Learning French in the Cite

It is stupendously gorgeous here to day. The weather is topic number one of just about every conversation I hear.  It's warm and clear and sunny.  I was up early, and did a load of laundry before heading out for the day's errands.  I figured that as warm as it is, the things would dry in no time if I put the drying rack next to the windows that I have thrown open wide.  There was a teensy little incident with the laundry--something that I have laundered dozens of times bled blue dye....this happened to me once before--in Paris all those years ago. It must have something to do with the temperature settings for whites and/or the hard water here and in Paris. Now I have some undies a color for which there is no name.  Oh well, it's not like anyone will see them.  And since this is getting into dangerously too much information territory, I will change the subject.  Let's just say that I have very clean, very dry but oddly tinted unmentionables.  But not the socks...why didn't the white socks get dyed, too?

I finished up my paperwork requirements at the mediatheque....I am really, really legit now, and my library card is good for two years.  

Then I climbed the hill to the Cite.  It was so gorgeous, I thought that I might be able to get some good photos.  And even though it's vacation time, I figured it couldn't possibly be as crowded as it had been for the festival last Sunday.  I arrived, almost in time to miss the huge bus load of senior citizens. Almost.  I think they were from Spain. 

The towers peek out over the trees

One of the entrances

Safely forbidding?

But they came to shop and I came to climb around on the ramparts. I had my writing and my sketch pads with me.  I had packed a sandwich and a bottle of water, so I was all set. I went inside the first set of walls and made a left turn, before even crossing the drawbridge.  The stony path reminds me of nothing so much as a walk along the beach in Brookings--lots of uneven stones to navigate.  I got myself a little further out of the way and began to climb the steps to the ramparts. 

I haven't yet discovered what the channel is for that runs down the center.   A medieval median strip?

Interesting shape of the door.  See what I mean about the steps and no handrails?

There are no guardrails, no chains to catch you if you fall.  Here, common sense prevails.  If you go up there, you might fall.  And it will be your fault, and there's nobody to sue if that happens.  If you don't want to fall, then don't go up the stairs. How refreshing! It's like the fighters over the weekend.  Nobody's insurance company is going after anyone else's insurance company.  If you don't want to get injured, then DON'T FIGHT.  

Tending the grounds and one of the carriage rides.

The horses have little hats.

I don't know when vertigo became part of my physical symptoms, but it seems to have crept in. I got up to those walkways, but I needed a hand to steady myself.  Part of it might be that my feet are so big and those steps are so small.  Everywhere in the cite I am constantly reminded about how small these people were.  Short, slight, with little feet.  Everything I am not.  I take up more room on those catwalks....But, I was rewarded with spectacular views of the Carcassonne and the surrounding countryside. It is really beautiful country.

From the ramparts.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beautiful countryside

One of the vineyards just outside the castle walls.  Can you imagine living in that house?

I took my lunch and my writing to a bench inside the city.  There aren't lots of places to sit except for the chairs provided by the restaurants, but I was lucky enough to snag one in the shade. Before long, I was joined by a couple, obviously retirees, who wanted a little cigarette break. We struck up a conversation. They were from Brussels, are completely retired and are enjoying a leisurely drive through France.  We talked about the weather, of course and how lucky we are to be enjoying this. We talked about work, we talked about the flies--des mouches--which are surprisingly annoying. We talked about learning another language, and they helped me with my French and were delighted to get to practice their English. They are both retired teachers-she of French and he of history.  We had a delightful conversation--I was able to make myself understood, they were eager to help me and to practice their own language skills. It really made my day! They both assured me that I already spoke pretty well and that in six months' time, it would be coming naturally to me. My reply was--De votre bouche a l'oreille de Dieu. Your mouth to God's ear.  I don't even know if that's the right way to say that in French, but they got it. And we all had a good laugh.

The shadows of the church play over the square in front of it.

Interesting gargoyle.

Cite walls

I know one thing to be absolutely true for me.  I was never able to make any progress in learning to speak French as long as I was bound by the need to be perfect about it. That's where I was so many, many years ago.  I had to give myself permission to make all manner of mistakes and get over myself before I could progress. Now I don't care if I say something stupid or incorrect--I accept the correction, try to incorporate it into my lexicon and move on.  I am no longer prideful about it, so I don't feel humiliation at being wrong.  It was enormously liberating--dropping that need to be the best, to be first, to get the A+.  I find that now I just want to communicate with people, not prepare for an exam. Putting down that boulder of having to produce perfection has been perhaps the most freeing thing I have ever done in my life.  I highly recommend it.