Fête Votive
Last weekend was the Fête Votive in Mollans, which is probably best translated as the annual village fair. However, it doesn't correspond very well to the English version. True there are a couple of stands of games for kids, hooking plastic ducks or shooting ballons, but there's no cake stall, no cream teas and no vegetable/flower show. Instead there are boules competitions, contested by all comers and many do come from neighbouring villages and towns, and three evenings of music and dancing. The bands weren't up to much but that didn't seem to spoil anyone's enjoyment.
The Fête Votive more or less marks the end of the festival “season” in the village, which begins with Feu de la St Jean on the 23rd June. There is another small festival, the festival of the Rue des Granges, which this year is devoted to the theme of music, but that is quite a small event even by village standards. Of course, there are major arts festivals ongoing in Vaison and Avignon but they don't count as village life.
French And Territory
I was struck once again by a difference between village life here and in England when an unknown (to me) girl turned up at boules the other day. She appeared to be known to Kevyn, Daniel's son, but was certainly not one of his usual retinue of girlfriends. Daniel explained the connection, which was more or less as follows. Daniel had met the girl somewhere and, on hearing her surname, mentioned that he had known soneone of the same name when he was young. This girl turned out to be the grandaughter of Daniel's old friend, whom Daniel hadn't seen since his youth. The old friend was now living in nearby Malaucene.
People here seem much more often to retain connections with their early stamping grounds than I have found to be the case in England. Why? I believe that land ownership could explain it. How often in Enland do we find people who own small plots of land around places where they grew up. Very seldom, I think. In England, I very rarely met anyone who owned any land: a large house and garden perhaps, perhaps even several houses, but not small plots of land. French inheritance law tends to keep land in the family and, unless the land is obviously commercially very valuable, in the family it tends to stay. There is a lot more land in France than in England (which also makes it de facto less likely to be commercially valuable) and if you have a plot or plots of land you naturally tend to retain a connection with that place. That is my explanation, until I get a better one.
Joke
Pizza evenings tend to mean jokes. A bartender in a small village who had exceedingly strong hands used to squeeze lemons and nobody in the village had ever managed to extract another drop of juice from a lemon after he had squeezed it. So he put up a notice in the bar for the benefit over anyone passing through offering a 100 euro prize for a 5 euro stake if anyone could get more juice out of lemon after he had squeezed it. Over the following months several strong men tried but none
succeeded. Then, one day, a rather weedy, besuited individual came into the bar, saw the notice and asked to take up the challenege, much to the amusement of the others in the bar. At first, the barman was reluctant to take the man's five euros. However, the newcomer persisted so in the end the barman took a lemon and, to knowing smiles all round, squeezed the lemon apparently dry. The newcomer then took the squeezed lemon, squeezed hard himself and managed to extract not one but several more drops of juice. Everyone in the bar was astonished; after all, how could such a weedy individual extract more juice than the barman? The newcomer was asked what he did in life to enable him to carry out such a feat? . He replied, “I am a tax inspector”.
jeudi 30 juillet 2009
mardi 21 juillet 2009
Eating And Language
Eating In Company
One of the big differences in my life here to that in England is the number of times I eat with friends. While in England I could probably count on both hands the number of times I ate with friends in a year and those occasions were mostly in restaurants. When friends are even just 30 miles apart, it always seemed to take a significant effort to arrange to meet up and eat. Here it all seems much simpler.
Part of it may be distance, part may be the meal itself. Part of it also must be the love of food and drink and conviviality. Since most of my friends here are within walking distance or a very short car ride, it's just much easier to get together. And since the meals generally mean giving thought to just one dish, it's easy to invite people off the cuff. Starters are easy (Russian salad with egg, some charcuterie and salad, melon), then the main course, then cheese, then fruit or buy a flan or ice cream or, if I'm energetic, do some pancakes. And that happens here always more than once a week.
This week, for example, Steve and Jo came over to eat on Sunday and I did pork chops à la Estremadura. Pretty simple really. Monday, I was going for a pizza evening when two friends emailed to invite me to eat with them: Anita and Pierre Boillot, he an ex-diplomat mostly in the Middle East and south America and she a Louisianan. They had family staying with them, Pierre's sister who had married an Englishman and who are now living 100 miles north of London. Good conversation and a good meal. Tomorrow, Dave and Hazel, friends of Steve and Jo who have rented a neighbouring house, have invited me to eat. And so it goes on................I'm probably due to make another shepherds' pie for Daniel (it always has to be that when he comes) and there are others whom I shall invite to eat once the annual round of grandchildren visiting has passed, when September comes.
