The winds are blowing hard today, the last day of my cycling season with the Caunes-Minervois club. All my friends are there: Jacques, the incoming president, a former policeman; Jean, the retiring treasurer and a former gendarme; Patrice, a former miner and the club secretary; Jeannot, an expert in HCL --"yes", salt-- the oldest member, still going strong at 81 after treatment for bladder cancer four years ago; Claude, a retired employee of the mairie here; George, a retired harvester of grapes, here and in Spain; Jamie, the club Scotsman, an oil expert. I have invited everyone over for un pot --a glass of wine-- after our ride, my last this year. Everyone is keen on coming, those who didn't hear the invitation made last Saturday at the annual club dinner were phoned. "It's not the sort of thing anyone would keep a secret --a chance to have a glass of something after the ride", Jamie jokes.
We ride 30 kilometers into the Mas Cabardès commune, which includes the medieval Château de Lastours and an affiliated fort, both high in the mountains. The hamlet below is lovely, a footbridge over a stream connecting one end with the other, the stream's banks still thick with flowers and foliage --the vines have turned gold in the autumn sun, but it's still green everywhere. The temperatures, too, are mild and made for cycling. Only the stiff winds --the gusts throw our bicycles around a bit and test our control of them-- bespeak the beginning of the end of the cycle of warm weather. Still, the weather is marvelous by the standards of New York, which is chilly now.
I am in good form today and able not only to keep up, but at times, outpace the pack. Attaque! shouts Patrice when I lurch forward past him. I overhear Claude observe to Patrice, "Elle set costaud--" ("She's sturdy--") and I'm glad that in my last outing I'm making my best showing all season.
The pot I have planned for after the ride's end, three hours later, is actually a sort of second lunch: I put out two bottles of award winning local reds, a platter of fresh charcuterie and saucisson from Icher, the local butcher: everything from blood sausage to head cheese to country paté and ham; along with a strawberry mousse refrigerator cake from the village boulangerie. Everyone digs in, talking and joking animatedly.
"How much do you understand, when everyone talks at once?" Jamie asks me. We agree we miss about a quarter of what is said in the flurry of talk.
Not that we're excluded from the conversation because we can't follow the rapid flow of words: at one point, George tries out his Spanish on me --he has a great accent and just the right intonation to sound like an average Spaniard. Which leads several people to remark that the Spanish speak more loudly than the French, so much so that they can be heard several feet away. --A remark with which I agree, by the way. The French place a value on speaking softly and on restraint in expression, neither of which interests the Spanish.
The French also place a value on following the rules, even if only their idea of the rules. Spaniards, on the other hand, abandon all pretense of doing so, and just say they'll do what they want to do, to hell with the rules. Hence the distinctiveness of each people.
At some point all the wine has been drunk and the merits of each commented on; two thirds of the platter is gone and the cake entirely consumed. At which point everyone picks up the dishes and brings them into the kitchen.
"If my wife saw me doing this, she would be shocked" Claude says, sotto voce. Everyone behaves like a gentleman and before they leave, I kiss each one and wish them Bonne Année --a good New Year. They have been a kind of second family to me here, welcoming me and looking after me. I would not have chosen to settle here had it not been for their hospitality to me last year. One year later, I still feel grateful for their friendship, and good humor.
***
At one point, I thought I wanted to put have a new bath put in on the top floor of the house while I was away. It seemed a very practical idea: I could return to a house better outfitted for visitors, and I would not have to have workmen in the house when I was there. I was wiling to pay what was required to accomplish the project and had a plumber give me his estimate for the work. I had someone in mind for the job of general contractor, Lars, who has done such good work for me fixing my shutters.
Lars works on large projects and has put in bathrooms --he put in a full bath in a house that belongs to an ex-pat couple who live on Avenue du Minervois. I've seen the bathroom, and it's just what I would like to see on my top floor. I've also seen the bathroom Lars put in in his own house on Avenue Montgaillard, another good piece of work.
So Lars can do the job. The thing is, he doesn't want to. He's too busy now, but even later on in the year, he's not sure he wants the job, which isn't what he really wants to do. He wants to do more creative work --decorative painting.
Which is too bad, because I trust Lars, which is important. Too many other workmen I've spoken to here are vague about prices and when they will complete jobs. It seems that in the Midi work gets done very, very slowly:
--The re-gilding of the altarpiece of Notre Dame du Cros by gilders in Provence took two years (and the crown of the altarpiece remained ungilded, notwithstanding);
--My friend Roseline Amen has 45-year old exterior shutters she would like to have replaced: she has been waiting two years for new shutters.
So I have arrived at practical solution to the lack of a toilet on the top floor of the house, adjoining the lovely bedroom overlooking the hills:
I bought a toilet for the homebound.
The pharmacist in Caunes sold it to me. It has been manufactured like a chair in "Danish modern" style and has deep pink cushions.
I had originally thought of buying a chamber pot --I used one as a little girl-- but a chair is much easier to use. The "chamber pot" slips out from the chair and being steel, can be easily cleaned.
The cost of my planned renovation would be thirty thousand dollars. The toilet cost me--
Eighty-eight euros --about one hundred twelve dollars.
To the Caunois there's nothing at all strange about the solution I chose to the problem of having no bathroom on the third floor. Chamber pots were commonly used in homes in Caunes until not too long ago, and some people still use them:
"My mother-in-law still uses one" Christine, the owner of La Marbrerie, tells me. "That's her solution to not having a bathroom on the floor where her bedroom is."
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