Buffalo Grill Won't You Come Out Tonight

You would think being in the land of Foodies (people who know how to appreciate food), finding a place to eat dinner would be a piece of cake (or in this case perhaps quiche). However, we've learned that unless you're willing to subject your family to the consequences of childhood sleep deprivation, dinner out isn't really an option. Lunch to be sure, but not dinner.

Most restaurants are open for about two hours from noon through 2pm (which here is 14h - something I'm still not used to and am forced to use my fingers to figure out). Then establishments close and don't reopen for dinner until 19h30 (that's 7:30 in the P.M.). When we first arrived here, eating out would have meant we would be sitting down to dinner right about at the kids' bedtime. Close to a year later and I hate to say we have begun to cross over to the dark side. Our kids rarely are asleep before 21h. (That's NINE AT NIGHT!!! I feel like such a bad parent!)

But on our last night of vacation, after a week of touring, hiking, going to bed late, getting up early, we were all so exhausted we desperately wanted to fall back into our comfortable, familiar routine of 5:30 dinner, relaxing down time and 7:30 to bed. Around 4pm we left the lake to begin our search for something that would be open and serving meals that early. I had my doubts then, and should have probably insisted on stopping at a market to buy some supplies for a bed-top picnic dinner back in our room. But that sounded like too much work at the time. Ohhhh, had I only known....

The first village we arrived at seemed very promising. There were at least half a dozen restaurants lining the center square. We parked the car and began our procession past the menus. Turned out half were closed for the season with "see you in July" signs in the windows. Another was open, but not serving dinner until 7:30. One had a menu with regional fare including tripe and some word I didn't know. The kid's menu options were literally a tripe casserole or local sausages (which are NOT like whatever you are picturing in your mind right now, I promise you). Even though we have been pretty impressed with our kids' willingness to try new things, we weren't up for the job of convincing them that cow's stomach was edible. I can't even convince myself of that one. That left one more possibility. From afar, there was hope. "Bar - Pizzeria - Cafe" was stenciled on the awning. As we drew nearer however, it became apparent that "Bar" was by far the dominant operative. A couple shady characters, sans dents, blearily peered at us over their drinks. I stopped short. "I don't think so." Reluctantly, the kids turned and followed us back to the car.

The next two towns we drove through were shut up tight. Not a restaurant or cafe to be found. With school vacation still being a solid month away, apparently our timing was off. By 6pm we were desperate, so we decided to skip trying to find something nearby and instead drive the 30 minutes into the town on the other side of our B&B - where our hostess had specifically recommended we go to find dinner. We walked down the two or three main streets only to find one restaurant (which was of course closed until 7:30) and a "Kebab" stand - which I refused on principle. I had dismissed the notion of self-serve or picnic dinner two hours ago. I wasn't about to change my mind now. Certainly not for greasy meat-on-a-stick.

Our hostess had also mentioned another place down the street from her. We slumped back into the car hoping beyond all hope that "La Fumade" would provide the nourishment we all desperately needed at this point. The kids and I held our appetites at bay with slices of "American Bread" (sandwich bread) and peanut butter (from England). Hope soared as we pulled into the restaurant's lot and saw the doors wide open and a woman busy at work inside. We scrambled out of the car and over to the entrance like desert wanderers to an oasis. "Nous allons ouvrir a dix-neuf trente." David glanced at his watch. Twenty-five minutes. Hmmmm. We took a quick look at the menu.

Menu d'enfant

Nuggets de poulet avec frites

Steak hache avec frites

SCORE! We could wait the half-hour knowing chicken nuggets and hamburgers were foods the kids would gladly eat. As we contentedly ambled back to the car I began to notice a profound number of mosquitoes congregating in our midst. Back home, this wouldn't be all that surprising, but you must understand this was practically the first time I'd seen ONE mosquito in the past ten months. They simply didn't seem to exist here. When we had first arrived last August, I was shocked to see screenless windows wide open for all the insect world's delight. But after a while of never seeing a black fly or mosquito, I figured, "well, no wonder, without those pests, I think I'd prefer no screens as well!"

But here, the mosquitoes were EVERYWHERE. After taking refuge in the car for a bit, we decided to risk a short stroll over to some very small but pretty cascades on the other side of the restaurant's large lawn. By the time we returned, two other cars had joined ours in the lot and one of the couples had entered the restaurant. Ah! Finally. We could begin to believe dinner was really going to happen for us. It was 7:25p.m..

