tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31549467225322005902024-03-13T01:39:58.580-04:00Lovely Awkward: A Year of Wine, Romance and Life Among the FrenchKerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.comBlogger274125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-24990355315921662662021-12-22T20:26:00.000-05:002021-12-22T20:26:06.741-05:00Emily in Paris couldn't resist the Côte d'Azur either? Of course she couldn't!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEit0aIfguG3YxotMPVr2fHD-5_Rzg5mZazonurs0i4i7EnhNHbAlyV1IM6w2OYzNjff29sg6N6x0_bK7UQnS7lsBf6Wqvg0dDvFOA3CiJLy7RyifFtO1FCp5C3cI6oVLpvzQx0sM2YTO2r2uqvMETf7-CAPX4JqvrS5VdXWlxiSNbrJorU0Xi-etxsUyw=s2560" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img alt="A woman sitting on the beach with a big hat." border="0" data-original-height="2560" data-original-width="1440" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEit0aIfguG3YxotMPVr2fHD-5_Rzg5mZazonurs0i4i7EnhNHbAlyV1IM6w2OYzNjff29sg6N6x0_bK7UQnS7lsBf6Wqvg0dDvFOA3CiJLy7RyifFtO1FCp5C3cI6oVLpvzQx0sM2YTO2r2uqvMETf7-CAPX4JqvrS5VdXWlxiSNbrJorU0Xi-etxsUyw=w113-h200" width="113" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the beach in Beaulieu-sur-Mer</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>Before Covid, before Emily in Paris, and before I moved to Poitiers, France, I lived on the side of one of the foothills of the Alps, along the <span style="background: white;">Côte d'Azur. Honestly, that now feels like another planet -- or a story I made up. So much has changed, hasn't it?</span><div><br /></div><div>I took a lot of notes for the columns I was writing for the Toronto Star at the time, but I also took notes for myself. Sometimes I wrote those notes into book pitches (see below!). Do you remember when running away to a foreign country only required a passport and a plane ticket? What wildness! What freedom! What luck!</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Lovely Awkward</b><br /><div><br /><div>I hadn't realized that falling into the arms of a Frenchman
was a cliché—not until I found myself in a bike shop in the seaside town of
Antibes, France, waiting to buy myself a motorcycle helmet. This was a month
after I'd quit my job and given up my life in Canada to move into the apartment
of a French professor, tucked into one of the foothills of the French Alps,
with a view of the sea around the corner.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was feeling tough, powerful, and reckless—and was about to
ride along the red-rock coast of the Mediterranean on the back of a motorcycle,
with my arms around the waist of a man I barely understood.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMMAOWqmL1GbAog6NZocq-ibu5bn9WY7Hu1Gu3gXymFL_QJCKQt5-jtrgA8rXfK6h_0_aSzitWeCrIsH5KS_UL0ArDf4IGZg1fgMazkX3POCIbzxXrEp3GlKe1bMeiwluqIEYHJxNYcMIenO5BJAtfhupK-z9YMrg4WTE2UsdLWDPSpfo8AbNXTIB-5g=s2688" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1520" data-original-width="2688" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjMMAOWqmL1GbAog6NZocq-ibu5bn9WY7Hu1Gu3gXymFL_QJCKQt5-jtrgA8rXfK6h_0_aSzitWeCrIsH5KS_UL0ArDf4IGZg1fgMazkX3POCIbzxXrEp3GlKe1bMeiwluqIEYHJxNYcMIenO5BJAtfhupK-z9YMrg4WTE2UsdLWDPSpfo8AbNXTIB-5g=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beach in Nice</td></tr></tbody></table><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I met Stéphane, an outdoorsy French professor, on a hike
through some caves in a Canadian forest. He was only visiting for two weeks
that summer and would soon board a plane back to his country; I was just
finishing up a contract as a reporter at the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation
in Ottawa, in the same city where I'd grown up. At the airport, after only nine
days of knowing each other, Stéphane had leaned forward, slipped his arm around
my waist, and quietly asked me, “Will you come in<i> Frawnce?</i>”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I hadn't felt that I <i>should</i> say yes—that was
ridiculous, right?—but I didn't see how I could say no. I was 33 years old,
unmarried, didn't have a house or kids, and the big bubble of journalism was
about to burst. What else was I going to do with the rest of my life?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And, I mean, look at these messages he sent me when his
plane landed back in France:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 70.8pt; margin-right: 72.6pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 72.6pt 8pt 70.8pt;"><b>Stéphane</b>:
My dear love, I am pleased to offer you a wonderful trip in the fanciest
travelling wonder that the French technology can give you—to discover the
marvellous French countryside. First class, with a romantic French on your
side.<b><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 70.8pt; margin-right: 72.6pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 72.6pt 8pt 70.8pt;"><b>me</b>: sounds
nice<b><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 70.8pt; margin-right: 72.6pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 72.6pt 8pt 70.8pt;"><b>Stéphane</b>:
Then we'll stay in a wonderful (not so bad) hotel in the celebrated historical
city of Bordeaux.<b><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 70.8pt; margin-right: 72.6pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 72.6pt 8pt 70.8pt;"><b>Stéphane:</b> And then, once fully and definitely
in addicted love with each other... I'll take you for another wonderful trip in
a 1st class train from Bordeaux to Nice, through the magnificent French
southern countryfields.<b><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 70.8pt; margin-right: 72.6pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 72.6pt 8pt 70.8pt;"><b>Stéphane</b>: And then we'll make love for hours
in my recently and amazingly cleaned up place<b><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 70.8pt; margin-right: 72.6pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 72.6pt 8pt 70.8pt;"><b>me</b>: so
wait, this falling in love takes only days?<b><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 70.8pt; margin-right: 72.6pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 72.6pt 8pt 70.8pt;"><b>Stéphane</b>:
Well, normally with such a trip, only hours are needed, but I really want to be
sure<b><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: 70.8pt; margin-right: 72.6pt; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 72.6pt 8pt 70.8pt;"><b>me</b>: how
will you know?<b><o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 70.8pt;"><b>Stéphane</b>: When I'll see
you crying of happiness.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I'd never gone in for <i>Eat, Pray, Love</i>-style
journeys—I was more of an <i>Eats, Shoots and Leaves</i>, police thriller,
post-apocalyptic kind of woman. I'd never called myself a “Francophile,” held a
“salon” at my house, or dreamed of escaping to the French Riviera—I'm not even
sure I knew where it was. But, I said “Hell, yes!” anyway, and then, with
Stéphane's agreement, pitched our whirlwind romance as a column so I could pay
for my flight. (What would <i>you</i> do with text messages like that? This
Frenchman was hilarious! He even thought calling me “lovely awkward” was a
compliment!)</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj66kIEs3V14LbCyoL-YHqrndWFHRwPNTgb8dL-YYKpAhdIG_UDovWawFxMrItVJ28NEqhpYnt5AmdRoGFa2h1lWkUICKHyHt9p5qZ8LKc9UL1sJtBslzCtlt3DR58prfTpMwxZLHrusOIDr5RFQqdK-EqRNdNxUOxtGadAADpWhjuXdf91LKFG8DiimQ=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj66kIEs3V14LbCyoL-YHqrndWFHRwPNTgb8dL-YYKpAhdIG_UDovWawFxMrItVJ28NEqhpYnt5AmdRoGFa2h1lWkUICKHyHt9p5qZ8LKc9UL1sJtBslzCtlt3DR58prfTpMwxZLHrusOIDr5RFQqdK-EqRNdNxUOxtGadAADpWhjuXdf91LKFG8DiimQ=w320-h240" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(that's Santa, not me, Promenade des Anglais)</td></tr></tbody></table>
<p class="MsoNormal">In line at the bike shop, I was giggling nervously,
clutching my future to my chest, when the man in front of me suddenly turned:
“Are you Canadian? Getting a helmet? Student visa or follow a French boyfriend
here?” (He was from Winnipeg.)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Crest-fallen, I mumbled that I wasn't a student. I then
resolutely bought my helmet, hopped on the back of the bike, and rode off into
the sunset—with my new helmet banging against the one Stéphane was wearing,
because I'd never ridden a bike before and didn't know how to control my neck
muscles.</p></div></div></div><div><div style="text-align: left;">While Stéphane and I got to know each other (as best we
could, given our language barrier), my fun, slightly self-deprecating column,
“French Kiss,” began to appear in the <i>Toronto Star</i>. I took notes and
Stéphane showed me around: we spent days on the beach, hiking in the Alps, and
lounging at café tables in squishy, medieval villages. He taught me how to
drive a scooter through the mountains and introduced me to his friends (an
ex-Moulin Rouge dancer, a professional accordion player, and an engineer who
