From the moment we entered the big stone, two story bed and
breakfast in the south of France I had this tingly, excited feeling in my
chest. Hustle and bustle from twelve
women around me, I walked slowly through the entry way into the oversized
dining area that was furnished with long, beautiful drapes, scattered French
antiques, huge wooden tables with chairs, armoires filled with dishes and fruit
and vegetables in glass jars and the smell of earth and stone and scrumptious hors
d’oeuvres whiffed it’s way into my miserable red head. Smiling from ear to ear, I peeked around the
hedges to see the in ground pool and the view of the mountains and then walked
back to the stone patio in the warm afternoon sun and poured myself a glass of
superb French wine . Wow. Oh my.
I might never leave. France.
The big, burly grinning owner and chef introduced himself to
our enthusiastic group and took each one of us to our rooms. Jo and I unpacked the heavy, overstuffed
suitcases that we had dragged on trains, trams, subways and a ferry all through
Amsterdam, London, Texel and Paris with confidence and relief that we would be “staying
put” for a full week in this charming, picturesque French room that overlooked
the stone courtyard, the vineyards, the pool and the French mountains in the
distance. Total bliss filled our hearts
as we descended the steps to get acquainted with our absolutely delightful tour
guides and the other endearing members of this fabulous escapade in France.
I wish I had taken notes throughout this marvelous week but,
alas, I was having too much fun to remember to write things down. Like flash cards in third grade when I was
studying for a test, my mind is pitching images of that week before me. Cobblestone everything. Streets, walls, homes, arches, towns – big
round, ancient, uneven rocks in every direction. Awww, my dad would have loved that, being the
stone mason that he prided himself on.
Red earth in one town where artists thrive is a vivid, rosy memory that
uncontrollably urges my fingers to rub together as if I’m feeling the earth
again, as if I’m right there with the other women, standing again in awe of the
extraordinary view. Funny how I DO
remember buying an ice cream cone at this little French village and standing
with the other women and laughing - oh,
just laughing and being so happy to be there, to be completely safe and cared
for and to have absolutely no other place to be at that moment other than
having an ice cream cone in a tiny red village with women in the south of
France.
There were castles, so many castles and climbing up to the
castles and trying not to fall coming back down from the castles. There were street fairs. Linens, clothes, weird antiques, trinkets,
cheese, wine and scarfs. Everyone, every
single person, had a scarf around their neck – at least that’s how I want to
remember it. My own pink scarf nestled
into my neck and fussed at me when I took it off each night. I acquired a newfound passion for scarfs and
the street markets counted on that tourist passion. Our tour guides had a
plethora of activities planned for us and they drove all of us to the various
activities in complete comfort and safety in a large van and a very cute,
totally European, car. Looking out the
windows at the French countryside, we all chatted about the simple things in
life to the most complex discussions as we delved into each other’s backgrounds
and unveiled the complex layers to our lives.
And then suddenly, we would arrive at an olive grove or a vineyard or a
lavender museum or a vegetable farm or a ranch with bulls and cowboys on
horses. At each place, an authentic
owner would greet us and hug our tour guides and give us explanations and
tours. Our guides interpreted for us
but, always, the property owners tried to speak to us in English. So respectful, intelligent and kind, these
French people were to the foreign visitors in France.
A 3 day old lamb flashes before me now. The total blessedness of holding that
motherless baby lamb on the farm where we picked our vegetables from the garden
and then cooked together in the large, stone kitchen to make our lunch, later
served to us with, of course, bread and wine.
I tried not to worry about the little French boy lamb but his sweet face
and breath permeated my thoughts for days afterward. Once a mom, always a mom. Awww, my mom would have loved that farm,
having grown up on a farm herself and having worked as a cook for many years. And my daughter, Hannah, the pet-obsessed,
devoted cat mom, would have tried to talk me into bringing the French lamb home
to Oregon, in keeping with her history of talking me into filling our home with
pets when she was a child. So I drank an
extra glass of wine to help me “walk away from the lamb” and move onto the next
exciting attraction on our perfectly arranged agenda of attractions in southern
France.
Ending every paragraph with the word “France” is comforting
to me since I had to leave that baby lamb in France. Self-soothing. Speaking of self-soothing, swimming in the semi-warm
Mediterranean Sea with Jolynn is a flashcard memory worth framing! True, we were the only two women on the tour
to get into the water that day but we had to, we absolutely had to get into the
water and continuously dive through the big, crashing waves of the
Mediterranean. I know that I keep typing the word
“Mediterranean” and that’s because I am still, weeks later, SO IMPRESSED with
actually swimming in the Mediterranean Sea! And of course I’m impressed. I have endearing memories of swimming in the
Pacific Ocean as a young teenager, while living in Santa Barbara and swimming
at Herring Cove in the Atlantic Ocean when we lived on Cape Cod. And Jolynn, having been an accomplished
surfer girl in San Diego, shares my love for being immersed in the salty, ocean
waves. And there we were, swimming in
the Mediterranean! Ha! Only in France!
