La fête de la musique -- later, that same night...

We’ve already covered, in a previous blog, what happened on the morning of the 21^st, and the “office party” at Groupama. So what did we do in the evening? After all, Montpellier is a sizable city, surely we can do better than crashing someone else’s party (with a DJ playing ‘80s disco!).

Events were planned in the town, a stage set up in the main square, Place de la Comédie. We really weren’t interested in standing in the hot sun listening to the children’s choir (sorry, kids), nor waiting around for the next group to set up.

Instead we headed over to the Corum, a recent construction that houses the new opera house and performance center. The symphony orchestra of Montpellier would be playing something; the exact program would not be announced, it was announced. Oh, and tickets would be free.

By 7:30 PM (that would be 19:30, local time), after a bit of confusion over tickets and where to sit, we were settled into seats in the nose-bleed section. The place was packed! Clearly, the residents of Montpellier were very fond of their orchestra, showing up even without knowing what was going to happen.

Overall, it was very good, very lively. The musicians were excellent, and received multiple standing ovations. Although the musicians were dressed to the nines, with white ties and tails, they did cut up a bit: during one number the six bass players spun their instruments at the end of every measure. And the violinists, all 25 of them, stood up and sat down several times during one piece. (I guess that’s getting pretty wild for the symphony.)

After the concert we did see a program, and it was contemporary, all written within the last 60 years or so. I recognized none of the composers (and why would I?), most of whom were Spanish. One thing we did recognize, though, was El amor brujo, love of the witch, by Manuel de Falla (familiar because it was used in Disney’s Sorcerer’s Apprentice).

And for the rest of the evening… but talking about music doesn’t do it justice. Here’s a little video we made. Enjoy!

Fete de la Musique, Montpellier 2016

Fête de la musique -- Round One!

Fête de la musique – a solstice celebration that happens all over France on June 21. Every town and village plans musical events for the day. Montpellier has a whole evening of music planned, from a children’s chorus to Vivaldi to opera and on into pop/rock until the wee hours. I think each neighborhood also has plans; we’ll have to see. But this morning we had our first event.

It was at an office complex for Groupama, a major insurance company in France. Their headquarters in the South of France is a few blocks from where we live: a complex of 4-story buildings around a couple of squares (I believe it would be called a “campus” in Silicon Valley lingo). Tables of food and drink had been set up, and there was a DJ and large speakers. We wandered around, checking out the scene and drinking this very fine punch we were offered. White wine, I think, with sparkling water? No, probably champagne with citrus. Good, anyway. Potato chips, slices of pizza, peanuts. Each table had mineral water, both flat and bubbly, and Coke, and… what’s this? Pernod 51! This is the good stuff, with 51% alcohol, better than the cheaper “45.” Plus the requisite pitches of ice water.

Pernod is a large producer of pastis, an anisette liquor, THE thing to drink and share with friends here in the South of France; I first encountered it when I was here in the ‘70s and have had a soft spot for it ever since. It’s clear and colorless, mysteriously turning cloudy when diluted with cold water – the proper way to enjoy it.

And, boxes of wine on the end of the table, red, white, and a large box of rosé. Apparently no one was expected to be productive that afternoon! Because this seemed very much like a celebration for the people that worked for Groupama, although no one questioned our presence (nor, for that matter, even spoke to us!) Looking around, I noticed the dress was casual, jeans and tee shirts, although as usual the women we a bit more stylish than the men with some skirts and embroidered tops. Lots of flats and sandals on the women, although some high heels as well. For the men, it was mostly sneakers.

The music was heavy with ‘80s disco (the BeeGees!), then moved on to some French equivalents. Jose Feliciano and “Bleu de pinte de bleu” in Italian with a Flamenco style. A French singer doing something very Country-Western-ish. A group of women started doing a Western line dance. (Some were pretty good – clearly, not their first rodeo.)

Meanwhile, the men were standing over there, smoking and drinking. (Reminiscent of a high school prom?) I figured as the level in the bottles dropped, that would change, and people would mingle! But we didn’t stay around long. Feeling just a bit like intruders, we slowly made our way out.

But, not before the flats of apricots arrived! Luscious, juicy, and fresh off the trees. We had a few, then a few more on the way out.

Why were we here, anyway, at this office party? Funny story, glad you asked.

