Home Sweet Home

Yesterday was an at-home day. Except for the 3 hours in the morning that the entire quarter was without electricity. Nobody knows why and nobody was notified in advance but we assume it was because of the work being done down the street.  When I left the dark apartment to go to the market, all the merchants were standing outside their similarly dark stores, smoking cigarettes and shooting the breeze, occasionally glancing up the street for any clues as to the problem, and then shrugging their shoulders while continuing their extended coffee break (without the coffee because nobody could make it). Nobody seemed too worked up about it.

I caught these two next door, outside their dim apartment doing much the same thing.

During those dark hours, I took off for the market to purchase the finishing touches for the summer terrace. It is finished, I am content and apero will be served tonight at 7.

But while working around the apartment today, I had time to notice some odd things in my building. I don't know its age, I just know this building is old. At least old in American terms. I've tried to do research on the street and my building in particular but I can't seem to find much. I have found references to the street, called Rue du Puits Neuf (Street of the New Well) as far back as the 14th century and I've been told that the shutters in my bedroom are at least 400 years old. So at it's youngest, this places my building's birth somewhere before the founding of Jamestown in Virginia.

The apartments in my building are situated around a very tiny court that I pass by to get in and out. I pay little attention to it because it's dark, damp, and sometimes very...stinky.

Once in awhile, Arthur-the-cat likes to escape the apartment, run down the stairs and gallivant around the court as if it's his own personal playpen. Yesterday, he made his move and I found him over in the corner, using some sort of stone basin for a litter box. As I chased him out, I took a closer look at the basin.

I'd never seen it before because it's hidden by the bike that nobody EVER uses. It looked very similar to basins I've seen near ancient, public water sources so I checked out the fenced area behind it. I had always thought it to be some sort of platform or planter. But, in fact, it is a well . Yes, an open well! I don't know about you, but I find this fascinating. I didn't realize that old buildings had their very own wells.  Unless....unless...this is The Puits Neuf of medieval times and the building was actually built around it later.  I'm just making this all up but it IS a possibility and I really must find out. Of course, in the states, a pit of danger like this would have been filled in and covered long ago.

And while we're on the subject of plumbing...sort of....I want you to check out my bathroom. At least the outside of it. This is how it looks across the court from my kitchen window. 

The bathroom is, of course, a tiny bit bigger than that but this little triangle holds the toilet. And yes, with that pipe running out the bottom of it, everyone in the building is aware when I'm using it. Now this could possibly be an addition to the building, because, of course,  there was generally no indoor plumbing at the time it was built. But on closer inspection yesterday, I could see that the beams that support it are original. So perhaps it was some sort of version of the first toilet which actually was invented at that time and used more in France than other countries. Probably not, but this is my story. 

That being said, yesterday as I was staring at the bathroom from my kitchen window I noticed something. Something which is a little worrisome.

Can you see that big crack on the side? The one that seems to have been repaired over and over? Yeah, that one. There's another one on the other side...and another BIG one inside the bathroom. All I can say is, if I eat any more French cheese, there is a strong chance that one day they're going to find me, pants around my ankles, at the bottom of that deep dark well. Tell me, how does one take precautions against this particular disaster?

I just hope it doesn't happen today. Because it's Friday. And that apero on the terrace starts in 2 hours.

Bon week-end à tous,

P.S. I really am interested in finding out more about my neighborhood and my building. It's probably more interesting than making up my own stories. If anybody can point me in the right direction, I'd appreciate it.

Take the Cake

Each day, Quasimodo is becoming a more and more distant cousin as our resemblance fades. But because of my self-imposed exile in my dark tower, I've been cooking up things to do. Actually, I've been working myself crazy on my new webstore but once in awhile I've got to get off my butt and do something else.

Thus, this week became Cupcake Week. I never make cupcakes. I never have. But I now have a cupcake castle with 2 floors and a handle and it needs to be used. Check this thing out. My friend Victoria brought it to me from the states when I was told here that these things don't exist in France. It's collapsible. For one layer or two. They should have named this contraption "This Takes the Cake".



