Catherine Berry's Blog, page 6

Vacuuming isn't my most favourite thing to do, but at least it's not my least. I became a bit manic about keeping the floor clean when my children were babies, and mooching around on it, but fortunately I don't have the same daily urges any more. A little bit like my morning lap swimming, passing the aspirator (passer l'aspirateur) actually gives me a long period of time to think, and that's not a bad thing. For some reason, doing the bathrooms doesn't have the same effect.

I have the sneaking suspicion that I'm not the only one to do a self-twist and contort, manipulating the vacuum head with alacrity, in order to avoid at all costs the effort of moving chairs, coffee tables, discarded clothes...anything... out of the way. But, I'm not here to preach or be educated regarding the techniques of said household chore.

Bent over the machine this morning, my stream of consciousness led me around the dust piled up under the chair legs, around the gaffa taped and sagging seats, across the pock marked table top to the springless dunce in the corner and on to France. Of course, it did. Most things do. You see, we bought this table and chairs from an antique (read 'things old and unstable') store years before our departure from Australia. It was a big deal for my husband and me as it was an actual purchase and not just a scrounge off the side of the road during one of the Council clean-up weekends. It served us and our children exceptionally well and if I look carefully at the table, I can probably see where and when. But, its crowning glory is that it has two leaves and seats a large number all together, just like we like it.




We didn't like it much when we returned to Australia from France. Our tenants had used it for major smash and grab affairs - or perhaps, table top dancing. Either, perhaps both, is a possibility. Even the one ebayer who kindly agreed to take it off our hands, baulked when she actually saw it and went away sans table. Mmm, now I was a bit offended, and decided that this un-loved possession needed to be projected right into the family fold and take pride of place at dinner time. Is it comfortable? No. Do our guests wonder? Probably.

In addition to being the champion of the under-table, there may have been another reason for not heading straight to the trash heap towing dining furniture behind me. At the time, I could not buy anything. Any purchase, no matter how big or small, came to represent another physical barrier to our return to France. In my mind, if we bought anything, it was a sign that we were settling in and finding our place in a new place. It was tantamount to doing the unthinkable, conducting a blatant act of betrayal and ... letting France go. Our deck remained furniture-less and our linen, threadbare; our glassware, non-existant except for a growing collection of re-purposed Vegemite jars and our clothes, very fashionable items from the '80s.

All in the vain hope that nothing coming in meant that we could all go back. Back to France, from where my heart was refusing to budge.

Years have passed and not much has changed. I did eventually buy a second-hand couch for the deck, but not with the goal of providing comfortable seating, more with the thought that it would make selling up quicker and easier.

Ahh. The unforeseen consequences of choosing adventure and saying 'no thanks' to living 'normally': passion, awareness, love, joy, friendships, heartache...and the inability to sit for long.

If you would like to read more stories of our French-Australian life, Kindle and print versions of 'But you are in France, Madame' can be found by clicking here.

It has been 16 years now and I have only just learnt that what my son and I have been doing all this time has a name: additive bilingualism. The term was coined, I believe, in 2006 by King and Foley and has something to do with raising a child in a non-native language. (I have requested a copy of the research paper but haven't as yet been granted access.) It was in an article entitled 'Possible, but challenging: Raising children in a non-native language' that I came across the term, and it prompted me to think back over the wonderful journey that my son and I have been on.

And, yes, it has been a wonderful journey ... (previous blog posts on the subject can be found here: 'What I have learnt from the past 12 years speaking French to my son followed by Bilingual Baby - First Steps and Bilingual Baby - Chapter Two.)

But first, let me share with you a few lines from Gerald Durrell's exquisite read 'My Family And Other Animals'. Believing that he was running too wildly and in need of some proper education, Gerry's Mother set up French lessons for him with the Belgian Consul. Only, in this excerpt, she comes face-to-face with her own language limitations:

"For some inexplicable reason the consul was under the impression that Mother could speak French, and he would never lose an opportunity of engaging her in conversation. If she had the good fortune, while shopping in the town, to notice his top hat bobbing through the crowd towards her, she would hastily retreat into the nearest shop and buy a number of things she had no use for, until the danger was past. Occasionally, however, the consul would appear suddenly out of an alleyway and take her by surprise. He would advance, smiling broadly and twirling his cane, sweep off his top hat and bow almost double before her, while clasping her reluctantly offered hand and pressing it passionately to his beard. Then they would stand in the middle of the street, occasionally being forced apart by a passing donkey while the consul swamped mother under a flood of French, gesturing elegantly with his hat and stick, apparently unaware of the blank expression on Mother's face. Now and then, he would punctuate his speech with a questioning 'n'est-ce pas, madame?' and this was Mother's cue. Summoning up all her courage, she would display her complete mastery over the French tongue.

