So Jacques and I were walking across the Champs de Mars yesterday when he was set upon by two pit bulls. For pit bulls they were friendly, so no real damage was done. However these two fundamentally dominant dogs were off-lead. Their owners did not have them under voice control. They mobbed Jacques and scared the shit out of him.
This and its twin will soon be found hanging in the entry hall.
Well, so there, propped on what is about to become my dining room window sill — I admit, it still requires a bit of imagination to see that — is my residence permit. Did I watch Casablanca too often? Did I grow up too close to people who lived in fear of la Migra? I don’t know, but it felt huge to get this.
Once I figured it out things were pretty straightforward, actually. Here in the countryside they are not so inundated with requests, so it is easy to get an appointment and all. A friendly young woman looked at my documentation, waited while I filled out the missing bits, disappeared for a minute and came back with my card. The permanent one, which should arrive in a couple of months, will, I hope be a little smaller.
So there I am with a hole punched in my head. It feels good.
So Robert has been gone for two years, now. It’s hard to believe, partly because it feels like forever, except when it feels like I just saw him yesterday or else like I made our whole dozen years up. This is him in Colmar one holiday season. Did we really spend that Christmas in Colmar, laughing at our belief that the Christmas market would be interesting, or would I just like to have done that? The Baroque music concert in the church, the near-hour spent with the panels of the Isenheim altarpiece, lunch at L’Atelier du Peintre, really? Yes, I think so, really. I think so.
The question is, what if he came back? What would he think of the changes I have made in my life? Some would infuriate him. “But honey, I thought you were dead.” I don’t see that flying, as I try to explain why I sold the California house. Some he would love, like the house I bought here. Some he wouldn’t notice, like the improvement in my French. Bless his heart, despite the evidence, he always thought my French was terrific. I’m sure we’d work it out — unless, of course, I took a few photos, maybe downloaded them from the internet, then wove a 12-year story around them. I could look at the stamps in my passport but those can be forged, can’t they?
So, as I head into my third year of this strange new life, I thank the man who made it possible. I think that’s how I got here. Next year, as I head into a fourth year, will I do another memorial post? I don’t know. We’ll see. Maybe it will feel too weird.
Today my contractor Stuart and I went out to Poitiers to select the stone for the ground floor. This is it. It is called pierre de Bourgogne, which just means stone from Burgundy. My hope is that this mellow, muted tan will hide a multitude of dust bunnies and other debris. I’m not much of a housekeeper.
The top image is of the stone that will be used everywhere except the entry, where we will use the stone in the lower image.
It could be eight weeks until this stuff goes in. I am more impatient for this than you can possibly imagine.
Poor guy. I chose this extreme filter because I think that’s about how he’s feeling right now.
Strawberries are just coming into the market now. It’s too early for strawberries, I know, but it’s cold and muddy out here. There they were, these bright red gariguettes, my favorites, right after Mara des Bois. They were talking to me so I bought a few, just to continue the conversation.
Once I got them home I realized that like so many sweet pretty things, those guys were a little tart inside. They needed help. In such emergencies Pineau des Charentes comes to the rescue quite nicely, so I chopped up those lovelies and macerated them overnight.
I can totally recommend macerated strawberries for Sunday breakfast. The thing is, Jacques wanted a taste. I didn’t think I gave him a whole lot until I realized he wasn’t bugging me at all. He was totally passed out and when he did get up he was dragging and his tail was down. Poor baby. All I could think was “muy borracho.” That tells you all you need to know about my teenage summers spent in Mexico. If I were speaking French and wanted to tell you my little guy was totally drunk, I couldn’t. “Ivre,”okay, but how does one turn that into an expression? My friends are so well behaved that I have no clue. Is that good or sad?
Anyway, he was coming to when I took the shot. Now he’s back in my face and wanting to be let out. He’s fine but he failed the sobriety test. I’ll have to keep that in mind.
I have left the big city for the big muddy, I guess. It’s cold and wet. The wind blows right through my house, which is still not heated. The guys are working hard, bless them, but they are digging trenches, then refilling them. Infrastructure is not photogenic. What looks good are the hundreds of daffodils that have popped into bloom. I’m about to harvest a few dozen. No one will even notice they are missing.