guest post: kisses and croissants

We're on Dublin day five now and slowing down a bit (#notasyoungasweusedtobe). Two more days of getting my fill of my old town and then it's back to life in The LPV. While I sip my cuppa and contemplate what to do today (and how to get The Husband up and out of bed), I leave you with my new friend Patricia...

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Bonjour les amis! My name is Patricia. I blog over at Kisses and Croissants, a name I picked  because, like Sara, I moved to France for love (hence the Kisses), and I'm obsessed with all French pastries, especially croissants. :)  Sara asked me to guest post for her today while she's on vacation, and I was thrilled. She is one of my very favorite bloggers. Of course, you already know that she's awesome - that's why you're following her!

The Husband and me. Isn't he adorable?

Currently,  I refer to the husband as Monsieur Right on the blog. This is because I tend to like nicknames that are ridiculously corny, and a lot of people can't stand when bloggers refer to their husbands as "The Hubby." Personally, I think it's kind of cute. But maybe that's because I jump at the chance to give him nicknames in English. We only speak French at home, and there is nothing cute sounding about the words "le mari" (the husband). That French word just sounds too girly, and I don't like calling him that.




I love reading other people's "How we met" stories, so today I'm sharing ours with you.

When I first came to France, I didn't know anyone. I showed up in the city all alone, 19 years old, with two suitcases and a bad accent. My French was terrible. That first week I headed over to church, hoping to meet a friendly face and that's where I saw my husband for the first time.

I remember thinking, "God, please let him be a regular here. He's SO beautiful!" To my delight, the next week he was there again. But he didn't have the courage to come talk to me, so he sent his brother to invite me to their mom's house for dinner, where we officially met for the first time. Now I know what you're thinking, love at first sight stories are cliche and a little too sickeningly sweet. But that's really how it happened.

That first night I met his whole family. Everyone was wonderfully kind. Or, at least I assume they were. I couldn't understand half of what they were saying, but everyone sure was smiling a lot. In France, we do the "bises" when we greet someone. These are little kisses that you give on the cheek, and the number that you're supposed to do changes by region. In my region it's two. When Monsieur Right leaned over to kiss my cheek, I about died of happiness. I totally had a fan girl moment. Please remember that I was 19 at the time and pretty naive when it came to romance. Getting to kiss a hot foreign guy on the cheek seemed like a pretty exciting custom to me.

It took us about six months to figure out that we liked each other and to actually start dating. Apparently, we both have a fear of rejection and suck at taking hints. To make a long story short, after doing the long distance thing while I finished my degree back in the states, Monsieur Right and I ended up getting married.



If you'd like, you can check out the rest of our love story here. I just want to give a big thank you to Sara for letting me taking over her blog for the day!

guest post: The Rich Life

Bonjour tout le monde! Today I'm introducing you to my friend Adrienne. I'd love to give her the fantastic introduction that she deserves but nothing I could write today would do her justice... Mr. London and Toulon won the Heineken Cup championship last night here in Dublin (that means they're the rugby champions of Europe for those that don't know what the Heinken Cup is) and boy oh boy did we celebrate... like getting home after 5AM kind of celebrating. It's like zombie central around here. So please give Adrienne a warm Le Petit Village welcome (I'm going night night).

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Bonjour! My name is Adrienne and I write the blog, The Rich Life (on a budget). Sara Louise asked me to guest post for her while she is away.  And I am honored to write in her absence.

I decided to tell you about how I contracted a Paris-ite several years ago, which led me to find Sara in Le Petit Village.

Like many people, I wanted to visit Paris since I was old enough to know what Paris was. I knew my life would be complete if I could just stand under the Eiffel Tower, a baguette in one hand, a wedge of brie in the other while wearing Breton stripes and a beret.

When I was 35, I asked my husband if he would take me to Paris for my 40th birthday, giving him plenty of time to prepare. Being the awesome man that he is, he didn’t disappoint and surprised me with two plane tickets and a week-long stay at a pied-a-terre in le Marais.

