All Good Things Must Come to an End

And it’s time to go home.

Air Chance

I love flying. Most people hate it; there’s a lot of hassle and anxiety involved. Plus, there’s always the chance something will go wrong.

But truthfully, as long as it’s on your way home, what’s the worst that can happen? Planes are delayed and you miss a connection… then what?

I’ll tell you what:

You don’t have any of your luggage. Some will argue this sucks because you have no change of clothes. So? Buy a tee shirt and undies, call it a day. And be thankful you have nothing to carry around with you.

Also, you have nowhere to stay. Guess what? The airline buys you a hotel room and pays for your transportation to get there. Shit – a free cab ride. Gotta hate that.

I know all of these things because I fly Air France. (Honestly though, how much trust can you really place in an airline owned and operated in part by the French government?) And when my family flies, there is always a guarantee of a delay or cancellation and the “drama” that ensues. Me, well… I’ve been pretty lucky. All has gone well for me before, and now – well, it’s all worked out again.

See, my flight from Nice to Paris was delayed. Only slightly – perhaps 25 minutes – but delayed none-the-less. There was a ripple effect.

My time of arrival in CDG was crucial; I had only 45 minutes to run from one terminal to another… but as long as that was enough time for my luggage to board the flight to Boston, that was time enough. When my flight from Nice was delayed, that meant there wasn’t enough time, and I couldn’t go home tonight since there are no more flights from Paris to Boston. Because you’re always at risk when you fly “Air Chance.”

My flights had to be adjusted. I could gather my belongings, return to Camarat, have one more day in the Côte d’Azur – with most of it wasted on the A-8 and Nice’s airport. OR – alternately – I could keep my flight to Paris, meet someone for dinner, get a good night’s sleep, have one more day in France, and fly to Boston tomorrow afternoon. Gee, which would you choose?

Long story long, I’m now about to land in Paris equipped with a few remaining euros and my cell phone, psyched to see the family one last time and have one last walk around Paris.

And, as much as I miss work, it’s one more day of vacation. Sorry ladies, I guess I’ll have to see you Tuesday… = )

Checklist for Camarat

There are some things you simply have to do while here or your vacation just won’t be complete. While I’m sure I’m missing some on my list below, I’ve taken the time to write out all the really important ones.

While in Camarat… (in no particular order)

• Visit the Chêne en Croix
• Drink rosé
• Drink Coke in a bottle
• Have pizza at/from Le Will
• Have stuffed vegatables
• Have white peaches
• Have really good cheese
• Visit the crique
• Spend a day at L’Esquinade
• Drink rosé at the beach while eating moules
• Walk around Ramatuelle
• Walk around St. Tropez
• Have a café at Senequiers
• Eat Tarte Tropezian, preferably at Senequiers
• Eat ice cream from Barbarac
• Drink more rosé
• Drink a lot of things while partying in St. Tropez
• Sit at the view, admiring how “mountains in the sky” really are “next to mountains anyway” – and at sunset, how things truly turn to the “colors of the cowboy cliché”
• Sit at the view, trying to map out which of the lights across the night air belong to St. Rapheal, Nice, Frejus, St. Maxime and/or Antibes
• Drink rosé while looking at the stars on a “real Camarat night”
• Read a book while facing the Mediterranean
• Go sailing on the Mediterranean
• Eat in Ramatuelle (preferably at Aux Fils de la Pâte)
• Eat Thai at Nilargo, and drink Petal de Rose rosé
• Eat in Le Mol, and drink Souviette rosé
• Eat a croissant and/or pain au chocolat from “Bologna”
• Have breakfast at the Sube
• Shop at the market
• Shop at the Géant Casino
• Spend way too much money
• Spend time with family and friends
• Have a drink (or two) with Z & Alberte
• Hang laundry, towels and/or wet bathing suits on the clothes line to dry
• Kill lots of bugs (spider on the staircase, mosquito in your net, worm on the wall, ants in the kitchen, flies on the food, bees by the front doorway… but not the praying mantises – that’s bad luck)
• Play cards
• Play boule
• Play out scenarios in your mind that include you spending a great deal more time in Camarat and eliminate any need for you to return home
• Make it your mission to finish all the food and rosé before you do return home
• Try something new

Cat Stevens…

…once wrote, “Baby, it’s a wild world. It’s hard to get by upon just a smile.”

