( photo by Brent Curtis )
I’ve never moved out of country before. For some, this is no big deal. For me, it’s a new adventure. The brie is always more ripe on the other side. You have grand ideas and hopes and new plans for your life “over there.” It’ll be different. It’ll be better. It’ll be fun and exciting. Then, when you get there you see what it’s really like. I can’t believe it’s been a year. When we headed out to France we said we’d rent for a year and figure out where to buy a house. So far, we’re still renting and not signed on a house. Though we’re excited about a house that will suit us to a tee. Nothing is set yet, but if it all works out, we can close this move-to-France chapter and begin our life as farmers.
But what the hell did I expect for a year in France and what actually happened? The biggest shortcoming I see is my French. You’d think that living a year in France would improve your French. Well let me say right here and now, if you have a Visa card, you do not need to learn French to live in France. My comprehension is impressive, buy my recall is atrocious. My lack of language is not mirrored my lack of motivation. I want to speak French. I want to speak French well. I hope to woo people with my cute outfits and fancy French so that they will buy my meat and proudly serve it in their restaurant. And so, I’ve taken a more guerilla approach to my studies because whatever it was I was doing before was not working. In the last two weeks, my approach has been working.
What else … I thought a year in France would be a long time. It’s not. I can’t imagine uprooting my family and moving them out here for only a year. If I moved back today, I’d spend most of my time recreating the things I love about France into my everyday life. This poses a huge problem living in America, as Americans are work-aholics. You see this most clearly in their inability to sit the fuck down for a minute and drink a coffee. In Southwest France, there are no to-go cups. No one walks around with a latte in hand on the way to work. They sit at the bar and knock back an espresso if in a hurry; otherwise they sit down at a table and enjoy a coffee. It doesn’t take long. In fact, I know I’ve waited in line in America for my to-go latte longer than it took me to sit down and have an espresso here in France. I do love America, but I wish they would take a minute to have a good lunch or drink a coffee. This spoken as a former latte lugging, commuting yuppie with too much pointless unread email who has decided to step into the 00’s and live life.
The internets reduce isolation. I’m connected to everyone. I’m sure that but a few years ago, I would be writing different words about my experience. The internet has had a HUGE impact on my feeling great about the big move. I talk weekly face to face(ish) with my Mom on Skype. I can read that a cat was stuck up a tree or that a strong wind is headed to Seattle in the morning headlines. Or that Riri wore (or dare I say whore) a crazy outfit to the Grammys. I can watch video of my friend’s dance performance. In some ways, being out here is no different than living in Seattle (except you can buy foie gras). I have a few friends that believe this is all a ruse. I’m still in Seattle, living in my crazy craftsman house pretending that I’ve actually taken the family to France. But I have. I did move. And everyday as I drive the winding road to e.leclerc. I think to myself, “holy shit. I love it here!” No joke. But please read that with “holy shit. I love it here” accompanied by Fun Radio playing Lady Gaga’s latest Poker Face moment. France is okay. I think I’ll stay some more.
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Tags: curtis family in france, family, move to france
The Kangaroos Aren’t Hungry
It only took the once. She asked in a kind, up-sell voice if we wanted the kangaroo food for a dollar. Having three kids, avoiding the “let’s all share” lesson, we quickly grabbed three bags. We saw the alligators (from America) the CUTE Koalas, the perky little Tasmanian devil and (at last) the petting kangaroo area. Pre-paid food in hand, we dashed over to delight and woo the ever-cuddly kangaroos. You could see it in their eyes before we arrived. They were full. Not interested. Seen it. Been there. Done with it. You’re just another crazy kid with puffed rice, so scram. Graciously we pet the two kangaroos who couldn’t be bothered to move, no doubt from food coma (the otheres were in the kangaroo rest zone off limits to visitors), and moved on to the hundred year old tortoise. I have been to the Central Coast Reptile Park before. Before the pre-pre-paid kangaroo food and the kangaroos were EVERYWHERE. They loved us. It was my favorite part of the park. And so now I know, that magic time is over. Cancelled by the grabbing of an extra buck on entrance. So when Kyralee asks you at the entrance of the animal park if you’d “loyk to boy sam kangarow food?” … keep your money because they won’t be eating. I’m sure this generalizes to all animal parks and customer feeding schemes.
