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.