Notes from the Perigord 5
Apr 4th, 2004 | 08:33 PM
#1
Original Poster
Joined: Jan 2003
Posts: 49,560
Likes: 0
Notes from the Perigord 5
Apologies if this is a second posting, but I can't find the original doing a search on my name>
Sunday morning in St-Cirq, and not a tractor to be heard, just symphonic birdsong and the occasional bark of a dog or lowing of the cows in the meadow. Coffee, shower, and I'm off to the vide-grenier, which opens at nine. The parking lot, which is the lawn of the Salle Municipale (someone's got a lot of turf work ahead of him), is almost full, though it's only minutes past the hour. Long tables line the perimeter of the room, piled high with clothes, books, hats, glassware, tins, pipes, knives, lace......all the usual odds and ends one finds at a rummage sale. Students are working at most of the tables, but there's Mme. P behind a table featuring most of my stuff. She throws me a peppy wink and thanks me for dropping by. I note that she's selling that brand new computer keyboard with the 49 euro price tag on it for 10 euros. Someone will get a good deal. There's virtually nothing here I need or want, having just rid myself of all the detritus in the house, but as I am heading out the door I spot a lampshade in the precise shade of green-gray I've got going in one of the bedrooms. And as I recall, the lamp in that room, which is one of those types that hands on a flexible cord from the ceiling, is now sporting an upside-down lampshade because I was never able to find the correct type. Well.....perfect. Fifty centimes later, it's mine.
Now to market in St-Cyprien, not because I need anything, but for purely sentimental reasons. It's my last day in the Perigord and I want to drive that beautiful road through Meyrals with the walnut groves and white pear trees, and because I want to see the faces of the market vendors one more time before I leave: the plump old man with the ruddy cheeks, Perigord blue smock, and beret who sells honey from his bees; the pushy lady with the flaming orange hair and Gaulois stuck to her lip who flogs sweaters; the tiny, bright-eyed gamine who makes her own confiture; the tall, ribald butcher with the waxed moustache who likes to joke with the ladies.............I want them all seared in my mind until the next time I return. Oh, and of course, the Cheese Guy! So I wander the length of the market three full times, making mental photocopies of faces and memorizing the details. And when I've got it stored away well enough that I'll be able to click back on it when I need it, I get back in the car and take a road back home that I've never taken before, because that's a game I play. It turns out to be a fine, high road along the crest of the hills between St-Cyprien and Le Bugue, through forest, then clearing, then back through the forest near Audrix, with its Romanesque chapel propped up with steel poles so that it doesn't fall into the road. I also like this road because it dumps me onto the road back into Le Bugue right at the parking lot for Julien de Savignac, purveyor of fine wines and regional products. Opportunity knocks, and I allow Julien to stock me with two bottles of Bergerac he highly recommends and a bag of chocolate-dusted walnuts.
Back home I go into a frenzy of housecleaning. Pick up a thousand pieces of clay pots that did not get put away over the winter and that exploded on the terrace; clean out the fireplace, a monumental task; reorganize all the cupboards in the kitchen and armoires in bedrooms, sweep and polish and mop and wax; clip some bushes by the entrance gate. In two hours, I'm done except for the bedroom and bathroom I'm using, and packing my suitcase. I need to make a trip to the dump, and I have a sudden, irresistible urge to buy green pillows for the green room, which I know is probably masking a desire to take one last drive through the countryside. It's Sunday, you see, and my chances of finding green pillows are, well, ridiculously slim. I tell myself that perhaps the LeClerc in Sarlat will be open, but that again is an excuse to make that pretty circuit to Sarlat and Vitrac and Domme and La Roque-Gageac and spend some time by the river Dordogne.
I love the dump. For one thing, it's incredibly clean and organized. For another, few things are more satisfying than hurling wine bottles into the holes in the side of the big green cylinder and hearing them smash to smithereens. It's a real incentive to drink.
