Happy Easter.Les grenouilles have been treating us to an evening symphony.
It's been many years since I've lived far enough from people populated areas to enjoy nature's sounds. For being so quiet, it's really quite loud.
I love the songs of the birds, the neighing of the horse next door, have even gotten used to Monsieur Coq and his hourly reveille and now the frogs have begun their courtship rituals.
The sound is fantastic—a deep, throaty croaking, calling out to princesses everywhere, 'Donnez-moi un bisou!'
When you're somewhere new there are so many things to figure out. Even in English it can be challenging to know the norms and customs of a place—which is the best grocery store, where's the post office, where do you find a bike rack for the car? Now put all this in French and it becomes even more challenging and, to me, more exciting and fun. Well, on a good day.
So, you create this filter to get through all the newness, just to manage the essentials and maybe have a bit of personal connection there too. The grocery store has been fairly straight forward. I know the context of the checkout situation. You smile, say hello, and frantically pack your groceries to avoid impatient tuts from those in line behind you. Same in Ireland. Then, you hear the total spent, here it's said at rapid speed but I'm trying to figure it out without looking, you pass over your cash or laser card, smile again and say goodbye. This is easy enough. Last week I even got the courage to ask for a carte de fidélité. It was so gratifying to be understood and to communicate. I am now a proud and loyal card carrying Carrefour customer.
La Poste had me totally intimidated. I don't know why except maybe for the memory of being on honeymoon and being cut in line a few times and then not being able to figure out how to get a stamp for my postcard. Post offices in general kind of freak me out…..make of this what you will.
Anyway, I had to mail some things and kept putting it off. The word for stamp, le timbre, kept eluding me. It doesn't have a similar root or sound to it like some other words. For example, ascenseur is elevator and that makes sense; you ascend, elevate, are lifted. So working up my nerve and having Sofia help me repeat, "Je voudrais un timbre, s'il vous plait', we headed in, Leo bumping up the stairs in the buggy and the two big kids under threat of something awful if they embarrassed me.
It turned out to be easier than I'd thought. There was a line with people sizing each other up, wondering who was the weakest and therefore most easily queue jumped. But there was also a very nice machine where you can weigh and appropriately stamp your post. I was staring at it, trying to decipher which region I needed when Sofia suggested, 'Mommy why don't you choose English?' Oh, how easy! It's usually this way with me. I worry over something, make it HUGE, nearly insurmountable and then poof! piece of cake.
We still have to buy the bike rack but I've navigated www.google.fr and found one at a shop called Feu Vert. Who can guess the English translation? It's a clever name for an auto/bike and sundry shop.
I am reminded daily why I went along with this particular adventure. Vive la différence!
The shops in France are closed on Sunday. I should have known this. It is romantic, a balm to the consumerism of Ireland and the US. People take time off for lunch and still believe in a day of rest. A slow and easy lifestyle is what we've dreamed of for years.
It's only that in our dreams we didn't arrive on Sunday afternoon with three hungry and tired children. We decided to give it a go and find somewhere for a quick take–away or maybe one shop open with bread and lunchmeat. We drove and drove, shops taunting us from behind closed shutters, kids complaining and tired.
Then, there it was. The sign of life we'd been searching for--an InterMarche proclaiming: Ouverture Non-Stop! As Paul turned into the strangely vacant parking lot our hearts fell. Again, closed shutters, no sign of life.
The ouverture non-stop carried a hidden message that we Americans didn't at first decipher. Of course it meant non-stop, but only between the hours of 8am to 8pm and only Monday through Saturday. Non-stop is something different here. The closed on Sunday is implied, understood.
So it was back to the house, which thankfully had dried pasta and jarred sauce in the cupboards from previous holiday makers. There was even a bottle of red wine. I whipped up a quick dinner like on one of those cooking shows where you have to make something in 15 minutes using only four ingredients. Et voila! Our first home cooked dinner in France was cheese tortellini with Sainsbury's basil and garlic pasta sauce.
Tomorrow is Sunday again and I'm ready for it. Cupboards and fridge stocked. This easy going way of life is for me after all.
We have been working on the move to France for nearly 9 months now. It's like a fourth child that continues to be late…late….late.
First we were going to go on temporary visas for 4 months until our permanent ones came in….that didn't happen. Then we had to renew the big kids' passports before we could get their permanent visa. Then Christmas came and understandably nothing happened. We planned on taking the ferry across in January but the ferry doesn't run in January. So, visas came through but we couldn't leave.
Paul has a work trip to the States that came up for February so we decided to wait until that's done. The big girl's birthday is early February so of course we have to do that here before we can leave. And finally, date picked for the big move. All systems go.
AND…….
The announcement that Paul's team meeting would be, of all places, HERE IN IRELAND! It's never been here before. Instead of spending our first week figuring out our new French lives, the meeting is here.
So, one more week. Am I not supposed to leave Ireland? This is becoming strangely strange.
Tea made, perhaps a warm scone with cream and jam, you relax. Ahhhh. The first sip of tea is heaven. It quenches thirst, warms your bones, and is a balm for windblown and frayed nerves. Of course the experience is enhanced by the wit, laughter and company of good friends. I'm a terrible one for crushes. I think guys are cute and I haven't lost my appreciation for them just because I've gotten older and have a wonderfully handsome husband. Mine are all unattainable, no one I know or will ever meet. Most of you know of my tearful appreciation of Brad Pitt induced by my first pregnancy. I don't think any of us could say we're too old or mature to eschew the fun giddiness of the crush. And if the New Moon audience's sighs of appreciation when Taylor Lautner revealed his impeccable pecs are anything to go by, I am certainly not alone. Although, for the record, I am an Edward girl.
