“You can’t consider yourself a world traveler until you’ve experienced a Canadian winter.”

This statement was made by our New Brunswick neighbour, Nicole.  Bruno had been complaining about our plans to spend winter in Canada all summer (these complaints were half-jokes but half expressions of very real fear), and we’d all tried to allay his gripes, to tell him how beautiful and fun winter could be.  But our Mediterranean Frenchman (who has spent the past thirty three winters avoiding the cold) wasn’t persuaded.

Nicole’s comment changed that.  I watched as Bruno sat up straight, focused his eyes, and accepted the challenge.  He would survive winter in Canada, and chalk it up to yet another worldly experience.  (Reading the newest book by his favourite extreme adventurer, Mike Horn, who survived frostbite, -60 degree temperatures, and the North Pole in winter, hasn’t hurt, either!)

While Bruno was in France this fall, my mom rummaged through boxes of winter clothes.  She pieced together a wardrobe for Bruno – from a hat and mittens to sweaters, boots, and even a snowsuit.  My father contributed a few warm shirts and gloves.  Bruno’s brother (who lives in Switzerland) contributed a few pairs of pants.

Bruno might not have felt the part, but at least now he looked it.

Bruno, braving his first real day of cold weather.

Modeling the very fashionable snowsuit look.

Say FREEZE…! I mean CHEESE!

I remember the night he returned to Canada, in late November.  I picked him up at midnight in the bitter cold.  He stepped outside the sliding doors of the Moncton International Airport and went straight back inside.  Straight out of that scene from Cool Runnings.  He layered on the winter gear I’d brought him (that he’d initially brushed off), and we raced to the car.

A few days later, we awoke to our first dusting of frost.  He was like a little kid at Christmas, mesmerized by the frost, snapping photos of it, and glancing every few minutes out the window as if he thought it would disappear.

It was the same scene a few days later when we got our first snowfall (all 1cm of it!), a few weeks after that when we got our first actual snow accumulation, and a few weeks after that, the first time the snowplough came to clear our driveway.  I can’t tell you how many photos I have of a light dusting of snow on our Big Blue Bus!

The first of MANY shots of Big Blue in the snow…. if you can call THIS snow.

This snow dusting is a bit more impressive.

Poor Big Blue! She was born and raised in Arizona, you know!

A shot of our car, just to be fair.

The snowplough pays us a visit.

Truly, though, the onset of winter has impacted me in a similar way as it has Bruno.  Though I am Canadian, and have lived through my share of winters, I haven’t experienced one in seven years, and I’ve only lived through two in the past twelve.  The body and spirit do forget.  As I’ve adjusted to the cold, to piling on the layers before going outside (which make me feel so, so big on top of my super pregnant tummy!), and short days, I’ve also found myself re-experiencing snow with fresh, wonder-filled eyes.

And it’s true – winter is beautiful.  In our lovely rental home in Bayfield, Nova Scotia, we have a sweeping view down the hill of the ocean.  We’ve caught so many glances of snow glimmering in the sun or dusted on the trees.  Sometimes the little river just in front of the sea freezes over, and a few times we’ve even had a layer of ice collect along the coastline (where, apparently, in March, we might catch sight of seals!).

Sometimes, when the day is mild or sunny, Bruno and I venture down that hill toward the water.  Bruno has fun following animal tracks in the snow (when I pointed out how snow had the advantage of showing the tracks more easily, he replied that the desert has the same advantage, minus the cold!) and I love the jolt that fresh cool air gives.  It has been strange not spending most of our time outdoors (something that living a nomadic life in a vehicle affords) but those midday walks have been literal breaths of fresh air.

Beautiful sunny winter day.

Nature really is incredible, isn’t she?

Rain frozen on the tree branches like a delicate, deliberate sculpture. Absolutely incredible to see!

We couldn’t see out the window for a couple days, but BOY we had a lovely stained-glass effect!

Visiting the frozen river down by the water.

Checking out the animal tracks!

Still, winter has been an adjustment for us.  We’re not used to watching the weather forecast so closely, but we now find it necessary because winter weather can impact our plans.  We learned that lesson on Christmas Day.  We had plans to go for Christmas dinner at my aunt and uncle’s place.  A few days before Christmas, we’d had heavy rain that had then frozen so much so that our Christmas Eve walk was more of a hilarious (and somewhat harrowing) skate.  On Christmas morning, snow began to fall, and our driveway – already an ice rink – accumulated a good few inches over the ice.  When my dad tested the vehicle on the driveway, he didn’t get five feet before getting stuck.  The vehicle lost all traction, and when he tried to bring it back to its original position, it began to slide sideways down the hill!  We weren’t going to be able to go to family Christmas Dinner if we couldn’t get out the driveway!

Here in Bayfield, I’ve found myself organizing my trips to town around good driving conditions.  More than once, I’ve missed an activity because the road conditions simply seemed too precarious.  Just yesterday, our pre-natal class was cancelled because of freezing rain.  When we do go out – even on good days – I watch like a hawk for black ice, and I think I’ve yet to drive the speed limit on a single road!  I must be so annoying to Bruno, always telling him about this type of snow being more slippery, or that exact weather condition being more likely to cause black ice.  He probably had no clue how many different types of snow there were!

An afternoon walk that was really an afternoon skate.

Bruno and my dad de-icing the driveway after the Christmas storm.

Of course, there have been other winter-related adjustments for Bruno, especially.  He’s had to learn how to salt the driveway.  He’s had to shovel the walkway to the car (though at least he’s not responsible for our very long driveway!).  He’s had to keep the house warm, which, because our home is heated primarily by wood, involves a fair amount of daily upkeep for him.  Every morning, he wakes early and heads downstairs to start a fire.  It’s always quite chilly in the morning, because, though we also have oil heaters in each room, we keep those set at only about 16 degrees celcius (61 degrees Farenheit) because the oil tank costs a pretty penny to fill.  Bruno then keeps the fire stoked most of the day, and on really cold ones even lights the second fire in our living room.  Every few days, he hauls in several wheelbarrows of wood from the outdoor wood shed (our indoor wood stash goes down surprisingly fast, I find).  He tries to time these trips with good weather, but he has been stuck at least once doing the job in a brutal wind storm.

Bruno trucking wood from the shed to the house.

Our wood stash!

Bringing in the wood, so we have it on-hand.

Shoveling the car free from the snow so we can go to town.

The only way our life hasn’t had to change much because of winter is in our pre-storm preparations.  In the countryside, losing power is a real possibility during a storm, but Bruno and I are so used to living without power, for preparing for long stints away from water and food sources, that this particular set of tasks has felt quite normal.  The other week, before a big wind storm arrived, we very naturally filled our bathtub with water and several jugs with drinking water.  We turned the thermostats up to bring the house to a warmer base temperature, and we got all our batteries charged, our flashlights within reach, and meals prepped while we could.  In the end, we didn’t lose power, but we’re told to expect to at least once this winter.  With our luck, it’ll be just after baby arrives… (it was!)  At least we have solar panels, a gas stove, and gas-heated water in the bus!

All in all, winter hasn’t been so bad.  I, for one, haven’t been as affected by the short days as I’d expected to be, probably because I have a lot of atmospheric lighting in our rental house that I turn on in the evenings, creating a cozy and pleasant atmosphere.  The holiday season in December made the month go by so quickly, and it was rather lovely to fill it with festive music, yummy treats, the lights of a Christmas tree, and the traditions shared with family and friends.  And the rest of our time has flown by because Bruno and I have kept ourselves oh-so busy preparing for baby.  Winter has felt, well, not as terrible as we’d expected.

Yesterday, however, the weather flukily turned mild.  It was 18 degrees celcius out – so warm that Bruno and I ate lunch outside on the patio!  As I took advantage of the mild day to go for a long walk, I remembered how much I love not being cold; how I love not being dressed in thick, constricting layers; and how I love being outside.

Such a tease – 18 degrees and a picnic lunch outside, in mid-January!!!

So I guess we’re merely surviving winter over here in the east coast of Canada.  I definitely wouldn’t go so far as saying we’re loving it.

Postscript: It’s now mid-March.  As I re-read this post, I can’t help but laugh.  The past month has been a complete JOKE as far as winter goes.  Sure, that first week of February we had some harrowing snowstorms (it was right around baby’s due date and we were very grateful Phoenix had already arrived, as we were saved the anxiety of wondering if we would make it to the hospital for the birth!). 

But in the past month, we’ve had almost zero snow and about as many days with positive temperatures as negative ones!  When my parents come over for a visit, they remark at how incredibly warm our house is (and marvel at the fact that Bruno is wearing his usual uniform of shorts and a t-shirt), even though Bruno isn’t feeding the wood stove as often as before, and we’ve only JUST refilled the oil tank (and it wasn’t even totally empty!)

All in all (and I hope I’m not putting my foot in my mouth by saying this), Bruno and I have gotten off really easy this winter.  It hasn’t even been a true Canadian winter, according to the locals.

This begs the question of whether Bruno has met Nicole’s challenge or not.  Can he truly consider himself a true world traveler?  Has he actually experienced a Canadian winter?

The jury is out.  If the next month is anything like this past month, I think Bruno, Phoenix and I are going to have to spend an upcoming winter in the Yukon if we’re ever to call ourselves world travelers.

