CHAPTER TWELVE: FAIRY TALES DO COME TRUE

With the departure of our docents, we were now…. finally… irrevocably… definitively… at long last…… ON OUR OWN!!

We ogled one another assiduously, not sure where to begin. And then as though struck by a bolt of lightning hurled from heaven above, we simultaneously raced for the complimentary bottle of wine. “You find the opener,” Suzanna instructed, ‘I’ll get the glasses. As I rifled recklessly through the kitchen drawer, I could feel my dream unfolding like honey soaked layers of phyllo pastry. The hairs on my arms prickled and I shuttered with delight. This volcano was rumbling, and what better way for it to erupt than with this first glass of French wine. We sipped in a stupor, our minds oscillating ‘three passes ahead’ and filled with incertitude. What should we do first? Where do we begin? How do we decide? We were like two high-strung thoroughbreds prancing nervously as we entered the starting gate.

‘First things first’ Suzanna decided, and toting a half filled wine glass in one hand, and a heavy suitcase in the other, she began lugging her gear up the doll house stairs, bumping the walls and sloshing a bit with every upward step. As she gingerly arranged her belongings in the loo-level room, I began in earnest to nest in the loft. But I knew instantly that this was not going to work. My clothes were going nowhere and didn’t need settled-in at this moment. I was riding the adrenaline high of a junkie and feeling as giddy as a goat. I threw my arms up in the air and yelled down to the stairway….STOPPPPPPP… WE GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE!”

And she understood perfectly what I meant. We had fleetingly glimpsed the town square and inner city on our search for Madeline and the house. We had also (under protest) journeyed not once, but twice, to the soccer field to deposit and rescue the car… but what we had not yet done, was to see EXACTLY where our little house lay in reference to the sea. The sea that had been inveigling me since the notion of this trip began over 4 months ago. Gathering the house key and nothing else, we burst out the door into the nearly extinguished afternoon sunlight.

Our neighborhood rested tranquilly as we scrambled our way down the cobbles, back towards our only known landmark… the pharmacy. We could now breathe in that along its margin, and lined up in a tidy little row, were the ice cream parlor, several restaurants, a bakery and a few independent grocers. All doors sat enticingly open and garden fresh fruits and vegetables edged the cobbled curbs. Across the street (one that actually allowed cars) were children being pushed in swings, dogs and owners walking along the waterfront and families gathering their things on a semi-attired beach. There also sat a grove of green umbrellaed tables, where black bow-tied waiters, with trays held high, sidestepped traffic in order to serve these patrons who were dining al fresco across the street from the restaurant proper. These guests patiently sipped their wine and nibbled their bowls of olives as they awaited the delivery of their entrées.

But the most stunning sight of all was the statuesque Château Royal, a castle who’s chiseled stone bulwarks tower over the entire village. This massive medieval structure had it’s origins in 7th century BC, when it initially served as a fortress and was later integrated into the Royal Castle at the hands of the Knights Templar. This historical edifice now finds itself surrounded by a rock and mortar protective wall that wraps itself beguilingly like a pashmina on the shoulders of a beautiful woman. The rocky, cream-colored seawall, which is only chest high, shields the château and village waterfront from the fury of an angry sea and hectoring winds. Whether safeguarding from 21st century storms or 14th century pirate pillage, it is a true testament to endurance. On either side of this giant stronghold are pebbly beaches and craggy mountain shorelines that are just beginning to twinkle to life as their evening luminaires light up.

We-were-buzzed! Not just from the wine and jet lag, but because we had been parachuted into an era that was only supposed to exist in history books. The sea drew us like newly hatched sea turtles, as we soaked in the local color and watched the crowds begrudgingly yield the right of way, to empty beaches and emerging stars. Our faces were painted with Mona Lisa smiles.

