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Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da
// If you have a child in France, have been a child in France, or know a French child, then you know Sophie the Giraffe. All French kids know Sophie, she’s basically an extra cute chew toy for babies (even La Petite had one). Well a couple of weeks ago I had a dream that Sophie was real. It was one of those dreams that you want to go on and on but the downside is, now I really want a pet giraffe.
// Gregory went to the grocery store on his own. Before he left, I had given him a small list and had gone over every item with him so there wouldn’t be any confusion (do you remember the celery incident?) and yet he still managed to phone me with questions six times. The last time he phoned he said, “Baby, don’t be mad. I bought horse meat.” There is currently horse meat in my freezer (that if he wants to eat he will be cooking himself because I’m not serving up My Little Pony). And no, it most definitely was not on the list.
// We’re on the cusp of Autumn here in The LPV. It’s still warm but there is definitely a crispness to the air that has been blowing through my windows and I can’t say that I hate it. Hunting season has commenced, Halloween costumes have been discussed and I’ve made the switch from Rosé to Red (my true end of summer indicator).
// Remember how I told you a couple of months ago that we were watching every episode of The Sopranos from the beginning in honor of the late great James Gandolfini? We finished this past week. Finishing boxsets always makes me a tad sad, so it was nice to tune into the new season of Sons of Anarchy the next day and see Adriana alive and well in the town of Charming. Of course in Charming she’s not Adriana, she’s Wendy, but it doesn’t matter, she’s still dynamite. (Drea de Matteo is pretty much my favorite actress ever) and then the next night, we watched an episode of The Mindy Project and she was on that too! I think she might be stalking me.
// Now I can’t mention Sons of Anarchy without mentioning the Fifty Shades of Grey casting and the fact that Jax Teller is going to be playing Christian Gray. My freak out level was so off the chart with this one it was embarrassing. Minutes after reading the news, I posted this on my Facebook page; “OMG OMG OMG… It’s like all of my birthdays and Christmases have been rolled up, covered in Valentines Day chocolate, stuck in a firecracker, shot off on the 4th of July and filmed so I can watch it again on Thanksgiving!” Told you I dorked out.
// We’re enjoying some quiet time at home this weekend (next weekend we’re in Toulon and the one after that Avignon). Last night I made Spaghetti all’Amatriciana and we vegged out and watched Ab Fab and we don’t have anything else to do all weekend but relax and meet up with Honey Jr and Honey’s Honey for a drink. Oh, and I’m making this for Sunday lunch tomorrow. Nice and lazy, just how I like it. So what about you mes amies… relaxing one at home or are you out and about?
Bisous! -
where are you from?
This post has been sitting in my drafts for ages waiting to be completed, and in the meantime, Jenni from Story of My Life Blog has asked this question as part of Blogtember; ‘describe where you are from, the people, places and factors that make up where you’re from’, so since loads of these posts have been floating about, I thought I’d incorporate a bit of Jenni’s question into my post.
. . . . . . . . . .
{Nana’s grandfather on the left with his friend Potter} Facebook has been prompting me with a question to fill out my profile more, “where are you from?“. I honestly don’t know how to answer that. If I’m asked, “where do you live” fine, that one is easy, or, “where were you born“, not a problem, but “where are you from?” hmmm…
I was born in NYC and after my parents decided that they wanted their kids to have a back yard to run about in, we moved up to Duchess County (not quite upstate but ‘up’… New Yorkers will know what I’m talking about). We moved just outside of a place called Poughkeepsie. (If it sounds familiar it’s because Poughkeepsie is often made fun of in pop culture, usually with jokes on Friends, Sex and the City, and the like… remember that time Charlotte ‘poughkeepsied’ in her pants?). And that’s where I lived for most of my childhood, in a greyish-blue raised ranch at the end of Miller Drive.
{Pop-Pop & Nana} I went to private school; first an Episcopal one and then onto Catholic school (Dad was an Episcopal Reverend and Mom is Irish Catholic, so I guess they took turns) before entering public school in the sixth grade (I hated it). I swam on the swim team, played a little softball and read encyclopedias for fun because I’m a bit of a nerd. It was pretty standard I guess.
