Yes You Can Go Home Again

Here I sit at the end of the pool beneath the shade of an ancient silvery olive tree. I look out over the rooftops the village down below and onto the bay beyond. I look back towards the house, a grand old maison, a part of which has become, if but for a while, my, no our home.
I contemplate writing this, a twisting-turning sort of a story, the outcome of which, even I cannot predict at this time.
The story is, in a sense, a double entendre, of two meanings.
It is in the lesser sense, in the moment. A story of this house, this village and how it has become our “home”. Six years ago we made our first acquaintance with that which is here, not knowing at the time how much of our lives would become entertwined, or just how much it could become our “home”.
Now, we had known for some time now, several years in fact, that it was our landlord’s intention to sell this house. This fact throwing our own future here somewhat into confusion. So, it was upon hearing of it’s sale this past January, we were forced to confront the new reality. Additionally, we have always come here in May/June/July, not in September/October as we would this year. We had been assured by the old landlords that the new landlords were “tres sympa”, very nice, and, yes, that it was their desire to continue the rental of the apartment that we consider “home”.
But how. How will it be? Different season, the market, the cafes, the weather, the beach. And... the different owners. It’s maybe a bit silly, but I’m always haunted by the thought, that in life, change one thing and the outcome will quite possibly be totally different.
So, it was with some trepidation that, this year I move on toward the “blue”. Toward this place, not entirely comfortable in the thought that all will be as it has been.
Yet...here I sit. My trepidations largely vanished. The new landlords, they are “tres sympa”. And... for the time being, the old landlords too are here, living in the apartment next to ours on the ground floor of this grand house while they await the completion of their new home. The people, the faces we know well here, are mostly all here. The market with it’s rich local bounty, just beginning to reflect Falls changes. Yes, a couple of our restaurants are gone, sad. And a couple of the shops have changed too. But, mostly, mostly it is familiar, sweetly familiar. So easy to just “slip back into”. It just feels right again!

Now it is the second part of this story that presents a far more daunting task.. It is the “metaphorical” “going home” that I attempt to wrestle with here.
Sandy recently told me that for years she has felt that I was a man out of his time. She now adds that she feels that I am a man out of his place as well. I would have to agree.
Until now, I have never really known what my time and or place should be, just feeling somewhat awkward about the whole matter. Perhaps, even adrift.
To establish what I feel will be an important perspective, I must first share with you when and where I am from. I grew up in the 1960's in a small town, of about 2000, let’s call it Barboursville. It was at this time, classic small town America. A few of the folks were wealthy, some unfortunately, truly poor. But mostly, they were working class middle America, all living out a roughly equal lifestyle. It was a good life!!
The little town had, as they say, life in it. It was basically just two main streets intersecting. But... it had two small groceries, a great hardware store, a pharmacy (no fountain), a bank and a florist. It had a post office, an auto parts store with the IOOF Lodge upstairs, a couple of very small clothing shops with traditional storefronts, a small shoe store and a library. There were elementary, junior and high schools, a couple of little snack counters (mostly for the schoolkids) and even a “beer joint”. At the corner of Main and Central was a memorial to the fallen of WW I & WWII. Oh, and... lotsa churches, all kinds. It was small and compact. I could walk to school, all of them. I could ride my bicycle, covering the whole town in a matter of 15 to 20 minutes. It was a good time and place to grow up in. As I said, it was a good life!
But, It was however, not to last for long. Those things that had been there in my father’s youth, they vanished quickly, and in my childhood. At that age you don’t really notice such things, they just are... But... looking back, I can now see just how quickly that life collapsed around me. How lucky I had been to experience the life of my father’s youth, if only for a few of my years.
My parents are both gone now. The home of my youth. Now someone else’s home. On a visit some years back, I felt like a visitor in this, the place of my youth.
No... I could not go home again... it was gone!
In the 30 some odd years I have never found a “home” in this sense. In the modern day mobile society, I’m not sure that we as economic nomads/refugees can ever find, or perhaps better put, allow ourselves the luxury of “going home again”.

So... it is with all of this being said that in the spring of 2006 I first stumbled upon this little village on the Cote d Azur of France that we shall now call St. Nazaire. In 15 or so years of mostly European travel, I have encountered many examples of some of the treasured memories of my home as a child. A traditional life, a good life can still be found here in it’s many small towns and villages. But, here too, it is under attack from the pressures of modern life.
But never. Never, in the past 30 years have I been smitten by a place such as I have this one. It was for me as if the most cherished memories of “home” were all here, but with more. Much more!
Here I found a real and living village. No, maybe not the fishing village of it’s past, although they're still here, but now one for tourist. But... people still work, live and raise families here. There are all of the shops that I remember as a child plus butchers, bakers, florists, clothing, shoes and arts. Lots and lots of them in fact. And, there’s small grocers, bigger and biggest. There’s a daily market, can you just believe it, and an enormous 150 tent weekly Provencal market unlike anything you’ve ever seen. Restaurants of all kinds and sidewalk cafes overlooking a harbor full of sailboats, the masts spread out before me.
And it is alive, it is so beautiful and it all works! Again, a good life!
I don’t have a car here, really don’t need it. You can walk, it’s quite compact with many pedestrian streets. Everything that I need is nearby. I have a velo (bicycle) for those trips to the nearby towns, and... guess what? Many have bike lanes to them. They’re used to bicycles and people walking here, it all seems to have been laid out for that. Even those driving the cars seem to somehow know to look out for the bikes and walkers.
I can be on an awesome beach in 5-10 minutes. There is bus service to the nearby towns, every hour at least. And... and... a train station! Yes, right here in town there is a train station. You can hear the trains gliding through the town every few minutes. We can ride our velos up to the station, lock them in the provided stand with the others, lotsa others, scooters too! Buy a ticket and by days end be almost anywhere we might imagine.
How cool is that?
It is a place that is remarkably designed for living.
It is ...a great quality of life.
It is... home... but better.
I never dreamt it to be possible, but... yes, you can go home again!!

And... I have found my time an place!

KC