– 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.

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.

• 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 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.

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?

I was given the all-clear on my exam, although I was told I need to get current on my vaccinations (they want the DTP jab to be done every ten years). Now, I have to take my certificate, buy some OMI or ANAEM stamps worth 275 euros for fees and taxes, and bring them to the Mairie. I think this is the last step in the process, but I’m not betting the farm on it. It’s hard to find one resource that FULLY explains the entire visa process and what’s expected of the applicant (i.e. the shots).

With no idea how long it will be until I have this visa in hand – which does affect how I can travel – I’m trying to not get whiny. I can get another Recipisse, a temporary visa, if need be, but that will require enlisting the help of the Mairie’s office. (They just looove it when people create more work for them.)

I think that all along I’ve been holding to the belief there ought to be a “visa concierge” at my disposal, a representative assigned to me, who’s there to provide an explanation of the whole enchilada, to listen to and answer any questions I may have. That’s a pretty ballsy expectation to be keeping. And I think that the fact that such a person doesn’t exist except in my wildest imagination has been feeding the tension I feel. My advice to me right now is this: get. over. it.

Fair enough.

We’re leaving this morning for a few days along the Côte d’Azur, and the photo of my chest x-ray that I wanted to add to this post will have to wait. I already packed the camera in the car. Mr. Toad is still around. I’ve asked him to keep an eye out on the terrace plants, but he’s non-commital. Wouldn’t you know, I had expected more from Toad as well.

At the beginning of August I had mailed my request, didn’t hear or receive anything but was calm about it, and then my sense of urgency exploded once McCain announced his VP. So before we left for Corsica I called the absentee voter office for Fulton County whereupon I learned they had NOT received my request and that I wasn’t in their system. I checked the website and although it says you can email my request to them, the person I spoke with said I couldn’t. This is par for the course in Fulton County, which is pretty maddening. And although I would have liked to argue this one out with them, I decided that showing my ass and making enemies would not be a good thing in this particular case and at this particular time.

So, I counted to ten, scanned my form and faxed it. Then two days later I followed up with the absentee voter office again…just to make sure…’cause I had a paranoia moment that the universe was somehow conspiring to mess with my vote. The man I spoke with that day was very nice, but I could hardly understand him. He had one of those thick southern accents where the consonants all get rubber banded together. After some linguistic dissections and much repetition, I got the gist of what I wanted to hear. All was good with my ballot request, and it should be in my hands by the time we returned from our trip. Whew!

When we got back on Tuesday, there was still no sign of my ballot. I was pissed (Why was this simple thing so effing difficult?!), and I got panicky (Had the universe decided that I wasn’t going to get to vote this time around?) my drawers were really in a wad over this. I wanted to yell at someone, badly, but didn’t know who. So, I googled for possibilities. Didn’t find what I was looking for, BUT I found something better, a well-organized website for absentee voters, overseasvotefoundation.org (OVF), where you can fill in a printable ballot (a federal write-in ballot essentially), and get state-specific voter information. FedEx and OVF have agreed on some special shipping rates for overseas voters who want to be able to track the path of their ballot. It’s not cheap ($23 for France) but certainly a lot less than normal overseas rates. FedEx pick-ups and drop-offs may not be viable either, even though the program includes 89 countries. For example, to drop-off my package I’d have to drive two hours to Toulouse, and I’m not sure if they do pick-ups in my part of France.

But as noted above (way above) there’s a happy ending to this tale – I have my ballot from the Fulton County Board of Registrations. It’s done. It’s ready to go. And I have friends from the states coming to visit this weekend who can play courier for me.

While I was eager to vote in 2000 and even more so in 2004, in 2008 it’s like I have fire ants in my pants. It’s not just election fatigue getting to me. I want the country to have a radically new slate. Of course, only time will show if that can or will happen, but I’m choosing to be optimistic. I’m choosing to act that my vote – that all of our votes – have legs, have voice, have oomph. That there won’t be suspcious, eye-brow raising incidents a.k.a. Florida’s hanging chad snafus and such.

A lot of people are galvanized about voting as never before, or so it seems. My good friend Kyle launched a non-partisan voter initiative aimed at women yesterday called NeverTooBusyToVote.com. She’s always been outspoken and passionate about voting, but this time around she’s a five-alarm fire. I could be wrong (and Kyle, correct me on this), but I think she managed to get the program – the messaging, the materials and the website – up and running in less than 30 days. That’s no small task, especially since she does everything she can to make it easy for the already galvanized to galvanize others by providing banners and buttons that can be posted on blogs or websites, and a letter that can be emailed to friends and family. And if you really want to throw your support behind this project, you can email in your logo and contact information and these will be posted on the website.

There are 33 days left until the election (and still plenty of time for my fellow overseas voters to get their ballots in motion…no excuses, s’ils vous plait). My finger nails, what’s left of them, don’t really stand a chance.

Anyhoo, Rufus and we are going to Corsica for a week! First we’ll drive to Aix-en-Provence and toodle around there until we have to drive to Toulon where we’ll catch the night ferry to Corsica. As per usual, we’re venturing out without much of a plan and no guidebook. We’ll hit the tourist office on the Sunday we arrive, and then decide. Actually we’ll dicker back and forth and the plan will shift daily and will reflect numerous compromises and concessions. But we’ll each get our way some of the time, and we’ll make sure that the other realizes the full extent of the sacrifices being made so that one of us is happy. The dog — thumping his tail throughout it all because he’s just so happy (and relieved) to be included — will remind us to not be petty little piss pots, to quit counting who got what, and to genuinely enjoy ourselves. Thank God, for dogs.