But before that, before that, there was my Irish mother, Eileen, who hails from Dublin, and my dearly departed dad, Tom, from Massachusetts. My dad’s dad, Pop-Pop, was a light skinned African-American with auburn-hued hair and blue eyes, and my Nana was mostly Massasoit, a Native American tribe with deep roots in the Northeast. So I’m a jimblejamble mishmash of cultures, tri-racial as I like to refer to myself but my Nana always said I was Succotash.
{my parents on their wedding day} When I was twelve, I left New York and moved to Texas with my mother. And then when I was thirteen I moved back to New York to live with my dad but by fourteen I was back in Texas. This went on for a few years…
Fifteen it was back to New York, seventeen back to Texas, and at eighteen I was back in New York for a spell (do you have whiplash yet… I do), and then when I was nineteen I moved back to Texas until Dublin beckoned in my mid-20s.
{with my Nana and my Mickey Mouse sweater vest sporting brother} The thing is, if I was in New York and you asked me where I was from I might say Texas (I always get asked in New York because of my habit of peppering my speech with y’all) and if I was in Texas and you asked, I’d definitely say New York, but now I don’t have a clue.
When I’d hop in a taxi cab in Dublin and the inquisitive driver would ask me where I was from after hearing my accent, I would answer either New York or Texas depending upon my mood. (Except during the GW Bush years, then it was never, ever Texas due to the long diatribe I’d get in response, and sometimes I’d even say, Canada, and then act like I was busy on my cellphone or something because I really didn’t want the headache. Those were rough days for Americans abroad let me tell you).
{looking sassy in blue with my cousin Malinda} Now, I usually just answer America but Gregory always tells people I’m Irish as in I’m from Ireland and that drives me batty. But then again, since Ireland is the last place I lived before moving to France, I did come from there so he’s not entirely wrong.
It’s all a little confusing but I think from now on when asked I’ll say, “Top o’ the mornin’ to ya! You talkin’ to me? Me, I’m from the land of Succotash.“
P.S. So let me ask you… where are you from? Feel free to give me the unabridged version.
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Champagne Celebrations with Gregory and the Monk
Some Saturdays ago, Mrs. London came to visit bringing her brother, Brother London, with her and his new fiance, Roxy. Since new engagements call for celebrating and celebrating calls for Champagne, I threw together a quick sip and nibbles spread for their arrival.
Brother London told us all about how the proposal went down… how he had scrimped and saved for the ring, hiding cash about the house before spending all day in Hatton Garden searching for THE RING, and then taking Roxy to a private pod on the London Eye for Champagne, where he got down on bended knee for a perfectly timed to sunset proposal. It was pretty romantic stuff. Mrs. London and I looked on starry eyed, in awe of the romantic gesture, while Gregory stared at Brother London like he wanted to hit him over the head with a shovel.
{thanks to the bride-to-be for the beautiful photo} After toasting the engagement, we set off to visit a teeny, tiny village outside of Le Petit Village to see the spot where a monk had thrown himself off a cliff. It’s a bizarre tourist attraction I know, but an attraction nonetheless.
(Gregory had originally told me that the monk had killed himself, so naturally my overreacting imagination went straight to some ‘The Name of the Rose’ type of scenario, but nope, Martine has since informed me that the monk was actually being chased by a raiding guy on horseback when he died. Either way, homeboy went over the cliff and now there is a wooden cross that marks where.)
We got to the village and had a look around. The spot where the monk went over although a bit morbid, is quite a pretty one. We walked about soaking it all in taking photos and chatting about how the whole monk and guy on horseback scenario probably went down, and then Gregory, being Gregory, almost went the way of the monk himself, right over the edge of the cliff. Luckily I didn’t see it, but this is what happened…
I was taking a photo for Roxy of her and Brother London standing in front of the wooden cross when I saw Brother London’s face transform into one of pure shock and fear. I looked over to my left to see Mrs. London scrambling forward away from the cliff’s edge and Gregory pulling himself upright and dusting himself off. Apparently, Gregory had thought it would be funny to have a run at Mrs. London as she stood a few feet from the cliff’s edge and act like he was going to push her off. But when Mrs. London saw him coming, she stepped out of the way, causing Gregory to stumble and catch himself a mere foot from the cliff’s edge. And that’s when I yelled something along the lines of, “!&?@#!#%&!”
