Guadeloupe is still here.

I've been remiss in my posts. Guilty as charged. I have to ask myself if life is simply less interesting once you've spent some time Someplace Else or if I really am just that lazy. I like to look at it as just trying to fit in. You know, I will get to writing when I get to it but if yawning and organizing my vacation schedule get in the way so be it. I heard an Englishman who is teaching English in mainland France say, "Let's face it, the French don't want to work...and that's why I'm here, because I want to be a part of that!" I'm not sure they don't want to work entirely, although that depends on the individual, but I would venture to say that they want to work their way. Yeah well, they have as much a right to do that as Americans do to never get out of their cars in order to get food while working 60 hour work weeks for two weeks of paid vacation per year.
About fitting in, I think I know by now that I would rather fit in to the working their way thing. As my Aunt who knows lots of Worldly Stuff told me, in France, life is good. She was right.

Well then besides yawning and vacation planning there have been lots of interesting Guadeloupe style moments to share which simply weren't shared. Overall I sense some sort of slow marked change occurring within me. This was especially evident when I last touched down in Guadeloupe coming back from mainland France and caught myself thinking how nice it was to be home and in the heat and sun...what the?!?! Who am I? The metamorphosis becomes evident in other ways, day by day, and I am certain we haven't arrived at the end result just yet. No no, times, and my ways, they are a changin'. Take for example the driving. Before it would confuse me, confound me even, the methods over here. Now, I can anticipate with the expertise of a Nascar driver the movement of the car furthest to the right in the roundpoint. I know that driver will take that car directly across three lanes of traffic to make a left turn without batting an eye. While singing along to the radio even. I also gracefully maneuver my vehicle around those who stop in the center of the two lane road to... to....well that I still don't know but it's not important. I glide past these testers of my car's agility with ease due to complete mental zen on the road. I am a champ.

The shopping. I speak the language now, and I am not talking about French or Creole, mais non. I mean that it is habit now to look at every food item's expiration date and inspect the package for any sign of forced entry by tiny hungry beings who may now be residing inside. I don't wince at the pile of bananas hidden by a cloud of fruit flies, I simply change recipes inside my head and find the fruit that is not under a cloud that week. It's a cakewalk, once you begin to adjust.

The Game. I know the game. How to play the game is actually something. It exists. I know this because I discovered it in a fantastically funny book called Talk to the Snail that it does. The author Stephen Clarke offers 'Ten commandments for understanding the French', focused on mainland France and based on his ten or so years of living in Paris. Reading this book brought me to realize that it's not just me. There is in fact a game. In Guadeloupe there is that little extra island spirit add-on to the game which can create more of a challenge for mall wandering suburban babies like me, but I'm handling it. It is all about how you play. In his book Mr. Clarke offers examples of conversations he has had to demonstrate, and I would like to use this method of demonstration here. Just today I played the game:

A cafe, 11:00am. Sign on wall behind counter reads that they offer petit-dejeuner for a small price including one juice, one coffee, and one pastry. I ask for it. The reply is no, it is not available. I say okay, no problem, as I eyeball the coffee, orange juice and pastry in all their glory behind the counter. It was just that the time for the deal was over by maybe one hour, but they had not yet set out the items for lunch. So you see, pas possible. Very good. Mental ninja weapons out and ready, thank you Mr. Clarke:
Me: May I have a coffee?
Her: Yes
Me: May I have an orange juice?
Her: Yes
Me: May I have a croissant?
Her: Anything you want
Me: Okay I will take those then, thank you.
Minutes later as she took my money, presumably at the more expensive lunchtime price, she offered me the price of the petit-déjeuner "even though it is one hour past the time for that."
I thanked her and told her it was very kind of her, wished her a good day.

Essentially I followed the recipe offered up by the author of Talk to the Snail. I highly recommend his strategy if you ever consider going to France or a French department. It worked like a charm. I could have accepted her no and left and she never would have stopped to offer me anything else. I mean really, the deal was so over, I guess she took pity on me for not understanding.
See? Metamorphosis. Two years ago I would have (The Pirate likes to tell me that this is SO American) simply listened to the rules, and followed them, gone someplace else or settled for a meal full price or nothing.


I do love to talk about people who have struck a cord, and think you should read Stephen Clarke's books if you have a chance. He's very funny and intelligent, a killer combination. Plus his French is way better than mine and of that I am jealous.

