The war of words

« Lapin. »

« Bunny. »

« No, lapin. »

This is a conversation in my back seat.  Alex, a little over two years old, is surfing two languages.  His sister, 11, is trying to get him to say “bunny” which he actually knew how to say first and pronounces with an American slurring of the n’s- buhh-ny!  Big sis has already gone through the same stages of language learning but doesn’t remember when she too had to juggle with two words for everything.

I am not the only mom dealing with two languages at home and the trials and troubles and funny moments it brings.  There are beaucoup articles about this now, one very poignant and real that just came out recently about a Canadian mom with Polish origins living in London trying to teach her young son Polish.  Each time I find such an article, I eat up every word.  Not only is it a reflection of my own daily “struggle” but as a self-proclaimed lover of languages, it is fascinating.

You can say all you want about how bilingual folks may avoid dementia in later life.  Or that we may be able to problem solve or see things differently by having two languages to do it in.  But what interests me the most lately is the feeling behind those words- the cultural and emotional load in them. 

Just as the author of that article mentioned, each word “conquered” in the minority language (in our house, English) seems like a victory for me.  I can’t help but smiling more and encouraging more when my kids come up with English words and expressions.  And maybe it’s also because those new words come through special situations, like during our vacation back home, when my family comes to visit, or reading English books at bedtime. 

Which brings us back to the famous “buhh-ny”.  This one started with an adorably illustrated book called Happy Easter Bunny.  My aunt sent it to Juliette when she was younger and now I read it to Alex and say enthusiastically at the end, “it’s bunny!” when we discover he has been hiding Easter eggs for his mouse friend.  Alex imitates the tone when he says it in other situations, and yes, that tickles me. 

And though I know very well my kids must learn French to survive in this country, would you believe me if I almost feel down when I hear how many French words my little one is saying?!  He goes to daycare with twenty other kids and hears French words all day from the nursery workers.  It’s only natural he is learning all the animals in French and nursery rhymes in that language too.  It’s illogical for me to be jealous but that’s sort of the feeling.  So when he says “cochon” for pig I am happy he has learned a new word.  I say, “yes, cochon.  And “pig” in English.” 

That is how a lot of my conversations go in this house.  I repeat what my kids say in French and then say it in English.  Or in Juliette’s case, she often tells me about her day in French and I ask her follow-up questions in English. 

Perhaps that explains this recent exchange with Alex, growing up in a bilingual house.  The other night at dinner as we were watching the news, he started saying “mion” and I couldn’t figure out what he meant.  He repeated with the missing first syllable to say “camion” then repeated in English for me, “truck” (or “tuck” in his case, hey, he’s getting there).  Was he figuring out that when someone doesn’t understand the word one way, he needs to switch to the other? It’s a lot for a toddler to handle, but he is managing, just as his sister did. 

I hope Alex will learn to love both his languages like she does, too.  At 11 she can do a passable British or Australian accent though when she speaks she is decidedly American because of me.  And I felt like doing a dance when she started using  the expression “turns out” repeatedly when describing some drama that happened at school.  Thanks to watching Glee she has picked up on some typical expressions (oh, and a few not so great ones like “to make out”). 

All in all this process takes time but seeing how well my first child managed, I shouldn’t worry too much about little Alex.  We’ll get there, one word at a time.  And we’ll try to enjoy the ride or should I say “voyage”. 

When good friends go

A few years ago an expat friend went back to the US.  Her husband's work mission had ended.  I felt sad to see her go, and I wrote a post about it.  I talked about how there were the expats who stayed, like me, and those who were destined to go back to their home countries, 24/7 supermarkets and friendly customer service.  But I took the post down after a day because I felt bad putting my friends into categories like that.

But here I am today facing much the same situation.  A dear friend is going back to Canada with her family. I've known her four years and we've had great talks, sometimes commiserating, sometimes missing our home cultures, sometimes revelling in our new culture.  Our kids played together and spoke Frenglish.  We drank countless cups of tea together and enjoyed conversations about motherhood, travel and anything and everything.  But those face-to-face conversations will become few and far between now. I know going back is the best thing for her and her family.  But the selfish part of me wishes she could stay.

So I am not the first to say it, but being an expat means facing these moments.  It means goodbyes and hellos and Skype sessions and international air transit that isn't always as glamorous as it seems.  It means meeting new expats, welcoming them, getting to know them, and wishing them well if/when they go back. When you are my kind of expat, the kind who is here for the long-haul, you have to get used to it.  You know people will come into your lives and enrich you and then they will go on to continue their journey elsewhere.  And that you have to continue your own journey.

