Locked Out by Jane Tolbert

For generations, we have buried keys in the garden or flower pots or under statuary or left them with a neighbor. Fear of being locked out of our house runs in my family.

In the old days, you could always shimmy up a gutter or a vine. In middle-class apartments, someone always answered the interphone and buzzed you inside the main entrance. If you lived in more fashionable apartments, you could rely on a concierge.

The concierge has become obsolete or replaced by a system of gates and doors requiring security keys and codes. Hiding a key in the garden is also a thing of the past. These neatly manicured lawns behind walls and gates preclude burying a key (and those security keys with indentations cost les yeux de la tête to duplicate).

It was not my choice to live in a gated community. But from January through April 2009, this was the only place I could find in the South of France. For someone like me who fears getting locked out, this apartment was the stuff of nightmares. The main gate for pedestrians had an access code (1-2-3-4#) and another for the external set of glass doors to my building (4-3-2-1#). In this gated residence in which most units were still unoccupied, I assumed there would be a 24-hour guard or at least a concierge. Au contraire. No one to call on the interphone. No backup mechanical system in case of electrical failure or if the battery in my remote died. I had a lot to worry about.

Electrical failures did occur--at the main entrance gate (both the pedestrian gate and car entrance), the two apartment main entrance doors (which did fail), and my own apartment door.

In January, my cat Lacey and I moved into our apartment. We were the only living creatures in our 15-unit building. Each time I left, I carried my keys and cell phone. The key to my apartment entrance also opened my apartment and the elevator to the garage. I left a spare set of keys with my daughter, who lived a mere 15-minutes away on foot. And I often left the balcony door open just in case I could climb in.

For a couple months, I did well. I left the apartment and returned without getting locked out but still felt overwhelmed by a slight feeling of trepidation. When the syndic, or governing body, of the units hired a guardian, I felt giddy, “Enfin sauvée.” I had been saved. But Monsieur Christian, homme à tout faire, only worked in the day (excluding Sundays) and returned to his house near Grasse at 7 p.m.

Even with the best of planning, the day came when I got locked out. It was one of those days. . . . The syndic, a collection of men and women with notepads, visited the residential park and issued decrees such as this one:

Nous vous rappelons que he stationnement des véhicules est intérdit sur l’allée de circulation. Residents (meaning me) could no longer park above ground but had to park in the underground parking lot.

But the parking lot had been flooded for two months. So on this day, I grabbed a set of keys, rushed to the basement with a large bag of garbage then went through another set of doors to check the water level in the garage. The doors closed behind me.

When I turned to go back inside, I realized I had taken the wrong set of keys. The elevator door would not open, and my cell phone had no reception. I escaped through the underground parking lot where construction was still under way. And oh miracle, the guardian was still there. He opened the main entrance to the apartment with his master key but apologized for not having a key to my apartment. Fortunately, I had left both the balcony and apartment doors cracked. But I might consider burying a key in the garden of the model apartment. Just in case. . .

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The Quest for the Ideal Cafe Chair by Jane Tolbert

The quest for the idea café chair on this side of the Atlantic took on a new relevance when Margaret and I decided that would be the sine qua non of birthday presents for Mom’s outside terrace. Two issues had to be resolved—what criteria determine the ideal chair and where to find it! The ideal chair would have to be comfortable and carry an aesthetic as well as survive the Florida elements. These chairs were in every home improvement store in France. Surely we could find them in Florida.


For years on my back porch I have used the quintessential, white plastic stacking chair, a panacea for low budgets and the Florida humidity. But although this chair met the criterion of comfort, it was too ordinary for a birthday present. Wrought iron chairs are prevalent in the States. But we are tired of balancing on these small chairs that have ivy tendrils or a floral motif that cuts into our backs. Then, no one wanted heavy furniture with cushions (available at all home improvement stores) that could not be left outside. Finally, Mom is very particular about what goes on her outside terrace.




French café chairs come in a variety of styles. The picturesque but uncomfortable with slats serve as décor only. No one sits in these. At least, not for long. The antique with no slats and peeling paint make for great photo opportunities in a design magazine. Finally, the oh-so-comfortable woven burgundy and tan plastic on a bamboo frame in which I could sit for hours (and often did). Unfortunately, these would become a serious mildew trap in Florida. But the light weight aluminum resisted most elements.




French home improvement stores like Castrorama or LeRoy Merlin offer furniture that is compact given that space is at a premium. In contrast, the American counterparts sell mainly massive patio furniture, which requires a McMansion and storage for capacious cushions.

An aluminum café set represented what we imagined to be the ideal birthday present for Mom! It was light and resisted most elements—rain, humidity and many falling objects. And we figured the aesthetic would meet Mom’s somewhat stringent criteria. But finding such a set presented another challenge. No one seemed to sell aluminum café furniture. We debated shipping them from France, but the expense and my June 2008 experience with a strike in the Marseille port made us hesitate. Margaret searched the Internet, finally locating one place in Alabama that sold these. They were on backorder , the sales department explained. . . .


We missed Mom’s birthday by several months, but six chairs and one table did arrive in time for the nice fall weather. And Mom liked them so much, at the first sign of rain, she dragged her new café set inside to protect it from the Florida elements.