The Husband and I had a wonderful lunch at a new restaurant in the village. It’s owned by a pair of twins. They inherited their parents’ dry goods store and turned it into an upscale women’s boutique. Each August, they stage a fashion show in the town square with professional models from Paris, pulsating music, and outrageously expensive designer clothes. I don’t have any clue who buys these clothes. I find them too expensive for my “wasteful American” budget and I never see the locals wearing their offerings. But according to my accountant, the store is wildly successful.
Last summer, the twins enlarged their home furnishing store and added a restaurant to it. The food is very reasonably priced, not gourmet but very good, and creatively presented. The restaurant is based on an odd concept: you eat in the store on furniture that’s for sale surrounded by decorations that are for sale. I found it a bit disconcerting to have a price tag attached to my armrest, scratching my arm while I ate.
After lunch, I checked the sheep then took the dogs for a three-hour walk. We walked through a very pretty village that has remained quaint and “primitive.” I’ve been told that it’s been totally overtaken by the Dutch. However, I won’t fault the clog-wearing, tulip-growing, foreigners on their renovations for they seem to have successfully maintained the original character of the village. I was mildly disturbed by one very new rambling modern monstrosity on the outskirts of town, and one house in town that had recently been raped with the insertion of double-paned, plastic-framed windows.
The Husband and I have had an on going “discussion” regarding modern windows. First he wanted to install screens on the windows to keep out the flies, bats, and bugs. I argued that screens were not a part of the native architecture and that I didn’t want them on our house. Besides, we lived in the country and we needed to enjoy being one with nature – even while sleeping.
The Husband seems to have given up on the screen idea in favor of a hideous, more diabolical goal. He wants to replace our original windows with insulated, double-paned abominations. Every now and then, a window salesman drives up the lane and I chase him off. However, I live in perpetual fear that one day I'll be in the villiage, the Husband will be alone, vulnerable, ripe pickings for the window salesman who will drive up and seduce him with falsities of energy savings. The Husband will succumb, take his pen in hand, and sign an order for new windows.
Well, don’t have time to write more as I must make my way to the Mairie to submit my papers for my carte de sejour.
posted by Libby @ 12:25 PM
1 Comments:
Three hour walk? You've got to be in excellent shape! Of course it helps when there are buccolic settings in which to stroll. Here, I could walk past too many big box stores, strip plazas and all the rest of the delights offered by modern corporate life. I spend some time every year in a small town on the St Lawrence River. In the town is a place called Robson's, after the owners. They deal in an eclectic mix of antiques, second hand furniture and folk art, and it is similar to the place where you dined. You can eat on it, buy it and take it with you, if you so choose. It's rather endearing, and has been around for over 50 years, so it must be successful. The food is rather pedestrian, but they do make the best cream cheese and cucumber sandwiches. Down the main drag, there is a second hand book store that sells coffee - The Intelligent Bean - where I buy all my coffee and books for my summer sojourn. It's a delightful way to wile away time, but not nearly as entrancing as your surroundings. I am so very envious - perhaps in my next life. Enjoy it, and keep writing so I can enjoy, vicariously through your experiences. Good luck with the carte de sejour.
Enregistrer un commentaire
<< Home