Our House is Definitely Not in Paris Read Online Free PDF Page B

not plunged too severely below freezing and the pipes in the cellar are all functioning. There is simply so much to check. Will the car start after it has been slumbering for a year in its stone-encased bed, the garage adjoining the barn? Most importantly, did we leave a bottle of vin tucked under the kitchen sink, ready for our return?
    Our gaze sweeps over the beloved objets we have rapidly accumulated over the past few years. So many vide-grenier finds in such a short time. No wonder we so often lose ourselves in daydreams about one day converting la grange. Its huge, empty expanse is simply waiting to be filled with treasure. The barn is indeed a blank canvas, crying out to be filled with the cache we unearth at our weekly forays to les marchés , the French markets. It is these weekly treasure hunts that form our personal itinerary each French summer and make our hearts positively brim with excitement. Sundays are our personal day of worship for all things old; the drive, zipping along the winding country roads to destinations unknown in far-flung villages, and the fever that possesses us as we tumble out in the crisp early morning air, eager to commence our quest. The vide-grenier tables are often laid out in the shade of huge sheltering trees, in readiness for the summer sun that will later transform the day into a blaze of heat that is inconceivable at such an early hour. The ancient walnuts arch over the reverent treasure hunters, for there are many like us, consumed by the desire to unearth items that delight. People swoop and bend and examine and pore over an eclectic array of household items, from the bizarre, such as deer antlers fashioned into serving spoons, to the ultimate of finds, old pieces of pristine French linen. Our hearts never fail to sing with happiness on Sunday vide-grenier mornings.
    And in our French summer life each and every day, whether cool and damp or full of bright sunshine, starts with the flinging open of our creaking heavy wooden shutters; an act that always resonates as a deeply symbolic one. For when the day ends, we close all the shutters, close out the night, reflect on all the day has held and what the new dawn will bring. For this is the wonder and joy of life in Cuzance; that each day holds in its hands a sense of infinite enchantment and happiness.

A French Household
    Each time we return to our other life, we try to implement all that we have learnt from our previous, precious French sojourn s. We adapt our daily rhythm and rénovation demands to the nuances of the ever-changing weather. No matter the outcome of the unpredictable summer forecast, each day starts in the same way, for despite the fact that it is été , summer, there is always a distinct crisp chill in the air. Sometimes, however, the temperature can almost double in the space of a mere few hours. On those days, the sun suddenly scatters the soft white particles of mist that shroud the countryside. A new world sparkles and shines, shimmering and fresh, awash with promise. The birds chirp ever more vigorously as the hours move on, as delighted as I am to welcome le soleil .
    Other days are pervaded by an ongoing damp chill. The jardin and vista remain cloaked in a fine, ethereal haze. Just like the softer green of the European trees, somehow the rain is different in its gentleness, for it falls in a soft shimmering veil.
    The gloominess of a Thursday morning in our first week dictates my day. All the glasses are clouded in a clinging film of calcium, and after just a few short years, we have accumulated an inordinate number of glasses from the clear-out-the attic markets. Unfortunately our glasses are not clear, for the filter on our water pump has broken. A French household means seeking out new products in the supermarché , to address the issue of calcaire , the calcium that has built up in the pipes over the past year.
    Voilà , we find a product in Carrefour supermarché , Anti - Calcaire /Anti-