The Impending Nuptials

It's a funny thing when your daughter is getting married. People ask if you like the groom.

An early photo shoot with a wolf

I'm not sure if they do that when it's your son, because my sons have not gotten married yet.
But the first question from people when we tell them our daughter is getting married is "What do you think of the groom?"
They ask as if he hasn't already become a part of our family, which he has.
Are there people who dis their daughter's soon-to-be husband?
I fear the answer is yes. 
There are many qualities one could look for in a husband for your daughter -- maybe he could be rich, or have a status job, or be a brainiac. Maybe he could be royalty or be famous. Maybe he could be as beautiful as the morning. Maybe he could be handy and fix our cars or take care of all our IT problems. Jack might have some or none of those qualities as they get married.
But the one quality that Jack has that can't be compromised on is love.
We have no doubt how much he loves Grace.
And, in the end, that is the one quality that cannot be missing in a marriage.

Five More Days

The wedding is quickly upon us, only five more days.

I had planned to spend the day with Grace on Sunday. She was bringing her wedding dress over to try on again (it felt safer to keep the dress here instead of in her apartment where the cats might spread their fur or sharpen their claws). We are staying at our friend's Deb and Greg's house.
When Grace arrived in the afternoon, she had spoken with the DJ to finalize the songs and the order of events.
"I'm feeling very anxious," she said as she carried the big white garment bag stretched over her head.
"Is it the wedding? The DJ? The dress?" I queried.
"No, World War III." (In case I look back at this years from now and don't remember, the U.S. assassinated Suliemani, the second in command in Iran and tensions are high waiting for retaliation).
I know the current events are stressful, but I think her anxiety is deflecting away from the wedding. We talked and when she had calmed down, she tried on the dress. We showed it to my friend Deb who knew all the right things to say so that Grace felt bridal and confident in how she looked in the beautiful gown.
Next, I tried on my two dresses. Deb helped me find a purple dress back in September, but it's kind of form fitting and not the kind of dress I would usually wear.
I had found another dress that looked good, but wasn't as dressy.

Dressing room selfie

I tried on both the red dress and the purple dress.
The purple dress was voted the favorite, so that's what I'll wear for the wedding.
Grace and Earl practiced their father/daughter dance and I whisked her off to have coffee and some sustenance, not telling her that we had organized a little bridal tea.
It started last week when her future mother-in-law and sister-in-law lamented that she hadn't had a bridal shower.
That was her wish. They're getting rid of all their things to move to France. It seemed silly to buy them new things.
A tea fete-ing Grace seemed like a good idea. The seed had been planted but didn't begin to germinate until Sunday morning when I called La Chatelaine to see if they could accommodate 10-15 people around 3:30. Yes, they could.
I texted people. Other people text people. As you can see from the picture below, we had a good turnout for a 7-hour turn around.
Grace was surprised and slightly annoyed at us, but truly overwhelmed at the love from everyone.

The gang, including three baby girls. 

Some people were organized enough to bring presents. 

Baby Leah has a twin brother who was excluded from this all female gathering

Earl said he had put a gift card in my coat pocket, so Regan tried it on to look for a secret present,
but it wasn't there. Turned out, he put it in someone else's coat, but we found it eventually 

Flower girls Regan and Caroline attended their first bridal shower and they were both appalled that their mother had purchased a black lacy bra for Grace. Regan hid under the table while Caroline, after futilely trying to convince her mother she couldn't possibly give that as a present, stood by Grace suggesting she shouldn't remove it from the bag. It was funny and so sweet and innocent.
We had many French goodies to eat and played a few games.
Although it was impromptu, it was so easy -- no one had to clean their house ahead of time, no one had to fix food, no one had to clean up. I highly recommend a last-minute bridal tea if you're as disorganized as I am.
Just a few more days and the wedding will be here.

What Do You Miss in France?

People in the States often ask what we miss while living in France. We usually answer -- the kids. Having been her a few weeks now, we're reminded that we don't see them that frequently even when we're here.
My lame answer is Starbucks, but it's true -- sweet, frothy coffees in a cup as I take walk with friends. I can take walks with friends in France, but it's considered strange to walk with a coffee cup and the closest we have to a Starbucks is a coffee truck that arrives on Wednesday and Saturday during the market.

Au P'tit Plaisir with a line for coffee.

