SERENDIPITY

Some people are born chineurs, others don’t particularly relish haggling over somebody else’s “treasures.” I guess we fall into that second category. While we enjoy browsing a good brocante, and we do make occasional purchases, we rarely wear the seller’s hat. Truth be told: in all our years in California, we set up only one garage sale, a couple of weeks before packing our container and leaving for France.

Such treasures can be found at a typical vide-grenier

Two years after moving into our renovated home, it became apparent that our garage was still full of “treasures.” If we had any hope of ever parking a car in there, we needed to sign up for a vide-grenier: it’s the French equivalent of a garage sale, except that they are organized by the city on specific dates. A designated area, be it a square or a street, is closed to traffic for the day; you pay a small fee to rent your space; you haul your stuff and set up your booth; and you spend the day in the company of other sellers who, like you, dearly hope to drive home an empty vehicle at the end of the event.

Perfect timing!

Gourdon scheduled their yearly vide-grenier in mid-June and that worked perfectly for us. I paid my ten euros to reserve five linear meters and, on a bright and early Sunday morning, we drove two filled cars and a trailer to town. Our designated area was on the place de la Poste, a good luck/bad luck situation. I knew we would be standing in full sun all day long and the forecast was a smoldering 95ºF (we did have a tent for shade.) On the other hand, our space was right next to the mail slots and the distributeur automatique: at least, we could count on some people waiting in line by our table and strolling with cash in their pocket!

Our booth in front of the Post Office

Our assortment of wares was predictably eclectic as we displayed many decor items from the US that were in excellent condition and a lot of very old objects that we had pulled from my grandparent’s house before the demolition. They included a vast selection of rusty tools, a rickety homemade crib on wheels, a couple of andirons from the fireplace, a large chipped confit pot, Sarreguemines dishes, a set of wooden skittles and balls, an old-style license plate…The most popular items turned out to be the most unusual ones: my grandfather’s copper tanks that he strapped on his back to spray the vineyards were bought by someone who planned to convert them into beehives. Two graduated enamel jugs that were originally used for enemas also garnered a lot of attention and chuckles: they routinely get upcycled as garden planters to hang on walls. Interesting conversation pieces, if you ask me!

Our armoire doors

Business was brisk in the morning but died around noon when people left for lunch and didn’t return because of the oppressive heat. Everybody was ready to call it a day by 4:30 pm when Bernard, a family friend, stopped by to say hello. He, too, was starting to pack up his stuff when he commented on our wooden armoire doors and expressed interest. In my grandparents’ house, they were hung between the fireplace and the stone sink; they covered a recessed area in the stone wall that was lined with wooden shelves and served as a cupboard. Seven-and-a-half feet tall, darkly stained with brou de noix, these imposing doors concealed my own version of Ali Baba’s cavern: there was the cast-iron Dutch oven that Grandma used to make her fantastic pommes de terre sarladaises; the cloth napkins we used everyday and the good dishes reserved for Sundays; a round plastic box full of thread, needles, and notions; a square wooden box that held her enormous collection of buttons of all shapes and colors; a rectangular metal tin (Chamonix orange!) where she stored chocolate bars and petits beurre; a bag of hard candies, the little pink minty coins that she (and I) loved so much. If I had a cut or a scratch, Grandma would reach for the bottle of eau-de-vie in the cupboard and used it to disinfect the wound. It stung but smelled much better than rubbing alcohol! And there was a strange, leathery, wrinkled pear confined in the bottle, bathing in the clear liquid. It was magical.

The cupboard without its doors

We pulled the armoire doors off the wall prior to the house demolition/renovation. I could not imagine parting with them when they bore the invisible fingerprints of Grandma and my great-grandmother Françonette. Alas, after they languished in the garage for three years, we still hadn’t found the appropriate spot for them nor figured out a creative way to use them. I was sad to let them go. When Bernard offered to purchase them, my heart skipped a beat.

Bernard’s house, a former convent

You see, there is an intriguing connection between my great-grandmother and Bernard: he lives in the house where she learned to read! It was built in the 16th century on church property that also included the (still standing) church of Payrignac and the (now privately owned) rectory: it was a convent until 1920. Around 1865, Françonette was lucky enough to get instructed by the nuns. At that time, elementary school was not compulsory in France and children in rural areas only spoke patois. Understanding French and knowing how to read the language was a rare accomplishment, especially for a peasant girl. My aunt was only ten years old when Françonette died but she still remembers her grandmother reading the only book she ever owned: her missal.

The doors in their new home

Bernard wanted to show us where he would display the doors and invited us for drinks the next evening. It was the first time I set foot inside his house and I was truly excited to discover the place where Françonette learned her ABCs. From the garden area in the back, we entered a large room downstairs equipped with three fireplaces and a bread oven: the nuns’ kitchen. From there, he guided us toward a wide stone staircase. Three steps led to a landing and an area rug: to the right, a wide sink carved into the stone used by the nuns for their morning ablutions; to the left, steep stairs leading to a very large public room where classes took place. Right in front of us, a recessed area set in the thick stone wall –presumably a linen closet– was now partially hidden by our wooden doors. The stars had aligned: they looked perfect; they were meant to be there; change and continuity.

We returned to the garden and raised a glass of champagne. I think mémé Françonette smiled and winked at us.

