Christmas, 2009

 We found ourselves in Arras-en-Lavedan, deep in a valley of the Pyrenees,  wondering how to celebrate Christmas Eve. Our hope had been to celebrate Christmas with snow but it is not to be, here it is raining and foggy. We decided to attend the local church for the Messe des Bergers (the shepherds' mass) at 9:30 PM which we had read about on a flyer. We had no idea what it was but we were hoping for some Christmas music. The French custom is to be with family on Christmas Eve so we knew that things would be quiet. What we didn't know is how very quiet they would be. Surely, we thought, something would be open in the town at the bottom of the hill. After all, it is bigger than our village, some restaurants will be open  . . . we thought . . .  mistakenly! After nearly an hour of investigation only to find everything closed, I asked a shopkeeper who was himself just closing up. "I think the hotel is open. Wait a minute, I'll call them." Sure enough, he told them to look out for us and off we went. Their meal was 40 euros, consisted of 6 courses and would take hours. We decided to take one more drive down the old Lourdes road--perhaps Our Lady would hear of our plight? Luck? Our Lady? We discovered a Total gas station, just closing up. It was filled with food, typical of a Canadian gas station (but for the wine and whiskey!): ready made sandwiches (2), chips (1 bag), and for French flavour, some Madeleines. We arrived at the church to see a crowd huddled under the stone porch so we wolfed down the sandwiches and joined them. Suddenly applause, as a young woman came panting up with the key to the church!! We found seats and sat back to admire the interior.

It was splendid.  Built in the 12th century, of Romanesque origin, it has the rounded arches of that period but with an elaborate Baroque altar. The walls and the ceiling are all painted with various patterns to look like wallpaper--a common technique of that period. We sat back as more and more people filled the seats. Soon it was standing room only: lots of families but very few young children. As always in a French crowd, much handshaking and kissing. At the crack of 9:30, an elderly priest moved down the aisle to the back of the church. Soon began the sound of male voices, singing in harmony. They were singing beautifully but in what language? We found the order of service and could see that the words were not French although there was some resemblance. The singers, all men, dressed in black capes and berets followed the priest back up the aisle. One of them was leading a white sheep who had been neatly sheered  and decorated with red ribbons. Singing, they made their way to the front of the church where their leader took the mike. He explained that they were mostly working shepherds and that the Messe des Bergers would be sung in the regional patois. I don't think I can convey how enormously moving it was to be present for this service. To sit in this historic church surrounded by people from the area, to listen to singing in an ancient language, aware of the symbolism of the shepherds whose sheep was blessed as part of the Messe, was overwhelming. We felt privileged to be there and to be able to share the occasion with them. We were clearly strangers in their midst, they looked at us a bit shyly and smiled so that the warmth of these families enveloped us too.

  If you search carefully, you can see David looking up at the crowd in the balcony!

 

 Christmas morning dawned bright and sunny. How amazing that Santa Claus had found us in Arras and left gifts under our "tree"!                                                                         

 We set off after breakfast for a hike to the pass above the village. Again, we found ancient history: in the castle, already important enough to have been taken by the Black Prince in the 100 Years War (1337-1453); in the old stone pasture walls, an engineering feat, David said, made of very large stones and with only manpower. Also in the narrow passages built to guide the sheep up to the high mountains in the summer.  It was steep and we became hotter and hotter!  In fact, it was about 12 degrees C.                                                                       

And then, it was off to the small local restaurant for Christmas dinner. No Total sandwiches today!

Here is the menu: Kir Royale et Amuse-gueules (consisting of  Saumon Fumé, Feuilleté de fruits de mer and of course, Foie gras et toasts). Then Caille farcie avec petits légumes followed by a Salade verte, all accompanied by a Pichet de vin rosé. And to top it all off Bûche de Noël.

The icing on the Bûche was the ability to connect with family via Skype and telephone. Amazing to be able to see our granddaughters, excitedly showing us their new dolls--in real time! This Christmas was, as many of our experiences have been, an adventure full of laughter and emotion. Certainly it is one that will remain a vivid memory in our hearts for years to come.
                  