I searched all over the internet to find a recipe and find one I did. As well as a rockin' recipe for chocolate frosting. So I proceeded to do my thing in the kitchen (man, I make a mess!). I produced 2 batches of the best cupcakes ever and then sat in front of them...looking at them. I hadn't been invited anywhere, I wasn't having a party (I'm in exile), and I was supposed to start a diet on Monday. The cupcakes and I needed to part ways...pronto! I took a couple down to the concierge and gave some away to friends, but yesterday the first floor of my two story cupcake palace was still almost fully occupied.

My friend Doreen stopped by on her way to her first-time visit to my neighborhood beauty shop and I decided to go along and catch up on some beauty shop chatter. And to find a home for my creations. I donned my dark glasses to hide my still swollen visage, put the lid on the chocolate beauties and off we went, my cupcake valise in hand.

I passed out cupcakes to the ladies in the shop and as more came in to chat (it's that kind of shop and I love it) I continued to give them away. I explained the concept of a cupcake...you simply peel off the paper and eat it with your fingers. This approach did not seem to work with The Ladies of the Salon. They tried as per my instructions...but it just wasn't going to fly. They all asked for a spoon.

The French seem to eat everything with utensils. Even pizza. When I was home last December, and my sister and her husband and I were grabbing a quick take-out pizza, I dug in....with a knife and fork. My sister looked at me quizzically as she took a bite out of the slice she was holding in her hand. I realized what I was doing...being all French about it....and I quickly picked up the slice and devoured it like a true American.

The ladies adored the "little cakes". Not too sweet, so moist, trés fondant... yada. yada, yada. And for some reason, watching  them delicately holding this little cake wrapped in bright paper in the palm of their hands and slowly eating it with a spoon made my cupcakes seem so...special.  More like a grand dessert than a picnic food.

By the time Doreen was shampooed, coiffed, and welcomed into the folds of The Ladies of the Salon, I still had a few left. Off we went to Hublot, the neighborhood bar/cafe that my friend Fehti owns. I passed the rest of them out to all the guys stopping by for their afternoon coffee/pastis/whiskey/beer. Once again, I gave them instructions. But, within seconds they too were asking Fehti for spoons. Come on guys, man up! This is a cupcake we're talking about! Still it was really sort of adorable. Several did, however, point out that they looked a little like les crottes des chiens (we're experts here in Aix on piles of dog doo because we're constantly stepping in it or working to avoid it). So in effect, they were a little more masculine about the whole thing!

So now, I'm going to share the recipe because people have been asking for it. The cupcakes are an old recipe from World War II, developed by some ingenius soul who couldn't easily get her hands on eggs, milk, butter or sugar. So, in fact, they're vegan and lactose free. And in spite of that... absolutely delicious. The best. I found the recipe on Food.com but it's an old recipe and can be found everywhere.

Wacky Cupcakes
1 1/2 C. flour
1 C. granulated sugar
1 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
1/3 C. cocoa powder
1/2 C. oil
1 C. water
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1 T. vinegar

Mix these ingredients until moist and well blended, fill the cupcake cups about 3/4 full and bake at 350 degrees for 20-25 minutes.

The frosting rocks as well. Light, creamy, not too sweet and it doesn't make you feel as if you're eating piles of sugary fat. It's made with flour and is cooked so it takes a little more time. But it's the best I've ever tried and I'm not a great fan of frosting.  I got the recipe on Kelsey's site but I'll rewrite it for you here.


Best Chocolate Frosting
2/3 C. granulated sugar
1/3 C. flour
3 T. cocoa powder
1 C. milk
1 C. butter
1 C. chopped semi sweet chocolate or chocolate chips.

Cook the flour, sugar, cocoa and and milk over low heat, whisking as you go and as it thickens. When it gets to the consistency of a thin pudding (dunk the back of a spoon in it. If your finger leaves a path as you sweep it across the spoon, it's done). Let this cool or put it in the fridge. It cannot be warm for the next step.

