St Jean du GardCentre Ville
Thursday, April 12, 2012
by the sea
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Into April
March 26, 2012
Cadiere, France,
I haven't written for a while. After returning from the Canary Islands to meet Bhumi in Provence.. and after a week of touring around we returned to St. Hippo to begin to sort out the practical problems of life together. There have definitely been times when I was convinced that it wasn't going to work. Sometimes because the practical, financial and material aspects were too far out of whack. Sometimes because it seemed to be an impossible matchup on the emotional level. But these have been the low points, so really it has been a roller coaster with highs and lows. Sometimes convinced that this was the stupidest thing I ever did. Sometimes that it is the best. The trend is positive as we keep moving through the challenges. I think I/we began a new cycle a few days ago after realizing that I am overly dependent on Bhumi because of my lack of French and inability to deal with anything like insurance or phones, etc. On the other hand overly arrogant about Bhumi's problem with disorganization and priorities …… and my superior way of seeing everything. Something shifted. A better balance. Less sensitivity and more cooperation. So now is a good time to write.
A few big steps so far. We got the Espace van, the one that was given to us by a stranger.. now a friend.. in Provence. After some brake work it is drivable with a few more things needed but nothing major. Next, we got Bhumi out of the flat in St. Hippo. This added some to the burden of things to sort through on the land outside of town where we are living full time now but it was a really good move. We are putting our energies into this piece of land that Bhumi owns. It has a caravan which I have been working on… helping clear out and organize… the usual. Also a couple of rustic buildings, one a cabin that is now only for storage, and a workshop for Bhumi's business that is also a rough structure, but has potential to become a house if the proper approvals can be gained. There is a small caravan that I may use as an office eventually. Also the ruins of a small 'mazet'.. a kind of shed made of stone that is grandfathered in as a footprint for building. And the Mercedes panel truck, which serves as a guest bedroom. We heat water outside and have an outdoor kitchen to complement the kitchen in the caravan. We recharge car batteries at our neighbor, Serges… a daily ritual walking 5 minutes there and back. From this we get minimal power for internet/phone. Mostly light with candles at night. For the while it is far better to be in camping mode here than in town in the crappy apartment. The weather is mild and it rarely rains… actually in a drought. Stars at night. Privacy, elbow room and nature. In time it would be best to create a real house, but it is not certain that we are going down this path. In the meantime.. incremental improvements. Electricity and hot water on demand are the big conveniences that are lacking for now.
The property is only about 20 meters wide but stretches far back, with four terraces. All bounded by stone walls. There are many olive trees, a couple of walnut trees and gardens that Bhumi has worked on over the years. The ground is hard and too dry for many kinds of plants without irrigation so there are a system of pipes and hoses throughout. The area around us has many vineyards of various sizes. It lies in a valley between two ridges. The higher ridge, which marks the boundary of the high country of the Cevenne to the north is rather dramatic. One sees the profile of a woman's face on the limestone ridge that is called ' La Marianne'. A neighbor and friend of Bhumi, told us that he found a cave over on the opposite side of "la Marianne" with human remains that were dated back 15,000 - 25,000 years. Also that the Germans hid nitro glycerin in another cave there and that someday if a bit of roof collapses "La Marianne" might blow her nose.
Last night we pulled a tub close to the fire and wonder of wonders… made a bath. Today a friend came and helped me construct a frame for a new roof on the caravan. He has also been helpful in lending a generator and a saw. Last week I rearranged some things in the caravan and built shelves. I am back in handyman mode trying to make do with a minimum of tools and off the grid.
April 1,
La Grau du Roi
We are at the coast of the Mediterranean for my birthday, for a break and to try out the Espace as a camping vehicle. We stopped enroute through Montpellier at a French version of Home Depot and I bought some much needed tools. At our first beach stop and 'swim' in the cold water Bhumi stepped on a stonefish. Very painful sting. A young caretaker with dreadlocks who was staying on the beach reassured Bhumi that it would pass in half an hour or so and then provided her cigarettes to heat the affected toe as a remedy. And so we sat until the sun went down. Typical Bhumi encounter. Then went into town for pizza a beer and finally on to a point of land with a preserve: beaches and dunes. Ended up parking in the lot of a nearby business rather than the beach parking lot, which seemed to be a hangout for people of dubious intentions. Next day the boss of the business came to inquire about us parking there and Bhumi charmed him into giving us permission to stay another night. He agreed that the beach lot was not a safe place. So we had our fine little adhoc campground complete with bathroom and a view of the marshes. No hot showers, but … hey. The beach reminds me of S. NJ. Water still too cold for swimming. Lots of wind… the Mistral that blows down the Rhone. Dudes and Dudesses enjoying the clothing optional beach. La Grau du Roi is a port town and a beach resort catering to tourists, full of restaurants, with a canal running through the center and a mixture of boats for work and for pleasure. Not ancient, but not too modern either. Reachable by bus from St. Hippo for a couple of Euros, so easy to return later.
We are now sitting at a nice outdoor cafe on the beach. Had a burger AKA 'steak hache' with frittes. They even had ketchup (you have to ask…. which I was able to do in French… this is about my level. "Avez Vous Ketchup?". Maybe back to the beach this afternoon. Maybe head back later. Maybe stop and visit on the way. I am always asking, "What's the plan?" It's almost a joke, but really it is a balancing act between Bhumi and I. This weekend I am content to drift along with Bhumi's relaxed sense of time. Next week… back to work.
Spring is here. A night of much needed rain. Leaves just appearing on the grape vines. The plane trees that are so ubiquitous in these villages are finally filling with new foliage in time to provide shade from the summer sun. Here it is the heat that people speak of in the way that we speak of the cold in Vermont. A challenge. A good time to get out and come back to Vermont.
Cadiere, France,
I haven't written for a while. After returning from the Canary Islands to meet Bhumi in Provence.. and after a week of touring around we returned to St. Hippo to begin to sort out the practical problems of life together. There have definitely been times when I was convinced that it wasn't going to work. Sometimes because the practical, financial and material aspects were too far out of whack. Sometimes because it seemed to be an impossible matchup on the emotional level. But these have been the low points, so really it has been a roller coaster with highs and lows. Sometimes convinced that this was the stupidest thing I ever did. Sometimes that it is the best. The trend is positive as we keep moving through the challenges. I think I/we began a new cycle a few days ago after realizing that I am overly dependent on Bhumi because of my lack of French and inability to deal with anything like insurance or phones, etc. On the other hand overly arrogant about Bhumi's problem with disorganization and priorities …… and my superior way of seeing everything. Something shifted. A better balance. Less sensitivity and more cooperation. So now is a good time to write.
A few big steps so far. We got the Espace van, the one that was given to us by a stranger.. now a friend.. in Provence. After some brake work it is drivable with a few more things needed but nothing major. Next, we got Bhumi out of the flat in St. Hippo. This added some to the burden of things to sort through on the land outside of town where we are living full time now but it was a really good move. We are putting our energies into this piece of land that Bhumi owns. It has a caravan which I have been working on… helping clear out and organize… the usual. Also a couple of rustic buildings, one a cabin that is now only for storage, and a workshop for Bhumi's business that is also a rough structure, but has potential to become a house if the proper approvals can be gained. There is a small caravan that I may use as an office eventually. Also the ruins of a small 'mazet'.. a kind of shed made of stone that is grandfathered in as a footprint for building. And the Mercedes panel truck, which serves as a guest bedroom. We heat water outside and have an outdoor kitchen to complement the kitchen in the caravan. We recharge car batteries at our neighbor, Serges… a daily ritual walking 5 minutes there and back. From this we get minimal power for internet/phone. Mostly light with candles at night. For the while it is far better to be in camping mode here than in town in the crappy apartment. The weather is mild and it rarely rains… actually in a drought. Stars at night. Privacy, elbow room and nature. In time it would be best to create a real house, but it is not certain that we are going down this path. In the meantime.. incremental improvements. Electricity and hot water on demand are the big conveniences that are lacking for now.
The property is only about 20 meters wide but stretches far back, with four terraces. All bounded by stone walls. There are many olive trees, a couple of walnut trees and gardens that Bhumi has worked on over the years. The ground is hard and too dry for many kinds of plants without irrigation so there are a system of pipes and hoses throughout. The area around us has many vineyards of various sizes. It lies in a valley between two ridges. The higher ridge, which marks the boundary of the high country of the Cevenne to the north is rather dramatic. One sees the profile of a woman's face on the limestone ridge that is called ' La Marianne'. A neighbor and friend of Bhumi, told us that he found a cave over on the opposite side of "la Marianne" with human remains that were dated back 15,000 - 25,000 years. Also that the Germans hid nitro glycerin in another cave there and that someday if a bit of roof collapses "La Marianne" might blow her nose.
Last night we pulled a tub close to the fire and wonder of wonders… made a bath. Today a friend came and helped me construct a frame for a new roof on the caravan. He has also been helpful in lending a generator and a saw. Last week I rearranged some things in the caravan and built shelves. I am back in handyman mode trying to make do with a minimum of tools and off the grid.
April 1,
La Grau du Roi
We are at the coast of the Mediterranean for my birthday, for a break and to try out the Espace as a camping vehicle. We stopped enroute through Montpellier at a French version of Home Depot and I bought some much needed tools. At our first beach stop and 'swim' in the cold water Bhumi stepped on a stonefish. Very painful sting. A young caretaker with dreadlocks who was staying on the beach reassured Bhumi that it would pass in half an hour or so and then provided her cigarettes to heat the affected toe as a remedy. And so we sat until the sun went down. Typical Bhumi encounter. Then went into town for pizza a beer and finally on to a point of land with a preserve: beaches and dunes. Ended up parking in the lot of a nearby business rather than the beach parking lot, which seemed to be a hangout for people of dubious intentions. Next day the boss of the business came to inquire about us parking there and Bhumi charmed him into giving us permission to stay another night. He agreed that the beach lot was not a safe place. So we had our fine little adhoc campground complete with bathroom and a view of the marshes. No hot showers, but … hey. The beach reminds me of S. NJ. Water still too cold for swimming. Lots of wind… the Mistral that blows down the Rhone. Dudes and Dudesses enjoying the clothing optional beach. La Grau du Roi is a port town and a beach resort catering to tourists, full of restaurants, with a canal running through the center and a mixture of boats for work and for pleasure. Not ancient, but not too modern either. Reachable by bus from St. Hippo for a couple of Euros, so easy to return later.
We are now sitting at a nice outdoor cafe on the beach. Had a burger AKA 'steak hache' with frittes. They even had ketchup (you have to ask…. which I was able to do in French… this is about my level. "Avez Vous Ketchup?". Maybe back to the beach this afternoon. Maybe head back later. Maybe stop and visit on the way. I am always asking, "What's the plan?" It's almost a joke, but really it is a balancing act between Bhumi and I. This weekend I am content to drift along with Bhumi's relaxed sense of time. Next week… back to work.
Spring is here. A night of much needed rain. Leaves just appearing on the grape vines. The plane trees that are so ubiquitous in these villages are finally filling with new foliage in time to provide shade from the summer sun. Here it is the heat that people speak of in the way that we speak of the cold in Vermont. A challenge. A good time to get out and come back to Vermont.
Friday, March 2, 2012
the next phase
When I first returned and met Bhumi in the train station in Aix , we spent 10 days hopping around different places in Provence where B. grew up and worked until about 10 years ago. Visiting her friends, looking for a van, doing some business in order to sell a small plot of land that B. owns there. And starting to figure out how to be together in this new relationship. Now we are back in St. Hippolyte and dealing with a whole new level of complexity about housing and work, and health, phone, computers, and so on. And working these new edges in the relationship. It is no wonder that I have these moments when I wonder how I am going to make this thing fly. We have a commitment to keep coming back to the love and putting it in the middle of whatever difficulties arise. It is an article of faith. There is a saying apropos. "God gives food to all the birds, but he doesn't throw it in the nest." So we have our work cut out for us.
