What Country Are We In?

I haven’t written anything in the last few days (bad me, I know), because our ship finally came in and I got to go shopping. Woo hoo! Not clothes shopping, or shoe shopping. Just good old grocery shopping. But that’s a blessed thing, because we were mighty low on everything. And now our pantry and fridge are fully stocked. Hopefully it will last a couple weeks. But I just want to jump in there and start eating everything because there is so much good stuff.

It’s funny, though, because in between shopping trips, it is so easy to forget where I am, exactly. We all speak English in our house (my German husband’s English is better than his German these days! People ask him where he’s from when he’s “home” in Baden-Württemberg), and we have a small British invasion here. All of our neighbors are British (including one charming couple from Yorkshire. I could listen to the husband talk all day long), and it’s so easy to cop out and go to them when we need anything – books, a ride into town, the phone when ours is down. Even our landlord, a French-speaking Belgian, speaks almost perfect posh British English. I almost feel like I’ve learned more British English terms here than French. We’re in the country, and there’s no walking to the store and seeing villagers here, so I don’t even get the lovely tradition of “bonjour”-ing everyone I pass.

It does help to listen to the radio in the car on the way to town. It wakes me up and helps me realize, oh yeah, we’re in France. But a large percentage of the songs are in English, including the charming song “Sexy Beech” as the announcer says it, and Lilly Allen’s latest “____ You Very Much”, which I’ve seen people of all ages humming and rocking out to. It really makes me wonder about the lyrics of the Spanish songs I used to listen to in Arkansas and Belize.

A few days ago, I swear I saw a man in full camouflage from head to toe jump out of a jeep to check his tires. I freaked out a bit, thinking “soldier”. But then I realized he was all camoed up for “Le Chasse”. The hunt. I might as well be in Arkansas. Nothing different here. Until I’m standing in line behind a man who hasn’t bathed in at least a couple weeks, holding a baguette and a bottle of pastis, and bouncing his head to “Sexy Beech”. Then I remember. Ah, yes. France. Lovely!