Birkenstocks and Little Orphan d'Annie

The prince has arrived to Chicoutimi! I am here to “apprendre le francais” during a five-week French language program. I drove up last Saturday with two lady escorts, Chantal and MYLENE(!), past frozen lakes and clear-cuts filled with snow. When we arrived, we managed to find a cheap, yet tasteful, motel next to the river, and then proceeded to experience the Chicoutimi nightlife. It involved beer and an incapacity to find the university, even after multiple trips up and down Boulevard de l’Université.

Between us, we have almost 20 years of post-secondary training, yet finding a large academic institution in a small town proved to be a challenge. Sometimes universities hide themselves.

Anyway, back in March, when I was completing my application for this language program, I had the choice of living in residence or staying with a host family. Being the mildly brave risk-taker that I am, I thought I’d try my luck and have the true Chicoutimi experience. I chose to live with a host family.

I had idealized the perfect host family situation… I would live with two Birkenstock-wearing, granola lesbians out in the countryside in a large house over-looking the river. There would be horses for me to ride on the weekends, and my room would be the renovated attic complete with a large bay window. Here I would write poetry and watch the clouds roll by. My lesbian mothers would prepare me intricate vegetarian meals and swoon over my knowledge of female singer-songwriters. Oddly enough, there was no speaking french involved.

Anyway, on Sunday afternoon, after an exploration of the region, Mylene and Chantal headed back to Montreal and I was on my own to start my five-weeks of school and poetic endeavors. I started the process of checking into the program and getting my student card, while the organizers phoned my host family to inform them of my arrival. I was told to sit and wait on a couch while someone was coming to collect me.

Little orphan d’Annie sitting all alone in a big, scary francophone world.

Ten minutes later, I was informed that my host “Father” had arrived. I looked over to see a short man with thick glasses, a long grey ponytail and a belly large enough for triplettes waddling slowly towards me. He was wheezing and smelled of sawdust.

“There must be some sort of mistake,” I said in my head, “apart from his obvious disregard for fashion sensibility, this jolly old man cannot possibly be one of my lesbian mothers.”

However then I thought that perhaps my lesbian mothers were busy in the garden or got delayed while putting new shoes on the horses or lost track of time while re-buffing the hardwood floors in the attic for my arrival. Perhaps they had to send someone else to fetch me.

So I decided to have a little faith and I got in the van with this strange little man…

(the story of the host family will continue shortly…)