Ooh-la-la! I am so very French!

I’m writing this in my house in central Victoria. The garden is burning to a crisp in the hot, dry wind that has lingered way past summer. Magpies are carolling on the edge of the bird bath. The neighbour’s kelpie is barking. It’s all very Australian.  

But in my heart and mind, I’m in France.

And not only am I in France. I am French! Ooh-la-la!

What an exciting life I lead! And it seems even more glamorous when you consider that, last year, I was living in Rome, being totally Italian.

It’s all about writing, of course. Last year I wrote the first book in my new series, The Girl and the Writer (working title … or maybe the end title). It was set in Rome. This year I’m working on the second book in the series and it takes place in Provence. And if I’m going to write it, I might as well live it. And if I can’t live it by physically being there, I can pretend. 

Vive l'imagination!

I started, rather predictably, with books. I raided my bookshelves for novels set in contemporary France. A few weeks ago I confessed to my irrational and jealous love for The Little Paris Bookshop. What a delight it was to reread this gem! I’ve also been flicking through The Elegance of the Hedgehog, The Reader on the 6.27 and The Hundred Foot Journey. I’ve wallowed in coffee-table books on Provence and have just started rereading Peter Mayle’s A Year in Provence. Fabulous! Fabuleux! Do give it a burl, even if you never plan to travel there. It’s beautifully written and hilarious.

Once I'd sorted the books, it was time to eat. I made omelettes. Omelettes for lunch with a little glass of red wine. Sometimes  a wedge of camembert and a bunch of grapes followed. I also made Salade Nicoise. So very French! 

The next culinary goal is to find a French patisserie in Melbourne where I can do some serious research into eclairs, tarts and gateaux. It’ll be tough but if suffering for my art can't include pastry and cream, chocolate and strawberries, what's the point of it all???

Moving closer to the opening chapter of my book, I started to feast upon image after image. Thankfully, feasting on images is not as detrimental to one’s waistline as feasting on cheese and eclairs. I drooled over Pinterest posts of olive groves, lavender fields, wisteria-covered houses, mossy fountains and shady plane trees. I dived into Google Maps. I took that little yellow man, placed him on the road and walked him the last two kilometres to the hilltop village in which my story is set. I browsed through my own photos of Provence and dreamed about going there again sometime soon.

And last, but not least, I've been learning the language. Or, as they say in Provence, I've been learning to parle francais. (Did you see how seamlessly I slipped from English to French? Sensationnel!) 

I’m probably the only Australian of my generation who didn’t learn French at school. Until six weeks ago, all I knew of the language was how to order an eclair and a religieuse chocolat from a patisserie. No, hang on a minute. I’m underselling my skills here. I also knew how to order two or three eclairs from a patisserie. 

Two years ago, I did try a program called  ‘Speak Fluent French in Eight Hours’,  but sixteen hours had failed to take me beyond getting my fill of sweet treats. If one truly wants to become French, there's more that needs to be said. And that’s where my natty little Duolingo app has come to the rescue.

Every day, for at least ten minutes, I chatter away (in text and voice) with men, women, a dolphin, a mouse and a bear and I am surging ahead. I am now able to say the following extremely useful sentences:

This pig is tall.

The sock is red.

The shark is eating the monkey.

It is a big dress. (This one is sure to come in handy when I’ve located a reliable source of chocolate eclairs!)

The milk is white. (I can also point out that the milk is yellow or green, but hope I’m never faced with such an advanced case of decay in my own fridge.)

It is a cat but it eats vegetables.

You eat like a pig. (The dolphin told me this! Can you believe it? And I haven’t even visited the patisserie yet!)

And my all-time favourite:

I know that he knows that I know. (Actually, I haven’t really learned this sentence. I get it muddled every time, but I know that he knows that I know that it is an important sentence to know if I am to become fluent in French.)

So there you have it. My life as a French woman, or as I now say, une femme française. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to duck out and buy myself a beret, a poodle and jar of lavender honey.

À bientôt.

Blind Love ... of a Book

Today’s confession … er blog … is about books. 

I love books.

I hope you read those words aloud, luxuriating in them so they came out as, ‘I LOOOOOVE BOOKS!’  

