Thursday, June 13, 2013
Caunes-Minervois to Hompas
and Back
What is it about carrying a baguette sticking out of paper bag in my hands that makes me think I am doing something typically French? I make it to the boulangerie --the bread baker-- a few minutes before they close and pick up a baguette moulé --a baguette that has been placed in a mold, rather than on a rack in the oven for baking, which gives the load a more finished look. Everything in France is categorized to a fine distinction: Morgan, the young woman who runs the bread shop with her mother, carefully explains the difference between the different loaves before I make my selection, just before she closes. Here in the country, everything closes from 12:30 p.m. to 3:00 p.m., and in effect, everything shuts down.
Earlier, Bob Thorp, one-half of Annabelle and Bob Thorp, ex-pat neighbors of Judith and Louis, came over to help me assemble my folding bicycle. Bob, seventy-eight, is a keen cyclist, who goes out with a group of equally devoted bicycling enthusiasts three times a week, racking up about fifty miles each time. Thanks to him my folding bicycle unfolds and by 12:30 p.m. I am on the road, heading south.
I ride past the villages of Peyriac-Minervois and Rieux-Minervois and La Rotonde, passing a turn -off for Minerve, another pretty village which I would like to visit later. Once out in the countryside, I pass bales of hay stacked on top of each other at the edge of a cleared field, then acres of vines. All are framed against the Black Mountains behind. As it is lunchtime, there is no one --absolutely no one-- on the local roads. The only sounds in the landscape are the "whirrr" of my bicycle and the "whoosh" of a light wind.
I see signs for "Olonzac" and "Homps", as well as for Carcassonne, which is thirty-two kilometers away, much too far to go, especially on a first ride after ten days of inactivity. I turn into Homps and going over a little bridge see boats anchored on each side of the Canal du Midi. I can go no further. Before turning back, I pause to enjoy a refreshing Stella Artois, followed by almost a liter of Badoit, a popular mineral water, at a cafe-restaurant by the canal.
Built by Pierre Paul Riquet from 1666 to 1680, the Canal du Midi flows 240 kilometers (about 150 miles) from Toulouse to Sète on the Mediterranean. A canal that flows beside the Garonne, further north, extends the river network to the Atlantic, forming the Canal des 2 Mers (the "Canal of the Two Seas").
Until I saw the Canal du Midi with my own eyes, it was hard to appreciate the extent to which France is a ripiarian country, or to appreciate the engineering accomplishments of France's great engineers. Among them, in addition to Riquet, are Maréchal Vauban, who built the fortifications that consolidated France's borders; and, Gustave Eiffel, who is famous for the tower that bears his name, but who made his reputation creating bridges for the French railways. (He also built a lovely bridge over the Douro river in Oporto-Vila Nova de Gaia, Portugal.) The dedication to precision that every great engineer has made France a great power under Louis XI, the Sun-King, and accounts for at least one half of the reason why the Franco-German aerospace consortium, Airbus, is the only real competitor Boeing has as a maker of passenger airplanes.
Almost home, I cycle until my bottom is so sore and the wind so strong I have to walk beside the vineyards to Rieux-Minervois. In a few hours, the wind has gone from being a gentle kiss in the afternoon to a force to be reckoned. I get back on the bicycle in Rieux, my fingers numb to the extent of feeling as thought they have swollen to twice their size, a strange sensation. I make it home in one piece by four-thirty and happily collapse.
A few hours later, Judith and Louis call. They just arrived home in New York, having left Caunes for Toulouse at 7:30 a.m., expecting to make a Lufthansa flight scheduled to take off at 11:30 a.m. The flight is the only flight that makes it out of Toulouse, but five hours later, at 4:30 p.m. As a result they miss their plane from Munich to New York. The Munich to New York flight is available only once a day, so Lufthansa re-routes Judith and Louis to Amsterdam.
In Amsterdam, there is no flight available until the following morning at 6:30 am.. Lufthansa is swamped tending to passengers on its flights stranded by the French strike. The carrier arranges for an airport hotel for Judith and Louis, but they check in only at 12:30 a.m. They leave on time and arrive on time in New York, but by the time they get home they have been up the better part of thirty hours, and it is 8:30 a.m., New York time. When there are strikes at French airports, flight plans all over Europe fall down like dominoes. Riquet, Vauban and Eiffel would be horrified.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
June 12, 2013
The Cost of Living
Despite how relatively inexpensive the cost of foodstuffs and other items seems to me, the cost of fuel is very high here. Working out the math based on the latest figures available from the Economics section of Le Figaro of June 5,2013, the average price of a gallon of No. 95, the cheapest unleaded gas available in France, is $8.44; it is $3.66 in the United States. During 2012, the average yearly fuel cost of the Renault Clio I am driving was 6,049 Euros, or $8,034, with the Euro at about $1.33 today.
As a result, people use their cars less, on average driving 271 kilometers, or 168 miles less per year. If consumers maintained the same rate of use for their vehicles, the increased cost would be 4.4% more, or twice the rate of inflation, which is 2%. Insurance, tolls, and repairs have also increased faster than the rate of inflation, reports Didier Bollecker, the preseident of the French Automobile Club Association. Efforts by drivers to reduce costs by buying diesel-fueled cars are no solution, as according to the study, the vehicles depreciate significantly after four years of use, in comparison to gasoline-fueled cars.
To add to the bad news about the high cost of fuel, and the 12% decrease in foreign investment in France; the international Monetary Fund has just issued a report concluding that France's gambit of balancing its budget by raising taxes, is depressing the confidence of entrepreneurs in France's economy, as well as that of French households. In order to be more attractive to investors, the report notes, France should liberalize the laws and regulations under which business has to operate in France.
Those foreign businesses already established in France are the most critical, 34% projecting that in five years, business conditions will deteriorate still further; while only 9% of those considering, but not yet established in France, are of the same view. Investments by BRIC companies in 2012 are almost half what they were in 2011: 14 in 2012, versus 23 in 2011. Of foreign companies investing in Europe in the same year, only 6% of all emerging market investments in the 27-member European Union were sited in France. The number of favorable tax treatment clauses designed for use by businesses and individuals has been sharply reduced over the last five years, returning about 72 billion Euros to the government as a result.
However, the disappearance of some of the benefits is unlikely to bring joy to the hearts of the French: Included in the package of loopholes eliminated, are tax breaks for families with three or more children, part of France's social policy of keeping the birth rate from declining. Maintaining the birth rate, even increasing it, theoretically maintains the number of contributors to the social safety net, as well as the extended family and a sense of obligation to the older generation and its values. For this reason, the elimination of special tax treatment for families with three or more children (which included early retirement for working mothers five years before mothers with two or fewer chldren), is highly unpopular among large families across a spectrum of socio-economic levels.
