Saint Girons
Employment as a school psychologist became tiring over the years, so I took a break, attending a graduate program in International Business, having an exchange student component. By the time, I embarked upon this endeavor, I had already been well-traveled, relating to the curriculum, more than I could the role of a psychologist. As I attended, I applied for the Paris semester exchange and was accepted. I decided to finish the program there, skipping the spring semester at the home-based graduate school, so in place of the humdrum USA campus, I journeyed to France, enrolling at The University of Nice in the South of France to improve my French-speaking ability. Although interesting, after a month of classes, I grew very disenchanted with the regimentation of their program. Admittedly the overall daily experience was entertaining when I considered the amusement with wacky French acquaintances who worked in the local service industries, hanging around the bars and cafes in British overrun Antibes, and attending a party or two with other students. However, it became less interesting as time passed, particularly with an unfulfilling language program.
Mont St. Michel
I decided to leave, doing some traveling around France. Buying a France Vacances train pass, I packed my bags, and saying farewell to my friend, Mark and some of the students that I had met in the program, I departed. I had limited time for the enjoyment of France prior to returning to Paris to finish my education. With this constraint, I explored various places, staying in the auberge de jeunesse where ever I went. It had been off-season, so it was easy to find accommodations. My itinerary included lovely La Rochelle, Blois, which was the entrance town to the Loire Valley and all of the fantastic châteaux, Brittany with its beautiful rugged coastline, but with gentle waters and rustic seaside villages and St. Malo where it was easy to find transport to the castle island of Mont St. Michel. There were all kinds of characters with their own personal stories who I met along the way. I managed to go to Bayeux to view the tapestry created by William the Conqueror’s wife, commemorating the Norman conquest of England. After visiting that, I rented a bicycle from the inn where I stayed, pedaling out to the Norman beaches where I observed gobs of grave sites for those who had died in the D-Day invasion. It was so quiet and peaceful in those places at the time, but how had it been with the invasion? At the completion of that experience, I ventured down to Carcassone in the southwest of the country, where I hiked to the immense ancient castle and stood on the top of one of its steady walls, just in time to enjoy the dazzling sunset. What an experience to be on a building with history dating from Roman times.
Carcassone Castle
I had felt very timid about speaking French along the way, hesitating to converse with native speakers, for fear that I would be viewed as an inept foreigner. I was successful at gettng my needs met, not wanting to dialog much more than for the basics. After the sojourn, I returned to Toulouse, sleeping in the local auberge, where I met Dominique, a French mountain climber and job seeker. She spoke a little English, but was willing to speak French with me very slowly, both of us hitting it off immediately. After spending some time interacting, she inquired if I desired to come traveling with her. I still had a good three weeks, before I was required to return to Paris. I immediately jumped on the opportunity to join her. We had connected so well, why not enjoy the camaraderie, having found so little of that in my life.
Dominique was a petite, thin lady with blonde boyish cropped hair. Her radiant blue eye were atypical of the average French person, who usually had darker colors. Although she was a small person, every bit of her body was composed of muscle with no room for excess fat. I guess mountain climbing or hiking had kept her undeniably fit. She had an open-mindedness about her that I adored, with an absolute free spirit. With a recent doctoral degree in regional planning and with “le chômage” (unemployment), she was traveling around France in her little Renault attempting to interact with officers in various towns in her discipline. She was fatigued by the venture, deciding to take some rest with me in a small Pyrenees town, Saint Girons, not far from the Spanish border. Even with the communication barrier between us, we could converse better than if I was with someone from my own culture, both of us speaking the language perfectly.
Pyrenees Scene
We traveled south from Toulouse with me noticing the slow change of landscape from urban sprawl to exquisitely beautiful contoured countryside to finally sharp, distinctive, bucolic and verdant mountains. Our rural path was less traveled than most French roads, a joy to feel, touch and experience. We communed with the peacefulness, only our voices piercing the silence. After traversing sixty or so kilometers, we found ourselves in the quaint, naturalistic and beautiful hamlet of St. Girons with a lazily moving stream trickling through the center. We easily located the auberge on the side of a graceful, deeply green, vegetated hill, then entered the very French Pyrenees-styled building with its thatched roof and registered. We were placed in a basic accommodation but with plenty of style and your popular bunk beds, allowing us to open the windows on to a lovely refreshing garden with fragrant smells and a pallet of beautiful color. The room was white washed with a rustic dark wooden ceiling, sparse in the category of furniture, but the high ceilings gave the feel of a warm medieval common room.
