September 12th -14th – Tra-la-la-ing in Lille!

 September 12^th – The Drive

I’m buckled into the dark gray seat, my purse at my feet, dictionary by my side, and Alexandre on the other side on a pile of furnishings covered by silver tarp. Philippe sits in front of me, in the driver’s seat, and Marie-Paule is situated energetically (I don’t know how she does it!) in the passenger seat with her sea-blue sweater tied casually around her tanned athletic shoulders and a black and yellow “L’Anglais” for Dummies book on her lap. Next to each of our seats, in the black plastic cup-holders, are individual bottles of water, placed there thoughtfully by Philippe.

 For the first ten minutes, Marie-Paule reads French phrases aloud, while Alexandre and I attempt to translate. I strain to recognize the French words and Alexandre searches for the English words to translate them to. With a laugh, Marie-Paule looks at me, “Lace! Let Alexandre answer!”…*sigh* brings back memories of Luke and I…I suppress my extremely competitive urge to blurt out the next phrase, but refrain from doing so. Soon after, Alexandre announces that he’s had enough, even adding an adorable, “Pwez, mAWm!” Out come the iPods, and we each escape to our own swirling worlds of thoughts as we stare out the glass windows. The thick gray clouds overhead promise rain, while the rich, emerald-green trees stand proudly, for the leaves that adorn them are the garments bestowed on them by France’s abundant pluie.

 The steady rhythm of the van rocks both Alexandre and I to sleep for the next two hours; we’re awakened by the sound of gravel being crunched beneath the van’s rubber tires as we pull into a little picnic area just off the autoroute. Yawning, stretching, and unbuckling my seatbelt in one motion, I forced myself from my finally-comfy position. We walked down a small path to a group of four wooden picnic tables, where Philippe set the sandy-gold woven wicker basket. From the basket, Marie-Paule set out thick ham sandwiches (made with her wonderful homemade wheat bread!), a small container of tomato-cucumber salad drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar, apples, bananas, and Nectar de Pomme (concentrated apple juice). The crisp breeze rustles the green and gold leaves of the grove of trees that surrounded us on either side. To the right was a steep hill, which Alexandre couldn’t resist climbing Ahead of us, at the end of the path, laid the edge of the hill and fields, clusters of trees, little bushes, and finally cars zooming by on the seemingly miniature road. Eating in silence, content to focus on the yummy food and the peaceful surroundings, we emptied the basket and were ready to retreat back to the warm car. Our tummies filled, Alexandre and I fell asleep once again to the individual tunes of our iPods.

Golden light flashed quickly by, the honk of a horn sounded in the distance, and I feel the cold air against my face as it blows though Philippes half-open window. I put my glasses back on, take out the lone resilient earphone that endured the last 5+ hours of the drive, and look out at the dark streets illuminated by bustling bars and dim street lights. Alexandre is already awake and he smiles when I catch him looking at me. Marie-Paule begins to wake, just as we pull into a narrow parking space parallel to the street. I look for anything that could possibly be a house, but I simply see looming gray buildings and a little bar at the end of the block. Yet I tuck my iPod and dictionary into my purse and prepare to exit as Philippe opens my door after announcing, “Vwee hava wived!” I follow him, Marie-Paule’s arm wrapped around my shoulders, and laugh at Alexandre’s sleepy antics. We knock on the royal blue double door, and a window with white lace curtains suddenly appears, illuminated by the warm golden light of a little lamp seated near the window. Anne and Hervè, a couple who came to visit one of the first nights I had arrived, answered the door with a contagious friendly enthusiasm. The guys left to retrieve the luggage, while Marie-Paule and I followed Anne into their amiable eclectic living room. The bright sapphire blue couch was covered with a white, blue, and orange throw, and the six plush square pillows covered in a variety of floral patterns provided both comfortable seating and visual stimulation. Atop the walnut desk at the opposite end of the room was a narrow vase that held a tropical bouquet of long-stemmed flowers arranged sparingly, for their bright colors were stunning, instead of overwhelming, against the white wall that separated the living room from the dining room.

