Shopping at a Vide Grenier

As I mentioned before, I try not to do too much shopping ...

Keeping an eye on the funds, and such. And of course, this is not to mention that anything purchased must find a way to get back to the States. But I tell you, sometimes it is just too hard to resist.

Brocante stores are my most favorite. They are like un-fancy antique stores. Curated, older stuff but not the expensive frou-frou business. The other fun option is a Vide Grenier, which literally translates to "Empty Attic." It's very much like our garage sales, but done as a community in a village where many people bring their wares. A lot of it is junk. A lot. But if you are lucky ...

... you'll find some real gems. The above are my purchases from this weekend's Vide Grenier visit. It was a good one. Everything pictured came in at 20 euros which is less than $25. And that print is a numbered engraving of Normandy. So fun.

Much like a community garage/yard sale in the States, you wander about and scan for items that catch your eye. In general, you usually make eye-contact with the seller and do a head-bob or "bonjour," out of respect. If you want to touch something, a quick inquiring glance and a smile will give you permission to do so. It's subtle, but again, a respect thing. Diving in and manhandling all their stuff isn't much appreciated.

I saw lots of these milk containers. It's cow country! I kind of wanted one but didn't think it would tuck easily into a carry-on. Heh, heh.

I also saw wooden butter churns and lots of brass and copper. See the little pot at the bottom of the photo? Love.

Oh! And I saw a cow that got loose from a field and was casually strolling one of the roads, like he had some shopping to do, until he veered off and went into someone's backyard. I can't tell you how much I wish I had a photo of it, but I was transfixed by the whole situation.

I don't think there is a lot of haggling going on. Maybe a smidge, but not too much. I always worry about insulting the seller, especially if it's not that much money to begin with. Somehow haggling over a 4 euro item seems weird. I remind myself that even if they might knock 50 centimes or a euro off ... it's not that much money and chances are they could probably use it. 

You may recognize the top paddle from the first photo. It came home with me. (Fun to serve cheese on, I think!) I thought it was some kind of butter paddle, but the older man explained that you would kneel in that wooden box, lean over, and work large amounts of bread dough with the paddle, kneading it up up against the exterior side of the box that you are leaning over. Fascinating.

I joked, asking if it was ever used "pour les enfants" and make a smacking motion, to which I was rewarded with an uproarious laugh and response: "Mais, non! Pour votre mari!" ... But no! For your husband! 

It was all very funny.

I find it so enjoyable to wander through these village events. The pace is slow and friendly and I always love a treasure hunt. 

And when you are done, you just meander back through the streets and find your car parked right where you left it ... on the side of the road in front of a little French cottage.

** PS - I am most excited about the little white and blue box in the top photo. I was surprised that no one in my family knew what it was right away. Any guesses??

Jane Goes to French School

Want to see inside a French primary-school classroom?? I know I sure did ...

 French school is very much what I would imagine school to be a couple generations ago in the States. This is not a criticism, not at all. Just an observation. Teachers know best and parents kind of stay out of the way and don't seem to stress it too much. I've only been inside the classroom a handful of times, which is very strange for this former-teacher, avid parent-volunteer.

There is no school email (never received one single email!!), no phones in the classroom, and there isn't a school secretary or office for the primary level. The teachers just seem to take care of it all. If you have a question, you write a note in your child's carnet (a planner book that goes back and forth). If they need to tell you something, they write a note in the carnet or just flag you down during pick-up time. Field-trip? Might be in the carnet or might just be word-of-mouth ...

Our Next Adventure: Provence

Here it is, friends, here it is. In two months we say goodbye to Normandy and hello to a new adventure. Next stop? A little Provençal village called Uzès in an apartment located next to a Pizzeria. A Pizzeria! There is a car park close by where we will stash our car, only to be used for specific trips. We will be able to walk everywhere ... school, the market, church, cafés, shops ... and I am thrilled about this. I've always needed a car to do life and I can't wait for this completely new experience.

I do confess, I am already dreading the impending packing and figuring process that will get us there, but it will happen. Miraculously, it always does.

I took a scouting trip back in March to visit schools, sign lease agreements, and get a "feel" for everything. It felt good. And God has been so amazing in the process. Including giving us an email-to-real-life relationship with a precious, gracious, wonderful, retired Christian couple in the area who offered themselves as friends, translators, and even hosts while I visited.

That's it's own story. Truly.

