Our House is Definitely Not in Paris

by Susan Cutsforth

  Its design was the source of criticism from some of France’s eminent artists and intellectuals. They viewed it as a gigantic black smokestack that marred the beauty of Paris. Gustave Eiffel, however, likened the tower to the pyramids of Egypt. So it is today that just as the pyramids are synonymous with Egypt, the Eiffel Tower represents all that is iconic about France.

  Bérets are the image of all that is quintessentially French. They were first worn by shepherds in the 1800s in the Basque country. By the 1920s, bérets were commonly worn by the working classes, and not long after, more than twenty French factories began producing millions of bérets. They took on a new life when military bérets were first adopted by the French Chasseurs Alpins in 1889. They were then used by the newly formed Royal Tank Regiment during World War I, when it was realised they needed headgear that would stay on while climbing in and out of the small hatches of the tanks. The béret is now a significant fashion statement on the streets of Paris.

  Today, there are only two producers of bérets remaining. It is still strongly symbolic in the south-west of France, where our petite maison is. It is worn to celebrate traditional events, like our own vide-grenier, when all the band members entertain everyone, eating déjeuner in Marinette’s orchard. The fact that I too was wearing a red béret, just like theirs, made me feel a part of Cuzance’s special annual celebration.

  These are the evocative images that linger long after you return home; the enduring true-life metaphors that capture the essence of France. The twinkling lights of the Eiffel Tower, dominating the skyline of Paris as you wind your way through the film-set streets in the glowing embers of late evening. The Frenchmen in the markets, wearing timeless striped Breton shirts — introduced in 1858 by French law to locate fishermen who had gone overboard — their bérets tipped at a jaunty angle, a freshly baked baguette tucked under their arm.

  Café scene, Paris

  Lunch in Martel

  Faking French

  Our petite maison is now a well-known part of our life and everyone we know assumes — of course — that I must be taking French lessons. I know that I should be. After all, do I not have another French life now? However, as with everything in my crowded life, there simply does not seem to be the time for such a luxury. Mind you, many would see it is a matter of necessity, as I do also have a house in a little French village, where I do most definitely want to be accepted and a part of life once a year. My ineptitude with grasping the intricacies of French means that I turn to the internet in an attempt to gain an insight into how I can perhaps feign some degree of familiarity with French.

  First, I learn that the first and most important part of how to ‘fake’ the French accent is the ‘r’ sound. Apparently, according to my research — for research is certainly part of my skill-set — you push your tongue to the back of your throat as if pronouncing a 'gee' sound. I attempt to practise this aloud as I drive to work at home. It seems to be the only time I can find to devote to such essential activities. I listen to the results and can only conclude that I truly can’t get the hang of it.

  The next internet research lesson that I decide to devote myself to, on my drive to and from work each day, is that the ‘h' in words should always be silent. Since I know so few French words, I struggle to think of any with ‘h’. Ah, haute couture. That should do the trick. Not that in my other French life I have occasion to even contemplate haute couture. Let’s remember that at the end of the day, it is a life of rénovée.

  Next lesson. I find out that when you pronounce ‘e’ you draw them out for as long as possible. It is again fortunate that I am alone in the car. Memories of the squealing pigs at feeding time in Cuzance are the closest I seem to be able to manage. Strike that attempt off the list.

  Right, what’s next on the unique how-to-fake-French accent that I have cleverly devised for myself? I learn that in French, it is imperative to always stress the last syllable of a sentence, or before you pause, with a rising intonation, as if you are asking a question. Since I can only manage the most basic and essential of phrases and requests, like ‘Où est la boulangerie?’, ‘Where is the boulangerie?’, perhaps I can just manage this. Then again, perhaps not. It’s one thing practising alone in my car, and another thing actually attempting this in Paris.

