Last Minute Friends

I first wrote about this subject the summer before I left for Paris, but I have noticed the phenomenon of "last minute friends" every time I prepare to leave a city. In my last two weeks in Gourdon, I have made more friends than I did in the first three months of my trip. This is partly due to the sunny weather, which invites les Gourdonnais to venture out from winter caves to mingle at local cafes and outdoor markets, but I am starting to believe this must have a psychological aspect as well. I recall meeting and befriending a host of people my last semester at Berkeley. I have close friends that I met in Los Angeles the month before I left for Toulouse. I met my boyfriend just three weeks before leaving Paris. And now, in tiny Gourdon, I am experiencing the same thing. Why do I make friends now, just days before I must leave, so that I only realize how much these people matter to me when it is almost too late to establish a relationship?

I wonder if I am too timid when I first move to a new city. I wonder if I prioritize school and job searching over personal relationships. I wonder if I need the ticking time bomb to reach out to those who matter and schedule book exchanges and wine tours.

(sightseeing with new friends)

After weeks of twiddling my thumbs in a quiet French town, I find my schedule bombarded with going away parties, packing, and last minute homework assignments. For the first time in months, I must juggle a busy social schedule with my responsibilities as a student and with my preparations for the future. It is a well known fact that students procrastinate on schoolwork, but is it possible that we procrastinate when it comes to relationships as well?

The Market in Prayssac and Lunch on a Vineyard

I spent all day yesterday with a group of Canadians who are vacationing in Gourdon. They let me tag along in their rented Picasso and I helped translate in return. We drove about 45 minutes on windy country roads to visit the market in Prayssac, which is held in the square in front of the church. The building strikes me as being unusual; the bell tower is quite slim from the side and the floor plan is a rectangular block instead of a cross. Maybe this church is more recent than the cathedrals one usually sees in this part of France. Or maybe it is Protestant rather than Catholic.

(part of an eel) 

(loose tea)

(this sundial was useless on a foggy day)

(I love it when words are basically the same in French and in English. Voila les artichauts!)

(elections are next week) 

(more tea)

After buying some herbs and fruit, we drove out to wine country. We got a bit lost trying to find the restaurant. While we were pulled over, searching for landmarks and trying to get the GPS to work, a passing car honked wildly then pulled a sharp U-turn and stopped next to us. The driver turned out to be a British woman who had known my Canadian friends for years. Her husband was an American from Redondo Beach. He said he used to live in Pasadena and knows La Crescenta well. What a small world!

The British woman was able to give us directions to our intended destination, Le Caillau, and things went smoothly after that.

 (still too early for much greenery. mustard fields in the distance)

(nice use for old wine crates) 

 

(courtyard in front of the restaurant)

(we believe this used to be the stable)

(merguez sausages, wild rice, and tomato salsa. dessert was apple crumble with ice cream)

(willow tree by the entrance)

First week in Gourdon

I have been living in a tiny French village for the past four months. I have made friends from all over the world, have a favorite jogging route, and often study in the ruins of the old castle on top of the hill. But my first week in Gourdon, in the dark and depressing month of January, was not so happy. I recently came across a journal entry I wrote my third day in Gourdon. What a difference four months makes!

January 14, 2012

I’ve been here three days and I’m already looking for a way out. It’s not that Gourdon isn’t pretty; it’s just that there is nothing here for me. The town is built on a hill with spectacular views of the French countryside on a clear day, but fog loves to cling to the mountain and so the effect is usually ruined. Thus Gourdon’s best feature is its height, but the altitude is responsible for the clouds that ruin the view. Paradoxical.

(sunrise)

As one may find anywhere in France, the dog population of Gourdon matches the human population, one for one. Even in the dead of winter, when a town built for summertime firmly shuts windows and coats, the people are out at all hours of the day, walking their labradors and retrievers and beagles and poodles. The lady who owns the corner market lets her white lab come to work every day. When I go in to buy my milk and zucchini and coke zero, he is there to wag his tail and sniff my basket. I find he is most friendly when I purchase fresh meat.

