The road goes on and on taking us further and further into the French countryside.The mountains softened into rolling hills then turned into flat land. Red roof tiles became black slate, poppies gave way to mustard fields. The sky opened up, horizons with cotton clouds, the sun glared through the window briefly, the day unfolded and we met it with open arms.
The ever changing landscape, it felt as if I were making it up, as I painted it with my thoughts. Fast strokes at first as I raced from one project in my mind to another. Eventually as the days filtered into one, my paint brush blurred the colors I left behind, creating a new scene to plant my new found calm.
Isn't that the gift of a holiday… time to feel anew?
I have fond memories, well actually I am saying that but it isn't true, I have memories that I can now laugh about… You see Yann and I often drove from Paris to Rennes, to visit his family when we were first married. We never took the same road twice… mainly because we were lost… though at the time I didn't know it, 'cause Yann never admitted it, and I was in a daze to the newness around me.
A few times we slept in the car, because we were so lost, and it was late, and we had no money for a hotel. Our car was the size of a peanut.
Being lost because you want to be is not the same as being lost.
Hours lost wasn't as fun when we were suppose to be somewhere, and well, never showed up on time.
Driving these back roads from Paris to Rennes I wondered how it was, that I had never passed this way before?
Often we come upon this sign:
Deviation, which means detour in French.
It adds to the adventure. Now, or at least on this trip, whenever a deviation sign appears I take it as a sign that something wonderful is ready to show up.
This deviation was because of a bicycling race. I thought of my brother Mat because he rides his bike nearly everyday.
While we watched the race (a big loop) another man stood by and watched it too. Soon we started talking, his son was in the race. He told us he grew up in this area. He noticed our license plates and asked us what part of Provence were we from. We told him we lived in a small town near Marseille. He grinned, "I spent a summer in a small town near Marseille…" and when he said he worked in the town we live in we became instant friends.
He had all kinds of stories, I felt I was listening to Marcel Pagnol, he talked about the river, pastis, les boules, ratatouille, the ladies… and the dances late in the summer evening. It made me miss a place I call home.
Our new friend told us about the area. He mentioned how all the land that we could see was owned by one woman, "She was richer than rich, yet she died with a sack of potatoes on her head…"
I interrupted him, and ask, "What did you mean by a sack of potatoes on her head?" I had never heard that expression before.
"The reason people find it so hard to be happy is that they always see the past better than it was, the present worse than it is, and the future less resolved than it will be.”
"Imagine all that money and yet she was unhappy. Her home is abandoned…" he pointed to a large property nearby.
As the cyclists rode around and around, we talked and talked, and the day slipped by.
Oh, the simple unthought-of moments, the purest of gifts, when one has time for the unexpected and welcome it like a long-time friend.
The open space calls me,
a cloud passes by,
I took hold of wisp of it,
as strong as any current I know,
I don't know where we are going, and that makes me smile.
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