My Ancestors, the Plouks

I took a delicious four-day weekend to unwind after a particularly stressful couple of months at work. I told Copain that we absolutely had to get out of Paris, even if it was just for a night. I needed a change of scenery.

I also told him that I couldn't plan any of it. Thankfully, he was more than happy to take on the job. 

He gave me two destination choices, to which I replied, "I don't care."

He gave me train time choices, to which I replied, "I don't care."

Then he asked me which hotel we should stay at, and I said, "just make sure we can walk there from the train station."

This is how we ended up on a train at 7:45am on the way to l'Hôtel de L'Europe in the little fishing town of Dieppe in the north of France.

Dieppe wasn't just chosen par hasard; this is where the French side of my family began. According to our family tree, our first ancestor was baptized at la Cathédrale Saint-Jacques, right in the middle of town. Having lived in the south up until three years ago, I'd just never taken the time to visit mes racines.  Since it was just a 20-Euro, 2-hour train ticket away from Paris, there was really no excuse - off to Dieppe we went! 

We transfered trains in Rouen and I scrambled through strollers and a cloud of summer-induced B.O. to find two seats together, yelling to Copain to come and join me. When the train started moving and the three small children next to us started to whine and cry, Copain and I started to notice our surroundings...

Fake tans, gold chains, visible bras and bra straps, acrylic nails, mullets....

Were we on a Jerry Springer set?

I checked our train tickets again - Déstination: Dieppe. This must the right train.

We arrived in Dieppe and watched as the train unloaded. Our suspicions were quickly confirmed - we were in Plouk-ville! When I told Copain we were surrounded by plouks, he thoughtfully commented, "they're your ancestors!" Génial.

Well, when in Rome...

Copain put on his plouk tank top and just like that, he fit right in! After a quick walk on the beach, we both got plouk sunburns which sealed the deal - we were super-plouks for the weekend: When we ordered cheese at the marché, we appreciated the thoughtfulness of the vendor when he swatted the flies landing on our slice. When our ray dish came covered in cream sauce that floated over to the side salad, we just ate around it. And when the seagull bombed us, getting Copain down the back and me down the front, we just rolled with the punches and suddenly felt... Dieppois ourselves.

Though somehow I had hoped that my old French famille had some nobler beginnings, Dieppe was just what the doctor ordered - sun, sea, beach picnics, apéros on the port, fish dinners, and of course, the best people-watching EVER. Waaaay more fun than stuffy Cannes or jet-set Monaco in the south!

Are you my ancestor?

Un pêcheur Dieppois...this is obviously why my Dad and Grandpa like to fish. 

When we arrived at 10am, the fish market was in full effect. Nothing like a little fish stench to get you going in the morning!

Despite the wind and millions of rocks, the Dieppois were à la plage. We had a picnic there, fell asleep and woke up with stiff necks from the rocks.  Mais bon, this was an important step in our sunburn plouk-dom.

The big marché was going on in centre-ville ...how adorable is this salad to plant? We got afore-mentioned fly cheese, ham with herbs, cherries, nectarines, peaches and fresh bread. 

Port de Dieppe, where the magic happens.

Saint-Jacques - where my first 'cestor was baptized.

Chateau on the cliffs...pretty sure my peeps lived right here.

Too bad they peaced out to Montreal...I could get used to this.

Foie de lotte, the local specialty. Who knew you could eat fish liver?

And just for good measure - the ray with crème Normande (and floating salad):

Don't worry, that's pretty much how I left my plate. My plouks left town waaay back in the day, which I am assuming means that the percentage of plouk in my blood must be pretty low at this point. 

I guess I was all plouked-out.

Tea and Crumpets for the Easter Bunny

For the very first time in my French adult life, I had plans for Easter. It all worked out par hasard, as they say, but it just so happened that Copain had plans to go to London, and it just so happened that all of my English friends were free to come to Paris. 

Voila! Girls weekend chez moi was born.

Two of my friends took the TGV up from Cannes and another took the train down from Normandy, and we all squished into my peanut apartment - two on the sofa bed and two in the normal bed. It was, shall we say, cozy.

We went to l'Asian Wok for dinner, celebrated a 30th birthday at Mama Shelter, went to see 10 Ans de Mariage at the Le Palace, brunched at L'Echappée, and watched Runaway Bride whilst noshing on bread and cheese in our pjs on the couch that just stayed a bed all weekend long.

I introduced my friends to the greatness of Hema, toenails were painted, eyebrows were plucked and we vacillated between coffee and tea, trying to keep warm in arctic Paris (in an apartment that hasn't been properly heated since we moved in circa 2010). 

Despite my best efforts to heat the place as soon as Copain left the house (shhhhh, he'll never know...), my poor friends from the South had to request long-sleeved tops to keep warm at night! La honte...

What we lacked in heat, I hopefully made up for in English goodies and Easter baskets...

Crumpets for breakfast 

(I was given the "how to butter a crumpet" lesson - 

right out of the toaster, in case you were wondering)

Easter goodies for Sunday morning

And for the first time, in 8 years, Easter weekend was fun and spent with my peeps - who are really my France family when it comes down to it. Because when you live abroad and your family is on the other side of the world, your friends become your people. 

At brunch on Sunday morning, Dancer friend met us at l'Echappée. When I told her that somehow I so needed to have these holiday plans, and that as long as I've been here, Easter has been a disappointment, she told me that she knew exactly what I meant. 

