For The Love of Words

CHAPTER THREE: A CASTLE IN THE SAND

The prospect of finding a ‘home away from home’ was titillating. The wishing-well of possibilities was bottomless. I stepped back to take stock of my situation and to ask myself some pertinent questions.

What type of lodging are you looking for? What floats your boat and rocks your world? Remember, this won’t be a hotel room with daily maid service, this is where the towels will pile up until you, do the laundry. There will also be no doorman or security guard. You will be flying solo and responsible for your own safety. I reflected on these quandaries.

Winsome, warm, welcoming.. these were the adjectives that came to mind…. oh and one more… unlimited. I desperately desired unlimited access to the sea… the sun.. and time. That was really all. I had no interest in pretension or grandeur and I didn’t give a rat’s ass about a snooty, restrictive community. What I wanted was a nest. A fluffy, feather lined nest with really cool cooking utensils. I chuckled at this image but knew that it was totally true.

I segued back to the task at hand with my mind boggled by the fact that I was sitting in front of my computer in Virginia, arranging the next chapter of my life which would occur in the country of France. In the old days, vacation plans were set into motion by telephone calls, visiting a travel agent or consulting newspaper ads. Now, you see a pretty picture on the internet, containing more information than a novella, and close the deal with an email. This instant gratification was a little disturbing. Gulping a hearty sip of wine (yes, again)and flexing my fingers, I began by typing the words ‘rental properties in Collioure’ on the Google search page. Bam! I was blitzed with listings, each appearing more alluring than the other. One residence displayed a gleaming kitchen with jalousie windows, whereby another showcased a sprawling living room that surrounded an enormous brick fireplace. There were some with one bedroom and one bath, while others boasted two, three or four of each. I also spied a townhouse that touted “a succulent grape vineyard right in your own backyard.” This was fun, so I lifted my glass and supped on my own succulent grape while continuing my search. The next ad showed a shady, corner apartment overlooking a verdant hillside. The inventory stretched for hundreds of pages which had me thinking that perhaps, like Amazon.com, Google was duplicating images. You know, just in case you missed it on the first go-round.

I could feel my frustration building when I noticed a link at the bottom of the page directing me to ‘privately owned’ home rentals. Although this new website also contained pretty pictures, my lake of dwelling choices had just shrunk to a pond of ‘houses only.’ Gone were the apartments, condominiums and lofts. Now we were cookin!.

The first specimen I landed on contained three snapshots of a private listing that instantly lassoed my attention. The first photo displayed a cerulean portal that was framed by pots of geranium and ivy whose colorful contents spilled from their containers and climbed up the stone walls. The vines and blossoms wove their way upward, gaining footholds in rocky crevasses, as they reached for the sun-blistered, third story window shutters. An uneven cobblestone street abutted this floral entryway, creating a welcoming invitation.

I ceased admiring the photograph to read the caption beneath: “Authentic fisherman’s two bedroom, two bath house nestled between the Pyrenées and the Mediterranean Sea. Located in the Old Quarter of picturesque Collioure, it is easy walking distance to shopping, market, fort, and churches. The streets are narrow cobblestone and unreachable by car. Views from the third story window include a centuries old chateau, a quintessential  bell tower, and four beaches.” The list of accoutrements continued: Washer/dryer, kitchen supplies, linens, stereo, DVD player, books, games, internet… But wait a minute. Did it say four beaches that I could see from my window?

I directed my attention to photo number two which bespoke of a beautifully equipped country kitchen where dried flowers were hanging upside down in the open, sun filled window. The adjacent homey sitting room embraced an overstuffed sofa and desk. Moving on to photo three, I beheld a slender stone stairway that led directly up to the master bath and sky lit bedchamber. I gawked like a sailor staring at a naked lady. The opus in my head, had just materialized and lay completely exposed before me.

I looked no further. I inherently knew that the golden ring from the carousel had been snagged. The tingling in my chest was identical to what I had felt when I uncovered the  village of Collioure. Sensing that all of my desires rested just the other side of that blue wooden door, I weighed my current mortgage against the rent on this property. It was confusing as the listing was in Euros per week, as opposed to dollars per month. I nervously did the math, (not my strong point) for I was determined to spend no more than I was currently paying. By my shaky computation, the fees appeared to be relatively parallel. (Hot damn!)

