le futur ...

my my my ... yesterday in my French group we embarked upon le futur! I have yet to master the present not to mention passé composée and here I am trying to think about adding an extra "R" plus avoir to the end of everything. talk about tongue twisters!

The approach to my French group is actually quite informative. No endless memorization, rote pronunciation drills or disciplined dictées. I am learning about life in France as I learn to speak about it.

The workbooks we use all center around relevant life topics that are current in French life ... we've covered PACSg and socio-cultural norms including how to label/address different family and coupling scenarios. We have lively conversations about the week's political activities ... in all the countries represented (UK, US, France). Barack and Sarah provided much fodder, indeed! These group sessions are supplemented by a weekly 1:1 lesson ... I'm hoping my finances allow me to continue this approach next year. C'etais une investissement dans ma nouvelle vie et mon futur!

This week we did some language and sentence dissection, to be sure. But we were dissecting the lyrics to a popular Bénabar song. Just so happens that J-Y had suggested I buy Bénabar as a way to improve my language and enjoy a new generation of French folk music. He's such a smarty-pants. So I brought the 2 disc CD with me ... which included a DVD of a live concert. Bénabar's music represents a very traditional French genre where the emphasis and importance are more on the lyrics and less on stylized musicality.

After listening to the program's version of the song and explaining the meaning with each other, in French, Laurence broke out her brand-new DVD/TV monitor and we were treated to a live performance of "le Dinér" ... a droll song about all the many ways a couple could avoid a social engagement they aren't looking forward to, and instead stay home ... under the covers!

Did I mention that Bénabar is a talented young man who is quite easy on the eyes?

am I blue?

last night's festivities included live performance by Rag Mama Rag, a blues duo playing 20s and 30s country blues since 1991.

The venue was La Rhue, a Dutch gites site/camping ground that apparently has delved into the live music arena this year. They are located (as some of you might remember) on a difficult to find country road with little signage or fanfare. After my first unsuccessful attempt, I rang them up for directions (I really wasn't far last time) and drove over during the day to make sure I'd have my bearings. There was a small sandwich-board sign on the side of the road, alerting passers-by to upcoming music. After going there, I think they may be on to something with their formula. At 6 euros per head, plus drinks ... and all they do is fling open the doors and let the band and audience in ... seems like a lower-than-some-others effort business affair.

At the last minute (luckily) I called again to confirm they served food. Which. other than some quiche ... they didn't. I first decided to have dinner in Jumilhac (the closest village) but as I headed out I changed my mind and stopped by The Fiddler's Rest, just outside of Thiviers.

The Fiddler's Rest is hosted by an amiable Irish couple, Ronan and Jo. They bill themselves as serving 'pub grub', but I will give them points for being a cut above that. The food is fresh, hearty and the portions are actually too large. Ronan fronts the house and Jo is the cook. She is great with child right now, and it is entertaining to eavesdrop on her predicaments surrounding sleep and such. The pub is done up nicely, with warm wood stoves, bright red walls and all else you'd expect from an Irish cubbyhole. The downside is, as I'm finding with these expatriate-run venues ... is that it seems rather cliquish ... I've been 4 or 5 times and, with the exception of the one night when live music was on offer, the clientele is predominantly english speaking, mostly Irish or Brit. If you want a spot to go and listen to people bitch about the French, these are the types of places to frequent.

Fortunately, I've never heard Ronan or Jo partake in the grousing ... as proprietors I imagine they are required to listen and nod affably. Thus far, I've never come across someone I'd want to engage in a conversation beyond exchanging hellos (other than the owners). But, the menu presents something outside of the french norm and the hospitality of the owners is genial ... so I'll venture back now and again. Maybe more so in the summer, when they are bound to have more consistent music nights.

On to La Rhue. La Rhue's music venue is in a large converted stone barn, and when I first entered it was empty and appeared promising. Until I was roughly elbowed aside by the first of what were hordes of Dutch groups ... descending en masse for the music. I mean they really were loud, pushy and ungracious. It was a family style occasion ... from 6 to 66 were in attendance. The proprietors were, again, quite friendly. With high ceilings, beautiful exposed stone walls, new wood floor and large music posters festooning the walls ... the spot was visually appealing. Many of the tables were marked 'Reservé', so I had to ask if there was a spot for a single. I was told to choose any seat I'd like. More and more folks clattered in, I was overdressed. They all looked as if they were fresh from a day of milking (except one tall slim beauty with legs up to here clad in tight denim jeans and a pewter-toned belt who ended up sat right next to me).

