May Memoir: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France, Chapter 6: The Vendanges

Welcome to MaY MEMOIR!

Day 7 

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

The vendanges are the annual wine harvest in the fall.  It is an event that is somewhat mythical, jovial, and quite often prank filled – or at least when it’s at the vineyard of our good friends, Monsieur and Madame Gousse.

Chapter 6: Les Vendanges

That weekend, we wake up early and head out the meet the Gousses at their vineyard. We drive down the long mountain road watching the sun hide and reappear around curves and behind trees.  Eventually, we reach the main highway and drive for another 30 minutes.  Leaving the highway, Christophe finds the winding road that leads to their vineyard.  We pass a few houses, an old church, and then arrive to a spot where we see their car pulled off to the side of the road.  Christophe parks behind them and we get out of the truck.  The grass under our feet is long and wet, and places that are still hidden in shadows are covered with a thin layer of frost.

I follow Christophe down a small path and arrive at the edge of their vineyard.

“Well, it’s about time”, Monsieur Gousse booms at us with a big grin.

“That’s what you get for unpaid work,” Christophe says with a smile.  “And besides, we’re the first here.”

While the two banter back and forth, I look at the vineyard in front of us. The vines are dark and knotty and are covered with pale yellow leaves, making a stark contrast with the bright blue sky above them.  Grapes hang abundantly and vary in color from a golden yellow to a dark purple.  The vineyard itself climbs upward and is terraced off into levels.  At the very top is a small stone hut, and, like a scripted moment, Madame Gousse emerges from it, and upon seeing us, waves.  We make our way through the vineyard to meet her.

“Welcome!  So, this is your first vendanges, Lynn?  Stick close to me when we work because Christophe has no idea what he’s doing,” she winks.  “I set up a table over there,” she says pointing to a clearing.  “That’s where we’ll lunch, but for now, I’ve put some coffee out for those who want it.”

Christophe and I serve ourselves a cup of coffee and wait for the others to arrive.  Trees surround the vineyard and a canal runs through it.  The water gurgles quietly down the hill and joins a stream out of sight.  Mountains tower quietly in front of us and provide a majestic background to the entire setting.  I feel calm, joyous, and eager to participate.

At the edge of the vineyard, I see other people have arrived.  They too exchange some banter with Monsieur Gousse and laughter can be heard.  Christophe and I finish our coffee and walk down to meet them.  There are about a dozen people and introductions are made, then Monsieur Gousse passes out pruning shears and buckets.

‘Who hasn’t vendanged before?”  He asks grinning.  I and two other people raise our hands.

“This is your lucky day!  For just a small fee, I will show you how it’s done so that all fingers leave in tack.  If you do not wish to pay the fee, I cannot guarantee you will have ten fingers at the end of the day.  Follow me!”

With that, our small troop is off with Monsieur Gousse leading the way.  “Alright, gather around and watch”, he says as he approaches a vine.  He takes the pruning shears in one hand and holding a bunch of grapes in the others, cuts it free.

“Ah, my finger!”  He cries holding his hand.

I rush to him to see what I can do, while another person runs in the direction of Madame Gousse and her first aid kit.  Then, he bursts with laughter.

“Gotcha!”  He roars as tears well in his eyes.  “I love that joke.  Now, seriously, that’s all there is to it, but always hold the grape bunch from the bottom.  We don’t want a fingertip in with the grapes; it will spoil the wine.”

At least now I’ll know not to fall for it the next time.

May Memoir: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France, Chapter 5: Let Me Cook

Welcome to MaY MEMOIR!

Day 6 

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

When I first arrived, Christophe didn’t let cook – at all.  This might sound like a dream scenario to some, but I really like to cook, so I felt like I was being denied something I enjoyed.  Christophe did this because he said it was to make me feel more at home, but I eventually got the truth out of him: he thought I didn’t know how to boil water.  He was scared he’d being eating half-baked, half-burned dishes.  He’s a very good cook, so my first venture into the kitchen didn’t sooth his worries...

