Maury

Moving On

I never planned to spend the rest of my life in Maury but when I came back in March, I thought I’d live here for a few years, save lots of money, then move to Paris. I knew what I was facing, the town would not have changed much from five years ago, but that intrigued me because I had begun work on a rewrite of my novel about that time and planned to write now from the perspective of today as well as of that time: to report on what really happened and comment with five years of hindsight. Being here could only help, but I’m now far enough along that future revisions won’t require geographic proximity.

As temperatures began to drop, and posters for the next Bingo night began to appear, I started to look north. At first, finding a place to rent in Paris appeared to be a task of insurmountable complexity. I contacted everyone I know with any connection to the city but failed to turn up a lead. I worked my way through hundreds of ads throughout the city and learned that the good ones go fast. I would have to be there to jump on something quickly, a five-hour train ride might cost me the place of my dreams. Well, probably not, my dreams are bigger than Paris apartments—that’s why the cafes are crowded—and kitchens are almost an afterthought—that’s why there are two bistros and a brasserie on almost every street. But I wasn’t going there to sit at home, but to be part of this city that I’ve always loved, despite the fact that more often than not, I’ve been there in unhappy times. San Francisco and Paris were the only two places I could see myself living and the remarkable news is that rents in Paris are about half of what they are in San Francisco. I could make this work.

I spent a lot of time looking at ads and learning my way around the numerous agencies and aggregators online. I booked a trip and when I tried to start making appointments I got a wake-up call. Before I would even be allowed to make an appointment I would have to submit a complete dossier which consists of references, letters of employment, and pay stubs showing income of three times the monthly rent. Or, I could provide a guarantor who is French and has the same credentials. Or, as a last resort, some owners would accept a year’s rent paid in advance. Maybe I couldn’t make this work.

Then, for some reason, Craig’s List popped into my head and there it was: a small house in a courtyard of the 15^th arrondissement. I responded immediately and the owner was positive but said she had four appointments booked and how soon could I get there. I was still five days away from my scheduled trip so I called a Paris friend and asked her to go see it. She attested to my sterling character, her boys poked around and asked questions as if they were going to be living there, the owner was charmed and now I was real to her. She checked out my blog and said she would wait to meet me before making a decision. I got to Paris about 4 PM on a Sunday, we had a deal by 5, and I moved in Tuesday for ten days before returning to Maury for a couple of weeks to pack, sell my car and close the house.

I’ll be back from time to time to see the few friends I have here, to visit with the Walkers when they come and, I hope, to work on another book with them. But I don’t belong here. I’m a city guy and the thought of living in Paris after so many years of dreaming about it is perfectly right.

An Interesting Sunday in Maury

I walked down to the kiosque for the annual Vide Grenier which translates as “empty attic.” It’s a village-wide garage sale that all the communes around here host from time to time. There were about forty venders who had taken the time to clean out their garages or attics and haul the stuff down to a central location only to discover their neighbors had exactly the same unwanted junk. They’ve all lived in this little town all their lives, they all have the same stuff. So a few items are sold, some trades are made because a neighbor’s trash always looks better than your own, then you hope the tourists show up because the last thing you want is to have to lug the stuff back home, which would mean you still won’t be able to get the car in the garage.

I wandered, finding nothing I couldn’t live without, and was about to head off when drums sounded and a demonstration came down the street.

Maury is hosting Camp Climat, a gathering of environmental activists to share information and plan activities to combat climate change and promote renewable energy and sustainable food production. There are about 500 participants camping on the outskirts of town near the swimming pool that is closed for lack of sufficient water, and holding meetings and exhibitions in the Centre de Loisirs.

Here and now, for the future of our children

Today’s demonstration turned out to be a bit of street theater with activists facing off against other activists posing as police. This was the kindest, gentlest confrontation imaginable, ending in smiles and hugs all around and, frankly, I’m not sure what the point was. One of the participants told me they wanted to show they can more effectively get their point across with non-violence, and there’s plenty of reason to believe that is a message that needs repeating today.

Harvest

Around here, the start of harvest is like opening day of the baseball season, full of anticipation and uncertainty.

Is all the fruit truly ripe? Are the rookies ready?

