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my trip to Devon
Sometimes you find yourself in places you never dreamed you would be (hello, Le Petit Village), life’s twists and turns dropping you off in some curious spot or another. A few weeks ago my path led me to a small fishing town in Devon in the southwest of England where Mr. London grew up. (Mr. London was taking part in a charity rugby event down there and he asked The Husband to join him on the pitch. I decided to tag along.)
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There was an old pirate ship (that I was desperately waiting for The Dread Pirate Roberts to saunter off of), and fish & chips and lots of little touristy shops selling sweets and postcards, and a donkey in a colorful bow tie and a clown wig (although I don’t think he was for sale).
We even got to visit a psychic when we were there. She’s located in an old shop shaped like a coffin (it’s true, it’s even called ‘coffin house’). Pirates, psychics and a donkey in a bow tie… what else could you possibly want in a mini-break?
{hey number 14… pull up your socks} The main even took place on Saturday at the rugby club. The Husband ran out on the field for the first time in almost six years. He tried blaming his lack of speed on his age, personally, I blame it on all the beers he and Mr. London drank before the match. But somehow, despite the pre-match beers their team consumed, they still won.
After the match, everyone took advantage of the sunshine and lazed about the pitch. Mrs. London and I also took advantage of the delicious Pimms (it’s like summer in a glass).
Do you see how The Husband has the shoe and sock off of one of his feet? Well that’s because the day before, Mr. London had him shimmy through a window of the house (Mrs. London had the key, if they had bothered to call, we would have brought it to them… morons). For some strange reason The Husband decided to do this without his shoes on (of course he did) and in the process, stepped on a nail. This is something that could only happen to The Husband. So in hindsight, maybe it wasn’t just the pre-match beers that slowed him down on the pitch after all, but the bleeding hole in the bottom of his foot… moron.That’s pretty much my trip to Devon in a nutshell. I never did spot The Dread Pirate Roberts though, but it was loads of fun nonetheless. Of course, we all know how it ended…Bisou! -
bloop
++ It is 100% summertime in Le Petit Village and I freaking love it! For awhile it felt like we were running away from summer since we spent the early days of it in non-summery places like Dublin, England, and Paris (not that these places don’t have summers, they do of course, they just don’t have a south of France kind of summer), and I was missing out on my vitamin D. But now, I’m back home, it’s 29°C/85°F and I’m in heaven!
++ Since we’re finally home after being here, there and everywhere, we’ve been spending our evenings glued to the couch (we’re tired) and on a Nashville bender. We can’t get enough of it, especially The Husband (somebody has a crush on Connie Britton) but I kinda want them to make a show called, Austin.
++ We celebrated la fête des mères (mother’s day) at Papa’s house. I spent it sitting next to 91 year old Louisette (Papa’s Wife’s mother), listening to her tell stories about being a child in Casablanca during World War II (apparently, it wasn’t that bad). She’s a walking, talking piece of history and I want to keep her forever.
++ I’ve finished reading Winter of the World and while I anxiously await the final chapter of Ken Follett’s Century Trilogy, I’m reading Edward Rutherfurd’s new tome, Paris. Two questions… what are you reading and are you on Goodreads? And a follow up question, if you are on Goodreads, want to be my friend?
++ It’s really hard to find plain tortilla chips here. They’re either cheese, paprika or some other weird flavor, but not plain. This breaks my heart, especially since my friend Sarah just gave me a jar of salsa from Texas. Yesterday The Husband went to the store and he called to ask if I wanted tortilla chips, I told him only if they are plain, he assured me that they were. I did a little happy dance and waited for his arrival so I could get my Tex-Mex on. When he got home, I saw that the ‘plain’ tortilla chips were actually ‘fajita’ flavoured (YUCK!), and when I showed him where it said ‘fajita’ on the bag, he told me that he thought that’s what they were called, ‘fajita tortilla chips’. Obviously someone has to get back to Texas for a refresher course in the Tex-Mex food groups.
