Chez Michel

I woke up this morning to heavy gusts crying through the shallow spaces in my green, wooden shutters. And to a big, white dog head in my face. I pulled my tired body from under the sheets and stumbled downstairs after only 3hrs of sleep (serves me right for partying until 6:30am), walking out barefoot on the damp ceramic terrace surrounding Chez Michel. The Mistral had come and, smiling, I couldn’t imagine a better day.

The mistral stirs up such feelings of fondness within me. I remember in my youth, staying here on our vacation, being exhilarated the mistral. Back then I thought any big storm was the mistral and here on top of the mountain, in this big old house, any big storm is terrifying. Weather beats this place with such fervor, slamming the old wooden doors, whistling angrily through the holes in the windows, shaking the solid clay walls and very foundations of the house until it seems that we will never survive the storm – and then it dies down, leaving us only to fix the electricity, the pump, and whatever other damage done. Storms here are frightening, but with the lightening they bring an electric feeling, a sense of excitement.

But now, having lived here for two months and spoken of the weather with enough natives, I know better. While the mistral can be a big storm, it can also be a heat wave and a dry spell. The mistral is simply the weather from Africa, and last night it brought with it the red rain. Droplets fell from the sky coated with the rust colored sand of the desert, staining everything they touch on this side of the Mediterranean.

As I considered the disgusting color of my scooter, parked carelessly in front of the laundry house, I realized how much I love this place. Chez Michel specifically. The house is ripe with knowledge, hiding secrets and quirks and history within its walls.



Today is the last full day that Sylvia and her family are here. I am sure that, like every other family member who visited, they will say goodbye and thank you to the tree. That’s right, everyone in this family, everyone who knows the history of this house, pays homage to an oak tree every time they visit – saying hello and thank you upon arrival, goodbye and thank you upon departure. We’re not crazy. This house isn’t called “Le Chêne en Croix” (“the Cross of Oak”) because it sounded good. That tree saved this place, allowing us to have these amazing memories and experiences, and for that we are forever grateful.



No, seriously. Years and years and years ago, there was a great fire. (This part of the world is so dry and hot enormous fires are common. From the view here we can often spot thick clouds of colored smoke spouting up from somewhere over the land.) This particular fire spread, seemingly unstoppably, up Cap Camarat, consuming all that it touched. It seemed to most that the hungry fire would eat the entire mountain, our house included. But as it swept across the land, burning buildings and trees and underbrush, it did something no one expected – something no one thought possible. It stopped. Suddenly. In front of a beautiful oak tree shaped like a cross.

That oak cross saved this property from the awesome devastation of the fire. Everything before that tree lay in ruin, thick black dirt and crumbled houses. Now it has been rebuilt and regrown, but it is new. On the other side of our property, the land the tree saved, there still remains giant pine trees and vivid memories.

But that’s just one fascinating story. This is actually the second house built on this foundation, for family legend has it (family legend confirmed by the museum in the citadel in St. Tropez, which – to my recollection – has an entire bit dedicated to this house) that it was overtaken during World War II by the Nazis and used as their regional headquarters. And why not? The view is amazing – they could see enemies coming from miles away on all directions. But when the Allies did finally come and losing seemed imminent to the Nazis, they destroyed the house. My great-grandmother (an amazing woman I will have to write about someday… once I finally unveil the shrouds of mystery surround her life, and the life of so many of the amazing Michel’s) rebuilt it after the war. But there remain hints of the devastation, of war. On the route to the crique there is the foundation of a bunker from which the Nazis shot down to the Allies landing on the beach below. Off the lighthouse, sunken in the shallow water, lies a dormant submarine, shot down in that battle.


WWII bunker foundation

It is a bit eerie, though. Sometimes when I wander around the house I wonder what the wind will unearth. I wonder if I will find some old artifact just lying on this property. It’s quite possible, given the rich history. Sometimes when I lie on the beaches of Pamplonne I cannot avoid the chin that runs down my spine. On that golden sand, many lives were lost. That’s where the Allies landed, that’s where they came to liberate this part of France, to save the people. I can’t help but to feel guilty for, or at least pay respect to, those who fell on the ground where I know sunbathe topless. It just doesn’t seem right. (At the same time, they were American soldiers. If their ghosts are hanging around I can’t say they wouldn’t be thrilled to see all the beautiful, half-naked chics.)



In St. Tropez, there is a little area off the cost of the fort where one can swim. I doubt the water is very clean, but I am curious. Imagine the treasures you might be able to find! St. Tropez has seen many battles fought with primitive tools, cannons, and machine guns. It has seen pirates and heroes. What tiny artifacts remain safely embedded in the ocean floor?

SAVED!

I am so happy to be where I am right now.

Last night, after a long day at L’Esquinade, I returned to Le P’tit Club. Stephen had cleaned everything while I was gone and I felt guilty that I had so much stuff scattered about (of course, it’s difficult for me to be tidy when I have to leave silently & quickly at 8am when the dog gets up for fear of waking him up, and I don’t get to sleep until 5am when he leaves to faire le fête à St. Tropez). Then he told me that Tequila couldn’t sleep in the room with us. All I could think of was how she cries when she has to sleep alone, especially when she knows there are people nearby whose company she can keep. But what could I do? It’s his room.

Sylvia had called me while I was at the beach and invited me for a drink at the house. Why not, right? But as I went to leave the bar and head to Chez Michel, I realized there was nothing I could do with the dog. Stephen didn’t want her in his room, the middle room (where I usually put her) had to stay open, and she couldn’t roam around the bar freely because there were two very large, aggressive black dogs hanging out with one of the customers. I had no choice – I walked up the mountain with my dog by my side.

When I arrived, Sylvia and her family had just finished eating dinner. “Oh! We were hoping you could eat with us!” We had wine instead.

She asked me what I was doing and I told her I worked at the bar by the campground. We chatted about the job, mostly in English but also in French (Alain, her husband, does not speak English, nor do her two girls), and finally she asked me, “You make good money?”

Hah. No. I work for free. “I don’t make any money.”

“You mean you work only to earn the right to stay there?”

“Well, yes. But I’m not complaining; I have fun.”
And I had told her husband earlier that I slept on a couch there because there wasn’t enough beds for us all; in fact, one of the men sleeps in a tent in the back on the hard ground every night – rain or shine. This is where he told her that.

“No.”

She said it with such certainty, I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Well, yea – I work to stay there on a couch for free.”

“No.” She repeated, with the same defiant tone. “Not anymore, you don’t. You sleep here in a bed in your own room with your dog and you don’t work there like a slave.” And then she spat out this tirade about how there is so much money in this area and this is what people do – make people, especially foreigners, work for free and treat them like slaves by making them stay in unsanitary conditions and not feed them and this that and the other thing… “You will stay here.”

Twist my arm.

“And we will drive you down right now to pick up your suitcase.”

Again, if you insist.

And so off we went, and Alaine put all my bags in the car and he drove off. Tequila stayed at Chez Michel. I hung out with my Dutch friends (one of whom I especially adore – he is very smart and funny, with dark hair and striking blue eyes and a handsome face… and I really like his girlfriend. I’m just striking out with men all over the place. C’est la vie, huh). And after I spoke enough French, cleaned enough glasses, and had enough to drink – I came home. That’s right, I went back to my little room in the attic suite of my family house. I slept in my sheets instead of on a couch or in a stranger’s bed, with my clothes folded neatly in the bureau instead of tossed in a suitcase, and I woke up just before 9 (as always) to my beautiful view, instead of the sterile and foreign walls. God, it felt good. I love this place. And I'm so happy Sylvia was kind enough to let me stay.



I had a lovely breakfast with Sylvia and her family. We went to the crique, the five of us and the two dogs, and we came back to meet the rest of their company and have lunch. And now I’m sitting on the familiar orange couches in the sunroom, enjoying the Mediterranean cross breeze as it sweeps through the house, with not one but two large pups at my feet.

