September 11, 2015
When I was in Merida, in Mexico's Yucatan in the Spring of 2014, I considered moving there. I was the guest of a former classmate of Bill's and her husband, both keen on retiring to Merida soon. There is a lively Canadian and American ex-pat colony there, lots of museums, and even an Alliance Francaise. Prices too, have been very attractive to foreign buyers, and the city so safe it's said drug lords live there to protect their families from violence in the rest of Mexico.
So I was introduced to a friend of my hosts, the real estate broker who found them their house, an Englishwoman who has lived in Merida for years. She spent a day taking me from one end of Merida to the other, including a visit to a luxurious modern house that would not have been out of place in Beverly Hills.
It was owned by a Jewish woman from Brooklyn who bought it knowing no Spanish and intending to start a new life as a high school English teacher, what she'd done before she retired.
It didn't work out. Her lack of Spanish made it difficult to integrate into the Mexican lifestyle, and the house turned out to be more expensive to maintain than her means allowed. So she put it on the market.
She was delightfully frank about all that had happened to her in Mexico and how much she missed New York. She particularly missed the food. In that inimitable accent most Americans associate with New Yorkers, she told me:
I'd like to have an egg roll once in a while, you know?
Here in Caunes, I can't say I share her sentiments, although there are things about food in the southwest of France that are not my idea of a healthful diet. Of course, I'm thinking of the reliance on meat prepared in animal fat, foie gras and butter that is most Languedociens' idea of the components a great feast. Pasta, too, is always "Frenchified", a simple pasta aglio olio being just too plain for the French palate
I cannot, however, fault the French pizza in Caunes. I have never had anything like it, and I cannot get enough of it. L'Argent Double, the local pizzeria, makes almost forty different types of pizzas, all with a crust as thin as a flat bread, and nothing like any pizza anyone has ever had in the United States. La Reunionaise (named after the island in the Indian Ocean that is still part of France), combines the thinnest slices of pineapple with smoked ham. My favorite, l'Agenaise, uses heavy cream, pork, smoked ham, walnuts and pruneaux d'Agen. Total cost for this delicacy big enough for two? Nine euros.
It's gotten so, once I call and give my name, the pizza maker says Un "Agenaise", no?
--"Yes!"
***
On another food front:
This evening I also took in Tante Henriette, a curious grocery, which is only open every fifteen days and has clients queuing to pay for their orders. Tonight, as they were closing, I went inside and was initiated into the society of those who frequent this French version of a pop-up grocery.
The space is owned by a Caunois who lends it to local producers of bio vegetables, yogurt, jams, and eggs. On sale also (although I don't from where) is rice. Customers e-mail the woman who coordinates the orders and interacts with the producers. Every fifteen days the orders are driven down from villages near Lespinassiere, up in La Montagne Noir.
There's nothing for sale that has not been ordered in advance, except there are 3 jars of cream made from local chestnuts. I ask about yogurt, but it's all spoken for. I take my jar of creme de chataigne and think how good a teaspoon will taste when I can get hold of some plain yogurt. As I am walking out of the grocery, the man who owns the store follows me and says,
If you wait five minutes, you can have a package of 8 yogurts. Someone ordered them and has not shown to pick them up.
I walk inside and, within minutes, he has a plastic bag with the individual yogurts out of the old-fashioned, wood-faced refrigeratoron on the counter. The light-weight plastic bag says "BERNADETTE", but they're about to become mine. How long will they last?
Oh, at least until the beginning of October.
Nothing will spoil I think, and buy them. The price? Five euros and fifty centimes.
--And now I am an initiate.
When I take them home and put them in the refrigerator, I see that the dairy farmer is actually located in St. Denis, a village of 465 people near Lespinassiere. The chestnut cream is from Felines, 12 kilometers away. Interestingly, it isn't terribly sweet, but the taste of chestnuts is certainly there. French pastry chefs use marrons glaces in their desserts, but I've always found them too sweet. This cream has the consistency of peanut butter, and looks like organic peanut butter does when you open the jar, watery on top, thick below.
The creme de chataigne is freshly made, too. The chestnut trees are dropping their fruit, as the many smooth, hard nuts I came across walking Beau last evening attest. There for the taking, too, are fresh white figs: I have a handful every day, marveling that I can indulge so, knowing that in New York they are available, at best, for two weeks.
Meanwhile, the vendange continues. First the white wine grapes were harvested, now the red. The weather becomes a little more autumnal each day, although it remains beautifully sunny and dry. In a few weeks it will be time to eat the hearty food the southwest of France is known for, daubes, cassoulets, sausages with beans.
No wonder the French eat well: they insist on small-scale production of what goes into their mouths.
Friday, September 11, 2015
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
Echt -Ugh!; Losing Patience with Ex-Pats; For All The Good It Did Me
September 8, 2015
I had always heard that the Dutch didn't like the Germans, but I had proof of it today at lunch.
I lent my house to the purpose of a lunch to introduce a new couple, from the Netherlands, to Caunes. Over lunch, I used the word echt to mean "authentic", describing New York's neighborhoods. Echt is a word used in Yiddish, although it is spelled ehkt. When I used it, the wife in the couple cried out with pleasure:
You know Dutch!
