Baguettes and Blunders

A retelling of my first public cultural kerfuffle

When we decided to buy our house in July 2021, we left France with no clear idea of when we would return or what twists and turns awaited us in the unfamiliar process of buying a home abroad. We really were two blissfully ignorant buyers who ended up truly lucking out with the circumstances that followed.

Over the next few months, we exchanged countless emails with the agent and the notaire before learning that signing the final paperwork from abroad simply wasn’t possible. We not only had to be present in person, but also commit to spending at least a week in France. As a teacher, however, that left me with only one real option, using my limited time off in December.

“Perhaps you can go without me?” I said to Andy after reading another email with urgent undertones, stressing the period of sale would be very close to its expiration by the holiday season.

“No, they said we both must be present,” he said, shutting his computer with a sigh.

So we made the plan: we would leave on December 20, just a day before my break officially began, and arrive on the 21st, cutting it incredibly close to both the long French holiday break and our official signing date of December 22.

Each holiday season, my classes raise money through a series of bake sales in the fall. As autumn sets in, events like open house and the community fall fest stir up a mix of generosity and a taste for sweets, quickly emptying our tables, while keeping our fundraiser account steadily growing. The money raised is then used to create large holiday food baskets for families in our district who may not know where their next meal will come from, let alone their holiday dinner. Each basket includes a full turkey meal along with supplemental items such as oatmeal and macaroni and cheese, foods that are easy for students to prepare when a parent is working or away. Deliveries are made during the final three days before our school’s winter break. This particular year, our last delivery happened to fall on the very day before we were scheduled to fly abroad.

As I packed the last family’s basket, adding a box of freshly baked holiday cookies from my students, I couldn’t help but feel a little off about the contrast between what I was doing at that moment and what I would be doing less than 24 hours later. A sense of guilt fell over me. If I could afford a second home in another country, couldn’t I be doing more for the community that had welcomed me as their students’ teacher? I lingered in my room with the final basket for a while, lingering over this thought before carrying it out to the driver’s car for delivery.

Just some items in our holiday food basket

We knew we were cutting it close, schedule the signing on December 22nd, but it was realistically the soonest we both could physically be in France for an extended period of time. Although the notaire, translator, and agent were not thrilled with our timing, which pushed into their much-anticipated holiday, they seemed just as eager to close the sale and be finished with us so they could finally rush off to their break hard-earned breaks.

The morning of our flight was a whirlwind of packing and double checking our necessary documents. It wasn’t until we were wheeling our firmly closed suitcases closer to the door did we hear an alert ping on our phones.

“Our flight has been canceled,” Andy said, that known look of absolute anxiety beginning to register on his face. In reality, this was the only time I would have this stretch of time off before summer break and, as we were reminded on a daily basis, the deal was about to expire. I leaned over to look at his screen to make sure he hadn’t misread the message in the chaos of leaving.

He did not. I quickly set my carry-on down and looked at the clock. It was around 11 am here, making it around 5 pm French time. Cutting it very close to alerting any office that the 22nd may not be the signing date after all.

After unpacking just enough for our laptops to resurface, we huddled in Andy’s office, frantically sending emails while scouring different airlines to find the next earliest flight out of Pittsburgh.

‘Okay, Olivier got my email and is updating the rest of the group about our flight issues,’ Andy confirmed.

‘And British Airways does have a flight out of Pittsburgh tomorrow,’ I said, turning my laptop so he could see the route. ‘Pittsburgh to London, then London to Lyon.’

Things were finally falling back into place, even if a day later than we had planned. Andy picked up the phone to call British Airways and to see if we could change our tickets.

The first picture we ever took with our keys and the house!

We had made it to France without any major issues along the way, though we were so excited about this new chapter in our lives that I’m not sure we would have even noticed if a setback arose. In our minds, whatever happened was all part of the adventure. We had rented an Airbnb just two doors down from our new home, giving us easy access to both our soon-to-be space and our new town while we finalized the paperwork. After dropping our bags at ‘the little house,’ as our host lovingly called it, we decided it was time to try and find dinner before crashing after our 13 hour long trip.

