The first day Tequila came home with me, Naomi – one of Sarah’s friends – said to me, “It seems like you’ve had this dog forever. The way she loves you already is amazing.” She wouldn’t leave my side and cuddled up beside me every time I sat still. From the first day.
She was always my baby. She was passive, well behaved. No matter how many people or stimulants surrounded us, she wouldn’t go anywhere. I’ll never forget the first time I took her to the bar, when Stephen let her in “given her mistress,” and she was leash-less but wouldn’t roam farther than a foot from my heel. She climb onto my bed at night and settle into sleep lying her heavy body across my chest so that I couldn’t move and she could feel my heart beating all night long.
By the end of Sarah's stay, she was acting a little bit more like a dog. She’d chew sticks and learn tricks. She’s chase a ball as long as I was still within 20ft. Martine told me that it’d be cruel of me to give her up, but I couldn’t imagine bringing her back to Boston. Of course, now I won’t be back in Boston for a long time.
As the weeks continued to pass, she grew more and more like a dog. I remember one day I took her to Pamplonne without a leash, like I always did, and she was nothing but trouble. She ran around like a crazy dog, sprinting wildly from patron to patron, spraying everyone with sand and drool. Some of them didn’t mind, laughing instead and giving her treats and loving. Others, however, were extremely angry and annoyed – particularly those on the nude beach… That was the first and only day I had to take her aside and tell her she was being bad. Every day since then and every day before, she listens to every word I say. Granted, nowadays, sometimes she takes a bit longer to act on my commands, but she does do it.
She’s comfortable now. She knows that I will not leave her, abandon her like so many have before. She will always have a family as long as I can help it. When I first took her home I had rescued her from a kennel where her last family dropped her. She feared that I would do the same, I’d leave her if she wasn’t good. She was like a child.
But in a way, she rescued me too. In a constantly changing landscape, she was my only consistent company. She was the only friend who continued to love me loyally, endlessly, unconditionally. Francis pointed this out when he was here. When I leave, she waits in the driveway for my return. If I fall asleep outside, she nudges me awake until I muster up the energy to climb to my third-floor bedroom. “It’s really special,” he told me. “It’s a special you love you two have.” To this day, she hates it when she cannot see me. When she doesn’t know where I am.
She’s so good everyone wants to keep her. One of Sarah G’s friends hated dogs before meeting Tequila. Sylvia thought she was the sweetest thing. Ludo considered adopting her, offering to help if she can’t leave the country. Before I thought it a possibility for me to take her back to my family’s house in the country, when I thought I’d be returning to the city where a dog doesn’t belong, I offered to give the dog to Sarah. She’s thrilled with how wonderful this dog turned out to be. (I’m just not sure I can part with her, now.) Patty’s kids would take her home in a heartbeat. Jesse, my cousin, just told me she’s the best dog ever. I know. I love her like she loves me. She is my best friend.
Dogs really are man’s best friend. They love you endlessly. And in their gentle, persuasive mannerisms, they make you fall endlessly in love for them also. They are the best companions.
Martine insisted cats were better than dogs. How? Cats don’t love you like this. They don’t depend on you for love. It’s like that old quote goes: “Dogs come when they’re called. Cats take a message and get back to you.”
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Saturday, August 20, 2005
The Arrival of JOM & Family
Sarah & Patty went to the market early this morning, leaving me to watch the kids. Lucky for me, the kids were tired and slept particularly late this morning, making my job even easier than expected. Only Lucas woke up a little before 10 and wow, was he grumpy. It’s tough to cheer a 4-year-old up first thing in the morning.
Every time I tried to lure him out of bed, he’d burry his face in the pillow and turn the other way. I brought Tequila over (how could anyone not smile at that beautiful fluffy white face and liquorish nose?) and he hid under the covers. I talked about “Mommy” and the goodies she’d be bringing home. But nothing. That kid was determined to stay in bed.
Then a little light bulb flashed above my head. “Guess who’s coming today, Lucas?”
He paused, his mind busy at work. It must be tough for a 4-year-old to keep all his relatives straight, forget remember who arrives when. But when his expression changed from crabby to ecstatic, I knew he’d found the answer. His little blue eyes lit up and an enormous smile crept across his tiny cheeks. “Uncle Jommy!”
Lucas has been asking for Jom (James Olivier Michel) all week. Realizing that he was on the way brought Lucas dashing out of bed and the two of us played downstairs until Sarah came back with breakfast.
Jommy and my Aunt Carol arrived around 3, absolutely exhausted from a very long red-eye trip, with my 13-year-old cousin Jesse and his friend Josh, as well as Carol’s nephew Ryan. It’s wonderful to see family. And I have such a nice family. I have never read Harry Potter and as that’s become the talk of the house, I’ve decided I should start. As my grandfather said, “It’s time you grew up and started enjoying Harry!” So I asked the Americans to bring over any copies they had but all my book-loving Aunt Carol had were signed hardcopies she – understandably – didn’t want to transport. So, being the sweet woman she is, she went out and bought me volumes 1, 2 & 3, leaving me with book 4 in the attic and darling little Lexie will leave 5 for me, and my grandfather is anxiously awaiting his vacation here so that he can read number 6. Once he’s through it’ll be my turn and I’ll be all caught up, thanks to the good graces of my family.
And, my grandmother has been kind enough to agree to take my leather jacket with her when she comes so that I will not freeze on my scooter at night, again, thanks to the good graces of family.
Regardless, we passed a lazy afternoon in the gloomy, windy weather indoors. The kids wrestled upstairs, excited to have so many playmates. Carol and Patty fought off naps from within their bedrooms, leaving Aunt Sarah, Uncle Jommy and I reading in the sunroom. I wondered, during a pause between chapters, how many times Sarah and her brother Jommy and my father sat in this very same room, possibly in these very same spots, reading this very same way. They have memories of this place as children, as I do, as the next Michel generation will. I looked at my aunt and my uncle and smiled. I could see them as little children reading picture books, riley teenagers reading school assignments, young-twenty-somethings with whatever their heart desired – readers of all ages – sitting in their shadows on the wild orange cushions. They’ve been here countless numbers of times and all of their favorite traditions live on. It’s beautiful.
And, like they have done for years, the family will gather tonight and every night to play cards around the tiny straw table in the sunroom, the same table Francis, Ludo & I gathered around for late night talks, the same table Sarah and her friends & I gathered around to play Tarot, the same table my father, brother & I gathered around for cribbage or pitch, if Becca and my mother were up for it.
Oh, traditions… family… the joys of a house like this.
Every time I tried to lure him out of bed, he’d burry his face in the pillow and turn the other way. I brought Tequila over (how could anyone not smile at that beautiful fluffy white face and liquorish nose?) and he hid under the covers. I talked about “Mommy” and the goodies she’d be bringing home. But nothing. That kid was determined to stay in bed.
Then a little light bulb flashed above my head. “Guess who’s coming today, Lucas?”
He paused, his mind busy at work. It must be tough for a 4-year-old to keep all his relatives straight, forget remember who arrives when. But when his expression changed from crabby to ecstatic, I knew he’d found the answer. His little blue eyes lit up and an enormous smile crept across his tiny cheeks. “Uncle Jommy!”
Lucas has been asking for Jom (James Olivier Michel) all week. Realizing that he was on the way brought Lucas dashing out of bed and the two of us played downstairs until Sarah came back with breakfast.
Jommy and my Aunt Carol arrived around 3, absolutely exhausted from a very long red-eye trip, with my 13-year-old cousin Jesse and his friend Josh, as well as Carol’s nephew Ryan. It’s wonderful to see family. And I have such a nice family. I have never read Harry Potter and as that’s become the talk of the house, I’ve decided I should start. As my grandfather said, “It’s time you grew up and started enjoying Harry!” So I asked the Americans to bring over any copies they had but all my book-loving Aunt Carol had were signed hardcopies she – understandably – didn’t want to transport. So, being the sweet woman she is, she went out and bought me volumes 1, 2 & 3, leaving me with book 4 in the attic and darling little Lexie will leave 5 for me, and my grandfather is anxiously awaiting his vacation here so that he can read number 6. Once he’s through it’ll be my turn and I’ll be all caught up, thanks to the good graces of my family.
And, my grandmother has been kind enough to agree to take my leather jacket with her when she comes so that I will not freeze on my scooter at night, again, thanks to the good graces of family.
Regardless, we passed a lazy afternoon in the gloomy, windy weather indoors. The kids wrestled upstairs, excited to have so many playmates. Carol and Patty fought off naps from within their bedrooms, leaving Aunt Sarah, Uncle Jommy and I reading in the sunroom. I wondered, during a pause between chapters, how many times Sarah and her brother Jommy and my father sat in this very same room, possibly in these very same spots, reading this very same way. They have memories of this place as children, as I do, as the next Michel generation will. I looked at my aunt and my uncle and smiled. I could see them as little children reading picture books, riley teenagers reading school assignments, young-twenty-somethings with whatever their heart desired – readers of all ages – sitting in their shadows on the wild orange cushions. They’ve been here countless numbers of times and all of their favorite traditions live on. It’s beautiful.
And, like they have done for years, the family will gather tonight and every night to play cards around the tiny straw table in the sunroom, the same table Francis, Ludo & I gathered around for late night talks, the same table Sarah and her friends & I gathered around to play Tarot, the same table my father, brother & I gathered around for cribbage or pitch, if Becca and my mother were up for it.
Oh, traditions… family… the joys of a house like this.
Friday, August 19, 2005
L’Esquinade
All summer long L’Esquinade had been my escape. When I couldn’t sleep at home, I found myself dozing on the mats. When I needed a break from whoever was living in Chez Michel, I found myself eating under the straw huts. When the real world crept uncomfortably close, I found myself sipping rosé by the ocean. It was my place to run away to.
Now, since Sarah – who worked there for two years – has arrived, we’ve been going everyday. She knows everyone well, from the owners to the patrons to the vendors harassing the clients. L’Esquinade is no longer (or at least not right now) the fantasy land to which I run; it’s just a part of our every day routine.
But it’s still wonderful.
So, all of my long, lazy days are spent reading at this beach. I come home at night, have a G&T and a small dinner with my family, then go to bed. I enjoy the antics of my darling 4-year-old cousin Lucas and laugh hysterically with Patty’s kids. It’s a different lifestyle than the rest of the summer, but equally as enjoyable.
Yesterday we opted not to spend the afternoon at L’Esquinade and instead ate dinner there. It was amazing. The foods is always good, Edna – the ultimate hostess – brought over two bottles of champagne and equally bubbly conversation. That woman knows everyone and refuses to sit still, bouncing from one table to the next until the sun comes up – literally. We didn’t stick around to watch the sunrise, but we did watch the moon – a beautiful, full copper disk hanging low over the water, it’s reflection shimmering like a snake across the waves. Magnificent. Combine that with the low hanging palm huts under which we ate – it was phenomenal. An impressive evening.
I sent the fax to rid myself of my beautiful apartment in Southie. It’s almost tragic to see such a nice place go, but it’s for the best. I’m reminded of one of the last times I was here with my family and my father faxed the papers to sell our beautiful house on Colonial Drive while the rest of us sun bathed at L’Esquinade. I must have been 13 at the time.
Tomorrow my Uncle Jom & his family arrives. The Americans are coming!
Now, since Sarah – who worked there for two years – has arrived, we’ve been going everyday. She knows everyone well, from the owners to the patrons to the vendors harassing the clients. L’Esquinade is no longer (or at least not right now) the fantasy land to which I run; it’s just a part of our every day routine.
But it’s still wonderful.
So, all of my long, lazy days are spent reading at this beach. I come home at night, have a G&T and a small dinner with my family, then go to bed. I enjoy the antics of my darling 4-year-old cousin Lucas and laugh hysterically with Patty’s kids. It’s a different lifestyle than the rest of the summer, but equally as enjoyable.
Yesterday we opted not to spend the afternoon at L’Esquinade and instead ate dinner there. It was amazing. The foods is always good, Edna – the ultimate hostess – brought over two bottles of champagne and equally bubbly conversation. That woman knows everyone and refuses to sit still, bouncing from one table to the next until the sun comes up – literally. We didn’t stick around to watch the sunrise, but we did watch the moon – a beautiful, full copper disk hanging low over the water, it’s reflection shimmering like a snake across the waves. Magnificent. Combine that with the low hanging palm huts under which we ate – it was phenomenal. An impressive evening.
I sent the fax to rid myself of my beautiful apartment in Southie. It’s almost tragic to see such a nice place go, but it’s for the best. I’m reminded of one of the last times I was here with my family and my father faxed the papers to sell our beautiful house on Colonial Drive while the rest of us sun bathed at L’Esquinade. I must have been 13 at the time.
Tomorrow my Uncle Jom & his family arrives. The Americans are coming!
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Movie Night
Tonight’s adventures are a result of a film the world loved and I loathed.
It had been recommended to me that I watch “Lost in Translation.” I’ve seen the film before and hated it, but this friend insists that it will have new meaning now. Perhaps this is true; the last and only time I watched it was when I was young and in love and could never understand the situation of the characters on which the movie was based. Now, however, I am immersed in a strange land where so much culture, language, and life is quite literally “lost in translation.”
From what I remember, the movie is about two lost souls meeting in a foreign land. Sure, there’s more to it than that, but this is the gist of it. Just the other day I was speaking with Tony about fascinating it is that sometimes you just meet someone in this foreign land and you click. You chat, you have fun, you laugh. Then you part ways. Some time down the road you look back and realize that, though you may have not realized it at the time, you needed that person and that person needed you. You both fulfilled something in each other, reminded each other about the little things in life, the passion, the fun. You grow into a better person because something – fate maybe – through your paths together. Interesting.
Regardless, I was determined to rent this movie tonight. After a delicious dinner at Kikourou (a tiny pizza place by the beach, similar in atmosphere to Le Will), I jumped on my scooter and vanished into the darkness, bound for St. Tropez. But nothing’s easy. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to remember this.
The video shop was closed, but they have these neat little vendors here where you insert your card and rent a movie whenever you want. Trouble is, I don’t have a card. And the machines are all in French – slang French at that.
I knew that somehow I could buy a card and then rent the movie all from this impersonal ATM-like machine hidden in a crevice on the side of the building. I just couldn’t figure it out with some hott guy behind me looking over my shoulder, anxiously awaiting his chance to rent his movie with his card. So I let him go first. When I was sure he was done and long gone, I double checked that there was no one else nearby to watch me make an ass out of myself, and I pulled out my French dictionary. I stumbled through the commands, working with my Credit Lyonnais bank card and the membership card the machine spit out at me, laughing at myself and cringing to realize that some of my old coworkers from Papagayo were across the street – probably laughing at the tourist who couldn’t work a stupid movie machine (yes, that’d be me.) Two membership cards and 40€ later, I got my damn movie. I’ll have to sort the rest out later.
I must say, driving back with “Lost in Translation” securely packed in my bag, my scooter full of gas, my tummy full of good food & wine, the only complaint I could ever dream up was that I wished desperately for a leather coat. Scooting at night is not a warm adventure. Shivering in my jeans and tee, I wound my way up the narrow mountain road to Chez Michel and considered stopping at the bar to retrieve an earring that Bruno borrowed (a hoop that he literally just took out of my ear one night, a hoop that my friend Sean gave me years ago for high school graduation, a hoop that has a lot of sentimental value and sees a lot of use) but figured I just couldn’t be bothered with the whole ordeal or stopping there – fixing my helmet hair, kissing everyone hello and goodbye, explaining to them their ridiculous drunken adventures from Monday (seeing as I was the only one… hence why I walked away with a tee shirt), etc. Instead I just drove my and blew the bouncers a kiss – and how psyched was I that I could manage up that bumpy road one handed blowing a kiss from my scooter. That takes talent. Or practice. Or both?
Either way, I had it. And I found my way down the dusty driveway to the side of my big white pup, waiting patiently for me to arrive home.
Now it’s time to watch an old movie with new eyes…
It had been recommended to me that I watch “Lost in Translation.” I’ve seen the film before and hated it, but this friend insists that it will have new meaning now. Perhaps this is true; the last and only time I watched it was when I was young and in love and could never understand the situation of the characters on which the movie was based. Now, however, I am immersed in a strange land where so much culture, language, and life is quite literally “lost in translation.”
