Our House is Definitely Not in Paris Page 8

  By now it is almost time for déjeuner, but I’m determined as always to finish the task I’ve allocated myself for the morning. The midday sun does not prove to be a good time at all for shovelling dirt and trundling across the land, pushing heavy wheelbarrowloads of soil to place around our new trees. As I work away, I reflect upon how Dominique had only just managed to mask her horror at my dirt-encrusted, sweat-stained appearance when she appeared on the scene with a bundle of euros. It remains a constant mystery to me how she manages to garden in her robe and remain ever so immaculate. Perhaps there’s a book in that, I muse. As I move into the coolness of our petite maison for lunch, the final triumphant note in our Monday morning list of calls is to be told by Stuart that oui, Piscine Ambiance had indeed got our Droopi 2. There is no désolé at all for the inconvenience.

  In our Cuzance life, Stuart has adopted his own version of the Naked Chef while preparing dîner. After a swim, he is fond of discarding his wet swimwear and simply wearing a sarong in la cuisine. I am sure this is not the sartorial style of French men at all, unless it is in French Polynesia.

  Tuesday in Toulouse

  Usually, once our rénovation season is in full swing, I leave my work clothes next to the bed to pull on straight away when I wake up. Despite the fact that we have weeks ahead of us, time is always of the essence. Tuesday morning is, however, an altogether different scenario. Another huge day at IKEA has long been planned and then we get to play at being tourists in Toulouse. Oh yes, IKEA again; the destination in every French vacances brochure. The windows of our petite maison peer at me in surprise. A pretty robe, make-up and jewellery, and all this on a Tuesday morning. What is going on? the house seems to murmur. I flounce out with my wicker basket and tell it disdainfully that this is what I try to look like every day at home when I go to my lycée.

  The Toulouse IKEA plan has been in place for quite some time. There is a list of what we still need for the little house. In our fourth year the lists still rule our days and existence. We have decided that we will combine the trip to Toulouse with sightseeing. This is our other life, and there has simply never been enough time to fully appreciate all that is on our French doorstep. A chambre d’hôte has been booked and a deposit paid. We are determined to play for a few days.

  All starts well and we arrive after the two-hour drive within ten minutes of opening. I well remember our trip of three years previously to buy our IKEA cuisine. To buy a kitchen we needed a van. Delivery would be très, très cher. To borrow a van was a two-hour drive to Villefranche-de-Rouergue to borrow our friend Erick’s. Then we pressed on to Toulouse, without a Sat Nav. Despite our printed directions we got terribly lost. ‘Merdes’ flew. The van did not.

  This time we sail along the autoroute. I conduct my own petite French lesson as I listen to the Sat Nav directions. A gauche in fifteen kilometres, then droit, I tell Stuart confidently. Left and right. Finally I grasp the basic fundamentals with all the linguistic sophistication of a three year old. When we fly along for one hundred straight kilometres, I gaze around at the rapid and varying changes in the landscape. We leave the verdant, thick forests of le Lot and the landscape levels out abruptly. It has become flat and dry. The limestone maisons of our département are replaced by rendered houses. I practise my basic French by reading the road signs: châteaux, grottes and Parc Naturelle. Grande mansions, caves and national parks. Is there no end now to my extensive vocabulary?

  Flashes of our past trip re-surface as we approach the périphérique. Soon, IKEA should appear on the right. And indeed, droit, there it is. Stuart swings in triumphantly. We join the streams of people already flocking to IKEA. Just in time for petit déjeuner; a café, boisson and croissant, all for one euro.

  Fortified, we’re off, armed with the inevitable list. We embark on a search for the door and handle that is missing from our cuisine. We falter at the first hurdle. Oui, the colour and size are correct. What is not clear is whether it will be in the Market Hall or if we have to queue to collect an order receipt to then pick it up from the warehouse. We hedge our bets each way. I line up while Stuart goes in search of assistance. He returns before I have even progressed in the queue, for despite it being an express service counter, it moves as slowly as an escargot. There are French chefs clutching their complex IKEA cuisine designs. Their requests are by no means in the rapide category.