We entered the restaurant, swatting at the mosquitoes all along the way. With the doors still wide open, we opted for a table further in toward the center of the room, despite the hostess's offer of the table right by the door. Better not to *be* dinner while we eat dinner. Ha! Like geography mattered. We sat waiting for menus, taking in the bright yellow walls and American-diner-like decor and the swarms of mosquitoes. And I do mean SWARMS. David and I began batting our arms, slapping our hands against walls, the table, our legs; we were on a mad killing spree in attempt to usher in some semblance of peace for our dinner. "With the door wide open, we are fighting a losing battle." I mumbled. Our fearless leader got up and closed the door, the other guests eying him suspiciously as they swatted the air around themselves as well.

Two seconds later, when it appeared we might actually make some headway; the air clearing and the death count mounting, the hostess walked through the door with drinks for another table and propped the door back open in one swift motion. The black "fog" began to roll back in. I felt like crying. Would our drinks be safe? Could we get the food from the plate to our mouths and have it remain mosquito-free?  Honestly, if it was this bad in the dining room, how much worse would it be in the kitchen? In my mind all I could picture was an industrial sized kitchen, hot and humid with an open door leading to "out back" where dumpsters and an ashtray sat. The air in my imaginary kitchen was thick with mosquitoes. The "chef" was stubbly-faced with a smoldering cigarette drooping out of a mouth spewing well-justified french profanity at these god-awful bugs. I couldn't shake the mental picture I had created and I despairingly reached my limit.

"David?" My eyes were pleading, so afraid of his reaction to what I was about to say. "I don't think I can do this. I don't think I can stay and eat in this environment. It's just too much."

"I'm with you. Let's go." To my shock and relief, he practically jumped from his chair. But not before the hostess arrived with our menus. She looked confused as she took in our eminent departure.

"Desolee," I began, horrified to have to explain why, after waiting a half an hour to eat here, we were actually leaving. "Mais, nous ne pouvons pas rester ici. Les insects - c'est trop...non. Nous avons besoins partir. Desolee." (Sorry, but, we can't stay here. The bugs - it's too.... no. We must leave. Sorry.)

We all but sprinted to the car, and collapsed with an exasperated, "Now what?!"

"Oh what I wouldn't give for an Applebees right about now," David lamented.
"Mmmm.. or a TGI Fridays," I sighed.
"Bugaboos!" chimed in voices from the back. The kids were behaving unbelievably well considering all we had been through in the last three hours of our dinner-search. The whimpered quietly behind us while David and I ran through our depleting options. A rather large city was just on the other side of the mountain range. They'd be sure to have *something.* Even, dare I say, a McDonald's. That's right people. I had become that desperate. We decided to go for it.

At 7:55pm we found ourselves hot on the trail of a Buffalo Grill, which is the French equivalent to Applebees. Hallelujah, the Lord had heard our prayers! We'd found food. And not just food. But good food. Familiar food. Food with descriptive words like, "barbeque," "American," and "grilled" in the titles.

When we pulled out of the Buffalo Grill parking lot at 22h (that would be a mere two hours before midnight) - we sure were exhausted but also totally stuffed with extremely content food-drunk smiles across our tired faces.

Ahhhh the sweet taste of success.

*For the record, this phot is from dinner with my parents at a different Buffalo Grill. I was too tired to think to take a photo of Bo with his Barbe a Papa and Vivi with her ice cream. But this still captures the sentiment, and like Applebees, all Buffalo Grills are exactly the same, so whatever.

The Bal de Bernache

According to Wiki, "Bernache is grape juice at the beginning of its fermentation process." Despite it being sour grapes, it is a very popular drink in this region of France, however it is only available from about October through November. I don't think it a coincidence that this coincides with the wrap-up of the grape harvest. My theory is wine producers were too excited to wait for their wine to be ready for celebrating a good crop, so they started drinking sour grape juice and found it had a certain hard cider-like appeal. Et voila, Bernache was born. Which of course eventually led to more celebrating (this is France after all) and now an annual event called the Bal de Bernache occurs around the end of every October here in Cravant. Signs appeared all over town (meaning the 5 or 6 light posts on the main thoroughfare and a sign posted randomly on a back road) and we even received a flyer in our mailbox one day. With promotion of that magnitude, how could we miss it?

But seeing how "promotion" does not equal "information," the only things we knew were that on Saturday, October 15th there was a dance of fermented grape juice with a DJ at the Salle de fete in Cravant. Not being entirely sure what to expect and whether we should really go, I asked the moms around the school yard if it was a "family-friendly" event. The assured me it was tres sympa for the kids, something they were sure to enjoy.

