Excuse me sir, that is an expensive car…
At least that’s what The Professor told me as he practically flung himself between it and my slowly advancing rental car. You would have thought I was about to run over his Faberge egg.
But let me back up.
We were in Caunes-Minervois for a month — a hilltop village in the Minervois wine region where the streets were originally designed for donkeys. Seriously. It is one of those ridiculously picturesque towns in southern France. Ancient shutters, cobblestones, stone walls everywhere. The charming alleyways doubling as roads. Barely wide enough for two couples to pass each other, let alone a modern vehicle. You get the picture.
Coming into town, naturally, Google Maps brought us in the wrong way. Because that’s the rule: the prettier the village, the dumber the route.
I was driving a black Citroen. A, full air quotes, SUV that was built for France and D was in a White rental MG. Not the cool old British convertible, mind you. This was the new MG — made in China after they bought the brand name, stuck the badge on a midsize SUV, and gave it the turning radius of the Queen Mary.
I know, two people and a dog, two rental cars? Well, we were starting our fourth month on the road. And let’s just say, we had begun to acquire some life clutter. You know, things we will need when we get to the new house…
Heading down the hill, following the directions with me in the lead I noticed the size of our road ever decreasing. We were now on the kind of route where you're halfway in before you realize you’re committed — mirrors in, knuckles white, and your rental contract hanging in the balance.
I got through, jammed on the emergency brake and jumped out of the car to go back and warn D. She cheerily said “Oh, I think it will fit”. Needless to say, the driver’s side mirror told a different story. But we weren’t stuck.
Because back in Southern California, no one hands luggage through windows. Cats don’t break into your house. Volvos don’t cause diplomatic incidents.
Caunes Minervois has a famous abbey from the 8th century and we would be staying right near it. As we came down the hill, I could see it up ahead and our rental on my left. What I didn’t see was anywhere to park.
I spotted a tiny lot by the church, just down a steep incline from our front door. I did a quick calculation — heat, steep incline, way too much luggage.
So I gave D instructions worthy of a heist movie:
“Go inside, open the street-level window, and wait there. I’m going to pass you the bags through the window, one at a time. You and Sully stay put. After this car’s empty, I’ll go get the other one.”
Worked like a charm. Sully supervised the whole exchange from inside the living room — which, by the way, had the kind of rustic stone-and-beam vibe that makes Americans fantasize about writing novels. Or at least one well-crafted email.
We got settled. The house was beautiful, no yard, but it had a little courtyard off the kitchen. It backed up to a wall of homes like most of old Caunes does. So when the neighbor decided to blast opera at full volume one afternoon, the acoustics were... impressive. Full volume Verdi. Dramatic and Italian.
We didn’t mind. This was their town. We were just visiting.
Later, while calling the owner about a minor issue with the washer, I casually mentioned the Verdi concert next door. “Oh, that’s The Professor,” she said warmly, like that explained everything. Which, in a way, it did.
A few days in, I started noticing that one of the two tiny parking spots in front of our house was permanently occupied by a blue Volvo. The other was a free-for-all — unless you played it right. I played it right. Eventually, that spot became mine. I earned it.
But getting into it required one very specific approach: pull in head-first, nose down the hill, wall to your right. If you tried it in reverse, you'd either destroy your rental or crawl out the passenger side like a contortionist.
So one day, I’m executing my usual approach — slow, careful, easing into the spot like threading a needle. The wall’s an inch from my mirror. The Volvo is an inch from my bumper. Precision work.
And suddenly, The Professor made his dramatic entrance. The door of the house next to ours flies open and out bounds The Professor — full beard, house shoes and mild panic.
“Excuse me, sir! Please be careful!”
I pause, window down. “I am.”
“That is a very expensive car,” he says, gesturing toward the Volvo like it’s an original Monet.
Now in my mind I was thinking about the sign that says “Pay attention to the words coming out of my mouth, not the look on my face.” The words coming out of my mouth were “of course, sorry” the thoughts were “buddy, that’s a five year old volvo”. I nodded politely.
Toward the end of the month, the neighbor’s cat — a regal, territorial beast who had been watching us from across the street like a disapproving landlord — finally made his move. He leapt straight through our open window and into the house.
Sully froze. Just stood there, ears up, frozen in mid-thought like someone had hit pause on his brain. Not a bark. Not a growl. Just pure golden retriever confusion.
The cat did a slow walk through the living room, sniffed a chair, locked eyes with both of us, and left. No explanation. No rush. Just a routine inspection.