The fun thing is that I’m actually writing this three weeks before my due date (trying to get ahead on a few posts in order to buy myself a blog-free February), so I have no clue yet if baby will have already been born, whether he/she will come today (statistically only a 5% chance of that!), or whether I’ll be waiting another week or two.  Oh, the mystery…

Waiting for baby!

Our friend and neighbor took these of us just before Christmas. Out back behind my parents’ home and beach.

In the meantime, Bruno and I have definitely been keeping busy.  There’s so much to prepare before baby’s arrival that I truly don’t know how couples who work full-time manage!  What follows is a brief description of what Bruno and I have been up to since moving into our rental home in Bayfield, Nova Scotia, and how we have been getting ready for our bundle’s arrival:

Bruno, the Bus Renovator

Bruno’s days have mostly revolved around renovations inside our Big Blue Bus.  When we left on our road trip from Mexico to the east coast of Canada last spring, our bus was liveable but definitely not finished.  With a busy family-oriented summer and two months in France, Bruno couldn’t manage to psyche himself up to continuing our bus renovations this fall.

Something about the impending arrival of a baby changed that.  There were, after all, a few essential adaptions we needed to make in Big Blue before we set out next spring with baby-in-tow.

The logistics of working inside Big Blue weren’t super simple, of course, with winter temperatures upon us.  Our Herber-Spacher heating system is not designed for sub-zero temperatures in such a large space, and our bus’ big windows didn’t help, either.  Bruno parked the bus literally right outside the front door of the house, to protect the bus from ocean wind, to be able to hook up to our house’s mains electricity, and also to make the outdoor to-and-from journey as short as possible!

Our Big Blue Bus parked JUST outside the front door of our rental home.

Trying to keep the bus warm using a combination of cardboard insulation and space heaters.

Good ting Bruno has the workshop in the basement – it allows him to warm up after being out in the bus!

Still, even after temporarily insulating and closing off most windows and adding an electric space heater, the temperature inside the bus was far from ideal.  Thankfully, we had a mild early December, so Bruno worked full-tilt inside Big Blue.

The essential tasks?

1. Install baby’s car seat. Our bus only has two seats (and one of them we installed ourselves), so we had to figure out a workable arrangement for baby.  After toying around with several different options, we settled on installing a rear-facing car seat at our kitchen table.  Bruno found a system that quickly lowers our table to bench-height, and he installed heavy-duty straps to the chassis of the vehicle.  I found a car seat that has a small enough base to fit into our tight space, and, most importantly, that can be installed and removed in about a minute (thank goodness for the Click-Tight system!).  This way, we can lower the table and install the car seat when we’re about to hit the road, and remove the car seat when we set up camp, allowing us to use our kitchen table as before.  A simple solution, but one that did take quite a bit of time to figure out!
2. Build a baby bed. This, too, involved a whole lot of thinking, mainly because we needed to decide what sleep philosophy we would adopt for our baby and where we could build a bed that would least limit our evening use of our limited living quarters.  In the end, we have found only a temporary solution, but at least it will get us through the first few months in the bus.  Bruno has built a “side-car bed,” which is essentially a mini-crib with three walls that gets pushed up against my side of the bed.  My hope is that this will make night-time breastfeeding less disruptive.  Bruno’s bed design is currently at the correct height for the bed in our rental home, and then we will cut down the legs when we move out and spend a few weeks with my parents in New Brunswick.  When we move into the bus, we will remove the legs entirely, as well as one of the walls, and install the bed on a wooden platform beside my side of the bed in the bus.  I found a mattress that fits between the bed and the bus wall perfectly (not easy to find!) and Bruno has rigged up a way for us to remove the bed platform during the day so we can still access our bedside storage space.  We’ll see how it works in practice, but in theory it seems like a pretty good temporary solution!
3. Install window screens. Though not directly baby-related, the fact of the matter is that we plan to spend time in buggy warm climates next summer, and need to protect baby (and ourselves!) from mosquitoes and other critters.  With our massive, odd-shaped windows, it took us a lot of time to find a window screen system that would work (and that wouldn’t break the bank).  Eventually, Bruno found some screens in France, which he had me bring back on the airplane in November.  It still took him the better part of a week to install them (as with everything in the bus, the job involved much tweaking and problem-solving), but they’re up!

Car seat installed!

Bruno working on the baby bed in the basement workshop.

And there’s the baby bed, ready to go in our bedroom upstairs!

And here’s the workspace when the window screens were being installed. Dear me, the bus is a mess!   (Check out the strip lights Bruno installed this fall!)

Bruno scrambled to get those tasks complete before the true winter freeze set in.  He was very grateful for the workshop in the basement of our rental home, both because it allowed him to warm up a bit, and because he had the tools and space to build the bed and make cuts to the window screens.

After the holidays, with a few weeks left to kill before baby’s arrival, I convinced Bruno to work on a few more bus-related projects that, though not essential, will be much-appreciated come spring when we hit the road again.  He has installed my spice jars under my kitchen cabinet, created a ledge in the bathroom for diapers (and installed lights in the bathroom, too!), and built a custom medicine cabinet for our toiletries.

Installing my spice jars.

Bruno building a medicine cabinet!

Looking good, gonna be installed on the wall once the mirror is glued inside. :)

Our future diaper storage area in the bathroom, with some very nice lighting! Good work, Bruno!

Those tasks, in combination with the lights he installed in September and the awning we had installed while we were in France, mean that Big Blue is a few steps closer to being totally complete!

Brittany, the Nesting Mama

With Bruno in bus renovation mode, I’ve settled into my role of preparing for baby’s arrival.  Some of this has involved practical tasks, like finishing all the essential shopping for baby stuff (thank you to all those who contributed to make these purchases possible!), getting the car seat installed by a certified car seat technician (boy, did I learn a lot!), and packing my hospital bag (which, in my case, has involved a lot of mixing of essential oils, haha!).  I have also prepped our diaper station, organized and put away baby’s clothing, and looked into things like family doctors, travel insurance, and baby’s first passport.

Of course, I’ve taken time to nest, too.  As I write this, I have a full month’s worth of home-cooked meals in the freezer, ready for weeks of post-partum healthy eating (thank you to dad for all your help, and to Bruno for the homemade bread!).  I have been reading up on breastfeeding, baby sleep, and general baby care to arm myself with as much knowledge as possible post-partum.  I have made sure to take care of my body with yoga classes, walks, and lap swimming and gym-going at the facilities at St. Francis Xavier University.  Though I haven’t has as much time to rest and relax as I’d hoped, I have made time for an almost-nightly bath.

Reading up on baby stuff from one of the only positions I’m comfortable in.

OK, I’m pretty comfortable in this position, too. Almost-nightly baths with my Hypnobirthing Relaxation on the speaker.

Look at Bruno’s beautiful bread!

The reason I haven’t had too much time to relax is that I created a pretty big project for myself – to go through the 30-odd boxes I had stored in my parents’ crawl space since moving to Zimbabwe seven years ago.  I’d like to cut down the amount of belongings I return to them this spring, so I have painstakingly gone through each box, determined which few items I want to hold onto, and tried to sell, gift or donate the rest.  That last part – the effort for my stuff not to end up in landfills – has been the most time-consuming part of the project.  The fact is, we live in a society filled with so much cheap stuff that few people bother to purchase used, and few organizations want more influx of donated goods.  My efforts have partially paid off, but with baby due to arrive any day, I don’t think I will manage to finish this project, unfortunately.  Sorry, mom!

Going through old books. Donated most of them.

Going through old CDs was a slightly more emotional process. They’ve gotta go, but to whom?

Preparing for Baby Together

Bruno and I took a Hypnobirthing Pre-Natal class this fall/winter, and we have continued practicing the techniques we learned in that class to make labor and birth as smooth as possible.  We have also been visiting the midwives every week or two.  Last week, we began taking a pre-natal class offered by a local NGO, Kids’ First, and next weekend we are taking a two-day CPR and First Aid course.  We also interviewed a few potential doulas, and have chosen one – Jenny Delaney – who will be with us for physical and emotional support throughout our labour.

Finishing our hypnobirthing pre-natal class last month.

Groceries and errands in town FAR too often. At least they have reserved parking for pregnant ladies!

Last, but definitely not least, we made time just before Christmas to have a professional maternity photo session.  I am SO excited about the results of the session that I can’t help but share a few photos here.

The maternity photos are taken, the meals are prepped, the bus is ready(ish).  I’d say we’re about ready for baby to arrive!  Now we just have to wait and wonder when that day will be!

Early last year, when we finally purchased that larger vehicle (our Big Blue Bus), we spent six weeks living in a home in Tucson, and another five weeks in a home in Ensenada, Baja California, Mexico in order to transform the shuttle bus into a new home-on-wheels.

Today, I am writing you from yet another “home” – this one in Bayfield, Nova Scotia, Canada.

Our “home” in Bayfield, Nova Scotia, Canada.

A view of the back of the house.

A couple posts ago, I announced that Bruno and I are expecting our first baby.  In that post, I explained that we chose to work with two midwives based out of St. Martha’s Regional Hospital in Antigonish.  When we first made that decision, we figured we would stay in the New Brunswick area until a couple weeks before my due date (right around now), find a local hotel or Air BnB to stay in while we waited for baby to arrive, and then jet back to New Brunswick the week following the birth.

