Expats and Books

While perusing the library of our home in Provence after my husband, Victor, died, I came to the realization that ours isn’t similar to others. Granted, there aren’t two identical collections in the world. But, when you live abroad, books take on a different meaning.

On one bookshelf, there’s a line-up of dictionaries, grammar books, verb books, language tapes, two thesauruses and books detailing how to write (hmmm, eloquently?) in two different languages.  To only be able to master one would be a victory.

The majority of the library is composed of English-language books.  After all, it’s the only language I learned growing up and unfortunately I’m no linguist.  But additionally, we’d collected numerous books that are written in French. Some were written by friends, while others, e.g., “Bill Clinton, Ma Vie”, were ones we passed on to neighbors and friends in an attempt to engender cultural understanding. We wanted our French neighbors to understand a bit about the US, which they did with much greater clarity than most Americans understand or care about France. After all, we made committed efforts to understand theirs. We’re guests in their country, having chosen France as our home and our life.

I can’t begin to count the number of books focusing on French cultural mores. No matter how long someone lives in this (or another) country, an American will never understand innumerable subtleties. If it’s your principal goal, anticipate becoming increasingly frustrated. You’ll be able to develop a good take. Even if you’re living with or married to a “native,” forget it. There will always be cultural differences and you won’t catch the nuances no matter how hard you try.

No wonder the State Department trains its Foreign Service officers by dumping them into total immersion seminars. Even then, there are no guarantees. They have a better chance (as well as the training) of being able to be submerged into a culture than I did. I was the ultimate (not happy) trailing spouse who was seduced into coming to Paris so I could see the Eiffel Tower, was able to live on one of the most incredible squares in the world, the Place des Vosges, and have the opportunity to travel. Off I went, kicking and screaming as I’ve whined more than one time in articles that have appeared on staging.staging.bonjourparis.com. 

Because my deceased husband was born aand raised in Italy, there are at least 100 Italian language books lining the shelves.  The irony is we owned very few when we were living in the U.S. I was never quite sure why Victor started re-reading Italian when we arrived on Gallic soil except possibly due to proximity.

Victor really would have preferred we buy a country home in Italy. His French was so much better than mine; initially, my French was nearly non-existent and I couldn’t conceive of mastering a third language. I understood just enough Italian to be dangerous. When we’d spend time with other Italian speakers (especially his friends from when Victor attended the University of Rome and when he later worked in Italy), I’d understand just enough of the conversation to get my back up.

I fought the idea tooth and nail. First, Italy was too far from Paris and second, Victor took on a so very macho persona that I feared I’d be left at home every evening (wearing black 12 months a year – which I do anyway), while he spent nights discussing the world (and the young and nubile ladies who were out for a passeggiata — evening stroll) sitting in the town square with his male buddies.

Because gardening is an important part of our life in Provence, books on the subject appeared.  Then came more books as we realized the area’s soil needs specific types of plants in order to flourish. Roses do well – but need to be cut back at a specific time of the year, and when there’s a full moon.  I never could get it quite straight when the trees needed to be pruned, at times, seemingly brutally — so the trees and plants could flourish. And as the way with any haircut, the trees would only need pruning again. In the meantime, the fruit trees would be even more productive.

Cookbooks seem to grow by the year. I should admit that I rarely utilize them when cooking. I read them and often they often have special significance of a restaurant meal, a chef or a cuisine worth exploring.  Christian Constant, Patricia Wells, Troisgros, Guy Martin and so many other chefs and restaurateurs of note.

Guidebooks took on new dimensions: it was my responsibly to read every book ever written about sightseeing in France. Many of these books were complementary – but as I look at the shelves now, I clearly didn’t adhere to the “read and toss” theory of book owning. Even though I’d received or bought updated renditions of the precise book, I couldn’t stand to part with the ones I’d assiduously marked with yellow highlighters.

Please understand, I’m one of the world’s greatest proponents of the Internet for enabling tourists to access up-to-the-minute information on specific destinations. Still, there’s something warm and cuddly about holding a book in your hands – especially if you’re the type of reader I tend to be: Next to my bed, I’m always surrounded by books. I should confess that a laptop was a fatality because of my falling asleep. I was awakened by a crash as it hit the tile floor.

But there’s another collection of books I cherished. Many were purchased at the  Village Voice Book Store after readings or just stopping by and discussing with its owner, Odile Hellier, what I should be reading.  Other books were accumulated from another mentor, The Head Butler , and other books were pure and out vacation reading. One of the pluses of having a country house is that people leave books rather than dragging them home. You know… sexy stuff, chick lit, thrillers, mysteries and books you wouldn’t necessarily buy but like to read. Oh yes, and at least 300 issues of New Yorker Magazines.

I’ve recently come to the realization that our books are scattered in five different places – including a storage unit I rented 25 years ago.  Perhaps, one of these days, all of the books will be introduced to the others. It’ll simultaneously be a happy and sad day filled with discoveries and having to say goodbye to boxes of books.  I suspect few people have enough book shelves to consolidate all of these separate libraries and possibly, it might signify my days of being a peripatetic Expat come to an end.

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