May MEMOIR: Ca va? Stories from Rural Life in Southern France, Chapter 1: Getting there is the Hardest Part

Welcome to MaY MEMOIR! 

For the entire month of May, I'll be sharing part of each chapter from my memoir, Ca va?  Stories from Rural Life in Southern France.

I'm just starting out on my adventure and learn a valuable lesson: time runs different in Southern France (translation: very, very, late).  I grew up in a very punctual house, so I completely panicked when Christophe arrived late picking me up at the train station.  Given that I barely spoke French, traveled half way around the world, and was completely exhausted,  I don't think I overacted... at least, not too much.

Chapter 1: Getting there is the Hardest Part

I am alone in front of the train station, and start to wonder what am I doing here.  Salvador Dali once called this place the center of the universe, but it does hold the euphoric emotion I would associate with the birthplace of all creation.  I watch as homeless people dive in between moving cars looking for change and hear shouts from the passing cars trying to avoid them.  I suddenly feel very lost and lonely because Christophe is nowhere to be found. 

            Then, it hits me, “What am I doing here?”

            The sound of screeching cars is suddenly replaced by the sound of my heart crashing down to my feet.  My pulse quickens and I feel blood rushing up to my head in panic.  I fall back on my bags in disbelief.  “He doesn’t want me to come”, I think myself.  “That’s why he wasn’t waiting for me on the platform.  I left my normal life just 24 hour ago.  How could I be so stupid!  I quit my job!”

            I feel like Tarzan swinging through the jungle and realizing too late the next vine is not there.  I get dizzy and have a hard time catching my breath.  Looking out into oncoming traffic, I see fuzzy lights heading towards me.  “And now I’m going to die here”, I think in desperation.

            The bright lights continue to get closer and finally come to a quick stop in front of me.  Christophe jumps out of his truck and runs towards me.

            “I’m sorry”, he says.  “I got home late from work and wanted to clean before you arrived, and...”  He pauses.  “How are you?”  He says embracing me.

The numbing feeling in my head stops and I suddenly start to see clear again.  I slowly catch my breath and realize why I am here; I am relieved.  Within seconds, the surroundings are in focus and I can stand on my own two feet.

After a few minutes, I climb into Christophe’s truck and he loads my bags in the back.  Leaving the train station, we quickly turn onto the highway; there is little traffic.  From the darkness of the road, I catch glimpses of small town cathedrals illuminated in a golden hue.  As we pass, they quickly disappear behind trees or buildings into the night.  Christophe turns to me and says something, but he has his window open so it’s difficult to hear.

            “What?”  I ask when I realize he has asked me something.

            “The trip; how was the trip?”  He responds.

            My head is still swimming from the voyage.  Languages are melting together, I’m tired, and still in a state of disbelief of what I just did.  I really did pack up my life and move to France.

            I decode what he asks and then respond, “Fine; a bit long, but no real delays.”

            “Good, good”, he responds and we sit in silence for a few more minutes.  He gets to an intersection and turns off the main highway into a small town I remember.  We need to pass through it to get up to the village.  We drive though the town center; there are a few street lights, the local café has some patrons sitting outside, but everything else is closed.  Leaving all the lights behind, we slowly mount a mountain road back to Bainat; the village where Christophe lives.