Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (35 page)

Non
. It is raining, again.

The surreal adventure started on arrival. First, I gasped in horror when the
concierge
ushered us into a
petite
lift the size of a small suitcase. I stepped back in alarm and simply refused to get in. Naturally, Stuart bravely ascended with his luggage and despite the shock of the lift, part of my mind was registering how very French movie like it all was. Have we not all seen the films? The heavy wooden door leading in from the
boulevard
, the courtyard, the
concierge
whose door bell you ring
,
the airy apartment in Paris; curtains fluttering, vast expanses of parquetry, the art deco lift? And here it all was, unfolding right in front of me. The
concierge
in fact defied all stereotypes, from the smart, shiny-buttoned uniform – oh that's right, that would be another
arrondisement
entirely – to the old woman shuffling in her slippers, surrounded by a bevy of cats winding round her ankles. No, this
concierge
was young, lithe and attractive.

I stood hesitantly waiting, contemplating my options. Should I ascend the winding wooden stairs that wound up crookedly like those in a lighthouse? Or, simply wait to see what may next unfold. After all, we are in Paris – the city of romance, mystery and the unexpected. It's just that I never expect to be quite so caught up in such adventures – especially not immediately on arrival. The lift creaked down slowly. I readied myself for an enthusiastic reunion with Patrick, who was sure to be about to step out and welcome me.
Non
. It was a Bosnian builder, complete with a load of concrete. This wasn't in my movie script. On second thoughts and second glances, he is rather good-looking.

And so, with no white knights descending in Parisian lifts to rescue me, I decide to walk up the six winding flights. On arrival, Patrick greets me with the disquieting news that his
petite
flat does not have a toilet.
Quelle horror.
What a ghastly thought. What on earth am I supposed to do? Surely this is not possible in Paris, the city of sophistication?

Non
. It was located down the corridor on the landing, past the apartment next door. As I soon discover, the ancient wooden floor slopes and rolls like the deck of a ship. I cannot possibly begin to imagine how I will traverse it in the middle of the night.

It just gets better. The outlook from the flat is not one of cathedral spires, elegant Parisians tripping in their heels on the cobblestones or laughter echoing from
amis
sharing
apéritifs
at stylish
cafes
.
Non
again. The outlook from both the
petite
sitting room and our chambre is... scaffolding. We are literally face to face with builders. well, not quite. That prospect may have been quite pleasant over morning
cafe
.
Non, non
. It is their legs we can see at eye level. There is no vista at all of Parisian rooftops, glowing in the evening light. All movie moments are rapidly dispelled. It is a sea of scaffolding as far as we can see. The other piece of information that Patrick imparts was not in the movie script either. There will not be any water between the hours of nine and five. And yes, the builders will be working on the roof while we are there – and his apartment is on the top storey. Hotels and credit cards are now starting to look very attractive.

We return from our first outing to L'Opera and Galeries Layfayette – a cornucopia of shopping delights and designer labels – to discover builders once again suspended right outside the windows. Pigeons on rooftops are something I might reasonably expect in Paris, indeed welcome the flutter of their French wings as they take off and land on scattered red chimney pots; builders perched precariously, peering in every waking hour, are another matter altogether. On our next outing, this time to Le Louvre the following day, building site escapades became even more surreal. This time, there was a ladder right outside the lift as we emerged, tourist-weary. (Yes, I overcame my fear.) In addition, there was a builder wielding a blowtorch on the old lead water pipes.

Each subsequent day we ventured out for a day in Paris, we chose instead to descend the spiralling, uneven, two-hundred-year-old wooden staircase. It was truly like living in a lighthouse. At times too, the floor was awash with fresh suds when we came across Mademoiselle Concierge, swishing her mop across the wooden boards. Once however, we got used to the cacophony of builders, it all added an unexpected piquant to the charm that is after all, an apartment in Paris.

