Welcome to Mon Tracteur et Moi
This will be a newsletter in which I talk about being an American living in rural France.
Hi there! If you’re getting this first post, it means we’re friends or family. this newsletter will be for anyone who wants to read it—please invite your friends—but I’m starting with all y’all.
As you know, Marilyne and I have moved to France. Specifically, we’re living on a seven-acre farm in the Creuse region. Our address is 4 La Villatte, but we just call it La Villatte. Several locals seem to be aware of les Americains who moved into La Villatte—and I’d be lying if I said I don’t completely adore the notoriety.
I’m not sure what form this newsletter will take. For now, I’ll make a point of posting once a week or less, depending on how busy I am doing, you know, farm stuff.
Let’s start with a few journal entries. Please give me your feedback!!!!!
Friday, November 10th - I went to the 8 a Huit grocery store in Giat, a small town about ten minutes east of us, to find pumpkin spice for M because she wants to make a pumpkin pie. (To my surprise, they have it here. It’s called 4 épices mix.) I was getting a cart at the entry when an old lady with a giant mole on her upper lip passed by and gave me a huge stink eye. I smiled and said bonjour back.
No response.
Five minutes later, I was standing behind her at the butcher’s case. She ordered her meat politely from the butcher, smiled politely when he handed it over, turned and looked me right in the eye. I smiled broadly.
Another stink eye.
We crossed paths a couple more times—at this point, I may have been gunning for her a little. Each time, a broad smile met with daggers, if she registered me at all.
I told M about it when I got home. She said that there are people who have lived their entire lives in the remote French countryside. They like it the way it is, they don’t want it to change—and they certainly aren’t going to welcome newcomers.
Sunday, November 12th – I headed out early to get croissants. I was telling M the other day how I can’t remember the last time I had a good croissant. She said it’s because I wasn’t hitting the boulangerie early enough so they weren’t fresh. I headed to Crocq, a town even smaller than Giat about five minutes northwest of us.
Crocq’s boulangerie was closed for two weeks. This didn’t really bother me because, frankly, I’m sick of that bakery. It’s for sale and the people working there seem to have lost their passion for baked goods. The other day, the lady behind the counter explained that all the baguettes were under-baked and so “oh well.” To me, this seems like a “you had one job” situation.
Also, I get stink eye from some of the other patrons when I shop there.
So I drove to Giat’s boulangerie. There was a line out the door—maybe because the Crocq boulangerie was closed. I was the youngest person there by 20 years—but, to my delight, everyone was really nice.
When it was my turn, I ordered, in my best French, two croissants, one almond croissant, and one apple tart. The woman sighed, looked down at the counter, and mumbled, “I didn’t understand any of that.”
I started from scratch. With a lot patience, pointing at pastries, and color commentary from the customer behind me, we got through the order. At one point, I apologized for my terrible accent, which broke the tension considerably.
Having been outed as an American, I turned to face the line of French oldies. To my surprise, I was met with a sea of smiles. The last guy in line, sporting a tres chic beret, even opened the door for me.
I have no idea why the energy today was so much more positive than the mean grocery store lady. Maybe it had something to do with her mole.
Either way, I told the story to M when I got home. She pointed out how thick my accent was and how many words I got wrong. It turns out that I was pretty far off the mark. For example, the almond croissant is a croissant aux amandes. I called it a croissant d’amandes, which makes more sense to me because croissant d’amande literally means “croissant of almonds” whereas croissant aux amandes means “croissant at the almonds.”
But it’s their damn language, so whatever. Now that I’ve been lightly humiliated, croissant aux amande has been burned into my brain. Disgrace does wonders for learning a foreign tongue.
Tuesday, November 14th – I went for a run this morning in the rain. It’s the first time that exercise has felt good since the Covid I caught on the flight over.
It’s a route I’ve been curating since we’ve been coming to La Villatte, about 4 miles/6 kilometers, half road and half trail. Early in the run, I have to cross a farmer’s property. It’s a public road, but it intersects his land. Today, his tractor was parked in the middle of the road as he forked hay from a bale to feed his cows. Much like the grocery store lady, he wasn’t interested in talking—but instead of stink-eye, he took off in the other direction as I approached.
Frankly, I get it. If some rando in a bright red shirt and green Lycra half tights run across my yard in the middle of a rainstorm as I was stuck out there feeding livestock, I probably wouldn’t want to be friends with him either.
Towards the end of my run, I passed another old guy walking his border collie. The dog was bursting with border collie energy, but apparently had an aversion to rain, so he was running little circles around the man’s feet under cover of his umbrella. When the dog saw me, he bolted at my leg. I let out a startled shout. The man looked up.
“Did he bite you?” he asked.
“No, he’s a good dog,” I responded.
Thinking this was the end of the exchange, I soldiered on, but the man shouted behind me, “You’re brave!”
I turned around. “It’s good for my spirit!” I said. It’s not really the kind of thing I say in real life, but French people seem to identify with romantic notions like that. Also, I knew I could say, C’est bon pour mon esprit! with some degree of competency, thus chalking up a bilingual success.
“Of course!” he laughed.
I then complimented him on his fortitude and wished him a good day. It might have been nice to stay and chat, but I wanted to end on an up note before I said something incomprehensible.
We always found the stares more polite once we explained we were Americans. Otherwise, you’re probably English, probably refusing to learn French, and almost certainly an advanced scouting party for the renewal of the Hundred Years’ War.