Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (32 page)

We did not join the check-in queue. Instead we prudently found an enquiry counter.

There was of course just one person on the counter where we needed to check if we were on the flight, due to leave shortly – very shortly. And of course too, the queue was long, very long. At the best of times, patience is not one of my virtues; this was not the best of times by a long shot. Time was flying – and it did not seem as if we would be. It was time to act.

I left Stuart in the queue, the one which was not moving at all. I was on a desperate quest for an information counter, and hopefully, help. I presented my urgent case and was able to use their phone, to ironically, call the airline at the airport where we were.

It seemed to be the only course of action. I needed to talk to someone directly – and now. Naturally, the airline representative I got through to was cast in a thoroughly bureaucratic mould. There was no hint of empathy, no vestige of sympathy for our plight.
Non, non
I was crisply informed, we had not called by 10 pm the previous night as we had been directed to do after Françoise explained our situation to the airline. No amount of explaining that we were trapped in a sabotaged train and that we had in fact called the office, to be met by a recorded message that simply told us officiously that the office was shut, elicited any hint of understanding. In the eyes of officialdom, we had failed to call and we would need to buy another ticket. No entreaty, no emotional pleading worked.

In tears of frustration and exhaustion, I ended the call. I returned to find Stuart had mercifully advanced to the head of the queue. In his calm, competent manner, he had sorted it. We were on the flight. Elated, with minutes to spare, we booked our luggage in and stumbled onto the plane.

This was not how we were meant to leave France, but leaving we were. finally we arrived home within the last few hours of Stuart's birthday. Oddly enough, months later, Stuart seems to have glossed over the high level of drama we experienced, for he downloads the distinctive SNCF train announcement tune as his ringtone... Strangely, for both of us, whenever his mobile rings, the SNCF tune makes us both smile. (These chapters, courtesy of SNCF.)

When we return home it always takes a while to adjust to the cadence and pace of our other life and work again. Yet eventually we pick up the rhythm of our life at home and immerse ourselves in all that is wonderful in our seaside village and satisfying in our working lives. In the two reflected halves of our lives, renovating continues at home, which I have to confess, by now I am quite weary of. Truth be told, my renovating days are really long over and yet we always buy homes, both here and in our
petite
corner of France, that seem to need a tremendous amount of work. I often wonder when it will end. Right now, the end is certainly not in sight.

Meanwhile too, there are still things in Cuzance to manage from afar. Fortunately no longer quite as challenging as buying a car by email or indeed installing a pool by email. But, there is the matter of managing the
maçon
not to mention coordinating Jean-Louis' work in removing the tiles on our dilapidated outbuilding
.
This has to be done to tie in with the
maçon
as he will the repair the roof after Jean-Louis has removed the tiles. Of course I cannot communicate with either of them directly as I lack the French to do so and they do not speak English. Jean-Claude's inordinate kindness leads him to again to be my intermediary. Since I have decided to hand over virtually all renovating responsibilities at home to Stuart, I enter once again into a flurry of emails with Jean-Claude to ensure all is in hand.

This time it is critical that as much is in place before Jean-Claude and Françoise close up Le Vieux Priory, which they do every year on November fifteenth.

Hello, I had put off answering you because I hoped to have something positive to tell you; but alas...

I met Jean-Louis in Martel on Saturday and he confessed he had not yet mailed you... I think he's a bit afraid of computers but he assured me the roof would be attended to since he had already arranged it viva voce with Stuey!

Apparently, your maçon came to fetch the keys to la petite maison but although I was there, I did not perceive his ringing. Fortunately someone had witnessed his attempt and told me he would be back this evening (if again we can't make contact, I'll phone him).

I also have to tell you that the Hotel Arnal is going out of business since Chantal is retiring and fired her son earlier in the year and anyway their equipment is superannuated; they would like to set up a coffee-bar cum small shop for bread and other items. However, there is little hope, since they are still living on the premises...