specialized in squishing grapes!); I taught him how to say an English “th,” and
explained how Canadians lift canoes onto our heads.</div></div><div><p class="MsoNormal">Back at the beginning, we communicated in smiles. All
misunderstandings were funny, and all small differences of opinion could be
resolved with a view of the sun setting over the water and a nice bottle of red
wine. But soon, our language barrier began to fall away ... and we discovered
that there was an even bigger, scarier, cultural one behind it.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of course, by that point, we were already married, and I was
pregnant.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><b>Uncommon ground</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On a Friday, Stéphane asked me if I'd like to drive to Pisa,
Italy—<i>me,</i> drive. I knew how to drive a car, but not one with gears I had
to shift—not yet. And the driveway of our apartment in the foothills was so
steep that I wouldn't have been surprised if, one day, our car had peeled off
of it and tumbled backwards. I took the wheel, but nervously, worried that I'd
hit a French driver and get yelled at. I didn't stall our little, grey
hatch-back in the driveway, however; I did that five minutes farther down the
road, smack in the middle of a busy intersection.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That's when Stéphane frantically turned in the passenger
seat, his eyes wide and his cheeks as red as a Provençale sauce and yelled in
my face: “<i>Franchement! Franchement! Franchement!</i>”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To the French, this means, “<i>Appuie franchement!</i>”
(Floor it! Step on the gas!), but I didn't know that. Instead, I heard,
“Frankly! Frankly! Frankly!” (a literal translation), as though Stéphane was
suddenly about to reveal some great truth he'd been withholding up until that
point in our relationship. Scared of whatever Stéphane might disclose
(especially with that look on his face), and terrified of the Niçois drivers
whipping around us, I'd just repeated over and over in a small, Canadian voice,
“Please tell me what to do—each step ... <i>slowly.</i>”</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Note that this is also how I'd describe our first two years
of marriage—stalled at a dangerous crossroads, with both of us freaking out.</p>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkizyxXhhgGrC3Av5IvTLtTtIJvo_d5MposYOBUPeMDT96HezvbI3HAMkBFBd15bnhInA7AbpQzdWgKp6QT_slOYdXIDWXbUmkvtiKbF0T1qiyD9Pf50pj0NSdp-jf9HbYRWUbRuYzyfdrP1t8Y_9NiatjiwSx9D84N3ZmY1jBtcClttnP2xpaOO1xrg=s2688" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1520" data-original-width="2688" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkizyxXhhgGrC3Av5IvTLtTtIJvo_d5MposYOBUPeMDT96HezvbI3HAMkBFBd15bnhInA7AbpQzdWgKp6QT_slOYdXIDWXbUmkvtiKbF0T1qiyD9Pf50pj0NSdp-jf9HbYRWUbRuYzyfdrP1t8Y_9NiatjiwSx9D84N3ZmY1jBtcClttnP2xpaOO1xrg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from my writing window in Nice.</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Piled onto our cultural learning curve was the fact that my
writing had also been screwing with our heads: Before our wedding, I'd been
unnaturally hanging off Stéphane's every word and Stéphane had constantly been
“hosting” me, along with my pencil and notebook. Having grown up as one of the
subjects of my dad's widely read family columns (and hating it!), I should have
seen this coming—the fact that we'd be on our best behaviour—but I didn't. How
had I not understood that writing about us might cause us to gloss over
important parts of our relationship? Or that publishing, posting and tweeting
this story, in real time, could change it?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Sometimes I joke that Stéphane and I ended up giving
ourselves an arranged marriage. Caught up in the drama of our wild, little love
affair, we'd secretly eloped at the <i>mairie</i> in Nice's old town, only 10
months after I'd arrived. We'd been so unprepared that rather than exchanging
rings (which we hadn't even thought of getting in advance), we'd bought
matching Riviera hats—mostly, because after our ceremony (in which I'd answered,
“I don't understand!” to the “I do” question), we'd guzzled a glass of
Champagne in the midday heat of the <i>Cours Saleya,</i> and were afraid that
we'd given ourselves sun stroke. We have one photo, taken by a security guard
who was out for a smoke.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Of course, our bad planning might have to do with the context
in which we'd made our big decision to commit: We'd decided this two months
earlier, while I was sitting in a bathtub in an old castle in Corsica, trying
to soak off a hangover, and Stéphane lay on the bed in our hotel room, holding
his head. We'd gone out the night before, to a dimly lit restaurant in an old
olive oil mill, where a singing Corsican dressed in black, with a red sash
around his waist, had forced wine down our throats (poured it, for real),
thrown our meal at us (we'd had to catch it on our plates), and had tricked a
guest into firing a shotgun out the window. Drunk and trying to sneak back into
the hotel in the middle of the night, I'd accidentally punched Stéphane in the
face. (All that is to say neither one of us was in proper form that morning
when we'd had “the big talk.”)<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4Z373b5BZQ-Hn8XDsv42vzrXtDrRI6y7ZCg7NOzLJyjEM5Yjmbe7YuthKSfN8McoJMlDMSu8iHtLAfvalKQRDQCHUU6hQFgIArk9xNxKEJ-PvuGjIYroos866pW0NPayyHyqzi41o2IHDYHmEPjmhn1945zNr_xhiFY8UC3n9qmGosji-NVOicMzSLQ=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg4Z373b5BZQ-Hn8XDsv42vzrXtDrRI6y7ZCg7NOzLJyjEM5Yjmbe7YuthKSfN8McoJMlDMSu8iHtLAfvalKQRDQCHUU6hQFgIArk9xNxKEJ-PvuGjIYroos866pW0NPayyHyqzi41o2IHDYHmEPjmhn1945zNr_xhiFY8UC3n9qmGosji-NVOicMzSLQ=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saint-Paul-de-Vence</td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal">Thus, there we were: married, stuck in an intersection with
the engine stalled, and in a fight because we still didn't <i>know</i> each
other well enough. We couldn't understand each other. Stéphane helped me turn the car back on and manoeuvre it out
of the path of swerving French drivers, but we were suddenly faced with a
problem we couldn't ignore: even though we'd been living in the same house for
months, there was still an ocean that lay between us.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Luckily, two great things came out of the columns: The first
was that I got mail—moving, heart-felt e-mails came in from women—many of them
Canadians—living all over the world. Some dreamed of leaping or were ready to
board planes, others had missed opportunities or had been married to their
whirlwind romances for 40 years. Every story was fascinating and comforting,
and all reminded me that every leap, no matter how romantic, is actually taken
alone.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The second great thing was that Stéphane and I were forced
to give our relationship a chance—to get over ourselves and eventually, over
our cultures (well, as much as we could). If we'd been living in separate
apartments and dating like normal people, any one of our cultural conflicts
could have broken us up. Instead, we'd had to learn work together, like assigned
lab partners—only, the experiment was us.</p>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBJpioj2jvhdTGL-C_yQIUXAGdPVR6hBLcUYFSvCPLU5eHJWOzTTcbLm2ynRa2R1Ai0kmt1Ks8oqW34IOOEQVIOr5A3f3lcdkMWKxyroE8Sew3wJKobqiTZ94pXI-qVNRS6ZoaOUDZFJeix-XfisCoMZdKrxOBWcWM4Giw026xPNcKPqoeNZhqBIPpJA=s2688" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1520" data-original-width="2688" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjBJpioj2jvhdTGL-C_yQIUXAGdPVR6hBLcUYFSvCPLU5eHJWOzTTcbLm2ynRa2R1Ai0kmt1Ks8oqW34IOOEQVIOr5A3f3lcdkMWKxyroE8Sew3wJKobqiTZ94pXI-qVNRS6ZoaOUDZFJeix-XfisCoMZdKrxOBWcWM4Giw026xPNcKPqoeNZhqBIPpJA=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Downtown Nice at Christmas</td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">What we found especially interesting was that while we were
trying to figure out how to co-exist without telling each other off, some very
similar discussions were happening all across the French Republic. France, like
us, was in the midst of change. This country, so heavily entrenched in its
traditions, was having to ask itself some very difficult questions in the face
of globalization: <i>Should all newcomers have to adapt to France? Or should
France also adapt to them.</i></p><p class="MsoNormal">By our fifth year of marriage, Stéphane and I had had an
amazing son and a fantastic daughter. And as we were working to raise these
hybrid-kids together, we began to get a very unexpected and privileged glimpse
into how the citizens of our respective countries have been built, from the
ground up. We took our kids on misty hikes through the ruins that look down
over the perched village of Eze, dancing on the <i>pont </i>d'Avignon, and
swimming in the electric-blue waters of the lac de Saint Cassien, near Cannes.
