What is Physical Therapy Like in France? Candy and Confusion

An acquaintance's tricycle in the village. I miss mine at home.

When I called about getting PT in Monflanquin for my insertional achilles tendinitis with bone spurs, I was told I could pay out of pocket, a grand total of about 90 euros for 5 appointments. I needed to send my prescription, bring the last few notes from my American PT plus my X rays. Also I needed to show up for my appointment with a big towel. This last request baffled me. Why would I need a towel?

The physical therapist wearing shorts and Birkenstock sandals greeted me in English. No, no, no. I speak French, monsieur. And so I did. He stared at me. “Your French is hallucinant. You sound like a native speaker.” Many of his patients are English expats without much French.  If I couldn’t hike this summer , I could at least enjoy communicating with the PT in French. After explaining my issue, I was asked to take off my Hokas and lie down on the table. Ah, the towel is meant for the table. Of course,  wouldn’t you know it? I forgot the towel  so  protective white paper appeared. 

Mettez-vous sur le ventre. “Lie down on your stomach” is something the PT says every time. He applies a cooling menthol lotion for the massage.. Once he hooked me up to a Tens machine.  As far as exercises go, I often get a plastic surfboard (no kidding) to slide back and forth or a black dumbbell to put on my thigh while pumping my ankle up and down.  When I showed him my printed pages of exercises from the states, he whistled in admiration and asked me how much Americans pay for PT in order to go home with such fancy papers. 

When I showed him the X rays on  my phone, the world stopped.  “That is the biggest bone spur  I have ever seen in my career. Congratulations!”  Yes, he is a character. His face kind of twinkles and he likes to crack a joke. Yesterday, he put me on the stationary bike and announced a two and a half hour ride was programmed for me since the female Tour de France would start this coming Saturday. Two weeks ago, he offered every patient peanuts tasting like Cracker Jacks.  “Every patient”  actually means three or four whom he treats in little rooms consecutively. We hang out in our individual rooms doing exercises patiently waiting our turns. 

Today my PT seemed different. He was upset that last night’s medieval outdoor show did not go well. Four hundred people attended, but only those closest to the front could hear the main character.  After a while, a third of the people left. During the telling of his  tale, I tried hard to detect why my PT took the disappointing event so hard. It turns out he belongs to a history association that is expected to attend and support these kinds of shows. Therefore, he critiqued the performance closely and with deep insight. He also went on to describe the role of medical people in the middle ages which was fascinating. Clearly, he is a history buff.

After that he perked up a bit and offered us all Haribo candy to increase our energy. I really needed that candy because I had just come from an energetic session of Aquagym at the pool.

The PT sessions themselves are very relaxed. Some patient do  exercises in the courtyard. Have I made progress? I think so, but it is incredibly slow. 

I leave you with a cool  “ankle” expression learned this summer: ne pas arriver a la cheville de quelqu’un It translates literally to not reaching someone’s ankle. It means to be much worse than someone, not measure up. Which version do you prefer?

I think I like the French better not only because I have an ankle issue but because of the vivid imagery. If I can’t even reach their ankle, I am definitely out of their league.

 

Capers

Caper Flower

Capers are  the pickled unopened flower buds of the plant Capparis Spinosa.  Actually, I never give much thought to capers. Sure I like them and occasionally purchase them at the grocery store.  Last Sunday, my dear older French friend showed me her Capparis Spinosa plants growing alongside her lovely manor in the proximity of Monflanquin.  She cultivates the buds and packs them in vinegar.  Et voila, capers! She sends me home with a jar to enjoy.  This experience feels magical to me as an unknown world  of edible plants waits to be discovered. My friend's knowledge of botanicals comes from growing up in the French countryside.  Being a city girl, I appreciate her wisdom of the earth and hope French children  growing up today in the countryside  are learning  about the world of plants and the mysteries of the land so that they too will share their knowledge with  generations of city folks like me  to come.

 

Heatwave Update

Colorful bracelet with stones from the African country of Mali.