For those of you who would like to sample the singing of these shepherds, go to:
http://www.starzik.com/mp3/artistes/Eths_d_Azu-452898.html
Click on the "Noel en Val d'Azun" album. Then if you click on the arrow to the far right of each title, you can hear a small sample of each of the songs we heard. Amazon.fr carries the album. At the moment, it is sold out!

The area once belonged to the Duke of Bigorre whose dukedom was created in the ninth century. What the locals call "patois" is actually a language with its roots in Gascon, French, Latin and Spanish called Bigourdan. 
"Sounat campanettas, tringlat carillous, Sounat las aubtas, cantat anjelous."

I have read that when the Virgin appeared to Bernadette at Lourdes, she spoke to her in Bigourdan, Bernadette's own language, causing the authourities to scoff! Why would the Virgin speak in this lowly patois? However, 150 years later Bigourdan still seems to be alive and well in the Valle d'Azun. The tourist signs are written in French and in Bigourdan.

What to do About Christmas?

David and I both have mixed feelings about Christmas--the rushing about, the commercialism, the over-the-top feeling of it all. And yet, there are also pieces that we both enjoy: being with friends and family, the Christmas  food--especially cookies, the sense of warmth and comfort that comes with special traditions. Here we are far from home, without family and the question became: how to make this a special time that would not be full of wishing we were in Canada? After much "why not?" and "what about?" we decided  to incorporate the parts of the holiday that we enjoy and then go on a short trip, possibly to find some snow! It is impossible to have Canadian Christmas without shortbread and other goodies so I spent a happy day, baking a variety of cookies and squares in the still temperamental oven. We filled small baskets with the results and gave them to various people who have been helpful to us. The staff at the local "Super Marché" were very excited about this unusual Christmas gift.  We sent greetings via snail mail and email. We decorated our "tree", part of the apartment decor supplied by our landlord.

To our surprise and delight Christmas cards began to arrive and we pinned them to a big green ribbon. We invited our special La Rochelle angels for a celebratory meal  We found a small village in the Pyrenees to visit, Arras en Lavedan (539 inhabitants) close to some cross country skiing with a friendly bed and breakfast. And we were off down the toll highway that heads to Bordeaux--speed limit 130 km/hr. We each put the pedal to the metal with great delight and then suffered from a strange Canadian reaction: expectation of  OPP interference and fines at any moment. Far from that--cars passed us!

For a small country, France has a complicated administrative geography: 22 regions divided into 96 departments, that are subdivided into 330 arrondissements, once again subdivided into 3,883 cantons composed of 36, 596 communes. Imagine what Mike Harris would have made of this!! However, to rest his soul, he should know that as of 2009, the majority of communes have been restructured into various forms of amalgamation. Even with this restructuring, 22% of the French labour force is employed by government. Our 700 km trip from what is known as the Southwest to the very bottom of the country would take us through six departments, full of little towns and villages, rich with history.We travelled through the region of  Aquitaine, the land of Eleanor, a mighty woman of the 13th century who was Queen of France and England. Throughout the department of Dordogne, we saw fields with geese and ducks stretching far into the distance, all of them very fat! For here is where the majority of foie gras is made. We took it upon ourselves to sample as much as we could. Creamy, lightly flavoured with a variety of herbs, it is definitely a taste treat when eaten slowly accompanied with some special "toasts" and a glass of white wine. Imagine this foie gras being consumed in buildings that Eleanor herself could have visited. In Sarlat, we stayed in a small B and B built into the ramparts of the old wall, very romantic except for the 46 steps we staggered up with suitcases to our room!
Our trip then took us into Lot et Garonne to stay in the tiny village where I had spent a month as a 10 year old. I saw it as unchanged although the guide book said that the village was in ruins in the 1950s. There is now a large English population, renovating and restoring, apparently adding all sorts of new income to the village coffers. We stayed in a B and B run by an elderly Englishwoman who seemed very settled and happy in her home of the past 10 years. I was amazed by how closely the village resembled my memories: the church in which I fainted from the lack of breakfast, the school where we ate and slept, the amazing landscape that we hiked in every day and particularly, the height of the village, perched on top of a very high hill. We were tough little girls, toiling up that hill morning and evening! For me, visiting Lauzerte was a moving experience.

