DRIVING MISS JEANNETTE

Don’t we all wish we could embark on a road trip? If you’re living in the US, you’re probably (and wisely) eschewing any travel this week and inventing new ways to give thanks. If you’re in France –and in many other countries around the world– you’ve been stuck at home, not being allowed to venture beyond a 1 km radius from your domicile. How do we keep our sanity? Perhaps I can entice you to follow me: step into a vintage 2 CV for un petit tour on country roads along the Dordogne river? En voiture, Simone!

The cutest French car ever: la deudeuche!

After winning a photography contest organized by the département du Lot, I was over the moon when the prize was revealed: a half-day rental of a 2 CV! I rode in the back (and in the trunk!) of a 2 CV many times when I was growing up but never had the opportunity to actually drive one. My friend Raegan was set to visit us in September last year and I decided to schedule this little adventure so she could join in. The three of us rode to Blanat, near Rocamadour, where we met Benoit, the manager of Roc N’Roule. After filling in some paperwork, we were introduced to Jeannette, a beautiful Azure 2 CV6 Special! She would be mine for the whole afternoon.

Miss Jeannette takes a break in a quaint village along the way

It didn’t take me long to get reacquainted with the dash-mounted gear shift and it “cue ball” style knob: when I learned to drive, my mother had a Citroën Ami 6 equipped with the same style of manual transmission. As soon as I turned the ignition on, the familiar engine sound filled our ears. Loudly. It’s a very distinctive sound, one that never leaves your memory. Just as you can always tell when someone is riding a Harley-Davidson, you know when a 2 CV is driving by, without even seeing it. Overall, it was an easy driving experience. I just needed to remember that those cars were built before power-steering (a few biceps curls might help) and power brakes (anticipate!) The clutch felt a lot different from the one on the Citroën I’m currently driving but I’m proud to report I only stalled the engine twice. I “may” have flooded the engine after stopping to gas the car but my two witnesses have been sworn to secrecy…

The 2 CV dashboard: a prowess in minimalism

We picked an itinerary that would include mostly country roads, quaint villages, and opportunities to follow the Dordogne river. We stopped briefly along the way but the whole point of the afternoon was to drive and ride in the car, not to walk and tour churches or châteaux. Creysse, Gluges, St Denis-lès-Martel, and Carennac all deserve dedicated visits.

First time in Creysse: a (small) river runs through it. Actually, it meanders and loops around. Dotted with numerous stone bridges, the village looks like it is sitting in the middle of canals.

I was glad the tourist season was over so we could proceed at a leisurely pace. The drive along the Dordogne is sinuous; narrow roads were carved in the cliff; passing, or being passed, is pretty much out of the question. The danger here is not to get a speeding ticket but to be surprised by incoming traffic and have to slam on the brakes.

Driving miss Jeannette, a vintage 2CV, along the Dordogne river.

It helps that a 2 CV has only one pace and that’s pas très vite. I don’t think I could have pushed the car to more than 70 km/h, even if I had tried to. The upside is that you can almost make eye contact with grazing livestock when you drive 30 mph.

You’re likely to spot flocks of sheep and tribes of goats grazing on le Causse de Rocamadour

When we crossed the river on Pont Miret near Floirac, I brought my speed down to under 20 mph. This 140-meter long suspension bridge was built in 1912 and a decree specified it could be used by either one loaded car, two empty ones, or no more than five cows at a time. The cables looked sturdy enough and the wood ties seemed to be in decent shape. I just read the bridge is currently closed to “rejuvenate” the planking… Ouf!

Jeannette, a vintage 2CV, crosses old Pont Miret over the Dordogne river. Built in 1912, suspension bridge, 800 wood planks.

Sadly, the weather was mostly overcast and a bit rainy. We didn’t get the chance to ride with the top down (yes, the 2 CV is the ultimate proletarian convertible!)  On the other hand, I had several opportunities to put the midget windshield wipers into action and to use the flip-up windows, mostly to defog the windshield.

Driving miss Jeannette, a vintage 2CV, in the rain. Tiny (but mighty?) windshield wipers...

The afternoon went by too fast and I was a little bit sad to take Jeannette back home. If I were mechanically inclined, I would consider having a 2 CV of my own. Rick doesn’t quite share my excitement but, of course, he grew up with les belles américaines. Different strokes for different folks or, as we say here, à chacun ses goûts. You may recall that I previously published a photographic homage to the 2CV, an easy task since the beloved car is still commonly used in rural France: I usually spot one just about every time I drive to town and it always brings a smile to my face. Maybe I’ll run into lovely Jeannette again sometime…

A 1949 gray 2 CV (with the top down!) and a 1980 Charleston racing along the Dordogne river…

Vocabulary
Un petit tour: a short ride
En voiture, Simone: giddy up
Le département: county
Pas très vite: not very fast
Ouf: phew
Les belles américaines: beautiful American cars, usually classics from the 50s-60s
A chacun ses goûts: to each his own

To feed your dreams of Paris and plan your next trip, please consider buying a copy of my book Moments Parfaits in Paris, where you’ll explore every arrondissement through forty photographs and essays. Hint: it’s also a thoughtful holiday gift for this dear Francophile friend of yours… When you purchase the book, I will mail you a signed bookmark from France and stamp your envelope with this stunning timbre Trésors de Notre-Dame. If you are interested in buying French commemorative stamps, check my selection. Merci! Your support helps me maintain this blog.