It was never like this in England. Is it France, the make-up of the meals or just small village life? And that's not including the numerous invitations to aperos.
Language
When Steve and Jo came over on Sunday we got to talking about language, Steve having been reading Pinker's “The Language Instinct”. So I lent him my copy of “Words And Rules” and the Cambridge Encyclopedia of Languages. Language always seems to be a fertile topic of conversation, even if we are (as we often are) just puzzling over French expressions, similarities and disparities with their English equivalents and their derivations.
It's surprising how often, usually in pizza evening discussions, we discover that French and English expressions have exact equivalents. On the other hand, if the similes/metaphors are obvious and from common life experiences, perhaps it's not so surprising. It's the differences that are more interesting: while we English sometimes have a frog in our throat the French have a cat in theirs. We go for the sound, they go for the feeling. The French actually make a lot of use of cats in colloquialisms; what have cats done to deserve this?
Added to all this is the use of particular words. I feel that that best basis for understanding usage is to try to get at the root meaning of the word (the meaning not the lexicography), which usually involves getting back to the Latin or Greek origin. However, how the French came up with tiring (fatiguer) a salad rather than tossing it still defeats me.
Charles Simonyi at Microsoft tried for years to formulate a language (although he refused to call it such) of what he called “intentions” (meanings?), a formulation that would be computer-language independent. Thus, an intentional object would have a computer language as a method for expressing it. For some time (early 90s) Simonyi would talk about nothing else. It no doubt had its fallout in Microsoft's intermediate language but never really got anywhere (as far as I know). It always struck me as Chomsky-esque territory at its most theoretical and I ventured into that only with the most awful dread.
One of the big differences in my life here to that in England is the number of times I eat with friends. While in England I could probably count on both hands the number of times I ate with friends in a year and those occasions were mostly in restaurants. When friends are even just 30 miles apart, it always seemed to take a significant effort to arrange to meet up and eat. Here it all seems much simpler.
Part of it may be distance, part may be the meal itself. Part of it also must be the love of food and drink and conviviality. Since most of my friends here are within walking distance or a very short car ride, it's just much easier to get together. And since the meals generally mean giving thought to just one dish, it's easy to invite people off the cuff. Starters are easy (Russian salad with egg, some charcuterie and salad, melon), then the main course, then cheese, then fruit or buy a flan or ice cream or, if I'm energetic, do some pancakes. And that happens here always more than once a week.
This week, for example, Steve and Jo came over to eat on Sunday and I did pork chops à la Estremadura. Pretty simple really. Monday, I was going for a pizza evening when two friends emailed to invite me to eat with them: Anita and Pierre Boillot, he an ex-diplomat mostly in the Middle East and south America and she a Louisianan. They had family staying with them, Pierre's sister who had married an Englishman and who are now living 100 miles north of London. Good conversation and a good meal. Tomorrow, Dave and Hazel, friends of Steve and Jo who have rented a neighbouring house, have invited me to eat. And so it goes on................I'm probably due to make another shepherds' pie for Daniel (it always has to be that when he comes) and there are others whom I shall invite to eat once the annual round of grandchildren visiting has passed, when September comes.
It was never like this in England. Is it France, the make-up of the meals or just small village life? And that's not including the numerous invitations to aperos.
Language
When Steve and Jo came over on Sunday we got to talking about language, Steve having been reading Pinker's “The Language Instinct”. So I lent him my copy of “Words And Rules” and the Cambridge Encyclopedia of Languages. Language always seems to be a fertile topic of conversation, even if we are (as we often are) just puzzling over French expressions, similarities and disparities with their English equivalents and their derivations.
It's surprising how often, usually in pizza evening discussions, we discover that French and English expressions have exact equivalents. On the other hand, if the similes/metaphors are obvious and from common life experiences, perhaps it's not so surprising. It's the differences that are more interesting: while we English sometimes have a frog in our throat the French have a cat in theirs. We go for the sound, they go for the feeling. The French actually make a lot of use of cats in colloquialisms; what have cats done to deserve this?
Added to all this is the use of particular words. I feel that that best basis for understanding usage is to try to get at the root meaning of the word (the meaning not the lexicography), which usually involves getting back to the Latin or Greek origin. However, how the French came up with tiring (fatiguer) a salad rather than tossing it still defeats me.