“Jaime!” Suze remarked as she inhaled her surroundings, “Have you ever seen a place so gorgeous as this? I feel like a Medieval Princess, encircled by her dynasty.” I observed her enraptured face and allowed her to continue. “Do you realize that you will be here, swimming in all this beauty for two full months?… And do you understand that you will be all by yourself?”

It only took me the length of a bat’s eyelash to respond. “Yes..I do understand Suze… because that was the purpose of this journey from the very beginning. Je vais vivre ici sa au paradis pendant deux mois! I smiled at the end of this declaration and then continued in English. I will NOT, be on vacation, trying to see all of the sights in a small amount of time. I will NOT, be checking off a list of must do’s and must do now. I will NOT, be a tourist, checking in and out of different hotels every few days. Instead, ‘I will LIVE here in paradise for two months’… and nothing could please me more.”

We laughed, joined arms and skipped like Laverne and Shirley, around the castle and sea wall edge. The water was lazily lapping along the wall perimeter, occasionally sending a splash of foam into the air, when we noticed a man strumming his guitar. He was not a street beggar with a tip jar at his feet playing melancholically for money; he was a young Rastafarian, caressing his guitar, singing for the love of it. His jeans were black, his t-shirt well worn, but what struck my fancy was the way his long, lacy fingers slid up and down the strings of his old friend. His music was melodious, the Mediterranean backdrop extraordinary and I watched as his dreadlocks bounced merrily around his face. When he noticed me back, his strumming grew livelier, his fingers played faster and the beat heightened.

I found myself under his musical spell and like a marionette being controlled by strings, I danced. I didn’t just sway my hips gently side to side and rock my head back and forth, I danced… like nobody was watching. I swirled and twirled and pirouetted, only for the audience in my head, as the magic of the moment rippled tempestuously through my soul. The musician flashed a toothy smile at my obvious pleasure and played on with more gusto and zeal. When the song came to an end, I breathlessly approached him while clapping my hands like a monkey with cymbals. I was drunk with appreciation!

“Je vais vivre ici pendant deux mois!” I declared, beaming madly at him for providing me so much enjoyment.

He grinned brassily back and quipped “Bonjour Madame,” and then rattled confusing French with seductive laughter in his voice. I caught about every fifth word he spoke, but grinned the entire time, then said while gesturing  via the tried and true two-finger-pinch, “Je suis tellement désolé je ne parle qu’un mais très peu de français.”

“Ooooh” he pronounced, with a wide-eyed, knowing grin, “Êtes-vous Americain?”

“Oui” I replied with humility.

His grin became lion like, and he quickly let me in on the reason: “I speak English.”

His name was Jean and although he originated in Jamaica, he had been residing in France for the last 5 years and frequently played here on the castle wall. I bubbled that my name was Jaime, and retold him in exuberant English, how excited I was to now be living here, in this country, for the next two months. I would NOT, I proclaimed, be a tourist. I too would be a resident! His bird-nest dreadlocks gyrated and swayed saucily as we conversed and the magic continued when he said he could see by the way I danced so freely to his music, that I had a beautiful soul. As I smiled, he flirtatiously added, “For you, Madame, Just for you,” and he lifted his guitar and commenced to serenade me. His eyes locked on mine, his nimble fingers plucked the strings and his voice filled the evening air, making me unaware that Suzanna or anyone else on this planet, was breathing.

                                               In every life we have some trouble,                   

                                            When you worry you make it double,

                                                  So don’t worry:  Be HAPPY!

I closed my eyes and swayed to the rhythm of his voice and his instrument, for what woman on earth would not be caught up in this enchantment? This wasn’t a dream of a hauntingly handsome man serenading me by the sea…..this was real…and this extraordinary image danced behind my eyes as I danced in front of his.

When the song ended, (as songs always do)… I provided additional gratuitous applause as we exchanged hugs and customary French kisses goodbye. Jean continued his strumming as Suzanna and I continued our stroll, but I believe that we were, all three, bewitched by the sorcery of music and the hint of foreign romance.