It'd been four years since I’d been in France. The journey was as smooth as I could have wished, and arrival comforting. We’re staying in Isabelle’s mother’s tiny hometown, Pont de Vaux, a safe place, no crime, wonderful weather, and flowers galore. There are a few things to get used to, such as “C” on the plumbing means hot. No one tips the server. Food, well, more on that later.
The inhabitants of this smalltown always smile. Everyone walking in the store is greeted with a cheerful Bonjour. Shoppers on the street stop to have long conversations. When conversations finish, Bonne Journée echoes out. Shop owners and customers know each other, and likely share a great-grandparent. It’s clean, safe, and friendly. The prices are good, the food is delicious, and the air is fresh (interestingly fragrant if you’re next to a cow farm.)
I’m a tag-along for my lovely translator, Isabelle. A translator helps a lot, although I did manage to order our breakfast quiches Tuesday morning. After three years of studying every day, I can read and can make simple negotiations, but I can’t follow conversations.
Long drives through the country are our specialty, speeding along narrow roads lined by towering trees. Isabelle tells me that these trees were planted by order of Napoleon to help hide and give shade to troop movement. The little Peugeot we rented gives a constant reminder of the speed limit in a bullseye above the steering wheel. Good thing, because the limit changes dramatically quite abruptly.
We take back roads, roaring past corn fields and cows in pasture. Suddenly, we’re upon a century-old village, streets so narrow that if there ever was another vehicle, there’d be congestion. We crawl through these places-out-of-time, marveling at the tile roofed orange plastered buildings with their lace curtained windows waving in the gentle breeze. Bright flowers thrive in every pot. Lazy cats stretch out on stone fence tops watching us pass by.
We’re lodged at Isabelle’s 89-year-old mother Mémé’s house. When she moved here fifteen years ago, the building was already thirty-five years old. Since then, it’s undergone little change, she lives by herself and keeps everything spotless. Even a flower petal from her many plants is promptly swept off the porch.
Mémé’s doing extremely well for her age. She’s up early, cleaning herself and the already spotless kitchen, and fixing her breakfast. Her little Peugeot takes her back and forth to the grocers, although I’ve not been willing to let her demonstrate her driving skills. In the evenings, she settles in front of the TV, complaining to the narrator about their politics. She talks to me in slow French, and sometimes we can communicate. Both of us being hard of hearing doesn’t make it any easier.
Isabelle and I settled into the upstairs room, one wall end-to-end shelves stuffed with books. The windows look out across the fields to distant, low ancient mountains, offering a refreshing breeze in the evenings. The room has only two plugs, European double cylinders, requiring a converter.
Tuesday morning, we drove out to Tournus. Perhaps the oldest town in the region, it’s prime attraction is the Abbey. I hope you’ll watch my YouTube video made of my filming there: https://youtu.be/GkZBgRYmiXY . The town thrived under the governance of the Dukes of Burgundy, its situation on a river making it safe and wealthy.
On the way back to Mémé’s house, Isabelle brought me to the Carrefour (pronounced car-for, it means crossroads). A Whole Foods sort of place, it offers fresh meat and fish, walls of cans, and various attractive sundries, such as shoes, gardening, and toys. We brought home a seafood dinner. Spicy cod balls from the West Indies. Tiny brown shrimp from Normandy. Huge red shrimp from Brittany. Bulot (huge snails) from the northern coast.
Before dinner, we took Mémé on a long drive through the country. She was delighted to get out of the house and see so much territory. Dozens of little villages offered their speedbumps and waving passersby. Big farm trucks take up the whole road, requiring compromise to pass.
Dinner was, as expected, a gastronomical feast. Besides the seafood, we had slim green beans and fresh bread. There’s nothing better than fresh French bread, except maybe the pain au chocolat (croissant rolls laced inside with chocolate). Cheese squares and chocolate circles made up dessert.
Wednesday was market day. The circus of tents and vendor booths stretched down the main street for a dozen blocks, tailing off in the central courtyard. Chickens rotisseried before your eyes. A Nigerian offered three carts long of leather belts, purses, and moccasins. Residents lined up for their favorite cheeses from the fromager. Each shopper held a market basket, little treasures of all sorts carefully tucked inside. Although I didn’t film this one, I have a YouTube video of the French market from a few years ago. Here: https://youtu.be/iIa4DR4C9m8
After market, Isabelle, Mémé and I traveled the two miles to Isabelle’s brother’s house. Serge is a retired policeman, a jovial fellow with almost adequate English skills. His wife Danielle and her sister made six. We sat down for lunch just after noon. Danielle had set a fancy French table, two plates of stacked China, radiant silverware, and three types of glasses. Aperitif offered, Foie gras, red caviar, and rolled slices of French smoked trout. This course came with Monbazillac, a sweet wine. Mid-starters brought lovely fried eggplant slices, accompanied by more drinks. Serge had a fine Japanese whiskey. The main course brought green beans with mushrooms, chicken breast fillets in fresh cream and mushroom sauce, and freshly made half-inch noodles. This meal required a dry red, so the very rare 2008 Gevrey-chambertin rounded the table. For dessert, a fine raspberry Bienvenue cake, with my birthday number candles acc0mpanied by the smooth, sweet, rich, Monbazillac. Serge is nine months older than me and they’d saved the numbers from his cake. We finally got up from the table four hours after sitting down.
It's certainly the most relaxing vacation I’ve been on for a long time. I’m finding time to produce some creative writing, and that’s my passion. Thanks for following my blog.