New Chapter

TEACHINGS
After a month as the highest educated and least competent builder in France, I have learned a few lessons:
1. repetitive physical work is hard but rewarding
2. there are A LOT of tools out there I had never heard about before
3. I am so clumsy that I am convinced my right hand is actually another left hand with a superiority complex
4. don't hold a nail gun the wrong way around. Next time, it may not have a safety latch and I may shoot myself in the forehead. (the look of profound compassion on the carpenter's face when he saw me do that!)
5. my life as a builder is not over yet.

SILENCE
Postings have been scarce, to say the least. First because the last days on the building sites were stressful and the lunches boozy. In order to finish on time Ernesto hired another builder, Johan a 30 year old lad, whose gipsy mum gave him a sense of pride that seemed to have translated very well in picking up fights in night clubs. The tales of head-butting and knocking-out random strangers filled the last afternoons in a mix of French and Gipsy slang that lead me to utter boredom.  I therefore proceeded to listen to FM news radio while mixing white and yellow sand with white-wash to create a cream-colored mortar for stone walls. Then it was all over. Building finished. Hooray,I finally had time to write.
But first we went swimming on the sunday, and on the way back were invited for  a spot of lunch at our friends who run a restaurant in the next door village. We drank and ate, and I dragged my pal Nicolas in my field to help me out with clearing off a path for the kids at the bottom of the hill.
We did that for 5 minutes. Then he broke his leg, just like that. He slid and that was it.
Because they're barely holding it together financially, Nicolas and his wife haven't subscribed any special insurance. Thus, he couldn't hire anybody to replace him in the restaurant. So his wife Carole has been doing the cooking and Sue and I have been waiting tables since. This has kept us busy for 10 days and we gained another insight in French rural life, which will be detailed here soon (tbc).

Perigord Padawan

Ernesto knows George Lucas, or more likely, George Lucas knows Ernesto. Otherwise how would you explain the uncanny resemblance between my boss Ernesto and a Jedi cutting the wall to an impenetrable fortress with his laser saber?
Therefore, I have concluded that Ernesto is a Jedi, which makes me his Padawan. Some may think that, actually, I was assisting him with a sanding machine this afternoon, but they are mistaken. It was proper Star Wars in there, with dust flying everywhere, light shining in eerie ways and deafening sound all around.
Also I have another proof that my Master is a real Jedi. He was once tempted by the Dark Side. From a recent conversation with a friend I have learned that he is on a five years probation for hitting his former business partner in the head with a shovel. The guy nearly lost an ear, but sort of deserved it, as he was stealing from Ernesto. Now, the Force is with him again, and I'm an obedient learner, I also keep my head down when he grabs anything sharp.

Career Moves (or the Giant behind the back door)

It’s been over a week since the previous post. The rainy days should have enabled me to be more thorough with my writing. But things happen so fast at the moment, they change so quickly I don’t know how to keep up. It seems that everything is on the move in Dordogne.

Career Moves

The first time I met him, I nearly poured my coffee over his expensive jacket.

The first time I met him, he bought me a beer, and then another.

The first time I met him, he was my boss.

The first time I met him, he was about to become my boss.

The first time I talked to him, he was the Mayor of New York, and had been my boss for ten years.

The first time I talked to him was last Sunday, and he bought me a beer, and then another, because he'd hired me.

I don't work for Mike anymore, now that I've learned a lot about traders.

I work for Ernesto Goncalvez, Portuguese builder, and I'm learning the trade.

New Work-place

This little poem to let you know that I have become an apprentice builder (‘apprentice’, therefore I only dabble in exposing some flesh when leaning forward, but I’m working on the crack, indeed). My job consists mostly in mixing mortar, carrying buckets and tools around, breaking stuff with a sledgehammer and dumping it far away with a wheelbarrow. But in between, I learn a lot from Ernesto about restoring old stone houses, which will become handy in the near future.

I also learn a lot about my neighbors, like Denis, the giant farmer who lives on the top of the hill.  

He is the sole remaining farmer in our area and he cuts our field in summer in exchange for the bails of hay. That deal was brokered by Christian, whom we bought the house from. Christian runs a strawberry business in another village and was too busy to cut our hay last summer. So he kindly organized for Denis to come and do it. At least, that’s what I was told, when we were still living in Dulwich. 

At the end of last June, I moved a first load of furniture from the UK with my friend Rob and expected to find the field all neat and tidy, like everybody else’s. That was not the case.

Tall Grass in the Field

The grass was waste-high, Rob’s allergies couldn’t believe their luck. So, the next day I drove to the top of the hill to try and find Denis and ask when he would commit to his part of the deal.

We were met by an elderly woman, her arms resting on the window of a very dark kitchen. Behind her, we could barely identify the shapes of three rugged men, whose arms, in their white vests, looked as big as my thighs.  It was ‘aperitif’ time and it was obvious we were disturbing their game of staring at a bottle of Pastis in silence.