Mémé Françonette

Vocabulary
Le chineur: bargain hunter
La brocante: flea market
Le vide-grenier: public garage sale 
Le distributeur automatique: teller machine
Le brou de noix: stain extracted from the green outer husks of walnuts
Le petit beurre: a plain rectangular cookie popularized by LU
L’eau de vie: (f) high-proof alcohol usually drank after coffee
Le patois: local dialect

Thinking about heading out to Paris? My book is perfect to help you plan your trip. Or to reminisce if you can’t cross the pond. Buy a copy of Moments Parfaits in Paris: I'll mail you (from France) a signed bookmark in an envelope bearing this collectible Trésors de Notre-Dame stamp!

DRIVING MISS JEANNETTE

Don’t we all wish we could embark on a road trip? If you’re living in the US, you’re probably (and wisely) eschewing any travel this week and inventing new ways to give thanks. If you’re in France –and in many other countries around the world– you’ve been stuck at home, not being allowed to venture beyond a 1 km radius from your domicile. How do we keep our sanity? Perhaps I can entice you to follow me: step into a vintage 2 CV for un petit tour on country roads along the Dordogne river? En voiture, Simone!

The cutest French car ever: la deudeuche!

After winning a photography contest organized by the département du Lot, I was over the moon when the prize was revealed: a half-day rental of a 2 CV! I rode in the back (and in the trunk!) of a 2 CV many times when I was growing up but never had the opportunity to actually drive one. My friend Raegan was set to visit us in September last year and I decided to schedule this little adventure so she could join in. The three of us rode to Blanat, near Rocamadour, where we met Benoit, the manager of Roc N’Roule. After filling in some paperwork, we were introduced to Jeannette, a beautiful Azure 2 CV6 Special! She would be mine for the whole afternoon.

Miss Jeannette takes a break in a quaint village along the way

It didn’t take me long to get reacquainted with the dash-mounted gear shift and it “cue ball” style knob: when I learned to drive, my mother had a Citroën Ami 6 equipped with the same style of manual transmission. As soon as I turned the ignition on, the familiar engine sound filled our ears. Loudly. It’s a very distinctive sound, one that never leaves your memory. Just as you can always tell when someone is riding a Harley-Davidson, you know when a 2 CV is driving by, without even seeing it. Overall, it was an easy driving experience. I just needed to remember that those cars were built before power-steering (a few biceps curls might help) and power brakes (anticipate!) The clutch felt a lot different from the one on the Citroën I’m currently driving but I’m proud to report I only stalled the engine twice. I “may” have flooded the engine after stopping to gas the car but my two witnesses have been sworn to secrecy…

The 2 CV dashboard: a prowess in minimalism

We picked an itinerary that would include mostly country roads, quaint villages, and opportunities to follow the Dordogne river. We stopped briefly along the way but the whole point of the afternoon was to drive and ride in the car, not to walk and tour churches or châteaux. Creysse, Gluges, St Denis-lès-Martel, and Carennac all deserve dedicated visits.

First time in Creysse: a (small) river runs through it. Actually, it meanders and loops around. Dotted with numerous stone bridges, the village looks like it is sitting in the middle of canals.

I was glad the tourist season was over so we could proceed at a leisurely pace. The drive along the Dordogne is sinuous; narrow roads were carved in the cliff; passing, or being passed, is pretty much out of the question. The danger here is not to get a speeding ticket but to be surprised by incoming traffic and have to slam on the brakes.

Driving miss Jeannette, a vintage 2CV, along the Dordogne river.

It helps that a 2 CV has only one pace and that’s pas très vite. I don’t think I could have pushed the car to more than 70 km/h, even if I had tried to. The upside is that you can almost make eye contact with grazing livestock when you drive 30 mph.

You’re likely to spot flocks of sheep and tribes of goats grazing on le Causse de Rocamadour

When we crossed the river on Pont Miret near Floirac, I brought my speed down to under 20 mph. This 140-meter long suspension bridge was built in 1912 and a decree specified it could be used by either one loaded car, two empty ones, or no more than five cows at a time. The cables looked sturdy enough and the wood ties seemed to be in decent shape. I just read the bridge is currently closed to “rejuvenate” the planking… Ouf!

Jeannette, a vintage 2CV, crosses old Pont Miret over the Dordogne river. Built in 1912, suspension bridge, 800 wood planks.

Sadly, the weather was mostly overcast and a bit rainy. We didn’t get the chance to ride with the top down (yes, the 2 CV is the ultimate proletarian convertible!)  On the other hand, I had several opportunities to put the midget windshield wipers into action and to use the flip-up windows, mostly to defog the windshield.

Driving miss Jeannette, a vintage 2CV, in the rain. Tiny (but mighty?) windshield wipers...

The afternoon went by too fast and I was a little bit sad to take Jeannette back home. If I were mechanically inclined, I would consider having a 2 CV of my own. Rick doesn’t quite share my excitement but, of course, he grew up with les belles américaines. Different strokes for different folks or, as we say here, à chacun ses goûts. You may recall that I previously published a photographic homage to the 2CV, an easy task since the beloved car is still commonly used in rural France: I usually spot one just about every time I drive to town and it always brings a smile to my face. Maybe I’ll run into lovely Jeannette again sometime…

A 1949 gray 2 CV (with the top down!) and a 1980 Charleston racing along the Dordogne river…

Vocabulary
Un petit tour: a short ride
En voiture, Simone: giddy up
Le département: county
Pas très vite: not very fast
Ouf: phew
Les belles américaines: beautiful American cars, usually classics from the 50s-60s
A chacun ses goûts: to each his own

To feed your dreams of Paris and plan your next trip, please consider buying a copy of my book Moments Parfaits in Paris, where you’ll explore every arrondissement through forty photographs and essays. Hint: it’s also a thoughtful holiday gift for this dear Francophile friend of yours… When you purchase the book, I will mail you a signed bookmark from France and stamp your envelope with this stunning timbre Trésors de Notre-Dame. If you are interested in buying French commemorative stamps, check my selection. Merci! Your support helps me maintain this blog.

