A Different Kind of Journal

A few years ago, a friend suggested to me {via email} that I should start a blog and share with the world my quirky stories about my new french life in the south of France. At the time I laughed it off, but the idea stayed tucked away in the corners of my mind. 

At the top of a bell tower, looking over a village.

At that time, I had been living in France {permanently} for almost a year and was still trying to get my leg over that bi-lingual wall! The two years before that, I had been going back and forth between France and Australia chasing the summers and hiding from the cold. I had noticed a lot of cultural differences between the french and english-speakers, that I had not read about in any book. I grew to feel very frustrated with life in France, the french population {in general} and the fact that I could never escape the label of being a foreigner. I needed a place to vent my frustrations and write about the very unbelievable observations that still to this day, leave me at a loss for words. 

Picking melons after a run.

Back then, if I wasn’t planting seeds, picking melons, or working on a market, I would pass my time day-dreaming; writing in journals, and taking pictures of butterflies and wheat fields.

I love reading back through my journals and I still remember those quiet moments of solitude, when the world had stopped turning, so that I could be alone, in the moment with my thoughts. 

These butterflies are everywhere in summer!

A lot of the entries were about things that had happened at markets or on the farm, with Mathieu’s family. A lot were funny, jaw-dropping-OMG-did-that-really-happen moments; but a lot were also sad. I was extremely homesick and missing my beautiful family and friends, my beloved Sydney and wondering why the hell I came here in the first place… oh yeah, love.

My favourite city in the world!

It’s a really hard thing, moving to a foreign country; espescially when you have gone from a glistening, vibrant city - out to the sticks and where you don’t speak the language or understand the culture. It’s nearly impossible to be yourself when you cant make yourself understood. As time passes, you struggle to remember what you used be like – didn’t I used to be funny? 

Lavender field towards the lake at Esparron.

 I hated working on the markets. I felt constant angst because I couldn't understand a damn word that was being said to me! You would think that the process of buying a melon would be a simple one and trust me; only the French could complicate this situation. They would want to know the variety, the quality, the weight, is it good, is it sweet, how long it will last, do they keep it in the fridge, is it male, is it female, was it picked today, where is it grown, am I the producer, is it certified organic, is it grown in a tunnel or in a field??? The questions were endless and so was the humiliation of not being able to answer a single one!

A lot of the time, I would meet lovely people and once they understood that my French was not good, even non-existent, they would pull a little trick out of their hat and speak in English. I have discovered along my travels that most French people keep this one hidden up their sleeve. They would ask me how I wound up in France. They would listen contently to my reply, with warm smiles on their faces... 'I came here for love', I would say in my sweet, little, Aussie voice and they would buy some melons and be on their way. I loved meeting people like that, because the rest of the time, I met some not so lovely people, who fit every horrible stereo-type ever written about the French.

I would get home from the markets exhausted from listening to people and trying to decipher words and their meanings.

One grey day at Cotignac market, a woman in her mid 50's came to buy a melon. At first, she asked how much it was for one. I replied {in French}, 'It's 2€ for one, or 5€ for 3'... the smile on her face dropped to the ground when she heard my accent and she went on to ask me several questions, to which I did not understand and could not answer. She searched through her purse for a single 2€ coin, and before placing it in my hand, she said {in English}, 'It disgusts me that there are foreigners working in my country who can not even speak the language'! And with that, she pushed the coin into the palm of my hand, trying to avoid any actual contact with my skin and went on her way. 

The old caves at Cotignac.

I stood there in shock until she eventually disappeared into the crowd. As mean and as hurtful as she was, she actually did me a favour as she gave me the nudge that I needed to focus on learning the French language, all by myself. I went home that day, exhilerated and full of energy. I put labels all around the house with both the french and english word, if it was masculine or feminie and it's plural form. I was on fire and seeing them everyday, I started remembering.

Today, I speak quite well and have really progressed in the last three years or since my son, Gabe, was born. I am thankful that I met that woman, and when I think about her, I think about how far I have come since then.

Learning to speak another langauge has been my greatest challenge and my greatest achievement, however, it is no longer my greatest obstacle... being a Mother is. But, that is something that I cherish more than anything else. And you can see why!

The Boy!

Reading back over those journals from years ago, I have changed a lot. My feelings, my way of thinking; I feel all grown up. These days, I am one of the locals and a Mama. I don’t write in journals anymore {well, I guess this blog is kind of a journal} – but I still day-dream and take pictures of butterflies & wheat fields.