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A Short Tour of the Lozere

First of all, I want to be clear that I took almost 70 pictures this past Thursday, when Patrick took me on a somewhat impromptu tour of our area of the Lozere. However, when I got home and transferred those pictures from my camera to my computer, I somehow managed to lose about half of them, so that the photo album I published on Facebook only goes through our first two stops on the "tour". I sometimes despair at my obvious lack of technological skill. It's frustrating. So, I'll do my best to tell you about it.

First stop after leaving home was the above rock formation, which is pretty much literally right outside our village. It's called Sabot de Gargantua (I think), which means someting along the lines of "Giant's Shoe" or "Giant's Clog". I personally don't really see the shoe part - I thought it looked more like a dump truck froma distance, but hey - whatever. It lets you get a good look over the lower part of our valley, and people actually rock climb down the face of the cliff at its base - scary!

Many wind-y roads later, past quiet fields with cows, horses, and even sheep, we climbed to a place called Point Sublime, which is a touristy little overlook (complete with snack bar and those weird coin-operated viewer thingies) that sits at one end of les Gorges du Tarn, which is France's answer to the Grand Canyon. This lookout point is breathtaking - waaaaaayyyy at the bottom, you see the Tarn River snaking along the valley floor, and around it rise the green and craggy sides of the gorge. It's not quite the scale of the Grand Canyon, but much more verdant, and impressive even so. From Point Sublime you can see for miles and miles - the rolling landscape seems to go on forever. You look at all the crags of grey rock pushing up out of the hillsides, making shadows and hidey-holes in the green hills, and you can immediately understand why this area of the country was such a haven to members of the Resistance during WWII. If you were a native, who could find you here?

We pushed on next to La Malene, which is one of the "anchors" of the Gorges due Tarn. It's a pleasant little tourist town that obviously trades all year on its summer business. Many of the buildings spring right out of the cliff sides here, and there are multiple companies offering canoe rentals, boat rides, river tours, etc. Patrick and I enjoyed a quick coffee on a sunny cafe balcony, and enjoyed the quiet. There were some early tourists from Germany prowling about, but we were the only patrons of the cafe, and watching the river roll by in the sun was relaxing.

Now, on to the portion of the trip for which the pictures mysteriously disappeared. We were hungry, and Patrick thought we would go on to another "hot spot" for Gorges tourism, a very small village called St. Chely due Tarn. The road to get there was very narrow, and curved all over the place, following the cliff sides of the gorge. There were numerous small tunnels cut through the rocks - which just make me laugh out loud - I like them enormously, though I couldn't say just why. And the curving tunnel right before you go into St. Chely has a traffic light - because only one car can go through at a time, due to visibility, ditto for the bridge over the Tarn and into town, which will only accommodate one car, width-wise.

St. Chely is, like La Malene, mostly built into the cliff sides, but it's much smaller. A dear little path leads you to broad stone steps that end on the gravel beach underneath the bridge I mentioned above, next to the fairly swift-moving Tarn. A couple of other families were there before us that day, eating lunch and skipping stones on the river. The "gravel" beach turned out to be all sorts of river rocks - I wish I knew more geology so that I could describe the variety - with plenty of flat ones perfect for skipping. Patrick and I ate our sandwiches from home, then demolished a small round of goat cheese and a pear with the remainder of the bread. Occasionally people in canoes or kayaks rowed by, and to our left, just past the bridge, one of the older houses has an actual waterfall pouring out from under it into the river. Damn, I wish I still had the picture.

Somewhat full of food and sights, we stopped briefly on the side of the road to view a town maybe 15 minutes down the road called ... well, I have no idea. I took a picture of the sign, so I wouldn't HAVE to remember, you see. But the interesting thing about this small village is that it is on the far side of the Tarn, but has only a footbridge going across to it. No cars, motorbikes, or mopeds are allowed. They have a steel cable rope/pulley system used to send over building materials, large grocery orders - anything too large oor heavy to carry over by hand. People live here! Seriously! It looked like a very nice place, in fact, but I can't imagine it must be fun in wintertime.

We did stop once more before we went home, but truthfully the town didn't make a lot of impression on me, other than the fact that it had an abnormal amount of souvenir shops, so I am guessing it gets pretty busy in summer. Lots of items with "Gorges du Tarn" emblazoned front and center - it actually put me in mind of St. Thomas, U.S.V.I., with its tall stone buildings and winding alleyways (although, of course, far less tropical). We saw what was purportedly a "genuine" Lozere (Lozere is the region of the country we are in, in case I didn't mention that) hand-cured sheepskin, selling for the magnificent amount of 129 Euros!!!! Are you kidding? For 129 Euros, I want the whole damn sheep. I'd keep it in my kitchen and take it out for walks in the afternoons. Anyway, the day was winding down and I was ready for home.

