ohinalbertxy: perhaps we should live in france

It?s so quiet at night. I can?t tell if my eardrums have developed a low thrum or if there is a motor embedded deep under the rock. The sound reminds me of engine vibrations from the diesel trains of my childhood when they?d park on a nearby track. The low-pitched cycling vibration is almost out of sensibility. It comes, not only through my eardrums, but through the bones of my jaw and head. It permeates my ultra-low-frequency hearing in the night but then is dashed out of awareness by the bright chuckle and gurgle of my coffee pot and the buzz and trickle of the refrigerator.

I take my pulse at my throat. It seems to timed with my heartbeat and the rush of blood up through my neck.

It?s so very quiet here.

* * *

Yesterday, I helped Marie unload her Kangoo into the cave (basement). She and her husband plan to move from their four-room apartment in the hotel into the main part of this house to ?retire?. It seems that this plan and this house have been in the making for years. This summer she?s rented her ?retirement? home out to family friends.

Her daughter says her mother?s retirement and move will happen in September but Marie says ?April?. Since they?ve been talking about this retirement and move since I first met them in 2008, I have the distinct feeling that this may never happen.

Her ?retirement? house has been built with three separate residences on the top of the hill behind town. The main living area, Marie?s ?retirement? home, is in the center above us. The garage and cave (basement) is on the other side of the wall of our narrow one-bedroom apartment.

While I helped carry things, she offered to show me the other apartment on the uphill side of the house.

The other apartment (about 500 sq ft) has only the kitchen downstairs. It extends via narrow stairs to two attic bedrooms and a bathroom. One attic bedroom has a double bed plus two small beds under the low eaves behind a wooden wardrobe. The second bedroom has only a double bed. It?s door is a curtain on a rod.

Skylight windows in both bedrooms open through the slate roof. They provide fresh sea air, light and views of white boats anchored far below.

The eating table in the kitchen seats six, if you slide the table away from the wall. There?s a private patio through a back door. It overlooks her garden riot of volunteer potatoes, tomatoes and corgettes.

A daughter already cleaned the apartment and changed the sheets. The linen closet inside the front door is stacked high with hotel-pressed sheets. The eating table is cloaked with a bright yellow table cloth. With the towels she added, it?s ready for her next guests.

I carried armloads and boxes from her car into the cave while she chatted a continuous stream of rapid French. I caught themes but missed specifics. I stopped her from time to time to repeat a word or phrase. She corrected my pronunciation, then kept talking.

I?m grateful for the lesson. I have so many gaping holes in my French. The more I learn, the bigger they seem. If I only understood more French, I could have acquired her entire family history.?

There is a brother (or was it the Aunt) who lives too far away to visit. Over a thousand kilometers. This box contains flatware from when her mother had a restaurant. These maps of Africa on the backseat of the car are from many years ago when Claude and she lived there for his work. This chair is too good to throw away. Her son-in-law wanted to throw it away. But look. It only needs to be re-covered. People today throw too many good things away. Look. There?s another chair just like it right here.

She looked around at the jumble in her cave as she and I added things to shelves and piled them on the floor. Cans of paint. An enormous boom-box cassette tape player. Old clothes. The antique road maps of Africa. An empty tool box. A dozen glass lamp shades, new in boxes. The straight wooden chair in need of new upholstery.

?Some of this should go to the poubelle (trashcan),? she said. ?I need to organize.?

She shook her head. Not today. There are too many other things to do. Customers are coming. There?s an errand to run and the bar to tend.

Marie is a very busy woman. This is one of the many things I admire about her.? Besides the fact that she can work in her garden wearing heels without falling over, getting sweaty or becoming the least bit dirty.

Marie has expanded her family-run enterprise over the years, stone by stone, tile by tile and friendly chat by friendly chat, outward from her rose granite hotel in the center of town.

Her apartments each sleep an amazing number for their size. Our one bedroom (about 500 sq ft) was set up to sleep five till we moved a bed into the garage to make room for our kid?s electric keyboard. The upstairs apartment sleeps six.

?Perfect for a family with kids,? she told me.

I smiled and nodded. I really appreciate that she thinks about families with kids.?

It was nearly impossible to rent a furnished apartment for my family of four in Denver. I had to settle for one filthy room and drug dealers as neighbors. I had to cook on two un-vented burners. I had to fight to get the cheap sheets and towels changed. I had to demand chairs and dishes and forks for four. Then, I had to go out and buy pots and pans so I could cook.

And I paid a lot more for for those Denver apartments, too.

Marie is my hero.

She is the queen of the tidy attic bedroom, the mistress of one-more-sturdy-bed-tucked-under-the-eaves and the empress of the comfortable fold-out sofa.

Her beds are solid and her sheets are world class. Her towels are thick and white. Her rooms and apartments are spotless. The tablecloths are thick and as brightly-colored as butterflies. There are enough chairs for everyone to sit down together for meals.?

Dishes are in themed collections that may not match perfectly, but there is enough flatware, a fistful of tiny French spoons, one oval casserole dish perfect to bake a gratin, a skillet and a thick-bottomed pot for making a stew.