But as my other fellow expats have told me, the ones who are probably staying a good long while like me, we've (still) got each other.  And if there is one thing being an expat has taught me, it's that distance doesn't mean that friendships and relationships with family will dwindle and fade away.  You may have to work a little harder at it, be more creative, but good friends stay good no matter which time zone they are in.

So bon voyage to my expat friends!  I know your wanderlust will bring you back in our neck of the woods sooner than you think.  And as they say in French, "ce n'est qu'un au revoir!" (We're just saying, "see you later/soon"!)

I'd like to dedicate this post to all my friends, near and far, coming and going and staying. You are all dear to me!

How the French do Halloween

Candy and pumpkins, check!

I thought about calling this post "How the French DON'T do Halloween."  But that wouldn't be exactly true.  They do celebrate Halloween, just in there own way.  That is to say, not exactly how North Americans do.

I was looking for some type of accessory for Juliette to be a vampire for her day care party last week.  We were in the biggest supermarket in our city, where they had dedicated an aisle to costumes.  I was surprised that nearly all the costumes were of the scary or dark kind: witches, grim reapers, vampires, skeletons. There were a few pumpkin costumes for the little ones and some called "gothic dolls" which were more like Monster High "light" for young girls.  But what about pirates, cowboys, fairies?  If you want a costume like that in France, you have to go to the toy section, thank you very much.

That is the thing about the French and Halloween.  When they aren't dissing it for being an "American" holiday they are complaining about it only being scary and gory.  My other expat friends have noticed this, too.  No, I tell the French naysayers!  You can be anything you want for Halloween in the US.  When I was a little schoolgirl I was anything from a doctor, tooth fairy, witch or school teacher.  Halloween may indeed have its origins in ghosts and ghouls, but it is also about any costume and being anything you want, for just a day or night.  Kind of like a Halloween American Dream fusion.  And though I did see a few kids dressed in non-scary costumes, the majority of those I saw going door-to-door this year were in black and bloody attire.

Speaking of trick-or-treating, I think I am doing my American parenting thing wrong.  Living in an apartment, I have never actually taken Juliette door-to-door.  When we saw some kids out around 5 pm last Saturday, she was at first perplexed, then wondering why they were all dressed in scary things.  For the record, she was also a cowgirl for the home parties we attended and hosted.  The vampire outfit was more in honor of her favorite TV show du jour, Chica Vampiro.

Those French parents who do not let their kids do trick-or-treating may (rightfully) say it's kind of dangerous.  They might also tell you that they already have a holiday where kids dress up, and that it's not scary (oh, please, stop with the Halloween is scary thing!).  That would be carnaval, the equivalent of mardi gras.  During carnaval children dress as anything, knights and princesses and animals.

Besides, many of my French students tell me, Halloween is just an American thing to make money!  Well, not exactly.  It is Celtic and Anglo-Saxon, but not exclusively American.  Some students make a point in telling me they celebrate All Saints' Day, the day after Halloween, which is a religious holiday.  Ok, so not only is Halloween a money-making opportnity in their eyes, but they have to get all sanctimonious on me!

I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree on Halloween, as on so many things.  They will never exactly get my giddiness about dressing up at work for Halloween (Bollywood princess this year) and I will never understand their love of silly slapstick comedians like Jerry Lee Lewis.  Can't we all just get along?

How to be exotic

The "eyes" have it.

"Madame est américaine," said the middle-aged woman in my stretching class two weeks ago.  She said it with a mix of pride and curiosity.  An American amid the sports mats and barefooted, mostly 50ish women who were warming up to...stretch.

"Ooohhh," the exercising ladies seemed to say collectively.  How exotic! In this pale blue room in an apartment complex in a small French city, there is a foreigner!  The teacher asked how to say my name and she repeated it a few times to get it right.  I felt their admiring or curious glances on me and was a little embarassed to be the center of attention just for my nationality.  No matter how much I try to imitate a French speaker, my accent betrays me, as it did this time.

Growing up in Alabama, somehow I was never considered exotic.  My strawberry blonde hair might have made me stand out a little, but since there are plenty of people of Scotch-Irish descent where I live, that wasn't that unusual.  In school, especially middle and high school, a little shy and uptight were more likely the words people would use to describe me.

