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*Disclaimer: Apologies in advance for the following post. Not my usual sort of story but fairly amusing nonetheless. Se distraire! (To amuse oneself)
A while back when I was living in NY, a friend of mine and I were at brunch and over eggs and bloody marys, she told me about her new cat.
Me: What’s her name?
Her: Well, I didn’t really know what to call her so I looked online and decided to call her Minou.
Me: That sounds cute, what does it mean?
Her: Well, that’s the thing. A friend of mine from France was over and he laughed when I told him her name. Apparently, not only is it the french word for “cat,” it also means “pussy.” So basically, I’ve named my cat after female anatomy.
Me: Hahaha.
So, now, cut to me at breakfast in France on Day 2 of my trip ~ Sitting at a lovely little garden cafe, devouring crusty bread, a delectable buttery croissant, and traditionally rich coffee with steamed milk. The adorable older French woman brought a glass of orange juice for me (she had asked if I wanted something but I couldn’t quite understand her so I just said “oui!” out of reflex as it sounds much better than “non!” so…apparently she had offered me orange juice. Thank goodness she hadn’t offered me a snail omelette or something tragic…) and while she was setting the juice on my table all of a sudden she yells out “Minou! Minou! Minou!”
And while I may wear pearls, I also seem to have a completely elementary/gutter-worthy sense of humor so I of course laughed. And assuming that I was not entirely understanding her properly (as with the orange juice), she pointed to the little black cat that had meandered into the garden, presumably looking for a handout of French pastry (smart cat), and repeated “Minou! Minou! Minou!” She smiled. “Jardin de Minou!”
First breakfast in France and I find myself in the Garden of Pussy. Terrific.
Bon Voyage, my friends. I’m jetting off to the sea and the sunshine that I dream of… as depicted in this drawing I discovered in my notebook at work (thanks to LB). 
“What he needed, Arnaud often told himself, was a wife.
He had one in early August, unfortunately not his own.”
Hahah. That is my favorite line, thus far, in the book Encore Provence by Peter Mayle. In preparation for my first “real” vacation in a ridiculously long-stretching dusty dry path of two years, today I purchased the book about the South of France as I’ve spontaneously decided that I am going to the South of France to explore my lil’ petite self along the Cote d’Azur. Tres enthousiaste!
My morning preparatory measures involved three missions:
1. Purchase homeopathic remedy to combat jet lag.
This morning I received a call from a family friend/hair stylist in my hometown.
She said: Hi honey! I’m here with your mom, doing her hair, and she told me about your trip to France– so excited for you! Now, you must go get this homeopathic remedy so you don’t get jet lag or it will ruin your whole trip.
I said: Oh, wow, thank you! I hadn’t actually thought of that…
She said: Well, do you have time today to find some? If you don’t find any, let me know, I have some and I’ll overnight it to you on Monday.
I said: Yeah, this is San Francisco. I don’t see it being any trouble at all locating homeopathic remedies.
She said: Okay great! Well, have fun and we love you!
I have a ridiculous love for conversations like this ~ homegrown love from the hometown. Nothing beats it.
(Remedy found at WholeFoods!)
2. Travel Guide + French book to provide path for the feeling of France to awaken within me.
It’s not hard for me to connect with the feeling of France. I do have some French ancestral roots in me and quite a few times it’s been assumed that I’m French… by fellow Americans. (a bit odd but it makes me smile every time.) Anyway, I wanted to read some sort of travel memoir about France to provide proper mood alignment. Sound weird? Maybe. I actually did this with New York too. One day I read the book The Devil Wears Prada (not my usual sort of book but entertaining nonetheless) and within 4 weeks I was living in NY without having had any real previous conscious thought about moving there.) (I’ll send postcards if I decide to move to France while there– promesse!)
Also purchased travel guide and pocket translator — essential dining translations necessary to avoid such things as duck meat cooked in flaky butter pastry. (Leave the flaky butter pastry, s’il vous plaît, remove the duck.)
3. Première Passe packing
This first pass at the packing thing involves:
~ Drag sun dresses out from back of San Francisco closet.
~ Decide that packing for the French Riviera is fantastique. Love one-dress-wonder packing.
~ Try on bikini and determine that… good lord almighty. I clearly work indoors for entirely too many hours a day. Any tan gleaned from the 4th of July has disparaitre. Oh well. C’est la vie!
So, now I return to my preparations for spontaneity… South of France, here I come mon amour.
