The Tramantane was blowing, but I could hear the palm trees crackle over the wind as I stepped off the train in Argelès. http://www.argeles-sur-mer.com/ I was back in my Catalan village. Smoke smell from the chimneys hung in the air masking any sea smells from the Mediterranean.
“My nest” is in the grenier or attic of a 500-year old building. No traces of the grain once stored there remain although there are old beams, the original stone wall and a wooden cathedral ceiling, over which I have imposed all the comforts I want or need: mini washer, mini fridge, mini stove and of course a laptop and my printer. I write well in Argelès, probably because it fulfils a lifetime fantasy.
A quick unpack from my two months in the States and I was ready for dinner and headed for Les Flowers. What a battle to decide between salmon with basilica sauce or the magret de canard. The duck won along with a bowl of bubbling cider. The alcohol is less than 2%, but it tasted good.
Saturday is the marché, and I happily chose my spinach, Spanish clementines, mushrooms from the mountain woods on my way to the boulangerie for pave henri, a bread that is neither white or dark, crusty and yeasty. My loaf was still warm from the wood-fed ovens.
Before locking myself into my laptop, I allowed time to revel in village life and catch up on the news.
Eliot, the black and white kitten, who entertained my neighbors with his grape-ball soccer games up and down the street, had disappeared. He was found in the post office, but his owners were fed up with his antics. Babette and Jean-Pierre, owners of the green grocery on the corner, had taken him in to the delight of their cat, Max. Max let Eliot attack him, but when the kitten became too rambunctious Max pinned him between his paws until Eliot calmed down. Often it was a long wait. Eliot stayed on his back with his feet cycling in the air, but unable to right himself. However, two cats were more than Babette wanted, and Eliot found a new home across town.
Christine, the Danish artist and hotel owner, was on a small holiday. Her studio where artists from all over the world come to give lessons and to paint in the south of France, is shuttered. Her assistant, May, who found hotel work fun after retiring as a mid-wife from Scotland, was using the lack of tourists to relax.
The young Belgian woman who works at the cheese shop is doing well. Her partner is still struggling as a freelance journalist.
I left a note on the door of my neighbors who were out. They are renovating a four-story house, and from their terraced roof I can see the sea, the mountains and most of the village.
Madame Fernandez, briefed me on her care of my two plotted plants flanking the entrance of my building that has a total of four tiny apartments.
The young woman where I buy my fresh herbs has almost finished her wedding preparations. She will make a beautiful bride.
Back in “my nest” I am ready to write. Life is good.
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1 comment:
Tender and curious is how I find this human procedure of assigning meaning to things. I am glad you found your cozy nest. For me Argeles was quite a different experience, both from the historical point of view and from the personal. Argeles beach was used as a concentration camp for more than 75.000 Spanish refugees that were seeking for help after the Civil War in the ideologically close France of 30s. Unfortunately, brotherhood can't be applied to their behaviour. So this summer, when I was sitting on that beach, disgusted by the vision of thousands of greasy bodies around me, but healed by the nice landscape, I couldn't help wondering once again, about the meaning of things.
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