Finally, we were learning about each other—mostly, by the way we talked to our
children.</p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilhDMdhWisV6-t05rQBfQep3s-FvskH4xTkfx-eLx5bHAq3ynOkWn_3F8HLDd8KtOysr2zdAqvbvU3B7Yh8TgQ_Q0XRoyFYth64sfkGtv47qD20sTosXr-tuLX_Bu3QK1tEWzYU1dQ_mgAOyJt5UNMZnaJ-PvhUBluB8pPjUjHB8d910ibN6MPRWwVjw=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEilhDMdhWisV6-t05rQBfQep3s-FvskH4xTkfx-eLx5bHAq3ynOkWn_3F8HLDd8KtOysr2zdAqvbvU3B7Yh8TgQ_Q0XRoyFYth64sfkGtv47qD20sTosXr-tuLX_Bu3QK1tEWzYU1dQ_mgAOyJt5UNMZnaJ-PvhUBluB8pPjUjHB8d910ibN6MPRWwVjw=s320" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kids on the beach in Juan-les-Pins.</td></tr></tbody></table>
<p class="MsoNormal">I learned that Stéphane's parents had let him fall asleep at
the dinner table many nights because everyone, including children, were
expected to stay at the table until everyone was done; Stéphane learned that I
was raised on burritos and pizza pops warmed up in the microwave and then eaten
in the car on the way to some sport. We'd each been formed under a series of
learning umbrellas: there was what our parents taught us, then the influence of
our surrounding communities, and then even our countries had helped us figure
out how people are supposed to be in this world. We had different definitions
for the words “family,” “happiness,” and “love,” and our respective cultures
were backing us up: the French Wikipedia agreed with Stéphane, and the English
site agreed with me. (Did you know there was more than one Wikipedia? Every day
was filled with epiphanies!)</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That's not to say that our cultural barrier was easy to
crawl up and slide over, even in captivity (me being the most captive). A lot
of the time, we weren't even sure where that cultural hump was, or how big it
was, or what idiot might have put it there in the first place—kind of like
stepping on a piece of Lego in the middle of the night.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgijVhiBQNSZEASTXli3QiXOG7ljeVNAxYRPFuPzGtv6Qv6lEk1o5EzHrWYybWkKKM5sPcUR8pDKrq1BqBbwm7DVUwaJUlLBYWqAIS11PJo5OazQqNS-PBGiqqyXPiIeHLiqkE04SIIK1RN5ycg1p68pC-6Esod9OzG8Xo0zMwRawKOHWDvbwxZS1FHbg=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgijVhiBQNSZEASTXli3QiXOG7ljeVNAxYRPFuPzGtv6Qv6lEk1o5EzHrWYybWkKKM5sPcUR8pDKrq1BqBbwm7DVUwaJUlLBYWqAIS11PJo5OazQqNS-PBGiqqyXPiIeHLiqkE04SIIK1RN5ycg1p68pC-6Esod9OzG8Xo0zMwRawKOHWDvbwxZS1FHbg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beach in Juan-les-Pins.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>But slowly, Stéphane and I were merging into a family. I
like to call it our mutual “long con.” And part of the beauty of that experience,
I suppose, was that neither of us yet knew it... </p><p>Many parts of the story are in this blog, but there are many parts that aren't.</p><p>Stéphane isn't the professor's real name, but today it seemed to fit.</p><p>Ugh, I do miss the <span style="background-color: white;">Côte d'Azur</span>. Tomorrow I will make extremely hopeful plans for another summer visit!</p></div>Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-40100184822708017322018-01-21T17:46:00.001-05:002018-01-21T18:12:00.576-05:00Place Massena and the miroir d'eau nearby<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-37872877998395023452016-07-22T17:23:00.000-04:002016-08-10T09:18:31.738-04:00The attack in Nice<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beach in Nice before the attack.</td></tr>
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What happened on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice last week makes me so, so sad. The talk about terrorist attacks is always in the background of our lives -- it's always there -- but that doesn't mean that it isn't shocking when something like the attack on July 14 happens.<br />
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That day, my husband was still in Nice. He had told me that he was going to the fireworks that night. We'd been communicating over the computer. He'd said he was going on his own (No kids to look after!) and he'd said that he loved us.</div>
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Luckily, the wind was blowing that day and when he stepped out of the house, he decided that it might be too windy for the fireworks. He'd stayed home. I didn't know that, however, until I found him 45 minutes after I first heard about what happened.</div>
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At first, I'd thought I was just trying to find him after that truck drove through the crowd of people watching the fireworks, that I was just checking to make sure he was OK, but when I finally did find him, I realized how scared I'd been.</div>
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I'm sure it was far, far worse for the people who were actually there. One of them, the best friend of our 1 1/2-year-old daughter (who is the same age), had just crossed the street to the other side of the Promenade des Anglais with her family as the truck passed by them. They said everyone around them then started running.</div>
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I spoke with CBC TV about <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/ottawa/cbc-news-ottawa-july-15-2016-1.3682018" target="_blank">my experience</a> last week. (story starts at 2:13) As I said, I'm sure it was far worse for anyone who was there or for anyone who lost a loved one. But it was still a big scare for our family.</div>
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Whether you're religious or not, there was a nice line in a story in Nice Matin, the local newspaper in Nice, that said that in the bloody bay, 84 angels (10 of them children) had died. (The number is now 85.) In French, that area is already called la Baie des Anges (the bay of angels). (Note: I don't think I'll ever be able to separate that name from what happened.</div>
Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-51833427044102898342016-06-27T05:22:00.000-04:002016-06-27T05:23:48.931-04:00Lake swimming in France -- Lac de Saint-Cassien<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some fishing boats along the shore of Lac de Saint-Cassien, near Cannes, France</td></tr>
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We took the car to <a href="http://www.paysdefayence.com/fr/decouvrir/nos-espaces-naturels/lac-de-saint-cassien/" target="_blank">Lac de Saint-Cassien</a> yesterday and rented a paddle boat (<a href="https://www.cotedazur-card.com/activites/pedalo-au-lac-de-st-cassien-N4fiche_CACPAC0060000008-rub_133.html" target="_blank">pedalo</a>) with a slide.<br />
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The day was amazing: sunny, breezy and the water was warm and lovely. This was supposed to be our Father's Day present and it worked out perfectly -- partly because I only had enough cash on me for a half-hour ride (the exact amount of boating fun the kids could handle).<br />
<br />
I'm very, very, very glad, however, that I didn't look up the types of <a href="http://carpe-connexion.com/wiki-carpe/53-silure/connaissances/51-les-silures-du-lac-de-saint-cassien-origines-population.html" target="_blank">fish</a> that live there until we got home. The <a href="http://www.1max2peche.com/st-cassien-en-mode-reserve/" target="_blank">carp</a> are crazy!<br />
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There are a lot of videos on YouTube about the lake: a <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CtI_JjMYJBs" target="_blank">fly-over</a> and a great number of videos of Germans holding up giant carp or searching out catfish underwater. I'm going to have to do more research before our next trip!<br />
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<br />Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-73846640868594427392016-06-23T07:26:00.002-04:002016-06-23T08:26:01.198-04:00Castles (real castles!) and country life<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p3MQbsRHu08/V2vVNZJ1A0I/AAAAAAAAGLk/uXI52RAGxqkyrjGpoTPuWBUln5xSF2NAgCK4B/s1600/IMAG2779%2B%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p3MQbsRHu08/V2vVNZJ1A0I/AAAAAAAAGLk/uXI52RAGxqkyrjGpoTPuWBUln5xSF2NAgCK4B/s400/IMAG2779%2B%25284%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">View from a house in the country near Nice, France.</td></tr>
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We've been looking at houses in the country again. And, I'm still torn: the city gives us conveniences like stores and activities for the kids, but the country gives us so much fresh air and space!<br />
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I'm still not sure when we'll make the leap, but there are some amazingly beautiful places out there in <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/France_profonde" style="font-style: italic;" target="_blank">la France profonde </a>(that description always makes me laugh) -- from huge <a href="http://www.agent-immobilier-france.com/buying.asp?feature=REN" target="_blank">fixer-uppers</a> to ready-to-move-into <a href="http://www.seloger.com/list.htm?idtt=2&idtypebien=2&ci=830055,60085,830118,60152&tri=d_dt_crea&pxmin=1500000&idpublication=" target="_blank">mansions</a>. We're probably looking for something in between.<br />
