Author: Andy Smallman

So it’s just about 10pm and I just got back from facilitating a meeting at PSCS (Puget Sound Community School, where I am the school director) for about 30 prospective volunteers. That’s me explaining how we track attendance in school classes.

About leading the meeting, it was another one of those strange experiences after having been gone a year, like how I reported last night about feeling like we were gone for only a week or slept through an entire year. Aspects of facilitating the meeting rolled from me automatically. Other things, specifically those related to people present tonight who volunteered last year (and I therefore do not know) or procedures put in place last year that are new to me, required a more concentrated effort.

I remember thinking about these kinds of meetings, what it would be like to facilitate them after being gone for a year, before we left. I knew it would be odd but I didn’t give it much attention since it was so far in the future. Besides, there wasn’t really anything to do about it and I trust my ability to both facilitate and to adapt. But it’s just different when for 16 years I was present for everything and always the “go-to” guy.

Say, to learn more about the school’s volunteer program, take a look here.

I play a lot of mind games with time. For instance, I pinpointed the time tonight that made it exactly 3 weeks ago to the minute from when we got up at the Boudeaus on the day with left Nantes. Then I thought about what I’ll be doing exactly 3 weeks from that moment in the future. It will be 7pm on September 7th. I’ll have returned from the PSCS orientation week retreat, likely tired and ready for a night’s rest.

Earlier today I was writing an email to a friend about aspects of our transition back to Seattle. While writing, I paused and had a bit of a descriptive epiphany. Continuing, I wrote, “Some aspects of this are surprisingly easy, making it feel like we were never gone (or just returned from a week’s vacation). Other aspects are kind of Rip Van Winkle-like, as if we’ve awoken from a year-long sleep and certain things have passed us by. Those are harder, of course.”

As I finished writing that it really hit home how accurate this is for me. I mean I can go outside on our street and everything looks pretty much the same. I can fool myself into thinking that the whole French thing was just a dream, or the creation of my imagination. Then I’ll see one of the young kids in the neighborhood, one for whom a year has meant a tremendous amount of physical growth. That’s when I feel like Rip Van Winkle.

A year ago today we ate hamburgers at Quick in Nantes (today’s picture is actually from that day). Seeing the picture, it doesn’t seem that long ago.

I wonder what I’ll be doing a year from now…

A 10 minute walk from our house in Seattle is Frank’s Oyster House & Champagne Bar, a favorite destination of Melinda’s and mine. And with Melinda’s mom, Michele, taking Chloe, Ella and Romain out tonight, we took it upon ourselves to pay a little visit to our favorite neighborhood oyster house. We were not disappointed.

For a little more context on our interest in oysters, I direct you to this post from July 26 of last year when we were in Pornichet.

In that post from last year you will read that we ordered 6 oysters. Tonight at Frank’s we ordered 8, 4 of each variety they had. All were delicious but two, the Kusshi and the Deer Creek, were beyond outstanding. As you can see in today’s photo, the presentation was lovely and we complemented the oysters with a cocktail. What you see in my hand is called a Deshler, made of Rye, Dubonnet, Cointreau, Peychaud’s bitters, lemon & orange peel.

You see, I’m partial to Cointreau, and was before we lived in France. While there we discovered that it is produced in Angers, a scant 30 minutes by train from Nantes.

I’m excited to say that my brother Steve, his wife Deb, and their son Nick, were all able to spend some time with us this evening. They live in Nevada and came into town for an extended weekend. As you might well imagine, before seeing them on Friday night we hadn’t seen them in well over a year. Steve and I used to be quite close. We are 15 months apart in age and I was the best man at his wedding.

We went out for dinner and beer at the Third Place Pub, right here in our neighborhood. Today’s photo, as you can see, is actually of just Romain and me inside the pub. I didn’t have my camera so had to rely on this picture taken from Melinda’s cell phone. One thing that makes tonight’s locale hugely significant for this blog is that it was at this very location, in fact at the very table that we were sitting at, that Melinda and I outlined our wishes for the sabbatical with representatives of the PSCS board.

Taking this further, it was here at the Third Place Pub that most of the sabbatical planning meetings took place, also in most cases at this very table. It was Melinda’s and my first time there since returning to Seattle, and having Romain with us seemed quite apt. I figure this is one of those deeply meaningful posts personally, the kind that the significance doesn’t quite carry in text.

But believe me, it was a big deal tonight for Melinda and me. And fun to be there with members of my family I rarely see.

Here’s another product I don’t recall seeing in Seattle prior to our living in France. Yes, my French friend Ricard. What I bought in Seattle in the past was Pernod. But, lo and behold, here on the shelf of a Washington State Liquor Store was a bottle of Ricard.

You regular readers will recall my recurrent riddle with repeating the French R with any kind of reassuring realization. This made reiterating rigid words like Ricard a repressive reality for me. One recognition related to our return is my resourcefulness with the English R.

Of the many days in which I reference Ricard on the blog, my favorite comes from October 10. That post is actually a letter to Frédérique, written after Melinda and I had spent the afternoon with the Boudeaus and some of their friends. I was being given French lessons that involved a fair amount of laughing, something that eventually grew into Frédérique saying she was laughing WITH me, not AT me.

Speaking of the Boudeaus, Melinda and I were thrilled to have a Skype session with them today that included carrying my laptop around to show them our house, including Romain’s room. Those Boudeaus, I like them.

So yesterday I wrote about macarons. I’m continuing with the theme of French products we can find in the United States (or at least Seattle), this time on the subject of jam.

Back on February 2, I wrote about La Chandeleur or Crêpe Day in France. I included a photo of the Bonne Maman jam we used to make our crêpes back then, pointing out that it was on sale for about 90 American cents per jar (and this was for the extended jar). So when I spotted this display at Metropolitan Market of Bonne Maman jam for $4.69 per jar, I figured I should take a picture and post about it.

Of course, not all products are this much cheaper in France than in the US. But it does seem that just about everything is cheaper over there, especially bread, cheese and wine. This got Melinda to wondering if it might just be a psychological thing, given we were paying in Euros in France and the Euro was quite strong in relationship to the dollar throughout our stay. For instance, that 90 American cent extended size jar of Bonne Maman jam was listed as .62 centimes.

.62 doesn’t sound like much, does it? Especially stacked next to 4.69.

I’m noticing the distinctive “French” items in the various stores where we typically shop. I’m not sure if the stores had so many France-inspired things before we left. But now that we’re back, these particularly products are certainly standing out for me.

Case in point, today’s photo. Before living in France I can say with certainty that I did not know what a macaron was. I can also say that if I had seen one in the United States before we left, I have no recollection of it. The closest thing I can think of is one of those little gummy erasers shaped like a cheeseburger. And, senator, that’s no macaron.

I took this picture over the weekend at Metropolitan Market, a grocery store not far from our house. They are having a sale this month on macarons, 99 cents each instead of $1.49. I bought two of each flavor, having come to love them in France (Dana B brought us some from Paris that were incredible). These from Met Market were quite good, meaning I may buy some more before the end of the month.

From a reflection standpoint, I’m not sure how to sum this up. Here I’ve found something that reminds me of France, a good thing. But on sale at 99 cents a pop? That can put a dent in my American pocketbook.