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.