Blog de ma terrasse

One of my favorite French authors, Daudet, inspired by a Provençal windmill in Fontvieille (Bouche du Rhone), wrote a collection of short stories under the title of Lettres de mon Moulin. What I offer here is in no way comparable to the works of that enormously talented and charming nineteenth century writer, but simple observations from time spent on the rooftop deck of the house where we are living. For about a week now the weather has been sunny and getting warmer, offering opportunites for reading outside and for surverying the surroundings.

For starters, let’s not neglect the obvious: towering above the deck are the church to one side and Mont Ventoux to the other. The mountain still has an expansive cover of snow on the top, but each day the patches of green seem to be widening. Looking down into town, I can see along the main street the tops of platanes (“plane trees”) which have been pruned to make them more resilient. Certain species of trees both near and far appear to be starting to sprout their leaves; for quite awhile now les amandiers (“almond trees”) have been displaying their striking pink blossoms.

A few smells waft up from down below, notably of the freshly baked bread from the town boulangeries (“bakeries”) and smoke from the fireplaces of a few homes nearby. In the distance, you spot another type of smoke: that from small fires that vignerons (“winemakers”) have set to burn les sarments (or “the vine shoots”) they have cut off their vines, readying them for the grape-growing period.

It is very quiet for the most part upstairs on the deck. The sounds of the bells from the church continue uninterrupted,of course, announcing the hour and half-hour. There are various kinds of birds flying by and one can hear the cooing both of the les pigeons at the church and les tourtereaux (“turtle doves”) from various spots around town. Dassault military jets sometimes fly over, too, disrupting the serenity by the ruckus they make. Bits of conversations from neighbors drift up, reminding me that I am indeed in France. During the week, at least twice a day, we notice the happy sounds of young children playing in front of the school at recess (à la récré). Every once in awhile young cats cross the rooftops, often attempting death-defying jumps as cats are wont to do. A young female tabby drops by on occasion to say “bonjour” and to lie next to my books and papers on the table.

Above all, what you observe up on the roof is the contrast of old and new. On the one hand, the labyrinth of the small streets and the architecture tell you that the town has been around for a long time. Especially old are the walls of the homes and the cobblestone on certain walkways. The tiles on rooftops vary in age and condition. Some are quite new, while others are broken or cracked; several are even held in place by heavy rocks. On the other hand, this is the twenty-first century and des paraboles ("satellite dishes") and cell phone towers take their place in the landscape.

Apologies to Daudet…