Hopscotch and Charades

The French have a soft spot for dogs. Miniature, furry fluff-balls. Dogs are not only permitted, but applauded, as they sashay, Bambi-like into hotel foyers. Our K9 counterparts, also make up an impressive percentage of restaurant clientele - after our first few surprises, we no longer choke on our mussels when a dog barks mid-mouthful.

Dogs in France are special. Their shit doesn’t stink... and therefore is rarely cleaned from the pavement. To avoid getting messy, I designed my own sidewalk style. It’s a combination of rap, hopscotch, and long jump. Australians are obsessed with cleaning up dog poo, so we have bag ties on our dog’s lead, but there they stay. I have never needed to use them. Our dog does her business in our backyard. That’s a husband job.

When did we become so irritated by dog poo? It wasn’t so long ago you could walk your dog worry-free. It made it’s mess, you raised your eyebrows, looked away, frowned, and kept walking. Yes, it was awkward, and we got over it. They were simple days when dogs were dogs and root-perms were cool. Then the sports labels brought us white leather trainers, and before you knew it, poo bags were obligatory on dog walks. Shiny footware for a sterile new world. Nowadays, failure to pick up your poop in NSW sets you back $275.00.

Don’t get me wrong, when it comes to rules I’m all for them, especially in the same sentence as child rearing. Any laziness on our behalf at home, can be reinforced at a good school - especially a good strict Catholic education. Luckily, the closest school to our house in France is a Catholic school. Sure we’re Jewish, but at least they’re only getting brainwashed in a foreign language.

On day one at the school gate, our children were happy and confident. My teenage social clumsiness enveloped me, along with the terror of meeting new people. School parents are a frightening mob anywhere in the world.

The children were made to feel comfortable by a couple of kids they had already met. I casually stood in the playground and overheard two mums catching up. They hadn’t seen each other over the Summer break. One had a bouncing new baby, and the other mum complimented her on how trim and fabulous she looked. I was welcomed into the conversation at this point. When asked how she had managed to lose her baby weight so quickly, the new mum answered, “Boire, vomir, boire, vomir, boire, vomir.” To save you googling it: Drink, vomit, drink, vomit etc. This was the first mum I met. “Enchanté” (pleased to meet you), I said.

She had, after all, made a brave statement. In her defense, she had invented a unique, post-birth diet technique. She looked good too. What’s more she had completely smashed the pinata of my social fears, and sugary comfort spilled all over me. Now feeling completely at ease, I knew we had chosen the right school.

With school comes germs. When our children diagnosed themselves with worms, I went to the pharmacy. Not being fluent in medical French, (but having become very good at charades) my first move was to point to my tummy, make circular movements and grimace. I braced myself for the pharmacist’s answer, which was “Vomir?” Well I knew that word already. “No”. Still refusing to scratch my backside at the front of a queue of well-dressed french ladies, my next move was drawing air squiggles and clutching at my belly. Finally I performed The Worm - a full-body worm wiggle, and she hit the jackpot - “Para-seet?” Oui, oui!! Lucky it wasn’t haemmorrhoids.

Sex Therapy and Fame

Something about group learning gives me a sense of family. Perhaps it's the cocoon-like feeling of being together in a small space, with basic needs and a common interest. In this case, surviving the French Language. We were in the bosom of our professeur, Stephanie, supporting each other with verb conjugations, bouncing our vocabulary insecurities to one and other like ping pong balls.

We have Ricardo from Brasil, Peotre from Poland, Anna from Austria and Caroline, from the Czech Republic, and little ole moi from Australia. Day one began in the usual way. Group interrogation: Age, lifestyle, specific food likes and dislikes.

Ricardo is 25, lives in a two-man tent and works in a "bonk" (bank). Peotre is 24, lives with a host family, likes going to the gym, night clubs, and eats pizza for breakfast. Anna is from Austria and she is beautiful, perhaps because she is seventeen. Caroline is 36, from the Czech Republic and speaks perfect French. She has to be here for a compulsory university placement. I am 44, and nobody asked me my age. It's part of the exercise dammit.