He makes a white mocha, but it's made with syrup rather than thick white chocolate and isn't topped with whipped cream. It's a joy, but it doesn't replace my longing for Starbucks' coffee milkshake.
I think about other friends who have asked me to bring them things from the States, what do they miss? Kris and Derrick want Levi's, only because they're cheaper here. Lou wants graham crackers. Teresa wants cream of tartar.
What do I miss in France that I can get here in the States?
This morning, as I was running in 32 degree weather (that's 0 Celsius) suddenly, my heart soared and a bubble burst from me: "Oh my, I really love running!" and that's when a recent conversation came back to me and I realized that the thing I miss in France is belonging to a gym, where I can lift weights or climb on an elliptical machine or stationary bike.
When I was at the YMCA on New Year's Day, as I got dressed after our water fitness class, a woman came in from the workout room. She was asking everyone how the fitness class was, and I mentioned that I had already run four miles that morning but that I would probably feel the class the next day. She couldn't believe I had run outside and then gone to fitness class.
"I love exercising," I said. And I do. Walking, bike riding, yoga class. I always feel better afterwards.
In our small town in France, there isn't a gym, per se. There's a twice a week exercise class, but that's pretty constricting. The next town over has a yoga class twice a week. There isn't a place to go on my own to work out.
Twenty-two years ago, a trainer taught me how to use the weight machines and said that lifting weights would increase my metabolism, so I started a workout by lifting weights, then moved on to an aerobic workout, feeling certain I was getting a bonus calorie burn.
Sixteen years ago, as I was training for a marathon, I tore my ACL. After surgery, the physical therapist drummed into me how important it was to lift weights so the muscles surrounding my knee were strong to prevent future injuries.
Since I moved to France, I haven't been lifting weights, and I rarely mix up my workout routine.
Luckily, I've been able to join the Y for the time I'm here, piggybacking on Spencer's membership.
Earl and I went to workout yesterday, and I saw a plan for a bodyweight workout that I can do when I return to France.

A future workout plan -- but I hate burpees

Not belonging to a gym is a small sacrifice. I can continue to run in the mornings, surrounded by beautiful mountains and gorgeous sunrises.

The three quills of Quillan early in the morning. 

I can ride my bike 10 miles, stop and have coffee or a drink and ride back home. I can walk and discuss the world's problems with friends close by.
I guess I'll live with not having Starbucks or a gym, but having France instead.

Going to the Chapel... Or the Wedding Hall

Just one week until Grace and Jack cross that bridge -- the proverbial bridge, not the one in the picture.
Marriage.
But who, besides me, hears the guy from Princess Bride saying marriage with his inability to pronounce Rs. Which is called "rhotacism" by the way.

Wedding plans are coming along. Seats have been assigned. Bills have been paid. Menus are set.
We're debating favors for the wedding guests, still not sure about that but I have 150 little boxes in case we decide yes.

The DJ knows the drill. Earl and Grace have had professional instruction for their father/daughter dance.
The boys and Earl picked up their new suits yesterday.
I'm still debating which dress to wear, but it doesn't really matter because all eyes will be on Grace. And maybe on the ring bearer who will be adorable because he agreed to wear a kilt to match Jack's.
I'll keep you updated.

The Elusive Carte Grise

Maybe it isn't something we think about, but the places we live change us.
Living in France for the past two years has changed us -- at least according to our oldest son.
"Look, you guys need to be a little more decisive!" he told us at lunch last week. He claims that since we moved to France we're more laissez faire -- we make plans that can easily morph into other plans.
We just laughed at his assessment, but I do hope that it's true, that we're becoming more laid back about plans and schedules and time -- French time, our friends joke when we show up late.
Maybe it's the lack of jobs to go to, or the fact that our house is paid for without a monthly mortgage payment, or the number of friends we socialize with, but life does feel easier in France.
It's a good place to go to avoid stress.

Relaxing with friends

Only one thing about our France life is causing me stress -- it's a carte grise for our car, basically a registration and title. We bought the car in January 2019, and due to circumstances, bad luck and bad management on my part, we still don't have a legal carte grise. Luckily, we haven't been stopped, although we have received a ticket in the mail for speeding.
Right after we bought the car, I had to come back to the States for about six weeks. We had rented an apartment for the year, but it didn't work out because the wifi wasn't good, so we moved from place to place when I returned to France. Then Earl went to the States and I stayed alone, working. We came back to the States for the summer because we had no place to live; we bought a house; we returned to France and started a renovation of the house. Things were hectic for a place we chose because it's relaxing.
Since June, I have been working with a company called LegalPlace, which collects the documents and then gets the carte grise.
I thought we were close when we left in June. I had sent all the documents. The company said it needed a copy of our controle technique, which is basically an inspection of the vehicle.
I sent a photo of the sticker in our front window which said we had our contrôle technique, but they needed to see the entire report.
We were in the States and we asked our friends to search through the paperwork in our car. They couldn't find it. We told LegalPlace that we'd get it when we returned to France in September. When we still couldn't find it, our friend Maurice went to the inspector who issued the contrôle technique and sent us a copy.
I quickly shipped that to Legal Place in September, but guess what? The contrôle technique has to be within six months. We bought the car in January so the paperwork was nine months old. We would have to get a new inspection.
I made an appointment with a man in Quillan, it was just a week before we were leaving for the States. He declared the car in good shape except for one problem.
In April, someone had hit the car while it was parked. It knocked the headlight out. With the help of a random man passing, I had put the headlight back, it worked, and I continued to drive the car. But the unattached headlight was a problem for the contrôle technique.

