![]() (Photo from Eatwith.com) When Andy and I travel abroad, we love, like most avid travelers, to find restaurants and experiences completely off the beaten path. So, when I stumbled across the website EatWith, I was intrigued. After doing a bit of asking around, I discovered that none of my fellow travel enthusiasts had heard of it. This, of course, made it even more of an elusive find to me and so I decided to do a little more digging. EatWith was created in France in 2014 with the goal of creating social and culinary experiences in a way that elevates people's travel. With a mission statement like: "We are the first global community for shared food experiences, bringing people together around dining tables and food activities wherever they go. Harnessing the relationship between food, people, cities, and the world - we want to spread happiness through the power of sharing food, in your everyday life and travels," I immediately knew we had to try it on our next trip. The statement, to me, sounded like the most French thing I may have ever heard and our next travel designation just happened to be to Paris, Quelle coïncidence! (What a coincidence!) So, what exactly is EatWith? It is a site that allows you to book experiences from one of three categories: Food Tours, Cooking Classes or Dining Experiences all over the world. While I love a good food tour, and believe me, EatWith Paris has some interesting ones to pick from, such as their Parisian literary tour and pastry tasting, I wanted to do something that was more out of my travel norm. A cooking class sounded fun as well, but cooking classes are experiences you can find no matter what region you're traveling in and again, we were looking to try something completely different. This led us to learn more about their dining experiences section. This section caught both Andy and my eye, mostly because it was something we hadn't seen offered anywhere else on our travels. The average cost runs between 50 and 300 euros per person, giving you a variety of options depending on the kind of experience you'd like to have. Usually, the ones that are the more expensive include the most high-brow food and more often that not include wine pairings. What makes the dining experiences so unique? The host, be it an actual chef or just your average cooking enthusiast, invites you into their home for an authentic, home cooked meal surrounded by other travelers. Think of it as an elevated communal-style meal with people from all over the world sharing local and personal dishes. Which travel enthusiast wouldn't want to have that kind of experience!? I feel like the common goal of most travelers is to experience the true culture of their location, food being one of them, but not end up at the most touristy joint in town. With EatWith dining experiences, you peruse a group of hosts, all offering completely different menus, and see what fits your experience expectations the best. When I was looking in Paris, there were a handful of options ranging from a typical apèro dînatoir on a roof top terrace to a five course seasonal French meal with dishes selected from the host's childhood. It's not all typical French, though. Some of the menus included traditional Moroccan, Créole, Peruvian, or even Chinese. And, for those travelers who want to try different regional foods without having to leave Paris, there are a few hosts that offer menus from different regions in France like the South West, Alsace or Provence. After checking out all of the options, we had opted for a multi-course seasonal dinner with Sylvie in her home in Montmartre. Each host/hostess will set how many people can attend each dinner. Some even offer the possibility of making it a private dinner, for an up-charge, of course. To us, though, meeting up with fellow travelers from all over the world is what made it more fun, so we specifically sought out one that was close to being full. We arrived at Sylvie's a little after the designated time. You don't ever want to arrive a few minutes before and target yourself as an uber-Americans! Her place was cozy and from the 1800's with beautiful original wood floors and molding all throughout. Over an apèro, a glass of wine and a few small bites, she explained that she was retired and had done this because she loved to cook and meet new people. There were two other couples that had signed up to have the dinner with us, a set of Australian friends who had been traveling across Europe together and a couple who were from Napa Valley and visiting France for the next few weeks. Ok, so not really anyone super exotic, but it was still fun dinner conversation to hear about everyone's travels thus far. After the apèro, we all sat down for dinner, which included wine with each course (not all do and some are even BYOB events, so make sure to double check) and still or sparkling water. The table was set beautifully with a bouquet of fresh flowers from Sylvie's trip to the market. You could really tell that she took pride in her dinners and wanted the experience to be perfect for everyone. The first course was a chilled asparagus soup, garnished beautifully. It was almost too pretty to eat! As each course was served out of Sylvie's tiny Montmartre kitchen, us guests chatted about what we had visited and where we will go next. Andy and I were on our way to Brittany, while the the retired couple from Napa Valley were renting a car and doing a Loire Valley chateaux excursion. The Australian friends were off to the airport after tonight's dinner to catch a red eye to Switzerland. Sylvie cleared our plates, quickly replacing them with steaming bowls of blanquette du veau. Despite it being the end of spring, it was comforting to have this dish. The first time I had had it was when Christophe made it for me during my time as a language assistant in his wife, Agnès', school. The smell brought me right back to that night, all of us sitting around a table, admiring his hard work. Though spending a short amount of time with him during my time in France, Christophe had an incredibly large impact on my experience there. Andy ripped a piece of crusty baguette and the conversation switched to Sylvie, who began telling us all about her neighborhood and how it had changed in the past few decades. It was interesting to hear about Paris from a local's perspective. It wasn't all walks on the Seine and picnics under the Eiffel Tower. When everyone had sopped up every last bit of sauce from their bowls, Sylvie again collected the empty vessels and shuffled back into the kitchen to put the finishing touches on dessert, a chocolate soufflé with fresh, seasonal berries. She was an incredible cook and an even better storyteller. When dinner was over, we had spent four hours with six complete strangers, swapping travel suggestions and itineraries and hearing more about the sorted history of the 18th arrondissement. Being so close to the Moulin Rouge, Sylvie had a front row seat to the neighborhood's changes, for better or worse. The wine bottles were emptied and the Aussie's flight was drawing near. In typical French fashion, we all made our way to the door, standing there for quite a long time while saying our goodbyes, many thanks to Sylvie and swapping contact information. In the end, it was one the most unique dining experience I have ever had. Looking back at the mission statement of EatWith, I would say I personally felt as though our dinner was a living advertisement for it. Stating that they "want to spread happiness through the power of sharing food, in your everyday life and travels" seemed like a lofty goal, but as we left Sylvie's flat that night, we felt as though we had experienced something we wouldn't have if we had just went to dinner at the typical restaurant. We had met people we wouldn't normally have had the chance to interact with, enjoyed a locally-sourced, home-cooked meal and got to experience it all in a comfort of a traditional Parisian home. EatWith can be found all over the world, but it is important to note that the bigger the city you are visiting, the more experiences you are going to find offered. When I searched the Provence region, around eight experiences came up compared to the over 100 that comes up for Paris alone. If you find yourself in a larger-sized city and are up for a true out of the box adventure, try Eatwith. No matter how the food is or what kind of people you find yourself sitting across from, you will leave with a quirky story to tell. Tell me about your most unique dining experience below! Have you eaten somewhere incredibly different? Maybe you've had a dining experience unlike any other. Tell us about it in the comments! Happy Sunday! -R
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![]() (Photo from CuisineAZ.) France is known for many things; the wine, the fashion, and of course, the food! While you could easily live on decadent pastries and sweets throughout your whole visit, the standard pâtisserie or boulangerie fare is just the tip of the iceburg! Sure, you'll find éclairs or traditional tarte aux pommes in most shop windows no matter which city you find yourself in, but there are so many regionally specific sweets in France, I could literally feature a new post each month of a full year, digging into a slew of the different delicacies and still not run out of things to write about! For this post, however, I have narrowed it down to five sweets found regionally around France that every visitor should try, if they haven't yet. ![]() (Photo: TasteFrance.com) In the number five slot are the small but absolutely beautiful Calissons d' Aix en Provence. Fun fact, in '91 the calisson became a protected food item, essentially meaning that confectioners must follow the same procedure and use a very strict list of ingredients in order to earn the authentic title of Calisson d'Aix. So, what exactly is a calisson? It is ground almonds mixed with orange blossom water and candied melon that is brought together into a paste and spread on top of unleavened bread. From there, a thin layer of royal icing is coated on top. It's most compared to the texture of marzipan with a sweet taste of melon. While the most traditional flavor is in fact melon, there are some places that will offer an array of flavors such as fig, chocolate, orange, or raspberry. These treats can be found all over Provence, but it's especially nice to pick up a tin of them in their hometown of Aix and nibble on a few while strolling the cities beautiful, shaded streets. Tip: These travel really well, so if you are looking for a specialty item to bring home for family and friends, these would be perfect. They are a little expensive, but that is only because they are made with such pricey ingredients and are packaged so beautifully! ![]() (Photo from: Cuisineetmets.com) Number four on my list is the Tarte Tropézienne. I had seen the tarte here and there around Provence during our home buying roadtrip and our first summer in the house, but it was never alluring enough to warrant buying a whole cake just for the two of us. Andy usually eats one serving of sweets, then wants nothing to do with the leftovers. Because of this, I've always opted for smaller items when at the boulangerie or pâtisserie. This summer, on a trip to Saint Remy with our close friend Agnès, our chosen lunch spot had miniature versions and I finally decided to try my first Tarte Tropézienne. Fun fact, the tarte was actually created by a Polish, not French, baker who had relocated to the area after World War II. Adapting a recipe he had learned from his grandmother, the tarte was starting to take shape. When it comes to its famous name, however, the story is rooted in a bit of glamour and fame. The creator, Alexandre Micka, was hired to cater the set of a Brigitte Bardot film that was being shot in Saint Tropez. While on set, the actress is said to have fallen in love with the cake and named it after the town. The rest, as they say, is history! So, what exactly is a Tarte Tropézienne? While the cake has a few variations, the basic recipe consists of a brioche dough that is baked and cut in half. What goes inside is where I found the most variations. Some recipes call for a French custard, others call for a crème diplomate (pastry cream + heavy whipping cream), and one recipe even called for madame crème (crème diplomate minus the gelatin), which I have never heard of until looking more into that style of cream. Some recipes also called for flavoring the pastry cream with vanilla or orange blossom water. Beautiful speckles of pearl sugar are placed on top before it is baked, giving the brioche a studded and almost whimsical look. Once the tarte is assembled with the delicious filling, a quick dusting of icing sugar completes the look. I personally don't love brioche. To me, it tends to be a little on the drier side of the bread options (or maybe I've just been eating underwhelming brioche?), so I wasn't expecting too much from my dessert that came with my lunchtime formule that day in Saint Remy. Quelle surprise! (What a surprise!) It was light and airy, not too sweet, not too heavy, just the most perfect dessert! The crunch of the pearl sugar on top mixed with the fluffy cake and the slightly sweetened pastry cream was to die for and, despite appearing like a simple dessert, it felt almost too decadent to be eating for lunch! If you are around Saint Tropez and are looking for a perfect regional specialty to end your meal with, you must try the Tarte Tropézienne! Don't let it's simple look fool you, you wouldn't be disappointed! ![]() (Photo: Andy trying his first ever Merveilleux from the original shop in Lille!) My third pick for regional desserts is Les Merveilleux (or, in particular, Aux Merveilleux de Fred). While living in France as a language assistant, I ended up forging a very close bond with one of the teachers that I was an assistant for. Despite being in my late twenties, Agnès had a very motherly way about her, taking me under her wing in the most comforting and kind way. Throughout the school year, she and her husband, Christophe, would plan little trips around the region, so I could get a feel of the real Picardie. One such weekend trip was to Lille, where they insisted that I try Aux Merveilleux de Fred. ![]() (Photo: L'observateur) When first walking into the Aux Mervilleux de Fred shop in the old section of Lille, you can't help but be caught up in the whimsy and magic. The space