We’d been there the day before, looking for a place to buy a CD, the CD of some musicians we’d listened to. And the Groupama complex was used as a landmark; the musicians were right across the street. So the day before we had been here, fumbling around looking for the studio. Instead we found an employee restaurant, with not-bad prices, and were graciously told that we were certainly welcome to eat there. And, we saw the poster about the musical event on the Fête de la musique.

OK, but who were these musicians, and why were we looking for them?

It all started Saturday night, when we came back from our three-day trip to Perpignan and environs. We were pretty bushed when we got home, and settled in for the night. But, I really wanted a roast chicken. We checked with our local guy (every neighborhood has boucheries, butcher shops, many of which have chicken rotisseries). But he’d just gotten his birds started; we’d need to come back later. So it was almost 9PM as were we headed home, a poulet roti and some wonderful roast potatoes in our shopping bag, when we heard the music near our place.

We entered an unpretentious alley which opened into an open-air concert scene, three musicians on an improvised stage and 30 or 40 people in folding chairs. They were playing their own interpretations of a well-beloved French folk singer, Georges Brassens. I was quite fond of his music, having listened to it extensively in the ‘70s and ‘80s. But these interpretations were, well, quite interesting. They were called Brassens L’Irlandais, Brassens in an Irish style. What!? There was a fiddle player doing some fine Irish jigs, Western hoe-down, and maybe even a little Zydeco. The guitarist/ singer put a whole new spin on these songs, with an animation I had never imagined. And he was aided by a really solid female singer. We were transfixed!

After the concert we went up to talk to the musicians. The lady, Daniele, was selling CDs, but I realized I'd spent all my money on the chicken. Dang! I had this fantasy they'd accept the chicken in trade for a CD, but that was not offered. But Daniele took an interest, gave us an address where we could get a CD the next day, plus email and a phone number.

Monday, we were out and about and went by the place she mentioned, across from the Groupama complex, which was only a few blocks from where we lived. After finding the address and the closed store front, we followed our noses and went around in back, where there seemed to be a lot going on -- no one around but cars parked, clothes hung out, and other signs of life and habitation. One fellow saw us. I'm always ready for someone to shout at me, Hey, you, get offa my cloud! but instead he took us to the musicians.

The musicians were practicing, but were very pleased to stop to talk to us. They were in a large room, with the front furnished with a table and chairs, dishes, sink. The rest of the room was given over to a stage and studio. Daniele recognized us immediately and introduced us around. Georges, the guitarist, was there (not Georges Brassens, he's dead; another Georges), and I was able to thank him personally. He was thrilled. We said we were from California -- always a sure winner -- and they were all interested. No, I said, thankfully we are not from LA; San Luis Obispo. Well, the bassist recognized the name, there's a well-known builder of very fine bass guitars there. So we were all thrilled to see each other, and chatted for a while. I saw a photo on the table of a very young Bob Dylan, and told Georges that the best way I could explain Brassens to Americans was to call him the Bob Dylan of France. They all thought that was pretty good, and Georges mentioned that Dylan was really the first to start writing real poetry as folk songs. (Which is exactly what the other Georges, Brassens, did.)

We would have loved to stay and chat, but clearly they were practicing, and we did not mean to intrude. So we said our goodbyes, hand shaking and bisous all around, and we were back out on the street.

And so THAT’S how we came to be at the Groupama complex at noon on the 21^st of June, La fête de la musique!

Festival of the Fanfare

At the beginning of every summer, the 21st of June, France celebrates the Solstice with La Fete de la musique -- a music festival. Every town and village prepares some special musical events, and groups of musicians wander the streets, or play on street corners.

But here in Monpellier a few weeks before the Solstice we had a different kind of musical event, a celebration of the brass band (and just when you thought it was safe to go back to the park!). This is La fete de la fanfare (this last pronounced with three syllables, Fan-Fah-Rah).

But words don't do it justice. Here's a sample of what we saw at the second day of the festival, which included brass bands from all over France, and even some other countries in Europe....

Fete de la Fanfare, Montpellier

The event was organized so bands played alternately on opposite sides of the square, minimizing downtime. It also meant we only got to see half the bands. But one of the bands on the far side deserves special mention. They call themselves Pink it Black, and their bio states that they are a commando unit, ready to go at a moments notice wherever a brass band is needed.

Pink it Black at Fanfare, Montpellier, 6 June

The crowds keep getting bigger, the level of alcohol consumed kept increasing, and, frankly, however much fun it is, there's only so much brass music we can absorb. So we made our way to the nearby tram and headed home!

We Moved Today!