But now that I live in France it is strange how "exotic" I have become.  It's like I am the Selma Hayek of my neighborhood.   It doesn't happen everyday but now and then I realize I am still very different from the people around me, just by my origins and accent.

Some people maybe are too shy themselves to point out that my accent isn't exactly local.  But when they do they may have a slew of questions for me.  Somehow I get bashful answering them, even though I encourage my students to ask me these things during our first lesson.  Somehow I would rather talk about my daughter or how she speaks English than my own history.

After 13 years in this country (plus one month, to be exact), I suppose I can still elicit questions.   "Is it hard to be away from your family?"  Yes.  "Do you like it here?"  Uh, depends on the day.  "Why did you come?"  For my husband.  Maybe I get tired of answering but they don't get tired of asking.

And I don't blame them.  I do the same when I meet another foreigner in France.  I barrage them with the same questions because I am curious, especially because I know what it's like to rip up your roots and plant yourself elsewhere.

Even Remi seems to forget we are "exotic" by being a "mixed" marriage.  When we saw a report about a Frenchman married to an Italian woman, he said, that must be funny to always have people asking about your accent and where you're from.  Yeah, like me, I said.

So I guess I'll have to get used to my tropical status.  I will always be that mom on the playground or schoolyard who talks to her kid in English.  The one who dresses up at work for Halloween.  The one who gives hugs to other Anglo colleagues instead of cheek kisses.  (Though I do the cheek kisses, too.)  Just call me Penelope Cruz or Shakira or, even, l'américaine.  That's me and I'll be happy to answer a few questions.  But just a few.

TMF Syndrome: it could happen to you

A lot of people are suffering from TMF lately. They might not even know it.  But once you hear the symptoms, you may realize you too are afflicted by this syndrome.

• Do you find yourself feeling a bit dazed?
• Do you have mood swings or feel a bit blue for no reason?
• Are you suffering from thermal shock?
• Are you a little bloated or have you recently gained weight?

If you've said yes to two or more of these, then keep reading.

• Are you wondering why you are not doing something fun and visiting some new place?
• Are you in need of a restaurant experience or decadent dessert everyday?
• Are you reluctant to unpack your suitcase because it will mean your vacation is truly over?

Ah, now we're getting somewhere.  You, and I, are suffering from Too Much Fun Syndrome.  TMF affects those who have had a rip-roaring time on holiday and now have to face the fact that it is over.  After several weeks of constantly exciting and fun experiences, it takes your body and mind time to re-adjust to everyday life.  The overeating and indulging must stop, goodbyes to family and friends must be said.  The warmth and sun of your vacation time zone yield to the rather chilly and grey weather of northern Europe, in my case.

Can it get any funner than this?

Some cases of TMF are complicated by JetLagitis.  This can be much more serious as your brain still truly believes it is on Central Time.  If you find yourself waking up and not knowing what continent or house you are in, it is a sure sign of JetLagitis.  Wondering why kids aren't in school even though you know your own kid is still in daycare is also a clear indicator (in the US most kids are back in school but not in France).  Wanting to flick light switches instead of pushing them, wanting to sleep all morning or eat a hearty meal at 3 pm are also dead giveaways.

Luckily TMF with JetLagitis complications is not fatal.  It just sometimes feels like you will never sleep properly again and that going to work is the absolute worst thing in the world.  The first day back you might not want to speak to neighbors or anyone.  You may be tempted to cocoon yourself in the false reality of still being on holiday (in my case, a place I still consider home).  Your eyes can tear up a bit thinking about where you were and who you were with just last week and realizing you're not there.

Treatment is varied but actually kind of fun.  Periodically give yourself or the patient food you brought back from holiday (Pop Tarts in my case).  Allow yourself to look at holiday pictures and relive some memories, but don't obsess over it.  And slowly start seeing friends in your current place of residence.  Get out and soak in as much sunlight and fresh air in your current surroundings to remind yourself of the real time zone.

And give it time.  And don't forget to have fun where you live.  Don't save it all up for the next holiday or you could get a bigger case of TMF.

Yours truly, Dr. Milam 

Song of the South

We are back in Alabama now after about six days of road-tripping through parts of Canada and the northeastern US.  And it seems it only takes a few days of me being back in my old stomping grounds for memories to start flowing back.  I don't even know if memory is the right word. More like feelings and flashes, sounds and smells.

