The P. Word
Provence Traps and Initiates the UnwaryBy Renee Rosch LewisiUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2009 Renee Rosch Lewis
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4401-8734-6Contents
CHAPTER ONE The Provence Thing.................................................1CHAPTER TWO The Preparations Begin.............................................7CHAPTER THREE Fine-tuning the Plans to Edith Piaf..............................15CHAPTER FOUR Happy Anniversary.................................................19CHAPTER FIVE And So It Goes....................................................23CHAPTER SIX The Adventure Begins...............................................27CHAPTER SEVEN We're Off........................................................31CHAPTER EIGHT On French Soil...................................................35CHAPTER NINE Meeting La Logeuse................................................43CHAPTER TEN The First Night in Provence........................................47CHAPTER ELEVEN Orientation.....................................................51CHAPTER TWELVE So This Is the Fresh Market.....................................57CHAPTER THIRTEEN Ordinary Life.................................................63CHAPTER FOURTEEN Hitting the Roads.............................................67CHAPTER FIFTEEN The Sightseeing Begins.........................................75CHAPTER SIXTEEN To the Roman Ruins.............................................81CHAPTER SEVENTEEN Some Expert Advice...........................................89CHAPTER EIGHTEEN St. Remy and Les Baux.........................................91CHAPTER NINETEEN Two Inventories...............................................101CHAPTER TWENTY On the Road Again...............................................107CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE A Day of Rest, Almost.......................................115CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO On the Trail of Peter Mayle.................................119CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE Just Regular Living.......................................125CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR Dinner with Cecile, Laurence, and Yuri.....................131CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE The Wind Down and the Wind Up..............................139CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX Back in the Fast Lane.......................................143
Chapter One
The Provence Thing
Maybe it was dinner at Woody's, maybe it was our impending anniversary, or maybe it was Margaret's ultimatum that weakened my resolve. But the fact is that I finally gave in, with the proviso that I would take the backseat and leave all the planning and details to her.
Although Woody and I lived only three miles from one another and had been friends since high school, we saw each other sparingly-at large cocktail parties, at the drugstore on Sundays to pick up the New York Times, and once or twice a year at each other's home for dinner. As men go, I guess you could say he was my best friend. And for the most part, our wives got along too.
This particular evening, as soon as the car door slammed and we were still waving good-bye after enjoying a chili dinner at Woody's, Margaret sighed, and I knew what was coming. To head her off, I decided to become defensive before we were out of the driveway.
"It's a guy thing," I explained to Margaret. "He talks about fishing in Montana, and I talk about renting a house in Provence."
"But you two have been talking about taking these trips for twenty years," she protested in an exasperated voice. "How can you stand it? Every time we get together, it's always part of the conversation. If you don't find it boring, I do."
Since her early retirement three months prior, she was testier than usual. Maybe she had more time to be. Were we spending too much time together? I'd always heard that this retirement togetherness thing had its down side. Perhaps I was starting to experience it.
Over the years, we had learned that it was best to let things go and not follow up on outbursts, unless the topic was really important. So, the next morning, I was relieved to find that Provence had apparently been forgotten; I would have a reprieve until Woody and I were together again and Margaret was there to hear, as she called it, "the same old pipe dream."
As a result of Margaret's "new life" since retirement, the pile of books she'd been accumulating for years had slowly diminished in size. She was a reader. After her outburst about my Provence pipe dream, neither one of us mentioned the P word until several days later, when the topic resurfaced after Margaret pulled A Year in Provence, by Peter Mayle, from her pile of books.
I kept my distance and didn't acknowledge what she was reading. Nor did I ask how she liked the book. I had learned, or so I thought, how to make a hot topic a dead topic. Once in a while, though, I would hear her chuckle or actually laugh, loudly enough to make me wonder how a travel book could be so funny.
It's an odd thing, but Woody had never asked me why I wanted to go to Provence or why I had an interest in the area, just as I had never asked him, "Why Montana?" So I was surprised when Margaret, one morning over breakfast, asked, "Why do you want to go to Provence?"
The topic had been part of my conversational repertoire for so long that I couldn't remember what I said when people asked me that question. Actually, I don't think anyone had ever asked me that question. When talking to a new acquaintance, I would always just wait for a conversation lull before casually saying, "I'd like to go to Provence," or sometimes, "I'm thinking of spending some time in Provence. Have you been there?" It was a handy social crutch, certainly far more adventurous than saying, "Wow, is it hot today," or, "When will it stop raining?"
It was, I found over time, a surprisingly good way to spark up a conversation. Most people would take right off telling me about how, on their trip to France, they didn't get to Provence, but wanted to go on their next trip. Frequently someone would leap into an enthusiastic monologue about his trip there, and I could just sip my scotch, pop another hors d'oeuvre, and nod now and then-totally off the conversational hook while undoubtedly being perceived as an exciting conversationalist. This script served me well, without fail, for several years.
With Woody, however, because he wished he could fly-fish in Montana, my Provence script was more than a conversational tool. It was "a guy thing," as I told Margaret. I would mention great food, good wine, sizing up the French women, and we'd just shoot the breeze the way we would when we were talking about sports or new restaurants.