Oh, not far, just down the block. And we knew we would be moving from the first time we climbed the stairs to our first apartment here in Montpellier. They were a bit nasty, those stairs. My immediate thought was, Hello, sprained ankle! The building was old, like early 19th century old. And the stairs were spiral, as in narrow and steep. (Un escalader de vis, I’ve learned it’s called.)

Watch your step! Up and down, twice a day...

But we had an agreement to stay there, and it was a very nice place. Still, there was a danger. So we found another place, and arranged with our landlady to leave after a month, instead of two. We very much enjoyed that apartment, and the neighborhood. But those stairs…

So now we live in a different neighborhood, in a newer building. Less romantic, more practical. We’re a little further from the old city, a little closer to the gare (train station) and the transportation center. A little closer to the café where we meet Wednesday evenings with an informal group to speak English, French, and German. A little further from the French-American center and the afternoon gatherings for tea and conversation.

It’s a new neighborhood to explore. Not as picturesque, but quieter!

Here’s our building. Looks like it was built in the ‘70s or ‘80s (and that would be the 1970s; our previous apartment was in a building likely built in the ‘30s – the 1830s!).

Practical, not pretty

View out the window, across the narrow street.

Look left.

Look right.

What’s that older, interesting- looking place with the tiled roof?

AH, a garage! There seem to have been many in the immediate neighborhood.

But they all seem a abandoned (the one on our street is now an indoor car park).

So where do people get their cars fixed now?

Maybe here…

Or here...

Or even here.

In any event, we seem to have landed in the car repair center. But we're glad we don't have a car in Montpellier. Here's one reason:

These cars aren't parked, they are waiting for a traffic light ('way down at the end of the street). And this happens all afternoon, every day! Throw in the narrow streets, high cost of gas, insurance... And then there's this.

See that car sticking out? It is actually parked there. And the bus has just enough room to get past the properly-parked cars. Now it's stuck, and so are the half-dozen cars behind it. That's why the bus driver was laying on the horn, over and over, as we came around the corner.

And to make it worse, the car in front is jammed in so tight (bumper to bumper!), it has to move before anything can get sorted out. Sort of a Rubik's Cube of a parking puzzle. We didn't wait around to see what happened.

We'd rather be taking a sunset walk to here, the water temple at the end of the aqueduct:

And strolling near Montpellier's own Arc de Triumph

And enjoying the sun setting over the distant mountains

A Few Things I've Learned

Well I've been lazy and let Paul do all the writing. So figured it was time to speak up with a few things I've learned since we arrive about 6 weeks ago. We wanted to undertake this adventure to sharpen our edges -- lift us out of our comfortable lives in sweet Los Osos and challenge us to be flexible, open, reflective, and expressive in Europe, the ancestral home for many of us. I think most of us lineage-wise came from Western Europe. It's not the wilds of Africa or the exotic Asia but it is different. As Paul and I have expressed to each other many times, "we're not in Kansas anymore."

So here goes a few lessons and/or reflections.

1. Not all French women are skinny -- only those in Paris, I think. In the South it's much more relaxed both for body size and shape and attire. I'm really happy about that.

2. French people are LOUD and they laugh a lot -- I thought it was only in Italy that people yelled when they talked but no…it's here too. When they greet each other it's a big deal of kissing all around. And every place has its special number of bisous (kisses) on both cheeks. In Montpellier it is 3 and one has to know which side of the face to start on. It's really fun!

2a. Jazz and blues are everywhere. It's been a big surprise that there is so much jazz and blues here -- for free. And swing dancing. Lots of small bars have trios and quartets playing. I haven't listened to this much jazz since I was 30. Count Basie, Louie Armstrong, Chicago Blues. Maybe I missed something back in CA.

3. Not many Americans or expats in Montpellier right now -- maybe it's the strikes, maybe the threat of attacks. There are some Brits and other GB folk (aka Irish) but mostly it's French people speaking French. Boy am I glad Paul is a fluent speaker -- he doesn't think is he but.. he is. I fumble around with my one word questions and point a lot. People smile and sometimes laugh. I wish I had spent more time learning a few more phrases and verbs.

4. Like any place there is so much more to see and do here than we could ever partake in the rest of our lifetime. I didn't really think of this European adventure as moving to a new place, not knowing anyone, starting all over. Duh… why didn't someone explain this to me?

