Summer

Yesterday, as we came over the gentle rise near where the memorial to the Polish Grenadere's who lie in the soil after dying on a summer's night in 1940 during a bayonet charge to liberate Lorraine lie under the skeletons of two great oak trees, about a kilometre from home, the one who wasn't driving was given to remark that she rather liked the way we had come.

It made she went on to say, a nice change. The interesting thing about that was that it was the route we usually take, transformed to something else in just seven days.

A week ago we would have been in the midst of a sea of yellow rape flower, the village and the port itself clearly visible across the Canal du Marne au Rhin. In just seven days, the village was lost behind the trees lining the canal, the yellow fields now an almost drab green in comparison to their former vivacity. The steeple on the church once again stands as the only visible marker to the town.

Even the memorial  to the Polish Grenadere's who lie in the soil after dying on a summer's night in 1940 during a bayonet charge to liberate Lorraine  seemed lost in the deepest shade somewhere under the two oak trees that had taken it upon themselves to burst into leaf while we were gone.

It seems that in the blink of an eye, spring is over and everything is getting on with whatever business it may need to get on with until the next winter.

Back on the boat, the electrical system had also been transformed. There is more to do of course, but it's looking as though it may just give us the reliability we have been seeking.

Roll on Summer!

The weight of the world

We had been on the road less than an hour when the phone rang.   

We bought our new French sim card for economy and convenience, but it had served an unintended purpose three days ago.  The billing address to which the invoice was sent was our "new" French one, and as much as I am in awe of those who invent policies that deem utility bills to sent to an address as proof that one lives there, I am perhaps even more impressed by the "box tickers" who can stare me in the face and accept that a receipt for a one Euro sim card for a prepaid mobile phone is in fact a utilities bill and I must therefore live at the address to which it was sent.

Perhaps it is they who are in awe, that one should even try, but that aside the phone did indeed ring.

Celine was almost speechless as she told us that the nice young lady we had lodged all the forms with had phoned.

"Remember me?" she had enquired, "I'm the one at the Prefecture office who welcomed your friends from Australia…."

To cut what we had heard should certainly have been a very long story short, it appears our application for Residency Cards has been approved, and we are to return later in the month to pick them up.   After all the horror stories we had heard about the process, we are somewhat reeling in disbelief.

Not long after, we stumbled across "Creation"  parked as it was, quite in the middle of nowhere it had no relevance whatsoever to the story, but we liked it.

No flies on me.

Today we sat in the Ligne Roset showrooms waiting for the madding crowds fail entirely to arrive.

The adoring fans and the autograph hunters were no doubt themselves waiting for the evening's function we thought, as we sat in the stillness broken once only, and then by a solitary person who was asking for directions.

It was quite eerie really, as though someone had decided that it would be a retail-free day.

By the time it was party o'clock, we really had no idea what to expect, but should have known better. Sure the people who had indicated and interest in the paintings failed to arrive, but by golly those that did turn up did so with enthusiasm that is quite intimidating.

Once again, today finished in the wee small hours of tomorrow.

It's on page 13, but it still counts.

"Is opening a bank account in Australia as difficult as this?" the smiling manager enquired.

We smiled back and assured him that it was indeed, but in reality I can't remember the last time we spent more than two hours locked in a bank managers office, nor had writer's cramp from signing documents. We were not wanting a loan, nor were we trying to launder vast quantities of international crime funds. We simply wanted to deposit a few hundred euros to make our lives a little simpler.

We all missed lunch, which is perhaps a gauge of just how important the procedure was, but when we emerged into the afternoon sunshine we had sixty pages of countersigned copies, the promise of new debit cards (curiously called "credit" cards) and we each had a 15€ share in the bank.

Just how that actually occurred is a small mystery, but as a result the fees we will pay are minimal, and it seems we have a bank account for life.

Perhaps it is the part of the price one pays for fame.

The Chores

Once again yesterday finished well after today had technically begun, but with our immigration issues out of our hands, and an appointment set for the bank for tomorrow, we set off with the shopping list of things to buy while we have a car.

First stop: the generator shop.  Forget that.  I can't understand how salesmen can look you in the eye and tell you that they have no margin at their outrageous price when you know perfectly well that it's 50% higher than a merchant selling the same item on line.  So we bought on line and in a day or two a large truck will arrive with a very small generator on the passenger seat.   

That was easy, unless of course it arrives in a day or three, which will make it less easy.

We couldn't buy fabric for the curtains over the internet, but our run of incredibly good fortune continued in the fabric shop, when we found a bolt of material that we considered would be perfect for the new curtains on what we would call "the throwout table".   A bit of careful measuring later and we discovered it contained exactly the amount of material we needed.  

It looks as though one of us at least will not be short of things to do for quite some time. 

The other has been procrastinating as usual, sitting in front of the fire by night fiddling with silly details while the real issue which must be seen to with some urgency, the construction of the bed just seems to slip quietly into the darkness whenever it is raised. 

Applying to stay.

Bureaucracy is a French word so it should come as no surprise to anyone that if there was a world championship in demanding copies of things in triplicate, every other country in the world would be in a race for the silver medal.

Today was the day we put on our best smiles, dodged the hoards of papparazzi cunningly disguised as a busload of Asian tourists, but who were clearly staking us out, and braved the best that City Hall, or by it's real name, the Prefecture office, could throw at us.

We were well armed of course, with everything we needed tied in neat bundles, and multiple copies colour coded with originals in a separate file and two delightful French people who had written references and would, if necessary shout and perhaps thump the table and tell the bureaucrat just where to stick his stamp.

But we were foiled. We took a number, and meekly prepared ourselves for the marathon wait. It never came, instead pleasant young lady smiled and ushered us in. We apologised that we didn't actually have an original birth certificate that was less than 90 days old as demanded by their legislation. As being born in that time frame would provide some challenges, wouldn't it, we wondered aloud in her presence, be just possible that two passports and a wedding certificate perhaps could be used to provide the same information?

She smiled and agreed, and for a second I thought I saw her smile widen ever so slightly in one corner of her mouth.

"You must stay in France for six months before the application can be accepted", she explained as she checked the contents of our bundle, ticking off each item in turn.

Which is odd, we thought, since it is an application to be allowed to remain in the country for exactly one day short of that period of time.

Afternoon in a small Chateau

May Day marks many things around the world, we aren't exactly sure what it marks in France, we think it's something about labour struggles and having lunch, but we haven't really bothered to enquire too deeply.

For us it meant going to bed not much before it was time to get up, leaving us all day with the distinct feeling that we'd been travelling for weeks, wandering among the trash and treasure on the streets of la Ferte in a daze, and crepes from a stall that in our addled state looked so much as though it could have been the CWA tent at the Quilpie show, that we ordered in English.

We did have time to pop in to an exhibition in a small chateau in Orleans of course. (Note to Mike who has been running around gathering vital documents for us: Thanks heaps, and you really need to be here, the surf can wait!) Small chateaus are not normally where we can be found admittedly, and this one was smaller than most, with the work of two painters on show on its ground floor. In the background, music filtering through every corner from somewhere above, sight unseen.

Our French connections made enquiries and obtained permission for us to explore the vacant first floor, where we found the source of the Musak. Jean-Dominique the journalist who just a year ago had written some tremendous reviews of our own work, had installed himself, alone apart from his flute, in the empty upper level space, to play for the duration of the exhibition using the acoustics of the place to avoid the need for amplification.

We lingered for an age, sitting on the floor, feeling the afternoon mellow as our private concert continued broken between brackets by quiet chatter between musician and audience.