Greeting guests

Rodez, the centre of the universe that it is, tends to pull all sorts into its orbit.

Hmmm. Perhaps a better space analogy.

Rodez is a black hole. People that arrive here are never clear on how it happened, and generally find a blank spot in their memory when they try to recall their specific experience crossing the event horizon. Having one’s molecular being simultaneously torn apart and compressed into an infinitesimally small area can play tricks with memory.

But black holes hold such negative connotations, something about their unknown nature and how people feel about the concept of no escape.

Rodez is a lovely place a satisfactory distance from the sun. A bit out of the way geographically and under-serviced from a public transport point of view, but isn’t all of France?

In my time here I have been asked why Rodez, so I explain. I filled in my application form, putting the Toulouse region (Midi-Pyrenees by name) as my number one geographic choice. It was awarded to me, just a part of it that I had never heard of. The questioner smiles, shakes their head and apologizes for my misfortune. They tend to be under 30, the night tends to be Saturday and the atmosphere tends to be Rodez on the weekend, quiet.

Writing this I have just returned from a Sunday afternoon stroll in the countryside, satisfying both physically and sensorially. Lovely part of the world as they say. If there had been a Rodez rugby game this afternoon I would have been at the stadium. Saturdays I visit the well-stocked market and often sip a beer while watching televised rugby at my local pub. The week leaves me time for the gym, for runs, and visits to the local mediatheque for writing, reading and smiling at pretty girls. I’m content with my lot, and try to say as much to anyone who feels the need to rest a hand on my shoulder, look into my eyes and empathize.

But when others come to visit, or simply threaten to do as much, there is a peculiar embarrassment that emerges in my response, and in those expressed by the other assistants. We don’t want to stop people from coming, the more the merrier, but we are compelled to reveal the truth, to be honest about what the visitor should expect. As hosts we fear someone arriving, not knowing the nature of this ancient land, and becoming, gasp!, bored.

A Ruthenois (someone from Rodez) wall of shame emerges as we awkwardly explain.

“Ya...it’s...ummm...kind of slow here sometimes. This is pretty much it actually. Thursday’s a big night, if you’re ever here on a Thursday...” Distant wolf howl. Tumbling tumbleweed. Scene closes.

This is not a complaint of a slow life, one that has engendered a walking and book trading culture amongst the assistants, but an interested observation on human reaction to being a 21st century youth living a quiet, semi-rural life in a, shall we say, less-trafficked part of France.

Us young’ns are meant to be out caterwauling, drinking and carousing, causing mischief and avoiding pregnancy, something I am pleased to say I have avoided both absolutely and completely. Surely from time to time a hint of debauchery does insert itself into our lives, but nothing compared to the ‘assistant life’ that exists in larger urban centres. Bunch of drunks and sluts don’cha know?

Let’s just say the Ruthenois assistants have adopted a geared down way of being.

Other assistants here have the additional distractions of television and the internet and still crave a bit more action than a periodic perambulation provides, so I can’t claim a universal monkish community has sprung up. By this point, however, we are all at least familiar with life here, if not totally at peace with it.

It is this familiarity we feel the need to impart when the outlander arrives.

We’re in a really nice place, so there’s no need for pity, but you should prepare yourself. Take a deep breath and, well, keep on breathing until you find something else to do.