The family still means a great deal in France, and right and left are both family-focused in their policies. Freedom of the individual is not the premier value, as it is in the United States. A Frenchman's expression of discontent with his government --as indicated by the frequency of strikes here-- is not driven by individuals connected by belief in particular deals of freedom opposed to state power, but belief in common ideals about what the paternalistic state ought to provide the social group consisting of farmers with its particular concerns; railroad worker with theirs; and so on, nurses, teachers, civil servants. There is no French Tea Party because those whose disaffections might attract them to the Tea Party's grass roots base identify their disaffections along socio-economic group lines, rather philosophically. The Tea Party's central proposition --that, unchecked, government always keeps individuals from being able to decide what is best for them-- finds little resonance in France, where paternalistic government is viewed as benign, so long as it remembers its children.
The Cost of Living
Despite how relatively inexpensive the cost of foodstuffs and other items seems to me, the cost of fuel is very high here. Working out the math based on the latest figures available from the Economics section of Le Figaro of June 5,2013, the average price of a gallon of No. 95, the cheapest unleaded gas available in France, is $8.44; it is $3.66 in the United States. During 2012, the average yearly fuel cost of the Renault Clio I am driving was 6,049 Euros, or $8,034, with the Euro at about $1.33 today.
As a result, people use their cars less, on average driving 271 kilometers, or 168 miles less per year. If consumers maintained the same rate of use for their vehicles, the increased cost would be 4.4% more, or twice the rate of inflation, which is 2%. Insurance, tolls, and repairs have also increased faster than the rate of inflation, reports Didier Bollecker, the preseident of the French Automobile Club Association. Efforts by drivers to reduce costs by buying diesel-fueled cars are no solution, as according to the study, the vehicles depreciate significantly after four years of use, in comparison to gasoline-fueled cars.
To add to the bad news about the high cost of fuel, and the 12% decrease in foreign investment in France; the international Monetary Fund has just issued a report concluding that France's gambit of balancing its budget by raising taxes, is depressing the confidence of entrepreneurs in France's economy, as well as that of French households. In order to be more attractive to investors, the report notes, France should liberalize the laws and regulations under which business has to operate in France.
Those foreign businesses already established in France are the most critical, 34% projecting that in five years, business conditions will deteriorate still further; while only 9% of those considering, but not yet established in France, are of the same view. Investments by BRIC companies in 2012 are almost half what they were in 2011: 14 in 2012, versus 23 in 2011. Of foreign companies investing in Europe in the same year, only 6% of all emerging market investments in the 27-member European Union were sited in France. The number of favorable tax treatment clauses designed for use by businesses and individuals has been sharply reduced over the last five years, returning about 72 billion Euros to the government as a result.
However, the disappearance of some of the benefits is unlikely to bring joy to the hearts of the French: Included in the package of loopholes eliminated, are tax breaks for families with three or more children, part of France's social policy of keeping the birth rate from declining. Maintaining the birth rate, even increasing it, theoretically maintains the number of contributors to the social safety net, as well as the extended family and a sense of obligation to the older generation and its values. For this reason, the elimination of special tax treatment for families with three or more children (which included early retirement for working mothers five years before mothers with two or fewer chldren), is highly unpopular among large families across a spectrum of socio-economic levels.
The family still means a great deal in France, and right and left are both family-focused in their policies. Freedom of the individual is not the premier value, as it is in the United States. A Frenchman's expression of discontent with his government --as indicated by the frequency of strikes here-- is not driven by individuals connected by belief in particular deals of freedom opposed to state power, but belief in common ideals about what the paternalistic state ought to provide the social group consisting of farmers with its particular concerns; railroad worker with theirs; and so on, nurses, teachers, civil servants. There is no French Tea Party because those whose disaffections might attract them to the Tea Party's grass roots base identify their disaffections along socio-economic group lines, rather philosophically. The Tea Party's central proposition --that, unchecked, government always keeps individuals from being able to decide what is best for them-- finds little resonance in France, where paternalistic government is viewed as benign, so long as it remembers its children.
June 12, 2013
Test Drive
Judith, Louis and I leave the house by 7:30 a.m. to make it to the leasing company location by 9:00 a.m. Today, Wednesday, June 12 is the second day of a massive strike of airline controllers all over Western Europe and many flights are cancelled. Judith and Louis believe that their flight to Munich and connection to Newark will be unaffected, based on what the personnel of their carrier, Lufthansa, told them yesterday. There is also a strike on the TGV, the French high-speed rail system. The good thing, someone said, is that you know when the strike will take place, so you can plan around it.
At Europe by Car, who leased us our cars, the procedure is efficient and organized. Judith and Louis are going to be driven to their terminal by the same man who handled the vehicle return, who will return to set me up with my car. I will hear how they managed in a few days, with any luck.
After about a 15 minute wait, the leasing agent puts me through the same paces he did Judith and Louis, just in reverse. He also shows me to a brand-new gold Renault Clio. The car can function as a stick-shift of automatic, and the motor can rev into sportscar gear at the touch of a button, although that involves a higher per gallon cost. There is no key, all is powered by a remote control inserted in the dashboard that turns on the GPS as well as the stereo system. The design of the car, which is economy size is comfortable.
The proof of the car's functionality is of course, how it handles: the Clio is an easy car to drive, with a quick pick-up, the digital map connected to the GPS easily visible, the directions given by it clear. One feature of note are side mirrors controlled by a joystick that enables the mirrors to turn inward while driving through the narrowest of streets, of which there are many in towns here.
I manage, to my pleasant suprise, to make it to the toll road --the péage-- without incident, and stay on it until it ends near Montpellier, I yield when I am supposed to in the traffic circles, the drivers trying to enter yield to me and all is good. The only moment of rage road I meet with is a van driver who is annoyed that I have stayed in the left lane as the GPS instructs me to do: I see his hand come off the steering wheel in that gesture the French use to express frustration, but it's a minor matter, especially as I move over to the slower, right-hand lane, which turns out not to affect the route at all.
The only real problem I encounter is at the second rotary in the direction of Mézamet: I deviate from the requested route twice and have to turn back twice, passing the same lovely allée of linden trees four times before I finally turn into the right exit from the circle. I make it the hypermarché nearby, parking without a problem, picking up and dropping off drycleaning at the 4 Euros a piece pressing, as dry cleaners are called in France.
