This has been a good weekend in Paris.  The weather warmed during the week, but it cooled on Saturday afternoon, and the rain on Sunday made for a pleasant day.  It can be tiring to walk around Paris in the heat, but when the weather is even a bit cooler than normal, it’s fantastic.  Today the temperature was around 65 degrees for the day.  So, we took advantage.

Mon marie arrived in Paris yesterday morning.  He was exhausted from a long day/night of travel from Dallas to Paris.  Kady and I allowed him an hour of rest and then we hit the streets.  We dragged his sorry body to the Louvre and the Centre Georges Pompidou–the Museum of Modern Art in Paris.  We made him stare at beaucoup modern art–a canvas of solid blue by Yves Klein, for instance–and beaucoup, beaucoup classic art.  This is a man who appreciates a squeeze bunt at just the right time.  Or a drive striped down the fairway about 300+ yards.  We had a little trouble engaging him in a thought provoking dialogue about the meaning of Willem de Kooning’s style of Abstract expressionism.  I think it was because he had jet lag.

Today we went to Les Puces (the Fleas), as the Parisians refer to the most famous flea market in Paris.  The official name is Les Puces de Saint-Oren.  After wandering through the acres of stalls and antiques, I’m convinced that this is the only place Dallas decorators come for their purchases.  Of course, the furniture and accessories are beautiful, so why not?  I would love to come back with someone who knows how to bargain.  I got the feeling that many of the merchants were more than willing to sell me something if I would only make an effort.

After a couple of hours at the flea market and then lunch, we took the metro to the Sainte-Chapelle.  

It is located in the Ile de la Cité in the heart of Paris.  What makes this beautiful chapel so very special is the stained glass windows.  The chapel was commissioned by King Louis IX of France in the 13th century.  The architecture is beautiful, but it takes a back seat to the breathtaking beauty of the stained glass windows.  They are beyond description.  And massive at over 49 feet.  You have to see them to appreciate the beauty and marvel at the work that went into the making of this chapel.

That’s not all of the weekend, however.  In a moment of daring–as if this whole trip wasn’t enough–I decided to have my hair colored at the salon downstairs in my apartment building. I went in last Thursday and made an appointment with the guy at the desk.  I explained what I wanted and after a little conversation in English, I walked out.

I returned on Saturday morning, gave my name to the girl at the desk and asked for Stephanie.  The conversation was in French because I needed the practice and wanted to show off at the same time..  I didn’t realize until I sat in the chair and met Stephanie that the fellow I had spoken to on Thursday was the only English-speaking person in the salon.  And he was on his day off.  Not there.  Gone.  Panic set in as I realized that I needed to describe the color and cut that I wanted.  I delved into the recesses of my porous mind and came up with “Je ne veux pas noir.”  (I do not want black.)  This is because I had glanced at the woman sitting two chairs over.  Her hair was the spitting image of Elvira.  Shoe polish black.

I worried about it the whole time I sat through the color phase.  As it turned out, Stephanie understood about the color.  What she didn’t understand was my request for my haircut.  I thought “un peu” meant “a little”.  She thought it meant, “Cut and thin it until I look like a long-haired chihuahua.”

I think I need to work on my pronunciation.

My pronunciation is causing me the most stress.  I can’t make myself understood even when I know I’m saying the right word.  I realized tonight at dinner that it’s because I’m not pronouncing the words precisely as they should be.  For example, I asked the waiter for “deux minutes” more when he came to take our order.  He looked so puzzled before he walked off.  Then I realized that I had pronounced the word ‘deux’ (two) like’dieu’ (god).  So, I asked him to give us “god minutes” more.  He must have attributed it to the fact that it’s Sunday.

Tomorrow is Monday and back to the grind.  I think I need to talk to the teacher about our having more dialogue in class with the emphasis on pronunciation.   But, I’m not sure she’ll understand what I want.   She may just think I need a bathroom break.

A bientôt!

