On the border of the French/Italian Alps

We are just a couple of hours from great skiing here in Aix. So, we made a plan this year to rent a little chalet and head into the mountains near Briançon. The tiny cluster of chalets called our village (Le Laus near Cervières) was out of a picture book with a great pyrenee dog and lots of untouched snow. It is just under the Col d’Izoard (the famous cycling route through the French Alps in the tour de France) and on the Italian/French border of the Alps. We signed the girls up for the ski school of France (pretty amazing national program) the l’Ecole du Ski Français.









Xavier took the initiative each morning to get the girls up early and drive them to the ski resort not far from (but not just next to) where we were staying. I must say, this is an example of where his parenting style really outshines mine. I would have pulled them out the first day. He is determined to let them do hard things and to struggle. It was hard. They had snow in their masks and tears in their eyes and they felt immobile in their huge ski boots. But Xavier, knowing the end result, would consistently drop them off in the morning, tell them they could do it and wouldn’t stick around to allow their doubts to sink in. By the end of the week, little Colette was propelling herself down the mountain and couldn’t get enough. Romy has her snowplow down and glides down a slope easily. I was terrified when I saw where Colette’s instructor took them - down slopes that had huge drop-offs on either side. The instructor told Xavier that if he warned them of the danger, they would get scared and freeze up. Better just to let them follow him in his turns down. Eight little four-year olds in a line, down the mountain, following the ski instructor way up ahead. Marguerite was already a pro, having experienced 6 years of ski school herself. She followed Xavier down the hardest pistes, only occasionally provoking a “hurry up” from her Papa below. Xavier is a phenomenal skier, setting the bar high for his girls to follow. I imagine the 4 of them darting down the mountains in a few years, racing each other all the way.





I loved snowshoeing on wild paths, finding fresh snow and feeling my heart beat pound. We had brilliant sun for half the week. Snow sun dispatches a special sort of warmth. I’ve always loved the contradiction of freezing snow and blinding, warm sun.









We signed up for a dogsled ride. The girls caressed the dogs for 30 minutes before we took off. They rolled over and offered their bellies for a rub, licked their faces, and howled a little when they moved on to pet another dog in the line. They were so powerful. I sat in the sled with all three girls, plus their owner standing at the back and they tugged us up a mountain pass and bounded with spirit back down. Romy felt their tug and the sway of the sled and went right to sleep.



On a different day, we hiked about 2 hours up the mountain pass to a refuge near the Col d’Izoard where they serve warm, hearty meals and pints of cervoise. After a great meal, we borrowed sleds to glide all the way back down into the valley - a 30 minute continuous ride! It was so fun and alone worth a trip into the mountains.






Marguerite with some of her Joly cousins





We also visited a traditional sheep farm in the little village Cervières. 300 sheep (including a few 10-day old lambs), chickens and roosters, bunnies, a live shearing…the girls were pretty impressed. The barn was full of a thick, reassuring smell. We didn’t want to leave.







We didn't just mingle with the live animals, we also ate lamb - a very traditional meal called 'gigot d'agneau' - cooked by fire, voilà. It was served in the small inn near our chalet and the whole experience was uniquely French. We walked in and the owner of the restaurant was miffed because we had reserved for 5 adults, but one of the adults was actually a teenager who wouldn't eat a full portion of lamb. On top of that, about midway through the meal, Xavier requested more gratin (he couldn't get enough - it was so delicious). She looked exasperated and explained it was certainly not possible given that the table next to ours had four additional people show up and that they had consumed any extra gratin she might have had that evening. Xavier put up a fuss, in a funny and charming way. By the end of the night, she had a special gift for him: a little personalized carton of gratin - just right to bring back to the chalet with him. She gave it to him ceremoniously and with a kiss on each cheek, of course. The whole thing was so particular to France. I loved it.

