The Allure of Camarat

I suppose I’ve always been like this. I remember it vaguely; France always had my heart. It’s like I can hear it calling me. I guess the yearning to respond was just never this strong before, now that I’ve spent six months living a dream.

I miss it so much.
I miss walking outside the sunroom, sprawling out on our beloved “nappy chairs” with a book, looking at the pearl-white sailboat-spotted saphire sea beyond layers of emerald trees.
I long to drive my scooter along those windy scenic roads only to come back to find my beautiful, floppy, loving dog waiting in the driveway for my return.
I miss opening up a bottle of rosé to enjoy at that old wooden table stretched out in the dining room, surrounded by mismatching chairs looking as if they belong in a dollhouse.
I miss the feel of the orange clay tiles under my feet.
I miss the promenade of Saint Tropez, or exploring the quaint, turning cobblestone streets of Ramatuelle.
I wish I could see the antique chairs surrounding the fireplace table topped with a full bouquet of sunflowers.
I miss the food and the language.

Now I have a job that consumers my life. I spend some 4 hours each day commuting, plus 9 in the office. I even have work to do on the weekends and holidays; news keeps getting printed, you know?

Will I ever be able to escape again?

When can I run away, hide again in those beautiful Camarat walls?


Discovering this idyllic place, we find ourselves filled with a yearning to linger here, where time stands still and beauty overwhelms.

Merde - n.- shit

I love Barnes & Noble – not because I’m huge into reading or anything… but because I’m big into knickknacks. And that store has so much stuff. Greeting cards, photo albums, board games, those cool little mini-kits and boxes of fun, and my favorite – empty journals. To me there’s something so beautiful, so inviting, about a blank page. My favorite is the leather ones; they even smell like writing. Every time I go I spend forever running my fingers over suede, leather, cardboard journals, wondering what adventures I could put inside of them, suddenly inspired to write my own book on those perfectly straight empty lines.

I also do love books. Since my experience of doing nothing in France, I’ve become an avid reader – breezing through novel after novel, bent on filling my brain with the intellect and/or hilarity of others. Kurt Vonnegut will always be my favorite author, but Harry Potter was fun to read – and Calvino and Sartre are defiantly intriguing. But that’s all beside the point.

While visiting a friend in Amherst, I spent a considerable amount of time browsing the Travel section of her local Barnes & Nobles. I had recently returned from France and I missed it. The books before me were shocking. Truth is, tons of people do what I did – pick up and go, make a life for themselves from scratch in other countries they have no clue about. Flipping through the pages of that section, I realized many move to France and loads specifically lost (and found) themselves in Provence, including all the tiny towns surrounding my Ramatuelle. As I sampled the pages of these novels I realized that these people wrote my book. My story is just like these.

Being a Gemini I quickly delved into two contradictory thoughts. First: these people wrote and published my story, which clearly means that I could easily compose my own version and it would sell too. Second: these people wrote and published my story, which clearly means that they beat me to it and therefore took up the market for books about young, foolish people moving to another part of the world. So what did I do? I bought one. The book I chose, A Year in the Merde, was written by a young man who moved to Paris and had to endure all the crazy stereotypes of the French that are, in fact, quite true. His first few pages caused me to literally laugh out loud right there in the middle of the store. I think my writing style is alike his… and he sold his story…

I bought a bookmark to match (a nice golden one with Emerson’s quote, “Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you” inlaid in white) and jumped in. Of course, I’m now through chapter two and beginning to learn – through his eyes – what Paris is like in late November. The book’s really not that good. But it does take me back to a place I once was, not too long ago…


(sigh)

One Month Later

I've been back in this country for exactly one month and that calls for a moment of reflection.

Life is so different here, the culture so much less appealing than the Meditteranean, and yet I've been completely sucked back into the rat race and the American way of life. It's not the end of the world; I'm happy here. I was happy there, too.

I miss France.

desire

Last night I watched the bronzed and barefoot Bridgette Bardot in "And God Created Women" parade around the beautiful landscape and village of St. Tropez. I watched her sensual self lie out on Pamplonne, watched her dance on the table in the most seductive and sinful scene of that era, watched the camera pan away from the lustfull beach scenes and instead focus upon Cap Camarat and my lighthouse and my summer residence of le Chene en Croix.

It made me miss France.

So in protest of living in New England instead of the Cote d'Azure, today I ignored the cold wet weather and wore flip flops outside all day long. (And just take a minute to laugh at the name of those wishlisted shoes ; )

Culture Shock

I feel like I’ve been gone for an eternity. So long, in fact, that I feel like a guest in my own home.

Nothing in this once-so-familiar place looks the same. NOTHING. All the rooms are freshly decorated, some repainted, newly arranged. The forks look bizarre. Foreign. The plates are huge and the wine glasses look like crystal I’ve never set eyes on before in my life. Cleaning up the kitchen surprised me; all the appliances are so sleek, clean, modern. The inside of the dishwasher shines. Since when do kitchen appliances shine? Weird.

Even the family dog looks like something completely new. Her features are so sharp and I swear she shrunk. I can fit her whole face in my hand. Obviously this is because I’m so used to my giant and have not seen Cloey since May. But I fed them both last night and swore I was going crazy – over exhausted from the trip maybe. The coquettes – called dry dog food here – were miniscule. Even the canned dog food was bizarre – itty bitty slices of meat. I burst out laughing. I just couldn’t help it… this is weird.

It was weirder going shopping today. I walked through the aisles formulating the questions I needed answered in French, forgetting that the employees here speak English. You get the point. It’s difficult for me to adjust back here, which is odd considering this is home. This should be the place I slide so easily back into. Honestly, it was easier for me to adjust to France than its been to adjust back to here…

Just because it's funny:

Homeland Security? What?

I decided I've lost faith in the system. Seriously - taking Tequila home was ridiculously easy... even in the States.

No one asked to see a single piece of paper for Tequila. No one cared about whether she had a rabies shot or not. No one bothered to ask if she was stuffed with drugs or anything. Mostly people just peeked in the cage to see what beast was crying so loudly. And as I wheeled her away from the baggage claim I just thought to myself: "Why the hell did I bother stressing so much and paying so much money to get all that paperwork and physicals and vaccinations she clearly didn't need?"

The customs man did stop me, pull me aside as I was leaving, but not because of the dog. No one xrayed any of my belongings. But I had checked "I brought back food" on my customs form and they were terrified it was meat or cheese or fruit. When I told them by "food" I meant chocolate, madelines, wine, olive oil and herbs - he laughed. Seriously - the man laughed at me. "That's not food!" and he took a big black marker, crossed off my little "yes" and said, "Did you bring home any meat?" I had chekced "yes" for that because "meat" was in the same category as "animals" and - oh yea - I had a dog. When I explained that to him, he just shook his head again and - without even a glance at Tequila - dismissed me.

Ridiculous.

Get Ready Guys:

I'm back

Rentre - v. to return (to one’s home)

I can’t believe how easy that was.

I’m now on the plane, watching the vast, open, flat land of Canada stretch to the horizon. I’m too overwhelmed with relief - and too shocked that it's over - to be excited. Tequila and I are safe; sooner rather than later I’ll be in the loving care of family.

Honestly –it’s all blur. An adventure that passed too quickly for my mind to keep up. Last thing I knew, I was awoken in the middle of the night at Tony’s house. Before I knew it, I was at the check-in counter in Nice. Somehow I ended up in Paris and by the time I realized how to get from Terminal 2F Arrivals to Terminal 2A Departures, I was on a plane home, my beautiful dog anxiously awaiting in the belly of that metal beast.

I just want to say one thing: the movie is Fever Pitch. What better way to prepare for Boston than to watch such a fun film, based in that fantastic down, focusing on my fanatic baseball team! Haha

Next time I write… I’ll be home.

Revenir - v. to come back

The city was still sleeping when we descended from the sky. The lights of Paris sparkled amongst the blankness of early morning, much like the starts in the night sky. All I could think about was Tequila… wonder if she’s crying in her cage below.

We were early. Circling the city in preparation for landing, the blazing red sun began to rise on Earth, lighting up the city. Paris is beautiful. I have such fond feelings for Paris – especially know that I really know my family who lives there. I smiled thinking of my memories made there last May… how long ago that feels. Admiring the ancient bridges crossing the Seine, I thought about my old friend and boss, Chef Pino. He told me Paris was disgusting – an awful city. I remember getting so angry at him for that; looking down, I remember always loving Paris. But now that I think about it, I think I’ve just always loved France… and all of it.

It’s odd to be back here and have so many people I’d love to see so close, yet know that I can’t see them. Tequila and I are hiding in the back corner of McDonalds. She’s precious and doing remarkably well – still sniffing out stray fries despite the drugs. I’ve met some really sweet people here who have actually taken the time to help; don’t be silly, none of these people worked for Air France.

I feel terribly for her, though. Tequila looks like shit. Her eyes are drooping so low I fear that her bloodshot eyeballs may fall out. I nearly cry every time she’s due for a pill. But she’s sweet, lying here like a good dog, cuddled up against my feet. She’s mostly stopped crying in her cage, probably gotten used to it. Either that or she’s realized that when she shuts up I feed her saucison…

I arrived at the check-in desk four hours early like they told me when I called both times. Guess what the lady told me as I showed her my ticket? “You know, you’re really too early.”

Thanks.

But she took my bags and Tequila’s cage and now we’re stretching our legs, getting some fresh air. Only two hours to kill…

I just checked the weather in the Côte d’Azur. It’s raining in St. Tropez, my little city is crying because I’ve gone…

Retourner - v. to return

For not traveling by plane at all since my arrival last spring, Nice Airport is an awfully familiar place. But returning to NCE this time was different; instead of dropping someone off, I was the one being dropped off.