As the world knows, Europe is experiencing a life sucking heat wave. Here in Monflanquin, France, we shut the shades, turn on fans, and for those like myself who are privileged, delight in our air conditioning, a home improvement decision I so wisely made a couple of years ago after too many summers of suffering.  Monflanquin is located in southwestern France where heat waves love to settle. Because the village sits on a hill, the sun beats down on us creating a heat dome.  The hottest part of the afternoon from 4 P.M. to 6 P.M.  can feel unbearable.  Despite my "to do" list, I can't bring myself to go outside. I tell myself the car will feel like a furnace. Can't the "to do" list wait for tomorrow morning? It always does. So I read, watch a French movie,  and do some chores around the house. Yesterday I assembled a luggage rack.  The luggage rack legs could be backwards, but it will support a suitcase. Assemblage is not my department, but assemblage guy Bill is not here at the moment.

On Saturday, needing a change of scenery, I drive to Villereal, a town about 15 minutes away. Usually, I head straight to the Farmer's Market, but today I set out to find the Hippodrome or Race Track.  I'd seen an attractive flyer announcing an Afro-Caribbean Festival at the Hippodrome. Somehow I miss the sign for the Hippodrome, and Blanche, the name of  my GPS, clearly suffering from heat stroke, directs me out into the countryside which is friendly and  beautiful and worth the detour.  Finally, I do find the Hippodrome but cannot find the Afro Caribbean Festival. Where the heck is it hiding?  In the distance, I spot tables set up for meals, and guide the car in that direction.  The possible festival greeter is hanging out near there. He tells me I'm too early although it is  10:00 AM, opening time according to the flyer. He explains that the vacation people sleep late, that the people who regard the Coupe du Monde  won't leave their TV sets, and the vendors will show up shortly. Okay, but I'm here now, and there is no way I am leaving the area after my wild goose chase to find it.  I proceed cautiously into the supposed festival area. Straight ahead are several African jewelry vendors. One in particular catches my eye. The Monsieur sells necklaces and bracelets made from unusual stones. Monsieur hails from Mali. We discuss the beads, where he gets them, how he chooses them etc. Despite his native accent, I understand most of what he explains. I buy the bracelet  shown in the photo above.  It took me a long time to decide on this particular one, but it suits me perfectly and goes with everything.  Not a large purchase, but a purchase none the less. Will anyone actually find this festival without signage? Hopefully, yes for Monsieur who told me he goes around the world selling his stones. He agreed to come to little Villereal as a favor to his sister. Nice guy. Really nice guy.

Not ready to return to Monflanquin, I hit the Villereal Farmers Market. It features a wide selection of fruits, vegetables, cheeses, clothing, table cloths, hair accessories etc.  More shoppers speak English than French.  a typical July phenomenon. This means the absurd challenge of where to speak French  in my little part of France begins for me now. A big thank you to the Monsieur from Mali for our  recent  French conversation. 

I spend most of the time at the market looking for my favorite pastry shop. It is located on a narrow side street.  Once inside, I spot a pastry with an unusual name, Lady Mum, perhaps a wink to all the English women in town. Described as a lemon and lime confection, it sounds appealing.  You can see what it looks like below. It does not disappoint.

Lady Mum

 

Advice direct from the PDX Airport Bathroom

A woman wears an orthopedic boot that catches the eye of several women washing and drying their hands in an airport  bathroom of PDX. I just got out of 

boot like yours, a woman exclaims.  It did not work. My pain is still there. Yes, chirps another woman. Me too.  I am still in pain after wearing a boot. And me too, I chime in. What a funny orthopedic chorus in this bathroom. Then the person  we  would call  Madame Pipi in France, the chief maintenance manager of the bathroom, tells me about a product called Mama Bear. It is a magnesium based lotion with lavender and added botanics that thousands of people recommend on Amazon. Madame Pipi who is 61 and on her feet all day swears by it. So what do you think? Do I try it?

A day after my arrival in Paris, I am in another bathroom, this one in the Gare Montparnasse train station. This time there is a Monsieur Pipi. It looks like his only job is to say bonjour and offer surveillance for the coed facility. It costs 1euro fifty to enter the bathroom.  Luckily the turn style accepts credit and debit cards. On the way out of the bathroom, I notice some shelves 

marked Cadeaux(Gifts).  What? How weird!  I look closely at the shelf where brightly colored toilet paper is for sale as well as some personal care articles. No, Mama Bear is not for sale but it might make a good addition. 