(We will no longer be taking visitors to the monk spot again because clearly Gregory cannot be trusted to not do anything stupid while standing so close to the edge of a cliff, and as I have reminded him, his life insurance policy is not worth that much.)
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Behind the Photos V
This edition of Behind the Photos is a mishmash of shots taken throughout late Winter 2010. There is no rhyme or reason to the order they are in or anything and they are pretty random in general but I felt like showing them to you. So try to imagine that you’ve popped around to mine, I’ve poured you a cup of tea (or a glass of wine if you’re so inclined) and we’re flipping through my photo album…
Here’s Gregory and I in French Nana’s bar. I like this one because Gregory’s eyes are sky blue in it. Obviously they’re blue in real life but they rarely look this blue.
Gregory moved out of his mother’s house to start boarding school when he was only eleven years old, and when he finished school, he came down here to Provence so he never lived in his childhood bedroom again. For some reason French Maman has kept Gregory’s room as it was when he left at eleven, that means toy cars and stuffed animals. This amuses me to no end.
Me celebrating my birthday for the first time in France. This is at Papa’s house, Papa’s Wife had given me a cheese board and a large bowl for serving pasta (of course the presents were from Papa as well but I know that he had absolutely zero input in picking them out). Those jeans I’m wearing in the photo were my favorite ever. They stopped fitting me about ten months after I moved to The LPV. Moving to France will do that to you.
Nothing makes Fifty look more pathetic than bath time.
Look how young Child Bride looks in this photo! Heck, I even look young, but she looks like a bitty baby. Only a year after this photo was taken she was an old married lady and La Petite was well on her way.
Baby Cousin’s shop in Avignon (which launched it’s online shopping site yesterday). Or more specifically, Gregory’s kicks next to the comic book decoupaged counter, Baby Cousin and his boom box, and the counter top that Gregory shattered after leaning on it.
This is the super trendy restaurant next to Baby Cousin’s shop that I used to escape to for a glass of wine. It’s closed now. That makes me sad.
And this is just a big ol’ scoop of crazy with a capitol K – R A Z Y. -
expat escapades {round 5}
Whew! Today’s edition of Expat Escapades has been supersized! These girls have been here, there and everywhere! Without further ado, I give you the latest and greatest from some of my favorite expats…. . . . . . . . . .Kicking off in Cambodia, Chelsea and her husband road tripped over 500 miles across Cambodia on a motorbike. If that’s not a bucket list blog post, then I don’t know what is!Oh, I know what is… a blog post featuring elephants and lions! Jenna visited the Pilanesberg Private Lodge in Black Rhino Reserve, South Africa. This is one of those pinch me I’m dreaming kind of blog posts. (If you have never visited Jenna’s blog before, you definitely should, she has a wonderful habit of photographing cheeky little monkeys.)From elephants and lions to rabbits… Peter Rabbit (one of my childhood faves)! Girl Meets Globe took her children to visit The World of Beatrix Potter in England’s Lake District. This entire post is like a snapshot into my childhood dreams. (I used to have a Beatrix Potter tea set when I was a girl. I don’t know what happened to it but after seeing this post, I want it back.)Besides loving Beatrix Potter as a child, I’ve been a longtime fan of the legend of King Arthur so I’m more than a little jealous that Bonnie got to visit King Arthur’s Labyrinth in Wales (Note To Self: Plan trip to Wales and then swing North to the Lake District.)And since we’re talking about childhood tales and legends, do you remember the Pied Piper? Well Lily Wanderlust passed right through the village of Hamelin, the very place that the Pied Piper did his piping, on her way to a village fair in Germany. (This village fair seemed much more civilized than the village fair you know where… I’m looking at you Le Petit Village.)For another, but very different, fair in Germany, check out Alex’s post about a 20+ year old traveling beer festival where you can try over four hundred beers. 