I fell hard for Paris, like a lovesick girl. I cried actual tears when I saw the Eiffel Tower for the first time, brought rocks and leaves that I found in parks and carried them home on the plane with me. I even kept the wrapper off the cheese we bought. That’s about the point where things got a little weird. I believe I caught what I call a ‘Paris-ite’, which I define as an unreasonable and intense obsession with all things French. ALL things French…even garbage.

When I returned home to California, my obsession didn’t lessen. Wanting to capture more of France, I spent untold hours scouring the web for anything and everything French. And that’s how I found Sara in Le Petit Village. I instantly adored her blog and thought to myself, If Sara, an American, can live in France, why can’t I?

I decided to learn French like Sara did and become fluent enough to teach English to the French. During the time it took to learn French here in California, I would convince my husband to move to France, bringing along my teenage stepdaughter, four dogs and a cat.

Pas de probleme! So what if my husband is not French like Sara’s and says Bonjour when he means Au Revoir. So what if he has a long and successful career in California as a firefighter! They have firefighters in France.



Convincing my husband to move was impossible. But I did manage to convince him to go back to Paris to celebrate our 10-year wedding anniversary.

When I returned from that trip I slowly started to realize some of my ideas might be just a tad extreme and an isty bit unrealistic. Eventually, I recognized that living in California’s wine country ain’t really so bad.

France will always be there, it’s just a really long and really expensive flight away.
While I still dream of living in a pied-a-terre in Paris or becoming Sara’s next door neighbor in The LPV for a month or two (don’t worry, I am not coming to the LPV anytime soon), I can appreciate France from afar.

On my next trip to Europe I hope to meet Sara, The Husband, and the whole cast of characters in The LPV. Hopefully I won’t pick up a LPVV - Le Petit Village Virus - while I’m there. I hear it makes people want to suddenly quit their jobs, move to the French countryside and become honey farmers.

guest post: Lost in Arles

Dia Dhuit!

That's 'hi' in Gaelic. Yep, I'm in Ireland. Dublin to be exact. But honestly, I would never say hello like that. In Dublin, I say, "hiya".

Mrs. London, The Husband and I arrived yesterday and have settled into our Auntie's house. (Mr. London did as well but on a different plane, and we haven't seen him yet because he's busy preparing for Saturday's match. Mrs. London's brother and Mommy London arrive tonight, and Gatz gets in tomorrow.)

I've got a full day planned... shopping at Penney's, getting my haircut, lunch at Wagamamas followed by tapas tonight with Mrs. London and a friend (The Husband will be at the Amlin Cup Final watching Leinster take on Paris... and yes, The Husband is rooting for Leinster). So while I'm getting my Dublin on, I'll take you back to France with my friend Heather from Lost in Arles and her post about her love of the land near The LPV.

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"Well, it is up to you to choose",  Remi, my companion, offered gallantly. The Easter Bullfights in Arles were fast approaching and so it was time to flee, to be anywhere but in the midst of the partying hoards that swallow our small town each spring. I had done my homework. We don’t travel as much as we used to, so I wanted to choose just right, certainly as we had gone through a stressful past few months and were in need of a dose of quiet. I had found an amazing cabanon, miniscule but beautifully placed on the Gardon River outside Uzes to the east. It was the definition of idyllic. I imagined dipping my toes in the cool water with a glass of rosé in hand as our two Goldens took their first swim of the year.

And yet…my thoughts kept returning to the Upper Luberon, the Alpes-de-Haute-Provence. We had gone twice in 2012, first as an escape for the September Bullfights (yes, thankfully they are only twice a year) but also a following visit just for the pleasure of digging in to what we had found. 

I admit that I was thinking back to the food. We love to cook and were blown away by the regions fine, fine ingredients—the pungent ooze of Banon cheese wrapped in chestnut leaves, the free range lamb from the Pays de Sault and the tender porc de Mount Ventoux, lavender honey, the earthy Pays de Luberon red from the Sylla Co-operative in Apt. Did I mention that I am a bit of a sybarite? Guilty as charged.

But it was the lay of the land that forced my hand. There is an inherent peace in the rolling hills and an infinite variety in the trees that charm. Remi, who grew up in Grenoble, was happy to rediscover a smaller version of the mountains of his childhood while I was reassured by topography similar to our horse farm of my Ohio youth. What is it in that as we get older we want what we used to have? The comfort of the past with a dose of new was just what the doctor ordered. 

