Third Wheeling a Meet the Extended Family

My advice: don’t do it.

If someone offers you a mostly paid for trip to a foreign country where you don’t speak the language with your sister and her boyfriend, especially if that country is known for being a place all about love, smile, say “thanks for the offer,” and turn around and run away. The exercise is good for you.

The trip started out great, my sister and I flew together across the United States and the Atlantic. We got to the airport and could see the floofy red hair of Nick across the baggage claim. And then, everything got worse.

We're on a plane!

Grandma, who only speaks French

Throughout the trip we met Nick’s extended family, his aunts and uncles, cousins, and grandmother. Wonderful people. They were smiling, laughing, serving great food and desserts, and speaking in a language that I could never understand. I know a total of seven French phrases and they are as follows:

“bonjour” hello

“je m’appelle Jessica” My name is Jessica

“oui” yes

“merci” thank you

“bonne nuit”  good night

“je ne sais pas”  I don’t know

“tais-toi” shut up

“je suis une vache grosse” I am a fat cow

Somehow, I was never able to use that last phrase. A pure shame.

We started in Paris. The city of love.  Yes, love must be in italics when you write about Paris, it’s that sappy. Now, my sister and her boyfriend have been a couple for practically three years. They already have a three-year plan for their future, which I heard more than once while travelling (I barely have a three-month plan for my future.) I think they are more of a publicly cuddly couple than most.

Dancing in Versailles

Canoodling in a park

Paris was a sappy montage of scenes from a romance movie made for single middle-aged women who mourn the loss of their college-aged love. Barf.

I would have done the same thing, had I been in their shoes. I mean, it’s Paris, right?

Making out at the Eiffel Tower

From Paris, we travelled to Toulouse and Agme (there should be an accent over the e, but I can’t figure out how to do that.) The south of France is absolutely stunning and gorgeous. Rolling hills of vineyards and farmland, beautiful country cottages, bright flowers, and warm sunshine.

It is wonderful, I do say

It’s a killer on the allergies.

Now, when I say I don’t understand French, I mean when someone speaks French is sounds like someone hit the keyboard of a computer with their face several times and those are the words they are speaking.

For example: “g fbnyhd fghhbv gvbhn” would probably translate to Oh, don’t you just love music? I went to a concert last weekend and the soloist gave an award winning performance. In fact, I bought tickets to see her again this next weekend.

Or maybe, I like burgers. They have meat in them. MMMM….meat. Or maybe, Stick friend love smile for dinner. Happy.

My sister would try to translate for me. But, she’s still working on learning the language herself. She would listen and be able to give me a word that described the conversation before she started listening again. Her boyfriend (who is fluent) could probably have translated, but he was just so into talking with his family who he hadn’t seen for two years that he was a bit distracted.

I spent most of the week doing what I do best; I spent time over-analyzing and thinking in my head about pretty much anything. As I already spend most of my time in dream world, this was a chance to do pretty much solely focus on what was happening in my brain. It’s a bit of a mess up there, full of cobwebs and dusty old file cabinets and many pages of crumpled up manuscripts and poems that just weren’t good enough.  But the sun shines through the windows and it smells like fresh cut grass and pavement after the first summer rain, so I like it there. As people blabbered around me and I got one-word categories that described conversation I flirted around in that room and did some good thinking. Alienation can sometimes do a body and brain good.

Wondering things like, what makes French Fanta taste so damn good? 

Self indulgent picture of me

Returning from Agme, we spent a day at the beach on the coast, facing the Mediterranean Sea. I swam a bit, walked a bit, and turned half my body a fascinatingly vibrant shade of reddish pink. Suggestions number two: if a publicly cuddly couple invites you to the beach, avoid that too. It’s only awkward. Especially if making snarky comments makes your sister a little grouchy. (Or a lot grouchy.)

The Mediterranean meets France

Some French McDonalds, carrying a 40-pound bag up and down several flights of stairs, and a metro going the wrong way down the track later, I boarded a plane for good old jolly England and a land of people who spoke my language!

More photos to come as I go through them!