The weather is freezing, with fog, but it will be sunny when we leave on Thursday for Lyon, which is a good thing, since I little appreciated the trip under snow three years ago!

Love to the three of you in warmer climes, JCC.

As I read this, I felt great jubilation that the Hotel Arnal is changing hands, for it has long been another cherished dream that a keen young chef from Paris may one day take over. Once again, as with so many elements of my life, I indulge in fanciful daydreams, that the hotel literally right on our doorstep, will become a gastronomical destination of note. Ah, I see it now; the enviable
menu du jour,
the hungry young chef, eager to impress and woo new clients. Failing this, a coffee-bar or small shop for
pain
is almost as enticing, for our daily source of bread is one of our big dilemmas. Oh, if only life was always so easy that it was reduced to the simple concern as to the procuring of our daily
pain
. This thought too is very appealing. A matter of a minute's stroll to a coffee shop where the locals linger convivially. The tempting thought too of fresh pastries a stone's throw away is highly alluring. It will be with enormous excitement that I wait for Jean-Claude's return to Cuzance the following March to keep me informed about such potentially promising developments.

And then there is more fascinating news.

I put off answering you again because I was waiting for your maçon (whom I'd phoned) to come and collect your keys; this being done, I am now free to write... and thank you for your cheque which arrived yesterday – your mûrier-platanes have now lost all their leaves and stand tall on your grounds covered with white frost!

Concerning Arnal's replacement, the Rodez grocer (in the shed not far from us), objects to a general store being added as unwanted competition. However, the citizens of Cuzance will certainly do something to offset Baladou's own projects. By the way, concerning projects, when walking Henriette, I saw that the work on Maison de la Truffe is quite advanced and no doubt it will be finished when you arrive next year!

So across the miles, there is not only news of progress with the
maçon
collecting the keys to install my longed-for bathroom window, but news too of our newly planted trees. I thought too it was wonderful that when Jean-Claude emailed me previously that news of the
maçon's
visit in his absence had reached him via the close watch on all comings and goings in our village. Now, there is something else to follow up on that I am intrigued by, for I am not quite sure what the
Maison de la Truffe
is though I think it is the
très cher
truffle restaurant on the outskirts of Cuzance that we have not been to. In such a small village, there certainly always seems to be a lot going on. As for the nearby village of Baladou, what mysterious events are afoot there? More investigation on my part is required. I shall probe Jean-Claude when next we are in touch.

Thank goodness too for the new addition to their family of Henriette. Her numerous walks means that Jean-Claude is out and about even more frequently, with his sleuthing cap on, ready to investigate all new developments – and by default, convey it all to me on the other side of the world as it unfolds, piece by piece. It seems to me at times like my own personal viewing platform, perched on the other side of the world, and yet, through Jean-Claude's eyes, I never feel too far away. The daily intrigue and drama of village life could never be imagined. Who truly knew so much could ever possibly happen? The inhabitants may all verge on the side of very old and yet, they never seem to simply watch from the sidelines. well, perhaps a twitching lace curtain or two at times, to fuel the otherwise slow pace of life in a
petite
village.

Across the oceans and the seasons, emails keep our friendships alive from afar. They bring joyous news; they bring fascinating news. In early December we hear from Françoise that their daughter Bénédicte is going to have a baby. This has long been Françoise's dream, especially as Bénédicte has returned to Lyon to live with Maxim and it is where Jean-Claude and Françoise spend the long winter months. More splendidly for us, is that the baby is due when we arrive in Lyon to stay with them. It will be the first French baby I have ever known!

