It was bound to happen eventually. Statistically speaking, I'm a little surprised it took this long. But, yesterday was the day and luckily the conditions were such that it did not completely ruin our day. Imagine if we had been at a chateau or in Paris?! But thank God, we were just 10 minutes from home, at Bo's soccer practice in Ile'Bouchard. This will be the place to go down in infamy as the place in France where I finally stepped in dog poop.
As if I needed any incentive to further dislike most dogs (and consequently, most dog owners*), the French have added to my disdain by having a general disregard for cleaning up after their pets. Whether relief is found in the street, sidewalk, park, driveway - truly the location doesn't appear to make a difference- the remains are left right where the four legged beasts intend. Every time we have gone anywhere (to visit castles even), the announcement is proclaimed at least once, from at least one of us, "watch out for the dog poop!" It is altogether rather remarkable and rather disgusting.
Aside from the dog poop, I find France to be a very clean country. One doesn't see much in the way of litter or trash strewn about. But honestly, I think I might prefer the occasional beer can on the side of the road to the bombs we continue to encounter. Like the one from yesterday, for example:
Bohdan's field for soccer practice abuts a cow pasture. Needless to say, when the wind blows either it is a God-sent breath of fresh air, or a deluge of what was already a rather overpowering odor. As I stood on the sidelines, against the fence with all the other parents, I continuously had to adjust my bearings like a schooner to stay in the right path of the wind and avoid the odoriferous onslaughts.
This perhaps helps to explain the disregard I had for the momentary changes of the bouquet in the air. When I finally determined dog poo was indeed intermingled with the air des vaches, I assumed my "super power" olfactory sense (as David calls it) was coming into play and shrugged it off as an addition to the unpleasantries of Bo's soccer location.
Eventually, I looked down only to discover to my absolute horror that I had been parading around like a show pony in a pile of puppy poo for the past half hour. The French have it on the Americans in moments like this as they have two very appropriate utterances at their disposal, while we have only the one and without the cool accent.
"Merde!" or "Sheet!" (which does not refer to something you place on a bed. Unless you're incontinent.)
My sentiments exactly.
In my most casual, decorum-maintaining posture I walked / shuffled back to the car, attempting to remove as much of the offensive matter as possible along the way, while no doubt looking like a sailor on his last night of leave. Once to the car, I made ready use of the grassy lot, removed my shoes, and, screened by the open door of the car, made haste to wipe my shoes off as completely as the lack of soap and water would allow.
Oh, and of course I wasn't exactly wearing rubber hip-waders. Cute strappy little black sandals with a kitten heal. And, because I didn't just step in it, but danced around in it, there was even some on my actual foot. I swear, I could have screeched or wretched right there on the spot if it weren't for the fear of dying from embarrassment being stronger than the horror of it all. Placing my shoes as far out of my reach and under the car as possible, I remained smells-safe in the car for the duration of Bo's practice.
David and Vivi returned from their walk and I filled them in on the hazardous time I'd just spent. After getting a good chuckle out of my predicament, David went to fetch Bo's water for Vivi and himself.
"Well, watch out for the dog poop," I scoffed, wondering how many more times my mouth will utter those words this year. A few minutes later David returned, thirst quenched. He sat next to me in the car as we took in the conclusion of Bo's practice.
"I'm sorry," I confessed. "I tried to clean off my shoes as best I could. I even shoved them under the car, but I can still smell the poop. It is so disgusting. We'll have to keep the windows down on the way home." David nodded and laughed a little in amazement once again at my "super power sense of smell." But then he went all aghast,
"Wait a minute!" He jumped out of the car and proceeded to do his own chicken impression while muttering, "I can't believe it!" Yes indeed, folks. The same bomb took out one of my husband's sneakers, too.
When it was time to retrieve the sweaty players, of course the rendezvous point was right near the scene of the crime. I hovered in the back of the pack, ignoring the fact that there were important announcements en francais that should have taken every ounce of my energy to comprehend, completely distracted with watching the entire gaggle of parents marching around in the very same poop. What was I to do? I couldn't exactly interrupt the coach with a bold shout of "Merde de chien! Merde de chien!" That certainly didn't seem like the correct course of action. So I just stood there, paralyzed by fear, disgust, and the irony of it all.
It's been a full day since this took place. David's sneakers lie discarded next to my sandals outside the house. We're praying for rain. Because really, who wants to get up close and personal with that? Maybe I just found my excuse for buying a darling pair of new French shoes.
*Certainly I don't mean my parents (although I do dislike their dogs), or Crystal (I actually can't stand Shiva), or Beverly (perhaps the first dogs I've ever liked?!), or any other of my friends who would be dog-owners. I'm of course referring to the complete strangers who don't train, leash or love their dogs properly.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Play Dates
I have always disliked the term "play date." I've been trying to remember what we used when I was a kid to explain a time when friends got together to play and I am pretty sure we simply called it "having a friend over to play." I suppose "play date" is easier and more efficient, but I still don't like it. It conjures up too many images of Prada wearing Yuppie Moms, Blackberry planners, and over-priced lattes at some park in some city somewhere.
But whatever way you call it, my kids are both engaged in said activity as I type. Vivi's schoolmate, Lucie, is here and Bohdan was picked up a little bit ago to play at his friend, Jules' house for the afternoon. I am left here realizing this is the first time this sort of meeting has taken place in their lives. Sure, I've babysat friends' kids before, but that was the impetus for the children to be together. Never have my kids set up a time to play with a friend that resulted in one child being left in the care of another child's mom. It is a subtle difference, but it is different and the effects of this are less subtle than you would think.
Because Bo & Vivi's play times with other children have always included the moms, I have made some amazing friends based on the time spent giving the kids a chance to hang out. Family friends are created in this context, instead of individual ones. This fact leaves me feeling mildly frustrated right now. I could be participating in my own "play date" if either of the mom's who extended these invitations today had included us adults in the equation. Instead I find myself once again with my laptop, putting off the countless chores I could be doing by ruminating on my aloneness.
Another affect which I hope doesn't present itself as an issue today, is that of child care. When I am with my friends and their children in the US, if there is a problem with any child, the parent is there to address it immediately, the way they see fit. Whether the problem is a scraped knee, a hurt feeling, or an inappropriate behavior, no adult is left trying to figure out how to handle a situation without "parental consent." I could very easily fall into the "what-if" game right now as my imagination skirts around all the possible scenarios Bo could find himself in at someone else's house, without me, with people who don't speak English. Will they do the right thing? Will he be monitored at all? If he needs reprimanding, will he even understand? What if he needs something? I know people keep referring to us as a "brave and courageous family" but I'm beginning to wonder if "senseless" might be a better label? What parent throws their kid into a cavernous unknown zone like that?
I guess we do.
In reality, Bo seemed completely fine with the idea. Excited to the point of being willing to completely overlook a coughing cold that had him up during the night, he left smiling with an "I know, Mom" retort to my reminder of "no electronic games." It should be no surprise to me to see once again that I am the neurotic one.
