Throughout the Fall of that year, we received numerous communications from our British lady in the Roussillon and finally a “sous-signe prive,” that wonderful pre-sale contract that says you are definitely going to purchase the property. At the time it arrived at my home, we had two French-speaking professors visiting our college, and they agreed to assist me with the language of the documents. So one evening I found myself on my sofa with a Frenchman from Peugeot on one side of me and a Belgian university professor on the other side and together we read through the many-paged document with both of them translating and arguing about the correct word to use until we were all laughing.

We were advised to put our initials on each page, to sign everything with “Lu et approuve” written above our signatures, then get it notarized with as many ribbons and seals as possible, as the French love that sort of formality.   Later, I also had to have our marriage certificate translated into French by a French professor at the university. Nothing could be submitted in English.

Just after Christmas, we headed back to France to take possession of our new apartment in Banyuls. It was a difficult series of flights, with a change in Madrid, where there were several gate changes. Arriving in Barcelona was a chore at that time, as there was only one terminal, with a domestic end and an international end. We arrived from Madrid at the domestic end, but our luggage was at the international end, inside Customs. But the Spanish always have a solution, no matter if it seems correct. We just had to show our luggage tags and enter the Customs “Do Not Enter” exit door! We’d brought along a large trunk full of linens and kitchen items, and that, of course, had to be opened in Customs to be inspected. “Cosas por nuestra apartemiento en Francia,” I tried to articulate. Then a wave of a hand and we were through Customs.

The map from Hertz was very imprecise, so we did our best to drive through Barcelona and up to Gerona and Figueres, before heading to the coast and Port Bou. Up on the top of the cliff between Port Bou and Cerbere was the border control station, a simple cement building that looked like it had been there since long before the war. The Spanish police waved us through, so we proceeded on down the hill on the other side, but a whistle from the French police brought us to a screeching halt! We quickly backed up to the French police who demanded our car papers. I handed them the papers from Hertz, but they wanted the insurance papers. After a thorough and unfruitful search through our papers and looking in the glove compartment, where we saw only an empty folder from a previous renter, we were told to turn around and return to Spain! We stopped to talk with the Spanish police and they were sympathetic, but agreed that we needed the insurance paper. By this time, I could hardly talk, a result of battling bronchitis for the past two weeks. The Spanish police suggested that instead of returning to the airport in Barcelona (a 3 hour drive), we go to the Hertz office at the train station in Girona. I was furious that we couldn’t enter France, but what could we do but comply?

So off we went back down a couple more hours to Girona, stopping for more gas and directions to the train station, and there we found a very nice Hertz agent who actually found the insurance paper at the very bottom of our glove compartment. She advised us that the French police at Port Bou might still not let us cross because they sometimes require original copies, not the carbon copies we had! At her suggestion, we took the autoroute, crossing at Le Boulou, where we got across the border quite easily.

By this time, it was very dark outside. We headed toward Elne, then south along the coast. The streets were decorated with lovely colored lights for Christmas and the New Year, so it was all quite magical as we drove through the coastal villages. We had booked a room in an old hotel in Banyuls, one of the few open during the winter season. There we were led up three flights of stairs on the outside of the hotel to our room. Still weak from bronchitis and suffering from our difficult travels of the last 24 hours, we dragged our bags up all those stairs and collapsed briefly before walking down to a wonderful restaurant on the square, Le Sardinal. There we were very well taken care of with mussel soup, oysters, and homemade noodles, which we were too tired to eat. Thankfully, we were able to enjoy many more wonderful meals at this, our favorite Banyuls restaurant, over the next few years.

 

The following day, we slept late, then arranged to meet the Banyuls realtor, who met us at the bank in Cerbere to arrange our mortgage. After signing whatever paper they put in front of us at the bank, we were whisked off the notaire in Collioure, when we signed a power of attorney document for our British realtor to sign final papers for us later in the spring. But the best part of the day was when we were told that we could take immediate possession of the apartment and spend New Year’s Eve in our new home. First, we needed some furniture!

Purchasing a bed took the usual route of doing anything in those early days. First you go to a furniture store in Port Vendres only to find it has moved to Argeles sur Mer. There you are happy to find the store immediately, only to discover that it is closed for lunch and siesta. So you go for a not very good lunch, have a siesta in the car, and return to the store.   You discover a whole new world of French mattresses and bases (not really box springs), but then discover you cannot exchange money because all the banks are closed, so you have drive up to the train station in Perpignan. But the “Change” there does not reopen until 5 p.m., so you do a little shopping at the department store down the street, return to the “Change,” and finally get back down to the furniture store in Argeles, just before it closes for the day, to arrange delivery of the bed the following Monday. Buying a bed took an entire day.

 

The next day, after a day of cleaning in the apartment and food shopping, we had a fantastic dinner a Le Sardinal that evening: foie gras, turbot, sorbet, pigeonneau, cheese, patisserie. Then we were ready for the bed delivery.

New Year’s Eve was a bright, sunny day, with the tramontane wind blowing its usual force. We continued to fix things in the apartment and spent much time in the hardware store, where the owners were very kind to us. They were out of the fluorescent bulb we needed, but said they’d have some by May for sure! The wife noticed my Icelandic mittens (the tramontane was indeed very cold!). “Those look very warm,” she commented. “Yes,” I replied. “I bought them in Iceland.” “Oh,” she said, “I have family in Iceland!” This was the beginning of another wonderful friendship, which we have cherished for over 30 years.

Our New Year’s Eve meal was onion soup, Catalan salad, Janssen’s Frestelse (a Swedish potato dish we usually have on Christmas Eve), artichokes, pork chops, and Muscat mousse cake. At midnight we opened the champagne and the shutter at the window overlooking the bay, so we could toast the village at midnight. I was so ill that I had to go to bed immediately after our toast. But we’d made it to our new home, we had a bed to sleep on and a trunk to use as a table, and, unbeknownst to us at the time, we had already met our best friends in our village.