So, there you have it. Erin's first foray into the larger area outside her village. It's all so picturesque that it's hard to believe we LIVE here. I kept expecting to see Julie Andrews stride into view, skirts spread out, singing, "The hills are alive ..." It is really just that beautiful - like a Technicolor movie that you've somehow

unwittingly stepped into. If you've looked at the Facebook photo album, you can plainly see that I was indeed bewitched by the colors of the day - I was ridiculously compelled to take pictures of just about every wildflower we encountered. The Florida girl forgot the enchantment of northern wildflowers. Especially poppies - I haven't seen those since I was a very little girl in northern Michigan.

I can't wait until some of you come to visit - I will have such a good time showing these places to you, as Patrick is enjoying sharing them with me. And, just to pass along the joy, I will scare the bejesus out of you with my driving as we traverse the twisty-turny mountain roads. Come on over, it'll be fun!

I have experienced Market Day

A view of La Canourgue (my house is back towards the clock tower in the upper left-hand corner; you can't see it in this pic, but it's there!)

I meant to write this yesterday, but a trip into a nearby town (Mende) to do a big grocery shop and then a barbeque with a couple of Patrick's friends seemed to eradicate a big part of my day. Sorry about that. So, Market Day.

This happens every week in La Canourgue, on Tuesdays. People from here in town and from surrounding towns/villages come and set up stalls/tables throughout the old part of the village (i.e., outside my front door!) and in the big village square. The food stalls tend to be around the little streets surrounding me, and the clothing and bits-n-pieces kind of vendors favor the larger square.

First, Market Day will never be a day when I can sleep in. Vendors start appearing to set up their wares around seven a.m. (and sometimes earlier), and once things get rolling around eight, there is constant foot traffic below my bedroom and office windows. Ah, the sweet sound of Frenchmen (and Frenchwomen, actually) haggling over the price of sausage in the morning! Nothing quite like it.

The above is coming from my front door and walking towards town. All the little streets around me have several vendors, selling ... well, everything. I saw fruits, vegetables, potted plants and flowers, garden plants and herbs, every kind of cured meat you can imagine, wine, whole roasted chickens, eggs, cheeses (SO MUCH CHEESE), local honey and jams and jellies ... the list goes on and on. Patrick had prepared me, but I still just wandered around like a rube, responding to the occasional "bonjour"s that friendly vendors or passersby directed my way. Funny, coming from a fairly-sized city (Orlando), I definitely felt like the backwards country cousin! I definitely had my "I am a tourist" sign on ... it was probably the camera that gave me away, non?

I begin to realize that I didn't take nearly enough photos. Ah, next week. This is the entrance to the vendors' set-up in the city square. Here there were mostly clothing vendors - clothing of all types. One whole tent was dedicated to women's lingerie - no kidding. Panties, bras, nighties, garter belts, thongs, those weird merry-widow things ... the American in me was horrified that these garments were being sold out of a tent, for God's sake, in the middle of a village square, but the burgeoning French woman in me thought, how practical. I'll have to check this out more thoroughly next week.

There were booths selling t-shirts, children's clothes, purses and bags, sweaters, matchy-match old lady pants suits, skirts, dresses ... the only thing I didn't really see much of were jeans. (Perhaps there is a niche here that I can fill?) And across the street was a huge van with fold-up sides showcasing SHOES of every sort and type. (I think I may need to avail myself of this one soon, as I have quickly realized that my American tennis shoes are hopelessly un-French and will mark me as an outsider as long as I wear them. I need European tennies.)

Lastly, there were a few booths/tables in this area selling various odds and ends, but mostly kitchen implements and knives. The French are apparently very picky about their kitchen knives. As I am, too, I was glad to find a local source for replacements when I need them, and additions to my collection! Also, wooden spoons, mortar/pestle combos, mesh drain covers (no one here has a garbage disposal), meat thermometers, cutting boards, oh, the list is endless. I am still overwhelmed. 

I think it will take several weeks for me to get into the swing of the Tuesday market, and to figure out what's better to buy there than from the regular grocery (a giant place in Mende, called SuperU ... wow. I am having a love affair with this store, let me tell you.). Every day here is an education. And only 5 more days now until the next one! I'm getting out there earlier this time - I missed out on some tomato plants that I want to try for next week. 

In the meantime, I will maybe go and read next to one of the canals today ... below is the one that is literally right around the corner from me (I can hear the water through my office window as I write this). If there's a patch of sun there this afternoon, I plan to spend a little quiet time there. Au revoir, mes amis!