"Oui, oui!" she would exclaim, smiling nervously, and then add, in case it had sounded rather unenthusiastic, 'OUI, OUI.'

This procedure satisfied the consul, and I'm sure he never realised that this was the only French word that Mother knew. But these conversations were a nerve-wracking ordeal for her, and we only had to hiss 'Look out, Mother, the consul's coming,' to set her tearing off down the street at a lady-like walk that was dangerously near a gallop.

Let's do our own waltzing... back to the present.

I am a native English speaker but I speak French to my son. He, mostly, replies in English. It has always been like this and I'm wondering now if it will always be like this. Not just the English-French mélange, but the forever bit.

The gist of something that I read recently was that, at 5 % prepared, just throw yourself in. If you wait until you are 100% ready, 100% knowledgeable, to do whatever it is that you are contemplating, you will stay still. This was not my guiding principle back then, but it certainly describes what happened. I had very little idea of what I was doing, from both language and methodology points of view, but somehow, together, my son and I managed to push through the awkwardness, the doubt, the difficulties and the lack of resources to an understanding that complements - no, makes magical - our communication.

He is tolerant of (or should that be tolerates? ) me. When I get myself tied up in knots, searching for the words to describe something that does not exist in French, he listens, with an indulgent smile and waits for the excruciating description to finish. He used to cut me off half way. After all, he knew where I was going and didn't need the sentence to be finished to understand. Maturity, and a certain wicked aptitude for teasing, have brought about his new indulgence towards me.

He reminds me, too, when necessary (usually when I am suggesting that he go and do his French homework) that he didn't learn French. It's different for him, he tries to get across to me. French is not his second language. It just is. And that, as beautiful as it is, is hard for me to truly get... both as the mother who has guided him through this - and as a French teacher. I still learn. Every day. And that is something that I don't think researchers have really got. The benefits of additive bilingualism - for the child - are without doubt. The benefits for the parent are all of that and more... 'added additive bilingualism' or some such term.

Sure, like Gerry's Mother, I have been known to scuttle into doorways, or cleverly melt into lamp posts, in an attempt to avoid more nerve-wracking language ordeals than necessary, but this somewhat unintentional social experiment with my son has worked (she shakes her head, still in mild disbelief).

The full title of King and Foley's paper is 'Bilingual parenting as good parenting: Parents’ perspectives on family language policy for additive bilingualism.'  



Our journey, my journey, this additive bilingualism, has never been about good parenting. But, boy, has it added soulfully to good living and good loving.

PS Part of our journey took us to France. Find our story here on Amazon for a Kindle or a print copy.

La Plage du Mugel

A couple of years before we took off on our much-talked-about French adventure, a friend sent me a present. I love happy mail. This was amongst the happiest - a book from a special person. It came wrapped and openable (and not just at the click of a button), it promised lots of precious, quiet moments and it was about life in France. But, and here was the icing on the cake, not only was it a series of little French family anecdotes, for the language teacher such as I, it had the added bonus of exciting little linguistic forays at the end of each chapter.


At the time, I noted that the author had a blog but, knowing very little about such things, didn't look it up, and when it was suggested that a blog of my own would be a good way to keep in touch once we were in France, I gave that a pass too. After all, I was a private person, with lots of stories to tell that I thought would be of little interest to most.

Arriving in France, I did write, but they were not creative moments. The little bursts in front of my computer were haphazard and, with very little available time, my goal was simply to create a record, something that would help us all to not forget.

Somewhere in the ether, it had been predetermined that our French adventure was to be tinged with the sadness of a personal health struggle. I mention this only because if there was any good to come from my sickness (and I remain unconvinced), it was that after treatment, I started to write differently. Personally. Reflectively. And years later, many of these creative moments made their way into the complete story of our French living in my book 'But you are in France, Madame'.

At the time of publication of my book, I concluded that I needed to toughen up and hop onto the social media platforms. Having published a memoir, it might seem strange that this was difficult to do, but it was, and I vividly recall my extreme hesitation before publishing my first blog entry.



Hats off

In a wonderfully serendipitous way, the risk was one worth taking as this is how I met Kristi, the author of my past present, 'Words in a French Life'. 

We caught up last summer and shared a few hours together. Yes, we talked about words and writing but my old friend gave me so much more all those years ago -the gift of a new friend.