is tiny, but there is a lot of charm is packed into this small space. The beautifully tiered chandelier illuminates the brightly colored mounds of meringue that match their flavors such as: caramel, coffee, cherry and praline. Fun fact; the cake, while dating back much further than Fred's wildly popular treats, was created in Northern France and named after the nickname of aristocratic woman during the Reign of Terror; the women being called “Les Merveilleuses", or the marvelous, because of their over indulgence in clothes, food and, of course, desserts. ![]() (Photo provided by:Praugemorning) So what exactly is different from a Merveilleux and a Merveilleux de Fred? For starters, when Fred gave the pastry a makeover in the 1980's, he started by lightening the meringue base. He also began offering more unique flavors than was traditionally made. These little sweets are essentially rings of baked meringue sandwiched together with pastry cream until it creates a little mountain. The outside is then covered with more pastry cream and rolled in different toppings that match their designated flavor. When I was first brought to the small shop by Agnès and Christophe, this was the only location you could go to get the treats. In more recent years, however, the brand has expanded and you can now find them not only all over France, but in Belgium as well. If you find yourself going to an apèro and don't want to bring the host the standard bottle of wine, pick up a pack of these. Everyone will be glad you did! ![]() (Photo: Allrecipes.com) When it comes to the number two and one spots on my list, it was hard to decide which of the treats I loved more. Both were from completely different regions with completely different tastes and histories. In the end, I decided the second spot would go to the humble but delicious Kouign Amann. I have seen the pastry shaped in two different styles throughout the Brittany region; the one style featured above and the one shown below. ![]() (Photo:BakeryBrera.com) Andy and I had our first ever kouign amann (pronounced: Kween Ah Mahn) in the beautiful Breton village of Dinan. Sitting outside of a charming ancient church, we split our first kouign amann and were instantly in love. When it comes to the pastry itself, the Kouign Amann is known as one of the most fattening pastries in all of France. Fun fact, Kouign Amann means butter cake in the Breton language and they aren't kidding! The ratio of dough to butter and sugar is 40%, 30%, 30%! This is very much a pastry to be shared, as it is essentially a croissant dough, rolled and layered with immense amounts of sugar and butter, which caramelize the pastry, giving it a unique and absolutely incredibly texture and taste. I have seen these pastries every once in a while outside of this region, but not as often as I'd like. If you are in the Brittany region or happen to stumble across one outside of the region you must try one, just don't think about the calories! It's totally worth it. ![]() (Photo from HomeCookingAdventures) And finally, my top recommendation of regional sweets goes to the Canelé de Bordeaux! My first experience with this little treat was actually not in France. On a chilly fall evening, my French professor, who was transplanted to Pittsburgh from the suburbs of Paris, brought them in as a little treat for us to try. She was notorious for whipping up some nostalgic French favorites from her childhood and bringing them in for her eager students to taste. The canelé is a strange dessert; a little burnt and caramelized on the outside, yet soft and very moist, and a little sponge like on the inside. I was immediately infatuated with them! The ingredients are very simple, but the process to make the canelé is a bit tricky. Traditionally baked in fluted copper molds, the interior of the molds are coated in beeswax in order to help crisp up the outside, therefore preserving the custardy interior for a longer period of time. More and more people, however, are finding new and alternative ways to not fork out the $140 and up cost for a set of these specific copper molds. Many have resorted to using the newly established silicone molds for these incredible treats and some say they've had success with recreating it, but reviews seem to be hit or miss. Some bakers are saying the silicone doesn't give the same caramelized effect to the outside that the copper molds would. It's a steep price to pay, but it seems to me like the copper molds are the way to go. Call me a purist but, without the crispy outer crust, it just isn't a canelé to me. The canelé batter is a pretty straightforward custard mixture, with rum and vanilla added to give the dessert a very specific and elevated taste. I am very much a texture eater, essentially meaning that there are certain foods I will not eat based soley on the texture. It's the texture of these, though, that I find myself really enjoying. The caramelized outside coating a soft custardy middle is a contrast I really, really enjoy. Though these come specifically from Bordeaux, you can in fact find these around other areas in France. At one point, I spotted one in a McCafé window up north in Amiens. While I don't promote going to Mc Café for your first ever taste of a canelé, I will say, that spotting should attest to its popularity amongst les citoyens (the citizens) of France! ![]() (Photo:ThePerfectLoaf.com) Fun fact; the word canelé comes from the French word for fluted, referring to the molds they are baked in. The story has it that with so many winemakers in the region using egg whites to clarify their wine, large amount of egg yokes were left over, which the winemakers would give to the local convents. Looking for a way to use up all of these yokes, the nuns added some other ingredients and the canelé was born! Rum and vanilla were added later on down the road but, by then, the canelé was already a regional favorite. There are so many different regional treats around France! What are your favorites? Is there a certain sweet from around your region that visitors shouldn't leave without trying? Tell me all about it below! ![]() (Maison au Dauphin - Roman Ruins Site- Vaison) When walking around Vaison, it's easy to feel as though there are so many deeper layers to the town than the things you are seeing on the surface, as if the town is an artichoke, just waiting for you to pull back it's layers and expose its core. No matter where Andy and I have lived, we've always loved asking the locals as much as we can about the area and how things used to be. ![]() (Photo from restaurantguru.com - the oven is in the open doors to the left of the restaurant.) Rue Des Fours So many evenings after dinner we have wandered the streets of the haut ville, slowly taking in all of the buildings and a lot of the street signs. During this time, we've collected many different questions to ask the locals in regards to findings on these little walks. On one particular stroll, we noticed one of the main streets that leads through the village is named "Rue Des Fours." On a recent tour of Vaison with an expert, I finally got to ask the question I had been wondering for two years... where exactly are (or were) all of the ovens? Four means oven in French and Rue Des Fours literally means street of the ovens. I was under the impression that this had to be the street where the original bakery must have been located. "So where were the ovens?" I asked our guide, thinking she would point to an old home or vacant lot that once homed a boulangerie. Walking down the street a little further, she finally stopped at an open garage door that housed a small plaque on the exterior wall. Up to that point, I had never seen the doors open, nor had I ever noticed the plaque. "This is the old oven," she pointed deep into the back of the space. There located against the back wall were the clear remnants of an old, massive oven. "The homes were packed so tightly together that it left very little room for things like ovens inside each of their homes. Plus, with everyone living on top of each other, starting multiple fires so close together didn't seem like the best idea. This was the communal oven for the town," she said, finally unraveling the mystery. It seemed a little anti-climatic in the moment, but now, of course I am filled with questions about the oven. Who exactly owns the space now? What is it used for? When was it decommissioned? The full unraveling of this historical site is to be continued! ![]() Shovels,Shovels everywhere! If you have read some of my other posts, you may have read the one about our newly acquired Fatima's hand door knocker. I not only love how it looks, I also love the history behind it and love finding the different styles of hands all throughout Vaison. I also loved the photos people have sent me of their own Fatima's hand (shout out to Colleen and her charming village home!) On my hunt for more hands around Vaison, however, I started seeing something that I hadn't noticed before; little shovel door knockers. There were too many of them to be a random coincidence and so I started digging, pun very much intended, in order to discover the story behind them. It took some asking around, but after some time I found someone who knew their history and why so many neighbors had them. "At one point, someone was excavating their basement for a renovation and found some very valuable gold Roman coins. This started a mad treasure hunt throughout the town, where all of the neighbors started digging up their basements in search of buried treasure. Finally, the mayor had to put his foot down, stating that if residences don't stop digging their basements, the foundations are going to crumble and the town is going to cave in on itself." It turns out, the shoves are a little nod to that event in the towns more recent history. I find this tidbit of Vaison history incredibly charming. "All of our homes are essentially built on top of Roman ruins," a friend explained. "Wait, what?" I replied, a little perplexed. "Yes, not too long ago they were digging to create a parking lot and unearthed a whole slew of things," he added. "What did they do with it?" I asked. My mind went to some grandiose event. The area being roped off, perhaps excavation teams being brought it from around the globe, tiny Vaison making national news! "Well, they stopped digging and buried it back up," he said, very matter of factly. I'm a pretty curious person, so I could easily see myself continuing to excavate until a whole new ruin site was exposed, so the end of the story was a bit lacking for me. "I wanted to know what kind of site they had uncovered. I wish they would have continued on," I replied. "But, if we did that," the friend continued on, "no one would have anywhere to live! You'd never stop digging!" Ok, maybe he had a point. There really was only so far down you could logically go. It's definitely interesting being surrounded with so much history here in Vaison. Coming from the U.S., we thought our 1860's home was old. Around here, that is considered on the younger side. ![]() (Photo provided by: Marie-Celine.com) Is that a tombstone? It was hard to decide what exactly to include when it came to the hidden gems of Vaison that the daily visitor probably misses, but one of the items that inspired me to post this list was a piece of history about the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Nazareth. Almost every French village has its church, and I am sure, a slew of ancient history attached to it. When it came to this particular church, though, I almost couldn't pick which fact to use, as there were so many. Anyone who walks around its entire base can see that ancient ruins remain near parts of its exterior. Some people miss, however, one of the most interesting artifacts left behind, and it's simply because they were so fascinated with the ruins on the ground that they didn't look up! ![]() If you look up around the middle of the bell tower, you will see what looks like a face carved into the stonework. Looking around the structure, you can see stones in different shapes, colors and sizes. What some don't realize is that when they were building the church, they used whatever materials they could find at the time. A lot of the materials came from the Roman ruins site just next door, as they dissembled the structures no longer in use. When scavenging for any materials they could find to finish the project, someone had actually taken another person's tomb stone and placed it in the exterior wall of the building to finish the project, taking the idea of letting nothing go to waste to the next level here! It's hard to get a great photo of it from so far down, but you can definitely see the face from my photo above. Have you visited Vaison and seen any of the hidden gems listed or did you happen to catch one not found on this list? What about your French "hometown?" What is a fun, under-the-radar fact that most tourist visiting don't catch? With how old all of these towns are, I'm sure they have a lot! Post below and share your stories! -Happy Sunday! -R ![]() When most people think of the south of France, they think of the wine, the cheese, the picturesque village towns that dot the region, and the blankets of lavender that sit in beautiful bunches, row after row, painting the fields a vibrant purple. It's an escape for most people. Many read books set in fairytale villages in France while others scroll through the beautiful photos capturing snippets of French life abroad. Then there are few who decide to take the leap and try and make that escapism mindset part of their every day reality. That is the exact mindset we were buying into ourselves when we purchased our little village home in Vaison. We wanted quiet summers of roaming neighboring village streets, while soaking up the sun and local culture. We dreamed of kayaking the Sorgue on hot summer days, then having quiet picnics along its riverbanks. We wanted to wander the weekly market, meeting vendors and exploring new, seasonal foods. I essentially wanted everything I've read about in my favorite books set in Provence. What I didn't expect when we closed out our first summer abroad (which very much felt like a fairytale at times) is that our second summer would be completely consumed with medical charts and a slew of new French vocabulary words that I never in a million years thought I'd ever have to learn. Fistula is fistule for those of you curious, but