Holly Brunelle

Even with the early hour, it was sunny and bright. Despite this, my mood was flat.  I had embarked on this journey, road trip, meditation retreats, resilience seminar, hoping to get my energy back and find a new path, a new (think Elwood Blues) ‘Mission From God’.  But so far… nothing.  To make things worse, my body was feeling really tired and I was worried my ick might be circling back. I was exhausted and felt empty.

But all was not lost – we were at marché, another opportunity to explore the local culture through food.  It was another small one, about a dozen vendors, held in the church parking lot of another nearby town.  Zia has summered in the area for over twenty years, and she has developed deep relationships with the farmers and vendors who supply her kitchen.  We stopped at the duck man, for paté but also to ask after his son who had recently started université in Paris.  We stopped at the honey man, just to check in but also for some propolis.  I paused at one table to consider some walnut oil to take home (the locals swear small doses improve longevity) while Zia charmed more of the divine breakfast peaches from the farmer whose tables were set under some trees.  I was glad it was an easy day and was eager to get back to the house for an early nap.

But I was to get a special treat.  On the way to our car, Z either realized I needed a pick-me-up or glimpsed movement on a side street.  “Oooh!”  She has a gift in these moments, standing in a way so you can almost see the lightbulb above her head.  “I need to check in on someone.”  We stashed our baskets in the boot of our car and started hoofing it down the rue.  Soon a tall stone wall topped with a thick umbrella of wisteria was at our side; we continued until we reached a pair of what looked suspiciously like repurposed barn doors.  The buzz of the call box was met with a positive response, so we lifted the latch and teased (heaved) the door free from branches of the trellis that wanted to hold its household close.  Inside was a cheery courtyard: a wide lawn framed with local flowers and trees.  Along one wall a young Polish man was busy tie-ing limbs of a pear tree to a trainer trellis along the wall while a second man wielded a skill saw at a makeshift workbench closer to the house.  And there was her friend Carmen, glass in hand, greeting us with enthusiasm and inviting us inside.

The house was cheery as well, a long space with kitchen and dining table to one side, lounging area and sleeping space to the other.  As Z and her friend caught up on events since they had last met, my attention was drawn to the mantel where two lifelike robins, both poised on the tips of their talons, dined, one noshing a dragon fly while the other scratched for snacks.  My noticing was noticed.  “Carmen is an artist,” Zia enthused, “She made these!”

As my gaze broadened, her work came into focus.  What I had thought were yard cuttings waiting for water were art; each leaf, blossom, and nascent pear of the branches on the table had been lovingly crafted by hand.  Once I looked closer I realized the anemones that framed the mantel were on stands, not vases, and the large blue butterflies exploring their leaves had not flown in from the yard. “These are amazing,” I fumbled as Z’s friend offered a tour of her atelier*.  We were ushered down a flight of stone steps to a cave that had likely been a root cellar in a previous life.

It was a clean space with white walls and work surfaces and an eggshell tile floor.  The air was still cool; gauze shrouded the windows, diffused the rising summer sun, and cast an even glow across the the space.  One wall was lined with supplies: lengths of copper and brass tubing in a barrel by the door waiting patiently for the tools thoughtfully stored alongside cylinders of gas.  The welder’s mask hung on a hook added a  somewhat ominous note, a reminder that nature herself can be fierce.  Along the back wall was a workbench, the loose arrangement of enamels, paints, and a half-formed melon suggested work interrupted.  In the center of the room was a work in progress: a tomato vine, complete with roots, its branches heavy with fruits in varying stages of ripeness next to a chair and a hand-size blowtorch.  And at the window was a cat, its attention focussed on a moth that had dared stray into the space.

I felt honored to be there, to sit at the feet of a master, as Carmen walked us through her process: deep research of potential subjects, welding the substructure, forming the shapes, applying the intricate external details.  She was generous with her time, answering all our questions, and with her space, allowing me to snap a few pics.

But like all good things, the visit was soon over.  We made our way back to the car, tucked under the grape vines that lined the school playground and headed home.  Somehow nourished by the events of the morning, I began to drift off as we weaved along the country roads.

*Workshop

**Photos of the completed work are here: http://www.carmenalmon.com/fruits-and-vegetables .  I highly encourage browsing the site.

