To The Future

 I returned from  France 10 days ago.  The culture of my village is evolving much to my dismay. More Americans are buying houses in an attempt to escape our government.  They often speak no French but want to learn the language. The Brits who already discovered the village may or may not choose to learn the language.  For she who goes to France to speak French, I find this very disheartening. Merchants  immediately assume people they don't recognize as non French speakers.  This actually makes me  very angry, although if I am among non French speakers with whom I am speaking English, this is a logical assumption.  I am thinking of getting a  giant button that reads "Je parle francais."  It might be possible to get a volunteer job where French is spoken in the village. Or maybe I need to get out of town more. Anyway, this bizarre dilemma of not being able to speak French in France or specifically in Monflanquin requires more thought. I may need to reframe my language practice as quality over quantity. Luckily, my older French friends speak no English. May they all live until 101, the age of my oldest French friend Madame Gerard.

I spend my last  precious weekend in France in Paris. At the top of my list is a visit to Notre Dame de Paris to see  her renovation.  It is possible to reserve a time slot online for visitors, but no spots  are left for this particular weekend.  When I optimistically arrive at the cathedral, the queue to get in looks  intimidating, but I make my way to the end,  quite tricky to determine.  Around me, excited tourists speak Italian, Spanish, German, Dutch, and even some French. One hour later, my little pod is permitted entry. Notre Dame looks stunning. A feeling of awe and appreciation for the labor of love the renovation represents fills me with joy.  Artisans from all over France helped rebirth Notre Dame and in the time frame set by President Macron.  As an unexpected bonus, a mass is taking place as we walk softly along the perimeter of the pews.  Looking all around, I take pictures of the renovation, wishing for a guide to explain the work in detail. Below please enjoy the pictures of Notre Dame in her  renewed glory.

Change is inevitable. We can fight or accept it. Does the renovation of Notre Dame look exactly as before? No, but Notre Dame welcomes us back into her present and into a future meaningful for the individual and the community.  So my Monflanquin is evolving. That will be acceptable as well. Beauty and magic  and the possibility of speaking French still exist.

Get Out of Town, Lady

 So comfortable for me just to hang around the village, do my daily routine, and not really go anywhere except to the grocery store. As my departure time nears, people ask what are your plans for the rest of your stay. Plans? I am supposed to have plans?  I spent all summer avoiding over planning, trying to live in the moment, and enjoy whatever came my way.  Slowly a whisper of a desire creeps in. An adventure? Maybe an adventure?  A little trip to an unknown village on top of a hill. Lunch at a cafe where nobody knows my name. Castelnaud de Gratecamb, situated approximately 9 km from Monflanquin, a classified  "Most Beautiful Village in France", population 516.  I research how to get there in my little car. It seems manageable. Cafe Cambe in the village is highly rated plus as a bonus it sits atop a hill. I call to reserve a table with a view. As usual, I get just a little bit lost on my way to the village and can't find the cafe upon arrival. Luckily, there is a very pregnant woman walking slowly on  one of the main streets. I roll down my window to ask directions to the cafe.  It is just  straight ahead around a corner.  Plenty of parking in front of the cafe.  Victory!

Once inside, the hostess seats me at a table with a lovely view. She pulls up the  traditional slate board with today's fixed lunch menu. For 17 euros, I am entitled to three courses.  The starter salad with home made croutons, vegetable sticks, and bits of  sausage reminds  me of something I myself might throw together for lunch. Then comes my main course: bite size chunks of chicken sitting atop a bed of delicious buttery tagliatelle in a creamy sauce. This reminds  me of a dish grandma might serve. As for dessert, it's fruit in a creamy yogurt.  I look around to see every table filled.  We are all eating the same thing though some ordered beer or wine to drink.  Colleagues from work laugh and chat together. The atmosphere feels friendly and communal.  I decided to pretend I am a restaurant critic who needs to snap many pictures and take notes.  Two servers work  the  crowded room. Consequently, service is slow, but nobody seems to mind. I busy myself between courses by doing my word puzzles, a fun way to pass the time. 

It feels both delightful and strange to sit in Cafe Cambe. Nobody knows me.  What a pleasure to hear only French!  Americans escaping you know who and the usual English holiday makers are changing the nature of Monflanquin, but that's a topic for another post. Below are my pictures taken as my lunch critic persona.

starter salad

chicken in creamy noodles

                                                                     un  petit cafe

Stepping Stools

 

At home, when anything needs fixing or assembling, I just yell "Bill ".  I confess I don't even bother to try. In my French house, yelling for anyone would be futile since the only occupant is me. After Bill and Daniel left in July, I resolved to view my time here alone as a retreat, a chance to work on collaging, knitting, and writing, but also to take time to reflect and work on self development. 

This included  figuring out how to fix and assemble:  I learned how to wind my grandmother clock properly. I sorted out the persistent car issue, repaired the door bell, hung pictures, and changed an abundance of annoying batteries. Then the step stool arrived.