--No, I don't, but I know the word from Yiddish and German.
Oh, it's not a German word. It's a Dutch word--
Hardly an argument worth having, I reserved my belief and thought I'd check the origins of the word after the lunch was over.
Sure enough, echt is a German word meaning genuine or typical, as well as being Dutch.
No wonder it's not easy creating one European Union.
***
One of the couples invited specifically to meet the new couple, as they'll soon be neighbors-- didn't show up. I'm not much inconvenienced, as all I've done is lent my space. The woman who organized the luncheon tells me that the couple is very reliable, that they always return e-mail and phone calls. So she thinks they may have gotten some bad news that obliged them to take off without time to give notice; or that one of them was hospitalized; or that a child of theirs with mental problems might have had a breakdown.
Two thirds of the way through the luncheon, the doorbell rings. And I'm sure I was not the only person who thought it might be the couple, arriving late. It was my plumber, so the mystery remained unresolved.
Just a few minutes ago, the phone rang. It was the wife in the couple, apologizing for missing the lunch.
The dates were never confirmed, she said by way of excusing the non-appearance.
I was not inconvenienced, I explained, but her apologies were owed to the people who cooked for eight, not six, I said, particularly our friend who organized the lunch.
Do you have her number? she asked.
Now that is the limit. There is such a thing as getting too comfortable.
***
The husband in the Dutch couple in the luncheon party used to work in advertising. It became so stressful, he dreamed of leaving the Netherlands and living somewhere else in Europe. His wife did, too, so they came to the Minervois. Their present house, in Cabrespine, is up for sale, and they think they have a good offer from a couple in South Africa of Norwegian descent.
However, each time they get close to signing, there's a problem getting their attorney to work with their buyer's attorney. They want to sell as soon as possible and have already committed to the house in Caunes. Boxes packed, they find it maddening that the South Africans are not more business-like.
Perhaps it's a cultural thing with South Africans, but in Holland we're very--
(--And here he stretched out his arms and made cutting motions with his hands.)
Strict about things like this. Although since I've lived here, I, too, have come to see things another way, and I'm more relaxed. Though because we want to move, I'm wondering why the South Africans can't be more predictable. It will happen when it happens, I guess.
I could not help thinking that a large part of the European-descended population of South Africa is Dutch, so it seemed funny to me to think that somehow, they "go native" and become unpredictable by the standards of Holland. Yet my Dutch guest's musings on the changes in his attitudes from the time he lived in the Netherlands to now, suggest once you move somewhere where the standards are different, you adapt if you want to survive.
***
I went to a lot of trouble to file a complaint about charges on my French debit card I could not recognize, a few weeks ago. I was particularly concerned about a single debit of 36,20 for a toll associated with Montelimar, in Provence, where I have not been.
Today, having to stop at the bank I found out that the "investigation" has been completed.
Madame Azema, the teller, told me that as all the charges were local and done with my debit card, the investigation had been closed.
The only thing I can do now if I want more information about why the Montelimar toll was debited from my checking account balance, is to file a complaint with the toll authority, a private company.
All I want to know is whether the debit represents several tolls aggregated, or is unaccounted for. At least if I know that several day's tolls are aggregated, I will have some sense of why the amount is as large as it is.
The bank thinks there was no fraud because the charges were within their definition of "local", and my card was used. So they closed the investigation as soon as I started it.
While my Dutch guest has adapted to France enough to live out the rest of his days here, whether I, as a temporary resident, will adapt to French standards remains an open question, though. Americans are used to a certain transparency in financial transactions, and I am very much an American in that respect, as much as I like other things about "la belle France".
I had always heard that the Dutch didn't like the Germans, but I had proof of it today at lunch.
I lent my house to the purpose of a lunch to introduce a new couple, from the Netherlands, to Caunes. Over lunch, I used the word echt to mean "authentic", describing New York's neighborhoods. Echt is a word used in Yiddish, although it is spelled ehkt. When I used it, the wife in the couple cried out with pleasure:
You know Dutch!
--No, I don't, but I know the word from Yiddish and German.
Oh, it's not a German word. It's a Dutch word--
Hardly an argument worth having, I reserved my belief and thought I'd check the origins of the word after the lunch was over.
Sure enough, echt is a German word meaning genuine or typical, as well as being Dutch.
No wonder it's not easy creating one European Union.
***
One of the couples invited specifically to meet the new couple, as they'll soon be neighbors-- didn't show up. I'm not much inconvenienced, as all I've done is lent my space. The woman who organized the luncheon tells me that the couple is very reliable, that they always return e-mail and phone calls. So she thinks they may have gotten some bad news that obliged them to take off without time to give notice; or that one of them was hospitalized; or that a child of theirs with mental problems might have had a breakdown.
Two thirds of the way through the luncheon, the doorbell rings. And I'm sure I was not the only person who thought it might be the couple, arriving late. It was my plumber, so the mystery remained unresolved.
Just a few minutes ago, the phone rang. It was the wife in the couple, apologizing for missing the lunch.