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And then there are the non-realistic ideas: <a href="https://www.frenchentree.com/property-for-sale/details/40543_xml_03233/castle-in-mons" target="_blank">There are even castles for sale!</a><br />
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For anyone interested in dreaming along with me, here are a few of the real estate sites in France:<br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_1897547433"><br /></a>
</span><br />
<span style="color: blue; font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.explorimmo.com/">www.explorimmo.com</a></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.seloger.com/">www.seloger.com</a></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="http://www.logic-immo.com/">www.logic-immo.com</a></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><a href="http://www.mls-cotedazur.fr/">www.mls-cotedazur.fr</a></span><br />
<a href="http://www.maisonsetappartements.fr/">www.maisonsetappartements.fr</a><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.leboncoin.com/">www.leboncoin.com</a></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.bellespierres.com/">www.bellespierres.com</a></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.pap.fr/">www.pap.fr</a></span><br />
<span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.agent-immobilier-france.com/">www.agent-immobilier-france.com</a></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; line-height: 18px; white-space: nowrap;"><a href="http://www.fnaim06.fr/">www.fnaim06.fr</a></span><br />
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*Note: A <a href="http://www.connexionfrance.com/explaining-the-viager-system-10211-news-article.html" target="_blank">viager</a> is an amazing idea, but it's always a risky bet. The houses come with elderly occupants (sometimes they live there, sometimes the place is empty) and can be bought at very low prices, but then you usually have to pay rent. The rent gets paid for either a fixed amount of time or until the occupants are no longer alive to collect it.Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-68073160695748519082016-06-14T06:27:00.000-04:002016-06-23T14:10:46.484-04:00French parents don't know everything!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">A fort we found near us</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">in </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">Villeneuve-Loubet.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;"><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">The</span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;"> beginning </span><span style="font-size: 12.8px;">of a forest</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">school?</span></div>
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In recent years, a lot of books have been published about the greatness of French parenting. The French do have quite a few wonderful ideas, I agree, but they're not the only ones!<br />
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After getting tired of all of the dog poops on our sidewalks here in Nice (they're particularly bad in our neighbourhood) and deciding we needed a little more nature for our kids (hiking in the steep foothills of the Alps can be hard with toddlers), we went back to Canada for a little flat-land <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Forest_school_(learning_style)" target="_blank">forest school</a>.<br />
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The learning style is very different from what we have here in France.<br />
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And... we loved it.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>LOVED IT.</i><br />
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I wrote about our experience in <i><a href="http://www.ottawaparentingtimes.ca/forest-schools/" target="_blank">Ottawa Parenting Times</a> </i>magazine.<br />
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If you'd rather hear more about France and you want a good laugh, however, you can read about how French cities might start <a href="http://www.bfmtv.com/planete/les-crottes-de-chien-bientot-soumises-a-analyse-adn-964702.html" target="_blank">DNA testing</a> dog poops ("crottes") so they can fine owners (the article is in French). I can't stop laughing -- probably because my early morning, stroller obstacle course has tired me out. Am I actually in a life-in-the-city dog-poop funk?<br />
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I think dogs are awesome, but I really wouldn't mind if a CSI expert gave some of these owners -- particularly the ones who let their dogs poop in front of our elementary school -- a little crap of their own!<br />
<br />Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-42827730409834615642015-03-31T08:43:00.002-04:002015-03-31T08:45:53.712-04:00Father-daughter writing team!<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QrWe4o44pSA/VRqWFjDP6MI/AAAAAAAAECM/90JVkQx3rlQ/s1600/Screech%2BOwls%2BReality%2BCheck%2Bcover.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QrWe4o44pSA/VRqWFjDP6MI/AAAAAAAAECM/90JVkQx3rlQ/s1600/Screech%2BOwls%2BReality%2BCheck%2Bcover.gif" /></a>So, I've been working on all kinds of writing, but one project is now finished! My father, Roy, and I wrote a YA book together that was recently published by <a href="http://www.tundrabooks.com/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9781770494275" target="_blank">Tundra Books</a>. It's part of a series about a Canadian hockey team called the <a href="http://www.screechowls.com/" target="_blank">Screech Owls</a> -- it's a series that he's been writing since I was a teenager. The kids play hockey, but they also solve mysteries. And Nish, one of the series' main characters, is a very entertaining, loud-mouthed, trouble-seeking, mostly uncontrollable brat! (He was the most fun to write!)<br />
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<a href="http://www.cbc.ca/player/Radio/Local+Shows/Ontario/ID/2655525500/" target="_blank">Here</a>'s an interview with the two of us on CBC Radio, discussing <i>Reality Check in Detroit.</i>Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-83060941309385547892014-09-10T08:36:00.000-04:002016-06-23T08:00:37.511-04:00France's topless beaches -- on the demise? really?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beach in Nice (in colder weather)</td></tr>
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Many of my recent posts have been about stories other people have written about France. I know! And I just can't stop!<br />
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I realize I can't live in all parts of the country at once, but I'm still always surprised at how much some of the reporting in the North American media differs from my own experience. There are regional differences, yes, but I think there's more to it than that.<br />
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The <i>National Post</i> just published a <a href="http://news.nationalpost.com/2014/09/09/conformist-french-women-rejecting-going-topless-on-beaches-poll-finds/" target="_blank">story</a> from AP about how the trend of toplessness is on the demise on France's beaches. The story started with a poll done by <i>Elle</i> magazine, but I'm not sure where in the country they asked their questions. And now the <i>Huffington Post</i> has it, <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/2014/09/09/french-women-bid-topless-_n_5789072.html" target="_blank">too</a>. <br />
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I've seen much fewer topless bathers on the beaches in the north of the country, yes, but here on the French Riviera, the trend is still huge. HUGE. Maybe it was never as big in the north where the weather is cooler. Down here, however, there are both young and older women lying out, bare-breasted on almost all of the beaches and many of the outdoor pools. It doesn't seem to be so much of a feminist thing, even if those are the roots, as it is just a very widely accepted part of the culture.<br />
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When I first moved to France, I found the views French women had about their bodies to be fascinating. They don't have the same divide as North Americans do of good girls and bad girls. Strange for a North American to experience (it did take me some time to get used to it), but in a lot of ways, I've found that lack of barrier can be very, very good.<br />
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I'd post a picture to show just how much the trend is still present, at least around here, but even though I've grown used to the half-naked sunbathers, I still think posting pictures of them is probably rude!<br />
