Paranoia...for good reason!

Round One of Battle Royale with the Mice!
I apologize for the unedited version, we wanted to get this up right away!

Paranoia

So Mas Dagan, as a whole, has exceeded our expectations for a vacation home. Its decorations are Provencal perfection. The grounds are comfortable and interesting and lend themselves to exploration. However, a home of 250 years, comes with a few little quirks. As she departed from us a few days ago, our landlady warned us about a few things. "There are a few mice in the ceiling that may, rarely, scratch or move and create some sound." Ok, we thought, no big deal, a few mice every couple of weeks passing through, catching a little warmth in the roof wasn't going to be an issue. Hey, we might even appreciate the company, we thought. So we tucked ourselves into our cozy bed, pulled up the down comforter and settled in to a relaxing, dream-filled sleep. And then the scratching began. I awoke that first night to a flaky bit of terra cotta ceiling falling on my previously-closed eyelid. Startled, I threw off the covers and woke up Whitney in the process. The visitors had let us know they were there. Unfortunately, that wasn't the first and only visit. Sitting in the family room, reading, typing, talking, we have come to (almost) ignore the graveling, the shuffling, the practically constant moving around of our rodent friends. Now we haven't actually seen anything, but the level of awareness on which their presence has placed us is practically impressive. At the squeak of a door or the yawn of one of our unassuming cats or the rattle of the heater exhaling a breath of warmth, we are instantly on guard, our eyes glued to the ceiling, just waiting to see a tail or a snout or a tooth of one of these carnivorous intruders.

Sure, it has become paranoia, but how can we help it? How, when Whitney grabs a blanket and covers her legs and the little tassel brushes against my arm, can I simply ignore this very mouse-like touch? How, when putting away the bread after dinner and the shadow of the drying dishes look very similar to that of scurrying rodent, can I simply turn and walk away?

We have put a call in to the landlady, begging her for some intervention, some rat poison, a few traps, an exterminator perhaps? However, until then, paranoid I will be, thinking that these pesky creatures, with nothing but bad intentions, are constantly plotting and planning to ambush me when I'm unawares.

I often tell myself that my worries will be over if...If I make a decision about a new job; If I go on vacation; If I leave the country for six months, living in the south of France where there couldn't possibly be anything in the world to worry about. And here I sit, on edge, worried, paranoid about a little mouse (or maybe racoon...the most recent scratching episode made it sound HUGE!). While, of course, I say this tongue-in-cheek, there is a little truth to it. I have gone through life saying that the next phase will be worry-free, easy, very well laid out and obvious, and yet, when I eventually meet that new phase head-on, I realize that the blueprint isn't quite so simple, the map not as clear as I had hoped and my worries are just as present as they were last week. While I didn't embark on this European journey to avoid the worries of life, I think in the back of my mind I was hoping that somehow most of them would go away. Magically, for six months of my life, I would think of nothing but the flavor of the next delectable pastry I would consume or what time, 10:00 or 11:00, I would stir from my bed. I've realized that the mice of my life are here too. They somehow managed to find their way through the flights, the B&Bs all over Europe, even the trains, and have now very comfortably settled in to St. Remy. Job decisions, home decisions, baby decisions, all of these things hang over my head, scratching, shuffling around in the ceiling of my mind. I have always told myself that once I make the choices, once I have conclusion to the unsettled issues in my life, I will be able to relax. And yet, I am beginning to learn, slowly though it may be, that these decisions will never die. I will always have a new fork in the road, a new option and choice for me to debate. For now, I can't help but worry, I can't help but be paranoid, but soon, I hope and pray, that I will acknowledge the mice in my head and be okay. That their shuffling and scuffling and roof-spilling behavior would no longer be all that consumes me. Soon, I would like to be able to dust off their trouble and turn over, place my pillow on the bed and dream again in peace.

Mas Dagan: The Tour

Here's a little video of our apartment in St. Remy-de-Provence, called Mas Dagan. We are settling in comfortably and will continue our writing despite the slower pace of our travels. We hope you enjoy!

From East to West to Home

The last few days we have put on a few miles (or 'kilometers' as they call 'em over here). After the beaches of Normandy we headed slightly south to the Valley of the Loire. It is a beautiful area known for its wines (as most of France is) and for its chateau. While we just couldn't find time to do too much of the wine, we were able to visit three of the most magnificent 'homes' I have ever seen. Our home base, where we stayed one very comfortable night, was in Chinon, the more quaint and quiet sister to more well-known Amboise. We stopped by another cute cafe, this time enjoying crepes and fluffy omelettes (a speciality in the Loire) and slept well. Our B&B was known for its array of jams, giving us a rainbow of choices that following morning. After sampling a dozen or so and begging to purchase a few jars (to no avail) we began on the scenic Route du Vignobles, a scenic road, lined with vineyards, connecting the famous chateau of the region.

