A Life Less Ordinary

Thursday, June 11, 2015

     I am in the middle of my second week in Caunes, and find myself astonished by how little I am accomplishing, compared to the pace I set myself in New York City.

      In the great city, the offerings --theatre, movies, museums, concerts, "one off" events, restaurants -- motivate contact with other people, as much as the desire to see friends does.  When I was in the "swim" of life in New York City, it was second nature to consult the Times to find out what their critics had found worthwhile.  This went on all the time I was living all the year in New York City, it's. part of the process of forming one's tastes: I don't like rock music, I like jazz more --but not all types of jazz, I like orchestra concerts, I like chamber music more, I love opera.

         At a certain point, though --at least in my case-- having seen and heard many performers, many of them "great", the excitement about new ones isn't there.  The same thing is true of new art exhibits, and many of the new movies.

            I don't like the jostling crowds at either the "Met" opera or the "Met" museum.  I don't like the conversion of museums into retail shopping outlets.  I don't like the crush of theatre goers heading for the bar at intermission, arms flailing to get the bartender's attention before the last ring of the "end of intermission" bell.  (At least in London, somehow the bartenders get everyone served quickly, and you can bring your drink to the seat.)  And few restaurants' menus are so compelling that I want to break my habit of eating very simply --and alone, mainly.  All that used to excite me has paled, in other words.

          What I do like is seeing the vista from my terrace here, the forest stretching out before me, La Montagne Noir behind, the Pyrenees, too, on a clear day.  Every day I find something to delight me: a kid grazing, its glance all innocence and friendly interest as Beau and I approach, on our way home, our wonderment mutual.  The little bird that has made a birdhouse in the eaves of the space outside my garage its temporary refuge.  Another bird, this one with a "clicking" song, that, startled, flies from my clothesline to the branch opposite to stay close to its former perch.  The ponies that mow my neighbor's grass for a few weeks a year and who fascinate Beau.  The scent of jazmin, and the scent of oleander, which cascade over the gates of the houses and the walls of the paths of Caunes.  Rosemary, too, grows wild --along the steps leading to the parking lot in the center of Caunes.  You have only to squeeze a branch with your hand for the plant's scent to cling to your fingers.  

           The noises of cars and trucks and planes are infrequently heard.  There are motorbikes --they are cheap modes of transportation for those who can't afford a car.  However, drivers here --whether of motorbikes or cars-- are not given to honking their horns, unlike New York drivers.  The necessary aggressiveness of New Yorkers would be out of place here, not to mention useless --nothing happens any faster than it has to.

            "Quiet" is a value in the minds of most of the people who live here.  The other day I was talking with the father of Robert, who runs La Marbrerie, the one restaurant in town that is open seven days a week, and the only one that has WiFi.  Robert's father is eight-three and never left Caunes, earning his living in construction.  He has very, very few teeth, but is robust in appearance, as you would expect from someone who worked a job that requires physical endurance.  We were talking about Caunes' oldest residents, people in their nineties who can still read a newspaper and get themselves a cup of coffee.  Like the mother of Roselyne Amen, the retired emergency room nurse.

          Roselyne's mother has a mane of white hair she wears in a sort of loose pompadour.  While she does not look like a marathoner, she doesn't look frail either.  Every time I've met her she remembers me and says, "Ah, yes!  Roselyn told me about you --you're the woman from New York!  How are you?"

           Recounting this encounter to Robert's father, he pointed out that it was the way of life in Caunes that contributed to the longevity of its villagers.

            "It's really the fountain of youth here!" he said, laughing.

            So here I am in Caunes, doing not much of anything, vaguely wondering "What comes next?" and not worrying too much about it --as a Caunois would do.