How I have been longing for spring. After a cold winter--admittedly nowhere near as bad as what I left behind in New England but taxing when you take into consideration 6 weeks of no heat because of the late Feb tempest, beyond a portable paraffin/kerosene heater--and after a 2-week taunt followed by more cold and rain, I've been longing for sunny afternoons spent idyllically (idly?) in my tiny garden, lazed out on an Adirondack or LaFuma chair soaking up rays.
Of course, that doesn't really happen because first of all, spring means gardening, so days have been busy starting seeds--tomato, bell pepper, various annual flowers, herbs--growing in my glassed-in verandah which deliciously doubles as a greenhouse--and starting those outdoor seeds in the raised beds, including carrots, leeks, white onions, spring onions, arugula, spinach and romaine lettuce. All now have been showing their sprigs encouragingly, while my garlic, planted last September, looks like a mini-field of corn plants, and my autumn-planted leeks are even taller. Tulips and daffodils are cresting near decline and the camelia, an intoxicating raspberry and cream mix, is also beginning to wane. It's always exciting to see what's growing. And for me, having only moved here in July, many are a delightful surprise.
Spring also means all those DIY/home improvement projects I pushed off since Christmas, pledging to take advantage of the cool but temperate conditions, which now threaten to keep me indoors against my will.
Earlier this month, my neighbor, Chris, happily abandoned all the latest projects he's been doing in his gardens--hardscaping mostly--to helping me plaster, sand and paint. The man's masochism knows no bounds.
Actually, what really galvanized me into needed action was a telephone call. Back in 2007 I did a housesit in northern Italy for the Rathgebers, Ken & Anna, and had the good fortune to finally meet them for the very first time last year en route from Tuscany to France before I closed on the purchase of this house. They were going to be in Versailles late April and asked if they could possibly stop and stay a night on their way back to Cessole. I was delighted! They had already alerted me to their 5-month stay in Italy--a first for them so long a time together, because Ken's just retired from his career at a Canadian bank--and invited me to come visit them in Cessole. I suggested mid-June because I was already slated to be out in the French Alps the first two weeks of June. They agreed although they warned me they were renovating their bathroom--the only bathroom in the villa--the first two weeks of June and, well, they pointed out, I knew how Italian contractors could drag out a job.
I have, however, become quite European in my outlook these days. I asked if, when desperate, could we pee in the fountain in the front garden? Ken said no, it was reserved solely for ladies bathing naked and suggested I could find plenty of accommodating farmland. So I accepted. I mean, it's not like my puppy Tilly cares if anyone watches her pee. Surely we all learn from each other!
In any case, Ken and Anna's visit proved to be a real treat and I was sorry they were only staying one night.
I was really glad I used their arrival to galvanize myself into stripping, smoothing and painting the walls of the guest bedroom because I'll be enjoying the fruits of my (and Chris's) labors for a long time to come.
Hire Me on oDesk
Friday, April 30, 2010
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Be Still My Heart
Yesterday, I had a peek into what may soon be a part of France's past: the distillation of a batch of fruit into the water of life, or, as the French call it, eau de vie. It's frequently drunk as a digestif.
Friends invited me to travel out to Dun-le-Poëlier in the Indre, a 90-minute drive, to watch as they brought their mirabelles to a mobile still. The entire operation was fascinating.
Last summer, as the fruits fell from the trees, my friends collected their mirabelle (tiny yellow) plums and stored them in a 100-plus-litre plastic vat known here as a fut. They added sugar and sealed it up for months, allowing the fruit to macerate and ferment. At times the fut bulged so fearfully with the released gases, they worried it might explode.
Now, about seven months after sealing the fut, they've brought it to this visiting mobile still that makes the rounds of the regional villages. The whole process takes about an hour and the various farmers arrange in advance to distill their fruits.
Three 400-litre stills operate simultaneously, ensuring each producer gets literally the fruits of their own labors. As the futs are opened to reveal the fermented peaches, pears, plums or grapes--grapes having already been spent from having been made first into wine (the fruits are never combined in this process)--the workers insert one end of a large vacuum tube. I'm afraid I can't think of any way to more accurately describe it than the unfortunate resemblance to pumping out a septic system.
