I KNEW I should've brought long underwear!

Brrr!

Winter has descended without warning like the cold blade of the guillotine, SNICK!, and the faces around us wear expressions of offended surprise not unlike those I imagine to have been worn by that revolutionary machine's victims, our neighbors' ancestors. We live among their descendants, whose demeanor says as clearly as that of an aristocrat on the tumbril, "How dare they do this to ME!" , 'they' being in this case the weather gods. We wouldn't mind so much, but our landlord, among many others, was taken by surprise and the heating oil hasn't been delivered yet, so we're clad in multiple layers shivering in our apartment. The boiler should be fueled, up and running by Wednesday, we've been assured by the landlord's daughter, a charming and friendly young woman who also invited us to come downstairs (we live on the top, third, floor of their old stone farmhouse) and huddle in front of the fireplace. She's as cold as we are, but whereas we wear sweats and hoods, she, because the French have certain standards to maintain, swathes herself in elegant scarves. Saturday was the first cold day (today is Monday) and Sunday we took a long walk through the woods and fields surrounding our house (see photos). We're heading off to Paris (doesn't that sound just too too jet-set?) for a few days at the end of the week, during Mike's first school break, and, wouldn't you know it, it's REALLY cold there.

The Rugby World Cup is over and France has been put out of its misery, but not before a lot of pain, false hope and humiliation. They played in the 3rd-place game, a disappointment in itself, against Argentina, who had already beaten them once, and they lost again. The French team is the perennial bridesmaid of the world cup: always close but have never caught the bouquet. The match was sloppy, mean and ill-tempered on both sides from kickoff with a lot of stupid penalties and outbursts of violence. (Outbursts of violence? In rugby? How could you tell the difference?) That was Saturday. On Sunday South Africa won the cup by defeating England in another less-than-artistic, defensive struggle. England, although the defending title holders, had become the cinderella team of the tournament because of their steady improvement since having been annihilated 36-0 by S. Africa a few weeks ago during the round-robin pool phase. But in real life, I guess the slipper doesn't always fit. That's why we have fairy tales!

My sudoku-playing friends and relatives (Yes, you, Dad!) will be interested to learn, as I was, that the village about which I wrote so glowingly a couple weeks ago, La Roque d'Antheron, has another jewel in its crown that I didn't know about at the time. Turns out they are the proud hosts of one of the regional sudoku elmination tournaments (that's IN ADDITION to the classical music festival! What a hotbed of culture!) that leads on to the next round, which leads on the next round, etc., until the French National Sudoko Championnat. The winners of which move on, I assume, to the, European, International and Intergalactic championships. I was working at Powell's when the sudoku monster devoured America, and it was amazing, and instructive, to see it happen. One day, there were 2 sudoku books, the next day there were 2000. And half were by Will Shortz. I personally have never even attempted one. The aficionados extol its addictiveness, but since I'm already strung out on the Guardian and London Times crosswords, I dare not risk it.

The nationwide transportation strike, more of a demonstration, really, happened last Thursday, with aftereffects lasting until Saturday. The trains were most affected, a few flights were cancelled and everyone got home in time to watch Les Bleus lose on Friday. Some of the unions are hard line, but a couple have expressed a willingness to talk things over with the government, which these days means Nicolas Sarkozy, so it'll be interesting to see what happens. Will the labor movement be split? Sarkozy's cabinet, to which he appointed people of various political stripes, even socialists, is beginning to show signs of strain, too. And how about Iran? And Russia? All these questions, all these problems. But, to tell the truth, in the mind of the French public they all fade into insignificance before the REALLY IMPORTANT ISSUE of the day:

LE DIVORCE and its aftermath.

I'm not going to dwell on this sordid subject. I believe that politicians are people too, sort of; and that they have feelings that we can recognize as such with a little effort, deeply hidden maybe, a little twisted, but feelings nonetheless; and that they have a right to a private life away from the constant scrutiny of the public, so they can loosen up and reclaim their authentic personal narrative, even if it includes chapters of fraud, chicanery, adultery, nepotism, blackmail, egomania, etc. So, as I say, I'm not going to dwell on it. The photo below, from the front page of La Provence, says it all anyway.

Cecilia is getting a lot of sympathetic press. She's being described as a private person who can't handle the constant limelight and who made an honorable and honest attempt to patch things up after their separation a couple years ago, but it didn't work out. One of my favorite quotes (which I forgot to cut out and will therefore paraphrase) was from Cecilia regarding life with Nicolas after he was elected president. It was something to the effect that "it was like giving a violinist a Stradivarius. All he wants to do from then on is play his fiddle."

But the French move quickly and are already asking, "Et maintenant?" ("What now?"). For example, in one of the recent newspapers appeared a photo (which I also forgot to cut out) of a noted French yachtswoman - I should say a "noted, statuesque, French yachtswoman" - running toward the camera from out of the surf, like Aphrodite herself. She was smiling, windblown, sun-bronzed and her thin cotton dress clung like a wet t-shirt. She was identified as a "friend" of the president, who, according to the book written about him on the campaign trail, is quite flirtatious himself. C'est la vie! C'est l'amour! We anxiously await developments.

That's it for now. I guess I can put my mittens back on. Au revoir.

Tom