Finding me in France Read online

  Bobbi French

  St. John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador

  2012

  © 2012, Bobbi French

  We gratefully acknowledge the financial support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF), and the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador through the Department of Tourism, Culture and Recreation for our publishing program.

  All rights reserved. No part of this work covered by the copyrights hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any requests for photocopying, recording, taping or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed in writing to the Canadian Reprography Collective, One Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Cover design and layout by Neil McCulloch

  Printed on acid-free paper

  Published by

  CREATIVE PUBLISHERS

  an imprint of CREATIVE BOOK PUBLISHING

  a Transcontinental Inc. associated company

  P.O. Box 8660, Stn. A

  St. John’s, Newfoundland and Labrador A1B 3T7

  Printed in Canada by:

  TRANSCONTINENTAL INC.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  French, Bobbi, 1968-

  Finding me in France / Bobbi French.

  ISBN 978-1-897174-94-4

  1. French, Bobbi, 1968-. 2. Semur-en-Auxois (France)-- Biography. I. Title.

  DC801.S4437F74 2012 944'.42 C2012-901094-4

  To the Kids

  ~ CONTENTS ~

  ONE LIFE ENDS

  AND A NEW LIFE BEGINS

  SEPTEMBER

  OCTOBER

  NOVEMBER

  DECEMBER

  JANUARY

  FEBRUARY

  MARCH

  APRIL

  MAY

  JUNE

  JULY

  AUGUST

  SEPTEMBER

  ~ ONE LIFE ENDS ~

  GRACE

  I was raised by a Newfoundland family who cherish their deeply held traditions of guilt, panic and self-loathing, so becoming a psychiatrist was the path of least resistance. That way I could put an end to my mother’s obsessive fear that I would somehow wind up depending on a man for money. I could also begin the futile quest for the approval of my physician father. But the best part was I could prove to myself (and everyone else) that I wasn’t a total idiot. It was the perfect plan. Who wouldn’t want a life chosen by a high school kid? Never mind that I had dreams of becoming an improvisational comedic performer discovered by Lorne Michaels who happened to drop in to see my senior year play. As my mother wisely reminded me, I would always be poor if I had to rely on my talent, so medical school it was.

  Some 20 years later I was standing in the darkness of my state of the art kitchen at four o’clock on a cold February morning. Insomnia and I had become old friends. On that particular morning it wasn’t the usual myriad of stresses and heartbreaks of my life as a child and adolescent psychiatrist that kept sleep at bay. No, this was something new; some sort of fundamental problem, a restlessness taking root in my being. Maybe I was just tired or old. I certainly had a right to be either. The latter by virtue of my 42 birthdays, the former by way of a career that had bled me dry. So I did what any psychiatrist would do, I reflected on myself until my brain hurt.

  I don’t recall the moment when I knew for sure that I was completely ordinary. I was surprised to realize it. This insight developed slowly and subtly in my consciousness guided by the steady stream of extraordinary kids in the chair across from me. They’d slouch and face me, looking for wisdom or answers or pills or for me to absorb their rage and angst. And no matter how unfortunate or ill or disorganized, they were always impressively uncommon; battered, suicidal, hysterical, psychotic, sexual sophisticates navigating their way often without a moment of love in their lives. Yet there they were, self-aware, confident albeit superficially, clear in purpose even if it was to cause as much self-destruction as possible.

  I imagined myself at 16, sure, free of razor cuts on my arms and suicidal depression but also free of confidence, independence and courage. They read Thoreau and strutted their stuff on YouTube. Cripes, I was reading Anne of Green Gables and wearing three layers of clothes to pretend that I wasn’t six feet tall and 118 pounds (freak not chic). I behaved myself, did well at school, clung to a boyfriend who treated me badly and played the Good Catholic, well, apart from being on the pill. At first I assumed it was generational, that had I grown up texting and blogging and shopping at H & M I would have been their equal, slick as could be, Brazilian wax and all. But in my heart I knew it was a lie. I knew that not once had I ever done anything brave or unexpected.