more on that below. Once Andy had healed from first surgery, he was immediately sent back in to the OR to get a chest port put in for his chemo. "You'll be getting folefox," the doctor started. "It's the mildest of all of the chemo therapy we can give you. You'll have a few hour treatments here every other week and then go home with some of the treatment," he said as he held up what looked like a gameboy that would be attached to Andy's port, delivering the chemo. "After two days you come back and we unhook you. You'll do this twelve times and your last treatment will be in April." It all seemed straightforward. If things went well, his treatment would end a month and a half before we'd leave to go back to France, which we were thankful for. "There is no way this is going to hurt my kidney, right?" Andy asked, a little skeptical. Kidneys last different lengths of time for different people and Andy's usually lasted ten years. We were around the nine year mark and wanted to prolong it as much as we could. The idea of chemo and a kidney transplant all in a matter of months might literally push us over the edge. "I've never seen it hurt a transplanted kidney in my 20 plus years of doing this," the oncologist assured. He is the expert and so I wholeheartedly believed him. He was recommended by Andy's kidney doctor and considered the best. Anytime we'd say we had Dr. R, everyone would go on about how their family member or their neighbor or a friend of a friend just adored him and how fabulous he was. So we put all of our trust and eggs into the Dr. R basket. The first dose of chemo was tough and, despite being the least aggressive, Andy ended up in the ICU for three days. The diagnosis; toxicity from the chemo. After doing a slew of tests, they decided to lessen the dosage, but, the same thing still happened with the second treatment. "We can't lower this anymore," he said, standing at Andy's beside. "If we do, it's not even worth giving it to you anymore," the doctor said, a little exasperated. But it was the third one that really seemed to do him in. After being placed back into the ICU for four days, the doctor visited us before we left to go home with some news. "There has been an adverse effect. I've never seen this, but the chemo is attacking you kidney. I don't know what to do. You need the chemo, but if I continue it will kill your kidney. We have to weigh all of our options and go from there." It was decided, since in their mind the kidney was "on its way out" anyway, to move on with chemo and yet another surgery was set up, one for a fistula (essentially a fused super vein in your arm) for when he would need to be placed on dialysis. A week after his fistula surgery, however, his kidney failure was happening at an accelerated rate. Another thing Dr. R had said he had never seen before. Andy was the exception, but in all of the wrong ways. Saying we were feeling overwhelmed just three months after returning from France was a bit of an understatement. It was as if someone said, "it looks like despite the madness they're still hanging on... let's add more to the mix and see if that finally does it!" When his kidney was diagnosed as officially shutting down, it was decided that he couldn't wait for his fistula to heal, and he had to go into immediate, emergency surgery and get a chest catheter in order to begin to receive dialysis. "My head is spinning!" I told a friend, pacing outside of the family waiting room. He is literally in the fifth surgery in three months. I've burned through all of my sick days at school and my personal... and he's constantly in pain. As soon as his body heals from one surgery, we are told we need to schedule another. His body isn't even healed from his last surgery! And we've had to buy him all new clothes to loosely fit around his port and now this catheter and he's lost so much weight and.." I started to sob. "And yesterday he said he felt like he was being punished for having the best summer of his life in France. I didn't even know what to say. I just sat there and shook my head!" Andy was thirty-six when they discovered he had cancer. It wasn't hereditary, as no one in his family had died from any type of cancer before. He hadn't smoked. It was completely random. "I think it's the food," his colon doctor stated, looking up from his chart. "There are so many additives and plastics and chemicals in food. It's the only thing I can think of," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. Andy's fourth chemo treatment landed him in the ICU for over a week. He laid in a comatose state for about half of it and it was during that time that it was decided to stop the chemo treatments. A slew of tests were run and, a week after Andy was sent home, it came back that there were no traces of cancer left in his body. Dr. R felt confident in stopping the treatments, but monitoring him every few months. When all was said and done though, we were now left with an incredibly limiting medical issue; dialysis. Andy started with treatments three times a week for four hours at a time. The treatment is something that, despite some people doing it occasionally, you should never miss, as it severely jeopardizes your health. Two weeks without it and he'd be dead they said, to reinforce not missing a treatment. This makes it incredibly difficult to travel, even within the United States. At one point, we wanted to visit his family in Buffalo, NY and despite giving a few weeks notice, his clinic was unable to accommodate him or find him a place up there where he could do his treatments. "No place has any open seats," the clinic manager said with a disinterested shrug. "This is so infuriating! We literally just bought a home to break up the monotony and start being more impulsive with travel and now we can't even figure out how to go 3 hours away!" I said, back at home when Andy delivered the news. It just felt like no matter what we did, we were stuck, and to no fault of our own. I'm someone who follows the mindset that if I want something enough, I can make it happen, but for some reason, this felt very out of my hands. I also believe in doing your homework and finding out all of the information you can before you make a decision, so when the talk of traveling to France finally came up around the end of winter, feeling beaten down from the incredibly horrific six months we had just had, Andy immediately ruled it out. I asked Andy to humor me and to just do a quick internet search, thinking that traveling with dialysis outside of the U.S. may be an actual possibility. There are over two million people who need dialysis around the world. I didn't believe that all of them were tethered to their center, limited by the treatment. After about a week of pushing the subject, Andy came back with very limited information. "So, there is a resort in Jamaica that specifically caters to patients and offers treatments there anndddd," he said, dragging out the word, overly exasperated, "there is a dialysis cruise." "Hmm, right," I started, taking in the information, "but what about France. That is where we're trying to go." "Nothing. Nothing came up when I searched," he said. I squinted my eyes at him. It seemed a bit unbelievable that NO one had written about this, had a blog covering it or even a center's website didn't pop up. I will say, though, that when I search French things while in the U.S., I don't always get the same results I do when I am actually in France searching for them. Because of this, I enlisted the help of my closest friend in France, Agnès. (Yes, the same one who gave me my first dînatoire!) With a little digging, she discovered a company that had a few facilities near us, with the closest one being in Carpentras. I froze, my fingers moving from the phone key pad, back to the table, then nervously tapping before repeating the process. The idea of calling the clinic for information and accidentally not understanding some of the medical terms, rapidly spiraling into a major blunder fluttered through my mind. This was the last thing I wanted to mess up by a translation error. Thankfully Agnès came to the rescue, offering to call and get the necessary information. An incredible weight had been lifted off of my shoulders. I felt relieved. With her receiving the information, there were zero possibilities of miscommunication. Andy's health was too fragile, that mistakes could not be made. Especially when they could be avoided. As an expat abroad, one thing which makes me more nervous than anything else is talking on the phone to someone in French. You don't realize how much you rely on social cues or body language to dictate your conversations until you don't have them. I have been very lucky that, when it comes to the more difficult conversations, Agnès has always stepped in and offered to help. She is an excellent friend and lifesaver! After chatting with the incredibly helpful receptionist, she relayed that the first step was to fill out the vacation dialysis form. It was a simple one page document asking what type of dialysis you receive, what dates you would need to be at the facility, what days and times you normally do your treatments and what facility you'd like to attend. There are different companies for the different regions in France. In my first post about this, a Brit had mentioned her experience up north with a different company and a completely different price tag. So while my information is current, it may not apply all over the region or country. We filled out the paperwork, checking off the center in Carpentras as the center we'd like to attend. A week later, we received word that our request had been rejected due to lack of space, but our paperwork had been sent on to Orange. After a few days we heard back from the receptionist of that clinic, offering Andy a spot, but also wanting a slew of documents and tests before our arrival, three months from then. Not only did they need all of his records from his current clinic, they also wanted a drawing of his fistula. Lucky for us, Andy was back in surgery to remove his chest port, as the test runs of his new fistula were a success! More surgeries to undo other surgeries! As he lay in recovery from the procedure, the doctor who did the original fistula surgery and now his catheter removal, came in to check up on him. After seeing that everything was going well and scratching some notes on his notepad, he looked up, asking if we had any other questions. I quickly remembered back to the drawing that was requested. "Actually," I started, "we need a drawing of his fistula." The doctor squinted. "Like a map of it," I tried clarifying, "Is that something you can email over?" I'm not sure why I thought this was something that they just kept in a digital folder, but without missing a beat he took out a sharpie and walked over to Andy. "Stick out your arm," he instructed a groggy Andy, grabbing the now extended forearm. Andy and I watched quizzically as he dragged the sharpie up the prominent bump in his arm. "Who has a phone to take a photo?" He questioned, looking from Andy to me. I handed him my phone. "That should do it," he said handing it back to me. "Why do you need an outline?" We explained our plans to potentially go to France and the need to provide our new clinic with a slew of different pieces of medical information. "I'm glad you said France, their medical system is great. I have no worries about you going there. Now if you said England," he shrugged, tilting his head. "England? Really?" I questioned, a bit surprised. "Eh, they aren't as forthcoming with their research and studies there, I don't know enough to feel comfortable sending patients there for treatment," he said walking towards the door. "If you end up going, have fun!" And he was gone. At this point of planning, Andy was still very much on the fence about going abroad. Maybe there wasn't any information because no one does it and for good reason. But we were going through the motions, setting everything up so that, if he decided he was comfortable going, he'd have a place and all of the hard work of navigating the healthcare system was done. Andy's logic was, dialysis was hard here, where he could speak the language and advocate for himself. The last thing he wanted to do was go somewhere where he had to do a hard treatment and not be able to communicate about his needs or how he was feeling. There was also the fact that his facility here had already had quite a few blunders, the biggest one was back in February when they allowed fluid overload. Instead of dialyzing him, which he desperately needed, they sent him to the ER down the street who was understaffed. He wasn't able to get a treatment until 8 hours later, leaving them no choice but to put him in a coma until he could be dialyzed. Not that long after, it was discovered that they never did the required tests to determine a base weight, and so, for the past few months, they hadn't been taking the right amount off, leaving in rolling the dice in between every treatment. "What do the people do there who aren't able to advocate for themselves?" I asked furious at this new development. "There are patients that literally get rolled in on stretchers! Who's making sure they are being kept safe?" I understood Andy's logic. What if something happens over there and it snowballed, like it seemed to do at our clinic? With me not speaking medical French and him not speaking at all, it was something that concerned us. Where would we go if things took a turn? Would they have an English speaking doctor? Would more blunders occur because of the language barrier? While all of those thoughts rolled around in my head, my logic was, if you're going to have to do dialysis, why not do it in France where you know you have a great group of friends, access to incredible food, and 300+ days of sunshine. To me, it was a no brainer, but I knew he had to come to this decision himself and feel comfortable with it. It seemed as though when we'd send away one email with documents requested, another email would appear with more items needed. Next, two tests were needed in order to solidify his spot: a Mersa test and a VRE, which aren't the easiest to get here. When he called around to any and all medical facilities in our area, many wanted to know where the wound was for the Mersa test. When he explained there wasn't a wound, they would refused to do the test. Finally, because of special circumstances