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.