The End

We’re moving to Paris.


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Essence of family

I realized today that some people simply don’t think of family the same way I do. And, even though I get that, I will never understand it.

To me, family is much more that people who happen to share the same blood. They are people to love, cherish, seek out, spend time with, enjoy, stay close to.

To many, family is just those random group of folks you know because you had no choice in the matter. They happen to share certain traits—physical or otherwise—but they’re only worth spending time with if you actually like them.

This makes me sad. And, still, it’s incomprehensible for me. It’s family.

Maybe I feel so strongly about it because so much of my family—including the distant French cousins—are so wonderful I want to spend tons of time with them. And, if we weren’t family, maybe they wouldn’t spend so much time with me.

But I’m really glad I don’t have to worry about that.

Sarah's Arrived

It’s so nice to see her and Lucas. It’s nice to have so many people in this house. I love the way we all exist in our Camarats, but together we thrive.

As I enjoyed her company and played with Lucas this afternoon, I suddenly realized I’m not nearly as exhausted as I was last time I was here with Sarah. I assume its because I knew it better; this wasn’t the adventure it was then. But it’s also because I’m too busy to be exhausted or think of much else: I have to pack.

I’m moving to Paris.

Fête d’au Revoir

I can’t believe this was goodbye…









I’ll miss the Hôtel Giscle!

Les Salins

Figures I discover an incredible beach days before I leave. Les Salins, where we spent the afternoon per Ludo’s suggestion, is beautiful, clean, and—with the company of the French fam—absolutely perfect.

I'm just on a roll...

Laurence arrived today and life was breathed back into le Chêne en Croix.

By that, I mean, there is more laughter, more conversations. Francis and his girls left, removing a serious source of dialogue. Then Sido's boyfriend arrived, and they tended to busy themselves with each other. Olivier has been sleeping and reading, and it was left to just me and Ludo to speak Franglais together. In this quiet, lazy way we passed the week. It's easy to slip into nothingness here.

But Laurence is full of energy and drive, and is making us all be the most we can be. It's nice.


One of those things I'm making the most of is the kitchen. No longer is it my adversary (Ok, that's not true; I still tremble every time I enter it.), but I'm filling it with more success stories than I ever managed before.

Today, I was terrified: Ludo had requested I make clam chowder to welcome Laurence to the house. However, lacking clams in this part of the world, I'd use moules. And I'd have to convert everything to metric on my own. (Thank God Tony's on speed dial...)

I studies Fannie Farmer's recipe all day. (All week, really...) When dinner time approached, I shut the door and made a mess. My stomach turned with anxiety; my breaths were heavy with fear. At one point I poked my head out and said, "Look, if this is bad, I'm buying pizza." If only I really had the money to do so...

But, alas, it was all for nothing. They loved it. They showered me with praises and promised to write rave reviews home. Olivier was so happy he licked the bowl clean (at the table).

And now I'm so exhausted from the anxiety, the preparation, the eating, the cleaning, I need to go to bed.

A Trip to the Big Rock

Not my first since adulthood, (or my second for that matter,) but still fun…

Why I could never be a journalist or a spy:

I had an incredibly day yesterday at a party with friends of friends. There was one man who had amazing stories to share about World War II, his family, and how he knew the Parisians and Jews hiding here after feeling Paris. I wondered so deeply if my family or this house was in his stories.

Unfortunately, he had been sworn to secrecy and it took a great deal of patience and wine to seduce the stories from him lips.

Even more unfortunately, I also partook in the wine required to elicit the stories, and now I can’t remember any of them.

So, aside from the exhilaration I remember feeling at the time of the stories, and the embarrassment I feel now for being so drunk yesterday, and the headache I’m dealing with today, I having nothing to show for my valiant efforts of digging for the truth.

I’m going to crawl back to bed now, thank you.

Dinner Next Door

I went to the market in the morning. I love the market, and I love going with Francis. This time it was even more fun, as his girls came – and they are exactly like him.

When we returned, I made myself busy in the kitchen. Ludo quietly stepped in. With his thick French accent and slightly mischevious smile, he said: “So, I don’t know what to do, but I was invited to a dinner party next door, and I don’t want to go, because I don’t think it will be fun, they are not very interesting, and there will be a mountain of kids, and so do you want to come with me?”

How sweet! I completely melted. “Of course!” I was so flattered he asked me. He likes my company!

“Good,” he said and smiled wider. “And at least we know the food will be good; Z is making it.”

It was true – The food, a never-ending bowl of the local fish soup (called bouillabasse), was extraordinary. Truthfully, the conversation wasn’t so bad either. Some of the characters around the table were incredibly boring, others were shy but had marvelous stories hidden beneath their passive façade, some were simply facsinating, and others simply talked too much. But the mix of conversations (all in French) entertained and exhausted me.

I had left Tequila at the house. Francis and all the children were there; I figured she could never get lonely. Of course, at some point during the meal, the dog heard my voice. I bit my lip when I first recognized the sound of breaking sticks beneath her clumbsy paws in the forest separating Chez Michel from the gorgeous table around which I sat. Sure enough, Tequila burst through the shrubbery, receiving applauds for her performance. She beamed with pride; she had found me. And I rolled my eyes. “Great,” I thought, “another table of guests for her to drool on, nudge, and beg from.”

But she was well behaved (for the most part), and when it came time to go home, the three of us found our way back down the dirt path, light headed with champagne and heavy-bellied from Tarte Tropezian and an ungodly amount of food.

