So I made the decision.

I stopped the project. I liked the walls the way they were. I didn't want the beams to be painted. I liked the crumbling plaster ceiling (this, in retrospect was a mistake) and I told them to leave the walls. The contractor was very gracious. The workers I am am sure thought I was nuts. I am sort of. But what I didn't realize, couldn't realize was that Foued would be out of a job. Not permanently since there was work waiting for him but this job was over. He had been promised, say, 500 euros for the work and he was only going to get 50. He could not understand this. He had been promised 500. He was furious. Oddly, not with me but with the contractor. He took a hammer and began to chop out the wall he had completed. He was forcibly restrained and ejected from the apartment. Not while I was there thank God. In fact, I had no idea this had happened. I was out quaffing beers with Loralyn who was neglecting her children.


But Foued was furious. He stalked the contractor and spit in his wife's face. He came to my door and harangued me in French I could not understand, spitting (accidently) through his braces as he passionately told me a story I did not comprehend. He began to stalk me in the small town. Sitting in a bistro to have a beer was frightening for me. Walking down the small unfamiliar streets at night was horrifying. Everything echoes, there are not a lot of lights. 

Walls I like.

I walked back to my new apartment. Foued was busy finishing the wall without the stones. He immediately explained to me that we had to chisel out that old concrete and replace it. Ca fait moche - that's ugly. My French isn't that good, and neither is his. I listened, he repeated, he is patient. I want to understand. I think, OK, maybe he's right, though I don't like the idea of painting the old puitres, the beams, blue. That about makes me nuts. I mean no disrespect, to him or to Pavel. But I know what I like and what they are saying is not it. I ask if I might take some time to think about it. This is difficult for them because the meter is ticking. They have other work to do and this job can't wait for a lot of contemplation. I have the weekend. Later I decide not to re-do any of it. Pavel is gracious and he is after all French (though really he is Polish and I cannot understand him either). He doesn't care. Foued thinks I'm nuts.

Type inconsistencies.

I am not sure why this happens, though I do know that it has something to do with the 2 computers I use, one at work and the other at home. But the inconsistency in the type drives me nuts. Just sayin'.

Jambon, baguette et moutarde

Though I do not cook very much (which is odd considering how much I love to cook) when I am in France there is magnificent food shopping in this small town. Across the street from this lovely shop is a Casino, what appears to be a small grocery is actually a supermarket when you get inside it goes on forever. They have the most exquisite ham in the world there. Because I prefer to eat in the local restaurants, I don't often make my own meals, but one baguette jammed with the perfect ham and slathered with moutarde dijonaise is pure unadulterated heaven. Of course, at this point in the story I do not have a kitchen at all.