I could go on about Provence. It is quite beautiful, especially the high country and valleys filled with orchards, vineyards and fields. Often with snow covered Mt. Ventoux on the horizon. Villages of Provence a little more open and filled with light than here. Varied degrees of tourist impact. Vaison la Roman with both extensive roman ruins, and a medieval village wrapped around a promontory. (Slide show to follow). As the days stretched out with no definite return date I felt a need to have more work in front of me. Both physically and mentally. Partly for my own sense of balance, and also under the pressure of time… time needed to put the new life into gear.
While we were in Provence we came by out 'new' 25 year old Renault Espace Van in the following way. Bhumi has been driving borrowed cars while she was looking for a good deal on a van. She has a huge Mercedes work van - a bit of a rattletrap - that she has used for her work of gathering plants and also for wood… to camp out in… etc. But it is time for it to go, and in any case it is unwieldy for everyday use. It needs a mirror and she has hoped to find one in a junkyard or place where they rebuild old work vehicles like this. One day in Vaison we were hanging out having lunch in a parking lot next to the Roman ruins and a rough looking guy insinuated himself upon us. Nick, a junkie living in a truck, picking fruit in season, with a two year old girl (not present) trying to get straight. Bhumi accommodated herself to him in her usual sunny way and he started going to his van to drag out beer and food to share. He had been begging money at the supermarket and had to settle for food.. and said he actually had a food surplus. Then Bhumi went off to do an errand and left me to entertain him for a while, which was a real test given my lack of French, and his lack of English and his manner.. both dopey and wired at the same time. I said I needed to buy some wine… trying to shake him. He ran to the van and got a plastic liter bottle and led me to the wine coop where he attempted to fill the bottle from the bulk vat. Why pay for a bottle… this was the way to go. Unfortunately there was a five litre limit and despite his protest we were firmly refused. Anyway, we finally parted…. Nick bringing us another bag full of groceries with his big messed up heart on his sleeve…. and refusing any money from us in return (I could see the hurt in his eyes at the mere suggestion). Bhumi had asked about a junkyard to in search of the mirror and he told us again as we left to go there… so we did, looking for the mirror… and maybe to ask about a Renault Espace… the van that Bhumi was focusing on as the ideal choice.
I had helped look online for a used Espace. Seemed like 1000 Euros was about it for starters, but to get on with 'Control Technique'… french version of inspection … and not to be messed with, was going to be 3000 Euros. Unless you got lucky. But Bhumi had been inviting this kind of luck ("Hey, universe, I would be happy to get a free car") for a while. At the truck yard, I saw two men talking. One with a kind, open face. He was the customer. I wandered away while Bhumi waited for a chance to talk to the owner. When the other man finished she asked first about the mirror (no luck) and then about an Espace. 3000 Euros said the man. Too much said Bhumi, we really only have maybe 1000. The kind faced man had come back to ask the owner another question and overheard Bhumi's conversation with the owner. At then next available moment he has something to tell Bhumi. I wander back from a look around the yard discouraged about the options available to us and see Bhumi and this man standing together. Bhumi says, "This is Jacques. He has an Espace that he wants to give us." Hello??
The final verdict is not in, but it appears to be a good vehicle with about 200K miles, which is actually not bad because they do last. Needs break work. Interior not great, but no rust… it's very dry in Provence and no snow. So over the next days we arranged to move it to a mechanic who is completing the necessary work. And we became good friends instantly with Jacques. We met his parents where the Renault was parked, his three samoyed dogs, and his children. Bhumi offered some energetic work for him and he accepted. We stayed in his house one night and cooked dinner for the kids (just visiting during vacation) because Jaques had to go out. Jacques shared about coming out of 6 years of depression following his separation from his wife and many other things about the journey of life. Really sweet guy. Jacques towed the car to the mechanic for us behind his Landrover. Offered us every kind of help. Invited us to stay with him again anytime.
Another expression: "Trust God, but tie your camel." Bhumi does have this connection… to her own feelings… to others… to things spiritual. And she also has a material life that is scattered and inadequate. I came into her life as the 'tie the camel' guy.. helping her clear out clutter and get her unstuck. But I look at my own life and I see that I don't have my own feet firmly planted on solid ground in the material world either, and I have never been good at long term planning. No financial security. It feels precarious. And yet the whole large arc of my journey since I came here has taught my to not hold tightly to my own plans. I find that my own view of what is possible is limited and is often superceded by something much better. Again and again my needs have been met by some unimagined stroke of grace. So this is the dance I am in. When to trust God, and when to tie the camel.
…………………..
Another afternoon at a cafe with wifi in Ganges, a neighboring town. We came for the market… a marvelous French institution, and Ganges, being more of a hub than St. Hippo. has an amazing market that stretches over several streets and a square. Fish, produce, sausage, prepared foods, clothing, accessories, household items, olives and tapanades, books, music,…I got some sunglasses and a watch.. 5E. each. A group of musicians was playing in front to the cafe on the square. Bagpipes, two shawms (folk oboe/clarinet), two drummers. North African flavors. We sat and visited with Bhumi's friends..people I have already met once or twice. Then Bh. went to join a workshop on dealing with family issues. Her family is a painful situation for her and I understand her desire to straighten it out.
I have helped Bhumi get moving in a new direction and have put the physical energy into cleaning up, cleaning out, and organizing. It is an exchange. Last night we tackled a storehouse of clothing and fabrics. I yanked it all out. Made a pile. And together we separated it into items to keep, items to sell or give away, and trash. In an hour we had reduced it to 10% to keep and 90% to dispose of. I went through this process last fall in Vermont. I couldn't do it here unless we were pulling in the same direction. More and more it seems we are. This morning a dump run. Progress. The property is showing it's beauty more as it comes out from under it's unsightly scatterings. The almond trees are already in bloom. Two rows of olive trees shading a garden spot. Other trees and gardens. Stone fences lining both side of the property. No lack of material if I want to do some stone building. About 50 feet wide by 500 feet deep. Terraced at the back. Across the valley the rocky heights of a ridge called "Marianne" because it resembles the profile of a woman's face gazing toward the blue sky.
Yesterday I lit on the idea of doing this kind of cleaning out work with Bhumi for other people. I can deal with the stuff. Bhumi is good with people and can help them with the personal level. "Energetic Healing" (as in Reiki) is her favorite word for this. There have been several times that Bhumi has introduced me to someone who is now a friend but who she met by chance and this person is taking the time to thank her and give her the update on how things have started going better for them since she did whatever she did with them. And there is the way I saw Jacques, our Espace benefactor, open up to her so quickly on a really personal level. The way it was with us. So there may be something to it. Who knows. "Hey universe I am ready to get some money doing something I like doing."
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Leaving and returning
There were three weeks of comings and goings with Bhumi, sharing many feelings.. working together.. eating together.. saying goodnight and good morning. We put up a wall against physical intimacy, but we met at the wall every day and learned a lot about each other. We had time to dissolve some illusions and projections. Despite the troubled situation I saw everywhere in Bhumi's physical spaces, she impressed me again and again with her insight into feelings, the lightness of her spirit, and her capacity for joy. I was drawn to the light in her big brown eyes. Whenever I felt that this light was there especially for me I felt transported.
The decision about sailing hung heavily over the last week. Now it meant not only leaving this place where everything seemed to be going so right, but it also leaving Bhumi while something was growing between us day by day. At the beginning of the last week I decided to go do two days of work at Maison du Compte. This would be a little leaving before the bigger leaving to come. I had an intuition that something was off with the scene there and I was right. I felt stranded with too little real connection with these people who were, for whatever reason, too pressured by their own agendas to slow down and have a leisurely meal or conversation. And I could feel the absence of the special connection I had with Bhumi. Here was a person who was inclined toward me and was there beside me the whole day through. And I missed this. At Maison du Compte I was in a warm house with a big private bath with plenty of hot water, but with a cold heart, missing Bhumi's cold flat with the bathroom two flights down and a limited supply of warm water, but with a warm heart.
I had decided some time back that I would go sailing. I decided that I had to leave France at some point and that this would be the time to get perspective on what I had experienced and how I had changed. I could come back. I believed that I would. Maybe in the summer. Maybe in the fall. Almost as often as I was resolved to go I got a clear impulse to stay. Then two days before I was to leave the intimacy wall came down for Bhumi and I. The holes that had been intimations became invitations and finally the invitations were accepted. We became lovers. Once again I had to decide whether to leave to go sailing. I felt split down the middle, but in the end I…. we…. decided that there was something in this experience for me. Maybe sailing was important for me. I needed to at least go and find out. It was precarious for me to merely stay in this place without having my own center line.
I got on the bus in the early morning. Then the train. The train delayed. Another bus due to the delay. That evening I was back in Barcelona. Bhumi was in my thoughts and my heart every hour and mile. I had arranged through 'couch surfing' to stay with a 55 year old American living in the city, and he invited me to join him for a supper party. Not very pleasant. Too many people crowded into a small place and too much noise. The hostess was cold and anxious. Norman was a kind man, but lost. He came to Barcelona for love and was left alone from the start. Two years now and he is going back to San Francisco. Still looking for love..? or just sex, I don't know. He tells me that he is too old for these Barcelona women to be interested in him. He also reports this to the women he meets as well. Maybe he wants them to turn this negative belief around for him. Obviously, they don't do this. I drank some wine and was prepared to enjoy myself. I met three or four people who I could talk to in a meaningful way. With Fidel, a gentle open Barcelona man, no wife or children, who says he thinks of making changes… traveling… but then he says 'it's complicated'…. or ……' I am a fearful person'. I tell him, "It's not complicated. Fear…. OK…. maybe you are afraid, but you can choose to go ahead and do it anyway." I ask where he would like to go. He says, Asia. Then he tells me he came to America last year and drove across on the old Route 66 from Chicago to Los Angeles, and his friends said he was courageous. I tell him I would love to talk to him in 6 months and find out what he decides to do. And then an English woman, Jean, who is tall, elegant, black and attractive, but says she only works at her job… why? … security. When I tell her I am in love, she insists, "No, it's lust." I say, "No… love". She refuses to believe this. Shakes her head and says "Lust". I don't argue, I say, "So you have given up on love." She says "Yes." . I say "It is true that if you want love, you have to feel the pain too." She agrees… not interested in going there. Sad. Then Olga from Barcelona, who is about my age. Seems centered. Maternal. She asks what would I like to know about her city. I say, "What is Barcelona without the partying?" She says, "Flamenco." I like this answer. Yes…. big passion… music… dance. When I tell her I am in love, she asks "Why are you here? Why are you going to Canaries? You should stay with her." She believes in love. I say, "Yes, I will go back." She says, "Forget the Canaries… not so great… go back… now." I say, I have to go away some time because of the visa. She says, "Go back. If you love her, you can marry her and stay." I feel foolish. She is looking through me and my poor excuses. I feel warmth, clarity… compassion.
Next morning I got on the plane and it filled up with passengers. I am trying to look forward to sailing but I think it will not be so great. I say, "in a week I will know more." I am afraid. It's not complicated. I have made it complicated so that I do not have to step into the fear. Afraid of what? I want to keep all the possibilities open. I seem to want something 'out there' to tell me what I already know. That love is the only thing that really matters and it is worth risking everything.
