"You can't live in that" and straying from the best path

My husband was away so there was no calling out for help. Not that it would have made a scrap of difference if he had been within cooee*. We were stuck in traffic with ten kilometres to go. That doesn't sound like a lot and on any normal day it wouldn't be, but it was no ordinary day. This final year of secondary school for my son Noah has required him to navigate a labyrinth of challenges and yesterday was his penultimate exam in his favourite subject, physics, (no, not French); the one to which he had strategically devoted the maximum amount of study time.

I had already dropped one child at the bus stop and, given that it was pouring with rain, had seen firsthand that the roads were clogged. Ten minutes later, Noah and I were in the car en route to his physics exam with a theoretical good hour up our sleeves. A cheery 'hello' wave to my neighbour and we were off.

We didn't even make it out of our street before there was a build up of traffic. I made a quick decision to vary our usual trajet ... straight into roadworks, onto a mind-numbingly slow 30 kilometre-per-hour school zone, and into three lanes of traffic at a complete standstill.

"Look at the flag on the hill. Shows how strong the wind is," said Noah, oblivious to my rising stress level.

Five minutes crawled along with us a few metres up the road. 

I was desperate to not communicate my anxiety, but wringing my hands and rubbing my eyes (to wipe away the unchanging scene?) was no doubt a less-than-ideal way to do that. 

The strange thing is I had guessed that something would go wrong on this particularly important day for my son. After all, nothing else has gone right this year for him.

But, let me tell you about another mistake that I made. I laugh now but at the time the only thing I could think to do was to hit the 'leave group' button...quickly.

You see, the best place to advertise one of my dresses for sale was not to the FB group 'Rent your maison long term in France'.

"Ha ha. You can't live in that..." and probably worse, but I didn't wait around to read the rest of the comments.

Oh well, today I am sitting in my garage holding a vide-grenier. So far, I've 'sold' one item (for free) to my daughter and it is the curtain of rain that is keeping me company. And, I forgot to post about my Amazon Countdown promotion, yesterday, which would have given readers a chance to purchase 'But you are in France, Madame' for a scant .99c. 

At least, I have nowhere to be, I have a soundtrack to my writing and a hot cup of coffee beside me. 

It's the small things. 

And the big things. 

I did get Noah to his exam on time, kissed him 'goodbye,' wished him good luck, saw him walk around the corner and burst into tears. 

*Australian vernacular - nearby

Gloves off since writing Book Two.

A year ago today, I started writing my second book. 17 days later it was done. I know that this number is accurate because I still have the dog-eared piece of recycled paper on which I recorded my word count at the time. It has been gathering dust on my desk - my non-efficient filing system for family papers - since then, only re-surfacing last weekend as I tried to maintain momentum and motivation for packing to move to the mountains. That task in itself is huge but it has been confounded significantly by a lockdown of indeterminate length. Morale is pretty low plus our plan to save money by ferrying car loads of possessions between our current and new homes over a period of time may not be possible and we may be up for a quick but expensive removalist job at the last minute instead.

I've had to be strict with my sorting. Whilst I am happy to give away or recycle clothing, kitchen items, furniture ... most things, in fact ... my French teaching resources and the children's mementoes are a different matter. 

So why is a pair of old beige school gloves still sitting on my desk?

They are too small for me, they would not keep my hands warm in my French mountain village, they have my surname and an out-of-date phone number in big black pen on the inside cuff ... and fashionable, they never were. But, here is the pièce de résistance, a no-longer-elastic length of tape links the mitts. It was ingenious really. Thanks to my mother's careful sewing, threading one glove through a sleeve, across the back of a coat and out through the other sleeve, meant that the chances of primary school-aged Catherine losing one or both gloves was magically minimised. Maximised, on the other hand, was the embarrassment. Kids are not shy to point out differences.

My Cray-pas set, too, is sitting on the kitchen bench. A long-but-nowhere-near-as-long-as-a-French-school-stationery list asked for crayons many moons ago, and my birthday is the 10th February. This date coincides perfectly with the start of the school year in Australia. Again, genius parent idea: why not combine the two? The crayons became the present. But so treasured were they, I still have them. I dared not use them, for fear of not being able to use them. (Financial constraints are rarely logical.)