I drive on to Peyriac to try to use my U.S. credit card to fill up at the Spar gas station. This involves driving into and out of Caunes in the opposite direction of Toulouse. It is not a long ride, but it is hot as blazes, and when I pull in the station is unmanned, as it is 1:30 p.m. I try to use my credit card, but it will not take.
While I am doing so, a young man with closely cropped hair, wearing a white button down shirt over plaid bermudas pulls up. Seeing me fumbling to get gas, he shouts something out the window at me, then pulls out of the gas station like a speed demon. A few minutes later he returns.
"I'm sorry, I should not have screamed at you. Are you having trouble using your credit card? I could let you use mine and you could pay me the cost of the gasoline."
He has to say this several times, before I fully believe that he is making the offer out of no ulterior motives. Still, I ask him,
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
"Why, aren't people nice where you're from? I'm just offering to help you because I behaved so rudely. If you don't want me to get involved no problem. You're American aren't you?"
We talk a bit and I establish that his name is Clement, and that he is a computer technician who lives in Rieux. It would clearly be a big help if I could buy gas this way, as otherwise I have to return to Peyriac to do so after 3:30 p.m.
He asks whether I am working here, when I say no, I'll just be living here a few months, he says, "Isn't it funny, you want to come here, and I want to leave here. I want to to to the South --to Texas--"
"Why?" I ask him.
"Because there are jobs there."
I take Clement up on his offer and give him my e-mail address. There are no Apple stores for miles, the nearest are in Bordeaux and Dijon, 300 miles away, Paris another 400. A kind computer tech might be a good person to know in the Aude.
Test Drive
Judith, Louis and I leave the house by 7:30 a.m. to make it to the leasing company location by 9:00 a.m. Today, Wednesday, June 12 is the second day of a massive strike of airline controllers all over Western Europe and many flights are cancelled. Judith and Louis believe that their flight to Munich and connection to Newark will be unaffected, based on what the personnel of their carrier, Lufthansa, told them yesterday. There is also a strike on the TGV, the French high-speed rail system. The good thing, someone said, is that you know when the strike will take place, so you can plan around it.
At Europe by Car, who leased us our cars, the procedure is efficient and organized. Judith and Louis are going to be driven to their terminal by the same man who handled the vehicle return, who will return to set me up with my car. I will hear how they managed in a few days, with any luck.
After about a 15 minute wait, the leasing agent puts me through the same paces he did Judith and Louis, just in reverse. He also shows me to a brand-new gold Renault Clio. The car can function as a stick-shift of automatic, and the motor can rev into sportscar gear at the touch of a button, although that involves a higher per gallon cost. There is no key, all is powered by a remote control inserted in the dashboard that turns on the GPS as well as the stereo system. The design of the car, which is economy size is comfortable.
The proof of the car's functionality is of course, how it handles: the Clio is an easy car to drive, with a quick pick-up, the digital map connected to the GPS easily visible, the directions given by it clear. One feature of note are side mirrors controlled by a joystick that enables the mirrors to turn inward while driving through the narrowest of streets, of which there are many in towns here.
I manage, to my pleasant suprise, to make it to the toll road --the péage-- without incident, and stay on it until it ends near Montpellier, I yield when I am supposed to in the traffic circles, the drivers trying to enter yield to me and all is good. The only moment of rage road I meet with is a van driver who is annoyed that I have stayed in the left lane as the GPS instructs me to do: I see his hand come off the steering wheel in that gesture the French use to express frustration, but it's a minor matter, especially as I move over to the slower, right-hand lane, which turns out not to affect the route at all.
The only real problem I encounter is at the second rotary in the direction of Mézamet: I deviate from the requested route twice and have to turn back twice, passing the same lovely allée of linden trees four times before I finally turn into the right exit from the circle. I make it the hypermarché nearby, parking without a problem, picking up and dropping off drycleaning at the 4 Euros a piece pressing, as dry cleaners are called in France.
I drive on to Peyriac to try to use my U.S. credit card to fill up at the Spar gas station. This involves driving into and out of Caunes in the opposite direction of Toulouse. It is not a long ride, but it is hot as blazes, and when I pull in the station is unmanned, as it is 1:30 p.m. I try to use my credit card, but it will not take.
While I am doing so, a young man with closely cropped hair, wearing a white button down shirt over plaid bermudas pulls up. Seeing me fumbling to get gas, he shouts something out the window at me, then pulls out of the gas station like a speed demon. A few minutes later he returns.
"I'm sorry, I should not have screamed at you. Are you having trouble using your credit card? I could let you use mine and you could pay me the cost of the gasoline."
He has to say this several times, before I fully believe that he is making the offer out of no ulterior motives. Still, I ask him,
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
"Why, aren't people nice where you're from? I'm just offering to help you because I behaved so rudely. If you don't want me to get involved no problem. You're American aren't you?"
We talk a bit and I establish that his name is Clement, and that he is a computer technician who lives in Rieux. It would clearly be a big help if I could buy gas this way, as otherwise I have to return to Peyriac to do so after 3:30 p.m.
He asks whether I am working here, when I say no, I'll just be living here a few months, he says, "Isn't it funny, you want to come here, and I want to leave here. I want to to to the South --to Texas--"
"Why?" I ask him.
"Because there are jobs there."
I take Clement up on his offer and give him my e-mail address. There are no Apple stores for miles, the nearest are in Bordeaux and Dijon, 300 miles away, Paris another 400. A kind computer tech might be a good person to know in the Aude.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
June 12, 2013
House-hunting
The economic crisis in France has affected real estate in Caunes, a village of 1500: there are quite a number of properties on the market, and many of them have been on the market for more than a year. Walking about the village last week I noted down the addresses and phone numbers of all those "A Vendre" and arranged visits throughout the day today. Most of the houses are being sold by owners. I see six houses, three offered by owners, three by a broker. All are attached.
The first, at the porte de Narbonne by the gates of the old town, is sold by a Caunois painter and his wife whose children are grown. He has bought a house in Minerve where he has a gallery he lives above. The exterior of the house is old, but the inside has been completely renovated and is immaculate. The price, which is a reasonable one, has dropped because of the combination of economic crisis, length of time on the market and another property to carry. It overlooks the Black Mountains and the Pyrenees, as well as one of the old walls of the medieval town. It is not a magazine's dream of a picturesque house, but it is turnkey. Asking price: 165,000 Euros.
