Chapter 17 Chapter Seventeen

We decided to settle down to the Luberon in the summer and do our best to accommodate the holiday crowd and, like them, send postcards to distant friends telling them of the good times we were having. Summer Postcards (1) It took us three years to come to terms with the fact that we lived in one house but were in two different places. Normal life in our eyes begins in September.Except for the market days in the town, there are usually no people here.During the day, there are few vehicles on the street, a tractor and a few small trucks.At night, there are hardly any cars to be seen.There are empty tables in every restaurant except Sunday lunchtime.Socializing is intermittent, on and off, very simple.Bread is available in the bakery, the plumber is free to chat, and the postman is free to sit down and have a drink.After a deafening final weekend of the hunting season, the forest is calm again.In each field, there is a figure working hard among the vines, slowly moving up one row, and slowly moving down another row. Between noon and two o'clock in the afternoon, the whole town was dead silent.

Such days continued until June of the second year, and then July and August came. We used to think of them as just two months of the year, two months of scorching heat.The heat is back to heat, but we don't need to make any adjustments, the only change is to take a comfortable nap in the afternoon. We were wrong.We still live in Luberon in July and August, but it is no longer the original Luberon, but the "on vacation" Luberon.Our previous attempts to live a normal life during extraordinary times have failed miserably.We even thought about canceling the whole summer and finding somewhere dark, shady and quiet, like the Hebrides.

But if we do, maybe we will miss everything here, including those days and events that make us sweaty, angry and exhausted.So, we decided to adapt to the Luberon in the summer, do our best to accommodate the holiday crowd, and like them send postcards to friends far away, telling them the happy time we are having, here are some of them short story. marinian airport It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and the plane at one o'clock was still missing. When I called to ask if the flight would arrive on time, I was told a typical optimistic lie.So I set off from home at 11:30 and spent the hottest hour of the hot summer day on the motorway just to avoid being stuck in the Renault horde that was heading from Paris to the Côte d'Azur that morning.How do these people drive these four-wheeled cars?

The flight sign says "arrive later," and it's ok, forty-five minutes, just enough time for a cup of coffee or two.The flight to Oran was also delayed, and the waiting room was full of Arab workers and their families waiting to go home. Children sat in bulging plastic woven bags of blue, pink, and white strips.The men's sharp black faces showed a very patient and resigned expression. The lady behind the counter answered my question by simply pointing to the flight sign, which said "Forty-five minutes late."I argued that it was a full hour late, and she shrugged and looked it up in her magic computer. "The sign says it's right, it's forty-five minutes late." I asked her if the plane left London.She said she had left.Forget it, she, like everyone else here, has long been trained to be a liar.

It was almost five o'clock when the plane finally arrived, and passengers with pale faces and bad moods filed in.The first few hours of the holiday were wasted on the tarmac at Heathrow Airport.Some travelers made the big mistake of impatiently throwing their passports on the immigration desk.In retaliation, the customs officials carefully checked the pages of their passports, and even stopped to dip their fingers in the saliva when turning the pages. My friends showed up, wrinkled but in good spirits.I wished with all my heart that it would take a few more minutes to get our bags, and then we could go home and have a nice swim before dinner.But fifteen minutes passed and they were still waiting in the baggage claim area.Looks like the airline has another holiday trip for one of their boxes, Newcastle?Or Hong Kong?Who knows? !So, we joined a few other unlucky people in the lost luggage area.

It was 7:30 when we got home, almost eight hours since I left the house in the morning! Saint Tropez "Naturists are recruiting!" This is the season for nature lovers, and the number of volunteers to join the ranks of the Saint-Tropez police will suddenly increase. The mayor, Mr Sparta, has ordered nude sunbathing on public beaches banned for safety and hygiene reasons.Mr. Sparta's exact words are as follows: "No full body nudity!" He also empowered the police to arrest anyone who violated the rules.However, maybe it is not to really "arrest", but to track them. Once there is an indecent behavior, a minimum fine of 75 francs and a maximum of 1,500 francs can be imposed.But one question that confuses local residents is: can a naked person carry 1,500 francs with him?

