The Little Words Mean the Most

Poilhes

It was the usual multi-year pig roast trying to get 3.5 adult couples out the door and into cars. Our scheduled departure 1 PM; our actual departure 1:40 PM. The majority voted to buy a snack. There was construction en route. Entrusted with the lead, I fumbled down back roads. We reached our first modest destination, Poilhes, spent; and abandoned the rest of the afternoon's itinerary to watch boats go by and ducks chase bread. We gustily waved to a school outing sailing past on a barge; the children shouted bon appetit. The tiny village port of Poilhes sits on a curved embankment of the soup-green Canal du Midi (a Mediterranean-to-Atlantic 17th-century engineering masterpiece) where it turns firmly toward the city of Béziers. In Poilhes we met a charismatic cat with teeth like a gardening fork, working the local picnic table and doing quite well by it, judged by its sturdy girth. Hi, Marilyn. Wish you were truly here.

Marilyn in France

Here on a stick, if not in person: angelic Marilyn and sunglasses Marilyn. L-r: supermarket shopping, pique-nique in the chill hills of the Corbieres, tailgating, at the bread store, at the magnificent Viaduc du(de?da?) Millau, hanging with the stars, zen Marilyn, Marilyn takes a walk.

Waiting for Paul

Poor Paul. His plane broke in Cincinnati. He was solo; Marilyn, his wife, couldn't join him. He arrived 4 hours late in Gatwick and missed his connection. The only flight available was a late hop to Toulouse, 2 hours from our house. We dispatched the rescue. L-r: A deceptively peaceful afternoon, on the Autoroute to Toulouse as dusk and storm clouds close in, Voila! Paul! Trying to take a photo in the dark!, the fortified medieval city of Carcassonne illuminated, viewed at 11 PM from the roadside rest spot.

Cliquot

Poppies bloom. Here's the best field near our house, in the vineyards where we hike.

May 8 Victory in Europe Day

May 8 is a bank holiday in France, tribute to the Second World War's end. Germany surrenders, about 990 years shy of its 1,000-year Reich, though they spread enough misery for a millennium. We met a French ex-marine officer in a tie and black sweater headed for the town ceremonies. He invited us to the town's aprés-wreath-laying festivities. We hurried home to lose the jogging outfits and don long pants and jackets. L-r: Simone d'la red pants; the principal speakers; the ceremonies wrap for the year; the pajama party from across the way uses our stoop to chat, yes, they are proud 16 year old girls in wet hair and robes, and yet yes one is smoking demonically; our front window now decorated with hibiscus; and blue girl, my girl, against my favorite stained wall, could be paint could be the copper they spray as an antifungal on the vines.

Brocante foire a Valros

You, America, it is this moment 7:47 AM, cup of coffee applied liberally. Me, France, it is 1:47 PM. I am attending my first lunch-ish glass of wine from a local vineyard, a Syrah. Simone and I have already run/walked. And visited our town's brocante (second-hand) fair, where items reach the end of the line and then are resurrected!!! by a glance, a pointing finger, and a question: "How much is that, see vous plais?" We bought two items: a photo-illustrated book on Valros, our town, published last year; and an incomplete set of chess pieces carved in Africa, most of them sans spears. Translation on the pop gun for sale: buy this and you'll put out an eye ("cyclops").

Bread and chairs, pre-deluge

We are expecting a household full of guests from the US tomorrow. The forecast is for 5 straight days of heavy rain. In a rude gesture to the weather gods, Simone and I spent the afternoon shopping for comfortable outdoor chairs and fell in love with a line designed and manufactured in France called lafuma. I swept garage dirt into the gutter, expecting the deluge to clean it away. L-r: new chairs and recliners; rush hour at the bread store.

Errands by day, pizza by night

The exercise: in early evening, Campari in hand, note 10 details in less than a minute. Go. (1) I'm too fat. If I were female and younger, people would assume my pregnancy. Reflective surfaces bring j'accuse. I DO have an answer, aside from exercise and better diet -- spacious over-shirts. (2) Thin crusts of TV shows leak from neighbors' open windows. (3) The noise of a passing car fills the avenue behind us like a bullet fills a rifle barrel. (4) Car engines have different personalities, mild, confident, grrrrr. (5) A car door shutting signals a turn in some family's evening. (6) A dozen birds cry at any moment, no louder than scratches, with an occasional operatic display. A cat on a balcony listens. (7) Suddenly accelerating cars hope to climb the narrow avenue before the next opposing car appears. (8) Declining sun strikes the tawny orange chimneys. (9) The ladder left out against the back of our house betrays today's chore. (10) A dog squeals happily like a squeegee on glass.

L-r: A cool drink on a hot day in a Pézenas bar; fixing the roof drain; spraying the olive tree for pests; a snack of radishes and salt peanuts; the Wednesday night pizza truck; Valros' Central Bar; the vineyard hidden in the center of town, Domaine des Creisses, which makes a single-grape simple wine that's very delicious and sincere; Simone returns home with the pizza on our pedestrian-friendly street -- our house is the one on the left with the blue shutters as the street curves out of sight.

Visite @ La Seyne sur-la-Mer

With Fab and Jean Claude, Simone's French cousines. Fab is my translator. Jean Claude is my French editor. Fab is just "emancipated" from her work as an English teacher. Jean Claude is a bit younger and still teaching. We like to hike together and despair the stupid governments of our respective countries. They live in a Mediterranean seaside community. Their son, Thomas (pronounced "Toe-mah"), is a nuclear engineer working in Paris; a rising star. L-r: Fab and Jean Claude talk via iChat with Thomas; translation: "If you take my place, please take my handicap, too"; mid-hike, we stop for drinks at the gray sand beach in a small fishing village; Fab's fabulous "orange wine," made with tart citrus from a friend's bountiful tree and pharmaceutical-grade alcohol (think punched in the nose by a tangerine); Jean Claude and Fab at home; fire control on the hike; a typically lovely dinner at their home near Toulon with locally grown organic eggplant, quiche, etc.; Simone and Tom at the beach near Fab/Jean Claude's home; and where we hiked in the neighborhood.