We bundled up for a walk around our town. It still felt strange to call it that. When we first visited, we had only walked the main street to the house and then returned to the car park. That brief visit had convinced us it was the place, which now seems almost unbelievable. And yet here we were a year later, standing in this little village in the South of France, our village. It was much different in December than what it was in the thick of July. The beautiful golden light of the Provençal summer had faded, leaving the village in muted, gray tones. But we didn’t mind. The absolute excitement from our home-buying adventure had equipped us with rose-colored glasses. To us, it was the most beautiful place in the whole world.

Now, wandering past the Grand Rue and through the town’s true business district, we were surprised by how much there was to discover in our town.

“Hey, look, there’s a pizza place,’ I said, pointing across the street to the shuttered restaurant diagonal to the post office. “Dana had mentioned seeing Olivier, their agent, at a pizza shop the night it was decided we were buying the house. I wonder if this was the one?” I said, imagining the two conversing about the sale in the warmly lit space while the other occupied tables chatted over glasses of wine and pizza.

As we continued walking, admiring the other shops, I remembered the first business that had caught Andy’s eye. On our way to the house via the Grande Rue for our showing, Andy stopped to point out a shop with a mobile handwashing station. ‘Only nice towns would have a soap store with a handwashing station outside,’ he said, making a mental note.

His comment was partly shaped by our experience of another town from our last house tour. As we crossed the parking lot to meet our agent, we stepped onto the main street of the tiny village. Just as we reached the sidewalk, two teenage boys tore past on motocross bikes, arms raised high with middle fingers for emphasis.

“Was that meant for us?” Andy asked, puzzled.

I spun my hand in a circle, gesturing to the empty street.

“There’s literally no one else. It had to be,” I said, scanning the area again just to be sure.

The house itself was far too big for us and not a good fit overall, but Andy had already dismissed it entirely, declaring, “This isn’t a nice town.”

Walking down the Grand Rue, though, I was too swept up in the Vaison’s undeniable charm to give Andy’s comment much thought. Shops spilled out onto the cobbled street, their goods displayed along their front windows as visitors wandered from one storefront to the next, admiring the variety. There were restaurants, boulangeries, clothing boutiques, a nougat shop, even a store devoted entirely to beautifully crafted mosaic-tiled tables. In that moment, it all felt so lively and cultured.

In December, though, most shops were closed, their windows marked with neatly handwritten signs wishing everyone a Joyeux Noël and noting they would reopen sometime in the new year.

As we rounded the corner, we found ourselves on what seemed like another main artery of the town. Across the street, a restaurant glowed softly, its windows slightly fogged where the chill of the evening met the warmth of the kitchen inside. The awing above the door read “Restaurant Vietnamien.” It was the only place we had seen with people dining inside. At this point, we hadn’t ventured just one block up to Place Montfort, which is the town’s square, filled with locally-loved eateries. In our jet lagged minds, if we wanted to eat something tonight, this was it. I tugged my scarf a little tighter, nerves stirring as I realized this would be my first interaction with someone from our new town, in my new official language. We shuffled across the street and slowly hovered around the front door.

“You go,” I encouraged, nodding my head toward the door.

“No, you. You speak French,” he said, looking at me, then back at the door.

“I speak Parisian French,” I corrected him, trying to lower his expectations. “I don’t speak Provençal,” I added, shaking my head for emphasis. Dialects had always fascinated me, so much so that I had considered pursuing a doctorate in them. In those early days, though, the idea that everyone in my new town spoke in a completely different way terrified me. The notion that Vaison had its own dialect first came up when we were driving into town for the showing and noticed some signs written in Provençal.

