Blog - Page 29 of 29 - Nadine Walks

A Single Step

January 2, 2014

A single step feels both enormous and insignificant. Whether it’s an actual footstep, the beginning action of something, a small part of a process or even a decision to start; it’s one step. It takes stringing the steps together, putting one foot in front of the other over and over again, day in and day out- often tirelessly- to get somewhere. To create something. To change one thing in your life. To change your entire life.

This isn’t easy. Playing the piano or speaking French. Running 3 miles or writing a book. Falling in love or building a relationship. It is not enough to begin, you need to keep going every day. Continue to do the work and keep taking steps.

It’s so easy to slow down, or to take a day off. Then a week off. Just like that, it’s too cold outside to run. I think that I’ll have more energy tomorrow. And suddenly, it feels easier to imagine writing than it does to actually write, because writing means having something to say. And what if I have nothing to say?

And sometimes, life gets in the way. Situations we don’t plan for, unexpected changes, endings and beginnings.

I feel like I’ve had a lot of endings and beginnings in the last several years. Times when I ask myself, “Now what?”

I’m at one of those times now, and not just because it’s a new year. I’m still in my apartment, in my town, in my job. But the direction I thought my life was taking suddenly veered off course, and I’m left with needing to figure out not only a new plan, but a new direction for my future.

The only answer I can come up with to the question of- “How do you figure out your life direction when you don’t know where to go?” is: start taking steps.

I want to string together enough steps so I can get myself somewhere, even if, right now, I’m not sure where that should be. Once I start moving, I think I might find some answers.

After the vagueness about taking steps and life changes and finding direction, here is something concrete: I want to take a walk this summer. A 500 mile walk.

There is a network of ancient pilgrimage routes leading to the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain; these routes are called El Camino de Santiago, or, The Way of St. James. The most popular route is the Camino Francés, beginning in France and stretching 780 km to Santiago.

People walk for many reasons: a religious or spiritual journey, a test of physical endurance, a mental and emotional challenge, a great adventure. Some walk only parts of the route, some bike, some (a few) even bring donkeys.

I don’t know what the Camino will look like for me, and I don’t even know if I will be able to do it. Not only is there a question of time and money, but there’s a question of whether I can walk 6-10 hours a day for 30-40 days. Can my body handle the steps it takes to walk 500 miles? Can my mind handle it?

These are questions I want to try to answer. I’m asking myself a lot of questions lately, and I’m seeking direction. Maybe I’m even seeking my path, and the Camino feels like a good place to begin.

And even though I’m not on the path yet, I’m taking my first steps now. I want to talk about the idea of this journey- the reasons I want to walk and the planning it will require, the obstacles I’ll face and the adventure of it all. Maybe throughout this I’ll find my direction. At the very least, I hope I find a few good stories.

All my bags are packed

August 8, 2013

On my last morning in Labastide, I headed up for one last trek to Le Roc, which had become “my spot”. As I hiked up the rocky trail past the church, I saw John coming down towards me (John and his wife Kerry are owners and hosts of La Muse). He slowed for only a few steps and said, simply, “It’s a perfect day.”

I got up to Le Roc and immediately understood what he meant: it was the clearest morning of my three weeks in Labastide. I could see far into the valley below me and beyond, to the clear outlines of the Pyrenees and their still snow capped peaks. For weeks, my eyes would strain and only make out hazy outlines of the Pyrenees; and now, suddenly, here they were. It felt like a message, but whether that message was “hello” or “goodbye” I’m not sure.

In any case, it was perfect. I had lots of perfect days in Labastide, and many in my last week. I intended to blog so much more while on my trip: funny and strange details about the people I interacted with, relearning and remembering how to speak French, my daily hiking adventures. And I still might tell those stories.

But for now, the end.

The day before I left, I woke up at 6am so I could hike to Le Roc to see the sunrise (even though the mountains blocked most of the view). I headed out of La Muse and Homer, John and Kerry’s dog, ran up to me. Normally, Homer would accompany residents on their hikes and walks, but at the beginning of our retreat Homer got sick, and his daily jaunts were restricted. For three weeks I would head out for a hike and Homer would stare at me with sad eyes, begging to come along.

