Self motivation in a young 'Arabe'

It doesn't take long, once you've arrived and truly begun living in this country, to sense the deep crevice that separates the French French from the immigrant population, majoritarily from North Africa, i.e. the 'Arabes'.

Most slurs, most annoyances, most grievances, most fear towards young people, most accusations for violent crime, fall upon the heads of the young male Arabic population.

Yes, there are sufficient incidents to prove a basis for this belief, though their grievances and reasons for acting out, burning cars, etc., are as numerous, if not more so. There are also as many other individuals who are trying tremendously hard to adapt to French culture, work in school, get ahead, be honest, strive to succeed in this country their parents chose to move to.

However, France is a country lacking in civil rights laws. Americans have these, by necessity and by belief. It is still a fact that people will hire more easily new employees who resemble them, with whom they feel at ease, etc., and thus whether you call it nepotism or simply the freedom to choose, it ends up with a slant towards hiring young white men and women from 'good' backgrounds. Particularly in a country where firing people after a short trial period is quite difficult.

I bring this sensitive topic up as I went to get my IPhone fixed the other day. The screen was smashed and I hoped to be able to replace simply the screen, and not the phone. Orange, who provided me with my phone, would take it from me and charge me a bundle, but that was not my preferred solution, particularly as I do not want to be separated from my phone, nor did I want to pay a hefty bundle.

A friend mentioned an Arab run phone/internet/etc., shop in Avignon. I found it (pretty easy to do) and discovered that the individual who repairs the phones is actually in Le Pontet. They gave me his number, I arranged to go by the next morning and thus get my phone fixed on-site while I waited, rather than leave it over night.

After scoping about a bit -- the shop is not in the easiest to spot place, and only young Arabs have any idea where it is, which I discovered after asking at a magazine store, and the Post Office. I found one such young Arab, the server of a little cafe filled with Arab men, and asked him where I might find Salin to fix my phone. He gave me good directions, told me that the shop has a name - Deblock Phone - and I went on my way.

I was graciously received, my problem solved, and a pleasant half an hour was spent in the presence of a very young man, Salin, who shared his story as a Parisian who upon graduating from high school sought out internships, etc., and was refused point blank at each stop. He had put together his resume/CV as suggested by his guidance counselor, he had been well-dressed, excessively polite, but no go. He became disgusted with the system, and decided to take the situation into his own hands. He is now the main person in our large area (including many villages, and local cities) who repairs a bit of everything, computers included, but most particularly cell phones.

A good situation evolved out of pain and rejection. He is very bright and skilled and thus could create a niche for himself. But, the chip on the shoulder remains. He's successful now, and can hire others to work with him, lease out his talents, etc., And yes, there are others like him who run the internet cafes, long distance phone card sellers, etc., They are working hard, creating businesses that everyone needs, and getting ahead. But, they still feel dismissed by the powers that be.

It's not easy living amidst racism, judgment by your origins, etc., I can see that the demographics are changing, that these young men and women are striking out on their own, adapting to the real conditions of this country and in so doing, learning to their chagrin and pain that the system set up for white French people doesn't always apply to them. I wonder for how much longer we'll hold to these rigid formulas of entering the working world when they only work for a portion of the population?

School - internships - first job(s) - hired for life.

Whether we wish it or no, things will change. Keep watching and reading.

A little sugar helps the medicine go down...

I love coming across one of those Aha! moments. One of those, but of course! moments. And such was the result of much back and forthing this week concerning friends at the school.

Meetings, language, cues, nuance, diplomacy. How fascinating to have opposing views on such important subjects.

The situation in question concerns an English family and the school, but it could be a replay of numerous meetings held between teachers and British/Anglo-Saxon parents over the past few years. Our school, the only Rudolf Steiner/Waldorf school that goes through to high school situated in a particularly attractive location in Europe, attracts many internationals. And, of these, there are a number who contemplate/dream/plan to settle permanently in la belle Provence. You can put whatever spin on this you choose. Is it the English reconquering a land they've coveted for centuries, more than a millenium? Is it simply the new sunbelt of Europe? In any case, with computers and flexible working conditions, housing prices being a bit more reasonable on this side of the channel, this option has tempted a number of families over the years.

There've also been a number of visiting families from other English/Anglo countries: Americans, Canadians, Australians. But in general, they are visitors for a set time period, and then they return home. It's a family adventure, no more.

Our school welcomes with open arms these families. The teachers accept the children who manage minimally the local language, and we all pitch in to make it work. But what happens when the parents don't know and have difficulty learning French? What happens when that Provence dream turns a bit sour when they realize that the job market here is supremely difficult? It's not always as easy and smooth as one might wish. How much can the school help?

I digress. I have set the tone, but truly what I want to consider is how bad news is presented during a meeting. It is dawning on me that the French and Anglo-Saxon viewpoint are opposed in this delicate situation. From my personal experience -- and that of a few friends -- it is clear to me that we Anglo-Saxons need a bit of sugar with our medicine. Face it, we were many of us raised with Mary Poppins as an important cultural icon. We need to be reassured that all is not evil, that there are redeeming character traits (in our child for example) or that there is hope for improvement, or that this meeting is simply a chance to inform and plan future collaboration towards a solution.

I know that I (and I believe many others of my culture) simply shut down and panic when bad news is dished out first. It's rather terrifying, I'm not ready, what? hunh? but when? for how long? whoah.... isn't there anything positive you could say to soften the blow? For us diplomacy is defined by the art of couching/framing/preparing the negative information with a bit of the positive. We are thus reassured (in this case as a parent, but this could be a business meeting, job discussion, the list is long) that our child is seen as a whole and complex being.

By contrast, a few of my French (particularly Parisian) friends have a tendency to avoid what they see as sugar-coating as being dishonest and simply putting off the inevitable. They distrust and are wary of such tactics -- that's how they see them. Get to the point, why have you called this meeting? Diplomacy is deemed being brutally honest.

Or, as a (French) friend astutely put it, what do you want the person in front of you to walk away with? Do you begin with the bad and end with the good? and thus hope that the lasting impression will be better? or do you begin with the good and end with the bad, and your partner thus walks away depressed?

Curiouser and curiouser. And so, I am seriously contemplating more discussions on this topic and making a proposal to the school to I hope, more adroitly welcome and manage what is clearly a growing population for us.

The Art of Conversation - part 1

I am intrigued by conversation. To put it simply. I am occasionally embroiled in a mess of words. I love to listen, but I love to talk. I've adjusted multiple times in my life to different cultural cues, and these days I find myself questioning yet again just how it all flows.

As I child I was the shy one, the youngest who listened and absorbed. I also played alone or with just one other. I was not a groupie. I never belonged to a clique. Better to be on my own with a book, or at a table with adults than to play the social games demanded upon young females in grade school.

I discovered friendship with my peers in high school, of the birds of a feather variety. My close friends were in all my classes, on the swim team, in the band. We did many things together, played tennis after school, took out the sale boat, cut classes to head to the beach. It was a group thing yes, and I was often the extra one, letting the others laugh and shine as I went along -- fully enjoying myself, but allowing others to lead.

And then I learned to speak French fluently. And suddenly, (I think the wine had something to do with it too), I was chatting away. I was expressing myself. I was present.

Still, it wasn't an overwhelming thing -- I think -- I still took second fiddle to various boyfriends, girlfriends, etc., I was pretty discreet.

Living in Japan opened another door -- to being a clown and an entertainer. What else do you do when you're blond and a head taller than all around you? I started talking with my hands, making up words, expressing myself with sounds that exist in no language known to man, and occasionally managed some sentences in Japanese. But, whatever you learn in school (if you study Japanese), one of the great pleasures of this language is that much is left unsaid. It kind of goes like this: Oh, that woman.... Yes I so agree, she's.... Mmmm, Ah sooo dessunee.... and so on. Never say too much, be suggestive, but not precise, make some interesting noises of agreement and expression. Thank goodness for nuanced expression!

And then I arrived back in France for graduate school. Ready to be discreet, polite, attentive. I waited till I was spoken to, waited till the person in front of me finished his sentence, I was the epitome of grace. And I was ignored. Hm. So, I learned to talk again. I learned to impose myself into a conversation simply to be taken seriously and to be noticed and heard. Gone the discreet Asian influence, enter Gaulic intensity and argumentative tendencies.

The past few years have seen me living with a mono-syllabic husband, and managing tours and cooking classes all over Provence. I learned to talk. I learned to story-tell, laughter and jokes included.

I concurrently honed my skills as a hostess, questioning gently my guests as to their background, their previous voyages, their interest in food, wine, etc., Careful to avoid politics or delicate subjects, noting if someone was uncomfortable with a certain subject and bringing them back to another less offensive one.

But as I move forward in my life, I am coming to see that these years of talking for a living brought me towards a tendency to speak too much. And, frustratingly, it is hard for me to stop at the opportune moment and offer space to those around me to share (though it helps if I drink no more than one glass of wine). I find that I've a tendency to be in the personal and not the general, which also limits where others can contribute. And so I find myself in the position of observer - of myself, but also of the world around me. I am newly interested in the art of conversation. Is this something one learns naturally? at the dinner table? in the car? in school? And which cultures encourage which behaviors? Am I behaving in a French way? in an American way? or somewhere in-between?