And all this time I thought I was a bit of a crazy lady for wanting some good old fashioned Easter egg hunting and kids on sugar highs running around! 

We decided right then and there, that we would count on each other for the holiday plans we've been missing abroad, and that we would never have another bummer Easter weekend in France again.

Twinning

In May, my cousin and his wife are going to have not one, but two new babies. TWO BABIES!

That's a lot of babies. A lot. Capital A.

I found out while I was on the way to meet My Very Parisian Friend's new baby...very auspicious me thinks. This is how they broke the news:

What's crazy is that there is no doubt that there are two little beans in there - two babies, just hangin' out, waiting to grow and all that good stuff. We were all in shock- I mean, TWO BABIES. Craziness! How are you gonna? What are you gonna? deep breath, start over. Twins!!

But once the shock wore off, we've been nothing but excited - thinking of names, talking about how they're going to do it, two cribs, two baby bjorns, two of everything...

Our big question was - two girls? two boys? one of each? My mom and sister put together a little baby celebration table while my cousin and cousin inlaw went for their ultrasound to find out the sexes of the babes! How cute is this?

note the various cupcake combinations - they really thought of everything

side note: yes, those are potatoes with ribbons on the cake stand - the babies were the size of potatoes on that particular day haha

Drum roll please - they are both girls! More baby girls! 

Proud momma on Christmas day in the states (I got regular photo updates from the fam)

Which means that my cousin will be the only guy in a family of girls - and that my little cousin- their oldest daughter, will be a big sister for the first time.

She got a card from me when we found out that babies were on the way...I'm the big sister in my family too. It's an important role if I do say so myself ;-)

It's a bummer to be far away - I can't see the bump or go shopping for baby stuff, but those babies can count on some cute Parisienne outfits from their Auntie Cannes Cannes :-)

The French Know How to do it Up Right

On the 7th of September 2010 the French decided to call everyone to strike - stop the metros, stop the buses, stop the post office, stop stop stop! REVOLUTION!!!!!  

Crowd the streets! Yell! Make posters! Chant with them while marching down the street! Get blow horns! Inconvenience everyone!

I can't say I blame them - the government wants to increase the age of retirement here. But - is there perhaps another way to get the point across? Who knows. But the French sure know how to do it up right.

On the 7th of September I decided to walk to work. I wouldn't let the strike get me down...I put on my tennis shoes and head out for work one hour early to get there on time.  Finding myself early, I though I'd grab some delicious pastries for my colleagues. Armed with pain au chocolats and croissants I arrived at work happy as a clam.

My stress began to mount as I realized that my carte de sejour renewal was coming up - in a month.  My French significant other would need to fly back to France from his study abroad program in the states JUST TO BE THERE WITH ME when I renewed my card. Hi honey - thanks for coming - bye now. Since November 2009 I've been hoping that I would be French by now. Every time I walk up my apartment building stairs I hope that there will be a letter waiting on my doormat announcing - Vous êtes française! But alas, it was September 7th and still no letter.

I had already called my Prefecture contact twice before and each time she was incredulous that I was still not French. Toujours pas? she would ask me - Non, toujours pas I would say. Et merde.

I figured I had one last chance to call her before she would stop liking me and turn on her annoyed French Madame attitude. I gave myself a pep talk and made the call - Désolée Madame, elle n'est pas là. She's not there. 

I took a deep breath and decided to call back in 10 minutes. 

Ring ring....

Oui bonjour, Mme at the Prefecture?

Oui, this is Mme at the Prefecture - who is this?

This is FrenchCannesCannes - remember me? The American?

Oh OUIII! But you are toujours pas French??!

Toujours pas :-(

Well, let me try and look at your file...give me your file number again...

28791234qslfkdjqmdlfjqdsmfj....

hmmmm - I don't see it....this is trés trés strange....let me try again...let me ask my colleague....ummm

(10 minutes later)

Oh mais - C'est bon! Vous êtes française since August 27th!

What?! I am French??!!! Are you sure?!!!

Why yes! It says right here that you were made French on August 27th and that it was posted in the Journal Officiel on August 29th! Féliciations! Congratulations!  You can see the Journal Officiel online with your name printed and everything.

Merci Madame! Merci infiniment!!! (tears, sniffles) Merci pour tout!!! Aurevoir!

I pulled up Internet Explorer and Googled the Journal Officiel - I read through all of the Official laws, all of the Official decrees, all of the Official striking information until I got to the Official French people - but guess what? The only part of the Journal Officiel that is not printed online is the nationalities section. Yeah, thanks France, thanks a bunch.

My Momma landed in Paris 2 hours later to striking angry French people blocking the streets to my house.  I met her at République with hugs and kisses and we dragged her suitcases to my Parisian apartment through leaflets and banners that had been left from the crowds.

We got settled and headed to a little restaurant called La Fée Verte. I promptly ordered 2 glasses of champagne and when they arrived held mine up for a toast..."I have something to tell you," I told her..."you are looking at a French girl!"

She cried and hugged me and we raised our glasses to France and the French - who strike, who delete entire sections from online publications and who forget to tell you when you are awarded with their nationality. But who serve up a mean glass of bubbly and chèvre chaud that no other nation can shake a stick at.