Well, I was pleasantly surprised to receive multiple inquiries as to when I might be posting another blog. I was sure my parents were the only ones actually reading this (and I even had my doubts regarding that) so thanks everyone for the support!
As predicted in the last blog, my departure from Spain was more sweet than bitter. I left on a chaotic but wonderful note (would Spain be any other way though?). My parents came and I took them to as many of my favorite places and introduced them to as many of my favorite people as I could without overwhelming them. I finally found a home for my car although I had to practically give it away to a dealership; I also learned that I had paid almost triple the value when I bought it, madre mia! Talk about learning the 'cowboy' way. Although I may have lost more than I'd like to admit in euros (damn the exchange rate!), I felt I was extremely fortunate in the friends I made and I don't think it's hit me yet that I don't know how long it will be until I see them again.
It's such a long trip to Europe that we had to see as many people as we could while here, so we hopped on over to Germany. We got to visit with my friend Denise and her family which was fabulous. That strange thing happened which occurs with really good friends, it had been years since we'd last seen each other, but once together, it was like no time had passed, like we were back in high school giggling about boys, musing about the world, and putting off studying biology. It was hot and muggy in Germany and I was used to the slow easy pace of the Spanish way, but good German wine and beer helped fend off the heat and and punctual, efficient German rhythm.
After Germany, we made our way to France; however, there was a transition in the middle involving RUNNING through the Paris underground schlepping five suitcases and squishing toes, dogs and probably small children along the way. I'm still not sure how we made it except that we'd met an angel along the way who had graciously offered to help us (we must have looked like we needed it). He assisted my dad in purchasing the metro tickets, forced the automatic gates open so we could run though with all the luggage, lead us through the maze of stares, twists and turns, hauled our suitcases, and lead us to our train with only a minute to shout out out thanks. So Elion or whatever your name was, God bless you, you should be receiving some major travel Karma!!!
Although quite the adrenalin rush, I wouldn't recommend the experience and we were quite relieved to arrive to Belves, located in the Perigord region, where my grandmother's cousin has an incredible house. This small French village is just like you imagine it. Today happens to be marked day and the hum of neighbors conversing, of venders promising, of silverware clinking at the cafes, float up to where I'm sitting, like balloons being released, carried on the breeze by Frank Sinatra blaring from the tourism office. There's the strawberry woman who compulsively arranges her flats, and the goat cheese stand which makes your mouth water just walking by it. Belves is a medieval village with it's covered market square, surrounded by the "coutellerie" knife shop, the pharmacy, hair salons, cafes, butchers and creperies. It's the perfect setting for a play, and despite its quaint feel, there is quite a bit of drama. The honey lady's husband ran off with the butcher's wife, a bitter sister suing over house hold pets in hopes of gaining recognition from her dead brother, the all day pigeon shoot that resulted in the massacre of almost 400 flying rats. Then there are the tourists and the expatriots, hoping that they can play some minor role. And everyone I've met seems to be in the process of renovating their scrap of history: a five hundred year old house with a medieval toilet, a thirteenth century watch tower, an old forge destroyed during the revolution, a barn... everything here and everyone has a story, it's not hard to stay entertained.
I'm a bit disappointed sometimes though that I'm not speaking as much French as I though I would. Those who do not speak English as a second language, are English or Australian or American. There's a sort of picknick market here on Wednesday nights where, if it weren't for the foie gras, the confit du canard, crem brulee, and bad accordian music, I'd think I was in England. I have sought out a few people to pester with my clumsy French though. There's a Parisian couple who have a wonderful dog named Zebulon and insist I come swim in their pool, "well if you insist!" Then there's a couple, oddly enough from my university town, who are, of course, restoring a home here. Anne is French, so we have a deal that I come learn masonry and help grout the rock walls, and she'll speak to me in French. I'm not sure who got the better end of the deal, but I'm learning all sorts of new skills! I've also found a french teacher who is wonderful and gives me lessons twice a week, and to supplement that, there is Madam Carcenac, the 83 year old retired school teacher with whom I have a conversation hour every day free of charge, simply because she enjoys it! So I am improving which is encouraging.
In short, my days here are spent ambling through the countryside taking pictures, keeping up on the town gossip, cleaning for my hostess, enjoying her fabulous cooking and copying down as many recipes as I can, slapping mud on walls, and making vocabulary lists which I've put up all over my bathroom. I'm also doing a fairly good job at getting anxious to see everyone back home, move to San Francisco, get a job, apply for grad school... alas, time only goes as fast as the church bells dispense it here, and in a medieval village, that's not too fast.
Enjoy the photos! Sorry one of them is sideways