Fit out with this knowledge, I sent an immediate email to the contact address. I needed more details from a breathing body, not just an internet windbag. Within hours I had a return email from ‘Vacation Homes In France.’ It contained a personal greeting from someone named Madeline Hensley. I discovered that Madeline was British and although she owned as well as resided in this mini villa by the sea, she rented it out quite regularly as an income supplement. Her sister and sons were home based in Manchester England, so there was always a spare bed should hers become occupied by a stranger. She pleasantly and politely corresponded with me. I confided to her that I had never before done anything this preposterous and wondered if the weekly rental rates might be converted to a two month lease.

The very next day she replied.“I think that could be arranged. When do you suppose you’d like to book?”

“September” I wrote back immediately, “Mid-September. And I plan to stay through mid-November. Do you think this might be possible?” I nervously pressed SEND, crossed my fingers and awaited her return email.

Although it might have been considered impulsive, I had no misgivings. I discerned I was spot-on! But until I had confirmation from her, I could not rest easy. Appreciating the saying, “don’t put all your eggs in one basket,” I cursorily glanced at alternate accommodations. I felt I should make comparisons and have a back-up plan (or as my Dad would have said, “something to fall back on.”) So I went through the obligatory motions, but nothing rang my bell or tooted my horn. Hell, nothing even tapped my shoulder. I felt like a miner, drugged by the prospect of what lay just beneath the earth’s surface. Could this enchanting find be my nugget of gold?… Was I about to hit pay dirt?

Because the wait for her reply seemed endless, the skeptic in me stepped up. What if she says it’s not available? What if the rates have escalated and I can no longer afford it? What if I am finalizing my decision too quickly and there is something better out there? So I lackadaisically resumed my quest, already sensing that nothing else would strike my fancy.

It took five days of incessant email checking to finally find the ‘You Got Mail’ icon waiting at the end of a miserable work day. Five days of repetitious box checking and disappointment had just come to an end. At long last, her reply was here. I cautiously opened it, fearful of her answer.

“Good Day Jaime. So sorry for the delay. I’ve been paying a visit to my sister in England and only just found your post. Weather here has been……” And she carried on and on like a teeny-weeny sparrow, skipping from one berry bush to another.

Dammit Madeline, I silently bellowed, finding myself far too impatient to be pleasured by her innocuous ramblings. Get on with it! Do we have a deal or not!?
I skipped ahead, compressing her words until I found the one’s I had been longing for….“And of course, your preferred dates can most assuredly be accommodated. It will be simply lovely to have you here. I do however require a 20% deposit in Sterling. Do give it some thought Jaime and please present me your decision.” I could barely contain myself as I finished her post. “I look so forward to answering any and all other questions as well as making your acquaintance.” (Don’t ya just love the British?)

So after sitting on the edge of my seat for nearly a week, I found myself in a bubble bath of resolve. I didn’t understand why, but I knew with zero hesitation, that I was fated for this cottage, the same way I had been destined for the perfect house that I live in now.

The ‘perfect house’ as I have previously referenced; the place I come home to every day in Virginia, has a story of course. Part of it’s perfection is that it is not like anyone else’s. It is an unexpected treasure to every new visitor who comes. It had also been an unexpected treasure to me the first time I beheld it. My family had been house hunting over fifteen years ago when one day the realtor and I stumbled on this jewel. It had not been in the local listings and could not be viewed from the street, but the mailbox wore a lock box. As we strolled up the brick walkway, I was struck by the fact that it was a hidden oasis built entirely of cedar and glass.

Already seduced, we walked inside and I immediately fell in love—with the rooms, the floors, the exposed beams, but mostly the views from the floor to ceiling windows. Through the years, this house has comforted and loved me back. Many Christmases with ceiling-high trees, have enveloped this house, which has always been and remains my “dream home.”

So that I felt as I did about the unseen treasure in France, radiated familiarity. I had not just found a watering hole, I had found a home. My needs had all been met. The petite anchovy village of Collioure, which just two weeks prior, had been a total unknown, now became my new Mecca. Rue de la Liberté on the sunny shores of the Mediterranean Sea was about to become my new address. And the puzzle which had seemed gothic in size and number of pieces, suddenly felt quite manageable. With location and lodging in my pocket, I could now face the curious reporters.

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.