Buy a copy of Moments Parfaits in Paris: I'll mail you (from France) a signed bookmark in an envelope bearing this collectible Trésors de Notre-Dame stamp!

LA FÊTE DE LA MUSIQUE

La Fête de la Musique was officially created in France in 1982. It’s now celebrated all over the world, every year, on June 21st. Cities typically organize large concerts headlined by well-known professional singers and groups. In smaller towns like ours, local bands and amateurs showcase their talent in an assortment of venues.
This year’s edition had to adapt to a new reality: a virus that was tamed but still lurking. It’s clear that, in Paris and a few other areas, revelers quickly forgot that social distancing was still de rigueur… I have to give high marks to Gourdon for finding a good compromise: all bands performed outdoors, at a safe distance from restaurant diners along the circular boulevard. People were either sitting down at tables or walking about in small groups, enjoying a wide selection of musical styles from jazz to rock-and-roll. It probably helped that the event took place before European tourists were allowed to cross our borders.

The best moment for me was a sensational performance by Panderovox, a local group of polyphonic singers and percussionists who specialize in traditional songs from Mediterranean and Eastern European countries. They performed in the courtyard of the 15th Century Maison du Sénéchal. Always a treat!

ETRE ET AVOIR

I don’t think of myself as a materialistic person. Imelda Marcos would probably faint at the sight of my shoe closet. I rarely accessorize my outfits with jewelry, preferring to wear (without fail) the two rings and one necklace that are meaningful to me. The above-mentioned outfits are chiefly composed of Levi’s and T-shirts. I guess I always wanted to spend my disposable income on “experiences” long before the concept became fashionable. Food, wine, and travel: that’s what matters to me.

I returned to France, the land of food and wine, exactly two months ago. Not for a mere two or three weeks of vacations as I had done regularly for the past thirty-six years: this time, I was really going home for good. I closed my business and we sold our California house to renovate my grandparents’ small farm in the Lot. This could be viewed as the ultimate experience for me, a return to my roots and to the place that has been in my heart all my life (I recently posted on Facebook an old photo of my first stay at the farm when I was just two months old.)

But it doesn’t feel like I am home. Not yet.

Home can be an elusive concept for expatriates or people who move frequently. It takes a while to get comfortable with a place, to form emotional connections, to feel that you belong and can be yourself –your whole self– there. Surprisingly, this transition is turning out to be a bit more difficult than I expected considering that I would be en terrain connu. Granted, I no longer am who I was forty years ago. But a big factor is that I can’t settle into my new home. The renovation will take six months and, in the meantime, we are staying in my parents’ house. Although we are there all by ourselves, we can’t rearrange the space to better fit our lifestyle and I have to make do with Mom’s tiny kitchen and her quirky tools. I have been frustrated and rudderless.

Our woods viewed from the veranda

This sense of suspended animation is uncomfortable but not completely foreign to me: I experienced a few such episodes in the past, usually when I was between jobs. I know the key for me is to regain (some) control over my surroundings and to build a new routine. I’ve also realized that in order “to be” I need “to have” my own things. We flew over with our dog, two suitcases of clothes, and two rollaboards filled with paperwork and computers. Although we received our 40’ container less than a week after our arrival, all 332 cartons were unloaded and immediately restacked in our garage. Each one is numbered and we do have a master list with corresponding descriptions but trying to find a particular object aptly illustrates the challenge of looking for une aiguille dans une botte de foin. As Rick opens his numerous boxes of tools and sets up his workbench, I’ve asked him to keep his eyes open for “my” tools: I’ll be immensely happier when I get my hands on my own vegetable peeler, my Microplane grater, and my Shun santoku knife! Just yesterday, he installed a new countertop in Mom’s kitchen and it’s already improving my mood and my efficacité. 

Gratuitous shot of my office chair in its unnatural habitat

The biggest challenge has been to get back to writing. No lack of inspiration: in fact, there are plenty of stories to tell. But I needed to have my own space. Getting set up in Dad’s old office (that also doubles as a laundry room…) or bringing pen and paper to the dining room table simply would not do. And I had to get a proper chair, one that would allow me to spend a few hours in front of the computer without prompting my lumbar vertebrae to go on strike.