Thank God for Tony. I know I’ve said it a million times, but he has been an amazing help to me and a great friend. At 3:30 in the morning we were in the van and driving the empty dark roads to Nice. 5am, he’s got me a trolly and parked the car, pushing the dog and one bag while I drag another. 5:15, he’s telling me that all the people in the airport don’t hate me just because my dog is whining and barking consistently at the top of her lungs. She hated the drugs. 5:30 we’re at the counter, I’m safe, and he’s saying goodbye. “See you in Boston!”

I was thrilled to have such a nice man check me in. He was friendly, laughing, complimenting my French but still willing to speak English when I panicked. “Relax!” he told me; even though Tequila had stopped being noisy, I was still a mess. This is stressful, man. (Not to mention the people checking in beside me had a perfectly well behaved dog curled up in his crate, not making a sound…) My friend behind the counter checked me in and even promised to put all my bags through to Boston. “That would be incredible!” I beamed, so excited I was tempted to jump the counter and kiss him.

“I’ll even put the dog all the way through, too” and he printed out a big green sticker that read the oh-so-familiar & comforting BOS.

“Oh no you won’t,” she said. I looked to my left where an awfully stern looking blond sat down. She went along doing her business, working with an English client, chastising my friend in French. She talked about us – myself and the woman in front of her – like we weren’t even there. Probably assumed we didn’t speak French.

I didn’t love her, but I wasn’t ready to hate her… yet. I could handle having my bags checked through and only dealing with Tequila in Paris. That was, in fact, how I preferred it.

I moved on, sitting with Tequila and giving her lots of loving (and water, and one more drug). “Time to go,” another man told me in French. “You can’t miss your plane!” I looked at my watch. 6:05am; I’d be boarding soon.

I gave her one last kiss goodbye (“No crying!” he said “From either of you!”) and rushed off to scan my bags. It went smoothly; I was so happy to have some burdon lifted that I radiated joy – making all the security guards laugh at my crazy, whimsical antics. I found my gate, sat down, and called Tony to thank him properly.

“I’m so relieved. I only have to deal with Tequila in Paris… and then I’m home!”

No sooner had I hung up the phone, expressing my relief, did the overhead speaker come on. “Could passenger Catherine Michel please come to the AirFrance counter?” I had no idea how bizarre it felt to have you name called over one of those things… especially when it’s in a foreign language.

A very serious woman frowned at me. Turns out the stern lady beside the guy who checked me in had ratted on us (bitch); now I had to run back outside, go to the ticket agency to pay yet ANOTHER 80€ charge, recheck my luggage, and go through security again – all before my plane stopped boarding at 6:30. No f---in way.

I hate Air France. This is the stuff that they make you do. Even though I had called to make sure I didn’t have to do all this stuff.

But alas, I survived – somehow. I was near tears the whole time, chatting in French and begging anyone & everyone for help. I’m not a crier, but something about traveling… it always seems to bring me to tears. Regardless, I am here on a plane heading to Paris. Again.

I’ve never taken off during le reveille du soleil before. To rise with the sun - it’s like being caught in a giant rainbow, a dome of colors. Where the sea of dark gray clouds meets the horizon, molten red melts into bright orange, which quickly fades into a sunflower yellow. Above this, surrounding the airplane in the dome of the sky, is a lime green that disappears into an azure blue, which becomes aqua, which is finally swallowed by the navy hanging above. It’s beautiful. Figures, the first time I don’t have a camera.

Before we breached the clouds, I watched the tiny lights of my beloved Côte d’Azur disappear into the darkness. The lighthouse of Antibes flickered methodically; I thought of all the nights sitting at the view, admiring the skies, seeing that lighthouse. Then a thought struck me: maybe, if I’m so close to Antibes, I can sneak one last glimpse of home – of Chez Michel. I searched the pitch black of early morning for my lighthouse, my beacon of home, the signal I used all summer as a comfort that le Chêne en Croix was never far away… But the plane rose to quickly and we lost ourselves in this beautiful morning.

I’ll tell you the one good thing about Air France, though: the food sure is better. LOVE this petit pain au chocolat…

Sortir - v. to go out

Run run run! It’s been an evening of socializing after a busy day of chores. I adore the Combas, and to see them, have some wine, say goodbye – it was wonderful. I’ll miss them. It may seem odd seeing how little I know them, but they were like my family here – in that they where the guiding, consistent, responsible presences in my life – when my own family was so far away. I always knew they were there if I needed them and whenever I was in trouble or needed help – they were the first I’d call. Always.

Went down to L’Esquinade too, just as the last of them were leaving for the day. I had to return the scale I borrowed – the one that relieved so much anxiety when it read that each bag was in fact under 20 kilos. Peace out, beach.

I rushed home just in time to greet Tony. He helped me finish my household chores, pack the van, lock up. Down the windy road we went – the route du phare that I could now, in fact, drive with my eyes closed, for I know it like the back of my hand! ;-) We took the background to Ramatuelle, which slept so early, silent in the off season. I chatted with some old French townies sitting in the middle of the village, waved at some of my regulars from Ptit Club. And then we had one of the worst dinners I’ve had in a while… but who cares – leaving the restaurant and walking up those cobblestone streets towards the quaint little church – I just love it. Tony put it perfectly; Ramatuelle is sweet.

Now Tequila and I are back in a familiar place, though not our home. Sitting in Tony’s living room, it may as well me our week spent here in July… just cooler. We’re all curled up, finishing off a McDonald’s flurry, watching rubbish on TV. It’s just after 10 and we’re all exhausted. Bedtime is in the not-so-distant future.

I don’t believe it’s my last night. I can’t imagine sleeping in Mendon tomorrow. I cannot wait to see my friends & family.

Partir - v. to leave

Today is my last day in paradise.

After a whirlwind of a weekend, that’s actually ok. I’m happy; I’ve done most of the things I wanted to. I will finish up, enjoy today.

Today is Tuesday. The market’s in St. Tropez. I love the market.

Tony offered to go with me, but I politely declined. To go to the market by oneself allows you to be totally absorbed by the sights, smells, and sounds; completely engulfed by the bright, colorful, Provencal air. With my hands dangling lightly by my sides, I walked up and down the aisles, letting my fingers graze across cashmere, silk, jewelry… I spent much of the morning roaming to all corners of the market, pausing at each table to examine its goods – even though I searched for nothing in particular. Honestly, I don’t even think I brought any cash. I just love the market.

As I emerged from the whirlpool of oranges, yellows, and blues; from the cloud of Provencal French and meat/candy/lavender/soap perfumed air; I thought about how much I love this place. I walked the narrow streets of St. Tropez, unsuccessfully finishing last-minute errands, admiring the pastel painted buildings and the enormous sailboats still docked in the port, their masts disappearing in the fluffy white clouds above. I will miss off-season Tuesdays in town.

Tony and I had paninis and rose on the back of the boat, looking across the water to the harbor front. I thought of all the things I have to do (fight parking tickets, see the vet, go to the bank), all the people I still have to say goodbye to (Z & Alberte, the folks at L’Esquinade), all the things that will make tomorrow suck (departing Nice at 6am on Air France, arriving in Paris and claiming both my disgustingly heavy suitcaseS as well as my dog, checking them all promptly back in at American Air and then - sigh - on a plane for home).

This was an experience of the lifetime. I know I had fantasized about doing this, but I never actually believe it would – or it could – come true. These past few months have been a dream. But look at me: I did it. I survived, I made a life, I (almost) learned French. I passed several fantastic vacations with my family. I’m thrilled I made this decision, that I put off growing up, getting a real job, beginning the rest of my life. This was great. I’ve grown as a person in more ways than I knew I could. I know now that this is the advice I’d give every college grad: before you start working – go out and play!

I've got to get cleaning. Tequila needs a brush, the sheets need to be hung on the line. Tonight, after drinks with the Combas, I'm taking Tony to Au Fil de la Pâte for a thank you gift - he's the one getting out of bed at 3:30 tomorrow morning to drag me to Nice.

This is the last entry from le Chêne en Croix... for now...

Finir - v. to finish

I'm sitting in the giant, open eating room of Chez Michel. Azanor is singing in the background, Tequila is curled up one of the two large doors, her paws pushing against the green, wooden shudders. I love the colors of this place, the way the stairs wind upward, the black metal banister inviting to climb each orange, ceramic step, the impressive piece of Mouni's everyone who visits compliments. The front door is open, the antique looking keys dangling from the lot. Sitting in this old-fashioned chair, I can see the twinkling light of billions of stars high above this mountain. Camarat is beautiful. I'm drinking a glass of red wine, eating a slice of tarte tropezian. A moth is frantically trying to find the night air again. But something's not right. The focus of the room is not on its long, mahogany table or the charred white fireplace. It's not on the flow of the room, or the myriad of antiques. The presence of my suitcases cannot be ignored.

There they are, three enormous black and red bags, bulging at the seams. I can't imagine I won't be charged for excess luggage. My laptop bag and bag pack are full, waiting to be carried on. Tequila's cage looms at the bottom of the stairs, giving her a heart attack as well as taking her favorite napping spot.

At the finish of the CD, the house is eerily silence. It’s my last night sleeping here; this place I have come to call home. Like usual, I’m scared shitless. Tequila’s not allowed out; the sanglier are back in full force. I just killed another hairy beast of a spider – seriously, the size of my hand – by throwing a shoe at it from across the room. I’ve certainly adapted to life here…

I love this place.

