Patrimoine

Summer stayed late this year…

…and in the month since I returned from Brittany I’ve been profiting from the pleasant temperatures to get to know my town and its people a bit better. It takes a bit of courage to put yourself out there in a foreign language, of course, but there is nothing like a mishap or miscalculation to help you take the plunge. It started with the Weekend of Our Patrimony, which was three days when inaccessible spaces were open to the public, and public museums were open for free. I set out in fine fettle for the ancien quartier, carrying a paper map and my phone camera. I wanted to catch some examples of a particularly local architectural signature as I wandered from site to site. 

Staring upwards, back down to consult the map, upwards again to ponder the best position from which to photograph a nice example, I miscalculated the curb and briskly stepped out into thin air. I landed face first with a crash so epic that not one but two separate older women stopped to offer me help. But rallying quickly, I took this shot:

I understand if you don’t think it was quite worth swan diving into the pavement for, but it’s that red-orange brickwork broken by the black brick diamond pattern that I wanted, and plus it had quaint blue shutters. I don’t know, but I’ll always remember this building. I forged ahead and visited a couple more sites, including a 16th century Jesuit monastery built to counter the Protestant Reformation and now used as the local courthouse. Inside was your basic courtroom, with the judge’s dais and lots of desktop computers, but with a ceiling painted a bit like I imagine the Sistine Chapel. Cool. But soon I realized I better go directly to the hospital. 

By the time I was called from the waiting area, I could not put any weight on my right foot, at all, so they wheeled me about. I had x-rays and a chat with the doctor. I was given a bunch of prescriptions and they said they would call me a taxi, since there was no way I could walk home. Well, the taxi driver arrived, and whisked me off to Yzeures and the night pharmacy (all the pharmacies in town close early and take turns for extended hours). He ran in, came out with a tape measure and took my ankle measurement, ran back, got me crutches, helped me to the window, the pharmacist put a really nice splint on me, gave me my medicine and crutches and the driver helped me to the car and headed toward my place. On the way he gave me some of the best medical advice of the day, to use olive oil on my sprain (and yes, the LLM says it is an anti-inflammatory) and chatted about his life as a contracted medical taxi driver who is paid by the French government while he is semi-retired. The whole thing, which took some time, cost me 20 euros. And nobody spoke English.

But these bricks. They fascinate me because this pattern, or variations, is on a lot of old buildings here. It uses the two main types of native stone found in the region. A peachy-red-yellow sandstone, and a black volcanic rock that might be basalt. Such resourcefulness and local pride!

There are many more, but you get the idea. 

My foot healed more quickly than I expected, and it may have been from the  NSAID anti-inflammatory that I was prescribed. Ketoprofen. It has the FDA’s “black box” warning, so nobody makes it back home. It causes sudden heart attacks and strokes and perforations in the stomach and intestines without warning. It was so powerful my foot felt almost totally fine in two days. And my stomach was so shredded that my new BFF, the LLM said STOP TAKING IT IMMEDIATELY. So I did. In the United States, it is now used on racehorses.

Now that I’m better, I have signed up for walks and classes with the Moulin Area Club for Sporty Seniors. It sounds better in French. It’s volunteer-run and they seem very friendly. I had a Qi Gong class run by a tall, silver-goateed Frenchman named Jean who was dressed head to foot in pure white silk Chinese pajamas. Fantastic.

 

Yesterday I had to take the train down to the biggest city in the Auvergne region, Clermont-Ferrand. Look for the pink “Bourbonnais” on the map, near dead center. Just to the south, in red, is Auvergne. Auvergne is known firstly for being in the middle of nowhere, secondly for very old volcanoes, and thirdly for dry sausages. These are my observations. The truth may vary. Anyway, the French government said I had to visit a doctor down there to make sure I was in sufficiently good health to have my residence permit and apply for the national health care program. I’m glad I allowed plenty of time for the excursion, because the buses and trams were all cancelled. So, due to high school students feeling so bad about their education that they need to destroy all supporting infrastructure, I had the pleasure of walking six or seven miles to my appointment and to find a decent lunch.

The doctor was a big, tall man about my age who was used to authority. After measuring my height, and getting my weight he declared “Perfect.” And then, after asking me for my vaccination schedule card was so confused when I said we don’t have them in the U.S. He said I must have gone to a university, (oh, must I have?) and I said yes. And he said then I must have had one in order to matriculate. I said nope. We don’t do that. He was truly nonplussed. He tried English, but my French was better, and so, the subject was dropped. He signed in duplicate, literally rubber-stamped my documents, and I was on my way.

The day was capped by my rather amazing lunch. I walked into a small room, nearly full of about fifty men, and two women waiting on them. They mostly looked like rednecks, and one guy wore his Hi-Viz jacket while he ate. I was seated at a long table between four younger guys. The women were good-natured and attentive, and the men were shy, but pushed a carafe of wine toward me. It came with the daily menu (18 euros, and no tipping) and was apparently bottomless. The four courses included a sublime and hearty veal stew with some crazy black mushrooms that were thin and ripply and with an incredible flavor. As the cheese course was brought–something that is almost disappearing these days–I wasn’t sure how it worked and so the two young men on one side of me explained it too was communal. Thankfully, I remembered how the cheese must be cut so as not to upset the rest of the table. Yes, this is a thing. Just look it up. 

That led to a lively conversation, and then they asked if I’d like a digestif. I said I’d only tried one once, in 1989, so wasn’t sure. They laughed and said I should have one again. So I said ok, and got one made of a popular herb called verveine. It was 80 proof, for god’s sake. This is the middle of their workday! One of the young men, Michel, rolled himself a cigarette with a tiny filter, and I commented that I noticed hand-rolling seemed popular in France. He said it is a lot cheaper, and promptly rolled me one. We grabbed our digestifs and stepped outside and I actually smoked my first hand-rolled cigarette. After telling that government doctor I don’t smoke. Oh dear. 

As a non-smoker, I thought I would feel terrible, but I didn’t. Turns out commercial cigarettes put “combustion salts” in the paper, which do a large number of very bad things to your throat and lungs, while making sure the cigarette burns down quickly and you need to buy more. I couldn’t keep this one lit, as natural ones just go out if you stand there and talk.

Then, Michel and Benjamin (a stone mason, and plumber, respectively) offered to drive me to the train station, since it was a half hour walk away. They said they’d had a great time, and that I was sure to sleep well on the train. And, in fact, I did.