Marseillan - Coup de Coeur

It takes a while to get into the rhythm of French life, as many aspects haven’t changed much for centuries, certain rituals are sacrosanct, and a lot revolves around food and wine, which is probably why it is still one of the world's most appreciated lifestyles.
My first forays into Marseillan, a small town on the Mediterranean coast, beside the Etang de Thau, surrounded by vineyards (of course) and occasionally buffeted by the famous Mistral wind, blended the expected, the unexpected and the downright puzzling.

At first, I thought the place was basically closed. Or everyone was somewhere else, hiding. A brief thought crossed my mind that there might still be the Plague in these areas and the town had been quarantined. Maybe Marseillan was only operational in the tourist season from April to September? I was wrong on all accounts – particularly the Plague one. Without fail, I’d arrive around midday ready for a brisk stock-up or a wander around the shops, basket and euros at the ready, only to find the place deserted. What was going on? A quick call to Holly, and the puzzle was solved.  I was quite simply getting my timing all wrong, and heading for the bright lights at Lunch Time! Everything, EVERYTHING stops at Lunch Time!  Silly me. 

Now that I knew I should revise my day to include a three hour Lunch, along with the rest of France, everything clicked into place. Only large supermarket chains remain functional over Lunch Time, with a single checkout open to serve the exclusively British and American contingent who are insane enough to be doing anything other than eating Lunch at Lunch Time. Who was I to argue?  Lunch it would be! 

And how nice it is, too, not to feel rushed, to peruse the Le Formule or the Prix Fixe and make selections from a menu that changes every day, according to the fresh produce available in the markets.  To sneak in a carafe of wine, a plump dessert, a heart-starter espresso and still have an hour left to digest it all.  There are delightful restaurants and cafés all along the adorable little port of Marseillan and they are always, always packed at Lunch Time, no matter what the weather, plus they do brisk tea and coffee business throughout the day. 

From our favourite café, La Maison de Camille, the click of the boules is audible as older French men, some of them unbelievably wearing berets, seriously battle each other for victory on the dusty blonde pitch, surrounded by tall plane trees and smoking spectators.
Les mouettes can be heard screeching out to sea, and the unique sound of the headsail sheets ‘ting-tinging’ against the masts of the boats lining the port, completes the scene. There are papers to be read, dogs to be walked, bread to be bought, zebras to be parked on, and, yes, work to be done, but around here it’s done at a slower pace and with a sense of the day unfolding rather than unravelling, as it often does when caught up in city life. It's another world but one well worth waiting for.

Le Parking - Driving the French Way

# 1 in the Occasional Series "French Impressions"

French Cars, Parking, Driving and Roads – Not in any particular order, and please note, all opinons are personal and backed up by no research whatsoever

The French tend to drive French cars, and the odd Italian or German one can be glimpsed, such as a Fiat or Alfa Romeo, an Audi or Mercedes.  I have yet to see a single ute, and in fact, have never seen a ute in Europe.  Four wheel drives are occasionally seen and not held in any particular regard as they are not easy to park in 12^th Century cities.  Work vehicles are for work and would never be driven as a 'proper' driver's car; these include vans, tractors, lorries. No utes. 

Australian television ads warn us that the ‘European Model’ has been shown in their latest production.  European models are much more glamorous and flash than the ones seen in Australia, and a fast, sexy two door coupe appears to be the car of choice for the average man.  No utes. However, both sexes are more than happy to bomb around in a car the size of a pumpkin and park it in the middle of the road.  No car can truly call itself worldly without an appropriate selection of scrapes and bumps around all four wings and preferably a ding in the driver’s door.  The appropriate colours for cars EXCLUDE day-glo lime, metallic purple, vomit yellow or fluorescent orange.

Parking takes place pretty much anywhere there is a park-able space, including and especially on zebra crossings, and preferably facing in the wrong direction for traffic flow.  Neat, kerb side parking is irrelevant as any angle will do, including ninety degrees. Double parking is a strong option at busy times of the day, as is blocking in any other car that happened to get to a spot first.  Car bumpers are useful accessories cleverly designed to allow drivers to practice dodgem car methods to force their way into highly unsuitable spaces. 

The French speed limit on motorways is 130km per hour, and, of course, is just a suggestion.  Cars can go at 200km, so why not?  I have NEVER seen a speed camera, a police car lying in wait to trap drivers, posters with threats of speeding fines, a police car on the motorway, a driver pulled over. I have seen NO RBTs and never any mention of any, anywhere.  Talking on a mobile phone is a basic human right and I have NEVER seen any mention of any fine for this, ever. In fact, talking on a mobile whilst smoking and travelling at the speed of sound or parking on zebras is a compulsory activity, and probably taught to all learner drivers (see photo).  Indicators are seen as irrelevant accessories placed close to a steering wheel, the occasional use of which is optional.  Using indicators whilst negotiating roundabouts, turning corners, overtaking or parking on zebras is for sissies. 

