January 2011
It's been basically a sleepy time in the Midi and for the start of the year. Richard and I have been pursuing our respective projects and keeping things otherwise relatively low key.
With Barbara McGraw here for the month working on a book, we have been enjoying the added stimulation of intellectual exchange with her over the breakfast and dinner tables. She wrote a beautiful book, Rediscovering America's Sacred Ground in 2003, and she is now working on a sequel to that work concerning ethics and religion within the framework of politics and the original intentions of the Founding Fathers. Otherwise Barbara is easy to be with and works steadily. When using Madeleine recently, she discovered that there is a slow radiator leak with the car. So it became a return to Petit Claude as soon as it was feasible.
We have had delightful dinners both with Nico and Micheline and with Pierre and Catherine. The days have been sunny for the most part, though the cold has not yet departed over night. The village itself continues to fascinate, and I enjoy the friendly exchanges while shopping or visiting the Wednesday and Saturday marchés. It is all surprisingly idyllic and perhaps all the more ironic vis-à-vis the health and family woes of others beyond our cocooned micro-world. The taxman in the Netherlands now wants 14,000 euros from Ricardo. What is the poor lad going to have to face next?
Here in Aups, as one walks to the town, further along our street, a neighbour has a year-old sanglier in his fenced-in yard. Barbara and Richard saw him first and thought he was a dog. He is most happy to see people and runs to the fence with his tale wagging like a dog's might. But as he was snorting and pushing his snout through the fence, they realized that he is not a dog but a boar. I have since learned from his owner that he is a year old, is not for eating (as I hoped he would not be) but for hunting truffes, and his name is Wilko (short apparently for 'Wilkonson'). In any event, he is just darling. But a special area is now being constructed for him because his owners cannot have any plants or flowers. He 'breaks' everything. Another passer-by says that he is house-broken and lives inside with the family. And all this on our own street.
And Aups has celebrated its Jour des Truffes this month. A food fair is set up on one half of the town square, and on the other half there is a truffle-hunting contest between specially trained dogs and a renowned pig. Most of the dogs were more interested in the audience, though there were some good exceptions that impressively dug and found the buried truffles. But hands down, the (very large) pig won and raced through the specially prepared area presumably finding all the truffles that there were to find. Although the nights have been frigid, the Jour des Truffes was spectacularly and perfectly sunny. It was like an off-season festival.
We also attended in our neighbouring town of Salernes the funeral of Pierre's father, Georges Lambert. He had died in his sleep after a fall a few months ago and the subsequent discovery of all sorts of terminal complications. His passing was a blessing of sorts. There was a good turn out that included Micheline and Nicolas and also the Roberts, David and Marguerite, whom we had not yet seen since being here. What was interesting with the service was the comfort of an old established ritual, ancient and seductively soothing. Most who were there will probably have something similar when their time comes, and the rhythm of time-established ceremony becomes a part of the greater tapestry of Provençal life. Pierre gave a thoughtful and moving eulogy and, among other things, thanked his father for making him able to be proud to be a citizen of his community. Although I could recognize the same prayers and admonishments from Roman Catholic services in the United Kingdom or the United States, the French language alone gives the words an aura of beauty that transcends even the message they are conveying. And with the post-Church procession to the cemetery, vehicular traffic is interrupted and the drivers wait patiently out of respect and the consideration that is natural to this area. The whole occasion was a blend of sadness and beauty and what I interpreted as a celebratory tribute to the man.
On Marion's birthday, Barbara wanted to continue to write, so Richard and I went to Aix-en-Provence by ourselves. It was another flash back in time. We were able to stock up on both vitamins and whiskys while combing our way through the labyrinth of small lanes that are the old city. Aix is a beautiful town, and it is always thrilling to experience. We had lunch in an old favourite on the Cours de Mirabeau. Late in the afternoon, taking advantage of the two cinema theatres there that show version originale films, we went to see Clint Eastwood's Hereafter that basically took place in three of our favourite cities: Paris, London and San Francisco. Afterwards I read some negative reviews on the film, but we both enjoyed it thoroughly and immersed ourselves in its entertainment for the pleasure alone.