of traveling, we found a hospital willing to administer it. The VRE, though, was something that just wasn't given. So, we'd just have to show up without it and hope they didn't refuse us treatment. Around the beginning of May, Andy seemed apprehensively on board. I was relieved. I was still holding strong to my if I want it enough I can make it happen attitude and I felt as though dialysis abroad would be no different. We could, if we tried very hard, make it work! I also believed that, for our mental health, getting out of Pittsburgh and leaving the past 7 months behind would be the best for us. Andy had set it up so that we'd leave on a Wednesday night and arrive in Marseille Thursday evening with plenty of time to go and get our rental car and head to our French house. His first treatment was Friday afternoon. As we shuffled all of our bags to the front door, readying ourselves for the drive to the airport, our phones pinged with a notification. FLIGHT CANCELED lit up our screens. We had been set to take a flight from Pittsburgh to London, then London to Marseilles. Now, the second flight had been cancelled. Any other time, this would be fine. We'd hop on the next flight or try a different airline. This time, however, things had a layer of concern. Whatever alternative flight we took, we had to be in Orange by 1 pm for his treatment. "Should we not go? I can't risk not getting treatment," Andy asked while standing, nerves from the flight and the treatment abroad fluttering in. Who would have thought we'd experience trouble traveling on dialysis from our living room? "Perhaps we go to the airport and see at the desk? If we don't like the options or don't think they are reliable, perhaps we book another day?" Andy nodded. The idea of getting stuck in London and him needing a treatment was a dealbreaker for me. I wanted to travel on dialysis, but I wanted to travel safely. "Let's just go and see," Andy said, switching to the positive one for a change. We had only been doing dialysis for about 7 months at this point and I wasn't sure how comfortable I was with taking too many risk while still trying to navigate it. At the airport, there was one flight left to the south of France and it was going to Nice. It would get us in around the same time as the other flight, but around 2 hours away from our rental car. "Hmm, maybe we can get in and rent a car. Spend the night in Nice, wake up early, drive to Marseille, pick up the rental car and then head straight to Orange?" Andy suggested. "I'm tired just hearing that itinerary! But I think it's the only option we have if we want to go today," I said with a shrug. Tickets were booked and we made our way to the gate to begin our next crazy 48 hours. By the time we finally made it to the clinic, we were a bit discombobulated from the rushed flight, time difference, jet lag, couple hours of driving and a frenzy of nerves about doing the treatment somewhere new. We were greeted by the facility manager who, explained that since Andy would be receiving his VRE test here, he would have to be in quarantine for a few days while they waited for the results. Leading us back to the patient area, we were surprised to find the treatment center split into two sections. One door led to a big room of hospital beds, holding around 20 patients that were deemed too fragile for the other section. In that room, the patients were a bit older and could lay down throughout their whole treatment. The other room was for patients who were considered in a more stable condition and had about ten reclining chairs in it. "Is it ok if she stays with me since she speaks French?" Andy typed into his google translate. The clinic manager nodded, leading us through the room to the designated "quarantine" spot for Andy. As we walked past each hospital bed, each patient waved, adding a "bonjour." They were intrigued with the new foreign transplant in their wing. "This is wild," Andy said in a hushed voice as we waved back. "In my clinic, there are probably around 40 of us. Here there are maybe 20," he looked around with surprise. The VRE test was administered and then Andy was made comfortable while they translated questions via google translate about needle size. The manager kept looking at his charts, all in English, then back to Andy when he had questions about the usual length of his treatments and the amount they usually take off. Finally, a nurse who was only there a few days a week came over to introduce herself. She would be the one sticking him. Plugging her information into google translate, she smiled, holding up the phone to him. They went back and forth, translating their questions and answers until Andy felt comfortable to begin. With the treatment started, I looked around the space. Only a thin curtain "quarantined" us from the other patients. Other patients peeked into the space from their beds, intrigued by the flurry of English and French being spoken. When our eyes met they would smile, putting me at ease. The last thing I would want is for the other patients to think we were getting special treatment, but they seemed to be genuinely happy we were there. It felt very communal at that moment, like we were in this unfortunate situation together. A few beds away, twinkle, twinkle little star played softly. I looked around giving a questioning look and the nurse caught my confusion. "It's someone's machine," she explained in her translator app. "He is finished with his treatment" she said as she tilted her head towards the man who was beginning to sit up. "Back in the U.S." Andy began to explain, "the machines are loud. Bhaaag, bhaag, bhaag!" he extended his fingers then quickly closed them a few times, as if simulating an alarm going off. The nurse looked like she was in pain. "That doesn't seem very relaxing!" she said. "It's not," Andy confirmed. Just then, two women peeked around the curtain, wheeling in a little cart. "Bonjour! Un café? Une gaufre?" Hello! A coffee? A waffle? Andy looked at the nurse. "Am I allowed to eat?" He typed. "Of course," she confirmed, "we will adjust you based off of what you choose." After handing Andy a coffee with a madeleine, they turned to me. "Et pour vous? Un thé?" They offered. And for you? A tea? "C'est très gentil," I said, surprised that I was offered anything. That's so nice! With our beverages and sweets all finished, the lights started to dim in the clinic. "What is going on?" Andy asked the nurse. "It's time to rest," she confirmed, fluffing his pillow and leaving the space. Andy turned to me. "This is wild! Back home, people are screaming the whole time, the patients, the nurses, everyone just yells at each other. It's the most stressful environment I've ever been in. And you aren't allowed to eat or drink while on the machines. And it is way too loud and bright to take a nap," he said, looking around. "And the machines are so new here and quiet! Everything is so quiet!" Just then, three heads popped into the curtain. "Allo, Andrew!" One said with a big smile. The younger guy stepped forward in front of the two women. "Il est américain," the manager said, coming through the curtain and pointing to the man. "I'm James," he said with a wave, "when your test results come back, you'll be moved next door with us," he pointed back to the women. "You're American?" I said, catching the manager's previous comment. What are the absolute chances of Andy's biggest fear, not being understood, quelled within the first few hours! "Yes, I am an ER nurse who is doing a rotation here for the next few weeks," he explained. Everyone else started speaking in French and Andy and I looked at James intently, waiting for him to fill us in. "Ah, they are worried about your iron. It's low. They will add something to your treatment," he confirmed. Hmm, having James around was already paying off! "Andrew," the one woman started in her best English. "Next... comment dit-on semaine?" she asked. How do you say week. James aided her, "week." "Yes, next week you go there," she pointed to the door leading into the other room then pointed to herself, James and the other woman. We nodded in understanding. "Will you stick me?" Andy ask James nervously. "In France, the patients stick themselves," he confirmed. "Where? Here?" He pointed to the hospital beds outside of his curtain. "No, both rooms. Unless the patient is too frail. The patients in our room come in, weight themselves, write their information in the chart, set up their machines and stick themselves. The nurses are just there to assist or help if there is a problem." "How many patients and nurses are there?" Andy asked. "Usually there are four patients and two or three nurses," James confirmed. Andy turned to me with wide eyes, then back to James. "At my clinic, there are around 40 patients and 3 or 4 nurses and the staff sticks everyone." "Ahh, d'accord," James said, rubbing his chin. Ahh, ok. "But someone will stick me over there?" "Yes," he confirmed, "you are our exception." A few more things were said amongst everyone, as the women wanted updates on their conversation and then their attention turned back to Andy. "Goodbye, Andrew! See you next... week!" And everyone disappeared just as quickly as they arrived. We didn't realize it at that moment, but those three people would become an intricate part of our French existence for the next few months, sharing food, music and small triumphs inside and outside of the clinic. It is so interesting hearing about different medical experiences abroad. I appreciate everyone who has shared their experiences and questions so far. If you have experiences the health care system abroad or questions about it, please share below to help others navigate it. Happy Sunday! - R ![]() When I arrived at Andy's hospital room the next morning, he was sitting nervously on the edge of the bed. Despite it being before visiting hours, his nurses snuck me up stairs in order to see him off before his early surgery. His eyes lit up when he saw me enter the doorway, but quickly turned nervous, remembering again where he was. "I'm scared," he said, looking as if he was going to cry. "No, no," I scurried over to reassure him. "The doctor said yesterday it is a simple surgery and after you'll have about only four weeks of recovery, but that's ok. You can sit and relax and just hangout with the girls," I said, joining him on the edge of the bed. I instantly though of him cuddled up on the couch with our two Australian Silky Terriers glued to his side, one big cuddly mess of blankets, pillows and fur. If I took a step back and really thought about the situation, I was still in a bit of disbelief that we had ended up here. Just a week earlier, we were strolling through the cobbled streets of Vaison, slowly taking in everything as if trying not to forget exactly how it looked, felt, and even smelt. We lingered over every shop, every sign post, every Roman ruin site, making a mental map. It was as if we had left all of our care-free happiness in those streets. At one point during our last walk in Vaison, we followed the sound of beautiful music, down a lamp lit street until we found Ben and Tess, a musical duo from the region. They were set up in front of the shuttered post office, with a group of onlookers circled around them gently swaying to the rhythm. We mixed in with the group and stood listening for about an hour, the cicadas singing along in the background. It was a snapshot of life we specifically wanted to remember; our last few hours in our new home. The warm breeze providing some relief to the sticky hot night, the feeling of the onlookers intently watching and listening along. It was the perfect scene for the perfect final night. As we walked back to our house to finish packing, a tear slid from Andy's eye. "I just want to give this town a big hug sometimes," he said, a little misty eyed. I smiled and nodded, a little choked up for words. I wanted that feeling again, the happiness and security we felt that night. While I was in disbelief over the situation, I didn't feel scared. I am someone who takes a person at their word. If someone tells me something, I tend to trust them, unless given a reason not to. So, when the doctor said, in a very straightforward and confident tone, "I do a few of these surgeries every day. They are simple and rarely do things go wrong." I felt at ease. It was just one more step to get Andy back to normal, nothing tragic or life threatening. We were going through the motions of a routine situation. When reflecting on this situation with Andy, though, he remembers having a specific conversation with the doctor when it was just the two of them. "I'm not sure what I'm going to find when I get in there," the doctor said, pointing to his stomach. "Wouldn't you find the usual things?" Andy asked, a bit confused. "You've had three kidney transplants, Andy. Things have been moved around to accommodate for that. When the last surgeon was in there, he wasn't thinking about the next person doing an operation on another section of your abdomen." So there had been some worry, I just wasn't told about it until the subject was brought up again in order to write the blog. In this moment, though, I looked at this hospital stay as a means to an end with no danger in-between. Again, I hadn't really had any hospitals or surgery up until this point. Two nurses appeared in the doorway and one tapped lightly, trying not to interrupt the moment between Andy and I. "It's time," she said, opening up the door and revealing a transfer hospital bed. Andy squeezed my hand and turned to the nurses. "Is she able to walk with me until we get there?" The nurse nodded. He crawled into the bed and as we began to wheel away down the hall, I began to notice all of the signs that I had missed when I first walked through the hospital wing. "Why are we in the throat and lung wing?" I asked the nurse, a little concerned. The last thing I wanted was for them to have misplaced him and have him come back with the wrong surgery. "We're understaffed," she started. Great! Just what someone sending their loved one into surgery wants to hear! "The floor he should be on is closed since there isn't enough staff to fill it. So those patients are getting placed in other sections around the hospital," she explained. She noticed my expression and added, "don't worry, all of his specialists come to this floor to see him," before wheeling the bed out of the elevator and into the