Buy a copy of Moments Parfaits in Paris: I'll mail you (from France) a signed bookmark in an envelope bearing this collectible Trésors de Notre-Dame stamp!

LA FÊTE DE LA MUSIQUE

La Fête de la Musique was officially created in France in 1982. It’s now celebrated all over the world, every year, on June 21st. Cities typically organize large concerts headlined by well-known professional singers and groups. In smaller towns like ours, local bands and amateurs showcase their talent in an assortment of venues.
This year’s edition had to adapt to a new reality: a virus that was tamed but still lurking. It’s clear that, in Paris and a few other areas, revelers quickly forgot that social distancing was still de rigueur… I have to give high marks to Gourdon for finding a good compromise: all bands performed outdoors, at a safe distance from restaurant diners along the circular boulevard. People were either sitting down at tables or walking about in small groups, enjoying a wide selection of musical styles from jazz to rock-and-roll. It probably helped that the event took place before European tourists were allowed to cross our borders.

The best moment for me was a sensational performance by Panderovox, a local group of polyphonic singers and percussionists who specialize in traditional songs from Mediterranean and Eastern European countries. They performed in the courtyard of the 15th Century Maison du Sénéchal. Always a treat!

FIRST OUTING...

... after the end of our strict confinement. We can now travel within a 100 km radius. Eyrignac et ses jardins are located a mere 17 miles from our house. For the first time in 35 years, they were closed because of the lockdown but they just reopened last week. It's such a beautiful, serene place and the gardens are "magnifiques". Perfect weather and it was a real pleasure to explore the property with so few visitors.

Vocabulary
Magnifique: magnificent

JOURNAL D'UNE CONFINÉE - WEEK 4

April 6, 2020

The plane! The plane! For a minute, I feel like Tattoo in Fantasy Island (Youtube it if you’re too young to remember that TV show.) For over three weeks, I haven’t seen or heard a commercial airplane above my head; no contrail scratching our deep blue skies. Even the Rafales, those loud French fighter planes that zip by at low altitude above our woods toward their Toulouse base, have been missing in action.

So, the plane. Ironically, it’s parked in front of the old Payrignac train station that was decommissioned eighty years ago. It’s missing its wing. The white paint is flaking off. The cockpit and the tail are half-covered with pale green lichen. And it’s made of wood, like one of the carvings my grandfather made in the Seventies. It might even be that old.

Perched on its metal post, the plane is grounded, like all its aluminum friends, like all of us. I always had at least one active flight reservation on the books but 2020 is shaping up differently. Airlines have reduced their flights by 90%. Some airports, like Orly, are completely shut down. Many countries, including the two that matter the most to me, have made their borders almost impenetrable. We are expected to stay home. Eventually, we may be allowed to circulate within our country but international travel will have to wait a few months, or perhaps a year. That makes me antsy. When my father was ill, it gave me peace of mind to know that I could jump into a plane at a moment’s notice and be there for him. For those of us who have loved ones in other countries, the thought of not being able to travel at will is almost unbearable.

In Louis XVI’s diary, nothing happened on July 14, 1789. The journal is kept at the Archives Nationales.

April 7, 2020

Is it morning… is it Tuesday… or July… is it still 2020… where am I? Before the confinement, our outings and activities set the tempo of the day. On Monday, our mailman would bring the weekly food ads; now, Jérémie does his route only three times a week and the ads are delivered to our phones and computers. I used to drive Mom to the salle des fêtes on Wednesday so she could spend the afternoon with friends and play belote; of course, all group activities have been suspended indefinitely. On Saturday, a small group of French natives and local Brits would get together at a café for an informal chat and everybody would practice their language skills; the cafés have shut down, we all stay home, and I don’t get to “correct” anybody…

Rituals provide markers and keep us grounded. For the fourth week in a row, time seems to be standing still. Our lives are suspended and feel somewhat empty. “Rien” as Louis XVI wrote in his diary on the date of July 14, 1789. One might think that he, too, was somewhat “confined” in Versailles, without knowledge of the turmoil that was brewing in Paris that day. It turns out that he used his journal to record the result of the royal hunt: on July 14, the king’s party was unsuccessful and he didn’t bring back any game to the royal kitchen. Rien. Lucky Louis: at least, he got to leave the palace with his horse, his dogs, and his entourage; without a permission slip.

Even if nothing happened in my life today, I am very aware that my small universe does not reflect what is going on in the rest of the world: the morbid tallies in New York, Italy, Spain, and France continue to increase. We had been spared so far but, today, the regional newspaper La Dépèche du Midi reported the first Covid-19 fatality in the Lot. Ce n’est pas “rien”.

Vocabulary
La salle des fêtes: large activity room owned by the city
La belote: French card game
Rien: nothing
Ce n’est pas rien: it’s not nothing

Farming life continues…

April 10, 2020

I don’t claim to be an avid gardener but, as a dedicated cook, I like to have fresh culinary herbs on hand. Last year, I started a small jardin in front of my kitchen. It will never be a full-fledge potager like my grandfather’s: I will only focus on herbs and vegetables that I use often or have a hard time finding here. The thyme, rosemary, and chives are all doing well; my tarragon is a bit timid and could probably use another companion plant. Jardinerie-pépiniériste Gamm’Vert is now open in the morning and I picked some annuals: flat-leaf parsley and basil; oregano was not in stock yet.