Clearly he never visited the South of France.


People are just so nice here. Everyone kisses you, for crying out loud. If you try – if you’re nice, admit you’re a stupid American, and smile sweetly – they’ll help with open arms. They may laugh at your poor French, but they help you get better. They bring you food and drink. They remember you. And then they’ll kiss your cheeks some more.

Maybe I’m just saying this because I had a wonderful morning at the market, followed by a visit to the Sube (where all my former coworkers greeted me warmly and gave us breakfast), followed by a wonderful lunch with Sylvia (who is just so kind and charming). It’s wonderful to be here with her family…

Even though tonight, after a brief goodbye party in St. Tropez, I will have just enough time to pack and leave. Back home. Back to the grind. Back to the real world.

Quelle horreur!

@ The Beach

I hate being idle. I hate doing nothing but sitting and waiting for… nothing. I hate days void of things to do, full of empty hours. Life is too short to stand idly by. It’s a waste.

However, I will happily waste time at L’Esquinade.


Here, shimmers of white sun dance across the rolling crests of a steel blue sea. A golden haze hangs over the jade brush on the mountainside, creating a shadowy silhouette of our lighthouse. The sky is a perfect blue and totally spotless, save for the occasional (and I do mean occasional) fluffy white wisp of passing cloud. Whimsical. You bake in the sun, wrapped in a bronzing blanket of comforting warmth. The gentle sea breeze caresses your skin and the crisp Mediterranean water refreshes you. Sailboats are always perched on the horizon, sails fluttering, looking as if at any moment they may teeter and fall of the edge of the world.

Citron umbrellas. Royal stripes. White fringe. Sand and pirate ships and pure bliss.

J’aime la plage!

Rama

I forgot how much I love Ramatuelle.


Then again, what’s not to love about such a quaint, medieval hillside village?

À bientôt

The “older generation” has left. I watched them go. First my grandparents’ friends, who were generous and kind, interesting and fun. Conversation flowed as freely as the wine. It really was good hanging out with them… even though I ended up losing Cribbage.

Then my grandparents. I stood in front of the house, my bare feet clinging to the cool ceramic tiles, and waved goodbye. It was so wonderful to spend time with them here again, just like last year… just a bit briefer. As I waved goodbye, it felt just like last year… another family leaving, a different one on the way. This is the ebb and flow of Camarat.

The next guests of Chez Michel will do things differently. They will make breakfast differently, rearrange the kitchen differently, have different rules on showering, towels, locking up and so on. Hell, the language will be different. And I like it how my grandparents do things. I miss them already.

I’m sure it’ll be lovely with Sylvia. But there is no time as special as being here with Grandma and Papa.

That kind of time is truly unique.


Thanks, and love.

Ash

There was a great fire.

But who am I kidding? “Great” fires happen here all the time. The climate is dry, the air hot, the sun blazing… It’s not unusual to see smoke fill the azure sky and, shortly after, several yellow planes dance amongst the clouds, dropping water and chemicals on the blaze below. Not too long ago there was a fire so devastating and powerful that, no matter how much the planes tried, it swallowed the land outside St. Maxime entirely and for years afterwards, only charred black sand reminded locals of the tremendous forest that once grew there. It’s just that usually those fires don’t happen here.

