Notes from the Perigord 4
Apr 3rd, 2004, 12:53 PM
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Notes from the Perigord 4
Someone has stolen my flannel pyjamas and I cannot contain my outrage. I ascertained this yesterday when I cleaned out every nook and cranny of the house to get my donations to the vide-grenier ready. Who could do such a thing? Who would? I have had those pyjamas here since 1993. I have scrunched up in them before a few hundred fires, dreampt a thousand Dordogne dreams in them, read a hundred books in them, cuddled with my kids in them. They have disappeared, and somewhere there is a culprit. You know who you are. And thanks to you, I had a restless night full of flannel-snatching dreams, and could not drag myself out of bed until 8:45 this morning.
By that time, what started out as a glorious day has taken a turn for the worse, and the skies are quickly filling up with dark clouds. I have lots of pots of flowers to plant today, and I don't feel like doing that in the rain. I recharge my Orange cell phone and leave it on the counter while I shower and get dressed, nursing an extra-large bowl of coffee because I've lost my precious flannels. When I descend to the kitchen a half-hour later, I pick up the phone and there's a text message on it that says "insert SIM card." Hmmmmm...I haven't taken the SIM card OUT, so how can I insert it? The phone is stuck. It won't do anything until I insert that SIM card.
This unexpected twist plans my day for me. I'm going into Sarlat to the Orange store to get the phone fixed. That's ok - I can use a Sarlat fix as well as the next person. It spits rain on and off as I navigate the curvy, hilly road to Sarlat, but it seems as though the weather isn't going to get much worse. As I go around the roundabout at the entrance to town, I suddenly realize it's market day. And it's 10:30 a.m., so it will be almost impossible to find parking. This is clearly all the fault of that ghastly wretch who stole my pyjamas.
After circling for awhile I eventually find a quasi-legal spot and head to the Orange store. It's set up in such a mystifying way I never know where to go once inside. There's an "Espace Professionelle," a large cubicle that employees duck in and out of periodically. Then there's an "Apres-Service" cubicle, which is (uh-oh!) closed Saturdays - from various signs and brochures I come across, it seems as though Apres Service is anything you need once you've already purchased a phone and Orange service, and that would of course be me. Then there's a checkout counter with a cash register - self-explanatory. But then there are these high round tables, like the ones you stand at at airport bars, each with a computer on it. Occasionally a customer and an employee will come together at one of these tables and the employee will appear to be helping the customer. But then there are employees wandering around the floor and ducking into the Espace Professionelle, and there are customers all over the store, too, so you understand my confusion.
Eventually, I see an employee wander over to one of the computer tables without a customer at his side, so I go up and explain my problem. He looks up my account and verifies that I have just purchased a Mobicarte and have plenty of minutes left on the phone and that I have indeed recharged the phone. I ask him what the problem could be.
"Aucune idee, Madame." He opens the phone, takes out the SIM card, reinserts the SIM card, calls my phone from his phone, and it rings. Hands me back the phone and says
"Voila." Will I have any further problems with the phone? He doesn't know. He hopes not. But it's important that it work, because I'm going to be on the road and need to be in touch with family and office. Well, he wishes me the best.
And so, with an uncertain cell phone future and still suffering deeply from my flannel loss, I do what one can only do in such circumstances - shop. First I buy myself a gorgeous silver bracelet and matching ring with a nautilus shaped polished bit of white shell in each. Another customer at the same stall compliments my choice, shows me the necklace that she's wearing that she bought from the same vendor, tells me I will never regret my decision, then adds "je pourrais faire sa publicite." I think to myself that that's probably exactly what she's doing, but I'm feeling better already. Then I buy a tourmaline bracelet for my daughter, vinegars (honey-walnut and raspberry-walnut) for my son the vinaigrettiste, a pair of earrings, and a silver ring for my daughter, some gaudy Indian pens for my son, some walnut oil suntan lotion (will it stain?), and some walnut bonbons.. I stop to chat with *MY* Cheese Guy and relieve him of two fresh cabecous. I take a few photos, buy a can of iced tea, and wander the market. Good Lord, I'm feeling SO much better!