The following day, our beloved Stefanie arrived after the Premiere Classe trade show she had attended in Paris. Before we first met her now more than thirty years ago, Lyn had described her as 'a breath of fresh air', and she still is exactly that and so much more. The next day we drove both Stef and Barbara around the lake and often wanted to point things out to them, but the gals in the back seat were so deep into conversation (jewelry, politics, etc.) that often we were not even heard. We took them first to 'Bill's Beach', and the emptiness of the area in contrast to the swimming times there in high season was fascinating and expectant. The day itself was sunny and able to accentuate the colour-richness of the Provence: azure blue skies, ochre red earth, brown-leafed oak trees, and the ubiquitous olive green of so much beyond. In Riez, we visited the columns remaining from a first century Roman temple. And then we went to the enchanting Moustiers-Ste.-Marie where a medieval aristocrat suspended a silver star between the canyon walls between which the town is nestled in fulfillment of a vow he had made if his son were to return alive from the Crusades. Not a restaurant or café was open at this time of the year, but several of the faience shops were. This became a shopping stop. Coffees and citron pressée at the Aupsois bar-tabac afterwards. And finally dinner at the Restaurant Gourmets.
Thanks to Gerda and finally a miraculous phone/Skype conversation that not only went through but maintained, I feel that I have made a satisfying progress with my website (michaelyork.co.uk). Since these 'travel'/'non-travel' updates are becoming too long, and few have sufficient time and possibly inclination to read them, I am planning to put future ones on the site itself (at the Focus). One hope for the website endeavour is to cut back on email correspondence in general so that I can concentrate more on writing, cooking and the things in general that rural life involves. But though my domus is still under construction and is likely to remain so for a goodly time to come, I invite you to visit my cyber home which is basically an extension of what Richard refers to as our lifestyle as 'shaman elves in our mud hut'. Like our home in the Provence (the Roman province par excellence) that the little old lady I see on our road points to and says 'magnifique!', my virtual abode I hope to be a place of magic and surprise.
In the world-at-large, the current pull on the attention would appear to be the popular uprisings in Tunisia, Egypt and Yemen. The 'domino effect' must remain foremost in consensus thought, and with the Muslim 'Great Awakening' that we have been witnessing, it must be anyone's guess which way the fall of Arab leaders will play out in relation to global harmony. Revelations from America continue to undermine the spirit, and the entrench-ability of corporate personhood appears here to stay as a foreclosure to democratic ideals. And yet, despite the tensions and headaches beyond the immediate, life here in the Midi is blessed and joyful. A goddess visited Barbara, Richard and me during the month of January. And with KC and Morgan, we had an additional glimpse of youthful spirit and promise. And I think Barbara herself has established for me a new tradition. To stay with someone not only for a month but for the month allows an intimacy and bonding that few of us evermore have a chance to experience. It was a test more for Richard than it was for me, and Barbara herself is easy, not overly fragile, fun and brilliant. I am glad for the occasion.
But even beyond such treasures, to be loved by the one that you yourself most love, O joy, O joy, O joy! We are acutely aware that these sacred days can feel like borrowed time, and perhaps because of that awareness we can appreciate them all the more. They remain full of a perpetual blend between deep comfort and joyful ecstasy, and they allow a concentration on such supreme values as freedom, magnitude and celebration. My wish remains that we can learn more 'to let go' so as not to remain caught in the monkey trap to become a meal for an enemy predator. It is not easy for any of us, and I include myself unabashedly in that assessment. Coloured by a good fortune well beyond the norm, I seek a global contentment in terms of gratitude and cooperatively and harmoniously addressing the problems we need to solve.
For the month of February, we undergo our nefasti cleansing now for little more than the first half of the month.