I was vacuuming the Rufus hair from the couch and Tim was doinking around on the internet when we realized that it was a special day.  You would think we’d have the date circled in red on the calendar and decorated with gold stars.  You would think that at that moment we would have dispensed with the mundane stuff to open a bottle of bubbly and celebrate.  Because it’s been a hell of a year. But no.  We had a misty-eyed moment of remembrance, and then we decided we’d go out in the evening for a drink.  Chores and internet-doinking resumed.

Which is not to say that we weren’t internally mulling the past year for the remainder of the day, it’s surges and its dips.  Of course we were.  My sense is that we’re not quite sure what we want to do with these memories just yet.  They’re too fresh for just an airing, refolding and re-tucking away type of treatment.  To some degree we’re still on top of them, recalibrating and analyzing them, filtering them through the shared vision constructed at the beginning of this adventure, and (nervously) eyeballing them from where the shared vision gave way to the pressures of individual wants and needs.

In truth, at the end of the day, I think their edges are still a little too…pronounced.  We still step around them a bit gingerly.  Still, after a dinner of Tim’s Lamb Stew we walked with Rufus to an Irish-y pub.  Over a  couple of pints we talked a little more about the highlights of the past 12 months – Corsica, Biarritz, Paris – and ignored the lowlights.  Because while the lowlights don’t go away, neither of us wanted them to be the life of our quiet little party.  Not now and not moving forward.

I don’t have any significant photos or even ticket stubs from day one in Barcelona.  Just a recollection. Initially we were consumed with schlepping our very, very heavy bags (that cost us $250 in overweight baggage fees) and our wigged-out dog (who hadn’t had an “out” for many, many hours) out of the airport.  Rufus enjoyed a rocket of a pee at the first available tree while Tim stood in the taxi line.  After we arrived at the hotel, we spritzed the travel slime from our faces and brushed our teeth again and went out for lunch and a long walk around the city.  I was afraid that if I showered or lingered too long  in the room I’d get sleepy.  I didn’t want to sleep.  I wanted to step into the dream.  And just a meter away from the hotel lobby there it began, glory and flaws and all.

Anyhoo, Rufus and we are going to Corsica for a week! First we’ll drive to Aix-en-Provence and toodle around there until we have to drive to Toulon where we’ll catch the night ferry to Corsica. As per usual, we’re venturing out without much of a plan and no guidebook. We’ll hit the tourist office on the Sunday we arrive, and then decide. Actually we’ll dicker back and forth and the plan will shift daily and will reflect numerous compromises and concessions. But we’ll each get our way some of the time, and we’ll make sure that the other realizes the full extent of the sacrifices being made so that one of us is happy. The dog — thumping his tail throughout it all because he’s just so happy (and relieved) to be included — will remind us to not be petty little piss pots, to quit counting who got what, and to genuinely enjoy ourselves. Thank God, for dogs.

We experienced another sonic boom today, our second. Good golly those things are ferocious. There’s absolutely no way to anticipate them. None. Afterwards, the valley echoed with howling dogs. We gathered our wits and stuffed our hearts back into our chest cavities. Still, the sky seemed bigger and more beautiful after a boom, as if the sound that defies description made it multiply.

Speaking of skies, we’ve seen more than our fair share of shooting stars this summer. So many that I’ve lost track of what I’ve wished on the lot of them. If I head towards the darker parts of the village on a clear night, the sky is puddled with stars and it’s amazing to stand beneath them. In a weird way these experiences feel possible only because of where we are – in the sticks of southwest France, in a sleepy village, on the far edge of a valley. Maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe not.

Last week we received four stairs of wood, which is hopefully enough to see us through the winter. Monsieur M delivered the wood in two allotments, each time calling at the last minute to say he was waiting for us, that his previous delivery had been canceled or hadn’t taken as long as he thought it would, yadda yadda. No matter. We were very, very glad to see the wood guy.

Four stairs of wood is a lotta wood. With each delivery, Monsieur M backed his truck up Rue du Barry and dumped the wood into the middle of the road in front of our cave. Then he collected his money (cash only) and drove off. He wasn’t being rude or careless. It’s just that he only does wood deliveries. He does not do wood stacking. So, Tim and I had to haul ass to move the wood from the road to the cave before a car came along. Wouldn’t you know that a car always came along! Of course. Any other day there would be no cars whatsoever. On wood delivery day, there were cars with people impatient to be on their way, or people who needed to get to the airport. The airport people, though, I give them credit. They at least were pragmatic about the situation and helped us move the wood to the side of the road so that they could get past.