From what I remember, the movie is about two lost souls meeting in a foreign land. Sure, there’s more to it than that, but this is the gist of it. Just the other day I was speaking with Tony about fascinating it is that sometimes you just meet someone in this foreign land and you click. You chat, you have fun, you laugh. Then you part ways. Some time down the road you look back and realize that, though you may have not realized it at the time, you needed that person and that person needed you. You both fulfilled something in each other, reminded each other about the little things in life, the passion, the fun. You grow into a better person because something – fate maybe – through your paths together. Interesting.
Regardless, I was determined to rent this movie tonight. After a delicious dinner at Kikourou (a tiny pizza place by the beach, similar in atmosphere to Le Will), I jumped on my scooter and vanished into the darkness, bound for St. Tropez. But nothing’s easy. I don’t know why it’s so hard for me to remember this.
The video shop was closed, but they have these neat little vendors here where you insert your card and rent a movie whenever you want. Trouble is, I don’t have a card. And the machines are all in French – slang French at that.
I knew that somehow I could buy a card and then rent the movie all from this impersonal ATM-like machine hidden in a crevice on the side of the building. I just couldn’t figure it out with some hott guy behind me looking over my shoulder, anxiously awaiting his chance to rent his movie with his card. So I let him go first. When I was sure he was done and long gone, I double checked that there was no one else nearby to watch me make an ass out of myself, and I pulled out my French dictionary. I stumbled through the commands, working with my Credit Lyonnais bank card and the membership card the machine spit out at me, laughing at myself and cringing to realize that some of my old coworkers from Papagayo were across the street – probably laughing at the tourist who couldn’t work a stupid movie machine (yes, that’d be me.) Two membership cards and 40€ later, I got my damn movie. I’ll have to sort the rest out later.
I must say, driving back with “Lost in Translation” securely packed in my bag, my scooter full of gas, my tummy full of good food & wine, the only complaint I could ever dream up was that I wished desperately for a leather coat. Scooting at night is not a warm adventure. Shivering in my jeans and tee, I wound my way up the narrow mountain road to Chez Michel and considered stopping at the bar to retrieve an earring that Bruno borrowed (a hoop that he literally just took out of my ear one night, a hoop that my friend Sean gave me years ago for high school graduation, a hoop that has a lot of sentimental value and sees a lot of use) but figured I just couldn’t be bothered with the whole ordeal or stopping there – fixing my helmet hair, kissing everyone hello and goodbye, explaining to them their ridiculous drunken adventures from Monday (seeing as I was the only one… hence why I walked away with a tee shirt), etc. Instead I just drove my and blew the bouncers a kiss – and how psyched was I that I could manage up that bumpy road one handed blowing a kiss from my scooter. That takes talent. Or practice. Or both?
Either way, I had it. And I found my way down the dusty driveway to the side of my big white pup, waiting patiently for me to arrive home.
Now it’s time to watch an old movie with new eyes…
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Happiness is in the South of France
This is a magical place. But I’ve come to realize, maybe I see more magic here than most – because of my history here, my memories, my family, my adventures. Regardless, as the holiday of Americans begins and my adventures come to a close, I’ve grown a bit depressed. I’m losing my spark. I don’t feel as free or as adventures; I am no longer an explorer mapping out a journey of self-discovery, I am simply a little girl on vacation with family. And as this transformation progresses, I realize that I may never be this happy again. It was a passionate love affair with life. This was my dream. I learned more about myself and my family than I ever could have imagined. I had so much fun. And when I return to the States, or even if I come back here and get a “real job” and enter adulthood, I will never have this again. I will never meet Ludo or Sylvia for the first time again. I will never bum around this house, feasting only on a childhood dream of writing. I will never make these ridiculous mistakes or fumble through French or adopt a dog for the first time or anything. After this I’ll know these things, I’ll understand more of the culture and language, I’ll already have been responsible for myself and my dog. This set of firsts is over and I’m sad to see it go.
I’m too young to grow up.
And I’m too passionate about this place to imagine life like this somewhere else. I received an email from Martine in response to my Africa story and he said,
I thought I was going to cry. But he was right – I am so happy here, so content in this part of the world, so excited about my adventures here that I just emanate joy. I laugh all the time. And I can attribute this wondrous feeling only to being swallowed by this magical place.
Yesterday I climbed onto my scooter to go to L’Esquinade wearing naught but a whimsical pereo and bikini top. I went barefoot; my only safety precaution the turtlehead helmet that perfectly matches my Peugeot scooter. And as I revved up the engine, a big fluffy white dog loyally waiting by my side, Patty (Sarah’s friend & guest) said to me, “wow, you look so French.” I couldn’t imagine a better compliment.
I can’t explain it. It’s so amazing here to me that I want to wrap myself up like it’s a big fluffy blanket I can lose myself in. Here, like hiding under the sheets, I am safe in my ignorance from the rest of the world. But morning will come, the dream will end, and I will have to crawl out of bed and back into the real world, start life again within the terrible constraints of reality. I cannot explain this place. Pictures and words can never do it justice. It’s a feeling; a place where living life is everyone’s first priority.
Like Patty said, “Only here must you drive through the vineyards to get to the beach.”
I’m too young to grow up.
And I’m too passionate about this place to imagine life like this somewhere else. I received an email from Martine in response to my Africa story and he said,
“How are you handling France? Are you still in Camarat? I do wish you are still there, you enjoyed it so well. You’re love for life there made me believe again in the tiny things of life. Thank you for lighting up my world.”
I thought I was going to cry. But he was right – I am so happy here, so content in this part of the world, so excited about my adventures here that I just emanate joy. I laugh all the time. And I can attribute this wondrous feeling only to being swallowed by this magical place.
Yesterday I climbed onto my scooter to go to L’Esquinade wearing naught but a whimsical pereo and bikini top. I went barefoot; my only safety precaution the turtlehead helmet that perfectly matches my Peugeot scooter. And as I revved up the engine, a big fluffy white dog loyally waiting by my side, Patty (Sarah’s friend & guest) said to me, “wow, you look so French.” I couldn’t imagine a better compliment.
I can’t explain it. It’s so amazing here to me that I want to wrap myself up like it’s a big fluffy blanket I can lose myself in. Here, like hiding under the sheets, I am safe in my ignorance from the rest of the world. But morning will come, the dream will end, and I will have to crawl out of bed and back into the real world, start life again within the terrible constraints of reality. I cannot explain this place. Pictures and words can never do it justice. It’s a feeling; a place where living life is everyone’s first priority.
Like Patty said, “Only here must you drive through the vineyards to get to the beach.”
Monday, August 15, 2005
All She Wants to do is DaNcE
Sometimes I just need a night out. It builds within me, like I’m sure it does within everyone else my age. The desire to party, to go dance, to socialize; it grows and grows and grows until the yearning is so great you just have to satisfy it. You have to go out one night and have a damn good time.
For me, that was tonight. It began with a lovely dinner at La Ponche in St. Tropez. The typically-French food was good, but the view was better – the calm harbor littered with yachts, St. Maxime’s city lights flickering endlessly in the night air, a beautifully decorated Tropezian ally with Christmas lights and soft music. It was nice to see my dear friend Tony who, after tomorrow, will be back at sea again for 10 days.
We were having such a nice time catching up that after our three-hour dinner we still weren’t sick of each other and decided the next step ought to be drinks at the port. Bar du Porte? Too many people. Café Paris? Too far away. Papagayo? Too typical. So we settled on Senequiers for martinis.
Sometime after our second drink, I was overcome by a passionate desire to speak French. “Sorry Tony, it’s been a lovely night but I got to move on. You’re welcome to come, if you want.” He had to work. It’s probably for the best; where I was going, no one spoke English.
The P’tit Club was closed, but happening after hours. Denis had all sorts of friends in town, all which gave me a hard time simply by being me – and showing up at 2am with the power to open all the doors and get free drinks, if I so chose. It was wonderful to see everyone again; I hadn’t been down much for the past two weeks. Olivier, the man who once took me to L’Esquinade for lunch, was completely inappropriate and angry that I stopped visiting. What can I say, family comes first. Somehow I talked my way into obtaining a free tee shirt – I think the fact that I worked so many nights for no pay may have helped…
Regardless, I followed Stephen on my scooter to have a night out dancing. The man drives like he’s crazy and I know better than to get in a car with him – however, I didn’t know enough to realize that following him isn’t an option either. As his taillights disappeared into the darkness, I pulled my scooter off the road, into a nice, lit parking lot from which I could call Stephen and get directions. Once I felt comfortable enough that I had translated the French well enough to find the discotheque, I turned my scooter around and prepared to drive off. Wrong. I was suddenly faced with a large, red wall. I had pulled over in a gated community and there was no way out. None. At all. I drove up and down the lot, clearly seeing the cars on the busy Route du Plage through chicken wire fences and I thought I was going to die – I just hadn’t yet decided if it would be of laughter or tears. I had visions of sitting on my scooter facing the gate until someone woke up to go to work Monday morning. There was no guard, there was no break in the fence, there was no way out.
Just when I was about to give up, the gate opened and I received looks of bewilderment from the residents pulling in as I slowly drove my scooter out. Oops? I found my way to Manhattan, a disco in Cogolin, and talked my way into entering for free (helps if you’re a girl with an accent, you know?) so that I could dance, dance, dance. It was fun. It was needed.
Driving home at 5:30 I was thrilled. (My only negative feeling came when I nearly hit a boar crossing the street – they’re solid animals. It’s like hitting a moose or a deer in a car: your car will suffer. Hit one on a scooter and you’ll be lucky if you live.) Relieved, tired, and ecstatic that I had so much fun being young in the south of France, I felt revived. And tomorrow I’ll catch up on sleep laying on a mat, baking in the sun, eating delicious food at L’Esquinade. Really, this is the life.
For me, that was tonight. It began with a lovely dinner at La Ponche in St. Tropez. The typically-French food was good, but the view was better – the calm harbor littered with yachts, St. Maxime’s city lights flickering endlessly in the night air, a beautifully decorated Tropezian ally with Christmas lights and soft music. It was nice to see my dear friend Tony who, after tomorrow, will be back at sea again for 10 days.
We were having such a nice time catching up that after our three-hour dinner we still weren’t sick of each other and decided the next step ought to be drinks at the port. Bar du Porte? Too many people. Café Paris? Too far away. Papagayo? Too typical. So we settled on Senequiers for martinis.
Sometime after our second drink, I was overcome by a passionate desire to speak French. “Sorry Tony, it’s been a lovely night but I got to move on. You’re welcome to come, if you want.” He had to work. It’s probably for the best; where I was going, no one spoke English.
The P’tit Club was closed, but happening after hours. Denis had all sorts of friends in town, all which gave me a hard time simply by being me – and showing up at 2am with the power to open all the doors and get free drinks, if I so chose. It was wonderful to see everyone again; I hadn’t been down much for the past two weeks. Olivier, the man who once took me to L’Esquinade for lunch, was completely inappropriate and angry that I stopped visiting. What can I say, family comes first. Somehow I talked my way into obtaining a free tee shirt – I think the fact that I worked so many nights for no pay may have helped…
Regardless, I followed Stephen on my scooter to have a night out dancing. The man drives like he’s crazy and I know better than to get in a car with him – however, I didn’t know enough to realize that following him isn’t an option either. As his taillights disappeared into the darkness, I pulled my scooter off the road, into a nice, lit parking lot from which I could call Stephen and get directions. Once I felt comfortable enough that I had translated the French well enough to find the discotheque, I turned my scooter around and prepared to drive off. Wrong. I was suddenly faced with a large, red wall. I had pulled over in a gated community and there was no way out. None. At all. I drove up and down the lot, clearly seeing the cars on the busy Route du Plage through chicken wire fences and I thought I was going to die – I just hadn’t yet decided if it would be of laughter or tears. I had visions of sitting on my scooter facing the gate until someone woke up to go to work Monday morning. There was no guard, there was no break in the fence, there was no way out.
Just when I was about to give up, the gate opened and I received looks of bewilderment from the residents pulling in as I slowly drove my scooter out. Oops? I found my way to Manhattan, a disco in Cogolin, and talked my way into entering for free (helps if you’re a girl with an accent, you know?) so that I could dance, dance, dance. It was fun. It was needed.
Driving home at 5:30 I was thrilled. (My only negative feeling came when I nearly hit a boar crossing the street – they’re solid animals. It’s like hitting a moose or a deer in a car: your car will suffer. Hit one on a scooter and you’ll be lucky if you live.) Relieved, tired, and ecstatic that I had so much fun being young in the south of France, I felt revived. And tomorrow I’ll catch up on sleep laying on a mat, baking in the sun, eating delicious food at L’Esquinade. Really, this is the life.
Saturday, August 13, 2005
The Ebb & Flow of Chez Michel
Ludo left. I thought I was going to cry. I had such a nice time with him and his family I’m heartbroken to see them go. I really will miss them. Patricia adopted me; fed me and talked me through all my dilemmas. Ludovic is a fascinating man, good natured and intriguing, with a rich history and a hopeful outlook on life. Sidone and Olivier were wonderful to meet. The house was full of warmth and kindness when they were here. I was so happy; I really will miss them when they’re gone.
But they are gone. Tequila and I sat on the veranda and waved them off, the only constants this house has known all summer long.
Just before they left, Sarah arrived. I had been sitting in the sunroom and through the open window I could hear the faint crackling of our dirt driveway giving way under the weight of a car. My heart stopped. It’s family – family I know. I dropped everything and sprinted out of the house, waiting impatiently at the foot of the driveway for a car to emerge from behind the brush. When it did, I found myself jumping with joy. Literally – jumping. Waving. Smiling. Laughing. Family’s here!
I feel like I can sigh a big sigh of relief. I’m alive, I’ve made it. I spent three months in a place that I did not know, with a language I did not speak, watching strangers come and then leave as friends. I am safely through the unknown and back into familiar territory. As a child I spent countless summers here with my Aunt Sarah, my Uncle Jom & Aunt Carol, their children – my cousins, my grandparents. Even the guests of Jom are familiar – the last time I saw them I was 11 and we were all on vacation here.
At the same time, their arrival means it’s almost over. The hard part is done. I’m safe again. The adventure’s over, vacation’s begun. I’m not complaining, just noticing the shift. It’s amazing how easy it is to settle down, to get your heart beating normally again. Family will do that. They comfort without even being aware of it.
I have to re-learn a lot of things, though. Like how to speak English. Not French-English, or delayed English, or ridiculously clear English so that everyone can understand me. It’s time to remember things like “wicked” and drop the R’s and speak quickly and keep up with conversation. I must remember to not hesitate about explaining difficult concepts or think too much about choosing well-known words. I can speak slang, I can talk baseball, I can say “the Cape” without worrying whether or now whomever I’m speaking with will understand. These are Americans. Countrymen. Family.
The best part of Sarah’s arrival is it signifies the next chapter: now I get to learn about the Americans, the family I know already but have so much more to discover. Now it’s time to hear their memories of the house, their perceptions of their cousins, their feelings on the French heritage.
All of life’s an adventure – take it with courage and explore even the deepest wilderness. But remember to bring a snack…
YEA!
= )
But they are gone. Tequila and I sat on the veranda and waved them off, the only constants this house has known all summer long.
Just before they left, Sarah arrived. I had been sitting in the sunroom and through the open window I could hear the faint crackling of our dirt driveway giving way under the weight of a car. My heart stopped. It’s family – family I know. I dropped everything and sprinted out of the house, waiting impatiently at the foot of the driveway for a car to emerge from behind the brush. When it did, I found myself jumping with joy. Literally – jumping. Waving. Smiling. Laughing. Family’s here!
I feel like I can sigh a big sigh of relief. I’m alive, I’ve made it. I spent three months in a place that I did not know, with a language I did not speak, watching strangers come and then leave as friends. I am safely through the unknown and back into familiar territory. As a child I spent countless summers here with my Aunt Sarah, my Uncle Jom & Aunt Carol, their children – my cousins, my grandparents. Even the guests of Jom are familiar – the last time I saw them I was 11 and we were all on vacation here.
At the same time, their arrival means it’s almost over. The hard part is done. I’m safe again. The adventure’s over, vacation’s begun. I’m not complaining, just noticing the shift. It’s amazing how easy it is to settle down, to get your heart beating normally again. Family will do that. They comfort without even being aware of it.
I have to re-learn a lot of things, though. Like how to speak English. Not French-English, or delayed English, or ridiculously clear English so that everyone can understand me. It’s time to remember things like “wicked” and drop the R’s and speak quickly and keep up with conversation. I must remember to not hesitate about explaining difficult concepts or think too much about choosing well-known words. I can speak slang, I can talk baseball, I can say “the Cape” without worrying whether or now whomever I’m speaking with will understand. These are Americans. Countrymen. Family.