As time passed, we realized this was not a practical decision.  From November onwards, our pre-natal appointments were bi-weekly, and this month, they are every week.  Between the 3-hour drive each way and the actual appointment, driving from New Brunswick to Antigonish took the entire day and cost us a pretty penny in fuel.  Locals, upon hearing our plan, cautioned us that the highway we’d have to take was notoriously unpredictable in winter (and winter is already unpredictable in Canada!).  Lastly, the midwives confirmed that they could deliver our baby anytime between 35-42 weeks, and that they do post-partum visits for the first six weeks after birth.  When I started to do the math, I realized we’d have to be in Antigonish for possibly 13 weeks, depending on when baby chose to arrive.

It suddenly became clear that we’d be best spending the winter in Nova Scotia.

Antigonish is a small town near the north-eastern coast of Nova Scotia.  It has a population of about 4,000 and its downtown area spans only about five square kilometers.  Within that small space, however, is a highly reputed university, St. Francix Xavier, that doubles the size of Antigonish during the school year.  Because of the student population, dotted along Main Street are quite a few cafés and restaurants.  There’s also a yoga studio, a farmer’s market, several naturopaths, acupuncturists and osteopaths, and a health store.  Basically, the town has everything Bruno and I could need to get us through a long Canadian winter.

Downtown Antigonish.

St. FX University in Antigonish.

A Sunday night Irish open mike session at Townhouse Pub.

The Farmer’s Market.

Taking advantage of Antigonish’s restaurants before baby arrives!

However, because Antigonish is a university town, all its accommodation is geared to students.  There are lots of lovely wood century homes that I’d have loved to rent in town, but they’re all rented out by the room to students from September to May.  Even the campground mobile homes and the town’s largest inn are rented to students.  Try as we might, Bruno and I couldn’t find a place to rent for a few months in town itself.

That’s how we ended up in Bayfield, 25km east of Antigonish.  Bayfield isn’t even a town, really.  I mean, it is, on a map, but in reality, it’s no more than an intersection of two roads (one of them dirt) at an Anglican church.  There is no “downtown,” no “main street,” no shops.  Not even a gas station or a corner store.  (Amazingly, though, there is an Iyengar yoga studio, complete with a Senior-Level Iyengar yoga teacher, just five minutes up the road from our house!).  The residents of Bayfield live on or just off the County Road that winds along the coast toward Cape Breton.

Bruno and I are two of those County Road residents.  Ordinarily, neither of us would want to live on a main road, but we actually chose this home partially because of that road – we wanted as clear of a route to Antigonish and the hospital as possible in case of a winter storm when labour sets in.  And besides, our piece of land is so long that our house is several hundred meters from the road, and we don’t hear a peep of traffic.  Instead, we are surrounded by rolling fields, without a neighbour in sight, and with a thoroughly lovely view of the ocean out back.

A birds’ eye view photo of our large property here in Bayfield.

Big Blue parked out front. See how far the road is? (It’s at the tree-line).

Nice view of the water!

Paul and Jennifer built this home themselves a dozen or so years ago, using the foundation of the old century country home that had stood here.  Paul, a lobster fisherman, is from one of the oldest Bayfield families, and Jennifer’s is an equally old Antigonish family.  They built their home using reclaimed wood and barn scraps – the result is a charming country-style home perfect in its imperfection.  I loved it from the moment I stepped inside, and though we visited nine homes within a thirty minute radius of Antigonish, this was the only home in which I truly saw myself.

The house is large.  Larger than necessary, and larger than I’ve ever had to clean before (which has become all-but impossible at this late stage of pregnancy!).  We have a basement, where I’ve stored all the boxes I’ve had at my parents’ home for the past 7 years (more on that in my next post), and where Bruno has been able to use Paul’s workshop and all his tools to do some more bus renovations (more on that, too, in the next post!).  We have three bedrooms upstairs, including a gigantic master bedroom with a big, luxurious queen-sized bed.  Upstairs, there’s also a little office nook and a bathroom with a bathtub (which I take advantage of several evenings a week!) and the best view of the ocean in the entire home.  I’ve never spent so much time brushing my teeth!

Our master bedroom. BIG bed!

Check out that bathroom! It has THE BEST view!

Though the upstairs has the charm of the A-frame ceiling and the view of the ocean, downstairs is truly where it’s at.  We have a side entrance that leads to a mud-room that my mother is incredibly jealous of; a Mexico-themed bathroom with washer and dryer (which will be life-saving in a couple weeks with all the diapers and baby clothes we’ll be washing!); and a living space that is so cozy and charming I can’t speak highly enough of it.

Thick wood beams decorate the walls and ceilings.  The large living room has windows around its three walls, so that even though it’s winter, we have lots of natural light.  There’s a piano I have enjoyed tinkling around with, and we pulled my amazing sound system and record player out of storage so that we can rock out to music all day long (a necessity for Bruno when he’s house-bound).  The kitchen has long, beautiful tiled countertops that put even my Big Blue Bus kitchen to shame (which is saying something, because we have quite the kitchen in that bus!).

Our living room.

The other part of our living room.

Look at that big kitchen!

Playing records on our wicked sound system!

Taking advantage of the piano!

The open-concept living space surrounds the pièce de résistance – the wood-stove fireplaces.  These two fireplaces serve as the home’s main source of heat (we also have oil furnaces in each room, but oil is incredibly costly to fill).  Bruno was not excited about having to heat the house by fire (it’s actually why he was against renting this place at first), and I do understand his perspective – twice a week he has to lug in firewood from the barn outside using a wheelbarrow; in the morning he wakes up before me to start the fire; and if it’s cold enough, he has to keep it going all day long (and sometimes even lights the second one).

But that fire adds such atmosphere to our home that I’ve felt myself almost liking winter.  Not to mention the fact that having a fire going has been energy-saving in many ways.  First of all, I can slow-cook stews and soups on the stovetop, and roast vegetables or reheat foods in the wood-oven.  Secondly, we keep a giant lobster pot full of water on the stovetop, which serves to humidify the home, retains warmth inside the home for several hours after the fire dies at night, and serves as the hot water for my almost-nightly bath!

Our primary wood stove.

We got another one in the living room for really cold days (only had to use it twice so far, I think).

Bruno loading the fire. That stash of wood lasts only about a week.

All in all, we are terribly comfortable here in Bayfield.  The great relationship we have with our midwives, the yoga studio down the road, and the absolute comfort of our rental house confirms that we made the right call in settling ourselves in Nova Scotia for the winter.  Now all we need to do is wait for baby to arrive!

It’s the longest we’ve stayed in one place since I worked in Uganda almost four years ago.

At the beginning of this very atypical [for us] sedentary adventure, I expressed my excitement and pleasure at being stationary.  I was totally digging the comforts of a house, the domestic routine, the feeling of groundedness and community that my nomadic life lacks.

I also predicted that, eventually, the novelty of the mundane would wear off, and that I would be ready to hit the road again.

I was right.

I don’t know exactly when the shift occurred – all I know is that, in time, I found myself daydreaming about being in Totoyaya and getting excited again about foreign places in books and on TV.  At the same time, I noted that my gratitude for basic household comforts (like hot water and a washing machine) was diminishing, and that my once-mindful appreciation for my daily routine was being dogged by everyday frustrations and problems.

The novelty of living a normal life in a normal house was wearing off, and I was able to see what this type of life would be like for me without my rose-tinted glasses on.

Having lunch with Bruno and his parents – one of our post-yoga routines that never got old.

Hosting family was an amazing way to strengthen our community in France.

Extended lunches with extended family.

There are definite advantages to living in one place for an extended period of time.  The one that jumps out at me the most is the ability to create roots.  When you’re in one place, you become part of a community, you gain a deeper grasp of a place, its people, and its place in time and space, and you carve out a place for yourself within in.  Maybe you join a club or activity that adds meaning to your life, maybe you turn a house into a home, maybe you create deep connections with people that aren’t possible when you’re flitting from place to place.

But there are also challenges to living in the real world.  During my nine weeks in France, I identified a few of them:

The Perpetual To-do List

Being in the real world involves a whole lot of work and responsibility.  I had to re-create a daily to-do list, something I’d happily given up four years ago when I embarked on this nomadic life with Bruno.  In France, as soon as I accomplished something (and get the satisfaction of checking something off my list!) two new tasks would emerge.  My to-do list seemed eternal.

What’s more, if I chose to make time for myself (to do yoga, to walk the beach, to play in the kitchen, to read), a part of me would feel guilty for taking time off.  Not only did I know, in the back of my mind, that I had so much work to do (which was stressful enough), but I was often hyper-aware that even though I had chosen to take some time for myself, Bruno had chosen not to (he consistently ran around like a chicken with his head chopped off).

Trust me, there is a lot less satisfaction in sitting outside in a lounge chair with a book when your partner is spray-washing the mobile home siding (and it’s not because he’s disturbing the peace).

Ultimately, I had so little free time that I really appreciated it when I did find some.  But I think I’d rather just have more free time.  Being able to nurture passions, hobbies, and interests adds so much satisfaction to my life that it is challenging to accept a life without the luxury of free time.

