I made a quick stop at the bookstore the day we departed from Austin to fill my carry on bag with books to read on the plane. I purchased three books: Almost French by Sarah Turnbull, A Year in the Merde by Stephen Clarke, and The Reluctant Tuscan by Phil Doran. The second book came highly recommended but I should had known by the title that it wasn’t a read for me. The word merde is French for poop but using stronger language. I thought it would be about the author’s experience dodging the dog poop in Paris. I read the first chapter and had to put it down. Which left me with only two books to read.

All three books are about the experiences and discoveries of the author while living in a foreign country. They share of their frustrations with the language, their sometimes hilarious encounters with the locals, their comparisons to what they left, their observations to what they find, their growth spurts, their setbacks, their becoming one with their new surroundings. Not to make light of the travel experiences many have, but you could probably move across town where you are and tell a similar story. But on to the stories:

The Reluctant Tuscan is a story of a man who is, as the title says, reluctant to change. A writer producer in Hollywood he moves to Tuscany where his wife, a designer, had been living for some time fulfilling her dreams of sculpting. The first paragraph draws me in directly as he writes about the machete in his hand and thinking of using it on Thoreau, a guy he read in school, he says, “who popularized the notion that we should find solace in nature” and there he was, though not amused, “dealing with a hill covered in underbrush so thick it made this little corner of Tuscany look like a Brazilian rain forest.” (I see he appreciates Thoreau too.) Doran’s wife had phoned him saying how she had bought a three hundred year old farmhouse to restore. Always one who thought with her heart, this news sent shockwaves, if not felt throughout all of California, at least in one part of Hollywood where Doran was trying to concentrate on his script. But to think that one can come up with the idea of purchasing a property in some foreign country to surprise her own husband was so tempting to try that I just had to ask Olivier first what he thought if I did the same. Not a good idea, but if ever I felt the way Doran’s wife did about pulling her husband away from the treadmill grind, I would probably do the same too.

Almost French is a story about an Australian journalist who moves to Paris to live with her now French husband, Frederick. They have a small apartment situated on the top floor of a six story old building with no lift. On the second and third floors is a sewing factory where illegal immigrants man the machines that hum all day and where delivery men cause the building to tremble whenever rolls of fabric are dropped to the ground. From their roof top view they see terracotta tiles and monumental icons. Directly below they can hear 120 squeeling kindergarteners as they play on the asphalt courtyard. But Turnbull is also a writer that doesn’t hold back on what she thinks about Parisien women and the French mentality. Her travel memoir is written in expository format (the style of writing most used by journalists)—which is not always the most effective style to use, I think, if a writer wants to rant. But my favourite chapter is chapter 19. She writes about the wealthy and destitute living side by side in Paris. In describing the St Eustache soup kitchen (a charity that provides a four course meal every evening) where she volunteers, she records the words of a clochard (a homeless person):

“Where’s the beef from? You can’t just give us any old beef without telling us where it’s from, you know. I’m not going to eat beef if it doesn’t come with a proper veterinary certificate. . .” There is a shuffling sound as she moves away, muttering where I could stick my mad cow ravioli.

What seems like a demanding ungrateful dialogue, she explains, is simply their way of keeping their dignity. “They’ll accept a meal if you insist but it better be good because they’re not begging.” She stops often to chat with a clochard and to slip him coins too. Her neighbours give him clothes and food. “It is not that we are especially charitable,” she says, referring to Parisiens. “But familiarity breeds compassion and even affection.”

We were in Paris six weeks two summers ago with the children. I avoided the clochards thinking them dangerous. But she paints a picture of Parisiens I never saw but wished that I had opened my eyes to, that while they can be rude and arrogant, they can also be caring and fiercely protective of their city.