  I move on to my next self-created petite French language guide. I now learn that ‘th’ is pronounced as a ‘z’. Once again I struggle to recall a single word in my very limited vocabulary that may fit this particular linguistic trick. Perhaps I will check with Stuart on this exacting requirement. As with the myriad of things I always seem to be pursuing, he is puzzled by what I am up to now.

  I decide to move right along to the next trick I am attempting to learn to fit into my French life. I hasten to add it has now been a matter of weeks to and from work that I have been conducting my secret French lessons. What an ambitious dream it now seems. To step off the plane in Paris and engage in scintillating repartee. Perhaps this is a ploy that I can cunningly incorporate into my ever-stumbling French attempts. To fully assimilate into the French way of life, apparently all you have to do is toss in a lot of ‘euh’s. This seems to be the clinching key to faking French. I learn from the master of all knowledge, the internet, that it is the equivalent of inserting lots of ‘umms’ or ‘ahhs’ into conversation. Ostensibly, it fools people into believing that you are completely au fait with the language, and you are merely pausing and reflecting on what you will next say. I decide to abandon all my well-intentioned plans when I discover that you are supposed to end your pronunciation on a sound about halfway between, but not allow your accent to hint at, the ‘oh’ sound.

  So much for my French lessons. I aim to learn French when I retire, as surely then I will have time. How many more years we will then be able to undertake the exhausting, arduous flight is another matter altogether. Finally, I will be fluent when our French life becomes a fading memory. Possibly fluent, that is.

  Parisian model

  Hard at work again

  Part Two

  CUZANCE

  Fling Open the Shutters

  It is finally true on our fourth reunion with Pied de la Croix that Stuart’s fortifying words, ‘It will all get better with time,’ words that I have clung to with faint hope, have finally come true. When I lamented the lack of true vacances, for we were perpetually renovating on both sides of the world, he always tried to reassure me that one day the alarming hours of sheer relentless rénovation would abate. There were many times that I clung as desperately to those words as if we were indeed adrift on a life raft in choppy seas. For at times I did feel as though I was drowning, consumed by paint and rubble, and the obstacles that are all too familiar in any renovating life. This was alongside those obstacles of being in a foreign country, where at least one of us has to perpetually rely on their ability to frantically mime whatever is the order of the day: sugar soap, paint colours, paint stripper.

  After our four-hour train trip from Paris to Brive-la-Gaillarde, when Gérard drives us home to Cuzance, I fall out of his petite Twingo and simply abandon our luggage at the side of the road. I run around the entire jardin with utter joy and wild abandon, flapping my arms like an over-excited child. Gérard and Stuart simply watch, clearly bemused by my zeal. It is not until I have done a flying inspection of our just-mown garden, including exclaiming with delight at our two enormous new trees that Jean-Claude valiantly dug into the stony ground, that we are able to ascend our beloved très joli steps. We tip-toe in, breath caught in collective anticipation of our reunion. No matter how many years we return in the future, it will always be with a sense of wonder that this is our other home.

  Ah, there is the nouveau armoire that Jean-Claude and Françoise found for us after scouring countless vide-grenier. It is tucked perfectly into the challenging corner, next to the fireplace and old cuisine sink (oh yes, still in place) and under the old hand-painted cupboard that is high up on the wall. I am going to use the new cupboard for all the books t
hat we have already accumulated. This year, I am determined to read them under my walnut tree. Françoise and her char — as she calls her from her long-ago days as a young woman working in England — have removed all the rubble and evidence of the maçon’s work on our new bathroom window. We eagerly rush to investigate. Light floods the petite, once-gloomy hallway outside the salle de bain. A bathroom with a window. What could possibly be better? Well, perhaps a new salle de bain in the future. It is, in fact, next year’s plan, for there is always a plan, always a list — or should that be lists? As always, too, the lists project far into the future. It all depends on the progress of the crazy paving — and how crazy it sends us this year. For now, the bathroom is still ancient and remains something that I give my friends who are to stay dire warnings about. As for the toilet it is still, much to my ongoing disquietude, a formidable, petite dark box.