++ Why is Philippe Saint-Andre still the coach of the French rugby team? I’m just throwing that out there but If any of you can answer this and put me out of my misery than I applaud you. Moving on.
++ A couple of months back I told you that not only is The Croupier pregnant (she’s due in November) but that Baby Cousin’s girlfriend is too… well add The Cousin’s wife, Mrs. Cousin to the list (they’re the couple with the baby named after an X-Men character). We’re in the midst of a mini-baby boom and soon Le Petit Village will be deafened by the pitter patter of little feet.
++ The Husband said he was ‘easy breezy’ yesterday. This may not seem like a big deal, but to those of you who have a spouse/ significant other/ friend who is not a native English speaker, than you know how cool it is for them to not only say an English expression, but to use it correctly.
++ The easy breezy utterance occurred when I asked him what he wanted for his birthday dinner and he replied, “Just a chicken ceaser salad, that’s it, I’m easy breezy.” #sostinkingcute
++ So yeah, tomorrow is The Husband’s birthday. We’re keeping it casual this year, no big barbecue, or cool soirée, just relaxing by The London’s pool, soaking up the sun and as per The Husband’s request, eating chicken ceaser salad, you know, easy breezy. What are you guys up to?
Bisou!P.S. For those of you who keep up to date on life in Le Petit Village via Google Reader, don’t forget as of July 1st it’s no more. If you don’t want to miss out, you can follow my adventures via Bloglovin, my tweets, or like my Facebook page (oh and Fifty wants me to remind you that he has a Facebook page too). -
Paris?
On Saturday June 1st, The Husband, Mrs. London and I went to Paris to watch Mr. London and the Toulon rugby team battle Castres in the French rugby championship. Our train left Toulon at 11AM, and we returned on the 11:20AM train the next morning. This is the story of what happened in that 24 hours.
{Toulon train station swarmed with fans traveling to Paris} Do you want to know something nuts? In the three plus years that I’ve lived in France (three years, eight months, and six days to be exact, but whose counting) I had never taken the TGV. Never. Not once. I’ve dropped people off and picked them up at TGV stations, but never before had I boarded that high speed train and whisked off somewhere until that Saturday. To be honest, I was kind of excited.
Besides getting to see the French countryside fly by as you whiz past at 200mph, you get to be freer than you are on a plane, like free to have picnic. So of course we had to go shopping for picnic goodies. We came across this Toulon Rugby wine. Festive, isn’t it?
The journey took us just about four hours. Apparently it was slower than usual because they sent three train loads of Toulon fans up at roughly the same time. We were train number three and kept getting caught up in TGV traffic. But we had plenty to distract us, like a picnic, and gossip, and cute babies wearing miniature rugby jerseys.
When we arrived in Paris, a bus was waiting to take us to the hotel. Checking in was pure madness. In some bizarre twist of lunacy, both rugby teams and their entourages were booked into the same hotel and the lobby was jammers. But it didn’t matter anyway (except for the regular holiday goers that were there, I felt bad for them) because less than two hours after checking in, we were back on the bus and driving to Stade de France.
The riot police were out in full force (Compagnies Républicaines de Sécurité). But I guess after that whole Paris Saint-Germain victory riot thing a few weeks back, they weren’t taking any chances. They could have stayed home though, rugby fans aren’t hooligans (P.S. that was me being b*tchy). 
The opening ceremony was a bit kooky. Men and women in togas walked out circling the field holding torches. It was cool, but a bit confusing. I guess they were going for like a gladiator vibe, and I get that, rugby is a pretty hardcore sport, but it’s not ‘win or get thrown into a pit of hungry lions‘ hardcore. Then a guy on a horse rode out with a falcon followed by other guys on horseback, each carrying a flag representing a team from the Top 14 (the French national rugby league). I captured the Clermont guy as he rode past, you know, because that one is my favorite. (SHHH!)
And after a guy in a chariot waving Toulon and Castres flags paraded around, these Las Vegas showgirls in orange feathers pranced about. I didn’t know there were Las Vegas showgirls in ancient Rome. You learn something new everyday I guess.