The dates were never confirmed, she said by way of excusing the non-appearance.
I was not inconvenienced, I explained, but her apologies were owed to the people who cooked for eight, not six, I said, particularly our friend who organized the lunch.
Do you have her number? she asked.
Now that is the limit. There is such a thing as getting too comfortable.
***
The husband in the Dutch couple in the luncheon party used to work in advertising. It became so stressful, he dreamed of leaving the Netherlands and living somewhere else in Europe. His wife did, too, so they came to the Minervois. Their present house, in Cabrespine, is up for sale, and they think they have a good offer from a couple in South Africa of Norwegian descent.
However, each time they get close to signing, there's a problem getting their attorney to work with their buyer's attorney. They want to sell as soon as possible and have already committed to the house in Caunes. Boxes packed, they find it maddening that the South Africans are not more business-like.
Perhaps it's a cultural thing with South Africans, but in Holland we're very--
(--And here he stretched out his arms and made cutting motions with his hands.)
Strict about things like this. Although since I've lived here, I, too, have come to see things another way, and I'm more relaxed. Though because we want to move, I'm wondering why the South Africans can't be more predictable. It will happen when it happens, I guess.
I could not help thinking that a large part of the European-descended population of South Africa is Dutch, so it seemed funny to me to think that somehow, they "go native" and become unpredictable by the standards of Holland. Yet my Dutch guest's musings on the changes in his attitudes from the time he lived in the Netherlands to now, suggest once you move somewhere where the standards are different, you adapt if you want to survive.
***
I went to a lot of trouble to file a complaint about charges on my French debit card I could not recognize, a few weeks ago. I was particularly concerned about a single debit of 36,20 for a toll associated with Montelimar, in Provence, where I have not been.
Today, having to stop at the bank I found out that the "investigation" has been completed.
Madame Azema, the teller, told me that as all the charges were local and done with my debit card, the investigation had been closed.
The only thing I can do now if I want more information about why the Montelimar toll was debited from my checking account balance, is to file a complaint with the toll authority, a private company.
All I want to know is whether the debit represents several tolls aggregated, or is unaccounted for. At least if I know that several day's tolls are aggregated, I will have some sense of why the amount is as large as it is.
The bank thinks there was no fraud because the charges were within their definition of "local", and my card was used. So they closed the investigation as soon as I started it.
While my Dutch guest has adapted to France enough to live out the rest of his days here, whether I, as a temporary resident, will adapt to French standards remains an open question, though. Americans are used to a certain transparency in financial transactions, and I am very much an American in that respect, as much as I like other things about "la belle France".
Sunday, September 6, 2015
First Cycling Of The Year
Sunday, September 6, 2015
Throughout this year, Anno Domini 2015, I have been frustrated again and again in my efforts to re-establish the cycling routine I sustained in France last year. This is not a minor thing, cycling has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I've been cycling since I was a kid in East Harlem and my parents managed to get hold of a 20" two wheeler when I was eight. When I was a junior in high school, I saved the money to buy a Peugeot U-O8. I rode it through my college years at Harvard, and post graduation, during the transit strike in 1980. I was working at the old Lehman Brothers Kuhn Loeb then, and it was far from fashionable to cycle. I enjoyed the cycling so much, I kept it up after the strike ended, which was considered "not quite the thing". How times have changed!
In law school, I rode between Fordham Law School and where I lived in the Columbia University area. My second year in law school I had my left ovary removed, a major operation then. After the surgery, the one question I was most interested in knowing the answer to was "When can I cycle again?" (Three weeks, was the answer.)
The U-08 was stolen from where I locked it in front of Fordham Law School some time during my third year, but a classmate getting a new bicycle sold me her Trek, a silver steel model with 8 speeds, and wrap-around handlebars, made for a man . It did double duty while I was studying for the Bar and living at my parents' in East Harlem. That was in 1985.
It is still the bicycle I ride, although last year I replaced the wrap-around handlebars with mountain bike handlebars so I can sit up straight and put less pressure on my back. I had the changes made at the end of the season, so I had no chance to see whether the new handlebars actually lead to greater back comfort. I went out to ride early in June, but Beau's difficulties adapting to being alone in France scotched my riding this summer.
Somehow, this Sunday presented itself as an opportunity to get on the bike and ride. The weather is cool enough that it is possible to ride in mid-afternoon, so I went out on the road that runs past my house, which leads to Trausse and beyond, to Felines, a pretty village in the hills. I have ridden this road many times in the last three years and it is not challenging, 12 kilometers each way, 15 miles in all.
A year since my last ride, not much has changed: the allees of plane trees are untouched, the roads are as empty as ever, the old windmill up the hill from the Chateau de Paulignan still stands, Felines is as sleepy as ever. What had changed is that the tree snails were out, their white shells visible on every low-lying branch of reed grass, now that the summer's heat is a thing of the past. In contrast, the Languedocien standard that used to fly proudly over a grove of oliviers within walking distance of Caunes, is gone.
And I am a year older. (My birthday is Wednesday.) But I made it back and forth from Felines without any physical strain. Perhaps I'll get a happy chance to test my physical capacities further before I leave the Minervois towards the end of October. Which would be ample reward for almost nine months off the bike.
