Banyuls: FRENCH Boot Camp

Room with a view. Five miles from the Spanish border, the foothills of the Pyrenees form a steep cliff line that plunges dramatically into the sea.

“Mommy, I’m Frenched out. I am fried. I’m French-fried.”
—William after his first day at camp

We arrived in Banyuls-sur-Mer by train, having cancelled our expensive (and arguably unnecessary) rental car. The children’s first steps in France took place over a hot and overburdened hour-long walk from the train station, ending with an uphill climb to our perched neighborhood, Le Troc Pinell, which verily hangs over the sea. The rigor of that walk and our subsequent pride strike me as symbolic of so much about this trip and life. It was a windy day, and the sea roared beneath the 250-square-foot studio we would call home for the following two weeks. I slept a divine night to the sound of those waves then awoke to our host and friend’s having dropped off a box of fresh pastries, coffee, jams, and other treats. I cried.

First bites of fresh pastries in France.

But we weren’t there to eat croissants. With COVID still in the air, I took the kids abroad alone to make an overdue leap in their comfort with French as well as to personally reconnect with southern France after missing it for 15 years. I had learned on my own rigorous study abroad program (22 years ago) that to progress in a second language, you can’t be allowed to speak your first. So when wine-industry friends from Banyuls, a small town at the intersection of France and Spain, told us about their Airbnb, I jumped at the chance to organize my own immersion boot camp around their home base. Not only did it look like paradise, from what I could tell it would not be overrun with aspiring English-speakers who switch to their (often superior) English upon hearing your accent—too often the language-learning plight of Americans abroad.

With no privately run camps in Banyuls, I put William and Cordelia in the local, government-run day camp to the tune of 10 euros per child per day (as long as 7:45 AM-6:30 PM!), approximately 1/20 the cost of most New York camps. On Day One our residual jet lag awoke us for sunrise, and we and had a gleeful long, hands-free walk downhill to camp. I dropped them off with the Director (who spoke zero English!) at 8AM, and was proud that we said good-bye sans resistance, tears, or even visible qualms. I, however, was nervous as a cat all day. It’s always a leap of faith dropping your children someplace new; until you see their faces again, intrusive thoughts can abound.

Putting on their game faces upon being dropped off at camp. With William on the cusp of both age groups, they hoped they would be together but even rallied when we learned otherwise.

At the end of the day I showed up ridiculously early to find very alive and happy kids. After William’s French-fry quip, upon my greeting them in French, they skipped and talked over each other and ranted about how bad the food was, crying, “I thought this was France”! In that sense, we did get what we paid for. But in every other way, we hit the jackpot, as a sweet, safe, organized team of well-intentioned souls kept my kids thriving doing what kids do best: play outside with other kids, the most universal language of all. It was clear I had nothing to worry about and could spend the rest of my days working from home (or café) as planned.

The rest of my camp dropoffs would be followed by marathon training runs to stay remotely on track for the November date that looms large. Concerned I wouldn’t find long enough runnable routes, I soon pinched myself to discover the most amazing and seemingly endless path through wine country, replacing my normal Central Park markers with vineyards and signposts naming the grapes: grenache, carignan, mourvèdre, syrah, cinsault, and so on. Uphill out, downhill back, and uphill again to reach home, I would finish in the sea, replacing my usual epsom run-recovery bath with the real deal. After the day’s work, I’d walk back to get the kids and together we’d pick up the evening’s provisions, hit the local trampoline and bouncy house park—situated on the beach—on our walk home, and then I’d feed everyone sandwich-style. After a few days, they did mention looking forward to hot meals, “when Daddy gets here.”