Some time later....after the chocolate mixture has cooled... melt the chocolate in the microwave. Don't overheat, it will get grainy. In a separate bowl, cream the butter with an electric mixer and then add the cooled cooked chocolate mixture. Whip that up and add the melted chocolate. Whip again. "Whip it good". If you'd like, add a teaspoon of instant espresso powder to the mix. Num!

Now, my advice is to eat les petit gateaux with a spoon (after all, this is a blog from France and it IS the French way). They will taste even better!

Bon Appétit!

Conditioning Myself

I just returned from 10 days in Royan, France,  a seaside resort on the Atlantic coast....where the weather was good and the livin' was easy. By good weather I mean warm, sunny days and and cool nights with a delightful breeze (okay...often a wind). Actually, the nights were cold and we were obliged to wear jeans and sweaters after 5 or 6 pm. At first I wasn't so sure I liked all that chilliness. I happen to be one of those people that revels in sunshine and heat, given there was so little of it growing up in Minnesota.

As Brigitte and I drove the 7 1/2 hours back home to Aix on Friday, I watched the temperature on the car thermometer escalate and with each additional degree, I thought how nice it would be to be back home…in the south.

And yes, it is good to be back home... but I’m missing the cooler weather just a wee bit. It's only July and  we're only just dipping our toes into the caldron that should be at full boil in a few more weeks, but I still had to immediately flip back into summer in the city mode. Lifestyle accommodations seem to be essential in order to battle the heat here. Especially in the city where it is at least 5 degrees hotter than it is in the country.

The afternoon sieste was a tough thing to get used to at first. I mean who, besides young children take an afternoon nap? There are things that need to get done! My resistance to the idea was squashed my first summer here. As was my reluctance to close the shutters against the afternoon heat and live in afternoon darkness. I learned quickly that both are really matters of efficiency. Morning and evening are the times when things will have to get accomplished (which is why I'm writing at night). Unless one can find an air-conditioned store (and believe me they are not all temperature controlled) to do a little shopping therapy.

I’m also taking direction from my cat who seems to have shed 2 seasons worth of fur in every corner of the apartment while I was away. So after I climb all the stairs to get up to my apartment, my clothing is shed into a little pile at the top, to be picked up and put back on later when the sun has decided to be kinder. Luckily, I live in a completely private apartment. The guy across the street, who practices the same personal temperature control, does not.  Three cold showers per day seem to help as well (with the heat...not with the issue with the guy across the street) and if my hair is always wet, it’s like personal air conditioning.

I do have an air conditioner of sorts. On my terrace, I have a little door. The terrace, which is walled and private, is nice and warm in the winter and spring because it's so protected. In the summer it's an oven.  

But when I open that rickety little portal,  I get one kick ass breeze that flows across the terrace and into my bedroom.  It’s cheap to run but does eliminate that privacy thing a bit. What clever person thought of that?

Mid-afternoon yesterday as I was laying on my bed, soaking wet, naked, and trying to take advantage of the terrace breeze, I paged through the advertising flyers that had built up in my mailbox while I was gone. One caught my eye because it was advertising great prices on air conditioners…and I was just a tiny bit tempted. The last page nearly made up my mind for me. 

The sign says that says installation is included. If I should decide to buy one, do you supposed this lovely morsel (who obviously has no air conditioner of his own) would install it ...say...Friday night? Man, what a country!

Rabbits and Rats

I got up early this morning after 3 1/2 hours of sleep, in a rotten mood. Crabby Appleton...rotten to the core sort of rotton!  Monsieur Rabbit, who lives just below me, and his amour, have spent the last several days and nights, moaning and groaning in sexual ecstasy. I have written about these two before and you can read about it here if you feel the need. The problem is, their hormones and pheromones…and loud moans… seem to be rolling at full force around 3 am. Always. And at 1 in the afternoon...and 6 at pm. This seems to work nicely around his schedule as a musician. It does not work nicely around my schedule as a human being. She has been absent for quite awhile and life has been serene. Well, SHE’S BACK!

