It's Me, Sara Louise

It’s Me, Sara Louise

Hi! You might know me as C’est Moi, Sara Louise. Before that I was Sara in Le Petit Village. Now, It’s Me, Sara Louise. Hello again.

  • tell me about yourself

    My friend Jen, who really loves margaritas by the way… on the rocks, no salt, and blogs at A Little About Everything and Nothing (whom you might remember from this guest post) has passed on the Tell Me About Yourself Award. Well I don’t mind if I do Jen, thank you.

    This one gets passed on to five other bloggers and like it says on the tin, I’m to tell you something about myself. I’ll go with five things about me… five bloggers, five things, it seems nice and neat doesn’t it? Lets wrap it up in a big red bow and do this thing:

    F I V E  B L O G G E R S
    1. Megan @ A Suitcase and Stilettos lives in Norway but manages to get around Europe a lot and blogs all about it.
    2. Nicole Marie @ La Mia Vita has recently returned to California after a stint in Barcelona.
    3. Daryl @ Roots, Wings, and Other Things lives in Germany and takes the most fantastic photos.
    4. Ksam @ Totally Frenched Out is an American who has actually conquered the red tape to become a French citizen.
    5. Kristen @ Un Homme et Une Femme is a recent American transplant to Paris and calls her husband Sir Lanclelot which is so much cooler than, ‘The Husband’.

    F I V E  T H I N G S
    1. I threw out my back yesterday for the very first time ever and holy balls it hurts. I’m supposed to stay lying down to let it rest but I do not do well with being still (a cousin used to tell me that I had a bee up my bottom and I think he might be right, sitting still is torture). So I guess it’s official… I’m old.

    2. When I was little I had a pony named Rainy Day. Even though I haven’t seen Rainy Day for a long, long time (I’m very old; please note number one above), I still think of him often and now that I’m living in what used to be a barn, I wish Rainy Day was with me here, even in stuffed form (yes, I wish I had taxidermied my childhood pony). He could sit by the front door and take coats.

    3. I have never been to Barcelona which is a travesty because it’s only a little over five hours from here, and I haven’t been to Paris once since moving to France. I vow that 2012 is the year of Barcelona and Paris especially since a Chipotle recently opened up in Paris. I want to get my burrito on. (What type of crazy person goes to Paris to eat burritos??? Now you know.)

    4. I love my new house (OK, love might be a bit strong, I still don’t have a bathtub… like, I really like my new house) but I do miss the original LPV. I haven’t found my groove here yet but I know I will, these things take time.

    5. Papa’s Wife’s mother is turning ninety next month and of course we will be celebrating with a party (you know how we love a party). I’ve been put in charge of decorations so I will be introducing my inner Martha Stewart to The LPV… Martha meet The LPV… LPV, meet Martha. Now get out of my way, I have pompoms to make.

    bisou
     

  • welcome to the jungle

    ++ The Husband spent Saturday with a giant weed wacker clearing a path into the garden as he whacked along. It’s nowhere near finished yet but at least we can actually see what’s what now. For example, we have a wine barrel. Why is there a wine barrel in my back garden? I have no idea, but it’s mine now. We also found a huge bone of some kind. We’re thinking maybe cow and that the people that used to live here had a really large dog, or perhaps a pet lion.

    ++ Every single box has been unpacked. Now if I can only find places to put everything, I’ll be all set.

    ++ Despite his best effort Mr. London did not win the French rugby championship over the weekend but he played his little heart out right to the very end and I’m proud of him. I’m even more proud of him though, for heading to Corsica today to walk across the island to raise money for sick children. If you’re feeling in anyway generous and would like to help Mr. London and a bunch of other rugby players raise money for children in need, you can do so, by clicking here (and if you do, and you have a problem understanding the website in French email me at sarainlepetitvillage@gmail.com, and I’ll help you out… anything for the kids)

    ++ It turns out that my house was a barn hundreds of years ago. If you would have told me that one day I would be living in a barn in France, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have believed you.

