I have often reflected on how I became a Francophile. I wonder if it happened in my mother's womb; some kind of imprint that was already there at birth. I was told a story that my father named me. I was supposed to be a boy, and surprised everyone. I may have gone for a few days before a name actually was figured out. All I know is that I have two French names. And, my father's name was French as well (or at least spelled in the French way). So, I think it was in the blood.
As I child, my family nicknamed me DeeDee. I never liked it. And no one outside of my immediately family ever called me by the nickname. Somehow, it didn't fit. I don't even know why they came up with it. I have always thought that nicknames should be reserved for people with difficult or really long names. So, I am glad the nickname never stuck. I prefer my real name...it goes with my francophile tendencies.
French classes in my private school started in the 4th grade. I don't really remember being impressed or necessarily enamoured with speaking French. But I didn't mind it either. Latin became a second language in 7th grade, but it wasn't anything that I wanted to continue. It was an easy choice to make in 9th grade to continue on with French as my foreign language.
At the age of twelve, I taught myself how to cook. I started out with my mother's World War II cookbook...pretty basic recipes. It was something to do during the summer and I kind of enjoyed it. But what really hooked me was watching an episode of Julia Child's cooking program. She was so much fun to watch, and the food looked so good, I was inspired to go out and get myself my first french cookbook. It is a collection of recipe cards, simple dishes, that I still have today. And I became a faithful viewer of Julia's program.
Of course, the next step was developing the palate for french food. If you're going to cook it, you have to know what it tastes like. So, starting with my 13th birthday, I began to make the tour of some of the best french restaurants that DC had at the time. I have a souvenir menu from one of the memorable meals. It was classic french food at its best. It became a birthday tradition to go out for fine French food.
Then came the year in school that I had the best and most formidable French teacher. She was demanding, but was fascinating at the same time. She was a real feminist, fiercely independent in thought, and very modern. Around the same time, I met a boy who was half Senegalese and half French. I had a serious crush on him, but alas, it was not to come to fruition. However, he did turn me on to a French tutor. What an adventure that became.
My tutor was the daughter of the President of the International Monetary Fund. A chauffeur-driven limo would pick me up from school once a week on our lesson day, and deposit me at the very luxe-deluxe home for my lesson. In cold weather, we would descend to the basement and have our lessons there...all the while smoking Gitanes. In warmer weather, we would sit out in the garden by the pool, reading French poetry and just talking. My biggest surprise came when one day, I arrived to find that my tutor was not available, but "maman" would take her place. Of course, with her mother, it was much more formal. But I enjoyed a glass of homemade French limonade and the lesson went fine. It was a great way to perfect my French language skills.
By my senior year in high school, I was ready for the big-time, AP French class, with the same formidable French teacher. I had read classics in French, French novels, French history. This final year was much more intense, with philosophy (Camus and Satre) thrown in and the necessity to talk about it intelligently en francais. It was a really hard class. However, I can say that the education was so good that I literally "think" in French. It is hard to translate because I never learned the language that way.
I was feeling my oats by then. So, instead of the normal kind of high school date, I had a couple of select friends (my boyfriend and another couple) who I deemed were sophisticated enough to appreciate it. I would invite them over for dinner and whip out my best French cuisine, a la Julia. My mother was really cool and would allow us to have a bottle of wine. (I still believe that teaching me to drink at an early age made me a responsible drinker as an adult. I never had the desire to binge drink or the silly things that kids do today.). And my mother would stay upstairs for the evening and give us run of the main floor. A cozy fire in the fireplace and some good jazz would set the mood.
Then when I set off for college, I chose Montreal. The French was different there, and I made the adjustment. But I also lived in the English-speaking district. French was only a necessity in certain parts of the city or out in the countryside. Never-the-less, it still kept me connected to the language and a French (though not the original) culture. After college, I had few opportunities to use my French. I thought it was lost.
Fast forward to 1999. I am invited on a dream vacation to St. Tropez. All I have to do is get myself there. What was waiting on the other end was a fabulous villa overlooking the Mediterranean. Every indulgence was available and supplied. I was in heaven. But...I was petrified when I first stepped off the plane and had to wait for someone for a couple of hours in the airport. I didn't talk to anyone. The first challenge was figuring out the toll booths. Forget exact change...I hadn't figured out the money yet. So, luckily I could figure out which lane was the one to get into so we could just hand over a bill and hope that we got the right amount of change back. I was the only one in our group who spoke French. So, the housekeeper who came every morning depended on me to tell her what everyone needed. Even though I was struggling for the words, she kept me talking, eventually moving on to get-to-know-you questions. She knew what she was doing, and after a few days, miraculously the language started coming out of my mouth. Every once in a while, I'd miss a word, but I could usually say enough to have someone figure it out.
I subsequently visited Paris, St. Martin, and a whirlwind tour that ranged from Marseille, Arles, Avignon, Lyon, Macon, to Aix-en-Provence, as well as many other spots in-between. Each time I have been in France, I feel more connected. I was brave enough to plan an excursion for my 50th birthday. I picked up a convertible at the airport in Nice, and travelled to a little town west of St. Tropez, to enjoy my maisonette overlooking the Mediterranean. The season had just ended. So, it was a quiet time to explore the markets, eat some fabulous meals, and just kick back and soak it in. Of course, every morning would require a trip to the bakery for fresh croissants and a baguette for the day.
Everyone asks me why I don't want to go to Italy or to Spain, or England. It's not that those places are not on my list, but I haven't finished France yet. I still need to see the Chateaux of the Loire Valley. I need to see Normandy and Mont St. Michel. I need to check out Alsace and the Atlantic Coast. And finally, venture into the Alps. The south always calls me back, particularly the red rocks of the L'Esterel region. I can't seem to go to France now without dipping my feet in the sea, like a pilgrimage.
Maybe I am trying to find myself. Find the place that resonates for me. Someplace maybe I was, in a previous life. I have met such wonderful French friends. And now I know my way around a little bit, which increases the comfort level. My fantasy is to own a small villa on the coast, just east of St. Tropez. There is something about the color of the water that seems unique. And to wake up to croissants and cafe au lait every morning is my idea of heaven. The fish, the olive oil, the lavender fields, the history, the character are calling to me.
I know many people believe that the French are not friendly. I have found them to be warm and welcoming, except for a couple of exceptions (metro and post office). Last year, I found a French family staying in my neighborhood on an 3-month sabbatical. We became fast friends and it was a perfect way to practice my French. I am most proud of making Cassoulet for my new friends and their family (from the region that Cassoulet originates from!). It was an evening where more French than English was spoken. We drank a lot of good wine. And, best of all, I received the highest compliments on my meal...very special coming from someone French.
I am proud of my Francophile tendencies...no matter where they came from. It's enriched my life in so many ways. And, if I can find a way to run away to France, to my little villa...the door will always be open to my friends and family. Happy to share a little slice of paradise.