Last night around midnight they started a discussion. I can never hear him but she...SHE has a big, fat mouth and doesn't seem to care what she says and who hears it. My friend Holly, who has been staying with me this week, was experiencing this “group living” phenomenon up close and personal for the first time and because she can understand French better than I, came up to tell me that The Mouth, was itching for a fight. I let her know that this can only mean one thing… the inevitable reconciliation. But I was placated a bit because they seemed to be starting earlier than usual. Au contraire!  After 3 hours of high volume “discussion”, they made up. LOUDLY, as usual.

As this was night number two of no sleep, I came downstairs this morning...just plain pissed off! I pushed my massage table over on the floor (this is an explosive sound) and then kicked around a few things just so they would know I was serious. And because I was so crabby, I kicked things around some more...just to feel better. Holly and I loudly made fun of her groans and moans, hoping she would hear us, while we made our much needed coffee. But the coffee was of no help and I got no rejoinder from them. And I think I really wanted one. I was also itching for a fight.

Then it was off to the prefecture to pick up this year's carte de sejour. In my cantankerous state of mind, just the idea of going to the prefecture irritated me and I armed myself for (the usual) battle.

I had received a letter while I was in the states that said my card had arrived and designated this year’s price.  There is a weird, antiquated system here in France where one has to buy tax stamps to pay for the carte de sejour and other such documents.  You have to buy the proper amount of stamps and the correct type of stamp for whatever is being paid for. These are available at the tobacco shops, so it's a bit of a process and makes for a few extra steps.

Upon my arrival at the prefecture,  I happened to land at the window of Monsieur Willard (the gray rat) who had been my nemesis during my first application in 2009. I told him I lost my letter and needed him to remind me how many stamps I needed to buy to pick up my new card. I waited for him to tell me,“no madame, you can’t have your card without the letter. You will have to reapply and then run around the periphery of the town in under 10 minutes with your feet tied together, at which point you must eat 3 pounds of tripe washed down with 2 litres of straight pastis, then we’ll need the original birth certificate of your 2^nd cousin’s great uncle, translated into French by an offical translator and if all goes well you’ll get your card by December 2013.

Instead, he smiled at me…let me repeat….he smiled at me, made a little bit of small talk, told me that lucky for me, this year it was only going to be 85 euros and then wrote down everything I needed on a piece of paper. I took off to buy my stamps and returned immediately to take advantage of the small crowds this morning.

I ended up at his window for the second time. All I’m saying is…what a difference a few years make! He again greeted me with a smile, chatted a little more about this and that and then informed me that he thought my photo held a striking resemblance to Melina Mercouri. He explained that she was a Greece actress popular in the 60's, nominated for an Oscar, married to so and so, her son was so and so, and she became the minister of culture in Greece in the 80’s. Not that I give a hoot nor did I know who he was talking about, but I was so stunned he was actually chatting that I just wanted him to keep going! (Now that I've seen her photo, I AM flattered, though I see no resemblance) So we talked as he did all his stamping, sticking, and paper arranging. Wow!  What happened to the gray, surley, sluggish, rodent that had made that first application so nasty?

I really think these government workers must play some sort of game with the “debutantes” for their own amusement.  As in “lets see how difficult we can make this process for the newbies. We’ll call it a test to see just how badly they REALLY want to live in France”.

As I left, he said, “Goodbye Dear Madamoiselle Delana. See you next year”. I guess I’ve earned my stripes! And I didn’t even have to try to pull my usual trick of bringing chocolate chip cookies!

Needless to say, I skipped out of there, copulating bunny neighbors, major fatigue, and crummy mood completely dismissed from my head... feeling more like Tom Terrific than Crabby Appleton. Sometimes it’s the little things that make all the difference!

Bruit

I am going to keep doing these Monday Memories posts, even though some think they're confusing. Come on...this is simple! I wrote this a year ago at this very same time. This year, I'm in my own apartment and my biggest noise problem is the bruyant girlfriend of my neighbor. But that is today, this article was then.

