FRENCH VILLAGE LIFE

Did I Follow My Elderly Neighbour’s Advice About The Best Way To Learn French?

Yes and no . . .

The only way to learn, Paulette had told me, was to find a French lover.

You can read more about the encounter here:

While the idea of a French lover to help me master the language of Molière was amusing, intriguing even, I was 68. Attractive, but not exactly fending off men as I walked through the village to buy a baguette — half of which would go stale before I could finish it.

(Confession: I was too vain to ask for a demi — half a baguette — because my English-speaking friend said that’s what old women bought.)

And there was the matter of Joe, my husband back in the States. Although we hadn’t lived together for more than a decade, we were on friendly enough terms that he’d flown over to France with me so that he could drive the rental car from De Gaulle to my new digs in southern France.

You can read more about that part of my adventure here.

Joe hadn’t stayed long though. “I have no desire to live in France,” he’d replied when I asked if he might consider a permanent move. “This is your adventure.”

But he didn’t want a divorce. Me, I didn’t care — or didn’t care at the time. Despite our 10 years of living separately, he still wore his ring. I’d ditched mine a few years earlier. It was all très compliqué, but such is life.

Back in the States, after a few forays into the dating world, I’d wanted to come clean, but Joe didn’t want to hear about it. So we remained — and do to this day — in relationship limbo.

I know, I know, but truth is often stranger than fiction.

So while I didn’t immediately take up Paulette’s suggestion that to speak French, I needed to find a lover, she had, so to speak, planted a seed. Nights, as I lay on my bed (or the “temple of pleasure” as the village lads who’d helped move it across the room described it) I’d think about what I wanted from my new life in France.

To write — hopefully, to finish one book and start another. Eventually, I was sure I’d make friends. Maybe travel a little. That was about it — I’ve never peered too far into the future.

Back in the States, when I talked about my plan to move to a country where I knew no one and barely spoke the language, I was always asked whether I’d be lonely. I didn’t think I would be and, for the first six months or so, I was right.

Just adjusting to life in a foreign country was time-consuming enough. Days spent on mundane but necessary tasks like finding a doctor and, having done that, making an appointment over the phone in less than proficient French. Or establishing a bank account, figuring out transportation, even shopping for groceries (which could get surprisingly complicated, depending on whether or not my credit or debit card was accepted).

By the end of the day, I’d fall into bed — the cave had no TV — read books about France, and talk to my daughter and friends back in the States. The nine-hour time difference between France and the West Coast meant that if I was having a sleepless night, I could Skype without fear of waking someone from sleep.

And, of course, there was Joe. We didn’t talk much on the phone, but he wrote lengthy e-mails and texts about his daily activities and wanted to know all about mine.

I was also looking forward to visitors over the holidays. Another visit from Joe cemented his desire not to live in France. He couldn’t live that far from his kids (from his first marriage), a reason which, of course, made me feel guilty because I apparently could live a continent away from mine.

But, on a happier note, my friend Marilla arrived to help celebrate my first birthday in France — my 69th. And at Christmas, my daughter and her husband came to visit which was joyful and positive and also helped ameliorate the guilt a little.

They were still with me for their first New Year’s Eve in France and mine. We were invited to a party in the village, which was memorable in itself, but even more so for an encounter that brought Paulette’s advice to mind and changed my life from très compliqué to très très compliqué.

And became a significant part of my French adventure, one that I wouldn’t be sharing with Joe.

Perhaps you’re a glutton for punishment? If so, you can also take me along on your walk, or wherever you’d like to go. Just press the listen button at the top of the story to hear it read aloud.