A February Morning in Provence

I dropped Colette off at school this morning and since I had volunteered to bring the snack for the class today (limited to peeled fruit or applesauce with no added sugar), I spent some time talking to Madame Maîtresse. She asked me how I was doing and if I felt isolated here. I responded and told her I had actually made quite a few friends and really loved life here. I told her how I loved hiking and exploring. About 1.5 minutes in, she looked at me and sort of cut me off by saying, “c’est bien” in a curt, closed-mouth way. I immediately stopped and realized she really didn’t want me to tell her about my life at all. I suppose that often happens between two people, but I admired her assertive way of signaling that I had gone off course. She did add, generously, to conclude the conversation: “Colette est une vraie élève” (Colette is a true student), with a slow, serious nod of approval. I don’t think she could dole out a better complement.

Next, I made a stop at the boulangerie. This summer and through the month of September (when we had guests straight almost every day), I would begin each morning by heading there to buy bread and croissants for breakfast. When it is the same person working the counter (the wife of the baker) every day, you come to know each other. We would exchange pleasantries. One morning about mid-September, she looked and me and asked when will our vacation be ending/when would we be returning “la-bas” (back home). I explained that this village is home now - that we would be staying. Open-mouthed, she exclaimed, “Super! Bienvenue!” and she gave me a few extra croissants that day. Since then, we’ve chatted more and more. Over Christmas, their family had the flu and everyone knew because the bakery had to close down for a few days (unheard of!). After they were back, I and everyone else inquired about the family and if Mr. Boulanger was feeling better, etc. It is funny that the simplest of purchases is highly personal in a little town. This morning we exchanged phone numbers - she was hoping that her son could come over and practice his English with us.

I was walking out of the boulangerie when across the street I heard, “Bonjour, Madame Joly!” It was the boucher. I love the boucher (the famous stuffing-maker for my Christmas chapon). I walked over - he was out cleaning the windows of his shop in big powerful circles, as a butcher would. We greeted with kisses on both cheeks, as he remarked that I am quite ‘matinale’ (always out and about in the morning). Then he said, “Allez, un peu de viande pour vous aujourd’hui” (Come, a bit of meat for you today). I agreed and said somewhat apologetically, “Nous sommes pas très viande en général” (We are not big meat eaters generally). He agreed, “Vous ne venez pas assez” (You don’t come often enough). I explained that we eat a lot of vegetables and only occasionally add meat. He looked very worried, almost stumped.

The French, by and large, are real meat eaters. He cleared his throat and gave me his perspective on the matter. “Regardez-moi,” (look at me) he instructed, his hand running down the length of his body guiding me to take it all in. I gave him a good look-over. He is a hearty fellow. Just as you would imagine a boucher in Provence. Burly - a real powerhouse, in his bloody apron.

“I am 59 years old. I have never had a broken bone or any kind of rupture.” He let that sink in with a good pause. “It is because I eat meat. Every day. Beef, lamb, veal, pork, even chicken and fish. It gives the body the strength and nutrients one needs to stay strong. You see all of these people coming back from the Alps from skiing and they are walking around on crutches and they have casts on their arms and they look miserable. What do I tell them? They aren’t eating enough meat. More meat and none of that would have happened to them.”

It seemed like self-serving advice, but he was walking evidence of his theory. We settled on some home-made sausages (hanging out, freshly made) and a bit of pork.

Xavier is going to be grateful to this guy. He has always thought my aversion to meat very very odd. When we first met, I was a full-on vegetarian and he pronounced, “You are the first vegetarian I have ever met.” I think it might have been true.


(The road to Lourmarin)

After my village stops, I was a bit of a traitor and headed to Lourmarin for their competing market today. Lourmarin is a little Lubèron village full of charm. Quite near. Their market just happens to be on Fridays as well. I wanted to compare their vegetables, cheese, honey, fruit to ours. Happy to report that the market in our town is really A+. I did find a honey-vendor there that was really special though. She had just a few jars out on a yellow tablecloth, lined up. Homemade stickers on each that marked the type of honey (lavender, prairie…) and their origin: a little town in this region called Cornillon Confoux. I bought a few varieties. One is a pot of honey with almonds floating inside - a delectable treat, she informed me with cheeks squished right up to her eyes in a grin. I also bought a pot of flower pollen. She gasped when I picked it up and informed me in a hushed tone that it is like a magical medicine. Take it each morning - a teaspoonful. Chew up the pollen. Or in a yogurt if the taste is too strong by itself. She warned me not to take the pollen at any other time of the day - it can make a person much too excitable if taken after the morning hours.