I moved back through time to be that brave little girl, setting off to a strange place where the only access to home would be through letters. I made my way successfully through that experience, returning somewhat thinner and with several scars from the lusty fleas that lived in the school. Jolted into the present, I see that history has repeated itself. Here I am again: in a strange place, with much better access to home, hoping to return thinner and, so far at least, unscarred by interactions with fleas!           

Reflections on Our First Three Months

We are in a pleasant way suspended in time. The lives we lived in Toronto are on hold, our responsibilities there are looked after, here they are few and we have unlimited time to do whatever we wish. It is a heady experience and much of the past three months has had a champagne feel to it. Our classes at the Toronto School of Philosophy helped us arrive in La Rochelle without dreams or preconceived notions of what life would be like. We have tried hard to live in the moment here and that has helped us savour experiences to their limit. Indeed, we can honestly say that every day has been an adventure. However, we are finding that being here has both the advantage and the inconvenience of shining a light on our lives at home. Now that we are settled, there is more time for thought and reflection. I am beginning to wonder how it was that life in Toronto so often felt stressed and hassled, that I slept badly and that there was never enough time. Was this something about me, something about life in a big city or perhaps a combination of the two? A big question and one that will take time and thought to answer. Over the past three months I have frequently been outside my comfort zone but the experiences have been so intense there hasn't been the energy for thinking this through. Now that we are settled, there will be more time to reflect and perhaps notice more changes.

On a somewhat easier plane, we have realized that there is a lot we don't know about our own country: how various processes actually work, the details of history and geography and most difficult, regional differences. I was enthusiastically describing "Canada's health care system" one day when I was interrupted (apparently not a faux pas in French conversation. They do it to each other all the time!!) with a personal story of abysmal care in rural Quebec. "Ah, yes, well, "I stumbled, "of course, health care is a provincial matter . . ." I was describing Ontario health care and possibly only Toronto health care. Federalism is a difficult concept to explain to French people. They are so firmly governed from Paris and seem amazed and somewhat horrified that standards and services could be different from province to province. Another time, someone told us they had read that divorce rates in Canada were spiraling out of control. It sounded untrue but thank goodness for the internet so we could show that in fact they are just a bit lower than in France! My indignation at our trip to the OFII  made me realize that I know very little about how this experience would be for someone arriving in Canada. We know that we are seen as representatives of Canada and want to make sure that we do it well.

We knew that being away from home would bring lots of opportunities for learning about France, the French language, ourselves and our relationship. It is interesting to see what presents itself to us. We seem to swan along and then quite suddenly be hit by a difference or a custom that we don't understand or think is senseless. Sometimes we disagree between us as to what is senseless and have quite heated discussions! I think closing for lunch for at least an hour and a half is very civilized, David thinks it must contribute to much lower productivity.We both agree that dogs shouldn't be in restaurants and that their owners should be rigorously fined for not "scooping" the sidewalks. David continues to try to get his head and his mouth around "cheveux" and "chevaux" and I continue to be annoyed by people telling me I have a cute accent. I am beginning to think that I have a new French persona, "Madame Jeanette Broone" is different from Ms. Jeanette Browne. We both struggle with our different ways of handling new situations, sometimes admiring of and sometimes irritated by the other. We are surprised by how well we have managed the strain of really being each others only friend. 

So here we are still smiling after three months!

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! 

May the New Year bring you health and happiness.

We are off to the Pyrenees for Christmas. No more posts until January 4, 2010.

Warning!! The Following Post will Contain Critical Commentary

  "You are lucky, said the young woman in the Toronto Consulate as she gave us our Visas, "all you have to do is mail in this form when you get to France. The rules have changed." We did feel lucky, as we had read about the previous lengthy and bureaucratic procedures required if you wanted to live in France more than three months. How innocent we were! How could a country full of bureaucrats not continue with bureaucracy and if possible add more?
We dutifully sent in the form to the Office Français de l’Immigration et de l’Intégration (OFII) and thought no more. BUT, back came a form letter asking us for three more documents. Even then we didn't become suspicious. We were discomfited by the demand for proof of marital status. We finally sent our income tax form with a snippy mention that in Canada identity documents do not contain such information. Imagine our shock and indignation when a few weeks later two very fat envelopes fell through the door. They contained:
•    an appointment for X-rays in La Rochelle
•    an appointment in Poitiers at 8:30 AM
•    the information that in Poitiers we would each have a medical exam
•    the even more surprising information that we would each need to bring 300 €  in special government stamps, only available at certain government offices, and in bold "Failure to comply with this formality will make you liable for prosecution as a person without legal papers."
We happened to mention this surprising development to a new friend, Dany who works for an immigrant and refugee advocacy organization. She was outraged and insisted on finding out more. We spent several hours with her as she read the new law and made phone calls but all to no avail. We had to go. She and her colleagues were of the opinion that the type of visitors visa we have is so rare that the bureaucrats didn't know how to process it and lumped it in with immigrants who are planning to make their lives in France.
And so we set out for Poitiers at 6 AM since it is an hour and a half by train from La Rochelle. It was  a pleasant walk to our fine railway station, it's interior grandeur sadly spoiled by a long row of modern kiosks. However we were glad of the kiosk selling petit déjeuners!