We experienced another sonic boom today, our second. Good golly those things are ferocious. There’s absolutely no way to anticipate them. None. Afterwards, the valley echoed with howling dogs. We gathered our wits and stuffed our hearts back into our chest cavities. Still, the sky seemed bigger and more beautiful after a boom, as if the sound that defies description made it multiply.

Speaking of skies, we’ve seen more than our fair share of shooting stars this summer. So many that I’ve lost track of what I’ve wished on the lot of them. If I head towards the darker parts of the village on a clear night, the sky is puddled with stars and it’s amazing to stand beneath them. In a weird way these experiences feel possible only because of where we are – in the sticks of southwest France, in a sleepy village, on the far edge of a valley. Maybe I’m kidding myself. Maybe not.

Last week we received four stairs of wood, which is hopefully enough to see us through the winter. Monsieur M delivered the wood in two allotments, each time calling at the last minute to say he was waiting for us, that his previous delivery had been canceled or hadn’t taken as long as he thought it would, yadda yadda. No matter. We were very, very glad to see the wood guy.

Four stairs of wood is a lotta wood. With each delivery, Monsieur M backed his truck up Rue du Barry and dumped the wood into the middle of the road in front of our cave. Then he collected his money (cash only) and drove off. He wasn’t being rude or careless. It’s just that he only does wood deliveries. He does not do wood stacking. So, Tim and I had to haul ass to move the wood from the road to the cave before a car came along. Wouldn’t you know that a car always came along! Of course. Any other day there would be no cars whatsoever. On wood delivery day, there were cars with people impatient to be on their way, or people who needed to get to the airport. The airport people, though, I give them credit. They at least were pragmatic about the situation and helped us move the wood to the side of the road so that they could get past.

At any rate, on the eve of yet another journey, I’m trying my hand at being more intentional, at being pleased as punch about the sonic booms, the shooting stars and the stairs of wood, all of which have managed to make the everyday less ordinary.

The Vendange (grape harvest) is upon us in Roquebrun. It began last Thursday to be exact. In one place or another throughout the region the harvest is in full swing. On the roads, there are tractors and harvesters that you have to wait for a break in the traffic to pass. The cooperatives are abuzz with drop-offs and people congregating to chat about the harvest. More notably, there’s an excitement in the air that’s new for me. It’s the apex to many months of anticipation. I love being admidst it, and in a strange way I feel invested in it. I want the harvest to be good, and not just because I’m a wine drinker wanting something tasty to knock back.

On Saturday there was a fête in the village that we think is done especially for the grape pickers that follow the harvest from vineyard to vineyard in their tricked out campervans. We walked down to the esplanade expecting to see the usual array of locals, but hoo-boy were we wrong. Most were more of the patchouli/dreadlocked/Grateful Dead set. Except they They preferred their French punk band which was then followed by an hour or two of reggae tunes DJ’d until the next band was scheduled to play. As with the summer fêtes, the party went on until about 2 AM. I tried to sleep through it…but no cigar. Tim and his Dad went down to the esplanade (because if you can’t beat ‘em…) with Rufus. Rufus, I learned the next morning, had a GRAND time running free, meeting other dogs, and snarfing up what bits he could find around the BBQ pit. He brought home with him some vendange fleas as well. I know this because during the night they made their way over to me. Ew.

Neat animals...shame they're so tasty.

So, he’s luckier than the boars- the sangliers – who had to deal with yet another pack of hounds at daybreak this morning. It’s boar hunting season now. Many of the mountains that form the backdrop of our village are “chasse reserve” or hunting grounds. So, we’ll be enjoying the howling of hunting dogs for several weeks to come. I’m going to TRY to not grouse about this. This is life in the country. Maybe I won’t have to set my alarm clock for a while. I’ll just rouse to the hounds.

Soon, too, the wild mushrooms will be in season. That should make for much less disruptive hunts. I picture placid but earnest gourmands gently threading the hillsides with wicker baskets, not beagles and rifles. God, I hope there’s not a catch, no fungi hunter ritual that has them yodel at dawn. That being said, I LOVE mushrooms. I could eat mushrooms every day and not get tired of them. If I found a nice bunch of wild ones – the non-deadly kind, of course – I might let rip a rebel yell myself. Just as soon as I can get my hands on some girolles, cèpes and mousserons I’m going to have a go at a lovely dish of rabbit roasted with shallots and wild mushrooms. That’s a plate-licker dish. Roasting pan, too.

A mother sanglier and her little sanglier - CUTE!

We’ll probably start to see more cuts of sanglier at the boucheries. Maybe it’s been available all along, and I just haven’t noticed. Dunno. The idea of eating something when it’s in its glory season is really appealing I have to say. It feels like we’re more in touch with the natural cycles of food. The strawberries here, for instance, are fresh off the local farms in June. They’re trucked in from somewhere else the rest of the year, and I promise you they’re not as good and they’re absurdly expensive. The peaches are having their day, now. Actually, I think the peaches are on their tail end, but no matter. There’s also berries, figs, and shortly the apples will have their turn.

There’s something to be said for waiting all year to be able eat something at its peak, like a cherry clafoutis at the end of May or a sanglier steak in September. It’s a new way of marking time for me, and a new way of relating to food. I think I’ll savor some of these things more, be more grateful even, if my access to these things is corralled by a natural cycle of production.