After two hours of grueling play, Toulon lost 19-14. The Husband, Mrs. London and I headed out of the stands as soon as it was over to beat the foot traffic. And on the way, we walked past the rugby commentators setup to do the post game. Marc Lièvremont was there (I LOVE HIM). I blew him a kiss and he smiled at me. HE SMILED AT ME!!! The Husband asked if I wanted to go back and take a photo (you know, so it would last longer) but I said no, because I’m shy.
So yeah, after the whole Marc Lièvremont blowy-kissy-smile thing I really didn’t care who won the match. And once we got to VIP Room for the after party, Mr. London didn’t care either.
He’s blurry because he was shaking his groove thing, just like these podium dancers (I know it’s hard to make them out down there, but try please). There were two girls and a guy (think Miss Lawrence from Real Housewives of Atlanta). The Husband, Mrs. London, and I decided that we should move to Paris and take over that podium. We’d rock that podium.
Somehow we were able to flag down a taxi at 4AM and get back to the hotel. Less than four hours later, we were up having breakfast. The bus back to the train station was leaving at 9:30. It was the most whirlwind trip to Paris ever. I saw the inside of a bus and a stadium, but not Paris and that just wouldn’t do. So after breakfast, I ran out of the hotel searching for the one thing that I knew would prove to me that I actually was in Paris. And I found her…
Bisou! -
Dublin: Days 4 – 7
(This post rounds out and finishes up my trip to Dublin in May. In case you missed how it all started, check out Day 1, Day 2, Day 3 Part 1 & Part 2)++ The Husband got a fish pedicure (see above). I think this was day six. Mrs. London and I dropped him off in St. Stephen’s Green shopping centre and were able to shop huff and puff free for thirty minutes. He loved it so much that he asked if we could get a fish tank at home. I told him that I don’t think it works like that.
++ Mrs. London was supposed to fly home on the Sunday (day 4) with the other player’s wives but was having such a good time soaking up the glorious sunshine, she decided to stay until Wednesday. Of course it rained on Monday, but that’s Irish weather for you.
++ Since the Sunday was epic in the history of Irish weather (sunny and 19°C in Dublin actually feels like 29°C in Provence) we spent the day in Claire’s back garden. The boys (The Husband, Gatz, Mr. London, and Nephew) were tossing around a rugby ball until we shooed them out onto the field in front of the house prompting Niece to say, “gardens are not for playing rugby, they are for drinking wine.” Wiser words have never been spoken. P.S. she’s eleven.
++ Little Niece asked if Mrs. London was a pop star which was pretty much the cutest thing ever. For the record, nobody has ever asked me if I was a pop star.
++ Since Mrs. London was sticking around for a few extra days, I brought her to my old haunt, La Cave because heaven forbid we go a few days without a glass of Provençal Rosé. (Sidebar about La Cave… it’s where I brought The Husband on our first date. Since he was new to Dublin he asked me to pick the place and I chose La Cave because it’s where I’m comfortable, not because it’s French which is probably what he thought. When I realized that, I felt like an idiot.)
++ Besides La Cave, I always pop into The Octagon Bar when I’m back in Dublin for a cocktail. If you find yourself there, try the Chili Mojito, it’s a revelation.
++ Ireland has been in a recession since 2008, but every time I go back there, I’m like, “what recession?!“. The shops are always crowded and the restaurants fully booked. On the Friday (day 2) we were going out to dinner and were turned away from four restaurants before getting a table at The Green Hen which we only got because a booking didn’t show up. It worked out well though because The Green Hen was delicious… but French. So that means while I was in Dublin, not only did I hang out at a French wine bar, I ate at a French restaurant. Clearly there is something wrong with me #Frenchified.
Bisou! -
The Road Is Long
You know how I was in England this past week (Devon and Essex to be precise), and Paris before that, and Dublin before that? Well before I tell you about our latest trip, and the weekend in Paris, and finish up my Dublin Days tale, I’m going to tell you about my journey home because we finally arrived back in The LPV about 54 hours late last night(that’s totally a guesstimate). It was a calamity and I need to vent. Thank you for listening.…..