At any rate, on the eve of yet another journey, I’m trying my hand at being more intentional, at being pleased as punch about the sonic booms, the shooting stars and the stairs of wood, all of which have managed to make the everyday less ordinary.

The Vendange (grape harvest) is upon us in Roquebrun. It began last Thursday to be exact. In one place or another throughout the region the harvest is in full swing. On the roads, there are tractors and harvesters that you have to wait for a break in the traffic to pass. The cooperatives are abuzz with drop-offs and people congregating to chat about the harvest. More notably, there’s an excitement in the air that’s new for me. It’s the apex to many months of anticipation. I love being admidst it, and in a strange way I feel invested in it. I want the harvest to be good, and not just because I’m a wine drinker wanting something tasty to knock back.

On Saturday there was a fête in the village that we think is done especially for the grape pickers that follow the harvest from vineyard to vineyard in their tricked out campervans. We walked down to the esplanade expecting to see the usual array of locals, but hoo-boy were we wrong. Most were more of the patchouli/dreadlocked/Grateful Dead set. Except they They preferred their French punk band which was then followed by an hour or two of reggae tunes DJ’d until the next band was scheduled to play. As with the summer fêtes, the party went on until about 2 AM. I tried to sleep through it…but no cigar. Tim and his Dad went down to the esplanade (because if you can’t beat ‘em…) with Rufus. Rufus, I learned the next morning, had a GRAND time running free, meeting other dogs, and snarfing up what bits he could find around the BBQ pit. He brought home with him some vendange fleas as well. I know this because during the night they made their way over to me. Ew.

Neat animals...shame they're so tasty.

So, he’s luckier than the boars- the sangliers – who had to deal with yet another pack of hounds at daybreak this morning. It’s boar hunting season now. Many of the mountains that form the backdrop of our village are “chasse reserve” or hunting grounds. So, we’ll be enjoying the howling of hunting dogs for several weeks to come. I’m going to TRY to not grouse about this. This is life in the country. Maybe I won’t have to set my alarm clock for a while. I’ll just rouse to the hounds.

Soon, too, the wild mushrooms will be in season. That should make for much less disruptive hunts. I picture placid but earnest gourmands gently threading the hillsides with wicker baskets, not beagles and rifles. God, I hope there’s not a catch, no fungi hunter ritual that has them yodel at dawn. That being said, I LOVE mushrooms. I could eat mushrooms every day and not get tired of them. If I found a nice bunch of wild ones – the non-deadly kind, of course – I might let rip a rebel yell myself. Just as soon as I can get my hands on some girolles, cèpes and mousserons I’m going to have a go at a lovely dish of rabbit roasted with shallots and wild mushrooms. That’s a plate-licker dish. Roasting pan, too.

A mother sanglier and her little sanglier - CUTE!

We’ll probably start to see more cuts of sanglier at the boucheries. Maybe it’s been available all along, and I just haven’t noticed. Dunno. The idea of eating something when it’s in its glory season is really appealing I have to say. It feels like we’re more in touch with the natural cycles of food. The strawberries here, for instance, are fresh off the local farms in June. They’re trucked in from somewhere else the rest of the year, and I promise you they’re not as good and they’re absurdly expensive. The peaches are having their day, now. Actually, I think the peaches are on their tail end, but no matter. There’s also berries, figs, and shortly the apples will have their turn.

There’s something to be said for waiting all year to be able eat something at its peak, like a cherry clafoutis at the end of May or a sanglier steak in September. It’s a new way of marking time for me, and a new way of relating to food. I think I’ll savor some of these things more, be more grateful even, if my access to these things is corralled by a natural cycle of production.

The beach in Roquebrun, L'Orb river.

