Glad to hear you got there safely, found it habitable, and made it comfortable enough for that first night!

Oh, it was so comfortable! We slept like babies for 12 hours!

Beautiful. Can't wait to read more. This is often how our trips to my mother-in-laws place in Vezac feel. Jet lagged, happy, content, familiar smells and sights, magical light.

That was a long first day but so rewarding at the end.

Topping to follow what looks to be a wonderful non-trip report.

How did you mangle your ankle, BTW?

A great read so far. Thank you.

I presume that you will file a trip report in due course.

You really can write StCirq. I have tears in my eyes.

Loving this and waiting for more!

"as has happened so often over the past 20 years, driving up the road to my house is such an incredible experience (Google Grotte du Sorcier, Saint-Cirq, and you’ll see the road that goes to my house), SO was just blown away. It’s magical; it defies description"

Sounds like your heart is home....

I am trying to guess what the ending to your house sale/house hunt story will be. I am sure it will be a "happily ever after" tale.

This is a great read, St. Cirq!

I can't wait to read more...

First off, you might want to take a gander at this, which will show what the drive up to the house looks like. The lane that goes by the grotte is the lane to my place; I'm just 30 meters or so up the hill to the left (at 35 seconds, you are actually looking out at the valley over the roof tiles of my veranda):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jUBWPfew5JE

I didn't keep a trip log much on this voyage, so much of this is just general impressions, but I do know that on that first morning we woke to the usual rooster calls and tractor buzzings and a thrilling azure sky, threw open the bedroom windows, and SO said "Boy, this is a place that really makes you want to get up in the morning!" I, on the other hand, gazed down at the property below me and the now greatly obscured view of the valley and mentally prepared myself for a whole lot of hard work, and probably a whole lot of euros, before I scrambled downstairs on the dusty, winding staircase on my tush to have coffee and make a plan.

We have no water or electricity, so that's a priority. But food seems to trump many things in France, so after coffee we decide we'll go into Le Bugue and stock up on a few things, and I will show SO "my town." The overgrowth on what used to be a long grassy space between the house and the wall that rises up from the pool terrace is so great that trying to get through it on crutches is like trying to maneuver through a field of long rubber bands. Every time I put a crutch down, long pieces of dried grass and weeds wind around it, so I have to literally rip my way to the car, tearing each crutch out from the grasses on each step forward and waving it in the air like a madwoman. Good thing no one can see us. Then there are the rocks, and twigs, and branches...it's a high-end obstacle course.

As we start to pull out of the driveway, a SOGEDO (water service) truck goes by slowly on the lane, which goes up and over my house. It crosses my mind that someone (the real estate agent, the notaire?) has actually contacted them to hook up my water, so we follow him. Sure enough, he stops at my neighbors' little house on the other side of mine, and we stop too. He is indeed looking for us, and after a brief discussion about how to find the water main (hidden under four years of growth by the side of the garage), we arrange to pay him the hookup fee, and we're off and he'll circle back around and hook us up. So we'll have water (actually, it wasn't that much of a concern, as we have a marvelous spring; hot water is another issue, though).

SO is captivated by Le Bugue, which surprises me a bit, since to me it's just a working town, pretty enough, but not a tourist magnet. Seeing it through his eyes, though, I "get" its charm, probably as I did 20 years ago when it was my first time here, too. The bridge over the river is bedecked with huge pots of geraniums, ducks zoom down among the river weeds and skate to a squawking halt, the old market hall has been nicely restored to a graceful, simple place that is perfectly to scale in the main town square, people are briskly doing errands and stopping to exchange kisses and greetings, gigantic trucks filled with logs or pigs or tobacco leaves are maneuvering around the tiny traffic circle, bicyclists are ringing their bells, and a hawk is self-assuredly sailing above it all over the hills behind town.

I can't deal with the Intermarché yet, so SO takes off with a shopping cart while I go to the little telephone boutique just inside the store to iron out some SFR SIM card issues. In order to get Wifi, they tell me, I have to get a Clé 3G, which they only carry for those who have Orange as their opérateur - I'll have to go to Sarlat (which I'm fairly certain I will not be able to navigate on crutches, at least not yet). So, after SO has our foodstuffs, I say let's go to Les Eyzies - I bet the tourist office there has Wifi.

And they do, in a little room at the back, and it's free, so we check our email and then go across the street to the Café de la Mairie for a Perrier and dish of apricot sorbet. Les Eyzies is teeming with tourists, many of them cyclists traveling in huge groups. It's hard for me to find anything to love about this town, but again, I have a fresh pair of eyes with me, and SO, while not captivated, is quite content to be here.

Back to the house, where we survey the mess of a landscape we've got to deal with, get tools out of the garage, and get to work weeding, clipping, and ripping. I sit on a chair, which I move from time to time, and pull 10-foot strands of ivy from the front of the house and the wall until I have a pile that is five times my size. SO goes down to the pool terrace and starts removing wild raspberry bushes from under the pool cover. The pool cover seems to be intact, but there's a murky, miasmic build-up of about 5 inches covering it, a haven for salamanders and frogs and water weeds. It's appallingly ugly.

Periodically, someone calls my cell phone: Patricia, the real estate agent in Le Buisson; Yolande, the real estate agent in La Rochelle, where I am thinking of relocating to, should things work out as I hope; Dominique, some other real estate agent in Périgueux, who calls simply to tell me he's too far away to help and that Patricia will be my point of contact. The cell phone is quirky and fun, and I get a silly little thrill out of seeing it light up with French names and phone numbers and answering "Allo!."

We work until mid-evening, then scour the house for candles and lanterns and set ourselves up for another fire, some Bergerac red, some confit de canard that SO found in one of the cabinets (marked 2004, but as SO says, "It's confit...what could be wrong with it?") and baguette, until it's time for me to face backwards and haul myself up the stairs to running water to brush my teeth, and bed.

Exciting upcoming events: electricity, laundry, and Franck and Onuma.

(nukesafe, at the end of August, I tripped on some cement steps, really cracked and irregular, in our back yard here in DC and wrenched and twisted the heck out of my ankle - doctor says it would have been far, far better if I'd broken it, but I didn't. So there's no remedy except time and exercises. It looked like a big eggplant for 3 weeks; now it just looks like a small one, but I can hobble around)

Lovely non-TR, StCirq, and a magical place. Looking forward to more.

You should write this as a book.
Waiting for more.

Your house sounds idyllic. I worked on grounds crews at golf courses all through high school and college and I'm also a stone mason.

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.100492076630136.918.100000080312512&type=3

I'm good at landscaping. I do work vacations in the Dordogne in exchange for room and board.

Hi, FMT. I thought about contacting you while over there, as we had talked about meeting up, but by the time we got to Paris I was pooped, and couldn't really get around anywhere except on foot, plus I actually had to do some "real work" for a client back here and that meant hobbling to the Café La Factorie in the 20ème every day to use the Wifi.

But....stone mason??? Seriously? One of my biggest obstacles, as it turns out, and as will be described later, is I have a huge fissure in one of the walls of the house, and the prognosis is that I'm likely going to need two tirants installed, which sounds like a big job to me (though I haven't received the devis yet). I'm not on Facebook, so can't access your link, but you can reach me at StCirq at aol dot com. On doit discuter!

I could certainly arrange free room(s) in exchange for landscaping...not kidding. We'd have to work something out about board, but everything is possible in St-Cirq, including fresh eggs, fruit of every imaginable kind in the orchard, Onamu's homemade nems, and Madame L.'s confit and pâté.

It's idyllic for sure...un vrais paradis!

Try this link:

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.100492076630136.918.100000080312512&type=3&l=fc578ccb94

I'll drop you a line later as I'm heading out for the evening right now.

I'm enjoying reading this "not a report" and hope you update soon.

Well, that's one impressive wall, FMT! Thanks for the link.

Talk later....

Lovely non-report, looking forward to more.

Much sympathy over the ankle. I have sprained mine a couple of times, both while actually traveling, and still remember trying to tackle Turkey on crutches.

Looks like you've got a deal if FMT accepts to be paid in eggs and mushrooms!

I might be able to throw in a truffle...I know a guy...

Excellent.

Please, madame, I want some more.

May I ask how you discovered this area and wound up there? I'm reminded of Under the Tuscan Sun when I read about the work you have ahead. Feel free to post pics of anything (town, neighborhood, etc). This thread is terrific...

~Roberta

The days are taken up with getting small, incremental things accomplished, or not, and there's that big empty space in the middle of them, from noon to around 2:30 or perhaps some other capricious moment, when most everything is closed. I find myself using the little notebook I always carry with me on trips to write down when certain things are supposed to close, when to reopen. There is no system to it, except that everything but the churches shuts down on Sundays, and most everything is closed Monday mornings. Except there are exceptions to that too.

Though we're not here to tour, I want SO to see Font-de-Gaume, so we drive by. We're told that it's open from 9:30 to 5:30 every day, closed on Saturdays (not on Sundays, though), and to get a spot he should be there around 9. No possibility of advance tickets. English language tours usually, but not always, take place around 11 am. Coming back from FdG into Les Eyzies we will pass the Château Mazivert outdoor wine stand, where you can buy a vrac (5 liters, in a nicely packaged box) of nice, dry, white or red Bergerac for 13 euros, as well as individual bottles starting at about 4 euro and going up to around 30 euro: http://www.mazivert.com/articles.php?lng=fr&pg=53

Madame offers a dégustation of a red, a white, and a rosé. SO likes the rosé, and so do I, so we buy a bottle for 4.50 euro in addition to a vrac of white and Madame asks all about my foot, which I can now discuss in anatomically correct fashion in French. Then to Les Eyzies' tourist office to check email and do a bit of work, and before you know it, even though we were up and off early, it's noon and everything is closed. You don't really have any choice but to sit and relax, so we plunk ourselves down at the Café de la Mairie again and share an enormous baguette filled with tuna, tomatoes, lettuce, with a basket of condiments to accompany it if we want. The tour buses are grinding through town, and one stops opposite us in front of the tourist office and lets forth a stream of Americans. One of them points to the idiotic statue of a Crô-Magnon man that sits up in the cliffs next to the Prehistory Museum and says "Oh! Look at the monkey up there!!!" http://www.flickr.com/photos/milandes/3399770942/

We each have the set of clothes we spent 32 hours traveling in, plus a couple of drawers full of work clothes we are going to need that I found in one of the closets in the house, so laundry seems like something worth checking out before long, and the gorgeous campground where I've usually used the washing machines is on the way back to the house, so we're off to La Rivière: http://www.lariviereleseyzies.com/, and it never closes.

Same old proprietors are there, but brand new washing machines and dryers, plus, to my utter delight, handicapped showers! The owner won't charge us to use the machines if we bring our own soap, but it will be 2 euros to use the shower. AND, the entire campground is a free Wifi spot, and it's quick as lightning to get onto it. Works like a charm. And another bonus: for 2 euros you can buy a frozen ice pack, and we have a soft cooler, so even though we have no fridge, we can keep things cold. Now, SO is definitely not the camping type, so this all strikes us as très amusant, but we'll be spending a fair bit of time here, we imagine.

Back to Le Bugue about the time things will start to open up again. First to the Bricomarché to get gardening gloves and batteries for the flashlights and huile de lampe for the lanterns, and a new set of pruning sheers. Then back to the Intermarché for a few more provisions, as we are determined to keep our eating costs waaaaay down on the trip and make our own food. We stop by M. Vialenc's antique shop, as I want to ask him if he wants to buy stuff from the house (which is truly over-full of things I just don't need, plus I have yet to find out if it's likely to sell a fully furnished house, if I sell a house at all). But even though the shop hours are posted on the door and he's supposed to be there, he's not. But there's a pharmacy next door and I could use some Epsom salts for soaking my ankle, so in we go. I try asking for sel d'epsom, sel amer, sulfate de magnesium, but Mademoiselle says the only thing she has for ankle issues is a brace. I have those. I guess I'll get fancy and use up the sel de guérande in the kitchen.

Home around 5 and it's blazing hot, but we get busy in the garden again. I have rose bushes originally meant to frame the front door that are now easily 20 feet tall, with stems that are now 2-inch-thick trunks. I have a half-dozen baby acacia trees (which have tiny thorns)about 6 feet tall growing in front of the kitchen and living room windows. And more ivy - endless, endless ivy. And two rosemary bushes that are over 5 feet tall and about 4 feet wide. And that's before you get down to the smaller, invasive stuff that's under all this. I start sawing and ripping and clip away most of it on the kitchen side of the house within a couple of hours, only to reveal the plaque I put there years ago with "La C....," my last name on it. With stuff cleared out, it still looks elegant.

And then it reminds me that at some point my ex got himself a cheap, flimsy facsimile with his last name on it and installed it under the living room window. That area is still completely overgrown, but making pointed mental note to get a big screwdriver, remove that plaque, and toss it in the Vézère asap.

SO is dealing with the ronces - http://tinyurl.com/cjkgm48. We seem to have acres of them, and they'll rip the skin right off your body. Nasty, nasty things. He clips them as far down as he can reach, then pulls at them with a pitchfork to loosen them, an agonizingly slow process. But after a couple of hours there's a nice big pile of them by the pool, and the view is beginning to clear.

Time to mop our brows, get out a cold glass of wine, and park by the wall. We're not going to need a fire tonight. The interplay of sun and shadow on the cliffs across the valley and the tile roofs of the farmhouses below at this time of night (around 7:30) is just stunning. There's a boule game going on somewhere below us, bottles are clinking, men are shouting and laughing, home from the fields or their workmen's day and enjoying the calm of the evening.

We're having a spirited discussion about what we're going to be eating soon - will it be saucisson or jambon du pays? Cabécou or Tomme? Salad or not? White Bergerac or rosé, or a kir? Baguette or pain levain? Many important decisions are facing us. And while we're making this, we hear a "Cou-cou!" at the end of the driveway, and here comes a young Thai woman. Thai in the Périgord is most unusual. But she's our neighbor, just to the right and below the house, and she lives with her French husband, Franck, and they've only been here a year and they work as caretakers of the big manoir below, and she's just insatiably curious as to who we are.

We give her a glass of juice (she's pregnant, no wine), and talk for nearly an hour. People say folks in this neck of the woods are private and not forthcoming, but it's never been my experience (although admittedly Onamu, for that's her name, is Thai, not French). She's divorced, has a 15-year-old daughter we will later meet, a 5-year-old son, and is expecting another baby in November. They won't be going to Thailand this year. She tells me my neighbor Madame L. is still alive and well (I can't hobble down the lane to check quite yet), and I'm incredibly pleased to hear that.

Then Franck shows up, and he does have wine, and he is just as charming and effusive. Turns out he is a handy man but more important, a landscape guy - he takes care of les espaces verts. And he has tools, as in power tools. And he'll come and clear everything out for us over the weekend. For only 15 euro an hour if we pay him directly (instead of the company he works for). And when SO goes inside to get an oil lamp and a snack, he realizes we don't have electricity, and he goes home and comes back with about a 75-meter extension cord, and voilà! We are branché, sucking off his own supply!! Completely illegal, we surmise, but who will know? We've got enough light so that I don't have to crawl on the bedroom floor to get into bed at night, as I've been doing.

Eh bien! It's been quite an evening and the skies are massively populated with stars, and Madame L. is still here, and we have new neighbors. I'll have a bite of saucisson and call it a night.

Wonderful, keep going!

Hi, RobertaL.

I had already been to France about 25 times when I landed in the Périgord for the first time. Went there mainly because it was about the only part of France I hadn't already visited. It was love at first sight.

The following year I went back with my daughter on her kindergarten spring break. We'd had a bit of a windfall and I'd always wanted to buy something in France. The exchange rate was insanely good for Americans at the time. One day, after spending a fair amount of time with real estate agencies, we visited the Grotte du Sorcier and went for a walk up the lane, and there was a for sale sign. So I bought it.

May we see picyures of the house and garden?

toss it in the Vézère asap

Polluting the waters.

This is so much fun to read! You should, indeed, write a book.

jubi, I will keep going. I have a long history of never finishing trip reports, which is why I decided not to call it one! And there is nothing really chronological about this - just bits and pieces remembered, so I don't feel I have to do the usual careful chronicling that I feel compelled to do. Just a hodge-podge of stuff remembered from an unusual but immensely gratifying voyage.

Hi, cigale.

I have videos of all the work we (and Franck) did on the place and will try to find a place to put them up so you can link to them. But please, be kind when you see the pool

<<Polluting the waters.>>

You're right, Michael. We rethought that. It went to the dump.

One of the most precious moments at the house was finding the notebooks my father kept when he was there, and I was not, detailing what he had done to maintain and improve the place. In addition to being a school headmaster and speaker of many languages, he was a master woodworker and just handyman extraordinaire, and he delighted in going to St-Cirq and taking care of practical matters for me. I found several of his notebooks when there, including one he prepared with the French vocabulary for things like "long-handled tree clipper" and "wheelbarrow" and "storage door" and "stoop" and "pry bar," all organized in logical categories in his impeccable handwriting (which admittedly in a very few places got a slight leftward edge to it, suggesting maybe he was having a glass or two of Bergerac - not his style, but heck, he was in France having a ball, doing some of the things he did best).

In addition to the lists of vocabulary I might need, he kept detailed records of every single thing he did there, every single encounter with everyone, every bill he paid, every item in the house that might need repair, every assessment of things around the house that might need improvement, every trip he made to talk to someone about how to improve or repair anything. Here is a typical entry: "Can Opener: The most sophisticated military jets fly over every day, but the French seem unable to produce an effective can opener. There are three in the kitchen (always a sign that they don't work). In addition to those, I needed a table knife, a chisel, a hammer, and adjustable pliers (une pince) to open a can of tomato paste. How about shipping you a good USA model as soon as I arrive home?" This was an entry between "Efflorescence - Walls" and "Emergency Flashlights." Weepy time for me, sitting in the kitchen at the oilclothed table and remembering how much he loved this place, but what poignant memories!

Speaking of French military jets, I had warned SO that they were sudden and intense and incredibly loud, but you're never really prepared for them, and one day when we were fussing in the garden, they just exploded down the valley - which was in itself odd, because they used to fly over my house from back to front, directly across the valley, not down it. When they fly down the valley, you can see them for longer - black, wedge-shaped things going unimaginably fast, and so incongruous with the landscape. Training exercises? Don't know.

We went to la Mairie twice, after checking out the hours it was open, posted on the door. Not open. Twice not open. Third time a truculent young woman was there, and I asked her if the office kept the actes d'achats of the resident owners of property in the village. Non. Not even a non, Madame, just a brusque non. I have to go to my (useless) notaire for that. Village gossip is that the mayor's office schedule is all messed up these days because he's having an affair with this sour young woman. I love village gossip. It's beyond amazing how much of it there is in a commune of 300 people.

That's it for tonight. More later....

I am enjoying reading and trying to anticipate the end of the story. What a long and grueling day of travel, but I can see why you would be eager to get back to your house without spending a night somewhere en route.

We never spend a night en route. When I'm off and running, there's no stopping me, no matter how long the trip. And I'm used to this trip - done it probably 60 times, but not QUITE this slowly, and never handicapped. I just want to get there.

For the record, mesdames et messieurs, I stalled the car only twice in three weeks.

First, when pulling for the first time into actual live traffic 30 hours into the journey, first time driving manual for many years and, though needing all three of my feet to drive, was not sure where any of mine were.

Second, 32 hours into it, when first hitting the 110 degree turn (yes, sharper than 90 of 'em, and uphill, too) on the skinny, slippery, gravelly road on the way to the house, with the possibility of accidentally driving into the forest or being hit by a tractor, should one have been be rumbling down the same semi-road.

I rest my clutch.

Oh, look who's here! Hi, chéri!

There should be more of these 'non trip reports'; thanks for taking us along.

[Those military jets do have their uses. Last year, while waiting alone at a bus stop in the late afternoon in a quiet village in eastern France after visiting the grave of a Lancaster bomber crew (among them the boyfriend of a now 90 y/o aunt), I was reflecting on the day, when two of those jets suddenly appeared out of nowhere behind me and roared off down the valley towards the sunset.]

From someone else who has a house in the Perigord - where we have lived full time for 18 years now, most of this sounds quite normal. I have to go back to Toronto occasionally to remember just how different things are here. (I used to say to my mother 'we'd better get out early to do our shopping before the stores close' - and she would give me a look as if to say 'my daughter from the back of beyond needs to be in civilization more.')

We bought a house and moved here almost on a whim - hadn't seen much of the rest of France, but were ready for a change from multinational corporation life, fell in love with the Perigord, and decided we had to find a way to live here. Our first plan was to sell our house for megabucks and live on the interest. The market collapsed (and then interest rates did too) so we had to find some other way to earn a living.

But the main thing was that even before we sold in Toronto, we decided we had to buy something here, or we would lose our motivation. We did, managed to sell our house, lived in an apartment, worked for another 4 years, and came to France in June 1994 with two cats and two suitcases. Once here we went into vacation rentals and property management. Managed to make a living, although the first few years were hard. I remember standing in front of a restaurant in Sarlat (now unfortunately gone) and deciding we couldn't afford to spend 100 Francs for lunch. People who envied us our life in France probably didn't imagine that part, or the making of many beds, cleaning bathrooms, etc., in rental properties.

I can sympathize with stories of acacia trees sprouting, ivy and ronces everywhere. Our huge acacia had been heavily pruned before we bought,and when we tooke possession some months later, we had a forest of acaica shoots in our courtyard - the roots had fought back against the pruning. Had to go out and buy an axe to hack our way through. Then we found this strange plant everywhere with big black berries- never seen it before we thought. Turns out it's 'mature ivy'. Many more months of chopping it back.

And of course the ronces - actually blackberries in English. They thrive, cut your arms and legs when you try to get rid of them, and generally are a nuisance.

But after 18 years here, I couldn't imagine living anywhere else. I look down on the ruins of our 12th century chateau from the garden, hear the church bells, see the wonderful golden light on our stones as the sun sets, and it's still where my heart wants to be.

(On a more prosaic note, St Cirq, do you really not have a copy of your Acte de Vente???? The Mairie, as you discovered, will never have this, but even an incompetent Notaire will. Although Notaires are still busy dealing with all the changes the current government is threatening to the inheritance laws. Everyone is trying to get one step ahead. Plus, when you are there, make sure that you ask about Capital Gains tax , which increased last year, and will probably do the same again soon.

Have to go now to welcome the geometre (surveyor) who's doing something on the land adjoining ours, and get ready to go out with the Art and History group from Sarlat to explore a romanesque church and historic village, despite the remnants of a hurricane swishing past.

