Bon Jour France! It may have taken a plane, a train, a bus and a Toby to get me here, but I made it. The Silfiac house is amazing. The country home is really a converted old school house, which according to Toby, has great acoustics for recording. That's right Harry, my house elf plays the guitar. Toby's long time living partner (or at least I think she is his girl friend from what I can tell) Mishka left the graphic design business years ago and now practices massage while traveling back and forth between England and France. In fact she's leaving for Thailand in a week to learn Thai massage and Thai cooking. And there is a dog Nooks who is half wolf and a cat who isn't nearly as playful so I have no idea of its name and a whole flock of chickens, which I have taken the liberty of naming Marge, Ferdinand and Ruthie (there are two other chickens of whom I will name once I get a better sense of their personalities). Oh, and Toby and Mishka are British so it seems I've dropped right on into the British version of Three's Company. I fell asleep last night listening to the muffled voice of Toby singing and strumming Neil Young. Toby says the French fancy Mr. Young. Really though, they are great. No young American off on a French adventure could have asked for better landlords or roommates really. Toby picked me up last night from the bus stop and we puttered straight on over to the grocery store. A bit overwhelming as I, who have cooked perhaps 8 meals in her lifetime, stared at all of the french labels completely aghast as to what to put in my small red cart. But I managed to gather my thoughts and ended the trip with some oranges, apples, bread, cheese (the Brie is only one single euro!), and something that I believed to be sliced turkey. Oh, and cereal. And a fancy chocolate bar to calm my nerves.
RUN UPDATE
Went for a run this morning. I know, crazy. Freezing. Lots of cows. Solid country views. Will run more. Was told to be on the watch for boars and to run the other way or perhaps grab a stick to prevent attack. Luckily, no boars.
Traveling truly is surreal. You leave Texas and in less than 24 hours you find yourself standing in a small French village that looks like something out a movie and chewing down a baguette with two hippie British folk. I don't think it has entirely set in yet. The village itself is quite tiny.
Oh and I almost forget my charming new British friend named Chris. So I left Paris yesterday morning and took a train to St. Brieuc where I found myself struggling about two flights of steps with two exceedingly large suitcases (yes, yes, mother you were right). Anyway, I managed to succeed and exited the train station in full confidence ready to tackle the French bus system. Finally found the right bus stop and realized I had a solid three hours to kill. So there I was, young and American as I looked with my giant bags and large yellow coat bustling about cursing the French for their cobblestone walkways that were so mean to the small wheels of my suitcases. You can't say the Americans aren't utilitarian with regards to sidewalks, thats for sure. Anyway, I walked or really fell into the nearest open pub and spat out "bonjour" to the three elderly French staring at me from the bar. One whom I took to be the owner, looked at me quizzically and then retorted, "Sleep?". I said no, glanced at the menu and sputtered out "Pizza" the only word listed that wasn't in French. Did I actually want a pizza? No, of course not, but given the circumstances and my rather frazzled nature, pizza is what I got. I would like to say it was a lovely pizza, but the truth of the matter was it had to have come from some sort of frozen microwave oven dinner. Microwave pizza or not though, it did the trick and a put my bags down and began to warm up slowly hoping no one would try speaking French to me for awhile lest I order some other grain dish of which I had no appetite for. And now for Chris. Chris bumbled into the pub in precisely the same manner I had, although he only had one suitcase and stammered out a phrase that resembled "Vodka and Pepsi". My heart glowed, an Englishman! I hadn't worked the courage to shout across the bar yet, but after seeing him reach for a pocket size book with the word "French" stamped across in big bold letters, I made my move.
"Are you English?", I nearly shouted across the way.
His head perked up, "Why yes. What are you doing in St. Brieuc?"
"I am taking a TESOL certification course. What about you?
"Oh that's brillant! I am too" he eagerly shouted back.
Chris then pulled up a chair, our suitcases now accounting for half the bar and we both ordered a drink. Chris is a wiry chap of 26 years old, with a great high pitched laugh and quick sense of humor. Although, in all honesty, anyone speaking in a British accent automatically sounds 18 times more witty than the average American. Truly, its not fair. By the same token, Australians automatically sound 18 times more cool than the average American. Anyway, just as Chris and I were sparking up conversation, a large French bloke by the name of Philip (Pheeleep) thundered over and asked in his thick French accent, "Are you English?". Chris chimed in yes, and before I could get out that I was American, Texan no less, Philip began regaling of the historical ties between France and England and how honored he was that the British had lost so many lives to save the French in WWII. He then went on that he was directly related to Cornwall and continued on about the democratic ties between all of our nations (by this point I had been able to speak up that I came from the US of A) and how much he loved his British neighbors and friends. He then warned us about people spiking our drinks, said what a shame it is that some of the British youth are anti-monarchy, and shared that he worked for the Catholic association taking telephone calls. At this point, I looked up at the clock and suggested to Chris that we head out so as not to miss our bus. We said our goodbyes to Philip and then me, Chris and our gaggle of suitcases took off. We made it to the bus where we found another future pupil, Brenden, the Australian. From St. Brieuc the bus took us to Rostrenen and from Rostrenen Toby took us to the grocery store which is where I began this recanting this tale starting with my nerve soothing chocolate bar purchase. And now I await the arrival of our final peer, Rowan. Another Brit and the only other student staying at the Silfiac house. I'll let you know if he is 6'4" and owns a castle which would thereby make him fit for me and, well, my future life I suppose.
No comments:
Post a Comment