French in the cocoon of the classroom is sweet. Trying it on real people, a harsh contrast. One day, riding my bike to class, I got caught in a huge downpour of rain. In a panic, I rode into the driveway of an apartment block and took cover under a tree. Unfortunately, the electronic gate closed behind me, leaving me locked inside a security compound. No way of getting out, I was on the inside with my bike. I jumped the fence, escaping, but left my bike behind bars. Later that day I returned to reclaim my wheels. I nervously buzzed a random apartment number and waited. "Bonjour" answered a lady. I turned to face the security speakerphone and camera. In French I said, "Today, I ride my bike, and today there is rain. I am here, I am not here, and now I am here. I need my bike now... please." There was no answer, just a loud, long BUZZ. The gate slowly opened, the speakerphone hung up.

Two days later I saw a man riding his motorcycle. His stand was dangling down, scraping the road, which looked dangerous. Rob urged me to let him know, "Use your French, darling." At the stop light I stuck my head out of the car window and screamed out to him (in English), “Scuze me, your thingy is hanging down!”. Rob mumbles, "Well that was money well spent."

My husband's language class takes place when he turns on the TV or radio: "That's how I learn babe." On supermarket runs, I do the running and Rob hides in the car. He says being in the cereal aisle while smelling the Poissoniere's fish confuses him. One time I got back into the car, the radio was on. It was the usual French jumble with a couple of recognisable phrases like, "I am not happy", "She is 27 years old", then I heard something and said to Rob, "That sounded like, veritable orgasm". Rob said, "Yes, it was. It's a sex therapist programme. I listen to this programme every day, it's brilliant!" He listens to the sex therapist while I do the groceries. Let you know when I see the results.

Last week at the gym I noticed a photography crew slinking around the weight resistance area. They were busily photographing a man, who was being directed to pose on various machines. It looked like a professional job.

The director of the crew approached me and asked a few questions. I quickly explained my limitations with the French language, but the director continued. He gestured to me that his crew would like to take a few photos.

“Of moi?" This is the boost I need right now. Despite my consumption of baguettes and cheeses, and feeling a little sluggish, I must be looking pretty buff. These professionals recognised this. Perhaps I represented fit, middle-aged women all over the world. I wondered what publication they were shooting for. Maybe I could get a copy.

I answered, “Pas de probléme, bien sur”. So there I sat, pumped, weight set at 30kg. I waited for them to set up, direct me. Maybe my hair needed re-ponytailing. The crew stood there for a minute, then in English the director asked, “Now is ok? Or you want finish?” I didn’t understand. "Now is ok for me", I said. Then the male model who they had been shooting, came over and coyly explained, “Um, they need to take some photos of me on this machine, it's ok?”

“Ah-ha-ha, ok, pas de probléme! Je suis tres desolée” I’ll just move over to the side here and shoot myself right now, and if I can't, can someone else?

I shuffled to the side and looked on, pretending that none of this ever happened. Why I hung around watching is completely unknown to me. The director asked me if I was “On 'oliday”. In a spin, I spat out a phrase that I had learned that day in French class - "Oui, j’adore cette ville!” Yes, I love this town!

I guessed my workout was over. On my bike ride home, I ran into a prickly bush and Rob spent 20 minutes tweezering thorns out of my bleeding arm.

Bikes, Boats and Bodies

After a six hour formula-one race against Macho men on vacation, we collapsed into Viareggio, Northern Tuscany. Our friends had kindly loaned us their apartment for the week, which is on a busy, picture-postcard canal lined with an array of colourful boats. We tiptoed out of the car like a family of crabs, trying not to fall in.

We were in the aromatic mosh pit at the heart of Viareggio. Wafts of garlic from restaurants, fishermen’s fresh catch, their not-so-fresh nets hanging out to dry in the sun, coconut oil, sweat, paint, and sawdust from tradesmen working outside because of the heat.

Bicycles are the popular mode of transport in Viareggio. Our friends had left us two adult bikes, and we spotted two kids bikes for sale on the road. 

A tall man with grey hair stood on the street, sanding a wooden table. He was wearing work shorts and a white singlet top. The type with tiny holes all over. His wife sat at a table next to him, chopping vegetables. We inquired about the bikes in sign language. The tall man looked up to someone and screamed out in Italian.