  I love these kids. I love that they prevail despite all odds. I love that they dare to see beyond their despair. They know that no matter what they decide disapproval will ensue and they do it anyway. Not for a moment do I envy their illnesses and suffering or how society hasn’t offered them a place at the table for sick kids who deserve compassion and funding. I do, however, respect their predicament and their grace and dignity in tolerating it. They are fundamentally special. I was the one without grace and I needed to find it somewhere.

  There were two other things of which I was certain. I love my husband. I look at him and see the only right path I have ever taken. And, something had to give. My career so heavy with serious responsibility didn’t fit me anymore. The system had beaten me down. Some days I felt it was killing me, like some sort of disease destroying me body and soul, and that’s no way to live. So what was an ordinary gal to do?

  Now maybe a four a.m., carbohydrate fuelled, middle-aged malaise wasn’t the optimal moment for major life decisions. And it could’ve just been the chips and chocolate talking, but as I looked at the beautiful house that we’d spent a year renovating, my luxury SUV in the driveway and my action packed calendar that paid for all the things in my gaze, I realized for the first time in my life that I had a choice. I didn’t have to wait for the stars and moon to align or until I had a pile of money saved. I didn’t have to wait for the elusive perfect job for wayward psychiatrists to miraculously present itself to me. I could simply walk away. My contract at the hospital was up for renewal and I had a decision to make. I could either go ahead and make my deal with the devil like I’d done every year for the past fifteen or I could do something different, something completely illogical.

  So I made a deal with myself to abandon the path that I’d travelled for so long. To hell with ordinary, convention, fear of disappointing others, seeking approval and doing what’s expected of me. I decided to follow in the footsteps of the great George Costanza and live in the opposite. To be brave and do things I have only dreamed of doing, to turn my life upside down, shake it well and see what comes out. The only thing left was to wake up my better two-thirds and give him the good news. Somehow I knew he’d be in.

  And now, three months after that fateful morning, I’ve done the unthinkable. I resigned from my stable and successful position at a major Canadian hospital, leaving behind an amazing group of people and an equally amazing paycheque. I sold my beautiful house, my car and almost everything I own except for a few essentials, my husband being a perfect example. I purchased a one-way ticket to France, and rented a cottage in Burgundy for a year. I traded stability for the absolute unknown. I have lost my mind. I’m going to look for it in France.

  THE JOY I’VE

  ALREADY FOUND

  But let me back up a bit. Nothing’s that simple. While there’s no doubt that I’m on some flaky new age (okay middle-age) pilgrimage to joy here, I don’t want to give
the impression that I existed in some vacuum of doom and gloom. Far from it because I’ve been blessed beyond measure.

  In my life I’ve been offered many gifts. I grew up on a rock in the North Atlantic in a beautiful culture rich with humour and music, with a language all our own and a fierce determination to survive. My family, flawed though it may be, has made me who I am. I have irreplaceable friends, the kind you would call if you woke up on a cold prison floor in Thailand and they’d know just what to do. I’ve learned from the best in my career, unbelievably talented and passionate professionals who have devoted their lives to helping teenagers in crisis. I can eat whatever I want and maintain my status as a giant stick insect. I have the best mother-in-law any woman could ever hope for. But by far the greatest gift in my life is my husband Neil, who is without a doubt, joy personified. The world is full of women complaining about their men, and to be sure there’s a lot of material to draw from, but I want to be sentimental for a moment in case I ever forget his place in all this.

  Everyone who meets Neil is better for it. I’ve never seen anything like it. People spend five minutes with him during which he may say five words and they walk away thinking how wonderful he is. It’s like he has his own atmosphere with a gravitational pull. I think back on how “I” became “we” and I shudder at how easily I could have missed it. One different decision, one small misstep in time and I would have passed him by.

