CHAPTER TWO: GOING FORWARD

The next logical step was to notify friends and family. But as I pondered this presentation, my mind envisioned a press conference whereby I was bombarded with questions “Where are you going? How are you going? Why are you going? Are you coming back?” But the best one I foresaw was “Are you CRAZY?My inability to provide answers other than “France, Yes, and Probably,” had me reconsidering my wisdom. I needed more facts. Without a firm destination and precise information, I sounded like a delusional idiot. Being accepted by Dr.G and Emma had been necessary but gaining the support and encouragement by my people would be essential.

I stepped back to look at the bigger picture and here’s what I saw: It was “their” problem, not mine. “They” were the ones that needed immediate answers, I did not. They wanted to know all the ingredients that the recipe required, when all I could tell them was that I was baking a cake. The only information I could provide at the moment, was that I was going to France for an extended period of time. I had made the decision to take on this foreign country with its unfamiliar language and was entirely comfortable at this point with having no answers. Perhaps I should have been intimidated by my ignorance, but I wasn’t.

Okay, maybe now would be a good time to readdress my prowess with this foreign language. My entire high school career had been spent in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, where from grades 9-12, speaking French had been mandatory to the curriculum. Upon graduating high school, my family moved from the chilly Toronto suburbs to the sweltering plains of Dallas. My father, who believed that women should have something to “fall back on,” enrolled me under protest, in a local, small-town college. Since all educational institutions require that you chose a subject to major in, I elected to utilize my for previous four years and take the easy way out. I selected … FRENCH.

So it is with a measure of humility, that I admit that I have in my possession, a Bachelor of Arts degree from a university in the state of Texas that declares that I am proficient in French. The reality however, is that this center for higher learning should have been severely reprimanded for having the audacity to make such a claim on my behalf! Frankly, I can speak Swahili about as well as I can speak French. So to pretend for one iota of a second that I can speak or translate French is marginal at best.

Openly confessing my limitations, I decided to purchase the entire Rosetta Stone Français series to actually learn the language that my degree claims I can already speak! I figured this course would provide a great boost to my confidence and armed with my eight year foundation, I assumed passing all sections with flying colors would be a cake walk. Sounds logical right? (Not all things are as they appea)

So back to this formal announcement to comrades and kinfolk that necessitated positive action. Hmmmm… Where to start? As I sat in the nook of my home office, I procrastinated and scratched my head. Anticipating this would be a lengthy chore, I furthered temporized by heading to the kitchen and pouring myself a glass of wine. Taking a sip as I plopped back in my chair, the solution sparked instantly. (Ah,the powers of an aperitif!) What I had before me was a no-brainer because every red-blooded 21st century American knows that when he or she has a major, earth-shattering, meteoric decision, there’s only one trusted friend and guiding star to fill you with wisdom: GOOGLE.

Where else can you find in glorifying technicolor, photos and illuminated maps of the entire universe, that can be scaled down to the local pizza parlor where a fluffy brown dog might be seen taking a whiz in the bushes? Who else supplies endless–and I do mean endless— catalogues of cities, towns, houses, condos, mountain ranges and beaches? You can uncover the time and temperature (in Celsius as well as Fahrenheit), humidity levels, crime statistics, and the population of anywhere on earth, at any particular moment in time and all you need is this magical search engine. GOOGLE….The source of infinite possibilities.

Prior to broaching this almighty guru, I elected to broach my daughter Tish. To say that she and I have embraced a tumultuous relationship over the last twenty years would be a gross understatement and is only in part due to the fact that I’m her mother and she’s my only daughter. We love each other without reservation, but understand not one single thing about the other’s perspective on life. I swear, we could look at the same painting and where I would point out the yellow sun, she would see the puffy clouds. But I respect that she is very savvy about many things that I am not. She has traveled more than once to Europe on a shoestring budget and returned home alive. To solicit her aid was not only wise, but encouraged me to connect with a family member about this idea that was slowly transforming from gas to liquid. She would probably (I reasoned) tell me that the notion was stupid, since we disagreed far more often than we agreed. But she might also be excited for me and contribute her assistance to my survival .

Tish and I live in two different states and I discovered years ago that she loathes talking on the phone but adores the computer world. Internet I-Ming was a great way for us to communicate with little chance of bruising feelings. We could chat for long or short periods and then move on before either one got offended. Today, as like many days, the little green icon beside her contact name was lit up, signaling that she was indeed on-line. “Tisheshellabella!” I instant messaged. “How are you, darling daughter?”

