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…

Amazingness

It’s like osmosis. If you stick something in water, all the water cells on the inside splurge out the semi-permeable membrane and join the water on the outside. When living in this place, the amazing and beauty of the area lures out the amazing and beautiful qualities of the people.



We had an amazing lunch at L’Oumide. (It’s a beautiful restaurant perched in the middle of rolling vineyards, complete with a horizon of tiny orange clay houses and green shutters and azure Mediterranean Sea. But that’s beside the point.) Halfway through eating our stuffed tomatoes, squash and onions, my grandfather came out with yet another witty one liner that sent us all into laughter. His hilarity had been beaming all afternoon; forcing us to spit out our wine and struggle to keep our smiles in check when he was being “bratty” with my grandmother.

“See,” she said to me as we filled the empty restaurant with a roar of laughter, keeping her eyes lovingly on her husband of 50-some-odd-years. “Can you ever remember your grandfather having a sense of humor like this before?”

And I thought about it. I thought about all the time I had spent with this wise, admiral French man and thought of all the words I used to use to describe him. Intellectual. Hard working. Cultured. And he was famous for having an impeccable taste in food and wine. But regardless, “funny” wasn’t one that came to mine. A sharp wit, maybe. Possibly even a dry sense of humor. But nothing like this… like a stand up comic, as we later teased him.

My grandmother will blame (along with many other new quirks) his new love of laughter, teasing and joking on the stroke he suffered some years ago. She’s probably right. Though we feared for his life and overall state of living, his near-death experience enriched his world to a point none of us could have ever imagined. He can still travel and play golf (probably his most favorite two passions), and though he may get a little sloppy on one side after several bottles of wine – there are no other physical indications tell he was ever rushed to the hospital for -. But we have all grown closer to this man we used to just love and admire from a distance; we’ve found he has a sense of humor that may outwit the rest.



I’ve been busy doing nothing with my grandparents and their friends, the Wades. I’ve learned a lot about my family, about Laurent & Elizabeth Michel, about this world. It’s amazing, full of amazing people. And Camarat brings that out the most.

How I’ve Been Spending My Days:

Unsuccessfully.
But I’ve been having fun, none the less.

We go out to eat a lot. So much for sticking to a diet. But it’s all delicious.

I work when I’m called in (less often than I’d like. I’ve yet to be paid. But it makes me feel somewhat productive.

I write random sentences to turn my adventure of the summer into a dramatic story line. It’s no conflict-driven novel, but it’s what I like to do.

The list of things to do grows longer. My bank account grows smaller. But the sun’s coming out, my laundry is done, my dog is shot and ready to travel to the States. It’s all coming together… slowly.

I've even run out of adventures, no matter how much I do. Nothings just as exciting as it used to be, or at least all that is worth writing about I’ve already seen and done. I thought I'd have a story worth telling yesterday with the vin d'âge - the picking of the grapes in all the vineyards - but that didn't even work out.

Z & Alberte own a vineyard and have a share in the co-op, so each September they recruit family and friends to suffer through the strenuous, back-breaking work of stooping over, bush after bush, clipping all the grapes and piling them into this tractor that then brings the mounds of fruit to the co-op where it's turned into wine. Seeing as I'm desperate for money and have nothing better to do, I told Z I'd do it. He laughed at me. Flat out laughed at me. "You've spent your summer eating, drinking, and lying on the beach. You've gained a tan and some weight. You'd never survive the vin d'age."

Obviously I was insulted. But I kept my smile plastered on my face and, with a spark in my eye, I asked him when and where. "The 14th, but I'll call you." He never did.