I don’t want to wear my welcome out too much, so I will go to Cogolin for a couple of nights before returning here Thursday or Friday. And then that’s it. I won’t be displaced again for the remained of the time that I am here.

It’s like breathing a deep sigh of relief. I’m home, I’m speaking French, I’m with family. What more can you ask for?

When the Cat’s Away, the Mice Come Out to Play

There are two very distinct worlds coexisting in the same plane of St. Tropez. This is a playground for the rich & famous, where people spend lazy days exploring the Mediterranean on their six story yachts, drinking expensive rosé, being waited on and spoiled endlessly. They spend their days on comfy mats at five-star beaches without a care in the world. In the alternate universe existing on this same plane live the locals who serve the rich & famous, run the yachts, serve the rosé, wait on the wealthy. They spend their days working at the beach thinking constantly of what they’ll do at night to make some more cash. Though they intermingle all the time, they remain tremendously different. This week I’ve been living in both parallels, yachting to chic beaches by day and boozing with the natives by night.



Today, for example, we played with my friend's boss's toys. We took his 80 foot boat out for a spin, anchoring off the glorious beaches in the private marina of Grimaud, sitting on the table in the back for some wine. And, of course, to play. We put the tender, the little boat for going ashore, and the jet skis in the water simply to “make sure everything worked and stayed conditioned while the boss was away.” Yea, right. We just wanted to pretend we had enough money to buy two 1400cc jet skies and a glorious Ferretti yacht and the bank account to spend the day at sea, admiring the sailboats and bigger boats (mostly private) passing by.




And that’s where I sit now, faking wealthy and enjoying the high life, as I have so many other days this week.



And at night I will return to Le P’tit Club for work, to booze with the locals, to speak French and scrounge for survival. It’s so interesting to contract the two worlds in which I live: the life of the tourist, visiting St. Tropez and spending money like it has no meaning. Then the life of the Ramatuelle-ians: works your ass off as a jardinière or a housecleaner or handyman (Alberte & Z come to Le P’tit Club every night for a drink – they are such wonderful people!), making money off the tourists so you have to work less during the winter when there are none. Denis (did I mention I met his pregnant wife last night?), for example, works until 3 or 4am every night at his bar, sleeps for a bit before returning at 11 or 12 to finish cleaning, then goes to work at the beach until he has to be back at the bar at 6. I met in my travels a man who works as a bartender eight nights a week, without a single moment free all summer. However, come October, he takes a nice four or five month holiday.

I don’t know. Maybe I’m rambling; I’ve had a lot of rosé. But I just think it’s terribly interesting that there are two terribly different worlds existing in this one area. And I think it’s even more interesting that I have a life in both. I am a Gemini, you know…

À bientôt!

Finally, this is becoming home

I can vividly remember a time when I was not this comfortable in this place. It was a semi-rainy day; thick, gray clouds hung in the air over the harbor. I must have been working at Stephano’s at the time because I remember being full of anxiety and dread, so it must have been early June. I wandered alone through the streets of St. Tropez, watching people give each other bisous and speaking fluent French and I remember feeling terribly alone. I remember the overwhelming sadness that swept through me while standing in a phone booth. It was homesickness, but not because I missed home. I just wanted this to be home. And now, it nearly is.

Tony, Tequila and I took the ferry from Les Marines de Cogolin into St. Tropez for the day. We shopped and had lunch on the water and took a coffee at Senequiers. I wore a linen skirt and a bright tank top and I brought my dog everywhere, speaking French, feeling French. Tony was shocked at how many people I knew. I stopped to see Michel Toni at the bank, who gave me bisous and chatted. I stopped to see Marron at Papagayo, who gave me bisous and invited me out to party. I stopped to see the man at the Internet café and the woman at the panini shop across the street, all who recognized me.

Yesterday night, when I returned to Le P’tit Club for the first time in a couple days, they were relieved to see me. “Where the hell were you?!” they demanded. Alberte & Z were there for a drink and wanted to know where I had disappeared to for two days. It feels so good to have people notice when you go missing, to have people care that you’re ok and alive. The bouncer kept telling me “how busy I am with my phone” because during a conversation with him, most of my friends here called. That’s something that excites me right there – I have friends here now.

Since that gloomy day in June, I’ve realized that St. Tropez is a small town and I’ve begun to find my niche in it.

The Language Barrier

I think of how many people I know in the United States who cannot speak much of any other language at all. I almost wonder how they travel. At the same time, I don’t wonder because in this world, with the domination of America and England, everyone speaks English. Everyone. I look at my Dutch friends who speak English SO well it’s amazing – and all of them do. It’s terribly impressive.

It must be easy. If English is your first language, speak slowly and everyone will understand you and respond in kind. Hence why people like Tony here have lived three years in the south of France and still doesn’t know a lick of the language. But imagine if that wasn’t the case. Imagine if people only spoke their native tongue. Americans would be screwed.

Sometimes at work, when I’m behind the bar, a customer will come up and speak French with awe-inspiring speed and thick accents. I, of course, understand none of it. So I tell them to please speak slowly, I don’t speak French, and every time – to my surprise – they apologize. They actually tell me that they are sorry, they’re sorry they spoke French to me (like they could have otherwise known I don’t speak the language?! It seems ridiculous to me that they apologize for this – I’m behind the bar in a France, they obviously would assume I speak French), and then they apologize that they don’t speak better English (which again seems ridiculous to me. Why should they be sorry they don’t speak perfect English?!). Whenever I encounter this situation, which is quite often, I can only respond with the honest truth lingering in my heart: “Non! S’il vous plait, n’êtes pas désolé! Je suis désolée que je ne comprends pas français bien! J’habite de votre pays, donc je devrais apprendre votre langue.” (“No, don’t be sorry! I’m sorry I don’t understand French better! I live in your country, I should speak your language.”) I think they appreciate that.

But for not speaking French well, working has been surprisingly easy. I apologize for my bad French and they either speak slowly or speak English. They tip me – in fact, I’m the only one there who gets tips – probably because I’m so honest and I do try to speak French and adapt to them (or because I’ve got boobs and speak with an accent – either or, tips work for me).

Of course, as I was walking the dog earlier I ran into someone with a big dog and as our dogs sniffed each other, we introduced ourselves. Upon hearing my accent, the woman said to me, “Ah, vous n’êtes pas française. Vous êtes d’ou?”

“Je suis de Boston, aux états Unis.”

“Oh, I’m from Arlington…”

Funny who you meet abroad, huh?

I don’t know. I do know that in the past two weeks that I’ve been hanging out/working at Le P’tit Club, my French has improved tremendously. Though I don’t speak it very well, everyone seems to understand me and I can hold my own in a conversation – as long as they don’t speak to quickly. I came here to learn French, and I am. Life’s good.

Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous

Ever since I was a little girl, my family and I have spent a significant amount of our vacations in St. Tropez being in awe of the wealthy. This is their playground, after all, and evidence of enormous sums of money are everywhere – from the prices of milkshakes (9€ each!) to the several story yachts docked along the port to the many little luxuries built into every beach, designed solely to spoil the already over-spoiled. Every time we go to L’Esquinade we stare in awe and curiosity as the little tender-boats putter away from the beach to pick up the rich & famous from their glorious yachts. Somewhere in the back of our minds we dreamed of what it would be like to be them. We wished that someday we, too, could be picked up from our trophy, showing off our collection of boats, coming to shore for an over priced meal. Today, that was me.



Tony and I took out the Pointu today, a very traditional French fishing boat. They are a collector’s piece no longer made, a rare token of history and a status symbol of wealth. We sailed around the area, admiring a view of St. Tropez that I thought I’d never see:





We anchored of shore of a chic restaurant in the tiny inlet between Pamplonne Beach and St. Tropez’s harbor. Sure enough, the man came out on his little boat to get us (and the dog) for a fantastic beachside lunch. It was wonderful. I felt very French (taking my dog everywhere) and very wealthy (coming to this pricy place on a collector’s boat).