I quickly slipped into the rhythm of an American ex-pat living in France.  Mornings began with that bright orb in the sky, quickly chased with coffee, fruit, morning chores, and the local marché-du-jour.  After quiet time (for me) and a spell in the ‘art room’ (Zia) we would dine, then repose, read, crossword, or nap until it was cool enough to go outside.  Evening was light yard work (and a light snack) followed by a walk and some tele before turning in.

Tuesday marché is in Sarlat.  Located on a hill above the Dordogne River, the city sprung up in medieval times around a Benedictine stronghold, and records indicate that both Pepin the Short and his son Charlemagne went there on pilgrimage, the latter honoring the monks with a piece of the True Cross.  Following the Hundred-Years War noblemen settled the area, and many of the mansions (and much of the city-center architecture) date to that time.   Due to limited road infrastructure prior to the 1960s (until then the city had been serviced primarily by the river and on rail), its architecture remained relatively untouched and the city has been nominated as a UNESCO World Heritage site.  In addition to tourism, the area is known for its foie gras, tobacco, wild mushrooms and truffles.

We arrived early enough to stash our little white car under some trees in the lot across from the high school, and made our way to city center.  As we approached the former stronghold, the streets narrowed from modern-sized roads to narrow lanes in both directions to a single lane in one direction, all bordered with comfortable spaces for walking on each side. After a quick stop at a housewares shop to pick up an extra US-to-EU electrical adapter (okay, I lingered in the front of the store with its well-crafted, cleanly designed items in cheerful colors) we turned down a narrow allée towards the medieval part of town.  In the horse-cart wide space the grey and buff stone buildings towered above us.

Here the streets were cobblestone.  As we walked, the thin space weaved down a hill, past a shop featuring local wines, another with hand-crafted toys, and filled with African textiles, and I wondered what businesses had filled these spaces over the centuries.  We turned right, the walkway leveled, and the space opened into a plaza. To our right was an old church, the Elise Sainte-Marie, whose space had been used to produce ammunition during the Revolution and now housed a local craft cooperative.  Ahead of us were lanes of vendors selling produce and farm products, and on the far side the Cathedral with its ninth-century spire reigned over us.  We picked up some Spanish Ham and cheeses from the cheerful lady in the cheese truck (picture a food truck but fronted with a refrigerated cheese section, all local and exquisitely crafted) before making our way back to our car.  My shirt was damp with heat already, and I was looking forward to the cool enclave of the house.  But our travels were not over yet.

The night before I had been lightly chastised for filling my drinking glass with water from the faucet.  “We have spring water from the source,” Zia shared, and I was directed to the three large jugs under the bread table.  But when observed, these vessels were almost empty.  So once home from Sarlat, we stashed our treasures in the frigo, loaded the empty jugs into the boot of the car, and were on our way.  Our route led us through the next hamlet, turn onto a long dirt driveway, pass through the courtyard of a family farm, and continue to where the track ended in a small clearing at the base of a granite cliff.  “Huh?” I thought as Zia encouraged me to carry one of the bottles to a handmade bench near a wall of shrubbery.  There I found a yellow hose with a constant trickle of water. This was it, she explained as the bottles slowly filled, a spring cherished by locals that their families had drunk from for centuries.  And as the aquifer was healthy and Neanderthal paintings had been discovered in the caves above us, she continued, we may be drinking the same water as early man, the same minerals that had made their bones so strong.  We hefted the full bottles back to the car and, once back home, back to the kitchen.

Lunch was slices of Spanish ham, cheese (a delightful sheeps-milk camembert from a local farm), bread, and greens out on the porch.  Warm from the summer sun and worn from the day’s adventures, once the table and kitchen were clean I retreated to my room for yet another warm summer nap.

Gaack!  Bright Light!  Bright Light!

It was the sun again, streaming through windows into the guest room where I slept.  Was it morning again, already?

I had been up late the evening before, not by design, but through the natural unfolding of events.  I had napped long and hard, the work slowly coming back into focus several hours later.  It was the sounds first; my friend in the garden watering her tomatoes, tidying up debris, and picking up plums that had fallen from the tree that shaded her car from the late morning and afternoon sun.  Running water gave way to slow murmurs, then the thunk, thunk, thunk of plum pits in a bucket.  As this unfolded, I spent an indeterminate amount of time gazing at the door of the wardrobe on the opposite side of the room.  The shutters were closed, flecks of light drifting though the comma-shaped cut-outs, with the breeze that drifted over me thick and warm.  Once firmly back in my body, I rose from the bed to meet the early evening.