Poor car with missing headlight

I didn't really understand how the insurance worked and after a few attempts to contact our insurance company, I had let the accident damage fall to the wayside in the face of everything else we were juggling. In my defense, I took the accident report to our insurance company/bank in Limoux, half an hour away. They said they didn't have an insurance branch there but they would fax it to the proper branch. We didn't hear from them. Then in June, before we returned to the States, we called and spoke in my best telephone French (which is really hard) to make a report. I got an email from them and tried to reply with the accident report but it bounced back. So I let it slide. The car is already dinged up from numerous car doors in French parking lots.
But when our car didn't pass the contrôle technique because of the headlight, you should have seen the look of judgment on Earl's face. He had been pressing me to get the accident damage fixed. And, it's my responsibility because I speak French and it was my idea to move to France.
With the failed contrôle technique, we had two choices, pursue the insurance claim or fix the headlight.
My friend Derrick helped dampen the anger and the expectation, explaining that even if it was someone else's fault, we might end up paying a lot to have the headlight and dent fixed. Earl ordered a new headlight and replaced it himself.
We returned to the contrôle technique mechanic and got the stamp of approval a day before our quick departure, rushed by the ensuing train strikes. I sent the contrôle technique off to LegalPlace, along with a note saying, by the way, we have a new address -- since we bought our house in August. That, of course, required even more paperwork.
And, this seems very sketchy, we had to send off our old carte grise -- physically mail it -- to them.  Of course, I'm in the States and relying on friends to take care of all this paperwork (thanks, friends).
Just this morning, I received probably the 50th email from LegalPlace informing me what documents are manquant (missing).
I sent pictures of the documents, and I wait ever patiently for the carte grise, but I'm making tentative plans to roll the car into a river and start over if we can't get it.

Making Money

Money has always played a key part of our decision to move to France. Yeah, we enjoy the culture, the markets, the laidback lifestyle,

We enjoyed a hike through the bucolic landscape in northern Spain on El Camino last June. 

but, frankly Earl wouldn't have been able to retire if we stayed in the States because of the cost of health insurance. In France, we can buy health insurance for about $900 a year for the two of us.
In the U.S., the cost is $1500 per month for a high-deductible plan. That's about a third of our monthly income just for insurance that doesn't cover anything except wellness checkups.
When we moved, I anticipated continuing to teach college online. I taught for two colleges here in Ohio, both online and in person, so I thought I could continue to teach online.
One university has continued to give me classes, but only two classes in 2019.
The other college hasn't returned my emails, even when they were desperately seeking an online professor this fall. It hurts my budget and my pride.
I was the go-to person when I was teaching at this college. I was asked to pick up extra classes when someone died, when someone else had a stroke, and when someone else couldn't handle teaching three college classes at a high school on the far east side of Columbus. The chair of the English department asked me to step in, and each time I did, handling my previous load and the new classes. And that's what really bothers me that the college unceremoniously has ignored me since I left.
But that first year we were living in France, I realized that our budget would not work if I didn't have money coming in.
That's when I turned to VIPKid, teaching Chinese children online. In France, the hours are great, noon to 3 p.m. or 11-2 during the winter with the time change. Here in the States, that translates to 5 a.m. to 8 a.m. in winter, 6-9 in summer. It's grueling. I earn a few thousand dollars each month teaching for VIPKid, so that has helped patch the hole in our budget.

Me teaching Henry who decided to draw faces on  his own fingers. 

