A mini-sign for Le Cateau-Cambresis. I guess they didn't have enough room to put the "Cambresis" part.
I’m in Le Cateau-Cambresis. I started about three posts on the subject of this town, each one different, and never could finish. My opinion changes every day. It grows better, I should say, although today I got yelled at by an old lady who was burning something in the grass, and so am rather out of sorts about everything.
The first impression I had of Le Cateau, as we drove up in the evening on an overcast, muggy day, was that the city was dirty and forgotten, only a thoroughfare in the harder country of the North. The main street is also a major highway, so there are constantly trucks hauling themselves on wailing engines up the long hill through the centre ville* and people busily dodging them until lunch time is over and the place positively dies.
I was in a small, very small, hotel room for the first ten days. While Monsieur worked long hours in the first weeks of his new job, I happily wrote, I toodled, I napped. And then I just about went crazy. Luckily we escaped for a brief sojourn to Normandy to see Monsieur’s parents and go to a wedding in Rouen. We are now back in Le Cateau and staying in a Chambre d’Hote,* which is infinitely better than the hotel. Mostly because we don’t eat like fattening geese every meal (our breakfasts and dinners were paid for at the hotel restaurant), and the propriétaire* is a retired lady who is lovely, and bubbly, and game for anything.
She is also convinced that she has gained “8 kilos, mais, 8 kilos!*” and only cooks light meals for us. Thank god. They were going to have to roll me into my wedding dress and use bungy cords to keep me all together.
Madame's dog, Joyeux, waiting on the stairs for his owner to come home.
My life at the moment is so strange and surreal. For example, yesterday: I got up, I wrote for a long time, with great success I think. I ate a demi-baguette with Tartare* cheese for lunch. I had some tea with Madame (I’ll call her), the propriétaire, and her friend. The chickens clucked busily behind us. I went for a walk. I came back. I went on another walk with Madame. I had some more tea.
Then Monsieur came home, in a royal grump, gave me beautiful gold hoop earrings for my birthday, and descended into near-silence for the rest of the evening. He would punctuate conversation with generally negative remarks every once in awhile. He would also grace us with an eye-roll or two, if he was feeling outgoing.
I haven’t been with the man for five years for nothing. “Chéri,” I said, that evening in our room. “What’s up?”
Silence. Grumpy silence.
“Baaaabbbyyy,” I said. “Something’s up. Something’s bothering you…..”
And, with the ease and skill of teeth pulled from unwilling mouths, I got this from him: He thinks I don’t want to work ever again because I looked at a house to rent in Le Cateau. While my opinion of Le Cateau has improved drastically, his hasn’t. Unemployment is high, it’s a lower-class town, nothing is open after 7 pm, etc. All things he thinks will make it impossible for me to find work.
I assured him that I DO want to work again. I DO NOT want to drink tea with 70 year olds for the rest of my life. I do want to financially contribute to our (future) family unit. I can’t do that right now because of a lack of work visa (jumping that hurdle after the marriage), so I’m not worrying about it. I agree with him that I will probably be able to find work later in one of the bigger cities (Cambrai, Valenciennes, or even Lille), but that an extra ten minutes away by car is not going to make a commute that much more onerous.
A typical French pavillion house. I will never live here.
Plus, damnit, I loved that house. We’re going to look at it together at 6:00 pm this evening. He’s going to hate it, I’m fairly sure, because it is old and rather crumbly and needs work. He wants to walk into a brand-new luxury home, the construction dust still settling, and never think about the house again. He wants the American dream house, I want the 200 year old brick one with hidden doors and a cave*. I refuse to live in a pavillion*, one of those hideous build-on-demand square houses that pop up all over the outskirts of French towns. He refuses to spend any money on a rental property.
I think we understand where each other is coming from, so we are going to have to just work really hard to find the perfect living space for us both.
And that is that. Today I met Madame’s daughter. We chatted. I avoided having tea, but the chickens were clucking, the dog sleeping by our feet, the church bells, manned by some pious musician, busy clanged away a melody from long ago. My life in the French countryside is, right now, only this and nothing more.
Le Petite Dictionnaire / The Little Dictionary
Chambre d’Hote: Bed & Breakfast? It is someone’s house that you stay in. Having never actually been in a B&B I’m not sure if this is the same concept. We are provided with breakfast in the morning, and dinner in the evening (which I’m told is not common, but our hostess does for us because she often has workers from Monsieur’s plant stay with her and has a system worked out with the company.)
Centre Ville: town center.
Propriétaire: proprietress, or owner.
8 kilos, mais, 8 kilos!: “8 kilograms, goodness, 8 kilograms!” Mais actually means, “but,” but in this context it means “ohgod I’m only cooking fish and salad from here on out.”
Tartare: a delicious, creamy, totally corporate big-company national (international?) cheese that comes in little aluminum foil squares and is flavored with garlic and herbs.
Cave: a cellar. Love it!
Pavillion: I call them “lunchboxes” because if you attached a handle to the roof you would have a little pail for your school meals. They are always the same color (pale yellow, pale orange, or a mix of the two), they are square, they are single storied. They are “American.” They are awful.