Luckily, I was able to buy a few seed packets while in Eureka last month. I’ll try my hand at growing some cilantro, bok choi, baby watermelon, jalapeno peppers, and sweet corn. Although corn is a traditional crop in our area, it is intended to feed les bêtes. Most French people turn up their noses at corn. I guess I’m aiming to have a multicultural potager.

My garden is dwarfed by the real world of farming: a mere 200 yards away, large fields have been plowed and prepared to welcome new plants and seeds. The dirt looks rich and fertile. The automatic sprinkler rhythmically oscillates and shoots water in the air and on my windshield as I drive by. For most of us, food magically appears at the stores or in our plates; we give little thought to what it takes to feed a whole country. Just like garbage collectors, cleaning ladies, or delivery drivers, farmers are finally getting some well-deserved appreciation. Border closings are preventing migrant workers from Spain and other European countries to enter our country and serve as seasonal farmhands but I heard that 240,000 French men and women have volunteered to work in the fields instead of collecting unemployment. It’s quite a relief to know that my survival will not be completely dependent on my green thumb!

Vocabulary
Le jardin: garden
Le potager: vegetable garden
La jardinerie: garden center
Le pépiniériste: nursery

Easter dinner done right!

April 12, 2020

I’m a little too old to forage for Easter eggs. I had picked up a few bags of treats to have at the house: is one ever too old to enjoy chocolate? I knew we would not have to share them with anybody this year: an unforeseen perk of social distancing… With a couple of exceptions, I always spent Easter break at the farm when I was growing up. My cousins and I would accompany Grandma to Mass, giving Grandpa a generous hour to hide the coveted candies in the boxwood hedge and the vegetable garden. At the end of the service, anxious kids would quickly hike back home. While Grandma put the finishing touches to lunch, we’d dive into the bushes and lift lettuce leaves in search of hidden treasures.

Our take-out Easter meal from Delicatessens was superb. Detailed instructions were included to warm up the different elements of each dish. All that was left was assembly and plating, the extent of my chef duties today. I could get used to that kind of take-out: clearly, French restaurants are taking the concept a notch higher than their American counterparts.

The Duomo in Milan, as I saw it in September 2019

This unusual Easter concluded with a bitter-sweet return to Milan, courtesy of Andrea Bocelli’s concert at the Duomo. I couldn’t wait to see the cathedral again, six months after my last stay in Milan. It’s the third-largest church in Europe, more than twice the size of Notre-Dame-de-Paris. It’s a massive building although the spires, statues, and carvings give it a lighter, lacy look. And the marble, that beautiful pink Candoglia marble, is everywhere.  As the drone flew over the cathedral, unveiling a skyline dotted with red tile roofs, church towers, and skyscrapers, I could picture myself on the rooftop again, way above the expansive piazza below and the elegant Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, both teeming with people holding a camera or a gelato, or both. I remember thinking that, no matter the time of day or night, it was impossible to take a good shot of the Duomo without tourists. The contrast between now and then was as stark as Bocelli’s black tuxedo against a white buttress.

Bummed about your canceled travel plans? Dreaming of returning to Paris in a not-so-distant future? Buy my book : each of the 40 vignettes will bring the City of Light into your home. Perfect escapism for these unusual times. Thank you for your support!

JOURNAL D'UNE CONFINÉE - WEEK 3

March 30, 2020

I drive to town for my weekly grocery run and briefly stop in the post office parking lot. Even at this time of the year, before the tourist season starts, the restaurants and cafés on the tour de ville should be animated. All are shut down except Le Pot Occitan because it also serves as a tabac. See, liberty and the pursuit of happiness varies between countries and dictates what is deemed “essential business:” cigarette stores in France, gun shops in America.

My little town looks pretty and peaceful; a little bit sleepy, perhaps. A striking contrast with the gloomy images of New York, Paris, or another megalopolis now devoid of cars, bikes, and even the dreaded electric scooters. Humans are invisible, staying safe behind thick walls. It’s like a neutron bomb hit the cities, snuffing out life but preserving buildings, statues, and monuments. The photos are both disturbing and mesmerizing. I wonder how it would feel to stand on top of the Arc de Triomphe and gaze at an abandoned avenue des Champs-Elysées? To only hear my own footsteps resonating in the métro corridors. To sit alone at a café terrace and watch… nobody and nothing? Having Paris to myself would be both a dream and a nightmare.

Vocabulary
Le tour de ville: circular street around the center of town
Le tabac: tobacco shop

Confinement? I know a thing or two about that. My cousin’s drawing for April Fool’s Day.

April 1, 2020

No kidding! This is the strangest April Fool’s Day I’ve ever experienced. Nobody seems in the mood to be playing pranks. No paper fish slapped on the back of (unsuspecting?) parents. No fake hairy spider stuck on a lampshade. No Oreo cookies stuffed with toothpaste. Worse of all, no tiny chocolate fish candies to savor with my espresso.

Perhaps we collectively exhausted our witty ideas over the past two weeks. We’ve seen masks made with bras, or wine glasses, or hollowed orange halves (extra vitamin C!) A puzzle aficionado tried to “rebuild” a pig with two hundred packs of bacon. Some people disguised themselves as trash bags so they could discreetly “walk” on the streets longer than one hour per day. The internet has been full of improbable stories and funny memes. We had probably reached our quota of jokes by the time April 1st rolled in.