hall. We stood outside of the doors for the operating room and Andy squeezed my hand again. "I'll see you in a few hours, I love you," I reassured. "I love you too," he said as he was wheeled away. The five hour surgery ended up taking eleven hours and no one could explain why. I sat, nervously reading my book, only half paying attention to the words on the page. Every so often, I'd hear a noise pass by and look up, hoping to see his bed be wheeled in. I waited and waited. The afternoon sun started to dip behind the clouds and turn to a grayish pink night sky. A nurse would pop by his room from time-to-time and I would ask if there had been any updates. "Not that I know of," they confirmed, "he should be up shortly." The fact that the staff didn't know what was going on only added to my worry. Did something go wrong? Was this more of a serious surgery than the doctor had led on? My mind had raced wildly for hours. When they finally wheeled him back up at 11 PM, I was tired and mentally drained. With the surgery taking over double the time they suggested, the lack of information left me in a state of panic for the last six hours and my nerves were shot. "How did it go," I asked, quickly moving to the edge of my seat as they locked his bed into place. "It went incredible, the doctor will be up soon to talk with you about it, but it couldn't have gone any better," she confirmed, fluffing his pillow. I sucked in a deep breath and held it for a moment, looking at Andy who was still coming out of his drugged sleep. The doctor appeared in the door way, accompanied by his team of surgeons. He walked over to Andy's bedside, placing a hand on his shoulder. "How are we feeling Andrew?" he asked, a little louder than normal, adjusting to Andy's level of consciousness. Andy stirred and opened his eyes. "How did it go?" He asked, turning his head from side to side in order to take in all of the people who filled the room. "Very well, we removed the mass and now we must wait until the lab results come back telling us what it is. Your job is to just rest and heal," he said, taking a marker and making some notes on the whiteboard. "We will swing by again tomorrow morning to check in on you," he added, closing the marker and heading towards the door. "Do you have any questions?" He looked over at me. "I guess just what are the next steps?" I said, feeling a little glazed over from the day. "After we get the results we should be able to make a plan to move forward. It's late, maybe you should head home and get some rest," he urged. "We can talk more tomorrow." He softly waved and then closed the door behind him and the crew, leaving us alone in the room filled with silence. I carefully set my book down on my seat and carefully moved to the edge of Andy's bed, not wanting to disturb him. "How y'a feeling?" I asked, rubbing his leg. He groggily opened his eyes and squinted at me. "Tired," he answered, then feel back asleep. I quietly slid off of the bed and collected my things, not wanting to disturb his rest. Before heading home, I decided to hit up the hospital's convenient store, knowing I should try to eat something before going to sleep. In stressful times, real food is the last thing I want to eat. Usually, I force myself to pick the healthier option; maybe a granola bar or banana. This time, however, I let myself pick anything I wanted. I've had a rough day, I've earned a binge fest of junk to drown my frazzled feelings in. Loading my bag up with sour patch kids (a weakness), strawberry pop tarts (a bit of nostalgia) and potato skins chips (something savory to justify eating junk for dinner). As I checked out on the computer, a night shift nurse in blue scrubs came up behind me with his can of Starbucks Double Shot. He peeked into my bag. "That kind of night?" he asked with a joking smile. "The kind of DAY I've had warrants the cookies and creme pint of ice cream and the oatmeal cream pie too, but no one needs THAT much garbage," I smiled back, taking my receipt. "Have a good night," I said over my shoulder and headed to my car. The crisp air hit me as soon as I opened the doors; the seasons were clicking from summer to fall. I stood outside for a moment, allowing the chilly breeze to wake me up for the drive home. Midnight, I thought looking at my phone. Where did the day go? Thankfully, we only lived fifteen minutes away. The next day, I let Andy's dad go and visit for the first few hours. My body ached from sitting in a stiff hospital chair for hours the day before, and I needed some time alone in order to collect my thoughts. Sitting in bed, sipping my coffee, I thought about all of the things I needed to do that day. His sister was coming in to town and I had to collect her from the airport, before bringing her to the hospital to see her brother. I also needed to write up more lesson plans for whoever was subbing for me the next few days. With his sister and dad in town, though, I felt more comfortable leaving him at home to recover and going back to work. Already out three days from work, I was craving some kind of normalcy or routine; something else to fill my mind and distract me from the current reality. Even before all of this happen, life hadn't felt 100% settled. I was still going through the motions of acclimating to American culture again, which sounds so simple, until you do it. My first trip to the grocery store left me standing in the baking aisle, my eyes frantically scanning the shelves for the milk (which is usually not refrigerated in France). It took me a minute to remember that here, the milk is kept cold. I blotted away a falling tear as I pushed my cart towards the cold aisle, deep down wondering, why I was literally crying over milk. I took another sip of coffee as a new thought popped into my head; food. What was I going to feed Andy's family? Usually, I enjoy cooking large, family-style meals, but the thought of it just seemed daunting with everything going on. I shut my laptop, hoping to stuff down the feelings that were slowly creeping in; a sense of overwhelming stress. Back at the hospital, nothing had really changed. Andy was resting, but the nurses urged us to begin walking the halls when he felt up for it. "The sooner he walks on his own, the sooner he gets to leave," one said. He seemed groggy, as if he was still getting over the drugs used to put him under. "Do you remember me being here when you arrived back in your room last night," I asked. He shook his head. "Do you remember on the phone this morning who I told you was coming to visit you?" "No," he said, again shaking his head, his eyes lightly fluttering with sleep. Just then his sister walked through the door. His eyes opened back up at the sound of someone new entering. "I can't believe you're here," he said when he realized who it was. His eyes grew wider than I'd seen them in days. "You didn't have to come all this way, it's nothing serious," he assured her. I picked up my purse. "I'm going to let you guys catch up, it's been a while since you've had time together," I said, kissing him on his head. "I'll be back in a few hours. Check your phone, I'll send your some dinner options to pick from and we can order take out," I said, slowly clicking the door shut. The next morning, I made sure to be there just as visitors were being admitted. I wanted to spend some alone time with him before his dad and sister stopped by to visit. When I opened the door, he was sitting scrolling on his phone. Up unto that point, I hadn't seen him have the ability to get on his phone and answer emails or texts. Today he seemed more alert and overall, more with it. "I saw you messaged some people about work," he said, as I claimed the seat beside him. Andy had given me his phone before surgery and a few work messages had come in, frantically trying to set up a call or meeting to discuss upcoming projects. I didn't want to just let them think he was ignoring them or irresponsible. Both big projects, he had new clients on them, so it was important to make a good impression and come off as professional as possible. I'd simply written that Andy was in an unexpected surgery and would reply when he was able to. Everyone wrote back immediately, sending well wishes and a speedy recovery, also adding that he can pick things back up where they left off when feeling up for it in a few days. I popped my plant on the window sill behind me, next to the plant his sister had brought from Chicago. "I'm starting to have a real green house here!" he said, admiring the plants. "You had mentioned wanting lots of flowers and plants to liven the place up a bit." "When did I say that?" He asked. "The other day, don't you remember?" "No, man I must have really been out of it," he said, shaking his head. His phone rang and he answered. It was his kidney doctor. "I'm feeling ok, but I have Rachel here too, can I put you on speaker phone. Ok, one minute," he said, flipping the phone over and hitting the speaker button. "Andy if you authorize it, is it ok for me to tell Rachel medical things as well?" "Yes, it is completely fine," he confirmed. "Ok, so, I'm calling because we have to figure out the next steps." I cocked my head to the side and squinted my eyes. What was she talking about? We can't make any plans until we got the results back about what exactly was removed. Andy shrugged at my reaction, trying to follow along. "I'm sorry," I finally cut in, "next steps for what?" "I think the next steps are finding a good oncologist, I can run through a list that I like if you want to do that now," she continued. I felt like I had walked into the room halfway through the conversation. What the hell was an oncologist? "Wait, wait, wait, I'm not following. What kind of doctor is an oncologist?" I asked. "Didn't Andy tell you?" She replied, a bit confused. I could hear the hesitation in her voice. "Tell her what?" Andy finally jumped in. "Andy, do you remember talking with me yesterday?" The doctor asked, trying to gain some clarity. "No, when did we talk?" "I called about noon yesterday, I asked i you felt ok enough to talk and you had said yes." "I don't remember talking to you at all," he confirmed. There was a long pause and it felt as though the room was filling up with water. Panic, suspense, impatience and fear all washed over me at the same time. I finally came to, realizing I hadn't taken a breath, waiting for her response. "Doctor, are you still there?" Andy asked, trying to urge her to continue. "Yes, I'm sorry, Andy. What they found was stage 3 colon cancer," she said, with reluctancy to finish the statement. We both looked at each other. "Are you sure they didn't mix up someone else's results?" I said in complete disbelief. "I know this is a lot for you right now. Everything is happening so fast. The doctor said he removed everything, but three of the lymph notes were affected, which is why you just got pushed over to the stage three marker," she said, pausing for us to take it all in. I looked again at Andy. "You don't remember her telling you that you have cancer?" I said in disbelief. I started to get choked up at saying it. The phrase, "you have cancer" isn't something I ever thought I'd be saying. "You need a kidney transplant," yes, I had mentally prepared myself for those words, but not these. I was raised in the 90's where, when someone had cancer, you weren't given options. You were given how many months they were going to live... your option was what you did with that time. Growing up, I've only had two family members who have died from cancer, my aunt and my grandmother. Both, however, had smoked an ungodly amount of cigarettes, so it only made sense in my young mind that it was how their stories were eventually going to end. "I'm going to give you both some time to process things. I can call back tomorrow and we can discuss the next steps together," she said, urging us to get some rest and try to stay calm. The room filled with a heavy-sitting silence. It was a traumatic way to find out such life changing news. It was as if the diagnosis had been announced. The hard part of putting the news out there into the world had been over, but, in Andy's state, it fell on completely deaf ears. I slumped back into the chair next to his bed, unable to hold myself up. I started replaying yesterday's events. When I arrived with his sister, he had already been told he had cancer. It was like a secret hanging in the room, just waiting to be exposed, everyone who entered blissfully unaware of the circumstances. "I swear I don't remember talking to her," Andy urged. I didn't fault him, I just would have rather the news had been delivered in a different way. If I'm being honest, though, is there a "different way" or a "better way" to deliver that kind of news? If we had been sat down by the medical team and knew that we were discussing this before hand, I could have readied my nerves for what may come. I could have mentally prepared myself for the possibility of something off kilter instead of just being thrown into the deep end, having to ask questions in order to fish myself out. A doctor tapped on his ajar door and he opened it, allowing himself and his team to enter. "Hello Andy, how are we feeling today?" We both just stood there, blankly staring at the group. I wiped the tears away from my eyes in order to look a little more composed. Words caught in my throat, but luckily Andy answered the five sets of eyes starting back at us. "We just found out what the mass was, so we're kind of taking things in at the moment," he informed. "Our next steps are getting you out of the hospital and recovered before we even begin to worry about what was found. Let's get you walking and using the bathroom on your own so we can get you home and comfortable," the doctor suggested. "For now, we have some tests we are going to run just to check everything else out. It's all pretty standard stuff. It will take a few hours, though, so we're going to have to ask that visitors come back a little later on," his eyes switching over to focus on me. I blew my nose and nodded, collecting my things. "I need to go home and talk to everyone anyway. They would want to know what is going on," I said, giving him a kiss and heading out the door. "Text me when you're back in your room," I said, pushing past the doctors and fellows. As I walked through the hallways to the elevator I opened my phone and googled, "how many stages does cancer have?" The first article confirmed there were only four stages and Andy being at stage three meant that he was on the back end of the scale. I quickly put my phone away. The last thing I wanted to do was do a deep dive into colon cancer. If I started, I don't think I'd ever get myself out of that dark, depressing rabbit hole. I've always been interested in random happenstance.
