One day and a wake up...

I sit on the flagstone patio. A glass of last nights red as a nightcap and a Partagas cigar picked up in Geneva. The near full moon casts shadows in the surrounding forest. Dinner in town at one of the restaurants off the main drag. We are the only patrons. The waitress seems bored and more interested in her laptop at the bar but the room is comfortable and charming altho the food is mediocre. For entres Sarah had a mixed salami plate and I had mussels with a baked breading that was quite good. Our main course was grilled beef seasoned with the ever present herb de provence . Tasty but a bit  tough. Desert was white cheese with chestnut cream. Basically creme freche with a bit of ricotta like cheese whipped in. The chestnut cream is a local speciality. I can see the lights of La Garde Frenete across the valley guarding the pass as it has for a millennia. Will miss this little town with it's two patisseries, two small grocery stores, central office de tourism, antique shop, souvenir jam store and narrow streets wandering off in arbitrary directions. We haven't spent enough time in town to become local. Most of our purchases have been punctuated with "bon voyage" by the store keeper. Old men, always men, were playing boules on the gravel boule court at the edge of town this Saturday afternoon and the trailer set up in the parking lot for the tour buses was doing a brisk business selling pizza and snacks. It's clear tonight and cool. I can hear the critters rustling in the leaves and the chatter of one expressing it's ownership of territory along with the occasional bark of a distant dog and the ever present vehicle, now simply background noise, on D558 speeding along to or from the coast. I'm kept company by the stately chestnut tree on the terrace above as Sarah has gone up to the bedroom to prepare for bed. Yes, I could live here but I know that after another month (or a year) my American standards would quickly overwhelm this simple existence and from boredom or lack of space to store my accumulated stuff I would long for the complexity and opulence of my life in Eugene. For a long time, however, I will miss this.

One day and a wake-up remains in La Garde Freinet. Breakfast this morning at the same table on the patio. Now rather than cloaked in darkness with mysterious rustlings I am surrounded by the familiar forest. Birds sing as the dappled sunlight filters thru the trees. The landscape is terraced with stone walls below and above me and the spiny husks of chestnuts litter the ground. Probably enough here for market, they fall with a "thunk" and a roll often spilling the dark brown shiny nut. No time for roasting which is too bad given the abundance, the fireplace and the long handled pan with the perforated bottom designed just for that purpose. Our petit dejeuner is coffee made in the ever-useful stove top Imperia expresso maker, left over baguette from yesterday, two kinds of cheese, two kinds of pate, jam, and lavender honey. We spend some time making a game plan to pack and close up the house then I drive into town to find something to cook for dinner. It's market day and the village is hopping. Stalls selling olives and spices, bread and pastries, cheese and salami, souvenir table clothes, roasted chicken, wine, and vegetables. I get money (yet again) from the ATM, drop off a post card for a friend who can't do blogs, and go shopping. A quarter kilo of the local provencal spice, two baguettes and the last two almond croissants (I've tried for days but they have always been "finis"), a whole roasted chicken (I don't feel like cooking much tonight), a bit of sausage and two jars of the sweet local chestnut puree. I stop in at one of the art galleries and talk to the artist. I buy a small shallow ceramic tray with his popular, yet by is own admission, very simple stick figure art that people seem to buy. Asking if it has a long journey ahead he wraps it in extra bubble wrap and says he would love to come to the US if someone would sponsor a showing. Further down the street as I admire cotton shawls I discuss the market slide with the English proprietor. She explains that she has not taken credit cards for some time and notices that many American tourist seem to be spending beyond their means. She says the French will not get a loan for more than 30% of their income and that debit type cards are used-if there is no money in an account the card will not work! Then she began a conversation about George B. not being so bad since obviously he has managed quite well without going into debt. Avoiding a possible international conflict this line of discussion was interrupted by the appearance of another customer. I spend some time wandering around the towns cemetery. Like many cemeteries in France, it is behind high stout walls (keeping souls in or vandals out?). Rather than individual 12 sq. feet of eternal space, families own crypts that apparently can get quite cozy over time. Exquisite porcelain writhes or flowers and small plaques memorialize those interred. 

Upon my return to the cottage, Sarah is in the throes of cleaning. The little refrigerator is empty and being defrosted and the ashes from our one night of fireplace fire are being swept out. We (she) break for lunch of baguette, two kinds of cheese, two kinds of pate, jam and boar sausage (I decided against buying the donkey sausage). As I read Rick Steves' book on Provence (homework I should have done before this trip), chestnuts continue to fall and the ever present traffic continues to ply the highway below. I like the way Rick writes. He gives specific information with a bit of history and always accented with humor. I wish I had read more of his book before we visited some of these spectacular sites. We pack and repack (since we'll be in Nice for two more days things get a little complicated), clean the little mess that we have made here over the past month and start to put things back like we found them. 

I sit on the patio with a glass of Domaine De La Giscle and another Partagas. As dusk descends muting the colors, the little Madame is washing dishes. Tonight, for our last meal in this idyllic mountain hideaway, I prepared our last homemade Provence dinner. The petite poulet I bought at market today was heated to release the rich juices and accompanied by rice with parsley and fresh green beans sautéed with garlic and leeks and a hard boiled egg and grapes on the side made for a wonderful finale. Cascading headlights flow down the highway and the breeze continues it's conversation with the ancient forest. We are ready for the next and final leg of our adventure. Tomorrow we make the 2 hour journey back to Nice, find a hotel near the airport that will be convenient for our 6am departure on Thurs. return the car, and take a bus into the city for two nights at the hostel and time to pomade along the boardwalk and window shop in the city. As the full moon glimmers through the branches of chestnut tree I think about all we have done and all we have not had time to do: spend time here at the cottage just hanging out, visiting the casinos at Monaco, tracing the steps of Van Gogh in Arlens where he lended an ear to a prostitute and produced some of his most famous works, rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous in St. Tropez (reportedly Bridget Bardot at age 70 signs autographs every Thurs.), sun bathe on one of the many isolated beaches, or drive to the end of our road and hike along the GR7 that follows the ridges all the way to across France. We did a lot tho. You can't do it all. And there will always be Paris. We can not thank enough our friend, Chris and his family, for allowing us this stay at his family home. Not only did this provide us with free lodging but lodging without compare. Despite the medieval towns, the Roman ruins, and the museums the time spent at the cottage is probably our most memorable. Soon we will be back in our real world of work, mortgages, Albertson's and figuring out just where we stand in an economy that has changed along with election frenzy, a significant credit card debt and post vacation (I still want to call it a "lifestyle") depression. And of course, we look forward to the time we again have the opportunity to pursue adventure.