Small town - Small World

The last few days have thrown up an example of the small town nature and thinking of this, well, small town, whilst amply demonstrating at the same time what a very small world we now live in. I have spoken to people connected to Siberia, Senegal, Australia, the USA, Canada, Italy, Spain, Ireland, Scotland, England and, of course, France - there is also an oblique reference to Mexico but it's very tenuous.

Earlier in the week I bumped into my friend Pierre, who runs a business called Highlander, which sells a so-called British style to the French, through his shop and online. He is selling off his bigger furniture items and has put the shop up for sale because almost all his business is now done online. The road where his shop is situated, although only one block from the Place Carnot, is virtually deserted, with every other business already closed and he doesn't fancy his chances of obtaining a quick sale. Despite the investment into the town's infrastructure and the renovation of the buildings in the Bastide, many small businesses are finding that they can't compete with the out-of-town stores that continue to spring up - I read the other day about another 40 sites being released for just such stuff - so in that respect it is no different to the UK. The traditional French town centre is changing with more bars and restaurants and estate agents and less of the quaint specialist shops. I will be disappointed if shops such as La Boutonnerie or La Chapellerie or even, although I would never shop there, Pantashop, the shop for all your trouser needs, had to close.

But I have digressed. I mention Pierre because he is not a Carcassonnais and he was in a rare old fit of pique when I met him. There is a group that meets regularly on a Saturday lunchtime for a glass of wine, a spot of lunch and much 'bonhomie'. I am not here every Saturday but when I can I get down there to join them. Debrah calls them a bunch a middle-aged losers - not that I have said that to Pierre, who is one of the group - and indeed without their acquaintance I would not have met Patrick, who Debrah likes a lot and who returned to Chicago earlier this week.

I was not here last Saturday but apparently it was a jolly old time. A seven piece brass 'banda' was entertaining the clientele, the sun was out and the wine was flowing. Pierre thought the music should continue, so popped back to his shop, just down the road, for his guitar. An impromptu session sprung up and an Irish family of musicians, on holiday in the town and sat at the next table, joined in the jam session. (In my mind they were either all wearing white polo neck sweaters even though it was 35 degrees, or they were sisters who looked uncannily the same - but Pierre assures me they were neither). The bar owner, Richard (say it with a French accent), was very happy and gave them all free drinks as they entertained a lunchtime crowd that stayed longer than normal and much much fun was had by everyone.

Well actually, not everyone, because a letter appeared in the local paper - La Depeche - on Tuesday, complaining about the bunch of old tuneless drunks causing a commotion and disturbing the peace. Angry of Carcassonne, no doubt. Pierre was livid - "What do the people of this town want?", he ranted - "a prosperous town or shall we go back to the middle ages?" His anger was partly fuelled by his business predicament and a belief that there is an influential minority who don't want change or the influx of visitors and their money. "I have never been accepted here", he said. I feel a bit for him - he is caught in the middle between being an outsider and not being out of town - he is right to take his business online. He wrote a reply to La Depeche and we await further developments. I would love it to grow into a full scale slanging match because I think the debate would be good for the place. I told Pierre he should tell the paper to publish where they would be playing or disturbing the peace next - a list of dates and venues should start the debate off nicely.

On Thursday evening I was invited for an aperitif chez Herve, who I also met through the above mentioned lunchtime group. He is an interesting man, born in Carcassonne, but lived in Senegal for fifteen years or so as a child, then back to various parts of France and finally home here. He says he is a gardener but I have never seen soil on his hands. I know he used to work in the pharmaceuticals industry here in France and he seems to know everything that is going on in the town. He is also incredibly kind - as are most people that I have met here - in the last two days he has dropped a CD through my post box because he thought I would like it and, the next day, hand-written directions including diagrams of a new place that I could go river swimming, because I mentioned once in conversation that I really enjoyed it as opposed to the sea or swimming pools because it was cleaner and fresher and had no salt or chlorine - just fish.

So it was that myself, Pierre and Canadian Dave (he's called that because his name is David and he's from Canada) rolled up to Herve's appartment for aperitifs. There we were introduced to, amongst others, Olivier and his lady friend. I say lady friend because she was the epitome of what that phrase means - i.e. someone who you wouldn't expect to be with someone but they are obviously a couple - and because I can't for the life of me remember what her name was, but then I'm really bad at names, especially Siberian ones! This lady came from Siberia and spoke a fraction of English and no French but understood some French and most English. She came from the region of Yakut in Eastern Siberia and, to me, had the appearance of a Mongolian, which I guess makes sense and helps to pinpoint her origin. She was a dancer in a traditional dance troupe that had toured the world, including Carcassonne, which she really liked, and where she had met Olivier. She had bought some Yakut wine with her for us to try, which I'm glad to say was really not bad at all - I'm pleased she didn't bring the distilled horse milk which is the traditional drink of her tribe and is best drunk hot and frothy!, although it might give a different slant to a 'cafe creme'.

Olivier was a Carcassonnais who spoke English, with a French accent, very slowly to her and French with a French accent very quickly to me - why he couldn't work out, despite my polite requests, that he needed to speak slower to me as well, I don't know. Olivier looked like Sacha Coen trying to do a really obvious interpretation of a Mexican bandit - his jet black hair had the appearance of a bad wig and a drooping moustache completed the look - he just needed the hat and chewed cigar.

