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3 Angel Spiders clamoured over our tent. I went to shower. The shower building had ultra clean amenities. A No Smoking sign was posted at the entrance. On the shower wall another sign read: Shoes forbidden in the shower. The stalls were small with no curtain. A push button turned the water on for five seconds, then I had to push it again for five more seconds of water. I got wet after three pushes. I lathered up and repeatedly pushed the button to rinse off. The button was fixed so that I couldn't keep the water on continuously by holding the button in-the water only came out once I released the button. It saved an enormous amount of water-I became too tired pushing the button to take a long shower. There were also stalls with a sink and mirror. Campers used them to strip down in and sponge off. The toilets were in a different building. There was no toilet paper. All ages walked around carrying rolls of pink toilet paper. The bit of water was flushed by pulling a plunger knob on top of the toilet tank. A teeny amount of water swirled into the bowl. The sun shone in a clear windless sky. The morning route, D16, was on a small two lane road through flat farmland. Huge piles of sugar beets lay covered in fresh dirt. Green fields. Green leaves. Concrete telephone poles. My worn rear brakes squealed as I descended a series of corners into a town. Kids drove past on a teeny motor scooter. One boy, his foot stuck out on a friend's bike fender, zoomed along. Later, we saw another motor scooter with four fellows on bicycles hanging on to various parts of the scooter. We saw many bicycles, but considering the gaping looks we received folks hadn't seen many tourers. We wanted D40 out of Nemours. Sharon's rear rim was wobbling like a drunk on cheap French wine. We stopped at a vélo shop. I tried the door. Closed. The store hours indicated it would reopen at two. The restaurant next door was closed. I wondered if they closed for lunch in France. The grocery store was closed too. An old timer shuffled along and shook my hand while saying softly, "I am pleased to meet Canadians." He told us everything was closed for the holiday-All Saints' Day. "Is there anything I could give you?" he asked. I had cereal in my packs. If I had milk I would be able to enjoy cereal. I asked, "Milk?" He escorted us across the street to his house above the canal. We went inside and he seated us at the dining room table. Removing a tiny jar from a tiny fridge he poured me a tiny glass of milk. I downed the milk in two gulps. "The milk is cold," he said. "Yes," I replied. "Very good." "Another glass of milk?" "Okay," I answered."It is cold milk," he said. "It is," I agreed and downed the glass in one swallow. He poured me a third glass of milk. "You like cold milk?" he asked. "Yes." "It is cold." "It certainly is." After three glasses of milk and stilted conversation Ange revealed he was teaching himself English from a book. He fetched the book and opened it to the page he was currently on. I expected to see: "It is cold." (After a few days in France we learned cold milk was a rare treat, usually obtainable only from farmers. Most small stores exclusively stocked room temperature strange tasting UHT-Ultra High Temperature-milk. The milk of one brand was tinged blue.) Ange and wife Jacqueline fed us lunch. We had boiled eggs sliced in two on a bed of flaked tuna and sliced tomatoes. That was followed by vegetable soup, cheese, wine, yogurt and fruit. After lunch they asked if we would like to stay the night in the downstairs bedroom of their one hundred thirty year old house. The house was three stories plus a basement level. They lived on the top floor and two widowers rented out the other two floors. Ange and Jacqueline slept downstairs when it was too hot in their upper floor suite. Ange took his dog, Sharon and me for a walk along the canal before supper. The canal was used to transport grain, but at our late hour only groups of paddling ducks plied its waters. Ange took us to visit the eleventh century church. It was a huge stone structure with immense stained glass. We walked along the sidewalk back to Ange's house. It was so narrow we walked single file; even then I fell off. Cars parked in both directions on one side of the street-even on the sidewalk. I noticed security was high on houses we passed. Owners had buzzers and systems to let them past huge stone and iron fences that surrounded their property. Ange said only old houses had those stone fences-it was too "dear" to build them now. We crossed another canal that used to be a moat surrounding the rich town folk. Supper was at seven thirty sharp. The French were fastidious about keeping regular eating hours. Food to them was a great elixir of life. They were particular about the order they ate various foods too. Fruit was at the end as a dessert. Yogurt was very last-to aid digestion. Ange told us they drank one glass of wine at each the noon and evening meal-everything was done in moderation. Supper was a baguette, superstrained vegetable soup, cabbage with sausage chunks, salad after that, then cheese, fruit, wine and yogurt. Finally tea made from teal leaves-very tasty with honey. The leaves were picked from the neighbour's tree that hung into their yard. Jean Luc, their thirtyeight year old handicapped son lived with them. He worked on a project during the day. Ange and Jacqueline had five grown children. Two daughters had attended American schools. One lived on Rhode Island and another lived in Pittsburgh. Ange and Jacqueline had visited them ten years ago. Since arriving in France I had worn my hat continually. I wore it at Ange's, even while eating. At supper, Ange asked me, "My son, Jean Luc, wants to know why you never take your hat off." No doubt that was considered extremely boorish behaviour. Instead of replying, I doffed my hat. With one look, Ange said, "The hat is better." Then he added, "When I looked out my window and saw you standing on the street with your bicycles I said to Jacqueline: 'There is a special man.' But I didn't know you had a special haircut too." "Sharon likes my hat better," I told him. "I like the hat better too. In one month it will look good," Ange assured me. "Do you sleep with your hat on too?" I told him I did. So far I hadn't been able to persuade Sharon to get a matching Mohawk. |
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