Yesterday was a day of luxury and fun as well. We went to a little private beach here in les Marines de Cogolin, very similar to L’Esquinade, for lunch. Tony’s captain and housemate, James, was there with his girlfriend and her 8yr old girl. We said hello but immediately went back to minding our own business. Moments later, James came to us and said, “Look, I don’t know what your plans are for the afternoon, but I’ve reserved those four mats.”



“Is there four of you?” I asked, not believing he paid the ridiculous 15€ per mat for not only himself, but also for Tony and this girl (me) that he just happened to meet.

“Well there’s four of us and a kid who doesn’t count. Us adults will sit and drink rosé and the rascal can run around.”

It was amazing – great conversation, lots of fun, tons of wine. We sampled most of the wine list with bottles of Rouillier, Minuity, Pamplonne, Giscle, and the house. Fantastic.



I also ran into the young Belgium girl that I met with Tequila at the café the other day. She remembered me and everything about my dog, so I went over and chatted with her and her family. She played in the water with TikkiDog and I sat with her parents – who were absolutely wonderful – and talked of Belgium and France and boats. All of a sudden, her father turned to me and said, “Wait a second – my daughter told me she met some French speaking writer and her dog at the café. Would that be you?” I laughed.

And in French, I responded: “I guess so!”

And his wife looked at me with a genuine smile and said, “She was right, you do have a beautiful accent. Not American at all!” I could feel the blush in my cheeks from the rosé getting rosier. “She really liked you, you know. She came back talking all about you and your dog.”

I was so flattered. I was even more flattered when they were getting ready to leave and came over to me to say goodbye. “Send us a copy of your first best seller, ok?”

(I actually just ran into them now - and the came over to say hello and be friendly. This family is SO nice!)

It was so nice. People are wonderful. I told them I’d see them again before they left and at least exchange emails so that if I ever do write a book, they get to hear about it. It’s really easy to meet people with a dog.

I take that back – it’s really easy to meet people. I think of all my acquaintances here, people I’ve met at Le P’tit Club or just out and about, and I have to smile. It’s been so much fun. And it is easy. Today at the restaurant, I saw two handsome young men sitting beside each other at a table, enjoying lunch. One wore a Yankees hat (a logo that I see everywhere here, not that most people who sport it even know what baseball is) and the other was wearing none-other than the classic blue Red Sox baseball cap. I almost fell out of my chair with excitement. Someone from Boston?! That’s the first Sox logo I’ve seen here! Save, of course, for when my brother showed up…

Naturally I rushed over to say hello. In French I asked them if they liked baseball and when they couldn’t understand me, I got even more excited. Maybe they were ignorant Americans! So I repeated myself in English. “No,” the man in the Sox cap said, “we’re Dutch.” Oh. But we chatted anyways and I explained to them the rivalry between the Skankies and the Sox and had to even explain baseball. We had a nice, brief conversation and I left after saying that I had come over because I hoped they were from Boston, my hometown.

When we were getting the boat ready to leave after lunch, I heard people shouting. I looked up and on the boat next to us was that same Dutch family. “Hey, Boston!” they hollered at me. “Have a great day! Hope to see you again!”

Me too!

I had a wonderful two days rubbing elbows with people who spend more money daily than I may ever see in my lifetime. But, when I am rich and famous, this is the boat I’m going to buy:


(there’s nothing to give proportion to this photo, so let me tell you it’s well over 50meters, 160feet and every inch is absolutely gleaming with beauty)

It’s funny, though: I’m living the life of the rich and famous, both welcomed and spoiled by great company, and yet I’m not 100 percent happy. Yesterday, after bottle after bottle of rosé, I explained to Captain James why I’ve been hanging around his house so much. He said to me, “Listen, you – we love your company and you’re staying with us until you can move back into your house, got it?!” As flattered and grateful as I was, I realized I was going to kind of miss the bar…

In fact, I’m going to request to go to P’tit Club tonight. I really, really need to practice French.

Bon soir…

And I thought I was wasting my B.S. in BS over here!

I am again furiously typing at my computer with my dog by my side, sipping espresso at a French café and feeling pretty cool. I like telling people I’m a writer because it makes them think I’m engrossed in my work, creating masterpieces and articles and whatnot, when in reality I’m just rambling. Tee hee. It’s my lil joke on the world.

But it dawned on me just now that while I may not be experienced enough to call myself a writer (I just know how to say that in French rather than explaining I’m a recent college grad whose just bumming around), I am actually using the skills I learned at BU for money. And housing. That counts as using my degree for a job, right?

I just checked my email and have many notes from professors demanding to see some articles in magazines. They promise me I’m talented enough to sell my work and, like all demanding professors, tell me to get on it! They’re right. I spend most of my days lounging around with Tequila and writing; I might as well clean some of my accounts up and pitch them to a magazine or two.

But that’s not even what I’m really thinking about when I consider myself having a “real” job using PR and marketing skills. You can laugh, because this is really a stretch. But that’s what I do – I stretch the facts to appear in the most favorable light. I’m a spin-doctor. Or something.

I “work” at Le P’tit Club. I have yet to stand behind the bar and spend most of my time there socializing with the clients, managing to have most buy me drinks. Sure, I might help polish the glassware at the end of the night, but that’s about it. But I’m always working.

I’ve given myself the official title of “Promotional Manager” or “Marketing Director” – I haven’t decided which yet. Socializing is a huge part of PR. I bounce from table to table at the bar, making sure everyone is happy and content with the service and quality of the place, seeing what I can do to make people keep coming back. I have regulars. That’s right, there are several groups of people who come back night after night solely to see me. If I’m not there yet, they ask Dennis or Jerome where I am. They, of course, never know where I am. I’m not sure they really know what to do with me. This week there’s a group of Dutch people living at the campground that come to see me for local advice, a group of Ramatuelle natives who come to see me to teach me French and enjoy quality conversation, a group of French military men who come to see me for reasons I’d rather not explore, another group of natives who come to see me to practice English (and let me tell you their English is terrible, so it’s mostly another exercise in French for me), and a couple of British kids who come to hang out with someone whose first language is English. (I’m going to interrupt myself here to reflect on how bad this sounds – I live at a bar, I’m not even a bartender and I have regulars, and I have a dog named Tequila.) It’s fun, though.

Everywhere I go I meet people (I’m a social butterfly, what can I say?) and when they ask me where they should go for a really good time at night without the outlandish prices of St. Tropez, I tell them all about Le P’tit Club. I give them directions and flyers, I promise them drinks for no more than 5€ instead of no less than 25, I promise them good music to dance to and pool tables and foosball. I tell them about the bowl of card games the bar has so that clients can sit outside and drink and talk and play. And when there are people at the bar in large groups, I bring out this bowl of tricks and encourage them to play – sort of an icebreaker and a good time for all.

Of course, I don't want to get carried away. All my ethics in college warned against some of the crazy practices of people like Bernays, who had no problem instigating a CIA coup of some small, third world country solely for the sake of his client - a fruit company. I did just tell a 14-year-old girl about P'tit Club. Eh, they start young here... (kidding! kind of?)

So there you have it – I recruit business, I work to keep the clients happy, I plan social events, I create a buzz about the bar, I spread its name all over this city. Isn’t that what PR/Marketing is all about? Being social and friendly to create and keep business for your client? I ought to start writing articles about Le P’tit Club in French, pitching them to the local newspapers. Then I’d really be in my field.

So yea, I think I’ve earned my keep.

Hahahah, I love this job!

Yesterday was an eventful one.