I explained who I was, reminded the lady that I had called a few weeks before to make sure all was in order, and wanted to know when Denis would have time, in his very busy schedule, to come by and –please, please, please – cut that f’in grass.

I must admit I didn’t really understand what she answered, but she mentioned that he’d do it and asked if I had seen ‘the beast’?

Let’s state here that there was absolutely no innuendo in her question. That I knew because my neighbor Paul had warned me. Denis and his brothers had found an abandoned baby wild-boar, probably the orphan of an animal they had killed themselves, and had decided to keep it as pet. Their hunting dog had befriended the little creature and ‘the beast’, as the baby w-b had been named, was having a whale of a time in the farm. But this is Rural France. And feuds go along way. So do Regulations. Thus, you will not be surprised to learn that someone had called the cops on Denis and his brothers, as it is highly illegal to harbor wild animals. ‘Beast’ was bound to leave the farm for a wildlife Park two days after our visit, and the old lady wanted us, city folks to enjoy, the presence of the little creature. Unfortunately,  ‘beast’ was busy doing what baby wild-boars do when they don’t parade in front of strangers in the farmyard and we never saw it.

Vaguely optimistic of ever having the field cut short, we went back down the hill and treated Rob’s allergies with a lot of wine.

The next morning, my head was pounding. Hard.  I had to make it stop and decided to go for a run to sober up.

So, I opened the blinds, and found a gigantic man on a tractor, less than 10 meters away from the window. The further he went, the lesser the headache. That was Denis, fulfilling his part of the

Denis to the Rescue

bargain. After six years away from home, I still had a basic knowledge of the French social codes. My little trip up the hill had been fruitful.

Satisfied with myself, but not to the point of forgetting all decency, I got dressed and walked to the edge of the field, waiting for Denis to drive past me. It took him a good two minutes to do so and when he came close enough to see me, he didn’t turn the engine off, waved his hand to say hello and moved his head to signify ‘No’ when I suggested he should pop in for a coffee when he’d be finished. Then he pointed to the sun and said he had to make the most of daylight. It was 9 am in the morning, at the end of June, one of the longest day of the year…

I believe, that he had a ton of things to do and didn’t want to waste anytime with a slacker who just got out of bed when he had been up for a good three hours. Fair enough! And lucky enough too, because when I had my first conversation with him, a few weeks later, I confess I didn’t get everything he said. His friendly face and piercing eyes, at the top of his big body, didn’t make up for his very strong accent. I was looking up at him in order to find a meaning to his discourse but failed to keep up with the conversation. I was so afraid to offend him by showing I couldn’t understand, after he had been so helpful with the field, that I let the chat die rather quickly. Now, we communicate by handshakes and big arm-waves when we meet by accident.

So Denis is still a mystery to me, and I was very happy to learn that my boss Ernesto-the-mason used to party with Denis.

I’m not afraid of stereotypes, and actually do enjoy them when they refer to nationalities. For example, I do believe that the French can be arrogant, the English can seem snob and the Germans tend to invade your country. Hence, I am happy to say that Ernesto is an archetypical Portuguese builder, a bit pig-headed, hard-working and short. The pair of Short-Ernesto and Giant-Denis going to town together must have been a sight.

-Where did you use to go? I asked this afternoon, between two loads of mortars.

-We used to go to all the bars, in the villages around, and it would always end up in a fight. We had lots of fun! That’s because, when I was younger, I was a bit pig-headed (told you!).

-Wasn’t that dangerous, I mean every week?

-Oh no! We had a thing with my friends. We all wore these new white shirts with a big collar, so that we could spot one another when it would all kick off, and come and help if need be, it was safer. One day, I went to a bar where those guys had roughed me up a bit, three against one. That wasn’t fair, so I wanted my revenge. I had called Denis for back up. I had told him to be there at 10 o’clock sharp. I got to the bar at 10, fifteen minutes later, no Denis, half-an-hour later, the same. Those guys were teasing me. But I didn’t budge.

I wanted to give a good kicking to their leader, a big fellow.

11 o’ clock, still no Denis. Comes 12 o’clock, I stood up. I had made up my mind, I went to the guy, thinking that I’d punch him as much as I could until his mates get me. But at the same time, Denis’ brother walks in. Those guys, seeing how big he is, they start to run to the back door, where Denis is now standing. And he punches the first guy he sees, who happens to be the one I wanted. He gets him so well that the poor lad got knocked out. Then the police got involved, and an ambulance, we even had an article in the paper! But that’s a while back now, when we were young.

Nestled in the gentle hills of the Dordogne, the old French fighting spirit awaits. So, if you’re in a bar, and things turn sour, stay close to the short and friendly Portuguese builder. He’s got a giant of a friend behind the back door.

