Secret Sharing

For the past three months, Michael and I have been sharing a secret. This is a secret that has been closely kept between just the two of us. We have shared bits and pieces with each of our families, but the 'full' secret has been solely ours. Today, as I drove past the Alpilles mountains, I finally realized the full beauty and the weight of this secret that we have been carrying with us. You see, the Alpilles mountains have become our own. One part of the ridge has four distinct peaks that Michael and I adore. Every time we drive by them, or every time we're out walking along the road, we comment about how much we love the Alpilles. We say, "Look at our mountains today! Aren't they so beautiful?" Today, as we watched them fall over the horizon in the rear view mirror, a thought occurred to me. I began wondering when I'd be back to visit St. Remy again and who would be with me. At that point, I knew that the only person I would ever want by my side would be Michael. He's the only one that shares the same emotions for this place that I do. I realized that no one else would love those mountains in the same way that I would. I realized that my friends and family wouldn't think they were extraordinary compared to the Rockies or even the Smoky mountains for that matter. And I finally understood that this place is a place truly loved from the heart by both Michael and me.

For us, Provence began as an extended vacation. We chose St. Remy because we liked Provence and liked Mas Dagan (from the pictures we found online). We went into this experience comparing it to other vacations we've taken; Mexico, California, etc. But, reflecting now, since those first days, Provence has become our home. We lived our lives here the past three months and this place has brought us closer together. It has helped to bind us and wrapped another thread around us. Michael is the only one who has shared the weight and beauty of this secret in the same way as I have. We have loved this place as a home rather than a vacation spot. We have loved it with our whole hearts, not just with taste buds and tanned skin. We have learned, grown, and changed since we've been here, much like you do in your homes. It makes me sad to know that you won't know about the little laundry room detached from the house; a place I thought peaceful and intriguing. It makes me sad to know that when you hear us talk about Ozzie and Pudge, they will just be stray cats to you; to us they made our months here exciting. It makes me sad to know that our stories will just remain as stories to you; to us our stories are our memories we will forever cherish as being some of the greatest times in our lives.

We all have secrets, don't we? Be grateful and thankful for them, and love those you share them with. They may just be some of the greatest times of your life.

The Stogie

I don’t know exactly what got me going. I don’t know if it was the south of France or too much time or simply watching Terry Benedict on the Ocean’s movies, but it seemed to me I needed to smoke a cigar. As you well know, the selling of Cuban-made cigars in the United States has been illegal for many years. However, here in France and all over Europe, the nation’s don’t seem to have the beef with Cuba that we do. So, needless to say, Cuban cigars are in every corner tobacco shop. Since Europe allowed me this freedom I felt, for some strong, but seemingly random reason, that I should not, could not leave this continent without having first puffed on a true Cuban. I dwelled over my decision for many days. At this point in our trip, a five-euro cigar is a major luxury, and yet I persuaded myself to do it, take the opportunity and have 20 minutes of tobacco burning bliss. I purchased my very high-end Romeo y Julieta cigar for five euros and thirty cents. When I got home, I pulled it out of its case and inhaled the scent of cedar and tobacco and imagining myself contentedly puffing away on our porch, watching the sun set through the thick wisps of smoke. After a day of delay, I decided that the afternoon had arrived. I brought a book, a box of matches and the precious stogie out to the terrace. I lit, I puffed, I enjoyed. And then came the last bit of the cigar. I had taken my time, enjoying the weather and the atmosphere and thinking of when I was going to start my own fine cigar collection, when I started to feel slightly off. My head became a little lighter than normal and my fingers felt tingly and my stomach began to churn over breakfast and lunch. Now I have to tell you, this wasn’t the first time. I have had my share of bad cigar experiences before. Nausea, tingling, sweating and even eventual vomiting had all been apart of my incident-plagued past. For some reason, I felt this was different. I had taken my time, I had enjoyed the moments and I had truly felt that it was something I could get used to. And then, after stumbling quietly into the house, my head pounding by now, I slept. For two hours straight, with the scent of burnt leaf still on my fingertips, I slept. When I awoke, and the feeling remains, I wanted nothing to do with cigars. Every time I have tried them, I have had the image of myself in my mind, something, someone I wanted to be. I wanted to be able to open the door of my humidor and offer my best friends a very pricey, very rich, very Cuban cigar. And yet, it seems to me now that wanting to love cigars, for me, was really to love the idea and the image of what I would be if I smoked one. I think sometimes I end up doing that same thing through my life. I get myself involved in things, buy things, research things and get interested in things that in reality, I don’t even like. I like them for other people, I like them so that I look like I like them and look the way I want to look to everyone else. I guess I have gotten caught up in the image of life, not the reality. I have taken to trying something till it makes me nauseous, sleeping it off and then forgetting about it until the next time, trying not to remember if I liked it or if it mattered at all, but seeing myself as I pictured, the image of who I desperately want others to see. I think I’m going to try honesty for a while. I’m going to like things that I actually like and be not who I picture, but who I really am.

