Les Grands Fromages

Mr Grumpy drew the short straw today, his stall being the furthest from the centre of the market which now was completely removed from the Place de La Republic which, naturellement, had to make place for the weekend festivities. However, the Saturday crowd at the Vignette did have better scenery because the olive seller had set up shop on the opposite pavement and therefore no view being blocked immediately in front of the pavement tables. Clearly, some pragmatic decision making with the current tenant in the Marie (right next to the Vignette) had been made between the two Saturdays. The down side was however that in the interests of bodily health, safety and well being, all being fairly modern concepts here, the road had been blocked off to traffic. For this reason the weekly instalment of “L'adventure entre l'auto et l'amour”, starring “jeune homme” and “femme fatale” would have to postponed to next Saturday. Probably the reason why half the tables were unoccupied. I doubt the Patron was too concerned in view of the cash till probably demanding overtime payments and a mini break by Tuesday morning.

Returning from the bank (Celine, right on cue, came hurtling out of her office wearing a short purple dress, brown high heeled shoes and.... a new hair style – the Meg Ryan shaggy dog look), I walked into the battle between the Gendarmes and Ali Baba or was it the opposite?

Ali Baba runs the town's premier gourmet Kebab eating house after the previous Italian “Oh My Sunshine” had been forced to close down in mysterious circumstances and shop remaining unoccupied for quite some time. He is of medium build, a somewhat stocky man, his nationality being reflected in the colours of his clothes – red ¾ length trousers and a white t-shirt and sandals. His short shaven hair, darker complexion gives him a meatier appearance, his glasses giving him a somewhat intellectual note.

When he first opened his eatery, Ali Baba displayed his affluent success by driving a Renault Vel Satis, an individualistic car, capturing an individualists imagination but not the general population's so production was halted. Strangely, Ali Baba seems to have exchanged his French wheels for German ones and moving up the car ladder at the same time. Looking at his number plate, his new car came from the Departement Cote D'or (21) with Dijon being the centre of administration. Dijon of the mustard fame. He didn't seem to have had the time or the opportunity until now to get it re-registered here in our Departement.

Gendarmes in France seem to work in groups of three. They drive around in mini vans, the Gendarme sitting in the passenger seat entrusted with the task of operating quite a large flat screen tablet PC steered by an over dimensioned joy stick which probably is linked to the nation's Gremlin database. The third one sits in the back, probably bored and out of work due to the absence of “paperwork”, the computer having been introduced to make things more efficient and so now joins the other two for the ride and potential excitement. Today he won the jack pot, struck gold, earned his lunch so to speak.

Crossing the Place outside our house, I saw Ali Baba swerve his Teutonic wheels into a vacant parking space, opposite his gourmet cave and in front of M. Rebert's cake shop, where they were already 6 deep, clamouring for his delicacies. The Gendarme's van stopped just at his side and they all climbed out and surrounded Ali Baba's car. Today's A-team was a mixed affair. Mme La Boss, a woman was assisted by two male colleagues, one being allowed to operate the space invaders gremlins program and the other in for the ride. The constellation might have been intimidating to the ordinary person however not so for Ali Baba. Mme La Boss had the physique to give her status and the due respect it naturally commanded. In profile, her legs were Y-shaped, starting small and narrow at the ankles but gradually expanding to a frighteningly wide diameter at her hips. These proportions were perfectly and impressively matched from behind and her torso was suitably voluminous enough to be comfortably well supported. Her head was large, roundish and conveyed a “I do not do humour” message. The word dainty did not immediately spring to mind and clearly, Mme Le Boss expected to be obeyed at all times and in all circumstances. The game boy operator and his side kick were mere match sticks. There was no real collegial warmth present in this little party.