  It seems I have a habit of marrying fine men. My first walk down the aisle was at the ripe old age of 23. He was lovely, I grew up and we grew apart. We’re both happy now, end of story. After my first marriage ended, I moved to Ontario to learn how to work with teenagers. I stayed longer than I thought I would, longer than I should have. And while it wasn’t all bad, after almost five years on the mainland (as we Newfoundlanders like to say), I knew I needed a change of scene. I decided to head back east and found myself a job in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Even then I had dreams of Europe but I thought I needed to focus on my career.

  So, as usual, I worked and worked some more. I made some new friends but as for dating, well, I discovered that after ten years away from the game my reflexes were off and all the rules had changed. I couldn’t tell the good from the bad from the ugly. I couldn’t even get a condom out of the package let alone figure out how to use one. The hair removal ritual alone was enough to make me want to pack it in. If I could’ve gone on dates with furry legs and bushy armpits I would’ve been far more into it. Finally, after a lovely evening of being grilled over dinner about my suitability as a DNA provider, I decided I would have no more of this madness and hung up my razor. The only thing I would commit to was befriending a man who would accompany me to fancy balls (I’d never been to one in my life but you never know) and take care of any heavy lifting. I wasn’t discouraged or defeated; I just really liked being on my own. I did, however, remain open to meeting an aging millionaire who, now weary with super-models, was seeking a companion to share expensive dinners, someone with whom he could have long chats about feminism while redecorating his many homes around the globe.

  Birthday number 34 rolled around and my dear friend Judy (mother of three small boys, so more to be pitied than blamed) wanted a grownup Friday night out. We started at an upscale bar packed to the rafters with people who all seemed to be desperately searching for something. After an excruciating hour enduring a man’s obviously well rehearsed I’m-a-fancy-pants-doctor routine (he didn’t once ask me what I did), I hit the jackpot with a charming and married musician from my hometown. We chatted for ages about music, the old country, and life in general. Now this was a perfect evening for me—libations with a beloved friend and an interesting man to chat with who had no designs on clubbing me over the head and dragging me home.

  Then Judy, empowered by three drinks and her freedom from diapers, exclaimed, “Let’s go dancing!” Yes, I thought, let’s abandon this perfectly delightful setup and go scream at each other while half-naked college girls perform choreographed dance numbers and their boyfriends crush beer cans on their heads. But who am I to keep a good mother down? So, whining and complaining all the way, I allowed myself to be dragged to the Velvet Olive, a local pose and pick-up joint. It’s a good thing nobody ever listens to me. Had I known what was inside waiting for me I would have broken down the door.

  The club was of the standard meat market variety; a blue-lit bar, a bald, tattooed waitress and firm-bodied young-and-eligibles fully engaged in age-old mating rituals. Clearly more drinks were necessary for this mess so we queued up for the privilege of paying 13 bucks for a martini. I was squished into a man wearing painter-pant jeans and a T-shirt with holes around the neck. He looked mostly blue from the glow of the bar as he put out his hand, “Hi, I’m Neil.” We got to shouting in each other’s ear about his work in advertising, that he spoke Spanish, how I was there with friends for my birthday. At one point he smiled widely and Judy and I both stepped back from the blinding glare of the strobe light bouncing off his face full of teeth. He’d seen this reaction before and like a proud third grader he beamed, “And I never had braces!” We’d stumbled upon the last truly beguiling man on the planet.

  Then, quite out of the blue (literally), he slapped his hand down on the bar as if to seal a deal. “So, I want to see you again. What are you doing tomorrow?” I just blinked at him. He was happy with drink but by no means drunk. He surely could’ve won the affections of any of the fresh-faced, recently shaved gals in the place, so I was confused. I broke out my patented slick dating banter: “I’m sort of dating someone, well not dating really, okay a couple of dates but I have to end it because he’s really quite wrong for me and I’m likely going to be staying single now plus I don’t know if you noticed but I am a bit taller than you. Also I’m a psychiatrist, which everyone hates, you know, on account of their fear of being analyzed, so …” What the hell was wrong with me? He didn’t even flinch: “One, I always date tall women, and B, the last woman I dated was a resident in psychiatry. So, about tomorrow?” I was totally flustered by this time. “Well, my friend Judy is visiting for the weekend so I can’t…” Before I could finish, he was at it again, “When is she leaving? I have these theatre tickets for Sunday night so you can come with me. No problem.” So, quite unromantically, because I didn’t know what to do with him, I handed him my business card. And that was that.

