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A dinner party

July 16, 2013

I’d heard rumors earlier in the day that we were going to be having a fête to celebrate Bastille Day. Residents often try to eat dinner together, but people cook for themselves and the eating tends to go in shifts. Tonight’s dinner would be a collective effort, with everyone contributing a dish.

Judith, the opera singer, came knocking on my door around 5. “Did you hear about tonight’s dinner?” she asked. “I’m bringing meatballs.”

“I wish I could make something,” I replied. “But I don’t have much food left.”

Diane, Glenn and I, the only new residents, laugh a little everyday about our food situation. We were given shopping suggestions before arriving, and I had made a list and was prepared to buy more than I thought I needed. But the actual grocery store experience was completely surreal and overwhelming. I had just been picked up in Carcassonne, rode in a jeep with four strangers for 10 minutes, and then was deposited at the grocery store. We wheeled our carts aimlessly through the store, going our separate ways, studying the shelves and searching for the food items on our lists. After nearly an hour passed I started to panic, because it had been a long time since I’d seen anyone I recognized. I began moving quickly through the aisles, sometimes grabbing food at random, sometimes putting items back on the shelves.

Finally I ran into Diane, and she sighed with relief. “I thought I was the last one!” Soon afterwards we saw Glenn, with barely anything in his cart, looking a bit dazed. “I’m not much of a cook,” he said. We helped each other find the last, missing items: coffee filters, sugar, laundry detergent, and then checked out, satisfied that we’d done a good job.

But almost as soon as we arrived at La Muse later that evening and saw what the other residents had to eat, did we realize that none of us had bought enough. Everyday we put our heads together and talk about what we’re going to eat, giving each other ideas and sharing food. One day, Glenn brought out a can of Pringles saying, “You can each have three.” Diane shared her turkey, I shared my eggs. We have an excess of yogurt and stale bread. Glenn has started walking to the next village to eat at their cafe.

So when Judith appeared at my door, talking about meatballs, I looked at her with a bit of dismay. “I’ll bring a bottle of wine,” I said, “And next time I’ll cook something.”

The windows of my room look out onto the back of the house, and down to the bottom of the village. Around 7:00 I heard movement on the terrace, and leaned out my window to look down.

La Muse terrace

The table was set and Homer, the dog, was resting nearby (no doubt waiting for the food to be served). One by one the residents gathered, opening bottles of wine, finding candles for the table, plating the food.

La Muse Terrace

dinner table centerpiece

Once the wine was poured and the 11 of us were seated around the table, Judith picked up her glass and cried, “Vive la France!” We echoed her toast, and someone launched into La Marseillaise. The first course began with hors d’oeuvres: roasted red peppers, little bites of sausages, slices of cucumbers and pears, tomatoes and mozzarella. A potato and egg frittata, Caesar salad, quinoa, meatballs, and beet risotto dishes followed.

Artis, Jean-Christophe and I cleared off plates and retreated to the kitchen. Artis began to heat water for tea, asking if it would be okay to serve tea with the cheese. “Sure!” we said. Seconds later she came back inside with the mugs. “I was told that the cheese must come first!”

Outside there was laughter and singing. Throughout dinner, Alain had been freely pouring wine and refilling glasses, often when no one was looking. We lit candles, Homer cleaned up forgotten scraps of food, we discovered snails devouring a plate of nuts.

Jeff and Susan invited us over to their cottage on Tuesday night, for another group dinner. We smiled and gladly accepted. Glenn looked around the table. “I’ll bring the Pringles.”

Homer

snails eating plate of nuts

candlelit dinner

 

Leave a Comment / Filed In: France
Tagged: artist's retreat, Bastille Day, dinner party, food, France, La Marseillaise

A walk through the village

July 14, 2013

I’ve noticed there’s something that happens every time I walk outside here. Whether it’s to the source to fill up my bottle with fresh spring water, to wander around and explore the village, or to go on a hike- every time I step outside, I end up going somewhere I hadn’t intended.

This is what happens: I don’t know my way around yet. It’s a very small village, yet there are winding streets and alleys with staircases and hidden paths and little bridges everywhere you look. So I set out in one direction, and then wander off because something catches my eye, and this continues to happen until I’m much further from where I intended to be. But the result is incredible beauty. And discovery. And surprise. And delight.

I’ve been to many places that I consider beautiful, but this is by far the most beautiful yet. It’s magical. It’s wild and overgrown and decaying and alive.

I took a lot of photos today. I headed off to the source, at the bottom of the village, with a couple of empty water bottles and my camera. As soon as I left the gate of La Muse, I turned right instead of the usual left, to check out what was at the bottom of the path. I found this:

Labastide village

I wound my way back to the “main” street, and took a road I hadn’t been on. It led me through the village, past houses and people eating on terraces, onto a path leading to the gardens. Days before, I’d noticed a zigzagging pattern on the hillside next to Labastide, with stone walls cutting vertically across, separating plots of land. I’d been wondering how to get over there.

garden path, Labastide

I started walking down the trail, further and further until I realized that my sandals were holding me back, and I’d have to put on better shoes for more exploring. So I came back into the village, filled my water bottles, and started slowly heading back to La Muse. The details are everywhere, and they are stunning:

Labastide wildflowers

I ran into a couple of cats, they were picturesque as well. (This one posed for me, like he knew I had a camera):

Labastide cat

I took over 60 photos on that little walk, and I easily could have taken 60 more. Later in the day I ventured out again with my film camera, to the farmhouse ruins to take more photos. Each day I find a place that I want to return to, as well as a new place to explore or path to take. Cross your fingers for a rainy day, because it might be the only way for me to get any writing done.