    ++ Papa has announced that he is taking Fifty hunting for wild boar next fall, and to this I say: OVER. MY. DEAD. BODY. Can you really see Fifty hunting wild boar? I can’t either.

    ++ Living in the new LPV may be detrimental to my figure. Everyday when I pick up the baguette at the Boulangerie, I pick up a chocolate chip cookie too (yes, I choose the cookie over the pain au chocolate because I’m 100% pure Americana like that).

    ++ The Husband turns thirty in twelve days and I have no idea what to get him but am taking suggestions. 
    Anyone?
    bisou
     
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  • le porcelet

    Here’s a little story about a not so fun time had by yours truly, because it’s not always all sunshine and lollipops here in The LPV you know.

    Picture this… I was in the car with The Husband and Gatz, headed down to Toulon, a tad cranky about not moving (yeah, it was that trip) but slightly perked up with the new handbag, shirt and jeans I had scored at Zara (I hadn’t told you about the shirt and jeans, had I? That’s because I’m sneaky) when The Husband’s phone rang. It was Papa.

    The Husband turned to me and said that Papa was roasting a pig on Monday (yet another holiday here, Lundi de Pentecôte) and did I want to go. Once again I found myself completely astounded by The Husband’s total lack of understanding of what moving entails.

    Me: Let me get this straight, Papa is roasting a pig on Monday and you want to go?

    The Husband: Oui

    Me: You know we’re moving right?

    The Husband: OK, we won’t go. This was said with a full on pout followed by, le huff and puff.

    Me: Fine, we’ll go, but I’m not going to be able to stay long because we’re MOVING.

    (I caved for two reasons; 1. I hate a pouting husband, it’s like having a very large two year old stomping about and 2. even though a pig on a spit would be involved, it was still only lunch at Papa’s so I figured no big deal)

    But it turned out that Papa wasn’t the one actually doing the pig roasting and it wasn’t even at Papa’s house. I only found out this vital piece of information when Gatz arrived on Monday to accompany us (he is with us all the time, like A L L  T H E  T I M E) and I mentioned that I had to run out to buy a bottle of wine to bring, Gatz asked why, and I said because it was polite, and then he said that we weren’t going to Papa’s house.

    Hold up. What?

    It was the butcher who was having the pig roast, out in a field somewhere, and he wasn’t roasting one pig, he was roasting four pigs for like, a hundred people.

    I turned to The Husband who gave me the, ‘oh did I forget to mention all that‘ look.

    We arrived at the field and sure enough, there were the pigs and the hundred people drinking rosé and beer (not the pigs, the people). But I decided to embrace the experience, grabbed a rosé and turned my frown upside down until… I saw one man going off to go number one, but instead of going off far, or hiding behind a tree or something, he just walked about twenty feet away from everybody, turned his back to us and whizzed, right there, then other guys followed suit. Gross. Do you think any of these guys happen to carry antibacterial gel around in their pockets? I doubt it.

    After a couple of hours of apéro, a few large bowls of salad were put out on a table. I grabbed my plate and got in line, but the butcher had forgot to bring spoons for the salad so he dropped a plastic cup in each one.

    As I looked at the fingers of the lady in front of me get all up in the salad as she tried to spoon it out with the cup, I thought about all the men that were peeing, and not washing there hands. No thank you. I left the line and the pee pee salad to everyone else.

    I was starving, and ready for the pig. Thankfully Papa’s BFF, The Portuguese, shouted that the first one would be ready in a few minutes as he and Brother-in-Law pulled it off of the spit and carried it over to a table.

    Now here’s a question… why would The Portuguese be in charge of carving the pig instead of the actual butcher who would be some what of an expert at carving things? Who knows but that poor pig was hacked to pieces in the most disgusting way.