The Boat Race

AOL Instant Messenger:
Aunt Sarah (8:51:41): how are you?
Me (8:51:49): great… i'm getting ready to go sailing now
Aunt Sarah (8:52:10): how’s the weather?
Me (8:52:29): it's nice, it'll be prefect for racing with them
Aunt Sarah (8:52:38): wait… you’re going on a boat that is racing?
Me (8:52:42): haha... yep!
Aunt Sarah (8:52:43): YEE HAH!

I couldn’t have put it better myself…


* * *



St. Tropez is a city that sleeps in. Throughout town, hardly anyone stirs earlier than 10. Yes, the fishermen go out at the crack of dawn. Sure, some people will visit the market early two days a week. But, as so many other early days, when I drove through the cobblestone streets of St. Tropez at 9:30 this morning, it felt as though I was the only one awake.


I met Fred for a coffee along the port and he clued me in. Turns out – as usual – much of my information was incorrect. The boat I’d be racing on is Joyant, a 59-foot classic sailing boat. She is owned by Robert McNeil, a wealthy business man with a passion for sailing. She’s a Herreshoff design, which meant nothing to me prior to today, but what it basically means is that this is a famous boat – museum worthy even – in the same design as Mariette, the large, blue Google boat. The sheer extent of this extraordinary opportunity became clear to me as we chatted over espresso. This is what little boys dream of – as well as grown men in boat building or the nautical industry at all. Tony was going to hate me.


Regardless, we met up with the rest of the crew – owner Bob McNeil included - and took a tender all the way to Cogolin where Joyant was docked. I, being nearly entirely ignorant about boats, didn’t know how to thank them. So I brought them two bottles of Club Edna champagne. (They were thrilled – but left if off the boat to keep weight down. We’ll drink it tomorrow night when these guys come over for dinner!) Joyant was restored exactly according to the 1912 plans, so there is no engine within its tiny hull. We were instead towed out to the starting line where the men put the boat together, heaving sails and uncoiling ropes. It was fascinating to watch, curled up on the edge of the wooden classic, bare feet nearly dipping toes in the water. Then, in the faint distance, a gun shot, smoke.


It was a tight race. I slid like a seal across the hull, ducking the ridiculously low bow, trying not to get in the way as we tacked. I shifted my weight accordingly to balance the boat and make the most of the ever-changing wind. It was fantastic, exhilarating. Merilee, who has come in second behind Joyant every other race this week, was only real our competition. (Isn’t it awesome that not only do I get to see the races from the water, not only do I get to even participate in them, but I even get to be on the winning boat? Haha!) We had a rough start – confusion, fumbling, delayed. Things went wrong; the jib didn’t go up as smoothly as hoped, a sail fell in the water and was caught underneath the boat. Just behind Merilee, we watched her carefully, strategically planning how to take her lead. And we did. (When I say “we” I’d like to emphasize that I was doing by duty by hiding underneath the boat at this point… But don’t worry – it didn’t last long. I was actually on the tiny deck rolling around with the crew for most of the race!) Joyant’s crew is far better at coming about, working as a team to switch sails and gain speed. We had a fairly solid lead until the end of Pamplonne (which is where, incidentally, I looked up from the deck and saw Chez Michel glistening orange by the lighthouse, behind the boats with whom we raced!) when she suddenly caught a breeze we could not find. There she was, right on our tail, switching from side to side trying to take her lead back. But we wouldn’t relent.


At the end we took a gamble. Unfortunately, Merilee caught the better side of that risk and one the race by less than 2 boats lengths. It was disappointing, but the crew still won every other day and therefore the overall prize. Yea guys!

We joked that we lost because I was on board and it’s bad luck to bring women on board (haven’t you seen Pirates of the Caribbean?). And actually – women were the theme of the day. Joyant has been followed all week by a very sweet film crew determined to make a new and improved documentary on Herreshoff designs. The question of the day, asked to each member of the crew, was “In your opinion, why are boats so often compared to women? They’re always called “she” and looked after like a lady.” The crews’ answers – albeit hilarious at times – were simply not what Terry (the director) was looking for. “Ok,” she whispered to her camera man while I coiled some rope (do you even know how hard & heavy it is to coil rope?!), “let’s ask her.” Being the only other female around, I knew who was going to face the camera next. But as Terry placed her long, cold fingers on my shoulder and introduced herself, I was caught completely by surprise. The camera was already on me, rolling and – voila. I knew I got my B.S. in BS for a reason: I’m damn good at it.


When I finished my line (you’ll have to keep surfing the History & Discovery channels to see it yourself) she was speechless. I looked into the lens of the camera and laughed. “You did it!” Not that I had any idea how or what I did, but I knew it was good from the hug she gave me. She hollered to the boys, “Catherine gave the best answer! She gets the prize for the day!” Unfortunately, she was speaking metaphorically and there was no price. Haha, I tease!


I loved that they had me do things to. I was terrified at first; I didn’t want to be the reason they lose. But they had me hold ropes, help take down and tie up sails, squirm into the tiny spots where the old men couldn’t make it! Haha, it was great. And they all said – sincerely – that I did a really great job.


The sights I saw out there were amazing. My house, this lovely statue of a woman on the rocks that you can see from Chez Michel, the myriad of sailboats, St. Tropez as the backdrop of a fantastic regatta. I turned to Adam, a (very handsome sailor – college graduate and basically assistant curator of the Herreshoff Museum who sails simply for fun – and travel) and said, “Honestly, I think this is the coolest thing I’ve ever done.” And then, of course, I laughed at how stupid that sounds.

But he laughed with me. Pulled tighter on the rope he was gripping, adjusting the sails about us. “You know Catherine,” he smiled, “I think this is the coolest thing I’ve ever done.” He’s been on boats all his life – but this was his first Voile de St. Tropez. As the crew would describe this week later – it was extravagant. Glorious. Unreal.


All I can say is thank God I have a friend like Tony who – aside from being a genuinely sweet guy – has taught me enough about boats this summer that I could keep up with conversation. And combined with my experience today; hell, I’m practically a pro! ; ) hahahha


We had such a great day that they invited me to the awards ceremony and then out to dinner. It was fantastic. These guys – everything from lawyers to investment bankers to book editors – are just a bunch of Republicans who love to sail and have an intense passion for true boats. Like Joyant, Bob’s “toy.” We chatted about politics and philosophy, regattas and work. They’re the kind of people I love to be around. Not to mention most of them are from Rhode Island and Boston so to hear their accents, accents that are so familiar to me, so far from home… it was just lovely. So I invited them over to dinner tomorrow (Sunday) night. Don’t ask me what I’m going to cook. There’s nothing in the house. Hopefully the grocery store will be open…

I realize that no matter how much I write, I can’t do this experience justice. All I can say is that there is no better way to end this six-month adventure. It really was amazing.

And, like yesterday, I am the personification of excitement and happiness. This, like yesterday, was a perfect day.

Now I am going to cuddle upstairs with my floppy white puppy and sweetly dream about going home… something I’m suddenly very ready to do.

Living the Good Life

Today was AWESOME. I LOVE my life.

I’m going to start this with a brief introduction:

It’s Tuesday night. The air is cool, but warmer that it has been; the stars twinkling in the sky despite the light show below. Tony and I are walking along the port, admiring the boats. “These are beautiful,” I say, admiring the classic yachts, their magnificent sails tucked away for the evening. He laughed, continuing to explain intricate details about each one. He knows everything about boats, can recognize each one by name from far away whereas I am completely ignorant and they all look the same to me.

We stop in front of the Sube. I look to the packed balcony, not ready to go up. “This is Mariette,” Tony says, bringing my attention to the big blue boat he’s staring at in obvious amazement. “One of the Google guys owns her – Perkins is the name. She was built in 1915, New England, redone and all that. An amazing ship, Catherine.” And then we walked on, he taught me about another boat, and the name and story he just told me slipped out of my head just as easily as it had slipped in. It meant nothing to me. (But it amazed me how brilliant he was in the way of boats.)

I should have made the connection Wednesday while working as the receptionist in the evening, handing keys back and forth to the Americans in the room under the name of PERKINS. Silly me.

But that wouldn’t be the end of it.


It was my last day at work and a crazy one at that. We served free breakfast for all the crew of La Voile; the tiny bar and terrace were packed with people, a constant hum of numerous languages. Even better than working hard (which I do love to do) was that I actually had help today – and not just any help, but my cute Montreal boy who has a North American work ethic… in that he actually works. (Did I mention I have a date tomorrow night, too?) Considering how many people were there, the morning meal went rather smoothly.

At breakfast, I made a point to take good care of my favorite Sube guests, a group of Americans (you gotta love your countrymen!), despite the crowd.

“Have you seen this from the water yet?” one asked me – the one from Boston.

“No,” and I sighed, hearing the same question so many have asked me all week. “Everyone told me I ought to, but I don’t have a boat.”

He smiled. “We do.”

I looked around at these people who I worked hard for all week. “We’ll see what we can do. Will you be around this afternoon?”

I said yes, and continued to chat in between serving others. We chatted about the places they’re from; San Francisco, Newport, Boston. We chatted about their boats. “This one right out front, the guy we work for owns that one too,” they said to me. “It’s beautiful, has a blue hull, great boat. Mariette’s the name.”

Then something clicked.

“Wait a second,” and I thought long and hard where I’d heard all this information before. “It was built in New England, kind of famous or something?”

They laughed at me. I apologized for my boating ignorance. “Yea, they had a History Channel special on her. But we work for his other boat – a smaller one, an classic sailing boat built in 1910.”