I had been hoping to go for a walk; a nice, long walk to stretch my legs and regain my balance.  But despite the late hour, the sun was still bright and hot on my skin.  So I puttered in the yard with my friend, and had a snack in the still-shuttered kitchen, and checked the field next door for my new friend Lambie.  (S/he was out having a snack, two adult sheep grazing nearby.)  Once the shadows grew long, I headed out to explore nearby country roads.  I even made a new friend, a local dog who braved the zap of his electric fence to join me for the length of his hedge.  By the time I returned, sunset still fading to night, it was after ten.

So now it was morning again, and in my mind far too soon.  After a quick breakfast we were back in the Peugeot, zipping across the countryside.  Our first stop was the jardiniere, a bright airy structure filled with all things garden.  As my friend shopped (she is goal oriented, then ponders available choices) I explored the wide, white linoleum aisles: pet supplies (food, bedding, a handful of collars, leashes and toys); garden tools; outdoor barbecues; and an entire row dedicated to gardening clothes and hats (one side) and work boots (the other).  Next was the discount grocer Lidl*, where I found a divine bar of chocolate, with our final stop at CarreFour, the full-size version of a greengrocer I had shopped at in Roissy.  Back home, we stashed our treasures and I was shooed from the kitchen so my friend could create her art (noontime dinner) in peace.

I grabbed my book, my camera, and a tall glass of water** and looked for a cool place to read.  I settled on the front porch patio, on a thin strip of pavers clinging to the last of the morning shade.  I sat, bum on still-cool stone and took a few moments to recover from the whirlwind of shopping activity.  But as much as I hankered to read my book, I found my attention drifting from the page.

The heat of the previous day lingered in the air with the promise of more to come.  Safe in my shelter from direct sun, I began to relax into it, breathing it in, breathing it out.  My mind followed my breath and as my thoughts fell away I noticed the world around me: lush bushes of lavender teased by the wind giving the air a fresh scent, the delicate strings of pink and white that grew near the porch, the hum of the bees as they danced among them.  The air was still, almost heavy, and the trees were too, with only the rare bird fluttering across the lawn seeking a cooler spot.  I could hear the faint voice of the radio from the kitchen and the scratch of a car on a nearby road.  I breathed, relaxed into the stillness.  I felt… relieved… and as the tension and fatigue I had been holding slipped away, happy to be there.

* Similar to the store Aldi found in the States
** A tall glass in France holds about 12 ounces

One of my favorite shows is the BBC serial Wallander.  It’s a beautifully filmed series of exquisitely told narratives about a gloomy Swedish detective who solves gloomy crimes. The high point of each episode (at least for me) follows a set formula: Wallander is at home, napping or pondering the latest gloomy personal situation he has gotten himself into when his mobile phone rings, he receives the key piece of information needed to solve the crime, and he leaps out of his chair.  The next shot (invariably my favorite of each episode) is of his car, a dark blue Volvo station wagon, speeding through a stunningly gorgeous panorama of the Swedish countryside.  I felt this was the rhythm of my time in France: we would be quietly doing some activity at home (fortunately with a good deal more cheer than Wallander) until the anointed hour, when we would leap in to action and our little white Peugeot would zip through the stunningly gorgeous French countryside to our next activity.

In the French countryside, dinner (a bit confusingly to us Yanks) is taken in early afternoon.  (Their light evening meal, normally taken at sunset after an aperitif, translates to ‘supper’.)  The adults come in from the fields or work (and often children come home from school) to meet, rest, and catch up over the meal.  It’s not unusual, if you are out walking at this time, to find several generations of a family around a table in their yard.  These meals are no small affair, at least three courses with wine before and during.  In town, meals are taken at a café.