If I were still living in my big house on top of the mountain, I would have welcomed a rainy day of nothingness to recover from yesterday’s eventfulness. I hate being displaced. I miss the majestic chez Michel, full of secrets and quirks I’ve progressed so far in discovering. A rainy day there means curling up in the sunroom with Kurt Vonnegut or Jean-Paul Sartre, nestled between them and my dog, wasting the day by aimlessly watching the clouds cover the bay below. Not today. Today, as the gloomy skies rumble with faint thunder and dark clouds roll in from the ocean, I cringe. We do need rain here – it hasn’t rained since the beginning of June. The dry heat has sucked all the moisture from the land. But since I really have no place to call home now, a rainy day means I must wander aimlessly until I can find some place to settle for a few hours, and when they kick me out I must pick up like a gypsy and roam again until I find somewhere else… It’s quite depressing. And quite difficult when you have a dog and no car.

So I find myself at the restaurant in Les Tournels, the campground below Chez Michel and behind Le P’tit Club. I would have spent some time at L’Esquinade simply to waste a day while Sylvia is at the house, but the rain prevented that. Instead I came here, chatted with my friend at the front desk (who told me I speak French well! Of course, it’s quite possible she said that so she didn’t have to speak English, which is very difficult for her) and she recommended Tequila and I come here, take a coffee, and charge my laptop. Et voila.

I have a headache – too much booze and too little sleep – but yesterday was certainly worth it.

This is a paragraph of ramblings simply so I can piece together the many events of yesterday. It’s boring, so I will encourage you to skip this and read on later. Or not. The day started early with yet another load of linens and dishes. I know it's not perfect, but I’ve worked so hard to clean the house. When there was only a little work left, I drove down to Le P’tit Club to drop my suitcase and my dog supplies off and Stephen, the man whose room I am sharing, was up at 10am from partying the night before. He was wasted and, well, ‘thrilled’ he’d be sharing a room with me… So I promptly left.

The townies are so kind here. Living in Ramatuelle has made me remember that sometimes it’s ok to have faith in people, that maybe people really are good at heart. I had a car in which I could take the dog but it had to be at the house for Sylvia’s arrival, I had a scooter that could take only myself, I had a dog that couldn’t be left alone or she’d cry and wake people up, and I needed to somehow leave the car at Chez Michel and take my scooter and dog to the bar. It was like one of those logic problems – the ones with the canoe and the wolf and the sheep. I couldn’t solve this one. The best I could come up with was leaving the car in the driveway and riding my scooter down to the bar with the dog chasing after me. Sure, it’s great exercise for her, but while I sat on my ass and coasted down the mountain with her sprinting full force to keep up in the billion-degree heat and burning sunshine, she wasn’t happy. So I flagged someone down and put Tequila in the back of his truck and he drove her to the P’tit Club and I drove my scooter. Logic is so much easier when you can bring in outside forces.

I never hitchhike. I think it’s really dangerous. But these people have been so helpful – this man was so kind to give Tikki Dog a ride and he wouldn’t let me pay him or by him a drink or a croissant or anything. I love people. When Sarah was here and I was going through my terrible no-sleeping stage, I was walking down the mountain with Tequila to go to L’Esquinade for a nap and two Parks Department workers gave us a ride in the back of their van. I know, tell me I’m being careless and irresponsible and it’s dangerous because they could easily drive off and kill me or my dog. When you’re that tired, reason is not your strongest attribute. And I survived. No, I probably won’t do it again, nor do I think I would have then if I hadn’t been so tired. But I’m grateful about how kind some people can really be.

Yesterday afternoon when I began to settle into P’tit Club, I bought some fresh croissants and pain au chocolate for myself and Denis – the guy who took me home on the Fourth of July, my new boss, the man who literally lets me get away with anything. I asked him if he wanted me to work and his response was simply “quand tu veux.”
Let me get this straight – I’m staying in his establishment for free with my giant, shedding dog and he genuinely doesn’t care if or when I work. How do I get away with these things?

He finished cleaning the bar after the night before and locked up for the afternoon. I had nothing to do with myself – Stephen is allergic to the dog and nice enough to let me stay in his room so I hate to disturb his routine of sleeping all day long. To get out, Tony, my Australian friend, picked me up to attend a barbeque courtesy of his boss, who's a rather wealthy man - to say the least. Shit. His place is amazing. It really is indescribable, too good to even imagine. All I’ll say is that we took his little sailboat for a spin around St. Tropez’s harbor after sipping champagne in the hot tub overlooking the river. Everything is bright blue and orange and green – so much grass and so many flowers. It was really beautiful. And the people that Tony works with are wonderful.



I’ll say it again: it’s amazing how people drift in and out of your life. As I was eating the delicious grilled food at Tony’s place, two of his coworkers were telling me about these beautiful South African girls, Elanie and Anthaya. I laughed. “Hey, I knew them!” Apparently they got fed up with Stephano too and now are living in a little apartment in St. Tropez drawing henna tattoos on people at the beach. LoL.

After the bbq, around 10 or 11pm, Tony took me and Tequila to the P’tit Club where I offered to work but was told it really wasn’t necessary. So I hung out instead. Lot’s of people bought me drinks and I ended up spending most of the evening with four amazing people from Holland; they knew the place where Martine and Paul grew up and we – as the French say – passed a good night. They’ll be here for a few weeks and promised to come back to the P’tit Club to keep me company. They offered to watch Tequila (Honestly, everyone wants to adopt this dog. She’s just that good.) and take us to Monaco with them when they go. Again, people are so nice. And I again have Dutch people in my daily routine.

I’m happy because people keep telling me I speak French well. My accent was better before I thought so much about grammar and proper conjugation, but I can have far more extensive conversations now. Life’s good in the Cote d’Azur.

Except for the fact, of course, that I’m nearly homeless on this rainy day.

Photos du Jour

I am far too exhausted to write, but I needed to post some pictures from the sunset I saw today.



After Tequila and I searched for a kennel but found none, I thought it only fair to give her a little play time on the beach. She's a big dog and loves to run around; what better place than an empty public beach at sunset?



It was beautiful. These photos hardly do it justice. And something about my white Tequila playing around with Bismark, the big black dog of L'Esquinade, was so beautiful. The colors in the sky caught in the waves of the sea, the sailboats sitting tranquil offshore, the dogs - and myself - running around whimsically without a care in the world. It was phenominal.



Of course, afterwards I had to go back to Le P'tit Club and thank everyone again. I did, practiced lots of French, and by the evening I thought it had mostly come back to me. They're so good to me down there. I am spoiled rotten.

I spent most of the evening speaking with Stephen again. Jean-Paul, a friend I met July 4th, also recognized me and kept me company, coaching my language skills. Jean-Paul is something like the gardner for the lighthouse here (yea, see, I don't speak French perfectly so sometimes it's difficult to understand exactly what people are saying) and knows all about this house and the Michel family and the crique. It's quite funny - this is a small town.

I actually got in an argument with one of Jean-Paul's friends tonight, too, because he couldn't figure out why in the world I loved Ramatuelle so much and what could ever possess me to want to stay for a long period of time. "This place is so small. There's so much more world, such better world." (He was trying with great difficulty to practice English.)

I became upset, though. The fact that Ramatuelle is such a small town is half of its allure - I grew up in a small town so it's familiar, comforting. And this is just one stop on my journey through life - I'm young and there are a lot of places I will see and live in before I die. I have a plane ticket home, you know. Someday.

But then I thought about it. If somebody from France sat with me in the local bar (if there were on, that is) in Mendon (my home town) and told me how much they loved it and how they wanted to live there if they could, etc etc... I'd probably say the same thing as this man said to me.

But the Blackstone River Valley can never even be compared to the Côte d'Azur. New England will never be like the French Riviera.

Eh, it was nice. I had so much fun with the boys who work at Le P'tit Club - my new roommates, haha; I had a wonderful time speaking with the natives. I feel quite proud of myself that I spoke so much French. I always leave there so happy.

Today was a good day.

In this big house, all you can hear is my own laughter

One night this week we were sitting outside and Martine was trying to help me figure out some living arrangement for Tequila and myself.