Throughout this year, Anno Domini 2015, I have been frustrated again and again in my efforts to re-establish the cycling routine I sustained in France last year. This is not a minor thing, cycling has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. I've been cycling since I was a kid in East Harlem and my parents managed to get hold of a 20" two wheeler when I was eight. When I was a junior in high school, I saved the money to buy a Peugeot U-O8. I rode it through my college years at Harvard, and post graduation, during the transit strike in 1980. I was working at the old Lehman Brothers Kuhn Loeb then, and it was far from fashionable to cycle. I enjoyed the cycling so much, I kept it up after the strike ended, which was considered "not quite the thing". How times have changed!
In law school, I rode between Fordham Law School and where I lived in the Columbia University area. My second year in law school I had my left ovary removed, a major operation then. After the surgery, the one question I was most interested in knowing the answer to was "When can I cycle again?" (Three weeks, was the answer.)
The U-08 was stolen from where I locked it in front of Fordham Law School some time during my third year, but a classmate getting a new bicycle sold me her Trek, a silver steel model with 8 speeds, and wrap-around handlebars, made for a man . It did double duty while I was studying for the Bar and living at my parents' in East Harlem. That was in 1985.
It is still the bicycle I ride, although last year I replaced the wrap-around handlebars with mountain bike handlebars so I can sit up straight and put less pressure on my back. I had the changes made at the end of the season, so I had no chance to see whether the new handlebars actually lead to greater back comfort. I went out to ride early in June, but Beau's difficulties adapting to being alone in France scotched my riding this summer.
Somehow, this Sunday presented itself as an opportunity to get on the bike and ride. The weather is cool enough that it is possible to ride in mid-afternoon, so I went out on the road that runs past my house, which leads to Trausse and beyond, to Felines, a pretty village in the hills. I have ridden this road many times in the last three years and it is not challenging, 12 kilometers each way, 15 miles in all.
A year since my last ride, not much has changed: the allees of plane trees are untouched, the roads are as empty as ever, the old windmill up the hill from the Chateau de Paulignan still stands, Felines is as sleepy as ever. What had changed is that the tree snails were out, their white shells visible on every low-lying branch of reed grass, now that the summer's heat is a thing of the past. In contrast, the Languedocien standard that used to fly proudly over a grove of oliviers within walking distance of Caunes, is gone.
And I am a year older. (My birthday is Wednesday.) But I made it back and forth from Felines without any physical strain. Perhaps I'll get a happy chance to test my physical capacities further before I leave the Minervois towards the end of October. Which would be ample reward for almost nine months off the bike.
Saturday, September 5, 2015
Neo-Ruraliens Revisited
Saturday, September 5, 2015
I have mentioned that two young men, Pierre and Martin, drive their vans along the easement behind the garage of my house to tend to a chicken coop and vegetable gardens. I knew Pierre, tall and blond, was a neo-ruralien, escaping the dense outskirts of Paris for a more tranquil life. Martin I knew nothing about, save that he, too, is pleasant and polite. As they pop by several times a week and park within sight of my terrace, I wanted to know more about the set up that brings them to my secluded part of Caunes.
The opportunity presented itself this morning, as I was having coffee on the terrace and looking at the news reports on my computer. Martin pulled up and exited his truck, pulling out gardening tools when I assailed him from my perch. After the preliminary formalities, I asked him whether he would like a cup of coffee, which he did. So I went inside and made some for the two of us while he fed the birds. I brought the coffee down started with my questions. It turns out that Martin, too, is from the outskirts of Paris, that he came to Caunes because in Australia he met a Frenchman from Caunes with whom he exchanged apartments. And having come to Caunes four years ago and seen that he could make a living working in the vineyards, he decided to settle here.
That was my preliminary question, but I followed it with my main one:
Are you and Pierre squatters, or do you own the land you cultivate?
Neither, Martin explained. The land belongs to two women: Alice, who owns the stationery store in the village, Le Bazaar d'Alice; and Isabelle, who lives on my street. The mairie saw that the land was overgrown, not having been cultivated for years. This gave rise to concerns that the brush could catch fire, endangering the houses in the area, a serious concern. So Alice and Isabelle offered the land to Pierre and Martin to cultivate, in return for anything they could harvest from it. That was three years ago.
While we were talking, the chanticleer who rules the roost in the poullailler strutted around his domain, the chickens backing off as he strode. I saw his beautiful plumage and commented on it, which prompted Martin to tell me
We're going to eat him soon.
This pretty bird wakes me every morning at 6:30 a.m., so I received the news of his demise soon with mixed emotions. Perhaps indicative of my true feelings, I suggested that they might give his feathers to Chantal, my friend who makes purses out of patches of fabric and feathers, then asked solemnly why he had to be killed. For which there is only one answer, which Martin gave:
He's nice and fat.
I expressed some regret at the news, hypocritically. Then Martin said,
But we'll probably get another one.
And, at that, the truth came out:
But not too soon! I said quickly.
