Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (7 page)

Life in Cuzance is stolen time. Each time spent there is a precious gift; one to clasp in your hands, treasure and marvel at the many layers of our lives that have bought us to this point. With little effort or planning, the hours and days fill themselves and overflow in to the next.

One of the very first things we do each year on our market visit to Martel, is to drop into the
Tourisme Bureau
to collect the season guide,
Saison 2012
–
Brocantes
and
Vide Greniers
– Lot – Correze – Dordogne. It is a list of the
vide greniers
and
brocantes
in the Lot and surrounding
départements
of Correze and the Dordogne. We eagerly scan and highlight the markets we will visit. Each early Sunday morning is mapped out far in advance. I have the joy and anticipation of returning to our favourite
vide greniers
such as Turin and Gignac. I can already feel the feverish obsession to discover treasure sweep over me. One of our first this season will be in Blanat, near the famous town of Rocamadour, one that in the past yielded tantalising treasure.

We are off to a flying start in planning our treasure hunts but discover there is a long-standing rivalry between Cuzance and the nearby village of Gignac. It is a rivalry based on their annual
vide grenier
. Walking through the village one evening, we saw that posters had been put up to advertise the forthcoming Gignac
vide grenier
. By the next night, on our evening
promenade
, we noticed they had disappeared. It is the custom throughout the
départements
in
vide grenier
and
brocante
season, for brightly coloured posters to appear everywhere, several weeks in advance, so that people from nearby villages and towns will flock to their clear-out the attic markets. We eagerly look out for these posters and plan our Sunday outings based on them. What was going on in Gignac? Even friends such as Jean-Claude, who do not make it a habit to visit markets, had Gignac on their weekend itinerary. Had it been cancelled? A little investigating revealed that there was friendly rivalry between our village and Gignac – hence the mysterious disappearance of the posters. Of course this made us even more determined to visit the Gignac
vide grenier,
for we had heard from many people that it was a truly magnificent one. And when the day finally arrived, later in the
vide grenier
season, indeed it was.

There is always a tremendous feeling of early-Sunday morning excitement as you fly through the countryside to be among the first to explore the potential treasure. Often the markets are held in a farmer's field and for one Sunday morning a year, it is utterly transformed. Row upon row of cars are all parked neatly in lines – often in an adjacent field. People tumble out of their
voitures
, consumed by the urge to be the first to fall upon coveted pieces of antiquity. And yet, tearing through the calm of an early Sunday morning, we are often mystified about how there can possibly be a
vide grenier
at the end of our country drive, for the winding lanes are quite empty and it seems impossible that the remote roads will lead to fulfilment. Yet indeed they do. We turn a corner and there, at a time when most are still enjoying a leisurely Sunday morning, is a field full of possibility. The air is often cool and damp, yet there is also a palpable air of those like us, caught up in the exhilaration of a treasure hunt.

Wednesday and Saturday mornings are allocated to the fresh produce market in Martel, that originated in the 12th century. The arching roof is a huge, self-supporting wooden construction and the space underneath springs to life on market days. The abundant fruit and vegetables are fresh from the farmers' fields, literally picked only hours before, still glazed with early-morning dew drops. Once the market is
fin
in time for
déjeuner
, the only sense that there were hundreds of people lingering with their baskets over their arms, carefully choosing their produce, is perhaps a stray scrap of cabbage leaf, blowing in the light summer breeze.

Martel is a truly beautiful little town, that every single time we are there, I take pleasure in wandering around and gazing at its medieval past. There are lots of imposing doorways, beautiful arches, half-timber houses, wooden shutters and, of course, the towers. As you wind along the road from Cuzance, its seven towers give it a distinctive silhouette. It's known locally as the town of the seven towers. While most of the towns in our region began as a religious centre or a military site, Martel sprang up because of its position at a crossroads for the Paris-Toulouse trade and as a route for carrying salt and wine. It is also close to the famous town of Rocamadour and was an important stopping place for pilgrims. The sense of history every single time I am there, seems to seep up through the very cobblestones. On market day, the square comes to life like a film set with all the actors in place, as they have been for hundreds of years. Tradition and ritual are part of everyday life in France.

Meanwhile, we are creating our own history and enduring imprint on Pied de la Croix. Once again, before our return, Jean-Claude's attention to the details of our other life is touching and extraordinary.

This afternoon I had an appointment with a maçon for a quote for your bathroom window, but he could not make it; so it will be on Friday; to switch on the mains, the button is in the small shed at the back of your bedroom, isn't it?

Your plantations have almost done nothing, due to the bad weather... and are outgrown by the weeds, except the catalpa which displays a single bud. Françoise is recovering from a bad cold caught in those freezing churches! She was wheezing until now like an old Ford T model! Concerning plantations, there is a surprise from me; but it is not doing better than the rest; so much for mysteries!

Love to you from JCC.

Jean-Claude's remarkable attention to details means that he is following up something that I had actually forgotten about asking him to look into for me! The
maçon
for my bathroom window. I cannot even begin to predict the possible cost.

After spending several summers in France, we remain conscious of French protocol and alert to the nuances between the two cultures. We are proud of the fact that in our small village, it was us who introduced Gérard and Dominique to Jean-Claude and Françoise. We noted however, with great interest that whenever we were with Gérard and Dominique, and Jean-Claude and Françoise came up in the conversation, they referred to them as Monsieur and Madame Chanel. With our casual Australian manners and easygoing ways, this formality is a revelation to us. However, we have learnt that this formality is deeply entrenched, particularly with older generations. They can in fact, know someone for thirty years and this form of address is still used. So, in Cuzance when we go for a walk round the village with Jean-Claude, we note too that he always greets the older inhabitants, such as Monsieur Dal, in a formal manner. In fact, I have also noticed that he always refers formally to our neighbours as Monsieur Chanteur and Madame Chanteur. When I think about it, I don't even know our neighbours' first names; perhaps I never will. Status too remains an important element in French life and it is still often the way, that the higher the person's status, the more reserved their behaviour is. Again though, it is mainly the older generations, and I'm sure one day, this element too will fade way.