(Village fountain in Lourmarin)

Son domaine.

School. The greatest cultural force in a country. It has been less than a month and I observe my girls imbibing their new culture each day they go to school.

The first week: Colette repeating French sentences without understanding the words: "Le lundi est tout gris”
The second week: Using French words in her English sentences. Grimace, parcours, gilet
The third week: full sentences “Je veux celle la, Papa” “Je suis dans la groupe des papillons"

Colette sounds like an American making a real effort to speak French at this point. Overplaying the ruh in the ‘r’ in her throat. It is very sweet.

She was invited to another birthday party last weekend. Xavier dropped her off, not giving any context on Colette’s current cultural position. He is easily read by strangers: 100% French. Apparently, Colette observed much of the party and then occasionally said a thing or two (sounding two years younger than she is: “Aime le train! Aime le train!"). The parents were slightly confused when Xavier picked her up. It was clear they thought she was slow. Xavier, good old Xavier, simply said merci and brought Colette home. He cracks me up. I asked why he didn’t clarify and he said that they must be slow if they didn’t understand Colette was just learning French.

Romy’s take is often more musical - French songs - phonetic, incorrect, but the sounds are all there. Zero accent when she pronounces French words. I went to pick her up the other day and she was outside with all the other children. She was hovering over something, cradling it in her hands. The kids were gathered around. She hadn’t seen me yet and I called out to her. She looked up and grinned a wide grin, “Escargot!!!” she shouted again and again. The instructors informed me she had been holding it all afternoon - coaxing it to come out of its shell - not letting anyone else touch it. So funny. She has a good friend, ‘Carla’ at school. ‘Carla’ said with a sweet French accent from little Romy.



We’ve already run into a bit of tension with Colette’s maîtresse, a very typically French teacher with posture that reflects her general approach in her classroom. She held a meeting for parents a few weeks ago. She began the meeting by taking a deep breath (almost theatrical, but not at all her style otherwise), sitting straight up and placing her two hands on the table in front of her ceremoniously - fingers taut and and in straight lines like pencils.

Then a statement about the children: “There are some children in the class who are still very “bébé” - others are clearly ready for the work of school. You know where your child stands.” She quickly proceeded to the subject of fire and earthquake drills. Then to the cantine, which she complained is completely overcrowded, hot and loud, and could we please pick up our children and feed them lunch at home from time to time? Next was “la collation" at 10:00am - snack - which is comprised of only fruits and applesauce (without any sugar added).

And then the sacred subject of writing: "I insist on a certain method of writing, of holding the tool. If the children form poor habits now, it becomes a nightmare. They lose the ability to be fluid in their cursive. Writing is a moment of calm. It is a moment where the children must be correctly installed. Take a deep breath first and have proper posture. I insist on these things.” She was the perfect visual illustration of her point.

Xavier asked a few questions throughout, which la maîtresse found rather disruptive. At some point, Xavier queried whether or not there would be field trips. She punctuated her remarks about the subject with a reproach: “And I will be choosing the parents who accompany the class on these excursions, Mr. Colette.”

Throughout I was so amused by the serious tone. I admired her professionalism and her devotion to her work. The classroom is perfectly organized, well-equipped. Her groups and programs (she outlined the cadence of the day - everything in 20 minute intervals) meticulously constructed. All in all - a very good environment for a personality like Colette’s. To that point, Colette is adapting and doing very well at this point.

Colette did make a request recently - “Can you ask the teacher if I can hold my pencil the way I want to hold it?” I cringed a bit and asked her to give it a try the teacher’s way. The second time she brought it up, Xavier and I agreed we should talk to the teacher.

