Photography and text by Corey Amaro.
Do you ever talk back to your GPS? French Husband is notorious for taking the wrong turn. I would like to say he is notorious for getting lost, but that would cause a uproar in our home of two, and I do not feel like making brownies or something sweet to make up for my stating a known fact… so I will leave it at "he takes wrong turns".
Before the GPS he use to blame me for his wrong turns. But how could he blame me I was usually asleep in the car. And besides anyone who knows me knows I have a good sense of direction, otherwise how did we ever find our way home once we were lost?
The day before yesterday, French Husband had some business to tend to in Toulouse. I tagged along for the ride, in which I slept most of the way, occasionally waking up to hear French Husband complaining to Jacques the French guy on the GPS.
"Better Jacques than me," I yawned.
The route between Aix and Toulouse is magnificent this time of year. Luckily, for me French Husband does make wrong turns otherwise I might never wake up to notice!
The first time I came to France was back in 1984 when Pope John Paul II created the Youth Day. I traveled to Italy with a group of teenagers (close friends) to be part of the experience. After the week long, whirlwind celebration of Youth Day, I continued my travels by train from Rome to France to visit Dominique a dear friend, an Abbot I had met years ago while living in a monastery in New Mexico.
There was standing room only on the seventeen-hour train ride from Rome to a very small village near Albi, France. The time swept by as the view played before my eyes. I recall riding pass the French Riviera with the windows down, admiring the pastel buildings close to the deep blue sea. Near Marseille the train emptied and I was able to find a seat in a six seater compartment. I counted my blessings as I leaned my head on the window and fell asleep.
Hours passed, with me deep asleep with my book open on my lap when I felt someone nudging me. An elderly man who was sitting in front of me leaned towards me and in perfect English said, "Excuse me, Mademoiselle, but I assume you would not want to miss this beautiful view…" my eyes followed his finger as he pointed out of the train's window.
Carcassonne! The fortified city was framed gloriously by the train's window. As we rode by tears fell from my eyes. I thanked the elderly man for his thoughtfulness, he shook his head and said, "Waking to such a view makes our dreams come alive."
We found our way to Carcassonne. French Husband didn't need Jacques to tell him how, as it towered in the sky. "Just look up and follow the towers." I mimicked Jacques from the GPS as he gave blander directions.
We walked the ramparts.
We found a restaurant.
We admired the fall colors that covered the stone walls.
We walked through the cementery….
Later I offered a toast to the man (wherever he may be) who opened my eyes to such a dream, and moreso to the man who made France my home.
Note:
We stayed in a bed and breakfast called the Lo Barri, between Toulouse and Carcassonne.
(The first photo is a photo I took of a picture perfect postcard of Carcassonne, photographer unknown)
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