Feliz Navidad

Christmas Day is very quiet, unmarked by the games, music, present-opening and celebratory feasting and drinking of the English version. The highlight is playing with Ignacio junior, who has been given a complicated build-by-numbers cardboard locomotive that Juan ends up completing for him.

Our "Timba" is an instant hit:

... and when the official version begins to tire, Ignacio invents myriad variations:

 

I love his loud unselfconsciousness and creativity. Hearing him sing Deck the halls... is hilarious ("Don we now our gay apparel" holds no fear for him).

 

Meanwhile I take time out with Barbara Kingsolver's funny and moving The Bean Trees and keep body and soul together with a few sun salutations.

a Sanchez Christmas Eve

23 Dec
Waking spontaneously at 4.30am we hit the still-dark road an hour later. The highlight of the drive south was the most spectacular dawn I've ever witnessed, just before Nîmes:

 

I thought we would be saying goodbye to the sun somewhere on the Castilian plain. But clear sailing and minimal breaks meant we drove into the Sanchez parking space just 11 hours later in full sun and a shocking 20 degrees. Thank you, Juan, for a stoic driving effort, minimally supported by me (the sticky bit around Barcelona, yuk).

Minutes later Juan and Ignacio lept into action, spiking 2 hams to their jamoneros:

Albacete is arguably the dullest town in Spain. Christmases here have historically been an opportunity for me to spend days shopping 'til I drop. But our first stroll around the city centre showed evidence of the depression: several vacant businesses and most people in the street rather than in buying mode.

24 Dec
Juan showed me around his favourite haunts and we had a small, utilitarian shopping fest at the market and local hardware stores:

In the flat I submit to the cocooning experience. It's impossible to help Juan's mum, Pepita, who insists on peeling my oranges, wiping up after me and giving me everything I could possibly want, or not want. There's a seamless transition from one meal to the next, and we gratefully accept the fall-out from the many (edible) freebies Juan's dad, Jesus, receives during the course of his (endocrinological) consultancy work. Juan catches up with family (news), and I am delighted to reconnect with Mar, a friend from way back.

seeing red tape

I have just received in the post a fine (for parking in a handicapped space) for 135€, thereby discovering that the Astra I had thought sold is still in my name! After driving to the buyer's address, discovering it doesn't exist, and leaving 3 messages all unanswered, I have spent the morning ruminating on catastrophe scenarios where the (uninsured) car is involved in fatal accidents for which I am technically responsible. How have I got into this situation? Plans to get a lungful of mountain air are shelved as I scour the internet and find that I, not the buyer, should have gone to Grenoble Préfecture to transfer ownership after the deal was done. And of course today is Wednesday, the one day they are closed (to deal with post!). So that's tomorrow morning sorted for me.

taking the temperature of the commune

During the last 2 weeks the entire line of trees separating the field diagonally across from our house, where five houses have recently been built, has been felled. Do the future owners really want to enjoy the view of us that we now have of them, the gaping hole destroying the charm of the road alongside the stream and allowing clear views into their properties? I feel like chaining myself to the two conifers that remain. So, when our monthly communal bulletin announces a public meeting to discuss the Plan Local d'Urbanisation I hotfoot along.

It was educational. About 50 die-hard Vaulnaviards turned out, with me amongst the youngest. The background to the plan is a) changing demography with an aging commune wanting to attract a more balanced blend of age-groups for a sustainable future, b) increased demand for smaller houses (because of eg fragmenting families), and c) a desire to limit how fast the countryside is built on by denser housing planning. NIMBYist that I am, I was in good company. At times the mayor, leading the meeting, was inaudible as a row of hecklers behind me shouted over him about how no one should be allowed to disturb the deer that graze around their houses. Curiously, though, there seemed to be as many people concerned that their current construction permits might be revoked in the face of the bigger development plan than people concerned about urbanisation per se.

Some of the principles were worthy: trying to forge better communcal links by reinvigorating the (non-existent) village centre. But is this a realistic objective given the increasingly commuter profile of the population? The dominance of retirees in the meeting was a clear indication of the irrelevance of "community" to the incomers. For most, their house is their castle, and neighbours tolerated only if separated by a thick laurel hedge.

I left feeling uneasy. Whilst Juan and I don't live in either of the areas in the village chosen for the main development push (5.5 new houses per 1000 of population = 7 per year and 65 over the 10-year period of the plan) it may ultimately depend on the willingness of villagers in those areas to sell their land for building. If they are reluctant (and who wouldn't be) individual plots already granted permission will be prioritised and we stand to look on as green gaps between the houses (and ultra protected agricultural land) fill in. Ah well, 'twas ever thus.

sloth rules

On Saturday morning, behold, a rare and wondrous sight: Juan joining me for a 3-hour yoga class (going his own way and taking breaks whenever he felt the stretches were too repetitive!). But this was the exception in an otherwise inactive weekend, where the best use for a yoga mat was considered by some to be this...