A head poked out from the 3rd floor balcony, as one of the locals got up off his red plastic coca-cola chair and looked down. All he had on was a pair of baggy white underpants. A cigarette dangled from his mouth. Peering down at us, he nodded three times. We took it to mean, “I’ll be right down”.

By the time The Undies Man came downstairs, he had put on shorts, but no shirt. He was stocky and heavily-tanned, and bore an elaborate tattoo of Jesus on his upper arm. A quick handshake sufficed as an introduction, as he wasted no time in demonstrating the bikes. 

Like a kid, The Undies Man cocked his leg over bike number one, and animatedly hooned up the middle of the road. Peddling wildly, he stood up and performed a number of wheelies.The entertainment value was high, I had to hold back tears of laughter. For the finale, he sped towards us, and came to a screeching halt, beads of sweat bouncing off him, and onto us. The show wasn’t over yet, bike number two endured the same treatment, and we gave him a standing ovation. The children were ecstatic, and the sale was made. 

On the bike circuit, there were no limitations on age, attire or passenger load. It was not uncommon to see a grandmother with her grandchildren, and a few live chickens, all on the one bike. I could put my hair in rollers, squeeze on a pair of stilettos, throw a dog in the basket and my husband over the handle bars, and take off down the street. No one would blink an eyelid. 

Like pictures in a European glossy magazine, the beaches were lined with brightly colored umbrellas and sun beds as far as the eye could see. Body pride took on a new meaning here, surpassing the results of every confidence workshop I have ever undertaken. Beach goers of every shape and size were on display, leaving very little to the imagination. To blend in, would entail numerous visits to a tattoo parlor, piercing den, sun bed studio, and Brazilian waxer. Ouch!

After getting berated in a foreign language (as per usual) we learnt you can’t just plonk yourself down under an umbrella. The beach is divided into sections that are privately owned and operated. Each section has a cafe, bar, showers, and various levels of entertainment. Having fun in the sun costs, the beach is business.   

We spent a day at "b2k", where, as well as the beach, we had access to 5 different swimming pools, a gymnasium, restaurant, beauty parlor, bar, cafe, and WIFI. Pole position for people-watching is highly prized - don't move someone's beach umbrella an inch (as I made Rob), or you risk the wrath of an irate body builder in bikini bottoms! http://www.b2k.it/eng/beach.asp 

After spending a day exploring a village in the Cinque Terre, we stopped for a gelato, before boarding the ferry back to Viareggio. At the gelateria, I noticed a lady sitting at a table with someone, and had to do a double take. Then I realised that the someone was a dog, a big hairy dog. They looked like husband and wife. The lady held up a freshly scooped, double gelato cone, and gave her companion first lick! With their eyes hanging out, and fingers pointing, our children asked if the lady had bought the gelato especially for her dog, or were they sharing? Turned out they were sharing.

The Coca-Cola chair

Cinque Tere

The view from the balcony in Viareggio at different times of day

The Revenge of Edith Piaf

Her wish is your command. She never makes eye contact. She is patient, unswerving, and painfully annoying. She has strong convictions, and babbles on, it’s hard to get a word in. You are smarter than her, but you do whatever she says... 

Introducing our GPS, Deborah. Named by the children.

Deborah spoke English, and showed us the ropes when we arrived in France. Now that my husband is practically French, Deborah needed some adjustments. We changed  Deborah’s language to French and she became Edith Piaf.

Edith Piaf was gee’d up to take us to Italy, via the French countryside. On our second night, Edith Piaf was en-route to Chateau Du Luc, in a town called Bez et Esperon. There was a lot of ground to cover, it was getting dark and the children were growing restless. “Will there be wifi?” “I feel sick, I’m gonna vomit”. “I wish that thing would shut up!”.

I couldn’t resist mimicking Edith Piaf either. The tension in the car was building.

Before we knew it, Edith Piaf had taken us completely off-road. It was no longer a road. We were driving up a narrow track of potholes over barren, rocky terrain. Thorny hedges  slowly scraped the sides of our long-suffering car. Turning around was not an option. 

I felt certain this kind of frivolity was no-go in our car rental agreement. I envisaged Rob walking to the road we turned off 5km back, to flag down help.

We stuttered on, hand over mouth in disbelief, snorting and gagging with each bump. Occasionally distracted by a deer or rabbit, we were passengers on the slow uphill climb of a roller coaster. 