Both of us wanted some rest and nourishment, so after dropping off our bags, we ambled over and entered the large cafeteria styled room, observing that there was very little human presence. In general, the auberge was not housing many people, those that stayed there being all French-speaking citizens with me being the only American present. Dominique and I ordered an auberge-style meal but with a few courses, which for sure, is typically French. We ate, interacted and finally dragged ourselves back to the room, proceeding to settle down in the beds until the next morning.
We were awakened by the sounds of buzzing bees, sweetly singing birds in the overhanging trees with the bright warm sun infiltrating the room through the large paned window. While I was showering in the dormitory style bath, Dominique prepared for our day of hiking in the surrounding hills. We caught a quick croissant, a cup of coffee and bought a French style lunch at the local shop, consisting of cheese, pate, a baguette and some fresh fruit and of course, we had a sumptuous bottle of red wine from Bordeaux. Then, we were off to a preplanned a hiking destination. When we arrived at the spot, it was surprisingly beautiful, lushly vegetated, having sizable trees and colorful wildflowers everywhere. After packing up, we began our ascent up the path, Dominique being a serious hiker, but was respectful of my obvious flatland origin, slowing to keep pace with me. She spoke seldom unless it had some meaning or was of a philosophical nature, unlike so many Americans who speak continuously, conveying little meaning in their words and only monologuing about their own life’s circumstances. After several miles of this type of hiking I grew weary, with Dominique still having an abundance of energy, so I discovered a lovely meadow where I could relax, enjoying my surroundings and composing poetry, while I waited for her. We parted, she springing like a shot up the hill. Sitting in this open area of the forest was pure joy, having the colorful late spring wildflowers all about, the intensely green trees in the background with the rich warm sunlight in my face, so I drenched myself in this glory for a couple of hours, until Dominique returned to our spot, invigorated from her hike, ready to share the lunch that we had bought in town, prior to us continuing down the hill.
The day seemed to pass unnoticed, it being a marvelous one, but now we returned to the auberge to relax, drink some more red wine and finally, have a bit to eat in the cafeteria. While enjoying our dinner, we were approached by three French guys – Henri, Patrick and Alain. They soon realized that I was a foreigner with a unique accent and limitation in fluency. Dominique developed a serious conversation with them that lost me with its quickness. Although, I didn’t understand the content, it was comforting to be among this group, given their relaxed, peaceful and gentle natures. When I expressed myself, they were genuinely interested in the content of my words. We retreated to the exterior garden to converse more, but were joined by a different sort of person – Etienne, who ultimately broke up our mellow dialogue. When he spoke, it was a stiff, rigid language filled with anger. I didn’t understand the content, but could easily ascertain the tone. It silenced our leisurely discourse, and when Dominique spoke to him, she was answered with sharp comments. I didn’t understand the discussion, but knew that this man was frustrated by his life. Dominique later revealed that he was from Orleans, but had lost his job, now feeling disenfranchised from society. He was living at the auberge, attempting to write and sell his material with things not going well. When I tried to speak with him, he had little interest in my foreign accent or my limited language ability, demonstrating rage with me. This intrusion terminated our group symmetry with all of us departing to our rooms for the evening.
I was awakened by Dominique’s rustling around in the room the next morning. “What’s up, Dominique?” “Jennie, I must return to Toulouse for the day. Do you want to stay or come with me? I have an appointment there with an official that may be able to help me with my job quest.” “Oh, it’s okay. I’ll stay here and hang out. I ‘d like to walk around the town a bit. It’s so beautiful” “Ensuite, C’est bien.” In the next ten minutes, she was off. I decided to enter the kitchen for some breakfast prior to my town adventure for the day. While I was chumping on my croissant and fruit dish, one of the guys from the prior evening came to my table and sat. Of course, he spoke no English, but obviously wanted to communicate with me, so he patiently listened to my French and spoke slowly. Patrick’s eyes were deep dark wet pools that exuded warmth and kindness. Given his wavy thick dark brown hair and olive colored complexion, he belonged to this region of France, perhaps he had been Basque in origin, and his rustic dress had the charming mark of the area. I wouldn’t say that he was stout, but stocky and from mountain walking, he appeared to be fairly fit. He patiently listened to me attempt to communicate. After some time, he asked what I was doing for the day, and then inquired if I would be interested in taking a walk in the hills. He claimed to know a very beautiful spot that I would enjoy and didn’t have anything else to do with no work schedule for the day. I hadn’t asked, but assumed that he was in some sort of trade business.
