Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (12 page)

Usually, once our
rénovation
season is in full swing, I leave my work clothes next to the bed to pull on straight away when I wake up. Despite the fact that we have weeks ahead of us, time is always of the essence. Tuesday morning is, however, an altogether different scenario. Another huge day at IKEA has long been planned and then we get to play at being tourists in Toulouse. Oh yes, IKEA again; the destination in every French
vacances
brochure. The windows of our
petite maison
peer at me in surprise. A pretty
robe
, make-up and jewellery, and all this on a Tuesday morning.
What is going on?
the house seems to murmur. I flounce out with my wicker basket and tell it disdainfully that this is what I try to look like every day at home when I go to my
lycée
.

The Toulouse IKEA plan has been in place for quite some time. There is a list of what we still need for the little house. In our fourth year the lists still rule our days and existence. We have decided that we will combine the trip to Toulouse with sightseeing. This is our other life, and there has simply never been enough time to fully appreciate all that is on our French doorstep. A
chambre d'hôte
has been booked and a deposit paid. We are determined to play for a few days.

All starts well and we arrive after the two-hour drive within ten minutes of opening. I well remember our trip of three years previously to buy our IKEA
cuisine
. To buy a kitchen we needed a van. Delivery would be
très
,
très cher
. To borrow a van was a two-hour drive to Villefranche-de-Rouergue to borrow our friend Erick's. Then we pressed on to Toulouse, without a Sat Nav. Despite our printed directions we got terribly lost. ‘
Merdes
' flew. The van did not.

This time we sail along the
autoroute
. I conduct my own
petite
French lesson as I listen to the Sat Nav directions.
A
gauche
in fifteen kilometres, then
droit
, I tell Stuart confidently. Left and right. Finally I grasp the basic fundamentals with all the linguistic sophistication of a three year old. When we fly along for one hundred straight kilometres, I gaze around at the rapid and varying changes in the landscape. We leave the verdant, thick forests of le Lot and the landscape levels out abruptly. It has become flat and dry. The limestone
maisons
of our
département
are replaced by rendered houses. I practise my basic French by reading the road signs:
châteaux
,
grottes
and
Parc Naturelle
.
Grande
mansions, caves and national parks. Is there no end now to my extensive vocabulary?

Flashes of our past trip re-surface as we approach the
périphérique
. Soon, IKEA should appear on the right. And indeed,
droit
, there it is. Stuart swings in triumphantly. We join the streams of people already flocking to IKEA. Just in time for
petit déjeuner
; a
café
,
boisson
and
croissant
, all for one
euro
.

Fortified, we're off, armed with the inevitable list. We embark on a search for the door and handle that is missing from our
cuisine
. We falter at the first hurdle.
Oui
, the colour and size are correct. What is not clear is whether it will be in the Market Hall or if we have to queue to collect an order receipt to then pick it up from the warehouse. We hedge our bets each way. I line up while Stuart goes in search of assistance. He returns before I have even progressed in the queue, for despite it being an express service counter, it moves as slowly as an
escargot
. There are French chefs clutching their complex IKEA
cuisine
designs. Their requests are by no means in the
rapide
category.

Stuart tells me that the advice he has been given is cryptic. You line up for some items only and others you simply collect. How you know which item qualifies for which procedure is not clear at all.
Voilà
. The helpful woman behind us sets me straight on the intricacies of French IKEA. It is her second day there in a row. No wonder she is fully familiar with all the ins and outs of IKEA. If it has a
rouge
ticket, you collect it in the Market Hall. If not, you queue. Our item does not have a red ticket. We keep queuing. The line still moves at the pace of a snail. The demands of French chefs are never-ending in their quest for kitchens that will produce Michelin meals.
Voilà
. It turns out my query is in the express category. Receipt in hand to identify our cupboard door, we continue to work our way through our list. Two pillows, an eiderdown,
deux
more storage baskets for our
cuisine.
Tick, tick, tick. Are the lists possibly starting to diminish at long last?

Shades of three years previously emerge again to thwart our IKEA expedition. Our Bank Populaire card is rejected at the checkout. This is due to the complex system of credit and deficit that I can never manage to grasp. What I do know is that another queue has started. This time, it is stretching out behind us. I also know that the
déjeuner
hour is a mere ten minutes away. Stuart tries the card again.
Non
. I ask if he brought our French chequebook.
Non
. Your Australian credit card?
Non
.

I frantically consider what can be abandoned, based on what cash we have. The thought of leaving behind items that were on my precious IKEA list is not something I want to consider. This has happened to us before when we were setting up our little house. Why is it happening again? We may love IKEA, but I don't want it to be so highly featured on our
vacances
itinerary that we have to make a return trip. I vow fervently to not return until our dreamed-of
la grange
conversion comes to fruition.

I am sure that even though everyone is patient in their inimitable French way, they must be rolling their eyes in frustration at the ineptness of foreigners. I dare not turn around and look at them. I can only hope that a glass of
vin
at lunch will soothe them. Yes, one of the delights of shopping at a French IKEA is that wine is served along with
plat de jour
.

We cast items aside and hastily put everything else in our
voiture
, then head back inside for lunch. We need to check what cash we have left. Not much, it would seem. We discuss over lunch the thought of traipsing round Toulouse in the enervating heat, taking in the tourist sites. It is not an appealing one. We count our depleted
euro
yet again and calculate potential costs
. Dîner
for two nights,
déjeuner
and
deux
nights at the
chambre d'hôte
. Add to this walking around in the blistering heat, tick, tick, ticking off a
nouveau
list, the must-not-be-missed-in-Toulouse sights. We agree that the loss of the deposit against all the other costs is
petite
. Are we sad to miss the attractions of Toulouse?
Non
. It seems that we have come to the same conclusion. Le Lot and our
petite
maison are calling us back. We call and cancel,
désolé
. The lure of le Lot is a strong one. Even the woman in IKEA who helped us talked about the gastronomic delights of our
département
. We head home, feeling as gleeful as two school children truanting
lycée
.

