Our House is Certainly Not in Paris

by Susan Cutsforth

  personnes - people

  petit(e) - small

  pharmacie - chemist

  pièce - piece

  pied - foot

  piscine - swimming pool

  place - place

  plage - beach

  plat du jour - dish of the day

  plombier - plumber

  poisson - fish

  pomme - apple

  pompier - fireman

  pont - bridge

  portable - mobile phone

  poste - post office

  poulet - chicken

  Préfecture - administrative area

  prieuré - priory

  problème - problem

  prochaine - next

  produits - products

  projets - projects

  promenade - to take a walk

  prunier - plum tree

  R

  rapide - fast

  refuses - to refuse

  régionaux - regional

  rénovation - renovation

  rénover - renovate

  résistance - the French resistance

  rillettes - rustic pate

  robe - dress

  S

  salle de bain - bathroom

  salon - lounge

  sanglier - wild boar

  sapeurs-pompiers - fire brigade

  sauvage - savage, uncivilized

  seigle - rye

  septique - septic tank

  soirée - an evening function

  solde - a sale

  soleiel - sun

  soufflet - bellows

  sucrer - sugar

  supermarché - supermarket

  T

  tabac - tobacconist’s shop

  tarte - tart

  thermique - thermal

  timbre - postage stamp

  toilette - toilet

  tomate - tomato

  toute - all

  très cher - very expensive

  troc - second-hand shop

  trois - three

  truffe - truffle

  U

  un chausson aux pommes - apple turnover

  V

  vacances - holidays

  vanille - vanilla

  vide-grenier - car-boot sale

  vie - life

  vieux - old

  vive - long live

  voilà - there is... / there are...

  voiture - car

  vous - you

  villages - villages

  Published by Melbourne Books

  Level 9, 100 Collins Street,

  Melbourne, VIC 3000

  Australia

  www.melbournebooks.com.au

  info@melbournebooks.com.au

  Copyright ©Susan Cutsforth 2013

  Series 1: Our House is Not in Paris (December 2012)

  Series 2: Our House is Certainly Not in Paris (November 2013)

  Series 3: Our House is Definitely Not in Paris (2014)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the publishers.

  eISBN: 978-1-922129-32-1

  eBook prepared by eDilettante for

  Port Campbell Press

  www.portcampbellpress.com.au

  Vide grenier outing

  The third memoir in the ‘Our House’ series,

  available December 2014

  Our House is Definitely Not in Paris

  The Fourth Summer in Le Lot

  * * *

  Prologue

  ‘I really enjoyed the domesticity and innocence of it. I loved Enid Blyton as a kid and I wanted to live in an Enid Blyton novel. I feel like I’ve read a very sophisticated adult version of her in the sense that I would love to be in that French world; it just seems so idyllic and innocent.’

  Our House is Certainly Not in Paris – Ros Mahon

  These words are a wonderful evocation of our time stolen from life, when we return each summer to our petite corner of France. It conveys a sense of a time long past and encapsulates our other life perfectly. It is indeed, like a life long gone; one that we have somehow captured and for one summer each year, revel in removing ourselves from what we have come to call, ‘the real world’.

  Yet at the same time, our seamless days of solitude, wrapped in our country life, still hold elements of sadness, humour, drama and tragedy. For our petite village is but a microcosm of the world at large, that laps at the edges of our carefree days.

  * * *

  As you get older, so too do the years pass more rapidly. So it is, that our fourth visit to our little house in le Lot in south-west France, comes upon us in a rush. After all, life at home too is a renovating one and we also work full-time. Yet now we also have an old farmhouse that we renovate on our annual working vacances, on the other side of the world. Our French life has absorbed us so seamlessly and happily, that it is no longer just us who refer to it as our ‘other life’, but all those who know about Pied de la Croix.

  This year though is the first that I have felt so fully and indeed quickly, absorbed into our other life. We have worked so tirelessly and relentlessly during our past three French summers, that now we are reaping the rewards, for the renovation is almost fin – though the crazy paving is not and the jardin will long remain a rambling, rustique one.

  This year too, not only does our petite maison fling wide its shutters to welcome us back into its warm embrace under the stone-encased heart, ‘1882’, above the door, that tells the story of truffle farmers long gone – so too our village Cuzance, has come to quickly embrace the return each year of the rénovée Australians.

  The endless days of golden French sunlight, march into autumn during our summer sojourn. There are reunions with our French amis, many apé ritifs, déjeuners and dîners, friends and family to stay, our treasured weekly visits to vide grenier, and the drives of delight through the rural landscape. It is one that only changes with the seasons, rather than time, when you feel like you are transported back to a quieter, gentler way of life.

  It is still with a sense of wonder and astonishment that this will be our fourth French summer in our petite maison. The south-west region of France made an indelible impression on us on our first visit together to France five years previously. The rural landscape, adorned with sentinel rows of walnut groves, the charming villages with maisons glowing in golden stone, adorned with an artist’s palette of wooden window shutters, the towering limestone cliffs, the verdant thickly canopied forests, the smooth gliding rivers, the tight-cornered, narrow, winding country roads – all of it reached deep into our hearts. It was a tug on our heartstrings of such strong emotional resonance, that within six months, Stuart had a fleeting visit back to France in the icy, treacherous depths of winter to inspect a shortlist of possible houses to buy. Within a mere matter of days, our fanciful dream became a French reality. Never in our wildest flights of fantasy, did we ever imagine that after twenty years of marriage, that life would lead us to a small corner of rural France, in fact, just across the Channel from where we were both born.