StCirq, I am loving your non-trip report. It is nice to be reminded of our visit to the market in Le Bugue with the bridge with the geraniums and the tiny rotary with the big trucks. You sound like you will not be able to part with this property. I am all a quiver to see how this turns out.

Carlux- you have done what we dream of doing. Sometimes we think if we had taken the money we used to start our restaurant in 84 we could have had a place in France for all these years. Ah well...

Oh, St. Cirq, you have a winner with runningtab! I love his sense of humor!

Sigh...

Our huge acacia had been heavily pruned before we bought,

And I thought that only my parents had been crazy enough to plant an acacia on their land. For anyone who admires blooming acacias on public roadways: admire them there, do not plant them whee they will be invasive.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/mksfca/4925148182/in/set-72157623282383670

St. Cirq - I thought (from an earlier thread) you were going to a hire a garçon fort for the landscaping and rest your poor foot? No?

Well, bardo, we hired Franck, but SO and I weren't going to just sit around all day and watch someone else work - not our style, and there was enough to do to keep a small environmental team busy for weeks! Sitting on a chair ripping out ivy really wasn't much of a strain on my ankle - the heat was the worst part about it. The hardest thing, actually, was maneuvering around on crutches on overgrown stretches of land, and then on the cobblestones in towns!

And I did get to rest and soak my poor foot for at least a few hours every evening during "wall time."

Anyway, there's still plenty of work to be done, and we're working on that.

The foot's much improved in the past few days, btw. It just looks like the fat twin of the right one.

I'm thoroughly enjoying this! Thanks so much for sharing.

Carlux, I've got the Acte d'Achat and Acte de Vente courtesy of my agent immobilier, who got it from the incompetent notaire. Mostly I just wanted to see what was going on at the mairie and who the mayor's new girlfriend was.

Really enjoying this tale, and looking forward to the rest!
By the way, how long had it been since your last visit to the house? Just wondering how fast all those plants grow to take over the grounds. With that injured ankle, all that work couldn't have been easy for you - glad you have such a good (and willing) SO to help!

It had been four long years - incroyable, really, since I used to be there 3-4 times a year for weeks at a time, but stuff just kept getting in the way of my plans! Actually, given the length of time I was gone, it wasn't as bad as I'd expected.

In the midst of some hellish client assignments at the moment, but will get back to this the moment I can.

St. Cirq, 4 years - wow! Time goes by WAY too fast. I remember some of your great reports on here in the past - and it doesn't seem like that long ago. Anyway, again, looking forward to more of the story later.

who got it from the incompetent notaire

I'll bet that he's competent enough to collect his fees, which is what counts from his point of view.

I thought that you had sold the house. Weren't you trying to get the Acte d'Achat ASAP last year because of a pending sale?

No, Michael, I haven't sold the house, never had a pending sale, and wasn't trying to get anything last year. I started "communicating" with my notaire in late April of this year, and it's like pulling teeth to get anything out of him. He told me to go back to the original notaire in Sarlat, who appears to be deceased. Long struggle involved; anyway, all settled now and maybe I'll sell the house and maybe I won't....

I do have a potential buyer, Michael, as of yesterday. The keys have been Fedexed to the notaire as of this morning, but I'm not sure he's going to run over to the house immediately (trying to reach him to confirm that today).

I guess I jumped the gun.

Yes, key word "potential."

joining the audience for what promises to be an interesting story

Me too.

St Cirq - you manage to inject a certain style into even the most mundane of tasks

More, please. This is awesome!

More coming, I promise. Preoccupied with the Jewish holidays. Will try to resume tomorrow....

ttt It's the quality of writing I like.

Looking forward to the next installment.

I'm loving this, too. Looking forward to more.

More coming, I promise. Preoccupied with the Jewish holidays. Will try to resume tomorrow....>

whew! More please!

The agente immobilier is coming over and keeps calling me from her cell phone every ten minutes to make sure she's got the directions right, though I've given them to her repeatedly. She seems to get hung up on the part where I say "Vous passerez les bambous à gauche et puis juste après vous verrez les portails en bois vert." I think it's the bamboo that unnerves her, or maybe she thinks I'm using the wrong word, but in any event we soon hear her gunning it up the lane and squealing into the driveway behind our car.

I truly believe, as with fruitcakes, that there really is only one female real estate agent in the world: dressed by Ann Taylor (or in the case of the Périgord, Mesure et Proportion), bright red nails and lipstick, linen pantsuit in a subtle shade, nice leather belt, good haircut, sensible pumps, and an expensive, bulging briefcase. This is Madame D, and as she picks her way down the driveway, which is still littered with branches and stones, I can already hear her tsk-tsking. I'm installed outside in a chair and explain that I can't really give her a tour, but that SO will.

She's affable but no-nonsense and sits down across from me, pulls out some forms, and launches into a barrage of questions: When did you buy it? How many square meters? Central heating? Fireplaces? Bathrooms? Amount of terrain? Any other structures?...question after question, as she loudly ticks off boxes on her form. We show her an aerial photo of the house when the garage and veranda were being built, probably in the 1950, and she takes a photo of it. She also takes a photo of the framed tract of land that I happen to have. Then she briskly walks around the property, noting the swamp on the pool cover, giving an almost admiring glance at the spring and its dated stone surrounds (1899), and poking into the garage and veranda.

Then it's through the interior of the house. From outside I can hear her heels tap-tapping methodically on each floor, with pauses as she makes more notes. Ten minutes and she's done and back outside. "Ehhhhhhh bien, Madame," she says with pursed lips. "Un bel endroit. Une vue superbe. Beaucoup de charme...............mais...mais...mais....la fissure dans le mur..." and she pensively taps her pen against her cheek. "C'est grave...je pense." Yes, I know there's a crack in one of the walls, and yes, it does look to be fairly serious. She wants to know if I have a mason. Well, I did have one, but it's been quite a number of years since I've used his services, but certainly I can find one.

She wants an estimate. I can get one. She takes some more pictures. Will we be doing any landscaping while here? Why yes, we will, thanks to Franck. She wants us to take "after" pictures and send them to her. We can do that too. Bon! We'll get the estimate, go back to work on fixing the place up, and with any luck she'll be able to stop by again before we leave. We tell her who has keys in case she doesn't make it back (and of course she doesn't), and then it's all alors, merci, au revoir and she bobbles through the debris in the driveway and roars off.

So we need a maçon. I dig out the phone number I had for Monsieur L, but it's no longer in service. I'm thinking we'll go into Les Eyzies to the laundromat that my electrician and his wife run and see if they have a recommendation, so off we go. My electrician is the son of my wonderful neighbor, Mme. L, whom we still haven't seen, and in past years we have spent many a lovely evening with him and his wife. When I hobble into the laundromat, N is there but doesn't recognize me (cripes, that's a bad sign!) until I say "C'est moi, Madame C..." Ooh la la!! Hugs, kisses, catch-ups, and N knows two masons and writes down their telephone numbers. More hugs, more kisses, and we're due for another vrac of Château Mazivert, which is about 50 meters away.

Patrick is at the stand today instead of Madame, and we get to chatting with him about this and that, including our need for a mason. Well, he says, you're in luck, because Monsieur R. is right down there (pointing down the dirt road that goes past his stand) working today. And M. R is one of the two masons N has recommended to us - quelle chance! Back into the car with the vrac and we meander down the lane until we see a big workman's truck. But it's not M. R, it's his assistant. M. R has gone to the quarry to get some supplies and will be back later. Fine, we'll come back.

M. R is still not there at the appointed return time, but a lovely lady comes out of a dwelling that looks like it used to be stables and offers us chairs and a bottle of cold water while we wait for him. The wait turns into an hour, during which the lady tells us all about the buildings around us. One was originally a forge that was built in the 15th century. Sometime in the 18th century it became a factory producing the clay-mineral mixture that formed the basis for Limoges porcelain. Her grandfather worked there. The porcelain base was transported to Limoges on donkey carts. Her grandfather worked there. It shut down around 1920. And today, she says, 70 percent of Limoges china is made in...China.

Eventually, M. R shows up, a burly, barechested man sporting several neck chains and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. We introduce ourselves and explain what we need, and he tell us he can come by in a week's time. Well, that won't do because we'll be leaving that day...so how about right now? he says. He'll follow us. I make sure that he's not abandoning some project for Madame to do this, but everyone is fine with the idea, so we thank Madame for the water, chairs, and conversation, and lead M. R back to St-Cirq.

Yes, it's pretty bad. I'm going to need at least one, probably two, tirants: http://tinyurl.com/bpqf4f5 to pull the walls back together again and hold them in place. I sense this is a many-euro prospect. M. R sits with us outside the house, accepts a beer, rolls a cigarette, and begins to explain what is involved, not just the machinery and supplies to get the tirants in place but also digging around the foundation of the house on the side where the crack is to make sure nothing shifts and, if it has, to put it back in place. He will need to put together a formal estimate, which he will do. But he doesn't have email, so he can't send it to us, and it will be a few days before he gets to it. So we give him the name, address, and phone number of the real estate agent, and he will get it to her, promise. In fact, he'll call her tomorrow and let her know it's coming. And in the meantime, we should check with the insurance company, because just the other day he had clients with a similar problem, and they called the insurance company and it was deemed a "catastrophe de la secheresse" as was entirely paid for. It's quite possible the same would be true for us! In fact, since he's going to call Mme. D anyway, he'll encourage her to call the insurance company.

And he's off, and it's wall time, wine time, and we feel as though we actually accomplished something today, including having some fascinating conversations with new acquaintances.

As an incurable lover of the Dordogne, I am looking forward to more.
Love your style, St-Cirq.

...it's writing like this that keeps me coming back to Fodors
even after getting bogged down in 'le marais' - the Lounge.


Thank you so much for taking me with you.

Loving this! Even the stereotypical estate agent seems almost charming, ha!

patronizing though?

StCirq - "living the dream" - merci for sharing the intricacies of really "living" in France...

<<patronizing though?>>

What, exactly, is patronizing? I'm chronicling stuff that happens to me as I travel. I'm a writer and editor. I put a spin on stuff sometimes..for effect, but I don't ever deviate from the reality of the moment. I said from the output that this wasn't a chronological report but rather a series of impressions. You're jealous, Pal, that some folks like reading my stuff, is all. You're a major-league traveler in Europe, too, and a self-proclaimed "professional" travel writer, though your command of the English language is so weak it's hard to believe that, so do your own trip reports and leave mine alone. They don't infringe upon you in any way that I can see.

I've never seen a trip report from you, btw, in years and years of being on Fodors. So lay off mine.

Reading along and enjoying this non-report, St. Cirq!

I just realized that we stopped at Chateau Mazivert last fall while visiting the museum in Les Eyzies! It was productive!

I bet it was, taconictraveler. I love the moments where we Fodororites intersect, and isn't the stand of the Chateau Mazivert just perfect? It's so amazingly granular, yet understandable....I love it!

This reminds me of the chronicle of when my parents built their house in Lorraine, finding the masons, plumbers, carpenters -- and also keeping an eye on some of them when they worked because their "methods" didn't always conform to the way my parents thought things should be done. There was even an epic argument with the architect who did not want the kitchen sink placed directly beneath a window ("ça ne se fait pas!") -- whether building or renovating, it's always an adventure here.

I see a book!

<<patronizing though?>>

I assumed PalenQ was referring to the realtor...

So did I.

+1

d leave mine alone.>

ah yes and you too quit putting deprecating comments about my son (as you did in my Eurail Select Pass update) or snarky retorts as you often do in my pure travel posts - do unto others as you want them to do onto you. Capiche! Hopefully this gets the point across for both of us.

Just returned from Toulouse, Sarlat, and Paris. I had to quickly check in on Fodors and see what was going on. I am looking forward to reading all of your post when I get caught up on some things. I read just the beginning and I have to agree that you should write a book about your experiences. It's the type of book that I would certainly buy.

BTW---Thanks for the tip on tartiflette at Chez Le Gaulois in Sarlat. Loved it so much that we returned for a second dinner.

I'm amazed how you managed to get so much done despite the foot. Waiting for the next installment but please don't wait too long. Some of us are not so patient!

ttt

So we are about 6 days now without a hot shower and feeling very much like French peasants (though it truly is amazing, given all the running around and outdoor work we’ve been doing, that we don’t stink – I think one does a sort of air-cleaning in this atmosphere). Time to go to La Rivière, which we go to every day for the Wifi anyway (and because it doesn’t close for 3 hours in the middle of the day, and this affords us the opportunity to get at least something accomplished during that time), but this time armed with soap and shampoo and conditioner and razors and washcloths and towels. I’ve never been in a handicapped shower stall before, but once I finally get into it (haul myself on crutches over the gravel driveway, lean the crutches against the handicapped ramp, which I don’t want to use because it’s too long and I have problems going uphill, haul myself using the ramp rails to a seated position at the top of the ramp, crawl to the door of the shower, haul myself upright using the door handle) I’m in a small room with handlebars galore, a seat, and hooks to hang my stuff on. SO brings me the bag of shampoo, etc., and I’m ready to luxuriate. OK, probably TMI, but you just cannot imagine how incredibly delightful this was for someone who has, all her life, taken at least one shower a day, sometimes more. OMG, I wanted to sit on that seat under the hot water for about a week! Best 2 euros I ever spent.

While we’re in cleanliness mode, we do a load of laundry. SO manages to drop our soap pellet into the washer in such a way that it gets stuck in the inside rim of the washer door, so it doesn’t disintegrate the way it’s supposed to, but we figure the hot water alone has to be an improvement on the state of our clothing.

Back at “our” table at the restaurant at La Rivière, we share a huge plate of charcuterie (cold magret de canard, jambon du pays, terrine de foie de canard, and rillettes de porc with cornichons and a huge basket of baguette slices) for 8.5 euros (a splurge for us – we only ate out about three times on the whole trip, and our food and beverage costs were only about 15-20 euros a day) and catch up on email and work projects. When it’s time for things to start opening up again, we pay up and head to Le Bugue to find the elusive Monsieur Vialenc, the antiquaire. And his shop is open and he’s there, and there’s a parking spot right outside his shop! Quelle fortune! I scramble up, feeling spectacularly presentable since hot water has graced my skin, and walk in. Now, there are a lot of places someone on crutches should never venture, but an antiques store is certainly one of them. The moment I was inside the door I had a Come To the 18th Century Moment and thought, Lord! What the heck was I thinking? Even without going two feet inside the door I am surrounded by porcelain and pottery and glass and crystal trinkets…on the floor, on shelves on the walls, displayed on the tops of cabinets and tables, and worst of all, underfoot, just laid out on the floor. One sudden move of a crutch, one tiny lurch to the right or left, and I’m toast to the tune of possibly thousands of euros. And to make matters worse, a large Dutch lady comes bombing through the door behind me, apparently oblivious to my handicap, and tries to pass right by me, which shifts all my weight dangerously to the right, and suddenly I’m almost about to crash onto an antique pôt de confit with a 365 euro tag on it, which my eyes are riveted on in horror. Fortunately, SO grabs my arm and steadies me, and the Dutch lady gets by me without incident. And here comes M. Vialenc, and I introduce myself and tell him how we have had dealings in the past and he has sold me some very nice things, and would he want to buy some back now? He’s a truly amiable man, très géniale, with a shock of long gray curls and a bulbous, kindly face, and he remembers me and the house in St-Cirq, and yes, he’ll come by tomorrow evening and have a look. So, shower and antiquaire are the accomplishments of the day.

Now it’s time for a beer on the balcony of the Hôtel Royale-Vézère in Le Bugue to watch the ducks skating down the river before heading back to meet up with Franck and Didier, “the pool guy” Franck has recommended. Didier shows up looking as long-haired and raggedy as most folks around here and, from a perch on our wall, with a beer in hand, without even going down to the actual pool to assess it, says “300 euros, but I can’t possibly do it until springtime, as I’m completely débordé.” I have to laugh at this, as practically every French worker I’ve ever known was “complètement débordé” (totally overwhelmed – literally, flooded) just about every day of every year. We assure Didier that there is no urgency – he can pencil us in for sometime in spring when he’s not so busy, and we take his name and number for future reference. Onamu shows up with a plate of about 20 homemade nems (Thai spring rolls) and a bottle of Thai sweet-spicy pepper sauce, and we are having a mini-party in paradise under the stars.

StC..just came across this intriguing thread. Seems like you painted everything on a broad canvas..it is that artistic! I don't come to the forum anywhere near as often as I had in the past, due to conditions beyond control, and this was the first thread that caught my eye tonight.

You have succeeded in giving to many readers a view of France and the Dordogne that one doesn't catch while flitting through. Thank you, for that.

A healthy,meaningful and peaceful new year to you two.

Stu

Stu, my dear! Shana Tova to you. Thank you for your encouraging words and appreciation! I've missed a lot of stuff from having been absorbed in travel for the past month, but did I glean somewhere that you had been traveling abroad? If so, how wonderful for you, given your circumstances. Write me.

And you're most welcome for the singular view of life in the Dordogne. There are others on this forum who could easily replicate it, but it's something I find incredibly enjoyable...and writing about it keeps the place firmly in my heart and mind, and who wouldn't want that?

We'll be in touch.

StCirq,
Serendipitous to stumble upon your wonderful prose. Wishing you Shana Tova & a complete healing of your ankle.

PS: I love how you provided a diagram of the tirants! Oh, the joys of owning ancient real estate. Yup, bet it's pricey, it always is. I, too, hope you turn this "Not a Trip Report" Report into a book or screenplay.

"We assure Didier that there is no urgency..."

I hope this doesn't have the same effect on workers in France as it does on people where I live.

StCirq, if you haven't read it, in "A Year in Provence" the homeowners simply invite all of the people renovating their house to a Christmas party--magically, all the work was completed in time! Food for thought?

Nice.

I bet that you and DH scrub up really well.

Your report, while not intended to be a travel advisory, makes me want to go back to the Sarlat/Les Eyzies for a longer stay.

We house-hunted around Duras, Eymet and Bergerac. My British husband was put off by all the Brits, and we both were shell-shocked by the prices (2008).

Loving your chronicle.

Around 1970 I remember English real estate people advertising houses in the Dordogne for $5-10,000 ! Guess they must have sold a lot of them given the number of Brits who live there now.

Thanks, all. TDudette, I think my neighbors/workers would rather be at home in their centrally heated abodes than huddling by my fireplaces! I did actually have a 4th of July party for the neighbors once (probably chronicled in an old trip report here) that fell short of being a wild success. What was I thinking?

I'm going to try a little experiment. If it works, I'll post more. Here's Franck in the morass of my yard:

https://www.dropbox.com/sh/l4falq7tv2dvxgq/U9oK93ifXV#f:FRANCK.CUTS.VIEW.mov

StCirq, I am really enjoying your non-trip report. I did the exact same thing to my right ankle on Easter Sunday two and 1/2 years ago. It was a double sprain and I was on crutches for two months. Then I got bursitis in both shoulders from being on the crutches and using my arms to lift my body. I am feeling every step you took on those crutches. I hope your ankle is totally back to normal soon.

That could be, StCirq, however, in the case of the author, none of the workers wanted to be the only one who didn't meet the deadlines!

Plus du non-report SVP!

SCirq
First of all, I just caught up with your non trip report. And, want to thank you for your wonderful expression of words-I am a visual person and sooo enjoy your report. Am just recovering from a broken bone in my foot-got rid of my boot yesterday. Crutches are a real bummer. Your words reminded me of my 8 month recouperation from a sky accident several years. At least you did not need a fixater.
Back to your report. DH and I were in the Dordgone in April-RAIN-4 weeks out of 5. We stayed in a B&B for a week near Les Eyzies. WE visited the area and really enjoyed the Museum and did not get tickets for the cave-even with getting to the window at 9AM. So we saw the Lascaux II and several lesser known ones. Rained a lot the day in Sarlat. Had a good meal and walked around sm. puddles.
Do keep in mindSTCirq-that as one ages, you may make a stop between destinations. That is one thing that takes us longer thus a longer time spent!!
Again, great reads and looking forward to the rest of your non trip report (some reads popped up while I was writing.)

PS Skiing accident

Dropbox worked fine. Yikes! It's looks even more jungle-like than it reads. Great views.

Glad it worked, and oh yeah, it was a mell of a hess!

Here it is looking a little better:

https://www.dropbox.com/sh/l4falq7tv2dvxgq/U9oK93ifXV#f:VALLEY.CLEAR.mov

The vista is indeed impressive. I could have many perfect apéritifs with some olives and saucisson sitting there as the sun sets.

Whatever possessed me to visit the "France" forum while recuperating from dental surgery must have been "no devil" as it has been quite the experience to live the restoration of yard( er, jungle) and mental health along with you and SO...

Thanks for the great read - and videos - and pics, and yes, I agree - a book is in there waiting to explode for all of us who have envisioned our own escapes to a more "civilized" way of living.

I remember when we planned our trip to Dordogne in 2010 and the enormous amt of information you sent my way. Thank you again for taking the time.

I "saw "your house in my mind but it is truly lovely to see and read about it first hand. We actually went looking for it but of course got lost and ended up in a cafe. Perhaps the same one.

Thanks; I forgot my tooth hurts and now I want some wine and cheese.

MB

What a great view!

Lovely, just lovely; a real joy to read.

Thank you so much for the videos. Lovely property, gorgeous views.

Here's another video of the "before" disaster, while I write up more of the report (got to watch the Nats tonight).

https://www.dropbox.com/sh/l4falq7tv2dvxgq/U9oK93ifXV#f:FRONTandPAN.mov

StCirq,
Just a heads up that each of your links provide access to all 14 videos in your dropbox so if you don't want them all to appear on Fodors you'd have to delete or somehow password protect them individually.

I can see myself there.

I can see you there, too FMT

Oh, thank you, sassy-cat (though you will now see me with my friends Véronique and Madame Lacoste, but no matter. And I think there might be a moment when my SO exclaims that the work that Franck is doing is F...ing wonderful...hope Fodors editors don't delete. It WAS f...ing wonderful!

Too tired to write more tonight, but will update tomorrow

Enjoying your non TR immensely... looks like enough rocks to keep FMT busy full time! ;^)

I love rocks!

TTT

What a wonderful non TR. Enjoying it and appreciate you taking the time to share with us.

StCirq, like everyone else I think your writing and non trip report are wonderful. I just have to ask if you are sure on one little thing.
"(though it truly is amazing, given all the running around and outdoor work we’ve been doing, that we don’t stink".

After all, love is not just blind....

Good point, ziggy, especially given the company we were keeping (real estate agent excepted)...who would have noticed?

Just getting caught up here! Tdudette...this totally reminded me of A Year in Provence!