 

 

Lolly's Story - Her First Public Interview with Q Magazine

 Lolly’s Story - Her First Public Interview with Q Magazine

Q: So Lolly, what can you tell us about yourself?

L: First, let me thank you for your time. Despite my difficult beginnings, I know the importance of politeness. Also to clarify, my original name given to me by a sponsor at the Beagle Freedom Project was spelled Lolli. My new folks, Giselle and Bill changed the “i” to a “y” in honor of their previous beagles Lizzy and Maggy.

Q: Where did you live before Freedom FIields in Nowata,

I can relax now

Oklahoma?

L: I am told I was found in Alabama but am not sure where.

Q::What were you doing there?

L. Some horrible human kept me and several other beagles outdoors for hunting and breeding. 

Q: Were you ever allowed indoors?

L: As far as I know, I lived in a crate all year round. It gets cold in Alabama. Brrrr

Q: I am so sorry this happened to you. Were you ever used in laboratory experiments?

L: No, fortunately not.  Too many of my colleagues have been used in cruel animal testing. This needs to stop now. They have numbers tattooed under their floppy ears. So sad.

Q: How did Giselle and Bill find you?

L: After me and my friends were rescued from Alabama, my picture was put up on the Beagle Freedom Project’s web site. Giselle was looking for a female beagle my age, age four. She told me that Bill kept insisting on a puppy. She feels they are too old for a puppy. Miraculously, after Bill saw my picture, he agreed to explore adopting me. Giselle claims that their last beagle Maggy sent me to them to save their marriage. 

Q: So do you think you are a mother? 

L: This could be the case. We will find out after the vet checks me out this week. I was very overweight when I was rescued. I have already lost twelve pounds and look good. Some of my skin looks flabby. Hopefully, with proper diet and exercise, it will firm up.

Q: So what do you think of Giselle and Bill?

L: Giselle is very kind and gentle. She sometimes speaks to me in a  strange language. I think it is called French. She teaches it too. Bill is a jokester. I am still trying to figure him out. He adores beagles and thoughtfully keeps taking me out to pee so I am lucky that way.

Q: How do you feel about living in a home?

L: Well, I am not sure what a home is. I do like hotel rooms, especially the space under the desk. I also don’t understand toys. Maybe that will change.

Q: I really enjoyed meeting you, Lolly. I wish you a happy healthy life with Giselle and Bill.

L: Thank you! All the best to you too.

Bill and I On Our Now Not So Secret Mission Day 3

 Bill and I On  Our Now Not So Secret Secret Mission Day 3

We slept surprisingly well in our not so super Super 8 Hotel by Wyndham.  We kept the lights low so Lolly would get a mellow vibe in the hotel room. What? Wait a minute. Who's Lolly?

That, dear readers, is the question. Lolly is our new beagle found online at Beagle Freedom Fields, a rescue organization for beagles used in animal testing as well as other mistreated or homeless beagles, dogs,  and cats. I will put a link to this rescue organization at the end of my post. Right now, they are expecting 40 lab beagles from Ridglan Farms in Wisconsin where 1500 beagles were recently rescued. Labs favor the use of beagles due to their docile sweet temperament. You can torture them one day, and they will be happy to see you the next. The lab beagles’ ears are tattooed with numbers. As an ardent lover of beagles, this makes me sick.

Our rescue beagle Lolly has a story of her own which I will tell you in tomorrow's post. Until then, enjoy these pictures of her.

Beagle Freedom Fields

https://bfp.org/freedom-fields/

Bill and I On Our Secret Mission Day 2

 Bill and I On Our Secret Mission Day 2

Bill and I are a bit anxious this morning. I find the staff at breakfast annoying. Bill forgets absolutely all of his Eddy Bauer

shirts hung in the closet. Luckily, he went back to take a second look. 

We drive slowly to our first destination. Cows outnumber people around here in Oklahoma.  The scenery is not something to write home about. But I do find it calming. Wide spaces making for peaceful places. 

We stop in front of a large black front gate. The sign reads Beagle Rescue. More tomorrow……

Bill and I On a Secret Mission

 Bill and I On Our Secret Mission Day 1

We arrive at PDX at 10:30 AM. I need coffee, actually my tall decaf non fat no whip mocha. 