5. Not all baguettes are equal -- same with the wine. I would never have thought I'd be able to distinguish different quality of bread -- but I can! And now we have moved to a near but different neighborhood and it's a search all over again. We have the shop we like for the best baguette, the place for our favorite poulet roti, vegetables, pain au chocolat, pizza. Speaking of wine -- we have sampled our share and I have a new love -- rosé from Cote de Roussillon. It is not sweet but refreshing for the afternoon.

6. Plan carefully for food on Sunday and Monday. We have a small refrigerator but that's ok since we shop either every day or every other. However I keep forgetting that almost all stores and many restaurants are closed on Sunday and many on Monday -- even the big big giant mall type stores. No TJs here. We've had to make do with bread, cheese, tomatoes and wine sometimes..oh well. Sunday is a day off and the French want and need their days off -- I think they have 42 holidays a year and 6 weeks of vacation. This is part of what the strikes are about -- a push back for proposed changes in the labor laws and not wanting to "be more productive".

7. I love orange! We moved to a new apartment last week. Our first one was really nice but had a spiral staircase that was potentially a leg breaker -- like looking down a well. So we got in gear fast and found another one. This is nearby -- maybe a 10 minute walk. Rather than a vacation rental it is Carole's apartment that she rents out from time to time. She is a Buddhist and her apartment looks like our home. Statues everywhere, Buddha watching over us as we sleep, books in French by authors I recognize, photos of mantras, plants, and orange and red motif throughout, even down to the orange sheets. I think I'm getting enlightened in my sleep.

8. Crème fraiche makes everything taste great. ok so I didn't ever use this at home. It seemed all creamy and high fat or something. But here in France with the dairy tasting so great and cheese being incredible (I even love goat cheese here -- I know you don't believe it but it's true) I started to use it in everything. We cook mostly at home -- and interestingly French cuisine uses a lot of meat that we don't eat-- beef, pork, veal, lamb, mouton, goat not to mention the organs of many of these, so we have adapted to a limited but expanding list of meal options. The cuisine in the south is a mixture of Italian, Turkish, Spanish, Catalan, and French cooking. Chicken and fish are prevalent -- turkey not so much (a new-world meat). So I make soups like potato leek, chicken vegetable, and stew like ratatouille. Favorite salads-Greek, Mozzarella Italian, and Niçoise. And the boulangeries (bakeries) have great quiches with salmon. We get our poulet roti every week and use it many times as stir fry or with pasta and pesto. We do eat out occasionally and there are great lunch "plat du jour" like the one we had with a pave du salmon (brick of salmon about 6 oz) with rice and salad for 8.90 Euros. Wow!

9. Do we miss "home"? Yes of course but it's really a BE HERE NOW kind of thing. California is a long ways away -- it's fun to explain to new friends what it's like and even show photos. We are part of two language exchange groups and being the real deal -- as in native speakers and not British English-people want to talk with us. Being from California helps to elevate the mystique. We have been to a few dinner parties and look forward to more but it doesn't replace friends and family. We love to hear what you are up to. Stay in contact -- we love it.

Bisous from the South of France!

           Paula and Paul

We went exploring today

And we took the bus! We’ve been wanting to get out to Saint-Guilhem-le-Désert, a small town north of here. Car rentals are expensive; and there’s that refinery strike thing. But we found there are several buses a day going (and coming!). And they are incredibly inexpensive: 1€ each way.

We’d heard about this 1€ bus. It’s part of the Hèrault Transport Network, and the 1€ fare is only good within Hèrault.

Hèrault is the département in which we live. Continental France is divided up into 96 départements; these are administrative districts, sort of like counties. Each is given a two-digit number, and these numbers are used on license plates, postal codes, social security documents, and the like. Hèrault is number 34, so the postal code for all towns in the area is 34xxx. Montpellier, the main city, is 34000 ; for other areas, the last three digits define the exact town.

There are five more départements overseas, the départements d’outre-mer or DOM. These five are the last remnants of France's once-extensive colonial empire.

The now-familiar tram

First step was riding the now-familiar electric tram to the end of the line. (Ok, there’s another 1€ each!.) Then after a brief wait our bus arrived. It was pretty delux, since it was a long-distance bus. But we were only going a rather short distance, the first leg of our journey.

We were able to buy our tickets on the bus; actually, to get the 1€ rate we bought a card good for ten rides. We were pleased to find we only needed one card; we punched it twice for the two of use.

We soon arrived in Gignac, where we changed buses for St. Guilhem. We had about an hour to wait, so we wandered around this village, found a nice café, had sandwiches and beer. As we ate we realized the weather was not so nice; it felt like rain. What happens, we thought, if we get to this very small town, where the bus does not return for a couple of hours, and it rains? Hiking becomes very unattractive!