French Word of the Day

Bruit: noise 

Bruyant: noisy 

I decided long ago that I would always live in a University town. There’s just something about the energy that a college brings to a city; the exuberance and the life that the students contribute as well as all the cool stuff that University offers the community. You know...theater, educational forums, musical programs....beer parties!

I bought my first house in a college neighborhood and really loved it there. Of course, there were people my age and elderly people as well as the students but I loved how we all lived together. It wasn't white bread. It was a club sandwich with dark bread, light bread, aged cheese, spicy sausage, sweet tomatoes and some some piquant mustard that often would make my eyes water. And really tasty.

Sure, there are always problems.  For instance the night the students cut down my elderly neighbor’s’ evergreen to use for a Christmas tree.  It was a rotten thing to do but certainly not the norm and when we moved from Chippewa Street to “suburbia” I was sure I would die of boredom.  Luckily the new baby that arrived just after the move did a thorough job of preventing that little problem but I always wanted to move back down into “college land.”

When it was time to make a decision about what city in France I was actually going to move to, I had no problem selecting the region. I had been to Provence before and knew it was where I wanted to return.  But after that, it was just a crapshoot. I chose 3 towns that began with the letter A (it seemed a good place to start) and then did a little research.   After learning that Aix en Provence was not only beautiful and cultured but also had a large University presence (1/3 of the population is students), I decided this was the place for me. Finally!

But let me digress just a little.  When I lived in “college land” in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, I had 4 insulated walls and insulated windows, a yard and a fence, and a wide street that distanced me from my neighbors. Not enough to prevent a morning chat but enough for privacy and peace.  The students would often have parties and I spent many a morning picking up beer cups that seemed to procreate in my yard (for that matter, so did the students...well maybe they didn't procreate but they did copulate... under my pine tree) but it was never enough to get too worked up about.

However, because my apartment won't be ready until October 1st, I am now I am staying with French boyfriend in the central part of the city, 2 blocks from 2 Universities, in a building that is at least 400 years old and all that separates us from the neighbors is a floor, a ceiling, a wall, a street the width of a European car, and a couple of very old and very large windows.

The students have returned for the fall and I don’t think they have much to do right now because the parties begin on Wednesday night.  And believe me, when you live this close together, the party might as well be happening in your own living room. If two apartments across the street from each other are partying simultaneously, the revelers can chat (or shriek...this form of communication is saved for after 2 in the morning when the music has become so loud they can’t hear each other) out the windows, pass each other beverages and pretend the rest of us don’t exist. And of course, they only choose to do this when I have to be up at 6 am.   Actually, I will be up at 6 am no matter what because the street cleaners live elsewhere and have obviously gotten plenty of sleep. They are hell bent on getting that street done by 6:30 and they have to shout at each other as well to be heard above the gushing water. 

And if we’re really, really lucky, by Saturday night the students are either exhausted or in some other poor sucker’s neighborhood. However, we are also above a restaurant run by Sicilians. They don’t talk.... they yell. In fact, at first I thought they were constantly mad at each other until I heard them talking affectionately to a child in the same manner.  So they yell before dinner as they’re preparing the evening’s menu, they yell at the customers throughout dinner and afterwards, and when it’s 2 am and all the diners have gone home and are sleeping soundly in their homes somewhere outside the city, they sit down for a little vino and a yell fest.

I guess I can’t blame my bad humor and baggy eyes on just college students so I will continue to believe in their good qualities. But something has to be done about this before I collapse in my croissant!

So I went to the pharmacy to purchase earplugs yesterday.  I didn’t know what they were called so I asked for some bouchons des l’oreilles, which translates to “cork for your ears” and the woman knew exactly what I needed. I’m obviously not the first to ask because they had stacks of them.  I bought a lovely box with a set in 3 different colors, because if I’m going to be having parties with beautiful, young, French strangers practically in my living room, and dark, handsome Italians just below my window, I want to make sure my earplugs match my shoes. 

