EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALNovember 16, 1998
Cameyrac et St. Sulpice
A shiny day beckons us. Our neighbors scratch their blond noses on the
barbed wire. They bat their curtain lashes and cautiously sniff our fistfuls of clumpy
grass. "I solemnly promise you will never grace my plate".
Monsieur is pushing his wheelbarrow to the tool shed. Lola watches him
and maintains her rhythmic bark from the other end of the yard.
Ten minutes to three. We are waiting for the post office. Rich decides
to test-drive the Lavage Auto. 15F buys Alfi a full body massage. There’s a
woman in the neighboring bodyshop who’s been observing us. We are reading the Lavage
instructions aloud to each other and appear to require assistance. She emerges to help the
floundering foreigners, directs Rich and Alfi into the correct washing position and then
supervises the deposit of francs into the automated machine. The archway slides on a track
with spraying hoses and rotating pom poms. The Moronic Tourist Guardian pauses to ensure
the Lavage is fulfilling its duties and then returns to the garage. Rich is pleased
with the mechanical efficiency and results of the Alfi bath.
The post office lady meticulously weighs and labels each letter, and
she has her own stamp-printing machine. The office is St. Sulpice’s Official Place of
Business and the crumpled woman who waits behind me and who has left the house in her
slippers gets up and sits down in anticipation of some banking. The slipper phenomenon is
not unique. The man directing traffic in the parking lot also shuffles in the comfort of
his woolen plaid. We’ve parked in the wrong place and he is discernibly vexed. Now we
must inconspicuously creep (to the best of Alfi’s capabilities) from the forbidden
spot and back onto the main road without running over any of the customers.
Guitar practice lasts until the ache in my hand travels up to my bicep
and paralyzes the extremity. David tells me the complex picking ability comes with muscle
memory. I’m a conscientious student.
Rich is dipping pretzels into his Nutella in the next room. He sits at
his laptop and updates a spreadsheet of our expenditures. This keeps the all-night
heartburn attacks under control.
We’ve booked a gite via telephone for next week. It’s called Brimborion,
and is situated in the village on Ondres, about 5km north of Bayonne. The gite is 2km
inland from La Cote d’Argent (The Silver Coast).