The visitor center at the prehistoric caves of Cougnac

April 3, 2020

I walked to the grottes préhistoriques of Cougnac today. I knew it would be a little further than my 1 km radius. Also, I would be out longer than 1 hour but the gendarmes don’t seem to patrol our small roads and trails. My parents had owned a small vacation home in the hamlet of Cougnac for twenty years: at that time, the caves were practically in our backyard. We would routinely take our dog on le chemin aux noisettes (as my sister dubbed it) that would lead to the limestone hill and the cave entrance.

There are many prehistoric caves in our area but most of them are no longer open to the public. Lascaux (the “real one” as there are two excellent replicas) closed in 1963 before I had the privilege of visiting the “Sistine Chapel” of cave art. Cougnac was actually discovered by our former neighbor. It’s smaller than Lascaux but still accessible to anyone who wants to admire drawings of mammoths or ibex in charcoal and red pigment.

In normal times, the caves would open tomorrow to coincide with Easter break. But these are not normal times and I was surprised to hear some noise as I approached the visitor center: a man was trimming bushes and raking leaves. Le jardinier was cleaning up the area as if he expected a convoy of visitors to show up the next day. It made me smile. People joke that French backyards are looking like mini versions of Versailles and le gazon is mowed so frequently that it rivals a Wimbledon court. I know my countrymen: I can assure you this aberration will not last. But professional gardeners are a different breed: whether the caves open this July or next July, it is imperative to keep on schedule. Time may have stopped for us but not for nature.

Vocabulary
La grotte préhistorique: prehistoric cave
Le chemin aux noisettes: hazelnut trail
Le jardinier: gardener
Le gazon: lawn

Game show host Nagui and his audience, before social distancing!

April 4, 2020

Many reporters brandish the word dystopia these days. While we are cooped up in our homes, le petit écran shows images of a world that’s both familiar and unrecognizable: lengthy shots of a pristine beach a Les Sables d’Olonne; TGV trains reconfigured to evacuate patients from Alsace to less saturated hospitals in the West; endless videos of Times Square, the Champs-Elysées, and San Marco Plaza all barren of cars and pedestrians. Clashing with our current living conditions, pre-taped game shows remind us of what normal life used to look like: a packed audience sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, host and contestants exchanging handshakes and bises, crew members sharing microphones and high-fives.

The show follows a predictable format and leads to its natural conclusion: the champion gets some money, the challenger is elated to win a Brittany Ferries cruise to Spain. Wait, what? I roll my eyes, fully aware that I’m witnessing a not-so-distant past when cruising and Spain both sounded like splendid ideas. Was it only two months ago? I still want to think that soon –very soon– we’re going to wake up from this bad dream. Once again, we’ll leave our footprints in the sand; we’ll board trains to visit family; we’ll join fresh batches of tourists in large cities. We’ll even complain about the crowds.

I take note of some hastily fine-tuned commercials. The supermarkets promise to help our farmers and sell only French produce. In a sheepish nod to the baking and snacking frenzy induced by the confinement, Comme J’aime now peddles their diet program as a way to “maintain” weight; losing a few kilos might be out of reach. Car manufacturers double down and continue to fill our minds with visions of escape, travel, and freedom. That’s what we miss the most right now and they know it.

Vocabulary
Le petit écran: the small screen; TV
La bise: kiss

SECOND LIFE

What happens when trains don’t run? Major inconvenience. France is slowly emerging from one of its longest strikes. Spearheaded by RATP and SNCF rail workers, this national grève had its biggest impact on banlieusards, those who live on the outskirts of Paris but commute to work in the capital. I used to be one of them; let me assure you I’m not one bit nostalgic about those times.

Gare de Gourdon at dusk

In our little corner of La France Profonde –where public transportation is minimal– this strike mostly affected high school and college students who rely on train service to reach their schools in Brive, Cahors, and Toulouse. At times, the Gourdon train station was completely deserted as traffic between Paris and Toulouse came to a standstill. But what happens when trains stop running for good? What happens to the stations, the grade crossing keepers’ houses, the bridges, the rail beds?

Gourdon then…

The historical importance of train service can’t be overstated. In the US, whole cities grew up as rail centers, especially west of the Mississippi: Rick’s hometown Modesto was founded in October 1870 with the coming of the railroad. In France and in the rest of Europe, where towns and villages had developed over the course of centuries, the establishment of a train stop was a highly anticipated and celebrated event: it favored economic growth, regional and national commerce, and population migrations. It also provided a lot of jobs.

Gourdon now

Our train station in Gourdon was inaugurated in 1891 and life changed overnight: it would now take only 15 hours to reach Paris, instead of the 14 days (!!!) required by horse-drawn coaches. The station is four kilometers from our house and sits on the Paris Austerlitz to Toulouse line: nowadays the trip takes about 5 hours. Although we can’t get TGV service on this line, I treasure the convenience of reaching the center of Paris in a comfortable Intercités, without transferring to another train. For the past decade, frequency has declined and there are rumors of SNCF wanting to cancel the stop at our station, thus forcing us to transfer in Brive. Locally, nobody likes the idea and demonstrations regularly take place in town and at the station. Sometimes, les manifestants gather on the rails for a picnic.