I think they define that differently than I do.

On the morning of the event we drove by Cravant's "party building" hoping for a sign with more info. Instead, we found some men working on setting up. So I asked what time the event started and one of them smiled oddly, shrugged and replied "some time around 8pm." For this information-hungry, planning-OCD freak, that just was not specific enough. But that's par for the course around here.

Despite our kids' bedtime also occurring "around 8pm," we gave all the French mom's the benefit of the doubt and piled into the car at said hour only to arrive to a virtually empty parking lot. Eyebrows raised, we sent David inside to scope it out, and to get a more accurate assessment of the guaranteed "kid-friendliness." He reported back that of the dozen or so people inside, none were children and most were older men who appeared to have spent the day taste-testing the Bernache.

After we drove the kids back home and settled them into their beds, Janell and I returned to the Bal in hopes the additional hour had livened things up a bit. It had started to. For the next hour and a half more and more people arrived (without children) and some great dance music was played - salsas and swing - but no one danced. I guess the Bernache hadn't taken affect yet. Around 10:30pm I drove Janell back to the house and it was David's turn. I anticipated we'd be able to get some good dancing in and was excited to have the floor to ourselves. But as luck would have it, when we got back, the party had taken on new energy. The terrific dance music had transformed to mindless pulsations and the floor was packed. The bigger surprise however was not the sudden shift in audience participation. It was in who made up this lively bunch. A half-dozen or so of Bo and Vivi's school mates, taking a break from running around like track stars, abruptly stopped in front of us to demand, "Ou sont Bohdan et Vivienne? Ils vont venir?" I politely shouted over the music that Bo and Vivi were in bed. They looked puzzled, shrugged and went back to their races. It was roughly 11pm.

The highlight of the evening was an event I am not certain I will successfully capture in text. It was perhaps one of the most hilarious scenes I've ever witnessed at a party, and is apparently, a "tradition" of sorts in this country. I've included a random video clip below which I found on You Tube - consider it a visual to aid in your understanding. After an announcement was made, people began to sit on the floor, one in front of the other, legs forming a "V" with their stomachs fairly close to the next person's back. A man stood at the front of one line, a shapely young woman at the other, both facing the centipede-like lines of inebriated people. Once the song began, the "leaders" (the two standing) began to direct their lines in waving their hands up in the air - first to the right, then to left, then back, then forward. It was very choreographed, going with the music just like steps in a line dance. To our complete and utter SHOCK, all of the sudden the woman lowered her hands, and while the line of bodies continued to wave their hands forward and back, she literally DOVE into the line and proceeded to be passed in a crowd-surfing like manner over the heads of the line. David's and my jaws dropped to the floor. By the time we got over the shock, the man followed suit down his line and we completely lost it. I had always thought crowd surfing was done on your back - so my surprise doubled as I watched teenage boys and men of all ages thoroughly enjoy handling the woman and all her glory as she made her way down the line.

Just when we thought it couldn't get funnier, a very large man - think Amazon - over 6 feet and at least 275 lbs, who could barely walk for the amount of Bernache in his system, decided he wanted to play, too. But of course, sitting in the line waving his hands around wasn't sufficient. He nosed his way in front of the leader. Expressions of terror swept through his line, which consisted of men and women of every age, size and strength. Before you can say "Sacre Bleu!" this man catapulted himself into the line with the grace of a rhinoceros. It was like watching someone jump on an inflated balloon. One minute there was a line of people sitting there, the next minute a little futon of flesh underneath a neanderthal. I almost peed myself from laughing so hard. I imagine a few people woke up the next day wondering how exactly they managed to acquire so many bruises.

David and I decided to call it quits shortly after that. I mean, really, what could top choreographed body-surfing? We waved goodbye to the bleary-eyed buddies of our own children and headed for home, so grateful Bo & Vivi were sound asleep. At 12:30am, I'm pretty sure we were the first ones to leave.

My Dinner Dilemma

We're just shy of three months here and have already enjoyed numerous dinners a la Francais. Which is to say we've partaken of home-cooked meals made by locals, not that we've enjoyed home-cooked locals. ("That is called cannibalism, my dear children, And is, in fact, frowned upon in most societies."1) On the one hand, this has been wonderful. We've felt very welcome, enjoyed some truly amazing dishes, and experienced the most gracious of hosts willing to struggle along with us in chopped-up Franglish conversation. On the other hand, it has been quite intimidating as the list of gourmets we need to have over for "reciprocal dinners" keeps growing while I attempt to remain in denial.