 

My First Day in France

For those of you who wondered, I did manage to get here to France with a minimum of fanfare or strife. Little Man and Sally (the cats) were subdued and well-behaved through the airport check in, etc., and I had no trouble locating them in baggage claim at Charles de Gaulle airport. It was a feat to load them, my three suitcases, my giant purse, and my duty-free cigarettes on board the luggage trolley by myself, but I prevailed and exited baggage claim into the waiting arms of my husband, Patrick. I saw him and knew at once that I had come home. The picture above is moi sitting on my own letter in the CDG parking structure. Seemed appropriate.

We jumped into our tiny car after wedging in all the luggage (didn't need to strap anything to the roof, thank God) and headed to Patrick's best friend's house outside of Paris. Fred was incredibly hospitable, and after sitting for a few in his charming back yard, Patrick and I headed to the train station to take a trip into the city in order to have lunch and change my American dollars into Euros. And so, only a few hours after arriving in my new country, I found myself on the Champs-Elysees, having a croque monsiuer sandwich and an Orangina in a crowded sidewalk cafe on the most famous avenue in Paris. Our waiter was the very antithesis of the rumored Parisien service class - he was friendly, open, and jovial. We ate, we drank, we soaked up the sun, we eavesdropped on the neighboring tables (all of whom were so close to us that it seemed we were all just one big group). My favorite was a man about four or five tables away, comfortably sipping a tiny cup of coffee, chain-smoking cigarettes, and reading Le Monde. Ah, I thought. This is Paris.

The money changing took a little bit - we investigated a few different options, and then we were back to le Metro to take a subway to another station and then a train back to Fred's. The trip took only about 40 minutes - can you imagine? And the town Fred, Karine, and his two kids (Adrien and Ava, both as cute as the dickens) live in is as nice a little suburb as I have ever seen ... complete with 17th or 18th century castle/country manor on the outskirts. Whew! I had a nap before dinner, and then Patrick's brother Pascal and his stepbrother Alex joined us, and it was time for a delicious dinner of steaks and rice, followed by a cheese course that made me swoon, and a wonderful and refreshing fruit salad to round out the meal. I was stuffed and exhausted, depsite the nap. The cats were roaming our bedroom, and with the kids coming in occasionally to pet and play with them, I think they were well-contented, as well.

My first day was a success. I tried to keep up with the French flowing around me, but I must admit, the jetlag didn't help my attempts at speaking in any way. I think I managed to seem like I at least caught the gist of most things, but some of it was simply beyond me ... thank goodness for Patrick and his translation services.

Next morning, we departed from Fred's to have lunch with Patrick's grandmother, Loulou. She is a fantastic little lady who introduced me to her cat (Reinette) and gifted us with a painting of a lady in a white dress with a parasol that will undoubtedly now hang in our bathroom (it's that sort of picture, but I love the gesture). She lives in a 4th floor walk-up right outside the city, and given that she is 87 years old, I was and am very much impressed that she managed to get up and down those stairs every day - I was breathing hard after the second flight! We ate Moroccan food at a nearby restaurant and while Patrick was parking the car, Loulou and I had a most unsatisfactory conversation, albeit a most well-intentioned one. She speaks no English, and my French is fairly rudimentary - you can imagine. I thought she must be exasperated with the communication difficulties, but Patrick told me later that she told him I was both "adorable" and "formidable" - both of which are definitely compliments. I think she is a wonderful lady, and am overjoyed to be a part of her family. We'll see her soon, when Patrick's brother gets married. Yay!

And then the trek to La Canourgue, my new home. It took a bit more than six hours, give or take, and part of that was in darkness - we didn't get out of Paris until about 5, as we had an errand to run at Orly Airport, which took longer than expected. The traffic was (dare I say it???) worse than Miami. Mon Dieu! But the toll road we took was so well-cared for and picturesque that I didn't really mind, once we got out of Paris proper and were really on our way. The rest areas are unbelievable! Clean and well-lit bathrooms, areas to walk your dog, picnic tables, gas stations, and convenience stores that go way beyond what's really "convenient" - all sorts of prepared sandwiches, fresh fruit, beverages, candy, and foods/products native to the region you're traveling through. The French even do rest areas with style and panache.

Finally, at about 11:30pm, we rolled into La Canourgue. I'll have to post pictures later on - tomorrow is market day - but I can't describe the charming-ness of this place. The native stone buildings (of which our house is one!) - you just don't see this kind of history in The States. I collapsed gratefully into our bed and slept the sleep of the just. The cats immediately went into prowling mode and have explored all available nooks and crannies (although Sally's exploring has been largely confined to underneath each of the beds, I will admit). Sadie, our dog, was obviously grateful to be home (though not so glad to figure out her days of cuddling with Patrick in our bed were over).