And then there was the surprise. None of us knew what to expect when our
ingenious, passionate tour leader, Jacques, told us that she had a surprise for
us. And here’s where my dilemma rests –
do I write about it and expound on the profound impact that her fabulous
surprise had on us or do I keep silent in an effort not to ruin it for future
tours……..hmmmmm, what to do, what to do…..?
It’s not that I enjoy teasing and keeping secrets
and perpetuating the mystery (smile), I feel that my loyalty has to linger with
Jacques and her remarkable tour, called French Escapade (promising a link at
bottom of this post). I will say,
however, that the surprise was truly a highlight of the tour. It was larger than life artistic and
vehemently musically passionate and, well, simply exhilarating! Four of us women (and you know who you are)
found each other in the middle of this cryptic experience and hugged in a
circle, silently crying and embraced in the passion, in the overwhelming
emotion of it all. One hellova surprise
Jacques! Sincere gratitude for this
unexpected experience, deep in the south of France.
Stay with me now. I
have to tell you about Vincent, about Gene, about St. Remy and about
haystacks. I want to elaborate on
something I wrote about in an earlier post.
My dad and his love for impressionist art – this is a subject very near
to my heart and almost always in the grasp of my subconscious. Standing in front of Van Gogh paintings makes
my heart race and we gifted ourselves the ability to visit European museums
where this could happen. So lucky, I
am. I feel the gratitude of seeing these
impressionist paintings up close and yet I share that gratitude with extreme
guilt….guilt that I have had the indulgence to witness the art up close when my
dad, Gene, who would have given his right arm or his left ear to have such an
experience, never, in his short 55 years of life, did get to see his passion in
person. And so, visiting St. Remy in
person was staggering for me and I had to silently sit by myself to take it
in. St. Remy is the mental asylum where
Vincent van Gogh enrolled himself in May, 1889.
I held securely onto the stone handrail as I walked up the stairs to Van
Gogh’s bedroom that overlooked the gardens in the asylum and I stood for a very
long time in the doorway to Vincent’s room.
My dad in my heart and tears in my eyes, I thought about how my dad was
living in a drab little room in Indianapolis, set up similar to this room in
St. Remy. Gene had bought some used art
books and he cut out his favorite pictures and taped them to his bedroom
wall. He was living a basic life, going
to work every day and coming straight home to his empty room, cheered only by
his cut out pictures of artwork and his classical music on his vinyl albums that
I had mailed to him. His whiskey on the
table was his only roommate and the two were happy to see each other every night
as the sun went down in God-awful Indianapolis. And they were happy to see each
other every morning, as well, as he drank himself into a kidney-rotting-oblivion.
He could have walked into a wheat field with the haystacks and shot himself in the chest,
Vincent-style, but he chose a more deliberate, slow route until it came to an
abrupt end in an ICU unit of the local hospital. His seven children sullenly sat in his room
after his death and we took the taped artwork off of the rented walls, packed
up his longjohns and flannel shirts and his trowel and his favorite whiskey
glass and “got the hell out of Dodge”, as he used to say. I walked down the lane at St. Remy with the
asylum behind me with Gene in my heart and in my head and through the tears in
my brown eyes, I could see the olive trees where Van Gogh sat and painted. I put my dad there with him, on the ground
with his paints scattered around and a bottle of whiskey next to the
canvas. For the first time since my dad
died, I felt a little peace about losing him.
As our van pulled away, heading for the next activity, I closed my eyes
and pictured Gene and Vincent sharing a few laughs with a bottle of whiskey in
St. Remy, France.
Every day we had interesting activities to do and just about
every evening we returned to the delicious aromas of five course dinners when
we walked back into the inn. Our own
Chef! After spending the day being
tourists together, then we had the privilege of being new friends together at
dinner. The laughter, the total
unabashed laughter at dinner was just so fun.
Going to restaurants indoors and on sunny patios outdoors and navigating
the French menus….fun! Clapping for some
of our women, including Jolynn(!), who spontaneously performed for us, singing
and dancing in the starry night air was really fun! Laying in the middle of the
road all together on a dark night and looking for falling stars – I’m smiling
now at this memory…..what fun. I can’t
forget the special memory of when the whole group celebrated our anniversary
before dinner on the evening before we left with a toast, a beautiful card, a
cake with the number “13” on it and the special, wrapped gift….a Van Gogh bread
board from the St. Remy gift shop…evocative and so sweet. And then, suddenly on that final morning in
the noisy, hectic train station, everyone with their luggage and nervously
looking for their train departure time on the train station marquis and knowing
we have to say goodbye to one another and say goodbye to France, a little
miracle happened. One of our group
members, Cindy, sat down at the piano in the train station and played two
beautiful classical pieces while we stood around, some of us crying, and had
yet one more opportunity to bond together in this beautiful, passionate land of
France.
