Living in the past

I've moved from a modern light-filled apartment in a town to a 36 year-old sombre house in the rural countryside and it's full of surprises from the long-gone past. Houses in France tend not to have any storage at all built in; no cupboards or wardrobes unless it's a very modern building, and even then...

My small personal items that I use each day need somewhere to sit and now they are sitting somewhere hundreds of years old. This week I was reminded that it's the 300th anniversary of the death of Louis XIV the Sun King (5 September 1638 – 1 September 1715); he who built Versailles, aqueducts, waged wars and certainly contributed to the grandeur and prestige France enjoyed for a while.

How odd that my binders and folders, cables and printing paper should find themselves housed in a wardrobe from the beginning of his era (or even the end of his father's - Louis XIII). The planks don't fit together now without cracks but it has all its original  hinges, key, doors. There's a crack in one front door where the Nazis tried to break into it looking for loot. The wardrobe sits beside my desk, oozing history, and I wish I could rewind its story and see all its experiences through the ages. It comes from JC's father's side of the family.

If I look across to the doorway I see something else of historical value. It's a Directorate chair. The Directory was the government of France during the penultimate stage of the French Revolution, administered by a collective leadership of five. It lasted from 2 November 1795 until 10 November 1799, a period commonly known as the "Directory era." It was overthrown by Napoleon. This chair is in good order and is often draped with my cell phone or computer bag.

My books and what's left of my Lord of the Rings figurines are tucked away in an old bibliotheque (bookcase).

The bedroom with my furniture in it contains a wardrobe from the era of King Louis-Philippe (6 October 1773 – 26 August 1850). During this era my French ancestors settled Akaroa, Banks Peninsula - the one and only French settlement of NZ. They arrived in 1840 but would not have been wealthy enough to have had a wardrobe of this quality. It's now full of DVDs and photo albums.

It's all a bit odd having my modern stuff juxtaposed with these historic, antique items. JC's used to having such items - things handed down, things he has bought. One of his ancestors fought in Napoleon's army - there's an ancient 'certificate' to prove it. His house is full of other stuff from the ages of Kings and Empires and I supposed this might still be common in French homes, at least the traditional ones. But no. JC says it's rare now. Most folks in the past had stuff of lesser quality that didn't last. Newer generations wanted belongings that were contemporary. French families are still relatively large and so goods get split between many inheritors.

It didn't take more than a day to get used to living amongst antiques. I enjoy history and it's cool to imagine the stories that could be behind each piece of furniture.

Steamroller

Ever felt like you are being shunted from behind by a Terminator in a big rig? There you are on your motorbike, looking behind and seeing the behemoth bearing down on you. Suddenly you are hit from behind with such unstoppable force - pushed onto a trajectory you cannot control. That Terminator in the truck controls your fate but you can't make out its features. It's been after you for a long time, edging ever closer. Sounds melodramatic? Not for many people, including me. It's an apt analogy for what continues to happen. FATE; change of life, tighter restrictions, fewer options and no matter what I do I can't stop this process; it's driven by something exterior.

A little over three weeks ago I was obliged (through employment circumstances) to tell my landlord I had to move out. I gave the requisite three months notice thinking I might have at least a couple of months to sell my furniture, enjoy the last of my home and independence. Wrong! I had exactly three WEEKS. Yes, it's all over, done and dusted folks. Last weekend I moved into Jean-Claude's home. I have most of 1.5 rooms upstairs. I've been lucky; he decided to throw out his very old bedroom furniture upstairs which made space for mine. This is great because it has meant I can have a bit of my own surroundings and a place to work. From the rest of the house you wouldn't know I was there.

Why the rush? JC explained that otherwise I'd be moving during the long summer holidays and nothing 'moves' during that time. Everyone is off work so all of August would be impossible and I'd be back at work in September. If I wanted to hire a truck and some strong guys I'd have to do it now.

It's been distressing to be so rushed and JC kept trying to push me forward, saying I had no choice. He was very helpful of course in providing boxes and tape and carting stuff to our cars and putting my small stuff in his garage attic. The real problem was my furniture. I loved my modest furniture and worried about what might happen if I found myself without a roof over my head in the future and no money to buy stuff all over again. JC's attitude softened a bit over the weeks and he put in effort to find someone cheap to move me. He had to dismantle some things like my table and chairs and store them. It wasn't possible to sell them in time.

There are no garage sales in France. Le Bon Coin (internet site for second-hand stuff) seems to have prices worse than Trade Me and I didn't have time to manage that process, nor the language skills. I made flyers and put them in the letterboxes down my street. I got one 'bite'. Two ladies bought a china/book cabinet and my buffet. Hang on - not so easy!