Today I woke up early with a set of rough dog pads scratching my face. I put on some scrubby shorts and a black beater over my teeny weeny purple bikini, and tied a bright red bandana around my head. I threw some leather gloves in my scooter and certainly looked the part of expert grape-picker. But I searched high and low for Z without success. I stopped at every vineyard where people faissent le vin d'âge and asked for Z. (God, these locals must think I'm a hoot. The nerve of this young chic marching through private property, slopping all over the muddy vineyards, asking through a thick accent for one of the favorite property owners.) But they just laugh at me, the young men look at me like I'm a piece of meat, and they tell me Z isn't there and is probably at his vineyard down the road. But he wasn't there and I didn't have the guts to work with these other people; somehow the idea of bending over in front of horny French men didn't seem like a good idea.

I settled with going into St. Tropez with a copy of an insurance bill (that was sent to be incorrectly) and a copy of my Internet contract (that I had to fight – and confide my mothers maiden name –to obtain) to le Credit Lyonnaise so that I can legally keep my checking account open. My banker, sweet Michel Toni, was eating chocolate when I arrived. His face was lit up with happiness; it was a gorgeous day outside. He welcomed me with open arms, giving be grand bisous and a warm welcome, offering me chunks of his chocolate bar. I told him what I had been up to, what wine’s I’ve been drinking, where we plan to dine tomorrow afternoon. “Oh, Catherine!” he said, his bright eyes sparkling like the sea outside of the bank’s front doors, “You do know how to live the life of St. Tropez!”

Gassin

I thought Ramatuelle was charming. I wind my way down the narrow mountain streets of that town, overwhelmed by the desire to stay there forever. It’s a tiny place where everyone knows everyone, everyone’s friendly, where you cannot live without leaving your mark. I’d love living there… and I think Ramatuelle would love a girl like me.

But today I found another village that – if I dare admit it – may be even more charming than my familiar hillside town.


Ramatuelle is perched upon the side of a mountain, overlooking the rolling vineyards and royal blue sea. But Gassin is higher.


Ramatuelle has winding ceramic streets lined with pastel-painted clay houses and tiny outdoor cafés. But Gassin is neater, cleaner.


Ramatuelle is full of whimsical restaurants with beautiful views, flowing linen table clothes and umbrellas, and overpriced cuisine. But Gassin’s food is tastier – as I discovered today when I ate with the grandparents and their friends, the Wades’, at La Lou Pescadou.


One of the quirks that Gassin offers and Ramatuelle does not is a large stone compass, painted beautifully with the landscape of the region. Lining the rim of this marble table-top is the French towns you’d find if you continued forever in that direction: Lyon, Paris, Grenoble. I stared intently at the work of art, found the direction of Plage Pamplonne, and looked off into the distance searching for my lighthouse, my neighbor. And then I felt like a traitor thinking I’ve found a more beautiful town than Ramatuelle. I’m deeply attached to Rama – a village I’ve visited all my life, a village that’s so near to Chez Michel, the home I hold so dearly. But I can’t help it… you should have seen those views…

Le Mauvais Temps

We’ve had lousy weather since Jom left. That’s over 5 days of gloominess; gray skies, torrential downpours, howling winds. The thunder shakes the walls of Chez Michel while the lightening illuminates all the rooms at night, keeping me awake so that I have successfully finished the last of Harry Potter. The damage the lousy weather has had on the region is amazing – everyone is inexplicably depressed and angry… myself included.

The first day we didn’t mind the cold air (yes, it’s cold – I’ve worn nothing but pants and long-sleeved shirts and for the first time in all the days I’ve spent here, I wish for nothing more than a sweatshirt or turtleneck) and Grandma passed it off with a very cute comment: “The gods are angry that my children aren’t here!” But the gods couldn’t have been angry enough to make us suffer all week.

At work, Monsieur Cuerée, my boss and co-owner of Hotel Sube, came to me with a sad face. It had been quiet for bit, the thunder off over the water and the lightening only making occasional flashes in the sky, but the gods must have turned on the shower because suddenly giant globs of water were falling in thick curtains across St.Tropez. “This isn’t right,” he said as we watched people scrambling in from the balcony. “We do not have a culture here for rain. The people are not prepared for bad weather.”

No shit. If I liked chilly winds or lots of rain, I would have stayed in Boston.