All in all, a tremendous success.

The World Polo Cup of St. Tropez

Tonight, I saw my first polo match.


It was beautiful. The fluidity and grace of the horses, the brutality and determination of the players, the tranquility of the open green field under the setting Côte d’Azur sun… I cannot find the words to express the magic of the game.





But for me, it was far more than just the match, the sport. For me, it was a perfect evening as everyone I know and love here – my English-speaking friends, my French family, friends of my French family – all gathered around a bottle of rosé to watch men on horses beat each other up. We were together, we joked together, we laughed together. And that was really magic.

Bastide Blanch

As I crafted this blog in my head on the long, long hike from the car to the beach, I imagined beginning it with: I had never before seen Bastide Blanch, but it is beautiful.

It turns out that statement is only half true.

The beach itself is a forgotten strip of fine sand on the farthest possible point of land after L’Escalet, protected by the entirety of Cap Camarat from the obnoxious tourists and obscene costumes of Pampleonne. And it is beautiful.



But, it turns out, I have been here before. After Ludo’s father died we came here to eat, and there was a dead seagull. I was six and remember nothing about it except the stories…

Although, as I hiked back to the car, I saw a tiny boat delivering ice cream to the children on a nearby beach, touring the coast the way an ice cream truck circles a neighborhood. Seeing it I was overwhelmed by déjà vu. (Family, is it true? Have we had ice cream delivered by boat before?)

This time, we took a picnic... Somethings are better explained in pictures:

Another dinner…

It was 2005.

I stood in the kitchen with Francis; I was making lunch. Or, at least, I was trying to. It was grilled cheese sandwiches with fig, and they were coming slowly, one-by-one. Everyone sat anxiously, full of hunger, at the table, waiting for the impossibly slow meal.

I remember feeling slightly awkward, but mostly I was focused on the food. Suddenly Francis turned to me and said, “I think it was very brave of you to do this.” I realized I should feel embarrassed.

Today, I did feel embarrassment as, once again, the kitchen won in my battle to prepare food for this family.

See, I offered, which I clearly shouldn’t have. I don’t know how I managed to use the oven yesterday (Was that successful salmon dinner really just yesterday?!), because it’s a foreign machine with strange systems and different settings and tonight I couldn’t even turn it on.

So it took an hour and a half to make overcooked pieces of pork.

At least the gazzpachio was good.

Hell, it could’ve been worse. And now, here I am, sitting in the sunroom with Ludo and Francis, soaking up life, laughing.

Suddenly this really does feel familiar, like home.

Ludo’s Arrival

I can’t explain it.

I couldn’t sleep last night I was so excited for them to come. I feel like I’ve been waiting all summer for today, and I have no explanation for it. I’m not sure why, but their arrival means safety. It’s wonderful.

Alberte promised they’d come in the morning, so I lingered. I cleaned the house – extra nice – and made gazpacho. I tidied up the back porch; I cleaned my room; I ran another load of laundry. But still, they didn’t come.

Finally I went to the beach, and I left them a note saying so. At the beach, I discovered a voicemail.

Hearing Ludo’s voice made my heart beat faster. “I’m sorry,” I said to Tony, Maria, their friends, “I have to go.” They were all at the crique, and I wanted to see them.

Of course, I wasn’t up for hiking down to our favorite swimming hole. Instead, I put on my new French dress and curled up with a book.

I heard their feet on the walkway before I saw them. The moment I realized it was them arriving, I lept from the chair and threw my arms around Ludo, then Francis. Finally, family.

It was like I breathed for the first time this summer, and all the anxiety melted away. I can’t wait for these two weeks… and then, Sarah!

Successful dinner party

This kitchen has always got the better of me. I have tried many, many times before to cook dinner, bake desserts, whatever – and I always ended up frantic on the phone to my mother asking what to do and wondering why the damn metric system had to be so goddam different than the one I was raised on.

But not tonight!

I called before Tony dropped me back at the house to make sure no one was here. Alberte answered, and I asked her as cautiously as I could. “No, Ludo arrives tomorrow; Sylvia leaves today.”

“Then tonight, I have my friends for dinner.”

We passed Sylvia as we mounted the hill. Tony had to work, so while he did his thing and Maria and Carol prepped to come over, I made only one frantic phone call to the States and made dinner.

It was a tremendous success.

We had salmon with peach salsa – all of which came out perfectly. We also had potatoes, green salad, homemade dressing. We sat, we drank, we talked, we stared at the view, and later, as the night fell, we watched stars fall from the sky.

It was perfect.

And for me, successfully having made dinner means that I have finally – FINALLY – adapted to life here.

Cat, the carpenter

I awoke to quite possibly the hottest day of the year.

By 9:00 the fierce Midi sun drew droplets of perspiration from anyone foolish enough to stand in its gaze.

By 11, a thick haze hung over the bay. All who live here and all who came on vacation fell into the only two activities logical for such a hot day: half followed their dogs’ examples and crawled into their tile-floored bedrooms, crept into bed and slept off the heat; the other half put on their skimpiest bathing suits and survived off of quick dips in the Med and hours under shaded umbrellas on Pampelonne.

I, of course, was engaged in other activities. Today, I was locked in a room with no air, pulling up carpet – by hand – and scraping off glue – on my hands and knees. I spent the day trying my muscles further than they’d ever been tried before; tasting salt on my lips as I brushed away the sweat with swollen hands, damp rags, and dry tongue.

If only I was kidding.

