And it is in the quaint hamlet of Sacy-le-Petit that I finally began to do some work.
Not much, I probably ought to say, but at least it was something.
My duties involved, amongst other things, answering the phone and responding to any queries from any artists wishing to use the venue - only, nobody did want to use it. Nobody even rang.
Our host and directrice, Hermine, was a quintessentially French lady. A lady of the manor, might I add. As Anglophones, we were very much always in the way of her and her daily agenda, though it couldn’t be helped, as she explained. It’s just the way we were. It wasn’t as bad for me, because despite an apparent dislike of all English speakers, it appears the British were higher on the pecking order than Yanks. So I had that going for me. Also Hermine seemed to have actually not disliked the Brits so much, as to go and marry one. Although he did live in London while she stayed in France for most of the year. One highlight was when Riley was unfortunately caught adding hot-sauce to some food. Hermine swiftly scolded her, quipping “You Americans ‘ave no sense of delicate taste. You mek it all taste ze same! Eez disgusting!” The butter was also withdrawn from the table in the following days in response to its liberal application to baguettes; which, according to Hermine, was tantamount to heresy and certainly not going to be allowed in her house. Sorry, ‘château’.
In any event, the other interns and I spent a lot of time outside in the sun, doing some light recreational gardening, and going for walks to collect fresh bread from the next village. N.B. Traditional baguettes turn to concrete after one day. Source: I tested one on my head. It hurt quite a bit. It also serves as a brilliant segue into a classic French joke:
Q: Why are the Parisians so grumpy?
A: Because they eat pain for breakfast.
And if you think that’s great, you’re in for a treat. If you thought it was at best passable, then I’m sorry but neither the quality of my writing nor my comedic talent is going to improve in the foreseeable future. I suggest you stop reading here and just look at some of the pretty pictures I post.
During my time in Sacy-le-Petit, also known lovingly to us stagiaires as “lil’ Sass“ (to distinguish from the nearby larger village of “big Sass“), we went for lots of quaint little bike rides through the golden fields of the great expanse of the fields of Picardie, went to bric-à-brac sales (actually tat), visited a brewery, and had a field day at Compiègne taking in the sights of the regional centre of culture and civilisation.
Though my time there was lovely, and the people there just as much so, I felt the draw of Paris, and that my talents for finding trouble would be much better put to use in the city, and so I prepared myself for the return journey.
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