Our House is Certainly Not in Paris. Susan Cutsforth
choice of a Parisian apartment, or our old farmhouse, there is no question in my mind that I would choose Cuzance any day.
Apart from this year when we had a morning in Paris before catching the train, on the last leg of our journey from the other side of the world to Cuzance, we have not spent any time in Paris for five years. However, Paris will always be a city that has captured our hearts in a way that no other has.
Our other life in France, becomes even more astonishing when we start to discuss the details of how we can also spend a few days in Paris this summer. We can leave our Renault at the station and voila, arrive in Paris for déjeuner. When we had stayed in the Melia Colbert Boutique Hotel, five years previously, after I won a trip to Paris and five nights in luxury, we had discovered a small hotel round the corner that we liked the look of for future Parisian sojourns. Rather than search through my diary to unearth the name, Stuart goes on Google street view and indeed, just round the corner from the Melia Colbert, he finds the small, authentic Les Degres De Notre Dame Hotel. A virtual walk along the street shows a number of charming bistros and the comments posted for the hotel make it all the more enticing. Such is the immediacy of the internet, that from the reviews posted, we are able to even decide that Room 51 will be ours if it is available. It has a sweeping view of the Notre Dame Cathedral. As always, my mind works overtime, and my bag is packed for what I will wear in Paris. While in fact these plans do not eventuate, part of the joy is all in the dreaming, and, the plan will be in place for another year. Once again we are mindful of how privileged we are to know that we will indeed return. A night in Paris on our return leg home, will actually be imperative in the future, indeed, more than a mere luxury, to avoid the mayhem that ensues on this return trip and our almost doomed departure...
5
A Morning In Paris
The very phrase, ‘A morning in Paris’, conjures up so many images and expectations. I was conscious long before our precious morning, that we would have to carefully watch the time – or once, again there would be a recurring theme and we may well see a train slipping away right in front of our eyes. On our first trip to Paris, one of the very first things I learnt, was that the last day of June is the start of solde season. Tempting as it is to be in Paris, the very morning the sales start, I promise Stuart not to be sidetracked and slip into any sales – just ‘for a few minutes’. He tells me that I can always meet him at Gare d’Austerlitz if I want to shop while he wanders the streets of Paris, soaking up the atmosphere in a few short hours.
I decide against this tempting offer for several reasons, despite the fact that arriving on the very first solde day seems too good to be true. One, I have a terrible sense of direction. We both know that I would be highly unlikely to find the station. Two, even if I did; it’s likely that I would board the wrong train and end up far away in Barcelona or Milan. actually, perhaps not a bad idea after all for solde season. I also remember only too clearly catching the train home from Sydney one day – Stuart had boarded the train, the doors closed and I was left standing forlornly on the platform.
So, thoughts of solde delights are reluctantly cast aside. After all, Stuart has promised that this year (for after all we have also once again been renovating at home), that our first week will be one of rest and relaxation. He has enticed me away from thoughts of shopping in Paris, with a possible solde trip to Limoges, a new destination. Last year we didn’t even get to the sales in nearby Brive until they were well into their third week.
By then, the racks were empty and desolate. Limoges brims with the hope of full solde shelves and racks, simply overflowing with French chic. Mind you, at home we would never dream of venturing on a four-hour round trip to shop. In France, however, it all seems to be quite different and our everyday selves are cast aside.
We have carefully planned our precious few hours for our morning in Paris, to absorb as much atmosphere as possible. The very name, Quartier Latin, conjures up images of bohemian Paris and the Sorbonne, which is not far away. The student atmosphere creates a lively collection of second-hand bookshops and cafés, while the myriad streets entice you to wander and simply immerse yourself in all that is glorious in Paris. However, we have to be careful not to fall too fully under the spell of the crooked lanes, for after all, there is a train to catch quite soon. The famous Luxembourg Gardens are also in this district, as well as Palais du Luxembourg, where there is a park with a large pool where children sail boats and Parisians read the paper or bask in the sun in striped deckchairs that you can rent. All of these enchantments will have to be for a future visit.
We take delight in the shops, restaurants and boulangeries, and as the lunch hour approaches, we join a patient, snaking queue for baguettes. A long queue is usually a reliable indication of excellence and we are not disappointed. We find a little park and sit on a bench in the shade, immersing ourselves as fully as possible in a fleeting taste of Paris. Time ebbs rapidly and we make our reluctant way back to Gare d’Austerlitz to collect our luggage. Our path takes us through the stunning Jardin des Plantes, three hectares of botanical gardens, and there is just enough time to linger and admire the outside photographic exhibition.
Our fleeting morning has been all that we hoped for; the sun shone, we had our first espresso and delicious baguette – and most importantly, the train did not disappear imperiously into the distance.
6
Portables and Septiques
We finally staggered into our petite maison at eight thirty pm. This year, all went according to plan; a beaming Jean-Claude there to greet us and a hasty trip to Carrefour to stock up on the most basic essentials, wine of course being the top of the list. That in itself was overwhelming; the crowds and long queues of late Saturday supermarché shoppers – it was like the busiest supermarket in the world. It is absolutely the last thing you feel like after the interminable flight from the other side of the world. Then of course we chose the wrong queue. How was it though that it was so apparent that we were foreigners, that the cashier signalled to us that we needed a special Carrefour card and we were in the wrong line? I had even taken care to have a scarf in my bag to nonchalantly tie around my neck on arrival in Paris, in what I like to think is the essential French touch. When I point this out to Stuart, he declares that she must think we are from Paris and won’t have the requisite Carrefour card. I decide that I like his explanation. So, to the express self-service checkout, a challenge for me at the best of times, let alone in a foreign country and consumed by exhaustion.
As with everything, Stuart takes it all admirably in his stride, though fortunately the express cashier is on hand to assist when we encounter problems. The tomates have to be abandoned as we have not weighed them. A small loss for at least we have our first bottle of French wine. So, armed with pain, fromage, jambon and chocolate chip muesli, we set off on the very last leg to Cuzance. How can French women be so slim when they start their day with chocolate chip muesli, let alone the bread, cheese and ham we have hastily grabbed? That remains one of life’s perplexing mysteries.
Shortly after, we arrive at La Vieux Prieuré, to be welcomed by Françoise’s warm embrace. Françoise is short, round and always beaming. I am the opposite, yet when we hug, it is like two halves fitting together. Their jardin looks at its glorious summer best and over an apéritif, we truly feel like we are home again in Cuzance. However, it makes the difference even more pronounced when we finally unlock the door to Pied de la Croix. While it is altogether different to our first viewing of it together a mere couple of years ago, on a damp day with trucks thundering past, and while it is undeniably transformed, nevertheless, despite the dust covers, it is wreathed in cobwebs. There is a thick layer of dust on every surface and abundant evidence of the visiting mice in our absence. They have gnawed through the packets of coffee in the cupboard and even the toilet paper. I try to focus instead on the romance of the film set qualities when I first step inside again after a year, rather than raw reality, when I stand back and take stock more slowly... What could those petite mice have been thinking? No doubt the harshest winter on record for a very long time has driven them to such drastic measures.
Every year though sees a step further in our organisation