Now it's back to Le Bugue, where I have an appointment to drop off the stuff for the vide-grenier. I wait in the parking lot of the municipal parking lot, and within a few minutes, Madame P. comes roaring around the corner. She's a perky sort and is effusive with the thanks. She tells me that apart from one other person, and parents at the school, I am the only one who called to make a donation. I tell her it's a good deal for me too, to get rid of all these things I don't need and that I'll be sure to stop by in the morning. She laughs and cautions me not to buy back my own stuff because that would be such a waste. Not to worry.
Then to the Bricomarche to buy another pot of Marguerites, yellow ones this time. Jeanette is haranguing an old lady for not letting her know before she got to the cash register that she needed to have some curtains cut (you select from long rolls of different types of lace and then have it cut to whatever length you need). Then to the Intermarche to pick up my discount card, which is finally ready, and pick up supplies to stock the house with before my departure. Then home to plant - little white daisies mixed with Johnny-Jump-Ups in the bowl-shaped pots at the front door, the gorgeous purple Marguerites flanking the stairs to the terrace, a blooming pink azalea in the big pot, and the yellow Marguerites in the corner by the garage. The geraniums will have to wait. My neighbor will plant them later in the season.
Time for a long gossip with the neighbor. As I head down the lane, Nestou emerges. Good timing, because I want to know how the sale of the grotte is coming. He doesn't have a buyer yet, but "some Japanese" are interested. This from the man who once told me that he hated it when Japanese tourists showed up to visit the grotte. He's an odd duck, Nestou. He comes from Marseille originally, and has had a passion for prehistory all his life. He's also had a passion for other things, as any woman who ever entered that cave with him has found out, but I digress. He bought the cave from the French government in 1965 (why they sold it, I don't know), but the government has some interest in it still. I've been told that when he replaced the lauze roof two years ago (VERY expensive proposition, involving skilled workers of which there are only a few left in the region), the government paid a good portion of the costs. I ask him if the government is still interested in it, and he says yes, but they are waiting until he has an offer. I guess they have a preemptive right to buy it and are waiting to see who bids what. At 1 million euros, I don't know that many people will bite. Plus, Nestou wants to continue to live in the little cottage on the property, and frankly, that could be a significant negative factor. The man does not bathe. He also has a bunch of rather mangy, underfed dogs, at least one of which gets pregnant every year. He drowns all but one of the puppies every year, thus ensuring he always has a new dog. If it were me paying a million euros for a grotte, I think I'd want a bit of a tidier atmosphere around the place.
My neighbor and I mull all this over and she fills me in on what's going on in the commune. Her general take on things is that everything's going to hell in a handbasket. Petty theft and worse are common now, the young have no regard for anything. Her pension is so small she's afraid to leave the house lest she spend any money. Since the introduction of the euro, prices have skyrocketed. She refuses to go to the Intermarche anymore because of the prices. As for the grotte, she'd be just as happy if it closed up. If the government buys it, that means she's paying for it, because "l'etat, c'est nous," and that's not how she wants to spend her money. The government ought to be looking after her, not some cave.
While we're chatting, the churchbells ring down in the chapel. It's time for Saturday evening Mass in St-Cirq. The church bells hardly ever ring when I'm here, and if they do it's usually for a funeral. I love the sound of them resonating down the valley. Cars are arriving below and I can see clusters of people heading by the pond to the church entrance. In such a small village, with no commerce, this is an event. I consider walking down and hearing the Mass, but I'm in my gardening clothes and by the time I clean up it will be rude to walk into such a small church. So I just enjoy the sounds of happy chatter until everyone has gone inside.
