How difficult is it to do nothing?

The bright orange flickers behind the solid oven door in the kitchen looked to be up to the task. The thermometer, unmoved at 13.9 degrees Celsius, stated otherwise.

We had had notification of this power outage three times previously with three subsequent reprieves. So, I was mildly optimistic that life on this cold winter’s day in the mountains would again be uninterrupted.

Nonetheless, cautious, and not at all interested in testing my spartan capabilities in freezing water, I showered early, ran the dishwasher, and set the washing machine to finish before 8 am--the scheduled electricity cut-off time--then boiled the kettle and filled a thermos ready for an instant morning coffee (not my first preference but ‘faute de grives on mange des merles.’)

 

This time, however, the notice was spot-on. I hot spotted my phone to my computer and started work as normal. Bzzzz, the battery exhausted-blackness stopped me mid-sentence, a couple of hours later. My phone, already on low power mode, was threatening to following suit. I’m a problem-solver, I thought. I’ve got this. There must be a solution.

 

Perhaps I could sit in the car with the engine running as it re-charges my phone? Ugh. Out of cars this week. To the angst of its owner--me--one of our cars had happily taken up residence at the mechanics four weeks ago and seemed to be happily living out of home with no thought of resuming co-habitation with its parents. Wait, was I still talking moving vehicles here? Its sister (of the mechanical kind) had left home at 5 am on its way to work this morning.

 

Neighbours? Nuh-uh. They’re in the same powerless boat.

 

Hmm. Can’t work, can’t study Italian online, can’t type up a quick blog entry … what to do?

 

Soothing rom-com or documentary set in Italy on Netflix? Whoops. Please forget that I even mentioned that energy reliant device.

 

Walk the dog? Walk to a café? That would be a most satisfactory option if my back hadn’t sent me into spasms yesterday. Hopefully, that inconvenience will disappear less stealthily than it arrived.

 

Food? I knew there was an answer. Standing with the fridge door ajar, I peered for a long minute (old habits die hard) into the semi-darkness. “Yay,” I cried out. “I spy some, hmm, cold soup.” Not a wonderful winter warmer. But Catherine, I reasoned, calling on my latent warrior inclinations, there is more than one way to plumer un dindon, d’éplucher l’abricot, de plumer un canard … (After all, I’d rather not fouetter un chat.) I have an old-fashioned, wood-burning stove at my service.

 

What now, I wondered after I had taken a flight of fancy to our proposed Italian future courtesy of my chunky bean and orechiette soup. Ah yes. I am midway through a beautiful story. I can read. And hanging tightly onto the banister, I hauled myself step by step to my bedside table, grabbed my tome and gingerly redescended, accepting the illusory invitation proffered by the cloudless blue winter’s sky to settle on the deck outside.

But, concentrating so hard on concentrating, concentration evaded me and instead of forcing the delectation of exquisite prose, I plucked my bookmark from pages already consumed ready to tuck it back in place.

 

For my mum because I love her.

 

That--the single line on an old florist’s card serving as my marque-page--did it. I was officially distracted. But motivated too. I re-positioned myself at my desk, and searching unsuccessfully for digital confirmation of the number of hours I had left to endure before technological re-connection, threw a look over my shoulder at the microwave. Shrugging instead, I opened a notebook, picked up a pen, and started scribbling.

 

PS Stoking the fire assiduously, I have managed to get the room temperature up to 15.4 degrees Celsius.

 

Note to self: Should write freehand more often as my scrawls are becoming increasingly hard to decipher.

Catherine's books for purchase:

• But you are in France, Madame: One family, three children, five bags and the promise of adventure living in the French Alps
• Weaving a French Life: An Australian story
• Love, fear and a return to France: A family memoir
• With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s

No thank you for the music

Finding the blue sky on a brisk winter's day. Holyrood Palace

Spotify CEO Daniel Ek’s comment that the “cost of creating ‘content’ is close to zero” was recently passed under my nose. On the nose, I’d suggest is more accurate. For whom exactly is the cost close to zero? Could it be that Monsieur Ek is suggesting that every minute, hour, week -nay year- that I spend as a creative, producing content, is worth nothing?

