Our Latest Adventures...

This weekend Ed’s parents were visiting, so we rented a minivan and took off for the hills.  We wanted to take Barb and Irv off to the perched villages in the Luberon, but I also wanted the boys to have some excitement to look forward to.  So, on Saturday, these were our adventures:

Piling into the car just after ten, we headed off to Cavaillon.  It was the most straightforward of drives, primarily on the main highways.  We found the tourist center and asked for the directions to the synagogue.  As we prepared to head off we heard the (ahem!) dulcet sounds of a bagpipe, signaling the start of the procession.  You see, this weekend turned out to be the Jours du Patrimonie, where most of France seems to celebrate all that is, and was, French.  All of the museums opened their doors to the public for no charge, and there were many public performances, exhibitions, etc. 

So, back to the bagpipes.  As the bagpipes began to wail the kids decided to go over to check things out.  There were about fifty people all attired in medieval dress, gathering together.  There were knights with swords, shields, bows and arrows, horns, flags, etc.  There were men, women, children and even babes dressed for the occasion.  After a few more, um, songs there was a demonstration of archery (aimed straight for the shield of another – quite dramatic).  And then they all started to process through the town. 

As the synagogue was a way off, we followed the parade for a good long while until we cut off down into the Jewish quarter.  It turns out that the Jews were given Papal protection during a time when all others were persecuting Jews.  There was a gate at the mouth of the Jewish quarter that was locked nightly, and guarded on each side by a Catholic on one side (paid by the Jewish community) and a Jew on the other.  On Catholic holidays the gates could be closed for up to a week. 

The synagogue itself held the entire Jewish community of about 200 people. The décor is sparse, but what décor there is is in the Christian style of the area.  There was an amazing miniature chair for Elijah, propped up about twenty feet over everyone’s heads, next to a small door which was left open for the prophet.  There was even a small lantern to show the Prophet the way through the evenings.  The women would worship in the basement, in a room with a bread oven. 

After a lovely picnic in the park, we hopped in the car again to head off to Oppede-le-Vieux.  This was a small perched village that went through several migrations in and out of the city and which, in 1910, was abandoned for the more fertile valley below.  There are a small number of people who have moved back, artists and romantic souls, who have refurbished a handful of homes, and there is a small restaurant and bar there as well.  But then there are the ruins.  There are so many crumbling homes, with broken staircases, plants overgrown through the floors, and so much to fuel the imagination of what life here must have been like.  The boys hiked up to the very top, where there is a restored cathedral just beneath the majestic fallen ramparts.  And signs indicating that boys could tumble if they got too close to the edge… Climbing back into the car an hour or so later, three sweaty boys were dreaming of what was to come…

We drove Barb and Irv up to the city of Gordes, just to show how dramatic the hillside really is.  And then we set off for the real reason for the whole outing.  There was rumoured to be an artisan ice cream store in the hilltops near Ansouis.  We found Ansouis on the map, found a website for L’Arts Glacier and discovered a mini-map on the site.  And a phone number. 

Well, we wound our way through many other perched villages including Bonieux and luckily avoiding Cadenet, and found ourselves in the southern part of the Luberon, primed to find our ice cream.  Well, let’s just say that this trip was reminiscent of several others, where we turned the car around on what seems to be a one-lane road, wondering how soon the next car will barrel around the corner.  After much discussion about what constitutes a road, how far is a kilometer, was the place actually ON a hilltop or simply looking at one, we remembered the phone number.  However, we were still in the middle of nowhere, with no discernable landmarks.  So the new plan was to get to a landmark of sorts and then try to describe in French our whereabouts and see if we could get directions.  And just as we neared our potential landmark, there was a petite sign.  Handwritten, with an arrow pointing in a nebulous direction, but  sign none-the-less.  We pulled off, climbing through empty meadows, winding our way up the hill until, lo and behold, we found a parking lot.  With a LOT of cars in it!  L’Arts Glacier!