Even though I'm known for using any excuse to throw a party (I once threw an impromptu celebration - with printed invitations and everything - when my then 3yr old son announced it was his favorite stuffed animal's birthday), I must admit I am completely reticent to host anything involving a meal made be me which is then served to French people. I have never seen dinner parties done so lavishly than in the homes of these friends we've just made. I suppose it could be argued they went out of their way to impress the Americans, but I don't think so. The savoring of good food is as integral to the French culture as the vineyards are to it's landscape. People here don't eat just to sustain life, they eat to dine, adding enjoyment to everyday life. For a foodee like me, it is truly divine. But I fear I excel far more at the consumption of exquisite nourishment than I do at the creation of it.

At our first dinner, we arrived around 6:30pm and enjoyed the lovely summer evening sitting on a deck overlooking the valley of the Vienne river while we partook of "les aperitives" - a crisp, light rose, sparkling white wine, sausage and cheese-stuffed petite croissants, mini-quiches, mini-crab tarts, chips and nuts. Once the sun settled in for the evening and the night air turned brisk, we adjourned to the dining room where a most elegant table for twelve was set. Being that I've got 14 years worth of breaking/losing wedding registry items, matching plates and glasses that don't have Disney characters on them seems impressive enough these days. But this was candlelit, gorgeous and breakable!

The menu consisted of darling individual-sized potato tarts like the one pictured here, and something akin to a fork-hearty beef and carrot stew. This was all accompanied by an unlimited supply of fresh baguette and copious amount of red wine.

Around 8:30pm, I mistakenly began to mentally prepare for our departure when the next course was presented - crisp mixed greens with a tangy vinaigrette, accompanied by more baguette and wine. A platter of assorted French cheeses followed. I tried little bits of everything, but of course have no idea what I was eating, except one was very identifiably goat cheese. Unfortunately, I did not learn until after this dinner that the French are perfectly fine with you leaving any amount of food on your plate with all courses except the cheese course - where apparently it is in bad taste to leave any morsel behind. Once I mustered up the courage to start exploring the "Fromage" counter at Leclerc, the reason for this cultural "faux pas" became quite obvious in that with every uneaten bite your basically throwing away money.

Our American disbelief behind the success of the French diet became alarmingly clear when the final course commenced roughly three hours after we had begun eating. Dessert. A generous slice each of a perky lemon tart and glazed fruit tart (which I brought having acquired it from a neighbor-but I suspect it came from a store), coffee or tea and more bubbly for the adults, while the kids enjoyed ice cream bars. No doubt my husband would have preferred to still be a kid. But I was in my glory.
The only thing missing was the chocolate.

When we got in the car that night, despite the rapid onset of a drunken food coma, I managed to quickly surmise the dangerous spot I was in.

"How in the world will I ever be able to return their invitation after a dinner like that?"

"Aww, easy," David encouraged me. "Just tell them they're invited to a traditional American meal and serve hamburgers and french fries."

I would have laughed. But my expanded stomach was constricting those muscles too much to manage it.

1 Must give credit to Johnny Depp in "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory" for this little gem of a quote.

Momma Needs A New Pair of Shoes

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.

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.

My Glamourous French Life

I thought I would share this just in case anyone thinks I'm living the high-life over here. Blanchette the chicken gets a little confused from time to time and starts brooding. Sylvie instructed me to put her in a separate box with no food or water for two days. So, in my best Supernanny voice I announced to Blanchette we just don't do these things and she is being naughty.

"If you keep it up, Blanchette, you're going to have to go into the 'Naughty Box.' We don't want that now do we? Nooooo, Blanchette. Get off the nest. Come on."

Well, she is a chicken after all, so she listens about as well as those kids on that show. Into the Naughty Box she goes for two days of solitary.

I bet if Supernanny used a "naughty box" she'd get much faster results. Just saying.

Language Mishaps - Part One

Humorous moments in French, brought to you by Dave & Erin. Please note these are entitled "Part One" because I fully expect this to be an ongoing series throughout the year. Tune in regularly for updates.

I.
David: What's "rien" mean again?
Erin: Nothing.
David: Nothing, as in I've made up another word that doesn't actually exist or nothing, as in,it literally means "nothing?"
Erin: (Unable to answer due to laughing uncontrollably.)

(Rien does actually mean "nothing" in French and I was able to eventually explain that to David.)

II.
David: What's "quelque chose?"
Erin: Something.
David: Could you be more specific?
Erin: (Unable to answer due to more laughter.)

