1898 poster of the Michelin. (Wikipedia)
So far so good.
We had navigated our way through the tiny grocery filling our basket with les tomates, deux pommes, un carrot, but the avocadoes were behind the grocer.
There was no way around it. I was going to have to mangle the language again. I gave it a stab. “Pardon-moi, s’il-vous plait, je voudrais un avocat.”
I waited. Waited for him to look at me like I was speaking German. But look! He smiled at me, “Pour aujourd’hui?”
“Aujourd’hui. Oui. Oui. Aujourd’hui. Merci!” I was almost yelling at the poor man, as giddy as if I’d just won the freaking lottery.
Oui! Oui! I was ready to hold that avocado aloft and do one of those football happy dances. I resisted.
Instead, I was positively demure (as demure as an almost-six-foot, snorkingly-loud woman in a petit grocery store can be). But clearly things were progressing.
He hadn’t asked me if I was from Germany (a common mistake that happens to both of us – could be the square heads and tallness that sends them down that trail) and I’d asked for, and received, the correct item.
Life was good.
But besides this opportunity to learn a language – and the incredible local patience in that process – what I love about this country is that the food is ripe, fresh and ready for eating right this minute.
That particular avocado was parfait in our salade. Les tomates were fragrant and perfectly ripe. The lamb was from a nearby farm and the eggs we ate this morning were raised in plein air. Don’t even get me started on the strawberries. They fooled us with their pale beauty, but they released a rich ruby taste; a juicy redness that spoke of love and living well…We gorged on les fraises.
So. The food thing is going well. And our new (yet ancient) home in Beauvoisin is beautiful, the back garden with its small pool, a study in elegance.
But it doesn’t do us much good as the weather is not quite cooperating with us. It is cool, bordering on chilly.
This wouldn’t be as much of a problem if I hadn’t left my jacket on the train from Paris. As the train did its slow chuff-chuff out of the station in Avignon, I realized my three-quarter length black coat was still on the rack above my seat.
No problem I thought. In fact, what I said to comfort myself was, “Colette (this is my new French alias) it’s a sign. You won’t be needing a jacket in the South of France.”
But alas, so far I was tres, tres wrong.
Instead of lolling in parks with picnics, I layer on a few shirts a la the Michelin man, and we buzz off in our little rental Renault – exploring the local atractions.
The fields are filled with poppies, crazy amounts of horses and cows and there is always somewhere to have an espresso. There are no shortages of chateaux, musees, restaurants, and markets to play in.
We’ve been to St. Gilles Abbey Church, the Chateau d’Avignon, the coliseum in Arles, and other assorted ancient and fascinating crumblies.
Each day we pick up our food for that evening’s dinner and then spend the night cooking, eating and drinking local wine.
I think this France thing just might work out.
