Three Valleys
Good afternoon—I am absolutely thrilled to be here and honored to speak at this event. For those who don’t know me, my name is Jaimie and I’m the daughter of a celebrity.
What? Which one? Oh you know the one. He’s a celebrity ‘round these parts and I feel it every time I visit. I still remember when Eve Crompton was little, she looked up at me in awe and said, “George Purnell is your dad?”
Yes, yes he is.
Now I am also a proud Happy Valleyian. As my boys would say, I went to school here in the 1900’s. And yes, we had TV—and it was in color—and I’m not that old. But I am from an era when the sixth grade boys would bring big radios to school, we called them boom boxes, and they would breakdance on the blacktop at recess. We played a cutthroat game we called flubber. And we raised money for the school by selling styrofoam cups of earthworms from Mr. McGuire’s worm bin.
Now as much as I’d love to spend all afternoon reminiscing about Happy Valley in the 80’s, today I’m here to share the story of my dad and three valleys.
The first valley
My dad was born and grew up in a little town in Central Pennsylvania called Bellefonte. And this is a very special town in a very special valley called Nittany Valley. Bellefonte was established in the 1800’s, and has a population of just 6,000 people. It’s filled with tree-lined streets and Victorian architecture and was the home of several Pennsylvania governors.
It’s a place where packs of little kids roam across acres and acres of backyards with no fences. Where they teach you to roll your corn on the cob on an entire stick of butter. And the drug store has a soda fountain serving chocolate cokes.
Growing up, we made an almost annual pilgrimage to this place to visit friends and relatives and spend time outdoors in a place full of big trees and steep mountains. It’s a place where my husband, James, could walk down the street 3,000 miles from here, and someone would call his name. My dad grew up in this place until second grade. Filling a wagon with fruits and vegetables and setting a goal for himself that he wasn’t going home till the wagon was empty. This is a community where kids grow up feeling safe, known, and free to explore. It shaped who my dad is. It taught him the power of immersing yourself in community.
And wouldn’t you know—the nickname for this place? It’s Happy Valley. Which brings us to…
The second valley
As my dad grew up, his world—and his goals—began to expand beyond the first valley. He loved spending time in Scouts, working his way all the way to the top—Eagle Scout. When he was taking me around to sell girl scout cookies, he’d tell me stories about how when he was in scouts he’d sell train cars full of fertilizer. Train cars. To this day, I’m still not sure I even get this.
Ultimately, after college in Nittany Valley,, he is drawn to the computer business. It’s the early days of another valley many of us are familiar with—Silicon Valley.
And so, my dad convinces my mom to move to California so he can pursue a career in high tech. In this valley, he hones his sales skills, learns how to navigate people and organizations, and how to build and develop a loyal team. He practices negotiation. He finds budgets and influences without authority. And he’s exposed to the various financial instruments and mechanisms of the business world.
And it’s no surprise that just over the “hill,” in a place full of big trees and steep mountains, he also finds a community and the third valley in this story.
The third valley
Was it coincidence or fate that he moves to a second Happy Valley? I choose the latter. Because in this valley, my dad finds something he’s been building toward all along.
In Happy Valley, he finds the same sense of community from his childhood. Packs of children running across acres and acres of grass. Egg hunts and pool parties and barbecues. All centered around a little mountain school we all know and love—Happy Valley. This place brings together the best of both valleys—the sense of community from Nittany Valley, and the skills he built in Silicon Valley.
He tells me that when I was in fourth grade, I wouldn’t let him get involved with the school board until I’d left for B-40. Which of course I don’t remember, but sounds like me. As the story goes, he partnered with Joe Allen, Lela Willet and Marianne Dreisbach, and I’m sure many others, championing the endowment fund in its earliest days.
I guess they didn’t think selling styrofoam cups of worms was going to cut it?
He dedicated more than 26 years of service to the Happy Valley school board, driving countless projects, navigating issues, and earning the title—Mayor of Happy Valley.
Just a few weeks ago, at the end of March, I called my dad to wish him a happy birthday. He answers the phone and he’s completely giddy. Seriously, he’s on Cloud 9. He’s spent his entire birthday popping around town and as he describes it, “selling.”
“What are you out selling on your birthday?”
Turns out, he’s been getting sponsors and raising money for Happy Valley. He tells me about all of these special connections he’s made with the dairy and a feed store and a winery. And he shares his sales wisdom that first, you’re selling yourself. Second, you’re selling your organization. And third, you’re selling your product. And he is so very proud of Happy Valley school and its “product”—all of you, our impact on this community, and how it spreads into the world. It’s not a coincidence that my best friend married a Happy Valleyian. That Charles Crompton, Jacob Willet, the McNetts, Nadia Krilanovich, and Geoff Purnell are here.
