter the Donkey as he can get pretty ‘jaloux’ which is exactly want it sounds like – a jealous donkey.”

So the next day, Caleigh has a half-day from school and we go out in the field and stealthily try to avoid Peter in order to retrieve Tequila. We have one of three halters with us and of course it is the wrong one when she tries putting it over her head. I run back and get the rest of them and we finally find one that fits. By this time, ‘ol Peter starts hee-hawing as he makes his way toward us and we know that we had better get out of the field quick. He begins picking up speed and as we scurry over to the gate, he begins a full on charge. It’s actually very frightening, but I am certain was hysterical to watch and hear us yelling and running for the gate with a big white, dirty horse and a donkey bearing down on us – so close that he actually nipped off Caleigh’s coat. Thankfully, Caleigh does know what she is doing and stands up to Peter, swats at him with the lead rope and grabs her jacket back. I was probably still screaming and running for cover at this point. I can’t quite remember. But we somehow make it out of the field alive and away from Peter the Ass and proceed to brush off the dirt until Tequila is white again. Caleigh then managed to put the bridle and saddle on and has been riding her on a regular basis which is a dream come true for her to have her very own horse and Hank and I are happy as we would rather she focus on a 20-year-old mare over the local boys.

Cut & Color

5 February 2010

It’s been six weeks and as my gray roots make their ¾” growth known, I’ve been contemplating whether or not to try a DIY over-the-counter L’oreal treatment. I haven’t had the nerve yet because I have never been very successful at coloring my own hair, but neither have I had the nerve to make an appointment at one of the many coiffures we pass on a regular basis in every village we visit. In fact, I am sure that there are more coiffures than supermarches or gas stations in the majority of villages. Women obviously get their hair done on a regular basis and much of it is quite colorful I have noticed. But, going into of these shops is obviously going to be another verbal challenge for me and I know that this time my misuse of the language could have dire consequences.

So, this morning, Hank and I walked by a place in town that advertised reasonably priced color and cut and since I can easily point, grunt and do know my numbers, I made an appointment for 2:30 this afternoon. I am really just writing to give my “before” perspective (which is still hopeful) to be compared with the aftermath later on. I can already tell that Hank thinks this could potentially provide some great material for his blog.

A few hours later:

I survived the cut and color and Hank doesn’t have anything funny to write about it as Gerard, le coiffure, did a great job. He also didn’t speak a word of English and when Hank returned a half hour later after dropping me off, the three of us ended up conversing for 2 hours. Once the initial ice was broken, like most of the French people we have met and befriended, Gerard was gracious and generous in sharing information about himself and seemed to take a genuine interest in us. Once he found out that we were Americans, he proudly pulled out a picture of himself at a NY marathon from the 90’s (with the Twin Towers in the backgound). When Hank mentioned that he liked the blues music playing in his shop, we talked about blues and jazz and then he excitedly told us about his talented and beautiful daughter living in Paris and put on one of her songs. He also shared his video recorded on his phone of the popular French crooner, Johnny Halliday. We continued sharing mutual likes and dislikes (Obama and Bush/Sarkozy respectively) and ended our visit with the much sought after bissous and plans to return in six weeks.

