Driving into the town, you pass many farms mostly with horses and cows, and you begin to follow a rocky river that hugs its way along the base of the hills. To enter the town requires crossing over this river on a small bridge which leads through the city walls. It is a tiered, Roman city, protected by grey walls though which the red, tiled roof tops are able to pop out. Despite these colorful roofs, even in daytime the city still looks grey from the sheer quantity of stone, from which all of the houses, streets and walls are constructed. The city is small, but thick. It is strongly constructed and though aesthetically pleasing, it has no signs of frivolity. I find this grey to be very pleasing.
Agnes’ house is reached by a small door cut into the stone, on a steeply inclining street. From the outside, the homes appear indistinct. All that I can recall of the façade is grey and stone. There is no separable “house”, no elaborate entrance. It is actually remarkably indistinct. It has a way of blending, which leaves no visual imprint. Upon entering this small door, there is a front hall that has the feeling of a cave or a wine cellar. The walls are a thick stone and smell as such. Like all of the house, this hall too is tastefully decorated, and somehow distinct but well integrated with the rest of the house. Here there is a mounted boars head and a stuffed hawk frozen in an aggressive stance. The hallway attains its feeling of elaborateness because of its sparseness, which gives these few pieces of decoration against the bold stone a firm presence. And, oh!, the rest of the house. Everything is as it should be. The dining room is massive and sunny and decorated with beautiful wooden chairs. The sitting room is grand. The kitchen is sunny, clean and inviting. The house has 4 or 5 floors, many hallways and many rooms. Like it’s vague façade, I also have no ability to recall it’s layout, as the house seems to somehow extend indefinitely into stone, while still maintaining a sunny window in each room. Everything is hundreds of years old. The woods of the floors and furniture are noble. And the smell is grand. It smells like a place in which to sip cognac.
My favorite room in the house is my bathroom. It has exposed, rough floors, and a soaking tub. This is perfect for me! There is an attachable showerhead, but one cannot take a shower since there is no way to enclose the tub (with a curtain or doors). This means that one must take a proper tub. Spending so much time in the bathroom has encouraged me to buy many hygienic products. The grocery stores stock high quality bath products at very affordable prices. I bought shampoo that smells like cognac, honey scented conditioner, and this herbaceous soap made from donkey’s milk from the farmer’s market. Now, I don’t usually like scented things, but MAN! do the French know how to use scents. These products smell so nice.
France is the land of beautiful faces. People have such light in their eyes, and such distinct features. I cannot point out a feature, which is distinctly French. But the uniqueness and extreme character in these faces, forms a feature which is distinctly French. It reminds me of the little bronze busts of French politicians and socialites by Honoré Daumier.
Yesterday I went to the farmer’s market and bought 4 kinds of cheeses, peaches, a baguette, bacon bread, a chocolate plum cake, baklava, a dozen oysters, a pie of mussels in tomato sauce, apple juice, a jar of foie gras pate, and orange marmalade. The food here is incredible! With such a bounty of ingredients, how could a tradition of such lofty cuisine not have arisen? The market makes me crave cooking.
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