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Tags: australia, central coast, kangaroos, reptile park
It wasn’t said literally, but that was the facial expression. As I visited friends and family with many questions, the reactions seem to fall in three buckets. Those that are excited, those that believe we’re doomed for failure and those still struggling with the whole farmer thing as we appear to know nothing at all about the subject and they know more. I found myself repeating the phrase, “yes, I know … I know nothing about farming” and “I know, we’re crazy, but …” But really, what does it matter? There were also those who advised me to reread Charlotte’s Web. Now had I said that I’ve landed a job at a high tech company in Toulouse, the pay isn’t great, but the job looks fun. Those faces would have been supportive. Congratulatory. Excited that we landed so well after the big uproot. But then what would’ve been my adventure? A kiss good-bye to the family, an hour commute on the road one-way, meetings, valuable time spent arguing about nothing, moral events. Yes, I’m knocking the rat race. I like living life on the edge. I spent much of my life in the arts and almost equivalent time in high-tech start-ups which both satisfy that risky way of work. Nobody knows us, we are going to conquer the world, we have no money, but we’re going to make it big. What have we got to lose? Nothing if you’re in the arts. Quite a bit if you’re in a high-tech start-up. I see farming as the perfect blend of risky without a huge loss. A girl’s gotta eat don’t she? I need to buy a house. I need to eat. After that, what’s left? Some clothes I suppose. School is free and great. Healthcare is virtually free and great. Now I need to work on being a great (or okay) parent. I need to play with my children. I need to teach them to be considerate of others, to solve problems on their own, to drive themselves to accomplish what they want to be. The great appeal of this venture is that we can work at home with our children. At their age, they will LOVE the responsibility. I have to choose who gets to help with the dishes. The children absolutely thrive on adding value to the family. Sure the cynics will scoff at this as a phase or “wait ‘til they’re ten” … yadda yadda yadda. For the time being, they will love a role. They will love to own something. The thing that stood out most of all with my visit to my old digs was after the big look and the crazyness of me farming was out in the air and off the table, almost every single person reflected on some farming or farming-like experience they had in their life. It may have been tough or fun or maybe an interesting point in their life, but they shared it with me. I listened excitedly and attentively. How sweet is it that one can look back on their life and fondly reminisce the time they kept chickens? How cute the chickens were, but turned out chickens weren’t for them or more commonly, “what a great time that was.” What are people sharing now? That they watched every episode of Lost and it was great? That they finally got that home movie room completed? What part of the soul does this satisfy? What part of the community did this affect? Most of this type of stuff will be replaced by the newest, greatest home entertainment and hip-cool episode with the new Johnny Depp (he is hot, though!). I suppose what I discovered after leaving the dream was that what I’m intending to do strikes a chord with people. People who’ve never farmed a day in their life vehemently clarifying how absolutely hard this way of life is. You will never, EVER be able to leave! It’s ALL OVER FOR YOU if you choose this way of life. And here I sit, a prisoner in my house as my youngest takes her daily nap, which occurs everyday at the same time each day, everyday. And it’s not so bad. I get time to read. Time to write. Time to clean up and think. Seeing as I’ve never farmed before in my entire life, I have no idea. Maybe I’ll be a prisoner to the animals. Maybe I’ll never get to leave. Somehow, I doubt it or at the very least, I question it. I’ll never know unless I try. Then I too will have my stories that I reflect on fondly as my friend shares with me this crazy idea about quitting it all and starting a small farm. Oh maw gaw, I’ll say, I did that for a spell and it was the best time of my life …
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Tags: curtis family in france, family, farming, france, move to france
Knots Nuts
My husband bought a book on knots (expanded edition!). It’s written by this guy.
My son LOVES this book. I have nothing further, your honor.
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Tags: family, farming, knots
Vous Comprenez?
