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!”