In January, I was already scheduled to teach an online class for the university that still speaks to me, along with a class scheduled for March and May, so I was feeling pretty good about it, when I got an email from a dean asking if I would take two classes on Columbus' campus in January.
I promptly responded that I didn't live in Columbus any more so he would need to find someone else.
Then I began to think about it.
We were scheduled to fly back to France on January 18. The classes at this university are 8 weeks long, so I would have to be in town through the end of February, about a month after our planned departure.
And I usually bring home about $2000 per class, so if I took those two classes, I could earn an extra $4000. That $4000 could help pay off wedding bills and pay for renovations in our new house.
I approached Earl with the idea.
We already had our plane tickets to fly back, but I had gotten a great deal on the tickets -- $945 round trip for the two of us, that's $472 each, and I'd already flown in one direction, so I was losing $236 by not returning. Earl would return to France as planned while I stayed.
I told the dean that I would take the two classes and he told me he'd already found someone to take one of the classes.
I can't justify staying for one class, I explained. And a day later, he called and said both in-person classes were mine.
I felt like I'd been on a roller coaster -- staying, going, staying... as I tried to adjust my feelings about all of it.
But now I've signed contracts for all three classes and already prepared the online portions so it looks like I'm staying and teaching.
January and February are fabulous times to be in Ohio (sarcasm). It's nice to get to spend more time with the kids, even though Grace and Jack will be leaving Ohio to begin their journey to France before I get back.
Earl and I have an appointment to renew our visa -- carte de sejour -- on February 25th, so I'll fly back across the Atlantic, leaving Ohio on February 22nd, and arriving in Barcelona having missed half of my birthday on February 23rd.
Every time I make these big decisions, I spend a lot of time second guessing myself. I'm trying to just focus on the positives -- extra money, spending time with the kids and friends, and eventually returning to my new home in France.
Whether in France or the States, something is always missing, so I'm going to try to focus on living in the moment, even if it's a frigid run in the Ohio weather, or a Facetime call with people across the ocean.

If you're American or Canadian and are interested in teaching VIPKid, let me know. I'm happy to share what I know to help you travel the world while earning extra money. VIPKid referral

A New Year Begins

Happy New Year!
This working life in the States is taking its toll on me, so I was in bed before midnight last night, but not until after a lovely dinner with some friends.
Even though I had taken the day off teaching, I woke up very early.
But I lay in bed leisurely scrolling through news stories and Facebook on my phone.
My friend Pam has a theory, a superstition, that whatever you're doing on the first day of the year, you'll continue to do throughout the year.
So, I took a nice 4-mile run in the 32-degree weather, through the streets where we used to live in Grandview Heights. It was definitely warmer than yesterday when a biting wind drove Sheila and me into a coffee shop where we could sit and chat.
But not today. I had to make my New Year's run.
While perusing Facebook earlier in the day, I'd see my friend Sally who works at the YMCA had invited everyone to a water fitness class on New Year's Day.
In for a penny, I figured I might as well go to water fitness class too. Sally said she was afraid only two people would show up, but I was not alone in wanting to start my day off with fitness.
There were 24 of us who showed up for the New Year's Day class.

I'm in the front center with a blue noodle. 

I hadn't taken a water fitness class for years and thought it wouldn't be challenging, but it was fun and I know my muscles will feel it tomorrow, especially the arm work lifting buoyant weights -- actually fighting to keep them underwater. The water in the Y's pool is always a lovely warm temperature and I loved being in the water again.

Fresh from an hour-long workout. 

Like Elizabeth Warren on the campaign stump, Sally took a selfie with each of us.
We move on from another housesit today. We've been challenged by the rambunctious puppy Molly, a sheepadoodle who galumphs throughout the house and doesn't know how her body moves yet.

Molly -- queen of the couch

We're going to stay with our friends through Grace's wedding.
Hope you all have begun the New Year in a way that brings you joy.

Flying Home

An Australian friend recently said he tricked me I to saying “home” when talking about the States. Even though we own a house in France, the States, the place where my kids and my parents are, will probably always be home.

A bar in the hotel lobby. "In wine, truth. 

As I write this, we’re sitting at the airport waiting for our flight to board.

We made it to the airport, walking less than 1000 steps to the airport tram, which brought us to Terminal 1. 

Far luckier than yesterday when we tried to visit Paris for the afternoon. 

The view from our hotel window as the sun set. 

After teaching in the morning, we had a leisurely breakfast then walked to the train station to ask about tickets to Paris. 

The ticket clerk assured us that RER B to Paris was leaving in 40 minutes. 

But what about coming back? I asked. I wouldn’t risk being stranded in Paris after spending two extra nights at an airport hotel. 

Trains come back every 23 minutes, he assured us. 

We went back to the hotel room, got coats and hats for the blustery, rainy weather and returned to the station to buy tickets. 

Usually tickets are 10.50 euros each way, but since we were returning the same day, the man gave us a ticket good for the whole day. The total was 35.80. 

