Le vieux Homme (the old man)

I was lucky to see her again, twice in one year, I fell in love all over again. 'France in all it's glory' The good, the bad and the children. 'These children are spoilt' said J. You're telling me I thought, but smiled tightly teeth clenched avoiding her eyes so that I did not give away too much of what I thought.

J looked harrassed, I was meant to be there to help them but that wasn't easy as the children always looked to her. The outsider of the family, literally the black sheep as I followed the herd around 'le jardin des plantes' that warm saturday morning in Paris.

That saturday I met him, I don't know why I had imagined a kind face, rosy cheeks. I was greeted by a greying man with a foul habit and a lack of manners.

If that old B called me 'la jeune fille'again I swear I'd make him choke on his cigarette. He addressed me directly as 'vous' and seemed to struggle to make eye contact. He could cook a mean stew though but I felt ncomfortable, I thanked him for the meal and helped to clear the table on my day off, no thanks or kind words from him Mutha Far Car. I was overjoyed when J refused his invitation for me to stay in the room at his flat expressing her wish for me to be close to the family even if it did mean C and I would be on the couch. (she probably had the smae fear as me, he may kill me in my sleep).

He coughed often and brutally, the effects of smoking for decades. The cough was not the only effect that the fags had on him, his teeth could luminate a room and perhaps even the 'Lyon Festival of Lights' with the array of colours in his mouth predominatly being yellow, there were also aspects of brown in between and perhaps green (am I being mean, perhaps...it's my blog and I'll Bitch if I want to), it hurt my eyes like the coloured bulbs we used to use in Nigeria. With each violent cough, I grew concerened, not for his health because I frankly didn't give a damn, but I was convinced that the stew he had prepared would make a second appearance and I wasn't especially looking forward to that free spectacle.

J and JP, were probably finding out that their friends really aren't as nice as they themselves are. Some have been incredably welcoming and some give me a non comittal and weak smile. What do I do? I smile back and think FU or as the french would say NTM while they probably think Black profiteur.

J's sister in law told me one day how wonderful the family are and that I am lucky to have found such a family, I agree they are wonderful, especially the parents, but did she realise how lucky they were to have found me? Believe me, you don't know what you've got til it's gone, a few people are finding that out now.

Bozart

Yeah exactly, that’s what I first thought when I heard it in my French class. I in fact learned that what my teacher said was Beaux Arts (fine arts). What I heard was foreign (remind me, why do I want to learn French again?) Four and a half years later, when J and I were talking about museums, and she asked if I wanted to go to the fine arts museum, I understood what she meant.

Ok, I understood what she was talking about, well done me, but erm how did she arrive at the apparent fact that I liked museums, I mean I went to Paris and didn’t even visit the Louvre. I preferred the gardens of Versaille and I like architecture. How do I get out of this?

So come the Saturday we’re walking around Bellecour in search of the museum, the children are not interested and neither in fact am I, merde!

Lucky for me, the children’s insistence that they did not want to go and frequent stops along the way meant that we only went to a small museum cum wooden construction with a polystyrene tunnel. Yay kids.

Doctor’s Who?

It is a known fact that the French women are regarded as the most chic, and probably the thinnest in Europe, don’t know why because they are forever eating bread and cheese. One of the teacher’s at the Institut (where I take language classes) looks like death, literally, that thing veiled in a cloak that haunted scrooge in a Christmas Carol, that’s what she looks like. I feel bad because she always smiles at me while puffing on a cigarette, boy these people like to smoke. But frankly, she scares me.

Later that same Friday, I laughed nervously as Jean-Pierre gave me directions and I crunched into 5th gear on the motorway. En route to Lyon, my first time on the motorway in France, I pondered….who am I going to kill today? Probably a good thing that Jean- Pierre was with me as I am not a very good driver even when I am driving on the left. Except for go-carting, I excel at running my friends off the track to gain first place.

We were going to pick up two of his interns, one from Syria and the other from Cote D’ivoire (Ivory Coast) from the hospital and as I was going out that night, the parents thought it best for me to drive into town so that I can stay later as the last bus leaves at 9pm (yes I live in the bush)! This was the trial run.

Mohamed was a round man not much taller than my 5”6 but he was friendly and gave me a warm handshake. Bienvenu, my brutha from another mutha, whom I expected to have shared some type of camaraderie being black an all, gave me a frigid smile and a cool handshake, he may as well as nodded his head as my brother sometimes does to me.

I didn’t like his outfit anyway, what kind of doctor wears tracksuit bottoms, and why did I think that they would be cute, I don’t do skinny anymore. ER is a myth, people like George Clooney are a very very fictional.

The warm afternoon sun stroked my back as we all sat gathered around the table in the expansive garden, I could get very used to this way of life I thought as Jeanne served up the grub. Bienvenu ate like a beast refusing to try the cheese and sniffed at the wine opting for the beer instead. An African like that, I cannot take.

Clearing the table with Janette, Bienvenu surprised me by taking some of the plates off me, he has a heart I thought, somewhere encased in ice at home perhaps. Either way, I was glad that he had not totally let me down and showed some appreciation for the hospitality.

The journey into Lyon was silent for the most part, I had opted to drop the interns into town and as we pulled into the parking lot we all started to loosen up, as if getting out of the car had given us some freedom of speech. The train ride was a lot better and Bienvenu even mocked me saying that French was easy, his thick accent made it hard for me to understand him at times but he didn’t tire of repeating himself. As we parted ways, we did the bise (kiss) as the French do and promised to all see each other again, but we all knew it was out of politeness.

