Tina's Café

I learned a new word: Anatopism. I have heard of anachronisms, but never of anatopisms - Something that's out of its proper place. Last night, I was taken to one.

- You were asking about the Toulouse accent?

I had been asking.

- Here you go. She's from Toulouse. T'es pas Toulousaine? Baptiste asked her in French. He (meaning me) was asking about the difference between the Toulouse accent and the Paris accent.
- Okay. The différence, she started, is... ...say "bread", she instructed Baptiste.
- Pain, said he, using the typical nasal vowel. Paa.
- Pain, she countered, making a sound much closer to the English word "pain."

That cleared that up, although it was a little bit strange to hear a Toulouse accent on a girl in Meschers. Baptiste and I had come down to Meschers from Royan to play guitar and ukulele in an American bar. The bar, called Tina's Café, was hidden in the corner of a beach that was itself hidden among chalk cliffs in the Gironde Estuary, an almost comically idyllic place for a delightfully ramshackle and charming bar/buffet/juke joint. I had seen plenty of places like it in North Florida, but never in France. It took me back, and it made me feel at home in a way that, mercifully, did not exacerbate the homesickness I've been feeling lately. It was, simply, wonderful to see so many things that I had not seen in a long time. It was wonderful and strange to see a Home Depot apron on the waitress with the strong Toulouse accent. It made me think of my father, and how much I hated it when he would drag me through that god-forsaken store. Souvenirs from America were everywhere. The definition of a "Florida Cracker" in the bathroom made me swell with statal pride (I meet the criteria, apparently, though I wouldn't call myself a Florida Cracker), and there was a sticker on the door warning me and others off of treating Texas in any way that could be considered dérangeant.

Baptiste introduced me to Tina in French, and we continued that way. It's always weird to meet a fellow countryperson and speak to him or her in what is a second language for both of you, but I was unwilling to switch to English before she did. As a foreigner in France trying to make your French work for you, you learn to hate it when you speak French to someone and they hear your accent and switch to English. Especially when their English is much poorer than your French.

Having met Tina, Baptiste and I clicked our beer glasses together and planned our set. Moving to an adjacent room in the bar, and sheltered somewhat from the sound of old blues standards pouring from the establishment's speakers, we rehearsed. Briefly. Then Baptiste went to find Wayne, the music guy for  Tina's. He told Wayne that we were ready. We had not actually played a song through in its entirety, but such things to tend to work themselves. One way or another, you reach the end of the song.

I don't know why this is... I'm fairly shy, I guess... but I don't really suffer from stage fright. I'm not front-man material, but if I find myself in front of an audience, I don't really get nervous.

When we reached the end of our set, someone shouted for one more song. Wayne arched his eyebrows and shrugged in the way that says "Why the hell not? If you guys want to, it's way more than cool with me". We played "I Will Survive". Started slow, sped up and dropped into a mariachi groove, slowed down. I thought the song was over until Baptiste, who was singing while I played the guitar, waved and clapped me into a bizarre, syncopated coda that would not have been out of place at some kid's Bar Mitzvah. Good fun, a set "sans prétension" as Baptiste described it. I would chalk up the lack of pretension to the improvised nature of the set more than to any artistic or aesthetic choice on our part, but... six of one...

We sat with Molly and Kim, a couple of gals from Nashville and New Orleans, respectively. Molly was, I gather, a session fiddle player who was playing for Kim, who was in the middle of a European tour with her honky tonk band. They complimented Baptiste and I on our set, and I was taken aback when Molly told me that I had kind of a French accent. Later on, when the girls were scheduled to go on stage and play before their band had arrived, I stepped in on guitar - one of the highlights of my evening.

Some of my coworkers had showed up to watch me play, and I went and sat with them. We discussed work politics, and I remembered abruptly that I had a bag of salad in my backpack, which I then produced and dug into, to the amusement of everyone at the table.

Before I left, I played a song with Tina, the eponymous owner of the café. She asked me if I knew this and that song, which I invariably didn't. In the end, she said "We'll just make something up" and announced it to the audience. So, as I strummed the twelve bar blues in an easy swing rhythm, Tina improvised a song about her life. Afterward, she asked me if I was on vacation. I wasn't, I told her.

- I live here, but I'm actually leaving in two weeks or so.

- Oh... well you gotta come down again before you leave. Come by and sit around and have a beer with us... you'll be an honored guest.

I felt honored, and I felt grateful to have found a piece of home in such an unlikely place.