The still operator fires up the motor and the pipe sucks the pulp and liquid from the fut into the still. The still is then sealed and steam is forced through, and the ensuing alcohol is then filtered from the pulp. The pulp is discarded and the alcohol level appears on a gauge to determine how much water should be added to dilute it.
Typical alcohol levels on the initial yield are in the 80-90% range. I can tell you that a mere drop burns your mouth on contact and it takes close to a minute before the aftertaste of the fruit makes itself known to your seared tastebuds. Eighty percent alcohol is equal to 160 proof and that's what we sampled, before it was diluted to roughly half that strength.
This was once a widespread practice but the government, in an attempt to increase tax revenue, has all but put a stop to it. Families are limited to a maximum of 20 litres of eau de vie per year, and, from what I understand, these mobile stills don't operate nowadays north of the Touraine (the region in central France where I live) because the cost of a license has become prohibitive.
So it was a real treat getting to see this live and up close!
Friends invited me to travel out to Dun-le-Poëlier in the Indre, a 90-minute drive, to watch as they brought their mirabelles to a mobile still. The entire operation was fascinating.
Last summer, as the fruits fell from the trees, my friends collected their mirabelle (tiny yellow) plums and stored them in a 100-plus-litre plastic vat known here as a fut. They added sugar and sealed it up for months, allowing the fruit to macerate and ferment. At times the fut bulged so fearfully with the released gases, they worried it might explode.Now, about seven months after sealing the fut, they've brought it to this visiting mobile still that makes the rounds of the regional villages. The whole process takes about an hour and the various farmers arrange in advance to distill their fruits.
Three 400-litre stills operate simultaneously, ensuring each producer gets literally the fruits of their own labors. As the futs are opened to reveal the fermented peaches, pears, plums or grapes--grapes having already been spent from having been made first into wine (the fruits are never combined in this process)--the workers insert one end of a large vacuum tube. I'm afraid I can't think of any way to more accurately describe it than the unfortunate resemblance to pumping out a septic system. The still operator fires up the motor and the pipe sucks the pulp and liquid from the fut into the still. The still is then sealed and steam is forced through, and the ensuing alcohol is then filtered from the pulp. The pulp is discarded and the alcohol level appears on a gauge to determine how much water should be added to dilute it.
Typical alcohol levels on the initial yield are in the 80-90% range. I can tell you that a mere drop burns your mouth on contact and it takes close to a minute before the aftertaste of the fruit makes itself known to your seared tastebuds. Eighty percent alcohol is equal to 160 proof and that's what we sampled, before it was diluted to roughly half that strength.
This was once a widespread practice but the government, in an attempt to increase tax revenue, has all but put a stop to it. Families are limited to a maximum of 20 litres of eau de vie per year, and, from what I understand, these mobile stills don't operate nowadays north of the Touraine (the region in central France where I live) because the cost of a license has become prohibitive.
So it was a real treat getting to see this live and up close!
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Sans Heat but not sans Adventures
I returned recently from three days in Paris to celebrate a major birthday. (I'm not supposed to admit to which one as my older sister gets irritated when I blithely reveal my age to one and all. So I'll refrain from actually stating I've turned 50.)
Despite the relentless, bitterly cold wind, Paris was as always quite magical. Although I'm without question a country girl, I do enjoy my urban forays, and the knowledge that Paris is a mere 90-minute train ride is delightful. For some it's a daily commute, comparable to my Manhattan commute 10 years ago.
This was only my second trip to Paris thus far, the first having been November 2006. (Connecting trains and planes don't count.) And, as I said, it was magical. At least up until the point where I discovered my wallet had been stolen out of my backpack.
Admittedly, I hadn't had the best of luck overall on this trip cash-wise.
Unfortunately, I'd neglected to bring sufficient cash.
Fortunately, I do have a cash/ATM card.
Unfortunately, I'd forgotten to bring that, too.
Fortunately, my companions agreed to give me cash and let me pay a few bills with my Visa card. And, fortunately, the theft occurred on the last day, an hour or two after I'd paid the hotel bill using my credit card.