Certainly, I am someone who is more often with one friend at a time going into detail and sharing lots on each side. I am less often at the table with a group of adults playing my small role in the life of the conversation before us. Thus the personal naturally dominates my conversation, and it is rarely the group dynamics that lift me to new levels of creativity and adaptation.

I've a dear friend who expressed that she prefers it this way. She finds group conversations tiring and banal, having lived that at a different time in her life. She prefers a more intimate setting and a more intense presence of each participant.

Meantime another agreed with me that the French tend to be lighter and more generalist in their conversation than Anglo-saxons, and that discretion is valued. Others will (or should) show you off to advantage. It is not necessary, and a bit boorish if you do so yourself. (Yes, but when you've a husband who never gave you credit for your part in your lives/business/etc., for 13 years... you do come to doubt this method). JP had brought this point up to me (ouch) and it is far easier to hear it (in a lovely and general way) from my friend. Okay, point taken, time to work on it.

I'm re-reading Cultural Misunderstandings (see the list of books to the right), in particular the chapter on conversation. And my mother is going to find me the letter of Diderot to his love Sophie concerning the salons de Paris and the magical movement of subjects and ideas amidst the participants.

I shall share more as I learn.

A Moment of Melancholy

Ah yet again I am traveling both physically and psychically between countries and worlds. And I wonder... how much effort have I put into being in France? into making things work and coping? And how at ease did I feel back in Michigan these past few weeks? How effortless it was to be respected and accomplished in my fields, to communicate, to be. I was a tad less the outsider that I had so felt last year. I observed, but not like an alien, more in appreciation for what I find so lovely and heart-warming.

Much of the past year, whether in the US or France, I've been observing. It got way out of hand noticing how people dress, what they eat, the level of conversation, how couples seem to work, how children are raised, what daily rhythms resemble, values, goals.... But that's where I've been. Inside and outside at the same time.

While in the US I put on a few pounds -- eating lots more pasta, bread and ice cream, not to mention blueberry and cherry pies than I normally do. Yoga every other day didn't compare to the amount I normally walk each day in Avignon. I gradually left more and more of my elegant clothes in the closet and switched to comfy jeans, shorts and t-shirts. Fewer décolletés, flat sandals, no make-up. I adapted. I read novels and went canoeing. I fed and did dishes and socialized with family and friends.

I visited many -- so often women who are achieving their dreams, making chocolate, making goat cheese, writing cook books, running a fabulous Italian deli.

It felt good.

From a few conversations -- and yes, observations -- I truly do believe that chivalry is more present in Northern Michigan than in Provence. Single women get helped -- with putting away boats, chopping wood, shoveling snow, etc., This is a world that helps he/she who needs it. The Frontier spirit of helping out, and receiving help. Collaborating to survive.

How many times did JP notice that I had to fix my car, work on the house, etc., and simply state that I'd better find someone competent to do that for me over in my neighborhood. If he hadn't the skills to do so, I wouldn't have found that so annoying, nor if I truly had had the funds to hire such people would it have been so hurtful. But, under the circumstances...

Here in Provence in little ways men are attentive -- opening doors, tipping their hats, quick to compliment on your looks, flirt, etc., But for the big things? Well, it's not easy. Most are stressed and over-worked, so, cope on your own. I'm lucky in that Erick still helps out on occasion, and that I've a superb plumber (whom I pay correctly). My neighbor has his moments, but being 'lunatique', i.e. moody, I don't count on him.

What I also truly admired in the US was the level of complicity, respect and genuine admiration and trust I witnessed in a number of marriages. Marriages of equals. It wasn't a game of the sexes, but partnerships. I've not felt that here. Perhaps I've simply had bad luck, or??

Then again, I'm amused by the ease with which many American friends use vulgar language and references, which are just not the norm amongst my French acquaintances. While sailing on a hobi-cat the water surged up through the middle of the canvas. I likened it to a water massage for cellulite (thalassotherapie anyone?). And I heard back the comment more commonly used in this family that it was a Lake Enema. Hmmmm.

There are other examples: my morning ritual includes grabbing a kleanex and blowing my nose; a friend commented that his includes taking a good crap. Oh... did I need to hear that? Yes, I'm a bit shy on these matters, perhaps equally amused and perturbed.

And so as I unpack all that I'd put away for the summer rentals, re-invest my Provence home with my belongings, my photos of my children, I feel a touch of melancholy, nostalgia, and cultural dislocation. A yearly rite of passage, or?

Another's Point of View

I have this thing about generalizations. Granted, I’m guilty on occasion of such, but... As I read my way through The Secret Life of France I am startled and frustrated by some of her chapters. Now, to clarify, this book is very well written by a woman who moved in circles I will never come close to. I am in admiration and I am aware of the quite privileged access she has had. (Had I married a Frenchman who shared my classes at Princeton, perhaps, but that's not how my story has played out). She is describing the habits and tendencies of a rarified circle of the very highly educated elite bourgeoisie of Paris. What she says does not hold true for my world in Provence of teachers, farmers, vintners, artisans, massage therapists, essential oil practitioners, artists and musicians.

The last two chapters I read have been strong on politics and the relationship of France (since WWII), to its British neighbor to the West and the Americans across the ocean. She has encountered (she being British, not American), tremendous nostalgia and respect for the British (all the while acknowledging that the sentiment is not returned from across the Channel), and outright scorn, annoyance and disdain for Americans.

Hmmmm. Can I say Thank Goodness I’ve not encountered this in the South? Nor has my mother (granted, a Ph.D in French literature) in her many years backing and forthing across the Atlantic to the city of Lights.

But, as she perpetuates the unfortunate opinion that all the French hate the Americans (NOT TRUE!) I am forced to consider my impression upon people here.

I’ve written before of the cultural confusion I feel when in the US – where I am received as hyper-verbal, WASPy, New England with a European gloss – thus I intimidate on occasion. And the concurrent reception I receive in France where it takes quite a bit of time and knowing me to be convinced of my cultured self (is it so hidden?) and rather deep education (all is respective). Mmmm Yes, my first impression in the hexagon shines through my surface self : bubbly, American accented English (though my French accent is well-received), optimistic and outgoing, as JP would say, my enthousiasme enfantin lends people to not take me seriously and to underestimate me.

A friend recently confirmed that when outsiders saw me (young, pretty, ebulliant) with Erick (older, more established, local) upon our marriage they assumed he had to have wooed me with security, wealth, comfort... Why else would I have stayed? No, he didn’t offer me this, but he did offer me a foil upon which I grew, expanded, developed and discovered my talents, previously unknown to myself. It was his passion for cooking and his region that gave me the impetus to create our business from scratch. He was also willing to do what he was skilled at to complete the picture – the physical renovations of the house, the shopping and cooking, the driving, etc.,

When we were in the midst of divorcing and I was advised by both my lawyer and JP that I really shouldn’t continue to work with him, I am convinced (now) that they assumed he had the where-withall to continue to support me and the children. That the business might collapse without my participation, that I was the one that brought our clients to us... this was an idea completely outside their scope of imagination. I was simply a pretty young thing from America, right? Much to my chagrin (and at that time low self-esteem) I followed their advice. This timed with the economic crisis brought near financial disaster on both our heads.

Over the past year Erick and I have knit our working relationship back together and we now help each other as we are able. A far better solution for both.

So, to conclude: that yes, if Americans are sweepingly (and ignorantly) considered to often be uncultured and less civilized than their European counterparts (particularly by a class of individuals that truly revel in criticizing and judging others) ... I do suffer occasionally from this stereotype. But, not for long. Where people have open minds and the desire to learn, discuss, exchange, snap judgements can be altered.

Curiously, I more often encounter a certain level of cynicism towards the English... but then, I’m American and no doubt our French hosts occasionally play games with the suspected rivalry of the Brits and their former colonists. All is fair game for the gullible...

Friendship in a Foreign Land - the most recent installment

When you live in a land far from your family, friends count for a lot. So do memories -- perhaps relatively recent for others, but strong and present for yourself. The occasion will arrive (oft repeatedly) when you realize that you've put certain people into the box of 'dear friends' and they barely remember your name. No, it is rarely as bad as that, but it comes as a surprise to both parties when these different feelings and sense of importance come to the fore.

The other evening I was invited to a friend's house with my two guests. A seemingly simple evening became very complex. This friend is someone I've known for over thirteen years, since I was pregnant with Leo. She was present at the creation of Erick's and my first business, the Association Cuisine and Tradition. In fact, I do believe she was the president of our little association. She came often to our house for meetings, and joined us at the dinner table.

Later, as lives became more complex, we saw less of her, but we were still on the list of invites for her wedding to a fellow dear friend. And so life goes on.

Since I've lived in Avignon, her husband has become a major player in my existence. He is my plumber, aka my guardian angel. When I call, he comes. I pay him faithfully and immediately upon work done -- anxious to not abuse the friendship. And oh what a relief it is for me to have at least one person I can count on. I'm afraid when it comes to doing work around the house and garden, my car, etc., I've not a full hand of these people.