Our first stop gave us a little lesson in French culture: don't mess with lunch. We arrived at 12:30 only to find that the next hour and a half was to be set aside for the ticket takers to have a leisurely meal. Dejected, we strolled back to the car and plugged the location of the next nearest monster home into the GPS. Not fifteen minutes later we had arrived at what we were told was the queen of Loire Valley chateaux gardens. Behind the home rested a maze of flowers, plants, vines and shrubbery. Each bush and tree trimmed to perfection, the birds-eye view from the second and third floor made the grounds look like a meticulous blueprint. The colors were vibrant, even the cabbages had a particular place in the scene. We made one last stop at the well-known Château de Chenonceau (seen in the picture), and toured its grounds and interior. This mansion was the first of its kind to be built purely for status, solely for inducing a 'wow' from the 'who's who' of society. It accomplished its goal. Over one half of the structure is stretched over the Cher river and the rest sitting on its bed, naturally surrounded, this home came complete with its natural moat.

After another night in the Loire, in Amboise, we set out for the east, to Colmar in the Alsace region. Another area known for great wine, we again took the 'wine road' and this time took the time to stop and sip a few regional specialties. The Cremant d'Alsace is a champagne-like bubbly that we very much enjoyed. One of the family-owned wineries that we stopped in, was in its 14th generation of production! Apples were also in harvest and we stopped in to quench our thirst with some of the incredibly fresh 'jus de pommes.'

Although we very much enjoyed the driving and wines of the Alsatian region, the rain and near freezing temperatures had dampened our spirits a bit. Our original plans to visit Chamonix and Mont Blanc near Switzerland became a little more than we could handle. We put a call in to our landlady in St. Remy-de-Provence and asked if an earlier arrival would be okay.

Needless to say, she obliged and I now write this blog from outside our new 'home.' The grounds and house are incredible, a full video tour will come shortly to give you a glimpse into our Provencal paradise.

Now begins the true adventure for us. The first 60 days have been a whirlwind of sites, tastes, smells, people, places and memories. We will be processing and recalling and reminiscing for the next several months, I'm sure. However, in one specific aspect the first 60 days were also not all I hoped they'd be. This trip is to process our thoughts, talk about our dreams and pray for our future. After 60 days and 31 different beds I am realizing the necessity of routine. In St. Remy, we will finally have what we have wished for. The peace of this place is real, its distance from the outside world comforting. While I know accomplishing the things we desire will, in the end, only come with discipline, I feel that this place lends a helping hand. We can finally stop checking the train schedules, calling the next B&B and checking the GPS for our next 'can't-miss' site. We are finally 'home' and our true adventure, the one that helps us face life, is just beginning.

Sobering Sites

The last 36 odd hours, we spent along the Normandy coast, in northern France. As I had done a month's worth of research specifically on D-Day during college, I was particularly interested in connecting some of the words on the page, to the real-life landmarks. We spent our first night in lovely Honfleur. Not quite a part of the D-Day beaches, this quaint little port town is very much a part of Normandy. Its cider, crepes and coastal views were as present as any other town. We wandered the art gallery strewn sidewalks and munched on a croissant and sipped our cappuccino. I think it was the first time in 60+ days that the picture in my mind matched reality. It was idyllic. We spent just a few short hours there and then began the more reflective, introspective leg of our journey. On our way to Omaha Beach, on which our hotel was directly located, we stopped in one of Normandy's workaday towns, bustling and busy and missing the charm of the rest of its neighbors. However, in the center of this city was the best museum that I had ever been to. The Caen Memorial Museum focused on WWII, yet was able to do so by bringing you through years of war and build-up, giving you the history necessary for a more complete understanding. Not only was the museum informative, it was eye-popping. Each room and each space in each room was deliberate and well done. The memorial space to the Holocaust was dimly lit, flickering candles bordering a mostly empty space, helping you to focus and meditate. The rest of the museum continued in like form. We learned much, but enjoyed the visit for more than that. The exhibits continued, winding their way up to the pinnacle, on which stood a moving, complete and touching storyline of September 11th. It was an incredibly sympathetic and personal look at America, terrorism and worldwide cooperation.