Cheaper than I expected! I told him. 

We waited with a crowd for the train to Paris and clambered aboard. We watched the lighted stations tick off over the doors, counting down the stops to Paris Gare du Nord. 

When we arrived at Aulnay-sous-Bois, the train was terminé. 

It’s hard to understand announcements even in English. In French, it’s even more difficult. 

We saw buses that said SNCF, the name of the trains in France. 

We figured out we were supposed to board the buses to go on to Paris. We headed toward them, out the gates when I pulled Earl aside. 

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” I said. “Sure maybe we can get to Paris, but will we get back?”

Earl agreed and we followed directions to the train that would take us back to the airport. 

A train was waiting. We boarded and watched people equally confused climb on then climb off. After about 5 minutes, the train left. Several people got off at the next stop because the train wasn’t going where they hoped. 

But we got back to the airport train station. And I returned with our tickets clutched in hand to ask for a refund in my best French. 

And the clerk gave it to us! You could have knocked me over in surprise. 

Earl suggested they would say “but you rode the train twice, so you used it.” But she merely entered the numbers from the ticket and returned 35.80 euros. 

That afternoon, we napped, we’d been awake at 2 am to watch American football. Then we took a local bus to Roissy-en-France again for dinner. 

This time, goat cheese salad followed by crepes (galettes). We met a nice American couple, chatted and exchanged emails. 

One last night in the airport hotel. It’s kind of nice to be in a hotel airport with nothing to do except read a book, have a drink in the lobby, or watch Saturday Night Live. 

Now we wait for the flight and by the end of the day, we hope to be in warm Florida. 

Life in France is complicated, but if it were easy, everyone would do it. 

So Far, So Good

Earl and I arrived safely in Paris at the airport Friday night after an 8 hour drive from our home in the South of France.
I taught until 2 p.m., so we couldn't get an early start, but our friends were waiting when I finished teaching and we scurried out the door. They drove us to Carcassonne airport, an hour away, where we rented a car to drive one way to Paris.
After a few snafus, like not being able to find the keys after the inspector gave them to us, we were finally on the road.
The weather was gorgeous that day, in the mid 60s and sunny as we pulled away, heading toward Toulouse.

Villages we passed in the distance. 

The traffic slowed down a few times, but we had none of the rolling roadblocks that we had been warned about, where trucks, driven by striking drivers, pull up next to each other and drive very, very slowly.
On some local roads, strikers had started bonfires to block the pavement. In other parts of France, no gas was available to fill up the car.
When we picked up the rental, we paid for a fill-up, so that we didn't need to worry about finding gas once we got to Paris.
North of Toulouse, we suddenly found ourselves in fog.

Brouillard is French for fog. 

It was quite the contrast to the brilliant blue sky we had left behind. That morning, as I ran in Quillan, it had been foggy.

The back of the train station enshrouded in fog. 

I hoped we wouldn't be driving through the fog all the way to Paris.
I don't see well to drive at night, so Earl was responsible for all of the driving. I felt bad, but knew we could stop to rest as often as we wanted.
We didn't want to though. We wanted to get there.
I hadn't checked on parking so wasn't sure if there was a place to park the rental car, or how much it might cost. I did know that there was a Europcar counter open at the airport until midnight, so if we reached there by midnight, we could return the car and not worry about paying or parking.
Somewhere in the Lot area, the fog cleared and we saw the toenail moon rising as the sun started to send pink and yellow streaks across the hills.

Car photos!

We stopped twice at toll road plazas for a bathroom break, adding $15 worth of gas to get us all the way to Paris.
I used the bathroom and remembered the thing I don't like about toll plaza rest areas, no toilet seat on the toilets.
When we got close to Paris, the traffic definitely slowed, even though it was 10:30 at night. We crawled around to the northwest side of Paris for about an hour, following our GPS to the hotel. I went in and checked in while Earl unloaded our baggage.
We left our car parked illegally, lights flashing, while we carried the bags in, took the elevator to the fourth floor, used the facilities, and sauntered back to the car. We're becoming so French! Not even worrying about blocking traffic.
We drove toward the rental car return in Terminal 2. Yes, the Europcar lot was there and three young men sat inside the parking garage to accept returned cars.
We handed over the keys, reminded him of the damage on the car before we took it, all marked on the contract, and we went in search of a way to return to the hotel.
We waited for a bus, only to be told we needed to take the airport tram to our hotel, so back into the airport, down to the shuttle and the doors slid silently closed until we reached the stop.
The night was fair and we had made it to within spitting distance of the airport.
We were determined not to miss our Monday flight, even if that meant spending three nights captive in a hotel at the airport.
Some friends who had flown to Scotland for a few days were unable to fly back to France. They were diverted to London, then Madrid before arriving in Toulouse very early. As they drove toward Quillan, they saw the highway being blocked by truckers.
We were wise to travel Friday night to avoid more strikes. Our friends made it ahead of the highway blockers, so they also got home.
Saturday, I teach most of the day, so we didn't mind being held captive in a hotel room, but Saturday evening, we found a local bus that took us to Roissy-en-France, a nearby village with lots of hotels and restaurants. It's impossible to walk anywhere from here because we are surrounded by freeways and obviously don't want to walk on them.
The village was lit up with Christmas lights.