Hey! What do you mean, you don't think this is me? Of course its me! I'm wearing my red earplugs, you just can't see them.

"Luck is Believing You’re Lucky"- Tennessee Williams

Time for a Monday Memory...written for my newspaper column at this time last year. To read the beginning of this story, click here. And this is not yet the end of the story...more to follow in the months ahead.

  

It has been a rough 4 weeks. It really has. I try to stay positive; that is generally my nature and for that I am very lucky. And it is, in fact, the only way that I have been able to traverse the bumps, ruts, and sometimes very large sinkholes that I’ve have encountered on this new road I’ve taken over the last 3 years. But there are times when I feel there is nothing left to do but curl up into a fetal ball and cry like a baby. As much as I try to defeat those moments with positive or funny thoughts, they sometimes get the better of me....and I think maybe that’s good. Sometimes crying is cleansing... and perhaps as good for the soul as laughter. I had one of those moments last month and will not feel the need to be “cleansed” again for a very long time.

I returned to my apartment one day to find myself locked out. I was really at a loss until I peered through the keyhole and realized there was a key in the lock on the other side. That meant only one thing. Crazy Emmanuelle (the woman I don’t know who I sub-lease from) had returned. No warning, nothing. And she was inside MY apartment and had locked ME out! I knocked on the door and was greeted by a half-crazed french women, spewing forth venom like I have never heard. 

In a nutshell....and in a delirious mixture of French and English, she let go on me. I had changed her apartment, moved her things (take note: she did not call it cleaning ), this is like rape, slept on her bed, broken her mugs, this is like rape, I trusted you, this is like rape, this apartment was in perfect order when I left....ya da, ya da, ya da. To make a very long story just a bit shorter, I tried to explain to her that I packed her things so I wouldn’t break them because it was impossible to move around, I cleaned because it was filthy and I couldn’t find the floor...or the chairs....or anything else, there were bugs in the furniture, worms in the wood, bedbugs in her mattress, and moths flying out of her closet like the flying monkeys in the Wizard of Oz (well I didn’t actually mention the monkeys but....). Our conversation was reduced to a screaming match and I began the attempt to pack my things, throwing everything in whatever box or suitcase I could find. This was difficult at best because I was shaking like a leaf from both anger and frustration, and she had thrown my things in piles all over my room. In desperation I called my friends Simon and Gérald, both of whom arrived within minutes. We piled, carried, searched, packed and eventually, after they too were subjected to her wrath, I ended up in the street with all my belongings piled up around me. 

The really lucky thing about this whole rotten situation was that as Crazy Emmanuelle screamed and ranted, people began to arrive. First, of course, Gérald and Simon. Then came Patrick from downstairs who caretakes many apartments in the neighborhood, including mine. He doesn’t speak English but offered to show me right then and there, all the apartments available in the neighborhood. His wife arrived, offering her support. Frank from upstairs showed up and was visibly upset. He called Alain, his boyfriend, who is the landlord of the building. Alain arrived toute suite , gave me my two kisses and kindly asked how I was doing and then marched over to CE and began to ream her out. It was fast, angry French so I couldn’t understand but Simon and Gérald came running up the steps to get the scoop. He basically told her that she should be thanking me, the apartment was despicable when she left it, I was paying the rent so I could do what I wanted (she apparently had not been paying), from now on she was getting no breaks from him no matter what sob story she concocted, she should get a job like the rest of us, and once again, she should be thanking me.

Well, that’s all fine and dandy, but I’m still on the street with no place to live. I looked at all of Patrick’s apartments but none were right and I had no intention of living in the same neighborhood as Crazy Emmanuelle. Finally, Frank remembered that his apartment on the other side of town (he keeps it in case he and Alain break up...they've been together 12 years) was not occupied for a few weeks and he offered it to me. Alain offered a space in the garage for my things, we put my few pieces of furniture on the street for some other poor soul to snap up, and he walked me over to my new, temporary apartment. And within a day, I had a house-sitting job for a friend in the country for one week and a mansion-sitting job for the month of August at a most beautiful old villa on the hill. 