The best part of Sarah’s arrival is it signifies the next chapter: now I get to learn about the Americans, the family I know already but have so much more to discover. Now it’s time to hear their memories of the house, their perceptions of their cousins, their feelings on the French heritage.
All of life’s an adventure – take it with courage and explore even the deepest wilderness. But remember to bring a snack…
YEA!
= )
Friday, August 12, 2005
The Power of MuSiC!
I remembered I owned an iPod today. Back in the States when I burned CDs or illegally took music off the Internet, I had composed quite a little pack of incredibly good music.
It’s only when I listen to really American music – from Led Zeppelin and Don Henley to Kelis and Jean Paul – that I really miss home. I want nothing more than to go dancing at chic Boston clubs, play pong in grimy frat basements, tailgate at football games, drink beers or scotch and party like there’s no tomorrow. In September, if money wasn’t an issue (not to mention the little fact that my presence in France isn’t exactly what one calls legal and if I leave after September 2nd, who knows when I can come back), I’d go home for a week. I’d take a vacation from here, just to say hi. Just to dance. Just to be crazy and American and young.
I’d start in Boston, with a haircut (from my old hairdresser on Newbury Street who justifies charging hundreds of dollars by calling himself an artist… I saw him back in the day when I worked hard and had money, before I chose to go the route of the starving artist) and Reggie night and my dear friend Shannon. I’d go to Providence to watch soccer and enjoy the presence of old friends and Ivy League boys. I’d make my way to Amherst to see my best friend from forever and get wasted in her new apartment. Then I’d head down to Philly to watch a friend play football and play ruit myself at the frat all night long. I’d go back to my own stomping grounds, back to Dartmouth, and dominate in REAL pong (none of this sissy beruit crap). Of course I’d see my family and hang out with my brother and be with them, but God would I dance. Music does that to me. Makes me want to pppppaaaarrrrttttaaayyyy… hard. I think I’d find any excuse to travel anywhere – Seattle, San Francisco, LA, Chicago… wherever I have someone willing to put me up for a night. UGH. Doesn’t that sound nice.
But it’s not going to happen. And as I lie on this hammock with my laptop – iPod or not – and I look around, it’s going to be hell to leave this place. I love it here. I’d like to stay here for as long as possible, even if it means I have to put off my crazy adventures across the States for another day. Or never, I guess.
We’ll see. I do have to go back sometime…
Recipe for Desiring a Great Night Out:
Three months in France
-PLUS-
Bon Jovi – You Give Love A Bad Name, Livin’ On A Prayer
Rolling Stones – Shattered, Mamma’s Little Helper, Let’s Spend The Night Together, Anybody Seen My Baby?, Start Me Up, Miss you, Beast of Burden
Led Zeppelin – Fool in the Rain, Ramble On, Stairway to Heaven, Going to California, Over the Hills and Far Away, Whole Lotta Love
Fleetwood Mac – Black Magic Woman (yes, I think it’s better than Santana’s), Brass Pocket
Journey – Don’t Stop Believing
Pink Floyd – Money
Sweet - Ballroom Blitz
Steppenwolf – Magic Carpet Ride
The Animals – The Girl Cant Help It
Grateful Dead – Casey Jones
Kenny Rogers – Just Dropped In
Scorpion – Rock You Like A Hurricane
Joan Jett – I Love Rock’n’Roll
Don Henley – All She ants to Do Is Dance
Simon & Garfunkle – Me and Julio, Cecelia
Eagles – Hotel California, Life in the Fastlane
Nick Gilder – Here Comes The Night
Lynyrd Skynyrd – Sweet Home Alabama
Eric Clapton – Layla (unplugged)
Bad Company – Feel Like Making Love
Bon Jovi – Two Story Town
Tom Petty – You’re So Bad, You Don’t Know How it Feels, Last Dance With Mary Jane, Runnin’ Down a Dream
Billy Joel – Big Shot, Uptown Girl, Always A Woman to Me
John Mellencamp – Hurts So Good
Guns & Roses – Sweet Child of Mine
Heart – Magic Man
Aerosmith – Dream On, Same Old Song & Dance, Just Push Play, Mamma Kin
Queen – I want to Break Free, Killer Queen
Van Morrison – Jackie Wilson Said,
Bruce – Glory Days,
Jeff Buckley – Hallelujah
-OR-
Kelis – Milk Shake
Sean Paul – Shake That Thing
Norega – Nothing
50 Cent – Disco Inferno, Candy Shop
112 – Peaches n Cream
Lady Saw- If I Was A Rich Girl
Etc etc…
It’s only when I listen to really American music – from Led Zeppelin and Don Henley to Kelis and Jean Paul – that I really miss home. I want nothing more than to go dancing at chic Boston clubs, play pong in grimy frat basements, tailgate at football games, drink beers or scotch and party like there’s no tomorrow. In September, if money wasn’t an issue (not to mention the little fact that my presence in France isn’t exactly what one calls legal and if I leave after September 2nd, who knows when I can come back), I’d go home for a week. I’d take a vacation from here, just to say hi. Just to dance. Just to be crazy and American and young.
I’d start in Boston, with a haircut (from my old hairdresser on Newbury Street who justifies charging hundreds of dollars by calling himself an artist… I saw him back in the day when I worked hard and had money, before I chose to go the route of the starving artist) and Reggie night and my dear friend Shannon. I’d go to Providence to watch soccer and enjoy the presence of old friends and Ivy League boys. I’d make my way to Amherst to see my best friend from forever and get wasted in her new apartment. Then I’d head down to Philly to watch a friend play football and play ruit myself at the frat all night long. I’d go back to my own stomping grounds, back to Dartmouth, and dominate in REAL pong (none of this sissy beruit crap). Of course I’d see my family and hang out with my brother and be with them, but God would I dance. Music does that to me. Makes me want to pppppaaaarrrrttttaaayyyy… hard. I think I’d find any excuse to travel anywhere – Seattle, San Francisco, LA, Chicago… wherever I have someone willing to put me up for a night. UGH. Doesn’t that sound nice.
But it’s not going to happen. And as I lie on this hammock with my laptop – iPod or not – and I look around, it’s going to be hell to leave this place. I love it here. I’d like to stay here for as long as possible, even if it means I have to put off my crazy adventures across the States for another day. Or never, I guess.
We’ll see. I do have to go back sometime…
Recipe for Desiring a Great Night Out:
Three months in France
-PLUS-
Bon Jovi – You Give Love A Bad Name, Livin’ On A Prayer
Rolling Stones – Shattered, Mamma’s Little Helper, Let’s Spend The Night Together, Anybody Seen My Baby?, Start Me Up, Miss you, Beast of Burden
Led Zeppelin – Fool in the Rain, Ramble On, Stairway to Heaven, Going to California, Over the Hills and Far Away, Whole Lotta Love
Fleetwood Mac – Black Magic Woman (yes, I think it’s better than Santana’s), Brass Pocket
Journey – Don’t Stop Believing
Pink Floyd – Money
Sweet - Ballroom Blitz
Steppenwolf – Magic Carpet Ride
The Animals – The Girl Cant Help It
Grateful Dead – Casey Jones
Kenny Rogers – Just Dropped In
Scorpion – Rock You Like A Hurricane
Joan Jett – I Love Rock’n’Roll
Don Henley – All She ants to Do Is Dance
Simon & Garfunkle – Me and Julio, Cecelia
Eagles – Hotel California, Life in the Fastlane
Nick Gilder – Here Comes The Night
Lynyrd Skynyrd – Sweet Home Alabama
Eric Clapton – Layla (unplugged)
Bad Company – Feel Like Making Love
Bon Jovi – Two Story Town
Tom Petty – You’re So Bad, You Don’t Know How it Feels, Last Dance With Mary Jane, Runnin’ Down a Dream
Billy Joel – Big Shot, Uptown Girl, Always A Woman to Me
John Mellencamp – Hurts So Good
Guns & Roses – Sweet Child of Mine
Heart – Magic Man
Aerosmith – Dream On, Same Old Song & Dance, Just Push Play, Mamma Kin
Queen – I want to Break Free, Killer Queen
Van Morrison – Jackie Wilson Said,
Bruce – Glory Days,
Jeff Buckley – Hallelujah
-OR-
Kelis – Milk Shake
Sean Paul – Shake That Thing
Norega – Nothing
50 Cent – Disco Inferno, Candy Shop
112 – Peaches n Cream
Lady Saw- If I Was A Rich Girl
Etc etc…
Just call me Eeyore & Listen to me whine
When you move away for the first time, it’s the little things that get you. Whenever you have a day full of terribly frustrating events and you just can’t call mommy or come crying home, you really just break down. That’s the hardest. When you realize you are truly alone, you have to fix all this shit – no matter how tiny and insignificant that shit may be – by yourself.
Today was one of those days, but now that I’ve survived it, I’m feeling a bit proud of myself. Even when the shit hit the fan in the airport back in June, or I was feeling miserable and lonely on a rainy day in July, I fixed the problems on my own but still broke down and called my parents for comfort. I just wanted to hear their voice, have them tell me it was going to be ok. Pathetic, I know. But it’s usually intimidating to just go, to leave everything behind, to exist in a place where you know no one. Not today.
I woke up to one of the most beautiful mornings I’ve seen here. It was hot, the ocean was flat, the air was light and clear. All I wanted to do was go swimming. Instead, Ludo knocked on my door with: “Uh, your scooter fell over.” Assessing the damage, I was disappointed to discover the fall broke the kickstand right off, bending both the top of it and piece on the scooter itself to the point where I required professional help. Professional help requires money. Money requires a real job. You can see where this left me.
But Ludo helped me at least use the alternate kickstand – the one that requires you to be a big strong man to operate. I am none of the above.
The second bad news came with the realization that I still have not heard from Tequila’s former master, the man who abandoned her to me, the man who opted not to give me her papers. Apparently in France getting a dog is like buying a car – all her paperwork must be signed over. As the vet yesterday so kindly informed me, Tequila is not technically my dog and unless I get these papers she can be “repossessed” at any moment. She’s my saving grace; I think I’d cry for weeks without her here. I have emailed and called desperately, impatiently awaiting a reply, and still nothing.
With this haunting me, I went to the Total Station and asked if someone could help me just unbend the top of the stand; the rest I was fairly confident I could do one my own – or at least attempt. It was so quick and easy the man didn’t even charge me. Then I felt the need to do something nice for dear Patricia, who’s like every mom – she does way too much. She’s adopted me for the past two weeks without a word of a complaint and I wanted to thank her. She’s also been talking about this raspberry tart since her arrival, and I decided I’d buy that for her – I was already halfway to St. Tropez. So off I went, on my pathetically dirty and broken scooter.
Only the “Tarte Tropezian Patisserie” sells this particular tart and I searched the city for its tiny shop. The water looked so beautiful I was tempted to jump in right at the port with all the oil and boats and mutilated fish. But I didn’t. Instead I arrived at the “Tarte Tropezian” only to discover that they were all out of tarte aux framboises. Obviously disappointed, they sent me around the corner to their sister shop where, sure enough, there was one single raspberry tart in the window. I ordered it and a Tarte Tropezian, gave the nice lady some cash, and she handed me a little brown paper bag.
Let me tell you, it’s not easy trying to transport something as fragile as pastries up a broken road on a scooter. I struggled with it, but managed my way back to the house only to discover – when assessing the damage of the goods – that they had given me some Tarte Tropezian and a chocolate cake. Figures. I guess the crique can wait.
Back down the mountain I went. Back to St. Tropez, back towards the patisserie praying that the one raspberry tart was still awaiting me in the window. Nothing’s easy. Balancing the chocolate cake in my lap, I almost died when the one remaining mirror on my scooter flew off and crashed on the pavement behind me. Shit. I need that. I desperately searched for a place to pull the scooter over, found one, placed the cake carefully on the ground with one hand while balancing the scooter with the other, struggled to make the bike stand up on its own, and finally ran back to the scene of the accident. Sure enough I was too late – somebody had already run over my mirror, flattening its pitiful arm and shattering the glass.
That’s when it hit me. That’s when I felt like shit. I know none of the above are significant dilemmas at all, but when you have no one just to give you a hug, the little things are what hurt the most. I could feel the lump in my throat grow, the tears reach my eyes.
Come on now. I’m not that pathetic. Shit happens. I’ve survived the summer here just fine and I’m not going to let one bad day ruin anything. So I swallowed my frustration and began to literally pick up the pieces. I put the broken mirror in my scooter, scooped up the cake, made my way to the patisserie. In the best French I’ve spoken all week, I explained myself and demanded the right dessert and, without a problem, they gave it to me. Once safely home, I grabbed some wrenches from a cobweb filled corner of the house and put my scooter on its side with two broken mirrors and a kickstand lying on the ground next to me. I sat on the rough gravel of the driveway and got my hands dirty. Black grease covered my arms, smeared across my face, stained my clothes. I was fixing it, slowly, but all by myself. I was so proud of myself. I just needed a hammer, and maybe someone a little stronger than me to finish the job. So Ludo came and helped me, and before I knew it I had a sissy-stand again for the girly-girl I am. Kind of.
The mirrors are another story. But the bottom line is I survived. And so did the scooter.
Yea!
Today was one of those days, but now that I’ve survived it, I’m feeling a bit proud of myself. Even when the shit hit the fan in the airport back in June, or I was feeling miserable and lonely on a rainy day in July, I fixed the problems on my own but still broke down and called my parents for comfort. I just wanted to hear their voice, have them tell me it was going to be ok. Pathetic, I know. But it’s usually intimidating to just go, to leave everything behind, to exist in a place where you know no one. Not today.
I woke up to one of the most beautiful mornings I’ve seen here. It was hot, the ocean was flat, the air was light and clear. All I wanted to do was go swimming. Instead, Ludo knocked on my door with: “Uh, your scooter fell over.” Assessing the damage, I was disappointed to discover the fall broke the kickstand right off, bending both the top of it and piece on the scooter itself to the point where I required professional help. Professional help requires money. Money requires a real job. You can see where this left me.
But Ludo helped me at least use the alternate kickstand – the one that requires you to be a big strong man to operate. I am none of the above.
The second bad news came with the realization that I still have not heard from Tequila’s former master, the man who abandoned her to me, the man who opted not to give me her papers. Apparently in France getting a dog is like buying a car – all her paperwork must be signed over. As the vet yesterday so kindly informed me, Tequila is not technically my dog and unless I get these papers she can be “repossessed” at any moment. She’s my saving grace; I think I’d cry for weeks without her here. I have emailed and called desperately, impatiently awaiting a reply, and still nothing.
With this haunting me, I went to the Total Station and asked if someone could help me just unbend the top of the stand; the rest I was fairly confident I could do one my own – or at least attempt. It was so quick and easy the man didn’t even charge me. Then I felt the need to do something nice for dear Patricia, who’s like every mom – she does way too much. She’s adopted me for the past two weeks without a word of a complaint and I wanted to thank her. She’s also been talking about this raspberry tart since her arrival, and I decided I’d buy that for her – I was already halfway to St. Tropez. So off I went, on my pathetically dirty and broken scooter.
Only the “Tarte Tropezian Patisserie” sells this particular tart and I searched the city for its tiny shop. The water looked so beautiful I was tempted to jump in right at the port with all the oil and boats and mutilated fish. But I didn’t. Instead I arrived at the “Tarte Tropezian” only to discover that they were all out of tarte aux framboises. Obviously disappointed, they sent me around the corner to their sister shop where, sure enough, there was one single raspberry tart in the window. I ordered it and a Tarte Tropezian, gave the nice lady some cash, and she handed me a little brown paper bag.
Let me tell you, it’s not easy trying to transport something as fragile as pastries up a broken road on a scooter. I struggled with it, but managed my way back to the house only to discover – when assessing the damage of the goods – that they had given me some Tarte Tropezian and a chocolate cake. Figures. I guess the crique can wait.
Back down the mountain I went. Back to St. Tropez, back towards the patisserie praying that the one raspberry tart was still awaiting me in the window. Nothing’s easy. Balancing the chocolate cake in my lap, I almost died when the one remaining mirror on my scooter flew off and crashed on the pavement behind me. Shit. I need that. I desperately searched for a place to pull the scooter over, found one, placed the cake carefully on the ground with one hand while balancing the scooter with the other, struggled to make the bike stand up on its own, and finally ran back to the scene of the accident. Sure enough I was too late – somebody had already run over my mirror, flattening its pitiful arm and shattering the glass.
