The Morning Baguette Hangs From My Door

This blog may be a wee bit more difficult using a french keyboard and much more brief. Do I hear a sigh of relief? To begin our journey to France we drove to the Greensboro airport. After Alec and I walked through security and before we turned toward the tunnel to the airplane, Alec, grinning from ear to ear gave his pappa the thumbs up and then turned to me and said ¨let's go mom." He was definitely ready for his first trip to Europe. I have discovered a new definition for Civilization; stopping at a gas/convience store (similar to those in the USofA) inbetween Brussels and Metz, buying a Belgium beer served not in styrofoam but in a stemmed glass, sipping la biére and savouring Belgium chocolate. Metz, our home in France for the next two months, is situated in the North East of France, an hour west of Luxemburg and 3 1/2 hrs north of Paris. Our good friends Rachel and Gilles Brausson and their children Ludovic and Yaelle bravely invited us to stay with them for the summer; a time for me to practise my french and for Alec to learn french. The Brausson's live in the village of Scy Chazelle, close to the homeplace of Robert Schuman, father of the European Union. Marie and Michelle, the parents of Rachel live in the next village where they have generously offered us an apartment for our sojourn. Alec ditched me our first night here, choosing to bunk with his buddy Ludovic. Alas I had to stay all alone in my lovely apartment. French blue shutters cover a window opening to a distinct, european view; stuccoed walls decorated with lush, flower boxes. Across the cobblestone courtyard I see the steep, narrow road winding its way up inbetween tightly knit stuccoed houses complete with red, tiled roofs. This morning after I finally awoke I crossed the cool, grey tiled hallway to find a bag hanging from the kitchen door: my morning baguette. This, my friends, is nirvana. After my petit déjeuner I started toward Scy Chazelle, a lovely 20 minute walk along a country road through more cream coloured stucco houses. Finally at 11.30 this morning I met up with my son Alec who greeted me speaking English with a French accent. Rachel informs me that Alec speaks French without an accent. Incroiable, she says. In France many of the children return home for two hours for the noon meal. When I asked Rachel how working parents manage this she said ¨the french are crazy and the government is stupid. Even though the physicians say that this system is not good for the children the government doesn't change, they never change anything.¨ It is now 16:11, almost time for the children to return home from school. I must close by saying Jeff we do miss you, honest!