I skipped class today.  Having my daughter here in Paris has been too much of a temptation.  So, I skipped class this morning, and we got in a full day of site-seeing.

We started the day a little late with morning coffee and breakfast around 10:30.  Then, we caught the Metro, switched to the RER, and ended our journey at Musée d’Orsay.  This museum on the left bank of the Seine was once a railway station.  It was built between 1989 and 1900 in the Beaux-Art fashion.  Over time, the modern trains became too large for the small station.  Plans were made in 1970 to tear down the station and put up a hotel. Thanks to a forward-thinking Minister for Cultural Affairs, Jacques Duhamel, those plans were scrapped.  The station was turned into a museum that bridges the gap between the Louvre and the National Museum of Modern Art.

It houses over 2000 paintings and 600 sculptures.  It is beautiful, and even someone completely ignorant of art, like I am, is familiar with a lot of the paintings.  Starry Night over the Rhone by van Gogh, Arrangement in Black and Gray: the Artist’s Mother (Whistler’s Mother as we know it), paintings by Toulouse-Latrec, Renoir, Monet.  It was amazing and a fabulous way to spend the day.

We had lunch at a darling restaurant, Les Cocottes, that served the most wonderful veal stew.  You can’t find this in the States, I’m sure.  Kady ordered it, and I finished it for her.  It is one of those dishes that should be addictive.  I plan to go back before I leave Paris and order it for myself.  Wonder if I can stuff some in my suitcase with the chocolate éclairs I’m bringing home.  I should have brought more Baggies.

All this talk about food should clue people into the fact that I’ve gained weight.  Tonight after dinner in another great restaurant not far from the apartment, I could feel my feet and legs swelling during the short walk home.  I know why French food is sooo good.  They dump at least a pound of salt in every dish.  That includes dessert, I’m sure.  I can’t get through a day without swelling.  Put some helium in me and I’m ready for Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

The owner of this apartment has a set of scales in the bathroom.  I’ve avoided getting on them until this evening.  But, I got on the scales and took note of the number.  I then went to the conversion table and converted the number to pounds.  According to my calculations, I now weigh over 800 lbs.!  Yes, that’s what the calculations showed on my iPhone.  What happened?  How could I have put on so much weight so quickly?  No wonder I was so short of breath.  I had visions of being hoisted by crane through the third floor window down to the courtyard because the hallways are too narrow to get out of the building.

I was devastated until Kady pointed out that I had figured the weight in stones, not kilograms.  What a relief!  Now I’m happy to announce that I’ve only gained 4 pounds since I’ve been here.  Not a good thing, but I won’t need lap band surgery when I get back to the US.  That is, if I stay in Paris for just one more week.  Two more weeks here and my family won’t recognize me.

Tomorrow my husband arrives.  It makes me nervous to think of him wandering around Paris while I’m in school in the mornings.  I’m going to have to plant him at a local cafe in the morning and pick him up at noon when I’m out of class.  Otherwise, he may end up in Germany.

A bientôt!

I thought that I’d tell everyone a little bit about Paris and where I’m living.

I’m in an apartment on Rue Montorgeuil.  Don’t ask me how to pronounce the name of the street.  It seems that everyone here says it different.  For instance, when I was leaving the hotel where I was staying to come to the apartment with all my worldly belongings, the concierge corrected my pronunciation of Rue Montorgeuil.  Then, when he walked outside to the cab to give the taxi driver the directions, the driver corrected him.  I’ve mentioned where I’m living to every teacher at the school, and each one has a different way of saying the name.  I finally decided that the closest I can get to the correct pronunciation is to sound like I’m coughing up a hairball as I pronounce the last syllable.  You know, Mon-tor-guyahhkk!

