Crepes

I was walking to the post office this morning when I realized it.

I listened to my flip-flops flip-flopping on the tarmac. I relished the fact that I could stroll straight down the middle of the street, and I completely avoided the sidewalks. I was glad to be first in line (the only person in line) once I reached the familiar yellow-and-blue building, and I didn’t mind having to wait while the woman working chatted on the phone before selling me my stamps.

The girls left yesterday, piled into the cars at four in the morning–that surreal time of day where nothing seems alive. We rode and rode and rode–the route familiar but the light making it all seem wrong and strange, which it was: saying goodbye after three short weeks left a knot in everyone’s stomach and tears on the faces of a few.

Too quickly, we ushered the girls through the airport, ate one last sandwich together and collected the tinfoil wrappers, wiped away the last few tears, and we led them through to the gate. With hardly a fanfare, they were gone, heading one by one up the escalators, one last joke as they waved like old-fashioned ladies on trains pulling out of the station.

For them, the journey continued: lasted hours as they waited excitedly to reach home. But for us, that was the end. We had more people to pick up, a drive back home to make, the next session to consider.

It’s strange to be here without them… strange to think that it was just a few days ago that we were all sitting here and laughing and talking together. Strange to think that we’ll never all be here together again in the same way: these three weeks will never be recreated again.

I thought that this would make Paziols a hard place to be. I thought that without the spirit of the girls, without the constant chatter, it would fade away and no longer be a home for me.

It’s different: that much is sure. But I feel a kinship with the people of this town that it’s taken me three years to find. They may still not know me by name, but I know that they know who I am: they recognize me as what I have recognized being: some odd combination of French and American–not one of the screaming teenagers who invades every year, but definitely not one of the locals or even one of the French counselors.

I realized it today as I walked down the street, as I smelled corks and wine wafting out of the local winery–a heady scent in the humidity of the morning without wind. I want to live here all the time.

I want to live here as more than just a tourist. I want to see the vendonges in the fall and the winters I hear rumors of–the Tramontagne wind confining everyone indoors in front of bowls of cassoulet–but have never witnessed myself. I want to become part of the life here, and not just a part of the summers.

Summers will always be something special here in Paziols: barbecues and grillades under the stars, afternoons spent outside the café or walking to the Prade. Summer will always be the Saturday pizza truck, evenings spent sitting out on the terrace. Summer will always be soirée crêpes, where everyone gets a turn to faire sauter une crêpe, even if half of them end up on the floor.

Summers will always be about Americans in Paziols: we’ve invaded and they’ve welcomed us, and we’re not going anywhere. But now, between sessions, I’ve caught a glimpse of what life would be like here all the time, and all I can think of is how much I’d like to live here always… with maybe a jaunt to Spain every once in awhile if the wind gets too chilly.

Crêpes (makes 20 crêpes)

4 eggs
1.5 cups milk
2 cups flour
2 Tbsp. melted butter
1 tsp. salt
sunflower oil

Mix all ingredients except the sunflower oil in a bowl. Whisk for 10 minutes. Cover and allow to rest for at least an hour.

Remove the batter from the fridge. Heat a crêpe pan or shallow nonstick skillet and use paper towel to apply a thin layer of oil. Pour a ladleful of batter into the pan and turn the pan to spread. Flip the crêpe when golden and allow to brown on the other side.

Taste the first crêpe: this is traditionally for the cook and helps to gauge whether you need to adjust your batter measurements.