We lived in the servants' quarters, accessed via a circular stairway at the back of the manor, or bastide, which is French for a country house in Provence. There were three young French men who attended the University of Aix, and three American girls: my sister Pamela Kogen (now an acclaimed San Francisco artist), Lynn (from Seattle), and me.
The proprietaire (our landlord) was Chantal de Kernavanois, a sophisticated divorcée who lived in the main quarters with her three children: Violaine (a fashionable pre-teen who I thought was really cool because she wore a swanky designer purse on her wrist), and two boys, Thibault and Thierry.
Madame de Kernavanois forbade us from speaking English and believed that the only way to become proficient in French was to speak the language. I had a facility with the language and could easily pick up vocabulary, pronunciation, the rolling of the R's, and inflections. I also studied it every year in middle school and high school, and then took French language and literature classes at Amherst College. I was glad Madame had this dictum. It would have been so much easier to be in an English-speaking bubble with only Americans. Plus, how would I have ever learned some of the slang?
Whenever she walked the hallway below our quarters, I could smell her perfume wafting upstairs. Chamade, by Guerlain, was green, floral, and slightly woody. Very much the kind of perfume associated with French elegance in the late 1960s and 1970s.
Madame et ses enfants.
(Notice her red nail polish and always smoking a Stuyvesant. This cigarette was way too chère for me. I snuck Gitanes Bleus when no one was looking.)
I remember a cold February day when she invited all of the students down to celebrate my birthday. The dining room was elegant, with large French windows overlooking the expansive front of the house, and embossed wallpaper. The chocolate cake had sugared violets on top. It was quite a way to welcome in my 21st year.
And there was Mardi Gras, when she invited us to down for crêpes. It was in a huge kitchen that looked like a scene from "The Taste of Things (La Passion de Dodin Bouffant)." The boys made delicious crêpes topped with powdered sugar.
I addressed our proprietaire formally as "Madame de Kernavanois." We remained in contact and, after a few years, Madame gave permission to call her "Chantal." Wow, that was something else. Nonetheless, I continued to use vousvoiment (the formal use of "you") to show respect. [Tutoiement, the informal use of "you" is used for friends or peers.]
I remember the exact address of Domaine de Valcros: it is 1255 rue de Valcros, Aix-en-Provence, France, 13100. On this last trip to Aix, Violaine graciously took my husband and me to visit Chantal in a senior residence near Domaine. At 94-years old, she had the same warmth and glow in her eyes. (More to follow . . .)