It’s morning. The snow is glowing on the top of Mount Ventoux and the Mistral is howling — and I’m thinking Wuthering Heights. Off in the distance I can just about hear Cathy crying in a French accent, “Heathcliff!”
I always thought the notion that the Mistral, the strong, sometimes icy, northwesterly moaning wind drives people insane was nothing more than a tale. Turns out it is a well-accepted excuse.
The other night I heard a story about how after a Ménerbes (population 950) murder, the police gave the suspect-wife-killer an alibi, “We know the Mistral did this to you, so, just get out of town.” So the murderer, now dead, moved to Bonnieux, a beautiful village fairly close by.
Being at a residency is a a fantasy fulfilled. I could absolutely get used to this being treated like a real writer. I get up to a gorgeous sunrise, make less-than-acceptable coffee. Write. Walk the loop or one of the loops, where the wild chervil swells.
While I miss serious workouts, I’ve substituted with a regular 7-Minute-Workout. And sometimes walking in the whipping winds sort of whips me in shape.
This week the writing velocity on the memoir slowed when I was slammed with a quick turnaround assignment. I’ve no one but myself to blame. I pitched it, after all. And yes, its about the proposed tariffs that are ripping the wine industry apart back home. Who knows if it will run, sometimes editors and news events turn around everyone’s best efforts.
The “Maison” arranges to take the three of us shopping once a week. This has proven to be a challenge. How does that work? How do people do it? I have never shopped only once a week in my life. The idea of thinking ahead other than a quart of milk is incomprehensible. So we are taken to Coustellet, to the “My Bio Shop” (which is pretty great and I made two great discoveries—the Vincents: Christophe and Garreta) and the Super U which seems to have LeClerc aspirations. On the cusp of spring, the markets are still in winter. Potatoes, soggy onions and powdered garlic, but still almost everything has more flavor than at home. But, relief! Last week, in a romp in one of the Vincent’s vineyards I came back with a fistful of intensely flavored wild asparagus and vital mustard.
And through it all every day Ménerbes wakes up a little more. The local pizza place has opened just this week. Café Progrés is open during apèro time—have not been. There is yet another spot open for lunch but it is a better decision to catch an allongé, sit on the terrace while avoiding work (which actually I’m not doing too much because the work is mostly flowing.) The pinks and greens are coming in and those Provençal villages are incredibly beautiful. In fact they all claim to be “la plus belle,” the most beautiful. So the toursists all run to Gordes, but so far, I’ll put my vote in for Roussillon, the sienna colored village in the sky. The reason for all of those shades of red and ochre?
Iron.
Yes. You knew that, just reminding you.
