Monday, July 17, 2006

A bit of a faux pas ......


We stood in Reception and watched the owner stride purposefully towards us, wearing a baggy check shirt and baggy canvas trousers. I wasn't quite sure whether it was a man or a woman. Her hair was dyed blonde and pulled back in a curly ponytail and on closer inspection I could see that the eyebrows were plucked and her face was lightly made up although her jawline was pronounced and angular.

We all smiled, said hello but I didn't commit myself to a gender title. Her facial mannerisms were feminine and her voice was alto, so after a few moments I just had to commit myself to a "Merci, madame" for the sake of politeness. Phew! Right choice! She smiled shyly.

In the room, S and I talked about her appearance - the signals had been so confusing.

Later on, I went down to ask her if she would book us into a local restaurant. Again, on surer ground this time, I asked, "S'il vous plaît, madame..?" and again she smiled, and replied "That's twice you've called me madame and I'm a monsieur. What time shall I book the table for?"
The screaming in my head lasted for twenty minutes but I apparently said,"Oh, sorry. Half past seven, please."

From here ... to insanity.

This is where we had breakfast this morning.It was at a beautifully renovated, remote farmhouse in a secluded, wooded valley, where wild boar roamed and buzzards soared. We were three kilometres from the nearest house.


Three hours' travel time and we are back to shunt-and-park, where a vehicle of any size can insert itself into a parking space two feet shorter than the car's actual length by means of shunting back and forth, pushing adjacent cars into neighbouring cars. In another country this would be called "an accident" and would involve insurance companies .

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Dry, overgrown and uncared for.



Is that me?

Nooo! It's my garden back home.
It has been neglected for 12 weeks and so Steve had the task of using his slash and burn technique to subdue the weeds, deadhead son no. 2 for failure to water and remove all brown, withered growth to the dump. He assures me that it looks much better now.
But I miss my lychnis, my lavender, my honeysuckle and clematis. Here on the windowsill -no way can you call it a balcony- I cram some form of greenery and Steve adds a vine because he loves them. When we go home to England the plants either survive according to the vagaries of the weather, come home with us in the car like pets, or die. This time the travelling plants are a bay, a fantastically scented rose called Brocéliande and a third vine.
But first we have to go to Burgundy, taste some/lots of wine, eat at a Michelin restaurant and discover Beaune.

Monday, July 10, 2006

A headbutt ! Good job nobody's watching.

If it were cooler and I knew what time the event was to take place, I would go to the Champs Elysées to see the French football team return to Paris.
They deserved to win on the night but Zidane's rib-crunching headbutt is all I can visualise of the game. What on earth possessed him to do that? What was said to him to provoke such a violent, uncontrollable response?

It's a sad farewell for a great player.

Saturday, July 08, 2006

Think Chirac and some coloured chalks ... but the snails will have to do for Frenchness.


I wish I had my camera.

Steve has taken it to England so he can give me a visual update on the state of the garden. (The verbal reports have not been good.)
But I really needed it this morning to capture a rare sight. Some of my market stallholders have painted French tricolores on their cheeks and foreheads in support of their football team. Some look a bit sheepish, others can't stop smiling - it's a big improvement.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

Auvers the rainbow





Our Sunday jaunt was to Auvers-sur-Oise, a 45 minute motorway mix-up away.
The atmosphere is as far removed from Paris as a village in the Midi and it was here that Vincent van Gogh spent the last 2 months of his life, dying from self-inflicted bullet wounds after 2 days of agony, in the arms of his kind, loving brother Theo, who died six months later from a broken heart.
They are buried side by side in the village graveyard, overlooking Vincent's beloved cornfields; their simple headstones linked by a single covering of ivy.

Vincent arrived in Auvers on May 20th 1890 after spending a year voluntarily in hospital in Saint Rémy. He stopped off to see Theo in Paris , couldn't stand the noise and dog muck (I made that bit up but who knows..?) and took the train to Auvers to stay in an attic room above Ravoux's café-restaurant. By the next day he had painted his first canvas of cottages in Auvers, which now hangs in the Hermitage Museum.

He continued to paint in a frenzy, finishing at least 26 works, hoping that one day he would have his own exhibition in a café.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

Sweaty metro weather.


It's been swelteringly hot here for the last few days. Steve emerges from the metro in the evening looking drained but still continentally stylish in his pale linen suit and blue shirt. Last night a fellow passenger in a sweat-soaked shirt leaned back towards Steve and the moisture rubbed off onto his hand. YUK!

I, on the other hand, don't have to go near public transport for my daily needs. The market round the corner is packing up as I write but I'll wait till 15.30 when there's a lull at Monoprix and when the butcher has just opened.

Sunday, July 02, 2006

Where have I seen that before?



Another weekend and another wonderful discovery.
Obviously, nobody else knows about this little town just 40 mins north of Paris.
And yet...

The tortured-looking church, which would look so familiar with an inky blue sky, and the cornfield, which just needs a little added movement from a passing flock of crows.

uh-uh

It's mayhem over here.

I think I'll stay in all day tomorrow.....