I couldn’t help but feel guilty for doing this…

… and this.

Especially when Bruno was doing this.

The Expense

A question Bruno and I often get is how we afford to live this life of travel and adventure (I respond directly to this question here).  What I can say is that, every time Bruno and I spend time in our house in France, our expenses double.

Yes, you read that right – our costs are twice as much living in a house in France than traveling around the world in our camper van.  I truly don’t know how this is because we have very little to show for our expenses.  But somehow, between food and entertaining and house repairs, our money just disappears.

I’m proud of our budget lifestyle in our camper van, as our low-consumerism and ability to find free fun definitely aligns with my personal values.  Perhaps more importantly, though, when we spend money in our camper, I know what it’s going to – experiences that we will remember for a lifetime.  Things like boating on the Arabian fjords in Oman, renting a luxury villa for a huge family reunion in Morocco, fine dining in Italy, and visiting rock-hewn churches in Ethiopia are all concrete – and therefore worthwhile, (to me) – ways in which we spent our money.  It’s frustrating for me to spend twice as much money living in a house without anything tangible to show for it.

The Relationship Challenges

After not living in a real house – with real responsibilities – for almost 18 years, it’s understandable that the pace of life made Bruno a tad stressed throughout our time in France.  Bruno’s work ethic is absolutely astounding, but because of the perpetual to-do list, I felt like Bruno suffered from low-grade anxiety for almost three months (and probably a month or so leading up to our decision to return to France).

I’m not ashamed to say that our relationship suffered during our three months in France.  It’s pretty understandable.  I mean, normally Bruno and I are together 24/7 experiencing eye-and-heart opening places and experiences together in a fairly stress-free way.  In France, we had very little time together at all, and the vast majority of that was either accomplishing tasks or falling onto the sofa at night to watch TV.

Bruno and I hanging out. This is what quality time looks like for us right now! :)

There’s not a single picture of Bruno and I during our entire time in France until we left the south and visited the new babies in the family.

I had to merge two photos together to get shots of the two of us!

Sure, we had a bit of social time to enjoy together.  And we could connect during mealtimes.  But during a lot of these moments, we were distracted – by other people, by fatigue, by stress.  It was emotionally unfulfilling to be sharing a life and a house with a partner without the depth of connection I have become accustomed to with him.

The Speed of Passing Time

For nine weeks, my Canadian butt lived in a house on the Mediterranean coast of France, and besides my local produce market and nearby commercial center, I saw none of it.  I am almost ashamed to admit that, despite all our best intentions, Bruno and I did absolutely no touristic exploration whatsoever.

I know I talked in a recent blog about how building a community took priority over being a tourist in France, but truth be told, I intended to achieve both.  The problem was that our motto became typical of non-nomadic people everywhere: Tomorrow, tomorrow.

When you have a to-do list, a routine, and responsibilities, it’s so easy to put-off doing special things like visiting a new town, historical site, or natural space.  Bruno and I fully intended to visit at least a few of the many worthy sites in our area, but we always put them off.  We thought we’d have time tomorrow, knew these places would still be there tomorrow.

Well, enough tomorrows went by, and suddenly, nine weeks had come and gone and I was on a flight to Canada.  Though I’m satisfied I prioritized domesticity and community over tourism (in order to balance out what I get the rest of the year), I’m kicking myself just a little bit for letting time totally pass me by without taking advantage of exploring my temporary – and very interesting and beautiful– surroundings.

My most beautiful touristy shot of France in 9 weeks.

In France, I did more of this.

And this. I’m ok with that.

But it woulda been fun to do this too.

I’m definitely not saying that living in a home sucks.  I’m in no way criticizing the majority of you who have chosen a non-nomadic, domestic existence for yourselves.  I’m sure that many of you have found ways to get past these real-world challenges, to find solutions or tactics that help you manage them, or to balance them with the advantages of non-nomadic life.  (Maybe you don’t even find them challenges at all!)

I’m just saying that, because I don’t regularly live the non-nomadic life, it’s been easy (and interesting) for me to compare it to my nomadic life, to observe the differences, and to note the advantages and drawbacks to each (I talk more directly about the plusses and minuses of living in a camper van here).  At the very least, these notes can be sociologically interesting, but at the most they could also provide perspective for those of you so immersed in the real world that you don’t even realize the challenges it entails.

I already knew that occasionally dabbling with a domestic, non-nomadic life is valuable to me because it allows me to tap into the exact opposites of the life I normally lead – community, roots, routine, comfort.  What I didn’t realize was that stepping into the real world would renew my energy and appreciation for my life on the road.  After my refresher course on the challenges of regular life, I am refilled with gratitude for the fortune I have to live my amazing nomadic life.  Thank you Universe!

We may not have properly factored in the amount of time we’d have to set aside for our work goals.  I can count the amount of touristy things I did in almost 3 months in France on a single hand.

First finger: I dragged Bruno to a Thai restaurant up the road that I’d been curious about for some time.  I’d noticed it was hosting a free Thai buffet to celebrate Songkran, the Thai New Year which infamously involves three full days of giant countrywide water fights.  We wandered over for a plateful of Thai food and were subjected to gloriously tinny Thai music while my face was festively smeared with clay.  Oh, the nostalgia of my days in Thailand!

Celebrating Songkran (Thai New Year) in the South of France!

One of the ways Thais celebrate their new year is by smearing wet clay onto one another’s faces.

Second finger (this one, at least was related to France):  We walked to the mouth of the nearby Hérault River for some afternoon crêpes.  Mine was topped with nutella, of course, while Bruno chose the traditional toppings of lemon and honey.

Digging into monster-sized crêpeson the edge of the Hérault River.

Third finger: I spent an afternoon walking around Sète, a harbour city about 40 minutes away that my parents had raved about after their visit in 2014.  Since Bruno was doing his truck driver’s license there, I piggybacked on a ride and visited the city’s alleys and canals while Bruno studied at the auto école.  The city did seem quite photogenic, with all the quintessential French cafés and flea markets, but truth be told, I was focused more on acquiring brochures and information for the tourism binder I was creating for future renters of our home than on my own tourism.

Even with a crap camera (my point-and-shoot), Sète is a photogenic city.

Sète is built around several canals, and there’s even a square island entirely surrounded by them. The vibe of the city is all about the water.

Our pitiful tourism record was due to more than just our lack of free time in France – it was also the fact that, in France (like in Canada), I don’t really want to wear my tourism hat.  I spend most of the year getting my fill of incredible places and experiences.  In France, it’s more about people.  Note the following people-oriented tourist experiences:

Fourth finger:  I went to Vinocap, a wine-tasting festival on the pier of Cap d’Agde.  We brought along Bruno’s wine connoisseur of a brother and sister-in-law, Patrice and Micheline, as well as their daughters, Romane and Lucile.

We purchased wine glasses on a string for 3 euros apiece that allow you samples from any of the 96 regional producers present.  I realized I have very little knowledge of wine, but it was nonetheless deliciously hedonistic to wander around with a glass around my neck sampling this red and that white.  The pours were quite generous, the producers always interested in chatting (about wine or other things – for example, the producer from St. Thibéry was quite happy to reminisce about the kindness of Bruno’s mom and her own mother and aunt), and the ambience very, well, jolly.  The best part of all, though, was getting to share the experience with family.  There were a lot of group giggles.

Vinocap wine-tasting event made better with family!

A 3 euro wine glass on a string buys you access to 96 regional producers.

Traditional regional dancing and a very jolly vibe.

Chatting with the viticulturist from St. Thibéry .

Fifth finger: I visited the weekly market in the center of historic Agde, something I’d done back in 2014 with my parents.  A week earlier, my mom had teased me over the phone that they would need to fly out to France so that we’d take advantage of sightseeing in the region.  She wasn’t wrong – the reason I ended up at the Agde market was because I was playing hostess to my friend Richard.

Richard and I met years ago while trekking in Nepal, in a hilarious moment of confusion on our first night in a lodge.  Our pace stepped into line for the better part of a week, and when he finished his trek to Everest Base Camp he stopped in on me in Kathmandu for a bit of revelry.  Several years later, I visited him in his hamlet home in the center of France, and a year after that, we met up for the day in London.  Richard has made quite a few appearances on this blog over the years.

We hadn’t seen each other in over 3 years, and here we were, in as close proximity as we’ve been since (Richard is the caretaker of the lovely Chateau Marconne in the north of France, a job he got on HelpX, in case anyone is curious).  Since Bruno and I were hyper-busy, he kindly agreed to hop on a train and visit for a few nights.

It was, as always, an amazing reunion.  We didn’t miss a beat, talking late into our first night, and for 13 non-stop hours the following day.  At least one of those hours occurred on a beach walk to Le Grau d’Agde and at a café in the square, but if you’re not paying the least bit of attention to your surroundings, can you really count this as a tourist visit?  The following day, after having broached every philosophical, moral, and esoteric topic possible, we were able to take a break from our tête-a-tête to cycle along l’Hérault River into Agde and to the market.

My friend Richard comes to town! :)

Cooking up a storm together.

Super happy to be able to introduce Bruno to Richard.

