(posted by Rita)

“You deserve to lose a night’s sleep for that one,” Peter says. 

 “I already have!”  I whine.  Still, I cringe. 

 

My partner is right, of course – me wanting to pull our son from the local public school, and enroll him in a private one instead, all because the stiletto-teetering, cigarette-wielding, prodigiously pierced parents at his inner-city French school frighten me – well, nothing shouts “classist hypocrite” louder than that. 

 

Worse, it is impossible to disentangle race from class in this country – the poor are visibly dark-skinned, and this city has its share of them. And though I know it is not the gaggle of young, veiled women I want to escape, there is no getting around the fact that I feel out of my skin.  I – a 40-something, middle-class Canadian of Indian origin, an NDP-supporting, placard-waving, anti-every-ism feminist – am mortified.

 

It’s been a few weeks since my eight-year-old started school in this ancient city in the south of France.  Getting him enrolled was surprisingly easy – anyone with a rental agreement can sign their kids up.   And Sage, to our great relief, has had little trouble fitting in.   His marble-filled pockets are testament to the many friends he has already made.  Teachers have welcomed him warmly and are giving him French-language support, and with two years of French immersion under his belt, il se débrouille. 

 

I, on the other hand, am having more trouble managing.

As I stand in the narrow street onto which the front door of the school opens, I steal sideways glances at other parents as they chatter away.  In one cluster are the Arabic women, hair covered, absorbed, speaking in their own language, rarely looking at me.  In front of the door are the Caucasian women, equally veiled but in tattoos.  With their dangling cigarettes and fish-net stockings, they wear their poverty like a cliché.  Women half my age nestle babies, waiting for their other children to emerge; they flirt with young men on motor scooters who pull up on the curb. 

 

Behind me, standing alone and rarely speaking to one another, are a tall Franco-African man with hip-hop jewelry and hat, whose pants are belted so low, his crotch is at knee level; a few well-dressed Arabic men who stand apart from the women; and a Caucasian man whose pale complexion and gaunt frame give him the appearance of an addict.

 

Posted by Rita

Well, one month in and we still haven’t spent a morning sipping café au lait and reading Le Monde.  Quelle vie éxigente! After sending the kids off to school early each morning, we find ourselves racing around, signing them up for this and that, purchasing school supplies, trying to interpret notes sent home, shopping for lunch.  We opted out of the cantine offered gratuite in Sage’s school, and inexpensively at Anjali’s.  The kids were more interested in the novelty of trekking home everyday for lunch (something that I was psyched by initially, but that has become somewhat tarnished as I now spend my time spreading Nutella and sweeping baguette crumbs). 

Wednesdays are typically days on which kids pursue their extra-curricular activities here, as the little kids have no school, and the collègianes have only a half day.  So, off went Sage to his first escrime (fencing) class.  Hard to believe that we’d derive so much pleasure out of watching our son try and kill someone with a sword.  But he loves it more than just about any sport he’s tried, and imagines himself a Chevalier heading off to battle (against Cathars) invading the castle walls of Carcasonne. 

Anjali and I trekked over to the gymnastics club where she tried her hand at rhythmic gymnastics . . . I think this could be her new big thing. 

And what else?  The transition to school has been full of surprises for all of us. 

Here we are. In Béziers and in the blogosphere.

We’re a couple of weeks behind in our “daily” postings, but let’s say that’s because we’ve been so busy getting enrolled in school, stocking up on household supplies, getting to know the neighbours …
Once we get the hang of this, there’ll be no stopping us.

 

Today was Association’s day in Béziers. All of the local clubs, groups and organizations set up tables along the Allées Paul Riquet in the centre of town and tried to sign up new members. Sage was very excited about the fencing and jousting clubs, Anjali checked out the gymnastics and dancing, Rita spoke to all of the representatives of hiking and outdoors clubs and I got the coordinates for one of the many local Pétanque groups. Between school, travel writing, wine tasting and our new club memberships, it should be a busy autumn. Stay tuned.

Peter

(Posted by Rita)

Merde!  Just one block from home and I’m already toe-deep in it.  We’ve been in Béziers for only five days, but already my mind and senses are clearly overwhelmed.  Not with the fact of this French city’s 2,700 year-old history, not with the olive and almond trees and sidewalks strewn with fresh figs, not with the white beaches of the Mediterranean that beckon from just kilometers away, and not with the local wines that are cheaper than Coke.

 

Bezier

Nope – it’s the ubiquitous mounds of crap that seem to have made the strongest impression on me, despite all my efforts to be nonchalant about it. 

 

Still, I’m trying hard, not only because I sense my family’s irritation with me (I’m freaked out to the point that I’m driving myself nuts), but also because this is not the kind of tourist that I want to be – I will not let a little merde define my four-month immersion in France!

 

But the reality is that it isn’t just a little. 

It is everywhere: on the public path that runs alongside our farmhouse leading into the heart of this postcard-perfect city; on the narrow sidewalks and cobblestoned streets upon which the Romans marched 2,000 years ago; in the idyllic square fronting Bezier’s Church of the Madeleine, the site of the massive slaughter of thousands of heretic Cathars and their Bitterois (Bezian) defenders by papal crusaders in 1209; at the Neuf Ecluses, or nine locks, on the wonderous Canal du Midi which have, in a magnificent feat of engineering ever since the late 17^th century, lifted boats travelling by canal from the Mediterranean to the Atlantic up a 75 foot rise over a distance of less than 100 feet; and on the graceful Pont Vieux, the bridge constructed more than 800 years ago across France’s winding River Orb and over which Bezier’s  gothic cathedral, Saint-Nazaire, has towered majestically for more than a millennium. 

 

Posted by Rita

I lie on her bed, my arms wrapped around my 10-year-old, pulling her shaking body close to mine. “It’ll be an adventure,” I whisper, “an adventure for all of us.” But she turns her face away, tears spilling helplessly to her pillow.

Anjali is afraid and anxious and worried and sad, as much as she is excited for the year that lies ahead. In just three more sleeps, the four of us – Anjali, my partner Peter, our eight-year-old son Sage, and I – will be heading overseas for a 12-month family odyssey. Our journey will traverse geography and history as it cuts across three continents taking us from Victoria to Kenya, from Beziers to Bollywood and beyond. A three-month volunteer posting at a school for orphans in rural India, a four-month immersion in France’s hyper-strict public school system, a camel-back trek through the Jordanian desert, a swim in the Indian ocean off the east coast of Kenya – these are a few of the experiences we hope are in store for us as we travel from Europe to Africa and on to Asia.

The voyage has been three years in the planning. It was in 2005 that we set up Peter’s deferred salary plan at work, which meant a diversion of a fifth of his high school teacher’s salary to a savings account from which we’ll draw regularly throughout the year. In January I quit my job and started diving deep into the internet, taking virtual tours through countries I’d long dreamt of visiting. In early April, we posted our house on UsedVictoria.com, and by the end of May had found the perfect family to whom to lend the keys to our home.