And Vivi and Lucie are playing, albeit ridiculously quietly for two 6 year old girls, upstairs in Vivi's room bedecked with Polly Pockets and Barbies. Somethings just transcend the language barriers. I need to work on discovering the adult equivalents so I can have a "play date" of my own someday soon. My best guess is "cafe," so I'm taking it upon myself to learn to like it, anyway it gets served, so I can make my own friends, too.
But maybe I'll stick a couple of Vivi's Polly Pockets in my purse, just in case.
But whatever way you call it, my kids are both engaged in said activity as I type. Vivi's schoolmate, Lucie, is here and Bohdan was picked up a little bit ago to play at his friend, Jules' house for the afternoon. I am left here realizing this is the first time this sort of meeting has taken place in their lives. Sure, I've babysat friends' kids before, but that was the impetus for the children to be together. Never have my kids set up a time to play with a friend that resulted in one child being left in the care of another child's mom. It is a subtle difference, but it is different and the effects of this are less subtle than you would think.
Because Bo & Vivi's play times with other children have always included the moms, I have made some amazing friends based on the time spent giving the kids a chance to hang out. Family friends are created in this context, instead of individual ones. This fact leaves me feeling mildly frustrated right now. I could be participating in my own "play date" if either of the mom's who extended these invitations today had included us adults in the equation. Instead I find myself once again with my laptop, putting off the countless chores I could be doing by ruminating on my aloneness.
Another affect which I hope doesn't present itself as an issue today, is that of child care. When I am with my friends and their children in the US, if there is a problem with any child, the parent is there to address it immediately, the way they see fit. Whether the problem is a scraped knee, a hurt feeling, or an inappropriate behavior, no adult is left trying to figure out how to handle a situation without "parental consent." I could very easily fall into the "what-if" game right now as my imagination skirts around all the possible scenarios Bo could find himself in at someone else's house, without me, with people who don't speak English. Will they do the right thing? Will he be monitored at all? If he needs reprimanding, will he even understand? What if he needs something? I know people keep referring to us as a "brave and courageous family" but I'm beginning to wonder if "senseless" might be a better label? What parent throws their kid into a cavernous unknown zone like that?
I guess we do.
In reality, Bo seemed completely fine with the idea. Excited to the point of being willing to completely overlook a coughing cold that had him up during the night, he left smiling with an "I know, Mom" retort to my reminder of "no electronic games." It should be no surprise to me to see once again that I am the neurotic one.
And Vivi and Lucie are playing, albeit ridiculously quietly for two 6 year old girls, upstairs in Vivi's room bedecked with Polly Pockets and Barbies. Somethings just transcend the language barriers. I need to work on discovering the adult equivalents so I can have a "play date" of my own someday soon. My best guess is "cafe," so I'm taking it upon myself to learn to like it, anyway it gets served, so I can make my own friends, too.
But maybe I'll stick a couple of Vivi's Polly Pockets in my purse, just in case.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Loches, France
For one weekend of every year the French government opens the doors of all national museums, monuments, and buildings for free tours and special events. It is called "Les Journees Des Patrimoines," or Heritage Days. Essentially, it forces cheapskates like us to utterly exhaust ourselves over two days by trekking all over creation wearing out our shoes and tires. It was great!
For Saturday, we visited the nearby (45 minute drive) village of Loches. The center of the city is enclosed in walls with only one or two ways in:
Little did we know, we parked on the opposite side of the "city" from the entrance, which meant we enjoyed a lovely walk around the perimeter, taking in the enormity of it all.
Once we made it inside, we were tickled pink with all we discovered. In fact, this town quickly became a place we hope to frequent. It was simply lovely.
I just loved this courtyard. It is just someone's house - which just blows my mind.
The entry way and main chapel of the Collegiale Saint-Ours - of which sections date as far back as the 1030's.
The Royal Lodge - construction began in the 1300's. It has provided housing for Charles VIII, Louis XII, Charles VII and Ann of Brittany. It was here that Joan of Arc met with the Dauphin for he second time and convinced him to go to Reims to be crowned King of France in June of 1429.
The Keep, or "Donjon" as the French call it: a military fortress from the 5th Century:
Carvings inside a room of the Keep. Soldiers would create these images to record special victories or events. At the top right of this one, you can see a church with a crucifixion scene.
The Louis XI Tower. Look closely for David and Vivi who provided my "scale" perspective.
The interior of the tower - you can see the fireplaces and floor/ceiling lines which have not survived the times, I'm afraid. Each level had a steel walkway, which of course scared the pants off me.
Nevertheless, David still convinced me to walk all the way to the other side so he could snap this shot of the kids and I from the top of the tower.
Overall an absolute GEM of a place which we plan on spending LOTS more time in, so I am guessing there will be more photos to come!
For Saturday, we visited the nearby (45 minute drive) village of Loches. The center of the city is enclosed in walls with only one or two ways in:
Little did we know, we parked on the opposite side of the "city" from the entrance, which meant we enjoyed a lovely walk around the perimeter, taking in the enormity of it all.Once we made it inside, we were tickled pink with all we discovered. In fact, this town quickly became a place we hope to frequent. It was simply lovely.
I just loved this courtyard. It is just someone's house - which just blows my mind.
The entry way and main chapel of the Collegiale Saint-Ours - of which sections date as far back as the 1030's.
The Royal Lodge - construction began in the 1300's. It has provided housing for Charles VIII, Louis XII, Charles VII and Ann of Brittany. It was here that Joan of Arc met with the Dauphin for he second time and convinced him to go to Reims to be crowned King of France in June of 1429.
The Keep, or "Donjon" as the French call it: a military fortress from the 5th Century:
Carvings inside a room of the Keep. Soldiers would create these images to record special victories or events. At the top right of this one, you can see a church with a crucifixion scene.
The Louis XI Tower. Look closely for David and Vivi who provided my "scale" perspective.
The interior of the tower - you can see the fireplaces and floor/ceiling lines which have not survived the times, I'm afraid. Each level had a steel walkway, which of course scared the pants off me.
Nevertheless, David still convinced me to walk all the way to the other side so he could snap this shot of the kids and I from the top of the tower.
Overall an absolute GEM of a place which we plan on spending LOTS more time in, so I am guessing there will be more photos to come!
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Back To School Night en Francais
This week the kids' schools held their versions of "Back to School" nights. Like any good parent, I of course enthusiastically attended.
Bohdan's came first at 6:30pm on Tuesday. David and the kids dropped me off so Bo could still make it to his soccer practice, much to the dismay of some of Bo's classmates who were stuck playing in the courtyard while their mom's attended the meeting inside.
I entered the computer room/library in the back of the building and found a seat. The room was buzzing with "bonjours," some of which were directed at me as I got settled. There were approximately 40 or so parents there, which makes sense considering the entire school is comprised of just about 45 students. I naively took out my notebook and pen ready to write down all the valuable information I would acquire during this time.