That’s when it hit me. That’s when I felt like shit. I know none of the above are significant dilemmas at all, but when you have no one just to give you a hug, the little things are what hurt the most. I could feel the lump in my throat grow, the tears reach my eyes.
Come on now. I’m not that pathetic. Shit happens. I’ve survived the summer here just fine and I’m not going to let one bad day ruin anything. So I swallowed my frustration and began to literally pick up the pieces. I put the broken mirror in my scooter, scooped up the cake, made my way to the patisserie. In the best French I’ve spoken all week, I explained myself and demanded the right dessert and, without a problem, they gave it to me. Once safely home, I grabbed some wrenches from a cobweb filled corner of the house and put my scooter on its side with two broken mirrors and a kickstand lying on the ground next to me. I sat on the rough gravel of the driveway and got my hands dirty. Black grease covered my arms, smeared across my face, stained my clothes. I was fixing it, slowly, but all by myself. I was so proud of myself. I just needed a hammer, and maybe someone a little stronger than me to finish the job. So Ludo came and helped me, and before I knew it I had a sissy-stand again for the girly-girl I am. Kind of.
The mirrors are another story. But the bottom line is I survived. And so did the scooter.
Yea!
Luna Park
As an adult (or at least on the way to being one), I can’t figure it out. I can recall, however, that as a child, my parents couldn’t understand it either. But for some strange reason, every kid who comes to Camarat refuses to leave without spending a night at the rundown, overwhelmingly loud, crowded amusement park full of ancient rides too dangerous to pass U.S. safety standards. And yet, as I arrived with Ludo and the kids, I couldn’t help but to smile. Luna Park is like a treasure chest of childhood memories.
For the kids, the first ride of the evening was Ludo putting the SUV in four-wheel drive and speeding across the rugged parking lot. It doesn’t take much to please children already on their way to an amusement park, however shitty that park may be.
We walked around the trashy grounds, the children filled with inexplicable joy. They sampled this ride and that and as we watched, Ludo and I recalled our days as children riding the same ride (and with Ludo being nearly 50, you can imagine how old that makes the park). I couldn’t resist laughing out loud. I remember romping through this funhouse as a child and running full force into a mirror while my brother rolled around next to me, hysterical with laughter. I left with a bloody limp and a large bump on my forehead.
Suddenly I was overwhelmed with a feeling that surprised me. As I stared nostalgically at the haunted house Alex and I once adored, I felt disgustingly old. I know my youth is not over, but I will never be a kid again; I am nearer to becoming my parents than being a silly little girl running around an amusement park. For there was Ludo and I, holding bags, carrying jackets, guarding tickets, walking far enough behind to give them space but close enough to keep a protective eye – and to remain in reach of all their childish demands, just as my father had done. “Can I have money for a pomme d’amour (caramel apples)?!” “I want a prize! Will you help me play the game?” “While the boys ride this one can we go here?!”
It amazes me; I have become a babysitter – something I had previously done only once in my entire life – for Sidone and her friend Elizabeth, the daughter of Patricia’s friends. It’s been surprisingly nice. I’m too young for them to consider boring but too old for them not to respect. I’m too young so that I understand their desire for freedom and avoid being overprotective, but I’m too old to let them do stupid things. I’m close enough to 14 that I remember, but far enough that I have more wisdom.
And, like our parents before us, the adult companions tagged along grudgedly, watching our watches closely, anxiously awaiting the opportunity to announce the last ride. Ludo was miserable. But at least he had company!
When the time finally came to enjoy the final attraction of the evening, Ludo turned to me and said in his thick, French accent, "We make the river!" I smiled. If he had said that to me three months ago when I first arrived in France, I would have had no idea what he was trying to say. But now, after being exposed to the French language and learning how conversation here works, I simply gathered up the girls and headed to the log ride. "On fait la rivière!"
Now the night is drawing to a perfect conclusion. Ludo and I sat at the view watching one of the most amazing sights I have ever seen: safely perched upon our mountain without thunder or rain, five, six, seven – too many to count – lightening storms raged across the world below. Everywhere we looked another gnarled spider-web of electricity climbed towards the charcoal clouds; there was so much lightening on all sides of us that we had no need for our own light. We could see as clear as dusk. Smoking the last cigarette of the day, we watched the weather below. But as the lightening grew closer, as the thunder grew audible, as the rain crept up the side of the mountain, we realized we couldn’t sit out forever as much as we would have liked to. There were things to do – the laundry was still on the line, the doors were open, laptops and other electronics are plugged in dangerously close to windows (and one guest of Chez Michel has already watched his precious computer transform into a ball of fire during an electrically storm).
Shit. Huge crack of lightening simultaneous with the loudest pop of thunder I’ve ever heard. Tequila’s freaking out. We’re in for one hell of a night…
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Africa
It was a beautiful night in early July, the first night I had the dog. Sarah, Martine, Paul, Naomi, Mykel, Tequila and I spent a wonderful evening at the bar playing Tarot before returning to the house, where we sat outside drinking more wine and scotch. Slowly, one by one, everyone drifted off to bed. It was only Martine and I left, chatting, speaking of philosophy, enjoying the cool Côte d’Azur breeze. I think it was the first time he had seen the sunrise. The light began to grow stronger, the colors more beautiful.
I smiled slyly. “Will you do me a favor?”
He looked at me with reservation, but interest.
“Come to the crique with me? I’ve always wanted to be there for sunrise.”
He agreed. And off we went, Tequila, Martine, and me.
God, it was beautiful. The pinks and purples, the blues, the fresh air and glimmering ocean. I had to swim (in my clothes, of course… I hadn’t put enough though into this adventure to bring a bathing suit). Martine watched and laughed. It was so wonderful – the feeling of the water at sunrise, untouched by anyone else. The air was light and clear. Martine’s laughter provided the perfect soundtrack; swimming with my pure white pup provided me with a feeling of family. I was so happy.
I pulled myself from the water and bundled up in Martine’s fleece to protect my wet body from the cool morning breeze. We watch the sun climb higher in the sky in silence, awed by the beauty.
“Look,” I broke the silence, pointing a dripping wet finger in the direction of the deep ocean. “It’s Africa.”
Martine laughed. He thought I was crazy. “It’s a cloud, Catherine. A cloud. Close to the water, that’s all.”
But I insisted. I saw land. It was faint and far away, but it was certainly land. I could see the outline in the distance clearly, until the sun rose and swallowed it whole.
He teased me about it the whole way home, thinking I was either ridiculously silly or stupid. “Fine, maybe it’s not Africa,” I’ll admit, Africa is a bit far fetched. It’s a beautiful dream, though. “But it was land.”
Martine disagreed even then. He continued to tease me for days until I finally sat at the view with a book of maps, carefully comparing the drawings in my lap to the beautiful landscape before my eyes. I considered carefully the details on the paper, picking out which cluster of houses at the view (or which pool of flickering lights at night) were labeled which cities in the book. Using this as a reference, I concluded that we saw Monaco from the crique that morning. Or at least I did.
Martine still did not believe me. I could tell he thought I was crazy, stubborn, ignorant – American. But I know I saw something. I laughed about it, made it a joke too, for I knew he would never listen to me no matter how much I insisted.
I hadn’t thought much about it until the day Sylvia left.
The mistral had been blowing for several days, eliminating all the debris and haze typically hanging in the air, allowing you to see for what seemed like ever. Sylvia told me that the locals believed that in this weather you could see Corsica. “Really?”
So after her car pulled out of the driveway, while I waited impatiently for Ludo and his group, I decide I’d put this rumor to the test. Tequila and I walked to the lighthouse, where there’s bound to be both a local and a good view.
While Tequila waited patiently for me outside of the front door, I climbed the twisted staircase to the top, gazing as far as I could into the distance everywhere I could see water. If Corsica was visible, I was going to spot it. Unfortunately, the only thing of interest I could see was Talitha Pol, Tony’s boat, and I called him to tell him I was waving from afar. With some binoculars, he told me he appreciated the wave and that, though I couldn’t see it, he was waving back.
But I was disappointed. It’s always fun to see a friend and the landscape is always beautiful, but I was there to see something bigger, something new, something I had never seen before. I found the keeper of the lighthouse and, in French, said simply: “Someone told me one can see Corsica because of the Mistral. But I didn’t see it.”
He laughed. “No, no. Only in the winter,” he spoke perfect English. “In the winter you can see it often. But in the summer, no. In the summer you can only see it at sunrise. There.” And he stretched out one long, bony finger into the distance, pointing directly to the area where I once claimed to see Africa.
I couldn’t resist the small, proud smile of satisfaction creeping across my lips.
I immediately asked Sarah for Martine’s email. I am stubborn. I know when I’m right. Yea, so, I am American. He emailed me today with his address and I responded with the story I just described here. I am fresh.
But, I suppose, it’s better than being stale…
I smiled slyly. “Will you do me a favor?”
He looked at me with reservation, but interest.
“Come to the crique with me? I’ve always wanted to be there for sunrise.”
He agreed. And off we went, Tequila, Martine, and me.
God, it was beautiful. The pinks and purples, the blues, the fresh air and glimmering ocean. I had to swim (in my clothes, of course… I hadn’t put enough though into this adventure to bring a bathing suit). Martine watched and laughed. It was so wonderful – the feeling of the water at sunrise, untouched by anyone else. The air was light and clear. Martine’s laughter provided the perfect soundtrack; swimming with my pure white pup provided me with a feeling of family. I was so happy.
I pulled myself from the water and bundled up in Martine’s fleece to protect my wet body from the cool morning breeze. We watch the sun climb higher in the sky in silence, awed by the beauty.
“Look,” I broke the silence, pointing a dripping wet finger in the direction of the deep ocean. “It’s Africa.”
Martine laughed. He thought I was crazy. “It’s a cloud, Catherine. A cloud. Close to the water, that’s all.”
But I insisted. I saw land. It was faint and far away, but it was certainly land. I could see the outline in the distance clearly, until the sun rose and swallowed it whole.
He teased me about it the whole way home, thinking I was either ridiculously silly or stupid. “Fine, maybe it’s not Africa,” I’ll admit, Africa is a bit far fetched. It’s a beautiful dream, though. “But it was land.”
Martine disagreed even then. He continued to tease me for days until I finally sat at the view with a book of maps, carefully comparing the drawings in my lap to the beautiful landscape before my eyes. I considered carefully the details on the paper, picking out which cluster of houses at the view (or which pool of flickering lights at night) were labeled which cities in the book. Using this as a reference, I concluded that we saw Monaco from the crique that morning. Or at least I did.
Martine still did not believe me. I could tell he thought I was crazy, stubborn, ignorant – American. But I know I saw something. I laughed about it, made it a joke too, for I knew he would never listen to me no matter how much I insisted.
I hadn’t thought much about it until the day Sylvia left.
The mistral had been blowing for several days, eliminating all the debris and haze typically hanging in the air, allowing you to see for what seemed like ever. Sylvia told me that the locals believed that in this weather you could see Corsica. “Really?”
So after her car pulled out of the driveway, while I waited impatiently for Ludo and his group, I decide I’d put this rumor to the test. Tequila and I walked to the lighthouse, where there’s bound to be both a local and a good view.
While Tequila waited patiently for me outside of the front door, I climbed the twisted staircase to the top, gazing as far as I could into the distance everywhere I could see water. If Corsica was visible, I was going to spot it. Unfortunately, the only thing of interest I could see was Talitha Pol, Tony’s boat, and I called him to tell him I was waving from afar. With some binoculars, he told me he appreciated the wave and that, though I couldn’t see it, he was waving back.
But I was disappointed. It’s always fun to see a friend and the landscape is always beautiful, but I was there to see something bigger, something new, something I had never seen before. I found the keeper of the lighthouse and, in French, said simply: “Someone told me one can see Corsica because of the Mistral. But I didn’t see it.”
He laughed. “No, no. Only in the winter,” he spoke perfect English. “In the winter you can see it often. But in the summer, no. In the summer you can only see it at sunrise. There.” And he stretched out one long, bony finger into the distance, pointing directly to the area where I once claimed to see Africa.
I couldn’t resist the small, proud smile of satisfaction creeping across my lips.
I immediately asked Sarah for Martine’s email. I am stubborn. I know when I’m right. Yea, so, I am American. He emailed me today with his address and I responded with the story I just described here. I am fresh.
But, I suppose, it’s better than being stale…
Another Epiphany not worth reading
I want to the bar last night with the girls. They weren’t thrilled, mostly because there weren’t a lot of kids there their age. I took them home and returned to try and have some fun myself.
Wrong.
I don’t know why, but Le P’tit Club is quickly losing its charm. It’s still wonderful to see Stephen and Bruno (the two bouncers and two of my dearest friends), and it’s always interesting to see Jerome (the bartender/owner who has a permanent scowl) and Dennis (who really just doesn’t do a damn thing for me anymore), but it’s just not as much fun. I don’t leave with cheeks sore from smiling so much. I don’t go flirting about, strutting my stuff, seeing how much French I can speak in one night. I think this coming and going of friends is starting to get to me.
It’s like a tide, the constant ebb and flow of arrivals and departures, greetings of strangers and goodbyes of friends. My dog is my only consistent friend. I have friends all over the world now, but no one is here. And the P’tit Club seems to remind me of that.
I spent a wonderful week with four Dutch students on holiday. I know I have mentioned them in the past, but as we continue to exchange email, as I continue to glance at the campground searching for their long-gone tent, as I continue to check for their presence at the bar, I realize how much I enjoyed their company. The four of them were wonderful people, lots of fun and genuinely interested in spending time with me. And I was overjoyed to spend time with them. If I ever had the desire to go to Holland, I’d search endlessly for them.
I hear from my friends at home and melt. I do miss them. I do miss home, in a way. Maybe that’s it, maybe these past few days – rain and all – I’ve been a little homesick. There’s only one way to fix that:
I just turned to Tequila and said, “Let’s go have us an adventure.”
Wrong.
I don’t know why, but Le P’tit Club is quickly losing its charm. It’s still wonderful to see Stephen and Bruno (the two bouncers and two of my dearest friends), and it’s always interesting to see Jerome (the bartender/owner who has a permanent scowl) and Dennis (who really just doesn’t do a damn thing for me anymore), but it’s just not as much fun. I don’t leave with cheeks sore from smiling so much. I don’t go flirting about, strutting my stuff, seeing how much French I can speak in one night. I think this coming and going of friends is starting to get to me.
It’s like a tide, the constant ebb and flow of arrivals and departures, greetings of strangers and goodbyes of friends. My dog is my only consistent friend. I have friends all over the world now, but no one is here. And the P’tit Club seems to remind me of that.
I spent a wonderful week with four Dutch students on holiday. I know I have mentioned them in the past, but as we continue to exchange email, as I continue to glance at the campground searching for their long-gone tent, as I continue to check for their presence at the bar, I realize how much I enjoyed their company. The four of them were wonderful people, lots of fun and genuinely interested in spending time with me. And I was overjoyed to spend time with them. If I ever had the desire to go to Holland, I’d search endlessly for them.
I hear from my friends at home and melt. I do miss them. I do miss home, in a way. Maybe that’s it, maybe these past few days – rain and all – I’ve been a little homesick. There’s only one way to fix that:
I just turned to Tequila and said, “Let’s go have us an adventure.”
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Epiphanies on a Rainy Day
Francis left today. He and his beautiful daughter (with whom I was so impressed –an amazing girl with such maturity for a 15 year old) waved good-bye from the dusty windows of the green Audi. As usual, Tequila tried desperately to stop the departing party by climbing on top of suitcases, sitting in their laps, jumping into the car and refusing to get out. She hates to see people go. So do I.
Francis was a wonderful friend to me this week, a fun companion and a fascinating person. But this is his holiday and, like my family, like Sarah & her friends, like my Dutch friends, like Sylvia & her family, and like Ludo & family and everyone else who comes here – they have to leave. They have to go back to the real world, the 9-5 grind (well, not quite 9 – 5. We are in France… they don’t really like that whole work thing), and I stay here with my only constant being a four-legged beast. I stay in this fantasyland on a never-ending vacation that doubles as my real life.
