16 September 2002

The French Sure Know How To Take a Vacation

You aren’t going to believe this but in France there seems to be somewhere between three and six weeks of vacation in the summer.  In mid-July when I went to the Tuesday Farmer’s Market there were only half of the stalls I normally would see at the regular market.  I was amazed that people would give up sales for a vacation.

Since my ability to read French is improving (not my speaking unfortunately) I also noticed little handwritten signs posted on shop doors announcing when they would be having “des vacances” which is French for the vacations, since apparently a French person can’t just have one.

As the days wore on I noticed more and more shops with their iron bars bolted down over the windows during regular business hours.  All I could think of is “this doesn’t even happen on America’s most sacred day of the year – Christmas”.

By early August it seemed the street in front of our house was incredibly quiet when there would normally be lots of traffic.  There is less produce on the grocery shelves.  I wanted to buy a hat for a wedding I am attending, but I discovered today that the shop is closed.

The good news about all of this vacation stuff is that our lives have slowed down even more; if that is possible.  We still have to be sure to have all the supplies we need by Saturday since on Sunday and Monday  shops are traditionally closed, but last week they were also closed on Tuesday.  Since we have a very small refrigerator and produce is incredibly fresh we had a lean day on Tuesday.

The best part of a slower life is all of the time we seem to have to drink coffee, read and do projects with our little one.

This morning we glued dried flowers from our garden onto handmade cards for my mom’s 75^th birthday.  Then we worked on a cute record book called “Grandma and Me”.  As we answered questions like, “What is your favorite color?” and “What is your grandmother’s favorite color” I felt a little wave of sadness. 

My mind raced back to the times I spent in Southeast Ohio with my own grandmother around a similar table.  We seemed to always be involved in some project that required glue, scissors and coloring. 

I kept thinking how our little one hasn’t lived long enough to know that life changes and that someday I will be gone, yet she will do this same thing with her own grandchildren.  I sure do miss my grandmother’s stories and guidance.

I was also thinking about all of the grandmas that I have met here.  They seem to spend endless hours with their children and grandchildren.  I was also thinking about all of the children in the U.S. who don’t even know their grandparents and couldn’t possibly answer some of the book’s questions.

As I cleaned up the mess we had made from our project I was feeling grateful for the dreary day that kept us out of the garden, and the Annie Lennox CD playing in the background.  It seems, for me, that everyday in France is a gift.