    I walked up to the table to find The Portuguese standing behind the hacked carcass, smiling, totally chuffed with himself, and I looked down to see the head of the pig sitting up straight up, staring at the sky, blood spilling all over the place, and flies, everywhere. Like E V E R Y W H E R E. The whole thing looked like one big, scary, health code violation, so I turned around and left.

    See that photo above, that was by far the best part of the day; spoon feeding my buddy La Petite, even if she was completely disinterested with my awesome airplane technique.

    bisou

    P.S. If you would like to see a photo of the pigs, check out my Facebook page. 

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  • where it's at
    my house courtesy of: you had me at bonjour

    ++ OMG I have a dishwasher! A dishwasher! Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had a dishwasher?! Since I lived in Dublin and roomed with my cousin Bibbie in Chapelizod like four years ago. Four years is a long time to go with dishpan hands.

    ++ There are actual cabinets in the kitchen. I’m sure loads of you, are thinking, “so what, cabinets in kitchens are completely normal”, well I’m here to tell you, not necessarily in Europe they aren’t.

    ++ But while I have loads of kitchen cabinets (nine and four drawers to be exact) there is not a single closet in this house, not a one, not even in the bedroom. Ikea here I come.

    ++ Whereas the house in the original LPV had loads and loads of mint growing in the back garden, my new house has strawberry bushes. And as soon as I tame the jungle that is the garden (correction; as soon as The Husband tames the jungle), I’m going to walk back there and pick me some.

    ++ Brother-in-Law switched the refrigerator doors around so it opens on the right side, but naturally I keep trying to pry it open from the left. D’oh!

    ++ Fifty is not adjusting all too well yet. The church bells toll every hour (please note the proximity of those bells to my house in the photo above) and they drive him crazy. The normal ones are OK, but for the extra special ringings at noon and 7p.m., Fifty uses his extra special barking. Between the both, I’m expecting early onset deafness.  

    ++ The other day I treated myself to a break from the unpacking with a glass of Rosé in the sun at the little place around the corner (74 steps door to door… I counted) and not only did they actually have Rosé, but they actually serve food too.

    Take that Le Petit Bar.

    bisou

  • slowly but surely

    Isn’t my new rose bush pretty?

    I love it. What I’m not loving however is all the work that is going to have to go on around that rose bush. I mean look at it. It’s a jungle out there. I’m even scared to let Fifty out in it because the garden might swallow him up whole, never to be heard of again.

    Inside, the new house is fairing a bit better. I’m about 90% unpacked at the moment (total guesstimate obviously) but keep getting sidetracked by things like a pig roast (an actual pig on a spit, outside roast), a trip to the market with Papa and Papa’s Wife, French rugby (semi-finals are on this weekend which of course means Gatz & Co camped out at chez moi, but at least it didn’t mean a trip to Toulouse as Mr. London suggested – and yes, I said Toulouse, not Toulon because that is where it’s all going down), and today is La fête des Mères, as in, Mother’s Day. (Here’s a question for you… why oh why is Mother’s Day on a different day in Ireland, France and the U.S.? Do you have any idea how confused I am?)

    And since today is La fête des Mères, I’m a little short on time because I need to pop on over to Papa’s and help Papa’s Wife get ready to host lunch for ten people (we’re having Dorado, it’ gonna be G O O D ). Papa has decided to do a runner and spend the day with his hunting crew at a party because get this… he said it was OK not to be there for lunch because his wife isn’t his mother, and his mother is deceased, so he doesn’t need to do anything for La fête des Mères. So yeah, I’m going to go help Papa’s Wife out and probably give her some hugs too.

    All of this is by way of saying that I’m not really back yet, by that I mean, back to the blog. Hopefully in a few more days I can resume my regular scheduled programming with an unpacked house and a garden that doesn’t threaten to swallow up dogs.