We briefly browsed the clothing and cheap Chinese goods section, then decided to find a table in the sun at a quintessentially French café.  We weren’t the only ones with that idea, as all the sun-kissed tables were full.  Richard spotted a lady sitting alone, looking sad and disinterestedly gazing into her phone.  He asked if we could sit with her, and she lit up.  For the next thirty minutes we chatted in French, learning that she was a tour guide who’d sent her troops into the market and was enjoying a few relaxing petits cafés.  She told us where to find the food market, hidden in a couple of back alleys near the place central, and then she was off.

This is one of the many things I love about Richard – his desire to connect with people, and the ease with which he draws them out.  Added bonus if we get to wander around a typically French food market as a result of the connection.

The café where we chatted up the French local.

Agde’s food market, which we were lucky to find!

Tourism… finally!

As Richard would remind me, the advantage of being in one place for an extended period of time is the ability to build community.  Community is something that Bruno cares not one iota for, and admittedly is something I tend to forget about for long stretches of time, until my sense of isolation makes me irritable and dissatisfied.  Within days of my arrival in France, I realized that my time here – besides being about our work goals – should be much more about reconnecting with the world and existing within a community than being a tourist.  I’m a tourist all year long, so when I finally find stillness, it’s about digging roots.  Even if those roots will inevitably get dug up.

This is why, instead of touring Carcassonne, I set about finding a yoga teacher and a zumba class the moment I arrived in town.  (I looked for a choir, too, but they didn’t want someone who would only be there for two months.)  These group activities help me feel grounded to a place and are things I deeply miss when I’m on the road.

This is why, instead of visiting Nîmes, we did things like go to Bruno’s god-son’s rock gig, where he drummed his heart out to an audience of familiar faces.   It’s why we drove halfway across France, not to visit la Camargue, but to visit the newborn twins of Bruno’s niece (who are absolutely the cutest things ever!  Congratulations to the Garnier family!)  And it’s why, instead of sampling Spanish tortillas in Barcelona, I organized so many big lunches at our home-on-the-beach.

The scene of Bruno’s godson’s gig, in the small village of Villeveyrac.

Benji and his band.

Welcome to the world Eden and Ava! (Just over three weeks old).

And we can’t forget my special friend, Leo! (Bruno is holding Ava and Patrice, Bruno’s brother and the grandfather of these kiddos, is holding Eden.)

The BIG happy family! (We couldn’t get Leo to open his eyes because he’s pretending to be a sleeping baby like his little brother and sister!  Too cute!)

In France, I haven’t had to build my own community (I’ll save that fun experience for another time) because there is already one firmly set in place – Bruno’s family and childhood friends.  Our time in France is, above all, a chance to connect with the special people in Bruno’s – and now, my – life.  Most of the year, we’re a community of two, but in France, that community is much, much larger.

Once or twice a week, every single week, I hosted a meal with Bruno’s family or friends.  It was definitely a lot of work and a challenging cultural experience to cook for French people (one you all know this food-obsessed blogger will write about in a separate post), but it was invaluable for Bruno and I to be able to host people who’ve spent so many years hosting him instead.

Family nachos.

Mixing up friends and family.

Pizza night for the nephews.

Just the friends.

Of course, we still enjoyed a few big meals in the homes of others.  There was Easter lunch at Annie and Pierrot’s, where I hid Easter eggs for the first time rather than finding them (I was totally jealous of the chocolate-faced kids); the 3^rd birthday party of the daughter of Bruno’s cousin, where the parents fed a long table of thirty people the biggest paella I’ve ever seen (being so close to the south of Spain, paella is very much a part of the food repertoire of this part of France); a grillade (French-style barbecue, where, instead of hot dogs and hamburgers, they cook merguez (spicy sausages) and other sophisticated cuts of meat) with a bunch of Bruno’s friends at one of their houses; and Annie’s birthday lunch at a seafood restaurant, where they de-shelled lobster and served it to us with pasta and creamy sauce (followed, I might add, by a lovely spa session with the women in the family).

In France, community is created over food, and we definitely felt the roots of our community deepen with every meal.

Easter egg hunt.

Easter lunch with the family.

That is one BIG paella!

Annie’s 80th birthday lunch with her hubby and three boys. Priceless.

Spa day with the girls of the family.

This photo was one of Annie’s birthday gifts. We’d taken it at Easter lunch. You can see her reaction. Best gift ever.

As our time in France passed, I found myself getting into a comfortable routine of work, socialize, relax, repeat.  Tomorrow became my motto when confronted with my list of things to see and places to visit.  In this way, the months have slipped through my fingers.  And now, they’re gone.

I didn’t mean for 87 days to go by without wearing my tourist hat.  But, in the end, here in France, people have taken the precedent over places.  And I’m ok with that.

I know I have no right to complain, that I lead an enviable, dreamlike life of leisure.  This was all true, until we came to France.  Well, since then, let me tell you, we have been paying the piper.

When Bruno and I decided to hasten from southern Spain to southern France back in late March, it was with two goals in mind: to prepare ourselves for our next phase of travel (which, since we want to upgrade our home-on-wheels, involved an arduous process of obtaining a truck driver’s license which I described here), and to ready our home-on-the-beach for seasonal rental.

I didn’t realize how much work the house-stuff would entail – I’ve never been a home-owner before.  Boy, was I in for a treat.

First, we tackled the renovations.  There were the walls to wash and patch, the building of our new outdoor sea-view balcony to oversee, as well as a cement wall in front of the terrace to block the approaching sand dunes.  There was the repair of our sliding garden door and front door lock, the two windows in the mobile home to replace, fissures in the floor tiling to repair, and a bamboo/wood awning to build.  We changed the location of the fridge and heaters, and messed around with the electrical connections in the electrical box.  Well, Bruno messed around with them.

Then, there were the aesthetic and practical changes and additions to the house.  There was the artwork to re-arrange on walls, the purchase and assembly of bunk beds, a kitchen armoire, a cleaning supplies cupboard, and a shelving unit and wardrobe for the second bedroom.  We scrubbed melted glue off the door and window frames and repainted them, and had sets of keys order, organized, and color coded.  We purchased new used mattresses for the mobile home and sold the old ones, sewed bedroom window curtains, and installed blinds for the front door window.

Our new awning.

Our new balcony.

Putting furniture together.

Our second bedroom after many practical changes.

Putting artwork on the walls.

Outside, we did some massive gardening.  There were weeds everywhere and entire sections of the garden that had no surviving plants.  We replanted the garden and painstakingly took out the weeds, including along the very long gravel driveway.  We stained the outdoor deck wood, and purchased new used plastic chairs for so cheaply it took a full day to scrub them white again.  We lugged crates of rocks from Bruno’s parents’ place to ours in order to arrange them into a long empty slot on our terrace,  washed the siding of the mobile home, and vacuumed up tons of sand lodged in our fake terrace.

This list is almost certainly incomplete, but it’s the best my fogged-up brain can come up with today.  In case you weren’t impressed with the list, remember that for the first six weeks of this work, Bruno was also juggling his truck driver’s license, which is like having a very stressful full-time job.  Most of the tasks I was forced to accomplish solo were things I was doing for the very first time in my life, ever.

Plus, because we’d decided to rent our home independently this year rather than through an agency, we needed to put a structure in place that would acquire clients, offer them everything they needed during their stay, and maintain the home between renters.  To do this, we spent hours placing rental ads on six different rental websites, which required taking new indoor and outdoor photos of the home, mobile home, and garden that were as professional and clean as possible.  We found a trustworthy cleaning lady to clean before each rental group.

And, in order to create a positive guest experience with a personal touch, we created a tourism brochure book of things to do/see in the region (which required me to visit tourist offices in four different towns, without a vehicle), and a welcome envelope for guests.  We ordered disposable bed and pillow liners, and organized pillows and blankets for each room.  We created a list of safety information and useful emergency numbers, and a pre-arrival letter which included detailed directions to our house and arrival instructions.

Staining the wood outside.

The new cement wall between our terrace and the sand dunes, with our DIY rock and plant landscaping.

Our garden, with a growing flower bed to the left and our awning in progress.

This is all above and beyond the everyday care of a home – the cleaning, the laundry, the grocery shopping, the cooking, the garden weeding… Let me tell you, after this experience living in a house, I’m more convinced than ever that living out of a truck is the only way to live.

Just as Bruno was completing his truck driver’s license and we were finally able to focus our attention on the house renovations (and trying to sell Totoyaya and buy a new vehicle, let’s not forget that!), we received the news that Bruno’s parents had decided to move from their big house near the village of St-Thibéry to their old, smaller family home opposite ours in Le Grau d’Agde.  This was happy news, indeed, and something the entire family had been pushing for these past couple of years.

But it also meant we were adding a 3^rd goal to our list of things to do in France – help Bruno’s parents move.

Annie, Bruno’s mom, has a house full of things collected from 80 years of her own life, as well as those of a whole whack of deceased relatives.  She’s sentimental, so never throws anything away – in other words, she’s a pack rat.  Her St-Thibéry home is full (literally so brimming that you can hardly manoeuver around it all) of old wooden furniture from her ancestors, and each drawer of each piece of furniture is filled with clothing, kitchenware, and documents from said ancestors.  To top that all off, she’s an avid reader who, in addition to her own massive collection, acquired the book collection of her daughter-in-law’s deceased father a few years ago.  Let’s add to all of this her own memorabilia and that of her three children, one of whom is nomadic and has left his own lifetime of belongings in the attic.