Why do the French call it that?! Confusion with candy and movies

I credit my love for candy to my father. He always had -and still does - a healthy stash of candy somewhere in the house. Since I know my mom reads these things, I won't disclose said location, although I wish I could because it's super funny. He's like Stan Smith with that candy: top governmental secret that nobody cares about except my mom. When I lived on the west coast, my father would use this crazy thing called the post office to mail me a roll of Necco Wafers just to let me know he loved me. Cute huh? What's even cuter is how here in Guadeloupe they have 'post offices' yet I've unveiled the fact that such locations are only fronts for people who need a place to hang out and say things like, "this line is closed", or "that's not possible". Hey, everybody needs a place to be.

All men candies are not all created equal. I'm still not sure if that quote is grammatically correct but whatever. Let's say that it is, and let's agree that it's true. All candies are not the same the world over either, even if we do share some of the same name treats. There are however some universal truths about candy:
[[
1. Off the shelf chocolate bars such as KitKat are better in Europe. Why? The chocolate. It's different. It. Just. Is.
2. Treats from your childhood were awesome. Really they were. But they're kind of like old high school friendships - when you try them again years later, more often than not it's a case of some things are better left in the past. Those dried up little pellets sold in cheap sandwich bags that you looked forward to so much as a kid? Skip 'em. Trust me. They suck now, and your friends won't invite you to fancy parties anymore if you tout them as excellent.
3. If the same candy that exists in Boston, USA exists in Guadeloupe, FWI, it surely does not have the same name. As they do with movies, the French love to give things that already exist with perfectly good names new names.

Cotton candy would be a good example. it looks like cotton. In French, this is even almost exactly the same word: coton. And it's candy. So we call it cotton candy. Easy.
It's called Barbe a Papa here. Yeah, like the cartoon Barba Papa, except the literal translation is papa's beard. Now, normally I will admit to getting hysterically agitated over the changing of movie names because they don't make any sense at all. But this renaming of a treat I happen to like...Barba Papa. It works. Nice one, France!

'not really'... really?

With a recent trip to France mainland I found that talking to people in French is getting a bit easier. I've decided - possibly for the sake of sanity - that the stuff I don't understand is probably best not understood. You cut out a lot of crap, actually, when you don't entirely understand or speak a language. Things are right to the point, since you don't really have much more than what you need...not much small talk or embellishment available in the ol' repertoire.

What leaves me speechless, in addition to actually not having the words, are the things people say sometimes. 'Not Really' seems to be a common theme in people's perception of my life. Let me give some examples...

I've spoken to many people about the subject of adoption. This conversation begins in many different ways. It can start with where I've lived - San Francisco, and move from there to the gay community and how people feel about gay rights, including adopting children. Discussion around this may go on for a while before I say that I was adopted, at which point, inevitably, I get the same response, perhaps varying a bit from person to person: "Oh, sorry, I didn't know...well, I mean, you know what I mean, because they're not really your parents" and "Oh...well yeah, then you know what I mean, it's like, you're not really Jewish".
Yeah.
Here, I tend to try to make small talk with people around things I can easily talk about in French. So, family is easy. I'm a step mother. Voila. "Uh-huh", they say, "And so now you want to have one of your own, right?", or "Ah...yes, I see, and so you'll really understand how beautiful it is when the child is yours, because it's (normally they take a look around and lower their voice) it's ...different...when they're not really yours".
Yeah. Who are they looking around for, I wonder, someone not to offend? Intriguing.
It's presumptuous, at best, to say these things, especially when preceded by 'you know what I mean'. Actually, no, I don't. But I can infer. I can infer that you are lacking a certain amount of sensitivity or openness that I am happy to possess.

So, it kind of piled up in my head the other day, all this 'not really' business. If I were less happy with the family I have (all of it, my folks, extended, ma petite famille Guadeloupean, my friends) well then I might get really bogged down by the thoughts that 'not really' comments create. Actually I just find it really intriguing to be honest.
I mean, look at it this way, what if I believed what so many people said...what would be my place in the world? If I were...
Not really my parents daughter.
Not really Jewish.
Not really connected to the two little boys in my life, les monstres?

Where would I be then? Floating in not really land? Not connected to anything or anyone by strong ties that bind? Relatively identity-less? Pffff
Good thing I can look at it differently, eh? I'm a free agent. It's not the questioners or the clear-cut mold needers who decide who I belong with or to. Mais non, c'est moi.