I arrived in Tenerife in the early AM and gave myself a bit of a tour of the island on the way to the ship. The ship was grand. The crew lively and congenial. I had an adventure to look forward to, but I could not escape the dismal feeling of being away from my love. I could not imagine a month of this. There were troubles and misunderstandings with Bhumi already around phone calls and messages. Wifi and everything technological produced an endless stream of complications, roadblocks and frustrations. Things were already starting to go weird between us at such a distance. Tenerife seemed like a big rock pile overgrown with pretty tourist accommodations totally lacking soul or beauty. On our sailing day I was seasick crossing to La Palma in high seas. The third morning I told Nikki, our 'captain', that I really had to return to France after this first week. Everyone onboard knew my predicament. Nikki gave me a warm smile and her blessings. One week would be enough. Over a month.. too much. I called Bhumi who had been doing her best to support me in my decision to sail, and she was delighted. We made plans to meet on my return in Provence where she would be on a family visit.
La Palma, our new location, was worthy of it's reputation as a place of beauty. A colonial Spanish outpost with old streets and real character… and tourists, but not like Tenerife. That evening many of us went back into town for a few drinks and I ended up sitting and singing and drinking red wine with three ancient islanders, Antonio, Oskar, and Trotsky. The sailing experience was starting to brighten for me. Then another crossing to a port on Gomera across high seas with a strong wind, but less discomfort, more exhileration. A walk through the small town, situated on a narrow skirt of reasonably level land beneath dramatic cliffs and a black sand beach, heavily populated with Germans.. At sunset Georgia, another passenger, and I made a 10 minute swim back out to the boat. Out on the quiet water our ship with it's black hull was flanked by another tall ship, a white hulled square rigger from Denmark on the left, and on the right, the red orange sun just touching the horizon. Seabirds wheeling lazily against the sky. Half circled behind us by cliffs marked and crossed by geological heiroglyphics in shades of ochre, grey, lavender, and white, rising 500 feet or more into the sky. I laughed out loud there in the water. It was hard to believe that this was real and that this place and this moment was my life. Some kind of perfection.
But I know that even this is not enough. In the life I lived before I always made the best of these moments and tried to feel that life was full. But I was lonely. Always looking for something. If the opening of my heart that I have had with Bhumi did not happen before with others it is no fault of whoever I was with. I know I have changed. I can stand outside of myself and see that I am able to move comfortably into all kinds of relationships. The old men in the bar, the guests at the party in Barcelona, the people of France or on this ship. I enjoy this openness. But these places and people can pass and be replaced by others. What I have found with my new love is something deeper. I feel that I can finally give myself in devotion to another and receive the same in return. This is what I have been looking for. The little girl in 12th night cake showed up at the moment I was ready to recognize this in myself. So I have made Bhumi my destination. I don't have a plan. I don't know when I will be back in VT. I am not making commitments to sail in Maine in the spring. We will work it out. Or not. Doesn't matter. I don't really have a choice. My head complains that I could be making a really big mistake, but my heart just keeps saying YES!.
The decision about sailing hung heavily over the last week. Now it meant not only leaving this place where everything seemed to be going so right, but it also leaving Bhumi while something was growing between us day by day. At the beginning of the last week I decided to go do two days of work at Maison du Compte. This would be a little leaving before the bigger leaving to come. I had an intuition that something was off with the scene there and I was right. I felt stranded with too little real connection with these people who were, for whatever reason, too pressured by their own agendas to slow down and have a leisurely meal or conversation. And I could feel the absence of the special connection I had with Bhumi. Here was a person who was inclined toward me and was there beside me the whole day through. And I missed this. At Maison du Compte I was in a warm house with a big private bath with plenty of hot water, but with a cold heart, missing Bhumi's cold flat with the bathroom two flights down and a limited supply of warm water, but with a warm heart.
I had decided some time back that I would go sailing. I decided that I had to leave France at some point and that this would be the time to get perspective on what I had experienced and how I had changed. I could come back. I believed that I would. Maybe in the summer. Maybe in the fall. Almost as often as I was resolved to go I got a clear impulse to stay. Then two days before I was to leave the intimacy wall came down for Bhumi and I. The holes that had been intimations became invitations and finally the invitations were accepted. We became lovers. Once again I had to decide whether to leave to go sailing. I felt split down the middle, but in the end I…. we…. decided that there was something in this experience for me. Maybe sailing was important for me. I needed to at least go and find out. It was precarious for me to merely stay in this place without having my own center line.
I got on the bus in the early morning. Then the train. The train delayed. Another bus due to the delay. That evening I was back in Barcelona. Bhumi was in my thoughts and my heart every hour and mile. I had arranged through 'couch surfing' to stay with a 55 year old American living in the city, and he invited me to join him for a supper party. Not very pleasant. Too many people crowded into a small place and too much noise. The hostess was cold and anxious. Norman was a kind man, but lost. He came to Barcelona for love and was left alone from the start. Two years now and he is going back to San Francisco. Still looking for love..? or just sex, I don't know. He tells me that he is too old for these Barcelona women to be interested in him. He also reports this to the women he meets as well. Maybe he wants them to turn this negative belief around for him. Obviously, they don't do this. I drank some wine and was prepared to enjoy myself. I met three or four people who I could talk to in a meaningful way. With Fidel, a gentle open Barcelona man, no wife or children, who says he thinks of making changes… traveling… but then he says 'it's complicated'…. or ……' I am a fearful person'. I tell him, "It's not complicated. Fear…. OK…. maybe you are afraid, but you can choose to go ahead and do it anyway." I ask where he would like to go. He says, Asia. Then he tells me he came to America last year and drove across on the old Route 66 from Chicago to Los Angeles, and his friends said he was courageous. I tell him I would love to talk to him in 6 months and find out what he decides to do. And then an English woman, Jean, who is tall, elegant, black and attractive, but says she only works at her job… why? … security. When I tell her I am in love, she insists, "No, it's lust." I say, "No… love". She refuses to believe this. Shakes her head and says "Lust". I don't argue, I say, "So you have given up on love." She says "Yes." . I say "It is true that if you want love, you have to feel the pain too." She agrees… not interested in going there. Sad. Then Olga from Barcelona, who is about my age. Seems centered. Maternal. She asks what would I like to know about her city. I say, "What is Barcelona without the partying?" She says, "Flamenco." I like this answer. Yes…. big passion… music… dance. When I tell her I am in love, she asks "Why are you here? Why are you going to Canaries? You should stay with her." She believes in love. I say, "Yes, I will go back." She says, "Forget the Canaries… not so great… go back… now." I say, I have to go away some time because of the visa. She says, "Go back. If you love her, you can marry her and stay." I feel foolish. She is looking through me and my poor excuses. I feel warmth, clarity… compassion.
Next morning I got on the plane and it filled up with passengers. I am trying to look forward to sailing but I think it will not be so great. I say, "in a week I will know more." I am afraid. It's not complicated. I have made it complicated so that I do not have to step into the fear. Afraid of what? I want to keep all the possibilities open. I seem to want something 'out there' to tell me what I already know. That love is the only thing that really matters and it is worth risking everything.
I arrived in Tenerife in the early AM and gave myself a bit of a tour of the island on the way to the ship. The ship was grand. The crew lively and congenial. I had an adventure to look forward to, but I could not escape the dismal feeling of being away from my love. I could not imagine a month of this. There were troubles and misunderstandings with Bhumi already around phone calls and messages. Wifi and everything technological produced an endless stream of complications, roadblocks and frustrations. Things were already starting to go weird between us at such a distance. Tenerife seemed like a big rock pile overgrown with pretty tourist accommodations totally lacking soul or beauty. On our sailing day I was seasick crossing to La Palma in high seas. The third morning I told Nikki, our 'captain', that I really had to return to France after this first week. Everyone onboard knew my predicament. Nikki gave me a warm smile and her blessings. One week would be enough. Over a month.. too much. I called Bhumi who had been doing her best to support me in my decision to sail, and she was delighted. We made plans to meet on my return in Provence where she would be on a family visit.
La Palma, our new location, was worthy of it's reputation as a place of beauty. A colonial Spanish outpost with old streets and real character… and tourists, but not like Tenerife. That evening many of us went back into town for a few drinks and I ended up sitting and singing and drinking red wine with three ancient islanders, Antonio, Oskar, and Trotsky. The sailing experience was starting to brighten for me. Then another crossing to a port on Gomera across high seas with a strong wind, but less discomfort, more exhileration. A walk through the small town, situated on a narrow skirt of reasonably level land beneath dramatic cliffs and a black sand beach, heavily populated with Germans.. At sunset Georgia, another passenger, and I made a 10 minute swim back out to the boat. Out on the quiet water our ship with it's black hull was flanked by another tall ship, a white hulled square rigger from Denmark on the left, and on the right, the red orange sun just touching the horizon. Seabirds wheeling lazily against the sky. Half circled behind us by cliffs marked and crossed by geological heiroglyphics in shades of ochre, grey, lavender, and white, rising 500 feet or more into the sky. I laughed out loud there in the water. It was hard to believe that this was real and that this place and this moment was my life. Some kind of perfection.
But I know that even this is not enough. In the life I lived before I always made the best of these moments and tried to feel that life was full. But I was lonely. Always looking for something. If the opening of my heart that I have had with Bhumi did not happen before with others it is no fault of whoever I was with. I know I have changed. I can stand outside of myself and see that I am able to move comfortably into all kinds of relationships. The old men in the bar, the guests at the party in Barcelona, the people of France or on this ship. I enjoy this openness. But these places and people can pass and be replaced by others. What I have found with my new love is something deeper. I feel that I can finally give myself in devotion to another and receive the same in return. This is what I have been looking for. The little girl in 12th night cake showed up at the moment I was ready to recognize this in myself. So I have made Bhumi my destination. I don't have a plan. I don't know when I will be back in VT. I am not making commitments to sail in Maine in the spring. We will work it out. Or not. Doesn't matter. I don't really have a choice. My head complains that I could be making a really big mistake, but my heart just keeps saying YES!.
Another kind of journey
Unravelog
I have spent week after week here in this part of S. France taking pleasure in novel sights and sounds and experiences, meeting remarkable people who have opened their doors and lives to me, and this pleasure has not diminished. In fact the novelty has been tempered by familiarity and in time the experience has grown deeper and richer. When I walk down the streets of Sauve past many doors that I have entered, beside the marvelous ancient walls and buildings that seem to have grown up out the ground in obedience to the spell of a drunken sorcerer with an aversion to right angles, and I stop to greet someone, or pop in to Rhaim's flute shop for a small visit, …. or I come back again to MasLafont and look out my window in the morning light at 'the twins'…. I feel like this is my home. At times I wonder if it could truly become my home and what would that mean.
There is a deeper level of my journey, as I acknowledged from the start, which is the journey inward, to rediscover myself by stepping outside of my old life for a time. When I think back to my first green days in Barcelona it is clear that this part of the journey has grown immensely. I think it is for this reason that I have been less and less inspired to report on my trip as a travelogue. Photos and little fun facts about places only touch on the surfaces of things. Something more like 'Eat, Pray, Love" is in order here. An unraveling.
And yet I fear that in time I will forget many wonderful things. So for my own sake I want to capture a few of these without binding myself to a simple narrative. So here it goes…
Sauve. Medieval village situated on a narrow sloping bank of the Vidourle River, rising up toward 'la Mer des Rochers'.. the Sea of Rocks …an ancient open stone quarry laced with paths running between stone walls and ruins and peculiar limestone pillars and laced everywhere with mysteries. Sauve, a village of 2000 that boasts 34 nationalities among its inhabitants. A village 1000 years old, if not more. Sauve, which means, Salve, which is for Salvia, a plant which grows here and provided a healing balm during the Plague. A town that has many secret rooms built into its walls where the Protestants were hidden during the religious wars, and fighters in Le Resistance..here and in caves and places like La Mer de Rochers, and long before maybe a few Cathars as well. Sauve, which also means, 'Safe'. A town that captives and accommodates artists and writers and poets and craftspeople and dreamers. Robert Crumb has lived here for some 25 years and plays music on occasion with locals. An art gallery by the bridge is called 'Vidourle Prix' because it was once a little grocery store and just kept the name on the facade. Robert's wife is involved in the gallery and they sell Crumb's books, art cards, posters and more. But Robert, as the locals call him, is reclusive. Maybe I saw him once on Grand Rue walking away from me around a corner, but I am not sure.