“What day do you want to come back?”
That was Mr. London asking about our trip to Devon (To answer the question that I’m sure you are all thinking… we were going to Devon because Mr. London was taking part in a charity rugby event and he wanted The Husband to participate. Plus that’s where Mr. London’s family lives and I’m pretty sure that he wanted to take his new boyfriend home to meet them.)
“How about Tuesday morning so we can spend a day in London before flying home.”
And that was me making a mistake.
If only I had said Monday. We would have been fine if I had said Monday. Easy peasy pudding pie if I had said Monday. We would have flown home to France before the strike got out of hand. But no, I thought we should have an extra day in London after our long weekend in Devon. And we did, and then at the end of that day, we got a message saying that our 7:30 Tuesday morning flight was cancelled, and since the next available flight wasn’t until Wednesday evening, we got an extra, extra day.
We arrived at Gatwick late Wednesday afternoon and at 7PM when we walked up to our gate in time for boarding, we were told that our flight had been cancelled. But get this… this flight wasn’t cancelled due to the strike in France, no no no, that would be too normal for me and my crowd… our flight was cancelled because they didn’t have enough cabin crew for the plane. AND THEY ONLY REALIZED THAT TWENTY MINUTES BEFORE TAKE OFF??!!After waiting in a line for over two hours, we found out that 1. there wasn’t another available flight to Nice until the following Tuesday, 2. we could however fly to Lyon in the morning, 3. but the flight to Lyon was leaving from Heathrow not Gatwick, 4. all of the hotels at Heathrow they could put us up in were already fully booked, 5. we could stay at a hotel at Gatwick but the only one with rooms left was a fifteen minute taxi ride away and the coach to Heathrow that we would have to take was leaving from Gatwick at 3:50AM, 6. a coach would drive us from Lyon airport to Nice airport.
Taking all of those fun facts on board we decided to 1. take the flight to Lyon, 2. forgo the roach motel and butt crack of dawn departure and instead take a taxi to my friend Sarah’s house (you may remember Sarah from this post, or this one, or maybe this one), 3. skip the Lyon to Nice coach which you know would take F O R E V E R and be 100% pure T O R T U RE and rent a car instead.Essex –> LGW –> Camden –> LHR –> Lyon –> Nice –> Toulon –> The LPVOur taxi to Heathrow picked us up at 6AM and miraculously, our 8:30AM flight to Lyon actually took off. By a little after noon we were back in France, in a rental car driving four hours southeast to Nice airport. And after picking up Mr. London’s car in the parking lot, driving to Toulon to pick up our car, and rescuing Fifty from camp, we drove into Le Petit Village at 9PM. Bedtime.
So here’s the funny thing about all of this… tomorrow morning, The Husband and I are driving back up to Lyon to spend the weekend with our London emergency crash pad hosts, Sarah and her husband, for a mini-break that was planned weeks ago. How’s that for a nutty coincidence.
Please bear with me as I go radio silent for awhile. This is not a test.
A bientôt mes amies,
vous me manquez.Bisou!
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Dublin: Day 3 {Part 2}
After the match, Mrs. London tweeted this photo of herself with the caption,“This is going to be the best night ever!!!” She was right.The match was over, Mr. London had won, and it was time to celebrate (in fairness we would have been celebrating even if he hadn’t of won because 1. we’re Clermont fans and 2. I had an epic night already on the books… I like to plan these things).Table for twelve was booked at 37 Dawson Street (me, ten cousins, and Gatz… of course Gatz). It was a mini family reunion of sorts. Mrs. London hadn’t been around her Irish cousins in yonks and I thought she was due a wee reminder of how awesome we are (we’re a very modest family).Cocktails first (proper cocktails… Dublin I missed you so!), dinner, lots of chatter and naughty laughter (we’re a naughty bunch my cousins and I), followed by more cocktails. The restaurant happens to also be a late night bar (and now you know why I chose it) so we were in no hurry to leave, which was good, because a little bit after dinner, Mr. London abandoned his Heineken Cup duties and came looking for his man.