It's the time of day when French families are resting after a copious Sunday lunch, so there are few cars on the road and I zip into Sarlat in 20 minutes. The LeClerc is indeed closed, so I head toward Domme. On the outskirts of town I see a GIFI store with a lot of cars in the parking lot. I have no clue what a GIFI store sells, but I pull into the driveway. It appears to be a cross between a dollar store and a Target, and it's packed on a Sunday afternoon. I wander around until I find the pillow section, and there are the precise green pillows I need - green and gold, in fact, with red undertones. They are a perfect match, and I select three of them. Then I spot some cream-colored ones that will be great on the two antique wicker chairs in another bedroom. Oh! And I'll replace that old clay pot of dried flowers in the small bedroom fireplace with a cheerful cobalt blue pot with new dried flowers. You see? I knew I could find green pillows on a Sunday in the Perigord.
On toward Domme.There's a bicycle race in progress, with cars blaring cautions for traffic to slow down. A large group of racers barrels by, then another a few minutes later, their bright jerseys and gear illuminated against the muted landscape. The route into Domme is blocked off, so I continue through Vitrac and on to La Roque-Gageac. I stop there and watch the river, which is calm and dark today. Children are throwing sticks and gleefully watching them float, their parents finishing up a picnic on a worn red blanket. I remember the first time I saw this river, and how enchanted I was by its sparkling majesty. Today it has a completely different aspect, but I'm still enthralled.
The landscape is so full of promise this time of year. Fields are ploughed and ready for planting, flowerbeds are sprouting seedlings, whole hillsides are ready to burst with buds, tools are being sharpened, work animals are growing muscle, markets are full of pousses de this and pousses de that, ruisseaux are rushing with spring rain water, and the earth is warming. I just can't absorb enough of it, and could drive in these hills forever. But before I get all choked up with sentimentality, let me tell you what I did on the stretch of road just past Beynac. Spying a walnut grove spiking up from a field of yellow wild flowers, I decide I must have a photo. So I pull into a tiny lane just past the field. Get out, take a couple of photos, get back in the car. Realize that the lane is so narrow, and the ditches so deep on either side of the car that I cannot turn around and am going to have to drive to the end of what I now realize is a driveway leading to a house. As I approach the house, a Doberman runs out and down the lane, then an Alsatian, then another Doberman, then a mutt. They are bounding toward me in a kind of cartoon ferocity, barking like mad and baring teeth. As I near the end of the driveway - and spot a bit of a space I can turn around in - someone appears on the balcony of the house, then someone else and someone else. Since I'm concentrating on the dogs, I can't really make out details of the people, but they are all shouting loudly. As the dogs crowd around the car, leaping up at the (thank GOD!) almost completely closed windows, I am assuming the people are shouting at the dogs. But wait! NO! They're shouting at ME!! Shouting vile things, like "va t' en putaine!" "Propriete prive!!" Can this be happening? Hoping with all my heart to run over one of their dogs, and with heart thumping on overload, I skid down that driveway with the dogs at the car's heels and drive home fast. So much for my bucolic wanderings.
I have a bite of dinner and then go down to Mme.L's house to talk about my departure tomorrow, make arrangements for arriving guests, etc., and end up in the midst of a full-fledged French b**chfest. Fascinating! Just as Madame pours herself and me a cup of tea, a car roars by the door, honking, and two seconds later, one of her nephews and his wife, plus two friends of theirs, rap on the door and enter. It's a surprise visit, and there are bisous and hugs all around and a lot of introductory chatter about how long it's been and how they were out touring and just had to come by and so forth. Beer is served to the men, water to the women, and the conversation turns to medical problems - who's had what operation when, and how they fared. The state of the French health system is analyzed in detail - should a doctor making house calls to three people in the same village, who only drives once back and forth and only parks once, be paid for three
"stationnements?" He does get paid for three, and that's outrageous! Should a patient who can't drive to the hospital but who doesn't qualify for an ambulance have to pay for the ambulance? Pffff!! Of course not, but you do! And how about retirement? You put in your forty years and what do you get? A pension, but not necessarily the option of living out your final years in a Maison de Retraite - hell, no, only if you're rich!!