Roissy-en France

A 13th century church

We sat at an Italian restaurant with heaters on the terrace. 

We split a salad, it was choose your own ingredients -- artichokes, black olives, ham...

We soon found ourselves surrounded by four tables of Americans, which is weird because in Quillan there are so few Americans.

Today, we may try to venture into Paris by train, if the RER is running, but we're nervous about getting back. Some French friends invited us to dinner at their place, but we declined because we wouldn't be getting a train back until 10 p.m. or so.
I am not going to risk missing our flight on Monday just because I couldn't get back to the airport hotel. So, I will ask before buying train tickets and will make sure we come back early while there is light out, in case we have to take a taxi, if they're running.
Strikes make things complicated, and a bit more expensive. So far, our flight is not cancelled on Monday, but the airline has warned us to get there early and they are opening their check in earlier.

Foiled Travel Plans

Is it just us or are travel plans always complicated?
We had planned to go back to the States for Christmas and stay for Grace's wedding in January.

Grace and Jack just got some engagement photos back. 

At first, we thought we'd go back to the States in the middle of December. Then, I realized we wouldn't have a full week at Mom and Dad's in Florida, so I suggested we move the date earlier.
Now we're set, flying to Orlando on December 9th and staying with my parents, in the warm Florida weather for a week before heading to Ohio.
I purchased our train tickets more than a month ago and settled down to enjoy November and the first week of December in our French home.
Last week, Annamarie, an older French woman, began warning us of the upcoming strikes. She used the word "méchant" which I had always thought of as "naughty," but it apparently can mean wicked and nasty. The strike could last for a month, she predicted. Trucks that deliver food and fuel won't be able to get through!
"Close your drapes and blinds before you leave for your trip," she cautioned an English friend who was flying to England for a week. "You may not be able to get back for more than a month."
I had seen the notification that there would be a strike on December 5th. Then Toulouse warned of strikes on December 7th and 8th.
Our train to Paris was scheduled for December 8th so we could fly out the next day to Orlando. I got a little nervous, but no one else seemed alarmed.
Earl and I considered trying to fly to Paris if the trains might not run. But the big lines usually run -- the TGV.
Monday night at French lessons, I asked the teacher, who agreed that we might not be able to get to Paris.
"Should we fly?" I asked.
"Maybe the planes won't fly," she said.
"We could rent a car and drive!"
"But the truckers and the farmers often block the highways so you would need to take back roads. Then, you are in Paris. A bigger crowd means even more trouble!" she said, warning us of the black bloc protesters who throw projectiles at cars and cause mayhem at protests.
Plus, she added, you may not be able to get to Carcassonne airport to rent a car. The gilet jaune (yellow vests) will block the roundabout so you can't get through to the airport.
As Earl and I walked home from class, we decided to look for a backup plan after our guests went home for the evening. We had some friends over for apero -- drinks and nibbles.
But during our friends' visit, Earl received a text saying our train on Sunday had been cancelled.
Now we had no hope of a train ride to Paris. If the trains weren't running, would the planes be flying?
I talked to the airline to see if we could move our tickets up before the strikes began on Thursday.
We could. Icelandair was very accommodating, even waiving the $250 change fee, but we would still need to pay $545 for the extra price per ticket. Gulp. That was a bit pricey, plus we'd still need to catch a plane from here to Paris.
I called our credit card company to see if they could help with the extra costs or allow me to cancel the tickets and buy new ones.
The poor young woman with the southern accent sounded distraught for me as she searched and found a warning about disrupted travel in France. In the end, she could only help if the flight is cancelled on Monday.
Finally, I seized on the idea of renting a car on Friday and racing for Paris before the weekend strikes. It's possible that the strikes that begin on Thursday will rollick into the weekend, including Friday, but so far, no one is talking about Friday.
I have to teach until 2 p.m. Then we're getting a ride from our friend Jules up to Carcassonne -- an hour away. I have reserved a rental car and we'll have to figure out a way to bypass the gilet jaune to get to the Carcassonne airport.
Once we have our rental car, we'll drive toward Paris, about a 7-hour drive from Carcassonne. We'll pray for no highway closures and should reach our hotel near the Paris airport before midnight.
We chose to stay near the airport in case the trains or taxis aren't running from downtown Paris when it is time to get our flight.
It might not be the best time we've had in Paris, no runs along the Seine