Then, as soon as you can say, "What the...", we saw decent road again. Every ounce of panic and snorting flew out the window. All I was capable of saying was, “That was bad, hey”. We pulled into the driveway of Chateau Du Luc, singing, “Non... Je ne regrette rien”.

It was 10pm, almost dark, and we were two hours late. A tall, slender lady of about 75 years greeted us at the black, iron gates. She had poetic facial features; slender face, high cheekbones, and expressive blue eyes. Her grey hair had been pulled back with a pin. She wore long, tailored pants and a loose blouse. She smiled warmly. She was Madame Du Luc. This was her chateau.

Madame Du Luc lead us over white, pebbled ground to the house, and up a spiral staircase (the stairs and walls made entirely from sandstone). Rob had to duck as he entered. Once at the top, we eyed every inch of the house, like four laughing clowns. Madame instructed us that everything was Authentic Louis 16th period, around 400 years old. “Please do not to sit on any of the chairs, they are very fragile”, she said. I nodded with respect. Khira piped up, “But that’s what chairs are for... sitting on... you have to sit on chairs!”. Looking around the room there were many old paintings. The children were fixated on one in particular. Khira announced, “The lady in that painting scares me, who is she? ” Madame Du Luc answered, “She is my grandmother”. My face hurt from wincing. I just wanted to go to bed!

Madame Du Luc laid out a sumptuous breakfast in her Louis 16th dining room. I wanted to imagine we were royalty, but our thongs and table manners destroyed my fantasy. We sweetly departed for Italy.

Traveling together is give and take, so when we pulled in for gas next to a supermarket, I  assumed my role (caretaker of hunger and thirst). As I walked into the supermarket, while Rob filled the car, he yelled out, “don’t make it a big shop”. I gave him a marital ‘yes dear’ nod, and mouthed the words, “just some fruit and bread”, which I whole-heartedly meant. But once I was on the other side of the turnstiles, something happened. I was just like Ben Stiller in the movie Zoolander, when he heard the song, “Relax”. Only, I heard the Supermarket-Fairy say, “Browse the aisles and contemplate, you are safe here, take your time”.

When I waddled out, unbalanced with shopping bags in both hands, my eyes adjusted to daylight like a stunned animal. I awoke from the spell and realised what I had done. Sheepishly I said, “It’s all stuff we need”. But I knew I was in trouble. 

As we were now running late, we couldn’t stop for lunch, that’s when I brought out a platter of washed and peeled baby vegetables, with olives and two dipping sauces. Sweet baguettes, corn chips, ripe peaches and baby wipes to use when we were done. I was chuffed that I  remembered to buy baby wipes, but the smoke still emanating from Rob’s nostrils hinted that I would be feasting alone.

Ah, Italia! We arrived in Ventamiglia. The vast Mediterranean. Terraced green hills, clustered with colourful houses.

The B&B we booked on-line was up a steep, winding road. Driving up this one-lane, narrow road, another car drove towards us intending to pass. Usually one car reverses a few metres, until the other can pass. Rob reversed, but the lady in the other car drove towards us, like a bulldozer. After 500 meters of us reversing, and her bulldozing, she passed, without a thank you or a wave.

Since no-one was at the B&B, we let ourselves in. After we had all used the bathroom and made ourselves at home, (beds chosen, bags dumped), a stout lady with a limp, appeared through the door. The owner. We told her how thrilled we were with the accommodation, (smiling, our hands outstretched). To this, she frowned and said “NO”.

She rudely motioned for us to leave, by waving her hand at approximately buttocks’ height, towards the front door. Confused, we walked out, and she said, “Not for you, Another family, not for you, Another family”.

That’s when she showed us to our tiny room with 2 double beds and a table. The youth hostel section. Fine, no problem. Looking out to the postcard view, we saw a swimming pool and spa. There were coloured scatter cushions and deck chairs. The kids asked to swim straight away, but the owner scowled and said, “Not for you, Another family, not for you, Another family”.

As soon as she was out of sight, we bailed, in search of friendlier proprietors. The stout lady with a limp would have to find ‘Another family’ for our room.