Charles Simonyi at Microsoft tried for years to formulate a language (although he refused to call it such) of what he called “intentions” (meanings?), a formulation that would be computer-language independent. Thus, an intentional object would have a computer language as a method for expressing it. For some time (early 90s) Simonyi would talk about nothing else. It no doubt had its fallout in Microsoft's intermediate language but never really got anywhere (as far as I know). It always struck me as Chomsky-esque territory at its most theoretical and I ventured into that only with the most awful dread.
lundi 20 juillet 2009
Artists, Apricots and Bastille Day
Bastille Day
July 14th was duly celebrated in the village with a bit of flag waving and, much more importantly, an extremely agreeable evening of alfresco entertainment in front of the Bar du Pont. The centre of the village was blocked to traffic, the Bar put on a meal of lamb chops, chips, cheese and ice cream and the chairs and tables in the Place Banche Cour in front of the Bar gradually swelled with people who had simply come to drink, listen, maybe dance and generally socialise, around 300 of them packed into the tiny square.
It's one of my favourite evenings, along with the Feu de la St Jean, because all ages come. The entertainment this year was a very basic band and a surprisingly good girl singer. It's amazing what an atmosphere you can conjure up with a squeeze box, a piano, a bit of percussion, a good singer and the right tunes. The entertainment started, the statutory Provencal half-hour late, with the similarly statutory Marseillaise, and continued until after midnight. I ate, drank, chatted, wandered among the tables seeing friends and then engaged in my favourite sport of people watching. Everyone seemed relaxed and happy and the night was pleasantly warm without being too sultry. A lovely evening.
Artists In The Streets
The weekend, the third in July, is when artists both local and from various parts of France, display their paintings in the streets of the mediaeval part of the village. I didn't wander round them this year. Usually, I go to the Mairie to get myself a costune and take part in the parade through the village of some 60 of us all dressed in costumes dating from the Middle Ages through to the 18th century. This year however, Pierre Dieux, who organises the parade wanted a year off so there was no parade; plenty of visitors, though, with cars parked all round the village.
Previous years walking through the old village in procession have taught me that unfortunately there is seldom much work of any originality among the paintings displayed. Whilst nothing descends to the extreme banality of the classic large-eyed boy/girl with a tear in one-eye, a very large proportion consist of “typical” Provence scenes (fields of lavender/sunflowers, dotted with the odd cabin roofed with semi-circular tiles). The prices posted for these works show more imagination than the paintings themselves, a triumph of hope over expectation. This, despite he fact that there are three prizes of various sorts on offer. I find it all rather depressing and would much rather gaze into the studio window next door to admire the work of my artist neighbour, Florence Gosset.
Unfortunately too, the entertainment on offer in the evening, in the 14th of July square, behind the Mairie, was similarly banal. Posters proclaimed high-kicking girls in exotic feathered costumes, bare-breasted too. It's not my preferred form of entertainment but a good show of the sort can be enjoyable. Two girls alone, though, struggle to provide the same elan that a chorus line can (-can). The crooners, male and female, were just that and the songs uninspired. One singer did get her tits out (appeared in a transparent bra) but the effect was sleazy, almost obscene, in that there appeared no reason for it. The idea, presumably, was to titillate (excuse the pun) but the effect (on me) was almost the opposite.
Nonetheless, since the entertainment was free it is hard to quibble too much and I quite enjoyed myself sitting watching people as much as the stage. And most people seemed to be enjoying themselves. The sky helped, turning at one stage to a deep velvet blue. Really, the skies in Provence have to be seen to be believed. However, I decided that an hour of the entertainment was enough and left before the grand finale(?).
Almost Clochemerle
I commented previously on the beautiful stone wall built to hide the wheelie bins for our street. Ah, but there was a problem, almost a Clochemerle moment. The workmen who built the wall moved the bins originally; they had to in order to start work. But whose job was it to move them back behind the new wall? The workmen had long gone and it wasn't the job of the binmen. The matter probably had to be referred to the commune for arbitration. However, my neighbour Jean-Marc, simply took the job on himself, since the bins were then parked in front of his house, and moved the bins the 20 yards to their original position. It was brave of him: there could have been a binman strike, a dispute over commune power usurped and heaven knows what but all is calm in the street this morning so presumably the matter is resolved.