From Couch Potato to 5K...hopefully

So while we had all this time on our hands, here in the south of France, we decided it was time to get a little disciplined, time to pursue some of our exercise-related goals. Surprisingly, the dawn of a new year had nothing to do with our new-found passion for healthy living, it was just a coincidence in timing. Well, the grueling program has found me aching, fighting cramps and soreness and a generally weary body. And we’re only on day two. Seriously, though, for the first time in my life I feel like my age is catching up with me. Now don’t get me wrong, I realize I’m not an old geezer yet. I’m just a shade under 26 and that’s by no means a ripe old age. However, since starting our new running plan I do feel a few steps closer to the top of that infamous ‘Hill.’ I feel old because I am now forced to look back on the days when I could go out, run a few miles and not feel it the next day. When Whitney first broached the subject of getting ourselves into shape, I was a little hesitant. When she detailed the program of choice, the aptly named “Couch Potato to 5K Workout,” I became even more skeptical. This gradual, easy starting, fluff-of-a-routine wasn’t for me, I declared, I wasn’t to the point in my life where squeezing in a half hour jog was going to kill me. Or was I? The first day, and by ‘day’ I mean 20 minutes of an on-again-off-again jog/walk interval, left me literally hobbling home. My knee throbbed, my arms and legs were weary and I was ready for bed. The following day was a rest day, and thank the good Lord, cause I needed it. Again, my overconfidence at my recovery time rendered me a fool and I staggered out of bed in the morning, sore in places I didn’t know I had and definitely didn’t know I needed to be able to run. The following day, today, was day number two of the routine. Identical to number one it was just as simple and seemingly as ‘easy’ as the first. Working out for me has, for the first time, become a humbling experience. I am no longer invincible. From now on I will, or so it seems, think twice before dashing out the door for a quick jog, or hopping on a treadmill for a lunch break workout. However, I also think that with this change comes thoughts and wisdom and action that would have been out of place in my younger self. I am starting to want to be an adult. I desire responsibility and regularity and consistency. I want to settle in to a neighborhood where people know me and count on me. I want a job that I do well and do it for a long time. I want a family who looks to me as their support and knows that they can count on me. Every day I pray that I can fill this role as well as I hope and if I can, I’ll take a pulled hamstring or a throbbing knee any day.

