The universality of Parents and Legos

I have died and gone to French Country Paradise.

There is no other way to describe my visit to the home of the Meuniers in the teeny, tiny village of Orange (700 residents, I think) in the Provence region of Southern France.

My new friend Antoine, of Beijing Olympic Games fame, invited me here to meet his family, see his home, and get to know their gigantic dog Slovane - the true king of this French castle.

And now I realize that the best thing about having friends is that they have parents with really great homes!

Orange is located near Avignon, a major stop along the train route about halfway between Cannes and Paris. I was very excited for this visit, and was glad it would be right along the path back to Paris. It seemed easy enough logistically - at least according to the 26-year-old boy brain of Antoine:

“First take the train to Avignon TGV. Then get on a bus outside of the station (it’s easy, there is only one!) that goes to the other train station, Avignon Centre. Then buy a ticket at Avignon Centre for the local train to Orange, it doesn't leaves until 4pm. Oh, your train into TGV gets in around 1pm? No problem, that gives you plenty of time to (sit around and) get to the station… Then when you arrive in Orange, I will pick you up at the station. Or my mother will because I may not be there yet. No, she doesn’t speak any English. But no problem!”

What was left out of this discussion was a) the 800 pounds of luggage I was dragging around, and b) Le Mistral - the fierce, unforgiving, freezing winds that blow - no, SCREAM - through Avignon this time of year. So I arrive easily enough into TGV, drag my tired self and all that heavy baggage outside to find the bus, and nearly get blown over as the harsh winds scream and howl, smacking me across the face with their cruel, icy hands.

But I held myself up, and managed to get to Centre in time for the train, stopping along the way to buy a pretty bottle of melon-flavored appertif for his mom. (Antoine advised me to bring flowers, which I had intended to do, but there was no florist to be found in either train station. I really wish I had followed this advice more carefully and sought out a florist).

I arrived into Orange just as Antoine did, all the way from Paris. He was riding down with a friend that was relocating, so I was greeted with a tiny little European car that was literally packed to the gills with boxes. I was a pretty tired, and thus dismayed when I saw this. OK, not dismayed, more like dumbfounded. How on earth would I, let alone my bags, fit into that car?

They jumped out and began the process of rearranging all that stuff. I stood there waiting and watching, attempting patience as the cold winds tore through my thin sweater. Somehow, magically, they managed to find just enough room for my bags and my body to squeeze inside the tiny car. I was about to climb in, when suddenly I felt a cold and wet sensation spreading all over my right leg. Was I peeing in my pants? I glanced down, and was shocked to see that somehow, during all the chaos and activity of rearranging the car, the pretty bottle of liqueur had cracked open and was now leaking all over me, my pants, my shoes, my purse. Disaster! By that point, all I could do was laugh. We threw out the bottle and I climbed into the car, smelling like a dirty nightclub, ashamed and completely bummed out that my first impression to his parents would be “Hi, I am the messy trashy alcoholic American girl that your son met in Beijing…” Oh dear. Needless to say during the entire ride to his home, I implored Antoine that he explain to his mother why I was drenched and wreaking of alcohol.

It all turned out to be just fine. Fabulous, actually. His parents are amazing people, and their house is fantastic. His mom cheerily welcomed me, laughed at the mess that I was and right away offered to add my pants to the wash. She immediately made me hot tea and began baking brioche with chocolate filling. Yum. Her cooking was incredible, and she seemed to cook all day… homemade yogurt, fresh baked bread, pasta and soups… dad joked often that the vegetarian visitor had killed his chance at meat for a few days, but I was so very appreciative that Antoine had made her aware of my pickiness and that she was so considerate of what she served. The lovely house was being built, bit by bit, room by room, by the two hands of Antoine’s dad, a phys ed teacher with lots of spare time and a gift for construction. Every detail of the house, from the curving staircase to the music room to the wood burning stove in the kitchen, seemed so typically French to me, and I loved it. To add to the cliché, there were cats everywhere. Sleeping, purring, watching me shower through the bathroom window, sitting in the sink drinking water. There were 20 in all, and I was scared. I am very allergic to cats, and I normally don't really like them. But there was nothing I could do or say at this point. So I just meditated on the pack of Claritin that was buried somewhere in my bag, feeling very grateful for Western drugs.

Funny thing is, I never needed the Claritin and I never felt affected by these creatures. Maybe I am not allergic to French cats??

So Antoine and I lazed around the house for 2 days, doing little other than eating, watching movies, surfing the internet, and standing in front of the wood-burning stove to stay warm. My French got a bit better, and Antoine’s mom - formerly an elementary school teacher - enjoyed correcting me and speaking very slowly, helping me along and commending my progress. Two children that are somehow related visited often, and they were seriously adorable. The most well-behaved kids ever, they would sit at the table like lovely little adults, quietly eating their brioche while the adults chattered on. What is with American kids? The ones I know would never have acted this polite! Eloise, the 6-year-old, was very curious about me - the weird sounding stranger that couldn’t speak her language. But she bonded with me anyway, played with my hair, sat on my lap and danced with me around the kitchen. Antoine cracked up when she yelled out to her baby brother: "Come on, let's go see if we can understand what she is saying!!" When mom brought out a huge box of her kids old Legos, me, Antoine and the two kids got lost in the fun of it all. It’s amazing how universal some things are, and how unnecessary verbal communication can be at times.

My visit was awesome. I loved this house, even the cats, especially Slovane. I loved my friend’s parents, especially the moment when we drove into town for a bit of sightseeing: the beautifully desolate French countryside unfolding before us, Antoine driving, his mom in the backseat complaining in typical mom fashion that he was driving way too fast, but not seeming to mind at all the violent “ruckus” of his Sonic Youth CD blaring loudly from the speakers. Like Legos, parents too are universal.

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