It was a day we had been waiting for with anticipation for almost two years. We were almost giddy with excitement and brimming with anticipation. The Tour de France? No, Grenoble was rebuffed this year for smaller, prettier suitors. A dream vacation? Hardly. A trip to the Greek islands wasn't in the cards nor the budget. No, I am speaking of the once-a-year extravaganza called the Gières Vide Grenier. Gières is the little suburb in which we live, and a vide grenier (literally "empty attic") is our version of a community-wide rummage sale. We don't have an attic. But we do have a garage, which is a lower altitude version of an attic that a car is supposed to go in but rarely does. And our garage was badly in need of being vide. That's right. We finally were going to participate in this major event that afterward would allow us to walk through our garage without stubbing a toe or snagging a sweater. It was an event we were forced to wait for, even though we had barrels full of stuff. Just accumulated this-and-that that got shipped from Bangladesh but that either wouldn't make it into our more down-sized residence here or had been broken by the thugs who loaded/unloaded our container. Why a wait of two years to participate? First, we were not permitted by customs laws to sell, give away or otherwise dispose of anything we brought duty-free into France for a minimum of one year. Why a second year of waiting? We hadn't taken advantage of the opportunity last year because, frankly, we didn't feel that our French was up to the task. We imagined ourselves approached by interested buyers, asking us various questions in French such as "Ceci coute combien?" ("How much is this?") or "Prendrez-vous quatre-vingt dix centimes?" ("Will you take 90 cents?) and us botching a transaction by inadvertently saying something like "Écoute-moi, Crétin!" (Listen to me, you moron!") When we meant to say "Ça coute moins que tu crois" ("That costs less than you think"). Nothing hurts sales like insulting the customers. Its one of those timeless business principles.
We've done more yard sales than you can shake a stick at. But in France, there's no Wal-Mart, selling garish fluorescent poster board. And here you're not allowed to duct-tape badly written signs to lampposts in the wee hours, directing weekend bargain hunters to the sale held in the comfort of your garage driveway. No, this kind of clandestine self-promoting activity is frowned upon by the authorities. You must wait for your town's annual vide grenier where everyone breaks out their old VHS tapes and scuffed ski boots to sell all at once and all together at what inevitably becomes one huge blur of junk. With the exception of our table, of course. But we couldn't get most of the people looking down their noses at our neatly displayed wares to see that. We had stellar crowds, but sub-par sales. They kept gawking and going by, but few reached for their wallets. I think most of our comrades had the same experience, based on the amount of full boxes seen going back into vendors' cars at the end of the day. It just reminded me of an important principle - if you have junk, just get rid of it. No one else is probably interested in my junk. And I shouldn't hold onto it in the hopes that I can profit from it before letting it go.
There's different kind of "junk" all of us have. There's the stuff in the garage and attic. And then there's the soul variety. Sometimes we need someone else to come around and look scornfully at what we've been holding onto to realize it's not really worth what we imagined. Better to just cut your losses and let it go. There's no more room for it and it's really just clutter anyway. Thankfully, we also have a recycling center in our town called a déchetterie that is open almost every day. I can drive right up to the big container any time I want, dump what I don't want and drive away. That simple. I don't need to wait for the big yearly moment to see if it's really worth tossing out or not. Needless to say, we won't have a table to sell things next year. But my garage is staying junk-free just the same.
The 2012 Summer Olympics are over. This time it was a unique opportunity to see the games broadcast on French television. That meant we saw a lot of coverage of some events that never got much attention from the American networks back in the day - like kayaking, handball, and fencing. Ah, fencing. A passion for the French. Here it is better known as escrime. I am sure the word comes form the sound made by a competitor getting jabbed repeatedly by a very sharp and pointy object. I couldn't help but think all that white protective gear made the event look like armed and dangerous bee-keepers jostling for territory in the orchard.