Great non-report!

I sit snug in our gite in Saint-Saturnin les Apt as the rain pours, the wind howls and am reading this wonderful story. I can hear you telling this story - your voice clear and I think back on our time together on the roof. Merci for sharing this tale.

Better than Mayle's book!

P.S. why I say that.
A year in Provence was modeled on the first book of
making a home in Provence,
Lady Fortescue, Perfume from Provence.

StC..thank you for responding...and a shana tovah to you guys, too. No, I have not been overseas for three years. Went to NYC for a wedding, and Colorado for grandson's graduation from Colo. State. He played in the minors in Texas this last season. Nats may take it all! That's it. Look forward to more "reports" from you.
stu

Hi Stu

Ten days of little but errands and chasing workmen down and fixing cell phone issues and talking to real estate agents and driving to La Rivière for Wifi and showers and laundry, and we are ready for just a wee bit of sightseeing. I can’t imagine having dragged SO here and not having him get to enjoy some of the sights. We’ve given up on Font-de-Gaume, made at least four trips there to talk to folks, all of whom give us contradictory information, and twice SO has driven in at the times they suggested only to find out the day’s tour is full or there is no English-language tour. If I could start a business management business here, I’d surely do it – but no doubt it would spoil the region’s charm, which is in good part based on unpredictability, lack of specifics, and a laissez-faire mindset that is deeply ingrained and charming unless you actually have a plan and want to get something done quickly. The general feeling is, it’s YOU who need to relax and get with the slow pace and maddening inconsistencies, not WE who need to speed up and fulfill your wishes. Have a glass of wine, have some foie gras, sit by the river, enjoy the view…life is good and you’ll be fine. Ne vous inquiétez pas.

So SO goes to see the Grotte du Sorcier next door and loves it. Even though it’s not a major cave, it’s a UNESCO site and very well known by paleontologists, as it has one of the few engravings of a human form in the Vézère Valley. The tour is in French, but SO says he got most of it, except some of the technical information on the various levels of sediment. And then we pack a picnic, using the handy cold pack from La Rivière, and head to Limeuil. I want him to see some of the lovely villages that are all around us, and so far, we’ve mostly stayed at the house or gone to Le Bugue and Les Eyzies, It doesn’t seem fair not to share some of the wonders around us in our brief time here. And besides, it’s the mid-day break and we can’t accomplish anything anyway. On the way, we stop at St-Martin, a Romanesque chapel built in 1194 by Henri II’s son Richard I, to expiate the murder of the Archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas a’ Becket: http://www.pays-de-bergerac.com/english/tourisme/site_remarquable/monuments-religieux/limeuil/index.asp. The doors of the church are closed tight, as are most around here – religious attendance by Catholics in this and other rural French regions has dwindled to the point where local chapels , which means most of the Romanesque churches, have only itinerant priests, who come by once every few months to perform a service. Otherwise, the chapels are locked and inaccessible these days. If there’s a wedding or funeral, there’s an exception ,and everyone in the village shows up. A real indication of how typical local life has died out here in the rural SW of France, though there are indications of a reversal of the trend for young people to flee to the cities, We have a chapel in St-Cirq, right below the southernmost limits of my property, and it’s locked most of the time , too, but when there’s a wedding or funeral, the bells ring out loud and clear and will shake your bones and get you running down the hill to see what’s happening.

So, the Chapelle StMartin Is a no-go, except that there’s a huge garbage depot right next to it, and we happen to have all the old clothes I want to discard in bags in the car, so we leave them there, hoping they’ll make their way to some charitable outfit associated with the church.
Then, a short hop to Limeuil. Always a gorgeous geographical site, it was a mess when I first bought the house in St-Cirq, wtrh a literally Medieval sewer system that was interesting to view from a historical perspective, but that still shunted personal household sewage down gutters from the hilltop town into the Vézère.The first time I was there, in 1994, I ventured out into the river water and found a wallet with 500 francs in it, no doubt lost by some canoer. The place smelled back then. Today it is fairly glorious, with all sewage issues resolved and a host of decent restaurants and shops. Too commercial for my taste, in general, but still a nice town, like Domme. It’s at the confluence of the rivers Dordogne and Véz1ere, and has an elbow bridge – half of it goes over the Vézère and half over the Dordogne. You don’t see elbow bridges all that often, but it’s pretty cool.

There are picnic tables galore near the main parking lot at the bottom of Limeuil, so we park and find one and set out our goodies. I give SO the digital camera, assure him that I’m fine to be alone for awhile, and off he goes. I’m feeling good because it’s another beautiful day, and SO more than deserves some time to himself to explore without his gimpy,plodding partner.

While I sit there, a French couple install themselves at a nearby table, and while they are unpacking their picnic an American couple comes along and asks if they can share the table.Bien sûr, say the French couple, and before long they are chatting,, with the Americans struggling in horribly accented miserable French, which the French of course accept without criticism. The thrust of the conversation is the American guy’s allegiance to Romney, which obviously puts off the French couple instinctively… you can see them shuffling food about on their plates and shifting eye rolls at each other, but they remain polite and ask few questions and then take that stand-offish stance that the French are so good at, and eventually the garrulous, bad-French-speaking couple slink off to who knows where. When the French couple pack up and go by me on their way to the parking lot, I engage them and tell them that we Americans are not all supporters of Romey , the Tea Party, or other extremists, and we aren’t all monolinguiists. They looked so happy!

Then a family of New Zealanders wanted to share my table because there were no free ones. By this time I was wondering what had happened to SO, so company was welcome. Turns out they were here for a huge marathon near Bordeaux (all the way from New Zealand?? Wow.

SO had a great time trekking up to the top of Limeuil, with a break from his gimpy partner, and came back ready to rip into our picnic – which was excellent and supplemented by a rose ice cream at Le Chai, my favorite place for ice cream/sorbet in all of France as I know it,

Cigale, I didn't know that. Will have to look it up. Thank you!

DebitNM, can picture you in the gîte in Provence with pangs of ency and thank you for the kind words. That rooftop was almost, but not quite, equivalent to "walling it" at the place in St-Cirq.

I was in Italy last week and sharing a table with two American couples each of whom were strangers to each other. As the final couple sat down he introduced himself and launched into a rant in favour of Mr Romney.

We rolled out eyes (being British it all looks like an asterix cartoon "the americans are mad") but the guy goes on as his compatriots just go very silent and stare into the distance. Seems that the Americans spend a lot of money buying political positions and sometimes they use public money and sometime they get given money and sometimes other people use money to say what they want and how Romney knows how to tell people what to do. Finally this couple goes and the there is a short ripple of ironic clapping from all the people at our end of the restaurant. The couple near us then say how sorry we had to see this behaviour.

I felt your pain.

Occasionally I've had luck finding the keeper of the keys or the gardien to locked churches by asking at the nearest house.

Our village church is of no particular significance, sort of bog-standard, cookie-cutter from around 1880 with a few older bits inside. The women across the road who holds the keys lets people in for a look.

Thanks for including some touristy stuff, must get back up there.

What is your opinion on discussing politics with the French? I don't unless they start the conversation. Before the recent French presidential election, the neighbors were interested in our views. Husband can vote in local elections only, I have no vote.

Yes, there is usually someone with keys to a church - in St-Cirq it's probably the mairie, but St-Martin is in a field fairly far from town, and it would be hard to guess which farm to stop at to inquire about keys. It was interesting to walk around the graveyard outside though - so many ancient stones and all those funerary trinkets the French are so fond of.

As for politics, I never initiate conversations about American politics, though I might about French politics if something stirring were in progress. But quite a number of times I've witnessed Americans launching political discussions, especially with French people who speak English. Normally, the French are reserved in such situations, just acknowledging the comments without engaging. In this case, the French couple spoke very minimal English, and the American spoke minimal French, to the point where really all he could get out, time and time again was "Obama a tout l'argent, tout l'argent!" and "Obama veut acheter tout. C'est pourquoi j'aime Romney...parce que il ne pense pas qu'il peut acheter tout." Even if the French couple had wanted to engage, it would have been hard to launch a conversation from this premise, given the language limitations. And I had no intention of engaging them myself, but when leaving they walked by my table and asked if I had someone coming for me (lady alone at picnic table with crutches elicited this reaction from several people) and when I said thank you but I'm fine,just waiting for someone, they mentioned that they had heard SO and me speaking English earlier, and there certainly were a lot of English speakers in this neck of the woods (turns out they were visiting from Alsace). I did take that opportunity to say something like, well, we are definitely English speakers, but unlike the last ones you spoke with, we're not Romney fans, which drew a big grin from the two of them.

I remember being in Provence right after we invaded Iraq and being questioned by quite a few French people about the justification for that. In fact, throughout W's presidency there was a lot more back-and-forth in general - with my neighbors as well as people met along the course of my travels - about American politics. Nearly every French person I conversed with then was utterly opposed to the American presence in Iraq and not hesitant to talk about it, once they had started the conversation and realized I supported the same position.

But generally speaking, I don't bring up American politics, even with my neighbors, unless directly asked for an opinion. They'd rather talk about food and their pensions, anyway.

"rather talk about food and their pensions...."

Agree, perfect!

Very much enjoying this story, StCirg, particularly I've also recently gotten rid of some unpleasant excess baggage.

I've jumped to the bottom of the thread to mention something that you might find helpful for the remainder of your convalascence: a knee walker. You use it instead of crutches, and while it won't help much with brushy fields and stairs (the tush works just fine, I find) it is a tremendous improvement when it comes to roads, sidewalks, and interior spaces. Great exercise as well, as it keeps your derriere and hip muscles working hard (but spares your wrists and armpits).

I think the last poll they took in France about support for Obama turned out to be something like 88% so this should be a warning to any Romney people who want to talk politics in France for the next 5 weeks.

Thanks for the tip, Therese. I wish I'd known about it before the trip. As it is, in the week that I've been home I've been able to abandon the crutches and hobble around without them, just a brace on the ankle. If I ever do this again (and I'd better not!), I'll remember the knee walker, though.

Something that makes this thread stand out is how well it conveys the thrill of being somewhere you love with someone you love, and somehow good things just keep happening.

I kept my own diary of our recent trip, and even though I felt that thrill, I can't write it. You have a special touch.

Great news re your progress to hobbling status, StCirq. I've definitely gotten my money's worth out of my knee walker, as I've been able to loan mine to lots of friends (and friends of friends).

Nice sentiments, Coquélicot, and definitely true. Thank you.

After leaving Limeuil, we drive a short ways back to a "bière artisanale" sign we've seen on the road just before entering town, but it's closed, as are SO many things, but by now we've just learned to accept our fate and press on. Minor disappointments are just par for the course. In this case to Le Buisson, because Monsieur Vialenc has suggested his colleague and fellow antiquaire/brocanteur Monsieur Baillon who has a shop there may also be interested in acquiring some of my household possessions.

Le Buisson is another practical non-touristed town about 8 kms from Le Bugue, not pretty at all, just an SNCF station and the usual bunch of hairdressers, patisseries, boulangers, a boucherie, a café or two, a hardware store, a maison de la presse, a retirement home, one rather unkempt park with public parking around it - just plain ordinary (but all the more endearing for that, once one has sucked in the overwhelming stunningness of so many other towns). And it's Le Buisson-de-Cadouin, which means that it's a commune of the village of Cadouin, which has one of the most spectacular abbeys in the Dordogne, and well worth visiting. Go see it if you are visiting the region!

I don't know Le Buisson all that well - really, only because it has the only gas station that's open on Sundays that is manned - but there are really only two streets through it. But there is no antiquaire or brocante on either of them, so we stop at the Maison de la Presse, which is about the only thing open at 3 pm, and ask. The lady there thinks there may be a brocante on the main road heading to St-Cyprien, so we head out that way, but we are soon on a main road, and I have a mental picture of what lies ahead because I've been on this road a lot, and I know it's unlikely to take us past a brocante. So we turn around, and after a few minutes, upon heading right back into Le Buisson, I spot a tiny little sign saying brocante, which takes us down a few winding lanes, hither and yon, and deposits us in front of a stunning, huge house with a...parking lot! Maybe for about 12 cars, but still...houses in the Périgord don't usually have parking lots. The parking lot fronts onto a gorgeous lawn and garden with lovely statuary and topiary - very fancy for such an out-of-the-way place in a nondescript town.

Next to the parking lot is a barn with a sign that says Baillon on it, and a bell and another sign that says Sonnez! So we ring the bell, and around a corner of the property comes M. Baillon. He's maybe 40, tall and a bit portly and with a rather suppressed air, sort of nonchalant and uncommitted. Maybe he was just surprised at two Americans showing up amid his parking lot and statues and topiary, but we explain that M. Vialenc has suggested we stop by, and his demeanor takes on a half a degree higher interest. After a lot of questions about what I have to sell, and what M. Vialenc has already bought (because his business head is in the game even if his friendliness quotient isn't), he agrees he will stop by tomorrow night, and I give him directions and the phone number.

Back home we see the vast improvements that Franck has made in clearing out the property, and somewhat giddy we get out some goat cheese and olives and baguette and wine and a bucket of warm water for me to soak my foot in, and SO says "You can't give this place up. There has to be another way." He's fallen under the spell, and I'm beginning to think he's right - there must be another way. It's beginning to be VERY hard for me to contemplate letting go of this place. And we talk about this a lot this night.

But we must proceed with practicalities. M. Vialenc comes by as agreed at 7 pm, such a jolly, garrulous man, and we let him wander through the house and collect a few items. He's judicious - his shop space is small and he only wants a few fairly high-quality items. Fine. When he's done and written me a check, he's sits with us by the wall and talks for an hour about how he ended up in the Périgord, a Parisian boy who still loves the city but couldn't make a go of it there, who decided to come to the southwest and raise geese for foie gras. Did that for a number of years, raised a family, then got into the antiques business as he recognized the burgeoning market for wealthy Brits and other expats. But in fact his wealthiest and best clients turned out to be French families who had inherited properties in the region which they wanted to upkeep or restore. Had three shops 20 years ago, now only one. Things have gotten tougher, but he still loves the Périgord, and he still loves Paris. He gets animated when he talks about Paris; he talks about how vibrant and multicultural it is compared to here and how his heart just sings the moment he arrives there. He glows when he talks about this, and of course we get it because we get the same glow.

Then he tells us about his son, who's in Dublin in some managerial position doing very well, and he goes into a mild rapture about Ireland, and I explain that I have Irish citizenship but have never (hide my head in shame) been to that country. You must go! he exclaims. He's been to Ireland a number of times, and he says the Irish, compared to the French, have culture defined. They live for music, art, literature, all the things that the French do, but the Irish do it better and without any veneer or pretention, and they do it in an atmosphere of fellowship that the French just don't cultivate. This is absolutely fascinating to me and SO, as I have NO experience in Ireland and SO has some but not much, and neither of us is in a position to make this kind of evaluation. Just another world viewpoint of one brocanteur in the Périgord - but isn't it all these conversations we have in the course of our travels that enrich our minds and make us think of things we never thought of before? And that so many of these can happen on a hillside in the deepest depths of the Périgord just reaffirms my faith in mankind. And frankly astounds me.

I don't remember what we did after M. Vialenc left. I suppose I soaked my foot and we "walled it" until the stars came out, and eventually went to a cuddly bedtime in our cocoon, but boy, we had a lot to talk about that night. It's astonishing how much one can learn in one day.

Reading this is like watching a birth. Pain and stress, but a wonderful beginning filled with astounding possibilities.

I see La Rochelle fading away..

Based on your photos and your wonderful prose, I think you have a gem--I mean the house but would guess SO qualifies as well.

Don't stop!

Another injured foot traveler who has read -- or at least scanned -- your non-trip report. Glad you are getting such pleasure writing it up and re-living it, but when you wrote...

"but isn't it all these conversations we have in the course of our travels that enrich our minds and make us think of things we never thought of before? And that so many of these can happen on a hillside in the deepest depths of the Périgord just reaffirms my faith in mankind. And frankly astounds me--"

I can't help but say: When your foot gets better, you should get out more! There's a whole world of conversation out there, filled with enriching thoughts, away from your computer screen! Many people can tell you about Ireland -- and other places too. Just a thought.

I just realized my post could be interpreted as not encouraging you keep on writing up your experiences, which was not my intention at all. I encourage you like everybody else to go writing this up as you like to doing it.

I really do feel that the opportunity to learn from others in face-to-face conversation is always close at hand.

SO thanks Cathinjoetown for kind words. And confirms that cigalechanta is correct: La Rochelle fades as the final destination of choice. The old city and harbor are gorgeous, rich in sights, sounds history and tasty moules. Also rich in ambling hordes of tourists, many of whom stop ambling to stand stationary for minutes on end, staring at les tours. Ile de Re is an alternate universe, idyllic, lore-soaked, beautiful, and rich in the impossibly rich. End of the day, it’s so special, so wealthy, and so protected by even its slight distance from the mainland, that the whole island feels like a gated community—a place to escape to, not to integrate into. Outside of the singular attractions of the old city and the Ile, you’ve got a proud, pleasant and productive city that’s otherwise rather undistinguished. So it’s a respectful farewell to La Rochelle. Great place, but we wouldn't want to live there.

<<I really do feel that the opportunity to learn from others in face-to-face conversation is always close at hand.>>

As do I, wholeheartedly, and I have no idea why you'd think it isn't a regular (daily) part of my experience. I guess you haven't heard about our "outdoor salon." But no matter....

Cigale, you are prescient.

Just wonderful, StCirq. I hope you don't mind the threesome at your Perigord house because I'm right there with you in your daily travels and travails. =) I am very familiar with the area and missing it terribly. When DH and I discuss our travel plans for the coming year, this is what we talk about first.

>>I have no idea why you'd think it isn't a regular (daily) part of my experience. I guess you haven't heard about our "outdoor salon."<<

Uhh, well, no, how would I hear of your "outdoor salon"?

I confess I now have no idea what the paragraph you wrote that I quoted means. What "astounds" you and "rekindles your faith in humanity" about what was said to you in Perigord? I'm stumped.

But I always enjoy reading stories about how people who had jumped to the conclusion that living in Europe is impossible have the crusted on scales drop from their eyes. Looks like what was key for you was having somebody not pour cold water on your investment in that dream. It is so common that people deride without ever realizing that for so many people, it is an idea they shouldn't just give up on.

Sometimes people who don't think they have a gift for words have a hard time expressing what draws them to dream of living in Europe. They are really at the mercy of people who don't understand their sensitivities. So many people just slap them down with taking any responsibility for what they are crushing. Great you are able to have such confidence in your writing. Hope you can keep your confidence in your original dream of having a European life.

huh?

what a weird comment! Another huh? here.

lorettajung, I don't want to presume, but it sounds like you or people you know have had some dreams slapped down and crushed. If true, then take it to heart that the slappers and dream-crushers should be ignored. They can have their opinions, but they don't own yours, and no one is always right ... nor are dreamers always wrong. Dreamers are by far the most important segment of the population, worldwide. We, you, all need to be dreamers, receptive, attentive, open, but most important ... we all need to be crushproof.

SO goes into town to do an errand, and I go through the cabinets on the ground floor and the kitchen to try to clean out stuff we need to discard. He comes back 45 minutes later with a big grin on his face and announces “I found Madame L.! She was outside when I drove past, so I stopped and asked her if it was her, and she said yes, and I told her (in French!) you were here and she wants to see you as soon as possible! How lucky was that?” I’ve told him many a tale about this wonderful neighbor of mine, so he has some background on her and our relationship over the years. I’m not wasting a moment getting down there to see her, so we pile into the car and drive to her house. Even though she lives just on the other side of the grotte next door to me, it’s far easier to drive up over the house and down the other side of St-Cirq, past the old washer-women’s pool and the pond and up by the mayor’s office – make a full circle, in other words, rather than backup down the lane into the grotte parking lot and try to turn around. And when we get there, there is the issue of being able to park without impeding traffic (such as it is) up and down the narrow lane. We squeeze into a small side-of-the-road space just past her house, and I go down the lane on crutches and knock on her door. And there she is! The wonderful woman who has taken care of my house for 20 years, who embraced me as a foreigner immediately and shared so many moments with me and my family over the years, always in good humor, always kind and helpful, always inviting me to spend time with her family members and friends, always leaving jars of confit and cans of pâté for me, always just being the best neighbor a neighbor could be.

It’s hot, really hot, but we sit outside because at this point I can’t really make it up over the stoop of her house, and we catch up. She’s got a spate of new grandchildren, everyone’s doing reasonably well, her garden got so fried in the heat this summer she gave up on it, but her peaches are coming in nicely. She’s given up the ducks and geese and just has chickens now, but some of them are young and producing only small eggs. The mayor is having an affair with his secretary. Madame G.’s husband has abandoned her, probably because of all the copains she has. There’s a new community center being built along the “main road” into town by the mairie. The Dutch lady has sold her place to a family of Canadians who are building an enormous house up in the hills. M. Teillet has expanded his house up on the ridge, and her grandson Benoît, who always said he never wanted to set “un pas” in St-Cirq now wants to buy a place there and is already living up in the hills in a small house. Raymond and Nadine are doing well. Other sons, whom we don’t know well, are fine, too. Life is good. She’s had carpal tunnel surgery, shoulder surgery, and phlebitis, but she’s 85 and she’s here! I get back into the rythym of talking with her, even with all the oops! And behs! and bombas!, and SO follows along well. It’s getting on nap time for Madame, so we take our leave and promise to stop by some evening soon. I am refreshed, with a glad heart because sometimes people can just be so good.

Then to La Rivière to check email, which really is my last (and dwindling) interest in keeping connected to my regular life (at this point I am completely ready to just emigrate and stay here forever). Bees and wasps have been bothering me since we got here. One day in Les Eyzies at the Café de la Mairie, a wasp was hovering around me mercilessly, and I kept fending it off. A man at an opposing table kept fending it off, too, so that I would shoo it in his direction and he would shoo it in mine. Eventually, this became amusing, and we exchanged words about how ennuyant this particular wasp was and which of us it would eventually pick as favorite. But today at La Rivière I have only just gotten my email open when I am attacked and stung by one. It’s been years since I’ve had a wasp sting, and MAN does it hurt! It’s bad enough to be crippled, but now I have a right upper arm that is red and swollen and really painful! The proprietors immediately note that Madame était piqué and bring me some vinegar, which helps, but that darn bite bothers me for the rest of the trip, even after I treat it with the crème d’arnica I find in one of the bathrooms.

