Moved To Tears

Just a shortie. Wanted to write about last night's outing to Montpellier's Theatre des Treize Vents www.theatre-13vents.com

Brilliant. A recently built, smart theatre with cosy club armchairs in the foyer, delicious food courtesy of the team from Le Baloard (a restaurant well worth visiting on boulevard Louis Blanc, 04 67 79 36 68) , a small but perfectly formed book stall run by Montpellier's Sauramps store - oh, and great, thought-provoking, contemporary performances on the stage. I saw The Vagina Monologues there earlier this year and loved it. Last night it was September 11, 2001, a piece performed - in English, with French subtitles - by a cast of American actors from the Center for New Performance at CalArts, Los Angeles. You can guess the subject matter. You can guess my reaction (there's a clue in the title).

This is why I love living in the centre of Montpellier, and why I doubt I shall ever move to deepest, darkest rural France. Great big dollops of contemporary culture. Practically on my doorstep. Cinemas that show art house films, in the original version, just one block away from my flat. Bring it on.

The Nice Man Cometh

Dear Diary

Met a Very Nice Man today - for the second time!

First time was December last year on Montpellier's Place de la Comedie, where the annual Fete des Vins was in full swing. Working my way round with my friend HB, we tried to decide which of the many winemakers' stalls to visit. The way it works is that you pay your money - I think it was 3 euros - and get given three little tickets and a glass (you get to keep the glass, too). You swop your tickets for a glass of wine at any of the many stalls, so there we were, two wine novices, figuring out who to plump for. "Ooh, nice looking label there," said my friend, stopping in front of the Domaine de Saumarez stand. "Yes, nice looking bloke too," I muttered, "let's give him a go." Or words to that effect. That's how wine-savvy we are, me and my friend. We held out our tickets and glasses, beaming brightly. The Nice Looking Man smiled back, and said, in English that was so damn perfect it was obvious he WAS English, "Yes, we try hard with our labels, we find they appeal to women, and in your average household, it's women who tend to buy the wine." Well, he had us, hook, line and sinker. We tried his wines, I mumbled some nonsense about getting a hint of shoe polish (I was "doing a Jilly", which HB has never allowed me to forget), chatted a little, bought some bottles (great labels, and the contents weren't bad either) and then pushed off. Well, there were a few other good looking guys there too, you see, and we still had two tickets left apiece.

Fast forward to May 2006 and HB and I decide to spend a rare, work-free, child-free day by going off to taste some wine. We just can't help ourselves: some mysterious force pulls us to Murviel les Montpellier, where we are charmingly received by The Nice Man (aka Robin Williamson), who puts up with all our wittering about wine, warns me (very nicely) not to park my bum on a wine barrel that's about to explode, so chock-full of fermenting liquid is it, and who comes across as funny, self-deprecating, and A Good Egg. We leave with a car boot full of bottles, and our purses a little lighter. Then it's off for lunch at Le Mas de Saporta, the showcase for AOC Coteaux du Languedoc wines and a jolly nice restaurant on the side. If you're in Montpellier, give it a try - it's the perfect place to sample top quality local wine and cuisine. No website that I could find, but they're on 04 67 06 88 66.

And just to prove that I'm not just a silly bint who's swayed by a pretty label and a smile, here's my review of Domaine de Saumarez 'Aalenien' 2004 Coteaux du Languedoc. It's 65% syrah, 35% grenache, aged in barrels of various sizes, 90% of which are new. Very deep coloured. Open nose with sweet dark fruit leads to a lush palate with good concentration and richness. Deliciously forward (rather like my good self), richly textured, and quite hard to resist (a bit like Robin Williamson, I suppose). A very ripe style, with nicely integrated oak.

OK, I confess, that wasn't me. It was lifted (apart from the brackets, you understand) from www.wineanorak.com, which is as good a place as any to mug up on wine. And if you want to catch up with Robin and his wares, he'll be at the Estivales on Montpellier's Esplanade, just off the Place de la Comedie, on Friday July 7th from 7pm, where you'll be able to taste the deliciously dry white Domaine de Saumarez 'S' 2004, which goes (so I'm told) rather well with oysters - which will also be available. Failing which, go find him at Domaine de Saumarez, 34570 Murviel les Montpellier, +33 (0)6 24 41 56 20. And failing that, if you're in the UK, his wines are sold through Handford's of London - South Kensington.

Arrive, Survive, Thrive

Here's a thing. Recently, I've been having a funny feeling. A good one, mind you.

We ARRIVED in the Languedocalmost four years ago. It was bloody awful. I spoke fluent French, had a new job to keep me busy, a supportive partner, a new wicker basket to be filled with organic veggies at the colourful local market and all that gubbins, but it was, nevertheless, PANTS. Once the honeymoon period had worn off (ie. once the winter set in - we arrived in September, just as the grape harvest was beginning), reality set in. I was miserable. Living in the countryside bored me rigid. Vineyard views are all well and good, but they're no substitute for (say) the London Institute of Contemporary Art, a shopping spree at APC, or an afternoon in Liberty fingering fancy fabrics and sniffing Dyptique candles. You get my drift.

