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4 Security Phooey pluie. Rain again. It was just a little splatter, but enough to keep my glasses perpetually splotchy. We had gotten up at eightthirty. Ange was already on the staircase cutting up old bread that the baker gave him to feed the ducks on the canal. He had climbed over the railing; we had the key to the door leading downstairs. They locked everything here. I couldn't decide whether they were paranoid or just careful. Ange had three rings full of the old skeleton type keys. I didn't know how he kept track of them all. There was a key for the outside door leading in from the street. There were no front yards, so the entry door was immediately off the sidewalk. Inside the anteroom there were two locked doors. One led downstairs; the other up. It was fifty stairs to Ange's flat where another key unlocked their suite. A nine foot rock fence surrounded the side of their property that faced the canal. (The property behind theirs had the same height fence with an added attraction of a meter wide moat.) A locked ten foot wide sliding metal gate opened into the backyard. There was room to park a car, although they didn't have one. It was for when their kids visited. Even the canal lane was locked-only residents along the canal had a key. From the back of their house the property was one hundred feet in length. In the backyard, a locked cement cubicle stood, built to stand forever, holding Jean Luc's bicycle, a lawn mower, rototiller, and pesticides. Plants and flowers bedecked the neighbouring six foot high rock wall. A clothes line strung across the yard's width. Their neighbour house was attached to theirs. Next to their house's back door was an outdoor rock floored area fifteen by thirty feet. A brick barbecue area crouched against the neighbour fence. A huge twodoor wooden gate off the lane looked as if it could withstand an onslaught of marauders. It had two locks plus two cross bars. The back door, entering the basement, was locked. Our bedroom door had a magnetic key lock. Maximum security. Our bikes had never been so safe. Stone and mortar composed the entire building. Bricks made up three levels of floors. Only the staircase was wood. A patterned material that looked like heavyduty woolen wallpaper covered their suite walls. A bidet, along with a teensy washing machine, graced the bathroom. There was no dryer. In winter, they placed their clothes on an inside drying rack. The stove was gas; the heating electric. Windows opened outward with wooden shutters, but had no bug screens. The traffic passing on the street below was quiet-not at all like Michelle's highrise. The table was set for our petit déjeuner. Ange and Jacqueline had already eaten; JeanLuc had left for work. The utensils were placed peculiarly; the tines of the fork and the bowl of both small and large spoons faced down. A small glass held orange juice. A large blue ceramic bowl was at each place. I thought it was for cereal or porridge. Jacqueline asked Sharon if she would like hot chocolate or coffeechocolate. Sharon refused both, waiting for the cereal. Jacqueline looked horrified. Sharon quickly realized her faux pas when I accepted and Jacqueline poured the coffeechocolate into my large bowl. Sharon had just turned down the main part of a Frenchman's breakfast. The other part of breakfast was a baguette, cut off a couple of inches at a time, then spread with butter and strawberry jam. Baguettes were chewy; my jaw received a workout. At ten thirty, Ange took us across the street to the bicycle repair shop so they could examine Sharon's wayward rear wheel. He explained to the personnel we were touring and could "not wait one minute more." They told us to come back in an hour. Ange took us to the tourist information. They loaded us up with accommodation material and mentioned most campgrounds had closed. They were very helpful. It was easy with our private interpreter. The outdoor market, held on Wednesdays and Saturdays, was a visual feast. Everything imaginable was for sale-from fleece jackets to all types of fresh fruit and vegetables. A hundred different types of cheese (all made in France) filled a display case twenty feet long. Soles to sardines schooled on a bed of ice along with clams, mussels and oysters. A butcher shop displayed the usual fare, as well as pheasants, with or without feathers, but both complete with heads. A rabbit, including fur and a price tag on its side, stretched above the pheasants. No wonder the French ate so little meat. Past the pastries and baguettes were lines of clothing. Some clothes were heaped in piles on an area of ground, while more expensive clothes hung neatly on hangers. Baubles and decorative personal items rounded out the selection. Frilly underwear. Shoes. And the last stall: fullsize mattresses. At eleven thirty we returned to the bicycle shop. All stores in France closed from twelve until two for midi-the biggest meal of a Frenchman's day. Restaurants stayed open until three, but customers couldn't order anything after two thirty. Sharon's wheels were ready. They had replaced the four sealed bearing cartridges in both front and rear hubs. They hadn't had the front ones in stock, so the mechanic had driven to a factory in another town and had two new ones made. Talk about service! It fixed the wobble and Sharon was relieved her axle wasn't broken also. She would be able to go downhill again without shimmying. Midi at Ange's started with an apéritif. Port was the strongest at fortyfive percent alcohol. I chose an anise based drink; Sharon chose a smooth high alcohol content white wine. Ange served it with an ice cube. Cheers! The appetizer was a ham and olive pizza; Jacqueline explained it was Italian. A whole chicken breast was served to each person, along with a vegetable combination of cooked zucchini, squash, tomatoes, rice and a glass of rosé. Salad came after the main course. The familiar baguette, with camembert cheese and red wine, was next. Sharon ran out of wine and ate a piece of camembert with water. Ange had a fit! No one except Neanderthals ate camembert with water. He quickly rectified the situation by filling Sharon's goblet with more red wine. Finally, pears and apples were eaten with glasses of water. Ange and Jacqueline peeled their fruit-explaining it had been touched by too many hands. Sharon and I ate ours with the skin on-Barbarians that we were. Yogurt was last. Bon appétit! Ange and Jacqueline came out by the canal for a farewell picture. Our bikes rested on the side of their house, leaves floated on the still water. A few ducks paddled aimlessly around. Ange quacked in perfect imitation and his feathered friends paddled over while we pedalled off. At three o'clock Sharon and I headed down rue la Gare to D40. Rain began shortly afterward. Donning rain jackets calmed the rain gods. We passed more fields of sugar beet mountains and farmers on tractors tilling the earth. The soil was brown and the air smelled heavily of damp earth and burning leaves. In one village an old woman with a gnarled face pushed a wheelbarrow through the tiny streets with red ivy climbing the sides of stone churches. A crucifix hung at a T intersection. Drivers continued to honk, wave, clap, blink their lights, gape open-mouthed or verbally shout encouragement. We heard people say "Canada" as we passed. We lost our way in Montargis and asked a woman for help. She spoke English. After twice going through complex directions we headed off. At a corner farther along we were surprised to see her on the side of the road in her car. "I just noticed your flag," she said. "Are you Canadians?" "Oui," I responded. "I'm Canadian too," she gushed. "From Chicoutimi, Québec. Follow me." We followed her until we were on route 93. Ursula gave us her phone number and said if we needed a place to stay give her a call. We cycled ten more kilometers and hit the five thousand mile mark. The light failing, we stopped at a farmhouse. I asked the woman if we could camp in her yard. She didn't know any English. She told us her husband was at school in Paris and would be home at six. Then she would ask him if it was all right for us to camp on the grass by the barn. En français he said no problem. Inside our tent we listened to occasional raindrops while congratulating ourselves on our first free camping spot in France. We hadn't stopped at any food stores, so we ate a Nutrageous chocolate bar we had imported from the States and a block of nutty chocolate from Jacqueline. The good news was I did see open stores. For a while, I was worried I wasn't going to be eating anything but baguettes. |
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