It was interesting to hear the Dutch accent surrounding me ... loud and boisterous. I soon realized that whatever approach was used with the wood floor could use some rethinking. There might have been too much space or the wood was too thin ... every footstep echoed and pounded.

I made my way up to the bar and Monsieur explained their system. They gave you your own little order form, throughout the night the tally was taken and when you left, you turned it in and paid up. He noted my American accent and asked where I lived. When I replied Brantome, he immediately recognized me as the woman who had called and got his wife. She greeted me warmly with bises, asked if I was hungry, etc etc. Very kind.

I returned to my seat and watched the room fill and morph, as tables and chairs were dragged hither and fro. It was like they all knew each other and were comfortable enough to rearrange the floorplan.

FINALLY, (nearly an hour late) the music began. The acoustics were not perfect, but the music was grand. Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, mississipi blues to east coast rag ... it was great. I believe they were a husband/wife pair ... with him on the guitar and she on a variety ... washboard, harmonica, etc.

Unfortunately, the large group of Dutch (including the glamour girl) talked loudly throughout the entire evening. That, combined with their incessant foot stomping that echoed loudly over the music drove me from my seat and out the door after the first set. Well actually, I grabbed my drink and relocated to standing at the bar for the last song and as I tallied up. Madame made sure to notice me and check on my evening. At break, I bought a c.d. and headed home. I was 50 minutes away so I was still home past midnight.

It may not sound like it, but on reflection I had a fun night. There was one silly frenchman at Fiddler's Rest who decided to hit on me ... drunk as a skunk and half the time I couldn't tell if he was talking to himself or me. And at La Rhue, mercifully to my left was the only french couple in the house. We had fun exchanging eye rolls as we observed the other members of the audience gab and trip over each other!

congratulations, Atlanta, Georgia ...

YOU are my 10,000th visitor! Yes folks, I've been stalking my counter these past few days as I neared the big 5 digits ... and a reader from Atlanta, Georgia just tipped the scales.

You've won an all expense paid trip to ..... blogland! Virtual paradise abounds if only you have the courage to brave the tempestuous waters!

And of course, thank you ever so much for stopping by today. Seems like only last week I installed that counter ...

blues night redux.

Well my last attempt at a Samedi soir was poxed, but tonight I'm trying again. And this time, I've scouted out the locale at la Rhue in advance, filled up my tank and called the auberge to confirm I know what the hell is going on.

Now I have to decide if my ensemble will be the same. I've been freezing all the day, huddled in my room with the radiator turned up AND a fire in the fireplace.

So not sure if the dress, even IF it is worn with warm winter tights and boots, will suffice.

a miniature breakthrough.

On Armistice Day I wandered into my village, drawn by the endless clanging of the oldest bell tower in France. I'd been told that any variety of activities would be occurring throughout my new land ... most coordinated by the local mairie.

I went to our war memorial ... which is where I suspected the action would be. There a surprisingly small group was gathered, listening to a wizened man in uniform speak of the horrors of war. Also in attendance were a small cadre of men in uniform, and what looked to be a unit of some sort of French youth group associated with the military.

My village has a woman mayor (zut alors!) and she was in attendance, being saluted and shaking hands.

I stood off a distance, observing but wanting to signal my recognition that the proceedings were not for étrangers ... out of respect.

I spotted and was recognized by a woman in the audience. She is associated in some way with the socio-cultural committee of Brantôme, she attends my yoga course and collected the fee from me. She has always been very serious with me, a bit cool and aloof in class which until now is only where I've encountered her.

Well, on this day she smiled and nodded at me. Quelle surprise!

Once the proceedings concluded, the attendees made their way as a group through the village ... a short walk over the picturesque L-shaped bridge and past the old moulin that is now a hotel ... up the cobblestoned streets past the monastery turned mairie ... and then down to a large hall where I gather the mayor hosted aperitifs and conversation. I didn't attend that part, feeling a bit of an outsider.

During the walk, Madame approached me and greeted me more formally with bises! I exchanged a few halting sentences with her, I was taken aback and it seems my french flew out my ears and into the atmosphere! I ended with a 'well, I think I'm going to have a walk around town' and she bid me a 'bonne promenée' ...