We survived the first two months by drinking vast quantities of local wine and plotting our escape to a larger town (bigger, better market), where we rented a soul-less modern villa for eighteen months and considered our options. This was SURVIVAL time. It was OK, and even, like a curate's egg, good in parts (the Friday market run, the Saturday morning cafe and croissant fest). But man cannot live by bread alone (not even crusty banette), and I found myself pining for urban thrills.

Reader, you'll be unsurprised to hear that we got the hell out of Dodge and finally settled in the Big Bad City (aka Montpellier), where dog shit is copious and binners are free. Only the night before last I had to call the SAMU because some poor dog-on-a-string person had apparently taken an overdose and was expiring on our doorstep (I kid you not.) Well, waddaya know? All big cities have their downsides. I don't care. I love living here. Four years on and we've met some PLUs (People Like Us), I've got some close women friends who I really click with (big up yourself, HB! and before you ask, they're a mix of Brits, Americans and Frenchwomen), I'm getting my fix of contemporary culture thanks to the Diagonal cinemas, the Panacee art space, Sauramps book store, the Montpellier Danse festival, the Corum theatre - you name it, I'm checking it - and we've found the best beach bars, the nicest Thai restaurant in town, and the magnificent municipal library. Finally, Life Is Good. We are thriving.

So to anyone out there who's not sure about their new life in France: hang in there. It gets better with time. For some, it's only a matter of months. For me, it took a lot longer. I met a woman last week who moved to the Tarn 15 years ago: it took her five years to start feeling happy in France, she told me.

Stung Into Action

I admit it. I've been stung into action. I speak as someone who got all excited at having a blog, and then found she couldn't be arsed to write it. That's the funny thing about blogs: they're like opinions. Everyone (well, these days, practically everyone) has one. But then you realise the awesome responsibility of Having A Blog: people expect you to update it, all regular-like. Jesus, not only are they reading your diary, but then they have the nerve to whinge when you don't post on a daily basis. Well excuse me, but whose blog is it, anyway? My excuse is that I write for a living (yes, really), so in my precious free time, writing isn't always what I want to do for fun. And blogging is what I do when I have something I think is worth saying, plus the time to get near my keyboard. Which, surprise surprise, isn't every damn day.

OK, rant over. PH of TLP, you have inadvertently kicked my arse. I hear you. I shall post more often, promise.

Too much vous, not enough tu

A favourite topic of conversation amongst Anglophones living in France is the old “tu versus vous” debate. As in, how long does it take before you get onto “tu” terms with (say) your (young, long-haired) postman? Or why does your (young, trendy, laid-back) hairdresser persist in calling you “vous”, when you’ve made it quite clear you’d love to be tu-ed?

We all have our tu/vous stories. Here’s mine. There's a late 20's (I’m guessing) and rather attractive but very shy young man who does the mucking out at the stables where I ride. I have had the hots for him since just about forever, but I digress. Every time I go to saddle up, there he is, wearing a tight, white T shirt, scooping horse poop and heaving heavy hay bales around in a manly kind of way, while I mince about in my jodphurs, all Jilly Cooper-like. Anyway, we have gradually started to chat a little, mainly about music (believe it or not but I can bluff my way in deep house and techno, being married to someone who earns his living by making just that), and on one momentous occasion fairly recently I said to Stable Boy "si vous voulez, on pourrait peut-etre se tutoyer?" and to my delight, he agreed. Hurrah! A new friend! White T Shirt Man is Mine!

Bugger me, I go back a week later and he's forgotten. Not only is he still all shy and humble, but he’s gone back to that "vous" thing. “Ah, mais tu peux me tutoyer, tu sais!” I say with a big smile, and he nods. I go back the following week. He calls me vous again. I do the “my name is Madame Personne, but you can call me Grande” thing, he agrees, we smile. And then a week later, we’re back to la case depart, as they say in France. Things continue in this vein for a couple of months. Every week or so I ask him to “tu” me, and he struggles valiantly with this idea and sometimes it even works for a bit… until he relapses again to "vous", leaving me feeling peeved. Doesn’t it occur to him that someone as obviously young (at heart) and cool as moi meme should be called "tu"?. I kid myself that perhaps he is in awe of me in a Lady Chatterley’s Lover kind of way (stop sniggering at the back), but I think not. He just knows I'm a forty-something woman with two kids and a wedding band on her finger, who wishes she could still pull. And you know what? He's got it in a nutshell.

Whining to win wine

Yes, I know. I haven't blogged for several weeks, and now I come back to bore on about... crap. Dog crap. Not just that, though. There are lots of other things I want to bang on about. Like smoking childminders, the fallacy that the Cirque de Navacelles is actually worth visiting (thanks to Helen of http://www.cafeandmarmite.blogspot.com for making those points), and the fact that the Lac de Cres is a scrubby, scabby piss-poor excuse for a park.

Sorry if I sound negative, but sometimes these things have to be said. Every thing in the garden simply cannot be rosy, without exception, all the time. It does us all good to sound off from time to time. And now our whining can win wine (apparently). Check out the poll at http://www.creme-de-languedoc.com/South-France/polls.php and get voting. You're allowed to sing the praises of life in France, too!