My dad loves this place and its people. He fights for it. He supports it. He sells it. It’s the heart of his legacy and I know I speak for our entire family in saying, thank you for recognizing my dad’s dedication, grit, and love for this very special place…
this very special valley—Happy Valley.
And its newest hero… George Purnell.
Possibilities
Sometimes I think about how Jacob once described computers to me when he was a little boy.
“I don’t understand why you like computers so much? What is it?”
And he says, “Because you can do anything on a computer, Mom. There are no limits. You can fly. You can be whatever you want. You can do all kinds of things you can’t do in real life.”
That sure stuck with me. Not only was it the clearest, most optimistic view of a world of possibilities, but also it made sense coming from a child who was always striving for more knowledge, more power, and more freedom from the grown-ups fencing-in his life.
Which is why Jake was singularly focused on computer science for as long as I can remember. But with time and maturity and exposure to more options, cracks are starting to form in that resolve. And most certainly the fear-mongering headlines proclaiming all our children’s future jobs will be replaced by AI. Let the record show that a guy I worked with named Paul Oh was whiteboarding about “the cloud” ten years before it became a thing. Same with software-as-a-service– started as “Colo’s,” died, was resurrected practically fifteen years later. Humans love to proclaim our own demise and to overestimate our ability to metabolize change. It’s what we do.
In any case, we had a fun and productive Spring Break college tour road trip. We learned you most certainly can give yourself a tour and you should drive around the campus and get your bearings before you decide to get out. If you decide to get out. For some schools a drive-through is all you need. And having just done the full Cal Poly tour with Sarah, Cora, and Beckett, I was reminded I am not an organized tour person. I find myself consistently wandering off, zoning out, and losing the group. Good thing Sarah was there and we always have plenty to talk about.
So save the ninety minute campus tour for after you’ve been accepted, or if you’re trying to make a hard choice between two or three options. And now, on to the scores! The boys were asked to rate each school on a scale of 1 to 10 with 10 being the best. I do not accept decimal point answers and demand whole number certainty. My rating system, my rules. Did you enjoy that sushi I bought you for lunch? I thought so.
- UC Irvine: N9, J9
- UCLA: N8, J9
- Cal Poly, SLO: N8, J8
- UCSD: N7, J8
- UCSB: N7, J8
- Cal Poly, Pomona: N6, J6
- Harvey Mudd: N3, J4
- Cal Tech: N3, J4
And the winner is… UC Irvine. Followed by UCLA. They both liked big schools with big buildings and big grass. Irvine was centered around a surprisingly pretty central park. And unsurprisingly, the scores plummeted as the temperatures ticked up, the further we wandered inland. Cal Poly, Pomona was deemed, “Same school, worse place.”
Jacob is still considering what he wants to study. Don’t ask too many questions. He says he’ll figure it out. And I have no doubt he will.
Recently I’ve noticed a lot of dust bunnies in the boys bedrooms. I thought it was their down comforters, but I zipped them up in new duvets and it’s still a problem. I ask each of them separately and they both say the same thing…
“What is going on with all of these dust bunnies under your bed?”
“I don’t know… they just spawned in.”
In their worlds, I appreciate that everything is possible.
Road Trip
Spring Break. It’s upon us. One short week from now and we’ll be face-to-face with Spring Break Junior Year. This is a very special Spring Break. The one that is destined to be a road trip. A college tour road trip to be precise. And if you’re related to a junior-soon-to-be-senior but still just a freshman-turning-sophmore, buckle up because we’re not doing this particular trip again two years from now. You’re our designated notetaker. And ChattyG recommends “One trick that works shockingly well” (specifically for teenage boys and college tours)… good thing it doesn’t know how skeptical my teenage boys are of it… her? Them? I don’t know.
Have each of your sons give the campus a 1–10 score within 2 minutes of leaving. Don’t discuss it until the end of the trip.
Nate’s new job.
I’ll never forget this particular trip my junior year. Diane piled Sarah, Alesia, and me into the minivan and took us south. I mostly remember Cal Poly, Pepperdine, and UCLA. At UCLA, we stayed with Sarah’s sister Chrissy and attended one of her pre-med classes. I remember a huge fishbowl auditorium with a tiny little man at the bottom wearing a Lavalier mic. I didn’t understand a word. In my defense, it was pre-med. And he was speaking Chinese.