CHAPTER ONE: THE COMMITMENT

The commitment began with gusto but also with apprehension. One minute I was sharing cocktails with Jack while bitching about work, and the next, making a declaration that I was headed to Europe. Executing this brainchild could be viewed as treason by my employer and reckless behavior by my staff. I don’t even want to think about what my kids would think. I was choosing to put my life on hold, with no regard for anyone’s need but my own. I had no idea where this yearning came from, but I was now like a cat stalking a squirrel. I had been to Europe years ago as part of a college group with my daddy paying all all my expenses. This time I would be on my own, with no physical, emotional or financial aid. Not knowing one living soul in France, this scheme seemed bizarre even to me… but then so had the notion of owning a Lexus.

It was now time to get down to business. I knew there was a race track of hurdles to leap, but I also knew that the brimming glass of water began with the first drop. I commenced with my job. Being a medical practice manager not only paid my bills, but was a source of self respect and personal identity. If I couldn’t jump over bar number one, (reasoning that the business could not operate without me), there would be no need to move on to bar number two. The contest would end before it began.

My job is extremely frustrating for a wealth of reasons, but I openly admit that I love it. And I love my boss, whom I truly believe walks on water. Dr. Garrison, or Dr. G to those of us who know him, hired me twenty years ago when I was in need of “Christmas money.” With a Bachelor’s degree in French (we’ll discuss this later) and a Master’s in Education, I was extremely deficient in medical training. (As in I had zero) But he saw something special and took a chance, hiring me on the spot. I impressed him with my tenacious nature and ability to learn. He impressed me by being the most amazing physician and humanitarian I had ever met.

I proved my value by working my way from entry level medical receptionist to insurance claims processor. Dr.G, (the G actually stands for Genius) continued to guide me in leadership skills and management techniques. He appreciated my ability to assess problems and as a team, we diagnosed and treated them. As our business savvy soared, we watched the bottom line go from red to black. Soon, I was sitting at his side as his Practice Manager and virtual partner. So although I didn’t need Jack’s approval on this new revelation, I DID need Dr. G’s.

Equally important to my success was Emma Wallis. Emma was my colleague and most trusted friend at work. Although our personal dealings outside of the office were limited, (she had a husband), she was the butter on my bread in the workplace. She was Radar O’Reilly to my Colonel Potter, perceiving my needs before I did, and also like Radar, Emma always had the practices’ best interest at heart. So you see, even if Dr. G. agreed to my plan, it was dead in the water without the allegiance of Emma.

The Monday following my spontaneous declaration, I reckoned I’d start at the top and approach my boss first. (Brilliant decision huh?) Mustering my gumption and trying to prepare for the worst, or at least a laundry list of negatives, I requested an audience with Dr. G. I entered his office at the allocated time and quietly closed the door behind me as he diligently worked at his desk. Beholding his office interior was always a horror. Patient charts were scattered in all directions, notes were scribbled on pieces of prescription pads, medical journals and reference books littered every available surface. It had taken me years to comprehend that this was the natural habitat of this genius; and that no matter how deep the clutter, there was always space for tending to a problem. Today, I was the problem and as usual, he was the problem solver.

Being knee deep in thoughts and papers, he didn’t notice me at first. I stood erectly before him, braced to address his concerns for the business and to defend my madcap thought process. I have been a responsible business manager for years, eating lunch at my desk and basically being on call 24/7 for any office emergency that might arise. I have been aroused from sleep more than once in the middle of the night to meet the police due to  security system false alarms. Because of my solid history, I felt confident that I was due this indulgence, but could not face the possibility of disappointing him.

I inhaled deeply and then plunged headfirst into the icy water. “Dr. G,… I need to go to France!” I rushed on before I had a chance to lose my nerve. “I need to submerge myself in a new culture. I can’t explain why, I just feel that I have to go.” I exhaled silently through clenched teeth, awaiting his response.

He leaned way back in his swivel chair and sat pensively for a brief moment. I always hated when he did that. Each time I found myself anticipating the chair’s collapse and him tipping unceremoniously onto the floor. Then, as if he and Jack had had a prior conversation, he simply inquired, “How long will you be gone?” So there you have it. I might just as well have said that I was headed out to lunch. His response would have been the same. Oh wait, there was one other thing he asked: “When will you go?”