Then, with a final note on the piano, it was all over. I’d do it all again tomorrow if I could. And yet, life goes on and going home is inevitable.
It took me more than a week to get over the jet lag and to
get over the depression of leaving Europe and the people we met, and met up
with, in Europe in our month away from home.
It was helpful to have dinner with good friends when we came home and to
reconnect with family and of course, to see and kiss the animals (no we didn’t
kiss each and every one of the 16 chickens nor did we kiss the llamas but
Boo-Boo, Bear, Rosie and Chipper were kissed abundantly!).
I was in a fog and still feeling sad and tired, one
foggy morning last week and as I was pruning my roses in an effort to get them
ready for the Oregon winter, I started to come back home. I picked some roses and brought them in to our kitchen. As the delicate little pink roses continued to bloom in the warm room, my heart warmed up to the idea of being home and my head returned to Oregon.
I really loved Europe. But frankly (scarlet), I know it's an old cliche, but “There’s no place like
home”.

As promised, here’s the website for
Jacques' amazing tours – call her and tell her the Miserable Redhead sent you
and ask her about the surprise…but I don’t think she’ll tell you!
http://frenchescapade.com/
Dear Jeannine,
ReplyDeleteIt's so nice to be able to read someone else's blog. I get to relive the whole experience from a different point of view. The way you express your genuine appreciation of your time away is truly heartwarming.
Why "Miserable" Redhead? Your enthusiasm is infectious.
XOX A
PS I'm still fretting about our little lamb.
PPS Quite so about the scarves! I finally learnt how to tie and drape. ��
ReplyDeleteAnne, your comments are heartwarming! Your account of the trip has much more detail because you were smart and took notes and wrote while you were living it. I admire that!
ReplyDeleteMy dad gave that delightful nickname when I was really young. I guess my unhappiness about having to rinse out poopy diapers in the toilet before I was old enough to start school showed up in my facial expressions. :) Oh well, like any name calling, once a person embraces it, the whole attitude shifts. I've embraced it.
The "drape" part of the scarf still alludes me - can't quite get it to behave.
The lamb IS okay, right???
Hugs
Ah, that explains it. With all those siblings I imagine that helping to wash nappies wasn't negotiable.
ReplyDeleteAbout the lamb, I hope the dear little thing is flourishing. I guess the people who work there are soft hearted and will being doing their best for it.
Yes, good positive thinking about the sweet little French lamb.
ReplyDeleteNo, negotiations weren't encouraged in the Crostina household back in the fifties!
Just got to read your wonderful essay reflecting your time on our French Escapade. Loved every word and that it brought so many pictures into my mind. Thanks for sharing about your Dad. Others have no idea what illicits our emotions and unless intimates, tears won't be explained. Now I know a special part of you. I got all my pictures on FB but need to figure out how to get them on to my computer so I can upload to that dang Snapfish account. Thanks for getting yours and Jo's on there. I've already shared your albums with my friends. Give me your phone number. I want to call you this week.
ReplyDeletexo,
Cindy
Dear Anonymous Cindy. :)
ReplyDeleteThank you for your thoughtful comment. Looking forward to getting to know you better, as well. Your piano playing was so superb...what an excellent ending to a great week! Yeah, that Snapfish is a little tricky - I tried their online help and it was marginal, at best. I will send you a private email with my phone number. Looking forward to hearing from you! :)
Hugs.
Hi Jeannine,
ReplyDeleteI so loved reading your blog and loved the pictures!! I can see your smiling face and hear your voice and it feels like you are close by (and not so far away). I usually take notes when I travel but this trip decided to really listen and be more open. Instead of videotaping and writing I really wanted to hear our guides and to listen to the wonderful women on the tour. So thank you for writing this wonderful blog - l laughed and smiled while reading it. Thank you for sharing about your dad. I'd love to hear more about him and your childhood.
I've been wearing my new scarf and tying it the way Marie showed me. I've talked plenty about the trip at work and have shown several women how to tie the knot!
Sending you and Jo lots of hugs!!!
Alice
Dear Alice,
ReplyDeleteThank you for your sweet response. I am always so touched when someone takes the time to write a comment and your comment was very thoughtful, as you are in person.
I am especially grateful for your comment about hearing more about my dad. It is stunning to me that, after knowing you only one week Alice, that you would want to know more about my family...I've known people for years who have never taken an opportunity to talk to me about my family. So thank you Alice. I look forward to getting to know you better and I wish we lived closer to one another. I think it would be so cool to know your mom.
Thank you again. Staying in touch! Forever bonded by our love for French scarfs and lambs! ❤️