The agent of Orpi brokers has driven over to meet us at 11 o'clock to show me a four-story house on rue Notre Dame that has a pool visible from the crack in the front door, which piqued my interest. Imagining something worth writing an Audois version of Peter Mayle's A Year In Provence, it is disappointing to realize that the house, while enormous, joins an old livestock stable on one side, and a charmless house on the other. It is a second residence for a couple from the United Kingdom with children. On account of the many cast-iron single beds, the upper floor looks like an English nursery. The total ensemble, which includes another cast-iron bed on a landing between the third an fourth floors, makes me think of an orphanage. The pool is shoved up against the wall between the two buildings and the land between the entrance to the two has not been floored, is just weeds. Asking price: 450,000 Euros.
The broker, Noémie, shows me two other houses on narrow streets in the village that are much less money. One is on the Impasse Saint Luce, a little alley. It has a ground floor sitting room that makes me think of Balzac's characters: I can imagine an elderly grandmother with a bun sitting by the fire during the winter, her shawl wrapped around her. Upstairs the bedroom boasts a 19th century fireplace with a navy blue-enameled door made by a master artisan. The bathroom has been completely renovated with state-of-the-art taps and fixtures, and there is a small and completely private terrace on the roof that would be perfect for nude sunbathing. The problem is that there is some water damage to the plaster on the ground floor, due to old pipes no doubt. Worse, the bakery across the street (one of two in Caunes), has installed a generator to keep the refrigerator going. It emits a deafening, grinding sound at all hours. Noémie suggests that if I put in double-pane windows I will not hear it. I need to explain to her that I hardly think that that is an attractive proposition. The property just came on the market. Asking price: 125,000 Euros.
The third house Noémie shows us is a curiosity: even smaller than the house on the alley, it is inhabited by a renter, a friend of the owner. It is actually two tiny, one bedroom houses merged together, with each bedroom on a different side of the joined building. The renter has a hunting dog, a mix of Coonhound and German Shepherd that is being put to the test living there with the renter for more than a year. Her long tail wags all the time, with the result that in the tiny spaces of the house, she injures herself, with the result that her bloody tail stains the the white stucco each time she moves past. The renter a tall, blue-eyed fellow with an exotic accent is also a smoker, and the house reeks of Marlboro Golds.
Not to exaggerate, the steps to the upper floors are so narrow and winding that I see myself paralyzed within a few weeks residence. The ground floor has no sitting area, it is on the second floor, and the bedrooms are found on the third floor. There is little light entering the house today, a brilliantly sunny day: in the winter, it would be Dostoievskian. Asking price: 139,000 Euros.
I bid adieu to the broker and, after a quick lunch, go on to see the next two houses. The first, on rue des Lavandieres, near the abbey, is being sold by an Algerian woman, Madame Mazari. To be more accurate, it is being sold for her by her sons, one of whom, Ahmed, will lead us through the house tour. He has us go upstairs first, so as to show us the lovely view of the abbey from the second and third floors. Indeed the views are a poster, but the rooms seem more Algerian than French: the light in each of the rooms is provided by a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Each shows little care for the niceties of bourgeois comfort. Madame Azari is selling because she was widowed two years ago. Ahmed, who spent his career with the French Army and used to live in Corsica, now lives in Bordeaux. His brother, not he, however, will take in their mother. All the children were raised in the house, in which Madame Azari has lived for thirty years.
She is a lively woman of 82, with flaming orange-red hair covered by a blue scarf. She looks entirely Algerian, with her fair skin and golden eyes. She tells me happily that her neighbors down the street are American and lovely. She also tells me that in Caunes there are sixteen different nationalities, proudly indicating that it is a tolerant place. She also keeps saying to her son "Comme elle est belle! Comme elle est belle!" which makes me wonder whether she is looking for a wife for Ahmed. Ahmed lacks a few front teeth, but is completely French, while his mother speaks only Arabic mixed with French. She shows me her enormous couscous pots and we talk a bit about North African cookery, with her telling me, I think, that Algerian food is superior to Moroccan.
When it comes time for me to ask the price of the house, Ahmed tells me that for that information, I will have to give him my phone number. His brother is in charge of that side of the transaction, and will call me tonight to divulge it to me. I find this faintly off-putting, even if the house were small enough to suit my needs.
The last house, more house than I would ever need, 245 square meters, is the most striking. It is being sold by a Kabylye family named Mazari, whose daughter, Madame Gonzalez, is the person to whom I spoke earlier. Her brother, a sun-lined man who smokes the stub of a hand-rolled cigarette in between work on the front door lock, is working on the door when we arrive. He waves us in, and his sister conducts the tour.
The front of the house opens out onto rue Montgaillard, the back onto rue de la Petite Fontaine. Both front and back views of the house are lovely, one facing the abbey's two bell towers, the other adjoining a hidden little park with, indeed, a little fountain nestled in its center. The house has five stories, including two balconies facing the houses opposite, which are now empty. The adjoining property on the right has a terrace that is a bridge to the house opposite, whose terrace forms the other half of the bridge. The terrace looks over the terra cotta roofs of the buildings leading to the abbey and beyond, a peaceful and soothing view.
The Mazari children grew up there, each leaving when they married, the parents remaining behind. Father and mother died in 2004 and 2007, but it was not until 2012 that the children agreed to put the house on the market. The rooms are all finished with new flowering wallpaper, the roofs are painted, there are more than enough outlets, there is an enormous wine cellar in the basement, ten rooms, three fireplaces, three full baths, a two-car garage, two wall-length balconies and a shaded outdoor terrace for cooking on in the hot weather. Madame Gonzalez will not speak of the price, that is her brother's domain.
The tour done, we all stand in front of the house. I spend several minutes talking with them, explaining how I came to Caunes and why I am looking, giving them my family history as well. I let them know what other houses I have seen and the asking prices. It turns out that Ahmed worked on the house that belongs to the English couple and they agree it is so enclosed as to be prison-like. After these preliminaries, they are comfortable disclosing the price of the house: 250,000 Euros if I buy directly from them, 252,000 Euros if I go through a broker. It is too much house for almost anyone, but the care with which the Mazaris have tended it begs for a purchaser who will love it as much as they do.
House-hunting
The economic crisis in France has affected real estate in Caunes, a village of 1500: there are quite a number of properties on the market, and many of them have been on the market for more than a year. Walking about the village last week I noted down the addresses and phone numbers of all those "A Vendre" and arranged visits throughout the day today. Most of the houses are being sold by owners. I see six houses, three offered by owners, three by a broker. All are attached.
