17. Nos Biens Arrivent
Our things arrive from the United States. I’d say, at last, but the world of moving is one where you best throw away your watch and your expectations. You’ll just get angry. Movers have you. End of story.
Though just one thing. They tried to tie things up at the port of l’Havre. Paperwork. Customs. Things we wouldn’t understand. That, of course, would entail surcharges for storage there.
I found a web address for none other than the person—it was in fact a woman—running affairs at the port. I thought what the heck, I’ll write to her and complain. Can’t hurt. Probably won’t hear anything.
Would you know she wrote right back. Said she understood the situation. She would release whatever sticky-wickets the shippers claimed were hindering them from handing things over to the local movers to bring down from Normandy to our house. Consider it done.
It was a pleasure to forward the note to the crafty crook trying to take more money out of our pocket. The things would be on their way tomorrow.
Rarely is there such an efficient, rewarding, just settlement of what should always have gone that way. I cautioned myself that it was a once-in-a-lifetime situation and to just wait to see the vans rolling down our narrow lane. And by God they did. The next morning your French moving types arrived from Normandy, rang the bell, and started their work. We were moved in by day’s end.
I recall some of the alleged hold-up had to do with our car. The port HQ waived whatever the movers claimed was necessary and gave us instructions where to go to have the car checked out for safety issues and EU regulations. We had plenty of time. I think a month is what she said.
Just inside a month to get it all done. We had to get new tires, and they disconnected some light features on the front sides of the Mercedes sedan, and we were off. It was a cool experience since most of the cars they were checking out were in the 500K euro range. The customs control place was located at a former racetrack, with a banked oval course. The guys getting to go for a spin in those babies had a lot more fun than in our C-class sedan.
The last thing into the container in Dallas, was the first thing out in France, our car. Complete with Texas plates. It was fun buzzing around our three-street village during those weeks watching heads turn. “Now just who has moved into the Presbytere?” strangers we had not yet met would wonder. I guess they really are from the US. Texas even. Will we see cowboy hats and boots? Isn’t J.R. from Dallas? You don’t recognize the name when the French pronounce these initials. Gee, Err. They smile, we wonder what they are saying.
We had made a good head start on furnishing the house already. Our US things completed the job. But with a second car, Elizabeth would be off to find all the closest brocantes. If you have a great storage space sous les toit, it just insists on becoming its own depot vente. Fill it up and then pick out what you need as time allows. No hurry. Everyone a winner.
Marcel watched all this with what was quickly revealing itself as his ironic wisdom. I’ll sit out back in the yard and just bug the workers when it looks like things are moving along too efficiently. Aren’t I cute. A puppy. I think we put the crate outside and locked him in. He could follow the action as men went in and out of our big wooden entry gate, both doors now blocked open.
When the work was over, we gave them a tip—they weren’t in on the port scheming—and off they went, ready for another job tomorrow.
Our house was coming into form, and we had been living in France for some months now. Marcel had joined our adventure.
The elevage where he came from, as with her competitors it should be said, was a very classy place for this breed of dog. Ruisseau Montbrun had produced many champions in field and in show. I had “finished” my Weimaraner with a professional show person when I lived in Connecticut. That time-consuming venture interested neither of us. Marcel was a field dog.
There was a club, les Amateurs des Braques d’Auvergne, and joining that was something that interested us and so we did. France is not large. The field trials looked like fun. Another excuse to “do some research” on new and often lesser-known regions, as well as meet interesting people and a slice of culture owning a dog like Marcel would open us onto. Les amateurs kept up with all the new dogs coming onto the scene. It was not a big family. It was a close and personal one. We would make lots of friends during our time in France attending field events.
Marcel’s brother Marquis would become the top show dog and eventually #1 Braque in the World. I confess a bit of relief that we had not picked him. Owning a dog of that quality is something like a full-time job. Serious business. Showing all over the continent and then the breeding menagerie.
We now lived in ideal field and hunting territory, indeed, a much sought-after region for that in France. On daily walks with Marcel, on the chateau grounds and on the forest trails that surrounded us, I could see his natural aptitude. He would raise his right paw, point and hold by God’s gift in his genes. He would just need some refinement before, when he was fully grown, he could go on a hunt. The field trials were the best way to check his aptitude, and to see his conduct around other dogs.
We looked at the schedule and where the events took place. Soon we would be joining in. For now, he was free to point pheasants in the woods, and scamper after them. He was growing up. Doing what he was bred to do, doing what came naturally to him.