That night we went to a great party where I remember seeing Urkel and dancing with the younger brother of Kevin from The Wonder Years, possibly known by some people as Ben Savage from Boy Meets World. These incidents may have been on this one road trip or during a handful of college visits. Will we ever really know? No, we won’t. I’ve accepted that many things are no longer knowable.
The other standout memories from this roadtrip were that we met the girls soccer coach at Pepperdine and stayed at the round hotel at the bottom of the hill next to the 405. It’s now been transformed into a modern boutique hotel called Hotel Angeleno, but I remember it being a Holiday Inn. We ate dinner that night at a place with a menu featuring all cuisines– you know, like the Cheesecake Factory but not. It had a page for Mexican and a page for Italian and a page for American and a page for Asian and I distinctly decided, then and there, that a restaurant with everything is a restaurant with nothing. Good, that is.
This year’s trip will also likely feature a Holiday Inn or two– I’m partial to the Express and their pancake machines– they’re a hit with the Club Soccer crowd. Our plan is to drive all the way to San Diego and stay the night in Carlsbad, specifically for donuts at The Goods. We choose colleges based on their vibes and proximity to world class pastries… I’m kidding!
No I’m not.
So here’s the plan:
Of course we’ll be stopping in Little Tokyo because that’s who we are. Then we’ll work our way home and hopefully manage to still have a three-day-weekend. Wish us luck.
La Reine
I forgot I have one more story up my perfectly appointed, pleated Parisian sleeve. Though I’m certainly not the lead author.
On one of our last days in Paris, the big kids went to a shopping experience at Samaritaine, and the dads, Eliza, and I walked to the Musée d’Orsay. This is, hands down, one of my most favorite museums ever. James and I went when we visited Emily in Paris, and I remember having an out of body experience when confronted with Monet’s haystacks in winter. Unfortunately, they’re no longer there, but the impressionist collection is still mesmerizing, even with the crowds. The whole museum is an old train station with a big beautiful clock overlooking the city.
Charles, Dave, Eliza and I depart from the hotel and begin walking down the Champs-Élysées. It’s cold, but the parks are dusted in snow and the sun is shining. Magically beautiful. It’s a thirty-four minute walk according to our handy dandy apps. Eliza is not consulted and therefore, for the record, did not pre-approve the plan.
We set out and all is well. There are a handful of pigeons to chase. And some surprise sidewalk skating puddles. But as we head further and further down an enormous promenade with no destination in sight, Eliza begins to have her doubts. At the crosswalk near the Grand Palais, she refuses to walk further. She stomps her little feet. She cries. She begs and threatens and almost sits down on the sidewalk except that it is wet and freezing and she can’t bring herself to do it.
Her father is a stoic force to be reckoned with. Her uncle a sympathetic observer. I’m confident I can’t piggyback her all the way, so I’m an uninteresting non-option. Charles coaxes her across the street and the opulence and grandeur of the Petit Palais distracts her momentarily. I’m not entirely sure how it begins, but it’s something along the lines of, “Eliza, what is it like to live in this beautiful palace?”
And Queen Eliza emerges. Stepping from her humble beginnings of powerless drudgery, into the life she is born to lead.
She knows exactly what it’s like to live in her palace. It’s full of big beautiful, warm beds and hot baths and the most delicious food you’ve ever seen.
Soon I am invited into her life. But I have to sleep outside in the freezing cold. And use an outhouse. And take cold baths. And eat birdseed. I’m required to work all day in the palace, serving Queen Eliza, but at night I’m relegated back to my outdoor campground.
Then Charles and David are indentured into a life of servitude. They take freezing cold showers and eat scraps and are required to sleep in my same filthy bed outside. Queen Eliza is imperious and ceremonially unforgiving. She mercilessly levies justice. She giveth and she taketh away.
I slowly feed the flame. A little twig here, a scrap of bark there. We walk down by the river and cross over a bridge. I begin to work my way into the Queen’s good graces. It starts with a warm bath, indoors. Then I get a real bed with pillows and a duvet. I no longer have to share with dirty boys. As I take glee in the plight of my servant compatriots, I rise more and more quickly up the ranks. The men who will not carry the Queen are subjected to endless suffering with their one blanket and cold showers in the palace fountain. Soon I have beautiful dresses and tantalizing delicacies and am living my best servant girl life. My very own Bridgerton Season 4.
