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Day Twenty: Things Celestial and Terrestrial

A first time for everything -- today, the first time I regret not having a camera. I'm sitting beside the Lez river in Audressein; a Monsieur and Madame Canard are enthusiastically foraging along the side of the stream, pumping like mill wheels to avoid being carried away by the exuberant current. I can see the bell tower of Notre Dame de Trameguyze and its petite cemetery. And is it ever springtime -- the sun is pouring down, a fresh breeze stir up the happy insects, the swallows are blaring away in the trees, the trees flowering with shameless abandon. The hills of the Vallee du Lez are coated with an extravagant carpet of grass -- almost indecently lush to these Californian eyes. It is very tempting to lie down and sleep.

No one has apparently heard of the church at Audressein and its 15th century ex-votoes, except me and the Cadogans. But on the porch there, amidst the swallow droppings, are the most incredible paintings -- angels in austerely lush robes playing flute, rebeck, guitar, concentrating with somber sweetness on their portion of the music of the spheres. On the arches closer to the front, John the Baptist in a bear pelt (you would suppose he would keep tripping over the bear head grinning at his feet) and carrying the Agnus Dei on a little salver; and another lushly somber St. James of Compostela walking barefoot with his staff, his book and his sombrero. Against this backdrop, the ex-votoes themselves are welcome in their drollery -- the young man spouting blood from his nose like a Monty Python sketch, Mommy's little bare-assed angel falling head first from a tree, mouth a comic circle of woe.

The church bell makes its brazen clamor at noon; close on its heels the braying of a truck labeled simply "Alimentation” ("Food").

(Later) Reluctantly I pulled myself away and headed out to the Mas d'Azil. My, what a big cave that is. Very disorienting, with its irregular passages -- so very large, then so very small -- and the river rushing by all in a hurry to get into the sunlight again.

The tour guide was the Frenchest person I have ever seen -- all nose, black leather jacket and narrow jeans. All that was missing was the Gauloise hanging from his ever-so-mobile lips. He spoke very quickly, but very clearly and loudly, and was careful to aim his discourse at the children of the group, so that this big child could readily understand.

A brisk march to the principal chamber, a discourse on the geological age of the cavern (all together now -- "Manganese!") and its formation during the Ice Age, a view of objects found in the cave -- morsels of bone from a variety of animals, arrow points, a clever little doohickey for tanning leather, a reproduction of the skull of a young girl found in the cave, with bits of cave bear bones placed in her eye sockets -- very creepy. We crawl deeper into another gallery, where we view the undelicious remains of a mammoth's palate and tusks and some miscellaneous cave bear bones. Then in the grand chamber, a son-et-lumiere about all the various "undesirables" who have hidden in the cave over the millennia -- early Christians, Moors, Cathars, Protestants -- over two thousand of the latter at one time.

The museum down in the village was pretty groovy. A lot of the stuff drawn on the utensils -- horses and bisons and fish and goats -- looks much like the sort of thing I drew on the margin of math lessons in junior high. One wonders if spear-thrower-making was the equivalent for Neolithic adolescents.

After a little shower and a little rest, I went down into the garden and chatted with Monsieur and Madame and the parents of the loud children and the eldest of the loud children herself, who found it perfectly incredible that a grown-up could understand less French than herself.

After the long day, I must admit that it all began to sound like Charlie Brown's mom talking, "wah wah wah wah wah wah wah WAH." I crept quietly away.

Observation on French Life and Culture #18: Everyone seems to think "California" and "Los Angeles" are synonyms. I scorn to undeceive them.

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