  All is in order in Pied de la Croix. There is no evidence of the ubiquitous country mice that sometimes take up residence in our cosy home while we are far away; the winter has not plunged too severely below freezing and the pipes in the cellar are all functioning. There is simply so much to check. Will the car start after it has been slumbering for a year in its stone-encased bed, the garage adjoining the barn? Most importantly, did we leave a bottle of vin tucked under the kitchen sink, ready for our return?

  Our gaze sweeps over the beloved objets we have rapidly accumulated over the past few years. So many vide-grenier finds in such a short time. No wonder we so often lose ourselves in daydreams about one day converting la grange. Its huge, empty expanse is simply waiting to be filled with treasure. The barn is indeed a blank canvas, crying out to be filled with the cache we unearth at our weekly forays to les marchés, the French markets. It is these weekly treasure hunts that form our personal itinerary each French summer and make our hearts positively brim with excitement. Sundays are our personal day of worship for all things old; the drive, zipping along the winding country roads to destinations unknown in far-flung villages, and the fever that possesses us as we tumble out in the crisp early morning air, eager to commence our quest. The vide-grenier tables are often laid out in the shade of huge sheltering trees, in readiness for the summer sun that will later transform the day into a blaze of heat that is inconceivable at such an early hour. The ancient walnuts arch over the reverent treasure hunters, for there are many like us, consumed by the desire to unearth items that delight. People swoop and bend and examine and pore over an eclectic array of household items, from the bizarre, such as deer antlers fashioned into serving spoons, to the ultimate of finds, old pieces of pristine French linen. Our hearts never fail to sing with happiness on Sunday vide-grenier mornings.

  And in our French summer life each and every day, whether cool and damp or full of bright sunshine, starts with the flinging open of our creaking heavy wooden shutters; an act that always resonates as a deeply symbolic one. For when the day ends, we close all the shutters, close out the night, reflect on all the day has held and what the new dawn will bring. For this is the wonder and joy of life in Cuzance; that each day holds in its hands a sense of infinite enchantment and happiness.

  A French Household

  Each time we return to our other life, we try to implement all that we have learnt from our previous, precious French sojourns. We adapt our daily rhythm and rénovation demands to the nuances of the ever-changing weather. No matter the outcome of the unpredictable summer forecast, each day starts in the same way, for despite the fact that it is été, summer, there is always a distinct crisp chill in the air. Sometimes, however, the temperature can almost double in the space of a mere few hours. On those days, the sun suddenly scatters the soft white particles of mist that shroud the countryside. A new world sparkles and shines, shimmering and fresh, awash with promise. The birds chirp ever more vigorously as the hours move on, as delighted as I am to welcome le soleil.

  Other days are pervaded by an ongoing damp chill. The jardin and vista remain cloaked in a fine, ethereal haze. Just like the softer green of the European trees, somehow the rain is different in its gentleness, for it falls in a soft shimmering veil.

  The gloominess of a Thursday morning in our first week dictates my day. All the glasses are clouded in a clinging film of calcium, and after just a few short years, we have accumulated an inordinate number of glasses from the clear-out-the attic markets. Unfortunately our glasses are not clear, for the filter on our water pump has broken. A French household means seeking out new products in the supermarché, to address the issue of calcaire, the calcium that has built up in the pipes over the past year.

  Voilà, we find a product in Carrefour supermarché, Anti-Calcaire/Anti-Kalk tablets. While they are intended for use in the washing machine, for ‘protecton’, as the box emphatically states in capitals, Stuart decides that they will do the trick for our glasses. Such is the life of rénovation in a foreign land that improvisation is often the order of the day.