Queen Eliza strides into line at the D’Orsay, required to wait again with the peasants. She breaks character and I learn she wants to be a YouTuber, a video game designer, and a hotelier. We’ve already got the premise for her first breakout hit.
Call me Sony… you’ll need me.
Built Different
One of our greatest accomplishments in 2025 was Jacob getting his driver’s license. And believe me, it was a team effort. I was head coach. Nate certainly took home the trophy for best passenger. He can teach a master class in sitting quietly and never once backseat driving as he careens toward death. Who’s kid is this?
Jake and I doggedly put in the hours. Driving the loop from home to Laguna to SLO High every morning. And then reversing it every afternoon. It’s one of the hardest things we’ve ever done together. He’ll tell you about how I’d scootch up toward the center console and squint my eyes and exclaim, “Too close, too close!” as I feel my side of the car practically grazing parked cars and ditches and sidewalks. I’m not allowed to shift my weight or move my hands or press my feet to the floor. There’s the day we encounter all the city buses in our lane. The days of roundabout practice with Granddad. And weeks of easing on and off all the pedals. We work on intuitively feeling what other cars are doing and knowing when they’re going to come at you or do something dumb. And my evergreen advice, “Have you ever seen a dead quail? Ever? No you have not. Take your foot off the gas, but do not brake for quail.”
Never has he ever told me he wished Dad was here for something over me. But we one hundred percent agree that James is way better at this than me. I’d been counting on it.
On Friday, July 25th, 2025, we drive down to the DMV for the driving test. Our fate is in the hands of a lady wearing a pink monster truck shirt, jeans, and sandals that keep slipping off. I find a bench outside and the dad in front of us joins me. His daughter also goes to our school and is the next driver up in front of Jacob. We watch as they exit the lot– first parking lot stop sign doesn’t appear to go well. Twenty minutes later, she pulls back across the finish line and parks in the spots. Her dad watches in trepidation. They sit in the car for an eternity. Our hearts sink. He knows she wasn’t ready. I’m watching the worst case scenario unfold before my eyes. Pink Monster Truck finally exits the car and makes a quick escape. I wish him luck and somehow the minivan sits for a second eternity, before driving off.
Jacob’s up next. He leaves with Pink Monster Truck. I watch as the brake lights of the Volvo exit the lot. I call Arlene to help the time pass. Sitting here is too nerve-wracking. Especially after the scene I’ve just watched.
At some point the Volvo comes around the corner and pulls into the spots where the minivan was. They sit in the car for a few minutes. But this time when Pink Monster Truck gets out, she’s smiling, addresses me as Mom and gives me a thumbs-up. Hallelujah praise Jesus.
The good thing is that I know deep down, even if Jake doesn’t pass this test the first time, he won’t take it that hard. He definitely won’t take it personally.
I eagerly ask him for the play-by-play and all I get is, “Of course I passed, Mom. I’m Him.”
“Oh really…”
“Yeah, I’m built different.”
I’m fairly certain I’ve uncovered the origin of all male confidence.
This past Tuesday I text Jacob a picture of his throws shoes, in the bottom locker in his room. They’re for shotput and discus. Since we moved out of the barn, he’s been lamenting they’re lost forever.
Me: “Found ’em!!!”
Jacob: “Thanks”
Me: “I’m Her“
Jacob: “No”
Cuz it makes no sense to put them there
And then you forgot”
Me: “I’m built different”
Jacob & Eliza
It’s good for the boys to spend time with their adopted cousins. The feminine energy is palpable. And yes, the boys are a curiosity unto themselves. But overall a compatible pack.
I particularly enjoyed watching Jacob spend quality time with Eliza. Jake’s sixteen and Eliza’s six. Watching the original boss baby navigate a six-year-old is pure karmic comedy.
After his first night at the kids table, Jacob asks to be “upgraded,” but he continues to drift back. At one meal, I hear him say, “Eliza, you have to eat some of that chicken if you want dessert.”
”Jacob!” I interject, “You can’t just parent other people’s kids.”
Her mother laughs and rolls her eyes and says something along the lines of, “It takes a village.” Next thing I know, Jacob’s reaching across the table and cutting-up Eliza’s chicken for her. She eats it without any additional drama and they both enjoy their desserts.
A few days later, we’re on our tour of the Louvre. Jacob’s in the other group with Eliza. I tell Jennifer Anne that we know Eliza will be the weakest link in terms of how long they can walk on this tour. “But seriously, Jacob will be right behind her.” Later that afternoon, Alesia shows us the cutest, funniest picture of the two of them perched together on a lone gallery chair.