But what am I doing? The literal answer is, of course, living my dream. Living in the place I’ve always wanted to, writing books or articles and having a grand old time. In reality, am I just a lazy bum? Running away from growing up? Maybe. But it works for now. And I’ll come back a better person for it. Life’s about learning, about living. I look at all the people who have inspired me, who have given me the encouragement to write, who have supported me through all of my reckless decisions and tolerated all of my wildest adventures. And, to my complete shock, they tell me I am an inspiration. I hope so – I’d love to be the person that gives others the extra push needed to live life to the fullest. But in reality, I couldn’t be here without them. I couldn’t write without the encouragement of family, friends, professors and complete strangers – telling me, “Yea, suck it up. Swallow your pride and your fear and send something to get published.”
(my office… haha)
The boys checked the mail and returned with a simple manila envelope addressed to me. I immediately recognized the handwriting. My grandfather had sent me something. Intrigued, I tore the package open and when I discovered its contents, I both laughed and cried. He sent me a huge, several page article, complete with photos and intricate details, about St. Tropez, an article consuming almost the entire Travel section of the New York Times about this place, what to do and what not to do, what life is like in the Côte d’Azur. The article I was supposed to write. The article I wrote, but was too chicken to send. Someone else beat me to it. Moral of the story: if you don’t do what you want, somebody else is going to do it for you. And then you’re left with nothing but dreams. And a blog. (Don’t get me wrong – LOVE the blog. And sure, I have other articles written or outlined in my head. But will I send them? Probably not. Too chicken.)
I've been forced to remember that sometimes it’s not easy to live dreams and I've been trying to recall exactly how I ended up here. It’s hard to pull yourself from the real world, take the risk, and go. Follow your heart. I remember that fear of failure, of losing all you treasure at home. But then one of my best friends studied for a semester in Ireland. As I was speaking to him about his adventure and about homesickness, he said, “Well, sure, sometime I miss home. Sometimes I miss my friends. But in reality, nothing changes. When I come back they will all still be there and, with those that are worth it, I can pick up right where we left off.” (This man has told me he’s amazed that I am here now, doing this. And look – without those words I may have never made it. Thanks, Sean ; )
He’s right! Coming here has brought me closer to my family, to those that I really love. It has shown me who my true friends are, who I miss terribly and can’t wait to see again… someday. But in the meantime we will exchange emails, send an occasional post card or photo. We’ll chat online for 5minutes. Or maybe not at all. Maybe we will barely talk for the whole time I’m here. But I know when I return to the States we’ll go out to dinner, we’ll go to the movies, we’ll still be friends.
The truth is, though I often forget it, sometimes people can’t realize their dreams. It’s like in The Alchemist (probably the biggest push to get me here) when the glass salesman decides he will never travel to Mecca. Sometimes just having the dream is enough. And these people who don’t do the thing they’ve always dreamed of, the people who live their lives and do all the things you’re supposed to do, they’re amazing people as well. They are inspirational and courageous in their own way. They’re probably far more responsible, reasonable, logical. But I’m not going to lie, this is way more fun.
In reality, I probably came here because after graduating college I knew it was now or never and my grandparents were kind enough to make the decision even easier by providing me with the plane ticket. I couldn't be here without them, or without the good graces of my family who has and will continue to tolerate my presence at this house.
I guess my parting words of wisdom today will be, “How can you know if you don’t try?” or “What’s the worse that can happen?”
I figured I’d come here and see. I’d work hard, save money, see how far it will take me. If I just couldn’t cut it, I’d change my ticket and fly home. At least I tried. At least I’d never wake up one morning fifty years down the road and wonder if my life could be different. And look – I’m living. I’m integrating. I’m learning French and making a life. This is becoming home. Just do it, man.
Ah, I’m rambling. I haven’t done much this week but bond with Ludo and his friend and learn the history of this house and of my family. It’s been great, but not much to write about. Tonight I take the two adolescent girls to the bar. That, however, will certainly be a story.
Francis was a wonderful friend to me this week, a fun companion and a fascinating person. But this is his holiday and, like my family, like Sarah & her friends, like my Dutch friends, like Sylvia & her family, and like Ludo & family and everyone else who comes here – they have to leave. They have to go back to the real world, the 9-5 grind (well, not quite 9 – 5. We are in France… they don’t really like that whole work thing), and I stay here with my only constant being a four-legged beast. I stay in this fantasyland on a never-ending vacation that doubles as my real life.
But what am I doing? The literal answer is, of course, living my dream. Living in the place I’ve always wanted to, writing books or articles and having a grand old time. In reality, am I just a lazy bum? Running away from growing up? Maybe. But it works for now. And I’ll come back a better person for it. Life’s about learning, about living. I look at all the people who have inspired me, who have given me the encouragement to write, who have supported me through all of my reckless decisions and tolerated all of my wildest adventures. And, to my complete shock, they tell me I am an inspiration. I hope so – I’d love to be the person that gives others the extra push needed to live life to the fullest. But in reality, I couldn’t be here without them. I couldn’t write without the encouragement of family, friends, professors and complete strangers – telling me, “Yea, suck it up. Swallow your pride and your fear and send something to get published.”
(my office… haha)
The boys checked the mail and returned with a simple manila envelope addressed to me. I immediately recognized the handwriting. My grandfather had sent me something. Intrigued, I tore the package open and when I discovered its contents, I both laughed and cried. He sent me a huge, several page article, complete with photos and intricate details, about St. Tropez, an article consuming almost the entire Travel section of the New York Times about this place, what to do and what not to do, what life is like in the Côte d’Azur. The article I was supposed to write. The article I wrote, but was too chicken to send. Someone else beat me to it. Moral of the story: if you don’t do what you want, somebody else is going to do it for you. And then you’re left with nothing but dreams. And a blog. (Don’t get me wrong – LOVE the blog. And sure, I have other articles written or outlined in my head. But will I send them? Probably not. Too chicken.)
I've been forced to remember that sometimes it’s not easy to live dreams and I've been trying to recall exactly how I ended up here. It’s hard to pull yourself from the real world, take the risk, and go. Follow your heart. I remember that fear of failure, of losing all you treasure at home. But then one of my best friends studied for a semester in Ireland. As I was speaking to him about his adventure and about homesickness, he said, “Well, sure, sometime I miss home. Sometimes I miss my friends. But in reality, nothing changes. When I come back they will all still be there and, with those that are worth it, I can pick up right where we left off.” (This man has told me he’s amazed that I am here now, doing this. And look – without those words I may have never made it. Thanks, Sean ; )
He’s right! Coming here has brought me closer to my family, to those that I really love. It has shown me who my true friends are, who I miss terribly and can’t wait to see again… someday. But in the meantime we will exchange emails, send an occasional post card or photo. We’ll chat online for 5minutes. Or maybe not at all. Maybe we will barely talk for the whole time I’m here. But I know when I return to the States we’ll go out to dinner, we’ll go to the movies, we’ll still be friends.
The truth is, though I often forget it, sometimes people can’t realize their dreams. It’s like in The Alchemist (probably the biggest push to get me here) when the glass salesman decides he will never travel to Mecca. Sometimes just having the dream is enough. And these people who don’t do the thing they’ve always dreamed of, the people who live their lives and do all the things you’re supposed to do, they’re amazing people as well. They are inspirational and courageous in their own way. They’re probably far more responsible, reasonable, logical. But I’m not going to lie, this is way more fun.
In reality, I probably came here because after graduating college I knew it was now or never and my grandparents were kind enough to make the decision even easier by providing me with the plane ticket. I couldn't be here without them, or without the good graces of my family who has and will continue to tolerate my presence at this house.
I guess my parting words of wisdom today will be, “How can you know if you don’t try?” or “What’s the worse that can happen?”
I figured I’d come here and see. I’d work hard, save money, see how far it will take me. If I just couldn’t cut it, I’d change my ticket and fly home. At least I tried. At least I’d never wake up one morning fifty years down the road and wonder if my life could be different. And look – I’m living. I’m integrating. I’m learning French and making a life. This is becoming home. Just do it, man.
Ah, I’m rambling. I haven’t done much this week but bond with Ludo and his friend and learn the history of this house and of my family. It’s been great, but not much to write about. Tonight I take the two adolescent girls to the bar. That, however, will certainly be a story.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Another kitchen disaster
(This entry comes with a disclosure: I drank a lot last night. Forgive bad writing.)
Really, one day I’ll succeed at making something for somebody in the kitchen. Honest. The cake in June failed miserably, the cookies I tried to make for the boys at the bar were terrible, and I’ve only successfully made dinner for more than myself once – and it was baked macaroni and cheese. I’m not sure it’s possible to fuck that up.
Today I offered to make lunch because poor Patricia does so much. I’d like to make every lunch so she only had to worry about dinner, but I think after today they’d rather me not. The food was great. Delicious. But there’s more to eating than just food.
We spent the morning stuck in traffic and food shopping. Upon returning a little after one, Patricia sighed heavily and announced she was hungry. I had a lot to do. It was never going to happen on my own. So I recruited the help of the ever-willing Francis, who dropped what he was doing just to give me a hand.
In fact, he has been a wonderful companion to me all week. We’ve discovered that we get along quite well and have a lot in common (from our love to discuss philosophy to our desire to learn the tango) which makes for many long, interesting conversations. I have never met someone so kind; he has smiles and big, boisterous conversations with every single person he meets (even complete strangers in the supermarket), he takes the time to give change to the beggars, he is wonderful with the children and the dog, and he is always sure to include me in whatever activity the family is doing and, if I don’t understand, he takes the time to explain conversations in English. I find it terribly ironic that in Paris he is a defense lawyer for white-collar criminals. He’s too nice to defend corrupt politicians. But I’m so happy to have met this man, this intriguing human who has been a best friend to Ludo for nearly all his life. And Ludo, too, is an amazing person. I adore him, have adored learning about his likes and his life and everything else in between. He has such a good heart. But something pulls at him, something is always lurking behind his goofy smile and easy-going demeanor. I don’t know what it is, but I hope he finds better happiness soon.
Regardless, Francis and I bought what we needed and returned to the kitchen. Work quickly, efficiently. Somehow we threw together a rice salad with veggies and a beautiful fruit salad dressed in a delicious sauce of grapefruit juice, eau de sucre and rum. (Thank Francis for the rum. He’s from the Caribbean. Rum goes in everything. And of course, as he poured this rum in the salad he poured us glasses as well…)
The problem was my grilled cheese sandwiches (they were gourmet, don’t worry! Baguettes with fig preserve and goat cheese) which had to be eaten warm but I could only make two at a time. I was in the kitchen making them with Francis while everyone else sat and ate the salads, waiting for their batch of sandwiches to come out. By the time everyone had their grilled cheese some people were done with their entire lunch, and poor Francis and I hadn’t even started. Looks of disgust all around – despite how tasty the meal was.
At the same time, we laughed through the whole thing. It was a hilarious affair, and – as Francis said – courageous, considering what an excellent chef Patricia is. But the fact remains that I screwed up food. The French live and die by food. That sucks. Not to mention that Patricia has guests.
Yes, I was mortified. I’m glad I had good company to keep me lighthearted. And tomorrow I’ll prove myself by making lunch successfully and smoothly. Gourmet mac & cheese.
Really, one day I’ll succeed at making something for somebody in the kitchen. Honest. The cake in June failed miserably, the cookies I tried to make for the boys at the bar were terrible, and I’ve only successfully made dinner for more than myself once – and it was baked macaroni and cheese. I’m not sure it’s possible to fuck that up.
Today I offered to make lunch because poor Patricia does so much. I’d like to make every lunch so she only had to worry about dinner, but I think after today they’d rather me not. The food was great. Delicious. But there’s more to eating than just food.
We spent the morning stuck in traffic and food shopping. Upon returning a little after one, Patricia sighed heavily and announced she was hungry. I had a lot to do. It was never going to happen on my own. So I recruited the help of the ever-willing Francis, who dropped what he was doing just to give me a hand.
In fact, he has been a wonderful companion to me all week. We’ve discovered that we get along quite well and have a lot in common (from our love to discuss philosophy to our desire to learn the tango) which makes for many long, interesting conversations. I have never met someone so kind; he has smiles and big, boisterous conversations with every single person he meets (even complete strangers in the supermarket), he takes the time to give change to the beggars, he is wonderful with the children and the dog, and he is always sure to include me in whatever activity the family is doing and, if I don’t understand, he takes the time to explain conversations in English. I find it terribly ironic that in Paris he is a defense lawyer for white-collar criminals. He’s too nice to defend corrupt politicians. But I’m so happy to have met this man, this intriguing human who has been a best friend to Ludo for nearly all his life. And Ludo, too, is an amazing person. I adore him, have adored learning about his likes and his life and everything else in between. He has such a good heart. But something pulls at him, something is always lurking behind his goofy smile and easy-going demeanor. I don’t know what it is, but I hope he finds better happiness soon.
Regardless, Francis and I bought what we needed and returned to the kitchen. Work quickly, efficiently. Somehow we threw together a rice salad with veggies and a beautiful fruit salad dressed in a delicious sauce of grapefruit juice, eau de sucre and rum. (Thank Francis for the rum. He’s from the Caribbean. Rum goes in everything. And of course, as he poured this rum in the salad he poured us glasses as well…)
The problem was my grilled cheese sandwiches (they were gourmet, don’t worry! Baguettes with fig preserve and goat cheese) which had to be eaten warm but I could only make two at a time. I was in the kitchen making them with Francis while everyone else sat and ate the salads, waiting for their batch of sandwiches to come out. By the time everyone had their grilled cheese some people were done with their entire lunch, and poor Francis and I hadn’t even started. Looks of disgust all around – despite how tasty the meal was.
At the same time, we laughed through the whole thing. It was a hilarious affair, and – as Francis said – courageous, considering what an excellent chef Patricia is. But the fact remains that I screwed up food. The French live and die by food. That sucks. Not to mention that Patricia has guests.
Yes, I was mortified. I’m glad I had good company to keep me lighthearted. And tomorrow I’ll prove myself by making lunch successfully and smoothly. Gourmet mac & cheese.
Sunday, August 07, 2005
Ludo’s Story
This is not my story to tell. However, I thought it was such a fascinating story that I need to recount it.
I came outside nearly in tears. Francis sat on the hammock reading – ironically – about justice. He is a lawyer. I thought at that moment I was going to need one myself.
I had just heard from the States and there have been a lot of incredibly ridiculous problems and drama in the subletting of my apartment in Boston. I refuse to give up the life here to return somewhere where I don’t want to be. I’m healthy here. I’m loving it. And I have amazing opportunities presenting themselves right and left. I’d be a fool to go back. I poured my poor cluttered heart out to Francis, who was outraged, but tried desperately to calm me down with the logic of the law.
My rational slowly returned. But it’s terribly to be even a bit gloomy, stressed, whatever here in the south of France. We sat talking overlooking the view and I just wanted to scream. This is a place for laughter and joy, and tears and anxiety. Just then, Ludo marched back up the path from the crique. “I need to share a story,” he said in his thick, French accent. “I just had a most wonderful experience at the crique.” So Francis and I shut up and listened.
He went down there by himself. He’s a stressed man and the crique is an amazing place to be, to relax. Once our private swimming hole, we always cringe if there are people there now, even though it is technically public land. As Ludo walked down the path, he could see through the trees that there were a large group of boys, and two girls.
“Strange,” he thought. “Two girls and so many men. But, ok. Whatever.” And he marched his way down the crumbling stairs to the rocks, now hardly covered in cement, below.
Once there, he had an urge. Tai Chi. “I do Tai Chi because I am a stressed man. It gets me back to nature. To find my insides again. To be calm.” And there, standing in his Speedo, the scrawny man had an overwhelming desire to do his sport. So he did.
His eyes were closed and his head hung loosely toward the ground. He stood on a tiny patch of solid grown, feet shoulder length apart, back perfectly straight. Slowly and steadily, he rolled his head in large circles, letting out tiny groans and sounds as he did – noises he himself was not aware that he was making.
“Um, sir?” His meditation broke. He opened his eyes. There stood one of the boys, scrawny himself, about 18 years old. “Are you ok?”
“Oh sure, sure” Ludo said, laughing. “I do Tai Chi.”
“Oh,” the boy turned to walk away, paused, and turned back to the strange man moaning beside him. “What’s that?”
And Ludo explained. And as he explained, the boys came over, one by one, to listen intently about the art of Tai Chi. Ludo spoke passionately of his craft, happy that all the children were so eager to learn about it. And they spoke of life; Ludo explained what he did and why he was stressed, why Tai Chi appealed to him. The boys explained that they were on vacation, just finished high school in France and were soon going off to the university. Ludo told them that he learned to swim here at the crique, that the stairs and cement were laid by his grandmother.
