FRENCH VILLAGE LIFE

My Elderly Neighbour, Dragged Me Into Her Kitchen, Whipped Up A Jug Of Planter’s Punch & Told Me Tales Of Her Love Affair With A Famous Chanteur . . .

Then she revealed the secret to learning French

After a few months in France, I began to chat, in a very limited way, with some of the people in the village. Paulette who lived in the house opposite was one of the first. Stout with coiffed blonde hair and probably on the downside of eighty, she spoke no English, but was, as the French say, très bavard.

Or, as les Anglais say, she could talk the hind legs off a donkey.

Which is how I happened to be sitting in her kitchen one morning drinking Planters Punch and looking at sepia-toned pictures of a young Paulette with a man who could have stepped straight out of a 1940 gangster flick.

I’d intended to spend the day working on the book which I had serious doubts would ever be finished, but Paulette had knocked on my door, grabbed my arm, and all but shanghaied me through her front door.

I looked up from the photo she’d just handed me and over at her. Eyes half-closed, her face had the sort of dreamy love-struck look that needs no words. Paulette, of course, had words, plenty of them. French words, of course, but I understood anyway. Context always helps.

This man was the love of her life. A famous singer. He sang everywhere. In Paris of course, yes, yes. Mostly in Paris. Paulette once lived in Paris. And the famous singer lived there too.

She’s telling me all this in such rapid French that, even knowing the context, I can barely keep up.

Then she removes another framed photo from the shelf.

Young and glamorous Paulette with her darkly dangerous and very famous lover who sings all over the world, but mostly in Paris. A very famous man.

How could I not know his name? She stares at me, incredulous. He was very famous. Many women loved him. Many, many. Including his wife. Paulette’s smile faded. She shook her head, returned the photo to the shelf, and refilled my glass with Punch Planteur.

“C’est triste,” I said. It’s sad. But falling in love with a married man is usually sad.

“Triste?” She rejects the idea. “Non. Pas de tout.”

Of course, he had many women. He was very famous. And very handsome. But, she, Paulette was his one true love.

We sat quietly for a few moments, drinking our glasses of punch planteur. I thought about the young Paulette and her famous long-ago lover. Two glamourous Parisians. He was long dead and Paulette old and stout lived in a small southern village where she was famous for her moules farci — stuffed mussels — and talking a lot.

But she had her memories.

That’s the thing about getting old though. At a certain point, it’s the memories that bring joy. Past lives, past loves. I was maybe only a couple of decades younger than Paulette, but I knew the past was not where I wanted to dwell. It was why I came to France.

Then she asked me a question.

“Vous été celibataire?

Was I single? I sighed. “Ç’est compliqué”

Complicated to explain in English, much less to explique en française.

She gave one of those shrugs the French do. It didn’t matter.

I thought I might have disappointed her with my inability to explain complex personal matters in French.

Her glass was empty, mine was too. At the sink, she rinsed them out. Then she sat down opposite me again and offered some advice.

You must find a lover. If you really want to speak French, there is no other way.

I laughed.

At 68 and still trying to adjust to life in a foreign country, finding a lover wasn’t exactly at the top of my to-do list.

So I left Paulette to her memories — or perhaps to prepare a repas of moules farci, hers really were excellent — but her words had planted a seed. Would it flourish, perhaps become another chapter in my French adventure? I had no idea. And for the moment that was fine.

And here’s what happened next:

Another story about life in the village. Paulette was a little suspicious of me

And an answer to my California friend’s fear that life in a French village would be dull.

Did you know that you can also take me along on your walk, or wherever? Just press the listen button at the top of the story to hear it read aloud.

Thanks in advance.