Tonight Monsieur Baillon, M. Vialenc’s colleague, comes to see what treasures or junk he may want to buy. He shows up with a huge truck and a very timid, pensive 4-year-old son named Emory (hardly a French name, as far as I know) and gathers a fairly large group of things which he piles in the living room. We negotiate a price, lower than I want, but at this point I just want to get some things accomplished, and he and Emory haul it to the truck. It’s nothing special, mostly wicker chairs and baskets and some dishes and old prints. It’s a very perfunctory visit, but it seems the Baillon family is a truculent one of few words.

Then Franck comes by, just for a neighborly visit. I think he and Onamu are just glad to have some new people around – they just keep showing up, bearing gifts or not, to sit on the wall with us and chat. We tell him that we’ve seen Madame L., and he says they all think she’s a sweetheart, too. His 5-year-old son got all dressed up today to go to school and put his backpack on, only to find out that there’s no school on Wednesdays in the Périgord…and he was disconsolate. He’ll finish cleaning up the pool area tomorrow and gives us his card so we can keep in touch once back home.

In honor of Madame, we open another of her jars of confit tonight and devour it against a backdrop of stars and a gibbous moon.

Why is lorettajung responding to something vietritiles wrote? Are they the same person and were they in a previous lifetime a poster whose first 3 letters were zep?

Unless this is the case, I also have to say HUH?!

I have been joining you in the Perigord every couple of days. It is a pleasure to catch up again, and each day has been a gem, well written and evocative.

St Cirq, break your report into more psragaphs for an easier read.

Emory, Emery, Aymeric, Almaric, Emmerich - same German origin and same etymology as Henri.
Amerigo in Italian ...... and America

singing...

StCirq, your report is wonderful!

[vietritiles and lorettajung, welcome to Fodorville. If you click on a poster's name, you can see a history of his/her threads and learn a little more about that person.]

I am so enjoying this report and feel like we're on this trip with you.

I also just "discovered" that your SO also posts here; don't know how I missed that before!

I seem to sigh and smile with every new entry. Thanks, StCirq, for such an evocative read.

Ah, I am working on my latest entries, but so tired , after the debates, which I wish I had not watched/listened to. Will regroup tomorrow and post more, and thank you for all your support. You cannot imagine how much my heart was engaged with this place on this trip and how my SO fell in love with the place and how it became a grail to keep it, when that wasn't the original intention, and how that changed my plans. You'll see. We are formulating a new plan - life is changeable,and one needs to make new plans from to time.

That should be from time to time...

>life is changeable,and one needs to make new plans from to time.<<

Is this news to anybody over 16?

Well, better late than never to realize it.

pretty snarky for first-timer post, ya think . . .

rest, but give us more

@janis, I agree

that is so weird - only 1/2 of my post 'took'.

The rest said >>stCirq: I finally caught up w/ your non-trip-report-report and am LOVING every word of it<<

Snarky, maybe but if Jack Handy reads this far, he'll sue for plagiarism.

Can't quite see the agony of having a house to sell in France to -- OMG -- buy another or keep this one???? How will this St Cirq cope when a real problem comes along?

biztravfod, I'm going to auf you if you keep up the uncalled for remarks. Believe the spelling is Handey, fyi.

TDudette: He only joined last night and has already insulted StCirq and slapped half a dozen other posters. Quick work.

Just keep plunging forward, StCirq -- it makes it easier than to respond to our insignificant comments.

I'm pretty sure how this wonderful story is going to end, but there is still a bit of suspense left.

janisj, he or she.

Not to worry, kerouac. No newbie twit who hasn't a clue about my circumstances will stand in the way of my babbling.

Hoping to pen another installment later today.

may be a newbie - but apparently is an expert on everything

Awaiting more, StCirq. Your writing skills are outstanding: so evocative, I'm picturing everything.

We’re getting toward the end of our stay here, and though many things are looking a lot better than they did when we arrived, the list of things to try to accomplish in the last few days seems daunting, and not being able to walk without crutches is becoming increasingly frustrating. We make lists and head out a few times a day to accomplish this or that, but only about 50 percent of the time are successful. I have to resign myself to not having a perfect record.

This morning we go into Le Bugue to the Crédit Agricole to cash M. Vialenc’s check. As I’m standing in line I notice a sign by the teller’s window that says no one in the bank has any access to cash. What can that mean? When it comes my turn, I hand over the check and my passport to the teller and say I’d like to cash this, please. She wants to know if I have an account with the bank. No, I don’t. So she excuses herself, saying she has to go consult her boss, and goes off into another room, where she huddles and gesticulates with an older woman for a few minutes. When she comes back she hands me back the check and says “Sorry, Madame, but we can’t cash this unless you have an account.” Hmmm…well, M. Vialenc’s shop is just across the street, and the door’s open, so we’ll go ask him if he can sort this out. And of course he can. He takes back the check and gives me cash, then gives me a brochure listing all the antique and brocante stores in the area, in case I have more things to sell and want to talk to more buyers. We thank him for the referral to M. Baillon and wish him a good day.

One of the places listed in the antiques brochure is right on the road back to the house, so we pull over to take a look. I’ve been here before, quite a few times, actually, but there is a new owner, and what used to be a dank, dusty old barn crammed with broken odds and ends is now spiffed up and well arranged with a clean but peculiar assortment of antique furniture, Mexican sarapes, tin pitchers, North African rugs, porcelain and glassware, and rows of antlers. The proprietess, a lanky, horse-faced blonde with thin spectacles on a chain, strides out to meet us, and I explain that M. Vialenc has suggested we stop by to see if she might be interested in coming by the house to see what I’ve got for sale. Well! she says, did M. Vialenc buy anything from you? I say yes, a few things, and she wants to know what. A bench, some old confit pots, an umbrella stand, a chair….and she waves a thin dismissive hand in the air and says Eh bien! If he’s already been there, what could there possibly be left for me? I say M. Vialenc took only a few things – you know how small his shop is; he didn’t have room for much more than he took. You have a lot of space here. But she already has that “c’est impossible, Madame” look riding across her bony face, so I see nothing will come of this. Which is indeed the case, so back to St-Cirq, where Madame L. is outside on the lane, feeding her chickens. She leans into the car window to say hello and let us know that Jean-Pierre, the mayor, had gone by this morning on his way to my house, and was sorry to have missed us. The mayor? I don’t even know him. What did he want? Just to say hello, says Madame, and to see what you were up to. It must have been a slow day at the office!

Then she asks me if I know Monsieur Touron. Nope, never heard of him. Well (and Mme. has obviously been scheming), he’s the new owner of the Grotte du Sorcier, and he’s just finished buying up about a third of Sarlat, including the Manoir de Gisson (http://www.manoirdegisson.com/), which he has recently finished restoring. It’s just been opened to the public. M. Touron, says Madame, is the wealthiest man around. And perhaps he’d like to buy your house, she says with a sly grin. Well, there’s an idea! So we get M. Touron’s phone number from her and promise to stop by this evening for a long chat.

Settled in for the mid-day sieste in front of the wall, with a plate of sliced tomatoes and cucumbers, cornichons, jambon, cabécou, and a chilled glass of our “house wine,” Château Mazivert, we begin to scheme ourselves. What if M. Touron were to buy the place, renovate it, and turn it into a guest residence? It’d be perfect. Visitors to the grotte could walk up the lane, spend a night or two here, enjoy the pool, the view, the serenity… Why not? And oh, what if he were to turn the huge space under the veranda into an apartment? And the garage into a breakfast room? And…here’s a thought!...what if he installed us as the hosts? We’re good cooks, decent gardeners, and I could give tours! Quite a thought…

But now we need to go do laundry and take showers and check our email, so it’s back down the hill and over to La Rivière once again, where we’ve practically become part of the family. We get our laundry into the washer, get our laptops out, and I head to the showers while runningtab keeps an eye on our belongings. When I’m done, he goes, and by late afternoon we’re damp and clean and the laundry’s getting done, and we’re catching up on work (the wifi connection at the campground, btw, is astounding, ten times faster than anything we’ve got at home here in the USA). We order two Leffes, and I get to calling Monsieur Touron. He answers right away and I introduce myself and explain that Mme. L has suggested I call him. He’s out of town right now, and won’t be back in St-Cirq until Friday, but oui, en principe, he’s interested and will come by. Unfortunately, we’ll be gone by Friday, but I tell him I’ll leave all my coordinates and a key to the house with the guides at the grotte, and he says that will work nicely, thank you. So, this could be interesting!

Monsieur Baillon then calls me and asks if he can come by the house again tonight to see if there are other things he might want, and we arrange a 7 pm meeting. We are due to stop by Mme. L’s house, too, so we drive back around 6 and park outside her house. I can get inside the house by now, so we sit in her kitchen at her round table with a strawberry-patterned tablecloth, and out comes a bottle of wine (a 1986 St-Emilion!) and a tin of pâté and baguette slices. She fills us in on all the grandchildren, and shows us lots of pictures that she’s very proud of. We have to refrain from scarfing down the pâté; it is simply delectable! The wine’s not bad, either. We tell her we’ve talked to M. Touron, and tell her of our plot to get us back to St-Cirq with his help, and she thinks that’s a fine idea, because she doesn’t ever want to be abandonée again by me. She asks how we met, and we tell her the story, and she says “Oh yes, you hear stories like that on the radio all the time!” Then she fetches a huge bowl of peaches, telling us they’re not all that good this year because of the heat, but we should take a few with us. And the rest of the pâté. Hugs and à bientôts, and we’re off with our goodie bag back up the hill.

Monsieur Baillon comes along in his huge truck, this time with Emory and an older boy, and they scamper around the house picking up this and that and making a pile in the living room. Emory knocks into a framed print that his father has placed near the front door and it topples over and the glass shatters. Emory hurls himself out the front door onto the grass and begins wailing; this is startling, not only because it’s so overdramatic but because it’s so incredibly quiet up here that major wailing is likely to arouse the curiosity of people all over the valley. M. Baillon comes out and yells at Emory to stop crying; the older brother does, too. Emory is inconsolable and slinks off to the back of the big truck, where he throws himself on an old rug and lies there like a crumpled rag, weeping. I make a deal with M. Baillon, he hands me cash, and he and the older boy load up the truck, moving Emory’s limp body around as they need to to fit things in.

And it’s nearing the end of another day. More wall, more wine, and a good foot soak. Only a couple of days left in paradise.

"...I notice a sign by the teller’s window that says no one in the bank has any access to cash."

LOL!

"...I notice a sign by the teller’s window that says no one in the bank has any access to cash."


This has nothing to do with the refusal to cash the check. Our local Crédit Agricole dispenses money exclusively via the ATM. If a customer wants to withdraw cash, the bank processes a temporary card with the proper cash amount and the clerk goes with the customer to withdraw the money from the ATM. Had the bank wished to cash the check, it probably would have gone through the same procedure.

Back in the 1970s when the banks had cash on hand, customers had to go through a double security door to get in the bank.

Thanks for the latest installment. Hope you get a chance to post more soon.

"...I notice a sign by the teller’s window that says no one in the bank has any access to cash.What can that mean

They are informing wannabe bank robbers that there is no point in attempting to get money".

Can't wait to read more!

I am so loving your wonderful "non report". Thank you so much for allowing us to follow your journey back to a beloved home.
I hope that you can keep your beautiful home and build new memories with your SO.

I didn't know that, Michael. Thanks for that info. I did assume that the notice was a deterrent to bank robbers, but I couldn't figure out how bank customers could, e.g., go in and cash a check. I wasn't very surprised that I couldn't cash the check, as I know most French banks won't do that unless you have an account, but I had no idea about the temporary card.

The procedure probably works only in 10€ increments or higher, which may be one reason why the bank cannot cash a non-customer's check--it could not give cash for a check of 99.95€.

Well,it was a check for a round amount, dividable by 10.

Michael : it has nothing to do with the amount. The bank has to check first that the person who signed the check has sufficient funds in his account. Unless it has an agreement with the other bank (and such agreements are rare) it has no access to the account

Uh oh, I'm seeing my hopes of a house exchange, which had been growing, starting to shrink again.

Meanwhile, isn't the mayor the one who's having an affair with his secretary? (just to show I've been paying attention)

Keep on babbling StCirq

Having just returned from The Dordogne this post has been such a good read. You really should write a book. The books that are true stories of owning houses in France are my favorites. The most recent of my reads was "Bon Courage" by Ken Adams. Your writing style would definitely keep a reader's interest---go for it!!

BTW, if I was younger, had more money, could speak French better, and did not have grandkids to see every week, I'd buy your house in a heartbeat. Alas, it's not to be.

Grandkids can easily be lured to a perfect house in France.

Yes, Nikki, that's the same mayor - we have only one. You've definitely been paying attention (and it's been a long report and about to get longer).

T

Tomorrow, I promise, though the ride along with us to La Rochelle is not overall a pretty picture (my fault entirely). The scenery was lovely - I was not.

The scenery was lovely, totally absorbing, if you like grapes. Lots of grapes. Which I do, though St. Cirq and I disagree on the merits of raisins. If there was ever a time and place to dislike grapes, this was it. Of course it's not the grapes' fault. Long ago, someone prescient, or thirsty (and patient) said "Let's do grapes." Then hundreds and thousands of people said "We'll do grapes, too." Next thing you know - countless hectares of grapes. And more and more grapes. And then more. Driving through Cognac is like driving through the Nevada desert, if uniformity landscape is the metric. Nevada: so much sand. Cognac: so many grapes. BTW please disregard St.Cirq's protestation. Despite having presented this leg of the journey as a three-hour jaunt, every one of the seven it took was lovely, and so was my beloved. Unless I missed something.

I'd like to add my thanks to everyone who's commended St. Cirq's unflagging, stubborn, "what crutches?" soldiering-on dauntlessness. She deserves every commendation and more. Three weeks, every step a silent "yowch," and not a word of (audible) complaint. I'd have asked for a medivac out.

Ah, Credit Agricole. We usually end of waved away to the naughty bench because we want to do something as audacious as withdrawing 1,000€ from our own checking account. After much huffing and puffing and waiting on everyone else in the queue, the teller finally calls us back up to tell us we can have the money THIS TIME but never gain without 24-hours notice.

Resisting the urge to slink out like chastised children, I slowly re-count the money then thank them for allowing us access to our own funds.

Alas, even that miserable level of service is gone as the CA branches in our area are re-vamped to virtually nothing more than a bank of ATMs, with a lone receptionist who controls access to people in frosted glass offices but it better be for serious bank business. Business such as cancelling your three-months free cooking, gardening and health magazines which are now appearing as a 15€/month fee which requires 3 copies of a 3-page document to cancel, with a two-month lag time while the charges continue.

TTT

Ok, time to write, StCirq

I'm on it, jubi. Coming soon...

The day is here. It’s time to bid St-Cirq goodbye and head to La Rochelle. But even with a few days’ worth of preparations and an early start, it’s clear we’re going to miss my targeted departure time of late morning. We’ve dropped off the key to the house and my coordinates for M. Touron at the grotte; cleaned out the fridge and packed a picnic with what’s in it; gathered up the used linens in a plastic bag and thrown them into the big chest in the living room; taken Franck’s electricity cable, plus a smattering of désherbants and other garden products, down the hill and left them in front of his door; bought and looked at a new IGN 2012 nationale routière map; turned off the gas and the water and closed the fireplace flue; closed all the windows; bagged up a bunch of linens that Mme. L has said she’d like to have, because “Americans have the best linens in the world”; and tossed all the refuse in the trunk of the car. It’s past 1 pm when we’re done with the final chores, and we still have Mme. L to say farewell to.

She makes us a truly delicious café with some new coffee maker her son Raymond has given her and brings out a plate of cookies. We give her the linens she’s asked for, and tell her there are plenty more if she needs or wants them. We tell her that if there’s anything else in the house that suits her fancy, she’s welcome to it, and she says “Je peux m’en servir?” We say yes, and she says it’s hard to think of a nicer concept than “help yourself.” And then it’s time for drawn-out hugs and kisses and good wishes and promises to be in touch and find a way back soon,…please, please, find a way back soon. And so we drive off down the lane, with Madame in her blue French housecoat waving, already with a forlorn smile.

It’s another stunning day (we’ve had nothing but stunning days, except for one brief early-morning shower that dissipated by noon). We stop at one of the roadside dumps to toss the refuse, and then head to Périgueux. I’ve chosen to take the as-the-crow-flies route, partly because the alternatives are few and involve big highways that don’t appeal, and partly because I want to see some new territory. It’s past 2 pm, though, and I’m a bit worried the trip will take longer than anticipated. Little did I know…

Traffic is slow getting out of Périgueux. In fact, getting to the next town on the route, Ribérac, is a bumper-to-bumper crawl, through a less than scenic, industrial landscape, and takes us more than an hour. We need gas, so we pull into a LeClerc on the main road, but it’s unmanned and we don’t have a chip-and-pin card, so we press on. I’ve been to Ribérac before and have it earmarked as a good place for our picnic and, sure enough, once out of the traffic and into the town, it’s delightful, with a lovely park with fountains in front of the town hall. We find a bench and pull out our bits of ham and pâté and cheese and tapenade and olives and cornichons and two cold bottles of Stella and enjoy a tasty, quiet repast in the sun. When we pack up and get back on the road we encounter road construction that spins us around in circles for a bit before we find the route sign to Montmoreau-St-Cybard, but eventually we do. But even though it stays light here until 9 pm or later, I’m already fretting that it’s going to be a much longer day on the road than I anticipated.

We get to Montmoreau and then Blanzac-Porcheresse, where we find a manned gas station. There’s a sign on one of the pumps that says it’s only for “gazole non-routiers.” Maybe it’s because of the era during which I learned French, but to me “non-routiers” translates as “non-truck drivers,” “routiers” being the term I learned for the guys who drive big trucks. So I assume this is the pump we’re supposed to be using, as we’re clearly not truck drivers. But then I second-guess myself and get out of the car and ask the attendant, who says “Oh no, Madame, that is the pump for ‘engins mobiles et tout ça.’” Well, glad I asked, as I’m not here to pump up a lawn mower or small tractor! So we move the car back to the right pump, fill up, and press on to Châteauneuf-sur-Charente, and here’s where the landscape gets interesting.

At first there are just a few vineyards, interspersed with corn fields (and with regard to the corn fields, for a nation that doesn’t actually eat corn, it’s just astonishing how much of it they grow…I know it must be animal feed in large measure, but still, it speaks to how many animals they have to feed!). Then the terrain becomes hillier and the vineyards begin to dominate. Until there is nothing as far as the eye can see, for mile after mile after mile, but vineyards…and signs naming them, Pineau de Christian Baudry, Guy Bonnaud – Cognac, Distillerie des Moisans. We are lost, lost in grapes.

Moreover, we are quite simply lost several times over. Upon entering and exiting even the smallest of towns one encounters myriad traffic circles, and as I’ve never been to any of these places before, I need to quickly look at the signs to the next town we’re headed to each time we hit a circle. Runningtab keeps asking me “Which way?” but I don’t always know soon enough, so we are constantly doing the “European Vacation” Chevy Chase in the Etoile in Paris scene, going round and round the circles until I can spot the name of the next town and steer SO to the right exit. We’ve been on the road for 4 hours now, and as I’d mentioned it was about a 3-hour drive to La Rochelle, I’ve already lost some credibility; not being able to navigate easily isn’t making me look good. It isn’t helping that I’m a frightfully nervous and just plain horrible car passenger to begin with, and this is the first time I’ve ever been in France and not been able to drive, and that’s making my Type-A self just nuts. And while runningtab can easily get lost a block away from our house in DC, I instinctively know when I’m headed in the wrong direction, so our navigational skills are at odds to begin with. There are a few explosive moments and some sharp words.

So we stop in some remote town between Châteauneuf-sur-Charente and Cognac to cool our heels and get out of the car for a bit. There’s a small square with a café. The lady who runs it is also the mayor of the town and the postal clerk. You can come here for a beer, file your local taxes, and mail a package. She has a sign up above the bar that says “No credit if you want to remain friends with us.” We share a Leffe, recuperate a bit, use the town washroom facilities, take a look at the church, and move on toward Cognac. Only we…thanks to a split-second decision of mine…end up suddenly, after being on tiny rural D roads most of the day, on the fast-moving N road headed toward Angoulème. I realize this almost immediately, not because of signs, but because the sun is behind us and we’re supposed to be heading west. But we wait until we actually see a sign confirming it, then turn around and head back to Cognac. It’s cost us about a half-hour. Through the center of Cognac, which I’ve been to before, though it’s expanded since I was last here. A nice enough town, with the expected Cognac and Armagnac stores all around and plenty of attractive restos and cafés, but no huge appeal, at least along the main road through town. Despite about a hundred traffic circles on the edge of town, we do manage to find the road to St-Jean d’Andély.

We are heading almost due west at this point, and the sun, at 7 pm or so, is right in front of us and blinding, not helping our attitudes. And the wine wine wine wine wine is actually becoming monotonous. I don’t want to look at grapes anymore; I want to drink a bottle of it. In St-Jean d’Andély we simply cannot find a sign anywhere pointing to Surgères, our next destination, and after a desultory tour of the local school, housing complexes, and hospital, we stop at a Peugot dealership and ask for directions. “Suivez-moi!” says one of the men gathered outside, and he hops into his car and takes off, with us behind. A few rights and a left, and we’re on our way. More sun in the face, more vineyards, more calculations about what time we might arrive, and after 30 kms we’re passing through Surgères and there are…signs to La Rochelle!

20 minutes to admire the carvings on the front of the Surgères church might have put you in a better mood.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/mksfca/4172565109/in/set-72157622845839973

Nice, Michael!

But we were not in the mood for any more stops. I was surprised, btw, that the train we took back to Paris from La Rochelle made a stop in Surgères. I'd never heard of it!

I'd never heard of it!

Think butter.

Oh, gosh - duh!

I laughed at your description of circling the round-abouts! Driving in Provence with my son a few years ago, he would exclaim (after my inability to make a directional decision), "look kids, it's Big Ben!" ala Chevy Chase. It still makes me laugh to think about it.

Your story is fabulous!

St. Cirq, your story is magnificent! I laughed, I cried, I empathied. I have been in French banks with no cash, and after 40 years of French travel, I am not as surprised as once I might have been.

About the endless rond-points, I have of late begun using a GPS in CERTAIN circumstances, and find it useful frequently but too often wrong (directing me to turn the wrong way down a one-day street) or more often just silly (detour off a main highway in order to pass through a medieval village because that way is 100 meters shorter). Still don't use GPS in Dordogne, as I do not need it, but it was a godsend in Austria and Germany this fall.

And finally I bless the day 12 or more years ago when I opened an account here in California at a Bank of the West, and thus was given entrée to open one at BOW's sister bank, BNP. The chip-and-pin card I got has bailed me out of a lot of almost-out-of-gas jams.