It feels like a poem or stream of consciousness babbling in my head. I return here and almost step back into my old life- walking down to the mailbox on baking hot days, entering supermarkets with cold a/c blasting and browsing Betty Crocker cake boxes- as if I never left.  My accent seems to come back as if by magic (or do I put it on to fit in again?), droppin' the "g" and using expressions I almost forgot existed. 

I forget that I wasn't always happy in my old workaday life here, that every day wasn't like being on vacation.  Because now I am on vacation and that does make a difference.  But home has a special flavor that I love to taste again.  Here are a few impressions and pictures…

One of my mom's crepe myrtle trees.

Dappled sunshine in my mom's yard. Crepe myrtle trees in every color.

Cicadas and crickets singing all day long. Balmy evenings and slightly cooler mornings.

Peaches and corn on the cob and farmer's markets.  Southern-style decorations and tanned college girls in pony tails.

Durbin's Farms in Chilton County.

Middle-aged men in college football polo shirts, American flags everywhere and pick-up trucks that look like monster trucks to me (and especially Juliette).

Another pick-up, er, monster truck.

US-themed bunting.

The renovated split level and one-level houses in my mom's neighborhood. A few front porches with gracious ferns hanging on the ceiling. Shutters that don't necessarily shut but are for decoration.

Familiar intersections and shops interspersed with new places I've never heard of.  Darkened movie theaters on hot summer days, back-to-school sales while I'm still playing.

People talking about their weekend on the lake or travelers coming home from beach trips on the Gulf of Mexico. Little children who say, "yes, ma'am." (Not mine, for the record, though she should take a cue from the others…)

Things that I used to slightly scorn or outright shun seem cozy now, as I smile kindly at my surroundings. 

Sometimes you need to leave home to appreciate it more.  And as I still have just shy of two weeks, I have to say (like this air freshener) "it's all good."

Pete the Cat says it, too.

My country or yours?

It happened the other night.  And unfortunately it wasn't the first time.  It was Sunday July 5th.  I told Juliette to try the watermelon.  I reminded her that it was part of the July 4th menu (since we had missed it the day before) and that's what people in America often eat on this day. She replied in the withering way that today's pre-tweens do, that "We aren't in America."  And to add insult to injury she said it in French.


I quickly replied that she is half-American and I am American.  I didn't push the issue too much, but inside my American soul I was feeling a little wounded.

Sometimes I'm not sure I'm going about this bilingual bicultural family thing quite right.  I only speak to her in English, even in front of her friends.  I will sometimes say something in French to her and them to make things easier.  However, this year my little girl has really played the part of the French first grader to the letter.  Like coming home with new schoolyard expressions and "I know it all" attitudes that just seem that much snarkier when spoken in French.  I find myself asking her (pleading, sometimes) to speak to me in English.

"But you understand French!" she'll say with a sigh.  And she's right.  But I tell her it's easier for me to speak in English and I do understand it better.  When I don't understand her because she's mumbling in French, she gets exasperated with me.  And I can't always play dumb and pretend I don't understand.  Sometimes I put on an exaggerated American accent and say something in French to prove that I'm not French.  Abit like the dog Pollux in this cartoon who pronounces his "r" like an Englishman.  At least we get a good laugh about it.


I'm learning to back off and let her respond in French but I keep on talking in English.  I have noticed some encouraging signs though.  She likes watching her Disney shows in English and will often revert back to English for bathtime or when we make the Playmobil characters talk.  Bedtime stories are usually in English and at this calm time of night she tends to speak more English.  And when she wakes up and I come in her room she will invariably say, "Carry me!" in a sleepy voice and in English.

If it sounds like I'm keeping score, it's because I kind of am.  And I know it shouldn't be about one language or culture "winning" but I feel it's my duty to make sure she has that exposure to the English language and my heritage (which is hers, too).  I think I would be remiss not to give her this side of her origins.  I suppose it doesn't matter if every word coming out of her mouth is English, as long as she can understand it and communicate with my family.

As far as culture goes, she is part of the French education system and so can't help but be influenced by it.  She's growing up here, visiting French historical sites and soaking up this architecture.  It's not such a bad thing.  But I want her to know there is another part of her background, another country and set of traditions that make up her personal history.

