A lesson in french driving and other adventures

Driving a stickshift will never be something I do naturally. Don't get me wrong, I have improved since two weeks ago (my first foray into the world of manual cars), but I will ALWAYS jerk the car when I shift gears and I will probably come to a complete stop and forget to shift back to first. C'est la vie.

That being said, I want all of you to know what it is like learning to drive a stickshift in french. I deserve a medal, some sort of public recognition for staying cool under pressure. My lessons went like this:

Saturday. "Tu veux faire une conduite?" (translation: "Would you like to enter the fifth circle of hell with me for a few hours in this small stickshift car?"). I reluctantly agree and get in my Fiat Panda with the mom.

Long story short, I stalled. A lot. I mean at least ten times before exiting the gravel driveway. And, joy of all joys, they live near the bottom of a hill. God hates me. Well, I make it up the hill, clutching the wheel for dear life, and actually get going on the road outside the village. I'm feeling pretty good about myself. My happy thoughts, however, are interrupted by the mother's abrupt cries of "FREINE! FREINE! ARRÊTE!". Luckily I looked up the word for brake in the dictionary before leaving...and what do you know, it's freine. Apparently in France they have this thing called priorité à droite where even if you're driving on some huge road (150 in the Knobs for example), some car on a tiny road on your right that wants to turn right onto the road can do it. And you have to yield. That can't possibly be a logical, sensible driving rule, can it? Needless to say, priorité à droite will be ingrained in my mind forever.

Sunday. This time, the dad wants to drive with me. The mom was a good teacher and God bless her soul, a patient woman. No one, however, can compare to this man. He is a pro when it comes to handling idiot american girls who can't drive stickshifts worth a damn. I mean, this man had me working the clutch like a pro within ten minutes and he did it all en français. Sure, I stalled four times in a row in the turn lane outside a chateau, but hey, it's an improvement folks. Everytime it looked like I was going to either a.) cry or b.) drive the car off the side of the road, he would conveniently have me stop at some amazing chateau that seemed to have appeared out of thin air. Here are two photos:

By the end of the day, I had vastly improved. The words/phrases of the day included "joue avec l'embrayage": don't yank your foot off the clutch you asshole; "CLIQ CLIQ CLIQ": turn on your f***ing blinker; and finally "ne t'excite pas": please take a deep breath because the more stressed you get, the more you SUCK at driving.

And voila, there you have the gory details of my first two days driving. I actually just got back from a small lesson and I must admit, I'm much better. There were no panicked cries from my passenger, so I take that as a good sign.

Other than driving, life here has been pretty normal. I'm figuring out the family quirks more and more each day and here is what I have observed thus far:

1. Everything has it's place. Even the dirty dishes need to be loaded a certain way. And I have to iron the kids' clothes. I'm talking t-shirts and pajamas. This isn't me complaining; I don't have any cleaning responsibilities except for kids' laundry once per week. But REALLY?! What seven year old looks in his drawer and thinks "well shoot, can't wear this t-shirt, it's wrinkly"???

2. We have a sneak smoker issue on our hands. More to come later.

3. Snack time is between 4:30 and 5:00 each day. It's a formal, sit-down meal. And I can't say I mind; if you don't eat at snack-time, however, you're SOL til dinner time. There is no grazing in this house.

For you foodies, I had the most delicious thing last night. Alain wrapped goat cheese in puff pastry and baked it till oozing, crispy perfection.

I think that's about it. Last night I watched the dubbed version of Pretty Woman with the mother. Nothing says "let's get to know each other" like watching sex scenes dubbed in french.

Bienvenue en France!

So here I am, an american in France. What could be more cliché?

Quand-même, I'm here to defy stereotypes and break barriers. Okay, maybe not. In all honesty, I'm just trying to survive life in a world where I say "un tour de Chaumes" and a french person thinks I've just said "nettoyer ta chambre" (for reference, two very different things...). Sure I can speak the language, but apparently in some horrifying american accent that I "need to brek by ztrezzing each seelable".

My french aside, my first two days have surpassed all of my expectations. Chaumes en Brie (it's a little place about 30 miles east of Paris) is small but beautiful. Consider it a french Floyds Knobs; well, minus the hicks, plus the amazing baguettes, wine, and if I forgot to mention, chateaux. In reality, the only thing it has in common with my town is its small size and proximity to a big city. The house I live in is a charming white minimalist number with a fabulously renovated kitchen and french doors in every room (go figure). While my room is très petite--I am the nanny after all--it's just fine and there's room for all my clothes. What I've fallen in love with most though is the yard. They have a spectacular garden with plums, apples, walnuts, cherries and all sorts of flowers. There are even horses next door and a creek down the road where more than a few french babes ride their motorcycles...

The family is wonderful. I believe my dad would love the husband, who coincidently shares his love of whiskey and morel mushrooms. He is an out-of-this-world cook and last night I tried not to eat like an american when he made poulet basquais and a tarte aux prunes...and prune in french means (fortunately) plum, so I didn't have to worry about sitting on the toilet all night in my transparently-doored bathroom.

The mother is also a great lady. Today she took me on a tour of the town, and while I remember how to get to only 1% of the places she showed me, she was an excellent guide. She loves "cheek fleecks" or chick flicks in american (ha) so I think we'll get along just fine.

I've been saving the best for last. The children are--in one word--hilarious. I was a little worried when the last au pair told me the little girl pooped in her shower after a minor disagreement, but I assure any horrified readers that she could possibly be the cutest girl on earth. She and I spent some QT today walking around the town, playing in the creek, playing Polly Pocket, playing board games, and, well, playing anything she could get her hands on. At one point I was a Hello Kitty figurine and it was my job to sell des bons cafés et les bonbons with the little Hello Kitty food cart. She talks incessantly, and if I could remember half of it I'd write it for you to read because almost all of it makes me laugh.

The little boy is also a character. Today he sat on the tile and ripped a fart that would rival anything I've ever heard. I tried not to laugh in front of the parents, but if you know me, you know how hard that was...We found a black cat that we named minuit or minuette or some other french word I can't spell that means midnight or something similar. Later in the afternoon we watched Scooby Doo with french subtitles and played on youtube. He insisted I watch spidercochon from the Simpsons (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZrqOaAdDNq0). It probably won't be as funny to you as it is to me but it's still worth watching. This kid is way too witty to be eight years old and constantly sings "Zo-o-e est un be-e-be" to the tune of the Star Wars "dum, dum, dum, dum-de-dum, dum-de-dum" as well as most of his other insults.

And I think that's it thus far. On a closing note, the french word for seal is phoque which is pronounced EXACTLY like the f-word. I spent half of lunch choking on laughter as the dad showed me his photos--at least fifty--of the baby phoque he saw in Australia.

Nighty night.