  I spend hour after hour filling the sink with scalding water and glasses, adding a new tablet each time that fizzes and lifts the calcaire cloud. Incroyable. It works. As the sink is stone and I tend to be clumsy, I have to be exceptionally careful. No wonder at all the vide-grenier there are always sets of glasses in odd numbers; there is invariably one missing and rarely the full complement. Too many apéritifs I think, as I continue to wash our collection of mismatched glasses. What is a summer in France if it is not to enjoy the superb wine every evening? Despite it not yet being the apéritif hour, I manage to crack and break another glass against the stone. I carefully wrap the evidence. This is not a task that I would ever embark on at home, washing every single glass in the house by hand. I spend the rest of the day setting our petite maison to rights after a year of being shrouded in dust and darkness.

  I whisk down a year’s worth of cobwebs lurking in the fire-darkened beams of our salon. It is through my devotion to domesticity that new words enter my vocabulary, and so I learn the word ‘to clean’ in our French home: à nettoyer. I learn this from Dominique when I tell her what my matin — morning — will hold. As in previous years, it is only through necessity or as an act occurs that my still-feeble French vocabulary expands, step by step, like a child’s. I whip off the red and white check tablecloth to replace it with a clean one that I have tucked away. Its very pattern is enough to make me smile, for it is oh-so-very French and was a gift from Françoise from her long-ago trousseau. While the patina of our farmhouse table is lovely in its old, scratched way, and dating from WWII as Jean-Claude discovered from a fragment of newspaper tucked away in one of its three drawers, nevertheless, a French table somehow looks naked without a tablecloth.

  I spend the morning as a French housewife, glossing over the fact that I never, ever cook. Stuart, meanwhile, sets off to the troc for the second day in a row. He’s on a mission to buy a new bed for our spare chambre, ready for when all our visitors start to arrive for their French summer. I’m hoping that he will also buy the armoire that we both admired the previous day on our first outing to Brive-la-Gaillarde. The cupboard would fit perfectly along the wall as you enter the guest bedroom, for like many of the oddly shaped nooks and crannies in our old farmhouse, the measurements have to be quite precise. I already have the perfect quilt cover in pristine readiness, French farmhouse red and white fleurs, for when I style and decorate the room. This is the part I most love when we rénovate. I fervently hope that my pretty pink roses will still be blooming when our first visitors arrive, so I can pick them with a flourish. They will be the perfect finishing touch on our new armoire. It was one of the very first things I did on our arrival; pick the graceful buds to breathe new summer life into our home.

  The beauty of the roses, as I glance at our le jardin, distracts me to some extent from the veritable invasion of les mouches. The marauding hordes of flies are something we tend to gloss over when we are far away. Each year when we return, we never cease to be amazed anew at the dreadful swarms of them. How is it possible that they
are far worse than in Australia? Oh yes, we have chosen a country life far from Paris. However, it is still perplexing, for there are not any sheep in our immediate vicinity. We learnt during our first French vacances that it is disastrous to buy a house in the French countryside that is too close to otherwise picturesque-looking sheep. This is not a fact that is likely to be highlighted in any real estate guide. Non. It is all bucolic pastures and gambolling lambs. Bitter experience has taught us, though: where there are sheep, there will be les mouches in abundance.

  Françoise and I have chatted about the demands of cleaning. We lament les mouches and the perpetually fly-spotted fenêtre. She gives me a cloth to borrow, claiming that you simply wet it, wipe it over the windows and voilà, they will be sparkling. I’m hopeful and sceptical in equal measures. I’ve not had much success with Dominique’s pruning advice: count five leaves then cut the rose branch. It sounds simple in theory; the undertaking is an altogether different matter. I only have a day to use the magic cloth before Françoise needs it back for her char. Every time she uses this word, I smile at the quaint idiom. I rinse the cloth and hold my breath. Voilà indeed, I exclaim aloud. It works! Just as French women seem to innately know the trick to staying slim, so too they seem to have unlocked the key to the tricky task of window cleaning. There’s a catch, though. Apparently the cloths are not readily available. She tells me she will make enquiries for me in her nettoyage network, a ‘secret’ society for women and cleaning.