Chapter 5: Let Me Cook

“I’m making dinner,” I affirm.

He strains his head to look over me and into the basket I just brought back from the garden.  “What are you going to make?”

            “Stuffed peppers,” I reply.  “We’ve got some rice in the cupboard and some chorizo in the fridge.”

My response appears to have calmed Christophe, so he settles into a chair and leaves me alone at the stove.  I clean and chop the vegetables, cook up the rice, mix them together, and then remember I have a few hot peppers in the bottom of my basket.  I take out three, quickly sauté them, and toss them in.   Shortly thereafter, I pull dinner out of the oven and present it to Christophe.

            “This smells great,” he says.  “I’m starving.”

            “See,” I say with a smile.  “You had nothing to be afraid of.”

            Christophe’s apprehension is gone, and he takes his first bite with a wide grin.  He chews for a moment, and then his eyes widen and his face starts to flush.  He reaches for a glass of water, and after swallowing a large mouthful says, “Wow, this is spicy!”

            “You have hot peppers in the garden; I thought you like spicy foods”, I reply.

            “I do, I do.  Maybe I got just a large piece in that fork”, he says and then takes another bite.  His face gets redder and Christophe finishes the glass of water in front of him.  Reaching for the carafe he asks, “How many peppers did you use?”

            “Three,” I say while having no problems with the plate in front of me.

            “Three!  I’ve never used more than a quarter!”

            “Well, you should have told me that,” I say.

            We sit in awkward silence for a few minutes as we continue eating.  Christophe is trying to be polite, but it is just too spicy for him.  He’s sweating and fanning himself.

            “I’ve missed spicy foods,” I say in my defense.  “You’re a great cook, but I just had a taste for something else.  Do you want me to warm up the leftovers for you instead?”

            Christophe nods and then laughs.  “You know, when a Frenchman says he likes spicy foods, you need to bring the level down to one, cut it in half, and then add crème fraîche?”

May Memoir: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France, Chapter 4: Garden Chores

This is only one of the terraces in the garden.

Welcome to MaY MEMOIR!

Day 5 

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

Christophe has an enormous vegetable garden, which in the summer, requires a lot of work.  Actually, it is quite stunning and often the only green patch found in the blazing summer.  He often has over a hundred tomato plants, around 40 eggplants, a half a dozen zucchini plants, and a hand full of squash.  There’s more, but the sheer number here should give you an idea of how big this garden is, and oh –yeah, it’s terraced, so hauling around the filled 20 pound watering can also means climbing steps.  I’ve gotten used to the task, but the first time I attempted to help, I was completely flabbergasted.

Chapter 4: Garden Chores

After we have gathered what we wanted from the garden, Christophe turns his attention towards an old zinc washing tub filled with water and a watering can next to it.

            “It needs to be watered everyday”, Christophe tells me.

            “I could do that when you’re at work”, I reply.  “Where is the sprinkler?”

            “There is no sprinkler”, Christophe says.  “I water it by hand.”

            “By hand!”  I exclaim very surprised.  “Why do you do that?  Wouldn’t a sprinkler be easier?”

            “No, it wouldn’t work here”, he replies.  “If I watered with a sprinkler, there would be massive evaporation, which is bad for the soil.  I water in the evening with a watering can so I can target just the vegetables.  This way, I use less water, but it is more productively used.”

            “And you do that every night?”  I say still shocked and now worried about my offer to water the garden.

            “Yes, every night.  But you don’t have to if you don’t want to.  I didn’t invite you here to water the garden”, he says with a smile.

            Not wanting to be a freeloader and simply sit back and watch Christophe water the garden after a long day’s work, I say, “No, I’ll help; it’s the least I can do.  What do you do?”

            “I submerge the watering can in the tub and water the plants from this”, he says.  “Here, I need to turn the water on.”

            Christophe turns the spigot and water trickles out.  The trickle quickly explodes as the water pressure changes and a shot of water shoots out like a canon into the tub below.  It then quickly falls back to a constant stream.