I was quite surprised by this turn of events and brought it up at my Friday french lesson. My professeur, Laurence, pondered my tale and told me that fewer and fewer French seem to honor the veterans, but pass the holiday by. She felt that the reason Madame approached me was, since she obviously considered the day important to observe, perhaps she was touched by the fact that an étranger would exhibit such respect and show up.

Well, even though it is all mere speculation ... I was happy to be recognized by a local in this manner.

Isn't it funny, that? I mean, Americans are such a seemingly happy-go-lucky lot ... with few traditions and a Labrador-like style just ready to wear their hearts and opinions on their sleeves.

I'm continually struck by the similarities and yet vast differences in human nature as I press forward with my new life. There's the social ones (like my story today).

There is also a veritable rubik's cube of possibilities presented with the male and female interactions. I'm pretty much without a clue with most of it, stumbling my way with a cadre of misconceptions and assumptions ... many of which I'm convinced are completely out of line and yet all I have to go on.

C'est trés drole! And it is very droll as well.

no words required. f'idiot.

feeling all superior.

Utah Savage recently awarded me with some recognition of the *pass it along* variety. Apparently, we DID learn something we needed to know in Kindergarten ... cos here I am being called a Superior Scribbler!

Utah has a generosity of spirit and is lavish with her praise ... we just need to get her to see the same in herself! Her writing and courage is inspirational ... she has put herself and her life out there in very raw form, and I hope someday to be as brave as her in my writing.

I struggle with these award things because the tradition is to 'pass it on' to other bloggers. I confess I have been fairly insular in my blog reading. Having discovered a core group of blogs that resonate with me, providing entertainment and distraction ... I haven't ventured as far out into the blogsphere as one might. So I think sometimes I've become a bit redundant in the matters of tagging. I also admire some blogs that have authors that are either already too famous for such frippery ... or just don't want to be bothered.

So I'll try and do a mix here, introducing one or 2 blogs that I maybe haven't touched on yet ... and thanking some dear favorites.

First up is one of the dear favorite variety ... La Belette Rouge. La Belette has amazingly soothing properties for a she-weasel. She is entirely relatable ... having had the honor of meeting her in person, I can confirm that those properties translate to the human form. She has a kind wisdom in her eyes that engender confidence in her words, belief in her smile. She can wax rhapsodic on an amazingly wide variety of topics ... from life's gut-twisting improprieties to the secret savings code on this week's best beauty product to insightful tips for budding authors to how to assemble the absolutely MOST desirable J Crew ensemble and many other stops in between. That sense of *ommmmmmmmmm* you get from reading her posts ... t'is the genuine article kids. Not to mention her comments are a balm to my soul.

There's a new fellow I've been reading cos I think he has a novel approach to blogging. Ask A Frenchman blogs on in response to questions he solicits from his readers. That's right, anything and everything you wanted to know about France & the French can get a response straight from the ... erm... cheval's mouth! I find this a bit ballsy ... sluffing off the work to one's readers in order to come up with blog topics ... but hey, it is working cos I keep going back (probably because he hasn't answered MY question yet ... ). He is frank and direct and a bit snarky ... well, you get it, everything one would EXPECT from a frenchman!

I've tried with No Place Like It before, maybe she is one of those bloggers who is anti-awards...but I have to drop her in the mix because of recent postings concerning her reaction to the elections and being Canadian and having her voting rights mucked with because of expatriate status. At least US Expats can vote! Also because she was subjected to some bullying by her countrymen and instead of ignoring it (it came in cowardly email fashion) she STOOD up to them on her blog and didn't just roll over. MY KIND OF BLOGGESS! And all this time I thought Canucks were mild mannered wussies who didn't know how to pronounce about. *ducks*

Okay, here's some late-breaking news ... a blog just introduced to me yesterday that I just HAD to include because of the raunchy, rock and rolling, irreverent, shockworthy socially relevant content that I am only just beginning to sift my way through ... Pour Quoi Pas defines itself in part in the following way... "This blog is a joint venture by a number of people. All members have a basic “common ground” in their outlook on life. Yet, we are all different. Some of us are religious, some atheist. Some are politically mild and “center-ish” (meaning with no particular tendency nor affiliation) - some are extreme left wing. Some are not even concerned with politics at all, but are about ecology and the welfare of this planet as a whole."

