Labastide Archives - Nadine Walks

You Can Always Come Back: Blue Skies and Final Days

July 21, 2016

Yesterday, I was thinking about how long it had been since I’d seen a cloud in the sky. It feels a bit as though my entire time here has been under a perfect blue sky, and that is nearly true. But then I remember the last thing I posted here, how the weather was chilly, and I remember that yes, there were clouds. There was wind, there was a cool stretch.

It feels so long ago, that first week when I was settling back into life in a small French village in the mountains, remembering how things are done, relearning how to do them, discovering that some things aren’t the same at all. I finally felt settled, another week passed, and now here we are, almost at the end.

How is it possible that my time at La Muse is almost over? It makes me feel a little panicked, and I think, “There’s so much I haven’t done.” It makes me feel a little sad, and I think, “When will I come back again? Will I ever come back again?”

I even thought about canceling my Camino, and just staying here. But it’s impossible- the rooms are all booked, which is great news for La Muse and probably the right kind of news for me, too. As much as I want to stay here and never leave, I also want to settle into the next thing… which happens to be Spain and tapas and lots of walking.

I still have four solid days here, and in addition to my regular brainstorming sessions at Le Roc, the long hikes, the chats with the other residents, we also have an “excursion” down to the ruins of a Cathar Castle (we’re tacking on a lunch in a Michelin starred restaurant, too!), and a concert and all-village fête on Saturday night. Tomorrow Vera leaves, so tonight we’re all meeting on the terrace for a goodbye drink. Last night we had a reading, two nights before we had more goodbye drinks for Kelly.

There’s a really good group of residents here, though I have a feeling I might say that about nearly any group that spends time at La Muse; everyone here is creative, and serious about their creativity. But then you have a great and unpredictable mix of the rest of our personalities: introverts and extroverts, loud and quiet, soft and hard, vibrant and calm. On a few nights I’ve stayed up until the bitter end, talking and singing and laughing with those who remain on the terrace, long past the time when the stars have appeared in the sky. Usually I’m in the “second wave”, not leaving first, not staying until the end. But some nights I slip out as soon as my dinner is finished, the last sips of wine drunk. I sneak cookies upstairs- we’re not supposed to have food in the rooms- and I read a book or write in my journal or work on my story.

The work I’ve gotten done here has been difficult to measure. The bulk of my book is written, I think, but it is so very rough, and I’m still struggling to decide what, exactly, I’m trying to stay. So there is still an awful lot left to be done, but I’m feeing good about it. I’ve had the space here to really delve into the heart of this story, and to my surprise, I discovered that I might not want to really share too much about certain parts, and that I have a whole lot to say about others. And just like last time, the most important work seems to have happened away from my desk, away from the computer. I take the 10 minute path up to the top of the mountain and sit on my large, flat rock and stare off into the valley- the Pyrenees lining the horizon- and after an hour sometimes I just know in my gut what I need to do, what I need to write.

I went on an epic hike today; I wanted to get one full, long day of walking in, a sort of “Camino” training day (because in less than a week, I’ll be on a Camino! Hard to imagine right now….). Lets just say that maybe it was a bit too much. I headed for Latourette, which is just another village tucked away in these mountains, though it is not close. Last time I was here I’d seen signs for it, trails that led there, but it always seemed impossibly far away. But now that I have hiking experience, Camino experience, it seemed doable. The first half was great- up and down and through these mountains, stumbing on tiny villages that weren’t much more than a few houses and a really old church along with some crumbling stone ruins.

I made it to Latourette and sat on a bench and ate some snacks and rested my feet. Then I continued on, following a path that I assumed would sort of take me in a big circle and back to Labastide, but the further I walked, the more I realized that it might not have been so smart to follow an unknown trail. I wasn’t entirely sure where I was going, and even though I was always on a marked trail, I had a bad feeling that it was taking me away from where I wanted to go.

I kept walking though, hoping that the trees would open up and I could take a look at the landscape and get my bearings. The sun was hot, the air was humid, it was getting later, I was feeling more and more unsettled. Finally I turned around, walked back to Latourette, and followed a road that I knew would lead me to a village that was not far from Labastide.