The anointed hour upon us, we zipped along stunningly gorgeous country roads (sunflowers smiling at the sky, maize* waving in the breeze, rows of walnut trees doing what they do) to the local café.  After introductions (elle est la fille du Jim; I met the proprietor, her family, and local villagers), each with the French kiss on both cheeks, I was seated at the end of a bench at the inside corner of two long plank tables**.  There was wine, bottle pairs of red and white strategically placed among us (blanc for me), and lively conversation regarding the antics and accomplishments of friends and family.  Those around me would occasionally slip in to English to ask me a question directly (I catch the drift of French conversations, but cannot yet conjugate responses) and return to French to discuss my response.

In French cafes, it is the norm to eat communally, serving each other from common bowls.  Bread was set out, quickly followed by a tureen of soup, a beef stew rich with veg***.  Bowls were passed forward and filled, the soup shared until it was finished, the bread torn and dipped in the broth so none is wasted.  (This is after all, rural farm country.)  The two cooks took turns eating with us between serving and clearing.  After more conversation we were treated to the main course: a caesar salad made with romaine picked fresh from the garden hours before; new potatoes, diced and roasted in butter until the edges were crisp and crackled with flavor; and chickens, rubbed with local herbs, that had shared the oven with the potatoes until they too had (according to the others) been cooked to perfection.

Somehow I had been placed so the dining partner to my right was what appeared to be a classic older French country gentleman.  I say appeared to be because while I did expect a certain flirtatiousness, I was quite surprised when his questions as to why I was not married quickly moved to overt offers of affection.  Fortunately he was chastised by his neighbors (it turns out that this was a symptom, or perhaps benefit, of his early dementia) and conversation turned to other topics.  Dessert was a plum tart, each plum hand cut with the pieces carefully fanned from the center to edge over layers of crisp pastry.  We ate, we talked, we sipped wine, and it was good.  After a while it was time to return to the fields (the animals need to be tended, even on Sundays) conversation waned, and folks began to say their au revoirs.  Despite its length (over two hours) the meal was far too short.

After another zip in the car we were back home.  Zia took to her study to write letters and make calls, and I gathered a book and curled up on my bed.  The afternoon was warm, a breeze weaving through frets in the shutters, and I felt sated with good food and good cheer.  Soon the pages of my book became fuzzy, and I drifted ever so slowly into a blissful sleep.

* Maize is a starchy version of corn grown to feed the animals.

** In village cafés, it is the norm for the locals to dine at a long communal table. (This is how you catch up on local happenings.)  Individual tables are also available for tourists.

*** I will now occasionally eat meat if I trust the farmer who raised it.

The parking spot was tiny, but my friend Zia*, an experienced jockey of French country roads, handily wedged her car into the spot.  We grabbed our baskets (reed, made by women in Africa) from the boot of the car (sheltered spot in the hatchback), waited as a camion (a motor truck similar to a Ford Transit Connect) sped through the intersection before crossing the street.

The farmers’ market in Fajoles is small, about a dozen vendors, but is appropriate for a hamlet of its size.  Despite the size, it draws a large crowd and is a favorite meeting place of local farmers and ex-pats.  As a result the small courtyard was packed. White crushed stone crunched under our feet as we made our way to the first stop on the Zia’s shopping list – the honey man.  Zia introduced me (she has spent summers there for over twenty years and has become part of the community) and she began educating me on the different honeys and the wonders of propolis.  We were quickly interrupted by one of her friends, the wife of a retired general officer who had served in the French Air Force. They chatted for a short time, and honey now in hand, moved on to the local vintner.

And so it went: introduction, conversation with the vendor or another friend, moving on; from the vintner to the veg man, then the fruit lady.  Under the trees by the church we ran in to the General, who turned out to have been a fighter pilot, and spoke well of his deployments to the U.S.  Our last stop was to visit a friend showing her watercolors of the local area.  After a bit of cheerful conversation we were on our way.   Bounty in hand (honey! wine! haricots verts! peaches! pattypan squash! pate!), we headed back to the car, and zipped back to the house.

In the French countryside, the big meal is in the early afternoon.  Today, the plan was to have our big Sunday meal at the local café.  Zia had some chores to do before we headed out, which gave me a chance to explore. After a quick check of my laundry (put out before marché, still slightly damp) and nearby flower, tomato and herb beds, I hiked across a large field to the low farm structures at the back of the property.  It was here I got my first peek of the little one who would soon be my favorite neighbor of the trip.

