Going Native

In today's high flying rapid information jet setting lifestyle I find it quite tricky to feel at home many places. Probably due to the fact I've moved about so much. So in some ways being forced to stay in a tiny French village for Christmas was quite a good thing to happen - it has not only given me time to pause and reflect but also get to know the locals a tiny bit.

My highlight of the past week has to be with the owner of the Le Balto restaurant which is straight across the road from my house and one of the few things within crutch walking distance of my bed. It's the sort of low down dirty hangout which would not look out of place in a town west of Tombstone AZ two hundred years ago. The bar seems to be permanently occupied by labourers smoking filterless Gitanes while getting drunk on cheap bear. In one corner there is a TV permanently showing horse racing fixtures while in another there's a full blown betting stand where punters can inject their poison. An entrance to the establishment is always greeted by a complete cessation of all conversations followed by a slow head turning movement towards the door. Had it not been prohibited by health and safety regulations I have no doubt the floor would have been covered in sawdust.

Upon my first visit there while convalescing (I love the sound of that word) the owner came to take our order. He's a big jolly (if you can believe that) French man of about 60. He came, put his hand on my shoulder gently and paused while looking me straight in the eye. After what seemed like an eternity he said "Ca va?". I was touched. I knew I had become a member of a new club.....