And it was Supposed to be Only a Year in Provence…
Lydia Dean
Little did we know when we decided to rent a village house in the South of France for a year, that it would change the course of our lives and the fabric of our little family. At the time, it was simply a chance opportunity to get away, to learn some French and see some more of Europe. The kids, ages three and five, were at a ripe age to take in a new language and our executive search business had the benefit of being portable. Naturally we thought why not us, why not now?
The idea seemed quite simple but it’s much easier said than done to “leave your life” for a year. Friends and family were not all supportive. What do you mean go away for a year? That’s an eternity! What’s wrong with a two week vacation to France instead? What about work…and won’t the language confuse the children? Logistics proved difficult and stressful. There were issues with respect to renting the house, storing all the goods, figuring out what to do with the car. Months ticked by with little movement on renting the house and we prepared ourselves for the eventuality of not being able to go. Then only two and a half months before our expected leave date someone offered to buy it, certainly not what we had originally intended. This was our home and when the year was up where would we go?
Restless nights were spent grappling with the decision to go or not to go, to sell or not to sell. Amazingly, just when I thought the stress of the decision was going to foil the whole dream, a strange calm came over us, as if a protective blanket of hope and strength was laid upon us enabling us to walk through a completely foreign door. The decision then became crystal clear, yet the future entirely unknown. Within a few weeks the house and car were sold and only our most precious belongings stored. We hugged our loved ones goodbye and with butterflies in our stomachs, we flew across the ocean to plant our selves in the heart of a Provencal village.
Rognes is a lively little town near the Luberon Mountains surrounded by vineyards thirty minutes from Avignon. Our rented maison de village stood three stories tall with exposed stone inside and out. We were only a few steps from the butcher, boulangerie, patisserie, pharmacy and doctors office. On Wednesday mornings we would fill our baskets at the village market with tender rounds of chevre cheese topped with peppercorns and herbs, aged salami, and bright, juicy locally grown fruits and vegetables. From our terrace we smelled the luscious aromas of the boucherie cooking meats. A three-minute walk brought us to the cave of the local wine coop, where for mere dollar a liter the wine jug was refilled all too easily. We settled in nicely and my rusty French came back inch by painful inch. We bought a cute little convertible VW Golf that had seen better years but was affordable, and gave us the thrills of fresh air in our faces and star shows at night. For the first few weeks we drove and drove, pic-nicked under olive trees, and stuffed ourselves full of figs, apricots and cherries on long walks in the countryside.
The children were enrolled in the local schools where not a word of English was uttered. I sat back, awestruck at the speed at which they adapted to and absorbed the language. After only two weeks at school my son came home and sang a Mother’s Day song to me in French with the sweetest most perfect little accent that it made me cry.
“Je t’apporte Maman, une petite fleur des champs…”
I knew at that point that we were giving our children a real gift, one they probably wouldn’t appreciate until much later in their lives.
Settling in was made easy by the pure kindness of those around us. Everywhere we went, people extended themselves to us, sought us out, welcomed us into their homes. When our next door neighbor Marie-Joe was preparing the renowned foie-gras, she called and had me by to show me how it was prepared, as did Louise when she made her vin d’orange – a local aperitif made by soaking dried orange rinds and vanilla in rose wine. Through the school we met wonderful families, many of whom invited us for Sunday lunches, several coursed affaires where afternoon hours melted easily into the evening.
The months slipped away and the changing seasons brought treats in all forms. On my jogs I saw great earthy fields transform from gorgeous red and yellow spring flowers to tall wheat and corn, rows of carrots, cabbage and lettuce. Later there came breathtaking rows of lavender and the sweet faces of sunflowers. Nuts dropped in the road beside brambles of blueberries and blackberries. I delighted in watching the vineyards from month to month as their trimmed stumps proudly budded and grew into miniature trees brimming with fruit.
Over time I noticed subtle yet poignant changes in our selves and in how our time was spent. We seemed less focused on our search business- the whole concept of getting ahead started to feel foreign, perhaps even a little distasteful. What exactly did it mean to get ahead? Ahead of what? What had all the rush been about? I felt as though we had been running in a foot race and we had taken a step to the sidelines where we could take in the beautiful day and feel the warmth of the little hands we had the opportunity to hold. Something deep within us awakened, something pure and uncomplicated. It was akin to my images of childhood, where running through a field of corn, staring at stars or eating a fresh peach exceeded happiness.
