A Wrapping up of Sorts

It’s nearly September. My grandparents will be arriving shortly, the last guests of the season at Chez Michel. Will I remain once they’ve left? I need a leather jacket, sweatpants and long-sleeved shirts to stay warm in the early morning and after the sun has set. Le P’tit Club will be closing its doors for the winter this weekend, I must seriously consider selling my scooter before prices drop too drastically during the cooler months. My friends will be leaving soon; I just ran into Bruno – the man who stole my earring, which I just recovered and good thing to; he leaves for Cannes this weekend. I was driving up the mountain from the beach and saw his giant white jeep pulling out of the bar parking lot and thought it was time to take desperate measures; he’s had the sentimental piece of jewelry for nearly three weeks. I sped my scooter up and slid perpendicular to the road, blocking it off in its entirely. He and Stephen had to stop, though they would have anyways – they were ecstatic to see me (excitement no doubt heightened by the fact that I was wearing only a tiny bikini and a see through pareo) and begged me to visit tonight. I hardly spoke, simply reached up from my scooter and took the glittering gold hoop from Bruno’s ear, winked and drove up.

I just can’t believe the season is over. This summer has disappeared before my eyes, especially since the arrival of the Americans. These past few weeks have been a blur dominated by slight variants of the same day: wake up early, play with Tequila, go to work, have lunch at L’Esquinade with the family, sunbathe while reading Harry Potter, finish by relaxing over rosé with the inhabitants of Chez Michel. The barrier between each day is distinguished only by slight differences. Do I speak lots of English at works to clients who leave big tips or must I deal with the frustrations of the French angered by my poor communication skills? Will I bartend after serving breakfast of help the girls clean the rooms? Do I have the escalope vienoisse, moules, or pâtes carbonara for lunch? Which Harry Potter am I reading (I’m currently on number 4!)? Who else is relaxing with me?

As with the rest of the summer, people still come and go at Chez Michel. I’m surrounded by both familiar faces and complete strangers. Saturday morning, while I was at work, Josh (Jesse’s friend) left to return to Boston. The day before Carol’s nephew Ricky arrived with his new bride, Becca. This morning they disappeared along with Ryan (Ricky’s brother who arrived with Carol and family).

Ricky has actually vacationed to Camarat once before, some nine years ago when he was 15 and I was barely 11. I though I’d never see that long-haired, guitar-playing man again. Obviously I was wrong. He has the same with and sense of humor as before, I laughed through each conversation with him like I remember doing so many years ago, we finished the majority of evenings by playing long games of Elevator (card game), but that’s about all that remains the same. His hair is short and clean-cut and he now plays with computers instead of 5-string acoustics.

One night we were all sitting around the straw table in the sunroom and Ricky idly picked up my ancient pink travel journal. I have kept a detailed record of every vacation I’d ever embarked upon since 1994 in the silly book and now keep it downstairs as an excellent reference source. The family seems to have very different memories of each summer spent here and the journal has become an easy way to settle differences, for it is an explicit record of dates and places from years and years ago. Asking my permission, Ricky turned to the summer he spent here. We laughed loudly reminiscing from that crazy vacation. “Isn’t this ironic,” he laughed as the character of me in my journal prepared to leave, “you wrote, ‘This is the last time I’ll see Ricky EVER!’ and here I am, sitting across from you and reading it.” I smiled. Irony is a funny thing.

But the rest remains the same. The beach is beautiful, lazy afternoons full of reading are perfect. I daydream about the books I may someday write. In the meantime, I actually am enjoying work. I forgot how much I love to work hard. I hate that I have a job every morning when I wake up, but once I’m there running around I remember that amazing feeling of sweating and striving to make a difference, to serve well. Being in France, I may be the only one with that work ethic. Regardless, Jommy’s right: this is the perfect job for me. It’s only a few hours each morning so I’m usually back in time for lunch. It pays well (I make GREAT tips), forces me to really use French (and wow, how my skills have improved drastically in the past week), eases me back into the real world (I work hard, but still have most of the day for the Camarat kind of life), and gives me a little bit of structure at the same time. I may complain about it after dinner or early in the morning, but really – I love that I’m working again.

I just still have so much to do. My room is a mess. My dog desperately needs to be brushed. I have over 40 unread emails sitting idly in my inbox. Forget my real responsibilities: pay my credit card, change my airline ticket, call to confirm the sale of my apartment… And don’t die of dread, thinking that fall is rapidly approaching. The end is near…