Finally, my temporary professional shift into the building trade has drawn the following questions from my children, at then end of my first day:

-Noah: Have you been dismissed yet?

-No.

-Hum, good for you.

-Samuel: Do you drive a digger?

-No

-Do you use a catapult then?

Samuel also asked if I could build a small brick-house.

I asked Ernesto about that.

-Yes you can…in five or six years.  Now, can you go and make some more mortar please?

Nothing can go wrong (with garlic and butter), or can it?

Could this be the last post ever on this blog? Is this the end already? Am I going to meet my maker after hours of insufferable agony ? Well, may be, dear friends and acquaintances, as I have just started digesting our first bash of wild mushrooms.

The end of Me or the Rebirth of my French identity?

It's not the elusive cepes, as explained in a prior posting. No, just a kind Rosé des prés that seem to enjoy the vicinity of our field. 

Rose des pres, pre - garlic & butter

Sue has mustered the courage to make me try some.
She applied the old French principle that nothing can go wrong when cooked in parsley (from under the kitchen window), garlic (from the market but planting is coming soon) and butter. And once again, this has proven accurate. It was absolutely delicious. Anxiety receded slowly as my taste-buds blossomed. I could have heard myself moan in appreciation if the crackling of fire in the chimney hadn't been so loud on this rainy day.

Defiant Looking 'shroom

Why, except for the obvious basking in our rural glory, am I writing this down? Because this is a major step in our integration process. Mushrooms, you see, are the 'talk of the town village'. And eating some make us one notch more local. I'll now be able to face Paul and Jean-Paul, and casually shrug when mentioning that I, too, eat mushrooms from my field. It will bring me closer to the status of real-French-country-man especially if I omit that for a good five days now, Sue keeps bringing back all sorts of mushrooms in the hope I'll be mad enough to try and eat them. Most of the fungi have this defiant, even arrogant look on their head that seem to say: "try me, try me, I may not be as dangerous as I look ".

-Good try, sucker, I 'aint no fool! I think on the inside.
On the outside I shrug and walk passed, especially since I have acquired some ultimate mushroom-knowledge at the special 'Mushroom Festival' last Sunday in Eglise Neuve d'Issac, the next door village.
Set in the communal hall, this exhibition and information gathering started at 2 pm. We turned up one hour late, to avoid the crowds (421 inhabitants in Eglise Neuve, twice the size of our village), to find a very quiet village square. We walked around the town hall, wondered if the meeting had been moved to a bigger venue to accommodate the large turn out ? Nope, after asking a local lady, we found out that the Mushroom Festival is ... next sunday! So we know nothing more about 'shrooms and I very well may be poisoned.

Trading in (Local) Commodities

With the €uro reaching 1.41$ , it’s about time to get my hands dirty and delve into a serious financial analysis of our local eco(nomic)-system. And as I’ve learned since the last days of summer, Dordogne has two currencies: mushroom and wood.

If one is the star of the season because of its scarcity, the other one rules over the surrounding hills with abundance and elegance. The rich and various colours of the forest remind me of fall in New England, or ‘England on steroids’, according to David Sedaris.

So is Dordogneshire in a way. Full of deep red and shiny gold leaves falling on the road. The ferns, lush and proud just a month ago have opted for a chic, but sad, ‘light-brown-and-dry’ look. When the thermometer gets depressed and falls to ice-cube temperature, mornings are simply glorious. The frost over the green pasture on the hill contrasts with the vivid colours of the forest in the valley, just beautiful.

D. the dog thinks so too, he can’t wait to run outside. Sue takes him out and D. folds his back legs to let nature take its course by the Pine-tree.  Then it’s all about ‘fed up with dog poop everywhere’ and ‘why don’t you take him out’ (the latter usually coming with finger pointing). And I’m sure she is right.  I should get involved in that part of the morning ritual.

But so far, from the warmth of the kitchen, gazing beyond the lime-tree, the valley looks amazing in autumn.

You would think that with so many trees around, surely, finding wood to burn should not be an issue. Ah, how mistaken you are, stranger.

Wood, like any commodity is highly dependent on time. The premise of winter in Dordogne is to wood what the Driving Season is to fuel in the U.S of A: a peak in demand reflected in rising prices that change the perception of the market.

I got my first hint at the intricacies of wood-buying after we purchased the house a little more than 2 years ago.

Christine and Guy, the parents of my friend Denis, live on the same hill than us, and they are the one who found the house for us. Retired bakers from Bergerac, they’ve done up their house here for the last three decades. It’s now an enchanting stone building with a nice swimming-pool and some super-classy flats to rent in the tobacco barn.

We visited them for lunch, after we bought the house, during Christmas vacations, over a year ago.

Pointing at the neat pile of logs, under the trees, I asked :

-Guy, how would one go about buying some logs ‘round here ?

-You buy wood in summer, he replied.