The next thing I knew, I was on the back of his lofty motor bike, traversing the winding roads, set among green gently sloping peaks. The spring air felt invigoratingly fresh on my bare arms and legs with the sun rays creating a sense of warmth upon this otherwise chilly ride. We soon came to a lovely spot with a beautiful emerald green lake set as a backdrop to our own area of activity. Patrick parked his trusty machine, and we ascended the wooded slope on a firmly developed path. Surprisingly, the terrain leveled, and we found ourselves strolling together side by side. Somehow we were able to communicate quite well even though there was a language impediment. I probably knew more about Patrick in the first couple of hours that we spent together than many French people did who spoke to him on a daily basis. His background was completely different than mine with little formal education and an innocent upbringing in the mountains. He had not been corrupted by the riggers of an industrialized, competitive society. How I envied his nativity and natural simplicity, since he had a genuine spirit with a lovely wildness that I found contagious, awakening my own sensuality, my spirit shining ardently. How could I express myself honestly without compromise, exposing my own emotional vulnerability? I had spent years feeling alone with an inability to unleash my own passions, being emotionally wound as tightly as wire on a spool, yet internally burning fervidly.
We came to a clearing with a stream trickling nearby, most probably emptying into the lake down below us. Unlike my previous trip with Dominique, we both decided to sit together near the flowing water, making a place for ourselves in the tall grasses. Patrick lazily laid down propping his head up on his arm. I sat nearby appreciating this quiet, serene and peaceful place, enjoying it with another human being, who demonstrated similar tastes in his environment, his dark brown wavy hair glistening in the natural light, and bright happy eyes exuded kindness. We must have spent a couple hours conversing, sharing ourselves and eating the treats and wine we had brought along. We didn’t notice the time passing, the sun dropping into the landscape, creating a kaleidoscope of color. We finally knew that we needed to depart for the auberge. Dominique would wonder where I was, and we didn’t want to ride on the bike in the dark.
Upon arriving, Dominique was sitting in the garden, enjoying the last remnant of our precious daylight, being back herself for only a short while, but did inquire about my absence. I filled her in on the events of my day with her seeming quite pleased that I had had an enjoyable time. We decided to stroll over to the cafeteria to take a meal. Henri, Patrick and Alain were already there, so we joined them. There was lively conversation that later transferred to the garden where we all enjoyed plenty of bottles of wine. My discourse mostly centered on Patrick, while Dominique spoke freely with whoever would interact. We were probably a bit loud, but there weren’t many guests staying at the auberge. As time passed, I became weary from all of the day’s activity, excusing myself from the impromptu party, returning to the room for some sleep. Once I crawled into bed, I remembered nothing until morning.
When I awoke, I was by myself in the room. While I was wondering what had happened to Dominique, she moseyed through the doorway with ruffled clothes and hair. She indicated that she had drunk plenty of wine the previous night, ending up with Henri for the night. “Do you like him, Dominique? He seems friendly enough.” She nonchalantly commented, “He’s okay for a little bit of fun in the bed.” “Do you plan to see him again?” I laughingly responded. “It depends upon my mood, I suppose.” He clearly was her entertainment for the evening, but there were no strings attached. I could only hope that he felt the same way that she did, although I never quite understood how individuals could engage in intimate relations without the slightest regard for one another. It was more like dogs fornicating in the garden than a passionate act. Oh well, I didn’t tell her what I thought, but so often, the same thing happened in the U.S. with males on the hunt for “one night” hits on females. I suppose it was some sort of psychological conquest game, but certainly not one that required any sort of intelligent use of time, the mechanized performance seemed completely boring to me. Where was the passion and the romanticism in such acts?
Dominique and I decided to have a walk around town, finding breakfast food along the way. We walked about sharing thoughts, observing the beautifully rustic buildings all around us. The stream running through the village was full of life that morning, the water flowing swiftly, but quietly over the stones along its bottom. We stopped for a croissant and French style coffee in the local boulangerie. It was gloriously relaxing, yet stimulating to interact with this gorgeous, yet simple little town. We had so little that was required of us, but yet we felt so busy and occupied. After spending the good part of our day, visiting the local market, investigating the contents of various shops and eating an assortment of items merchants were selling in their stores and in stalls, we decided to return to the auberge. I had bought a beautiful scarf to wear around my neck with my bohemian wardrobe, Dominique finding a great bargain on hikers’ socks. It’s part of the French psyche to find “good deals” and “sales”, making a “bon achat”.