    So with that, I leave you with this video clip of The Husband’s favorite song of the moment which means; 1) it’s the soundtrack to the daily dance he performs for me and 2) it’s the song that was responsible for his podium dancing in Toulon. Enjoy and feel free to dance along (podium not required).

    bisou
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  • while we should have been packing

    {source}

    Hi kids, remember me?

    Here I am, typing away at Papa’s house because the internet won’t be setup at the new chez moi for another week. That’s right, I’m already at my new house in the new Le Petit Village, and while I’m knee deep in unpacking, I thought I’d take a breath and tell you all about my weekend… which technically should have been all about moving, but Mr. London and The Husband had other plans.

    We weren’t supposed to have the keys to the new house until Monday (as in day before yesterday, Monday) but on Friday, in a very un-French-like fashion, we got a call to say we could have the keys on Saturday. A whole two days early… can you believe it? I still can’t.

    But then Mr. London called The Husband and put the kibosh on that. He phoned and said, “hey, why don’t you come down tomorrow and watch me play in the quarter finals against Racing Metro?” And then The Husband, clearly unaware that we were supposed to move two days later said, “Oh what fun, I’d love to, I really don’t think that there was anything that I needed to do this weekend, and if there was, I’m sure I’d remember. Ooh… can I bring my hetero-life-partner, Gatz, with me? We hate being apart, and if I can’t, I’d just spend the whole time talking on the phone to him anyway.” “Of course you can bring your hetero-life partner, we’ll have a party… WOO-HOO!”

    (the above is all paraphrased but it’s how I like to imagine that the conversation went down).

    So yeah, I was a little peeved because although I had been very diligent about packing little by little everyday since the beginning of May, it was getting down to the nitty gritty bits and I kind of wanted The Husband’s help with it. But figuring that there was no way I would stay behind and do the nitty bitty bits by myself, and leave my poor cousin, Mrs. London, with The Husband and Gatz (because that would be cruel) I went too.

    Off we went to Toulon but on the way, I finagled a stop in Aix to visit my friend Zara where I picked up this bag…

    {zara}

    because that’s how I negotiate… impromptu rugby weekend for him = new handbag for me.

    We arrived at Chez London to find Mrs. London hiding out in her kitchen while some Monaco rugby players commandeered the living room. She was clearly relieved to see me. Pop went the Rosé bottle… ahhh… the sound of happiness.

    A few hours later and we were seated at the match watching one big ol’ nail biter of a game. That was until Mr. London scored a try and we all breathed a sigh of relief and then Toulon won. Of course we just had to celebrate.

    N I G H T C L U B

    Where we got to watch The Husband and Mr. London dance on podiums. And when Mrs. London and I went outside to get some fresh air, and a flirty guy approached us, we told him that we were married and when he asked where our husbands were, we said downstairs, you know… that big group of rugby players. The look on his face was priceless as he bid us adieu and slowly backed away. Bless.

    And just like the last time, somewhere around 3:30, Mrs. London and I noticed that The Husband and Mr. London were missing, and once again, we found them behind the counter in the snack shop across the street stuffing their faces, so we rounded up our troops and headed home.

    We got a whole three hours of sleep before heading back to Le Petit Village for a fun filled day of moving.

    I’m lying, it wasn’t any fun at all.
    bisou
     
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  • about No.7

    Let’s talk about number seven.

    I’ll start by answering your questions:

    Meredith: Ooh where are you moving to, closer to those of us near Aix I hope?
    Actually yes, I’ll be 8km closer to Aix and trust me, every step closer to Zara counts.

    Abbey: AND THE MOVE!?!?!??!?! Is it official???
    Yes Abbey, it’s official, but unfortunately not to where you’re thinking.
    (See, Abbey was hoping that me and The Husband were moving close to French Mommy’s because she lives just around the corner, and there’s nothing that a Texas girl in France wants more, than another Texas girl around the corner… except for decent Tex-Mex of course).