Dear Dany was waiting for us at the Poitiers station and we drove quite a long way to the OFII. "So," I muttered, "not only are you expected to arrive at the crack of dawn but you have to figure out how to take a bus or pay for a taxi to get here!" We were greeted by an unsmiling receptionist who told us to wait. We were finally ushered into the Salle de Reception where an orientation to the regular immigration procedure was taking place . It was a mixed group--2 Muslim women wearing headscarves, 2 mixed race couples, 3 Anglo-Saxons. They were watching a film outlining the rights and responsibilities for a titre de séjour, the document that allows you to stay in France. Four training programs must be attended by all new immigrants: French language training (up to 400 hours), day long--lunch included, and here that would not mean cold sandwiches and a Coke!!-- programs on French culture, politics and daily living and a half day on job search skills. Afterwards, a young Vietnamese woman elaborated on the information in the film. At the end of each training day, participants are issued with a coloured certificate that they must guard carefully as they will be asked to produce the original when they go next year to renew their titre de séjour. I found her language difficult and her attitude condescending and wondered how the others, looking as though they were from France's former colonies felt. Had they actually understood what she said! We already knew that for some reason these programs weren't for us, even though we were involved in the same process and had paid the same amount of money. Too bad, as the language training would have been helpful and the programs about France interesting.
"Monsieur Core-keel" called a woman in a white coat, for the first step of the medical exam. She was very pleasant, measured and weighed David, gave him a sight test, a blood test for diabetes, asked about any serious illnesses in his life--since birth she said--and then back to the waiting room. Same thing for me although as David pointed out I cheated by not revealing my contact lenses when I took the sight test! This was not a deliberate cheat. I just forgot and she didn't ask. More waiting and chatting . . . The others came and went, taking their French placement test and having their documents examined. Then I went off to the doctor. She asked a few questions about familial health, took my blood pressure, listened to my chest and that was it. Both these women were very friendly and quite warm, unlike the receptionist and the film leader. The visit to the bureaucrat's office was the last stage--by now it was 11:15. She seemed far more severe than the others and examined all the papers VERY carefully, checking passport and visa numbers out loud. She was a bit worried about the residence proof I had brought--the lease for the apartment, wanting something else, a bill for instance. Since all our bills are paid by the landlord or on line, I explained that that would be impossible. Finally . . . she began to warm a little and confessed that she has always wanted to visit Canada and (unlike most people we have met) go across the whole country. I then warmed to her too and the end of the interview was much better. She carefully glued all the 300 € of special stamps into the file, stuck a large yellow label (what a strange colour to choose with all the memories of yellow stars) into my passport and carefully covered it with plastic laminate. "Voila" she said "your visa is now validated. It is worth nothing without this page." A still surprising piece of information which made me wonder what all the work in Toronto had been about! While I didn't believe that anything could go wrong in this process, I was nevertheless relieved and felt my shoulders unclench. How must it feel when you have fled a homeland and know you will be in danger if you are sent back? And when those visas are validated, does the bureaucrat seem a bit more congratulatory and welcoming? I returned to the waiting room just as "Monsieur Core--keel" was called out by the severe Vietnamese woman. He returned with a strange expression on his face. They had lost his yellow label. It was nowhere to be found. Paris had been called!! and even they couldn't account for this bureaucratic mess!!! David said she was very embarrassed but had reassured him. He wasn't to worry, it was no problem. Dany was not at all happy about this. Since I had been told that the visa was "worth nothing" without the yellow label I was worried too. This was two days before the three month expiry. The bureaucratic Vietnamese woman was not at all happy in being confronted by Dany and engaged in a variety of stalling and condescending tactics. We finally left with nothing but her name and her assurance that all would be well. She said to Dany:"Eh bien, they are what, Americans, Australians? There will be no problem with them." Publicly!! In the waiting area!! We celebrated with a real French Bistro lunch--steak, frites, salad and a lovely glass of Burgundy. Now we wait to see how long this tangle will take to be resolved.

