Yesterday was my travel day.

The plan was to have a leisurely Sunday morning in Paris and leave for the train station around 1 p.m. to catch a 2:45 train to Aix-en-Provence.  I would then be picked up by the school bus and taken to a wonderful converted monastery near the quaint town of Moustiers Ste. Marie.  That was the plan.

I forgot that I was in France.  It seems that the French had planned “La manifestation” for Sunday at 1 p.m.  This demonstration was to protest the new law that approved gay marriage.  The French believe in their manifestations, so they will often have a manifestation protesting something, then the opposers will have a manifestation, then the first group will stage another manifestation, then the other group will answer, then . . . you get my drift.  So, this was the third demonstration by the anti-gay marriage group.  And they like to get started long before the actual scheduled event.  The entire city shuts down.  Cab drivers, bus drivers, metro.  No transportation to the train station after 10:00 a.m.

Fortunately, the hotel found a taxi for me and I left about 5 hours ahead of time.

I would like to say that the worst part of my day was only getting 3 hours of sleep the night before.  Or, that it was sitting at the train station for over 5 hours.  Or, that it was dragging my enormous, 50 lb. suitcase and 20 lb. carry-on onto the train’s first car that I reached, and up to the second level, only to discover after we left the station that I was sitting in coach with a first class ticket.  I proceeded to lug “mes bagages” through 4 train cars, down miniscule aisles, to the proper car.  I bruised more than a few Frenchmen’s (and women’s) elbows and knees.  I did not improve Franco-American relations.  I would like to say that the worst part was finally reaching the station and having to cram into a small mini-bus with complete strangers and travel over an hour to my new school.  Nope.

The worst part was having to converse in French with the very sweet Canadian man sitting next to me for the entire trip.  I understood him very well. I know all about his work as a professeur de pathologie in Calgary.  He is here with his wife and they have 4 children, 2 boys and 2 girls, who are grown and have professions.  We discussed the Canadian lifestyle and how Canada has two languages, English and French, and how it can be confusing at times.  His name is Hallgrumun and he was born in Iceland.  Very interesting man.  He knows nothing about me.  Well, he knows that I’m a “femme au foyer” (housewife . . . . because I don’t yet know how to say kept woman in French) and I’m married and I have 5 children, 5 grandchildren.  That’s all I memorized before I left town.  I became adept at nodding my head and saying, “Oui” with conviction.

The people who are students here are all engaged in some profession.  I guess the majority are in their mid-thirties to mid-forties.  And then there are a few such as I.  Old.  But proficient in French.  What in the world are these people doing here if they can already speak French?!

I took a French test today.  It was multiple choice which I’m grateful for because that means the law of averages should help.  I am definitely the poorest specimen they have here this week.  You can kind of see it in the teachers’ eyes.  You know, that pained, but sympathetic look.  They will be talking rapidly to another student and when they turn to ask a question of me they kind of drop their eyes and slow their speech.  I’m thinking of having Bill FedEx my diploma so that I can show them that at one time in my past I was educated.

I think I’ll last the week.  If I don’t it will be because of my lodgings.  As I’ve said, the school is located in a converted monastery.  It looked fabulous on the website–and it is in a beautiful location.  But I forgot that the French aren’t as concerned about some of the things that bother we Americans.  Like heat.  Or soap and towels.

My room is at the farthest end of the monastery.  Therefore, it’s the last extremity.  Think of your hands and feet in winter.  I have a bar of soap about the size of a razor blade and I’m trying to make it last the week.  So, last night I washed my arms and hands.  Tonight I’ll get to my legs and feet.  No shampoo is supplied.  Don’t worry. I brought my own.  I have one washcloth and one towel for the week and my children will recognize the description when I say these towels were line-dried.  Their paternal grandmother never owned a dryer, so they know the feel of line-dried towels.  It’s a great exfoliant.

When I awoke this morning, everything in me wanted to send out an SOS in caps, screaming “HELP!  I’M TRAPPED IN A MONASTERY MASQUERADING AS A FRENCH LANGUAGE SCHOOL.  SEND BLANKETS!!”  I do believe that I have new found respect for the monks from long ago.  How they could concentrate on their prayers is beyond me.  The sound of chattering teeth would be distracting.

I’m writing this on my first day of classes, between the morning group class and my afternoon class, L’Intensif.  Yep.  I signed up for intensive classes each afternoon.  What a fool!  But, I’m not backing down . . . yet.

I’ll send another post tomorrow.  I’ve met some really nice people that I can tell  you about. However, it won’t be in-depth, because they’ve only told me in French about themselves.   I hope I’ve translated their professions correctly.  There aren’t any belly dancers as far as I can tell.

A bientôt!

I made it!  After a 9 hour flight, followed by a scheduled 3 hour layover in London, followed by an unscheduled 3 hour layover in London due to the British Airways plane that had to turn around because it was on fire, thereby resulting in closing Heathrow, I arrived in Paris.  I considered rowing across the English Channel when I saw the replays of that plane landing in a trail of smoke.  I was so tired, however, that when we finally boarded the BA plane to Paris, I slept for most of the ride.

