When in France (II)

Part Two: Normandy

This was travel, economy class. M. Virel drove, Mme. Virel took the front passenger seat and lit a cigarette. I, with Dominique on my lap,* shared the back seat with the two family cats (inside a large cat cage) and provisions that wouldn’t fit in the trunk. The family Peugeot’s back seat was piled so high, there’s no way M. Virel could see a thing via his rear view mirror. This didn’t resemble any road trip I’d ever taken with my own family. I reckoned, When in France, do as the French do...

We made a pit stop before leaving the outskirts of Paris. Mme. V entered an apartment building, emerging a few minutes later with a third pet carrier holding a black & white tomcat. She cheerily explained that he was the mate/father of their two felines. They managed to jockey things around to fit him in. Even Parisian PETS cleared out of town in July… who knew? 

Thankfully, the older kids were still at camp. M. Virel would fetch them in a week or so. 

Finally, we were on our way to spend the rest of Summer “en campagne” in a rented cottage in Normandy, where the family had spent previous holidays. At least I knew where Normandy was. Westward Ho.

I’d had a small glass of wine at lunch. I barely drank alcohol — this amused the Virels way too much — so I was trying to warm up to it, be one of the adults. 

Between the wine, cigarettes, crying cats, and claustrophobia — OY. I sucked up all the oxygen I could through my car window, cracked (stuck, actually) a third of the way open. The Car Trip From Hell turned slightly more bearable when Dominique nodded off and slept peacefully most of the way. Her warm little body was comforting… a live teddy bear, helping me resist the urge to throw up. 

We made a second stop for gas and groceries, arriving just as the sun was starting to set. 

The cottage had a name, Le Pot d’Étain (“The Tin Pot”). It sported a tin roof, and consisted of two and a half rooms untouched by modern convenience. i.e., no electricity or running water, not even an outhouse. The main room contained a fireplace, a double bed, a small table and chairs. There was a small anteroom off the main room. The bedroom held another double bed and an old-fashioned vanity with a wash basin and mirror. 

I was stupefied. The place appeared to have been unoccupied for some time, and it would soon be dark. 

The Virels lit a couple lanterns and got to work. I helped them dust, sweep away cobwebs and the floors, then make the beds with linens, blankets, and pillows. The camping stove was fired up, and we ate a light supper of soup, bread and cheese before putting Dominque down to sleep on a folding child’s cot. Most of these amenities had been carried unseen (by me) in the Peugeot’s trunk.

Our toilet was a yellow plastic pail with a lid, placed in the anteroom. Here, I drew the line. After the first night, I did all my peeing and pooping outdoors. 

We were so tired, it was lights out to bed straight away. I got the bed in the main room. 

I laid awake long after the others. My heart pounded inside my head and I wanted to cry. This wasn’t FUN roughing it, like camping under the stars. Spending two months sharing a primitive cabin with four kids, their parents, and three cats…? When in France…? 

Or, were the Virels completely insane?!! This was lightyears away from the picturesque adventure I thought I’d signed up for.  

The next morning, I was awakened by Mme. relighting the camping stove. Over coffee, she broke the news that they’d rented a second cottage next door. They intended all along to house the older children and themselves at Cottage #2, while Dominique and I cohabited at Le Pot d’Étain. 

Ohhhh so relieved, I looked around with fresh eyes.

It was a bright summer morning with white, fluffy clouds. Le Pot d’Étain was built in typical Norman fashion, timber-framed, with white stucco on the outside. The oversize scale of the corrugated tin roof gave the cottage a whimsical air, like something Walt Disney might dream up. This roof funneled water from frequent rain into a collection tank in front. Water for drinking, cooking and washing came from a spigot in the tank’s side. The cottage was situated in a fenced cow pasture, guesstimate five to ten acres in size. Just grass with a sprinkling of trees. With no cows currently in residence, the gate was open at the road.

Le Pot d’Étain

The second cottage was twice the size of Le Pot d’Étain, with both electricity and running water in the main room. The quickest access between the two cottages was mid-field, over a collapsed bit of barbed-wire fence. Judging from the accumulation of dirt and debris, the “Big House” had sat empty and neglected for years. The first week, M. and Mme. worked like slaves cleaning and repairing. I handled the less taxing chore of keeping Dominique out of their way. Soon, the older kids were fetched to pitch in. With some fresh paint and furniture rented from a local farmer, the Big House became livable.