In fact, I feel a bit sad for people who can't see past the connection of blood when it comes to deep love or spirituality, I really do. it's just, I wonder if they're happy that way, or not really.

Holy not the same battle cry, Batman

A shameless repost of one of my favorite things. Couldn't help myself. Thanks, Family Guy for hours of entertainment for me and The Pirate. With love from Guadeloupe.

I remember when I used to read the comics in the newspaper when I was young. You know how there are certain words used to display certain actions, like 'kapow!' for a punch, or 'blam!' for an explosion? The thing is, I've realized that action words like these are not universal. Who knew? Outside of the comic strips, there are action words that people use in descriptive conversation. For example, I might say: "We just put the boards in the car, and bang we're ready to go surf". But The Pirate would say: "We just put the boards in the car, crack crack (with a French accent rrrrrr) and we're ready to go surf."

Crack, crack? What the heck is that? There are many more. It makes me laugh to hear them because I'm then forced to really listen to my own choice expressions and in the end they're all just noises.

So there's the comic strip sound words, the daily expression action words, and then there are the animal-imitated-by-human sounds. For example, we in the states all know that cows say 'moooooo', right? Right. And roosters crow like this: 'cock-a-doodle-dooooo!' And sheep say 'baaaaaaaa' and elephants...well, I'm not too sure on that one actually.
The French seem to disagree. Apparently, and I've verified this with childrens' books, the official source of animal-imitated-by-human sounds, French roosters, aka les coques, say, 'Coo-co-ri-cooooo!'

No. No they do not. But perhaps since they are speaking French, well, how can I argue with the sounds of the French language? They make so much sense after all. (read:not pronouncing entire syllables of words does NOT sense make, grasshopper)

I am so happy that somebody somewhere found the following clip from Family Guy (hellooo LOVE that show) amusing enough to post it on YouTube, because I can't yet figure out how to do that on my own. This is Stewie, playing with a classic 70's toy, See and Say. In case you are not familiar with See and Say, I'll explain:

I learned all of my animal-imitated-by-human sounds from See and Say. It's a big round disk with animal pictures on it. You pull a string on the side, and the device randomly chooses an animal, and then samples the sound for you. Something like:

''Cow, the cow says moooooooooooo''. (and it DID say moo because it was an American cow, I now realize. Had I been gifted a European See and Say, I would have been mocked on the playground, surely scarring me for life)

food!

Went with a friend to a fruit farm today on Basse Terre, the western 'side' of the island. (Guadeloupe is actually two islands connected by bridges) It's green and lush over there, with banana plantations, lots of sugar cane, the forest, and the volcano.
Here are some of the fruits we got to take home from the fruit plantation. You get a bag of fruit, and an ice cold fruit drink made from the fruit on the farm...I had white guave juice....mmmmmmmmmmm! Incredible. I can't wait to bring visiting friends. It's a nice slice of life on this island.

May I recommend a watch, sir?

Much to the chagrin of my knees, I've signed up to train for a short distance triathlon here in Guadeloupe. I can do it. It's not really far: swim=.47 mi, bike=12.4mi, run=3.1mi. Seriously, I know I can do it.
Thing is, the first two training sessions were a bit of a disappointment, and I'm chalking it up to island time. Night number one. I call in the afternoon to confirm the time and place. All good. I show up at designated place five minutes early. I wait.

For. Forty. Five. Minutes.

During the minutes, I asked around. Everyone in the other groups was very nice, saying they had never really seen my group at the track. Ok. I called the guy, who said he was coming in ten minutes. He arrives, asks if it's me who's waiting for him, I say yes, and off we go. No' sorry', no 'how long have you been waiting', no 'this is a better time for you to come since I can't get here before now'...Okay. I went with the flow and had an okay workout.

Next day: today. Again, I call ahead and confirm the time, place, and person to look for. I arrive on time. I search the beach. I call the guy, no answer. I call the organization. No answer. I swim alone.

