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