My son and his girfriend are here until Wednesday and I just can't take precious time away from them to write a proper post. But as usual (okay, except for the past two weeks), I'm posting a Monday Memory...an article I wrote almost a year ago today... the beginning of a very interesting story.
You know you live close
to your neighbors when, not only does the smell of their first pot of coffee
wake you up, but you can actually hear the espresso pot steaming on their
stove. This morning that is what woke me up. That, along with another neighbor's
cat meowing insistently and the sound of late night revelers making their way
home in the light of day. And, of course, the ever-present guy who washes the
street every morning
It's a strange occurance,
this washing-the-streets thing. There are actually spigots on each corner and
early in the morning, after all the garbage has been picked up (this occurs at
least 3 times each day), trucks crawl around the city, and men dressed in
yellow and blue hook up their giant red hoses to the spigots and wash all the
streets and sidewalks. It's a very curious phenomenon here in France...or at least my corner of the country.
This morning I watched
from above as my street was completed. The gentleman was very meticulous about
washing away every last bit of garbage and the ever-present dog poop that litters the streets and sidewalks like a minefield. He finished the street, looked at his watch and, perhaps because he
thought he didn't spend the appropriate amount of time, did it again. I would think
this problem could be solved more effectively by requiring people to pick up
their dog’s doo doo and making it illegal to litter, but this is France. Who am
I to question the necessity of the men in blue (and yellow)?
All of these new sights
and smells are occurring in my new apartment, which I moved into immediately
upon my return from The Grand Tour of France with my sister and mom. I have moved 4 times within the last year.
And three of those four times my mother has managed to be here to clean up after me. Poor woman.
She joined my sister and I halfway through our trip and came back to Aix en
Provence to spend a week with me; 2 days were to be in a hotel and the remainder at my new
apartment which has two bedrooms.
It turned out to be the week from hell.
The apartment became
available at the last minute and, in fact, I’m subleasing from a woman who moved
to Paris but wants to keep her apartment in Aix “just in case things don’t work
out”. I get a good deal on rent (or at least I thought I did) and she gets to keep her things here. However,
now that I have moved in, I understand her real reason for continuing to pay
rent here…. she is completely incapable of removing her things. This woman has never thrown anything
away in her entire 9 years here nor has she cleaned. Every single piece of
paper, old envelope, moldy box and tissue paper, bill, and magazine was piled
high all over the apartment. Every
crevasse and shelf was stuffed with paper and broken items in plastic
bags. The closet doors would not close
because of the piles of old and torn clothing spilling from the shelves. Every movement caused a cloud of dust
and the “decorative” items were stuck to the shelves with a paste that had
developed from years of dust, grease and neglect. There was neither a place to
sit nor a single place to put any of my things. My mother was horrified and
immediately rebooked her hotel for the remainder of her stay and began, once
again, cleaning bathrooms. Bless her wonderful heart.
And so began 5 days of
torture. Alex, (my Swedish friend who continues to live with me for a few more
weeks), my mother and I, scrubbed, sorted, packed, swore, moved, piled,
scrubbed some more, swore some more, and eventually found the floor and the
kitchen countertop. We repaired broken lamps and clogged drains, washed windows
and curtains and swore. We swept the walls and the ceiling, washed all the
dishes, picked up the beds to check for living creatures…and swore.
We found 5 broken
telephones, 4 broken printers, 10 or 12 broken lamps, unopened bills dating
from 2001 and beyond, 6 broken tea pots, stacks of cracked dishes, numerous
broken kitchen appliances, enough loose change to have a grand party when we’re
finished….and not a single corkscrew!
Believe me, after 5 days of this, we NEED a corkscrew.
We walked between my old
apartment and the new, pulling suitcases, carrying scrub buckets, mops, rubber
gloves and insect spray (we looked decidedly un-posh strutting down the Cour
Mirabeau!). We hauled all my belongings up 4 flights of stairs and eventually I
was deposited, lock, stock and olive oil, in my new digs.
And here I am, in my
new, spacious (for here) apartment in a 17th century building. My
ceilings are 14 feet high with giant, ancient beams and the gorgeous Plafond au
Française. The stair ceilings are carved stone and absolutely exquisite. The
beautiful fireplace is now a bookcase, but its plaster-embellished façade is
stunning. I have no terrace but my windowsills are 15 inches deep and I can sit
in the sill in the sun like a satisfied cat and watch the world go by below me.
As I write here in the
window, and watch the guy in blue and yellow, I can’t help wishing there had
been a spigot and a big red hose available up here to hose out this apartment.
But no worries, it’s done. We can walk barefoot on the old stone floors. We
found a screwdriver and a hammer, which seems to work for opening wine and Alex
is cooking something in our clean pans that smells garlicky and delicious. The
laundry is drying on the rack, two of our lamps work, and I believe my neighbor
is cooking….. bacon.