I have mentioned that two young men, Pierre and Martin, drive their vans along the easement behind the garage of my house to tend to a chicken coop and vegetable gardens. I knew Pierre, tall and blond, was a neo-ruralien, escaping the dense outskirts of Paris for a more tranquil life. Martin I knew nothing about, save that he, too, is pleasant and polite. As they pop by several times a week and park within sight of my terrace, I wanted to know more about the set up that brings them to my secluded part of Caunes.
The opportunity presented itself this morning, as I was having coffee on the terrace and looking at the news reports on my computer. Martin pulled up and exited his truck, pulling out gardening tools when I assailed him from my perch. After the preliminary formalities, I asked him whether he would like a cup of coffee, which he did. So I went inside and made some for the two of us while he fed the birds. I brought the coffee down started with my questions. It turns out that Martin, too, is from the outskirts of Paris, that he came to Caunes because in Australia he met a Frenchman from Caunes with whom he exchanged apartments. And having come to Caunes four years ago and seen that he could make a living working in the vineyards, he decided to settle here.
That was my preliminary question, but I followed it with my main one:
Are you and Pierre squatters, or do you own the land you cultivate?
Neither, Martin explained. The land belongs to two women: Alice, who owns the stationery store in the village, Le Bazaar d'Alice; and Isabelle, who lives on my street. The mairie saw that the land was overgrown, not having been cultivated for years. This gave rise to concerns that the brush could catch fire, endangering the houses in the area, a serious concern. So Alice and Isabelle offered the land to Pierre and Martin to cultivate, in return for anything they could harvest from it. That was three years ago.
While we were talking, the chanticleer who rules the roost in the poullailler strutted around his domain, the chickens backing off as he strode. I saw his beautiful plumage and commented on it, which prompted Martin to tell me
We're going to eat him soon.
This pretty bird wakes me every morning at 6:30 a.m., so I received the news of his demise soon with mixed emotions. Perhaps indicative of my true feelings, I suggested that they might give his feathers to Chantal, my friend who makes purses out of patches of fabric and feathers, then asked solemnly why he had to be killed. For which there is only one answer, which Martin gave:
He's nice and fat.
I expressed some regret at the news, hypocritically. Then Martin said,
But we'll probably get another one.
And, at that, the truth came out:
But not too soon! I said quickly.
Friday, September 4, 2015
The English Book Club
September 4, 2015
I spent yesterday afternoon having lunch in a private home and talking about books with eight members of a book club, all English. The lunch was held in a home that had been built from a building that was previously part of a cave cooperative, an association of wine growers that had disappeared. A compound of buildings behind a main gate were all put to residential purposes after the cooperative failed. The house included a private garden with a small swimming pool. It is small, but comfortable.
The book club members are mainly women, although the husband of one also attended. They are enthusiastic readers and articulate about their likes and dislikes --and there was nothing stuffy about them. Anyone who thought the English reserved, has not seen them along their compatriots, the wine flowing, enjoying good food and talk. I knew the group wanted, in addition to ideas for novels, suggestions for biographies to read. So I brought "Just Boris", about the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson; and a biography of Turner, the painter, as my biography suggestions, plus "The Man In The Yellow Hat", the second book in Jane Gardam's "Old Filth" trilogy, which I am reading now. My offerings were welcomed and I was made to feel at home by everybody.
To preserve the anonymity of the book club members, I will not describe them individually, but anecdotally. One woman, a widow twenty years, confessed that although she travels widely, she feels lonely, her children grown and living independent lives. Another brought what she said was "non-alcoholic sangria". It was, in fact, 9% alcohol. So they are a diverse and lively group. All the club members have retired to France and interact mainly with their compatriots, their French being limited.
Which doesn't mean they do not observe their French hosts closely. At one point the conversation turned to "SatNavs" --the British word for GPSs, and from there to the difference between driving in Britain and l'Aude. Everyone agreed driving in France, where there are often few cars on the road, was generally much more pleasurable than driving on the U.K.'s crowded motorways.
At that point, I mentioned that I agreed with everyone, except that I found French drivers do not keep their distance, even on an entirely empty road. Instead they come up to your car's bumper, which I find nerve-wracking. Everyone knew what I was talking about:
If you're driving on an empty road in the middle of nowhere, a car behind you will still hug your bumper! They do it all the time --they're afraid of not being close to another car, so they group like sheep. --They can't stand being alone.
--And they had methods for dealing with this "tic" of French drivers:
Flash your fog lights --they don't like that, and will back off when you do that.
If you're driving a manual transmission, engage the emergency brake --the back lights will flash, and they'll think you're going to stop suddenly! Then they back away in a shot.
(After hearing about the fog lights, on the road later, I tried flashing my brights and can report that it works.)
It seems odd to me that anyone would retire to a country where they have a limited command of the language, but the English have been retiring to France since the end of the Second World War. The French used to retire to Morocco and Tunisia, former French-speaking colonies, but today, they are more likely to retire to Portugal, where few will learn the language. Canadians and Americans retire to Puerto Vallarta in Western Mexico; or Merida in the East, without mastering Spanish.