Apricots Galore
The apricots here have to be tasted to be believed. Some large as peaches, some red and gold in colour, they are a delight. And there seems to be a glut this year. At the depot by the boules court, small lorries packed with cases of them have been arriving by the dozen to unload and huge pantechnicons blocking the road to take them away. In the markets they are now below a euro a kilo, a very small price for a piece of gastronomic heaven. However, I have already made around 4 kilos of jam and friend Jo has amassed some 42 jars of it so the only thing left to do is eat them while they are still around. Next up are figs!
July 14th was duly celebrated in the village with a bit of flag waving and, much more importantly, an extremely agreeable evening of alfresco entertainment in front of the Bar du Pont. The centre of the village was blocked to traffic, the Bar put on a meal of lamb chops, chips, cheese and ice cream and the chairs and tables in the Place Banche Cour in front of the Bar gradually swelled with people who had simply come to drink, listen, maybe dance and generally socialise, around 300 of them packed into the tiny square.
It's one of my favourite evenings, along with the Feu de la St Jean, because all ages come. The entertainment this year was a very basic band and a surprisingly good girl singer. It's amazing what an atmosphere you can conjure up with a squeeze box, a piano, a bit of percussion, a good singer and the right tunes. The entertainment started, the statutory Provencal half-hour late, with the similarly statutory Marseillaise, and continued until after midnight. I ate, drank, chatted, wandered among the tables seeing friends and then engaged in my favourite sport of people watching. Everyone seemed relaxed and happy and the night was pleasantly warm without being too sultry. A lovely evening.
Artists In The Streets
The weekend, the third in July, is when artists both local and from various parts of France, display their paintings in the streets of the mediaeval part of the village. I didn't wander round them this year. Usually, I go to the Mairie to get myself a costune and take part in the parade through the village of some 60 of us all dressed in costumes dating from the Middle Ages through to the 18th century. This year however, Pierre Dieux, who organises the parade wanted a year off so there was no parade; plenty of visitors, though, with cars parked all round the village.
Previous years walking through the old village in procession have taught me that unfortunately there is seldom much work of any originality among the paintings displayed. Whilst nothing descends to the extreme banality of the classic large-eyed boy/girl with a tear in one-eye, a very large proportion consist of “typical” Provence scenes (fields of lavender/sunflowers, dotted with the odd cabin roofed with semi-circular tiles). The prices posted for these works show more imagination than the paintings themselves, a triumph of hope over expectation. This, despite he fact that there are three prizes of various sorts on offer. I find it all rather depressing and would much rather gaze into the studio window next door to admire the work of my artist neighbour, Florence Gosset.
Unfortunately too, the entertainment on offer in the evening, in the 14th of July square, behind the Mairie, was similarly banal. Posters proclaimed high-kicking girls in exotic feathered costumes, bare-breasted too. It's not my preferred form of entertainment but a good show of the sort can be enjoyable. Two girls alone, though, struggle to provide the same elan that a chorus line can (-can). The crooners, male and female, were just that and the songs uninspired. One singer did get her tits out (appeared in a transparent bra) but the effect was sleazy, almost obscene, in that there appeared no reason for it. The idea, presumably, was to titillate (excuse the pun) but the effect (on me) was almost the opposite.
Nonetheless, since the entertainment was free it is hard to quibble too much and I quite enjoyed myself sitting watching people as much as the stage. And most people seemed to be enjoying themselves. The sky helped, turning at one stage to a deep velvet blue. Really, the skies in Provence have to be seen to be believed. However, I decided that an hour of the entertainment was enough and left before the grand finale(?).
Almost Clochemerle
I commented previously on the beautiful stone wall built to hide the wheelie bins for our street. Ah, but there was a problem, almost a Clochemerle moment. The workmen who built the wall moved the bins originally; they had to in order to start work. But whose job was it to move them back behind the new wall? The workmen had long gone and it wasn't the job of the binmen. The matter probably had to be referred to the commune for arbitration. However, my neighbour Jean-Marc, simply took the job on himself, since the bins were then parked in front of his house, and moved the bins the 20 yards to their original position. It was brave of him: there could have been a binman strike, a dispute over commune power usurped and heaven knows what but all is calm in the street this morning so presumably the matter is resolved.