There was a point in my life when I was FLUENT in Spanish. More specifically, fluent in Spanish with the buying and selling of expensively priced costume jewelry. Oh how the mehee-canas loved me. Shortly after that, I moved up to the great northwest and lost all but those phrases exclaimed by my favorite mouse and yours, Señor Speedy Gonzales. El Gringo Pussygato, “¡Arriba, arriba, arriba, ándale, ándale, olé, olé, olé, ándale!” But, I was fluent. I used to be. Now, as I learn French the crazy roman idiosyncrasies that English left out as it evolved (linguists can splian I’m sure) comes naturally. Spanish and French structures are not all that different. Pero, Mais, But the verbs are far apart. For the first eight months, I’ve been slack on my French language study. There is too much sun, too many baguettes and too many types of cheese to distract one from learning zee language. But the farm looms. We are to hoping to direct our sales to that of restaurants and niche markets. Which means, I must learn French parfaitement … d’une forme parfaite! And so, I’ve been hardcore French study girl cranked to eleven rated XXX, 24/7 you-buy-it-we-pack-it, word. Which has been quickly improving even in the last five days. I used to be that smiling foreigner smiling in the corner smiling and saying, “it’s good! It’s good!” It’s AAAALLLLL good. When people would ask me if I understood what they were saying (vous comprenez?) I would nod and say, “it’s good.” This is no longer so. I now hear “vous comprenez” with confidence providing a firm retort of “oui!” Yes, I understand!! I do. I can give people things. I can say I’m doing fine. I can buy things. I can go places. She runs fast. They are tired. Really, I could go on and on. Faut que je m’arrête. Okay, so maybe I google translated that one, but I knew “but,” “must,” “stop,” and “I” … just not in that order. There will be a point in my life when I’m all Bjourn Identity, speaking French naturally, rolling off the tongue like bullshit at a status meeting. Today, on disc two of twelve with five or so episodes each I approach with enthusiam because this will grow our business. My superb French will help us kick arse with our superior products. I’m excited and motivated. Fuck yeah! Or whatever the French equivalent is for that…
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Tags: curtis family in france, france, language
Chariots A Fire
Mastering the French shopping cart is not for the weak minded. After sticking in your Euro to rent a chariot that is immediately refundable when you bring the thing back (a method that eliminates trolly litter in a car park), you are in control … or so you think. Each wheel moves independently. In America, the two back wheels are fixed while the front two are there for steering. The second you take hold of these French beasts, your inner geek screams “vector math” as do geeks within a two meter radius. “Don’t you know vector maths?” they’ll crow. Watching the chariots maneuver their way around e.leclerc (pronounce that sultry starting with a breathy ‘eh’) it’s like taking part in 2009 Nascar Sprint Cup championship mixed with driving in New York in the twenties. The chariots are on fire. They’re everywhere. Do we pass on the right? The left? What, you want to get to the yogurt? No one knows what’s going on. After a bit of sweat and groceries in hand (mmm a special on fois gras!), heading back to your car uphill is no laughing matter. Some push the car sideways with a half smoked fag out of the mouth. Others struggle to align the cart so that with a steady forceful push it arrives perfectly to the car. Some forget the cart entirely. Using the little hand held/rolly basket inside, dodging vehement chariots then carrying the stuff to the car thus shopping more frequently. Me? I park in direct line with the front door of the shop. Simple, easy, no stress. I pop on my sunnies (that’s sunglasses to the Americans) in the light-up-your-cigarette exit compartment and away I go. Up, Up UP to my car then returning to collect my Euro.
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Tags: d, france, shopping carts, travel
Les BON BON!!!
Moving out to France with the family also means leaving American holidays. A lot of holidays are celebrated around the world with slight variation and enthusiasm. Halloween, I assumed, would be tuned to day–of-the-dead rather than trick-or-treat. I wasn’t sure if the children of France dressed up in costume. So, I prepared my daughter as Halloween grew close, not to expect to dress up and go out trick-or-treating. Instead, we could have a little costume party and eat candy and cakes at home. But that was all before we received the note from her school about the Halloween Train. Which in my newbie French read, “A l’occasion de la fête d’Halloween. Les enfants … Invités … de bonbon … en petit train” and was signed, “Merci, La Sorcière.” For those following along in English, a local witch invited the children to wear a costume and ride a little train around the village for candy! Voila!
Halloween at last arrived after many demands from the children for it to come early. Lucy, Otto and Clementine got in costume and we were off to see what this train business was all about. The train was a white, tractor sort of thing pulling three covered carts. There were piles of balloons to be blown up along with pumpkin streamers and hanging plastic decoration. Parents brought cakes and juice. After the train was decorated, we got on our way to yell at the village to come out and give us candy. The train would stop at each house, the children would chant from the train at the top of their lungs, “LES BONBON!!!! LES BONBON!!!” (Actually, they never really stopped yelling LES BONBON and after a couple hours on a train with forty or so chanting goblins and witches, I can still hear it ringing in my ear.) At last, a person emerged from their home bearing a bag of candy and sometimes juice for the train to take with them. After a large cheer, we’d move along circling around the village finally ending up at the village hall. The whole experience was joyous and energetic. Kids ran around, yelled and screamed eating cake and candy. The event was spectacular, but it wasn’t until it was all over that I realized that it was actually magical. This Halloween party never had a committee. No one was in charge of decorating the train. No spreadsheet was used to figure out who brought what. No flurry of email passed through the PTA inbox with progress and concerns. The Witch told us where to be and what to wear letting the rest unfold naturally. Everyone arrived. The train got decorated. The cakes were brought. Fun was had by all. Further, the trick-or-treat experience was turned into a community event. Bags upon bags of candy were collected and then mixed and bundled for the children to take home after the party. My American children were boggled. They’re used to hitting the streets on their own, everyone out for themselves not knowing many of the neighbors. Complaining that so-and-so got a Mars bar while they only got a bag of gummy bears. On the train, each child left happily with the big bag of mixed candy. And the villagers got one visit by all the children who cheered at them. I left having chatted with all the parents, the kids played with all their buddies we all cleaned up and enjoyed the rest of the evening. What I enjoyed was the community.