That doesn’t mean they don’t happen here. I speak of the story – and
not for the first time – of this house’s namesake, Le Chêne en Croix. There was a fire, right on Cap Camarat, that engulfed the land and filled onlookers with fear. Surely nothing would be spared. But this house, full of life and magic, would not fall again (it was once seized and destroyed by the Nazis), and it had the help of a sacred tree – a tree shaped like a cross. This tree stopped the fire then and there, just a few hundred feet from the house. (Some may argue that the fire died out for more natural reasons – like the unique cross winds created by the cape – but that would take so much romance out of the story.) The Michel family wept with joy and relief, and to this day it is tradition to say "hello" and "thank you" to our beloved chêne en croix – or, en anglais, our “cross of oak.”

This year, we have even more reason to thank it.


I just don’t understand it; how dare nature do something so terrible to a place so beautiful? How sad to see this land – once full of color and life – drained to dead embers and broken sticks?


But even as I say this, I’m reminded of the power of nature. For as devastating as the fire (be it a natural fire, as are so common, or arson, which is the rumor) was, hope lingers. Life remains. The land is still fertile… perhaps even more so now. Just a few short weeks after the dramatic event (which made the front page of newspapers as far as Spain, what with five airplanes and a helicopter trying desperately to stop the blaze to no avail), green is growing again on the side of the mountain, overtaking the ash. Next year the trees will start to grow leaves again. Beauty will come back to Cap Camarat.


What will take longer, however, is the devastation caused by the “repairs.” The mountain was without electricity and phone-lines, and so they brought their giant, gas-guzzling machines in to rebuild telephone poles and re-give the gift of power. But look what they took away…



And in preparation for the next fire, the locals are clearing unwanted brush from the mountain. Ludo said he’d come next month to see how to better protect the house. (I still have faith in the Chêne en Croix, but some feel a tree can only do so much) Already we’ve lost the quaintness and greenery of some of our favorite pathways.


Finally, I want to add here that the Chêne en Croix still reigns with all its glory… and the paths to the sacred tree remain fresh and green.

And it all comes rushing back…

Rumor had it that the car was broken. Truth is, the P.O.S. requires a certain... magic touch, shall we say?


We had a drink with Z and Alberte and I realized just how much I had lost. Only 11 months ago I called this place home, and yet today I cannot find half the French words I once spoke with ease. Both Grandma and Alberte said I lost so much.

The hairpin turns I of the Route du Phare I once navigated with both speed and ease (on a scooter, no less) seemed completely reshaped beyond recognition. The trick to lighting the oven was buried deep in memories, not nearly as natural as it once had been. Even the rules of Cribbage seemed foreign and forgotten.

Hell, when I went to drive Papa’s rental car, I realized I forgot how to drive.

But that all changed tonight (I hope), and I blame the guests of Chez Michel -- They’re the ones who encouraged me to go out. (After all, when the “old fogies” tell you that you need more of a social life, you know you’re really in trouble.)

And so it was. They all told me to go out, have fun, drink some, don’t feel like you have to come home if there’s something more fun to do. (I’d think they were trying to get rid of me if I didn’t know better… and if they weren’t family.) Last night I bypassed their comments of “Oh, you’re young, you should be out having fun” and “St. Tropez is a place to party, you shouldn’t be stuck home with us” (even though I really truly enjoy my time playing cards, chatting, and eating with ‘the older generation’) by proclaiming fatigue – I had traveled early in the morning from Paris, after all. But tonight there was no excuse. After a few glasses of wine, there really was little to stop me.

So I changed my clothes, modeled briefly for the adults, and found myself behind the wheel of the beloved P.O.S. (Strangely enough, there is a very soft, tender spot in my heart for this car… God knows why.) It worked like a charm.

As I sat behind the wheel, my fingers creeping over the stick shift, my hands slowly letting out the clutch, it all came back. As I drove down the hill, the familiarities of this place overcame me; the car itself seemed to remember the curves of the hill with absolutely no guidance from me. My thoughts were entirely in French.

As I sat in the Bar du Port, gazing out at the lines of pastel colored houses, I remembered just how much fun one can have here.

If there are people around.

Which, in between the end of the season and the Voiles de St. Tropez, there really isn’t. But Tony and I still enjoyed ourselves, and I breathed a small sigh of relief – France had not quite yet forgotten me.