Will the old vines continue to produce? Do the veterans have another year in them?

Will this year’s pickers work hard and well? Will the free agents produce?

Yesterday, I went out with Marcel and Carrie and the crew from Domaine des Enfants who were picking the first whites of the season: Muscat, Grenache Gris and Blanc, Maccabeu. Not all the fruit is ripe, but sample testing had shown some vines that were pruned early were ready to go.

Marcel and Carrie feed me often and keep me in wine; in exchange, I wanted to update their photo library. My pix from five years ago were ready for retirement. I also needed to see if I still had the legs to scramble up and down a steep hillside vineyard, kind of like tracking down a liner in the gap. Not bad. I may have lost a step but I was able to keep up with the kids. My average wasn’t great but it’s early and I did manage a few hits.

Back at the cave, a little cathartic foot stomping before refrigeration and pressing, followed by a sausage grillade lunch, which I followed with a nap.

Cheers.

14 Juillet

The frenetic pace of rural life is killing me. I need a break in some escargot-paced haven like, oh, I don’t know, New York. Yesterday was of course Bastille Day, otherwise known as “Let’s tear down the prison and behead the king” day, but here in Maury it is an occasion to honor France’s soldiers and for that we need to put aside politics, ignore the immorality of colonialism and simply say: “Merci”, because the only surviving ancien combattants in town served in Algeria. So while Macron was beguiling Trump with war toys in Paris, Charlie, the mayor, was pinning another medal on an old soldier.

The day began with citizens, elected officials and the fire brigade marching from City Hall, looping around town to the cemetery where flowers were laid at the war memorial and after a few moments of respectful silence, Charlie said a few words about sacrifice and the responsibility of all of us to remember the terrible cost of war. I talked with the Mayor as we walked and asked him why Macron was hosting, and thereby honoring Trump. He said he thought Macron honestly believed he could make some progress and perhaps persuade the American to reconsider his position on climate change, but also the young French President wants to be the leader of Europe and saw an opportunity when it became obvious that Trump and Merkel will not be buddies.

The Mayor, members of the Council, honorees

The procession made its way back through town to City Hall where the old soldiers were acknowledged, pictures were taken, and most everyone adjourned to the Maison du Terroir for an apero. I had to skip the drinks because a Brit from my French class had invited me to a village meal in Palairac, a tiny commune about 40 minutes away in the Corbières mountains. Lovely melon with a bit of smoked ham, squid stuffed with pork, rice, ice cream, and lots of very nice local wine. There was music, dancing, and a lively mix of French and English. I was introduced as an American but endorsed as anti-Trump.

Back home, I met Bardot in the garden who blessed me with a sack of the summer’s first tomatoes. There was time for a brief nap until Michel came by to fix a leaky faucet and then off to St. Paul for dinner with Marcel, Carrie, and Marcel’s parents. As quiet and darkness settled in on us, and Carrie put Jordi to bed, I went back to Maury to end the day with fireworks and a glass of Maury, along with the largest crowd I’d ever seen in town. I’d guess there were around 300 people there, including an unusually large number of children, an optimistic note to close a full day of gentle wholesomeness, the best of village life.

The Feast of St. John

The Bonfires of St. John, a Midsummer tradition particularly popular in Catalonia, dates back to pre-Christian summer solstice celebrations but has become associated with the birth date of St. John, June 24. Here in Northern Catalonia, we add the association with the Canigou flame, a symbol of Catalan identity, by simulating the bringing of fire down from the mountains.

There was a time when the children began in the nearby Corbieres hills and ran down to the village of Maury carrying torches through the forests and vineyards, but contemporary safety standards and a persistent drought have limited the procession to the streets of the village.

Still, there’s not much more fun to be had in this town than for children and firefighters to run through the streets carrying torches that are then used to ignite a bonfire of grenache vines in the kiosque square.

The mayor grills sausages, the council serves wine, the kids get to run off all that energy and the parents get a good night’s sleep.

Voix de Femmes 2017

I decided to skip the major concerts of this annual music festival. Four years ago, I shot for two days and got a cool t-shirt in return but the t-shirt still fits and now everyone’s a photographer. I don’t think they needed me and I didn’t need another black t-shirt.

