Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Read Online Free PDF Page A

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 for our return. Sheets are waiting in a plastic tub and it’s the only task we can manage, to make up the bed after more hours of travelling than I can manage to count. A simple meal, a glass of rosé and it’s absolutely lights out. The rest can all wait until a new day in Cuzance.
    The first full day in France is a Sunday but even Françoise knew that it would not be a highly prized vide grenier day. It will take at least two days to get the petite maison up and running.