Instances where, because something happened at one point in time, another thing has shifted based off of that singular event. I think I may always wonder what the happenstance was that led us to where we are now. When a lot of people talk with us or even read along about our experiences being holiday home owners abroad, they get to hear all about the fun adventures that we've taken on this journey. What a lot of people don't know, though, is that our story the past year has had a lot of scary and completely unexpected bumps along the way. The cameras from the reality show that was filmed literally caught the last care free moments we would have for a very long time. Two days before leaving France last summer, Andy started to feel a little nauseous. We still had two days of filming left of the show, however, so he soldiered on and kept a smile on his face, all while feeling a bit off. Andy has always been a nervous flyer. For someone who loves to travel and travels so often for work, I'm always surprised at how upset he gets even days before flying and on the flight itself. "Has the captain given a weather update?" Andy always nervously asks the stewardesses in the doorway as we board. Most of the time, despite the ever growing line behind him, they will take the time to quell his fears and then continually check on him when they make their rounds throughout the flight. So, when he was complaining about his stomach with the flight home looming in the background of our last few days, we both just chalked it up to anxiety for the plane ride, which was the norm. We had booked our return flight to arrive home just days before I was set to start the new school year, staying abroad to the very last minute and soaking in as much sun as we possibly could. With Pittsburgh continually swapping places with Seattle for the cloudiest city in the U.S., we weren't in any rush to return. When we arrived home, my re-entry shock hit hard, but was put on the back burner by the simple tasks of daily life; grocery shopping, doing the laundry, cleaning a house that had just sat vacant for months, and all the other little things to feel normal before the first day of school. I'm not sure if other part-time expats experience re-entry shock as well, but mine usually hits for a solid month. Despite spending most of the year here in Pittsburgh, I have a deep feeling of not being home and missing my village house. I also experience the sense of not quite feeling as though I am where I am supposed to be (if that makes sense at all). It very much feels like my life is in France, and I'm just working and staying here in Pittsburgh until I can get back to it. All-in-all, it's a rough place to be for 9 months of the year; just waiting to pick life back up where you left it almost a year ago. On the flip side, when I re-enter France, I'm usually disoriented by only being surrounded by French at first, but after a few days it dissipates. On the third day of being home, Andy was still having sharp stomach pains. "Why don't you head to Med Express," I begged him, trying to put the issue to rest and continue on with our acclimation back. "It's probably just the food," he said, shrugging off my suggestion. He wasn't wrong. Since being back we had been indulging in ALL of the terrible foods we had missed while we were away and couldn't get while abroad. An American breakfast with all of the usual suspects; pancakes, french toast, bacon, hash browns, omelets, chicken and waffles and cinnamon rolls accompanied by, of course, lattes in any over-the-top flavor you could think of. "They have blueberry muffin strudel latte!" I said, wide-eyed to Andy from across the table. "You don't even like blueberry muffin strudel," he reminded me. "I know, I think I was just overwhelmingly excited to see such a decadent option even available," I said, still ordering the latte when the server came by. It was delicious, by the way! Everything you'd want an overly sweet, pastry-esque latte to be. But the bad food train didn't stop at breakfast. On day two their was the deliciously greasy platter of sandwiches from Primanti Brothers, Pittsburgh's signature sandwich filled with a vinegar-based coleslaw and fresh cut fries resting on top of different fillings. And of course we had the craving for anything fried with ranch dressing for dipping. (God, we are sounding like true Yinzers!) Fried pickles, fried mozzarella, fried pretzels, fried chicken wings, fried raviolis you name it, we indulged, often ordering so much, we would eat the leftovers for lunch the next day. So, yeah, maybe it was the food? What human could consume such garbage for days on end and not feel terrible? For the record, we don't normally eat like that. Fellow expats, back me up. When you return home, do you find yourself eating things you normally wouldn't just because you couldn't abroad? Let me know in the comments below, I am truly interested. When it comes to doctor or hospital visits, Andy isn't someone who voluntarily goes when not feeling well. When he was younger, he spent most of his childhood in and out of hospitals, prompting him to almost need to be wheeled in on a stretcher before going that route. Suffering from kidney disease, he had his first kidney transplant at the age of six. At that age, you're just starting to become old enough to understand the world around you, but young enough to perhaps not remember what life was like before you were "sick." I sometimes wonder if Andy only remembers being sick; does he remember what life was like before the transplants? At the age of 36, it's now been his life for so long, I don't think he does. Part of me thinks that is a blessing; that way, you can't miss what you can't remember. A few more days went by and while he didn't feel worse, he surely didn't feel better. Because of his extended risk, being a kidney transplant patient, his doctor urged him see what was going on and scheduled him for the next available scan at the local hospital. "The next available scan isn't for a month," Andy informed me when I got home from my third day of school. "Glad this isn't anything dire or we'd be in real trouble," I said, heading into the kitchen to unload my lunch box before taking a much needed nap. My re-entry shock was affecting my sleep and I found myself awake at three in the morning, ready to start my day, not quite ready to give up my French internal clock. Part of me felt like, when I did reset to U.S. time, I'd be "officially" back home, which was something I was grappling with wanting to be. The next morning, I was going through the motions of my fourth day back at school when Andy texted. "They somehow had a cancelation! I'm going for my scan right now!" I hit print on the copier and picked up my phone to reply just as the microwaved dinged that my tea was ready. "That's great!" I replied. "Maybe we can finally get to the bottom of this. Keep me posted," I said as Freida Khalo's face started to appear one after another from the copier. The silly memes you see about teachers juggling multiple tasks during their limited time in-between classes are very true. There are more times than I'd like to admit where I've had to decided if I needed to make copies more than I had to pee. The day just seemed to be like any other normal day. Except it wasn't. At the time, we didn't really know how big of a role happenstance played in Andy's overall health until later that day. When Andy and I started dating, I never really considered Andy "unhealthy" or "sick" despite never dating anyone prior that had any serious medical issues. I knew at some point we'd cross that bridge where he would need another kidney, and understood that since he had already had three transplants before, he would eventually get one and have a few months of recovery. In the grand scheme of things, life would then move on. On a daily basis, life didn't change much dating someone with his condition. He wasn't allowed to get into hot tubs, for the fear of it hurting the kidney, and he wasn't allowed to do contact sports which, if you know Andy, wasn't something he was getting into much of anyways, being an artsy kid from Buffalo. So when he told me he was heading to the hospital for the scan, I didn't think too much of it. I told him to keep me updated and clicked off my phone in order to quickly get to my next class. My day was just drawing to a close when my phone pinged under a mountain of worksheets and papers. Digging around, I finally unearthed it and saw I had received a message from Andy. "They see a small blockage in my colon. Ever hear of telescoping? That is what my doctor said she thought it was once she looked at the scan. They are suggesting a colonoscopy to unravel it. I have to go to the ER right now, though, in order to avoid making an appointment and having to wait. Should be home for dinner." I quickly googled what a telescoping colon was. Ok, so the colon, being so long, accidentally slid into itself, making the space not as wide as it used to be and causing things trying to move through to become blocked. That didn't seem too crazy. He'd get his colon unblocked, come home and have some dinner and then cuddle up to watch some Below Deck (a guilty pleasure), just like any other weekday night. I folded up my lap top and grabbed my keys. I can find the top of my desk tomorrow, I thought, drained from the day and lack of sleep. On the way to my car, I mapped my route to the hospital. Knowing how much hospitals freaked Andy out, I thought it might be nice to go and sit with him until things got started. Perhaps I could lull him into boredom by recounting my very long day with the kids. The first week of school was almost as bad as the last week. The kids were tired and restless. It was still beautiful outside and they were stuck seated indoors for eight hours, so it was hard to blame them. As I drove, I thought about the circumstances. I wasn't exactly nervous, I just wanted him to feel supported. I knew that, even with the news he was given, which wasn't technically bad, he was probably still freaking out. "This is so crazy," Andy said when I finally made it to his bedside. "I just was going to go to get a scan, this really snowballed." "Yes, but it's good to get this taken care of," I said, setting down my purse and getting comfortable. I scotched the chair closer to his bed. "Let's get this colon unraveled so we can get back to settling in," I said, rubbing his arm. His doctors came in to explain the procedure and go over any of his allergies and compare the drugs being used to his current kidney medication, omitting any that would cause an adverse effect. "Ok, this shouldn't be long," the doctor said, turning to me. "Forty-five minutes at most I'd say. You can wait here if you'd like." I nodded, squeezing Andy's hand a reassuring "good luck!" as he was wheeled away. I pulled my laptop out of my bag and before I could finish even half of my grading, nurses were wheeling Andy back into the room next to me. "He just needs some time to come down from the anesthesia they gave him," one said, locking his bed into place. I nodded as they swiftly exited with no other explanations, no doubt heading to another patient in the brimming hospital wing. The doctor came in with his head buried in a plethora of charts, seemingly distracted by the material. "How did it go?" I asked, trying to break the unnerving silence. He looked up, unaware I had been waiting for him to notice me still there. "We found something," he said, his eyes not leaving the papers. "What did you find?" I asked, silence stretching and filling the space. He studied the papers a bit longer. My breath caught in my throat with anticipation. "A mass, could be a benign tumor, we aren't sure," he finally looked up at me. "So, what does it mean?" I asked, grasping at the limited information, but wanting more. In life, I had been pretty fortunate that my immediate family or friends didn't find themselves in the hospital all that often. I was someone who needed him to really spell things out for me, blissfully unaware of the kind of news he was about to deliver. "It means that we have scheduled him for the first surgery of tomorrow. We need to remove it. Once we do, we will know more," he replied. Andy started coming to a little in the bed next to us. He wasn't kidding, this day really did snowball! A lot of different thoughts floated through my mind during these few moments between Andy coming to and still not being 100% with it. It could be a tumor... or something else? I hadn't even been at school for a whole full week. How could I take off already? What about the dogs? I should call his dad to come down and stay with us so I had a little extra support. The doctor stood over Andy and shook his arm a little. "Andy. Andy wake up." Andy fluttered his eyes groggily. "Is it over?" He asked. "Yes," the doctor started. "How did it go? Did you unravel my colon?" "It didn't need unraveled. It wasn't telescoped. What was blocking everything was a mass," the doctor explained. "A mass?" Andy asked, beginning to sit up, eyes still fluttering. "Yes, we'll take you into surgery tomorrow morning to remove it and then decide from there what to do next. For now you need to just get some rest," he said as he stood in the doorway, "You're really lucky you got that scan today. If you hadn't it probably would have perforated in the next day or two, and instead of removing it, we would have been fighting to save your life." More silence filled the room. "I will see you tomorrow," he said, breaking the silence, and then he was gone. I don't think we realized until that point how serious this situation was. That moment was the turning point for everything. We'd later find out that if he hadn't had that scan when he did, he may have lost his life as the doctor aforementioned, but if he happened to survive, he would have a catheter for the rest of his life. The room was filled with a level of intensity I'd never felt before. I never considered what life would be like, or even could be like without Andy. The fact that I was days away from potentially experiencing that