We had a busy busy week last week. Always on the go it seemed. That’s not typically my M.O., but Tim and I had “a moment” after which it was agreed that if I was more proactively involved and willing to plan some daytrips, he would stop being a pain in the ass when I claim some reflective/creative/puttering time…and he would help out with the housework. This move abroad has chiseled into sharp relief a few of the ways in which he and I are very different: he has a list of the things we haven’t done, while I have a list of what we have done; he frets about what we’re missing out on, while I fret about not appreciating the experiences of the hear and now. So, no surprise that now and again there’s a raucous flare up. But, I think we managed to negotiate a good package for ourselves, harmony has been restored, and we’re both feeling like our essential needs are getting a fair shake. As much as our move to France has shoved some of the stress points of our relationship to the surface, it’s also forced us to deal with them. That’s a good thing. That’s another addition to the Bright Side list.

Gorge d'Heric

Well, I launched my end of the deal last Monday by proposing a hike at the Gorges d’Heric. It’s near Mons le Travail and only about 25 minutes from us, and a pretty drive through the more mountainy areas of Vieussan and Tarrasac. We’d been there once before but only for a little picnic at the bottom of the gorge. This time we walked the path through the gorge for over two hours, much of it up hill. It’s really beautiful. It wasn’t too hot, and the air was fresh. The river that runs through has lots of little pools, many of which are deep enough to swim and have this lovely mineral green hue. We’ve decided to go back there this week for a hike and a picnic and a swim.

Swimming hole at the Gorges d'Heric

Yum!

Tuesday I joined the female half of magnificent couple (more Bright Side) we’ve just recently become friends with for a mini-drive to Oulibo in Cruzy. It’s an olive mill where you can buy all sorts of mouthwatering or beautifying olive oil based products. Until I tried some of the olives called Lucques at Oulibo, I counted myself as one of the few people on the planet who don’t salivate over olives. But those Lucques changed me. Now I’m one of the droolers, and there’s a freshly opened 700g jar of Lucques in the fridge to prove it. I also snagged a bar of savon de Marseille and a bottle of chevrefeuille scented gel douche. I could have bought the whole store out, but the realities of my checking account put a stop to that nonsense.

Tuesday evening we went to hear a jazz concert held in the caveau de moulin, which is the cellar of the mill. We’ve become friendly with the bass player and his wife, so we get bits of gossip about this and that – a bonus. The guys in this jazz group live in Roquebrun or nearby villages, and they play concerts now and again, especially in the summer, and when they’re not at odds. They’re really quite good. A little three year old boy sitting near me was in heaven, rocking out to the music until he fell konked out. I’m sure “rocking out” isn’t the right term to use for jazz, but that’s the best I can describe it. At any rate, it was great fun to watch.

Then on Wednesday we met friends of a friend in Narbonne for lunch, stopping at a Roman ruin site near Colombieres. That evening we walked up to the church in Roquebrun to hear another concert, a flamenco guitarist this time. I love classical guitar, and this was my first opportunity to get a peek at the church whose bells I’ve been listening to since April. Normally it’s locked up except for Wednesdays when there’s a mass held at 6:30 PM.

On Thursday we did a vigneron “balade” in Berlou, which turned out to be an all-day event that is worthy of a post all on it’s own. Which is exactly what I’m planning to do…tomorrow. Then after a quick dip in the river, we had dinner with that magnificent couple. They returned to their home in London this past weekend – bummer. They’re some of the most interesting people I’ve ever met.

Friday was a tough day for Rufus. He had his first toilettage (grooming) in many months. While he was undergoing his torment, Tim and I drove to Serignan plage, a little beach on the Mediterranean. We’d been there once before, and really liked it. It’s easy to get to. It’s not overrun by tourists. There are a couple of places right on the beach where we can grab lunch. Ding, ding, ding – we have a winner! Tim was the first to get into the water. I stuck a foot in and couldn’t believe how chilly it was. After all, it’s July, it’s the Mediterranean, and I had this notion that the Med was warm water at least in summer. Not so. It was tres, tres chilly, chillier than the river water that I don’t splash around in unless it’s tres, tres hot outside. But, I was determined to have a dip in the Mediterranean anyway…because. So, I tried to bake a bit on the beach and work up the kind of sweat where you’ll think you’ll seriously pass out unless you get into some cool water. Couldn’t do it. The breeze was BRISK. After an hour of unsuccessful baking I sucked it up and went in for a dip…because. I walked into the water, got my hair wet, feared I’d get hypothermia, and walked right on out of that water. Hell, a 30-second swim is more than zero.

One of our Rufus-perched-on-a-wall photos. There are many.