They are all talking over each other, and it's hard to absorb five conversations at once, so I'm very quiet, concentrating, until the nephew turns to me and asks if we have the same problems in the USA. I say no, our problems are quite different. We pay less in taxes, but our level of public services is considerably lower. We don't even have the option of a doctor making a house call, let alone have to concern ourselves about whether to pay for his parking. The French medical system may be having problems, but France is still ranked either number 1 or 2 by the WHO, and the USA is no. 26 or some such. I have to pay more than 5,000 euros a year for medical insurance for my family, and that gets me into an HMO where the administrative procedures are pathetic and I have to pay a deductible for anything serious. We get two weeks' vacation a year on average, a lot of us work 50 or more hours a week, and we work until we're 65 on average. So yes, we have problems, but if you don't like your lives, I think you'd find ours even more unpleasant. And, I add, you'd probably not be too pleased with the food, either.
I've always wanted to have this conversation, but never had the occasion or the nerve. Don't know what got into me, but they were friendly, but highly opinionated, folks who seemed to be genuinely interested in what I had to say, and it just seemed like the moment to do it - and I do like to chat in French. Well, I'm glad I did. After the initial drop-jaws. the nephew's wife chimes in, saying yes, it's terrible that Americans take only two weeks' vacation on average - she's heard about tha, and how can one manage the stress level with such a paltry time-off? The nephew seems appalled at the idea that doctors don't make house calls. The other couple want to know if I would retire in France. I hope to, I tell them, if I can benefit from some of your social services, and everyone laughs.
The group disbands with hugs and bisous for everyone including me, and I make my final arrangements with Mme. L and head back up the lane. Time to file this report, but no, my old friend V calls from Paris to tell me to meet her at the Cafe de La Paix at 4 pm on the 12th of April. We have a connection going back more than 25 years - my first Parisian friend. What a perfect ending to the day. Tomorrow, to Provence. I'm thinking via Figeac because I hate the autoroute and I love that town.
Sunday morning in St-Cirq, and not a tractor to be heard, just symphonic birdsong and the occasional bark of a dog or lowing of the cows in the meadow. Coffee, shower, and I'm off to the vide-grenier, which opens at nine. The parking lot, which is the lawn of the Salle Municipale (someone's got a lot of turf work ahead of him), is almost full, though it's only minutes past the hour. Long tables line the perimeter of the room, piled high with clothes, books, hats, glassware, tins, pipes, knives, lace......all the usual odds and ends one finds at a rummage sale. Students are working at most of the tables, but there's Mme. P behind a table featuring most of my stuff. She throws me a peppy wink and thanks me for dropping by. I note that she's selling that brand new computer keyboard with the 49 euro price tag on it for 10 euros. Someone will get a good deal. There's virtually nothing here I need or want, having just rid myself of all the detritus in the house, but as I am heading out the door I spot a lampshade in the precise shade of green-gray I've got going in one of the bedrooms. And as I recall, the lamp in that room, which is one of those types that hands on a flexible cord from the ceiling, is now sporting an upside-down lampshade because I was never able to find the correct type. Well.....perfect. Fifty centimes later, it's mine.
Now to market in St-Cyprien, not because I need anything, but for purely sentimental reasons. It's my last day in the Perigord and I want to drive that beautiful road through Meyrals with the walnut groves and white pear trees, and because I want to see the faces of the market vendors one more time before I leave: the plump old man with the ruddy cheeks, Perigord blue smock, and beret who sells honey from his bees; the pushy lady with the flaming orange hair and Gaulois stuck to her lip who flogs sweaters; the tiny, bright-eyed gamine who makes her own confiture; the tall, ribald butcher with the waxed moustache who likes to joke with the ladies.............I want them all seared in my mind until the next time I return. Oh, and of course, the Cheese Guy! So I wander the length of the market three full times, making mental photocopies of faces and memorizing the details. And when I've got it stored away well enough that I'll be able to click back on it when I need it, I get back in the car and take a road back home that I've never taken before, because that's a game I play. It turns out to be a fine, high road along the crest of the hills between St-Cyprien and Le Bugue, through forest, then clearing, then back through the forest near Audrix, with its Romanesque chapel propped up with steel poles so that it doesn't fall into the road. I also like this road because it dumps me onto the road back into Le Bugue right at the parking lot for Julien de Savignac, purveyor of fine wines and regional products. Opportunity knocks, and I allow Julien to stock me with two bottles of Bergerac he highly recommends and a bag of chocolate-dusted walnuts.