But I did want to take in the free festival events and brought a camera along. Les Femmes à Barbe do not wear beards at all, but they did manage a few costume changes during their performance in the sweltering Place de la Mairie. A high energy trio featuring lively harmonies and a variety of musical styles that began with some French Pop, segued quickly through a brief Marilyn Monroe interlude into an Almodóvar film. Bedsheet saris accompanied Polynesian rhythms and on to Africa by way of James Brown.

The heat drove most of the crowd away from the stage into the shade, but didn’t slow down the unbearded singers at all.

An intense sun drove the crowd to shade.

The lovely old Chapel of St. Roch was the venue for a duo known as NUT, a singer and guitarist performing vaguely folky tunes in French and English; a mélange of pop, reggae, soft blues and ballads. Pleasant enough to listen to, not compelling enough to keep me in the airless church with sweat in my eyes, while thinking of a cool shower and a glass of rosé.

Changing Times

The photo above was made on September 30, 2011 and christened The Olive Tree Salon. The small park is actually the Place du Bicentenaire (1789-1989), but to me it will always be the set for the Olive Tree Salon. The women gathered on warm summer evenings with their knitting, or not, and spent an hour or two talking over their day, exchanging gossip and recipes, and, no doubt, complaining about the ailments of age. Groups of two or three men sat at the trompe l’oeil café or down by the bus stop and I expect their conversations were not very different. Geneviève (left) was the natural leader, as she was throughout town. Formerly the secretary at the Mairie and, as such, a reliable source of information about everything in the village, she is now the head of the Club des Ainés, organizing activities and support for the village’s growing population of senior citizens. But seniors’ groups have built-in population controls and at least two of the members of the Olive Tree Salon have died: Pierette on the right and Lucienne, seated next to her. I’m not sure about Colette but I haven’t seen her since I’ve returned and it’s a small town.

Kids in the Park of the Olive Tree Salon

So the Olive Tree Salon is no more but the park is still a gathering place. Houses heat up in the late afternoons and the cool shade of the olive tree welcomes a new generation. The kids are young and energetic—a girl teaches her younger brother some dance moves—the clicking of knitting needles has been replaced by music struggling to be heard from smartphone speakers. Not my music, but a welcome addition to my soundtrack. Like many rural villages, the population of Maury is aging because a lack of local employment opportunities forces young people with ambition to look elsewhere. But there are still kids here. Their lively chatter and hip-hop music adds to my day, brings a smile to my face and a bit of comfort to my night.

You Meet the Nicest People in a Bar

I was chewing on an immense magret from a steroidal duck and washing it down with Coop wine when an old friend from past visits came in and I immediately launched into my insurance saga.

“This is wrong. I can help you.”

He went to another table, talked with one of the men, and returned with a business card.

“Franck can help you. He says it’s not a problem. Just go to his office Tuesday morning.” I bought him a beer, but I had seen enough to withhold optimism until Tuesday.

So I rented a car for the drive to Tours to visit with John and Mary Priest and family for a lovely weekend of good food, great wine, and better friends. Returned Monday and quickly fell asleep only to dream of losing all my money. Totally wiped out. Everything. No explanations. Just gone. I awoke with the pigeons and checked my bank account which was intact but the news did not significantly lower the level of anxiety.

I went to see Franck. As I was driving the road leaving Maury, a truck coming in the opposite direction flashed his lights at me, the signal that the gendarmes had set up a check station just ahead. Visions of the guillotine danced in my head, but I was allowed to pass. Made it to St. Paul without incident, Franck welcomed me and turned me over to his colleague who would fix me right up, no problem. She echoed his optimism but unfortunately her computer was down and she could not process my request, but no worries, she’ll take copies of my paperwork, and when the computer is fixed this afternoon, she’ll do a quote and call me. Right, I’ve heard that before. I took the long way home. By five o’clock, my fears were confirmed, I turned on yesterday’s Giants’ game and poured a glass of wine.

