And a longing,
Incredible longing
To eavesdrop
On the conversation
Of cooks.

– From “The Partial Explanation” by Charles Simic

Just over a month ago I was telling people that no way no how was I ready to move back to the states.  No way.  Too much left to see and do.

Then I went down to a cafe for a coffee and heard three different languages being spoken around me, none of which were mine.  I couldn’t earwig.  I was bored.

Days later I stumbled upon this poem, an old favorite by Charles Simic, one night when I’d given up trying to fall back asleep, and all of a sudden what I thought I felt about “old home” and “new home” I didn’t know with the same certainty.

It had been so long since I read some poetry, that I had forgotten how a poem can be a mirror, a little hand held number with a faux tortoise shell surround that never closes completely after the first use.  The fact that it doesn’t close properly is an ongoing annoyance, but you don’t throw it away. Because although the plastic bits are cheap, the glass reflects honestly. The little fucker.

Where all this consternation is leading I can’t tell.  So, I’m going to Valencia.   To see more than think.  At least for 36 hours.  It’s not too much to ask.

Yesterday marked the day we landed in Barcelona last spring and the living abroad phase of our lives officially began.

I was vacuuming the Rufus hair from the couch and Tim was doinking around on the internet when we realized that it was a special day.  You would think we’d have the date circled in red on the calendar and decorated with gold stars.  You would think that at that moment we would have dispensed with the mundane stuff to open a bottle of bubbly and celebrate.  Because it’s been a hell of a year. But no.  We had a misty-eyed moment of remembrance, and then we decided we’d go out in the evening for a drink.  Chores and internet-doinking resumed.

Which is not to say that we weren’t internally mulling the past year for the remainder of the day, it’s surges and its dips.  Of course we were.  My sense is that we’re not quite sure what we want to do with these memories just yet.  They’re too fresh for just an airing, refolding and re-tucking away type of treatment.  To some degree we’re still on top of them, recalibrating and analyzing them, filtering them through the shared vision constructed at the beginning of this adventure, and (nervously) eyeballing them from where the shared vision gave way to the pressures of individual wants and needs.

In truth, at the end of the day, I think their edges are still a little too…pronounced.  We still step around them a bit gingerly.  Still, after a dinner of Tim’s Lamb Stew we walked with Rufus to an Irish-y pub.  Over a  couple of pints we talked a little more about the highlights of the past 12 months – Corsica, Biarritz, Paris – and ignored the lowlights.  Because while the lowlights don’t go away, neither of us wanted them to be the life of our quiet little party.  Not now and not moving forward.

I don’t have any significant photos or even ticket stubs from day one in Barcelona.  Just a recollection. Initially we were consumed with schlepping our very, very heavy bags (that cost us $250 in overweight baggage fees) and our wigged-out dog (who hadn’t had an “out” for many, many hours) out of the airport.  Rufus enjoyed a rocket of a pee at the first available tree while Tim stood in the taxi line.  After we arrived at the hotel, we spritzed the travel slime from our faces and brushed our teeth again and went out for lunch and a long walk around the city.  I was afraid that if I showered or lingered too long  in the room I’d get sleepy.  I didn’t want to sleep.  I wanted to step into the dream.  And just a meter away from the hotel lobby there it began, glory and flaws and all.

On the eve of leaving France I’m starting to feel a little sad.  And I feel like writing about stuff in bullet points.