As is often the case with furniture in France, it is not moved assembled so you have to break it all down into its component pieces and reassemble it at the other location. This meant JC had to spend time dismantling before the buyers could take it away. Furniture held together with nails is a nightmare - things inevitably become damaged. Screws are easier but it's fraught each time you move. With some items of furniture it is impossible to do this without several strong men to help, as in the case of an armoire (wardrobe). You have to have professional-type tools and plenty of experience with furniture - quite beyond my capabilities.

All these moves have taken a toll on some of my most fragile and precious items, especially my Lord of the Rings figurines, despite taking great care. Gimli had his pigtail broken off, Legolas's bow has two breaks and an arrow is broken off, Aragorn's ring finger is hanging by a thin wire, an orc has lost part of his skirt. Most upsetting.

JC's housekeeper found buyers for the fridge, microwave, clothes dryer and single bed. I needed money to pay for the move so I'm grateful that covered the costs. However, JC's loft and garage still contain some large items like the washing machine, dishwasher, another china cabinet/bookcase and we don't know what to do about that. My stuff was almost new. I was lucky to get 40% for any item so I've written the stuff off in my head.


I found this move the most distressing of any I've done (a great many) because it was so rushed, the furniture and appliances needed to go, the furniture needed dismantling and I'd lost my ability to have a life/environment of my own. I'm trying to adjust though I can't change my heart and my nature. I'm now busy wading through the government and private organisations I need to advise of my change of address. Some work well, for instance the site where you can change details for your car ownership, taxes, social security all in one go. https://connexion.mon.service-public.fr/auth/0?spid=http://portail.msp.gouv.fr&minlvl=1&mode=0&failure_id=0

There's naturally the stress of switching to living as a couple though it's not strictly 'conventional'. There have been some sticky moments and there's lots of negotiation and compromise and tolerance required, especially in these senior years. JC has lived alone for 15 years at least (though always with women in his life)  and I'd adapted well to my independent lifestyle where no one told me how things had to be done or organised. The awkwardness will pass and we'll settle into a routine. It's only been a week. He's gone out of his way to help me settle in as fast as possible by setting up my desk, TV and stereo and I've made him a courgette and leek tart to help him feel at ease.

Photos of my old (modern) life in France before the steamroller arrived. 
Next post - my new antique environment.

Learning new skills in accepting a new life

I'd really hoped it wouldn't come to this but it has. After almost five years of struggle in France but having found a little oasis of 'temporary stability' (aka my apartment) in my precarious existence here  it's already the end of an era. Three years ago I needed to escape a dark, damp, unhealthy studio rented to me by an abusive boss. I'd received a small pay increase (my first and only one in France) and I used it to good effect. Though the process of securing a decent habitation as a foreigner was in the hard basket, with Jean-Claude's help I eventually found a place I could call home: warm and dry, well insulated and better constructed than most homes in NZ, in a town with charm but modern facilities, right beside the train station. A little slice of heaven in a world that was sometimes scary and often lonely.

Since that move I had to change jobs to  escape the boss but I ended up going back to my original very modest salary yet now paying a higher proportion in rent (almost 50% with taxes still to come out of the other 50%). That second job had a limited shelf-life of a maximum of two years. I knew how to manage on very little; to not have takeaways or trips to the movies, to never eat out or visit a part of France for the weekend. I knew the benefits of always buying the same ingredients for the same meals so I could keep within my budget, and if I needed to buy some ink cartridges for my printer it meant delaying replacing some aging underwear or often taking home leftovers from my weekends with my boyfriend. All perfectly do-able but just not fun. This tactic didn't have a future because there was no way to save for any fun or emergencies or retirement. Still, being able to live independently is a strong need/urge/drive for me so I hung on as long as I could. I liked my little life in Epernon.

Change. That great certainty of uncertainty. As many of you will know, my time in France is dependent on getting work and years of serious job-hunting in France and NZ have resulted in zilch, nada, zip, zero. My best survival option was to convince my employer to create a job for me. After intensive and nail-biting lobbying against a context of down-sizing staff and institutional bankruptcy with a bailout from the government (a bit like Greece) I've been informed I will be given a new contract for a year, and it's technically renewable. The downside is that I have to teach double the contact hours for the same base salary and if I want more money the extra hours required will be double that required previously. It means no time for planning, preparing and marking. Travel time across regions will also increase.

Most tenancy agreements in France state you must give your landlord 3 months notice. By the time I was told I could have a new contract only two months remained on my old salary. Without the maximum extra hours it would be impossible to live in my apartment and those hours weren't immediately forthcoming. Finding a cheaper apartment would not have gained me much in saving; not enough to make a difference and there would have been costs in moving back to a dark, damp bedsit somewhere. JC said I could move in with him. He said he'd seen it coming for a long time and that, given my circumstances, it was inevitable.