Now, I'm just saying, I could be wrong, but generally speaking, if you hand out a printed pamphlet including a schedule of events and meetings, shouldn't some of them actually happen, and could they possibly happen on time if I gifted the organization some free Timex watches? And if the meetings won't happen, shouldn't there be some sort of, oh I don't know, system, to let people know?
Consider email, perhaps, a lovely invention which allows entire lists of people (aka listserves) to be notified instantly and all at once of any news you'd like to send them.
Additionally- though a bit less advanced- is group texting. Straight to the mobile phone, same concept. I know this works because I watch people here in Guadeloupe texting while driving around the roundabouts allll the time! I'm fairly certain this would be the best method of communication.

All in all, I can't say I haven't started training. I ran. I swam. Plus, the exercise allows me to rationalize this ti-punch I'm about to have with The Pirate, alongside the vegetarian pizza(read:entirely overloaed, half a pound per slice, three cheeses also). So that's nice.
Now, I'll try again tomorrow and get some information from the other running group that seemed much more interesting, and interested.

Rasta Bug

Yeah, we're in the islands. Even the evil chenille caterpillar bugs who eat entire yards in one night are cool looking. Ten of these guys will seriously kill a yard in. one. night. What's fun though is knocking them out of the trees and vines with a broomstick and throwing them all in a plastic bag from the local toy store, and theeeeeeeen telling one of the kids to 'look what I got at the store!' and watch their face as they realize it's a bag full of angry writhing caterpillars with creepy shaped heads and big sucker feet, each one bigger than my biggest finger. HA!
A little cruel? Maybe, but quite harmless.

La Belle Mere

So I've been poking around the interweb as I threatened. I am THRILLED to have found some very cool blogs by stepmoms who want that glass of wine at the end of the day (or by lunch) as much as I do!
I could not have possibly said it better than Stepmother's Milk with this particular post. Which reminds me, why haven't any of my friends thrown me a belle mere shower?

Here's the post:

"Unlike the traditional baby shower, where mama-to-be receives gifts for the survival of the blessed babe, the stepmom shower honors the adult woman thrust into a scary and unknown world and like the infant, is similarly naïve and in need of care. We may have more years on the planet, but when it comes to stepmothering, many of us were born yesterday.

It’s time to start a new tradition.

I’ve been to countless baby showers and it seems that parenting inexperience is honored above more impressive qualities like daring or patience (Isn’t she adorable. She doesn’t even know how the Diaper Genie works. Dear, let me help you). If this is true, then who more deserves a kick-ass party with a bounty of presents, expert instruction and hard liquor than the stepmom, who gets no gestation period at all? No preparation. No handbook. If you’re like me, you just woke up one morning with half-grown kids sleeping down the hall.

It’s time to start a new tradition. There’s no reason why stepmoms shouldn’t be entitled to the same elevation and indulgence, if only for a long afternoon.

But, I’m hung up on one thing: the name. “Stepmom Shower” doesn’t sound all that fun. It’s got a dead ring to it, do you agree? Well, I don’t know about you, but if a party isn’t fun, then why did you waste your time cleaning the house and buying expensive cheese? So, I’m proposing a name change. A title that reflects the spirit and sentiment of the celebration.

Introducing, La Belle-Mere Party!

What the hell is that? She had me up until this point, but now she’s throwing around a foreign language. I’m confused.

Is this what you are thinking? Well, let me explain. First, I blame my mother and so should you. She is convinced (and works very hard to sway others) that the French are far more sophisticated and appealing than Americans. I do agree with her that the French have much prettier words, so there’s that.

Second, and more importantly, La Belle-Mere is actually French street slang for stepmother, so I didn’t just make it up to sound fancy. And translated, it means the mother even more, all the more or more than ever.

Now, I’m no language expert, so the following interpretation is my own (I’m sure my college French professor would shake her head “tsk, tsk” and fail me again). But, when I think of myself as a “mother all the more,” I’m struck with a sense of relief and significance. I am not Mom, “the original” and I will never replace her, but instead of imagining myself as the awkward, shadow figure in the background, I’m standing right beside her with my head held high. The mother more than ever.

I think it’s important that we (myself included) start thinking of ourselves as more, not less. We all bring something to the blended family table. We belong. We have a place. It may take me a while (like years) to truly feel this way, but I’m going to keep repeating it under my breath until I do.

With that, a raise my glass to you, my step-ladies! Here’s to your friendship, good humor and grit. Let the 2008 La Belle-Mere Tour begin! Start clearing your calendars for a trip to Austin. Details to follow."

Oh, just ignore me. Right, you already did that.