Mix in the very energetic and can-do personality of Bruno’s dad, Pierrot, who enthuses that he doesn’t need a moving van or a moving company, that nay, he can do the move himself.  What we have ourselves, now, folks, is a massive move for which two aging parents, and two unemployed nomads, will be conducting alone.

Packing things up from Bruno’s parents St-Thibéry home.

Emptying the kitchen.

A house full of stuff to move ourselves.  Who had THAT idea?

This is our moving van.

Bruno’s memorabilia has to go too…

For two weeks, we jetted back and forth between Le Grau d’Agde and St-Thibéry, lugging furniture onto their van and offloading it into their new home.  Each time we popped over, Annie handed us boxes of things to dispose of.  We sifted through years of belongings, choosing pieces to sell on France’s version of Kijiji or Craigslist (called “Le Bon Coin”), bagging up clothes for donation, and bringing other things to a give/take box outside an organic food store in Agde (which, just like the NYC curb on the TV program How I Met Your Mother, made things disappear almost instantly in a consumer-goods Bermuda Triangle).

Annie could have happily continued sifting through memories for months more, as each treasure recovered brought her back to her nostalgic past.  With this method progress was inevitably slow, and there was more show-and-tell each time we arrived than actual moving.  One day, Pierrot and the brothers decided enough was enough – that they would move into the new house then and there.  Pierrot and Annie were in the advantageous situation of still owning their St-Thibéry home while having immediate access to their new/old house in Le Grau (Rémy, Bruno’s brother, inherited it years ago).

The Give/Take Bermuda-Triangle box where we regularly drop off things. ALL these books are our drop-off, and we’ve sent the same quantity of things at least 8 other times.

Phew, this is hard work!

At least we’re in good spirits, as we sift through old things.

Look at the goodies you find when you empty out an old house – Bruno and his first girlfriend! :)

So, for two full days we readied ourselves for Moving Day, and on the third day, despite garbage-dump-loads of belongings still in their St-Thibéry home, we moved Annie and Pierrot to Le Grau d’Agde.  We set up all the furniture, cleaned the entire house like mad-people, and unpacked their basic necessities.

Since that day, and for the past ten, we visit Annie in the morning to see what she needs (artwork on the walls? furniture moved? items from St-Thibéry?) then drive to the old house to load more belongings destined for the new house/dump/free pile.   I feel like we’ve worked so hard – and moved so much stuff – that it’s truly disheartening every time we step foot into their old house and confront the sheer amount of things still left to deal with.  Truthfully, we won’t be able to get through it all before Bruno and I leave and we’ll likely have to find someone to come and lug it all away to do with what they want.

The important and marvelous thing is that Pierrot and Annie are now more or less settled in their home.  They have 90% of the belongings they want, almost all the furniture placed, and almost all the artwork on the walls.

Pierrot and Annie’s new house the day after they moved in. Not bad!

The living room.

To celebrate their move, Bruno and I cooked dinner for Pierrot and Annie at their new home.

Remy, the landlord (and Bruno’s brother!), comes by to check in on his new tenants!

But all this – the truck driver’s license, the work toward renting our own home, Pierrot and Annie’s move – has come at a price.  And that price has been Bruno and my health and happiness.  Bruno has been a ball of nerves for two months, running himself ragged all day, being short and snippy (as well as almost totally non-conversational) and collapsing on the sofa at night.  I have fared a lot better, still managing to find time to play in the kitchen, exercise, organize social events, and most recently, take advantage of the gorgeous summer weather with a book and a lounge chair.

But two days ago, I hit a wall.  All of a sudden, I felt totally bowled over.  Such an intense fatigue overtook me that I didn’t even have the energy to communicate.  All I wanted to do was lie down and refrain from moving my body.

I don’t know how most people live this kind of life all the time (is this what real life is like??).  An entire life can pass you by without you even knowing where the time has gone, without even having stopped to smell the roses.  Regular people are brave.

I am not.  I’ve gone soft.  I just want to jump in Totoyaya and take off toward the horizon.  If a few months ago I was dreaming about the comforts of life in a house, that dream is no more.  It only took a couple months of work to make me appreciate the luck I’ve got in life and to want it back, at all costs.

So, yes, I am ready to leave France now.

Oh yes, and about taking off in Totoyaya.  Yeahhhhhhhh, we haven’t had time to sell her or to buy a new vehicle.  Obviously.  We managed the first part of the road-worthiness test (called the contrôle technique), giving us the right to drive in France until July 10^th.  Beyond that, we’ll just have to play things by ear.  One problem at a time.

Welcome to France.

A Canadian in France!

I’ve never been especially drawn to France.  I mean, apart from Paris – which I saw for the first time back in 2011 – France has never been on my bucket list.

Apparently this is strange.  Most North Americans absolutely drool over all things French, there are more English expats in France than in any other country, and France has one of the highest rates of immigration worldwide.

But I’m more drawn to places that are as different as possible to my native Canadian culture.  I like places that speak kooky-sounding languages, seemingly have no rules of the road, have dirty and chaotic local markets, and have as different of a climate as you can to a cold, harsh Canadian winter.

So when I found myself married to a Frenchman and inheriting co-ownership of a house in the south of France, it was, like, not that exciting.  And when I found myself settling into said house on the French Mediterranean for a few months this spring, I didn’t even stop to think that it could be as interesting of a cultural experience as my time living in Senegal, Nepal, Thailand, Zimbabwe, or Uganda.

In hindsight, this was a bit lazy of me.  Any country – even one’s own – can provide unique perspectives and interesting experiences that shed light on one’s perspective, habits, and assumptions.  Just because I blend in with the French population, can speak the language, and can do my shopping in grocery stores rather than along roadsides, that doesn’t mean that my time here is devoid of cultural education.  Though I haven’t experienced blatant culture shock here, the subtle differences between my own culture and that of the French have led to a fair share of strange, uncomfortable, and noteworthy cultural moments that I now wish to share tongue-in-cheek.  Belle-famille and French friends, do not feel insulted.

Our house in the south of France would be a dream come true for many.

I can do my food shopping in a supermarket rather than a local market.

The French Language

I thought I spoke French fluently… until I married into a French family.  I went to a French school for ten years during my childhood, and later obtained a Bachelor of Education in French to teach French as a Second Language.  My mother is half French-Canadian, and my parents live in a francophone community in New Brunswick.  Bruno – my Frenchman – and I communicate entirely in French every single day.

Without tooting my own horn, I basically speak French as well as possible without it being my native language.

Yet, the moment I open my mouth in France, people know I’m not French.  They can’t quite place my accent – I don’t speak like a Québécois, so that automatically removes Canada from their radar – but they know I’m from nowhere in France.  I couldn’t be Swiss – I don’t use words like septante (seventy) or nonante (ninety), but I don’t quite have a Belgian accent, either.  I’m an anomaly, really.  At my zumba class last week, I was asked if I was Russian.  Russian!  Really?

As time has passed, I’ve become slightly self-conscious of the way I speak.  Not enough not to speak, of course, but just enough that, as I speak, I’m hyperaware of the moment where the other person will realize I’m not French and begin to mentally ponder my origins.

More challenging (and surprising) than this aspect of my foreignness, however, is the way my language skills come up short in social situations with Bruno’s friends and family.  I realize now that my French vocabulary is seriously lacking.  Not only did I stop enhancing it at the age of fourteen (because we moved to the US and thereafter I went to English schools), but I’ve let myself off the hook ever since.  In Canada – and especially the Acadian East Coast region of Canada – if you can’t think of the French word for something, you just say the English word.  Everyone understands.  It’s totally socially-acceptable.  Heck, it’s even cool.

When I do this in France, however, I draw blank looks.  Only Bruno understands what I’m trying to express, and the poor guy is then charged with the duty of translating his inept wife’s crazy ideas into comprehensible, beautiful, civilized French.

More surprising still is the fact that, often enough, I lose track of the conversation of my French family and friends.  Southerners speak with their own brand of French, involving a particular accent (an actual twang, if French can be twung) and lots of flowery expressions.  I’ll be following a conversation just fine, and then, suddenly, I’m out.  I’ve totally lost track of the nuances, and have to nod (or shake) my head, feign comprehension, and hope no one is asking me a direct question.

Trying (and failing) to communicate an idea with my limited French vocabulary.

What are you saying? God, I hope you’re not asking me a question… Just nod, Brittany, and they’ll never notice you don’t understand…

Whatever. It’s not worth speaking the language of a country that names a town “the dung”!!!

Forget about having a sense of humour in French.  Not a single one of Bruno’s relations think I’m funny, except when I say things like “ça goute bon” (which, to us Canadians, means “it tastes good,” but is laughably incorrect here in France).  In France, I’m simply the polite, wee-bit-slow, humourless foreigner.

French People

The French have a reputation for being cold and superior, of loving to complain, and of being traditional and incredibly nationalistic.  I’ve found this stereotype to be only partly true, at least here in the south.

Here, people greet one another in passing just about as often as in Canada, and that greeting occasionally turns into a bit of small-talk (especially when Bruno’s around).