I was particularly touched that these friends can still be such even though I've divorced their much-loved friend, the father of my boys.

In my mind, I'd built up these two. The former a woman with Jewish roots, a mover and shaker, a smart and sassy lady who got things done, armed with a legal degree and a will of iron. In her I saw many women I'd known and loved in New York. Many colleagues of my mother's whom I admired and hoped to emulate. Not just hot air, but intelligence and focus and generosity all wrapped up in a great package.

In fact, I've seen very little of this woman I so admire. She briefly helped mediate between Erick and I, but I thought it best not to mix friendship and divorce. So, I've run into her here and there, but mostly worked with her husband whom I always feed when he works for me, chat with, share news about Erick with, etc.,

And so, here we are, on our second night of dining together in the same week. Once at my place, once at her's. And, this is the last night my friends from the States will be with us, and the only evening another friend might meet them. And so, it seemed possible to add two to the mix, with salad, wine and bread as offerings, for our dinner party. I of course called to check. But all seemed well on the phone.

And then we arrived -- Filou in tow (hard to leave him back at the camper van)-- and as the proverbial saying states, all Hell broke loose. When she saw Filou she flipped. So I put him back in the car. And then she disappeared having had a row with her husband over the banishment of the dog. I assured her Filou was fine in the car and apologized for having foolishly brought him. But, the event was not over.

When I'd arrived, the gate to the house was open, so I pushed it further and called out, Allô, and walked in with my now four friends - two American and two Avignonais. And it came across as an invasion of the most rude and dramatic sort. A major whoops occurred as my friend expressed her dismay and confusion and I felt horribly out of my depth and confused and tried to figure out where I'd so over-stepped the bounds of our friendship.

And here we are at the crossroads of very different shared memories and experiences. Thirteen years is a lot in my life -- it goes back to my arrival in Arles. And here was one of the first people I met, someone who was there while I was nursing Leo, someone who had been so instrumental in our professional lives, and also personal. One of the first to invite me to a marriage, etc., etc., Not to mention she resembled so many loved ones from home. And then, her husband was a savior in my eyes (which she actually found quite distasteful, as he is so for many a client and thus she finds his work bleeds into their home life, so I clearly touched a very sore point on that one), and, and, and... I felt so close to her, down right cuddly and grateful. But for she, I was simply that little American wife (now ex) of her dear friend, and well, a client of her husband.

Yes, whoops. However, where it is painful and rather frightening to hear how you've upset someone, it does permit you to try to right the wrong. And so I considered and reflected and then went to help her in the kitchen and try to explain myself.

In the meantime, my Avignonnais friend was doing a masterful job of smoothing things over, helping, discussing the situation, sharing notes on friends, imposition, expectations, etc.,

In the end, we came to a new understanding of our relationship and both of us are desirous of deepening it and getting to know each other better. How could a lady from Avignon have any idea that her simple Jewishness meant so much to me? Her spunk and her smarts, her education and her general energy? And, how startling for myself to have the foreignness of my being yet again thrust into the light. The relative importance of years lived, years shared, thoughts conveyed.

When you lived cut off from your family and childhood friends -- not the common experience here for the locals -- it is quite normal to give a supreme importance to friends. As the cliche goes, you can't pick your family but you can pick your friends. And so, I've often described to these friends their importance in my life, que je construit ma famille française, that I've sought to know and surround myself with marvelous beings. That I revel in them, that they are tremendously important to me.

I do not make the distinction between family and friends when it comes to being needed or called upon. I'm there for them both as I am able. And, a gifted juggler and a master of Plans B, C, D, and onward to infinity, I will do my damned best to respond.

Yes, I think of a certain person and his clear limits and distinctions between these two worlds. And I know, I never crossed the line into his box for family. I stayed outside. And thus no, he would not be there for me as he would for his mother or his daughter or his brother.

It's strange for me to confront such a way of thinking. But, I'm a traveler, I'm a recent arrival, I'm trying to dig my own roots and create a sense of belonging in a world onto which I might be permitted to graft, and in which I often struggle and flail.

Yet more lessons in humility.

Rose-colored glasses

Or, des lunettes teintées en rose, as a 'connaissance de tango' said this evening. And yes, I'm reveling in the pleasures of my life, of which dancing is currently a marvelous and important one.

In general, my enthusiasm and upbeat outlook on life throws people here. I suppose that it's rather unusual that after fifteen years living in Europe I've not become a bit more reserved, cynical, distant, intellectually aloof... But that's a stereotype that maligns my friends here, perhaps more apt for Parisians.

I've found my friends here in the South, and my acquaintances, to be more open and warm than people I met in the north. However, t'is true, I'm in a class by myself.

And so, when my tango friend looks at me with amusement in her eyes, and states that I must be looking at the world through rose-colored glasses, I say yes, but that I'm simply doing my best to be where I'm at. And, at that moment I'm floating on air after dancing with nearly every cavalier in the room.

How could I not be radiant and happy?

I do tell her that I've been through a lot in my head and heart, wondering, seeking, deciding. And that having made a decision to be here, I am doing my darndest to attach my feet to this ground and grow and be. and to be grateful.

And, like a tree, I've branches reaching for the sky, leaves lightly floating in the air, catching the rays of sunlight, and roots gently growing downward into the soil. Solid, yet light.

So, Buddhist thoughts and meditations on gratefulness and being in the present aside... I'm still an odd one.

Good bye Isabelle

This morning we said good bye to Isabelle. Paul Pierre called me Wednesday evening to let me know that she'd died that morning around 3AM. Yesterday the family arrived, and today was a day for friends. He asked me to contact our mutual friend Sophie, the beekeeper. And I took it upon myself to call JP. Ooph, not an easy call for me. I would have vastly preferred to leave a message.

It was one of those moments when I just said to myself, you don't leave an sms about someone dying. That's just not done. This is something to be communicated by the voice. No? Ah well, it was brief, and awkward. What more to say? Were we going to chat about banalities? No.

I was saddened to learn of Isabelle's demise, and yet relieved as well. But I was thrown just hearing JP's voice. That sadness is frustratingly still in me.

In the end, both he and Sophie sent written notes to Paul Pierre. Neither was able to come to the mas.

And so, after dropping the kids off at school this morning, I headed out to St Martin du Crau. Paul Pierre greeted me, and immediately begged his excuses as he needed to be with others, elsewhere, that we'd find a time to talk in the future... Of course, and understandable. I gave him a hug, put Filou back in the car, and brought my roses and bottle of wine into the house.

And then... what? A simple greeting to faces I knew. A moment upstairs where Isabelle's casket was draped in a cloth, her daughter beside it. Then back downstairs. Could I help? A bit. But I felt rather out of it, lost, not at ease sliding into conversation with family members I'd never met. And so I took refuge in the cheese lab with Aurelie. Thankfully she was there. I grated some pepper onto her cheese, and helped a teeny bit (barely). Mostly I shared thoughts and feelings with her. She too is living a mini-nightmare in her own home as her mother is terribly ill, bedridden for more than a year now, and still for some terrible reason, hanging on. But, at the same time, her little girls -- like my little boys -- were being particularly lovely. Life has its sharpened edges, and its gentle ruffles.

Then back into the main rooms and outside. I helped put out the buffet of various foods brought by friends. I cut fougasse, and later the chocolate cakes. I opened some wine. And I waited. We then slowly made our way into the room to eat a bit, moving conversations. It was an event without direction. Paul Pierre was trying to be attentive to all who were there, and no doubt exhausting himself in the doing. His daughter Marie was sad and with her companion and her close friends. And others milled about. Other than managing food and cleaning and putting flowers into vases, no one dared impose themselves further.

And then, it was the moment for the casket to leave for the crematorium. Four strong men in the group carried it down the stone steps and out into the van. We gathered in silence, a few tears filling the pouches below our eyes, delicate streams descending. But... not a word, not a poem, not a shared memory, not a tribute, no note played on a cornet, or a violin, or a voice raised to the skies.

Each held his own council. We were a group of individual mourners in a shared space. Each held his memories to his heart. Why? why no ceremony? why no candles? why no sharing of our love for this woman? Why such a stiff upper lip? This is the Breton way?

I was lost, sad, and out of sorts. I wanted to let the tears flow. But in such solitude? Such silence?

And so I too departed, after helping clean up a bit. I climbed into my car and headed back to Avignon and the errands that awaited me there.

I've written before about funerals in France. And I wonder still why it is that there is such a different sense of things here. I attribute it as I might to the Protestant ethic of my world -- one where the people took back the right to communicate directly to God, to interpret the Word as they might, on their own. And thus gave themselves a voice and encouraged sharing their individual thoughts and perceptions. France is a product of its Catholic past (far more than the Protestant minority) -- a world where the priest speaks for you-- blended with its current laïc sensibility. Thus, if there's not a priest to do the talking for you, you don't talk, you don't interpret, you don't share your spiritual moments.