Yeah, my blog is about the mostly funny side of starting a new life, in a new country, with a new language, and a new family. I also like to talk about food. This morning however I must focus on one particular topic that is ever-present: my new quasi stepmother status.

To be blunt, it's quite shocking even still to wake up some days and realize that I have responsibilities involving children. Two of them. Under the age of 8. I confess to daydreams of an apartment that had been listed as 'great for one person or a couple without children'. I confess also to longing for a sofa that is free of cookie crumbs, a toilet seat that is always down when I get to it, and just. plain. silence.

Now, there is no way that I'd rather be anyplace else - in general. But at times, yes, I would like to be teleported away. I'm sure The Pirate feels the same way as he's got a lot on his plate as well. But, I do protest that he's had a few years to practice getting used to this. Pas moi. I've been feeling ...well...it's hard to say really as I've been feeling many things, but mostly frustrated, so I turned to the all knowing interweb to see if I could find anything interesting to read about being a stepmom who hasn't had any previous experience with children. I did find LOTS of information. There seem to be a few general types of sites offering information about stepmother-hood. I find them to be in one of the following creepy categories:

a. Way too positive and chirpy and hopeful for me to even begin to relate to. I think these people are not really stepmoms, but rather friends of stepmoms giving the kind of advice only non stepmoms can give, ala 'oooohhhh, it's not so bad..be happy and set a great example!. Okay lady. Spend an afternoon trying to convince a five year old that you don't have the snacks he wants in the house - in French - which you don't speak very well, while he cries on the floor for his mother, and then tell me that again.

b. Just a plain bitch session, and mostly about the mother of the child or children. I just can't get into that. My stress points are my own and they have nothing to do with the mother of my stepkids. Thankfully the relationship with her is good. I really don't believe bitching about the mother makes anything easier for anyone, and really believe it's a harmful thing to do to the children and the ex husband.

The one thing I haven't found yet - and I'm hopeful - is information about how to deal with the normal stresses of being a new stepmom while you are also learning the kids language. Because for me, it comes down to being ignored and I detest that.

In general, it's easier for a lot of people to keep limited conversation with me, or to not try to talk with me. I understand this: I can only get so far in conversation in French, and if you can only get so far in English, well, there you have it. Entirely understandable. The same goes for the kids. Pile on top of that the fact that I'm still a relatively new arrival on the scene that is their everyday life, the fact that I'm not their mom, and the fact that they are human and just simply don't want another adult around who has the authority to tell them what to do, and well....yeah...the amount of ignoring that happens is large. I mean really, they literally just....watch me talk, and then walk away. Or don't even turn their heads when I speak, or act as if The Pirate is the only one in the room.

It's easier for them. I get it. But you know what? It really sucks.
What I realized just recently in an 'aha' moment that left me pretty bummed for the remainder of the afternoon is this: No matter what I do, no matter how fluent in French I become, no matter how much time, energy, and emotion I put into this situation, I will never reap the benefits of being the person these kids turn to for much of anything except a snack. No. It will always be a parent. I will never be the first person they think of when they panic, I won't be an automatic consideration for parent teacher day or anything like that. I'll always be just one step outside.
It's normal. It's par for the course. They have parents. I have no desire to replace or better any parent. It's strictly a matter of realizing, wow, I'm doing all the things parents do, the shopping, the driving to sports, the feeding, the coddling, the book reading, I'll do it all, because any other way just isn't natural to me, I'm not going to hold back...but in spite of these clearly parental actions, I'll always be, as they say in baseball, juuuuuust a bit outside.

I must confess, it's ...well...it's a bummer. Like I said, it won't change what I do, but it sure changes how I feel. I have moments of spitefulness: 'I'm just a babysitter, and for what?'.
So, the question to ask is, what am I going to do about it? Well, I'm enrolling in French school for non French speakers for one thing. Learning on my own simply isn't cutting it. I look forward to being able to understand more and talk back more, both in good situations and bad. That should help tremendously, but it will take time. I'm going to read more from other stepmoms so I don't feel so isolated and/or crazy in this situation. I'm going to ask my cousins who have raised amazing boys what I should expect, because I realize that a lot of behavior is simply 'kids' and not necessarily 'step kids', but how would I know the difference?
Lastly, The Pirate. The coolest guy I know. What to do with him when it comes to all this? To be honest I'm not sure. I think two kids, and having to help me with many things since I'm French deficient, well it's already a lot. That being said, there may be some things we can go over, things that may need to be adjusted now that he has a slightly different type of family. For me it's scary ground to walk on. I mean, if I know nothing, who am I to tell him how things should go?