French roads are superb.  The motorways here are things of marvel, smooth, long, flat, in peak condition and ideal for travelling along at speed.  Furthermore, they wind through stunning countryside of interest, variety and appeal.  Goods tend to travel by train, so the view of the countryside is uninterrupted by road trains or – worse – campervans. It is a pleasure to drive on the motorways, so long as you know where you’re going, as navigation here requires precise and detailed knowledge of how to achieve your ultimate destination, since helpful road signs are for sissies or – worse – tourists. 

I am gradually getting the hang of it.  The wrong side of the road seems, well, right now.  I have learned to use my indicator as a handbag hanger.  My mobile sits in the little pocket on the dash ready to be answered. Screaming along at 160km is strangely addicitve.  My parking skills are improving daily and I can comfortably park in the wrong direction on the opposite side of the road.  I have yet, unhappily, to master parking on a zebra, facing the wrong way, blocking the traffic and a goods entrance, whilst talking on a mobile, smoking a fag and stroking a lap dog.  But all good things take time, and I’m sure my patience shall be rewarded…..

Les Premiers Jours

11 Février 2011

My life over the next couple of – freezing – days involved walking miles in search of bread to eat and desperately seeking logs to feed the fire. I’d wanted a bit of French authenticity, but this was too real for comfort. I could almost identify with peasants in the 13^th Century where the main thrust of life was staying warm, not starving and poaching the odd rabbit.  I was actually eyeing-up other people’s log stashes!  There was no corner shop and the nearest super market was a brisk 25 minute walk along a road populated by kamikaze drivers of super-charged pumpkin-sized cars, with no paths and treacherous ditches on either side. Then I had to walk back lugging my purchases – peasant time all over again. I needed a car.  Holly to the rescue!!

14 Février 2011

The marvellous Julien from Séte Rentacar sete@rentacar.fr (highly recommended should you need great service from a lovely guy who speaks no English whatsoever), discovered by Holly, delivered a smashing pumpkin-sized car right to my door and changed my life on this memorable day. I was excited but terrified.  I was going to have to drive on the 'wrong' side of the road for the first time in my life!  It was horrendous for the first hour, scary for the second and not bad for the third. Mind you, this was doing circuits around the block, so hardly proper initiation into the French Way of Driving.  Bravely, and hungrily, I drove my pumpkin to the supermarket.  It was an empowering feeling being able to stock up! No more hand-to-mouth peasant stuff for me. I was ecstatic.  I must have looked as much, because when I emerged with my groceries, there was a valentine note left under my windscreen wiper. How lovely! How romantic! How French! Who could it have been?  Judging by the handwriting, a short sighted school boy. Or possibly the swarthy security guard I’d seen lurking in the Condiments aisle?  Maybe the chap from the mobile phone shop who had helped with my recharge?  No. I am fairly sure it was J. Depp, in character as a youth called Nicolas, who’d popped into Carrefour supermarché for a bit of bread and some milk on his way home and spotted his soul mate and muse. That’s my take on it, and I’m sticking with it. He lives nearby, sort of. It’s possible. 

26 Février, 2011

The next two weeks were full of activity. My parents arrived! Very happy to be here, accompanied by the most eye-catching polka dot luggage I’d ever seen, they settled in very quickly and confirmed that it was freezing. Given that they live in the far north of England, almost Scotland, really, this was a shocking confirmation of my suspicions.  Undaunted by the arctic conditions, under a bright blue sky and a sparkling winter sun, we gradually explored our surroundings.  The picturesque medieval town of Pézenas with its famous Saturday market established in 1272, the sparkling, golden city of Montpellier, its university dating from 1160 and the home of Nostradamus, the vibrant port of Séte, known as Little Venice due to its similarity to that unique city. Every destination was reached on winding roads through picture perfect villages, the countryside a vast patchwork of vineyards, brilliant yellow mimosa blooming on the trees, daffodils and apple blossom appearing, café society much in evidence even in the smallest of places.  I suspected I could be happy here.

Voyager vers le Sud - Travelling South

9 Février 2011

The next few days in Paris were lovely, cold but sunny, and involved lunches, wine, shopping, dinners, wandering around the marché aux puces in Cliquancourt, walking Holly’s dog, Lola, around Montmartre feeling like a local, buying baguettes at the boulangerie feeling like a local, and working our way through the remainder of Sarah’s cheese haul.  They also involved some organisation, as I had a train to book and a journey to make.

Leaving Paris behind made me feel grown up and responsible – no longer could I rely on Holly to make phone calls or translate anything I didn’t understand – I was on my own.  This became quite apparent at the Gare de Lyon where I had to collect my pre-ordered ticket from the correct desk, find the platform, punch my ticket, get on the right train at the right time. Quite stressful when following verbal directions in another language and with a deadline to meet! 