... and even the effort of holding up The Inflationary Universe was too much. The alerte orange avalanches provided a handy excuse for loafing chez nous.

Ya pas mieux

Just back from an exhiliratingly beautiful loop on the nordique skis in dream conditions at  Les Signaraux, near La Mure. The 360 degree views of every massif in the area were as stunning as I've ever seen them. Minus 15 when I arrived and an awesome wind chill at the top (your birthday puffa jacket was ticket, Juan!). I tried out the skins and could walk up as steep a slope as I'd ever want to. Coming down was interesting, but in the white powdery stuff, pure happiness.

Now back to reality and an afternoon of Berlitz. Life could be worse!

rando vs nordique - testing our skis

Well, it was clearcut. In the rolling terrain just above St Jean de Vaulx, after a recent snow fall of over 30cm ...

... going up we were more or less compatible (though I had the edge, gliding, without the friction of skins). But coming down, the gradient was insufficient for Juan to slide at more than snail's pace. Absolutely not his style. So I had a ball and Juan was, er, just a teeny weeny bit frustrated.
BUT it is exceptional for us to have snow at these altitudes so this dream where I can almost ski from chez nous is not the norm. I anticipate being envious of Juan's future sorties at higher altitudes (currently ruled out for me because of my weak technique). And hope this doesn't mean we see nothing of each other for the next 4 months.

In the afternoon we took it easy, strolling in our valley, enjoying the first rays of sun for many days:

body sculpting in a winter wonderland

Thanks to Kelli, and a pile of American-imported DVDs by ex-ballerina-gymnasts with permanent smiles, I am going to kick ass, shape my butt, get streamlined, tone my muscles, and develop core body strength. Three times a week. Kelli swears this will make me a better skier. I'm looking forward to it.

As I drove to Berlitz afterwards (for a 7-hour lesson with the same student) this is how the road looked:

Sunday, snowy Sunday

Juan walking home from Jacques and Michelle's

home sweet home

I think I must be getting old. I am very, very excited about the recently installed furniture bought at Ozanam recently. As from yesterday I have been enjoying the bliss of...
1. no trailing hi-fi leads
2. having all our CDs and DVDs conveniently shelved at a height where they are visible
3. photo albums in a dust-free cupboard
4. the absence of the ancient IKEA shelving, whose ugliness had been niggling me for years

We now have a slightly eccentric solution for housing the "TV" (screen only)...

... and upstairs, instead of the rickety IKEA shelving, the guest bedroom features a mock
Troisième République cupboard where sheets and pillow cases, games and ancient documents are in orderly, accessible piles:

I'm not exactly sure why it has taken us such an unconscionably long time to make ourselves at home chez nous, but tonight happiness rules. All we need now is somewhere for guests to stow their gear...

metamorphosing violence

It's time I said something about aikido, my Monday evening activity. When I joined the group, just after we arrived in Vaulnaveys in 2005, my motivation was opportunistic: it was convenient (a kilometre away in the same village), and I could relate it to shiatsu and tai chi, which I was already familiar with. Now I go because the club, run by Serge Scotti in the dojo created in his converted basement and supported by a small but faithful band, is my community.

So this is the team: Serge who generously gives us his time come rain come shine; Véronique, a kind and supportive friend who tied the knot with Serge three years ago; Philippe, from whom I've learned as much as from Serge; Claude, an experienced, but sporadic member of the club; Isabelle, with whom Juan and I have shared suppers and walks, and who has helped me with graphic design on my shiatsu publicity; Emma, who Juan and I met last Christmas Eve chez Kelli and Olivier. It's good to have Emma in the group as we are long overdue new blood. Annoyingly, she is picking up the concepts way more quickly than me! It means I have to relinquish the comfort zone of know-nothing baby in the group and grow up a bit.

After seven years of painfully slow progress I'm beginning to appreciate that it's not about bringing your partner to the floor in whatever way possible - hard to resist though that can be. It's about the way you are in contact during the movement: Acceuillir... Absorber... Accepter... Accompagner... Apaiser... (how neatly it works in French - confirming, for some, that France is the centre of the universe?), with the aim the métamorphose de la violence en soi. If you can then allow this body awareness to transfer into day-to-day life you are on the way to getting somewhere But its a subtle business and a lifetime's work or more.

Here's Serge demonstrating with Claude and Isabelle:

Although I am sometimes sluggish about turning up each Monday, I always feel better at the end of the evening. Perhaps it's the sense of liberation I feel on the tatami, communicating via the body rather than expression-limiting French. Or that, for once, I am really seen, and accepted in all my guises - sulky delinquent, depressive, crazy wild woman, flirt, clown.
Occasionally we link up with another local group from the same school (Sumikiri) under the guidance of a visiting teacher. Here's the group practising at the Meylan dojo:

... with me looking a prat in civvies, having forgotten my hakama:

... and again, with Emma:

Apart from a way of developing our aikido skills, Monday evening is an excuse to have a beer together after the class - and to celebrate the highs is life: birthdays (see earlier post), promotions etc.

Thank you, comrades!