Changing Hemispheres (9)
Part two: moving over and in
Home! In which one has a social life … Centimetre by centimetre, things begin to move. In my case, by foot, so far. And sometimes by bus. And for a while in a pre-90s blank. That is to say, no internet. Nor TV, nor radio. Until a couple of discoveries were made – that my little phone does actually do a sort of halting internet thing, though posting, texting and emailing this way is very slow and full of typos. The letter ‘p’ featured quite a lot. After this, which saw me sitting up in bed many a night plugging away with my pinkie and causing general typo-led hilarity among family and friends, other problems were: how to get anywhere by bus, and how the hell the heating worked. You see now why I was sitting up in bed, weighed down by doona and various jackets stretched over the top. My first visit was to the Mairie (town hall) of this tiny town, where a bus timetable was acquired. The Mairie was not hard to find – after all, the population of this hamlet is less than 400. Of course, they knew exactly who I was. This timetable, sadly, only dealt with the exceedingly limited service from C itself and from A down the road. Problem. In the other direction, E’s buses looked more frequent, at least judging by the one I took to Beziers. Thus, I now had two bus timetables. But not the full complement, as I discovered when staggering back from not-so nearby S, which has a supermarket. Beware, under these circumstances, of not buying more than you can carry back. Not that I really did, but this is winter, and I think this area of Herault
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comes on the edge of the mistral, the wind that blows freezing air at an enormous rate to the east of here. It blows enough here, however, to make trudging along a country road with a bag full of groceries a matter of misery, particularly on unprotected corners where suddenly there are no trees and the naked, winter vineyards offer no barrier at all. Please please please, somebody stop I said to myself. And someone did! Lovely woman. Have you had an accident? She said. No, no, I just don’t have a car yet! I said, and scrambled into her lovely warm front seat. Why didn’t you take the bus back from Servian through Espondeilhan? She asked. Oh, I said. Turned out, she is the daughter of a neighbour. So, next day I trotted the 1.5 km to E and its own Mairie and got a handful of timetables both for E and surrounds, and also within Beziers, our own Big Smoke. Very lovely woman, who announced I now had everything, at which I coo’ed with delight. I say Beziers, though actually I would like to spend more time in Pézenas, which is forty per cent medieval and proud of it – but not on the bus route from anywhere around here. Damn. That’s because villages tend to cluster, and our locality clusters around Beziers. You can get to Pézenas, but not back again, by bus. One goes from A (also about 1.5 km from C) at about 11.50, to Alignan du Vent, at which point you alight and wait for an hour and a half for the bus to Pézenas. But, as I said, there is no return that links with A. I knew, therefore, that I would have to catch a taxi (one arm and one leg in Euros) back, but I needed to go. I was going to assail the Orange shop and acquire myself a communications system, and maybe buy some stuff at the big supermarket there. Not have lunch, of course, because the bus system would not deliver me in time. Orange, of course, while extant in glorious Pézenas three months ago, is now defunct. Always, always call first …. And be wary if all you get is a recorded message. So I raided the supermarket and got myself various things, not the least of which was a
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radio/cd player, astonished the enquiries desk by asking for the number of the local taxi company, and rang for a taxi. They too seemed to be amazed to get a request – it would take at least two hours, they said. Why had I not brought my Kindle? Two extended coffees later, the taxi arrived. This was to be 35 Euros (a little more than $50Au). I’d asked, so I was forewarned. Anyway, very nice young man, he was. I listened to his radio as we travelled through the French countryside, via the snappy road system and past the dormant vineyards and the ancient stone churches, the little olive trees. And the radio played laid-back country and western while someone sang about being ‘sur la route de Memphis.’ And yes, I did find that both charming and surreal. Beziers is a lot easier to get to. And eventually I made my way there and to the still thriving Orange shop, where I ordered my Livebox and phone attachments (I’m too rural to add TV to the deal) and travelled back with all the schoolchildren to await my reentry to the world. Lucky, because my phone announced I had used up all my internet time. Who cares, I thought. I am surrounded by French countryside, vineyards and ancient stone houses on narrow streets, with a stately nineteenth century manor – which presumably used to overlook the fields and proclaim ownership of all it surveyed – and I will be online very soon. As I was, though the system didn’t come with its own phone. More of that later. What it did come with was a young man very confident of his attractions, who flirted like crazy and even texted me to do it. Well, that’s nice.
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And then I came home one day from some ramble or other and found a note under my door. In English. I have, extraordinarily, an Australian neighbor. She was told of my arrival by my over-the-road neighbour, who owns a house he is taking the rest of his life to renovate. This is a village, after all. So N, who is married to a Frenchman, M, originally came over from Sydney about 45 years ago to get married (not to M). At various times she had to go for up to two years without speaking English to anyone. Anyway, we’ve certainly made up for that, now. We are very different people, to be sure – but they have both been wonderful. M loves tinkering and fixing things, and has read all of my heat pump manuals and made the damn thing work. In the nick of time. Apparently there was the momentary appearance. of snow the other morning, which I didn’t even notice. Aside from being able to feel my fingers and toes again, I have also been introduced to village life as an oldie. Yes, I know. And given the 25-year-old IT technician, another surreal experience. Had I been invited to the annual ‘Repas des Aînés’, N and M asked? Yes, they said, a bit confronting but a bloody good nosh-up with alcohol and entertainment that lasts all day. No? So M scampered up to the Mairie to secure me an invitation, and off we went on Sunday. The Repas des Aînés is gratis for anyone local who is over 60. You can bring anyone with you (I assume for a nominal amount), so the crowd ends up as of mixed ages. Many or most villages around here do this at some time in the year. I suggest you acquire your own translation of the menu: Apéritif avec son assortiment de feuilletes; Croustadine de fois gras chaud, et Saint Jackques au jus caramélizé;
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Filet de Saint Piere à l’oseille, et champignons; Trou Normand; Magret de canard au coulis de morilles; Plateau de fromages frais et affinés; Entremet à la crème brûlée et Croustillant pistache; Café. One explanation I will give: Trou Normand is sort of the pause that refreshes. In this case, a teaspoon of sorbet in a tiny glass with another teaspoon of vodka. Which is just what you require really, what with the range of wines with every course and finishing up with a Cognac. Or whatever. Between each course, there was a floor show. Some music, some ‘magic’ and comedy, and the entrance every now and then of the lovely Gladys, who did an assortment of folies bergères, belly-dancing, Swing and flamenco-ish acts. Among others. I also managed to stay upright to do a waltz with the ex-mayor, as well, and being forced to do some sort of comedy dance led by the leader of the band. Well there you are. Well I certainly was. Here, incidentally, is Gladys herself, as snapped by N:
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And again:
At regular intervals, an elderly gent would turn to me and say of Gladys, ‘She dances well, doesn’t she!’ To which I would reply, ‘Oh, yes indeed she does.’ Around about the next day, it snowed, and this time I noticed. The light cover last a couple of days of fairytale prettiness weighing down the boughs of our trees; flakes hushed daintily to my neighbours’ rooftops. And then it went away, which is pretty right, actually, as a general principle. So there you are. Life in a French village. This might have been quite a good idea.