Which brings us back to July 4th.  This year I guess I didn't do my own American heritage much justice either.  I bought watermelon but rushed out after our hamburger and rice dinner that night to meet with friends.  That's why I didn't eat it till the 5th.  I spent part of the evening of the 4th on a sidewalk café next to cobbled streets sipping some daquiri type drink and laughing with English-speaking friends.  There were no fireworks and I didn't wear red, white and blue.  But I still wanted to hear all about what my family and friends did back home.

I guess I'll have to let Juliette pick and choose which parts of her two cultures she wants to celebrate.  That's sort of what I do, after all. 

Things you can't find (easily!) in France

When I first arrived in this barren land called France back in 2002, they didn't sell Oreos.  Don't even get me started on cream cheese.  And Starbucks had yet to open its first branch on French soil.  Since then, things have changed (for the bettah!).  We can now get all of the above products fairly easily.  And though there is no Starbucks in my neck of the woods, you can buy the iced coffees in the supermarket now.

But the gap between the US and France is still wide.  There are sadly some things still lacking on my supermarket shelves that make me sigh and miss Wal-Mart and Target so badly.  So, as a follow-up to my recent post of things you can only find in France or Europe, here's a frustrating list of things that are few and far between in the land of camembert.

1. Mega boxes of medication.  I bought this a few years ago in the States, at Sam's to be exact. It came in a two-pack.  Two bottles containing 500 generic ibuprofen tablets.  I still haven't even put a dent in them.  In France you cannot, for the moment, just hop down to the supermarket and pick up generic meds.  They can only be bought in pharmacies and in much smaller quantities.  (This might be a good thing since with the quanitity of painkillers I take, I might be working on an ulcer.)  Generics only recently got popular here, by the way.

2. Cheap contact lens solution. When my family is coming to visit me and ask me if I need anything, I often tell them to bring this.  It is so much cheaper in the US, compared to the dozen euros for one bottle of Bausch and Lomb in France.  I had one opthamologist tell me if I bought the cheap stuff on the bottom shelf in the supermarket it would hurt my eyes in the long-run.  Besides, I generally only find this stuff in the pharmacy here anyway.  Go, Wal-Mart Equate brand!

3. Molasses. Don't tell anybody, but one of my students in the food industry gave me this bottle.  I made him and his team a gingerbread cake with part of it.  And they were amazed that people actually made recipes with what for the French is considered a "waste" product.  I have yet to find it in stores here but someone said health food stores carry it.

4. Vanilla extract.  It's hard to find the real thing here.  In France they sell sucre vanillé, which is a little bag of sugar that has been soaked or stored with vanilla.  But I don't find it nearly as flavorful as what my mom brought me last Christmas in her suitcase.

5. Affordable chocolate chips.  Although I was a bit surprised to see how the prices had gone up the last time I was back, it's still cheaper to get a big bag there than in France.  For some reason the bags they sell here are little bitty, as if to tell people not to make too many and watch their weight.  I have yet to try the self-serve bins with chips in some supermarkets.  Then and only then will I tell my mom I'm good in the chip department.  Thank heaves for her care packages all these years!

6. Affordable baking soda.  You can find it here, but it seems pricey when I know it's dirt cheap in the US.  Another thing that throws me off is that here it seems to be exclusively for cleaning and is often found in the cleaning products aisle or next to salt and vinegar.  It's rather unheard of to use it in recipes here.

7. Oodles of cake mixes!  The French do have ready-made cake mixes, but perhaps it's their penchant for home-made or the presence of bakeries on every corner that makes the baking aisle seem so small in my eyes.  So on a trip to the UK a few weeks back I picked up this carrot cake mix.  Like the package says, "Love Betty!"  She sure helps us busy moms out!

8. Frosting!  What goes better with your cake mix than some ready-made frosting.  They might sell some here but it's rather limited in terms of flavors and is often quite a small package.  Again, maybe they are encouraging us to make our own?  This particular can came from my friend Elsie who had a friend buy it for her in the UK (frosting smuggling ring!).

9. Cheap peanut butter.  You can find it but sometimes the prices seem outrageous. €3.12 for 340grams (12 oz.) whereas this US one contains more than twice as much (794 grams/28 oz.) at basically the same price.  I'm not a huge peanut butter fan but I think I'd be paying through the nose if I were. 

10. Cheap bubble bath.  Another thing I asked my dad to bring last time was bubble bath.  For some strange reason I can't find it much around here.  Or if I do it's in small quanitities or in a decorative bottle and thus more expensive.  Don't French kids take bubble baths?  And shower gel just doesn't foam up as much.  Believe me, I've tried.