400! Who has that kind of time?! (I DO)From beers to espresso in Maine (yes Maine!). American Marissa took her Italian husband Manu (they’re newlyweds!) back to the States for a post wedding vacation (and a pre-American wedding one). They traveled from Boston to Maine because Manu has always been fascinated by this place that he calls, The Maine. (I’ve included this post mostly because Manu referring to Maine as ‘The Maine’ reminds me of something Gregory would do. It’s just too darn cute.)I don’t have any sort of clever way to transition from Marissa’s post to this next one so I’m just going to go ahead and do it. Here we go…Amsterdam is one of those places that I’ve been to in that I’ve flown in and out of it’s airport more times than I can count, but I haven’t been to, been to, so I enjoyed a virtual trip with Sarah as she took us on a walk through Amsterdam at night. Click on over and I guarantee you’ll be singing, Roxanne before you finish reading it. (P.S. Sarah actually lives in London)I think by now it’s pretty obvious that a lot of expats out there are seasoned travelers, and as such, they have a wealth of information and tips to share. Selena and The Young Adventuress did just that with their posts about flying… On Oh, The Places We Will Go, Selena blogged her tips for conquering the fear of flying and over on The Young Adventuress, Liz listed ten things that she wishes people would stop doing on airplanes (she gets a ten out of ten on this one).So now that we’ve been to Cambodia, South Africa, England, Wales, Germany, Amsterdam and the good ol’ U S of A, I’m going to wind it down with what’s been going on with my fellow expats in France…Both Little Pieces of Light and American Mom in Bordeaux have been enjoying the summer on the water; Milsters took a boat tour along the Canal St-Martin in Paris and Jennifer canoed down the Dordogne with her family. Meanwhile Heather walked in the path of Van Gogh (I’ve done that!) and Sarah walked along a very different path in Cap d’Agde. (If you have ever heard of Cap d’Agde then you know you’re in for a doozy of a post, either way you have to read Sarah’s story about it. Here’s a hint, it’s titled, Harleys,Tits and Bums. Get ready for a giggle.)Last but definitely not least, Valerie, who can usually be found in Italy, took a trip to Avignon and after exploring what the city has to offer (ie; wine) wrote the Tourist Guide to Drinking & Buying Wine in Avignon (I’m going to print this one out, laminate it, and stick it to my fridge). -
Holiday Eyes {Aix-en-Provence}
Something marvelous happened the day after Brazil Day, Mrs. London and I got to go Aix-en-Provence, alone. We were free to wander the quaint streets without a single huff being puffed.
(This rare event occurred because Gregory and I were going to Toulon for the weekend. Since Fifty would be keeping Gregory company on the journey down, I thought it was only fair that I kept Mrs. London company and a short detour to Aix seemed like the right thing to do.)On the way, we were able to take our time and stop and smell the flowers, literally (sunflowers to be precise). And we enjoyed the scenery and slower pace in what would be our last roadtrip with Red Mist (that’s what we call Mrs. London’s little go mobile). The lease is up and Red Mist must be returned from whence she came. A girls only trip to Aix seemed like a lovely way to say farewell.
When we arrived in Aix, I made a point of viewing the city with ‘holiday eyes‘ not, ‘I’ve lived here forever eyes’, a condition that has gradually taken over my psyche. My end of summer resolution is to view my surroundings with ‘holiday eyes’.
Sidenote: Personally I feel that us expats that are married to natives get cheated a bit. You see, when both parts of a couple are new to an area, they are equally excited to explore, but for me, being married to someone who is no longer impressed with the châteaus and ambience means that I have to pull teeth and twist arms.