“You should go to one of these places that has half-assed offered you a job, demand the job they offered and a place to stay, and make use that you’re a lady.”

“That’s a polite way to put it,” I laughed.

“I mean just use your feminine charm,” he corrected, insulted I thought told me to be a slut, basically. “Don’t do anything but use your womanly power.”

Hah.

I was desperate today. Everywhere I went with vacancies was too expensive, no one could house me out of the goodness of their hearts. There’s nothing more pathetic than shopping for non-perishables that didn’t have to be refrigerated even after they were opened. But there I was, at Géant Casino, doing exactly that. If I had to live out of my car or go camping, I at least wanted to be prepared.

My French has gotten worse from lack of practice, but I needed to continue looking for somewhere to stay. I called Carola, Manuel’s sister and a useful networking contact here, hoping that she could help. I left a terribly incomprehensible message on her machine. But I couldn’t stand it anymore. Sylvia may come tomorrow or Saturday or Sunday and I want to be ready to leave whenever she arrives.

As I was driving down to L’Esquinade to see if anyone there can save me, I noticed Le P’tit Club was just opening up. Can’t hurt, I figured.

Denis, the man who took me home that night, stood behind the bar and beamed with joy when I walked in – as he always does. Jerome, the other bartender, rushed over to give me kisses hello. Stephen, the bouncer with whom I practice most of my French, looked thrilled to see me. And they all asked the same question, falling perfectly into my pathetic mind games… “ça va?”

“Well… no.” And I told them my sad story of no place to sleep. All at once they offered me housing. Haha, I love it.

They chatted mostly among themselves for the next few minutes and finally Denis explained to me their decision in slow French. Still, I just couldn’t get it. So he laughed and said these exact words:

“You can stay here. There is a room in the back that you will have to share sometimes with Stephen, but he is never here at night. You don’t have to pay rent. But on busy nights, you might have to work for a few hours. Is that ok?” Ok? Hah. I thought he was just granting my every wish – a place to stay and a foot in the door for the perfect job.

Of course, I’m American. I always want more. “And my dog?”

They laughed. Sure, Tequila can stay too. Not in bed with me anymore, but she can stay.

Fate loves me. I can’t get over how lucky I am. And I’m so happy to spend the next two weeks with this crew – they may not care much about pollution, maybe they can’t sing or paint, maybe they’re not hippies with worldly ambitions and seriousness and alternative ways like Sarah and her friends were. But they’re wild and crazy and fun and smart asses – and they’re way more my type of people.

I fit in with them. I love fun too much to be confined to a world of serious art and melodrama. I belong to groups of private school boys and frat houses and, well, Le P’tit Club. Hahaha

And as I drove down to St. Tropez, going 90kmph and fully in control of my scooter, with my linen skirt playfully dancing in the wind, masses of red, white and blue balloons came raining down from two planes circling in the sky.

Happy Bastille Day. Viva la France!

I laughed out loud. Somebody pinch me, I must be dreaming.


Gotta go get Tequila a kennel for our little vacation away from Chez Michel.
= )

About My First Love

I threw away Tim’s boxers today.

Tim was my ex-boyfriend and quite possibly the love of my life. We shared many years together happily in love. After we spent the summer basically living with each other and after we watched his brother get married, there was no question as to the fact that we would live happily ever after together. Then we broke up.



What can I say? I guess Life is bigger than Love sometimes.

Regardless, I did laundry today. I felt quite proud of myself that I could successfully work the washing machine and I knew how to properly clean all my intricate clothes (Really, doing my laundry isn’t like doing other people’s laundry. Everything needs to be washed a certain way so one must do a billion loads for a very small amount.) and I could hang them all so they didn’t get bibits. I even called Albert & Joseph to ask about the water – though really I just wanted to practice French. I’m feeling quite independent.

Then I came across a familiar pair of shorts, a pair of shorts that I have had for over four years. They are a pair of Tim’s boxers that I acquired the first summer we really dated, though I had probably fallen for him the summer before when we met for the first time; I was 15 in a strange man’s house and he walked up the basement stairs with a bright orange screwdriver drink garnished with a tiny, tropical umbrella, wearing a colorful lei and Hawaiian shorts. He was so tan with the most gorgeous back (he rowed crew) and his hair bleached blond and to the little girl that I was, he was gorgeous. To the woman I am now, I still think he is. He was intelligent and ambitious and spoke French and was left handed and had green eyes – all the things I wanted when I dreamed up my husband as a very young child. And after I was through with him, he knew how to tango too.



Sometime the second summer that I knew him, the first summer I worked for him at the Mendon Town Beach, we decided it was a good idea to go swimming in the middle of the night. I remember we had eaten at the Buddah – the sketchiest Chinese restaurant in the world – and played laser tag with four of our friends. We were crazy. But all of us – Tim especially – were all about fun. So we went swimming. I didn’t have a bathing suit so Tim kindly lent me a pair of clean AE boxers that he had stashed in his locker at the beach and in we went. Some of us went canoeing, others just swam around, Tim and I had a fun game of hide and seek – a game I lost terribly seeing as he could hold his breath forever and the water was so dark you couldn’t see under at all. I remember I got a leech that night, like I did so many times, and Tim removed it carefully, like he did so many times.

I went home in his underwear. Sometime later, at work, he was about to return something that he borrowed to me – a tee shirt, perhaps. Just as he outstretched his arm to give it to me, I told him that his underwear was lying on the floor in my room… and I’d return it to him later. He thought it was hysterical. So, as my boss and the wise ass I was crazy for, he had me parade around the MTB and tell all of our friends that I took Tim’s clothes of in my room and now they were lying on my floor (all of which was technically true even though Tim had never been inside my house) before he gave me my shirt back. Sure, it was funny. I thought it was funnier when I tricked him into saying I could keep his clothes.

Thus, from that adventure I acquired my favorite pair of boxers. They’re comfortable, but really they are the embodiment of the crazy antics of youth and fun memories and falling in love. I’ve worn them countless times since that summer, through the best of times and the worst, when Tim and I were dating and when I dated other boys (all of whom knew exactly who Tim was, though I doubt they knew my favorite boxers once belonged to him), through cold winter nights and to the beach on hot summer days. I loved those shorts.

Now the elastic has disintegrated from use and too many times in the dryer. They’ve faded a little, though the memories still stay true. But I no longer know Tim and he will never see those shorts again for, sitting here by myself, feeling independent and free, I’ve decided it’s time to throw them away. It breaks my heart. I associate a tremendous amount of sentimental value to those shorts. But it’s time. Life goes on. I will find another love whose underwear I can steal someday.

Though I doubt I will ever forget these.

The Ramblings of One Tired ExPat

I hate that I’m bad at French. But I’m learning.

I love my dog. She wakes me up every morning at 9am and I feed her, let her out, and we start our day togheter. Usually our first manner of business is taking a nap in the sun room; I figure I’m up early so I may as well write, she figures we’re up too early, so she crawls in between my body and my lap top and we both fall asleep. Life’s tough in the Riviera, you know.

But today, after our nap, I had to do some things. I need a job, preferably one that will house me for two weeks. Nobody is hiring, nobody works. So I saw my banker instead. I shifted some money around in my French bank account, hopped on my French scooter, ran into two friends in the streets of St. Tropez, had some ice cream, though of my dog waiting for me at home, and felt awfully French.

When I was young I once saw a beautiful white dog sitting patiently outside a butcher shop in St. Tropez. The dog stared eagerly at the door, waiting as still as a dog can wait, not bothering any of the people walking by with chunks of meat in their bags. Then, suddenly, one woman came out and the dog leapt to its feet, thrilled to see its mistress. It stuck with me as one of my most vivid and favorite memories. I always wanted to be French and have a dog that well behaved. And no I do. She waits outside for me, panting in the sun and eager to have me by her side again.