The step stool of course required assembly.  The instructions were in German, not my language.The pictures would help if only I could read pictures. I am all ears. The Amazon reviews claimed it only took ten minutes to assemble the step stool. Eager videos were posted among the reviews. I got out my ladies tool kit. The step stool came with a bunch of screws and an allen wrench, a tool new to me. Okay! How hard could it be? After watching a  few videos, staring helplessly at the pictures on the instructions,  I took the plunge. The included allen wrench seemed sub par so I found an equivalent in my ladies tool box. I ended up using both. Screwing in the screws took forever as my initial clumsiness caused me to drop whatever I held in my hands multiple times. Fortunately, the quality  wood of the step stool stood up valiantly to my abuse.  And every so often, I would scream. "How could this only take ten minutes?' Despite my lack of skills, I kept prodding along and making progress until it came to the last bit. The screws would not line up with the holes. More screaming.  Maybe there is a trick to this assemblage? I decided to text Michael, my renovation wizard.  He advised loosening all the screws to refit the steps.  No! I did not want to do this. Instead I switched the bottom and top steps. Maybe they were  numbered incorrectly.  And by golly, they were!  Success, at last! It only took me five hours, but my step stool felt sturdy and strong.  Now I could wind my clock easily and reach groceries and dishes on the top cupboard shelves. Boy was I proud. I felt such a sense of accomplishment, a sensation that accompanies me throughout my stay here as I reach out to new people, ask merchants if they would sell my book and book marks, give tours of my house to perfect strangers, practice swimming across the pool, interview a new house keeper, and on and on and on. I feel more sturdy and strong  than I did in July. I will pack that feeling in my carry on bag. Maybe just maybe there will be less yelling for Bill at home in Beaverton and more trust in myself.

The Tic Toc Killer and Other Weird Heat Related Phenomena

 About ten days ago, I bought a grandfather clock. See picture above. It just kind of happened. It was the weekend of the  brocante i.e. the antiques fair weekend. I said to Michael and Clare of the Monflanquin shop on the square that I wanted a grandfather clock or  a dog. Well, Michael took me seriously. A few days later, he told me he had found not one but two grandfather clocks which would be delivered to him after restoration that week. 

I did not think that much about it. I did learn that grandfather clock prices decreased significantly over the last few years. Nobody wants that style of furniture. Nobody has room for such a big piece.  In the age of IKEA,  it makes perfect sense. 

When the clocks arrived, Michael showed me the first one prominently displayed in the shop. Meh, I thought. The clock looked absolutely blah. The second clock was locked in his storeroom. As soon as he got a chance, he opened the storeroom for me. It was love at first sight.

Michael and his assistant hand carried the clock from the square. No delivery charge involved. The clock looked lovely in my living room. Sadly, it only chimed for two days before it became audible that something was wrong. In comes the village clock repair expert to disassemble the clock. Boy, was this hard to watch! I told the clock repair expert who shall remain nameless that hopefully, he would repair  her by the end of the week because of my attachment. (This is what happens when you don't have a dog, by the way)  When asked the cause of the repair, he looked at me and said. "She's an old lady." I don't think he was talking about me.

About four hours later, a knock on the door surprised me. It was the clock repair expert who shall remain nameless.  Beaming, he announced the clock repaired. Wow, fastest service ever performed in France! Of course, I thanked him profusely.  She's been chiming like a snazzy old lady ever since.

The next week, the clock expert  reappeared at my door. He wanted to show me something on his phone, a photo of another grandfather clock, almost as pretty as mine with a painting and children.  "Oh, it's the sister of my clock, I exclaimed."  "Yes, wouldn't you like to buy it? Two clocks would look great in your living room.  Michael and I both think so." No way, I thought, but politely, I asked the price and added I would think about it.

When I related this story to Michael and Clare, their first reaction was "cheeky". (They are English)  I agreed. They deemed clock repair expert's behavior highly unusual. Is he that desperate for a sale? Is he interested in you? Is it the heat? I mentioned that each time he comes over, he calls his wife.  "The lady is so happy that I repaired her clock so quickly, I overheard him say."  Hmm, murmured Clare. He talks about a wife, but we never see her. Maybe this wife is fictitious"  "Hmm, murmured Michael. Maybe he is the Tic Toc Killer?" Oh, great. Am I meant to be his next victim as he gains my trust with a fictitious wife and beautiful grandfather clocks? Clearly, the heat was getting to us all, but the imagining was super fun. He has not been back since. It's 106  F.  today. I guess I am safe. 

The Wink

Apricot and Raspberry Confections

 My American friend and I attended an outdoor exercise class this morning. Most of the women including the instructor are from the UK.  The instructor called us "team" and led a no nonsense class At one point she asked us to run around the field. I don't run. I strongly believe that  running is risky and  am not sure any 70 year old  should engage in this particular kind of perilous activity. The instructor caught on right away. "Fast walking is fine too, she cried. 

