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June 4, 2015

     Monday the long progress to Caunes took place.  Beau was returned to me by Eric, the entrepreneur with an MBA who created "Doggies & Compagnie", a professionalized dog care service.  Eric is blue-eyed, tall and slender, with curly hair.   He is always stylishly dressed for the country.  He has completely computerized all aspects of caring for the 400-500 dogs put in his hands each year.  Beau's bag of "must haves" is returned to me with a form inside specifying what was in the bag, what the protocol is for feeding him and what specifically characterizes my dog --a tendency to shake his head from time to time.

     Eric tells me I ought to take Beau to the veterinarian upon my return to Caunes to be sure that no French insect against which Beau might be unvaccinated has caused him to itch.  "It might just be a nervous tic, but it would be good to make sure."

     I walk Eric to his van, emblazoned with the "Doggies & Compagnie" logo, and I let him know I will confirm the dates Beau will return to him and his wife, Gabriela, in the fall.  He is off, and I return to the hotel with Beau to await the taxi to Gare d'Austerlitz.

     The taxi arrives and gets me right to the entrance to the station, which is tucked in behind the car park in a dark spot.  I manage the "green monster" (the enormous suitcase that has been my companion in moving over the last three years), plus Beau's bag and the bag in which I carry my important documents and the knapsack on my back and Beau, although very slowly.  Step by step I make my way to the SNCF office and ask for a porter.  "Hannibal", an available porter, is called by the clerk at the desk, but he declines to help.

     "I'm disabled", I say, without skipping a beat.  My train is forty-five minutes away, but without a porter Beau and I will never make it to the train in one piece.

      "Where is your carte d'invalidity?", asks the clerk.  "I don't have one",  I reply, "I'm a foreigner --but see", I say, pointing to Beau, who is wearing his travel vest-- "my dog is an emotional support dog."

        The clerk picks up the phone again and a nearby porter, "Naz", happily takes me to the train, which is a very old train on which I have a second class seat in an area once dedicated to sleepers, three on each side of the compartment.  Naz hoists the green monster onto the top shelf and I am grateful, as well as curious how I am going to get the suitcase down without mishap.  I tip Naz and settle myself in the car, as does Beau, who jumps up on the old seat.


        A few minutes before the train departs my seat companions arrive.  All women, two bound for Cahors, one for Montauban and one, like me, for Toulouse.  They are cordial and don't mind Beau a bit.  The train takes off and although the journey is long --I won't get to Toulouse for six hours, the train stops infrequently: in Orleans and Limoges, Cahors and Montauban and a few stops in between--before arriving promptly in Toulouse.  The last of the women, Claudine, a nurse specializing in rheumatology working in Toulouse, has no qualms in asking a man in the next compartment to get my suitcase down.  The man next door, whom I take to be from Sri Lanka, obliges --although from the tone of Claudine's way with him, I don't think he had much choice. --And who's complaining?

       I say goodbye to Claudine and agree to consider having her demonstrate a cooking device she has started selling to supplement her income in retirement in a few years.  She has been generous with me, and without her kindness I would have been lost; perhaps the machine --which she claims makes soups and ice cream-- will be worth a look.  I put the folder she gives me in my knapsack and as she takes her leave of me, I see a young female porter coming towards me.

      The clerk in Paris kindly arranged for a porter to meet my train beside the car I travelled in.  I had my doubts about the reliability of the instruction, but am happily proved entirely wrong.  The young woman is not as strong as "Naz", so she takes only the "green monster", but I could not be happier.  She takes me to the taxi stand where, in another stroke of good luck, I get a young woman taxi driver who is not only courteous, but smart enough to drive me to the airport and deposit me at the pick-up location for my leased car, thereby saving me having to unload everything and take a van there.

      The young man at the company counter is much more helpful than the two men who met me last year, loading the suitcases into the trunk, showing me everything I need to know about how the car works, detailing the terms of the contract and giving me water for Beau.  After a pause for refreshment, we are off, the midnight blue Citroen, handling much more smoothly than the Renaults of the last two years.

      After stopping at a nearby gas station to fill up the tank and purchase something to eat upon arrival in Caunes, I head for the peage, the toll road, which will allow me to go at 130 kilometers an hour, a little over 80 mph.  The traffic is insignificant, and I fly on the roads.  The GPS guides me  out of Carcassonne, the last stop on the highway, and I am soon home.

     It is still light outside and warm.  I take the key out and turn it in the lock.  I have not forgotten how to turn the electricity on, nor how to turn on the water.  After a bit of struggle, I get the internet, the TV and the phone working.  To bed after a snack.  When Beau and I awake the next day it is twelve hours later.

     Since then, I have essentially done nothing: a visit to La Marbrerie on Tuesday to pick up the three packages that I sent there (rather than risk having them stolen, as often happens when items are sent to a private address); a visit to the post office first thing Wednesday morning to pick up the fourth box, which was re-boxed somewhere in France, having arrived torn.  All my packages are intact, including the universal DVD player I stored in the "green monster", along with "motion lights" to put in the stairwell between the second floor and the attic.

     It has been a long haul, both figuratively and practically, but it is also the last time I will ever work like a stevedore to bring cargo anywhere.  Walking into the house I see how beautiful, airy and cool it is.  Walking about Caunes I see everything in bloom --the spring rains were good, the cherry trees laden with fruit, the roses --climbers and stems-- all in gorgeous bloom.  The perfume of flowers fills the air, and the birds are happily atwitter.  Mozart's concerto for clarinet is playing as I write this, and nothing could be more apt.

     Walking around the village I run into everyone I know, and without exception, I am greeted generously.  This morning I went to the cafe for a cafe au lait and stayed to take in the scene:  There will be a bal musette in Villefranche, the next village over, a week from Friday; the kiosk is now selling a wider range of reading matter than last year.

     Walking towards the soccer field where I take Beau to run each day, I run into Madame Averrous, a widow who runs a cave de degustation, a wine cellar that offers tastings.  She is using a small walker to get to the cave, which is down the street from her house.  I remark that the use of the walker is something new, and she tells me she has decided to use it, as her cane does not supply her with the stability she needs.  However, it gets her where she needs to go, she says, and that is what is important, to keep moving.

       In sum, that's the Caunois for you.  No matter the limitations life places on you, the important thing is to keep going --with a smile.