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<br />Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-24732874137366894982014-04-11T09:25:00.000-04:002014-04-11T09:25:01.161-04:00More "French bashing," the French sayI wrote a <a href="http://www.ottawacitizen.com/opinion/op-ed/News+outside+centre+universe/9469025/story.html" target="_blank">story</a> in the Citizen a few months ago about how France's rebuttals to the English media are sometimes lost because they only argue back in French, through their own media. (It's in the post below this one.) There's another rebuttal today about whether the French are being FORCED to stop working after 6 pm.<br />
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The English story in <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/money/shortcuts/2014/apr/09/french-6pm-labour-agreement-work-emails-out-of-office?CMP=twt_gu" target="_blank">The Guardian</a>.<br />
Another English story in <a href="http://nymag.com/thecut/2014/04/france-bans-checking-work-emails-after-6-pm.html?mid=facebook_nymag" target="_blank">NYMag</a>, written with info from The Guardian one.<br />
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The French rebuttal in <a href="http://www.lefigaro.fr/vie-bureau/2014/04/11/09008-20140411ARTFIG00181-les-anglo-saxons-se-moquent-de-notre-droit-a-la-deconnexion.php#xtor=AL-155" target="_blank">Le Figaro</a>.Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-288628430152006182014-02-05T14:09:00.000-05:002014-02-05T15:27:53.014-05:00The perils of reporting from abroadMy <a href="http://www.ottawacitizen.com/opinion/op-ed/News+outside+centre+universe/9469025/story.html" target="_blank">op-ed</a> in the Ottawa Citizen today about the "Fall of France," the price of milk, and reporting from overseas.Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-36210362012696384152014-01-18T05:41:00.000-05:002014-01-18T05:41:37.661-05:00Landslides all around NiceHere's the video I posted yesterday, but embedded -- in case my link called "video" wasn't enough to get you to look.<br />
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Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-2595498975788339892014-01-17T15:58:00.001-05:002014-01-18T05:37:24.791-05:00The roads are crumbling!<br />
I was scolded by the French daycare yesterday because I was five minutes late dropping off my son. I hadn't realized that could happen! It had been raining and raining and getting him in and out of the car had been way more time consuming than usual -- it's not a big excuse, but it's a true one. They told me that if I were late again, they'd make me take my son back home!<br />
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So, this morning I set out with the goal of being not too early (I've had problems with that before, too :) or at all late. I was very, very lucky to make it on time... after having to drive through THIS in the rain:<br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-slAcnjxmLT0/UtmSZkh7P4I/AAAAAAAABo8/Do9vUTizlTg/s1600/2014-01-17+10.34.26+fs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-slAcnjxmLT0/UtmSZkh7P4I/AAAAAAAABo8/Do9vUTizlTg/s1600/2014-01-17+10.34.26+fs.jpg" height="181" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8fwL4rle3_I/UtmSbsPS-ZI/AAAAAAAABpI/bnmN7mudF7k/s1600/2014-01-17+10.36.24+fs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8fwL4rle3_I/UtmSbsPS-ZI/AAAAAAAABpI/bnmN7mudF7k/s1600/2014-01-17+10.36.24+fs.jpg" height="181" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YIp366i2ddo/UtmSdeis_HI/AAAAAAAABpU/Xawdghw7l_k/s1600/2014-01-17+10.37.52+fs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YIp366i2ddo/UtmSdeis_HI/AAAAAAAABpU/Xawdghw7l_k/s1600/2014-01-17+10.37.52+fs.jpg" height="181" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--VYs0m0Pidg/UtmSdEkHBTI/AAAAAAAABpQ/t2tKCW7iQLA/s1600/2014-01-17+10.38.11+fs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--VYs0m0Pidg/UtmSdEkHBTI/AAAAAAAABpQ/t2tKCW7iQLA/s1600/2014-01-17+10.38.11+fs.jpg" height="181" width="320" /></a></div>
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And, my area got off lightly! Here's a <a href="http://lci.tf1.fr/france/faits-divers/les-routes-de-la-cote-d-azur-endommagees-par-les-intemperies-8349674.html" target="_blank">video</a> of some of the very impressive damage around the collines of Nice. The scary part, other than the obvious, immediate danger, is that there are houses perched on top of these hills -- some just above the landslides! (My photos are NOTHING compared to this!)Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-45990571873065486092013-12-24T06:09:00.001-05:002013-12-24T06:09:39.255-05:00Haute-cuisine at the French daycareMy <a href="http://www.parentingtimes.ca/a-cultural-conundrum/" target="_blank">story</a> on what the kids are eating at French daycare (and how they're eating it).<br />
<br />Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-56549218353854256982013-11-06T05:48:00.002-05:002013-11-06T05:48:16.613-05:00Favourite time of year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 37px;">Marché de la Libération in Nice</span> on a sunny, fall day!</span></div>
Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-32670317196350963862013-10-29T08:10:00.001-04:002013-10-29T08:16:29.588-04:00Decorating a home in France à l'ancienne<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://fleamarketchic.files.wordpress.com/2010/09/03sol-triml-09100023_carrousel_gallery_xl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://fleamarketchic.files.wordpress.com/2010/09/03sol-triml-09100023_carrousel_gallery_xl.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">French flea market style (French shabby chic), taken from the blog <a href="http://fleamarketchic.wordpress.com/">fleamarketchic.com</a>, which I think took it from the blog <a href="http://littleemmaenglishhome.blogspot.fr/" target="_blank">Little Emma English Home.</a></td></tr>
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Well, we're on our way to buying a new home!!<br />
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We're either going to sell our current apartment or rent it -- we're still not sure -- but we've signed some papers to buy another place here in Nice, closer to downtown and the sea. We've chosen a place in <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:QuartiersNiceLeRay.png" target="_blank">Le Ray</a> or Saint-Maurice, depending on which map you consult. Some of the houses near <a href="http://www.lecomtedenice.fr/Visi_nice/visi_prom_jard_4.html#photo_1" target="_blank">Parc Chambrun</a> give a sense of the neighborhood, even though they're a lot more bourgeoise than where we'll be living.<br />
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Since we haven't sold the first place, we haven't exactly bought a dream home, but we've bought one the could be pretty dreamy with a bit of work. We're going to have to be thrifty, though, and we'll have to do a lot of work ourselves. I've already started my furniture research...<br />
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Back in Canada, my style was a mix of modern, natural fibres, handmade art, and thrift finds.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0Knt8WTVc4Q/Um-al2I_gDI/AAAAAAAABYg/kNEmdKj1oOE/s1600/P1010578.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0Knt8WTVc4Q/Um-al2I_gDI/AAAAAAAABYg/kNEmdKj1oOE/s320/P1010578.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My old apartment in Ottawa, Canada.</td></tr>
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Here in France, I'm thinking I might go a little more for something like this (while toning down the French ruffly girlishness):<br />
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Pinterest: <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/caylisac/french-flea-market-style/" target="_blank">Fre</a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/caylisac/french-flea-market-style/" target="_blank">nch Flea Market Style</a><br />
Houzz.com: <a href="http://www.houzz.com/french-flea-market/" target="_blank">French Flea Market</a><br />
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What do you think?<br />
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<br />Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-73683881994152982352013-10-18T06:34:00.001-04:002013-10-30T09:31:07.571-04:00My first French car accidentWhile driving to the crèche today, I ran into something that I've long feared since moving to the French Riviera. Well, it ran into me. The driver of the truck agrees.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3CR2Onq1yE4/Um-mDOhzAaI/AAAAAAAABYs/1OhbD9KDU2w/s1600/IMAG0023+sf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="181" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3CR2Onq1yE4/Um-mDOhzAaI/AAAAAAAABYs/1OhbD9KDU2w/s320/IMAG0023+sf.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
When my lessons in driving standard began a few years ago, and then shortly after, when I started driving the scooter, I realized that I was equally afraid of two things on the road: 1) Hitting a vehicle or being hit, and 2) Having to talk to a French person about a car accident.<br />