We parked, walked around the building and found a beautiful terrace, overlooking the valley.  Lots of umbrellas for shade, lots of contended faces.  And lots of stunning looking creations on the tables.  As in, lots of stunning ice cream creations on each table.  We look around and realize that this is a sit-down affair and have menus brought to us after a few moments.  And oh boy, what choices!  The initial plan of enjoying a cone, or sharing a single dessert among the family, was long forgotten.  We ordered 5 enormous creations among the seven of us, and there was not a drop left at the end of the outing. 

And what did we each have, you might ask.  Mine was a base of cocoa ice cream and chocolate ice cream, with a caramel sauce, chocolate sauce and whipped cream.  You then got to choose two extra flavours, of which I chose caramel beurre sale and basilic.  But when it showed up it also had four pieces of nut brittle, a meringue and these little green leaf-looking creations made of ice cream cone material.  A thing of beauty.  A thing of sheer delight.  The basil ice cream, maybe it didn’t quite match with the other flavours, but I’m still glad I tried it.  Maybe the ratatouille would have gone better?!

Ed’s parents got several scoops of their choice.  And the kids?  Well, here they are in their own words…

Noah: Remember that thing I got out of my ice cream?  You know, the sparkly thing?

Micah: My treat was a banana split and it was vanilla ice cream for most of it, except on the center of the outside it was chocolate and strawberry, one on each side.  There were two bananas cut in half around it.  It had chocolate sauce all over it and there was a meringue and a strawberry on top.  There was a fake palm tree in the middle and the branches were made out of pipe cleaners.  It tasted great!  All I know about the ice cream place is that they make their ice cream by hand and that in all of them they give you something special like a mini-flag, or a stick with sparkles on the end. 

Julian: Continuing what Mama said, we went to an ice cream shop with Grandpa and Grandma last weekend.  It was a very fancy ice cream shop (no wonder it was called L’Art Glacier!) so I got a special ice cream display called “Mandarin.” It included three scoops of ice cream: mango, mandarin orange and raspberry, as well there were real lychee fruit on top.  Then there were several meringues and a layer of whipped cream on top.  There were also orange slices, banana slices, and a couple of raspberries.  It was extremely tasty.  I would definitely go back there, whether I got that ice cream display, or another one.  Ending on what Noah would say, “My ice cream came with a dragon!”

With full bellies and happy hearts we drove back home. 

The next morning we awoke, less ready to jump into the car, but knowing that we had the car for another day.  And it was rainy!  I think it has rained only three or four times since we have been here.  So a day stuck indoors was not an appetizing prospect. 

We headed off to the Pont du Gard for our Sunday outing.  Now, the Pont du Gard was a place that I had told myself, and my family, that more than anything else I wanted to see.  It is one of the best preserved Roman aquaducts there is. 

I was stunned.  It is even larger than I had imagined, and the amount of (albeit slave) labour it must have taken to construct just baffles the mind.  However, my family did not agree.  It was wet, so no one wanted to be outdoors.  And the museum indoors had lots to offer, but not the sheer awesomeness that I had craved.  So we all got a bit of what we wanted, but no one seemed fully satisfied.  I may try to coerce some hapless visitor into experiencing the awesomeness with me!  (You can even take a tour across the top layer of the aquaduct, people!)

And thus, the adventures for the weekend ended!  Until next time, au revoir!

Can You Hear Us, Yet?

We have lived in this apartment now for 2 months.  The newness of the place has worn off for the boys, in particular, and they are living their lives in their own inimitable styles again.  Make that their own, inimitable, VERY LOUD styles. 

My children are like their parents.  Yes, I know, the apple rarely falls far from the tree, but in this particular dimension it is especially true.  I have never been one to shy away from expressing myself.  I am not good at holding my tongue, I always want to explore the depths of why I might be feeling a particular way, and if I am upset, it is pretty obvious to those around me.  And yes, I even yell.  I try to keep it within limits, but I have always, since childhood, found that, if not being heard, I will raise my voice.  As a parent this is something I struggle with constantly.  I know that children use their parents as their primary examples for behaviour, especially younger children.  I find that when I am more able to use a quiet, understanding tone of voice for an extended period of time, my children begin to do the same. 