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Tags: community, family, france, halloween
(photo courtesy of Kevin Grealish)
She was a beautiful yellow. Speed Yellow they called it. So beautiful, I felt compelled to strip to my underwear and take a picture with her (sorry, a collection for the husband and not for public viewing). I LOVED that car. I still do as I know where she lives. I keep tabs on her. But, as in every romantic comedy, I needed to let her go with hopes she’ll realize I was actually more than a friend and the best lover she’d ever find. Perhaps near the end, we’ll meet again only with a different VIN number and year (I’m thinking turbo). What I need right now is not a hot, fast sports car, I’m in need of a tractor. Something not too fancy that will get the job done. I’m still working out what job needs to get done. It could be food for cattle. It could be a garlic field. Whatever it is, I’m excited. Farming is not something I imagined myself doing. I scream at the sight of spiders, I run when snakes are present, I can barely keep my basil alive. I’ve never owned a houseplant that made it past a week. I will not do anything dirty without proper gloves. Yet, I see farming as a challenge. The great unknown. Who will buy my sweet red roses, two blooms for a penny. Who am I to think I can take on forty or so hectares of land and turn a profit? How do I turn on a tractor? How do I turn on a cow? I haven’t a clue, but that is the thrill of it. I can get a gaggle of geeks to churn out software in my sleep. There’s no challenge in that. Getting three pigs from one paddock to the next? Now that’s tough. Farming is archaic. We yuppies are so removed from where food comes from. Why reduce my earning potential to do hard manual labor without much room for vacation? What about my bonus? I’m still working out the answer to that one. It makes no sense, but it feels right. I’m very particular with where food comes from. I sing Old McDonald Had A Farm with my children and I’ve only seen in the flesh half the animals listed in the song in the last year. I am thirty-seven and I touched a chicken for the first time last June. The broody bitch was sitting on my eggs. I showed her. Old McDonald was more appropriate when I sang the version that included new granite bench tops and a new media room. Ee-eye-ee-eye ooooh. And in that house he had a new Viking range, ee-eye-ee-eye oooh. And the farming is only half of it. I’m really excited to figure out, in French, how to get people to buy my superior chook. My happy pig.. My pasteurized veal. Yes, the baby cow with the moist eyes. That cow. How will I sell it? It had a great life. Pastured with various grass species that I grew with my husband. How much will you pay for that? We don’t know. At the price of surrendering my sweet, beautiful Speed Yellow Porsche, I’m first in line to find out. I gave it all up. After a few alterations of the standard, blue (with seven fun prints) French lady smock, I await the first harrow of one of the many fields I will help tend. Which comes first, the tractor or the land ….
(photo CURTISy of Brent Curtis)
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Tags: farming, france, move to france
Doing It Rodin Style
Walking around Paris on my own with nowhere to be at any particular time enlightened me with unexpected imperturbability. I moved out here to be in the country. Two thousand five hundred scenic pieces of trees and sky. Yet, I had no problems getting back to “go mode” in the city most people think of when you say you’re moving to France. I spent about thirty minutes each evening by The Head, a large concrete head that is no doubt famous, which sits next to what was once thought by me to be Notre Dame. It actually sits next to something that looks like Notre Dame like many other Notre Dame-like churches around Paris. I realized later that Notre Dame itself is the Notre Damiest of them all. I’m sure I’ll be enlightened as to its name in the imminent future. By the church that isn’t Notre Dame, were two dudes playing jazz. An upright bass player and a guitar man with an amp. Those guys had a wonderful time playing or practicing their work while a gaggle of tired tourist sat in the park resting their feet as dusk falls. The metro riders briskly walked past The Head to get to Châtelet, the metro stop with many options. After listening to the jazzmen for a while, I’d pack up my book and pop on the iPod. The musical selection of choice for walking around Paris is Philip Glass, Koyaanisqatsi. It’s like living your own music video. Nameless faces, in a rush to get somewhere important, couples giggling flirtatiously over drinks, traffic stopping and going and stopping and going. An entire city there to entertain you as you walk from The Head to get a bite to eat. After being in the country for six months where one can walk from home to park and see nothing more than an old mare and a barking dog, the city becomes more surreal than this city girl remembers.