This is simply my groping in the dark to make sense of my own sadness in what I didn't experience this morning. As I shared these thoughts with two dear friends, and a colleague at the kids' Waldorf school, we were in agreement as to the importance of ceremony, marking the moment, sharing it, lighting a candle, reciting a poem, but most of all, allowing/permitting/celebrating a collective event.

And so, I grieve, and I am grateful that in this distant world that I've mostly made mine, I've friends who understand me, and who too would do as I would.

Once a bit of time has passed, I'll call Paul Pierre and see where he's at. What is next...

Thanksgiving far from home

I have a strong attachment to Thanksgiving and all that it stands for. Wherever I've lived in the world -– Japan, Paris, Seattle, Arles, Avignon-—I've managed to put one together. In Japan finding a turkey was near impossible -– so I purchased two large chickens. It cost a fortune – all those exotic ingredients -— but I reveled in recreating it alone for the first time in my life, for those I wished to say thank you to. I managed it in the home and kitchen of my host family, and added just three people to the four already in the house: my boss, my best friend/office mate, and the man who had introduced me to my host family. And there, amongst those dearest to me in that strange country, many of whom had traveled far and wide, I heard what I’d hear again and again in the future; my, but I didn’t know American food could be so good!

From my first winter in France in 1995 – the year of two months of transit strikes in Paris – I tried to offer Thanksgiving yearly. That first year, I was in Arles with Erick, and he invited numerous friends who’d met me over the summer to join us. Nearly everything was a hit, except the pumpkin pie -- my mother's recipe have you! Erick had declared, “c’est pas bon,”after one bite and not a soul took another piece. Ah well, pumpkin pie is an excellent and nourishing breakfast, and so it was for me for the rest of the week.

Returning to Paris I had no worry of putting on extra poundage through eating all my own left-overs of stuffing, corn pudding and pie. In the city of lights I walked absolutely everywhere for the during that two month strike. Add in my sixth story walk-up and I think I've rarely had such great legs in my life since.

As my family celebrated Thanksgiving, and later my Seattle friends, it's a time when everyone cooks, everyone feasts, and everyone helps clean. No one goes home (or to sleep) till the dishes are done. We've never been a football-watching crowd, so this truly included everyone from the oldest to the youngest, male, female, you name it.

But abroad, that just doesn't work. It is the rare French guest who helps with the dishes. In France when you entertain you do the “totale," meaning from start to end, the hostess copes with everything. Guests bring flowers, chocolate, wine, cheese or pottery (should that be their specialty), and go home, happy and well nourished. The potluck (now known as auberge espagnole had yet to really catch on when I first moved here. And, being the owners of a large and well-equipped kitchen, noted for our expertise in the cooking arena … well, it just evolved into a rather large event where I did the maximum if not all the work. Most years, it was pure joy to invite the various artisans, vintners, farmers, philosophers, archeologists and more to my table. I wanted to thank them for helping me, and us, make our business so rich with the warm welcome they offered to me and my guests as I tour Provence and visit them -- often! The irony was not lost on a soul that they were invited to the Provençal chef’s house, and his American wife was doing all the cooking!

From 15-20, from 20 – 28, from 28 to 35 … it just kept expanding. From our dinner table that sat 12 to the b&b table that sat 20, and then to the addition of a long make-shift table of boards, with very wobbly home-made benches alongside. Kids crawled under the table to access their seats – and a few adults as well!

There was the year I wanted to do it Southern style, harking back to my father’s Kentucky roots, and add bourbon to the sweet potatoes, cranberries and pecan pie. Rather than go out and purchase me expensive imported bourbon at the store, Erick got to work distilling wine to pure alcohol in the kitchen. Out came the pressure cooker, some rubber tubing, a copper coil, and voila, I had my alcohol. Granted it wasn’t aged in toasted casks, but, it was pretty thrilling to have your own house alchemist make you pure alcohol on the gas cooktop.

There were years when my American au pairs contributed their favorite family dishes – baked beans, potato salad, green salad with dried cranberries and cherries.... There were years when a Dutch friend came to help out a couple days before the event with grinding the corn through the vegetable mill to prepare the corn pudding base. There were years when my father came and did his special sausage, apple and prune stuffing recipe.

Each year’s feast required an explanation and proper introduction to this strange American tradition. I would tell my version of the arrival of the Pilgrims, their meeting with the Indians, what it meant to learn to survive in the New World, to begin to tame it, to know it … Then I’d tell them what all the dishes were : corn pudding, turkey, apple and sausage stuffing, sweet potatoes, squash, mashed potatoes, corn bread, biscuits, cranberries, and of course, the pies. All these foods of the Americas (excepting the apples). All these amazing food stuffs brought back to Europe from the New World. I added to my old favorites special new recipes for mince meat pie from the New York Times, oyster cornbread stuffing from a book of Indian recipes, Indian pudding.

With such a list of traditional favorites I couldn't delegate, nor entrust the dishes to any one else. I became a bit of a control freak. And the fact that I’d calmed down over how Erick carved a turkey (unlike my WASP dad, he most definitely did not slice the white meat, but removed the entire breast and then cut it in chunks) was already a big deal.

In the last two years much has changed. My home is smaller, my budget minimal, and my energy much taken up by kids, rebuilding the business, job searching, etc., I managed a variation on a pot luck T-day last year at the winery. It was lovely, but required nonetheless grand orchestration. This year, perhaps I'll be with a friend who has an American husband? Perhaps I'll just make a couple special dishes for me and the boys? I don't know. But I'm ok with it. I'm grateful already for my friends, for my world, for good health, for happy and healthy children, for getting along better with Erick, for putting many a project in motion. I will give thanks, even if I don't roll away from the dinner table in doing so!

Un bon déjeuner et une sièste -- ils sont sacrés!

A good lunch and a proper nap.

Do we still do this somewhere in the US (or even in the Anglo-Saxon world at large)? I certainly never did before I came to France. I remember being at work at 7:30AM, zooming through piles of text and tapes to type up, dashing out for a quick cup of soup at 11:45, back at my desk at noon, through another pile of folders, and out the door at 4:30PM, in time to get to an aerobics class. When necessary, I worked late into the night, nibbling at a hoagie or some Chinese food as I typed away, researched, etc., This was normal.

Then I came to France. In Paris the lunch hour was an hour plus. Everyone left their post. Everyone went outside and purchased something hot to eat, with a preference for a sit-down meal in a restaurant. I was still in Japan mode, and would bring my not-quite bento lunch to the office. My boss at the time, the travelling show coordinator at the Centre National de la Photographie, would look askance at my cold food, and encourage me to get out and about. A tendency to eat quickly and be back at my filing was something she just found odd and quirky, if not downright sad.

In France many businesses distribute lunch checks worth 10-12 Euros (perhaps more these days, I've not gotten any since I last worked in Paris, over 12 years' ago) to their employees. Thus, out the door, and go forth to purchase your lunch! Keep the bistrots and cafés in business. Or, if you are following the fast-food trend, perhaps a sandwich with crudités?

And then I moved south. My first years with Erick in Arles drove me batty. I tend to not be a morning person (before 7AM you're not likely to see me vertical). I need that cup of coffee. Unless I'm driven out the door by necessity, or facing an emergency, I have a brain that wakes up slowly. Brain speed is improved dramatically by a long bike ride in a brisk and moist wind before arriving at an office, or by an equally long and vigorous walk. But, when you work for yourself, it is a different sort of effort to put this activity into your day (particularly when you've small children to wake, dress, feed and get to school). All this to say that it was the rare morning when I could get to the computer and actually start working through emails, paying bills, etc., before 10/10:30AM.

But then I'd get on a roll and start boogying through the day's work. Simply writing, responding, corresponding would wake me up and I'd slip into the flow. Eleven thirty would arrive and I had to tear myself away from the computer, or the files, or the phone, and go prepare lunch. At twelve fifteen I called Erick (for many years he was working to renovate the b&b, so just visualize him covered in chalk dust, physically weary, and in need of a woman to put lunch on the table).

Salad, a hot dish with meat, pasta, cheese, wine, and then freshly brewed coffee with perhaps a square or two of chocolate. While Erick then went to sleep on the downstairs' couch, I would clean up, put away, do dishes, etc., It was now after 2PM.

I would feel sluggish from the meal, the post-lunch coffee didn't have the enlivening effect of its morning cousin. Stopping so abruptly for such a long lunch completely jammed my momentum. And yet, there was more work to do. At this point, I didn't consider taking a nap myself. How could I when there was ever so much more to get done? I was more than a bit terrorized by the idea that lying down mid-day would eat up whatever work hours were left, and then before I was newly conscious, the kids would be home, and time just a memory. So, I pushed myself up to the computer. There, it took a moment, but slowly, I'd get back into responding to emails, updating the email list, re-working the web site and the year's programs, etc., By 4:30 I was back in form and chugging through the work at hand.

