Le Sud de France 5.2: Me and My Magic Black Hat

N'est pas un chapeau noir!

Sebastian is a big guy like me, six foot tall and a bit on the chunky side. I met him at a party, where he lumbered in wearing a black “gardien” hat and carrying a guitar case. I had been asked to bring my guitar and seeing him, I realized that he was the other musician for the night. So I went up to him, and standing there eye to eye, introduced myself and said “C’est un beau chapeau.” He nodded slightly and said, “D’accord.”

Now I am not a hat guy. Never wore baseball caps or fedoras, certainly wouldn’t be caught "morte" in a beret on a bet. Nevertheless, the Midi spring was upon us and the sun was already bright and hard. Since I don’t like to wear sunglasses--they interfere with my photography-- a hat with a brim had possibilities; and there was something about Sebastian's that caught my fancy.

Cody's Coming!

A while ago, I wrote about Buffalo Bill and his Wild West Show getting stranded here in France by a terrible winter storm. They ended up wintering about 60 miles from us in the Camargue, the beautiful, marshy Rhone delta that's full of flaming pink flamingos, big black bulls, and wild white horses. It’s the traditional home of the gardiens—French cattle ranchers--and of French gypsies.

During Bill’s sojourn, the gardiens fell in love with the cowboys--mad, passionate male love. They admired the Americans skills at ropin’, ridin’, and shootin' and soon, they were trying to be just like them. The cowboys, of course, fell hard for the French mademoiselles.  

A mademoiselle Gardien with her black hat.

The gardiens’ embrace of all things cowboy is still evident  in the Western tack shops of the Camargue, in town like Les Saintes- Maries-de-la-Mer where they sell American riding saddles, cowboy shirts (although made with colorful Provençal fabrics) and gardien hats. Sebastian is from the Camargue--he’s a French-Spaniard—so naturally, he wears a gardien hat modeled on the American cowboy’s Stetson.

Thinking about his hat, I knew that I needed one. Somehow, it just felt right. Unlike a beret, the gardien nicely expresses an American heritage with a French flair. It would make me stand out as an American who living here. C’est parfait!

Lee's the one

I asked Sebastian where I could get a hat locally and he directed me the Pézenas Saturday market where three days later, I stood in front of a stall full of rain caps, deerslayers, fedoras, flat caps, and berets. I spotted the “gardiens” in a in all sorts of sizes and colors and with a variety of decorative bands. I rummaged through the stack looking for a hat, in unknown territory, relying on “bon chance” to find me the right one.

I tried on a few and then picked up one that seemed a little different from the rest. I put it on and it fit as if it had been born on my head. It looked cool and rakish, making me feel a bit edgy, like Lee Van Cleef on his way to a shootout with Clint Eastwood. 

I bought the hat and strolled home through the market, little suspecting how the hat was going to change my life.

Later that day, I stopped at a supermarket to get some things for dinner and  I entered the store in my black gardien expecting to get a lot of stares. I usually do, as I am taller and bigger than most of the local French folk. However, no one even glanced at me. I walked passed them and they stared right through me. I had become invisible.

At the meat counter, when I asked for a 200-gram slice of dry sausage, the woman at the counter nodded and said, “Une pièce?” “Oui.” I replied. Now, usually when I speak French, people are polite but I can see them wince or cross their eyes at my pronunciation. Sometimes they’ll politely repeat what I said but say it correctly. This time there was no eye crossing and before I knew it, the woman handed me my sausage and I was off.

The Hotel Lacoste

That evening, we went to a gallery opening and I parked in a municipal lot in Pézenas. I went to pay for a time ticket and was about to put money in the machine when a voice behind me rang out, “Monsieur, attendez!”

I turned to see a forty-something brunette in a Mercedes waving her arm at me. In her hand was a piece of paper. It turned out to be her unexpired parking ticket, which she was giving me to use. I took it, she smiled, I smiled and she drove off. Was this luck, I wondered, or the work of the hat?

The opening was in Hótel de Lacoste, one of the oldest buildings in Pézenas and the site of newly discovered ritual baths, once used by Jews during the Renaissance. The gallery itself-- Galerie Anne Cros--is an airy modern space with large windows that overlook a courtyard and gardens.

A black beret--boring

Climbing a long curved stairway, we entered the gallery where were immediately surrounded by a curious crowd. The gallery owner Mme.Cros came over and introduced herself as the gallery's co-owner joined us, vigorously shaking my hand. The two of them chatted us up like long lost relations. When they turned to talk to others, new people came over and struck up conversations. In fact, people came over all evening and several  made a point of praising my hat.

Later looking around the gallery I noticed another man wearing a black hat and beyond him a man with a straw hat and beyond him another with a beret. However, no one seemed interested in them. Very curious.

The show was an exhibition of paintings by a French artist, Christine Trouillet. Her work is delightful with a strong use of color and the blending of abstract and representational elements. I really liked her work, as did the other opening attendees. 

When Christine got to the gallery, I corralled her for a few photos for this blog. In my fine French black gardien hat, I naturally had the authority to do that.

Christine Trouillet

Moi et mon chapeau noir.

Today my black hat and I are still getting to know each other.

It’s finding its way around my head and practicing it’s grip to prevent flying off in the  winds that roar through the Herault.

In fact, while I was adjusting it I walked by our café and Therese the owner waved at me and shouted, “Eh, Steve! Mr.Cool. OK!”


Clearly, the hat makes the man.

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