Grand Rue 6 where Christina lives with her two luminous children, Gaby and Maxim and gave me her spare apartment while I recovered from the flu. She tells me I have been working too hard. She has some work for me, but says, forget it, just rest, maybe later. She has a small atelier at ground level where she sews prototypes for Paris fashions and shares the space with a ceramic sculptress and a children's book illustrator. But she cannot live in Paris any more. Yes, I understand, I reply. She came to Sauve some years ago and stayed. Christina invited me to have hor d'ouvres one evening with her pals on their 'girls night out'. Women who are all single and wonder "Where are the men of Sauve?".
Grand Grand Rue 10, where Mr Potter (Potier) the potter lived until last year when for reasons no one can understand he took his own life. His creations are still there, like some mute testament to his passing prescence behind the unshuttered window of his atelier.. Next , Grand Rue 12, where Frank Rome lives, 56 yo trapeze artist for Cirque de Soleil. Frank, who recently helped put to rest his circus colleague, Fabian, who broke his neck in a midair collision and lived on for 5 years as a paraplegic until he passed suddenly of a stroke… this being the occasion of Frank's prior return to Sauve earlier in December, when I first met him. Frank is the one on the trapeze who catches and throws his acrobatic friends through the air, and he is the one who missed his throw one tiny bit that awful day. Or maybe Fabian was off and Frank did not release him into the net at the decisive split second. I don't know. Occupational hazard is a heavy in the circus trade. No blame, but they, say he carries a burden regardless. Franks' house. A big house that he began to renovate with a big vision 20 or more years ago. After an initial burst of inspiration most of the vision is still hanging in the air, while the reality is substantially unrealized. So it is unkempt and a bit of a shambles. Frank's friend, Patrice, has helped him through the years to complete some parts of the vision. Patrice who worked with Frank in Cirque de Soleil until he fell sick a year ago. Patrice was one of those in charge of moving and assembling the tents. We sat many times in his little apartment he is building into Frank's top floor and talked about life and love, about his own break up and reconciliation in his marriage, how he found his perfect teacher 40 minutes from his home in British Columbia and has been through his own dark night of the soul, and he cheers me on again and again. "Don't know what the hell you are doing anymore?…. Great! That's a good place to be." I came back in January from Mas LaFont to stay and work with Frank and Patrice for a week to get the last bit of roof.. almost .. finished. At least it is insulated and the rain cannot get in. Sitting with Frank on the roof one day looking over the rooftops of Sauve he told me how he started with his big vision and then life intervened. Divorce and everything else. Wanting to be able to sell the house, which is worth quite a bit even as it is, and go traveling. But his children want him to keep it. Son Adrian 22, who I met, and daughter 17 who I have not. The last day, moving the ancient roof tiles, some of them about 1000 years old, shaped directly on the thighs of those long dead people, with the finger marks still visible in the hard clay, handing them up to Patrice, to Adrian, to Frank. Someday they will go the last step back onto the roof, but not now.
Stephanie, Frank's 28 year old girlfriend with a modest nose ring, easy smile, and smoky laughter. Who plays accordion… lovely melancholy melodies of her own invention and traditional songs. Stephanie, who Eric says was only really grounded once in all the time he has known her. Eric, who may have quite unintentionally passed his flu to me the night I met him way out in the Cevennes near where Frank had his motorcycle accident the day before I came back. Eric is a Quebecois guitarist, songwriter, playwright, translator who came to Sauve 6 or 7 years ago and stayed. Who wonders where are the women of Sauve who inspired him in years past to 'storm the gates'. Eric McComber wrote and read a short story on night in Sauve, Stephanie layering her accordion music into the reading. This at the Maison du Compte, the house of the count. The count is gone, but the house remains. A grand structure from the 12th Century, substanitally rebuilt 4 or 5 hundred years ago. Host was host to a celebration of the 1,000,049th anniversary of the birth of art on January 17th. An idea initiated by one of Sauve's favorite sons who came to America and achieved some notoriety with the likes of Warhol, Johns, Lichtenstien, etc. Maison du Compte, where I sat to play the piano for my own enjoyment as the party moved on to another venue while I sat oblivious, as I often am, of the plan. So the mistress of the household, a striking dark haired woman invited me to join them upstairs for some 'soup' (which means supper, actually) and I said yes because it sounded good and that's what I do now. I just say, "Yes". So here I am sharing the family meal with these remarkable people. 3 children. Grandmothers. Two dogs. Carl, who is from Denmark, is a musician, who plays exquisite compositions on guitar. (Later, back at Frank's, Eric tells me that Soraya is a Tuareg princess from Algiers. I don't doubt it.) I am offered dessert and almost agree because I want to be gracious, Soraya says, "No, Peter is getting sick and this would not be good for him", which is true, because I am starting to really come down hard with Eric's French flu. (Patrice says getting sick is great because your immune system gets an update… like a computer.. Cool) So I, say to Soraya, you are right. And Carl, her husband, leans over and says, sotto voce, "The thing is… she's always right". And I don't doubt it. She has already given me the tour of the house, the numerous studios where she paints, the lovely guest room where I can stay if I come and work there, the meditation room, the terrace, the bathroom, which is more of a day spa, actually, and everything actually finished… except for the project downstairs which involves 'rendering' the bare stone, which means surfacing it with mortar and plaster and paint, like I did in Sommieres with Bertrand. So I say… Maybe. I also hear a little of their story, how they came and saw this house and bought it a week later because she missed the stone houses of her childhood and because is it Sauve, I suppose, and that's what happens to certain people when they come here, and spent three years renovating it, the indefatigable Soraya doing much of it herself - with help as needed. Soraya who is always right tells me I need to find my own center line, even though she says I am actually pretty grounded, which is good. She's looking right through me and I think she's probably right. Maybe you need a woman, she says. And I don't doubt it.
Sauve, where I bought my bamboo flute from Rhaim Seligman, 72 who looks more like 55 or 60, and thinks I look younger than my 57 years, which I like to hear because last year I felt like i was 60, but now I feel like I am 45, except when I see a pretty girl and I feel like I am 16. Rhaim Seligman, who built his first flute when he was 11 yo and has dedicated his life to his craft, his great passion. He tells me that a flute is better than a woman. I agree that a musical instrument gives you pleasure when you want it and asks nothing of you the rest of the time, so maybe he is right. Rhaim, who spent 12 years traveling Asia for Unicef researching the instrument and it's music, making many recordings. Who travels every year to one or two places in the world that produce just the perfect bamboo, which is then cured for 5 years before it is ready to use. Whose little shop is packed with flutes in all phases of construction, ready to pack and ship to places all around the world, and where he is willing to stop and sit when I pop in, to roll a smoke and chat, and teach me a little more to help me with my playing of my flute, which I bought from him in December because I thought I was leaving for good and might regret it if I passed by my one opportunity. Silly me, I did not know yet that Sauve had already claimed me.
Bertand's house down past the square where I stayed a couple nights way way back in the distant past of mid December. Bertrand, Benoit's genial carpenter friend whose house is another work in progress with a whole network of stairways leading to apartments for both his grown son and daughter. And Benoit's house just down the street. 'His house' because he is an architect and he restored it beautifully… or his wife's house where he does not live any more because Benoit is with Sarah in St Quentin, but still uses it from time to time when it is unoccupied things being quite amicable with his ex.
Restaurants waiting to open again in warmer weather. The little shops. The fountains. Narrow passages leading down to the Vidourle River or up to the La Mer de les Rochers. The doors and shutters, wood and iron and paint, some of them the iconic baby blue of Southern France, each marked by the years, some elegant, some decadent, each as individual and mute and full of history as old men sitting at small round cafe tables in the morning sun nursing tiny white cups of expresso. When I tell anyone who found this place and stayed that I feel a pull to stay here and not leave, they smile a knowing smile and nod. It is something that is felt, but altogether inexplicable. Something that one fears to analyze too closely, lest it perish from the ill treatment. Better to savor this place, to come under it's spell if you are so predestined, and if the peculiar mystique of Sauve must be acknowledged… simply smile and a nod.
Further up the River is St. Hippolyte, or St. Hippo. If you come from St. Hippo.. you are a Cigalous, or a Cigalouse, depending on gender, the meaning being Cicada. Nobody knows why, but no doubt the insect is plentiful here when it makes an appearance every 17 years or so. In any case 'Saint Hypolytienne' is a cumbersome mouthful. St. Hippolyte - du Fort - to distinguish it from some lesser St. Hippolyte elsewhere, stands below an impressive ridge of high hills topped by limestone escarpments. It forms a kind of gateway to this southeastern reach of the Cevennes, a natural area of forest and modest mountains rising to 1000 meters or so. A town with center that is old, if not quite as ancient and compact as Sauve, but typical of villages in this area. The town where my friend Bhumi lives, who I met at the sweat lodge at Mas Lafont. There is a coop food store on the scale of the little coops of Vermont but even more rough around the edges. Bhumi tells me there are 4 or 5 areas of France that have similar concentrations of people into organic food, living on the land, and all that alternative stuff. Too many people who like the idea of building round houses of sticks and bamboo and mud for my tastes, actually. This is one of those regions. Sometimes I wonder how I managed to find my way back to Vermont without leaving France. Sometimes I have the strange sense that I am in a dream where my friends and family are all speaking a language that I can't understand and that any minute they will tire of this and start speaking English again… but they never do
The same, but different. Here you find a distinct French flavor, of course. I am inclined to think that there is a strain of French national character that is expressed in the words "Liberte!"… and … "Resistance!" ….passionate, with an edge. Nothing like a cause, or a philosophy, or counter-something to inspire dramatic rhetorical flourishes in the French. On the other end of the French manic-depressive continuum is existentialism of course, which the French fashioned into a kind of chic, but which stripped of it's glamourous wrappings is merely resignation and despair, or simple ill humor, which is also clearly on display in every town square. (Eric tells me that Sartre and Camus were hacks compared to de Beauvoir.. sycophants) This region, the Languedoc is the land of the Heretic, the Cathar, the Protestant, the fringe dwellers. It is nothing like Paris here. Very little concern for fashion. Think: Paris = New York, then Cevennes = Vermont.
Up in the Cevennes, near the tiny town of Cros, is Mas Lafont. The house was built in about 1900 by rich folks from Montpellier as a country place. The terraces are much older than the house and the spring that waters the landscape is as old as the hills. I have written about this place already and will not repeat myself here. I have come and left and returned and left and am returning again for a few days to help Alain a bit more. He has a new workaway fellow from Denmark and I am helping him learn the ropes. It is raining everywhere else in France, but here in the south the days are bright and warm and I am glad to do a bit more clearing and burning and to feel well again after my bout with the flu. Jeanne Pierre is putting the new wood floor down for the big hall that is coming into being downstairs here. It is a place where I feel I will always be welcome to return.