Fervently hoping you do not have to sell the house, and that if you do sell, it is because you want to. It is truly a magical place.

Even though I have lived in France nearly forever now, I could have been confused by a sign saying "gazole non routier" as well, although if it had said "engins non routiers" I would have understood -- "fuel not for road vehicles".

I read that even though Great Britain invented the roundabout, France is the world champion with 4 times more of them than anybody else. I also read that in some US states that had installed a few, most of them were removed because the drivers absolutely do not understand them. They need a 4-way stop!

Some roundabouts in the States are unclear on the concept. The city of Berkeley installed them on residential streets to slow down traffic, but kept the stop signs.

Sigh..

Only 35 kms or so to go now, but we’ve been on the road about 7 hours, and it’s getting dark and runningtab is tired, and I’m more than a little crispy, especially knowing that it’s going to be up to me to navigate through La Rochelle to the studio apartment we’ve booked. I don’t know La Rochelle all that well, though I have a mental picture of the layout of it and where our apartment is in relation to things that I DO know, like the Vieux Port. All I’ve done in the way of prep work is to look at a map of the city and note that the apartment seems to be right next door to the Centre Hospitalier, which I assume will be easy to locate. I haven’t been able to find a map that has the name of the street the apartment is on, though I was able to find the main street that it’s off… And I certainly wasn’t counting on arriving in the dark. But as is always the case, we have NO choice but to make this work – to find our way. So we approach the city in darkness. The main road we’re on heading to the city center is big and busy and incredibly dark; there are no streetlamps at all, just the twinkling of headlights and brake lights at eye level.

We find an exit to the centre ville, and are dumped into more dark streets and traffic. I am looking for signs to something recognizable. Yes, if we’d had GPS this might not have been an issue, but I am a natural-born navigator and don’t like those gismos. And, apart from the fact that in this case we’re tired and stressed and runningtab has clutch foot, finding one’s way to a new place is an adventure, for me.

After twisting and turning around countless times I lose all sense of direction. But then I see a sign for the Centre Hospitalier…joy! The apartment building is right next to it; this should be easy! But when we reach it, it’s just an enormous building on a busy avenue – no evidence of side streets, no evidence of an apartment building, just an emergency entrance and a parking lot. So we continue, and before long we’re in a huge square that’s all lit up, full of people and cafés and a bunch of bicyclists whom we stop and ask for directions (to the street that I do know the name of), and they point us back toward where we came.

When we get back near the Centre Hospitalier, we spy a tacky Asian restaurant, the only thing in sight that’s open, so we go in there to inquire. Runningtab notes that this is probably not going to turn out well, and of course no one’s ever heard of the street we’re looking for, but they THINK we just go through that traffic light there and turn left. Nope. So we continue to the train station, as I’m beginning to get my bearings and actually know where that is, thinking there must be someone who can find this little street for us, and sure enough, runningtab comes out with directions that take us the few blocks back to near the Asian restaurant…right before the bridge make a right, then a left…and we’re there, on what really isn’t a street, just an alleyway. And yes, it's sort of "next to" the Centre Hospitalier; the front of the apartment building is across the street from the hospital's trash area, way in back of the building itself.

Now, as I’ve mentioned, we were trying to do this trip on a bit of a shoestring, so no nice hotels for us this time. I did some research and came up with the idea of an inexpensive (79 euros a night) apartment not far from the center of La Rochelle. I liked the idea of an apartment where we could cook for ourselves, among other things, and not have to go out to eat all the time (and goodness knows, we still had a cooler of goodies from the Dordogne when we arrived there). So I booked three nights in a studio apartment at AppartCity La Rochelle (http://en.appartcity.com/en/s06_residences/s06p03_accueil.php?residence=13.

At first glance, driving down the alleyway that leads to it, the building’s a bit frumpy looking, but heck, there’s a bed and warm shower awaiting us! Runningtab goes in to make sure we’re not about to make some huge error here, and comes back out saying the lobby looks fine, but the door is locked and after 9 you need a code to get in. This really is one of those days that just keep chipping away at you with challenges. Fortunately, I’ve got the help number to call, so I dial it, and a very nice man answers immediately, confirms my reservation, gives me the code to get in the front door, tells me once in to look to the left where I’ll see a wooden box, and gives me the code to get into the box. We will find an envelope with our names on it inside, and the key to the apartment will be inside. And…it works!

Runningtab gets the luggage from the car while I look for an elevator. There is none, and our studio is on the second floor, up a steep flight. Another challenge. I haven’t walked up steps, other than a curb or two, in 7 weeks, and I’m not so sure I want to butt-bump my way up a staircase in an apartment building. So I hand my crutches to runningtab, and here goes…it takes some time, but eventually I’m on the landing and we’re in front of our home for the next three days.

The place is fine, if a bit quirky (I wouldn’t recommend it on Fodors, but it worked for us and we spent little time there anyway). The bed is a sofa bed that’s already been opened up and made up, but it’s been made up vertically although the two adjoining mattresses are horizontal. Reminds me of short-sheeting at summer camp. Is it a joke? Of course we have to dissemble the bedding and put it back on properly if we’re going to sleep there. It has a refrigerator, a small dining table, glasses, dishes, coffee cups, tea kettle, coffee maker, a two-burner stove, a microwave, a desk, a small armoire, a TV, mirrors, extra blankets and pillows, and a nice bathroom. All fine, if a tad worn. We can open the windows, too, which is nice in the evenings.

It’s late and we’re tired and hungry, so all we manage to do tonight, after re-doing the bed, is unpack, take showers, and have another picnic meal. Tomorrow we’ll burn down the town.

Still following along. Tonight I feel your pain, and hope you slept well! More, please.

Such a day. Can't wait for more.

So good to hear from you, George! Thank you, and thanks for the many-yeaars-ago help with my antique circular chandelier in the living room. You can't imagine how the place has evolved since then, but thank you for confirming that it is a magical place. It is.I can't imagine selling it I(and it's not going to happen...read on).

Thanks, kerouac, for that reality check. I thought I was having a French moment where I didn't get something.

More tomorrow, too tired tonight.

Correction: at first, we didn’t know that the apparent double bed was two singles. The pillows were propped against the wall, as you’d expect, so we gratefully inserted ourselves under the top sheet and promptly passed out cold. I dreamed of a world controlled by angry grapes, tired of being stepped on and bent on revenge.

Waking up on the floor some hours later, in darkness and amid much confused flailing of sheets, we realized that ours was no double bed. It was two singles, side by side, but parallel to the wall, not perpendicular, as the pillows ans sheets positioning had suggested. So as we slept, we gradually drove the beds apart, until we sank between them to the floor. This clever housekeeper’s blague became clear after we hauled ourselves out of the tangle. There was a moment when one could have been angry, but given the trajectory of the entire day, this just struck us as hilarious. We laughed ourselves silly, had a glass of wine, remade the bed(s) and slept the rest of the night.

A lot of the double beds in some of the chain hotels (Ibis, Campanile) are actually twin beds pushed together, which can always create problems with turbulent sleepers, especially if they invade their companion's territory.

"A lot of the double beds in some of the chain hotels (Ibis, Campanile) are actually twin beds pushed together, . . . "

Sure- but what runningtab describes is the two beds pushed together, but instead of the pillows/'head' of the bed being at the end of the twins (as I've seen many many times) - the pillows were placed along the side of the bed. (runningtab -is that what you meant?)

In other words - your heads were along the side of the bed and you were laying across both beds. With your bums in the crack so to speak

Very weird . . .

Perhaps the person who made the bed was a dwarf.

Janis, that’s exactly it. We woke up with grounded bums, wedged between beds, legs still on one, head/shoulders on the other behind us. We were U-shaped. Add that we were covered by sheets, in the dark – a rather challenging situation to deconstruct. “OK, let’s backtrack. We went to bed, check. We fell asleep, check. But now we’re on the floor … huh? Covered by sheets, with our legs in the air? WTF??? Something doesn’t immediately add up here …”

Happily, as noted, we laser-focused our acute, analytical minds on the situation and figured it all out. We won’t be fooled again (but might want to keep the thought of a pretty good prank in mind….)

Great report that's not a report! I really should get out of the lounge more often.

Continue to be loving this not a TR!
runningtab & StCirq - looking forward to seeing you & hearing more details at the GTG Saturday.

As per Kerouac upthread...

"I also read that in some US states that had installed a few, most of them were removed because the drivers absolutely do not understand them. They need a 4-way stop!"

Or not. Roundabouts hugely successful here in Atlanta in the congested area near Emory University. Even the non-local drivers (and there are many, as there's a large hospital and cancer center on campus that draws patients from areas that don't even have traffic lights) seem to have no problem dealing with them, and traffic moves quickly and smoothly.

That is good news indeed.

DC, designed by L'Enfant, has many traffic circles which work fine. I hear that out of towners often have trouble with them, but locals tend to take them in stride.

While we're waiting for StCirq to reload, I found this interesting information about roundabouts: http://www.frcog.org/pubs/transportation/Roundabouts/Roundabout_FAQ_FINAL.pdf

Will try to do more tonight, but between the Nats game and the debate, it may be late.

Great reports, StCirq. Looking forward to more, esepcially as we plan our next trip - Paris and area in January.

Hope to run into you at Dupont Circle one of these days, where we are moving inch by inch as we semi-retire - literally seconds from Metro.

BTW, thrilling Nats game tonight as they won in 9th and proceed to Game Five!!!!!

Welcome to the neighborhood, Sam! I think you'll love it here, and there are great neighborhood resources for newcomers.

Wasn't that just a stunning game?? The pitching...the suspense...the last-minute turnaround by Werth!!! Who could ask for more? I just hope they sustain it tomorrow!

Your prank bed sounds far worse than an apple-pie bed which would be typical experience at summer camp.
I found your descriptions hilarious but I'm glad to not have experienced it!

Your prank bed

It was not a prank bed, just a misunderstanding of the bed direction, which I don't understand. Was the width really equal to the length fo the bed?

FINALLY getting a chance to catch up a bit- work has been nuts.

I love your report, St.Cirq, (and, of course, runningtab's occasional commentaries.). I like your writing style and sense of humor. And it's nice to read a (non) trip report focused on a mission.

P.S. I was driving home last night when Werth hit his home run. As I was waving my arms around cheering, I saw other drivers looking at me like I was crazy. How could they not be listing to The Fan?

Yes, Michael. The bed was, to my eye anyway, pretty much a perfect square. There was nothing to suggest upon looking at it that it wasn't made up, or intended to be slept in, the way any normal bed would be, with the pillows propped up against the "headboard" (back of the couch, with the couch arms extending out a bit)...

Anyway, coming back soon with next installment...

Apple-pie bed? Cool!!! What is one? Got video?

BTW re roundabouts – I grew up just outside of DC, and I’m now a full-time resident, but I learned only a couple of years go, overhearing a wise man on the metro, why those roundabouts were put there. I thought maybe L’Enfant tossed them into the plan for aesthetic effect, an embellishment, like the swirls and curls the elite dressed up their signatures with back in the day.

Far from it. Maybe everyone already knows this, but the roundabouts were for defensive purposes, giving you a line of fire against threats coming from any or all of several streets. Impossible to pull that off were there only a grid. Quite clever, wot?

Go Nats!

runningtab, this assumes that everyone stays off the grass? I've heard that also about L'enfant.

Do you know why there's no J Street? Sorry to shanghai.

We were just talking about this with a neighbor a few weeks ago. Well, legend has it that it's because Pierre l'Enfant, who laid out the city, had a grudge against Chief Justice John Jay...but most historians think it's because the letters I and J were nearly indistinguishable in the 18th Century, and Pierre thought it would result in confusion.

OK, back to writing...

We wake up horizontal in our strange bed in La Rochelle, feeling remarkably refreshed given the middle-of-the-night thrashings and bewilderment. The little coffee plugs that fit in the coffee maker produce a good-enough cuppa, and SO, upon venturing downstairs, finds a box full of day-old (or so it seems - you spend enough time here and you get to know a day-old anything) - croissants and pains au chocolat. It's all we need before venturing out to explore La Rochelle. It's a glorious day, once again, and we have...a map!...which runningtab got at the train station last night.

Bumping slowly down the stairs to the ground floor of the AppartCity building, I get a glimpse of the kinds of people who stay in these places, as they are heading out for the day like us: students, Eastern Europeans, Israelis, middle-aged families traveling together and consulting maps; young professionals with small rollaboards and computer bags and cell phones. Seems about right - it's close to the city center, reasonably priced, secured at night, and, if you can figure out how the bed's made, a good deal.

The map tells me we need to go down the main road to the train station, which we know already, turn right on the Avenue Charles de Gaulle, and we'll soon be at the Vieux Port, which seems the right place to begin our exploration as it's the one reference point we have in common - the only place, really, in the area that SO remembers from an otherwise ill-fated trip 18 or more years ago. We want to start from common ground, so the Vieux Port it is.

La Rochelle, and I'm guessing other similar-size cities in France, has municipal parking lots strategically placed around town (they didn't have these the last time I was here). Even better, as you approach them, they have illuminated signs that tell you whether the lot is open and how many spots are available in it. How convenient! We pull into the enormous portside lot called St-Jean d’Acre and find a handicap spot close to the quai (we did this all over France, btw, without any sort of sticker or anything, and encountered no problems – perhaps dumb luck, though).

I may not have complained much on the spot, but I will here, if you don’t mind – have I mentioned that cobblestones on crutches are a b*tch??? Particularly old, uneven ones. Particularly ones that go for blocks and blocks at a time with no flat terrain to escape to. Particularly when 10,000 people seem to have chosen to walk, and bicycle, the same hellish cobblestoned landscape you’ve chosen, at the same time…many of them racing after runaway children and careening around with strollers or bustling along hurriedly ten abreast with friends and colleagues, or just meandering obliviously around. We barely get through the massive old gates marking the entry to the old port area when I have to stop and determine what my limitations here are likely to be. Significant, I think.

In addition to the sea of cobblestones and unyielding crowds, some dopey urban designer has roped off the inner part of the endlessly long quai with enormous iron grommets, and looped nautical ropes through them that hang about 5 inches off the ground. How many malicious little twists like this does it take before a handicapped person gets really PO’d at the world? More than I will experience, I’m sure, but seriously, once I get over that damn rope fence, I’m not going anywhere right now but the absolutely closest café – The Café Leffe (http://www.qype.co.uk/place/239275-Cafe-Leffe-La-Rochelle/photos). And it’s only when I’ve huffed and puffed my way over to a seat and parked myself and my crutches that I see what I couldn’t see while staring at cobblestones – the magnificent harbor of La Rochelle. Yachts, cruise ships, sailboats as far as the eye can see, an effulgent sun reflecting brilliantly off the water, a flawless sky, the two ancient towers tall and imposing at either end of the port. And humanity everywhere, loading onto tour boats, milling around, filling the myriad cafés and restaurants that seem to stretch to the horizon, bustling around the quaiside candy and trinket and ticket booths. Yes, we’ll settle in here and begin to enjoy our vacation.

We order two Leffes from the charming waiter and contemplate the menu. We’re going to splurge and have a restaurant meal. And of course it’s going to be seafood. Runningtab wants mussels à la provençal and frites, and I’m going to have a bowl of fish soup with all the trimmings (croutons, shredded gruyère, aïoli, and rouille). When these arrive, we’re glad we didn’t order an appetizer, as both are gigantic! And ever so good! And, on a whim, runningtab checks to see if there’s wifi here, and there is, so we can get caught up on a few things. We while away more than an hour, enjoying our meal and the sun and the lapping of the water and the babble of passersby.

Next challenge is using the restroom. You know the ones in French cafés…at the back of the building, down a teensy, dark spiral staircase...I can get up the steps into the interior of the café, and there I lean my crutches against a wall and pick my way, holding onto tables and chair backs, to the stairway at the back. Then use the handrails to flop down the staircase – oncoming traffic be damned! The door marked Dames is locked, so I wait. And wait and wait and wait some more…really, about 10 minutes. I knock on the door, and a deep voice says “Attendez! J’arrive!.” OK…I wait some more. Again “J’arrive!” and more waiting. Finally, I simply can’t wait anymore, so I go into the men’s stall. When I come out and go to the sink, there’s a middle-aged man standing there in rags with a backpack and a couple of paper bags…homeless, I’m guessing…and he wags a finger at me and points to the men’s stall and says “Ca, c’est pour les hommes, Madame!” Excuuuuuuse me? WTF? One of those truly special travel moments…

Fortified with good food and great scenery, we go back to the parking lot, where we have one of those moments where I forget that I have a body of knowledge about France that not everyone else does, and I’m not really paying attention until runningtab has maneuvered the car in front of a barrier that leads up to a huge loading dock…and is about to stick the parking card we got upon entering the lot into it. Oooops! We really don’t want to ride a freighter to Malaysia…let’s turn around and head to that big SORTIE sign over there instead, shall we? Yes, and we’re off to explore some more of the city…

Very entertaining and evocative, StCirq. What I know of La Rochelle is gleaned from watching the Red Bull Cliff Diving contests on TV; it is beautiful.

Bummer about your foot, though. Sound feet on cobblestones can be challenging as it is. Looking forward to more.

<<watching the Red Bull Cliff Diving contests on TV>>

Thanks for the reminder - I'd forgotten all about that. Never been there for it, but it sure looks scary!

http://www.redbull.com/cs/Satellite/en_INT/Video/Red-Bull-Cliff-Diving-in-La-Rochelle-12-divers,-1-winner-Video-021243035674673

Sorry, my arthritic fingers and this delicate
notebook are difficult for me so must try slowly.
We stayed in town at a B&B. As I mentioned once before, I love that bridge that takes you to the Ile de Re.

Lovely writing, as usual, StCirq. Deep sympathy over the cobbles - bad enough with working feet.

You are indeed lucky about not having problems for not having a handicapped sign for the car (American ones are accepted, I will add for the benefit of anyone wondering.) -- the fine is 125€ for parking in a handicapped space without authorization.

I figured that, kerouac. It just never, ever occurred to me to bring a sticker with me. I've never been "handicapped" before - not on my radar to prepare for it.

I promise to resume this tomorrow. There's not much more - a couple of days in La Rochelle, 3 in Paris, then home and the aftermath. But still some good stuff.

It's all good stuff. Love this!

Plus, svp!

For running tab,

Wow, there is a You tube video for making Apple pie bed!
Enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zysVI9eI-1E

Thanks for this beautifully written non-report.
Thanks to you, I now know what "effulgent" means!

Coming, TDude, but not until tomorrow - spent the whole day tearing my hair out over French house-related issues! Can I say merde?

You could say that, but with your effulgent vocabulary, can surely do better.

Sassy_Cat, thanks for the video. I knew about short-sheeting, but never heard it called apple pie bed. Where'd that come from?

Great report.

and we are all waiting for more.

It's coming, cigale. I DO promise not to cut short this "trip report" the way I have some others. The next installment is already in my mind - sorry, debates and conversations with French lawyers have intervened - but I always have my writing in mind. I wish my mind were doing something more productive than planning out my next trip report installment, actually, though. If only someone would pay me for this drivel I wouldn't have to worry about that...

Glad I could turn you onto effulgent, nyse...a lovely word, onomatopoeiatic in some respect, and apt in the context.

So apple-pie bed is just short-sheeting. I confess I don't get the reference. Maybe runningtab does.

Back tomorrow, promise. I am itching to write, and if you're a writer you know what that feels like - you absolutely have to get to the typewriter with a mug of coffee and bang out stuff. It may be goo, but it's what you got to give.

Bed now. See you demain.

Am anxiosly hopinh that this will not be one of your usual, full of teases, reports that is never finished.

By the way, I am still waiting, after all these years, for your daughter to return the charger and manual and spare battery, for the phone I rushed, overnight, and paid dearly, to get it to her at the last minute for you (and her). I had the (apparently mistaken impression that you would take care of same, or see that it was done, but it was not). Because of that, I was unable to provide that phone to my niece off to study in Scotland, and have been quite distressed ever since. I did't mind the lack of any thank you whatsover versus all the components loaned just not retured, as promised.

After all these years would the phone that connects to the charger/manual/battery even be in use?

"apple pie" bed is what happy kids in boarding UK "public schools" do for "new bugs" to shorten the bed and so get the new boy in trouble with Matron for putting his foot through a sheet. 'nuff said

@djkbooks, I understand why you are annoyed but a personal grievience should not be aired on a forum on travel.
An email would have be the right thing to do.



















.

ttt

Funny how people read trip reports just to mention that you never finish them, even though they keep reading apparently. And hold insanely long and useless grudges...like maybe 12 years or so? Send me your address, djkbooks and I'll send you a dual-sim, quadband unlocked phone you can use anywhere in the world...But...never mind...I don't imagine you got on this thread to read what I write...or did you, actually? Why else would you? Other than to be, as someone else mentioned to me, a real crank? You look bad here...why did you bother? Seriously, you need a cell phone? I'll send you one.

* * * * * * * * *

Coming out of the port parking lot we had no choice but to turn left onto the Allée du Mail. OK, we'll do that. And it spits us onto this eliptical park, the Parc Bobigny, lined on one side by more park by the seaside, and on the other by a gracious neighborhood filled with a few small apartment buildings, a manor house or two, some medium-size houses, and some truly tiny ones. It's incredibly eclectic, and SO says "we gotta go into those streets and investigate," and I agree. But for now we are doing the elliptical piece, residences and single houses of all sizes, and a few commercial places - a tabac, a place that sells bathing suits and maps and swimming goggles and maps and lottery tickets. We glide by this glimpse of neighborhood commercialism and I am wondering...where is the bakery? Where the butcher? Where the pattisserie? Where the alimentaire? If you lived here, where'd you shop? Have to go into downtown? Why?

The architecture is all a pleasant gray. Gray walls, gray roofs, none of those zing-in-your face red roofs of the southwest of France, just hey-we-got-a-gray-roof moment. It doesn't matter whether it's a gorgeous château hidden in an alcove somewhere in a posh neighborhood or the smallest little house on a street hidden behind the main port. Everything...gray. I'm developing an aversion to this, as in the Périgord we have colorful dwellings, even if you only consider red roofs and green doors colorful. Gray seems so drab, so "well, it was the color of the cement, so we didn't do much with it..." But why? People all over France make colorful dwellings. What's wrong with La Rochelle? Actually, it's not just La Rochelle, but the whole area - people in France build with what they've got with their local resources. Some are prettier than others. It's just not that pretty in the Charente-Maritime, at least not as colorful.