See, Tony called me this morning with an opportunity to work, and I heeded its call. We were charged with replacing the carpets in two rooms in the crew apartment.

After six long hours, I stare at my blistered knuckles and worn fingertips and sighed. Just days ago, when I was polishing the boat, I found myself complaining to Tony that the green chemicals were wearing my skin away. I showed him my lime colored palms to prove my point. Of course, just as he went to examine my wounds, the captain walked by.

The captain gave me an amused smirk. We had already bonded; we both understood each other by now, even if Tony didn’t know it yet.

So, in my defense, Tony grabbed my brittle hands and showed them to his boss. “These are typist hands, you see? She’s a thinker, not a worker.”

The captain smiled politely. “Well today she’s worked quite hard, and quite well.” He gave me a wink. “Her hands are capable of much more than writing.”

That said, what possessed Tony to think I was a carpenter is beyond me.

But so far, we’ve ripped up the old carpet in one of the rooms, cleaned the perfectly decent tiles beneath it, cut the new carpet to fit the room, and laid the basework to glue down the new rug tomorrow.

And to think, after that, we still have a whole 'nother room to go.

Good God.

L’orage

I love watching the storms come in over the mountains across the harbor. Lightening dances in the sky more beautifully than fireworks could ever dream to. With the clouds, the sea, the stars – it’s breath taking.

At the same time, it’s daunting… because storms mean Tequila wont let me sleep, and I’m awfully tired.

How sweet...

Before dinner, there was wine and conversation. In this country, there always is.

We talked of cars, of boats, of life. I finally found the words in French to describe what I do:

"I'm an advocate; now I write, I do communications, but soon I hope to do more. I fight for nonprofits who operate like businesses, but not for money, for social impact. You understand?"

Alain smiled. "I know you come from Mouny."

"What?" I asked, alarmed by the random reference to my great-grandmother, a woman who's somehow influenced my life for as long as I can remember. Her story's been my quest for years.

"She was a humanist too," Sylvia explained. I wasn't sure how Mouny was a humanist, I wasn't sure how we were alike, but somehow it made me blush.

I take it back

I knew I would. It’s just the awkward adjustment stage I find so miserable, and – haunted by rumors – I let little things creep into my soul and fester. From now on, I’m acting only on the information in front of me.

The family returned from the beach. I thought I heard them but was engrossed in my writing work and didn’t move from the bed.

Suddenly, three anxious taps at the door.

“Oui?”

Alix walked in looking equally shy and exhilarated. She rushed up and threw her arms around my neck, giving me kisses, and proudly introduced me to her friend. They showered Tequila with love and attention.

Downstairs, I offered to help make dinner. Alain kept pouring me wine. I tried to set the table, but the adults told me there were young children to do that; I should sit and talk with them. I was nervous. Sylvia finally said, “Relax, make it feel like home. You are welcome here.”

Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. I will enjoy the time I have here at the house, and I will be out of the house often.

C’est tout.

Rootless

I woke up this morning so eager to come back.

I had planned to lounge on the beach – a reward for working so had on the yacht – but the other job proposed a different task, and I was eager to accept. So I wrote. All day.

Around 5:00pm Tony took me home. We went through St. Tropez; it was revolting. It’s uncomfortably hot – an unusual type of weather for this place – and the tiny city is swarming with tourists. Yuck.

I picked up a bottle of nice wine and we climbed the mountain. Suddenly, and for the first time ever, I pulled into the stone gates of the Chêne en Croix feeling not unquenchable joy and peace, but total apprehension. Rumors from the States make me feel less and less welcome at the house. I’m already anxious enough being completely alone in a foreign country; I thought a “home” and family would make me feel safe, but instead it just makes me feel even more vulnerable and alone. This, of course, makes my stomach turn more – How is it possible to have the resources so typical to support and yet feel even worse off for tapping them?

Bumping down the dirt road, I realized I can’t wait to go to Paris, to have a place of my own, to not have to rely on anyone. If I had the money I’d buy a small studio and make it cute and not bother with any of this crap.

Then I saw the Mercedes SUV in the driveway.

I grabbed the gear stick, slammed down the clutch, threw the Peugeot into reverse. “What’s wrong?” Tony asked. I heard the panic in his voice.

“Something’s not right.” I talked to Sylvia just a few days ago; I can come Tuesday the 29. That’s today. I’m sure of it. Then who are these guests? Is there still room for me?

But I’ve taken too much from Maria and Tony. I need to give them space, just as I spent a week there to give the family space.

That’s it. That’s what I want: my own space. I want to be ok and welcomed being somewhere, anywhere.

I walked in and hollered; no one answered, nothing moved. Returning to the car, Tony looked exhausted. He’s worked nonstop for weeks, and the next few days will be the hardest for him.

“I guess I’ll just head up and hope it’s ok,” I said, taking my bags and venturing into the shadows of the first floor.

A cat scurried across the table. Ramesis, the big black lab, bounded over to greet Tequila and me. Voices drifted down the spiral staircases. Mess and clutter covered every beautiful piece of old furniture and tile. I turned to watch Tony pull out of the driveway and swallowed hard. This was it. Foreign territory in a house I dream of in perfect detail every night.

Saraphine appeared at the bottom of the stairs looking absolutely gorgeous. Without saying a word, she glided over and kissed me.

“ça va?”

“Oui, ça va,” she said.

Then two very handsome and trendy boys her age galloped downstairs looking totally disheveled and laughing wildly. I could only imagine what the three of them had just been up to.