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I imagined that our interaction would go a little like this... I'd say "Je m'excuse," over and over again if it were my fault (I'd forgotten how to say "sorry" when I first got here) or I'd just stare blankly at the person if it weren't my fault, hoping a cop or Canadian consulate official would stop by to defend me and my poor language skills. The other driver would yell at me either way, I'd imagined, using words I didn't understand and swear words I'd only just started to grasp. Then in the end, I'd have to take the blame because I'd never be able to explain what happened or know how to do the right paperwork.<br />
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In the last few weeks, the Professor and I have witnessed quite a few accidents. I saw a guy on a scooter get hit by a car, roll around on the ground bleeding a bit, and then make an emergency phone call himself. The Professor was sitting on his scooter at a light when a guy on a scooter used his breaks too quickly on a rainy day, turned sideways and skidded to a stop, nearly knocking the Professor over. A year or two ago, I saw a car bump the back of a motorcycle in a way that popped it from between the driver's legs like a Champagne cork. The motorcyclist, still standing bowlegged, had then crumpled to ground without his seat beneath him. All cases featured a lot of yelling and some panic. <br />
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Today, however, was different. No scooter involved, but no yelling either.<br />
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I'd pulled over to the side of the road on one of our routes that is supposed to let two cars pass each other, but doesn't without some careful manoeuvring. The driver, who was driving a big truck with big sheets of glass attached at the sides, said that I'd left enough space, but then he hit the back of my car on his way by.<br />
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He stepped out of the truck and I thought, "Oh, no, this is it. Do I need to think of some swear words? Do I have to be angrier than he is to not get blamed??" But then, the driver turned out to be one of the nicest people I've ever met.<br />
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He asked if I was American (mostly because I didn't know the French word for "bumper") and when I said I was Canadian, he was really impressed.</div>
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"Did you live in a city? Or in the country? Did you live in the middle of the forest?" he'd asked.</div>
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"I lived in the forest a few times," I'd said, while he nodded with wide eyes. "I moved around a bit."</div>
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Although I'd imagined an accident with honking horns and exhaust fumes rising in the background while a Frenchman yelled and pointed his finger in my face, what I actually got was the feeling that I was some precious woodland animal from Canada who'd just been accidentally nicked by the boot of a conservationist.</div>
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I ALWAYS forget that sometimes being a foreigner makes people nicer to you. Usually, I expect them to become more frustrated and treat you worse.</div>
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This lovely driver got some tape from a nearby business and taped up my bumper, gave me all of his contact information, called my husband, said, "Impeccable!" to everything I said (I love that), asked if he was making me late for anything and then wished me a great day in the end.</div>
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As long as this guy gave me his real name and phone number, I think I'll be able to get over my fear of angry Frenchmen and just worry about the road.<br />
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ps. It's always good to have a <a href="http://www.axa.fr/SiteCollectionDocuments/FormulairesDeclarations/constat-amiable.pdf" target="_blank"><i>constat amiable</i></a> with you so both parties in the accident can sign the necessary papers before you separate!</div>
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Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-78896630154988086632013-10-09T08:17:00.000-04:002013-10-09T08:30:43.703-04:00Place Masséna and soon our changing downtown!I've started taking pictures with a tablet. They aren't as good as our regular camera, but at least I remember to take it with me! The tourists are starting to thin out a little bit, which has made getting around Nice, even just on foot, a little easier.<br />
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What I'm really excited to photograph in the next few weeks, however, is the opening of this project downtown: <a href="http://www.nice.fr/Collectivites/Les-grands-projets/La-Coulee-Verte" target="_blank">La Coulée Verte</a>!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S9vi6_fwT5E/UlVG8mD4wpI/AAAAAAAABXk/E7dcLOZZorU/s1600/2013-10-04+14.39.23+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="174" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-S9vi6_fwT5E/UlVG8mD4wpI/AAAAAAAABXk/E7dcLOZZorU/s320/2013-10-04+14.39.23+small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Place<span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;"> Masséna from the pedestrian-only streets.</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V00Rop7Mgeg/UlVG8uIdywI/AAAAAAAABXg/338WQsQFIzY/s1600/2013-10-04+14.39.06+sf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="174" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-V00Rop7Mgeg/UlVG8uIdywI/AAAAAAAABXg/338WQsQFIzY/s320/2013-10-04+14.39.06+sf.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Place<span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-small; line-height: 16px; text-align: left;"> Masséna, looking toward the fountain, the Old Town and the sea.</span></td></tr>
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Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-40964066257154578452013-10-03T06:21:00.000-04:002013-10-04T06:19:20.986-04:00First week of daycare<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--uJeh6pjtCs/Uk6Vy3lWjHI/AAAAAAAABXM/YSiQbXzwPm4/s1600/2013-10-04+10.25.59+sf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="174" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--uJeh6pjtCs/Uk6Vy3lWjHI/AAAAAAAABXM/YSiQbXzwPm4/s320/2013-10-04+10.25.59+sf.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rue de France, one of the pedestrian-only streets (most of the time)</td></tr>
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Today, I sat at a café on rue de France, sipping a cappuccino by myself. I know that sounds like a normal thing to do in France, but for me, the feeling was completely foreign.<br />
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Since giving birth to our son over a year and a half ago, I've almost never been alone. But, he's now started daycare and all that is changing. I'm happy about my new freedom, but it's definitely taking some getting used to!<br />
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At first, I felt guilty that I was leaving my kid with someone else, so I started dressing in business clothes so they wouldn't think I was going home to write (or worse -- just watch TV) in my pyjamas. "<i>Maman</i> has to go to work," is what they told my son when I left. I think it soothed me more than it did him!<br />
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The coffee downtown was supposed to offer a similar working-world baptism.<br />
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And, so here I am. Again. Finally. Having a baby -- more than any romance -- is the biggest whirlwind!<br />
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Here's how the daycare is going:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Ottawa Citizen Op-Ed: <i><a href="http://www.ottawacitizen.com/life/parenting/First+week+daycare+trust+verify/8988858/story.html" target="_blank">First week of daycare: trust but verify</a></i></span></h1>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">I seem to be doing a lot of sitting in my stories lately. Note: this is also new, and very, very good. (Running after a toddler really is a lot of work!)</span></div>
Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-17433245730386679122013-10-02T17:52:00.001-04:002013-10-02T18:16:57.488-04:00Stone housesI have fallen in love with a house here in the South of France and I want to buy it. The problem is -- well, one of the many problems is -- that it doesn't come with a toilet. Or running water. Or any electricity.<br />
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I really didn't mean to find this house, which is actually the shell of a stone villa, steeped in history (and olive and fig trees!) but, it came up in a real estate search and now I can't get it out of my mind.<br />
