Slow Summer

 

 

France is known for “shutting down” for the month of August.

Perhaps it is not so prevalent as in years past, but I have been unable to go get good bread, pick up my book order, or have the shutters fixed on my biggest window. They just put a handwritten sign up on their shop window, and when you go to get something, voilà, now you know. Wait until September.

While I waited, I visited my new friends at the market on Fridays, practiced my new sketching hobby, had my old AirBnB hostess over for wine and nibbles on my “terrace,” took long walks, and looked for the few local events held for those of us who stayed home this month. The above is from a “theatrical visit” to the days when the boatmen and the washerwomen lived and worked along the Allier. The actors were quite good, and we had some singing and lovely guitar playing as we ambled along the river, with little surprises planned along the way. When we came upon a Mother Superior in her fabulous black-and-white habit and crucifix, I could feel the audience get nervous. They were mostly older, and older Catholics do this frequently. I played a nun in the musical “Nunsense” quite some time ago, and I remember an old man approaching me after the show, to admit he was nervous to speak to me. I laughed, in my habit, and admitted I’d needed to be taught the proper way to cross myself, as I had naturally done it with my left hand at first, being not Catholic, and left-handed.

The surprise at the end was these authentic old bateaux that came along just as we’d reached the old railroad bridge. There are old 19th century photographs of these people doing their work, barefoot, along the river right in town. No sign now that anything like that ever existed. It was charming, and I’m impressed with a small town having so much pride and talent. 

I also arranged with my heroic research department to ship my first box of things I’d packed for settling in for winter. It was amusing to see what I’d thought I might want or need, but the shearling slippers are already welcome, because a few of the nights are getting cool. I managed to drive myself into a nervous wreck over the operation, but it was smooth as could be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

French customs opened it, but apparently they approved, because I was not taxed for my own stuff.

It has finally set in, the loneliness I knew I would inevitably feel coming to a foreign country alone. Now that I am writing here, I can’t explain why I’ve felt moments of free-floating fear, but this whole project had a strong element of ‘sink or swim’ to it, and of course I was sure I would figure out how to swim. It doesn’t seem as if I am going to ever grow out of such unwonted optimism. But I also know what kinds of situations I left all the times I made such a leap into the unknown. We all have our ways of coping.

Today’s feature photo is a native wildflower whose name I do not know. I am not a botanist, though I’m spending a lot of time watching a botany channel, just because it makes me happy. It is funny to think that so many plants I saw in Oregon that are familiar non-natives there are real native wildflowers here. Dandelions and Queen Anne’s Lace, chicory and hawthorn, wild roses. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is a long path along the river called the Sentier des Castors, or Beaver’s Trail. I did not see any beavers, but lots of nutria scat, Canada geese, an egret, and songbirds new to me called a Common Redstart. Two males surprised me in the willows by the waters edge. There were also a lot of blackthorns, with their fruits called “sloes” which are used to make sloe gin in England, at least. They don’t really drink gin here.

I almost ate some, but later found out that the seed in them contains cyanide, so glad I didn’t. The “110% sure” rule is such a good idea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No, I have no idea what these flowers are, but they’re nice. 

As the days become noticeably shorter, and the heat a little less intense, I’ve also continued to work on the bureaucratic side of things. I visited the prefecture and found that my visa is only good for one year, not three, which I had somehow thought. And that I need to start the application process all over again in about February. My heart sinks once again just in writing this. I hate this stuff. It worries me inordinately. Do I really need my actual birth certificate to get on their health insurance? Will I really not owe any French taxes? Do I have to file in both countries? Should I just go home in June? It has only been three months, I know. I’m just letting you in on how it feels in the moment.

The other day I was crossing the plaza that lies this side of the shopping area, and they had a mobile announcer calling competitive games of “boules” while the bar patrons cheered them on. Each corner bar has its own type of regulars, sitting on the sidewalk or plaza out front. I hang out on the main Place Allier in front of the classic Grand Café, on Fridays, just because that is where Nadia and Paul always are. I have not attempted any other bars, because women don’t do things alone here, and I often get strange glares from older Frenchwomen who wonder what, exactly, I think I’m doing. Indeed, madame, I do too.