La Côte St. André

L'automne (luh tohm: Fall) seems to have arrived overnight in the small French village of La Côte St. André (la coht sah-nt ahn-drey: the coast of Saint Andrew), the place I'm calling home for the next several months.  What used to be a humid haze sitting over the valley everyday has developed into a crisp, clear blue as threatening storm clouds in the distance make their way to Grenoble a few miles down the road.  And the locals, including myself, have retreated indoors, trying desperately to come to terms with the fact that, for the next seven months, it will be impossible to leave the house without thermal underwear, scarf, and anorak.

Despite the biting cold, there  are some perks to living in La Côte, aside from the fact that even though the town only has 5,000 inhabitants, there are still six bars and four bakeries.  From one window in my bedroom, for example, I can see the steeple and hear the bells ringing in the hour of a church that has been in town since the 1300s.  La Côte St. André might be a sleepy little town, but at least it's been a sleepy little town since le Moyen Âge (leh moy-ehn ah-jh: middle ages).  From my other bedroom window I can see the Alps shooting up in the not-so-distant east, and if I'm feeling deranged enough I could, theoretically, wake up and watch beautiful sunrises creeping over the mountains every morning.  And right from the comfort of my rent-controlled apartment no less!

But perhaps it's the people in this town that, despite wanting to pluck my eyes out from boredom, still endear me to this place.  The other night, for example, I was sitting in one of the randomly-placed benches in town when a car pulled up in front of me and paused for several minutes.  As I decided to start reaching for my pepper spray, the driver--a high school rap artist wannabe-- ran out and clipped some roses from the hillside, jolted back into his car and sped off to what could only be his acne and teenage angst-ridden French lover down the lane.  Then of course there's the fact that the famous chocolate museum in town offers free samples of all their goods, and every time I walk into the corner grocery store a few blocks away the owner greets me like we're long lost friends.

I have to admit, sometimes, when I'm stuck indoors at 7:00 at night, watching dubbed episodes of The Family Guy and French soap operas, I can't help but wonder what excitement I'm missing out on by not making the move to Grenoble.  But part of me knows I made the right choice. Ok, sure, this town might not have the excitement of a grande ville (grahn-d vee-l: city), but I have a feeling I have a much better shot at making my way into the hearts of the French people here.