  Monday morning, I arrived at the hospital yet another year older but not one bit wiser and there it was, the small rectangle of pink paper that read “8:59 a.m.—Please call Neil.” I held it in my hand and sighed. No, I would not be distracted or pulled off track. I called to tell him so but there was no denying how excited he was to hear from me. Right. Well, I thought, I suppose it would be rude to brush him off on the phone. Instead, I agreed to have a coffee with him that evening before meeting up with some friends. I’d tell him that he was a charming man but I’d resolved to be single. How hard could it be?

  I put no effort into preparing to meet this Neil fellow because it wasn’t really a date; it was a coffee to say it wasn’t a date. I remember exactly what I wore: a faded blue T-shirt with only half the hem intact, jeans that hadn’t actually made contact with my arse in some time, scuffed loafers and a ratty, pilled sweater coat. I can’t recall whether I bothered with lipstick or not but I do know that I didn’t so much as brush my hair. When I got to the coffee shop I saw him sitting quietly reading a paper and looking sharp in his crisp shirt and new jeans. He was perched under a halogen light, his orange hair was like fire and his skin was the palest hue of rosy peach. He was completely iridescent and absolutely beautiful. Where the hell was the blue guy with the torn shirt, the frat boy who’d forgotten he graduated? As I looked at him, I felt a familiar flush of humiliation from head to toe, high school all over again. But then again maybe this would be easier than I thought. He’d take one look at me, run out the door screaming and leave me to my beloved freedom.

  Instead, we sat and talked. Fifteen minutes later, I knew that he was warm a
nd witty and entirely engaging. By the time I’d finished my second cup of tea, I knew that he was an open and honest man who was clever and confident without a hint of arrogance. And by the end of the evening, I knew that he was the happiest person I’d ever met. I felt happy just being near him. He walked me to my car and I was disappointed to see him go. I was oddly compelled to email him the next day to thank him and to say that I kind of wished we’d had more time together. He emailed back, charm firing on all cylinders, and we agreed to go for dinner. We ate and talked until we were the only people left in the restaurant. Everything became clear and quiet and time seemed to stop. He reached across the table for my hand and I knew it was over, my solitary life, all my plans to be wild and free. I knew that I had to keep him, that he would be good for me in every way. For once in my life I stopped thinking and just let things be.

  Eight months into it we each sold our houses, bought one together and started tearing it up. Three houses later on a sunny day in the Boboli Gardens in Florence he reached into his fanny pack and unwrapped a diamond ring from a tissue (no one’s perfect), which led to a wedding in a hair salon/café/art gallery officiated by a Buddhist couple from Brooklyn. Of course we’ve had our share of relationship challenges (me), but I know whatever happens in my life, he will always be the best decision I ever made. You know what they say, if you want to make god laugh, tell her your plans. I’ve learned to make fewer plans, keep an open mind and graciously accept whatever she offers me.

  Neil is my touchstone and greatest ally. Who else would respond to my, “I think we should abandon my big income, sell everything we own, have you drag your work overseas so I can find myself,” with a simple, “Sounds good, my love”? He makes me a gourmet dinner every night; he’s kindhearted and goofy and ridiculously intelligent. He speaks three languages, cries at movies, dances with abandon and loves his family. He’s everything from photographer to handyman and generates an energy that’s hard to describe. People are drawn to him like moths to the flame; maybe it’s his flaming red hair that beckons. He’s out of my league and I know it. It can’t be easy to live with a gigantic, feminist psychiatrist.