I expected to go back to the boulangerie Le Fournil d'Eugene. Three a.m.
rolls around, and I roll over and continue to sleep stirring briefly at
7 a.m. when the church bells ring. More on the matter of the church and
the churchbells. Valbonne is a small village, perhaps half a kilometer
by half a kilometer (one-third of a mile...think metric every inch of
the way). It is a Roman town which means we have some arches and streets
run parallel or perpendicular to each other. The roads are narrow and
cars are parked in lots outside the village. We live on the South-West
edge and our windows to the South overlook the abbey where the
aforementioned churchbells ring. It was charming the first week. The
bells are not in tune, and sound tinny. Worse, they are rung either by a
drunken man or possibly by a wayward child with an inability to count
to seven and with no sense of rhythm. The bells also ring at noon and
sometimes at 7 PM.
The deacon of that church has not come to visit us. His wife, on the other hand, brought us flowers from her garden and a sprig of lemon basil and greeted Jeroen profusely in French with, "Where is your lovely wife? I haven't seen her in a while." I sat at the table sipping on tea. Jeroen continues to deny that he has another wife and says he'd never seen the deacon's wife either. Perhaps she was mistaken. We held on to the flowers and the lemon basil and haven't seen her since.
Valbonne, the little village, has at least 20 real estate agents and thirty restaurants. Among the best rates of these is a Restaurant Indien called Le Kashmir, up the lane from us. It has indoor and pavement seating and the front window has a painted Ganesh made of plaster or papier mache lit by strobe lights that flash green and red, livening up the village in a way the bells fail to. The people who run it recognize me and I'd heard them say more than once, "The doctor sahib walked past." So I decided to introduce myself. There are four men who work in the kitchen usually. They are from Lahore. I was upset for a while for a number of reasons. First, they had no business to call themselves Indien. Second, I cannot sanction their claim to Kashmir beyond the line of control. Third, I wasn't sure why they had a Ganesh in the window when Islam takes a tough stand on idolators. I went back to ask why they had the Ganesh in the window. The owner said that he is Hindu and from Delhi. I left euphoric, dreaming of peace in the years ahead. Indians and Pakistanis could live and work together, with religious tolerance etc. He invited me to come and eat with my family.
We went in on a Saturday evening and were turned away although the restaurant was nearly empty. They said they were full and that I'd need a reservation for a Friday or Saturday night, and the owner apologized at length. I refused to be offended and promised to return the next day. (It was true, every table was occupied when we walked by thirty minutes later). We were delighted by the quality of the food we picked up on Sunday. I plan to continue to get food once a week or so since my kitchen is not fully operational. The cook and the cleaning lady both quit without notice. Alas. Last I heard, they were writing a novel.
Now for the low-lights of the culture in the village. We have a sculpture exhibition of the works of Roger Capron. Jeroen is not a fan because distortion of anatomy is not his idea of art. I see the sculptures as colorful and harmless and plan to take some photographs before the exhibition ends at the end of the month. These works of arts are scattered around the village, mainly in the periphery. We cannot help but encounter them on the way to the car park or bus stop.
The first Sunday of the month draws vendors of clothing, antiques, linen and handbags in great numbers. I found myself mildly irritated by these infiltrators selling junk and disturbing the quiet. It felt like I was trapped in an open-air thrift shop.
News on the cat front. Jeroen has been feeding Heathcliff
('easecliff en francais) the orange cat. I am confused. Heathcliff rubs
his back on Jeroen's jeans and mews at us on the street, staking his
claim on us as Primary Providers, an honor I decline. For a stray he
appears well-fed, but I cannot explain his confidence.
Wouter and Mohan are happy at school. Wouter is #4 seed at table tennis, Mohan is #10. It's not only because I am their mother that I say this: They are under-rated. Which could be an advantage in a competition. The boys went to a karate class and recoiled at the violence. The dojo here encourages sparring, quite unlike the one in Ann Arbor where junior students are taught restraint. A young man took a kick to his face when the black belt lost control and could not retract his foot in time but swung with his weight after the foot made contact. No loss of consciousness or blood, but one less beautiful Frenchman walks the streets of Antibes. Karate will have to stay on ice, though not the same ice that was placed on the Frenchman's face.
Mohan signed up for fencing, twice a week for a total of five hours. Both the boys have joined a ping-pong club which seems to be a free-for-all. They are also sailing Hobie Cats twice a week. I understand that these are hard to capsize, yet the feat was achieved by one of my children. Fortunately the school doesn't give them homework.