When we returned to the auberge, we encountered a new resident, Nicolette, who would be staying for awhile. She was involved in the horticultural industry, attending a training seminar in this area of France. She looked exactly like someone involved in plants, dressing rather plainly for a French lady with a tee shirt, vest and a pair of well worn jeans. Her natural light brown hair was neck length, rather unkempt with token plant matter sticking to various parts of her clothing from the day’s activities. She drove a small motor scooter, carrying all of her travel belongings. Nicolette had a laid back, relaxed and pleasant personality, making time spent with her enjoyable. After we talked for some time, she decided that she liked me, confessing her thoughts with “Jennie, tu es tres gentil, et je suis heureux de rester à l’auberge pour autrefois.” I was very flattered, being content that she enjoyed spending time with both of us, looking forward to our afternoons conversing, drinking wine and consuming good foods. Nicolette had such a quiet, peaceful demeanor and voice. It was going to be a pleasure interacting with her.
At our auberge dinner, we once again exchanged conversation with our three guy friends – Patrick, Alain and Henri. It was a lively dialogue with Patrick shifting most of his attention to me. Nicolette was staying alone in the auberge, so happily joined us, and even Etienne behaved in a more docile, conversant mood. After dinner, we again continued our festivities in the garden, Dominique dividing her attention between Alain and Henri, while Nicolette decided to center her focus upon Etienne, who knows why. Anyway, Patrick had some work to do that day, so was curious about how I entertained myself with Dominique. He asked if I wanted to come to his room, since he had some pictures and works of art he had been wanting to share with me. I accepted his invitation, both us strolling into his little castle. It was remarkably personalized as though he planned to remain there for some time, he having revealed that it was the cheapest place in town, given his absence of money. He was hoping to obtain a more steady work schedule, so he could afford his own place.
He brought out numerous pictures portraying various members of his family, nuzzling close by me, creating a more intimate association. It seemed to be the French way to express interest in their familial background, and it was interesting to look at how he was connected to others, since my own background was rather fragmented in that regard. He had a story to tell about each picture with me attempting to comprehend his words as best as I could given my language impediment. One other hobby proudly displayed around his cozy room was woodworking, included in his personal art was everything from rustic wooden tables to chiseled wall hangings of local birds. He was obviously quite talented. Time passed with us thoroughly enjoying each other’s company with an uncanny ability to share similar ideas even though our upbringings and cultural experiences were completely different. Finally, it had become late, both of us deciding to end the evening. I meandered back to my room only to find Dominique fuming about Alain, apparently, deciding that she disliked him. I never quite understood why she felt that way. She kept telling me that “je le deteste”. I guess that she had her reasons.
When we departed from our room in the morning, we received another interesting surprise, three Englishmen staying next to us. They told us they were teachers from some obscure part of the United Kingdom, on holiday, bringing along their bicycles to enjoy roadside pedaling in the Pyrenees. Unfortunately, we noticed they were also auberge pedaling around the halls and into the recreation room with an obviously noisy flare. They seemed very content to hang together, making silly comical jokes, amusing only themselves. We noticed that the only interaction they had with French people was teaching the children to count, so score could be kept, while they played ping pong. They didn’t understand French with it not seeming to concern them. After all, they were on school holidays, being in France was only a vacation for them, a form of entertainment. Dominique told me that they were like the silly school children that they taught. How could they teach kids, when they weren’t much more emotionally developed themselves? Perhaps, water does seek its own level. How many tourists did I see who may have traveled around, but did little to truly interact with the culture around them?