Jane's school is about a 3 minute walk from the apartment. Love. It had a very warm atmosphere and it's proximity to our home is a direct answer to prayer. I feel very hopeful.

 And look at these little winding pedestrian roads to get there. I was charmed.

 And of course, right next to the school is a Duchy. Naturally. (Picks jaw off of the cobblestones.)

Peter and Lucette's school is a bit farther, but a completely doable bike-ride. I'd say 15-20 minutes walking, 5-7 minutes on bike. We'll have to figure out some bikes. But either way, it is still close enough for a quick trip home for lunch. (It's France. We have 2 hours for lunch.) I'm really happy about this.

I'm also happy about the fact that even though the older two are at a separate building/school from Jane, both schools are much smaller than what we've done this year. That approachability is greatly desired. Yet another thing on our prayer list.

Uzès is also known to have a killer outdoor market, twice a week, all year-round.

And it takes about 4 minutes to walk there from the apartment. I'm a little out of my mind about this.

And even though this photo is from pre-spring March, you can see how gorgeous the surrounding countryside is. Village life with the country at the back door. It kind of sounds too good to be true.

I'm really excited to share about this, especially because I've been feeling rather down and homesick lately. Also, still trudging through some diagnostics with my headache/health situation. It's easy to feel like I'm "ready to be done" ... even though I'm really not. Just going through these photos is a reminder of all of God's provisions and to just enjoy the ride.

Like all life-seasons, it'll be over before I know it and I'll be remembering nostalgically about these very days I'm in. Good things can be tough and tough things can be good.

In the meantime, there is life to be lived and enjoyed and entrusted unto Him. Okay then. Off we go...

Village Medical Adventures, Continued

As a follow-up to yesterday's post, I found the elusive hole-in-the-wall for which I was to have my blood taken. Indeed, it was not the red door but a bit further down on the left. There was a teensy, tiny waiting room and then a small office adjoining that hosted the lovely blood-lady and her kit, open from 8:30-9:00am.

She was very kind and lied to me in the nicest possible way (she told me I was speaking very good French). She told me about some family of hers that lives in Kentucky and how they were recently here as part of a singing-group. And when we were finished and I moved to pay her, she told me, with a twinkle in her eye, "Non. C'est mercredi et pour vous, il est gratuit."

She told me that it was Wednesday and for me ... it was free. Free? Free medical blood-draw because you feel like being kind and generous? I was astonished. Can you imagine this even as a possibility in the States??

ps - Afterwards, I went back to the doctor to stalk him with a letter I typed up in French to convince him I truly needed help. I got a little bit of a lecture about arriving without an appointment ... but I left with a prescription. For a girl who avoids medicine like it's a job, I was thrilled to snatch that prescription. Here's to hoping it works.

pps - My Mama gets here on Friday. Can't wait.

Springtime Countryside and a Visit to the Doctor

Right now in Normandy, everywhere you drive there are expanses of lush green dotted with very linear fields of yellow. It's rather breathtaking. And if you get a sunny-day view from a hilltop and and spy them all over the countryside ... marvellous. Norman winters are are hard but springtime is glorious.

The photo above was on my drive from the doctor's office. My headache continues to vie for attention and I decided I was ready to brave the medical offices of France.

We have managed to avoid going to the doctor thus far, even though last weekend involved a tick removal (scary, but all is well) and a carving-tool/split-open hand incident (butterfly strips). Doctor's appointments here generally book out 6-9 months in advance or you can go to the emergency room. Blargh. Plus, you have to manage your French. Blargh, blargh. Self-care is preferred, when possible.

Side note, self-care is so different here. The ubiquitous green-cross pharmacies are everywhere. Ev-er-y-where. They are rather magical, as a source of coveted skincare creams and ointments that people from around the world literally travel to purchase. The French are into skin. But the pharmacies are also where you will buy almost everything else. Prescriptions? Go ask the pharmacist. Tylenol? Go ask the pharmacist. Hydrogen peroxide, throat lozenges, ibuprofen, vitamin C, antibacterial ointment, bandages, cough syrup ... even floss ... you go ask the pharmacist. It's all available, but you can't peruse the aisles or dash in and snag what you need. A request and conversation must take place first and then typically they decide what you need. Most of the time this works out ... but sometimes I get home and realise ... no, this really wasn't what I wanted. So back I go again.