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Stone houses in France are pretty amazing. In some parts of the country, you can buy these shells (I say this because other than three to four standing walls, they're often fairly empty) for under 30 000 euros. That's insane. They require a lot of work to get them up to normal living standards, but that's still a price that's low enough that you could call it a hobby. And look what you can do with these <a href="https://www.google.fr/search?q=stone+house+france&es_sm=93&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=VpVMUvCyG6aY1AWa6YDIBg&ved=0CAcQ_AUoAQ&biw=1366&bih=624&dpr=1" target="_blank">places</a>!<br />
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Unfortunately, a stone house near Nice, even the non-flushable kind, goes for the price of a normal home -- not the hobby version. I can't afford that much and not be able to go to the bathroom.<br />
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Here's why I love this empty country house that I'm never going to be able to buy: It has a beautiful view of a perched village, has fig and olive trees already on the property, is within walking distance of a store that sells baguettes and other small necessities, and it's near a nice running path with a view over the city.<br />
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This is what it would look like out the window of that bedroom every morning: <a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Falicon_03.jpg" target="_blank">Ah</a>!<br />
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In the meantime... we're in the middle of scheduling some viewings at a few tiny apartments downtown.<br />
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p.s. Our baby has started daycare! I'm a writer again!Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-86099559974713763852013-05-09T18:26:00.002-04:002013-05-09T18:26:46.697-04:00Re-looking!I've been very, very absent as a blogger since our baby began walking and running. He runs fast, which means he's very hard to catch while I'm sitting at a computer. I know this is common, but I still feel guilty. I've got so many things to post!<br />
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Rather than going back in time, for the moment, I'll go directly to our new project. Well, our old project/new project. We're going to trash the walls of our bathroom in the hopes of selling our apartment! Demolition starts tomorrow!<br />
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We had our apartment up for sale for several months, then didn't do anything with it while we were in Canada and the US, then put it up again, then forgot about it for a bit, then had a few offers that fell through for various reasons, and now we're putting in some effort again. It's an exhausting project -- well, it's exhausting my imagination. I'm happy taking risks, but that doesn't mean that my imagination doesn't want to plan ahead. This time, we're giving the sale a real BUY OUR APARTMENT NOW! push. We're focused. We're fired up. We've got drop sheets and new tile.<br />
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In French, they call this type of renovation a "<i>re-looking</i>" rather than a make-over. I love it. In a make over, you remake something, in a <i>re-looking</i>, you change the way you see it.<br />
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<a href="http://www.pampai.com/creative-ideas-for-tiling-a-bathroom-floor/black-and-white-mosaic-floor-tile-with-marble-sink-and-memoirs-toilet-with-subway-tile-bright-hall-bath/" target="_blank">This</a> is possibly how I see our new shower turning out -- not because it's my dream shower, but because I think it's the one that might make the most sense.<br />
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My brother, who does this kind of thing for work as a real job, will be helping us tomorrow. Well, he might end up doing all of the work, depending on how he feels about our skill levels. I'll post some before and after pics when we're done, then I'll move onto some other updates: the wild boar who is living near our house, our new love affair with sea fishing (regardless of whether we're good at it or not), and Nice from a toddler's point of view...<br />
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I guess I'm<i> re-looking</i> the blog, too? Phew!Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-8891420503821295452012-10-16T06:18:00.002-04:002012-10-16T10:45:04.651-04:00A dream home in the country?We've put our apartment back on the market in the hopes of finding a place with a little more room for the baby. My concept of "a little more room" and the professor's concept, however, don't appear to be quite the same thing.<br />
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Last weekend, while browsing the apartment listings here in Nice, the professor asked how I'd feel about a having a little house in the country. I said that I'd always dreamed of having a small apartment in the city and a bigger place in the country -- one where I could have a big oak table outside and tons of dinner guests. It would be crazy and wonderful if we could somehow win the lottery and get everything in this next move, I told him, but I wasn't expecting to get this place in the country for a few years yet.<br />
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"We could just look for now," the professor replied with a big smile, pointing to an ad he'd found for affordable land just outside of the city.<br />
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So, we loaded the baby into the car and drove off to test out the concept -- each with our own idea of what having a home in the country meant.<br />
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My idea is probably one that many North Americans have: A villa that requires a little love and attention, that has a few grape vines, maybe an orange tree, and a perfect spot for a garden once a little weeding has been done. I pointed a few of these out as we drove through the little villages surrounding Nice, and a few more, even while the spaces between the villas grew, as we started to climb the side of one of the valleys in the Alps beyond the city. Eventually, though, I stopped pointing out villas altogether. There weren't any houses left.<br />
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The prof's idea of a house in the country, I soon discovered, was this: A tent. With some rocks around it, and a mist so strong that you feel as though you're in the clouds. The mist gives you some privacy, I guess, but only from the few lonely horses and goats that your kilometers-away neighbour might happen to own.<br />
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As we drove through the <i><a href="http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Col_de_Vence_(Alpes-Maritimes)">Col de Vence</a></i> in search of this land for sale, the prof. grew more excited and I grew more skeptical -- even though I love tents and normally think any adventure is great.<br />
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I now support this skepticism with a few facts I learned on the internet: The <i>Col de Vence</i> is apparently one of those <a href="http://www.coldevence.com/">UFO-sighting</a> kind of places. The theory: no one else was out there, so it must have been the aliens.<br />
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(I first looked up <i>Col de Vars </i>by mistake, which is described as a high mountain pass, with an elevation of 2108 m (6916 ft), that is ONLY OPEN from May until October. I believed that was the place because THAT'S how remote I consider it!)<br />
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We've been sticking to the city listings since -- not because we don't like the<i> Col de Vence</i>, but because it won't exactly take away the feelings of remoteness that I've been trying to shake since I first moved to France.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z1-EBmxpc2U/UH0hA986uwI/AAAAAAAABS4/ZYEllXo-QoA/s1600/Selling+apartment+048+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-z1-EBmxpc2U/UH0hA986uwI/AAAAAAAABS4/ZYEllXo-QoA/s320/Selling+apartment+048+small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Col de Vence </i>-- the pass that, well, isn't going to pass, but makes for a beautiful drive nonetheless. Cyclists, apparently, love it.</td></tr>
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Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-22985904566188293662012-10-04T04:41:00.001-04:002012-10-04T04:43:26.373-04:00The mandarin tree is dead!When we went to Canada for our several-month trip in the spring and summer, we left our beloved mandarin tree with a security guard in a building near us. Unfortunately, we didn't think about the fact that security guards, especially in France, often take holidays in the summer.<br />
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So, when we came back from Canada, here's the state that we found our mandarin tree in:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e_kqqSbZgHc/UG1EKiILJAI/AAAAAAAABSQ/Ak807OBsrZo/s1600/Mandarine+dead+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-e_kqqSbZgHc/UG1EKiILJAI/AAAAAAAABSQ/Ak807OBsrZo/s320/Mandarine+dead+small.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our poor, dead mandarin tree.</td></tr>