Unfortunately, my friends had just given me cash before the wallet was stolen--120 euros in total. And, unfortunately, the wallet also contained my driver's license and carte grise which is essentially car registration and title of ownership, which you're required to carry at all times.
Fortunately, I had the fraud telephone number to cancel my Visa programmed into my cellphone.
Unfortunately, I didn't have enough money on the pay-as-you-go cellphone to make the call and charging it up meant using the Visa I was about to cancel. Probably not a problem but I was wary nonetheless.
Fortunately, my friend had purchased our train tickets and still had mine in her possession so I was able to get home. And fortunately, in addition to being able to procure a replacement credit card and driver's license within days of returning home, a letter arrived from the Parisian Prefecture of Police saying someone had found the wallet and turned it in...sans cash, of course.
Unfortunately, the letter demanded I return to Paris to collect it. And that I was required to pay them 10 euros for the privilege of claiming my stolen property. (That made me choke and splutter a bit.)
Fortunately, my friend and I went down to the local gendarmerie where I'd first filed my theft report (so I could drive without documents) and the gendarme there was wonderful, calling the Prefecture and ensuring I could just send them a check and have them mail me the wallet instead. Well, I hope that's the end of it. I still have to mail the letter to Paris.
Despite all that, Paris has lost none of its magic for me!
Despite the relentless, bitterly cold wind, Paris was as always quite magical. Although I'm without question a country girl, I do enjoy my urban forays, and the knowledge that Paris is a mere 90-minute train ride is delightful. For some it's a daily commute, comparable to my Manhattan commute 10 years ago.
This was only my second trip to Paris thus far, the first having been November 2006. (Connecting trains and planes don't count.) And, as I said, it was magical. At least up until the point where I discovered my wallet had been stolen out of my backpack.
Admittedly, I hadn't had the best of luck overall on this trip cash-wise.
Unfortunately, I'd neglected to bring sufficient cash.
Fortunately, I do have a cash/ATM card.
Unfortunately, I'd forgotten to bring that, too.
Fortunately, my companions agreed to give me cash and let me pay a few bills with my Visa card. And, fortunately, the theft occurred on the last day, an hour or two after I'd paid the hotel bill using my credit card.
Unfortunately, my friends had just given me cash before the wallet was stolen--120 euros in total. And, unfortunately, the wallet also contained my driver's license and carte grise which is essentially car registration and title of ownership, which you're required to carry at all times.
Fortunately, I had the fraud telephone number to cancel my Visa programmed into my cellphone.
Unfortunately, I didn't have enough money on the pay-as-you-go cellphone to make the call and charging it up meant using the Visa I was about to cancel. Probably not a problem but I was wary nonetheless.
Fortunately, my friend had purchased our train tickets and still had mine in her possession so I was able to get home. And fortunately, in addition to being able to procure a replacement credit card and driver's license within days of returning home, a letter arrived from the Parisian Prefecture of Police saying someone had found the wallet and turned it in...sans cash, of course.
Unfortunately, the letter demanded I return to Paris to collect it. And that I was required to pay them 10 euros for the privilege of claiming my stolen property. (That made me choke and splutter a bit.)
Fortunately, my friend and I went down to the local gendarmerie where I'd first filed my theft report (so I could drive without documents) and the gendarme there was wonderful, calling the Prefecture and ensuring I could just send them a check and have them mail me the wallet instead. Well, I hope that's the end of it. I still have to mail the letter to Paris.
Despite all that, Paris has lost none of its magic for me!
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Weathering the Weather
Well, just two days after I extolled the virtues of weather in France this time of year versus the litany of snow-bearing tempests that have been littering the States, a hurricane blew in Saturday night from the western coast of Spain, heading across to Germany. It left a sufficient wake of destruction due to collapsing sea walls, some of which date back to Napoleon's era, to merit declaring a state of national emergency. The storm, Xynthia, is responsible for a staggering 59 deaths at last count, 49 of those in France.