I gave them my number, but didn’t think it’d actually work out. Finished breakfast and left.

Everyone at the Sube (including the guests, all of whom have become good acquaintances this week as I served them in the morning as a waitress, afternoon as a bartender, and in the evening as the receptionist) is wonderful; very sweet, kind, and fun. It was a bit sad to say goodbye, but it just doesn’t pay enough for me to be the only one who works amongst a bunch of lazy Algerian women. Marie, who has always been a tough boss but wonderful woman, gave me a hug and bisous and – most importantly – a big fat pay check. “Please, if you come back again, you can work legally for three months,” and she looked me in the eye, “You can start in April.” That’s great to know.

I strolled down those lovely marble stairs for the last time and promptly headed to the port where La Voile tent is set up. I want a tee shirt that fits as much as I do appreciate the overly large one Marie saved for me. There were none left, but on the way I met my dear friend Tony and we chatted. It was great to see him. Walking back to the Sube, where I was to meet my grandparents’ friends the Von Drehle’s, I ran into my other good friend Marlon. It was great, just to walk the streets and see people I know and care about.


Lunch was wonderful, too. The Von Drehle’s are lovely people, kind and generous, sweet and interesting. We chatted for ours with our toes nearly touching the wet sand, watching the boats pass by. I am thrilled to have been introduced to such kind people. As Jilly pointed out to me, “You’ve met a lot of terrific people this summer.” Certainly – I thought of the Combas, the people at Ptit Club, my good friends. I thought of all the business cards I collected from people in San Francisco and Paris – people who asked me to look them up for networking or if I just wanted a drink. I thought of my family. And I looked at the two of them. “You’re right,” I responded, smiling. “I have met a lot of terrific people.”

The also mentioned that Trans Atlantic flights permit more luggage weight, alleviating some of my travel stress. No way I was going to be able to keep even on of my bags under the domestic limit of 20 kilos!

They dropped me off at the Place des Lices and I paused to watch the old French men play boules. It’s great to see. One man sat on the bench beside his dog (yes, the dog was on the bench too), both completely absorbed by the intense competition playing out in front of them. I laughed and walked on.

I finished my errands. I got my check from the insurance company – all the people there teased me and said a genuine goodbye. I actually think they might miss me. It was sweet. I bought Tequila a name tag with my numbers on it as the vet recommended. I went to the bank to deposit my moula. I shopped around for a bit of art to take home, but found none. And then I returned to my car for the best news of the day – no ticket! I had parked on the street without paying a cent because the 11€ ticket is cheaper than parking in the port all day. But I got away with it for free! Yea!

Driving home, I admired the collars of this area, the lighthouse I can see from so far away – my beacon of hope, my marker of home. It’s beautiful here. The weather has been odd all week long; rainy and cold in the morning but nearly beach weather by afternoon. Except for tomorrow. Tomorrow it’s going to be beautiful.

My phone rang; a number I didn’t recognize.

“ ‘Allo?”

“Catherine?” A voice I hardly recognized. “It’s Fred from the Sube. Well, from Boston, I mean.”

“Oh hi!”

“Well I was wondering if you felt like going sailing tomorrow with us. Because you can.”

Twist my arm.


I can’t even explain my excitement. I get to see the final race of La Voile de St. Tropez, the famous Nioulargue, from a 1910 classic sailing boat out in the harbor. Fate loves me.

Although I fear saying that, for maybe fate will hear me and give me less next time. ; ) (Allusion to the Alchemist, guys!)


I’m gonna take my big fuzzy dog to the beach now for a run around… I think I might need it more than she does.


BISOUS!!!

J'aime naviguer!

La Voile de St. Tropez, formerly known as the Nioulargue, is an annual boat race held the first week of October.


It is considered the last great race of the greatest season - the Mediterranean's - and people come from all over to participate in the festivities which are - trust me - certainly not limited to the sea.


The port is lined by innovative, glimmering brand new sailboats and renovated, whimsical classic yachts. They race. The Frenchies have boules tournaments. Each night the Sube is PACKED (so much that you cannot move) and people party until breakfast; dancing along the port, screaming at local bars, hiding from the drizzles of rain under the "La Voile 2005" tent set up in the Parking du Port.

It's a fantastic atmosphere promoting alcoholism, where everybody buys everyone else drinks in a group effort to get drunk. Then the day comes, they drag themselves out of bed far too early for St. Tropez (8 - 10am), scarf down some croissants, take the sailboats out for a race, and faire le fête all over again.


It's really amazing.

When I first decided to stay for this week it wasn't so much to see this big party or even really to work an extra week. Both were just good excuses to stay in paradise a little longer. Now, having seen this, having been a part of this atmosphere, I am so happy I did. This is fun.


Have you ever seen so many sailboats?


When I say they fill the ocean as far as the eye can see, I'm not exaggerating!

Bievenue à: the ridiculous life of ME!

During my last overnight shift some nights ago, I spoke with my brother. He asked me how I was going to end my blog because I’m leaving France soon and it will no longer be an adventure story. Who was he kidding? Ever day in my life seems to me an adventure.

Take today, for example:

Woke up to the bitter autumn chill. The colors hanging over the bay were impeccable; pastels that rivaled even the softest Monet. (Ok, I know nothing about art but that sounded good.) Took a shower, fed the dog, did the morning thing… locked the front door and went to climb into the pathetic but endearing Peugeot. “Merde,” I grunted, looking at the driver’s side window, still rolled all the way down, anticipating fresh air and strong breeze. How was I supposed to know it was going to rain last night when yesterday was so beautiful?

I unlocked the front door and Tequila came charging down the stairs (no doubt after already making herself at home on my bed) to say hello. “Sorry pup,” I scratched her head, searching for some towels, “false alarm.” Locked back up, put the towels on the puddle of a seat, climbed in, turned the key and – nothing. Not a noise, not a trickle, naughta.

I tried playing with it for a while, but what do I know about cars? I was probably doing more damage than good. Meanwhile, the thoughts going through my head were something like, “Oh my God, this isn’t even my car. My family’s going to kill me. What could I have done different? Nothing. All the lights are off. Should have shut the window. I’m not going to make it to work. They’re going to be so pissed at me. I need the money, too. And Marie told me that if I arrived early enough maybe I could get a free tee-shirt!” (That’s another thing about me: I LOVE free tee shirts. All the time I worked at P’tit Club I didn’t get paid but I did leave with a free shirt and that made me happy. I don’t know why, but I get really excited about them. Especially when they’re unique, for employees only. Makes me feel important. And the shirt Marie promised me said “STAFF” on it – what could be better than that?)

I unlocked the door and my clumsy golden retriever slipped and slid and franticly bellowed down the stairs to greet me. You can always count on her for a smile. I called the Sube and explained that the car was broken and I sold the scooter… so I didn’t know if or when I’d be at work.

Then what? I felt terrible calling a friend to drag my pathetic ass from the peak of this mountain all the way to St. Tropez. And I had no idea how to fix a car. I hope it was just the battery and could be jumped but 1.) There wasn’t another car to jump it with and 2.) How do you explain that in French? I thought about calling Aunt Sarah for guidance – it’s only 11:30pm in LA. But she has a four-year-old and other things to worry about. Do I dare call crying to the parents? As much comfort as that would bring me, it wasn’t going to do much to improve my situation. So I called the only other two people I know I can count on day in and day out, who tolerate me only as family could.

I called Z & Alberte.

Alberte answered and tried desperately to find someone to help me out. Long story long, Z showed up some time later all smiles. We talked about the problem, moved the car down the hill, played with it a bit. Maybe it’s the battery, but probably something far more serious. “In the meantime,” he said, “I’ll take you to work.”

Gotta love the Combas.


For My Family: I am back at le Chêne en Croix safe & sound, after going to L'Esquinade for lunch to make myself feel better. Fix-anything Man Z – with help from Gabby – fixed the car and it seems to be running fine. Turns out it was just the battery and it’s been replaced by a new one. I don’t know if it could have been jumped but I had no idea how to explain that, nor was I here when they were. Good thing this happened just before it sits all winter, huh? (Not…)

Lovely

Today is one of those days when the ocean is a bold, sapphire blue. It shimmers under the golden sun – for which the côte d’azur is famous – like a jewel, broken only by the whimsical pearl-white sail of the classic boats gathering in St. Tropez for La Voile. The trees and vineyards are a potent dark green contrasted by the bright orange houses scattered throughout the vegetation. Though cool, the air is crystal clear, light and refreshing. The sky is the same happy blue Shannon and I painted our room freshman year. Turning inland, I feel as if I could look on forever, until the earth met the sky, if not for the monsterous mountains blocking my sight. I can see one, two, three rows of mountains perfectly – all with jagged, orange rocks protruding from their tree-covered surface. Only one cloud is visible in the whole world today, hanging playfully on top of one mountain peak, catching magnificent colors in its puffy crevices. It’s a beautiful day.

Work was busy, crowded, stressful – but left me with a sense of accomplishment. I get along so well with all the people there; it feels good to have friends (especially when one is a strikingly handsome Frenchman who learned perfect English in Canada). I’m triple booked for tonight – friends from the Sube, friends from Papagayo, friends from around. Tequila is a floppy puppy full of love to give. It’s a beautiful life.

I donwanna go home!
I donwanna grow up; get a real job!
I wanna stay here forever, doing nothing, bathing in these colors, laying out on the beach, eating good food, drinking rosé, wasting my life in the playground of the rich & famous!
I wanna live this fantasy, free of responsibilities forever!