I am alone most of the day, from 6:30 in the morning to about 7:00 at night. My boyfriend works at a grocery store on the edge of town, and as I have no friends in this part of the world, I keep to myself. Since my days are only vaguely devoted to studying law and job searching, I have plenty of time to enjoy the limited sights of Gourdon. These consist of numerous churches, a library, assorted shops, and old medieval ruins buried in the maze of alleyways that serve as thoroughfares in the heart of Gourdon. There is one main street that loops around the top of the mountain. Twelve minutes are required to circle the entire town, perhaps fifteen if one is walking an inquisitive dog. The first time I took a stroll in Gourdon, I wound back to our house and passed it completely before I realized I was at my starting point. Thus Gourdon’s third notable feature, after the altitude and canine population, is that it is claustrophobia-inducing.

This is why my goal for today is to explore the nether regions of the town. I’m hoping for some excitement.

Later the same day

I flirted with death while on my walk. Also, the sun came out, which was even more eventful. I strolled through town and out into the countryside, following a road that peeled off to the southwest. It meandered through some stunning country houses and fields with mules. I came across three girls playing on a seesaw despite the chill, one ordering the others around in a high-pitched child’s voice. She carried an authority disproportionate to her age. The children were the last people I saw for some time even though I was passing through what appeared to be well-used farmland. Apparently everyone was inside or elsewhere on a Saturday afternoon.

My flirtation with death occurred when I unwisely passed through a tunnel at the same instant that a small, black Peugeot was coming from the other direction. It was the first vehicle I had encountered since leaving Gourdon, and therefore unexpected. The driver, far from making any concession to my presence, accelerated and continued to hog the road. I was once told that French roads are dangerous not because of the terrain, but because of drivers’ blatant disregard for rules of any kind.

It was at this point that I came across signs directing the way to the “Chapel of Our Lady of the Snows”, if my French is not failing me. I crossed a lovely stream that would be too shallow to drown in and came upon the church. I believe the Snow Lady chapel brings the total of religious buildings encountered on my walk to about five. It was surrounded by benches that were designed to allow one to admire the building. The stonework, roof tiling, and stained glass windows were engrossing, but it was irksome to sit with my back to the pretty little stream. I would have preferred a view of both waterway and chapel at the same time. Perhaps someone decided that buildings devoted to God were more important than natural beauty created by Him.

While I was sitting on my bench, alternatively gazing at the church and twisting around awkwardly to watch the stream flow by, three people strolled by on their mandatory early-retirement afternoon promenade. I had put on my knit hat that makes me look more like a boy than a girl, but from the way the two men were staring, they were not confused as to my gender. Leave it to Frenchmen to unashamedly admire females at any time of the day and any stage in life; there are usually one or two men gazing in rapture at the window display of the lingerie shop in town, never mind American girls gazing in surprise and judgment at the peeping Toms in turn. American men pretend not to notice the window displays, even though one assumes they do. I suppose the French get points for honesty.

After my exciting encounter with other life forms, I turned back to town. Climbing the hill was quite a challenge but I was well rewarded when the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, nervous at first, and then gaining enough confidence to banish the mist and beam down on Provence. I saw Gourdon as she is intended to be for the first time. The sun does beautiful things to the golden stones of the houses and churches. The blue sky is the perfect complement to red tile roofs and green gardens. The cathedral crowns Gourdon in triumph and it almost looks as though the town is the source of the soul-warming light instead of its recipient.

It was with these happy thoughts that I entered a small kitchen supplies shop in search of a wooden mixing spoon. The shop owner was unable to help me on my quest, but upon discovering that I was American, she regaled me with a story about a Canadian couple who had fallen in love with Gourdon a decade earlier and only just returned to buy a home. A few minutes earlier I would have smiled indulgently at the thought of falling head over heels for Gourdon. But I suppose it only takes a few minutes to lose one’s heart to a tiny, claustrophobia-inducing, middle-of-nowhere, utterly backward country town, especially when it is glowing from within.

(hotel and clock tower in town.)