There’s a tiny town in the heart of the Aude, in Southwestern France. It’s nowhere near Nice; it’s far enough from Spain so that no one will understand you if you start speaking Castillan… though the accent there will have those who learned standard French in high school scratching their heads.
I first came here in 2007, and I frankly didn’t know what to think. I grew up surrounded by buildings and people in Manhattan. Now, as far as they eye could see, there were vines.
Slowly, I got to know the little town. I met the people, and they began to recognize me when I came back every July — perhaps not me, at first, but at least the group of wide-eyed Americans who trailed after me as we paraded through town like a circus. They recognized us at the marchande de pêches when we bought kilos of peaches and carried them back, two children at a time, in plastic crates. They recognized us at the local Mom and Pop store, where we came running for replacement milk or giant green heads of lettuce to eat at lunch.
A lot of things change in five years; coming back to Paziols always reminds me of that. As much as 2007 feels like yesterday, I remember the first year — the discovery of the area, the newness around every turn in the winding mountain paths — and realize how much has changed.
When I first came to Paziols, everything that is so much a part of my life now — living in France, writing, cooking — was just on the brink of development, just beginning to unfold. I had no idea that five years later, I would be starting a Masters at the Sorbonne, or writing full time for a living, or cooking for thirty people… but then again, who ever knows how things will turn out?
The Country Boy and I set out from his tiny town in Central France just before two in the morning; we arrived in Paziols in time for lunch, but there was too much to be done for the lazy sort of meal we like to have at midday. Instead, we waited until the evening, when all the work had been done, and went to the local café for seafood and local rosé and catching up. A lot has happened over the past year… even if it does feel like it was just yesterday that I was walking these sun-baked streets, smelling the constant wafting scent of wine aging in oak barrels, and listening to the sound of cicadas outside my window.
It’s good to be home.
Home is a very small word but it is nice to know that it is an amazingly large concept. Welcome home all over the world!!
Gorgeous seafood… I miss that about living near the coast. Have a wonderful holiday!
Great post, as always! Next time I go to Farnce, I’d like to see more of the countryside. I’ll have to study french first, though…
You were in Paziols and I didn’t know??? We could have met up! zut