Being two hours inland here in the Indre, on the border of the Indre-et-Loire, my inconveniences extended merely to a few roof tiles being shattered (and I'm not even sure they were mine; they just landed in front of my garage), my patio umbrella keeling over, and a loss of electricity. The latter rippled into loss of heat, cooking facilities, phone and internet, most of which were fully restored within 36 hours. What remains out of commission is the central heating. My oil company couldn't fix it and suggested I call a plumber. A bilingual neighbor, Edward, on the far side of the village, offered to help although his electric and phones are, at this writing, still out of service. So, unbeknownst to me, he drove over to Mézières to physically catch the plumber at lunch and arranged for a Thursday afternoon repair. People here really are a treasure.
In the meantime, my emergency paraffin/kerosene heater keeps the living area warm as long as the rest of the house is closed off. So Tilly and I will continue to sleep on the sofa, not a huge change for her since she sleeps there half the day anyway. All in all, I'm very fortunate, considering the number of people whose homes were destroyed or are still under water. Just last September, I spent three lovely days on the charming Ile de Re off the coastal town of La Rochelle, a very swank vacation destination. I read yesterday that La Rochelle's main district remains under more than six feet of water.
With that in mind, I'm reminded of Jonathan Swift, who once said, "May you live all the days of your life." I'm off to go do some of that now.
Being two hours inland here in the Indre, on the border of the Indre-et-Loire, my inconveniences extended merely to a few roof tiles being shattered (and I'm not even sure they were mine; they just landed in front of my garage), my patio umbrella keeling over, and a loss of electricity. The latter rippled into loss of heat, cooking facilities, phone and internet, most of which were fully restored within 36 hours. What remains out of commission is the central heating. My oil company couldn't fix it and suggested I call a plumber. A bilingual neighbor, Edward, on the far side of the village, offered to help although his electric and phones are, at this writing, still out of service. So, unbeknownst to me, he drove over to Mézières to physically catch the plumber at lunch and arranged for a Thursday afternoon repair. People here really are a treasure.
In the meantime, my emergency paraffin/kerosene heater keeps the living area warm as long as the rest of the house is closed off. So Tilly and I will continue to sleep on the sofa, not a huge change for her since she sleeps there half the day anyway. All in all, I'm very fortunate, considering the number of people whose homes were destroyed or are still under water. Just last September, I spent three lovely days on the charming Ile de Re off the coastal town of La Rochelle, a very swank vacation destination. I read yesterday that La Rochelle's main district remains under more than six feet of water.
With that in mind, I'm reminded of Jonathan Swift, who once said, "May you live all the days of your life." I'm off to go do some of that now.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Spring is in the Air
It's the third week of February, a month traditionally linked in my mind as having the most tempestuous of weathers, having lived up until now in the New York tri-state area.
However, it's the first month of spring here in the Loire Valley. While I read of snowstorms with near-record accumulations back in the States, I've turned down my central heating--although I did refill the oil tank; I'm not a complete idiot--and have begun weeding and sowing seed for early crops such as arugula (rocket), spinach and leeks. Even tomato seeds are to be potted up this week as my sunny, glassed-in verandah should prove a terrific greenhouse for tender seedlings. Leeks and garlic, planted last September, sit in solitary splendor in my otherwise empty raised beds. I went admittedly a little crazy with the seed packets. It's so easy to do and I was so tickled to find bio or organic seeds even in the supermarkets and hardware stores. I've seeds for four different types of tomato plants as well as bell pepper, pattypan squash, carrots, potatoes, romaine, arugula, spinach, scallions, white onion, leeks, radishes and, of course, haricots vert! If the seeds don't do well, I can fall back on seedlings sold at the village outdoor markets.
As I've managed to secure a paid gig of two hours of landscaping work in someone's garden every other week, I'm even more delighted at the early advent of spring. It also means I have to start polishing my nails again. Sound silly? Not at all. It's a great way to hide the dirt....
However, it's the first month of spring here in the Loire Valley. While I read of snowstorms with near-record accumulations back in the States, I've turned down my central heating--although I did refill the oil tank; I'm not a complete idiot--and have begun weeding and sowing seed for early crops such as arugula (rocket), spinach and leeks. Even tomato seeds are to be potted up this week as my sunny, glassed-in verandah should prove a terrific greenhouse for tender seedlings. Leeks and garlic, planted last September, sit in solitary splendor in my otherwise empty raised beds. I went admittedly a little crazy with the seed packets. It's so easy to do and I was so tickled to find bio or organic seeds even in the supermarkets and hardware stores. I've seeds for four different types of tomato plants as well as bell pepper, pattypan squash, carrots, potatoes, romaine, arugula, spinach, scallions, white onion, leeks, radishes and, of course, haricots vert! If the seeds don't do well, I can fall back on seedlings sold at the village outdoor markets.