Rufus, by the way, received rave reviews from his groomer (il est tres gentile!), and he emerged from his ordeal looking cute, cute, cute. He also looks like an entirely different dog as the before and after pictures will show. Who knew he had such big ears! When we got home he tore around the house looking for some way – any way – to destroy his fresh clean dog smell.

Rufus, post-toilettage

We didn’t take him down by the river for his walk as per usual, because I know this dog and know the first thing he’d do is search for some duck poo to roll in. And that was not going to happen, because I wanted a little mileage out of his 32 euro grooming, and at least 24 hours of fresh clean dog. On Saturday he sniffed out some duck poo, but Tim managed to thwart the plot to undo the freshening and cleaning.

Also as mentioned previously, the Roquebrun feria was on from Friday night through Sunday. Each night a cover band blasted a bizzare mix of disco and pop, getting on stage at 11 PM and not getting off the stage for even a pee break until 2 AM. I know this because I would be drifting to sleep at 11 PM when I was jolted awake until 2 AM. Each night, three nights in a row.

A part of me says I should have just dealt with it, put on my best Birkenstock knock-offs, and traipsed down to the esplanade to join the crowd. But the other part of me that’s woken around 7:30 every morning by the neighbor’s chickens and has never really been able to develop a napping routine, has something else to say about the matter. Nonetheless, the feria is over. So tonight I won’t have to fend off the blazing awful thump of “Disco Inferno” and can get my zzzzz’s.

Matadors-in-training, Roquebrun Feria, 2008

Running of the horses across the bridge, Roquebrun feria, 2008

I don’t have many pictures of the feria, but Tim took some good shots of the running of the horses and the matadors-in-training doing their swishing. He also took a couple of the cows roasting on a spit in the esplanade, but they didn’t turn out as well as he’d hoped. We didn’t partake of said cows, because we were due to have dinner with the jazz bassist and his wife that night. Later on Tim couldn’t resist the magnetic pull of Disco Inferno, so he and Rufus waddled down to the esplanade. Having been denied a frolic in duck droppings earlier in the day, he found another form of consolation. Apparently Ru scrounged up a hunk of roasted cow and had himself a lip-smacking little feast.

I think the best way to describe the post-fireworks entertainment was a sexed-up Lawrence Welk extravaganza. Absolutely riveting. The set had some numbers that sounded like traditional French music, and it had Joe Cocker’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On”. There was an accordion player in a baggy suit, and a sax player in a red silk shirt. The dancers twirled in the usual sequins and chiffon, but they also bent over to flash their thongs.

I don’t see how I could ever forget this show. If I lose my marbles or get Alzheimers, maybe then. Otherwise, it’s just not possible. I say this with respect and genuine appreciation. And humility as I review the gallergy of sad little photos I have to choose from that don’t really do justice to this event. We stuck with the “night” setting when we should have switched to the “action” setting. Most of the pictures we took are a blurry mess. It’s such a bummer.

I loved the book, and it’s helping me smooth the little bouts with the blues and an edgy restlessness that I’ve been bumping up against since we’ve returned from our travels along the Côte Basque. When I get restless like this it’s a sign I’m focusing on the negatives of our current situation (the remoteness, the flies, the dust, the far away friends, the differences in certain everyday matters, etc.) and not the positives (the scenery, tthe opportunities, the pace, etc.) Which is not to say that the negatives should be ignored, that there isn’t useful information threading through them. But, the fact is that we can’t just up and move at the moment. That’s the real deal. So, I need to retune, the positives of our situation deserve a fair shake, and the restlessness needs to take a rest.

The biggest adjustment dogging me, though, is to village life. Village life isn’t easy when you’re used to the relative anonymity of an urban neighborhood. In Atlanta if I woke up in a little funk, I could take a walk with my head down, just think, and walk, and not fret about remembering to greet everyone I pass. Not so in a teeny village. Especially if you’re a newcomer, and a foreigner. Inside your house your privacy is sacred. People will pop-over without warning only if it’s really, really necessary and never on a frivolous whim. Once you step outside your front door, it’s different. You’ve entered the public domain where certain courtesies are expected irrespective of the mood you’re in that day. I understand this. I don’t even disagree with it. I’m struggling, though, to curb the habits of “what was then” and adopt the habits of “what is now”. Just saying….