Mrs. London helped my holiday eyes quest by parking on a side of the city that I’ve never parked before (this was an accident because we took a wrong turn, but it ended up being a happy accident). Entering Aix from a new angle meant exploring new to me streets and discovering a charming Italian restaurant. It had all of six tables inside and one outside on the street with a small parasol perched precariously off the side of it. Naturally we took the spot outside; perfect for people watching, a must do for my holiday eyes.I ordered the Gorgonzola Gnocchi even though the heavy cream sauce combined with the hot, sunny day made me feel like I had been hit by a tranquilizer dart (I couldn’t help it, I heart Gorgonzola, unlike this guy). Mrs. London ordered her usual, Caprese Salad. (If Caprese Salad is on the menu, nine times out of ten, Mrs. London will order it. Fact.)
After lunch we slowly ambled, twisting and turning up tiny streets before coming out into the square in front of the Hotel de Ville. We saw guests arriving for a wedding so we took a seat on the edge of a fountain and waited for the bride.
It was scorching under the sun and we chatted about how uncomfortable some of the wedding guests must have been in their suits and cocktail dresses. And then we commented on how uncomfortable we were in the heat and how dumb we were when Mrs. London’s pool was only an hour away. And that was the end of my holiday eyes moment (but not ‘the end’, the end… my holiday eyes are only beginning to open up).
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snippet
// I’ve been cheating on Fifty… shhh… That guy with me in the photo is Boris, Boris Bastareaud to be precise. He’s my buddy. He is one of the dogs that hang out in the village and I’ve kind of adopted him. I don’t know what his real name is but Mrs. London and I have christened him Boris Bastareaud because he looks like that’s what his name should be. He’s big and fluffy and kind and I wuv him so berry much.
// It’s officially rentrée; that time of year where everyone goes back to school and back to life as we lose that summer feeling. Meh. This September we’re watching La Petite go through it for the first time as tomorrow she starts l’école maternelle. La Petite is off to pre-school! Wasn’t she born like yesterday?
// Do you know that after the French Revolution, France adopted a new calender? I didn’t until the subject popped up in a book I was reading. I can’t tell you how happy I am that France decided to ditch it though because I cannot begin to fathom how confused I’d be right now if they hadn’t. (Perhaps with that calendar though, today wouldn’t be Monday, and it wouldn’t be September.)
// Remember the photo of Gregory dripping wet after he had been pushed in the pool? Well I left a couple of bits out. First of all, it was Mrs. London who had pushed him in, and second, he retaliated by pushing her in the pool, summer dress and all. I ran down to the house to tell Mr. London what had happened and he ran up to the pool terrified… terrified that his wife was going to kill his boyfriend. Now for giggles Mrs. London and I like to recreate Mr. London’s reaction… we do a slowmotion run while shouting things like, “NOOOO! Not my sweet vanilla sugar dumpling!!!” It’s pretty funny. (Pretty funny to us anyway.)
// A few days ago a delivery man called asking for directions to the house. “Je ne parle pas français” I said and then I continued on and on (in French) about how it would be easier to meet me at the fountain in the village in front of the small hotel rather than me trying to give him directions to my house since you know, I don’t speak French. He was quiet for a bit before he said, “but you’re speaking French now.” Oh yeah. I have a tendacy to forget that I do actually speak French. I’m not sure when this fact will fully sink in.
// If you’ve been around these parts before, then you might know that I have a bit of a Sons of Anarchy addiction, so imagine my delight when I saw that Sesame Street made a parody, Sons of Poetry. Since I love Sons of Anarchy, and Sesame Street and since I love you too, I thought I’d share it with you. Enjoy.