I call her this pet name because I love it and she hates it. I don’t really believe that she hates it, because we both know that it is a connection that only she and I have. Not one other person on earth calls her that… Just me…. Just Mom.

“Hi Mamasita,” she cheerfully typed back. “Wassup?”

I’m encouraged by her playfulness, so I forced myself to continue. “Well”…. I type, ”I’ve decided to take two months off work and go to France!”There! I’d said it… The dirty deed was done. No do overs; the words had been spoken and were floating out in space.
The computer clock ticked off a full sixty seconds, causing my heart to palpitate. Had I lost electricity? Did cyberspace eat up my message? Did she get pissed off and go grocery shopping?

“Mother,” she messaged back after this pregnant pause, “You’re not terminally ill are you… and just not telling us?”

I grinned from ear to ear and typed back, “No, Tish….I may be mentally ill, but not physically! This is just something that I feel I need to do. There is no concrete rationale in going… I simply want to! Can you help me? Can you help me find a destination?”
And she grasped the baton I had just handed off like an adroit relay runner.

“Sure! …. I’ll get back to you on that!”And as quickly as she had appeared, she was gone. I sat for a minute before exhaling. That’s her way. I know that about her. Easy come.. easy go. But she would return… I had no doubt.

A few days later, I once again sat in front of my Mac. Breathing deeply, I contemplated the virtual world of Google. Pictures square-danced in my head before my fingers ever touched the keyboard. The images were in 3-D as well as high definition. I have a great imagination, but found myself intimidated by my own fantasies. What if the pictures in my head were hallucinations? What if nothing matched my expectations? Denying pessimism a foothold, I pushed on, clinging to confidence that seemed to be slipping through my fingers.

“France” I typed.. then retyped.. ”The south of France.”
Miraculously and within seconds, a plethora of selections splashed across my screen. I should have been overwhelmed, but I wasn’t. Like an arrow sailing towards a bulls-eye, I commenced more typing. “Sea,” “sun,” “vineyards,” “fishing village.” These were the Google keywords I used as I became adrenalized. I licked my lips and twisted my hair, while squirming side to side in my chair.

I was in no dire straight and prepared for the search to take days or weeks. France is a large country filled with unlimited possibilities. One must consider the culture of Paris in Northern France as well as the opulence of the French Riviera to the south. Then of course there is Provence and Lorraine. The photos I beheld were breath taking. The screen swelled with expansive fields of lavender, scraggy ocean-side cliffs, and curvy country roads. There were ethereal cathedrals, the Eiffel Tower, museums and quaint cafés. It was as if each region of France was in a tug-of-war with the other; each hell-bent to upstage her neighbor.

I was not discouraged by this cornucopia of choices, I was hypnotized. Viewing the map closer, I headed my curser south and I found the Côte D’Azur where the high society country of Monaco sat with it’s soaring cliffs and colorful casinos dripping into the Mediterranean Sea (not my style). So I continued westward, down the coast to the Côte Vermeille and even more specifically to the region known as Languedoc-Roussillon, a stone’s throw from Spain. Quite by accident, I viewed a pin-prick of a seaside village named “Collioure.”

Colli…..collyear? At first, I couldn’t even muster enough high school French to guess at the pronunciation. The pictures were pretty, but I had never heard of a town named Collioure. It actually looked gorgeous, but what if I spent money to get there, only to find that it didn’t really exist?
So I dropped my search and looked for my daughter’s green dot. To my delight, it was there. “Tish, have you ever heard of a village in France named Collioure?”

As before, the clock ticked and the screen remained void for far too long. But apparently this time, instead of thinking (or ignoring me), she too was Googling. “Hhmmm, she finally confirmed. “I see it. It’s almost buried on the Spanish border and appears extremely isolated. Are you considering this God forsaken area? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be in Paris or somewhere on the French Riviera?”

I couldn’t believe we were actually having this conversation. Who was this woman and what had she done with my daughter who thought 90% of my ideas were poppycock?
And…she wasn’t finished. “I’ve forwarded some cool apartments and lofts for you to look at. They are located in Marseille and Nice. They are petite, compact and very cute. Besides, you really don’t need a house or a car either for that matter.”

“Wow, thank you,” I responded still shocked by her interest. “Can you walk to the sea from any of them?”

“Aaahhhh no,” she said, looking over the listings she had found in those common tourist locations.

“Well, can you even see the sea?” I asked.

Another pause.
“No, I don’t think so…. But they are major tourist centers Mother, and you would be only a short train ride away from the coast… if you feel that’s crucial.”

