An Exchange:

4-yr-old C: "At 6:00 I have to be completely naked."

Me: "Oh? Is that a rule?"

C: "Yes."

Me: "Okay, well you have half an hour."

C: "Yes."

Listography.

Things I like about living in France:

1) Old men riding bicycles. I inwardly squeal with delight when I see these types pedaling around town -- extra points if there's a baguette in his bicycle basket or under his arm.

2} The challenge of no English. And how reading English books to the kids gets automatic giggles (before translating).

3) The thrill of seeing 120 on your speedometer. No units required here!

4) Country life: chickens that recycle all the leftovers and in return offer fresh eggs.

5) Seeing the universal aspects of family life, parenting, and growing up.

6) Yogurt section at the grocery store that encompasses 2 aisles. Cheese, ditto.

7) Trying new things, learning patience.

8) Languid dinners that last well into the evening after the children have gone to bed.

9) French bread-cheese-wine. M told me when I got here "This is all we need in France for the good life!"

10) Charming old buildings, Solognot tile and brick (in my region).

Drawbacks:

1) Not a whole lot of young people in the area.

2) The challenge of no English -- and the frustration at certain points!

3) That the speed limit on the surrounding country roads is 90 max. Passing giant logging trucks on roads that better accommodate mini coopers.

4) The one damn chicken that is small enough to squeeze through the cage bars that I throw back regularly.

5) Trying to keep the peace/ the language at a G- or PG-rating.

6) Healthy eating put on hold.

7) New places, experiences: getting lost, eating pungent mackerel or slippery clams, misunderstanding things.

8) Well, no drawback here.

9) See number 6.

10) Awkward, 3-hour long seminars on regional brick-making.

Clearly, though, the former outweighs the latter. I am truly thankful to be where I am this summer.

Week 3

Me and C, wearing his Père Noel (Santa Claus) shirt. 

Coupe-Coupe game at E's school fair.

Chateau de Chambord -- started by Francois I.

E at said chateau, which she hated. 

This is Athalie, a.k.a. CrocoDog.

Fresh bread every. day. Don't go eating no day-old baguettes!

El Greco's dreamy painting of Saint Louis 9th at the Louvre. I could look at this all day.

Pont des Arts in Paris, I believe.

Making a cake with a French recipe. Feeling good about myself.

This recipe spared no chocolate or butter. Too bad I undercooked it and it was really dense and not so great. M declared that it wasn't good enough to fulfill my lost bet, in which I make him a cake. Plus, there was no creme patissiere. 

Fog

They use a verb here often that has the sense of "unfogging" your way. Last weekend, when I went to Orleans for the day, my host parents asked if I was sure I wanted to go alone. You want to te debrouiller alone? Yes, I said. You'll figure it all out, I told myself.

However, living in a foreign country is a constantly humbling experience. 

Like when I have my driving lesson with M, the father of my host family, and he's yelling "brake, brake, brake!" and I think to myself you got this, and I slow down nicely. And then stall out.  M told me that every time you stall out you owe your passengers a glass. After that first outing on the narrow country roads: "I counted," he said, "You owe me seven glasses."  

Like when I can’t find the correct grammar to communicate what I want to say, and stumble over my words.  Good lord, I’m so glad I can’t hear what I sound like to French speakers! Trying not to mix up the words for “turn” and “virgin,” for “poaching” and “crafting,” and for “raining” or “crying” – I am infinitely thankful that my host family and the friendly inhabitants of Chaon are always willing to explain things slowly and clearly for me.

Like when I fix a quiche for dinner, saying to myself, this is French food – they’ll love it, and none of the kids touch it and we have a meltdown-at-table crisis.

I’m learning to accept that no matter what, even if I use perfect grammar and fix real French food, I’m always going to have my American accent that marks me instantly as a foreigner and makes the kids giggle.

There are obviously plenty of ways that I haven't successfully me debrouillée. But that won't stop me from trying. 

Photos

The ever-present cucumbers and tomatoes that serve as a first course for meals. 

An early morning visit to the Cathedral Saint-Croix of Orleans, peaceful and empty except for an old man vacuuming one of the Saint's niches.

Cat graffiti!

...French perception of Americans? Hope not. This was in the window of an  "American" restaurant called Memphis.

Right before the marriage. Yes, I have no shame,

A cold and rainy Fete de Dieu procession on Sunday morning.

One of the many Solognot ponds. 

Van Gogh was here! Well, not really. But you can imagine.

D.B.W.B: Dead baby wild boar. 

First week in the French countryside

I'm in Central France for the summer, one week into my stay with a family that lives in the country.  

What first impressed me upon coming to France was, of course, the food. 

In the days since my arrival, I’ve effectively had dessert at every meal (dessert FOR breakfast – Nutella and Madeleines, anyone?) and a host of French staple foods.  Not wanting to appear too picky, I may have stretched the truth a little bit on my application by saying Yes, I Eat Fish (… tuna salad). However, I’ve branched out by having several different types of fish, including some straight-from-the-sea coquilles de Jacques, which were similar to scallops.  I’ve also sampled some of the cheeses that are present at each lunch and dinner – Camembert, Gruyere, Vieux-Paner – the latter was where I had to draw the line, because it tasted strongly of goat.  Or what I imagine gnawing on a goat would taste like.  

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The children of my host family each have strongly different personalities. However, they all share the French tactile quality. Bisous each morning! Bisous after school! Bisous each evening (kisses on either cheek)!  The 8-yr-old E likes to pat my hair and the little C gave me half a dozen gushy kisses on the mouth, which I had to assume was the custom until his father reprimanded him for it.  He continued to attempt these, and I said “Only on the cheeks!” And he said “And the nose, and the eyes!”    

Most of the children in E's class at school are equally loving.  Dropping her off after lunch consists of taking her up to the schoolyard gate, and then making the rounds kissing a dozen children and receiving their sticky, bonbon kisses in return.  This is a new experience for me.

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As eager as the children are to love on you, so too are the neighborhood dogs ready to attack you.  Almost every house in the neighborhood has a dog out in the fenced yard, probably for hunting, as my host mother explained.  The Attention au Chien signs aren't for nothing -- these animals seem to take personal offense at your existence as you walk down the street, hurling themselves at the fence links and barking ferociously.  The neighbors across the street named their German Shepherd 'Caline" (cuddly). Ha-ha, neighbors. If Caline ever gets loose and tries to attack me I'm going straight for the eyes. This must be how my dad felt growing up in a neighborhood of angry dogs.

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In terms of language, I find the two younger children fairly easy to understand, but the older boy, T, speaks more quickly with a chopped Teenager Lingo. However, he is always willing to repetez his sentences for me. He’s explained some of the rules of rugby for me, and goes around the house saying “Annah Kee-fair” with relish. E, the girl, finds my accent funny and little C just wants to cuddle (calin, calin!).  My host parents are very willing to explain words I don't understand, and we have spent several evenings talking over dinner about the differences between our countries and customs.  It's been lovely.

Till next time!