And so we left the crowds behind and headed north. For there is relatively no one there. While the area that I love, around Simiane-la-Rotonde, is only a mile away from the border of the Luberon, it is a very different atmosphere. It is authentic, not trying to impress. Because it doesn’t have to. As we had on our previous trips, we drove and drove, exploring from the red rust dust of the Colorado Provençal to the zen garden stripes of sleeping lavender fields above Revest-du-Bion and the still powdered peaks of the Lure Mountain. 

We hunted for cabanons to inhabit in our imaginations as we went but we knew it was a sign that this gorgeous land spoke to us. And that we would be heading back to the land near the LPV all too soon.

ciao ciao

{La Petite teaching her Tonton}

++ I've not gone Italian on you, it just so happens that we say ciao in the south of France too. Papa says it, Honey's Honey says it, The Husband says it... we all say it. I guess it's because lots of people here are of Italian heritage (The Husband's grandmother was from Rome). Plus who doesn't like saying, 'ciao'? It's fun. And adding that extra 'ciao' gives it an extra something, something. Say, 'ciao', now say, 'ciao ciao.' See? Moving on.

++ Brother-in-Law got a brand new car; a Renault Clio, in powder blue with racing stripes on it and a big number 7 on the hood and the roof. It looks like Herbie the Love Bug, only French.

++ Brother-in-Law's psycho dog, Python (pronounced: Pe-than in French) has been temporarily living at Papa's house and terrorizing Papa's Wife's cat Rosa. Poor Rosa. And she should be frightened. Python has killed like thirteen chickens (that Brother-in-Law was raising) and countless cats. He's a freaking psychopath. I want to get him locked up with a Hannibal Lecter mask but one for a dog instead.  He's a tiny, Jack Russell, serial killer and even though I'm not a fan, I feel bad for him. It's not his fault he's psychotic.

++ The Husband returned home from bee duty with only seven stings. Not bad at all, except one on his jaw made the right side of his face swell up like Popeye and the two in his belly button (two bees actually wiggled their way INSIDE his belly button) made his tummy stick out like he's three months pregnant. If I had to guess, I'd say it was Mr. London's baby.

++ Do you want to hear the sweetest thing? Fifty says goodnight to me every night. Every night, after I get into bed, Fifty comes upstairs, walks around to my side and rests his head on the bed for a couple of minutes. I pet him for a bit and then when I say, "goodnight Fifty, goodnight bébé chien", he turns around, and goes back downstairs. It's heart melting stuff.  

++ Tomorrow morning The Husband, Mrs. London and I are flying to Dublin for the week. (We takeoff in about 27 hours!) While I'm off pub-crawling and catching up with family, Heather, Adrienne, Patricia, and Betsy, will be watching over this space and keeping you entertained with guest posts. I'm sure you will all be on your best behavior and make them feel very welcome, because Le Petit Village readers are the very best readers (please do not terrorize the substitute bloggers). Ciao Ciao!

Bisou!

mon parfait dimanche

That means, 'my perfect Sunday', but technically I should have titled this post, 'mon parfaite dimanche de printemps', which means, 'my perfect spring Sunday', because this type of Sunday really only applies to Spring and Summer. If it was winter, then this would all be malarky.

When spring is in full swing in Le Petit Village, as in when we get all of those pesky April showers out of the way (I swear, April is ark building weather here), I like to get out and about on the weekends. The Husband not so much. It's not like he likes to spend sunny days huddled up in doors or anything, but for him, sitting outside on the terrace or going to a barbecue is enough for him. Me, I like to go out, out. And by out, out, I mean strolling through a market or having a coffee or apéro at a table outside a cafe.

Luckily, I had the perfect excuse to go to the market and to drag The Husband with me; our upcoming trip to Dublin (only three more days!) means I need to buy little presents to bring with me, and the market is the perfect place for that.

In the spirit of marital compromise, we breezed through the market fairly quickly, got the goods and left. Heck I was just happy to have gotten him there in the first place.

