Errands shouldn't be this much fun

The vineyards on the walk back from the village to the house with the lake and mountains in the background.

I know everything I did this morning was mundane, but it was so enjoyable. Well the 5 a.m. run to the airport to leave my housemate might not have been on the top of my priority list, but it made me ready for an 8 a.m. date with a young writer friend. We zipped to a nearby café for her renversée (Genevian for café au lait) and raisin bun and my tea and almond croissant. Our discussion might not have been remarkable, her future trip to Barcelona and mine to Italy and next year Iceland, kids, parents, writing, but joy of joys she knew where to get a turkey. Bless Canadians for having Thanksgivings earlier than Americans.

My daughter will be here for Thanksgiving and what started as a nudge from a Brit friend to do the meal, has grown into a major feast with several nationalities to join in. And since dinde (turkeys) are usually sold in parts, I was relieved to order a whole one. When the butcher asked for the date I said 20 November.

“Vous êtes en avance, Madame.”

Of course I am early, I am neurotic about stuff like that, and told him so.

The next stop was my bank. M Buck greeted me warmly. Granted my business isn’t huge, but he treats me like gold, another pleasure of doing business with a co-operative.

The weather today is crystal clear, the bise having blown out the dust in the air. It nibbles my cheeks. Cold like this infuses me with energy.

The vineyards looked a bit forlorn, having been divested of their fruit. Too bad I missed the vendage with pickers wearing plastic buckets on their back that are the same shape as the wicker baskets of olden days. Today, one lone man, with his truck, examined the vines.

I walked to the village centre which is about as opposite to a metropolis as is possible to get. At the mairie I stopped to ask for a train pass. The village hall has daily cards, good for all of Switzerland at the reduced price of 30 CHF, a real bargain, but in limited number.

“Quelle date, Madame?” The man behind the counter sported a Salvador Dali moustache and wore a gray turtle neck sweater, and he reminded me a bit of the writer Robert B. Parker, although less chunky and better looking. All were gone for 24 October, but he offered me one for 29 October. Sadly, I need to be in Bern on the 24th. “Desolee,” he said and he sounded so sincere, I reassured him it wasn’t his fault.

The next stop was the local farmer’s market. Literally. The local farmer comes to the school parking lot to sell his produce. I was thrilled to see beautiful gourds, which will decorate the Thanksgiving table. As I chatted with the farmer’s wife, the woman next to me said that she adored my accent.

“Je le detest,” I told her, “mais merci.” As always it is fun to watch people’s faces when I say I am Swiss. Although the woman had finished her purchases, we continued to chat. I said au revoir to all, and she admitted she stayed just to listen to my accent and especially how I would say au revoir. There was no unkindness in her remarks.

My last stop was the post, but I didn’t have the box key. The postmaster, for whom the term Obsessional Compulsive Disorder was invented, did consent to give me the mail, without checking ID and permission slips. This is progress after three years.

As I ambled back to the house, I realised what fun I had with each encounter of human or scenery. Now I am toasty in the house, a cup of tea at my side, watching the trees jump in the wind as I sit down to write on my novel, on my newsletter. Life is so very, very good.