Life in the Castle

The Château de Montrevost, in the village of Cuisery, in the Bourgogne region of France, is completely restored. Rosmarie & Hannes didn’t do the major renovations, but bought it twenty years ago from the family of the man who did it, supposedly, for his mistress, and then died when he was nearly done.

The castle has 55 rooms & a dozen bathrooms; there is perfect plumbing, heating, and electricity everywhere you’d want it to be; the windows don’t rattle, the floors are stone tiles and fine wood and the main staircase is dark pink marble, like Cherry Garcia. Some of the stonework dates back to the 13^th. Century. They don’t have TV or internet, and I’m glad about that.

The pink stone towers are topped with glistening black tiles. There are about twelve bedrooms on the first floor, another dozen on the second floor, and I don't know how many in the towers, all done wit6h style and simplicity. Rosmarie detests kitsch; Hannes is an interior desigtner (who does museums & restaurants, among other things,)so just imagine. The beds in my room, on the second floor, are original Corbusiers.Rosmarie & Hannes have no servants but take care of the house all by themselves. In summer they work outside, preening and pruning and beautifying the grounds. Rosmarie put in a small wildflower & herb garden this year; Hannes cleared vines off one of the towers & is trimming the hedges. They’re fighting a bee hive that has settled inside the kitchen chimney.

This weekend I’m not the only guest in the castle; Paulette & Yves, Swiss from Neuchatel, are here too. Like Hannes, Yves is a Morgan fanatic; he drove here in his shiny green 1978 model whatever-it’s-called. Hannes owns two Morgans, wins races in them, & has published a book titled mato rosso (crazy red), about the gorgeous handmade English cars he loves so much.

Rosmarie's a fine cook & turns out the most delicious meals. We sit down to breakfast of fresh crusty baguettes, and a croissant for me, which Hannes picks up in the village bakery each morning on his bicycle. There’s sweet butter, all kinds of cheeses, and Rosmarie’s home made apricot and berry jams, and green tea.

We eat on the terrace overlooking the meadow surrounded by woods. Hannes opens a bottle of white wine before lunch and there’s another one ready. The meal is a combination of dishes Rosmarie thinks up while looking in her larder in the morning. Her planning & organization are impeccable. She claims to have gone shopping for food three times before we arrived. There are vases full of fresh flowers everywhere.

Each evening we meet on the terrace at around 6 for “apero.” It’s been Champagne since I arrived; then, with the meal, a delicious red wine of the Bourgogne region. The first night, Friday, we ate in the dining room: tomatoes, green peppers, and little round green squashes stuffed with finely flavored ground pork & beef, served with mashed new potatoes, then a platter of the finest cheeses, St. Félicien, a Brillat Savarin Delice de Bourgogne, a chevre, and a bleu d’Auvergne, and for dessert an apricot tart to die for. Sorry for the cliché but nothing better comes at this moment.

A lunch on the terrace is melon and parma ham and a tomato quiche, another is tasty meatballs, cucumber salad, tomato onion black olive salad, pâté. And of course cheese. Rosemarie claims her meals are simple, which is true, but they’re as fine as can be.

Rosmarie & Hannes do everything to make us feel at home. Saturday night we guests took our hosts out to eat in one-star restaurant in the village. It was good but not as good as Rosmarie’s cooking.

I’m certain Hannes was a king in a past life, and Rosmarie was a queen. They still are; they love life and are grateful for what they have. I’m lucky to be their friend.

What a way to end my sojourn in France! Tomorrow I'll take the train to Geneva, and the next day fly back to Los Angeles.

pics: chateau, dining room cheese and apricots, entrance hall and pink marble stairs, hannes at breakfast, pink tower and hortensias, rosmarie and tomato tart, rosmarie and stuffed vegetables, kitchen fireplace, cheese cherriesand flowers, meadow and walnut tree, morgan and me.

Art & Politics

Ten of us are living in this house. Eight are part of a theatre troupe from Paris that does things with masks and puppets and stuff like that, and includes Michel’s girlfriend, Melanie, and one is Michel, my host and dear old friend, known professionally as Sarcloret, who composes and performs songs that are loved by many people. They say he’s like Brasance; I hear Dylan.

They sleep & eat here but spend most of the day working in Avignon, where they’re transforming a restaurant into a performance space. They’re busy busy busy moving furniture, building scenery, sewing curtains, pasting posters, organizing promotional material, lights, etc.

Just as I was getting to know & love them they left; moved to Avignon, close to the festival. But I had three days of tiptoeing around messy pots of spaghetti, chicken bones, wine glasses, coffee cups, guitars, amplifiers, spools of wire, boxes of paper...

La Vie Bohème: Artists in France are paid by the government if they can demonstrate that they work at their art, even if they earn nothing. I don’t know how many Euros they collect but they get health care, apartments, have cars, supplies and equipment, and smoke lots of cigarettes.

They cleaned up before leaving, and now it’s just me and Michel & Melanie, who are always at it, (they are,that is) kiss kiss, smooch smooch, and you know what…. but four musicians are arriving on Tuesday & I think they’ll be the rowdy ones. I don’t mind; I’m happily installed in my room, eating & sleeping on my own schedule and enjoying the last days of my stay. Going to celebrate my birthday tomorrow (7/7) at a favorite restaurant in bocaire.

Outside the house, on the village square, the five-day festival of Meynes is going strong. It’s hard to find a parking spot at night. Daytime, they do traditional things with horses and bulls, and at night drink lots of wine & pastis, also traditional, with terrible brass bands in ugly costumes.

I noticed that the celebrants of the festival are strictly white. None of the Muslims, who are 40% of the village, take part. My friends tell me once the pastis drinking starts, the French have been known to become violent.

I found lavender fields, and on the way visited a couple of ancient medieval villages that the original inhabitants have sold to rich Germans, Swedes, Swiss, English, who gutted the ancient buildings and turned them into magnificent vacation homes. There are no shops, and no one lives there in winter. Can we still call them villages? They’re more like luxury holiday camps on Hollywood sets.

Some of my friends here, who claim not to be “racists,” are unhappy that the French government allows polygamy, and men from Africa come with several wives and many children, and are given apartments, paid childcare, healthcare, their kids go to school, and the men don’t work. The more kids they have the more money they get. Everything is taken care of for them, according to my friends, who don’t like it one bit.

The new boulanger’s croissants are not as good as the old one’s; they’re heavier, as is his bread. And the weather is sweating hot. Like New York in summer, but with crickets and flies.

On Friday I return my rental car and take the TGV to Macon, to visit Rosmarie & Hannes in their magnificent castle. From one extreme to another. Nevertheless, I don’t think I’ll find internet in the castle, so this will probably be my last missive from France.

Here’s the best news: I’ve completed a first draft of my new book, temporarily titled, What Susan Did. It’s all down, in my laptop and in cyberspace, from soup to nuts, and I’m so glad about that.

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