Now I am counting the days before my date with sailing in the Canaries. It is a bit of a shock to be returning to my plan. To have a set itinerary. When I first planned all of this the sailing was there at the end, like dessert. My one sure thing. I began with a plan, but now it is just an idea, a contrivance, a vague obligation, or something to resort to when all else fails. But I retired the France portion of my plan a month ago and instead I have been swept along by the unexpected in ways that I could never have planned. Another, mysterious plan has taken it's place… quite a wonderful plan… an inscrutable plan that takes me by the hand again and again when I am in the dark and says, "Don't know what you are doing next?… Cool… now for something really good". And I keep meeting people like Patrice who totally get this and say, "Cool". Or just smile and nod. Many moments have had a numinous quality to them, as if something cosmic is lying just below the surface, or disappearing around the corner before I get a good look, like the elusive Mr Crumb. Then in other moments, or for whole days, everything crashes into the mud with a dull thud and I think, "Of course, the novelty buzz is wearing off." At times of enthusiasm I wonder whether I should cancel the sailing and just stay here. Or when I am in the mud I think I would be pushing my luck. I could move in to Maison du Compte and put three weeks in on the big project. In the lap of luxury really, with a piano, and a setting that is entirely about being creative. Write some songs maybe. I could have Soraya looking through me and being always right. Maybe meet one of the ladies of Sauve who wonder where the men are. Maybe finally learn to speak this confounded language. That leaves two weeks unaccounted for, but something would come along, maybe 3 or 4 things and I would have to choose. Everyone needs a handyman. Everyone takes me in and it is instant intimacy. And then there is sailing. How can I not go? But whose decision is this anyway? I don't have to go. My choice. What is sailing to me now? What if I leave and the magic is gone?
So this is how the journey turns inward now. I think Soraya is right and that I am trying to find my center line. Then maybe find the clarity and courage to let the answer unfold from that. To get myself out of my own way, go through the fear of just saying Yes and not sweating the details. The journey took a turn inward for me decisively on the night of January 6. Epiphany. 12th night. My lost brother Paul's 59th birthday. We cut the gallette, the celebratory cake, and I was the one who got the hidden prize. Of course I didn't know this, only that there was something hard in my mouth. It was a little porcelain figure of a girl with a basket of flowers and a straw hat. The writing on it was so tiny that it took concerted effort to puzzle it out. "Je veux vois offrire le douceur de mon amour." Translation: "I want to give you the sweetness of my love.". It rang true. Something that I have felt missing in my travels and many times in my life… to give my heart to someone… a companion… a lover. Something I keep pushing aside because…. how do you make it happen. I am not a gate stormer, and in any case as much as I might desire the physical part of love, it actually does feel secondary.
Then the sweat lodge and the day after, an impromptu excursion with Bhumi who I met by the fire that night. The first idea was to go to a little performance in Ganges, which turned out to be long on concept and short on entertainment value. So the plan changed and Bhumi said she'd like to go to the river instead. So we sat together a little and then a longer time apart by the banks of the Herault River and I picked up a flat little stone as a souvenir. At home it became a platform for my little girl… which I now kept in view wherever I was staying so I could be mindful of my little girl heart. And there was Bhumi, who is lovely and sweet and complicated and very clear about what she needs, and learning to play guitar in a not-at-all-self-conscious way, and cautious about beginning anything too intense or giving herself away when she is dealing with so much already…showing up at just that moment like a lightning rod for my burgeoning desire to fall in love. Or am I splitting hairs by not simply saying that I was in love, as if anyone ever fell in love without a huge (usually fatal) dose of projection. For days I was in a spin. Those first few nights and at any distracted moment my whole being was inclined toward 'Bhumi', which is to say my Bhumi projection of course, and Patrice would say 'Are you in love?' and I would say 'could be', because surely there is something there that isn't just projection. And when I handed Frank the wrong thing he would blame it on me being in love instead of the fact that I don't understand much French. But on the third day Bhumi and I stepped back from that edge. We put up wall. No seductions. No projections. No giving ourselves away like that. But we have not stopped exploring that edge together and enjoying a sweet friendship. I am practicing expressing what I feel without waiting for her to make it safe, or expecting anything in return and sometimes I find that despite my best intentions I am full of crap because Bhumi lets me know in one way or another. Bhumi stayed for dinner at Frank's one of those early days and showed me how to eat an oyster properly. Later I took the shell and cut it upstairs using a grinder so it would stand upright on it's edge and provide a mother of pearl enclosure, like one of those "our lady of the bathtub' lawn ornaments - for my little girl heart. And when I put the stone pedestal into the shell the irregular shape of the stone fit perfectly the irregular shape of the shell.
So this is the inner journey and compared to it, the outer spectacle is merely a side show. Even these outward affairs of love. If the end of it is knowing my own heart, then I can have that whether my outer situation is agreeable or not. I have made my plans for the next few days. Back to Sauve, Two days to help Christina, my flu-time guardian angel. Then two days to help Bhumi on little estate with it's caravan summer home and garden and many needs because she has not had her full health and energy since an accident two years ago, and because it is sometimes overwhelming (with tears) and she is too much alone in her life and her work and because she is not so afraid of us spending time together and getting closer as she was before. Then ….? More Bhumi days? Maison du Compte for a short stay? Back to the open door at Mas LaFont? Sailing? Stay in Sauve? Anything can happen .. and usually does. Stay tuned.
I have spent week after week here in this part of S. France taking pleasure in novel sights and sounds and experiences, meeting remarkable people who have opened their doors and lives to me, and this pleasure has not diminished. In fact the novelty has been tempered by familiarity and in time the experience has grown deeper and richer. When I walk down the streets of Sauve past many doors that I have entered, beside the marvelous ancient walls and buildings that seem to have grown up out the ground in obedience to the spell of a drunken sorcerer with an aversion to right angles, and I stop to greet someone, or pop in to Rhaim's flute shop for a small visit, …. or I come back again to MasLafont and look out my window in the morning light at 'the twins'…. I feel like this is my home. At times I wonder if it could truly become my home and what would that mean.
There is a deeper level of my journey, as I acknowledged from the start, which is the journey inward, to rediscover myself by stepping outside of my old life for a time. When I think back to my first green days in Barcelona it is clear that this part of the journey has grown immensely. I think it is for this reason that I have been less and less inspired to report on my trip as a travelogue. Photos and little fun facts about places only touch on the surfaces of things. Something more like 'Eat, Pray, Love" is in order here. An unraveling.
And yet I fear that in time I will forget many wonderful things. So for my own sake I want to capture a few of these without binding myself to a simple narrative. So here it goes…
Sauve. Medieval village situated on a narrow sloping bank of the Vidourle River, rising up toward 'la Mer des Rochers'.. the Sea of Rocks …an ancient open stone quarry laced with paths running between stone walls and ruins and peculiar limestone pillars and laced everywhere with mysteries. Sauve, a village of 2000 that boasts 34 nationalities among its inhabitants. A village 1000 years old, if not more. Sauve, which means, Salve, which is for Salvia, a plant which grows here and provided a healing balm during the Plague. A town that has many secret rooms built into its walls where the Protestants were hidden during the religious wars, and fighters in Le Resistance..here and in caves and places like La Mer de Rochers, and long before maybe a few Cathars as well. Sauve, which also means, 'Safe'. A town that captives and accommodates artists and writers and poets and craftspeople and dreamers. Robert Crumb has lived here for some 25 years and plays music on occasion with locals. An art gallery by the bridge is called 'Vidourle Prix' because it was once a little grocery store and just kept the name on the facade. Robert's wife is involved in the gallery and they sell Crumb's books, art cards, posters and more. But Robert, as the locals call him, is reclusive. Maybe I saw him once on Grand Rue walking away from me around a corner, but I am not sure.
Grand Rue 6 where Christina lives with her two luminous children, Gaby and Maxim and gave me her spare apartment while I recovered from the flu. She tells me I have been working too hard. She has some work for me, but says, forget it, just rest, maybe later. She has a small atelier at ground level where she sews prototypes for Paris fashions and shares the space with a ceramic sculptress and a children's book illustrator. But she cannot live in Paris any more. Yes, I understand, I reply. She came to Sauve some years ago and stayed. Christina invited me to have hor d'ouvres one evening with her pals on their 'girls night out'. Women who are all single and wonder "Where are the men of Sauve?".
Grand Grand Rue 10, where Mr Potter (Potier) the potter lived until last year when for reasons no one can understand he took his own life. His creations are still there, like some mute testament to his passing prescence behind the unshuttered window of his atelier.. Next , Grand Rue 12, where Frank Rome lives, 56 yo trapeze artist for Cirque de Soleil. Frank, who recently helped put to rest his circus colleague, Fabian, who broke his neck in a midair collision and lived on for 5 years as a paraplegic until he passed suddenly of a stroke… this being the occasion of Frank's prior return to Sauve earlier in December, when I first met him. Frank is the one on the trapeze who catches and throws his acrobatic friends through the air, and he is the one who missed his throw one tiny bit that awful day. Or maybe Fabian was off and Frank did not release him into the net at the decisive split second. I don't know. Occupational hazard is a heavy in the circus trade. No blame, but they, say he carries a burden regardless. Franks' house. A big house that he began to renovate with a big vision 20 or more years ago. After an initial burst of inspiration most of the vision is still hanging in the air, while the reality is substantially unrealized. So it is unkempt and a bit of a shambles. Frank's friend, Patrice, has helped him through the years to complete some parts of the vision. Patrice who worked with Frank in Cirque de Soleil until he fell sick a year ago. Patrice was one of those in charge of moving and assembling the tents. We sat many times in his little apartment he is building into Frank's top floor and talked about life and love, about his own break up and reconciliation in his marriage, how he found his perfect teacher 40 minutes from his home in British Columbia and has been through his own dark night of the soul, and he cheers me on again and again. "Don't know what the hell you are doing anymore?…. Great! That's a good place to be." I came back in January from Mas LaFont to stay and work with Frank and Patrice for a week to get the last bit of roof.. almost .. finished. At least it is insulated and the rain cannot get in. Sitting with Frank on the roof one day looking over the rooftops of Sauve he told me how he started with his big vision and then life intervened. Divorce and everything else. Wanting to be able to sell the house, which is worth quite a bit even as it is, and go traveling. But his children want him to keep it. Son Adrian 22, who I met, and daughter 17 who I have not. The last day, moving the ancient roof tiles, some of them about 1000 years old, shaped directly on the thighs of those long dead people, with the finger marks still visible in the hard clay, handing them up to Patrice, to Adrian, to Frank. Someday they will go the last step back onto the roof, but not now.
Stephanie, Frank's 28 year old girlfriend with a modest nose ring, easy smile, and smoky laughter. Who plays accordion… lovely melancholy melodies of her own invention and traditional songs. Stephanie, who Eric says was only really grounded once in all the time he has known her. Eric, who may have quite unintentionally passed his flu to me the night I met him way out in the Cevennes near where Frank had his motorcycle accident the day before I came back. Eric is a Quebecois guitarist, songwriter, playwright, translator who came to Sauve 6 or 7 years ago and stayed. Who wonders where are the women of Sauve who inspired him in years past to 'storm the gates'. Eric McComber wrote and read a short story on night in Sauve, Stephanie layering her accordion music into the reading. This at the Maison du Compte, the house of the count. The count is gone, but the house remains. A grand structure from the 12th Century, substanitally rebuilt 4 or 5 hundred years ago. Host was host to a celebration of the 1,000,049th anniversary of the birth of art on January 17th. An idea initiated by one of Sauve's favorite sons who came to America and achieved some notoriety with the likes of Warhol, Johns, Lichtenstien, etc. Maison du Compte, where I sat to play the piano for my own enjoyment as the party moved on to another venue while I sat oblivious, as I often am, of the plan. So the mistress of the household, a striking dark haired woman invited me to join them upstairs for some 'soup' (which means supper, actually) and I said yes because it sounded good and that's what I do now. I just say, "Yes". So here I am sharing the family meal with these remarkable people. 3 children. Grandmothers. Two dogs. Carl, who is from Denmark, is a musician, who plays exquisite compositions on guitar. (Later, back at Frank's, Eric tells me that Soraya is a Tuareg princess from Algiers. I don't doubt it.) I am offered dessert and almost agree because I want to be gracious, Soraya says, "No, Peter is getting sick and this would not be good for him", which is true, because I am starting to really come down hard with Eric's French flu. (Patrice says getting sick is great because your immune system gets an update… like a computer.. Cool) So I, say to Soraya, you are right. And Carl, her husband, leans over and says, sotto voce, "The thing is… she's always right". And I don't doubt it. She has already given me the tour of the house, the numerous studios where she paints, the lovely guest room where I can stay if I come and work there, the meditation room, the terrace, the bathroom, which is more of a day spa, actually, and everything actually finished… except for the project downstairs which involves 'rendering' the bare stone, which means surfacing it with mortar and plaster and paint, like I did in Sommieres with Bertrand. So I say… Maybe. I also hear a little of their story, how they came and saw this house and bought it a week later because she missed the stone houses of her childhood and because is it Sauve, I suppose, and that's what happens to certain people when they come here, and spent three years renovating it, the indefatigable Soraya doing much of it herself - with help as needed. Soraya who is always right tells me I need to find my own center line, even though she says I am actually pretty grounded, which is good. She's looking right through me and I think she's probably right. Maybe you need a woman, she says. And I don't doubt it.