“You must hate it when there are strangers here. This is your land. You must not like that we are here, right?” they demanded, ready to leave if this man asked them to.
“No no no,” Ludo has the biggest heart. “Of course! Please! Stay! Enjoy this place. It’s wonderful. That’s what I want, for it to be enjoyed. I am only angry when people are bad to it, when they make the trash or leave things or destroy it.”
When Ludo had satisfied their curiosity, they politely left him to his art. Slowly they began to dawdle off. Ludo began Tai Chi. Slowly, lost in meditation, he stretched, moved carefully around the rocks, bringing his body back to the ground, back to Earth, back to nature. He opened his eyes quickly. The entire group of kids looked up at him with eager eyes. Ludo stopped, maybe embarrassed a bit? But then the children did something even more amazing – they clapped. They cheered. They were impressed by the old man’s skills. And Ludo, being the excitable and silly man that he is, took a gracious bow.
Francis and I laughed throughout Ludo’s story as he recounted it with passion and hand gestures and a huge, goofy smile. It was an amazing story, and it felt good to laugh. It amazes me; the crique is a phenomenal place for incredible experiences. Most of the Michel family met the sea for the first time in this tiny inlet. Yesterday morning as Francis, Ludo and I swam, we met another French couple with a tiny little boy who was learning to swim for the first time there, too. He giggled with joy. It was beautiful. The crique simply breeds beautiful experiences.
If only the walk back wasn’t so hard. Hah
My Photo Album of Ramatuelle
Sometimes I wish I could share my memories like pictures in a photo album. When I was in Paris, I was always armed with my camera, capturing whatever image caught my eye. Here I still keep my Canon in my purse but I tend to use it less. Maybe these precious moments are more fleeting so I do not have the opportunity to freeze them in time, or maybe they are too common that if I wanted to capture any, I could never put my camera aside. I can only explain it by writing the soundtrack to the slideshow in my mind. John Mayer:
Today
I finally overcame trying to fit the world inside a picture frame.
s t r a n g e
how clouds that look like mountains in the sky
are next to mountains anyway
- didn’t have a camera by my side this time -
hoping I would see the world through both my eyes
maybe I will tell you all about it when I am in the mood to use my way with words
you should have seen that sunrise with your own eyes
it brought me back to life
Regardless, I have these fantastic images burning on the back of my eyelids that I need to show to someone else. To me, they create a mosaic of the Côte d’Azur, of my life here in Cap Camarat. Though my expressions here can never do them justice, I will do my best to paint them in your mind, I invite you to flip through the pages of the photo album of my brain:
Cap Camarat. Just after dawn, the sun still not at its greatest strength. In the morning light the trees are tinted a faded olive green, the usually bright sky dulled to a soft smoky blue, the worn pavement of the Route du Phare bland as mud, snaking its way down the mountain. We are in the car, driving to the market, and as I stare out the window I catch a fleeting glimpse I hope to keep forever. Perched precariously on the side of the road rests a nondescript white utility-van angle so that the huge back doors open overlooking the ocean and islands below – what I’m sure was a magnificent view to awake to. But the real beauty is clear for anyone driving by to see; lined up carefully on the hood of the car are two pairs of shoes, men’s work-boots and tiny women’s flip-flops, the heels leaned gently against the windshield. That’s this place: simply, spontaneous, carefree romance.
The Market. Always beautiful, full of life and colors and the music of people’s voices, a composition of all languages, sexes and ages. It is still early, light radiating through the leafy trees in thick beams of dust and sand. Francis, a tanned man with a heart of a child electric blue eyes, and I, tanned to a deep golden brown and dressed appropriately in white linen and pastels, stand in one of the crowded market rows, unwilling brushing shoulders with the mob of strangers, laughing hysterically as we try on overly-huge (and overly-priced) women’s straw hats in the most outrageous colors. That’s this place: being silly, laughing, mocking the unfathomable spending habits and tastes of the wealthy.
The Crique. Ludo, tall and helplessly skinny, sporting naught but a silver speedo and a white cowboy hat, teases his beautiful wife endlessly. She fakes kickboxing to beat him up, looking quite ridiculous herself in her thick white sunglasses, simple white sneakers, skin tight white tennis tank & shorts, and her floppy multi-colored hat. It’s good to see them play, they’ve both been stressed and overworked, the problems of life always seem to get in the way. But then there’s the real magic – Ludo embraces her flailing arms and legs, brings her body close to his, and kisses her passionately on her skinny little lips. Francis and I exchanged looks of “awww.” This is love. And this is where you remember what it’s like to be in love.
The Beach. It’s sunset now. The soft white sand is almost completely void of people, the clear green sea crashes gently upon the shore. And there I am, with my most faithful companion, running through the shallow water without a care in the world. I am still wearing all of my clothes yet don’t hesitate as the salty water splashes as high as my face, creating a graze of droplets on my tangled nest of golden curls. My white linen skirt blows whimsically in the breeze and my big white dog chases it, the look on her puppy face pure joy. She’s laughing. So am I. I am living the moment to the fullest, forgetting my stresses and obstacles in life, simply having fun by existing. This place is freedom. And happiness.
And I will leave you with some real pictures of beauty from today also, pictures that I actually could manage with my camera:
Today
I finally overcame trying to fit the world inside a picture frame.
s t r a n g e
how clouds that look like mountains in the sky
are next to mountains anyway
- didn’t have a camera by my side this time -
hoping I would see the world through both my eyes
maybe I will tell you all about it when I am in the mood to use my way with words
you should have seen that sunrise with your own eyes
it brought me back to life
Regardless, I have these fantastic images burning on the back of my eyelids that I need to show to someone else. To me, they create a mosaic of the Côte d’Azur, of my life here in Cap Camarat. Though my expressions here can never do them justice, I will do my best to paint them in your mind, I invite you to flip through the pages of the photo album of my brain:
Cap Camarat. Just after dawn, the sun still not at its greatest strength. In the morning light the trees are tinted a faded olive green, the usually bright sky dulled to a soft smoky blue, the worn pavement of the Route du Phare bland as mud, snaking its way down the mountain. We are in the car, driving to the market, and as I stare out the window I catch a fleeting glimpse I hope to keep forever. Perched precariously on the side of the road rests a nondescript white utility-van angle so that the huge back doors open overlooking the ocean and islands below – what I’m sure was a magnificent view to awake to. But the real beauty is clear for anyone driving by to see; lined up carefully on the hood of the car are two pairs of shoes, men’s work-boots and tiny women’s flip-flops, the heels leaned gently against the windshield. That’s this place: simply, spontaneous, carefree romance.
The Market. Always beautiful, full of life and colors and the music of people’s voices, a composition of all languages, sexes and ages. It is still early, light radiating through the leafy trees in thick beams of dust and sand. Francis, a tanned man with a heart of a child electric blue eyes, and I, tanned to a deep golden brown and dressed appropriately in white linen and pastels, stand in one of the crowded market rows, unwilling brushing shoulders with the mob of strangers, laughing hysterically as we try on overly-huge (and overly-priced) women’s straw hats in the most outrageous colors. That’s this place: being silly, laughing, mocking the unfathomable spending habits and tastes of the wealthy.
The Crique. Ludo, tall and helplessly skinny, sporting naught but a silver speedo and a white cowboy hat, teases his beautiful wife endlessly. She fakes kickboxing to beat him up, looking quite ridiculous herself in her thick white sunglasses, simple white sneakers, skin tight white tennis tank & shorts, and her floppy multi-colored hat. It’s good to see them play, they’ve both been stressed and overworked, the problems of life always seem to get in the way. But then there’s the real magic – Ludo embraces her flailing arms and legs, brings her body close to his, and kisses her passionately on her skinny little lips. Francis and I exchanged looks of “awww.” This is love. And this is where you remember what it’s like to be in love.
The Beach. It’s sunset now. The soft white sand is almost completely void of people, the clear green sea crashes gently upon the shore. And there I am, with my most faithful companion, running through the shallow water without a care in the world. I am still wearing all of my clothes yet don’t hesitate as the salty water splashes as high as my face, creating a graze of droplets on my tangled nest of golden curls. My white linen skirt blows whimsically in the breeze and my big white dog chases it, the look on her puppy face pure joy. She’s laughing. So am I. I am living the moment to the fullest, forgetting my stresses and obstacles in life, simply having fun by existing. This place is freedom. And happiness.
And I will leave you with some real pictures of beauty from today also, pictures that I actually could manage with my camera:
Friday, August 05, 2005
Still a Silly Lil Girl
I may have pursued my dream. I may have embarked on an adventure in a foreign land all by myself. I may be living the life I dreamed of us a child, writing whatever I so choose in this paradise of my youth. But I am still a girl.
I’m reminded of the Alchemist – as I so often am. There is a quote from a tough woman excusing her tears that reads simply, “I may be a woman of the desert, but I remain a woman none-the-less.”
I had a date today. Olivier, the brother of Jerome, one of the owners of Le P’tit Club, has been asking me out since his arrival over a week ago. As far as I was concerned, he – like most French men – was really after only one thing, so I continuously denied his requests. I finally grew so tired of rejecting that I agreed – as long as it was on my terms. I needed to eat somewhere safe, somewhere that I was comfortable, somewhere where the people knew me and looked out for me. L’Esquinade.
To my surprise, it went remarkably well. It was so wonderful to have someone order the best wine on the menu and know why it was the best, and then pour every glass for me and drop every bit of ice in it without giving me a change to even consider doing it myself. It was great to eat with someone who could order for the both of us – in French – and yet carry on playful and intricate conversations in English. It was amazing to laugh with someone about intellectual jokes and engage in a battle of wits.
And yet, for being as impressed as I was, I didn’t even kiss poor Olivier goodbye. What can I say; I’m a hard woman these days…
But he understands. He plays the same games I do. He has a split personality, loves the same things, has the same overwhelming anxiety and passion for life. He can’t stay in one place for too long. He’s a Gemini. As much as I never believed that astrological shit before, I’ve grown to be able to identify someone of my sign by the first conversation. Maybe it is true. I realized it as he was taunting me, explaining his inner workings to me and as I listened, I felt like he was describing myself.
“When were you born?”
“May 30.”
“Gemini?”
He pulled down on the collar of his shirt, revealing a tattoo of the twins underneath his collarbone. I smiled. Showed him my necklace in response.
Weird how that stuff works…
He told me that I was amazingly confident, though I could only laugh in response. For the amount of embarrassing moments I can recall in the past 24hours, confidence is not really what I had in mind. Yesterday I asked the man serving my lunch for a skirt instead of a straw, “jupe” instead of “pipe.” (Needless to say, he never brought me the straw.) I accepted an awkward love gift with a sour smile and uncomfortable shift in my seat. I helped decipher a message in English for my friend Stephen, saying all along how poorly written it was, only to discover it was he who wrote it. I had to walk across the public beach to L’Esquinade to retrieve the top of my bathing suit that I had forgotten and the plaginist “so kindly” held on to. These are all occurrences to make your cheeks turn red, normal events for living in a strange land. I have been humbled – the air of having confidence comes only from knowing mortification may arrive at any moment.
But I’m now home safe, engulfed in the warming welcomeness of Ludo & Patricia and the rest of the family here at Chez Michel. I’m curled up in my favorite corner of the sunroom with my big baby of a dog, protected from the reality seeping through the valley below. All I have to do for the rest of the evening is sit here and write, looking past the giant purple flowers outside to the blue green ocean beyond, or lay out on the hammock to finish my current book, or take a small siesta in my attic room with the sea breeze dancing across my sheets. It’s going to be a tough afternoon. And tonight, all I have planned is head to Le P’tit Club and see if I am owed a kiss… or at least a drink.
I’m reminded of the Alchemist – as I so often am. There is a quote from a tough woman excusing her tears that reads simply, “I may be a woman of the desert, but I remain a woman none-the-less.”
I had a date today. Olivier, the brother of Jerome, one of the owners of Le P’tit Club, has been asking me out since his arrival over a week ago. As far as I was concerned, he – like most French men – was really after only one thing, so I continuously denied his requests. I finally grew so tired of rejecting that I agreed – as long as it was on my terms. I needed to eat somewhere safe, somewhere that I was comfortable, somewhere where the people knew me and looked out for me. L’Esquinade.
To my surprise, it went remarkably well. It was so wonderful to have someone order the best wine on the menu and know why it was the best, and then pour every glass for me and drop every bit of ice in it without giving me a change to even consider doing it myself. It was great to eat with someone who could order for the both of us – in French – and yet carry on playful and intricate conversations in English. It was amazing to laugh with someone about intellectual jokes and engage in a battle of wits.
And yet, for being as impressed as I was, I didn’t even kiss poor Olivier goodbye. What can I say; I’m a hard woman these days…
But he understands. He plays the same games I do. He has a split personality, loves the same things, has the same overwhelming anxiety and passion for life. He can’t stay in one place for too long. He’s a Gemini. As much as I never believed that astrological shit before, I’ve grown to be able to identify someone of my sign by the first conversation. Maybe it is true. I realized it as he was taunting me, explaining his inner workings to me and as I listened, I felt like he was describing myself.
“When were you born?”
“May 30.”
“Gemini?”
He pulled down on the collar of his shirt, revealing a tattoo of the twins underneath his collarbone. I smiled. Showed him my necklace in response.
Weird how that stuff works…
He told me that I was amazingly confident, though I could only laugh in response. For the amount of embarrassing moments I can recall in the past 24hours, confidence is not really what I had in mind. Yesterday I asked the man serving my lunch for a skirt instead of a straw, “jupe” instead of “pipe.” (Needless to say, he never brought me the straw.) I accepted an awkward love gift with a sour smile and uncomfortable shift in my seat. I helped decipher a message in English for my friend Stephen, saying all along how poorly written it was, only to discover it was he who wrote it. I had to walk across the public beach to L’Esquinade to retrieve the top of my bathing suit that I had forgotten and the plaginist “so kindly” held on to. These are all occurrences to make your cheeks turn red, normal events for living in a strange land. I have been humbled – the air of having confidence comes only from knowing mortification may arrive at any moment.
But I’m now home safe, engulfed in the warming welcomeness of Ludo & Patricia and the rest of the family here at Chez Michel. I’m curled up in my favorite corner of the sunroom with my big baby of a dog, protected from the reality seeping through the valley below. All I have to do for the rest of the evening is sit here and write, looking past the giant purple flowers outside to the blue green ocean beyond, or lay out on the hammock to finish my current book, or take a small siesta in my attic room with the sea breeze dancing across my sheets. It’s going to be a tough afternoon. And tonight, all I have planned is head to Le P’tit Club and see if I am owed a kiss… or at least a drink.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Family
Of all the amazing things I’ve been lucky enough to experience this summer, there is nothing more that I enjoy than getting to know my French family, this distant arm of the Michel’s that in my youth existed only through family gossip and blurry childhood memories. It has been wonderful to live here with them, to partake in their vacations, to put faces to the names I’ve heard all of my life. My family is rich with fascinating histories, delicious secrets, intriguing pasts. Being here with all different branches of this unique family tree, I have the opportunity to learn something new each vacation. And I get to learn about my family. Family is an amazing thing.
In Paris, I absolutely adored staying with my cousin Laurence. She was, at that point, the only French family I felt I knew at all, having stayed with her once in the past as a lovesick teen chasing my man to the city of romance. She tolerated all of my ridiculous and childish mistakes then, and this year, she led me through one challenge after another. She was wonderful. Sometime in June I sent her flowers just to thank her for being her.
In July, it was amazing to get to know Sarah, the closest thing to a girl cousin my age I’ll ever have. She was an intriguing woman, full of mystery and kindness. I loved being twenty-something with her and her friends, even though her friends did not leave nearly as a positive impression on me as Sarah had.
When I finally did get to meet Sylvia and her family, I was blown away. They were so kind and warm, inviting me to eat with them and enjoy their vacation. We went to the beach together, I spoke to her children and her husband in French, and I felt welcomed. Sylvia took the time to teach me about France, about French, about her and her piece of my family. I was thrilled.
Now I have been adopted again by the big hearts and loving hands of Ludovic and his family. I eat with them at many of their meals and when I don’t, they almost seem disappointed. I’d love to spend every second simply in their presence – it’s wonderful to hear the sound of family chatter echoing through the big walls of this old house. But I must remember that this is their vacation and I am a guest. Though I am family and obviously invited, I would like to give them their space, too.
And that’s just the here and now. Everyone offers a bit of history, some piece to the enormous Michel puzzle, that I can take away to treasure. Someday I’ll learn where exactly we come from, all the stories behind all the names. Of course, that feat may take my entire lifetime.
