It's Me, Sara Louise

Salut, mes amis! I’m Betsy from Betsy Transatlantically – like Sara, I’m one half of a glamorous international couple! Except that my fiancé is English, not French, which means that any linguistic misunderstandings are really justembarrassing, and we lived together for three years in London, which isn’t exactly a petit village. (The glamour thing is indisputable, though. I mean, right?) So now that you know all of that, you’ll understand why Sara suggested that you might like to hear about an international relationship from a different angle than the one you usually get here in LPV. That’s why I’m going to tell you all about… my first kiss.

Hey, it happened in France! And it was with an Australian! How much more international can the story get?

Let’s start at the beginning. I was on a study abroad program through Concordia Language Villages; I’d spent two summers immersed in their French village in Minnesota and, the summer I turned 15, I went with their group to France for a month. (You’d think I liked studying French! I actually hated it until college, when I had an amazing professor freshman year who convinced me to minor in French, but that’s another story.) We were all high schoolers – I was the youngest of everyone – and it really was like something out of a novel: we played tourist for three days in Paris to start and then we were based in Saint Malo for two weeks of intensive language classes, after which everyone did a week of homestays (my family lived near Rennes) and we finished up with another two days in Paris.

Now, you have to appreciate how magical St. Malo is to understand how my first kiss could have happened there with an Australian. Pronounced sah-mah-loh, all as one word, it’s a walled port city in Brittany, in the northwest of France right on the English Channel. It was founded centuries ago and boasts some incredible medieval history – an 11th century love story I wrote a college paper on was based there and Jacques Cartier, one of the first Europeans to explore Canada, was born there in 1491 – as well as the dubious fame of being a notorious base for French piracy in the 18th century. Our youth hostelwas two blocks away from the beach, and in the evenings we’d either sit on the high stone promenade and watch the tide wash out miles down the shore or stroll into town to get ice cream. It was glorious.

On our first night in the youth hostel, I was giddy with France and the sea air and the adventure of it all. It was also the last night that a group from Australia was staying there, and we all gathered in the courtyard after dinner to compare stories. I ended up talking to a very cute boy who was a year older, and try as we might to sneak away… well, there were chaperones everywhere. So, caught up in the moment and the romance, we agreed to meet on the beach at sunrise the next morning an hour before his group’s bus left to take them back to Paris, the airport, and Australia.

We did, dear readers. At 6am, we met in the courtyard, snuck out of the gate, and scampered to the promenade overlooking the channel. After excruciatingly awkward small talk, he kissed me. The setting was perfect: waves crashed against the stone walls, rosy clouds flitted above the golden orb peaking above the horizon, seagulls called to one another over our heads… and the kiss was awful.

I mean, terrible. Of course I didn’t know that then, since I’d never been kissed before, but I can tell you now – twelve years and several (ahem) kisses later – that it was a horrible kiss. But it was blissful nonetheless. After all, I’d had my first kiss in France with an Australian! I was in heaven for the rest of the program, and my destiny to become part of an international couple was set.

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

I love reading other people’s “How we met” stories, so today I’m sharing ours with you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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