Joyeux Anniversaire, Martin et Marie Hélène (or how I soiled on my to-do list but had the Frenchiest day)

If you know me well enough, you'll be the first to recognize (or bemoan) my dogmatic passion for organization. I revel in dusting off my books and storing them in alphabetical order, I can pick myself up by aligning every item on my desk and night table, and I can spend hours creating a to-do list. If you really want to get under my skin, the simple act of misplacing a sheet of paper on my work space (the "mis" being at anything other than perfect 90 degree angles) will leave me visibly unsettled.

So last night I mapped out a plan of attack for my first day in Lyon. I arrived without an apartment, without a cell phone, and without a bank account. Today, my intention was to obtain all three. Oh, and since the pair of glasses I bought before leaving Harvard is still pinching the back of my left ear, a trip to the optical shop was my extra credit.

I'll give you a hint as to how my day panned out: I didn't accomplish a single task I had set out for myself.

What, then, did I do today?

I have the great fortune of currently residing with Maria Reinita and Gérard Guenot on the Boulevard des Tchecoslovaques in the center of Lyon. Maria Reinita is a vetrinarian from Uruguay with an eye condition that causes her to tear uncontrolably (when she picked me up from the airport yesterday, her glasses were sprinkled with tears that I mistook for her great emotion at seeing me again after twenty-some years). She also happens to be, in some magical, legal way, my aunt. Her husband, Gérard, collects old film reels and the machines that play them. So far, the only questions he's asked me are "Do you think Barack Obama will win the election?" and "Would you like some more wine?"


Their eldest daughter, Éleonore, is my "cousine française," and a friend of mine from when I lived in Buenos Aires (she was doing the French equivalent of study abroad in Montevideo at the time). I think she has appointed herself my guardian until I'm settled in, or "installée" as people keep telling me ("Bonne installation!") Éleonore is one of the sweetest and most giving people I know, and you would be hard pressed to find someone with such generous qualities. Except that she happens to date such a person - her boyfriend, Benjamin. So when they offered to give me a ride to Saint-Etienne this morning, I smiled and accepted with an enthusiastic "Oui, oui, merci BIEN!"

Éleonore and Benjamin actually live and work in Grenoble which is a little under a 2-hour drive from Lyon. Their reason for being in Lyon on my arrival was, coincidentally, a family gathering in Saint-Etienne. Benjamin's older sister, Raphaelle, lives in the center of Saint-Etienne with her husband, Ferréol, and her, as of today, two-year old son, Martin, who shares his birthday with his grandmother, Marie Hélène. Ferréol looks like his name sounds: he is a thin, balding thirty-something with round red-rimmed glasses and small teeth that endear you to him immediately.

And so, I hitched a ride with Benjamin and Éleonore, who followed Marie Hélène, Daniel (Benjamin's father), Marie (sister), amd Laurent (sister's boyfriend) to my soon to be new home.

I get very mixed reactions when I tell people I will be teaching (and living) in St. Etienne. The general consensus seems to be that it is a primitive town ("Saint-Etienne? Bah, c'est primitif.") I was comforted when Marie Hélène described it as a quiet town of very kind and friendly people and a certain quaintness that bigger-city dwellers tend to dislike. I assured her that this sounded exactly like where I wanted to be this year (and hopefully that will prove true).

We arrived a bit before one and made our way up the three flights of stairs to Raphaelle's apartment. Initially, the plan was to get a map and get me oriented so that I might venture forth and find some place to live. I figured I would come across a bank and a cell phone provider en route. Only the entire clan of Benjamin insisted that I stay for lunch, which is just as well since I later discovered that none of these tasks was feasible on a Saturday. Banks close, as do cell phone stores, and the student residences I hoped would open their rooms to me were also unavailable (all four of them).

But none of this actually mattered to me. The minute I bit into the fig and foie gras toasts appetizers Rapha served as an opening to the birthday lunch, all I could think about was how I'd tasted just about the most delicious morself of food that has ever passed my lips. That is until I tried the mozzarella and basil. And then the blue cheese, honey, and balsamic vinegar. All washed down with a sparkling wine that made me question why I've all but forsaken wine for beer in the last couple of years.

When I wasn't stuffing my face with French delicacies, I was trying to translate my belly's affinity for all things French into my tongue's ability to mobilize on behalf of the French language. Which went more or less well until jetlag caught up to me and I began to fuse Spanish words into French. The entire family still understood when I used the word "compartir" instead of "partager," and "orientacion" instead of "information." At least I didn't confuse my neck with my ass ("cou" versus "cul"). I'm sure something like this will inevitably happen to me in the next month, so stay tuned for "quand je fais la cagade."

I've failed to mention that Marie Hélène's father (Benjamin's grandfather) is a pâtissier - a pastry chef. He'd prepared a tarte de poires (pear tarte) and home made vanilla ice cream in honor of the birthdays. Rapha made the cake, built like a train with licorice wheels and licorice train tracks.

In conclusion, Martin is one lucky two-year old. And if I continue to neglect my to-do lists for my other great passion, I won't be able to button my jeans.