Unseasonably Cool

Saturday, July 19, 2014

     I slept in the smaller, second bedroom on the première étage last night for a change.  Unlike the front room --which faces the road exiting Caunes from its east side and therefore, gets a lot of traffic--   the smaller room faces the back of the house and looks over the same expanse as the terrace overlooking the mountains.  The front room's bed is bigger, so with Beau in the smaller bed, it's a tight fit, but the stillness more than made up for it.  I went to bed early and slept like a rock, awakened refreshed.

     First stop was the post office: the vet registered Beau for a Pet Passport, but the organizing body wanted documentation of all the vaccinations and the health certificate I needed to bring Beau into France.  I made copies of the originals at Caunes' City Hall late yesterday afternoon with the intention of mailing the documents out first thing in the morning: the seat of village government is the only place you can make a copy of anything.  The charge is 20 centimes and the copier sheets are a different, longer size than America's 8 1/2" X 11" sheets.  With the mairie closed Saturday, I would have had to go to Carcassonne today to make copies if I did not make the short walk from the house there yesterday.
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     Similarly, the post office in Caunes opens at 9:00 a.m. and closes at noon on Saturdays (and Thursdays), so arriving when it opens is a must.  The doors to the post office are glass, and you have to ring the bell to be admitted --and there is only one person behind the counter (who also works as a bank teller, because the French post office is also a financial institution serving depositors).  Being served as I walked in was an elderly man wearing work pants with suspenders over his t-shirt, a farmer.  He looked behind him to see who had entered and wished me Bon jour --as did the clerk.  It's a normal politeness

     My business at the P.O. completed, I came home to hang the laundry on the wash line outside.  Few people have dryers in this area, relying on the heat and wind to take their place, and saving on the expense of having one.  Frugality is the norm here: for instance, my neighbors across the way --real paygous, (hillbillies)-- have four chimneys on their roof, meaning they only heat the house with firewood, which is inexpensive here.

     Hanging the clothes is rather fun: I have a plastic basket full of clothespins which has a hook which allows me to move the basket as I move across the line.  If it's a hot day (like yesterday) everything dries crisply in an afternoon; on damper days it can take twenty-four hours.  Few people seem to wear clothes that are ironed or particularly fashionable, I've noticed: there isn't enough leisure time for conspicuous consumption, most people work outdoors, whether in their gardens or on their domaines, pruning grape vines or olive trees, activity not suited to staying unrumpled.  I think I should be a bit neater in my turnout, but it's all I can do to take a second shower and change most days, a luxury few locals indulge in.

     Next stop: la dechetterie.  I've an old vacuum cleaner, a bagful of empty mineral water bottles and a stack of cardboard boxes to leave.  It turns out plastic bottles have to be inserted into the small hole atop the huge container one by one so that they can be recycled.  Styrofoam --which is called polystyrene in French-- has to be dumped elsewhere.  In all there are six dumps: bins for plastic bottles, for cardboard, for wood products, for vegetable matter, for glass, for magazines and newspapers, for metal.  It's a good kilometer outside Caunes in the direction of Narbonne (in the opposite direction from Carcassonne), so I have taken to collecting as much refuse as I can safely fit into the car before making a trip there.  Although the experience is never unpleasant: there are no foul odors and the staff --dressed in their fluorescent green pants and t-shirts, black reflector strips making them almost fashionable-- are always energetic, pleasant, and clean.

     On to the eastern limits of Carcassonne: I have been having knee pains and I should be icing them.  The pharmacy in Caunes could not help me so far as ice packs or wraps go, so I need to see if Decathlon,  a national chain of high-end athletic gear might have them.  If I strike out there, I'll have to try my luck at the Le Clerc superstore.  It's a drive, but I enjoy shopping at Le Clerc, with its air of modernity.  The lack of products I take for granted in New York --like ice packs in every conceivable shape and size-- which village stores in Caunes can't be expected to carry-- is compensated for by the existence of this one store, which seems to have almost everything.

     Indeed, after spending forty-five minutes trying to find Decathlon in the La Bourriette shopping mall --inside the La Ferraudière shopping mall-- I end up finding even this high-end sports store lacking.  They don't carry any kind of ice pack, although they have ten different ankle and knee supports.  Le Clerc, on the other hand, has a German brand of muscle care products as well as a French one.  Amidst several hundred toiletry products, I find my ice packs, as well as a spray that applies cold via an aerosol, arnica ointment, an antiseptic spray and decent band-aids.

     Once I get home with my load and put it away, I have one more stop to make: Domaine Mazy.  Marie de Mazy and her husband grow "bio" fruits, cereals and wine-producing grapes.  Their farm is near Laure, where the fire burned Thursday night.  I was Marie's guest for lunch last year and know they sell fig jam, preserved whole figs and wine made on the estate.  Marie is the descendant of a Chouan, a counterrevolutionary from the Vendée in West-Central France, on the Atlantic Ocean.  She is a devout Catholic with nine children, all (she is happy to say), now married.  Her periwinkle blue eyes twinkle, although the blond hair has now gone completely white at the roots and it has been a long time since she last had it colored.  The de Mazys are child-rich poor farmers, local talk has it, and indeed, their homestead is considerably more modest than that of the neighboring farm, with its light-colored stone buildings of recent vintage.  With them charging only 6 Euros (about eight dollars) for a sixteen ounce had of the fig jam made on the estate, it's no wonder.

     I ran into Martin, the eldest son, who works alongside his father, this morning.  He remembered me from last year and he encouraged me to visit.  Tall, dark and handsome, I see Martin at Mass, where he often reads.  He looks like a prep-school  product, with his Topsiders, khaki shorts and polo shirt, but after greeting me briefly on arrival, he returns to the fields to prune the de Mazy olive trees.

     My car rumbles over the unpaved road to and from the farm and I am glad to get back on a paved road and away from the fields, where I always lose my sense of direction.  I have to park near the Caunes primary school rather than by the house, because the influx of weekend visitors have taken all the parking spaces.  In the Place d'Europe, the local wine growers and other artisanal producers are preparing to offer their products tonight, to the tune of a band hired to attract customers.  There is a maker of patés selling a cassoulet of white beans and duck meat in a jar that I'd permit myself.  Next to the jar are patés of every kind, including foie gras and its variations.  I may look in on the event later.

     As I walk to the house, I pass the home of Chantal, a woman I know chiefly because her big black dog, Bababoud, follows Beau around.  Chantal has hung hand-embroidered sachet bags in her windows and invites their purchase.  This is the first time I have seen them and the work is exquisite.  I ring the bell and before I know it, Beau and I are inside her living room, which is jam-packed with hand-embroidered articles of every description.

     "I used to live near the forest, east of the Var.  I would go for three, four hour walks with Babbaboud: I loved it.  But my means are limited, so when my oldest friend died, her daughter told me to live here until she made up her mind what to do with it.  So I've been here two years, and I make a little money doing these things, which I was making anyway."

     I buy a lovely message, Bienvenue, cross-stitched on sampler fabric, for the house.  I also order a birthday gift for Max in Switzerland, an embroidered border on sampler fabric, a repeat with a border, showing little birds sitting on the backs of lambs.  Chantal will embroider his name on the piece, which can be made into any number of things. The rustic images remind me of the Swiss Alps, another place where locals try to maintain the traditions of the farm.

     It's unseasonably cool now, with storms battering the land to the north of Caunes.  After yesterday's heat, the cool --with its promise of restful sleep-- is balm.