I stumbled back into the village, my legs feeling like jelly, just as dark clouds gathered in the sky and a little rain began to spit down. It’s still overcast now, the first not-blue sky I’ve seen in what feels like weeks and weeks. The kind of sky that makes it easier to sit inside and get some writing done.

Already I can feel myself begin to move away from this experience, my thoughts starting to turn towards Spain, and the Camino. But I’m still here for a few more days and I want to really sink into these last moments: write what I can, wander through the village, sit up at Le Roc, hang out with Homer the dog. And I tell myself the same thing that I did three years ago, as I was preparing to leave: you can always come back.

On the Terrace, in the Sunshine

July 14, 2016

I’m writing this post from the terrace of La Muse, sitting on a bench in the sunshine. Sitting in the sun is the only way I can work outside today- it’s downright cold.

Well, that’s probably an exaggeration. But the high today couldn’t have been much more than 60 degrees, but with the strong wind, it feels even cooler. The day has alternated between dark gray clouds, sprinkles of rain, periods of sun, always the strong wind. But it’s felt almost perfect to me: just what I needed to stay inside this morning to write, and just the right temperature to go for a small hike in the afternoon. And now, a blog post on the terrace in the sunshine.

I’ve never really explained how things work here (have I?) and since I’m a solid 9 days in, I figure it’s about time. Most people, when I explain that I’m spending 3 weeks at a writer’s retreat in France, ask about the structure here. “Are there lectures or workshops, is there a teacher?” No, no, and no. It’s all pretty unstructured, it’s one of my favorite things about this place. You apply for a spot- a room, essentially- by sending in a resume and an explanation of your work. If there’s an open room and it seems as though you’re serious about your art, you’ll be offered a spot. But then the rest is up to you: La Muse provides the beautiful room and the stunning, almost magical scenery, and you work on your art.

There are now several places to stay in the village: The Big House (where I am, and the orginal home of La Muse), The Mews (the other half of the Big House that used to be the home of the owners of this whole thing), Cottage #1 and Cottage #2, each with two bedrooms. Right now every single room is booked, so there are 14 of us in total. Sometimes the residents all gather together, if we organize a communal meal, or do a reading, but mostly people are on their own to do whatever they want.

Some people stay and work in their rooms for the entire day. Some (ahem) go off for long hikes. Some work on the terrace or hang out in the library, some work late into the evenings or early in the mornings. But often we come together for dinner, eating with whoever is around, and most of us eventually congregating on the terrace to finish the night.

Once a week you’re driven down the mountain for a bit of sight-seeing but mostly so you can hit a grocery store and stock up for the week. There’s a house in the village where you can buy fresh eggs, a constantly running water source with what might be the best water I’ve ever tasted, a truck that comes through the village two times a week selling bread and basic supply of fruits, veggies and canned goods. There are between 30-40 residents who live in this village, and many of them are well into their 80’s. But I see them out, all the time, tending to their gardens, walking slowly up and down the sloping streets. They congregate when the bread truck arrives, chatting as they wait, lingering as they stock up on supplies. For many, it’s the social highlight of the week.

I’ve found a good rhythm here, though it took me awhile. I wake early to eat breakfast on the terrace, then I go back to my room for several hours to work. I take a lot of breaks and do a lot of puttering around- it’s hard to sit still and write for hours on end. I break up my time by walking up to Le Roc- a viewpoint at the top of the moutain- going on water runs to the source, hand washing laundry, straightening up the few possessions in my room, reading a book. If it’s a cloudy or rainy day (we’ve only had a few), I’ll stay in my room and write. But by mid-afternoon (at the latest!) I’m ready to get out and hike. There’s a network of trails that run through the village, so all I have to do is strap on my pack, walk out the door, and I’ve got several great paths to choose from.

My family and friends have asked me: how’s the writing going? Are you getting much done? The answer is… it’s going okay. I’ve had some great stretches of writing and have started to work out some of the structural stuff for the book. But I’d by lying if I said that I was spending all day writing, getting a tremendous amount of work done. I can’t, or maybe it’s more that I choose not to. Just being here and soaking up this experience is so important to me; it’s good if I can get a lot of writing done, but what’s even better is what I’m remembering from last time: that I feel so inspired and creatively energized. After a week, my writing feels as strong as it’s ever been. I’m having great conversations about the creative process, today on my hike I memorized a poem. It’s been a long time since I’ve done that.

