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Published: April 8th 2009
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I awoke late in the afternoon to Atoussa poking her head into my room.
“Hello Atoussa.”
“Hello. You don’t want to sleep in much too late or you won’t be able to get to sleep tonight.”
“I know I’ve been up an hour or so but haven’t gotten out of bed because of shear laziness.”
I stood as Atoussa exited and proceeded to go in search of sustenance. Up the winding white staircase and into the bright kitchen filled with paintings, Sudanese baskets, Moroccan tiles, Turkish amulets, Thai mirrors, Indian prints, and a calendar of transvestites in various poses and garb from her friend in California. The one tall window looks out onto a hillside, a magnolia dominates the view followed by wisteria creeping up the neighbor’s wall. Cheyene, Atoussa’s son, stood with fluffy slippers on his feet and an extension cord in his hand.
“This is for your computer. Mom wanted me to give it to you.”
I had been having troubles connecting the computer to outlets, my adapter wasn’t exactly the right kind but with the extension cord it worked perfectly. Thus I started my day by assuring my loved ones and friends that I was alive and well
in France. I called my worried mother who had had a terrifying dream that I had been kidnapped and I reassured her that I was safe and not kidnapped at all but happily settling into my new surroundings.
Atoussa showed me what there was to eat and retired to take a bath while I puttered around and munched on gnocchi and fresh lettuce from the farm. I poked my head into the living room where Cheyene played video games to tell him I was off to go for a walk.
I remember the route from the last time was here and set off down the street, through a tunnel through the buildings and out into the community recreation area. This area had a tire swing strung up with a lunge cord so you could swoop across the play area. There were tennis courts and a small field beside the river that swept lazily past. I walked up river snapping photos of the beautiful scenery and old country homes. The sky was still overcast but perfect for photographing.
As I turned off from the river and headed uphill away from the village I came across a couple and
their children. We both smiled and nodded and wished one another a good day. As I rounded a bend I began to hear a familiar sound. The sheep were coming in from the hills and the bells around their necks were causing a raucous. It was a cacophonic symphony of migration as they progressed through a wooded area. Brown and soft white bodies could be seen through the trees. This is as it was exactly when I was here walking with Atoussa a year ago. The sheep had been brought down and their bells filled the air like a herald calling a message. To accompany them the voices of dozens of birds I could not see sang back and forth. The only thing I didn’t not hear much of at all were people, cars, traffic, horns, the sounds of a crowded city did not dominate the air here but humbly stepped back behind the curtain to allow the sounds of birds and animals to rule. It was harmonious and satisfying.
I continued trekking up the winding roads and looked down upon rolling hills, blooming trees, and old stone cottages. The landscape stuns me still in its remote beauty; hidden
jewel in France seen by few and known by even fewer. An old wall held back the bulk of the hill so as to preserve the road that man had cut into it. The stones were covered in moss and lichen with wild flowers bursting in a riot of color to seek the attention of the sun. I was quite enamored with a bright red poppy that waved from above and took several pictures of its bloom.
I passed several people and cyclers and after a point decided to turn back around and go to Atoussa’s the back way she had shown me last visit. I descended the labyrinthine roads taking in the air and feeling the steep hill beneath my booted feet. My hair and brown scarf Gillian had given me upon departure trailed behind me like a flag. It was cool out and the breeze was just right.
At the point upon which I had started up road near the sheep a black dog with the markings of a Rottweiler but the body and fur of a retriever came head long in my direction. I know dogs well enough that I knew he was just excited
to see me but his dreadlock headed owner put his hands up shouting something in French. I knelt down and received the dogs enthusiastic, wiggling body and began to pet him. The French man jogged in my direction, his clothes spattered in paint. Before I could decipher any of what he said I told him I spoke a little French. He nodded and we fell into step towards the village and began talking. He spoke even less English so I got to use what little language I had and found that it wasn’t as hard as I had thought and that I understood his questions and could even answer them. He introduced himself as Guilleome and the dog, which was his friends, as Tia. He asked how long I was here for and where I was from. I told him probably three months and I came from Virginia. He told me that I was welcome to have a drink with him and his friend anytime and told me the house number and pointed up the street saying they were around the corner. I thanked him and headed home past a small crowd of people.
I had managed a conversation
in French. I was beaming. Not so daft when it came to language after all. I continued on down the road and passed three children skate boarding and several dirt bikers. The library, pharmacy, artist shop, and hair dressers were all on the same street.
I soon reached the square where two opposing churches stood, Protestant and Catholic, and the alleyway of beautiful trees, poplars I thought. I snapped some more photos and went back into Atoussas house to rest.
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Karen Miller
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Beautiful
Lindz, I can see why you love it there. It is soooo beautiful.