Why indeed. I had the same French teacher, Madame Hea, for almost all of elementary school. Madame Hea was an actual French woman from France, who always wore an A-line skirt, sweater set, pumps, and the requisite silk scarf. I’m pretty sure she never wore pants, at least never when she was teaching. She was so chic.

In addition to the usual grammar lessons and vocabulary-building reading exercises, Madame Hea taught us French folk songs, showed us French films, and exposed us to a little bit of French history and children’s literature. I think that she really loved her home country, and had such a love and respect for the language which she wanted to impart to all of us horrid little anglophone children. Naturally, I did not fully appreciate at the time what a gift it was to be taught by someone so devoted to her métier.

At the end of elementary school, in grade six, Madame Hea chose a few students in my class to test for admission to the late immersion program at the junior high school we would be entering the following year. She only chose three of us: myself and two boys. After I completed the test which was a combination of reading, writing, and oral comprehension administered by Madame Hea herself, she informed me that I had passed as she expected I would, and congratulated me. Immediately, I said, “but I don’t want to go into French immersion”, which Madame Hea met with, “why not?” and mild exasperation.

Of course, I had a response which seemed very valid at the time, but seems silly now that I’m old. I told her that none of my friends were going to go into immersion. She laughed at me, waved her hand dismissively, and assured me “you’ll make new friends. You should do this, it will be good for you”.

I had such respect for Madame Hea that I could not decline her advice, so off I went to study in French Immersion for all of junior high and high school. I never forgot any of her stories of growing up in France, and I really did enjoy learning French, so I suppose she planted in me my own love and appreciation for this country.

Now here we are, twenty years after David and I married and made our first of many trips to France. Never do I visit here without thinking of Madame Hea, and feeling very lucky that she had such an influence on my childhood, and that she shaped my adult love and appreciation for France, its culture, its language, and its history.

We arrived in Marseilles last week, narrowly missing a flight drama that would have seen us miss our connection to Marseilles in Brussels, resulting in an eight hour layover (we changed flights, flew through Paris, and had a 5 hour layover instead). We stayed in Marseilles overnight because we are not super-human and would likely have crashed our rental car if we made the two-hour drive to Nîmes immediately upon arrival, being jet-lagged and all. I have difficulty sleeping on a good day, but sitting up in an airplane crushed between 2 men hogging the arm rests made me decide not to fight it and accept that sleeplessness is the price to pay for the luxury of flying to France. It wasn’t so bad this time actually, as I binge-watched both seasons of “Fleabag”, which was so good I cried and wanted to watch it all over again. By that time, we had landed though, so of course I’ll just watch it all over again on the flight home.

But that flight home is weeks away. We are here in Nîmes, in the Occitanie region of the south of France, having rented the most beautiful apartment I think I have ever seen. It’s so comfortable that I find it a little difficult to leave each day. We are here because I needed to escape a bit of Ottawa’s winter this year, to exorcise the demons of Ottawa’s winter 2019 that brought me significant misery.

This trip marks our fourth one to Nîmes—I promise this never gets old. We use our rental car to take day trips to the smaller towns and villages around the city. I particularly love the flea markets and brocantes, because why is French junk so classy and tasteful? I can’t figure that part out.

We visited L’Isle Sur La Sorgue on the weekend, which is famous for its antiques and weekend brocante and flea market. This being January, however, meant that there were actually very few items on offer. Our landlord confirmed this to us, as he texted that his visit on Saturday also yielded nothing. Just as well, I suppose, since I often leave the flea markets pouting over the furniture and large mirrors that I wanted to buy to furnish my non-existent French home, and which are far too large for me to mash into my suitcase for the flight back to Canada. Quel dommage.

One of the reasons David and I enjoy Nîmes so much is that we are ancient history nerds, with a particular interest in ancient Rome (you cannot grow up with a name like Minerva and NOT develop an interest in ancient Rome). Nîmes of course was part of the Roman Empire (the Romans called it Nemausus). Our apartment is across the street from the Maison Carée, which is one of the world’s oldest, best-preserved Roman temples, dating to approximately 2 AD. There is also an ancient arena, dating to around 70 AD, which makes it about the same age as Rome’s coliseum (colosseo).

The cities around Nîmes, Arles for example, also have Roman ruins that are probably mobbed in the summer time, but which David and I have all to ourselves this month. We also keep our eyes peeled when on the road for signs indicating Roman ruins and archaeological sites that aren’t necessarily in any of the guidebooks.

It has been a bit cold here since we arrived, but nothing like in Ottawa. I’m so grateful not to have any snow or freezing rain here right now. We even noticed some bushes starting to bud, as well as a fig tree near the windmill at Fontvieille that had buds on all its branch tips. Coming home this evening, traffic was backed up along the road that rings the city, because city workers were up in cherry pickers removing the strings of Christmas lights from high up in the plane trees. We guessed this is done to prevent damage to the new buds already forming on the branches. We shook our heads, laughing, thinking of all the plants at home that are dormant, not ready to blossom or bloom for several more months.

Thanks for reading.