Then the meeting officially commenced. I discerned this because the loud buzzing of voices reduced to a low hum and la Directrice (the principal) began looking around the whole room while she spoke. It took a total of five minutes for me to conclude I was in WAY over my American head. Here's a copy of the notes I took:
"Rein?" she asked, smiling.
"Rein!" I proclaimed "nothing," enthusiastically smiling right back.
"Les jours de Bohdan sont tout comme ca." She said - or something along those lines, basically telling me Bohdan's school days are all just like that was. "C'est difficile, non?" She smiled, eyebrows raised.
"Beh oui, c'est tres difficile. Je ne sais pas comment mes enfants faire ca!" Well, yeah, it is very difficult. I don't know how my children do it!
"Ah oui, mais ils apprennent tres vite." (Ah, yes, but they learn very quickly)
Yes, they sure do, I thought, I suppose they have no choice!
The classroom portion commenced with Maitresse informing everyone that their children have done a very good job welcoming Bo into their class. They have all reached out to him and played with him and attempted to talk to him. They help him when he doesn't understand. They are patient with him. I shook my head rapidly in agreement. It has been remarkable how wonderful Bohdan's peers have been.
At the conclusion, I stayed after because I needed extra help. Madame Pellet answered my questions and even complimented me on how much my own French has improved. After the clue-free experience I had just finished, I questioningly laughed out loud. "Non, c'est vrai, c'est vrai." she encouraged. I guess it is true, when I think about it. But I still headed home for a much needed and well-deserved verre de rouge.
Thank God I had a few days to recover before Vivi's open house.
Perhaps because I had been through it once already or maybe because my French really took off in those few days (probably NOT the case), I really understood a lot more at Vivi's school than I had at Bohdan's. It might have had to do with the fewer interruptions. At Bo's school it seemed everyone kept talking and butting in, which seemed really rude to me but not to anyone else. But people seemed more reserved on Friday night. Perhaps the week had taken its toll on everyone and no one paid attention?
My notes looked pretty similar to the first meeting - in fact the dates of the Christmas party and end of year party were exactly the same, so I sure hope it is some sort of combined effort. There was something said about medications - hopefully not something too important. Something else about notes if your child is going home with someone different and something else about bringing treats for the class on your child's birthday.
At the end of the meeting the parents stood around talking about how out of hand the canteen is in Cravant because there only two women to serve and monitor 45 children. I actually joined in the conversation, announcing that Bo had told me the kids throw food. Other mom's agreed their children had said the same. It was almost like I was one of the gang and actually participating in the conversation.
But the most encouraging moment from these two events was when one parent asked about the difficulty of the homework, explaining that their son had cried over one assignment because he was so frustrated and it was taking him so long. The teacher of course said it should not be that way and that the homework is meant for reviewing with parents only - so that the parents can be reinforcing what is being covered in class. But I was so relieved to hear of another child's struggle because it just proved that school is hard for everyone and an adjustment/transition period takes place for all. My kids are not that different and the challenges they face really are similar to the rest of their peers. Only the language differentiates them and, from what I hear, by Noel, they'll be fluent.
On peut esperer. One can hope.
Bohdan's came first at 6:30pm on Tuesday. David and the kids dropped me off so Bo could still make it to his soccer practice, much to the dismay of some of Bo's classmates who were stuck playing in the courtyard while their mom's attended the meeting inside.
I entered the computer room/library in the back of the building and found a seat. The room was buzzing with "bonjours," some of which were directed at me as I got settled. There were approximately 40 or so parents there, which makes sense considering the entire school is comprised of just about 45 students. I naively took out my notebook and pen ready to write down all the valuable information I would acquire during this time.
Then the meeting officially commenced. I discerned this because the loud buzzing of voices reduced to a low hum and la Directrice (the principal) began looking around the whole room while she spoke. It took a total of five minutes for me to conclude I was in WAY over my American head. Here's a copy of the notes I took:
- Ask for clarification regarding absences - policy and procedure
- Call Florence (canteen director) two days in advance if children are absent, or if they are home sick, call her before what time? (need to find out)
- Pack a small snack for Bo each day if he wants it.
- 9 Decembre - Fete Noel at the church in Cravant
- 23 Juin - Fete for the end of the year
- Ask for clarification regarding field trips and how much money they cost, who to pay, etc.
- EPS is on Lundi, Mardi, & Jeudi (find out what EPS is)
- Arts visuels - Vendredi - vieux tee-shirt (need to give Bo one)
- Musique - Vendredi matin
- Anglais - Vendredi
- Interlignes - curriculum for Language Arts
- GAP Maths - curriculum for Math
"Rein?" she asked, smiling.
"Rein!" I proclaimed "nothing," enthusiastically smiling right back.
"Les jours de Bohdan sont tout comme ca." She said - or something along those lines, basically telling me Bohdan's school days are all just like that was. "C'est difficile, non?" She smiled, eyebrows raised.
"Beh oui, c'est tres difficile. Je ne sais pas comment mes enfants faire ca!" Well, yeah, it is very difficult. I don't know how my children do it!
"Ah oui, mais ils apprennent tres vite." (Ah, yes, but they learn very quickly)
Yes, they sure do, I thought, I suppose they have no choice!
The classroom portion commenced with Maitresse informing everyone that their children have done a very good job welcoming Bo into their class. They have all reached out to him and played with him and attempted to talk to him. They help him when he doesn't understand. They are patient with him. I shook my head rapidly in agreement. It has been remarkable how wonderful Bohdan's peers have been.
At the conclusion, I stayed after because I needed extra help. Madame Pellet answered my questions and even complimented me on how much my own French has improved. After the clue-free experience I had just finished, I questioningly laughed out loud. "Non, c'est vrai, c'est vrai." she encouraged. I guess it is true, when I think about it. But I still headed home for a much needed and well-deserved verre de rouge.
Thank God I had a few days to recover before Vivi's open house.
Perhaps because I had been through it once already or maybe because my French really took off in those few days (probably NOT the case), I really understood a lot more at Vivi's school than I had at Bohdan's. It might have had to do with the fewer interruptions. At Bo's school it seemed everyone kept talking and butting in, which seemed really rude to me but not to anyone else. But people seemed more reserved on Friday night. Perhaps the week had taken its toll on everyone and no one paid attention?
My notes looked pretty similar to the first meeting - in fact the dates of the Christmas party and end of year party were exactly the same, so I sure hope it is some sort of combined effort. There was something said about medications - hopefully not something too important. Something else about notes if your child is going home with someone different and something else about bringing treats for the class on your child's birthday.
At the end of the meeting the parents stood around talking about how out of hand the canteen is in Cravant because there only two women to serve and monitor 45 children. I actually joined in the conversation, announcing that Bo had told me the kids throw food. Other mom's agreed their children had said the same. It was almost like I was one of the gang and actually participating in the conversation.
