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French Trog Life
Although to the best of my knowledge I’m not of Neanderthal descent(‘tho some might argue for Cro-Magnon), I have spent a lot of time in caves. But most of them have been “cave”, with a longggg “A”. As in “Caaave.” The French word for “Wine Cellar.”
There is, however, as you may be aware, another variety of “cave” here in France, with a history and culture that precedes the wine storage variety.
Our story begins long ago – Deep in the mists of time. Before the Horse n’ Buggy. Before the motor vechile. Before even – gasp – the web! When they were people who lived in caves who were’nt Neanderthals or Cro-Magon; did’nt carry clubs, or wear animal skins. These sartorially advanced folks were the Troglodytes. Progressive. Insurgents. Non-conformists. The “under the radar” middle class of the Feudal System.
As you doubtless recall from reading “History for Smarties”, the Feudal System was the essence of simplicity. Two classes. Rich and poor.Royalty and peasants. Thus, if you were unfortunate enough not to have been born into Royalty – you went directly to the bottom of the ladder. Peasantville! Back breaking labor in the fields of the mean ole Lord o’ da manor(“Le Seigneur”) for which you got to keep a few grains of wheat or corn and live rent free in the humble hovel, he let you build(on your own time) on his estate.
But wait – there’s more! (And feminists should stop reading here, to avoid getting their panties in a knot)Le Seigneur, being the B.M.O.C(the Big Man on Campus – and his campus to boot) had “droits de Seigneur” (rights of the Seigneur) over all the Women in his back forty.You’re getting my drift – are you not, dear reader? “The Seigneur would like your wife/daughter at the Chateau by six pm” – was not an invitation to tea!
Ok – so, the Feudal System. Not humankinds finest hour. No equality for anyone.(especially Women) No home ownership.No paid work. No medical. No dental. No radio. And even if there was – guess who the D.J. would be?
But, happily, the Trogs were not down with being “down by Seigneur.” Like that old car commercial, they had a better idea. One that aced the program of Mr. mean, nasty and oppressive. Caves. A better home and (rooftop)garden. At a very affordable price. Free! And here’s why – After creating the caves by carving out the stone for his chateau, the Seigneur had zero interest in them, or their inhabitants. And, in one of his few wise moments, realizing the feeling was mutual, exempted the Trogs from taxes. So – Glasnost. Feudal style. The Seigneur has one less band of potential revolutionaires to worry about – and the Trogs get a hassle free hacienda that does’nt need a fridge. Fireplace included.
And so, the Trogs rocked on with their “hunter/gatherer dance.” Gettin’ grub for their stylish stone tables. Tellin’ tales around the fire, as they roasted their latest catch. “Putting food by.” A lifestyle several rungs up the ladder from their peasant Brothers and Sisters. For a while. Then, that thing that wounds all heels(uh…that would be….time?) stirred up the stream of history.
The peasants, as Marie Antoinette so sagely observed, were revolting. The Seigneurs were retreating. A New World Odour. The scent of freedom. Light. Freedom to carve a small garden out of the forest. Freedom to turn those garden given timbers into four walls of your own. Freedom to stroll a few paces without collecting an arrow in your back. But wait – there’s more! SUNSHINE! And – as more Trogs decamped – neighbours to trade with.
Over the years their stone villas were, and still are, squatted by “Alternative Lifestyle” seekers. Like Fashion -yesterday’s poverty morphs into todays’ chic. And what could more more chic than a cave mansion? Neanderthal cred with digital mod cons!
Although you’ll find Trog dwellings throughout France – some of the greatest concentrations are in the Dordogne(Les Eyzies) and in the Loire. Particularly between Montsoreau and Souzay Champigny on the south bank; and between Bourgueil and Tours on the North bank. The tiny village of Parnay(south bank) even has a Trog Church!
Ready for the “Trog Experience?”
THROW ME A BONE HERE, PEOPLE!
What are ya thinkin’?