Ali Baba was not having a good morning. He got out of his car more or less throwing Mme his wallet, expecting her to extract from it whatever paper she might need, thrust to her a fist full of other papers and continued to speak loudly about whatever injustice he was being accused of. The Saturday crowd at the Tabac next to M. Rebert's were in for a treat. In the local restaurant entertainment ratings war, the Tabac clearly had the advantage over the Vignette. Being a man of food and the priorities dictated by the stomach, Ali Baba, after having more or less flung everything at Mme La Boss, proceeded to cross the street with his large bag of onions. He was shouted at to come back but the loud response was that it was imperative that the onions find a less traumatic haven in the confines of his gourmet cave and this was more important than anything else. Meanwhile, one of the assistants in M. Rebert's shop, responsible for handing over mini mouse size portions of nibbles in return for large denomination bank notes was seen darting across the street into the cave, probably to pledge support and solidarity. She darted out again and immediately followed by Ali Baba, seeing an acquaintance let loose a salvo of comments and crossed the street. Mme Le Boss was not amused and made her sentiments clearly known. But Ali Baba, his culture not really accepting female authority, even if in uniform, wasn't playing ball. At this point, les jeunes match sticks joined in the discussion, but of course, their physique was not on the same scale as Mme La Boss, so their authority was not really much on par. But being men, they did get a response, which received a counter response and so the ping pong game continued.

By this time, Mme La Boss strode, no, marched to the van which had been moved some distance away and out of crashing range of cars being driven confused Wilderbeast and the local jeune hommes looking for the elusive femme fatals as their cars were being unfairly redirected down less scenic routes. The space invaders operator must have manipulated the console because Mme La Boss was holed up in the van for considerable time, or searching deeply in to the Gremelin's database with increasing frustration because Ali Baba seemed to have a clear record.

During this time, round after round was being ordered at the Tabac. Another friend of Ali Baba, sensing the injustice being applied entered the discussion with the Gendarmes. A Wilderbeast car with a number plate showing he was from well outside the tourist trap catchment area, but having learnt the logic of French traffic rules, began to apply them promptly at the point where they did not apply. The convoy of cars which had begun to bank up in Mad Alley, sending emission values sky high there, were probably thankful to be let into fresh air and proceeded to make a hasty escape. A woman from another Departement near Paris thought this to be a good idea and repeated the problem. However, her kindness was interrupted by one of the jeune matchsticks, sensing that he could communicate with this person (not the Wilderbeast previously), walked up to her car and explained to her the local intricacies of our traffic system.

Mme Le Boss was still holed up in the van, probably trying to reboot the space invaders console which must have voluntarily crashed because the Gremlin's database kept drawing blanks on Ali Baba. Just along from M Rebert's, an out of age femme fatale was having her hip line closely studied by her husband or partner, probably adjusting her trousers so that the tan line would be continuous. A young man in a wheel chair risked life and limb as he rolled across from Ali Baba's cave to M Rebert and back again.

By this time, sensing that it would be time to prepare for the lunch break, one of the jeune matchsticks walked across to the van. After a few minutes, Mme La Boss marched briskly back to Ali Baba, the jeune Matchstick trotting meekly behind her. Further words were exchanged, more paper handed back and forth until Ali Baba was allowed to attend to his whimpering and neglected onions and the A-Team, with Mme La Boss firmly at the helm, marched and trotted respectively back to the van and moved on.

No curtain calls were made as the show had to go on.

Midnight Stroll

It was time to survey the scene. Smiler's establishment was heaving because DJ Otto had fairly mainstream music on his turntables. Earlier in the evening as I sat on the Place outside our house smoking a cigar there was a steady stream of tomorrow's tax payers shuttling between our end of town and the other end where the fun fair had set up shop for the next 10 days.

Behind Smiler's is the large Chapiteau which could easily fit 500 or more people. It was there that at about 1/3 capacity that Saori Jo http://aperock.free.fr/saorijo/ somehow didn't really come to shine.

Outside the tent in a bus shelter, the local Muslim faction had it figured out. Great acoustics, improvised jam session with two or three teenagers pounding out a great rhythm on 3 bongo drums. No crowd, but they didn't care, they were in for the fun of it.

DJ Otto had been relegated to the furthest corner in Smiler's beer garden, so he should be in direct ear shot of Granny Sway's flat.

Wandering through town I crossed the Place de La Republic. The stage which had been set up last weekend has now been joined by a tent and some stalls. Where the market will take place is a little bit of a mystery.

What the French do well are light shows and lighting up buildings. The other end of town was quiet and peaceful. Part of the houses were however being lit up by changing coloured lights.

The Pentecost slide show is up and even though the date is wrong (new camera), the pictures were taken this evening.

Let's Party!

