Birthday Bread

 For the first time ever, I celebrated my birthday in Monflanquin, France.  It happened to be market day. I did not know what to expect because last year, we all wore masks in the market and tried to remain 6 feet apart. Upon entering the market, things looked more normal.  No masks required and people standing around chatting and laughing. I approached my favorite produce vendor and immediately ran into Jean-Maurice. Jean-Maurice is an antiques dealer and a dear friend of a friend.  He often sits opposite me at my friend Mado's table during those long Sunday lunches. If I were to assign him a role, it would be that of French literary and language critic. He also really likes to laugh which serves to soften his critiques.  I appreciate Jean-Maurice and learn much from his observations. He is also the only person in our social circle who smokes reminiscent of another time not so long ago when all French  conversations at the table were draped in a pungent nicotine haze. Jean-Maurice however thoughtfully smokes outside.  Among the seasonal broccoli and cauliflower, Jean-Maurice and I do a quick catch up. I mention it is my birthday mostly because it is, and I somehow feel the need to mark the day.  He tells me his plans to attend several antiques fairs.  I bid him farewell.  My market basket overflows with the fixings for salad and roasted vegetables.  It feels unusually heavy to me, and rather than pursue the rest of my grocery list, I return home to unload the produce and start anew.  Back at the market, I hear someone call my name. It is Jean-Maurice offering me a pretty pink  geranium plant for my birthday. How thoughtful! "C'est normal." he tells me.  I place the birthday plant in my market basket and continue on. At the organic grocery store, I purchase a leek and some free range eggs.  Something possesses me to tell Aurelie, the shop owner, that it is my birthday.  She offers me the gorgeous bread pictured above. It is made with ancient grains. To my surprise,  the bread when sliced  feels fluffy and soft. So nice! Do I return to the market to tell other vendors it's my birthday? Tempting, but no. 

On The Road Again Almost Heaven West Virginia

Cheat  Lake, Morgantown, West Virginia

 For this trip I packed more pharmaceuticals than clothing.  After working  long and hard  to find doctors who could sort out my health issues that unfortunately started in France last summer, I finally managed  to  assemble what I call my medical dream team. I am still not 100 per cent  okay but am  definitely getting closer. My anxiety about traveling in a more vulnerable body profoundly  upset me, but I decided that I really wanted to see my sister's family in  Morgantown, West Virginia and our kids in New York City. So off I flew armed with a pharmacy of digestive aids plus my usual medications.  At JFK where we changed planes to fly to Pittsburgh to rent a car to  drive to my nephew's house, we grabbed lunch. By the way, there is no easy way to get to Morgantown, West Virginia.  Having adopted  the FODMAP diet my gastro doctor suggested a few weeks ago,  I knew lunch at the airport would be a challenge.  The FODMAP diet  was created by researchers at Monash  University in Australia. In my opinion, Australia is the continent from which all progressive health research hails as well as my wonderful daughter-in -law. FODMAP  is  a long acronym for a list of foods the small intestine absorbs poorly. Please look into it if you suffer from digestive distress.  My Internet print out of the FODMAP   "eat this" and "don't eat that" diet  has now become  my daily food guide to better digestive health.  Studying carefully the choices at  the Croque  Madame food mart at JFK, I selected a no frills egg salad sandwich.  Back at my table, I took out  my digestive distress meds. One of the airport employees charged with clearing tables noticed  the meds and offered to bring me a cup in which to pour the water from  my water bottle.  I felt  so touched by her genuine  kindness  and thanked her profusely. She also decided we needed napkins and brought those as well. Who says New Yorkers are not friendly? Ha, ha  I thought here lies a silver lining of my new unwelcomed  need to pay closer attention to my diet