That said, the authors are a diverse cast of characters that are sure to provide, if not some controversy, a lively read.

My fifth recognition was destined for L'Ennui-Melodieux or Monsieur le 2 Ells (as I prefer) but EVERYONE fucking gets to him before I do. grrrrrr. So I'm just gonna say that I love his blog because 7 out of 10 blog readers prefer it more ... and where else can I go and have to read the post at least 3 times before I figure out what the hell he is gone on about this time? And seriously, the man can write. The man can throw down. He can serve you up some poetry, some prose, some satire AND bring home the bacon (I'm doubting there's much frying it up in the pan but what can I say? After all, he still is only MERE man. cut him a little slack). So RG, no passing it on required, just accept my much love and shout out because you truly are one of a kind.


Like I've said, I think part of the fun with these awards is the chance to be introduced to a new blog. So check one out if you haven't seen it. And now I'll have to do some more homework for the future ... (just in case!)
*small print*

*Each Superior Scribbler must in turn pass The Award on to 5 most-deserving Bloggy Friends (L'ennui-Melodieux is exempt, if he so chooses).
*Each Superior Scribbler must link to the author & the name of the blog from whom he/she has received The Award.
* Each Superior Scribbler must display The Award on his/her blog, and link to This Post, which explains The Award.
* Each Blogger who wins The Superior Scribbler Award must visit this post and add his/her name to the Mr. Linky List. That way, we'll be able to keep up-to-date on everyone who receives This Prestigious Honor!
*Each Superior Scribbler must post these rules on his/her blog.

just out of curiousity.

do most blog readers read comments? or is it only blog commenters who read comments?

being a blog author and regular commenter as well as a blog reader, I sometimes think we fall in a separate category. So I'm curious to know if my blog readers / lurkers read comments.

of course, if they are non-commenters then how will I ever know ... since it is unlikely they will spring up now and reply in unison.

well, if any blog commenters out there know any blog readers, can you ask them if they read the comments and report back?

thanks. good to know you are on the case. much appreciated!

how one becomes worthy?

another message in a bottle.

I've been ruminating on this for awhile. perhaps all of my life. well okay, maybe just the last 15-20 years or so.

just what is it that one does to become worthy of being loved? I don't mean by one's children. or one's parents. or other relatives. those seem to be a given. the relationship stipulates for love, and from that point love can be diminished and such, but never earned.

but what kind of exemplary (or non-) life does it take to be worthy of another human's love? you know the kind I mean ... the non-related, non-friendship sort of love. now, I've tested any number of approaches and yet appear to have miscalculated on my formulas ... each and every one.

there's the be a good person formula. keep your nose clean, do the right thing, follow the golden rule, and someone will enter your life.

there's the bad girl recipe, be the one his mother warned him about, what men want is more black eyeliner, dress a little slutty with your FMe pumps. you know, be a spinner. unrepressed. unapologetic. fanfuckingtasticly free.

there's the daddy's girl syndrome, where your innocence, batting eyelashes and beguiling nature prompts a desire to pitch in ... do the heavy lifting, open doors and chop firewood. be a boy scout.

there's always the strong and independent woman. accomplished. reliable. admirable. able to stand on her own 2 feet, and even give you a helping hand up. no pressure, no foul ... just quality time with no expectations.

oh, let's not forget the best friend and confidante. intellectual equal. humoristically sympatico. emotionally bonding on various levels while we compare bruises and scars, laughing over the injustice of it all. checking out each other's asses when we think no one is looking.

Throughout my life, I've independently exhibited each of these personas. Later in life, I've carefully adapted many of the qualities of each into the one, pretty cohesive entity that is me.

Whether individually or collectively displayed, it has never really fucking mattered. I'm still alone. don't get me wrong, my life alone has shaped up pretty well. and if it remains this way, when it is all tabulated I will still end up more than okay. on the plus side of the equation.

I look around and see any and every sort of character that has managed to find herself loved. cared for. appreciated. treated with tenderness. and that frankly couldn't hold a candle to the life I've had to lead, couldn't begin to face the obstacles I've overcome, possesses less than a tenth of the moxy and generally witty survivorship that I've acquired (not trying to toot a horn, I'm sure I'll hear about my arrogance ...), not to mention the fact that I fucking clean-up pretty good.

frankly, I've never even really been sure I believe in love. l'amour n'existe pas and all that. (I'm talking love, not lust.) but hell, I want the fucking opportunity. what am I, chopped liver?

reminds me of a book title (slightly amended).

