Monday, 4 January 2010
Good markets for overseas writers
This is a great blog for (mainly non-fiction) writers living abroad who are looking for markets. EuroWriter -- The European Writer's Market Lowdown
Wednesday, 2 December 2009
Any moving abroad questions?
If you're thinking about making the move abroad, but have a particular question, why not ask it here? Or, if you'd rather ask privately, send me an email via my website contact http://www.lorrainemace.com/ and I'll get back to you as quickly as I can.
Friday, 20 November 2009
Running on Empty
Following on from my last post about life just after the hurricane hit, everything just about ground to a halt. Living in rural France means nothing gets done and no one goes anywhere without using a car or farm vehicle.
In the aftermath of the storm, petrol stations were out of operation for several days. So when word spread that petrol was finally available at Le Clerc in Ribérac, people arrived from far and wide, and it wasn’t long before queues filled the car park and neighbouring roads.
As I approached Le Clerc, a kindly young gendarme tapped on my car window and asked if I needed gazole. At least I think that’s what he said, my French still being very basic at that time.
“Oui, oui,” I replied and was directed to the shortest queue.
After about 20 minutes an employee of the supermarket, who was assisting the gendarmes to prevent queue jumpers taking an unfair advantage, approached my car and indicated that I should leave this queue to join another, which was much longer. I could understand very little of what he’d said, but I knew my rights, and there was no way I was going to budge.
“Gazole, gazole,” I insisted, trying to make him comprehend my urgent need for petrol. With a Gallic shrug he gave up and went back to his colleagues.
The second employee to approach, sent over to deal with this very difficult foreign woman, spoke fluent English. To my chagrin, he explained that his colleague had realised my car ran on lead-free fuel, but that I was in the queue for diesel.
The poor man had been trying to help, but each time I’d heard the word gazole, thinking it was French for petrol, I’d nodded like an imbecile and said oui, oui.
Hmm, now you know why I wrote about needing to learn the language if you intend to live abroad. The Greatest Moving Abroad Tips in the World.
In the aftermath of the storm, petrol stations were out of operation for several days. So when word spread that petrol was finally available at Le Clerc in Ribérac, people arrived from far and wide, and it wasn’t long before queues filled the car park and neighbouring roads.
As I approached Le Clerc, a kindly young gendarme tapped on my car window and asked if I needed gazole. At least I think that’s what he said, my French still being very basic at that time.
“Oui, oui,” I replied and was directed to the shortest queue.
After about 20 minutes an employee of the supermarket, who was assisting the gendarmes to prevent queue jumpers taking an unfair advantage, approached my car and indicated that I should leave this queue to join another, which was much longer. I could understand very little of what he’d said, but I knew my rights, and there was no way I was going to budge.
“Gazole, gazole,” I insisted, trying to make him comprehend my urgent need for petrol. With a Gallic shrug he gave up and went back to his colleagues.
The second employee to approach, sent over to deal with this very difficult foreign woman, spoke fluent English. To my chagrin, he explained that his colleague had realised my car ran on lead-free fuel, but that I was in the queue for diesel.
The poor man had been trying to help, but each time I’d heard the word gazole, thinking it was French for petrol, I’d nodded like an imbecile and said oui, oui.
Hmm, now you know why I wrote about needing to learn the language if you intend to live abroad. The Greatest Moving Abroad Tips in the World.
Sunday, 15 November 2009
La Tempête
A hurricane swept across France in the dying days of 1999, leaving such a trail of devastation in its wake that the government declared a national disaster. The wind had risen earlier in the evening, but a sudden crashing sound made us realise that things were getting a bit serious. We peered out into the gloom and saw our white plastic garden chairs swirling through the air. Glad we didn’t have to go out that evening, we fastened the shutters and settled down into the armchairs in front of a roaring fire.
Fifteen minutes later we were plunged into darkness. By the light of the fire we groped across to the mains supply box, but nothing had fused. Wondering if we were the only ones without electricity, we picked up the phone to call our neighbour, only to discover the line was dead. By this time we were no longer feeling quite so contented with life, and when the gas bottle supplying the oven ran out midway through cooking the casserole, we felt aggrieved instead.
There was nothing else to do but go to bed hungry and get some sleep. We managed the hunger, but sleep eluded us. Branches smashed against the shutters, trees crashed to the ground, the dogs howled with fear and we lay in the dark wondering if the roof would still be in place by morning.