The structures were animal pens that had come with the property.  Over the years they had lain fallow, but had recently been renovated by and were now used by the back neighbor to house rabbits, chickens, a pig and sheep.  It was nearing the hottest part of the day and the animals, wiser than the human approaching them, were hunkered down in the shade of their open-sided tin-roofed shed.  But sheep are curious, or perhaps associate people with food, so one by one the more adventurous of the flock came out for a look.  Two even came to the fence and accepted clover from my hand (in this case it was greener on my side of the fence) which encouraged others.  And then, who was that, peering out from behind that shy (or more likely protective) ewe?  A little lamb, soon to be known in the house as Lambie.

But all I would get was a peek.  Something spooked the sheep; the ones past me scattered in the field, and Lambie and her mom bolted back to the safety of the shed.  I took the cue and headed back to the house, eager for the next adventure of the day.

*Name changed to protect the innocent.

I had forgotten how early the day starts in the countryside.

It had been dark when my friend’s car pulled up her drive the night before.  After a good cry, I had cleaned myself up and gone back to the station agent.  With some prodding he advised me that another train was available, but that it would deposit me in Sarlat four hours later than the first one would have.  I had (amazingly) convinced a second Brit to share her phone, and during the call my friend had agreed to the new course of action.  I even had enough Euros to buy a coffee and a pastry (but not a sandwich) from the Café Paul next to the MacDo’s* in the station.

By then the heat had grown from steamy to sweltering.  I scoured the station for a less hot place to rest.  In the end, I returned to my previous position on the main platform just outside the doors to the station.  I glanced at the pages in my book.  I watched the trains arrive and depart.  But mostly I sat, exhausted, with no plans beyond this stay and my return to the US, wondering what I had gotten myself in to.

Trains came, trains went.  I heard half a dozen languages: French, English, Dutch, German, something Latin (Italian?  Portuguese?), something Scandinavian.  At one point a group of girls, each sporting a boogie board and an ear to ear smile, bubbled by.  (Oh, that’s right, Bordeaux is on the Atlantic coast.)  Gendarmes armed with military rifles arrived to patrol the platform.  Another TGV arrived and departed, but the gendarmes remained.

After a while, my train appeared on the departure board, track ten.  I made the trek to the platform (with a luggage assist up the last batch of stairs by a nice Frenchwoman and her daughter) and, in time, boarded the train.  Soon we were off, through the countryside, past vineyards, sunflowers and other small-batch crops on a track that followed the Dordogne (Dore) River upstream.  At one station, the driver stopped for a smoke.  At another, unscheduled, he picked up a co-worker.  It was sunset when my friend met me, waving, on the platform at the end of the line.

And now, in what felt like far too short of a time later, sun was streaming through the window, and my friend was imploring me to meet the day.

The thing I noticed was the quiet.  I could hear birds chirping, insects buzzing, sheep bleating somewhere nearby.  I lurched out of bed and, as I steadied myself, gazed out the open window.  The sky was blue, and a small garden (wisteria, roses, poppies, lilac and sage sheltered by Japanese cherry  and walnut trees) separated the cottage from a long lawn and the pastures beyond.  The wind was warm on my skin, pleasant, but with the hint of a cloying heat to come.

After a breakfast of yaourt (yogurt), muesli and fresh peaches (swoon) we were on our way, zipping through fields and orchards in her tiny Peugeot, on our way to the local marché.

More soon!

*  MacDo is the French nickname for MacDonalds.

If a friend ever calls you from a train station in a country where they do not speak the language on a mobile phone they have borrowed from a stranger to tell you their train has been cancelled, the best response is: “That is awful.  How can I help?”

The day until that point had gone well.  The TGV had snaked through Paris via tunnels, then past suburbs and fields to the rail yards of Orly.  There, in the shadow of the other (707-era) international airport serving the French capital, I got my first view of French street art.  Also, as we slowed on a curve in the tracks, I could see the front of the train from my window. (I don’t know why this tickles me so much, but it does.)  Then we were off through the countryside, past rolling, cultivated fields dotted with farms, small towns, and wind farms, at sustained speeds nearing 180 kph.  Stops became few and far between: Vendome, Tours, Poitiers.  My favorite was Futuroscope; at the time I assumed the engaging geometric glass and metal structures (prisms! tubes! geodesic domes!) were a master planned city. (I have since learned it is an IMAX and 4D-themed amusement park.) The train ride was surprisingly quiet (none of the click-clack we are accustomed to here in the States), an attribute I later learned was the result of new rail welding techniques.