With Daddy not arriving till Monday and no weekend plans, I began frantically asking around for babysitters and doubtfully contacted the local tennis club to see how much tennis I could possibly book. A stroke of luck (pun intended) led us to tennis pro Ronan at Banyuls-sur-Mer Tennis and Paddle Club and his wonderful girlfriend Corrine who often works from the clubhouse while he teaches. This generous pair became our companions for four days of tennis and talk against a backdrop of mountains or sea, depending on your side of the court. Ronan had little English, and my heart soared listening to the kids get more fluent in tennis French; our favorite new word: topspin is called “le lift.” For 25 euro an hour (1/5 -1/10 NY prices), Ronan was an excellent instructor who explained to us that, unlike in the States, tennis teachers in France are not usually former pros; they are trained to teach. He also explained the emphasis on strategy over aggression. I could take a page from that book, but it is hard for a leopard to change her spots.

At 6, Cordelia is dead serious about her tennis. And yes, that seems to be the only shirt she wears; I have since hidden it.

While the kids were in lessons, Corinne and I typed away together, often pausing to chat about work or life, particularly her fascinating career in corporate accountability (here is a link to her fascinating “think and act tank”). My heart soared for myself this time as I gained a new French vocabulary in discussing her field. She also insisted on driving me to take care of errands and to drop us off in town after tennis. Her greatest gift: introducing us to Subea’s game-changing snorkeling masks and taking the trouble to bring and loan us her three, which allowed us to have a snorkeling epiphany that would have otherwise never occurred, as we were inept and impatient with the traditional “tuba” style mask. These coveted masks which cover the full face and make the sea your aquarium have been largely unavailable as they were needed in hospitals for ventilators. She let us keep them all week and we had many an Octopus Teacher moment thanks to her.

I’ll be forever happy that Bret got to join us for our last day with Ronan and Corinne before they started a short holiday in Ronan’s hometown of Nantes. The kids had their lessons while Bret and I played alongside an older couple who were battling it out in an all-too-familiar way. “C’est la guerre,” the wife cried. I roared and told Bret she’d screamed, “This is war.” Overhearing me she added, “C’est vrai, j’en peux plus de lui (“It’s true, I can’t take him any more!”), upon which I told them my favorite marital tennis quip, “It’s divorce court.” That seemed to translate. After tennis we shared a bottle of rosé to mark the end of our mini tennis camp with Ronan, who gave the kids medals, offered to pick us up in Barcelona “next time,” and suggested our taking his place in Nantes, “if we are interested in seeing Brittany.” I translated at a furious rate, but the mutual affection we’d all somehow formed of course needed no words. It did, however, break my heart a little on parting. The feeling of overwhelming gratitude I’ve experienced more than few times on this trip so far is not only good for the soul, I know, but it’s a little terrifying, too.

Epilogue

Sick off making sandwiches, by Thursday that first week I let us eat in town, though I was worried about tourist traps along the beachfront in this wonderfully not-too-posh town. Settling at a restaurant our friends had unenthusiastically approved after haggling a table on the grounds that “we’d be quick” while fending off complaints of heat, hunger, and fatigue, I’d about had it when we were approached by an older man, who I soon realized had some dementia. Our conversation made for one of those endearing slices of life that either occur or are perceived more frequently when traveling. My translation as memory serves:

Man: Your son is nice.
Me: Thank you.
Man: We’ve already been speaking. I was very impressed. His French is very good. And he’s reading in English.
Me: Well I hope so, I wish he was reading in French! That’s what we’re here working on.
Man: Where are you from?
Me: New York. Are you from here?
Man (Opening his wallet): Yes. And you know what, I succeeded at life.
Me: Tell me. (He presents an ID card) What is that for?
Man: I was a post officer. (He speaks to related accolades that I couldn’t quite grasp.)
Me: Congratulations. I hope you got to retire early. (Noticing his ring) You are married?
Man: Yes. For 40 years. Let me tell you something.
Me (Expecting news of kids and/or grandkids): Please.
Man: My parrot is 35-years old.
Me: No.
Man: Let me ask you something. You were there when the towers fell?
Me (My face falling): No, but their dad was.
Man: Is he okay?
Me: Oh yes, but he wasn’t far. And we have so many friends who… (I trailed off, addled with sudden thoughts). She (gesturing to Cordelia) doesn’t know about it, I don’t think, but he does. (I nod at William, who had been following our conversation.)
Man: Yes, I can see it in his eyes.