  Life’s fascinating journey meant that we met and married in Istanbul within seven months of meeting. From childhood days in England, immigration at the age of five to Australia, a year’s working holiday in England and travel in Europe in my twenties as a young teacher, a love affair with Turkey a few years later when I taught English there for a year, early days of marriage and all its inherent struggles, to an old farmhouse in France. Life is indeed truly an amazing adventure for just like the precipitous bends on rural roads in France, one never quite knows what may lie round the corner. And now, the renovating pattern of our married life has extended to a rénovée project of grand proportions in Cuzance. Drum roll for another French summer full of enchantment and our working vacances.

  1

  Packing for Paris

  A nouveau amie – yet the gift of an old
friendship. Are there any words that have a more resonant ring than, ‘An apartment in Paris?’ Patrick’s apartment in the first arrondisement is so petite that he moved out to stay with an amie for our four nights in the most exciting city in the world. The photos he sends before our visit, add to our frisson of excitement. Our eagerness builds when we plan our itinerary and discover that the glorious Paris Opera House – a must-see this time – is on his doorstep. Next in our planning is the all-important question, where is the nearest boulangerie to slip out to for a croissant for our petite dejeuner? Not of course that it will be me going out to buy our breakfast pastry in Paris.

  The first thing that a woman thinks of when she is heading for Paris is, ‘What on earth will I wear?’ After years of travelling – make that decades – I aimed to finally get it just right this time. First, the right bag. Now, while we had an embargo in our household on luggage buying, I vetoed it – yes, again. And so the bright red Samonsite swivel case was bought. The travel bag of dreams. Next, the definitive backpack; must be smart, must be capacious. Ikea of all places provided the solution. Stuart’s exultant find and graciously given to me. Truly the piece de resistance; the zip-off, stylish day pack.

  Luggage sorted, it’s on to the perfect travel wardrobe. This from the woman who trudged round Europe with the biggest portable wardrobe in the world on her back.

  Truth be told, I spend months planning the precise pieces for Paris. And yes, we’ve all read the articles – how to pack six items and create twenty-six outfits. These articles have been avidly devoured – and the advice subsequently ignored... But this time, I am determined, that like my swivel case, heads will swivel to look at me. A lofty ambition indeed in the city of chic elegance.

  Months prior, I find the cartwheel Audrey Hepburn black and white chapeau that has wire and will fold. Perfect. My Parisian wardrobe will consist entirely of clothes that will roll and unfurl into stylish ensembles, all in black and white of course. So it is that I declare jubilantly to Stuart that my new black jersey pants will take me anywhere from a day of sightseeing and trips on the Seine to the quintessential Parisian bistro. A noir frock (or two), several white T-shirts, black turtleneck, black leggings, a long black tunic, black Birkenstocks for day, silver slides for the evening, and just a dash of silver jewellery. A cute cardigan, and my-oh-so-nonchalant Pierre Balmain scarf – a treasured find for a mere euro in a village vide grenier.

  The first thing a man thinks of when he’s heading for Paris is, ‘What will I eat?’

  Stuart and his packing for Paris reflects his customary laid-back attitude to life. It is adopted in his nonchalant packing style. A couple of shirts, a few T-shirts, a pair of jeans and several pairs of shorts. I have to confess however, that somehow his casual approach works. I am left wondering yet again about the profound disparities in how women view life so very differently. How can he not have given the matter of what to wear in Paris endless deliberation? And yet, he effortlessly pulls off what I deem to be the desired look essential for a Parisian sojourn...

  However, at the end of the day, I believe that I triumph in the Paris style stakes for, let’s not forget, my esteemed vintage Guy Larouche trench coat, the ever-so-not-contrived fin touch. Paris, I’m on my way!

  Then when we arrive, the weather mirrors the days of cold and rain we have just left behind on the other side of the world. So, it is that my carefully contrived sartorial plans are thrown out the window, or more precisely, to the winds, for it is cool, damp and overcast. Our four days in Paris are spent wearing the clothes we travelled in and we are encumbered in our sightseeing with warm coats and scarves. This is not the first time this has happened to us in France. Our Parisian photos show me all in black but not the noir I fancifully imagined. Oh no. Day after day there are shots of me on the Batobus, outside the Louvre, in the Luxembourg jardins – noir jeans, noir polo neck and noir leather jacket. Does it matter in the end that my carefully planned outfits lie untouched in my suitcase? Not at all. What matters is that we are in Paris and the dampness does not cloud our days at all. And actually, head-to-toe black is after all very French. One outfit would have sufficed after all.

  We fall upon our first espresso and almond croissant with sighs of rapture on our first morning and breathe in the heady aroma of newly baked baguettes. To be in Paris once in a lifetime is wonderful; to return is to be blessed with a sense of beloved reunion.

