will WE play in Peoria?

This morning, Kaitlyn could not have been prouder of herself. When the teacher’s assistant in her class said “bonjour, Kaitlyn,” Kaitlyn said “bonjour!” She grabbed me and giggled. Then inside when the teacher greeted her, Kaitlyn said “bonjour!” The teacher was so impressed , she asked the assistant if she’d heard and the assistant said Kaitlyn had given her the same greeting.

                    Kaitlyn was thrilled.

                    Of course, she also danced with joy when I told her that she’d have lasagna for lunch. She never dances like that at home when I serve lasagna.

                The first Monday of the month means spending the morning at a Sweet Home Grenoble Cafe… a get-together over coffee at someone’s house. There is a lot of talking, some nibbling, some coffee, then a little meeting where the women who organize everything tell us what’s coming up so we can mark our calendars.

                I got off to a bang messing up my French (big surprise), then chatted with some different women. There is one French lady who attends and who I’ve sat with a couple of times during the language exchange.. she is so nice. So I asked her how to say something in French about the morning traffic (I only got one word wrong. Ok, so the sentence only had three words in it.)

                After the meeting wrapped up, I was among the last to leave because I was so busy talking. As we stood at the door to head out, the hostess said “oh, well, a couple others were going to have lunch here, why don’t you stay, too?” So her lunch went from three people to six, and she acted like it was no big deal. There it was: my first invitation to a meal at a French home.

                She served two kinds of chicken (one, she confessed, was leftovers), rice, frittata and peas. Oh, and, of course, wine. I had a small amount, because she said it was from a local winery and I wanted to see how it was. It was pretty good. Then there was the cheese course. Our hostess told us that traditionally in France, you just put the cheese on the tablecloth in front of you. For us, she got out plates. I admitted that I have a horrible fromagephobia. I tried three that looked safe. One turned out to be camembert, which I have been afraid of. But it was pretty good. I don’t know that I’d call it mild, but it was good. The others I don’t know the names of. One I’d recognize in a second because the rind was a nasty gray. It looked like mold growing at the bottom of a glass that once had Coke in it that you’ve left on the table too long. Not that I know that from personal experience, of course. Anyway, it was good. It would be better if I hadn’t had to see the rind. When lunch hit the two hour mark, I realized I’d have to pass on the coffee.

                I may not ever get another invitation to a French home for a meal. It was a fun experience.

You could see how proud Kaitlyn’s teacher was of her this morning. After weeks of trying to get Kaitlyn to say “bonjour” she finally did.

                    I wonder if this will open the floodgates and mean I soon won’t be able to understand Kaitlyn because she’s speaking French… that’s ok, then she can translate for me.

Hikes in the woods would be better if there were bathrooms around. Preferably clean ones.

                    Today the sun finally came out after days of rain and we knew we had to get out of the house; Bill suggested we try yet again to find the waterfall he is determined to find. We know it is somewhere along the Route du Chamrousse. We have tried two other times. I was certain the third time would be the charm.

                    It was warm at the house, so I just grabbed a light jacket as an afterthought. I put Kaitlyn in a light jacket. I could have used a reminder that we would be driving up the mountain then walking into a shady part of the woods. It was a wee bit cold. There were still a few determined piles of snow clinging to the sides of the path. To make things worse, we’d been walking for all of about two minutes when I realized I had to go to the bathroom. I had gone just before leaving the house to try to avoid just such a dilemma. Apparently, that second cup of coffee this morning was just kicking in.

                    So we walked. And the farther we walked, the more I could think about nothing but having to go to the bathroom. Eventually we could hear what sounded like a waterfall. It did not help my situation. Finally we came to a part of the path that had a little spot off to the side. I’m sure I’m not the first person to take advantage of it. (this is France, after all)

                    Then Kaitlyn had to go. I noticed she was wiggling around uncontrollably on a rock while eating a snack. So we stripped her from the waist down and Bill tried to hold her up. She managed to pee all over the place (which is why we stripped her). Ah, nature.

                    We never did find that waterfall.

I am trying to be better at picking the battles I fight with Kaitlyn. So tonight when we needed to get her dressed and out the door to drop her off at someone’s house on our way to the ISE winter dinner, what she wore was not going to slow me down. I do a fine job of going slow enough without any help. Earlier today I let Kaitlyn play dress up with one of Bill’s shirts. Tonight, that was what she wanted to wear again. So we sort of compromised. Kaitlyn arrived at her “party” wearing one of my polo shirts, a Winne the Pooh scarf, sandals and a big, pink floppy hat. But she was happy, so what difference did it make?

                The dinner was at a banquet hall on a farm. As we walked up we could definitely smell farm smells. Bill pointed out he was glad we weren’t eating there in the summer when all the doors would be open.. and the smell would waft in.

                Along with the aroma, there was a sommelier and a string trio. (or was it three-fourths of a quartet?)

