When we pulled up stakes in California and lit out for the territory for a year in France, we had some tough decisions to make about what found its way into the suitcases and what did not. Once you get past the bare necessities – clothes, toothbrushes, and ukuleles – that’s when the hard decisions start.

For example, despite a crafty late-game, end-around maneuver from Kinsey, pets were pretty much off the list. And, to be fair, from the sounds of it, our cats didn’t much appreciate being zipped into that rolling suitcase, anyway.

For my part, refried beans had barely made it onto my list before they were summarily dispatched…another early casualty of Kristanne’s controversial – some might even say draconian – “One Heaton, One Suitcase, Zero Dissent” policy. As we enter Month Eight here in the Burrito Wasteland of France (not its official name), with its green bean “salsas” and “sour cream” that looks and tastes suspiciously like yogurt, I do believe ole Chairman Mom-Tse Kristanne may be rethinking that particular Great Leap Forward. Fortunately for us, the impending (not to mention long-awaited) arrival of Grandparents Rosalie & Calvin and their clanking suitcases full of Rosarita’s finest should be cause both for celebrations here in Grenoble and a whole lot of puzzled Customs Agents in Paris.

who brings refried beans to france, anyway?

And so the packing went, with the inevitable tradeoffs, one-sided exchanges, and outright fleecings, most of which were at my expense (seriously, how did the kids bamboozle me into bringing two extra Lego sets in exchange for carrying my favorite coffee cup?).

To the surprise of no one, despite my most nefarious efforts, I just couldn’t seem to shoehorn a drum kit into anyone’s carry-on without them noticing. I did very nearly manage to replace Quinn’s Pokemon card collection with a carefully concealed hi-hat stand and a pair of bongos,but Quinn sniffed (and snuffed) that one out at the last second. My still-formative dreams of busking my way to legend in the Paris Metro with nothing but my badass bongo beats and freestyle rapping flow to sustain me were unceremoniously dashed, although in retrospect, this was quite possibly the best possible result, both for me and for Paris. Nonetheless, The Year Without Drums (not actually on the Chinese calendar) was definitely taking shape over the horizon.

If you can’t find your drums, though, sometimes they find you. Besides sounding suitably new-agey, in a “pass the granola and don’t spare the healing crystals” sort of way, this could also double as the motto of liquored-up, drug-addled drummers the world over (“Seriously, bro…where are my drums? I swear, I left them right here next to the bass player”).

As previously documented in these very pages, reacquainting myself with a drum kit didn’t require a stint in Drummer Rehab, the sale of my soul at the nearest crossroads, or even a trip down to the local French music store – all I had to do was go to an all-day baseball tournament in Cruzilles and badly muff a few French conversations with fellow baseball parents…something I was pretty much going to do anyway.

Quinn’s baseball tournaments are all-day ordeals affairs. Games alternate so that Quinn’s team will play one game, followed by one game off, followed by one game on, followed by every single parent in the stands making a mental note to pack a portable margarita machine for the next tournament.

When I’m not watching live games, I spend most of my time hunting down my fellow Grenoble Grizzly parents and subjecting them to whatever dialog my long-suffering French teacher has managed to impart upon me during this week’s lesson. One week, I’ll try to put everything in the future tense, just because I just learned it (“I will go sit and I will go watch while you will go do something else in the future, will that ok be?”), while the next, I’ll somehow work every single possessive pronoun known to man into the same sentence (“So, I will give her quiche to his friend so their children will happy to be with your help?”).

This particular week’s French lesson had been the weather, giving me an enviable surfeit of new meteorological vocabulary with which to beset, belabor, and bedraggle those wretched Grizzly parents unfortunate enough to have chosen this ill-fated week as the tournament they would attend.

I was in the zone this week, too, chatting it up about fog (there wasn’t any), storms (nope, those either)…even lightning (haven’t seen any the whole time we’ve been here). So, after concluding my latest remarks on clouds with the most recent passerby unlucky enough to take the wrong route back from le snack bar, I chanced to notice a fellow Dad tucked into a shadowed corner of the stands, furtively reading a guitar magazine.

This guy was wise to my game and was doing an impressive job of avoiding my ever-more-furious attempts to catch his eye and spark a little…well, “conversation” would be the charitable term. “Misbegotten, accented stuttering about different types of rain” would be a tad more accurate. You can really only avoid a persistently loud American for so long – just ask Iraq – before you have to acknowledge them; that was this poor fellow’s undoing, too. It is also, I believe, much the same way the Louisiana Purchase was effected – “Mon dieu, mes frères, will this Jefferson fellow ever shut up about the weather? Someone give him a third of the future USA, tout de suite.”