My children are loud children.  They play loudly, they talk loudly, they fight loudly.  Much of the above is within acceptable limits for most people.  Happy noise is easy to hear.  But it is sadness and anger that we tend to hide away around others, and to shy away from if heard in public.  No one wants to be assaulted by the bereftedness of a pilfered toy, or the unjust anger of a snide comment.  Especially not before breakfast, or in the bedtime hours. 

I love this apartment.  It is simple, it is sparse, but it has white walls, large windows and shutters that open wide.  Sunshine and wind pour into my home, lightening up every moment.  Except when my children are fighting, or crying.  Then I am embarrassed.  And I shut the windows, because the apartment is one of many and I feel badly for the others around us. 

If this were a complex composed only of young families I would not feel so badly.  But there are a number of students, and our landlady and her husband, and her mother as well. And they are well past the age of having noisy children around the house.  Plus it just seems that there are some cultural differences as well around the acceptance of family noise.  This may exist in Canada as well, and even a bit in the States, to be sure. 

But, when Julian was just a wee little guy, I read a book called Raising Your Spirited Child that made such a strong point that the message has followed me through my every year of parenting.  And the point is this: Each and every trait that is perceived as troublesome in a young child can be seen in a different light, especially once that child has matured into adulthood.  Stubbornness can be viewed as persistence, a very good trait to have.  Laziness can be viewed as being laid-back and relaxed.  And my children?  Well, intense children can also be viewed as passionate.  I have three very passionate children.  I consider myself to be a passionate person as well.  I am thoroughly affected by the events around me.  And this is where I seem to keep getting myself into trouble. 

The children I have encountered here in France are just as playful, just as curious, just as creative as the children I have encountered anywhere else.  But they are quieter.  And the parents and adults I have observed are quite firm when they jump in to quiet down a noisy bunch.  More firm than makes me comfortable.  But I have always tried to live by the idea that there are as many ways to parent as there are parents in this world.  And it is not my place to pass judgment on how another parent chooses to raise his or her child.  Yes, if there is an abusive situation I am not going to just stand by, but within the realm of societally acceptable behaviour it is not up to me to raise anyone else’s child. However, I do not choose to verbally clamp down on my children in the moment.  I do address that which needs immediate addressing, but in my own way.

And, I guess, this is where the conflict arises.  What I deem a “normal” childhood noise may not be that way to those around me.  I can understand that disharmony is not the background noise that I prefer for my day-to-day activities.  I, too, prefer when my children get along nicely.  And quietly.  But I also feel that it is OK to express oneself, even when one is upset. 

My family has been having lots of discussions recently about ways in which we can work on the noise level for the benefit of those around us.  And one part of living in a foreign country is noticing the ways that that country changes you, subtly or not so subtly.  If my children learn the art of living in an apartment complex, that is worth its weight in gold.  Certainly worth the year abroad.  But I don’t want that to come at the expense of their self-expression. 

As one person who also dwells here mentioned to me, my children are very “open.”  They search out contact with others and want to engage and be engaged.  I see that as a good thing.  Maybe being “open” also means being open emotionally.  For what it’s worth, my children are definitely “open” in that sense.  They have no problems exploring all of the different feelings they have, in all of their varying depths.  So, one of our challenges for the rest of the year, has now become how to maintain our identity yet still integrate enough into the community around us.  How to remain the “open” people that we are, but without offending or angering those around us.  I want to be able to continue to feel the elation of the brightness of the world here in Provence, but that means being able to express the flip side of that coin as well.  And sometimes sadness is just too sudden and strong to hide in the back room of your apartment with all of the windows closed. 

We are all in the process of learning, of changing and adapting to this new world in which we live.  But we are each still our own inimitable selves, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

La Rentree, part 2: Seeing My World Through Rose-Coloured Glasses?

Micah wakes up first, the others soon after.  Everyone eats, dresses, brushes their teeth and head down to wait in the courtyard.  The whole crew has decided to walk over together.  And when I say the whole crew, I mean all three Canadian families, all of whom are affiliated with the University of Toronto.  Yes, there are 7 Anglo, Torontonian children living here in the building. 