Anyway, I made it and felt very posh sitting in first class for the four hour journey to Agde in the South.  French trains are a marvel; clean, comfortable, fast, reliable and reasonably priced. My first class ticket was a mere 7 euros more than a second class ticket (why ever travel 2^nd class??) and only 83 euros for the journey, in stark contrast to the outrageous prices charged for train trips in the UK. A jolly man with a trolley patrolled the carriages pressing wine upon the passengers, and who was I to refuse?

A quick taxi ride from Agde to the house in Les Mougères, a village outside of Marseillan, delivered me to the doorstep of the place I was to call home for the next few months, the place I’d looked at on Google Earth several times and was now seeing for real.  It was more substantial than I expected.  It had a swish sliding gate.  It was freezing! 

A neighbour let me in and gave me a brief tour, some notes on how to keep the pool nice (the pool?? in February??), how to work the sprinkler system (ditto, in February??) what to do with the peach trees (peaches?? if only..) and then I was on my own.  It was freezing! I was in shock. This was the South of France, how could I be seeing my own breath vapourise indoors? 

Shivering, I attempted to light the fire that had been thoughtfully laid by the owner, and rushed around turning on every heating appliance I could find, including the oven. It continued to be freezing! The log fire would not co-operate and guttered out. The radiators struggled valiantly to turn luke warm.  The oven appeared to be blowing out cold air.  There was nothing to eat and I had forgotten to bring frivolities such as food with me. 

Miraculously, I found an electric blanket in a cupboard and re-made a bed to include it.  In my bag was the half bottle of Mouton Cadet pressed upon me on the train, plus a tough bread roll left over from breakfast in the station.  That would have to do.  The house had big, heavy wooden shutters on every window, so I pulled the bedroom shutters closed.  I cranked up the electric blanket, digested my meagre repast of bread and wine and, placing the framed photo of my husband and pets carefully onto the bedside table,  retired to bed at some bizarrely early hour as I couldn’t think of anything else to do. 

Tomorrow would be a better day.

La Fête Fatale!

Samedi 5 Février, 2011

Woken at a relatively reasonable time by Holly's unreasonable and highly athletic cat Leon, I was initially disoriented and then confused.  How could it be 8.45am -  it was dark outside? I verified the time on my phone, the lap top, the microwave and eventually with Holly. It was 8.45am on a winter's morning, and it was pretty much still dark. Something I'd have to get used to again, with the sun rising in Queensland at either 4am or 6am depending on the season (Queensland has only two seasons Hot and Bloody Hot).

I didn't mind being up, as it was going to be a good day, and one I'd been looking forward to for a while, so best it start as soon as possible!  Sarah had arrived from LA the previous day and Katy was arriving on the Eurostar just in time for lunch, then, ce soir it was party time. 

Lunch in one of those sexy restaurants Paris does with such casual ease - all dark velvet button back chairs, fresh flowers, discreet chandeliers and carafes of wine - was followed by a saunter around the Louvre, taking in the 16th and 17th Century collections. We felt very soignée, although Katy and I were miffed at having to pay for entry to the Louvre. Culture should be free!

After prizing Sarah out of the best cheese shop in Paris, which just happens to be on Holly's street, we repaired to Holly's apartment, struggled up the stairs with Sarah's preposterous cheese haul and began preparations for our Big Night Out.  For Sarah, this involved eating gargantuan portions of cheese. For the rest of us it meant hair, heels, shoes, scent, champagne, cocktail dresses and conversation.  Sarah had a bit more cheese. Then we were ready to hit the town!

It was a perfectly formed night, crafted with care by Holly.  First, a private 'by appointment' venue accessed via massive wrought iron gates, along a crunchy gravel drive lit only by flickering art nouveau street lamps, our breath pluming in the night air.  A knock on the door for permission to enter. Inside candles, a library, a piano bar, attentive male models to wait on our orders and endless champagne to quaff.  Nathalie joined us to assist with the quaffing. 

Then to a supper and dancing club  (Cha Cha) so dimly lit that we looked - oh, teenage!- and people thought we were with Nicole Kidman (Sarah's doppelganger). An a la carte dining experience was followed by exhibitionist dancing in the Salon where they played eighties hits, French chanteuse, electro bop and atmospheric jazz. We all wore little black dresses and heels. We even shamefully snuck into the smoking snug to puff on a cigarette or two, just to feel decadently French.

Watching Sarah and Katy being quietly herded into an inescapable corner of the dance floor by a couple of youthful admirers we named Ben Affleck and the Border Collie was a highlight, and brought about, surely, by their dynamite get-ups involving extremely short hem lengths, extremely lacey hosiery and extremely high heels.  Their complete ignorance of the herding tactic was as hilarious as their gutsy interpretation of Blondie's 'Atomic'. Priceless.

Champagned out, we made it home by 4am and Sarah's room in the Terrass Hotel was so well appointed i.e. dark and comfortable, we slept until one the next day! Memories are made of this.