Hahah, ok ok, I'll stop with the whiney voice. It's just God, that sea is amazing.

bisous!

I had an epiphany today.

I think.

I’m ambivalent to know that my time is coming to a close. I miss my friends & family, but I love it here.

I came here in June for so many reasons. I came because living here was something I’ve always wanted to do. I came to learn French, to get to know my family. I came to give myself a rest and a graduation gift.

Turns out, as with most things in life, there were other psychological reasons I didn’t realize at the time and have only since discovered in hindsight: I came to escape the crazy life I was living; to run away from an environment and people who depressed me or brought uncontrollable anxiety. I came to rediscover myself, find the girl I lost last year. But I really came to see if I could do it. I wanted to know if I could move so far from home, to a foreign land where I hardly knew the language, and make a life for myself: get a job, make new friends, settle down, live life where there wasn’t anybody to help, where I couldn’t run home to Mummy and Daddy if I wanted to. I wanted to know if I could be happy and responsible on my own, somewhere new.

I did it.


And just now do I realize I have to leave, go back to my real home, for two reasons:

1.) I’ve accomplished my mission.
When I made it clear to Marie that I wanted my last day of work to be this following Friday, she was upset. “C’est dommage,” she sighed, surprised I was leaving so early. “You could have worked here until at least the end of October, and probably November.” And I’m sure she’d have me back during the busy times in December and January. I have a job. I can pay off my bills.

After getting on so well with all of my family this summer, they have further encouraged me to pursue my dreams to its completion. I could stay here in this house until I found a place of my own if I wanted, which would be easy to do in the winter. I even have befriended a woman who rents out an apartment herself. I have options for a place to stay.

That’s the other thing: I’ve found my place. I’ve made friends, found a niche. I adore the other secretaries at work; I’m sure, given time, we could be close – we’ve hitten it off so well already. I have a dog and a bank account. I had a scooter (past tense only because I opted to sell it knowing I’d soon be leaving… and how I miss it!). I know people at all my favorite restaurants and shops. I’ve successfully made a life here and have set it up so that I could make it permanent. I could live here with ease.

But do I really want to be a secretary for the rest of my life? In my romantic vision of the future, I’m a secretary or bartender or waitress part-time… and the rest of the time I spend writing books as an author. But how realistic is that? And who would intellectually stimulate me with discussions of Presidents and Vonnegut and Sartre? Who would I end up marrying? A fisherman? It would be a beautiful life to live like the locals, where good friends, food & wine are the most important things in the world. But both my biggest forte and fault is my ambition; would I be content to live this simple life?

2.) I must go to keep Camarat sacred.
This place is my paradise. It’s my version of heaven on Earth, my escape from reality. If I stayed here, if I really made it home, I’d lose that. Reality would creep in and this place would lose some – certainly not all, or even most – of its wonder. To preserve my undying love for Camarat, I need to leave so that some day I can come back again.


So that’s it. I’m ready to pack, move back to the States, get a “real job”…I guess. I can always come back. I’m young. It’s time to explore another part of this world, discover what’s next… I think.

Or at least I’ve justified the return to the States to make myself feel better about giving up, packing in, running home to Mummy and Daddy – who, being the loving people they are, will welcome me back with open arms.

I haven’t decided which way it is yet. But I do know I’ve got the plane ticket to Boston for me and my dog… even if I still harbor the romantic fantasy of saying, “Who cares!” and missing my flight and making this home, living here forever. It’s too bad I can’t make up my mind.

I saw this quote in my best friend’s AIM profile (she always has the best quotes – wow, how I miss her…) and I suppose it is what I must ponder tonight:

“If you want to know where your heart is, look where you mind goes when it wanders.”

Empty thoughts on a lonely day

Today is cold and windy and I feel like shit. I just woke up. There’s only one toothbrush in the bathroom. I’m feeling ready to leave.

As Papa said: there are no more raspberries, the peaches suck, the melons don’t have as much flavor, the croissant man has left, the restaurants are closing (like Le Will, Kirkourou, even the hot spots in St. Tropez… and many others are cutting back their hours drastically), the boats don’t dock on Pamplonne as they used to, it’s too cool to swim or even sleep without a wool blanket, there’s no one guarding the parking lots. It’s time to go.

Not to mention I stayed up all night, had less than 4hours of sleep, and have to do it all over again today. But I suppose it’s my last evening shift and it’s 100€ so I might as well stop whining.

Long before I struggled desperately to stay awake last night at work, Grandma & Papa left after their month-long vacation here to return to Cape Cod. I was truly sad to see them go; I had a wonderful time joining in on their vacation, too. And they were the last of the guests of Chez Michel. That’s it. I’m all alone from here on in. Just me and Tequila. C’est toute.

I keep thinking about the foliage. An ex-boyfriend of mine spent a fall semester in Paris some years ago and he kept telling me how much he missed the changing of the leaves, watching them slowly transform from florescent green into the bright, bold colors of autumn, then fall one by one, slowly, to the ground of the rolling New England country landscape. I thought he was crazy. Of all the things to miss – a bunch of dead leaves? But he was right. I do miss that beauty, that traditional metomorphisis of the land unique to my home region.

Then again, as I sit here now in the verranda in a tiny patch of sunlight looking over the white capped Mediterranean, I’m convinced this is the most beautiful place in the world. And I hate to go.

Can you tell I’m a Gemini?

Yesterday was a beautiful day, aside from all the shit that went on. The weather was sunny and – hardly believable – hot. But Tequila was mischievous, she was still sick to her stomach, I roamed the empty house looking for ghosts. I had errands to do, none of which went well.

It was just like the insurance company, except this time I was alone. I went to the vet to pick up Tequila’s passport and confirm that she was prepped and ready for her voyage across the Atlantic. 50€ later they finally gave it to me along with some sedatives. Apparently the 200€ I’ve already paid them was just for shits and giggles. And, though I’ve clearly explained a billion times that the former owner has lost her paperwork, I need to officially prove she’s my dog. So I’ve got to badger him until he mails a letter to some special agency for the tattoo and a different one for the microchip, providing them with details about Tequila as well as a signed letter complete with a photo-copied picture id, and then I have to do the same. Then I have to go back to the vet yet again with the official paperwork given to me by these agencies so the vet can give Tequila yet another physical, charge me a bit more money, and stamp her damn passport. Nothing’s ever easy here.

Speaking of the insurance agency – I went there, too. They all remembered me. But to my delighted surprise they weren’t full of bitter resentment as I walked through the door. They did, however, tell me I couldn’t receive my money yet and they’d call me sometime next week. I’m not holding my breath…

Absolutely the highlight of yesterday was picking up my sandals. Atlier (craftsman) Rondini creates the finest, handmade leather Tropezian sandals in the world. He must be famous; he is in our family, at least. Everyone owns a pair of his shoes and loves them. They’re phenomenally comfortable. Ugly, but comfortable. (My mother calls them Jesus shoes… and for good reason.) I had never wanted a pair, but after spending the summer here I couldn’t imagine a better treat to bring home for myself, something unique to this place. So I splurged. With Papa’s lingual skills I designed my dream sandals and because the Michel family are such good clients, Mr. Rondini made them toute de suite. Every American Michel has bought sandals from him just before departing this summer; I feel like it was a right of passage or something…

I want to go to L’Esquinad. I’m dying for some moules.

I suppose that’s it. This is how I’m feeling: torn. Excited to go home but depressed to leave.

And once I get back to the States… then what?

Beauty Everywhere!

I’ve written about Z and Alberte before. They’re amazing people. They’re kind, loving, simply, and they’ve taken me in.

I can think of countless times this summer when they’ve come to my rescue in one way or another. Each time family was at the house, they’d come up for a bottle of wine and good conversation. I looked forward to each visit.

A few nights ago, they came to drink with Grandma & Papa. My French was on that night and we chatted about a number of things. They invited us to their house for dinner. Tonight.

It was phenomenal! They clearly adore my grandparents, something that’s so sweet to see. I had not been in their small, beautiful house before and immediately upon entering, Z turned to me. “Viens! Viens!” I followed him. He took me to their huge panoramic window overlooking the valley, the mountain of Camarat, the sea. He pointed at the things I ought to recognize – the vineyards, where I was supposed to help with the vin d’âge; the phare, the lighthouse beside which I live; the campground, home of the famed Ptit Club where I once worked and they often visited; the sea, the same sea I can see from our view here. He went on and on… it was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

We talked about the beauty of the area. “Viens, viens!” again, Z was excited to show me something. A frame 8x10 photograph of our view, the beaches, the water, the trees, the coast – all covered in snow. I’d seen the image once before but it’s striking every time. Who knew it could snow here?

We sat and had champagne, homemade appetizers, watched TV (something I haven’t done since last May – wow! What a thing a television is!). A buzzer rang. “Catherine,” Z called again in his thick, hoarse, mumbled voice. “Viens avec moi!” And I followed him to the kitchen. He pulled out a pan of enormous, big eyed fish dressed in sauce and vegetables. “Beau!” He was right. They were beautiful. And they made an excellent meal.

We sat around the table talking and drinking and eating. It was wonderful; I don’t know how to explain it. It’s amazing to see such a sweet man as Z get so animated about things – the fish we were eating as well as the Nioulargue (La Voile de St. Tropez, the huge upcoming sailboat race) – because he was a fisherman and an excellent boullabaise chef at the famed Chez Camille. And Alberte is a doll, a kind person so fond of my family with a laugh that rings through the entire house. I can’t wait to see them again; maybe by the American jazz ensemble on the port during Nioularge that they spoke so excitedly about…



It’s now nearly 4am. I was sleeping soundly in bed, pleasantly dreaming, perfectly content. Tequila was not. She was whining, scratching the door, being a pain in the ass.