Time seemed to drift slowly by with the same group remaining and only a few transient travelers passing through. We spent hours chatting in the evening or taking walks, visiting interesting places during the days. I didn’t notice that I was beginning to understand my French friends’ language more thoroughly, and I think they could comprehend what I was attempting to communicate as well. Nicolette remained at the auberge most of the time that I was there, her visit being extended, so we could appreciate her continued passion for plants. We conversed regularly with me welcoming her help in the discovery of my own love of the vegetated world. She drove a cute little motorcycle to her seminar/work site everyday, having clothing and hair which was usually tussled and a wonderfully naturalistic appearance. I loved her spirit, lacking in need for man made synthetic goods, speaking softly with a peacefulness that conveyed her general self acceptance and understanding. She shared a free spirited philosophy like mine was and most definitely still is. It’s better not to take on a materialistic world if one needs to be a slave to the “givers” of that lifestyle. If accepting man made manufactured products means the demise of one’s own individuality, then perhaps it’s better not to fit into that notch, striking it alone. We need to clear our minds of cultural clutter brought on through societal media, what’s considered mainstream by a banal and obtuse general population, allowing us to foster independent reasoning skills and the development of our own unique thoughts. I won’t be an audience for someone else’s empty, verbose banter. I guess both of us were quiet revolutionaries.
Foix
The following day Patrick came to our room inquiring about my availability for a ride in the mountains that day. Dominique thought it was a great idea, deciding that she would spend time with some French people she had met casually in the town. It was fun to see his attire, since he looked strikingly French with the a low cut tee shirt, maroon scarf around his neck, black vest and cap that was distinguishably French. His wavy black locks sprang out from around the hat. He appeared more attractive than ever to me, so how could I deny his request. I slipped into my motorcycling clothes, grabbed a sweater and we were off. Patrick must have known I would come, since he had already bought lunch for both of us, not failing to bring along a couple of bottles of richly red wine. We started our journey riding through villages and gracefully verdant mountain landscapes. Patrick had an idea of which I wasn’t aware, a plan involving a visit to Foix, a lovely small town not too far in kilometers from Saint Girons. With the mountains between the two towns, it would take us longer than what the distance implied. It was a thrilling fun ride, hanging on to Patrick, sitting on the back of his energetic motorbike. Finally, we made it to the rusticly, charming town with a châteaux at the hilltop, the apex of the community.
Prior to ascending to the châteaux, Patrick insisted that we take some Pastis at a local outdoor cafe, a wonderfully anise-flavored liquor typical of Southern France. We found just the place to sit with some shade from colorful umbrellas near a cobblestoned road with minimal numbers of vehicles passing the cafe. Soon we were brought two glasses of the gorgeous liqueur, so we settled down in our chairs to enjoy the treat. I decided to disrobe from my motorcycle outfit, displaying a low cut contour fitting red knit blouse and the curvature of my upper body figure. He didn’t have any surprises with the lower half, since I had already been wearing my well worn jean shorts. I positioned myself in such a way that there was no doubt that I wanted to seduce him, the bait being swallowed. I was now in my mid thirties, well able to handle matters regarding my own sexuality, schooled well by precocious men that I had known along the way, giving me my present acumen. I was sending out my own set of pheromones as a queen bee would do to her perspective drone. Patrick on the other hand was not so worldly, leaving it up to me to lead the endeavor. His innocence was charming as was his youth, being several years younger than I was and of mountain provincial heritage. He didn’t suspect that I had any plan, since with my less than fluent French skills, I didn’t seem that advanced in my own formal and informal education. We continued with our interaction, our eyes and attention solely on each other. Finally, we sipped the last of our drinks, and although we were feeling light headed from the alcoholic content and the soothing warmth of the sunshine, we decided to venture up to the castle, walking side by side.
The chateau presently serves as a museum, but has a long, intricate history tangled with the medieval nobility and acting as a fortress against potential invaders during the Merovingian era. In 1000, a castle was constructed in place of the fortress with the first count of Carcassonne bequeathing it to his oldest son, Bernard Roger, the Comte de Foix, who used it as a private residence. Patrick had seen it ever so often, but wanted to share its beauty with me, his foreign love interest. We explored every nook and cranny inside and out until we were both saturated with information. At times, using slow more simplified French word, Patrick had to explain to me what some of the more sophisticated writing on wall plaques was describing, but that added to the experience, giving him the ability to more intimately communicate with a slight air of superiority. Finally after strolling through the last brick lined internal tunnel, we decided to exist, advancing into the sunlight.