But now Margaret was asking me to justify my love for an area I had never visited, read very little about, and could barely find on a map. Rather than answer her, I pulled out my never-fail conversational script and said, "Now that you've read Peter Mayle's book, you can see why I think we'd like Provence. What do you think about taking a trip there?"
I complimented myself on how coolly I threw in the "we" part and realized that maybe she was just really peeved about this Provence thing-as even I had begun calling it-because I had never put her into my script or mentioned to her that I'd like us to go together. Even conversational ploys have to be tweaked once in a while. I wondered if Woody ever put Elaine into the Montana script.
Surprisingly, it worked. Margaret took off on the subject with great enthusiasm. It was like being at a cocktail party. I reached for some more bacon, settled into my chair at the table, sipped my orange juice with plenty of pulp, and pretended to listen to her, all the time planning what I was going to do that day.
She told me one anecdote after another from the Mayle book and began spouting off the names of towns I had never heard before: Avignon, Arles, St. Remy, Aix, Bonnieux, Menerbes, and on and on. Her enthusiasm was rampant. I was running out of food to eat. Furthermore, the bathroom was calling. But I hated to interrupt what was the longest breakfast conversation we'd had in years. Actually, it wasn't exactly a conversation; I felt as if I were married to a travel agent.
I thanked God when the phone rang. It was our daughter, Jeannie. After a few obligatory salutations, I said, "Your mother's right here, dying to talk with you."
Mouthing the words, "Hardware store," I took off, making a pit stop at the bathroom before I left. When I returned thirty minutes later, Margaret was still on the phone, giving Jeannie the same spiel I had heard at breakfast. Good, I could find some solitude watering the garden before watching the U.S. Open on TV.
Ten minutes later, however, I heard the screen door bang. Oh no, Margaret was coming out, no doubt to talk some more about what was rapidly becoming her favorite subject.
"Jeannie tells me that I'm probably the last person she knows to read A Year in Provence," she said. "I'm surprised you didn't recommend it to me after you finished reading it. I wouldn't have been so critical of you if you had. Now I can understand your enchantment with Provence."
Actually, I'd never read the book. I was the recipient of an apology I didn't deserve and was getting off the hook for the Provence thing at the same time. This was a good morning. However, I almost fell face forward into the garden when Margaret said, "Let's go. Let's do it."
"Do what?" I said, afraid that I already knew the answer.
How could she have metamorphosed into a Francophile so quickly, when she had just found the Provence thing less than twenty-four hours ago?
"I'll take French lessons and get online to find us a rental house there," she said. We'll plan a long, long trip. You'll finally get to cross Provence off your wish list."
Margaret would never be one to stand accused of lacking enthusiasm for anything. I don't have a wish list, at least not one in writing, but I know that Margaret probably does since she revels in reducing everything to lists, including my watering the garden and getting a sprinkler head at the hardware store. Already that morning I'd done two things on the list she called "Andy's WTBD list."
I couldn't believe it; I'd created a monster. Furthermore, she was living off my script. I'd been contented to have the Provence thing as my own, and nobody of any significance to me had ever shared it. That's one of the things I liked about it, I guess. No one had ever said to me, "Great idea, let's go together."
Even Woody and Elaine had never mentioned joining us; Woody had his Montana thing, and as far as I knew, Elaine had never shared his interest in that particular part of the country.
For the next several days, Margaret paraphrased Peter Mayle's adventures in such tiresome detail that you would think they were personal friends. She related problems with the house they'd bought in Provence, detailed the plumbing issues, described the neighbors, discussed their wines and menus, and occasionally she would turn to certain dog-eared pages and read passages aloud. Ordinarily I would have said, "Why not use a bookmark instead of mutilating the book that way," but this time I didn't, nor did I object to her leaving the open book on its stomach even though these are two habits that I deplore immensely since I like treating books well. After a few days, when I couldn't stand it anymore, I said in my most diplomatic fashion, "It's such a good reference book, let's use a bookmark."
For once, Margaret didn't roll her eyes as she usually does. In fact, she tore off some newspaper to create a makeshift bookmark. This Provence thing was giving me new power, even though, thanks to Peter Mayle, she would clearly soon know more about Provence than I did. It was, I thought, better to just let things go until her enthusiasm waned. After a few weeks, the Provence thing would again be totally mine.
Chapter Two
The Preparations Begin
After a few weeks, one end of the dining room table was groaning under the weight of two coffee-table-sized books on Provence, along with an enormous amount of Triple A material, including maps, two French dictionaries, French for Dummies, a Michelin guide, books on France in general and Provence in particular, a guide to the euro complete with a euro calculator, yellow pads, pens, travel brochures on barge trips, river boat excursions, big cruise trips, and ground-tour itineraries. My Provence thing had come to life in the form of clutter, fifty pounds of it.
Margaret's enthusiasm had not diminished one bit, which was so astounding that I sometimes wondered if she was putting me on. I finally decided that she simply had too much time on her hands. Besides, this was working to my advantage. I could do the daily crossword puzzle without interruption while she pored through all the material she was accumulating. It was a good thing we were eating in the kitchen and not entertaining.
