At the Villamblard market last week (which was under the big brown roof almost in the center of the photo, since it was raining) I stopped at a table where two of the mothers from Julian's school were selling organic wine. They asked if I wanted a taste, took out a tiny little wine glass, and poured me some of the red. Before language school I'd have likely said, "The wine, she good", but oh, those days are past. I was proudly able to say "It's good!" But after that, I had nothing. I finished off my wine and smiled stupidly.
"It is hard, to work organic?" I said, wincing over the lost adverb.
She smiled -- she has a very warm, very French sort of face -- and let loose a torrent of explanation accompanied with much gesticulation. The serious drawback to improving in French is that people understandably assume you will be able to understand what they say. Finally she took a breath, and asked, "Est-ce clair?" (Is it clear?)
"Non," I said, and we both laughed. The other woman -- whom we call Glamourpuss, because she is -- gave it a try, speaking more slowly, and I could more or less follow what she was saying, although again I had nothing to add. A chic young man with lovely hair came up then, and chattered away with the two women. He took the tiny glass of wine and swirled it. He sniffed it. He swirled it again, asking many questions about where it was made, what grapes were in it, how old it was. Eventually he took a little sip, and went on with the questions.
At that moment I decided something had to be done about my ignorance of wine. Even to myself I say, "The wine, she good" and have nothing more to add. So I got the DK book French Wine which is nicely filling the vacuum of facts and understanding, and I'm nearly ready to move on to copious tasting.
Did you know that corks were first in use in 1650? That certain sweet wines are made when the grapes acquire a kind of fungus called noble rot? That most French wine labels give the place where the wine was made, not the grapes it was made with, or even, at least in large letters, the name of the chateau that made it? That the laws concerning wine-making in France are so strict that a winemaker cannot plant any vines he wants to but must choose from an approved list -- and that may mean, for example, that he has to make red and is not allowed to make white.
Gardening, science, history, pleasure, and art -- if I were twenty years old I'd want to start a vineyard. Now, in December, you can see a few people out in raincoats doing the pruning, which must be done by hand. Walking up and down the long rows, all alone, secateurs in hand, snip, snip, snip, under the gray wet sky. A perfect job.
I bought three bottles from the two women, partly in an effort to be friendly. Just as we were about to leave, it started to rain rather hard.
"Oh, il pleut!" I said, in that way not-fluent people have of pointing out the obvious.
"Oh, mon Dieu!" the woman said. "Avez-vous un ashtray?"
What a delicious pleasure to have the shoe on the other foot! We laughed without restraint after telling her "umbrella" was the word she was looking for. But I think she may have done it on purpose -- like I said, she has a very kind-hearted face.
