spoke French at home. After she died my only practice was once a month or so at the Alliance Francaise meetings. Even then, I was mostly talking to Americans, many of whom were students who were just learning French. Talking to native speakers of the language was such fun I couldn't stop myself. I stopped in every public establishment in the neighborhood of my hotel and struck up conversations everywhere I went.
It was kind of amusing watching the merchants' reactions to me. When I first walked into a store, the merchant would look up, realize I was an American and then get very busy in an effort to ignore me. Recall that in 1973 relations between France and America were not particularly good on account of the war in Vietnam. There had been anti-American demonstrations in Paris over the summer. Once I opened my mouth, the merchants were as surprised as the cabbie had been. They still looked down on me for my Proven?al accent and American looks, and they were rude because that's the way Parisians treat everybody. I didn't take it personally. Frankly, I thought it was funny. I spent the afternoon popping in and out of shops. I bought stationary in one store. I tasted Perrier water for the first time in another. How nasty can you get? I also tasted real French pastries. That made up for Perrier. I was in Paris! I was glad I had not chickened out of the trip!
That night I was so exhausted, I slept the sleep of the dead despite the really awful accommodations. The pension hotel was geared for young people who were traveling on a shoe-string, and the accommodations were ... I shall be generous and use the word 'basic'.
Despite the thin, uncomfortable mattress, I got a great night's sleep and I woke early the next morning ready for my next adventure. I was to spend the day with a relative, whom I referred to as a 'cousin' since neither of us could figure out exactly what actual familial relationship we had, if any.
My mother had been a relative or friend to another girl who had had left St. Saturnin-les-Apts at about the same time Maman did. Maman went to Marseilles. Her cousin/friend went to Paris where she married and had a slew of kids. She and Maman stayed in touch by letter a few times a year. Corresponding with me became 'English lessons' for her kids and corresponding with them was a part of my own 'French lessons'. They wrote to me in English. I wrote to them in French. Our parents made us write to each other a few times a year, often over our protests. Through all the intervening years, some of us had continued to exchange Christmas cards. By the time of my trip, both my mother and her friend had passed away and most of the French 'children' had married and moved on, but the youngest daughter still lived in Paris. I wrote to her after I made my travel plans. She offered to spend a day showing me around.
Her name was Delphine, which is my middle name. She told me she thought we were both named after some common great aunt. She had two tiny children. We pushed those kids all over Paris in their strollers. I think she took me to every major tourist attraction in the city before noon. Most of the historical buildings and museums and all that old architecture with all the fancy decorative work did not appeal to me very much. I am embarrassed to admit I was a little bored with it.
We ate our lunch from street vendors instead of taking time or spending the money to eat in a restaurant. I took dozens of pictures in the tourist places partly because I thought Delphine expected me to, and partly because I knew for sure that Christa wanted me to come home with a lot of photos. Pretty soon Delphine figured out that I wasn't really interested in the tourist sights. We ended up sitting on a bench near Mont Martre, overlooking the city where we talked for hours. She was as curious about America as I was about France. She was a young mother; my daughter was effectively grown. We shared stories and cross-cultural girl-talk all afternoon.
At the end of the day, she invited me to her home for dinner. It was a simple affair with her husband and two babies. We drank wine and talked for a few more hours. She and I still keep in touch. We wrote letters at Christmas and birthdays for years. Now we send emails a few times a month. We have even learned to share pictures of our grandchildren over the Internet. How cool is that?
Frankly all the glamor and glitz of Paris didn't impress me as much as Delphine's kindness and the opportunity to connect with distant family in a tiny apartment on the Right Bank.
2 - Paris - Versailles - Avignon - Gordes
After talking all day and most of the evening in Paris, I was literally hoarse the next day.
That was just as well. My second day in France was a 'solo' day. Early in the morning, I took the train to Versailles because you insisted I could not go to France without seeing Versailles, and I had orders from her to take lots of pictures. A little of the palace went a long way with me. I was just not into dead kings and queens and all that fanciness. Oh, my God, I was frankly kind of appalled by the palace, and I kind of understood why the peasants revolted. Anyway, I took a few pictures to make you happy and then I wandered into the town.
I spent most of the day wandering around the village, engaging in conversations with anyone I could get to talk to me. As I recall, I drank a whole lot of coffee because I quickly learned the best place to strike up conversations with French people was in the caf?s.
The morning passed quickly, and early in the afternoon I took the train to Aix-en-Provence.
The owner of the inn where I was booked in Gordes had promised to meet me at the train station. He was amazed I'd only brought one bag. Provence had always been a haven for starving artists. At that time it was a becoming vacation destination for rich foreigners, including artists and movie stars. They evidently tended to bring a lot of luggage. My single suitcase caused a bit of a puzzlement. We all laughed it off when I said I planned to buy a bunch of new French clothes. I, of course, had no such intentions.
I abandoned my original plan to use the inn as a base for day-trips into the surrounding area the minute I laid eyes on the inn and the town around it. I still intended to make it a point to visit my mother's grave, but beyond that, from the second I saw the place, I had no intention of leaving the village of Gordes. It was without a doubt the loveliest place I have ever seen. Within five minutes of my arrival, I decided to forgo the tourist sites of Avignon and the Cote d'Azur and to spend all my time getting to know the village of Gordes as intimately as was possible in the four days I had left of my vacation.
Marianne paused and regarded the melted ice in her glass. She grinned and raised her eyebrows. "Things really get interesting from this point forward. I suggest we refill of our tea now because I don't think I'm going to want to stop again any time soon." The ladies took their glasses into the kitchen, refilled them with ice, sweet tea and lots of mint. They did not waste time on chit-chat. Marianne returned to her chair and closed her eyes. Her face softened into a half-smile of delicious anticipation. She might have been an old lady sitting in a formal living room in Aiken, South Carolina, but in her mind she was a much younger woman about to embark on the most incredible few days of her life. Christa watched the story play out on her mother's face.
I arrived in Gordes on Thursday evening, an hour or so before dusk. After I tossed my suitcase on the bed in my room, I took a walk around the neighborhood until it got too dark to see. Returning to the inn, I was delighted to be invited into the kitchen to watch and learn Madame's cooking techniques. I guess when you made the reservations, you had let the owners know that I was a cook (I was never prepared to go so far as to claim that what I did at the Woolworth's lunch counter constituted actual 'cooking' but you hadn't told them where I worked, not that they would have understood what a Woolworth's lunch counter was even if you had tried).
That evening the owners even let me eat dinner in the kitchen with them. They told me about the history of the town and the quirkiness of some of the residents. They talked at length about the food, the wines and the architecture of some of the local points of interest. Uncharacteristically for French people, they even opened up a little about themselves. For my part, I am sure I was the quintessential rude and disgusting Ugly American, asking a million questions that were n
one of my business. I couldn't help myself. I wanted to know everything there was to know about that lovely village and the people who lived there. They were very patient with me, and answered all but the most objectionably personal questions.
When I started yawning more than talking, Madame poured an amber drink into a snifter; she told me was cognac. She walked me up to my room and handed me the glass, bidding me good night and pleasant dreams. She added that she was sorry to inform me that beginning at breakfast the following day she would have to move me into the dining room because there was to be another guest taking meals in the inn. She explained that the other person would not be staying at the inn, but would take most of his meals there. She told me he owned a villa nearby. She said that when he came to visit for any length of time he brought household staff with him. When he only visited for a few days, he took his meals at the inn.
That struck me as odd because I knew that part of Provence was primarily a winter residence for artists and other foreigners. I was a little curious to know why this person was visiting his villa sort of 'off season.' I felt as though I had already been nosy