Those sad, retrospective words …

I am guilty of not staying in touch with old friends. Now I am paying a bitter price.

In December 2015, when I had finalised plans to come to France, I tried to find an old mate, an Englishman named Andrew Robertson. I knew him in Casablanca between 1977 and 1980. We both taught English, he at International House and I at The British Centre.

Just as a fun thing, we formed a little band with an Englishwoman and a Moroccan. Andrew played bass and I played rhythm guitar. We rehearsed in his flat and drank and smoked and listened to Steely Dan. We played little gigs from time to time at the Churchill Club, near the beach.

Thirty-five years later, I decided to make a big effort to track Andrew down and I managed to get his email address. I was in a day-dream at the prospect of catching up with him again, maybe even playing a rusty old number or two. His wife, Jan, responded to my exploratory email …

 “Wow ! The 1970's. Almost another life! Still good to hear from you, though I'm really sorry to have to tell you that Andrew died just over a year ago - from cancer, age 66 years. And I know he would have been thrilled to have heard from you - we wondered from time to time about you when we were musing on Casablanca days.”

The elation I felt reading Jan’s opening words was short-lived. It was a crushing blow to learn of Andrew’s death.

Even more cutting was that he had a daughter living in Melbourne and had been out to visit her in 2010. We could easily have caught up

Now that I am living in France, I decided to try to re-establish contact with a Moroccan friend from those Casablanca days. I looked for Ahmed Bensemami on Facebook. Nothing. I tried just the surname Bensemami.

I found only one profile, a young man from Casablanca who bore a striking resemblance to my friend. I sent him a friend request with  a speculative message saying I knew a man named Ahmed Bensemami in Casablanca in the late 1970’s. I said he’d married a woman named Fouzia in 1980.

 I asked the young man if he happened to know him.

I wasn’t really expecting to hear back. But very soon I got an acceptance of my friend request.

I again asked if he knew Ahmed Bensemami. I was overjoyed to get this response …

 “Hi Tony, I know you because they told us about you, Ahmed and Fouzia are my parents.

“My parents talked many times about you and the friendship you had with my dad, that you were married to a Moroccan named Soumia I think.”

I was almost beside myself. What luck!

I sent this message …

“Oh my God I can’t believe it. I am now living in France. Can you give me your father’s phone number or email address? I am very emotional.  It has been such a long time and I’ve thought about this over many years.”

Then came Mohamed’s reply …

“ I am feeling very emotional too. This is something we don’t expect. I am sad to announce that my father and mother both died of cancer in 2012.

“My father would've been so happy to find you back after all these years, he long searched for you, he even thought of contacting Oprah to help him find you.

“One day I remember finding a black and white picture of you in our house when you had a slightly long hair.”

These words cut me to the core, with knives sharpened by guilt and regret.  If only I had made an effort to re-kindle our friendship all those years ago. If only …. if only…

Changing banks

I'm taking advantage of the recent Macron provision.

After three frustrating months, I am leaving BNP Paribas and going to Credit Agricole Aquitaine.

From the agonisingly protracted and portentous account opening, to the befuddling layers of security around every transaction, I'm calling time on this travail and opting for a less stressful approach.

My new Moroccan chum, Sofiane, an engaging young man at the Castelmoron branch of CA, is helping me with this.

Opening an account with him took about a quarter of the time that BNP took. I came away with about a quarter of the paperwork.

CA will look after everything and make sure the transition is seamless. And there's a village branch so I can go in and ask for help if I am ever confused. And boy, did I get confused trying to bank online through BNP.  If I had enough hair to pull, I'd have pulled it. I know the French for this, "Je vais tirer mes cheveux."

I used this with a BNP customer service officer who could not help me navigate the "virements" page, telling me ...

"Monsieur, I don't know anything about BNP internet banking."
"But Madam, you work with BNP and you are a helpline advisor."
"Yes, I work here but I don't have an account here. I have no idea how this website works."

I had been unsuccessfully trying to make an account payment to a local business ... tryng to negotiate the Fort Knox levels of security and "activation codes".  In the end, they had to send me a secret code by post. They couldn't send it to me by email.

I had been warned about the French banking system.

The hills are alive ...

Last night we drove into the hills behind Castelmoron to attend a cabaret evening. It was held in a rather isolated, 18^th century manor house, beautifully renovated. We parked at the edge of a driveway that looped in front of the grand entrance, as guests shuffled in through the front door. Overhead, the cloudless night sky was a black canopy, punctured by stars.

The host couple is busy seating people and serving drinks. The menu is a main course of confit du canard with pommes de terre dauphinoise and a side-salad dressed with balsamic. Dessert is a tarte au citron or a tarte au caramel salé.

Drinks are surprisingly cheap. A bottle of excellent, full-bodied Spanish red costs just 5 euros.

At our table, four couples represent eight nationalities. There is a dark-haired Portuguese man who’s lived in France since he was 11 years old. He is a butcher from nearby St Livrade sur Lot. His wife is blond and Ukrainian. She speaks a host of eastern European languages, but little French or English. An ebullient Spaniard at the end of the table has a construction business and speaks fluent French. His wife is French. The other couple at the table are newly arrived in the Lot et Garonne. She is from Yorkshire. He is a New Zealander. They have no children, four dogs, and want to buy a block of land and build an off-grid, straw bale house in a forest. Any forest.