In his inimitable fashion, despite the fact that it is the eve of
Noël
, when the family gathers in Lyon from Berlin and Paris for Christmas, Jean-Claude has embarked on the ambitious project of installing a
rouge cuisine
in their Lyon apartment. In transcontinental links, as their news flows in, so too the weekend paper has an article featuring Lyon. I plan where I will shop and eat and the sights we will see when we stay with them the following summer. To my amazement, the very street they live on is mentioned as a feature of Lyon – rue Victor Hugo. The very name has an altogether marvellous ring to it. Shortly after reading about the delights of Lyon, I hear again from Françoise to let me know that a vintage clothes shop has just opened on rue Victor Hugo. This is my idea of heaven. To simply saunter along the actual street where we will be staying and explore a shop brimming with vintage French clothes. And while we love Cuzance, the thought too of just slipping out in the early morning to the
boulangerie
on their doorstep, for
petite déjeuner
treats, is another source of enormous excitement. More accurately in fact, it means that Stuart will be despatched to buy the freshly-baked
baguette
and crisp
croissants
. I am sure that he will take
petite
Henriette to trot along by his side. If I buy him a beret, he will look like the quintessential Frenchman.

In our Australian summer, I picture the Chanel family gathered in Lyon for
Noël
. A Christmas further than our own than I cannot possibly conceive, when we spend the day at the beach. Once again, my imagination takes flight and the vividness of it allows me to visualise them all quite clearly. I see the snow-covered streets decorated with festive lights, the snowflakes tumbling and twirling as if on cue to add to the Christmas spirit.

I see the shops brightly decorated, the piles of fresh pine trees spilling out of them on to the icy pavement, ready to be whisked away by families eager to festoon them with decorations that are generations-old. I smell the cinnamon of freshly-baked
Noël
treats; I see the warmly-wrapped crowds gathered for carols. And while I simply loathe cold weather, my heart longs to be there, just once; to be in the folds of a French family for the festive season. Perhaps one day soon, when there will be a
petite enfant
to add to the joy of a French family Christmas, we will have a French
Noël
.

Just too as Christmas is round the corner, Gérard and Dominique surprise us by sending photos of Cuzance adorned in snow and decorations. They again give us a glimpse into life in our village in a season that we will never know. The
Marie
is lit up brightly with
Noël
lights and they also adorn the black wrought iron street lamps. The snow blankets the fields in a pristine quilt of fresh crispness. They have also sent us photos of our
petite maison.
It is not bedecked with
Noël
lights or decorations. It looks abandoned and sad, sitting alone in its isolated wintery landscape.

The turmoil of such journeys does of course recede and now, once again, the future is a bright and shining road, full of French summer adventures and Cuzance delights. The arrival of Christmas and the imminence of another new year, marks our own personal calendar, for it signifies our countdown when our other life beckons on the horizon.

No matter how many times we return in future years, Cuzance will always remain in the subset of life's surreal experiences. Having a
petite maison
is not something ordinary people do. And yet, we have. It is for that reason, however frequently we fly away to France, that I will never cease to marvel at the sheer wonder of it all.

The last of the summer sunlight stains the orchard in a pink-gold tinge. The last of the season's swallows shoot like arrows across the deepening shadows on
la piscine
.

The bucolic cluster of outbuildings cast off the day's heat and settle down to slumber peacefully. I think though that they miss the days when they sheltered squealing baby piglets that snuffled in the stone troughs, the only remnants now of their long-gone presence. The air in the country has a perpetual tinge of manure, farm animals and freshly mown hay. There is a palpable smell that I associate with Cuzance like nowhere else in the world. The late evening stillness is like a light summer eiderdown, thrown gently across the tapestry of the rural landscape.

When Jean-Claude and Françoise leave Cuzance each November to return to Lyon until the following March, without his stewardship
,
our
petite maison
slumbers all alone through the long, cold, lonely winter. Now, even more so than usual, our little house lies in wait behind the heavy wooden shutters. Its warm beating heart will not fully awaken until we return each summer. Our love and laughter and that of our friends and family, fills it instantly with warmth. It is only then, its sleeping state is fully awakened once again. On our return visits each year, I feel that we are no longer just simply reaching for the stars; we're pulling them out of the sky.