So far, the fêtes are always memorable for one reason or another. The one we went to last night in Cessenon is a perfect example. Yesterday was Bastille Day, and every Bastille Day there’s a big fireworks display in Cessenon. So we went there to make up for the July 4th hoopla we missed out on. It was a good fireworks show, but not nearly as spectacular as the music and dance performances that went down on the esplanade thereafter. Such a small stage, so many interesting juxtapositions…and costume changes…at least 10 before I stopped counting.

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.

Before we moved to France my dear friend, Kyle, gave me a book called My Life in France by Julia Child. I’ve been saving this book for a special time, and I decided that the trip to Spain and Biarritz was special enough that it was coming with me on the journey.

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.

At the moment there aren’t too many things I’d yearn to import from France if we were moving back to the states.  I imagine this list will grow, although hopefully at the same time it will expand beyond the edibles!

• 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.

When we first arrived we couldn’t figure out why our mail was being delivered to the address of another property owned in this village by our proprietors.  We’d gone to the post office to make ourselves known.  We’d put our names on the mailbox and in a style that would get us high marks for penmanship.  For weeks, though, our mail was being delivered elsewhere.

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.

The people who own the house we’re renting do not own the steps outside the front door. Those are owned by the people next door.

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.