Our hosts are an energetic French/English couple who operate this large estate as a chambres d’hotes (bed and breakfast) and a separate gite (holiday unit). The house has several beautifully furnished rooms, a large, outdoor swimming pool and a jacuzzi. It is very busy in summer, but in winter they have time to host these cabaret evenings.

The band is a rhythm and blues trio, consisting of lead guitar, bass and drums. They play Clapton, Dire Straits and J.J. Cale covers. They are a bit loud for mine, and a bit loose, but most people seem to enjoy the music and by the end of the night many are up dancing.

At the Iberian end of the table, quite a few pre-dinner whiskies and cognacs are consumed. This is followed by wine. The Portuguese butcher becomes more effusive. The Spanish builder, more friendly. Their wives sit quietly with Giaconda smiles.

The Yorkshire woman wears her dyed-red hair in long curls, and talks ten to the dozen. Her Kiwi husband has a pointy, waxed moustache and looks like a young version of Lord Kitchener. He manages to get the odd word in edgewise.

Unfortunately, chatting becomes impossible … is my hearing getting worse or is the band getting louder?

At 11.30, our hosts begin clearing tables so we figure it is time to go.

We promise our new Portuguese friend we’ll look up his butcher shop. The English woman promises the Spanish builder she will consult him over their plans. Cards are exchanged.

We exit into the chilly February night, still star-blasted and sublime … well satisfied with our first Castelmoron cabaret experience.

February weather

We expect February days to be cold and bleak. But today was a wonderful exception. We spent the afternoon on a bike ride to Grange sur Lot, along a narrow country road that winds through ploughed fields, lying fallow, anticipating the seeds of Spring.

Coming home over the bridge, Castelmoron was beautiful in the glow of the afternoon sun. The Lot was still and clear. The sky has been blue all day, with brush-stroke wisps of cloud.

The Moorish architectural influence on the magnificent chateau Solar can be clearly seen.

The interview

Before I launch into an account of today's events,  I need to remind readers that as Cliona has an Irish/European passport, she does not need to apply for a long-stay visa in France.
So, yesterday, I went through all the paperwork over the phone with John Dislins, an expert on French bureaucracy. He was satisfied we had covered all bases.
This morning, with Cliona's daughter Emma and grandson Thomas, we set off south on the scenic drive through rolling farmland and stone villages.
We arrived at the Agen prefecture half an hour early.
The lady at reception was friendly and explained we didn't need to take a number because we had made an appointment.
At 11am we ascended the stairs to the first floor, the office of nationality and foreigners.
Twenty minutes later we were ushered into Room 3 by a young woman with a thick mane of charcoal-black hair and a warm smile. This was a positive sign. The room was small and austere, but our interviewer was congenial.
The first piece of paper she wanted was my application form. She checked through it and seemed happy. At every correct response, she tapped her pen on the paper and made a "tuck" kind of noise.
She then asked if we had joined the national social security system. I was taken aback by this question and said, "No, we hadn't." I felt uncomfortable answering no, that it was inauspicious to respond negatively so early in the interview. I expected some questions to come out of left field, but not so soon.
I explained that we had purchased private health insurance and pushed the paperwork forward. Our young fonctionnaire (public servant) was appeased, though not entirely satisfied. She said we must go to either Villeneuve sur Lot or Marmande and apply for an attestation de droits. I wasn't sure what that meant but I nodded my head obediently and said "Yes, of course".
I said it was my understanding that before we could apply for our carte vitale (national health cover) we had to be resident in France for three months.
She agreed. It was not a sticking point and we moved on. I breathed a sigh of relief.
She looked at our EDF (electricity) bill, in joint names, to prove our residency in France. She took our passports, bank statements and birth certificates and left the room to make photocopies.
She double checked my passport to confirm my application was within three months of arrival. She announced that there would be no charge for the visa.
She asked lots of seemingly innocuous questions, about family, life in Australia, how long we had known each other, where we had travelled, why I liked France etc. But there was a method to her casual friendliness. Dislins had warned me to answer succinctly. He said some of his clients had proffered too much information and got into deep water. While that hadn't cruelled their application, it had delayed it.
She seemed happy that we had a French bank account. She took our account balance print-out. She asked about my pension. I explained that it wasn't actually a pension, that we both drew down on our superannuation through a fortnightly income stream. That's when a cloud of incomprehension passed over her face. Suddenly it seemed like the whole process, which up until then was going well, had ground to a halt.
She just didn't understand Australian superannuation.
So, in my halting French, I attempted to explain the system. I was relieved when a smile returned to her face. She seemed to have grasped it. Later, I wondered why the French Consulate in Sydney hadn't sent back a one page explainer for distribution to prefectures around the country. I guess there just aren't enough retired Aussies applying to stay in France.
With the electronic recording of my finger and thumb prints, the interview came to an end.
Our fonctionnaire with the mane of black hair attached one of my four passport photos to a récépissé, valid til 5 May, and informed me the office would send me a letter when my Carte de Sejours was ready. I would have to come back to Agen to collect it.
We re-joined Emma and Thomas and found a fabulous Moroccan restaurant for lunch. I confess I had been waiting rather nervously for this day. Now, I felt relieved, bouyant even.
It felt like I'd crossed a long, shaky rope bridge strung across a bureaucratic chasm. I didn't have to sing and I didn't have to do an Inspector Clousseau impersonation.