Anne brought out a dense semi-sweet chocolate cake, and I was handed a steaming cup of herbal tea by her husband. Trying to keep my eyes open, I listened to the adults chatter; once in a while a question would be thrown my way, and I’d rouse my tired mind just long enough to translate and form a reply. Finally, Anne led Alexandre and I up two steep flights of narrow winding stairs. We each had our own little room, separated by a craft room of sorts. Anne graciously showed us where la toilette et la salle de bains were located, which we would share for the weekend. We would also soon discover that the door to la toilette wouldn’t close, no matter how hard we tried Settling into the white room now flooded with rosy golden light by the tall white floor lamp crowned with a modern peach-colored lampshade, and walls lined with books and paintings of sailboats, I myself quickly sailed off to dreamland…

 September 13^th – Bonjour, Très bon, Bon Courage!

“Bonjour, Lacey!”, Hervè’s magnanimous voice greets me, as I repack my metallic silver make-up bag in my backpack. It’s nearly 11am and I finally ready to start the day! After a minute of small talk, his daughter joins us and suprises me with a British-sounding “Hello!” Her golden shoulder length hair swishes as she moves in an athletic, tomboy manner and her round blue-green eyes flecked with gold sparkle from behind her cranberry colored thinly framed glasses. We head downstairs for breakfast after touring her horse-poster covered room, located on the floor above mine. Croissants, raisin/currant filled wheat bread sweetened with a touch of honey, and buttery-sweet biscuits (aka – cookies) and fresh fruit are served with piping hot English Breakfast tea. After I finish, Anne and I head out to the local market; Marine opts to stay home and finish her homework, Marie-Paule had already left to buy some accessories for Jeremie’s apartment/”flat”, and Philippe et Alexandre left early that morning to help Jeremie fix the hot water heater of his flat located only a few blocks away.

The market, or rather le marché, is separated into sections: Beef, poultry, seafood, sausage, and paté are located at different station in the meat section, the wine and cheese sections are side by side, vegetables, fruit, savory breads, apéritifs (7 types of olives, marinated mozzarella balls, dried sugar-coated fruit, and various dips and preserves), and then the dessert section. We bought a round of beef, which the generously proportioned red-faced butcher carefully wrapped with thin strips of fat and tied methodically with strings. We then journeyed into the cheese and wine sections, where I was educated about the best years and regional differences. Next, I tasted all the wonderful aperitifs held in great wooden bins lined with clear plastic. I thoughtfully chose the large pitted green olives marinated in olive oil, garlic, herbs, and little vinegar soaked pearl onions and diced red and yellow bell peppers and pitted Greek olives the size of prunes. Finally, we stopped to buy a pre-roasted chicken…much better than any Save-Mart lemon herb chicken I ever tasted! Très bon!

Out we went, beginning our little 2 block march to Jeremie’s flat to pay the boys a surprise visit. As we rounded the corner and I pulled out my “portable” (cell phone), Jeremie’s familiar face leaned out his 2^nd story balcony window. He yelled for us to turn around, and, low and behold, there was Marie-Paule just turning down the street from the opposite corner we came from. She began to jog toward us, gracefully balancing a little package from la boulangerie tied with ribbon. We all walked the last few steps to his doorstep together and crammed into the tiny elevator. Jeremie’s room, which he shared with several roommates, was rather spacious and had the potential to be absolutely adorable and homey…little kitchen, separate living room, and all! However, the table was littered with empty soda bottles, the counter and sink were filled with dirty dishes, and the floor needed vacuuming. Marie-Paule was as impressed as I, but we were too excited to simply see him to let his college boy hygiene habits bother us. I was given the grand tour, while being poked, tickled and teased by my much-missed beloved “brother”.