On Friday Ken came back to see me and start work on the unfinished bits of the main appartment. Ken is a former Californian policeman with a half French/US wife - they decided France was better than the USA and have settled here - good choice. She runs a business in town selling tea and coffee, but has recently put the shop up for sale to concentrate on the more lucrative online business (sounds familiar) and he works as an odd-job man which is perfect for us just now. We will see how he goes. When we did some renovations on our house in London a few years back we had an excellent builder who could do anything and his name was also Ken - on my mobile his number was listed under Ken Fixit. Maybe new Ken will become 'Ken Fixit2'.

I have spent most of this week on the phone or email sorting out London work - well I say London, but actually no-one was in London - the MD was in Bilbao, the manufacturer and our technical director are based in Sussex, the inventor practices in Suffolk, the material supplier is in Australia and I was here in Carcassonnne. Even our legal advisor was quitting London for holidays in rural France and gave me his mobile and Skype details so that I could reach him all week! - people just don't do unobtainable holidays anymore.

On Friday evening I went out for dinner with Dennis to a restaurant called L'Endroit, in the centre of town. It was a beautiful evening and we sat at a table on the edge of the street, breathing in the car fumes, watching the sky turn from blue to black and the stars appear, drinking Minervois La Liviniere - the best Minervois there is. and eating roast pigeon. Our charming waitress was born in Carcassonne to Italian and Spanish parents and had worked in London for four years at Nobu restaurant in the Metropolitan Hotel on Park Lane. I asked what had brought her back here when she could have gone anywhere with her experience and she replied "I missed Carcassonne, I like it here". I can't disagree with that at all.

The Delivery

They said it would be Wednesday morning, so I was up bright and early to prepare for the arrival of our new big shiny double doored 'Refrigerateur Americain'. We had purchased it last week for an unbelievably good price because it was 'Affaire de la Semaine' (offer of the week) at Geant, one of our big out of town supermarkets that sells pretty much everything.

So I shifted the existing fridge over to a different wall and cleaned the area in preparation. By now it was past 8am, and therefore too late to pop out for a paper or jump in the shower because that would have risked missing the delivery, which would have meant having to reorganise the whole thing on the telephone, probably with the man with the indecipherable and uncomprehensible accent. It doesn't help that my doorbell is not the loudest in the world and I have been known to miss it altogether, especially if I am listening to music.

I sat at the kitchen table in silence working on my computer, made a couple of phone calls re work, drank copious cups of coffee and jumped up to look out of the window every time I thought I heard a van pull up outside (which was quite often). The morning seemed to drag by very slowly but still no delivery and eventually the morning was over and the bells were chiming for midday - no chance of anything now until after 2pm.

Had I missed them or had they not been? I had some lunch and pondered what to do. Actually, having some lunch was just a delaying tactic before facing the inevitable telephone call to find out what was going on. I worked out what I needed to say and finally dialled the number just after two. As always, it wasn't as bad as I had anticipated - from main switchboard to electrical goods to delivery department everyone understood me and I understood them and finally a very cheery and most importantly, an understandingly slow speaking woman told me their was no problem and they were just on their way now with the fridge. Ahh - so that will be an early afternoon type of morning delivery then.

Ten minutes later the telephone rang and the accent was back. He could have been speaking Swahili or Finnish as far as I was concerned because I didn't understand one word of his thickly accented French, which is what I presume he was using. As I had just spoken to their office and knew they were coming I just said "Oui, D'accord" and he said, I think, "A bientot". We exchanged 'Au revoirs' and ten minutes after he had pulled up outside and was causing a traffic jam down the street.

He was a rather portly man with a thick greying moustache, which did nothing for the clarity of his speech. He was already sweating profusely and so far, all they had done is get it out of the van and onto the pavement using the tailgate hoist. His sidekick was a very thin pale youth with round spectacles who didn't look like he could pick up a toaster on his own, never mind move a huge double door american style fridge freezer. I had concerns. The lead guy was by now chattering and complaining and waving his arms in the air about their being nowhere to park and the traffic backed up having no patience (all were by now leaning on their horns) and the distance to the front door and the fact that I lived on the first floor. At least, that's what it looked like.

Actually I just think he was one of those men who is constantly grumbling and chatting and complaining and that's what keeps him going through the day - but he does need to calm down. He looked to me like a classic candidate for a heart attack. His sidekick never said a word - either didn't have the energy of more likely just sits in the van every day listening to the other guy unable to get a word in. But the fridge did have wheels and so only needing lifting up the stairs, which with me helping was no problem really and then it was very easily rolled into place. I'm not sure what the fuss was all about. After I had signed the delivery note and given out drinks of water everyone was all smiles and handshakes and 'un tres joli appartment' and off they went.

The big new beast changes the kitchen dynamic. The old fridge always looked a bit small in this vast space but the new one looks like it is fulfilling it's destiny. It is stood against the end wall of the kitchen, in shape and size rather like one of those early mainframe computers from a 1960's movie. In contrast the old fridge looks like it's cowering in the corner, somewhat in awe of the new arrival. At least it still has my food and drink to look after for now, but that will change in the morning when the new one is up, or rather, down to temperature and the handover will take place before the old fridge gets put to one side for a while. When the studio conversion has been done we will put it to good use for our visitors.

I am now the proud owner of five fridges of varying sizes here in France and one in London - you could say we are a bit overfridged.