We started to have awkward conversation. Awkward, I think, because she stares at me in eager silence and I have nothing to say.

“Where is your family?” I finally asked.

“At the beach, with their friends.”

More friends? “Is it still ok for me to stay here?”

“Yes,” she said, and showed me to the little red room. She and the boys – and possibly some others – are living next door.

I smiled and entered the room. (God, how I wish I could call it “my” room, but I can’t. It’s not. I don’t have a room in this country.) Things are missing, evidence of others dwelling in the tiny corner I made look so cute. The lamp by the bed, for starters, is no longer there. Also missing is the multi-outlet plug in I rely on to charge up all of my toys – blackberry, ipod, cell phone, laptop... Even the spare bulb I keep for the big lamp is gone, and so is the little red stool that sits under by window-side desk.

I opened the wardrobe and was relieved to find it exactly as I left it: bureau items layered neatly on top of the clothes on the top shelf; desk items and valuables tucked into the drawers on the second; bags and shoes hidden beneath the clothes hanging at the bottom. Light shown in from the window; the view was as marvelous as ever. I reached in to unpack and stopped. Why bother? I don’t live here. I don’t even know how long I’ll be here.

So, obviously, I’m sulking instead. I’m curled up on the bed cuddling with Tequila. But even she seems unhappy; she’s hot and sick of being cooped up in small rooms, forbidden to roam and shed. Saraphine and her friends are playing ping pong behind my closed door. I’m even afraid to pee because I’ll be invading someone else’s space.

Honestly, this is ridiculous.

I wish I had the character to say “F--- it” and just go. Or to relinquish some of this guilt I feel just by being here.

Geeze, I’ll never raise my kids Catholic.

Sucked into Employment

I was getting homesick.

Not for the States – sorry, Mom – but for the house. For the feel of the brick red tiles under my feet, the smell of lavender and sea salt and eucalyptus in my laundry, the cozy solitude of the little red attic room. As it so often does, my heart longed for Camarat.

My body was too tired to care. I ached; the muscles in my back screamed in agony and the acid-soaked blisters and cuts on my fingers kept me up at night. (The mosquitoes didn’t help either.) Working on the boat was difficult and tiresome, and I wanted the beautiful embrace of “home” in the south of France. I had it all planned out: I’d wait on the stonewall outside and watch people come and go; in my solitude I’d do laundry and sort my own crazy life out; when there were people at the house, I’d walk down to L’Esquinade and spend the day baking in the sun and drinking rosé. I wouldn’t impose and I’d have the views, the peace, the beach. My muscles would rejuvenate, my wounds would heal.

I should have realized this afternoon it wasn’t going to happen as planned.

It was five o’clock and I was still polishing the copious amounts of bronze surfaces present on the boat. My boss startled me. “It’s past five; we need to wrap up.”

I stifled a laugh. ‘We?’ After giving me my instructions in the morning, I hadn’t seen the man all day. I like to think he was busy working, but the rest of the crew keep assuring me he was just smoking cigarettes by the container a few blocks away.

“Um, well,” I responded, unsure of what to say but eager for my wages and thrilled to have some time to recoup. “So, we’re through, huh?”

He nodded. “Yep, thanks, good job.”

“Do you want my number in case more day work comes up?”

“Oh, well,” he gave me a puzzled look and immediately I thought he just said I did a good job just to make me feel better about being clueless. “Tony didn’t tell you? There’s work all lined up for you for next week, and possibly this weekend.”

So much for my days of solitude and beach lounging. But, as a soon-to-be student living off of U.S. dollars in an expensive euro city, I couldn’t say no. I was just sad it would cut into time with Ludovic, who I am so excited to see.

He laughed. “Yea, these boats, they suck you in. It’s the money, eh?”

I soaked in his question. Sailboats surrounded us; the sun still hung in the sky, dancing off the waves and painting everything gold. “And the views.”

In my heart, I knew the views from Camarat will always be better.

So tomorrow I wrap up life at the Hotel Giscle… for a night, or two.

French Kiss

We were all too tired to function, so we bought take out Thai food and watched a movie.

I don’t like chic flicks. I especially didn’t like it when the movie opened to find Meg Ryan sitting in her kitchen, depressed that her fiancée left her for some French goddess he met in Paris.

But I loved this movie.

It showed Paris, it showed Provence, it showed the Côte d’Azur. It talked of hope and love and healing hearts. And it was funny as hell.

Cat, the deckhand

I woke up soaked with anxiety. Somehow I always get myself into these situations: Other people are counting on me to do a good job and I have absolutely no clue what I’m doing, nor any sense of what’s good and what’s not, and I don’t even know if I’m physically capable of the tasks at hand.

Not to mention that the first and only time I met my new boss, it was after he had had SEVERAL too many drinks and kept loosing his keys in Maria’s lap. (He actually proclaimed upon arrival at Hotel Giscle that night that he “felt like a shag…”)

Thankfully Tony gave me a quick lesson last night about boats to supplement the knowledge I’ve gained through 1) Pirate movies; 2) Taking one day trip with Halsey Herreshof; 3) Dating a man whose family was obsessed with sailing; 4) Irish drinking songs; and 5) knowing Tony and his boating friends for three years (I can even put the cover on the new boat now!). The moment I arrived on board, my boss said: “Oh, just run to the foredeck and grab the fenders for me.” A couple years ago that would have been a foreign language; today, I followed his directions promptly.