Last January we spent a few days in Paris and it snowed. 

 or meals at the restaurants along Rue Mouffetarde or  Avenue des Ecoles

but hopefully we'll be ready and our flight will leave on Monday.
If not -- we'll be foiled again.

Thanksgiving in France

It feels weird to wake up in bed on Thanksgiving morning and not jump up to get busy cooking.
Things are so different here. I'm making sweet potatoes with whiskey, along with apple pie. We're eating at 3 at a friend's house, so my day stretches out relatively free.
We met a friend for coffee, ordering a second round since I didn't have to rush back to teach online.
The strange thing is that I know if I need to buy last minute ingredients, I can. It's only a holiday to us Americans. No one else is taking the day off.
In the States, I might send Earl out to the 7/11 in search of ingredients I forgot. Here, the groceries are all open and ready to serve.
At the market on Wednesday (our town has a market on Wednesday and Saturday), I was thinking about some of the things I enjoy about living in France.
I picked out vegetables at the vegetable seller and she threw in a free lemon. I moved on to the stall that sells eggs and potatoes. I told her I wanted six eggs that were a day old. My choices are 1-day old, two-days old or older. The price depends on how fresh the eggs are.
She places each egg in a carton. Many of them still have chicken poo on them. She says the 1-day-old eggs are too strong for her. But I used them last night in brownies and they tasted delicious. I never thought about the strength of the taste of eggs.
We went for a drink last night with our friends Jules and Jack. I ordered an amaretto coffee and it arrived with a mountain of whipped cream on top.
As the evening grew later, Jules and I walked over to the butcher, who is open until after 7.
She ordered some ground beef for chili. The butcher cuts off a slab of meat and runs it through the grinder.
After he puts the meat or the chops or the turkey on butcher paper, he always presents it, saying "Voilà, voilà!"
I love that he says it as he serves each customer.
Last Friday, we went to a bar for fish and chips. Every other week, the fish and chips truck parks near the bar. They deliver fish and chips to our table as we drink wine from the bar. It's a win-win for both.
The Georges DuBeouf "beaujolais nouveau" had come out, so vendors were selling it in the restaurant. I believe the four of us, with various other English-speaking friends bought three bottles.
Many mornings, I'm tempted to lie in bed rather than getting up and running. I'm not nearly as dedicated to it as I was back in the States. But when I do go out, I'm always happy that I spent time in the morning, enjoying the mountains and sometimes the sunrise.

Sometimes I run out to the local lake. It's a busy road, so if it's still dark,
I run on the sidewalk in this direction, confident cars will be passing. 

 My running friends get a different picture most mornings, so they can soak in the scenery as well.

Daylight

I'm not writing on my blog as often, but, overall, life is fulfilling and our friends are abundant.
So today, on Thanksgiving, even though we are far from our children and my parents, Earl's sister and brother, along with the nieces and nephews, we're thankful for the new life we've found and the people at home who still love us when we journey back.

Coming Together

Hope springs eternal...
And slowly, like the progress of an glacier inching across the plains of America thousands of years ago, our house is getting closer to becoming a home.

The soon-to-be kitchen

Today, the electrician put in the lights and connected the dedicated plugs for the refrigerator, dishwater and stove. Earl is hard at work in the picture above deciphering the directions from Ikea.

The table will be cleared off and centered under the light eventually. 

Earl chose the light fixture to go over the table. It has Edison bulbs which are a bit hard to photograph.

These light fixtures will eventually shine on the upper cabinets and the counter top below. 

The other night, after painting two mist coats of pain on the drywall then two base coats of matte paint followed by a coat of satin, Earl decided to tackle a small cabinet. We've never purchased Ikea before so had not idea how to begin, but eventually, we (mostly Earl) figured it out. I would wander through the room to hold something in place and say something like "I think this is backward."

Starting with the smallest cabinet

This lower cabinet had three drawers, but it took awhile to figure out each drawer face came in its own box.
We haven't put the hardware on yet. We chose stainless steel drawer pulls and knobs for the cabinets, but now I'm considering switching to crystal. I would just need to convince Earl.

