This is one of those posts where I wonder the whole time I write it if I’m going to regret it. I wonder, too, what’s driving this weird urge to publicly share random information about myself. It’s not even juicy information. There’s an impulse to “think aloud” and an appreciation for candidness that have been shaken and stirred.  That’s as much as I can figure out. And yet I’m cautious about unforseen consequences, a.k.a. Emily Gould who revealed her own lessons in telling all in yesterday’s NYTimes magazine.

So then…my angst about crumbs. It started several weeks ago.  It kind of exploded overnight.  I don’t know if if has something to do with the Roquebrun house being an older house or that it’s somebody else’s house or just the latest incarnation of latent OCD tendencies.  What I know for sure is that I never noticed crumbs on the counter to this degree in Atlanta. It’s not that I didn’t see them or that I didn’t attend to them, I just wasn’t so aware of them.  Some people spot old stains on shirts, or have a cold eye for scuffs on shoes. I’ve become this crumbophobe, who will drop everything to wipe the kitchen counter if I notice bread bits hiding on the dark side of the toaster.

At one point in Atlanta, our house was populated with a bevy of shedders – three cats, one dog, one man with lots of leg hair, one woman with longish hair (on her head). We were a clean but hairy household, and so I was pretty diligent with the vacuum. Diligent, not vigilant.  And, I never felt as if the hair had the upper hand.

This issue I have with crumbs has developed new symptoms.  I’ve become increasingly “concerned” with with the status of all flat surfaces, like the floor.  I sweep the kitchen at least twice a day. And, it’s always dirty, because the village is surrounded by vineyards.  Vineyards are, by nature, dusty places.  So, the math is pretty straightforward: dusty fields + steady and often stiff breezes + open windows = dust everywhere. At least with the breadcrumbs I know that it’s a controlled source:  our daily fresh baguette. When we eat the baguette, the crumb perpetrator is gone.

On a saner note, here’s a picture of our first French furniture purchase which was delivered today:

We bought it from a Brocante (used furniture) shop, and the grand plan is to strip it down to a more natural finish.  It’s a big solid farm table, and even if it turns out to be oldish and not an antique it’s still a good find.  Tim and the dealer had to carry the thing up the hill to the house, because the lane’s too narrow for his truck.

We haven’t yet found chairs to go around it, but there’s no rush.  You wouldn’t believe the layers of dust in the shop where we bought it…but I’m not going to go there in any detail, because this crumb/dust problem of mine needs some boundaries.  Once upon a time, I was someone who needed written reminders to spritz cleaner on her computer keyboard.

I’m pleased as punch. This morning, sort of by accident, I discovered the art of lighting a fire. Not on the stove. In the fireplace where it’s supposed to be. It lasted a whole two hours. I was so enthralled, that I watched it burn and forgot to take a picture. And I’m that proud, that I think it’s picture worthy.

Because as mentioned in a previous post, I’ve been unsuccessful thus far in lighting a fire that stays lit, to the point of embarrassment. It’s not something that I thought required much skill or experience. Hell, I assumed that any numnut with half a brain could start a fire…until I became the numnut.  Apparently I could do with a copy of Fires For Dummies, because my skills are lacking.  I’ve put match to paper – several matches to paper –  and the paper burns up without generating enough heat or flame to grab the wood.  As for experience, all I have to fall back on is a one-time Girl Scout camp thing, because most of my Girl Scout activities had very, very little to do with tangible survival skills. (I was more of an intellectual survivor, anyway, as in how will I survive this blasted cross stitch sampler project.)  And my parents didn’t exactly want to encourage anything related to fire.  They weren’t the sort to hand us a pack of matches and some twigs and shoo us off to the basement to entertain ourselves by burning down the house.

Anyhoo, today I had the right number of sticks arranged just so and the right amount of paper under the sticks and ta-da! Fire. Warmth. Glowing embers and all that jazz.

They say practice makes perfect, so tomorrow I’m going to practice again. And maybe even practice some more the day after. Even though it’s nearing the end of May, which in these parts isn’t supposed to be fire-in-the-fireplace weather. But unfortunately it is – chilly, drizzly, damp.

As of tomorrow it will be five weeks since we arrived in France.  I’m not usually big on anniversaries, but this one has some legs.  What I felt that first morning  – that horrific, “WTF have we done!” feeling –  is gone.

