“Are you bringing any food into Canada?”
No.
Seriously, I’m not.
The border officer eyes me suspiciously, waiting for me to admit I have five kilos of blue cheese and foie gras in my backpack.
“Are you bringing any food into Canada?”
No.
Seriously, I’m not.
The border officer eyes me suspiciously, waiting for me to admit I have five kilos of blue cheese and foie gras in my backpack.
It’s a typical trip back to Canada. We got up at 9:30 a.m., got dressed and left 15 minutes later because I believe in the “ripping the bandage off fast” technique.
I had plans for the summer. I was going to solve all the issues my family is facing, then relax, write a manuscript or two, work as usual, be the perfect mother and spend some quality time with Feng.
It felt like the end of the summer last week but it should have been its peak. And now, summer holidays are actually ending for most French, including us, and it’s suddenly hot again.
“One parent, one language,” she started lecturing me. “My husband only speaks English to our son and I only speak my mother tongue to him. And now, he’s bilingual!”
I’m often bemused by the common, everyday problems my French family face and apparently can’t solve. But now I’m one of them, a French with a stupid, impossible-to-fix issue.