What I find interesting is that the French will announce their arrival when they enter a place by saying a general “bonjour.”  I’ve experienced this countless times – at the zumba studio, dentist office, post office, small shop, you name it.  This took me by surprise at first, and I always forgot to announce my own arrival, but eventually I remembered to manage a slightly uncomfortable, non-committal hello.

La bise is even more uncomfortable to me.  French people don’t greet one another with handshakes or hugs – they kiss one another on the cheeks.  In most of the France, la bise is two kisses (one on each cheek), but in this region of France, people give one another three fast kisses (going back and forth from cheek to cheek).  I’ve even received four kisses a few times, but admittedly they were administered by old men who just wanted to take in my nectar of youth.

La bise has become perfectly natural when I greet our friends and family – it’s just uncomfortable when I meet someone new.  I’m never sure if the new acquaintance is bise-worthy, or if a handshake will suffice (the French do handshakes in formal occasions, and Bruno does them more often than most, which just confuses me more).  I remember before meeting Bruno’s niece in Kenya several years ago I worried profusely about how we would greet one another and how many kisses we would give; and just today I worried about whether I would do la bise with my yoga teacher, who bised me last week (for the first time) because another Frenchwoman was saying goodbye that way and I was next in line.  Are we on bise-terms now, or was that a one-time thing?

The French do la bise when saying goodbye to one another, which I find slightly less confusing, since at least you’ve had a chance to warm up to the person and situation before determining whether to go in for the kill or not.  Overall however, I prefer the Canadian casual goodbye for purely practical reasons – it takes a hell of a long time to bise a roomful of guests you barely spoke to at the end of a birthday party for thirty.

These are just about the only lips I truly want close to my cheeks.

Kiss, kiss!

What with the general “hellos” and the bises, it seems obvious to me that the French are not nearly as unfriendly as the reputation that precedes them.  They are, however, just as critical of their country just as and nationalistic.

Whenever we get together with a group of French people, the conversation is guaranteed, sooner or later, to turn toward the greed and untrustworthiness of French politicians, the frustration of French bureaucracy, the ridiculousness of French laws, and the atrocious quality of life for the average Frenchman.  After a glass of wine, the French appear to absolutely love to complain about their country.

They love almost as much to manifest (strike).  There’s actually a nationwide strike on right now affecting trains, airlines, gas stations, and probably lots of other services that I’m not aware of.  The strike is in regards to a recent labour reform bill which threatens the French’s beloved 35-hour workweek (yes, the stereotype that French people don’t work much is true – except for in Bruno’s family, in which his 84 year-old father refuses to retire!)  When I exclaim how lucky the French are to work so little, to have so many bank holidays (in May there were five!) and to have four weeks of paid holiday every year, it’s almost as though I were threatening to take away their right to breathe.  No, the French love to hate their government, laws, and state of the nation.

Yet, paradoxically, the French are some of the most patriotic citizens I’ve ever met.  They’re not traditionally patriotic – they don’t tear up when they hear the first few notes of La Marseillaise, for example.  It’s more that the French live in their own cultural bubble – of food, music, film – and they truly believe – nay, know – theirs is the best of the best.

French Culture

I never realized how French Bruno was until we came back here and he started tuning into the television every evening.  There’s always some sort of documentary on this French musician or that French actor, and Bruno laps it all up, singing alone to songs, providing a running commentary for my behalf, and nudging me every thirty seconds to tell me to pay attention to an interesting fact.  I don’t have a clue who most of the stars are – and am, quite frankly, more into my book – and this shocks Bruno.  You mean you don’t know so-and-so?  He’s only, like, the most important blah blah blah.  Where have you beeeeeeeeen?

The French cultural bubble is even more evident any time I eat with French people.   I want to save most of my food details for a separate blog post (stay tuned for France by Food Part 3!) but I cannot blog about culture shock in France – or the French superiority complex – without talking about food.  The French just know the right way to eat every single food item that exists, and if they don’t have a way to prepare it, it’s not worth eating (note my sarcasm).  There are rules about when to eat the salad and cheese and how to prepare and serve each and every vegetable or cut of meat.  Food must be served with French – and only French – wine, and the only cheese worth eating is a really stinky French camembert.

Last fall when my best friend and her boyfriend came from Singapore to visit Bruno and me in France, we immediately whisked them off to a boulangerie for a quintessential French dining experience.  Alex and Ian went for sandwiches and coffee.  As the lady prepared their meal, Alex asked, in broken French, whether the sandwiches could be warmed up.  The lady glanced sideways at Bruno, incredulous.  Then Alex asked whether she could make the coffee iced, and the lady’s eyes bulged.  Bruno had to pipe in, they’re just poor Singaporeans, as though that would explain away this incomprehensible behaviour.

A year earlier, when my parents and I first visited the south of France, we held a big American-style barbecue for the family.  When we served cheese and crackers as part of our pre-meal snacks, everyone laughed indulgently at this bizarre custom.  Interestingly, though, no one but us touched the cheese.

Pierrot wowed my parents with over 20 different French cheeses. It took mom five days for her stomach to heal.

This was the meal where we tried to share our own cheese customs with the French family. Good thing we had other food to serve…

Alright, alright. Their food IS lovely.

Admittedly, the French do deserve the reputation for excellent cuisine, and they do have a quirky film scene and a lot of talented musicians.  But break one of their eating rituals or admit to not knowing Hubert-Félix Thiéfaine and you’ll be met with slight headshakes and looks of smug indulgence at your poor-ignorant-foreigner faux-pas.

The French Landscape

One of my favourite aspects of France (and of Europe in general) is its long and rich history, exemplified in its architecture.  Every North American arrives in Europe wide-eyed at the charm of its old towns.

And it’s not that the charm wears off, per se; it’s more that the aesthetic aspect of the architecture takes the backseat to its utter impracticality.  It is nearly impossible to drive through towns in France.  Even though the French have much smaller vehicles than we do in North America, I always have the nagging feeling that I’m about to side-scrape an oncoming vehicle or façade as I drive 10km/h on a road where I should be driving 70.  Seriously, how do the French drive so fast on such narrow roads?  How do they park in such tiny spaces?  And why are there so freaking many one-way streets?

I get that towns – and their roads – were created long before motorized transport, but their age doesn’t necessitate the design of roundabouts.  Why the hell are there so many?  And how the hell do you drive in them?  If the French have enough time to sit at the lunch table for two leisurely hours, certainly they have enough time to wait their turn at a set of traffic lights, no?

Driving is no easy feat in France.

Here’s why.

Good thing the towns are pretty!

French houses are no less strange than their roads.  The French are used to having tiny homes, squeezed together between neighbours, and with gardens the size of American bathrooms.  The first time I saw our house on the Mediterranean, I forgot to notice the unimpeded view of the Mediterranean Sea at my doorsteps because I was so busy thinking about the proximity of all our neighbours. Thank goodness we were all fenced and gated in to protect ourselves.

I may have slowly adjusted to French toilets being in a different room than the sink and shower, or the fact that you have to pull up door handles before you can lock them, but the space-greedy Canadian in me will never adjust to the claustrophobic nature of the French landscape.  I’m not sure I’ll ever manage to master French enough to avert disaster, and it’ll take a lot of self-assuredness for me to bise willy-nilly.  I could quite easily be persuaded to hop on the love-to-hate-the-government bandwagon, but no matter how much I try to perfect the ritual of French dining, I’ll simply never be a French diner.

I’ll always be a Canadian in France, with all the awkward cultural blunders that entails.

It’s not very often that I can hum the Mr. Rogers’ theme song and have its words apply to me.  The last time I lived in a neighbourhood and actually had neighbours was in 2013 when I was teaching at an international school in Uganda.

Right now, Bruno and I are living in his house on the Mediterranean Coast of southern France in a little town called le Grau d’Agde.  We’ve been here almost two months, which is an incredible rarity in our overlanding lifestyle.  A couple blogs ago, I explained why we’d decided to make ourselves housebound in France, but I may not have made clear enough that this move is just temporary – in fact, I’m leaving for Canada in a couple of weeks, and Bruno won’t be far behind.  In case you were worried that Wandering Footsteps was going to turn into Staying Put-steps, think again.

Our house is the bungalow on the right.

Our street, that leads directly to the beach.

Our garden and house as viewed from our terrace.

View of sea and sky from our terrace.

However, it is interesting for me to reflect on my time living in a house and a neighbourhood and to share it on my blog as yet another travel experience.  Even though, for a Canadian, France isn’t as exotic of a destination as many I’ve written about here before (like Ethiopia, Oman, Thailand, or Zimbabwe), that doesn’t mean I should sweep over my experiences entirely!  (Besides, there are still enough differences between France and Canada that I’m working on a list of interesting differences as a future blog post!)

So, here is the goal of this post: to share what our house and neighbourhood here in the south of France are like.  If the post doesn’t quite speak to your anthropological interest, hopefully it will at least speak to your curiosity!

Our House

Bruno purchased this property a few decades ago when there was nothing but a dilapidated home on a worthless piece of land.  At the time, everyone thought he was crazy for buying it, but it turns out to have been a sound investment – property along the Mediterranean Sea is now worth a pretty penny.  Good foresight, Bruno!