All I wanted to do was sleep! She’d been out, she’d eaten, she’d had some water, what more could she want?! I sat up, frustrating, searched for the light and looked into her big white face, begging to go out. Ugh. Fine. It’s not fair to her to not get up (though she can open all the doors of the house so I’m not sure why she didn’t.)

I stumbled downstairs cursing with Tequila at my heels. Out she went. I continued to mumbled under my breath, frustrated because I knew it’d be a challenge to fall back asleep after a 5 hour nap. Then the loving side took hold and I feared Tequila was eaten by boars, so I stepped on to porch, searching the wilderness for her glowing white fur. There she was, making poopy circles in a distant patch of trees. I sighed, rolling my eyes and then –

Wow.

That’s what we call a true Camarat Sky. The air is perfect, light, clear; no haze hangs above you, no wind stirs the dust from the trees. There are more stars shining down than you ever thought could fit in the sky. And they’re crystal clear and huge, like tons of miniscule Christmas lights. I’ve never seen something like this, and I’ve seen the sky on clear nights here where the milky way is full of so many individual starts it becomes a solid path of light in the sky, where the moon is so big and bright you can see its craters on its surface and in its shimmering reflection on the sea below. Tonight was even more beautiful, dressed in even more stars. Satellites pedaled by, shooting stars fell occasionally, and there – somewhere directly above my little, pajama-covered body standing on this porch on this mountain – sparkled the brightest star in all the night sky. Big, red, glowing permanently. Mars? Who knows…

But I do know that if Tequila didn’t decide to get the shits I’d never see a sight like this.

Catch-22 ... or Catch - vingt deux?

I sold my scooter to another North American girl living/working illegally in the Riviera. She’s from Toronto, now a nanny in Nice and Monaco. I met her today in St. Rapheal. She’s a tiny little thing; bleached blond hair and a bright turquoise jacket. But she paid me a bunch of euros in cash and took my bike and that was that.

Before I sold the scooter, however, I needed to do some paperwork. Everything in France requires paperwork. Once a thief came into Chez Michel and took the cash and some jewels from one of the bedrooms. When my grandfather, a French native who has retained his beautiful French speaking skills, called the police, they arrived with a stack of papers. Sure, they may have asked the usual questions like “Where were you?” and “What was stolen?” and “What did it look like?” and “Did you hear anything?,” but the family has no recollection of those specifics. Instead, we remember when the detective turned to the man whose goods were stolen and demanded, “What’s your mother’s maiden name?”

Seriously – on a theft form here in France you need to give your mother’s maiden name and proof of your identification before any investigation can begin.

Just don’t ask why. Or what your mother’s maiden name has to do with being robbed.

Now it’s a family joke. Whenever the beaurocrats of this fine country give us a hard time, we always say, “Oh, they just wanted to know my mother’s maiden name…”

Yesterday, as I went to collect the necessary paperwork to sell my scooter, they wanted to know my mother’s maiden name… and probably my grandmother’s as well.

My grandfather and I were in St. Tropez doing errands. “Why don’t you go get the fruit while I cancel my insurance?”

“Ah,” he smiled, “it’s on the way. I’ll go in with you.”

Thank God he did.

“Where’s your carte gris?” the woman at AXA insurance demanded, putting her personal checkbook away, along with her fingernail file and nail polish…

“Here,” and I handed her the small gray piece of paper with all the bike’s information on it, along with a paper signed by both the former owner and I showing that Angela (the former owner) had officially given the bike to me with the carte gris.

“You can’t sell your bike.”

Again, thank God Papa was with me. I could never have argued like he did, nor could I have ever begun to comprehend exactly what the problem was. In fact, I’m not so sure.

The carte gris was not in my name. The bike was not mine, even though I had explicit paperwork that said Angela – whose name was on the carte gris – gave me the bike. They weren’t going to cancel my contract, nor were they going to give me the necessary paperwork to sell my scooter. They only cancel contracts at the end of the year with two months notice or if the person insured has to leave the country suddenly (like me) or if the owner sells the scooter (like me). But I don’t have the carte gris and need to live here for two more months to get it. I cannot sell the bike because I don’t officially own it. I don’t have proof that I legally own the bike, so I can’t get the carte gris – which is the proof that I legally own the bike. And I certainly can’t be insured without the carte gris, but I am.

Translation: I cannot sell the bike or cancel my insurance without the carte gris that I cannot obtain, because I cannot get insurance or own a bike without the carte gris, even though I do.

My grandfather argued my case:

When I bought the scooter I went with Angela into the insurance agency right away, so Angela could receive hundreds of euros in refund for not fulfilling her yearlong contract. The woman we saw there had her sign the carte gris (like a car’s registration) and then had us both sign a paper stating that Angela had sold her bike to me. She then tried to sell me insurance, but I did not want to drive all the way to Cannes if I ever needed to return. Instead I had her sell me a month-long contract. I then went to the same insurance company in St. Tropez and bought a yearly contract from them. I explained to the lady there that I intended to sell my bike and she told me all I would need is to come back with a written letter saying I want to cancel my insurance and she would provide me with a refund. So why is there a problem now?

“She doesn’t have a carte gris and needs one to sell the bike or to get insurance.”

“But she has insurance.”

“Then she needs the carte gris to cancel it.”

“What the hell is going on here?” I finally demanded, in English, to my grandfather who was kindly doing all the fighting for me.

“We’re back in the 19th century,” and then he continued his argument in French to the woman across the paper-covered desk:

If, in fact, I needed the carte gris when I bought the bike, why didn’t the first insurance lady tell me this? Why was she so eager to sell me all of my insurance if she couldn’t legally? And when I came to St. Tropez, why did they sell me the insurance? Why did they tell me that all I needed to sell the bike was another copy of the paperwork that required two signatures: mine, and the new owners? Why didn’t anyone tell me I needed to get this carte gris? Even if it was impossible to get? This bike came from a foreigner, sold to a foreigner and will again be handed to another foreigner. How the hell were we expected to know anything about the complicated French system if no one bothered to inform us?

Another woman joined the first and argued with my grandfather. They weren’t kind about it, even though Papa kept (shockingly – for I was livid and I hardly understood what was going on) his patience.

Finally, the boss came out and said, “She has the carte gris, she has an official paper saying that the person on the carte gris sold her the bike, have her get another official piece of paper saying that she sold the bike to someone else, get a letter, and we’ll cancel the insurance. The person you sell it to will not be able to get a carte gris and therefore will not be able to get insurance,” (though I couldn’t get a carte gris but was still insured) “but that’s her problem. We’ll refund your money as long as you come here with another one like this paper.” He pointed to the form the AXA lady in Cannes gave Angela and I to sign.

“Ok,” I smiled – finally, someone who’s willing to cooperate. “Could you please give me a blank one?”

“Oh no, we don’t have those here.”

Nothing’s ever easy.

The women were livid, angry that Papa (and I – though he did most of the work) made them lose face in front of their boss. They weren’t going to help us. The boss apparently noticed this and said, “You can only get them from the maîtress at the Hôtel de Ville, and they’re closing in five minutes.”

Keep in mind – all of this conversation was in French. We stepped outside of the office and I burst out laughing. “What the hell just happened in there?!”

My grandfather just quickened his pace, heading towards the town hall. “I just can’t believe I was actually born in this country.”

We arrived just before they emptied out completely. My grandfather explained to the maîtress what papers we needed.

“I don’t have them here,” she said simply. Figures. “You have to go to the bureau d’administration.”

So we went to the bureau d’administration where they gave me the paperwork that I had Deborah, the proud new owner of my scooter, sign. And I told her good luck getting insurance and her own carte gris and figuring out all the problems within this system. I showed her how to use the bike, as Angela showed me, then climbed on board the bus to St. Tropez.

“They make everything impossible for foreigners,” she said, waving goodbye.

I forced a smile and waved back. “Viva la France.”

A Night at the Opera

There’s one church in Ramatuelle.

Being in France, it’s only natural that it’s catholic. It serves as a center of worship, a gathering place, a town hall, an auditorium, a museum – just as it did in the time of its creation when that was the norm for both country and religion. In Ramatuelle, the real world has hardly scratched the surface, updating the village only slightly from the 15th century. Maybe there’s indoor plumbing and electricity, but the Catholic Church remains the only place in town large enough to house a number of people… and you’d be hard pressed to fit more than 30 inside.

If you weren’t seeking it, it would be hard to find. The door to this tiny, ancient, one room church is hidden amongst the medieval stone walls of the hilltop town, easily missed no matter how many times you visit the post-office or butcher surrounding it. I had.

But not tonight. Tonight was an evening worth dressing up for – so I slipped on my most 1940s black & white polka dotted dress and some dainty high heels, fluffed my hair up and painted my lips red. Grandma and Papa dressed up too. We were going to a concert.

Ramatuelle, being such a small & quaint country village, doesn’t have a lot to offer. For the most part, the food is overpriced and aimed just to provide tourists with a mealtime view of the vineyard-covered valley disappearing into the azure Mediterranean Sea below. Papa, having spent so much time here, knows where to go for good food & wine, and that’s where we were headed.
Au Fil De La Pâte is a tiny restaurant often overlooked, with only 4 tables inside and two outdoors. The kitchen is run entirely by one sweet looking man, Benois, and he performs his tasks in front of the whole restaurant; for the kitchen is part of the dining room. The only waitress is a beautiful woman, Nadine, who excitedly greets us as we arrive.

