Derniers jours.

Here in the Lot valley, the occasional fighter jet flies over us at a blistering speed, headed back to base. This last week has flown seemingly just as fast. We had new guests arrive Thursday, so the preceding days were full of the usual tasks. Something remarkable was seeing William and Rosalie's trunk brimming over with food after Monday's trip to Metro, which is France's answer to CostCo. They were stocking up for several solid weeks of guests, as well as Tuesday night's cookout with some local friends of theirs, including an American and his Canadian wife and a British couple with their two college-age kids. All of them were absolutely lovely, especially the British lady who was a complete hoot. There were laughs and good food all around, including grilled chicken and sausage, hot peppers, tabouli and a fabulous corn and bean salad, the last of which you would never see on a French menu: here, corn is food for animals, not people.

Wednesday saw another day of preparation, including quite a lot of gardening in 100 degree heat. The plants were all very thirsty! So it was the usual ritual of watering every potted plant in the place (roughly 70 of them) with two 6-liter watering cans, and dead-heading all the wilted blossoms and leaves. But we saved the hard work for the evening, once it was cooler: I dug up some three dozen bolted lettuce plants. They were starting to look pretty ugly.

Our new guests, an artist's group from California, arrived Thursday, and were promptly treated to a welcoming dinner of one of Kate's specialties: a kind of stuffed chicken breast, filled with asparagus, mozzarella and local ham, with an incredible shallot cream sauce. Not to mention chocolate torte. She really is an amazing chef, able to cook and bake with equal skill, and I have been lucky to be her helper, or as she terms it with her characteristic wry British humor, her "kitchen bitch." When she said this, I told her jokingly there was "no one's bitch I'd rather be." In this role, I mostly do prep work like setting the table, lighting candles, cutting bread, plating and serving, and piles and piles of dishes. The fun part about the dishes is where they are done: in the prep room, which has no ventilation whatsoever. This means that it is at least 10 degrees hotter than outside, so steamy that condensation forms on the tile floor. At least not having had a dishwasher in my college apartment stood me in good stead for this task.

Our painting guests dug into their artwork in earnest on Friday, setting up shop overlooking one of our fields where the hay had just been baled. In the background were also another set of new arrivals: Michel's horses. Tomorrow afternoon, we have another group arriving to do a horseback riding tour with Michel, who we refer to as "the French cowboy," not only because of his job but because he dresses in big belt buckles and stetsons. Through my open window I can occasionally hear the horses doing that little lip thing they do that makes them sound slightly exasperated.

Today, Saturday was the artists' excursion to Rocamadour, the pilgrimage city an hour and a half north of here. What's special about this city is that it is built into a rock face (which is admittedly not so special here, where troglodyte dwellings abound), serving as a destination for Christian pilgrims since the 11th century. It is considered holy 1) because of the discovery of St. Amadour's uncorrupted body and 2) for the Black Madonna statue brought back from the First Crusade. It also figured into a bit of military strategy during the Hundred Years War: Charles VII, needing a diversion to build up an army to kick the English out of France, enlisted the help of his pal Pope John XXII. The pope declared that year a jubilee year, giving all the Christians who completed certain tasks a free pass into heaven. So everyone, including the English, dropped their weapons and pursued the jubilee year tasks. For France's Christians, this included a pilgrimage to Rocamadour.

The wedding car.

The city itself is very picturesque, filled with bustling shops peddling touristy items (not so different from hundreds of years ago), people of all nationalities visiting the site and, today, even a wedding. The artists painted the panorama before lunch while two of the other women, the art teacher's wife and her sister, and I walked the upper path to the chateau at the top of the rock face and back. After lunch, we drove into the town for some shopping and the official historical tour of the pilgrimage site, led by William. There, we climbed 200-some steps to the chapels of St. Michael the Archangel and Our Lady, both of which are literally incorporated into the cliff. Many interesting things were to be found there. The first was an 11th century outdoor fresco that hasn't been cleaned or restored for its entire existence and is still perfectly visible, protected from the elements by the rock. The second was the chapel of Our Lady, which houses the Black Madonna statue, rumored to have miraculous powers. Within the chapel was a bell with no clapper, said to ring of its own accord whenever the statue answered a sailor's plea to be saved at sea. Sailors who claimed to be saved by this miracle would often come back to this chapel and hang a wooden model ship from the ceiling as a gift of thanks.

Mike hard at work on that watercolor.

See it there with the chain?

The third interesting thing was a sword stuck into the rock face. This, of course, has a legend attached to it: in the 8th century, Charlemagne challenged his nephew, Roland, to rid France of the Saracens  (Muslims). He was succeeding at his task, but one day found himself in an ambush and knew that his death was imminent. He had in his possession the Durendal, the French equivalent of Excalibur, and did not want it to fall into enemy hands. As he was dying, he prayed to Michael the Archangel to come and take the sword for safekeeping. Legend has it that the angel himself descended from heaven, took the sword from Roland's dying hands, and stuck in the rock face at Rocamadour. It is still there to this day, only locked to the rock with a chain to discourage any upstarts from attempting to pull it out and declare themselves sovereign.



After we had seen all the highlights, we made our way up the path of the Stations of the Cross, which finishes one station short because they ran out of funds, and back to the van for the ride home. And now here I am, bags packed, ready to leave in the morning. It's a little surreal. I've been in this country for such a long time; the Baran feels like home and William and Rosalie like family. I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay them for their generosity.

Tomorrow will consist of roughly 8 hours of train travel to arrive at the Paris airport, where I will stay overnight and catch my plane the next morning. Hard to believe I'll be back in Cincy by Monday afternoon! I'm surprised at how little homesickness I've experienced since I've been here. When I studied abroad two years ago, I missed home terribly. Now, while I can't say I don't miss it at all, I suppose I feel it less. However, I am definitely ready to come home and start a new chapter of my life. And I am definitely ready to see my family again. And I am definitely ready for good Mexican food--France has delicious cuisine, but they can't seem to figure out a chimichanga.

So, with that, I am off on the long trip home. Here's to a safe journey!