When we arrive at Pied de la Croix late that afternoon rather than two days later as planned, we are full of joy to be back. Its magnetic draw and tug on our heartstrings is a strong one. We decide to think long and hard before we plan any future trips away from our little house.

Baby bunnies bouncing in the early morning light is a sight that never fails to fill me with delight. The well-remembered
chat noir
, slinking through the grass, does not. She pauses to peer at me. I stare back. Is she fat this summer? I absolutely do not want four kittens born in a manger in
la grange
like last year. This potential concern is more than balanced by waking to a country Cuzance morning, rather than the hustle and bustle of city life in Toulouse. Once again, I am glad that our
petite maison
is definitely not in Paris.

Wednesday mornings means off to the markets in Martel. From past disappointments, we know we need to leave early. Not to get the freshest melon or the most luscious
fraise. Non
. Melons and strawberries can wait. We need to get to our beloved
boulangerie
before the tourists scoop up all the tasty pastries. Our disappointment at not being able to have our favourite
abricot hibou
with our
espresso
at Mespoulet, the locals'
café
, has been disproportionate in the past. This has to be avoided at all costs. Strangely, none of our French friends seem to succumb to the delights of a
pâtisserie
unless a delectable
chocolat gâteau
is produced after
dîner
.
Then they exclaim with delight, just as we do. This is a noteworthy insight into why French women don't get fat. It would seem that the book of that title has undertaken similar research to my own. Who does eat all the
petit déjeuner
pastries from the
viennoiserie
? Not French women, it would seem.
Non
. They buy them for their children as they trot along at their side,
pain au chocolat
in hand, as they head for another day at
lycée
. This year I learn that a
viennoiserie
is a ‘thing of Vienna' that literally means baked goods made from yeast-leavened dough, such as
brioche
served with
confiture
and
beurre
,
pain au raisin
or
chausson aux pommes
. These shops are frequented for
petit déjeuner
pastries as the eggs, butter, milk, cream and sugar give them an extra sweetness and richness. Is an hour's toil in the midday sun shovelling dirt worth one mouth-watering pastry? For me, there is only one possible resounding answer.
Oui!

When summer is at its height, not only is the market thronged with tourists, but the market traders are out in full surge. As well as the abundant fresh produce, there are stalls set up to specifically capitalise on the tourist trade. Everyone is eager for a taste of French summer in every conceivable way, not merely from the tantalising displays of succulent fruit. People want to transport a tiny piece of France home so their
vacances
lingers in their everyday lives. The stallholders offer
confiture
; lavender in all its off-shoots, such as aromatic soap; oil made from the famed walnuts of the region; and hand-crafted pottery as lasting memorabilia.

There are also rows of vans selling
fromage
and
poisson
. The pungent smell of cheese and fresh fish fills the air. As we wait in a long line at a food van, we chat away and decide that we will buy quiche for our lunch. A woman next to us overhears the choice we are about to make, and tells us she is buying her husband's favourite cabbage rolls for his
déjeuner
. She tells us that we can buy quiche anywhere and highly recommends the
rouleaux de chou.
We duly choose several cabbage rolls, unprepossessing in appearance but a taste sensation nevertheless. They are so delicious that they are immediately added to our list of
cuisine
not to be missed each summer.

In just a week since our last visit to Mespoulet, it is immediately evident that the tourist season is in full swing. Their size and shape stands out, as well as the sheer volume of their voices, clearly distinguishing them from their svelte French counterparts. The tourists at the tables have sprung up overnight, like
cèpes
. Mushrooms, however, sheltering in the deep, dark, secret places in the forest, are not so gaudily attired.

The days of guidebooks are long gone for us. Another museum?
Non
. Another gallery?
Non.
Perhaps a vineyard or two?
Non
again. Our style now is the one that simply involves sitting in a
café
, though definitely not one thronged with tourists. A locals'
café
in any town is always the best choice of all; to sit among the everyday patrons, to listen, to observe and watch the world pass by. For the price of an
espresso
, there is no imperative to hurry, no pressure to quickly vacate your table. It is yours for as long as you like. All this for a mere
euro
. This is the life we long to have more of when the days of
rénovation
are finally behind us. A
café
is, after all, where the locals go; not the Musée du Louvre, not Notre Dame. The world comes to you over an
espresso
if you linger long enough.

As we slowly sip our
espresso
, locals speed into the coveted parking spaces in front of the
café
that is also a
Tabac
. They grab their Gauloise and another
voiture
person in the know quickly takes their place. Mespoulet is situated right next to a roundabout. They are a feature of all the roads through towns in France and are always planted with attractive
fleur
displays. We watch in amazement as articulated lorries, one after the other, manoeuvre with practised ease round the tight turning circle of
rond-point
, literally a round point. A line of
vacances voiture
wait patiently for their turn to follow the D23 to Les Quatre Routes, Meyssac, Collonges la Rouge, Château de Turenne and Camping Municipal LA Callopie. France has hundreds of camping sites dotted throughout the countryside and along the banks of rivers. The majority of French people choose to spend their summer holidays within their own country. There is a staggering abundance of geographical and cultural choices, from the Alps and the Mediterranean, to the ultra-exclusive enclaves of the wealthy on the French Riviera.