Heathcliff and How to Live a Happy Life

This is less travelogue and more philosophy. I expect to recover and get back to describing life in France soon.

I am not a cat-person or a dog-person. I describe myself as an elephant/ tiger/ dolphin person, large mammals that do not qualify as household pets. I have long held that God made cats and dogs solely for experimentation, and their value lies in their service to us as lab animals, testing not only drugs but also shampoo and make-up. That said, let me expound/ expand on Heathcliff, the orange striped cat who shares our home in Valbonne.

Heathcliff was described by my otherwise generous land-lady, Annie, as "wily, cunning and evil, with an ability to charm...he is a stray who will bite and scratch....the previous tenant, who'd asked if the house was haunted, fed this cat who now expects to be fed if not loved...don't let him in.."

Heathcliff survived this negative propaganda by mewling outside the glass door in the kitchen that opens onto the lane, rue du Presbytere. He has since taught me several life lessons.

1. Persistence pays. Heathcliff did not mew once and give up. No, he mewed everyday, morning and evening, and behaved as if he had a right to be here, and that we were mere rent-paying tenants whereas he had squatter's rights.

2. Seize every opportunity. Heathcliff has the ability to be in two places at once. He manages to get into the house when either the front or kitchen door is ajar even for a second.

3.Thicken your skin. Heathcliff knew well that he wasn't welcome, but he wasn't about to be sensitive and have his feelings hurt. He wanted in, he got in.

4. Forgive the ignorant. Heathcliff does not hold grudges. He readily and freely forgave us for inhospitality and rudeness without our asking. Indeed, he went so far as to rub his head against our legs, purring as he did so to tell us that we were friends, even if not feline, and that he would accept any food we had to offer. This was communicated non-verbally by standing in front of the refrigerator.

5. Accept cold milk if warm is not offered. Jeroen began to share 2% milk with Heathcliff. Heathcliff has his own shallow dish. No milk split so far. Heathcliff often waits for the milk to come to room temperature. If we had a microwave, I'm sure Jeroen would warm up the milk.

6. Fear shadows? This is something Heathcliff demonstrates. Jeroen will tease, yes, tease, by letting the shadow of his hands approach H. Fingers twitching in a V-shape are particularly delicious. H will pounce on them. Heathcliff will strike at his own shadow. This has taught me that all our desires and fears are but shadows that will vanish when the lights are off (or when the sun shines directly overhead, take your pick). Buddhism 101.

7. Prefer simple toys. Heathcliff is happy to jump on crumpled paper. I made two balls of paper, sorry Jeroen, those were the receipts you're looking for. Heathcliff had a blast. Two balls on the field would make soccer and football players less aggressive. Can't speak for rugby.
H ran from one ball to the other, entertained himself for half an hour, which beats the time a new, more expensive toy would captivate my children.

8. Expand your territory. H runs up stairs to hide under my bed on the fourth level. H has to be chased down with a broom, which makes me look and behave more and more like a witch. Halloween is close, now to knit a black hat.

9. Cozy up. Heathcliff jumps up and sits on my lap while I work on the computer, purring away. He does the same to Jeroen. I am now permitted to stroke him, gently, no sudden moves please. So far so good.

10. Discourage familiarity. After a half hour of cozying up, H will bite (me) or scratch (Jeroen) and jump off and leave. He might have heard the village gossip that we are planning to move in another week to Antibes. Is this his way of punishing us? He might  expect to be forced to move with us, clearly not something he wants. I have seen him emerge from a neighbor's cat door. Is H a player? Is he a stray? Does he own the house next door? H has mystique, a quality every cat and human should possess.

Was Annie right after all? Were we being used? So many questions....I shall ponder for a long time.

Meeouw from France.

Jeroen's week 1.

The gate keeper at Nice airport

I reached France about six hours later than I and KLM had planned, thanks to Holland’s friendly neighbours to the east. I spent a longish day in the lounge of Schiphol (sipping Pastis to prep for my time in the Provence). Most morning and early-afternoon flights within Europe were canceled after ground personnel found a WWII bomb under the C gate. Just after lunch, security closed Schiphol entirely as a Lufthansa airliner was approaching. From my comfortable chair I witnessed our national response to an imminent Al Qaeda attack. Code orange was confusing Dutch TSA officers. The Dutch commando unit in desert camouflage (admittedly, it was a sunny day) frantically ran back and forth by the Starbucks stand. What to do? Coffee, or country and queen? Apparently, the German pilot misunderstood descent instructions from the Dutch tower. This reminds us all of the infamous German coast guard joke:

Ferry captain calling in: “May-day, May-day, May-day we are SINKING!!” German coast guard responding: “Okay, okay, okay, but what are you (th)sinking about??”

