will WE play in Peoria?

Since my French lessons ended a year ago, my French has really gone downhill. I don’t study it at all. Don’t try to learn new vocabulary. Don’t practice conjugating verbs. Don’t bother to look up where in a sentence the pronoun goes when you’re speaking in the past tense, even though it’s something I do actually wonder about. I don’t bother going to the French-English language exchange I’m invited to each week, even though it would be a huge help. I can make dinner reservations, read a menu enough to know what to order (and more importantly, not order), interact at the pharmacy and invite Kaitlyn’s friends over for lunch.

People tell me I speak French well. They are lying. I do not speak French well. I understand ok. Enough to generally respond, but not always. When a woman at the grocery store asked me what an item in my cart was, I did understand and could tell her. Except that it was yogurt and that is just one word I cannot pronounce. Basically, I survive. I do better than a tourist who has studied up before travel but not as well as I thought I’d do after living here more than three years. But I rarely speak French. I don’t really say anything to the other parents at school. Kaitlyn’s teacher doesn’t especially want to talk to me because she figures I won’t know what she’s saying. I don’t watch French tv. I didn’t sign up for tennis lessons this year because the French there wasn’t overly helpful (I already know left and right and that seemed to be about the only thing he said other than “hurry up,” which I also already know.)

This afternoon I went to an art/pottery sale. The woman who holds the sale each year is French. She knows some English but she says she’s too overwhelmed during her sale to be able to use it and sticks to French. I can appreciate that. Anyway, I was standing with her and another French woman. The artist was talking and talking in rapid French. When she finally stopped, the other woman turned to me and said “did you follow all that.” Honestly, I’d stopped even trying not far into the conversation. I got what I needed and let my mind wander. I said “no, not really.” And the woman said “but you were nodding as if you got it.” So now apparently I unconsciously nod in agreement even though I really have no idea what I’m nodding to. And since she said that to me, I’ve caught myself doing it. I don’t realize it, but I’m silently saying “oh, yes, you are speaking to me very quickly in French but I’m good, I get it, every word.” When what the nod is really saying is “well, on my way home I can stop and pick up some milk and still get to the school in time to get Kaitlyn and what should we have for dinner and I need to get the laundry done.”

I think that this morning Bill figured out why Kaitlyn is struggling so much to learn to read in French. It’s not because she’s “not invested” in it, like her teacher told us in a meeting. It’s because she does not even know the alphabet in French. She has been going to the same school for the past three years. This is her second year in a row with the same teacher. But apparently no one bothered to make sure she knew this most basic skill… the alphabet.

I’m so angry… angry at myself for not practicing the French alphabet with her although we were busy practicing the American English alphabet. Because she has French all day every day… except Wednesdays and two mornings a week when she has English classes. I’m very angry at the school and the teachers. How do you let a child sit in your classroom and not make sure she knows the freakin’ alphabet? If this was the United States, I’d march into the principal’s office and make a stink. Demand a different teacher. But it isn’t. And I won’t. So instead we’re entering hour three of tag-team alphabet learning. And it isn’t going well. We’re tag-teaming the effort because it is so frustrating that each adult can only take it for so long before your only options are to scream or to walk away. So we’re opting for walking away. Although screaming is creeping up the list. Quickly.

Homework for a first grader shouldn’t be this way. It shouldn’t be this hard. Or frustrating. Or endless. And it shouldn’t end with the entire family in tears. Which is exactly how I predict today is going to end. Badly. Very much so.

There are a lot of things that you don’t take into consideration when you decide to become an ex-pat. Like the challenge of understanding your mail. The fear of answering your phone. The difficulties helping your child with first-grade level homework. Or the holidays. The holidays are different.

The one that is the biggest challenge turned out to be Halloween. It sounds ridiculous. When I was a kid, I really wasn’t crazy about Halloween. Because my mom wasn’t. We didn’t deck out the house; she wasn’t good at making costumes; I don’t remember her ever buying candy to give out, she’d always just grab the basket spare change went into and give out fistfuls of pennies. This isn’t to say I didn’t still enjoy Halloween. But it is definitely to say it wasn’t a big deal at our house.

When I grew up, I vowed to make it different. We have boxes of Halloween decorations. Lots of them had to be left behind in storage… like the fog machine and the black and orange light up “trees.” (Oh, how I do miss Target.) I can’t sew or be especially creative with costumes, so I fork over cash at the Disney store to keep my little princess dressed up in style. When I hand out candy, it’s a mix of my favorites carefully put into Halloween baggies, and set into my witch’s cauldron before distribution. Yes… it’s an event.

Or, it was. Here there is no real celebrating Halloween. No big bags of bite sized candy at the store. No costumes. No decorations. The toy store had one pitiful box of dirty Halloween decorations that looked like they’ve been dragged out year after year without cleaning or updating. The bakery attached to my grocery store did hang up some Happy Halloween signs and some fake spider webs; it was really something. Oh, and the grocery store did have carving pumpkins but buying one stumped the cashier. She had no idea what it was.

