Anecdotal

16 juillet 2010 jeudi

Adventures with Courgette
• On the opening day of the festival, Eric and Sylvaine asked that I take the kids into town to watch the parade. I was delighted to do so, of course, except for the small matter of parking, which I find difficult in any country, with any car, manual or automatic. Imagine my horror when not ONE parking space was open in the parking lots surrounding the ramparts. With Alban and Constance sweating in the backseat and my nerves quickly fraying, I did something I never thought I’d do: I parked on a sidewalk. Yes, Shawna, I was one of the crazy people that turned the Avignon Trottoir into my own personal parking lot. I do not regret it. It just makes me all the more French for having done it.
• When I learned to drive in the United States, I learned roads by getting lost on them. Why should it be any different in France? After an evening out with Thomas in Avignon, I attempted to head back to Montfavet. I was completely sober, mind you (as the operation of a motor vehicle requires), but this did not stop me from mistakenly thinking that I could get back to my house on Rue de Montfavet. In short, a series of unfortunate turns happened, and I found myself whisked away in the direction of Orange—the last place I could possibly want to be on earth. And, to top it all off, my cell phone had about a 1,6€ of credit left: enough for 1 text, or about 3 minutes of calls. At about two in the morning, I managed to get myself turned back around in the right direction by following every sign that spoke of Avignon, and by doing so, hoping to run into the ramparts that surround the city. Finally, success, after an hour of absolute horror. I picked up a map at the office of tourism the next day, just in case, to keep in the glove compartment.
• Due to the horrific parking situation in Avignon during festival season, Eric and Sylvaine suggested that I park in the garage next to le palais des papes, right down town. It costs a bit, but it’s better than circling the ramparts in 95 degree heat, searching for a parking spot like a vulture. What I was not prepared for was the steep, spiraling hill at the garage entrance that Eric and Sylvaine had failed to mention. I overestimated Courgette’s ability to climb hills, and mistakenly put her in second gear, thinking that she would have enough power to make it to the top. I stalled about 80% of the way up the hill. Although there had been no one behind me as I embarked upon the hill, in true form to Murphy’s Law, three impatient cars zoomed up behind me as soon as I stalled. It. Was. Horrific. Eventually a nice (and probably irritated) French man came up and helped me get Courgette to the top of the hill. I vowed to never park there again (or, at least not before I do some serious hill practice).

Life as a Mihuta
• My grandpa Mihuta is the kind of person who will go up to a person on the street, strike up a conversation, and in a good fifteen minutes, will end up with a life-long friend, an offer for dinner, and an open invitation for a place to stay. My mama Mihuta takes after her dad; in fact, one of her hobbies is finding couples where the husband is taking a picture of the wife, or vice versa, and asking if she can take a picture for them both. I’ve found that I’ve developed as a Mihuta true to form; one of my new favorite things to do is to spot lost Americans, and help them out. Of course, if they try to order without even trying to speak in French, or insult/ignore tourist etiquette, or are wearing Michigan colors (that’s for you, Benny), I won’t always go out of my way to help them. But if I find a nice family of four, standing perplexed under the palais des papes, or an elderly couple speaking asking for directions in broken French, I spring into American-in-Avignon rescue mode. I was having a solitary dinner at Croque au Pain the other day, taking a break from my festival-going, when I heard what could only be a North American accent speaking French. A lone woman, about 28 or 30 had just walked in, and had pretty successfully ordered a Lyonnais salad with olive oil dressing. I was curious, and so I asked if she was American. It turns out that Jen was Canadian, and was on her way back to Canada after having lived in Australia for the last 10 years with a boyfriend. They had broken up a few months back, and so Jen had decided to press the reset button on her life, and do something a little crazy before trying to reestablish life in her homeland—travel for three months around Europe before returning to Canada to go to teacher school. It was a lovely conversation—she came and sat at the table next to mine, and we chatted for at least a half an hour before we went on our separate ways. Mihuta blood, you’ve done me well.

Montaine’s Mama
• About 36 hours before I was entrusted with all five children for an evening as Eric and Sylvaine went into Avignon to celebrate their good friend’s birthday, Montaine (the 7 month old) learned how to say maman. It was the first time since her birth that Eric and Sylvaine had entrusted Montaine to the care of someone else for an evening—the pressure was on. All was well for a while—Montaine was content in her playpen, Constance was at a friend’s house for the night, and the boys were playing Uno outside. And then the wailing started, and the heart wrenching sound of a red-faced baby appealing for her mamamamamaman over and over again, a pitiful mantra. I tried to put her down—she screamed even louder. I changed her diaper. I gave her toys. I tried to give her a bottle of her mother’s breast milk. I sang Regina Spektor songs. This latter technique seemed to work, surprisingly (thanks, Regina), but I couldn’t get Montaine to sleep. In desperation, I sent the boys to the library to watch Star Wars, and I took Montaine out to the garden. Softly singing, we circled the garden, said hello to the horse and the donkey and the dog and the cat and the stars. She fell asleep in my arms. Oh what a relief is a sleeping baby.