Saturday 27 April 2013

Not so fast

Door in Marcilhac-sur-Célé

Well ha ha, this joke's on me. My teacher Abe says to give thanks when things show up not to your liking, because they're helping to refine your preferences. And if you can stay focused on appreciating the clarity provided by the experience, the details of the current situation won't linger too long.

Sooo, I have been deliberately attempting to give thanks for the opportunity to contemplate what I would prefer, but not successfully alleviating a somewhat frequent feeling of annoyance. See, my lovely Host left on Wednesday for time at the beach with her grandson, leaving me and the other Helper to weed and mow and tidy. I want to give this English bloke credit for trying to be genial, but it's not my idea of a good time to belabor the idiosyncrasies of English versus American phrasing and culture. I'm in France, and I'd like to speak French (even if I do feel a surge of relief when my partner in conversation pauses to translate the latest exchange... At least I get the thrill of novelty!). It could be worse, we could have gone days without any humor or generosity, which we did have - so for that I'm glad.

Door in Cajarc
Market flowers

But today his delicate digestive system cut short my market day, and I'm kinda peeved.

All week I've been enjoying the quiet seclusion of this home and the nearby village of 80 inhabitants (containing a stately old abbey on the Way of St. James, boulangerie, and post office; the two restaurants aren't open yet for the season). I've weeded a garden of spring bulbs and wildflowers, admired distant views of rock face and green field, sat calm and silent at the shadowy cave entrance up the hill, listened for church bells to tell me the hour. It's been slow and steady, just like I wanted.

But the moment our car arrived at the Saturday marché this afternoon, I got really excited about perusing the produce and sampling the saucissons. Alas pilgrim, not today. I will have to wait until next Saturday - unless I'm already en route to my next Host - to tease out the secret aromas of weirdly colored aged cheese, suck on sweets made with lemon verbena, and tear into a baguette spread with pâté de tête.

Ah well, "carry on" they say in merry old England, right?

Hearth at my host's home

 

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