I’m too exhausted to recount the details. But I survived the labor and the awkward weighted silences where both my boss and I were thinking of his ludicrous behavior Wednesday night and refusing to acknowledge any of it.

Our biggest job – on which we spent almost the entire day – was to scrub the decks in all parts of the ship. While tackling the first deck, the one on top, he came over to my half of the boat with a puzzled look.

“What is it?” I asked, my fingers numb with fear… and blisters.

“I don’t know why your side is coming out all streaky.”

Me neither, but I could guess: I have no idea what I’m doing.

Just then, Tony came on board. “Tony,” I whispered, “I’m clueless.”

He looked around with his careful boating eye and said, “Don’t worry. So is your boss.”


The rest of the day passed a lot quicker. We scrubbed and scrubbed. We rinsed, we wiped, we dried. It was exhausting and painful. We also put pillowcases on pillows, which felt like much safer and familiar territory.

At 5:00pm, he stared at the boat and offered me a beer. “Thanks for a great day; you were a lot of help.”

I guess I can clean after all.

The Return of the Big Boat

The tranquility of Hotel Giscle was shattered abruptly by the return of the crew late last night.

It’s nothing against the crew; in fact, they seem to be a great group of good people. The captain has the gentlest voice I’ve ever heard and grew up farming, which is the occupation he plans to return to after a brief career in boating. His girlfriend, the chief stewardess, is a sweet Canadian who says things like “aboot” and “aye?”. The chef is a bubbly New Zealander whose fiancée is also a chef working on a boat for the first time; the two of them will open a restaurant Down Under in Australia one day. From what I hear (I haven’t yet met him), the mate is in love with his wife and son who he left – for the first time ever – back in South Africa, his native land. The other stewardess is off getting friends/day workers to help out over the next few days; her absence pisses Tony off.

“I just wanted to get you some work, so you could go help out and get some money. I don’t see why she’s going all over picking people up, when you’re right here and totally capable. Her buddies have never even worked on boats before.”

Apparently he’s forgotten that I haven’t either. “It’s ok, Tony,” I replied. “Instead of spending these sunny afternoons cleaning other people’s toilets, I’ll go to the beach.” Although the euros would have been nice.


This afternoon, I was working hard in the kitchen – cleaning dishes or making lunch – when I heard the front gate creak open. Tequila and Tony went to welcome the visitor. The muffled conversation crept its way through the back door of the kitchen that enters the courtyard.

“Yea, for sure, for how many days?” Tony asked.

I heard a voice respond, but couldn’t make it out.

“Sure, I’ll call him.” Tony responded. A pause. “He’s not answering. What kind of work do you need?”

The voice, again. I assumed it was the captain, but I was wrong. It was the mate – the guy in charge of the entire exterior of the boat.

“Well, Catherine’s here. She can do it.”

My heart dropped. Can I? What exactly is it that Tony’s so sure I can do? Sure, I’ve picked up a few knots (ok, two) and some boating lingo, but I surely couldn’t survive on the outside of a boat… Hell, I don’t even know if I could survive the inside. I think Tony honestly believes I can do anything. It’s great and all, but I’m not a yachty chic and am far from domesticated, so I’m not sure how helpful I really would be to his colleagues.

Regardless, after another couple seconds, he came bursting into the kitchen: “Whippee! I got you some work this weekend!!!”

I forced a smile. “Thanks!” I think. “Doing what?”

“Oh, simple stuff. Cleaning the boat and such, you know.”

I struggle to clean my laundry; he wants me to clean a boat? “Ok, well, if you really think I can do it.”

“I’m sure you can. It’s not like its rocket science.”

‘No,’ I thought, ‘it’s worse: it’s manual labor. And cleaning.’

This should be interesting.

It’s Official: I live here.

The Boss came to play with his newly repaired boat.

Upon his return from an adventure at sea, the salt-soaked breeze carried his voice through the slats in the shudders to my hiding place in the bedroom. He still didn’t know I was here.

“You know,” he said to Tony, “I still can’t get over how great the container looks. Your friend Catherine did a great job.” Tony showed him the container this afternoon, and apparently the look on his face was utter shock and contentment. Now, the Boss giggled. “I’m going to have you two come do my garage next!” I wondered if there was money involved.

“And it was also really great of her to come help out with the Aston Martin,” he added. “I know it was late and I appreciate both of you coming out to help.”

Maria chimed in: “Tony, you must tell him what she said!”

I could practically hear Tony blush. “In the middle of the job, she turns to me and says, ‘Tony,’ she says, ‘I want to make out with this car.”

My heart stopped. Now he’ll never let me near the car again.

Of course, I’ve never heard a rich man laugh so hard in my life. “She said that!? Really?” More laughter.

As he laughed, the smell of customized leather filled my nose, my fingertips longed for the perfect curves of the car… I wiped the drool off my face.

Tony’s voice interrupted his laughter. “Speaking of Catherine, do you mind if she stays with us for a couple days here and there? The house where she normally stays –“

“Of course!” The Boss’s jovial voice interrupted. “She can stay however long she likes.” They’re voices trailed off into the distance. I heard the door open and Tony and Maria follow him out to say goodbye.

Then I emerged.

Maria saw me first. With a bright smile and playful tone, she said: “Ah, she emerges! It’s ok now, you’re official.” She winked and disappeared back into the kitchen. It's time for our evening wine and chips session.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

It’s nice to be the official and welcomed guest of Hotel Giscle.

Sea Trials

The boat was broken, you see, and had to be fixed. ASAP.