Once Margaret began French lessons, my quiet time was over, however; when she wasn't listening to French tapes and repeating French phrases, making sounds that were as grating as those we had endured when Jeannie had taken violin lessons, she sat on the living room rug making lists. I wasn't sure where this was going. My only solace was walking Spooky, our eight-year-old Spitz. Spooky and I were keeping out of the way.
Whenever we'd drive more than a few miles away, Margaret would pop in the French tapes and we'd repeat a few sentences after Professor Boucher. Margaret's accent was really quite good, but she couldn't remember the words, which made us a good pair since my accent was horrible but I could remember the words. Sometimes it felt as though we were developing a ventriloquist act.
I was still convinced that Margaret's current passion was just a phase and would soon dwindle when something new came along. I told myself just to hang in there.
One evening, Elaine and Woody dropped by for drinks and hamburgers cooked on the grill in the backyard. Needless to say, we weren't entertaining in the dining room anymore. That had become the command headquarters for the French project.
I dreaded the question, "Well, what's new?" because with that cue, Margaret took off about our plans to visit Provence. We were, she said, renting a house and a car in order to immerse ourselves in the culture of Provence. I wanted to say, "We?" the way I did when Margaret announced that "we" would wallpaper the kitchen or that "we" had decided to sod the lawn. I wanted to say, "What do you mean, we?"
After all those years of saying, "I'd love to visit Provence," I was now at a loss for words. Feigning an expression of joyous anticipation, I asked myself if she was serious or simply calling my bluff.
Getting passports was at the top of Margaret's list. I lobbied for waiting to complete the applications until we knew for certain that we were leaving the country, fully expecting that they would expire before we actually took the step, but when I said as much, Margaret, who was an expert on all topics, curtly responded that passports are good for ten years. "We'll be gone and back way before they expire. In fact, we'll probably be back and forth across the pond several times before we renew them."
I had created a monster.
As I said before, Margaret, the Provencal guru, had decided that the best way to really see Provence was to rent a house, and I confess that got my attention. As many times as I've said that I'd love to go to Provence, I never imagined living there, even temporarily.
"A house? Why do we need a whole house?" I demanded.
"It doesn't have to be a big house," she explained, "just a small house in a French village so we can walk to the fresh market, have lunch in a caf, and get a baguette every day, with good unpasteurized cheese ..."
"Unpasteurized cheese?" I exclaimed, deciding that it was time to get off the bench. "I'm not jeopardizing my health eating unsafe French food."
"From all my readings," Margaret replied patiently, as though talking to an unreasonable child, "this is the best tasting cheese and not available in our U.S. markets."
Clearly, the magnitude of the preparations had gone too far. Now, not only were we going "across the pond" to eat unpasteurized cheese and buy our daily bread, but we were actually going to live in a house!
My idea of visiting Provence was being met at the airport by a tour guide who would have made all the travel plans for me, someone to whom I could simply turn myself over, compliant fellow that I am, and be shuttled about, knowing just enough French to ask, "How much?" and, "Where's the men's room?" and say, "Thank you," "Hello," and, "Good-bye." That's it, the end. I didn't have the time to learn more French, nor did I want to. I had to water the new lawn and walk Spooky. I'd gladly see the sights, ask the guides some questions, eat in great restaurants, read the International Herald Tribune, and come back home. A single week would be quite sufficient for me to improve my social script. What was all this business about actually renting a car and driving around in it? And in a foreign country, too.
In the meantime, the spirit of conviviality was rapidly disappearing. Clearly, it was time to have a serious discussion. It occurred to me that perhaps the way to attack this was to enlist Jeannie to pooh-pooh the whole idea. After all, wouldn't she be worried about us? Think of the expense of all those long-distance phone calls.
My opportunity came. Jeannie called while Margaret was out shopping for some good walking shoes for the trip. Assuming my best put-upon voice, I ran all my concerns by her, but Jeannie didn't bite. Even worse, she thought the idea was fantastic. In fact, she actually said, "This is something you always wanted to do, Dad. Think how long you've been talking about this. You and Mom are both relatively young and in good health. Just do it!"
She even volunteered to take Spooky for the duration.
I felt depression coming on. Margaret was now online copying information about rental houses in Provence, complete with pictures and square footage. After studying the material in great detail, I decided that I was ready to attack.
"I need a bedroom and bath all on one floor," I told her, knowing that I was on safe territory in this regard since all of the houses she was considering were two-storied. "No going up and down stairs at night."
Undaunted by my "middle-age problem," as she put it, Margaret went back online and, a few days later, presented me with three houses that met my most preliminary needs.
"What size are the beds?" I asked her next. "They look small to me. After all, we've been sleeping in a king-size bed for at least twenty years."
Margaret's response was unanticipated, and not entirely welcome. "Think how nice it would be to snuggle in a smaller bed," she said cheerfully. "I often think our bed is too big."
This came as a surprise to me, and perhaps she was right. But did it really make sense to go all the way to Provence to sleep in a smaller bed?
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The P. Wordby Renee Rosch Lewis Copyright © 2009 by Renee Rosch Lewis. Excerpted by permission.
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