DJ Otto has spent most of the day setting up his stage and a steady flow of rock could be heard drifting through the warm air. Weather conditions are deemed perfect, see weather link on the right side of the page.
The slide show, also in the right hand column, will be enhanced with a special segment showing all the photos we can make. Sleep will not be of the highest order, so if you can't lick 'em, join them.

Below, the official program for Friday and Saturday.



Clicking on the picture should enlarge it so that the text can be read.

Spread the word folks, we're on the world map for a few days.

Gilbert

Today there was the necessity of a small celebration so we strolled across the road to Smiler's establishment. We chose a table outside and soon Katja was there asking if we wanted to eat. We declined and ordered what turned out to be a passable Demi Rose served in two small but stemmed juice glasses.

Surveying the scene of the upcoming festivities we were interrupted by the arrival of Gilbert.

Gilbert is one of those characters who simply cannot remain unnoticed. We have often observed him making the rounds. His humbleness is carried with the greatest amount of dignity imaginable and he simply captures my imagination. I do not know him, what he did, what he does and I am not sure if the picture I paint of him would survive reality. I almost want to retain the illusion but I am also curious to one day speak to him and find out who he really is.

He does remind me of an airport cleaner I once observed. Somebody must have impressed on him that his job was the single most important one in the whole airport and it was with this pride that he emptied the bins in the airport terminal. The pride and dignity I saw in this cleaner is similar to what I see in Gilbert.

Gilbert is always, well, almost impeccably attired. On Sundays he sports his Sunday best, in summer a beige suit, in winter a navy blue suit and always a crisp white shirt and matching tie. During the week he is dressed more casually but it has a smart touch about it. Gilbert does not do casual by nature. He does not walk anywhere, he almost glides, like royalty in exile, carrying his slender, almost skinny frame slowly but surely to his destination. His somewhat wrinkled face is oval shaped, medium length grey hair and a moustache lends his eyes a quizzical look of slight contemptuous amusement. He carries a small mens handbag and often smokes a cigarette en-route to his destination.

He glided in and passed our table, barely nodding to us, murmuring a bonjour in what could be construed as the irritating fashion of an important person greeting someone and fleetingly recognising him without really being able to place him in the scheme of things. We returned the courtesy in the appropriate manner deemed fit for mere mortals such as we are, happy that we were at least, acknowledged.

Having done his polite bit, he moved on to the only table that stood out. It was a large wooden garden table with six large, sturdy and well cushioned wooden garden chairs. As if he personally owned one chair, he proceeded to lower himself into it and take up residence in it and which now seemed to have transformed into a throne. Gilbert does not need to order. His drink, a pastis, arrives automatically, without haste but also without undue delay. He regally and politely thanks Katja and turns his attention to the newspaper in front of him, as if he had ordered it as part of the evening ritual.

In slow and deliberately precise movements he turns the pages eyes wandering from article to article. He does not seem to read, instead he studies with casual and bored briskness, soaking in the news and observations. You can almost see how he stores the facts and gossip and how these translate into comments in conversational topics with others who are privileged enough to engage in some form of discourse with him.

Having finished what he might deem as news fit to be read, he calmly and deliberately folded the newspaper. He leaned back, opening his handbag and extracting a small pouch containing cigarettes. He lights one, leans back at an angle, head held high, legs crossed, inhales and slowly blows out the smoke. Here sits a man at ease with himself and his surroundings. He does not want much but it must be just right. He oozes the need for a balanced perfection, everything has its place, its time. It is then that he opens a pocket and extracts from it a watch on a chain. He flips open the lid to ascertain whether he has outstayed his time allocated for Smiler's bar. Recognizing that he has a few minutes left, he adopts his accustomed posture and proceeds to finish the cigarette.

He looks out, contemplating at what I don't know. Then, as the cigarette is finished and perfectly extinguished in the ashtray, he arises and briefly nodding to us, proceeds to walk to the street, legs slightly o-shaped. He turns the corner and is gone. The performance has been, once again, simply perfect.

The Quiet before the Storm

For the first time in 3 years the weather for the Penetcost (Whitsunday) festival promises to be sunny and warm. That is the first change. The second change being, that now we have a new mayor, he has decided to abandon the €4.00 entry charge on Sunday for all non residents. What often happens in towns here is that the town entrances are sealed off and one must pay an entry charge unless one can prove residency of the town - in the form of such highly official documents as a utilities bill.