Xavier went to school a bit early one morning and asked if he could have a word with la maîtrsse. He asked politely if she might allow Colette to hold her pencil they way she finds most comfortable. Direct affront. Absolutely not and her method comes straight from specific recommendations given by the French National Education System. Would Xavier accept an amateur walking into his professional domain giving advice? Of course not. Please respect her domaine.

He put up some resistance - pointed out that in the past left-handed children were forced to write with their right hand. “But Colette is not left-handed,” she responded - literal like her posture. She basically hung up the phone, in person - informed Xavier that she had a classroom to attend to, turned around and walked away from their conversation.

I was nervous to drop Colette off at school the next morning. Madame maîtresse’s posture grew even stiffer when she saw me coming (I am already somewhat awkward. I always remember my bonjour before anything else, but some parents give the teacher bisous and I will never know with whom I should share this ritual - it feels intimate, not at all impersonal).

I said bonjour and brought up the subject directly, saying I knew she and Xavier had spoken on Friday. Rigid puff of air from her. I told her I wanted to emphasize the many things in the classroom that we admire - I named 5 things specifically. I told her that Colette’s difficult transition is going very well, largely due to her efforts and accommodations. I thanked her. She softened. She even said that my words had touched her heart (unexpected). Thinking we had made some progress, I turned to Colette to say goodbye and send her off.

The maîtresse continued, “After all, it isn’t an American who will explain to me how I should run my classroom!”
I smiled and held my breath a minute. I turned back to her, “Indeed not. This is your domain.”

Took a deep breath and tried to walk away with very straight posture.

La Française

Four months later…after my initial interview with the citizenship officer (and months of gathering the right documents + my lovely French examination) and a few hiccups in between, Xavier and I visited the French Consulate this past week and sat down with Madame le Consul herself. I am pleased to say that my citizenship dossier has officially been submitted, accepted and sent on to a (singular, very singular) judge in Nantes, France. Apparently, he is the king of these dossiers and will sit on mine for 9 months to a year before I receive a congratulatory note, which will manifest my Frenchness. It feels like a relief – if only because I will never have to make another request for a certified copy of my birth certificate (or Xavier’s, his parents’, my parents’, or our children’s) again.

There was an unfortunate moment a couple of months ago when we were due to have this interview and the citizenship officer had gone missing (an extended holiday in France or some other engagement keeping him away from his desk on Fifth Avenue) for 6 weeks. He missed our appointment and therefore rendered many of the documents I had summoned and carefully combined void. They have a 3-month window of validity. The orchestration of amassing the right things in this cranny of time is a true feat. I am convinced it is a deliberate bureaucratic hurdle to hinder the number of successful applicants. One needs true staying power to get through it.

When I finally did nail down this Monsieur, I almost cried on the phone when he declared I would have to secure a fresh FBI Background Check and new versions of various certified documents (along with their translations). I almost dumped the entire folder in the recycle/shredder bin in the copy room at work. I didn’t though. And so, Xavier and I sat down at the Consulate, hand in hand, across from these lovely French officers and answered questions about my Mormon family and my admiration of the French and how we were going to instill Frenchness in our girls (an uphill battle in another country, said Madame le Consul – right she is). It is over though, just a waiting game now.


Voilà: my French citizenship dossier (each dividing page a separate notarized document with translation) on the desk of le Consul in New York

La Javanaise.

I love a certain song in French: La Javanaise by Serge Gainsbourg. I love Serge Gainsbourg, even if part of me hates his patronizing/objectifying regard of women. That aside, his dexterity in wielding the French language in his music is both study and hobby for me as I listen. La Javanaise resonates on many levels: his word play (listen to it and look at the lyrics) - from the idea of 'la Javanaise,' which sounds like it must be a dance in the song, but is actually a kind of pig-latin in French [the idea is adding "av" after a consonant before the next vowel - one example: Paris = Pavaravis"]. The whole song goes round and round the letter V - weaving in and out, but never using 'javanaise' directly - only an inadvertent salvo. And then the cadence and poetry in just the sound and the stanzas - because it is poetry, this song.