made me sick. Andy turned to me, nervously, breaking the thick silence. "What do you think it is?" He asked, some panic sweeping his face. "Oh goodness, probably just a benign tumor... you're thirty-six!" My mind was going a million miles a minute, but the last thing I needed to do was fall down the rabbit hole of what ifs with him. I had to stay optimistic and positive. Andy was someone who could easily turn pessimistic and I needed to counterbalance those kind of thoughts. In that moment, everything was on me, so while I was focused on his health and his upcoming surgery, I knew I had to go home to let the dogs out and feed them dinner. I also had to go home and create an impromptu lesson plan for all of my classes for the next day... and maybe more? Had I eaten today? I wasn't even sure. It was hard to focus on something so serious with the limited amount of sleep I'd had recently. At that moment, Andy's dad texted back. I'll be there in four hours. The trip from Buffalo to Pittsburgh was short, but in instances like these, it felt so much longer than it was. "I'm so lucky there was a cancelation today," Andy said, jolting me out of my thoughts. I nodded, silently wondering what were the happenstances that led to that cancelation? Did someone have to travel for work unexpectedly and have to reschedule their appointment? What exactly happened that led to that spot serendipitously being open and, in turn, essentially saving Andy's life? I know the story is a little heavier this week than it usually is, but it circles around to eventually show us navigating the French health care system this past summer. My goal in sharing this part of our experience was not only to show a different side of us (we aren't just baguettes and brocantes) but also to hopefully give some people the information and courage to not let medical situations define your life. There are ways to essentially live while being kept alive. Your diagnosis doesn't have to limit or stop you from doing what you love, in our case, travel. If you have a similar experience where you navigated the French healthcare system please share it below and help others by sharing your info. If you are more inspired by the food talked about above (as you know I always am!) please tell me all about the foods you miss from the U.S. when you're in France (I know a lot of you are full-time expats) or what foods do you indulge in when you're home? And lastly, does anyone else have severe re-entry shock? Does it last long? Tell me all about it below. Stay healthy! - R ![]() If you live in Vaison, you know that on Tuesdays from around 7:30-2:30 normal life grinds to a startling halt. I dare you to try and convince the Colismo delivery guy to please, pretty, pretty please wait on the Roman bridge, telling him you will run out to fetch the package and see how that turns out for you. I'd say about 99% of the time when I make it down all of the steps and out of the riverside door, he is long gone, seeing the incredible wave of people coming at him from every direction and not wanting to get further stuck in the mess that is market day. Contractors are another group that refuse to visit the home all together during that time slot, but that story is for another time. Despite the headaches and chaos that the market can bring in terms receiving any goods or services to the house, the overall charm and allure of the market and its vendors is something we now know we couldn't ever live without. Vaison's market dates back to the late 1400's (1483 to be exact) when a papal bull from Pope Sixtus IV approved the town to begin hosting a market, but it wasn't until Pope Clement VII set the decision in motion in 1532 and assigned Tuesday as Vaison's official market day. There are anywhere between 450-500 stalls that visit Vaison any given Tuesday. So, how did we pick our favorites out of literally hundreds? It wasn't the easiest of tasks, that's for sure! The stalls hold a variety of things, from our favorites being the food stalls, to bolts of fabrics, pottery, clothes, kitchen utensils, bags, art, and soaps. Just focusing on the food, we've already eliminated about 300 stalls, making it a little less daunting. My threpicks are in no exact order and all have a special place in my heart, so, without further ado... I don't think that there is ever a time that I go to the market, that I don't stop and pick something up from our olive and tapenade people. I almost feel like it should be a law that you can't live in Provence without having some kind of olive product in your fridge at all times. Also, when you are as into the apèro as I am, you always need a few of these items on hand to finagle into some new and innovated snack. Le Bandolaise have an array of dips and different mixes of olives, along with confit lemons and sun-dried tomatoes, and other specialty seasonal items that change throughout the year. When I'm abroad, I love trying to cook with regional items. On one of our last market days, I asked Ikram about the confit lemons and her and Bastian excitedly started rattling off ingredients for their favorite tagine. Adding their suggestions to my shopping list, this prompted me to hit up my other two favorites on this list, but more on that later. African, and more specifically Moroccan food is a bit of a mystery to me. I've made eggplant dips with Moroccan origins, but this would be my first ever stab at a tagine. I was intrigued, excited and a little nervous. "I don't have a..." making the shape with my hands... "tagine," I added. Wondering why the dish and the pot were called the exact thing. "Pas un problème," she reassured, continuing on to tell me that any bake wear will do in a pinch. The relationship between the two, Ikram and Bastian, is quite sweet. She is vibrant and bubbly, stopping to chat with absolutely anyone who wants to engage. Ripping off pieces of bread, she excitedly dips them into the beautifully crafted dips, handing it over the counter as she explains all of the ingredients and asking about each person's week. Bastian is more quiet, methodically weighing bulging sacks of olives and tallying up orders. As the line grows longer and longer, he grows more impatient with Ikram, exasperated by her chattiness. The dynamic is charming and completely why we fell in love with their table out of all of the other olive stands in Vaison. The amount of passion and kindness they put into not only their products, but their interactions with guests are what make them so special. The relationships are what make our trips to the market unforgettable. ![]() I was thinking about this the other day, when I was at the fish counter at Whole Foods, an American bio grocery store, ordering fish from the same guy I have ordered from for the past three years. Despite me ordering the same items every two weeks from the same guy those three years, no pleasantries were exchanged or even acknowledgment that I had ever been there before. Having these brief moments with the market stall owners makes our experience so much more than just a shopping trip. Pro tip: Last year, we were obsessed with their eggplant tapenade (Caviar d'Aubergine ) which is wonderful, but this year, I found myself always buying the tomato tapenade (which was so incredibly handy to make a plethora of different apèro treats.) Andy, on the other hand, couldn't get enough of the houmous piquant (spicy humus). Andy's spice tolerance isn't super high, but we find that things labeled spicy in France usually means pretty mild for our American tastebuds. These three dips are our favorites, though, and always fabulous! ![]() My second pick is Le Potager de Mistral, a family run produce stand that I chose on my first market day in Vaison and never went anywhere else after. There were a handful of other produce stalls at the market, but something about this one really drew me in. All of the produce was laid out perfectly and showcased a lot of pride in their product. Stacks of squash, mounds of lettuce, and bundles of carrots, were all displayed to resemble works of art. My first market day was a little nerve wracking. I had arrived in Vaison the day after Andy had left for an unexpected work event in Cannes. Feeling a bit jet lagged, a little lonely and very overwhelmed, I walked through the stalls in a bit of a fog. I've read enough books about expats in France to know that interacting with market or shop owners could be (or at least the books made it sound) a bit intimidating. After being drawn in by all of the bright, fresh colors of the Le Potager de Mistral stand, I stood back from the stall and watched what others were doing. The last thing I wanted was to make a faux pas on my first ever market trip! I watched as locals grabbed a small green or red basket, filling it up with their choices, and then handing the brimming baskets over to one of the guys behind the stand to weigh and bag. Seemed easy enough. I followed suit and when I was ready to check out, I had my first interaction with Stéphane. I think he could tell I was a fish out of water, and was kind and patient, as I stumbled through basic phrases, chopped up by the anxiety and nerves of the situation. The interaction, though brief, really made me feel comfortable and confident and so I returned the next week. Each week, a few more questions were exchanged. Where are you from? How long are you here for? Why do you buy so many lemons? Side note: I make a mean lavender lemonade with their lemons and lavender found at my next stop! ![]() Not only do they have beautiful products, but they do something that I've never experienced here at any of the farmer's markets in the U.S. When we wanted to buy a melon, his son, Hugo, had asked when we plan to eat it. He wanted to pick out a melon based off of when we had planned on eating it, so he could pick the one that would be ripe at the perfect time. For fresh, beautiful food from a family that really cares about their products and the customers, stopping at Le Potager de Mistral is a must! Pro tip: There are a few family members that work at the stand and though I don't usually get a chance to interact with them, they are all VERY nice! If you aren't so sure about which item is the best for when you plan to eat it, don't feel anxious; just ask! They are so helpful and will answer any question you may have. And make sure to say hi to Stéphane and Hugo for me! I wanted to make sure I gave very different suggestions for my top three favorites and I've unintentionally written this in the order I visit each of these stalls every Tuesday. After I gather my vegetables and fruit for the week, we usually head over to Senteurs de Vaison. This is a great stop for thés, tisanes and épices. Since Ikram and Bastian had suggested certain spices for my tagine, I knew I had to pay her a visit to get what was required. This is also where I get all of my lavender for my lemonade, and my dried hibiscus and mint for my infused iced tea that I make each week. This stand has a lot of bio (organic) choices along with incredible handmade blends of teas for all tastes. She also has one of my favorite products, (and something I brought home to everyone last year as a gift). A blend of spices to mull your own vin chaud or vin été depending on the season you are infusing your wine. It was so comforting sitting at home during the freezing winter months of January and setting a sachet of the spices to slowly boil in a saucepan of red wine. The whole house was engulfed in the spiced scent of vin chaud and brought us back to Vaison, despite it being so far away. Pro tip: Getting little packets of the mulling spices for vin chaud or vin été is such an easy gift to bring home and it's something that I personally have never seen back here in Pittsburgh. She also includes instructions on how to infuse the wine, giving measurements and cooking time, leaving little guess work for the recipients. Have you ever been to the Vaison market?? If so, did any stalls stick out to you? Which are your favorites?
If you haven't been to Vaison, but have a favorite market around your town, where are you from and what are you "go to" stalls?? Happy shopping! -R ![]() When Andy and I decided to buy the house, we had only walked down the main street of the town and up to the medieval church in the haut ville. Truth be told, we may have spent a grand total of 45 minutes in the town, and that included the home tour. We look back now and think how lucky we are that we adore Vaison so, so much! It could have very easily went the other way. Last summer was our first summer spent here and, since we didn't really do our due diligence and scope out the town the first time we came, we had a bit of catching up to do. We started by trekking up to old town and letting ourselves wander around, taking in all of the absolutely charming homes that lined the cobbled streets. ![]() As we wound our way deeper into the haut ville, we started noticing homes with unusual door knockers adorning their elaborately carved doors. A woman's hand, clutching a ball, sometimes black, sometimes silver and, every once in a while, in copper. Each were worn from age, weather and day-to-day usage. Some were more elaborate than others, having the hand sticking out of a highly detailed lace sleeve. Others were more basic, with less intricate sleeve work. All, however, had one, if not two rings on the hand's finger(s). This intrigued us. They weren't like anything we had ever seen before and we wanted to know more of their backstory. ![]() Sometimes when Andy and I wander the brocantes and antique stores, we find items so unusual, we ask the shop owners to tell us anything about the items. Since it's impossible to follow an item's history after 100's of years have past, they usually can only give us a round about date of an item's age and, if it isn't clear to us, the items original purpose. Either way, we are fascinated by the stories these old items hold and the many lives they've lived. As we descended from the haut ville, Andy decided that it was his summer's mission to find our house a Fatima's hand for the door. ![]() Back at home, in front of our computer screens, we discovered the knocker had two different names. The first, and most prevalent on the internet, called the knocker the hand of Fatima; Fatima being the daughter of the Prophet Mohammed in the Muslim faith. In the other, it was called the hand of Mirjam; Mirjam being the sister of Moses in the Jewish faith. No