    Ella: Moving to Paris?
    Oh that’s hysterical! I can’t even imagine Fifty in a city like Paris. He would have to pee on E V E R Y T H I N G before he began to feel even remotely comfortable there. But the thought of Paris does makes my city girl heart sing. Maybe next time.

    And then the rest of the questions just wanted to know where, and don’t worry, I’m getting to it.
    (Clearly I’m trying to draw this thing out as long as possible, and it also should be noted, that I have absolutely no idea how to write this post).

    So yeah, we’re moving. A whole 10km/ 6mile journey down the Luberon a bit and through the forest away. That’s it. (not very exciting, is it?)

    You’re probably wondering why we’re bothering moving at all… why leave beautiful Le Petit Village and it’s zany cast of characters? Because it’s zany and terribly inconvenient that’s why. There I said it. I bashed The LPV.

    Where as this here, The LPV, will always be The O.G. LPV (the O.G. stands for original gangsta, in case you didn’t get that), we’re moving to a new one. And while the new Le Petit Village is bigger than The O.G. LPV, what with it’s 500+ inhabitants, it still has less than a thousand so that’s why I remain, Sara in Le Petit Village.

    Here’s a fun fact for you… the new Le Petit Village is usually about 2°C warmer than The O.G. LPV, so if it’s 20°C here and 22°C there, then that really means that its 70°F here, and 74°F there, which is actually four whole degrees warmer, not two, and that’s a lot (that my friends is Sara Louise logic). So there’s one reason why we’re moving.

    Also, there’s the house. Truth be told, I hate my house, H A T E it. It was only supposed to be for a few months but we got sucked into time and it’s been almost two years. Almost two whole years of living in a house that is crumbling and feels like it’s made out of swiss cheese when the mistral blows against it. And the kitchen. Ugh, the kitchen… my kitchen has about one square foot of workable counter space and a stove top with only two hobs that blows a fuse every time you try to use them both at the same time. So for someone who likes to cook like me, it’s a freaking nightmare.

    The new house does not feel like it’s made out of swiss cheese and crumbling, is not facing into the direction of the mistral, has a proper kitchen (I can’t even begin to tell you how excited I am about this) and added bonus… has heated tile floors! Fifty’s little feet will be in heaven this winter.

    But, I am sad to leave here.

    I like having Honey Jr and Honey’s Honey next door, and opening the door to let Fifty run around and play outside when his friend’s come a knocking. I’ll miss the beautiful Le Petit Village scenery passing by when I’m out on my morning jogs and it’s so quiet that it feels like I’m the only one here.

    But, it’s time for a change, and new adventures. Honey Jr and Honey’s Honey will come over, Fifty will make new friends, and the new Le Petit Village is beautiful too… because yeah, it’s Provence. 
    It’s pretty much beautiful everywhere.

    bisou
     

  • ode to thee

    source: you had me at bonjour

    I know I left you guys on a cliffhanger with my last post, but there’s just something else I want to say today and I promise to tell you all about my move next time. However, I will leave you a clue… I am staying in Provence. 

    I’m feeling mighty blessed.

    When I started this blog, I did so merely as a means to keep me sane, something to keep me busy when I first moved to The LPV two years ago. I had never even read a blog before and I had no idea of what I expected to happen. I definitely didn’t expect that I would meet people and make friends, but I did and that’s what this here today is all about.

    You see, yesterday I received a package in the post from Ireland. I opened it up to find a lovely note and bags upon bags of Barry’s Tea from Sharon of La Vie en Rose. Sharon is Irish, therefore Sharon knows that the only tea that really matters is Barry’s and she also knows that little old me, living here in The LPV, can’t get Barry’s, so Sharon not wanting me to suffer through life without a decent cuppa, sent me some (if any of you even think of mentioning Lyons Tea, well to this I say hogwash).

    And those tea bags got me thinking about this blog and all of the wonderful things that have come from it, so I thought I’d write something dedicated to my blog and to you, because without you, it would just be me, typing to myself, and that would be sad.