I'm just going to put on some Bob Marley now, 'Please, don't you rock ....my boat...." Hahahaa...

Dear France, See? Not all Americans make fun of berets. Love, moi.

I just loved this little gem from Bill Maher's show. Speaks for itself, so enjoy!

Facts about refrigerators and cheese

Contrary to popular (I can only assume American, since it's my experience) belief, cheese in fact does not need to be refrigerated in order to be consumed without falling ill in the way of something similar to Montezuma's revenge. This I learned during our Experiment: no Frigo. I admit it: I bought cheese anyway. I wanted it. I figured, like so often in the past, I would simply sit down with a block of cheese and a knife on the sofa, watch tv, and it would be bliss as usual. 
Yah. Not so much.
First let me clarify about the cheese not needing to be refrigerated. Apparently, according to my French (read:Guadeloupean is an entirely different breed of French but I have yet to determine exactly how to call it) boyfriend, he knows people - French people - who live in France - who keep cheeses in a fridge that is not plugged into any electrical power thereby rendering it not cold. The saying goes, "The cheese isn't ready to eat until it has moved at least five millimeters."  Remember, nobody's moving  the cheese. They wait for the cheese to ... fester...until it shifts...and then, and only then is it ready for consumption.
Alrighty then. When it comes to cheese, I'll try almost anything. So I bought the cheese and kept it in an airtight container, sans refrigeration, and nibbled at it for a few days. It's hot here. And humid. And I began to realize that the cheese moving-waiting people probably live in a climate that, I don't know, gets SNOW?! Or at the very least is not a climate like this, where, if left standing still for any tiny length of time, food and humans alike attract various bugs like LA does wannabe movie stars. Holy sweaty cheese, Batman. After the taste began to go in a direction that didn't really work for me, I left the cheese there just to see if it would in fact move.
It didn't. Well, it didn't move left, or right, or up. It sank a bit in the center and crusted a little on the edges, but I'm not sure this is enough to consider it as in the running for being consumed by a hearty French elderly in the countryside.
After a few days I opened the box to receive the gift of old non refrigerated cheese. Read: on a tropical island. Not. Good.

In conclusion, I'm keeping my cheese cold, or room temp for now. Hot cheese needs to be on pizza or fondue. That being said, I dare say that I relish the idea of visiting that person on the farm with the non operating fridge full of moving cheese and tasting a few bites. What could go wrong?

What's that? Who's calling for me? Monty? Montezuma? Ah yes, no, no I'm not taking that call.

France vs Guadeloupe, and I don't mean who can hold the longest strike

http://www.ciscoshow.com/6-differences-entre-la-france-et-la-guadeloupe-ou-le-contraire

I found this blog, and well, I guess my French is improving because some of the stuff I can actually read, understand, and appreciate, which for this Americaine is quite shocking.
The proof is in the pudding, I must be somewhat Gwada-ized since I can appreciate the humor in this post about the difference between France and Guadeloupe.

Translation (as always, not perfect)

"To begin, I'd like to repeat a phrase I heard a while ago, 'Guadeloupe is France, but France is not Guadeloupe'. There it is, and now I'll make a little attack with a list of the differences between Guadeloupe and France:

1. In France, gas costs around 1,23 euros per liter. In Guadeloupe, gas costs 1,08 euros per liter. (+1 Guadeloupe)

2. In France, tomatoes are 4,85 euros per kilo. In Guadeloupe, after the strikes, we had no more trouble finding tomatoes at 2 euros per kilo. (+2 Guadeloupe)

3. In France, rum costs about 16 euros per liter. In Guadeloupe, rum costs about 7 euros per liter. (+3 Guadeloupe)

4. In Paris, to go to the beach, you take the A6, the A10, the train or a plane (if you're poor you stay in Paris beach). In Guadeloupe....(4 zip, Guadeloupe)

5. In France, a high speed Internet connection costs 30 euros a month for 20 Megabytes, phone is free 24/7, and dozens of free cable channels. In Guadeloupe, when you have Internet and the connection is good, you know it's going to be a good day. (+1 France)

6. In France, even summer is a bit chilly. In Guadeloupe, even winter can be too hot.

5-1, Guadeloupe wins...for the moment! You need to travel outside of your island to know that you can feel good there after all."