After work, all we can do is have a lovely lunch, drink some afternoon cocktails, play Rummy Cube or Cribbage, read, have dinner, and go to bed. I miss the beach, the crique, the water and sun. I miss curling up in the hammock to loose myself in the imaginative adventures of novels. It’s quite depressing; rain in the Côte d’Azur.

One of my clients asked me if it was every sunny here. I almost fell over. There’s nothing but sun here! “All I can say is that I’ve seen more bad weather this week than I have in all of my time here combined.”

We went down the beach this afternoon to assess the damage and have a coffee. The sand is piled high, tiny mountains lining the coast. Seaweed has turned the usually turquoise water into a mucky brown. But – alas – the sun is breaking through and I must go aside to remind myself what a blue sky looks like…

Storms and… stuff

I thought I was going to die. Seriously.

I’ve stressed all summer that this is a huge, ancient house (however the adjectives used to describe these traits seem to grow in exuberance each entry). I’m mentioned the Mistral and other terrible storms to which we all look forward in anxious anticipation – a mixture of complete terror and overwhelming excitement. Staying in this house forces one to respect the awesome power of nature.

I had a fresh reminder of this last night.

It seems like the world was suddenly being pounded upon by a thick waterfall, complete with the noise of roaring rapids and water hitting water. The thunder rolled in angrily from the sea, bellowing so loudly I could feel the walls shake. It crackled and popped, screamed so loudly my ears ached. Tequila was absolutely flipping out, terrified.

Personally, it was the silent predator of the storm that scared me most…The lightening was so bright, so intense, so frequent it seemed that there were hundreds of fluorescent lights (reminiscent of those lining the creepy halls of old, broken down mental institutions) surrounding the house, flickering angrily. I felt like my tiny, third floor room had transformed and I was now living within a bug lamp. Lightening is a terrible force not to be reckoned with.

Grandma and I had just spoken of the time that lightening shot through the shuttered green window in the master bedroom, crossed above the bed while they lie awake in it, and made dramatic contact with the wall outlet, sending sparks of fire into the air. Electricity exploded the phone into millions of tiny pieces later to be discovered all around the house and warped the laptop into a curved bit of metal. Trauma and terrific stories resulted. Creating this visual in my head as the storm lingered above the roof last night, I really thought I was going to die.

I had forgotten to shut my green shudders, giving me an all-to-clear view of the storm outside. I was near to it (three floors above the ground in a house already perched on top of a mountain) and the lightening was far too close for comfort. I sat in my bed, trying desperately to stay calm and comfort the dog, staring out the window. I considered opening the glass to shut the shudders – but did I really want to stick my head and arms out of the metal-rimmed hole in all that rain just so I didn’t have to see it? Yea, not really.

Grandma’s story kept playing over and over in my head. I looked beside my pillow and there was an outlet – I had visions of lightening shooting through the window and striking that point. So I moved. Quickly. I curled up on the floor with Tequila and Harry Potter, reading it’s imaginative pages by flashlight.

But I kept thinking of the damage lightening had done when it struck this house last time. My laptop was all the way downstairs. I should save it. I got up and slowly opened my door. Insert scream here. Every window and door in the whole house was open allowing the terrifying noises of the storm to pour in. It sounded like it would outside when I opened my door. So I shut it quickly. It’s just a laptop…

(As it turns out, Tequila and I were not the only one scared by the storm, thinking of the last time lighting struck. Grandma and Papa sat sleepless in bed, not daring to move an inch, comforted only by one thought: lightening doesn’t strike the same place twice.)