Payrignac then…

Payrignac now

Today, I’m taking you along a local rail line that disappeared… and experienced a second life. At the tail end of the 19th century, a young man from the Aveyron came over here to work on a brand-new junction between Gourdon and Sarlat. While working in the area, he met and married a young woman who lived in Payrignac. After the line opened in 1902, he moved back to Espalion with his bride, my great-aunt.

The lampisterie in Payrignac: the small building next to the station was used to store light bulbs and portable lamps.

Restrooms behind the lampisterie.

My grandfather worked as a trackman on that line before moving to Paris where he continued to work for the Chemins de Fer d’Orléans. During school breaks, Dad and his siblings took the train for free to return to the family farm. Catching their train at Austerlitz, they would get off in Gourdon and transfer to reach Payrignac, the first stop on the Gourdon-Sarlat line. Their grandfather would meet them at the station and load the suitcases in his wheelbarrow. After a short 250-yard walk, they were home.

The old schedule

The line was single-track with one train and there were three roundtrips per day. It took about 40 minutes to cover the 10 miles separating the two towns. Sarlat was not a tourist destination yet but a main hub for commerce. Agricultural products like tobacco and walnuts were handled and transformed in local plants: my great-aunt rode the train to Sarlat to sell her load of shelled walnuts to a wholesaler. Shelling walnuts at home, à la veillée, was a way for women to chat with family or neighbors during the long winter evenings and bring in extra income.

There are still many railroad bridges on that stretch of RD 704

Things changed dramatically in 1937 when the SNCF was created to merge and operate all French rail companies. The Gourdon-Sarlat line stopped transporting passengers in 1938 and freight traffic ceased two years later. Most of the rails were pulled from the tracks and melted down to be used for weapons in WWII. From that point on, Dad and co. had to schlep their luggage from Gourdon to Payrignac on foot, a long hilly four-kilometer walk.

Saint-Cirq-Madelon then…

Saint-Cirq-Madelon now

The line was decommissioned in 1955 and SNCF subsequently started selling off the buildings along the way. The Payrignac, Saint-Cirq-Madelon, and Groléjac stations were purchased and transformed into private homes.

Mobile barrier at Saint-Cirq-Madelon

Original ties at Saint-Cirq-Madelon

I followed the line and stopped at all the old stations to take pictures and sometimes talk with their owners.

Payrignac was a cute fixer upper

The Payrignac station was fixed up many years ago and serves as a second home.

Vintage signal at Saint-Cirq-Madelon

More vintage equipment

The man who originally bought the Saint-Cirq-Madelon location still uses it as a second home. He has kept old signage and equipment as “décor” in his yard around the building.

Groléjac then

Groléjac now

The Groléjac station is now a workshop for a chaisier.

La Voie Verte: bike and foot path around Groléjac

Trains used to cross the river at Groléjac; now bikes and hikers use the same bridge.

The Dordogne département had a good idea and purchased all SNCF properties along the line. After removing the leftover tracks, they turned the rail bed between Groléjac and Sarlat into a piste cyclable that is used by hikers and cyclists.

The railroad bridge of Groléjac crosses the Dordogne river

Picture-perfect hamlet framed by an old bridge

A remarkable stone bridge crosses the Dordogne north of Groléjac. Smaller bridges arch over a scenic stretch of Route Départementale 704.

Carsac then…

Carsac now, with the bike path

The old Carsac station was turned into a primary school. It was the last stop before Sarlat.

Sarlat then…

Sarlat now

The Sarlat station is still in use. Bordeaux can be reached via regional train service (TER) in about 2 hours and 15 minutes.

These old signs seem to illustrate the competition between road and rail. Guess who won that battle…

It’s not difficult to know what the future holds for our remaining “local” stations in rural France. Most folks own cars nowadays but trains are vital for students and the elderly who rely on them to reach schools or medical specialists in larger cities. With privatization on the horizon, the trend in France is to favor regional hubs, especially those served by high-speed trains, and abandon smaller markets. Large train stations are being transformed into shopping malls; smaller ones may well become endangered species. Perhaps I should join the demonstrators in Gourdon and bring cheese and saucisson to the picnic…

Inside the gare de Gourdon, ceramic tiles tell the story

Vocabulary
La grève: strike
Le banlieusard: someone who lives in the suburbs
La France Profonde: lit. deep France; out in the country (way out…)
Le TGV: high-speed train (Très Grande Vitesse)
L’Intercités: (m) classic train between major cities
Le manifestant: demonstrator
La veillée: after dinner hours in the countryside, usually devoted to conversations between family members and/or neighbors that also included “productive” activities (knitting, mending clothes, shelling walnuts, etc.)
Le chaisier: someone who makes and restore old chairs
Le département: county
La piste cyclable: bicycle path
La route départementale: a road maintained by the département (county)
Le TER: Train Express Regional; a regional train that is not so “express” since it stops at many stations…

OF BEADS AND FLOWERS

Any cemetery aficionados among you? Père-Lachaise, Montparnasse, and Montmartre often show up on visitors’ must-see lists. If you’re planning to visit any of them this week, brace yourself for large crowds and colorful seas of chrysanthèmes, the official flower of La Toussaint. November 1st is a paid holiday here: it provides an opportunity to flower the graves and remember our deceased loved ones over a family meal. Just like your typical Sunday lunch, minus the singing.