We spend the afternoon tooling around the Parc Bobigny - it's huge and the seaside vistas are lovely, and I can crutch my way down to the walls to see what's going on, and then we just go to town, looking at the kinds of places we might want to live in here...because that's been a part of the plan since Day 1...and we totally strike out.

It's a really interesting town. But we don't want to live here. Moment by moment, that is becoming clear to us, even though we had high hopes for it. We have to, of course, play it against the almost impossibly seductive moments of St-Cirq and be practical. After I hobble out, thankfully not on cobblestones but on dry ground, to a sea-view area of the Parc Bobigny, and we think, think, think, for a few minutes, we are, as we are so often, of one mind: we don't want to live here; it's a nice place, but it doesn't grab our hearts. Our hearts are in St-Cirq, and so we'll find a way to be there, not here.

It wasn't a hard decision. We wandered all over La Rochelle, loved it, had a great time there. Oh, and we stopped by the town beach there and watched some fearless man swimming in incredibly cold water, saw a guy weilding a huge kite that he kept almost eviscerating his partner with when it flopped down to earth, chanced upon Christophe Chenonceau's Michelin restaurant, which was closed (and which looked frankly like hell - all black, slick tile and no ambiance whatsoever - even though I love the guy) right at the "town beach," which is the last place I'd ever expect to find him - he used to be right in town, like all great restos should be. But what's up with a 78 euro APPETIZER? Don't think so...the place was closed, anyway.

But overall, La Rochelle was not up to my expectations. Too gray, too expensive, too touristy, too boring.

Funny, because I tell people all the time to go to La Rochelle. Not to buy real estate, though.

His son's restaurant Les Flots on the beach is simply charming (I hope it's still there)

cigalechanta, for heavens sake, of COURSE I e-mailed. Just so you know, when StCirq mentioned somewhere, at the very last minute, that she desperately needed a cell phone for her daughter for a trip they were taking together, I called her on the phone for her home address, boxed up everything (including a nifty case that attaches to a belt loop), and shipped all (at my expense) next day delivery. I never even received even a "thank you". The phone was returned, but, as mentioned, without the charger or manual. And, yes, all is still "in use". I have two of those phones which I've loaned out many, many, times, to forum strangers, always returned everything included. Obviously, I acquired another charger and provide website for downloading manual, for that one, and have continued to loan it to "strangers" despite this ONLY one less than satisfactory experience.

I am wondering why you thought you wanted to move to La Rochelle since you hadn't visited it before. When you talked about selling your house in St-Cirq and getting something in La Rochelle, I assumed it was because you had been there and liked it.

And it should be noted that LaRochelle is not as appealing a nom de clavier as StCirq.

Nikki, I'd been to La Rochelle before. We both had been, and we'd both liked it. I mentioned that previously in this report. We'd liked it a lot. Did we know it well? No. Hence the decision to go back and get an in-depth look at it.

So true, Padraig

We spent two weeks in La Rochelle some time ago - decided after 9 years here that our French had hit a plateau, and needed a kick start, and so we went to Eurocentres for intensive French - classes, homework, stay with French family. The classes weren’t great, the homework was useful, and the family was terrific. But every day as we drove from home to the school we got lost. It's a great city for (able-bodied) pedestrians, but not easy for drivers. I'm sure eventually it becomes clear, but I suspect most people spend a lot of time driving around lost.

Some time earlier there was a discussion of French banks – most of whom now say that they have no money available. Meaning that the cashier has none, but the machines do. Customers who have a debit card can use them, those who don’t can have a temporary one to withdraw money. Note this is CUSTOMERS. They are not designed for non-customers to come in with travellers’ cheques, foreign drafts, etc. As a customer with a debit card I can also ask for a temporary card so that I can get a large sum of money out of my account without it affecting any daily or weekly limits.

However, St Cirq seems to use Credit Agricole, one of our least favourite banks. I’ve never quite recovered from opening an account some years ago, admitting that I was married, and discovering that their computer system wouldn’t accept a different name for a spouse who had decided to keep her maiden name. According to the system I had said that I was married, and therefore had to have the same name. The account manager suggested that I might like to be ‘my name, chez my husband’s name’ – a bit too much like a kept woman for my taste. Somehow we resolved the issue, but it seemed representative of most dealings

(And by the way, we decided to buy a house in France and move here after one visit, confirmed it on the second, and bought a house on the third.)

I spent a week on the Ile Re and discovered the offical paint pallet (if that is how you spell it), only about 4 colours and all very close to each other. So if you think La Rochelle was dull..

Def. a big difference between visiting a place and living in it.

I spent a week on the Ile Re and discovered the offical paint pallet (if that is how you spell it), only about 4 colours and all very close to each other.

Much like the Provence, or the golden stone walls of the Périgord.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/mksfca/4173316284/in/set-72157622845839973

But one's one perception is everything when choosing a location. I looked at my pictures of La Rochelle, and while not concentrating on roofs, every picture that shows a little bit of roof will include a tile roof.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/mksfca/4173307902/in/set-72157622845839973

Actually, Carlux, I've never liked or been a customer of the Crédit Agricole. I only went there to try to cash a check drawn on it, realizing in advance that that probably wasn't going to happen.

Finally catching up with the rest of your report; I hope there's more!

Yup, esm, we've got another day in La Rochelle/Ile de Ré, and then three days in Paris. Coming....been a really busy week here, so will use the weekend to catch up.

Today is Ile de Ré day, and it's another warm, cloudless one. Having been on part of the coastal route from town to the Ile de Ré yesterday, it seems a better alternative to plowing through mid-town, and we'll get to see more of the ocean. Well, yes and no, because after just a few kilometers of less than inspiring cement seaside apartment buildings, we are dumped into an industrial backwater with meandering lanes, auto repair shops, and vestiges of old factories. And then an exit to the highway that leads to the bridge out to the island (http://www.fotolibra.com/gallery/85473/ile-de-re-bridge/).

It's a graceful structure, about 3 kms long, and you can drive over, bicycle, or walk. I think we paid 9 euros to drive. The island is about 30 kms long and 5 ms wide (http://tinyurl.com/9pdpxev), flat, full of salt marshes, and very much a celebrity playground. At the end of the bridge, you are in Sainte-Marie de Ré; nothing particularly fancy about this part of the island, just block after block of oyster and clam stands, boulangeries, patisseries, small commercial outfits on the left, and endless mud flats and half-buried boats and a few salt flats on the right along the shore. I remember this from previous trips, how at low tide, whether in la Rochelle or on Ile de Ré or Ile d'Oléron, you had to wade out what seemed like miles before the water got up over your knees. Then whoosh! It's high tide and you're in over your head.

We're heading up the east coast of the island, our destination being Saint-Martin, the "capital city." I'm hoping to catch a gander of Johnny Depp or some French film star, but honestly at this end of the island everyone just looks like a lost tourist or un ouvrier. The road veers off a bit from the shore, and off to our right in a field we see a fort - Le Fort de la Prée (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fort_de_La_Pr%C3%A9e). There's a dirt road turnoff, and we take it. Unfortunately, it's a long walk from the small parking lot to the entrance to the fort, over stones and underbrush, and I've had my fill of those, so I and my crutches stay in the car while runningtab goes off to investigate. He comes back in a half-hour or so with stories of strategic views and killer architecture and Huguenots and warfare, and we continue on to La Flotte (http://www.holidays-iledere.co.uk/ile-de-re-uk/la-flotte.)

Before we go into the town, which is truly a beauty, we stop at an Intermarché for picnic provisions (we ARE going to the beach today!): cold beer, bread, yoghurt, ham, cheese, fruit, which we pack in our handy soft cooler. In town, we find a parking spot right on the quai and get out for a look-see, or, in my case, a find-a-café-to-sit-down-in-asap moment. And there’s one right opposite our parking spot, with tables in the shade and reasonable prices. We order a couple of demi-pressions and chat with the waitress, who asks us a lot of questions about where we come from and what we’re doing here. I explain that I had been entertaining the notion of buying a small property in or near La Rochelle, and she rolls her eyes and says “Wait! Look at this!” and scurries into the interior of the café and comes out with a real estate brochure. “You can’t imagine, Madame,” she says, “what prices are like around here right now!” Well, I wasn’t planning on looking for real estate on the Ile de Ré, as I already knew it was expensive, and this is clearly a sales tool for high-end customers, but still…..the glossy brochure has categorized properties into things like Etoile d’Or, Prémium, Platinum, etc.… and the very, very cheapest property listed on the 50 pages or so is a minuscule…really, closet-size…studio apartment…for 800,000 euros!!! The rest of the properties of course go up into 8 digits, gorgeously groomed places with private beaches, yachts, massive pools, manicured gardens full of statuary and fountains, garages with special outfittings to protect antique cars, maids’ and butlers’ quarters, massive spiral staircases, marble balconies, crystal chandeliers…the works. And all so gorgeously far out of our reality it can only be amusing.

Just north of La Flotte we spy a sign that indicates a public beach, and so we pull into a small parking lot. There’s a closed-up beach shack, a stone wall, and a massive stretch of sand with a handful of folks at the water’s edge. Three young men are pulling a rubber raft down to the shore. They climb into it and paddle out to a small sailboat and prepare to launch. We settle in by the wall and open our cooler of picnic goodies. Is there anything better than a warm day in France on the sand, the ocean sparkling before you, sailboats bobbing lazily by, nothing pressing to do, and a baguette, a cold beer, some ham and cheese? Hard to imagine. So we idle away an hour or so in utter tranquility, not a care in the world, every real-life stressor erased in the face of a beach, the gentle lapping of water, a few seagulls, a ripe nectarine, and a blazingly sunny horizon.

But even the most tranquil of moments, unless you are brain-dead, leads to a desire to press on to the next thrill, so we pack up and move out, heading to Saint-Martin. Coming into town by way of the 17th-century citadel built by Vauban, through the old stone archway, we decide to stop to look at the impressive, star-shaped fortifications; the English Navy must have been considered a fearsome foe, necessitating the expertise of master fortifier Vauban, whose handiwork was excellent enough to have survived almost entirely intact for several centuries and won the town the privilege of becoming a UNESCO World Heritage site. The interior of the walls was used mainly as a prison, to hold convicts, including Richard Dreyfuss and the French writer Henri Charrière (known as Papillon), before they were deported to the least savory areas of the French empire. Today, just abutting the fortress walls, is an enormous foreboding structure that holds modern condemned prisoners.

There’s a sign under the archway indicating that there will be a free tour in just a few minutes. We decide against taking it, as it will no doubt involve a lot of stair climbing, but it’s interesting to note that there is a group of handicapped young people standing outside waiting for the guide to appear. I’ve seen this so many times in France – maybe it happens everywhere and I just don’t notice it because I don’t have my traveling head in gear – mentally and physically handicapped folks being taken on the same intellectually stimulating tours as everyone else, with no assumptions of reduced abilities, yet a kind regard for any that are evident. Maybe I'm more aware of it on this trip because of my own physical limitations, too. It has astonished me daily since we arrived how aware the French seem to be of handicaps, even though the country certainly isn't known for its handicap facilities. I have had people in every corner of the places we've been visiting pull up chairs for me, caution their children not to make quick movements in passing me, put me at the head of the line...I'm struck by their mindfulness.

If ever there were a swank slice of French island heaven, it’s Saint-Martin de Ré (http://www.saint-martin-de-re.fr/). Walking into town is like walking straight into an artist's imagination: pleasure boats, every one of them perfectly aligned and gleaming, rimming the tidy little port; freshly laid cobblestone lanes; chalky white houses with newly pastel-painted doors and shutters; trendy boutiques with colorful windows lined with expensive trinkets; cafés spilling over with gilded, bronzed, savagely scarved and sunglassed patrons; designer bicycles weaving through the passersby; and over it all at the apex of the harbor, massive flagpoles with the flags of France, Ile de Ré, and Saint-Martin flapping in a euro-scented breeze.

We park in the lot next to the harbor and stroll a bit before runningtab takes off to find an ice cream and a souvenir or two to take home to his kids. I’m just going to park myself at a café in the sun, have a coffee, and pretend to be a Grimaldi. In awhile runningtab comes back to join me, and we share a pression, then amble over to the ramparts to see the sea crashing far below. We consider continuing north to see the famous Phare de la Baleine, but one of us looks at the gas tank reading and we decide we’d better find some fuel. Not so easy a task. We find one station, but it’s unmanned and we don’t have a chip and pin card. We contemplate waiting until someone comes along and asking if they’ll fill us up if we give them euros, but after 10 minutes or so it’s clear that this might never happen. So we head back toward the bridge and abandon the idea of seeing the lighthouse. In doing so, we cross the island east to west, and get a close-up glimpse of what a micro-climate it really is here – very southern Mediterranean, with cypress and pine groves, hollyhocks of every hue waving from front doorsteps, mimosas and fig trees and laurels, all interspersed with long clumps of sea grasses. There are nature preserves, including a large bird sanctuary, and miles and miles of bike paths. There are, however, no gas stations.

We finally find one when we’re just about back to the bridge, fill up, and had back to town, getting irretrievable lost for a moment in the industrial thicket beyond the highway but short of the city. There’s an enormous, elongated park in the center of La Rochelle that we haven’t figured out how to get around yet; every time we try to cross town we end up in it, and while it’s lovely, it takes us way out of our way - there doesn’t seem to be any easy way to just go straight across town. But we manage to find our way to the huge Place de Verdun, where we think we’ll sit for a bit. There’s a small market there this evening, and of course we can’t resist. A tomato, a small hunk of tomme, miniature quiches, a ficelle, and dinner’s accounted for. Then to a café across the street for our final demi-pression in La Rochelle, and back to the apartment to eat, pack, and organize for tomorrow.

Interesting description of the island, would like to see it one day before they turn the whole place in to a gated community. Wait, that won't happen under Hollande.

While I'd happily see Richard D. locked up for annoying mannerisms and over-acting, think you mean Alfred! (just to prove I was really reading)

On to Paris?

Such an evocative account of a relaxing day in the sun, in a beautiful setting.

Richard Dreyfuss? What did he do to deserve a French prison? I think autocorrect is steering you wrong.

OMG, did I type that????

Alfred, Alfred, Alfred Dreyfuss...convicted of high treason.

Did you know they brew their own beer? I brought my fliptop bottle of La Blanche de Re. I mention before how much I love that bridge.

No, I didn't know that, cigale. We saw lots of local pineau,which was the first thing the Cistercian monks who first lived there cultivated, and is still produced in some quantity on the island... but I can't remember a local beer. Interesting.

Dreyfus with only one "s".

Here's a picture of my bottle that I keep as a remembrance of those happy days there.
http://www.ratebeer.com/beer/bieres-de-re-la-blanche-de-re/9823/

Yes, I know, Michael - and I'm an editor so pay attention to these things - but in THIS case it was "auto correct" that did me in. Grrrrrrr......Alfred Dreyfus.

Thanks for that link, cigale! I'm glad you had happy days there - it's an unusual place. Apparently, in the 19th century it gained a reputation for being a place that only loony people gravitated to. The women, afraid of English marauders, used to wear muslin bonnets that had protruding cheek coverings that they called "quichebottes," which some think derived from the English "kiss not," signifying that they were not available to kiss English invaders. And they used to dress the islands' donkeys (you still see them when you drive around) with trousers and jerseys to protect them from the island's then ubiquitous mosquitos. We saw donkeys, but no trousers on any of them. Apparently, if you frequent brocantes there you can find postcards showing both the women with the quichebottes and the donkeys with the full clothing.

It is "quichenote" and has nothing to do with the English.
They used it to protect their face from the sun while working in the fields. In Limousin they wore similar bonnets called "queissonoto".
Henri Bosco's "L'âne Culotte" is a book about a donkey wearing trousers in Provence.

t

Quichebottes was a typo, but here's what I red before visiting the island, from France Today magazine:

<<In the 19th century, the Ile de Ré was poor. Only the most eccentric people ventured there, first by steamer, then by ferry. In 1890 several family pensions (boarding houses), among them Le Chat Botté (Puss in Boots) in Saint-Clément-des-Baleines, were listed in the Guide des Petits Trous Pas Chers (Guide to Inexpensive Little Holes). Old postcards show island women wearing the traditional bonnet with extended sides framing the face; called a quichenotte, possibly from the English “kiss not”, since they were reputedly meant to discourage any advances from invading English troops. And they also show the island’s donkeys wearing trousers—front and back, checked or striped—to protect them from mosquitoes.>>

It is one explanation among many : http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quichenotte
I am not sure a bonnet would have stopped an "invader" going on a kissing spree.

You can read more about it here:

http://www.oleron.org/french/default.html?main=discover/folklore.php

Si non è vero, è bene trovato

Well, I don't know if it's true or not, but it's bound to have been mingled with the history of English invasions, given what went on over the centuries in that corner of the world.

StCirq -- I had printed up your "Not Trip Report" and read it the other day thinking you were finished. Once I read it, threw it away, and now I can't remember where I left off!! Really enjoying it and it's making me dream of returning to Europe sooner rather than later.

Wow, for a moment there I thought they dressed the donkeys to protect THEM from English marauders.

Like everyone else, I'm greatly enjoying your non-report. And agree, you should write a book.

t

Transported, once again, StCirq, by your writing gifts. I recall a fabulous few hours passed on the sand at Plage du Petit Nice near Arcachon, with a similar picnic and mindset.

I was going to start out this segment of the TR with the sentence " After an uneventful last evening in La Rochelle..." but then I remembered something and want to just say to all the traveling ladies on this board...Do not, ever, attempt to color your hair alone in a strange place while on crutches. I can't even begin to tell you the horrors that might ensue, but I do know of one, which is that those horrid little "pads" that are supposed to support you under the armpits can become "wheat blonde" in an instant. And that bathtubs do stain. And your shoulders, and even ankles, can get "colored," too. Live and learn, and be thankful you are traveling with an SO who thinks you're cool even if you're trying not to appear in Paris tomorrow with totally gray/white hair looking way older than you actually are. I vant to hit Paris in chic mode! Who doesn't?

We get to the Europcar office, having negotiated an extra day's rental for the car, at about 9 am for our 11:00 train to Paris. The Europcar office is right across the street, and runningtab leaves me outside the train station while he goes to sign off the final papers. I'm standing there on crutches, my newly wheat blonde hair flipping in the breeze, and here comes a bloke about my age, scruffily clad and bearded, and he starts to engage with me. Nice enough, garrulous, he's got a pretty lab-mix dog with him, and he launches into a tale of how he just arrived last night from Spain for a big party, spent the night at the party and with friends, and before the party he put a bag with a really special bottle of liquor he'd brought from Spain on the hood of his rental car so he could get the dog settled in the car...and before he knew it, right before his eyes...la bouteille was stolen! Then he tells me that lots of people actually want to steal his dog as well, that folks approach him and ask if they can have it. OK. I tell him there are malins everywhere, and La Rochelle is no exception. He says yes, it's true, and I am wondering if he is some sort of malin himself, but not worried. I generally don't feel threatened by much of anything at all in Europe, and especially in France. But this guy is a tad weird.

Then he asks what nationality I am, because, as he says, I am blonde and blue-eyed and not very French-looking, even though we are speaking French. And he can't figure out how I am speaking French with him without, maybe, BEING French.I tell him, and he seems very surprised, as so many people often are. He says he thought I was German or Dutch - because of my Big Blue Eyes. I tell him that there are loads of people in the world with big blue eyes, and just then here comes SO to "rescue" me from this conversation. And, as expected, the guy toddles off and we can go to the quai and wait for our train.

We have lots of time - an hour or more, so runningtab goes and fetches us a couple of espressos, and we sit in the sun and wait. Most of you probably know about the screens they have at train stations in France where they show the layout of the train and where, exactly, your car will arrive so that you can walk to the appropriate spot. Well, we were there too early for the information to be posted, and when we asked were told by a station attendant that it wasn't " affich'e" yet. This was a brilliant moment for me, as for days, for whatever reason, I'd been trying to remember the word for poster in French - affiche. And, of course, affich'e meant it wasn't "posted" yet. So many moments like that I had.

We are on car 18 of a 30-car train to Paris. This means walking a really long way down the tracks just to get on our car. SO makes an effort to go back to the station to get sandwiches for the trip, but the line is too long, so he comes back. Before boarding the train we take a few minutes to read the plaque at the end of the train station waiting area tha memorilizes the deaths of SNCF workers during WWII.

The ride is fast and smooth. We stop in Surg`eres and Niort and Poitiers...maybe more, I forget, I was sleepy. But we're in Paris in less than three hours, and now it becomes a real challenge, and a very interesting housing equation.

Paris, coming into the enormous Montparnasse station...it's huge, and we are arriving at a place far, far from the taxi stands. We stay on the train until everyone else has left and then get off...still have a load of territory to cover before we get to a taxi stand, and it's treacherous, with grooves in the sidewalks and uneven cement, and, well, finally we're here and there's a special line for handicapped people...cool We get priority for a cab!

So we get a cab and venture out into Paris traffic. We're headed for the 20th arrondissement, so we have to traverse pretty much the entire city. And it's mobbed. Why? It's a Wednesday in September. Why the zillions of bicyles? Why the bumper-to-bumper traffic around Place St-Michel at 4 pm?

At any rate, the cab driver's estimate of 25 minutes to get there, as I'd asked him, was about accurate, and about 60 euros, was about accurate, if extortionate. I don't fault him - it took forever, but here we were in front of the apartment building we were going to be staying in for three days, and it looked...nice, and interesting, and had a lift. And I had the code from Johanna, and we got in. It gets much more interesting from here on...

Ah, the plot thickens again!

Had to see what a quichenotte looks like:
https://www.google.com/search?q=quichenotte&hl=en&prmd=imvns&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=wYqHUJS7O4-40AGGnoDQBg&sqi=2&ved=0CBwQsAQ&biw=1611&bih=905

This site says their called “kiss me not”.
http://pegs-blog.stbarth.com/tag/quichenotte/

StCirq, maybe you should have worn a quichenotte to ward off the advances of the guy who had his special liquor stolen.

We have a special word for those who are about to attach themselves to one of us, drunks, druggies, etc "ahoy"

Don't stop now!

You reminded me that Hub and I stayed at Le Meridien Montparnasse to be near that station for a trip to Chartres. We had an extraordinary meal at Montparnasse 25 at the hotel. I'm going to do a mini TR of it separately.

More soon, please!!

StCirq, you were brave to try coloring your hair given the crutches but I'd have done the same thing as I can't stand too much gray showing either.

OK, so we're risk takers, I guess, and certainly go-with-the-flow types and despite both of us having had many a night in splendor in a fine hotel somewhere in the world, this trip was about spending as little as possible without couchsurfing.