His eyes told me that my question was border-line heretic. Asking about the purchase of logs in wintertime was like claiming to holiday in France without swallowing any meat, cheese, garlic or wine, pure blaspheme.

I dropped the topic and debated the issue with Sue. She is way more pragmatic than I am. Thus, she pointed at all the posts and derelict pieces of fence that populated our ten acres and suggested we’d burn that instead. We picked up and gathered, with the merry help of our families, assembled and stacked, but never reached the beautiful symmetry of a well-organised woodpile.

By that time, we had met Paul (the episode of impromptu drink under stuffed-deer-head in sweaty armpits with fluorescent T-shirt would come months later).

We had introduced ourselves as we walked up the hill past his house, exchanged a few words over the fence, patted his dog on the head. Just enough civilities for Sue to ask him one day:

-Paul, how would one go about buying some logs ‘round here ?

-You can’t buy wood, he replied.

This was winter remember, and she knew she was already treading on very thin ice, but she had a plan, trying to play the genuine naïve which has been my strategy since I’ve set foot here.

-Oh yeah, it’s true, you buy wood in summer.

-No, YOU can’t buy wood. (long silence)  Look at how many trees you have ! Before buying wood, you need to chop a few trees down and split them into logs.

So, that’s what we have done. My parents have bought us a nice chainsaw, as a Xmas present and I’ve been playing lumberjack since, under Paul’s supervision.

He’s told me off for not sharpening the teeth on the chain properly, took it away to its den to bring it up to amateur-tree-chopper standard and told me off the second time I got it out, for not sharpening it properly. Surely, he had forgotten he’d taken care of it himself but I got his point: someone knows more about chainsaws than I do and that’s him.

A few weeks ago, as I proceeded to cut logs from the tree he had taken down for me (“you should wait another month, then you wouldn’t have so many leaves, he specified AFTER he’d cut it”), he joined in with his better-cutting chainsaw, a rolled up cigarette in his mouth,  and chopped away as if he was scooping half-melted ice-cream. I was sweating like a maniac in my polyester jacket and finally needed his help to unblock the chainsaw from the stump.

It’s a long road to become a lumberjack. But hey, I’ve got a cool checkered shirt now and thanks to Paul (thank you, thank you), logs to pile.

But not everybody owns trees to chop, or has a helpful neighbour to guide them.

Those poor souls, therefore, are bound to fend for themselves in the mercantile jungle of Dordogne-wood-merchants.

Some friends tried to improvise once by stopping in a farmyard, literally surrounded by dozens of meters of wood-piles and asked if they could buy some.

The answer they received from the farmer was pure French-spirit in a bottle:

-What wood? We have no wood.

Not: ‘Sorry, we can’t sell you any, we’re going to burn those 15 tons of woods in our little house over the next 4 months, because we live naked and cook on radiators and if they’re some left I d rather eat it than selling it to you!’ No, just pure denial.

Maybe it never crossed his mind that he could sell it…oh, I love him, even from my desk I can see him shrug as he says: ‘Nope, we have no wood’.

I guess having a whole meter deep wall of logs by your house is like owning a gun in the US: comfort by its presence without planning to use it (at) all. And even if you’d use up all your wood, you could actually buy some (in the summer) or pay through the nose in autumn.

But how much wood does one need? Excellent question, I have no idea of the answer because I can’t understand it.

-Wood comes in ‘brasse(s)’ told me Jean-Paul, the retired farmer, it’s nearly 4 ‘stere(s)’ [pronounced liked ‘stair’ as in stairway].

Since, I have learned that‘Stere’ is a measurement specific to wood and equals to 1 cubic meter. Brasse is actually 5 feet x 5 feet x 5 feet, or 1.6 m x 1.6m x 1.6 m so basically 4 cubic meters. Click here if you enjoy this. 

I’m not an advocate of standardization and I like to find out a unit that only applies to one specific object. But I’m also reassured to know that things got a little easier to understand lately. Look at this: a few centuries back Brive and Tule who are at least 40km apart had different sizes for 1 Brasse (2.329 in Brive/ 2.14 in Tulle).

That’s why that French farmer pretended he had no wood for my friends.  He couldn’t figure out if, with their English accent, they were more accustomed to the Brasse from Brive or the Brasse from Tulle.

If you persist, and really plan to buy logs down this part of the country, you have to count close to 50€ for a stere of oak tree, which is at current rate what you’d pay for 2 kilograms of Cêpes.

Why! Didn’t you know, prices have gone through the roof this year. The lack of rain in September-october, the frosty nights, it has all combined  to an extremely poor mushroom season.

Sue and I have found some Cêpes-looking-like-‘shrooms but a quick cut in the flesh and we knew those were the wrong kind.

-If they go blue immediately, they are no Cêpes, once stated Jean-Paul, they wouldn’t kill you but if you ate them you’d get the runs.