Shopping for mums in the 17th arrondissement

People visit Parisian cemeteries for many different reasons. Locals in search of a quiet haven within the bustling city can be found reading their book on a sunny bench, just as they would in the Luxembourg Gardens. Armed with maps apparently designed for a chasse au trésor, tourists scurry around wide aisles and narrow alleys in search of “that” grave, be it Oscar Wilde or Jean-Paul Sartre. Architecture and art lovers marvel at the variety of structures and sculptures that mark the burial sites of the famous and the unknown.

Funeral wreaths and glass enclosure at the Payrignac cemetery

My local cimetière is less grandiose and less crowded. No “walk-in” stone mausoleums housing crypts or sarcophagi there, but I’ve always liked the understated elegance of the glass enclosures that surround some of the older caveaux. I also find them practical because the iron posts make it easy to hang wreaths and, in particular, my favorite kind: les couronnes de perles.

Wreaths of white pearls are often used when the deceased is a child or a young woman

Most of the time, the outline of the wreath is made with purple beads

These exquisite glass bead wreaths seem more prevalent in old cemeteries en province. They were very popular for about a hundred years, roughly between 1850 and 1950. They usually measure about three feet in height; thousands of small beads are strung on thin metal wires, then shaped like leaves, flowers, or dentelle patterns; typical colors include many shades from pale mauve to deep violet, pink, green, white, and black.

Countryside setting

Some designs combine pearls and cloth flowers. Intricate work!

Rust: their worse enemy

As a little girl, I looked forward to my weekly trip to the cemetery before attending mass. While my grandmother set up fresh flowers from her garden onto family graves, my cousin and I scoured the dirt alleys, searching for loose beads that we took home to make bracelets for ourselves. We were already “recycling” before it was fashionable.

Loose beads are easier to find (and pick up) when you’re smaller and closer to the ground!

This past week, my aunt and I spent a little time sprucing up my grandparents and great-grandparents’ graves. I reflected that, after more than twenty years, grandma’s wreath still looked pretty good. I found myself meandering in the alleys and looking down in the vicinity of old wreaths, hoping to spot mes petites perles. I came home with a small handful of beads and a big smile on my face.

Grandma’s wreath

Vocabulary
Le chrysanthème: chrysanthemum
La Toussaint: All Saints Day
La chasse au trésor: treasure hunt
Le cimetière: cemetery
Le caveau: burial vault
La couronne: wreath; crown
La perle: pearl; bead
En province: out in the country, outside of Paris
La dentelle: lace

BRIQUES ET GALETS

This year’s edition of Le Tour de France is wrapping up and I can only admire the courageous riders who are braving an intense heatwave and climbing treacherous Alpine passes. It’s nice to see the maillot jaune on the back of a Frenchman but, as I mentioned in my post La Grande Boucle, I mostly watch for the scenery, especially the aerial views from helicopters that keep track of the peloton along with stately chateaux nestled in the hills and cute little villages stretching along a river bend. Le Tour vu du Ciel archives short videos that highlight some of the architectural marvels revealed at each stage (addendum: France TV doesn’t seem to allow viewing the videos in all countries; try searching for Le Tour vu du Ciel on YouTube instead.)

This used to be a barn…

Even a casual observer will notice the amazing variety of construction materials used in France. A trained eye would probably recognize a particular region based on the stones gracing its buildings: tuffeau in the Loire Valley, marble in Provence, blue granite in Brittany, etc.

In Grenade-sur-Garonne, there are many examples of houses built with bricks and river stones.

If you find yourself in the vicinity of the Garonne river around Toulouse, Montauban or Agen, you will see countless examples of structures made with briques et galets. Although Romans introduced brick-making in the Toulouse area, builders in medieval times favored wood and mud. Brick was used in Toulouse again in the late 11th century during the construction of the Saint-Cernin church. Sainte-Cécile in Albi was built in 1282 and eventually became the largest brick cathedral in the world. But the high cost of bricks made it prohibitive for common folks.

A “briques et galets” wall adjacent to Notre-Dame-de-l’Assomption church in Grenade

Mostly bricks, a few river stones… Window at the Grenade church.

Bricks are made of clay that’s molded, dried, and fired in large ovens. Clay is plentiful along the Garonne and Tarn alluvial plains: draining the swampy river banks provided the raw material for brick-making while reclaiming more land for agriculture and reducing the mosquito population. The rivers also held another treasure: smooth fat galets. Walls build with a combination of bricks and river rocks were less expensive and gradually replaced the fire-prone timber structures from the Middle Ages.

Stables at the château de Merville

While nobles and rich merchants continued to build their homes with bricks alone or paired with cut stones, farmers combined briques et galets to construct retainer walls, barns, and pigeonniers. Many civil structures such as public markets, cemeteries, and city buildings also used the same technique. I first noticed them when my sister moved to Grenade-sur-Garonne.

This old wall has seen better days but it’s still holding up.

Too fancy a wall for Pink Floyd, I guess :-)

Unlike standard bricks that are prevalent in Northern France, brique Toulousaine (or brique foraine as it is also called) is large and flat: its width to length ratio is 2/3 instead of 1/2. Walls made with briques et galets are thick; they provide better insulation and help regulate seasonal temperature fluctuations.

Loveliness at every street corner. Check out those shutters in Cadours!

One added benefit is of an esthetic nature: river stones break up the regimented structure of bricklaying and introduce variations in colors and patterns. Necessity might be the mother of invention but it sometimes leads to artistic solutions as well. Don’t you agree?