Anyways, that is besides the point.  I walk over a bit early to drop off the paperwork, and catch up with the boys outside their respective schools.  I guide Julian and Micah through the entry doors into the line for registering for the Cantine.  The doors of the school are only open for 10 minutes.  You need to arrive and enter within the allotted time slot or you are locked out.  Or deal with the wrath of the directeur/directrice when you ring the doorbell to be allowed to enter.  And parents are not allowed in the school without an express meeting with the teacher or principal. 

So we wait in the line to confirm that the two boys will receive their lunch at school.  I give them each a kiss and leave to go bring Noah into his school.  Noah has never been to school.  He has done no “extra-curricular” activities.  He has only attended one week of camp without a parent, but his brothers were there with him.  Noah did not want to go to school. 

When I met last week with the directeur of Noah’s school, he mentioned that there were an enormous number of the “petites,”  so many so that he was going to move some up to Noah’s level, the “moyennes” and also move a few of the “moyennes” up to the “grands.”  He asked if I thought Noah would do well with the older children.  I explained that Noah had two older brothers, but had never been to school.  That he was smart, but a bit intense in all of his emotions.  I also said that I did not want to make the decision, but that, whatever happened, I am sure it would eventually work out. 

When we looked at the posted class lists we saw that Noah was placed into the “grands/moyennes” section.  He clung his way through the entry line, but was happy to find his hook with his name, his name tag in the pocket chart and his name on his desk.  We settled in with some Lego, and after five minutes I said it was time for me to go.  Well, I am sure you can all imagine the tears.  I gave a few hugs, and few extra kisses and then let the teacher step in.  I left, knowing that it was only a few short hours until I picked him up for lunch. 

When I returned, the directeur pulled me aside and said that he wanted to switch Noah for the afternoon into the moyennes/petites section because he was so small.  I am sure that the tears did not help.  But poor little Noah had to meet a new teacher and another new set of students on his return for the afternoon.  Lots more tears, but at least this teacher speaks English and is working really hard to help Noah feel more comfortable.  I think that it was probably the better decision, despite the rocky days that we will have this week.  And better to make the changes now, rather than in a month when he has finally acclimated. 

At the end of the day Ed picked up Noah, who we discovered had taken a nap at school.  The poor boy was exhausted, and who can blame him. I went over to the other school to pick up Micah and Julian.  We all met up and decided to walk to get a treat to celebrate the first day in a French school.  And, as always happens with my family, once we are walking out comes all the talking. 

Micah could not come up with a single positive thing to say about his day.  He described his teacher as yelling all the time and as giving him a bit of help, but basically speaking French to him.  He tried to use his new fountain pen, but splattered ink all over his fingers.  (And he tried to wipe it off on the inside of his desk!)  There are no other children in his grade that speak English, and he said that everyone tried to look away from him instead of at him.  So he was feeling quite glum when we picked him up. 

However, after I picked him up for lunch home on the second day, Micah described making a friend from California.  And the work that he did yesterday, despite his claim to not understanding anything, points to at least a bit of comprehension.  And he was describing how today the students all wanted to help him out, especially the little boy who sits next to him.  The teacher today also made a point to help him with some cursive writing, which all the French students already utilize.  So I think the corner will be turned and Micah’s innate charm will begin to work its magic. 

And Julian really surprised me.  He was originally placed in a split class with a French girl that we know and one of the Canadian twins who speaks French.  When he showed up to school on Monday he found himself in a different class altogether, although he thought that it was the other children who had been switched!  Apparently the directrice decided to put all of the English-language speakers into one class so that they can have the option of additional French instruction to catch them up. 

Julian was the child who described the children with whom he spent time, Julian was the one who felt confident about his language.  He nonchalantly described how the teacher would speak to the class.  Then if Julian did not understand she would repeat it several more times slowly and finally give a brief instruction in English if he still did not understand.  Julian was the one who described all of the necessary items we needed to do/purchase before school the next day.  And Julian was the one who sat down happily in the evening to do his homework.  (OK, yes, it also delayed going to bed, but still….)