Did I jump at it? No. I agonised and struggled to find ways around losing my independence - I don't want to be dependent on someone else for my existence. In private I railed against having to live a mode of life not of my making or choice in a tiny rural village in the back of beyond. No train station, not even one shop. I shed tears for  the loss of my furniture and some of the few belongings remaining to me from a life of 60 years and too many shifts. And then, quite quickly, I set my mind to being practical and reasonable... and jumped. Sometimes it's better to jump a few seconds before the last minute.
Immediately, the registered letter was written and sent to the landlord. No going back. Change was coming whether I wanted it to or not. The details were now my choosing. Time for action-woman.

I continued to look for extra work. An engineering school in Paris was interested in meeting me but before I could interview with them my uni said it would be better to stay with them and maybe I could find some hours on another of their campuses. That's probably going to happen. So, I'll be working for the same employer, exact annual income unknown but less than now, teaching courses I've never done before (massive learning experience ahead) and living in JC's house located in a tiny village a bit closer to Chartres but further away from my work. I've got a lot of adjusting to do. I'll be adjusting my 'needs', my lifestyle, my attitudes, my behaviours and my brain cells.

There are positives despite the significant losses and adaptations needed. At last I will have an opportunity to save a little for a 'rainy day'. I  have a Question Mark over my future beyond next year rather than an exclamation mark, so things could turn out even more positively, even if I can't see exactly how right now. I can't plan ahead with anything in my life but I can have hope it will end up better than the worst scenario. I'll never realise my dream of living in a little house near Aix en Provence but I can travel to Paris for the odd bit of 'civilisation' if I want. It'll be easier to work in my garden at JC's. I'll have more human interaction in my daily life than I do now (even if it's limited to French). I continue to have a nice man in my life who seems to like having me around though he does acknowledge (as do I ) that he's going to have to make some adjustments too. Like me, he preferred his independent life but I may just have gotten under his skin despite his auto-protections, as his tender side comes out more and more. At those times he's an adorable person.

The final plus is staying in France long enough now to be able to apply for naturalisation as a French citizen. If I am successful (two years and hundreds of dollars later in the future) I don't know if it will be all that useful now (given my working age), except in eliminating the highly unpleasant yearly visit to the Prefecture to renew my residency card and right to be on French soil.  I don't know if I can ultimately stay in France as I have no resources to do so but I still feel, somehow, it might be important to have dual nationality so I'm gearing up for that process.

The next few months will be challenging, life-changing as I dissolve one life (yet again) to begin another; let's see how I get on with putting it all together. The roller-coaster continues. Come along for the ride!
Photos show me in my garden at JC's, scenes from my apartment (note the Monet impressionist painting bed linen - francophile me), JC's place.

Here's what was happening exactly five years ago http://francesbigadventure.blogspot.fr/2010/07/inching.html

Changing decades

What a difference a decade makes and how our lives can be so altered from one decade to another. How have YOU celebrated your milestone birthdays?

This year I turned 60. Though it may only be a number there is still some significance to it. It suggests I'm not young and not really middle-aged either, yet not quite decrepit. I turned 60 in France. That comes as a surprise to me even now when I look back at those other 'milestone' birthdays and the events and effort it has taken to get me where I am now.

On my official 60th birth day there was no party, no restaurant dinner nor anyone to celebrate it with. I spent the day pleading with my employer to make an exception to the system and give me a job so I could stay a bit longer in France. The evening was spent alone watching an old DVD. That seemed a bit miserable to me so I told my boyfriend Jean-Claude we should have a joint party, a decade-changing party, since I'd turned 60 and he'd be 70 later in the year. He's not into parties and birthdays or Christmas but he agreed.

We invited 14 guests and 10 came on the day. A large number for us to cater for in the French style but intimate. I have almost no friends here but it was great to have a former colleague come to share the celebrations with us, and I know JC's friends. They are all lovely people our age. The challenge for me was planning and socialising entirely in French.

It all came together at JC's place on the day and the weather was superb. JC and I were flat out preparing French and NZ dishes. In NZ I'd have made life easier for myself by having things informal and buffet style but JC preferred things with a bit more formality.
I had prepared some Maggi Onion Dip from NZ via the UK. Everyone loved it with the raw vegetable crudites from my potager, the apple tarts, the pavlovas and chocolate brandy balls. the fruit salad, JC's roasted pintard (guineafowl) with vegetable purees. There was champagne and hors d'oeuvre, French cheeses, salad from the potager, raw ham and fresh melon. We were all well and truly replete after that and declared the day a great success. JC had regaled everyone with his story of the horrors of vegemite/marmite and explained it was totally repugnant to anyone not Anglo-Saxon. I'd have loved to have let everyone decide for themselves how it tasted but the jar is forbidden on JC's territory after he tasted it once.
I don't remember my 10th birthday. It was the final year at Bishopdale Primary School before I went to Casebrook Intermediate in Christchurch.