But the most encouraging moment from these two events was when one parent asked about the difficulty of the homework, explaining that their son had cried over one assignment because he was so frustrated and it was taking him so long. The teacher of course said it should not be that way and that the homework is meant for reviewing with parents only - so that the parents can be reinforcing what is being covered in class. But I was so relieved to hear of another child's struggle because it just proved that school is hard for everyone and an adjustment/transition period takes place for all. My kids are not that different and the challenges they face really are similar to the rest of their peers. Only the language differentiates them and, from what I hear, by Noel, they'll be fluent.
On peut esperer. One can hope.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
A Post for Lauryn
I took these pictures at Chateau Usse with my sweet & fashionable god-daughter, Lauryn, in mind. But of course, there are others who may enjoy them as well!
HATS! There were so many hats on display! Most of them were atop mannequins and I couldn't get close enough to take good shots of them. But these were in a display case.
Lauryn and I have had many a discussion about hat pins so I was very excited to come across these! I so wish I could have gotten inside the case for closer photos.
A whole bird. On top of a hat. Beak and all. I don't think I could wear it, could you?
I just loved this outfit! Gibson girl, right?
Love it. The whole thing. It just works! Makes me want to go to the opera.
There are so many people I think of so often, wishing they were here because of this or that which I know they would enjoy with me. This place topped the list I have for Lauryn. Gosh, how I wish I could have brought everybody with me!
HATS! There were so many hats on display! Most of them were atop mannequins and I couldn't get close enough to take good shots of them. But these were in a display case.
Lauryn and I have had many a discussion about hat pins so I was very excited to come across these! I so wish I could have gotten inside the case for closer photos.
A whole bird. On top of a hat. Beak and all. I don't think I could wear it, could you?
I just loved this outfit! Gibson girl, right?
Love it. The whole thing. It just works! Makes me want to go to the opera.There are so many people I think of so often, wishing they were here because of this or that which I know they would enjoy with me. This place topped the list I have for Lauryn. Gosh, how I wish I could have brought everybody with me!
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
My First Day of School
For a full week now we've been asked by everyone we meet some form of the following question.
"Et vos enfants? Leur installation a l'ecole? Ca va bien?" (And your children? Their first week of school? It is going well?) or the English version, "How are the kids doing with school?"
Of course my answer is always, "Oui, ca va. Mais c'est un peu difficile, parce que mes enfant ne parlent pas le francais. Pas encore." (Yes, it's fine. But it is a little difficult, because my children don't speak any French. Not yet.)
But as it turns out I'm finding "a little difficult" might be an understatement. Last Friday, on what would have been his fourth day of school, Bohdan was home "sick" with a stomach ache which then turned into a sore throat by noon. I was skeptical of the severity of his symptoms but figured he needed the break. He still says he doesn't really want to go to school, but at the end of each day he claims he's having a great time. Bo seems to prefer dealing with his frustrations with school and the language by being "sick" or behaving rudely with me and his sister. I'm left vacillating between compassion and justice, mercy and murder as he drives me crazy with his attitude.
Then this week, after five days of saying school was "great," Vivi burst into tears Tuesday morning and begged not to go. She was upset because no one played with her the day before, she has decided she has no friends and school is too hard because her teacher doesn't speak English. (I love how the issue is with the teacher needing English instead of Vivi needing French!) David and I reassured her, encouraged her, and told her to go to school to see if the day went differently, while inside my heart broke to bits. The minute she walked out the door, I burst into tears, too.
Apparently the morning did not go that differently, as Vivi's teacher phoned around 11:00 to inform me "Vivi pleure." She then prattled on in French about something I didn't understand because I was too distracted with the knowledge that my little girl was crying somewhere without me, without anyone who really knows or loves her deeply. This has never happened in her life before and I wasn't about to let it happen for long. After a quick chat with a rather distraught Vivi and another brief clarification with her teacher, I was in the car and on my way to the rescue.
By Vivi's account, the tears were shed over wanting to eat lunch with me. I'm pretty sure she thought this would be her ticket home, because typically eating lunch with a parent in France means eating at home. Leave it to me to break this social norm by suggesting to the teacher that I sit with Vivi at the "Canteen" (cafeteria) . Even though I had rapidly thrown together a perfectly acceptable lunch by American standards (bread, cheese, sausage, a pear, a drink and a Twix), I was not "allowed" to eat that and was forced to indulge in a full French lunch consisting of watermelon, roasted chicken, bow-tie pasta, cheese, and chocolate mousse.
I know I have gone with the translation of "cafeteria" for the "canteen,"however a more accurate translation would probably be "asylum." Forty to fifty 3-6 year olds were sitting at miniature, long, picnic style tables in a room with white stone walls, large curtain-less windows, a white tile floor and a high ceiling. Very nearly every child was speaking in a "haute voix" (loud voice) all at the same time. Which actually is quite the mark of rapid success because speaking in a loud voice is one of the academic objectives for this grade level. (I'm not joking - I read it in the school handbook.) Check that off the list as mastered. Next skill? Perhaps listening and taking turns to talk? Certainly manual dexterity isn't a necessary component of the curriculum as every child over the age of three ate their boned chicken with knife and fork. It was quite amusing to hear such savage behavior emanating from the visually civilized image of small children wielding knives with such graceful decorum. Alas, the noises overtook the sights and my impression remains one of complete and total chaos as many of the children attempted to chat with me in rapid-fire French amidst the din.
After lunch, I walked with the children back to their classrooms, holding the hand of my daughter in my left and another child who apparently wanted to hold my hand in my right. Vivi's teacher delighted us all by inviting me to stay for the afternoon and placed a medium-sized chair (my knees were only chest level as opposed to chin) next to Vivi's desk in the front row of the class.
I spent a glorious afternoon playing "teachers aide" in a room full of children anxious to chat with me. More than once I got some poor chap reprimanded for talking. We worked on studying the names of all the children (like Margot, Cyprien, Emeline, Romain, and Johan) in the class and counting how many boys (11) and girls (13) there are. We decorated a cover of a notebook with shapes and then turned the shapes into "les gens rigolo" (funny people). Then we went to the multi-purpose room (which was sort of like a gym and sort of like a theater, but not really and truly like either) to play some active games. One was a race where children were assigned colors in pairs (2 reds, 2 blues...). Then they were divided into two teams so the color-pairs were split. They had to race to the center when their color was called out. Vivi won a point for her team and impressed the boys tremendously. One boy in particular seemed quite smitten and, sure enough, on the walk back to the classroom the teacher informed me she believes Pablo has a bit of a crush on my daughter. (Hmph. Reason #4,235 why we homeschool!!) The children entertained Vivi and I with a couple of songs in English - one about colors and "We Wish You A Merry Christmas."
Vivi and I returned home that afternoon both feeling we'd spent one of our best days here yet! Too bad I can't go to school everyday! I would learn a lot more French and I sure would eat better.
On Our Walk
WHEN will I figure out I need to take my camera with me ABSOLUTELY EVERYWHERE I GO??!!!