It was time for us to head back and prepare lunch, so we gather our bags (and the boys!) and headed back to Anne’s home. As we walked, Jeremie relentlessly prodded, pushed, and all the other brotherly things I adore so much (I miss you, Greg!!!).  Just when I thought I would be left to walk in peace, I was lifted off the ground by Jeremie and Philippe! I giggled and screamed as they picked up the pace and nearly let me hit the phone booth in the middle of the sidewalk. Bursting through the open blue doorway of Anne’s home, Jeremie, Alexandre, and I landed on the couch, while the adults retreated to the kitchen.

The mouthwatering scent of salty butter and herbs wafted from the cast iron pan which held crispy hot green beans and potatoes, which would accompany cauliflower baked to tender perfection in a lake of rich creamy white cheese sauce and the roast chicken we had bought just an hour before. Marie-Paule roused the three of us from our comfortable position: sprawled out against each other on the comfy blue couch. Marine had come down to join us, and the four of us were seated at the square white table in the kitchen, located just to the right of the dining room lit by an artistic stained glass ceiling, where the adults were already taking their places at the large round honey-oak dining table. My water glass was filled by Jeremie, after he playfully pretended to pour it over my head, and my plate was filled with overwhelmingly heaping servings of each dish by Anne. Just as I thought, I’ll never be able to eat all those potatoes!, Marie-Paule picked up my plate, gave the majority of the my generous potato-portion to Jeremie (who has a bottomless stomach!) and served me more of the buttery green beans and cauliflower I wanted instead. Already settling into a motherly rhythm, my wonderful host-mom squeezed my shoulder as she left with her plate back to the dining room.

 Water splashing, English-French/French-English joke translations, teasing, and a “Cauli-fone-ya assents aw sexy” comment from Alexandre later, our plates were finally empty. We wished Philippe et Jeremie “Bon courage!” as they left back to his flat to finish their manly tinkering with pipes, screws, and drills. The two women retreated to their own rooms for afternoon naps, Marine departed to her room to continue her unfinished homework, and Hervè ascended the four flights of stairs to his attic office filled with vast amounts of history books, manuscripts, maps, globes, and artwork collected from around the world. Nearly falling asleep ourselves, Alexandre and I watched the first half of The Goblet of Fire (en Français avec English subtitles). It was time to wind down before heading back out to Lille to shop; not at le marché, however…we would be heading to the bustling centre of Lille, lined with boutiques, specialty shops, huge three-story clothing stores, spacious bookstores, and a variety of cafés and upscale restaurants.

Tra-la-la-la-la!
Wrapping my knee-length thick knit cocoa sweater around me, I followed behind Marie-Paule and Marine with Alexandre as we squeezed though the eclectic swarm of Lillians. The gray clouds looked heavy with rain, yet the sun would make a much welcomed appearance ever half-hour or so, only to disappear again moments later. Alexandre stayed protectively close as we passed a rowdy clan of 30 or so college students decked out in white lab coats, some of which were splattered with bright red or neon paint, and all of whom were carrying signs and protesting something in loud enthusiastic voices. Though their words were gibberish to me, I was enthralled by the vibrant beat of their chant. Marie-Paule waited for me to reach her side, and promptly wrapped a loving arm around my waist, pulling me into her maternal force field of safety.

Passing a Jamaican artist, several billboards featuring Jude Law’s dashingly handsome face, and the scent of femininely floral perfumes wafting from a little perfume boutique, we reached a spacious area filled with masses of shoppers. To our right was a deep-pit theater where 150+ people were seated, mesmerized by the current entertainer. Past the pit was a beautiful historic building gilded in gold, which stood grandly in front of a tall clock that seemed to have flown right out of Peter Pan. However, Tinkerbelle was nowhere to be found; the only gold dust came from my Sephora bronzer that sparkled as Marie-Paule snapped a picture of Alexandre, Marine, and I. Tucking my tiny camera back into my purse, I followed Alexandre towards the looming bookstore straight ahead to our left, away from the quickly approaching madcap chemists.