The happy "legal"

The "illegal" with Dany

                                                                                                                 

Joining In

This has been a week of activity! Suddenly lots of opportunities to join in Rochelais life presented themselves and we took them all on.

Thé  Dansant--we saw little ads in the local What's On and wondered. My mother spoke about thé dansants  at the Chateau Laurier in the 1920s and they are sometimes mentioned in novels of that era. What could they be in France in the 21st century? Last Sunday afternoon we set out for the Tasdon community hall with our friends,  Géry and Marie. As we entered, this is what we saw.  

                                    

"Oh no, not line dancing," I thought. It was indeed line dancing but of an ancient Bayonne variety, a folk dance really. The hall was large, with a stage on which a two man band was working at full blast. We arrived about a half hour after the designated start time and they had to scramble to find us a place. Clearly, the rest of the participants were enthusiastic dancers and had arrived on the stroke of 4 PM or 16:00 as I am learning to say. And what dancers most of them were! The band played folk dances, Strauss waltzes, tangos. It was really a joy to watch most couples artfully dancing these complicated steps. Mostly seniors with a sprinkling of middle-aged folk, the women especially were dressed to the nines, some of them in cocktail dresses. People watching was great fun. My favourite couple had to be in their eighties but they were on the floor constantly, moving together flawlessly, gently smiling, as I imagined they have through many, many years of marriage. There  were many women dancing together and we were intrigued by a very elegantly dressed couple who looked like sisters. They spun around with enormous skill, obviously enjoying themselves. We left with a new resolution to find a dancing school and learn how to waltz properly!

We have been impressed by the creativity and innovations in La Rochelle. We were intrigued when we read about the first public meeting to discuss the new plan 2010-2020 and decided to go. Imagine our amazement when we arrived only slightly late to find the 780 seat auditorium completely full with people standing at the back. We crept in and found places sitting on the stairs. After the introductions of the chairs of committees and the mayor, they showed a very slick film, outlining the goals of the plan: biodiversity, the economy and social issues. After a further explanation of each one, the floor was open to questions and some heated debate took place. Concerns similar to those in any western community were raised--housing, transit, access to services. Some of the questions were fun. One young woman wanted to know if the mayor could arrange for the over-abundance of storks and swans in an outlying community to be transported into  La Rochelle. Another man was one of those frequent types who come to grind an axe about a development he has been trying to initiate on protected wetlands. It was clear that he had gone head to head with the mayor in the past. Our mayor's body language was something to behold! He reminded me of Pierre Trudeau. His replies were articulate and well organized and then there was his quintessentially French shrug.We were impressed by the thoughtfulness of the plan and the clear interest of the large number of people who attended.

And then there were the Christmas concerts. All over France, there are small bands called les Orchestres d'Harmonie. Their origins go back beyond Napoléon and now they are supported by local governments. They are made up of amateur musicians of all ages. It is a charming mix of very young children, adolescents and adults who are obviously long retired. We attended two of these concerts. Both of them took place in old--and cold--buildings! The audiences were just like home: adoring parents, grandparents and partners. Lots of  cameras flashing and loud applause for every number. Our friend Géry was performing for the first time in his new role as sax player so we were part of his adoring and impressed audience.

By the end of the week, we felt that we were really beginning to see into some parts of French life in small cities. These events, like much of our life here, raised questions for us about Canada. We wondered: why is dancing so much more a part of French life than Canadian, who supports events for seniors, what sort of plan is there for the future of Toronto to 2020 and how many people would attend a meeting about it, are there local bands in Canada and who supports them financially? And I wondered, why can French men dance so well while their buddies in Canada can't (aside from David, of course!)?