Serge Gainsbourg sums up a lot about France. It sounds simplistic, but he was one of those rare people whose perception of his own culture was constantly spun brilliantly/resolutely into the web of all of his art. And he is universally admired in France - respected, paid homage to - as something of an everlasting diplomat of France. We listen to Serge at our house a lot (when I start singing along Colette directs, "stop chant-ing en Français mama - just papa" - she likes to keep people securely in their respective language boxes. The only ones she lets roam freely are Marguerite and Lola - Lola is Marguerite's doll) and I have been thinking about French culture on a larger scale as part of the next step in my French citizenship process.

If you read the op-ed piece by Pamela Druckerman in the New York Times this week: "How to Be French" She explores the question - what does Frenchness entail or even mean? I know it has a lot to do with language - as I shared in narrating my most recent step in the citizenship process. The next step in my quest for "Frenchness" is turning in my 3-inch thick 'dossier' of documents (all of which have to be dated and translated/notarized within the last 3-months and not a day before then - a difficult orchestration indeed) and sitting down for a meeting with a citizenship officer at the French Consulate in New York.

I spoke to this officer briefly on the phone - listened to his skepticism as I reassured him that I had compiled all the correct documents (his response was brusque - not to worry we will find something out of order) and then I was surprised to hear that our meeting was not about those documents actually, it was an interview. Don't bring your husband, he instructed, it will just be the two of us. He said he wanted me to sit in front of him and describe why I wanted to be French.

I came home that night with different ideas and talked to Xavier - my admiration of parts of the French education system, quality of life in France, the fact that I love my husband's family deeply, as a start. Xavier steered me clear of the first couple (me as a potential barnacle to French society isn't a good starting point). He said to avoid the last reason too - sentimentality just isn't culturally cherished in the same way in France.

So, we came up with a few - the space we afford and give to the French culture on a daily basis at our home and with our girls; the unity of everyone in our family having the same nationalities and the ability to share countries freely...some others are budding. Maybe the citizenship officer will like my goal of learning to speak "Javanaise". The interview is on December 3. I am going to walk in there with a big brace on my leg (ACL surgery is this week); I hope that doesn't put the officer off. The French get knocked off their bikes too (although no one would ever sue for it, that is strictly American - says the Frenchman).

French Citizenship.

I went to Boston last week for a particular reason: to take an exam. It was a French exam - the one for applying for French citizenship from here. Xavier and I have been amused by the differences in the citizenship process between the two countries. He pointed out that the French are mostly interested in assessing a candidate’s ability to assimilate in French culture and language. Americans are principally interested in a candidate’s moral standing – some assurance that she will be a good upright citizen.

Xavier basically studied a civics text primer: the branches of government, how many seats in the Senate, his NY representatives' names, some founding fathers trivia and had an oral interview covering these topics. He swore that he was not a terrorist, a communist or a mean person.

My test was different. I went to Boston because the test is proctored in the US at specific locations, on specific dates. I missed the most recent test date for NYC and it would be another 4 months before the test was offered in the city again. So, I ventured to Boston. Back Bay, which, incidentally, is truly charming and so beautiful. The townhouse and garden situation was inspiring for someone who also lives in a townhouse, but hasn't quite gone to town on the gardening front. The French Cultural Center is located in a big, formal townhouse on Marlborough Street.

The test was like the house - it was stuffy and rigid. The first portion was listening comprehension to what were, essentially, radio programs followed by questions to gauge comprehension. One program was about an 18th c. painting discovered in an old man's house and the provenance of the painting and the Louvre's restoration of it. The questions gauged whether or not you understood small and specific details in the various stories, not the broad strokes. That lasted 40 minutes.

Then came the truly fun part. The performance part. I was led down a small hallway to what must have been, at some point in the life of the house, a closet. At this point it was an examination room. There, on the other side of a table were two people. I sat down in my chair facing them and listened. The gentleman, with his froggy French eyes, explained that he would give me an advertisement for something. I would need to study the ad and then spend 10 minutes selling the product to them. Seemed like a memory/business or marketing school exercise as much as a language one, but of course I went with it.