5PM, little voices, feet running up stairs; the beasties are back. I could try to keep working, but distractions were many, and then if I didn't get dinner on the table, it didn't happen, so, off I would go to keep the household functioning. Between dinner prep, setting the table, eating, clearing, dishes, etc., then bath, tooth-brushing, bed, stories, ... I would never get back to the desk. For those who came to our cooking classes, they witnessed even busier evenings. No matter the needs of the kids, I was with the clients from 5PM till 11PM, with nary ten minutes here and there to run up to kiss the boys goodnight. Clients or kids, at a certain point bed called to me too, and off I would go. I've friends who manage to get back to work after the kids are down and work till far into the night. I'm not an adept of this option, unfortunately.

Thus, for me, this major pause mid-day -- 11:30 to 2:30 -- wrecked my efficiency. I lived this as a frustration and as a burden for years. I was in a state of shock and amazement. I would look back with nostalgia to the days when I got lots done (office work) every day, when I'd been a super-achieving employee, diving into piles, creating order, mowing down the tasks at hand. What might I have accomplished for our businesses if I'd been able to give the time my brain and past history told me was normal? I would laughingly say that both my business and my son would have benefited from all my time, but were managing with only a sliver, and yet, they both seemed to be doing okay.

But, I preamble for far too long. I'm trying to write about people who successfully nap, and though I've brought up an example, I am also digressing at length.

In my current life I spend time under the roof of and in the company of my vintner. He seems to epitomize the Frenchman who abides by the good lunch and proper nap routine, and yet who also succeeds in getting a lot of work done. He religiously eats his main meal at noon (and often noon on the dot), follows it with a small coffee and a square of chocolate, and then lays down for 30 minutes. Even on the longest of days, with stress pouring out of his ears, he peacefully nourishes himself and then allows his mind and body a moment of complete and total rest. As he helps me finish up the dishes, and nap time isn't till the kitchen is clean, I am able to join him with a clean conscience. The presence of a warm and perfectly situated shoulder to lay my head on renders the act of napping quite marvelous. I succumb to the temptation.

This past weekend was typical: no matter the work at hand, lunch and nap were integral parts of each day. Saturday work began at 8AM, pressing the marc, but he was up at the mas for his noon lunch. Back down to the cellar at 1:30 after fifteen minutes lying down, finishing up for the day at 8PM. He offered himself a brief social pause between 4:30 and 5, but otherwise, it was a day devoted to the work. And yet, a good meal and a nap were not neglected.

Sunday moved a touch more slowly. He actually slept in till 9AM. Breakfast, some paper work at the desk, then down to the cellar from 10:30 - noon. A lovely lunch with his mother and my good cooking from noon - 1, a good nap till after 2, and then back to the cellar to finish up the cleaning, hosing down, airing the fermenting tank, etc., When I departed at 5, he still had a couple more hours to go.

In the world I came from, working sun up to sun down with nary a moment's pause, grabbing a quick bite, drinking lots of coffee in large-sized cups is the standard operating procedure for many. There is a tremendous need and pressure to be efficient. We do the most we can physically accomplish. And if we return home and simply collapse, eating whatever is put in front of us that goes down easily, such is life.

But here--and I have to stress here in Provence amongst the traditional professions, as outside of my artisans, not all of the population still abides by these rhythms--work gets done, lots of work gets done, and yet the civilized meal, the refreshing nap are not sidelined in favor of more efficiency. Granted, there's no nibbling while working, there isn't a large cup of Java sitting on a side board to be sipped throughout the morning, and there's a strong discipline in regards to the workday -- weekdays begin at 7AM in the vineyards, and finish anywhere from 5-7PM. Only smokers take breaks during work hours (not my vintner's case, nor my baker's, nor the cheesemakers', nor the beekeeper's), everyone else is at work and working. Thus, when the lunch hour arrives, the rest is well-earned.

I see, I live, I taste this rhythm. I feel the sensible nature of caring for the body and soul in this way. And yet when I'm alone in my house in Avignon, I do admit, I return to what was inculcated into me as a young adult. I'm vertical at 7, but not really on top of things till 9:30AM (8-9 is drop off at school time). I work till 3PM when I have to ready myself to go pick up the kids. Lunch is thus a brief affair, and a nap non-existent (unless I'm in a state of collapse, but then I run the risk of not waking in time to get the kids). Getting the kids, being with them, keeping an eye on homework, preparing dinner, orchestrating dishes, etc., these eat up the rest of the day, (after all, there are six of them now) till my bed beckons and rest is at last an option.

Napping is a wonderful idea, and I adopt it when the opportunity is offered, when the situation warrants it, but... the rhythms of my birth country are still mark me.

Where do I belong? -- yet another moment of belly-button gazing

Earlier this year I made a list of what has become French about me, and what is still American. The list was quickly tossed off, not entirely grammatically consistent, and well, more amusing than anything else.

After my month in the US -- the longest stretch of time I've spent back there since I moved to France in 1995 -- I'm musing yet again -- but I promise, this is the last time for a while. My desire now is to be where I am, and simply live day to day, with projects in the offing, granted, but still: Be here now.

I give up on wondering where I fit in. I'm an odd-ball with a collection of cultural experiences behind me, so, small-town girl and member of an established group/click I will never be. But that aside, how much did I learn? how much is simply me? how much is culturally and regionally dictated? I once declared that I preferred getting my au pairs from the Mid-West or New England -- sweet-natured, with a good work-ethic. I also reassure visitors that the Provençaux are sincerely welcoming and are thrilled when you make an effort to speak French -- as so many do not speak English (at least in the small towns, and Arles -- the English speakers congregate in St. Rémy de Provence, Avignon, and the cellars of Châteauneuf-du-Pape). So yes, I'm guilty of type-casting, and thankfully, I've accepted (humbly I assure you) being proved wrong a number of times. However, these ideas and regional codes do yet linger.

The United States is many countries. I repeat this ad infinitum to my French friends. Maine is not Texas, Oregon is not Mississippi, the coasts are different from the center. We have so many cultures in our very large country rubbing elbows side by side, and/or avoiding each other. However, in most cases, we manage to mix and accept each other amongst our numerous sub-groups. I love to point out that being from so many cultures, we have fewer judgmental reflexes, but wait for the person before us to show us his/her heart. What is rude in one culture is accepted in another, so best not to decide quickly, but allow the time necessary for a person to present his/her true self.

A friend currently living in Chicago and I have been exchanging comments about the worlds we prefer -- relatively hip, culturally curious, organically-minded, conversant with foreign countries, liberal politically, well-read, in movement be it dance, yoga, biking, hiking, exploring --and the worlds we tend to keep a bit of distance from (but which can often surprise us -- just have a car accident in Northern Wisconsin, as I once did, and you'll see... those good samaritans truly do stop to help anyone in need!) -- strongly religious, strongly right-wing, less curious about other worlds and cultures, abundant consumers of fast food and lowest-denomination media.

The United States harbors all of us, and graciously in most cases. But so do other countries. France has its share of the former and the latter, and of new immigrants and their many efforts at adapting to each other -- so I'm not going to boast of French superior tolerance and culture here, not to worry. What I've come to realize after living in multiple cultures for a serious length of time (Japan for one year, the US for 27 years, France for 15 years) is that each has its virtues and vices, and it is a choice of which level of imperfection we feel most at home in, or rather, which we choose.

My week of visiting the Vauvert Fête Votive had me mingling with the less-traveled, traditionalist, with deep local roots, and conservative (often rounder and a bit over-weight) part of town. It was fine, a bit different for me. All whom I met were gracious and pleasant to me, but no, I didn't converse much, I simply enjoyed my Perrier and watched the spectacle. I remember an evening last spring we went from a gathering at the Mairie (town hall, currently with a conservative mayor) over to the Cultural Arts Center (very left-wing/liberal -- and a hub of neo-Vauverdois, i.e. those who've moved here in their own lifetimes). We went from a room of hair-sprayed, poofed, artificially blond or red or black haired women, generally with a thick application of make-up (something I observe with wonder and curiosity as I just can't do the same) often a bit thick in the middle, sturdy, beside their booming, barrel-chested men dressed in red Provence-designed shirts, to a gathering of soft-spoken, nearly wispy, draped-linen and flowy scarf-attired, naturally gray and minimally made-up folk, who yes, did but rarely speak with the local accent. The vocal traditionalists and the liberal, frequently intellectual, outsiders. It was a strange moment in time. Where the twain ne'er shall meet.

This summer brought up many issues for me. With health insurance and health care the topic of discussion of the day, the public option in danger, and the general price of a doctor's visit 3 to 5 times what I pay here in France... I worry that I wouldn't be able to afford moving back to the US. However, in general I remind myself, once you have a job, you can earn more in the US than in France, or at least I should with a graduate degree, years of experience, a few languages under my belt, etc., and so, paying more for a doctor's visit is feasible where it just isn't counted into the budget in France.

I thought about the availability of fresh farm produce: the twelve month schedule of Provence, with organic farms and markets within very easy driving distance of my home, and a choice of three raw milk dairies, local fish mongers, and more vs. a six month winter in Northern Michigan, and a very short growing season of perhaps four months at tops? Silly as it may seem, I glory in the arrival of my early spring, my blooming roses, my wisteria and Japanese quince. I love the months of April and May in Provence... A huge wave of nostalgia washed over me as I contemplated that I'd enjoyed three months of good weather this spring, and my dear friends in Northern Michigan were only just getting a bit when I arrived early July.