A Parisian New Year

Perspective in a Cave

In Provence, Van Gogh is king. His picture is hanging in shops, his paintings are copied and sold all around, his favorite drink, absinthe, is stacked in great supply in the corner of every store. If he created but one painting in a certain place, you are sure to know it and the city is sure to capitalize on it. St. Remy is no exception; throughout the town, plaques with his paintings are placed in the spot from which he painted the original over a hundred years before. While we haven’t taken the official Van Gogh tour of Provence, each stop of significance another site from which he painted, we have explored a nearby spot worth mentioning. In Les Baux, an old city atop a hill, centered around its once grand and now crumbling castle, there are caves carved out of the solid rock. In one of these such caves a creative entrepreneur has put the space to better use than just a dark, dank place to get out of the rain. The Cathedral d’Images is a state-of-the-art tourist trap, worth every Euro cent. As we approached, the caves looked as ordinary as any of the others we passed en route. After paying a nominal fee at the simple ticket counter, we ventured into the heavy coolness of the space. Essentially, the Cathedral is a grand art gallery, but instead of stuffy critics, bundled-up tourists file through and instead of prized works, small and framed on the walls, the caves interior is bathed in the light of a dozen high-powered LCD projectors. Images of famous works, over three stories high, hang as tapestries of light and color from the stone walls and pillars. The images change and move, scrolling across the surface of the cave’s interior, projected from the machines overhead. I have been twice now, to the caves, the first at Thanksgiving and the second at Christmas. Between times, however, my perspective has changed a bit. One of the many works of literature that we brought on our European journey was a copy of Lust for Life, borrowed from Whitney’s mother. It is a poetic and richly descriptive biography of Vincent Van Gogh’s life. Written like a novel rather than a history book, it quickly captured my attention and ushered me into a place of understanding and appreciation of this oft misunderstood man. Before this simple education, Van Gogh seemed crazed, inaccurate, even inarticulate. I felt like he was a child, twirling his paintbrush through color and arriving at a harsh depiction what could have been a beautiful scene. But as I read, I better grasped the mind behind the canvas, the struggles, the rejection he suffered and the tenacity with which he pursued the excellence he eventually attained. Needless to say, my Christmas trip was a more rewarding experience. While initially I was awed at the genius of the project itself, the projectors, the atmosphere, the general idea of the thing, the second visit I was much more drawn to the work itself. While my knowledge of the artist’s life was still no more than elementary, I now saw behind the paint and canvas, to the pain he carried and the joys and triumphs that propelled him to some of his most renowned and beautiful pieces.

As I went from interest to appreciation, I felt a surge of hope in my own life. So often I think that what I have to say is insignificant. While I would love to write beautifully and artfully and adventurously, I feel like the page ends with a drab, monotone depiction of an ordinary day in an ordinary life. And yet, when I look at Van Gogh’s work now, I don’t appreciate the depiction of a scene to its most minute and perfect detail, if I wanted such a scene I would buy a photo taken on that very spot, no, instead I see through eyes that are different than mine, eyes seeing through emotion and experience as a pair of glasses, eyes that saw shapes and lines and colors that I could never see. And that is what I can only hope to do. I hope to be another set of eyes through which the world sees, one that may be different enough that some learning or beauty or understanding comes by looking through.