Image of Paris beach: Paris Plage 2004, Photo by Pascal Fonquernie, parismarais.com

This one day I was kite surfing, and almost had my ear cut off...

That's actually a loosely quoted sentence from a friend of mine. Yesterday we went to watch him and some other people do some kite surfing, a big thing here on the windy south eastern coastlines. I'm no expert, but did find some nice explanations of kite surfing in Guadeloupe along with information about lessons - in English.
I took some photos, and perhaps
against my better judgement (read:moms worried
voice echoing in my head) decided that I'd like to give it a try someday. Someday when there is hardly anyone in the water that is. The idea of some of the strings that connect the kite to the surf(er) coming by my ear at such a speed that the ear almost swims with the fish on its own makes the experience so inviting, I mean all I have to do is come out with my ears intact and I'm a success!

Le phoque and other fun words

Sometimes, my own childish-ness is alarming. Recently propped against fluffy hotel pillows, glass of wine in hand, Fraggle Rock on the tv for the kids, we recounted the days events in the outlandishly expensive sweatbox that is Sea World.
Suddenly I'm pulled out of my after-a-day-of-standing-in-line-in-the-sun zone by one of the kids swearing. In English.
Wait a minute. How do they know that word?
Now I'm in a panic. Has my potty mouth got away from me again? How angry will my the Pirate be with me for inadvertently teaching his children English swear words?
The word in question is 'the f word'. Fuck. Yep, it's a nasty one when heard repeated back to you by small children you then realize you mistakenly used it around.
What had happened? Was it when I stubbed my toe on the chair rushing up to answer the only phone call I've ever received in Guadeloupe? Was it when I packed the kids into the car with promises of the beach only to realize that there was a. no gas in the vehicle and b. I had no Euros? I couldn't be sure.

"Fuck?!" I looked inquisitively at the Pirate while realizing I had just repeated the offense.
"Le fuck," He halfway imitated me. I assumed he was trying to make fun of my attempt to frenchify words by simply applying a fancy French accent to English words. "Le phoque", he continued "is a seal. It means seal. P-H-O-Q-U-E, chica. Seal. Like we saw in Sea World."

aha.


Of course, this is only the beginning of fun words. I particularly like the French word for peanuts: les cacahouètes, pronounced like 'kaka-wet'
I'm sure I'll uncover more as I stumble through acquiring the French language, and I'll keep you posted.

fun with words

"Got any cash?" he asked his friend.
"Nah, no dough, dude", said the friend.

Dough, bread, come on, it's funny that the atm says 'Bred' on it. You know it is.

Super big food: we are not alone

Allow me to contradict my latest post just a bit, for I have found the supersize in Guadeloupe.
The roadside burger stand that serves up this tasty treat is called 'Big Mamma' En Francais: Big Mamman.

The funniest thing about this is that on the awning in front of the stand it says 'Cooking Light'
There is nothing light about a sandwich that is about four times the size of a CD. Yep. True. See picture.

I ate the entire thing.

What doesn't kill me.....wait, learning French AND how to be a stepmom at the same time just might.

A new country, a new family. It's nice, this new way of life. A good lesson: to not just think for me, but to have to consider those immediately around me at all times. I'm totally up for it. Many times, I feel a lot of love and stuff that I've never felt in quite this way, not having kids of my own. Then again, many times I feel a level of anxiety that I'm not sure is normal or healthy.
Being in a step mom position brings all sorts of new emotions. It's a new language, really.

So the languages I'm learning as an ex-patriot are:
1 .French
2. Children

It's kind of a catch-22, chicken-egg situation isn't it? Because number two would certainly be easier if it were a. in English, or b. in a familiar place. It's not, and I want it that way, I want the new place and the new language(s), but I will say that becoming a step mom brings challenges, and becoming a step mom in a new country and new language? ...yeah. It's one of those times when I believe the universe took a look at me and said, 'oh yeah? You want a challenge? Ha! HERE ya go.'


