Sometime in 2008, I asked Linny what she'd like for her 70th birthday in 2010. I don't even recall her having to think about it; she said, "A month in Provence." Right. If wishes were horses, etc.
But that really sounded super; how could we pull it off? Even if we managed the time—and despite it costing less to stay in one place—it was a big deal. We mulled it over and decided it could be done if we did it with friends, so we set about finding those who would like to share a relatively inexpensive, but special place, overlapping one another so that we had plenty of time with everyone. Linny scouted out a superb house in Uzés, a seductive town where she and I had stopped for a day on an earlier trip.
The costs became realistic for everyone. So the upsides were quite a few. The downsides were fewer and probably avoidable now that we've been through it.
Among the upsides were the drastically lower cost, which turned out to be more than simply sharing rent. Cooking together brought food costs down, plus there are some fine cooks among us who loved the challenge and the opportunity—we were only a couple of blocks from the awesome biweekly market. We didn't need to rent as many cars to tour the region, which was a huge savings by itself, but an unexpected benefit because a larger group can divide and regroup in ways that make sense for everyone at that moment. Mixing and matching people for excursions or just hanging out took lots of pressure off of relationships. Second, the usual stress of not being fluent in another language, and consequently being wholly reliant on partners for intellectual conversations, was mitigated, if not removed.
The downside was being the one who first figured out the washer and dryer. European washers and dryers are a mystery to Americans. Maybe even to Europeans generally. We learned first, so got the job of "baling" others out, literally and figuratively, over and over.
As our great friend Bill Woodall would say, "Good, though." And it sure was. Worth it for the company, for sure, but also for the larger number of perspectives and the broader research we enjoyed with each other. Together we got to know a big chunk of interesting French territory and history.
But this story actually begins with the journey to Uzés. We had flown into London several days before to visit David, a friend and former publishing intern, who was in the process of jumping not only nations but continents more than any other friend. We got some good time with him and also renewed our partial discovery of the British Museum. However, nostalgia drove us to rent a room in the same hotel on Gower St that we’d stayed at in January of 1997. At the time, clean and cheap. And all we wanted was a place to sleep. This time we didn’t get “clean,” “cheap,” or “sleep.” Still had fun before catching the train under the channel to France and a first stop in Paris to visit Penny Allen, another good friend. A couple of days with her in her city was a treat.
To be honest, we were treating each trip that we managed as a small victory and one that might not happen again, despite our hopes. This intensified our delight in discovery, so we tried to leave plenty to chance and circumstance. Well, really, we've got quite different temperments in that regard, so we sort of split it between planned and serendipitous, although the two can go together.
Our first confluence with the stream of friends planning on joining us in Uzés was to be with Robin and Donna Cody in a lovely village near Dijon where we would stay for several days with a good friend of theirs who would help us brush up on our French. We met up with the Codys at the train station in Dijon.
Robin and Donna are pretty fluent in French (from my POV) from living and working there a long while, but decades ago, and from other trips they’ve taken. Linny had once also lived and worked in France, even earlier. But all three of them wanted a quick refresher. I was the ignorant one, although I’d listened to some language tapes over the summer so I could be polite despite being ignorant.
The sudden immersion was perfect, even for me. The village was beautiful. And our host gave us a tour of her larger neighborhood and Dijon that got us into the place. Even without photos, my memories of being there are still crisp. As we were immersed, the other three thrived amid their moaning and groaning about how much fluency they'd lost. But it was immersion for all of us and it was a great way to start our visit.
The village of Fontaine-Française is in farmland NNE of Dijon. There’s a restored chateau by the same name. It's parklike grounds and the flowing water do one hell of a job being enhanting, despite pretense. Running delightfully through both the chateau’s grounds and the length of the village is the Ruisseau de la Borde, a tributary of the La Gesse River, which is tributary of the La Save River. The La Save River is a tributary of the La Garonne River, which flows into the Bay of Biscay.
Déjà en amont sans pagaie? [Is that how to say it?] Not at all, but when we visited, the village had been shrinking in size for a long while and the last local bakery—a necessary part of French life—had closed. A small truck delivered daily. Not the same thing.
Nevertheless it was beautiful and charming. Our host's warmth and generosity were welcoming. We enjoyed educated, narrated walks and field trips, including an awesome day in Dijon. She loved the places and their histories. So did we. We shopped together at the huge Dijon market and cooked together to refresh the vocabulary of food, cooking, and eating. All of our vocabularies got stretched.
And here’s something every 8th grade boy can relate to: we learned to cut cheese. Of course there’s an etiquette (I don’t mean holding it until later or leaving the table now), and you can bet I was clueless when I lopped the pointy end off a beautiful wedge of cheese. Non. Not done dude; it must be cut so that it remains evenly tapered to that point. I will never forget. No more clueless cheese cutting for this lad. I may even be better for it. Non. Or butter.
When we left, Robin and Donna headed to a place they wanted to visit, while Linny and I caught the train to Uzés, where they would join us in a few days. It had been a wonderful way to start the celebration of Linny’s seven decades. And the beginning of number eight.
Voilà! Les photos.
The village library.
There's the evidence. On the cheese board.
In Dijon's enormous market.
Getting explanations.
We were eating our Croque M's a Mm's and watching play in the plaza fountain.
