Lock and Key
If you're going to sail down the Canal Du Midi , first, fill a jar with coins. I'd say about 40 Euro in two-bit pieces. The canal connects the Mediterranean to the Aude river close to the French coast with Spain, barely keeping both bodies of water apart from each other using a series of locks that halt the flow of the river to the ocean. You get to one end of a lock, open the gates, let the lock drain, get inside, let the lock fill and come out the other side a little higher on the canal. The locks themselves though, they are something else. Each one consists of a pair of big, fuck-off, iron-gates, studded with giant rivets and mottled with rust. The gates, when they open, do it with an explosive hissing, a titanic exhale as they ponderously bench press tons of green, angry water. They close with the the cruel, juddering scream of stressed metal, groaning as they try and keep the restless river from a hungry ocean. Many of them are automated like silent golems waiting for the command to carry out their one, impossible, task. But then, there the ones that aren't.
Lock keepers are an ancient breed. They've been there since the canal was carved and have grown old shepherding boats up and down the canal. The manned locks are opened and closed by turning massive wheel cranks, each revolution moving the gate only scant inches. Lock keepers have veined forearms corded with muscle and faces baked into leather by the sun. Each one can tell you the history of his lock, of the village near it (when the market opens, the bread is fresh and where the beer is coldest), of the river around it (the third bridge upriver, bad bend there), of the rhythms of the river traffic (les espagnoles today and some anglais…that last word with a hint of derision) and whether the fish will bite. They are lock keepers and lore keepers. And they are the reason you have, if you listened, a jar of coins.
When you get to the lock, one of your crew hops onto shore and starts the climb up to the almost-ruin of a french farmhouse by the gate. Before you get there, you'll see an old man leaning on the railing of a rickety wooden bridge across the canal, beckoning gruffly at your boat to get a move on. "Bonjour," you call. "Bonjour," he answers perfunctorily, not taking his eyes off the craft heading for his gates. You keep plodding, feeling your shoes develop a second sole of rich french mud until you get to him. "Ca va?" you ask hopefully, extending a hand. "Oui," he answers, reluctantly turning around and pressing his hand to yours. As his skin touches the cool metal of the two euro coin concealed in your palm, an eyebrow raises, and then, a wide grin breaks over his face, showing teeth as mottled and brown as the lock gates. It's just two Euros. It's not the money, right? It's the fact that you have begun a ritual that most ignore and in doing so, you've shown that you deserve to be welcome on the canal.
"Ca va?" he asks, smiling. "Good water today," he remarks, an opening indicating that his store of knowledge is now, open for business. So you ask - about the weather, about the water, about the town, about how long he's lived here. He answers you in perfunctory snippets as he works the gate wheel and yells at the boat to straighten out. But once you're in the lock, the gates shut behind you and the lock filling from the torrential waterfall coming through the other side, he relaxes visibly. "You must meet the wife," he says, pointing at the farmhouse. Each keeper's wife has a different trade. Each one greets you with a warm bonjour and with little preamble (the lock will fill in 10 minutes at the most) begins pulling out her wares. So, as you sail down the canal, you accrue a motley collection of objects - knitted scarves, gooseberry jams, rosemary flower honey, blood bright peonies for your boat, a cream jug of provencale faience, a carved wooden butter knife - nothing more than a dozen euros in price, each one marking a milestone along the canal.
"But why?" you're asking. "I mean, this elaborate ritual, why bother?" you say, suspecting some touristy penchant for novelty. Sure, there's some of that but really, that's not the big payoff. So you're sailing back down the canal, having gotten as far up as time will allow. Probably you've pushed it a little too far and you are, unfortunately and very uncharacteristically, in a hurry. And ahead , as you get to the lock, is another boat, probably the Germans. "How's the wife?" you yell to the keeper, as you walk up to him wearing your hand knitted scarf. "The jam was superb!", you add. He laughs, and waves the other boat off to the side and beckoning you ahead. There's some accented French hurled at him by some annoyed Germans, which he acknowledges with a condescending wave of his hand. And within 15 minutes you're through the lock.
So yeah. You do it to piss of the Germans. And trust me, there's nothing more French on earth, than that.
Lock keepers are an ancient breed. They've been there since the canal was carved and have grown old shepherding boats up and down the canal. The manned locks are opened and closed by turning massive wheel cranks, each revolution moving the gate only scant inches. Lock keepers have veined forearms corded with muscle and faces baked into leather by the sun. Each one can tell you the history of his lock, of the village near it (when the market opens, the bread is fresh and where the beer is coldest), of the river around it (the third bridge upriver, bad bend there), of the rhythms of the river traffic (les espagnoles today and some anglais…that last word with a hint of derision) and whether the fish will bite. They are lock keepers and lore keepers. And they are the reason you have, if you listened, a jar of coins.
When you get to the lock, one of your crew hops onto shore and starts the climb up to the almost-ruin of a french farmhouse by the gate. Before you get there, you'll see an old man leaning on the railing of a rickety wooden bridge across the canal, beckoning gruffly at your boat to get a move on. "Bonjour," you call. "Bonjour," he answers perfunctorily, not taking his eyes off the craft heading for his gates. You keep plodding, feeling your shoes develop a second sole of rich french mud until you get to him. "Ca va?" you ask hopefully, extending a hand. "Oui," he answers, reluctantly turning around and pressing his hand to yours. As his skin touches the cool metal of the two euro coin concealed in your palm, an eyebrow raises, and then, a wide grin breaks over his face, showing teeth as mottled and brown as the lock gates. It's just two Euros. It's not the money, right? It's the fact that you have begun a ritual that most ignore and in doing so, you've shown that you deserve to be welcome on the canal.
"Ca va?" he asks, smiling. "Good water today," he remarks, an opening indicating that his store of knowledge is now, open for business. So you ask - about the weather, about the water, about the town, about how long he's lived here. He answers you in perfunctory snippets as he works the gate wheel and yells at the boat to straighten out. But once you're in the lock, the gates shut behind you and the lock filling from the torrential waterfall coming through the other side, he relaxes visibly. "You must meet the wife," he says, pointing at the farmhouse. Each keeper's wife has a different trade. Each one greets you with a warm bonjour and with little preamble (the lock will fill in 10 minutes at the most) begins pulling out her wares. So, as you sail down the canal, you accrue a motley collection of objects - knitted scarves, gooseberry jams, rosemary flower honey, blood bright peonies for your boat, a cream jug of provencale faience, a carved wooden butter knife - nothing more than a dozen euros in price, each one marking a milestone along the canal.
"But why?" you're asking. "I mean, this elaborate ritual, why bother?" you say, suspecting some touristy penchant for novelty. Sure, there's some of that but really, that's not the big payoff. So you're sailing back down the canal, having gotten as far up as time will allow. Probably you've pushed it a little too far and you are, unfortunately and very uncharacteristically, in a hurry. And ahead , as you get to the lock, is another boat, probably the Germans. "How's the wife?" you yell to the keeper, as you walk up to him wearing your hand knitted scarf. "The jam was superb!", you add. He laughs, and waves the other boat off to the side and beckoning you ahead. There's some accented French hurled at him by some annoyed Germans, which he acknowledges with a condescending wave of his hand. And within 15 minutes you're through the lock.
So yeah. You do it to piss of the Germans. And trust me, there's nothing more French on earth, than that.