The first, at the porte de Narbonne by the gates of the old town, is sold by a Caunois painter and his wife whose children are grown. He has bought a house in Minerve where he has a gallery he lives above. The exterior of the house is old, but the inside has been completely renovated and is immaculate. The price, which is a reasonable one, has dropped because of the combination of economic crisis, length of time on the market and another property to carry. It overlooks the Black Mountains and the Pyrenees, as well as one of the old walls of the medieval town. It is not a magazine's dream of a picturesque house, but it is turnkey. Asking price: 165,000 Euros.
The agent of Orpi brokers has driven over to meet us at 11 o'clock to show me a four-story house on rue Notre Dame that has a pool visible from the crack in the front door, which piqued my interest. Imagining something worth writing an Audois version of Peter Mayle's A Year In Provence, it is disappointing to realize that the house, while enormous, joins an old livestock stable on one side, and a charmless house on the other. It is a second residence for a couple from the United Kingdom with children. On account of the many cast-iron single beds, the upper floor looks like an English nursery. The total ensemble, which includes another cast-iron bed on a landing between the third an fourth floors, makes me think of an orphanage. The pool is shoved up against the wall between the two buildings and the land between the entrance to the two has not been floored, is just weeds. Asking price: 450,000 Euros.
The broker, Noémie, shows me two other houses on narrow streets in the village that are much less money. One is on the Impasse Saint Luce, a little alley. It has a ground floor sitting room that makes me think of Balzac's characters: I can imagine an elderly grandmother with a bun sitting by the fire during the winter, her shawl wrapped around her. Upstairs the bedroom boasts a 19th century fireplace with a navy blue-enameled door made by a master artisan. The bathroom has been completely renovated with state-of-the-art taps and fixtures, and there is a small and completely private terrace on the roof that would be perfect for nude sunbathing. The problem is that there is some water damage to the plaster on the ground floor, due to old pipes no doubt. Worse, the bakery across the street (one of two in Caunes), has installed a generator to keep the refrigerator going. It emits a deafening, grinding sound at all hours. Noémie suggests that if I put in double-pane windows I will not hear it. I need to explain to her that I hardly think that that is an attractive proposition. The property just came on the market. Asking price: 125,000 Euros.
The third house Noémie shows us is a curiosity: even smaller than the house on the alley, it is inhabited by a renter, a friend of the owner. It is actually two tiny, one bedroom houses merged together, with each bedroom on a different side of the joined building. The renter has a hunting dog, a mix of Coonhound and German Shepherd that is being put to the test living there with the renter for more than a year. Her long tail wags all the time, with the result that in the tiny spaces of the house, she injures herself, with the result that her bloody tail stains the the white stucco each time she moves past. The renter a tall, blue-eyed fellow with an exotic accent is also a smoker, and the house reeks of Marlboro Golds.
Not to exaggerate, the steps to the upper floors are so narrow and winding that I see myself paralyzed within a few weeks residence. The ground floor has no sitting area, it is on the second floor, and the bedrooms are found on the third floor. There is little light entering the house today, a brilliantly sunny day: in the winter, it would be Dostoievskian. Asking price: 139,000 Euros.
I bid adieu to the broker and, after a quick lunch, go on to see the next two houses. The first, on rue des Lavandieres, near the abbey, is being sold by an Algerian woman, Madame Mazari. To be more accurate, it is being sold for her by her sons, one of whom, Ahmed, will lead us through the house tour. He has us go upstairs first, so as to show us the lovely view of the abbey from the second and third floors. Indeed the views are a poster, but the rooms seem more Algerian than French: the light in each of the rooms is provided by a naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Each shows little care for the niceties of bourgeois comfort. Madame Azari is selling because she was widowed two years ago. Ahmed, who spent his career with the French Army and used to live in Corsica, now lives in Bordeaux. His brother, not he, however, will take in their mother. All the children were raised in the house, in which Madame Azari has lived for thirty years.
She is a lively woman of 82, with flaming orange-red hair covered by a blue scarf. She looks entirely Algerian, with her fair skin and golden eyes. She tells me happily that her neighbors down the street are American and lovely. She also tells me that in Caunes there are sixteen different nationalities, proudly indicating that it is a tolerant place. She also keeps saying to her son "Comme elle est belle! Comme elle est belle!" which makes me wonder whether she is looking for a wife for Ahmed. Ahmed lacks a few front teeth, but is completely French, while his mother speaks only Arabic mixed with French. She shows me her enormous couscous pots and we talk a bit about North African cookery, with her telling me, I think, that Algerian food is superior to Moroccan.
When it comes time for me to ask the price of the house, Ahmed tells me that for that information, I will have to give him my phone number. His brother is in charge of that side of the transaction, and will call me tonight to divulge it to me. I find this faintly off-putting, even if the house were small enough to suit my needs.
The last house, more house than I would ever need, 245 square meters, is the most striking. It is being sold by a Kabylye family named Mazari, whose daughter, Madame Gonzalez, is the person to whom I spoke earlier. Her brother, a sun-lined man who smokes the stub of a hand-rolled cigarette in between work on the front door lock, is working on the door when we arrive. He waves us in, and his sister conducts the tour.
The front of the house opens out onto rue Montgaillard, the back onto rue de la Petite Fontaine. Both front and back views of the house are lovely, one facing the abbey's two bell towers, the other adjoining a hidden little park with, indeed, a little fountain nestled in its center. The house has five stories, including two balconies facing the houses opposite, which are now empty. The adjoining property on the right has a terrace that is a bridge to the house opposite, whose terrace forms the other half of the bridge. The terrace looks over the terra cotta roofs of the buildings leading to the abbey and beyond, a peaceful and soothing view.
The Mazari children grew up there, each leaving when they married, the parents remaining behind. Father and mother died in 2004 and 2007, but it was not until 2012 that the children agreed to put the house on the market. The rooms are all finished with new flowering wallpaper, the roofs are painted, there are more than enough outlets, there is an enormous wine cellar in the basement, ten rooms, three fireplaces, three full baths, a two-car garage, two wall-length balconies and a shaded outdoor terrace for cooking on in the hot weather. Madame Gonzalez will not speak of the price, that is her brother's domain.
The tour done, we all stand in front of the house. I spend several minutes talking with them, explaining how I came to Caunes and why I am looking, giving them my family history as well. I let them know what other houses I have seen and the asking prices. It turns out that Ahmed worked on the house that belongs to the English couple and they agree it is so enclosed as to be prison-like. After these preliminaries, they are comfortable disclosing the price of the house: 250,000 Euros if I buy directly from them, 252,000 Euros if I go through a broker. It is too much house for almost anyone, but the care with which the Mazaris have tended it begs for a purchaser who will love it as much as they do.