Actually he came to collect him and then go off with some of the other players (we made him take Gatz as well) which was great because that meant that Mrs. London, cousin Lou and I were left with an evening to ourselves.
We look so sweet and harmless don’t we? MUAHAHAHA!Since it was already almost 2AM and as much as we loved 37 Dawson Street, it was kind of, been there, done that, we sauntered off looking for our next adventure… Grafton Lounge wasn’t it. We walked in, and walked out. Not our scene at all. So we gave Lillies Bordello a go. I used to like it there, but it’s definitely lost it’s je ne sais quoi. And that’s when I had a stroke of genius… Temple Bar.Sure Temple Bar is raucous and full of tourists, but two of us were sort of tourists, so why not. But first we had to get there. Now anyone that knows Dublin knows that the walk from Grafton Street (where Lillies is) to Temple Bar is not a long hike, but when you’ve been wobbling on your stilettos for hours and the clock is on the wrong side of midnight, it feels like miles, and that’s where Diego came in.Diego was the bike taxi man we found outside Lillies. He delivered us safely to Temple Bar despite the heckles from the cab. Diego was our hero. (Poor, poor Diego. After peddling us around, I’m pretty sure he promptly quit and went searching for a quiet office job first thing Monday morning.)
Unfortunately at 3AM, Temple Bar is beginning to shut it’s doors to new customers, but fortunately, the third time was the charm as the third pub we walked up to finally opened it’s doors to us. Of course that was all down to Lou’s plea to the bouncer… “Please sir, I just want a quiet drink with my cousins. I never get to see them and after tonight, I don’t know when I’ll see them again. We won’t be any trouble, I promise. Please.” It was pathetic, and I’m pretty sure there was a pouty bottom lip involved, but it worked.And that same pathetic, pouty lipped plea worked when the pub was closing and everyone was being asked to leave. The Polish bouncers took pity on the pouty plea and our sad faces, walked us around to the residence bar of a hotel where they know the bouncers (I think all bouncers know each other), and sat with us while we had our final drink of our adventurous night and they had they after work dinner/ breakfast. And then as 5AM crept up, our own private Polish security squad, escorted us to our taxi and sent us safely on our way home. The end.Bisou!P.S. The Husband arrived home even later that we did! He walked in a few minutes before 9AM. But as he had picked up the newspaper on his way, my Aunt and Uncle assumed that he had already been home, and had gone back out to get the paper. The moral of the story is… if you ever need to sneak into the house in the wee hours, pick up a newspaper on the way.P.P.S. Despite how I ended this post, this is not in fact the last chapter of my Dublin tales, there’s a little bit left to tell you. I wrote ‘the end’ there simply because I felt like it, not because it’s actually, the end. However, there will be a brief intermission… I’m flying to England in a few hours and won’t be back until next week. À bientôt mes amies! -
Dublin: Day 3 {Part 1}
(Continuing on from this post)Saturday, oh Saturday, what a day you were…
It was all about who needed to be where at what time before the big match at 5PM.
Mommy London had arrived late Friday night (Mrs. London’s mother) and checked into the B&B down the road, so early on Saturday we were down to collect her to bring her back to my Auntie’s for pots of tea and a full Irish (breakfast that is).
Then Claire brought Mrs. London and Mommy London down to Mr. London’s hotel so they could see him for a bit before the biggest match of his career (nerves needed to be calmed), while The Husband met Gatz (his plane arrived at noon), and I had a blowdry in an effort to salvage the worst haircut ever, before shopping with Claire for pre-match nibbles (oh how I’ve miss Marks & Spencers food hall).
The shopping of the nibbles was pretty much a waste because by the time everyone got back from here, there, and everywhere, our taxi had arrived to whisk us off to the match.