Once inside the warmth of the book lined walls of the massive concrete building, the four of us climbed three flights of stairs; we were on a mission. Marie-Paule searched out the nearest woman with a ruby red apron and bright white name tag imprinted with bold black letters, and inquired where in this maze of books she could find a book written in English explaining French grammar. As if it were the most common request in the world, the middle aged brunette led us directly to the French/English section. Not surprisingly, we were the only ones in that area, and were thus allowed to rummage through the stacks of past-tense, present-participle, conjugation filled pages bound in various blue, white, red, and orange shiny book covers. Never being one to linger during shopping trips, I found a small Oxford grammar book enveloped in royal blue and cherry red and a little white “Vocabulary From the Word Go” book within 10 minutes.

I jumped, nearly dropping the books clutched to my chest, as two manly hands wrapped around my waist, only to release me a millisecond later. I swiftly turned around, left eyebrow lifted, you’re-in-big-trouble-Mr.! expression in place, and faced none other than Jeremie. Alexandre laughed at my reaction, and I playfully flashed him the same glare his brother received. Our book hunt a success, we pushed our way through the jungle of people back downstairs to the checkout line. Filing behind Marie-Paule and Marine, the familiar cha-ching of the cash register, tshh of Visa cards sliding through the charcoal gray little machines, and zzip of purses being opened and closed brought back memories of shopping at Borders with my mom during Christmas. Now where’s the nearest Starbucks? A Pumpkin Spice latte and Maple Nut Oat scone sound absolutely scrumptious!

The blast of warm air quickly disappears as we all exit through the automatic glass doors to continue our exploration of Lille. Jeremie leaves to his afternoon classes, Marine departs via the Metro to go back home to change before her horse-back riding lesson at 17hr, and I opt to stay with Marie-Paule and Alexandre rather than join Marine. Debating whether to go left or right, we compromise and decide to circle the block entirely. Heading to Zara, an upscale French version of Hollister, we make a quick stop at a Tableware/Cookware shop. The tall walls were lined with light oak shelves filled with various types of china and porcelain dishes. Marie-Paule reverently picks up a bright white dinner plate with delicately scalloped edges; she begins a lengthy explanation of the significance of the regions each piece came from and the difference between their makers. We scan the shelves, and I’m informed that there are dishes specifically for Asian cuisine, savory aperitifs, little dainty desserts, and fresh fruit. However, Marie-Paule resists the profusion of dishes she’s obviously in love with; rather, she picks up a masculine, modern butter dish and little tray to furnish the table of Alexandre’s tiny kitchen. As the lean, metro-man carefully wraps up the “vaisselle blanche” (white dishes) in thick brown paper, I spot an adorably tiny teacup with a whimsical heart-shaped handle. I check the price; 38 Euros is a tad much for my budget. I set it back down on its dainty saucer, and return the cashier’s “Au revoir” as I exit the store.