Monday, June 10, 2013
June 11, 2013
On the road to Mèze
Judith, Louis and I have plans to drive to Mèze, where our friend Francine lives.
Francine went to the French Army after she successfully sat the baccalaureate, the school-leaving examination those who want to apply to university must pass. She went not to university however, but to the French Army. From the Army she went to work for a Danish company, where she met Judith, then to work for the French Tourist Office around the world. After taking retirement at 60 she moved from Belgium to L'Herault, the department in which Mèze is located. Eventually she was able to situate herself in Mèze, a town across the barrier island on which Sète is located. Both are near Bèziers, a medieval town which attracts a lot of tourists there.
The road to Mèze encapsulates many of the features of the French countryside, as well as demonstrating the different driving skills required to drive with ease in France. During the 90-minute drive we pass several gorgeous allés of trees, the treetops along the parallel rows creating a sun-shielding canopy. We also pass harvested fields, the residue of one crop leaving behind gold accents on the brown earth.
And we pass enormous expanses of vineyard. Wine grapes are now easily harvested by machines that putter up and down the rows of vineyards, extracting intact fruit in a fraction of the time it took when men with tin buckets fastened to their backs by leather straps went vine by vine, stem by stem.
Wild flowers grow, too. Genêt, a brilliant yellow weed, is found all over; and the last of the spring's poppies splash red against the green grass. One field is entirely taken over by them, a carpet of flowers. It reminds me of poppies' association with the First World War, whose centennial will be here in five years. In all the old towns of France there are memorials to that war which killed more than all that followed and in which the most barbarous weapons technology could provide were used against some of the oldest. Tanks, trenches, machine guns, gas prevailed against bayonets, horses and raw recruits. Today many of the dead of that war still lie where they fell. Perhaps that explains the French attachment to the land: just this past week one of the national newspapers discussed the search for remains of First World War dead by the grandchildren of those killed in it. The article highlighted the search of an elderly brother and sister for the remains of their grandfather, who died on the battlefield before his child was born. Many as yet undiscovered lie under the fields of poppies that bloom every spring.
The roads here are narrow, very narrow; and bisected by rotaries, often two within a short distance of each other. These roads are also traversed by massive, powerful trucks, which dominate the traffic pattern. Driving here is not driving on an open road, as it is in the United States; it is about driving a lightweight car on a slender local road in the countryside, with a behemoth coming at you in the opposite direction in the next lane. It is about driving through the main street in a small village and reaching an intersection and not moving until you are sure the rig has made its way well out of your ken. The trucks are so heavy and so wide-bodied, and the passenger cars are so light and fragile, that there is no question of who is boss. Movement on the French road takes place in increments, not stretches as in the United States. The countryside is beribboned with roads that require drivers to make narrow turns on winding roads and rotaries and to keep alert. If you miss the exit you needed, you may not be able to turn around until very much further down the road.
We reach Mèze without mishap. For the first time since I arrived a week ago, the sun is shining brilliantly and it is warm. Mèze has a beach and fishing boats and is home to a great many retirees from France and England, drawn by the palm trees and the atmosphere of a fishing village. More developments are being built --the vineyards overlooking the sea next door to Francine's are being torn up to make way for another twenty homes. Unlike Caunes, which does not have a Mediterranean climate, in the less-affluent Aude, Mèze in the affluent L'Herault, boasts well-maintained roads, a fancy cinema and the blue of the ocean. It smells of pleasure, the way modern seaside developments always do. Few people who live here were from here originally, and if they are, they don't live in this well-appointed development, which goes by the name Ecosite.
On the road to Mèze
Judith, Louis and I have plans to drive to Mèze, where our friend Francine lives.
Francine went to the French Army after she successfully sat the baccalaureate, the school-leaving examination those who want to apply to university must pass. She went not to university however, but to the French Army. From the Army she went to work for a Danish company, where she met Judith, then to work for the French Tourist Office around the world. After taking retirement at 60 she moved from Belgium to L'Herault, the department in which Mèze is located. Eventually she was able to situate herself in Mèze, a town across the barrier island on which Sète is located. Both are near Bèziers, a medieval town which attracts a lot of tourists there.
The road to Mèze encapsulates many of the features of the French countryside, as well as demonstrating the different driving skills required to drive with ease in France. During the 90-minute drive we pass several gorgeous allés of trees, the treetops along the parallel rows creating a sun-shielding canopy. We also pass harvested fields, the residue of one crop leaving behind gold accents on the brown earth.
And we pass enormous expanses of vineyard. Wine grapes are now easily harvested by machines that putter up and down the rows of vineyards, extracting intact fruit in a fraction of the time it took when men with tin buckets fastened to their backs by leather straps went vine by vine, stem by stem.
Wild flowers grow, too. Genêt, a brilliant yellow weed, is found all over; and the last of the spring's poppies splash red against the green grass. One field is entirely taken over by them, a carpet of flowers. It reminds me of poppies' association with the First World War, whose centennial will be here in five years. In all the old towns of France there are memorials to that war which killed more than all that followed and in which the most barbarous weapons technology could provide were used against some of the oldest. Tanks, trenches, machine guns, gas prevailed against bayonets, horses and raw recruits. Today many of the dead of that war still lie where they fell. Perhaps that explains the French attachment to the land: just this past week one of the national newspapers discussed the search for remains of First World War dead by the grandchildren of those killed in it. The article highlighted the search of an elderly brother and sister for the remains of their grandfather, who died on the battlefield before his child was born. Many as yet undiscovered lie under the fields of poppies that bloom every spring.
The roads here are narrow, very narrow; and bisected by rotaries, often two within a short distance of each other. These roads are also traversed by massive, powerful trucks, which dominate the traffic pattern. Driving here is not driving on an open road, as it is in the United States; it is about driving a lightweight car on a slender local road in the countryside, with a behemoth coming at you in the opposite direction in the next lane. It is about driving through the main street in a small village and reaching an intersection and not moving until you are sure the rig has made its way well out of your ken. The trucks are so heavy and so wide-bodied, and the passenger cars are so light and fragile, that there is no question of who is boss. Movement on the French road takes place in increments, not stretches as in the United States. The countryside is beribboned with roads that require drivers to make narrow turns on winding roads and rotaries and to keep alert. If you miss the exit you needed, you may not be able to turn around until very much further down the road.