Last night the residents all gathered in the library for a reading, to share some of what we’ve been working on. I read a short part from my book, something I wrote last week. It’s the first time I’ve ever done something like this, the first time I’ve shared anything from this book I’ve been working on. And it was scary. But it also felt good. The idea, the hope, is that eventually I can get something published and have lots and lots of people read my story. Sharing just a very small piece of it felt like a good start.

Walking through Fields of Thorns

July 11, 2016

It took me several days, but I’ve finally gone hiking. I thought it would be the very first thing I’d do, that I’d settle into my room at La Muse, look out the window, and promtply run out to the green hills.

And I wanted to- oh believe me, I wanted to- but for nearly all of this first week at the retreat, I’ve been fighting a cold. At first I thought this was a good thing, that it would give me more time to write, but mostly it’s just been frustrating. I want the energy to write and to go hiking.

My energy has been coming back, and so for the last two days, I’ve gone out to explore the mountains that I fell in love with three years ago.

Like so much else here, the memories come flooding back, and it almost amazes me what I can remember. As I hiked up the steep, rocky hill on what I call the “Lastours view” hike, it hits me with such a strong sense of knowing: there’s a spot coming up where I like to stop and rest. The spot with the tree that’s just tall enough to provide some shade, the one that casts its shadow over a rocky wall that’s the perfect height to rest against- ah yes, there it is. I’m out of breath, and like I always did, like I probably always will, I stop here and drink some water.

After that first hike I began to think that I wouldn’t exactly be having adventures out here this time around; that I’ve already done all of the hikes, that I know this terrain. But then I found myself setting out yesterday, not exactly sure where I wanted to go. I stopped by the source at the bottom of the village to fill up my water bottles (I love that there’s a place to get water that’s actually called ‘the source’ and it’s the first thing that people say to you when you arrive here: “Have you been to the source yet?”). Then, since I’m already down here, I decide to follow a nearby path that winds up and out of the village, the one that heads towards the lake.

I don’t want to walk all the way to the lake today (I haven’t been yet and there’s talk of a group going later in the week), but I know that the path will connect me to a track that can take me over the mountain. So I venture off, gradually making my way up and up on this shaded and narrow trail through the woods.

Almost immediately, I’m not having much fun. There are trees and bushes on either side of me and spiders have cast their webs across the trail and with nearly every other step, I’m walking staight through the stringy webs. I wipe against my arms and legs constantly, trying to rid myself of the invisible strings.

Soon the path curves and opens up and I remember this from last time: it’s a wide and grassy path, hot in the sun. This time, too, it’s hot in the sun and the path is rather wide and grassy, but it looks like it hasn’t been maintained in the three years since I’ve been here last. Wildflowers and weeds shoot up from the ground and take over the trail almost to the point where it’s hard to know if you’re still on a trail or not. And really, this wouldn’t be so bad if there weren’t stalks of thorns, too. Fields of thorns, as I came to call them, endless fields of thorns.

To be fair, I’d been warned. Another resident, the film editor, has been hiking a lot. He’d arrived a few days before the rest of us and only stayed a week- he’s already gone. But on his last full day he hiked up to the lake, taking the same trail out of the village that I was on now. I asked him about the hike and he gave me some tips, adding, “Oh, if you have long pants, you might want to wear them.”

He said his legs got a little cut up but he really didn’t mind, and that was it. I didn’t think much of it, just assumed that there were a few overgrown sections, that it probably wasn’t that bad.

Let me just say: I should have worn long pants. By the time I got out of the field of thorns, there were scrapes and cuts all over the bottom half of my legs. I’d been careful, too, moving slowly, stepping high, knocking branches away with the end of my stick. But it didn’t matter, the thorns were everywhere. Little nettles were, too, their tiny sharp ends wedging into my socks and shoes and jabbing against my ankles.

“Never again,” I muttered to myself as the path finally joined the road and I walked on towards the mountain top.