But, if you will indulge me, my writing... let's go back to that.

I know that I didn't know where I was going when I started writing in earnest again a year ago. I didn't have a must-get-through daily word count. I also did not have a pre-determined routine, although as each day went by, my self-imposed, unacknowledged pressure grew. Faster, more, longer. Sounds like a timely Olympic slogan, doesn't it? You know, the cutesy clichés about being a legend, becoming a legend, just starting...all in bold calligraphic lettering and able to be ordered as mounted wall prints for $40 or more. 

I am not intentionally misleading you when I say that 17 days was all it took. Draft one was a wrap in that short time. Passes 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 ... editing, the cover design, the printing, getting it ready for public consumption took a whole lot more. And there were days when I genuinely did not know where I was going with my story. The knowledge that I had been able to get there once (Book One) kept me going. I allowed myself to trust in the process.

This year, it is different. I rarely write, and finding optimism, even that based on past successes, is so much harder. In a strange way, this is where the gloves come in. Obtusely, although stretched, unfashionable and colourless, they remind me strongly and positively of the person that I once was. Shy but competitive. Intimidated but confident. Not always top of the class but intelligent. I felt that I could go places. Yeah. They are good to have around. Once again, I need to trust. 

PS I hope that you are all doing ok and thank you in advance for your messages and purchases.

PPS Links to purchase digital copies of 'But you are in France, Madame' and 'Weaving a French Life: An Australian Story'.

Announcing ...

... our return to the mountains.

Secretly, I had hoped that I might be letting you know that a new book, 'But you are in Italy, Signora' was on the go, being shared as I was writing it from a heart-pumping Tuscan village where I could put into practice my flamboyant language skills, dive deeply into my husband's Italian ancestry and eat. Yep, that would be a big part of each day.

But, no. 

For reasons that need no explanation, I am still in Australia. 

Yet, I have serious and constant wanderlust and an ever-present need to find my next adventure. With our youngest finishing school this year, my husband and I have decided on a path forward and plumped for a return to the mountains. Not our French mountains, hélas, but the beautiful Blue Mountains, a short drive from Sydney. 

Cottage

I have dropped a few hints in recent Instagram posts but it is now officially shareable news and already I have felt closer to our French mountain lifestyle than I have in a long time. It is not just the altitude (we are at > 800m here), neither is it the low, low current daily temperatures, but the snow yesterday helped get me there. Waking and seeing it falling was not enough. A play in it was in order. I bundled up as warmly as I could, shoved my gloveless hands deep into my pockets, licked the snow from my lips as it settled momentarily and felt French again. It was chilly and I rued my hatless state (my beanies are all in France) but felt alive, energised, happy, purposeful. 

              

I can't wait to find my new mountain crew and the cottage at our new home might help facilitate this. Perhaps it will lead me to a new venture? Le Français à table (French classes over coffee) has a good ring to it. Or, a cosy space to welcome guests on an Air BnB basis (there is a double bedroom in the cottage)? Could I set up a time-out venue for writer's retreats (or other such get-togethers/conferences)? ... I'm not yet sure. 

What do you think?

I have been told that is not easy to leave comments on this blog, so drop me a line instead at cb222@me.com. Or, if you are in the mountains, I'd love you to reach out.

PS My writing journey has led me to many beautiful souls. If you have not yet had a chance to read my second memoir 'Weaving a French Life: An Australian story,' it would give me so much pleasure if you could do so through the affiliate links to Kristi and Mardi below. They take a couple more clicks to get to where you want to go, but they cost you nothing. Merci.

For print copies: Head to Kristi's blog at French Word-A-Day and scroll down until you see my book in her list of recommended reading on the RHS of the page. 

For digital copies: Head to Mardi's blog at eat. live. travel.write and scroll down until you hit the purchase link in her review.

Or, if you have not yet read 'But you are in France, Madame,' the first of my memoirs. Here is a universal link, which should take you to your current geographic location for easy purchase. 

Merci et à bientôt.

Coming full circle

Not quite full circle.

The olive tree has produced for the first time and it feels momentous. It has survived years of overseas separation, a journey of its own (from Melbourne to Sydney when we returned from France) and neglect (left to thrive for way too long before I noticed it and gave it some attention). 