So perhaps living as an ex-pat in a monolingual enclave is less unusual than I thought. At one point during the lunch, the talk turned to the hassles of traveling between Britain and France: having to fight the traffic on the motorways to the airport; the surly porters at Stansted (the airport Ryanair serves with flights to Carcassonne), travel delays at the airport--
Perhaps a "staycation" could be just as nice, one book club member offered.
Except for the WEATHER! a wiser person rejoined.
So the English come to France in droves: for the weather, for the wine, and because it is cheaper to live in France than England. Property prices are much lower, so it's possible to make money on the sale of a house in England and have money left over after buying a place in France. As a result, the ex-pats live more comfortably than would be possible in the U.K. And there's a new French tax law that allows foreign residents to choose their domicile for estate tax purposes, another incentive to buy in France., (It means children can inherit without paying 35% of the value of a house in French estate taxes.) While the French are moving to Portugal because food prices are 30% cheaper than in France, British are moving to France for the same reason.
And there's no need to learn French.
I spent yesterday afternoon having lunch in a private home and talking about books with eight members of a book club, all English. The lunch was held in a home that had been built from a building that was previously part of a cave cooperative, an association of wine growers that had disappeared. A compound of buildings behind a main gate were all put to residential purposes after the cooperative failed. The house included a private garden with a small swimming pool. It is small, but comfortable.
The book club members are mainly women, although the husband of one also attended. They are enthusiastic readers and articulate about their likes and dislikes --and there was nothing stuffy about them. Anyone who thought the English reserved, has not seen them along their compatriots, the wine flowing, enjoying good food and talk. I knew the group wanted, in addition to ideas for novels, suggestions for biographies to read. So I brought "Just Boris", about the Mayor of London, Boris Johnson; and a biography of Turner, the painter, as my biography suggestions, plus "The Man In The Yellow Hat", the second book in Jane Gardam's "Old Filth" trilogy, which I am reading now. My offerings were welcomed and I was made to feel at home by everybody.
To preserve the anonymity of the book club members, I will not describe them individually, but anecdotally. One woman, a widow twenty years, confessed that although she travels widely, she feels lonely, her children grown and living independent lives. Another brought what she said was "non-alcoholic sangria". It was, in fact, 9% alcohol. So they are a diverse and lively group. All the club members have retired to France and interact mainly with their compatriots, their French being limited.
Which doesn't mean they do not observe their French hosts closely. At one point the conversation turned to "SatNavs" --the British word for GPSs, and from there to the difference between driving in Britain and l'Aude. Everyone agreed driving in France, where there are often few cars on the road, was generally much more pleasurable than driving on the U.K.'s crowded motorways.
At that point, I mentioned that I agreed with everyone, except that I found French drivers do not keep their distance, even on an entirely empty road. Instead they come up to your car's bumper, which I find nerve-wracking. Everyone knew what I was talking about:
If you're driving on an empty road in the middle of nowhere, a car behind you will still hug your bumper! They do it all the time --they're afraid of not being close to another car, so they group like sheep. --They can't stand being alone.
--And they had methods for dealing with this "tic" of French drivers:
Flash your fog lights --they don't like that, and will back off when you do that.
If you're driving a manual transmission, engage the emergency brake --the back lights will flash, and they'll think you're going to stop suddenly! Then they back away in a shot.
(After hearing about the fog lights, on the road later, I tried flashing my brights and can report that it works.)
It seems odd to me that anyone would retire to a country where they have a limited command of the language, but the English have been retiring to France since the end of the Second World War. The French used to retire to Morocco and Tunisia, former French-speaking colonies, but today, they are more likely to retire to Portugal, where few will learn the language. Canadians and Americans retire to Puerto Vallarta in Western Mexico; or Merida in the East, without mastering Spanish.
So perhaps living as an ex-pat in a monolingual enclave is less unusual than I thought. At one point during the lunch, the talk turned to the hassles of traveling between Britain and France: having to fight the traffic on the motorways to the airport; the surly porters at Stansted (the airport Ryanair serves with flights to Carcassonne), travel delays at the airport--
Perhaps a "staycation" could be just as nice, one book club member offered.
Except for the WEATHER! a wiser person rejoined.
So the English come to France in droves: for the weather, for the wine, and because it is cheaper to live in France than England. Property prices are much lower, so it's possible to make money on the sale of a house in England and have money left over after buying a place in France. As a result, the ex-pats live more comfortably than would be possible in the U.K. And there's a new French tax law that allows foreign residents to choose their domicile for estate tax purposes, another incentive to buy in France., (It means children can inherit without paying 35% of the value of a house in French estate taxes.) While the French are moving to Portugal because food prices are 30% cheaper than in France, British are moving to France for the same reason.
And there's no need to learn French.
A Change In The Air
Friday, September 4, 2015
I had heard that, summer over, Caunes was quieter, less festive.