And Sully? He checked that window every single day after that. Waiting. Not afraid. Just... curious. Like he knew something new was possible now. Something he hadn’t considered before.
To be fair, we felt the same way.
Because back in Southern California, no one hands luggage through windows. Cats don’t break into your house. Volvos don’t cause diplomatic incidents. And if opera is playing, it’s usually background noise at an overpriced Italian restaurant.
But here, in this tiny hilltop village with its medieval streets and gently crumbling walls, the world was operating by different rules. And we were learning — slowly, hilariously — how to follow them.
That was a special month. We walked Sully through the winding streets daily. Got used to the soprano arias echoing through the stones. Eventually, The Professor and I reached a sort of détente. He’d nod when he saw me now. I’d keep an extra three inches of clearance between his precious Volvo and my rental bumper.
And I’ll say this: if you ever get the chance to stay in Caunes-Minervois, do it. Just maybe don’t bring two cars. Or at least bring a tape measure. And an appreciation for opera.
Why Does Every French Form Need a Utility Bill?
(And why your cell phone bill won’t cut it)
In France, no matter what you’re trying to do — open a bank account, register a car, rent a van from Super U — someone, somewhere, is going to demand a justificatif de domicile. That’s proof of residence, for the uninitiated. Or as I’ve come to call it: the document that controls your entire existence.
Now, you’d think there’d be some flexibility here. I mean, if your name is on a lease, or a phone bill, or even a letter from the tax office, that should be good enough, right?
No. It has to be a utility bill — and not just any utility.
Not your cell phone. Not your internet. Not even water, unless it’s from the right provider. It has to be electricity. Maybe gas. With your exact name, your exact address, and dated within the last three months. Or you’ll be flagged as the American who thinks an image on their iPhone carries the same weight as a mimeographed form, stamped individually on every page.
Renting a van to haul furniture two miles? You’d better bring that EDF bill.
Applying for a driver’s license exchange? Bring the bill.
Joining a local pétanque club? Bring the bill. (Okay, maybe not — but I wouldn’t be surprised.)
I’ve started carrying a printed copy in my glove compartment, just in case. I’m half convinced I’ll be asked for one the next time I order a coffee.
Above is a translated image from our electric companies website. That is deadsmack in the middle of the main customer page.
They don’t trust you live where you say you live. They trust the electric company.
Town to Visit: Lourmarin
If Caunes-Minervois is the charming local band playing in a stone courtyard, Lourmarin is the cool cousin who just got back from Paris and brought olive oil as a gift.
Lourmarin looks like it was designed by a set decorator who said, “Let’s go subtle Provençal, but make it fashionable.” It’s beautiful. Like, almost too beautiful. Picture a château looming casually in the distance, stylish cafés shaded by plane trees, boutique shops with linen shirts that cost more than your cellphone bill.
We came on a Friday, market day, and the place was buzzing. Not chaotic, just… softly alive. Bread stalls, linen aprons, baskets, olives, soap, jazz. The full South of France starter pack.
And yes, there was a guy playing guitar in front of a vine-covered café like it was his job. Because apparently, it was his job.
Here’s the thing: Lourmarin is touristy, sure. But not in a T-shirt shop and plastic magnet kind of way. More like, “Oh wow, I didn’t know I needed €18 lavender body oil but now I do.”
There’s an actual soul here — even if it’s wearing espadrilles and sipping an frosé. It’s lively but never pushy. The kind of town that says, “You can try to be productive, or you can have another café gourmand and just be grateful you’re here.”
Would I go back? Absolutely. We have been twice now. But next time I’m bringing a wide-brimmed hat, looser pants, and just enough cash to pretend I’m someone who lives there part-time.
One French Quirk
They stock the toppings, but not the food.
You can find Cholula at most French grocery stores. Real maple syrup, too. But good luck finding a taco that isn’t filled with ground beef, shredded lettuce, and french fries. Or pancakes. Pancakes are basically a myth.
If you ask a French person — especially outside the south — why they don’t eat gazpacho, they’ll tell you it’s too spicy.
We’re talking about gazpacho.
Cold tomato soup.
Too spicy.
This is a country where the average palate tops out at black pepper.
So it really makes you wonder who’s buying all the hot sauce… and what in God’s name they’re putting it on.
You get the sense the buyers went to New York once, saw a lot of people eating brunch, and came home with a shipment of maple syrup and hot sauce — but no idea what they’re for.
Until next time, savor the chaos.
Thanks for reading. If you’re enjoying the stories and want to help us grow, forward this to someone who dreams of moving to France — or at least wants to laugh at someone who already did.
Thanks for being here.
Paul
Responses