It is finally true that on our fourth reunion with Pied de la Croix, that Stuart's fortifying words, ‘It will all get better with time,'; words that I have clung to with faint hope, have finally come to fruition. When I lamented the lack of a true
vacances
, for were we not perpetually renovating on both sides of the world, he always tried to reassure me that one day the alarming hours of sheer relentless
rénovée
would abate. There were many times that I clung as desperately to those words as if we were indeed adrift on a life raft in choppy seas. For at times I did feel as if I were drowning, consumed by paint and rubble and the all-consuming obstacles that are all too familiar in any renovating life, let alone one in a foreign country, where at least one of us has to perpetually rely on her ability to frantically mime whatever is the order of the day: sugar soap, paint colours, and paint stripper.

So it is that after our four-hour train trip from Paris to Brive le Gaillarde, that when Gérard drives us home to Cuzance, I fall out of his
petite
Twingo and simply abandon our luggage at the side of the road. I run around the entire
jardin,
with utter joy and wild abandon, literally flapping my arms like an over-excited child. Gérard and Stuart simply watch quietly, clearly bemused by my zeal. It is not until I have done a flying inspection of our just-mown garden, including exclaiming with delight at our two new, enormous trees that Jean-Claude valiantly dug into the stony ground in our absence to plant for us, that we were able to ascend our beloved
très jollie
steps. We tiptoe in, breath caught in collective anticipation of our reunion. No matter how many years we return in the future, it will always be with a sense of wonder that this is our other life in our French home.

Ah, there is the
nouveau armoire
that Jean-Claude and Françoise found for us after scouring countless
vide grenier.
It is tucked perfectly into the challenging corner – next to the fireplace and old cuisine sink (still in place..) and under the old hand-painted cupboard that is high up on the wall. I am going to use it for all the books that we have already accumulated. This year, I am determined to read them under my walnut tree.

Françoise and her char – as she calls her from her long-ago days as a young woman working in England – have removed all the rubble and evidence of the
maçon's
work on our new bathroom window. We eagerly rush to investigate. Light floods the
petite
, once gloomy hallway outside the
salle de bain
. A bathroom with a window. What could possibly be better? well, perhaps a new
salle de bain
in the future. It is in fact next year's plan, for yes, there is always a plan, always a list – or should that be lists? As always, the lists project far into the future. It all depends on the progress of the crazy paving – and, how crazy it sends us this year. For now, the bathroom is still ancient and remains something that I give my friends who are to stay, dire warnings about. As for the toilet, it remains a formidable,
petite
dark box.

All is in order in Pied de la Croix. There is no evidence of the ubiquitous country mice that sometimes take up residence in our cosy home while we are far away; the winter has not plunged too severely below freezing and the pipes in the cellar are all functioning. There is simply so much to check. Will the car start after it has been slumbering for a year in its stone encased bed, the garage adjoined to the barn? Most importantly, did we leave a bottle of wine under the kitchen sink, ready for our return?

Our gaze sweeps over the beloved
objets
we have rapidly accumulated over the past few years. So many
vide grenier
finds in such a short time. No wonder we so often lose ourselves in daydreams about one day converting
la grange.
Its huge empty expanse is simply waiting to be filled with treasure. It is indeed a blank canvas, crying out to be filled with the cache we unearth at our weekly forays to French markets. It is these weekly treasure hunts that form our personal itinerary each French summer and make our hearts positively brim with excitement. Sundays are our personal day of worship for all things old; the drive, zipping along the winding country roads to destinations unknown in far-flung villages, and the fever that possesses us as we tumble out in the crisp early morning air, eager to commence our quest. The
vide grenier
tables are often laid out in the shade of huge sheltering trees, in readiness for the summer sun that will later transform the day in a blaze of heat that is inconceivable at such an early hour.

The ancient walnuts arch over the reverent treasure hunters, for there are many like us, consumed by the desire to unearth items that delight. People swoop and bend and examine and pore over an eclectic array of household items, from the bizarre such as deer antlers fashioned into serving spoons to the ultimate of finds, old pieces of pristine French linen. Our hearts never fail to sing with happiness on Sunday
vide grenier
mornings.

And in our French summer life, each and every day, whether cool and damp or full of bright sunshine, starts with the flinging open of our creaking heavy wooden shutters, an act that never fails to resonate with me as a deeply symbolic one. For when the day ends, we close all the shutters, close out the night; reflect on all the day has held and what the new dawn will bring. For this is the wonder and joy of life in Cuzance, that each day holds in its hands, a sense of infinite enchantment and happiness.