She would have gone to the armoire in the kitchen and pulled out a big tin box of assorted gateaux*-butter, sugar, and chocolate-covered cookies to dunk into the coffee she that would have offered me. Pourquoi pas?* We would have climbed the red-tiled staircase, chipped and in need of repair, to her second floor apartment. She might then have asked me in for coffee. Perhaps that's when she would have come down to indicate it, at which point she would have noticed how my lips were beginning to turn blue from the cold. (But that would be incorrect I tend to pile one sock on top of another, never having enough clothespins for an entire batch of chaussettes.*) I could have asked her where the oven was on "rue du Four" or "Oven Street". I could have begun by pointing out that we hang socks in the same way. In fact, I would have loved to have stopped and conversed with Madame. I didn't mean to be impolite or dismissive-no, I did not mean to dismiss. As I walk away, tucking my camera back into my pocket, I curse the abashed photographer for not adding "madame" to her greeting, as in "Bonjour, madame." Saying "bonjour" is not enough. I snap a photo of the street sign "Rue du Four" so as to look like I am ambling with purpose and not simply ambling. "Bonjour," I call up, somewhat embarrassed. She is hanging white socks, one after the other, across a drooping wire line which runs beneath the window. On rue du Four I see a woman leaning out of a second floor window. on a Thursday afternoon the Mottois and Mottoise (pronounced 'moh-twa' and 'moh-twahz')-as residents of la Motte are called-are either siesting or getting a head-start on afternoon chores those that aren't sleeping or scrubbing are poking their heads out of their windows like the first buds of spring, lured by an endless blue sky and the sun, though hidden behind the tall I shut and lock the car door, salute the hens, zip up my parka, and prepare my digital camera for the few snapshots it will take in the next hour before it is time to return home to pick up the kids from school.Īt two p.m. The wind is coursing through the riverain* town and the tall buildings cast shadows over the tiered and narrow streets, canceling out any warmth that the sun could have offered. I end up making a left turn on rue du Moulin* to park near a chicken coop around the corner from the Mairie* and just a few steps from the honey shop the sign in the window, just beneath a flapping blue and yellow striped awning, reads "Mangez du miel. Another car is tailing me so I cannot in good conscience slow down and hunt for parking. I take the one-way road through the town of la Motte, searching for a parking space along avenue Fred Mistral. He who wants to eat eggs, must put up with the hens. (sound clip and expressions follow at the end of this edition)Ĭelui qui veut manger des oeufs, doit supporter les poules.
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