Chapter 7: La Vie en Rose
Harry and I adored Europe and the heavenly delectables it offered. The gastronomy deliciousness and kilometers upon kilometers of vineyards, how families prioritize spending Sundays together, and weeks of mandatory vacation time off from work (which they actually take!) were all very enticing. We had traveled to Europe numerous times before our meeting and continued during our courtship and marriage. Ironically, Paris- the city of lights and over-the-top romance, was our first and last trip together. Crazily, early in our divorce proceedings, I even suggested that we hop on a plane to Paris to work through all the specifics of our divorce agreement when we couldn't agree on anything. Although this would have been less costly than our divorce, we didn't.
For years, before we lived in France, we had a picture on our bedroom wall of the Eiffel Tower and a quote written by T. S. Elliot, "If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you." Although I was never a "young man", I had traveled to London, Switzerland, and Paris when I was an impressionable young lady of 15. I continued to Vichy, France, where I studied french while living with a french family and swore I would eventually attend Sorbonne University. Undoubtedly, this trip was when I got bit by the "travel and discover the world bug". C'est dommage, Sorbonne didn't happen, but I did get an education many years later, living in France, not taught in school.
Fast forward to 2011- Harry's employer gave us the green light to travel worldwide within one year until we found our second home, per his new international title with his company. Sharing coffee and vittles in bed, the Eiffel Tower picture in front of us, we had worked together to craftily create a new position within the company and a lucrative contract that served him, us, and our marriage well. And after much discussion, research, and surveying of the global map, we narrowed our considerations to Paris, Madrid, Barcelona, Aix en Provence, Tuscany, and Florence. Off we flew to begin our adventure! Nice, France entered the picture later, ultimately winning our hearts.
I remember Harry and I spent a dreary bone-chilling January in Paris. Along with the stereotypical haughty Parisians who were not too keen on our dog, Vino, jumping into a cab or Uber, sometimes driving away at the sight of him. I tried to embrace the joie de vivre, putting on my parka, Lulu Lemon pants, and ear pods to power walk the bustling streets filled with boutiques, to find I utterly looked like a lost midwesterner. However, when we dressed like proper Parisians in the evenings, we would enjoy jazz music, champagne, and the lovely sights of floral shops filled with every color of gorgeous roses as we strolled the arrondissements. No matter, the question arose- what would I do during my sweat-pants-filled solitary days while my husband worked and traveled? There are only so many cafes and boutiques one can fill their time with, non? I clearly had no idea how to be a "corporate housewife" at this point. Although I spoke a touch of long-lost french, I knew no one except a few of Harry's colleagues. I imagine a Montreal-speaking Canadien in Paris feeling a touch out of sorts. Pfffttt. We had considered buying a small boat and naming it "My Paris apartment", but that didn't happen either. However, I have an antique wooden sailboat with the name "Paris" written on the stern. Who knows, Paris still awaits me, peut etre.
We had a very good friend in Tuscany who owned the most charming B and B, "Borgo de Argenina" (www.Borgoargenina.it. It has since been sold to new owners). Think "Under the Tuscan Sun"- my favorite movie. I still consider Elena a beautiful lifetime friend. Through the years, we had visited many times and, for a mini-second, thought of buying it when she initially considered selling it. In that mini-second, we thought it would be nice if I ran it as host while Harry traveled for work. However, the defining factor was that it was significantly beyond our budget. We then entertained the thought of renting the charming separate dwelling amongst the gardens at the B and B because it would give me a built-in-familia-feel and an ounce of familiarity when Harry traveled, but the airport was too far away.
"Basta Tuscany. Ciao. You're no longer in the running in our search for "home".
Many years later, I had briefly pondered the possibility of moving there after our divorce, but it was a bit too remote for me to start my new single life; yet, I still dream of it today. By the way, Elena now lives in that smaller charming stone house and offers a separate lil' bungalow for rent and cooking classes.
Although Florence is beyond magically beautiful, it felt congested and overwhelming from the perspective of living there. Driving in the traffic was nightmarish, and did I mention that neither of us spoke Italian? But, the bistecca alla Fiorentina was mouth-watering good!
Aix en Provence, charming in every way with its Provence-blue shutters and doors, white-rock-sided walls, and fields of lavender, was also too far for an easy commute for Harry's constant travels. That left Spain. Although Harry spoke some Spanish and was eager to live here, I knew no more than the basics, such as "Hola". If I were to become the homemaker, housekeeper, and corporate housewife, I would have no idea how to manage independently. I would know no one as I couldn't communicate, basically in isolation, when Harry traveled for days and weeks at a time. No gracias. So, off we went to Nice, France- where the sun shines most of the year, the gorgeous blue sea twinkles like diamonds, surrounded by a canyon of mountains, a foreign language I could semi-speak and comprehend, and the perfect home I eventually found for us!
Finding that perfect home was a feat in itself! The entire process of moving there- learning how to shop, bank, or buy a couch and beds brought us frustrated tears and thunderous laughter on more than one occasion. I remember one rainy day when we went to the equivalent of a Target to buy all the essential home supplies that filled two overflowing carts. They didn't supply bags, so I had to leave my driver's license to be allowed to bring the carts out to the car to unload while Harry drove up and down the numerous one-way small village streets, trying to find where I was waiting in the rain. Or when UPS was to deliver our mattresses from England and couldn't find our home. Harry drove to meet them, putting the mattresses on the car's roof while also raining.