I don’t know what he was doing outside so early, it was almost as if he was waiting for me. He bounded over, gave me a quick look, and then took off, sprinting, out of the village. He wasn’t missing this walk.

I headed towards Le Roc, with Homer leading the way. We made it up to my spot and sat together and watched the morning for awhile.

Homer at Le Roc

The rest of the day was a blur: lingering at lunch, a last hike, a pizza dinner with the entire group, starting a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle at 10pm. I woke up the next morning, not quite packed, not quite prepared to navigate Paris, not quite ready to leave. I sat on the terrace and ate my breakfast with Jean-Christophe and other residents filed in and out, everyone up earlier than normal that day.

I sat at Le Roc and stared at the Pyrenees for as long as I could, and then raced back to La Muse to throw things in my suitcase and write an entry in the guestbook and give away the extra food in my cupboard and say goodbye to La Muse and Labastide.

We drove away in the jeep, only Diane and I leaving that morning (Glenn and Julia came along for the ride and a trip to the grocery store; both had figured out a way to stay in Labastide for another week). As we drove away from the village, someone started singing, “All my bags are packed I’m ready to go, I’m standing here outside your door…” and we all joined in. It’s the slightly corny kind of thing you’d see in a movie, but for us, and in that moment, it worked. It was bittersweet and beautiful.

So many people who go to La Muse end up going back, and I understand why. Already, there was lots of talk about reuniting next summer. I think I knew, on my first day there, that I would want to go back, and that feeling only intensified throughout my stay.

But if I never make it back, it’s okay. It’s the kind of experience that stays with a person forever, and I got more out of it than I ever imagined I would.

Nadine at Le Roc, Labastide, France

Last days in Labastide

July 29, 2013

I only have two days left in Labastide, and it’s not enough time. When I first arrived, I thought, “Three weeks will be plenty of time to do everything I want to do”, but now it feels like it’s not nearly enough. I don’t know what happens to the days here: I start my mornings on the terrace and before I know it I’m back there, eating dinner by candlelight. Time moves fast.

Part of the problem (though it’s not really a problem at all) is that I can’t walk through the village anymore without running into someone I know. In the first weeks I would just smile and wave, now I stop and talk.

People know my routines. If they see a blanket in my hand they will say, “You must be going to the rock.” At the end of the day, someone will ask, “Where did you hike to today?” The residents make an effort to gather together for lunch and dinner, and the other girls and I schedule time to sit in the library and talk.

I write in the mornings and take, sometimes, a hundred photos during the day. I’ve explored this village and the mountains around it inside and out, and yet there’s always more to see. Just yesterday, a villager told me about yet another trail with a great view of the village. I added it to my list of things to do in my last few days, but the list just gets longer and longer.

My days are filled with simple and wonderful things: a hike through the mountains with Filou, a village dog. One of the best cheeseburgers I’ve ever had at a cafe in Carcassonne. A village fête where we ate giant sausages and listened to the villagers singing French songs late into the night. Pointing out constellations on a clear night, as we sit on the terrace and see hundreds of stars.

Labastide village

House on Hill, Labastide Esparbairenque

Filou and Chapel, Labastide Esparbairenque

detail berries, Labastide Esparbairenque

Terrace #2

Arts and crafts

Village fête

Sleeping with spiders

July 24, 2013

I’m sitting at my desk, trying to get some writing done, but I keep resting my cheek against the palm of my hand and closing my eyes. So I turn up my music and take another sip of coffee and try to stay awake.

It’s only 8:30am.

I haven’t been getting enough sleep. Every night I intend to get to bed early- asleep by 11- but it never quite works out. We have late dinners and the sky doesn’t darken until after 10 and Diane always makes coffee. When I do get into bed at a decent hour, my mind spins with the things I did and saw during the day, and all the things I want to do tomorrow. It takes me forever to fall asleep.

