The End

We’re moving to Paris.


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Essence of family

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sarah's Arrived

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

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

I’m moving to Paris.

Fête d’au Revoir

I can’t believe this was goodbye…









I’ll miss the Hôtel Giscle!

Les Salins

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

I'm just on a roll...

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

A Trip to the Big Rock

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

Why I could never be a journalist or a spy:

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

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

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

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

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

Dinner Next Door

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All in all, a tremendous success.

The World Polo Cup of St. Tropez

Tonight, I saw my first polo match.


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





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

Bastide Blanch

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

It turns out that statement is only half true.

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



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

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

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

Another dinner…

It was 2005.

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

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

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

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

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

At least the gazzpachio was good.

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

Suddenly this really does feel familiar, like home.

Ludo’s Arrival

I can’t explain it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Successful dinner party

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

But not tonight!

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

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

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

It was a tremendous success.

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

It was perfect.

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

Cat, the carpenter

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

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

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

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

If only I was kidding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good God.

L’orage

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

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

How sweet...

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

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

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

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

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

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

I take it back

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

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

Suddenly, three anxious taps at the door.

“Oui?”

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

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

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

C’est tout.

Rootless

I woke up this morning so eager to come back.

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

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

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

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

Then I saw the Mercedes SUV in the driveway.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ça va?”

“Oui, ça va,” she said.

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

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

“Where is your family?” I finally asked.

“At the beach, with their friends.”

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

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

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

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

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

Honestly, this is ridiculous.

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

Geeze, I’ll never raise my kids Catholic.