Apricots Galore
The apricots here have to be tasted to be believed. Some large as peaches, some red and gold in colour, they are a delight. And there seems to be a glut this year. At the depot by the boules court, small lorries packed with cases of them have been arriving by the dozen to unload and huge pantechnicons blocking the road to take them away. In the markets they are now below a euro a kilo, a very small price for a piece of gastronomic heaven. However, I have already made around 4 kilos of jam and friend Jo has amassed some 42 jars of it so the only thing left to do is eat them while they are still around. Next up are figs!
vendredi 10 juillet 2009
In Our Street
Street Party
The first Sunday in July is the day of the street party. Those who live in the rue du Faubourg like to think they're a bit special, more outgoing, friendly and cosmopolitan than the rest of the villagers. And it's certainly true that we're an outgoing and friendly crowd. The street party is a chance to demonstrate this and no other street in the village has its own party. Normally, the street is blocked off to traffic by barriers supplied by the Mairie but these were all in use elsewhere this year so we blocked off the street with cars.
A few years ago frinds as well as inhabitants of the street were invited and numbers rose to nearly 100 but some of the residents objected to the friends so it is just those living in the street at the time who can now attend. There were 56 of us this year. Everybody brings a dish of some sort or some drink and we all share.
Just as we were about to put up the tables the heavens opened and a thunder storm broke. Fortunately it lasted only an hour so we were able to proceed as usual slightly later than planned. I made the mistake of offering Jean-Pierre, who was sitting next to me, a Calvados at the end of the meal. Other empty glasses were quickly presented and three quarters of the contents of the bottle immediately disappeared. I'll make sure I have less than a full bottle to offer next year!
Goodbye To Clochemenle Moments
There have been Clochemerle moments, mentioned previously, when people from the houses around have gathered outside the wash house to discuss what can be done about the wheelie bins across the road from me. Petitions to the Mairie have followed and at last seem to have borne fruit. The bins are now hidden behind a new stone wall. When things get done here, they aren't done by halves. A foundation about a foot thick was laid and breeze block walls, with two openings for the dustmen, were built up on it. These in turn have been covered in rendering at the back and faced with stone in front. It certainly looks better and the stone faced wall in front is actually rather attractive. So no more Clochemerle moments.
Petunias
Petunias can be fickle and mine have certainly not flourished this year as in previous years. The result is that the balcony and hanging baskets don't look anywhere near as eye-catching as they should. I'm wondering whether to persevere with a sub-standard display or whether to replace them; but with what? The obvious replacements are geraniums but I regard red ones, at least, as something of a cliché to be avoided. Whatever I do this year I think I shall plant something other than petunias on the balcony and in the hanging baskets next year.
The first Sunday in July is the day of the street party. Those who live in the rue du Faubourg like to think they're a bit special, more outgoing, friendly and cosmopolitan than the rest of the villagers. And it's certainly true that we're an outgoing and friendly crowd. The street party is a chance to demonstrate this and no other street in the village has its own party. Normally, the street is blocked off to traffic by barriers supplied by the Mairie but these were all in use elsewhere this year so we blocked off the street with cars.
A few years ago frinds as well as inhabitants of the street were invited and numbers rose to nearly 100 but some of the residents objected to the friends so it is just those living in the street at the time who can now attend. There were 56 of us this year. Everybody brings a dish of some sort or some drink and we all share.
Just as we were about to put up the tables the heavens opened and a thunder storm broke. Fortunately it lasted only an hour so we were able to proceed as usual slightly later than planned. I made the mistake of offering Jean-Pierre, who was sitting next to me, a Calvados at the end of the meal. Other empty glasses were quickly presented and three quarters of the contents of the bottle immediately disappeared. I'll make sure I have less than a full bottle to offer next year!
Goodbye To Clochemenle Moments
There have been Clochemerle moments, mentioned previously, when people from the houses around have gathered outside the wash house to discuss what can be done about the wheelie bins across the road from me. Petitions to the Mairie have followed and at last seem to have borne fruit. The bins are now hidden behind a new stone wall. When things get done here, they aren't done by halves. A foundation about a foot thick was laid and breeze block walls, with two openings for the dustmen, were built up on it. These in turn have been covered in rendering at the back and faced with stone in front. It certainly looks better and the stone faced wall in front is actually rather attractive. So no more Clochemerle moments.
Petunias
Petunias can be fickle and mine have certainly not flourished this year as in previous years. The result is that the balcony and hanging baskets don't look anywhere near as eye-catching as they should. I'm wondering whether to persevere with a sub-standard display or whether to replace them; but with what? The obvious replacements are geraniums but I regard red ones, at least, as something of a cliché to be avoided. Whatever I do this year I think I shall plant something other than petunias on the balcony and in the hanging baskets next year.
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