However, with the help of a sweet friend, today I managed to get an appointment with a doctor in a nearby village to deal with the headache saga. His office was a "triangular building after the railroad tracks and across from the WWII tank." (This is very standard ... directions via landmarks, not actual addresses. Perhaps because the streets are so small and complicated you'd never find your location any other way?) I walked in and was shown to the waiting room of the doctor (each doctor had one) and shortly thereafter I was invited into his office through an adjoining door. I launched into my "I don't speak French very well, but here we go" speech and he kindly listened to my needs and requests. After a fairly typical exam and brief questioning, turns out he wasn't ready to give me a prescription for my headache. I think I am okay with that. But 3 weeks feels like a long time! He said to wait a little longer and come back if I had to. Okay.

He did grant my request for a blood-work order for most of what I requested. He was quite confident that I didn't need everything that I requested (and have had in the past) tested. Alrighty, then. I had wanted to get all of the specific blood level updates to compare with my levels from before we left the States ... but we'll start here. Now I just have to take the request to a mysterious office/place/unmarked-building that is located "across from the florist on one of the little streets ... and it does not have a red door but might have a green door ... and is open from 8:30-9am most days, except Fridays and Sundays for sure." Heaven knows how this will all go ... but it always seems to, one way or another.

And incidentally, the doctor's visit? It cost me 23 euros. That's about 26 dollars these days. While we were sitting in his office, the doctor himself wrote down my name, address and birthdate and then wrote out a receipt. No credit cards, just cash, and he put the money in the till he kept in his desk.

Somethings are so complicated here ... and others so very simple.

So be truly glad ...

I used to think I wasn't a fan of change. But then, so many of my best decisions have elicited massive life alterations.

Perhaps I actually like change. I do like new perspectives and experiences. What I seem to be realizing is that change isn't really the issue ... it's the uncertainty that precedes it.

I perceive uncertainty as a loss of security. A free-fall of expectations and understanding. A crooked finger beckoning one through a worm-hole of disaster ...

These last months we've been tetering on the edge of more uncertainty. Despite a track-record of God's abundant provision, I found myself swirling in mental firestorm of worst-case scenarios. And to fan the flames, there have been multiple needs that have arisen requiring me to ask for help. As in, I literally cannot do this on my own. It's an uncomfortable sensation, especially when you know that you can't level the scales because you have virtually nothing to offer in return ... but more neediness.

 However. This last week, I received two meaty "you can do it" emails from friends, a care-package in the mail, an extravagant offer for assistance "on the ground," and invitation for dinner that was generous beyond description. People reaching out to meet my needs and serve our family without asking for anything in return.

And I said "yes, please" to all of them.

That dinner? At the home of some friends that we've only known since just before Christmas, but their continual kindness and generosity has put our friendship on the fast-track. They are intelligent, fascinating, curious and exceedingly intuitive about what would bless us.

 After they offered a lovely aperitif, we were introduced to "La Raclette." Using a little grill with a broiler on the underside, you toast up slices of raclette cheese in a little dish and then proceed to accompany it with all measures of coldcuts, dried meats, potatoes, and delights such as an endive salad made with pear, walnuts, and roquefort cheese. 

 Oh. And I haven't a photo, but there was a dish called a pissaladière, which is basically a savory tart on homemade bread dough with a topping of onions sauteed in butter and olive oil and anchovies, and after cutting into squares, topped with a Greek black olive. I so get the culinary use of anchovies now. It took the flavors to a whole new level.

I considered sliding the plateful into my purse.

And then there was dessert. An un-pictured apple crumble to honor our American roots (but was frankly better than a lot of crumble I've had in the States) and also the above snapshot of caneléis.  Just ever-so-slightly-custardy in the center and the exterior, a crown of caramelized delight.

I definitely should have brought a bigger purse.

 Afterwards we enjoyed the sun-breaks for a walk in the nearby park and more conversation. The men discussed all things WWII and global politics with great delight and the ladies and kids delighted in our own version of pleasant conversation and discovery. (My friend laughed when she discovered Jane's braids were "French braids." They call them "African braids." Say what?!)

I am constantly fighting against the rage of uncertainty. And change, even good change, is rarely easy. And it is still so uncomfortable being the "needy people."

But all of these elements are bringing us experiences and challenges ... and people ... that leave me feeling incredibly honored.

Being needy, requires uncertain circumstances ... and opens up skyline of possibilities to be blessed in ways otherwise fully unachievable. And in that, the hope of being used, somehow, in spite of my deficiencies, as a blessing in return.