Patrick had been to the castle several times, so knew of some places to sit in the grass for basking in the sunlight and taking our lunch. We readily found a private little patch for a couple of hours with our attention completely focused on one another, needing complete concentration to process the labored French that we used to communicate. Although, Patrick admitted that my speaking and comprehension ability had improved significantly from the time we had first met. His deep, warm black eyes were completely fixed on me, and I was absorbed in him and what he had to say also. At that moment, he was interested in what food we would share, making the encounter an intimate experience for both of us, not wanting it to end too hastily. He began speaking about his background, from where he came and not surprising to me his Basque inheritance. I asked him if he spoke any of the language with him replying, “some”. The language is not related to any of the Indo-European groups, believed to predate the spread of others throughout the continent. Patrick felt that the Basque people should have their own separate country, but realized that he might never see that happen while he lived. His parents and siblings lived somewhere in this region, but he wanted to strike out on his own, attempting to develop independence financially, socially and emotionally, letting the auberge be a starting point. I didn’t tell him much about my background, not wanting him to know my level of education, my professional life or the multitude of travel experiences. I had often had bad reception if the male gender thought I was too hoity toity for their tastes, so I continued to let him think that I was a simplistic foreigner, helpless in a strange land called France. Although I had never been a stage actor, I had become a life actor, modifying my own self expression to accommodate the psychological agendas of those with whom I associated, but at least in this case, the individual’s behavior, Patrick’s demeanor was kind and with reverence.
After we finished our meal, we had a good rest, then decided to meander around the town for awhile prior to departing for St. Girons. We strolled down some of the quaint, cobblestoned roads with colorful stucco-sided and red tile roofed buildings, lining their narrow borders. The sun peaked through in various crevices warming our bodies and spirits, Patrick affectionately putting his arm around me, snuggling close by as though we were united in some spiritual way, even though our cultures and languages were remote from one another. My physical characteristics were completely dissimilar to his with my blonde hair, light skin and green eyes markedly contrasting against his shining black wavy locks, olive complexion and deep dark rich eyes. We shared a wonderful interlude of time browsing around the town, but then decided to straddle the motorbike with final destination to Saint Girons. I hadn’t thought about my school responsibility in Paris, nor my future in any sense during this interval with Patrick. Time and commitment had no meaning to me for I was in some sort of insulated bubble seeming to stand still with no past, nor future, only a static world. In fact, time had become my immortal enemy, robbing me of happiness, robbing me of my youth, robbing me of my past well defined identity. I wanted to remain in this place, fearing any alteration, knowing that I would only descend from the vertex of this idealized ecstasy. For the first time, I realized that I had no home, no place to be, no spot on the land where I wanted to hang my hat, yet for a short time, I had found Midi Pyrenees with my tantalizing Basque companion.
We found ourselves traveling on the bucolic rural road enveloped with a canopy of deciduous trees, absorbing the fresh air from the mountain environment. It seemed as though we had not driven so far, when Patrick pulled off the side giving me a surprise, since I didn’t expect the stop. He told me to follow him to a wonderful place, so we could continue basking away near a gurgling creek among the thick vegetation. We reclined on his well-worn blanket for some time listening to the environmental sounds around us, the stream trickling by as it ran to its unknown destination, the leaves and branches crackling as the light wind passed through them, the various melodious birds serenading us, perched high above in the canopy and other noises of wildlife scurrying about with their routine lives. We conversed very little in this theater of the wild, but listened and observed what we could. Finally, Patrick embraced and kissed me, and I returned the affection for his sincere rugged charm was beyond anything I had experienced in my life. We spent some time appreciating each other in this way, and then he asked me if I would spend the night with him at the auberge. I could see no reason not to comply, so I affirmed his desire. After all, how often do two people meet, connect and share intimacy in our isolating, mechanizing and depersonalized hectic complex world. We were two individuals less lonely for our acquaintance.
The day was passing in front of us, sinking into early evening when we decided to mount his motorbike and head back to Saint Girons. It had been an exhilarating day, beyond what I could have anticipated. I held on tightly to Patrick as we whizzed through the cool evening air, now blanketing clear skies, earlier providing us with warmth and an enchanting sun drenched day. Upon arrival, I immediately went to the abandoned room and cleaned up a bit, prior to taking dinner in the auberge hall. There was no hint of Dominique, but I was sure to find her chatting away at dinner with the normal gang of French people, seeming to permanently hang around the auberge as the center of their social lives. I ventured into the restaurant, finding what I expected with Patrick already there in social form, giving me a welcoming smile, and I immediately fit into the group conversation. We ate, drank wine, and socialized for hours, which included our comfortable retreat to the garden. Finally, I told Dominique I would spend the night with Patrick, noticing a twinkle in her eye and an impish smile. She was all for romance, even having an exterior tough shell; She was a true lover at heart.