The product - fittingly for the French - was a basket of organic fruits and vegetables, grown locally, delivered directly to your door, recipes included. I didn't memorize quite as closely as I should have, so I was left to invent all sorts of extra details about the service, spending time pointing out the effects of a large carbon footprint (I claimed the service was delivered by bike and then came up with some waste statistics that simply aren't factual, but bore the right message). I also suggested a few cooking ideas, and so on. In another similar exercise involving a clothing store ad, I spiced things up by claiming I was actually obese and that my husband was a very short man and we needed special tailoring and this service was always perfect for people like us. The French language part posed no real problem. Presumably that is the part in which they were interested. Perhaps, however, a good memory for advertisements is pivotal for good civil society in France.

Let's see if the examiners in Paris like my extrapolation. You see, there on the table in front of me was a recording device. The record of my tales will be sent to the official arbiters of this exam (in the version in my head, they are sitting stern-faced at the Préfecture de Police on Île de la Cité). I won't receive the results for at least 4 weeks.

Totally cracks me up.

Tu vs. Vous

No matter how long I've been speaking French, there are still moments where I am bamboozled. Tu or vous? It seems like it would be straightforward. But, alas, no. For goodness sake, my mother-in-law uses the vous with me and with Xavier's sister's husband while my father-in-law uses the tu with us. Xavier sent me this hilarious flow-chart he found - a guide for these puzzling pronoun situations. Click on the link to see the full chart.

"You couped your cheveux, Papa."

Today there is a transportation strike in Paris. Not a surprise. Les grèves. I was giggling when I listened to French radio on my way to work this morning to hear that Uber's founder was actually inspired to create his company while in Paris during a transportation strike. Who says the French way of business stifles entrepreneurship? Ha!

Colette's French is getting hilarious: Xavier came home the other day with a haircut. Colette looked up at him and said, "You couped your cheveux, Papa!" (Love the English past tense formulation with the French verb). And last night, while swinging on our bed rail as if it were a set of monkey bars she proclaimed: "I lache down and saute up." Nice lache-ing and saute-ing, Colette.

Produce.

Voilà: a hearty critic of America's produce. "These grapes are the size of my head." You should hear the commentary about strawberries in the middle of winter and their size. Cherries in April. Peaches in November. We do miss les marchés de Paris and our fruit/vegetable vendors, where fruit is generally quite small, seasonally appropriate and sometimes imperfect looking (but tastes like heaven).

Food is probably still the biggest source of tension in our house. A Frenchman's perspective on American food consumption is pretty scolding across the board. It just gets compounded by the presence of small beings, whose food intake is entirely our duty. I readily admit that peanut butter is not the healthiest choice for every snack, but it is not dog food either. And every evening when 7:00pm rolls around and I want to get dinner on the table so little lady isn't going to sleep at 10pm - Xavier feels a sense of impending distress. Dinner before 8:00pm is a frightful way to live.

I do love how he follows the "course" methodology even for an 18-month old. Each thing at a time - there is no large plate, where a main course, a vegetable and other dishes mingle. Colette starts with an avacado, tomatoes, or some other "starter," followed by the main course and then yogurt, cheese and fruit (distinctly and in succession) and then possibly a dessert. (She does say "chocolat" perfectly). Food and children: repositories of culture.

Les histoires de Xavier.

"Une histoire, Papa!" she begs. And so it begins. While Marguerite is in NY, there is a tradition of telling stories at dinner. Here is how it goes: each person gets to choose one "personnage" (character) and then Xavier must create a tale around these beings (the story should generally induce laughing fits or Marguerite crosses her arms and pouts increasingly). These are such excellent moments to soak in French culture. I usually choose a French being - someone very specifically situated in a French context, who cannot be placed elsewhere - mostly because I love: 1) Xavier and Marguerite's reactions to my choices - puffed out cheeks and 'pfff' - rolling eyes at such a humdrum choice and 2) to hear how Xavier naturally finds a place for these rather alien beings (in my head) in his tales. Examples include various French shop owners: a poissonnière (female fish seller), a mitron (a baker's boy), a cordonnier (cobbler), a concierge (caretaker of a building) and one of the best: a Motocrotte...