Rue Montorgeuil is a fabulous street.  I couldn’t have a better location.  I’m no more than a 5 minute walk to the school.  From the front of my apartment building, there is a hardware store directly across the street.  I bought a French hairdryer there today.  I can’t read the instructions on how to turn it on or what the temp is, but the thing looks haute couture.  I’m thinking of framing it when I get home.  To the right of the apartment, across the street is a dry cleaners.  Whoopee!  Clean clothes for another week.  There’s a ‘super’ market to the left. I say ‘super’ not because of the size, but because I’m glad to have somewhere to buy water.  Parisians don’t drink water.  So, I was thrilled to discover that they sell it in bottles to Americans.  There are two great fruit stands on the street and florists aplenty.

Restaurants abound: Thai, Italian, Chinese, English.  And a few French.  There is a fish market, a boulangerie, a boucherie.  Every type of food you can imagine can be bought on this street.  The street isn’t longer than 6 blocks.  And it’s all pedestrian.

The greatest thing on this street, though, is Stohrer.  Remember that name if you ever visit Paris.  It’s the oldest bakery in Paris.  Nicholas Stohrer opened the location in 1730.  It was opened before America was even a country!  Stohrer is known for the baba au rum, a cake invented by Nocholas, and today it’s known as having the best chocolate éclairs in the city. That’s saying a lot in a city famous for its pastries.  But if you’ve been in business for 283 years, I think you can perfect the chocolate éclair.  And that’s what Stohrer has done.  I plan to buy an extra suitcase to fill with their éclairs.

Paris has the most incredible architecture.  The buildings are grand.  It’s an experience to walk around this city.  It seems that every building has a history.  I love to stand outside and stare at the facades of the great museums and marvel at the intelligence of the designers in creating such loveliness.

There is one other thing about buildings in Paris that strikes me as interesting.  When you walk into the oldest buildings in a neighborhood, you can feel the list.  For instance, the building where my apartment is housed has a very narrow spiraling staircase that goes up to four floors.  I’m on the third.  When you walk up the stairs you get the feeling that you are tilting to the bannister on the inside of the staircase.  It’s like the Casa Loco at Six Flags.  Everything is on a slant.  You feel like you’re walking uphill when, in truth, you’re walking down.  That’s exactly how old Paris buildings are on the inside.

This was proven to me the other day when I was in the local market.  I was pushing a small cart along.  I turned to reach for the yogurt and took my hands off the cart.  The next thing I knew the cart was rolling down the aisle towards the front door, picking up speed at a rapid pace.  I ran for the door, yogurt in hand, and threw myself in front of the out-of-control cart before some little French child was bowled over.  You don’t want to tangle with a French mother protecting her child–which is another thing I’ve observed.

Tomorrow is another round of talk and write in French.  I’m hanging on by my fingernails.

A bientôt!

There’s not much to report from Paris today.  I had my first day of class at the new school.

I arrived promptly at 9 am.  I was the last new student to get there!  I’ve been told that competition in school is tough these days, but this is ridiculous.  I was on time and already I couldn’t keep up.

I took another test and was assigned to a group.  I was directed to go up to the 2nd floor–which is actually the third floor, but I’m not going to quibble with the way French people count–and told to wait with my group.  I found the classroom and went in.  The room was empty, but I figured that the rest of the students were just milling around.  The teacher walked in and started to teach.  Wait a minute!  Where is everyone?

It turns out that the 5 Japanese students didn’t show up.  That’s right.  I was put into a group with all Japanese students.  Can you imagine me trying to understand French spoken with a Japanese accent?  I couldn’t even understand it when my friend, John, talked to me in French with his heavy Australian accent.  Shoot! I can’t even understand French with a French accent.  I’m in trouble if they show up tomorrow.

As it turns out, I had a private lesson for 3 hours.  I thought I was going to cry.

My brain is completely fried, and I’m afraid to go back to school tomorrow.  Just like those too tight pants that I bought this afternoon, I don’t know where I’ll stuff one more piece of information. I’ve begun talking to myself as I walk down the street. I keep trying to solidify the words in my mind by repeating them over and over.  I realized this afternoon that I was moving my lips as I marched down rue St. Honoré.  Pitiful!  There’s no telling what I look like to the people I’m walking towards.