No fire tonight, as I need to clean out the fireplace in the morning and don't want to have to wait for embers to cool. Nice bottle of Duc de Landry Pecharmant, though, and a full moon and a clearing sky outside. The cuckoos are calling, and there's a stinkbug as loud as a lawnmower in one of the hanging lamps in the kitchen, so I'd best be going.
By that time, what started out as a glorious day has taken a turn for the worse, and the skies are quickly filling up with dark clouds. I have lots of pots of flowers to plant today, and I don't feel like doing that in the rain. I recharge my Orange cell phone and leave it on the counter while I shower and get dressed, nursing an extra-large bowl of coffee because I've lost my precious flannels. When I descend to the kitchen a half-hour later, I pick up the phone and there's a text message on it that says "insert SIM card." Hmmmmm...I haven't taken the SIM card OUT, so how can I insert it? The phone is stuck. It won't do anything until I insert that SIM card.
This unexpected twist plans my day for me. I'm going into Sarlat to the Orange store to get the phone fixed. That's ok - I can use a Sarlat fix as well as the next person. It spits rain on and off as I navigate the curvy, hilly road to Sarlat, but it seems as though the weather isn't going to get much worse. As I go around the roundabout at the entrance to town, I suddenly realize it's market day. And it's 10:30 a.m., so it will be almost impossible to find parking. This is clearly all the fault of that ghastly wretch who stole my pyjamas.
After circling for awhile I eventually find a quasi-legal spot and head to the Orange store. It's set up in such a mystifying way I never know where to go once inside. There's an "Espace Professionelle," a large cubicle that employees duck in and out of periodically. Then there's an "Apres-Service" cubicle, which is (uh-oh!) closed Saturdays - from various signs and brochures I come across, it seems as though Apres Service is anything you need once you've already purchased a phone and Orange service, and that would of course be me. Then there's a checkout counter with a cash register - self-explanatory. But then there are these high round tables, like the ones you stand at at airport bars, each with a computer on it. Occasionally a customer and an employee will come together at one of these tables and the employee will appear to be helping the customer. But then there are employees wandering around the floor and ducking into the Espace Professionelle, and there are customers all over the store, too, so you understand my confusion.
Eventually, I see an employee wander over to one of the computer tables without a customer at his side, so I go up and explain my problem. He looks up my account and verifies that I have just purchased a Mobicarte and have plenty of minutes left on the phone and that I have indeed recharged the phone. I ask him what the problem could be.
"Aucune idee, Madame." He opens the phone, takes out the SIM card, reinserts the SIM card, calls my phone from his phone, and it rings. Hands me back the phone and says
"Voila." Will I have any further problems with the phone? He doesn't know. He hopes not. But it's important that it work, because I'm going to be on the road and need to be in touch with family and office. Well, he wishes me the best.
And so, with an uncertain cell phone future and still suffering deeply from my flannel loss, I do what one can only do in such circumstances - shop. First I buy myself a gorgeous silver bracelet and matching ring with a nautilus shaped polished bit of white shell in each. Another customer at the same stall compliments my choice, shows me the necklace that she's wearing that she bought from the same vendor, tells me I will never regret my decision, then adds "je pourrais faire sa publicite." I think to myself that that's probably exactly what she's doing, but I'm feeling better already. Then I buy a tourmaline bracelet for my daughter, vinegars (honey-walnut and raspberry-walnut) for my son the vinaigrettiste, a pair of earrings, and a silver ring for my daughter, some gaudy Indian pens for my son, some walnut oil suntan lotion (will it stain?), and some walnut bonbons.. I stop to chat with *MY* Cheese Guy and relieve him of two fresh cabecous. I take a few photos, buy a can of iced tea, and wander the market. Good Lord, I'm feeling SO much better!
Now it's back to Le Bugue, where I have an appointment to drop off the stuff for the vide-grenier. I wait in the parking lot of the municipal parking lot, and within a few minutes, Madame P. comes roaring around the corner. She's a perky sort and is effusive with the thanks. She tells me that apart from one other person, and parents at the school, I am the only one who called to make a donation. I tell her it's a good deal for me too, to get rid of all these things I don't need and that I'll be sure to stop by in the morning. She laughs and cautions me not to buy back my own stuff because that would be such a waste. Not to worry.
