J'ai marché à le bus ce matin dans la pluie (I walked to the bus this morning in the rain). I also carried my super-French black umbrella and sang Aux Champs Elysees to myself. Everything about the walk is adorable: Other than the stop and yield signs, and the bus stops, there is very little of anything that makes Bizanos twenty-first century-esque. Quaint, I believe, is the best word. There is a white gate at the end of my driveway, which I close behind me. Encircling the perimeter of each home are lakestone and concrete walls (approximately waist-high) over which flowering bushes cascade, so as I walk down the uneven and moss-covered sidewalk, I'm accompanied by different types of foliage. Each home is unique, and many of them are named (Les Mimosas and Laurets, for example). Rather than yellow stripes down the middle of the road, there is a strip of concrete (approximately a foot wide) inlaid with lakestones which graces the winding road. Obviously, there are cars and bicycles, but I only see maybe ten cars and four cyclists throughout the whole seven-minute walk. I live in a very quiet village.
I share the bus with four or five other regulars, two of whom are especially worth noting. There's an elderly gentleman I usually see in the afternoons on my ride home. He's waif-like, but far from delicate (I can tell by his practical walking shoes and the way he hops off of the bus). He sits up very straight on the bus and reads the paper most of the time. He purses his lips and opens his eyes in a way that makes him look like he's surprised, a little awed, and quite amused~all at once. When he hops off of the bus, he clasps his hands behind him and walks slowly homeward, bent forward a little by age. I like to think he has an adorably petite wife waiting for him there, with white hair piled high, blue eyes, and red lipstick.
There's a woman who rides the bus almost everyday to market (I can tell by her grocery basket). She's quite old, and has definitely spent her life as a housewife here in southern France. She always wears a skirt, pantyhose, and shoes with a practical little heel on them. The funny thing, though, is that they don't make her the least bit glamorous. She usually wears some sort of house sweater or old rain slicker, too. There's nothing physically attractive about her, but she has bright blue eyes that continually smile. Her nose smiles, too. She greets the entire bus with a cheerful, heavily southern "Bonjour," and thanks the bus driver as she leaves with a gusty "Merci, Monsieur!" She calls me "Mademoiselle." We try to talk sometimes, but her accent is so strong that I usually don't understand what she's saying. That's ok, though~she gossips with the other older ladies on the bus.
I love ma petite ville (my little town).
I especially love it because of what happened today. My host family was supposed to get back from the coast last night, but they've apparently decided to stay on for an extra day (or two, we'll see...). Anyway, at about 19h00 (seven o'clock) this evening, there was a loud knock at the door. When I answered it, there was a woman who looked to be about sixty or so, wearing a skirt and a rainslicker, and carrying a navy blue umbrella. She is my neighbor, and she came to check in on me, like my host mom had asked her to do. We had a little conversation (all in French~yay), and she said that she had tried to come earlier in the week and I wasn't there. She wanted to know if I wanted to join them for dinner. She was adorable. I thanked her and she said if I needed anything to just come over and knock.
I guess that's all for now.
The only other other bit of exciting news is that I had pizza for lunch today at a little pizzeria downtown~it had ham, onions, cheese, tomato sauce, and an egg on it. It was really good, but made me remember how much I'm looking forward to some New York style pizza when I get home.
A bit of sad news: I'm in desperate need of a pedicure.
Marguerite.
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