“What’s that?” Andy said, raising a hand from the steering wheel and pointing to a cluster of signs welcoming visitors to Vaison-la-Romaine.

“It says that Vaison is a small village of character,” I said, translating literally from one of the signs.

“No, the one with all the letters in an order I’ve never seen,” he clarified.

By then, we were well past the signs and had no way of checking. We would have to wait until we left town after the viewing.

As we slowed to a crawl on the way out, I finally spotted the jumble of letters he meant. I quickly Googled it before the sign disappeared again, then held up my phone, eyes wide.

“It’s Vaison in Provençal,” I said, my voice full of amazement.

“What is Provençal,” he asked, picking up speed.

“The local dialect? ” I said with a shrug.

This instantly took me back to my arrival in the tiny village of Breil-le-Vert nearly ten years earlier, when I was working as an English language assistant. Even though it was only an hour from Paris, the local accent was undeniably different. Almost every word was spoken through the nose, giving the vocabulary I had learned in school a nasal, almost unrecognizable sound. I remember going in circles with my students, only to realize they were simply saying the very basic word oui.

Where I had been taught to pronounce it like the English “we,” the northern accent rendered it more like “way.” I was completely dumbfounded.

Andy, too hungry to care about the nuances of dialects, opened the door and nudged me inside, snapping me back into the present moment.

A petit woman stepped from behind the counter, making her way to the door that I had literally frozen in front of.

“Can I help you?” She asked in a soft, kind tone.

“A table for two for dinner,” I said, pausing to see if my phrase would be understood. It’s funny how, when you feel uncertain in a language, you start to over-explain. Of course, the ‘for dinner’ part was unnecessary, we were there at 8 p.m., after all.

“What about here?” she said, pointing to a small table for two tucked against the wall in the corner.

I nodded and led Andy toward it. In that moment I was hyper-aware of everyone’s gaze in the room. Heat rose under the layers I had bundled myself in, my whole body suddenly damp with nerves. It is such a strange feeling to know that everyone around you recognizes you as different the instant you step into their space. There have been many moments in France where I have approached someone, and before I could even open my mouth, they began speaking to me in English.

How do you know I speak English?’ I’ve asked before.

‘It’s just the way you look,’ they’ll say.

Curious, I push a little. ‘How do I… look?’ And without fail, the answer comes: ‘I don’t know… American?’ Making it more of a question, than an answer.

That’s usually when I glance down at my linen pants and plain white T-shirt and think, seriously? Isn’t this exactly what everyone else is wearing too?

In the restaurant, I sat down and tried to steady my breathing, doing my best not to draw any more attention to our table. It was the first time I had ever felt this way. During our summer visits, tourists blended together, creating a lively mix of culture, language, and experiences, so no one really stood out.

The woman arrived at our table with two menus, which I accepted with a whispered ‘merci.’”

In France, one of the biggest tells you are foreign is the volume of your voice. I am naturally soft spoken, so making this adjustment wasn’t too difficult for me, but in France, I speak with an even lower tone than normal. I handed Andy a menu and braced myself for the next challenge: deciphering Asian dishes written in French.

Andy opened his menu, laying it flat on his placemat. “What’s up with you?” he said, questioning my significantly lower volume.

“Nothing, just trying to keep under-the-radar,” I said, looking around. Everyone in the restaurant was fully engaged in their company and their dinner selections. Maybe I was wrong when thinking all eyes were on me? God I hoped so.

“Some of this menu is in English,” he said, letting a sigh of relief escape.

“Thank goodness!” I said, feeling like I could take a much earned break from flip flopping between languages.

After ordering drinks and two noodle dishes, the petit woman appeared again.

“Est-ce que vous voulez des baguettes?” She asked.

“Des baguettes?” I repeated, making sure I heard her correctly.

“Oui, des baguettes,” she confirmed.