Then to the Bricomarche to buy another pot of Marguerites, yellow ones this time. Jeanette is haranguing an old lady for not letting her know before she got to the cash register that she needed to have some curtains cut (you select from long rolls of different types of lace and then have it cut to whatever length you need). Then to the Intermarche to pick up my discount card, which is finally ready, and pick up supplies to stock the house with before my departure. Then home to plant - little white daisies mixed with Johnny-Jump-Ups in the bowl-shaped pots at the front door, the gorgeous purple Marguerites flanking the stairs to the terrace, a blooming pink azalea in the big pot, and the yellow Marguerites in the corner by the garage. The geraniums will have to wait. My neighbor will plant them later in the season.
Time for a long gossip with the neighbor. As I head down the lane, Nestou emerges. Good timing, because I want to know how the sale of the grotte is coming. He doesn't have a buyer yet, but "some Japanese" are interested. This from the man who once told me that he hated it when Japanese tourists showed up to visit the grotte. He's an odd duck, Nestou. He comes from Marseille originally, and has had a passion for prehistory all his life. He's also had a passion for other things, as any woman who ever entered that cave with him has found out, but I digress. He bought the cave from the French government in 1965 (why they sold it, I don't know), but the government has some interest in it still. I've been told that when he replaced the lauze roof two years ago (VERY expensive proposition, involving skilled workers of which there are only a few left in the region), the government paid a good portion of the costs. I ask him if the government is still interested in it, and he says yes, but they are waiting until he has an offer. I guess they have a preemptive right to buy it and are waiting to see who bids what. At 1 million euros, I don't know that many people will bite. Plus, Nestou wants to continue to live in the little cottage on the property, and frankly, that could be a significant negative factor. The man does not bathe. He also has a bunch of rather mangy, underfed dogs, at least one of which gets pregnant every year. He drowns all but one of the puppies every year, thus ensuring he always has a new dog. If it were me paying a million euros for a grotte, I think I'd want a bit of a tidier atmosphere around the place.
My neighbor and I mull all this over and she fills me in on what's going on in the commune. Her general take on things is that everything's going to hell in a handbasket. Petty theft and worse are common now, the young have no regard for anything. Her pension is so small she's afraid to leave the house lest she spend any money. Since the introduction of the euro, prices have skyrocketed. She refuses to go to the Intermarche anymore because of the prices. As for the grotte, she'd be just as happy if it closed up. If the government buys it, that means she's paying for it, because "l'etat, c'est nous," and that's not how she wants to spend her money. The government ought to be looking after her, not some cave.
While we're chatting, the churchbells ring down in the chapel. It's time for Saturday evening Mass in St-Cirq. The church bells hardly ever ring when I'm here, and if they do it's usually for a funeral. I love the sound of them resonating down the valley. Cars are arriving below and I can see clusters of people heading by the pond to the church entrance. In such a small village, with no commerce, this is an event. I consider walking down and hearing the Mass, but I'm in my gardening clothes and by the time I clean up it will be rude to walk into such a small church. So I just enjoy the sounds of happy chatter until everyone has gone inside.
No fire tonight, as I need to clean out the fireplace in the morning and don't want to have to wait for embers to cool. Nice bottle of Duc de Landry Pecharmant, though, and a full moon and a clearing sky outside. The cuckoos are calling, and there's a stinkbug as loud as a lawnmower in one of the hanging lamps in the kitchen, so I'd best be going.
Apr 3rd, 2004, 01:10 PM
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The only thing that keeps me from jumping on a plane NOW and flying to France is knowing that I'm going at the end of the month.
Must you torture us so? Have you no shame?!?!
Keep it coming StCirq. Your posts are the highlight of my day.