Lost without Translation

Last night we were elbow to elbow with the locals. I had been anticipating the ‘Marche de Noel,’ the Christmas Market, for a few weeks and the evening had finally come. Traditionally, the gathering of local vendors was an easy and efficient way for the community to prepare for the ‘Gros Souper,’ or Big Dinner, that fell on Christmas Eve. However, the market seemed to have evolved a bit. We saw a variety of items strewn across a few dozen stands, most seemingly unhelpful in making the Big Dinner prep any easier. But we enjoyed perusing, just the same. The hot, sweet scent of crepes mixed with the soft smoke of the chestnuts, roasting, literally, on an open fire. Once inside the large tent, we saw that Santon figures, another Provencal tradition, were carefully set in strict rows, a colorful little army of bakers and huntsmen and grazing animals. The Santons are little clay objects, painted gaily and precisely, and then set up as peripherals to a huge nativity scene. Basically, rather than just Mary, Joseph, Jesus and a few accompanying characters, the Santon scene is an entire village spilling over the landscape of lavender and red-roofed homes. Take the little snow-capped village homes with twinkling lights that are sold in the States, multiply the popularity and size of the set-up by ten and you’re getting closer to the picture. The rest of the vendors were a combination of ceramics, art, fabrics and food. The food, while useless for preparing the Gros Souper, was delightful for the perusing tourist. We dipped some bread at a stand with a rainbow of vinegars to try. We nibbled a bit of cookie, not recognizing the flavor, but enjoying it just the same. We filled our pockets with several flavors of ‘fougasse,’ which I can only describe as the French response to the German pretzel. After getting our fill we walked out into the crisp night, the crowds still pulsing in and out of the tent, flowing through the town’s artery for the holiday weekend. While wrapped in typical winter gear, we were warm, the night had dipped only to 50 degrees, and the slight sense of wind was diminished by the buildings of the city centre and the crowds that filled it. I felt a sense of relief as we walked out, the glitter of white lights strung from tree to tree over our heads. I realized that a carefree event had taken on an indistinct pressure, here. The presence of a crowd, speaking a language with which I was so barely familiar, totally at home in their surroundings, had become a tinge overwhelming in the few minutes in the tent. While I would love to say the last seven weeks in France has given me courage in my ability to communicate, honestly it has done the opposite. Rather than attempting my staggering, staccato attempts at speech, it seems I avoid lingering eye contact or a smiling clerk or an offered sample, simply to miss the possibility of an awkward encounter.

Last week we went to a nearby chateau, famed more for its vineyards and olive oil than its buildings, to tour and to taste. We poked our heads through the heavy drapes that protected the bistro from the mistrals, and were led to a wine barrel table. The interior was inviting. Christmas trees propped in every corner and huge chandeliers cast a romantic glow on the dark woods of the tables and floor. We pulled out the menu and pointed out our requests to the friendly waiter. After we had spent a few minutes nibbling on our Swiss fondue and sipping the establishment’s fine wine, a thin, smiling, youthful man approached our table. He began in French, but hearing our accents and our delayed response, he asked if we spoke English. A relief spilled through me and I eagerly said ‘yes.’ We answered his questions, complimenting the food and the place and telling him where we were from. Then I began explaining how my family was coming for Christmas and we would like to come back and when are you open and what do you serve and where can we taste wines and on and on. Later I smiled to myself, thinking how gracious the man was in response to my little life story. I had unknowingly craved interaction and yet with the barrier of language, my smiles, my ‘mercis,’ and my gestures of politeness were falling so very short. When I finally had an outlet, someone who was comfortable with my language, I exploded with conversation, like a kid describing their newest toy.

These two events made me realize how much I need contact with people. I need daily connections with those around me, even if it’s as simple as getting directions from a gas station attendant or gawking at the amount of snow with the barista at a coffee shop. Funny how those things seem like such annoyances at home, how transactional they become, how you can forget that the person on the other side of the counter, or in front of you in line, or next to you at a red light is, indeed, a person. While I look forward to many things in our return to America, that is the thing I anticipate the most. Being able to communicate pleasure with the food at a quaint café or wish someone a Merry Christmas on my way out of the grocery store, these are the things that I sadly missed in my busyness of life and now I miss them in a whole different way.

Le Marche

An invariable part of our weekly routine in St. Remy is the open-air market. Every Wednesday, whether misting rain, mistral winds or brilliant sun and sixty, we meander our way through the stalls downtown, perusing the local goods. It has become one of the only consistencies in our time here. We drive into town, through the market area, and come out the other side, park next to the tourist information office for one Euro, and turn around, heading back into town to explore.