Leave a Comment / Filed In: France, Inspiration, Photography
Tagged: artist's retreat, beauty, cats, French village, inspiration, Labastide, photography

Settling in

July 13, 2013

I’m sitting at the desk in my room, windows open, cool(ish) morning air, mountain view, House Martins flying around and chirping incessantly. There are fresh flowers on my desk, a mug of coffee within reach, some notebooks scattered around. A single church bell chimes, signaling half past the hour.

Though this was only my third morning here, I’ve already fallen into somewhat of a routine. Wake before 8, go down to the kitchen to brew coffee and gather some food (yogurt, fruit, BREAD), say hi to Jean-Christophe and Artis, the other two residents who are always up at the same time, and take my breakfast onto the terrace. This morning went just a bit different: Alain, who arrived last night, brought a little espresso machine with him. My enthusiasm was obvious. I helped him set it up this morning, and tried the first cup. C’est bon. We talked about how the fancy new technology of the espresso machine is at odds with the old and simple ways of the village. And then I enjoyed every single sip of my espresso.

There is too much to describe of my first days here, too many details, too many new experiences. The friendly villagers who all say ‘bonjour’ and give you the biggest smile, the winding paths of this tiny village set on the slope of a mountain, the opera-singing resident whose voice fills the little chapel and spills into the streets, buying fresh baguettes from the truck that drives into the village twice a week, sampling wines from a local vineyard… it goes on and on.

There are also funny things and mishaps and mistakes. Trying to shop for a week of groceries directly after being picked up in Carcassonne and not having slept for over 24 hours (myself and the two other new residents are now strategizing on how to make our food last), getting into the wrong car on the train in Paris, deciphering the hand drawn trail map and walking miles in the opposite direction of where I intended to go, navigating the personalities of the other residents, remembering the best technique for using a French shower… this goes on and on as well.

I’m beginning to feel settled in. It was nearly impossible to sit and focus for the first few days; all I could do was stare out the window and want to get outside and explore. So I did. There is still so much to discover and routines that I need to fully settle into, but I’m getting there. Thank goodness I have three weeks.

directional sign on tree, Labastide

Terrace of La Muse

Montagne Noire

Viallele farm house

Ancienne Ferme de Viallele (old farm house)

Leave a Comment / Filed In: France, Inspiration
Tagged: baguette, coffee, inspiration, Labastide, photography, Southern France, travel, writers' retreat

Preparation, fear, and forgotten words

July 6, 2013

I leave for France on Tuesday, and I’m not ready.

What does it mean, really, to be ready for something? My bags aren’t completely packed, but they will be, soon. I don’t have a detailed plan of work for while I’m there, but I have ideas, and I think that’s all I need. I’ve taken care of the details: flights and trains and hotels, money and plug adapters. My passport is practically glued to my hand, that’s now nervous I am about forgetting it.

The other day, my grandmother asked me how to say ‘pull’ in French. I felt like the word was on the tip of my tongue; I opened my mouth to say it, but nothing came out. I searched through my mind, at first confident that I could find it. I couldn’t.

I’ve forgotten a lot of the French that I learned in college. When did I lose the word ‘pull’? Last year? 5 years ago? Slowly, and without my knowledge, words have been slipping away. Going back to France makes me realize how much of the language I’ve lost, it makes me wonder how much of the language I can, and will, get back. I think to myself- “Why haven’t I been preparing? Why haven’t I been studying vocab, watching French movies?”

It wouldn’t have mattered. What I learned in France during my first week abroad was equal to or greater than everything I’d learned in the classroom over the previous 7 years. I’ll go back to France and the language will be there. It will be around me, and it will be in my head. The word ‘pull’ might appear, effortlessly, along with all the others that have gotten lost.

But this trip isn’t really about the language. I can focus on not feeling prepared to speak French, but that’s not what I’m really worried about.

I’m worried about having three weeks to chase a dream, and wondering if I can do it. I’m worried about sitting down and writing. I’m worried about how to be an artist.

I’m worried, but my excitement is a bit stronger. I’m excited about giving myself a chance to focus on a dream. I’m excited to see what happens when I sit down and write for three weeks. I’m excited to find out what kind of artist I am, I’m excited to let myself be an artist.

Right now, I’m about as prepared as I’m going to be. It’s time to get to France and speak the language and eat the bread and take some photos and start to write. I’m excited to share this experience, because I think it’s going to be a great one.

Leave a Comment / Filed In: France, Writing
Tagged: dreams, France, preparation, traveling, writing

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Welcome! I’m Nadine: a traveler, a pilgrim, a walker, a writer, a coffee drinker. This is where I share my stories, my thoughts and my walks. I hope you enjoy the site!
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