As I've managed to secure a paid gig of two hours of landscaping work in someone's garden every other week, I'm even more delighted at the early advent of spring. It also means I have to start polishing my nails again. Sound silly? Not at all. It's a great way to hide the dirt....
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Saffron Season
'Tis the season when fêtes abound in France--February is the month for winter fêtes. So I happily traipsed off to nearby Preuilly-sur-Claise for their annual safran(saffron) festival, traditionally the 3rd Saturday of every February. (Photo from www.indianetzone.com/1/saffron_flower.htm.)
Saffron is the most expensive spice in the world, I'm told, because it's not only labor intensive to produce but it requires nearly 5,000 purple crocus blooms to produce a mere ounce, and an acre of flowers to produce a single pound. For those of you unfamiliar with it, each bloom contains only 3 red stigmas that must be handpicked from among the yellow ones which have no flavor. (This photo, illustrating a jar identical to the one I purchased except for the label, comes from http://whatscookingamerica.net/saffron.htm)
It's actually economical to use, I'm told. Its honey-like yet bitter taste can overwhelm a dish if too much is used. A tiny pinch is typically all that's needed for a dish feeding four to six people. Saffron is added arguably as much or more for its color punch than its taste. I confess that my cooking expertise has never extended to using saffron for budgetary reasons, never having been exposed to it outside the occasional restaurant offering, so I went to the festival determined to purchase a modest amount, both to support the local producers and give me the excuse to experiment.
Like all French fêtes, this one was packed with locals, all standing around socializing, sipping wine and saffron-flavored drinks, and nibbling on baked goods hued in the unmistakeable, warm, yellow saffron color. Tilly, insistent on being carried because of the intimidating mass of legs around her, was, as always, immensely popular, the French all calling her mignon (cute). Even the men can't resist her. She's practically my trademark now, a way for the locals to recognize me when I attend the various local functions, not to mention being a great conversation starter so I can practice my beginner-level French.
With all the attention focused on Tilly, it was easy to dart in to the tables and make my purchases: a small jar of saffron threads and a pretty 4-centiliter bottle of yellow sirop au safran, a saffron-infused sugar syrup, perfect they claim for those de rigueur kir aperitifs. I made my purchase from Marion Babinot, a producer with the regional designation, Le Signé Poitou-Charentes, meaning it adheres to three stringent quality requirements: it must be organically grown; it must contain no yellow stigmas; and it must be sold hermetically sealed in glass so as not to corrupt the contents. Check, check and check!
It appears saffron risotto might just be on the menu for my birthday dinner next month when I return from Paris!
Thursday, January 21, 2010
Indentured Servitude
I have made my first foray into the world of freelance writing...or should I say, 'indentured servitude.'
It's been a real eye-opener for this perennially somewhat naïve gal. In order to get one's foot in the door, one must find someone willing to take a chance on a complete newbie. This means competing against folks from the Philippines, India, Bangladesh, etc., all of whom claim they speak fluent English and work for less than a dollar an hour. It means bidding on the lowest-paying jobs, sometimes working for employers who can't write a coherent sentence themselves and arguably can't judge the quality of the work provided. But if I can get a few willing souls to take a chance on me, and if they post excellent reviews of my work product on the site, then, in theory, I can eventually command a more respectable wage for my writing from those choosier employers in America and the UK.
A lot of it's editing and proofreading non-native English but some of it's downright scandalous, it strikes me: people seeking individuals to click ads on their websites so they can reap ad income, or offering fifty cents to have someone write an article that they then turn around and sell to a website that pays them considerably more. Hard to know what's worse--that someone would pawn someone else's work off as their own or that so many folks are willing to do so to make make mere pennies.
So now I've returned to being one of the downtrodden masses, it seems. Well, I suppose it's good to be humbled every once in a while. But it is shocking to think that people will advertise for someone to ghostwrite a book based on a skeleton of an idea, pay them perhaps $20 and then try to get it published as if it were their own. Ugh.