The kids were at the beach when I came home. I am certainly the odd man out, but grateful that they tolerate my presence as often as they do. I ought to do something nice for them… even though I’m rather poor.



I used to always consider being idle a terrible thing. I remember looking at my brother the summer before he finished college and being stupefied that he could spend every day inside at the computer playing poker. Granted he made quite a bit of money, I just couldn’t see wasting so many beautiful days away from the sun and in utter solitude.

Now I look at myself and think of all the jobs I’ve turned down. I don’t spend every day inside – I spend every day in the sun, in fact – but I am still alone and, aside from writing a bit, completely idle. I just can’t bring myself to take a job I’m not going to love. This is my last summer to play; once I return to the United States that’s it – career for the rest of my life. I’m too young for that shit.

I’m so near to a dream, though. I would like to learn French this summer, and better my writing skills. With French, I can take some classes in the spring and find myself and amazing international marketing job. I’d write a lot for that, and speak a lot of French. I love that people read my blog. It makes me feel so wonderful that I can share this amazing adventure with people and that they actually enjoy hearing what I have to say about it. Lately I just haven’t had the heart – or the time – to write a lot. It may have something to do with how exhausted I’ve been. No emails, no blog… I’ve just got other things to do, like get to know a long lost cousin, watch men who sing and cook in awe, play with my newfound best friend.

In other news, I found my keys and I’m not homeless until Sunday – and even after I am homeless, I may still be able to keep the car. Life’s starting to look up a bit?

A Day in Cannes

I saw amazing things in Cannes today. However, very little of my favorite sights came from the historic and flamboyant city itself and instead came from the awesome power of nature.



We went to Cannes for lack of something better to do. I considered seeing Angela, the woman who sold me my scooter, but all she does is call and ask for ridiculous favors and to borrow money. I am irresponsible enough without her tasks and am already scrapping for cash, so I didn’t think it was a good idea.

The city itself was far less impressive than I had hoped. It is a city; people are everywhere, buzzing about on their own business, filling up streets and sidewalks. I prefer the small towns of St. Tropez and Ramatuelle, where people wave and there’s room to breathe. (That may change, however, for St. Tropez in August remains a small sized city as far as land area is concerned, but the people file in by the thousands.) It is an odd mix of old, historical art juxtaposed by new, hot trends. We ate dinner, for example, at a tiny little restaurant in an old ally and I couldn’t help but to notice the walls of the buildings surrounding where marble and elegantly carved, perfect playgrounds for the light of the many neon signs to play in.



We mostly just walked around Cannes, trying to spot someone famous. Personally, I think the only time anyone of particular import would be in Cannes would be during the film festival – after that they’re in St. Tropez basking on the warm golden beaches of the Rivera sun. Sure, Cannes has beaches. But St. Tropez’s better.

I saw three amazing things in Cannes today:




We sat on the far end of the harbor, looking over the bay, awed by how dark the afternoon appeared. A storm of immense proportions came rolling in over the sky, blacking out the sun and casting cool shadows on the land below. The ocean, surprisingly still, acted as a mirror, capturing the phenomenal beauty in an alternative universe. We watched the awesome power of the storm, amazed by the amount of rain we could see falling as far as Frejus, and we felt small. This is a big earth with enormous power and we are but children trying to survive.



The second was the blossoming of love. Sarah is an amazing girl with a free spirit and a good heart. She is beautiful in the very sensual way many French women are. It thrills me to see her with a man who is kind and funny and inspired by her. All of these people are amazing – Sarah and her boyfriend and Martine. Then there’s me, the loud, ignorant, outspoken American who thinks she knows volumes more than she does. (We played cards tonight and just by the way they fell, there were several games where it was me versus Paul, Martine and Sarah – a battle of the Atlantics, so to speak. And in all the fights of America vs. Europe, I always won. Hey, what do they say, don’t mess with Texas?)



As the sun set, Sarah’s silhouette dancing across the beach lured us into the water. It was an image of youth – carefree lust or life and an unending well of playfulness. We laid back, floating in the crisp, clear ocean, watching the lightening explode across the sky behind the city, listening to the heads of warning as the thunder rolled in. The storm drew closer, and we slowly dragged our dripping bodies out of the water. The sand stuck to our feet and the salt to our skin, until the skies opened up and blessed with a naturally fresh water of rain.

I am unreliable and irresponsible. I am headstrong and stubborn. These are the flaws I am most guilty of, the flaws most prominent in all youth, the flaws that maturity corrects. It is these flaws I came here to rid myself of, yet I can’t seem to stop them. It may just be that they are beyond my control.

I decided it would be a good idea to get a scooter and a dog, even though most told me otherwise. I know both investments can be easily passed on (by selling the scooter and sucking it up to put my poor Tequila back in a kennel), but still – what was I really thinking? I don’t have a place to sleep in less than 5 nights, I’ve passed up many very good job offers, I think I lost my set of keys. I don’t try to do these things. And somehow I can always deal with the consequences without taking much of a lesson. Why? And when does one finally grow up?

But at least I’m sleeping again… kind of. 5 hours a night is much better than less than 2.

Ok, let’s do this dreaming thing…

Two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl

I am writing in the sunroom, the terribly chilly air blowing in from outside where five artists sit and chat. This house is full, yet I feel even more alone. These people, as amazing and wonderful as they are, have only reminded me of all the things I do not – and may never – already have.



In fact, the only companionship I truly share is with my new best friend – probably the only thing that has saved my sanity this week. She truly loves me and I love her. We have a certain bond, an understanding of each other, that comes mostly from the fact that we both are lost souls adrift in time, struggling to stay above the unpredictable currents of life. We both have no one here, the place in which we strive to belong. We have no home. We know naught where we will sleep by the end of the month or where our journeys will take us. We are simply grateful to have each other, to have somebody to love and somebody who loves you. The poor girl doesn’t realize that – as much as I would like her to – she cannot stay. I am a guest in someone else’s house. I cannot have a guest of my own.



I look at her darling face and feel as though I might die of heartache! Her last master had to put her in a kennel after he and his wife divorced, sending both of them into cities and apartments where dogs are strictly forbidden. Though they love her, their lives come first. They have no friends who can take her. They only have a bit of money and a book of yellow pages. I rescued her from that wicked prison and whisked her away to this paradise where there is so much land to roam and so much beauty to take in. Not that she seems to take much advantage of it – she refuses to leave my side. I don’t blame her; she has been abandoned because of circumstances beyond her control, left to live her days in a tiny cage with nothing but another big dog and their shared feces.



But she is not bitter. Instead she is terribly sweet, glowingly gentle and well behaved. When little children and playful dogs prod her for attention, she simply sits still and tolerates their forceful jabs and shrieking noises. She will stay without a leash outside of stores while I go in to shop, provided that she can still see my figure through the door. She goes to the bathroom where she’s told. She never barks. She doesn’t jump or chew. She pretty much just loves me and Martine and that’s it. She’s content with that.

And I am saved by her big heart. I love her like she loves me. Yesterday we decided it would be a good idea to leave her while we went to the bar for a few hours, just so she would learn to be alone. Though she cried for a minute when we sat outside in silence, listening to see if she would break down a door or bark loudly, she was heavenly. We returned to the house to see nothing disturbed – she probably slept on my bed the whole time. But as we left the driveway and I whined gently that I worry about her being alone, Martine turned to me and said, “This is just as much for you as it is for her. You hate to be apart from her just as much as she hates to be apart from you. But you both must learn. Otherwise, what will happen when you work?”

(Hah, work. Yea, I’ll get to it. I’d rather write articles and pick up a few shifts when needed. I even received emails today from old professors, wondering when they’ll see my work in Travel & Leisure. I am hopelessly flattered that they not only remember me, but have that much faith in my writing skills!)

I couldn’t argue his logic. I’ve found he knows everything about this dog; I am lucky to have his advice and help in taking care of her.