Saddle with such unexpected knowledge we are therefore biting our nails in anticipation for the day when we’ll come across a real Cêpe, and cook it in an omelette. For now, it’s all window licking at Bergerac’s market, staring in passing at those overpriced fungi from Correze, the neighbouring area.

-Don’t be sad told me Pierrette, Jean-Paul’s wife, those mushrooms from Correze (Brive and Tulle are the main towns of Correze) are not half as good as our Cêpes! They’re not the real deal!

I’m with her on this. Nothing from Correze can be trusted. I mean, come on! Those guys had two different unit of measurements for cubic meters of wood 2 centuries ago! That's a sign.

Stricken by a Striking Paris on Strike

I suffered, oh yes I suffered! Instead of the 08.14, I got on the 08.54 from Mussidan to Bordeaux yesterday.

Some early trains were cancelled and I could decipher anxiety in the eyes of my fellow passengers as we all gazed up at the departure board for our connecting trains, once we’d reached our destination – on time. 

Keeping focused was hard. Outside Bordeaux’s station, a good 120 people had just started marching to join up with other protesters somewhere in the city. Their chants, their friendly faces, their enthusiasm and the funny songs they played in the loudspeakers nearly wore off the traveller’s worries. But we held on. We were boarding trains on a strike day, and that was not meant to be easy.

My train to Paris turned up with a small 10 minutes delay, barely worth mentioning, if not for the feeling that I was back in London for a minute, delayed trains, really?

 The journey was smooth and we reached the French Capital under a very engaging blue sky and warm sunshine, something planned by the cunning French meteorologists to lure me in a sense of comfort and let my guard down.I escaped Gare Montparnasse uneventfully to walk down to the river Seine, staying away from any form of public transport, so unreliable on a National Strike Day.

Eiffel Tower Lights up with Fury in Support of Strikes

The tourists that ambushed my stroll with their random stopping on the pavement, their constant pointing at shops and buildings forced me to join in the relaxed atmosphere that was floating over the Left Bank. 

I carried on walking through the small streets, avoiding the main avenues.

My plan was simple, make it to my meeting in a cafe near the Louvre without being stuck between enraged rioters and left-bashing policemen. 

It worked perfectly well ! I’m a genius in urban warfare. All I saw were cars and vespas zooming by, people getting on and off buses, while others had elected to use the Metro (subway/underground).

Why ! Didn’t they know ? Didn’t they realise what was looming between the bookshops and the trendy outfitters? This was National Strike Day in Paris, the gate to the  Next Revolution (I am not talking about Facebook or Apple here, so quit it!), the real Revolution, the head-chopping kind, the ‘off with them all bourgeois’ sort of unrest. This was no day to amble about, pretending it was business as usual. 

Soon-retired Parisians in Strike-denial

Maybe they all shared my unconditional love for the French public radio broadcast service and its 7 radio-stations that would all provide a very limited service on strike-days ? Like me, they would have been deprived from their morning bulletins and couldn’t have basked in the satisfaction to read about their country in the Anglo-Saxon press. Ah ! the fools, the ignorant, so French, so proud, taking the tube to work, meeting with friends for their one-hour lunch breaks…if only they knew !

Safe and sound, I crossed the Seine and walked through the Louvre, turned left near Place Colette and stopped to meet my friend, a big cheese at the newspaper Le Canard Enchaine, for a cup of the best coffee in Paris, at Cafe Verlet. It was mid-afternoon and Paris, more than ever, was looking like its proper self. Even more like a caricature of itself : an open-air museum patrolled by the fashion police. The cobbled streets, the well-dressed Parisians, the many languages of the tourists and businessmen alike. Yes, I was far from Dordogne but nested in a postcard of French-ness, with the smell of cigarettes and half a tiny cup of hot Misor.

So where were the burnt cars and the angry commies followed by violent youths that I had read about ?  

-This strike does have an effect on the economy you know, my friend the newspaperman told me. People are back at work because the strike has been going on for a while, but it is hitting us hard.

-Why is that then ? I asked.

Combining my analytical powers and my background in financial news, I expanded my question  further:  Do people have less money after marching the streets for a few days. I guess it did affect their salaries ? The answer had more to do with sports and coordination.

-During strike times, they are fewer trains, and a guy who runs after his train doesn’t stop to by a paper.

 Ashamed of failing this test of pure Descartes-like reasoning, I left him for my next meeting. It lead me through the Jardin des Tuileries to cross the Seine again and walk up to rue de Varennes to meet an old friend from university. He advises a member of Cabinet on all things related to Public services. Surely, he had a good insight on those terrible strikes that were shaking the core of the Nation. But first,  I got lost on the way there and ended up walking around l’Elysee, the palace where Nicolas Sarkozy rules France from. Policemen and gendarmes galore in the neighbourhood, but no specific tension palpable.