I have made the initial rounds and – to my pleasant surprise – they all remember me: everyone from Camille, the waiter at L’Esquinade, to Mamadoo, the wandering Senegalize vendor. (However, before any conversation was made, they all asked how Tequila is doing… so perhaps they remember the dog first and me only as her owner?) I can also navigate the paths to the Chêne en Croix (which once again saved the house from the flames), I can visit the crique toute seul, and I can operate the dishwasher and washing machine with my eyes closed.

Wow… it has come back!

L’amour

Camarat is like the ultimate woman.


She is beautiful. She is sensual, seductive. She is amazing, awe-inspiring. She is fun, she is peaceful, she is soothing, she is comforting. And she loves wine.

Everyone falls in love with her the moment they first lay eyes on her. When you fall in love with Camarat, you think you are the only one who has loved so truly, so deeply, so passionately, so intensely, so fully – as with any other kind of love. Other people “claim” they love Camarat as much as you do, but you don’t believe them. You know that you are the only one whose heart is so filled with this place. You know you are the only one who loves it like you do. You know that no one else has the capacity to love it like you do, and while the rest think they love it, you know it's only because they have no idea how much you love it.

Trouble is, everyone who knows Camarat “knows” these things. Everyone “knows” they are the only one who loves it most, the only one who has earned it most.

My guess is this has been the case since the beginning. I imagine Mouny loving this house. I imagine the Coutrots also adoring the cap, which is probably why – so many years later – hostilities arose when deeming who the property ultimately belonged to. (Maybe they think they loved it more than the Michels, and therefore deserve it more than the Michels.) I know my grandfather adores this place. I’m sure his siblings did, and I see how much his children – and their wives and children – love it too. I know the French family does. I know every guest who stays here does.

But, as with all the Michels who love this place, I know I love it most.

; )

le petit déjeuner (encore)

I woke up this morning with mosquito bites and fresh croissants. Ahhh, la vie à Camarat ! No morning would be right without either. 0=)

Je suis revenue

Already I feel the life breathed back into me.

I walked off the airplane in another fit of laughter, staring wonderously at the mountains and arid trees surrounding Toulon's airport. Tony was waiting for me.

I got giddy the closer we got to St. Tropez, snickering ridiculously as the silly green signs reminded me I was only a few short kilometers from our town of Ramatuelle. The first sight of the phare stopped me silent; it served yet again - as it has so many times before - as my beacon home.

I walked into Chez Michel and nearly cried. When you walk into the dining room, a unique aroma fills your nostrals... a scent distinct to this wonderful house. It is such a comfort.

There is something so amazing about this place. For me, it is even more so now that I have the memories of creating a life here, and of meeting so many wonderful people.

Sure, Paris is nice too. It was perfect for two days and great to see my French family. I realized that through all of our mutual vacations last year, we rediscovered in each other things we didn't know we had forgotten. Ludo told me it is nice to have a new tie to la famille Americaine.

In fact, I heard the nicest things from all my favorite men of last year - Ludo, Francis and Tony. In recounting this past summer in the South, all said it was not the same as last year: It was cooler, it was windier, there were more medouse (jelly fish), and it was less fun. "Less fun?" I asked, bewildered. "How can it be less fun? There is no funner place, no freer place!" And each responded with the three most powerful words I have always dreamed of hearing: "Kitty," they said, "Camarat misses you."

And I miss this place. I miss this life. I miss the mark I made. I miss the freedom and passion I had here that I was sure I lost after my return to the States.

That is, that I had lost until I got off that plane. Until I stepped through these doors. Until I had cheese and rosé after lunch, admiring the dying cork trees outside Chez Michel. After all, it must be true love if one can find beauty and wonder in dying cork trees...


Now I sit outside the sunroom, rosé by my side, looking to the Mediterranean (which is covered in whimsical white sails), feeling like I could take on the world and have fun doing it. I feel like muse. Does that make sense?