In the aftermath of the hurricane, telephone services and electricity were out of action for nearly three weeks. Refill gas bottles were almost impossible to find because so many roads were blocked by enormous oak trees deliveries couldn’t get through. Fortunately our kind neighbour had a spare, so we could at least boil saucepans of water to wash, but a bath was out of the question because we had to use it to store fresh water.
The water from the taps varied between a thin trickle of brown sludge and the normal clean supply, but we never knew from one moment to the next which would arrive. Washing in the bidet wasn’t exactly what we’d anticipated when we’d moved to France, but hey, when in Rome and all that.
We had to learn lots of new French words in a hurry, one of the most important being candles. Unfortunately, we forgot to take our dictionary to the supermarket and, by the time we’d managed to make a flustered assistant understand our needs, only a forlorn golden candle in the shape of a Christmas angel was left on the supermarket shelf. We grew to love Goldie and guarded her wonderful light. Huddled in front of the fire, we only lit the candle only for special occasions, such as going to the bathroom.
We'd found a torch in one of the sideboard drawers, but it was without batteries - and it stayed that way. We’d tried to buy some in Le Clerc supermarket when we bought Goldie, but batteries were rarer than hen's teeth and a nippy 95-year-old had beat us to the last pack on the shelf.
I wrote 'The End' under my first ever short story just seconds before the hurricane hit, but I swear the story really wasn't bad enough to bring on the wrath of the gods! Or maybe it was. If so, this is a heartfelt apology to all those who suffered as a result.
The Greatest Moving Abroad Tips in the World - or, how to do things better than I did during my many moves abroad.
Fifteen minutes later we were plunged into darkness. By the light of the fire we groped across to the mains supply box, but nothing had fused. Wondering if we were the only ones without electricity, we picked up the phone to call our neighbour, only to discover the line was dead. By this time we were no longer feeling quite so contented with life, and when the gas bottle supplying the oven ran out midway through cooking the casserole, we felt aggrieved instead.
There was nothing else to do but go to bed hungry and get some sleep. We managed the hunger, but sleep eluded us. Branches smashed against the shutters, trees crashed to the ground, the dogs howled with fear and we lay in the dark wondering if the roof would still be in place by morning.
In the aftermath of the hurricane, telephone services and electricity were out of action for nearly three weeks. Refill gas bottles were almost impossible to find because so many roads were blocked by enormous oak trees deliveries couldn’t get through. Fortunately our kind neighbour had a spare, so we could at least boil saucepans of water to wash, but a bath was out of the question because we had to use it to store fresh water.
The water from the taps varied between a thin trickle of brown sludge and the normal clean supply, but we never knew from one moment to the next which would arrive. Washing in the bidet wasn’t exactly what we’d anticipated when we’d moved to France, but hey, when in Rome and all that.
We had to learn lots of new French words in a hurry, one of the most important being candles. Unfortunately, we forgot to take our dictionary to the supermarket and, by the time we’d managed to make a flustered assistant understand our needs, only a forlorn golden candle in the shape of a Christmas angel was left on the supermarket shelf. We grew to love Goldie and guarded her wonderful light. Huddled in front of the fire, we only lit the candle only for special occasions, such as going to the bathroom.
We'd found a torch in one of the sideboard drawers, but it was without batteries - and it stayed that way. We’d tried to buy some in Le Clerc supermarket when we bought Goldie, but batteries were rarer than hen's teeth and a nippy 95-year-old had beat us to the last pack on the shelf.
I wrote 'The End' under my first ever short story just seconds before the hurricane hit, but I swear the story really wasn't bad enough to bring on the wrath of the gods! Or maybe it was. If so, this is a heartfelt apology to all those who suffered as a result.
The Greatest Moving Abroad Tips in the World - or, how to do things better than I did during my many moves abroad.
Monday, 9 November 2009
What is it with the French and oysters?
A procession of courses followed until the oysters were merely a dim and distant memory. Three different types of pâté, fish, sorbet and fillet of beef, each dish accompanied by a superb selection of wines, left us feeling contented and more than a little merry. Our accents improved, and our vocabulary grew in direct proportion to the quantity of wine consumed.
Jacques, our host, was determined to keep everyone in the festive mood. At one stage he tasted his wine, decided it wasn’t to his liking and threw the glass over his shoulder into the fireplace.
“Ne buvez pas,” he ordered.
Not sure if we too should start smashing the glassware we waited to see if anyone else followed suit. Françoise left the table and quietly provided everyone with clean glasses. Crisis over.
Shortly before midnight one of the guests threw a log on to the fire and the daughter of the house burst into tears. Convinced that Father Christmas was going to burn, she was inconsolable until someone shouted that they could hear reindeer. Everyone rushed outside into the night air, craning necks to search the sky. We stayed that way for several minutes, so well anaesthetised by the quantity of alcohol consumed that the cold was unimportant. On returning to the house we found that Père Noël had taken advantage of our absence to deliver his presents.
