A Village In France

Listening to the church bell tolling we can always tell what time it is, day or night. By the time we left twenty years on, the sound of that soft bell tolling had become soul sustenance.

The Dutch truck driver spent the night parked next to the house. The next day, several men from the village unexpectedly show up to help unload the truck — we wonder if they want to see our American possessions or judge these foreigners, or if they just want to help, but their help was needed.

I know now that they will always appreciate a nice eau-de-vie after a day’s work is done, and I also know that lending a hand is a way of life in these villages.

We spent the day carting furniture and assembling beds. The volunteers enjoy the whole event, as if they’re in luck to chance upon a celebration. These Americans are curious specimens, having bought the hulking wreck in the middle of their village; this is a good opportunity to see them up close and take their measure.

The “kitchen” is a kitchen in name only. There is no stove, no fridge of course, but also no light, no gas, no storage — but there is an ancient bread oven sunk into a wall. There is also a sink with running water, thank God, and a niche with a door to the stables, now blocked up by rigid blocks of insulation called ciporex, where we will insert a fridge.