I love the French word for sidewalks. It makes me think of pigs trotting down the side of the road, doing errands and visiting like those old Uncle Wiggly stories. And even more than the word, I love the trottoirs here in the village. Imagine how much time they took to make! And doesn't it make you wish concrete had never been invented?
The other side of the street does not fare so well, but it makes me smile to myself every time I walk there because it is so utterly un-American. Maybe it's because my father is a lawyer, or maybe it's simply because I've lived in the US for most of my life -- but when I make my way down the west side of the street, I can't help imagining the towering piles of lawsuits brought for sprained ankles and the broken hips of little old ladies.
The little old ladies in Villamblard seem to negotiate the trottoirs without problems. They simply walk slowly and look where they're going. Last week I was trotting through the church parking lot, which in my defense is somewhat pebbly and not perfectly flat, and was turning around to look at the flowers blooming around the statue of the Madonna, when suddenly -- boom! -- I was on the ground. I brushed myself off and looked furtively around to see if any of the old ladies had seen me, but the streets were deserted and possibly my dignity is not in tatters.
Halfhearted work has begun on the most dilapidated parts of the trottoir, so that in the future it will be at least solid if not flat. I'm making a vow that before we leave, I'm going to strike up a conversation with one of the little old ladies to see if I can find out how old those beautiful stone trottoirs are, where the stones came from, and whatever else she can tell me. And in our remaining three months I plan to walk slowly and look where I'm going.