But this isn’t what I really wanted to address. What I saw in Paris was a lot of art. A pain au chocolat cannot be thrown anywhere in Paris without hitting some art. It’s everywhere. No museum pass required. I’m usually drawn to paintings over the rest, but after a visit to the garden at the Rodin museum (for a Euro!) I began to enjoy sculptures much more. And that Rodin was pretty good at that stuff. The curves, the positions, the sensuous movement emoting from a still object, the … hold on .. is that pigeon poop? Was bird feces part of Rodin’s vision? The guy works hard on this beautiful work and a bird poops on it. And then it was everywhere. No statue could be viewed by me without searching for the poop. It became Where’s Waldo, the bird dung edition. At last I found a statue untarnished by any foul movement. Then, there it was, carrying on in the garden of Rodin as though no one could see them, but we could. Sure not everyone acknowledged it. Others may have looked passed it, but they were there, doing it and showed no compunction. Naturally I took a photo, how could I not? Environmental players dancing on the art of yesteryear creating a momentary Farside Cartoon of today crossed my path and I had to shoot.
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Tags: france, paris, rodin, travel
I’ve read many books about people moving to France enjoying the lifestyles, the culture, the language and the food. Great books. I’m enjoying the lifestyle, the culture, the language and the food. I started to blog about the differences. Hey, look at all the cheese you can buy, but where’s the orange cheese? Or blogging about the cool things they have here. Diesel diesel everywhere! Quickly, I found myself duplicating a common theme. Yes, it’s great here and my experience is no different in that respect. But the real question is why the heck did I give up my high-status shoot-me-an-email High-Tech Career with power meetings and status updates. Why leave my fast, yellow Porsche out in the cold rubbing seat to bum with a new daddy. My newly remodeled house with fancy water tap that turns on in the presence of your soapy hands and a range that turns up to eleven with 360XBTUs. I personally planted almost every plant in that yard. Why leave a beautiful, though cold, city that has everything I could possibly need. Including more than three private kindergartens, if selected, that will extract seventeen thousand US dollars from me to usefully educate my child. I was settled in Seattle so what’s with the big move? Why France?
The last post I wrote on this blog was about the market and the amazing produce. Then, I stopped. Nothing. What happened in May? How about June and July? Was I around in August? September, I don’t remember. October is here, I’m here ready to get on with writing something , anything about what is going on over here after uprooting my family from the prototypical path laid out before us. The American Dream. What was my American Dream lacking? Did moving to France have anything to do with America? I don’t think I moved the family to France to get away, but rather to discover. Right now, here in October, I can’t articulate why, but I think I’m on to something.
I’m not knocking the American Dream or maybe I am. As George Carlin put it, “it’s the American Dream ’cause you have to be asleep to believe it.” Or as James Truslow Adams, the coiner of the phrase (yes, I wikipedia-ed American Dream so there) explains, “The American Dream is that dream of a land in which life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone …” mumble mumble European upper class “It is not a dream of motor cars and high wages merely, but a dream of social order in which each man and each woman shall be able to attain to the fullest stature of which they are innately capable, and be recognized by others for what they are, regardless of the fortuitous circumstances of birth or position.” I got to a point (or a pointless), I think, where it really was about motor cars and high wages where the dream of social order and innate capability where put on the back burner, low-pri, minimal ROI. People in America ask “What do you do?” In the past five months, people ask me “How’s it going?” ça va? ça va.
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Tags: american dream, france, move to france, quitting
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Recent Entries
- It’s coming up to a year in France and it wasn’t all Peter Mayle like.
- The Kangaroos Aren’t Hungry
- Why are you throwing your life away!?
- Knots Nuts
- Vous Comprenez?
- Chariots A Fire
- Les BON BON!!!
- Trading in the Porsche for a Tractor
- Doing It Rodin Style
- You’d Have To Be Asleep To Believe It
- To Market To Market