Must you torture us so? Have you no shame?!?!
Keep it coming StCirq. Your posts are the highlight of my day.
Apr 3rd, 2004, 03:10 PM
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Thank goodness the Dordogne is the main part of our trip this June...I would have to find some Parisian gangsta taxi drivers to come after you otherwise!!!!
I wonder where the woman shops who says prices at the Intermarche' have gone up since the euro? Any ideas?? They seemed fairly reasonable to me last summer.
Do you think the bells were ringing because it is Palm Sunday? I would love to visit one of those little churches in the next week.
Great to read your post St cirq..have a most wonderful time, as we are sure you will!!
I wonder where the woman shops who says prices at the Intermarche' have gone up since the euro? Any ideas?? They seemed fairly reasonable to me last summer.
Do you think the bells were ringing because it is Palm Sunday? I would love to visit one of those little churches in the next week.
Great to read your post St cirq..have a most wonderful time, as we are sure you will!!
Apr 3rd, 2004, 09:23 PM
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From <<pissenlits>> to pj's, I am at least as enthralled with this series as with anything cable has to offer (even Six Feet Under!)
StCirq, your phraseologic talent perfectly complements your gift of discerning joyousness.
StCirq, your phraseologic talent perfectly complements your gift of discerning joyousness.
Apr 4th, 2004, 06:48 AM
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Wren: My neighbor shops at the Leader Price, which is less expensive, but a rather depressing little place. She also has a jardin potager, and you know what she does with her geese............
Scarlett: If Nestou took the pyjamas, I don't want them back!
Thusfar, no one has come forward. I may have to ring the mayor.
Scarlett: If Nestou took the pyjamas, I don't want them back!
Thusfar, no one has come forward. I may have to ring the mayor.
Apr 4th, 2004, 07:03 AM
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Wren: I knew I forgot something. No, it wasn't just for Palm Sunday. The chapel in St-Cirq is on the circuit of about ten churches in the area. There's only one priest for miles around, so Mass is held in a different place each Saturday evening or Sunday morning. It was just St-Cirq's turn.
Apr 4th, 2004, 07:44 AM
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Hi StCirq,
I want to see where you are located. When I looked up St Cirq at www.multimap.com I found
SAINT CIRQ, SAINT CIRQ, 24260
SAINT CIRQ, SAINT CIRQ, 82300
SAINT CIRQ, COLAYRAC SAINT CIRQ, 47450
Which is your town?
I want to see where you are located. When I looked up St Cirq at www.multimap.com I found
SAINT CIRQ, SAINT CIRQ, 24260
SAINT CIRQ, SAINT CIRQ, 82300
SAINT CIRQ, COLAYRAC SAINT CIRQ, 47450
Which is your town?
Apr 4th, 2004, 11:21 AM
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You should have a locked closet installed in your place, StCirq. Most rental places have an owners' closet that the tenants cannot access. That obviates the need to hire Inspector Clousseau or Poirot to find missing pyjamas.
On the other hand, you could contact Sherlock Holmes. Hmm. . . . "The Case of the Missing Flannel Pyjamas".
On the other hand, you could contact Sherlock Holmes. Hmm. . . . "The Case of the Missing Flannel Pyjamas".
Apr 4th, 2004, 12:34 PM
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StCirq-I am enjoying your travails immensely and empathize with the grief on the theft of your pyjamas. My question is how did you come to own this slice of heaven with which you torture us all? How long have you owned it? I am sure that somewhere on this board is the history I inquire about but it is easier just to ask. TIA.
Apr 4th, 2004, 01:52 PM
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StCirq, Time to get a goose. That will take care of Mr Pajama Thief.
Pehaps if you go for a walk in the evening, you will surprise him walking around in some familiar flannel jammies?
Are you overlooking where the Grotto is?
Pehaps if you go for a walk in the evening, you will surprise him walking around in some familiar flannel jammies?
Are you overlooking where the Grotto is?
