The long journey North to meet the Mother took much longer than five hours.
We left the house at 1:15 and of course had to stop in Avignon to see the Cousin. I’m beginning to understand that ‘quick’ trips to Avignon to see the Cousin are a fact of life and I just need to accept and move on. I have. But I have now attached an addendum to these trips; we stop at a home store that I love. He gets to see Cousin. I get to shop. Fair deal.
Back on the road at 3:45. We took the scenic route. According to the Boyfriend the motorway would take the same time as the scenic route. I don’t believe him but if being a boy racer, hugging corners, speeding along the French country side makes him happy, so be it.
Along the way when I wasn’t too dizzy to look at the scenery, I saw the architecture change along with the landscape. And as we climbed mountain after mountain and were surrounded by snow, I knew we definitely weren’t in Provence anymore. And I also knew that I wanted the Boyfriend, aka Boy Racer to slow down. Arriving at the Mother’s with car sick all over my shirt was not the first impression I wanted to make.
The journey was beginning to feel like forever and I was anticipating an ETA of 7:45 so at 7:30 I asked, “how much longer?”
“An hour“
“What?!” That would make it almost five hours since leaving Avignon and a six hour journey from Le Petit Village. What’s all this five hour malarky I’ve been hearing about all week? Maybe it’s because the scenic route takes longer but I’ve a feeling it has more to do with the Boyfriend still not knowing how to correctly manage my expectations. Mental note. Must address that when we get back home.
At 8:30, “How much longer?”
“Ten minutes”.
Ok! now we’re talking. The makeup came out, and I did my best to freshen up in the dark, racing up the side of a mountain. I was ready. Well I think I was. It was dark, for all I know I looked like Tammy Faye Baker.
8:45. “It’s been fifteen minutes since you said ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes.”
“What?!” Obviously the Boyfriend lives outside the space and time continuum. How does twenty-five minutes in my world equal ten minutes in his world?
“No, ten minutes now. I just said ten minutes before to relax you.”
“That’s funny, because I don’t feel relaxed.” And then I said some other stuff.
Fifteen minutes later and we finally arrived.
The Mother was waiting for us at the garage door. It’s funny when the person you’re expecting is nothing like the one you meet. And that is why the Mother will henceforth be known as French Mommy.
More about French Mommy tomorrow. I’ve got stuff to do. And I don’t want to rush French Mommy.
bisou
It's Me, Sara Louise 
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