But, I’ll tell you what I will look like when I’m wearing those new pants and walking away from people.   A huge overstuffed sausage.  But, by golly, I’m going to be stylish. I just need some 4″ high wedges to complete the look.  They’re not practical for walking around Paris, but that’s not the French way, anyway.  Oh, and I need a cigarette.

A bientôt!

Arrived in Paris yesterday.  It’s easier said than done.

Yesterday’s travels started when the school director took one of the teachers, Alexis, and me to the bus station.  We rode the bus from Riez to Aix-en-Provence with quite a few stops in between.  It was over 2 hours, but it gave me a chance to practice more French with Alexis.  He spent most of the trip correcting my pronunciation.  I think I saw him wince a couple of times, but he was very pleasant about the corrections.

From Aix, I caught the TGV (express) to Paris.  I wasn’t about to lug my suitcase and my carry bag on the Metro, so I cabbed it to the hotel where I’m staying.  Tomorrow I move over to the apartment I’ve leased.  But, I did go by yesterday to get the apartment key and look the place over.

It’s very Parisienne. (read: small, old, no elevator)  One of the requirements of the apartment rental is “no shoes can be worn inside the apartment.”  I know why.  I’ve never walked on such creaky floors before.  There’s nowhere to walk in the apartment to lessen the sound.  No wonder the neighbors below complain about the noise.

But, the place looks comfortable.  I think I may even be able to whip up a meal or two in the teeny kitchen.   There’s a little bitty stove across from a little bitty refrigerator next to a little bitty dishwasher by a little bitty sink.  At 5’3″, I feel right at home.  It’s cuisine for Lilliputians.

I woke up this morning and decided to go to church.  I had looked up evangelical churches in Paris on the internet.  Believe it or not, there are over 2,000 evangelical churches in the city.  I found a church outside the center of Paris.

I got directions to the church and set off in search of the Metro.  There are signs all over Paris for everything under the sun.  The one thing Parisiennes don’t advertise is their Metro.  How was I to know that you’re just supposed to look for an opening that leads underground?  It’s not like New York where you can find the subway entrance from 3 blocks away.  No.  I discovered that even the citizens of Paris don’t know where their Metro entrance is.  One woman actually told me to look for stairs going into the ground.  Turns out that it took me 25 minutes to find a Metro entrance that was 2 blocks from the hotel.

I got on Metro M1 and went to the end of the line at Porte Maillot.  Then, I caught bus 244 for Les Godardes bus stop.  There were 17 stops before Les Godardes which took 25 minutes.  I finally showed up 20 minutes late for church.  That’s not much worse than my arrival time at church in Dallas, so I felt good about it.

The church service was so sweet.  What an amazing thing to worship with such a diverse congregation. To me, it was a picture of what it will be like for “all nations” to be worshipping the Lord in heaven.  The music and teaching were great.  And I discovered that the pastor’s wife was from Louisiana and I had gone to school with her cousins.  Amazing how small the world really is, isn’t it?

As I rode the bus back and forth to church today, I had a chance to observe all sorts of French men and women on the bus.  Here are a few conclusions that I’ve come to in a very short time.

In order to blend in with the locals, I will need to perfect a sort of rumpled, yet tasteful wardrobe.  I’m going to give up on ironing anything.  I’ll just press any damp clothes by laying them flat and stacking books on top.  I’ll, of course, need a blue jean jacket that looks like I pulled it out from the back of my closet after the cat shredded it.  I am going to have to buy new pants that are 3 sizes too small.  I’m not sure where I’m going to put the overflow of girth.  I’ll get back to you with that answer later.

I am working on my “French” look.  It’s not exactly a scowl.  After observing the people on the bus, in the Metro, on the sidewalks, I’ve decided that this may be harder than squeezing into size 0 pants.  My family would say that I’ve got the scowl down, but that’s not what I’m going for.  I worked on it in the mirror today.  It’s a kind of “completely disinterested, but a little interested” look.  A real French look is one that exudes a tiny bit of superiority. It says, “I’m not going to show that I even want to look at you, but when you’re not looking, I’m going to look at you.”