 

Today, in local news items in Australia, yet another article on the increased salaries of company directors and CEOs was waved in my direction. This, as families struggle to make ends meet, forego purchasing necessary medication, cancel their children’s dance classes and skip meals to meet their elevated mortgage commitments.

 

Is this a rant? I guess so. But hear me out.

 

I ran into a neighbour yesterday and he asked how my writing was going. He is always interested, always impressed with what I do. I told him that I am about to start work on recording my second, third and fourth books for the audio book market. Excitedly, he pointed out that he knew a fellow down the road who had a studio – a proper recording studio – that I might be able to use.

 

“That’s a lovely suggestion but, financial constraints dictate that my ‘studio’ will continue to comprise a wall of foam blocks around my desk, a blanket under my computer, curtains drawn and another blanket over my head.”

 

I didn’t go on to tell him that I had received my audio book sales report that afternoon that showed that when listeners decide to play the system, listen to a full book, return it, and get credit for it, I lose money on the transaction. I don’t just give back what I would have earned, I actually pay for their sneakiness. Neither did I tell him that it hurts when some readers baulk at the cost of a book at $3.99 but will pay $4.50 for a cup of coffee. I also really wanted to tell him what my full year’s income as a writer is, but pride stopped me.

 

I love my neighbour’s enthusiasm for what I do. I thank him for his interest as I thank and appreciate every one of my readers. Is it possible that overpaid CEOs of the world might one day value me, my output, and my time in the same way? The sad truth is that they probably won’t.

 

I guess I’ll have to continue working a second job in order to justify the hours that I spend writing and marketing my ‘no-cost’ content.

With thanks for your ongoing support, here are my books (including Books 1-3 in the 'French at Heart' series)

The links should take you to where you need to go, wherever you are in the world, to make a purchase. 

• But you are in France, Madame: One family, three children, five bags and the promise of adventure living in the French Alps
• Weaving a French Life: An Australian story
• Love, fear and a return to France: A family memoir
• With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s

Bright, beautiful moment on a windy day in Edinburgh

 

 

Never give up

The last few weeks haven’t been easy, and a few nights ago I was super keen for an early night and a comforting distraction. Whilst I am reading an excellent book that would have taken me someplace else, I did what I often do and picked up my phone to scroll my Instagram feed.

“Hai le fette di salame sugli occhi.” – (You have slices of salami on your eyes) 

 

Well, OK, Instagram square. Nice of you to be so direct. Bags, under my eyes? Maybe. But salami? Isn’t that taking things a bit too far? 

 

I see (Catherine nods wisely to her empty bedroom, squinting from under her processed meat), I should have clicked on the ‘10 useful sentences in Italian’ post instead.

 

“Sonno d’accordo con te.” (I agree with you)

 

Ooh, universe, are you listening to me?

 

“Sto scherando.” (I’m joking)

 

Well, why didn’t you say so when you hurled perfectly good aperitivo fare at my face?

 

“Non ne ho idea.” (I have no idea)

 

Ouch. Sono senza parole. (I have no words)

 

That’s not true. I do have words. Lots of them today. Motivational ones. So, please do read on …

 

But what was that first Italian sentence all about? Not salami, I was pretty sure. I checked and this is what I was told.

 

“You don’t see the reality.” “Hai le fette di salame sugli occhi.” I see (I think) the connection.

 

Hang on a minute, though. Yes I do. Life is reality at the moment. I’m stressed, cold and tired and you are toying with me. I’m leaving your perfectly curated ‘learn Italian’ space. I’m away to find something more relaxing, less personal.

As luck would have it, my eyes were drawn to a picture of home, my French home, and I snuggled deeper under my quilt, clicking on the post and subsequent podcast as I did so. Minutes later, I was drifting, carried on the melodic tones of an all-too-familiar Haute-Savoyard accent as Jean Sulpice, Talloire’s very own 2-star Michelin chef, talked. I closed my eyes. 