Hats onOn Kristi's recommendation, we headed down the coast from La Ciotat to La Plage du Mugel for lunch. Right on the beach, we were lucky to get a table without a reservation. My son chose 'moules frites' (his favourite), a 'salade niçoise' was my not-very-adventurous choice and my husband selected the fish of the day, straight off the boats. Keen to show off his de-boning skills, the waiter was surprised, even vaguely upset, when my husband said that he'd be ok to do it himself. 
After lunch, what does one do when one is right on the beach? Why swim, of course. 
Just one more beautiful day in a French life.

moules frites salade niçoise


loup de mer or sea bass
la plage du mugel

Summer holidays seem a long time ago now. In Beautiful Provencal accomodation - Part One, I took you to the very pretty village of Cabrières d'Avignon, which as the name suggests is not far from Avignon and indeed, not far from a whole swathe of walks, markets, villages, exhibitions...perfect for a busy break with plenty of distractions. I was particularly enamoured with our lodgings and having already shown you around the outside, today I take you for a wander inside. It was a hot week, the hottest in France, qualified as a 'canicule'.
By definition:
Pour être en canicule, deux conditions sont requises :
les températures doivent être plus élevées de 5 degrés par rapport aux normales de saison, le jour, comme la nuit,et cela doit durer au moins pendant 3 jours et 3 nuits.
To be a heatwave, two conditions must be met: the temperatures must be 5 degrees higher than normal for the season both during the day and at nightAND this condition must persist over 3 (consecutive) days and 3 nights.
To read the article in its entirety, link here
Despite the rest of France - and us too, on our daytime excursions - feeling uncomfortably hot, we were very lucky to have a small pool outside, which helped to cool us off and the thick stone walls of our accommodation kept the temperature down inside.
Would you like to take a look with me?
Front door to the left, entry vestibule and formal dining A selection of photos showing the amazing transformation/renovation of the home No need to turn on the air conditioning in these cool rooms with thick stone walls but I can imagine how cosy it would be with the fire lit in winter. Dining room with kitchen to the left. I loved the quirky barn door/mirror idea Kitchen with traditional tomette tiles One of the views from the master bedroom Twin bedroom on first floor with doors to the right leading out to a balcony Other side of the first-floor twin bedroom Double bedroom first floor Master bedroom and bathroom

I love our village of Talloires, our region, our lake and mountains, but it was a real pleasure to explore a different part of France.

For details of our own holiday rental accommodation (not as pictured here!), click here.
To read our French story, 'But you are in France, Madame', click here.

I knelt down in the garden and looked back towards the house. It was empty of all furniture, all personal possessions, almost all traces of our precious family life. We had packed up for a year but instinct told me that we would not be back and that our one-year French adventure would in fact take us further, and for longer, than we had planned.

This morning, I was again out in the garden, a different garden, absentmindedly pulling out weeds and thinking back to that day ten years ago when our departure from Melbourne finally became a reality. As a family, we are pretty hit-and-miss when it comes to marking milestones, but with a bit of luck all of us were able to be together for a few hours over breakfast.

Of course, we did reminisce but the question of where we would be in another ten years was waved away. Back then, a family movie night involved making a selection from the DVDs on the shelves of the video store down the road; my cool new flip-open telephone let me make phone calls and not much else; our cameras were separate, heavy devices to our phones; Facebook was a few years old but Instagram not yet invented; emails were still popular and effective ways of communicating and when it was suggested that I blog about our experience, it didn't even occur to me to take this as a serious suggestion. We had one computer for the whole family which, although technically portable, weighed a lot and had limited storage. How is it possible that that was only ten years ago? I haven't even touched on all the personal changes. No wonder we were a bit reluctant to project forward another ten years.


What I can say, though, and here is where my emotion really ramps up, I wish that I could flick a switch and do it all again. If you have read our story, you will know that it was not easy. You will know too that our one year did indeed turn into several and that our French life was not at all what we had thought it would be. I don't want to do it again to get it 'right'. Truthfully, I'd love to gather my little ones around me, hold their hands to run to the playground or walk by the Annecy Lake, discover snow and skiing with them for the first time, hear them becoming little French people joking and singing in their new language and watch them learning joyfully about themselves and their world.

It was good to be together this morning.





 

It is very nearly ten years since we first arrived in Annecy. We will celebrate the day hopefully with a family gathering, but definitely with a touch of nostalgia as we are not the same family anymore. I don't mean that in any sort of outlandish, sensational way. Time does what it wants and children of 6, 9 and 12 need their parents in very different ways to children of, well, you can do the maths.

But, the maternal emotion of that memory can wait for another post.