I think I can best achieve this expression if I don’t wear my contacts and teach myself not to squint.

I can work on this tomorrow morning when I walk to the school to begin yet another round of French.  I just hope I don’t fall off the sidewalk.

A bientôt!

It has been the most beautiful day at the school.  The sun shone all day.  There was warmth while sitting in the garden. In the distance we could see the rolling hills of Provence and the green, lush trees on the terrain.  I’m just sorry this is my last day here in Provence.

It’s my last day!  I made it through all the classes.  I even “passed” the interview with my teacher, Martine, who had scored my comprehension, speaking, and reading.  I think . . . no, I know she fudged the results.  After all, they don’t want me staying for another session.  Time to move on to Paris.

I had a 2 hour lesson with Catherine, one of the instructors, today.  It was strictly conversational, working on passé composé.  She was so patient with me as has been the entire staff.  But, after our lesson I got to thinking about the conversations I’ve had off and on over the last few days.  I was re-tracing in my mind what I must have said to some of the students I met.  I don’t have a large French vocabulary, and I can’t transpose most verbs from present to past tense or future tense.

So, here is how some of the conversations must have sounded if you were hearing them in English:

Hallgrimur: Where are you from?
Me: I’m from Dallas, Texas.
Hallgrimur: When did you arrive at the school?
Me: I have five children
Hallgrimur: Have you been speaking French for long?
Me: I am a housewife.

Robert (an American from Washington, D.C.): Are you returning to the United States after school?
Me: I go to Paris on Saturday.
Robert: What are you doing in Paris?
Me: My husband and I play in Paris in an apartment.
(Puzzled look from Robert . . . )
Me: Excusez-moi. My husband and I rent an apartment in Paris.

Suzan, (a lovely woman from England who struggled as much as I did), in class conversational practice: Good day, Deborah.
Me: Good day, Suzan. How are you?
Suzan: I am well, thank you. The weather is warm.
Me: Yes. Do you have a coat?
(A puzzled look . . . )
Me: Do you have a coat? For your day?
(Total confusion . . . )
Me: Oh, it is hot. I think you say cold. I am sorry.

We have not been allowed to speak English at all.  If the teachers suspect you are speaking English (and there are only a few of us who have attempted this), you get a certain look.  Not a dirty look or scowl.  Just a look that seems to say, “You are speaking English? Why would you want to speak any language but French?”

Tonight at dinner, Bryan and I sat at the end of the table and whispered  short conversations in English.  How refreshing!  We even pulled in our friend, John, who is 78 years old and speaks French with a very Australian accent.  He’s precious–as we say in Texas–and he was more than happy to speak a little English.  When we couldn’t come up with the French word, we just added ‘ique’ (eek) or ‘ie’ at the end of the word.  You know, ‘telephonie’, ‘formulique’, etc.  Seems to work. . . . and tres (trey) works with any word.  Tres funny, tres interesting, tres difficult.   I also noticed that when I was speaking in English I was using a French accent.  Wonder if Bryan and John noticed.

In one of my first blogs, I mentioned that I was struggling to keep up with everyone here. I dawns on me, after remembering my conversations, that I may be the belly dancer! I think I may have propositioned half the men here at the school and maybe even some of the women. I’m sure none of them understood my occupation. It could explain a lot of the guarded looks I’ve seen.

Most of the students are Europeans, and they speak excellent French, in my opinion. The wonderful Brazilian couple speaks fluently. The Canadiens and Brits keep up with every conversation in the room. The Americans are able to understand and reply.  They know about each other better than I have been able to discover. I’ve garnered bits and pieces, but I’ve missed out on a lot. Rather than deter me, it has made me want to speak and understand the language even better.

I leave for Paris tomorrow and two more weeks of French school.   I believe I’ll either go home in two weeks so full of myself that I’ll want to hire out as a translator at the UN, or I’ll have a nervous breakdown and be CareFlighted home, there to be transported straight to Louie’s and remain at the bar until all memory of my experience is gone.

