A Nine Hour Train Ride Isn't Wasted

Rather than change trains I took a direct Paris-Argelès train leaving from Gare de Austerlitz, forgetting it is the long way round and that it will add three hours to the trip. It is longer than a Genève-Newark flight. One of the things that I like about train travel, besides the scenery is that time is suspended.

However, the trip became more. The usual nice parts of train trips existed, a friendly woman to chat with, the inevitable orange that I have decided it mandatory. I cannot think of the last time I took a train trip that did not include the smell of an orange that someone in my car peeled.

Limoges…this is not far from Michel’s farm. He is a former lover sadly also a former friend and his family owns a wonderful farm outside the city. Even after several visits, I was still finding rooms. Memories to take out and smile at:
--Watching the farmer next door salt a new born calf so his mother would lick harder
--Michel’s mother asking how my dogs liked their grade A steak cooked. I suspected if I had said flambéed in Cognac, she would have done it.
--Long multi-coursed meals on the terrace over looking the woods. Even when we started at seven, his mother would still be serving courses when the stars came out at ten each better tasting than the one before..
--Trips to a nearby pond, etc.
--A Bach concert in a church
--A fun fair and learning that cotton candy was called my father’s beard
--rushing into the woods with the kids to see their discovery of a four-foot anthill

Michel’s sister Elisabeth owns the farm now, and I do have an invitation. Someday I will go.

Montabon: Michel and I were driving through when my Japanese Chin Amadeus decided to jump out the window. I held his leash, screamed. Michel slammed on the breaks as I hauled Ama back into the car. Although my vet says no, I wondered if Ama’s neck problems started from almost being hung that day.

Brive: At a museum that didn’t allow dogs, we checked Albert and Amadeus while we looked at music boxes, including a life-sized one of a four-piece jazz group.

Toulouse: Even before I lived there with Michel and his kids, Fanny and Raphaël, I had visited often. I resisted the temptation to get off the train to call Françoise, who I call my sister without borders. She remakes old books by hand tapping on letters in gold leaf. An artist. Her daughter has had a liver transplant and has visited me in Switzerland. Her son spent part of a summer with me in Boston.

Canal du Midi: I’ve biked up and down, passing boats ambling along the water. I notice there are now wind farms in the background. Good on France.

Carcassonne: I started my research for my novel Heretics and Lovers here, discovered cassoulet, a dish of beans, duck, sausage and whatever else happens to be near. Fanny and I stopped there one time, eating at a restaurant with a fire for a cold February day and an Irish folk singer that serenaded us.

As we continued, fruit trees appeared in full blossom, and trees were budding. Not only was this a ride where I could take out good memories, smile and tuck them back in my pocket, but I could pass from winter into spring. As I age, I like this reverse direction.

In between memories I read, Martha F, a French novel in the first person from Frau Freud’s point of view by Nicolle Rosen. It is riveting, but I can only read riveting French books. Part of me feels smug that even by page 154 I have not had to look up a single word. I eat English books like M&Ms, but I savor French books like I do hand-made Swiss chocolate, a piece at a time over a long period.

I tell people, intellectually learning French is the hardest thing I have done. I have no gift for languages and was thrilled to discover that my bad accent is partially explained by my inability to differentiate certain tones and sounds. I prefer that to thinking I am stupid. Thus every time I read a French book, I give myself a pat on the back. I say it to the woman next to me, but she politely says I speak French well, she can understand everything.

The covers of French books interest me or the covers of any country’s books. Many French books that I have bought (especially from the book stalls along the Seine) are plain beige paper not unlike construction paper, a red rectangle that makes an internal frame with the title inside. No fair maidens with handsome men lurking behind them. No dramatic graphics, just the title, author and publisher.

I have found that publishers in England and the US might have two different covers. The English often like paintings where Americans often go for portraits.

I am curious what the cover of my novel due out in October will be like. Chickpea Lover has a woman’s hand picking up a chickpea. The Russian edition has a cartoon woman with a green facial mask, her hair wrapped in a towel. She is holding a peapod in her hand. I assume from that Russians do not have chickpeas, but I am unable to check the translation. I don’t even understand the letters.

Martha F is plain beige but there is a jigsaw puzzle not much bigger than two inche squares with Frau Freud’s photo and two pieces out to the side. The rest of the cover is plain beige construction paper.

The train trip, like this blog, is a jumble of conversations, sights, memories and reading. Nine hours, not wasted because I enjoyed every minute.