A few days ago Imagine crossed the Pont Canal de Briare, the Briare Canal Bridge over the river Loire. It's often featured in French waterway books, credited to Gustave Eiffel. In fact, only the stonework was Eiffel's - the beautiful 19th century ironwork is Mazoyer's, a canal designer from Nevers.
Now, we've finished the Canal du Briare and moved onto the Canal du Loing, after spending the night in Montargis. The city is called the Venice of the area as it's crisscrossed with small canals with flowered-covered bridges.
And, we crossed back into familiar territory - the area where we first trained with Roger Van Dyken, and the one described in my book in the first chapter "Learning Curve." We revisited the market where on my forty-ninth birthday, we shopped at the tiny village of Châtillon Coligny, its ancient gray stone buildings clinging to the sides of the canal. It was market day, a once-a-week event. The flower stalls brimmed with ruby, ginger and gold: asters, chrysanthemums, dahlias, yarrow and strawflowers. Underneath the tents were housedresses for Mesdames, jeans for kids, lacy underwear for young women and sturdy cotton panties and bras for the more mature figure. Other stalls offered more utilitarian items: vacuum cleaner bags, kitchenware, American music cassettes, mattresses, pillows and linens. Wed all been given an essential food-group to procure: meat, bread, pastries, produce and wine. Id volunteered to roundup cheeses since that form of calcium had always been a favorite with me. When it was my turn in the cheese truck line, the young woman fromagère smiled encouragingly when I wished her, "Bonjour, Madame." "You are English, non?" she said. Jeez, two words out of my mouth and I couldn't fool anyone. Ah well. I told her I was an American, traveling on a bateau, a boat. I recognized some of the cheeses, artfully arranged on grape leaves: wheels of Brie, wedges of Bresse Bleu, circles of Camembert, and molded goat cheese, chèvre. The soft ones oozed in the sun, some had ferns pressed onto their powdery white rinds, while others had veins of indigo running like road maps through the center. When I pointed at a cheese, she cut a slice and I caught the scent of goat, grass, the cellar where it had aged. I let each sliver dissolve in my mouth and tasted the balance of saltiness and sourness, the pleasant tang of mold. She weighed my purchases, and then cut a large chunk of the local sausage. The hand lettered sign next to it read "rosette du porc." "It is a gift for you," she said as she handed me the carefully wrapped package. "Welcome to France, Madame." I thanked her, touched by her generosity to me, a foreigner. This, I thought, was a genuine birthday present. As I walked through the market, seven years later, I looked at the cheese truck and the woman smiled at me. I looked at Paul and he nodded. We both waved back.