I was on my way to a small town in south-central France to spend a week with a friend.  The TGV was the first leg, a straight shot to Bordeaux.  After a two-hour layover, I would transfer to a ‘local’ train (the Aquataine) for the ride to Sarlat. At least that was the plan.

When I stepped off the train in Bordeaux I was met with a wall of hot air.  Ten miles inland, and located just before the Garonne River widens to meet the Atlantic, the city is one of the oldest ports in France.  Originally settled by the Celts, it has changed hands many times and the region now considered Basque. It is also well-known for its wines.  Had I been more adventurous, (not so tired) I could have walked along the river to the old centre-ville and explored the Basilica of Saint Michael and the Tour Pey Berland.  Or I could have veered west and visited the Rock School Barbey, a local venue that provides training in rock, heavy metal, rap and spoken word traditions to musicians of all ages.  But I’ll be honest; as nice as my sit and stroll in the park had been the evening before, the trip was wearing me and I just wanted to rest.  So I found a cool spot in the station, sat down, and pulled out my book*.

After a bit I got restless, so I set out to find something to drink.  Along the way I stopped to check the train board.  But what was this?  A word in red next to my destination?  This can’t be good.  I sought out a station agent to learn more.  “Ah, madame, your train has been cancelled.”  Seriously?, I thought, hadn’t I burned through travel upsets on the flight out?  I took a deep breath, asked about options, and received an alternative route that would deposit me in Bergerac.

A thoughtful guest, my next concern was my hostess. I had a mental image of her at the station in Sarlat, waiting for a train that would not arrive. This, on the surface, had a simple solution.  But in this case it did not.  I was in an unfamiliar city on a continent not my own, I did not speak the language, my flip phone did not have an EU sim card, and I had no idea how to use the local phones. Exhausted, my eyes became misty with impending tears.

The first task, I thought, would be to find a phone booth.  I wandered the station, past rows of seated passengers.  I looked in the concourse, the waiting room, along the halls leading to different parts of the station.  Despite my best efforts, I could not find a call box.  I considered expanding my search to the world outside the station.  I thought maybe I could ask a stranger to call my friend.  While weighing these two options I passed a gregarious British lady who just happened to be ending a call.

I got up my courage.  “I was wondering if you could help me.”  I explained my situation, and asked if she could call my friend.  She dialed, and once the phone began to ring, handed it to me. This would never happen in the States, I thought as I listed to the repeating tone.  My friend picked up and I explained the situation.  “No,” was her reply, this will not do.  “You have to find another train to Sarlat.”  I disconnected.

It was at this moment that I reached the nadir of my fatigue.  I had been traveling for four months, first a grueling 4500-mile road trip, then nine weeks of retreat, at least six of them in a state of mild hypoxia, before a week in the sticky, buggy heat of Florida.  For much of this I had relied on the kindness of friends, staying in guest room after guest room, planning and re-planning as I went.**  I had thought this EU leg would be a chance to relax, regroup, and choose where to settle down, but the travails getting to Lisbon five short days before had expended the last of my resilience.  I found a quiet spot out on the platform, sat down, and let the tears flow.

* I was still reading the Lucifer Effect.

** I continue to be grateful for all the kindness extended to me during my road trips.  I must admit, in hindsight, that it was exhausting.  I would also later learn couch-surfing with no fixed address meets the definition of ‘functional homelessness’.

I passed the extra time watching the goats.

France’s high-speed rail system is known as the Train a Grand Vitesse (train of high speed) or TGV.  Inaugurated in 1980 with a line between Paris and Lyon, the TGV has since grown to serve close to a hundred French cities and selected locations in Italy, Spain, and Switzerland.  Over time, it has also been emulated by (and connected to) the UK, Belgium, Germany, and the Netherlands with the Eurostar and Thalys systems.  My first travel leg of this day would be on the Atlantic line from Paris to Bordeaux.

