House Hunting
in the South of France

I was meeting Lesley Sleigh, the realtor from Leggett Immobilier, at 10 a.m.  She had properties to show me in Olonzac and La Redorte.  My Francophile friends, Debra and Rachel, accepted my invitation to come along.

The taxi driver showed up at 9:35 a.m. On the ride there, the scenery disappointed me. “Craggy” was the word that popped into my mind.  Where was the lush French countryside that I saw on the train ride from Nice? Still, I decided to keep an open mind about this wine-producing Minervois region. It was February 2022. In winter, places looked gray and barren. Finally, the taxi driver found the address—a gated apartment building in La Redorte. 

“Monsieur, je vous paie plus tard? Sir, I pay you later?” 

The driver nodded, “Oui, oui.”

I spotted a lady walking toward us.

“Lesley? Good morning. I’m so sorry we’re late. Could you please tell the driver where he could pick us up later?”

Lesley spoke to the driver in French. I heard “Café de la Poste.” The agreed pickup time was 2:00 p.m.

After viewing the apartment, we piled into Lesley’s BMW to check out the three properties in Olonzac. We planned to finish by noon, and my friends and I would explore the area on our own. I told Lesley we would like to check out Olonzac’s farmers market. She offered to take us there afterward.

Lesley showed us two apartments and two houses. I liked the first two-bedroom, two-bath apartment in La Redorte—one of 27 units—but the asking price of 164,000 euros was over my budget. 

The owner, a lady from Britain, rents it to tourists. The two homes didn’t appeal to me. They were filled with personal things; the owners hadn’t tidied up. I loved the last property—a two-bedroom, two-bath apartment in a chateau selling for 99,000 euros. I could live in Olonzac if it were accessible by train. This was a deal breaker.

House hunting made us hungry. Olonzac’s Tuesday Market was teeming with fresh fruits and vegetables, meats and cheeses, olive oils, and food stalls. I bought Lesley a socca (an Italian crêpe made of chickpea flour) for lunch and cheese to take home. 

Around 1 p.m., we said goodbye to Lesley. She handed me a folder with information about the properties, then dropped us at the Café de la Poste. A gentleman greeted us with a cheerful, “Bonjour!” as he motioned to a table. Mindful of the pandemic, we welcomed the outdoor seating. The sky remained gray; it was starting to get cold.

“Avez-vous du chocolat chaud ?” Do you have hot chocolate?  

“Oui,” the nice gentleman nodded enthusiastically, looking happy to see us. 

"Avez-vous de wi-fi?”

“Ah, oui.” With a smile, he rattled off the wi-fi address, disappeared inside, and came back with delicious hot chocolate in thick white mugs. He could have been the owner—a stocky, older gentleman with salt and pepper hair and a beard.

By the time we finished our hot chocolate, the wind picked up. All three of us pulled our coats tighter and adjusted our scarves to feel warm. Leaves started to swirl around us, and branches overhead began to creak; we headed indoors to wait for our taxi.  

Rachel, the wine aficionado, ordered a local wine, while Debra ordered beer sans alcool (without alcohol). None for me. I was observing the employees at the bar enjoying hors d’oeuvres with their drinks. 

The taxi arrived. We said goodbye to the gentleman/owner. He said, “Au revoir. Merci,” with a smile that seemed to emanate from a warm part of his heart.

~ Nida Spalding