We bought a 1998 Honda-CRV for 2000 euros from Alessandro, an Italian researcher from the Galileo school of astronomy. Alessandro is a deep thinker indeed as he foresaw administrative hassles ahead: a Japanese car with Italian plates to be driven in France by a Dutch geologist with a US address. The otherwise stoic French DMV official would surely flinch this time. Alessandro suggested that I use the car “for the time being” until all paperwork was sorted out. Time being in this case is five weeks and counting. He brought the Honda to Nice airport and we said our bonjour, ca va?, ca va bien!, et vous?, ca va, merci!, au revoir. I was thoroughly pleased with putting Lecon 1 into practice until I discovered that I had misplaced the parking stub and I would have to pay for the full day’s fare.  A frantic search of my pockets, bags, and Honda came up empty. With only 20 euros in cash I headed upstairs to the gate hoping that I could sneak out by tail-gating an unsuspicious driver, a trick that we have rehearsed frequently at the Ann Arbor YMCA. But no such luck. The barrier of parking lot D7 in Nice airport has no Mediterranean attitude. Fortunately, the guard at the gate - Fabien, according to his nametag – who is responsible for the just-in-cases like me, was preoccupied with the Olympic Marseille versus Toulouse pre-game show. “Excusez-moi de vous deranger, mais mon chien a mangé mon ticket” (my first full sentence in French!!) was met with a blank stare. However, “I hope that the French teams will do well in the Champions league this season” did wonders. He couldn’t be bothered and opened the gate without looking away from the television.

The rond-point.

Driving in France is a bit like downhill skiing. One looks ahead and ignores mirrors. Moreover, changing lanes is obligatoire. While Americans let off steam in yoga, spinning and free-weights dojos, the French relieve anxiety and sweat in traffic. Yet, traffic moves in reasonable good humour. The round-about (rond-point in French), hailed everywhere for its safety and efficiency, is France’s most difficult traffic obstacle, the mogul of the traffic piste. It is where the elite driver stands out. The rond-point serves well as a model for the atom. There are discreet traffic lanes but Heisenberg urges drivers to go whether they please. When you approach the rond point, you are reminded that “vous n’avez pas la priorité”. If you play by the rules, it takes 10 minutes and some bravery to enter the rond-point. The French driver ignores authority and gets on with life. In my early French driving days (Sep 1-7, 2012), I would maneuver my way as quickly as possible to the lowest orbit of the rond-point.  I would do 360s, 720s, and even 1080s to catch my breath. Indeed, I was the laughing stock of the rond point, despite my Italian plates. When I had mustered enough courage, I would turn on my turn signal (more ridicule!), look over my shoulder (loud laughter!), plan my exit get out and off I go to collège, sailing school, the fencing hall, or ping-pong club

Heathcliff

I expected to go back to the boulangerie Le Fournil d'Eugene. Three a.m. rolls around, and I roll over and continue to sleep stirring briefly at 7 a.m. when the church bells ring. More on the matter of the church and the churchbells.  Valbonne is a small village, perhaps half a kilometer by half a kilometer (one-third of a mile...think metric every inch of the way). It is a Roman town which means we have some arches and streets run parallel or perpendicular to each other. The roads are narrow and cars are parked in lots outside the village. We live on the South-West edge and our windows to the South overlook the abbey where the aforementioned churchbells ring. It was charming the first week. The bells are not in tune, and sound tinny. Worse, they are rung either by a drunken man or possibly by a wayward child with an inability to count to seven and with no sense of rhythm. The bells also ring at noon and sometimes at 7 PM.