But I also see the closed and frustrating aspects of France -- starting a business here is possible, but oopf! the paperwork, legwork, and sheer lack of encouragement! Compare that with the open, encouraging spirit of the US -- and in particular that special region up North. There is no comparison, though the French are definitely making headway. I see opportunities for what I know and can do in the US that I just don't see here. It would be a huge change, and not to be undertaken lightly, but...

But back to personality quirks. Am I simply too snippy and edgy to be in the Mid-west? And do I attribute that to living in Europe where observing peoples' diverse backgrounds, discussing politics, and weighing issues is commonplace? Or to having grown up in NY amidst the movement and intellectual spin of the East Coast? Can I become super-nice (and speak more slowly) like so many of the people I encountered this summer? I did pretty well in Seattle, a famously gentle and reservedly friendly city, and I even learned to drop my 'ly's in speech, just like the locals. So, with time...

I'm actually a very good friend to those around me. You can count on me. I generally say yes and help out however I might. I love kids, nourishing others, helping with and sharing projects, giving people a hand, laughing together (at no one's expense) and simply being with others. But yes, I permit myself to observe -- out loud. And that can contribute to open-mouth-insert-foot disease and its consequent misunderstandings in any culture.

The question(s) are as yet still up in the air.

Soon Home to France

I'm getting all wistful now. It's been a month that I've been in the US. In fact, this is the longest chunk of time I've spent in my birth-country since I moved to France. I'm a bit stunned. I arrived in full French mode -- my speech, my way of dress, my way of eating, my conversation topics, my energy. And now, a month later, I'm feeling ever more American and present to the world here.

I was seeing through a filter, my French life taints my American views. For good or ill, little was without meaning or resonance. All became nuanced, observable, catalogable. I noticed how young women dressed here (tight jeans, t-shirts, flip-flops). I noticed colors, hair styles, demeanor -- oh but everyone is friendly and kind. Hard workers at the Mac Store and for the environment. Devoted and excited new business owners. Attentive parents accompanying their children to tennis camps, on boat rides, to brunch at the local diner.

I've met a woman who's just beginning to explore the world of goat cheese -- and I think, wow, I could really help her a lot, and why don't I just ask my goat cheese making friends in Provence to let me intern with them this year? Wouldn't it be awesome to have that skill and be able to translate it back to this growing and culturally dynamic little corner of Michigan? Hmmm new projects, new possibilities, and why not?

I'm happy to go back to Provence, but for once, life in this country once mine is again conceivable, imaginable. My boys are certainly doing great here, and I don't plan on ever severing our French contacts, but, what would it be like to take the leap and try living her for a year? or more?

We take the plane Monday afternoon. This is our last weekend, and they announce great weather. It's a time to enjoy, revel in the moment, and then, pack up for our other life.

A parable for the ages

As I read to Leo from Alexander the Great the other night, we came to a chapter where Alexander climbs deep into the Caucasses mountains and comes to the cave where Prometheus is chained. As they speak, Prometheus tells Alexander a tale:

There was once a son of a merchant who lived well in a small town. One night he dreamed of a well in a garden with black roses, in a village far, far away. And at the bottom of the well, he learned there was a sack of gold. So, he decided to pack up his belongings and set out in search of this sack of gold in the far off garden. He traveled far, and he suffered many set-backs. He was set upon by brigands; he became ill; he lost his belongings; he endured hunger and exhaustion. At long last he arrived in the far off village. But there, he was viewed as a poor beggar, and as the poor receive a poor welcome throughout the world, so did he in this village. He was picked up by the local authorities for disturbing the peace. However there, his luck changed a bit, and one of the soldiers took pity on him, remarking that his behavior was not that of a typical beggar. And to this man the merchant's son told his story, from where he came from, to his dream, and to his arrival in this state. The soldier looked at him and laughed. Only two people follow such dreams, fools or children, or both, said he. I took had a dream once of a well with carved lions atop it, and at the bottom of the well was a sack of gold. But I put that aside to live in the real world. The soldier then gave the merchant's son such as was necessary to cloth him properly and set him on his way back home.

Once home, the young man went straight to his house, and through this to his garden, and there, he took a ladder and put it down his well, atop which there were carved stone lions, and at the bottom of the well he found the sack of gold, and from this point, lived comfortably ever after.

When I told this to my mother the following day, she said to me, "so, where is home for you?" Good question. Where is my personal garden?

Evolution of a Self

The more we live, the more we grow. The more we travel, the more we learn. The more trials, stumbling blocks, frustrations and sadnesses we experience, and if possible overcome, the more our confidence could grow; or, the more our sense of humility and gratefulness for our place in this world is deepened.

Perhaps trite, perhaps a bit over much. But, there's a reason my closest friends are women who've lived through difficult separations, women who are at times struggling, and yet always find it in themselves to be generous, to listen, to come to another's aid. Who can judge another? Whose right is it to be the arbiter of what is truly acceptable?

I've had one of those cross cultural moments (yet again). I love living in France, but I am tempted to live in the States. This makes sense. It's the world I come from, and a world I hope my boys will know and perhaps love as I do. I'm still toying with the question of where they will some day go to college, and where I'll be best able to communicate values and structure to them.

So, I'm tempted by America, and in that case, Americans? Yes, if I could live a whole life, and bring my children into a home with a traditional "archetypal" family. I'd like to provide them that. The articles I've read in the past months tend to stress that above all, children need structure and reassurance post-divorce. Far worse to move your way through multiple love affairs, encouraging the children to grow attached to a new 'almost' parent, and then have it all fall apart. Second marriages, recombined families, these can be wonderful or, add to the mess of emotional confusion. So it's rather risky either way.

Thus, living in Avignon, taking in boarders, adjusting to my current life. All this is pretty much okay for my boys as I'm there, and I'm consistently there, and my rules and requests are clear and understood. So, do I accept the virtues of my current arrangement (love on the weekends, family during the weeks), or listen to that little voice inside who wishes I could put all that together into one package?

To that end, I am confronted by the complex person that I am, and the reactions I inspire in others. To put it simply:

In France, a first impression sees that I am female, blond(ish), a bit flighty, and American. Any notion of substance or past education, etc., come later, though I do always get the "if only I could speak English like you speak French" comment.

In the US, I come across as hyper-verbal (perhaps joyously speaking my mother tongue which I master just a bit better than French?), East-Coast and Waspy. It's a visual thing, but also a family thing. In any case, I apparently intimidate and overwhelm. Watch out for the babbling blond....

And so, I fall back on playing monopoly with my two very amused and happy boys. Realestate moguls both, they left me indebted to the nth degree, till I begged out of the game.

Adjusting to being here

Sometimes, it just takes time. The belief goes that you get over one hour, i.e. one time zone, of jet lag per day. Thus, from Provence to Michigan, six days should do it for my head, sleep rhythms, hunger, meal times, etc., But, does the same theory work for cultural dislocation?

Six days into being here, I feel just about almost here. I'm learning to chill (re-learning). I'm enjoying that cleaning here means sweeping out the sand, brushing off the window seats, and wiping down some counters: marvelously minimalist.

One historical murder mystery done, and a pile waiting to be slowly and leisurely enjoyed. Early mornings peacefully sipping my tea, reading old New Yorkers, Newsweeks, catching up on the Book Review. Then a quiet walk in the woods. No cell phone attached to my ear, no agenda, simply the birds singing amidst the swaying branches.

My eyes are seeking out tree-climbing trees. Why are there so few in these woods? When I was a child, there were more, weren't there? But now, the firs seem few and far between, and the ever taller deciduous are resistant to the small arms of a child eager to scramble and discover. Neighbors pass me with their dogs, their walking sticks. The early morning walk on these dirt roads is a favorite amongst us all.

When I roll out my yoga mat, the loons are calling, laughing in the distance. Then comes the peck, peck pecking of the woodpeckers, and lastly, the cawing of crows, no doubt reacting to the prowling of my mother's cats. I've put a yoga pod cast on, and the jarring sounds of the Philadelphia based voice directing my movements is a bit invasive, even though I follow it calmly. As I look up from half-moon stance, I see the trees sway. The mosquitoes are a heavy, slow-moving breed, but numerous. I leave a very non-zen cemetery around me as I swat, kick, slap through upward and downward dog.

And yet, it is all starting to feel right. This is my history, a world I know and love. I've been so rarely here over the past few years. I've worked so many summers at the b&b, doing the cooking classes, the teen courses, and more. It is a deep and distant part of myself that is getting a chance to re-emerge.

It's me, and it's other, and it's awakening as I watch with joy my sons re-discover the lake, kayak for the first time, rule the roost, and my mother, flapping those flippers through the water.

Now, I've got to get over my hot weather toes and get into the water myself. It's almost as disorienting to go from 90(35) degree weather to 65 (20) as it is to adjust to all the shifting cultural clues and elements.

Where do I belong?

