Shopping for Hardware

It all started over a doorstop.  Really it started in the hardware store over a door stop.

The blizzard cold weather, Christmas 2003 in the South of France, witnesses our arrival to sign the papers on our home perched on a precipice in the Haute Ville.  I was sure it hadn’t been that cold since the castle, just above our soon to be home, was erected in 1180 AD.  The winds blew so hard you could lean into the wind at a frightening angle while attempting to walk the cobblestone streets.  The market place held every Tuesday morning in the main square of the Upper Town, allowed by its local lord, Pope Sixte IV in 1483, was frequented only by the diehard Frenchmen searching for the freshest to eat that day.  It was safe to say whatever was in the market that day would not have to be refrigerated for some time!

This story is about the wind.  In the winter it is called a mistral, a strong, cold and usually dry regional wind that has been clocked at speeds of more than ninety kilometers an hour, particularly in the Rhone Valley.  In the summer the wind is called a Sirocco, a Mediterranean wind from the Sahara that can whip the pebbles off the beach at Nice while you bask in the sun wishing you had lost more weight before the bathing suit unveiling.

This is the story about the wind, a door stop and charades and living in the South of France without speaking a word of French.  I can thank people in the language.  I was raised by a southern Mother that wouldn’t let me use or play with a gift before I had written the thank you note.  Of course I can say thank you and good morning, good evening and good night.  That’s about it!  I could use my advanced age as an excuse in not being able to remember verbs except every time I think about that excuse, I see another article regarding language learning  as we age as a device to ward off Alzheimer’s.  I must find another excuse besides being lazy.

My husband, once knowing we were purchasing the home in Vaison, and having six months to think about it while the French faxed our home like it was being toilet papered each night, decided to use that period of time to enroll in our local community college to study French.  Mme. Gonzales, he should have known he was in trouble right there, held class at 8:00 am, M, W and F.  I don’t want to let you know how long it has been since my husband had been to college, but needless to say, we could afford a house in the South of France, so it had been over a couple of years!

Door stops.  I shall return to the subject at hand, or foot actually.

Alan had taken weeks of French before we left for said trip, yet they had not gotten close to the chapter on doorstops in Liberte’. With the wind blowing fiercely and the doors slamming shut, violently threatening to shatter the eight panes of glass in each door, off we went to the hardware store.

Advancing bravely through the kitchen ware, into the inner sanctum of manliness, the nuts, bolts and screws, we searched brazenly for door stops.  They should be close to, what would they be close to?  Bravely I asked the gentleman who had been eyeing us suspiciously since our arrival, about where to find a door stop.  Mustering the memory of how to ask the question where is, “Ou est: Ou est a what a?  I bent over and inserted an imaginary door stop into a cabinet.  I hesitate to think what Monsieur Hardware was thinking, I was aware of a curious tilt to his head, but I persevered.   Looking left and right in hopes the door stops had magically appeared, it was time for plan B.

Taking Monsieur Hardware by the hand I lead him to the back door of the establishment.  Realizing my impending loss of decorum, I resisted the urge to go straight to the front door and embarrass my French speaking husband as well as give incoming village occupants an event to chat about over an aperitif that evening.  Having no boundaries when it comes to getting what I want, it was on with the charade.

Clutching the door with loud whooshing noise from my mouth, I swung the door wildly to and fro, only stopping when I stuck my foot under the door, which as I recall hurt a bit, but being into the charade deeply, I was afraid to divert attention to the pain in my foot for fear my mission would be compromised.

“Cale-porte” Monsieur Hardware exclaimed.  “Oui, oui,” I chimed in, not really knowing if he had gotten the point or whether I was just caught up in my incredible acting skills and of course, actually finding a door stop.

Door stops, by the way, are right next to the doors, at least in the small hardware store in the South of France in the historic town of Vaison La Romaine.

Rockin’ Party by Offending Doors

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