WHATEVER COMES NEXT - October 1 2011
1st October, 2011
Today was the day we were to go to Patricia to see her make cheese, but when we called yesterday she apologized and said that she had forgotten today was a special market day in Goult and could we come next week instead. Evidently what makes this market special is that it is a 2 day, annual event to which farmers and winegrowers from the Alsace bring their products. So off we go to Goult.
We quite like this little village having visited it in the summer and again last week. It's a one-street sort of village which still has a real boulangerie and a charcuterie as well as one of these marvelous Provencal country stores that has a little bit of everything from fresh produce, cheeses and meats, along with balloons, cleaning materials, shoe laces, note-pads, proper prooms and corks for those who've popped theirs.
There is also an interesting Brocante shop where we purchase an old ridged-metal thermos with its glass lining intact. We remark to the proprietor what a thrill it is to find this object having spent too much time, too many times, soullessly wandering the aisles of France's answer to Walmart where plastic prevails.
When did the world become so over-run with plastic? And why? Do people actually prefer plastic to wood, or metal? What is attractive about a substance that doesn't show any signs of it's life, but merely exists without expression until it cracks and is then discarded? Is this where the term Plastic Surgery comes from? It seems to me that plastic might be the 2nd most evil invention besides the nuclear bomb. And have you ever tried to wean yourself off it? We started last summer, buying ecologically made shopping bags, a wicker market basket on wheels and glass containers for leftovers for the fridge. But what do you do about the organic cauliflower pre-wrapped in plastic? How do you portage the tomatoes and grapes to the counter without receiving attitude from the checkout person who is so robotized that the thought of handling say, 3 Fuji apples, feeling their individuality, maybe even admiring their blush, is not a pleasure-filled thought, but one of irritation.
Oh, where were we? Ah, yes, Goult, the market. It was another breezeless day so we were in slow motion. Even so, after a once-through we felt perhaps we had missed something, so we strolled the few stalls again, stopping to load up on Patricia's goat cheese. But in fact, we'd seen all there was to see. It seems the Alsatians are down to 2 stalls: one of cheese and meats which frankly do not appeal, and some iced, oversize cookies that look about as enticing as gingerbread at Easter. The other stall is devoted to Gewurztraminer.
We did, on Patricia's recommendation, stop into a little stone building that houses an exhibition of class photos of the village children, dating back to the 20's, when there were as many as 30 children each year, dwindling down through the decades to the current one, where only 5 children were formally arranged and captured for posterity, one hopes.
Yes, here in Provence, as in Tuscany and some of my favorite Cornish villages it is, as Patricia says, "The beginning of the end." But on a cheerier note, standing in front of a class photo from the 50's were 3 women, evidently classmates, who were not only recognizing themselves, but were talking about others in the photo; how this one's sister went to Paris and that boy there was always trouble. My French is appalling and so eavesdropping is not rewarding.
Back in the square, the villagers were gathered around a table of free appetizers and local wine. The atmosphere was happy, carefree and had a strong communal feeling although one couldn't help noticing that almost everyone was over 50. In fact there was a special celebration for grand peres happening just then which Joel sort of fit right into. Walking back to the car I commented to Joel that the "special" market had been a bit of a bust. Yes, said my dear husband, it's just leading us to the next interesting thing.
We took the cheeses home, put 2 of them in the picnic basket along with a big salad, hunks of oil and herb-drizzled bread, ginger nougat and dark chocolate and a bottle of grape juice and climbed the 86 stone steps up to the church where we sat on a bench under the shade of 2 enormous cedars.
It was absolutely still and peaceful. The mix of sun and shade just right, the food ridiculously good. The church bells struck 2. I said to Joel, "Hey it's Saturday, how about a wedding?" Not five minutes later, we hear angelic strains and looking up see a man in his early 30's, singing to himself, his black skin glistening in the light and with some sort of robe under his arm he disappears into the church.
Turns out he is the priest who is about to officiate at a wedding! Well, of course we gate-crashed! Standing outside the church in our picnic clothes, we watch the guests arrive, some of them outfitted for a royal wedding. The groom is French, the bride from Singapore. The aisles are strewn with white rose petals, the air thick with frankincense.
A few tourists accumulate all of us awaiting the bride, who finally arrives in a scarlet sports car with the top down. She is, as every bride seems to be, beautiful. She chooses to wait alone, hidden behind a buttress in the full heat of the sun; her ivory gown, her raven hair, her pale skin all combining to create, what seemed to me, a solitary figure who would forever remain so.
Eventually she is cued by the music and her father reaches for her arm as she teeters on designer stilletoes and disappears into the dark of the church. The bell ringer, who we met in the spring and summer, turns the tourists away before closing the ancient doors, and then seeing us, beckons us in and seats us in the last pew.
This being a somewhat global wedding with the bride's side speaking English, the best man has the job of acting as the Priests translator, and what a job it is. This is a wedding that seems to be more about the priests than the couple about to embark on one of life's more interesting journeys. Although to give the Priest his due, I have never heard that much laughter and applause during a matrimonial ceremony. The best man did manage to upstage the Priest one, when the latter said to the bride " When your husband makes a mistake, forgive him." The best man deftly removed the "makes a mistake" clause replacing it with "commits adultery."
Finally, after a recording of O Happy Day, the bride and groom become husband and wife and while they, the 3 bridesmaids, the 3 best men, the bride's parents and then the groom's all sign the document, a lone voice sings one of the most plaintive versions of Ave Maria I've ever heard. And then its the grand exit, the rose-petal fling and the couple are in the scarlet convertible and the groom manages to get himself out of the first of many tight spots married life will offer him by executing a 3 point turn before bumping his bride over the stony road, down into the valley.