Some part had broken. The “handler” – a man the boat company sent to hand off the new boat to the Boss – ordered a replacement part from England to arrive tomorrow. Tony called his French contact – a man who might as well be the Godfather of boating in Southern France for his sketchiness, smoothness, and ability to pull the most elusive parts from thin air – and got a new part delivered this afternoon. Then Tony fixed the boat.

I helped! After he replaced the part, we siphoned oil from the system and cleaned up and, once the handler arrived, saw it necessary to do some “sea trials.”

For them, it’s just another day at the office.


For me, it was an extraordinary adventure and I was glad I brought my camera.



We saw St. Tropez...



We saw other boats…


…and then left them in the dust.


There’s honestly nothing like going 60mph on the water, where the world whizzes by and the boat literally catches air when you hit a wave too big.


“You need a pilot’s license to drive this,” the handler said to Tony.

At that speed, the wind catches your sunglasses – and whatever else it can wind its way around – and rips them away. The handler told us a story about a woman he took for a ride at a boat show. He told her to watch her glasses because the boat goes so fast she might lose them. Having had a few too many glasses of wine, she giggled and waved his warning away. When the boat reached its pique speed, the wind made an example of her.

She had been wearing a button down shirt. Instead of claiming her glasses as its victim, the wind wound its way around her buttons, ripping them open one by one. Before long, she was in nothing but her bra…and sunglasses.

Anyways, back at the house, we all worked hard to clean it up quickly. Everyone pitched in – me, the handler’s wife, even Tequila…


Life can’t be so bad when a hard day’s work includes playing with your bosses newest toys.

Mornings at Bonne Terrasse

I love waking up early here.

I remembered that from last time, so I went to bed early (after watching the Man in the Iron Mask – I <3 D’Artagnan). The fishermen come out at the brink of dawn. I watch through a narrow crack in the shuddered windows as they pile their gear into the boats eagerly bobbing at the shoreline. They head off to sea, disappearing into the pink and periwinkle mist of sunrise. Then I do my thing. I make breakfast, I clean, I shower, I tend to Tequila. When we’re through, I perch myself beside the window again. This time I fling the shudders wide open. It’s only 7:00am, but the sun is high and the day golden, and the fisherman are returning to the beach. They search anxiously for the bowlines that hold their boat to shore; once found, they climb off and strip down to their shorts. Somewhere hidden beyond my view they stash tables, which they unfold in the water beside the boat. Then comes the cooler.

Within the cooler are the fish from the morning’s adventure, some still flopping meekly as the fisherman places them on his table. He finds his tools, and I watch in awe as he casually cuts the fish one-by-one before tossing them back into the cooler. When he’s through, he washes his hands in the salt water of Bonne Terrasse, and disappears with the cooler. Another morning done, another day in the south of France to enjoy.

The Cabanon

I was told the current fam’ didn’t want guests. So, with four days notice, I scrambled to find a place. Tony and Maria badgered me: “Just stay with us, it’s fine.” But I’m starting to feel like I should pay rent.

Yesterday Julien asked me if I could give him a ride to Toulon on Sunday. I said yes, as long as I had access to the car because I know the current guests want it… and, by the way, where are you two spending Saturday.

“Here, of course,” said Julien. Of course. Apparently it’s just me who’s not welcome.

So I was incredibly grateful Christine let me use the cabanon for the evening. In fact, I was quite looking forward to it: A whole day totally cut off from everybody and everything; just me, the beach, and the hut.

I opened the doors and was shocked – the place was a mess. There was spoiled milk in the sink, dirty dishes everywhere, sand and clutter all over the floors. “Shit,” I thought. “If I don’t clean this, they’ll think I left it this way.” So I immediately set on cleaning the kitchen.

An hour or so later, I moved up stairs to settle in – and use the toilet. Of course, I opened the door and was met by the repulsive smell of old human waste. “Ugh, what is this?” I opened the lid – human fesis, waiting for me. Gross.

Suddenly I thought I’d wait until tomorrow morning to pee.

But in a panic, I felt the need to clean. I flushed, took the toilet brush, and quickly realized the waste glued to the bowl was far too old to be removed simply.

That’s when I gave up.

I resigned myself to a movie – The Man in the Iron Mask -- and just when the new love of my life, D’Artagnan/Gabriel Byrne, was about to make the most heroic move ever, I heard the front door open.

My heart stopped. “Is someone trying to break in?”

I hurried to the top of the stairs to see a grown man, his wife and three small children standing with suitcases at the front door.

“Hi,” I said with a smile, “are you friends of Christine’s?”

“Yes,” the man said, “I’m her brother.”

Eek. Her brother, with suitcase.

He explained that he had the house, and he promised his children an evening. I offered to call a friend and leave, and I apologized for the confusion. I explained that I had only a few days to find a place and Christine was nice enough to let me stay here for the night, it’s only one night, but I have no place else to go because the house if full.

He said they had plenty of the room at their house, so they’d spend the night there and come back tomorrow.

I thanked them profusely and apologized again.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, “Christine should of told me. And who’s at the house? I’d love to say hello.”

Great, I thought. Not only did I get Christine in trouble – the person who did something great to help me out at the last minute – but I told them the house was full, when in fact there just isn’t a place for me. I can only imagine the problems this will cause.

That’s it. Raise the rent at Hotel Giscle: Tony and Maria have a monopoly on my nighttime plans until August. I clearly can’t find anywhere else to go… even though six months ago, I had it all worked out. Funny how people’s plans change.

