Mushroom hunting

Some people have mentioned my neglect of the blog lately. I don't know what to tell you. I also stopped taking language classes and have been spending my days sleeping. I am not depressed. Actually, I am quite happy in a low-key sort of way. I am tired. I don't want to do anything. The days are very short and I think I am hibernating. It's cold. Humans were not meant to live in weather like this.

The last weekend in October, I spent in St Ouen de Parey (or something like that) near Vittel (where the water comes from -- does it have global distribution? I can't remember. Think Evian). It was the home of Mido's mother, Juliette's grandmother. The food was good. There was plenty of wine. The children more or less behaved themselves. Axel is totally in love with this grand livre des champinions that his great grandmother has. He is 6 and doesn't read yet, but he was doing his best to say the latin names for the mushrooms. I read the book too (I know you are wondering: it only had a small section on the magic variety and apparently there aren't many in Europe).

One afternoon Mido, Juliette, Axel and I set out to collect some mushrooms for identification. (It isn't a good season for legitimate mushroom hunting.) We collected about 25 different types, only one of which was edible. The earth was fresh and brown, the ground damp, and the light slanted amazingly across the rural landscape. There is something really special about the light in France.

I've been reading a lot, mostly about how strange the French are. I read the Poirier's copy of Sixty Million Frenchmen Can't Be Wrong, reseach by a Canadian couple who lived here for a few years researching the French and a memior by an Austrialian woman called Almost French. You may recall me talking months ago about Le Divorce, about Californians in Paris, as well. In fact, they say many of the same things.