Upon arrival at my nephew's house, I retrieved my Amazon package containing a personal smoothie blender,  brown rice protein powder recommended by  my newly purchased FODMAP Cook Book , and Fody gut friendly granola bars.  I set about making an almond milk peanut butter, banana, protein smoothie,  my latest daily FODMAP friendly staple.  One of my nephews asked me about the smoothie. Turns out he really enjoys the same combo of ingredients.  After accepting my offer to make him a smoothie, he drank my FODMAP friendly smoothie with obvious enjoyment. Then my niece asked to try it so I gave her some of mine. Then her toddler wanted a taste. He loved it hereby  making today the  day of his first  official smoothie.  Soon, my other niece expressed interest in the smoothie. I promised her one for a  pre Thanksgiving dinner  snack tomorrow. So my incredibly frustrating stomach troubles which took so long to diagnose gave me yet another unexpected gift.  I truly have much for which to be thankful.  And maybe Aunt Giselle's smoothies will become a new Thanksgiving family tradition.

Back Home

I originally planned to spend the summer in France, but my body made other plans.  After dealing with stomach issues for about 6 weeks, I finally decided it was time to give up and go home. I learned a lot about the French medical system and will share some information about it here.

Au Revoir

 Fortunately, I could get doctors'  appointments quickly in Monflanquin. The initial visit cost 25 euros which the local doctor collected himself. He referred me to a gastroenterologist in another larger town. The gastro doctor asked me immediately if I live alone in France.  The question felt invasive to me as an American. Yes, I explained  that my husband had gone back to the states. The doctor seemed very concerned about this. Who would I contact in an emergency?  But was my problem so serious that he felt I might easily  find myself in an emergency situation?  I assured him I knew a lot of people in the village.  His concern about my being alone did not make me feel better.

He then requested my blood works results. Didn't he get them online? No, I was supposed to hand carry them to him.  News to me. He became annoyed when I asked him to check my blood work results online. French doctors don't get access to this information. Patients are supposed to go to the lab web site, print off the results, and hand carry them to the doctor.  Computers don't seem to play a large part in the life of a French doctor. When the gastroenterologist decided to prescribe me some medication, he took out a gigantic red medical book and looked up the dosage  information.  He then gave me a sealed envelope to hand carry to the doctor that referred me to him. Inside was a letter describing his diagnosis.

After the physical exam, the gastroenterologist  decided I should get a stool sample analysis, a stomach x ray, and a colonoscopy. He did not even suggest waiting to see if the prescribed medications would help. Apparently, this is the French way.  Overkill. Do every test imaginable immediately. I decided to wait and see if the medications would work, and they did help a little but not enough. In the meantime,  my  wonderful and kind English friend Jan who is a nurse  reassured me with information I could understand.   But I continued to feel really uneasy about my health, homesick for my family,  anxious and sad. Something clearly was off.  One  American friend asked me why I needed to be a "hero" and stay all summer just because I had originally planned to do so. So  yes I gave up. I booked a flight to NYC   to spend  time with family and then  another flight to Portland to go home.  How did I feel about leaving? Regretful of course, but I knew I had made the right decision.  It was time to be kind  to myself, to go home, and get medical attention in the context of a health care system I could understand.  By the way, despite my competency in French, I felt very lost trying to understand the French medical terms.

Finally, I learned a few important lessons this summer which I will share to benefit others who may become ill while traveling.  I do realize my situation this summer  was unique because I living in a village among people I know. But here goes:

1. If you don't feel well in another country,  get medical care immediately even if you don't speak the language and want to avoid the hassle, inconvenience. and expense. Find a translator. Don't wait! Forget the sightseeing plans.

2. Allow yourself to be vulnerable and ask for help. Don't feel you have to put on a front. Just because you are on vacation doesn't mean real life stops.  

3. Ask for what you need be it from the local pharmacy, your traveling companions, neighbors, friends, and even strangers. Cry if you need to. I think I did freak out my French friends who never get to see me upset, but so be it.  They all reacted with concern and compassion.

4.If you feel you have tried everything, just go home and take care of yourself. Don't let pride, shame , or stubbornness stand in your way.

