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?