In protest, a group of nudist enthusiasts set up the protest group headquarters behind some rocks on Moutte beach.The spokeswoman has solemnly stated that under no circumstances will bathing suits be worn.I wish you were there! melon patch Faustin's older brother, Jackie, was a man in his sixties, with a thin build and a strong frame.He planted melons in the open space opposite the house. The field is huge, but he did all the work with his own hands. In spring, I often saw him stay in the field for six or seven hours. Bow down and clear weeds with a hoe.The old man never sprayed pesticides. According to him, who wants to eat melons with chemical smell?I think he must be happy to tend his melon fields in the traditional way.

The melons are now ripe.Every morning at six o'clock, Jackie would go to the field to pick ripe melons, send them to Mena Village and pack them in light wooden boxes, and then transport them from Mena Village to Cavillon, from Cavillon to Avillon, finally to Paris, or wherever.Jackie found it hilarious at the thought of patrons of trendy restaurants willing to pay a fortune for something as simple as a melon. If I got up early enough to meet him before he left for the village of Mena, he would pick out one or two melons that were too ripe for the long journey and sell them to me for a few francs.

When I got home from a walk, the sun had already illuminated the top of the mountain, and my face suddenly felt hot.Carrying a melon in his hand, it is heavy, and it also carries the coolness of the night air, which is really satisfying.Our breakfast is these fresh and delicious melons, tsk tsk, it only takes ten minutes to pick them! behind the bar When the temperature reaches 100 degrees Fahrenheit, the swimming pool ceases to be a luxury and becomes an integral part of everyday life.Whenever anyone asks us for advice on renting a house in Provence for the summer, we stress the importance of the swimming pool, and some listen.

Some people don't think so, and often, two days after arriving here, they will call and say something that we have told them months ago. "It's too hot here, too hot to play tennis, too hot to ride a bicycle, too hot to even go out for a walk, it's too hot. Hey! You are so lucky to have a swimming pool." There was a hopeful pause on the other end of the phone.Here, I don't know if it's my imagination, or I really heard the sound of sweat beads falling on the phone book like raindrops. I figured my answer would have to be icy cold and helpful.There's a nice public swimming pool near Alpe Village, if you don't mind sharing a pool with hundreds of summer kids, of course.Otherwise, there is the Mediterranean Sea. It takes only an hour to drive, oh, no, no, it takes about two hours including the traffic jam time.Don't forget to put a few bottles of Evian mineral water in the car, otherwise you will be dehydrated and shocked!