It's late morning. The airport is eerily quiet. We are waiting for our flight to Denver.  A weather advisory may have scared people yesterday to avoid Denver today.As usual, Bill and I get the choice seats not far from the bathroom. 

Our luggage is packed with some unusual items which  cannot be revealed at this time.Upon our arrival in Denver, we barely see any snow. Our flight to Tulsa is delayed due to the lack of a pilot. It’s a good but annoying reason to sit on a plane for an hour.  Perusing movie options, I find the French film, Vie Privee with Jodie Foster who studied at a French Immersion School as a child and speaks French fluently.The film appeared at the Cannes Film Festival last year. I am delighted to be able to view it while we wait for our pilot. It is in French with English subtitles. The great French actor Daniel Auteuil who is still making movies at age 76 stars alongside Jodie Foster. I would like to describe the movie, but  am not sure how. It is a combination of intrigue,” who done it” , psychological thriller, and most of all very French.  What do I mean by very French? That’s the indescribable part. There is a certain mystique  in certain moments of the film: Jodie Foster running in 6 inch heels, the amount of wine consumed at dinner, the spot light  on the beautiful wrinkled faces of the actors, the mood lighting C’est comme ca.

We are now comfortably tucked in at our hotel in Bartlesville, Oklahoma for the night. Tomorrow is a very big day for us and a very big reveal for you, my friends.  Good night! 

10 Tips from an Arctic New York City Fashionista (ha ha) no links included

 

Getting ready to board the J train to Manhattan

Always start with the shoes, ladies. Comfortable and sturdy shoes are a must.

1. Dansko boots - wonderful for bone spur and plantar fasciitis issues

2. Socks with some cashmere and wool for toasty cozy feet

3. Ann Klein pull up pants - tres chic

4. 32 Degrees soft thermal underwear- you won’t know you have them on

5. 32 Degrees light weight and warm winter coat - love this brand

6. Mittens with faux leather palm pads for gripping subway rails

7. Cashmere scarf - ask for as a holiday gift

8. Beat up Baggallini travel purse in gray to match the weather

9. Trader Joe’s adorable cheese tote - “very grate”

10. Fold up travel stick - a life saver for navigating snow banks and slush

           Bonus tip: white hat that covers ears- important for being seen at night and not screaming from frost bite

If you have any arctic fashionista tips of your own, please put them in the comments.

AND DON'T FORGET THE SUGAR

 "bouffer la vie a pleines dents" - to enjoy life to the fullest

A dear  friend and I meet for a Friday afternoon walk. On the way back, I suggest coffee in the shopping center across  from the nature trail. We arrive at the coffee shop  to find the place closed. Next door is a deli we don’t know , but figure we could at least get a cup of coffee or tea there and continue chatting. The deli is empty and quiet. We order two cups of tea. The deli owner does not inquire if we want herbal, green, or generic tea, but heats water up in his electric kettle and serves us two cups of Lipton tea, “America’s favorite”. Do we want sugar or creamer? he graciously asks. We want nothing. My friend brings her own sweetener. I usually take my tea “au nature”.  

We discuss  the recent loss of my beloved sweet dog Maggy, how hard it is to adjust to change, hair colour choices and  our  over-consumption of holiday chocolate. The deli remains empty except for a woman who darts in  quickly  to buy a lottery ticket.  The  deli owner wishes her good luck. He’s nice, this guy. I try to get a general sense of the deli. The menu looks Greek- Lebanese. There’s even  baklava for dessert.  On the counter sit a couple of unlabeled jars of homemade Za’atar which is a Middle Eastern spice blend typically of thyme, oregano, marjoram, toasted sesame seeds, sumac, and salt.  A big fan of Middle Eastern cuisine, I use Za’atar regularly . In fact, my jar of Za’atar  at home needs refilling.  Just  a few days ago,  I asked my husband Bill to get Za’atar at his favorite discount grocery store, but he could not find it.  I contemplate purchasing  the spice mix here. The sign says Za’atar $5.00.  That seems reasonable enough.