I arrived in Northern Michigan Friday evening, just two days ago. It is beautiful. My children are happy as munchkins, blending in with their cousins (Leo has now scorned his smaller French bathing slip for the preferred American-style shorts, or jams as they were called in my day). They are most happily adjusting to the rhythms of tennis in the morning, pancakes or muffins by Gramma, outings to the dunes or on the lake, and large, boisterous family dinners around pork roast, barbeques, spaghetti and lots of pies and ice cream.

And it is wonderful to be here. So why do I find myself out of sync? I adore my cousins. With them the conversation flies, stimulating, funny, cogent. We cover the quite a range: politics, life experiences, good books, dogs, horses, kids. We listen, we share. It's just neat to be together again, whatever generation we belong to. It is when I leave the family compound that I feel askew, awry, out of sorts. Part of me is thrilled to be at the local mac store, with these super-helpful and very bright young folk helping me sort out my difficulties (alas, no, I cannot correct the country code lock on my Macintosh DVD drive by purchasing an external DVD drive. I can no longer watch American DVDs with this machine). Ditto the downtown book store with their warm home-made scones, their piles of books by local authors, signed and awaiting purchase. It is a friendly and marvelous place I've come to. I adore the local organic coop -- and am planning on picking up some more organic cotton socks there this year.

But, I am startled by the sheer size of so many people walking down the street (sorry!). How politically un-correct of me. But it is startling to see so many large bums in pastel shorts; so many bellies overhanging their jeans. My eyes are startled, and my ears are adjusting to the different range of accents. Have I become so European? Back in Provence, I feel soft and chunky. Here, I'm as slim as they come (well not like a young girl of 12, but still, for 43, I'm doing ok).

Back in Provence, when things are a touch too much, when I'm feeling overwhelmed, I've romanticized this corner of North America: Its wineries, great restaurants, beautiful outdoors, great organic scene, numerous green, energy-efficient homes. It is a place I hunger for, and I entertain the possibility of moving her, for a year? for more? But the huge roads, the huge trucks, the abundance of over-sized ice cream portions, the pink fluff served on French toast, the French named restaurant which has decisively misspelled its name (Amicale). Yes, I'm a bit freaked out today. I've only just arrived. So, I just need to take it slowly, right?

I'm way psyched about the Michael Moore sponsored Film Festival at the end of the month. I'm adoring the quiet of the woods, the family tennis, the books, the chance to simply chill. Other years, I've taken advantage of the outlet malls to get clothes for the kids. But for some reason, I'm feeling overwhelmed by the extra-friendliness of everyone. Gosh but they're all super-nice here. It's almost surreal.

Sometimes you forget what an alternative "normal" feels like.

Deep Roots or a Tumbleweed?

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel

What is it that keeps one person grounded, rooted in their local village, living out a life within view of their place of birth? And what is it, conversely, that sends another to the opposite ends of the earth, restless, eager, looking over and beyond the next hill? How did I end up living in so many cities (Kobe, Seattle, Paris, Arles, Avignon, New Rochelle, Princeton), and practicing so many professions? What was it that pushed a friend and colleague to build a boat, sail the seven seas, settle in Tahiti, then come back to France, renovate a barge, sell it, and set off yet again, this time to Australia for seven years? She's back in France now... but like myself, how rooted will she allow herself to become, or not? Some might say we're running away. But no, we did not flee failed love-affairs, or unhappy childhoods. Though for myself, I confess love can be the hook which decides the destination. She, I believe, like myself, has in her a need to conquer new lands, to test her adaptability and strength by learning new mores and languages. Once successful, there is an urge to move on to a new destination. It is not failure that sends us on our way, but more often, success and an accompanying restlessness.

In my Provençale life I've surrounded myself with artisans and farmers, individuals who chose their professions early, mastered them, and then settled into their activity and their village for the rest of their lives. In many cases, these are people taking over from their fathers, or their mothers and practicing a profession transfered to them from precedent generations. Roots, tradition, expectations, familiar rhythms. These have weighed heavily in their choices, their life's path. The piece of earth that they own, and in some cases where they were born, roots them. But also the mastery of an art and their position socially in their town. They are known, respected, accepted integrally as part of the world they live in. When you are the baker of Maillane, that is what you are. Or the organic winemaker up the hill, or the potter, or the chic chocolatier. You have a reputation, a role to play, you are a puzzle piece that lacking, would affect all who live in your sphere.

A classic attraction of opposites?

Somewhere, somehow, I chose to be outside, other, different. I conclude this, as why else would I have settled in a foreign land where I shall always be told "vous avez un petit accent." or "mais, vous n'êtes pas d'ici." Certainly, a WASP from NY would simply have blended in in a Manhattan bank, or a university faculty meeting, or in the marketing department of Ralph Lauren, or as a housewife in Connecticut. But I didn't reach for any of these possibilities. I chose to live in a land (for a year) where I towered over all and made everyone laugh with my wild hand gestures and creative use of their language (Japan). Then I went flying off to Paris and from there began my life as an expatriée for good, in a land where my optimism and enthusiasm are seen with indulgence as signs of my great naïveté. And where my freckles, height and blondish hair are visual clues to my foreignness.

I am far from alone. Many have come to Provence to settle, and whether you are from Paris or from Tokyo, you are considered an outsider by the locals. So, I cannot pretend that what I live is as disorienting say, as the daily existence of a young American growing up with his missionary parents in a tiny village in Hokkaido. However, I have had the regular jolt and daily reminder of adapting my cultural education to the local standards: the loudness of my voice to the softer French, my driving style to the constantly passing two lanes of the French national roads, a tendency to rush a quick errand to the necessity of taking my time. I've enjoyed the challenge, but I've also accepted that I shall forever not blend in. A curious fact. I simply stand out like a sore thumb, in particular when I speak to my children in public, or tell Filou to sit, or even when I conclude a purchase in a shop and they hear my accent.

With time, I've become accepted as the individual I am. I don't think my closest friends think of me as their American friend anymore, I'm simply Madeleine to them. They've accepted my contradictions, my energy, my way of being.

If I stay here, and my children are raised here. Will they be "normal" or at least considered French? Or have I gifted them a bi-cultural existence along with their lingual proficiency? Will they be tempted to travel far and wide? or feel rooted as their father is, and as so many are in Provence. Many, including my vintner and their father sincerely believe they live in the most beautiful place in the world, to which many (myself included) have flocked. Thus why would they ever want to live elsewhere? Yes, paychecks are small locally, yes, there's very little mobility in the job market... so? Life is made of much more than a career, right? Family nearby, traditions, roots, familiar rhythms, not to mention the mountains, the beaches, the markets, the food, the culture.

Will my children be children of the world? or settle here. Will they want to explore their American side, be educated on the other side of the Atlantic and perhaps work there, or will they feel very French and want to stay put? The friend who spent time in Tahiti and Australia was followed back to France by two daughters, but not by her son. My cousin who married and raised her boys in England left them behind when she returned to her home-town in Massachusetts. And yet others can stay happily home and watch their children travel to the distant ends of the earth, settling in London, Tokyo, Berlin or Florence.

It takes all to make a world. But how interesting to have such different impulses in the hearts of our beings. And those of us who remain outsiders wherever we are, where in the end shall we land? Shall we graft onto others' roots? Shall we share the lift of our wings to carry others in our wake? Is it reasonable for a flighty, restless, traveling woman to be with a firmly rooted paysan?

How French Have I Become?

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel

In what ways have I become French?

In what ways am I still American?

I’ve lived more than a quarter of my life in France. Do I have any clue what it is to be American now? Fifteen years after my departure? Am I even up on what current American culture is? Social mores have no doubt shifted. For example, when I came to France, I carried with me the belief that you should get married before having children. This point of view was greeted skeptically by numerous friends here. I also put milk in my coffee, to the horror of many a Parisian friend who assured me quite seriously that the combination is poison for the liver. I like open windows in a car. But, I was told, air currents are very bad for your health. Hmmm. In the beginning I went overboard trying to adapt and Frenchify myself. But with time, I've moved back a bit to center. I've in some ways chosen certain behaviors that are simply me, no matter where I live. And, I've accepted that I'm an oddity now, belonging -- perhaps?-- nowhere, and thus anywhere?

