Read Online Our House is Definitely Not in Paris by Susan Cutsforth - Free Book Online Page A

strange foreign appearance in our petite rural village is fully accepted when the older inhabitants of Cuzance start to return my waves of greeting. It is not the French way at all, to lift your arm in a gesture of hello. And yet they start to. I have been determined from the outset to be as accepted as fully as possible. Indeed, I have heard of foreigners who have struggled for ten years to fit into life in their village and be acknowledged and accepted, to the point that they have moved to a different village altogether. Passing farmers, Madame Dal seated on her bench amidst her vivid pots of geraniums, Marinette in her jardin and, most significantly of all, the old-school Monsieur Chanteur seated in his wicker chair, reading le journal in the post- dîner hour. It has become more than just our cultural assimilation; it has become a cultural exchange.
    However, this is not always the case for those passing through Cuzance. A lumbering, thundering truck passes perilously close to our petite maison . The passenger gazes at me incredulously. I am sweeping our très joli steps and he appears to be utterly mystified by the presence of an odd foreign woman outside an old French farmhouse. It is how I often feel when the vacances cavalcade starts and I am working in the front jardin . The curious glances indicate that I must seem like an exotic exhibit in a zoo. I do know that Dominique gardens in a pretty robe . Even after hours of hard work she looks immaculate. I would never, ever garden in a frock. I know that I always look the complete opposite of chic when I garden. The words ‘dragged through a hedge backwards’ spring more than readily to mind. I remind myself that I am not simply planting out pretty fleurs . Non , non . Once again, I continue to engage in a mutinous game of tug-of-war in the ongoing battle of les herbes . I tug and wrestle and haul and heave. It is not a time to attempt to emulate French elegance.
    Once we return home, we are frequently left pondering how it is possible that so much high drama and intrigue can possibly take place in such a petite village. I muse on the fact that despite there only being about 450 inhabitants, Cuzance does indeed reflect the world at large. On a small scale, the theft of pots of geraniums by the obligatory eccentric old woman, to an event that, according to Jean-Claude, is unparalleled in the history of the village.
    We find out from his emails that the stakes are high in the bid to be Maire . We discover that a member of the Cuzance ‘governing’ committee has defected and is running as a rival in the elections. Clearly, this is a source of consternation for the villagers. Which way will their loyalties lie? This may well cause a divisive split in the village. Perhaps it will be re-named Upper Cuzance and Lower Cuzance? The outcome of the election results will be very telling indeed.
    So it transpires that J-Luc Laborie, the current mayor, has a rival, Monsieur Pipereau, the owner of Cuzance’s gîte. One of his own councillors, Chantal Arnal, has defected to the opposition. As Jean-Claude says, ‘Imagine such a small village with two electoral lists — a historical feat!’ He also tells me something else that I have long been curious about; that the name Cuzance comes from Latin: ‘There was probably a Roman (Cusius) whose “villa” was there.’ He continues to inform us that:
    As a first move in his campaign, it is easy for Pierre Pipereau to explain the fundamentals of his creed. ‘I simply want to change the village’s governance. I shall be a full-time mayor, accessible to other people, and shunning any kind of patron system.’ Pierre Pipereau is a man of character, available, always ready to help people and give them a helping hand for their projects. After jobs in many parts of France and the world, I have ended my active life as manager of the AFPA in Brive.
    His electoral platform goes on to