Still acclimating, I was glad to be left mostly alone with Dominique and the felines (who preferred to hang with us, over the chaos next door). Dominique called herself “Mimique” (which I soon shortened to “Mimi”). In return, she re-christened me “Leela”. Both monikers stuck.

Another reason I was glad: Mimi was the peewee tyrant of her family. When she threw a tantrum her parents or older siblings would give her a cookie or candy to calm her down. And, there was always at least one spare pair of arms to pick her up. At Pot d’Étain, Mimi quickly figured out there was only one of me, and if I was busy or she was being especially bratty I’d just let her cry a bit. Once we got past this, we were able to build our own little relationship. Mimi wasn’t a precocious talker, but a talented, little mime. We could communicate with very few words (less exhausting for me). 

I quickly fell into a routine: I’d wake around 7am, get dressed and feed the kitties, then wake and dress Mimi before making our breakfast. The Virels hadn’t bothered to name their cats; all three were called “Minou” (“kitty”). I made coffee with farm-fresh milk every morning, then oatmeal or muesli. Any water to be consumed had to boiled in a pot on the stove first. With one eye on Mimi, I washed dishes, made beds, then swept and sometimes mopped the stone floor of the cottage. It was a bit like waking up as the live action Snow White, minus the Seven Dwarfs. (Cue the cute forest critters…)

Mid-morning, we’d mosey down to the mailbox at the road and wait to intercept the mail. I looked forward to my daily salutations with our postman. Clearly, he did, too (delivering mail on a rural route is a lonely business). By summer’s end, I’d achieved celebrity status at his precinct for sending (and receiving) a record number of postcards and letters.

Around noon, we joined the family at the Big House to prepare and eat lunch. Our heartiest meal of the day, it was a two+ hour event with clean-up. Afterwards we returned to Pot d’Étain for Mimi’s nap and bath. Except when it rained, it was warm enough to bathe her outside.

Bath, Nap & Kitty Time

Mimi liked baths but hated getting her hair shampooed. As soon as she saw the shampoo bottle, she’d get this worried look on her face and shake her head, repeating “no dodo, no dodo” (“dodo” is baby talk for “bedtime”, but it served her limited vocabulary for shampoo time, as well). After a few minutes of total meltdown, she’d settle into playing bath games, happy as can be. 

A highlight at day’s end was the short bike ride down the road with Mimi in the kiddie seat, to collect fresh milk from the Dulons. I usually arrived in time to watch the milking. Mme. D chatted away while she worked, her conspiratorial tone suggesting gossip. Her Norman dialect was so thick… I just nodded and smiled a lot. She could say anything, and it’d be safe with me. 

The Dulons made an interesting couple; he was cross-eyed and she had no teeth. But, they were kind, salt-of-the earth folk. Among other things, they taught me which mushrooms (sprouting in our pastures) were safe to forage and eat versus which ones were likely to kill me. 

Mimi and I went back to the Big House around 7:30pm for a light supper. Afterwards, I carried her home half-asleep, negotiating the barbed-wire by flashlight. I put her to bed, lit a fire and a lantern then wrote in my journal or letters before going to sleep myself. I slept well, mostly. When I did wake in the night, the only sounds were owls hooting, or cows chewing and resettling in the damp grass. If I looked out my window, unless it was a full moon, only the ghostlike white parts of their markings were visible in the dark.

As a break from routine, Mme. gave me errands to run via bicycle in Beuzeville, the nearest town. Taken at a relaxed pace with Mimi on board, each round trip took two to three hours. The route was fairly flat and well-marked. In addition to signs, I memorized other landmarks like an unusual tree, a trio of goats or a lone pony behind a picket fence.

Once in town, I hit the stores. Mme. sent me to buy whatever I could carry in my basket, from cat food or socks to a box of nails. It was essentially a scavenger hunt (I loved those, as a kid), which I aced 90%. Mimi seemed to enjoy these outings, too, invariably falling asleep against my back on the way home.

On one return trip, I passed a family of real live Roma “gypsies” parked in a large motorhome. On another, I had to stop and wait for a poker-faced farmer herding his sheep into the field across the road — as “Wooly Bully” by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs blasted from his portable radio hung on a fence. (You really can’t make this stuff up.) 

