IS THIS YOUR LIFE?
Sometimes One Day of French Village Life is Pretty Much Like the Day Before
Did Peter Mayle never have ho-hum days?
When I tell someone I live in a French village, I’m aware that it probably sounds charming, idyllic even. And when I casually mention that it’s in southern France where the sun shines and the sky is almost always blue, I often hear sighs of envy. But after 10 years, while I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else, I have to admit that a typical day bears little or no resemblance to Peter Mayle’s life in his books about Provence.
There are a few similarities, of course. Mayle had quirky neighbours, dined on exotic meats stuffed with truffles, drank copious amounts of red wine and dealt with brain-numbing French bureaucracy — and a neighbour’s frustrated donkey.
I also have quirky neighbours. Rather than ringing the doorbell, one of them taps on an upstairs window with a long stick on which he’s taped a stuffed monkey eating a banana. Another one plays karaoke day and night. Even through soundproofed walls, I still hear his music.
Like Mayle, I’ve also eaten truffles and drank gallons of red wine (not all in one evening) and dealt with French bureaucracy — my Carte Gris, a Carte Vitale, and a Carte de Sejour for my car, health…