This adventure has also brought me closer to my family at home, which I am forever grateful. I have begun to have a new relationship with all I have left in the States, appreciating them more and more, intrigued by their stories, grateful to have such wonderful family. In a week the Americans come here. I am excited; this is family I already know but family I get to become closer to. And it means I’ve survived. I survived the summer without knowing anyone, without having a constant guiding hand or a companion in this house – save, of course, for my Tequila. I just hope, in my summer spent with family and friends, I have not made too many faux pas and have successful expressed my gratitude to everyone along the way.
When I arrived at Chez Michel that fateful day in June, I was filled with joy and gratitude. I left the house exactly as I had found it, thrilled to be living there and happy with it just the way it was. Now I look outside and laugh. Everyone who comes adds something new, changes something slightly. Everyone rearranged the kitchen. I roll with the punches, learning where they put which glasses and how they keep the cereal and snacks. I take in the good, enjoying the new additions to Chez Michel. I change nothing. Change is for whomever comes next.
The first people to stay here in June, when I stayed at the cabanon, were friends of my uncles. They bought a beach umbrella for the house, but their real contribution was putting the beautiful wooden chairs outside, overlooking the view, past the little table, onto the harbor. These chairs, in this locale, are what became the “nappy chairs” for my immediate family – who also brought the green table outside. They set it up behind the nappy chairs, arranging the chairs just right so that everyone eating could have a view. We ate every meal out there, taking our dinners long into the darkness of night. We bought actual wine glasses for the house, for to us – in order to vacation in the Côte d’Azur, one must drink a lot of wine. Then Sarah and her friends came; they didn’t like drinking wine by candlelight as my family had, so they moved the table out front, under the big driveway light. They bought a pack of Tarot – a very French card game – and left it to the house (though I haven’t seen it since). Sylvia and her family dug out the hammock and set that up, where now all members of Ludo’s party (myself included) spend long hours curled up, reading the afternoons away. And Ludo has done much for the house, structurally (he is apparently the “big boss” next to my grandfather; Alberte & Z took extra care in preparing for his arrival. I had never seen the house so clean. Z even raked and washed the windows. And Alberte’s been back since their arrival to clean again.) but he has also added a beautiful new painting to the dining area, a painting of the familiar view of Cap Camarat. I am excited to discover what changes the Americans bring…
I love it here. I’m living a dream, discovering the unknowns I’ve always wondered about. I love meeting my French family, I love growing closer to the Americans I’ve always known. I love making new friends, calling this area home. I have a dog and a scooter and a French bank account. I play Tarot. I drink Ricard. Careful, I just might start smoking and driving like a maniac…
Now, to only better my French.
I am thrilled, too, because I changed my airline ticket today. I have to change it again (so that I can take the dog to the States) but as of right now, I’m living here for two and half more months. Yea!
In Paris, I absolutely adored staying with my cousin Laurence. She was, at that point, the only French family I felt I knew at all, having stayed with her once in the past as a lovesick teen chasing my man to the city of romance. She tolerated all of my ridiculous and childish mistakes then, and this year, she led me through one challenge after another. She was wonderful. Sometime in June I sent her flowers just to thank her for being her.
In July, it was amazing to get to know Sarah, the closest thing to a girl cousin my age I’ll ever have. She was an intriguing woman, full of mystery and kindness. I loved being twenty-something with her and her friends, even though her friends did not leave nearly as a positive impression on me as Sarah had.
When I finally did get to meet Sylvia and her family, I was blown away. They were so kind and warm, inviting me to eat with them and enjoy their vacation. We went to the beach together, I spoke to her children and her husband in French, and I felt welcomed. Sylvia took the time to teach me about France, about French, about her and her piece of my family. I was thrilled.
Now I have been adopted again by the big hearts and loving hands of Ludovic and his family. I eat with them at many of their meals and when I don’t, they almost seem disappointed. I’d love to spend every second simply in their presence – it’s wonderful to hear the sound of family chatter echoing through the big walls of this old house. But I must remember that this is their vacation and I am a guest. Though I am family and obviously invited, I would like to give them their space, too.
And that’s just the here and now. Everyone offers a bit of history, some piece to the enormous Michel puzzle, that I can take away to treasure. Someday I’ll learn where exactly we come from, all the stories behind all the names. Of course, that feat may take my entire lifetime.
This adventure has also brought me closer to my family at home, which I am forever grateful. I have begun to have a new relationship with all I have left in the States, appreciating them more and more, intrigued by their stories, grateful to have such wonderful family. In a week the Americans come here. I am excited; this is family I already know but family I get to become closer to. And it means I’ve survived. I survived the summer without knowing anyone, without having a constant guiding hand or a companion in this house – save, of course, for my Tequila. I just hope, in my summer spent with family and friends, I have not made too many faux pas and have successful expressed my gratitude to everyone along the way.
When I arrived at Chez Michel that fateful day in June, I was filled with joy and gratitude. I left the house exactly as I had found it, thrilled to be living there and happy with it just the way it was. Now I look outside and laugh. Everyone who comes adds something new, changes something slightly. Everyone rearranged the kitchen. I roll with the punches, learning where they put which glasses and how they keep the cereal and snacks. I take in the good, enjoying the new additions to Chez Michel. I change nothing. Change is for whomever comes next.
The first people to stay here in June, when I stayed at the cabanon, were friends of my uncles. They bought a beach umbrella for the house, but their real contribution was putting the beautiful wooden chairs outside, overlooking the view, past the little table, onto the harbor. These chairs, in this locale, are what became the “nappy chairs” for my immediate family – who also brought the green table outside. They set it up behind the nappy chairs, arranging the chairs just right so that everyone eating could have a view. We ate every meal out there, taking our dinners long into the darkness of night. We bought actual wine glasses for the house, for to us – in order to vacation in the Côte d’Azur, one must drink a lot of wine. Then Sarah and her friends came; they didn’t like drinking wine by candlelight as my family had, so they moved the table out front, under the big driveway light. They bought a pack of Tarot – a very French card game – and left it to the house (though I haven’t seen it since). Sylvia and her family dug out the hammock and set that up, where now all members of Ludo’s party (myself included) spend long hours curled up, reading the afternoons away. And Ludo has done much for the house, structurally (he is apparently the “big boss” next to my grandfather; Alberte & Z took extra care in preparing for his arrival. I had never seen the house so clean. Z even raked and washed the windows. And Alberte’s been back since their arrival to clean again.) but he has also added a beautiful new painting to the dining area, a painting of the familiar view of Cap Camarat. I am excited to discover what changes the Americans bring…
I love it here. I’m living a dream, discovering the unknowns I’ve always wondered about. I love meeting my French family, I love growing closer to the Americans I’ve always known. I love making new friends, calling this area home. I have a dog and a scooter and a French bank account. I play Tarot. I drink Ricard. Careful, I just might start smoking and driving like a maniac…
Now, to only better my French.
I am thrilled, too, because I changed my airline ticket today. I have to change it again (so that I can take the dog to the States) but as of right now, I’m living here for two and half more months. Yea!
I miss baseball.
I live in Boston. Lived, rather. There is an unwritten requirement for living in Boston, and that is that you must love the Red Sox. You don’t necessarily need to be passionate about sports, or even baseball as a whole, but you must adore the Sox. You must follow them at least from a distance, you must care if they win or lose, you must hate their archrival – the Yankees.
I grew up outside of Boston with an older brother; I spent my whole life brainwashed to love Boston sports teams unconditionally, even though we are often fickle in the expression of this dedication. We have resigned ourselves to accepting that we will always be the underdogs; no matter how many Superbowls we win or how many teams we conquer to capture the world series – it was just a fluke in the eyes of the rest of the nation. Each year, we must prove ourselves again. We are the best. And we love our teams unlike any other city.
Especially baseball. Boston may be a college town, but it really comes alive in the summer long after the students have gone home. All winter we wait for the lights of Fenway to announce the arrival of the season. Our nostrils yearn to be filled with the scent of freshly cut grass and raked dirt. Our ears wait impatiently for the sound of crowds cheering to rise over the age-old metallic green walls, carrying taunts and tears, laughter and cheers over the Green Monster in left field. We stay up late glued to television screens in bars, watching each game as if it determined our own life or death. We love baseball.
And there’s something magical about this love. It forms camaraderie throughout the city, throughout the world. We are forever joined by our passion for the Sox and for our unrelenting hatred of the Yankees and it carried overseas. Whenever I see someone wearing a Red Sox hat here, I don’t hesitate to run up and say hello. “Do you know what that symbol on your hat is for?” – as if it were more sacred than the crucifix. I don’t see many Sox symbols; probably two or three all summer (again, save for the many that adorned my brothers clothes when he was here), but of all that I’ve seen, I’ve spoken to 100 percent of their owners. I can’t help it. It’s that bond with home.
I miss baseball a lot. I miss my friends and my family, but as far as American culture – it’s only baseball. It’s the excitement of going to Fenway. It’s the overpriced bags of peanuts and disgustingly cheap beer. It's watching the boys play their heart out, winning with the loud encouragement of an entire population – the “Red Sox Nation.” It’s hanging out with my brother or father, it’s remembering past visits with boyfriends and loves lost. It’s being a part of the little people – there’s nothing better than sitting in the “cheap” bleacher seats starting the wave only to watch it skip the box seats whose inhabitants are far to wealthy to bother with silly crowd games. It’s screaming, being totally engulfed by the game.
Wow, I miss baseball.
I grew up outside of Boston with an older brother; I spent my whole life brainwashed to love Boston sports teams unconditionally, even though we are often fickle in the expression of this dedication. We have resigned ourselves to accepting that we will always be the underdogs; no matter how many Superbowls we win or how many teams we conquer to capture the world series – it was just a fluke in the eyes of the rest of the nation. Each year, we must prove ourselves again. We are the best. And we love our teams unlike any other city.
Especially baseball. Boston may be a college town, but it really comes alive in the summer long after the students have gone home. All winter we wait for the lights of Fenway to announce the arrival of the season. Our nostrils yearn to be filled with the scent of freshly cut grass and raked dirt. Our ears wait impatiently for the sound of crowds cheering to rise over the age-old metallic green walls, carrying taunts and tears, laughter and cheers over the Green Monster in left field. We stay up late glued to television screens in bars, watching each game as if it determined our own life or death. We love baseball.
And there’s something magical about this love. It forms camaraderie throughout the city, throughout the world. We are forever joined by our passion for the Sox and for our unrelenting hatred of the Yankees and it carried overseas. Whenever I see someone wearing a Red Sox hat here, I don’t hesitate to run up and say hello. “Do you know what that symbol on your hat is for?” – as if it were more sacred than the crucifix. I don’t see many Sox symbols; probably two or three all summer (again, save for the many that adorned my brothers clothes when he was here), but of all that I’ve seen, I’ve spoken to 100 percent of their owners. I can’t help it. It’s that bond with home.
I miss baseball a lot. I miss my friends and my family, but as far as American culture – it’s only baseball. It’s the excitement of going to Fenway. It’s the overpriced bags of peanuts and disgustingly cheap beer. It's watching the boys play their heart out, winning with the loud encouragement of an entire population – the “Red Sox Nation.” It’s hanging out with my brother or father, it’s remembering past visits with boyfriends and loves lost. It’s being a part of the little people – there’s nothing better than sitting in the “cheap” bleacher seats starting the wave only to watch it skip the box seats whose inhabitants are far to wealthy to bother with silly crowd games. It’s screaming, being totally engulfed by the game.
Wow, I miss baseball.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
A bit of nothing, for I’ve done nothing, but I have to write or I fear I’ll forget how
I have been consumed by an overwhelming handicap that forces me to do absolutely nothing. Seriously, all day I do not a single thing. I don’t know why; perhaps it is the result of the unbearably heavy August heat. Since the departure of Sylvia and the arrival of her brother Ludo and his family & friends, I have spent the majority of my time sleeping. If I manage to pry my useless body from my bed (or whatever location I have chosen to nap in), I read. I’ve read countless books in however many days I’ve been sick with this disease of no-motivation. Look – I can’t even count how many days it’s been. I don’t know the date, or the day of the week.
Of course, losing track of time is part of being here. The Côte d’Azur is a black hole – a twilight zone – that swallows you hole so that one day you wake up, buy the newspaper, and find yourself shocked that the rest of the world does in fact exist and continues on without you, that time continues to pass somewhere else that is not here.
And in my long days of nothingness, of sleeping and reading, I have somehow managed to do an enormous amount of laundry, climb the treacherous spiral of the lighthouse to see the view, and made one quick visit to the crique with the new inhabitants of Chez Michel.
I’m enjoying the company of Ludovic, my father’s cousin, and his family. He is a wonderful man with a brilliant smile and an excitable nature. His wife is an impressive woman, very sportif and an amazing chef. His two children are good-natured and well-behaved, and each have a playmate: Sidone, who just spent five weeks in America learning English, has the company of her father’s best friend’s child, and Olivier has brought a friend of his own from Paris. Francis, Ludo’s best friend, is also here – a very charming, sophisticated and witty man who plays with the kids like he himself is not a day older than 12.
With all these people I adore, as with the neighbors that I respect tremendously, I cannot speak French. I understand when they talk amongst themselves, but if they pose even the simplest of questions to me, I freeze. My dear Aunt Sarah insists that it is because the risk of embarrassment is greater here than at the bar, and she is certainly correct. It’s mind-boggling though, the power of psychology. Last night I spent flirting at the bar, drinking rosé and having a grand old time, speaking not a word of English. I came home, slept for a very short time, woke up and when my family spoke French to me I lost it all. It’s bizarre. Nothing. I don’t know any French while in this house. Leave, and I’ll get into political debates.
I need to find a new book to read. Or I need to write an article to sell to a magazine. My father encourages me to get a “real” job – not the “quand tu veux” nightlife of Le P’tit Club, where I make money in tips and maybe a complimentary 5€ from my friends, the owners. But I do drink for free.
I have one last bit of nothingness: Martine had encouraged me to change the name of my dog. He believed that a dog this wonderful deserved a better name than the alcohol famous for waking up in strange bedrooms with no recollection of the night before. He wanted to call her Camarat, but to me Camarat will forever be this place – to large, dreamy and all encompassing to also become my faithful companion. If she were a boy, I would name her something clever like Yossarian – just to see how many people knew where the name came from. Or I’d call her “Doc” for Doc Holiday, probably my most favorite character from the Old West. But she’s not a boy. And I have no ideas. And it’s probably been too long, so she will remain Tequila or Sunrise (as everyone likes to call her, though I myself have never) or TikkiDog when I really feel like embarrassing her.
Of course, losing track of time is part of being here. The Côte d’Azur is a black hole – a twilight zone – that swallows you hole so that one day you wake up, buy the newspaper, and find yourself shocked that the rest of the world does in fact exist and continues on without you, that time continues to pass somewhere else that is not here.
And in my long days of nothingness, of sleeping and reading, I have somehow managed to do an enormous amount of laundry, climb the treacherous spiral of the lighthouse to see the view, and made one quick visit to the crique with the new inhabitants of Chez Michel.
I’m enjoying the company of Ludovic, my father’s cousin, and his family. He is a wonderful man with a brilliant smile and an excitable nature. His wife is an impressive woman, very sportif and an amazing chef. His two children are good-natured and well-behaved, and each have a playmate: Sidone, who just spent five weeks in America learning English, has the company of her father’s best friend’s child, and Olivier has brought a friend of his own from Paris. Francis, Ludo’s best friend, is also here – a very charming, sophisticated and witty man who plays with the kids like he himself is not a day older than 12.
With all these people I adore, as with the neighbors that I respect tremendously, I cannot speak French. I understand when they talk amongst themselves, but if they pose even the simplest of questions to me, I freeze. My dear Aunt Sarah insists that it is because the risk of embarrassment is greater here than at the bar, and she is certainly correct. It’s mind-boggling though, the power of psychology. Last night I spent flirting at the bar, drinking rosé and having a grand old time, speaking not a word of English. I came home, slept for a very short time, woke up and when my family spoke French to me I lost it all. It’s bizarre. Nothing. I don’t know any French while in this house. Leave, and I’ll get into political debates.
I need to find a new book to read. Or I need to write an article to sell to a magazine. My father encourages me to get a “real” job – not the “quand tu veux” nightlife of Le P’tit Club, where I make money in tips and maybe a complimentary 5€ from my friends, the owners. But I do drink for free.