  Stuart tells me that the advice he has been given is cryptic. You line up for some items only and others you simply collect. How you know which item qualifies for which procedure is not clear at all. Voilà. The helpful woman behind us sets me straight on the intricacies of French IKEA. It is her second day there in a row. No wonder she is fully familiar with all the ins and outs of IKEA. If it has a rouge ticket, you collect it in the Market Hall. If not, you queue. Our item does not have a red ticket. We keep queuing. The line still moves at the pace of a snail. The demands of French chefs are never-ending in their quest for kitchens that will produce Michelin meals. Voilà. It turns out my query is in the express category. Receipt in hand to identify our cupboard door, we continue to work our way through our list. Two pillows, an eiderdown, deux more storage baskets for our cuisine. Tick, tick, tick. Are the lists possibly starting to diminish at long last?

  Shades of three years previously emerge again to thwart our IKEA expedition. Our Bank Populaire card is rejected at the checkout. This is due to the complex system of credit and deficit that I can never manage to grasp. What I do know is that another queue has started. This time, it is stretching out behind us. I also know that the déjeuner hour is a mere ten minutes away. Stuart tries the card again. Non. I ask if he brought our French chequebook. Non. Your Australian credit card? Non.

  I frantically consider what can be abandoned, based on what cash we have. The thought of leaving behind items that were on my precious IKEA list is not something I want to consider. This has happened to us before when we were setting up our little house. Why is it happening again? We may love IKEA, but I don’t want it to be so highly featured on our vacances itinerary that we have to make a return trip. I vow fervently to not return until our dreamed-of la grange conversion comes to fruition.

  I am sure that even though everyone is patient in their inimitable French way, they must be rolling their eyes in frustration at the ineptness of foreigners. I dare not turn around and look at them. I can only hope that a glass of vin at lunch will soothe them. Yes, one of the delights of shopping at a French IKEA is that wine is served along with plat de jour.

  We cast items aside and hastily put everything else in our voiture, then head back inside for lunch. We need to check what cash we have left. Not much, it would seem. We discuss over lunch the thought of traipsing round Toulouse in the enervating heat, taking in the tourist sites. It is not an appealing one. We count our depleted euro yet again and calculate potential costs. Dîner for two nights, déjeuner and deux nights at the chambre d’hôte. Add to this walking around in the blistering heat, tick, tick, ticking off a nouveau list, the must-not-be-missed-in-Toulouse sights. We agree that the loss of the deposit against all the other costs is petite. Are we sad to miss the attractions of Toulouse? Non. It seems that we have come to the same conclusion. Le Lot and our petite maison are calling us back. We call and cancel, désolé. The lure of le Lot is a strong one. Even the woman in IKEA who helped us talked about the gastronomic delights of our département. We head home, feeling as gleeful as two school children truanting lycée.

  When we arrive at Pied de la Croix late that afternoon rather than two days later as planned, we are full of joy to be back. Its magnetic draw and tug on our heartstrings is a strong one. We decide to think long and hard before we plan any future trips away from our little house.

  Wednesdays in Martel

  Baby bunnies bouncing in the early morning light is a sight that never fails to fill me with delight. The well-remembered chat noir, slinking through the grass, does not. She pauses to peer at me. I stare back. Is she fat this summer? I absolutely do n
ot want four kittens born in a manger in la grange like last year. This potential concern is more than balanced by waking to a country Cuzance morning, rather than the hustle and bustle of city life in Toulouse. Once again, I am glad that our petite maison is definitely not in Paris.

  Wednesday mornings means off to the markets in Martel. From past disappointments, we know we need to leave early. Not to get the freshest melon or the most luscious fraise. Non. Melons and strawberries can wait. We need to get to our beloved boulangerie before the tourists scoop up all the tasty pastries. Our disappointment at not being able to have our favourite abricot hibou with our espresso at Mespoulet, the locals’ café, has been disproportionate in the past. This has to be avoided at all costs. Strangely, none of our French friends seem to succumb to the delights of a pâtisserie unless a delectable chocolat gâteau is produced after dîner. Then they exclaim with delight, just as we do. This is a noteworthy insight into why French women don’t get fat. It would seem that the book of that title has undertaken similar research to my own. Who does eat all the petit déjeuner pastries from the viennoiserie? Not French women, it would seem. Non. They buy them for their children as they trot along at their side, pain au chocolat in hand, as they head for another day at lycée. This year I learn that a viennoiserie is a ‘thing of Vienna’ that literally means baked goods made from yeast-leavened dough, such as brioche served with confiture and beurre, pain au raisin or chausson aux pommes. These shops are frequented for petit déjeuner pastries as the eggs, butter, milk, cream and sugar give them an extra sweetness and richness. Is an hour’s toil in the midday sun shovelling dirt worth one mouth-watering pastry? For me, there is only one possible resounding answer. Oui!