I wake up every morning a little after 7, and am nearly always the first one up in the house. Sometimes Jean Christophe beats me downstairs, but he always drinks his tea on the library steps and I eat my breakfast on the terrace table; we can both enjoy the peace and quiet of the morning and not bother each other. It’s a good arrangement.

Last night was movie night: Susan downloaded Impromptu (a movie about George Sand and Chopin and a bunch of artists and writers who gather in the south of France) on her computer and we set up in the library. A storm rolled through late yesterday afternoon, dropping the temperatures by at least 20 degrees, so Artis and I tried to build a fire in the wood stove. She threw pages from her notebook into the stove to burn, but they wouldn’t catch; the fire was short lived, so we all bundled up in blankets, drinking tea and eating shortbread cookies instead.

The church bell was striking one by the time I was in bed and drifting off to sleep. Less than four hours later, I was awake again. Something had interrupted my dream and woken me up- I lay in bed, listening carefully. Just as I was closing my eyes I heard the noise again- there was something moving around near the armchair in my room.

I crept out of bed, turned on the light, and glanced around my room, staring at the armchair where I thought I heard the noise coming from. At first nothing, and then, slowly, a big black thing crawled out onto the t-shirt I had draped over the back of the chair.

A few days ago, Artis (who has been to La Muse several times before) was telling us about the giant spiders she’d found hiding between the bed and wall of her room. “You guys haven’t seen the spiders yet??” she asked. That night it had taken me over an hour to fall asleep.

So my first thought, when I saw this huge black thing in my room, was that it was one of Artis’ spiders. I stared at it; presumably, it stared back at me. I stood at the foot of my bed, he stood on my armchair, neither of us moved. The showdown lasted at least 10 minutes, as I tried to figure out what to do. There was no way I was going to be able to fall asleep with the thing still in my room, and there was no way I was going to try to kill it.

Finally I decided that the best solution would be to creep over to my window and open it, then drag the armchair to the window, and attempt to get the spider, or whatever it was, outside.

I moved slowly, quietly, the thing moving its head a bit, but otherwise remaining motionless. I opened my windows and then tentatively gave the armchair a little shake, to see if the thing would dart away. It didn’t move.

Inch by inch I slid the armchair across the floor, its weight dragging on the tiles, making a lot of noise. Once the armchair was positioned under the window, I reached out and grabbed the edge of my t-shirt. I took a deep breath, counted to three, and then flung the t-shirt out the window. It fluttered down to the terrace below, laying in a heap beneath my window. The black thing- maybe a strangely shaped spider, maybe a little bat?- went with it.

A few hours later I woke up and went downstairs to have breakfast, finding my t-shirt neatly folded on the table in the library. Someone, probably Jean Christophe, must have found it. I vaguely wondered what went through his head when he saw the t-shirt on the terrace. I figure I’ll explain later. After my nap.

Bon appétit

July 21, 2013

Yesterday was my trip down the mountain and it came not a day too soon. My shelf in the kitchen was looking grim: one very ripe and mushy banana, a can of tuna fish, a handful of golden grahams. I’d finished my bread that morning, and ate the last yogurt. All in all I planned my meals well, and could have done even better if the promised ‘épicerie (grocery) truck’ that delivers to the village once a week hadn’t been on holiday. For my last dinner before the great shopping trip, I had an egg scramble: a couple eggs mixed in with whatever veggies I had left in the fridge. Sprinkle on some herbs de provence and it was a success.

Glenn, on the other hand, was a different story. He had a similar idea for his last supper, and went to the cabinets and fridge to pull out his remaining food. As everyone else cooked their meals, we’d occasionally look over at Glenn to see what he was doing. Slicing some bread… no problem. Cutting chunks of cheese… fine. Then he pulled out herring. And pâté. And Pringles. And something pink that I still haven’t been able to identify.

“Glenn, what are you doing??” someone asked.

“Making dinner!” he replied.

Glenn's dinner

(The second plate in the photo is a meal of salmon and veggies, which another resident offered to him out of pity).