French:

If I drink coffee, it is espresso.
I hang my laundry out to dry (or on a rack in the bathroom in winter)
I care about meal times and have salad and veggies, plus a glass of wine, at nearly all (excepting breakfast).
I can, will, and enjoy discussing politics with most anyone.
I know my wines and my wine regions, and have friends and neighbors whose bottles fill my cellar.
I can whip out a simple fresh fruit tart with any and all fruit I find at the market, on a tree, on a bush.
I wear sneakers for playing tennis or hiking. Never in town.
I have my hair done on a relatively regular basis (and if I had the budget, pedicures would be on the list too).
I eat cheese at the end of a meal.
I can wax poetic on cheeses, bread, chocolate and wine.
I can live in small houses built of stone.
I don’t need the latest technical device to be happy.
I believe in long vacations for all.
I believe in shorter work hours that allow me to be at the family dinner table every night, and even better, to pick up my kids after school.
I love the idea of a single payer medical insurance system.
I think it’s normal to be able to drive less than an hour to the sea, and 2-3 to the mountains.
I find myself humming along to George Brassens, and recognizing French songsters. However, I draw the line at Johnny.
I know the names of most of the major politicians in France (thanks to the news, and the Guignols).
I’m beginning to think it’s normal to take kids to modern art exhibits on a Sunday.
I wait patiently in line at the market, and take the time to search for the right change.
I zoom through traffic circles.
I drive my stick shift like a pro.
My dessert portions are small.
I make my own mayonnaise rather than buying it in a jar.
I can keep my voice down in restaurants and cafes, and enjoy a tête à tête.
I’m on a first-name basis with my chocolatier, my baker, my cheesemakers and my beekeeper.
I think shopping in open air markets is normal.
I think paying 1E/litre of diesel is normal.
I prefer not to drive, but to take public transportation when possible.
I bring my dog with me to restaurants, cafés, the hairdresser...
I think jeans should be cut to accent my figure, and a t-shirt is best when slim and form-fitting.
Sandals should be comfortable but elegant.
I don’t wear Birkenstocks.
I no longer say “um,” I say “euh.”
I call my gynecologist a gyneco (ji ne ko).
I wear two piece bathing suits almost exclusively.
I’ve invested in elegant under-things.
I haven’t seen a baseball or an American football since univeristy.
I prefer to bake with grams and milliliters.
I like little cars.
I think it’s normal to make salads with only one vegetable, like green beans or tomatoes.
I care about my children’s penmanship.
I find “do, do, l’enfant do” much easier to sing to a baby than “rock-a-by baby.”
I (try) to serve grown-up food to my children.
Sweet butter is a staple in my house.
Ice cream is not a staple in my house- though it is an occasional luxury.
Herbal tea = lemon verbena, mint, liquorice, orange blossom and chamomile.
I don’t do televised sports.
I know that broccoli grows in the winter, asparagus in the spring
I can handle the topics of sex, religion and politics at the dinner table (though I probably won’t launch the discussion).
A quick & easy dinner is either a quiche or braised meat with veggies in wine.

American:

I love breakfast: pancakes, French toast, waffles, omelets
I put milk in my coffee (even if on occasion it is soy or rice milk)
I put chocolate in my coffee (love that mocha!).
I belly laugh at Jon Stewart, but only chuckle at the Guignols.
I laugh out loud with my mouth open – not quite a guffaw, but, it does carry.
I am optimistic, enthusiastic and willing to take chances.
I cried at the inauguration of Barack Obama, and sang along with the American anthems.
I love Bonnie Rait, Joe Cocker and Bruce Springstein.
I speak English to my boys, and express disappointment with “bummer.”
References to Star Trek and The Wizard of Oz riddle my speech.
I love hamburgers with all the fixings.
I eat potato peels.
I put ketchup on hamburger and saucisses.
I make biscuits.
I make muffins.
I put cinnamon in lots of cakes and cookies.
I read Little Bear, The Wild Things, Clifford the Big Red Dog and other childhood greats to my kids.
I read the NYTimes, the New Yorker and Newsweek to get my news.
I’m learning to use facebook and blogging as business and social tools.
I bake my own bread.
I like cornbread and carrot cake.
My boys are dressed nearly always in t-shirts, jeans and sneakers.
I buy my boys clothes at the Gap, and US Outlet malls when possible.
I like to acquire kitchen accessories and tools.
My main source of books, cds and dvds is Amazon.com
The vast majority of my movie and literary history is American and English.
I connect with Friends and Meg Ryan movies.
I like happy endings.
I do my yoga with American podcasts and videocasts.
I vote in US elections.
I am willing to shout after my kids in public, no matter who will hear me.
If I’m tired, I’ll bring my kids to school in yucky sweats (but I won’t get out of the car!).
I think it is normal to wear yoga clothes in public.
I am known to respond to questions and statements with a version of “unhunh.” Or “hunh?”
I don’t believe one should suffer to be beautiful.
I like to have guys as friends.
I wear clogs.
I still use my measuring cups and spoons.
I keep maple syrup in the house.
I’m not too sure what an iron is for, and in any case, I like that wrinkled look.
I adore Thanksgiving and pumpkin pie.
I’m not really interested in learning the Marseillaise.
If they could choose, my kids would live on pasta, lasagna and fried rice.
I like to chat with the postman, my waitress, etc.,
I compliment people sincerely, and praise them when a job is well done.
I believe in positive reinforcement.
I love to hug.
I like nice.
I like gentle.
I like friendly.
I like cities where pedestrians have the right of way (and cars stop for them!)


No doubt I'll keep adding to this list as time goes by.

Homework in a Bi-lingual Household

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel

I spent my weekend reading with Leo, re-reading the book he was to have read and written twenty lines on for today. It was an intense span of at least ten hours, side by side (the book is 217 pages long, an early reader, but still ...). He's having a very difficult time actually absorbing what he reads. Vocabulary words he doesn't know, and a disconnect between nicely pronouncing a phrase and actually giving it sense; sense that sticks and comes to life as images in your brain. Normally, I read in English with Leo. We read nightly a chapter or so of Harry Potter, or a dragon book, or The Black Stallion, or the Squire books by one of the Monty Pythons. He prefers that I read in English with him, and truth be told, I've a better stash of youth literature in English than in French. In France, either you read English literature translated into French, or any number of an infinite array of cartoon novels (Tintin, Les Daltons, etc.,). I'm still looking for an equivalent collection of addictive kids' literature actually written in French.

When you raise a child bi-lingually, you are effectively doubling the vocabulary he needs to master at any given age. There are times it feels easy. Kids pick up so much with such facility. But, there are times when the difficulties (often unforseen) make you doubt your choice. Leo was always a very cerebral child. At an age when other children have words spilling out of their mouths in an unstoppable flow, he stuttered. I could hear him figuring out what language the person in front of him comprehended, and search for the appropriate word or phrase. He was already translating in his head, and thus language wasn't a simple element that you absorb and spit back out, but an intense struggle from day one. He still occasionally puts an adjective after a noun in English, simply translating verbatim from French.

I switched him to the Waldorf school precisely because the French public kindergarten director thought the fact that I was raising him bi-lingually was wrong. And there, yes, I found a multi-lingual, multi-cultural haven. It has certainly helped, at least for all of us to feel somewhat normal in what is undeniably becoming a very international and culturally mixed world.

I'm not the first in my family to live in a foreign country, and my children are just the next in a line of numerous bi-lingual kids (German-English, Greek-English, Spanish-English) in our extended family. So, I was just doing what I thought right for an American mom living abroad. I'm less emphatic with Jonas, my second, not unsurprisingly. And, as is often the case in a situation like ours, the language of the boys between themselves is French. But with me, the rule for both of them has always been that we communicate in English, no matter that my French is perfectly fluent and that I and Erick always spoke French together. My many au pairs were also amateur English assistants, helping me give the boys an English environment to grow up in. My thought was, with all their friends, their schooling, their father, their French cousins, etc., speaking to them in French, I had to do whatever was possible to make English a real and useful language for them.

With Leo, it's now at a point where his teacher reassures him when he writes poorly in French that it's ok, his maternal tongue being English, he too is like a foreigner in her class. I differ with her on this point, and wish she'd be a bit more demanding of him. But, point taken, he works far more on his English reading and writing skills with me than on his French. And yes, I wonder when and if it will all get sorted out for him. Spelling rules in both languages are horrid. And pure memorization as a way of learning them is not something he's willing to accept, yet. So, rather than 'mauvaise' it is 'movese'. A clear understanding of letters and their sounds, but a complete disconnect between what he reads and what he writes.

How much of this is having the two languages at once?

I picked up French in junior high and high school. I was a good student, and even now, I find myself correcting the usage of accents and such on many a French friend's papers. So, I learned the basic rules of this foreign language, got it, and then learned to speak it and communicate with it. I had no bad habits from a childhood of random spellings, etc., to undo, but nor did I have the automatic knowledge of whether a word was feminine or masculine (still one of my issues with French, no matter my apparent mastery). And still, I do not write well in French. My grammar is good, but not my phrasing, my 'syntax' as they say here. How will I improve it? I do read more in French as time goes on, but then, that messes up my English for the translating work I do. The head is easily tricked. Whereas I'm able to hold relatively easily to the spoken variations of the languages I speak, writing is a completely other art for me.

The summer I got up to speed with my Japanese -- my intensive nine-week third-year program at Middlebury -- I returned to university and proceeded to write the worst English of my life. Japanese is structured completely differently than English, and often has very long and heavy sentences. I wrote technically correct sentences. There was a subject and a verb in there somewhere, but then there were oodles of dependent clauses just cluttering up the text. I was temporarily under the influence of Japanese syntax and it took me all semester to get my English style back again.

So, I have given my children the joys and privileges of being bi-lingual from birth, and perhaps saddled them with the frustrations of never mastering either the one or the other? In any case, they have the untold pleasures of friendships and family on both sides of the Atlantic, and that outweighs a lot of the small stuff.