Today, I remember instead the magic of seeing what was to be our new home for the first time. Even through the fog of tiredness brought about by the long journey across the world hot on the heels of the mammoth job of packing up our entire Australian lives, the Annecy lake sparkled; an inverted diamond in its mountain clasp.

I remember asking whether one day I would take the beauty for granted, not notice the mountains, or care not whether the light on the water was starkly reflective or announcing the cacophony of an approaching storm.

"No," was always the answer, accompanied with a look sometimes quizzical, sometimes stern.

They were right. The beauty of this lake and mountains will not fade like that of this ageing mother.

Nonetheless, like mother and child, we took time to get to know and love each other. We walked, climbed, skied, photographed, swam, water-skied...played together and the bond became stronger, even though we knew instinctively that one of us was always going to have the upper hand. As such, the climb to the top of the highest mountain around the lake, La Tournette, took on a bit of a mythical turn in my mind.

I made it this summer. And the photos of that day are the ones that I want to share with you.

Would I do it again? (am I talking of our original journey to France or the climb, I ask myself)
Yes. I know now that I can . That bit of fear that accompanied me would still be there, but it would not be the fear of the unknown, just a healthy, cautious instinct relating to my own capabilities.

Ten years, though. A reminder to just do it. As clichéd as it is, maybe this post will make you re-think a goal, a dream, a possibility...I hope so.

For the first part of our French adventure, as re-counted in 'But you are in France, Madame' (print or e-book) click here.

And, if you do click and purchase - thank-you.

Night falls over the village of Cabrières d'AvignonI spent a long time looking at possibilities for our summer holiday in the South of France, knowing that any one of hundreds of little, extraordinarily beautiful and tempting villages would have made us happy. I was aware, though, that unlike our previous holiday in the area, this time we would be there pretty much in peak tourist season. I did want atmosphere and access but I didn't want interminable queues and contrived quaintness. Cabrières d'Avignon is small with a limited nightlife (one restaurant), a single bakery and small épicerie (with very expensive but fine goods) but, after a week in a much bigger village, it was exactly what I was hoping for.
And, then there was our accommodation...rather sumptuous... and with a pool and parking, just wonderful for chilled early evenings after our hot summer's days. 
So, let me show you around.

Come on in
Cute balcony. Perfect for one's first cup of tea of the morning



A gorgeous old house, lovingly restored and filled with a special something. Ambiance, I guess, which doesn't require a lot of commentary.

In my next post, I'll take you inside.

In the meantime, if you'd like to read about our early years of French living, 'But you are in France, Madame' is available here in both print and digital versions.
A bientôt!

Our first Tour de France seems like a long time ago. Then, as Tour novices, it was exciting, colourful, loud, hot, fun...exactly as it was this year. And judging from the ages, stages and antics of those around us, we are not the only ones to feel like this.

It is as much the rhythm of the season, the return of a good friend, the thrill of the catch and the allure of a day out as it is the cycling. Roadside and pre-arrival of the cyclists, the holiday vibe is as taut as the faded lavender still swaying sporadically in the Provençal fields, and the jingles, carried poorly through the loudspeakers on the floats in the advertising caravane, work just as magically as any smooth, slinky nightclub sound. In tune with the mood, we dance, wave, cheer and dive manically for the must-have sachets of laundry liquid and mustard sauce or the key-rings, pens, hats and, crowd-favourite, Haribo lollies thrown at us by young, pretty and pretty resilient Tour girls and boys.




Just a smidgen of competitiveness infiltrates the good-natured event:

"Ils sont à vous, Madame?" I was queried after Monsieur-across-the-road scurried to join me and my advantageous position, and eye off my pile of goodies.

But no fear of fashion faux-pas. We all slip on the oversized t-shirts and slap on the one-size-fits-all polka-dot caps, unconcerned that they make of us a giant, manipulable, cost-effective advertisement. Excepting perhaps the hot-but-not-bothered policemen and the two suave individuals who draped their t-shirts elegantly over their shoulders after having carefully undone and checked the top button of their shirts...after all, the television cameras were everywhere.

For more little excerpts and images of our French life, you can find me on Instagram @butyouareinfrancemadame or here on Amazon (print or ebook available for purchase)

I knew I was being sweet-talked - a much kinder word than conned - and if you have watched the most delicious film of Gerald Durrell's 'My Family and Other Animals' you would recognise my own rascally version of would-be wooer-of-mother sea captain. This mother (me) was equally as un-wooable but my eye-patched, larger-than-life character still managed to make of me his customer.

