Bouche, Bouchée, Boucher

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There are three words in French that have the root word "bouche". Why I am thinking this in the middle of a terribly important dinner, I don't know. But here goes my thought process anyways.

Bouche means mouth. I'm trying to focus on my companions' mouths and trying harder to figure out their accent. Bouchée, now that one is a little touchy. Literally, it means "a mouthful", but as I sit with a mouth full of unidentified meat, I am really thinking about its slang meaning, "a bite". I guess you could say this whole trip is biting off more than I can chew. Boucher, according to my practical dictionary, has multiple meanings. Firstly, boucher (n) means butcher. A butcher could also be a boucherie. Okay, it's starting to make sense, I was at a butcher today, and now a wide selection of meats is displayed in front of me. It can also mean to fill up, or to block. On serving number five, I am starting to fill up and I should be blocking my mouth from chugging wine (to help put all this unidentified food down).

You see, this terribly important affair is a timid farewell to France. I'm flying across the Atlantic on Monday to visit home- Toronto, Ontario, Canada. It was a hasty decision, a momentarily lapse in judgment, that I booked the flight, and planned to book it home to see my parents, eat some unidentified Korean food, and visit friends.

I couldn't be happier, and right now, nothing here holds a candle to my dearest motherland.

My farewell, however, happens to also be a "meet the parents" affair, and one to remember as they don't speak much English (accept apparently "chicken", which accompanies wild arm flapping, similar to the chicken dance). I spent the day in Charroux, L'un Beau Ville de France as the sign says. It is beautiful, and very old, dating to the tenth and eleventh centuries. But, I must admit, my company is much more interesting. Having taken my departure a little too quietly for my liking, Ludo's pulled himself around and taken me for a wonderful day in the country (I think in an attempt to remind me how wonderful it is). He points out how everything is older than my country, and it is. I point out that they hadn't even discovered my country then, and believed the earth was flat.

As I finish dessert (course number seven, I think) I must believe it has been a wonderful day. One I will remember while I sit on the streetcar and get sneezed on. But for now, I am too excited to contain myself. A week home is a wonderful thing.

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