Between the orage and the terrified dog, I didn’t sleep more than two hours. The alarmed bellowed far too soon and I cringed listening to the dreaded noise. It was so safe and warm under the covers, snuggled so comfortably with my puppy and content to drift back into beautiful dreams. But I dragged my sorry ass out of bed bright an early to make it back to work for 8am. It sucked. Work was terribly busy, I was all by myself, and the storm continued to rage all morning. Not to mention I still haven’t been paid. And the day just kept getting better…

I finished late, almost 2pm. Sheets of rain were still falling without signs of stopping though the dramatic lightening shows had ceased. I took my 11€ of tips and went to pay my enormous parking ticket (I hate paying the ridiculous fees of parking in St. Tropez, but there was no way I was taking my scooter in that weather). Apparently the machine didn’t want my money. No matter how many times I tried, it rejected my change. I pressed the little red button to summon someone for help. No one came. “He’s probably too busy jerkin off…” I mumbled to myself, frustrated. Silly me.

I tried and tried again, searched the lot for someone with bills instead of change, and returned – unsuccessful – the machine. I put in the ticket. It asked for 10,10€. I put in the correct amount of coins. It spit them back out. Desperate times call for desperate measures so I pushed the button again and again and again. Finally the voice of a young man came from the speakers, demanding to know my problem. I explained and he asked me to come to his office. I walked out of the little building where you pay the ticket and crossed the lot to the office where he opened the door, clearly perturbed. He screamed angrily in French. “I don’t know what your problem is. The machine is working properly; people are coming and going without issues. Don’t use so much change. Use bills. I’m too busy to change for you.” Sure enough, his fly was open.

I’m not lying.

So I found a 5€ bill and paid the remainder with my tips, got in my car, and left.

It was an odd day.

A Trip to Nice

At first I had no idea what the noise was. I opened my eyes; it was pitch dark and I was snuggled warmly beneath the soft white sheets, suddenly stirring from a most pleasant sleep. Tequila’s fur bristled under my chin where she cuddled dreaming. I groaned. It was the alarm ringing. 4:40am. Jommy & Carol were leaving.

I dragged my exhausted body out of bed, threw on whatever clothes I found on my floor and trampled my way downstairs where they were already packing up. There was hardly another car as we drove to the airport, the moon still shining bright in the sky, the day showing no signs of beginning. It dawned on me as we drove past the sparkling lights of St. Tropez that I would never be ready to go home. Jesse was eager to see his friends and his dog, Carol was excited to see her boys off to college, Jommy ready to return to the real world. I may miss some parts of home, but this is where I’d rather be.

Regardless, I wished my family “bon voyage” in the kiss and fly lane at the airport (I’ve always thought that was a sweet name to call the quick car lane; it’s posted on all of the signs and seems much nicer than drop and go or something) and began my journey home.

The autoroute had slightly more traffic, but mostly I had the four-lane highway to myself. The darkness began to fade. Cruising along with the windows down and radio on, I was delighted to watch the molten red sun rise quickly in my rear-view mirror. There was a slight fog hanging above the land and as I took the curves of the road carefully, I looked up to the jagged mountains lining A8. There, perched precariously above the craggy rocks jutting sharply out of the surface in randomly sized cubes of orange, was a simple clay house with green shudders surrounded by forests of dull olive-colored trees. I smiled. God, this place is beautiful.

But as I drove on, the fog grew thicker and the music stopped. A news program picked up, informing me of the disasters back home. My heart sunk. Living here makes it easy to pretend that bad things don’t happen, the real world doesn’t exist. Listening to the reports of Hurricane Katrina’s damage in New Orleans reminded me that the harsh reality of death and destruction continues despite the golden sun and azure waves of the Riviera. I grew angry; I hate talking politics (only because I find that no one is willing to really listen during a political discussion, people are generally so stuck in their ways and convinced that their opinions and beliefs are absolute and correct) so I hesitate to write about this, but I couldn’t stand it any longer.

