Читать книгу Our House is Not in Paris - Susan Cutsforth - Страница 7

Our love affair with France started in 2009 when we went for a six-week holiday there, starting with five days in Paris. Oh Paris, how we longed to return there. What was even more remarkable about this trip was that we had planned it for months in advance as a long-awaited adventure. Then, in an extraordinary coincidence of utter good fortune, I actually won a return trip to Paris for two as well as five nights in a four-star hotel. The fact that we had already planned to go there and the flights were booked and paid for was almost beyond our comprehension. Winning a trip to the very city that we were already going to … I’m quite sure that we are the only people in the whole world that this has happened to! It did mean that we were able to transfer our flights to the following year. And so, when our first trip finished and with another one the next year, it became inevitable that we would fall in love with France.

So many people have told us that they would never return to Paris or France, that all the myths were true about the arrogance and disdain of the French. Yet never once had we encountered anything except the utmost friendliness and helpfulness. In fact, even in Paris — especially in Paris — people were utterly charming and gracious. For instance, one blistering-hot day, I approached a young Parisian mother with a pram, attempting to ask her directions to a nearby supermarché so I could buy bottles of water. My miming attempts conveyed what I wanted so effectively that she reached into her baby’s pram and produced a new bottle of water, which she offered to me. It was encounters like this that cemented our love for France. There were times too when I wondered whether such an act of thoughtfulness would happen on the streets of any other of the world’s main cites. It was not even that I spoke French; my attempts to do so were really quite feeble. However, the few words that I could use, I used with the utmost charm and enthusiasm. My sense of the dramatic and ability to mime also improved enormously.

It’s hard to encapsulate why we were so captivated by France and consumed by a love affair with all that is French. I think to sum it up; I would have to say that there is a certain elegance in the way of life. Even in Paris the pace is not manic and frenetic. People don’t rush along the boulevards glued to their mobiles and devouring food on the run. There is a more leisurely way of life; it is celebrated in an entirely different way. The markets for instance take place twice a week in most towns. It is a way of life to saunter with your straw basket over your arm – examine the ripe, plump tomatoes, bury your nose in a sprig of flowers, tuck a pastry in your basket that will crumble with freshness, linger over the pungent display of fromage and choose the most aromatic peaches. Oh the cheese, there are enough to choose a different one for every day of the year in France. The market forays and daily meals are strongly connected to the seasons – life in France is a true celebration of food.

Strangely, at home food does not feature that highly in our lives. However, in France that is all completely different. I always remember a French friend, Martine, saying to me that the first thing a French person thinks of when they wake is, What will I eat today? Another strong memory is one of our first supermarché trips. Stuart and his brother were still outside collecting a trolley and I had already gone into the supermarket. The first aisle was devoted to French wine. I was so beside myself with excitement, especially when I saw the prices, that I ran outside to share the fabulous news. However, it turned out that it was through the emergency exit. The alarm whooped, whooped, whooped, and all heads swivelled to stare at the strange foreigner — whooping with excitement about wine.

The memories of meals and boulangeries resonated through the months afterwards. The ‘remember’ — the superb almond croissant sitting in the park in the small village on our way to Villefranche-de-Rouergue after the prohibitively expensive coffee. It was one of the few times we hadn’t checked the price. It was only afterwards, when we were in the little village shop buying food for our picnic lunch, and someone commented on the Paris plates on our car that we realised people had assumed that we were wealthy Parisians. Then there was the lunch in Souillac at a typical French workers’ café: a fantastically priced meal of tasty lamb chops and hearty fare. I especially loved eating at the places that catered for the everyday person and would choose one any day over a tourist restaurant. However, the most memorable thing about that lunch was that, just a mere seven months later, Souillac became our very own local town. There was no inkling on that cool damp day that such a momentous event would ever transpire.