The walk from City Centre to Ballsbridge (where the stadium is located) was jammers, and Dan-Dan (Mrs. London’s brother) threw himself right in the thick of it (there was a whole lot of yellow and blue).
But in the end all of the yellow and blue didn’t matter, because Mr. London’s team eked out a nail biting, 16-15 victory and were crowned champions of Europe.
OK, they weren’t actually crowned, they were medaled and poor Mr. London had his stolen.(You can actually see the medal being taken off of him in this video, and you can see me and The Husband standing next to the ‘thief’ if you look in the bottom of the stands on the right side of the presenter.)And as we made our way out of the stadium and onto dinner with family to kick off our celebration, this is what was happening back in Toulon…Bisou! -
ants in my pants
This is my little terrace. I love it. Not that I’ve spent a lot of time on it this spring, or that I will in the near future. I’m not even there now. I’m in Toulon. Yesterday, The Husband and I dropped Fifty at camp, went to Aix-en-Provence for a lunch à deux, and then continued on our way southeast to Toulon. Mr. London is playing in the Top 14 championship in Paris tonight (that’s the French rugby championship… Toulon may be champions of Europe but they still haven’t been crowned champions of France) and he asked if The Husband and I would cheer him on… oui, bien sur. So that’s how I find myself sitting here in Mrs. London’s kitchen typing away before heading to the TGV station to take the train North later this morning.
The thing is, I’m barely going to have time to spend on that lovely terrace when we come back. Because even though we’re only spending one night in Paris, on the 6th we leave for Devon in England for a few days and then on the 15th we’re going to Lyon.
It’s all go around these parts, and I swear, one would think I have ants in my pants since I can’t seem to sit still. But I’m an old girl, and as much fun as I’m having, I can’t wait to get my butt back to that terrace, book in one hand, glass of Rosé in the other. In the meantime… no rest for the wicked.
A bientot mes amies!Bisou!
P.S. My Dublin days aren’t finished! Stay tuned because the best bits are still to come…
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Dublin: Day 2
I forgot how cold and damp Dublin could feel. I’m not sure how I could have forgotten that, I spent six years living with it and countless holidays as a child shivering to the bone, but I guess living in Le Petit Village has made me delicate. It’s not the cold that’s bad, it’s the damp. The air feels wet, and not in a hot, humid way. And another problem with the damp, it tends to come with dull grey skies. Fortunately, Dublin is a pretty festive city and that makes up for it some, and on Heineken Cup weekend, it was extra festive.Now you know that I get like a D- in the photo department,I try to remember to snap photos, but then I get so excited just being in the moment that I forget, and then the moment passes. I should have taken loads of photos of the city, because 1. it was full of Clermont and Toulon supporters walking around in head to toe team gear (lots of yellow and blue, or red and black) and 2. loads of pubs had red & black and yellow & blue balloons decorating the outsides. Dublin certainly did roll out the rugby red carpet and I failed to capture it, I apologise.
This is the one that I got…
At least the banner is there and the Clermont supporter. How cute is he in his petit beret by the way? Cute.
This photo is better, but I didn’t take it.
And I’ve looked and looked for a photo of a pub with the balloons outside of them, but I can’t find a single one. Please make due with this photo of Dublin Bus decorated in it’s Heineken Cup finest…
via Bonus… the bus is parked outside Toddys. I meet one of my uncles in Toddys everytime I go back to Dublin (I got a two for one with that one).
Back to shivering through Dublin… Friday morning (Dublin Day 2), The Husband, Mrs. London and I were heading into town for some shopping. Normally we’d take the bus (€2.40 the bus costs now!) but my Uncle said he’d give us a lift in. If I had been the only one in the car, the lift would have been straight in on the N4, ten minutes, tops (who am I kidding, if I had been the only one in the car, I would have had to take the bus), but because The Husband and Mrs. London are ‘guests’, they got my uncle’s ‘tour’…
The tour that brings us through Ballyfermot (“That small building is where my father went to school”), and Inchicore (“See that pub there, the Black Lion, I had my first pint of Guinness there when I was eighteen”) and takes twice as long. It did turn out to be lucky though because as we drove through Inchicore, Mr. London called to say that he was free that morning and could come into town with us, and as his hotel was in Kilmainham, we were right down the road (“That’s Kilmainham Gaol there, your great-great grandfather was in there. It’s where the English executed everyone. If you were injured, and couldn’t stand up, they’d tie you to a chair and shoot you like that”… the tour took a morbid turn quite quickly).