// Please forgive me for a second while I do something very nepotistic (that’s a 25¢ word right there). There are four people on twitter that I think you should absolutely be following… Gregory (because he’s The Husband), my sister (because she knows lots of stuff about health and wellness and what not), my mother (she writes books) and Fifty (no reason necessary, it’s Fifty!). If you tell them I sent you, I just know you all will happily tweet away. Nepotism over and out. Tweet tweet. -
Brazil Day {la nuit}
After the volleyball tournament, we left Brazil Day to go home for a bit and freshen up. When we returned, we did so with a bottle of Pimms. If Big Man was going to charge us €2.50 (or €2.70 depending on if I looked like a tourist or not) for some fizzy lemonade, we might as well mix it with some happy juice (that’s what I like to call Pimms… happy juice).Not wanting to risk the wrath of Big Man (You’ve seen the size of him right? His hands are like shovels.), Mrs. London and I, being the mature ladies that we are, hid our bottle in a bush, and whenever we were ready for a top up, would order another glass of lemonade and sneak off to mix our drinks before stashing the bottle back away in it’s hiding spot. We’re pretty classy.And so the evening carried on… sitting around the ‘beach’, chatting with friends, listening to what sounded like the same techno song banging on and on for hours, and scampering off to mix our bootlegged booze. When dinner time rolled around, we opted to go to the ‘normal’ fête that was taking place in the school courtyard.
Sidenote: The normal fête used to be the night before… so it went traditional village fête on Wednesday night in the school courtyard followed by the fireworks and dancing and then the next day (Assumption of Mary, a Catholic holiday in France) Brazil Day would take place. But for some reason this year, they decided to do the whole shebang on the one day.
When we got to the courtyard it was packed, every one of the fifty tables was full (these tables are always booked in advance… we never have ourselves together enough to book one of the tables). We got in the line and ordered our dinner… a round of hot dogs and frites. Our ticket said we were number 47, and then we heard them call number twelve. WHAT?! That wasn’t good.
Panic set in as I scanned the crowded courtyard and noticed that not a single table had plates of food on them, everyone was sitting there waiting. And then I looked over at hungry Gregory. Uh, oh.The numbers rambled off slowly, but not as slowly as the older patrons took to acknowledge that it was indeed their number that had been called and make their way to the counter to collect their dinner. Hungry in the tummy Gregory decided to take matters into his own hands.
He grabbed the microphone from the announcer and got to work, “Number 14 your order is ready. Monsieur Mulot, that’s you, your order is ready. Please make your way to the counter to pick up your food. Hurry up.” And then a small old man would shuffle up to the counter, smile at Gregory (probably in an attempt to appease the hungry giant), take his tray and shuffle away. And it continued, “You really need to move faster, your dinner is getting cold. If you don’t want it, someone else will eat it. Let’s go.“
People must have thought it was part of the entertainment, part of the fun, because they would come up, laugh with Gregory, pat him on the back, and walk off chuckling. They loved it! Of course they were completely unaware that they themselves were in danger of being cooked and eaten if number 47 wasn’t called soon.
Night time descended on Le Petit Village, the colorful lights came on and the carousel lit up. The pretty carousel is brought in for the children. They won’t even let an adult sit on it which I think is kind of lame but being a rebel, Mrs. London ran and jumped on it for a quick photo. Unfortunately I’m a chicken and the photo came out blurry because I was in such a rush to snap it before we got caught and ended up in fête jail or something.
At 10PM the church bells rang out telling us that the fireworks would be starting. We made our way to the hill below my old house and found a patch of grass to sit on. In small villages in France, health and safety kind of goes out the window. There is no barrier to tell you where you should sit, or what a safe distance is. We all sat in the exact same spot we’ve been sitting these past few years. It probably would have been a good idea for the man setting off the display to stay where he has always done it as well but nope, he decided to move about 50 meters closer (that’s a total guesstimate of course, it sounds right in my head though).
When it comes to the fireworks portion of the fête, Le Petit Village does not mess around. The majority of the budget is blown on the fireworks. It’s quite a display for such a small village. And it’s quite a display when you’re practically sitting on top of the guy setting them off.
The fireworks banged off and we oohed and aahed as they exploded over our heads… directly over our heads. Happy laughter turned into nervous laughter as we realized that we were taking shrapnel. You know that saying, ‘it’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye’? Wiser words have never been spoken. I took a direct hit into my eyeball. THERE WAS A FIREWORK IN MY EYE! Luckily all of that Pimms I had been drinking managed to keep me calm until we returned to Le Petit Bar, where I was able to wash the grit out of my eye. (After Mrs. London looked at it and exclaimed, “Oh sh*t! You’ve got a meteor in your eye!” Way to keep the situation level and panic-free Mrs. London.)