            “The water here is a mountain source”, he explains.  “So the water pressure cannot be controlled like in a city.  This is another reason a sprinkler won’t work.”

            “I see the hose, but where is it connected to the house?”  I ask while examining the system he has set up.

            “It’s not.  It comes from the village water tank up on the hill.  The hose runs through the garden and up the hill for about a mile.  It is part of the old irrigation system I rebuilt when I worked for the village.  I hooked a hose up to the tower to catch the overflow.  Since it is a natural source, there is no way to turn off the water, so it overflowed often.  When the tank was full, the water would spill over, run down the hill, and end up in a neighbor’s basement.  This system prevents that.  Now, the extra water runs through this hose, down to the river, and eventually out to the sea.  It’s like that hole in a bathroom sink that prevents water from spilling everywhere”, he explains.

            “That’s pretty convenient setting that up for yourself”, I say teasing him.

“I didn’t own this house at the time I rebuilt it”, he says innocently.  “I was renting an apartment.  The previous owner gave permission to run a hose through her land.  It wasn’t until years later when she sold me the house that I even thought about using this as a watering system.  I just got lucky at how that worked.”

We look down and watch the zinc tub fill up.  Christophe grabs a watering can and plunges it into the water.  Lifting it out, he walks over to a plant and lets the water gently cascade out and onto the foot of the plant.

“If you water the plants, try not to get their leaves wet”, he says.  “When wet, they tend to stick to the ground and get burned by the sun.”

“How long does this take you?”  I ask looking over the rows of tomato plants and the creeping vines of the squash.

“About an hour; it depends on my mood,” he says as he bends down and pulls out a few weeds that have found their way in.

I look around and find another watering can.  Picking it up, I head back to the zinc tub and submerge it in the water.  Heaving it out, I realize full it weights at least 20 pounds.  Christophe gingerly walks with one can, full, swinging it back and forth in one hand, not at all phased by the weight, but I am unbalanced and waddle my way to the closest plant. 

Christophe laughs.  “Don’t fill the can up all the way if you can’t carry it.”

“I can carry twenty pounds” I say in my defense.  “I’m just not used to carrying it like this.”  Referring to the water can dangling low from my arm.

I empty part of the can as water splashes over the side onto a single plant.

“How much water do they need?”  I ask Christophe who is on the terrace above me.

“On average, 5 plants can be watered with one full watering can.  In your case, maybe three”, he says while teasing me.

I smile, but look around at the number of plants that surround us and I am quickly humbled.

“How many plants do you have?”  I ask.

“It varies from year to year”, he says looking around the garden.  “This year, I think I have about 80 tomato plants, 10 zucchini plants, 40 eggplants, 100 sweet onions, 5 squash, and then there are the berries and cooking herbs.”

My head is spinning trying to do the math and then divide by three as I figure out how many watering cans that will be.

Christophe smiles, “It does rain sometimes, and then we don’t have to water”.  Then he pauses, “Just sometimes”.

May Memoir: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France. Chapter 3: Living History

Welcome to MaY MEMOIR!

Day 4 

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

Once I got settled in, I asked Christophe how he thought his house was 600 years old.  He explained it is on the census Napoleon took of all of France, thus justifying some of its age.  He then believes the rest of the house’s age can be explained by its location and the structure of village, which still mimics that of villages’ centuries ago.  More interesting, he then tell me the original village is located not far away…..

 Chapter 3: Living History

Christophe asks, ‘Do you want to see the old village?”

“Yes, definitely”, I respond.

Christophe runs back inside to grab his keys and we jump into his truck.  Starting the ignition, he explains, “I stumbled across the ruins one day; it’s pretty interesting.  All that remains is the nave of the church and the cemetery, and both are hidden in the forest.  You have no idea it is coming and then, in the middle of nowhere, the nave towers over the trees.  It’s pretty awe inspiring.”

We drive down the road, and pull onto a dirt road a few minutes later.  Christophe pulls his truck over to the side and stops.