“We were among their first clients, you see,” Grandma explains as Nadine and Benois receive her warmly, kissing her and talking French - genuinely happy to see such regular & kind clients. “She’s married to the chef here,” and she points to Benois, who is busy making raviolis for one of the tables in the blue & yellow tiled kitchen.

“Really?” and I laugh, taking in the very Provencal room – including all within it. “If they’re married, why is she kissing that playboy of a man that just walked in?”

Sure enough, a coin-operated boy with flowing golden locks and a smile to die for (I leave the rest of his body up to your imagination) was leaning over the country, caressing Nadine's face. Benois could have cared less.

“I suppose this is France, you know…” and Grandma & I laughed.

My grandparents and I had the best raviolis ever created. We drank wine, followed by tarte tropezian – the traditional dessert of the area, a raw sugarcoated sponge cake with a delicious custard filling – and espresso. The restaurant was small, an ambiance of casual familiarity, like the rest of Ramatuelle. Everyone knew everyone, everyone loved everyone, everyone was happy… absorbed in the life of a tiny village.

But dinner at this amazing restaurant was not the focus of our evening. We hurried outside to the church, where a line had already started to form. Grandma and I sat on the low stonewall leading up hill while Papa went ahead to wait for the doors to open. I laughed; there my very French grandfather stood with a cashmere sweater tied around his shoulders and dressed in khaki pants, waiting with a dozen elderly folks dressed remarkably like him. “Look at them,” I pointed for my grandmother, breathing in the star-filled night air, “a bunch of old Frenchies anxious to get into church. How cute, how Provençal!”

She just smiled, still staring at the orange September moon. “I don’t see why. It’s so ugly inside.” She’s not catholic, you see.

But she was right. The walls inside are cement gray and decorated scarcely. The Stations of the Cross are not but wooden numbers somehow fixed on the cold, bare sides of the tiny church. Above the alter hangs a single painting, a disgusting image of some Christian story where Mary floats in the sky, surrounded by cherubs, baby Jesus in her arms, staring down to a grown, bearded Jesus (or God?) and the angel Michel (Michael) holding a tilted scale of justice and thrusting a bloody spear into a groveling, cherry-red twisted devil. Staring at the medieval version of Lucifer, we filled in amidst a quiet buzzing of French, awaiting what was to come next.

The pews are hard as rock; simple and wooden. Grandma passed out cushions – “Trust me,” she warned, “you’ll need them.” This is old news for them; for me it’s something to be remarkably excited about. In this tiny church, the center of this small country town I adore, I’m going to see my first opera.

And it was beautiful. Each piece was preceded with a drawling explanation from a fat, cherub-looking conductor, all in French. The singers were dressed elegantly, sparkling with diamonds or lined with pearls. Their voices were amazing. I had no idea the skill, the beauty, of opera.

And I had no idea the amazing kindness and lovingness of my grandparents, who before this trip I realize I hardly knew.

Of course, all summer long, I have said that about everyone. Aunts and uncles, distant families and old friends. I have, through my adventure here in France, certainly grown closer to my extended my family as well as my mother, father and brother back home, and even my closest of friends.

Love you…

About Me.

I have learned many things this summer. I learned about the fascinating history of my family and of our house in Cap Camarat. I discovered some of the missing pieces in the puzzle of my great-grandmother's life, dug deep into the stories of each relative to determine what really happened and what kind of person she truly was. I learned about the personalities of long lost relatives, discovering the amazing cousins I have living here in France. (I spoke a lot today about Ludo, whom I bonded with very much and deeply adore, and of Laurence, who helped me immensely and who I regard with tremendous respect, and of Sylvia, who took me in as family when I needed it even though she would have preferred to have the house to herself.) I learned about the aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents I always knew, but never knew. They are amazing each in their own unique way, each of whom I know feel closer to than I ever could have imagined.

I had a three-hour lunch with Grandma & Papa today, chatting about our family and le Chêne en Croix. It was amazing. Learning French, discovering the culture, putting off the rest of my life were some of the primary reasons why I came here and have been amazing. But I stayed so long, with so many people, to learn about - to bond with - my family. And that’s certainly what I did.

But most of all, I learned more about myself than I could have ever dreamed. I learned about how I can survive, about struggling to acquire a language I'm terrible at mastering, about adapting to a new life, new jobs, new surroundings. I learned that I can do things I never before had faith in myself to do – without the help of Mommy of Daddy or good friends by my side. I learned that I draw people in because I am so drawn to people - and I love that. I've learned that I really do have people skills and I can write decently and PR was certainly the field for me. I learned that I'm not so fat and ugly - for walking through the streets of St. Tropez I often find myself wondering whether or not what that man said or did would be considered sexual harassment in the States. (Most of time I know it would be and instead I just wonder how much I'd get if I sued.)

One quality - or a mixture of a few, I guess - that I discovered within myself is something that I never knew was so prominent. Yes, I am obviously ambitious. I graduated high school far too young, completed college in three years, had more internships and miscellaneous jobs than most especially while overloading in classes. I can get a job or get into Ivy League schools or whatever. But I had no idea it was... well, overwhelming my other side.

I first heard this in June when Becca was here and told me that she imagined me to be too free-spirited to be tied down and suffocated by the particular man we were discussing. I was shocked. We hardly knew each other but simply through the stories told by my parents and brother, this very sweet woman had deduced that I was the independent, self-sufficient type of girl. During our long lunch today my grandparents told me that I am independent and free-spirited and they are possibly my two-best/strongest qualities. Papa said - and apparently has always believed - that I will be the first woman president. What?! Even my new friend in Texas, who has just begun to know me, joked that I reminded him of the successful-career-executive-take charge-type, like Demi Moore in "Disclosure" (without - as he so kindly put ;-) - the sexual assault aspect). Even before I came here I turned to my best friend from college and said, “I can’t believe I’m actually going to go live in France.” She made a face and responded, “Realy? I can. I’m not surprised at all. You always do what you want no matter how challenging it may be.” (Thank you, Shannon, for always having so much faith in me long before I ever had faith in myself.) Someone even once told me that no one’s going to want to marry me because no man wants to take on the challenge of taming my wild spirit.

I can’t believe it. My grandmother insists that I will be a successful CEO, that working for good money and success is important to me. I disagree. But no matter how much I argued, the facts were against me.

My track record shows me as this kind of person. But all I want is to fall in love, have a storybook romance, have healthy and happy kids, keep a wonderful family. I don’t care how big my house is or what kind of luxuries we can afford. Sure, it’d be nice to keep a connection to this part of France, but I’m realistic. It’s pricey. I don’t have big dreams of climbing the corporate ladder or owning my own business or being famous for my work. I’d love to be the president’s press secretary – but I know that’s not going to happen. I’ve always wanted to write a book that someday is required reading (like “To Kill A Mockingbird”) and though my great friend in high school Amanda Coskie told me I would – I still don’t believe her. I’d love a job that requires me to travel to France – but I don’t expect to be the best at it. Nor do I care if I am or am not.

My dreams are to have a house and a family and a loving husband and a dog. I’d like to go sailing again sometime. I’d like to visit the south of France every so often for the rest of my life. I’d like to have a lot of fun being young and gain the self-restraint to not eat ice cream after every meal. But I’m really, honestly, easily satisfied.

Is that hard to believe?

Night Receptionist X - Conclusion

I've had about 3.5 terrible hours of sleep. I've got that flemmy taste in my mouth where you nap and don't sleep nearly enough. But I've survived. And I'll be 100€ the richer.

Can't wait to do it again tonight...


Time for hamburgers!

Night Receptionist IX - End of the Shift

I get to go home. Marie and I have finished preparing for breakfast and wrapping up last nights’ finances. I’ve got to get some fresh croissants and the paper and come back tonight. I need to sleep too, but I’m wide awake at this point. Maybe I’ll have one of those awful weeks where I never sleep, like I did when Sara was here…

Yuck

Faits des beaux rêves…

The Final Entry IX - End of the Shift

Night Receptionist VIII - Jobs

I’m now so tired I feel sick. I’ve written a lot tonight, and I’m happy for that. But I’m ready to go home. I’m ready to cuddle up with my dog and sleep. From where the hotel is located I can’t even watch the sunrise – what good is that?

I’ve done everything I could. I can’t figure out how to charge anything to the rooms – which actually may be a good thing. Marie still isn’t here.

I’m left contemplating my future. Being an overnight receptionist, a breakfast-waitress, and a full bartender has taught me something: I need a “real” job. I have an opportunity to work on a yacht next year and as great as it sounds to travel the world and get paid well for it, it’s looking less and less promising for the following reasons:

1.) The boat on which I was going to work was to be ready in February. Now the earliest will be May, though more likely June.
2.) The man with whom I was going to work is in love with me and I just can’t handle being in close quarters with him.
3.) While I was under the impression we’d make a tour of the globe – travel from St. Tropez to Corsica, Sardina, Tunisia, Greece, through that straight near India (I’m exhausted, bear with me), to many of the islands in the Indian Sea, down to South Africa and finally across the Atlantic to spend next winter in the Caribbean – it turns out the farthest we’d go is northern Africa.
4.) The job was originally going to be year-round, and I planned to partake in it from February until the following May (something like 16 months, getting paid for 17 as a yearly bonus) but now will run from June (if we’re lucky) to September.
5.) I’ve been told that if I don’t get back into PR within 18 months of my last job (which I completed in December) than I am undesirable as a candidate for a “real job” for fear that I’m only rejoining that career path in order to save enough money to return to France and bum around some more.