But then the longer I walked, the higher I climbed up towards the ridge of the mountain, the dryer the air felt, the stronger the wind- the annoyance and pain of the first part of the hike vanished. All I was left with was that incredible feeling of freedom and space, the kind of strength you feel when you’ve made it to the top of something.

I love being back here. I ended my hike hot and sweaty and had to pluck a tiny needle of a thorn from the heel of my foot- but I love it. I’m trying hard to spend time inside, at my desk, but I also can’t resist what is sitting outside my window. Already a week of the retreat is gone- a week!- but I still have two more. And I have a feeling that there are several more adventures waiting for me.

No Sugar Tonight in my Coffee; the first days at La Muse

July 8, 2016

Yesterday morning I made myself a small pot of espresso, heated up some milk in the microwave, mixed it together and added a spoonful of what I thought was sugar. It was salt.

This is a pretty good way to describe what my first few days at La Muse, the writer’s/artist’s retreat in the south of France, have been like. I was here three years ago and some things- many things- are exactly the same. The village dates back to sometime around 1000 AD, and the house where I’m staying used to be the chateau of the village in the Middle Ages. So, things have been here a long, long time. Of course nothing has changed.

In some ways I imagined that I would walk back in here and slip straight to the past, to exactly how things used to be, to the same person that I was when I was last here. I could pick up wherever I left off: journaling in the mornings and gazing out at the mountains and marveling over my explorations while I hiked. I could access the same thoughts and excitement and spirit. It would be immediate, and seamless.

But instead, I walked back in and was hit with such a powerful sense of familiarity, but also of difference. The trees are taller, they change the view from the terrace. I walk up two sets of stairs to my room and not just one, I listen for the sounds of my friends but I only hear the voices of strangers. I go on a small hike and pace back and forth, searching for the turnoff of the trail. Eventually I find it; it is much further down the hill than I remember. I reach for sugar and I grab salt.

I don’t quite have the same sense of wonder that I did the first time, either. It reminds me of my experience with Paris: I entered the city and knew exactly where to go, and what to do. If Paris felt like some sort of temporary home, then La Muse and Labastide do, too. Returning to a place you love is a special kind of experience; it reminds you of where you’ve been, it reminds you of where you are now.

There are 14 residents here, it’s a big group. Many Americans, two Germans, two Australians, one Irish woman and one English woman. One is a film editor but all the rest are writers. This feels a bit daunting to me. I know I’m working on a book, but others are too. Without knowing all that much about their projects, I still have the sense that their books are these real, concrete, serious things. So different than my own, which just seems to be a bunch of words at the moment. Some of the residents have already published, I get the sense that many of them know what they are doing.

Or do they? Maybe we all give off that sense to each other. If I let myself see past my own doubts, I see that others have them, too. It’s a fascinating experience to be back, once again, with a large group of creative people. We’re all still feeling each other out, and as usual, I’m content to sit back and observe the group quietly. But already I can start to see where I fall within the mix: Vera and I have similar writing schedules, we often work and take breaks at the same time. Hilary is introverted, like me, and we take walks down to Le Fenial for coffee. I pour over a large hiking map with Will, pointing out my favorite trails.

I thought I might be able to jump right back into this experience, to hit the ground running with my writing, to feel at ease around the other residents, but (and really, this should come as no surprise to me), I’ve needed time to settle into this. And I’m getting there, I can feel myself beginning to sink in. My room is beautiful, and I’d forgotten how much I love watching and listening to the swallows swooping around outside my window. I’ve been wandering through the hills (a mild cold has stopped me from taking on big hikes, but it’s probably just as well in terms of getting into a good writing routine), and I’ve returned to Le Roc- my beautiful spot on top of the mountain with views that seem to stretch on forever. Homer, the resident dog, has accompanied me both times, and I love this. He runs fast and far ahead, but always circles back to make sure that I’m still coming. And when we get to Le Roc, he finds a cool spot in the shade while I write, and when I’m done, we walk back to the village together.

I love that I have three weeks here, that I can spend these first days adjusting and settling in and finding my routines- the routines of three years ago, but also the routines of today. I’ll mix them together and come away with a brand new experience, and I can’t wait to see what it will be like.

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

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 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)