We reach Mèze without mishap. For the first time since I arrived a week ago, the sun is shining brilliantly and it is warm. Mèze has a beach and fishing boats and is home to a great many retirees from France and England, drawn by the palm trees and the atmosphere of a fishing village. More developments are being built --the vineyards overlooking the sea next door to Francine's are being torn up to make way for another twenty homes. Unlike Caunes, which does not have a Mediterranean climate, in the less-affluent Aude, Mèze in the affluent L'Herault, boasts well-maintained roads, a fancy cinema and the blue of the ocean. It smells of pleasure, the way modern seaside developments always do. Few people who live here were from here originally, and if they are, they don't live in this well-appointed development, which goes by the name Ecosite.
June 10, 2013
Caunes-Minervois
The Feast of the Martyrs of Caunes
In the early evening there is a Mass at the Benedictine abbey in Caunes. This is a special occasion, as the church and abbey are more historic than religious landmarks in the village. There was another church in Caunes, devoted to Saint Genès, but it was demolished some years ago, so villagers must go to Carcassonne or another town if they wish to attend Mass regularly.
However, June 6 is the feast of the Martyrs of Caunes, and the feast is observed with pageantry. In the abbey church are displayed wooden busts of each of the four Martryrs, Luce, Audalde, Alexandre and Amand. They are in spindled and gilded wooden niches, each of which has its distinctive crown. Four dowels project from each of the bases, so they may be hoisted and carried. The date the feast is celebrated --which happens to be Sunday-- designated males don coral silk stoles over their white shirts, and carry the figures in procession through the old town.
I attend the Mass which is celebrated by a middle-aged priest from the nearby town of Rieux. During the procession he tells me that he is responsible for eighteen parishes, a fact that underscores the shortage of priests in the countryside. Despite the difficulties, the parishioners, though, keep the tradition alive, singing out "We Come Joyously" "Children of the City of Caunes", and "Glorious Martyrs", hymns composed in honor of Luce, Audalde, Alexandre and Amand.
After the Mass, the procession starts, with a figure of a hand leading the way, and the priest bringing up the rear. The hand contains a relic of Amand, a bishop whose forearm was chopped off before he was killed. This devotion has existed in Caunes since 982, interrupted only from 1894 to 1944 the priest tells me as we walk. In 1944, during the Nazi occupation, the devotion was revived in opposition to the wish of the occupying authorities. The priest says that in fact, it was revived despite Nazi opposition, the locals choosing express in this way something of their own, whatever the consequences.
Caunes' narrow streets are jammed by the procession and the portable niches make a pretty sight against the stones of the houses' walls. It is not quite holy week in Seville, but it is a spectacle nonetheless, particularly in the sunshine, which has finally come out.
Caunes-Minervois
The Feast of the Martyrs of Caunes
In the early evening there is a Mass at the Benedictine abbey in Caunes. This is a special occasion, as the church and abbey are more historic than religious landmarks in the village. There was another church in Caunes, devoted to Saint Genès, but it was demolished some years ago, so villagers must go to Carcassonne or another town if they wish to attend Mass regularly.
However, June 6 is the feast of the Martyrs of Caunes, and the feast is observed with pageantry. In the abbey church are displayed wooden busts of each of the four Martryrs, Luce, Audalde, Alexandre and Amand. They are in spindled and gilded wooden niches, each of which has its distinctive crown. Four dowels project from each of the bases, so they may be hoisted and carried. The date the feast is celebrated --which happens to be Sunday-- designated males don coral silk stoles over their white shirts, and carry the figures in procession through the old town.
I attend the Mass which is celebrated by a middle-aged priest from the nearby town of Rieux. During the procession he tells me that he is responsible for eighteen parishes, a fact that underscores the shortage of priests in the countryside. Despite the difficulties, the parishioners, though, keep the tradition alive, singing out "We Come Joyously" "Children of the City of Caunes", and "Glorious Martyrs", hymns composed in honor of Luce, Audalde, Alexandre and Amand.
After the Mass, the procession starts, with a figure of a hand leading the way, and the priest bringing up the rear. The hand contains a relic of Amand, a bishop whose forearm was chopped off before he was killed. This devotion has existed in Caunes since 982, interrupted only from 1894 to 1944 the priest tells me as we walk. In 1944, during the Nazi occupation, the devotion was revived in opposition to the wish of the occupying authorities. The priest says that in fact, it was revived despite Nazi opposition, the locals choosing express in this way something of their own, whatever the consequences.
Caunes' narrow streets are jammed by the procession and the portable niches make a pretty sight against the stones of the houses' walls. It is not quite holy week in Seville, but it is a spectacle nonetheless, particularly in the sunshine, which has finally come out.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Sunday, June 8, 2013
Caunes-Minervois
I has been raining all weekend, inclusive of today, Sunday. It's a bit cold, so I sleep with an extra t-shirt under my nightgown, but bearable. The hot shower feels good, though, I must admit.
Luis, Judith and I had plans to go to the vide grenier-- "the attic-emptying" in the auditorium near the City Hall, the mairie. We make our progress around the semi-circle of vendors outside, who are braving the rains. It is not clear how the market is organized, only that everyone seems to set up where they want to, there being more space than vendors. Nonetheless, outside I pick up a nice book about the cooking of Burgundy, with photos and receipts for 2 Euros. It is a library book that was never returned. Such are the sorts of things to be found at a vide grenier. I also find, for 5 Euros, a pair of Steampunk pants, teal khaki with embroidered script lettering, brown leather bindings on pockets, front zippers, the sort of thing Mad Max might wear.
Inside, the offerings are many more, although the auditorium is by no means filled to capacity. One of the vendors, perhaps an electrician, has a collection of old porcelain wiring stubs from the advent of electricity, along with fuse boxes and and more modern fluorescent units. This being France, off to the side there is a well-patronized stand selling wine, coffee and croissants, all for less than 2 Euros each. The vide grenier's vendors do not look like locals, more like Roma. One man, who bears a passing resemblance to Rasputin, wears a vertically striped bathrobe with purple and navy blue stripes over his dark shirt and jeans. He is tall enough that from far away it might look like a pasha's dressing gown, but there is no disguising it is a bathrobe when viewed from a few feet away: perhaps it was what he thought would be warm to wear on such a wet day.