Yesterday David and I went on a walk after I got back from dropping the kids off for school. (This is a definite plus to our schedule - David and I have a lot more "just us" time.) While on our walk we saw a snail with a shell as pretty as any seashell I've ever seen. And it was a fairly decent size, too - about as big as a good-sized strawberry. Of course it has me wondering if that's the source of Escargot. (Which incidentally, I found in the freezer section of the store, right next to cookie-dough sized TUBES of garlic butter!)
But the best moment was when a car pulled up along side us and asked for directions. Sadly, we didn't know the house they were trying to get to (at least we knew what they wanted). We somehow managed to maintain our composure though, despite the writing on the car. "Jesus de Joly." I have no idea what it means in French, but it sure looked an awful lot like "Jolly Jesus" to me. As the car drove away, David and I busted out laughing. Jolly Jesus, indeed! How fun would it be to drive around in a car that announces that, I wonder? It still makes me chuckle a day later.
On second thought, it is probably a good thing I didn't have my camera. How would I have explained to that man I simply had to take a picture of his car? That would have been a rather awkward moment. Perhaps worse than snapping photos in Leclerc even.
Yesterday David and I went on a walk after I got back from dropping the kids off for school. (This is a definite plus to our schedule - David and I have a lot more "just us" time.) While on our walk we saw a snail with a shell as pretty as any seashell I've ever seen. And it was a fairly decent size, too - about as big as a good-sized strawberry. Of course it has me wondering if that's the source of Escargot. (Which incidentally, I found in the freezer section of the store, right next to cookie-dough sized TUBES of garlic butter!)
But the best moment was when a car pulled up along side us and asked for directions. Sadly, we didn't know the house they were trying to get to (at least we knew what they wanted). We somehow managed to maintain our composure though, despite the writing on the car. "Jesus de Joly." I have no idea what it means in French, but it sure looked an awful lot like "Jolly Jesus" to me. As the car drove away, David and I busted out laughing. Jolly Jesus, indeed! How fun would it be to drive around in a car that announces that, I wonder? It still makes me chuckle a day later.
On second thought, it is probably a good thing I didn't have my camera. How would I have explained to that man I simply had to take a picture of his car? That would have been a rather awkward moment. Perhaps worse than snapping photos in Leclerc even.
Sleeping Beauty's Castle
One of the great things about having Wednesdays off from school each week is we can use it to do Field Trips! Last week that's exactly what we did. David took the day off and away we went - to Chateau d'Usse - better known as the "Chateau de la Belle au Bois dormant," which American's would call "Sleeping Beauty's Castle."
It is named as such because the original author of the famous fairy tale, Charles Perrault, was inspired by this castle to write this famous story.
Sorry about the strange angle on this next one. It was the only way to fit the whole garden into the image:
Like all good castle properties, it has it's own chapel
Of which the entryway was simply spectacular. The 12 apostles and Jesus appear carved into the stone. We tried guessing which face belonged to which name. Maybe you would like to try to figure it out:
Vivi served as hostess greeting the castle guests at the main entrance to the chateau:
The rooms were full of beautifully adorned mannequins. Here they are placed in the drawing room:
I loved the dining room! I had to tweak the photo a bit to try to accurately recapture the brilliant color. It was like a room full of lemony sunshine!
A bedroom, believe it or not. Seems like an awfully popular place!
But see? Here's the bed:
We actually got to go in the attic! It was so cool. It was full of dusty old broken-looking things. A real treat!
I took so many other photos. I may have to do a couple more posts to capture the rest. But I'll end this one with one of my favorites:
It is named as such because the original author of the famous fairy tale, Charles Perrault, was inspired by this castle to write this famous story.
Sorry about the strange angle on this next one. It was the only way to fit the whole garden into the image:
Like all good castle properties, it has it's own chapel
Of which the entryway was simply spectacular. The 12 apostles and Jesus appear carved into the stone. We tried guessing which face belonged to which name. Maybe you would like to try to figure it out:
Vivi served as hostess greeting the castle guests at the main entrance to the chateau:
The rooms were full of beautifully adorned mannequins. Here they are placed in the drawing room:
I loved the dining room! I had to tweak the photo a bit to try to accurately recapture the brilliant color. It was like a room full of lemony sunshine!
A bedroom, believe it or not. Seems like an awfully popular place!
But see? Here's the bed:
We actually got to go in the attic! It was so cool. It was full of dusty old broken-looking things. A real treat!
I took so many other photos. I may have to do a couple more posts to capture the rest. But I'll end this one with one of my favorites:
An Apple A Day Doesn't Work in France
Before we came to France for a year on limited health insurance, it seemed a good idea to me to have us all gone over to make sure we were running in tip top shape. About a month before our departure we went for our physicals, received our tetanus boosters and were sent on our way with an undocumented stamp of approval.
Oh, how I should have known better.
Upon our arrival in France it became clear rather quickly we really should have had full medical records printed up and translated and brought with us for each member of our family. Even then, I am guessing it still would have been necessary to have a French doctor create additional paperwork stating he was officially verifying our paperwork was accurate and legitimate.
Rather than attempt to get our records sent here (I believe they still technically want Vivi's, but I'm hoping they will forget), we decided it would be less of a hassle to just visit a doctor here and have Bo & Vivi gone over once again.
I don't know that we managed the "less of a hassle" part, but after five attempts in almost as many weeks, we have succeeded in finally visiting the doctor and did in fact leave with paperwork officially and frenchily declaring my children to be healthy.
Our first attempt was two weeks before school started. I didn't have a phone number for a doctor in Chinon, recommended to me because of his mastery of English, so I had to arrive in person to set up an appointment. I was very careful to avoid the hours of 12h to 14h because it is very apparent all of France shuts down for lunch at this time. You can imagine my surprise when I found the door to be locked. I looked everywhere for a notice that the office was closed for holiday or bubonic plague, but alas all I found was a note which said something about the hours of 14h-16h. In my confused state I read it to say they were only open during these two hours. I know that sounds insane - a doctor's office only opened for two hours a day, but honestly, "work day" is defined so loosely here that despite my thinking it was utterly ridiculous, it did not seem out of the realm of French reality for an office to keep such abbreviated hours.
A week later I made a second attempt. The pressure was mounting not only because school was rapidly approaching, but I also learned Bo would not be allowed to play soccer without a doctor's note. In addition it appears David, too, was going to need this seemingly "all-access pass" in order to play volleyball in an adult league. Evidently French grown-ups are incapable of knowing their own physical limits and need someone else to tell inform them that a history of heart attacks makes them an unlikely candidate for rugby. Hmmm. Come to think of it, I know a couple folks in the US who could use a doctor forcing them to chill a little bit.