After the Museum, a gourmet bite overlooking Omaha beach and a good night's rest, Monday was jam-packed with seeing the sites. I can't very well paint the picture of the gun batteries, or describe the incredible will it would have taken for the US Rangers to scale the sheer cliffs at Pointe Du Hoc. However, I can tell you that never have I had the perspective that I did during that day. I realized that the answers to the questions are never easy. War is never cut and dry. I came away feeling proud and sorry and sympathetic and angry. Above all, I felt surprised. On this Adventure, Whitney and I have seen ancient ruins, buildings built before Christ and a host of other not-quite-understood (but very old) sites, and yet, here we were, standing alongside a gun three times my height, that was sending explosives thirteen miles out to sea, just 60 years ago. 60 years. I hadn't realized that I had gained perspective on this trip. I hadn't realized that 60 years would seem so close, seem so yesterday, compared to the rest of history. There were cars, there were radios, there were restaurants and bars and cigarettes. There were elaborate plans, brilliant ideas and incredible military technologies. What may now seem so barbaric, and so heinous wasn't happening under the Cesar's rule or during the time of Sun worship. It wasn't ancient history. It isn't ancient history. It was just yesterday.

The Clothes On My Back

We are back to the pace of a week ago. Moving every two or three nights, our 'whirlwind' of Europe continues. We took a much needed hiatus from the journey in the Ukraine, a town of 14,000 called, yet definitely not spelled, Keetsmine. Mariya Turchek, a friend of the Zimmerman family for the past 7 years, graciously hosted us in her home. We were spoiled by her generosity. We were treated to the finest in local Ukrainian cuisine, we stayed in her 'little house,' a small space, independent of the main home, complete with bathroom, bedroom and kitchen. We truly felt humbled by her, and her family's, treatment of us. We were forced to sit down while the rest of the family would prepare a meal. We wouldn't be allowed to clean up or otherwise exert ourselves in the least bit. It was an amazing testimony to the serving hearts of Mariya and her family. While time may yield more reflection of these six nights, we were just so blessed to be among 'family' for a few short days. The time went fast and yesterday brought some tearful goodbyes.

As Mariya and her son-in-law, Pasha, pulled away from the Lviv airport (by the way, this was the smallest airport that we had ever seen or heard of), we continued our European Adventure, knowing that by the day's end we would begin the last leg of our journey. As I said, Lviv airport was about the size of my living room. Ok, I'm homeless I don't have a living room, but maybe the size of your living room. Fifty people packed out the waiting room. The check-in counter was A counter, under a stairway and operated by the same two individuals regardless of what airline was flying that day. I think they may have simply had alternative suit jackets depending on the airline; red for Austrian Airways, blue for LOT Polish etc. Anyway, after a long and arduous 30 seconds of the most lax security we had ever seen, we planted ourselves next to the coffee table in the waiting room. An hour later our bus arrived, to taxi us out to our eager aircraft. Aircraft is perhaps a generous term. This was also another first for us, you could actually see the propellors. They weren't like your typical airplane, jet engines booming, the propellors 'started up' when the pilot was ready. Anyway, we made it off just fine, a few jerks and bumps typical of a smaller vessel (I guess) and landed in Vienna. Whitney had been hoping for a good ol' American candy bar and cup of Starbucks coffee, but as we had arrived much later than expected, I resisted her plea. However, as we approached our gate a large snack shop awaited and we stuffed our bags with gummi bears and M&Ms. The flight was delayed (due to our late arrival, sorry EVERYBODY else, don't blame us), so we sat for a few minutes before boarding. Two short hours later we landed in Paris and went to retrieve our bags. Now let me say, up to this point we have been very fortunate. Last night, our luck stopped. As the conveyer belt made one final trek around the now-empty baggage claim, my hands were empty. Whitney's bag had made it from Lviv, to Vienna to Paris, mine, had not. So now I sit here in Brugge, Belgium (we arrived at 1am this morning) with simply the clothes on my back. No, really. We plan to spend two nights here and then backtrack to France where we begin our final week-long descent to the south of France and 'home.' I guess I won't have much trouble deciding what to wear today.

Well, off to sample some Brugge delights: chocolate and beer!

Off to the Ukraine

Just to let you know, in case we aren't able to post for a few days, we are off to the Ukraine to see Mariya! She has been a wonderful help and friend to Whitney's family in the past and we can't wait to see her. Hopefully we'll be able to find an internet cafe or something, but if not, we'll write again when we get to France. We can't believe that we are that close to our 'final destination' of Provence.