I was relieved but must admit, not stunned by his reaction. He is without a doubt, one of the most intuitive men I have ever known. He is a gifted leader, a good friend, and a doctor “extraordinaire.” So it was no real surprise when Dr. G. did not scream, ”Jaime, what the hell are you thinking!?” First of all, he never screams. Not once in the two decades of our personal or professional relationship have I heard him scream. And although medical terminology of Greek or Latin derivation rolls off his tongue effortlessly, he seems incapable of uttering the simplest of four letter words.

“September,” I said, finally remembering to respond. “I plan to spend two months beginning in September.”

“Where will you go in France? Where will you stay?” he asked with genuine interest. Now, these were entirely appropriate questions to which I had an utterly inappropriate answer.

“I have no idea! I just know that it will be the south of France. Somewhere on the Mediterranean Sea. I want a house, and it must be walking distance to the shore.”
I waited, allowing him a moment to ruminate over the foolhardy edict I had just unveiled, before continuing. “But I can’t go if you have any reservations whatsoever. And I can’t go unless Emma will consent to step up and assume all of my responsibilities on top of her own. I cannot in clear conscience leave our business for any amount of time without fully believing that you and our patients will be well taken care of in my absence.”

There was a moment of silence as he leaned even further back in his chair. It moaned under his weight causing me great chagrin. “I think you should go Jaime!” he said with conviction. “Now go talk to Emma.” My smile radiated with gratitude. I bear-hugged him, then backed out of his office with a very positive resolve. One down, one to go. The next victim on my horizon was Emma.

I found her glued to her computer screen curiously searching for solutions to problems in numbers. Closing the door behind me, I redirected her attention and took a deep breath. “Emma, I want to do something I have never done before.” Her voice said nothing but her look said carry-on so I did. “But I can’t do it without your help.”

Now, if there is an angel on earth whose name is Dr. G, then he has a sidekick named Emma. She appraised me with concern, yet interest, then said, dragging the word out to show her willingness to hear whatever insane thing I might say.”Ooooooookaaaaaay…I’m listening.”

She shifted uneasily in her seat as I gulped a swallow of air.”Emma, I want to take a leave of absence. I want to go away for two months, but I can’t do that without knowing that you will fill my shoes and support Dr. G and everyone here–”

“Oh my God,” she interrupted, (probably relieved that I wasn’t dying) “Oh my God! Of course I will!” She jumped her feet and squealed, “Where-are-you-going?”

“Emma!” I commanded, like the trainer of an out-of-control puppy, “Listen to what I’m saying: I want to leave all of the business issues, staff incongruities, patient annoyances, and stress I’m feeling right now, in your hands! I need you to think about this very hard and very earnestly before you commit. I want you to talk it over with Richard and understand that you are agreeing to an enormous responsibility.”

I could tell that she was no longer listening. Her head was in the clouds imagining my future. “Focus Emma,” I said. (but was thinking, Sit puppy Sit!) “I simply can’t proceed with this idea unless I know that you will be there in my place.  But, more importantly, I have to believe that you understand what you’re getting into!”

Emma gazed at me with the smile of an adoring child who had just been handed the biggest triple-scooped ice cream cone ever. She never waffled or spluttered: she simply announced, “Of course I will! Where are you going?”

“France” I replied quietly, not trusting her too eager reply. “The south of France, somewhere by the sea.”

“FRANCE!!??!! That’s fabulous!!” she shrieked. “Oh my God, that is so exciting! I can’t even imagine such a thing. But don’t call it a leave of absence,” she warned. “Call it a sabbatical.” Then she smiled, apparently pleased with her new role as my partner in crime.

So it appeared as though my second and probably most valuable ally was secured. I think the word sabbatical gave her comfort. She is a very spiritual and giving young woman, and the idea that I was taking a “time out to meditate,” as opposed to “leaving to possibly never return,” provided her serenity and peace. She never questioned that this idea was a need on my part and seemed to grasp that it had no chance of success without her and Dr. G’s buy in; she (as I knew she would) “Got It.”

I hugged her vigorously, reassured and thrilled by her response. “Please don’t tell anyone else in the office yet,” I begged. “I want you to mull over and digest everything I said before you make up your mind. Take your time and be sure that Richard is also on board. I’ve only shared this cockamamie idea with you and Dr. G. You two are the cogs that make the wheel go round.” She replied instantaneously….

“I won’t change my mind Jaime,” and added with the grin of a Cheshire cat. “You can count on me!”