Low on petrol, our car just made it to the top of the mountain, where we were greeted by a hotel manager, who was a dead ringer for David Hasselhoff. He showed us to a cosy room, swimming pool, spaghetti, fresh mussels and Italian white wine. David Hasselhoff wore all black, and spoke Italian. On entering any area of the little hotel, David Hasselhoff would show up. I lost count of how many times I said “ciao” to him in a day. The restaurant waiters were Harpo and Zeppo from the Marx Brothers. Their smiles were genuine, and they loved feeding our children.

Three days later we drove down the mountain, past the first B&B, rejoicing, as we demonstrated our maturity to the children, by blowing raspberries at the stout, mean lady. We explained that in Italy, when you communicate, it is important to show your emotions.

Entering Beze et Esperon

Looking out from our window at Chateau Du Luc

Breakfast at Chateau Du Luc

Beze et Esperon

Artist at work

Amphitheatre at Nimes

Harpo and Zeppo - Ventamiglia

What have I said?

Knowing only a few basic French phrases makes me feel like a fish out of water, so I decided to bite the bullet and start French lessons. Yay me!

Now I have a lovely teacher, called Stephanie. At the start of my first lesson, I discovered I had been inappropriately familiar with the butcher, the baker and the custard tart maker. I've been saying "Cava?" (Aussie slang = how's it going mate?) instead of "Comment allez-vous?" (formal, polite version). The question is, is it too late to start over? And if so, will that extra duck breast no longer be thrown in?    

The start of my second French lesson opened with "I am", "I have" phrases. This is where complete strangers bare their souls, by disclosing their age, marital status and how many cars they own (par example). Along with that, one might be asked if one lives in a three story house with a large swimming pool and pretty garden, very close to the forest (par example). Like filling in a passport application, except that the answers are received with the enthusiasm of watching fireworks, "Wow, you live on a busy, main road... ah, fantastique, very good". 

It was my turn to ask a question. Following the class program, I asked "Tu es marriee?" (are you married?) Stephanie answered: "No, j' ai celibataire". Woah now, steady on... Surely that couldn't be the expression for being single... My eyebrows raised and head nodded with understanding.

With courage, and to break the silence, I asked Stephanie if she had a boyfriend. Of course I had to ask what the expression for boyfriend was. "Petit ami" (little friend). I tried to imagine introducing Rob as my little friend, back in the day when we were dating.

We were asked to introduce our own word to the question pool. Feeling nervous and rushed, I pointed down to my runners, looking up, my eyebrows raised in question. "Chausseurs", Stephanie explained. Great! I know how to say shoes. Stephanie asked, "OK Melita, combien de chaussures as-tu?" I had to think on my feet (excuse the pun), and show how hard I'd been practicing my numbers. "J'ai cinqante chausseurs" (I have 50 shoes). No fireworks this time, now Stephanie's eyebrows were raised. "Vraiment Melita!" 

In English, I could bend the truth, but in French, there was no time for a convoluted lie. My shoe collection is my private world (an unhealthy world, yes) and I had just let a stranger in. Not even my husband is privy to that information. My shoes are scattered in several rooms to disguise the magnitude of my fettish. Mind you, Rob sometimes calls me Imelda anyway. Does one include hiking boots? Surely not, they're a speciality! Thongs don't count, they're like underwear, etc.

The tables turned, my turn to ask Stephanie how many shoes she had. Her answer... F-O-U-R. Perhaps she was messing with me? No. She explained (in French) exactly what each pair of her shoes was for. Any wonder she's celibate!

Khira at the beach in Anglet

A rainy day in Biarritz

Walking around the coast in Biarritz

Paella! San Sebastien, Spain

San Sebastien, Spain

Keeping in shape

Yesterday lunch I went to buy some groceries and noticed the local butcher was closed. His outdoor sign was missing, in fact, the whole shopping village looked vacant. The other shops in the strip were also closed. It was the middle of the day. Why were the shops closed? There were no CLOSED signs on front windows, but rather a dramatic curtain swept across the facade of every shop. They were closed for lunch, how civilised! Between the hours of 12-3pm it's, "Talk to the curtain, check back for the second act when the actors are ready".