  When summer is at its height, not only is the market thronged with tourists, but the market traders are out in full surge. As well as the abundant fresh produce, there are stalls set up to specifically capitalise on the tourist trade. Everyone is eager for a taste of French summer in every conceivable way, not merely from the tantalising displays of succulent fruit. People want to transport a tiny piece of France home so their vacances lingers in their everyday lives. The stallholders offer confiture; lavender in all its off-shoots, such as aromatic soap; oil made from the famed walnuts of the region; and hand-crafted pottery as lasting memorabilia.

  There are also rows of vans selling fromage and poisson. The pungent smell of cheese and fresh fish fills the air. As we wait in a long line at a food van, we chat away and decide that we will buy quiche for our lunch. A woman next to us overhears the choice we are about to make, and tells us she is buying her husband’s favourite cabbage rolls for his déjeuner. She tells us that we can buy quiche anywhere and highly recommends the rouleaux de chou. We duly choose several cabbage rolls, unprepossessing in appearance but a taste sensation nevertheless. They are so delicious that they are immediately added to our list of cuisine not to be missed each summer.

  In just a week since our last visit to Mespoulet, it is immediately evident that the tourist season is in full swing. Their size and shape stands out, as well as the sheer volume of their voices, clearly distinguishing them from their svelte French counterparts. The tourists at the tables have sprung up overnight, like cèpes. Mushrooms, however, sheltering in the deep, dark, secret places in the forest, are not so gaudily attired.

  The days of guidebooks are long gone for us. Another museum? Non. Another gallery? Non. Perhaps a vineyard or two? Non again. Our style now is the one that simply involves sitting in a café, though definitely not one thronged with tourists. A locals’ café in any town is always the best choice of all; to sit among the everyday patrons, to listen, to observe and watch the world pass by. For the price of an espresso, there is no imperative to hurry, no pressure to quickly vacate your table. It is yours for as long as you like. All this for a mere euro. This is the life we long to have more of when the days of rénovation are finally behind us. A café is, after all, where the locals go; not the Musée du Louvre, not Notre Dame. The world comes to you over an espresso if you linger long enough.

  As we slowly sip our espresso, locals speed into the coveted parking spaces in front of the café that is also a Tabac. They grab their Gauloise and another voiture person in the know quickly takes their place. Mespoulet is situated right next to a roundabout. They are a feature of all the roads through towns in France and are always planted with attractive fleur displays. We watch in amazement as articulated lorries, one after the other, manoeuvre with practised ease round the tight turning circle of rond-point, literally a round point. A line of vacances voiture wait patiently for their turn to follow the D23 to Les Quatre Routes, Meyssac, Collonges la Rouge, Château de Turenne and Camping Municipal LA Callopie. France has hundreds of camping sites dotted throughout the countryside and along the banks of rivers. The majority of French people choose to spend their summer holidays within their own country. There is a staggering abundance of geographical and cultural choices, from the Alps and the Mediterranean, to the ultra-exclusive enclaves of the wealthy on the French Riviera.

  This coastline was one of the first modern resort areas and was the playground for British, Russian, and other aristocrats. It was then frequented by artists and writers, such as Pablo Picasso and Matisse. Now it is a major cruising and yachting area, still exclusively the domain of the rich and famous. The very names on the Côte d’Azur — Antibes, Cannes, Cap Ferrat, Saint-Tropez and Juan-les-Pins — are words in themselves that convey a vision of paradise. The azure bays are surrounded by limestone cliffs and cypress trees that soar towards skies that never frown with rain clouds. Wealth shrieks from the billowing sails of the sleek yachts, nodding at peace in the bays. If you have to even check the menu prices outside some of the most exclusive restaurants in the world, then that in itself may be a subtle hint that this may not be your natural milieu.