There were a couple family outings: one to the beach at Trouville, where I collected a bucketful of seashells; another, to a local riding school (Florence & Anne were both horse-crazy). I bounced around the ring on an English saddle for the first (and last) time, while a crop-wielding instructor barked orders and insults at me. Fun.

M. V tried to teach me to drive stick-shift in the Peugeot, doing circles around Le Pot d’Étain, but that didn’t go so well either.

Near the end of our summer, the Virels took Mimi out with the older kids, giving me my first day off. I treated myself to a bath in the afternoon sun. The same tub I used to bathe Dominique — basically a large layer-cake pan with a pour spout — was just wide enough for me to sit cross-legged and deep enough to submerge my knees. I employed a pail or pitcher to dump water over my head. I had to heat my water in a kettle on the stove, then add cold water from the garden hose. The cottage was far enough from the road that I wasn’t the least concerned about the occasional car passing by. No audience except for cats and cows, and they were indifferent. 

Aspects of this peaceful, rustic life really grew on me. My needs were simple. My allowance from the Virels had accumulated for lack of ways to spend it. My biggest purchase all summer was a pair of ugly, brown rubber boots (around $12 USD). I loved those boots… essential gear for navigating rain-soaked pastures with dozens of “cow pies”.

Having only a tiny mirror, I dispensed altogether with make up and fussing with my hair. I almost (not quite) stopped obsessing about my bad skin and my weight, whatever it was at the time. 

Summer wasn’t all pastoral-perfect. A few nights, after Mimi fell asleep, I was overcome by loneliness, far from home without a telephone. The thing I missed as much as my friends (and, more than regular access to TV or my record collection) was folk dancing on Saturday nights at Cafe Danssa in LA. I also brooded about my first boyfriend, who’d gone off to college and *dumped* me. I’d buried my feelings at the time, but now there was all the time in the world to ruminate. I’d gone out on a handful of awkward dates since. Any chance of meeting a cute french guy would have to wait till I got back to Paris.

One event still haunts me. I kept my allowance cash inside a cigar box I’d decorated, brought from home. One day, I found it empty. As in, francs ALL GONE. 

Mimi was a busy toddler, into everything. When she wasn’t playing with (harassing) one of the cats, she was a mini-engineer, entertained by opening and closing lids, latches, and zippers. I’d even made a game out of hiding small objects for her to find, to keep her occupied.

That money was a source of security and pride. I was desperate to find it. I looked everywhere, even combing the perimeter outside the cottage. When I showed Mimi the empty box, asking what she’d done with my francs, she kept shaking her head “No”, her eyes growing wider at my unfamiliar tone and expression. At wit’s end, I grabbed her, pulled her pants down and spanked her little tush … HARD. 

As soon as I’d snapped, instant remorse. It was my fault for leaving the cash where she could get at it. Now she was terrorized and sobbing uncontrollably. I picked her up, rocked her on my lap, and cried along with her until all our tears were spent. 

This was a low point. I couldn’t tell the Virels I’d beaten the crap out of their child, or ask for the $$ again. Worst case, I’d be sent away in disgrace. I was shamefully glad that Mimi was too young to tell on me. I vowed to be extra-sweet to her from then on to make amends. Years later, I lost it like this only once with my own daughter when she was around three, walloping her tiny butt. I’m not proud, but at least I’d caught her in the naughty act.

A week or two before we returned to Paris, I came down with a nasty cold. I couldn’t just sleep it off and there was no one to bring me chicken soup. I had to soldier on, to look after Mimi.   

Then, our juvenile gray kitty disappeared. The kitties were free to wander, but hadn’t ventured beyond our two cottages. We never found out what happened and returned to Paris without him. The elder Virels were philosophical, but I was crushed. I felt somehow responsible … he’d been under my roof and care.

After two months, Le Pot d’Étain absolutely felt like my house. Closing the door for the last time, piling back into the car, was much harder than leaving Lugny. It was all I could do to keep the tears at bay.

I’d grown up in a gracious, two story Spanish-style home in Beverly Hills with all the amenities. Now, I’d have been quite content to stay behind at Le Pot d’Étain with Mimi and the two remaining kitties. 

But, Paris (and a new school year) called. 

End of Part 2

* This was before seatbelts or car seats were required by law. In France at least.