Intensive life training situation numer 9734:

You are in a new place, you are learning (insert language here).
You will be placed in a new domestic position requiring the following skills:
Patience, the ability to withstand being ignored often, the ability to apply ointment and bandaids in an expert fashion, and oh yes, the ability to speak (insert same language as above) in times of crises involving said bandaids.
You must develop an ability to control a room full of children under the age of seven with whatever (language) you have acquired.
You must willingly listen to those who refuse to comprehend that you do not yet speak fluent (language) while they tell you stories of cats and trees each time you pass them in the apartment complex. (at least that's what you think they're saying).


Ah, learning. There's nothing like saying something in a very stern voice to a child, in broken French, and having them reply with a look that says, 'What the HELL are you trying to say? Since I can't understand you, you silly woman, I will simply shrug my shoulders and walk away. Watch.'

Thankfully, most adults here in Guadeloupe make more of an effort. In fact, people are generally really nice and accomodating, even if we make conversation in broken sentences with a lot of mime.

Earning the respect of children when you are not the parent AND you don't speak the language remains one of my biggest challenges in my new life. In fact, I'm not even sure fluent French will help....which brings me to the question of the day:
Should I study French today or should I study step parenting?

The King...how could I not.

Much like the news from the US, MJ's death is all over the news here, online, on tv, on the radio. Check out this article from the local news, France-Antilles. It's in french, sure, but it's a peek at the local online news.

Since I had a poster of MJ in my bedroom growing up, the one with him all in white and a yellow border around the outside, I have to post simply to acknowledge his passing.
I'm bummed that I never went to a concert, but then I have mixed feelings about him and the whole sharing a bed with children thing.

So there it is, my small, heartfelt, electronic condolence.

Swimming to a tiny island from a bigger one...

Island life has a lot to offer in terms of outdoor exercise, in spite of the insane heat this time of year. Swimming is top on my list: I can do it, it keeps me cool, and who doesn't love the beach.
I couldn't help but think of some cheesy symbolism in my swim: I leave the big piece of land for a smaller one. Just like leaving the States for this island of Guadeloupe. The difference is that in reality, I'm not heading directly back to the bigger piece of land, the States, for a nice sandwich and a nap on my towel. No, I'm staying on the smaller piece of land.

I do wish the smaller piece of land had a bit more to offer though. Just as during my swim, I get to the small island, and while I love the beauty, the natural state, and the people who are there are nice, it's just ... well...it's an adjustment. Perhaps in life it's like the swim: each time I go back and forth to my small island from the big one, it gets easier. Each time the current is strong but I still make it.

How did I get here and where is the mall.

I'm not serious about the mall. Well, okay a little. Here I am, on the island of Guadeloupe in the french west indies. It's a laid back place filled with exciting little events, like coconuts falling from trees or having to kill an enormous cockroach with your flip flop. Yeah, it's not always roses, especially when you become convinced that the roaches know who you are and are running at you, ensemble, in some form of attack. Despite my war with the roaches, life is pretty sweet.

Now in my mid thirties, (when do I say late thirties? I refuse to do so until I've hit at least 38) I have this amazing opportunity to learn a new language, a new culture, and how to live in a family that consists of more than just myself. I'm learning a lot more than that but those are the majors. All of this learning makes for what I think are some pretty funny/cool/touching/interesting moments. I had the urge to share the ones that gave me the biggest belly laugh, a tear in my eye, a devilish grin, or that left me looking like a dork, the latter probably being the most common.

I grew up in the northeast of United States. I spent the last ten years in California. How did I get to Guadeloupe? Let's chalk it up to love. You just never know when it can hit, and all the major facets of your life seem to coordinate in a perfect performance, with you out in front, being pushed ahead in a way you never could have conceived of, until you are finally there, center stage. It's a little stressful, admitedly. Love can bring you places, but you still have to make your own way when you get there.

Life is different here as compared to where I have lived before: a bit slower. In a new place, without your close friends, it's easy to feel lonely even surrounded by people. I found myself thinking of walking around the mall here for many reasons, the first of which being that the mall is air conditioned. Heaven. The second reason is that well, sadly, I feel at ease there. I can just walk, look, listen, and if I so desire, pay for some goods. Easy. Easier than trying to keep up with french conversation moving at 100 miles an hour when you're stuck on the first sentence that ended five minutes ago. Someday......at least the book I bought said I'd be speaking French in 'just three months'!

...and so, this is the world of a suburban-raised, city loving, now island living girl who doesn't surf.