You would not have known it from the crowd at La Cantine du Cure last night. La Cantine began in a space off the entrance to the Benedictine abbey, near the tourist office. It was opposite the homes of a number of villageois, who complained about the noise from patrons and the amplified music provided as free entertainment. The problem was talked about for two years, with some people saying that young people needed a place to kick up their heels, others deploring the so-called "rowdiness". Over the winter, La Cantine moved to a large tract of land off rue de l'Abbaye, not far from its original location, but away from the more populated side of the abbey. The land belongs to an estate owned by the parents of one of the owners of La Cantine; on the other side are the conventual buildings of the abbey, in the process of renovation. Result: the business can operate with less flak from neighbors.
The weather is cooler, the press of summer work abated, kids in school, the week almost over, a. good number of Caunois head for the open air dining offered at the new location. Since it opened three years ago, La Cantine has been the place to go for informal dining, although I found the cooking in the first two years frequently burnt or charred, and avoided it. With a change of chef there has been a great improvement. The tapas on the menu, all Spanish inspired --albeit with a French touch (tortilla espanola made with French cheese!) are served in large portions, easily enough to make a full meal of. There are various seating areas: you can sit on high chairs and eat on a table made of a wine barrel, or you can sit low to the ground and dine off a sort of coffee table; you can dine under a thatched roof at a picnic table, or at the bar. La Cantine is no longer open from lunch through the evening five days a week , so its patrons have to wait until Thursday to stop by, and make the most of the three days at the end of the week when the projected crowd justifies opening the bar. Judging by the liveliness of the crowd last night, the owners have no reason to worry: La Cantine will have a good arriere saison.
On the house renovation front, I am busy trying to put in two more inverters, one in my bedroom, one in the large guest bedroom. That installation, plus the placement of a large, electronically operated awning on the terrace will complete my home renovations for 2015. I had contemplated creating a full bath and en suite bedroom in the attic (in fact, budgeted for it), but this morning I was at the point of shelving it no pun intended) for the foreseeable future.
When I first thought about the project, I asked for recommendations from trusted friends in Caunes, who gave me the names of a contractor and a plumber who worked for them, and with whose work they were very happy. The contractor quickly gave me his estimate, but I have waited all summer for the plumber's. Earlier this week a neighbor told me that the plumber stopped by with his estimate, but that he did not want to drop it off if I was not there because he wanted to explain the details of it to me. The neighbor told me to call the plumber, which I did.
The plumber and I agreed that he would be at my house between 9:00 a.m. and 9:30 a.m. this morning. So I made arrangements to have my guest walk Beau while I met with the plumber. When he didn't show up, I called him.
I've got an emergency. I can be at your house in an hour. This is a tough business.
Needless to say I was not sympathetic. I told him to fix another time and hour next week, as I'd be busy all day today. We agreed on next Monday, but I had my doubts. I'd read A Year In Provence, and did not want to be taken for someone who could be strung along, as Peter Mayle was by his contractors. In my mind, I had cancelled the job.
Then the doorbell rang: it was the plumber, armed with catalogues aplenty. He said he had the estimate and he wanted me to choose fixtures. His estimate was reasonable and his choices were wise. In 45 minutes we'd decided on the shape of my new bathroom.
I asked about a contract: the signed estimate and delivery of 30% of the cost creates a contract in fact. I warned that I wanted a clause at the bottom would have to be added, specifying that the work would be done by a specific date: he was agreeable.
I am now on my way to having a new bathroom put in.
***
It is now mushroom-gathering season. There are many varieties to be culled here, not all safe for human consumption Already 21 people have been treated for mushroom poisoning, and the season is a week old.
Which is a shame, because if they had been more careful, they could have readily sorted out the venomous from the non-venomous mushrooms by stopping by their local pharmacy.
In France, all pharmacists are trained to know the mushroom varieties and recognize those poisonous to humans. It is a service pharmacists have always rendered here.
I had heard that, summer over, Caunes was quieter, less festive.
You would not have known it from the crowd at La Cantine du Cure last night. La Cantine began in a space off the entrance to the Benedictine abbey, near the tourist office. It was opposite the homes of a number of villageois, who complained about the noise from patrons and the amplified music provided as free entertainment. The problem was talked about for two years, with some people saying that young people needed a place to kick up their heels, others deploring the so-called "rowdiness". Over the winter, La Cantine moved to a large tract of land off rue de l'Abbaye, not far from its original location, but away from the more populated side of the abbey. The land belongs to an estate owned by the parents of one of the owners of La Cantine; on the other side are the conventual buildings of the abbey, in the process of renovation. Result: the business can operate with less flak from neighbors.
The weather is cooler, the press of summer work abated, kids in school, the week almost over, a. good number of Caunois head for the open air dining offered at the new location. Since it opened three years ago, La Cantine has been the place to go for informal dining, although I found the cooking in the first two years frequently burnt or charred, and avoided it. With a change of chef there has been a great improvement. The tapas on the menu, all Spanish inspired --albeit with a French touch (tortilla espanola made with French cheese!) are served in large portions, easily enough to make a full meal of. There are various seating areas: you can sit on high chairs and eat on a table made of a wine barrel, or you can sit low to the ground and dine off a sort of coffee table; you can dine under a thatched roof at a picnic table, or at the bar. La Cantine is no longer open from lunch through the evening five days a week , so its patrons have to wait until Thursday to stop by, and make the most of the three days at the end of the week when the projected crowd justifies opening the bar. Judging by the liveliness of the crowd last night, the owners have no reason to worry: La Cantine will have a good arriere saison.