So, I checked out Airbnb, knowing full well that some people have had really bad experiences with it. I looked at well over 200 apartments and rooms in Paris. I was driven. We had three criteria: 1) it had to be in an outlying arrondissement that we weren't too familiar with, 2) it had to have a balcony (OK, if we're going to be skinflints, we need at least one bit of luxury, and 3) it had to be under $100 a night.

Finally found one that met all the criteria, but must have been a little brain fried the night I booked it, because it wasn't our first choice to end up with a room in someone's house/apartment, but rather to have a place of our own....but I booked a room, not an apartment. I think it was on the train to Paris from La Rochelle that runningtab asked "Is this an apartment or a room?" and I had to actually check. Oooops! Room. Well, we'll deal.

Johanna, the owner, has given me the code to the building and the code to the interior door, and they both work, so once we survive the cab ride there, we're in. Johanna is there and is gracious and greets us and shows us around. Her mother lived not far from where my house is in the P'erigord, so we have some common ground to discuss. It's a peculiar place, quite large for a Paris apartment, with a big kitchen and big salon, and a long, long hallway with three bedrooms on the left and three bathrooms on the right - VERY confusing! One with a bath tub and a bidet, one with a toilet and a sink, and one with a shower and a sink. Then there's another independent shower room at the end of the hall.

Can we put stuff in the fridge? Yes. Is all that stuff set out on the counters in the morning that looks like breakfast stuff for us too? No. When can we use the bathrooms? Whenever we're not using them. When is that? Whenever we're not in them. Seems a bit random.

The first bedroom as you head down the hallway is Johanna's brother's room - who knew there was another inhabitant? Sometimes it's occupied by him; sometimes it's not. Sometimes he has a dog there. Sometimes he has a girlfriend. Sometimes he has a dog AND a girlfriend. Sometimes we cross paths; most often we don't.

The next bedroom is Johanna's. The door is always closed. She never seems to leave except to go into the kitchen or the living room (and she closes the door when she does that).

The third door is the door to our room, which is perfectly comfortable, with a double bed and dressers and a desk, and a balcony...but the balcony is so amazingly small only one of us can actually sit on it on a chair, and the other has to sit in the doorframe to it in another chair. No big deal...we can manage.

BUT the promised WIFI does not work. And Johanna and the brother and the brother's girlfriend don't seem to have jobs - they're at home all day long. And in the evening they settle into the living room and close the door and we don't know if we can bother them or not. And suddenly there's a cat...and I'm allergic to cats and not fond of them...and it's outside our door all the time. And we keep getting confused about which of the four "bathrooms" we're using. If we need to pee, we end up in the shower room; if we need a shower, we're in the room with the bidet and sink. The whole corridor that this place is laid out around is like a fun house at a carnival, with strange rooms behind closed doors everywhere you look. And it's dark. They have these little tiny lights everywhere that don't give off much more light than candles.

It might be the most peculiar place we've ever stayed, but it doesn't dampen our enthusiasm for being in Paris, except we HAVE to get wifi, as I have a job coming in to work on before we leave, and I must get my email. Johanna has tried, unsuccessfuly, to connect us to various servers, but it's just not happening, so out we go to find a solution. Found, at the cafe La Factorie, a 4-block limp from our new abode. It's to be our new hang-out for the next three days, as I'm not in any shape to get far around Paris. And at the end of the day, we are a bit weirded out by our accommodations, but have no problem with spending our few days in Paris in a very limited space, watching life go by and having a Leffe or two and pondering how our hosts actually make a living, other than renting out our little room with the miniature balcony.

n this...

Great description.

Such a mind picture you have produced!

Saint-Martin de Re----<< like walking straight into an artists imagination >>

From your description alone, I simply must go there.

Your writing is so beautiful and interesting, much better than any guidebook.

Oh My! You are handling this "room" much better then I would (note to self.. make sure to select 'apartments' not rooms )

St Martin de Re is where they make the beer.

More, please!, more.

Never a dull moment! You are very good sports. I would probably lie awake all night, alternating between tying to figure out how to get out of this deal, and wondring what's going on with thi odd group.

Here is our Ménilmontant neighborhood: http://maps.google.com/maps?daddr=48.865311,2.387754

Just a stone's throw from Père Lachaise cemetery, it's a bustling, diverse, polyglot community. The sidewalks are streaming with elegant, lanky Africans in robes and caps and kente cloth, Indians and probably Sri Lankans and Pakistanis in saris, Muslim women in veils, North African men in djellabas, Hassid families with babies in elaborate
strollers, Chinese, Japanese, Koreans, Turks, Greeks, and plenty more of indeterminate origin. The patisserie around the corner from our apartment building is owned by a Spaniard; the alimentaire where we stop to buy a rambutan and a mangosteen is manned by a Tunisian; the shoe store proprietor is black African; the outdoor cheap clothing market that appears at odd hours is run by a handful of Chinese. Sit on a bench on the Avenue Gambetta, as I did several times waiting for runningtab to complete an errand, and the air is thick with the punctuation of many languages.

We settle into an easy, uncomplicated routine, content just to be in Paris, to absorb this corner of it, sit at La Factorie a couple of times a day for an hour or two and work and watch and listen. We get to know the waiters, and the regulars, and we claim a favorite table. We talk of places runningtab might go for a little excursion - Versailles, Château de Vincennes, just "into town" for a few hours, as he hasn't spent much time in Paris and I would be fine on my own, even if not very mobile. We use our laptops to check out the logistics of getting him here or there by métro or RER or both, look at opening times, make a variety of plans, but when the moments come to realize them, he decides what we're doing right here, right now, is fine. Paris without an agenda is working nicely for us.

Among the regulars at La Factorie is a paunchy, middle-aged man who seems to have a closet full of poncey striped suits. Not subtle stripes...vivid, audacious ones in black and white and gray and navy. He comes every day for lunch and plants his stripey self outside, adjusts the collar of his impeccably starched white shirt, orders a pression, and tucks into an enormous plate of charcuterie or tartiflette or grilled fish. He has an air of special status about him, a proud self-awareness that sets him apart from everyone else around. And everyone else, if they're not sporting ethnic finery, is for the most part laughably dowdy. We joke a bit about people worried about what to wear in Paris...we even get out our flip video camera and take pictures of folks walking by the café and crossing the street, a faded parade of beaten-up leather jackets, unkempt locks, jeans, sneakers, gray scarves, black boots, dangling cigarettes. We decide that half the men of Ménilmontant bought the same oversized, baggy brown zip-up jacket with too many pockets.

The Chinese family that periodically rolls out a slew of clothing racks onto the sidewalk opposite La Factorie intrigues us, so we go for a look. Other than food and various items we had to pick up for the house in St-Cirq, we haven't had an acquisitive moment since arriving in France. But look! Racks and racks of clothing, and nothing over 8 euros - we might have to check this out! Of course, it's just cheap Chinese stuff, and probably won't last long, but still, some of the designs are not things you'd ever find back in the States, and we both have somewhat eclectic taste in clothing, so we are on the verge of a splurge. Runningtab buys a bright pink scarf for 2 euro. I buy a short-sleeved black sweater dress with a wool drawstring around the neck with pom-poms on it, and a flouncy, shimmery gray and black skirt - 3 euros apiece. Pleased as punch we head back to the apartment, stopping for a bottle of wine at the Franxprix.
Johanna is there, shut in behind her bedroom door, which has a poster on it that says "Trespassers will be prosecuted. Repeat offenders will be shot." The brother and girlfriend are in the salon behind closed doors. But we're past being weirded out by this place; we just act as though we belong there and go about our business.

And that business is to take showers, put on some nice clothes, have a glass of wine on the balcony, and get ready for an evening out with runningtab's old friend Florent, who is arriving by train from Strasbourg this evening.

Did you wear the sweater dress to the GTG? Very chic. Sounds like a wonderful area.

Yes, I did, TDudette. Thank you.

Ménilmontant and Belleville are extraordinarily wonderful areas. One would be ill advised to publicize them too much to casual visitors unable to appreciate the experience.

Well, I already wrote about Belleville, back in 2008. We didn't stay there, but we thoroughly enjoyed our full day poking around the market and all kinds of nooks and crannies. Both Belleville and Ménilmontant remind us of a couple of neighborhoods we love here in DC.

Catching up again and enjoying the "not report" very much.

Thanks, esm. Too tired tonight to go on. Will finish over the weekend. Runnintab will contribute, too. He has his own take on the strange place we rented.

That is the area in which I wanted to rent an apartment this time, St. Cirq. We found the Belleville/Menilmontant neighborhoods last time we were in Paris by taking a tour with one of the Paris Greeters who lived up there. SWe were both enchanted by the place. Dear Wife, however, thought there would be too many hills for me to climb, so we ended up on the flat near lower Oberkamph.

Now, thinking of you braving the area on crutches, I feel a complete wimp.

Wonderful writing, StCirq, enjoying your report immensely.
I agree 100% with Kerouac, Ménilmontant and Belleville are wonderful neighbourhoods, I try not to miss them when in Paris. I often go to the parc de Belleville, it's beautiful and affords great views.

nukesafe, I am totally enjoying your trip report as well. Didn't notice any hills in our immediate neighborhood at all, but we were restricted to a small area of the 20ème, so maybe there are hills we didn't encounter (I wouldn't have done well with them, that's for sure). It was all flat, and in retrospect, thank God for that! Hills would have done me in!

I have avoided going to Belleville in the past because I thought it was all hilly.

My interest in the area was piqued ( no pun intended) by the novels of Daniel Pennac, which I recommend highly.

recommended viewing: The animated,
Triplets of Bellevue.

Nikki, Belleville is actually pretty hilly, but you can see a lot of it, including the market, without a lot of climbing. Ménilmontant wasn't terribly hilly, at least the limited stretch of it we inhabited...a few inclines here and there, but I wouldn't call it hilly.

A bit more on the weird atmosphere chez Johanna: The Darkness.

She has apparently de-gridded the apartment’s overhead lights. Every single one. That means the light switches don’t work. None of them. It’s only when you get inside whatever room suits your needs of the moment, and find the switch to the lamp that gives you your only light, that you can actually see—anything. In our nearest bathroom, for example, (shower and sink only) the lamp sits atop the medicine cabinet/mirror. Not exactly intuitive.

So the routine would go like this. When you enter the hallway—the funhouse of many doors StCirq has described—it’s pitch black. You longingly try the overhead light switch anyway, on the wall to your left as you enter. No light. You now face ten feet of darkness, then a sharp right turn into the main hallway. Your first challenge, then, is to make that right turn, instead of going eleven feet and crashing into the wall. Which I did on day one. In true funhouse spirit, I nearly lost it at that point, and would have run screaming out of the room if I’d known which way out of the room was. Pulled myself together, though: “Where am I? Oh, I know … I’m facing a wall of some sort, in total darkness, in a stranger's apartment in Paris. Everything’s going as planned.”

Once you get that bit worked it out, it's on to the main hallway. All doors—three of four on each side, and the place was so weird that it easily could have been three on one day, four the next—closed. No light from them. So you’re feeling your way through these 25 feet of blackness, fingertips to the wall, expecting to step on and break the owner’s cat any second, with the option of walking right past our invisible door and falling face first into the tiled shower stall that’s in the bathroom just past our room. Thankfully, I missed that one.

“Hmmm … wait, this feels like a door … not totally smooth, like where my fingertips just were … and if you push it, it moves a little … but it could just be another weird kind of wall, the kind that moves ... but if there’s a handle, too, I'll bet it really is a door!”

And so it was. Into our bedroom, at last. Then find the wobbly little single-bulb lamp on the wobbly little table just to the right as you enter. Then find the power cord, which you have to do because the lamp’s got an inline switch, not your user-friendly switch that’s actually on the dang lamp. You feel your way down the cord and finally—light. Then it’s back out into the hallway to give StCirq the all clear.

Problem here is we’re being super careful to make sure the cat doesn’t sneak into the room, lest StCirq make contact, plump up like a saucisson, get hives and get knocked out of the game (a cat-cussion?). That means closing the door on the way back to get her. We crutch and shuffle our way through the darkness by the single crack of lamplight light that shows through under our door.

The good news is that you really feel you deserve a beer after going through all this. Even if it’s morning.

Hey, we’re en vacance.

Sounds like a great place for a Halloween party.

St Cirq, you sure have a way with words. Runningtab is no slouch, either. Great report. From now on I'll carry a tiny flashlight.

This is a great read. Thankyou. I'm now thinking "to hell with the budget, I'm going to a hotel because this is too weird".

So, note to self, whole apartment, never, never room only.

I would have been too uncomfortable to sleep there.

Flashlights definitely a good idea, but iPad or smartphone will work in emergency.

Who could not enjoy traveling with someone with this sense of humor, and willingness to put up with someone who doesn't focus on room versus apartment ahead of time? There are lots of kinds of travelers. We're the kind who just adjust and cope and don't go with expectations. And we get a load of laughs out of it. We were nigh hysterical some moments in that apartment room. But then, we are nigh hysterical often.

We don't have iPads or smartphones, and I had dropped my French cellphone into the basin of water I was soaking my foot in back in St-Cirq - out of luck there.

Will finish this off after the Amazing Race or tomorrow. What a trip! And what a surprising ending!

Sounds like the apartment owners were stuck in post W.W.II penury.

They were stuck in something, that's for sure. But she was young, maybe 30-ish, so WWII doesn't seem applicable.

A can of fluorescent paint would come in handy.

With the low energy bulbs available, no excuse for not having a light in the hall. Takes quirky to a new level but what a great, in one sense, experience.

Thanks so much, SC and RT, great name btw.

Maybe in their parallel universe they have not heard about the low energy bulbs. But they're going to have to, because all incandescent bulbs over 20w are now illegal. Lightbulbs 25w and above were banned as of September 1st, 2012.

St.Cirq: great stoies, am now happier than ever that DH always has a tiny flashlight wherever we go!

Oh my.

What a great story you have to tell. How utterly bizarro. I always say I can deal with anything for a short time, but that would have been challenging. Funhouse indeed!

Your story reminds me of how we always travelled when we were young, so open, so often stuck in weird situations. joie de vivre, n'est-ce pas?

Ah, when we were young ... in pre-St.Cirq days, traveled by local bus, SRO but packed with smiles and kindness, from Chennai (then Madras) to an Indian city with pilgrimage in full cry (but we did't know that till we arrived). Not a bed anywhere. But as we were the sole Westerners in town, an inkeeper threw out a family of five for us and gave us their bed ... sheets unchanged and still warm. Not an issue, and an altogether transcendant time, including all the dosai and thali we could eat for 35 cents. Joie de Shiva, eight arms worth.

The whole apartment saga and the room at the end of the dark hallway is something else. Hats off to you for rolling with it which is remarkable given StCirq's foot/ankle.

We all managed to travel pre-internet and survived but it sure makes life easier to be able to plan ahead.

kerouac, one of our German friends told me they can easily buy the incandescent bulbs (at least in Munich where his family lives) which are now sold as heating bulbs.

Ttt

Esm, so people actually want to pay 5 times more for electricity for a bulb that burns out 10 times as fast?

kerouac, I don't know how many people do that, our friend doesn't for sure. This came up one time (one of those random conversations that go all over the place) and he mentioned it. I was surprised to hear about this too.

StCirq, you've left us in suspense. What happened with your house?

Loving this adventure. St. Cirq, so is your foot any better by now? Hope so...

Out bated breath will soon cause our demise.

also waiting to see what you have decided to do with the house.

More please!

I predict she will keep it!

Cigale, I am with you. I think she fell in love with it again. At least I hope so!

S.O. ponies up and buys into the place.

They win the lottery and buy it outright.

StCirq, if you don't hurry up and put us out of our misery, we'll be forced to finish it for you!

I've been really busy going to doctors, getting MRIs, neighborhood projects, and a killer work project, which I just finished. Next installment, though a short one coming tonight. Then there's only our final full day in Paris to drone on about, and I should be able to do that tomorrow. Oh...and let you know how it all turned out!

I hope you're OK, StCirq.

I'm OK, muskoka, just still having problems with the ankle. It's still stiff and swollen and I have to think there's some ligament damage or something going on. Big PITA, as I like to move around quickly. It's WAY better than it was in France, but still not even close to normal.

So, to continue...we are due to meet runningtab's friend Florent tonight for dinner. Florent has suggested La Vigne St-Laurent (http://www.lavignestlaurent.com/) as he's coming in from Strasbourg and it's just a few blocks away. His train isn't arriving until 9 pm, so it's going to be a late dinner. I'm not yet up to taking a bus, so we head out around 8:15 to the taxi stand at the Père Lachaise métro. Now, I have only minimal familiarity with Parisian taxi stands, but it's curious to me that there are two taxis parked right next to it, empty...and none with drivers. Even more curious that as the minutes drag on, not a single taxi driver racing past us stops, even those with no passengers.

I'm on crutches, and it's a total pain to be standing, in rather cold and windy weather, here in rush hour, seeing taxis race in all directions through this major intersection, without a single one stopping. Runningtab goes to the other side of the street to try to nab one, and one does stop and say he'll turn around and come get us. He never does. In the meantime, I'm examining the physical structure of the taxi stand apparatus, and find that there is a button you can push, and one of those little grilled outlets like the ones on apartment building entries that leads one to think if one pushes the button one can communicate with someone. I push it and push it and push it and push it....nothing. Finally, after almost 40 minutes, a cab pulls up and off we go.

He tells us that those buttons and speakers are just for the taxi drivers to use among themselves. He also reveals that he is a Berber, so I am immediately interested, having spent a fair amount of time in Berber Morocco. He has little positive to say about the French, or at least Parisian, reaction to Berber immigrants. He doesn't seem bitter, just resigned to being delegated to inferior status. And he seems completely perplexed that I, an American, have been there, even that I am speaking French to him. Makes you wonder what the average cabbie in Paris meets in the way of riders. It's an interesting ride to the Gare de L'Est area, where the restaurant is located.

We are at La Vigne St-Laurent a few minutes before Florent arrives and are greeted with aplomb and placed in a booth at the back of the tiny place - maybe 10 tables. It's such a wonderful stereotype of an old Paris institution - you can imagine travelers coming in from the cold here in the late 1890s to warm up and have a plate of charcuterie. And it's no wonder that Florent, from Strasbourg, chose it. It's all about meat, meat, and more meat.

And here comes Florent, around 9:15 pm, dapper as a pin. I've never met him, but have Skyped with him before, so know what he looks like and sounds like. He's on his way to meetings in Germany tomorrow and looking very business-like. And I am prepared to let this just be a reconnection with Runningtab and Florent, who were business colleagues in Hong Kong a decade or more ago, and stay out of the inevitable reminiscences and such. But it turns into a lovely roundtable discussion of many things, reminiscences included that I'm not part of, but Florent has some ideas for my house in the Périgord, and seeing him reconnect with Runningtab after maybe 10 years is a pleasure. I let them talk on and on about things they've shared in the past and am genuinely pleased at how happy they seem to be to have reconnected.

We share an enormous plate of charcuterie (see the menu on the website); Florent has the magret de canard; I have a salad, which wasn't totally appealing; and runningtab has a pork dish he absolutely loves. We don't do dessert; it's getting too late. We don't finish up until about midnight. Then au revoir to Florent and a cab drive with another disgruntled Berber driver back to the dark apartment.

Very nice wine list and the desserts must not be missed when next you visit, especially the tiramisu.

Looking forward to the denouement of this marvelous piece.

Re: Your ankle. It has been a PIA for a while now. Best wishes for rapid improvement.

Thanks, muskosa. There are actually some interesting adventures to come tomorrow, even though we were limited to a small area of Paris.

Thanks for good wishes on my ankle. I'd like to saw it off and start over again at this point.

I missed this the first time around as I was traveling. I've read the first several entries, and must bookmark so I can come back and finish!

Am I correct that with the sorbets listed on the dessert menu you could have a matching brandy?
If so...... I'll have one of each -

t

It’s our final full day in Paris, and this always troubles me (in fact at this point in a trip I’ve already been fretting about it for a few days), so I wake up already sad, especially so in Johanna’s dark apartment, though given a choice I’d actually stay here for another while or two, quirks or not. Back when I was young enough not to realize I’d be coming back over and over, it wasn’t out of the question for me to shed big, huge, stupid crocodile tears at my last dinner in Europe, and I’m not a cryer. I just always hate, hate, hate to leave. So the morning, which is gray and misting, comes not so lightly, and I’m fighting being inconsolable. Not only because it’s the last day in France, but because we haven’t solved the problem of the house in St-Cirq and what is to become of it. Everything seems very precarious.

We have all kinds of practical stuff to do: figure out how to use Johanna’s dishwasher to wash the things we’ve used (anyone who’s ever encountered a French dishwasher for the first time will know that this is no picnic even if you read French), do laundry (same deal), pick through our belongings and find things that can be tossed, assemble a small cooler of edibles we can snack on while traveling, and organize our suitcases. It takes time. All the while, someone in an adjacent apartment is practicing, badly, on what sounds like a French (and why wouldn’t it be?) horn, which seems the perfect disconsolate background.

It’s probably noon by the time that we venture out of the apartment and head to La Factoire, where we definitely have become regulars by now. We order two Leffes and a plate of this or that, just appetizers. The waiters know us by now, and it’s all totally comfortable.

And there unfolds one of the most amazing scenes I’ve ever encountered in any country. There is a paunchy, middle-aged man, seated just a few feet away from us, who looks exactly like Lionel from “As Time Goes By.” Oversized jacket of the type described previously, baggy pants, tweed cap, 50+, looking haggard and overwrought and downtrodden. He orders a beer. He sighs. And while he sits there looking utterly forlorn, a woman barrels down the sidewalk, rotund and wrapped in a cheap Parisian black and white flowered housecoat, with a bad wig on (it’s the High Holidays for Jews in Paris, and we've been seeing wigs all day), straight toward him and she’s got a major axe to grind.

We’re just sitting there checking our email and sipping our beers, but it’s not long before we’re catapulted into high, high drama. I wish we had recorded it. She flings herself down in the chair next to him, and immediately launches into the longest, loudest diatribe we have ever witnessed. And she talks a mile a minute.

W: “Your mother wants me to make the meal. She’s crazy! “
M: (big sigh) “Well, do something.”
W: “Something? Something? SOMETHING?? You must be kidding! I do something, I get screwed into doing everything! NOT going to fall for that!”
M:“Ok, can’t you just say I’m bringing this or that?”
W: “This or that? What kind of this or that? Hell, no, I’m not doing this or that! Whenever I do this or that, they don’t like this or that. Last year I brought the soup and your damn sister said it tasted like mud. Forget this or that!”