Prefecture appointment for a Carte de Sejours

My first three months in France will soon be up, so I must now apply for a long-stay visa.

The rendezvous has been made. The dye is cast.

Next Tuesday, the 14th, Cliona and I will drive down to Agen for our 11am appointment with officials from immigration and nationality.

We will take a swag of documents with us.

Through our "fixer", we have secured court-approved translations of all certificates.

We will show an EDF (electricity) bill to demonstrate residency.

We must prove financial viability and health insurance cover.

They will want to see last year's air tickets and passport entry stamps.

I need four passport photos and photocopies of everything.

That's a lot of paperwork .... but like Baldric, I have a cunning plan.

If things get too serious, I will do what 10cc did in Jamaica.

I will sing ...

"I don't like foie gras, I love it.
"I don't like Citroens, I love them.
"Don't like the Lot et Garonne, I love it."

If that fails to impress, plan B will be to dress in a white trenchcoat, with hat and false moustache and say, with all the authority I can muster ...

"I am Inspector Clousseau of the Surete, so don't try to be furney weeth me Monsieur."

Truffle extravaganza ... a gourmet experience in the south-west.

The town Mayor and three truffle Masters, regaled in black and gold, officiated over the lunch in the Prayssas Salle des Fetes.

Click on these images to make them bigger and more detailed.

Chef Michel Dussau, who'd been hired to cater for today's lunch from the nearby city of Agen, joined the officials on stage.

He was holding a glass bell-jar that contained two large truffles, the raffle prize at the end of the lunch.

At 12.30, the "amuse bouches" were brought out. They consisted of a thick, rich truffle soup in a small glass and a piece of local foie gras topped with grated truffle. This sat on a piece of toast spread with a thin layer of jam.

The first of two entrées was served, a poached egg piled high with julienne of truffle, surrounded by truffle juice and three toast fingers.

Next, a tart of scallops with watercress and finely sliced truffle, with a swirl of truffle jus adding flare and contrast.

The main course was a 70-hour braised beef, wrapped around a piece of foie gras and served with potato and parsnip puree infused with flecks of truffle. There was a large slice of truffle on top, with an intriguing venous pattern.

Dessert was an assembly of three fine pastry leaves with whipped cream, a splash of coffee and a dollop of vanilla ice-cream, all infused with truffle. A fresh hazelnut was coated with toffee, which shot up in a hair-thin tail of spun sugar.

The accompanying wines were a sweetish Blanc Moelleux, served with the amuse bouches, then a Sauvignon Blanc and with the main course, a Cabernet Sauvignon, all from the nearby Buzet district.

We didn't win the raffle, but we got to hold the prize and pose with one of the Masters.

Museum of Foie Gras

Long-time friends and food lovers Hedley and Carolynn have been visiting from London.

After our truffle experience on Sunday, we decided to up the ante and drive over to the Musée du Foie Gras, located off the beaten track about 10kms south-east of Villeneuve sur Lot.

Souleille Foie Gras is near the border of Lot et Garonne and Tarn et Garonne, in hilly country dotted with farms and woods.

Apparently, it heaves on a summer's Friday when there is a market, al fresco food and a carnival atmosphere, but this was a winter's Tuesday and we were the only ones there.

We rang the bell. A French-speaking girl came to let us in and take our five euros enrtrance fee. She gave us a guide to the museum in English. No photos allowed.

It was clear from the start they'd put a lot of effort into this museum. This was no tourist add-on to a duck farm. This was a carefully thought-out interpretive centre of breadth and depth.

It explained that wild ducks and geese naturally induced oversized, fatty livers. They did so by gorging food prior to undertaking long, migratory flights.This gave them the energy store to make those incredible distances. Their livers would expand to ten times their normal size. It was an evolutionary adaptation.

At some point in antiquity, men discovered that these migrating birds had adnormally large livers which, when cooked, had an exquisite taste. They found they could produce the same result by force-feeding domestic geese and ducks. Foie gras was born.

To illustrate just how far back the practice goes, there is a copy of a bas relief showing the ancient Egyptians force feeding geese.

After spending a good hour in the museum, we sat in a small theatre and watched a half-hour video about the history of the farm. It ended with some yummy recipes that set the audience up for the final phase of the experience ... the shop!

The French-speaking girl who welcomed us had been replaced by Nicole, an engaging Englishwoman who's been living in this area for 15 years.

She had some wonderful samples for us to try. We were thrilled to have visited this excellent attraction.

http://www.souleilles-foiegras.com/