If I was surprised at the locked door before, I was completely befuddled to find it locked yet again. I double and triple checked the sign. I looked at the time. I looked for a sign indicating something catastrophic had occurred to force the unpredicted closure of the office. I found a buzzer. I pushed. It buzzed back at me. So I pushed again. It buzzed back at me again. I tried opening the door while it buzzed thinking this may be some special security feature. The door didn't budge. I pushed the buzzer a third time, this time holding it down and shouting at the vicinity of the speaker, "Allo? Allo? Est-ce que vous avez ouvrire?" (Which is really, really poor French for, "Hello, Hello? Are you open?") Nothing. By this point I was utterly flabbergasted and gave one final thrust of the button in attempts to simply assuage my frustration. Finally a woman with rubber gloves approached, looking rather put out and reluctantly opened the door. She said something that included the word "fermer," (closed). No kidding. I asked if she had the number for the doctor, thinking maybe I could attempt something really crazy like calling ahead to set up the appointment. That's when she announced the doctor was on vacation and wouldn't be back until "la semaine prochaine." Really? Next week? And it was impossible to post a notice on the door informing poor saps like me of this valuable information why? I might have been rude enough to actually laugh aloud at this poor cleaning lady.
One mumbled "merci" and one firmly closed door later and I realize I also had misinterpreted the sign from my previous visit. The office is closed from 2 to 4. Not open. So even if the Doc wasn't off touring the French country side with the rest of his people, he wouldn't have been in at that time. It was a "laugh or I'm going to cry" drive back to the house to await attempt number three.
The following week when we arrived, to my utter delight I found the door not only unlocked but wide open! We walked right in with the ease of royalty. And then stood in line for 10 minutes watching the busiest receptionist I've ever seen. She was strapped to a headset, carrying on a minimum of two conversations simultaneously at all times, jumping up from one desk to another, to a printer, and back to the counter with the dexterity and speed of a gazelle. It was like watching a human pinball bounce through the track with printers whirring, phones ringing, computers beeping and her voice changing from "over the phone tone" to "face-to-face tone" and back again (this was the only way to tell to whom she was speaking, so if you don't know the difference between these two tones it is a good thing you weren't there).
Finally it was my turn at the counter, so I spoke. Only it wasn't actually my turn. It was the headsets turn. So I quickly shut my mouth and stood patiently attempting to read a notice on the counter. The poor secretary had to say "may I help you" (I'm guessing that's what she was saying) more than once for me to figure out she as addressing me. I asked for appointments for the children to see the doctor for school/sports physicals. After hopping onto one of the computers for a moment and then hopping back to me again, she wrote down the time and day of the week and the names of, not one, but two doctors. But before I could ask for clarification the headset must have started talking to her again, because she had already moved on. Noticing the appointments were for the following day I figured I could sort it out then and we left.
Success is a short-lived sensation in this time of my life. Just when I think I've mastered things, I make a mistake that proves I really don't speak this language as well as people keep telling me I do. We showed up at our scheduled time the following day only for me to realize I still get the days Mercredi and Vendredi mixed up the same way I did in high school. This proved to be a Godsend though because I was able to take a moment to have the secretary clarify with me why another doctor's name appeared on my note. She explained the doctor I wanted, the ENGLISH speaking one, was out of the office and this other name was the doctor filling in for him. At that moment his office door opened and a lovely Asian woman said goodbye to her patients in French. I contained my laughter as best as I could as I tried to envision her and I attempting to speak very-differently accented French to one another regarding the health of my children. I don't think so. SO, I changed the appointments, indicating I needed the regular doctor because I needed someone who spoke English. I would have thought this receptionist would have been able to figure out how desperately I needed this, given I was there on the wrong day and all.
A week later we arrived the American-standard 15 minutes early and were looked at like we had made another mistake. "You are too early!" She announced. "Only 15 minutes." I retorted. She shook her head and raised her eyebrows and essentially said, "Well, okay. Have a seat if you want. But the doctor is running very, very late."
An hour later I checked in with her to make sure I hadn't make another mistake with my French translations. "You're next." She proclaimed.
And we were. And he spoke great English. In fact his English was good enough to even bash President Bush at the same time as he was marveling over how much money US doctors make. I was sure to comfort him that if Obama gets his way, our doctors won't be making so much for much longer. I don't know if he got my point. But at least we switched conversation topics to the health of my children instead of my country.
And now, all of France can rest assured my children are well and capable of playing and attending school. I should know. A doctor said so and I have a note to prove it.
Oh, how I should have known better.
Upon our arrival in France it became clear rather quickly we really should have had full medical records printed up and translated and brought with us for each member of our family. Even then, I am guessing it still would have been necessary to have a French doctor create additional paperwork stating he was officially verifying our paperwork was accurate and legitimate.
Rather than attempt to get our records sent here (I believe they still technically want Vivi's, but I'm hoping they will forget), we decided it would be less of a hassle to just visit a doctor here and have Bo & Vivi gone over once again.
I don't know that we managed the "less of a hassle" part, but after five attempts in almost as many weeks, we have succeeded in finally visiting the doctor and did in fact leave with paperwork officially and frenchily declaring my children to be healthy.
Our first attempt was two weeks before school started. I didn't have a phone number for a doctor in Chinon, recommended to me because of his mastery of English, so I had to arrive in person to set up an appointment. I was very careful to avoid the hours of 12h to 14h because it is very apparent all of France shuts down for lunch at this time. You can imagine my surprise when I found the door to be locked. I looked everywhere for a notice that the office was closed for holiday or bubonic plague, but alas all I found was a note which said something about the hours of 14h-16h. In my confused state I read it to say they were only open during these two hours. I know that sounds insane - a doctor's office only opened for two hours a day, but honestly, "work day" is defined so loosely here that despite my thinking it was utterly ridiculous, it did not seem out of the realm of French reality for an office to keep such abbreviated hours.
A week later I made a second attempt. The pressure was mounting not only because school was rapidly approaching, but I also learned Bo would not be allowed to play soccer without a doctor's note. In addition it appears David, too, was going to need this seemingly "all-access pass" in order to play volleyball in an adult league. Evidently French grown-ups are incapable of knowing their own physical limits and need someone else to tell inform them that a history of heart attacks makes them an unlikely candidate for rugby. Hmmm. Come to think of it, I know a couple folks in the US who could use a doctor forcing them to chill a little bit.
If I was surprised at the locked door before, I was completely befuddled to find it locked yet again. I double and triple checked the sign. I looked at the time. I looked for a sign indicating something catastrophic had occurred to force the unpredicted closure of the office. I found a buzzer. I pushed. It buzzed back at me. So I pushed again. It buzzed back at me again. I tried opening the door while it buzzed thinking this may be some special security feature. The door didn't budge. I pushed the buzzer a third time, this time holding it down and shouting at the vicinity of the speaker, "Allo? Allo? Est-ce que vous avez ouvrire?" (Which is really, really poor French for, "Hello, Hello? Are you open?") Nothing. By this point I was utterly flabbergasted and gave one final thrust of the button in attempts to simply assuage my frustration. Finally a woman with rubber gloves approached, looking rather put out and reluctantly opened the door. She said something that included the word "fermer," (closed). No kidding. I asked if she had the number for the doctor, thinking maybe I could attempt something really crazy like calling ahead to set up the appointment. That's when she announced the doctor was on vacation and wouldn't be back until "la semaine prochaine." Really? Next week? And it was impossible to post a notice on the door informing poor saps like me of this valuable information why? I might have been rude enough to actually laugh aloud at this poor cleaning lady.
