Walked: 42Km
Yesterday in the morning I left my tea seeping in the kitchen next to the unopened half-liter of milk I had bought the day before to drink with my coffee (but there was no coffee). When I came back, I found another milk container next to mine. A French lady motioned to me to drink it so that I did not have to open mine. I shrugged: I was planning on drinking it anyways, but I said merci and put the half of liter of milk in my backpack.
The way proved to be hot and grueling, with no water fountains along the way. I stole grapes from the vineyards that did little to satisfy my thirst. They were exceedingly sweet, meant for wine—with seeds and tough skin. I sat under a large tree to rest and I saw the carton of milk in one of the side pockets of my backpack. I had forgotten about it! Never in the history of mankind has full milk satisfied thirst so thoroughly (ok, I admit this highly unlikely, yet it can't be proved). I then slipped into a stupor and I was only aroused when the sun moved the shadow it was projecting on to the tree, nudging me back to walk.
I arrived so tired to the gite I had no headspace to write my entry. I showered and went to bed. In the morning the hospitalero was already up when I went into the kitchen to write my entry. He was making conversation as I was trying to write. This has happened to me dozens of times and I'm inevitably annoyed, but this time I was quick to recognize that my entry was not as important as having a conversation with the man. It was inconsequential conversation—where do you live, when are you going back home, what ways have you walked, and such.
When I came out of the gite I found a brasserie which was already open, and sat down for a café au lait to write the entry I'm writing at this moment. A conclusion had been formulating as I was walking here: all the times I've been annoyed at people speaking to me while typing on my laptop have been unjustified. I have plenty of time to be with myself and write whatever I want, I only have a limited time with each person I'm meeting along the way. Most of the time, when someone speaks to me as I'm writing, I should shut the screen and make the conversation worthwhile.
I'm finding it enjoyable to struggle with French. It used to embarrass me so much I would speak in English without even trying. Nobody has been rude to me, as legends about France say. If you struggle with your French people will listen patiently, and I've found many of them have quite good English if you give up. Yesterday at the supermarket I said excuse moi, je... need a bag, necesito una bolsa motioning with both hands as if I was holding the handles ahhh un sac!, oui oui trés bien! These simple acts of communication give me so much pleasure, I regret not trying harder when I lived in Montreal. French is part of my heritage and I wish one day I will be able to at least have a basic conversation.