Then I got to thinking… Maybe I want to begin what’s next. Maybe I want to start being a press secretary or being international marketing or hey – maybe I’ll work for improving Franco-American relations. I’ve just got so many dreams!

Night Receptionist VII - Check List

Last night, when I arrived, the receptionist and Marie (my boss) told me a bunch of things I was supposed to do. But they spoke in French and they spoke lots and they spoke quickly. So, thinking back through the haze of exhaustedness, I have no idea exactly what I’m supposed to do.

I’ve set all the tables for breakfast. I lit the oven and it’s preheating at 200°C. The frozen pastries are thawing out. I’ve pressed a bunch of orange juice. I’m on my third cup of coffee and starting to see things…

Marie will be up any moment now to take over. I ought to charge the clients for their drinks last night at the bar but this is the kind of thing I’ll make mistakes with being this tired. So I don’t know. We’ll see.

Night Receptionist VI (c) - Vengeance! At Last!

After an intense game of hide and seek, where winner prevails and loser loses blood, I met my nemesis and destroyed him with please. The little rat was camping out under my chair. Score one for the good guys…

Night Receptionist VI (b) - The Innocent May Die… But That’s a Sacrifice I’m Willing to Make

One skeeter down. There was no blood in it. But I’ll find my foe. Sooner or later.

Night Receptionist VI(a) - You may have won the battle, but I will not lose the war!

I was sitting, minding my own business, when suddenly my ankles started to burn. I itched them endlessly, bending uncomfortably under the desk to reach my tender skin, growing increasingly upset. The more I scratched, the more it itched.

I couldn’t figure out why. I did figure that if I left it alone, it’s go away.

But it didn’t. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and drew my legs up onto the desk completely ignoring the fact that I’m wearing a skirt. There were not one, or two, or even three – but SIX big swollen mounds of burning white flesh amongst the irritated red skin on my ankles. Sure enough, chasing my bare legs like a greedy little bastard, was a big, fat, mosquito.

I chased it angrily – slapping air, knocking over my chair, spilling trash – but it escaped. I refuse to give up. I’m bent on revenge. Its blood will be spilt tonight.

Night Receptionist V - Reading & Writing

My first incoherently drunk man. I watched him on the security camera slowly and deliberately walk through the automatic doors, pause to reorientate himself, and then regain his balance to – God knows how – stumbled up the stairs to the front desk. I swear I could smell the booze coming off of him before he even entered the hotel.

I can’t believe it’s this late already! Time flies when you’re having fun, I guess. This is like hanging out. Chill, check out the fridge aimlessly knowing there’s nothing there worth eating but hoping that somehow, if you stare long enough, something will appear, go back to doing nothing. I meant to bring my new Dane Cook DVD (courtesy of my wonderful new Texan pen-pal) but forgot it at home. (I’m shocked I could forget it – I was so excited to receive this nice gift today accompanied by a much-needed packaged of sweaters from home, also mail note-worthy in kindness.) Instead I’ve been writing. A lot. Blog, yes, but also – and more importantly – a book? A story worth reading whether you know me or not.

Also to keep me entertained I’ve been reading short stories by Italo Calvino. He’s phenomenal. I love his fables and enjoy his writing style immensely. “The Man Who Shouted Theresa” conjured up such romantic emotions I thought I might cry (that’s how you know I’m REALLY exhausted), possibly because it reminded me so much of a time when a former boyfriend of mine recruited 8-year-old campers to accompany him in an acapella declaration of love in the form of a private concert of “You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’.” He’d follow that sweet concert with another years later, this time joined by the pledges in his frat.

“A Love Far From Home” could be my story. The way he describes the cities sound so familiar to me, probably because both the towns of which he writes and the towns near which I live are Mediterranean villages – complete with orange tile rooftops, rolling stone roads and painted green shudders. In this piece, he is roaming from town to town, seeing new things, meeting new people, constantly searching for something more. It’s about love and philosophy, beauty and life. He talks about how as different as it all is, everything’s similar – and it reminds me of how, like him, I have met people here that mirror so many of the people I knew at home in Mendon, or in Boston, or Dartmouth…

But that’s not all. I’m not even half-way through the compilation entitled Numbers in the Dark and have already found “Making Do,” “Black Sheep,” “Conscience,” and “Solidarity” are all fun briefs worth reading, too.

Finally, I love the ending of “Enemy Eyes.” But I’ll let you discover that on your own.

Time for coffee #2. I wish there was something to eat around here…

Night Receptionist IV - Completely Alone

My first cup of coffee. I’ve set up all the trays for room service and helped the bartender clean up. We had a drink. He left. And then I realized how tired I was.

I don’t usually take sugar in my espresso but I have been lately, with Grandma and Papa who do (and who also are home in that beautiful house, comfortably snuggled between the thick wool blankets and the fluffy misshapen mattresses, cuddled closely with my baby, my best friend, my dog) and I decided to tonight. The cube was broken into thirds. That means I’ll have three cups of coffee tonight.

Night Receptionist III - Oops?

My first mistake. Someone called for room 15 but I didn’t take a message and instead put them straight through. When the guests of chamber 15 returned from a night out, they said they were expecting a serious phone call and where’s the message? How the hell was I supposed to know?

Night Receptionist II - A Place Worthy of Spielberg

I think I could go insane. The bar has early cleared out leaving the first floor echoing with only drunken laughter and occasional “clinking” of empty glasses. I’ve been lucky: I’ve only had to sell a pack of cigarettes so far. Everyone else I’ve spoken to just wants to chat or get his or her key. But…

The clock ticks persistently – quicker than seconds – by my ear. The television is split into four black & white screens, shaky images, security monitors transmitting the nothingness in noisy patterns, jumpy rolls, fleeting glimpses. The fluorescent overhead lights hum constantly, the buzzing interrupted only by the occasional flicker and hushed pop.

This is the stuff horror movies are made of. Scary films where people go crazy or are gruesomely murdered or haunted by bloody-thirsty, long-dead ghosts of the criminally insane.

I’m not scared – or not by the environment, at least. I’m scared of this job, of screwing up. I was scared yesterday when I saw the largest spider of my life crawling freely around the first floor of Chez Michel. It was huge and fuzzy and eight-legged and had a big, puffy body like tarantulas and I almost touched it while picking up Tequila’s dog bowl. Now that was scary.

The Night Receptionist I - Intro to the Series

Here I find myself again behind the curved mahogany desk of l’Hotel Sube, panicked and praying no one walks in or calls. Like last time, I’m so nervous I’m nauseous. But how much activity can actually occur in the middle of the night?

It’s currently 11:30pm. I’m here until 8:00am. I’ll keep you posted.

A Fallen Dream House

I walked through the market today after yet another unsuccessful search for Z’s vin d’âge, and I was filled with dread. How many more markets will I see? The colors, the constant bartering in French, the knick-knacks and food. It’s unique; a market unlike any other, and it’s phenomenal.

With the chill of the fall setting in, I’m preparing to set out. I love this part of the world, my own personal paradise, my heaven. But I’m realizing that in reality, I want more. When it rains, there’s nothing to do. Civilization as I’m used to it is so far away. Friends whose company I want to keep day after day are far and few between. As my grandmother put it, the people who live here all year are, well, “…duh.” Amazingly sweet, content with a simple life. It’s a wonderful life that I admire very much; food, wine and siestas are the most essential aspects of every day. They work hard – with their hands – for half the year, then do a lot of relaxing for the rest. It’s great. But I need people with more… ambition, I guess. I need to talk politics and philosophy every once in awhile, even if most of my days revolve around living the good, simple life.

Walking through the market, admiring the goods of the locals, speaking French to whomever would listen, I grew depressed because I love living here, I love this summer, I would change very little – if anything. And I’ll never be able to do this again.

First, after this summer, I’ll have responsibilities. If I do come back to spend a long time here, it will be full of work as I will be a stewardess or something – not a beach bum worried only about which wine to drink this afternoon. I’ll never be able to live in this house like this again; it’s a family house and not even mine. I will not inherit it.

But I refuse to believe that after this summer I will never have a place in Ramatuelle – or even Camarat – to call home. Because I’ve always had a dream…



For as long as I can remember, I was deeply intrigued by the ruins halfway down the mountain. I was under the impression the house once belonged to an artist and an old friend of my great-grandmothers, but I’ve been told since that this is untrue. Regardless, I will always think of it as “the artist’s house,” the house I will one day own.



By the time my generation comes to won this house, there will be too many of us to enjoy it as leisurely and completely as we do now. We’ll each want to come alone with out own family and friends, not share the Chêne en Croix with cousins and maybe not even with siblings. So I dreamt that I would by this fallen land, complete with its own view and walking paths, and make it my own. I’d visit the house in which I currently live for dinners with the family… but I’d have my own place that I could pass to my children without fear of overcrowding.



It is, of course, an unrealistic dream… but so are so many of my adventures. The appeal of buying this property, these ruins, is that it is illegal to build new houses on the conversation land that is Cap Camarat. You cannot even expand most buildings, but you can build up – build up from foundations, like this one.



And, it’s a romantic spot. Full of mystery and beauty, its appeal is not lost on only myself. People frequently pull over to have a picnic on the abandoned property, despite the signs warning trespassers away. One of my most beautiful memories of this land was a man sitting outside the house playing a cello, filling the mountain air with beautiful music that carried upon the gentle summer breeze all the way to my bedroom window by the lighthouse.



I don’t know if I will ever own enough money to buy the land and build my dream house. But it will forever be another one of my amazing fantasies…