She got the current in her hand/just shock you like you won’t believe/sun in the amazon/with the voltage running through her skin (“Electric Feel”, MGMT) plays loudly in the background. It’s quick, catchy beat encourages Zazar shoppers to keep moving, keep looking, keep adding things to their bags. The musky scent of cologne invites us up the escalator to the men’s department, where Alexandre picks-up-puts-back-picks-up-tries-on-puts-back until he decides his other jackets are good enough for the time being. Meanwhile, I had spotted an assortment of jewel colored sweaters marked down to a trivial 12 Euros! I try on the pink-diamond XS and it fits fabulously. Yet I spot a bright amethyst one, and both Marie-Paule and I decide that it makes my rootbeer brown eyes sparkle just a tad more. Alexandre appears and raises his eyebrows, obviously approving. I search to le violet sweater in my size, but only find M, L, XL, and S’s. I hold back a smile as Alexandre determinedly joins me in my quest, leafing through the pile of ruby, emerald, and onyx fabric. I settle on a small, and Marie-Paule graciously takes the feminine frock from my hand, and gives the tall, athletic looking clerk her Visa. He hands me the little forest green bag with a smile, and I gratefully thank both him and Marie-Paule. We head to more stores filled with more clothes, cologne, make up, jewelry, and upbeat American songs, but keep our wallets tucked safely in our purses (or, in Alexandre’s case, pocket). It’s time for dinner, so we rush to the underground metro station, hand the orange-vested security guards our 2 x 3/4 inch lime green tickets and squeeze inside the already crowded “train”. I stand my ground as the train lurches forward, coming to a sudden stop just 3 minutes later. We exit, jog up the paused escalator steps, and cross the black asphalt to a particularly delicious La Patisserie to pick up dessert for ce soir (that evening). Two glazed strawberry tarts filled with creamy rich custard are boxed up by the perky brunette teenager, after she scooped an assortment of white/dark/milk chocolate covered almonds, cashews, toffee, and espresso beans into a tiny clear bag, which would be the Saison’s thank-you-for-hosting-us gift to Anne and Hervè.

The savory scent of garlic, pesto, and roasting beef greeted us as we entered though the big blue wooden doors. The salty marinated olives were set out in a large plum colored tray, whose 5 deep wells were filled with not only the olives but also 2 othe French aperitifs (similar to gourmet garlic and parmesan cheeto’s the size of ½” thick quarters) and little cherry wood handled metal picks. Hervè popped the top of a chilled bottle of champagne and uncorked a bottle of syrupy sweet wine (knowing my abhorrence of bubbles) and filled each of our crystal goblets. Ann brought out a platter of tiny glass dishes filled with crab, cucumber, and fromage blanc, which is comparable to extra creamy cream cheese with a yogurt-like consistency. Once we all had our fill, we moved to our seats in the dining room (or kitchen) for the next course. Hot, square, croissant-like pastries filled with pesto and a 3″ diameter circle of cheese were served to each of us; next, the main course, followed by the salade/fromage/pain course, and finally dessert. All having had long days, the adults relaxed and chatted quietly in the dining room, Jeremie went home after a round of good-bye hugs and kisses, and Marine decided to watch the last half of the movie with Alexandre and I. She sat to the left of me, who was snugly buried under 2 fluffy floral pillows in the couches rounded corner, and Alexandre stetched out on the rest of the L-shaped seating area, reclining comfortably against one of the blue and white pillows I was holding. There we stayed for the next 45 minutes, until we filed up the narrow stairway and sleepily murmured a round of “bonne nuit’s”.

 September 14^th – The Marketplace, Monkey Boy, and a Magnanimous Script-Writer

 “Poulet! Jambon! Saucisson!”, yelled a large man with a 5 o’clock shadow, though it was only 10am. Dozens of whole, golden chickens slowly rotated on the silver spindle that kept them evenly turning in the massive (6′ x 10′) portable over. Little hams were kept piping hot simmering in their salty sweet juices in the electric hot bins. Sausage crackled over open flames next to the rotisserie. The open concrete area in front of the Marché, as well as all the streets and sidewalks, were filled with swarms of people; many held plates filled with jambalaya (white rice, spicy sausage, shrimp, and zucchini covered in a peppery sauce), some carried little tin platters of teriyaki chicken, egg rolls and little plastic dipping dishes of sweet and sour sauce, others clutched bags of fresh fruit and vegetables, and a few even sported black plastic bags filled with new outfits or electronics. We slowly pushed our way through the masses, making our way past the mini-greenhouse filled with potted papyrus, ferns, bamboo, and bouquet upon bouquet of roses, daisies, and wild flowers. As I passed a little accessory stand, a Middle Eastern man pushed a handful of colorful scarves my way, shouting, “Tres belle pour la tres bell!” Alexandre pointed to the little tent ahead to our left, and I laughed at his typical boyish fascination with the wide spread of bongs. Jokingly, I told him Santa might bring him one for Christmas if he was good. Realizing Marie-Paule was nearly out of sight, we rushed to catch up, which proved to be a difficult task seeing as how we had entered the vast fruit and legume (“fwee ay lagoom”) section. People flocked like fruit flies, picking up, putting back, sniffing for ripeness, and pointing, determined to find the sweetest melons, most crisp apples, and juiciest nectarines. Finally, at the banana cart (or one of them, rather), we reached marie-Paule just as the shaggy-haired hazel-eyed young man was weighing two bunches of bright yellow, spotless bananas. He expertly shook open a clean plastic bag, dropped in the potassium-filled fruit, and took Marie-Paule’s 5€ bill in one swift movement. Handing her an assortment of copper, silver, and antique brass coins, he began weighing bananas for yet another customer. Anne announced she was going to head home, while the three of us went to visit Jeremie once again…and I was given the mission of waking up the sleeping monkey boy, whom half of the bananas were for.