The Pas de Deux of English and French

What is the Académie Francaise thinking of? The Quebec Office de la Langue Française would never allow the creeping degradation of the French language like this! It is a curious contradiction that this country that is so proud of its language and so reluctant to speak English increasingly uses English words in everyday vocabulary. Of course, they aren't really English words anymore. You can choose to look at this phenomenon in two ways: they are either mispronounced English words or new French words that look like English words. Some examples:

I had my first French haircut a while ago. I was mindful of the warning that there are often hidden charges involved so that innocent questions such as "would you like some conditioner/hairspray?" end up as charges on the bill. When the very talented Severine (to whom I will definitely return) asked if I would like a "braw-sheen", of course I asked for an explanation. First, she said she would dry my hair so I said you mean "sécher?" "Oui, she replied," mais avec la brosse." "So you are going to dry my hair using the brush?" "Mais oui, le braw-sheen!" Ah hah--the brushing that I had seen written on the window of the salon--a blow dry!!!!
David and I are running regularly in the lovely Parc Charruyer. He will inevitably change this to jogging as he doesn't think we go fast enough for it to be considered running. I figure anything faster than walking is running! It is beginning to be a bit cold in the mornings and we know the winter rain is coming. I set out to buy some sort of light windbreaker. Since the La Rochelle Marathon took place on Sunday, I knew the word for this was "coupe-vent" as all the finishers received one. However, when I went to the sports store and confidently asked for a coupe-vent, she looked at me with curiosity and said:"Vous voulez dire un "kaa-wee"? Hm . . .  She took me off to see where these mysterious items were located. What did we see--windbreakers. "Voila, she said "les kaa-wee". When we finally sorted this one out, she was saying K-Way!!!

And then there is le pray-seen spelt pressing. Of course, this means dry cleaning! And le dew-vay which is the Dewey decimal system. And eess-tay or iced tea. And les bahs-kettes or running shoes (spelled baskets) And finally, le pled pronounced to rhyme with sled, written as plaid--a small blanket.
The strange thing behind this is the cultural imperative to speak beautiful and perfect French. French students receive far more instruction in the mechanics of their native language than we do in Canada. Speaking and writing correctly is enormously important. Every Wednesday afternoon, we spend time with a friend exchanging English and French lessons. One week, she asked for clear instruction on verb tenses, how the English tenses relate to French ones, their names etc. David and I suggested that it may not be that important, that eventually, with practise, such difficulties will fall into place. We suggested that speaking, even if incorrectly is more helpful than remaining silent while figuring out the perfect sentence. She became quite cool after that. Later, I thought about how much this idea would go against her beliefs about language so asked her about it the following week. "Mais bien sûr, she said, vous m'avez choquée." She was shocked that we didn't take our language seriously. Many of the people we have met are happy that I speak French but have no problem correcting me. I have been described to others as someone who speaks French "un peu/assez bien/avec un peu de difficulté" whereas I thought I was far in advance of these adjectives! At first, I was insulted but then realized that until I speak perfect French, these terms will continue to apply to me. The Canadian book "60 Million Frenchmen Can't be Wrong" has a very helpful chapter on the history of language in France. According to its authours, "Anglo-Americans consider their language a tool, but the French regard it as an accomplishment, even a work of art." In its early history, France was fragmented into provinces, each having its own language or dialects. Early on, standardizing the language became an instrument of the State to extend power and unite the country. Hand in hand with this, came the development of standards of use "le bon usage", the Académie Française (established in 1635, by the same Cardinal Richelieu who destroyed La Rochelle) and the eradication of dialects. Now, people like our friend regret the loss of all these regional languages but are convinced of the need for everyone to speak good French. Perhaps the only place that heated discussions about the English language take place is in the letters section of The Times of London. In France, it is a common and everyday occurrence. Much air time and newsprint is taken up discussing the measures needed to fend off the creeping anglicisms into French. Strangely it wasn't until the 1990s that the French government followed the lead of Quebec by instituting language laws that attempt to limit the use of English. Clearly, they aren't working!
Yesterday we went to a thé dansant. If you are au courant with the customs of the 30s, you will know what this is. You might have dressed in your chic décolleté couture dress to go to it. Perhaps you might have had an apéritif while having a tête-à-tête with your fiancé. So this exchange of language isn't new. For English speakers it has been happening for centuries and our language is the richer for it. For the French, it seems a newer phenomenon. But as we say in English and in French:"Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose."