And the chair under the olive tree? Before France, it was rescued from a rubbish pile on the side of the road, taken home and treasured in all its imperfection. Now, stripped back and dilapidated, it is time for us to part.

Bearing fruit, growth, replenishment, reaching up and nurture are some of the words of the moment although, just as I am not sure how to turn my olives into something palatable, I am not entirely sure how best to approach our next adventure.

Yes, we do have news.

More on that, very soon.

PS I took this screen shot (above) from the Instagram account of @chateaugudanes. I do not know the owners of this castle. It was the photo itself that spoke to me. A collection of unassuming chairs  ... or the promise of joy, animation and togetherness?

PPS My writing journey has led me to many beautiful souls. If you have not yet had a chance to read my second memoir 'Weaving a French Life: An Australian story,' it would give me so much pleasure if you could do so through the affiliate links to Kristi and Mardi below. They take a couple more clicks to get to where you want to go, but they cost you nothing. Merci et à bientôt.

For print copies: Head to Kristi's blog at French Word-A-Day and scroll down until you see my book in her list of recommended reading on the RHS of the page. 

For digital copies: Head to Mardi's blog at eat. live. travel.write and scroll down until you hit the purchase link in her review.

 

For these are a few of my favourite things.

The Blue Mountains near Sydney, Australia

I couldn't sleep on Saturday night. It was a combination of being in an unknown place, in a strange bed and a lot on my mind. The insistent drumming was a soothing melody, I told myself, and not a strident get-up-now call. My mind game must have worked as when I woke several hours later, it was still raining but the cool, confident drummer had finished his act and stepped aside, replaced by a less heavy handed timpani scratcher. I lay in bed listening to the rhythm of the drops on the tin roof. 

The day before had been one of those rare days when I had been graced with multiple shining pearls of joy. The magpie, that oh-so-Australian bush warbler, was the first. He had watched me prepare my toast, but had remained on the balustrade and respectfully distant, as any good entertainer knows to do, singing - no, serenading me - as I spread first the butter and then, salivating in anticipation, the marmelade; thick, chunky, juicy.

I had already been for an early morning walk through the bush and although nature had done its trick and filled me with deep lungfuls of fresh air and a welcome calm, breakfast was a recompense of sorts.

Fast-forward to dinner and I was hungry. Fresh air, exercise and the mountains do that to me. Not eating much does it too. We had spoiled ourselves and eaten out. Uncharacteristically, I had selected both an entrée and a main course and wondered how the chef would interpret my order: home-made (not French) pâté followed by vegan pie.

Vegan pie

A difficult, quirky or confused client? Yes, I have been all of those things but, of all the menu items, those two from opposite ends of the meat-eating spectrum were what appealed. 

I devoured both courses with bursts of culinary commentary - reminiscing fondly about the first time that I had had pâté served to me. 

Then, years before, and in our BF (Before France) era, our little family unit had been special guests of a French family.

"May I take your jackets?" the most polite teenage boy of our hosts had asked the children when we arrived.

"Where?" Molly had asked, wrapping her cardigan more closely around herself.

My turn to try and exchange discomfort for delight came next when, after a heady pre-dinner Chambord and champagne, the adults sat down for dinner, peeking at each other through the flowers and over the placemats, napkins and formal dinnerware ... holding thick grey grainy slabs of something slightly unsettling, atop circles of dark bread and next to neatly cut cubes of butter and cute-as-a-button cornichons (pickles). Specially ordered from France, we were being treated to the finest of French starters and I consumed it; my pâté, smiling widely, nodding carefully and sipping frequently on my sparkling water.

How our tastes and outlook have changed. And, how grateful I am for each and every morsel. 

Of course, being in the Blue Mountains, there was a quick stop at The French Shoppe to sign books. 

And now, channeling my best Julie Andrews ...

'But you are in France, Madame' for sale

Rain drops on rooftops and thick, luscious marmelade 

Warbling minstrels and wind sighing escapades

Time to savour the delights on my plate

These are a few of my favourite states.

PS  'Sound of Music' another favourite thing.

PPS Not heading to the Blue Mountains near Sydney in Australia any time soon?

Here is a link to purchase the first of my books. Wherever you are in the world, it should take you to a purchase option in your country.

A bientôt.