And, at the same time, you will have pictured me fluttering my eyelashes and fanning my face with both hands while bluebirds swooped and twittered around my head.

Yes, I love books with a capital O. 
O is for OBSESSIVELY.

And the obsession grows with every passing year.

                                                                                               

The other day, a friend told me that she was about to read Winnie the Pooh for the very first time. Winnie the Pooh! I almost swooned with envy. What a delicious, warm, fuzzy, scrummy surprise she was in for. Nothing in literature compares to the world centred around 100 Aker Wood, where we experience the sweetness of Piglet, the ignorant wisdom of Owl, the gloom of Eeyore and the toe-curling cuteness of Pooh. 

But even as I write this, a little bit of fear is creeping in. What if my friend isn't charmed? What if she finds Winnie the Pooh ho-hum? What if she ... I can barely even bring myself to type the words ... What if she doesn't even make it to the end?

How will I ever look her in the eye again? 

How will I keep myself from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her back and forth until her teeth rattle, shouting, ‘WHAT ON EARTH IS WRONG WITH YOU?!!!”

And there, my dear friend, lies the crux of the issue and the core of today's confession/blog. When I love a book - I mean truly LOOOOVE a book - I find myself feeling irrationally protective. 
And it's affecting my book life. Deeply. I've stopped lending novels willy-nilly (and I love willy-nilly lending!). I hesitate to ask people's opinions on my deepest literary loves (and I love discussing my love for my literary loves!). 

I'm more than happy for you to think differently from me about politics, religion, art, exercise, child-rearing and the ideal amount of cake to eat for breakfast. But if you tell me that you didn't really like a book that I have loved and adored, I’m devastated.

Horrified.
Traumatised.

I want to weep.
I want to clutch the abused novel to my chest and rock it soothingly back and forth.
How can you not dote on this beautiful creation? The author has worked so hard to produce a masterpiece and now you are telling me that you:

     a) skimmed over the middle ten chapters.

     b) didn’t get past page 30.

     c) tore it to shreds and tossed it in the compost bucket.

Why don’t you just stick a dagger in my heart and twist it around?

I know.  It makes me sound a tad special (or a whole heap of bonkers).

But there you go. 

That's what I've become.

So before my family and friends stage an intervention, I am going to take the first step to recovery. It might not seem like much, but it's a biggy for me. I am going to lay my heart on the line and tell you about my latest passion …

The Little Paris Bookshop, by Nina George.

Oh my goodness! This book has it all ... in my opinion. (See how I did that? It hurt, but I did it.) 

It makes me laugh. 

It makes me cry. 

It makes me long to pick up a pen and write beautiful words. It’s a story of love, loss, friendship, renewal, life, death, literature and a fable-like journey down the river. 

And it’s set in France - Paris to Provence!!! Ooh la la! Doesn’t it sound delicious?

However ... GULP ... feel free to give me your honest opinion about this book. Even if it is not the same as mine.

Just be gentle when you break the news to me.

Very gentle.

And maybe accompany the message with a box of chocolates and a bouquet of flowers … and a darned good, water-tight reason as to why you don’t think it’s brilliant.

Here are a few delectable quotes from The Little Paris Bookshop.

Just to whet your appetite.
Not to sway you.

Well maybe …

He sold books by weight to anyone under fourteen: two kilos for ten euros.

Aren’t we running at a loss?’ asked Max.

Perdu shrugged his shoulders. ‘Financially speaking, yes. But it’s well-known that reading makes people impudent, and tomorrow’s world is going to need some people who aren’t shy to speak their minds, don’t you think?’ 

and... 

The reality of love is better than its reputation. 

and this gem, right at the end of the novel ...

Jean Perdu sits in the farmhouse’s summer kitchen …writing in his Great Encyclopaedia of Small Emotions: A Guide for Booksellers, Lovers and Other Literary Pharmacists.

He is making an entry under K: 'Kitchen solace - the feeling that a delicious meal is simmering on the kitchen stove, misting up the windows, and that at any moment your lover will sit down to dinner with you and, between mouthfuls, gaze happily into your eyes. (Also known as living.)’