Suspiciously Nice Weather Lures Tourists to Enjoy Their Time in Paris

 Even near the siege of all powers, France, on this National strike Day was not to fall in a deep rebellious state. The only commotion I saw was at the bottom of Les Champs Elysees when a procession of police motorbikes and official looking cars, all lights and  sirens blazing cut the traffic to take someone important somewhere important. Maybe this was the man with the solution to end the strike ? In a small briefcase, on his lap, at the back of the gun proof limo, he had  the few lines of speech that would unite the country again, instead of keeping it divided between the millions of citizens tending to their existences and friends as if nothing was wrong, and those pounding the pavement in frustration ?

Public Transport at a Standstill

Maybe…not sure though, the issue is serious. It mixes rapid changes in the society with personal discontent and even when touching lightly on the subject, one can only remember that social laws in France were implemented after WWII to re-build a country around strong ideals and make life better for people. And that seems to be forgotten in the national debate around the retirement age.

No burning cars, no charging riot police, no broken shop windows...I do suspect that Parisians were putting up a show for me yesterday, caught up between denial and determination to carry on living their trendy life. 

I’m now heading to Amsterdam for 2 days an already, the tension becomes palpable once again. The train conductor has just made an announcement in French with a very strong Flemish accent :    ‘we re trying to find out why we’re not moving’. 

I have it ! National Strike Day in France, when things go pear-shaped : Blame the Dutch !

Tight shorts, sweaty armpits, stuffed deer-head and eatable panties...breaking the ice in the countryside

"It's funny how we've had a busier social life here in 3 weeks than in the last 6 months in Dulwich" Sue said as we were walking back up the hill after a jog in the forest last July.
She was right (as always-I know she will read those lines): we had been invited for cake at some friends' house, we had entertained relatives and guests, dug up and fried our potatoes, grilled sausages on the barbecue and looked at the stars many a time throughout the summer. But that was not the real deal.
The threshold in becoming part of our village was to be invited to someone's house for the first time, someone we barely knew. And that was what we'd just done, without really knowing it, as we walked back to the house in our sweaty running gear.
One hour earlier, we were still jogging when we reached the bottom of the hill and I spotted my extremely helpful neighbour Paul in his garden. He was working on his very nice looking vegetable plot  when I called his name. It was the perfect excuse to stop huffing and puffing in my bright yellow T-Shirt. (I'm convinced that when I wear that T-shirt, hunters will see me from afar and won't mistake me for a deer or else, but now that I think about it, maybe I should reconsider because they could take it as  a dare or a challenge to their marksmanship or just a provocation. And it is a provocation, at least to good taste...).
Paul came over and we talked about vegetables, and gardening and before long, he offered us a drink. It would have been rude to refuse, even if by then, sweat was gently running down my back and my ribcage and Sue's cheeks had turned bright red. He beckoned us to follow him inside. I made a few tentative jokes to excuse our appearance and entered his house, where he lead us straight into the lounge.

Paul is a hunter and therefore displays various very dead animals on the walls of his living room. He is also a husband and, as such, told his wife to get some drinks because we wanted a beer. I refrained from saying that 'we' didn't ask for anything, but that instead 'we' were invited in, but somehow I thought that tight-lycra-running-shorts and a bright yellow smelly T-shirt don't really cut it on the diplomatic battlefield of married life.
Paul is also a father and introduced us to his son and his girlfriend, both working for the Army in Paris,  who were spending a few days riding their motorbike in sunny Dordogne. They were wearing footballers shorts and flip-flops and seemed half as embarrassed as we were to be dragged into a social setting with complete strangers in beach outfits. The conversation rambled over a few casual topics, including the stuffed deer-head above the TV and the wild-board head on the wall behind us and we bid our farewell.
Through and through this was a success. It was a first invitation and those can't be refused in a small village like ours. Also,  Sue and I had learned that we could crush our fashion sense and even our egos when the occasion called upon us.

Weeks passed and we progressed beyond our expectations on our journey to social integration. The best tools, obviously, are children. Amongst the many reasons that could justify procreation, meeting people should rank pretty high.
On the first school day in September, we took the boys to their new schools. All nervous and worried they each bravely pushed the gate of their new universe when we, parents, stood there on the street, looking at them in the distance, as they tried to act cool and wondered who would be their first friend. The same went with us. We already knew the couple who runs a lovely local restaurant. They were taking their kids to their first school-day of the year too. They immediately introduced us to a bunch of parents and we started shaking hands and saying hello, while others had already moved on to the less formal 'bise', the classic kiss on both cheeks. We were invited to tag along to the local cafe and were baptized 'newbies' in less than 5 minutes. Conversation was extremely pleasant, especially as everybody admitted that they had enough of having their kids at home and couldn't wait for them to start school again. How sincere and unpretentious, what a change!
On the second morning, some of the parents went to the cafe again, we tagged along and were invited to one of the dads' birthday party the following tuesday. Good wine and excellent 'moules-frites' helped talking with 5 or 6 very nice couples and we suddenly felt part of the group. Very simple and easy.
Since then, I have volunteered with some of the dads and mums to help with the cycling and swimming classes and even find myself elected as one of the parents-rep on the school board.