Looking into my new office

So, today, I’m finally writing again. I boxed up some of Mom’s stuff and claimed sixty square feet of space in the veranda. Rick topped an old table with a fresh panel of melamine from Bricomarché and brought a power strip close by. I filled my glass with a diabolo menthe and set up my new chair behind my new desk, facing our woods. A chair with a view! And here I am, writing my first dispatch from the farm, trying not to get too distracted by the butterflies waltzing above the wild flowers. I have a good feeling about this…

A desk with a view

Vocabulary

Etre et avoir: to be and to have
En terrain connu: in known territory
Une aiguille dans une botte de foin: a needle in a haystack
L’efficacité (f): efficiency
Le diabolo menthe: a drink made with mint syrup and limonade (soda similar to 7-Up)

LES CHAMPIGNONS

Fall might be my favorite season in southwestern France, perhaps because I’m still discovering the sights and smells at that season. Although I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ farm while growing up, I was never there between la rentrée and Christmas: I usually left early September to get ready for school in Paris. My biggest regret is to have never experienced les vendanges: after tending to the vineyard throughout the Summer, I would have loved to be there when all our neighbors came to help harvest and stomp the grapes. 

These are pretty but I don't eat them...

By chance, a couple of trade shows take place in Paris in September and in October: in the past few years, I’ve had a few opportunities to catch the train and meet with the family for a few days. The vineyard is gone but we still harvest walnuts, chestnuts, apples, and quinces. And, if the weather and the moon cooperate, there might also be mushrooms. I got an early education in mycology under the guidance of my dad and my grandfather who were both avid foragers. I quickly learned to recognize the good, the bad, and the ugly but if you’re not sure what to pick, you can always take your mushrooms to the local pharmacy and they will tell you what to keep and what to discard. Try doing that at CVS!

Morels!

In spring, we searched for morilles. They’re small and hollowed: it takes a lot of these to make a pound! My largest morel find actually happened in the US. I was working in Chico at that time and renting a little condo with a small backyard that had been dressed with a layer of bark from the Sierra. One evening in March, I stepped outside and noticed something that looked like a small sponge. Upon closer examination, I was sure it was a morel. I was shocked! As I bent over to pick it up, I realized the whole backyard was teeming with morels! I had never seen that many of them in my whole life. I gathered close to two pounds of fungi within minutes. I called my travel agent (she lived in the same complex, a few units down from me) and asked her to take a look at her backyard: could she see mushrooms there as well? Yes! I told her they were some of the most sought-after mushrooms on earth and shared my favorite recipe. Chris was absolutely horrified that I would be eating mushrooms that were not store-bought. She actually called me at the office the next morning to make sure I was still vivante.

Morels come in different colors: blond, gray, and dark brown. Different shapes, too.

In summer, we usually found cèpes: those are large and heavy. If you know where to look, you can pick up several pounds very quickly. But my all-time favorite mushroom is the girolle: I love its very distinctive texture and its nutty flavor. After walking in the woods for a couple of hours, always accompanied by grandfather’s Brittany spaniel, I usually came home with three to four pounds of girolles that we would immediately prepare for lunch. Grandma simply sautéed them in duck fat, along with scalloped potatoes, seasoned with a lot of garlic and fresh parsley. The aroma would fill the whole house (well, it’s a small house…) To this day, it remains one of my very favorite dishes.

Vocabulary
La rentrée: back-to-school
Les vendanges: the wine harvest
La morille: morel
Vivant(e): alive
La girolle: golden chanterelle
Le cèpe: porcini

Girolles and potatoes sautéed in duck fat, just like in Sarlat!

Pommes de terre Sarladaises
Potatoes sarladaises

3 tbsp duck fat
½ lb wild mushrooms (chanterelles, porcini…)
1.5 lbs potatoes
Salt and pepper
5 cloves of garlic, chopped
Fresh parsley, chopped

Clean and slice the mushrooms. Sauté in 1 tbsp of duck fat for 5 minutes (until they’ve released their water) and reserve. Peel, scallop and rinse the potatoes. Dry them thoroughly. In a heavy sauté pan on medium-high, heat the remaining duck fat. When the fat is hot, throw the potatoes into the pan and cook for 5-10 minutes until golden.  Gently flip the potatoes over with a wide spatula and cook another 10 minutes. Add reserved mushrooms. Add garlic, parsley, salt, and pepper to taste. Mix together and cook 5 more minutes. Serve immediately.

If wild mushrooms are not available, you may use crimini or Portobello. But you MUST cook them and the potatoes in duck fat. Potatoes will be crispy but tender inside. Yum!

Duck fat can be purchased at frenchselections.com

THE CAT AND THE POT

Meet Saphir, my sister’s cat. She’s posing next to one of Grandma’s retired toupine. In Southwest France, a toupine is an earthenware pot used to hold duck confit, a regional specialty. Salted duck legs and breasts were gently simmered in duck fat; the meat quarters would then be transferred to a toupine and covered with liquid fat while still hot. As the fat cooled off and hardened, it would create a barrier between the meat and the outside air, and prevent the development of bacteria. The preserved meat could be kept for months in a cellar, without refrigeration.

These confit pots were highly valued and reused year after year. When the outside enamel eventually peeled off, Grandma would fill her toupines with dirt and recycle them as planters. Toupines usually fetch high prices at local vide-greniers.

Vocabulary
La toupine: earthenware pot
Le confit de canard: duck meat cooked and preserved in its own fat
Le vide-grenier: the French equivalent of a garage sale (literally, emptying the attic) but usually organized by the city and grouping individual sellers and professionals.