So be truly glad. There is wonderful joy ahead, 

even though you must endure many trials for a little while. 

I Peter 1:6

Late Night Worries and Cranky Indignation

Last night Pops wanted to go to sleep. My body did too ... but my brain would not comply.

"You know I have to process verbally," I reminded him. "I have to unload some of the detritus that is clogging up my brain." He sighed with understanding, head on the pillow, staring straight up at the ceiling while I proceeded to impale him with worries, anxieties, deep-set fears, and unnecessary minutia.

At some point he fell asleep, perhaps lulled by my soothing and comforting words of low-grade hysteria. Since I wasn't actually mad at him, I didn't have it in me to jab an elbow into his ribs and proceed to flop and huff in martyrdom. Standard procedure. You know the drill.

So I was left alone with my noisy brain, swirling in thought-tornadoes, mocking my attempt to demand order. The digital clock read "00:23." Blast it. Why can't it just say "12:23." Stupid 24-hour clock. Stupid France making me remember that when someone says "dix-sept heure quarante-cinq" it is 17h45, which is really just 5:45pm. Stupid brain for taking so long to be able to mentally translate and constantly leaving me standing like an addled fluff head.

Pfft.

I didn't know what to do next. I had some really good indignation whipped up, but I was definitely too lazy to leave bed. My feet were warm and all.

So I grabbed some paper and a pen. Scratch that. A pen was next to me, but I spied the pad of paper just out of my reach. Naturally, I entered into some I-still-won't-leave-the-bed acrobatics and hand-walked myself three-feet across the floor, bum high in the air, and did a twisty-lunge that should only be attempted by people at least 15 years younger than myself. But I got the paper. And my feet stayed warm under the covers.

I look to my left. Pops slept through all of that? Pfft.

Armed with paper, pen, a crick in my back and my fiery vexation, I set to work on what I do so very well:

Make a list.

And did I ever make a list. A list of every. single. thing that was flapping about in my beautiful mind-palace/thought-tornado. It didn't matter how big (Children's well-being at school), or how small (Find out the name of that cheese that was so good),  or how worthy (Prioritize quiet-time and prayer), or how unpalatable (Call for plumber again because the septic system still wafts the perfume of eau d'rotting-vegetable-baby-diaper-soured-garbage-decomposing-poop-sludge).

And can I just say? I was awesome at it. I filled up a page before the clock could blink stupid 00:30-o'clock at me. I was on fire. I wrote and wrote and listed and wrote ... until I ran out of crazy and realized I was bored ... and started looking at Pinterest on my phone.

I looked to my right. Stupid 00:56 o'clock.

And I went to sleep ...


I woke up this morning and the list was still there. And I was still concerned about all the things on my list. And am still in a-swirl about how I am going to manage everything. But I spit in the eye of my thought-storm by making it submit to my lists. Somehow, having all of my crazy on paper makes me feel like I don't have to keep it afloat in my brain. Anyone else like this?

I think I have crossed off 3 things from my list of 427,000 today. And our bathroom still smells like poop. And I prayed some, but not enough this morning. And the children are still on vacation and seem well-enough right now. And I still don't know the name of that cheese.

And that is my day today. And it's okay. And I plan on watching Downton Abbey tonight, eating chocolate, complaining that I ate too much chocolate ... and then going right to sleep. (At 22h30 stupid-o'clock.) Amen.

Love, Bises, and one more Pfft. For good measure.
xoxo
A.

Bonjour et Bisous, Bisous!

Photo of the sunrise through the car window, on a recent trip to Versailles

This weekend we went to a New Year's Fête in our tiny, tiny village. Not only did our next door neighbor invited us ... she is the village mayor! She has a few cows, some chickens, and a dog. Her French is rather hard for me to understand (my issue, not hers), but has a kindness in her eyes that makes me feel right at home.

I knew we needed to participate in this community event. (Plus, they were serving more galette pastries, hot chocolate and mulled wine. Well, okay!) It would be a small, but respectful gesture on our part. But, wow. It was intimidating walking into the village's salle de fête (a party or community room ... it seems every village, no matter how small, has one for it's inhabitants to gather).

Steeling ourselves for a social event all in French, we entered into the salle containing perhaps 60 or so people in all? And, as customary, you give everyone bises. You know, the kiss on each cheek thing. At one point I had to chasten myself to stop grinning like an idiot. I was so tickled by the mass bises-ing. And everyone gives a bise to everyone. Including children. And if you are thinking this might take awhile, you would be right. You may not have picked up their name or where they live or if they have a farm or just a house ... but you've given and received bises!

