Chez Stoneman: Not a Barn Any More

I'm just back from a month in France, where "The Barn" as we affectionately call it is officially no longer a barn. Within my first week, we began to live there (I hesitate to say that we actually moved in because it is still a work site and we only brought sleeping and cooking essentials with us). Although I returned to the States just as Pierre was about to finish the last major work (floors and counter tops in kitchen/dining room) we got a glimpse of what daily life at the barn and in Vezenobres is like...

Pierre heads downstairs while I'm still waking to open all the shuttered windows and doors, we have lazy morning breakfast on the east side patio where the sun is still mild and we discover how many new roses have opened overnight, then we start think about what projects to do around the house and what I will make for lunch. Lunch may require a quick run to the village store for fresh bread and any staples that are missing from the house, or even better a visit to Les Halles in Ales 10 mins away for fresh foods of all kinds, I'm sure to stop on the way home on the side of the road at the entrance to the village to buy fresh peaches and melon from a local farmer whose wife sits all day in in a folding chair shaded by their truck.

Pierre's been busily working all morning on the house, which we expect will never actually be done. Even still at 1:00 or later when I call him for lunch he's on his knees or on a ladder, thick with dust but deeply satisfied. Lunch is on the adjacent patio slightly shaded from the Acacia tree and cooler from the breeze, hundreds of bees and wasps stay tucked into the Acacia and don't bother us at all. After melon and coffee, or a sweet tart from our own fruits if we're lucky, Pierre threatens to go upstairs for a siesta. But shortly he changes the music for a new pep and goes back to work without a hitch. I on the other hand mosey upstairs to putter and end up relaxing on the bed, which is at just the right position to gaze out the window and get lost in the leaves fluttering in a tall tree in the garden next to ours. The sunlight that sneaks through the tree branches creates a hypnotic effect of dancing leaves.

It doesn't seem fair to be so relaxed while Pierre is pounding and lifting and hauling and sweating. I muster the energy to freshen up and head out for a few afternoon errands -- the hardware store for Pierre, the video shop to rent a film, my Internet cafe to make contact with the office, the tourism office to check on local concerts...but by 5:00 the afternoon heat is penetrating and it's best to get back to the cool interiors of our stone walls. Pierre wraps up around 6 or 7 by rolling a cigarette to accompany him while he waters all of our plants, oleander, roses, olives, cypress and lots of weeds. This of course is followed by a pastis, we're back over to the first patio where the evening sun is perfectly mild and the sky light is starting to change. All the neighborhood dogs bark as their parents come home, an almost-unfortunate soundtrack to an otherwise tranquil and rewarding part of the day.

Dinner follows much like lunch, outside if we're lucky, and always laced with some local produce. Without much of a social schedule or the distractions of a working TV, we might take a moonlit walk if I'm lucky (Pierre's not much into walks). On my last night before returning to San Francisco, I insisted on walking to the village for the Fete de Vezenobres, the local summer party that all villages host in their town square in late summer. Pierre warned me that I'd be disappointed with the local fare and probably dismayed to socialize with the Gardoise villagers. The people of the Gard or not exactly well-heeled or well-traveled. But I was bullish about going. The walk was dreamy -- we'd never actually walked all the way into the village, which is only a 3 minute drive. We mounted the hillside from a street we'd never taken before, nosing around people's terraced gardens, listening to dinner conversations through windows and still, three years later, amazed at how we were the only people in the streets. Artfully lighted at night, the village effect warmed me (as did the uphill walk). We had cheap pizzas and bad wine at the local bar before checking out the party. Pierre was sure that the band and road crew were eating at the long banquet table behind us, and once the musicians got up to get on stage, the roadies started to gossip about their band mates.

In the short walk from the bar/pizzeria to the town square across the street, my heart sank. Just crossing the street and entering the tented party area I counted at least 6 mullets, really bad exaggerated mullets. Pierre was right. The party crowd was a mix of local teenagers crowded up to the beer stands dressed in tight jeans and fringed shirts, and native villagers in their 50s and 60s nestling with to their partners smoking cigarettes and watching the band. The band played a non-descript French soft rock song that Pierre mock-hummed along to, trying to get me to smile. I wasn't amused, the entire scene brought me down a bit and I leaned into Pierre for support.

But we stopped and took notice once the next song started. One of the back up singers had taken over the center stage and began a string of a dozen edgy pop and hard rock songs right from my own play list, ending his set with the White Stripes! I couldn't believe it -- good rock in my little unknown medieval village of 1200 people. We stayed for almost the entire set as the front man busted out some pretty funky footwork and good English one-liners to cajole the hesitant crowd while the music got louder and harder. Pierre and I only subtly tapped our feet and patted each other to the drum beat. But inside I was celebrating my rock roots and taking pride in great American music! We walked home, guided by the bright light of a full round moon, listening to the concert encore the entire way home as it echoed off each of the old stone houses on our path. I still couldn't believe it.

Well, that was just one night. Typically, we wander upstairs after loading the dishes into the sink and clearing the kitchen of any thing attractive to our family of mice. Still a cultural oddity to me, all the shudders must be closed before we head upstairs, and there are several of them. Upstairs we close the shudders but leave the windows open to keep a cool summer draft going. We might start in bed with a DVD or a book, but both of us are passed out within 15 minutes -- Pierre from the healthy fatigue of a full day of physical labor and me from that relaxed didn't-do-much-today fatigue.

I've included an update to The Barn Diary, our photo chronicles of the work Pierre's done over the past three years. The last 20 photos are from this past month, although I included the whole diary so you could see the transformation. Mouse over any picture for its caption. And start making plans to visit us in France next summer!