'Face it, they just aren't that in to you'.

Really?

ALL of them?

to quote one of my favorite bloggesses.

le sigh.

no regrets, mind you.

just askin'.

another milestone!

Today I received my 'Carte de Sejour' which grants me the right to remain in France for one year (well until next September, which is when my application commenced ... ) It gave me pause to reflect back when I was just beginning this blog (only April!) and was checking of my very long list of things to do ... including the visa and CDS process. And now another milestone is completed.

Other than not getting booted out, I'm not sure this particular document provides me much. I think I will need to commence with ANOTHER set of documentation in order to be self-employed next year. Which is what I am considering, perhaps a small business.

I think I also might be able to apply for a carte vitale (the privilege of paying into the French health system) ... but to be honest, I have read so many conflicting and competing accounts I am unsure.

I toss a note in a bottle out onto the interwebs seas ... oh please dear readers (or your associates you might inquire with) ... leave me a comment about just what privileges the Titre Sejour or Carte de Sejour entitles me to.

faithfully yours,

no regrets

interesting discussion today.

Had my French class today, the 1:1 session. Our time is usually a mélange of conversation and some written grammar work. Today we discussed the Obama election (YAY!) and the ramifications for the country and the world.

We rambled on to the topic of race and I mentioned how this particular election was momentous to my son, who is half black. This led to a conversation regarding 'metisse', a classification the French use for those of mixed heritage or race. ( Interestingly, the literal translation of metisse is mongrel. ergh. )

This led to a further discussion of what was viewed, by her, as a fascinating anomaly in the U.S. Namely, that the majority of mixed race folks who have black heritage identify their race as black. Since many of these mixed race individuals are half-something else, she wondered if this didn't represent a rejection of their entire heritage.

She also pondered why Americans seemingly don't have an official classification for mixed race folks, similar to 'metisse'. I let her know that there are many labels for mixed race people in America.

We chatted at length...I mentioned that much of American documentation doesn't allow for mixed race designation, rather it requires one to make a choice ... Caucasian, Asian, Hispanic, Black, etc. And that many people, particularly of my son's generation, struggle with what designation to choose ... "officially and unofficially".

My son, as are more and more people...particularly of his generation, is faced with this dilemma. I think it is true that the majority of mixed race people who include black as part of their 'mix', identify as black.

My son, although lighter-skinned, identifies as a black man. He has some features generally accepted as black ... and others that mirror me. Do I take his embrace of 'black man' as a rejection of me? No ... and he readily discusses his mixed heritage.

We discussed (in my lesson) my opinion that we are at a watershed moment. Just as I believe it was a big step forward for black folks who are of mixed heritage, particularly those who could 'pass' as white, to embrace their BLACKNESS versus continuing to try to pass as white as they did in the 40s, 50s and beyond. Now that Obama has achieved the presidency on the merits of his competence ... running as a competent, qualified candidate vs. a black candidate ... our next leap forward might be more unity of ideals, purpose and being ... versus the continued need to segregate ourselves into groups and categories. Obama represents a new generation, a new ideal of hope, achievement, equality ... that can be sought after regardless of race, gender, etc.

Obama set a great example. Instead of continually categorizing or labelling himself, he freely spoke of his entire background. I think more and more, other multicultural people choose that same route. Why should they have to choose when they are all of these histories and more?

The world is hopeful. There is a frisson of excitement and anticipation in the air. It is incumbent upon all of us to maintain that feeling, to work for what could result from the momentum we've created.

The responsibility does not lie solely upon Obama's shoulders. Or the new government-elect. It is with each of us.

naked french fire dancing. well sorta.

So tonight I'm going to a party hosted by French friends Marjo and Rodolphe.

It is to celebrate the election of Barack Obama!

In their estimation, it is an American-style dinner. We are having hamburgers and Budweiser! I've been asked to bring coleslaw! Yes folks, the countryside here is ecstatic. In fact, over 85% of the French supported Barack.

I adore my newly adopted country and country-folk. I hope we have some American music in the background.

If I were warmer and feeling more ambitious I'd bake an apple pie. You know ... that old American standby.

