"Oui, merci," I respond. The bits and pieces of French I learned while sitting at Easy Cafe in Nepal seem to have fled my memory, and all I can summon is a meek, "oui, merci."
Languages. Do not come naturally to me. Which is such a pity.
But then again, I don't think anything comes naturally to me. There isn't a lot I haven't had to work for. Work hard for. Hard work seems to be the only thing that comes naturally to me.
Francois' parents seem surprised that I'm awake. Awake and on my second cup of coffee. Truth be told, this morning lady is ecstatically happy to be awake right now. To be in a home where it's warm enough to get out of bed at six in the morning and sit in the living room and write without stiff, freezing fingers.
WHY? Ireland. WHY? Why don't you insist on having icebox houses?
Other than the warmth, there are several things I adore about this home. There always seems to be hot coffee at the ready, the cupboard has a cheese plate that fulfills all my wildest cheese fantasies and every room is full. The place has a life. History. Character. Magazines are on the coffee table, a keyboard stands at attention, ready to be played, and the walls are bursting with art.
I love walls with art. It's a sign that someone's lived in a place for a while. And intends to remain there. I haven't really had art on the walls since I was eighteen. So it's comforting to find this feeling of permanence and commitment on the walls of others. I get to experience the sensation of grounding. Vicariously, but still. I get to experience it.
We reunited with our friends on the 11th of April in front of Brassarie Georges, the oldest brassarie in Lyon and one of the largest in Europe.
Finally. I've been looking forward to this moment for a month. Six days with friends. Six days of rest. Six days wherein I don't have to research buses or hitchhiking routes or worry about whether or not our couchsurfing host will be the bad kind of crazy. Six days wherein I know that everything is going to be okay.
Just. Okay.
I feel so out of place, I looked up at the stately restaurant. A restaurant to which I seemed incongruous, weighed down by Fat Ellie and sporting my baggy Thai pants. I think I felt something similar when I realized I was couchsurfing on a yacht in Croatia a few years back. Approaching the pier, dirty, tired and stinky. Feeling almost like I didn't have a right to be there.
Not that I'm complaining, or anything. I am so, SO happy to be here right now. I just wish my only clean clothes were something other than my baggy Thai pants.
I ordered duck breast. And drank wine. And ate cake. And spent an hour or two in divine bliss.
Who needs heaven or church or religion when there are French restaurants?
My Bulgarian was able to battle his oyster and get down some sausage and potatoes and sauerkraut. But he didn't touch the wine. Couldn't touch the wine.
Yes. Misho is the stronger person in this friendship. There is no way I could sit at this restaurant with a stomachache. I would just collapse into an illogical, tearful puddle of "THE WORLD HATES ME."
After our exquisite lunch, we all loaded into the car of Francois' parents and drove to Ambert, a small town in the Livradois-Forez Regional Park.
Misho and I were introduced to the house, the calico cat named Mimi and the rooftop. Where the Bulgarians squatted for me.
 |
| Misho and Teddy. I seem to have a knack for finding Bulgarians. Which is grand, as Bulgarians are a wonderful sort of people to find. |
I breathed the fresh, clean, brisk air and sighed.
Six days will be nice. More than six days would be nice, too. This is my kind of place.
Luce, Francois' mother, prepared dinner that night. Couscous with raisins (from which Misho abstained, as couscous had departed his body rather violently and quite unexpectedly two days before) and a fragrant tagine.
I moaned a little. When most days consist of picnic food, full meals become a glorious affair.
Francois and Teddy caught up with family, with Teddy translating the French occasionally.
"We're just talking about our trip."
"Okay."
"We're just talking about politics. The election in France is soon, and no one's happy with their choices."
"That sounds familiar."
Francois and Teddy had spent a few months traveling through Asia, and this was their first night back in France. So there was a lot of catching up to be done.
And they invited us to share it with them. Their first few days back in France. It feels unbelievable.
"Fromage?" Luce asked.
I nodded. Vigorously.
"Oui, merci."
I want to live in France forever.
Luce and Christian laughed as I closed my eyes and transcended into the realm of dairy-induced bliss. Which is one of my very favorite realms.
Yes. I will live in France forever. There is no other option for me. Home is where the cheese is.
I crawled into a luxurious bed that night and looked at the ceiling.