Le Lupin

February 4, 2010

Le Lupin

As much as I am enjoying this amazing life experience, I occasionally succumb to little bouts of anxiety (that usually revolve around the financing of this “in lieu of ‘kitchen remodel’ as I like to call it). In fact, I am probably the poster child to be prescribed Xanax, but I am not going to go there as I am sure I will work this all out eventually and naturally (well, okay, once in a while a nice glass of Bordeaux does ease the symptoms). Anyway, I feel silly even writing about it again because I’m sure you must be thinking, “geez, get over it and just enjoy yourself.” Thankfully, that is exactly what Hank and Caleigh are doing, and it is actually beginning to rub off on me finally. But at times, I do worry about how this whole thing will actually pan out and exactly how long this adventure should be. For instance, last week, we were struggling with a few semi-emergencies at the house and tenants back home that prevented us from committing to the later part of our stay (April – June) and we ended up losing two of the available cottages we had recently visited. Maybe it was a sign that we should return home? Luckily, I wasn’t really crushed over losing either of them. But, the situation did bring to light the need to either commit to something (before all the spring and summer rentals are scooped up) or plan our return home in March or April. Well, things seemed to sort themselves out at our house and since we really wanted Caleigh to finish the school year here, we decided to continue our search for the perfect place this week. Hank had called a realtor in Duras (in the village that Caleigh goes to school) regarding a property he had seen online so we decided to pop in before we visited the Chateaux in the same village that afternoon. The British woman and her daughter could not have been nicer and scheduled a visit for us to see a cottage outside of town, but also mentioned that they had a 3-bedroom flat just above their office that had been completely renovated and would we like to see it? Why, yes we would, thank you. It was so weird, because the place was not even finished and they had never rented it out before, but the timing was perfect and it actually felt meant-to-be. So they proceeded to show us this incredible flat with views of the little medieval town square on one end and the Gironde countryside on the other. All beautifully decorated and every bedroom with an en suite bath/shower/toilet. It was gorgeous and about $1500 less than any other place we had seen so we went back today and secured it…so for all of you would-be visitors this Spring, call now and reserve your week(s)!

Caleigh and I also went to French class yesterday with Colette. It was Caleigh’s first lesson and I think it went fairly well - as much as a 13-year-old’s interest in learning a different language with an 81-year old woman could go, that is. Colette even recalled being 13 quite vividly because she began the class (if you could actually call it that), by telling Caleigh that she thought that her parents did not know anything, especially about “jazz.” But is difficult for
anyone not to be intrigued by Colette no matter your age, and I think Caleigh was kind of curious to see where this was going to go. She told us that had been a teacher in Paris teaching language and literature, written numerous articles and I believe a book or two. In fact, she is currently writing an interpretation of the Old Testament from a woman’s point of view in short hand. She comes from royal ancestry and Hank and I get the impression that she and her family were not happy with the outcome of the French Revolution (she has a family chateau in Severac that was confiscated and now belongs to the public). In the hour or two that we were there, she reviewed Caleigh’s school assignments, conversed with us in French and patiently corrected our grammar and pronunciation. Caleigh was able to hook up Colette’s DVD player, which delighted her as she has had a stack of movies she has been waiting to watch; many of which she would like to loan us as they are in historical in nature and in French of course. When we were finished, I asked if there was anything that she needed from the store (as our agreed upon arrangement) and she mentioned that her helper the day before had forgotten two items and would I mind picking up a lapin (rabbit) and some champignons (mushrooms). No problem, I said and Caleigh and I went to the local Casino market up the street. I went to the butcherie section and only saw one very long and kind of grotesque looking rabbit (with the head of course) that looked enormous for only one elderly woman and her cat, Lord Nelson. So, I asked the butcher if he had a smaller rabbit and he said he did and it was just around the corner on the left…This sounds simple enough, I know, BUT, all of this was said in French! He didn’t even try to respond in English. I didn’t pause, look dumbfounded or glance at Caleigh for help when he asked if he could assist me. I actually felt comfortable and just communicated. Wow, two years of instruction, countless hours listening to cd’s during my daily commute, not-to-mention, homemade flashcards, and I finally got it while asking for a rabbit. So, we drove back to Colette’s, dropped off the items and as she thanked us for them, she added almost solemnly that teaching again was giving her purpose and improving her life. If she only knew how she was improving ours.

So, tonight is volleyball with Isabelle and Thiery & their friends with only French spoken. It should be fun. It’s pretty casual and almost anything goes, including using one’s feet and head although we do actually, bump, set & hit some of the time. Will report back soon. Would also love to hear how you are all doing.