Our House is Certainly Not in Paris Read Online Free PDF

We wake before 5 am in the pitch dark of our tightly shuttered chambre.
    First things first, we set up the coffee machine. Recovering from jet lag is hard at the best of times let alone without a strong café . Outside, it’s eerily silent and darkness envelops Cuzance in a crisp chilliness. A squirrel scampers across the roof of la grange, the only other sign of life in the still-waking countryside.
    While life at home already seems remote and another existence altogether, the uncanny resemblance of our two lives do not escape us. Mobiles and plumbing seem to be our parallel downfalls on either side of the world. Our new portable plan, that we had such high hopes for, means that in fact we can only connect with friends in France. Another perplexing puzzle to add to the list of things to deal with. Oh yes, just like in previous years, the lists have started already – and it is only day one. The most pressing problem though is the septique . At home we have to get a plumber as soon as we return for the dreadful plumbing problems. That though is nothing to compare to the devastating, all-consuming, all-pervading utter stench emanating from our septique .
    Ooh la la . The smell fills our entire petite maison . It is just like being back in Turkey on our travels all those years ago when we first met. We knew it was going to be bad on our return for the septique problem had already well and truly flared up the previous year, but nothing could prepare us for the reality. For the moment though, we simply have to live with it. There are more pressing things to deal with, like, will our petite voiture start after sleeping for a year in the garage in la grange?
    Though your memory holds a thousand imprints, the reconnection with the minutiae holds infinite joy. The collection of old cutlery in a wooden trug, the exquisite heavy glass bowl that I bought for a song, the white enamel jug that holds la cuisine utensils. So many vide grenier finds on so many occasions. After only a couple of years, we can’t even recall the precise where and when of each piece of treasure. The accumulated pieces represent the layers that transform our petite farmhouse into a home.
    I am sure that each year will be the same. A repetition of reuniting with beloved objets, balanced by the discovery of the forgotten and overlooked . Added to this are the other fragments of Cuzance life that have been cast aside in the year in between. Most striking is the soft constant cooing of the doves and the stratum of noises of other birds unknown to me, overlaid by the chiming of the village church bell.
    The silence in the very early morning and late evening is the deep, deep silence of the countryside. The musical bird notes of the day fade gently away to be replaced by an occasional soft rustling in the dry, fallen leaves – field mice, hedgehogs and a slinking black cat slipping through the night shadows.
    By early morning on our very first day, I abandon the cleaning. I’m rapidly worn out – consumed by jet lag and the lack of a proper meal, by now for several days. Airline food does not count in my book as a ‘proper meal’. I slip under the soft comfort of the eiderdown and just like our first evening, within a few minutes, drift off into a deep sleep.
    Several hours later, Stuart tiptoes in to triumphantly announce that he has recharged the car. After a year, he’s jubilant that it started the first time when he put the battery back in. The day of challenges he’s set himself is well underway and it’s not even midday. He flourishes a shopping list that he’s already written and lets me know he’s off to Martel to the supermarché . I murmur goodbye and sink once more into the Cuzance silence.
    Much to my surprise, on our first afternoon, while the house is still in a state of considerable disarray, Stuart suggests an outing to Martel. Although he has already been once to the supermarché , he feels like