How does Julia Child fit into all of this? When she was a blushing bride of 36 or 37, Julia’s husband – who worked for the American foreign service – was transferred to Paris. He loved France. She fell in love with France, too, learned the language, met all kinds of fascinating and somewhat infamous people many of whom became good friends (Alice B. Toklas showed up at one of her dinner parties), became an expert in the detailed and precise art of French cuisine, enjoyed an amazing career as a television personality, lived to be 92. But those aren’t even the bits I find most inspiring. It’s her big, wide-open, blue skies attitude and her ability to make the best of her situation without being fake or stupid about it.

Being a foreign service spouse wasn’t always easy. For many years they had to contend with the ever-present presence of impermanence. (The children of people in the armed services know all too well what that’s like.) And although she and her husband adored France to their very core, for many years they had to live elsewhere. But Julia tried to make the most of wherever she was living, be it the States or Germany or Norway or France. Even if the lifestyle or the culture didn’t float her boat, she found things to like about it. Maybe it was the way the butchers cut the meats or some item she could always find in the markets. She had a talent for peeling back her discontent to find her capacity to appreciate. Because she was able to find the bright side, there was much brightness in her life.

If Julia and I were to stand side by side, we’d be an incongruous duo, her 6’2″ frame towering over my 5’2″, her passion for the precision and protocols of French cuisine vs. my casual yen to bake a no-crust quiche from a recipe clipped out of Real Simple. Despite the obvious mismatches, I’m claiming her as a role model. From her, I can take some good cues.

So much so that I’m going to get carried away and give myself a posting challenge. I’m going to post ten things I like about where we are. Before Tuesday. Before cocktail hour that day, because it’s better to do this little exercise in the crystal clear light of complete sobriety and not because our favorite apéritif has an alcohol content of 17%. Which makes it dangerous. And delicious.

• Rabbit legs in a savory brown sauce with pasta.  — This dish is DIVINE.  It is NOT pretty to look at until cooked and served.  You can’t get just the rabbit legs from the butcher or the markets.  You have to buy the whole rabbit, skinned but intact, eyes and all, sealed in clear plastic.  Ew.  I’ll post a photo one of these days so that you can share the visual experience.

• The baguettes and the flutes, which are a similar to a baguette but still a different stick of bread.  The ones we get in the village are superb.

• Thyme growing wild along the roads.

• From Chez Qui Qui in the village, the pizza with jambon, cheese, olives and an egg cracked on top just after the pizza comes out of the oven.

• The pace of life.

• The way leisure is an equally if not more acceptable way of defining and expressing who you are.  As opposed to what you do for a living.  Your profession is seen as just one piece of more complex and compelling puzzle.

The clerk in the post office couldn’t do anything about it.  We were told we’d need to talk to the post- woman to straighten things out.  It wasn’t as if we could call her, either, or leave a message for her with the clerk.  No, we’d have to happen upon her as she was making her rounds.  Fine.

So, we waited and waited and waited and waited and waited to happen upon Madame De La Poste.  Days stretched on and no sightings.  Meanwhile, our mail was dropped into someone else’s mailbox.  (Luckily, they were kind enough to walk it down to us.)

But then one day we struck gold.  On his way back from the bakery one morning Tim saw the post-woman and pounced.  She very nicely explained that she couldn’t deliver our mail into our box because she would have to walk up steps that were private property.  If she hurt herself on those steps, her insurance wouldn’t cover the medical expenses.  If we moved our box so that it was on the street and thus public property, she could deliver our mail as it ought to be delivered.

Jesus God, I thought to myself, she’s not joking.  She’s utterly serious.   And she was.  So, we moved the mailbox.  That day.

At one point all three of the semi-attached houses on this block of Rue du Barry were one big house. But a family feud put an end to that. After somebody died and others inherited, the big house was split into three.

Still doesn’t quite explain how someone ended up owning a house but not owning the means to get in and out of the house beyond the front door.

That being said, by law, the owners (and renters) of our house are given the right of passage. Which means the people next door can’t be a pain and stop us from using their front steps or put anything on them that essentially blocks passage.  Not that we’re worried about that.  Most of the time they’re not around anyway, only coming down for the occasional weekend.

I’m not sure how the neighbors feel, though, about my pot of lavender next to the front door or the folding chairs we’ve leaned against the wall because we’re too lazy to put them in the cave. Technically, I’m putting my stuff on their property.  No demands for removal of the trespassing items have been made, though. 

Strange doings nonetheless.