“We can only drive part of the way, but now we need to walk”, he says getting out.

I follow him over rocks and through thick overgrown bushes.  There is no evidence that someone has been here before us since the grass grows tall and has not been beaten down.  Christophe zigzags through the trees as if the path is paved and clearly marked.  I follow behind, but I have no idea where we are.  After trekking through the dense vegetation for 20 minutes, we get to the nave of the church.  It is hidden just until we arrive and could be missed if we stopped 50 feet earlier.  All that remains is the back and side walls, and the nave of the church arches high amongst the trees.  It looks like someone caught it in a free fall and froze it.  The sunlight pierces the holes where windows once existed and my jaw drops.

            “This is amazing” I say.

            We walk around for a bit examining the church walls that remain.  They are carefully pieces together and their seams create a well thought out geometrical pattern.  There are some lower walls not far from it that enclose what was once the cemetery.  They are overgrown with ivy and are beginning to crumble.  Younger trees than the ones we have just passed push up just behind it and scattered among the ground are rudimentary headstones that have fallen and cracked.

 “This is it”, Christophe says somberly.  “This village, like so many in the area started because of the plague.  Shortly after that are when the chateau, the center village, and my house were most likely believed to be built.  The village was continuing to move up the mountain and farther away from the possibility of an infestation.  Of course, there have been a lot of changes to the structures since then, but this is when they were believed to be constructed.”

 “That’s old” say rather impressed.

“For the region, not at all”, he says.  “Everything is relative.  One nearby town just celebrated its documented history of 1,000 years; it is probably much older than its written texts can prove.  Bainat has been around for 600 years or so, but it’s only been documented for the last 260, and don’t forget, cities like Marseille and Nimes dates back to the age of Jesus Christ.”

“The truth is, we will never know the exact date of the house, but that makes it interesting, doesn’t it?”  Christophe says with a wistful smile.

MaY MEMOIR: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France: Chapter 2: The 600 Year Old House

Welcome to MaY MEMOIR!

Day 3 

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

After a big bowl of coffee, Christophe and I step outside.  (Yes, a bowl.  In France, they drink bowls, not mugs of coffee.  It's something I’ve gotten used to, but I adjusted pretty easily since a bowl actually holds a lot more coffee than a mug.)  I’m still a bit dazed from the trip, but he wants to show me more of the house and garden.  Here is where I learn about the age of the house.

Chapter 2: The 600 Year Old House

We step outside after breakfast.  It is warm; the sun is climbing high, and the day is promising to be hot.  Christophe wants to show me the garden since I really didn’t see it last winter.  We pass through a small wooden gate and enter.  On either side in front of me are green wilting leaves; they arch low covering the flower bed.

“They’re irises”, Christophe says.  “They’re done blooming now, but in the spring there are hundreds of flowers.”

We continue down a path to a lower terrace; the garden extents out from the house and gives way to an unobstructed view of the mountains in front of us.  They tower up from plunging valleys and are covered by dense forest.  There are some rocky outcrops and winding footpaths that climb up the mountain and disappear at the crest. Far out, I faintly make out a few ruins.

“Were those houses?”  I ask.

“Yes”, says Christophe.

“Wow.  How old do you think those are?”  I ask.

“Two or three hundred years”, he says.  “But, they are not as old as this house.”

“What?”  I ask.  “How old is your house?”

 “Around 600 years old”, he responds

“You’re kidding me!”  I say in disbelief.

“No, really.  It was built in the Middle Ages when people were trying to avoid the Black Plague.”

Thinking back to how houses were made in that time, remember they were used to shelter livestock too.  Christophe’s house is no exception: the basement housed the sheep, goats, and donkeys and his living room was probably the hay loft!

May MEMOIR: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France, Chapter 1: Getting there is the Hardest Part

Welcome to MaY MEMOIR! 