That's me 4th from the left in the second row, with the teacher who introduced me to the Narnia books by CS Lewis.




 
My 20th birthday was a non-event and I can't remember that either but my 21st was spent with my father and my future first husband in a restaurant in Christchurch. Just the three of us, me in a long dress I'd made myself. I was sad not to have the 21st birthday party most from my generation enjoyed, but my parents had divorced and had little interest in me. I was in my final year at Teachers College before heading to Wellington.




When I hit 30 back in Christchurch I did so alone, probably watching TV. I was separated from my first husband and living frugally, working as a part-time teacher in the private sector. I had decided I needed to change my life by the time I hit 30 so the week after my birthday I changed jobs and entered the world of medical detailing with a company car, the South Island to manage, selling, selling, selling. I toned down my hair style for that.

My 40th birthday was shocking. The father of my daughter, with whom I had been living with for many years sprang a surprise party for me at my workplace head office and it was the worst party of my life.The only guests in attendance were a couple of colleagues and the rest were my partners friends and family. None of my family or friends bothered to come and in the middle of it my partner proposed in front of everyone. Unexpected and shocking, as it put me under a lot of pressure and I needed time to consider the idea, (since the relationship was neither happy nor healthy) without the eyes of his family boring into me, showing expectations of a positive response. In those days I was sales and marketing manager for the luxury George Hotel of Christchurch but I was now living in Auckland.

Birthday number 50, in Auckland, was also a surprise party but a much better one. My second husband (not my daughter's father) went to a lot of trouble to hire a room in a restaurant and put together a slide show presentation. I thought that was great and friends came. What was left of my family were all down in Christchurch. It was like the 21st I never had and the cake was iced to reflect my hobby as a professional bellydancer. In this era I was a full-time student studying for my Bachelor of Applied Communication.

And as you now know, number 60 was spent in France with a French man and his friends, with me in yet a different career as a university teacher, teaching intercultural communication, and English.

Where will I be when I turn 70? What country will I be in? Will there be a special man in my life? What will I be doing - in retirement or still having to scramble for a job? Will I still be around? People start popping off around now though I'm not expecting to miss out on seventy years. Usually at my age life becomes more settled and secure but, clearly, mine seems to be au contraire. How are you getting on?

Hard labour

No matter what country we come from, where would homes, businesses and infrastructure have been without cobblestones, paving stones and mill stones? I live in a French town that specialised in supplying these products. But it meant truly hard labour for the employees, many of whom died earlier than they would have done in a gentler employment.

Epernon (in the Eure-et-Loir department) was, from the 19^th century and even before, a town of sandstone quarries and millstones where more than 120km of material was extracted. At certain times, 40% of the population worked in open sky quarries where the production of these millstones would bring renown to Epernon from around the world.

 

 It was exhausting work for generations of quarry workers  for whom mechanisation arrived a little too late, in a time where all the quarries were already almost run out. The workers were suspect to various lung and hand maladies because of dust and stone splinters. Each building block and millstone and cobble stone had to be shaped by hand, carted by hand. What a hard job. All the wind and water mills, streets and buildings needed these products. The ancient quarries can still be viewed today via a self-guided walk through Epernon and towards Droue.

It was in prehistorique times this industry would first see the light of day. Later, Vauban (the King's great civic builder/architect) himself  chose the sandstone quarries of Epernon when Louis XIV decided to divert the waters of the Eure in order to make the great fountains of Versailles gush up. Heavy barges laden with stones went down the specially channelled Drouette River that flows through Epernon, to feed the construction site of the aqueduct at Maintenon - a three-storied aqueduct built to send water to Versailles but that was never finished because Louis ran out of money thanks to his war-mongering.

I'm a member of the local heritage society  and am currently translating some of their brochures into English. It's really interesting to learn about my neck of the woods and how it fits into the events of French history. It's also satisfying to make a voluntary contribution to local tourism.

A museum display is open to the public at the Conservatoire of Millstones and Cobblestones from the Epernon Basin.

23 avenue de la Prairie

28 230 Epernon

The conservatoire is open 01 May until 30 September

Visitors are welcome every Saturday 2pm to 6pm,

Sundays and public holidays 10am-12pm and 2pm until 6pm

Other days available for groups by appointment (10 persons minimum).