And she hauls herself up, pounds on the table, and starts to walk away. The man heaves a loud sigh and just lifts his palms skyward. But then she comes right back and plonks herself down again.

W: “Who the hell do you think I am, anyway? I take care of everything for this bunch of ingrates, and I still catch hell for it. No, I’m not doing a damn thing. Nothing. NOTHING! You hear me? Nothing! No soup, no kugel, no pot roast, nothing! And no cleaning up after, either. Last year I cleaned the whole kitchen while those lazy-asses sat around the living room. And no looking after the kids, you got that? They can take care of their own damn kids!”

And so it goes, on and on, for a full 45 minutes. The man stares straight ahead, motionless except for the occasional shrug, never altering his ashen expression. The woman bellows, pounds on the table, stands up, sits down, storms off, comes back…over and over. The man’s beer goes untouched; he looks like he’s half-dead. Her wig goes all askew as she bounces around and up and down the sidewalk. Passersby stop in their tracks and gape. Customers at the café can’t get their checks fast enough. It’s like watching a hurricane, Mrs. Bucket on steroids.

Finally, as the hour comes to a close and every family member has been mercilessly villified and picked apart, every holiday dish and tradition rejected and scorned, every dirty secret revealed, every French invective exhausted, the woman stands up, rushes out to the sidewalk, nearly wiping out a group of students, violently throws her pudgy arms up in the air, makes a huge swiping motion across her throat, and screams: “ WELL, I’M NOT GOING! YOU CAN ALL ROT IN HELL, YOU ESPECIALLY! C’EST FINI! FINI! FINI!!!”

And she storms off around the corner. But for good measure, whips around and comes back for a final “SAAAAAAA-LUT!!!!”

Wow. So much for a happy new year! We’re exhausted. That was a first! The poor man just continues to sit there, slumped over. After about 10 minutes, when it seems the harridan won’t be returning, he slowly finishes his beer and asks the waiter for the check. And when the waiter brings him the change, he leans over and says “Voici, monsieur. Bon, bon courage.”

Eventually, it’s time to take a last stroll around the neighborhood and go back to “our dark place” and get ready for our last dinner, at my friend Véronique’s apartment. Véronique and I met almost 40 years ago, when I took my first trip to France as a chaperone for a school group. She was our tour guide on that trip (5 days in Paris, 5 in the Loire), and even though she was a novice guide, she was outstanding. I’ve never known anyone so intensely passionate about a city and country. I swear she knows every stone in Paris by now and is still thirsty to learn more. We haven’t seen each other for several years now, so I’m really anticipating this.

Véronique lives near the Gare de l’Est, not far from where we dined last night. Tonight we have far better luck catching a cab (another Berber driver), and are there in 15 minutes even though traffic is heavy. It’s a medium-size, modern building. We have the codes, two of them, to get in, and we manage to get through the main doors easily, but where to go then? There are hallways and corridors and an escalator (going down), and what looks to be the entrance to an underground parking lot. But what appears to be the main interior door is locked, with no apparent device to enter a code into. So we call Véronique on the cell phone and she helps us locate the box where we enter the code. Up the elevator, and there she is to greet us! And what a lovely apartment!

Véronique lived for years and years in a garret on the 8th floor (walkup) of a building right around the corner from the Gare du Nord. This is palatial by comparison, and, exposing hitherto unknown talents, she explains how she gutted the entire place and built it up again, piece by piece. It’s small, of course, but stunning, and predictably full of books on Paris and the many other French destinations she takes her clients.

We sit in her living room and sip a Pic Saint-Loup and munch on toasts with a Boursin-like spread and pâté and catch up, and it seems as though it was just yesterday that we were touring France with a bunch of 14-year-olds. Then it’s time for dinner, and Véronique reminds me that she’s not a cook. Oh yes, I remember that. ..some funny meals in the past come to mind. Well, tonight we’re having a Picard feast (http://www.picard.fr/Default.html): steak, mixed vegetables, and if I recall correctly stuffed baked tomatoes. A great baguette, of course, to go with it, and a nice bottle of Côte du Rhone. Ice cream for dessert.

At some point I ask Véronique if she thinks I should call a cab tonight for an early pickup tomorrow, and she says “Let me call a friend.” In minutes we’ve got a ride to the airport tomorrow for a flat price of 50 euros with a friend she works with in the touring business. And then, after much good conversation and food, it’s time to close down the evening. Hugs, kisses, and promises to be back soon. We walk a couple of blocks and easily find a cab, with the now-expected Berber driver.

Back at Johanna’s it’s quiet – maybe they’re here, maybe not. We don’t want to go banging on doors, so we write out a thank you note, tempted to suggest some other lighting arrangements, but we leave it at thank you. One last look at our bags to make sure everything’s accounted for, one last sit on the balcony, and we’re ready to bid adieu to one of the strangest places in accommodation history.

Fascinating anecdote about the Jewish couple! Such theatrical performances in cafés are not uncommon but they rarely last so long. That was a real treat.

Oh, it was a doozy!

Of course, having heard only one side of the story, I am siding with Wig Lady. If Mr. Downtrodden cannot come up with a plausible defense for his family, that's too bad.

A great story to read as I contemplate the ordeal that Thanksgiving has become.

Great ending to a great travel saga. Well, maybe not quite the end, unless the fate of the house in St. Cirq is still up in the air.

Véronique’s friend arrives a few minutes late to pick us up, but we’ve allowed plenty of time. It’s a huge van, I think a 9-seater, and very comfortable. He’s an affable fellow who’s only recently started this business and happy to get an extra customer or two. We roll out of Paris and onto the périférique and sail along for about 20 minutes; then everything comes to a halt, and we crawl for another 20 minutes or so (at which point I’m glad we’re not on a meter). Just when I’m starting to get worried about being late (I know what CDG can be like!), we see the accident and police cars up ahead and realize we’ll be fine once we get past it. And indeed we are.

We get to CDG 2.5 hours before our flight, and even though the Air France line is long, I’m not worried because I’m asking for a wheelchair! Sure enough, we get to go to the head of the line, check in, then get to bypass the usual security line. There are only two other people in line in front of us – both in wheelchairs, too, and looking far worse off than I am – and before you know it we’re on the train to take us to our terminal.

Where, having gained a lot of time, we have 2 hours before boarding – enough time for a snack and a beer (I don’t even drink beer at home, but I’ve learned to love those Leffes). We have priority boarding because I’m a gimp, and pretty much the same seats we had on the way over. But the minute the airplane doors close we realize we’re on a plane with only about 50 other passengers. This on an aircraft that holds something like 520! A flight attendant immediately comes up to us and says feel free to pick another seat. So runningtab and I claim an entire row of five seats and prepare for a nice ride home. And so it is. The flight’s as smooth as can be, the food’s good, and after 2 of those little bottles of wine I stretch out and sleep for a solid 5+ hours – a first for me.

We arrive at Dulles at 4 pm, grab a Washington Flyer cab, and are home just after 5. We’re feeling a lot better than we usually do after coming back on a westward flight, so we decide to get right back into our normal evening routine, which is to sit outside in our tiny front patio, have a glass of wine, talk, and mingle with neighbors and friends who come by. But before we do that, runningtab decides to load our videos onto his laptop so we can look at them while we sit outside.

Being a rather quirky fixture in the neighborhood, we have many guests and stoppers-by that evening, people asking why they haven’t seen us, people who were worried about us, people who knew where we were welcoming us back and asking about the trip. A very social evening for us involving lots of people we know and some we really don’t, who just noticed our absence (says something about this community, I believe). In between we try to think of what we need to do next about the house in St-Cirq; we make lists of tasks and possible workarounds, given what we now know about the work that needs to be done and who can do it.

Around 7:30 we’re starting to droop a bit, and then down the street come our friends and neighbors P and C. Really interesting characters, major-league Europhiles and avid and frequent travelers. Hugs all around and two more wine glasses brought out, and we catch them up on some of our goings-on in France and with the house. Then runningtab remembers the videos and runs inside to get the laptop, cues them up and hands the laptop over to P and C.

And despite the fact that the videos are crude and amateurish (well, you've seen them) P and C love them, want to see some of them over and over, start asking all kinds of questions, exchanging mysterious glances with each other. Exactly where is it? What’s nearby? How cold does it get in winter? What kind of heat do you have? Who takes care of it when you’re not there? Do we have photographs? Sure, and we bring them a stack. And talk until we are too tired to talk anymore and need to go inside to bed.

And suddenly, on the very night of our return from an inconclusive (but wonderful) trip, the narrative arc of this ungodly long tale peaks……………………………

Aha! the plot thickens!

I'm still limping with a swollen foot
but it means I stay at home waiting for you to post.

Sitting on spilkes and waiting for the final instalment...

Oh, don't stop here!

Of course I won't stop here. There is much more to come. Well,not much more....

Love reading your non-trip report. Makes me want to buy a home in France....or maybe Germany or Austria!

Soon, please! I loved La Factoire woman.

Could it be that StCirq has her eye on this little place in Paris?

http://en.menagerhug.com/b-1045-PARIS-75007-invalides-for-sale-unique-home.html

It's in the New York Times as well.

More more. I leave for Paris Monday, don't make me wait until I get back

LOL, Coquelicot. I wish!

Don't worry, CarolA. If I can get to it tonight, I will. If not, tomorrow.

I'll try to be brief (not my strong suit)

A few days later we are invited to dinner at P and C’s apartment, a not-unusual event. We make a salad and grab a bottle of wine and head around the corner to their place. We settle into the living room, and P assumes a business look and gets right to the point: “So…we asked you over not only because we enjoy your company, but because we love the house, and we want to help extricate you from your problems. How much does the ex need to leave you alone once and for all?”

And I name an amount that, to me, is really substantial. And P says “That’s no problem, but aren’t you also going to need money to get the house fixed – those tirants and all – so you can start renting it again? I mean, if it were my place, and part of it might just end up being that, I’d want to turn it into income-producing property again…even if you want to use it a lot yourselves. Or if we did.”

Runningtab and I are a bit slow to absorb this. Could it be…..? No, that’s impossible. We only met P and C a year and a half ago. We were having a yard sale before our last move, and C came by and bought a few things. We see them often and attend events with them (including plays – C is a terrific actor), have them over, sit with them in our front-yard “salon,” go on excursions with them, enjoy their company immensely, but they aren’t lifelong friends, nor would we have ever put them in a benefactor category. (Well, we wouldn’t ever have put anyone in a benefactor category – it was the last thing on our minds.) But…that is exactly what is transpiring in this conversation. The want either to buy a quarter interest in the property or just lend us the money (on terms any bank would scoff at) and think about the ownership aspect down the road a bit. So we agree to start off with a written agreement and promissory note, consult with lawyers, do a bit of business, which as of this moment we’re almost done with. And I got to show up in court last month with a copy of a Letter of Intent to the effect that the entire amount will be paid to the ex by the next court date in January (it’ll all be settled long before that, and the court appearance won’t even be necessary).

And P has taken the pictures of the house I’ve given her to another friend who is interested in a piece of it (not that we want to give away a lot more of it). And the estimate for the tirants and other repairs isn’t as onerous as I expected it to be. And this arrangement frees me from all the odious tasks associated with trying to get a home equity loan from a French bank, or having to deal with French lawyers and notaries, or stumbling my way through complicated time-share arrangements, or dealing with Madame D, the real estate agent.

So we’re not selling the house, at least not for now. We’ll deal with the original concerns – remoteness, stairs, upkeep – in due time. As runningtab says, we should be able to go to market, climb stairs, do a bit of gardening, for at least another decade. In the meantime we will fix up the place, start renting it again, suck as much enjoyment out of it as possible, use it as our source of succor, likely move there. We’ll have GTGs there and invite Fodorites. We’ll go there with P and C and find as many ways to thank them as we can. We’ll work and play in paradise.

St-Cirq has always been good to me. Always a magical, karmic place. So I guess it’s not unusual that she wants me to stay as much as I want to. I used to kiss the door of that house every time I left, and maybe she remembered that.

What a storybook ending! I guess these things really do happen in real life. Hopefully we'll get updates on the repairs at the house...

What a wonderful ending/start of the next chapter. Miracles do sometimes happen. Now you just need one for your ankle.

What a perfect ending to a great story. Thank you!

You're welcome, Vonse.

PA: Yes, they do happen in real life, just as years of total upsets do.

thursdays: Yes, I do need one for the ankle. Waiting to hear from the doctor on MRI results/recommendations.

Wow, StCirq, all is good.

Hot Damn! What wonderful news to brighten this drizzly night!

I am so happy for you (and Runningtab); to be able to keep the home you have so enjoyed, and so generously shared with us Fodorites over the years.

A wonderful ending. Please keep us updated.

Thanks, jubi and nukesafe! We are ecstatic and in wonderment that people can be so compassionate, kind, and generous.

Shall we have a rendez-vous in St-Cirq? I will happily host and be tour guide.

Thank you StCirq ~ I love a happy ending.

What a wonderful ending or I should say new beginning. So glad it is working out for you.

Of all the delicious beginnings, middles and ending of St-Cirq’s signature retelling, the tastiest of all - for me - is this: just as she shared the account with you, she shared with me the place itself, despite her misgivings that her urban-centric, vermin- and agrophobic SO might recoil. Once well past that, we looked at what seemed a necessary, disaster-averting, but wrenchingly painful, solution, and agreed that hell, no, this shall not come to pass—there’s a better way. We don’t know what it is, but we’ll find it. And thanks to the kind magic that randomly(?) encountered angels weave, we found the better way - or it found us.

There can still be happy endings, if we believe in them, need them. . And hope to see you all in St-Cirq. You're invited.
rt

Just got caught up on this. What a fabulous ending! You must be so delighted.

Well, yestravel, we kind of leaked a few of the details at the DC/MD GTG, but yes, we are beyond delighted. You and Alan must come! (Once we get those tirants installed).

Well done, I love happy endings.

Just say when and we'll be there...we're good workers too!

You're ON, yestravel. We'd love to have you. Maybe next spring? Our plan is to go over there in March, maybe even February, when the weather starts getting warm and the airfares are low, and start the fix-ups. Then maybe go back in May to make sure thing are fixed up for renters. We can "talk," no? You know how to reach me.

Runningtab has accurately documented our experience with "angels," and it's not the first time in our experience together that we have found them, but this was certainly a major surprise.

You just cannot imagine our surprise, followed by our groveling gatitude, that these friends would save the house in St-Cirq for us. And in such a no-nonsense, "we're here to help" moment. I did cry.

that should be "gratitude"

The wall, upon which we gratefully rest our feets and savor the Vezere valley view, will welcome and reward all who are willing to put broom or mop to floor. Wine's on us, up to 300 litres.

Excellent outcome for a true labor of love.

What a satisfying result. There was a sense of magic and love at work throughout this whole not-a-trip report.

... and they lived happily ever after.

Good.

Dreams do com true- glad yours did and you shared it with us. We visited the Dordogne this year and understand what a wonderful place it is.

I live in the land of 10,000 lakes so lake cabins abound. Your whole non trip report has paralleled owning a cabin. Spend all your work time wishing to be there, fishing, sunbathing, and relaxing. In reality, friday night is spent driving there, unpacking, getting the boat ready for the weekend. Saturday morning is spent mowing the lawn, fixing the door and a couple of other odd jobs. After lunch you might have time to try to start the boat and fish for a few hours before dark. Sunday is spent stowing stuff back where it belongs, packing up the car and driving back home in the traffic. People who are not willing to endure the work never understand the attraction. I'm glad things are working out for you so you can keep your home.

I'm thinking like Padraig---and they lived happily ever after, the end.

ps. I can fix those wooden gates for you

Well, they still need fixing, ziggypop. Are you free in late March?

Well, it looks like I've missed out on years of living vicariously in a stone house in the Dordogne.
Although we've only been there once, it has always been my aim to go back. I loved it immensely.

So glad for you that everything is going to work out well with the house.

Thank you, sundriedpachino. You cannot imagine how happy we are.

Wonderful!!!

I am so very pleased for you StCirq.

And geez, I hope something can be done for that ankle soon!

Thank you, Toucan2: I have a doctor's appt. on Monday again to see what's next with the ankle. It's way better, but definitely not healed.

Perfect, just perfect. Thanks for sharing this, StCirq and runningtab. Wouldn't that be a nice GTG!

What a great ending to this story. Congratulations, StCirq.

Congrats
Bilbo

Fantastic ending to a great story,
Much happiness to the two of you in your beloved home,

Wonderful things do happen, but only to wonderful people. This is a really a love story that has absorbed my attention as I, too, am smitten with the much of the Dordogne and would live there in a hearbeat if circumstances permitted it. Congratulations to you both.

Well, on my side, yes, there is a love story here - two, in fact. One for St.Cirq, the person (blush), the other for St. Cirq, the place.

How much luckier can a ramblin' man get?

Join us. Mops, brooms and Bergerac sec on the house.

End note:

Just got back from the Dr.'s office. Turns out the MRI shows a fracture (which the X-rays missed)!

I've been walking on a broken ankle for 3.5 months!

Beautiful story. Glad it is all working out so well

Good luck with the ankle.

This was awesome to read!

Does that just mean a cast, or will they have to go in to fix the damage that grinding those broken bones together might have caused?

I think I'm probably looking at surgery, nukesafe. A fracture of the calcaneus and four "large" framents, which I take to mean pieces that broke off and are floating around.

I've never had surgery

No wonder you were having such a tough go of it! Any idea how long recovery will take for this repair, St.Cirq? I am sad to hear this. No one likes being sidelined for so long. What a shame.

I have no idea, kansas. First time I've ever broken anything, and I haven't seen an orthopedist yet. I sure hope it's not another 3.5 months, though!

Ouch! Ouch! Definitely need to get that properly repaired, and find a good physical therapist now, not after the cast comes off.

Good grief, terrible news. One has to wonder why no MRI to begin with, yes?

Good luck with this. If you happen to end up in Annapolis for the surgery, please let me know--I'll come visit.

One has to wonder why no MRI to begin with, yes?

standard of practice and cost?

Fortunately runningtab has an excellent physical therapist, so we've got that covered.
TDude, MRIs are expensive procedures; I think the first step is usually X-rays, as they're easy and relatively cheap. Don't think I'll end up in Annapolis, but will let you know, and thank you!

Oh no! At least you know what you are dealing with now, but oh dear.

I went 8 months after falling off a horse before they discovered I had fractured four vertebrae. Seems hard to believe, but apparently these things are harder to figure out sometimes than you might think. I wish you the very best with this!

That's amazing, Toucan2. I'm still astounded that my X-rays were read badly, and that I was allowed to ramble around for 3.5 months with a broken ankle! I guess it's partly my fault for reporting "no pain," but really, with "four large fragments" floating around in my foot, you'd think the mecids would get a clue.

Amazing end to your trip, amazing beginning to re-newed life in France.

Get the ankle sorted and get over here.

We are maybe three hours south of St Cirq, come on down once you're settled.

You're on, Cath! Or maybe you'd like to join us in March-April for what seems to be turning into a bit of a Fodors GTG. Either way, will be a good time!

I'll be tracking the GTG, would love to do that.

Just catching up after being on vacation last week.

Wow! I heard some of the details at the GTG, but not about P & C - how wonderful!

Good luck with your ankle - at least you finally know what you're dealing with - I'm sure you'll heal right up!

And I will definitely be keeping an eye out for future GTGs in the Dordogne...

Great story(ies), all around. Thank you.

I am astounded ! Yestravel recently told me to read this 'Not a Trip Report' - and I read the entire story today, in one sitting. And I am so glad I did (thank you, yestravel). StCirq, I knew you had a house in Perigord,and was interested in that, particularly as my family have had country houses in the Loire Valley, but the texture and context of this adventure, complicated with dealing with a physical problem,is extraordinary. The counter point of StCirq and runningtab definitely adds spice and humor to the unfolding of this terrific tale. I am so delighted for you both to have found friends willing and able to help you keep this house that obviously means so very much to you - and well it should. Felicitations ! Looking forward to seeing some more of those photos and videos.

Thanks, Marnie.

I really enjoyed talking with you at the GTG about your French connections. If you're going to be in France in March or April, let us know (or just plan to come to the Périgord anyway)!

I did just a few days ago manage to retrieve the chip from the digital camera I dropped in a basin of water while in France, and - amazingly - all my photos are still on it (not that I took very many). I'll try to organize and post them sometime soon.

So glad you will be keeping the house! Thank you for the interesting report.

You're welcome, rosetravels. I love, love, love writing about my trips to France, and knowing I'll be keeping the house is the greatest gift ever!

I will be in France, probably in July, so won't interesect with your time there; c'est domage ! I spent about 10 days in the Dordogne as a solo(but younger) traveller and found it fascinating.....so no surprise that you fell in love with it some 20 years ago and SO was taken with it this year.

Again, I am so very happy that your real estate situation will work to you advantage. Now to focus on that foot !!

Super that the camera chip is intact! Perhaps you don't remember me writing you a fan thread many moons ago saying that you should be a writer? Your reply that you are is revealed yet again. Have you thought about publishing this adventure?

Hi, TDude.

I've more than thought about it...it's in the works. It's a LOT of work, though, takes some time.

Excellent. Hey, it took Julia Childs 10 years.

HI StCirq - just found your "non-report". Am looking forward to reading about your recent dordogne visit.

Hi, Piccolina, this IS the report about my most recent visit. Will be going back this spring, though.

I went to see a silly farcical film today called "Vive La France" about two would-be terrorists from "Taboulistan" who come to France to blow up the Eiffel Tower just so that people will talk about their completely unknown country.

Their plane has to land in Corsica for technical reasons, and they are terrorized by the Corsicans, then they get to Marseille and are terrorized by the people of Marseille and then they get to Toulouse are are also terrorized by the people from there. But they have met a nice lady journalist by then after one of them has had a kidney removed by accident in a medical malpractice incident (rather than having his broken nose fixed after the Marseille problems). She takes them to St. Cirq La Popie on the 14th of July and they totally fall in love with France -- a very significant part of the movie takes place there.

I will not reveal whether they finally blow up the Eiffel Tower or not because I am against spoilers.

So funny kerouac! We have seen posters for this movie (that and the new Die Hard movie) all over the Paris metro. Was wondering what it was about. I'm intrigued now, but I guess we'll never know as we fly home tomorrow from our incredible whirlwind Paris trip. Wonder if it will ever make it to the US?

How about that, kerouac! Hope it's still playing when stcirq and runningtab get over there.

Except that I don't even like St-Cirq-Lapopie!

Sounds like a hilarious movie, though.