What to do?

You are right; it is not the sexiest, or most interesting, of photos to lead today's blog. In fact, given all the pretty pictures of France that are out there to entice you, I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't make it past a quick glance...just like we nearly didn't make it past the silent sentinels. 

I'm never sure whether it is just us, or whether other families have car-moments when unfamiliarity and indecision turn a happy outing into stressful, white-faced, rapid-fire discussions amongst the 'adults' whilst those in the back become unusually...menacingly...quiet. 

Our first such moment, in the Montpellier underground carpark into which our GPS had unwittingly led us, did not get a photographic record. I was incapable of movement, as I waited for our car to bottom- or top- or side-out at every inconceivably tight turn. Parked, I drained myself out from my seat, through a car-to-car gap the size of our keyhole to gaze in wonder at the big 4x4s neatly aligned nearby.

Time we had a-plenty on our second car-moment, as we rounded a corner on our one-way street and nearly into the metal bollards above, before idling quietly to consider our options. There were no other cars around and, other than backing up along a labyrinth of narrow cobblestone lanes and through the afore-mentioned carpark, we had only one way out; forward. Would we glide quietly into the stubbornly unmoving posts, or perch ourselves atop said obstacles, as they disappeared then re-appeared in an untimely manner? Neither, as it turned out. Our angst was unwarranted and, as we inched forward, the posts slid from view and we exited unscathed.

But everyone knows that two negatives make a positive, right? And, FREE seaside parking offered itself up as proof. Let me know in the comments if you know why?

If you would like to read more stories from our family's French adventure, please don't hesitate to contact me on cb222@me.com for a print copy of 'But you are in France, Madame' or click on the following link for a Kindle copy.

Bunny with a message

I sent an email to a girlfriend last week. She lives in Melbourne and we were particularly close when we lived there too. I still consider that we are close, despite the fact that we had had no contact for over a year at that point. 

"Well, well, well", came the reply that afternoon, as she stepped off the plane at Sydney airport.

My Scottish grandmother believed that coincidences like that happen, and that they happen for a reason. 

So, what do I make of cute bunny below?

Do you see the difference with exhibit number 1 above?

Bunny number 2 (below) who hopped off the supermarket shelf and into my daughter's boyfriend's basket ... in Australia ... had successfully worked his incognito magic and was indeed a little French one. 

There is definitely a message in there somewhere.

Happy Easter! Joyeuses Pâques!

Stowaway French bunny 

Just about us

I could blame my non-existent recent posts on lack of time. Isn't that what busy (read important) people do? But, I'm not...so I can't. Truthfully, I have many blogs ready and waiting to go, which I'll post after they are written...and if I could find a comedic Youtube sketch portraying the things people do to avoid doing other things, I'd upload it here (please share if you have one up your sleeve).

Instead, given that I received notification that my blog was amongst the Top 100 French blogs*, and some of you reading But you are in France, Madame for the first time would be struggling to get a real sense of what this blog is all about, I thought I'd re-introduce myself.

But is Madame actually in France? Read on...

Australian-born, but French-at-heart, some years ago, I persuaded my husband to come with me on a year-long adventure to France. That one year turned into several, a book, the purchase of a house and an ongoing commitment to a place, a people, a language and a way of life.

Our three children, then aged 6, 9 and 12 came along for the ride. They were willing accomplices; completely uncertain as to what they were signing up for and, despite leaving with only one smallish suitcase each and arriving to no family, no friends, temporary accommodation, a new school system, a new language and new food and routines, they thrived. Naturally, we had our down times, our difficult times, our downright scary times but, now back in Australia, they recognise the wonderful gift that their life in France was to them.

Why France? Je ne sais pas. My first French lesson was in high school at age 12 and hooked I have been since. Could it have been Italy, Germany, Japan, Indonesia if one of these languages had been my compulsory first second-language? Maybe, but I suspect not. School French lessons turned into university studies followed by many fulfilling and happy years teaching the language to secondary pupils.

Why did we choose Annecy? This post of many months ago might help to explain.

Why, if we loved our French life as much as I proclaim, did we return to Australia? For that, you'll probably have to read my book, as it has no easy or short answer. As to our choice of life in France, I have no regrets, only pride that my husband and I did not 'do normal' and that that has given our lives a richness for which we are eternally grateful.

Do we return to France? Yes. As often as work, school and other commitments allow, we return to our second home. Each time, I am fearful that the magic will have dissipated. Each time, I try and not count down with sadness the days until our departure and concentrate instead on loving re-living in France.

If you would like to read more stories from our family's French adventure, please don't hesitate to contact me on cb222@me.com for a print copy of 'But you are in France, Madame' or click on the following link for a Kindle copy.

*Really not sure about this, and so, unwilling to put you all through unnecessary email bombardment from clicking through to unknown links, I will refrain from pasting the pictorial award.

Whatever you feel, really feel.

Path next to the Pont du Diable

Just over twenty-one years ago, I was toughing it out in a labour ward in Melbourne. My mind was firmly on things other than the traffic, visible through a flimsy curtain. Despite my lack of attention to what was happening outside and the agony of what was happening inside, I burst out laughing. Something had caught my eye.