We quietly opened the door of his flat and I silently crept across the carpet to his bedroom door, slowly turned the shiny doorknob, and prepared to pounce on the bed that lied just three feet from the doorway. To my great disappointment, however, the sheets were already thrown back and the bed was empty. Pouty-face in place, for my mischievous plans were ruined, I turned to face Alexandre and Marie-Paule. Seconds later, Jeremie emerged from the steamy bathroom, tackling me in a hug before peeling back the yellow skin of the largest banana in the bunch. His mom rearranged his mini-refrigerator, making room for the ham she placed inside, then proceeded to sweep, spray, and scrub every last inch of the kitchenette. Satisfied with the plates, pots, and coffee cups loaded in the dishwasher and now crumb-less counters, Marie-Paule told to meet us back at the house in a little under an hour, and we prepared to leave. Afterall, we had to rendezvous avec Philippe at 11am and it was nearly 10:45! Hugs, kisses, and playful pushes later, our six feet once again pounded the gray pavement. In an absolutely adorable brotherly act of protection, Alexandre linked his arm through mine as we made our way through the crowds. I had not thought it possible for there to be more people, yet the multitude had seemingly doubled. We reached Philippe, and the four of us head back to load up our suitcases and bid goodbye.

Jeremie, Alexandre, and I sat in the middle row of the family van, though there were only two seats; Alexandre sat between mine and Jeremie’s chairs on several layers of blankets, against a wall of pillows propped up against the mountain of luggage and dorm furnishings that filled the entire trunk and 3^rd row. He scrolled through my iPod’s artist list, nodding in approval of our similar tastes in American musicians. Eventually, after the 2,489 songs were all scanned by his teal-gray eyes, he pressed the play button of his white Nano and settled in for the drive to Tournie, Belgium. The green signs announcing the amount of kilometers to Paris, Brussels and Tournie flew by, and I was surprised to learn we were a mere 12 Km from our next destination. As I listened to The La’s singing There she goes/There she goes again, I couldn’t help but feel as if I were living out some crazy director’s script; I, Lacey Rebecca Hernandez, from little Visalia, was travelling Europe. France, Belgium, and, in February, Spain! This Director seemed to know my heart’s desires, my secret wishes, and exactly what kind of situations I would need to be thrown into in order for me to be stretched…no, not my talent as an actress, for I’m no Julia Roberts!, but rather as a person, a child of God. This Director, my Heavenly Father, wrote this incredible story just for me, His dreamer of a daughter. I may not always act on cue, and it usually is (at least!) “Take 22″ before I finally get things right. But He never runs out of patience, my mistakes never surprise him, and He loves me unconditionally…no matter what the New York Times says (or doesn’t say! Kehehee ). So here I go, living out the story my magnanimous Maker wrote just for me! La la la…