After a while, my friend and I make our way to the counter to pay. We ask how much we owe. The guy asks us how much we want to pay.  This reminds me of France and my  ridiculously nice electrician. My friend and I look at each other.  I am going to pay for his Za’atar and deal with the tea later. Meanwhile she gives him $4.00 for her tea. He gives her $2.00 in change and says he really feels he should not charge us at all.  I give him $4.00 for my tea which he refuses saying my friend  already paid for both. He asks me if I know how to use Za’atar. Of course, I  proudly put it on chicken.  No, no no. You take two plates. Fill one with olive oil; the other with Za’atar. Dip your pita bread first in the oil, then in the spice mix. Enjoy with a cup of tea with sugar.  Sugar? Is this important?  We make conversation with this lovely man for a few more  minutes. We turn to leave. He calls out: “And don’t forget the sugar.”

Our lovely man strikes me as someone who lives life to the fullest. In French we say “bouffer la vie a pleines dents”. You may recognize the verb “ bouffer” to eat and “a pleines dents”  with full teeth. I am grateful for his reminder to sprinkle life with sugar and spice as my sadness over the recent loss of my pet feels overwhelming. 

I will end by wishing you all a wonderful, healthy and happy “ Bonne Annee 2026”. “And don’t forget the sugar.”

The French love sugar cubes

The Family Gourmet

 The Gourmet in the Family

It may surprise you that the gourmet in our family is not me, but Maggy, our 16 year old beagle. 

This happened quite subtly over time. After years of eating the same old dog  kibble, she looked at her bowl in disgust. At least, it seemed like disgust. It turned out to be  one of the first symptoms of a life threatening disease called Addison’s Disease. Addison’s Disease is a hormone disorder in which a dog’s adrenal glands don’t make enough cortisol to respond to stress, maintain electrolyte balance, and regulate blood sugar and hydration.  The same disease can occur in humans. One of the most famous victims was president John F Kennedy. 

The vets did not diagnose Maggy’s condition for a long time because she did not fit the profile of an Addison dog, mainly  due to her age. We finally brought her to Dove Lewis Animal Hospital in Portland when she went into crisis. On the way to the hospital, I did not think she would make it. I thought for sure I would be told, sorry, lady, you’ve got an old dog. After a series of tests, the kind Dove Lewis vet,  sat with us and explained Maggy’s condition. The good news is that Addison’s Disease is easily treated with steroids and most dogs go on to live happy healthy lives. So be it. Maggy is now 16. We saved her life two years ago. 

Maggy spent two nights in the hospital. We visited her as soon as possible. The vet tech told us that Maggy found hospital food bland so they introduced her to Costco canned chicken. It was love at first bite. Maggy barely acknowledged us and clung to the purveyor of her new love,  canned chicken.  I immediately joined Costco and stocked up. Maggy had lost seven pounds which is enormous for a dog. Since then,  she consistently consumes her chicken, but in the last year or so is fussy about her kibble. We alternate different brands and sprinkle delicious toppings from Trader Joe’s dog treat section. Maggy must take steroids to live. Hiding them in a bit of cream cheese was working, but then a new pickiness set in when she rejected everything we stock in our fridge. What to do? We tried goat cheese, liverwurst, hot dogs and peanut butter. She would be okay with one of these selections for a while then pouf turn up her beagle nose at them. There were days in which we could not get her to take her meds at all. Very distressing. Then I read about the “rule of three” as I call it. Three pieces of hot dog for example. The first without meds, the second with meds, and the third without.  Amazingly, this works at least for now. Fingers crossed, we won’t need to upgrade to French pate and caviar.

Recent photo of the Gourmet this Halloween Season

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

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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!

The Magic and the Music

 

Same day.  Evening time. We discuss going to the side of the Palladium Theatre in London  where the actress who plays Evita, Rachel Zegler, comes out onto the balcony singing “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina”  to delight  passerbys around 9 P.M. We will never make it, I think, as Bill is still napping peacefully after our stressful afternoon. Suddenly, his head pops up to announce, “Let’s go hear Evita.”  Honestly, my feet do not want to cooperate, but my head thinks, why not?

How to get there? Here we go again. As you may conjecture, London is a confusing place to navigate even for a GPS. We study Maps and off we pop. Amazingly, we experience no difficulty arriving at the theatre and are even early.  When Rachel Zegler steps out onto the balcony and begins to sing the beautiful melody of Evita, I tear up. Bill and I got here successfully, we are in fabulous London, and the magic of the moment and the  music hugs and reassures us that life is beautiful.