The last two years we’ve gone home in the fall and ended up in the US on Halloween. Kaitlyn went trick-or-treating in Granddad’s condo building. She thinks everyone follows a list and rides and elevator up and down to collect the candy. This year we stayed put over the fall break. Something had to be done.

I was looking for a place to just go with Kaitlyn for a couple of days where there would be something to keep her busy and keep me sane over the school break. What I stumbled upon was better. A resort and spa in Evian les Bains (home of the water, yes) that has a kids club.. and that kids club had an entire week of special Halloween activities culminating in a Halloween Bal. (party) Without even thinking, I told Kaitlyn about it. Then I got the quote from the hotel, and it didn’t seem as horrible as I’d expected. Then I re-read the quote and realized the price wasn’t for the weekend but per night. Oops. I’d already sent the ball rolling down the hill by telling Kaitlyn. So we went. Kaitlyn and I went Thursday so she’d get lots of time in the kids club. (And I got time in the spa.) Bill joined us Friday after work.

For Kaitlyn, it was everything she could have imagined. She signed up to eat lunch with the kids, leaving me to fend for myself. She dressed up to have dinner with me and said things like “thank you for having me to dinner, it’s quite pleasant.” She won the costume contest at the bal Saturday night. (Never mind that she was one of the only kids dressed up… the French seemed to be reluctantly stepping into the holiday spirit and dressing up wasn’t something they’d thought about. Except for the kids club employees, of course.)

For me, it was hard to stop thinking about what it was costing. I knew it would be expensive. But every time I was handed a slip to sign for a meal, I cringed inside. Glass of Champagne: 20 Euros. Club sandwich and a drink: 33 Euros. Hard boiled egg with breakfast: 4 Euros. The spa was smart enough not to have me sign anything. I’d agreed in advance and that was good enough for them to charge my room.

When we first arrived, Kaitlyn went off to the kids club and I had time to just wander around before our room was ready and before my 5pm spa appointment. I walked the grounds, trying to find all the things to do in the park that I’d seen online. Then I went to the bar for that champagne. My book and my ipod were in my luggage with the valet, so all I could do was people watch or play solitaire on my cell phone. First, I people watched. And I noticed a lot of people wandering the hotel in their bathrobes and slippers. Not just walking to-and-fro. Sitting on the bar’s terrace and eating lunch.

After finally getting to our room, I figured I’d go check out the pool before going to the spa. First, I had to call the front desk and ask how one gets to the pool. There’s no hotel map in the room. That would be too easy. And helpful. So I put on my suit, and the bathrobe over it, slipped on slippers and off I went. I figured that, sure, I’d earlier mentally mocked the robe-wearers but they were in the lobby or the restaurant. I was just going down the hallway, in an elevator, and directly to the spa where the pool is. The pool is supposed to be for adults only. And if it had been, I may have actually gone for a swim. But there were kids in there. So I just sat and relaxed and read. Which was ok.

Moments before 5, I walked over to the spa for my massage. And that is when I discovered that the resort has not only two hotels, but two spas. And I was staying in one hotel but had made both my spa appointments in the other. The receptionist kindly told me I could just take the navette (shuttle) to the other hotel; she called the concierge to have it waiting. Then it happened: I became one of those people dashing through the lobby then riding a van to another hotel in my bathrobe and slippers. It was horrifying. And when the massage ended, rather than sitting and relaxing, I had to dash back to my hotel to meet Kaitlyn who was being dropped off from the kids club. So I had to ask for the navette to make the return trip. And this time I had to stand around the lobby waiting on it. And I noticed that in this hotel, no one was walking around in a bathrobe. Except for me. I think it’s safe to say that any calming, relaxing effect the massage had on me, it was immediately erased.

Despite that, it was still an overall relaxing long weekend. Kaitlyn made Bill and I play tennis with her Saturday afternoon. And the walk into the little town includes a steep walk back to the hotel. Oh, and then there was the price. But who can put a price tag on relaxing? And who can put a price tag on trying to give your child a little piece of a holiday you otherwise won’t find here? If we’re here a year from now, we’ll probably do it again. And just chalk it up to one of the many hidden expenses of life in France. And, really, that’s ok by me.

A trip to the grocery store is a guaranteed trip to frustration. Sometimes more so than others. Today is toward the top of the list.

With morning traffic, it takes me about 30 minutes to get to the grocery store I prefer. I filled my cart in 20 minutes. (The store only carries meat, dairy products and produce so there’s no time wasted looking at Ziploc bags or cereals or juice boxes.) Inevitably, I finish my shopping at the same time as everyone else in the store. Generally, there are 4 or 5 out of 10 cash registers open. Today when the whole world finished shopping simultaneously… there were two.

There was a third cashier who was farting around about getting her register open. I don’t know what she was doing, but it took her a good ten minutes to start ringing people up. During that ten minutes, she kept switching from one register to another… and the hopeful people in her line kept rushing their carts from register to register along with her. It was at least entertaining to watch.