                The sommelier set up a blind wine tasting for us. He had us divide into groups of six or so, for a “competition.” Now, I don’t know much about wine. Even those who spend a lot of time and money buying and drinking wine had to find the challenge, well, pretty darn challenging! He started with two white wines to compare. We basically had to (as a team) guess what kind of grape it was, which of the two wines was younger, what year the vintage was. Then came two reds, chosen he said to go with the main course, which was duck. Then one red by itself with the cheese course. Then a white dessert wine. (which was gross) Our group didn’t win. But I may have found another way to learn more about wines. The sommelier does have a business where you can sign up to get two wines a month that come complete with an explanation of where they are from, what to serve them with and when best to drink them (year, not time of day).

                There was a lot of hubub going on just outside the dining room. Finally, Bill went over to find out what all the fuss was about. The lunar eclipse. I eventually gave in and went out to look. To me, it just looked like the moon with gray clouds over it.

                We called it a night right after the wine contest winners were announced; we didn’t stay to even find out if there was a coffee course. (it is, of course, it’s own course in France) That was at about 12:30. Kaitlyn was still awake when we went to pick her up. At least she was lying on the couch in the dark pretending like she might doze off.

Taking Kaitlyn to the doctor a couple of weeks ago may have been nerve wracking, but going today for myself turned me into a nervous wreck. I felt sick to my stomach and thirsty and sweaty and close to a total panic.

                When I called to make the appointment I hadn’t expected to get in so soon… I just called YESTERDAY. The doctor herself answered her phone and when I started out by saying I need an appointment but don’t speak French very well (my standard line on the phone) she said I could speak English. Then when I told her she’d been recommended to me she said “because I speak English?” Like it was a bad thing. I almost didn’t go because of that. But, then again, she does speak it…

                The office is inside what looks like an apartment or condo building. The outside of the building has three name plaques on it, one for each doctor in the practice. My appointment was for 2:30 and I realized staring at the sign that I was the first appointment after lunch. I also realized it was only 2:15 (I’d actually gotten somewhere early because I was so nervous) so I figured I’d mill around outside in the drizzle. I also figured that was why when I hit the buzzer to open the door to the building, it didn’t work. I found out at 2:29 when I hit the buzzer again, I just hadn’t held it down long enough. It doesn’t seem to actually ring anybody, it just unlocks the door. But you have to be quick to get your finger off the button and jump to the door and push it open. (not pull.. another mistake I made the first go-around)

                Ok, so once I’m in the building I followed the signs to “cabinet medical.” That door said to buzz and go on in (I’m pretty sure), so that is what I did. When I stepped inside I immediately realized I had no idea where to go next. Before I had to figure it out, a woman stepped into the hallway area and said “Madame Radeline?” Ah, the good doctor is on time. Already her bedside manners in person beat those she had on the phone.

                We went in and sat down at her desk to talk about why I was there. And do I have a Carte Vitale? (national insurance card) No. I’ll pay. Well, then, gotta type my information into the computer. I was still too nervous to spell my name or give my address in French. But when she heard the street name, she said “in St Martin d’Uriage? You are my parents’ neighbors.” I knew exactly which house is theirs by her description… because I’ve heard it before. A couple other Cat families go to the same church as they do and had told me about a couple on my street made up of a French man and an American woman. I just haven’t spent enough time attempting to hike up and down our street to run into them. Which house is mine? Oh, yes, yes, the one across the street from the donkey. At least I have a landmark to use.

                Once the paperwork was over the discussion about my health got started. I say I need a check up. In France, it’s not done every year. Well, funny, my doctors in the U.S. all treated me to an annual probe. Ok, fine. But do I want to do it without a Carte Vitale? Yes, yes, I’ll pay. She spent a great deal of time flipping through her giant book of French prescription drugs and consulting with a colleague trying to find something most compatible to my current medication. Then she flipped through it to find something for my new complaint (migraines).

                Finally, the dreaded moment could be put off no longer. The actual exam. The exam table and all the instruments were simply on the other side of the room from her desk. She left to go get something she needed and when she came back I’d managed to take off my shoes. You see, the room doesn’t include any paper robe or blanket. They don’t seem like much till you don’t get any at all. Awkward. She told me it’s a cultural difference; the French are just that much more at ease with themselves. At least the room wasn’t cold.

                Once I was back in my clothes she wrote the prescriptions, including one for the lab. It turns out that in France, you take your own sample.. whatever it might be… to the lab. Her bill was a whopping 21 Euros. I found the lab and paid that 14 Euro bill. (although I wrote the number 40 by mistake. I’ve got to review my numbers apparently)

                She wants me to get my cholesterol checked; it’s a good idea, she says. That means giving blood in a foreign language. I wonder if I can find someone who’ll go with me to translate: I faint when I give blood, I need to be lying down, and, oh, my veins don’t cooperate. Or maybe I’ll just try to watch how much butter I use.