Mal du Pays

It came upon me unexpectedly, in a flash, like those moments of grief when someone who has died is suddenly in your mind. Of course, there were signs that I should have recognized: the emotional reaction to the Jardin des Cousins, the somewhat obsessive investigation of my email inbox, the petty irritations over not being able to find tea, oatmeal, of wanting my own duvet and other small comforts of life in Canada. Homesickness:  that feeling of disconnection, of longing for things to be the same as before, for the comfort of people who know you well, where you can begin in the middle instead of always at the beginning.
That was it, that is what I was feeling as I stood at the edge of the blowing sea and thought: "They're all so far away, over there, beyond this ocean--all the people I love."  I'm not sure why it was so unexpected. I knew from experience that I would experience that feeling of loss. The past two and a half months have been so full of excitement and discovery, of intense feelings of great good luck and happiness at being able to fulfill this dream that I thought perhaps I had escaped, but no. I think when we leave home for any extended period, we take all that is good and comforting with us, leaving behind the petty irritations of that life. And that is what we remember when we are away. You are all bathed in a glow of perfection. We are blessed to have ready access to the internet, wonderful Skype and the camera phone, the telephone itself. But we can't just pick up the phone without planning. 1 or 2 AM our time is definitely the best for you but obviously not for us!!
And there are parts of life here that are difficult. It is hard not to be able to express myself completely. Although my facility in French is improving, I still can't discuss some kinds of concepts in any depth--politics, psychology--because I don't have the vocabulary. I feel as though I am speaking in a child's voice and must sound a bit dim. It is different for David I think, as no one expects him to be able to add to such conversations in French. He is at liberty to speak in English where it is possible. Of course, then he wonders if they have understood him, as our friends suffer from the same problem in English as I do in French. And it is hard work to listen so carefully, to try to catch the nuances as well as the correct meaning. It is why I often fall into bed very early and very tired. The good news is that David has had some dreams in French. "Il fait des progrès." everyone tells him.

Yes, I am making some progress in French, mainly now able to comprehend flyers and signs. I have been working on juvenile discovery books of France from the library. My greatest frustration is with hardware type things: if there was only a Canadian Tire. Maybe this is guiding me away from my usual escape into doing things to more thoughtful activities. More living life in my right brain.

I have found some good strong tea, we "imported" some oatmeal from England; now that it is cooling off at night, the apartment duvet doesn't feel so hot and heavy.

And the Jardin des Cousins, rather than making me cry, gives me comfort. We discovered it one morning while jogging in the extensive park near our home. The Parc Charruyer runs the length of the city centre and was a donation by Mlle. Charruyer of her family domain, along with money to keep it in good order.  The sign describes how the city developed this garden in 2008 to commemorate the founding of Québec by Champlain who came from a small town nearby. The garden is full of shrubs and trees from "les immenses étendues boisées du Canada". There are maple trees and hemlock, poplars and elders and . . . goldenrod! We watched the maple tree carefully to see if it would produce red leaves but apparently in this climate, it can only manage a yellowy-gold.

I am also comforted by the Rue du Canada near here and all the ones that have appeared in the small villages we have visited. The Rochelais I meet around and about, detecting an accent in my French, ask me if I am "anglaise" and I reply: "Non, canadienne". Without exception, at that moment a large smile appears and they say in such a friendly and enthusiastic way: "Aaah, canadienne! Mais vous êtes une cousine!" All these moments contribute to a feeling of being at home here too and help to alleviate the feeling of being a "stranger in a strange land".

But mainly, there are all of you who keep in touch so we know we aren't forgotten--the lovely emails, the ability to participate in discussion groups at home via Skype, the wonderful package of drawings from grandchildren (that now has a place of honour in our gallery of family photos), the planned visits from some of you in the spring. All this is comforting.

It seems Marcel Proust said: "The real voyage of discovery is not in discovering new lands, but in seeing with new eyes." This year was meant to be one of discovery, not just of France but also of our ability to cope with change, newness and difference. So this burst of homesickness is part of that, of learning what I can do without and what is really important.

But just in case it happens again, here is another quote from a very early TV show:"Keep those cards and letters coming!"