(Again, "quelque chose" does actually mean "something" in French and I was able once again to set David straight on that.)

III.
We were discussing the process of making wine with a french couple. In the course of the conversation we discovered wines are not stored in oak casks here - they put the wine they import to England and the US in oak because I guess we prefer our wines a little oaky. To make sure I was understanding correctly I asked,

"Alors, le vin ici n'a pas la gout de chien, pas de tout?"

The couples eyes shot open wide and then they both busted out laughing, while the husband managed to retort between snorts,

"Non. Bien sur. Il n'y a pas la gout de chien dans le vin, pas de tout!"

That was when I realized I had asked if the wine had the flavor of dogs here in France. What I meant to say was chene (oak) but I said chien (dog). Oops. Luckily I wasn't at a degustation (wine tasting) - which by the way, is something I have YET to attend for pete's sake!

Spelling in French

As soon as I start to think I'm totally getting this French thing down, the phone rings. For anyone who doesn't believe that 80% of communication is non-verbal, try talking on the phone in a language you apparently barely know.

The most hilarious part is when someone asks me for my email address. I've had the same email address now since Bo was born (over 8 years) and I've always had trouble spelling it for people because to anyone else it doesn't make sense and therefore is difficult to comprehend. It is "rinboduffy" (the nicknames of me, my son, and my husband). But now I may finally be convinced to change it soon so as to make this year a whole lot easier.

Imagine you're me:

Person on Phone: "Avez-vous un mel?" Do you have email?

Me: "Ehhhh.... oui." Ummm....yes. (Oh great, here it comes.)

Person on Phone: "Votre address?" Your address?

Me: "Ehhhh...oh la la.... Airgrgrgh.... ehhhh.... Eeeee...Ehnnn, comme N-n-n Non... Bay, comme B-b-b Baguette...Oohh...Day, comme D-d-d-d-d (derierre? no. I can't say that!) comme D-d-d Deja vu... Eeewww... Ehhfff, Ehhfff comme...ehhh... comme.... egh, je ne sais pas."

Ummm...oh boy...R....ummmm....I....N, as in No...B, as in B-b-b Bread...O...D, as in D-d-d-d (butt? no I can't say that!) as in Deja vu...U... F-F, as in...ummm... as in.... ugh, I don't know."

And there you have it. I can't spell in French. My brain gets all worked up trying to come up with the "as in" examples that I get all flustered and start stuttering like machine gun. And sadly, the only thing I can think of when I get to the "F-F" part of my address is "French Fry." And I just don't think anyone in France will find the humor in that.

All By Myself!

I just got back from driving to the supermarket, the bank and back. All. By. My. Self. Granted, in the US this is no big deal. I guess technically, no matter where you are, it is no big deal. The big deal comes when you are driving a manual car you've never driven before, on roads you've only just seen two times before, in a country where you don't know the language and are only "pretty sure" of what road signs mean. We were all supposed to go, but the children really, really didn't want to (so much for the newness making it seem fun) so David sent me off on my own.

First I drove to Leclerc (the supermarket - I only made one wrong turn on the way). But then I realized they didn't have an ATM (which I needed to visit before shopping). So then I used the GPS to find the nearest bank (which apparently I didn't need to do because it sent me to what I already knew to be a bank, I just would have thought there would have been one closer). After parallel parking on the busiest street ever and successfully changing the ATM language to "English" (LOVE that feature!), I was back to Leclerc with money, list, and bags in hand.

To get a cart at the grocery store, you have to insert a 1euro coin into a chain that releases one cart from all the others. This is how they force you to return your cart when you are done shopping instead of leaving them all over the parking lot because when you hook the cart back up to the chain it spits your coin back out at you. David of course thinks this is brilliant. I think it is annoying. You can guess which one of us is the more conscientious shopping cart user. Another annoying feature with these carts is they come in all-wheel drive. You know how there's always a bum wheel going it's own way whenever you use a shopping cart anywhere in the US? Now imagine all four wheels are going their own way and you get a pretty good idea of the steering capabilities of all-wheel drive carts. It was almost comical watching others and attempting to navigate myself the hairpin turns around isles in the store. I can't believe there aren't fatalities on a regular basis.

Once I got my cart under manageable control, I did okay - trying to compare prices in euro from brand to brand and then trying to compare prices from Euro to Dollar. Of course add to this the attempt at reading labels to even know what it is I was comparing and things got a little interesting. My first challenge was discerning "shampoo" (which I didn't need) from "conditioner" (which I did). Shampooing and Apres-Shampooing look an awful lot alike! But they are not priced alike. Needless to say, I am hoping my hair responds very brilliantly to the French climate and my need for conditioner goes out the window so my money doesn't.

