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My Dream House on the Côte d’Azur

For once, it was Remi who pulled the car over with a need to take a second look. “You need to see this,” he declared as a smile slowly spread over his features. “What?” (me, cranky after a long day). “Only your dream house,” he tossed off as he slid out of the car. I grabbed my camera but was highly dubious. 

Silly me. I love the cast-offs, the shy ones, the Island of Misfit Toys. Remi knows this. He also knows that there is a part of me that is dancing in silk bias cut gowns, Zelda-like, if only in my imagination. And he found the perfect blend between the two. 

The house looks as though it hasn’t been lived in for quite some time. But the charm of the best of what the Riviera once was beckons behind its closed-off gates, sleeping in its ill-kept gardens. With the lullaby of the sea singing just beyond. From the few shutters left open, I can tell that the house has a straight-through access to the blue beyond. Can you imagine the Jazz Age parties that were held here? Don’t you feel the impulse to open up all of the windows and let the curtains billow? I sure did. And here is the kicker. Someone will. On the quaintly unimposing gate, reminiscent of more promising times, we read the permis de constuire or construction permit which was not, thankfully having to do with destruction but rather concerned the simple addition of a pool. 
So someone is going to save this lovely old girl–isn’t that something? It made me think of my other Sleeping Beauty, My Dream House in Provence. I would take either, frankly with unabated joy. Remi and I got back into the car and were both quiet for some time, groggy from having a new dream in our hearts and content that someone will be living it soon.
Have a wonderful rest of your weekend, friends.

The bridge

There are moments in life when we feel compelled to stop and go back for a second look. 
Remi and I were barrelling along a back road in the Var when in a flash something pulled at the corner of my eye. “Hold on, can we turn around?” By now, Remi knows that this is a question that I don’t ask lightly. He obliged and we were awarded with the view of a lopsided old bridge tucked in the hills of a forgotten valley. The noonday sun flattened out the land in the palm of its hand, something was missing. We drove on.
After enduring the winds rustling around Grimaud, we decided that they would keep us from enjoying a sunset glass of rosé in St. Tropez as had been our plan and turned back. “Why don’t we stop again at that bridge we passed earlier?” Remi suggested. I should have known. A perpetual light hunter, that one.

Ben jumped out of the back of the Range Rover with a shake of delight. How strange this terrain with its bumpy lava-like crust dotted with lichen. The parasol pines pushed the horizon out and up, in a very Seuss-ical manner. Curiouser and curiouser.

As can happen when faced with such utter beauty, some silent agreement forms between Remi and I. We both need to go our separate ways for a while and define it for ourselves. Ben plays tag between the two of us. As on that particular evening it happened to be close to the time when he usually hears his favorite word in the world, he shadowed my heels, looking at me questioningly “where are we?”.

“A rather good question,” I thought. I let my eyes tell me where they wanted to go and as has been often the case lately, they zeroed in on the small, the details. The minutiae. How they fill up our everyday lives, so often without notice, without appreciation for all of the joy that they can bring.
The little things constantly lead us to the big. I looked up and gazed at the bridge, now bathed in the love of last light. How many bridges did I cross to get here? To be right here at this moment? 

There can be whole blocks of time in our lives, weeks, months, years, where we feel “stuck”. Caught up in webs of worry or weighted down by grasping silent emotions. And yet like the water flowing underneath that ancient bridge, we are always moving forward and being moved. Particle by particle and hope to hope.
A shudder passed over me as the cold from the sun-drained lava crept up in my skin. But I shook it off and let my gaze soften, wondering what bridges to cross lie ahead.

A First for May?

Time seems to be galloping along with all of the fervour of the horses participating in the Fête des Gardians. I keep shaking my head in disbelief that we are at the beginning of Month Five of 2012 but here we are with a holiday to prove it. I try not to repeat myself (even if I don’t always succeed!) so I will let my newer readers take a look at my previous entry about this holiday if they feel so inclined: May day! May Day!

What makes this years event so special is that it is celebrating the 500th anniversary of the Gardians, our French cowboys. Five hundred years! Yes, at times I can understand the comments about America being such a “young country.”