Or, you close the blinds, keep the sun out, stay at home during the day, and go out to get some fresh air at night. Although the plan to get a "bronze complexion" as a souvenir is useless, you won't suffer from heat stroke anyway! Before these cruel and hateful proposals flashed through his mind, the desperate voice on the other end of the phone suddenly became relieved.Yes indeed!We can come to your swimming pool in the morning to take a dip in your pool, and it will be right away, guaranteed to be fast, so that you will never be disturbed, and you will never even notice that we are here. As a result, at noon, the villain came to the door, bringing friends with him.They swam, basked in the sun, and got unexpectedly parched, which is why I would be standing behind the bar while my wife was in the kitchen preparing lunch for six.Long live the holidays! summer night tour Dogs coped with the heat by sleeping, stretching out in the yard, or curling up in the shade under the rosemary hedge.Waiting for the pink skies to turn black before coming back to life, sniffing the cool breeze to their heart's content, pushing each other at our feet, expecting us to take them out for a walk.So, we took out our flashlights and followed these guys into the forest. Summer Postcards (2) Stepping into a field of thyme flowers, there is a warm smell of pine needles and a smell of roasted earth, which is dry and a little pungent.Small invisible creatures fled from us, rustling among the weedy wild boxwood leaves. There is a sound of nature all around - cicadas, frogs, low music from the windows of a distant house, and the clinking of wine glasses and people's chatting and laughing on the terrace of Faustain's house.On the hills beyond the valley, uninhabited for ten months of the year, there were also lights, camp lights, which lasted until the end of August. When we got home, we took off our shoes and invited us to take a swim in the pool on the stone road exuding the warmth of the day.Take a plunge into the cool, dark water for a nightcap.The night sky is clear and clear, except for a little starlight.Tomorrow will still be hot, hot, and slow, just like today. small mechanical problem A friend of mine decided to sell her old car for a new one, and the young car salesman at the dealership was determined to make her a good deal.In spite of the heat, he was dapper in a suit, bouncing around the new car, detailing its advantages to my friend in flamboyant terms, sweeping his cuffs and jingling his ornaments. My friend endured all this with all her patience, and finally said that it is better to let her try to drive it, so that she can feel the advantages of the car most directly. "Sure, but watch out!" said the young man, taking off his sunglasses for emphasis. "This car is much more sensitive than your old one. Even I was taken aback when I was driving all the way today. Just touch the accelerator lightly and you can fly. You will know later." Then he said a lot about adjusting the driving position and so on, and then warned my friend again how amazing the speed was, and finally handed over the car keys. The engine gave a low cough and died.The friend tried to launch the second and third times, but they were all unsuccessful.The smile on the salesman's face disappeared, "Obviously, this car needs a man to teach it a lesson." He got into the driver's seat, but he couldn't start the car no matter what. "Impossible! What's wrong?" He opened the hood to check the engine, then ducked under the dashboard to see what was loose. "Could it be because the car suddenly ran out of gas?" my friend asked.Only an empty-headed woman would ask such a ridiculous question. The young man tried his best to hide his disdain, but in order to cater to the customer's opinion, he also turned the car key and checked the fuel gauge.Not a drop left!He jumped out of the car.Unfortunately, we have a small showroom here, not a garage, there is no gas in the shop, and we have to arrange another time for the test drive.Will the lady come again this afternoon?no?Hold! The desire to finally do business overcame the heat and the humiliating unsightliness of the weather.The well-groomed salesman walked the full half-mile on the N100 to borrow a five-gallon barrel from the nearest garage, while my friend stayed behind to help him tend the store.Friends joked with him that the next time he wants to buy a car, he might as well bring his own gasoline, but the joke doesn't seem to be popular. pruning lavender I've been pruning lavender with a pair of pruning clips and I'm very slow and amateurish and can't do a dozen in an hour.Neighbor Anli sent a basket of eggplants, and I just caught a chance to take a break. Enri looked at my lavender, then at the pruning shears, and finally shook her head at her neighbor's ignorance. "Can't you even cut lavender? Do you take the pruning shears? Where's your sickle?" She went back to the van and produced a black-lacquered sickle, the blade in an old wooden sheath for safety.The scythe is surprisingly light in the hand and feels sharp enough to shave.I swung it in the air a few times, Enli looked at it and shook her head again, obviously, I have to learn a lesson. She tied the skirt around her waist, and moved her hands towards the nearest row of lavender. She grasped the long stems tightly with her hands, and then used a sickle to cut off the roots gently and delicately.She cuts more in five minutes than I do in an hour.It seems easy enough: bend over, grab a handful, cut down, and that's it. "Look! When I was little I lived in the Basses Alpes, where there were hectares of lavender, no machines, everyone used scythes." She gave me back the scythe, told me to watch out for my legs, and left, with Faustin still waiting for her in the vineyard. In fact, this thing looks simple, but