Another extraordinary moment was when our outdoor furniture was to be delivered, promised within days, as our overseas furniture shipment was not going to arrive for a few more weeks. "It is impossible" was a phrase we became familiar with. Harry and I drove to the store just down the road, a few miles away down the mountain, and threatened to cancel our order of approximately $4000. Voila, they had a friend's truck available to deliver that day. Thank God for persistence and laughter! We now had an outdoor couch, table, and chairs to plant our derrieres (and visiting friends), mattresses on the floor to sleep on, and supplies to get us through until our United States goodies arrived. The off-white linen living room couch we ordered? Three months. I still find myself slightly grinning as I recount the memories of this time. And, as you will learn much later in this memoir, I also find laughter in that this was mere "prep" for my experience moving to Mexico eleven years later as a single divorcee.
For months, finding the house to become our home was my task, and I discovered it to be extremely daunting. After months of searching via the internet to no avail, I walked the streets of Nice during a January record-breaking cold spell. Bundled up as snow gracefully fell, I walked real estate office to real estate office. I quickly learned that although they would have rental listings on their windows, they were not actually available. And I was literally told that a two-bedroom, two-bath rental was non-existent. I used google translate to help both sides of our ridiculous and hilarious "Franglish", including acting out a dog barking to explain we had a dog to be included in the rental, although he didn't bark often.
With my learning curve at its height and my intellect exhausted by the end of the day, I turned to Harry's Parisian colleague to assist. She would confirm the few listings I would find and set up appointments for me to see them. The best excursion was being driven on the back of a Moped to a potential site. Alas, I found two potentials- one near the city center and the unit we rented- an apartment amongst five total in a 200-year-old chateau situated on the hills of the wine country, St. Roman de Bellet, just a 15-minute drive above Nice. We agreed that it was "parfait" and named our home "Chateau Basta".
Our French adventure officially began when we received the keys on our sixth wedding anniversary. The highlight of our new home was our enormous garden in the center of the chateau at the bottom of the grand original stone and brick staircase. Although, it was sadly overgrown and needed much love and attention. A few months later, we joyfully flew Carlos to France for five weeks to assist with the sizeable task. While Vino ran around in delight, we worked our tushies off for weeks, sometimes not quitting until ten at night! Of course, we had our fair share of rose spritzers and limoncello to help with our body aches and pains. Then, exhausted and feeling ravenous, we would sit down to a delicious homemade meal served with a bottle of wine we brought back from Tuscany or one of our neighborhood wineries. We loved going down to the Cours Saleya farmer's market for an array of fresh veggies, fruits, cheeses, and sausages for the week. We also had a petite local grocery store and butcher just down the road. Amidst our now-blooming garden, we lived a bountiful life.
For years, I loved walking the historic staircase down to the garden. With Vino playing or sleeping peacefully on the grass, I would continue to spend hours almost every day tending to the thousands of roses, lavender bushes, and various fruits and herbs we planted. I would sing and dance in the garden or work on a cabaret show I was creating. The magical garden became my perfect friend- a retreat filled with beauty, peace, and creativity.
Shortly after my Mother passed, there was a red rose bush that produced one white rose, just one, in seven years. It had only been the year before we moved in that I floated a single white rose in her memory in a park lake just underneath the Eiffel Tower. She and I had taken an impromptu trip to Paris a few years prior, the only European trip in her lifetime. Ironically, she had been a florist in her senior years, so I naturally found comfort and did not doubt her angelic presence at the chateau.
Summers were my favorite time to be in Nice. My adult kids, and eventually their special gals (now wives), would come to visit for a week. We would spend the day at glamorous Riviera beach clubs, ordering jeroboams of Minuty rose. Or, stroll the winding streets of Vieux Nice, stop for gelato at Fenocchio, gobble down some fresh socca, or visit with our friends at Girofle Et Cannelle while tasting their gourmet spices, olive oils, and limoncello. At the chateau, we'd share fabulous meals under the gazebo, play games, swim, and laugh a "shit ton", (my older son's favorite phrase back then when referring to the sun-dried tomatoes he would gobble up like candy). And the piece de resistance was taking a vaca-within-a-vaca to a nearby destination in Italy or Chamonix. To this very day, those weeks of "summering" with my kids, talking and sharing experiences, were the highlight of my life's summers.
We would throw an annual soirée at "Chateau Basta" for a few years, which became a much-anticipated summer event for all. (Sadly, our final soirée was canceled after much deliberation due to our marital discord). Neighbors or shop owners who didn't know each other became friends while a pianist played in the background in the magnificent rose-filled garden (yes, I would sing a couple!). To top it off, we prepared a homemade menu consisting of colorful appetizers, an array of meats and veggies prepared on the bbq, chocolate-filled desserts, and a fresh cheese tray that would drip in creamy yumminess. Bottles upon bottles of champagne and rose flowed, and the local vintners would share their exquisite reds as it grew into the evening. The candelabra gleamed as the candles flickered in the gazebo, the joyous laughter played throughout, and the Mederterrainian sea glistened below. I felt like I was living the dream.
As one may imagine, when we began our divorce, I felt tormented by the mere thought of leaving this once-magical place. But, my now-married kids had let us know they were no longer planning to come to France as they now had many other places to explore with their children. I had momentarily considered staying on, but Harry had settled that quandary during our divorce. And, to be honest, it had lost its innocent happy-go-lucky feeling; instead, it had become what felt like a war zone- verbally, physically, and emotionally. I needed to be back home in Chicago.
A neighbor, and friend, in the chateau had told me something I'll never forget during the final year's abyss.
"Amy, YOU, YOU are the sunshine here. When you arrived, no one knew each other. YOU created that."
However, the "sunshine" had forgotten how to shine. And like the single white rose, it no longer bloomed.