One mumbled "merci" and one firmly closed door later and I realize I also had misinterpreted the sign from my previous visit. The office is closed from 2 to 4. Not open. So even if the Doc wasn't off touring the French country side with the rest of his people, he wouldn't have been in at that time. It was a "laugh or I'm going to cry" drive back to the house to await attempt number three.
The following week when we arrived, to my utter delight I found the door not only unlocked but wide open! We walked right in with the ease of royalty. And then stood in line for 10 minutes watching the busiest receptionist I've ever seen. She was strapped to a headset, carrying on a minimum of two conversations simultaneously at all times, jumping up from one desk to another, to a printer, and back to the counter with the dexterity and speed of a gazelle. It was like watching a human pinball bounce through the track with printers whirring, phones ringing, computers beeping and her voice changing from "over the phone tone" to "face-to-face tone" and back again (this was the only way to tell to whom she was speaking, so if you don't know the difference between these two tones it is a good thing you weren't there).
Finally it was my turn at the counter, so I spoke. Only it wasn't actually my turn. It was the headsets turn. So I quickly shut my mouth and stood patiently attempting to read a notice on the counter. The poor secretary had to say "may I help you" (I'm guessing that's what she was saying) more than once for me to figure out she as addressing me. I asked for appointments for the children to see the doctor for school/sports physicals. After hopping onto one of the computers for a moment and then hopping back to me again, she wrote down the time and day of the week and the names of, not one, but two doctors. But before I could ask for clarification the headset must have started talking to her again, because she had already moved on. Noticing the appointments were for the following day I figured I could sort it out then and we left.
Success is a short-lived sensation in this time of my life. Just when I think I've mastered things, I make a mistake that proves I really don't speak this language as well as people keep telling me I do. We showed up at our scheduled time the following day only for me to realize I still get the days Mercredi and Vendredi mixed up the same way I did in high school. This proved to be a Godsend though because I was able to take a moment to have the secretary clarify with me why another doctor's name appeared on my note. She explained the doctor I wanted, the ENGLISH speaking one, was out of the office and this other name was the doctor filling in for him. At that moment his office door opened and a lovely Asian woman said goodbye to her patients in French. I contained my laughter as best as I could as I tried to envision her and I attempting to speak very-differently accented French to one another regarding the health of my children. I don't think so. SO, I changed the appointments, indicating I needed the regular doctor because I needed someone who spoke English. I would have thought this receptionist would have been able to figure out how desperately I needed this, given I was there on the wrong day and all.
A week later we arrived the American-standard 15 minutes early and were looked at like we had made another mistake. "You are too early!" She announced. "Only 15 minutes." I retorted. She shook her head and raised her eyebrows and essentially said, "Well, okay. Have a seat if you want. But the doctor is running very, very late."
An hour later I checked in with her to make sure I hadn't make another mistake with my French translations. "You're next." She proclaimed.
And we were. And he spoke great English. In fact his English was good enough to even bash President Bush at the same time as he was marveling over how much money US doctors make. I was sure to comfort him that if Obama gets his way, our doctors won't be making so much for much longer. I don't know if he got my point. But at least we switched conversation topics to the health of my children instead of my country.
And now, all of France can rest assured my children are well and capable of playing and attending school. I should know. A doctor said so and I have a note to prove it.
Friday, September 9, 2011
My home away from home, away from home
E.LECLERC
Based on the title I betchya thought I was going to post about some wonderful new friend's house, or the house I'm living in, or some favorite spot, huh? But NO. My home away from home, away from home is the GROCERY STORE. If I'm not home, chances are good, that's where I'll be.Consequently, I have learned very quickly I detest grocery shopping no matter what country or language or currency it is in. What's worse, as a result of not really have my cooking groove on yet, and because I can't seem to accurately account for how much food we need for guests, I am going to the grocery store practically every other day. In just one month's time I can already drive there in my sleep.
Early on, some dear friends with a glorious sense of humor requested photos of Leclerc. Far be it for me to fail to meet the challenge. To fully appreciate the images below, you must imagine me pushing my all-wheel drive crazy cart, trying to blend in while as inconspicuously as possible snapping a few photos here and there. My method was keeping the camera at about hip height and close to my purse so it could maybe look like I was rummaging in there for something instead of acting like the paparazzi. If you want to see other areas of the store, let me know - maybe I can get stopped by the store security next time!
FROMAGE!!!! - The Cheese Counter. I haven't been brave enough to approach it any closer than this yet. There's all kinds of green, yellow, orange and marbled things that look like science experiments over there. It is the size of the Deli back home. The Deli right next to it is also the size of the Deli back home. The French sure do love their processed meat products - be they salted, smoked, cured, pickled, or pureed.OK. So I have to confess that even though I really do hate the frequency with which I have been visiting this place, the next two photos make my mouth begin to water and I must fight the urge to drive over to get some fresh, hot baguette right this very second. This is how I feel about the Big Box Store Baguette. I can't imagine how I would respond to the Local Boulangerie Baguette. I'm afraid to try it. I might never go back and our budget would be blown on bread. This also sheds light on my reticence to go wine cave hopping. But back to the bread:
Can you believe it?! Next time I'm there I will count the different varieties of baguette. There's got to be a dozen at least. Not to mention the croissants, rolls, loaves, and pastries. Oh, honestly - the French have this over the States in such a big way it will make me bawl 11 months from now.
Agh! I'm getting anxious just thinking about leaving all this bread behind. I better go grab some baguette before Bo beats me to it.
(I wasn't going to say anything, but the English teacher in me can't contain it, plus I know my mom will be proud to know: I was fairly intentional with all my alliteration! Haha- love you Mom!)
Thursday, September 8, 2011
The Rondonnee
Last weekend while folks back home enjoyed beach-side barbeques, post hurricane recovery projects, or last minute school shopping, my family enjoyed a lovely annual tradition here called "Vignes, Vins & Randos" (Vines, wine and walks). Throughout the Loire Valley there are over fourteen 4-5 mile long treks through the vineyards for enjoying the view, sampling wines and learning from the wine-makers themselves about the growing, harvesting and wine-making processes. YES! That means I FINALLY got to do some wine-tasting!!! Which of course, only proved to show me what I've been missing and now means I want to stop at every vineyard I see, which would be impossible because we would never get to any of our destinations if I made us do that. Or we would be stopped for DWI, one or the other.
We are fortunate enough to live in one of the villages that offers these walks, so without hesitation we laced up our walking shoes and hit the vineyards. When we arrived at the meeting point we were somewhat shocked at the magnitude of people. Tour groups of about 50 people each appeared to be leaving every 10-15 minutes or so. Surprisingly, we quickly registered (it cost 5-euro for David and I, the kids were free) whereupon we received a lovely canvas tote with the map and information on participating vignerons (winemakers) and these lovely wine-glasses on a string which David and I are modeling in the photos below.