But I'm not. So coleslaw it is! I'll toss back a Bud (ergh) for y'all!

a most important thing happening today...

three months.

The past few days I've been reflecting a bit *sur ma nouvelle vie* ... so many experiences, so many feelings, so many changes have been compacted into what, with a little distance, I realize is a very short time.

I have thought about how little time three months really is. At least in my old lifetime. Not a lot new and different happened within three months. Same corporate Groundhog Days... same dismal evenings ...

Life seems magnified for me here. I've been told I am not the same woman that arrived here July 13th. I think my first month was spent in a state of confusion. Of trying to shed the layers accumulated for survival and protection. Of paying attention to the moments instead of worrying about the coming days, weeks, months, years. My physical metamorphosis is a manifestation of similar changes occurring on the inside.

My dear friend Kathleen calls it being 'present'. For non-new agey types like me, she translates that to an instruction to 'feel your feet'. That's right, think about feeling your feet on the ground. Bringing your attention back to what is happening right now, in this moment, and savoring it. Noticing it. Appreciating it.

I still have my days. Hours. Fearfulness. I'm also noticing that sometimes the fear and worry is being replaced by excitement. Instead of fearing for the unknown future and what it may hold, can I be excited by the unknown? sometimes yes, I'm actually doing just that.

I've never been a patient woman. I'm the kind of person who somehow just 'sees' a situation, how it should be, how it can be, how I want or expect it to be. Once I 'see' it, I desire immediate gratification... seems simple to me.

But that was when I was in control. My lessons in vulnerability are frustrating, requiring patience, reflection and letting go. I'm terrible at all of those. I'm not a good student but it seems that in these new instances, it doesn't really matter. There is no choice for me but to submit to the fates. (or whatever one might want to call it...)

Because I seem to be learning and changing and growing a lot, it just doesn't seem possible that it has only been 3 months (or so for you control freaks!!!)

I can't imagine where I'll be in three more ... or six more ... or ... um, wait a minute, Kim, feel your feet, feel your feet!

magnifique!

We have been hard at work this week on the new kitchen. I decided to move the kitchen during my renovation to a larger downstairs room with more light, a larger fireplace and access to the sunroom and garden.

Included in the move has been the addition of two new windows, facing the garden, which open up the space to more light and better views of the garden.

Thank goodness I have someone who not only knows how to cut windows in 2+ foot thick walls, but also knows how to do so without the upper floor caving in. Jean Yves located ancient beams to support the new window frames. He has also exposed one stone wall and sandblasted the large fireplace to expose the buttery yellow finish of the stone.

New wallboard and electricity has been installed. This week we have directed our attention to the ceiling. The ceiling had box beams in a dark wood. We have sanded and primed the ceiling, and now have begun the color application. The beams are a light grey with touches of ochre yellow which have then been lightly sanded to achieve an aged patina. The result is a ceiling straight out of the Renaissance. J'adore! Once the ceiling is complete, the walls will be next (one grey, one ocher). The remaining 2 walls are stone.

Then the plumbing finished, cupboards built, the floor sanded and varnished and the appliances moved and installed.

I have 'man hands' (covered in various paints, plasters and silicone) as we have worked side by side, ladder by ladder, to complete the work.

Check out the flickr.com link in my sidebar to see more pictures of the process!

sometimes i worry about myself...

yesterday I got up, did my usual morning routine while marvelling at how dark it still is in the morning. went downstairs and built a fire, prepped the coffee, toasted some bread in the oven, and then hung around muttering as I eyed the clock.

9:15 passed. 9:30 came and went. At 9:45 I was thinking that a phone call would be nice. See, JY hadn't yet arrived for the day and I was befuddled.

10:00 and I see the orange v.w. roll by. I had just finished my first coffee and was toasting by the fire. We have our usual morning and he heads on in to begin his day.

I decide to head to the market and the bank. While in the market, I look at my watch and realize it is now 11:30. So no bank (it is in Thiviers and would be closed by the time I arrive).

I return home, and tell JY that I decided it was too late to go to the bank. He says why? what time IS it? I reply 'midi'. He eyes me quizzically... "midi?! mais, non Kim". "Oui, midi".

Then a rapid fire collection of sentences wherein I deduce something about the clock and the season and ... I ask him, "Tu arrive a quelle heure ce matin?" "Neuf heures!!"