 

As much as the listening was comfortable, I was surprised by the story. Apparently Monsieur Sulpice, who now runs the kitchen and hotel owned by previous generations of the Bise family in the most beautiful of lakeside locations, did not always have it easy. In fact, in his early days of trying to bring gastronomy to the ski resort of Val Thorens, it was not uncommon for him to have an empty restaurant and be grateful for just one customer in an evening allowing him to fire up his stoves. If not a steady stream of diners, what he did have was a dream, big portions of self-belief and an unwaveringly supportive partner. And, not crumbling, abandoning, or looking for an easier career led Monsieur Sulpice to his first Michelin star.

 

Suddenly, whereas previously he had been met with an all-too-familiar French shrug and a half-hearted but definite, “Non, ce n’est pas possible, Monsieur,” suppliers could be bothered driving up a snowy mountain to deliver produce. Suddenly, instead of battling to recruit staff, he was receiving CVs and able to make choices about who he wanted in his team, and suddenly, he was receiving letters of congratulations from the greats, the hatted and feted French chefs whom he had admired from afar.

 

I could relate. The stars I aim for are not the same and I’ll never be featured in a Michelin guide, but how often in my early authoring days did I bend over backwards to meet, greet and persuade, grateful for every titbit of encouragement and support from my readers? Daily.

 

I drifted to sleep pondering my packaged and tasty take-away. It was clear, logical and simple. 

 

Never give up.

 

I hadn’t. I don’t intend to. I am too curious for that.

Plus, with supporters who give love like this, why would I?

And, once again, with thanks for your ongoing support, here are my books (including Books 1-3 in the 'French at Heart' series)

The links should take you to where you need to go, wherever you are in the world, to make a purchase. 

• But you are in France, Madame: One family, three children, five bags and the promise of adventure living in the French Alps
• Weaving a French Life: An Australian story
• Love, fear and a return to France: A family memoir
• With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s

As a special request, if you are buying a print copy of Love, fear and a return to France, I would be so grateful if you could do so through my friend Kristi's page. Kristi has provided fun, family-centred posts of her life in France in her French Word-A-Day blog for many years now and relies on reader contributions to maintain her wonderful efforts. Should you use the link above on the left sidebar of her blog, Kristi will benefit and it will be at no extra cost to you. 

 

 

Smiley with strong arms

Talloires under the snow

'The review is in Swedish and I've made a quick attempt to find a translation without success.'

'Send me the link,' my husband texted, from five-thousand kilometres away.

'I'd say the listener thinks that you have a nice smile and good arm muscles,' he quipped.

'Ha. I'll take that,' I wrote back, chuckling to myself.

It had been a couple of weeks since the audiobook version of But you are in France, Madame had appeared on listening platforms and I was keen to see if there had been any activity. To my delight, both library borrows and purchases had occurred around the world - including apparently in Sweden. 

Big high fives all around using my strong arms.

In other news, during the week I received the monthly e-bulletin from Talloires, my French village. To say that I was proud of my French home would be an understatement. 

Alongside the expected practical updates such as the arrival of the snow and subsequent snow plough activity, the articles covered 

• the opening of a new centre for the youth of the village, 
• an opportunity to reduce one's fuel costs by opting for a group order (limiting the travel and costs of the fuel trucks, which are then passed on to the consumer), 
• the announcement of a free bus service into Annecy every weekend up until Christmas (reducing congestion and limiting emissions), 
• a local workshop exploring ways to act for the climate, 
• free health checks for individuals aged over 60, 
• the village festival on 15 Dec and village Christmas market featuring local artisans on Dec 9,
• a winter program for parent-children activities at one of the local cafes, 
• dates for contributing to Lake Aid whose purpose is to assist refugees in need, 
• the village cinema program, 
• ski enrolment details for school children plus alternatives to families driving to the mountains to ski (tick, tick again for the environment), 
• an invitation to attend a public meeting to discuss the Annecy climate-pacte objectives,
• details of the annual stand-up-paddle race that attracts competitors from all around the world, 
• &
• tips and eco-labels for environmentally responsible businesses 

We are a small village of approximately 1500 inhabitants in a magical natural setting with diverse winter and summer attractions; a Michelin-starred restaurant; cinema; tennis and boules courts; bakery; newsagent; superette; and multiple hotels, restaurants and cafes, but we are also dynamic and community minded. 