This afternoon is a perfect spring day, a mix of late may sun and cotton wad clouds, breezy, swallows streaking past the wide open French doors of the corner in the house I’ve claimed as “my office”.  I’ll write for a couple hours, and then I’m walking down to the river with my sketch pad for a coloring session, the goal  for which is small.  I play Rorschach, content to just make a mess o’ color on the paper and then muse on what’s in the deep hued smears.   The more ridiculous the more sublime.

A couple weeks ago while I was being interviewed for a Ladies Who Launch spotlight, I said that right now it feels like it’s my job to make the most of my life, to savor it, to stay close to it like a hen to her chicks. It almost feels like my life is taking its first steps.  There’s that kind of anticipation, that astonishment.

As I look out from the corner of the house where I’ve set up a writing desk, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.  I think about what Adam Gopnik noted in his book, Paris to the Moon, about how we tend to romanticize the places we’ve left.  There’s been some of that for me, but the comparative, nostalgic commentary has tapered off.  Instead, I’m romancing with where I’ve landed, where I am.

All around us, all around the surrounding villages, are acres and acres of grape vines.  Red poppies and Valerian thrive alongside the roads, as do wild roses and snapdragons.  Every day I eat chocolate and cheese and duck sausage and drink wine and coffee, and yet I’ve gone down a size. The cherries have come into season, and the fig trees are heavy with unripe fruit.  Thyme grows on the rocky hillsides and mint can be found by the canal.  Tourists visiting the village from Germany and Denmark will stop me on the street to ask me which way to the water fountain or the Place d’Eglise. They know us at the village bar.  They know that Tim will take “un biere” and I’ll take “un verre du vin rouge.”

As with any love affair, there are phases and the mood swings.  I have my melt-down moments.  I have my quarrels with little things, like how scary it is that I have no idea when I’ll receive my carte de sejour, and a wedge of uncertainty about the future hovers.  I have pockets of loneliness when I miss my friends, when I crave the ease of conversation back in the states, when I yearn to be able to explain myself and reveal who I am without a language or cultural barrier getting in the way, when I wish I was able to focus more on work and not so easily distracted.

But none of these things are enough to mess with my contentment…or kill the romance.

It’s a bank holiday in France, but we found an internet cafe that’s open.  They proprieteurs speak Arabic, which is a beautiful language to overhear.  I have no idea what they’re saying, but no matter.  Listening to them argue amongst themselves is fascinating. The keyboard layout on the cafe computer, though, is different enough to strain both brain and fingers – the q is where I expect the a, the z is where I’m used to finding the w, you hit the shift key to type a period but not an exclamation point…it’s tqken forever to type even this short post!

I’m trying to do a little catch-up on this blog before we head to Toulouse where my internet access will be limited to free WiFi spots I can find near our friend’s apartment.

In the past couple weeks, we’ve explore a decent swath of the area, and here’s a little overview of where we’ve wandered.

Adge, Cap d’Adge & Sete – in search of the quintessential Mediterranean beach town

On our first “road trip”, from Roquebrun we drove down to the shore towns of Adge, Cap d’Adge and up the coast to Sête.  Adge didn’t appeal to us at all, so we hurried on to Cap d’Adge which reminded my of Myrtle Beach.  Take that comparison as you will.  Sête, though, we liked.  We arrived on the late side of lunch on a rainy, cold Sunday.  We found a cafe that had outside outside (as we had Rufus with us) covered by a tent and warmed by heaters.  I ordered the fish soup and Tim ordered the grilled sardines.  By the time we were done, the rain had subsided so we walked about the town.  It’s a place we want to visit again, especially on a sunny afternoon.  I don’t have any pictures from that trip.  It’s just as well.  It was a gray day, and the pictures wouldn’t have done the place justice.

Tim’s hunting for a version of Capri in the Southwest of France before it was “discovered”.  It’s good to dream.

Olargues

A couple days after our trek along the coast, we drove to Olargues, a medieval town we’d been told is one of the prettiest villages in the area.  We made the mistake of not getting lunch in St. Pons-de-Thomiéres en route to Olargues.  St. Pons looked like an interesting place, but they were doing some road work, so we decided to able it for another day and motor on to Olargues which we reached by about 2:30.  Only to find that we found were about 30 minutes too late to get fed.  Only one cafe was open, and they put the kibosh on even ordering a ham sandwich.  Peeved, we walked around nonetheless, although truth be told I had a little chip on my shoulder.  We kept passing cafes that looked inviting but were closed. In the high season, the town is probably less strict about serving lunch only between 12 and 2.  Still, grudges aside, Olargues IS very pretty, as the pix prove.