I am  truly burned out from my  first ever being sick experience in Monflanquin this summer.  I am going home to Portland to sort out my health issues.  Although, it is very  hard to accept that I was so unhappy in my usual happy place, I do accept it.  And despite all of the suffering, I did manage to make new friends and grow closer to people who have known me a very long time.  In addition,  I learned a lot about the French health care system. But most important of all, I  was reminded that it is okay to give up when a situation becomes physically and emotionally  overwhelming and go back to the familiarity and comfort of home.

A Tribute to Older French Women

Older French women invite you to Sunday lunch. Plan on sitting at the table at least five hours. They serve course after course passing the bread pouring the wine.  In between bites, conversation about everything and nothing fills the room.  As memory begins to fail,  much gets repeated. I usually don't mind. It makes for an

authentic French lesson. Older French women serves dishes like the ones pictured below. Nothing comes ready made out of a box. Everything is fresh and fresh tasting.

Pea and bean salad

Charlotte aux fraises

Very sadly this summer something weird  is going on with my digestive system, and I can't eat with my usual abandon.  Amazingly these older French women who are in their late seventies and early eighties can.

My sweet neighbor Marie-Therese who is 86 years old told me yesterday that she drinks a cup of coffee before bedtime every night and sleeps like a baby. What is her secret???  I love living next door to her, and although I  often don't understand half of what she says due to a very thick regional accent, I always file away a tip for how to age with grace.  We often meet spontaneously around 9:30 P.M.  I tend to water my potted plants at that hour. She goes for a short stroll at the end of the lane to look at the sky and see what the weather holds for us  tomorrow. No Google weather  forecasts for her.

So many older French women live alone in the village. I can easily think of a dozen.  They keep up with their friends and families and continue to invite people for the traditional Sunday lunch. And even if I can no longer partake as I used to, I admire their  unfailing tenacity in preserving this very old and honored French tradition.

 

OMG I BOUGHT A CAR

 Here I am behind the wheel of my new to me used  automatic Toyota Aygo 2014.

It came with only 24,000 kilometers. I am still getting used to driving it, but it is really easy to manoeuver. Thankfully, its small size makes parking a breeze.

I did not arrive in France intending to buy a car, but it makes sense financially. Authentic Garage  which sold me the car is even willing to let me keep it on their lot after I go home. Also, a very kind friend has offered me her barn out in the country.

It is wonderful to no longer worry about the scratchy rental car. Europcar refunded me the money I had paid for the rest of the summer. Apparently, the repair of the scratch which I paid out of my own pocket met their approval.

 I am still learning something new about the car every day. I caused quite a scene at the gas station  Saturday when I couldn't figure out how to open the gas tank. We pump our own gas here. Luckily, my friend accompanying me thought to pull out the manual and located the correct button.   The driver behind me also helped.  I must say whenever I encounter a problem here, and I have encountered many this summer,  a patient kindly person appears to give me a hand for which I am truly grateful.

Trouble in Paradise

Not the normal blog post pictures.  Wednesday morning, I returned to my car parked in the car park close to my house to find someone had keyed both doors on the passenger side.  My first response was shock and disbelief. Who would do this in my little French village? Why?  Over the years, we would occasionally have trouble from bored teenagers.  In my former home here, a group of teenagers broke into our courtyard storage or "cave" as we call it,  fitted it with a bench they stole from the village, and used our little storage area as a smoking lounge. Clueless we wondered why we kept smelling cigarette smoke in our living room. It all  took a while to sort out, and finally we put a big padlock on the "cave."

After discovering the nasty scratch, I spent an hour and a half at the Gendarmerie. Three gendarmes came out to survey the damage. Nothing much ever happens in Monflanquin.  It was decided I should report this incident and fill out an official report.  The gendarme who took down all the information was very kind and dreamy looking. I emerged with a ton of papers. This seems to be the norm in France.

 Would my insurance cover this damage? Yes,  I did call and check, but I knew from a past rental car mishap, I would need to fill out a million forms, and provide all kinds of documents. Instead, I went to the local garage with its stellar reputation. The body work guy quoted me 250 euros for the repair. 