Zut. They DO have daylight savings time in France. hahaha~ I have to remember I'm in a different country vs. planet.

Well, that's okay because sometimes I worry about JY too. harumph.

For example, yesterday afternoon I decided to try again for the bank. I wait until 2:00 and bid my farewells, dashing off. I drive to Thiviers and the bank is closed. Wha-a-a-aaaa???

I walk over to Marjo's agency for a visit and an inquiry? Does she know why the bank is closed? is it a holiday?

"No Kim, the banks are closed every Monday!!" "Tous les lundis?", I proclaim. "Oui, tous les lundis". Merde.

I can't wait to get back to the house and give it to JY. "JY, tu ne me dit pas les banques sont fermé TOUS les lundis", I triumphantly remark.

He calmly regards me. "Oui? hmmm. C'est pas grave".

We both crack up.

On with the day.

a pox on my sattidy evening.

So yesterday I got dolled up ... fixed my fabulous new do, donned a dress (!) with my new belt, black tights and knee high black boots (you know the kind!) ... looking good, my friends, looking good.

Hop in the car with my new French smart card, zip off to the petrol station ... and n'accepté pas!

Blast it all to hell, methinks, I'm risking it. Head off into the deep black night on tiny backroads ... searching for La Rhue, the site of a supposed blues night extravaganza. Over hill, over dale, nervously trying NOT to regard my gas gauge which is hovering maddeningly over the band of red.

Okay I know, I'm an idiot. I was also contemplating just what I might do once stranded, sans gazole, in the middle of nowhere. I took stock of an extra coat in the trunk and determined I could sleep in the car. No, I hadn't yet been drinking!

I stop in the midst of a village and pull out my routier, don my glasses and peer at the miniscule lines on the map. I think I need a new prescription as it was impossible!

I keep going, almost now refusing to back down. I come upon a Salle des Fetes with a party in full swing. I get out of my car and sashay on up to a group of five men engrossed in an animated conversation. "Pardon messieurs ... je suis perdu" well that got their attention. The tallest of the bunch ... also the one who had been dominating the conversation before I interrupted, a grey-haired fellow with a commanding presence, proceeded to give me some directions. Another one to the side kept trying to interject in English ... thinking I didn't understand.

I submitted my mercis and get back in my car. Basically I was retracing much of my original trip ... having missed a turn. Well on the way back I still never found that turn.

Now I was faced with a decision. At 10:00 p.m., did I dare risk a further venture out to Chalus where I knew Eric and Amy were performing? Would my luck stretch that far and all the way back to Brantôme?

I was discouraged. I decided to return home. Obviously my gazole amount got me here.

But I am pissed. Music nights in the winter aren't occurring every week-end.

And DAMN I looked cute.

my newly reignited love affair with belts.

kids, is there anything more loverly than reclaiming a waist and considering adorning it again? For someone who hasn't made the acquaintance of her waist in nigh on to 15 years ... I cry "Non"!

All these long years la waist has sat lonely and unnoticed. Primarily because le stomach has captured all of the attention. Throughout this time, Madame has lavished attention on le stomach, carefully shopping for and selecting all and sundry types of flowy garments to drape le stomach in (hopefully) artful deception.

Now that I'm a mere shadow, I have a sudden new interest in belts! Belts high to create an empire look, belts at waist for emphasis, belts slung on hip ...

I brought a few belts with me. They, by necessity, have mostly become the hip slinging variety. I've been looking for the best instrument to punch some new holes.

And while in Spain, I bought the little number in the picture ... a new black belt. Of the cinch it high for an empire look. To go with a cute dress my daughter made me buy. I'm going to don that dress and belt and knee high black boots tonight and go listen to some music. And indulge in some belts of a different variety.

(I would like to add that there is an endless array of utilitarian and not-so-utilitarian uses for belts ... now if I could just find the right unsuspecting victim to demonstrate, my life would be complete!)

Oradour-sur-Glane

When my friends Kathleen and David were here, Kathleen wanted to visit Oradour-sur-Glane. She read a bit about it to me from the Guide Verte ... we never made it there, so yesterday I decided to play tourist a bit and make the trip.

