A House in Languedoc

I realize it's not exactly original to be a disappointed, middle-aged lady longing to go to France. Things are cliché because they are commonplace. But if you start on that slope, having a baby or falling in love or burying a parent are also cliché, experiences most women find to be heartbreakingly, uniquely personal. I'll dispense with the apologia for now with a confession: I actually have a house waiting for me in Languedoc.

Here it is, or at least here is its terrace. My best friend's husband, L., has just purchased it as a lieu de refuge (another thing I get to do is pepper my posts with pretentious bons mots). He's a bit of a refuge specialist and a wonderful wood sculptor. She's a professor with a fantastically 19th century European pedigree: countess-like mere who was the toast of Paris in the 30s; Nazi-resisting German intellectual father; a transcontinental childhood that included stints in a convent school in Rome. More on them anon.

Their house is in a small village outside Bézier, an old Roman city along the Orb River which is just outside Montpelier, about 6 miles from the Mediterranean, and a 1.5 hour drive west of Aix-en-Provence. A quick search just turned up this fascinating fact: Miss France 2006 was née à Bézier -- I will upload her glam shot in a separate post of Fun Things to Know About Bezier.

I can't say that my friends' village sounds like a thrilling spot ... no dimly-lit cafés, fountain-laced gardens, or beauty queens ... apparently just a sports bar down the road and winding streets full of stone houses. But I like the price and plan to earn my keep by helping them tame their terrace (right now, a heap of tangled cinderblocks) and by assuming the role of chef d'hotel. My professor-friend, G., assures me that Bézier is only a 10-minute bicycle ride away and has all sorts of Frenchie delights. They also have several language schools there and a university. I'm thinking of taking a 2-week conversational French course during the mornings at Centre Hobson. In an email, the center's manager Jaqueline assures me "We put a stress on everyday conversation, what w e call the strategies of the conversation : what to say or to do in such or such situation !" If only I had met Jaqueline earlier, my whole life might have been different ...

Beware of Lists

During a particularly hopeless period in my 20s, my therapist suggested I make a list of the Top 10 Things I Want to Do in Life. For a somewhat scratchy, unconventional woman, I really ought to have come up with a more original string: get a dog (did it); act (did it); write short stories and poems (did it badly); see a career counselor (waste of $200); get married (did it, did it). One interesting addition was my desire for a short stay in a sanitorium. Though I doubtlessly qualify, it's a goal that has escaped me thus far. Those who have achieved it, however, assure me it is nothing like the restful sanctuary of my dreams, which has vaguely kind nurses, beautiful views of a lake and time to just sleep.

So, while I've done nearly everything on the list, one achievement has eluded me all these years: I have not spent a month in France.

It's easy to talk yourself out of going to France: No money. French meanies. Clumsy grasp of language. No time. The stranglehold of wifery and motherhood. But what happens when you suddenly find yourself jilted by Husband No. 2, deserted by fledgling man-son, in possession of 31 vacation days, and climbing the walls of despair in the middle of a Maine winter?

In my case, I took a brief, feverish spin on Match.com (check out my would-be suitors: "denialboone" [actual spelling] didn't have all his teeth, but he did send along plenty of grinnin' photos astride a four-wheeler, a snowmobile, and a John Deere, woo-hoo!) Barring love, I refinanced my house.

Which brings me to now: I am going to France. I am going to France this summer with money I should be saving for retirement. I am going to France to study French, eat like a bastard, flirt, travel, get lost, and drop myself through the rabbit hole of my own life. You're welcome to come along ... I hope you will.

One caveat: I don't usually write in niblets. So, think of this as the installment plan, like Dickens. And be patient with me.