I called the US Embassy and found out that France has driving reciprocity with only a few states and California isn’t one of them, so they will not exchange my license. I have a year in which to go to driving school and take the test for a new French license. But there was no reason that I couldn’t get insurance in that time. It was up to the companies. There’s no law against it. I called Franck again and his colleague suggested I give her a mailing address so she could send me the quote. She’s eight kilometers away but how long would the post take?

“I’ll come to your office.”

“You will come? OK. I will call the company after lunch—it was almost 10 AM so I guess there wasn’t enough time before lunch—and then you can come. Four o’clock?”

“OK. I’ll be there.” She didn’t ask and I didn’t offer the information that I’d be driving my uninsured car to her office.

The country cousins have come to visit my pigeons but they don’t seem to have much to say. Their voices, limited to a single long whooooo, argue ineffectively with the locals.

Woo, wooooh, wuh. Whooooo

Woo, wooooh, wuh.

Whooooo.

I talked to Michel who said maybe I could sell him the car and when the new registration was complete, he could put me on his insurance as a second driver. The French just live for this stuff. There’s a workaround for every bureaucratic obstacle, but I could only see reams of paperwork and months without a car. I told him I would go see Franck.

They were both smiling when I arrived a few minutes before four, but I didn’t expect that to last and, indeed, when she turned to her computer, a shadow passed across her face. She asked me what level of coverage I wanted, then swiveled the monitor to show me the options and rates. This was progress but the numbers were not a reason to smile. I decided to go for the all-risk coverage, the highest number on the board, and while we’re at it let’s throw in the 24-hour roadside assistance. That brought a smile to her face: “It is best.”

Then the smile faded as another potential obstacle loomed. “You have a French bank?”

But I had this one covered. Not only do I have a French bank account, I knew how much was in it and I had the numbers with me.

She put the green official coverage form in her printer but then turned back to her monitor and shook her head. This, I was sure, was the disaster I was still expecting. But she simply removed the green form, printed out two copies of the contract, handed them to me for signatures, printed the form, and smiled. “You can drive.”

Poof. Anxiety gone. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to kiss Franck. I settled for handshakes and the most profuse expressions of gratitude I could muster in French.

Pigeons

The cooing of doves haunts the present and the memory. Woo, woooh, wuh. Short, long, very short. Somber, wistful sounds, they make together, or alone. They roost in the eaves of the church above my house and the sound carries down to the bedrooms. I hear it early in the morning when I’m not yet ready to start the day, and all afternoon when working in the office. The pigeons hang out at church into the evening but today, they’re strangely silent, or maybe just taking a long lunch like everyone else around here.

I’m being pummeled by the bureaucracy. My car is finally whole so I went to buy insurance. Now, I’ve done this before: when I moved here five years ago, I bought a car, registered it, bought insurance. Not so fast. The first agent told me he could not sell me insurance because I have not owned a car in the last three years and so he cannot check my driving record.

“But I had a car and insurance here four years ago.”

“That is too long. Perhaps you can try the company you used before.”

Woo, wooooh, wuh.

Of course I can, but no they can’t. Not with a California drivers’ license.

“But you insured me four years ago.”

“Yes, but it’s different now.”

“What do I do?”

“You must exchange your license for a European permit. You can try the Mairie in Maury. They may be able to do that for you, if not, the Préfecture in Perpignan.”

I’m at the Mairie in the morning when it opens, with every document I could possibly need. And I nail it. When the paperwork’s done, I ask for an Attestation stating that I have made the application and ask them to telephone the insurance company and ask if that will suffice for temporary coverage. The agent takes my number and says she will confirm after speaking with a colleague.

Well, I didn’t really expect her to call, so I carefully drove to the office this morning hoping for an answer.

She had my name and number on her desk and appeared to be waiting for me. Perhaps I misunderstood. “I will help you now,” she said.

“Good. Can you issue the policy?”

“We will see.”

Terrifying words in this context. She made a call. Uh oh. She made another and shook her head. “The Préfecture may reject the exchange.”

“Why would they do that? At the Mairie, they said it would be fine.”

“I will try another.” This time, I saw a smile as she spoke and when she hung up she said: “D’accord. Pas de problème. I will do the devis.”

She turned to her computer and the shadows returned.

“Non. C’est pas possible.”

“But why. You said it was no problem.”