Ugh.

Tony’s Bad Day

I’m writing because days like these shouldn’t happen, but they do. They defiantly shouldn’t happen in the south of France, but they still do – and they’re somehow more manageable here than elsewhere. I think it has to do with the rosé therapy, which will begin in the Jacuzzi as soon as I finish posting.

The Car
It started at 2:00am.

We were all having fun – Maria (Tony’s marvelous roommate), Berryl (her wonderful friend), Sheldon (another employee of the Boss who’s a ranger on a game reserve), Kim (Sheldon’s sister), Tony, Tequila and I. Beginning at 8, it was an evening of delicious food, uncorkable rosé, unstoppable laughter. Most of the girls were gathered around the table finishing the tarte tropezian with their fingers, the rest of us were pouring whiskey. The party was just getting started.

Then the phone rang. “Shit,” Maria said as Tony reached for it. “You know what this means – something’s gone wrong and Tony has to work.”

“ ‘Ello?” he answered.

Then his cell phone rang.

It was the Boss on his cell, the Boss’s wife on the landline. The Aston Martin broke down, and it’s Tony’s job to tow it home.

“Anyone feel like coming to help?”

Eh, I try to be a good friend. I put the whisky in the fridge and the dog in Maria’s care, and we were off – cruising the Route du Plage at 2:15, searching for a disabled vehicle on the side of the road. Before long, I was on my hands and knees (in white pants and red heels), helping Tony rig up a line to drag the car home. When we maneuvered through the round-point and down the narrow dirt driveway of the boss, the heels came off so we could push it – literally, Tony and I pushed the car – into its place between the Bentley and the Land Rover.

When our mission was complete, the boss looked at us and said, “Well, that was a pain. And you caught the wheel with the line once.”

“Yea, you know, I tried,” Tony said.

“What were you doing before this?”

“Oh, having dinner, saying goodbye to our friend who’s returning to South Africa in the morning. And first thing Catherine and I are taking the scooter to Toulon to be fixed; we have to leave by 7.”

“Ok,” the Boss said. “Well, carry on. And I’d like to use the new boat around noon tomorrow, and I don’t want to go alone, so why don’t you come with me.” Then he went to bed, leaving Tony and I alone in the driveway.

I bit my tongue to refrain from the shouts of insults lining up in my head. Instead, I turned to Tony: “On y va.” We piled back into the van.

(The saddest part was as I stood by the car, I couldn’t help touching it. It was the perfect shade of blue, and I felt like Honey Ryder just being in its glorious presence. I ran my fingers along where the hood meets the car. I stroked the side under the guise of “making sure it’s all one piece.” I lingered to take in the incredible scent of custom-fitted leather each time I opened the door. “Tony,” I said, “I think I want to make out with this car.” He didn’t like hearing that much either.)


The Morning
We didn’t get back to the house until after three. Three hours later, we were up – driving to Toulon to get the damn scooter fixed, me in the van and him on the scooter. We were late to start – and nothing aggravates Tony more than being late – because he lost his wallet. To make matters worse, on the way to Toulon, Tony realized that he A) forgot his jacket – a necessity when scooting at 90km/h; and B) the back brakes didn’t work. Things weren’t looking good.

But with the help of the best GPS machine I’d ever used, we made it! Of course, in typical French fashion, the shop opened a half hour late, and they made him wait 45 minutes before filling out the paperwork to leave the stupid bike for the weekend. Tony got angry (again, it’s the ‘being late’ thing); I napped in the car.


The GPS
He woke me up by opening the van door. “You can drive,” I kindly offered and crawled over the gear stick to the passengers seat. He got in, slammed the door, put the car into 1st. With one quick motion, I watched in horror as Tony’s Bad Happening du Jour #8 unfolded.

I swear it was in slow motion. He pressed the gas, the GPS fell from the dashboard. It tumbled through the air – slowly – as Tony and I looked on. With shocking luck, the gear stick broke its fall – touch-screen first – and it landed first down in the change bin. I knew what had happened to this glorious 600€ device before Tony reached casually for it.

“Shit.”

Sure enough the screen had shattered. A spider web blurred the map beneath – not that it mattered, no matter what or where or how hard we pressed, the machine refused to acknowledge our directions. But the lady pressed on, hollering to take a right. We did.

The Boat
When the Boss said the new boat, he wasn’t lying: It arrived yesterday afternoon. Tony spent from noon to eight fitting it out with the basic necessities a new boat requires – lines and tools and such. (As if I have any clue what that means.) Suddenly, as the van’s clock ticked 10:30 and we were a solid 45 minutes from home, the Boss’s noontime appointment seemed like a death sentence. We bolted.

Of course there was traffic. So while Tony bought flairs and life jackets for safety, I bought drinks and food for the fridge. (We figured it was best to stick to our own strengths.) The moment we arrived at the house, Maria and I (neither of us are boat savvy at all) launched into removing the cover and wiping down the leather seats while Tony went to pick up the Boss’s boat driving license. The second he returned, he addressed the outside (with flags and gear) while I did the interior (stocked the fridge, organized the galley, fitted out the bathroom). Within a half hour we had a nice little boat in front of us and the Boss knocking at the back door.

I hid in my room. The Boss came with family, friends. Tony was no longer going on the boat trip. But he wasn’t allowed to leave until the boat was back.

Tequila and I watched the Boss and his family leave through the slits in the shudders. The moment he was out of site, Tony was napping.