So, almost two days into our experiences with the French school system, I have to say that I am optimistic.  Optimistic that Noah will adapt and even enjoy school within the next month.  Optimistic that Micah’s sociability will help win him the friends he needs to feel happy in school.  And optimistic that Julian will feel comfortable with his new cohort, and use the year to absorb all of the French that he can. 

And one last bit of optimism… I am optimistic that I will have friends here as well… I have met most of the Anglo parents, and a few of the French parents and I think that we will not fumble alone through our journey here.  And isn’t that really what we all want? 

La Rentree

All the posted signs around town, all the flyers and advertisements in the papers, all the talk for the last two weeks are about “La Rentree”  - the re-entry into the school year and the fall, and the exit of summer.  The end of vacations, but with lots of new beginnings. 

The first thing I noticed was the change of all the clothing store displays.  Everything went from the light bright colours of summer (the pinks, light greens, aquas) to the subtles hues of autumn (the browns, the golds, the burnt oranges).  And I had to giggle a bit when I saw the “pulls”(sweaters) on half of the mannequins.  It is still over 30 degrees every day, folks!

Then came the last week of summer.  With it came the last opportunity to read unimpeded by responsibilities, the last dip in the swimming pool, the last trip to the beach.  The last week was a sort of grand summary of our summer.

The week was also devoted to letting the schools know that we are here.  Although our proprietaire had helped us to enroll the boys in school, there was still the final step of confirming that we really were planning for the boys to attend.  I had a meeting with Noah’s principal scheduled for Monday morning, that was then cancelled.  I was so proud of myself for calling and rescheduling in a short concise phone call.  The phone is still quite intimidating for me.  There are no facial expressions to read, and you never know if the person you reach will be a sympathetic listener, or simply annoyed that someone who does not know the system cannot even explain her basic request. 

Anyways, the rendez-vous was successful.  Most of Noah’s paperwork was completed, and I think I have followed up on most of the necessary things that were lacking.  The schools here require scholar’s insurance, a mere pittance of a fee, but still strikingly different from what I have experienced in both the U.S. and Canada.  Luckily I discovered that our renter’s insurance covers all three boys in the case of an accident on school property, or more likely, Noah socking another child on the play-yard. 

As to the doctor for the year, well, we are right around the corner from the hospital.  I keep thinking that the emergency room may just be our doctor for the year.  Although I am still trying to figure out if the required doctor’s note for communicable illnesses is only for the biggies like head lice or chicken pox, or necessary even for the more minor illnesses like colds and/or flu. 

Micah was the only one who had a definitively assigned teacher in the days leading up the Rentree, so he was the only one to receive a school supply list.  I have a newly boosted vocabulary which now includes such things as “a folder with flaps and an elastic” and “fountain pen.”  The fountain pen is definitely the biggest hit around here.  We made our best guesses as to what Julian and Noah will need. 

Another interesting aspect of the older boys’ education this year will be the foreign language requirement.  There are two languages offered, English and German.  The principal made it imminently clear that choosing English, although it would allow the boys a bit of “down time,” could very quickly lead to boredom.  So it now looks as if, in their first foreign language, French, both Julian and Micah will also be learning a second foreign language, German. 

The final preparation for the school year was the big “Salon Des Sports” that they held for all of the sporty day-off activities.  Most activities are offered on Wednesdays and Saturdays, with some of the activities for older children held in the late afternoon of school days.  Another major vocabulary boosting activity for me!  I can now effectively ask for and understand the information about class dates and times, at which level each child should enroll, etc.  The understanding the responses is a BIG STEP!  It is easy to smile and nod, but I find that more and more I can catch enough of the snippets to actually make sense.  That, coupled with my lack of embarrassment in asking many questions, has made a world of difference in my comprehension!

So, the last itches of summer gone, the supplies tucked neatly into the backpacks, and the class lists finally posted, the three boys headed off to their respective schools this morning.  Bon chance, enfants!