“Regardez. These are all the companies.” The red type on her monitor screamed at me. “They all say no.”

“But why?”

She turns back to the phone.

“He says California is not compatible. They usually reject California.”

“So what can I do?”

“You can try the American Embassy.”

Someone brought her the number. She waited patiently. “Tapez un, tapez deux. OK”

She waited in the phone tree. She started running bills through the postage meter. She waited. Her colleague brought more bills. These were the lucky drivers who had actually been able to buy insurance. She waited a little longer. “Impossible.” And hung up. She handed back my license, passport, registration, attestation, and, finally, the number of the embassy. “Tuesday,” she said. “It’s almost time for lunch.”

I drove back to Maury and carefully parked in the garage. I tried to call the lawyer I had used for the initial visa. “He will call you back – probably this afternoon.”

I thought of asking the Mayor for help, but it was lunch time.

Woo, wooooh, wuh.

Election 2017

Sunday morning. I shaved my face, donned a fresh black t-shirt and walked up to the Mairie to witness the climax of this most confounding and portentous election.

Charlie, the mayor of Maury, did a double take, smiled warmly, said “Ah, Ron”, and came to shake my hand. He introduced me to all the other poll workers, who nodded as they recognized “le photographe’, and said of course it would be fine for me to take photos as people voted. I shook hands all around the room and one woman said I had taken a beautiful picture of her father, Adrien. I remembered it, found it on my phone and showed it to her. “He died last year,” she said.

Charlie asked: “What’s going on in America, this Trump?” I gave my best French expression of disgust, a vehement “Beh!” Then said: “C’est pourquoi je suis ici.” “That’s why I’m here.” Everyone laughed and welcomed me back to town.

Voters select names to take in the booth.

There are stacks of cards for each of the candidates and I asked if voters had to take all of them into the booth. “No, no, minimum two.” So you present identification, take at least two cards and an envelope into the booth, put one in the envelope, throw the others away, have your name checked off against the roll of eligible voters and your voting card stamped, deposit the card in a clear plexi box as the official calls your name and adds: “à voté”. But I noticed some voters took no cards, apparently intending to deposit an empty envelope in protest against all the candidates.

I told Charlie I’ll return for the results and went home to lunch.

The Count

Envelopes are collected into batches of 100 and placed in larger envelopes, then opened, passed to someone else who reads the name aloud, which is then hand-tallied by two other officials. When the envelope is finished the count is read aloud, agreed and recorded. The room is absolutely silent except for the reading of names and results. No groans, no expressions of dismay, no wringing of hands although everyone I had talked to was appalled at the thought of President Le Pen. I had a good chat with Charlie, a test for my French but we made it. He really didn’t think she could be elected but he was certainly aware of the anger and uncertainty here, and everywhere and understands the decline of the traditional party structure and how many fear globalization and, of course, the anti-immigration fear of the “other”. And the alternatives are not terribly attractive. Mélenchon is a demagogue from the left, Fillon, a dinosaur on the right, Macron is pretty but who knows what lurks behind the façade.

Maury gave Le Pen a victory by about 25 votes over Macron, Mélenchon third, Fillon fourth. It surprised me—this area is traditionally solid Socialist—but maybe it shouldn’t have. Like many small villages, Maury is suffering. There are many houses for sale as the older generation dies off, few services for those who remain, and no jobs for the young. People are angry, confused, certain traditional politicians have let them down, but unsure where to turn. But it’s worth noting that about 75% of the Maury electorate voted, about a dozen cast blank ballots. Democracy may be unsettled in France, but people still care enough to participate.

Conventional wisdom says the French vote with their emotions in the first round, their brains in the second. We’ll see. I was watching Charlie during the count and saw him receive a text, smile, and raise a clenched fist. I’m guessing Macron is doing well nationally.

Late results before a dinner of leftover chicken and salad: it appears to be a Le Pen/Macron runoff with Macron, supported by the political establishment, the heavy favorite. Le Pen will no doubt run hard against the elites, charging them with abandoning hard working and struggling French citizens by allowing manufacturing jobs to disappear, then opening the public treasury for immigrants.

Sound familiar?

Whither France?