Nevertheless, there are some boundaries not to cross, and in a small village, it seems you can make enemies as quickly as you can make friends.
The election as parent-rep to the school-board was a bit of a Cuban political contest. Our list finished first with 95% of the votes registered. The fact people only had one list to vote for helped a bit.
But we still had to open all the little envelopes provided by the school and count the number of votes. In the process, we were to eliminate any empty envelope and count aside any list where one name at least had been crossed out. Parents knew that crossing one name would make their whole vote void but village feuds, schoolyard fights, car park stand-offs and fence rivalry got the best of a small minority. Some of the bulletins had one name crossed out, nearly a direct threat. Others bore the signs of a quasi-global vendetta where all the name -except for the new guys-  where blackened in rage.
And then there was The One, the ballot disfigured by two lines, one on a friend's name and one on mine. Judging by the number of times her name had been crossed out, my friend seemed to have accumulated a lot of grudge throughout her 15 years tenure as parent-rep, but I, whose children just joined the school and lived in a village 4km away? I guess I'm collateral damage in a local war, hanging out with the wrong crowd, in the wrong place, at the wrong time (9 to 9.20 am at the cafe, mostly on monday and tuesday)...
So, there I have it, my first distant and secret enemy, someone I may have offended by not giving her 'la bise' one morning, or someone I forced to slow down behind me when I do my sharp left turn in the forest, who knows, so many perennial insults, innocent but deep vexations, hard to say. I take it all as a sign of further integration in rural France... I have my first enemy.

So, here we are, making our way through social codes and friendly gatherings in the Dordogne, amazed at how nice it has been to meet thess people. Yet, some lines have to be drawn, and ours, so far, is eatable panties.
One could think that the rolling hills of Perigord are just harboring conversations about wine and the many ways to cook duck. Not true, the recipes being concocted behind closed doors are a tad more spicy. One morning at the cafe I was asked what our plans where for the week-end. Feeling provocative I replied 'why do you have something in mind that involves wearing anything but masks and a number on our back? and proceeded to explain that we where actually heading to Bordeaux for my dad's birthday. The answer was a bit of a surprise :'Well you could just go on sunday, because on saturday night we're having a sex-toy party, and you could come'.
I knew immediately that the offer was a kind gesture to strengthen our burgeoning friendship (in a strange way, I agree) but couldn't help wondering how I would have felt discussing vibrator speeds with people I didn't really know. I got a quick recap of their evening afterwards and was told that the saleslady presented various articles including eatable panties, massage oils to the 20 couple invited, before displaying more straight-to-the point articles. I also incidentally learned that Bergerac has 2 swingers clubs. The idyllic French landscape has many hidden sides.
Looking back, I can't help wondering if by turning down that invitation I haven't made a social faux-pas. Maybe I even have angered someone enough so that they'd cross my name on the parent-rep list ...

Ripping the fruits of labour

It has come, the jolly time of harvesting the grapes in the many, many, many vineyards that grow all around Bergerac. 

Some started a few weeks ago already, according to the maturity of the specific grapes they need for the type of wine they're making. Others had to wait, and even have to wait a bit longer, because what they want is very, very special. They are looking for what English people refer to when they describe  a mean-drunk-violent  and conservative aristocrat in a BBC period drama : they're waiting for noble rot. 

But it does have a different meaning around here. Even if chasing an overweight middle-aged wigged Duke down the hills with a scythe can seem rather enticing,   noble rot refers to the rotten grapes, saturated in sugar, that are used to make Montbazillac. It's a sweet, golden wine served with foie-gras or pudding and generally over-priced in local restaurants. I'm not a big fan but it has its takers. 

Still, I thoroughly enjoyed my day of harvest, in the family-run Chateau Pintoucat. The owners are more than friendly and the crew they assembled for the harvest rather nice. No youngsters here, but seasoned farm workers and a group of Belgians, friends of the owner. Some of them did not really plan to stay and cut the grapes. They were supposed to head back home on wednesday but the public sector strike shut down our local airport for the week. 

It's a become a running gag those strikes, but as one who never went on strike during my salaried life, I'm rather glad some people are holding up the flag for all those who can't... But are they holding up the right flag ?

The current protest, that spread to high school students in the last 3 days, is targeted against the change in our retirement system. The government want people to stop working later. Instead of 60, people will end their career at 62. Two more years when you've worked for 40 years, I guess, it's a tough pill to swallow. But that would imply that one started working at 20. Which is less and less the case considering more and more people go to University and start working after 25. 