Patrick and I entered his room chatting with comfort and delight about everything that we somehow had in common. It was now late evening with the lights of his room projecting a cozy warm glow, providing a backdrop for our dancing silhouetted shadows against his large, pained window, reflecting our sanguine forms. “Patrick,” I expressed with copious emotion, “I have felt so lonely. I didn’t understand that, until I had spent time with you and don’t want this to end. It’s a shelter for me, a shelter against the cold rain and winds, a shelter against the bitterness I feel when approached by someone who doesn’t care about my well being, only wanting something, and since I have no money, they suck my spirit and sexuality, providing nothing in return.” He earnestly gazed at me and replied, “Jennie, je ne comprends pas Anglais. S’il te plait, dites-moi en Francais.” I answered, “J’essayerai, mais il est compliqué, Patrick.” “Tu parles français bien mieux maintenant. Tu peux converser avec moi.” I smiled with confidence at his approval of my improving skills and proceeded to tell him how I felt. He caressingly embraced me, confiding in me that he knew my feelings of loneliness, his being the same. After these emotional admissions, Patrick turned down the lights, I lifted my loosely hanging light hair, asking him to unzip the back of my blouse, which he did with delight, kissing my neck as he descended. We piled into his bed, embracing one another in ecstasy, physically melting into union and of course, some idle chatter. I confessed to Patrick that I couldn’t stay in the Pyrenees forever, having to push forward to Paris, eventually returning to the United States. He acknowledged my honest thoughts, stating that we should enjoy our days now without discussing my departure.
Many more days and evenings were spent in the company of Patrick, but time began to run short, creating an emotional conflict for me. I discussed how I felt about Patrick with Dominique and my need to finish my MBA degree in Paris, having studied for several semesters prior to now, this period being the last of the hurdles. “Jennie, how will Patrick feel about you when you speak French like us? You’re already improving. He thinks you’re like him, a simple mountain boy, who lives to put food on the table, wanting to buy a small abode someplace locally and then raise a family without much thought or exploration of the big world outside of the Pyrenees. Your French is very basic now, so he thinks you are of his same background. He isn’t sophisticated enough to understand the nuance of language development and with its limitation, thoughts are trapped internally. What happens when the limitation disappears, and all of those rich experiences burst forth like an erupting volcano? I even have to tone down my own accomplishments with them, but you, you have traveled around the world. You have mastered numerous educational plateaus. What will happen to your budding romance as he observes who you truly are?” I listened to Dominique earnestly. “He’s been fun for you, a reprisal from our cold, impersonal world, but there’s another life for you. Don’t stay here, only to see what’s now beautiful, begin to sour. I’ll leave here soon also, so let me put you on the train for Paris when I go.” I knew her opinion was the best choice, a choice that a caring friend would express. “If you still pine for Patrick after completing your degree this summer, return to Midi Pyrenees and embrace him for all that he is.”
I spent several more days with Patrick, Dominique and the others, and then Dominique finally asserted that it was time for us to leave. On the day that I was to take the train, I ardently embraced Patrick and he returned the affection, with me declaring that I would think of him each day while studying that summer. I gave him my details, where I would be staying in Paris with him gladly accepting them. Then, Dominique and I loaded her car with both of our belongings, she expressing her farewells to everyone we knew, and then we were off to Gare de Lestelle, where I would catch the train. Upon arrival, we conversed for a while until my train came. Then, prior to my departure, she helped me load my bags, and when the time came for me to board, she gave me a hearty hug and afterward we parted. She energetically waved from the platform as my train leaped forward, heading toward Paris, until I could no longer see her. It was emotionally painful to leave such security, such comfort behind me, but I knew, as Dominique had said, it was the only choice to take, although I felt so raw, so distraught, not knowing what lay before me with the summer studies.
Paris
Once I arrived in Paris, I settled in to my quarters, consisting of a pleasant room, overlooking a beautiful garden, containing thick vegetation and tall trees. I often received love letters from Patrick that summer, helping me to cope with the intense study time and the unpleasant, competitive students with whom I was forced to congregate, due to our mutual academic goals. Patrick never came to Paris to visit, a city that would have overwhelmed him, and although I thought I would return to Midi Pyrenees after the completion of my education that summer, I never did. I realized that Dominique had a valid point and didn’t think it was constructive to continue a relationship that would die without too much age, so I returned to the USA, taking my place in an industrialized society, hoping to find a small bit of what I had had in Midi Pyrenees.
Jennifer Horton Chadwick
California Gypsy 