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.

  • Remembrance Day

    This is the war memorial that stands in Le Petit Village to honor the local men who fell in battle.
    On this Remembrance Day I would like to give thanks to all those who gave their lives for freedom.
    bisou

  • The Trip North

    The long journey North to meet the Mother took much longer than five hours.

    We left the house at 1:15 and of course had to stop in Avignon to see the Cousin. I’m beginning to understand that ‘quick’ trips to Avignon to see the Cousin are a fact of life and I just need to accept and move on. I have. But I have now attached an addendum to these trips; we stop at a home store that I love. He gets to see Cousin. I get to shop. Fair deal.

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

    Monday morning and my post was going to be all about the weekend in Auvergne with the Mother, but that will just have to wait for tomorrow because it’s always something and I’m an idiot.

    This morning started off energetically and full of promise. One of those mornings when you wake up just knowing that you’re going to tear right through your to-do list and in the evening when you’re finally relaxing, feet up, candles lit, glass of wine in hand, you know that you earned it, because it was a productive day and you’re awesome. That was going to be me today. But, it’s not, because it’s always something, and I’m an idiot.
    Hopped out of bed at 5:30. Turned the heat on, because winter has arrived in Provence. Turned the lights on because it’s dark at 5:30am. Started a load of laundry, because after a weekend away, you always have laundry to do. Turned on the laptop and plugged it in because the battery was empty. Turned on the television because I need a little noise. Turned on the kettle because the the water needs to be boiled to make my coffee in the french press. Sat down to check the emails.
    And then Darkness. And quiet. And then I shouted some colorful phrases.
    Not good.
    Grabbed the phone to call the Boyfriend who had just left. Nope. Cordless phones don’t work without electricity. Never a rotary when you need one.
    Lit candles, tried not to freak out, and found the Irish cell phone and made an expensive call to the Boyfriend:
    “Oui?”

    “The electricity is out”

    “That’s because you’re too much. You had everything going. I’ll call my Father.”
    This was the edited version. I’ll let you use your imagination to fill in the rest.
    I’m too much???

    So when the Boyfriend left this morning and saw me buzzing around like I had a bee in my a** he knew that this was going to happen. And he didn’t feel like throwing out a warning? Maybe a little heads up, like,
    “You’re just too productive for Le Petit Village. Slow it down a bit before you cause a blackout”.
    Nope. He just left. He will pay for that this evening.
    I sat in the dark.
    6:15am, one hour until sunrise.
    I went to the fuse box, flicked some switches. Nope. Nothing.
    Boiled some water and made some tea (you gotta love gas stoves) and waited.
    A little after 7 and the sun began to rise. Opened the shutters and let a little light in. Also let a little more cold in. Put on a scarf, and waited.
    I mourned the loss of my productive day because you just know that once you let that fire under your a** go out, it’s hard to get it lit again. And I thought to myself how it’s always something.
    I played with the fuse box switches again. Nope. Nothing.
    9am and Papa knocked on the door. A quick bonjour and double cheek kiss. He looked at the fuse box, pushed a large black button. Power on. That was it. He left. But not before giving me one of those looks that makes you feel like even more of an idiot than you did before. If that’s even possible.

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  • Le Tarty


    Today the Boyfriend and I are leaving Le Petit Village and heading north to the Auvergne Region to visit… dun dun dun… the Mother.

    Our road trip this afternoon should be just under five hours. I was doing a little reconnaissance yesterday, checking out our route and what we may pass on our way, sights we may see. Ok. I was only looking to see if we would pass a Starbucks. And guess what? We don’t. 463 kilometers, 288 miles and still not close enough to a Starbucks. It’s a cruel world.
    You know what else is cruel? Meeting the Boyfriend’s Mother for the first time. It makes me a little edgy, hence the reason I have been up since 5am and on my third cup of coffee. I’m feeling a little nervous and I battle nervousness with preparation…
    The hair needs to be blow dried, nails need to be manicured, bags packed with appropriate clothing… in other words, I need to look presentable. Nice, conservative, but not like I have a stick up my you know where. It’s a thin line. And you only get one first impression. It doesn’t matter if she adores me after the umpteenth meeting, if she thinks I look like a tart at the first meeting, I will always be the tarty American girl who stole her son, except the French equivalent, Le Tarty (I don’t think that’s right but we’re just going to go with it). After all, the Mother is meeting the non-French speaking American woman who is living in sin with her one and only baby boy. Not to mention that the non-French speaking American woman is also five years older than baby boy.
    No, I’m not nervous at all.
    Did I mention I’m meeting Grand-mere as well?
    The Boyfriend will be surrounded by all the women that dote on him. I’m sure he’ll be in heaven. I just hope I am too.
    bisou
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  • Thanks Barney

    Besides covering up the Nutjob’s handy-work, aka, the romper room staircase, I’ve been slowly painting the rest of our little house.