We returned to the courtyard for some dancing and cotton candy and finished the night with a round of Champagne courtesy of Big Man, a small apology for all of the price gauging I’m sure. We sat on a bench, watched the madness unfolding on the dance floor (and next to us as some random guy decided our picnic table was his personal shake your bon-bon podium), and laughed hysterically while we toasted to having survived another Brazil Day.
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Brazil Day {le jour}
Here’s the thing about Brazil Day. It’s madness. Pure, unadulterated madness. Not as much the event itself but the happenings surrounding it. You know that song from Love Actually, Love Is All Around? Yeah, well, if it had been written about The LPV it would have been called, Crazy Is All Around.
Experiencing Brazil Day is one thing, trying to recapture it in post for you is a different kettle of fish altogether, it’s very difficult. But the thing is, you have to believe me when I say this, Brazil Day is nuts (but then again, The LPV is nuts). So I will endeavor to do my best in describing the nuttiness that was.
The Croupier was attending Brazil Day for the first time this year, and since Mrs. London was going as well, Gregory decided that a Thursday morning gossip session was much more entertaining than sweating it out on the hot sand playing beach football. (The Croupier is Gregory’s all time favorite gossip partner. They started gossiping together when they were tweens, stopped briefly to date each other and then decided that they shouldn’t mess with a good thing. Best gossip buddies they’ve been ever since.)
Sidenote: Every year Brazil Day is held on le jour de l’ Assomption, which is a Catholic holiday here in France and a day off. So that’s why everybody can sit around drinking beer, listening to loud mind numbing techno, and playing beach soccer in the middle of the week.
{Bubble, Baby Cousin & Honey Jr} An hour or two in, Mrs. London and I got up from our seats to do a lap around the village and stretch our legs. As we walked into the street behind all of the festivities, Child Bride’s youngest sister, Wolf (she’s about ten I think, I can never remember), came running up to me shouting my name and waving her arms in all sorts of Gallic gestures. A pigeon had been attacked by a cat and was left flapping about under a car and she wanted me to come and look at it. For some reason this was something she just HAD TO TELL ME. Why me? Why did I have to see it? And I’m I really the proper person to deal with something like that? No, I’m not. I told her I’d go and find Brother-in-Law so he could deal with it and continued on my way.
(I’ve told you the above anecdote purely to highlight the random craziness that one encounters in The LPV… flapping semi-lifeless pigeons, murderous cats, and a girl named Wolf. For the record, I have not nicknamed Wolf, Wolf, it’s actually her name. OK, not Wolf, but the French word for Wolf, Loup. And there you go. )
Flapping pigeon crisis averted we returned to our seats and found that George had foraged some mint in an attempt at Mojito making. (Once again I was promised by the Brazil Day Committee that there would be Mojitos or Caipirinhas and once again I was lied to. I really need to stop being so gullible.)
We ordered a few shots of Rum and a couple of glasses of fizzy lemonade and figured we’d be all set. The waitress dropped off our drinks and charged us €2.50 per cup of fizzy lemonade… €2.50 (that’s $3.35)! These weren’t cans, or small individual bottles but small cups, poured out of a plastic bottle. That’s highway robbery and Big Man had our hands in the air. But, what were going to do? Of course we paid…
For the next round, I walked into the bar and ordered the lemonade from the waitress that had been hired for the day (never seen her before in my life). She charged me €2.70 per cup. WHAT THE?! I was momentarily dazed by the 20¢ mark up that had occurred within the hour (a mark up on top of a mark up) and I carried my lemonade outside. I told Gregory and he promptly flagged down the waitress and asked what the 20¢ price hike was all about. She looked at me, looked back at him and said, “oh sorry, I thought she was a tourist.” WHAT THE?! (Yes, that actually happened… I’ll leave you a moment to absorb that scandalous nugget.)
