Random Thoughts While Perched on a Bicycle Seat

Autumn comes softly here in la Dordogne, at least this year. In Minnesota, it is winter that will not let go, prolonging itself with a vengeance long into the spring. Here, summer seems reluctant to depart. There is color in the trees, but only sporadic - a dot here, a splash over there. The fields of corn, much still unharvested, have turned yellow. It is enough to change the light; the days have that brilliance that autumn brings. We've had some chilly evenings, enough for a fire in the wood-burning stove some nights; but we shut it off when Ellen and Ben left with Wes. The climate reminds me, surprisingly, of the desert. We lie on a chaise lounge in the sun, and it is easy to drift off to sleep; but in the shade, one reaches for a jacket. Each day demands that one be outdoors. Get on a bicycle and explore. Take a walk. Visit Saint Cyprien and wander the narrow back streets. Or sit and read until your eyes close. Just be outdoors.

Early mornings are stunning as the mists rise from the river valley.

The days are so bright; the air, so clear.

Have I written about the silence? It is as close to absolute as one would want. When outdoors, I often find myself stopping to listen, to see if I can discern sounds. Then they gradually appear - birdsongs, a soft wind in the trees, a distant tractor, occasionally a human voice so far away that the words are indistinguishable but the human presence is felt, the mooing of a cow, a barking dog. And at night! Well, let me just say that Carol and I sleep like we haven't in a long time.

And speaking of dogs, it seems as if every occupied house has one (or two or three). Carol and I have provided countless Sparkies and Bowsers and Rovers (or whatever they might be named in French) with moments of delight. They lie about all day, waiting for something to happen. Two cyclists or walkers passing by is high adventure. They are up and barking at our approach. If they are lucky enough to be unrestricted by a wall or fence, they run into the road. When we saw the first ninety-pound canine bounding across a field toward us, it was a little unnerving. But it's all just a game. They get to DO something! They run. They bark. If we let them, some will sniff. Most don't even want to get that close. They just want to check us out, to greet us. We move on; they return to their laying about.

I like the scale of things here, the pace of life. The other day, Carol and I were walking through an isolated forest when we were surprised to see a man and a woman bent over in the woods. They were looking for mushrooms. We called out, "Bonjour, MonsieurMadam," They returned our greeting with a smile and went about their searching.

It's the same with walnut harvesters. We've seen many of them. They are always either alone, or a pair. There are no machines. They bend and gather them by hand. I spoke to one man the other day who was working alone, filling his wheelbarrow. He was at it for hours. Most have large sacks, and all work patiently.

These are some of the people we encounter at the markets. It's why I loved the market from the first day I shopped. At the market you are face to face with the people who have harvested the vegetables or made the cheese. It is commerce at a personal level.

Every interaction begins and ends with a politeness. Whether you bargain with a vendor at the market or ask directions on the street, pay the attendant at the gas station or enter a quaint shop, one always begins with a friendly "bonjour" or "bonsoir." And always you say good-bye and wish a person well. Always. It's hard for an American to remember, but it is immensely satisfying when you get the knack of it. It's about living life on a manageable human scale. It's about finding a civilized pace at which one can navigate through life.

Next post, I'll set aside the philosophy and talk about some practicalities of life here - like money, language and food.