Here’s hoping for the best.

A bientôt!

Today was an interesting day.

First, it was the prettiest day we’ve had since I’ve been here.  The sky was a wonderful blue with just a few clouds.  It was freezing early in the morning, but as the day wore on it became enjoyable. It was nice to finally experience what all the tourist brochures rave about.  Beautiful scenery, gorgeous skies, tranquility.

My first class today with my little group was all about directions.  How to get around Paris, for instance, by asking directions in French.  We practiced with a map of Paris.  I learned all about right, left, straight ahead, around the corner.  My French tutor in Dallas, Andrea, had gone over it with me before I left, so I was able to speak with confidence.  We did role play.  You know, one student asks where the Louvre is, and you have to direct her there.  Unfortunately for the woman I was helping, I think I walked her into the Seine.  Not along the Seine. . . . over the bank of the Seine.  How the teachers in this class keep from crying is beyond me.

Next, I set off a mini-turbulence (for which there is no French word) when right after the scheduled group photo and just before lunch, I excused myself and went to my room.  I was more tired than I was hungry, so I skipped lunch.  I mentioned it to a couple of people, but not the hotel owner and his wife, who are also the directors of the school.  I had a wonderful nap, but when I came downstairs for the excursion into Moustiers, I was bombarded with questions about my health and contentment.  It seems that the French don’t skip lunch.

As it happens, I probably shouldn’t have missed lunch because I was starving by the time the mini-bus got to Moustiers.  (Hunger seems to be a pattern I’ve developed.  I’m creating empathy with the monks from long ago.)  I had planned to grab a snack when we got to town.  But first we stopped at a factory that produces Faîence pottery.  The pottery was lovely.  But the tour took over an hour.  When we reached the village, we had an hour to stroll around.  I’m glad that we were able to wander on our own because I was a woman on a mission.  I wasn’t looking for souvenirs or artwork or French t-shirts.  I needed a croissant!  Or an éclair.  Or a galette.  Or a croquembouche, for pete’s sake.

I felt like running through the narrow streets screaming, “Ou est le patisserie plus proche?!!!” (“Where is the nearest pastry shop?!!!”)  Time was of the essence.  I only had an hour.  I didn’t even want to think about going back to the school doubled over from malnourishment.  So, I wandered up one narrow street after another looking for pastries.  The good news is that in my wandering I saw the charm of this small French village.

There is a beautiful gorge that runs through the middle of the town.  Moustiers is built into a cliff and the houses slope down the side of the small mountain.  The waterfalls cascade under the bridges in the streets, and beautiful flowering vines grow up the sides of the gorge and along the rows of houses stacked by the river.  The village is a destination for French tourists.  Busloads of French men and women pull up in the square.  Everyone piles out of the buses and they rush straight for the ATM’s.  People are the same everywhere.

Alas, in my ultimate pursuit, I discovered that Moustiers Ste. Marie is too small to sustain a patisserie.  So, I bought a Coke Zero and some chips at the market and went back to wait for the mini-bus.  C’est la vie, I suppose.

Tomorrow is the last day of class.  I think I’ve learned a lot, but I won’t know until I get back to Paris and speak to a waiter.  (There’s that food theme again.)  Or the concierge.

I’ve decided to check into a hotel on Saturday instead of my rented apartment because I really need the comfort of a 5 star for a night.  You know how it is.  So, I’ve got to finish up here because I’ve googled “the best hotels in Paris” and the list is long.  I’ve got to decide on a hotel before I go to bed.

Bonne soirée!

Pour ma professeur, Andréa:

Chere Andréa,

Aujourd’hui nous avons etudié le suject de passé composé.  Il été très intéressant.  Il été comme vous me été enseigné. Nous devons travailler sur ça quand je rentre a la maison. Merci beaucoup!

There!  I actually wrote something in French.