“Okay.. well.. let me go check them out.”

I’m sure she felt disappointment in my “not so eager” reply. She had engaged and basically been rejected. “I’ll keep looking” she retorted, diving back into the web with my criteria more in mind. We both signed off.

I went back and found the emails that contained her listings and she was right on two levels: her picks were cute, and I didn’t really need a house. But I have lived in a house for nearly five decades and enjoy the ability to roam from room to room. Hopefully, the majority of my time would be spent exploring and discovering, but I understood that spending two months anywhere was going to include down time. I needed a place to call home, not just a place to sleep.

She also erred with the assumption that I wanted or needed to be near a metropolis. I did not. Small, isolated and away from tourists was my vision.
So I navigated back to the western coastline and more precisely .. Collioure.

“Situated on the very south of France, approximately 15 miles from the Spanish border,” the Office of Tourism began, “is an idyllic place that is nestled on the rocky coastline.” Mmmm, I thought…. and continued to read. “This small Catalan port harbors the waters of the Mediterranean as they meet the rocky slopes of the Pyrénées. Collioure enjoys an exceptionally sunny climate with over 200 sun filled days per year. There are several pebbly beaches and endless hillsides sprinkled with vineyards.” The photos were exquisite. And because it photographed and read so beautifully, I became very suspicious and jumped ship.

Tourist boards will tell you anything to get you to come visit. And pictures can be photo-shopped. So I abandoned Google and turned to You Tube.
On this website, the bewitching descriptions of Collioure persisted, but now they were set to video.

Wispy clouds floated effortlessly in the azure sky as waves lazily lapped the shoreline. Beach umbrellas dotted the oceanside and sailboats bounced in the bay. All this and more was woven together by enticing music. The only thing missing was the smell of the sea.
I was hypnotized.

“Hold your horses, little woman,” I scolded myself. “Don’t be too impressed too quickly. You have just begun this search. There is no rush.”
I recalled my mother’s famous words, “If it sounds too good to be true, it probably is!” So, I walked away from the confusion and poured myself a glass of prosecco. I regrouped as I sipped and decided to examine the negatives .

Publishers can air-brush and manipulate any image they so desire. They can coerce you into drooling like Pavlov’s dog over something that is in reality, nonexistent . Before you realize that you have been conned, you are committed and are in for nothing but regret. For all I knew, a living hell could be lurking just the other side of these pretty pictures. So I took another swallow of wine and read more reviews, verifying article dates. Seriously, the photos and information may have been factual in 1954 but the village could have been blown off the map in 1964 by a tramontane. (more wine please.) I kept probing for hidden data such as oil clad beaches, rat infested hotels, drug dealers, oil cartels… any controversial thing that should have been divulged, but had not. I knew that objectivity was paramount. There were millions of untapped resources and I had barely scratched the surface.

But every bone in my body became a divining rod that was pointing me in the direction of Collioure. “Son of a bitch” I exclaimed, “This IS it! I just know it!”

Refusing to believe it could be this easy, I stepped back and reassessed my predicament. There were hundreds of luminous, hidden jewels in France that I had yet to uncover. There were surveys to match, tests to take and questions to be answered. Google, You Tube and I, could not possibly have struck gold in the first hour on the first day, not to mention that anyone with more than a 4th grade education, would confirm that there were more informative sources than these three. What about AAA, Fudor’s or TripAdvisor? All very reliable and unbiased. Hell.. what about The Travel Channel? I hadn’t even consulted The Travel Channel!

I once again reminded myself to chill out. Turn the thermostat down a degree or two, Missy. This cake is not ready for the oven. But the gravitational pull was irresistible. The iron was scooting toward the magnet. It was the same instinctual feeling I had had about the Lexis. Initial logic had said “No,” and I had initially embraced that logic by avoiding my attraction to the expensive car that was out of my league. I had focused on reality, affordability and practicality. But those things had lost out to the core of what makes my heart beat; emotionality, sentimentality and desire. The Lexus had had no competition with logic, just as I already knew that no other French town was going to draw me in as viscerally as this one.

This weather-worn, history-seared, seaside village had captured my heart. The desire to pursue other avenues evaporated. My search was over. The die had been cast. The wax was already dry on the seal.

Though I had barely cracked the shell of the egg, and knew that others would call me impetuous, I felt calm. I hadn’t spent one damn dime so far and could change my mind in a heartbeat if something better presented itself. But I knew that it wouldn’t. The key had been turned and the door locked. This decision was behind me. And I knew it was a good one.