Now, I had my hair did, heels on, leggings with a loose top cinched at the waist by a belt, tell me heads won’t turn tonight……………even if it is to say, what is she wearing?

Boulangerie

I can still feel the sting of the dirty slap that Frederic gave me today, he likes to play rough and I still think it was unintentional unlike his attack earlier on today.

It all started well, I picked the children up from school and decided as I spend absolutely no money whatsoever to buy the typical French family some bread.
We seem to be forever munching on this and the children don’t seem to tire of eating it with every meal.

Parking the car/van was a task in itself but trying to coerce a 4-year old out of it was another. His sister said we could lock him in as we could see him. Louise and I stepped into the shop and could see Fred in the drivers seat turning on the light and we could hear him pressing the horn, all fun and games for him but humph, not for me.

At home we played, which we don’t normally do, Fred normally waits while I help Coralie with her homework. She seems to crave attention and her parents have decided that she must work alone. She didn’t, she could not focus and continued to disturb us every two minutes

Then Fred threw a tantrum as I started to help Coralie with her work, Annabel had already parted for her swimming lesson, she leads a very active life, even more so that I did when I had a life and she is 8.

A broken chair and a bruised ego was the scene that Jeanne interrupted. The chair, bien sur, hers and the ego of Fred's. That child tries to push me every day but I am not having it. Whoever said children are innocent doesn’t remember their own childhood as they are as crafty as they come.

Perhaps I could slip away and sleep. Erm No, for the third night this week, the parents were going out. Lucky me, no sleeps until 11 for the third night running….but I love my sleep I thought.

Beatles

Beatles

‘I say yes….’ sang Coralie ‘you say no’ she continued..... erm no J I don’t know it, sorry erm. Yeah!

Ben it’s the Beatles. she shrieked.

But why does everyone think that just because I am English that I am going to like the group, I know about three songs of theirs and don’t much care for them. How many black people do you hear singing follow the yellow brick road….was that them? Whatever. I followed M. J (RIP). If I really want to get African, we listened to Sina Peters, King Suny Ade when I was young. In fact, I know more Abba songs than Beatles and they don’t even come from England.

So as I sat in the driving seat, J looked at me in disbelief although I hadn’t beaten any of her kids, it was unheard of not to know the song. I won’t tell her that I don’t think I even like the group, I don’t want to cause anymore alarm. Oh la la

Where am I?

Oh no, mon dieu! My third day here and truly the first day of work and the blond lady sitting across from me was telling me that I had missed my stop. But what? Huh? How? For goodness sake, what is wrong with the French, why can’t they just speak English, where am I? Forget learning this French ish, where T F am I?

As she told me where I was and explained that I had took the wrong bus I grimaced, oh crap, now I have to call Janette embarrassing first, expensive second as I still didn’t have a French sim….oh and merde, les enfants.

It was 4.20 and I had to be at the school by 4.30.

But, the day before went Ok, I arrived on time, turned down the wrong road at first but I got there, now I wasn’t going to be able to do my job. Ah, why me?!

Janette came to get me and I explained that I had taken the 161 this morning and the other day, she repeated what she told me upon my arrival the first day. Faites attention the buses do not always stop at Morancé and that I had to take the 164. Now you tell me……again! Oops.

We went to get the children, half an hour later than usual and I was well and truly embarrassed, head bowed for most of the night! Janette later told me that it wasn’t too serious as it wasn’t as if I had left them in the street…..I wouldn’t manage to do that, would I?

From C to C

After mummy, yes mummy dropped me off and went on her way the day after we arrived at this rustic country house, I have since sorted out my travel card, ‘Rhone Pass’, signed up to my language class, 'toute seule' but failed to sort out a sim card. I guess I find it a bit too ridiculous to pay 30euros for a sim card. Do we really have it that good in England?

Upon wiping Frederic's tusch, I figured the real work had begun the third day after my arrival, he said something about kaka. At four years old Fred tries to speak but I do not always understand, he is a sweet and a very cheeky little boy, whose smile enables you to forgive all. I soon understood what he meant when he pointed at his trousers, once he had finished he called me, bent over bum in air to allow me to wipe. Hmmm.

The family have been great, Janette (the mum) especially, welcoming me into the bosom of the family. Coralie, the eldest quickly befriended me the first day. As we sat in the sun doing her English homework, I found that she really loved the English language. The children gave me a tour of the house (I did not tell them that their father already had) and I marveled at the balconies, in fact the inside was almost as spectacular as the outside with the large windows and real fireplace, tiled floors and high ceiling in the corridor. The family reside on perhaps one acre of land with a stream running beside it and the garden (if it can be called that) has swings, hammocks, a pond.

Upon arrival we were greeted by a Labrador and a very large dog, which much ressembled a St Bernard. Jean-Pierre (the dad) told me the name but I can’t much remember, he said something in french and I nodded. The large swimming pool I was told was out of bounds for Frederic but that he much liked playing on the swing. Up in one of the many trees lived an incomplete but impressive treehouse. Jean-Pierre blushed as he told me that he had not had the time to complete it and that he was more of an intellect than a labourer.


So that’s how I went from city girl to country girl.