A bit of nothing, for I’ve done nothing, but I have to write or I fear I’ll forget how

I have been consumed by an overwhelming handicap that forces me to do absolutely nothing. Seriously, all day I do not a single thing. I don’t know why; perhaps it is the result of the unbearably heavy August heat. Since the departure of Sylvia and the arrival of her brother Ludo and his family & friends, I have spent the majority of my time sleeping. If I manage to pry my useless body from my bed (or whatever location I have chosen to nap in), I read. I’ve read countless books in however many days I’ve been sick with this disease of no-motivation. Look – I can’t even count how many days it’s been. I don’t know the date, or the day of the week.

Of course, losing track of time is part of being here. The Côte d’Azur is a black hole – a twilight zone – that swallows you hole so that one day you wake up, buy the newspaper, and find yourself shocked that the rest of the world does in fact exist and continues on without you, that time continues to pass somewhere else that is not here.



And in my long days of nothingness, of sleeping and reading, I have somehow managed to do an enormous amount of laundry, climb the treacherous spiral of the lighthouse to see the view, and made one quick visit to the crique with the new inhabitants of Chez Michel.



I’m enjoying the company of Ludovic, my father’s cousin, and his family. He is a wonderful man with a brilliant smile and an excitable nature. His wife is an impressive woman, very sportif and an amazing chef. His two children are good-natured and well-behaved, and each have a playmate: Sidone, who just spent five weeks in America learning English, has the company of her father’s best friend’s child, and Olivier has brought a friend of his own from Paris. Francis, Ludo’s best friend, is also here – a very charming, sophisticated and witty man who plays with the kids like he himself is not a day older than 12.

With all these people I adore, as with the neighbors that I respect tremendously, I cannot speak French. I understand when they talk amongst themselves, but if they pose even the simplest of questions to me, I freeze. My dear Aunt Sarah insists that it is because the risk of embarrassment is greater here than at the bar, and she is certainly correct. It’s mind-boggling though, the power of psychology. Last night I spent flirting at the bar, drinking rosé and having a grand old time, speaking not a word of English. I came home, slept for a very short time, woke up and when my family spoke French to me I lost it all. It’s bizarre. Nothing. I don’t know any French while in this house. Leave, and I’ll get into political debates.

I need to find a new book to read. Or I need to write an article to sell to a magazine. My father encourages me to get a “real” job – not the “quand tu veux” nightlife of Le P’tit Club, where I make money in tips and maybe a complimentary 5€ from my friends, the owners. But I do drink for free.

I have one last bit of nothingness: Martine had encouraged me to change the name of my dog. He believed that a dog this wonderful deserved a better name than the alcohol famous for waking up in strange bedrooms with no recollection of the night before. He wanted to call her Camarat, but to me Camarat will forever be this place – to large, dreamy and all encompassing to also become my faithful companion. If she were a boy, I would name her something clever like Yossarian – just to see how many people knew where the name came from. Or I’d call her “Doc” for Doc Holiday, probably my most favorite character from the Old West. But she’s not a boy. And I have no ideas. And it’s probably been too long, so she will remain Tequila or Sunrise (as everyone likes to call her, though I myself have never) or TikkiDog when I really feel like embarrassing her.