• Last week we drove to Avignon for an overnight, visited the Palais des Papes and the Pont d’Avignon, and experienced the Mistral firsthand.
• It (the Mistral) is every bit as skin-flaying as it’s reputed to be.
• We had plate licking dinners (cuisse de canard confite with a potato gratine for me, some sort of beef dish for Tim) at the BelgoCargo.
• An adorable jazz pianist entertained, gamely playing the requests from a table of patrons who sang along, especially when he played New York, New York.
• The next morning we wandered around Villeneuve-les-Avignon (Thursday is their market day), the Mistral flogging us the whole time, and then drove to Châteauneuf-du-Pape where we sampled some Châteauneuf-du-Pape poured by a lovely, grandmotherly woman with a bad cold.
• She blamed it on the Mistral.
• I don’t blame her; it’s some serious wind.
• Her tastings were generous, so by noon I had a light buzz.
• Blaming the Mistral for our appetites (and my buzz), we drove to Orange for a plate-licking lunch (pot au feu for me, grilled fish for Tim), and then stopped at the Pont du Gard on the way home.
• It was a very satisfying 36 hours.
• But that last hurrah was the warm-up to yesterday’s when I took Rufus for a walk along a trail called the Tir a L’arc, that winds up through the mountains on the outer edge of the village.
• Just past the area where the archery club does their target practice, you turn a bend on the trail, and there’s complete, heart-thumping stillness.
• You can’t hear the river or the village.
• It’s just you and the mountains and some vineyards and the boars and the deer and the hawks and all the other unseen wild things in this exquisite countryside…
• which is one of the things we’ve admired most about this slice of France where we landed nearly 11 months ago.
• We’ve also become friends with some amazing people who make us laugh until we hurt, or are just lovely people plain and simple.
• And yet we’re itching to escape.
• Beauty and humor aren’t not always enough.
• Yet many thanks, France.  Au revoir.

On Saturday a ginormous tempest blew through the region. That is not an exaggeration. People died in France and Spain because of it. Airports were shut down. Roof tiles were lifted and sent crashing into the street. Forests flattened. The wind pushed rain underneath all the doors and some of the windows. Birds didn’t have to flap their wings to fly – they just hung on for dear life to the current carrying them.

On another front, we’ve been trying to figure out what we’re going to do with ourselves, where we’re going to go. We’ve had some serious discussions on the topic – the full orchestra booming and crashing Wagnerian style. It’s been heavy.

But, now that peace has been restored we’re heading to Spain for a week. First the Costa Brava and then the Costa Blanca. A) We hear it’s warmer. B) We hear it’s warmer.

Very aptly this election day we’ve decidedly cast our vote to begin closing down our country living experiment, i.e. living in a small, rural village that’s 19 kilometers from a supermarket.

We dove into this experiment blindly, not having set eyes on the village itself let alone the surrounding countryside. Some would say that’s completely crazy. Perhaps, but it was a risk I’m glad we took in exactly that way.

Now we know in our bones that we’re city people. Or at least, town people. Country life suits us as a respite, a short stint. Too long in the sticks and we start to crawl the walls, petty arguments flare and we grouse and sulk. Especially if there’s a rainy spell that keeps us cooped up in the house (like today). None of this we would have known if we had prepped ourselves with too much information beforehand, i.e. the location and size of our village. A headfirst dunking into the unknown was one of the best choices we’ve made, the best risk we’ve taken. Certainly has been for me on an individual level.

Graciousness towards the situation flows easily now that our vote is cast, now that it’s a matter of time and househunting (and contractual agreements) before we move on to the next experiment. For example, I’m not going to winge about the weather, even if the rain blows in sideways like it did on Sunday, the wind pushing it underneath every door. That was a first. There was so much dampness in the air that it was tough to light a fire. Just commenting here, not complaining.

View of Nice from the Citadel

Athough we have the unanimous results (hurrah!) from our little election, we still haven’t pinpointed our next move. Don’t know the when, where or how yet. Actually, we know one thing – we’re not going to look to relocate along the Côte d’Azur because it’s too expensive and way too overpopulated. Nice was interesting and, yes, nice to visit. Zero interest in making camp there. For some the Riviera lifestyle is a dream come true. For me it would be hell. Luckily Tim recognizes this, is at peace with it, and isn’t going to be a pain in the butt and insist that he can change my mind.

Speaking of pains-in-the-tookus. Mr. Toad has gone a-wall but left a remnant of his visit in the verbena planter – a big, nasty lump of toad poo. It is truly disgusting. It is the same color as Toad but slimy and oozy. I’ll spare everyone further description. Or, have I already gone too far?