We shook off the tour of sadness with Starbucks and a stroll through town… Penny’s, Boots, Topshop… it felt good to be home. And with a plate of Wagamama’s yaki udon for lunch, it felt like I had never left.I got a haircut too, a haircut I’ve been waiting months to get with my old stylist. I was so excited. But somehow when I said ‘two inches’ she heard ‘four’ and I don’t even want to talk about my fringe. Ugh. All I’m going to say is, I’m never cutting my hair above my shoulders, or getting a fringe ever again.
But before heading out that night (drinks and Doheny & Nesbitts followed by dinner at The Green Hen with the girls while The Husband cheered on Leinster at the match), I managed to style it in a kind of a chic and messy, Alexa Chung kind of way. It wasn’t as bad as I thought. And then my aunt saw me… “There’s something wrong with your hair” she said as she raked her fingers through it smoothing out my carefully constructed tousled look. My stare said it all and she looked at me, “Oh, you want it to be messy?!” Duh.
Bisou! -
Dublin: Day 1
We had been planning this trip to Dublin for months; three to be exact. It started in February, when The Husband being some kind of rugby savant, looked at how the Heineken Cup matches were playing out and predicted that either ASM Clermont (his beloved team), RCT Toulon (the team Mr. London plays for), or both would be in the finals on May 18th in Dublin. We booked our tickets and waited. Worst case scenario, The Husband’s predictions would be wrong but we’d still have a week in Dublin holidaying and visiting family, best case scenario, he’d be right and we would be in for one wild ride.
He was double right. It was Clermont vs. Toulon for the title of European Champions. (I’ve since asked The Husband if he could somehow project his rugby savant insights into other more pertinent areas of our lives… he simply stared at me like I had an extra head growing out of my neck.)
Our wild ride started with a trip to Toulon. Mrs. London was flying over with us and needed a lift to the airport… the perfect excuse for The Husband and Mr. London to get in some quality time before the big match.
Their quality time included eating 21oz burgers and topping it off with the ‘free if you finish’ milkshakes (they finished the milkshakes too) and then rolling around later saying that they didn’t feel good. Well that’s what happens when you eat half a cow.The next morning they played cards at 6AM before leaving for the airport. Seeing your husbands sit on their derrieres playing cards while you run around doing all of the last bits is rather infuriating I can assure you. And who wakes up and starts playing cards anyway? That’s just weird. Luckily, our 9:15AM flight from Marseille cut the card playing short (Mr. London’s flight with the team was leaving from Toulon later that morning).
Dublin Airport was decked out in blue, white and red to welcome the French (there were three French rugby teams descending on Dublin that weekend… Stade Français [Paris] was playing Leinster [Dublin] on Friday in the Amlin Cup Final before the Toulon/ Clermont clash on Saturday). I’m not gonna lie, it was weird to hear so much French being spoken in Dublin. It confused me.
At least my Auntie’s house is a French-free zone so I was able to give my wee brain and rest and settle in. I tried to settle in anyway… I got in trouble for not unpacking The Husband’s suitcase. SERIOUSLY. It’s like 1950 in that house. The Husband thought it was funny until he saw that my Auntie wasn’t joking. FYI: his suitcase never did get unpacked. Oh well, nothing that an episode of Eastenders and a few pints in the local with Mrs. London and Claire wouldn’t cure (I like to think of Claire as my big sister, but she’s not, but she’s so awesome, I wish she was). And after Auntie’s big Irish fry-up Friday morning, I was ready to get my Dublin on.
Bisou!
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It's Me, Sara Louise 