    A few months after I started this blog, I received an email from a French girl named Sophie. Sophie had recently moved back to France after years in the U.S. and feeling a little bit homesick, decided to reach out to another homesick girl. We started emailing and occasionally skyping, and then one day, since Sophie is a French teacher, she said; why don’t I help you with your French, and I said OK and that is how Sophie became La Professeur. And last weekend, The Husband and I paid a visit to Sophie and Sophie introduced us to Stellina Pizza, home of last year’s world champion pizza maker (I had the Pizza Abruzzo… porcini mushroom cream sauce, fresh tomatoes, and a drizzle of truffle cream sauce… I’m still dreaming about it). So without this blog, I never would have met the world champion French teacher, and the world champion pizza maker. Thank you blog.

    Remember when all of my china and Waterford that had been shipped from Dublin arrived shattered? I do. But besides the heartbreak of discovering all of those broken memories, I learned how supportive and loving the blogging community was. Not only did I receive 62 comments of support, encouragement, and advice, but a few days after, a package arrived in the post. Inside was a book called The Bronze Horseman. A girl named Bec had sent it with a note. The note said that she was so sorry for the loss of my crystal and china and if the same thing had happened to her she would curl up and cry, and when something does make her want to curl up and cry, she reads her favorite book, The Bronze Horseman, to make her feel better, so she thought it might make me feel better too. And it did. Not only did it become one of my favorite books ever, but Bec became one of my favorite people, and we met and became great friends and spent great times together, until she moved back to Australia (now we have great chats together on skype). Thank you blog.

    Then a couple of months later when my Dad passed away, you guys were there. I was far from home, and your comments of love and warm thoughts and prayers meant more to me than you will ever know, then I ever thought. Thank you blog.

    And of course there’s Aidan. Without my blog I never would have met that other Texas girl who moved to Ireland before moving to the South of France. Sometimes I don’t even think it’s possible that we’ve only known each other for a little over a year because she feels so much like family. She’s become my big sister and she makes living in France a lot easier and a whole lot more fun (even if her dog did eat my glasses). Thank you blog.

    Then there’s all of you. All of my blog friends, some I’ve met, some I haven’t, but all friends. You have made my life here in The LPV so much more exciting. Because of you I write. Because of you I don’t view any strange, inconvenient, or bizarre occurrence here as an annoying pain in the petunia, I now see it as a story, a tale to tell, and it helps me grin and bare the sometimes difficult times of being an expat in a teeny tiny village on top of a mountain in France. Thank you blog.

    And thank you too. 
    bisou

    P.S. Oh, and one more thing… because of this blog, Fifty now believes he is a celebrity and can be rather difficult to live with at times, so yeah, thank you blog. 

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  • versatile: life captured

    Look what I got. Thanks to Shauna of Life Captured , I have been deemed Versatile. I’m always chuffed when I get one of these so thank you Shauna, from the bottom of my heart here in The LPV.

    Now, I’m suppose to pass this award on to fifteen bloggers, but I’ve decided to divide that by three and go with five, because I’m quirky like that.

    Abby @ J’Adore Ma Vie
    Sharon @ La Vie en Rose
    Mark @ Our Simple Lives
    Meredith @ Talking Story in Provence
    Amanda @ Travels with Persephone

    And as always, I must share seven completely random facts about myself, but since seven can’t be divided by anything (except of course by one and seven but that’s not cool) I’m sticking with seven. Here we go…

    1. France has just finished three weeks in a row of three day work weeks thanks to the faire le pont. I got to be honest with you, I’m kind of glad they’re over. The schedule change has been messing with my mojo big time (hence the reason that today is Sunday and the last post before this was Wednesday… so many barbecues… so little time).

    2. My mother told me the other day that she might be coming for a visit in September. We’re all super duper excited about this, especially Fifty. Fifty likes having new people around to lick.

