To live in a new country, whose language is not one’s own, is a dislocating experience. For long moments one becomes mute. For long moments one is regressed, scrambling like a toddler for words that are always out of reach. The relief of joy can come from the very simple pleasure of discovering just one word, or one phrase, that can be recognized by a new friend, a teacher, a shopkeeper.
Everyday tasks and pleasures are magnified, sometimes with resulting delight, sometimes with dismay. For Ken, navigating the rules of golf associations and tournaments in France is daunting. For instance, we just learned that in order to enter competitions and have one’s score count, a doctor must sign a form attesting to your health & fitness to play. It’s all a bit confusing but will soon get sorted out.
Golf took us up to Grenoble this past weekend, a drive of about three and a half hours, where Ken competed in a tournament on Sunday. I had hoped to bring back photos of the alps to share, but alas it rained the whole weekend and we only saw the barest outline of the mountains which surround this famous ski area. Nevertheless, we had a good time, even in the rain, and enjoyed wonderful french cuisine in our hotel and in little restaurants in the surrounding area. Happily I played nine holes of golf yesterday here at a local course, and it’s wonderful that SweetPea can go along in the cart, enjoying the sunshine and taking in the autumn smells of the falling leaves and earth wet from the recent rain.
My studies at the language school have become more intense. The profs have decided that we are no longer “debutantes” and accordingly expect a great deal from us in the way of homework and rapid-fire responses in class. I keep waiting for a break-through in my ability to speak. Alas, I’ll have to wait a bit longer! It seems that in my class of ten, we have all reached about the same state at the same time. We look like a nervous gathering of deer, caught in the high beam headlights of an oncoming car, knowing we must do something – but unable to move or utter a sound.
Even the language of the birds is different here. My windows are open wide just now as I write, letting in the afternoon sun. A gentle wind carries into my room a plaintive, insistent song of a bird that I’ve never heard before. There’s no doubt it’s seeking a response, but none is forthcoming. Now it has flown away.
Tonight I will go to the little theatre/gallery called Le Ruban Vert that is on the street level floor of our apartment building, and is run by Isabelle, the daughter of our landlords, Monique & Dominique. The program tonight is a booksigning by Simone Guerin, Monique’s 91 year old mother. Simone and some of the actresses from the theatre group will read from Simone’s newest novel. Simone lives on the floor just below us, and Monique and Dominique just below that. As I’ve mentioned before, this wonderful 18th century building has been in Monique’s family for six generations, and there continue to be four generations at play here. Tomorrow night, at the same theatre, we will go to hear a concert of gypsy music!
In my mind are many indelible pictures. I hope we’ll have more photos to post in the next installment of this blog. Everything is picturesque, and it’s hard to grab the moment to snap the photo. Until the next time, we send our love to all our family and friends. karen