By one o’clock everything had been opened and exclaimed over. Derek and I thought that it was time to leave, but it appeared that we hadn’t yet finished our meal. We still had the cheese course to consume, plus the special wine that Jacques had decided should accompany it.
By half past two we were no longer making any attempt to speak French, our brains being wreathed in alcohol fumes, but it didn’t matter a jot – all the other guests were trying out their English phrases. Where is the station? vied with ‘allo, ‘ow are you? and my aunt is a cock-er-roach. We never did get to the bottom of that one.
We finally left at three o’clock, having just consumed dessert. It had been an incredible evening and a wonderful welcome to the French way of life.
One of our neighbours in the hamlet invited us for a New Year gathering and we looked forward to celebrating in a similar style to the Christmas feast. At least we did until the first course arrived. What is it with the French and oysters?
This blog is brought to you by the author of The Greatest Moving Abroad Tips in the World
Jacques, our host, was determined to keep everyone in the festive mood. At one stage he tasted his wine, decided it wasn’t to his liking and threw the glass over his shoulder into the fireplace.
“Ne buvez pas,” he ordered.
Not sure if we too should start smashing the glassware we waited to see if anyone else followed suit. Françoise left the table and quietly provided everyone with clean glasses. Crisis over.
Shortly before midnight one of the guests threw a log on to the fire and the daughter of the house burst into tears. Convinced that Father Christmas was going to burn, she was inconsolable until someone shouted that they could hear reindeer. Everyone rushed outside into the night air, craning necks to search the sky. We stayed that way for several minutes, so well anaesthetised by the quantity of alcohol consumed that the cold was unimportant. On returning to the house we found that Père Noël had taken advantage of our absence to deliver his presents.
By one o’clock everything had been opened and exclaimed over. Derek and I thought that it was time to leave, but it appeared that we hadn’t yet finished our meal. We still had the cheese course to consume, plus the special wine that Jacques had decided should accompany it.
By half past two we were no longer making any attempt to speak French, our brains being wreathed in alcohol fumes, but it didn’t matter a jot – all the other guests were trying out their English phrases. Where is the station? vied with ‘allo, ‘ow are you? and my aunt is a cock-er-roach. We never did get to the bottom of that one.
We finally left at three o’clock, having just consumed dessert. It had been an incredible evening and a wonderful welcome to the French way of life.
One of our neighbours in the hamlet invited us for a New Year gathering and we looked forward to celebrating in a similar style to the Christmas feast. At least we did until the first course arrived. What is it with the French and oysters?
This blog is brought to you by the author of The Greatest Moving Abroad Tips in the World
Friday, 6 November 2009
Shellfish Shock
The months passed, Christmas arrived and we still hadn’t found a house to buy. Living in the gîte was starting to pall, but we were determined to hold out until we discovered the right place. In the meantime one of the estate agents had taken pity on us and invited us to have our Christmas meal with her family.
We were lounging around in our sloppy clothes late on Christmas Eve when the phone rang.
“Lorraine, on vous attend!” said a perplexed voice.
Getting an invitation mixed up at any time is bad enough, but this was a mammoth social faux pas. We’d assumed the invitation was for lunch on Christmas Day. Not so. The French celebrate on Christmas Eve.
A quick bath, a change of clothes and we were running by torchlight along a dark country lane, out of breath and trying to find the right words to apologise.
As we arrived fourteen pairs of eyes turned in our direction and we suddenly knew how bacteria must feel when it’s being studied under a microscope. A chorus of bon soir reminded us that French would be the only language spoken; taking a deep breath we went to join the throng. Making small talk didn’t follow the usual pattern. Our accents were so dreadful; much of what we said was incomprehensible. Françoise, our hostess, was kept busy translating our errors and we panicked whenever she left the room.
Gradually the apéritifs relaxed us. An enormous fire burned in the grate next to a beautifully decorated tree, and the natives were friendly. All was well with the world.
When we were called to the table Derek and I were relieved to find that we were seated side by side and Françoise had positioned herself opposite. Linguistic help was on hand.
Relief turned to horror as I looked down at my plate. There, gleaming palely in the candlelight, were a dozen oysters. Neither Derek nor I had ever attempted oysters before, preferring our seafood cooked. Cautiously I glanced around to see how they should be handled. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying them, so I decided to give them a go.