Another man, older, with a large face, longish blond hair that has turned grey that suggests he might be of Norman origin, so Viking are his features, is selling old leather-bound volumes of the collected works of Alfred de Musset, de Vigny, Aubreville and others, as 20 Euros a volume. "They belonged to my family", is all he says. Unfortunately, I cannot help him, although they are in good condition, their red and blue leather bindings, fresh and gorgeous, despite their age.
A woman and her daughter working at a table in the middle of the room are offering 3 pieces for 2 Euros for any clothes from two large plastic tubs. Rifling through the tubs below her table I find two densely-woven cotton sweater and a long shirt with the red and orange stripes popular in the Midi, as the South is called. With the weather still inclement and cool, being able to take home warmer clothes than I brought for so little, is a godsend, particularly as clothes in France of any quality are quite a bit more money than anywhere in the United States.
Judith also having found pieces she can use, and Luis having bought nothing but willingly helping with the transport home of the plastic bags, we make our way out. As we leave, we pass a group of stocky men wearing official vide grenier shirt designed like rugby polos, smoking black Turkish tobacco. The earthy perfume is more pleasant than that of more expensive, blond cigarettes, but still, I can't help being reminded that smoking is still accepted in France, whereas in the New York City in particular, it is practically to be a pariah to put a smoke to one's lips.
We drop our finds at the house and leave in search of lunch. La Table d'Emilie, on rue Minervois, opened three weeks ago and has distinguished itself as the best restaurant in Caunes, although its prices are moderate. It is open, and as it is now late in the lunch service, we find a table easily.
La Table d'Emilie is named after Emily, the dark-haired, seven-year old daughter of Wendy, a young Englishwoman, divorced, who came hear alone on holiday and decided to stay. Starting with a catering business, she bought the space where the restaurant stands and converted it into a small, impeccable restaurant open from nine to six. Today's prix fixe lunch offers either a variety of sauteed fresh mushrooms or a tomato salad with basil as starters, to be followed by either turkey on a bed of pasta or a millefeuille anglais: a potato cake on top of which a pork burger is layered, then topped with a fried egg. All three of us opt for the millefeuille and we have no regrets. Desserts include a small hot chocoloate muffin filled with melted bittersweet chocolate, a lemon posset, and a treacle tart, plus coffees. The total bill: 75 Euros, or $100 USD for three, inclusive of a pichet (about a liter) of a purplish-red wine that goes down very smoothly.
Yesterday, at the Intermarché, the super-store,I bought a digital scale that records my weight in kilos as well as pounds, but I cannot bear to step on it yet.
Caunes-Minervois
I has been raining all weekend, inclusive of today, Sunday. It's a bit cold, so I sleep with an extra t-shirt under my nightgown, but bearable. The hot shower feels good, though, I must admit.
Luis, Judith and I had plans to go to the vide grenier-- "the attic-emptying" in the auditorium near the City Hall, the mairie. We make our progress around the semi-circle of vendors outside, who are braving the rains. It is not clear how the market is organized, only that everyone seems to set up where they want to, there being more space than vendors. Nonetheless, outside I pick up a nice book about the cooking of Burgundy, with photos and receipts for 2 Euros. It is a library book that was never returned. Such are the sorts of things to be found at a vide grenier. I also find, for 5 Euros, a pair of Steampunk pants, teal khaki with embroidered script lettering, brown leather bindings on pockets, front zippers, the sort of thing Mad Max might wear.
Inside, the offerings are many more, although the auditorium is by no means filled to capacity. One of the vendors, perhaps an electrician, has a collection of old porcelain wiring stubs from the advent of electricity, along with fuse boxes and and more modern fluorescent units. This being France, off to the side there is a well-patronized stand selling wine, coffee and croissants, all for less than 2 Euros each. The vide grenier's vendors do not look like locals, more like Roma. One man, who bears a passing resemblance to Rasputin, wears a vertically striped bathrobe with purple and navy blue stripes over his dark shirt and jeans. He is tall enough that from far away it might look like a pasha's dressing gown, but there is no disguising it is a bathrobe when viewed from a few feet away: perhaps it was what he thought would be warm to wear on such a wet day.
Another man, older, with a large face, longish blond hair that has turned grey that suggests he might be of Norman origin, so Viking are his features, is selling old leather-bound volumes of the collected works of Alfred de Musset, de Vigny, Aubreville and others, as 20 Euros a volume. "They belonged to my family", is all he says. Unfortunately, I cannot help him, although they are in good condition, their red and blue leather bindings, fresh and gorgeous, despite their age.
A woman and her daughter working at a table in the middle of the room are offering 3 pieces for 2 Euros for any clothes from two large plastic tubs. Rifling through the tubs below her table I find two densely-woven cotton sweater and a long shirt with the red and orange stripes popular in the Midi, as the South is called. With the weather still inclement and cool, being able to take home warmer clothes than I brought for so little, is a godsend, particularly as clothes in France of any quality are quite a bit more money than anywhere in the United States.
Judith also having found pieces she can use, and Luis having bought nothing but willingly helping with the transport home of the plastic bags, we make our way out. As we leave, we pass a group of stocky men wearing official vide grenier shirt designed like rugby polos, smoking black Turkish tobacco. The earthy perfume is more pleasant than that of more expensive, blond cigarettes, but still, I can't help being reminded that smoking is still accepted in France, whereas in the New York City in particular, it is practically to be a pariah to put a smoke to one's lips.
We drop our finds at the house and leave in search of lunch. La Table d'Emilie, on rue Minervois, opened three weeks ago and has distinguished itself as the best restaurant in Caunes, although its prices are moderate. It is open, and as it is now late in the lunch service, we find a table easily.
La Table d'Emilie is named after Emily, the dark-haired, seven-year old daughter of Wendy, a young Englishwoman, divorced, who came hear alone on holiday and decided to stay. Starting with a catering business, she bought the space where the restaurant stands and converted it into a small, impeccable restaurant open from nine to six. Today's prix fixe lunch offers either a variety of sauteed fresh mushrooms or a tomato salad with basil as starters, to be followed by either turkey on a bed of pasta or a millefeuille anglais: a potato cake on top of which a pork burger is layered, then topped with a fried egg. All three of us opt for the millefeuille and we have no regrets. Desserts include a small hot chocoloate muffin filled with melted bittersweet chocolate, a lemon posset, and a treacle tart, plus coffees. The total bill: 75 Euros, or $100 USD for three, inclusive of a pichet (about a liter) of a purplish-red wine that goes down very smoothly.
Yesterday, at the Intermarché, the super-store,I bought a digital scale that records my weight in kilos as well as pounds, but I cannot bear to step on it yet.
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