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The death of the tree didn't make me nearly as sad as the death of the little baby tree that had appeared beneath it around the time of our baby's birth. I'd sort of hoped that our baby would be able to pick fruit from that little tree for his whole life, once he got passed mashed pees and carrots, but that's not going to happen anymore. So sad.<br />
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On a happier note, we've now replaced the tree with some lovely flowers <span style="font-family: inherit;">-- <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 16px;">Bougainvillea</span>. They grow on balconies, walls and fences all over this part of France.</span> Our French neighbour gave them to the Professor with this little bit of advice to keep them alive, "These flowers are like a woman. If you're too nice to them, they won't stay beautiful."<br />
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He was joking, mostly, I'm sure, but we're determined to play hard to get.<br />
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For the baby's first birthday, I'm thinking lemon tree. Or kiwi (apparently you need both a male and female plant). Fig?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7l94RZrSBq0/UG1FaCn_ZMI/AAAAAAAABSY/wI60HXZosIM/s1600/Flowers+029+small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7l94RZrSBq0/UG1FaCn_ZMI/AAAAAAAABSY/wI60HXZosIM/s320/Flowers+029+small.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: small; line-height: 16px; text-align: start;">Our new Bougainvillea plants.</span></td></tr>
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<br />Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-599902481739887552012-09-10T11:32:00.000-04:002012-09-11T02:53:50.778-04:00We're back! -- Oh, Champs-ElyséesWe're back in Nice after many, many months in Canada, ready to figure out how life works for a little family in France. Our baby is now almost a little boy (in my mind at least), which hopefully means that I'll have a little more time on my hands to start blogging again. However, I'm going to start slowly so we can still spend a lot of our time outside.<br />
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The <a href="http://gofrance.about.com/od/francemonthlycalendar/a/France-In-September-Monthly-Planner.htm" target="_blank">fall</a> in Nice is my favourite time of year. The tourists start to leave, the <a href="http://www.coastandcountryfrance.com/property_news/personal-blog/the-10-top-beaches-in-nice-france/" target="_blank">beaches</a> empty out a bit, and the sun starts to cool down a little in the middle of the day. The <a href="http://fr.weather.com/weather/today-Nice-FRXX0073" target="_blank">weather</a> is still summery and beautiful and there are still flowers and ripe <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_fig#See_also" target="_blank">figs</a> on the trees, but carrying a baby around just isn't as sweaty. At least, that's what I'm hoping.<br />
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To begin our rediscovery of France this fall, we've started with a new, baby-friendly soundtrack for the car. I threw in a little <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Raffi_(musician)" target="_blank">Raffi</a>, and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sharon,_Lois_%26_Bram" target="_blank">Sharon, Lois and Bram</a> from my childhood (which has nothing to do with Nice or France) and the prof. went with some <a href="http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joe_Dassin" target="_blank">Joe Dassin</a>. So far, we can't get enough of <span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uA4KihbsISU" target="_blank">Les Champs-Élysées</a>. Click on it. I swear it will make you happier.</span><br />
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<br />Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-85215679692648533292012-05-30T13:17:00.001-04:002012-05-30T20:46:44.430-04:00Returning to Canada with the babyFollowing our trip to Venice, I took a break from blogging. I didn't really want to take a break, and I didn't mean to stop entirely, but I felt that I should take a small pause for the baby. I also wanted to make sure I tried out this whole "sleep when the baby sleeps" idea before filling my small daytime breaks with typing (when I should be catching up on sleep).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ArvHK5298KY/T8ZSkhdUepI/AAAAAAAABSA/BFayBLltowQ/s1600/Granville+Island++032+-+fs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ArvHK5298KY/T8ZSkhdUepI/AAAAAAAABSA/BFayBLltowQ/s320/Granville+Island++032+-+fs.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We took the baby on his first boat ride to Granville Island!</td></tr>
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Here's where we are now: We're on an extended visit to my continent to work, visit and introduce the new baby around. We're into our second month in Canada with two more months to go. So far, it's been fun, but also a little exhausting. We've been to Ottawa, Vancouver, and Seattle and we're still planning to hit Toronto, Montreal and New York before we're done.</div>
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I'm happy to be here roaming around, but I also miss France -- the country I now definitely consider home. I don't think the baby even remembers his home country, but he'll have plenty of time to explore it when we get back. Years and years, I would guess.<br />
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Anyway, breaks are good: Breaks to sleep, breaks from immersion, from blogging, from friends and family (or with friends and family), from countries or simply routine. A break is somewhat of a mini-leap, and even if it's short, it often provides some inspiration and renewal.</div>
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This break at least has me writing again, for the first time after the birth. Here's a story I wrote about giving birth to a baby in France for <a href="http://ottawaparentingtimes.ca/wp-content/uploads/read-online/opt_summer2012_flipbook/index.html" target="_blank">Ottawa Parenting Times Magazine</a>. (Pictures of us included!)</div>
</div>Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3154946722532200590.post-66028040779057765992012-03-20T09:24:00.002-04:002012-03-20T10:02:02.901-04:00The view from VeronaWhen you have a baby, your view of the world shifts. That includes your view of the future, of time, of space, of a human's basic needs, of love and laughter, friendship, family, eating with two hands, and basically anything else in life that you can imagine.<br />
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Travel also goes through a drastic change. So, in order to prepare ourselves for our giant trip to Canada, we've decided to first take a small car trip to Verona, Italy.<br />
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Here's how our view of travel has adapted...<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BFAueJPv-nc/T2iBl3xdx0I/AAAAAAAABRg/8_DT2l70g20/s1600/Nice+to+Verona+027+-+fix+small+c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BFAueJPv-nc/T2iBl3xdx0I/AAAAAAAABRg/8_DT2l70g20/s320/Nice+to+Verona+027+-+fix+small+c.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The 1st Century arena (Roman amphitheatre), now opera house, in Verona.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6AyNmQox9nk/T2iB_IMgA1I/AAAAAAAABRo/UkIAoH79KEw/s1600/Nice+to+Verona+040+-+fix+small+c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-6AyNmQox9nk/T2iB_IMgA1I/AAAAAAAABRo/UkIAoH79KEw/s320/Nice+to+Verona+040+-+fix+small+c.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Locks on a gate across from what's known as "Juliet's balcony," Verona. That's Juliet of <i>Romeo and Juliet</i>. The locks are surrounded by messy love-note graffiti and heart-shaped wads of gum.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gmJ1aJzQ4XY/T2iCM9yHDqI/AAAAAAAABRw/XE9xLGT-yRw/s1600/Nice+to+Verona+056+-+fix+small+c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gmJ1aJzQ4XY/T2iCM9yHDqI/AAAAAAAABRw/XE9xLGT-yRw/s320/Nice+to+Verona+056+-+fix+small+c.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Juliet's balcony, said to have something to do with Shakespeare, but apparently only added on to the Villa Capuleti in the 1930s to attract Verona tourists.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qTwf_OsdF3E/T2iCQzXLgBI/AAAAAAAABR4/E6VUh3lAtu8/s1600/Nice+to+Verona+074+-+fix+small+c.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-qTwf_OsdF3E/T2iCQzXLgBI/AAAAAAAABR4/E6VUh3lAtu8/s320/Nice+to+Verona+074+-+fix+small+c.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A romantic, self-serve laundromat where we watched the inserts for our cloth diapers roll around in a dryer.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Kerry MacGregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07090313252706338323noreply@blogger.com2