I saw that Françoise loosened the flesh with a sharp knife, followed that with a quick squirt of lemon juice, and then lifted the shell and tipped the contents down her throat. How difficult could that be? I followed suit and found myself swallowing a portion of lemon-tinged seawater-flavoured slime. One down, eleven to go.
I decided to skip the lemon juice part of the proceedings and get the awful business over as quickly as possible. Knife, tip, and swallow. Knife, tip, swallow, I was doing well until Françoise saw that I was omitting the lemon juice.
“You must use the lemon. It’s the only way to be sure they are still alive,” she exclaimed.
Surely I’d misheard? She couldn’t possibly have said that the oysters were still living. I squirted some juice and sure enough the creatures on my plate shuddered. So did I.
“You have to be careful, some of them may be dead,” said Françoise with a smile.
I’d been hoping that they all were, but clearly so had Derek. His expression of horror almost made the experience worth it.
The Greatest Moving Abroad Tips in the World is available from Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk
We were lounging around in our sloppy clothes late on Christmas Eve when the phone rang.
“Lorraine, on vous attend!” said a perplexed voice.
Getting an invitation mixed up at any time is bad enough, but this was a mammoth social faux pas. We’d assumed the invitation was for lunch on Christmas Day. Not so. The French celebrate on Christmas Eve.
A quick bath, a change of clothes and we were running by torchlight along a dark country lane, out of breath and trying to find the right words to apologise.
As we arrived fourteen pairs of eyes turned in our direction and we suddenly knew how bacteria must feel when it’s being studied under a microscope. A chorus of bon soir reminded us that French would be the only language spoken; taking a deep breath we went to join the throng. Making small talk didn’t follow the usual pattern. Our accents were so dreadful; much of what we said was incomprehensible. Françoise, our hostess, was kept busy translating our errors and we panicked whenever she left the room.
Gradually the apéritifs relaxed us. An enormous fire burned in the grate next to a beautifully decorated tree, and the natives were friendly. All was well with the world.
When we were called to the table Derek and I were relieved to find that we were seated side by side and Françoise had positioned herself opposite. Linguistic help was on hand.
Relief turned to horror as I looked down at my plate. There, gleaming palely in the candlelight, were a dozen oysters. Neither Derek nor I had ever attempted oysters before, preferring our seafood cooked. Cautiously I glanced around to see how they should be handled. Everyone else seemed to be enjoying them, so I decided to give them a go.
I saw that Françoise loosened the flesh with a sharp knife, followed that with a quick squirt of lemon juice, and then lifted the shell and tipped the contents down her throat. How difficult could that be? I followed suit and found myself swallowing a portion of lemon-tinged seawater-flavoured slime. One down, eleven to go.
I decided to skip the lemon juice part of the proceedings and get the awful business over as quickly as possible. Knife, tip, and swallow. Knife, tip, swallow, I was doing well until Françoise saw that I was omitting the lemon juice.
“You must use the lemon. It’s the only way to be sure they are still alive,” she exclaimed.
Surely I’d misheard? She couldn’t possibly have said that the oysters were still living. I squirted some juice and sure enough the creatures on my plate shuddered. So did I.
“You have to be careful, some of them may be dead,” said Françoise with a smile.
I’d been hoping that they all were, but clearly so had Derek. His expression of horror almost made the experience worth it.
The Greatest Moving Abroad Tips in the World is available from Amazon.com and Amazon.co.uk
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Canine Capers
Bringing our howling dogs through the tunnel had been harrowing enough, but the French countryside has diversions not found in Britain. One way of leaving Laudibertie took us past a small farm with chickens, ducks and geese roaming the track, giving a new twist to the term free-range. Our hounds were very interested in a closer acquaintance with this exciting form of fast food, which didn’t make for good community relations. Realising they had no intention of living and let live, I went by a different route with fewer feathered attractions.
Unfortunately this exposed me to my biggest fear, which was using my appalling French. The rural French are incredibly welcoming – frighteningly so. They’d greet me, I would reply, but then they’d come out with a string of words and I hadn’t a clue what on earth they were saying. One particular old man used to lie in wait in his string vest and beret, roll-up hanging from his lip, which made deciphering his words even harder. He obviously relished our little chats; his eyes twinkled and he had the dirtiest laugh I’ve ever heard. To this day I have no idea if he was propositioning me or discussing the weather. I have a dreadful fear it was the former and I may have inadvertently said yes to some pretty unsavoury suggestions. Still, it kept him happy.
