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!
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