Sauve, where I bought my bamboo flute from Rhaim Seligman, 72 who looks more like 55 or 60, and thinks I look younger than my 57 years, which I like to hear because last year I felt like i was 60, but now I feel like I am 45, except when I see a pretty girl and I feel like I am 16. Rhaim Seligman, who built his first flute when he was 11 yo and has dedicated his life to his craft, his great passion. He tells me that a flute is better than a woman. I agree that a musical instrument gives you pleasure when you want it and asks nothing of you the rest of the time, so maybe he is right. Rhaim, who spent 12 years traveling Asia for Unicef researching the instrument and it's music, making many recordings. Who travels every year to one or two places in the world that produce just the perfect bamboo, which is then cured for 5 years before it is ready to use. Whose little shop is packed with flutes in all phases of construction, ready to pack and ship to places all around the world, and where he is willing to stop and sit when I pop in, to roll a smoke and chat, and teach me a little more to help me with my playing of my flute, which I bought from him in December because I thought I was leaving for good and might regret it if I passed by my one opportunity. Silly me, I did not know yet that Sauve had already claimed me.
Bertand's house down past the square where I stayed a couple nights way way back in the distant past of mid December. Bertrand, Benoit's genial carpenter friend whose house is another work in progress with a whole network of stairways leading to apartments for both his grown son and daughter. And Benoit's house just down the street. 'His house' because he is an architect and he restored it beautifully… or his wife's house where he does not live any more because Benoit is with Sarah in St Quentin, but still uses it from time to time when it is unoccupied things being quite amicable with his ex.
Restaurants waiting to open again in warmer weather. The little shops. The fountains. Narrow passages leading down to the Vidourle River or up to the La Mer de les Rochers. The doors and shutters, wood and iron and paint, some of them the iconic baby blue of Southern France, each marked by the years, some elegant, some decadent, each as individual and mute and full of history as old men sitting at small round cafe tables in the morning sun nursing tiny white cups of expresso. When I tell anyone who found this place and stayed that I feel a pull to stay here and not leave, they smile a knowing smile and nod. It is something that is felt, but altogether inexplicable. Something that one fears to analyze too closely, lest it perish from the ill treatment. Better to savor this place, to come under it's spell if you are so predestined, and if the peculiar mystique of Sauve must be acknowledged… simply smile and a nod.
Further up the River is St. Hippolyte, or St. Hippo. If you come from St. Hippo.. you are a Cigalous, or a Cigalouse, depending on gender, the meaning being Cicada. Nobody knows why, but no doubt the insect is plentiful here when it makes an appearance every 17 years or so. In any case 'Saint Hypolytienne' is a cumbersome mouthful. St. Hippolyte - du Fort - to distinguish it from some lesser St. Hippolyte elsewhere, stands below an impressive ridge of high hills topped by limestone escarpments. It forms a kind of gateway to this southeastern reach of the Cevennes, a natural area of forest and modest mountains rising to 1000 meters or so. A town with center that is old, if not quite as ancient and compact as Sauve, but typical of villages in this area. The town where my friend Bhumi lives, who I met at the sweat lodge at Mas Lafont. There is a coop food store on the scale of the little coops of Vermont but even more rough around the edges. Bhumi tells me there are 4 or 5 areas of France that have similar concentrations of people into organic food, living on the land, and all that alternative stuff. Too many people who like the idea of building round houses of sticks and bamboo and mud for my tastes, actually. This is one of those regions. Sometimes I wonder how I managed to find my way back to Vermont without leaving France. Sometimes I have the strange sense that I am in a dream where my friends and family are all speaking a language that I can't understand and that any minute they will tire of this and start speaking English again… but they never do
The same, but different. Here you find a distinct French flavor, of course. I am inclined to think that there is a strain of French national character that is expressed in the words "Liberte!"… and … "Resistance!" ….passionate, with an edge. Nothing like a cause, or a philosophy, or counter-something to inspire dramatic rhetorical flourishes in the French. On the other end of the French manic-depressive continuum is existentialism of course, which the French fashioned into a kind of chic, but which stripped of it's glamourous wrappings is merely resignation and despair, or simple ill humor, which is also clearly on display in every town square. (Eric tells me that Sartre and Camus were hacks compared to de Beauvoir.. sycophants) This region, the Languedoc is the land of the Heretic, the Cathar, the Protestant, the fringe dwellers. It is nothing like Paris here. Very little concern for fashion. Think: Paris = New York, then Cevennes = Vermont.
Up in the Cevennes, near the tiny town of Cros, is Mas Lafont. The house was built in about 1900 by rich folks from Montpellier as a country place. The terraces are much older than the house and the spring that waters the landscape is as old as the hills. I have written about this place already and will not repeat myself here. I have come and left and returned and left and am returning again for a few days to help Alain a bit more. He has a new workaway fellow from Denmark and I am helping him learn the ropes. It is raining everywhere else in France, but here in the south the days are bright and warm and I am glad to do a bit more clearing and burning and to feel well again after my bout with the flu. Jeanne Pierre is putting the new wood floor down for the big hall that is coming into being downstairs here. It is a place where I feel I will always be welcome to return.
Now I am counting the days before my date with sailing in the Canaries. It is a bit of a shock to be returning to my plan. To have a set itinerary. When I first planned all of this the sailing was there at the end, like dessert. My one sure thing. I began with a plan, but now it is just an idea, a contrivance, a vague obligation, or something to resort to when all else fails. But I retired the France portion of my plan a month ago and instead I have been swept along by the unexpected in ways that I could never have planned. Another, mysterious plan has taken it's place… quite a wonderful plan… an inscrutable plan that takes me by the hand again and again when I am in the dark and says, "Don't know what you are doing next?… Cool… now for something really good". And I keep meeting people like Patrice who totally get this and say, "Cool". Or just smile and nod. Many moments have had a numinous quality to them, as if something cosmic is lying just below the surface, or disappearing around the corner before I get a good look, like the elusive Mr Crumb. Then in other moments, or for whole days, everything crashes into the mud with a dull thud and I think, "Of course, the novelty buzz is wearing off." At times of enthusiasm I wonder whether I should cancel the sailing and just stay here. Or when I am in the mud I think I would be pushing my luck. I could move in to Maison du Compte and put three weeks in on the big project. In the lap of luxury really, with a piano, and a setting that is entirely about being creative. Write some songs maybe. I could have Soraya looking through me and being always right. Maybe meet one of the ladies of Sauve who wonder where the men are. Maybe finally learn to speak this confounded language. That leaves two weeks unaccounted for, but something would come along, maybe 3 or 4 things and I would have to choose. Everyone needs a handyman. Everyone takes me in and it is instant intimacy. And then there is sailing. How can I not go? But whose decision is this anyway? I don't have to go. My choice. What is sailing to me now? What if I leave and the magic is gone?
So this is how the journey turns inward now. I think Soraya is right and that I am trying to find my center line. Then maybe find the clarity and courage to let the answer unfold from that. To get myself out of my own way, go through the fear of just saying Yes and not sweating the details. The journey took a turn inward for me decisively on the night of January 6. Epiphany. 12th night. My lost brother Paul's 59th birthday. We cut the gallette, the celebratory cake, and I was the one who got the hidden prize. Of course I didn't know this, only that there was something hard in my mouth. It was a little porcelain figure of a girl with a basket of flowers and a straw hat. The writing on it was so tiny that it took concerted effort to puzzle it out. "Je veux vois offrire le douceur de mon amour." Translation: "I want to give you the sweetness of my love.". It rang true. Something that I have felt missing in my travels and many times in my life… to give my heart to someone… a companion… a lover. Something I keep pushing aside because…. how do you make it happen. I am not a gate stormer, and in any case as much as I might desire the physical part of love, it actually does feel secondary.
Then the sweat lodge and the day after, an impromptu excursion with Bhumi who I met by the fire that night. The first idea was to go to a little performance in Ganges, which turned out to be long on concept and short on entertainment value. So the plan changed and Bhumi said she'd like to go to the river instead. So we sat together a little and then a longer time apart by the banks of the Herault River and I picked up a flat little stone as a souvenir. At home it became a platform for my little girl… which I now kept in view wherever I was staying so I could be mindful of my little girl heart. And there was Bhumi, who is lovely and sweet and complicated and very clear about what she needs, and learning to play guitar in a not-at-all-self-conscious way, and cautious about beginning anything too intense or giving herself away when she is dealing with so much already…showing up at just that moment like a lightning rod for my burgeoning desire to fall in love. Or am I splitting hairs by not simply saying that I was in love, as if anyone ever fell in love without a huge (usually fatal) dose of projection. For days I was in a spin. Those first few nights and at any distracted moment my whole being was inclined toward 'Bhumi', which is to say my Bhumi projection of course, and Patrice would say 'Are you in love?' and I would say 'could be', because surely there is something there that isn't just projection. And when I handed Frank the wrong thing he would blame it on me being in love instead of the fact that I don't understand much French. But on the third day Bhumi and I stepped back from that edge. We put up wall. No seductions. No projections. No giving ourselves away like that. But we have not stopped exploring that edge together and enjoying a sweet friendship. I am practicing expressing what I feel without waiting for her to make it safe, or expecting anything in return and sometimes I find that despite my best intentions I am full of crap because Bhumi lets me know in one way or another. Bhumi stayed for dinner at Frank's one of those early days and showed me how to eat an oyster properly. Later I took the shell and cut it upstairs using a grinder so it would stand upright on it's edge and provide a mother of pearl enclosure, like one of those "our lady of the bathtub' lawn ornaments - for my little girl heart. And when I put the stone pedestal into the shell the irregular shape of the stone fit perfectly the irregular shape of the shell.
So this is the inner journey and compared to it, the outer spectacle is merely a side show. Even these outward affairs of love. If the end of it is knowing my own heart, then I can have that whether my outer situation is agreeable or not. I have made my plans for the next few days. Back to Sauve, Two days to help Christina, my flu-time guardian angel. Then two days to help Bhumi on little estate with it's caravan summer home and garden and many needs because she has not had her full health and energy since an accident two years ago, and because it is sometimes overwhelming (with tears) and she is too much alone in her life and her work and because she is not so afraid of us spending time together and getting closer as she was before. Then ….? More Bhumi days? Maison du Compte for a short stay? Back to the open door at Mas LaFont? Sailing? Stay in Sauve? Anything can happen .. and usually does. Stay tuned.
Monday, January 2, 2012
A different homecoming
Mas Lafont
Through a string of mishaps and events that undid all my careful planning I have found a place where I feel that I belong…. as if there is some benevolent and far more intelligent agent that said "Stop trying to plan everything and just go there." The place is called Mas Lafont. I emailed a link with photos and I know some of you have looked at it. It is a beautiful place, but that is only part of it.