I've become a regular at the local gym, a necessary evil, considering the boulangerie is right next door to our house. Every morning, the sweet smell of freshly baked baguettes drifts over the fence and into our house, (at least it's only passive bread inhalation). This is where I buy our bread and pastries. If they are out of croissants, there are always more in the oven. No "Lucky last" customers, like our bakery in Merewether. We usually visit the boulangerie for act one and two each day. I walk in, choose my bread, and as I hand over my money, the owner puts two lollies in my palm for the children and winks.

I decided to partake in a yoga class at the gym. Feeling unfazed it would be in French, I headed to the class thinking "I've done yoga before, I can watch the others, no problem". On arrival, there were fellow yogis waiting outside the studio, and our instructor, Boris arrived. Boris looked more like a Brad. He was tall, lanky and yoga-like. His hair was fashionably tussled, he wore an over-sized t-shirt and a pair of loose-fitting, no-brand shorts. No shoes of course.

We took our places, sat crossed-legged on our mats and started chanting, which is usual in Ashtanga yoga. I am familiar with this process. It felt so good to belt out a long "Ommmmmm". No one to correct my pronunciation or diction, and I could say it loud, with my eyes closed! Following the big "Om", there is a short series of phrases (recited in Sanskrit by Boris), then repeated by the participants. I even knew some of these phrases from previous Ashtanga classes in Australia. "I'm not such an outsider after all". This ancient Indian Yoga chant was the most I've uttered in this country (apart from to my husband and children) in 4 weeks!

For the next one hour and 15 minutes, I didn't understand a single word. There were some commonly used expressions like 'expirer', which I soon worked out  meant, 'breath out' and not 'die' and "chien vers le bas" and "chien tete en bas" seemed to have something to do with a dog. Boris walked slowly around the class, occasionally correcting people's posture. When it came to my turn, I felt my heart rate speed up. Was I  there under false pretences? Would I be found out? Was Boris going to be disappointed that I just turned up masquerading as a Frenchy? He stood in front of me; my legs were apart, in a warrior stance. I looked up trembling and whispered "Je ne parle pas Francais". There, I'd said it. He just looked down at my feet, and commanded "wi-der!'

Having lunch in Biarritz (where the specialty of the house is french fries cooked in duck fat - delicious!)

Dancing at the beach in Anglet

Biking through Bayonne

Zis iz la diff-erence

It would seem the French insist their rent be payed in advance, no negotiation. When we wired six months lump sum to the owner for an unseen house, we hit send, crossing our fingers that we had chosen the right house.

Now we're locked in for the next six months. We had seen photos of the house, which evoked charm and character; original Basque-style architecture, outdoor living and cosy red shutters on all the windows. A studio for art and music and a working piano. The owner's brother was even a piano tuner! When we moved in it was all true. The house is quaint and terrific. We just didn't know it was on a freeway-like main road.

Cars (and buses) whiz up and down like it's a freeway, but the road is the width of a median strip. And the footpaths are almost non-existant. "Single file, single file", we say every time we walk out of the house with our children. To soften the blow, our neighbour two doors down, is the Boulangerie, although we must be careful - we can't afford to get any wider. Our children think there is a French sign at the end of our road that says, "Drive like a maniac". To calm our nerves we have the, "Cave a vin" (bottle-o) as our neighbour on the other side.

Our fabulous babysitter, Paola, is as much babysitting us, the parents, as our children. Rob told Paola that he would like to busk on the streets whilst in France. She didn't know what busking was, so he tried to translate for her. After a lengthy explanation, Paola said, "Ear-in-ah... Fronce, zis is what we call-ah... begging".

There is an impressive sports stadium near our place, called Stade d'Aguiléra. After a game of tennis one day, I went to the bar of the stadium and ordered a drink, in my Fr/inglish. The barman took my order and nodded, (there can't be too many interpretations of the word Campari). He walked outside into the fresh air and lit up a cigarette. I thought, "He must be going to a special outdoor cupboard to get the Campari for my drink". I stood at the bar and waited, and waited, and watched him suck down on his cigarette for a long five minutes. The other staff members walked past; laughing, lighting up their own cigarettes. Eventually he ambled back inside and made my drink.

In our new house: the girls and I cooked Rob a birthday cake

Phoebe took this photo at Rob's birthday dinner