My art Gallery in a French village

My art Gallery in a French village / by Marie

Nicolas Guérin

So now I can add a new title to my CV, “Blogger.” Nice and simple. You instantly get what the person does. Where I come from back in my “former” professional life you were expected to have a title as long as a Monday afternoon. That’s how you knew someone was important and significant. But rarely, if ever, could you actually figure out what they did from the title, “Head of something sounding very important but totally not understandable.” WelI, I like “Blogger.” It’s my new thing. Among many other things.

So here I am. In France. The land where croissants are fluffy, the cheese smells like a hockey locker room and the administrative system is like an escape room, but without a solution. Three years ago, the idea of doing what I’m doing now didn’t even exist. Not a single thought. Suddenly, I’m the owner of a house in France, in Languedoc. I live here permanently. I co-run an art gallery, Gallery Causses, with Nette, who also creates in Studio Causses.

Do I create things too? Yesss... a bit. But definitely NOT at Nette’s level. I’ll never get there, of course, but it’s fun learning new things. And BOY, am I learning…

I’m learning a lot, not just about art and antique furniture. French, for example. Since I live here, I obviously need to make myself at least somewhat understood Like when people come to our studio or the gallery or when I have to go to the dentist, talk to the butcher, call the tax office, fill in forms, or just say something halfway intelligent to the neighbor.

I thought I spoke some French. I’ve studied the language on and off for years. Admittedly, that was a while ago (read many). But then I find myself at the pharmacy trying to ask for nasal spray… and somehow I accidentally ask for a spray for… powdered noses?

And then there's French bureaucracy. That, too, one must learn to navigate.

Becoming part of the French system is like attending a party where everyone’s speaking in code and no one will tell you where the bathroom is. You stumble around for a long time before you start to crack the code. And you must learn that you have to go to la mairie (the town hall) for pretty much everything, only to be told you actually need to go to the préfecture, which sends you to URSSAF, which tells you that you need a numéro SIRET, which requires that you first… well, you get the idea. And you have to bring a copy of your passport, proof of address, an electricity bill with your name on it, a certificate that you are indeed alive, plus thirteen other documents confirming that you're married, remarried, widowed and preferably why. I do exaggerate. But juste un peu (just a little).

I’m starting to suspect that the French economy is entirely sustained by the sale of folders, plastic sleeves, and official stamps.

It’s funny how quickly you adapt, how naturally you start melting into what is now my French everyday life. How your whole world starts revolving around what’s happening in this little village of just over 600 inhabitants. It feels like a small world within the big world. You buy your morning baguette at the bakery, attempt small talk with the neighbors, head to the market to buy vegetables, fruit, cheese, and a whole lot more. And there are so many markets, you learn which day they happen in which village.

And suddenly, with the joy of a child, you realize you’re part of it. I’ve somehow slipped into a French daily life.

There’s just so much to write about. I only have to walk into the local grocery store and I’ve got material for an entire chapter in a book. Like the time I tried to weigh my own vegetables, forgot to press the weight printing button and got scolded by a 92 year old lady wagging her finger, passionately yelling “non, non, NON!”

Or when I spent the better part of a morning at the butcher’s trying to explain which part of a lamb I wanted for Easter.

There are so many ridiculous, charming little stories. But oh, we DO have so much fun!

/ Marie