  

The deacon of that church has not come to visit us. His wife, on the other hand, brought us flowers from her garden and a sprig of lemon basil and greeted Jeroen profusely in French with, "Where is your lovely wife? I haven't seen her in a while."  I sat at the table sipping on tea. Jeroen continues to deny that he has another wife and says he'd never seen the deacon's wife either. Perhaps she was mistaken. We held on to the flowers and the lemon basil and haven't seen her since.

Valbonne, the little village, has at least 20 real estate agents and thirty restaurants. Among the best rates of these is a Restaurant Indien called Le Kashmir, up the lane from us. It has indoor and pavement seating and the front window has a painted Ganesh made of plaster or papier mache lit by strobe lights that flash green and red, livening up the village in a way the bells fail to. The people who run it recognize me and I'd heard them say more than once, "The doctor sahib walked past." So I decided to introduce myself. There are four men who work in the kitchen usually. They are from Lahore. I was upset for a while for a number of reasons. First, they had no business to call themselves Indien. Second, I cannot sanction their claim to Kashmir beyond the line of control. Third, I wasn't sure why they had a Ganesh in the window when Islam takes a tough stand on idolators. I went back to ask why they had the Ganesh in the window. The owner said that he is Hindu and from Delhi. I left euphoric, dreaming of peace in the years ahead. Indians and Pakistanis could live and work together, with religious tolerance etc.  He invited me to come and eat with my family.

We went in on a Saturday evening and were turned away although the restaurant was nearly empty. They said they were full and that I'd need a reservation for a Friday or Saturday night, and the owner apologized at length. I refused to be offended and promised to return the next day. (It was true, every table was occupied when we walked by thirty minutes later). We were delighted by the quality of the food we picked up on Sunday. I plan to continue to get food once a week or so since my kitchen is not fully operational. The cook and the cleaning lady both quit without notice. Alas. Last I heard, they were writing a novel.

Now for the low-lights of the culture in the village. We have a sculpture exhibition of the works of Roger Capron. Jeroen is not a fan because  distortion of anatomy is not his idea of art. I see the sculptures as colorful and harmless and plan to take some photographs before the exhibition ends at the end of the month. These works of arts are scattered around the village, mainly in the periphery. We cannot help but encounter them on the way to the car park or bus stop.

The first Sunday of the month draws vendors of clothing, antiques, linen and handbags in great numbers. I found myself mildly irritated by these infiltrators selling junk and disturbing the quiet. It felt like I was trapped in an open-air thrift shop.

News on the cat front. Jeroen has been feeding Heathcliff ('easecliff en francais) the orange cat. I am confused. Heathcliff rubs his back on Jeroen's jeans and mews at us on the street, staking his claim on us as Primary Providers, an honor I decline. For a stray he appears well-fed, but I cannot explain his confidence.

Wouter and Mohan are happy at school. Wouter is #4 seed at table tennis, Mohan is #10. It's not only because I am their mother that I say this: They are under-rated. Which could be an advantage in a competition. The boys went to a karate class and recoiled at the violence. The dojo here encourages sparring, quite unlike the one in Ann Arbor where junior students are taught restraint. A young man took a kick to his face when the black belt lost control and could not retract his foot in time but swung with his weight after the foot made contact. No loss of consciousness or blood, but one less beautiful Frenchman walks the streets of Antibes. Karate will have to stay on ice, though not the same ice that was placed on the Frenchman's face.

Mohan signed up for fencing, twice a week for a total of five hours. Both the boys have joined a ping-pong club which seems to be a free-for-all. They are also sailing Hobie Cats twice a week. I understand that these are hard to capsize, yet the feat was achieved by one of my children. Fortunately the school doesn't give them homework.

Of school, I have only to tell you that Prof Tutta told Mohan that he was stupide. Took me back many years when I was accused of that same fault. The music teacher yelled at Wouter twice, once for not having a plastic cover on his music notebook, and again for dropping his pencil in class. I have to buy recorders for them before next week. The school PTA is holding elections which are not discussed on the local news. I have brochures and a list of candidates with dubious qualifications and character references. Obama-Romney is an easier decision.

Jeroen and I went for a 5 km hike to the ruins of a Roman camp. I am very pleased that I could walk and didn't have too much pain the next day. Yay!
We will have to move to Antibes next month. We've looked at a few places. I'd like something with a view of the Med that's close to school.