Back home I go into a frenzy of housecleaning. Pick up a thousand pieces of clay pots that did not get put away over the winter and that exploded on the terrace; clean out the fireplace, a monumental task; reorganize all the cupboards in the kitchen and armoires in bedrooms, sweep and polish and mop and wax; clip some bushes by the entrance gate. In two hours, I'm done except for the bedroom and bathroom I'm using, and packing my suitcase. I need to make a trip to the dump, and I have a sudden, irresistible urge to buy green pillows for the green room, which I know is probably masking a desire to take one last drive through the countryside. It's Sunday, you see, and my chances of finding green pillows are, well, ridiculously slim. I tell myself that perhaps the LeClerc in Sarlat will be open, but that again is an excuse to make that pretty circuit to Sarlat and Vitrac and Domme and La Roque-Gageac and spend some time by the river Dordogne.
I love the dump. For one thing, it's incredibly clean and organized. For another, few things are more satisfying than hurling wine bottles into the holes in the side of the big green cylinder and hearing them smash to smithereens. It's a real incentive to drink.
It's the time of day when French families are resting after a copious Sunday lunch, so there are few cars on the road and I zip into Sarlat in 20 minutes. The LeClerc is indeed closed, so I head toward Domme. On the outskirts of town I see a GIFI store with a lot of cars in the parking lot. I have no clue what a GIFI store sells, but I pull into the driveway. It appears to be a cross between a dollar store and a Target, and it's packed on a Sunday afternoon. I wander around until I find the pillow section, and there are the precise green pillows I need - green and gold, in fact, with red undertones. They are a perfect match, and I select three of them. Then I spot some cream-colored ones that will be great on the two antique wicker chairs in another bedroom. Oh! And I'll replace that old clay pot of dried flowers in the small bedroom fireplace with a cheerful cobalt blue pot with new dried flowers. You see? I knew I could find green pillows on a Sunday in the Perigord.
On toward Domme.There's a bicycle race in progress, with cars blaring cautions for traffic to slow down. A large group of racers barrels by, then another a few minutes later, their bright jerseys and gear illuminated against the muted landscape. The route into Domme is blocked off, so I continue through Vitrac and on to La Roque-Gageac. I stop there and watch the river, which is calm and dark today. Children are throwing sticks and gleefully watching them float, their parents finishing up a picnic on a worn red blanket. I remember the first time I saw this river, and how enchanted I was by its sparkling majesty. Today it has a completely different aspect, but I'm still enthralled.
The landscape is so full of promise this time of year. Fields are ploughed and ready for planting, flowerbeds are sprouting seedlings, whole hillsides are ready to burst with buds, tools are being sharpened, work animals are growing muscle, markets are full of pousses de this and pousses de that, ruisseaux are rushing with spring rain water, and the earth is warming. I just can't absorb enough of it, and could drive in these hills forever. But before I get all choked up with sentimentality, let me tell you what I did on the stretch of road just past Beynac. Spying a walnut grove spiking up from a field of yellow wild flowers, I decide I must have a photo. So I pull into a tiny lane just past the field. Get out, take a couple of photos, get back in the car. Realize that the lane is so narrow, and the ditches so deep on either side of the car that I cannot turn around and am going to have to drive to the end of what I now realize is a driveway leading to a house. As I approach the house, a Doberman runs out and down the lane, then an Alsatian, then another Doberman, then a mutt. They are bounding toward me in a kind of cartoon ferocity, barking like mad and baring teeth. As I near the end of the driveway - and spot a bit of a space I can turn around in - someone appears on the balcony of the house, then someone else and someone else. Since I'm concentrating on the dogs, I can't really make out details of the people, but they are all shouting loudly. As the dogs crowd around the car, leaping up at the (thank GOD!) almost completely closed windows, I am assuming the people are shouting at the dogs. But wait! NO! They're shouting at ME!! Shouting vile things, like "va t' en putaine!" "Propriete prive!!" Can this be happening? Hoping with all my heart to run over one of their dogs, and with heart thumping on overload, I skid down that driveway with the dogs at the car's heels and drive home fast. So much for my bucolic wanderings.