Part of my experience of being here is not knowing exactly what this place is…. it's story… or who is coming through the door next. It would 'help' if I spoke french and could ask lots of questions about everything. "Who are you? What do you do? Where are you from? What's the plan?" Many people come through the door. I do know that my host, Alain owns this property, that he is recently divorced and that he has decided to create a center for retreats and workshops here. Much beyond that and I am just a happy idiot.
Regarding the place: Mas, in French means 'country place/farm'. The property is apparently an old silk worm farm. An empty stone building situated down below the house that waits to be restored is the Menanieri (sp?) which was used to raise the silk worms. This area had a very significant silk industry into the 19th C from what I understand. The main house is built next to a spring that feeds several ponds draining into irrigation that runs down the hill and around the terraced hillside. Must be nice in the heat of summer. There is a pool and a number of different outdoor areas with different types of landscaping. A few palms and bamboo. A row of impressively large plane trees. The lawn and garden are under constant attack by wild boars, which come in the night and dig things up. My job is basically landscaping. For the moment that means working with a rake on leaf piles, collecting downed branches, some chain saw work, and burning. The house heats with wood… the kitchen and living room anyway. The upstairs is unheated, but it doesn't get that cold.
The house has 12 foot ceilings. Quite a stately building. Most of it is restored already but the downstairs is being opened up into a large hall for the retreat center use. It tends a little toward late 20th C bohemian in decor. Lots of artistic expression. Tempts me to call it a hippie haven, which is somewhat true. The people who come here are people who pursue their lives as a journey. They are people engaged with the arts, or healing, or some form of spiritual seeking. Shamanism seems like a theme here, perhaps partly because of Joel, who is a boyish 50 (or so) and lives in a yurt on one of the terraces. He has been following a vision for the past 5 years that involves building and playing and teaching drums for ritual and is some kind of partner in making things happen here. There is a sweat lodge planned in about a week. I will tend the fire. I'd like to participate, but I am also here to help and work. Everyone I meet has traveled much. Many musicians. I just met a woman who spent 2 months in the jungles of Peru living with a shaman. Another just back from Qatar with her drumming group. A couple of women from Marseille showed up one night. Don't know why they were here, but it doesn't matter. Always an interesting person. Nobody wants to sit around watching TV.
Speaking of TV, did I say that I came here by accident? I was staying with a couple guys from Vermont who I know through Kate and who have a place north of here (la Bouysseau). Beautiful house and they were quite good to me, but every night, and sometimes through the day the main activity seemed to be watching TV. As bad or worse than American boob tube. Something seriously lacking. Something in my mind was going…. "Gotta get out of here…. go back… I miss where I was". I needed a place to stay through New Years at which time I was supposed to go to start another workaway. My Vermont hosts had invited me for the duration, then said maybe they would take another trip after Dec 22, then said they wouldn't go, then finally decided they really had to go. Time for another plan, but what?
I sent a couple emails. I had a lead to follow up on and it worked out and I got an invitation from Alain here at Mas Lafont. I came here because Alain is a friend of Patrice (a guy from Quebec), who I met in Sauve, by way of Bertrand the carpenter who lives in Sauve and knows Patrice who doesn't really live there (he and his wife and boy are itinerant too) but often stays in Sauve in Frank's house (you remember Frank? The trapeze artist with Cirque du Soleil?) which is down the street from chez Bertrand, who I met because I was working with him on the house in Sommieres for Benoit and Sarah, who live in St. Quentin and were my hosts when I got here in December. Get it? And because Alain said, "Sure you can come here and work or just rest" (because I was still getting over the car wreck) There is no way to plan such a thing.
Once here it took a few days to figure out whether I had any place here or was just a temporary interloper. It really helped to be able to work and put my efforts into the place. There is an informality here that, once used to it, is very comfortable. No need to put on airs, but for the first few days I was worried about doing things, or not doing things, or doing things inappropriately. I'm over that. It feels like family… in a good way so far. Alain's 10 yo daughter, Judith, came for the holidays and she is a delight. We have fun even though we can't understand much of what each other says. It was nice to see her come with her dad to pick me up in town today at the bus stop on my way back from Paris. Same with everyone who I meet here. An easy feeling of community.
Nobody slaves too hard. I feel that I am doing my part if I work 3 or 4 hours a day. Alain seems grateful for what I have done and am able to do. The rest of the day is mine. My room has a huge window that opens to a view of the valley of the Vidourle River, and beyond to two limestone topped peaks called 'the twins" which we all climbed last week. My room is a nice refuge if I need one. Afternoon nap maybe. Dinner around 8 or 8:30 and conviviality until 11 most nights. 7 KM down the valley to St. Hippolyte du Fort village and all that.
A few days before I left for Paris to see Dave I got an email from my Jan 1 host saying…"not a good time for you to come… maybe later would be better." I replied that I had an ideal place and 'later' would not work for me. My head was telling me "You made this plan, don't quit on them, work it out somehow… besides you might miss something" My heart was going "Fine… stay here… what could be better than this you idiot". So I listened to my heart and decided it was also not too late to cancel my Jan 15th gig as well. Why risk being isolated somewhere that might end up feeling like the place I was in the Dordogne?
Funny how I am not enchanted with the idea of changing my scene and traveling as compared with staying in one place and digging deeper into what is possible here. I am aware of my desire for belonging and to be part of a mission with others. There are a lot of other places I could have seen here, but so what. I don't know where this is leading (not that I don't have ideas.. helpful suggestions for whoever is in charge) but I trust it will be good.
Through a string of mishaps and events that undid all my careful planning I have found a place where I feel that I belong…. as if there is some benevolent and far more intelligent agent that said "Stop trying to plan everything and just go there." The place is called Mas Lafont. I emailed a link with photos and I know some of you have looked at it. It is a beautiful place, but that is only part of it.
Part of my experience of being here is not knowing exactly what this place is…. it's story… or who is coming through the door next. It would 'help' if I spoke french and could ask lots of questions about everything. "Who are you? What do you do? Where are you from? What's the plan?" Many people come through the door. I do know that my host, Alain owns this property, that he is recently divorced and that he has decided to create a center for retreats and workshops here. Much beyond that and I am just a happy idiot.
Regarding the place: Mas, in French means 'country place/farm'. The property is apparently an old silk worm farm. An empty stone building situated down below the house that waits to be restored is the Menanieri (sp?) which was used to raise the silk worms. This area had a very significant silk industry into the 19th C from what I understand. The main house is built next to a spring that feeds several ponds draining into irrigation that runs down the hill and around the terraced hillside. Must be nice in the heat of summer. There is a pool and a number of different outdoor areas with different types of landscaping. A few palms and bamboo. A row of impressively large plane trees. The lawn and garden are under constant attack by wild boars, which come in the night and dig things up. My job is basically landscaping. For the moment that means working with a rake on leaf piles, collecting downed branches, some chain saw work, and burning. The house heats with wood… the kitchen and living room anyway. The upstairs is unheated, but it doesn't get that cold.
The house has 12 foot ceilings. Quite a stately building. Most of it is restored already but the downstairs is being opened up into a large hall for the retreat center use. It tends a little toward late 20th C bohemian in decor. Lots of artistic expression. Tempts me to call it a hippie haven, which is somewhat true. The people who come here are people who pursue their lives as a journey. They are people engaged with the arts, or healing, or some form of spiritual seeking. Shamanism seems like a theme here, perhaps partly because of Joel, who is a boyish 50 (or so) and lives in a yurt on one of the terraces. He has been following a vision for the past 5 years that involves building and playing and teaching drums for ritual and is some kind of partner in making things happen here. There is a sweat lodge planned in about a week. I will tend the fire. I'd like to participate, but I am also here to help and work. Everyone I meet has traveled much. Many musicians. I just met a woman who spent 2 months in the jungles of Peru living with a shaman. Another just back from Qatar with her drumming group. A couple of women from Marseille showed up one night. Don't know why they were here, but it doesn't matter. Always an interesting person. Nobody wants to sit around watching TV.
Speaking of TV, did I say that I came here by accident? I was staying with a couple guys from Vermont who I know through Kate and who have a place north of here (la Bouysseau). Beautiful house and they were quite good to me, but every night, and sometimes through the day the main activity seemed to be watching TV. As bad or worse than American boob tube. Something seriously lacking. Something in my mind was going…. "Gotta get out of here…. go back… I miss where I was". I needed a place to stay through New Years at which time I was supposed to go to start another workaway. My Vermont hosts had invited me for the duration, then said maybe they would take another trip after Dec 22, then said they wouldn't go, then finally decided they really had to go. Time for another plan, but what?
I sent a couple emails. I had a lead to follow up on and it worked out and I got an invitation from Alain here at Mas Lafont. I came here because Alain is a friend of Patrice (a guy from Quebec), who I met in Sauve, by way of Bertrand the carpenter who lives in Sauve and knows Patrice who doesn't really live there (he and his wife and boy are itinerant too) but often stays in Sauve in Frank's house (you remember Frank? The trapeze artist with Cirque du Soleil?) which is down the street from chez Bertrand, who I met because I was working with him on the house in Sommieres for Benoit and Sarah, who live in St. Quentin and were my hosts when I got here in December. Get it? And because Alain said, "Sure you can come here and work or just rest" (because I was still getting over the car wreck) There is no way to plan such a thing.
Once here it took a few days to figure out whether I had any place here or was just a temporary interloper. It really helped to be able to work and put my efforts into the place. There is an informality here that, once used to it, is very comfortable. No need to put on airs, but for the first few days I was worried about doing things, or not doing things, or doing things inappropriately. I'm over that. It feels like family… in a good way so far. Alain's 10 yo daughter, Judith, came for the holidays and she is a delight. We have fun even though we can't understand much of what each other says. It was nice to see her come with her dad to pick me up in town today at the bus stop on my way back from Paris. Same with everyone who I meet here. An easy feeling of community.
Nobody slaves too hard. I feel that I am doing my part if I work 3 or 4 hours a day. Alain seems grateful for what I have done and am able to do. The rest of the day is mine. My room has a huge window that opens to a view of the valley of the Vidourle River, and beyond to two limestone topped peaks called 'the twins" which we all climbed last week. My room is a nice refuge if I need one. Afternoon nap maybe. Dinner around 8 or 8:30 and conviviality until 11 most nights. 7 KM down the valley to St. Hippolyte du Fort village and all that.
A few days before I left for Paris to see Dave I got an email from my Jan 1 host saying…"not a good time for you to come… maybe later would be better." I replied that I had an ideal place and 'later' would not work for me. My head was telling me "You made this plan, don't quit on them, work it out somehow… besides you might miss something" My heart was going "Fine… stay here… what could be better than this you idiot". So I listened to my heart and decided it was also not too late to cancel my Jan 15th gig as well. Why risk being isolated somewhere that might end up feeling like the place I was in the Dordogne?
Funny how I am not enchanted with the idea of changing my scene and traveling as compared with staying in one place and digging deeper into what is possible here. I am aware of my desire for belonging and to be part of a mission with others. There are a lot of other places I could have seen here, but so what. I don't know where this is leading (not that I don't have ideas.. helpful suggestions for whoever is in charge) but I trust it will be good.
