Why I Love Living in France (CHAPTER 8,246)
549
The other day I put in an emergency call to my friend Bruno the Dentist. “I’ve got a problem with a molar,” I said. “How’s your schedule today?”
“Not the best time,” said Bruno. “We’re in the midst of a major rehab and the office is a disaster; but I can’t leave you stranded in the middle of August. Come on over; I’ll find a way to help you out.”
I live in Vauvenargues, a small village about 10 minutes east of Aix-en-Provence and Bruno’s office is in St. Cannat, a larger village on the opposite side of Aix. The trip takes about 30 minutes, and I arrived in St. Cannat to find Bruno in jeans and a T shirt, covered in plaster dust.
“Give me a couple of minutes,” he said. “I just need to finish knocking down this wall; then we’ll see what we can do.”
Because the weather was beautiful, I found a comfortable perch on Bruno’s stoop and settled down to enjoy the local scene, which included ladies with wicker baskets bustling from the bakery to the butcher shop, and a lively little café whose umbrella-shaded tables, set out under the plane trees next to the fountain on the main square of the town, were filled with animated, gesticulating French talkers. It was a picture-postcard image of a Provencal town on a summer morning, and I smiled at the idea that there are still parts of France Profounde that have not yet=2 0been devoured by globalization, Americanization, homogenization and the international Rush of Modernity.
As I sat there enjoying St. Cannat, I realized that a France Telecom workman who had just opened a manhole cover a few feet away from Bruno’s front door was whistling a familiar tune. Although it seemed unlikely that a hardhat torqueing a handful of wires in an open manhole might be whistling a Beethoven sonata, that’s what it sounded like to me, and after listening more attentively for a minute or so, my curiosity finally got the better of me and I asked him my question.
“That’s Beethoven, isn’t it?” I asked. “One of the piano sonatas?”
“No,” he responded pleasantly, “actually it’s the Rondo in ……. I was just listening to it on France Musique and the tune got stuck in my head.”
I asked him if France Musique was his regular station. (France Musique is the national, non-commercial radio station that plays excellent classical music –much of it quiteesoteric– all day, every day.)
“It’s my only station, “ he answered, “and Beethoven is certainly my favorite composer. He seems to me terribly … how shall I say?…. profound. I have his entire oeuvre on CD, and in fact I heard that Rondo played the other night at the piano Festival in La Roque d’Antheron. I was delighted to hear it on the radio this morning.”
I admit it; I was taken aback to find myself conversing with a telephone company workman in a manhole in a small town in the South of France about the profundity of Beethoven. But life in France is full of surprises, and I pursued the conversation.
“Do you go a many of the local music festivals?”
“I go as often as I can, but they are horribly expensive, and that seems to me anti-democratic. I would like to go the Festival d’Aix en Provence because I love the opera; but at 300€ per ticket, it’s not really possible, especially as I would like to take my three sons. Five tickets at 300€ each is not within my means.”
At that point, Bruno emerged from his office.
“You two ought to know each other,” I said to Bruno. “This gentleman is a music lover, just like you.”
Bruno smiled down at the workman, whose hardhat was just sticking up out of the manhole. Do you play an instrument?” he asked.
“No,” the man answered “I play the guitar for my own amusement, but mostly I am just an admirer. How about you? Are you an instrumentalist?”
“Bruno is a highly tatented jazz singer,’ I answered for my friend. “He sings in semi-professional groups all over the region. He’s a terrific performer!”
“I like Jazz, too,” said the workman. I really like ………”
The workman and Bruno then launched into an elaborate conversation about jazz musicians, jazz styles and various periods in jazz history: a conversation that was sorecherché that I was left in the dust. I gaped silently as they exchanged names of players, instruments and groups; and then their conversation was over.
“You’d better come in,” said Bruno, turning to me. “It’s getting late and I have to get back to my nail-banging.”
“Stop by and say hello next time they send you to St. Cannat, “ Bruno said to the workman. “When my office is not torn up, I’ll give you the schedule for our performances. You might enjoy it.” “I’m sure I’d enjoy it,” said the workman. And then he ducked back down into the manhole.
Grinning like a kid in a candy store, I settled down into Bruno’s chair .
“Only in France could you find a Beethoven-loving workman in a manhole. Do you see why I love living here?”
Bruno smiled indulgently. “Happens every day,” he said. “Now let’s have a look at that tooth.”