One beaming Talloirienne here.

Catherine's books (including Books 1-3 in her 'French at Heart' series celebrating her French-Australian life) below.

The links should take you to where you need to go, wherever you are in the world, to make a purchase.

• But you are in France, Madame: One family, three children, five bags and the promise of adventure living in the French Alps
• Weaving a French Life: An Australian story
• Love, fear and a return to France: A family memoir
• With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s

As a special request, if you are buying a print copy of Love, fear and a return to France, I would be so grateful if you could do so through my friend Kristi's page. Kristi has provided fun, family-centred posts of her life in France in her French Word-A-Day blog for many years now and relies on reader contributions to maintain her wonderful efforts. Should you use the link above on the left sidebar of her blog, Kristi will benefit and it will be at no extra cost to you. 

Plus, I will be standing by with a big smiley face. 😊 

Yes. Italy.

 

Yes. Italy.

There, I said it. You are my witnesses.

 

Many of you know our story: that of a young Australian family with three school-aged children who went to France for a year, stayed for much longer than that, and brought France forever more into their hearts. There, we learned to live with passion and joy - savouring moments differently; appreciating tastes and sounds more intensely; developing new seasonal routines that somehow embraced flexibility; and resisting, before acknowledging, an unfamiliarity that ultimately became who we were.

 

Then we returned to Australia.

Please don’t be angry or judge me as I know that there is plenty of beauty in Australia too with daily opportunities for fulfilment, and a sweet and generous quality of life, but for me, that largely indefinable thing that fires my senses is elsewhere.

 

To backtrack a little, I went to France as a French speaker, a teacher of French with decades of language study behind me. It was still challenging but at least I had some certainty that I could get by in the language, and that that skill would facilitate my family’s integration.

 

I don’t speak Italian.

I am learning, though, and motivated to make fast progress. It helps that there are similarities both with French grammar and vocabulary. Not so, pronunciation. Will I, am I contorting the French language currently as a result of the incursion of a new sound system into my subconscious? ‘Fraid so. In minor ways. They still make me cringe.

 

My husband’s roots are Italian. He can sound Italian, after all his mother’s voice has been with him his whole life. But he doesn’t speak Italian. He grew up in an era when children of newly arrived Australian immigrants were ‘sheltered’ from the ‘inconvenience’ of having non-English-speaking parents. Mind you, no such restraint was practiced when preparing his pickle and salami school-lunchbox sandwiches. They succeeded in marking his difference just as effectively.

So, why not just return to France? Why Italy?

 

Growth, challenge, desire, anticipation …

 

Growth. I cannot exclaim proudly that we grew linearly as a result of our French living. Frequently, I shrank, struggled and hid, but something beautiful eventually came from periods of incomprehension and darkness.

Challenge. Our family adventure in France was filled with challenges. I expect that this new direction will provide even more but, perhaps obtusely, challenge drives us.

Desire. Does that even need an explanation?

Anticipation. Can we do this again? What awaits? Who will be a part of our journey? Do we know these people yet?

On a practical level, our Italian experience cannot be a duplicate of our French one. I have no easy European access as I did then. Brexit took that privilege away from me. So, amongst other constraints, we have time limitations. Plus, our children are no longer living with us, so we will not have the regularity of a school year and the immediacy of a school family to lean on. Plus, we don’t know where in Italy. A random opening of the Lonely Planet guidebook led us to Annecy. What will decide our destination this time?

 

There, I have put it out there. You are all my witnesses.

 

After all, if not soon, when?

Catherine's books (including her books celebrating her French-Australian life) below.

The links should take you to where you need to go, wherever you are in the world, to make a purchase.

Merci mille fois

But you are in France, Madame: One family, three children, five bags and the promise of adventure living in the French Alps

Weaving a French Life: An Australian story

Love, fear and a return to France: A family memoir

With bare feet and sandy toes: Growing up in Australia in the 1960s & 70s