matter what backstory you follow, though, each believe the hand represents protection. By having the knocker on your front door, you are warding off evil and keeping the home safe. Andy was raised Jewish and I Catholic, but neither of us are practicing now, so the religious aspect didn't sway us either way. We knew we just liked the look of the knocker and set out to find our own. Our first search led us to Etsy, where they had a few for sale, but they were mostly reproductions and on the more expensive side. "We can do better than this," I said, looking up at Andy from the computer screen. When we are on the hunt for a particular treasure and finally come across it we usually discuss the likelihood of finding the particular item again. I don't, however, want to just buy something for the sake of buying it, so, if I think we are buying an item more because we've found it than because we love it, I'll usually say, "we can do better than this," signaling that this isn't our sought after treasure and we need to keep hunting. ![]() Our second stop was to Gary, our brocante friend. I have mentioned Gary before in the "Things to do in Provence" section of my site. We stumbled across him at the Carpentras brocante and bought our old French school poster from him (as seen in our dining room). He is always posting his finds on Instagram, so if you are looking for any unique/quirky items, you can find him @Gary_la_brocante. He explained that these knockers were pretty rare to stumble across, but he'd keep an eye out for us. And so, for the rest of our first summer it became some what of a little game. Each time we'd head to a brocante, we'd head straight for the usual boxes filled with brass hinges, old door nobs and other rusty metal items, digging to the bottom, hoping to find a hand clutching a ball within the contents, always coming up empty handed (pun intended). Many times we'd find a stall or two at the brocantes that had a guy who was selling tables upon tables of old metal items; tools, keys, locks. Thinking this would be the place to find it, we'd go back and forth with the seller for a few minutes, trying to describe the item we were searching for. Each time the guys would scrunch their foreheads, trying to figure out what it was exactly we were looking for. Hmmm, maybe this knocker was more elusive than we thought? As our first summer came to a close we decided the search would have to continue next year (this summer). As the days began trickling away this year, we were getting nervous that perhaps we'd never find our knocker, stopping at all of our usual haunts, but also pulling off any time we'd see a worn brocante sign pointing to an old garage or barn on the side of the road. Sitting an apèro, discussing our hunt for the knocker, a friend once asked, "how do you know the antiques you are buying are real and you are not getting fakes?" We explained that we aren't buying antiques as collectors and so the authenticity is less of a focus for us. We were more invested in the emotional aspect that the items held for us and the story about how we came to acquire them. There are many times sitting in our living room in Pittsburgh where we will point out a particular item and talk about the back story of how and where we found it. The pieces bring value to our space, not our bank account. As we packed up our little house for the summer we began to come to the realization that we would close our second summer without finding our door knocker. In between tidying up and heading into town to pick up all of our can't-live-without treats (that post to come soon!), we decided to head to the Carpentras brocante one last time. Even if we didn't find any of our sought after treasures, at least we could see Gary and wish him well for the coming months. The Carpentras brocante is located in a long parking lot with two rows of sellers who face each other, lining one side of the parking lot and curving around at the end to line the other side, making a big U shape. We started down one side, ping ponging back and forth between sellers as we made our way down the long, narrow path. Usually, it is so stifling hot that we quickly eye up the items and scurry off to find refuge in the shade of a close by plane tree. There we can discuss if anything caught our eye enough to go back and take a second look. Today, however, it was unseasonably cool, allowing us to linger at each stall and really take in our last brocante of the season. ![]() We were almost to the end of the first line of stalls when we stopped to eye up all of the items displayed on a blanket lining the pavement. The blanket was covered with the usual brocante finds, old boule balls, mismatched stemware, some boxes filled with old post cards, but tucked into the corner, between a few dulled copper pots and some wine jugs, was a Fatima's hand. I bent down, so surprised at what I was looking at that I wanted to make sure. My mouth dropped! It was her! I turned around and caught Andy as he was about to head across the isle to another table. "Hey.... isn't that your hand?" He turned back around, crouching down next to me. He picked up the hand as if he had found the most precious treasure. Seeing our interest, the owner came up to us, pointing a chubby, calloused finger towards the knocker. "It's very old," he said, in French. I translated to Andy what the man had said. "They say that about everything," he said, a bit skeptical. "It's a complete set," the man added, again in French. I relayed this to Andy. "What do you think?" he said. He had waited so long to find this, he clearly wanted to make sure he was making the best choice. I took the knocker out of his hand and my hand dipped a bit. "Wow, this thing is heavy!" "It's iron," the seller said, watching me bob the knocker up and down to evaluate the weight. Andy turned back to me. "Do you like the color? Do you think it's actually old? Do you think it would match the door?" Clearly he was on the fence, but after taking so long to find her, I surely didn't want to be the one who made this decision for him. ![]() We asked the price and the man informed us she was a deal for her rarity. He wasn't kidding! He was asking half the price of what they wanted on Etsy for the fake ones! Wrought with such a big decision, I decided to jump in and offer Andy some help. "We can't do better than this," I said, with a firm shake of the head, confirming this was our long sought after treasure. Andy nodded, taking out the asked for sum and quickly handing it to the man before he could change his mind. The rest of the brocante Andy literally cradled the hand, staring down at it in a mix of disbelief and absolute infatuation. At one point I looked over at him, saying, "if you ever looked at me as lovingly as you are that hand, who knows where we'd be right now!" This was very much a joke, as Andy is a very loving soul, but I'm not sure I've ever seen him so taken with one of our finds. It was actually quite sweet to see. I'm not someone who believes in superstition or that a hand could protect a home from the trials or tribulations of the outside world. I do, however, believe that things happen for a reason and that we were pulled away from household chores to end our summer with such a special moment. We've found a lot of really interesting items at the brocantes, but this may be the most special. In my research of Fatima's hand, there wasn't really much out there to discover. I did, however, read that they are found around the south of France. This intrigues me and, of course I want to know more. If you have seen these in your town or in your travels around France, please tell me in the comments below. Tell me where you were. Does your town in France have any of these on the doors? I can't wait to hear your feedback! À bientôt! -R ![]() I have to say that one of my favorite things about my time in France is hosting my friends for a weekly apèro. For the people who aren't sure what an apèro is, it is a sort of, kind of (but not quite... you'll see) like going out for happy hour after work back in the States, but MUCH, MUCH better! For starters, there is always some sort of alcoholic drink. Since we are in Provence and are usually hosting in the summer, we normally offer a glass of rosé or a spritz; something light and refreshing. These are accompanied by small nibbles such as olives, nuts, crudité or different fruit. Just something light before you head to dinner, which happens much later here than back at home. Sidenote for Americans who have been invited to an apèro... don't show up on time! If guests are late to a get together in the U.S., we'd be sending out a search party, trying to figure out where they were. In France, however, it is customary to be NOT be on time. When I host, my guests come about 10-15 minutes late. I remember my first apèro at a French friend's home. She and I had met while working at the same middle school. Agnès was an English teacher and I was her T.A.P.I.F (teaching assistant program in France) assistant. We instantly hit it off and kept in touch and visiting each other when we were in our respective countries. Andy and I had come to France to do a small tour of the North (where I taught and where she lived) and were invited over to Agnès along with the other English teachers I had worked with at the school. Not sure exactly what we were about to partake in, Andy and I sat down at the long patio table along with the other teachers, each with a glass of wine in hand. On the table were small bowls filled with fresh cherries from Agnès' garden, a mix of nuts, cherry tomatoes, chips (or crisps as she called them, using the English translation), and a few other nibbles and bites. We grazed lightly, since we did our research and knew this was essentially like the appetizer course before dinner. ![]() The light grew dimmer and bottles were emptied and we waited and waited a little more, but no one mentioned dinner. Slowly guests started to leave and empty bowls and glasses were removed from the table. We both sat for a moment, unsure if we had missed something and, in fact, we had! Without fully knowing it, we had attended our first apèro dînatoire, though we wouldn't realize this until much, much later. I'm not sure if it is the heat in Provence or the *sometimes* excruciatingly slow pace of things here, but I have only been invited to this type of apèro, which can be considered the uber relaxed, incredibly casual cousin of the traditional apèro (which is already pretty laid back!) The apèro dînatoire is essentially a meal that is more than a snack but less than dinner and is used in place of a full, large scale dinner. The apèro dînatoires I have been invited to have had homemade tomato tarts and quiches, small portions of chilled soups, and savory palmiers, along with the usual suspects of the olives, crudité, nuts and fruits. But it wasn't until I started hosting our French neighbors to our home for apèros that I realized how they had unintentionally become the talk of our small town. When chatting with a local artisan ice cream maker and an art gallery owner, the gallery owner mentioned an apèro he had attended at my house days ago. Without missing a beat, the ice cream maker said, "I know, I heard all about it." I gave him a playful, skeptical look. Hmmm...word was getting around. Not wanting to serve my guests the exact same things they had experienced at every other apèro, I decided to hit my over laden Pinterest page to see what inspired me from my saved pins. There, I found a lot of recipes that had their roots within the dusty pages of old school French cookbooks, but with a twist. From that deep dive, I've tried (with much success) the following three American/French inspired apèro recipes. Try one of these for your next apèro to spice things up and see if anyone around town mentions it randomly. If so, I think we're on to something! ![]() For my most recent apèro, I served a caramelized onion baked brie in a bread bowl. These were all ingredients that were very easy to find in France, but the bread bowl really threw my guests, which I found charming. The bowl itself can be absolutely any time of round bread. My local baker only had a multi-seed bread, so that is what I used. It's typical to find some dips in the U.S. served in a round loaf of bread that has had the middle carved out and all of the goodies placed inside. The sides are cut into strips so that pieces of bread can be easily torn away. This is placed in the oven until the cheese has melted and everything is gooey and browned. The photo below is provided by BakerbyNature.com to show you how delightful this recipe really is! For the full recipe, click the photo! ![]() The next recipe I tried was so incredibly easy and happened to be the star of the show! Stuffed Endive with blue cheese, pecans and cranberries wouldn't be something that I think people would be fighting over, but my guests literally were arguing who was going to get the last one! In the recipe, the three ingredients are just sprinkled in the endive leaves. In my rendition, I creamed all of the ingredients together lightly and then spread them on the leaves. Everyones top comment was the textures are so perfect together! This recipe is from fullbellysisters. I fully recommend clicking the photo for the full recipe and trying this out! ![]() And lastly, I made a round of peach skewers with prosciutto, basil and mozzarella. Ok, so this one is perhaps more Italian than American or French, but I could easily find all of the ingredients (which can sometimes be a feat when trying to recreate a recipe abroad) and it created a fun way to eat fruit, meat and cheese! They're easy to eat and add a light component to the dînatoire. Also, they are very bright, colorful and fresh. It also has a light citrus dressing that adds a little tang to the savory and sweet. This photo is provided by foodnessgracious.com. Click the photo above to be taken to the full recipe! I'm interested to see how these go over with other people here in France. If you end up trying any of these at your next apèro, please let me know below how it goes! Bon appétit! -R |
AuthorBonjour, Ciao, Salut! My name is Rachel and I am a part-time resident of Provence that splits my time between Pittsburgh, Pa and Vaison la Romaine. Come take a deep dive with me into Provençal culture, food, history, villages, markets and all of the quirks that come along with them! ArchivesCategories |