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.