French Life Travel Nightmare – Part Two
Thomas was clearly on a roll. Continuing the big show of breaking down the gun, inserting the cartridges, and forcefully slamming it shut. All the while, increasing scowl intensity and the quantity of forehead sweat. It was then I learned exactly what the sand in Thomas’ alcoholic oyster was. Last year, a neighbour family was murdered in their sleep by a travelling stranger. Alllllllllrighty then! Good to know!! But, how to convince the Tahitian avenger that I was not the Boston Strangler, the Son of Sam, the Freeway Sniper, Jack the Ripper, or all of the above? Clearly, reaching for the mini-Uzi I keep tucked in my sock for just such emergencies, would probably not have been the wisest move. So, head down, moving extremely slowly, while constantly repeating the live coward’s mantra –“No probleme……..No probleme…….je partir” (I’m leaving)…..I headed for my gear.
On the porch, as I scurried to assemble my bags, Thomas’ Rotweiler intensity seemed to diminish slightly. Not to Border Collie. More like, angry Great Dane. Perhaps, because I was now out of the house He demurred, with a point of His barrel – “You can sleep in the tent.” OK –it was cold. And I really did consider a “thanks, but no thanks” response. But here was a guy soaring on an alcohol-adrenalin cocktail, who, even without the deadly weapon, could reduce you to silly putty with the back of his meaty hand. I mumbled many “Merci Beaucoups” and hobbled tent-ward.
A threatening quiet ensued. As I wondered what was churning around in Thomas’ achohol soaked brain. Was He going to “take me out” during the night? A “pre-emptive strike?” To prevent me from hacking them into backpack sausage? It were these visions, dear reader, not those of sugar plums, that break-danced around my frazzled noggin. Finally, the break dancers adrenalin fizzled, and I was surfin’ wit ma homie – Morpheus. Until the invasion! Shock- Horror!! Someone in the tent!!! Actually, only Martine, lifting the flap. “It’s ok to come in now.” She confided.” Yeah, right! – All aboard for shotgun city! “No…really……He’s calmed down.” She assured. As jangled as my nerve endings were – my heart went out to Martine. How would you feel if you invited someone into your home. You bond. You’re having a great time. Then your Husband pulls out a shotgun?
I wondered how Martha Stewart woulda handled this one. Stenciled the driveway? Oh well! Taking yet another great leap of faith, I returned to the house. Thomas was nowhere in sight. But in sound, He was betrayed by the clink of glass and bottle. I know that you, dear reader, on occasion, have had a night with no memory of sleep. This was mine. As I attempted to “mellow out” on the living room – yes, I must say it – “Murphy Bed.”
I endured the constant emotional see-saw of Thomas and Martine. He drinking and whining. She trying to cool his jets. Finally, just as I was almost unconscious – I was shaken awake. By Thomas. The tourist brochure smile had returned. (presumably because I had left their heads attached.) “Hey bra………..sorry about last night……I just flipped out.” Could there have been a response other than : “No probleme?” The table graoned with the Mother of all breakfasts. I was a combination of long lost friend, favourite Uncle and Tahitian God. Thomas and Co. did everything for Me but chew the food.
As We said our goodbyes, they tried to load me up with everything we did’nt eat, plus a huge mother of pearl shell. Tho’ way overloaded, I managed to find a place for most of it. After our “challenging” evening – the morning illuminated Thomas as He was. And, as most of us are, when We, and those dear to us, are not perceived at risk. A warm, friendly Human, who wished only the best for all his fellows. My hope, obviously, was that next time a travelling stranger wound up on their doorstep; Whether or not He/She/it was exotic and/or from the far away lands, Thomas’ shotgun would remain in the closet. As I aced the main drag in drabsville, it was 8am. Freds’ was, normally, still another day, twelve big hours, away.
That was the bad news. The good news was that when I did arrive, there would be a longggggg bath, great grub, bed, and untold days of complete indolence. Plus, the only life threatening weapon there, was Fred’s formidable wine cellar. I phoned Fred.
Had any Adventures like this, folks?
THROW ME A BONE HERE PEOPLE!
What Are Ya Thinkin’?
French Life Travel Nightmare – Part One
DISCLAIMER:
As you may know, I am not just a writer. I am an author. Someone who has written a book. And when I started this blog, I made a solemn vow(and are’nt they the best kind?) never to directly use any riveting prose from my book(the one that I wrote, which makes me an author) here.
