Montesson
I had a flat in Montesson, a stone’s throw from the Seine. It was the time for such a place, for I was licking the wounds of a failed relationship. On summer days with windows flung open to cool breezes from the garden, children babbling, birds chipping, I lay on my bed contemplating the Gothic patterns in the three-meter-high ceiling of my hidden villa . Swirling this way and that, the plaster artist seems to have anticipated my mood and the tides that surround my life.
It’s a cold Samedi. The rain is sweeping across the valley so hard that the trees across the Seine are barely visible. No one expects such weather in June, so the apartment complex owners would never consider turning on the heat. Hot tea, my “writing” sweater, a toasted ham and cheese sandwich, and the heat from the oven have made the place bearable. This rain gave me a good excuse to play squirrel today — to stay home with my French book, word processor, and other reading materials. Next weekend, I will be in Amsterdam for a business meeting, so this is the time to get some reading and domestic chores done.
The kitchen in this apartment is ideal for writing and sipping tea. Although small, the table has adequate space for my portable computer and a placemat. From my chair, I can see the tree-lined back lawn of the old manor house. When they converted this old farmhouse into apartments, the builders retained the picturesque features: the old stone well, the rock silo that looks like the remnants of a castle tower, the 6-foot wall that partially surrounds the property. Across the fence is a chicken yard where my alarm clock lives. He was quite confused by this dark weather because his first crow was about 8:30 this morning. It’s a good thing that it was not a workday.
I am struggling with the French language through trying to communicate with people, listening to tapes and the TV, and solving the exercises in a workbook. My ear is getting tuned so that I can understand some things; I’ve learned to write numbers on checks, but the pronunciation is driving me crazy. I’m beginning to wonder if my southern heritage has doomed me to slow speech forever. I simply cannot say the sounds fast enough to get out a French sentence. The book said that it may take twenty to thirty tries. I’ve only tried about ten, so maybe all is not lost.
This is another story from my book, “Hand on the Shoulder: Finding Freedom in the Confluence of Love and Career” (see Amazon). By now, you may have noticed, I’m posting the stories starting from the back of the book, moving toward the front. If you want to read them the other way, check the book.:-)