Nourriture a partager -- food to share! A mini-food forest at the Gare Routier (bus station)

More nouuritur a partager boxes at public buildings in Gignac

So we abandoned plan A, gave up on plan B, and switched to Paula’s plan X. (That’s the one you didn’t know about until you got there.) Rather than go someplace and get stuck in the rain in the afternoon, let’s just get back on the bus and see where it goes. We have the map, and our tickets are good for two hours. We can go to St. Guilhem another time; there’s more busses going there on the weekend anyway. So back out to the road (a two-minute walk), wait a few minutes, and climb aboard the bus. (Same direction, less than two hours, same ticket!)

The town square in Gignac; no doubt cool and pleasant in the hot summer

This bus, intended for more local travel, is a bit more funky, but just fine for this short trip. We’re cruising through the French countryside, past vineyards and ancient stone houses, with a great view from our elevated seats ( buses give you a much nicer views than cars; the windows are bigger, you’re sitting higher, and you don’t have to watch the road!). We check the road signs as we go through the round-abouts (les rond-points) and follow along on the map. It doesn’t matter, though, because the driver knows where he’s going, duh!

After a bit we stop in the medieval (almost no point in specifying that, here in France) town of Pézenas. A quick look at the bus schedule sign shows that we have we have two hours to explore the town before our tour bus leaves (and so far the “tour” has cost us €1 each; for the next leg, back to Montpellier, we’ll have to buy another €1 ticket).

On our way to the Pézenas tourist office (always our first stop) I see many references to Molière – the namesake of several hotels and cafés. I think of this fellow Molière as the French Shakespeare, highly regarded and honored everywhere. (Here in Montpellier, the house of his friend where he stayed briefly merits a plaque on the outside – and a Molière café nearby). He lived and worked in the mid-17^th century, about a half-century after Shakespeare.

A cute cornet of Pezenas; Molier no doubt walked by here, perhaps often!

The nice lady at the tourist office told us that Jean-Baptiste Poquelin was born in Paris, but Molière was born in Pézenas. Which is to say, the man first saw the light of day in Paris but got on stage, and took his nom de plume, in this small town.

It did start raining, we were secretly pleased to see (because it meant we’d made the right travel choice) while we were studying the medieval architectural exhibit upstairs in the tourist office. (Which is where I learned that the kind of spiral staircase we have in our apartment building is called an escalier de vis, a screw stair. I’d been wondering…)

We wandered under the gentle rain through the town to the free door museum. We skipped the toy museum, and spent the remaining quarter hour in the town enjoying a coffee at a café near the gare routier (bus station).

Seen at the door museum

A real Penzanas door, in the wild, as it were

The bus arrived, we got onboard. We traveled down narrow roads through lieu-dit (a named place; a farmhouse or two with no services of any kind) and open farmland. At one point we swung down a tiny lane to a small fortress-like church and its associated village (a few houses, a small square with a café and a boulangerie). It was a tight turn, into the bus stop. The bus rushed in toward the wall, the driver spun the wheel with élan, and the bus came to a nice stop right between the lines, missing the wall by quite a few centimeters. We found it an impressive feat, and realized the lady driving the bus was a real expert.

Before long we arrived at the coast. We didn’t see the ocean, but drove along a long étang, This is a shallow body of water, in this case separated from the Mediterranean by a long sand spit. (There are many étangs in this region, some long and narrow along the Sea, others inland.) We followed it for several kilometers before turning northward into the agglomération  (greater metropolitan area) of Montpellier. Which is to say, good-by vineyards and ancient villages, hello modern apartments and traffic.

The bus left us at the end of the tram line. We complemented the driver on her expertise as we descended, and headed for the waiting tram.

Our 2-Euro "tour bus" route

Once back home we consulted the map, and shook our heads. Over 100 Km (65 miles) on the bus for a cost of 2€; throw in another 2 for the tram (one each way) and our transportation costs for the day totaled 8€. Hell, we couldn’t have bought gas for that much! (Assuming we could have found it.) And we saw parts of the countryside we never would have attempted in a car, and  in a very relaxed way.

We were very pleased with our day’s adventure!

Back in Montpellier -- the tram, and the classic architecture of the South of France
(and wet streets, note!)

And right now, Paula is getting us reservations on the 1€ train to Perpignan, 160 kilometers away!

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)