I get to wake up in this same warm, comfortable bed for six days. I get to wake up and see the light beaming in through that window, through these curtains. For a moment, I get to escape my harum-scarum life and experience... ease.
When people tell me that they're jealous of my life, I wonder if they take into consideration that I never know where I'm going to sleep. That I have to work to remember where I am every morning. That a full meal is the exception and picnics are the rule.
Uncertainty and picnics are romantic for a time. But they cause a lot of wear and tear. Physically, mentally, emotionally.
I feel so flighty these days. Like, I can't even ground myself in my mind. Pulling my thoughts down from the clouds and putting them into a meaningful sequence has become a challenge. It's all so scattered. It's as if my mind is beginning to take after my lifestyle. It never seems to know where it is or what it's on about.
I slept better than I had in weeks, wrapped up in the knowledge that I wouldn't have to pack up Fat Ellie for another six days.
The rest of the languid residents reluctantly roused themselves from bed the next morning. Ambert is quiet. If I town could be a lullaby, Ambert would be that town. Everything about this place feels slow and gentle and makes me want to curl up in a sunbeam with Mimi.
Slowly, slowly, my friends coffeed and breakfasted. Slowly, slowly, they suited up for the brisk weather of Livradois-Forez. Slowly, slowly, we set off into the lullaby town of Ambert.
And I fell in love. A little.With the walking streets, the pastel colored, paint-cracked old buildings, the romantic shutters, the cheese shop after boulangerie after boucherie after brasserie after cheese shop.
I wanted to walk to the end of each street.To explore every corner. To peer in every window.
I wanted to pop my head into each shop. If I weren't on a vagabond budget and living out of a backpack, I'd probably want to buy something from each shop, as well.
Francois and Teddy bought a bit of cheese to add to the already epic plate waiting for me in the cupboard at home.
We were beckoned into a boulangerie (they're bloody irresistible) and walked out with a box of baked goodies for dessert.
"I love the colors," I gushed to Teddy. "In Asia, everything was so bright. Same with Mexico. It was dramatic. Striking. Energizing. Here, you still get colors, but they're so soft."
Except for the flowers, of course.
Misho was still battling his oyster (that damn thing sure took its sweet time), so he napped the afternoon away while Teddy and Francois and I drove up a mountain and practiced acro yoga in a place with a view.
"It's so beautiful. I want to live here," I said aloud the thought that had been flitting persistently through my scattered mind.
"You could buy an old farmhouse up here for thirty or forty thousand dollars," Francois told me. "You would have to do some work on it, but you could buy it for that cheap."
"Are you kidding me?" I stared at my friend, totally staggered.
"No, it's very cheap to live here."
"Whoa."
What if I lived in Seattle with my friend for two years, worked my ASS off, saved thirty thousand dollars and bought a place in France? I wouldn't be able to live there full time without a visa, but I could live there six months of the year. And I'd have a home to which I could invite my friends. Finally. And a place to call MINE. A place where I could hang paintings on the walls.
Misho happily graduated from his diet of rice and bananas that evening. He even tried a sip of wine and a small piece of cheese.
"Fromage?" Luce asked me after dinner had been cleared.
"Toujours," I smiled.
So Luce brought out the fromage and Francois carried out an armful of applesauce, apricot sauce, strawberry sauce and chocolate pudding.
"So much applesauce!" I laughed.
"It's not applesauce," Francois said firmly. "It's compote."
We turned a movie on that night, but in this lullaby town, I faded fast, and fled to my bed before it was finished.
Five more days, I looked at the ceiling, at the window, at the wispy curtains with the moonlight filtering, flooding through.
We went to Ambert's weekly farmer's market the next morning, where we purchased the ingredients for Misho to make patatnik.
And cheese. We purchased many cheeses to add to the burgeoning cheese plate in the cupboard at home.
This might be the first time in my life ever where I find myself unable to keep up with the supply of cheese. Despite my best efforts to demolish all that dairy, it continues to multiply. It's like that Dr Seuss story of the boy with the hat. Every time he tried to take his hat off, a bigger one would magically appear in its place.
Not that I'm complaining.
 |
| A Bulgarian with his potatoes. And a Bulgarian who wishes she had potatoes. |
We stopped in the main square for a coffee before walking home. It was packed with people who'd also just finished their shopping and were grabbing drinks in the sunshine.
What a spectacular little community.
I think I could put art on the walls in a place like this.
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