The French Connection

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  View of a vineyard in Prades de Lez during a leisurely stroll

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  Goofing off, as always

A trip to Marseille. An antique car. Rendez-vous with strangers. Becoming adept in the ways of la France is a mystery filled with twists and turns, sprinkled with confusion. This week marks one-month since our family arrived in Montpellier. We are still searching for a home, and still trying to get our sons’ education squared away. Each day we wake-up and drive off to chisel away towards some ounce of permanence with our new lives here.

There is plenty of time spent in our unattractive European rental car, a Citroën C3. Outside the main city, traffic lights are few and far between. Instead, roundabouts and more roundabouts get you where you need to go. Directions come in the form of white shaped arrow signs with names of the towns exclaiming “That a Way!” If you don’t act fast enough you find yourself orbiting till you reach the exit again. Distanced at regular intervals, there is a mastery to yielding in and out of the rond-points that initially makes non-natives nervous. If you’re prone to nausea, the constant gravitational pull on the rond-points will definitely bring it on.

Another tale of panic is driving inside the city. For one, traffic lights do not loom undisputedly large overhead like they do in the States. Instead they are subtle boxy things with small rings of lights posted to the far side of the street. Since cars here park in both directions on either side with such pas un souci, one can never be sure if they are driving head on into a narrow one-way street in the wrong direction. Faded road markings create instances when we question if we are going in the right direction. Comparing the city driving here to Philadelphia’s unapologetic streets, the French have them outmaneuvered.

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Aside from how our family is getting around in our new surroundings, we managed to collect Randy’s 1958 MGA antique car off the container in Marseille and into storage in Montpellier. This was a mission that involved a non-English speaking tow-truck driver; a four-hour drive to and from the port city of Marseille – not the nice part; and a container filled with our house goods that appeared and disappeared into storage because we have no home. Luckily, the French transport owner wearing the de rigueur neck scarf was there to receive us. With his Chicago-earned English, he was able to communicate between the movers and the tow-truck driver on our behalf. Graciously, he offered us un cafecito of espresso and for a minute it felt like Miami hospitality.

For two hours, Randy tailed the tow truck on the return trip back to Montpellier. A few days later, with a referral from his colleague, my husband drove the vehicle to his coworker’s friend storage site. We drove to a nearby town and curved onto a long driveway. I parked my meager car behind the gates, and jotted over to find Randy and a driveway lined with exotic sports cars. A typical storage garage this was not. The house and the property obviously belonged to the upper-echelons of the income bracket. Here we were with a Frenchman with little English skills; Randy and his beloved vehicle; a grandeur house with a driveway of cars with unimaginable price tags. Randy handed him the set of keys, and I was left perplexed from what I just witnessed. It was a flash of Miami Vice in France. In the end, we walked away and hoped that all would turn out well.

Happily, our family has made strides towards one son settling into school here. My 12-year-old son is starting an intensive 6-week-long French language module required by the school system. Unfortunately for my 3rd grader, this does not exist for his age group – apparently it would be speedier for him to catch up to the language compared to his brother.

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  Obsessed with these tall conifer trees

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  In front of a belle maison

While waiting to find a permanent address to enroll our youngest in a local school, our family paid a visit to Montpellier’s French-American center. In the small courtyard, we found ourselves among a group of grade school children on a Wednesday morning, when French children have half-day school. They were there to learn to speak English with young teachers from America. We were there to find out about speaking French. For thirty-years, the center has enabled cultural exchanges between the French and Americans in Montpellier. After a lovely session with a Brit who manages the center, we signed-up our youngest for private French lessons. Once CoViD’s impact lessens, having a place where we can form a relationship with other expats and attend social gatherings will be possible.

Next week, Randy and I begin our own course in intensive French, part of his resettlement package. With that, our family will be taking the steps needed to gain more confidence in communicating with those in our new homeland. It may take years to become fluent, but more than likely our sons will adapt faster than Randy and I. We are quickly learning that making friendly connections in France will help us steer our course with more ease and with less of an enigma.