it is difficult to do.My first appearance turned out to be a spiky clump that looked more like a gnaw than a cut.Only then did I realize that the sickle was designed for right-handed use. For a left-handed person like me, the cutting direction has to be reversed.My wife came out and asked me to be careful not to cut my legs. As long as I had a sharp tool in my hand, she would not feel at ease.This kind of work, even for a genius who is as easy to hurt himself as I am, will not risk breaking an arm or a leg. When Enri came back, I had just cut the last clump.I looked up at her, hoping for some praise, but instead I cut my index finger, almost to the bone, and the blood flowed in a stream.Enri asked me if I was cutting my nails, and she joked about me in such a miserable situation. I really doubt her sense of humor.Two days later, she gave me a scythe for my left hand, and told me that I was not allowed to use it without gloves. Hornets are also good wine The wasps of Provence, despite their small size, have devilish spikes.In the swimming pool, its tactics are sneaky guerrilla warfare, and when it gets it, it runs away.It lurks behind the undefended poor man, and as soon as an arm is raised, "Pfft!" It hits the armpit fiercely with a needle.A sting can hurt for hours, so people who have been stung often wear protective clothing before going into the water. I don't know if all wasps like water, but there's no doubt that the ones here are.They float in shallow water or nap in puddles on flagstones, watching the undefended armpits and limp limbs nearby.Finally, one dismal day, we were attacked not only in our armpits, but in our inner thighs by wasps. Apparently some of them are capable of holding their breath and moving in water, so I was sent out to procure weapons against them. As luck would have it, I found a pharmacy in a small alley in Cavillon, and the owner sitting behind the counter was a wasp expert.He showed me the latest bee trap, which is nothing more than a modern plastic version of an old-fashioned glass hanger that you still occasionally see at flea markets.The boss said that it was specially designed for swimming pools, which can make the wasps defenseless. This bee trap consists of two parts. The base is a round bowl, which is held up from the ground by three flat shelves. It is connected to a funnel extending upward from the bottom. There is a cover on the bowl to prevent flying into the funnel. The wasp escapes. But here's the easy part.Wasp experts say the hardest, most delicate and artistic part is the baiting part.How can the wasp be persuaded to give up the delicious human meat and willingly crawl into the funnel?What would draw it away from the pool? After living in Provence for a period of time, you can find that every purchase here will come with a free explanation, from the lecture on organic ripe cabbage - only two minutes, to the lecture on sleeping on the bed - half an hour, or even more Long, depending on the condition of your back.As for the fly trap, maybe 10 to 15 minutes.I sat on the stool in front of the counter and listened. It turned out that wasps like wine.Some like it sweet, others fruity, and some will even crawl around for a drop of ouzo.Experts say that this is just a matter of the number of experiments. As long as you work hard on the taste and concentration, you will definitely be able to find the wine flavor that local wasps love. He suggested some basic recipes: sweet vermouth with honey and water, diluted cassis liqueur, stout with brandy, plain anisette, and so on.In order to attract the wasps more, you can apply a little honey on the funnel, and don't forget to put some water under the funnel. The expert set up a bee spreader on the counter and used two fingers to simulate a wandering wasp. It saw the puddle under the funnel and stopped without moving its fingers.Being near the water and smelling goodies on it, it crawled into the sleuth funnel and plunged headfirst into the cocktail.look!It couldn't get out, it was drunk and couldn't climb out of the funnel, so it just died, but it was a happy death. I bought two fly traps and tried the recipes, all of them worked, and I have to believe that the wasps do have a heavy alcohol addiction.These days, if someone drinks it, they are said to be "drunk as a wasp". Luberon syndrome The seasonal discomfort that most summers cause may be just uncomfortable, or painful, or even just embarrassing, but at least there is some sympathy for it.If someone gets sick from eating too much pepperoni, his friends probably won't risk asking him to return to the social circle until he recovers.Likewise, third-degree sunburn, rosé wine poisoning, scorpion bites, garlic overdose, or dizziness and nausea from prolonged exposure to the French bureaucracy all require physical suffering, but the patient is at least Suffer alone and quietly. Summer Postcards (3) But there is a disease far worse than scorpions and bad sausages, which we have experienced ourselves, and have seen many times among the inhabitants of this quiet corner of France.The symptoms of this disease usually appear in mid-July and last until early September-bloodshot eyes, yawning, loss of appetite, short temper, listlessness, and mild paranoia, that is, sudden urgency He wanted to go to a monastery to live in seclusion. This is "Luberon syndrome," aka "progressive social burnout," and it's as sympathetic as the problem of being a millionaire's servant. If we examine these patients, the local permanent residents, we can understand where this disease comes from.The locals have their own jobs, friends, and unhurried lives.They choose to live in the Luberon, rather than any bustling city in the world, in order to avoid most of the world's hustle and bustle.For ten months of the year, this eccentricity is understandable