And so here I am. Struggling with the language, but glad to be doing so, and getting acquainted with this small tourist hollow in the mountains, where I will be living for the forseeable future. I think I will grow to love it - I already am captured by its charm and relaxed aura. The weather has been marvelous so far, and a short hike yesterday showed me the entire region, spread out in rolling hills with yards and fields marked out like a giant patchwork blanket. It's here I'll stay, and gladly.

Two Days

Two days. That's all I have left! In February, my emigration to France seemed so far away, and now here I am, with only two days before I fly off to the land of croissants and berets. (Well, no one really wears berets anymore, but the croissants are still a national obssession.) Where did the time go?

I spent some time this morning organizing my boxed life, getting it ready to ship overseas. It's going to cost me almost $1500 to ship MOST of my things ... but not all. (Thanks, everyone, by the way, for those wedding gifts. Otherwise I would be off to France with two suitcases and a smile.) Nope, there will still be several boxes of stuff left to languish in my long-suffering parents' garage, and I will have to have it shipped bit by bit over the next several months, as I make more money. Bummer. How refreshing would it be to be rich???? Still, I think I am sending enough to make me feel at home in my new home, and that is something in itself.

I am not letting myself think of the sad part of my leaving. I am sure that at my final dinner in my parents' home tomorrow night, tears will be shed aplenty, but until then, I am the textbook definition of "stiff upper lip". I feel that, if I break down now, the crying might not stop until I arrive in Paris and see Patrick. And I don't think I have enough moisture stored up for that!

So, keep an eye on me through my blog and Facebook. I will do my best to post pictures as often as I can so that everyone can see what the new digs are like. I will also make sure to broadcast whatever daily blunders I make with the locals ... I am sure there will be many ... and, hopefully, this link to all of you will keep me sane and a little less homesick.

Bon voyage to me! I'm embarking upon the greatest adventure I've ever had the chance to make so far ... and I am ready, and not ready, and triumphant, and saddened, and most of all, anxious to get to the man I love. Wish me luck.

The Last Document

Folks, it has arrived. The day before yesterday, I received my official French visa. (applause, applause) It's actually just a page pasted into my passport, but it has the picture they took of me at the consulate and looks very official and has stamps and so forth on it. I can't believe it, but its arrival was three days earlier than the stated 10-day processing time. I've gotta say, the French Consulate in Miami gets extra super poitns for beating their own deadlines, both with the Livret de Famille and now with my visa. I was expecting endless delays, so I am delighted at the quick service once we got over the initial little bumps.

Also, I am starting to be a sucker for official-looking documents. Even the cats' stamped USDA health certificates sort of gave me a charge. I admit, I ran my fingers over the official raised stamps for far too long. I had to jolt myself out of a daydream in which I myself possessed such a stamp and could make documents official my own self .... okay, I was sliding into it again. I've stopped now. Whew.

Only one more week is standing between me and my permanent trip to France. Well, one week and an enormous amount of re-organizing my things so that they are ready to ship. The room I am staying in at my parents' house looks like the luggage department at Macy's threw up - the place is covered from stem to stern in clothing and various personal items. In other words, it is a complete mess and though I know I will wade through it easily enough once I get going on the task ... it's still unsettling to look at.

Also to check off the list of Things To Do is attending my niece Lucia's baptism this Saturday. It's in Miami, so that means I will have visited Miami THREE TIMES in the month of May by the time I get down there for my flight next Thursday ... I wish there were such a things as "frequent driver miles". I'd be banking, if there were. I am excited about the baptism, which will be in Spanish - most especially because I've been asked to be the godmother. Yikes! But I've taken the class and everything, so I'm godmother-ready.

All my ducks are lining up in a row. I am almost ready. I am almost there. Patrick, here I come!

VISA!!!! (No, not a credit card ...)

I have leaped the last hurdle in the race to my long-stay French visa!!!! I drove down to Miami this past Sunday afternoon, stayed over night, and then went to the French consulate on Monday morning and turned in my last pieces of paperwork that the consulate needed in order to issue my super-duper, really real, honest-to Murgatroyd long-stay visa. It shall be issued on May 13, according to the very nice lady behind the window in the visa room, and I gave them a pre-addressed overnight envelope so that I am sure to have it IN HAND prior to my flight on May 20. I am ecstatic and relieved and happy. This was the last thing in the way of paperwork that had to be done.

My dad actually drove me down and back, and it was a good thing to be able to spend some one-on-one time with him. We won't get so many more chances to do that, as I am leaving very, very soon. Now I have some more memories for the old memory vault that I can pull out when I'm feeling homesick and awful, as I'm sure I will from time to time. France is kind of a long way away.

By the time I land in Paris, it'll have been almost three solid months that I haven't seen my husband. What were we thinking???? Why didn't he stay here with me so that we could do this together? Next time we are crossing to another continent, I will be insisting we do it together. No question!