On our final early morning trip to the airport, it’s 6:15am and Jacob finds himself sitting across from Eliza in the van.
”Eliza, stop kicking me.”
”I’m not kicking you.”
”Yes, you are.”
”I can’t help it. My feet havetah dance.”
“No they don’t.”
“Yeah, they do.”
Bonne Chance
On our last day in Paris, we enjoy a lovely Italian lunch in Saint-Germain at Gioia. I was so excited to order the grilled vegetable salad and to finish the meal with a cup of Illy. Italians know coffee. After lunch, Nate and I go looking for a boulangerie while Jacob and the girls eat crepes on the sidewalk. We return as a motorcycle gang rolls-up. For us.
Picture seven French guys on retro motorcycles, complete with sidecars. It’s a bit of a scene. Thirteen of us. Seven of them. The roar of the engines. That moment of unease as everyone pairs off and you find yourself searching the crowd for a partner. One of the guides calls to me and offers me a helmet. I feel special when Eve volunteers to be my sidecar.
Grégoire straps Eve in with her blanket and optional goggles. He tells me I can hold onto the handle or to him, whichever I prefer. And we roll out of there in a rumble of engines, whoops and hollers.
It is exhilirating. It is freezing. Grégoire throttles it as we head down an underpass and I hold onto him for dear life. As we zip around Parisian traffic, passing on the right, and winding in and out of lanes, he tells Eve and me all about the things we pass. We see Jane Birkin’s house. And the beautiful, bougie Place Vendôme. He regales us with history and dates and all kinds of sites and scenery. Eve and I learn all kinds of things about our guide. He’s twenty-four. His mom owns a clothing store. His dad does cybersecurity for the stock exchange. His sister is a waitress. He’s doing this motorcycle gig as he’s prepping to take the French bar exam. He tells me he’s learned all his English through this job, which seems hard to believe, but he’s a smart guy. His job is to make sure we’ve got the entire group, taking side streets and circling back to follow the pack up the hill.
I ask him how many times he’s crashed. Perfect record– except for the time a taxi took off the sidecar’s fender while he was parked at a red light.
We stop for a huge group picture in front of the Moulin Rouge. We scale the streets of Montmarte, tourists and locals waving and snapping pics, arriving at the Sacre Coeur at sunset. Then we descend by the light of a full moon.
It was absolutely my most favorite thing we did, probably because Eve and I got the best guide. Jacob and Nate rode together. I’m told when they passed the last remaining vineyard in Paris, which Grégoire described in great detail…
Their guy pointed to his left and said, “Wine.”
Tête de veau
After our picturesque adventures in Colmar, we boarded the train back to Paris where we spent five unbelievable days. We barely escaped with our lives trying to visit the Jellycat Patisserie. We scaled the Eiffel tower at night. We watched New Year’s Eve fireworks from the Champs d’Elysee. We took a fun and educational walking tour with Pierre. We visited the Louvre with a guide who was a Spurs fan– we let it slide. We saw a show at the Moulin Rouge where Auntie Alesia gave Jacob his first small glass of champagne. And more nudity than they’d bargained for. The look on the boys’ faces was absolutely priceless. The football fans toured the PSG stadium. The kids went shopping in a fancy Parisian department store. We bought chocolates. We bought Eliza’s weight in butter. We ate big lunches and big dinners and tried all the things.
One evening we arrived at Chez Georges on Boulevard Pereire for dinner. Our waiter spoke fluent French but was a confident, elderly British gentleman. We proceed around the table, he gets to Nate, and Nate orders the Calf’s Head.
The waiter presumptuously declares, “No. You won’t eat it.”
“Nate, is that what you want to order?”
“Yes, I’ll eat it.”
The waiter continues to tell my son what he can and can’t have.
“Why?” I ask, “Is it disgusting?”
“Madam, it wouldn’t be on the menu if it wasn’t delicious.”
“Nate, you order what you want. You get to decide.”
Nate orders the calf’s head. Because he’s Nate. He’ll try any food. Brains, tongue, beef cheek? Test him, Mr. Belvedere.
Jacob orders the duck. The rest of the kids order the usual. Everyone’s looking forward to what’s coming next.
Our dishes come and Nate’s is not what I expect. Maybe it’s the beef tongue? Mr. Belvedere is too busy to check on us so I can’t ask him. Jacob has a hefty Staub pot placed in front of him. Everyone digs in.