"Don't take pain, take Panadol*" read the advertising on the side of a bus.

It happened again today - not the childbirth, but the distracted awareness of a passing bus. My mood was a lot more melancholic, as I had just finished walking alone along the beach, watching the waves through the mist of the salt spray and conscious of the noise of the cafés which, like the waves, were pumping, full of couples, families, not-a-care-in-the-world groups of beautiful singles.

"Whatever you feel, really feel."

I have no idea what the ad was for. Here's hoping it wasn't for condoms, as that would be completely ironic in light of my previous story.

But, the words on the bus, whatever they were for, legitimised my state of mind.

Three years ago, my husband, son and I headed back to France to finalise the purchase of our first French home. First, not because we have many, but, because a first, just like the child about to be born above, is memorable. The melancholy came from missing them both - France and the family-life that began at that moment; both of which, in the natural way of things, keep changing, keep me guessing, but perhaps most importantly, keep me feeling.

* Paracetamol-based tablets.



If you would like to read more stories from our family's French adventure, please don't hesitate to contact me on cb222@me.com for a print copy of 'But you are in France, Madame' or click on the following link for a Kindle copy.

Round, wooden thing that you put cheese on

Should you look inside one of my kitchen cupboards, you'd see a large range of drinking glasses - mostly recognisable as former jam, pickle or Vegemite pots. Open another door and a plastic bag, bulging at the seams, will not launch itself at you, as it has been solidly packed with flimsy supermarket shopping bags, ready for their second and subsequent uses, and wedged against the cupboard hinges. Look closely at my right summer sandal and you might detect the faint marks of the clamps and glue used to reattach the strap to the sole, and if you flick through family photos of a decade ago, you won't see those sandals, but you might see the jumper, jeans or dress that appear in my recent holiday snaps. I am not a hoarder (my children's memorabilia and my teaching books aside), so that's not the reason for such peculiarities. It is; however, one of the reasons that I adore everything about the French vide-grenier.

These joyous community events give pre-loved trash and treasure the opportunity to begin afresh, just like my array of glassware. Up and down village streets on vide-grenier day, I wander, intermittently aware of the friendly banter, good-spirited bargaining, occasional loud-speaker announcement or distant chimes from the cows and goats in the surrounding fields. The excitement does not leave me until I have perused, assessed and walked past each stall, picked up and cradled several items and made eye-contact and subsequent small talk with one or two stallholders, deserving of my attentiveness after a night of minimal sleep and maximum preparation to enable my colourful, visual tableaux.

Unsurprisingly, such events are not as frequent in winter. So, there is no alternative during these months, but to head further afield and discover more beautiful country routes and picturesque hamlets. Hardly a chore, this is exactly what we did recently and which led me right past the subject of today's blog - cheeseboards.

I hadn't paid much attention to the details of our destination. I didn't know the village, but knew that the drive through the Bauges would be possible, as the big dump of snow predicted for the week would not yet have impacted easy circulation. Usually, it is enough to note the name of the village, type it into our GPS and, when within a two-kilometre radius, follow the line of people walking from make-shift carparks to vide-grenier central. This time, we parked in front of the church...easily, which was not a reassuring sign, and, stretching from the drive, looked around. No crowds, no sounds, no tempting hot oil smells from the barquettes de frites.

Avoiding eye-contact with my own tribe,

"I might have got it wrong. Perhaps I misread the date, but let's go for a walk."

It took as long to get dressed - hats, scarves, gloves and jackets - as it did to check out the village. There was a sign on the school fence saying that a case of chickenpox had been confirmed at the école, but, whether directly related to this or not, there was no-one there.

My family are kind. They made no fuss, pretending that this crumbling wall on that ancient barn was an excellent reason for an hour-and-a-half in the car.

After fifteen minutes of sustained, deliberate looking, I turned to my husband,

"What if we were to actually look up the address?"

And, lo and behold, we were in the right village, on the right day, and nearly-the-right place, with fifteen minutes before the event was due to conclude.

We raced back to the car.

It looked promising from the road. With each newly sighted piece of bunting, van and trestle table, my spirits lifted.

Leaping out of the car, not bothering this time with careful dressing, I raced to the first stall, noting that there was a flurry of newspaper at the three alongside. Yikes, they were packing up and I had not even begun my slow browse.

A chipped Ricard jug caught my attention. I'm not opposed to chipped anything, but searching for the price, my eyes slid downwards to a circular piece of pock-marked wood.

"What do you think?"

"Get it", said my husband.

"Mmm, do you really think so?"

"Yes."

Interpreting my cautious decisiveness as a reluctance to pay the price, the stallholder offered me a five-euro reduction.

"Plus the jug?" I asked cheekily.

He nearly went for it, too, but outsmarted me by proffering another, even more battered than the first, and suggesting that I pay for just the more expensive and get the two.

"That's ok. Thanks anyway. Bonne journée, Monsieur."

Grinning happily, I thanked my son who, taking the board from me to carry it back to the car, allowed me to fit in a quick, unencumbered lap of the Méry event.

If you would like to read more stories from our family's French adventure, please don't hesitate to contact me on cb222@me.com for a print copy of 'But you are in France, Madame' or click on the following link for a Kindle copy.