What we have come to love, is the many elements of French protocol, such as when you are entering and leaving a shop. It is customary to always offer a greeting, ‘
Bonjour Madame, bonjour Monsieur
,' and on departure, ‘
Au revoir, bonne journee
,' – goodbye, have a nice day. I always find joy in the rhythm of these exchanges. If you don't offer a greeting, the French will simply think you are very rude – the service is usually in direct proportion to your politeness. Everyone appreciates any effort that you are able to make with the language and so, I always try to do my very best. Just like when I lived in Turkey, the very basic words go a long way –
merci
,
merci beaucoup
,
excusez moi
. I have learnt too, that even if they understand English, the French may be wary of speaking it, unless they're fluent. In all respects, the French do not like to appear less than perfect. It is hard when we return home, not to continue the daily greeting, for after a few months, it is second nature. Likewise, I try not to kiss too many of my colleagues too often on both cheeks, though I must say by now, people seem to have become used to my adopted French ways. I frequently answer the phone at work with a bright, ‘
Bonjour
'! In France, it is in fact the custom to greet all your colleagues each day with a kiss on each cheek.

Somehow, I don't think I will attempt to introduce that element into the workplace.

I look around, watch, and try to learn all the time. The French are always quite formal when they leave their homes. Even a trip to the weekly markets means that you would never dream of going out in what you wear at home; certainly there are no thongs or singlet tops in sight. When we stayed with Brigitte and Erick in their
chambre d'hôte
, I always noted that after they finished cleaning the
chambres
each morning and had done the daily washing of all the
chambre d'hôte sheets
, they would both change to venture out to the
boulangerie
and
supermarché
. They would always put on something smart. This too is a custom I am conscious of, apart that is, from the humiliating times I have dashed on an urgent mission through the village to Jean-Claude's in my renovating attire. Being conservative and smartly dressed is just another way of trying to fit into French life. It is something I have come to love, for all who know me, are familiar with my penchant for dressing up whenever possible.

Likewise, relaxing in a
café
can be altogether different. No matter how frantically busy or overflowing the tables are, there is always just a quiet hum of conversation. The tone is always muted, never loud. While drinking is a recognised French way of life, no one shouts or loudly laughs their heads off and the ring of a
portable
or a noisy child is seldom heard. It is not
chic
to behave in such a way. On the rare occasions we have lunch at our favourite restaurant in Martel, Le Jardin des Saveurs, although it is just
menu du jour
, the bread crumbs are swept off the crisp tablecloth after the first course. The waitress comes with a
petite
pan and brush to ever so discreetly whisk the crumbs away.

This is the sort of attention to detail that I simply love.

When we are invited to
dîner
with friends, no side plates are used for the bread that invariably accompanies every meal. If we are lucky enough to be invited to Jean-Claude's and Françoise's, the
pain
is especially delicious as Françoise makes her own bread. The
pain
is simply placed on the tablecloth next to your dinner plate. Hence all French homes have a tablecloth that often stays on the table throughout the day. While I now have two tablecloths, both farmhouse checks, and both gifts, I don't think I will ever have a plastic one as many French households do. While very practical, I simply don't find them attractive at all.

The
apéritif
hour is something else I find especially civilised. Only one
apéritif
is usually served, at the very most two. Bread sticks or a small dish of olives or peanuts is always placed on the table, for it is rare to have a drink without some small accompaniment. We find this a great way to catch up with friends, as it is simply so easy and the protocol means that people rarely linger longer than an hour, for they then head home for
dîner
. This suits our style of entertaining just perfectly. When we are invited to dîner, usually just one
apéritif
is offered before eating, as there will be wine with the meal. Jean-Claude has a plastic carrier that was once used for milk bottles. When we have an
apéritif
on their terrace, he brings it out with pastis, gin and other choices in it. Despite the reputation of the French for drinking vast quantities of wine, in fact it is surprisingly far less than at home.
Vive la
difference.

Visiting Isabelle's shop has become a part of my weekly ritual. As well as going to the twice-weekly markets to buy our fruit and vegetables, on Friday morning we now go to Martel once a week to do our grocery shopping. Such a prosaic task has become one of pleasure. We have now established the habit of first having our weekly treat of going to the
boulangerie
to choose a delectable pastry. There is always an immense pleasure in lingering at the counter and gazing at the sumptuous array of mouth-watering pastries.

Then across the road to the locals'
café
, as opposed to the ones in the market square that tend to attract the tourists. While the
café
is right next to the road – we seem to be attracted to places situated on roads, just like our
petite maison
– like so many French towns, it overlooks tubs of brightly coloured flowers. We order our
espresso,
‘
Deux café s'il voux plait.'
Yes, I can actually manage the simple phrase for ordering two
espresso
...

and we linger over our melt-in-the-mouth
croissants
.

It is a chance to sit and observe the daily life of a small French town. The
café
is also a
Tabac
. There is a place to precariously park right at the front of the
café
and the locals dash in to buy their
Gauloise
. It is like a drive-through tobacconist. Once when I went in to pay for our
espresso
, I was puzzled by the fact the young woman behind the counter did not move from one end of it to the other, to collect my
euro
. After quite a while, I moved to the other end of the counter to pay. I told Stuart about the puzzlement of paying. Ah, the first end of the counter is the
Tabac
section and you can only pay for those purchases there. Hence the dash-in-drivers who hastily grab their daily
Gauloise
.