I'm sitting at an oak table in the living room of my new home. Yes, I can live here now and work is almost done. Me too, done in, that is, by months of working and waiting and learning how to be contractor-in-chief. I've also learned a lot about France, more than I ever expected, having quite presumptuously considered myself an expert on the country where I've lived for almost 30 years.
For those who read me regularly, you may remember those antique terra cotta tiles I chipped away at some of winter, all of spring, and part of summer, to the point of spraining my right wrist. The real contractor-in-chief of this project, Monsieur Béatrix, wanted to carry them off to the dump, but I got my way, piled them in a shed in my garden, and ended up with just about enough to cover the floor in my living room.
For the two square yards or so that went uncovered, Monsieur Béatrix and I found a solution while I was panting my way up an Alpine slope in early August (during that trek I made the discovery that cell phone service follows you everywhere, even when you're at eye level with Mont Blanc high up in the French-Italian Alps). My contractor suggested a tapis, a “carpet” of tiles in different shapes and sizes at the entrance to my home. I was too far away to do anything else but give him the go-ahead.
When later that month I opened the door to my new home, I almost sobbed. No, I was not disappointed. I was simply too happy, overwhelmed by the sight before my eyes: the expanse of those terra cotta tiles I had so lovingly retrieved. They were finally in place; and at my feet I discovered a perfect little “tapis” at the entrance, smaller tiles surrounded by a triangular border that set them off from the rest of the room.
A lot of hubbub for a few floor tiles, some might say, but for me, the experience of hammering, chiseling, brushing and washing over 500 tiles while, in the process, saving them from oblivion and bringing back to life a substantial piece of the past, has filled me with a sense of accomplishment I've rarely felt. I admire them as I write. I am happy and this simple happiness is teaching me a lot about what really matters in life.
I also have a kitchen from Ikea and to me it is as beautiful as any custom-made model I've seen. It is simple and functional with everything I need (except a stove, but that will come). It was installed by my “gentlemen craftsmen,” two Ukrainians, Radu and Victor.
One day in Paris when my water heater was leaking all over my bathroom, I asked them for help. They were working in a 1st floor apartment in my building and obligingly climbed the stairs to my 6th floor outpost to have a look. It didn't take me long to realize I was in the company of two exceptional men so rather than having them repair my water heater, I asked them to remodel my apartment instead.
I remember Victor being surprised by my snap decision, but he and Radu are two men who have never let me down. In two days, they installed my country kitchen and thanks to them, I have the kitchen of my dreams.
So far, it is the only room in the house where I've had time to hang a picture and my first impulse was to put a “Pottsville-Perche” connection in place. On one wall you can discover a tribute to my native city, the poster created by artist Nanette Major, a picture-map of Pottsville that I'm sure many readers know. Each time I pass by it, I stop and “explore,” identifying streets, houses, and places in a town that occupies a big place in my heart.
I have the feeling my new region, “le Perche,” may soon have its place as well. This past weekend, I explored its hills and valleys in my cobalt blue Peugeot 206, a used car I bought the last day of August. It has lots of miles on the motor and I would not trust it from here to Paris, but it is perfect for getting around a region where, very much like in Schuylkill County, a car is a must.
On Sunday, first stop the home of my friend Jacques. In front of his chimney, where a fire crackled and flamed, we sat down for Sunday dinner: grilled blood sausage as an appetizer, fresh rabbit cooked in mustard and cider as our main course, followed by salad and cheese, with for dessert, grapes from his garden.
On Sundays, Parisians brunch on salads and “terrines,” avocado whip, a mini-cheese soufflé, a mouthful of pâté, a mouthful of fish, served in tiny glass or crockery bowls. Hardly a meal, a Parisian brunch is more a “tasting,” where you can whet your appetite without really feeling satisfied.
In le Perche, on Sundays, people sit down to a meal. For years I've been a nibbler, a true Parisian. It feels good to be eating real food again!
Though it is a bit difficult to get up after such a meal and immediately hit the road, once we drank our café, we set off again in my little blue Peugeot to visit a 16th century chateau where Percherons are raised.
These horses were first found in the Huisne River valley, the very same river that gives its name to the village where I have my home (Condé sur Huisne). On Sundays, their day of rest, these hardy animals graze peacefully in the fields around the chateau.
Today, once I wrap up this article, I have to return to Paris (after all, it's my job at the university that is paying for all of this!). First, though, I'd like to do some work in my garden. It's is the time of year to plant tulip bulbs and I also have some anemones. By next spring, I hope to have flowers.
Less than a year ago I bought my ruin. It has become my home and, I'm starting to suspect, the threshold to a new life. Soon I'll have to add another “P” to my Pottsville-Paris connection: “P” for “Perche.”
