New Experiences

You never know what is going to happen, even when you think you do.

The owners of the house we are renting, Philippe and Claire, had invited us over for an apero.  They live in a town with a nice Saturday market and we agreed to come by after our shopping.  We figured it would be the two of them and maybe one of their kids.  We’d have a glass of wine and a few munchies, spend about an hour and be off.

We were wrong.

The first clue was when we walked into a house full of people.  It was Philippe and Claire and their kids, plus Claire’s mother and father, plus Philippe’s sister, plus a few friends, plus a few other kids from the neighborhood.

I guess word got out that there were some Americans coming over who speak French and everyone wanted to see this oddity.  Kind of like a three-headed cat.  Or maybe they thought we’d show up with cowboy hats and six shooters.

The next clue was when we saw the table full of food and wine.  There were plates piled high with regional specialties, four or five bottles of wine and at least a dozen different liqueurs, some homemade.  Plus the grill was fired up with sausages at the ready. 

Val and I looked at each other and figured we wouldn’t be leaving in an hour.

It was all very warm and friendly.  Because the commemoration of the Normandy invasion had been the day before, they thanked us as Americans for liberating France.  Then we all raised our glasses as they toasted us with a “Merci America!”

So then I thanked them for French support in our war of independence, especially the help from General Lafayette and his troops, and raised my glass with a hearty, “Vive la France!”

So then they toasted us for our support in World War I.  So then I toasted them for their gift of the Statue of Liberty.  Then they toasted us for jazz and I toasted them for Edith Piaf.

This went on for a while until I toasted them for the croissan’wich and Val whacked me.

After many plates of food and many glasses of wine and spirits, I made my way unsteadily to the bathroom.  This was a mistake.

While I was gone, somehow the subject of my foot problems came up.  By the time I got back they had all agreed that Philippe was going to treat me.  I knew he did some kind of medical work but didn’t know what kind.

A bunch of us went to his treatment room, attached to the house.  I saw a sign on the door that said he was a magnétiseur and wondered what that meant.

He started by poking my foot in different places, asking me if it hurt here and here and here.  Yes it did, yes, yes there too.

So he rubbed different places with some oil.  So far, so good.

Then he held my foot in one hand, pressing lightly against the arch.  I noticed he was yawning and I thought maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after he’d had so much wine.  He saw me looking at him and explained that the yawning was part of the treatment.  He was extracting my pain with his hand and expelling it via his yawns.

Um, ok, sure.  What’s a magnétiseur again?

Then he started waving his hands in the air around my foot, collecting pain and then throwing it away.   I looked at Val and she just kind of shrugged.  I figured what the heck, it probably won’t help but it can’t hurt.

Eventually he finished and we said our goodbyes.  It was really a delightful, and interesting, afternoon. 

When we got home I looked up magnétiseur in my dictionary.  Hmm, “hypnotist”?  Uh oh. 

Now I’m worried that Philippe gave me a post-hypnotic suggestion and Val is in on the game.  The next time we’re with our friends she is going to say the secret word and I’ll start clucking like a chicken!

KVS

Everybody happy