I paused. This to me was rather strange. I had never been asked if I wanted some bread at an Asian restaurant in the U.S. Perhaps, though, this was a French thing? Or maybe it is what they called the thin, wafer-y snack I’ve seen brought out to tables at different Asian places? It is kind of a bread product, I reasoned to myself.

She moved a little closer as if to urge my thought process along. This slight movement sent my already frazzled nerves over the edge, though, and the first thought that came to my mind in the panicked moment was, “non.”

No, I did not want French baguette with my Asian noodles. And, if it happened to be the wafer-y snack, I didn’t particularly want that either.

She nodded quickly and before I could respond any further she picked up our chopsticks and walked away.

“What just happened,” Andy asked, a bit of concern in his voice.

“I have no idea,” I said, with a little, panicked shrug. “She asked if we wanted baguette with our meal.”

“I like baguette,” he protested.

“Yes, me too, but we are eating Asian food. I don’t want bread with a noodle bowl, do you?” He thought about the idea and then reasoned, “I like bread with my spaghetti noodles, can we tell her we changed our mind?”

At this point, though, I had zoned out, going through my rolodex of French words that could mean more than one thing.

Baguette, to my knowledge, meant bread and wand. I had just read a short story in French based on Harry Potter and for some reason was tickled to find out that his wand was also referred to a baguette.

The petit woman appeared again with two steaming bowls of noodles and veggies, wishing us a bon appétit as she scurried away.

“This looks great,” Andy said, looking down at his bowl, “but how are we supposed to eat this?” He looked around the edges of his bowl for silverware.

At this point, I was still deep in thought about what had transpired just a few moments ago. When I said no to the baguette, she took away our chop sticks. Chop sticks and a wand are both the shape of a baguette. Could it be that she was in fact NOT offering me a loaf of bread?

It was possible, but I wasn’t so sure.

As she passed by our table, I discreetly called her over and explained my confusion.

“I’m sorry, I think I didn’t understand your question before. You weren’t offering me bread, were you? Those are also called baguettes, aren’t they?” I pointed to the empty table next to us, still set with their chop sticks.

My cheeks started to burn as she nodded to confirm my suspicions.

I realized just how much I still had to learn, culturally and linguistically, as a foreigner.

“I’m sorry,” I started, “but I appreciate your patience with me. Is it possible to have two forks and two spoons instead?” I asked, apologetically.

Even now, when I manage to avoid cultural missteps, I make a point of expressing gratitude to the French people I meet, acknowledging their kindness and grace as I navigate their world.

She smiled warmly and nodded, walking behind the counter and collecting silverware for our dishes.

Andy looked at me, confused by the interaction, his eyes following her as she returned to our table with the silverware for our dishes.

She took the time to set down each set next to our bowls before wishing us again a “bon appétit.”

I picked up my fork, hoping to blend back in with the other diners.

“So, is she bringing us bread?” Andy asked, adorably unaware of the full conversation and cultural flub that had just taken place in front of him.

“No bread tonight unfortunately,” I informed. “Baguette not only means bread, but it also means chop sticks,” I said, taking my first bite.

“So, that’s why the restaurant is called Baguette!” he said, putting the puzzle together.

“Wait, what? Really!?” I said, dropping my fork. “Why didn’t you mention that fact earlier?” I asked, a little exasperated.

“Didn’t seem relevant,” he said, digging into his noodle bowl.

I sighed, wondering if knowing that from the start would have made any difference. Probably not. I was so in my head and full of nerves that any reasoning had gone out the window.

In the moment, I was deeply embarrassed about this being my first interaction with the locals of my new town.

Looking back now, however, I find the situation quite charming and a sweet memory of our first restaurant experience in Vaison. It was my first real cultural kerfuffle, but also an innocent and lighthearted one.

When we finally stepped back into the crisp December air after our first successful dinner in the town, my shoulders relaxed as I realized that none of the people we had interacted with that night spoke an incomprehensible dialect. I had used my Parisian, college-learned French and survived just fine, at least for now.