In Paris, I was able to carry on a limited conversation with the pleasant cab driver who took me to the hotel.  Things like “I’m from Dallas, Texas”, “What time is it?”, and “How long is this rain going to last?”  It is like winter here in Paris.  It seems that they are having an unusual cold spell here and rain to boot.  I packed for a Texas summer.  Tomorrow I get to use my phrases like, “What size is this?” and “How much?” when I go shopping for a warmer jacket.  A hint to anyone planning a Paris trip: Dress like you’re in New York.  Black is de rigueur.

My friend, Vicki, told me that one of the best ways to acclimate to the language and learn faster is to eat alone at some cafe or bistro and listen to the conversations of those nearby.  She said it would give me a chance to sort out words and phrases. So, after I checked in, I traipsed off to the nearest cafe down the street from the hotel.  I requested ‘une table pour un’, and proceeded to sit and listen.  I learned so much.   Seated near a table of two couples, I listened intently as they talked about their day.  I’m not sure how much it helped my French, but I did learn that they were in the city for a few days, going to Normandy for a day, traveling down to Provence at the end of the week, and then returning home to Florida at the end of next week.  Their heavy New Jersey accents made it difficult to understand every word, but that’s the gist of the conversation.

The most difficult language to understand is not French.  I’m convinced that the most difficult language to understand is Scottish Gallic.  This was proven today on the bus ride from the plane to the terminal at Heathrow.  An enormous man–who reminded me of the stereotypical plumber when he bent over to stash his luggage under his seat and flashed a visual that I may never forget–this man got on his cell phone and struck up a conversation with maybe the only one or two other people in the world who could understand him.  I know some of the words were English, but beyond Hello, I couldn’t tell you many other English words I understood.  When he said a recognizable word in English, his accent was so thick it was like his tongue was coated with Elmer’s glue.  After listening to him for the entire ride, I was thankful to be heading to a French-speaking country.

For the most part, the French are patient with people who attempt to speak their language.  Encouraging, too.  The people I’ve spoken to in my halting sentences have been helpful and not at all condescending.  So far, so good.

Tomorrow I’m off to explore, do some shopping, and prepare to head down to Provence on Sunday.

A bientôt!

I leave tomorrow for three weeks in France.  The idea for this trip came to me in a moment of insanity.  But really it began brewing a few years before that when Bill and I were on a trip to France with a group of friends.  As a former student of French–that is, I took it my Freshman year in college and again my Senior year with no remedial work in between–anyway, I fancied that I would be able to show up in any foreign, French-speaking country and navigate through it without a hitch.  That image was tainted when on the second night of our trip, I thought I had ordered a nice provencal meal for my husband and what showed up was a bowl of cow brains.  I’m not sure what the chef soaked that blob of stuff in, but from what I could make out, it was a French delicacy.  Bill should have been flattered.  Instead, he showed his gratitude by gagging.  Fortunately, our group was sitting on the patio, so the Frenchmen inside the restaurant closed the windows to shut out the noise.

I think turning 60 makes a person more contemplative.  Also, panicked.  I mean, 60 is getting towards the end of the good years.  The knees are giving out; it’s harder to see small print; calories don’t burn off as quickly (if at all).  It’s obvious to me that a lot of bucket lists are made after 60.

This is my bucket list.  To finally master a second language.  Three weeks immersed in French.  I’m going back to France, and if I’m served a plate of cow brains, it will be because I meant to order it!

So, I leave tomorrow afternoon on a flight to Paris.  Well, it’s a flight to London, then hop a commuter flight to Paris.  Then grab a cab and head for a hotel for two days in Paris before taking a train on Sunday to Aix-en-Provence where I’ll be picked up at the train station and taken an hour away to the French language school in Moustiers Ste. Marie. Moustiers is a little village that sits at the base of cliffs in southeastern France.  It is known for its pottery, also called faience.  I’ve read that it is one of the loveliest villages in France.  I suppose that’s because one description of the village in Wikipedia says that it “clings a hundred or so metres up the side of a limestone cliff” and “a spring flows from the cliiff, creating a waterfall directly out of the center of the town.”  I can’t wait to experience the sunsets, too.  I’ll be there for the first week and back to Paris for week two and three.

But, first I have to slog through getting there. I’ve packed and re-packed my bag.  I’m trying to travel light, but somehow I keep ending up with a suitcase that weighs at least 50 pounds.  I don’t know how I’m going to get that monster up the four flights of stairs at the apartment I’ve rented in Paris.  I may have to leave it on the first floor and take up articles of clothing and toiletries as I need them.

I’m sure there will be a few more barriers to leap, but I’ll think about those tomorrow.  For now, I’m just trying not to chicken out on this whole adventure.

I’ll get back to you on the other side of the trip.  Wish I could say I’ll send pictures, but a camera puts me over the bag weight limit.  I’m not giving up any of my shoes to take a camera.  It’s a girl thing.