That is another thing my dog and I have in common – our shared adoration of Martine. As we winded our way down the narrow path to the crique yesterday, I couldn’t help but to laugh at the irony. There both Tequila and I followed Martine with eager eyes and hopeful smiles, like little lost puppy dogs. I suppose the irony shouldn’t be too much of a shock. She may be the only four-legged dog but it’s quite possible that we are both bitches. ; )



Martine is an amazing man. I’ve found simply watching him has given me a new faith in people. He has a kind heart that reaches out to engulf all who is near him, an amazing laugh that’s silliness fills the entire house, and a goofy smile that is more contagious than poison ivy. He, at the ripe old age of 27, was a social worker for a year because he likes to help people (certainly no one becomes a social worker for the pay…) before deciding that there was something else in this world he wanted to do. He just finished school again. He is an artist, alluring in that alternative kind of way. (When I first met him, and even the first few days, I thought I would find none of them attractive. But their amazingly big hearts and sincere sweetness have made me look at all of them – especially Martine and his friend from home – Sarah’s boyfriend who is fantastic with her.) He wears worn-out faded jeans and big comfy sweaters that look so inviting, always folded at the sleeves because they are far to large for his size. His hair is untamed and shaggy, hanging over the most gorgeous green eyes.

I look at him and no matter how much I try to convince myself I’m being a fool and not to dream, I can’t help but melt. He is adorable and intriguing, and he is kind and full of love. Anyone who can attract so much loyalty from a dog must be wonderful – dogs can sense that sort of thing. If I could live another life, it would be with a man exactly like him, living in a place exactly like this, having a dog exactly like Tequila.

But this is a life I will never have. This man who is too good to be true cares naught of my boring existence. He will leave in less than one week and never think of me again. And though I know better than to actually fall, I cannot help but to laugh at myself and the schoolgirl crush I’ve created in my head. He is actually pursuing one of the girls here, one that I don’t care much for, and I watch their flirtations and movements with a silenced but bitter intrigue. And then I laugh because I really don’t feel anything, it’s just much more fun to pretend I do. I’m playing this game right now; the wind carries his soft voice to my ears, dressed elegantly in a beautifully foreign accent, luring me in like a baited hook. And then I laugh because really, I don’t care.

Sarah is wonderful. She just stopped in to ask me if I would join them all in the brushing-of-the-teeth party in the bathroom. It is tough to be the only one who does not belong. But she is sincere and kind in inviting me to do everything and anything. I forgot how kind and interesting people can be. I think it’s funny that all of Sara’s guest in her summer cottage (myself included) are Geminis. Not that I really believe that kind of stuff… it’s just a weird coincidence.

Ok, time to go cuddle with my puppy and try to sleep – I don’t know how I’m alive right now. I have slept less than three hours every night this week for no reason I can think of. Talk about white nights. Insomnia. Even after a heavy lunch of pasta and rosé, baked by sunlight and cooled by salty ocean waves, I could not nap on the comfy mats of L’Esquinade. But they all loved Tequila too. In fact, I think it might be impossible to have anything but unadulterated love for this dog.



If I could, I would save her. She has saved me, after all. I would take her home to my little hometown and let her be free and American. She’s bilingual, you know. She would get along just fine with Cloey Ann and my family would love another dog, especially one that is so perfectly behaved as her. She is too wonderful to spend her days ownerless in a kennel.

I’m nauseous with overwhelming exhaustion and the fear that in less than a week I will be completely alone again.

Dog Days of Summer

I spent six hours stuck in traffic today; six hours boiling in the 32° heat. But I can’t complain, the company made it all worthwhile.



I am desperate for company. I am almost as desperate for money. And in an odd twist of events I found an opportunity for both. I have taken on a dog and I absolutely adore her, and I even get paid some for each week I can enjoy her companionship. Her master just had a divorce and neither he nor his ex-wife have any place for the dog. The poor pup has been living in kennels for almost two weeks now.

I am so happy to have rescued her! She is the sweetest dog I have ever known. She is calm and peaceful, hardly ever stirring even to play. She loves to cuddle – when I lie down she practically climbs on top of me to ensure she gets some luvin! And when other dogs bark or nip at her, she simply tolerates them without ever baring teeth or making a noise. She’s phenomenal.

She hates to be alone. She follows me everywhere to make sure I don’t leave. (Of course, as I laugh at how much she is stuck to my side, I find myself pausing at the bottom of the stairs to wait for her. I think we are both two lonely souls happy to find someone who wants us around all the time.) I don’t blame her – she’s been abandoned by her loved ones more than once this past year and she’s spent much of this month in a cage. And she’s smart, too – we tried to lock her in a room and she doesn’t hesitate to open the door by the handle. As much as I am impressed, it posed a bit of a problem when we decided to go out.

Sara and her friends love pool. The only pool table I am familiar with is at Le P’tit Club, the bar at which I get to practice all sorts of French. Plus, I wanted to know if I literally kissed that job goodbye… so we went. All seven of us – including Tequila – piled into the Peugeot and off we went. I received a warm welcome; apparently after one night I am the favorite regular! Dogs are not typically allowed but “given the mistress,” as I was told, they would make an exception for mine. And she was better than well behaved – she sat beside me no matter where I went, ignoring the blaring music or millions of people who wanted to play. She’s so happy to have company, too.

We had a wonderful time, talking and drinking and playing cards. I practiced a lot of French again and even Sara said I know the language and don’t speak with an American accent.



After the bar closed, I was still wired. We sat at the house and had wine and chatted as people went to bed, one by one. Not me. Martine, one of Sara’s friends, somehow found the patience to tolerate my ridiculous ideas and walked to the crique with me and my new pup to watch the sunrise. He, however, was not ridiculous enough to join us in a sunrise swim…



It was beautiful. It’s been a wonderful day. I’m sure this is a terribly written entry but between speaking so much French and such poor English (so everyone here whose first language is not English can understand me) and no sleep and quite a bit of booze, you can’t really blame me. I think I may need a break from writing for a bit to figure out what language I ought to think in.

I do have a puppy, though. = )

Well, at least for now…

Praise to Probably the Two Sweetest Ramatuelle-ians Ever:

Joseph and Alberte Comba are phenomenal people. They are sweeter than honey, kinder than nuns, warmer than a brick oven. Seriously – I’ve never met a couple like them. They greet me each day with smiles and welcoming kisses. They tolerate my absolutely ridiculous mistakes and even willingly engage in conversations with me, though they speak no English. They have saved my ass many times, searched for jobs for me, keep me in mind whenever something of interest comes up. And for me they do it for a smile and a simple "thanks." It’s amazing.

I so look forward to seeing Joseph and Alberte and try so hard to be polite and please. I often dread talking with them, though. I adore them, I absolutely do, but I don’t think I speak French. Last night everyone told me I did, but I still don’t believe it. So I hate to call Joseph and Alberte because I know I have to stumble through an embarrassing conversation in broken French with people who I really respect. That’s the worst; I hate speaking French to French people whom I respect. I just feel like it’s a blatant way of advertising how ignorant an American I am. At least I’m learning…

I just wanted to kiss Joseph I was so happy when he fixed my scooter. I had Sara call him because I hadn’t the slightest idea of how to explain the situation in French – I think all I could say was “j’ai besoin d’aide parce que j’ai cassée ma scoot parce que je suis très stupide.” Alberte happily told Sara Joseph would be here at 1.

“I don’t think he can fix it,” I said, biting my lips. I just paid a lot of money for that bike and I loved it, and it was really my own fault for not thinking it through when I thought moving the wheel forward would help. Duh – the lock’s on the wheel so someone can’t steal the bike. Moving the bike forward makes the lock think it’s being stolen. Really – dduuuhhhh.

Sara wasn’t worried and her confidence comforted me. “I think Joseph has a solution for everything.” We laughed. She was right.