  In Nice alone there are over a thousand restaurants, which is staggering to even contemplate. The very names are enough to seduce you, such as the Hotel du Petit Palais. Another renowned one, the Château de la Chèvre d’Or, is just another of the many sumptuous choices on the French Riviera. Just to sit in the terraced magnifique jardins, perched high above a world that is far, far away, overlooking the crashing waves and sipping an apéritif, would be to discover a taste of paradise on earth. It is not somewhere I expect to be heading to soon.

  Similarly, holiday activities abound, from monuments, museums and châteaux, to vineyards, horse riding and caves. At the other end of the scale is Paris, and one of the most exclusive shopping precincts in the world. Crowned by the Arc de Triomphe, Le Champs-Élysées houses every designer you have ever heard of, such as Chanel and Louis Vuitton. It is here that the Tour de France ends in triumph as the cyclists fly along the boulevards, watched by the thousands who have flocked to the City of Lights.

  Back at our café, locals having their morning espresso wander in with copies of Le Figaro and Le Monde tucked under their arms. The very old locals sit in the places they have occupied for decades. They are offered the daily journals in the traditional way. The newspapers are tightly rolled onto long, thin pieces of wood, ready to unfurl as they read about a world far from Paris. I hear murmurs of ‘gendarme’, and wonder what has happened. Perhaps there have been more protests in Paris against the new legislation to allow gay marriages. Lacking my customary notebook in my market basket, I instead tear off a portion of the brown paper sac from the boulangerie to scribble on.

  After soaking up the start of market morning in Martel, we saunter along the narrow cobbled streets to the covered marketplace. At only ten, it is already crowded and humming with activity. There are more stallholders set up now than just a week ago, to cater for the lucrative tourist trade. Despite the vast increase in market shoppers, the hum of voices remains low. Selecting the best quality produce is a serious business. Meals in France are of premier importance in daily life. Like we have learnt, there is an art to it. First you wander, assessing which stallholder is offering the best prices and quality
for the day. After an initial appraisal, we have learnt the custom of moving from one stall to another. Like the locals, we soon have our favourite to choose the deepest, darkest cherries from, while another stall is our choice each time for sun-ripened, sun-warmed melons. For everything else we go to our favourite, always-beaming stallholders for tomate, salade and pomme de terre, potatoes that the smell of newly dug earth still clings to. No matter how busy they are, the jolly couple and their middle-aged son always take the time to ‘Bonjour, ça va?’ us and comment on the presence or absence of solei. They now also slip us a bunch of large-leaf parsley when our purchases are fin. It is so fresh it is like a bouquet of fleurs.

  To round off our shopping, we head to Intermarché on the outskirts of Martel. I notice that many others who were also just in the markets are now like us, working their way through their supermarché list. Naturally, we cannot resist the attraction of French treats. So we choose Bouton d’Or, Golden Button chips. I rationalise that I can learn more French this way. How else would I have learnt the essential word for ‘button’? However, since my sewing skills barely extend to sewing on buttons, perhaps this is not a critical word for my still very limited French vocabulary.

  Lingerie is solde today in le supermarché. Stuart heads to the ever-favourite wine aisle, while I succumb to the allure of French lingerie. I am completely unsure of my size in French. I gesture to a woman beside me to see if she can possibly help. ‘Oui, Madame,’ she agrees and then points at the most petite size. I slip between the racks, cast a hasty glimpse around to ensure no-one is in sight, and quickly slip the item on over my robe. Voilà, it is perfect. My wardrobe assistant was right; Brigitte Bardot I am not.

  I so avidly peruse and purchase second-hand clothes wherever I go that I have already bought a striped top in Martel after our café visit. It was hanging in an alluring fashion on a rack, simply imploring me to choose it. And, as everyone knows, striped tops are almost compulsory in any wardrobe in France. However, my penchant and passion for collecting vintage clothes means that I simply don’t seem to have grasped that I am definitely not in Paris. I renovate, I garden. When will I ever wear all the things I constantly scoop up in my ever-ready straw sac? I tell Stuart that I’m thinking of setting up a boutique in our spare chambre. I don’t think Cuzance is ready for haute couture fashion, but I’m sure to capture all the passing holiday-makers. I realise, though, that I can’t create our own Cuzance Champs-Élysées. After all, our road does not even have a name.