The plan was to arrive in Cazouls on Saturday afternoon in time to do a little shopping for staples and fresh things (supermarkets and local groceries are closed on Sunday) and maybe catch the tail end of the tasting of the vin primeur (new wine) at the local cave cooperatif (wine co-op). And we were supposed to take time out to run down to Beziers to pick up our friend UK Sharon (Remember, we were traveling with another Sharon – designation: US Sharon) who was to arrive by train a few hours after our plane landed.
Wrong.
Our Air France flight got hung up on the runway at JFK for two hours, we missed our connection from Paris to Montpellier, and so we didn’t arrive in Montpellier until about 8:00 PM. UK Sharon’s train was due into Beziers at 6:00 PM. During our delay in Paris (where we were given vouchers for food and drink to ease the pain) we called and left messages with everyone who we thought could connect with UK Sharon to let her know that we would be on our way. Messages. Nobody live wanted to talk with us.
So we got into Montpellier, managed to rent a car – an Opel Zafira with a six (count ‘em, six) speed manual transmission – that would hold us all with all of our luggage, and headed for the train station in Beziers. No UK Sharon. We tried the station hotel across the way. Very nice lady. Took Sharon’s name and our name and local phone number just in case she surfaced. Off to Cazouls.
When we got to our house, we found a note from UK Sharon shoved in the mailbox. Chaz, her partner, had received our message and called her on her cell phone to let her know that we would be delayed. So she tried the bus station, discovered that the last bus to Cazouls had left hours ago, and took a taxi instead. 7 kilometers. 20 euros. She remembered how to get to our house, left the note, then headed for a local café/sports bar to have a coffee, pull out her knitting, and wait. The local teens loved it. (No, teens can’t drink in bars in France. But they can hang out in the square and talk to the folks sitting outside the café.) They’d never seen anyone knitting outside that particular dive before and, when they found out she was English, they practiced their rudimentary language skills on her.
When we hadn’t arrived by about 9:00 PM, UK Sharon walked over to the local hotel and booked a room. What a gal! We found her at the hotel at about 10:00 PM getting ready to head over to our house for one last look. So we escorted her back to our place and the five of us managed to down about five bottles of wine between us while we caught up with each other.
Sunday morning.
At least our local artisan patisserie is open. As I took a stroll around the village, I came across a charcuterie (butcher shop) that was open for the morning just a block from our house. I bought eggs, smoked bacon, a bit of local pate. I didn’t see any butter out. I asked the lady behind the counter if I could have a bit of butter. She went in the back and brought her husband out. I explained in my broken French that we lived just down the street, that we’d just arrived from the United States on vacation, that we’d arrived too late to shop, and that a bit of butter would be nice. He smiled, disappeared in the back, and came back with a 250 gram package of butter – from Brittany, no less. Since they didn’t sell it, he wouldn’t know what to charge. So he gave it to me and asked that I replace it when the shops open the next day. No charge. Just replace it.
God, I love France.
So, we had a big breakfast, enough to charge us up for a day of unpacking and settling in. I’ll talk about our dinner that night in the next installment. As far as Mozart is concerned…just you wait.