I’d chosen a line that had a lot of people in it, but each had a relatively small amount to buy. The line did not move quickly. I toughed it out… comparing my progress to the people in the freshly opened cashier’s line. (She did not actually start checking people out until I was to the point of putting my food on the conveyor belt.) The woman in front of me was paying for her 6 items when a couple pushed their cart past me and the man started handing his items one by one to the cashier. Who took them and rang them up. I have no words to describe how far beyond simply annoying this transaction was. First, I was going to holler “What are you doing!?” Two things stopped me. I likely would not have understood the answer anyway… and the woman was pregnant so I could only assume that was what earned her the right to just cut in front of a line of people that snaked all the way back to the grape section. (There had to be 8 people in the line.) Oh, and one of the people they cut in front of was a more pregnant woman holding two small items to buy. It was annoying enough that they pushed to the front of the line. But then when I was finally being rung up, they didn’t move their stuff out of my way for me to bag. Sometimes it’s probably good I’m not fluent because holding my tongue was seriously getting difficult… so much so I was tempted to just spout off in English just to get it done.

Then, as I was trying to push the man out of my way so I could put my food away, it struck me. If there is some unwritten code that says pregnant women get to cut to the front of the long line in a grocery store… I don’t think it should apply to pregnant women who are not shopping alone. If she was having too much trouble standing up… her husband could have stood in line while she waited in the car. Or sat in the boulangerie next door enjoying a croissant and cafe.

It all got me to thinking. Maybe I need to steal one of those pillows they keep in dressing rooms at maternity stores. The ones to help you see what you’ll look like when you’re more pregnant so you can guess better while buying clothes. That could be my key to making grocery shopping at least go quicker. But I suppose that after a few months of that, the cashiers might start to wonder why it is I don’t have a baby and still am cutting to the front of the line. Still…. something to think about….

I’m not saying that Kaitlyn watches too much tv. But maybe she should cut back a little.

Today while we were out hiking, she fell and scraped up her leg. After I’d patched it with three Barbie band-aids, she told me that it’s ok if she bleeds on her clothes. Because I can just use Oxyclean to get the stain out.

Today I dragged Bill (and Kaitlyn) out to a store called Boissons du Monde. That’s drinks of the world.

Here are the places represented (in beers… we did not check out the wine or spirits areas): France (didn’t need a special store for that, thanks), Germany (including a big Octoberfest display), Belgium. There were some places that got just a shelf or two: England (too bad, those are some of my favorites), the Czech Republic, the US. (Bud and Miller. Pitiful.)

I’ll probably go back; it was a far better selection than Carrefour. But Bud and Miller? Please. Makes me wonder about the level of beers from the other countries.

Today in the car, Kaitlyn sounded very serious when she said “Mommy, is Elmo real?”

I said that Elmo is a puppet.

Then Kaitlyn got quiet. And admitted that she found this revelation disturbing. I was torn between being thankful for the silence or worrying that my six year old still thinks Elmo is real.

The same child who last night offered to help translate when the water-heater (non)repair man comes to the house today refused to answer a simple question posed to her by the pharmacist.

We’d gone to fill her pile of prescriptions for her cough and sore throat. (Cough and sore throat = 4 medications.) First, the pharmacist asked her if she is Kaitlyn, and how to pronounce her name (which he got right. He says it better than her teacher at school). She did nod her head to that question. Then he asked her how old she is. I had to whisper “six ans” in her ear, which she then repeated. Then he asked her what she weighs. To that, she just hid behind me and giggled. Oh, yea, she’s gonna make a great translator.

Passed a GMC Pacer today on the road. It looked to be in mint condition. If a Pacer can ever be in “mint” condition. It definitely looked well taken care of. Shiny. Even the chrome sparkled.

This bothers me. Because it looked better than my car.

The owner must never have let a Polly-Pocket-toting, snack-eating, drink-spilling, muddy-shoe-wearing six year old ride in the car. I don’t think that tactic will work for me.

The water heater saga refuses to go away.

Bill read that work order, looked at the heater, and decided that in order to get it to work, the technician managed to disable a safety device on it. A safety device meant to keep it from firing up if the pilot isn’t lit. A device that does sound rather important to me.

Then I started to get defensive. Because I’m the one who is here when the work is done but even if it were done by a native English speaker, I likely would not understand the repair. Because I don’t know (or care) how water heaters work. You turn them on, they heat your water. That’s all I need to know.

I was getting pretty upset. Then Kaitlyn walked up to me, patted my shoulder and offered some advice: stay downstairs while they’re working… watch them… ask them what they’re doing if you don’t understand. I told her that I had asked the guy but I couldn’t follow all his French. So she offered to help me. For the first time… she offered to help me understand the French.

I wish she could.

As for the issue of the safety device… Bill is supposed to have a native-French-speaker-engineer-who-understands-things-like-water-heaters call the break-it (I refuse to call it fix-it) company in the morning. Then I’ve got to figure out how to get a mechanically-inclined French speaker to be here next time one of these bozos comes to the house to mess things up again.