What a difference a good night’s sleep makes.  I woke up with a new attitude.  And it showed in my class.  I was able to answer quite a few of Alexi’s questions, and keep up with his lecture even though he talks so fast that I’m not sure I could understand everything  he said even if it were in English.  I understood the lesson on passé composé.  It probably helped that my tutor, Andrea, went over it with me several weeks before I left.  (See above.)  (In French.)

Here’s a little description of the routine at this school:

Wake at 4:30 a.m. for prayers in French.   Flog and go back to bed.

Okay. . . . so the monastery is wearing on me.  It’s so cold in the hallways and large rooms that I’m now seeking the warmth of my bedroom which has only one working heater, and that one is in the bathroom.

We have le petit déjeuner starting at 8 a.m.  Not too bad; however, I never manage to make it down to breakfast before they’ve taken up the jam and bread.  The French don’t believe in big breakfasts, so they serve la confiture (jam) and le pain (bread) along with fruit (les fruits) and a little dry cereal (no words for that).  Coffee is strong and lots of hot water for tea is offered. I usually grab a cup of coffee and run up to join the two ladies for the class in la petite salon, as opposed to the smarter students in the class in la Grand Salon.  They even rate caps on their class sign.

Class in the morning lasts for 2 1/2 hours.  Then, there is a 45 minute mini atelier (workshop) that works on problem areas you may have.    That amount of time doesn’t begin to cover my problems–and I’m only talking about my French.

Lunch is usually around 1 p.m.  By that time, I’m starving!  So, here is what they usually serve for lunch.  Bread, some paté of some sort, fruit, cheese, vegetables and sometimes a meat.  That keeps me filled for the rest of my stay at the table.  I like to go to my room right after lunch so that my growling stomach doesn’t distract anyone.

Classes restart around 2:30.  For instance, I had a 2 1/2 hour class today to work on how to speak in simple past tense.  It’s surprising how much we need to talk about what we did yesterday. I think I may break through with this language if I can grasp what I learned today.  There are usually more classes until 7 p.m.  A lot of the students opt to take field trips to places like the small village of Moustiers Ste. Marie or the Gorges du Verdon.  Not I, glutton for punishment that I am.  I stay at the monastery for more classes while others go exploring.

Dinner is around 7:45 p.m.  I feel like a camper when I come running down from my room to get to the table.  I can hardly wait to be served.  Tonight we had a soufflé aubergine for starter, tarte au poulet and salade for main, and for dessert, tirmasu.  Not bad, huh?

We all eat at one long table (for about 25) and the meal is served family style.  Some of these people I would want for family; a few, not so much.  For the most part, the guests lead very interesting lives.  There is a couple from Brazil.  I’m not sure what the lovely wife does, but he is a lawyer who plays the piano like a concert pianist.  Amazing!  He will sit to play in the afternoons, and you can hear the music all over the monastery.  It’s beautiful. They were telling me that they visited Dallas about 3 years ago and attended church at First Baptist downtown.  They adored the music and really enjoyed the service.  I loved watching their captivating expressions as they told of their visit to Texas.

So, that’s pretty much a normal day.  Except that today was more special.  Today was wash day.  I was so excited when I returned from my class this morning and discovered that I had a clean bath towel.  I still had the same old washcloth, but I’m not complaining.  I’ll take what I can get.  The best, though, was when I went down for lunch.  Oh, my gosh.  I had a new napkin.

When we arrived on Sunday, it was late.  So, there was no meal served.  Then, Monday breakfast was simple, so the first time we used napkins was Monday at lunch.  At the end of the meal, the school director stood up and explained in French that a basket would be passed around with napkin rings.  Every ring was a little different from each other.  Not much, though.  Anyway, we were to pick out our own ring and put our used napkin in it.  Then all the napkins went back in the basket.  Then, we were to get our napkins out of the basket when we sat down for dinner.  The problem was, however, that some people didn’t get the gist of the explanation.