It looks like someone chose very large river stones, or got a bit carried away with the concept…

Vocabulary
La brique: brick
Le galet: river stone
Le maillot Jaune: the yellow jersey worn by the leader of the race
La Grande Boucle: the big loop, the nickname for the Tour de France
Le tuffeau: white chalky stone widely used in the Loire chateaux and houses
Le pigeonnier: pigeon house
La brique foraine: from Latin foraneus (coming from outside); suggesting those bricks were not made on site but brought from a brickyard

75 YEARS

The leading stories on French news last week were all about the celebration of a momentous event in world history: the 75th anniversary of D-Day, the Normandy landing that ushered the end of WWII.

La maison Lafon played its part during WWII

Queen Elizabeth II and heads of states gathered to commemorate June 6, 1944 with all the pomp and circumstance that’s appropriate for such an event. French TV broadcast documentaries detailing the preparation, unfolding, and aftermath of that pivotal day, the carnage on French beaches, the ultimate sacrifice paid by thousands of young soldiers in one single day.

Three of the family houses were built with stones from this quarry

When statistics are mindboggling, I tend to focus on something more relatable. Individual stories that capture the psyche of the moment. Personal endeavors that highlight fear and courage, uncertainty and hope, excitement and dread. I’ve never had to put my own life on the line so I won’t pretend to even have an inkling of the kind of emotions that might rush through one’s mind. But reading about Tom Rice, the 97-year-old US paratrooper who jumped out of a C-47 transport plane and landed pretty close to the very same spot he hit seventy-five years ago, brought a grin to my face and some tears to my eyes. I can only imagine the significance of both these jumps for him.

Stones discarded from the old quarry

So what does D-Day mean to me and my little corner of southwestern France? In the wee hours of June 6, in all rural areas of France, a multitude of French men grabbed whatever weapons they could find and regrouped in le maquis. The 2nd DB Das Reich was based in Montauban; on June 8, a long convoy of tanks, trucks, and German troops left the city and headed to Normandy. In Cahors, they split in three different directions. The 1st battalion Der Führer drove through Gourdon and continued on D704 toward Sarlat.

La maison Lafon is barely seen through the trees above Départementale 704

My great-grandparents’ farm was located next to D704, 4 km north of Gourdon. One of the houses on the property –la maison Lafon, named after its builder– sat on the flank of a high cliff. The location had been chosen due to its close proximity to a stone quarry, one of my playgrounds when I was growing up. The house offers a vantage point on the curvy road. It was unoccupied at the time and served as an occasional meeting place for a small group of local maquisards. On the morning of June 8, they gathered to improvise a way to stop (or at least slow down) the column of Germans. They armed themselves with a few hunting rifles. My uncle René –age 18– had joined the group that day and was outfitted with a pistolet; he had never fired a handgun before. The plan was to fell a tree, drag it across the road, and shoot at the Germans.

Cécile’s house and maison Lafon nestled within the trees

Word about Das Reich retaliation against civilians was spreading fast. My great-aunt Cécile had heard how massive the column was; she figured that a tree trunk and a handful of “kids” with hunting rifles (and one gun) would be no match for the German tanks that led the move. As a young bride, she had lost her husband in the very first weeks of WWI and her only son had been wounded during the current war. René had spent the first five years of his life with her; the other youths were sons of friends and neighbors. In this particular case, she felt the strike would be pointless and inevitably lead to a massacre. She persuaded them to abandon their hasty plan and to join a more organized group. It was still early morning when the battalion of loud tanks and trucks moved past the house and Cécile’s anxious eyes. Fifteen minutes later, five miles up the road, five maquisards and five civilians were shot to death while trying to slow down the battalion on the Groléjac bridge. Two days later, 642 inhabitants were slaughtered at Oradour-sur-Glane and their village destroyed.

Entrance to the cellar

La maison Lafon was inexorably linked to René. When my grandparents split up the property between their four children, he inherited that house and the land around it. In the early 70s, after spending most of his working years in the greater Paris area, he returned to his roots with his family and significantly remodeled the house. The original structure comprised four parts: la cave at the lower level, a real wine cellar that always held about twenty oak barriques; at the second level, a small bedroom and a great room that included a fireplace, a stone sink, and a trap door to dump grapes into the concrete cuve below; a large attic; an open terrace to the southwest. During the renovation, the terrace was enclosed and walls were built up to the attic level; the attic itself was turned into three bedrooms; the main floor now includes two large rooms, a staircase, a kitchen, and a bathroom; the cellar continued to house wine barrels until 1977. The musty smell still permeates its walls today.

The view from the new terrace: a change from looking at the main road!

Rick and I recently moved into la maison Lafon, which now belongs to my cousin. After a year and a half in a retirement home, Mom decided to return to her own house and we wanted her to enjoy all her space. We “think” our house will be ready for us at the end of June. In the meantime, I’ve settled at René’s old desk, in an office that exactly occupies the location of the former terrace. The French doors and balcony give me a plunging view of D704, albeit through the thick lush trees that have grown between the road and the house. Seventy-five years ago, my young and foolish uncle was watching that same road, holding a pistol in his hand, thinking he might have a chance to become a hero.

I’m only holding a pencil.

P.S. My grandmother turned the gun over to the gendarmerie after the war.

You might also like Cent Ans and This Old House

Lily sitting at René’s old desk and watching the action through the French doors.

Vocabulary
Le maquis: shrubland; in this context, it also refers to résistance guerilla bands that were hiding and operating in rural areas.
La maison: house
Le maquisard: guerilla band member
Le pistolet: handgun, pistol
La cave: cellar
La barrique; barrel, wine cask
La cuve: vat for grape crushing and fermentation