On the house renovation front, I am busy trying to put in two more inverters, one in my bedroom, one in the large guest bedroom. That installation, plus the placement of a large, electronically operated awning on the terrace will complete my home renovations for 2015. I had contemplated creating a full bath and en suite bedroom in the attic (in fact, budgeted for it), but this morning I was at the point of shelving it no pun intended) for the foreseeable future.
When I first thought about the project, I asked for recommendations from trusted friends in Caunes, who gave me the names of a contractor and a plumber who worked for them, and with whose work they were very happy. The contractor quickly gave me his estimate, but I have waited all summer for the plumber's. Earlier this week a neighbor told me that the plumber stopped by with his estimate, but that he did not want to drop it off if I was not there because he wanted to explain the details of it to me. The neighbor told me to call the plumber, which I did.
The plumber and I agreed that he would be at my house between 9:00 a.m. and 9:30 a.m. this morning. So I made arrangements to have my guest walk Beau while I met with the plumber. When he didn't show up, I called him.
I've got an emergency. I can be at your house in an hour. This is a tough business.
Needless to say I was not sympathetic. I told him to fix another time and hour next week, as I'd be busy all day today. We agreed on next Monday, but I had my doubts. I'd read A Year In Provence, and did not want to be taken for someone who could be strung along, as Peter Mayle was by his contractors. In my mind, I had cancelled the job.
Then the doorbell rang: it was the plumber, armed with catalogues aplenty. He said he had the estimate and he wanted me to choose fixtures. His estimate was reasonable and his choices were wise. In 45 minutes we'd decided on the shape of my new bathroom.
I asked about a contract: the signed estimate and delivery of 30% of the cost creates a contract in fact. I warned that I wanted a clause at the bottom would have to be added, specifying that the work would be done by a specific date: he was agreeable.
I am now on my way to having a new bathroom put in.
***
It is now mushroom-gathering season. There are many varieties to be culled here, not all safe for human consumption Already 21 people have been treated for mushroom poisoning, and the season is a week old.
Which is a shame, because if they had been more careful, they could have readily sorted out the venomous from the non-venomous mushrooms by stopping by their local pharmacy.
In France, all pharmacists are trained to know the mushroom varieties and recognize those poisonous to humans. It is a service pharmacists have always rendered here.
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
Crepuscular Downpour
September 1, 2015
Yesterday, the weather report for much of southern France was on alert orange, predicting the incoming storm would have a significant impact on the affected areas. Indeed, at 9:30 p.m., winds blew in sheets of rain, one after the other, for two hours. The lightning behaved like strobe lights, never touching the ground, but constantly flashing white and illuminating the sky for miles, before going dark and flashing again. The lightning never touched the ground, but it didn't seem a good idea to hang out my bedroom window, so I watched the deluge seated on my bed.
All day the sky had been grey and flat, the atmosphere hot, heavy and humid. The pressure built until the electricity had to release itself, which led not just to the strobe effect, but to a sound in the distance like a roll on the kettledrums. The showers made a whooshing sound like a whisper. Occasionally a car could be seen emerging from the dirt road that begins down the hill from the house, la voie du point casse. I pitied anyone out in the storm. And in fact, near Montauban, two people were killed when a tree fell on their car.
The storm brought the temperature down and by its end there was a lovely coolness in the air. Those who know told me that the rain would make the land between the row muddy, but that would only delay the harvest a day or two: it would have no effect on the grapes.
After a hot summer, the coolness is welcome: once the storm passed, I slept with the window open. This morning the sky was brilliant and the sun came out and began drying up all the rain.
Children returned to school today, last night's storm marking a definite end to summer's pleasures. Fall is on the way.
Yesterday, the weather report for much of southern France was on alert orange, predicting the incoming storm would have a significant impact on the affected areas. Indeed, at 9:30 p.m., winds blew in sheets of rain, one after the other, for two hours. The lightning behaved like strobe lights, never touching the ground, but constantly flashing white and illuminating the sky for miles, before going dark and flashing again. The lightning never touched the ground, but it didn't seem a good idea to hang out my bedroom window, so I watched the deluge seated on my bed.
All day the sky had been grey and flat, the atmosphere hot, heavy and humid. The pressure built until the electricity had to release itself, which led not just to the strobe effect, but to a sound in the distance like a roll on the kettledrums. The showers made a whooshing sound like a whisper. Occasionally a car could be seen emerging from the dirt road that begins down the hill from the house, la voie du point casse. I pitied anyone out in the storm. And in fact, near Montauban, two people were killed when a tree fell on their car.
The storm brought the temperature down and by its end there was a lovely coolness in the air. Those who know told me that the rain would make the land between the row muddy, but that would only delay the harvest a day or two: it would have no effect on the grapes.
After a hot summer, the coolness is welcome: once the storm passed, I slept with the window open. This morning the sky was brilliant and the sun came out and began drying up all the rain.
Children returned to school today, last night's storm marking a definite end to summer's pleasures. Fall is on the way.
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