So, when I got to dinner (late), I picked up a napkin that I thought was mine.  When I unfolded it, it was nasty.  Let me put it this way: I don’t drool much when I eat, but some people do.  YUCK!  Someone had picked up my napkin and was using it.  I wanted to stop the whole meal and ask, in English, who took my napkin!  But I refrained.  I wouldn’t have wanted it back, anyway.  Instead, I searched through the basket of dirty napkins in their napkin rings and found a clean napkin. Voila!  I also found a napkin ring that I was able to write my name on.  Brian, my new lawyer friend from Los Angeles, was working hard to maintain his composure.  I had shown him the two napkins that I pulled out before I found the clean one.  They looked like they could be used for lab cultures.

So, today was a good day because the staff washed the bath towels AND the napkins.  Isn’t it amazing how quick you can become thankful for little things?  Europeans no doubt think that we Americans have a clean fetish.  They’re right!

Tomorrow I’m going into Moustiers with a group of the students.  Four glorious hours of exploring (read: shopping) and no class.  I’m trying to figure out how I can bring back to my room a bottle of vodka and some tonic . . . . and some limes.  And some chocolate.  And a few pastries.

I’ll fill you in later.

A bientôt!

Day two has ended, and I’m cowering beneath my bed covers.  I still have all my day clothes on, blue jeans, tee shirt, jacket, and for awhile, tennis shoes.  It has rained all day and the temperature has stayed low enough for the owners of the school to start a fire in the only fireplace for the whole monastery.  It’s unfortunate that the backdraft in the salon filled the room with so much smoke that no one was able to sit in front of the opening for warmth.

I got a mere 4 hours of sleep last night.  I woke up at 1:30 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep until 5:30.  I was dizzy from no sleep when I went down to breakfast.  Well, breakfast was over and put away due to the fact that I stayed in bed too long.

The worst part of the day was that I couldn’t understand a single word that anyone was saying.  I also couldn’t think of an answer to any of the garbled questions that they asked me.  All I could say was Oui and Je suis désolée.  (Look it up yourselves.  If I can’t understand French, I’m sure not going to help you.)  It was like my brain decided to take a vacation in another part of France and left me to tote around an empty head.

The interesting thing is my first class of the day was great.  We spent time working on things that I needed to know.  I was so excited and attentive.  Then, as soon as I walked out of the room, I couldn’t have told you what my teacher’s name was much less what she taught. It was downhill from there.

I fluctuated all day between wanting to laugh until I cried and cry until I laughed.  At one point in my afternoon class, I got a case of the giggles and couldn’t stop. I think the teacher thought I was crying because I kept wiping away tears and my shoulders were heaving up and down.  The last time I tried to stifle that kind of laughter I was 9 years old in church with my older sister.  I got a spanking when I got home.

I just can’t quit thinking about how absurd this adventure is.  I sure hope my husband isn’t expecting a dissertation in French when I get back home.  At dinner this evening, I fought through the urge to push back my chair, exit the large dining room with everyone seated at one very long, family-style table, and go pack my bags.  Half of the students don’t know my name because I’m not even pronouncing it right.   But, we are so secluded here in Provence that I’m afraid it would take a taxi at least a day and a half to find me.  So, I’m staying for another day.

It occurred to me as I was doing my homework–HOMEWORK!–this evening that my problem is concentration.  I can’t keep a thought in my brain. I, for sure, can’t memorize the complete French vocabulary that I should have known before I got here. I am in desperate need of Ritalin.  I will pay anything for a FedEx’d package to arrive at the door of the school.  I’ve looked online without success.  I think I’m going to need a prescription.  And while I’m at it, I could use a good supply of Xanax.  That stuff worked miracles when I was going through my chemo so very long ago–or so it seems.

I’m thinking of getting out of bed and putting my jammies on.  Or, maybe I’ll just sleep in these clothes, then get up and traipse down to breakfast tomorrow morning.  I’d like to get there in time for the natural yogurt and dry cereal.  More about the food (and napkins) tomorrow.

A bientôt!