The End
The Boss came back; Tony docked the boat. The Boss lost his keys; Tony searched high and low for them in an effort to escape from driving them home. (The keys were hiding on the counter in the boat’s galley.) The Boss left; I helped Tony tidy up.

“Ok,” I asked when the boat cover was back on, “are you ready to take me home?” He looked like he was going to die and driving twenty minutes or so to the light house was out of the question. But he’d do it, if he had to. “Or,” I added quickly, “we could hang out for a little, maybe take a dip in the Jacuzzi?”

“With lots of rosé and salt and vinegar chips and Maria.”


Suddenly I see Tony getting too drunk to take me home.

Welcome!

I can’t explain how wonderful it feels to feel welcome in a foreign place, with foreign people. I think it’s relief – to be welcomed takes a burden off that you otherwise carry all the time. Most days everything is a struggle, a fight for survival; suddenly amongst those that care, you feel safe, you know you’re ok.

I was so worried about maintaining a balance while here with Julien and his friends. I wanted to be here, but I didn’t want to be in their way or interfere with their vacation. I wanted to get to know him and his fiancée, but I didn’t want to overwhelm them. I didn’t know how welcome I was.

We woke up early to go to the market in St. Tropez. There were six of us and the car barely fits five, but it’s a hatchback so I offered to sit in the trunk. I’ve done it before – we all took turns doing so when Julien’s sister was here with her friends. They fussed and joked and made sure I was ok, but I honestly thought nothing of it. From my perch in the trunk, I joined in with all the conversations going on in the car. They welcomed me in, translating when I couldn’t understand and laughing when I misunderstood.

We shopped together at the market. We all had a coffee when we were through, and we all took pictures of each other. We laughed so much; Fred and Julien have the same sarcastic sense of humor that I absolutely adore. It was fun. And they told me I was smart and funny.


The church bells chimed and we knew it was time to go home. Together, we began the long walk down the hill to where Julien parked the car. Each of us took turns walking with Frederique, who’s pregnant belly grows daily. (She’s due Sept. 6!) When we finally arrived at the car, I prepared to climb into the trunk.

“No, no,” Julien said, boxing me out. “Wait.”

I thought he was putting the basket in… but to my surprised, he climbed in himself.

Julien is without a doubt the tallest of us all. “Julien!” I screamed, clutching his arm. “What are you doing?!”

“You sit up front with Fred.”

“No!”

“Yes,” he laughed as he curled up to the back seat.

“I insist!”

“I insist, I will be ok.”

“But you’re so big and I’m so small!” Ok, I’m not so small, but I was getting desperate.

Fred took a break from laughing at us – and probably my poor French – to gently tug my arm. “Please sit with me.” She winked, then said in English: “You’re a lady!”

I know when to give up.

Sitting up front, with Julien curled up tightly in the trunk, I suddenly felt like a welcomed part of the group.

And it felt wonderful.

Le Carte Bleu Part IV – and other tales of woe

I’m sick to stomach. Too sick to write, really – so I’ll be quick.

The market was beautiful. I love the market, and I figured I’d buy myself a few things since I worked hard last week and haven’t bought anything for myself since I arrived. One dress, one bag, one shawl, and several gifts later, I went to the bank. My high came crashing down.

I asked for my banker by his first name. The attendant quickly corrected me: “Monsieur Bertrand?” Sure.

I told him I have a problem: “I’ve received several secret codes, but no card.”

“Ah yes,” he said, “I have your card.”

Figures.

“But I need your carte sejour first.”

Shit.

At this point, I will never have the damn carte bleu.

Just about the point when I’m going to burst into tears, the phone rings. Ah, family! It’s the family who comes next, family I’m quite excited to see. And she tells me they’re quite tired and want more time to just themselves – can’t I stay in Cogolin for the whole time they’re there?

For crying out lout. Why did I bother asking six months ago? I understand ENTIRELY that they want they’re vacation to themselves – I just need a place to sleep, as I explained earlier. I’ll be out of the house all day. And I feel terrible spending more time with Maria and Tony, who have already graciously extended their hospitality quite enough. But at this point, there isn’t a hotel who will take me – or at least none I can afford – and I don’t know what else to do.

“Also, we want the car. Leave the car.”

Suddenly, despite the shopping bags, I have nothing.

Bastille Day

In addition to being my father’s birthday, July 14 is a French national holiday – Bastille Day.

In 2005, I was here for the grand fête but chose not to partake. Instead, with Sara and her friends, I visited the P’tit Club, and Tequila and I watched fireworks from my bedroom window late at night.

This time, my crew spoke English and decided to spend the evening in St. Tropez.

It was marvelous! We were quite the group: Tony, me, Maria (Tony’s extraordinarily kind roommate), Berryl (Maria’s friend from South Africa and my latest partner in crime/beach bumming), Carol (another English-speaking friend of Maria’s who happens to live in Cogolin for the moment but plans to move to Camarat next month), and James (the ex-ex-captain who I thought was hilarious in 2005 and has only grown funnier in the past three years).

We found a table for six at Pesquere, where we dined on moules and rosé. Above us, St. Tropez’s fireworks danced across the night sky. When they were through, St. Maxime answered with an equally delightful display across the bay. It felt like magic.

Of course, the ethereal ambiance was enhanced by the street performers, bike-riding magicians and carnival folk scattered about town. And the yachts. One can never forget the money – and hilarity – the très riche bring into this town.

Finally arriving home, I’m too tired to think any more.