Incidentally, I've been trying to come up with something as catchy as "soap on a rope" for these lovely necklaces, but I'm stumped. Maybe I should offer a prize for the person who comes up with the best name for this fashionable accessory??
I wish I could tell you what the tour guide told us about, but as it was all in French and he wasn't looking directly at me, nor was he speaking "tres doucement" (very slowly), so I didn't catch much of it.
But we sure did catch the view. The weather was very cloudy and threatening rain the whole time. But it was still so beautiful.
This next photo was taken in the oldest part of Cravant (the village we live in). It is a washing well where the women (presumably) would gather to do the laundry. The water has a slow current to it because it flows in from the left and empties out on the right - the pipe leading out on the right was small enough to create a good enough flow just past it for I good rinse-cycle, I would think. I just loved contemplating the hundreds of years worth of conversations that have taken place under these roofs. If it is as old as the church across the street from it (pictures of that will be in a later post), this washing center was in use starting in the 1500's. Doesn't that just get your imagination going? It should!
People were picking the grapes as we walked along. At first we were worried they were doing something wrong. But then we saw some "drops" - grapes which had already fallen to the ground - and assumed these wouldn't be harvested, so we helped ourselves. This is just one those moments when words completely fail to capture a sensation so exquisite it becomes completely understandable why the Greeks and Romans and other cultures have had gods ruling over grapes and wine. "Yum" doesn't even come close. An explosion of over-poweringly fresh sweetness with an undercurrent of tart. It was pure beauty.
Until I bit into the seed.
Bitterness flowed out of that little itty-bitty bugger faster than I could spit. Now I understand why wine doesn't just taste like juice. Wow. A valuable lesson learned, I guess. From now on I will eat french grapes very carefully so I can either spit out the seeds or swallow them whole. It keeps the experience far more pleasant that way.
One of our stops was for grilled chicken wings paired with a lovely red wine. We came from up over the hill and could smell the chicken before we ever could even see the place. It was heaven! As we descended a sharp corner the hillside opened up and revealed a small row of "houses" in the side of the slope. These are "troglodytiques" - or "cave-dwellings" - people literally still live in caves in this area, but I think they might do it for the benefits of the tourists because this place only had a kitchen and virtually no furniture. I desperately wanted to chat with the two older men cooking in the cave, but it was blazing hot and pretty crowded in there. Not to mention that with my french being remedial at best, I couldn't get a word in edge-wise.
The next stop revealed itself ahead of time by way of waves of music flowing through the vineyards. As we emerged from them a striking panorama was revealed, which, aside from the incredible view, included some more red wines, some fantastic goat cheese (well, Vivi and I loved it anyway), and these musicians, who reminded me so much of the film "Chocolat" I started craving some hot cocoa. Here's a video clip. I think the musicians were simply a hoot! Don't miss out on noticing that we are essentially in the middle of nowhere (but there's still cell service - UNLIKE the middle of nowhere back home):
The final leg of the journey was probably my favorite part of the walking tour:
After cutting through the rows of vines and a brief jaunt through the forest you see in the distance, we returned to our starting point where we were greeted by a town fair of sorts with food, dancing, and live music. It began to rain and we were completely exhausted, so instead of kicking up our heals, as I was inwardly dying to do, we headed home and collapsed instead.
We are fortunate enough to live in one of the villages that offers these walks, so without hesitation we laced up our walking shoes and hit the vineyards. When we arrived at the meeting point we were somewhat shocked at the magnitude of people. Tour groups of about 50 people each appeared to be leaving every 10-15 minutes or so. Surprisingly, we quickly registered (it cost 5-euro for David and I, the kids were free) whereupon we received a lovely canvas tote with the map and information on participating vignerons (winemakers) and these lovely wine-glasses on a string which David and I are modeling in the photos below.
Incidentally, I've been trying to come up with something as catchy as "soap on a rope" for these lovely necklaces, but I'm stumped. Maybe I should offer a prize for the person who comes up with the best name for this fashionable accessory??
I wish I could tell you what the tour guide told us about, but as it was all in French and he wasn't looking directly at me, nor was he speaking "tres doucement" (very slowly), so I didn't catch much of it.
But we sure did catch the view. The weather was very cloudy and threatening rain the whole time. But it was still so beautiful.
This next photo was taken in the oldest part of Cravant (the village we live in). It is a washing well where the women (presumably) would gather to do the laundry. The water has a slow current to it because it flows in from the left and empties out on the right - the pipe leading out on the right was small enough to create a good enough flow just past it for I good rinse-cycle, I would think. I just loved contemplating the hundreds of years worth of conversations that have taken place under these roofs. If it is as old as the church across the street from it (pictures of that will be in a later post), this washing center was in use starting in the 1500's. Doesn't that just get your imagination going? It should!
People were picking the grapes as we walked along. At first we were worried they were doing something wrong. But then we saw some "drops" - grapes which had already fallen to the ground - and assumed these wouldn't be harvested, so we helped ourselves. This is just one those moments when words completely fail to capture a sensation so exquisite it becomes completely understandable why the Greeks and Romans and other cultures have had gods ruling over grapes and wine. "Yum" doesn't even come close. An explosion of over-poweringly fresh sweetness with an undercurrent of tart. It was pure beauty.
Until I bit into the seed.
Bitterness flowed out of that little itty-bitty bugger faster than I could spit. Now I understand why wine doesn't just taste like juice. Wow. A valuable lesson learned, I guess. From now on I will eat french grapes very carefully so I can either spit out the seeds or swallow them whole. It keeps the experience far more pleasant that way.
One of our stops was for grilled chicken wings paired with a lovely red wine. We came from up over the hill and could smell the chicken before we ever could even see the place. It was heaven! As we descended a sharp corner the hillside opened up and revealed a small row of "houses" in the side of the slope. These are "troglodytiques" - or "cave-dwellings" - people literally still live in caves in this area, but I think they might do it for the benefits of the tourists because this place only had a kitchen and virtually no furniture. I desperately wanted to chat with the two older men cooking in the cave, but it was blazing hot and pretty crowded in there. Not to mention that with my french being remedial at best, I couldn't get a word in edge-wise.
The next stop revealed itself ahead of time by way of waves of music flowing through the vineyards. As we emerged from them a striking panorama was revealed, which, aside from the incredible view, included some more red wines, some fantastic goat cheese (well, Vivi and I loved it anyway), and these musicians, who reminded me so much of the film "Chocolat" I started craving some hot cocoa. Here's a video clip. I think the musicians were simply a hoot! Don't miss out on noticing that we are essentially in the middle of nowhere (but there's still cell service - UNLIKE the middle of nowhere back home):
The final leg of the journey was probably my favorite part of the walking tour:
After cutting through the rows of vines and a brief jaunt through the forest you see in the distance, we returned to our starting point where we were greeted by a town fair of sorts with food, dancing, and live music. It began to rain and we were completely exhausted, so instead of kicking up our heals, as I was inwardly dying to do, we headed home and collapsed instead.
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