The Gallivanting Grasshopper: Of Housewifery and General Domesticity -- Toulon

I believe I am slowly transforming into a housewife. The house is not mine, Alessandro is not mine, but I'm really settling down into the routine of getting up early to prepare a child for school, doing light housework, and cooking dinner. Sometimes bathing the child and baking the occasional batch of cookies.

It's almost uncomfortable how comfortable it feels. I still write (albeit probably not as much as I should). I still practice yoga (and teach a few classes to Caroline and a couple of her friends). I still doggedly study french two hours every weekday morning. I still spend far too much time researching grad-schools and TEFL opportunities. I take the occasional jog around the beach.

But that's pretty much it. I am very content living this sort of lifestyle. I don't know how long I could be content with a routine like this (I suffer from chronically itchy feet), but for now, I'm simply happy to be here.

Three-year-olds can be tough, though -- especially uncannily clever three-year-olds such as Alessandro. I'm learning that it is vitally important to take everything a three-year-old says absolutely seriously (they are fully capable of feeling belittled and insignificant and express these feelings through high-pitched whining and half-hearted kicking), but take absolutely NOTHING they say personally. Some nights Alessandro is my best friend and insists on giving me a big kiss before going to bed and cuddling up to me while I read him a story. Other nights he cries for his mother and flails his little fists at me while shouting, "Arrete! Arrete!"

To which I say, "Okay, Alessandro. I'll stop. We will be friends again tomorrow."

"No."

"Okay, Alessandro. You let me know when we're friends again. Now I'm going to turn off the light."

I find myself making many promises regarding tomorrow.

I've been trying to be more active within the Toulon couchsurfing community, and went out to a local pub a few days ago for a drink with three local french fellows and two other workaway girls. As I don't speak french, I had a rather difficult time understanding much of what was being said, but trying to speak a few garbled sentences now and then was really good for me. One of the frenchmen -- a navy nurse named Xavier -- invited Catherine, Lena, and myself to a french dinner at his apartment.

People have been wonderfully warm and welcoming here. Then again, people have been wonderfully warm and welcoming everywhere I've travelled thus far.

This past week has been a bit dreary weather-wise, which resulted in Caroline canceling our horseback-riding outing and me getting all sorts of homesick for Ireland. Since the day was free and the weather was gloomy, Caroline took Alessandro and me swimming at a pool in Hyeres while Jerome prepared for the dinner party the Pernots were hosting that Saturday evening. The changing room at the pool was a bit different from what I'm used to, as it was not gender specific. However, there was a sign up in the shower room that politely asked adults to keep their clothes on out of respect for the children. So everyone was extraordinarily decent.

Upon returning from the apartment, we were greeted by the tantalizing smell of Jerome's cooking as it wafted out under the door. Roasted red pepper, roasted aubergine, various cheeses, toasted baguettes, and mini-pies were all playing musical chairs between the oven, the over-crowded fridge, and the slightly-colder-than-inside terrace tables. The guests arrived at 7:30, and I had one of the nicest meals of this trip yet.

Jerome is quite an extraordinary chef, and it's always a cause for celebration when he commandeers the kitchen. The only drawback to having such a magnificent cook in the house is that whenever I'm in the kitchen, I'm dreadfully insecure.