Our friend Meredith jumped right in when given the opportunity when she was over for dinner and her lineup included the Motocrotte, a blind-man and a little baby. A Motocrotte (seriously) is a French scooter with a built-in vacuum for sucking up dog poop on the sidewalk. Proposed by Jacques Chirac - this invention gives one a sense of the feces situation on Parisian sidewalks. In Meredith's brilliant tale, the blind-man's missing eyeballs ended up in the Motocrotte machine, but were then retrieved and placed back in his head. Xavier's incorporation of the cordonnier (cobbler) included the tale of a helicopter pilot who had webbed feet and held tryouts for a cordonnier to design the perfect shoe for his situation. The tryouts were hilarious - a gathering of all the best cordonniers in Paris (measurement methods included laser beams and diagrams and odd results: toeless shoes to make room for webbing, the softest leather, and on and on). In these stories Marguerite was not crossing her arms or pouting.

In other French news, Xavier's most recent proposal for incoming baby's name: Bérénice. We are having a hard time this round.

Les délégués.

Voilà. The promotional poster Marguerite made for her class election this week. It says (and the phonetic spelling on this poster is as charming as it gets): "Vote for me. I have never been elected as a delegate and I would be a good delegate and represent the class well, Marguerite...and please, vote for me - this is me" (with an arrow pointing to her drawing).

This is an apprenticeship in democracy to which all French students get exposed from the very beginning of primary school up to the end of their education. Every class has two délégués, who address problems in the class and propose ideas to make life better for students. They act as representatives for the students and are the intermediary between the students and the professor (Xavier explained that there is a forum every year where teachers discuss all students one by one and determine who will be held back that year - in France, this is a chunk of students, unlike the US. The delegates are present to represent their peers. Hefty job!)

I love France for things like this. We were having a casual conversation the other night and Xavier made some comment about someone: "le mec qui n'achète pas son pain lui meme" (the guy who doesn't even buy his own bread). I smiled (the meaning of the statement really didn't reach me) and he insisted. This is a true measure of sincerity in France. Every year, députés (from the National Assembly) are asked, "Combien coute une baguette de pain aujourd'hui?" (How much does a baguette cost?) and those who can actually cite the correct amount, down the centime, are respected - the inability to do so gets discussed in re-election considerations.

I just hope Marguerite gets elected and keeps her feet on the ground and continues to buy bread in the boulangerie herself.

Installation.

Xavier met me for lunch near my office the other day. It was one of those spectacular New York days where, if you work on Park Avenue, the space the sun takes up between the mighty buildings seems to expand the stretch and beam of the avenue. During lunch on these days, people flood out to take in the air. They sit on the steps that line the buildings, eating their salads and sandwiches. Like any good Frenchman in reaction to this situation, Xavier is appalled. From his perspective, they are not properly installed to be eating lunch (I am going to borrow and use the French terminology in English for this phenomenon - " Être bien installé"). The general lack of proper installation has led Xavier (and many other Frenchies) to diagnose this as a pervasive cultural problem that affects many aspects of life and the proper realization of living. At first, I used to giggle at the absurdity of these judgments. Now I think the French may be on to something.