Arrival

Shortly after we arrived here at the end of August a little nervous about the coming year,
we moved into an old charming (read difficult) house in Valbonne, with the bathrooms and bedrooms on the third and fourth floors, the kitchen on the first, not intended for anyone with a physical disability.

A stray cat was here first. He is called Heathcliff and bites and scratches anyone who dares show any affection. He comes in whenever the door is open. Chasing him out is not easy, especially since Heathcliff moves fast.

The boys did not get admitted to the CIV. No spots at all in troisieme. The local college is obliged to take them but the Principal (who, according to my landlady hates children, parents and teachers equally) sighed, shrugged and said the boys were not francophones and would not be accommodated, nor would there be any allowances for them.

We were referred to another college called Rouston in Antibes which has a program for foreign born French-deficient children. They had to take a test to judge their level and started two weeks ago in this school. 19 children in their class, ages 12-15, 11 boys, 8 girls from Turkey, Italy, Romania, Ireland, Philippines, Indonesia, Latvia.....Wouter and Mohan proudly represent the American contingent. Their class is taught mainly by Prof Tutta, who Wouter thought resembled an auto-rickshaw driver in India: Sandals on his feet, short-sleeved white shirt untucked over khaki pants. Fortunately, all the children love the Prof and enjoy the class. The school week is limited to 25 hours, Monday through Friday. Wednesday is a half day, school ends at noon. On the other days, school ends at 2:30 or 3:30, depending.  Of these 25 hours, 18 are devoted to French. Wouter and Mohan are glad they learned so much from Madame Jeri in Ann Arbor. The kids who haven't had any French are struggling. The good thing is that the only common language the kids have is French. They spent the first week staring at each other in silence, now they talk to each other.
For the rest, they have 2 hours of math (learning to write numbers in French, now advancing to decimals, directed at the youngest child in the class), social studies (Napoleon and French history), music (they have to sing French songs). No science as far as I know.

School starts at 7:55. The bus from Valbonne reaches Antibes at 7:51 and they can't make it in four minutes to school. So Jeroen drives them every morning. It takes 40 minutes to drive those 14 km. 
The options for lunch are limited to go home for lunch or eat school lunch. Can't bring a sandwich from home. So they eat school lunch and learn to appreciate my cooking.  We will move to Antibes on the first of November. The kids can then come home for lunch. We haven't found a place yet, but are continuing to look for a place close enough to walk to school.

I have mixed feelings about Valbonne village. It's infested by English-speakers who don't speak any French. I played doctor two weeks ago when two drunken Englishmen got into a bar fight with an unknown assailant who got the better of the Englishman on the ground with broken nose and swollen eye and bloody face. The other Englishman swore at all present including the local police while I cleaned wounds and checked out the injured man. He wanted to take his friend home in a taxi. I sent him off in an ambulance with a neck brace. The policeman said under his breath, "Toujours les anglais."

This has improved my standing in the village. The locals now know about me and thank me for saving a life (which I didn't but I don't tell them that). I have since become best friends with the baker. I went to the boulangerie yesterday at 3:30 am to bake with Remy who has just bought the business from his step-father, Eugene. I stood around and stayed out of his way while he prepared his miche and orchestrated the baking of pastries and baguettes and boules. I plan to go again to learn a little more about the mixes for the different kinds of bread. On the wall was a certificate from Bannette, the supplier of flour, that recognized this "Four d'Eugene" as an outstanding boulangerie. Remy told me it's what you get when you buy a lot of flour from them. Remy can speak perfect English (he went to the CIV for Lycee) but he will not speak it in France. He used his English when he went to Thailand last year with his girl-friend who sells the bread on a table outside the bakery from 7 to 1 pm every day. I understand perhaps 30% of what he says and I nod a lot.

We have also a relationship with the grocer, Frederica and her husband Sebastien. F told me with a wink that the boys have been buying les bonbons. We have a market in this town on Fridays. Oliviers with olive oil in bottles. My landlady who is English and is married to a Frenchman and speaks like a native has olive trees in her garden. I've asked her to call when the olives are pressed in the local moline.

I have a great feeling of satisfaction as I eat the bread and the little pates of tapenade mixed with olive oil biensur. I said to Remy, "Je suis en France et je mange bien."  Who knows. We are falling in love with France.

Au revoir et merci de tous.