I have a bite of dinner and then go down to Mme.L's house to talk about my departure tomorrow, make arrangements for arriving guests, etc., and end up in the midst of a full-fledged French b**chfest. Fascinating! Just as Madame pours herself and me a cup of tea, a car roars by the door, honking, and two seconds later, one of her nephews and his wife, plus two friends of theirs, rap on the door and enter. It's a surprise visit, and there are bisous and hugs all around and a lot of introductory chatter about how long it's been and how they were out touring and just had to come by and so forth. Beer is served to the men, water to the women, and the conversation turns to medical problems - who's had what operation when, and how they fared. The state of the French health system is analyzed in detail - should a doctor making house calls to three people in the same village, who only drives once back and forth and only parks once, be paid for three
"stationnements?" He does get paid for three, and that's outrageous! Should a patient who can't drive to the hospital but who doesn't qualify for an ambulance have to pay for the ambulance? Pffff!! Of course not, but you do! And how about retirement? You put in your forty years and what do you get? A pension, but not necessarily the option of living out your final years in a Maison de Retraite - hell, no, only if you're rich!!
They are all talking over each other, and it's hard to absorb five conversations at once, so I'm very quiet, concentrating, until the nephew turns to me and asks if we have the same problems in the USA. I say no, our problems are quite different. We pay less in taxes, but our level of public services is considerably lower. We don't even have the option of a doctor making a house call, let alone have to concern ourselves about whether to pay for his parking. The French medical system may be having problems, but France is still ranked either number 1 or 2 by the WHO, and the USA is no. 26 or some such. I have to pay more than 5,000 euros a year for medical insurance for my family, and that gets me into an HMO where the administrative procedures are pathetic and I have to pay a deductible for anything serious. We get two weeks' vacation a year on average, a lot of us work 50 or more hours a week, and we work until we're 65 on average. So yes, we have problems, but if you don't like your lives, I think you'd find ours even more unpleasant. And, I add, you'd probably not be too pleased with the food, either.
I've always wanted to have this conversation, but never had the occasion or the nerve. Don't know what got into me, but they were friendly, but highly opinionated, folks who seemed to be genuinely interested in what I had to say, and it just seemed like the moment to do it - and I do like to chat in French. Well, I'm glad I did. After the initial drop-jaws. the nephew's wife chimes in, saying yes, it's terrible that Americans take only two weeks' vacation on average - she's heard about tha, and how can one manage the stress level with such a paltry time-off? The nephew seems appalled at the idea that doctors don't make house calls. The other couple want to know if I would retire in France. I hope to, I tell them, if I can benefit from some of your social services, and everyone laughs.
The group disbands with hugs and bisous for everyone including me, and I make my final arrangements with Mme. L and head back up the lane. Time to file this report, but no, my old friend V calls from Paris to tell me to meet her at the Cafe de La Paix at 4 pm on the 12th of April. We have a connection going back more than 25 years - my first Parisian friend. What a perfect ending to the day. Tomorrow, to Provence. I'm thinking via Figeac because I hate the autoroute and I love that town.
Apr 5th, 2004 | 12:40 AM
#2
Joined: Apr 2003
Posts: 422
Likes: 0
Went to bed too early, then woke up just after 4 AM here in Florida, StCirq, and was delighted to discover this fifth installment of your report.
As I'm the first Fodorite to post a reply, possibly the first to read it, I feel like I just struck gold. Truly, that's how good your stuff is!
You're such an intrepid adventurer, ready to take on any unexplored road. How your spirit must swell as you absorb every new sight, and how beautifully you describe what you see!