So, the whole bises thing (pronounced beez). I'm no expert, but I get asked a lot of questions about it. There is also the bisou (bee-zoo), which as I understand it, is appropriate for family, kids, or really good friends. It's the same thing, but one would call it giving bises or bisous depending on your level of familiarity or the age of the person. (Much like the pronouns "vous" vs. "tu" ... but that's a whole other conversation.)

It is used as a greeting in most every situation unless it is professional, or if for some reason it would be awkward ... which follows a confusing code of unspoken conduct. So if you see a friend? Bisous. For sure. If you are being introduced to a friend's friend ... bises. If you are meeting the entire village's inhabitants? Bisous for the people you know and the children and bises for everyone else. (Remember, it's essentially the same thing and I will now just use the terms interchangeably.) If you are greeting your 75 year-old grammar teacher? You do not give bises. That would be weird and freak her out. You know this because you did it once and will never do it again.

And what does the bise/bisou consist of? It's cheeks touching and making a brief kissing sound in the air. Cheeks touch, no lip contact. And it's not the goofy, affected Beverly Hills air-kissing thing. Because that's dumb. And for some reason, I always have this feeling that I might topple over while giving les bisous and tend to put my hand on someone's shoulder or waist. I'm pretty sure that's weird. People seem to keep their hands to themselves. I'm working on it.

Typically, you offer the right cheek first and then do the left. In the north, where we are, it's just the two bisous, one on each cheek. The further south you go, they add more. I've seen three, but I'm told it can go up to four-bises a person (right, left, right, left)! And if you goof and offer the left cheek first, everyone works with it but it's weird and you kind of smack faces a bit.

When you greet a child they will always offer you a cheek. Just one bisou for children (I think it turns into two about middle-school age?). It's a respect thing and even the toddlers will come up to you and just stand there with their cheek in the air until you get your act together and bend down for a slightly-goopy bisou. (Because, come on, they are little and they goop on everything.)

All of Lucette's friends (6th grade) give each other bisous when they greet each other. All of Peter's peers typically handshake. But if any of them greeted an adult ... bisous. And the men? Oh gosh. I don't know. Lots of bises still, but I think if they were at all unsure, a handshake is totally acceptable. But men and women? Bises for sure. Saying goodbye to your the husband of your friend? Bises. It's not weird, it's just normal.

{Sidenote. Want a sure-fire way to freak a French person out? Hug them. It's super weird and creepy to them. A hug is considered far more intimate than a bise, because bodies are touching. Which when you consider it, it actually makes a lot of sense. I'm not even sure there is even a French word for hug. I think it might be embrasser ... you know, to "embrace." In short, there is no informal hugging and it doesn't matter that you are an American. You will just oook them out. Promise.}

Sometimes I think we get the "deer in the headlights" look when we aren't sure to bise or not to bise. But people are quite understanding and handshakes are okay, especially if they realize you are a foreigner. But honestly, I am finding it a very charming custom.

We had a lovely time at the party. They began by listing all of the major events of the year (who got married, whose farm was doing what, some sort of an installation of a toilet (??), and the big introduction, name by name, to the wacky American family who moved into La Cressonnière. And then we had the galettes. And hot chocolate. And mulled wine.

Peter's piece of galette had the "favor" in it (a little ceramic figurine) so he got to wear a paper crown. And 13 year-old boys looooove to wear paper crowns at foreign-language parties! Woohoo! People were very kind and patient to us as we hacked out conversation in atrocious French and they said things like ... "Vous parlez très bien!" Which we totally were not "speaking really well," but that's okay too. 

We were informed of when the next fête would be and warm farewell wishes exchanged. And then off we trotted ... after, of course, giving the goodbye bises!

**Post-note. If you are learning French, you might be tempted to stick an "er" on the end and say Baiser (beh-zay). Don't. It used to mean kiss. It doesn't now. It's become a naughty word. Just stay away from it. Fa-far away.

**Post-post-note. Want to see a funny video on La Bise? It has one "ahem" moment, and it's in French ... but it's still rather funny.

A Trip Into Paris and Expat Thoughts

Pops and Me on top of the Arc de Triumph

Before Christmas, we took a family train trip into Paris. In less than two hours, we are in the middle of one of the grandest cities in the world. It is a privilege that makes me marvel. I utterly adore being able to be in such an environment. 