My French homework for Friday is to pick an object that is important to me and be able to explain what it is and why it’s important… in French. Bill said at least it can all be done in the present tense. Now that I think about it, it can’t. Dang, this is hard.

This afternoon, Annabella and Vito left for Italy. Vito speaks Italian, so he should have better luck there with his meals. Or at least he’ll know if he’s about to be served a tomato and mozzarella salad without any mozzarella in it.

                I am so tired. I have stayed up later the last few nights than I have stayed up in years.

Today Bill went to work, Kaitlyn returned to school so I got to play tourist for the day! (notice, not tour guide)

                    Since Annabella doesn’t want to see snow (she left Boston to escape it) and doesn’t want to ride the bubbles, that made tourism in Grenoble something of a challenge. She likes factory tours and museums. Vito goes along with those votes.

                    We started by going to the distillery tour for Chartreuse, the nasty green liquor made by monks here in Grenoble. Some of it was interesting, like the fact that there are two monks who work in the facility and they are the only ones allowed in several areas . But if only two people in the world get to go into the rooms where the work happens, well, there wasn’t much to see. We didn’t actually see any of the liquor being produced, unless you count staring at the barrels where it ferments seeing the production. The tour includes an incredibly cheezy 3-D movie. I hadn’t thought of it until we were sitting down to watch, but just how does one make a 3-D movie about liquor? It was about the monks building their monestary then inventing the nasty-green-drink. So they showed someone chopping wood with the chips “flying” toward you, junk like that. What do you expect from a free tour? It ended in the tasting room (conveniently located next to the gift shop). Each tour participant gets one free taste of something, so each of us ordered something different. One shot of the green liquor, one of the yellow version (the guide book said it is milder) and one of a walnut liquor. The walnut one was actually ok; surprising since I don’t like walnuts. It didn’t take big sips for us to agree: the yellow Chartreuse packed just as much of a wallop as the green. Both were drinks one makes faces while consuming. But it was free, so Vito finished it off for us. Hate to let it go to waste. No one wants to leave empty handed, so Annabella bought some Chartreuse filled chocolates. Amazingly, that was not disgusting!

                    Before moving on, I plugged in my cell phone (of course, battery was dead) to call and make dinner reservations. When I hung up Annabella said “You did well. But you just made reservations at seven noon o’clock.” I love my mastery of the language.

                    Our next tourist trap was Vizille and the Museum of the French Revolution. I’d been told that Vizille is where the revolution “started.” To avoid lots of driving back and forth we agreed to just take our chances on a restaurant near the museum.

                    That was when I learned it isn’t just time I have a problem with in French. Annabella did most of the ordering for us… I did ok with mine until I got to the salad. Tomato and mozzarella. I think the guy was just being rude claiming he couldn’t understand me because I wasn’t saying the words “just right.” Whatever. I don’t love tomatoes but I’ll eat a couple as an excuse for a plate of fresh mozzarella slices. Ordering complete, Annabella got up to go to the bathroom. Naturally, that was when the waiter came back to the table to ask us a question. Come to think of it, he may have been lurking around the corner actually waiting on her to leave. He addressed Vito more than me, which was a bad idea since Vito speaks no French and at least I speak some. We heard the word mozzarella, so we knew he was talking about our entrees. And we heard the word basil. So we said “uh, oui.” Later, when our entrees finally arrived at the table, we found out what he was telling us. They were apparently out of mozzarella. Vito and I each got a giant plate of sliced tomatoes with some vinegar and oil and big leaves of, yes, basil. Annabella is now forbidden to leave the table until our meals have been served. And even then it’s questionable.

                    The main dishes arrived and, as I’d predicted, Annabella and Vito were mystified at what had been set in front of them. They ordered fillet mignon. Which here is usually pork. They don’t believe me. Even after eating it, they say I am wrong. They agree that it wasn’t beef but they insist it wasn’t pork. I was going to ask the waiter, but he already scoffed at my French. Besides, if he’d said “oh it was horse” they’d have never gotten over it.

                    At the museum my French continued to shine. The woman asked my post code and I couldn’t remember how to say 400. I kept saying 40. Which is a much different number. It would be so much easier if the French said 38410 as “three – eight – four – one – zero” instead of “thirty eight – four hundred and ten.” Once past that challenge, I realized I should have asked for the free English audio guide. All the little signs were only in French. I thought they might be in English since the signs on the door (push and pull) were in both languages. We saw some dishes, some sculptures and a lot of paintings. Nothing that appeared to be an actual relic from the war. Maybe one sentence somewhere explaining the significance of Vizille. Nothing that actually taught me a single thing about the French Revolution. Oh, well, c’est la vie.

