Moments in Montpellier

Strikes in France. Strange that I should hear about it first from my brother, given that I am right here, in France. But the impact on us was not understood until our Airbnb host explained that it was the refinery workers on strike. Which meant that gasoline was in short supply.

Which, in turn, explained the long lines at the gas station we’d seen that day, and the sign “30 Euros maximum.” Shades of the 1970s!

Now, normally we would not be concerned about a gasoline shortage, since we don’t have a car here, we ride the tram. (And it’s electric!) But we had rented a car for a few days to tour the area around Montpellier.

And now, on our way back “home” we took a swing through the mountains, staying at an Airbnb in a little village on the edge of a river. Our host explained that it was the refinery workers on strike. My satisfaction with the trip was dinged up somewhat by the thought that we might not find any gasoline. Oh, we had plenty to get home on, it was just a question of how much the rental company would charge us if we didn't fill the tank…

To be safe, that night we swung by two different 24-hour gas stations. They were both closed.

Uh oh. We were up early the next morning to allow for “gas station time.” We did find an open station, just a few miles from the car return. After a bit of a wait, with a lot of finger drumming and impatient exclamations, we were at the pump. But, uh oh, our American credit card did not work, not the first time I tried it, not the second time, not even the third time. And this was a totally automatic station – that is, no real human being to help out.

But not quite. I went to the car waiting behind us – the lady in the car had asked me if there was any “gasoil” (diesel), which I figured was enough of an introduction – and asked if I could use her credit card.  Puis-je utiliser votre carte de credit? (Paula is so thankful for my language skills. So am I!)

She was as aware as I of the long line of cars waiting behind us, and everyone’s anxiety around getting fuel. So she climbed out of her car and inserted her credit card. Fuel flowed. I gave her all my cash - €35 – and kept a light finger on the trigger to stop on time. But at €33.75 the pump shut off. We were full! I thanked her profusely, but she insisted on digging into her coin purse for my change. And she apologized that these strikes had to happen while we were in France.

************

Once back home in our Montpellier apartment, after our road trip, we went out to do some food shopping. In the course of a few blocks we passed dozens of stores  selling fruits and vegetables,  meat and roast chickens, shoes, clothes, phones and electronics, and bread and pastries (of course!). Plus there was an outdoor market, open ‘till 1PM. So we headed home, our food needs mostly satisfied.

But passing yet another chicken roster we noted they had peeled new potatoes swimming around in the dripping juice from the chickens. We had to get some, of course.

The vendor was an older fellow, from Tunisia, I’d guess. We live right on the edge of an area full of immigrants from Maghreb, the former French colonies in North African of Algeria, Tunisia, and Morocco. The cafes are full of men who spend the day sitting, smoking and drinking their tiny cups of coffee, and women wearing the Hijab (Islamic head scarf). Many of the shop keepers are originally from the Maghreb, as well.

So anyway, the proprietor of the boucherie (butcher shop) is ladling potatoes and that fine juice into a plastic tray for us, and as Paula approaches I lean towards him and say, in a low voice, “Don’t let her know, but this is much better than she can make!” He grins, and packs our tray full.

************

We’ve found a new boulangerie just a block down from our apartment. Apparently the baker has just reopened after a remodel. He’s quite nice, and we like to patronize his shop. He made us some sandwiches for our train trip to Paris. So, when we stopped to get some bread after our foraging foray, we told him how great the sandwiches were, and how everyone on the train wanted….  At which point he grins and waves us off. He knows BS when he hears it!

************

There’s a restaurant next door to our apartment building. Sometimes, out our back window we hear them washing the dishes. As we passed by, the owner, a little skinny guy, was chatting with the cook and a customer, laughing about how ridiculous they found Harley-Davidson motorcycles. He mimed someone sitting back, his arms high on the ape-hanger bars. The customer left, and the owner asked if we’d like to come in to eat. He recognized us as living next door. We asked about vegetarian meals; he doesn’t really serve them. Fish? He almost never serves fish. But the brasserie down the street, he’s got it every day. Oh. Well, says Paula, we’ll stop in for some wine. Ah, my wine isn’t really very good. We laugh. I’m just being honest! He says with a grin. We smile and wave, and disappear into our building.

Where we live; our apt. is the balcony window on the 3rd floor

(above the restaurant)