Yesterday I spent 4-1/2 hours completely overhauling 10 review articles for someone in Lithuania who's paying me $4.50. That's a flat rate, not per hour! Kind of surreal. I try not to think of what I was paid by the hour back in the States. But if it's an investment in building up a freelance sideline or even mainstream income, then I am willing to bite the bullet. After all, I'm trying to finance what I consider to be a pretty darned idyllic lifestyle here in France, away from the massive overhead of mortgages, heavy taxes and overpriced insurance. I have to remind myself that more than 50% of my take-home pay back in the USA went solely toward the overhead on my houses.
Here in France I have a teensy house (and still have trouble finding the time to keep it as clean as I'd like) with no mortgage, and my expenses consisting of taxes, insurance, water, sewer and utilities run me less than 1500 euros per year. That's about $2500 which, itself, is not much more than my former monthly mortgage payment! So I am truly blessed.
That said, I still have to eat and put petrol ($7.75/gallon here) in the car so a dollar an hour wages isn't going to cut it long-term. But hopefully it's just a stepping stone to more lucrative writing jobs down the road.
I'd keep my fingers crossed but it's so hard to type that way....
It's been a real eye-opener for this perennially somewhat naïve gal. In order to get one's foot in the door, one must find someone willing to take a chance on a complete newbie. This means competing against folks from the Philippines, India, Bangladesh, etc., all of whom claim they speak fluent English and work for less than a dollar an hour. It means bidding on the lowest-paying jobs, sometimes working for employers who can't write a coherent sentence themselves and arguably can't judge the quality of the work provided. But if I can get a few willing souls to take a chance on me, and if they post excellent reviews of my work product on the site, then, in theory, I can eventually command a more respectable wage for my writing from those choosier employers in America and the UK.
A lot of it's editing and proofreading non-native English but some of it's downright scandalous, it strikes me: people seeking individuals to click ads on their websites so they can reap ad income, or offering fifty cents to have someone write an article that they then turn around and sell to a website that pays them considerably more. Hard to know what's worse--that someone would pawn someone else's work off as their own or that so many folks are willing to do so to make make mere pennies.
So now I've returned to being one of the downtrodden masses, it seems. Well, I suppose it's good to be humbled every once in a while. But it is shocking to think that people will advertise for someone to ghostwrite a book based on a skeleton of an idea, pay them perhaps $20 and then try to get it published as if it were their own. Ugh.
Yesterday I spent 4-1/2 hours completely overhauling 10 review articles for someone in Lithuania who's paying me $4.50. That's a flat rate, not per hour! Kind of surreal. I try not to think of what I was paid by the hour back in the States. But if it's an investment in building up a freelance sideline or even mainstream income, then I am willing to bite the bullet. After all, I'm trying to finance what I consider to be a pretty darned idyllic lifestyle here in France, away from the massive overhead of mortgages, heavy taxes and overpriced insurance. I have to remind myself that more than 50% of my take-home pay back in the USA went solely toward the overhead on my houses.
Here in France I have a teensy house (and still have trouble finding the time to keep it as clean as I'd like) with no mortgage, and my expenses consisting of taxes, insurance, water, sewer and utilities run me less than 1500 euros per year. That's about $2500 which, itself, is not much more than my former monthly mortgage payment! So I am truly blessed.
That said, I still have to eat and put petrol ($7.75/gallon here) in the car so a dollar an hour wages isn't going to cut it long-term. But hopefully it's just a stepping stone to more lucrative writing jobs down the road.
I'd keep my fingers crossed but it's so hard to type that way....
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
French Lessons Commence!
Well, today I started my eagerly anticipated French lessons. These are free lessons that the government sponsors to help new residents adapt.
Back on the 21st of December I drove to nearby Le Blanc, just 20 kilometers away to meet the teacher and take a proficiency test. (The same Le Blanc where we whisked my neighbor when he amputated his finger--which, by the way, he did eventually lose, after returning home to resume cutting stone mere hours after getting back from the hospital. He would have returned to work immediately if he hadn't been so busy picking barrows of produce and buckets of walnuts to give me as a thank you.)