Length was taken around the table at mealtimes where food was enjoyed for its simplicity – salads tossed in olive oil, vinegar and salt, tomatoes sliced with fresh mozzarella and basil, vegetables baked with garlic and cream, chickens roasted on a spit. Food just tasted better in Provence, yet such little fuss went into the preparation.
As we were contemplating whether we might stay in France longer or return home, we stumbled on an uninhabited old folk’s home in the countryside complete with a small vineyard, fruit trees, and the smell of fresh pine in the morning cold. The view out of the back exposed the grey-blue rocks of the Luberon Mountains and the scrubby grass underfoot was in fact clumps of thyme and rosemary. The building was three stories high and in need of a tremendous amount of work but had the gifts of being voluminous and strong. All of its bedrooms were flooded with sunshine during the day and their creaky vine-covered shutters opened up to views of the vineyard. Le Mas de Gancel, as it was named, reeked of neglect in almost every respect but to us it represented a small haven, a retreat that reached out and would not let go. It soon became clear we couldn’t go home.
Our plans were to create a vacation rental for the tourist season. Appropriate for groups of 10-18 with its nine bedrooms we felt the Mas would have great business potential in being one of the few large villa rentals in the region. While the house was rented we imagined traveling to all the places we had always wanted to go returning in time for the school year to start and the beginning of the grape harvest.
Dreams and visions for restoration came easy but the follow-through was a challenge. In order to conserve funds, we decided to be our own general contractors. We put together a team of local craftsmen consisting of electricians, a plumber, a tile layer, a pool builder, and masons. These men were soon to be like family to us as we passed the cold months together in a half demolished retirement home. Our knowledge of French gros mots (swear words) rapidly flourished. But there were daily misunderstandings due to a combination of language difficulties and of restoration know-how. We had renovated our first little home in downtown Orlando some years prior but nothing near this magnitude. Determined to redo the Mas in a style typical to the region, I spent hours pouring over Provencal architecture books and magazines. Luckily, the locals were not shy in pointing out when we stepped out of the bounds of what was normally done, which at times meant redoing something entirely.
We lived in the house as it was being restored and after long days of work we were often faced without heat or hot water. Our hands quickly became cracked from the sanding and scrapping and I forgot what it was like to be clean and feel pretty. Some days the frustrations were too much and I wondered why we had taken on such an endeavor. Fortunately, the tensions of the project would easily melt away with the fading sun as I trimmed the vines, readying them for the next season. The children amazingly oblivious to the stresses, were happy enough to smash old tile with hammers or bundle up and roast marshmallows outside over a bonfire. It didn’t matter to them that their hot water had to be heated on the stove for their baths.
The mistral wind blew hard through the winter months but the house was filled each day with the contractors’ loud echoing chatter, bickering and laughter, filling all of the empty corners. Dust and plaster thickened by inches on the floor as the Mas was transformed, metamorphosed from a urine-smelling institution into a warm and inviting rambling Provencal home. At times the thought of people having died there made me uncomfortable. More and more, however, I was at ease with the idea that life came and went under its roof, a symbol of the circle that keeps us in constant motion. Now as these bright faced, passionate men took over the place, it felt as if rebirth was abound and little by little the house became what we had envisioned.
I look back now on our decision to move away for a year and how it has affected all of us. Undoubtedly it was hard to start a life in another country, in another language and there were and still are sacrifices. We missed big events at home, the births of babies, the death of our friend’s mother, family illnesses, and the sharing in an unforgettable American tragedy. My heart ached as my son curled-up in my arms and cried about feeling different at school. But our moving abroad was also an extraordinary opportunity to examine just how we were living before and what might have been missing. For us, it had been time that had been absent-- to think, to breathe, to appreciate. Time to get to know our selves, one another, and to develop a foundation for our family. In Provence we afforded ourselves these beautiful luxuries and the benefits continue to reveal themselves each day.
I won’t ever forget that feeling we had before leaving the States- the final push from who knows where that told us it was time to get out and learn, time to live. A faith within us emerged giving us the strength not to be afraid of what may lie around the corner or across an ocean.