It seemed reasonable to me, and I knew the rental car agency would charge at least double. So be it. I did get the nasty scratch repaired at the local garage. It looks as good as new, and tomorrow I will return the car to the rental car agency in Bergerac.

However, my relationship with this garage named Authentic Garage (I don't know why) did not stop there.  Since each time I come to Monflanquin, my rental car bill totals at least $3000 due to my need for an automatic car hire which costs a lot more in Europe, Bill and I discussed the possibility of buying a used car to keep here. I asked Authentic Garage if they could find me a used automatic. Thinking, this would be highly unlikely and could take months, I was shocked to learn they had two automatic cars for sale on their lot. I set up an appointment to meet with Philippe, the designated used car salesman. Whatever you think about used car salesmen,  forget it. Philippe was so kind, patient, informative, and tuned in to what I need in a car, I dubbed him my professeur de voiture. As my car teacher, he showed me all the car features etc etc. As competent as I am in French, I don't do much car vocabulary.  I test drove the car and found it easy to drive.  And ???? To be continued in my next blog post.

Two Homelands

I am so pleased to be writing outdoors on our terrace. Last weekend, a special device (don't ask me the name, please) was installed to enable access to the Internet on the third floor of the house including the terrace. This changes everything. I can work from up here, regard Netflix, talk to friends and family on What's App, etc. 

It's been over a week now since Bill returned home to Beaverton.  Honestly, it has been rough without him.

He arrived here in Monflanquin with me so it is only now that I am finding my Monflanquin  rhythm again. I think living through a pandemic makes me more sensitive than usual to the absence of my safety net, i.e. Bill.  Right after he left, I knocked over a little lamp. The  light bulb broke but left its base stuck inside the lamp socket ,if you know what I mean.  When I posted this on the family What's App, the immediate reaction was unplug the lamp before doing anything else.  I felt torn: comforted that  nobody wanted me electrocuted and  miffed that of course, I know at least to unplug.  I needed pliers to get the remains of the light bulb out. Bill's  heavy tool box lives in a cupboard I can't even reach. So I found an accessible screw driver and proceeded to mangle the base in which the light bulb was stuck. Urgh!!!  Enough, I thought!  I need my own lightweight tool box. My best friend Amazon France provided me with a few options.

I chose this one because I  actually understand the use of what's in it , and part of the purchase money goes to breast cancer research. It is  truly portable and easy to store within arm's reach. During the week, I reached for it to make a highly important repair. My mask adjustment piece had fallen off leaving my mask too loose. To get the piece back on, I would have normally used a crochet hook which I do not own here.  One of the pointy screwdrivers made for an excellent substitute. My ladies' tool kit  came to the rescue and was worth the money!

I am also missing someone with whom to share dilemmas.  Those who live alone can perhaps offer advice. I am fortunate to have  many wonderful friends in the village, but it is not quite the same as having an inhouse resident with whom to bounce off ideas, doubts, fears, and reflections. Luckily, texts and phone calls help alleviate this problem with the US/France time difference taken into consideration.

******

I promised to write more about Cafe Philo.  David, a retired  American philosophy professor opened this combination book shop/coffee shop in 2020.  His wife Margaret gives him a hand  when she is not  teaching online.  The shop is filled with philosophy books as well as novels, cook books, and really  books of all genres. Most books are in English, but one section is devoted to French books. My favorite bit of the shop is a display table with philosophy books for children.   Augie, David and Margaret's dog plays a big part in the Cafe Philo experience. He is just as friendly and welcoming as the shops owners.  David and Margaret kindly displayed  my book, MY LITTLE FRENCH VILLAGE in both French and English, in

the  Cafe Philo front window.

Appropriately, I will leave you with a  philosophy question.  If anyone out there has two homes or two homelands, two places that call to the heart,  have part of your heart in two places, how do you reconcile the two home experience?

   It is very tricky as Bill and my dog are in Beaverton, and I am here  by myself in my beautiful French village. Thoughts?