gratitude

Once, if I remember well, my life was a feast
where all hearts opened and all wines flowed…

So begins Arthur Rimbaud’s masterpiece, A Season in Hell. Of course Rimbaud’s magnificent metaphor refers to his infancy; all that good stuff ended, as the title indicates, as soon as he grew up. And while I know things can’t go on like this forever, I’m like a joyful child; the image of Rimbaud’s time of feasting & drinking is how I look upon my journey in France.

How did I get here? Again, as he did last year, my Swiss friend Michel, a troubadour á lá Georges Brassans, offered me his house in Provence; a generous gesture that would have been unpardonably ungrateful of me to refuse. And so, difficult as it was to leave West Hollywood for the South of France, I packed my bags.

As soon as I buckled down for the nine and a half hour Air France flight to Paris the steward showed up with champagne. I was not in first class or business; alas, I flew economy, but that’s the French for you. Cheers! The meal was tasty: shrimp salad, chicken stew & vegetables, a ripe camembert, small bottle of good red wine, light chocolate mousse… omens of things to come. Time passed quickly.

The high-speed TGV train from Paris Charles de Gaulle airport to Avignon passed through lush countryside of fields, forests & blue skies. My rental car, a perky Fiat Punto, was ready & as soon as I got the hang of the gear shift & tuned in to a talk-radio station, I took off like the breeze, winding my way through narrow picturesque back roads to the tiny medieval village of Meynes where I will reside for the next two months.

I climbed the 12 steep steps of my ancient stone house, built in 1615, turned the key in the creaking wooden door, & stepped into a cool, spacious room of hand carved stone blocks & massive wood beams with a huge fireplace & gently-aged antique wooden chairs & tables. Just as I started to wonder how to get my luggage up those cruel stairs a neighbor passed by & carried them up for me.

In the kitchen I found provisions laid on by my thoughtful host: onions, tomatoes, eggs, coffee, a bit of butter, a bottle of milk, a bottle of red wine & a variety of staples. Freshly ironed sheets for my bed, a stack of clean towels, plentiful hot water, a good shower and a toilet that flushes: the Queen of France could not have asked for more.

There’s not much going on in Meynes, which is one of the reasons I love it. We get no tourists, no traffic, no noise, no problems; the glistening stone village sits on a hill in the midst of sun-drenched vineyards & olive groves; it is quiet, peaceful & calm. We have a bakery, fruit & vegetable shop, pharmacy, beauty parlor, post office, tabac, & a pizzeria with two tables.
There is also a café but it is an unsavory place where a few grizzled types drink beer or pastis all day & fill the room with thick cigarette smoke while staring glassy-eyed at the TV over the bar. Not for the likes of yours truly.

Each Wednesday morning two local farmers & a fish monger show up with their trucks of provisions to meet the needs of the housewives of Meynes.

Kids chase each other & ride in circles on their bikes. Old men whose expressions testify they’ve seen it all sit on stone benches beside the fountain near the mayor’s office in the center of town and take in the scene.

Few cars pass through the narrow, winding cobblestone lanes inside the crumbling village where my house stands, built into the hillside, next to the ancient church. The air is so pure I can actually breathe; everywhere the aromatic scent of rosemary & thyme. The water is sweet, food is great, wine the best; friendly people, luminous countryside, the most wonderful & varied I’ve ever seen; I look forward to crossing the bridges of Avignon & the Pont du Gard, visiting the Roman arena in Nimes, exploring the stark landscape of Les Baux-de-Provence, the shops in St. Remy-en-Provence, the undulating fields of heavenly lavender...

My life is simple: I have no TV, radio, internet; I don’t know what’s going on the world beyond my sleepy little village. The weather is fine. I water the garden each evening. I’m happy. My life is a feast where all hearts are open & all wines flow, & I’m grateful for every moment of it.
I’ve been invited to a party on Saturday night. My young swain will be there & the games will begin. But I won’t tell you anything more about that.