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The other day I put in an emergency call to my friend Bruno the Dentist. “I’ve got a problem with a molar,” I said. “How’s your schedule today?”
“Not the best time,” said Bruno. “We’re in the midst of a major rehab and the office is a disaster; but I can’t leave you stranded in the middle of August. Come on over; I’ll find a way to help you out.”
I live in Vauvenargues, a small village about 10 minutes east of Aix-en-Provence and Bruno’s office is in St. Cannat, a larger village on the opposite side of Aix. The trip takes about 30 minutes, and I arrived in St. Cannat to find Bruno in jeans and a T shirt, covered in plaster dust.
“Give me a couple of minutes,” he said. “I just need to finish knocking down this wall; then we’ll see what we can do.”
Because the weather was beautiful, I found a comfortable perch on Bruno’s stoop and settled down to enjoy the local scene, which included ladies with wicker baskets bustling from the bakery to the butcher shop, and a lively little café whose umbrella-shaded tables, set out under the plane trees next to the fountain on the main square of the town, were filled with animated, gesticulating French talkers. It was a picture-postcard image of a Provencal town on a summer morning, and I smiled at the idea that there are still parts of France Profounde that have not yet=2 0been devoured by globalization, Americanization, homogenization and the international Rush of Modernity.
As I sat there enjoying St. Cannat, I realized that a France Telecom workman who had just opened a manhole cover a few feet away from Bruno’s front door was whistling a familiar tune. Although it seemed unlikely that a hardhat torqueing a handful of wires in an open manhole might be whistling a Beethoven sonata, that’s what it sounded like to me, and after listening more attentively for a minute or so, my curiosity finally got the better of me and I asked him my question.
“That’s Beethoven, isn’t it?” I asked. “One of the piano sonatas?”
“No,” he responded pleasantly, “actually it’s the Rondo in ……. I was just listening to it on France Musique and the tune got stuck in my head.”
I asked him if France Musique was his regular station. (France Musique is the national, non-commercial radio station that plays excellent classical music –much of it quiteesoteric– all day, every day.)
“It’s my only station, “ he answered, “and Beethoven is certainly my favorite composer. He seems to me terribly … how shall I say?…. profound. I have his entire oeuvre on CD, and in fact I heard that Rondo played the other night at the piano Festival in La Roque d’Antheron. I was delighted to hear it on the radio this morning.”
I admit it; I was taken aback to find myself conversing with a telephone company workman in a manhole in a small town in the South of France about the profundity of Beethoven. But life in France is full of surprises, and I pursued the conversation.
“Do you go a many of the local music festivals?”
“I go as often as I can, but they are horribly expensive, and that seems to me anti-democratic. I would like to go the Festival d’Aix en Provence because I love the opera; but at 300€ per ticket, it’s not really possible, especially as I would like to take my three sons. Five tickets at 300€ each is not within my means.”
At that point, Bruno emerged from his office.
“You two ought to know each other,” I said to Bruno. “This gentleman is a music lover, just like you.”
Bruno smiled down at the workman, whose hardhat was just sticking up out of the manhole. Do you play an instrument?” he asked.
“No,” the man answered “I play the guitar for my own amusement, but mostly I am just an admirer. How about you? Are you an instrumentalist?”
“Bruno is a highly tatented jazz singer,’ I answered for my friend. “He sings in semi-professional groups all over the region. He’s a terrific performer!”
“I like Jazz, too,” said the workman. I really like ………”
The workman and Bruno then launched into an elaborate conversation about jazz musicians, jazz styles and various periods in jazz history: a conversation that was sorecherché that I was left in the dust. I gaped silently as they exchanged names of players, instruments and groups; and then their conversation was over.
“You’d better come in,” said Bruno, turning to me. “It’s getting late and I have to get back to my nail-banging.”
“Stop by and say hello next time they send you to St. Cannat, “ Bruno said to the workman. “When my office is not torn up, I’ll give you the schedule for our performances. You might enjoy it.”
“I’m sure I’d enjoy it,” said the workman. And then he ducked back down into the manhole.
Grinning like a kid in a candy store, I settled down into Bruno’s chair .
“Only in France could you find a Beethoven-loving workman in a manhole. Do you see why I love living here?”
Bruno smiled indulgently. “Happens every day,” he said. “Now let’s have a look at that tooth.”
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