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

I'm just starting out on my adventure and learn a valuable lesson: time runs different in Southern France (translation: very, very, late).  I grew up in a very punctual house, so I completely panicked when Christophe arrived late picking me up at the train station.  Given that I barely spoke French, traveled half way around the world, and was completely exhausted,  I don't think I overacted... at least, not too much.

Chapter 1: Getting there is the Hardest Part

I am alone in front of the train station, and start to wonder what am I doing here.  Salvador Dali once called this place the center of the universe, but it does hold the euphoric emotion I would associate with the birthplace of all creation.  I watch as homeless people dive in between moving cars looking for change and hear shouts from the passing cars trying to avoid them.  I suddenly feel very lost and lonely because Christophe is nowhere to be found. 

            Then, it hits me, “What am I doing here?”

            The sound of screeching cars is suddenly replaced by the sound of my heart crashing down to my feet.  My pulse quickens and I feel blood rushing up to my head in panic.  I fall back on my bags in disbelief.  “He doesn’t want me to come”, I think myself.  “That’s why he wasn’t waiting for me on the platform.  I left my normal life just 24 hour ago.  How could I be so stupid!  I quit my job!”

            I feel like Tarzan swinging through the jungle and realizing too late the next vine is not there.  I get dizzy and have a hard time catching my breath.  Looking out into oncoming traffic, I see fuzzy lights heading towards me.  “And now I’m going to die here”, I think in desperation.

            The bright lights continue to get closer and finally come to a quick stop in front of me.  Christophe jumps out of his truck and runs towards me.

            “I’m sorry”, he says.  “I got home late from work and wanted to clean before you arrived, and...”  He pauses.  “How are you?”  He says embracing me.

The numbing feeling in my head stops and I suddenly start to see clear again.  I slowly catch my breath and realize why I am here; I am relieved.  Within seconds, the surroundings are in focus and I can stand on my own two feet.

After a few minutes, I climb into Christophe’s truck and he loads my bags in the back.  Leaving the train station, we quickly turn onto the highway; there is little traffic.  From the darkness of the road, I catch glimpses of small town cathedrals illuminated in a golden hue.  As we pass, they quickly disappear behind trees or buildings into the night.  Christophe turns to me and says something, but he has his window open so it’s difficult to hear.

            “What?”  I ask when I realize he has asked me something.

            “The trip; how was the trip?”  He responds.

            My head is still swimming from the voyage.  Languages are melting together, I’m tired, and still in a state of disbelief of what I just did.  I really did pack up my life and move to France.

            I decode what he asks and then respond, “Fine; a bit long, but no real delays.”

            “Good, good”, he responds and we sit in silence for a few more minutes.  He gets to an intersection and turns off the main highway into a small town I remember.  We need to pass through it to get up to the village.  We drive though the town center; there are a few street lights, the local café has some patrons sitting outside, but everything else is closed.  Leaving all the lights behind, we slowly mount a mountain road back to Bainat; the village where Christophe lives.

MaY MEMOIR: The Prologue from: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France

Here we are, at the beginning of MaY MEMOIR!  Each day in the month of May I'll be posting part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France where I share the joys, challenges, and oddities of French provincial living.

The Prologue

Alright, a prologue isn’t exactly a chapter, but each story has a beginning.  This is the moment where Fate stepped in and decided I needed to follow a different path.

From:

Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France

He stood in the doorway asking us to keep it down; a silhouette with a curly mop of hair.

“You’re keeping me up”, he says.  “My window is right there”, and he points to the 600 year old stone house just a few feet away.

Panicky, I look at Corrine; she speaks French, she’ll know what do.  She walks across the terrace with a smile, and then, confidently, offers the unknown a glass a wine.

 “Well, it’s better than going back to bed and not sleeping because of the noise” he says.  And it was, much better.

That 600 year old house is now my home and that curly headed silhouette, he’s the reason I went from living in Chicago to living in a village in the middle of mountains in the south of France.  I quit my job, said goodbye to my friends, and moved thousands of miles away from my family.  I stepped into another world, another time, and found a brand new adventure.