I didn’t cry (okay, just a little....my lips quivered) until a week later when I heard that CE was telling everybody that I had stolen 12,000 Euros worth of antique jewelry from her apartment. That was the straw that caused the aforementioned infantile behavior. Once, when I was 13, I shoplifted a ring from Scissors Department store because “everybody was doing it “and I wanted to see what stealing was like. I felt so bad I took it back the next day. And another time I found a tube of mascara in the bottom of my shopping cart as I was loading my car at Target. I was in a hurry and didn’t take it back. But cross my heart, that is the extent of my thieving! And so, after being accused of an act I’m not even capable of, I curled up and cried for 5 hours. I looked like hell the next day but I think I felt better.

Last week, I wrote this story but in much more detail and with decidedly more venom. I didn’t feel good about it. I really didn’t even want to write about it. I took my computer into town to send the story to the newspaper (the mansion doesn’t have internet) and my computer was stolen off the bus. Needless to say, the article didn’t get sent. 

My computer is my lifeline. It allows me to write these articles, it keeps me in touch with friends and family, I need it to find a new apartment, and most of all, I can use it to call my kids. It also contained all my passwords to all my accounts and private sites.

But again, (I hate to sound like a Pollyanna) there were many lucky sides to this new predicament. I had been on my way to have lunch with my ex-landlord Liliane (we are now friends and meet once each week) and she drove me all around town trying to find my Macbook, I had just backed up my computer the night before onto my portable hard drive, and my friends Tony and Bénédicte took me out to their house and let me use their Macbook so I could change all my passwords, email my insurance agent, and begin the process of finding a new computer. I did not cry (my lips didn’t even quiver). I think I had used up all my tears the week before. I did however, continue to repeat the soothing mantra that I used the week before, “I will not give up and go home, I will not give up and go home.”

Yesterday, Tony and I were having lunch and he offered to go with me to Crazy Emmanuelle’s to retrieve the few items that got left behind in all the confusion. She did not answer the door but while we were standing on the landing, Alain heard my voice and came down to chat. He gave me a sleeping bag that I had left in the garage and invited me to a party in September. Then Patrick came down. I thanked him for all his earlier help and said “vous êtes très jolie.” He laughed a little and said, “de rien.” At that moment, I realized I had not told him he was very kind, I had told him he was very pretty!

So the positive and truly lucky moments in all of this are:

I have friends who care about me. That’s worth more than anything.

I have an invitation to a party.

I have my sleeping bag...which really is comforting when you have no place to live.

I’m living in a beautiful mansion right now.

Frenchmen have a sense of humor.

The sky is still blue everyday.

I’m still in the south of France. 

But man, I could really go for some Nueske’s bacon! (the absolute BEST bacon in the world) and maybe some of those powerful sleeping pills that got left behind.

Sex in the City

When my aunt and her friends were visiting a couple of weeks ago, I had them over for dinner on my terrace. We had a delightful rooftop dinner, all 7 of us squeezed around my not-big-enough-for-a-dinner-party table, laughing and telling stories as we ate our salmon salad, drank a lovely white from Cassis, and watched the southern sky turn it’s midnight blue.

Afterwards, each of them remarked over and over how magic the evening was. None of them had ever been to a soirée on a rooftop terrace overlooking a city (all are Midwesterners) and they were charmed by the experience.

I too am captivated by this place that I live. All my life I have lived in a house, with a big yard and plenty of privacy, and though I loved that as well, this is new…. and wonderful. But I have to tell you; some of the charm is wearing off.

In my building there are only 5 or 6 apartments. All the apartments on all 4 stories are positioned overlooking a small court. It’s not a beautiful court…really just a place for the people on the first floor to hang their laundry, but a court all the same. I imagine this building was designed this way for tax reasons because in the old days in France (actually this still continues) people were taxed by the number of windows they had facing the street. By putting most of the windows on a court, this little problem is effectively eliminated.

