I'm beginning to understand the language these children speak, which is useful for keeping them in line, but has nothing to do with anything else. I came here, after all, to learn French, not English-inspired gobbleygook. But, I am designing an economy with one of the boys: muffins for French words. I just have to be careful of his crazy accent.
I'm in an alternate universe, it's true--but at the end of the day, there are lovely walks, plenty of food, and the occasional shooting star.
I'm quite sleepy, and will be turning in now, but I wanted to share something that someone shared with me. I think it's beautiful:
http://www.orionmagazine.org/index.php/articles/article/307/
A bientot
M
Thursday 29 October 2009
Wednesday 28 October 2009
Digger Extraordinaire
Just spent my first day with my first hosts in Europe. They are an odd and highly dysfunctional British/Irish family with three brats (coincidentally all boys) and one incredibly sweet little girl. How she came to be this way, I have no idea. She even attempts to be helpful (unfortunately, she's incredibly clumsy for a small child). All of the children seem to have horrific speech impediments. At first I chalked this up to the fact that they speak British English at home, but are growing up in the French countryside. Surely, this is confusing. But their inability to speak is actually too astounding for this to be true. Although, the eldest boy (8) told me about his school (public, French, country), and I must admit, it doesn't sound in the least bit educational. They get graded "by colors", not marks (actually I'm not sure what this means). Maybe he doesn't understand either, which would explain why he gets "all reds."
The parents, unsurprisingly, are pretty strange. The father, Carl, came to get me at the train station in Libourne last night--and no surprise--French trains blow ours out of the water in terms of efficacy. In fact, they only pull into the station for about 3 minutes. The gate posting is only written for about 2 minutes before that: everyone runs, which is not a problem as everyone is fit.
Anyway...where was I? Oh. Carl. He's a tall, barrel chested guy who's so spacey that he looks at his own children as if they're afterthoughts. This sounds much sadder than it is. The children don't notice, as they get more attention than they could possibly desire from their mum. She can be heard screaming at either Oliver, Lucas or Dommie for the majority of the day. Usually Oliver. The woman's impressive though. I was working in the garden, some distance from the house, and could hear her. Today I resolved never to have 4 babies (1 or 2 at most) and anyway, none of them will be allowed to be boys.
Carl always walks like he has no idea where he's going, even if it's to the car or the bathroom. At the train station, he approached me vaguely, and said, "Oh, are you....um....Maura?" He asks me questions sometimes, but I don't think he would notice (or care?) if I didn't answer. And he claims to be from Dublin, but sounds suspiciously British.
However, the vineyard is lovely. There are a few old stone wells (still in order) and the remains of an old fortress on the hill, which puts me in mind of orcs. Also, a lake with carp. From the top of the hill we can see the house that once belonged to the French philosopher Michel de Montaigne (credited with popularizing the essay genre).
Right. Vicki and Carl don't get along and don't mind fighting in front of me or the other guy who is working here. He's a character too--a British guy named Andy who's lived here for five months without learning a single French word. Personally, I can't imagine anyone staying here longer than the minimum two weeks, so I like to think Andy is hiding out. My theory is that he killed someone in Dorset, where he's from, and can't go back. Or, bank fraud. Vicki and Carl have let him stay so long because they're bored of each other. In fact, this is the only explantation aas to why they host at all, as they don't pay any attention to Andy or me. I dug trenches around the garden all the live long day, I was fabulous at it, and now my back is sore.
The good bits:
1) The wine.
2) The scenery.
3) The most comfortable bed I've ever slept on in my life.
4) The weather (70 degree weather today--I'm reclaiming my summer tan).
5) The story. There's a theory about travel writing that says that we don't actually travel for ourselves, but rather to collect stories and souvineers for our friends. It is for this reason, I hope you find the above amusing. I only have to remind myself of George, and feel grateful. For those of you who don't know, George was the harmless but certifiably insane southerner I got a lift with, Atlanta to Scranton, last February. I'd tell the story here, but it's really much better with voices. Anyway, this is infinitely better than being with George. And all of it is taking place here:
http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&source=hp&q=la%20sauve%20france&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&tab=wl
Meanwhile, I hope to catch you up while I'm here on all of the wonderful things that have already passed: Belfast, hikes in Northern Ireland, Dublin, and Paris.
Take care, kids.
Au revoir,
M.
The parents, unsurprisingly, are pretty strange. The father, Carl, came to get me at the train station in Libourne last night--and no surprise--French trains blow ours out of the water in terms of efficacy. In fact, they only pull into the station for about 3 minutes. The gate posting is only written for about 2 minutes before that: everyone runs, which is not a problem as everyone is fit.
Anyway...where was I? Oh. Carl. He's a tall, barrel chested guy who's so spacey that he looks at his own children as if they're afterthoughts. This sounds much sadder than it is. The children don't notice, as they get more attention than they could possibly desire from their mum. She can be heard screaming at either Oliver, Lucas or Dommie for the majority of the day. Usually Oliver. The woman's impressive though. I was working in the garden, some distance from the house, and could hear her. Today I resolved never to have 4 babies (1 or 2 at most) and anyway, none of them will be allowed to be boys.
Carl always walks like he has no idea where he's going, even if it's to the car or the bathroom. At the train station, he approached me vaguely, and said, "Oh, are you....um....Maura?" He asks me questions sometimes, but I don't think he would notice (or care?) if I didn't answer. And he claims to be from Dublin, but sounds suspiciously British.
However, the vineyard is lovely. There are a few old stone wells (still in order) and the remains of an old fortress on the hill, which puts me in mind of orcs. Also, a lake with carp. From the top of the hill we can see the house that once belonged to the French philosopher Michel de Montaigne (credited with popularizing the essay genre).
Right. Vicki and Carl don't get along and don't mind fighting in front of me or the other guy who is working here. He's a character too--a British guy named Andy who's lived here for five months without learning a single French word. Personally, I can't imagine anyone staying here longer than the minimum two weeks, so I like to think Andy is hiding out. My theory is that he killed someone in Dorset, where he's from, and can't go back. Or, bank fraud. Vicki and Carl have let him stay so long because they're bored of each other. In fact, this is the only explantation aas to why they host at all, as they don't pay any attention to Andy or me. I dug trenches around the garden all the live long day, I was fabulous at it, and now my back is sore.
The good bits:
1) The wine.
2) The scenery.
3) The most comfortable bed I've ever slept on in my life.
4) The weather (70 degree weather today--I'm reclaiming my summer tan).
5) The story. There's a theory about travel writing that says that we don't actually travel for ourselves, but rather to collect stories and souvineers for our friends. It is for this reason, I hope you find the above amusing. I only have to remind myself of George, and feel grateful. For those of you who don't know, George was the harmless but certifiably insane southerner I got a lift with, Atlanta to Scranton, last February. I'd tell the story here, but it's really much better with voices. Anyway, this is infinitely better than being with George. And all of it is taking place here:
http://maps.google.com/maps?hl=en&source=hp&q=la%20sauve%20france&um=1&ie=UTF-8&sa=N&tab=wl
Meanwhile, I hope to catch you up while I'm here on all of the wonderful things that have already passed: Belfast, hikes in Northern Ireland, Dublin, and Paris.
Take care, kids.
Au revoir,
M.
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