During class, innocent picnic tables now repurposed for planking were transformed without consent into instruments of torture.  I did the best I could. My exercise class at the Elsie Stuhr Senior Center seems much more civilized. However, overall, I did enjoy the exercises and plan to return.

After class, my friend drove us to the nearby town of Villereal for a much deserved coffee and treat.  The pastries chez Rodo are as light as air.  That must translate into no calories. Ha. (Wink, Wink!)

I decided today would be a no driving day for me as yesterday I bravely drove to the Toyota dealer in Villeneuve-sur- Lot.  Honestly, French drivers who believe that tailgating and passing at ridiculously dangerous times and speeds take all the fun out of driving here. So why was I driving to another town for car service when Monflanquin has a perfectly decent garage here? Because the perfectly decent garage changed ownership and could not sort out why my indicator lights keep flashing.  The Toyota dealer offers me a diagnostic for 89 euros. In addition, they cover your steering wheel and seat with protective plastic and walk with you around the car to look for any pre -existing damage. Of course, a signature or two or three is needed to complete the paper work. The good news is that a couple of problems are detected. The bad news is that the repairs cost 440 euros and would entail my leaving the car there. And who would transport me back and forth? I decided to email my Monflanquin garage to ask if they could do the specific repairs. Of course, came back the reply and for half the amount. My appointment is tomorrow morning. Fingers crossed. 

I entitled this post "The Wink"  because I keep getting winks from mechanics instead of repairs. Could this be a French cultural difference  meaning "sorry, lady" that I know nothing about? 

This Village Got Rhythm

r

Thursday Night Market

 We arrived in France on Bastille Day.  Our friend Nigel picked us up at the Bergerac Airport in my car. We flew Ryan Air, an airline noted for cheap fares and baggage restrictions. We paid extra for permission to bring our carry on bags with us. Still we needed to be vigilant about weight. I was advised to chuck more in my personal item than in the carry on since the personal item would not get weighed. I did as advised. My shoulder started throbbing that evening from the ridiculous weight of my personal item. Luckily, the pain persisted for  only a good part of the week and then subsided. Stretching helped.  Are these budget airlines really worth it?

We got to our house in Monflanquin without a problem despite three dashboard indicator lights that Nigel claimed lit up on the way to the airport. Bizarre!  This meant going to the garage the next day. I assumed it would be a quick fix and decided not to worry about it. Besides,  I was in my little French village, my happy place I  also felt grateful that another friend provided us with a few starter groceries for a simple dinner.  The house felt welcoming and cozy.  At 11 P.M.,despite our great fatigue, we made it to the dazzling psychedelic fireworks overlooking the valley.  Back at the house, I fell quickly into bed. The next morning, we rose early to go hiking with the Tuesday hiking group. Not sure how we managed to do this. It felt a bit like sleep walking at first, but the green lush scenery cheered us on. The hike ended with coffee and goodies at Clara's house. Clara's place impressed us all  with its water lily garden a la Monet. 

The next few days were spent getting back into the rhythm of village life. As always, Thursday is my favorite day here because  of the lively open air market and all the socializing it entails.  It's a chance to reconnect with dear friends who live here year round and second home owners like myself who arrive for the summer.  As a bonus, in the summer,  we are treated to an evening market where we can buy dinner  from a variety of vendors and dance to local entertainment.  As you can see from the above picture, the night market is extremely popular.

The Magic and the Credit Card

 After our fabulous musical treat, we leave Oxford Street humming Evita. It is well past dinner time. We need to find something to eat.  Bill googles a place close by with vegetarian options.  Unfortunately, after 5:30 P.M. dinner is no longer served we are told. Very strange! More googling. Hmmm.  Nothing pops up. A woman closing up the next shop looks friendly. I ask about dinner options. She recommends moving on to China Town. I am still gazing at the baked goods in the window of the restaurant we left. I spot a unique pastry so appropriate for our week in London. 

Wimbledom in Pastry Form

It costs 12 pounds and will remain in the window.  We walk slowly looking for a dinner place; China Town feeling way too far for our  poor tired feet.  On the opposite side of the street sits an Asian Fusion eaterie. Once inside, the staff tells us that we need to order in ten minutes as the kitchen is closing for the night. I go for a pad thai and Bill a rice dish with asparagus. I also order a  refreshing cucumber mint lemonade.  The food arrives quickly. No need to rush we are told, but the place is clearing out. I fumble in my cluttered bag even though Bill will pay. Beyond exhausted, we leave and thank the server. We are maybe half way down the block, when our server catches up to us. "You dropped a credit card on the floor."  What an honest establishment!  Someone could have charged, well, what?  Five Burberry raincoats, three Liberty scarves, and an evening gown from Harrods.  Luckily, the server saved me from going through the aggravation of a lost credit card and feeling like an idiot. I didn't even have time to feel like an idiot!  The third miracle of the day! Truly extraordinary positive travel karma!