Provence, A New Beginning

When I arrived in the south of France in 2010, I only spoke a few words of French. In 2007, I’d left a job in higher education for what I’d deemed a “career break,” but what I secretly hoped would turn into a more permanent transition… in Italy.

I didn’t consider myself very naïve at the time, but looking back, I’d quite fallen into the Eat, Pray, Love trap. I became completely in love with the romance of Italy during a visit to Rome in 2004.

To say that I was swept off my feet would be an understatement. Compared to my morning commute on the 101 freeway, sloshing back Starbucks and Jack-in-the-Box breakfast sandwiches, it seemed like heaven on earth.

The art, culture, history… those vine-covered backalleys opening up to piazzas surrounded by cozy cafés and romantic, tucked-away winebars. A living, breathing museum that doubled as a foodie haven and fashion Mecca.

I was all in.

I dove head-first into Italian lessons, somehow won the passport lottery and picked up European Citizenship (through Finnish heritage on my father’s side) and squirreled away a TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) certificate over 4 intense weekends on the UCSB campus. 

I’d walked around the baseball field in my hometown of Ventura, California with Eros Ramazzotti and Tiziano Ferro on permanent loop on my iPod.

“Stop! Dimentica, questo silenzio non vale neanche una parola…,” singing aloud to one of Italy’s most famous pop stars at the time, I’d do my standard mile and a half as I wondered how I’d fit in with the Gucci and Armani-clad supermodels I’d seen touring around Piazza Navona.

Crocs were definitely out.

Besides attending college as a first-generation student, I’d never been more motivated to complete a goal in my life.

So, it was in August of 2007 that I boarded a plane for Rome with a solid, conversational level of Italian and more than a fleeting acquaintance with Italian culture. Books, movies, popular culture… I wasn’t an expert, but I’d done quite a bit of homework.

The long and short moral of this story – France was never on my radar – neither learning the language nor, eventually, working in the country.

My time in Italy… the whole messy, wonderful, quite chaotic adventure… is a pretty long detour for another post, or perhaps a carbonara-filled memoir. 

I’ll get there one day!

But for the moment, I’m in France and in the midst of a pretty big transition. A good one.

At the end of July, I’ll be leaving a job I’ve been at for almost 14 years. A job with lots of ups and down, good memories and some harrowing cultural faux pas. It’s been quite a ride.

Arriving in Toulon in January of 2010 with my French boyfriend of little over a year, who knew what the future would bring? We were still in the trial phase… both for France and for our relationship.

I arrived to a south of France covered with a thin layer of frost. In local mountain spots, it had downright snowed, and in fabled Aix-en-Provence, a few of the fountains had even frozen over. This certainly wasn’t your maman‘s Provence.

I got through those first winter months hopped up on pain au chocolats in the morning, and red wine and Comté cheese in the evening… and promptly gain 5 lbs.

We were far from the season of aperitifs, rosé, and picnics on the beach (all glorious) and I didn’t know a single soul – nor did I speak any French.

While on the road to finding the français equilavent of Tiziano Ferro, I also started to look for a job – a process that took a year and a half. Provence is among one of the most amazing places to live on earth, but employment opportunities are few and far between – for foreigners and French folks alike. 

Finally I got a break. 

After pounding the pavement for months, literally, I walked into an English-language school in search of a teaching position. A kind American woman from Arkansas sat me down in her office and leaned in closely, whispering in a conspiratorial tone:

“You don’t have any management experience, do you? I’m leaving in 2 months. I haven’t told the staff yet, but we’ll be looking for another manager.”

Talk about “bon timing,” as they say in French. I slid my teaching resume just as conspiratorially back into my tote bag and promised to send her my management resume by the end of the day.

It was a windfall, better than I could have hoped for or imagined. 

Then came the interview, all in French.

My potential boss – the school’s owner – was a somewhat stocky, no nonsense Frenchman who, a bit surprisingly, didn’t speak any English.

Although, who was I to judge? I had my bonjour’s and au revoir’s down, and could carry on casual conversations about what I liked to eat and the weather (a favorite French topic, par excellence) but I was still struggling in his native language.

Our interview was a study in cultural differences. I spent an intense weekend researching the French equivalents for “I was responsible for… in charge of x, y, x. My greatest strengths are… I work well in a team…” etc, etc, and never gave a thought to the actual form and structure of the meeting.

Mistake numéro un.

My new best-friend from Arkansas did the translating (my French was caput about 3 minutes in) and nothing I said seemed to please them – neither the owner nor the sales manager.

After I’d told them my entire work history and positions of leadership in education, I felt pretty self-satisfied. All standard inverview fair, right ? Led this, developed that… touched on all the biggies.

“Ahhh, but you have told us nothing! Nothing! Rien! about your management style! Please, svp, what is your management style? We have understood nothing… nothing!” said my potential boss with Pacino-style bravado.

“Well, ummm…” I want to bolt directly for the door, “I would say I have a cooperative style. I prefer to allow the team to have a say in the decision-making, and…“

“Excuse me. Excusez-moi,” The sales manager cut my off and I think I lost one of my nine French lives right then and there. “How old did you say your were again?“

The rest of the interview had a similar tone. I was hoping their bright-blue, fabric chairs would open up and swallow me whole.  

Long story short, I didn’t want to have a single thing to do with that school or with those people. I thought they hated me.

Ms. Arkansas took me back to her office to try to comfort me.

“It’s just like that,” she said in a whisper, “Just the way it is,” and I went home to a few glasses of rosé and a hastily arranged charcuterie platter (thankfully it was the summer).

I got the call about an hour later.

Using an excited jumble of metaphors and innuendos, Ms. Arkansas talked hurriedly into the phone.

“Well, the boss is going to call you… I said I wouldn’t, I just wouldn’t…! You know, I can’t! I just can’t ask you. But he’s going to… you know, call you!  And I’m sorry, that’s the boss. Ok, so he’ll call you… okay ? He’s going to ask you something.”

“Okaaay?” My glass of rosé needed a few more ice cubes (that’s a thing here) before I got the call.

It was short and not-so-sweet. 

“Bonjour, hallo…,” said my potential boss in just as hurried and excited tones, “Oui, yes… Yessss, we give you job… but…No baby! No baby one year! You, no baby!“

I hung up the phone and sank into our own fabric-covered sofa trying to wrap my head around the whole experience. Did an employer, my potential future employer, just tell me I couldn’t have a baby for a year, as a condition of hire?

Mais oui, he certainly did.

So, it was with this most unusual (American mindset of course) turn of events that I started my job as the manager of an English-language school for French students and working professionals in the south of France.

I share this, dear readers, because …after 14 years of fun, laughs, hirings (if you’ve watched Emily in Paris, it’s all true, no one gets fired in France) and a Mad Men-esque workplace that would make your feminist hairs stand on end, I’m leaving my job at the end of this month.

A wonderful, very belle transition.

If you’ve followed this blog in the past, thank you for hanging in with me all these years. I’ll be moving to a part-time job, still in education, and spending a lot more time sharing my absolute favorite thing… our beautiful Provence.