So what do you have trouble finding where you live?  Even in the same country there can be regional differences in product distribution. 

A special shout-out to my family and friends who made this post possible through their care packages and gifts and suitcases filled with Wal-Mart goodies! 

Seedless or seedful

The main difference between France and America can be summed up with one tiny example, no bigger than the top part of your thumb.  So small and yet so significant: the seedless grape.  You can find seedless grapes in France, but they are not the norm.  In fact, most supermarkets don’t even carry them.  But in the US you are hard pressed to find grapes with seeds. 

Why?  My two cents worth: in France they like for things to be difficult.  The harder the better.   Passing your high school exam in France is a rite of passage because it involves about a week’s worth of tests, including oral ones.  Learning to drive is nothing short of an ordeal, with a tricky written test called “le code” and a 35 minute driving test that potentially involves parallel parking.  Not to mention that getting an exam date can take months!  

It sometimes seems that life in France is a series of hurdles and tests to be passed at nearly every turn. Maybe people like to suffer or at least whine about it afterwards.  Don’t even get me started on anything involving the government administration.  I spent my time in the civil servant equivalent of hell each time I had to get my foreign visa renewed before I actually got married here.  

Meanwhile, back in the US of A, we seem to pride ourselves on the exact opposite.  Convenience is our motto.  That’s why we invented convenience stores.  And Lunchables and pharmacies that are actually open on Sundays.  And drive-through doughnut shops!  And, oh, yeah, we sell seedless grapes!  Because why would you want to spend all that time spitting out seeds (or like some French people do, actually swallowing them), when you can just enjoy the sweetness more simply.  For Americans, this just seems to be a given.  And it makes feeding kids a heck of a lot simpler.  

 

To be honest, I will admit the taste of the grapes here is different, heartier, richer.  Perhaps the breeding to get seedless grapes has indeed made the flavor more standardized in the US.  But as I said, it really does epitomize for me how radically different these two cultures can be.  The French system isn’t all bad.  The idea of slow food (actually an Italian concept) vs. fast food and taking your time to enjoy and savor is a worthy one.  But sometimes I wish the French would lighten up a bit.  Life doesn’t have to be so hard and tortured.  Strangely enough there is a French expression about having a problem, in which the word for a pit or seed is used to signify a problem: on a eu un pépin.  Literally, we had a seed.  

Maybe it’s all part of a “toughen up” approach the French favor.  Suffering to build character?  When Juliette got her booster shot last month, I expected the doctor to pull out stuffed animals and reward her with a cute band-aid.  Instead he told her to wrap her arms in a certain way and that I was to hold her still.  He instructed her not to look but she did anyway, and he said neutrally but firmly, well, too bad for you.  There she was looking so fragile with her blonde curls over her bare shoulders, and suddenly big fat tears were dropping down her red cheeks.  The doctor, who is actually a really nice man, said she cried because she had looked.  Then he put a bit of cotton and a non-descript piece of medical tape on the spot.  And that was that.  

I guess I like a bit more sugar-coating in my seedless life.  I expect sympathetic smiles and reassuring words from health care workers and waiters who are happy to see me in their seating zone.  I’m American like that.  And no matter how long I live in this seedful country, I will always be a little surprised and very nostalgic for my more convenient and comfortable homeland.

It's a flag thing

Last week two big things happened.  It was July 4th, Independence Day for Americans, and France played against Germany in the World Cup, having reached the round of 16.  Which means that my apartment window sported an American flag and that some of my neighbors and local stores got their French flags out.

The local supermarket showing its colors.

Americans are flag-proud, maybe too much so, according to other countries.  But at least we aren't ashamed of showing it off.  Any old excuse is good, national holidays, of course, but also just because we feel like it.  Remi is always amazed at how many houses have flags outside in my mom's neighborhood back home. 

But France is another story.  Besides July 14th, Bastille Day, and some holidays celebrating war victories, you would be hard-pressed to find people flying "le tricolor" (as their flag has three colors).  Except when their football (er, soccer) team is doing particularly well.  To me this seems like the French only proudly display their flag when sports teams are winning.

Since France got eliminated from the World Cup, life is getting back to normal, and most flags have disappeared from people's balconies and yards.  But I snapped a few pics before they took them down.

I fluttered lonely as a flag.