Since my train was scheduled to depart from the same airport I had arrived at the afternoon before, I assumed I would once again have to go through security, and had included a requisite interval in my morning schedule.  Once at the airport I learned the tracks were not the other side of a security queue but rather a quick elevator ride away.  So here I was, positioned in a corridor near said elevator, gazing through the window, watching the group of goats (goats!) I had noticed while transiting to my Lisbon flight four short days before.

There were three of them, tan with dark legs and noses, and short curled horns. They were snuggled next to some hay bales in the back of a shed in a small patch of field between the rail lines and an aircraft movement area.  The goats napped, I sipped coffee (from a très petit tasse papier), aircraft regally sauntered past on the taxiway behind them, as service vehicles zoomed to and fro along the road that bordered the goats’ sanctuary.  It was a pleasant interval, an oasis of serenity surrounded on all sides by a scurry of activity.  I stayed as long as I dared before I made my way down to la gare (the train station).

There, in a hallway between the station waiting room and a snack bar, was another gift: a piano!  Tucked under an escalator, it sat lonely and silent for a short moment before two passing children broke from their parents, clambered up on the bench, and began to play.  And when I say play, I don’t mean pick at the keys; these two little ones played actual pieces, though each their own selection, one on the bass keys and one on the treble.  They were soon followed by another gentleman of similar age who played a classical etude, and then his mother (sister? aunt?) who played a more complex piece.  Soon they were on their way, and, the piano silent, I continued on to the rail lines.

I reached the balcony overlooking the rail lines fifteen minutes before my train was scheduled to arrive.  I watched the trains ahead of mine come and go, and as the time for mine neared, I schlepped my bags down to the platform.  On the TGV, passenger seats are assigned (like on an airline); so I found the platform area where my car would be positioned and waited.

And with a hum and a whoosh it was there.  A group of us herded at the door, helping each other lift our bags to and from the train.  Just in time, we got them and ourselves on board; the doors swished closed and with a faint hum of the wheels we were on our way.

 

A man walked by, in heated conversation with someone on his mobile.  The calm was broken.

Leaves still rustled in the wind, birds still chirped as they fluttered about, and the air was still warm.  I pulled a snack from the grocery bag beside me and slowly ate, mindful of the flavors and textures of each bite.  As I ate, I watched the other travel refugees (and some local families) as they made their way through the park.  And, when I was ready, I began to make my way back to my hotel.

Dusk was approaching yet I still lingered, exploring another path in the park rather than taking a direct route.  After a turn, the lawn and flowers to my right gave way to an imposing hedge.  Taller than me, it seemed designed to separate the space I was in from another, so when I saw a small break in the leaves, a shortcut (made by children, perhaps?) to cut quickly from one side to the other, I peeked through.

But what was this?

Landing Gear.  Landing Gear? 

Mais oui.  A set of landing gear (d’atterrissage) encased in glass. I passed through the shrubs for a closer look.

I was in a courtyard, or, more precisely, a courtyard-like space next to the Office de Tourisme.  A marker placed at the base of the display indicated the wheels and assembly belonged to the Concorde. It made sense now. The Concorde, long and sleek, the western world’s only supersonic commercial aircraft, had been the jewel of the Air France fleet. It was only natural that this village, offset from final approach, would celebrate their part of that history.

This part of the park was as finely curated as the other side of the hedge.  In this space, a series of overlapping squares made up a pattern of lawns, walking paths, and beds filled with flowers or larger greenery, accented with an occasional bench or display.  As I made my way through, I passed a series of signs describing regions (departments) in France of historical note and, closer to the building, examples (also encased in glass) of the art currently on display inside.  And, off to the side, hidden from the street by a series of hedges, a metal structure that at first sight had the shape of a bird.  But it was not a bird.

One sunny afternoon in July 2000, an Air France Concorde ran over some debris during its take-off roll.  The metal was flung into the left wing, fuel began to leak, and almost immediately fire broke out.  With not enough runway left to safely abort (the A1 highway lies just past the runway’s end), the pilots limped the aircraft in to the sky.  But one engine had failed (fire), another was operating at idle (fuel flow), and while the two remaining engines continued to provide power they were both on the same side, causing the aircraft to turn strongly to the left.  Despite the efforts of the crew, the situation deteriorated and in the end the aircraft, flames spewing from the left wing, impacted a hotel.

