Not a Trip Report - France
Oct 4th, 2012, 02:10 AM
#163
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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?
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?
Oct 4th, 2012, 09:04 AM
#166
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.
I'm pretty sure how this wonderful story is going to end, but there is still a bit of suspense left.
Oct 4th, 2012, 01:55 PM
#171
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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.
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.
Oct 4th, 2012, 03:16 PM
#173
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<i>"...I notice a sign by the teller’s window that says no one in the bank has any access to cash."</i>
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.
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.
Oct 4th, 2012, 03:28 PM
#175
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"...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".
They are informing wannabe bank robbers that there is no point in attempting to get money".
Oct 4th, 2012, 05:16 PM
#177
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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 hope that you can keep your beautiful home and build new memories with your SO.
Oct 4th, 2012, 06:17 PM
#178
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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.