    3. Here’s something completely random… I’m terrified of the ocean, and I don’t like sand. So I’m not really a beachy girl, although I love the idea of it. And I like restaurants and bars on the beach where I can see the sand and the water but I don’t have to actually partake in it (and I miss driving my jeep onto the beach in Port Aransas, Texas… those were the days).

    4. I feel like my French has kind of halted and it’s time for me to go back to class (Professeur, I’m looking at you). And it definitely doesn’t help that I spend a bunch of time with Aidan, Kirsty, and Mrs. London because even though all that English is wonderful it’s totally detrimental to my French.

    5. I’ve been watching The Cosby show lately. It brings me right back to my childhood… I can picture myself in my old living room in New York, laying on the carpet about a foot from the television, listening to my Dad rummage around the kitchen while he was cooking dinner. Total happy place. If you want to be happy with me, you should watch this:

    {classic}

    6. The Husband has been jogging with me in the mornings. Since I tend to be a tad competitive, I like to hang back and draft behind while he and Fifty cut through all the wind, and then towards the end, I flip my booster switch on (yes, I have a booster switch) and sling right past them and ‘win’. This is my favorite new way to start the day. #winning

    7. I’m moving.

    bisou

  • you had me at bonjour

    “Kirsty, do you want to bed with me?“

    This is what my friend Kirsty thought The Husband said to her while we were having lunch last weekend.

    Understandably, she almost spit out her Rosé.

    What The Husband actually said was, “Kirsty do you want to bet with me” (as in place a bet).
    Ah, the joy of accents, never a dull moment.

    We were having lunch with Kirsty and her three perfectly behaved, perfectly adorable children (well four really, but since one is still too little to even sit in a chair, we’ll go with three or three and a half) to kick off our twenty four hours together in Le Petit Village. Kirsty’s husband wasn’t with us for lunch but would be joining us later because get this… he was cycling from their home outside Aix-en-Provence up to Le Petit Village. Clearly he’s an Aussie masochist, because as if that 57km/ 34 mile trek uphill through the Luberon wasn’t enough, he decided to go a crazy out of the way, way bringing his total cycling time to five hours. Masochist.

    And since he wasn’t there, Kirsty’s two year old decided that The Husband should be his new Daddy and proceeded to call him ‘Daddy’ from across the lunch table. I think I actually saw The Husband’s biological clock tick tock all over his face (boys can have them too you know). Bless.

    After the Kirsty bunch got settled into their gîte, Kirsty and I set off on a wander through Le Petit Village and I got to give my first tour of the season. I was more than a little rusty, which was sad because by the end of last summer I had it down pat… like could maybe start charging, down pat, although I would never do that… that would be tacky.

    The Husband and Fifty met up with us along our tour, and Kirsty got to discover that Fifty does indeed in fact exist, he’s not just a character (but Fifty was more than a little peeved that he wasn’t asked for an autograph). And she also got to discover that Fifty does not like it when you hold a large black camera up to your face. Basically, Fifty thinks that you’ve morphed into some strange robot or something, with a large lens for a face. Cue the barking (he also doesn’t like people on bikes… in his little puppy brain, it’s like a person is half human/ half bike… it’s freaky).

    Then The Husband got Kirsty to do something I would never ever do (no, not bet with him). They both entered the very scary teeny tiny door that brings you into the medieval wall of the village, and then climb smelly old topsy turvy stairs up out onto the walkway on top and next to the campanile. Uh, no thank you. But Kirsty did it! (Clearly she is not afraid of Nazi Ghost Zombies). And when she was up there she snapped the picture that is on top of this post. Of course as soon as Fifty saw the camera he barked like a lunatic.

    See, it looks like he’s smiling but he’s actually barking. 
    bisou

    P.S. For Kirsty’s take on the weekend and lots of pretty photos of Le Petit Village, pop on over to see the post on her blog, you had me at bonjour.

    P.P.S. Check out Yummy Laura to see what I and four other expat bloggers have to say about living abroad. 

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