It is hard to express much about Oradour-sur-Glane. A small, unprepossessing village outside of Limoges ... one really wouldn't have thought much about it. It did have a little tram which ran to and from Limoges, which deposited city visitors on the week-end for a short trip to the countryside. The town had a reputation for a peaceful life ... and offered picnicking spots, fishing in the Glane and many restaurants and cafés which were pleasant to visit outside of the city of Limoges. The town also had 3 schools, a boys' school, a girls' school and an infants' school (like our kindergarten).

For many speculated-upon reasons, Oradour-sur-Glane became a target of Nazi destruction on June 10th, 1944. But at about 2:00 p.m. that day, the Nazis rolled in to Oradour-sur-Glane. Most agree that what was to follow was retribution for acts of Resistance by the French. None of these acts were directly tied to Oradour citizens, but they would pay the price. By 7:30 p.m. the village and all of its inhabitants, save six, were destroyed. In all, 642 people were murdered, including 193 children.

The townsfolk were herded into a public square where they were told they would undergo a routine check of their papers. During the course of the day, men were separated from women and children, and then groups of men were taken to various barns in the town. The five surviving men were all from the same barn. In their account, they relay that machine guns were volleyed at all of the men in the barn, and then the barn was locked and set afire. Five men ( I read the account of one, a 19 year old at the time) found their way out, injured but alive.

The women and children were taken to the cathedral. The same story exists, first they were shot and the buildings were then set on fire, those trying to escape were shot dead. One woman managed to hide behind an altar, then get herself up to a window where she leapt 10 feet to the ground. She helped another woman and baby out, they were all shot ... the woman and baby died. This one woman crawled to the garden, where she lay among rows of peas until the next day when someone arrived to find her.

After killing all of the inhabitants, the SS soldiers looted the village and set the entire thing ablaze. Apparently, they returned the next day to dig two huge pits and tried to conceal the remains. Later, the inquiry into this atrocity uncovered the truth.

When de Gaulle came to visit the town, he ordered it left as it was, that the ruins be preserved so future generations might not forget. He also decreed that a new village of Oradour should be built, near the ruins. It took 9 years for this village to be inaugurated. When it was, the village was required to wear mourning, no color was allowed, walls and shutters were painted grey. It was a solemn time.

Some of the SS Commanders responsible for the massacre were brought to trial and convicted, but an act of amnesty (in the interest of national unity) gave a free pardon to all those accused or convicted. This included sentences of death, hard labour and prison for the massacre at Oradour.

Because the government took this decision, the Village of Oradour broke off all relations with the state for 17 years. It returned the Legion of Honour that had been bestowed upon the village. The families refused to place the ashes of the victims in the memorial raised by the state. Instead, it financed its own monument, erected in the cemetery. During the time of this rupture, little aid was provided to the citizens of Oradour, making their lives even more difficult.

What occurred that summer day is truly unfathomable. The slide show below shows you the ruins I walked through. It was a sobering experience and gave pause to consider man's inhumanity to man. The cemetery was heartbreaking, whole families wiped out, faces of little children looking up from the memorials. The new Oradour shares this cemetery with the old, and with the memorial. Near the statue erected in memory of the massacre are two glass coffins, housing the bones and ashes of the dead.

zut alors!

I had a completely different post in mind for today, sharing with all of you a trip up north I took and my reaction to it. BUT...

on my return home, I had a brief call with my friend Marjo, and she casually stated, "I heard a restaurant in Brantôme burned today ... !! a grill of some sort, I don't know the name."

When I left today, the main road had a deviation and there was a fire truck ... but I couldn't see around the bend in the road and honestly thought it was just some city activity.

All the way home, I wondered if it was my favorite little spot, Ben and Babette's. I have taken every visitor I've hosted to Ben and Babette's. A restaurant that looks perpetually closed (and unusually, they don't serve lunch), from the outside it is quite unassuming and on the inside, very rustic.

In possession of an old open wood grill and equally old iron oven, they serve up delicious and generous servings of grilled meats with seasonal accompaniments. In the winter, big pots of homemade soup may surprise you tableside for no extra charge. Monsieur Ben is often seen bicycling through Brantôme.

Je suis desolée! I am most sorry to tell you that yes, it was this very same restaurant and not only did the restaurant suffer complete destruction but apparently the upper 2 floors as well, which is where I believe the owners and family resided.

That's a picture of the fire department removing debris, two large containers of charred beams and other items so far.

I was unable to find out if Monsieur and Madame and family escaped unharmed. What an upsetting turn of events and I wish them all the best. Quelle dommage!