  We discover one of the famous Passages – Passage des Panaramas – where we sit elbow to elbow with our fellow diners, at the most petite of tables imaginable in the heart of all that is Paris – savouring our melt in the mouth, beef bourguignon and crème brûlée, and all the while, the fashionable and elegant saunter past us.

  The historic shopping arcades are either quirky and run-down or magnificently restored and brimming with chic boutiques. They are maze-like and full of secret entrances; you could lose yourself in them for days, gazing at the glorious chocalatiers, boulangeries and simply stepping back in time in the labyrinth of passages that date from the eighteenth century. For us, Paris is all about meandering, wandering, exploring. It is a feast in every conceivable way – and not just culinary. It is the unexpected turn in a corner that makes you gasp when you peep inside a courtyard in the heart of Paris – the pots of scarlet geraniums, the bike with its wicker pannier propped against a golden stone wall, the cat basking in the flickers of sunlight. It is the old and the new, the modern and the ancient, the juxtaposition and how it all blends seamlessly together to create a city like no other.

  2

  An Apartment in Paris

  While an apartment in Paris is precisely just that – an apartment in Paris – and so like no other in the world, nevertheless it was not quite the one of our dreams or imagination.

  It was in fact, the site of a grand rénovée. Now, why shouldn’t that have surprised me?

  After all, is our life not one huge construction site? We renovate at home; we renovate in France. In fact, even when I spent a year living in Istanbul, the year we met and married on the banks of the Bosphorous, my flat was on a, yes, building site. When I got a job to teach English for a year in a private school, before departure, I imagined the windows of my Turkish flat would overlook a bustling, lively market that I would slip out to for warm pide bread for my breakfast and Turkish delight in the evening. There would be minarets on the horizon, the call of the muezzin, winding streets full of culture and history. Non. It was a building site in the suburbs far from any cafes or exquisite cuisine.

  And so it would seem to be the case, several decades later in Paris.

  In short, Patrick’s apartment has been transformed into a... building site. There is scaffolding everywhere, even balancing on the ledge right outside his petite sitting room and petite bedroom. Is there a view of all that is breathtaking and awe-inspiring in Paris?

  Non. We can see the lower half of builders’ legs as we sip our morning tea... Mind you, our barn roof and the young French roofers do spring to mind. Perhaps if I crane out further beyond the scaffolding, the sights may become more exciting and enticing...

  Non. It is raining, again.

  The surreal adventure started on arrival. First, I gasped in horror when the concierge ushered us into a petite lift the size of a small suitcase. I stepped back in alarm and simply refused to get in. Naturally, Stuart bravely ascended with his luggage and despite the shock of the lift, part of my mind was registering how very French movie like it all was. Have we not all seen the films? The heavy wooden door leading in from the boulevard, the courtyard, the concierge whose door bell you ring , the airy apartment in Paris; curtains fluttering, vast expanses of parquetry, the art deco lift? And here it all was, unfolding right in front of me. The concierge in fact defied all stereotypes, from the smart, shiny-buttoned uniform – oh that’s right, that would be another arrondisement entirely – to the old woman shuffling in her slippers, surrounded by a bevy of cats winding round her ankles. No, this concierge was young, lithe and at
tractive.

  I stood hesitantly waiting, contemplating my options. Should I ascend the winding wooden stairs that wound up crookedly like those in a lighthouse? Or, simply wait to see what may next unfold. After all, we are in Paris – the city of romance, mystery and the unexpected. It’s just that I never expect to be quite so caught up in such adventures – especially not immediately on arrival. The lift creaked down slowly. I readied myself for an enthusiastic reunion with Patrick, who was sure to be about to step out and welcome me. Non. It was a Bosnian builder, complete with a load of concrete. This wasn’t in my movie script. On second thoughts and second glances, he is rather good-looking.

  And so, with no white knights descending in Parisian lifts to rescue me, I decide to walk up the six winding flights. On arrival, Patrick greets me with the disquieting news that his petite flat does not have a toilet. Quelle horror. What a ghastly thought. What on earth am I supposed to do? Surely this is not possible in Paris, the city of sophistication?

  Non. It was located down the corridor on the landing, past the apartment next door. As I soon discover, the ancient wooden floor slopes and rolls like the deck of a ship. I cannot possibly begin to imagine how I will traverse it in the middle of the night.

  It just gets better. The outlook from the flat is not one of cathedral spires, elegant Parisians tripping in their heels on the cobblestones or laughter echoing from amis sharing apéritifs at stylish cafes. Non again. The outlook from both the petite sitting room and our chambre is... scaffolding. We are literally face to face with builders. well, not quite. That prospect may have been quite pleasant over morning cafe. Non, non. It is their legs we can see at eye level. There is no vista at all of Parisian rooftops, glowing in the evening light. All movie moments are rapidly dispelled. It is a sea of scaffolding as far as we can see. The other piece of information that Patrick imparts was not in the movie script either. There will not be any water between the hours of nine and five. And yes, the builders will be working on the roof while we are there – and his apartment is on the top storey. Hotels and credit cards are now starting to look very attractive.