....rooftop in Issigeac....
After spending way too many days lounging around the house, today we hopped in the car and took off with no other plan but exploration. We headed through Bergerac and made our first stop in the medieval village of Issigeac, at the southern edge of the Dordogne, where we wandered around in the cold, admiring the very old church that had moss and even small plants growing on its buttresses, visited a boulangerie (of course), peeked at the listings in the window of a real estate office...but found no adventure.
So the children became restless. They protested. They claimed to be nearly dead of hunger. Julian fell down and scraped his knee a bit and limped dramatically, several times collapsing to the street in dire agonies. They sighed the age-old traveler's plaint of, "How much faaaarrrther?"
We drove to Castillonès, another old village high on a hill, but found no place open for lunch. Apparently New Year's parties start early here, as we saw people in each town, dressed up and carrying presents, scurrying down the sidewalk. At first I was thinking of a nice meal, in a dining room with a roaring fire. Then I was ready to settle for pizza. Finally I would have taken a sandwich and a container of yogurt...but everything was closed. Everything!
Eymet is a lovely town too, with the covered walk around a central square that characterizes a bastide village. Lovely but closed up tight at lunchtime on New Year's Eve. Finally we found a small brasserie on the road out of town with lights twinkling. The man behind the bar scowled at us, and scowled more deeply when we asked for pizza. "No pizza," he said gruffly. But we answered back in French, asking what he had for lunch, and once we were discussing the plat du jour, he was smiling warmly and running off to get a banquette ready.
We've had this experience many times: at first, when people realize we are not French (in other words, the instant they lay eyes on us), their faces are closed. Wary. Looking like they wish we would go away. But once we make an effort to speak French -- even if they've made a gesture in English, and even if our French is execrable -- and especially once the conversation is about food, their faces beam and the joking begins.
One person has explained that he was worried that any Americans would be supporters of Bush, and he wanted nothing to do with that. It does seem to me that our being American, generally, is not exactly a positive thing, as it has seemed to be on previous trips. Maybe that has partly to do with being far from Normandy, where Americans were heroes. But mostly I think it is the shadow of Bush.
We ended up with platters of croque monsieur and frites, and a plat of stuffed chicken leg with an immense heap of sautéed mushrooms and green beans. Très traditionelle, the propriétaire assured us. All delicious. Afterwards, a bûche made with ice cream, which apparently healed the nearly fatal wounds to Julian's leg and gave Nellie the strength to make it back to the car without having to crawl.
