Long Ago, Far Away

For those who’ve visited my blog since the November presidential election, I may seem under siege. It wasn’t always so. Today, I yield to the temptation to step away from the fray to recall less trying times - a month of Sundays.

Morning, September 2016: Balcony of a fourth-floor studio apartment, Port Vendres du Ville, the South of France. The view is as promised in a Homeaway ad by Yvette, our French vacation rental agent. Our eyes sweep tree-tops of a park that is perched above a quay. Beyond the trees, fishing and pleasure boats bob in the 250-slip marina and brawny cargo ships from Africa wait a turn with the shipyard’s swinging cranes. In the distance is the port’s lighthouse and the Mediterranean Sea.

To the left, I see the first rays of the sun fall across a line of red-tiled roofs, newish houses rising above the deep-water port that dates back to the Iron Age and the Romans. Beyond the houses are mountains stretching above a coastal road. From straight ahead comes the toll of a bell from a church tower - one of two scheduled to charm us by the half-hour throughout the day. 

Flocks of seagulls, pigeons and sparrows - commoners all - share our fortunate view. Strays occasionally alight on the balcony to scout for croissant crumbs, especially when we shutter our place and set off across the park and down the stone steps to catch a local bus for an outing.

After one such coastal bus ride along a switchback road through steep vineyards, we arrive at Banyul sur Mer. It is a lady-like seaside resort, a demure Victorian with sandy beach cupped by the mountains that rise toward Spain. Beyond it is an even sleepier village of Cerberes, worth a visit for the breath-taking scenery of the bus ride and quick turnaround – back to the last stop in the inland city of Perpignan.

On the road through Port Vendres toward Perpignan, it is manly Collioure that commands attention with its fortress dating back to the 1300s and modern-day knights - French commandos in camouflage maneuvering watercraft in amphibious drills. When not watching assault teams take to the sea, tourists maneuver Collioure’s warren of streets and shops chockful of objects decorated in the early 1900s Fauvist style of Matisse and Derain. Visitors huddle at cafes and crowd around tempting stalls in the farmer’s market. We fall in line, faithfully attending the Wednesday market plus Port Vendres' Saturday market; yielding to vendors who point to the day's waiting list for their rotisserie chickens and chuckling at boisterous hawkers drawing in customers with gusto.

As with trips to Banyul sur Mer and Cerberes, we take the bus to Collioure for one euro. On one occasion, we tour Collioure’s huge fortress, Chateau Royale, tailing a group with a French guide through low, arching passageways and out into a central court and light of day. There, archeologists lug pails of cannon balls from their ambitious dig. Centuries of warriors and villagers seeking shelter have left clues to unearth, whether with a shovel or a spoon.

On another day, we visit Collioure’s pebbly crescent beach spread out between the fortress and the Eglise Notre Dame des Anges, an historic church set against the seawall. We inch our way into the October water for a toe tip.

We sip coffee or wine in outdoor cafes. The wines of Languedoc-Roussillon, the Catalan region of France, are varied and well-priced, if not as well-known as northern varieties. We also dine on “fruits” of the sea - anchovies in vinaigrette and mussels in aioli sauce - that melt in the mouth. Days pass like this; in picnics, long walks and poking around – queueing at a favorite boulangerie or shopping at the nearby Super U or Lidl supermarket.

Cheese and pastry selections appear endless. Even humble green beans are packaged in perfect, chic rows. Gourmet, ready-made sauces enliven our studio meals. Bechamel drizzled on green beans and small, boiled potatoes is sublime. So, too, is Crème Anglaise on a dessert of sliced, fresh figs arrayed on a crepe.

In our travels, we connect with intriguing ex-pats; the leathery 90-year old Brit who has spent 35 of his years in the region; and the free-spirited Boomers from the United States, Ireland and England. As if catching up with the ghosts of flower-child selves, they know where to backpack, where to find the best wines, crusty baguettes and seafood that seems to leap from the water to the table. They've discovered you can board the regional train from Port Vendres' dormant station to Perpignan and a conductor may or may not demand tickets in route. The strangers we meet are delightful companions who have planted themselves here; some only part-time, all savoring the moment. We wonder how it can be done, this planting oneself in foreign soil. 

There are challenges. Most daunting: France’s major phone company, Orange, is as mystifying in its rules as the Knights Templar of the Crusades, requiring one’s passport details for a month’s cell service. Tourist-office agents share our mystification about getting phone service beyond where to purchase a 5-euro calling card. We appeal to the local techie - who operates his cave of a phone shop during bankers' hours - to puzzle the ways of Orange.  

Thanks to months of listening to French with Michel Thomas, I make my way with “Comme ci, comme ça!” French – okay if I’m the only one speaking - and preface each attempt at conversation with, “Je regrette.” I painstakingly compose a text message in French to Yvette about a dimming ceiling bulb in the studio bathroom. I secure decent Wi-Fi signals at cafes with a cordial, “Avez-vous une connexion Wi-Fi?” to Facetime with kin. 

I flip through a pocket dictionary to guess the gist of nightly news on French TV; all talk of migrants stumbling ashore, leaving mountains of life jackets behind; of terrorist plots foiled and not foiled; of idle, unemployed youth and rising nationalism. In this country that has known the horror of the Holocaust and Nazi and Fascist troops, it is hard to escape foreboding. Equally hard to escape is the madness in America as we gape at our TV screen, hearing the voice of an all-too familiar presidential candidate, saying he grabs women by their genitals.

At the end of a day, the wind kicks up, setting park trees and palm fronds swaying like grass below the balcony. An occasional motorcycle roars by, and an ambulance siren rises and falls. With the village school out, the park fills with children careening on bikes and skateboards; then just as swiftly empties. Teens arrive to fill the void, boom box in hand. We can relate as we hear them and the iconic group Queen vow, "We will ... we will .... rock you."  Such was our slice of life in Port Vendres du Ville before the fray. 

End of Part I

Reggie Morrisey