…
…
…The waitress left and returned tossing 20¢ on the table. That really wasn’t the point but with lemonade costing €2.50 a cup, I pocketed it.
Let’s see, what else happened…
The Cousin was there with Petit Cousin (you know, the one that’s named after an X-Man character) aka the most gangsta baby ever. Honestly, I’m expecting him to come out with his own rap video any day now.
I have no idea who won the beach soccer tournament (too busy gossiping and being overcharged) but since Honey Jr was refereeing again, I’m going to go ahead and say his team. However, I can tell you that Gregory and Honey’s Honey did not win the beach volleyball despite their best effort (And despite Honey Jr refereeing that too. He’s quite the busy little bee on Brazil Day… do you see what I did there… Honey Jr… bee… hee hee!)
For lunch we got price gauged again… €10 for a plate of two sausages and chips (that’s French fries to my American brethren) or in my case, €10 for a plate of chips since I don’t like Chipolatas. At least the €10 was the same price for everybody (but then again, I’m not too sure… I forgot to ask the holidaying Parisians how much they were charged, but knowing Big Man, how much he likes money, and how much he dislikes Parisians, I’m going to go ahead and wager that they paid more).
And Gregory spent some quality time with his future Goddaughter, passing on sage wisdom (gossip more likely) and rubs. (HOW CUTE IS THAT T-SHIRT?!)
That is when he wasn’t stealing her mother’s ice cream anyway.
Only Gregory would sit on a pregnant woman’s lap and rob her ice cream cone off of her. I’m mean really, the boy has no shame.That’s where I’m going to leave it for the day. The crazy continues with nighttime at Brazil Day, up next.Same crazy channel. Same crazy place. -
expat escapades {round 4}
Bonjour tout le monde! Welcome to another round of Expat Escapades! Let me tell you, you’re in for a treat… this edition takes you to Ireland, Wales, Germany, Greece, and France. Are you ready? Are you steady? Go!. . . . . . . . . .Take a beautiful tour of lush County Wicklow, Ireland with Alex (Alex is from Texas but lives in Germany and travels up a storm). She photographed some of my favorite spots in all of Ireland like Glendalough and Johnnie Fox’s pub (of course one of my favorite spots is a pub, of course it is). Some of her shots capture perfectly why Ireland is known as the Emerald Isle (hint… because it’s green).For more beautiful, green landscapes, but this time of Wales, click on over to A Compass Rose. Bonnie and her family hiked up Cadair Idris, a mountain in Gwynedd, and met a very photogenic sheep along the way. And if you still haven’t gotten enough of the heavenly Welsh views, Belinda posted magnificent photos of The Natural Wonders of Wales.Now that you should be all Waled out, let’s head East, to Germany and see a firework display over the Rhein on We Took The Road Less Traveled. While you’re there, stick around and tour a German wine festival with Casey and check out the most delicious looking pretzel ever. Seriously, as if the wine wasn’t enough, there are pretzels.Dear France… your wine festivals are missing pretzels, please remedy this oversight immediately.Heading even further East to Greece, island hop by ferry with The Traveling Gypsy. Tia will take you to Folegandros, Sikinos, Ios, Paros, Naxos, Syros, and Santorini. I know that I’m lucky to live surrounded by the beauty of Provence and The Luberon, but my heavens, Greece is straight up dazzling.Since I don’t want to make France too jealous after loving up on all of these other countries, we’re coming back to my home with a tour of Saint Paul de Vence. Fox in Paris did her best to blend in with the locals at this popular tourist spot in the South of France. Luckily she wasn’t too shy to whip out the camera every now and then.Moving even closer to The LPV, my friend Heather captured the golden hues of Aix-en-Provence. Seeing one of my favorite cities through Heather’s lens, is discovering it in a whole new way.And finally onto Le Petit Village itself… Martine attended Brazil Day this year and lived to tell the tale. Visit her blog to see what she has to say about it, and then stick around here, because next up, Brazil Day Part 1. (Oh yeah, this year Brazil Day requires two posts. Fasten your seat belts kids…)
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It's Me, Sara Louise 