One More Story From The Lot Valley

I had seen the posters and flyers throughout the neighbouring villages advertising the 'Pomarede en Fete' for July 30th. Aperitifs, salads, grilled lamb, cabecou cheese, vin rouge, and desserts were on the menu. Ever the tour director I thought, "This will be a perfect night to celebrate our month in the Lot Valley!"

Joe called the phone number on the bottom of the poster to make reservations. Because we all know what happens when one doesn't make reservations when they are 'obligatoire'. We didn't want to be disappointed again.

The lovely woman on the telephone asked Joe if we wanted to sit with English-speaking people or with the French. Joe replied, "Please sit us with the locals."

We arrived in Pomarede at 8:30pm. We walked down to the churchyard and there in typical country fashion were long rows of tables and benches. Colorful pennants and strings of lights were strung overhead in the trees.


The place was packed! Everyone knew each other, double cheek kisses smacked the air. Joe and I felt conspicuous, like the outsiders we were. We stood awkwardly on the periphery of the crowd.

I said to Joe, "We should have said we wanted to sit with English speaking people."

Joe said, "Nanc, we ARE the English speaking people here tonight."

When Joe went to pay for our tickets, the woman told us we were sitting at table A. We looked over and saw that table A was at the edge of the churchyard, away from all the action. We were a little discouraged.

We took our seats and waited for the fete to begin.


We didn't have to wait long.

A group of seven men and women joined us. The compulsory 'bon soirs' were exchanged. Not one of them spoke word of English. Not one syllable. I thought to myself, "This is going to be a long night."

But then the woman sitting next to me started talking to us. Joe and I did our best to hold up our end of the conversation, but things were getting lost in translation. I asked for a pen and began to scribble words down on the paper tablecloth. Between writing on the table and playing charades, we began to communicate with each other. Everyone wanted their turn with the pen and a lively exchanged of ideas ensued.


I told them that my ancestor, Pierre Parent, emigrated from Normandy to Quebec in the mid-1600s. That was it! I WAS IN THE FOLD! A woman at the end of the table said, "We are family!"

Then an extraordinary thing happened. The woman sitting next to me, the one who initiated the original conversation, introduced herself by name. I almost fell off of my chair. In the five years I have been visiting this country no French person has ever told me their first name. It is always Madame or Monsieur. Always. No exceptions. Until now.

Marie-Anne and I were BFFs for the rest of the evening.


Our table was a lively one. The plastic jugs of teeth-staining, black Cahors wine were emptied at an alarming rate. The husbands who were shy at the beginning of the evening, now became animated. I found that the more wine I drank, the more fluent I became! We had lots of laughs.


Before we knew it, it was well after midnight! And since we were driving to Burgundy the next morning, we had to get to bed. We said our good-byes, kissed everyone twice on the cheeks, and thanked them for a great evening.

As we were walking back to the car Joe said, "Aren't you glad we didn't sit next to English speaking people tonight?"


Yes I was.

Location:La Goulette,Azé,France