Capucine Roy, the teacher, was there to greet us; we filled out a few forms and, because I wasn't sure if I was good enough for intermediate, I took the 'debutante' test as well as the intermediate.
Capucine put me in intermediate with the suggestion that if I felt I was over my head, I could always default to the deb class. I said I needed it to be difficult, I needed the struggle, as I live here now. I don't want to waste time coasting on what might be a good bit of knowledge I already possess.
Well, today I went, reasonably confident I could hold my own. I found myself in a small class of eight students: 3 couples, another woman and myself. Everyone's British except me. And everyone's had several years of recent French lessons except me. Uh, oh....
We started with impromptu introductions. The man on my right went first. I sat there trying not to panic at his stream of French that went on for at least five full minutes. I was so busy trying to piece together a script for myself I was unable to catch more than a few key phrases in his entire monologue. How much of a workout in class would I be giving that key phrase, "Je ne comprend pas?"
Naturally, due to my state of panic, Capucine chose me to speak next. I muddled through and it wasn't too excruciating, stumbling over the history of where I've been the past few years and how I came to live in France.
For the first half hour of the class, I was almost completely lost. But then things started to click. A glimmer of comprehension. I began catching a few more words. I began getting the gist of most of what she was saying. By the time 90 minutes had passed, I felt reasonably in sync. At the end of the two hours I was both calm and excited.
Now, mind you, to imply that I've got things under control would be deceit at best, delusional at the very least. I don't. But I'm determined to plug away. At least I didn't run screaming out of the room tearing my hair out in despair. (I reserve the right, however, to do that at a future date.)
And all that time, Tilly sat in her kennel at my feet, unbeknownst to the teacher until the very end. Hmm, I wonder how much of her native language she's going to to pick up?
Maybe Tilly can teach this old dog some new tricks.
SPEAK! Et pourquoi pas???
Back on the 21st of December I drove to nearby Le Blanc, just 20 kilometers away to meet the teacher and take a proficiency test. (The same Le Blanc where we whisked my neighbor when he amputated his finger--which, by the way, he did eventually lose, after returning home to resume cutting stone mere hours after getting back from the hospital. He would have returned to work immediately if he hadn't been so busy picking barrows of produce and buckets of walnuts to give me as a thank you.)
Capucine Roy, the teacher, was there to greet us; we filled out a few forms and, because I wasn't sure if I was good enough for intermediate, I took the 'debutante' test as well as the intermediate.
Capucine put me in intermediate with the suggestion that if I felt I was over my head, I could always default to the deb class. I said I needed it to be difficult, I needed the struggle, as I live here now. I don't want to waste time coasting on what might be a good bit of knowledge I already possess.
Well, today I went, reasonably confident I could hold my own. I found myself in a small class of eight students: 3 couples, another woman and myself. Everyone's British except me. And everyone's had several years of recent French lessons except me. Uh, oh....
We started with impromptu introductions. The man on my right went first. I sat there trying not to panic at his stream of French that went on for at least five full minutes. I was so busy trying to piece together a script for myself I was unable to catch more than a few key phrases in his entire monologue. How much of a workout in class would I be giving that key phrase, "Je ne comprend pas?"
Naturally, due to my state of panic, Capucine chose me to speak next. I muddled through and it wasn't too excruciating, stumbling over the history of where I've been the past few years and how I came to live in France.
For the first half hour of the class, I was almost completely lost. But then things started to click. A glimmer of comprehension. I began catching a few more words. I began getting the gist of most of what she was saying. By the time 90 minutes had passed, I felt reasonably in sync. At the end of the two hours I was both calm and excited.
Now, mind you, to imply that I've got things under control would be deceit at best, delusional at the very least. I don't. But I'm determined to plug away. At least I didn't run screaming out of the room tearing my hair out in despair. (I reserve the right, however, to do that at a future date.)
And all that time, Tilly sat in her kennel at my feet, unbeknownst to the teacher until the very end. Hmm, I wonder how much of her native language she's going to to pick up?
Maybe Tilly can teach this old dog some new tricks.
SPEAK! Et pourquoi pas???
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)