I have one last bit of nothingness: Martine had encouraged me to change the name of my dog. He believed that a dog this wonderful deserved a better name than the alcohol famous for waking up in strange bedrooms with no recollection of the night before. He wanted to call her Camarat, but to me Camarat will forever be this place – to large, dreamy and all encompassing to also become my faithful companion. If she were a boy, I would name her something clever like Yossarian – just to see how many people knew where the name came from. Or I’d call her “Doc” for Doc Holiday, probably my most favorite character from the Old West. But she’s not a boy. And I have no ideas. And it’s probably been too long, so she will remain Tequila or Sunrise (as everyone likes to call her, though I myself have never) or TikkiDog when I really feel like embarrassing her.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Chez Michel
I woke up this morning to heavy gusts crying through the shallow spaces in my green, wooden shutters. And to a big, white dog head in my face. I pulled my tired body from under the sheets and stumbled downstairs after only 3hrs of sleep (serves me right for partying until 6:30am), walking out barefoot on the damp ceramic terrace surrounding Chez Michel. The Mistral had come and, smiling, I couldn’t imagine a better day.
The mistral stirs up such feelings of fondness within me. I remember in my youth, staying here on our vacation, being exhilarated the mistral. Back then I thought any big storm was the mistral and here on top of the mountain, in this big old house, any big storm is terrifying. Weather beats this place with such fervor, slamming the old wooden doors, whistling angrily through the holes in the windows, shaking the solid clay walls and very foundations of the house until it seems that we will never survive the storm – and then it dies down, leaving us only to fix the electricity, the pump, and whatever other damage done. Storms here are frightening, but with the lightening they bring an electric feeling, a sense of excitement.
But now, having lived here for two months and spoken of the weather with enough natives, I know better. While the mistral can be a big storm, it can also be a heat wave and a dry spell. The mistral is simply the weather from Africa, and last night it brought with it the red rain. Droplets fell from the sky coated with the rust colored sand of the desert, staining everything they touch on this side of the Mediterranean.
As I considered the disgusting color of my scooter, parked carelessly in front of the laundry house, I realized how much I love this place. Chez Michel specifically. The house is ripe with knowledge, hiding secrets and quirks and history within its walls.
Today is the last full day that Sylvia and her family are here. I am sure that, like every other family member who visited, they will say goodbye and thank you to the tree. That’s right, everyone in this family, everyone who knows the history of this house, pays homage to an oak tree every time they visit – saying hello and thank you upon arrival, goodbye and thank you upon departure. We’re not crazy. This house isn’t called “Le Chêne en Croix” (“the Cross of Oak”) because it sounded good. That tree saved this place, allowing us to have these amazing memories and experiences, and for that we are forever grateful.
No, seriously. Years and years and years ago, there was a great fire. (This part of the world is so dry and hot enormous fires are common. From the view here we can often spot thick clouds of colored smoke spouting up from somewhere over the land.) This particular fire spread, seemingly unstoppably, up Cap Camarat, consuming all that it touched. It seemed to most that the hungry fire would eat the entire mountain, our house included. But as it swept across the land, burning buildings and trees and underbrush, it did something no one expected – something no one thought possible. It stopped. Suddenly. In front of a beautiful oak tree shaped like a cross.
That oak cross saved this property from the awesome devastation of the fire. Everything before that tree lay in ruin, thick black dirt and crumbled houses. Now it has been rebuilt and regrown, but it is new. On the other side of our property, the land the tree saved, there still remains giant pine trees and vivid memories.
But that’s just one fascinating story. This is actually the second house built on this foundation, for family legend has it (family legend confirmed by the museum in the citadel in St. Tropez, which – to my recollection – has an entire bit dedicated to this house) that it was overtaken during World War II by the Nazis and used as their regional headquarters. And why not? The view is amazing – they could see enemies coming from miles away on all directions. But when the Allies did finally come and losing seemed imminent to the Nazis, they destroyed the house. My great-grandmother (an amazing woman I will have to write about someday… once I finally unveil the shrouds of mystery surround her life, and the life of so many of the amazing Michel’s) rebuilt it after the war. But there remain hints of the devastation, of war. On the route to the crique there is the foundation of a bunker from which the Nazis shot down to the Allies landing on the beach below. Off the lighthouse, sunken in the shallow water, lies a dormant submarine, shot down in that battle.
WWII bunker foundation
It is a bit eerie, though. Sometimes when I wander around the house I wonder what the wind will unearth. I wonder if I will find some old artifact just lying on this property. It’s quite possible, given the rich history. Sometimes when I lie on the beaches of Pamplonne I cannot avoid the chin that runs down my spine. On that golden sand, many lives were lost. That’s where the Allies landed, that’s where they came to liberate this part of France, to save the people. I can’t help but to feel guilty for, or at least pay respect to, those who fell on the ground where I know sunbathe topless. It just doesn’t seem right. (At the same time, they were American soldiers. If their ghosts are hanging around I can’t say they wouldn’t be thrilled to see all the beautiful, half-naked chics.)
In St. Tropez, there is a little area off the cost of the fort where one can swim. I doubt the water is very clean, but I am curious. Imagine the treasures you might be able to find! St. Tropez has seen many battles fought with primitive tools, cannons, and machine guns. It has seen pirates and heroes. What tiny artifacts remain safely embedded in the ocean floor?
The mistral stirs up such feelings of fondness within me. I remember in my youth, staying here on our vacation, being exhilarated the mistral. Back then I thought any big storm was the mistral and here on top of the mountain, in this big old house, any big storm is terrifying. Weather beats this place with such fervor, slamming the old wooden doors, whistling angrily through the holes in the windows, shaking the solid clay walls and very foundations of the house until it seems that we will never survive the storm – and then it dies down, leaving us only to fix the electricity, the pump, and whatever other damage done. Storms here are frightening, but with the lightening they bring an electric feeling, a sense of excitement.
But now, having lived here for two months and spoken of the weather with enough natives, I know better. While the mistral can be a big storm, it can also be a heat wave and a dry spell. The mistral is simply the weather from Africa, and last night it brought with it the red rain. Droplets fell from the sky coated with the rust colored sand of the desert, staining everything they touch on this side of the Mediterranean.
As I considered the disgusting color of my scooter, parked carelessly in front of the laundry house, I realized how much I love this place. Chez Michel specifically. The house is ripe with knowledge, hiding secrets and quirks and history within its walls.
Today is the last full day that Sylvia and her family are here. I am sure that, like every other family member who visited, they will say goodbye and thank you to the tree. That’s right, everyone in this family, everyone who knows the history of this house, pays homage to an oak tree every time they visit – saying hello and thank you upon arrival, goodbye and thank you upon departure. We’re not crazy. This house isn’t called “Le Chêne en Croix” (“the Cross of Oak”) because it sounded good. That tree saved this place, allowing us to have these amazing memories and experiences, and for that we are forever grateful.
No, seriously. Years and years and years ago, there was a great fire. (This part of the world is so dry and hot enormous fires are common. From the view here we can often spot thick clouds of colored smoke spouting up from somewhere over the land.) This particular fire spread, seemingly unstoppably, up Cap Camarat, consuming all that it touched. It seemed to most that the hungry fire would eat the entire mountain, our house included. But as it swept across the land, burning buildings and trees and underbrush, it did something no one expected – something no one thought possible. It stopped. Suddenly. In front of a beautiful oak tree shaped like a cross.
That oak cross saved this property from the awesome devastation of the fire. Everything before that tree lay in ruin, thick black dirt and crumbled houses. Now it has been rebuilt and regrown, but it is new. On the other side of our property, the land the tree saved, there still remains giant pine trees and vivid memories.
But that’s just one fascinating story. This is actually the second house built on this foundation, for family legend has it (family legend confirmed by the museum in the citadel in St. Tropez, which – to my recollection – has an entire bit dedicated to this house) that it was overtaken during World War II by the Nazis and used as their regional headquarters. And why not? The view is amazing – they could see enemies coming from miles away on all directions. But when the Allies did finally come and losing seemed imminent to the Nazis, they destroyed the house. My great-grandmother (an amazing woman I will have to write about someday… once I finally unveil the shrouds of mystery surround her life, and the life of so many of the amazing Michel’s) rebuilt it after the war. But there remain hints of the devastation, of war. On the route to the crique there is the foundation of a bunker from which the Nazis shot down to the Allies landing on the beach below. Off the lighthouse, sunken in the shallow water, lies a dormant submarine, shot down in that battle.
WWII bunker foundation
It is a bit eerie, though. Sometimes when I wander around the house I wonder what the wind will unearth. I wonder if I will find some old artifact just lying on this property. It’s quite possible, given the rich history. Sometimes when I lie on the beaches of Pamplonne I cannot avoid the chin that runs down my spine. On that golden sand, many lives were lost. That’s where the Allies landed, that’s where they came to liberate this part of France, to save the people. I can’t help but to feel guilty for, or at least pay respect to, those who fell on the ground where I know sunbathe topless. It just doesn’t seem right. (At the same time, they were American soldiers. If their ghosts are hanging around I can’t say they wouldn’t be thrilled to see all the beautiful, half-naked chics.)
In St. Tropez, there is a little area off the cost of the fort where one can swim. I doubt the water is very clean, but I am curious. Imagine the treasures you might be able to find! St. Tropez has seen many battles fought with primitive tools, cannons, and machine guns. It has seen pirates and heroes. What tiny artifacts remain safely embedded in the ocean floor?
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
SAVED!
I am so happy to be where I am right now.
Last night, after a long day at L’Esquinade, I returned to Le P’tit Club. Stephen had cleaned everything while I was gone and I felt guilty that I had so much stuff scattered about (of course, it’s difficult for me to be tidy when I have to leave silently & quickly at 8am when the dog gets up for fear of waking him up, and I don’t get to sleep until 5am when he leaves to faire le fête à St. Tropez). Then he told me that Tequila couldn’t sleep in the room with us. All I could think of was how she cries when she has to sleep alone, especially when she knows there are people nearby whose company she can keep. But what could I do? It’s his room.
Sylvia had called me while I was at the beach and invited me for a drink at the house. Why not, right? But as I went to leave the bar and head to Chez Michel, I realized there was nothing I could do with the dog. Stephen didn’t want her in his room, the middle room (where I usually put her) had to stay open, and she couldn’t roam around the bar freely because there were two very large, aggressive black dogs hanging out with one of the customers. I had no choice – I walked up the mountain with my dog by my side.
When I arrived, Sylvia and her family had just finished eating dinner. “Oh! We were hoping you could eat with us!” We had wine instead.
She asked me what I was doing and I told her I worked at the bar by the campground. We chatted about the job, mostly in English but also in French (Alain, her husband, does not speak English, nor do her two girls), and finally she asked me, “You make good money?”
Hah. No. I work for free. “I don’t make any money.”
“You mean you work only to earn the right to stay there?”
“Well, yes. But I’m not complaining; I have fun.”
And I had told her husband earlier that I slept on a couch there because there wasn’t enough beds for us all; in fact, one of the men sleeps in a tent in the back on the hard ground every night – rain or shine. This is where he told her that.
“No.”
She said it with such certainty, I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Well, yea – I work to stay there on a couch for free.”
“No.” She repeated, with the same defiant tone. “Not anymore, you don’t. You sleep here in a bed in your own room with your dog and you don’t work there like a slave.” And then she spat out this tirade about how there is so much money in this area and this is what people do – make people, especially foreigners, work for free and treat them like slaves by making them stay in unsanitary conditions and not feed them and this that and the other thing… “You will stay here.”
Twist my arm.
“And we will drive you down right now to pick up your suitcase.”
Again, if you insist.
And so off we went, and Alaine put all my bags in the car and he drove off. Tequila stayed at Chez Michel. I hung out with my Dutch friends (one of whom I especially adore – he is very smart and funny, with dark hair and striking blue eyes and a handsome face… and I really like his girlfriend. I’m just striking out with men all over the place. C’est la vie, huh). And after I spoke enough French, cleaned enough glasses, and had enough to drink – I came home. That’s right, I went back to my little room in the attic suite of my family house. I slept in my sheets instead of on a couch or in a stranger’s bed, with my clothes folded neatly in the bureau instead of tossed in a suitcase, and I woke up just before 9 (as always) to my beautiful view, instead of the sterile and foreign walls. God, it felt good. I love this place. And I'm so happy Sylvia was kind enough to let me stay.
I had a lovely breakfast with Sylvia and her family. We went to the crique, the five of us and the two dogs, and we came back to meet the rest of their company and have lunch. And now I’m sitting on the familiar orange couches in the sunroom, enjoying the Mediterranean cross breeze as it sweeps through the house, with not one but two large pups at my feet.
I don’t want to wear my welcome out too much, so I will go to Cogolin for a couple of nights before returning here Thursday or Friday. And then that’s it. I won’t be displaced again for the remained of the time that I am here.
It’s like breathing a deep sigh of relief. I’m home, I’m speaking French, I’m with family. What more can you ask for?
Last night, after a long day at L’Esquinade, I returned to Le P’tit Club. Stephen had cleaned everything while I was gone and I felt guilty that I had so much stuff scattered about (of course, it’s difficult for me to be tidy when I have to leave silently & quickly at 8am when the dog gets up for fear of waking him up, and I don’t get to sleep until 5am when he leaves to faire le fête à St. Tropez). Then he told me that Tequila couldn’t sleep in the room with us. All I could think of was how she cries when she has to sleep alone, especially when she knows there are people nearby whose company she can keep. But what could I do? It’s his room.
Sylvia had called me while I was at the beach and invited me for a drink at the house. Why not, right? But as I went to leave the bar and head to Chez Michel, I realized there was nothing I could do with the dog. Stephen didn’t want her in his room, the middle room (where I usually put her) had to stay open, and she couldn’t roam around the bar freely because there were two very large, aggressive black dogs hanging out with one of the customers. I had no choice – I walked up the mountain with my dog by my side.
When I arrived, Sylvia and her family had just finished eating dinner. “Oh! We were hoping you could eat with us!” We had wine instead.
She asked me what I was doing and I told her I worked at the bar by the campground. We chatted about the job, mostly in English but also in French (Alain, her husband, does not speak English, nor do her two girls), and finally she asked me, “You make good money?”
Hah. No. I work for free. “I don’t make any money.”
“You mean you work only to earn the right to stay there?”
“Well, yes. But I’m not complaining; I have fun.”
And I had told her husband earlier that I slept on a couch there because there wasn’t enough beds for us all; in fact, one of the men sleeps in a tent in the back on the hard ground every night – rain or shine. This is where he told her that.
“No.”
She said it with such certainty, I wasn’t sure how to respond. “Well, yea – I work to stay there on a couch for free.”
“No.” She repeated, with the same defiant tone. “Not anymore, you don’t. You sleep here in a bed in your own room with your dog and you don’t work there like a slave.” And then she spat out this tirade about how there is so much money in this area and this is what people do – make people, especially foreigners, work for free and treat them like slaves by making them stay in unsanitary conditions and not feed them and this that and the other thing… “You will stay here.”
Twist my arm.
“And we will drive you down right now to pick up your suitcase.”
Again, if you insist.
And so off we went, and Alaine put all my bags in the car and he drove off. Tequila stayed at Chez Michel. I hung out with my Dutch friends (one of whom I especially adore – he is very smart and funny, with dark hair and striking blue eyes and a handsome face… and I really like his girlfriend. I’m just striking out with men all over the place. C’est la vie, huh). And after I spoke enough French, cleaned enough glasses, and had enough to drink – I came home. That’s right, I went back to my little room in the attic suite of my family house. I slept in my sheets instead of on a couch or in a stranger’s bed, with my clothes folded neatly in the bureau instead of tossed in a suitcase, and I woke up just before 9 (as always) to my beautiful view, instead of the sterile and foreign walls. God, it felt good. I love this place. And I'm so happy Sylvia was kind enough to let me stay.
I had a lovely breakfast with Sylvia and her family. We went to the crique, the five of us and the two dogs, and we came back to meet the rest of their company and have lunch. And now I’m sitting on the familiar orange couches in the sunroom, enjoying the Mediterranean cross breeze as it sweeps through the house, with not one but two large pups at my feet.
I don’t want to wear my welcome out too much, so I will go to Cogolin for a couple of nights before returning here Thursday or Friday. And then that’s it. I won’t be displaced again for the remained of the time that I am here.
It’s like breathing a deep sigh of relief. I’m home, I’m speaking French, I’m with family. What more can you ask for?
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