    It’s slow go at the moment because this is a solo task and I’ve got other stuff to be doing. But, it’s getting done, and as the Boyfriend reminds me, I’ve got time.
    Anyhoo…
    Not to toot my horn (toot toot, beep beep) but I’m pretty darn good at this painting stuff. My edging is superb. And each night when the Boyfriend comes home he takes a look at my work and says, “Good job Skippie” (the Boyfriend calls me Skippie). And then after further inspection he’ll say, “You’re a really good painter for a girl.” The Boyfriend has no idea how insulting this is. The same way he has no idea that whenever he says that girls shouldn’t play football (soccer) I’m secretly hatching plots to turn all his whites pink.
    So yeah, I’m a really good painter. The strange thing is that my Grandfather was a painter and wallpaper-er (I’m positive that’s not a word, but nonetheless, that’s what he was). Is it possible that somehow my Grandfather’s skills passed down into me making an imprint on my DNA and whenever I pick up a paintbrush I’ve got his genes guiding me along the way? Weird thought yes, but I’ve got a lot of painting to do and I appreciate all the help I can get. Even if it’s from my dead Grandfather.
    Thanks Barney
    bisou
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  • Baby Steps


    It has now been five and a half weeks since I’ve moved to Le Petit Village. Forty days to be exact. And as of today, exactly two months since my last day of work. But whose counting?

    And in this five and half weeks, forty days, and two months since leaving the desk I was chained to, everyone’s favorite question is:

    “So how’s your French coming along?”.
    I get asked this via email, phone, and Skype, from Dublin, New York, and Texas.
    And my answer is always the same:
    “Fine”.

    And honestly, it’s fine.
    There are days where I’m feeling super positive about it. Days when I’m hanging with my new French girl friends V and M and I find myself talking and laughing.
    And not in English!
    Ok, not really fully in French either, but not in English!
    And then later the Boyfriend will report back that V and M have both complimented me on how well my French is coming along and everyone is sure I’ll be flying and fluent in five months.
    And I feel good!
    But then there are other days.
    Days when I’m at the Honeys or Papas and I sit smiling trying to cover my confusion. And I’ll look anxiously at the Boyfriend willing him to give me just one small inkling of what everyone is talking about. Or I try to just latch onto one word. Just let me understand one word and I may be able to follow what’s happening. And that one word is usually just out of my reach and I leave feeling like an idiot, sure that they all hate me because I’m a stupid girl who can’t speak French and never ever will. And then the Boyfriend has to give me extra cuddles and let me pick the dvd.
    And then I’ll go to sleep sad but wake up on the right side of the bed (which is always because that’s my side). I will wake up invigorated, empowered, and glass half full, ready to conquer my daily French lesson. And after studying, listening, and quizzing, I will feel so good that I will go for a jog and enjoy my beautiful Provencal surroundings. I will look around and feel blessed that I have the opportunity to live in such an amazing place. And because I am such a multi-tasker, I will listen to my French earworms on my Ipod. And I will feel good!
    And then a blonde couple, clearly not French, and judging by their ensembles, clearly tourists will appear out of nowhere and say:
    “Excusez moi Mademoiselle, comment est-ce que je fais pour aller…?”
    And like a robot, I will say the French words I say the most:
    “Je suis desole, je ne parle pas Francais”

    And then I go home and wait for my cuddles.
    bisou
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  • I'm Going To Have To Start Driving

    Last night we did a quick round trip to Avignon with Honey Jr. to pick up our new car.

    I use the word ‘quick’ loosely.
    In my mind, quick, is driving straight there, collecting car, and driving straight back home.

    In the Boyfriend’s mind, quick, means driving to Cousin’s house, having a drink, everyone (Cousin, his lady, Honey Jr, Boyfriend, and moi) piling into Cousin’s car, and driving to another friends house, have coffee, collect car, eat at McD’s, and then home.
    I’ll toss that one up to another language barrier issue but I have a feeling it’s more of a gender issue.
    The new car is for me. Well actually it’s for the Boyfriend so I can have his car. This means that I’m going to have to start driving.
    It’s not that I don’t want the car and to no longer be housebound (although nothing wrong with being a hermit. I can be quite comfortable in my hermitness. Crabs can be hermits and no one tells them to get out of the house).
    I’m just a tad nervous about driving here.
    I’ve been driving for many many years, and after six years in Dublin, it’ll be nice to drive on the right side of the road again.
    It’s the topsy turvy teeny tiny country roads and the madmen that drive them (the Boyfriend included) that I’m nervous about. I don’t care if you know these roads like the back of your own arse, slow the fudge down. And the white line in the middle is there for a reason. As are stop signs and yield signs. But you know what doesn’t seem to be there? Road signs. How am I supposed to know where I’m going? Or more importantly, if I get lost and I phone someone, how am I supposed to describe where I am?
    “Aider moi s’il vous plait. I’m lost on the side of the road by that big tree and that old country farm house. Oh? Every road has a big tree and old country farm house? Ok. I guess I’ll just make camp here then.“