Having unwrapped this latest gift from you, it's now back to bed for me, with your travels for dreams. Thanks, kiddo!
As I'm the first Fodorite to post a reply, possibly the first to read it, I feel like I just struck gold. Truly, that's how good your stuff is!
You're such an intrepid adventurer, ready to take on any unexplored road. How your spirit must swell as you absorb every new sight, and how beautifully you describe what you see!
Having unwrapped this latest gift from you, it's now back to bed for me, with your travels for dreams. Thanks, kiddo!
Apr 5th, 2004 | 03:15 AM
#3
Joined: Jan 2003
Posts: 1,171
Likes: 0
I was about to *beg* for no. 5 and here it is -- thankyou thankyou thankyou thankyou !!!!
I'd be envious except envy is for when you think something isn't deserved -- I know you have worked hard [and continue to do so] to have this part of your life -- and thanks again for being so generous with it
I'd be envious except envy is for when you think something isn't deserved -- I know you have worked hard [and continue to do so] to have this part of your life -- and thanks again for being so generous with it
Apr 5th, 2004 | 06:16 AM
#5
Joined: Jan 2003
Posts: 74,699
Likes: 0
>So yes, we have problems, but if you don't like your lives, I think you'd find ours even more unpleasant. And, I add, you'd probably not be too pleased with the food, either.<
There it is. The difference between being French and American in one short paragraph.
Wonderful report, St Cirq.
There it is. The difference between being French and American in one short paragraph.
Wonderful report, St Cirq.
Apr 5th, 2004 | 06:46 AM
#6
Joined: Jan 2003
Posts: 1,962
Likes: 0
Yeah, their kids would be really disappointed in our employer's "arbre de Noel" too! Thanks for another great read.
Do give lots of yummy imagery of Figeac. We will be there for the first time in September and I can hardly wait!
Do give lots of yummy imagery of Figeac. We will be there for the first time in September and I can hardly wait!
Scarlett
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Apr 5th, 2004 | 02:59 PM
#10
Joined: Aug 2003
Posts: 4,464
Likes: 0
Thanks St. Cirq. I am planning a weekend in the Dordogne late April/early May and these reports are a wonderful introduction to the region.
Scarlett: I hope you have a suitable bottle standing by to accompany the feast
regards ...Ger
Scarlett: I hope you have a suitable bottle standing by to accompany the feast
regards ...Ger
Apr 6th, 2004 | 01:01 AM
#12
Original Poster
Joined: Jan 2003
Posts: 49,560
Likes: 0
Nope, the PJs never surfaced. I hope whoever has them is enjoying them.
Spent all day yesterday cutting a huge swath across the Hexagon, driving the slow route to Provence - Gourdon, Figeac (sorry, I didn't stop, but it's still lovely),Rodez, Millau (the new bridge there is absolutely astonishing!), Montpellier, then hit a huge backup on the A-9, so went into Montpellier and over to the N113, where I promptly ran into a 5-car pile-up that held me up for an hour, then horrible traffic in and around Arles, which is preparing for the Feria to begin Friday. Long story short - 8 hours in the car and a big crick in my neck.
Probably won't be posting much in the next couple of days, as I'm giving a tour of Aigues-Mortes today and PBProvence and are giving cooking lessons tomorrow, but will keep writing and eventually fill you all in.
Bonjour a tous de Provence!
Spent all day yesterday cutting a huge swath across the Hexagon, driving the slow route to Provence - Gourdon, Figeac (sorry, I didn't stop, but it's still lovely),Rodez, Millau (the new bridge there is absolutely astonishing!), Montpellier, then hit a huge backup on the A-9, so went into Montpellier and over to the N113, where I promptly ran into a 5-car pile-up that held me up for an hour, then horrible traffic in and around Arles, which is preparing for the Feria to begin Friday. Long story short - 8 hours in the car and a big crick in my neck.
Probably won't be posting much in the next couple of days, as I'm giving a tour of Aigues-Mortes today and PBProvence and are giving cooking lessons tomorrow, but will keep writing and eventually fill you all in.
Bonjour a tous de Provence!
