Un Dimanche Sans Succès

A Sunday without success. I had great plans for today. Having rattled around in this apartment the last two days, gradually feeling more bored, irritated and homesick, I had decided as I went to sleep, today I would head into town in the morning, sit in a little café with a coffee and a croissant, read a little and enjoy the lazy Sunday morning. Then I would head back to the apartment and spend a few hours working, with lunch- by which time my food supplies would have run out and an afternoon trip to the supermarket would be a perfect way to while away the hours until tea. Parfait, non?

Non.

the morning looked like this

So then, of course, I had to stay inside and have breakfast here while waiting for the storm to pass over. Two hours of loud clapping thunder, lightning and torrential rain ensued, with my lights flickering- threatening to cut out. At lunch it had gone and the sun was coming out so it seemed a good idea to crack on with part B of the plan. Off I went with my bag, enjoying the freshness of the air and the river that is usually dry, running fast with rainwater. I rounded the corner to the supermarket, and saw immediately- all blinds down, empty car park- it was closed. Intermarché on a Sunday??! Closed? Of course- this is Provence. Undeterred I detoured back on myself and headed across the road, into the old town. One foot under the arch that marks the entrance told me it was a pointless endeavor.  All down the street the shutters were closed, doors barricaded and not a person in sight. Sundays are not lazy here- they are dead. 

The Apt Market

It is my third day in Apt and so far the days have been spent enjoying the very best of la France; 'le culture, le climat et la cuisine'. The days here are very slow and leisurely; the shops seem to open to their own timetable and consequently there are some I haven't yet seen open. If I need to go out and buy something, there seems to be no time you can guarantee them open, you have to take pot luck. The shops are nearly all closed at midday, and the streets deserted, except for the hoards of men gathered round the squares playing an obligatory game of 'boules', another provençal quirk and funny to watch such typically french men with thick grey mustaches and cigarettes in hand, muttering and exclaiming in unison- something you would never see in England during a weekday lunchtime.

the public gardens- sat here to write postcards and 'bronzer'

With Becca in Switzerland it's been quiet in the apartment so I have been trying to entertain myself. Yesterday I did some washing and sunbathing whilst working* at my desk. I was fine until bed time, and have indeed been marveling at my quick adjustment to living here, when I got into bed and suddenly was wide awake, listening to every creak and thump in the building. I spent a good few hours, heart thumping, planning various escape routes, defense strategies, working out necessary french vocab in case of emergencies and running worst case scenarios through my head before I eventually fell asleep, halfway through writing my eulogy.  I woke up early, feeling much better in the light of day, but still double checked behind the bathroom and kitchen door in case. 

early morning in Apt

breakfast aujourd'hui

Today is market day in Apt, and as the capital of the Luberon, the market is vast. Before arriving, researching Apt online and in books immediately told me the Saturday market in Apt is a sight to behold, with people travelling to it from all over the region. I woke up early, shouldered my french straw bag (très français) and headed out of the appartment. Already the town was taken over by cars, parked all the way down the side of the river and in the school car park. The first thing I noticed, that amused me, was that I had gone out wearing a skirt and vest, on a warm morning with a slight breeze. The local people stared at me, wrapped in their coats, fleeces and scarves. I will be interested to see what they wear in January and February when, according to Peter Mayle, the cold really sets in, and the legendary Mistral wind comes hurling through the valley. I wandered through the narrow streets which were lined with many stalls, sellers calling to each other in the strong provençal accent I am struggling to grasp. The stalls were very typical of France and indeed Provence- an abundance of soap, lavender, olive wood, l'herbes de provence and provençal pottery.

fruit seller 

I ended up buying fruit to stock up the apartment- (update on the canteen- I will only eat there if all other options are exhausted, and I mean ALL) and a wool scarf for 10 euros. It is difficult to know now what is the best produce and which is the best value; these famous markets often sell overpriced tourist souvenirs of Provence because of the large influx of Brits in the area but that wasn't my concern today- it was getting by without any embarrassing french blunders. Often I will ask a question in French and they reply in English  which is friendly and most of the french relish the opportunity to practice their excellent English (which they are very proud of) but I feel a lot better when I have managed to conduct a conversation in French (albeit short).

my FRENCH straw bag with my purchases

my delicious lunch after the market

To conclude, so far, so good. Hopefully I will be exhausted from my night of trauma and will drop off straight away tonight. Tomorrow I plan to finish all the admin I've been doing and then on Monday go further afield and explore Avignon. 

Love to everyone reading this at home xxx

*(not)

Day One

Unlike Peter Mayle, my year did not begin with lunch. It did not even end with supper. The traumatic journey began with breakfast at Le Pain Quotidien where I considered ordering champagne, feeling distinctly sorry for myself, but went with a coffee and a croissant, and sat next to a french lady who pointed at a nearby screaming baby and said 'she is beautiful, no? just like you'. Whilst I was digesting this backhanded compliment my train was called and I boarded, found my seat and was just wondering how much time I had on English soil to send emotional goodbyes and ponder the tragedy of my circumstance when some man wedged himself down next to me and started chatting. He amused me well enough with modest tales of selling his house for 3.5 million and what fun the generations of his family have had at Marlborough college ("perhaps you've heard of it- Kate Middleton went there", at which I pretended to be vague and uninterested), before asking with polite interest where I was schooled; "er.., you may not have heard of it...". And before I knew it, the border was crossed and he was still telling me his plans to enter his 60th birthday party driving a train when we arrived in Lille. The only mild embarrassment I suffered was my confusion that the train was destined for Lille/ Brussels, causing me to wonder out loud whether they were the same place. He looked at me with the pitying resignation of an Old Marlburian, wondering what has gone wrong with the world. 

The journey went smoothly and six hours later I was in Avignon. I found the bus to Apt and arrived at 8pm, tired and hungry and mildly shell shocked, but met at the bus stop by my new housemate Becca, from Michigan, who is very very nice. Our apartment  on the other hand, is not so nice. It's really very basic. It did not quite hit me how basic until, starving hungry from 14 hours of travelling with no food in the house and eating hours over, I decided to fill up on a few cups of tea before bed. Except of course, no kettle. And the microwave was broken. So I was resigned to turning on the hob and boiling a saucepan of water et voilà, a short twenty minutes later we had  hot water! And then after catching up with Becca and unpacking it was time for a shower and bed. Or not that easy. The shower was, as I probably should have guessed by now, either boiling hot or freezing cold. I experimented with turning the nozzle just half a millimeter to try and find a less offensive temperature- oh no, apparently not. And so I settled for freezing cold, before finally getting into bed for a restless nights sleep. 

My room- partially decorated

Today, Becca has proved a hero. We went for un petit déjeuner français; un croissant aux amandes and she helped me buy a french phone (the cheapest one)- at which the man at Orange looked at me curiously and asked how long I would be living in France for. When I told him 9 months he looked at the phone incredulously and said witheringly, 'with this?!!'. Next stop, the bank, where again Becca helped me set up an appointment with a man called Alexis, who helped me open a bank account with a mixture of english and french speaking, and told me not to spend beyond my means- he seemed to have summed me up fairly quickly. So all in all, a successful first day and a trip to the supermarket meant today I have been well fed and watered, on salad, avocados, tomatoes, olive oil, nectarines, fresh bread and the Luberon wine the region is famed for. The afternoon has been endless admin and this blog- something I did not plan to write but I know my family will appreciate. Tonight, Becca and I are going to eat in the canteen- where you have to scan your fingerprints to get a meal no less, and where said meal, is apparently very substandard. We shall see. À la prochaine!

The beautiful views of the Luberon from the apartment