Currently there are two significant sailboats stealing the show from the many sunfish to 60-footers. Both giants have two masts, glistening white sails, and clearly no direction -- just an order to follow their hearts... or - more acruatley, perhaps - the wind. (I wish I was going to be here for the Nilouargue...) My grandparents' friends are here (the Goddards and the Funnells) and, despite the fact that my grandfather teases me by saying I'm hanging out with a bunch of "old farts," I'm quite enjoying myself. There are so many good people here.

And, of course, I'm conspiring. The wheels are turning so much my head hurts. How I can live in Paris and write a book on my great-grandmother? How can I find a flat in that city, learn the language well enough to research her roots, and put it together in a way that would sell - which would both be terribly intriguing for me and wonderful for my grandfather?


You know what else I love about this place? When you do the laundry and hang it on the line to dry, it comes in smelling of the South of France. How beautiful is that?

I think I'll do all of my laundry before returning to the States... just so it smells of Camarat.

I am pathetic.

Mouny

How can a woman, after only a few encounters, leave such a mark upon a child? Is it because her life is shrouded in mystery? Is it because, even at age 90, she radiated beauty and intrigue? It is because the few stories that are passed around portray her as intelligent, ambitious, and fiercely independent? Or is it simply because she lived in Paris in a time when Paris was the place to be?

Whatever the reason, my great-grandmother has done that for me. She, having passed away so many years ago, has left me with a burning desire to discover everything… perhaps in an effort to find myself? Who knows – but I do know that the family is phenomenal at helping me put the pieces together… and reminding me I’m not the only one with passion and curiosity for her life.

Francoise and Guy (whose apartment in the 7th is unbelievable) were so kind to me, sharing tales of Mouny over afternoon tea. They spoke of life in Paris in the mid-20th century, they spoke of her relations with friends and her undeterminable presence, which led to her inexplicable sense of intimidation. Women were too intimidated to call her informally before getting to truly know her. Men who originally admired her beauty and fervor fell even deeper in love after truly knowing her, but they were to intimidated to speak a word of their feelings. All agreed she was the best listener they ever met, and the most loyal friend. And, of course, she was fiercely independent.

Perhaps that is the reason she inspires me so much; in her I hope to see some of me. She is so well regarded, so well liked, so fondly remembered. She took the world on in a time when women weren’t supposed to do that. She was successful, and mostly happy. She was a writer too – a journalist, an editor, a strategist for publicity. More than any other reason why I admire Mouny is that she did leave a mark; I can only hope that 90 years from now, when my great-granddaughter sits in the corner of Camarat years after my death, she too is in fierce pursuit of my life story. (Except, perhaps, I will make life a little easier… I will leave clues – buried treasure, maybe! Haha)

This morning, before hearing the stories of her life, Ludo told me of his relationship with Mouny – Yvonne Michel – and took me to a place I have sought every visit to Paris: her tomb. She rests there with the two children she buried in the mid-eighties, my grandfather’s brother and sister, Antoinnette and Olivier.


On a side note, also buried in the tomb is her ex-husband, Francois Michel (not a very nice man), and his second wife, Hélène. Honestly, only the French do these things. My grandmother tells of time that she had dinner with her new husband and mother-in-law in Camarat… except it wasn’t just she, Papa, and Mouny; it was also Mouny’s ex-husband, his new wife, and his new mistress. Again, only the French…

The tomb is beautiful, dark, glistening and respectful. The cemeteries in France are so different than what we think of in the States: In America, they are sad, sullen and – quite often – a little bit scary; whereas in France, cemeteries are beautiful, peaceful, and comforting… probably more suitable for eternal rest. The ceremonies are like those in the movies: All the family dresses in black, gathers around the open tomb, and throws red roses onto the casket as the cover slides back into place, sealing their loved one into the next life.