I asked a student of mine why French people weren't so keen on flag-waving and she had an interesting take on it.  She said maybe people associate the flag with the French Revolution and more recently, with the Front National political party. This party is extremely right wing and at times anti-foreigner, and their logo happens to have a design similar to the French flag.  So, my student reasoned, flag-bearing can be associated with nationalism.  

Oh, dear, sometimes I think the French need to take it easy a bit!  But then again, the Germans don't always like singing their anthem, as it brings back some bad memories from WWII.  Each country has their own cultural baggage, like the Confederate flag in the US.

One good thing, Juliette can support both of her nationalities at the same time with
this dress!

 

How do you feel about your country's flag?  Is it common to fly it at any time of the year?

In loving memory

It's what every expat fears the most.  The call. That's how my friends Caroline and Crystal both ominously refer to that call we don't want to get.  In my case it was an email that, just like Deidre said a while back, was titled simply with the person in question.  And I knew that probably meant things hadn't gone well over the night of Sunday to Monday for my grandma.

When a loved one passes away we feel helpless as expats.  We aren't there to help friends and family, and we feel guilty that we didn't see the person as much these past years because we've been away.   In this case my mom said to wait and come back at Christmas, which will also be a tough time this year.  And I agree and understand.  My being there now wouldn't make my grandma come back and she knows I loved her.  Of course I tell myself I could have called a bit more often, or emailed more.  We saw each other on Skype and spoke on holidays and she got to see her great-granddaughter Juliette three times in these last five years (check out this video from when they were together in 2009). 

So I've been calling daily to see how my family is holding up and somehow it makes things a little better.  But being far from the events makes it harder for me to truly realize she's gone.  I don't have the same closure as the others. 

Instead I lit a candle in the church near my apartment and Juliette and I sat in a little chapel where I quietly read her a book we'd found at the library about a girl who misses her grandma.  It's been hard for a five-year old to process all this and why her mom is weepy.  She goes from asking me where grandma is and then telling me she wants to go to heaven and see her or saying she never wants to die.  It's heavy stuff at that age and I try my best to explain without scaring her.  Her little arms around my neck are a comfort.

So today I'll think about what a spunky, cute little grandma she was.  And how I hugged her tight the last time I left the US, thinking a little too pragmatically that it might well be the last time.  Unfortunately that came true but I know we made some great memories together. 

With Juliette in the summer of 2009.

Train travel and (almost) touching the clouds

I always feel excited when I travel by train. Correction, when I travel by train for fun and not work. So I was feeling doubly happy when I took the train last Saturday with Juliette to go visit my friend Crystal. The trip was all I'd hoped for! Things were gray and rainy when we set out, but it didn't dampen my spirits.  It was truly strange to pull into the Charles de Gaulle airport station and not get off.  It's the place where my many trips to the US begin and end (sadly).

Even in the rain, the view out the window was still lush and different enough from my flatter part of France to keep my head dreaming.

We even got to sit in first class on one train since it was rather packed and the other passengers (including a French-Moroccan guy travelling with his American wife) said it was no big deal.  It is cozier!

And there at the Grenoble station my good friend Crystal and her husband Max were waiting for us.  And so began an extended weekend of fun and girlfriendly chats and visits in the mountain air.

It's silly to say, I told my hosts as we were driving around, but the clouds are closer here.  Being higher up I felt like I could touch the clouds and mist.  I really do find the landscapes there so inspiring and understand why my friend likes it so much!  Below you can see two different views from her apartment, one on a cloudy day, another on a clear day.

Crystal kindly showed us around an amazing museum and its gorgeous gardens on Sunday.  Great views inside and out!

Monday we headed into Grenoble for some city exploring and to take the cable cars up to La Bastille for some more breathtaking views.

I know my eyes are closed in that last one but it was a hoot anyway cause we got Juliette to take it for us and you can see I was really having a ball!

But we did have to head back home.  Crystal knows what a great time we had and how thankful I am to her and Max for letting us stay with them.  It's so important to chat with someone who knows where you're from and what you're going through in a foreign country.  I'm lucky to have friends like her and others I've met through work and in my town.

So we rode the rails again to get home and I tried to enjoy the train experience again.  This time we had to change in Paris in Gare du Nord.  And of course a Happy Meal at the McDonald's across from the station as we waited for our train connection was in order.

So, until next time in my neck of the woods, girlfriend, thanks again!!