For those who embarked on a career straight after high-school, it's unfair, it's true, especially as they are more likely to have done physically demanding jobs. The solution therefore is to calculate retirements by months or years of activity, with a discount when the person held a difficult job. 

Also, protesters marching the streets in the hope that the government will back down are only looking at their short-term future. They're not putting in the equation the fact that baby-boomers are retiring now and we need a bigger work force to pay their retirements. Oh, yes, because it's the whole group of workers that contribute to paying retirements over here. Private pensions are an oddity in this country, and workers tend to take this amazing system for completely granted, and not as an amazing chance compared to other 'wealthy' nations.  But as the pool of retired workers is bound to grow, those in activity will have to work longer, so why not start now. It's a question of principle they say...

 Well once again, a Right is taken for granted, without much consideration for the obligations attached to it. Union and political leaders avoid to paint the bigger picture, not showing how privileged this country is compared to others, at least for salaried people. Self-employed people, or farmers for instance have a much tougher deal, and they don't complain as much. Is it because they know that freedom is priceless, even if it can be costly? I guess there must be some truth in this because those two, that we saw during the 'vendange' (grape harvest) didn't seem to be very rich, but must be rather happy to spend a few hours doing that at their age, even if, when you look closer, you'll see that the lady is pulling the motorized digger by hand, like horses used to do. Meanwhile, the airport was on strike.

   

Never say 'jamais' again

I started on a new project after picking up the kids from school today: getting the soil ready for a bigger vegetable patch, next spring. 

It's ambitious on more than one level. For a start, I know close to nothing about gardening and growing food. And if that's not enough of a hurdle, I'm not really methodic. Therefore, on sunday, I spent two hours digging out a local comestible weed pourpier that had overtaken our smaller patch. What will happen in a plot 4 times larger? .
I promised myself not to let it get out of control, we'll see if I can stick to that. Especially after I dumped five loads of dried horse-manure on the plot. And it's just the beginning. There is a good dozen more trips to be made with the wheelbarrow. The fecal fertilizer is on the ground of the old tobacco barn.It's been there for years, at least since the previous occupier (horse rider and saddle maker) left and it's worked wonders on the flower beds in front of the house. 


Nevertheless, manure is not selective -in case you wondered- and will help good and bad seeds to grow. But we're not there yet. Once the whole plot is covered, my neighbour Jean-Paul, a retired farmer will come and mix it to the soil with his old tractor and some scary contraption.

Where am I going, telling you all this? 

Well, as I was transferring dried horse pooh into the wheelbarrow, I realised that I was literally doing what I swore I'd never do again: shoveling shit. In my previous tv life in London, I got stuck on a production job sorting out a rather large and pointless mass of news items for our regional channels and different show-producers. And I had no better analogy to describe my task than that: shoveling shit. 

I didn't cope with it for too long and moved onto better things, promising myself  not to do that ever again... and there I am,  I just did it, with a smile on my face. Nothing's carved in stone ...

But my lesson in relativity didn't stop there. The impenetrable ways of the French administrative system have taught me more. 

We've been in France for more than 3 months now, and without any healthcare coverage whatsoever. Until today. 

Before moving here, the 'Securite Sociale' told me that we'd get the basic free coverage called CMU. It was a different story once we got here. An employee suggested we'd get an European card delivered by the UK, a card for people on holiday and valid for 1 year. I explained we were not traveling but living here. I checked with the UK and was confirmed in my believes, no European card but instead the possibility to transfer our file to France. I just had to print the E106 file and send it back to HMRS. 

After a few weeks, the answer came back. Because we only worked in the UK for 18 months, we were not eligible to be covered by the UK. Nothing, zero, back to square one. 

In the meantime, my lovely wife had worked enough hours here to receive healthcare coverage, for her and the kids and even I. So it's done, thanks to my British wife, working for an American company, whereas I, a French national, salaried in France for six years before leaving the country in 2006 was not entitled to anything. The Administrative Lord works in mysterious ways.

Splitting wood with a sledgehammer and a wedge opens your mind

It took a therapeutic few hours of banging with my brand new 4kg sledge hammer on that wedge to get logs for winter to come up with enough determination to start this blog. Maybe the sense of completion of doing something with your hands when you have been bread to thrive in an office environment? Not sure, really, but it did get me warmer for a start

So here it is: le blog. It's called That French Thing, because I want to share my quest for a bit of identity and meaning in our family journey. 

And as we have settled camp in France, it does seem rather logical.

But mostly, it's because, after experiencing life in the US and the UK, I have the feeling that we could find here the right ingredients to make one of this French rural yet subtle recipe, one of those dishes where there is just enough garlic and that little excess of butter or cream that doesn't spoil the steamed vegetables but makes you plan to sauce it with a chunk of baguette later on, when you'll sip the last drops of red in your glass. I don't know how to explain it better, I believe it's a French thing...