And it is important to remind myself (ourselves) of elements such as these. Because much of our days are just straight-up challenging. And as a mother, challenging not just for myself ... but worrying over all that my kids are experiencing. Are the "Paris" moments enough? Enough to make all of the daily difficulties worth it? 

Lucette and Jane, with the Eiffel Tower in the distance

Before we even left the States, Pops and I did some reading up on the stages of Expatriate-hood. It's a very real thing for people transplanted out of their native environment and into a new. Language, culture, geography, food, shopping, driving, social communication, homesickness ... all of these things come into play. But like many things in life, knowing it and experiencing it are different beasts.

We've now been here for 5 months. We get lots of well-meaning questions like, "So, are you guys fluent yet?" Oh mercy. So. Far. From It. It's almost demoralizing how far from fluent we are. Even though we can step back and see marked progress from when we arrived, it's just still super difficult.

In front of the Hôtel De Ville, deciding to land-skate, because the lines were too long for ice-skating. 

Now, can I interject to say ... we're okay! Life isn't falling apart at the seams and we aren't caressing maps of the States and weeping to the melancholy sounds of Kenny G. But. It has to be okay for it to still be hard for us. We aren't acclimated yet, a "groove" doesn't exist, we are confused all the time ... and we are choosing, as a family, to be good with that. 

I recently saw a graph that marked out the stages of expatriate adjustment. We've barely arrived, so I don't have full perspective, but I'd say it seems pretty realistic. In a nutshell, there is the Honeymoon Stage (2-6 weeks ... weeks!), Culture Shock (6-8 months), Gradual Adjustment (1-2 years), Competency (2-4 years), and "Mastery" (5-7 years). 

Uh, yeah. We are 1.5 - 3.5 years away from Competency. Not mastery, competency.

 Lucette and Peter noticing something surprising (I can't even remember what!)

However, somehow seeing these statistics is oddly comforting. It would be strange for us to be any more comfortable or competent than we are. We are just a goofy American family fumbling through each day, happy to enjoy the beauty and magic of living here and trusting in the Lord to get us through all of the small, yet Herculean tasks of life ... like talking to the plumber when there is water leaking from the ceiling ... or figuring out French light bulbs ... or asking the butcher for a paper towel because the ham hock he gave you is dripping blood on your sleeve but he has to politely correct your grammar, have you repeat, and then go get a paper towel for you.

In front of Notre Dame de Paris

When we first got here, everything was so new and fascinating, it balanced out the smack-in-the-face of the language difficulties. It leveled out the feeling of having an invisible American flag above our heads, announcing the fact that we were weird and didn't fit in.

And I laugh now at thinking I spoke French "a little bit" when we moved here. Uh, no. I think I can speak about 10 times better now, and if someone asked me today if I speak French, I would chuckle and say, "hardly at all!" And those French school lunches! So exciting at first, and now it is balanced out with the mandatory "goopy cheese" and extreme suspicion over any dish with the word "tête" ("head") in it.

But we are also finding ourselves to be assimilating ever so slowly. When we first arrived, Pops announced, "I will not be wearing scarves." Um, yeah. He wears one every. single. day. I think he got three for Christmas.

In the above photo, Pops is in front of a Metro sign. Though he himself was, perhaps, in a bedraggled, tourist state, he declared he had found his "style icon." His style icon? Is this my husband talking? The man who thinks black athletic socks can take you from work, soccer, poolside, and then to a wedding?

Peter and Pops on the Pont de l'Archeveche, the "Love Lock Bridge" 

The children are navigating school and learning what to reserve their energy for and what to just not care about. We are learning how to rely on each other in new ways and support each other's deficiencies. A favorite meal time conversation starter is, "What embarrassing thing happened to you today?"

Sometimes I feel guilty about complaining or trotting out all of my "you won't believe this" stories. It is not lost on me that I am living the life I have literally dreamed of. Sure it's hard, but shoot. You're living in a farmhouse in France! How hard can it be? Get over it! 

But even when life is just as you would have it ... it can still be kick-in-the-bum hard, no?

Jane and I take a "selfie" while waiting for lunch

Yet here we are. In all it's glory. Indulge me, if you would, if sometimes I feel the need to unload. It's important for me to chronicle the joys and blessings, yet some of the beastly bits seem important too. Someday, we'll look back on this time and like stones of remembrance, recall all that God has done for us ... in all of our circumstances.