But enough of death. In France, I am more alive – and tonight, je vais faire le fête in the 17th. The arrodisiment is have its annual celebration with good food, live bands, and carnival hysteria. Ahhh, la vie en rose!

le petit déjeuner

What could possibly be better than French baguette and homemade apricot jam for breakfast?

I can't think of anything.

Chez Ludo

As expected, I got lost. I always get lost here, which I why I give myself at least an hour to get wherever I’m supposed to go.

Ludo’s house is in a quaint little suburb not far from Paris. You need to take the RER to get here, but once here, there are buses and taxis to find your way around. Despite my swollen feet, I chose to walk. It was lovely, but far from easy.

The Seine cuts through Chatou and was once a destination for the impressionist artists looking to escape the busy streets of Paris. I followed the river as it meanders through town, admiring the quaint houses, urban walls, and general atmosphere of a French “suburb.” (It’s actually quite like Melrose or Arlington... but French.)

His house is lovely; a white building with blue shudders on a tiny street just outside the center of town. He has a blue gate lining his grass- and tree-filled yard, and a scooter parked out front. Inside it is very French; those awful mattresses, a myriad of decorations, and an unexplainable feeling you only find in les maisons of this country.

Most of all, Ludo and his family are wonderful. (Ludo has a special place in my heart... that's for sure.) Patricia (his wife), Ludo and I sat on the front steps for a few hours, drinking wine and talking – of philosophy, of books (Jared Diamond no less!), of the future of mankind, and of the differences between America and France. Then inside we went for dinner, and I gave the family their gifts.

I wish I had recorded them trying to figure out what Salt Water Taffy was. Hilarious! One member would take a bite, chew, and look to the sky for answers; the rest of the family stared holding their breath in anxious anticipation. Flavors would be called out (“Is it raspberry? Strawberry? What is it?!”) and the answer would always be, “No, it’s not any of those things… but I’m not sure what it is!” – and then another member would try a different colored piece. They liked it, but – as with those of us who live in Boston and have it often – couldn’t understand it. They really loved the maple sugar candies… but what’s not to love about pure sugar?

Regardless, dinner was wonderful… seeing the family is wonderful… life is wonderful à Paris! But it’s now almost 10:00 in the morning and I feel I must make my presence known, jet-lagged or not.

À bientôt!

The Catacombs... and other things to do in Paris

Things are just so much harder here. First there was the ticket machine at the CDG train station that I couldn’t understand, then it was trying to figure out the RER (comparable to Boston’s commuter rails), and – God! – trying to navigate the streets here is worthless; I’m always getting lost. But that’s half the fun of it: everything – and I do mean EVERYTHING – is an adventure. (Like when you go to shower and realize you have to pee too but the toilet is located in another room down the hall?!)

Anyways, exploring Paris was fun. It’s something I always enjoy doing; getting lost on those beautiful streets and trying to find my way back to wherever I’m supposed to be… stopping for a quick espresso whenever my legs get weak.


Every time I come to Paris, I want to see the Catacombs. I remember learning about them in my 8th grade French class and being ultimately intrigued. An awful stench spread across the city in the late 18th century, and people quickly realized the root was the decaying bodies in Paris’s many cemeteries. So what did they do? They expanded the web of tunnels under the city and threw all the bones down there, saving Paris and creating a maze of death.


However every time I come to Paris – like so many other things in France – its closed with no explanation. (Hell, when people here don’t feel like working… they just don’t.) This time when I arrived in the 14th and saw a man outside the OPEN door to the catacombs (You can imagine my surprise!), I didn’t hesitate: I took all my bags (which combined probably weigh as much as I do… and that ain’t pretty) and rushed in. 3€ ("youth rate") later, I was hurrying down a never-ending spiral staircase. Every so often out of the corner of my eyes I thought I’d see the bottom… only to round the corner and find more stairs. The air grew thinner. The light, dimmer. And finally, I was at the entrance to the “empire of the dead.”