But the signs of the approaching festival are rapidly gathering pace. Ten days ago, the signs announcing the closure of the two large free car parks were put up. One car park is used to house a fun fair and the other is used to erect an enormous tent which will be used for concerts. As the weather promises to be good, Starlight, a local cover band should be able to perform without any interruptions. Last year, the concert was canceled due to heavy winds and some authority in Strasbourg dictating the closure of the tent.

As to where the Wilderbeast should park their prized possessions is usually met with typical Gallic shrug of the shoulders. N'est pas notre probleme! So too is the reaction when it comes to the Anglo-Saxon shopkeeper mentality of maximising revenues on such an occasion and creating every opportunity for the "punters" to flaunt their credit cards. Non, pleasure of a festival first, business second. So the car parks must remain closed.

Smiler too, in his Turkish fashion of mixing business with pleasure, is promoting his evening of counter entertainment. "Ballerman Open Air" are the letters which shout in promisingly loud fashion from his bright green posters carefully positioned in strategic parts in his establishment. A sleepless night will be enjoyed by those not partaking at his party. DJ Otto will be the star noise maker but the list of supporting acts is long and for the insiders of the scene, probably distinguished. Wait and hear is the only thing to do. Friday night is the night of the party. Starts at 10pm and probably by 5am the last stragglers will crawl into their little holes.

The Saturday market has had to suffer the inconvenience of the main folklore dancing stage being set up prominently where the meat seller, olive seller and the absolutely enormous hulk of cheese seller usually have their stalls. Even Mr Grumpy had to shuffle along a little further from his usual spot something which certainly did not make him smile much more. All very cramped indeed. Of course, the usual Saturday crowd at La Vignette were treated to the rear side of the meat seller's truck who found that the only space available to him was right in front of the pavement tables. The local domino theory comes into play. Huge festival prompts building of stage on the Place de la Republique which forces local market sellers to move which prompts the meat man to park his vehicle outside, the road having been closed by the Vignette, which upsets the Saturday crowd because they are robbed of their double billed entertainment of Wilderbeast negotiating their limos through the masses, followed by some young hot blooded local with raging hormones in hot pursuit, trying to impress a young femme fatal in making as she pouts her lips at the extortionate prices being demanded by the hard working folks at the market.

The poster promoting the festival this year received a face lift as well. Instead of it being something traditional with imagery of simple country people performing traditional dances in wonderful surroundings, it was given a modern jazzed up look with red background and modern type setting and layout. At the bottom is a row of photos informing the population of the delights as perceived by the local tourist association. Looking at the first photo, I recognized Celine in traditional dress. She works in our bank and probably has never had to call the regional office in Stasbourg as many times as before our arrival here. Celine is also known for her, at least in summer, tight skirts, high stiletto shoes and push-up bras in an effort to combine pleasure with business. I always hold my breath when I patiently wait in line and Celine comes hurtling out of her office and propels herself to the other side of the lobby area. Not because of her appearance but of the terror of seeing her slip and skid across the floor in an somewhat undignified manner.

The local newspaper, with its editorial ink right on the pulse of the key decision makers, wrote a feature article on Saturday headlined "Pentecost - folklore and rock". Clearly, the whole show is moving into the 21st century.

Peace still reigns at Gaston's Pond. The calmness of nature at harmony with itself is delightfully relaxing. The sun shines through the trees and reeds and its rays glitter on the water. The birds are chirping away as if practicing for their concert performance next weekend and the ducks... They seem to be oblivious of the whole thing and quietly paddle around the lake or, if bored with that, cross the path and paddle in the river next to it. And when utterly exhausted, they group and huddle on the banks of the lake and have a well deserved nap. A picture of tranquility and peace.

Until next Monday when it too will be shattered by the fishing competition with masculine men in rambo style combat suits and deadly fishing tackle sporting the latest technology and who will grimly brave the elements not to mention the incredibly vicious and deceiving nature of "truites geants" with wives and daughters cheering them along in a prolonged (well, until lunch anyway) fight to the bitter death. The men get a large metal cup engraved with something and a bloated ego. Their wives get the dinner to prepare and the ducks, they get a great show of humanity at its best and shrug their shoulders in that typically Gallic fashion. C'est la vie, they quack.