and bearable. Let's look at July and August.Tourists come from all over the world, just off the plane or off the highway, eager for a little social interaction.Let's meet the locals!Go read in his hammock!Go for a walk in his woods!To share his secluded peace!They needed company, lunch and drinks, and invitations and invitations flew in and out until, for weeks on end, every day was packed. The holiday finally came to an end at the last dinner with piles of wine bottles, and even a little tiredness could be seen on the faces of tourists, who had never expected life here to be so lively.They half-jokingly said that after the past few days, they had to take a good rest before they could recover.Is this always the case here?How can you stand it? Of course it's not like that here, and we can't hold on.Like many friends, we broke down between our visits, guarding the rare free days and evenings, eating and drinking less, and going to bed early.Every year when the dust settles, we always have to discuss with our fellow sufferers how to keep summer from becoming such an endurance test. Everyone agrees that determination is the best answer.Say "no" more and say "yes" less.Harden your heart to reject the sudden visitor who couldn't find the hotel, the child who didn't have a swimming pool at home, and the desperate traveler who lost his wallet.You have to be strong, you can be helpful, you can be kind, it's okay to be rude, but the most important thing is to be strong. Actually, I know, and I'm sure everyone knows, that next summer it's going to be the same, and we're going to have to make fun of it, and we will, if we're not exhausted. votive festival Cars are no longer allowed to enter the central square of the village. There are stalls and tables on three sides of the square, and a row of scaffolding decorated with neon lights on the remaining side of the square, supporting a high platform built with thick planks.Outside the cafe, there were only one row of tables and chairs increased to ten rows, and a waiter was specially added to greet the long queue extending from the door of the butcher shop to the post office.The children and the dogs chased each other through the crowd, stealing a few sugar cubes from the table now and then, dodging the old gentleman's feignedly angry stick.Nobody is going to bed early tonight, not even the children, because today is the village's annual event, Votive Day. The festive ceremony began after drinking celebratory wine in the square in the afternoon, and all the stalls officially opened for business.The local craftsmen shaved their beards specially in the afternoon, and all of them looked radiant.They either stand behind their booths with glasses of wine in their hands, or make final adjustments to the exhibits in their booths.The exhibits are truly eclectic—porcelain and jewellery, honey and lavender essential oils, handwoven fabrics, iron and stone tools, paintings and books, postcards, processed leather goods, bottle openers with olive tree handles, various Small bags of dried herbs.The first glass of red wine has already made people feel hungry, and the wife who sells pizza suddenly has a prosperous business. The crowd gradually dispersed, and after eating something, they gradually gathered again.The night was low, the air was warm and windless, and the mountains in the distance were like humps leaning against the horizon.The three-piece accordion band appeared on the stage and played cheerful Spanish music. At this time, the Avillon rock band, who will play later, was drinking beer and ouzo in the cafe. The first pair of dancers came on stage, an old gentleman and his little granddaughter, the little girl's nose just reached the grandfather's belt buckle, and her feet dangled on the grandfather's feet.A three-person dance team composed of father, mother and daughter joined in, and then more elderly couples embraced each other and danced in a stiff posture, focusing on recalling the dance steps they learned fifty years ago. . With a gorgeous chorus of accordion and drums, the Spanish dance ended, and the rock band began a five-minute warm-up performance. A burst of electronic music was transmitted to the stone wall of the church opposite the stage, echoing. The lead singer of the band was a well-built young woman, dressed in tight black and wearing a hot orange wig, which attracted the attention of the audience as soon as she came on stage.An elderly gentleman, with the brim of his hat almost touching his protruding chin, had dragged a chair from a café and sat facing the microphone.With him as an example, when the female singer began to sing, several boys from the village boldly rushed out from the shade and stood beside the old man's chair.They were all hypnotized, staring at the shiny black asses dangling above their heads. The girls in the village hugged each other and danced behind the hypnotized boys because they had no male companions.A waiter sets down a tray, jumps up to a pretty girl sitting next to her parents, and asks her to dance.The girl blushed and lowered her head, but her mother pushed her with an elbow, "Go, go, the show is almost over!" After an hour of music that nearly knocked the windows around the square, the band performed their grand finale.The female lead singer seemed to be Piaf in a sad night, and sang "My Way" with great emotion. At the end of the song, she was sobbing. She bent down in front of the microphone and saw only the orange-yellow top of the head.The old man nodded vigorously and hit the ground with his cane.The dancing crowd returns to the cafe for leftover beer. In previous years there was also a fireworks display launched from behind the war memorial.Fireworks are banned this year due to drought.But it was a really great party.You must have never seen how Mr. Postman dances!