One day I’d walked for miles with the dogs before I heard the sound of a tractor and a dog barking. I should explain at this stage that although Benson and Heidi loved people, they had a dislike, bordering on pathological hatred, for all other dogs. I felt that as long as I kept Benson and Heidi on short leads I should be able to cope, even if the other dog was running free. The tractor came round the bend into view. Being driven in front of it, herded by the dog, and taking up the entire width of the road, were several cows. I turned tail and ran, dragging the dogs with me and taking refuge in a sunflower field until the cows had passed. I know when to admit defeat.
The driver of the tractor, an ancient-looking farmer’s wife, lived in our village, and often, as I passed with the dogs on their evening walk, would give me a weather report for the next day. She was incredible, never once getting her forecast wrong. I was amazed at her knowledge, and presumed it was due to having lived close to nature all her life. Day after day, week after week, she was spot-on.
Once my command of French had improved sufficiently, I asked her how she was able to make such accurate predictions. She looked at me as if I were an imbecile and said: “I listen to the radio.”
The Dordogne is sunflower country and they are left in the fields until every part has turned black. Walking alongside this dark landscape one morning the dogs disappeared. Being black they vanished without trace. Ten minutes passed, then half an hour. Despite my frenzied calling there wasn’t a sign of them, only black stalks and flower heads as far as the eye could see.
A passing car pulled up and my neighbour looked out. I managed sufficient French to explain that the dogs had disappeared.
“C’est normale, ils chassent les biches,” he laughed, and drove off.
It may be normal for dogs to chase les biches, but I didn’t even know what one was. I soon found out.
With a tremendous crash, a deer erupted through the stalks. The terrified creature ran straight at me. I stood transfixed, unable to move. At the last moment the deer swerved, and behind it, noses down and utterly intent on the hunt, came Benson and Heidi. I grabbed them, but as an awful stench hit my nostrils, I almost let go again. I’m sure Bambi couldn’t possibly have smelled like that.
This short piece of humour was brought to you by the author of The Greatest Moving Abroad Tips in the World
Unfortunately this exposed me to my biggest fear, which was using my appalling French. The rural French are incredibly welcoming – frighteningly so. They’d greet me, I would reply, but then they’d come out with a string of words and I hadn’t a clue what on earth they were saying. One particular old man used to lie in wait in his string vest and beret, roll-up hanging from his lip, which made deciphering his words even harder. He obviously relished our little chats; his eyes twinkled and he had the dirtiest laugh I’ve ever heard. To this day I have no idea if he was propositioning me or discussing the weather. I have a dreadful fear it was the former and I may have inadvertently said yes to some pretty unsavoury suggestions. Still, it kept him happy.
One day I’d walked for miles with the dogs before I heard the sound of a tractor and a dog barking. I should explain at this stage that although Benson and Heidi loved people, they had a dislike, bordering on pathological hatred, for all other dogs. I felt that as long as I kept Benson and Heidi on short leads I should be able to cope, even if the other dog was running free. The tractor came round the bend into view. Being driven in front of it, herded by the dog, and taking up the entire width of the road, were several cows. I turned tail and ran, dragging the dogs with me and taking refuge in a sunflower field until the cows had passed. I know when to admit defeat.
The driver of the tractor, an ancient-looking farmer’s wife, lived in our village, and often, as I passed with the dogs on their evening walk, would give me a weather report for the next day. She was incredible, never once getting her forecast wrong. I was amazed at her knowledge, and presumed it was due to having lived close to nature all her life. Day after day, week after week, she was spot-on.
Once my command of French had improved sufficiently, I asked her how she was able to make such accurate predictions. She looked at me as if I were an imbecile and said: “I listen to the radio.”
The Dordogne is sunflower country and they are left in the fields until every part has turned black. Walking alongside this dark landscape one morning the dogs disappeared. Being black they vanished without trace. Ten minutes passed, then half an hour. Despite my frenzied calling there wasn’t a sign of them, only black stalks and flower heads as far as the eye could see.
A passing car pulled up and my neighbour looked out. I managed sufficient French to explain that the dogs had disappeared.
“C’est normale, ils chassent les biches,” he laughed, and drove off.
It may be normal for dogs to chase les biches, but I didn’t even know what one was. I soon found out.
With a tremendous crash, a deer erupted through the stalks. The terrified creature ran straight at me. I stood transfixed, unable to move. At the last moment the deer swerved, and behind it, noses down and utterly intent on the hunt, came Benson and Heidi. I grabbed them, but as an awful stench hit my nostrils, I almost let go again. I’m sure Bambi couldn’t possibly have smelled like that.
This short piece of humour was brought to you by the author of The Greatest Moving Abroad Tips in the World
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