A Crottin in Villefranche-sur-Mer

OK, I know. I know.

I said that this newsletter would be a bi-monthly sort of deal. But this post was just burning a hole in my laptop. I couldn’t wait to send it to you.

But it’s also because I am soon headed out to visit Barcelona. And…maybe Morocco. Although that might be too crazy, because didn’t they just have an earthquake?

More importantly it’s because its the first day of October.

And it was precisely this time of year in 2016 when I…

Read on to learn more..

When I boarded the train in Narbonne and settled in my seat for the 7 hour journey to Villefranche-sur-Mer. And L’Institut de Francais. I got out my notebook and pen, and looked out the window. I was a student at heart. Everything would be fine. Just fine. Besides, traveling by train along the sea was always my favorite way to start an adventure. It was still the best way to insure success.

As the sea passed by, my nerves calmed. I was doing something about my problem at last. I could rest assured that all would be well. It was always best to admit when you were wrong. I could give up speaking my own version of Franglais, and learn to speak proper French. Even if this train trip had an emergency stop, like that time when I was on a train near Sanremo and a WW II bomb was found. We were near Nice, I hoped, but I had no idea what the police were saying, I figured it out, enough. And I did get off the train on my own accord. And I did reroute my entire journey. By myself. I breathed a sigh of relief and planned my first nibble on a little round of crottin and a baguette and a glass of Picpoul de Pinet. But of course, I would wait until a respectable 20 minutes of this journey had passed. I could wait.

The train banked towards the land as we rounded the bend of the Mediterranean with Sete to our right and Montpelier to our left. I cut into the crottin and had a moment of wonder; how do the French achieve such miracles of aroma and taste and texture in the smallest round of cheese. Maybe les professeurs would be able to achieve the same miracle with me. I hoped to turn out as well as this fine crottin.

I chewed the baguette slowly and swallowed. I had no idea what I was getting into. This was a very expensive chance to take. Did I even have enough money for dinner when I arrived? I’d had both a horrible and hilarious time in Narbonne extracting the cash needed from the various ATM machines. L’institut only took cash for the final part of the tuition. I felt bad that there was so little cash left in Narbonne. I took another sip of Picpoul. I remembered the first order of business at L’Institut would be to take a language placement test. I looked to my left. The nearby passengers were well put together. They smelled good. They looked good. They were French. I should speak to them and practice my French. I shook my head and kept chewing. I needed to reserve the French words I had in my lexicon so as not to dilute them or confuse them with aimless speaking to strangers. L’Institut de Francais had come extremely highly recommended for an immersion experience. Like no other, they said. And I owed it to my family, who was putting a lot of faith - and euros - in me to take this step for our business.

I swallowed another sip of the perfect taste they called Picpoul. I’d been coming abroad to France since 1995 and had been physically challenged on many journeys. I had led many cooking trips. Like on the train trip, I always figured it out. But this time I had to do something equally hard, climb the mountain of perfect and past perfect tenses, and something called reflexive verbs. I chewed some crottin with baguette. It was ludicrous that something I’d wanted for so long time, should upset me so much. I could and did speak enough French to get by.

I could shout out at market like the best French housewife.

“un tranche pate du compagne and un piece de blanc de brebis”

“deux kilos d’aubergines”

“plus de courgettes.”

And any order was always followed with “S’il vous plait.”

In the early days of coming to France I squawked like a hen to the guy who was “spitting up” the birds for the roaster. He would laugh. But I wanted not to make people laugh at me because I was a chicken. And I was. I felt like a failure. I felt embarrassed to know so little true French that I couldn’t carry on a conversation beyond le menu.

The passengers around me were speaking at a fast clip.

But wasn’t Le Cuisine the most important part of France and wasn’t that the reason I started coming to France?

Sometimes, you are so silly, even I am surprised, the little voice in my head said. Then I fell asleep.

We all arrived into Villefranche and I took a taxi from the train station to my airbnb for the night. The driver spoke to me in English. It was ok, I knew this was the last time. All taxi drivers after this would know i could speak fluent French.

Villefranche-sur-Mer climbs up, and down, a very steep hill that empties into a beautiful port. Climbing up the steep stone stairs was a chore. Evening was coming. I stopped at the top of the steps. People sat at outdoor tables and they were speaking French. I heard them as if anew, and as I heard their words, like a song. I loved them and all they stood for. But I didn’t know the words to their song. I swallowed hard. With horror I realized that in the morning, I couldn’t just speak random French and squawk like a chicken, to pass my test. I had to understand what questions they were asking me in order to answer. If I could answer at all.

I stopped at the black door. I punched in the code. I closed the door on all the joie de vivre out in the street, and stepped inside my apartment for what I was sure would be the most sleepless night of my life. Je suis perdue, I repeated. The phrase was one of my most frequently uttered sentences in France. But i wasn’t laughing like I normally do when I say it. I was about to find out just how lost I really was. I pulled out my I-phone and looked up the meaning of crottin, my cheese that I loved and wanted to be as good as, and I learned that crottin also meant turd. I knew I was doomed.

To be continued…stay tuned for the next chapter.