The trip to the supermarché was an all day outing. It began with a few hours in Carcassonne (the “newer” part of the city, not the fortified town); my first reaction after being dropped off at the train station was: “There’s too much going on! Too much noise and too many people!” It was a sharp contrast to the quiet and solitude of Labastide. Five minutes later, however, Julia, Artis and I were like kids in a candy shop, pointing at the stores and cafés, oohing and ahhing. The other two went off to do some clothes shopping (it’s ‘soldes’ time in France, big sales!), I walked around to explore.

It was my first time in a French town in over 10 years, and it brought back so many memories of being in Toulouse (even though I’ve been in France now for 10 days, village life is a brand new experience). This felt like the France I knew. The pharmacies recognizable by their green crosses, the crédit agricole banks, even a sandwich shop chain I loved to go to in Toulouse.

After walking around for an hour, I met Julia and Artis in the town’s square. A five piece band was playing beautiful music, kids were running around the fountain, cafés set out dozens of umbrella-ed tables. We picked a café called ‘Artichaut’, and lingered through lunch, soaking in the atmosphere of the square and the luxury of being served a meal.

From Carcassonne we went on to the supermarché, where I loaded up my cart and spent more on food in one trip than I ever have in my life (meat! cheese! fruits! veggies! wine! coffee!). Then more stops: an organic store, a boulangerie for a couple of fresh baguettes, a craft store so Julia could buy some canvases, and an impromptu stop for some ‘road cheese’. We even convinced John (our host and driver for the day) to stop for a “five minute” café. I ordered a petit crème: a tiny glass of espresso with steamed milk and a spoonful of foam.

On our way back up the mountain we ran into a storm, and arrived at La Muse to a power outage that lasted four hours (the biggest worry was not that there were no lights or internet service, but that our food could go bad). But the power returned, clouds rolled through the mountains, and we sat down to enjoy dinner on the terrace. Bon appétit, indeed.

Terrace after storm

Mysterious Woman of the Rock

July 18, 2013

I’ve discovered a spot where I like to go and write, read, journal, or just sit and stare at the mountains. I came across it on my second day at La Muse, when I continued on the path past the church and cemetery. I hiked up an incline to where the path met a track, and after following this for a few minutes, saw a plaque that read “La Croix de Viallele”. Sure enough, there was a cross on top of a pile of rocks. I climbed up and took in the view, snapped a few photos, and vowed to go back.

And I have, nearly every day. It’s a great spot to work- usually cooler and windier than in the village, and completely quiet and isolated. At least I thought it was. I was sitting up there a few days ago, with my notebook in my lap, when all of a sudden a little dog appears from behind the rock and runs over to me. He’s friendly: his entire body shakes when he sees me, and he runs all around, finally settling beneath my legs. I pet him for a few minutes, and as soon as I start to wonder where he came from, he runs off.

Five minutes later I hear a voice calling out (in English): “Megan! Meg Meg! Where are you?” The voice moves closer and then I see a man standing on the rocks to my right, peering out over the valley. He hasn’t seen me yet so I take the opportunity to call over to him, “Excuse me, did you lose your dog?” I nearly startled the man straight off the mountain.

We spoke for a minute, and then he went off to keep looking for Megan. About five minutes after this I hear his voice, this time calling out to me, “Hello, mysterious woman of the rock!” He is more settled now that he’s found his dog, and asks where I came from. I talk about La Muse, he talks about living in the village. He tells me that I have found his very favorite spot in the world. “I never see anyone up here, so you can imagine my surprise when I heard you call out to me.”

Megan runs off again, so the villager follows, calling over his shoulder that I should come down to his cottage, meet his wife, and enjoy a lemonade or apéritif.

I think about how I’ve stumbled onto someone’s very favorite place in the world. I can see why he likes it so much- after all, I saw it once and decided to go back every day.

Do you have a favorite place? Somewhere that you go back to, time and time again?

Le Roc

work spot- le roc

view from le roc

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

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):

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.

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

Ancienne Ferme de Viallele (old farm house)

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.