But today, I’m breaking that vow. And all because of this mail : “We love your stuff. But, surely, it was’nt/isn’t all great food, wine , and people? As much as we enjoy you “sharing the dream” – it’s hard to imagine that it’s always the stuff of dreams. Don’t you have at least one French nightmare?” – Sean Collins.
Indeed I do, Sean. And here it is:
Not a Kodak Moment
You’ve seen, dear reader, or perhaps even have, the tee-shirt that proclaims : “Murphy was an optimist.” This was such a day. Bike repair earlier had eaten four precious travelling hours. The temperature was not friendly. And the dark, brooding sky, was not merely threatening rain, but definitely promising it. I was on a drab street. In an equally drab village. But, at this moment, I was savoring my possible future two days hence with my old pal Fred. (Bad dog! – Be here now!!) Because while I was’nt – my present underwent an unsavoury transformation. Of the wet kind. Way wet. And way fast.
Adventure – The Wet Kind
Ploughing through a cascade of liquid icicles, I scrambled for the closest drab house, and bolted to the covered porch. Temporary relief was tempered by the realization that the exotic stranger from the far away lands would need, at least, semi-divine intervention to make it through this night.
Something Huge This Way Comes
Strangely calm, and semi-hypnotized by the wet, percussive bullets that ricocheted off the road – I began to sense a presence. And, my senses were not simply “whistlin’ Dixie.” Because, as I turned to the door, there, filling it to overflowing – more buffed than a linebacker on steroids – was the biggest Polynesian I’d ever seen. His massive arms were crossed. He was scowling.
I then knew how a slaughterhouse lamb must feel when it realizes: “Hey….this ain’t the way to the more green pasture!” My intended icebreaker – a smiling “Bonjour”, did’nt dent the scowl. As I contemplated my next – hopefully life-saving “bon mot” – , the scowl morphed into a glowing tourist brochure smile. “Drier in here, bra.” (Polynesian for “Brother”) This was my introduction to Thomas from Tahiti.
After meeting Wife Martine and Daughter Jade – the aperitif goodies cascaded down. The questions, logically, were about Me. “Where was I coming from? “What was I doing? “How long had I been travelling? Then, as suddenly as it appeared – the storm disappeared. And We moved “au jardin.”
Trouble in Paradise
Thomas confirmed that Tahiti, largely due to tourism, was hideously expensive. Making basic survival difficult to impossible for most Tahitians. The three lifestyle options being: Work the fields. Work in the tourist industry. Get the hell out!
Thomas chose number three. Met Martine, already with Jade from a previous marriage, and viola! With a reasonable salary, the benefits of the French social system, and Martine’s part-time home sewing income, the family was, to quote Thomas : “Mo Beddah.” Daughter Jade was at that perfect age. Past “Why?” “Why?” “Why” and before : “I hate you! I’m never speaking to you again……but first…….drive me to the mall!.”
*The garden party continued until time and temperature invited us inside for dinner. Not – sorry to disappoint – a “Tahitian feast.” Standard French fare. But well done. And Much appreciated. The hospitality and wine continued to flow after dinner as the photo album appeared. And I was toured around Tahiti and other assorted family “Magic Moments.” Then, casually, out of curiosity, Thomas asked to see my passport.
The scowl returned. “This isn’t you!” He thundered. Excuse me? Is not “perfect passport picture” as impossible as “military intelligence?”
Intensifying the scowl, Thomas sprang imperially to his feet. “Appel le Flic!” (Call the police) He barked to Martine. She refused. Meekly. But positively. Thomas responded by clocking her with some scowl vibes, then stormed out. Martine gave me an apologetic “He’s-had-too-much-too-drink smile.” This I got. What I did’nt get was why he’d gone postal over a bad passport picture? Did He not grasp the cardinal rule of impersonating the exotic stranger from the far away lands? –“Photo must match impersonator?” Apparently not.
Because Thomas returned clutching a shotgun. The double barrelled kind. Happily, not pointed at me. At least, not yet. Martine and Jade, understandably, were close to losing it; as Thomas did his “Me Big Chief” number.
Part Two – Next Time
