My French Adventure-Chapter 6

Three weeks into my new life in France, I make another decision--sort of

The cave was beginning to look less gloomy (all photos by author)

In the three weeks after Joe flew back to the States, I alternated between feeling completely bereft and alone in a foreign country to elationat the novelty of living in a foreign country, and back to alone and bereft.

Skyping was a lifeline — but the nine-hour time difference between France and my family and friends on America’s West Coast wasn’t good for spontaneous calls of the ‘I just need to hear a familiar voice’ variety. Still, even without the time difference, those weren’t the sort of calls I wanted to make.

No matter, I’d chosen to move to a foreign country, and I felt the need to resolve whatever problems arose rather than dump the consequences of my decision on others. Even my most tolerant friends might not have been thrilled by wee-hour phone calls from weepy 68-year-old me. All alone in France and surprise, surprise, she’s feeling just a teeny bit blue and homesick.

I would dry my eyes and suffer, oh so bravely, in silence. With just the tiniest soupçon of self-pity.

During those early weeks, I’d get through difficult nights reading memoirs from others who had moved to France. One of them, Under the Ripening Sun, by Patricia Atkinson, managed to distract me from my own concerns as I grew increasingly horrified by her experience.

Atkinson and her husband had left England to buy a vineyard in France — his idea more than hers. When their first attempt at making wine produced vinegar, he soured on things and went back to England, essentially ending the marriage. What a jerk — my assessment not Atkinson’s, or at least she didn’t say so in print. While she barely spoke French (I related to that) and knew nothing about wine, except that it came from a bottle, she remained in France, learning about winemaking as she worked in the vineyard.

Nothing was easy. One seemingly insurmountable obstacle followed another. At times, I couldn’t believe that she didn’t just pack it in, but she never gave up. Over the years, she expanded the small vineyard into an impressive estate and produced many award-winning wines.

I admired her courage and tenacity. I bet she never made any weepy two a.m. phone calls.

Rugs didn’t entirely cover the concrete floors, but they helped a bit.

Although the cave was still on the gloomy side, things were looking brighter. Sally, the owner, alarmed when I said I might have to find alternative accommodations, put in a washing machine and asked me to make a list of other things I needed. I didn’t ask for more windows, although that would have topped my personal list. But she did offer to reduce the rent by 50 euros.

Since I’d already discovered the difficulty of finding another affordable place, I tentatively decided to remain in the cave — at least for a few months. In addition to the list Sally requested, I also engaged in a bit of online retail online therapy. A few brightly-colored rugs to cover the concrete floors, small lamps and mirrors, cushions, jewelled-toned velvet throws — anything to banish the gloom. When, and if, I moved, I would take it all with me.

A California friend had sent me scarves and sari silk which I draped over the hulking brown dressers — I have this Madame Olda tendency, stand still for long enough in my presence and I’ll drape you too. I give new meaning to the term, a coverup.

When a neighbour gave me a lift to the supermarket, I bought a few dozen green plants along with the groceries. Gradually, the cave began to feel, if not exactly like home, at least more liveable.

Next up, finding a spot to work. If I moved the turquoise Formica table with the wonky leg, it could go under the bedroom window and serve as my desk. But this meant moving the heavy iron bed, which I couldn’t do alone. Sally agreed to call in a couple of the village lads. She wasn’t sure what time they’d show. “Just hang around,” she said. “They’ll get here eventually.”

While I waited, I perfected the Madame Olga decor by weaving a few of the silk and chiffon scarves around the wrought iron bedposts. A few candles here and there, et voila, Madame O’s boudoir.

Hours later, still waiting for the lads to show, it was getting dark, and I went outside to close the heavy wooden window shutters. I understand the point of them now — they keep houses cool in the summer and warm in the winter — but I didn’t then. They just blocked out what little light there was.

I enjoyed the ritual anyway. Throwing them open in the morning, I felt very French. Closing them again in the evening meant shutting out the world and retreating to the cosiness within — although even with my decorating efforts, calling the cave cosy was a stretch.

I’d just about given up on the lads when I heard voices outside. I opened the door to find four brawny lads—one holding a glass of red wine, all clearly in their cups.

Swaying slightly, the one with the wine glass grinned. “We have come to move your temple of pleasure,” he said.

It turned out to be the only English he knew.

Half an hour later, my temple of pleasure was on the other side of the room, my desk and computer set up by the window. A little later, I realised I hadn’t properly fastened one of the shutters and went outside again.

The air was warm, the street dark and quiet, just the sounds of pigeons cooing. And there on the stone window ledge, an empty wine glass.

My temple of pleasure.

It must have been the Madame Olga decor.

---

Hi, I hope you’re enjoying these chapters of my memoir in progress. If you missed the first five, they’re here on Substack under these titles:

MY FRENCH ADVENTURE, A MEMOIR

Chapter 1

I Made a Major Decision on the Spur of the Moment

The panic attack came later

Chapter 2

We Arrived Safely in France

But my head was still in the States

Chapter 3

My New Home in France Was Starting To Look a Lot Like My Old Home in California

But that wasn’t the only problem

Chapter 4

The Cosy Cottage That Wasn’t

And uncertainty about what to do next

Chapter 5

When You Can’t Decide What To Do

Take some deep breaths and head for the market