The completed cabinet standing on the newly tiled floor. 

It took a bit of figuring before Earl looked at the picture to see that the large drawer is in the middle, the middle-sized drawer at the bottom. Seems counter intuitive.
The gas is not hooked up to the stovetop yet, but the over is electric, so I can roast some vegetables and barbecue some pork chops in the oven. It's almost like a real, home-cooked meal in our new house.

Meanwhile, in other parts of the house, lights have sprung up in formally dark places.
The kitchen had a fluorescent light that wouldn't flicker on anymore.
Earl removed it and replaced it with this fixture.

We still need to encase the wires, as the French do, but at least we have light in what has served as our kitchen while we've been redoing the new kitchen.
Earl put up this light on Saturday while I was in Perpignan with a friend. I dropped some groceries off at the house Saturday evening, working by the light of my cell phone, before I went to meet Earl.
He asked if I had stopped by the house. I told him I had. He asked how I liked the new light.
What new light? I asked.
I hadn't thought to try the light switch because the light had never worked. It's quite bright when turned on.
He also replaced the bare bulb hanging in the stairwell.

This was a look I was anxious to get rid of. 

I found two light sconces at the Troc in Carcassonne for 8 euros each. I later saw them at Brico Depot (think Home Depot) for 19.99 euros each, so I got a bargain.

Not the best picture, but you get the idea. 

So parts of our house are getting to feel downright civilized. Before you know it, we'll be hosting people in our kitchen while we figure out what to do with the living room.

Camping at Home

We're now living in our new home. No more housesits. No more weekend escapes. We're in the midst of lots of dust and unconnected stoves.
The builders are making some real progress.
What started out as a utility room with a fuel oil boiler and water heater

has had the floor raised to the same level as the next room. It has new tile, a frame, dry wall, electric outlets for the kitchen and plumbing ready to connect.

Lots of insulation

There's currently a man downstairs mudding the drywall to give it a smooth finish.

He has finished the ceiling and will return tomorrow for the walls. 

Once it's dry, we mist it (half paint/half water) let that dry and paint it.
Then we can put together our kitchen.
This is currently our kitchen.

Our friend Derrick drove his van to Toulouse with us to pick up the kitchen 

The water heater has been moved to the former kitchen 

Safely out of the main traffic areas. 

and we'll put the washing machine underneath it and build a wall around it to make a cupboard.

All the other appliances are in the former kitchen. Even as I type, we're waiting for the dishwasher to be delivered.
I have a stove and can connect the oven with an extension cord. We have a microwave plugged in so can use that.
We've had a tea station since the English builders came so they don't go through withdrawal. But I hadn't been able to make coffee because I have one of those Moka pots that goes on the stovetop.
The friends we housesat for dropped by a press pot so I could make my own coffee this morning.

Coffee, hot water and wait 5 minutes. 

It's nice to not have to buy coffee at the bakery, where I felt the baker's wife was judging me. I had told her in my best mangled French that we had bought a house but didn't have a stove so I had to come buy coffee.
"Well, that's one solution," she replied, also in French and with a tilt of her head. She does not get us Americans.

Dinner is a bit tricky in our camping out house. Last night, I decided we could warm up soup in the microwave.
The French have a soup called velouté, which is vegetables pureed, sometimes with cream fraiche added. It's the same consistency as tomato soup but yummier.
So all I needed was some bread for us to eat with our soup. But the main bakery is closed on Mondays. I wasn't sure what time the auxiliary bakery closed so I decided to head into town to search for bread, figuring the small store or the tabac, which also sells bread, would be bound to have a baguette or something close to a baguette. Both of them were sold out! Everyone in town wanted bread on this rainy night.
We ate the soup sans bread and retired from the plastic covered sofas and the stack of boxes in the living room, 

Kind of a disaster area. Definitely not comfortable for a few more weeks. 

to our bedroom. That means walking up the stairs, past the bare bulb that hangs there to our bedroom, which has a headboard, a bed and one side table. The room hasn't been painted or "decorated" as the Brits say. I started on one wall and decided the color was too dark. 

The dark green was the color I tried, but it looked much lighter in the patch I tested.
For now, we're living with the mint green. 

Now I have to make a new choice. I find myself surprisingly dispassionate about what color the rooms will be painted. 

Tonight we're springing for a pizza and salad. Tomorrow night friends have invited us over. So we'll get through this camping period, and no one should worry that we aren't eating enough!
Now back to grading and teaching -- any excuse to avoid working on the house.