                    We picked up Kaitlyn from school and drove to the supermarket. They wanted to see it and Annabella wanted to buy some noodles she’d seen in my pantry to show her class. (She is currently a substitute teacher for a French teacher in middle school.) Once we got everything we needed, and argued over whether or not a bottle of Orangina was the drink of choice for their train ride Tuesday, I suggested using the self check out. It’s faster and you can choose English on the computer screen. First, the lady who monitors all the self check outs told us we couldn’t take our cart through. Ok, fine. So we started unloading it (there were only a handful of items) so that I could take the cart around another way. Instead of seeing and appreciating how we quickly responded to her request, she came over to yell at us in English. Well, that just did it for me. Finally, a language I can defend myself in! I yelled back that we were doing just what she’d wanted. Oh, it felt good. But then when Annabella struggled to get the thing to accept her American credit card, the woman sat staring at her screen, offering no help. Annabella finally gave up and stuck in some cash.

                    Dinner out was to be a grown-up event. Kaitlyn went to a friend’s house and I just prayed she went to sleep at a semi-reasonable time. I also prayed that the restaurant had our reservation at my intended time. It did.

                    We chose a restaurant I knew serves a good Gratin Dauphinois, which is fancy scalloped potatoes. I ordered knowing that was the side dish I wanted, so I built my meal around that. I chose scallops for my entree then veal in cream sauce with the potatoes. Annabella of course managed to ask some questions and understand the answers. Vito ignored Bill’s advise not to get the sausage he chose. When it came, I think he was a wee bit sorry. It had, well, bits of things that one normally doesn’t eat. Or normally doesn’t have to actually see and recognize in his sausage. Everyone else enjoyed their meals. And Vito got to eat half of Annabella’s duck; so his evening wasn’t a total loss.

Saturday night I found out what happens when a friend you haven’t seen in nearly 20 years comes to visit, if you’re lucky. You sit up until all hours of the night talking and laughing.

                Our first European house guests, Annabella and her husband Vito (who I’ve never met) arrived from the US. I was very excited until I went to the train station to pick them up. First, Clyde (my gps) gives horrible directions downtown and he kept telling me “turn around when possible.” Then I couldn’t find parking around the train station. I rushed up to the station just as I saw the TGV pull in. Whew. There can only be one TGV in Grenoble. I walked in the station, up and down the platform, back in the station, back up and down the platform. No Annabella. I presume no Vito, but I’ve only seen pictures. Just as I was starting to get really worried they appeared at the top of a staircase I’d have never thought to check, I just happened to be standing there.

                    Annabella said she wanted to experience some local culture (aka: cuisine) while here. Because she didn’t come to see snow, that left little else. So we started with a stop at the pizza truck. It was genuinely local fare. Annabella speaks French so she struck up a conversation with the woman at the pizza truck. Vito and I just sorta stood there. I live here; she chats here.

                    Sunday no one stirred early and the weather didn’t lend itself to doing much anyway. Vito won the “best houseguest” award by making breakfast for everyone. Well, it was more like brunch since he and Annabella didn’t get up until one in the afternoon, but that’s ok. I hadn’t cooked anything for us because I kept thinking they’d get up at any second!

                    Finally we decided to defy the drizzle and go out somewhere, so we headed downtown. That meant countless rides down the giant slide for Kaitlyn (how is it that she always sees that thing?). While she did that, Annabella and Vito got crepes from the little truck set up next to the kiddie slide. There, some man heard us speaking English and started talking to Annabella. Again, I live here; she chats here. Vito said she does that everywhere. (you can learn more about their travels at: mywifetakesmeplaces.com)

                    Eventually the rain returned and Kaitlyn got too tired since she slid through naptime, so we returned home. Bill volunteered to stay home with the grumpy child while the rest of us went out to dinner. Instead, Annabella and I left both the men at home and went to pick up Chinese food. (That gave some quality man/computer time we didn’t have to endure.) There is a restaurant in Uriage Bill has been determined to try, so we agreed to go there.

                    Chez Ngyuen. I don’t know, the name just is funny to me. But it is way closer than driving back downtown and that was really the only reason I gave in. When we went inside it was far from busy. There was one woman at the bar, she’d apparently also made a to-go order. Two men were asking for a table. In the corner of the bar there was a tv sitting on a table showing a French game show to keep the employees entertained in between customers. It appeared the tv was pretty handy in that regard. With Annabella’s help, we figured out enough of the menu to make our choices. Bill wanted soup, but you have to take your own container. Seemed weird to me, since they had to go containers for all the other food. Seemed especially weird to me when they held up a bag of what looked like eyeballs in syrup and said “dessert.” Lychee fruit. It’s still sitting in our fridge, although I don’t know why we didn’t just toss it. Who wants to eat a big bowl of eyeballs? Not me, thank you very much. With a soup container and minus the eyeballs, I’d go back I think.