I simply feel it wouldn't be fair to move here and not find an Irish hunk to crush on. Don't laugh but mine is the rugby player, Brian O'Driscoll. He embodies all things masculine and healthily Irish to me. His dimples, wavy hair and smiling eyes, coupled with playing what is to me the most manly sport, make him irresistible. A few years ago O2 had an ad campaign with Ireland's rugby players emerging from the sea on the sides of buses all over the Dublin area. Brian's larger-than-life image breaking through the waves, game face on, rugby ball firmly tucked under the arm did it for me.
Paul has his Irish crush as well. You didn't think I was selfish in this did you? Rachel Allen does it for him. She's a 'cookery program' host, author and teacher at Ballymaloe (pronounced Ballymaloooo) a well-known Irish bed & breakfast/cookery school in East Cork. I think I can speak for Paul when I say that he appreciates her beauty as well as her wrap dresses that sometimes reveal a bit of décolletage as she whips up a tasty weeknight dinner.
Anyone else have a crush? Fancy someone others may not find attractive, say Jeff Goldblum?
Today, the big kids and I decided to tackle the hill into our estate with cardboard sleds. I had them put their helmets, elbow, hand and knee pads on over layers of sweaters, coats and scarves. They were puffy but protected.
To the grit problem. The reason the hill is so bad in an estate right in the middle of the town is because the council here and in every other town on the island ran out of grit. One of the lads standing around watching the taxi struggle told us. He was only about eleven years old but stood there leaning against the stop-signless stop sign post, legs casually crossed at the ankle, arms akimbo. He already had the Irish male shoulders, slightly curved in and he gestured with his chin as he spoke of the disgrace. "They've only enough grit to last through tomorrow. That's why they aren't using any here on this hill." "Oh, really?" say I. "We'll have to wait for it to arrive. It's coming from some other who-knows-where country on a cargo ship to Cork." I had to stifle my grin. This eleven year old kid had totally picked up his father's or uncle's mannerisms and was relaying the message like it was his own. And it was. He owned it with his shrug and his 'who-knows-where' and 'cargo ship to Cork' of all things. When you live far from family you have to keep them alive for your children. Kids have short memories and they need stoking. We talk about our family in Texas all the time. We talk on the phone with them, Skype, and try to visit in both directions.
The baby is now the same age Rowan was when we moved here. I look at Leo and remember taking Rowan away from his grandparents at such a young age. The night before we left Texas I had a panic attack. What are we doing? Why are we doing it? What are we leaving behind?
Rowan is now 5 and some change. I wonder if Leo will remember anything about Ireland. Probably not. He will only remember what we tell him. He will remember what we keep alive in his memory. Just as Rowan 'remembers' Texas. What is real to him is the love of his grandparents, aunt and uncle. So when he says, "Texas is the best" or "I want to go back to Texas", what he's really saying is, "My family is the best" and "I want to be near them again".
So it should come as no surprise that tonight he found a secret tunnel leading all the way to Grandmother's door. In reality he was cozied up on the sofa under his green covers, bum in the air. But to him it was a magic way to see her again. Sofia got in on the act and they both burrowed down together, giggling and whispering before coming back up again with news of snow in Texas. How they'd seen Aunt Kate and Georgia and then taken another tunnel down to Austin to see their friends.
So, I won't be surprised if when Leo is older he's talking of grandparents and imagining spending time with them. Unless we are back by then and he can actually see them in the flesh, get to know them on his own, and be squeezed and cuddled in person and not just in pretend through the computer screen when we all throw our arms out wide and kiss, kiss through the ether of Skype.
Oh, and Hook'em Horns!
Start as you mean to go on.
It works in raising children, in doing a job, in a friendship; sometimes to your detriment if it turns out you've started doing it wrong. My goal is to start 2010 as I mean to go on. I want a year of peace and joy with a little excitement thrown in--say no to things that I don't really want to do, get up earlier, jog more, laugh for at least 15 minutes a day, not at all once, mind, hug and kiss my four people, and sure why not, move to France.
First I have to learn passable French and try to be the calm in the midst of all this change for my kids as we leave here and start again; all the newness.
But before I can do any of this I have to wrap up my feelings for Ireland. That was the major impetus for starting this blog. I can't believe how much I've had to say and yet how much remains unsaid. I don't know if I'll ever truly say goodbye to this place. It seems like I was always on the road to here; albeit blissfully unaware of the pull. It was good to have this last Christmas--this last connection to all these people that have meant so much to our experience here.
On a lighter, culinary note; a reminiscence about our first new years day here in 2006. In these four years there's been a sea change in what's available food wise. Since we've been here they've added Polish sections to nearly every grocery store, the organic products at Tesco aren't just bananas anymore but rice cakes, pasta sauce and sweet potatoes and the introduction of 'American' style pancake batter, boxed cake mixes, and Oreo cookies hasn't gone unnoticed.
Back up four years before this awakening. On new years day I always make a black-eyed pea soup that I like to call 'good luck soup'. It requires only a few things: carrots, onions, celery, sausage, and of course, black-eyed peas. I searched everywhere for the peas…dried or canned, they weren't to be found. At every shop I asked in my Texas, newly arrived, fresh off the boat accent, "Do you know if you have any black-eyed peas?" And every time I got a giggle, confusion, a look that said, is this girl having me on?. One perplexed clerk even asked his manager and came back with the answer, "Tell her to check the record shop"…..ha, ha, ha very funny, I get it. The Black-Eyed Peas.
Needless to say I didn't have my soup those first years. This and last though, I've found them. In the can at Tesco and dried at the health shop, only they're called black eye beans. I guess the American name for them would be just too funny; imagine Fergie grinding to 'My Humps' inside that little can.
