Courtship

Flirting with villages in search of a long-term relationship…

…has been among my little projects since my last post. I rented a car, and have been out on the exquisite network of tiny French back roads. Our featured photo is from a good-sized town called Montluçon, to the west of Moulins. In spite of the evident success of the romantic graffiti artist, my answer was ‘no’ to that town. During the drive I crossed a small region that is just known to the locals, called Le Bocage, which is rolling hills covered in pastures and wheat fields, all divided into little pieces by green hedgerows, and properly dotted with large beech or oak trees, I think. Will be learning my local trees soon, with the generous aid of my research department. It looks like England, though it is plain to see many pretty English things came from France via those awful Normans. We just don’t mention it.

I did not get a picture of the bocage, which I do regret somewhat. I’m finding, looking at the photos I’ve taken in the last week, that the gorgeous countryside and quaint architecture all run together, and the personal is more revealing. At the Parc Wilson in Montluçon, for instance, this sign on the back of the gate into the park.

It politely says, “You are locked in this park. Don’t panic. Dial the on-call number, etc.” I could make something of a metaphor of a locked, walled garden named after the American globalist president that turns into a trap, but…oh too late. However the very practical observation of the fact, and not very reassuring advice is so not anglophone.

My first little road trip was to the east, just across into the next department over, Saône-et-Loire, to a village called Bourbon-Lancy. It was cute, as my hostess called it, and the mayor himself came out and introduced himself to me, along with his very tall friend who laughingly said he was his assistant. He proudly informed me that I wasn’t just in a different department (after hearing where I’d come from), but a whole new region, Bourgogne-Franche Compté. I’m picking up that to French people, their own town and its surroundings is basically the only place in the world. I love it. Anyway he gave me a parking pass to use so I went to find lunch. 

In the centre-ville there was only a bar and a bakery. Bars don’t serve meals here, but they directed me up through an ancient arch, and in the quartier ancien, I saw a place in a medieval building. Aside from the stomach-ache I had later, I also had a bit of a sense of visiting a good-looking prostitute. You know how I feel about tourist bureaus. I don’t want to live in a town that is inundated with moping tourists, no matter how damn cute it is.

 

 

 

 

I am decidedly not on vacation. I have been learning, and inquiring, and investigating, and analyzing, and adapting. And eventually I will be working, in my own way.

Yesterday, I headed south, to revisit a little place I’d liked last year, Jenzat, and then on to a couple of towns with train stations. That is one criterion I’m using to narrow down the endless choices. The landscape leveled out a bit, and the wheat fields got much bigger. I remained in the Allier department, at the southern border, and it seemed that already the sun was stronger and the light more clear and sharp. I imagined it as what the painters who flocked to the Midi sought after. 

The town was called Gannat, and not much going on. Very much a farm town, with the locals seeming to be workers and such, though with a less kind and welcoming attitude than I have consistently found in Moulins. I claim to like a no-nonsense place, but maybe not quite as hard as a true farming culture can be. Farmers are tough. Gannat had excellent subjects for Impressionist paintings, but sun-baked and tough.

 

 

 

 

 

Looking for a place to get lunch, I passed by a house like this where a woman was looking out the window. As we looked at each other, she just leaned out, and pulled the shutters closed. Well, then, good afternoon to you, madame.

The next and last town for the day was a much smaller place called Bellenaves. No idea why it warranted a train station, which was actually a bit out of town. I don’t know what is going on there in that town of 1,000 people, but the ladies in the tourist office were so eager to be helpful when I asked if people ever rented apartments there. They told me the few they had were full, than very politely asked my age, and said I could live in these little cottages for “the aged,” except they were full too. Then she asked me if I wanted her to take me to this place where they house homeless people, on a temporary basis, if I wanted to stay a bit in the hopes of finding something.

I certainly did not want to use that option, but I said yes anyway, because who could resist meeting French homeless people? 

The man who runs the place seemed to be a genuinely good soul. He was a skinny old-ish dude with multiple yet very subtle face piercings like a constellation of tiny silver ball-stars clustered in his right cheek. He showed me around as people went in and out. There were multiple dogs, and a red-faced woman said some friendly stuff to me which I partly understood, and a young woman with her head down slunk rapidly around us. But he was very sincere, and gave me all the information I might need.

One pleasant young man stuck his head out of somewhere to say hello, and was told I was looking for a place, and from the U.S. He greeted me in what was clearly his only English, asking me how I was. I said “Very well, thank you,” with a smile. He was delighted. It seemed the town was full of socially oriented things like that. I wonder how that has come about. The tourist bureau employee did tell me there was an American lesbian couple up the hill, who she could perhaps introduce me to. 

Back in Moulins, having a beer and people watching in the main square, I discovered that they included a scratch-and-win lottery ticket with your purchase. In the very dry French way, this Golden Ticket informed me “You lost.” Fine. There are other ways to win.