What the f---? I don’t get the full scoop of politics while living here; everything is written or spoken from the point of view of Europeans. It’s interesting, but painful. Yes, everyone here hates George Bush. I’m used to that by now. But to hear the rest made me cringe. Have we really sunk this low? Are our parties so divided that we resort to physical threats? That’s embarrassing: the Europeans are mocking us openly. Is it true that even in the case of tragic disaster the two warring sides of Democrats and Republics cannot unite and instead they shift farther apart, pointing blaming fingers at each other in anger? Even natural disasters return to politics nowadays? And is our government and constitution so outdated that it threatens to collapse, that the state and federal organizations blame each other and cannot work properly to help those in need? What is happening? Will the all-powerful, perfectly organized, “patriotic” United States of America fall apart because of warring parties, an obsession with politics and blame, lots of talk/accusations and no action, and perhaps an out-dated system which requires a third party that doesn’t exist? Is our lack of central ground going to tear the nation apart?

The fog grew thicker, dimming out the morning light, as both my mood and the news grew darker. We now were hearing of the war in Iraq. I noticed the density of mist had increased between the mountains, completely hiding the ocean under its rolling blanket of gray. Suddenly, a camouflaged Hummer emerged from the gray clouds to my right. Soldiers were standing up, poking their heads out of windows up top, driving along A8. They were dressed, armed and ready. I passed them quickly only to find another army vehicle with soldiers ahead of me. My heart dropped. These were boys preparing to fight for their country, to follow orders, to give their lives if necessary. Sure, I have no idea where these particular men where headed or what they’d do, but they were soldiers and that demanded a certain respect. I waved to each truck as I passed. Some waved back. Some didn’t bother.

And then I couldn’t see anything. It was like I was trapped, driving through a thick gray tunnel of ephemeral walls. The taillights in front of me were difficult to make out. I drove, slowly, still listening to the radio, eager to get home. It grew lighter. Then, in the middle of the road, I saw a shoe. Then a scrap of metal. Some plastic, torn to smithereens. The break lights flashed intensely. Before I knew it I was stuck in a traffic jam surrounded by the obvious littering of an obliterated vehicle. The fog lifted slightly, revealing a wretched white car smashed to bits and lying upside down. Beside it stood a young man covered in blood, chatting on a cell phone. I sighed with some relief. At least no one died.

As the fog began to dissipate, I looked at the horizon and saw nothing I knew. I’ve driven to that airport countless times and I was lost. Frustrated with the fog, I pulled off the autoroute, paid a whopping 10€ and changed directions – back to St. Tropez, to fantasyland, to a place where time no longer passes you by. It was like magic; I was suddenly driving under a cloudless sky, the sun shining brightly, a beautiful beach day.

An electric sign that usually works as a clock flashed in front of me. “Attention: Prudence! Brouillard!” (Careful! Fog!) I grunted. “Too little, too late, huh?” I asked the tiny black and red ant that had been marching diligently back and forth across the dashboard throughout my whole adventure. It was almost time for breakfast.

To Be A Mom

I don’t know how mothers do it. These past couple weeks I came as close to having parental responsibilities as I’d like to for quite a while. I’m just not ready for that shit yet.

My cousins are darling boys. Between wiping babies’ bottoms and feeding picky eaters, I thought my maternal instincts were kicking in. I helped out when I could, enforced rules, encouraged kindness and sharing, watched out for danger with a careful eye. But I just can’t imagine doing it all the time.

Tequila is my baby. She’s a lot easier than an actual child, but a challenge and responsibility none-the-less. I wake up in the morning to her kisses no matter when I go to bed, and even on the days I’d like to sleep in I must get up because it’s not fair to her to keep breakfast waiting or prevent her from going out to pee. But she’s more than that. And she’s just a dog.

I remember one day at the beach I was struggling desperately to play with both her and Lucas at the same time, helping him learn to swim and preventing her from scratching the shit out of either of us. How do mothers multi-task? Keep a watchful eye on both children? Balance life out???