Capestang

Our first foray into a village along the Canal du Midi.  (Besides Beziers which we kind of consider to be home turf.)

We couldn’t get into the church that dominates the town square, because it was locked up.  One thing I’ve noticed is that many of the churches do not have door handles on the outside.  When they’re closed, they’re closed.  Instead we walked up to the canal, enjoyed a coffee, at the bar, and boat watched. 

You can rent a canal boat — the kind you can eat/sleep/shower on for a day, a weekend or a week, and sail from town to town along the canal. We pondered which friends and family members with whom we could be on a boat for several days, without either party wanting to mutiny.  Let’s just say there’s a short list.

As with so many towns and villages, there isn’t necessarily a lot to do in Capestang.  Although there’s not much in the way of action, there’s plenty to absorb, ponder, overhear.  Unless you’re the mother duck in this last photo who has not 1 or 6 or 12 ducklings to oversee, but 16!  Sheesh!

Narbonne/Gruissan

One of my favorite towns so far, Narbonne is graceful with an edge, quirky but elegant, bustling but quiet once you step into the side streets.  We arrived too late to be able to stroll through Les Halles and we couldn’t get into the cathedral.  Instead, we dawdled in the squares, watched some men play a heated game of Boules, and took Rufus into the corner of the park where toutous ( dogs) are permitted. 

While dogs are allowed in many places they can’t go near in the states, they’re not allowed in most of the city parks. Probably because their owners don’t pick up the poo.  It’s normal for the streets of any village, even the prettiest ones, to be christened with toutou muck.  It’s a conundrum I don’t understand, but don’t spend much time on unless I have to focus on watching where I step rather than what’s all around.

Later in the afternoon we drove to the fishing village of Gruissan which is everything you want in a quiet, centuries old fishing village. 

Off the beach on the newer, more modern side of the town, all the houses sit on stilts. Tim was enthralled by some sort of windsurfing event taking place.  He noticed a wind surfing school, whereupon he let me know that I stood a good chance of becoming a weekend widow.

Cessenon

On May Day after leaving the fete at St. Nazaire, we had a picnic in Cessenon, the village we pass through every time we head south from Roquebrun.  We ignored the no dogs sign, and spread out our lunch on the square between the Mairie and the church.  This was the first church we’ve been able to enter since arriving in France.  It was dark and musty smelling, pretty much what you would expect of a building dating back to the middle ages.  We walked up to the bell tower on the opposite side of the village.  As we paused to read the description of a property for sale, the neighbor across the way motioned us over.  She warned us that the place was infested with termites. Moreover, she said, the owners were asking too much.  John and Jules (our proprieteurs) had told us that if you’re interested in a place, talk to the neighbors before contacting the immoblier (the real estate agent).  Neighbors, unlike the agency, won’t be shy about giving you the skinny, i.e. the roof is about to cave in, the place is crawling with rats, etc. This is great if you’re looking to buy; not so great if you’re trying to sell.

While walking the path near the river, we came across an enormous fig tree.  The fruit isn’t ripe, but the branches were heavy with figs-in-progress. 

Minerve/Homps

Our most recent jaunt.  Minerve was a dying town that revived itself through tourism.  I don’t know what it’s like in the summer, but on a Saturday in the beginning of May it was gorgeous — nice cafes, nice shops, not too crowded.  The village (as with most of them in the area) dates back to the middle ages.  What’s different is its perch on the edge of a gorge, an advantage that once helped it withstand a siege that lasted several months.  You can climb up to where the siege catapult still sits.  From there you get a spectacular view of the gorge, the village, the river below, the surrounding countryside.

Across from Minerve is the first of two natural bridges.  To stand beneath the bridge, Tim waded through the frigid, frigid, frigid water until he thought his feet would fall off.  I chose to stay dry, keep my feet warm, and man the camera.

It was about 4:30 in the afternoon, when we left Minerve and moved on towards Olonzac where we stopped to have a coffee, and finally to the village of Homps along the Canal du Midi.  More and more I find myself drawn to the pace, the places, the scene along the canal. Definitely want to spend more time in this area.

A la prochaine!