Vive la France!
My elegant Marseille CouchSurfing hostess Lidia also rose in the dark to see me off for my dawn train to the city of Nancy in Lorraine. She directed me to follow a steep cobblestoned alley, avoiding the many stairs leading to the station. I settled in the 2nd class coach enjoying DH Lawrence's Sons and Lovers until the Frenchman opposite put his worn and smelly stockinged feet on the seat next to mine. When I told this to my next CouchSurf hosts, Etienne laughed, "French feet, French cheese, same bacteria!"
I arrived in Nancy and called my Couchsurfing hostess, Bernie, who said her son, whose name sounded like Jack, would be there with a sign with my name on it. And there was tall bearded Fiacre, which I know means a sort of horse drawn carriage from another century, and later learned is the patron saint of gardeners. On St Fiacre's day the churches are decorated with plants. Every day of the year is some saint's day in France. You get a saint with your birthday.
The third of four children, Fiacre has a Ph D in Physics, lives in Australia, and was in France for his father Etienne's 60th birthday. I asked him was how his mother spoke English so well.
"She's Irish!" We discussed solar power and clean energy on the way to the farm. Bernie and Etienne have a Pepinière, a nursery, in a tiny town 20 kilometers from Nancy, Lanfroicourt. We joined them at lunch in the kitchen of his grandfather's large old farmhouse, with their daughter Maura and two young apprentices. It felt like the wine harvest in the late '70's: French conversation, bread, wine, cheese and camaraderie. Afterwards Bernie showed me to my room in the back, up old wooden stairs; it was the apprentices' quarters with a kitchen, bath and bedrooms.
Then Etienne walked me a half a mile into the countryside past plants and trees for sale and the biggest rhubarb I have ever seen, down a lane past fir trees, wheat fields and a reservoir for irrigation until we reached the fruit tree plantation. Brother and sister and apprentices were busy driving stakes into the ground and tying the young branches to them, forming espaliers, two dimensional decorative trees easy to pick. I met Daisy the puppy and walked her around the field, noticing lambs' quarters growing like weeds. Etienne didn't know they taste like spinach cooked.
He pointed to the next fields. They were full of bombs and trenches from the First World War; the Germans had been very close. When the soil is disturbed it isunsuitable for crops - just as Americans bulldoze for development, I know - nothing grows well in disturbed soil. I was getting hot and tired and found my way back to take a shower.
Bernie asked if I'd like to rest or join her for a shopping trip for Etienne's 60th birthday party, so I grabbed my camera and hopped back into the old Mercedes Benz for a mammoth spending spree in a supermarket a few towns away. She and Etienne had met as botanists in Germany and married in Ireland. Her sister and family would be flying from England for the fete. Etienne's brother Guy and two sisters and children were coming, also their other two children. Son Paul, a tree scientist, would be coming, also his German girlfriend Gabi, her mother, Elizabeth, Elizabeth's Tyrolean friend Alberto (neither of whom speak French) and Elizabeth's Polish stepmother, born in France and delighted to speak it again. The youngest daughter, Celeste, is starting work in a bank negotiating loans to farmers. Her Belgian boyfriend Bastian was coming too. Nearly thirty people would attend. And me, the lucky Couchsurfer from Ohio!
Bernie explained that Bulgarians work for a fraction of the wages the French earn, so nurseries can only compete in specialized areas like the fruit tree training. (I think I'll add Bulgaria to my list of countries to visit.) At the supermarket I took pictures as Bernie shopped for the coming invasion of well-wishers. She stopped at the Boulangerie and ordered three cakes for the fete, and twenty loaves of bread! I heated some food I brought in the apprentice kitchen, and then was invited to join the family at dinner. Though I tried to pitch in, I was a guest and not to make a contribution. So I did all I could in the kitchen. They were very generous with their computer as my Kindle Fire is hard to master and couchsurfing requires a lot of emailing.
One day the Germans arrived with Bernie's older son Paul, and I joined the two boys on a shopping excursion for costumes for the party. It was a depressing introduction to big box France, large stores outside of Nancy with cheap Chinese plastic junk, just like home. They didnt find much but a Roman costume for their uncle and a couple of Egyptian headdresses a la King Tut. Then we stopped at a new scientific laboratory for tree genetics built of wood and I could halfway understand the tour. All the country towns are tiny.
The next day Bernie's sister Phil(omena), husband Gerry and their three dark-haired daughers arrived from London by way of a flight to Paris. At the birthday fete the girls performed killer karaoke to Dolly Parton's "Working Nine to Five." The youngest girl brought her boyfriend Alex, who'd never been to France before. She is an aspiring actress and will be dancing at the upcoming Olympic ceremonies in London (along with 700 others). On the way home she and Alex were treated to an evening at the Moulin Rouge for her 21st birthday. Better than jewelry!
