I Married a Frenchman

The Valet (La Doublure)

Here's a photo of Charlotte.  She is half-French and speaks not a word of the language...this is not my fault.  I am not the French parent.  We'll leave it at that.

But, I have been intent on getting her to learn a bit of French while she is still young.  I dragged her to French classes in LA and habitually force her to visit relatives in France.

The wails, though, when she found out I was taking her to a move subtitled in French.  She actually begged to stay in the car for two hours.  Pointing out that this is illegal in the state of California, I plopped her in a seat and sated her with butter-soaked popcorn. 

The movie began.  The first few moments of "The Valet" we confusing.  She couldn't read that fast.  A few giggles later and she got the rhythm.  Then, she would not leave the theatre for drinks or to use the bathroom.  We both laughed our sides off...and, when it finished, she asked me when we'd see our next French film.  I guess we've made progress. 

Back From the Furlough...

The Frenchman (pictured here sailing in the America's Cup prelims) told me to stop writing...or at least writing about him.

So, I concentrated on my other blogs, especially Starlet, about our mother-daughter adventures in Hollywood.  But, a stray email from another poor soul mistakenly choosing a Frenchman as her life partner...has brought me back.

Marrying a Frenchman mean s never having conversations about things like high school football...doesn''t exist there.  Baseball either.  They follow soccer (ugh!) and, frankly, have no other sport.  The "Tour de France" may be cool but how many bike races can you actually watch?  Who has the time?

In France, there are no typically American things like fraternities and sororities....in fact, so few people actually go to college and they are not at all the social/party/life changing experiences we have here.

Realize when you choose a Frenchman, you choose to be cut off.  Cut off from in-depth conversations because of language difficulties (huh?) and cut-off from shared memories...the cultures are really that different...

A Frenchman and his America's Cup

My husband has an unusual career. He sails boats for a living.  He doesn't SELL boats, which most people can get their arms around, he SAILS them, which baffles everybody!  It's a bizarre-o profession, but, can you imagine, he does what he loves to do...and gets paid for it.

He also designs and makes sails for these sailboats, which brings in a little extra cash.  Many people ask how many sailboats we actually have...the answer is none.  We have enough boats around to play with...and I'd rather play than pay, to tell you the truth.  Plus, we could never afford the boat I would be happy with.

About every 3-4 years, something big happens in sailing....the America's Cup.  That granddaddy of all yacht races; the elegant merger of technology, skill and great parties, is starting up in the sleepy port town of Valencia, Spain.   And the Frenchman is there.  See, really there, on the boat...the boat isn't really in water but it's a boat....more to come.. (Click on photo to enlarge).

The Real Reason Frenchwomen Don't Get Fat

Yes, it could be the red wine…or maybe their walking on a daily basis…or possibly the balanced eating…but, really, we know why Frenchwomen don’t get fat….you can’t eat much with a cigarette in your hand.

I will have to admit that France has gotten better.  There are actually non-smoking areas in restaurants and the airports seem smoke-free.  But, the French national habit has always been to break the rules.  So, lighting up under a no smoking sign or in a restaurant’s no smoking area is very much a way of life.

When I lived in France, I smoked of course.  Never really got thin, dammit, but felt like my lungs would implode if it kept up much longer.  There really is nothing so satisfying as a cigarette after a meal or after six glasses of wine, but really, a cigarette between every course??!

That is what I remember about eating at the homes of my husband’s friends.  First, I spoke little French and was ostracized, so I smoked and drank to keep myself busy.  We’d have the appetizer and a cigarette.  Then… the first course and a cigarette….followed by the entrée and yet another cigarette.  Then, of course what would dessert be without your dessert cigarette?!

In the States, the Frenchman still smokes, but, of course, his outlets are limited….to, say, like our back deck and no where else….He stays thin.

Stinky Cheese is Only the Beginning

Open any French refrigerator (you know those small, weird, narrow ones) and you are assaulted by the many smells of the many foods residing there, mingling together in a nausea-producing aroma.

I was always disconcerted by the way my mother-in-law would just leave things out, on the stove or counter, for days between warming them up and re-serving.  How many millions of little bacteria can grow there, I asked myself, remembering never to eat those leftovers.

And, in the fridge, Tupperware or its many ripped-off counterparts, has barely made inroads.  Eat some chicken for dinner and can’t finish it all?  Just throw it in the fridge, no Saran Wrap necessary, and have it for lunch tomorrow.   But a bunch of stinky goat and cow cheeses?  Of course you can’t eat them all in one sitting, so nestle them all on a plate and toss them in the refrigerator.  No worry if your eggs taste like chèvre a few days later.

One of my American girlfriends, also married to one of "them", and living in the south of France, copped recently that she, too, has picked up this French habit of sticking “n’importe quoi,” or “whatever” in the fridge without wrapping or plastic protection.  She knew it was wrong, the French have just gotten to her...

The Body

I was fortunate enough to receive a gift certificate of $100 for a new restaurant in a small town near ours.  Smart restaurant to send owners of vacation rentals something to lure them in…’cause now we’re hooked!  We love the quaint Bistro des Copains with its simple French menu and great wine list…but we’ve never referred to the restaurant by it’s true name….for us, it’s The Body.

We invited some friends with us to burn the gift certificate, four adults and three kids, and we had a great time.  But, from the moment we pulled up in front on the “Bistro” and our friend, Brian, asked my French husband, what the name of the restaurant meant, and he replied “it’s a restaurant for you and your bodies,” the rest was history.  I replied it means a restaurant for your friends.

My husband kept saying, “no, it means for your bodies.”  All through dinner and lots of conversation, all of us kept trying to figure what he was talking about.  But, we ate and got on with it, having an absolutely fabulous feast.  But, when we got back to the car, the question came up again.  And this time I responded “you mean bodies, like in the morgue?”  And he responded, “bodies like your good friends.”  Then, a light went on…all this time he was trying to say that Bistro des Copains was a restaurant for you and your buddies!   But, for us it will always be the Body!  And all of our friends call it the Body…. but at least we go there and enjoy our time with our buddies.