For many years, Bruno lived in the little mobile home on the property while he worked his six-month seasons at his bakery.  Over the years, he renovated the adjacent house, and in 1998 he began to rent it.  He rented it year-round until early 2014, and since then, we’ve rented it by the week to holiday-makers.  (A few weeks ago, we even posted an ad on Air BnB that you can check out and share here.)

The house, by Canadian standards, is simple and small, but is of typical size in Europe.  It’s a rectangular bungalow with two small bedrooms, an open-concept living area and kitchen, a bathroom, and a separate toilet (common in Europe).  There is a well-manicured garden that is pretty sizeable by European standards, as well as a sea-view terrace and brand new sea-view balcony.  There is a long gated driveway for private parking (a luxury in Europe) and a mobile home on the property that has two more bedrooms, another bathroom and toilet, and a small kitchen and dining room.

The open-concept living area of our house.

The master bedroom.

The second bedroom.

The interior of the mobile home.  (Yes, that’s the sea in the background out the window.)

All in all, we can rent this home to ten adults, and previous renters have found the layout of having two separate spaces ideal for multiple families or couples.  (When my parents visited in 2014, Bruno and I stayed in the mobile home and we also found this a comfortable arrangement.)

The best part of the property is definitely the proximity to the sea.  We’ve got Mediterranean Sea views from the side windows in the house and from the two terraces (the sunsets over the twin lighthouses of le Grau d’Agde are particularly beautiful).  One of our entrance gates has direct access to the beach, so the property is ideally suited for those who want to look at – and take advantage of – the sea.  Bruno and I sure do a lot of eating and entertaining from the sea-front terrace.

The garden. House on the right, mobile home on left.

The view of the Pyrenees’ Mountains over the Mediterranean Sea from our terrace.

The view from our bedroom.

Our direct access to the beach. You can see the sea and the town of Grau d’Agde in the background.

Amazing sunset viewed from our house. Perfectly centered between the twin lighthouses of le Grau d’Agde.

Our brand-new balcony (that offers those amazing sunsets over the sea).

Our Neighbourhood

Le Grau d’Agde is a small fishing and holidaymaking town that, along with the internationally-infamous Cap d’Agde, is part of the larger agglomeration of Agde.  In talking about our neighbourhood, it’s easier for me to divide this post into mini-sections by town.

Le Grau d’Agde

The beach in Grau d’Agde is really nice.  (Ok, it’s not as nice as my parents’ beach in New Brunswick, Canada, but by European standards it’s good.)  It has clean white sand, man-made breakers that create little bays, and the beach extends unbroken for miles.  At the western edge is the center of Grau d’Agde, at the meeting point of the mighty Hérault River and the sea.  Bruno and I often walk into town from the beach, which is a wonderful 10-minute stroll.

The beach near our house, with Grau d’Agde in the background.

The beach near the center of town.

Mom and dad appreciating the beach when they came in 2014.

The Hérault River meets the Mediterranean Sea, with le Grau d’Agde on the left.

Downtown Grau d’Agde is pretty small – it consists of a main square, a seaside promenade and a riverside promenade.  Along the promenades are tons of restaurants and a few shops.  There’s a pétanque field that’s busy in the evenings, and a harbour featuring a criée (fish auction) and boat-repair facilities.  The central square has a daily local market between April and October (otherwise, Thursdays is market day).  In the town, there are two small supermarkets, a few bakeries, and an amazing fruit and vegetable shop where my money disappears effortlessly several times a week.

Behind the square is a small building containing the tourist office, post office, and police station.   Next to that is a modern church (where Bruno’s brother got married).  Further up is an historical church called la chapelle Notre-Dame de la Genouillade.

Tourist shops in the central square of le Grau.

Seafood restaurants along the main square (though most restaurants offer views of the river or sea).

The daily farmer’s market.

The town’s newer church.

Les Jardins Occitans, my beloved fruit and veggie shop.

Our local bakery.

The pétanque field.

The working harbour, where there is a fish auction and boat-repair facilities.

But le Grau d’Agde is primarily a residential town with an incredible variety of homes – from expensive modern villas (Bruno’s brother’s being one of the nicest) to ramshackle trailers, and everything in between.  Though the streets and properties are smaller than what we know in Canada, there aren’t any tall, thin homes packed together on super-narrow alleys. It’s more like North America than Europe, really, apart from a few flourishes on facades near town, creative house names written in wires on the walls, uniformly-muted pastel colours, and terracotta Roman-tiled roofs.

I think le Grau d’Agde is pretty quiet in the winter, but it’s positively brimming with sun-baked tourists in the summer.  I’ve only ever been here in spring or fall when it’s neither dead nor packed, and I like its laidback, provincial feel.  Locals still go to their local bakery every morning for their baguette and I see the same people walking their dogs or coming back from the produce market with their bicycle baskets brimming with fennel and mâche and endives.

What I like best about my little town, though, is the bike paths.  From just outside my house I can hop on the bike paths all the way to new Agde, or follow the river on bike paths to the historical part of Agde.  Since roads in Europe are pretty narrow, I feel a lot better riding around town in lanes set up for non-motorized transport.

A view of downtown le Grau d’Agde from the pier.

One of the loveliest homes in le Grau d’Agde is surely that of Bruno’s brother.

A few of the European flourishes in an otherwise ordinary-looking town.

House names in wiring on pastel facades.

One of the older homes in the neighbourhood.

The most New-Brunswick-like home I could find in town.

My favourite part of the neighborhood – bike lanes!

Agde

There are two parts to Agde proper – the historical and the commercial parts of town.  Admittedly, I’m more frequently in the commercial part of town.  It’s where I do Zumba, shop for household goods, get organic health food from the Biocoop, and visit the giant supermarket chains more frequently than I’d like.  Of the three big supermarket (called hypermarchés here) names in France, two of them can be found in Agde – Hyper U and Intermarché.  I generally go to Hyper U, simply because it’s closer.  On my bike, I’m there in less than 15 minutes (entirely on bike paths), and in a car it’s less than five minutes.  The store is like Walmart, but with a greater proportion of foodstuffs.  There are a few shops and restaurants in the centre commercial, but it’s nothing like a North American mall.

My favourite store in Agde.

You can’t find as many organics as in North America, but it’s a charming shop, nonetheless.

The centre commercial Hyper U.

Vieux Agde (Old Agde) is the third oldest town in France, and it is here that you can experience the typical European town – tiny, claustrophobic cobblestone alleys crowded with narrow, multi-storey homes with loads of windows and colourful shutters.  The unique twist to Agde is that almost all the roads, as well as the old rampart walls (which date to the Phoenician period, 6^th century BC) are constructed with dark volcanic basalt rock from the region.  It’s very photogenic.

Old Agde is situated a little bit inland from the Mediterranean Sea, but still has a maritime feel because it’s constructed around the Hérault River and the 250km long Canal du Midi (a UNESCO World Heritage site).  There is a train station connecting us to the rest of France and Europe, and a very big, very beautiful cathedral, la cathédrale Saint-Etienne d’Agde, that is definitely worth a visit, as is the weekly Thursday farmer’s market.

Old Agde.

The weekly market.

You can see the imposing cathedral from really, really far. It towers over the rest of the city.

It’s worth going inside the cathedral.  It even smells musty.

The old alleys and basalt buildings.

Narrow alleys, tall building, typical Europe.

Agde’s train station, connecting us to the rest of Europe.

Le Cap d’Agde

Cap d’Agde is a world-renowned tourist destination, but the irony is that, of the three sections of my neighborhood, le Cap is the one I know least.  Last week I went to a wine-tasting event on the port with some of Bruno’s family, but that was the first time I’d really scoped out the area.  It was so filled with people that we could barely move while walking along the main pedestrian tourist street, which was brimming with kitsch souvenirs stands.

Cap d’Agde is a fairly modern town chock-a-block with shops, restaurants, and activities.  You can do anything here – go to the casino, partake in water activities, bar-hop, visit aquariums and theme parks, golf, spend the day at the spa or beach…  You can even go to a nudist camp.

Yep, Cap d’Agde has Europe’s most famous nudist colony.  And, believe it or not, this is where I’ve spent most of my time in Cap d’Agde.  It’s where Bruno has his bakery business that provides us with the income to travel full-time, and Bruno’s brother, Rémy, owns a supermarket here.  Sometimes we stop by to say hi and stock up on food, but I have yet to take my clothes off here.  Though the colony used to be for naturistes, hippies that believed in living nude, it’s now a very racy, sex-and-party-oriented place, where whips, leather, and orgies are the norm.  Not my personal cup of tea, but we appreciate the continued interest in patisseries and viennoiseries of the nudist population!

The centre commercial where Bruno’s bakery is located.

A sneaky shot of the bakery. (You technically can’t take photos inside the nudist colony.)

Vival is Bruno’s brother’s supermarket.

Here’s the inside (minus the naked people!)

Further Afield

Our neighbourhood is ideally situated for visiting a lot of interesting places in the region.  In less than thirty minutes, you can be in any number of picturesque French towns, like Pézénas (the home of Molière and the most beautiful historical center I’ve visited in France) and Sète (the home of Georges Brassens and a funky port town).  In an hour you can be in the metropolis of Montpellier (French people’s second-favorite French town).  In less than two hours you can be in the Pyrenees’ Mountains and Spain.

Yep, all in all, our neighbourhood is a good place to be.

For a while, anyway.