When everyone’s plates are empty, Mr. Belvedere stops by. I flag him down. “I don’t understand– the calf’s head wasn’t what I was expecting.”
The man goes over to Jacob’s pot and pushes the fork around. There’s nothing left. We all gasp at this surprising turn of events. Mr. Belvedere provides some excuse, blaming Jacob, for why they served the calf’s head to the wrong kid. Nate feels ripped-off. But nothing an entire plate of profiteroles drowned in liquid chocolate can’t soothe.
No one believed Nate would order the calf’s head. They were even more surprised when Jacob ate the entire thing, no questions asked.
Raise adventurous eaters. Check.
Choucroute
We spent several days exploring Colmar and driving out to Kayserburg. We flew down the Tricky Track. We ate street food. David kept ordering mustard and getting giant flatbreads covered in Munster cheese. Unfortunately, we declared the Tarte d’ Alsace better from Trader Joe’s. Fortunately, the hotel buffet was beautiful. The boys filled a minimum of three plates at breakfast every morning. They slathered things with various butters from the butter station. Eliza ate kiwis like egg cups and told me to call her Lil’ Kiwi. And she downed crepe after crepe covered in lemon juice with mashed sugar cubes.
Our first night in Colmar, we walked to dinner at Ville de Paris. We’re seated upstairs in a quaint room perfect for our sizeable party of thirteen. The grown-ups order starters and drinks. We get to Alesia, and she begins odering for some of the littles at the far end of the table. Chicken nuggets and pomme frites. You want four chicken nuggets. You want two pomme frites. No. Three chicken nuggets with pomme frites. One chicken nugget with spaetzle. So you want two chicken nuggets. One pomme frites. One spaetzle.
The waiter’s frustration is rising. We’re all talking. Trying to help. His little calculator order taking machine is trembling. He tells us to read the menu and he’ll come back. We all re-read the menu and it doesn’t make sense. How are pomme frites le plat principal? Aren’t we trying to choose a main dish and a side?
Our server comes back and he has erased everything. He’s punishing us. Oh he did put in our alcohol requests but everything else, c’est fini. We all reorder our entrees and plats again, fully anticipating a side of spit.
Our food finally arrives and we eat what we’re given. Mine was delicious, but I broke the rules and ordered two entrées. Charles is sitting across from me and he’s ordered what he’s calling Chowkraut. It’s a plate of sauerkraut and sausages. The waiter places the dish on the table, and points it right at us. My unnamed companion points out the questionably placed potatoes. I can’t help it. We dissolve into a fit of giggles.
Honestly, it was so indecent I can’t even post the picture on this family-friendlyish blog. Oh, geez… does Esteban work nights?
Free Samples
After the best fully prostrate red eye experience we’ve ever had, we arrive in Paris, pile into some vans, and then pile onto a train. When the rental car pickup doesn’t go as planned, we pile onto another train from Strasbourg to the idyllic little town of Colmar. It’s darling. Decorated to the nines for Christmas.
The next morning, the boys and Amy and I set out to explore. We visit markets, Amy and I drink multiple gluhweins (white and red), and we pop into various shops.
We find a specialty store of spices and teas and Amy buys a present for some friends at home. As she’s making her purchase, the surly shopkeeper turns sweet, bopping the forehead logo on her pink beanie. Turns out they’re both wearing the same beanie brand.
After five or six Christmas markets, we mosey our way back toward the hotel. But first we’re beckoned into a cheese shop. Huge wheels of cheese are displayed just out of reach. The young kid entices us with free samples and engaging Frenglish. We all try the truffle cheese. It’s sheep’s milk so oui, of course we must try all the truffle cheese. The boys agree, the cow’s milk is so much better. We also try nettle cheese and at this point, we’re having so much fun that another man associated with this shop joins in.
Somehow this cheese tasting conversation takes on an… innuendo. As perhaps only the French have mastered. The language barrier is real. It morphs into Spanish. The new guy, Esteban, is built like a a cheese wheel. Barrel-chested if we’re being generous. He’s a man who enjoys his job, suggestively flirting with me while enveloped in a voluptuous vape cloud. I’d forgotten how good I am at flirting with French strangers in Spanish.
They wrap-up and vacuum seal our $50 worth of truffle cheese. Esteban wants to know my name. He definitely bites his bottom lip.
My name?
Zhah-may.
Do you know what that means in French? A flirtatious squint.
Neh-ver.
And we sweep out of the shop with our cheese. Always leave them wanting more.