We'll always have Paris
Paris
Came Thursday evening and found David's rented flat on Rue Custine. Close to Montmartre, on some kind of boundary between a predominantly black area and the upscale neighborhoods surrounding the high point in Paris renowned for it's Bohemian past. A past which has been repackaged for tourists. But first I got oriented to the little apartment. Small bedroom, small main room, small bathroom, small kitchen. Everything necessary. Out to dinner and a walk around the perimeter of the hill. At the cafe a couple was seated next to us, an older gent, a bit frail, with an air of sophistication tempered by the fact that he seemed half asleep, and a vivacious younger woman, 30's maybe, 40's possibly with a theatrical sparkle to her, all in black, plenty of makeup. She broke the ice with us and we began a conversation. The usual, 'no we do not speak French… Americans …. what do you do" led to the discovery that she is in cinema' and the gent, a certain Andre Labarthe, is a significant figure in the world of French new wave. Actor, director, but mostly, an interviewer and documentarian who had met..(long list including Huston, Cassavetes, Hitchcock, Truffaut,…. and on and on). Her name, Layla, addresses exchanged, maybe for Kim to catch up with some event to take place in new york on the new new wave. Or is it the old new wave? Made for an interesting intro to Paris and surprised by the warmth of the encounter. Actually I was sitting on a seat over a radiator and it was, indeed, quite warm. Went back and hit the computers to find out about laBarthe 81 yo. He really is a 'who's who'. Dave was vexed that he had bothered the guy for an autograph on the paper place mat only to leave it on the table.
Next day we climbed the Montmartre. A tourist zoo. Souveniers and couple dozen artists drawing portraits in the square. Dave got suckered by the gypsies canvassing 'for the handicapped' who get you to give them your personal ID (just in case they manage to pickpocket a credit card or two) and then demand money for having stopped to sign their fake petition. I know better having experienced this on a train in Spain (mainly on the plain). We did a lot of walking over the two days and ate at various cafe's, going back to the Cafe Franc….(?) a couple times. Friday night Dave booked tickets to a gypsy jazz artist in the jazz district, rue Lombard. Then thought he had booked it for Thursday and we had missed it. Lot's of pithy advice from me about how to let it go as he berated himself over and over. Turns out that he was looking the booking date, not the performance date and the gig was Friday after all. Dave and I have a lot of similar space out tendencies. And this compulsive way that we are always doing things 'the other' way, or putting something in a new spot only to forget where that new spot was. And then going into a panic the moment we think we have lost, or forgotten something again.
So Friday night we did make the show at Sunset/Sunside on Rue de Lombards. It really was the center of the jazz scene with the three venues that Mia from Paris who I met in St. Hippolyte, jotted down for me on my Iphone… all packed together on one small street. We had a nice dinner nearby and then packed ourselves into our seats. It was too close and I was so miserably uncomfortable that the first set was just unpleasant. I told dave that I really couldn't sit there again and would just stand at the back. Went outside and walked in the rain and then came back. It was better standing at the back or in the stairway, albeit smoky from the sidewalk cafe crowd up above. The music was better and as some people left I had a chance to sit and truly enjoy. Tremendous musicianship, not gypsy jazz, but based upon it with the rhythm guitar behind every piece.
Saturday, New Year's eve. We got up and out too late for a breakfast so we had lunch back at 'our' cafe. Dave left his cap. Then a long wander around the opposite side of Montmartre to a train ticket boutique so I could get my ticket. Too much time frustration the night before and then the fares had gone up… doubled. Dave and I also tried to work out the car rental…without success. Finally settled on a plan of him coming 1/5 to Nimes and then rent, or just take the bus from there to St. Hippolyte. I may be able to come up with a car rental/borrow that will save money in the meantime. The train boutique was closed on NYE. Oh well. Dave got another hat and we found ourselves in front of Le Moulin Rouge where the hippest of touristic party goers could make an evening of it for a mere 650 Euros. I got a real coffee in a real paper cup at Starbucks across the street and we sat and watched the crowds. A mass of tourists standing on the traffic median snapping pictures of themselves in front of MR. Then to the train station where Dave and I got our tickets. A short extra wait for an English speaking agent who was friendly and relaxed, with a genuine big smile for us. Nice.
Trying to discuss music and such with Dave made me realize that I am really handicapped without a keyboard. He started leading me in the direction of using a midi controller and garage band or band in a box to compose and play. I did some searches and it looked interesting. So on the way to the train station we passed Star Music and I went in to check it out. Ended up getting an Alesis 49 key unit for about $100. No big risk in damage or loss. Making the move to get the keyboard made me realize how much of a deprivation it has been to be away from the piano and my daily ritual of playing, and how much I have ignored the feeling of missing it. A memorable moment at the turnstile as a old guy tried to us his pass card to no avail. I had bought 10 paper tickets for the metro and had a few still in my wallet. Pulled on out and gave it to him. Why not. Merci. No problem.
So last night we made dinner from frozen selections bought at a frozen food specialty market down the street. Kind of a rejection of tradition for the French, but the quality is a cut above Hungry Man. Dave set up my keyboard connection to the computer with the accompanying software and I got a first look at it. Tremendous possibilities. Then we watched Midnight in Paris on Dave's laptop … fifth time Dave has seen it. It may have something to do with his inspiration to come to Paris. I really enjoyed it, and seeing most of the places I had visited on the trip. Montmarte the steps and streets, the Seine, the Cite, Notre Dame, Shakespeare & Co., Moulin Rouge. A story of a character who feels pulled to a different life and time and the conflict of following. a satisfying story.
Then Dave fell asleep at the table and I decided to go out again. Not tired at all. Why not do NewYears from Montmartre. I wandered up to the crowds and then down a side street a bit until I heard live piano music. Decided, OK. A very modest place. I sat next to the piano and got the sound and the view of the player's hands. Incredible agility and fluidity, constantly moving into different variations. I envied him. When he stood up he moved stiffly as if almost paralyzed, except from the shoulders down. Be careful what you wish for. I would not really want to trade places with him. New Years came and people shouted and honked. A couple young men came in and gave everyone a good 'moi moi' and a toast. I raised my empty glass and the one poured some champagne into it. Happy New Year.
Came Thursday evening and found David's rented flat on Rue Custine. Close to Montmartre, on some kind of boundary between a predominantly black area and the upscale neighborhoods surrounding the high point in Paris renowned for it's Bohemian past. A past which has been repackaged for tourists. But first I got oriented to the little apartment. Small bedroom, small main room, small bathroom, small kitchen. Everything necessary. Out to dinner and a walk around the perimeter of the hill. At the cafe a couple was seated next to us, an older gent, a bit frail, with an air of sophistication tempered by the fact that he seemed half asleep, and a vivacious younger woman, 30's maybe, 40's possibly with a theatrical sparkle to her, all in black, plenty of makeup. She broke the ice with us and we began a conversation. The usual, 'no we do not speak French… Americans …. what do you do" led to the discovery that she is in cinema' and the gent, a certain Andre Labarthe, is a significant figure in the world of French new wave. Actor, director, but mostly, an interviewer and documentarian who had met..(long list including Huston, Cassavetes, Hitchcock, Truffaut,…. and on and on). Her name, Layla, addresses exchanged, maybe for Kim to catch up with some event to take place in new york on the new new wave. Or is it the old new wave? Made for an interesting intro to Paris and surprised by the warmth of the encounter. Actually I was sitting on a seat over a radiator and it was, indeed, quite warm. Went back and hit the computers to find out about laBarthe 81 yo. He really is a 'who's who'. Dave was vexed that he had bothered the guy for an autograph on the paper place mat only to leave it on the table.
Next day we climbed the Montmartre. A tourist zoo. Souveniers and couple dozen artists drawing portraits in the square. Dave got suckered by the gypsies canvassing 'for the handicapped' who get you to give them your personal ID (just in case they manage to pickpocket a credit card or two) and then demand money for having stopped to sign their fake petition. I know better having experienced this on a train in Spain (mainly on the plain). We did a lot of walking over the two days and ate at various cafe's, going back to the Cafe Franc….(?) a couple times. Friday night Dave booked tickets to a gypsy jazz artist in the jazz district, rue Lombard. Then thought he had booked it for Thursday and we had missed it. Lot's of pithy advice from me about how to let it go as he berated himself over and over. Turns out that he was looking the booking date, not the performance date and the gig was Friday after all. Dave and I have a lot of similar space out tendencies. And this compulsive way that we are always doing things 'the other' way, or putting something in a new spot only to forget where that new spot was. And then going into a panic the moment we think we have lost, or forgotten something again.
So Friday night we did make the show at Sunset/Sunside on Rue de Lombards. It really was the center of the jazz scene with the three venues that Mia from Paris who I met in St. Hippolyte, jotted down for me on my Iphone… all packed together on one small street. We had a nice dinner nearby and then packed ourselves into our seats. It was too close and I was so miserably uncomfortable that the first set was just unpleasant. I told dave that I really couldn't sit there again and would just stand at the back. Went outside and walked in the rain and then came back. It was better standing at the back or in the stairway, albeit smoky from the sidewalk cafe crowd up above. The music was better and as some people left I had a chance to sit and truly enjoy. Tremendous musicianship, not gypsy jazz, but based upon it with the rhythm guitar behind every piece.
Saturday, New Year's eve. We got up and out too late for a breakfast so we had lunch back at 'our' cafe. Dave left his cap. Then a long wander around the opposite side of Montmartre to a train ticket boutique so I could get my ticket. Too much time frustration the night before and then the fares had gone up… doubled. Dave and I also tried to work out the car rental…without success. Finally settled on a plan of him coming 1/5 to Nimes and then rent, or just take the bus from there to St. Hippolyte. I may be able to come up with a car rental/borrow that will save money in the meantime. The train boutique was closed on NYE. Oh well. Dave got another hat and we found ourselves in front of Le Moulin Rouge where the hippest of touristic party goers could make an evening of it for a mere 650 Euros. I got a real coffee in a real paper cup at Starbucks across the street and we sat and watched the crowds. A mass of tourists standing on the traffic median snapping pictures of themselves in front of MR. Then to the train station where Dave and I got our tickets. A short extra wait for an English speaking agent who was friendly and relaxed, with a genuine big smile for us. Nice.
Trying to discuss music and such with Dave made me realize that I am really handicapped without a keyboard. He started leading me in the direction of using a midi controller and garage band or band in a box to compose and play. I did some searches and it looked interesting. So on the way to the train station we passed Star Music and I went in to check it out. Ended up getting an Alesis 49 key unit for about $100. No big risk in damage or loss. Making the move to get the keyboard made me realize how much of a deprivation it has been to be away from the piano and my daily ritual of playing, and how much I have ignored the feeling of missing it. A memorable moment at the turnstile as a old guy tried to us his pass card to no avail. I had bought 10 paper tickets for the metro and had a few still in my wallet. Pulled on out and gave it to him. Why not. Merci. No problem.
So last night we made dinner from frozen selections bought at a frozen food specialty market down the street. Kind of a rejection of tradition for the French, but the quality is a cut above Hungry Man. Dave set up my keyboard connection to the computer with the accompanying software and I got a first look at it. Tremendous possibilities. Then we watched Midnight in Paris on Dave's laptop … fifth time Dave has seen it. It may have something to do with his inspiration to come to Paris. I really enjoyed it, and seeing most of the places I had visited on the trip. Montmarte the steps and streets, the Seine, the Cite, Notre Dame, Shakespeare & Co., Moulin Rouge. A story of a character who feels pulled to a different life and time and the conflict of following. a satisfying story.
Then Dave fell asleep at the table and I decided to go out again. Not tired at all. Why not do NewYears from Montmartre. I wandered up to the crowds and then down a side street a bit until I heard live piano music. Decided, OK. A very modest place. I sat next to the piano and got the sound and the view of the player's hands. Incredible agility and fluidity, constantly moving into different variations. I envied him. When he stood up he moved stiffly as if almost paralyzed, except from the shoulders down. Be careful what you wish for. I would not really want to trade places with him. New Years came and people shouted and honked. A couple young men came in and gave everyone a good 'moi moi' and a toast. I raised my empty glass and the one poured some champagne into it. Happy New Year.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)