Naturally he arrived at 2:15 (he’s French, what do you expect?) and let himself into the house where I was dozing off, reading some Kurt Vonnegut. He demanded to where the scooter was and I grabbed my purse and my keys and told him, sheepishly, “Yea, I left it at the bar.” Really, I’m a good girl. I just do dumb things. A lot.

He took me to Le P’tit Club, talking the whole way of the beautiful view and the mistral winds from Africa. He was sweet, teaching me French and working through my errors. When he saw the bike he was obviously surprised at the damage I did. I couldn’t understand what he mumbled to himself but I imagine it was something like, “How the fuck did you manage this?”

But he wasn’t angry – never angry. Instead he was patient. He didn’t hesitate to get down on his bare knees and wrestle with the rope lock desperately entangled in the mechanics of the wheel. He asked me only to old the bike straight, and roll it forward once or twice. The disgusting oily grit of the scooter stained his hands black, the sharp pebbles of the parking lot left holes in his knees. But he didn’t seem to mind. It took him less than ten minutes to free the bike from the snake caught in it’s wheel. I had tried last night for an hour – and all I did was make the situation worse.

He removed the lock and smiled proudly. I was literally jumping with joy – I hadn’t destroyed my first major investment after only three days of owning it! Yea! I tried desperately to pay him, but he would have none of it. I pulled out my wallet and he screamed “Allez!” and moved a safe distance away from me, like I had pulled out a hand grenade or some vile of AIDS. Instead he chatted about where I can look for a job and of forest fires and the tourists that have invaded the area. And, because I forget to grab a helmet (I honestly didn’t think I’d be driving my scooter ever again), he followed me all the way home to make sure I was safe. He is too kind. So is Alberte. I will send them flowers or wine next time I’m in town.



I can’t get over how lucky I am. Fate loves me. I look at my life and am amazed by all my good graces. Though I am forever grateful for my seemingly endless well of luck, I cringe to admit it. For, as written in my favorite book The Alchemist, “don’t say that too loudly, for Life may be listening and give you less next time.”

Response to Last Night

I am a lucky, lucky girl. I walk through this house and cannot help but to smile wildly. It is a beautiful house full of history and adventures and beauty. I look out any window and there is a gorgeous view of paradise; the storm last night cleared away all the haze so I can see as far as Nice (save for the few patches now covered from the thick smoke of yet another forest fire). I am so happy here, even though sometimes I forget it.

This morning I woke up with a hangover of sadness. My disappointing evening stuck with me like a headache of loneliness and left a bad taste in my mouth. But as the day progressed, I felt better. Talking to moms always help a hurting heart. I certainly miss home, but I don’t mean that to be confused with being homesick. I am not homesick. I miss my family and having old friends and good people, but I don’t miss Boston, Mendon, or anywhere else in the United States. I love it here, I just wish this were home. I wish I had friends who didn’t want to get in my pants, I wish I had some girls to retreat to after a terrible day, I wish their were people whose arms I could cry in if need be.



Sara and her friends are really very kind. They invite me everywhere and ask me to join them at meals or visit the crique with them. I never do, but I am grateful they ask.

All in all, I am living my dream and that’s all that matters. I have a scooter and am looking for a job. I speak the language much better than I give myself credit for. I’ve learned the fashion and bits of the culture; I know how to turn heads wherever I go with a look of admiration and intrigue rather than a look of disdain and humor.

seul, esseulé - adj. lonely, alone, forsaken

Today, I was lonely. Too lonely to just sit in this house with people I don’t know. I lasted until about 10:30 and then I had to leave, so I hopped on my scooter determined to keep myself occupied. I don’t know if I had a destination when I got on my big bike or if I just wanted to drive around, but I found myself uncontrollably drawn towards Nikki Beach – the big American hang out. I just felt so alone and out of my place; I was an American in a foreign land on the 4th of July and my family left to be replaced by complete strangers. I thought that if I heard something familiar, I heard someone talk like me, I heard Americans and were with Americans, I’d be happy. I really just wanted a hug.

As I drove down the dark, winding Route du Plage, the heavens opened up. Hard drops of rain fell from the sky and beat against my bare skin, feeling like rock and debris rather than soft bits of water. The wet pavement smelled like death to me; all I could hear were the warnings of my friends saying that the roads here become like oil when their wet, and scooters are dangerous.

I made it about halfway back to my house before it started pouring, so I stopped in at the P’tit Club. The owner is so kind. I had so much fun. I met a lot of people, including two kids from England and some wonderful French men. I spoke so much French and laughed a lot. It was great, really great. I was happy.



And then I broke my scooter. In the rain, the wet gravel caused my scooter to slip a little bit and the lock got caught on the wheel. I don’t know what I was thinking – God, I honestly feel so stupid right now – but I figured that if I could turn the wheel, the lock would get unstuck. Wrong. Starting the engine and trying to move the bike only got the lock stuck further, so stuck I couldn’t move it at all. I was on my knees in my short skirt and high heels, crawling around in the mud, dripping from the rain. I couldn’t fix it. I realized I’d have to leave the scooter and walk home, hopefully finding someone to get the lock out in the morning.

I dragged my sorry ass into the bar and, looking quite pathetic all dirty and soaking wet, I told the owner I had to leave my scooter. He insisted on giving me a ride. He was very sweet to take me home; of course as I kissed him goodbye (I was really lonely! And he’s so nice! AND cute!) I thought that maybe I wouldn’t be getting a job there after all…

But shit, I feel stupid. I broke my scooter, I’m all alone, and I can’t get a hold of my family. Did their plane make it home ok? Did I just destroy a thousand dollar investment? Will I ever find a job???

Ugh… I have that awful pit in my stomach. I’m terribly embarrassed about much of my behavior tonight. My heart is heavy. And I don’t have a place to stay for the last two weeks of July; if I could afford it I would go home. I’d go back to the States for a two week vacation. But I can’t, and I’m determined to stay here, to learn French. Even if today was a really bad day.

I guess you have to hit rock bottom before you can soar higher. I just feel like I’ve already hit rock bottom many times…

And then there's me...

They arrived and immediately I knew I was terribly uninteresting. Sara and her friends are the type of people who adore fine art, hitchhike, wear interesting clothes. They’re passionate about life. They’re artists. It’s really wonderful. They walk around barefoot with their hair in messes, no bras and they are beautiful. They laugh and carelessly hold their cigarettes like torches of freedom. None of them share the same native language, but they all speak English through thick accents. They come from all over the world.

And I picked them up in my high heels and short skirt.

I need a job. I need something else to occupy my time, to get me out of this house. These people are very sweet and kind, but I am an outsider and I’m sure they will find me boring. We’ll see.

They are really wonderful and amazingly kind. I just know we are different. I’m appreciative that they let me stay in the house while they are here. I’m feeling a bit like a maid. The caretaker didn’t do the laundry again, as she didn’t when my parents first arrived. So I washed all the sheets and napkins again and hung them and some of their laundry to dry. I think I need to get out.

It’s the fourth of July. I ought to celebrate my country. I should really go to the P’tit Club down the street and have a beer and beg for a job. I just don’t know if I’m ready to scoot in the dark, let alone with alcohol in me – even if it is just one beer. (I say that because one beer is essentially like drinking a glass of juice; I’m the type of girl who drinks scotch and bottles of wine… one beer don’t do shit – but I’m not gonna risk anything on that scooter.)

Rapunzel

I’m lost in a fairy tale, like Rapunzel, locked away at the top of tower with long, blond hair for her love to climb and rescue her.

Except I’m not locked in my attic room – I’m loving it. I don’t have long, beautiful blond hair – I have a tangled mass of golden brown curls. I am not interested in having the love of my life rescue me – I don’t need saving right now. I also am not interested in watching a man scale the side of the house – I fear that would give me way too many insecurities at night and I’d fear for his safety in the process.

I do, however, need a hair cut.