Last night was another test. Fireworks exploded everywhere along the coast, celebrating what I can only assume is the last weekend of the summer. Tikki was miserable. She was panting, pacing nervously, crying. She clawed desperately at my body, anxious and desperate for comfort. I patted her continuously, talking to her gently, letting her shake in my arms. She whined louder. All I wanted to do was sleep. “But it’s just not fair to her,” I mumbled and got myself out of bed, turning the light on, trying to find whatever would comfort my baby the most. Turns out, there’s not much. As she shook in my arms, lying heavily on my lap and leaning against my heart, I thought of all the times I’d run into my parents’ bedroom frantic after a bad dream or during thunderstorms. I thought of all the times they’d rather sleep or read but I was needy. And here was my dog doing the same thing. I wanted to return to my dreams; I was absolutely exhausted. If I was awake, I wanted to watch the beautiful fireworks (we all watched for a bit before Tequila got herself into a right state). But the windows (both the screen and the glass) remained shut to block out as much noise as possible and my light stayed on and my hands continuously caressing her fur.

It breaks your heart to see your baby upset. You want to do whatever you can to comfort. At the same time, you want your own life. And all I have is a dog. But, I defiantly must admit, I have gained a tremendous amount of respect for mothers at this point – how they love us continuously, help us out all our lives, accept that in many situations only their comfort or kisses will help or heal. You have to be patient to be a mother. You have to multi-task well and not mind being constantly exhausted or badgered. You need to think about everything you do or say, knowing how all will affect the gentle molding of your child. I learned this from watching my aunts and my own mother handle whatever us children will throw. It’s a beautiful thing, but I certainly am not nearly ready to do it myself.

Much love, mum!

S.S.D.D.

I’ve been coming here every other summer for as long as I can remember, save for the past six years when I came only once. Most summers my family tried to see another place in this vast world for a few days, so I have been lucky enough to visit England and Italy and all over France. But, no matter where our vacations took us, we always ended up in Cap Camarat in August with the rest of the Michels.



Jommy & Carol and her three boys (of which only one is present), Aunt Sarah (now with her new son), and my grandparents have always been the company I kept here for two weeks, along with my brother and my parents (who came in June this year). Since our last August shared here, much has changed. We grew up. Babies were born. The house has been improved upon and eroded.

But at the same time, vacations in Camarat have the same traditions. Our neighbors and distant relatives, the Coutrots, come for one meal. This year it was Benjamin (who was a brat in his youth) and his new wife Aurora. We all saw the Chêne en Croix and passed hours staring off at The View. As always with the Michels, competition is fierce in both boule and cards. Last night we sat around the straw table playing bouré (a French gambling game – I won a whole euro, guys!) and tempers flew, along with nasty remarks and plastic playing chips. Such is the way with the Michel family and God, I love them for it! Our biggest treats remain lazy days at L’Esquinade and Tarte Tropezian. The wonderful life of Camarat marches on.

Living here like I have makes for some more changes. Rather than doing nothing, like one does here, I’ve been remarkably busy. It's been so difficult to write in the blog and email for this reason and also because I'm in constant competition for the internet - and for the computer. My 4-year-old cousin loves to watch DVDs, my 12-year-old cousin spends every second he can playing computer games through AOL, and my aunt, uncle and grandfather are constantly checking baseball scores and stocks and emails. Plus, I spend most of the morning at and rush to the beach to meet the family for lunch (Eating with the family is really special for me - I just love sitting around, enjoying delicious food, drinking wine, and talking about all sorts of things with my family. The meals are absolutely the most important part of my days here - an opportunity to get to know my family.) then come home and read and chill until dinner and more wine... and then, by God, it's time for bed.

I walked to the beach today with my aunt and we took the coastal route - down the mountain and along the craggy shoreline. It was most impressive. The inlets are scattered with beautiful ruins; ancient houses that have fallen apart and small foxholes guarded by rusted metal gates (this is the beach the Allies landed on when liberating France). This place is amazing - full of all sorts of surprises, the crique being one of thousands. It is close - a bit of a hike, but only a hike because we live high on the mountain.

And that’s about all I have to say tonight as we prepare to wish Sarah & Lucas “Bon Voyage.” I’m terribly sad to see them go; it’s been amazing to bond with this most admirable woman and her darling son, my youngest cousin.