But this fiscally prudent configuration causes a very exhausting dilemma. This court acts as a sort of megaphone for sound. When someone is talking at the bottom of the court, it is as if they are in your living room. I always have to remind my visitors to speak softly while coming and going from my apartment because I am well aware of how the sound carries from the stairway and the courtyard into the other apartments.

Because of this phenomenon, I REALLY know my neighbors even though I’ve never met them. The people on the first floor have a new baby and for the first month of this sweet thing’s life, it’s cry sounded just like that of a seagull. This is not a good thing. Seagulls make a horrible sound. I kept looking out my window, wondering what this water bird was doing in the court until I finally realized it was a baby. Luckily for this poor petite, her or his cry has now begun to sound human and it doesn’t bother me. In fact I sort of like it.

But I’ve got a bigger predicament. The young man below me has a new girlfriend. I’ve never seen her before but I tell you what, if I were to meet her on the street, all she would have to do is open her mouth and I would KNOW who she is. This woman has a voice that could grate cheese.

These two are completely enamored of each other and thus they faire l’amour comme les lapins! (make love like rabbits) Yes siree bob,  5 or 6 times per day (obviously they are young)!  And they (she) are not quiet about it!  With windows open and bed just under the window, they practice their gymnastics routine for all the world to hear.

At first it was amusing, then it was fatiguing, then it moved on to frustrating (I’m single after all). I mean, it’s like we’re sharing a bedroom, and truly...I can hear everything. 


Now, however, I’m just really ticked off.

He’s a musician, so they return home around midnight or 1 am. I can hear them coming up the stairs, talking and laughing as if nobody exists but them. And by 2 am, they are practicing their rabbit routine…. around 4:30 am they practice again. They might throw another practice session in at 8 am (when I’m finally getting some sleep). Mornings are quiet, but eventually they wake up and realize…oh my goodness…we’ve gone a good 8 hours…and they’re back at it (just about the time I’m trying to take a much needed siesta because I didn’t sleep the night before).

I found myself wishing they would just have a fight. They did. But you know what that means. They have to make up. My friends say all this is good for my vocabulary…learning words one never learns in school. However, their vocabulary during these endless trysts is decidedly limited.

Around midnight last night, I heard them coming home. Oh, it had been so deliciously silent and I had been able to get in a 2 hour nap (one needs to prepare for a night of no sleep). But rather than commencing their usual routine, they began to fight. One of those screaming, spitting, over-the-top fights, obviously spurred by jealousy and alcohol. FINALLY she announced she was leaving. Yippee! I heard her go down the stairs (him following, begging her to stay), out the main door and listened to her heels click-clacking on the cobblestones as she made her way to. …well nowhere…because 5 minutes later I heard those heels returning. Merde!

And they simply resumed the fight where they had left off. After 3 hours of high volume screaming, accusations, pleadings, explanations, a slap, tears from her, more screaming, and finally a dramatic 45 minute sob session compliments of him…and her subsequent petting and consoling, they made up for a good hour.

By 6 am they seemed to feel they had recemented their relationship, and I could sleep.

I use earplugs and have 4 pillows to put over my head, all of which only help. But it’s steaming hot here right now and it’s impossible to close the windows. Besides, is it really my responsibility to close the windows? This morning, I woke up at 8 am, tired and crabby. I found a sound file on my computer of a rooster crowing, hooked it up to my speakers, and began to play it at full volume. I did the dishes loudly, slammed doors and drawers, did a little hammering on the floor just above their bedroom and now I’ve got my radio on full blast, right next to the window. The problem is, as stated before, they’re young. They can sleep through anything. Particularly in their exhausted state.

I just got back from talking to the landlords, who, by the way, also have circles under their eyes. They promised to talk to him today and remarked about how wonderful it was that I made so much noise this morning. Well, big whoopdy doo!  Just take care of it!

I’m becoming very familiar with my lovely terrace and the midnight blue sky since that is where I’ve been spending most of my time during the night.  Its high wall blocks some of the night sounds. Yes, it’s magic… but needless to say, city living is losing its shine. As am I.