Phew! We’re back. Summer in France lies by “très vite” for our family, never failing to restore something within each of us. Whether it’s sticky, too-bright-sunny days spent in a small Côte d’Azur village, the jam-packed Paris Metro, or beaucoup kilometers in search of “just one more” pastry…
Wlady somehow manages to relax in the City. He thrives on honking horns, long lines, and rude shopkeepers. He also enjoys rediscovering his culinary faves that we American’s can’t ever seem to get right! The little boys’ French improves each summer, whizzing around Rue’s on their scooters, barking nonsense like: “Regardez-moi Monsieur!” Yet, they now prefer Cantal to Cheddar during cheese course. But hold the spicy moutarde, s’il vous plait! No wolfing down food at Grand-Mère’s table, either. Cultivation takes time. The oldest boy, now fluent with a handful of French ami’s of his own, has embraced his father’s homeland. He now eats French fries with a fork (he attempted using the fork for his hamburger, but his Papa quickly corrected him to his embarrassment)! As for me, I’m perfectly content being my American (yet Francophilish) self. I realize I’ll always laugh too much. I also hate scarves because they choke me. I tend to let loose in serious surroundings. And I suppose it will take me a mere 100 years to master the language.