Then there was the search for the correct garbage bags. I can barely do this one correctly in Market Basket back home, so odds were pretty dreadful that I would get this one right. I didn't. i figured 50L would be pretty darn big, but I guess it wasn't big enough for our super cool, high tech poubelle which opens and closes automatically with a motion sensor! Oh well.

Then it was on to the fish counter. At Market Basket I avoid the fish counter because of the lines and buy the prepackaged fish at the same or cheaper price. Here I desperately wanted to avoid the fish counter for countless reasons, none of which concerned having to wait in a line. But alas, they do not apparently have prepackaged fish for the counter-phobes in France, so I found myself staring at a very large variety of fish (some of which stared back, in all it's full-bodied splendor) not having a CLUE what any of it was.

Perhaps now is when some would question why I didn't make use of my handy pocket-sized French-English dictionary. I had left that in the car. And for good reason. We had only just purchased said dictionary two days ago at the same store. I was pretty sure it didn't looked worn enough to convince anyone I wasn't shoplifting and I didn't have the receipt on me, soooo.... rather than run the risk of meeting the Gendarme, I decided I didn't really need it.

The woman behind the counter took notice of me and said the customary, "Bonjour" which is what everyone uses before they ever say anything else, no matter what. (Yes, I do imagine a nearly catastrophic event being just barely avoided by someone politely saying, "Bonjour. Attention pour ca voiture!" - Hello. Watch out for that car!) At this point the unavoidable was upon me and I wondered, do I just dive in or do I warn her that I am an American idiot? I decided a cautionary warning was most definitely in order.

"Bonjour. Je suis desolee, mais mon francais est tres mauvais." (Hello. I am sorry, but my french is very bad.) At which point, she smiled, and gestured for me to go on ahead and give it my best. We began to muddle through, but the line started to grow, so I politely informed her she could serve the other customers while I figured out what in the world I was doing. This only served to prolong my agony at which point I should have stolen away to the deodorant isle.

Eventually I had to tell her what it was I was trying to make (fried fish & chips), which would have been easy, but I had forgotten the word for "fry" - frire. She led me to some "poisson blanc sans arêtes" (white fish without bones) and I was on my way. And all this for what translates to a mere $10/lb. Apparently fish will be a special occasion meal for the rest of our year here!

I got the rest of the shopping done without major snafus and through check out - where I tried desperately to look like I had it together and managed to look instead like a buffoon with euros spilling out everywhere, while I attempted to bag my own groceries (the clerks sit behind the counter looking very comfortable but utterly useless) and hurry it up because the lines were very long.

When I got home David had the audacity to wonder why it took me so long.

Really????

A Whole Lotta Nothin

The past few days have been very unexciting I'm afraid. Sunday was a rainy day, but that didn't matter because we went to church, which is held inside obviously. There were very few people in attendance and we were told this is because all of France goes on holiday for the month of August. For us, this was perfect, as we were able to ease our way into introductions and immersion into Christian French vocab. (sadly something never covered in any of my forays into language acquisition).

One of the couples there is from England, and they invited us over for lunch afterwards. It was so lovely to spend the afternoon without having to speak slowly or search for translations in my head! The children spent time reading children's books in English, relishing in their comprehension. I have no doubt their home will become a welcome Christian English refuge for us this year!

Monday was laundry and cleaning day. Which, given I don't know where anything is stored and once I find something I can't be sure if it is floor cleaner or dish soap, took the better part of the day. But in the end I found everything I needed, minus a mop, and the rooms are now ready to receive guests - one Italian couple and I think either a French or Canadian couple. This morning we will go Leclerc to get supplies for their breakfasts (and perhaps a mop). Apparently, friends of mine want pictures of Leclerc, so any chances of blending in will be destroyed should I acquiesce. I suspect they requested them explicitly for the joy of the mental picture of me wandering around a store like Wal-mart snapping photos like a badly misplaced Japanese tourist. (I mean no disrespect to Japanese tourists, here.) Maybe I'll make David wear black socks with his sandals and a plaid shirt and I'll wear a moo-moo and we can tell everyone we think we're in Florida. There is a Disney here after all (but it's near Paris).

Well, now that I've more than likely offended a few people I'm going to go have breakfast. Nothing like starting your day off right!