The next stage in my perfect spring Sunday, is to take an apéro outside somewhere. (Me saying, 'take an apéro' instead of 'have an apéro' is an example of how my English has altered since living in France. I also now say that Gregory 'does his sport' instead of 'works out'. I have a feeling that I'll have to start taking English lessons soon.) But in another moment of marital compromise, we had our apéro outside on our terrace instead of at a cafe (The Husband likes to keep the purse strings pulled tight). It was still lovely though. It's hard to complain about sipping a Martini Bianco in the Provencal sunshine even if it is on my own terrace. What I can complain about however is Gatz calling for the third time that day (barely noon and three phone calls... somebody needs a hobby).

Gatz's multiple phone calls aside, my perfect spring Sunday continued with lunch at Papa's house. I love having Sunday lunch over there, it beats spending my morning cooking. I show up with a bottle of wine, set the table, and voila. Easy peasy pudding pie.

After Sunday lunch, we rolled home with happy bellies full of poulet rôti romarin et citron and I got to have quiet time while The Husband and Fifty took a nap. For some strange reason I decided to use my quiet time to clean the kitchen. It felt like a good idea at the time but writing about it now I kind of feel like berating myself for being such a fool. Oh well, at least it was sparkling clean when I cooked dinner... seafood linguine and another bottle of Rosé because why not, it's Sunday, it's sunny out, and it's Provence. I'm pretty sure it's the law around these parts.

One episode of Grimm, and one of Nashville later it was a little after 9PM...  just in time for us to curl up on the couch while The Husband watched Gladiator on the telly and I read my book (Winter of the World if you're interested) #maritalcompromise.

  Bisou!

stung

The Honeys produce over thirteen tons of honey a year. That's a whole lot of honey, especially when you consider that's there's only three of them harvesting it (Mr. & Mrs. Honey and Honey Jr... but soon Honey's Honey will join them), so it's no surprise that they need a little help from time to time, and that's where The Husband comes in.

Two nights a year, The Husband helps The Honeys move their hives from the outskirts of Marseille up to Grenoble, three hours north. They do this at night when the bees are supposed to be sleeping, but just because they are 'supposed to be' sleeping, doesn't mean they are, so the work and the journey aren't exactly sting proof.

(Getting stung doesn't bother Honey Jr.... being a fifth generation honey farmer, his body is practically immune. Bee stings to him are like mosquito bites to us, annoying, but not a big deal. I'm sure Professor X will be coming for him any day now. Poor Honey's Honey on the other hand, well she's still trying to build up her immunity. It's not always pretty.)

Last year after the second bee run, The Husband came home with twenty-one stings. (Apologies, I reported twenty-three on my Facebook page last night. And get this... somehow, he managed to escape with only three on the first run last year!) I asked him to keep track again this year for me, and as of 7:30AM, there had only been seven with only two hours left go.

But my money is on ten.

Bisou!

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beached

I've got nothing to blog about at the moment. Nothing. It's not like there isn't stuff going on here right now, there is. To be honest Le Petit Village can be a rather scandalous place and there's usually some liasons dangereuses or petits scandales going down but it's not stuff I can blog about per se no matter how interesting it is (if I ever get around to writing that book, I promise that all of the juicy bits will be in it).

And The Husband and I just had a nice extra long weekend down in Toulon and that was lovely but I didn't want to blog about it because my last post was about the the time we were there before that. But truthfully that's all that I've got for you guys at the moment.

I've discovered that the French Riviera is the perfect place to escape to when life isn't all that sunny. Some major stuff went down in The LPV the past couple of months that has thankfully now finished, but the ghosts of it still haunts us all (everyone is OK, everything is fine... I struggled with blogging about it for cathartic purposes, but The Husband asked me not too and I've respected his wishes... clearly there is a first time for everything).

So my cousin's house in the Côte d'Azur (my holiday home as I like to call it) became the perfect escape for us refugees from The LPV. And now you know that it wasn't only fun and rugby that was pushing us down south but that's all I'm going to say about that.

But please stay tuned. I promise that there's delightful snapshots of Le Petit Village life on the horizon just waiting to be recorded. A bientôt mes amies.

Bisou!