    For the moment I’m perfectly comfortable with my car sitting right outside. I can see it from the window.
    And it’s probably best if I get a GPS before I venture out on my own. Yes. I’ll get a GPS. If I order it online it should take a few weeks to get here, right?
    Just need to make sure that it comes in English.
    bisou

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  • Some Serious Thoughts

    I’m seriously thinking about decoupage. I like to think about doing things but I rarely do them. I’m more of a planner than a doer. Ok, so I did move to France and I am writing this blog, but decoupage? Could I be a decoupager? It is French. And Marie Antoinette dabbled in a little decoupage. Maybe if she had kept her nose in the decoupage, she could have kept her head. Just a thought.

    I’m also seriously thinking about getting involved in local politics. Like being the Mayor of Le Petit Village. Can I do that? Would my EUness be enough or would I have to be fully French?
    Must google later and find out.
    I seriously think they need me. The current Mayor is a Communist representing the local Communist Party. Not that there is anything wrong with Communism. If that’s your bag then go right ahead, it’s a free village (isn’t it???). But all I’m saying is that although it’s a beautiful thought, it never really works out that way and all your left with is a tyrannical dictator, drab clothing, and a bowl of gruel.
    And get this… the other political party in Le Petit Village is Fascism! I’m not making this stuff up! We’ve got the Communist Party and the Fascist Party! Who decides to be a Fascist in 2009? It’s like someone just woke up angry one morning, “Mommy, when I grow up, I want to be a Fascist… AND THEN EVERYONE WILL SUFFER!!! May I have my juice box now?”
    In a village of 260 people, I think they need another option other than Mussolini or Marx. They need a softer, cuddlier option. That will be my campaign slogan… Vote for Sara Louise, the soft and cuddly candidate. I would guarantee carmel apples, fondue parties, story time, and outlaw drab clothing. We would have merry-go-rounds, and hayrides and eat chocolate brownies for breakfast. And all the shutters will be painted pink, because I said so. I promise that there will be benevolence in my dictatorship.
    Hugs for everybody!
    So to sum up; I’m seriously thinking about decoupage and I’m seriously thinking about becoming a dictator… oops, I mean getting involved in local politics.

  • The Raclette Party & The Plonk

    I should have known it was too good to be true. Free wine. HA!
    A couple of weeks ago when I found out that Tuesdays were pizza night in Le Petit Village, I also discovered that after purchasing four pizzas you can either have a free bottle of coke or a free bottle of wine. Happy days. Coke or Wine? This is not a tough decision.
    So last Tuesday when the boyfriend picked up our pizzas (because I was too scaredy cat to do it myself) he also came home with our first free with pizza bottle of wine. Since I’m already working on an open box, I decided to leave the free bottle for a semi-special occasion (free with pizza – not exactly expecting Chateauneuf du Pape, but being in France, not exactly expecting plonk either).
    Friday night turned out to be that semi-special occasion.
    Papa and his Wife were hosting a Raclette Party for the Boyfriend and I, Boyfriend’s Brother, his girlfriend, and some German friends who were visiting.
    Side bar – a Raclette Party is similar to a Fondue Party, lots of meats and veggies that can be put on individual mini skillets with oodles of cheese and cooked in small grills setup on the table. If you like meat, and you like cheese, especially of the melted variety, then this party is for you.
    Never wanting to show up empty handed, I asked the Boyfriend if he would pick up some nice flowers, chocolates, or Champagne on his way home from work. Well the Boyfriend showed up home empty handed. When I asked what it was we would bring with us, he grabbed the free with pizza bottle of wine. Eyeing the bottle suspiciously, I was skeptical but knew that at this point it was our only choice.
    We arrived at the house and handed the free bottle of red to Papa. He too eyed it suspiciously and set in on the counter. Drats! Maybe Papa is familiar with what the free with pizza bottle of wine looks like. Trying to remember that it’s the thought that counts, I told myself that at least we didn’t show up empty handed.
    Well the Germans hands were full. Homemade Black Forest gummies, a slab of smoked ham, and a bottle of Rosé. Hmmm… so many lovely presents for their French friends, what could they possibly be over compensating for I wonder? Hmmm…
    Now my free with pizza bottle looked really pathetic so when the German opened the bottle of Rosé I eagerly stuck out my empty glass and tried to hide the free bottle in the corner.
    Everyone arrived and the Raclette got into full swing. We sat around the table busily grilling, talking and eating. My favorite dog Ruby was there, who likes me now by the way, but that could be because after every couple of bites, I would give Ruby a bit of cheese rind. Ruby loves cheese. Not surprised really, he is French.
    The Rosé now long gone, we moved on to a couple bottles of white that went perfectly with the cheeses. Too perfectly in fact, because they were gone far too quickly and the next thing I knew, the German had grabbed the free with pizza bottle of red and was opening it.
    This is not good, I thought. And oh how I was right, no it wasn’t. It seemed like everyone, including me, took their first sip at the same time and the reactions around the table were all in unison… it was a nose crinkling, lips pursing, quick head shake kind of movement. Not good. Total humiliation. And then the biggest insult of all… all of our glasses and the last bit in the bottle were poured into the big jar of left over wine that is used to make vinegar. Wow, that’s not embarrassing. There’s never a rock to climb under when you need one.