I found myself cheering enthusiastically for the French athletes. I don't think I've ever cheered for France in the Olympics before. But there I was, getting just as excited for the French women's basketball team and men's gold-medal pole-vaulter, as I was for all the American swimmers, gymnasts and track stars. It was a great realization - knowing that France had now captivated our hearts to the point that I felt a pride and loyalty for a nation that had not been on our map for many years. Somehow, somewhere France got more ingrained in our hearts. That's what obedience can do.
We didn't come up with the idea to move to France. It was God's idea, that slowly became a choice we were willing to make out of sheer obedience. And after two years of deciding to follow His plan, the people and the place that were His choice for us, have now become a people and a place that we would choose again all on our own. Because of His grace. And because the love He has for any place and any person can be transplanted to our hearts in a real way. Sometimes we wait for feelings to be right before we move. For us, we moved, and the feelings got worked into the dough a little at a time. Whether it's forgiveness, loving our neighbor, or saying we're sorry, a little action can do wonders for an attitude. Go ahead - make that move. You just might be surprised at who you start rooting for.
We have been in France for almost 20 months. By now, the French greeting has become pretty natural for us. Called faire la bis, the greeting consists of giving a friend or close acquaintance a kiss on the cheek. It's really not a kiss, but rather placing your right cheek to the other person's right cheek and left cheek to their left cheek, while making a kissing sound into the air beside them and saying "Bonjour". Remembering all this is important, so people that cannot walk and chew gum at the same time simply lack sufficient co-ordination to even say hello in France. A misplaced pucker that actually lands on the side of the person you are "pretend kissing" can communicate an entirely unintended sense of affection or familiarity that could scandalize the poor soul. They were bargaining for the French version of a hearty handshake, but instead got the equivalent of a full body hug. (Picture your teenager saying, "Awkward" in a sing-song tone).
There is a whole inculturation process of understanding at what point you know someone sufficiently to plant your cheek next to theirs. And if you wear glasses like I do, you learn to aim a bit wider for a fellow bespectacled individual. Otherwise, the violent clash of eyeglass frames can jar the senses and sound like duelling swords. Some people actually take off their glasses quickly to greet. The advantage of this is that if they are far-sighted, they at least won't be able to see any unsightly facial hairs as they hone in for the kiss.
But just when you think you've mastered the art of giving the bis, you come to find out that how many kisses and which side of the cheek you kiss first varies from region to region. And getting it wrong can result in some funny, if not uncomfortable moments. It gets worse when two people are aware of where you are from and are attempting to be culturally sensitive. For example, we just took a trip to Belgium, where they only kiss one side of the cheek, instead of two. And wouldn't you know it, they start on the opposite cheek of where we do in France. So at first, as someone from France is aiming for the left, and a Belge is aiming for the right, the danger of a real kiss actually taking place increases dramatically. The first encounter goes someting like this: French person (or clueless American living in France) goes left and suddenly sees the Belge headed right; French person suddenly realizes custom is different and adeptly pulls out the kiss, re-meneuvering to the right around rapidly approaching noses; Belge is equally alert and pulls off his or her own deft move to the left; French and Belge almost kiss for real twice; both stop cold in awkward laughter followed by a conciliatory handshake.
So with every greeting, we had to remind ourselves to begin by aiming for the right side, instead of the left, and stopping after one smooch. But, If we had stopped off on our way home somewhere else in France besides Grenoble, we would have had another kind of awkward encounter. This happens when the kisser envisions a different number of bisous on the cheek than the "kissee". If you intend to give three kisses and the other person turns away after two...well, regional wars have started over less humilitating circumstances. Just to give you the rundown based on a recent French online poll, one kiss is the preferred greeting in only two départements of the country, with three kisses the norm in 12 departments, four kisses de rigueur in 22 départements, and the rest of the country remaining two-kiss territory. I think the five-kissers were driven out of the country back in the time of the Camassars. Try keeping all that straight if you are a campaigning politician, long-haul truck driver, or typical American tourist going from Normandy to Nice and visiting everything in between. Fortunately for us, we don't travel into other departments too much. If so, I might have a whiplash from all the sudden neck contortions.
