Guest Editor Kurt: Le Quotidien

We’ve settled into what passes for a routine here in Provence.  The pace is slow, but we still give a loose structure to our days to ensure that we actually leave the house.  This morning I got up at 8:30 and hung the laundry to dry from the cycle that ran overnight.

A quick change into my swimsuit and I am off to the local pool. 

Today I got there shortly after opening, hence the tranquil waters.  Twenty minutes later it was approaching mayhem.  I’m used to swimming indoors at the YMCA in Montreal, where buoys are set up for lap swimming, aquafit courses are segregated, and swimmers for the most part respect the speed indicators for the lane they choose to enter.  According to the schedule written in marker and posted on a bulletin board at the entrance, the first hour of the St-Cannat pool is reserved for adult swim, but no one seems to enforce or respect this.  Today I swam next to the barrel-chested elderly man from yesterday who jovially greeted me with a ‘Hello, Thomas’, and wandered off before I could correct the mistaken identity.  In addition to him, there were three other female senior citizens, five toddlers taking swim lessons with two lifeguards, and a mother giving her own swim lessons to her two daughters.  I’ve quickly learned that it’s acceptable for people taking lessons and less-confident swimmers to swim across the shallow end of the pool, perpendicular to the lane swim.  So far I have barrelled into three children, the same woman twice, and one lifeguard’s ass.  This may take some getting used to.

Back at home, I find Kim in shavasana pose, step over her corpse to hang my towel in the garden, then prepare coffee and breakfast.

I pack up the cooler, the beach bag, close the shutters and we’re on the road by noon with Monty as our guide.

Anyone who has been in a car with me knows I’m a nervous driver, mostly because I don’t do it often enough and Montreal drivers are maniacs.  I’m finding that driving in France is another story.  Despite being sketchy on some of the rules of the road when it comes to right of way, it’s a breeze.  Plus the highways are impeccable, have lots of fun curves to negotiate, and the other drivers actually know how to share the road.  Monty is also a source of solace, especially when he warns us of the radar guns along the way.

After an hour and a half, we’re in the lavender fields of the plateau of the Gorges du Verdon.

Beautiful stuff, the lavender, but it’s swarming with bees and plenty of thistles underfoot.  Ten minutes later we’re at our destination – le Lac Saint-Croix.

There are many rivers in the south of France, but few lakes.  Lac Saint-Croix is an enormous one created by a hydro dam in the 70’s.  The water is Caribbean turquoise, and best of all, doesn’t leave a salty grit on you like the sea.  A civilised lunch is had between dips in the lake, tanning, and reading.

When I arrived in the Loire earlier in my trip, my Parisian friends commented on my tan. Really, it’s just a bit of colour on my face and arms, because the rest of me hasn’t seen UV rays in 9 months.  Kim is much the same, and next to the Southern French, we appear bleached.  At one point today we swam out to a floating dock on the lake and were joined by 3 sun-kissed girls.  Kim looked like the only white macaroon in a box of chocolates lying next to our dock companions.

We discuss the option of heading to Moustiers to check out faience porcelain, but we were there last year and decide that we don’t need to re-visit.

Kim:  I don’t need no mo’ pottery!

Kurt:  (sings generic blues riff)

Kim:  That’s a pretty weak premise for a blues song, don’t you think?

Kurt:  C’mon, you can make a blues song out of anything...  but more importantly what will be your blues name?

Kim:  How does that work?

Kurt:  I’m not sure, but I think you need to start with an affliction, and maybe work in a fruit.

Kim:  Eczema...   Rosacea...

-----------10 Minutes later-----------

Kim:  Crick-neck Mango Sally!

Kurt:  Good Lord.

We pack up, fight with the trunk of the car which refuses to open until we get home, re-install Monty, and head to nearby Riez for a less stressful supermarket stop (see Kim’s entry).  It’s too hot to drink red wine, and our white supply was running low.  We are continually aghast at the low low cost of hooch in France.

Granted, a bottle under 3 euros is probably pretty plonky, but if you’re willing to up your budget into the 4-5 euro range, you can get the kind of wine that we have to pay 15 bucks for in Montreal. 

We’re home by 7:00, take in the laundry, write for the blog and refresh ourselves with the supply of rosé that Mama Claude so thoughtfully left for us to drink.  Tonight’s dinner will be from Picard, a chain of frozen food stores that actually sells real food.  Somehow they’ve managed to freeze food without heart-attack-inducing levels of sodium and unknown chemical flavour enhancers, but have neglected to share this information with President’s Choice.

Tomorrow should be similar.  We hate it here.