It took 15 months to create and has served many purposes since. Today it’s a tourist attraction; before the French Revolution, the Commander Artois used to 'make parties' here; during WWII, the Resistance Française used the tunnels for headquarters; countless Parisians hold private parties below ground; and the catacombs often served as a sanctuary for prostitutes chased off the streets (hence why one area is called the “Crypt of Passion”). There are between 3 and 7 million corpses (the combined dead of 400 years) below the earth in these walls, and what’s even more shocking is that the creators took the time to lay out these decaying and sickly bodies in an artful manner (gotta love the French). The bones and skulls create crosses and designs in the walls.




After walking roughly 7 kilometers/4 miles (the entire system is around 300km/186 miles long) with my camera and heavy bags, I climbed another winding coil of concrete (again around 100 stairs) to fresh air. The catacombs' exit dumps you on the streets of Paris quite far from the Cimetière du Montparnasse, but I was determined. There I went (again) through the thick fog and drizzle of rain.

It’s just amazing. Never have I ever seen so many amazing tombs crammed into such a beautiful place! I paid my respects to Simone de Beauvoir and Jean-Paul Sartre, with whom I have developed an intense intrigue after reading their biographies. (Who couldn’t love Sartre, with his famous line: “Hell is other people”?!)

Here, Safe

Paris was covered in an awkward layer of fog when I landed. The effect on the airport was amusing: The painted tails of various airplanes looked more like flags of different countries frozen in a row; they didn't seem to be the highest tips of giant metal beasts lined up at the terminal. I forgot how different the cars look here. This is going to be fun.

I love traveling by myself, and I especially love going to France by myself. I love the opportunity to do exactly what I want, to avoid the anxiety of “saving face” among those I care about, to sit and watch with absolutely no obligations to entertain anybody, and to simply enjoy being. I have no responsibilities to anyone while I’m sitting in the airport. I owe no one any explanation of where I am when I’m living in the big house in the south of France, secluded from the rest of the world. I do what I want, when I want, how I want. It’s fantastic.

Plus, it’s a great way to meet people. I’ve already chatted it up with a number of total strangers from around the world… and plan to continue to do so.

Rock on.

Currently I’m sitting in a cute little café in the 14th sipping espresso and eating delicious food. I’ve been to this place before, on one of my more recent trips to Paris. If ever I were to move to this city, this is where I’d live. I love the cemetery and the feel of this neighborhood. So did Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir; they spent most of their life around here, and are currently buried a stone’s throw from where I sit.

If I wasn’t so exhausted/jet-lagged, I might write something intelligent, articulate, anything. But I am exhausted and jet-lagged, and my free half hour of Internet is almost up and I ain’t payin' for more, so I’m off.

Au revoir, mes amis.

En route... again.

When I walked into the airport, I was overwhelmed with emotion. I grew hysterical – laughing so loudly and uncontrollably that people waiting for planes turned to stare. I just smiled and winked. The boys watched my every move. I already have my spark back.

Now I’m taking Carrie’s advice… on my third beer eating “shrooms” in the terminal bar, chatting with an obnoxious Irishman (who insists the Irish are “the blacks of Europe”) and a very sweet older gentleman from Newport. I still can’t believe that my next meal will be lunch in a café somewhere in Paris.

Until then…

= )

After a year of nothingness, I’m finally going back to France…

It may just be vacation, but I'm sure it will be full of ridiculous adventures. It always is...

tee hee!!!

Anxious Anticipation

I can’t believe I’m going back to France. Just a few days… and few more boxes to unpack before I fill my suitcases with the required attire for Camarat. I will be not only in the South, though – first, two days in Paris. Two days to explore the city, see the people I love, meet new family I’ve heard so much about.

And then my return to the magical place of Camarat…


The world is conspiring for me. Everything is falling into place. Even my computer at work – out of nowhere – has starting making announcements in French… a phenomenon that cannot be explained by our fabulous office manager (Carrie) or our awkward network guy (Ryan).

Perhaps it’s God’s way of saying, “It’s about time you go back!”
At least, I’d like to think so…