Our first stop is inevitably the traditional Provencal goods. There are soaps of every possible flavor, their scents so potent and perfect, it seems as thought they are pure concentrate. The dark green bar, rough and very masculine, holds the smell of a thousand olives, pressed closely and barely contained in one single soap. The soft purple one stands out, as there are so many more of this one, and without picking it up, acres of lavender fields waft from the table, through the other soaps, and into your nose. So of course, this first stop holds our attention for several minutes each week as we pick up every colored bar to breathe it in, surprised at how each one does indeed smell just like the name engraved on its face. The nearby tables are of items we don’t care too much to sift through. A large camper-style van unfolds to reveal hundreds of pairs of brand-new shoes. Another vehicle spews out purses and wallets and bags of every kind, covering the large tables and the ground nearby. Then we come to another traditional Provencal item and, of course, another stop in our journey. These tables are weighted down heavily in the authentic, time-honored fabrics of the region. Many are covered in bright yellows and oranges and reds and adorned with images of olives or stalks lavender. They come in square, rectangle and circle. There are napkins and placemats and tablecloths. There are outdoor and indoor and cotton and linen. Picking up each fabric, we continue to peruse, receiving a ‘bon jour’ from the stand’s proprietor. Commenting on each one, of course they’re all so ‘cute,’ we bid ‘au revoir’ to the friendly local salesperson and expertly steer our way through the scene. We may stop at another table or two, perhaps to look at a quilt or a briefcase or a new set of silver boule balls, but we have accomplished our goals on this side of the street and the remaining few minutes are really just steps to get us closer to the other part of the market.

Where the first section of shops seemed orderly, more like an outdoor store than anything else, the other side of the street is throbbing with all the life and wonderful chaos that just makes sense at a market. There is a Dutchman, selling chocolate wafer cookies. He’s heating them up a on a griddle and we eagerly take one of the samples. We buy a bag from him and discover he too is living in the south of France for three months, traveling from place to place, selling these simple wafers, in order to bring back a big bag of cash to his home in Amsterdam. Then there is a Vietnamese man, busily picking it out fried items, handing steaming bags of lunch to the line of hungry French people. His line is consistently the longest, we pass by and vow next time we’ll stop. Then we wander through the alley of fruit. Bright orange clementines adorn a large chunk of one table, they’re so fresh and vibrant, we can’t help but grab a few. There are bananas, carrots, avocados and pineapple. There are several kinds of mushrooms and huge cloves of fresh garlic. Tables of juicy, colorful produce spread out towards one end of the market, where they’ve stuck the fishmonger, and his smells, who brought his fresh catch today, salmon.

Back around, past the Dutchman and the fried spring rolls, the Italian offers us a sample of his gourmet cheese, huge rounds, all identical, are stacked on each other, giving you only one, albeit very good, choice for the day. The meat vendors are next, shoving chunks of their savory treats on toothpicks into your hands, offering you toro, and beef and donkey. The next few stands are more of the same, a butcher stands by, watching the small chickens spin to a golden brown in the rotisserie. A man selling ‘confiture de candard’ and foie gras doesn’t attract too much attention from us, just passing tourists not quite daring enough to dip into anything that gourmet. Our favorite stand is next, a happy couple, bubbling over with conversation and tastes of their delightful product, invite us in. These tapenades are incredible. Tomato, basil, and garlic have become our favorites, so we pick up these three, again, and tell our friends we’ll see them next week. This week, due to our regularity, they include a special ‘gift,’ yet another flavor to get us hooked on.

The rest of the market continues, winding around a small square’s fountain, with more of the same. A butcher, a cheese vendor and a vegetable seller. A few tables of wine and a stand with heaps of olives, flavored with every spice and in every possible shade of green. At this point, we are usually content with our purchases and head in to town, perhaps to wander into a few shops or stop by our favorite crepes store, but that is for another post.

As we cross the street, heading back to the lot, cars slow gently for us, knowing today is market day, and I notice an odd sense of community has developed. It seems as though everyone in St. Remy comes to the square on Wednesdays. They may simply need a small bag of olives or a few pieces of fruit. It’s surely more practical or efficient or cost-effective to go to the supermarket, but the attraction of this place, teeming with energy, and the feel of a family, continues to draw people back. We have grown to love Tuesday nights, because we know on Wednesday just where we’ll be, just where we belong.