Food: French companies respect the rights of their employees to take the time every day to eat food at a proper table - fork and knife (the fact that a knife is often missing from American eating situations is a prime illustration of improper installation, according to you-know-who - not to mention how very "gold rush" it is). French friends are appalled when I recount that my lunch at work is generally eaten at my desk in front of my computer. But you are not properly installed to eat in that way! They object. This applies to all humans. Babies of Colette's age are expected to install themselves properly before being served any food and to continue sitting properly if they expect to continue to be served. In our recent séjour in France, the family were somewhat wide-eyed and alarmed when Colette, mid-meal, would stand up in her chair, reach out her arms to be put down and I would continue spooning yogurt in her mouth as she stood there on the ground (like a dog). Oh my. For my part, I just don't see her as being developmentally capable of sitting through an entire meal. Xavier says I am training her to be incapable of ever doing so by not insisting on it. I am literally depriving her of this important skill. I used to roll my eyes and mock him for insisting Marguerite sit properly in her high chair and be spoon fed through toddler-hood, never allowing her to touch her food until she was literally capable of correctly using a spoon. Now, as I watch Colette-the-monster make her food demands (points to the bottle of water and demands to drink from it), I sheepishly mull over the notion that he may be right.

Sleep: To be fair to the Frenchman this round, I have always admired his insistence on being "well-installed" for sleep. Marguerite has provided a fascinating aperture into French culture because I've watched Xavier literally transfer culture in teaching her the proper installation for things. Her sleep ritual has been constant and solemnized from day one. In France, this ritual begins for all people with shutters (les volets). Proper sleep cannot be achieved without barring light (and preferably sound) from windows (keep in mind, blinds and shutters are not the same thing). In a sleepy town like Bauge, les volets are shut before the sun sets and if you didn't know better, you might think everyone had vacated their homes and boarded them up. Alas, no. They are just getting installed to sleep. Even in Paris, every room with a bed's windows are equipped with proper metal shutters. This is obvious to the French. This past weekend, Xavier and I were walking along a US suburban street, full of houses with little wooden shutters and he remarked again and again, "These aren't real shutters! They don’t work." (If closed, these decorative shutters would only cover half the window pane). Truth be told, I had never actually thought that people close shutters until we lived in France. I only knew of the embellishing variety.

On any form of transportation: I really do love when the French talk about being "bien installé - en comfort." A train, plane, car or subway ride cannot be properly enjoyed without the proper setup.

Anyway, I think they are right. We, as Americans, are far too casual about the way we install ourselves to eat, sleep and enjoy life. Proper setup leads to a rich enjoyment/the opportunity to relish.

Ham.

I had a very French moment with Xavier this morning. Colette has been sick for the past few days - not able to keep food down. This morning, she seemed to be doing better, but I wanted to be sensitive to her stomach. I asked Xavier for his recommendations on what we should first feed her. His advice (without hesitation): ham. Ham. Ham? Only from a Frenchman. Such a primary part of the French diet.

Fabophile.

The other evening, we were watching the daily video news roundup on French television channel Canal+: " Le zapping" - clips of everything viral, newsworthy, tragic, hilarious, banal, comic, impressive and idiotic in France, or according to the French (if you are a francophile, this is one way to stay connected to what is going on in French people's heads).

I seriously perked up when I saw a strange image and heard the word "fabophile." There she was, Madame Jacqueline Goepfert of Pfastatt (quite a mouthful). Behind her lovely ~70 year-old head were tiny shelves full of her collection: the trinket/toy/figurine one finds in the middle of the traditional Galette des Rois - la fève. To be more precise, she had 123,000 fèves. Every spot in her apartment was covered in the things.

You see, un fabophile: c'est un collectionneur de fèves (it is a collector of fèves). I looked into it a bit more. There are three kinds of fèves: Les Santons - religious themed; Les fèves standards - the most common found in cakes in all boulangeries (like the one featured above); Les personnalisées - these are of the highest value because they are limited edition pieces - in cakes sold only in special places. Oh my! The Galette des Rois tradition was already one of my favorites chez les Français, but this, this(!) brings that status even higher.

Check her out.

Fast forward to 2:06 in the footage and you'll catch a glimpse of her collection (watch the first part too if Gerard Depardieu's defection interests you):

ZAPPING ACTU DU 08/01/2013 by lezapping

I bet she belongs to AFF: Association des Fabolphiles Français. If we ever move back to France, you can guess which club I am joining.

Get the whole Galette des Rois story here.