The hotel was flattened on impact, and the remains of the aircraft were heavily damaged by the resulting conflagration. In addition to the 100 passengers and nine crew on board, four persons on the ground were killed. The accident site was two kilometers from where I stood.  What at first sight had appeared a bird was a sculpted memorial to that day.

I was suddenly tired again.  After an appropriate interval to contemplate the artwork, I returned to my room where I curled up and was soon fast asleep.

The book I had chosen for the EU legs of my trip was the Lucifer Effect, in my case 488-page tome printed with small font describing the Stanford Prison Experiment from the perspective of the principal researcher. In this experiment, designed to better understand the bureaucratization of evil, a group of 1970s undergrads at the liberal Bay Area University were randomly assigned to be guards or inmates in a simulated prison located in the basement of the psychology building.  Begun on a Sunday, and expected to last for two weeks, the experiments had to be called off on the first Thursday night due to the abuses the ‘guards’ were heaping on the ‘inmates’.  I had reached the point in the story where the worst of the mistreatment occurred and the student breakdowns began, and was wishing I had brought a cheerful romance to read instead.  I was also feeling that strange combination of headache, fatigue, and restlessness that I get when I combine not enough exercise with not enough sleep.

I was soon outside, back in the park, more precisely on a path leading from the park into a nearby neighborhood.  Gravel crunched under my feet, the wind caressed my shoulders, and sunlight peeked between the trees and apartments to the west.  Fresh air and the steady pace of my footsteps began to clear my mind and relax my body.  The end of the path came far too quickly, a T at a road, and after a short pause I turned left toward town.

Two houses down, I was met with a delight: a front yard bursting with spring flowers. I stopped and took it in, pink hydrangeas and peonies, red geraniums, white jasmine, orange lilies and violet pansies, among others; all carefully arranged and tended along the brick walk leading to the front porch.  As I took in the abundance of cheerful colors and the sweet fragrance, two insouciant cats took up guard on a tongue of grass, gloating as they encouraged me on my way.  A sign on the fence indicated this was a stop on the upcoming garden tour, and I was sorry I would miss it.

As I continued on, I was struck by the pleasant ordinary-ness of this village nestled just off the final approach path to one of the largest airports in the world.  My walk took me past a brew-pub style restaurant and a flower shop.  I perused the magazines and children books in the librarie (bookstore) I had passed earlier in the day.  A right turn led me to the health clinic, and a left into a neighborhood, a new development of cozy homes with warm sand stucco exteriors accented with redwood-stained shutters, each with a small patch of lawn between it and the flower-lined sidewalk.  I slipped through a small alley (Rue de l’Europe) to a larger cul-de-sac (also the Rue de l’Europe) lined with apartments.  As I proceeded back to the village center, the newer residences gave way to more established structures.  I passed a pharmacie, a marker embedded in the plaster indicating the building’s history stretched back more than a century.  After a quick stop in the other grocer (a Petit Casino), I headed back to the hotel.

For some reason, it had not registered that the town was on a low incline, with my hotel near the crest and most of my walk toward the valley.  I headed uphill, but, legs beginning to tire, stopped halfway to rest on a low wall.  Locals walking by greeted me with a cheerful ‘Bon Soir!’ and I even got to pet a few dogs, mostly small breeds but also a chocolate lab and a Pyrenees mix.  I continued on, up the steps that led to the park.

Tired again, I stopped at a bench to rest my now weary legs.  It was a quiet little spot, with a second bench placed opposite mine so friends could talk or play. The nearby grass was shaded by large trees, with sections of path bordered with well-manicured hedges.  There was a fountain, flower beds, and the stones nearby were littered with rose petals left by the girls who had had been playing earlier.  I took a deep breath and tried some lovingkindness meditation.  (Remember all those meditation retreats?)  May all beings be happy, may all beings be safe, may all beings be healthy, may all beings live with ease.  It was a nice moment, and the more I sat, the more relaxed I became.

And then, calmness.

It was a calmness of a depth I have rarely experienced.  It was the calmness I had gone to monastery hoping to find.  The air was warm on my skin.  Leaves fluttered in the wind.  Birds chattered and sang as they worked.  And I sat.

You are here, my mind whispered.  Now.  Just enjoy it.

And with a deep breath, I did.