    Next time I’ll get the free bottle of coke. And mental note, must kill Boyfriend.

    bisou
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  • My Petit Rave

    It’s Friday and I’m feeling pretty good so where as yesterday I had a rant, today I’ll have a rave…

    1. Le Petit Village has four castles. They’re mostly in ruins now, but castles nonetheless. And there were turrets. And if there were turrets, there must have been fair maidens high up inside them, with those cone shaped princess hats that have the silky scarf attached to the top (I got one once at Disneyland but I never had a turret). And maybe there was a Prince and an evil step-mother, a dragon, and a curse. I’m just saying. You never know.
    2. My daily baguette. Le Petit Village is so tiny that we do not have a boulangerie, but we do have an épicerie that sells a little bit of everything, including freshly baked baguettes. But if you aren’t there before 10am, you’re not getting one. A lot of competition in Le Petit Village to get a baguette and with the addition of one more person, moi, it got that little bit more fierce.
    3. When the Boyfriend and I go for a drink, €10 will get you two Ricards (pastis) for him, two glasses of wine for me, and a bit of change. In Dublin, €10 might get you two drinks.
    4. While I’m on the topic of drinks… the wine! The choice, the quality, the price, oh my! Now I have steered clear of the box of wine since college (great for poolside convenience) but here, the box of wine is good stuff. At my first dinner at Papa’s house, on the table was a label-less bottle of wine. Every time it was just about empty, someone would take the bottle, leave the room, and come back with it full again. This to me was truly a miraculous feat. Do they have wine on tap here I wondered? Nope, apparently a box of wine that you just refill the bottle with. So now I have my very own label-less bottle and my very own box of wine. 5L for €12! They might as well be giving the stuff away.
    5. And I can’t talk about wine without talking about cheese. There is somewhere between 265 and 500 different types of cheese produced in France and I fully intend on introducing myself to all of them. Right now in my cheese box there is a Camembert, Banon, Roquefort, Pavé Ocre, and a Gorgonzola (Ok, Italian, not French, but it’s my favorite). Not to mention the Parmesan, shredded Emmental (we have to have it, it’s the law), and the block of Edam in the fridge. Back to the cheese box. Even though the cheese box is full of delectable goodness, a warning has to be shout out before opening it. The smell could knock out a small child and strip the paint off a house, but oh, how I love it.
    6. Both Papa and the Boyfriend’s Brother have gardens full of onions, lettuce, corgettes, tomatoes, and peppers. I love homegrown veggies and their weird shaped natural goodness.
    7. Dogs are everywhere. Now if you aren’t a dog lover, I’m sure this would drive you crazy (hello mother) but for me it’s like living in my own personal petting zoo. They are at outside cafes, in restaurants, and just wondering the streets. Sometimes a village dog will just follow the Boyfriend in the house and hang out for an hour or two. Go ahead, make yourself right at home.
    8. There is a 101 year old lady that lives across the street. Everyday she sits for a couple of hours on the bench at the side of my house. Just chillaxing in the sun, soaking it all in and saying bonjour to everyone who passes. She’s super duper cool.
    9. In French, the days of the week are not capitalized. That has to save you time somewhere along the line.
    10. Double cheek kissing and sometimes even triple and quadruple cheek kissing! Ooh la la!!!
    bisou
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