Perhaps my unfortunate new friend was just trying to speed me along on my merry way by bequeathing unto me the relative equivalent of what Americans now fondly refer to as “flyover states” (note to self – really stretching the whole “Louisiana Purchase” comparison here), but I was eventually given a chance to audition with his jazz group. This, despite the fact, as he described to his compatriots in his introductory email, that “il ne maitrise pas très bien la langue de Molière.” This translates to “He hasn’t mastered the language of Molière very well,” which is actually the very nicest way I’ve ever been called an idiot, thank you very much.

i didn’t want to talk like some lousy french playwright, anyway – look, a cloud!

The name of our band is “Atout Jazz,” which I translate as “The Jazz Advantage,” even though it possibly means something else entirely. We have a rotating cast of up to eleven players in various combos…clarinets, guitars, saxes, keys, and drums. That’s my standard view of our regular Wednesday night rehearsal room, taken, in this case, right before they all bum-rushed the drum kit and tossed me dismissively to the floor in retribution for “all those damn fills.” Have I mentioned that I occasionally pass the time during slower numbers by concocting little play-action fantasies? No? Perhaps I’ll save that for later, along with my long-winded diatribe against Molière’s crappy comedies that aren’t even funny in the first place.

These guys are all enrolled in a public music school for all ages called La Portée de Tous. It’s a pretty great thing – like a continuing education school for musicians, with groups for all ages, from semi-retired guys looking to reconnect with their instruments, to former touring musicians, to folks picking up and learning a new instrument for the very first time. There’s a very French “tous ensemble” aspect to the whole thing – “Hey, let’s all get together and play some music! It’ll be great!”

Of course, the other “very French” part of this experience is that whatever French people do, they very much want to do it well. The French don’t seem to value the effort so much as they do the end result…a bit of a contrast to the US, where trying is often enough, regardless of the result. They also definitely do not like to look silly, despite what we previously believed having seen some of their wardrobe choices on the ski slopes.

We have several French friends who have lived in the US for years at a time and one of the things they consistently remark on is how Americans are always talking about “how awesome everything is” and how “everyone is doing so great!” They see this as a little humorous, but also genuinely appreciate this positive departure from Gallic perspectives that can occasionally be characterized as cynical, pessimistic, or even jaundiced. Have I mentioned that this week’s English lesson focused on synonyms for “negative”?

French people will not blow smoke about your performance – they will pointedly tell you how you are doing, unflinchingly and occasionally somewhat painfully. This is true both between parents and children and between peers. Our weekly rehearsals typically involve quite a bit of pointed criticism (and some semi-petulant foot-stomping), though thankfully they all stop and reassure me in English about how totally awesome I’m doing. Thanks, guys.

It’s an interesting cultural difference and it comes up not just in my jazz group, but also in sports and anywhere else performance is involved. It’s not enough to try. You must do well. You must do well, or you will receive quite a lot of unsolicited advice on exactly where and how you could improve.

i’ve seen a million faces, and i’ve jazzed them all

So, yeah, with that forgiving French attitude in mind, I was really looking forward to our big concert a couple weeks ago…maybe I could blow an intro or drop a stick and get angrily lectured in French afterwards for a few hours while they all stoked their inner Molières at my expense. “Oboy,” I thought. “Oboy.”

As it turns out, my worries were for naught. We knocked out our three numbers plus an encore without any major mishaps. I come from a solid rock tradition, so jazz drumming is not always natural to me, but it’s been fun to stretch my chops and swing a bit. And, I even remembered the key difference between jazz and rock drum solos for my massive 32-bar throwdown on “Lullaby of Birdland” – with jazz, you light the drumsticks on fire during the solo rather than before. Subtle but crucial distinction. And, yes, real jazz guys probably don’t typically refer to their solos as “throwdowns” – add “jazz” to the list of langues that je ne maitrise pas très bien.

Best of all, Kristanne and the kids were in the house, sporting suitably jazzed up threads as you can see in the pictures above. The kids have only seen me play drums a very few times, so it was neat to show them what I do when I leave on Wednesday evenings before bedtime. Right after I check another supermarket for refried beans and solid conversation about the weather, that is.

That’s it for this time out! We’re all extremely pumped to head off to Paris here in a few days, bound to reclaim Kristanne’s parents, the Original Extreme Fellow Travellers, Calvin and Rosalie. In addition to being all-around awesome folks and cherished grandparents, Calvin and Rosalie are also co-creators of the infamous “Just Drive, Punk” death stare, invented during a memorable Ginger Boy-fueled long march up the East Coast from DC to Boston in the back of a VW van. We can’t wait to see what they have in store for us this time!

On the way back from Paris, we’ll be checking out some top-notch monasteries, so definitely come back for that installment. I’m already trying to come up with new puns for “Cistercian” and “Benedictine.” It’s actually harder than it seems, though I’m thinking something to do with “Bactine” might be good. Maybe someone else should write the next installment, come to think of it.

See you next time…on the Odyssey!