We had just had lunch - not under the tonnelle in the Grain de Sel restaurant  (we had not booked) - but inside (relegated but seated) although still with glimpses of the Provencal countryside.

"Oh my God"

Turning my head, and seeing just an empty bowl as the new addition to the table, I furrowed my brow, which my son interpreted correctly as 'what was that all about?'

"You just have to get ready," he replied.


I burst out laughing. The getting ready to which he was referring was the impending arrival of his moules, and the empty bowl and little sachets of hand wipes was the signal to get ready. I really need no other little anecdote to describe his appreciative attention to the details, the rituals and the flavours of food: his Frenchness really.

But back to my bandit, oops sea-captain, I mean painter...

Having raced through the very pretty little village of Ansouis to procure our lunch seats (no use waiting until you are hungry), with bellies full, we strolled. And came upon a church, beautiful and cool. And came upon an open art gallery (entrée libre, Madame ). It was a colourful exhibition and a couple of paintings had indeed caught my eye (they always do) but mindful of our budget, we were readying ourselves to step outside (hats, sunglasses, energy) when energy itself burst through the door carrying a large plastic bag. He caught my eye and, stripping down the plastic, entreated me to come and see his colours. Of course, I did.

"See how when you walk backwards, the shadows under the olive trees become more defined."
And, dutifully,  I stepped backwards and nodded. As did the other two curators in the room.

"I didn't do that on purpose!" (guffaw, guffaw)

But, somehow, seduced I was and ten minutes later, we exchanged money for colour on a smaller version of our original fascination. Just a little slice of Provence with a big serving of sun-filled afternoon. I am not going to reveal to you how much I paid. No, no. But, I can tell you that I did not have enough in my pockets and yet here I am, home with my new memory...and a flower. You see, as he told me, " Je vous fais une fleur." I got a bonus...and he didn't seem to mind a bit.



For more of our French stories, 'But you are in France, Madame': print and digital versions of the book available.

My family would tell you that my ultimate goal was to not give away that I wasn’t French, at least not as soon as I opened my mouth. At times, I was rewarded with being given almost-French status by my French friends and acquaintances. But, on other occasions, merely uttering the single word “Bonjour” would confirm that I was a foreigner. At this point, seeing my crestfallen face, the person with whom I was speaking would tell me how cute my accent was, and that I should try very hard to keep it. Hadn’t anyone ever told them that cute had been a somewhat pejorative adjective, reserved for teenage girls like me, growing up alongside beautiful girls? I did not like the word, not one little bit. 
(excerpt from 'But you are in France, Madame')


Indulge me.

Actually, I'm not going to wait for your permission...


For those of you who know me personally, you will be familiar with the saga of the yellow tracksuit and how it shaped (scarred) me.

For those of you who don't, I'll keep it brief. As I inferred, it left a lasting...colourful...impression. They were on sale, our yellow tracksuits (no need to wonder why), at the low-cost store Target. Cleverly, my mother snapped up three bargains and had thrown in a few free years of fashion misery for two of my sisters and me (my youngest sister was spared the indignity as the only colour in her size was the passably acceptable navy blue). Let me confirm for you that in one's early teens, it is NOT cool to be dressed exactly like one's siblings... in anything... least of all badly form-fitting canary yellow.

Whether directly related to this experience, the era in which I grew up or my innate 'me', beauty and I have had a particular relationship. I have never had a facial, a manicure, a pedicure, a massage, an eye-brow shape or a consultation with a stylist or a beautician. I don't know anything about make-up, how to use it or what is age-appropriate. I sometimes wear clothes from decades past and get my hair cut at the fast-hair-cut salons with no pampering; just an in, cut and out. Yes, I have had leg waxes (with seriously undesirable effects), I did have my hair highlighted (my daughter burst into tears when she saw me) and I have to admit to sporting a perm, flared jeans and leggings (not simultaneously). I can't say it helped to pull off a girl-of-the-times look.



It did take a long while before I could see that that was ok. In fact, more than that. I discovered that I liked not conforming and it suited me better to sit on the edge of whatever was trending. Even in France, I boldly declare, whilst striking my Joan of Arc pose, in that birthplace of chic, where beauty and style are synonymous with 'any French girl', and where I observed that putting on snow boots to go out in the snow was logical but overrated, where rash vests for sun protection at the beach were not only overlooked, so were the bikini tops, where one scarf could magically be eight fashion items, where make-up was perfect and invisible, where underwear was more than a couple of pairs of solid Bonds items... even there, I was not intimidated. Non, non, non mais non.


Ok. Just a little bit.

Cute...again.