If a Town Could Be a Lullaby -- Ambert, France

I'm starting this post from the living room of Francois' family home in Ambert, France. Francois is asleep. Teddy is asleep. Misho is asleep. As it's six am, I'm guessing that they'll remain doing so for the next few hours. Francois' mother and father have both padded in and out of the kitchen, popping their heads into the living room to congenially ask, "bien dormi?"

"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.

Francois and Teddy hung their Martenitsas from a budding tree in the backyard, making the vibrant landscape look just a little bit more like spring. 

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. 

Food Poisoning in France -- Lyon, France

Misho and I landed in Lyon's airport at around ten pm on the 8th of April. Dublin's extreme passport control had made me nervous, so I'd insisted that Boy help me book my onward ticket from Zurich to Grand Junction before I landed. Just so I'd be able to prove to the French officials that I would not (regretfully) be lingering in their country long. 

They didn't even stamp my Canadian passport. 

They flipped it open, looked at Dublin stamp, and handed it back to me. 

Finished. 

"What the hell?" I was flabbergasted. "They didn't give me an exit stamp in Belfast and they didn't give me an entrance stamp in Lyon. So when I fly out of Switzerland in May, they won't be able to tell where I've been. Which will probably not make the Swiss very happy. Freaking Ireland. Freaking France." 

On the other hand... if I hadn't booked a flight home, this oversight would mean I could stay in France for EIGHT months. Because I'm legally permitted to be in Ireland for six months without a visa and in the Schengen area for three months without a visa. So I could just tell passport control that I spent six months in Ireland and three months in France and they would have no way to prove me wrong. 

Damn. The one time this happens to me, I have my flight booked for the US and can't take advantage of it. Poop. 

Misho and I reclaimed our backpacks from the carousel and walked over to the train station. 

For future travelers to Lyon... It is bloody expensive to get from the airport to the city center. Fifteen euros for a no-longer-young adult over the age of twenty-six. Misho is twenty-five, so only had to pay thirteen euros. 

I felt jealous. And also old. I felt old and jealous. 

We arrived at Lyon's main train station and began walking to Laurie's. A host with whom I was very excited to stay, primarily because on her Couchsurfing profile, she had written that her mission was to "laugh as much as possible (but be careful, my laugh is loud and not discrete at all)." 

My kind of lady. 

We arrived at Laurie's beautiful flat, hungry, tired and sweaty. 

"Are you hungry? I can make pasta," Laurie offered. 

"That sounds amazing. We haven't been able to eat since this morning." 

So Laurie made us pasta and brought out a bottle of wine and some cheese. 

I love France. I love it, I love it, I love it. 

We chatted as we gratefully demolished the pot of pasta. At one point, I was talking about the weather in Colorado, and I become so expressive that I knocked over my glass of wine.  

Which spread over Laurie's white table, soaked through some of Laurie's notes and began to drip, drip, drip onto Laurie's white chair. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck, I screamed inside my head. 

"OH NO!" I screamed outside my head. "I'm so sorry," I rushed to the kitchen for a sponge to wipe up the spreading disaster.  

"Don't worry," Laurie said calmly. "The only problem is wasted wine." 

How could I do that? My first night in France, I send wine sailing across the table. And when this woman was so kind to wait up for us, make us dinner... I'm never talking about Colorado weather again. That's definitely the moral of this story.  

Laurie went to work the next day, but left Misho and me the keys to her apartment so we could come and go as we pleased. 

Which I always appreciate so much. Not just for the freedom of movement, but for the level of trust it signifies. 

Misho and I spent the morning relaxing at Laurie's and then headed out into the city. 

I'd visited Lyon once before with Boy, Estelle and Yann, but it was only for one rushed afternoon. Having three days to meander through Lyon made it infinitely more beautiful. 

 

Misho and I discovered far too late that, as in Germany, Austria and Switzerland, shops are closed in France on Sundays. I had planned a three course dinner for Laurie (I still felt horrible about spilling the wine), and then discovered that the only tiny, expensive shop still open did not have any of the ingredients I required.

So we settled on couscous. With mint, lemon, red pepper, onions, garlic and cheese.

It's the best we can do, under the circumstances. 

So we picnicked with Laurie on the banks of the Rhône that evening. Eating a legendary amount of couscous and drinking wine in a place where, if I got too enthusiastic about Colorado's weather, I would not stain Laurie's white chair.

"Do you think we can head home now?" Misho asked after the sun had set. "I'm feeling kind of cold." 

"Yeah, of course. But I don't know how you're cold," we packed up the picnic and began to walk back to Laurie's. "It's so nice out tonight."

Laurie and I were both ill. She was recovering from what she called, "the adult version of Scarlet Fever" and I was suffering from yet another bout of my chronic allergic sinusitis. So Laurie coughed and I sneezed and we both blew our noses as we strolled through Lyon by night. 

"Why aren't you sick?" I gave Misho a playful shove. 

Once at Laurie's, Misho went straight to bed. As we were all the same room, I brushed my teeth and went to bed as well, just to keep things quiet for my friend. 

I wonder why he's so tired. All we did today was walk around a bit. And make an unreasonable amount of couscous. 

A few minutes later, Misho began to shiver. His whole body shook. He moaned. 

"Are you okay? Misho? What's going on?" 

"I'm so cold..." he whimpered. "And my stomach hurts." 

"Can I get you some medicine?" Laurie coughed and got out of bed. 

Poor woman. I spill wine all over her nice chair and now we're keeping her awake all night. While she's recovering from Adult Scarlet Fever.

Laurie gave Misho some medicine for his stomachache and went back to bed. But my Bulgarian stayed up all night, running to and from the bathroom with varying degrees of desperation. 

"What do you think happened?" I asked Misho in the morning. "Do you think it was food poisoning? We ate the same things and I feel fine." 

"I think it was the oyster," Misho lamented. "I read the side-effects last night, and it all fits. And sometimes it takes forty-eight hours for the symptoms to show." 

"NO! The one oyster you ate in Ireland poisoned you!" 

"Did it move?" Laurie asked. 

"Move?" 

"Yes, did it move when you put the lemon on?" 

"No..." 

"It has to move. Because if it moves, then it's alive. If it doesn't move, don't eat it." 

"I didn't know..." my bedridden friend grieved. 

"That fucking oyster," I added. Helpfully. 

So Laurie took me to a beautiful bakery and to a park where we practiced yoga together while Misho stayed at home and worked through his devil oyster.     

That evening, Misho rallied and we all walked to the home of some other couchsurfer's who had invited us to a raclette party. So we sat around, two Australians, three Americans, a Bulgarian and a Frenchwoman and ate cheese, potatoes and meat.

Except for Misho. Who only ate potatoes.

I am so glad I"m not Misho right now. I would be miserable. And it would show. 

This is proof that Misho is a stronger human being than me. Much stronger. 

We left Laurie's late the next morning. We were sad to leave our perfect host (seriously, we could not have ended up with a kinder, more considerate human being), but we were thrilled to meet up with our old friends. Francois from my massage school in Chiang Mai, and Teddy, a Bulgarian and highschool friend of Misho's. Francois' father had invited us all to lunch at the oldest restaurant in Lyon.

Which made me nearly giddy with happiness.

Giddy to meet old friends and giddy to enjoy French food. And giddy to stay in one place for six whole days. 

Imagine that... Six days. Feels like forever.