That night at Place Stanislas, the elegant square of Nancy, there was a free outdoor performance of Beethoven's 9th and Etienne, Paul and Fiacre grabbed the chance. I couldnt stop photographing the golden gates, ornate buildings and statuary of the square. At the age of eight I lived in nearby Toul with the US Army, attending French school and friendly with the Mayor's family. I'd visited the mother and daughter years ago just two blocks away. Then the square was a road and a parking lot. Now it is pedestrians only, ringed with outdoor cafes. Paul and I went to ring the bell of my old friend the Mayor's daughter but there was no answer so I left her a note.
There are two buses a day to Nancy from Lanfroicourt and before coming I imagined I would be travelling into town every day but the farm was such fun and did I mention all the children are music-makers especially Maura at the piano. Etienne has a way of falling asleep at the table (like my hard-working farming brother-in-law) and left us at the square for home to receive the sheep early the next morning that would roast on a turning spit all day for the fete. We rendezvoused with the Germans and began searching for a place for dinner but all the restaurants were jammed and we were six. We finally found a fast and cheap Italian place, for we were meeting the Irish contingent to see that evening's sound and light show, on the creation of the Place Stanislas. Paul led us through the medieval neighborhood back to the square for an outstanding laser production of how the Polish prince turned a swampy moat into the beautiful capital of Lorraine. Then to a bar for a round of brew and home to our various beds.
The day of the fete! Maura had made a beautiful fresh flower arrangement. -An old farm building had been transformed with potted trees and long tables, and the youngsters, French and Irish alike, were all dressed up as Vikings, Egyptians or Romans, Etienne in a long white Moroccan gown and briefly, a long black beard...His brother Guy arrived like Caesar, driving a cart with his tiny pony. Maura was sopping juices on the rotating beast, Fiacre bringing out his bagpipes, Phil enjoying the sangria, Alberto the beer, champagne was uncorked...this is what Couchsurfing brought me to!
The pictures tell the story - just be patient!
And I didnt mention the day some of us jumped in the reservoir for a bracing swim though Daisy the pup declined. She ate well that week! The best part for me was Bernie's friendship, learning about her Irish childhood, Ireland, and her adjustment to life in France. I was honored to see her wedding album and snapped a photo of the gorgeous young couple. One morning I didnt see the Irish gang and Gerry told me he'd been "on blanket street" (sleeping in). They were all so friendly to the invading. It was a pleasant relief to converse in English, too. A French hit, The Lakes of Connemara, is still ringing in my head. You can catch it on Youtube.
I did hear from the Toul mayor's daughter, and Etienne's brother Guy gave me a ride in the pony cart and also a ride to Toul, where he too was in the military. He left me at Tourist Information right beside the huge cathedral. I started walking around the village, which is fortified, surrounded by walls and centuries-old bunkers, but no longer smells of coal as it did in the '50's. I thought I recognized the mayor's house. I found the beautiful Place Ronde, where we lived in a two story apartment. The fountain is gone but replaced by loads of flowers and quixotic oversized pastel lawn furniture. I had a coffee au lait and wondered which apartment had been ours.
I reconnoitered the back alleys, which were the entrance to the apartments, since the ground floors were shops. I saw an open door and climbed the steps. Someone was moving out and the moving men let me peek inside and take pictures. It wasn't our place with the spiral staircase but of the same vintage. I was thrilled.
My next task was to find the old school I attended as a frightened eight-year-old entering the first grade with very little knowledge of French. It was girls only, pen and ink, smocks over our clothes, a hole in the ground for a toilet, lunch at home and half days Thursdays and Saturdays. I still have my notebooks and text and the letter from my teacher declining our hospitality. The war had ended ten years ago, why were we still occupying France? Why did we execute the Rosenbergs? There was nothing personal in the rejection and the letter makes sense to me today.
So I was targeting old people who might know where the school was and it worked! Now a school of music and dance, closed for the summer, but I was happy. An older woman, hearing of my quest, told me she loved America. She was from Britanny where the cemeteries are full of American boys who gave their lives so France could be free. We both cried. I'm so ashamed of my countrymen talking of 'surrender monkeys' and 'freedom fries.'
Then I hopped on the bus for Nancy and a rendezvous with the mayor's lovely stylish daughter in her posh apartment. Her friend Lilian was there, an English teacher. Many years ago we rode together to Barcelona. Lilian now has an Algerian husband and his daughters and grandchildren. We ate outside at the Pepinière and walked through the town. On the way back in February I plan to visit these wonderful people again.
No comments:
Post a Comment