For the first time, the morning mass to bless the riders and their horses was held inside the Roman Arena. Such a strange mix of sacred and profane slightly boggles my mind but so be it.

As the Arena’s ancient stone stairways are steep, all of the recent mother’s were forced to stay outside the gates and push their antique prams patiently in the strengthening sun. Tiny faces peeped out from underneath crocheted caps and lacy bonnets.
As always, I delighted in the swish of the women’s skirts. The art of the Female Female. 

The surrounding streets were filled with weaving and wandering visitors. Russian, Spanish, Japanese and Italian bumped up against over the French voices. While the First of May is a national holiday in support of worker’s rights, it is also the beginning of the high tourist season. 

The Place du Forum was already filling rapidly as I descended the hill with Ben. As with every festive occasion here, several paella’s bubbled in massive iron pots around the square. But for us I wanted something as gentle as the Lilies of the Valley that are the token flower of the day and so whipped together an eggy mess to make a wild smoked salmon and asparagus quiche. I hovered over it after I pulled it out of the oven in its pre-de-puffed state, inhaling deeply. Patience is not my strong point, non.
And yet I haven’t been able to relax into this festive day completely. There is an unexpressed tension in the air about the presidential elections that will take place this coming Sunday. We have already been through a wearing first round that resulted in an alarming support (18%) for the extreme right Front National party with Arles coming in at 25% and nearby Saint-Gilles at 45%, the highest in the nation. While I have long appreciated the long-standing traditions that are held so dearly in the region, I hope with all of my heart that this election will take a turn and move swiftly towards the future. That this pleasant First of May can be a harbinger of hope to come.

Ben’s favorite word in the world


*Oh la la! Talk about a gray Monday! I don’t know how the weather is fairing in your part of the world but here it is just trop triste! And I am not talking about a “Ooh, the flowers are going to be so happy” kind of spring rain but rather a “Charlotte Brontë-ey oppression on the moors” kind of drizzle. Time to pull out the big guns because if this doesn’t make you smile, I give up!*

Those of you that have read Ben’s Guide to Getting What You Want (which I will admit with some embarrassment is probably my favorite post that I have ever written), will know that our beloved “dog” (I use the term loosely as he doesn’t seem to be entirely convinced that he is one) lives to eat. He is simply doing his duty as a Golden Retriever. His breakfast is a given–his sleepy, coffee-deprived human keepers barely need any prodding to do his bidding then. But dinner, aka code word “Lunchtime” is an entirely different matter and he will spend hours plotting and scheming about what precise steps need to be taken to hear that magic word. Since that territory has already been covered, voici le résultat. For the record, this is a relatively calm victory dance but it does show many of his favorite moves such as the twirl, bunny hops and a bark of joy! 


Have a wonderful week everyone! 

Chapel in the olive grove

Do you know how there are moments when it all comes together? As if you had somehow slid into the best kind of dream?

Remi, Ben and I had such a moment and we pulled it like taffy to make it last. 

We couldn’t immediately find the Chapelle Saint Romain on the outskirts of Villecroze. We had to ask several locals in the village for directions beyond head scratching and wide-mouthed gapes.

In back-tracking, we realized that we had simply sprinted past, as always too much in a hurry to already be at the point of arrival.

I don’t know what it was exactly. The chapel in itself, while lovely in its weather-worn simplicity was nothing truly exceptional. 

It most likely was the olive grove, filled with trees far more ancient than those that we can find here in the Alpilles. So solid the trunks, twisted and split but rising up to bloom into a fan dance of gray leaves rustling in the breeze. I felt so safe amidst such living things that had stood the test of time.

Best then to lay back in the soft spring grass and search for animals in the clouds overhead. 

To let the thistles whistle against our cheeks and tickle our noses. 
We lingered, knowing that even if we returned a hundred times, never again would the sun be so warm nor the sky so helplessly blue. We all know that there is no such thing as perfection and searching for it is a fool’s game. How lucky then, to be able to feel something so close, something just this side of wonderful.
Bon weekend!

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