Of school, I have only to tell you that Prof Tutta told Mohan that he was stupide. Took me back many years when I was accused of that same fault. The music teacher yelled at Wouter twice, once for not having a plastic cover on his music notebook, and again for dropping his pencil in class. I have to buy recorders for them before next week. The school PTA is holding elections which are not discussed on the local news. I have brochures and a list of candidates with dubious qualifications and character references. Obama-Romney is an easier decision.
Jeroen and I went for a 5 km hike to the ruins of a Roman camp. I am very pleased that I could walk and didn't have too much pain the next day. Yay!
We will have to move to Antibes next month. We've looked at a few places. I'd like something with a view of the Med that's close to school.
The deacon of that church has not come to visit us. His wife, on the other hand, brought us flowers from her garden and a sprig of lemon basil and greeted Jeroen profusely in French with, "Where is your lovely wife? I haven't seen her in a while." I sat at the table sipping on tea. Jeroen continues to deny that he has another wife and says he'd never seen the deacon's wife either. Perhaps she was mistaken. We held on to the flowers and the lemon basil and haven't seen her since.
Valbonne, the little village, has at least 20 real estate agents and thirty restaurants. Among the best rates of these is a Restaurant Indien called Le Kashmir, up the lane from us. It has indoor and pavement seating and the front window has a painted Ganesh made of plaster or papier mache lit by strobe lights that flash green and red, livening up the village in a way the bells fail to. The people who run it recognize me and I'd heard them say more than once, "The doctor sahib walked past." So I decided to introduce myself. There are four men who work in the kitchen usually. They are from Lahore. I was upset for a while for a number of reasons. First, they had no business to call themselves Indien. Second, I cannot sanction their claim to Kashmir beyond the line of control. Third, I wasn't sure why they had a Ganesh in the window when Islam takes a tough stand on idolators. I went back to ask why they had the Ganesh in the window. The owner said that he is Hindu and from Delhi. I left euphoric, dreaming of peace in the years ahead. Indians and Pakistanis could live and work together, with religious tolerance etc. He invited me to come and eat with my family.
We went in on a Saturday evening and were turned away although the restaurant was nearly empty. They said they were full and that I'd need a reservation for a Friday or Saturday night, and the owner apologized at length. I refused to be offended and promised to return the next day. (It was true, every table was occupied when we walked by thirty minutes later). We were delighted by the quality of the food we picked up on Sunday. I plan to continue to get food once a week or so since my kitchen is not fully operational. The cook and the cleaning lady both quit without notice. Alas. Last I heard, they were writing a novel.
Now for the low-lights of the culture in the village. We have a sculpture exhibition of the works of Roger Capron. Jeroen is not a fan because distortion of anatomy is not his idea of art. I see the sculptures as colorful and harmless and plan to take some photographs before the exhibition ends at the end of the month. These works of arts are scattered around the village, mainly in the periphery. We cannot help but encounter them on the way to the car park or bus stop.
The first Sunday of the month draws vendors of clothing, antiques, linen and handbags in great numbers. I found myself mildly irritated by these infiltrators selling junk and disturbing the quiet. It felt like I was trapped in an open-air thrift shop.
Wouter and Mohan are happy at school. Wouter is #4 seed at table tennis, Mohan is #10. It's not only because I am their mother that I say this: They are under-rated. Which could be an advantage in a competition. The boys went to a karate class and recoiled at the violence. The dojo here encourages sparring, quite unlike the one in Ann Arbor where junior students are taught restraint. A young man took a kick to his face when the black belt lost control and could not retract his foot in time but swung with his weight after the foot made contact. No loss of consciousness or blood, but one less beautiful Frenchman walks the streets of Antibes. Karate will have to stay on ice, though not the same ice that was placed on the Frenchman's face.
Mohan signed up for fencing, twice a week for a total of five hours. Both the boys have joined a ping-pong club which seems to be a free-for-all. They are also sailing Hobie Cats twice a week. I understand that these are hard to capsize, yet the feat was achieved by one of my children. Fortunately the school doesn't give them homework.
Of school, I have only to tell you that Prof Tutta told Mohan that he was stupide. Took me back many years when I was accused of that same fault. The music teacher yelled at Wouter twice, once for not having a plastic cover on his music notebook, and again for dropping his pencil in class. I have to buy recorders for them before next week. The school PTA is holding elections which are not discussed on the local news. I have brochures and a list of candidates with dubious qualifications and character references. Obama-Romney is an easier decision.
Jeroen and I went for a 5 km hike to the ruins of a Roman camp. I am very pleased that I could walk and didn't have too much pain the next day. Yay!
We will have to move to Antibes next month. We've looked at a few places. I'd like something with a view of the Med that's close to school.
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