A Feel In Provence

My sister, Karen, and her sister-in-law, Lynne, came to visit us in Paris. We decided while they were here to also show them Provence. France was in the midst of a horrible hot spell with temperatures breaking records last set in 1942. It was very uncomfortable in Paris, and I knew that Provence would be even more miserable so, as we were packing the car, I dragged out two electric fans much to my husband’s dismay. He told me he could picture hordes of French people laughing at us as we carried them into the “gite” where we were going to be staying. He wanted me to leave them behind but I’ve been in France a couple of years now and I wouldn’t do it. Sure, the walls are all thick; yes, they have shutters on the windows to close during the hot, sunny part of the day. I don’t care. I have been in these thick-walled, shuttered buildings and when it’s over 100 degrees outside, its hot and uncomfortable inside–and I haven’t found an air-conditioned gite yet. Off we went to Provence. It was scorchingly hot. Walking the beautiful narrow lanes of medieval towns was bearable only if one stayed on the shady side of the street. Entering the charming little shops was like stepping into a small kitchen with the oven left on. We were stunned by the heat and couldn’t wait to get back to our gite and float in the swimming pool like happy frogs on lily pads. Gites (pronounced jeets) are places throughout France rather like a bed and breakfast. Sometimes there are little cottages, or sometimes you sleep in the same house as the owners. Breakfasts and dinners are available. We had found our gite when some of my husband’s relatives stayed there on a visit. It was a charming 200 year old house with thick walls (of course), fire places, antiques everywhere and the usual resident dog. The owner was a single man who ran around, served us breakfast, and did a lot of the yard work outside in the huge garden and patio, yet to my housekeeping eyes it didn’t look as clean as it could be. It needed dusting. It needed someone up on a ladder getting rid of spider webs. It needed someone to throw out those piles of magazines, newspapers and loose papers lying around. The kitchen especially needed serious attention. I knew he had women come in to help him clean but I bet they only made beds, washed dishes, linens and maybe mopped floors. Maybe. Well, sometimes, when something is old and charming in France, you just overlook a few things. The last night we were there we learned that the owner, Jean-Marie, was in a band that played jazz, but only New Orleans jazz. He never played or listened to anything else. He played a CD of his band during our dinner, and it sounded very good and professional to me. My sister Karen is a professional singer. I used to sing harmony with her many years ago in a strictly amateur way here and there, mostly in the car on long trips. To show you the level of our ability, our father called us The Canary Sisters. This is not a compliment. He said the same thing about two elderly sisters in our childhood church who sang twice as loud as everyone else, very off key, and held notes two beats longer than everyone, their quavering voices hitting our eardrums like birds hitting a glass window. Anyway, we decided that Jean-Marie could play the piano he had upstairs and we would sing. By that time we had all been well lubricated by some very good local Luberon red that we had enjoyed outside on the patio under the stars with our dinner. Upstairs we headed to the piano. There was a base fiddle and a set of drums sitting next to the piano and here’s where I discovered a talent, previously unknown to me, of playing drums. It was a gift, like playing the piano by ear. Who knew? So this Jean-Marie starts playing the piano. He was very good plunking out a great jazz song. My sister and I started to sing. We had a really hard time staying on key. Or, we were singing on key, but Jean-Marie wasn’t playing in the same key. Finally, Karen and I just started singing and let him play whatever it was he was playing. We had a great time. But, the next day, while watching the video my husband took, we discovered that Jean-Marie had played the exact same thing for each and every song! It was probably the only New Orleans jazz song on piano that he knew. We were singing some rock, a little country. Together it mixed like water and oil, but we didn’t know it at the time. We just kept on going. Afterwards, we went out to look at the fabulous starry sky easily seen out in the Provençal countryside where there’s no city light pollution to spoil the view. I easily spotted the Big Dipper but there were so many other stars up there, I couldn’t identify anything else. Then Jean-Marie went over to Karen to help her find a constellation. That’s when he tried to – and I can hardly believe I’m writing this –  “cop a feel”, a phrase that took me a good ten minutes to explain to my French husband. My sister didn’t say anything, just stepped away. When I looked over, she had her arm around Lynne’s shoulders. My husband was furious when he found out about it later, saying it was a very inappropriate thing to do not only to a guest, but in front of us. I wonder if ol’ Jean-Marie was hoping Karen would join him in bed later, a bed, I am sure (after seeing his gite), was probably crawling with ticks. But all in all it was still a great trip. And I was right about the fans. — Linda Mathieu, formerly from Austin, Texas, is a professional journalist and photographer. Owner of Paris Photo Tours, she delights in taking tourists around Paris, showing them her favorite views and photo ops. She is currently at work on a book of her photography with a light-hearted look at…