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

Up the Coast & "Into the Blue"

As I roll with the train from Camogli, northward along the Italian Riviera, my first brush with the seductive charms of Italy nearly 12 years ago, passing thru town after town, many of whom I have known, I ask myself, what is it from Ventigmilia on, that seperates this glorious stretch of coastline from that on the other side.
To the north of Genoa is the most similar to the Cote d' Azur, broad sandy to pebbley beaches, resort towns looking much as they did in the 60's and 70's, ever popular with Italian families, sleepy now, but all too popular in July and August. For an Italian, it would be unthinkable to bathe until at least July. There are gems to be found, San Remo, belle epoch lady with her La Pigna (pine cone) old center, Bordighera with it's Monet captured gardens, Imperia with the best EVO in Italia and Alssio with perhaps the finest sandy beaches in these parts. Unfortunately, some of these little purpose-built resorts now seem a bit worn and sometimes a little claustrophobic, especially where town encroaches upon sea.
South of Genoa, Liguria's answer to Marseille or Naples, the townscape can alternate wildly between lovely old belle epoch resorts-Santa Margherita, too cute harbors- Portofino, comfy fishing village/resort- Camogli, uninspired concrete bloc holiday resorts- Rapallo, Chiaviari, Lavagne & the like, on past to nearly vertical green coastline of the too cute and too popular Cinque Terre villages, ending somewhere between the lovely Portovenere and gritty La Spezia, everyones rail stop southward.
I realize that my my observations may seem less than effusive, however, I really do love Liguria, I just don't seem to be able to "slip into the blue" here and I puzzled, attempting to reconcile that.
Real Time!
Stop in Ventigmilia, change trains, westbound for France via Monte Carlo, best little city/state money can buy, and yes, you better have plenty of it here!
Destination, Menton-lemon town, warmest and sunniest spot on the Cote d' Azur due to a fortunate blessing of geography. Can't remember now why it failed to pass muster in '06, seems perfectly charming as we depart the gare and head for old town. Center Ville,(Old town) is lovely and compact, like a "mini Nice".
Italian is still common here, for this part of France has been France for only about 100 years, a delicious melange of French, Italian and Provencal colours, tastes smells and sounds. It's been a fine journey here, but now to relax, a cafe, a carafe of rose and the promenade. I feel myself ever-so little bit "slipping into the blue".
Find myself having trouble changing gears from my piccola l'Italliano to une petit peau Francais, but here is forgiving, they too mix and shift between.
It's a grilled fish night and back to the lovely promenade for a touristy dinner by the sea. Dorade and a carafe of rose for both of us. Very good, not excellent, and as you would expect for the location, a little overpriced.
We both reflect, nearly 3 weeks and counting and we both yearn for some home cooked food. Resturant meals, no matter how good, can become tiring after so long. Oh well- that too will soon be changing.
Jarred back to "the moment" we both now sense some of what discounted Menton in '06. In a word TRAFFIC.
The most welcoming towns have been those who are the most pedestrian friendly, old towns largely restricted to foot traffic, streets lined with alluring little cafes to wile away the afternoon, little shops and resturants to tempt you with their charms.
Now about that traffic. Also thru an accident of geography, Menton is squeezed between mountians and sea with the result not much room for the restless flow of traffic. The promenade on the sea side is narrowed, the road busy and the frontscape of the town all truncated into by necessity, a bit too compact a footprint.
Unfortunate- for this town is not short on charms. The old town, distinct and seperate from new town as is common along the Cote d' Azur and no small part of it's charm, is as lovely and alluring as any. The pebbley beaches stretch along the entire length of the town with ample chair/parasol cafe distractions. The harbor an equal to any with multitudinous multicolor boats and masts bobbing and swaying with the old town profile ascending the hill- as a backdrop.
A jewel in it's crown, the city marketplace, a covered permenant year around affair. A feast for the senses. Truly gorgeous and visited weekly by the travelling market (more on those later). God, I just want to buy it all and cook, simply perfect.
We lunched at a little backstreet crepery, two towering salads for both, mine a Niceoise of course, actually a Mentonaise variant (Niceoise by name varies wherever you eat it, the only constant, tuna) washed with a carafe of rose. Sat next to a charming mother/daughter- Mentonaise, we would soon learn after the daughter asked in Irish lilted english (studied in Ireland) if we would mind if her mother smoked. Imagine that! Wow, France has come a long way in 15 years.
She knew where we were from, she had studied arts management at the College of Charleston, Une Petit Monde, and was now the manager of a dance company in NYC, Alvin Ailey I belive, and was visiting her mother for two weeks. Momma, who spoke no english, was understandably proud of her daughter and only too happy to try and chat with us. Times like this my inability with the language really frustrates me.
Oh- this is a great time to mention the European seating tradition. Places are small with little two person cafe tables side-by-side. Intimate for the pair at the table but warm and communal with your table mates on either side. I can't tell you how many fascinating times we have shared over the years, truly one of my favorite aspects of European culture and, sadly missing back home.
Menton for me, is not a culinary destination, fresh seafood and now that I'm in France, more abundant vegetables. Here I can follow my nose and the locals. I eat good and spend less.
Home was the Hotel Moderne, two star, quite reasonable @ 78e and very comfortable, conviently located close to the gare and old town. Perfect!
Menton, nearly perfect but for it's mixed blessing of geography and the traffic.
That being said, I do feel that familiar "slip into the blue" beginning and I suspect as I journey westward over the next few days, it will begin to wash over me.
A bientot,
Cousin

I'm a newbie to blogging, so, here I am trying to find my legs.
First- "My Cousin in Provence", aka Kevin, me and my wife Sandy. We will be posting regularly as we travel and sometimes live on the Cote d' Azur- and when not doing that, our posts will be mined from 15 years of European travel.
In my first two posts I want to explore what makes a person thirst for travel, me in particular. Second, I would like to offer our philosophy of travel and how our life is richer because of it.

"Bit By The Bug"

As a son of '58 life was radio, b&w tv (3 channels), landlines and books. Internet?What? Imagination was my companion. Fueled by the likes of National Geographic and "Lowell Thomas Remembers", hours of my young mind were filled with travel dreams.
My Father, now gone, was a Navy Man in the 50's and criss-crossed the Mediterranean many times. His tales of far-off places, often repeated (tell me again daddy) were a staple of countless evenings. Marseille, Nice, Genoa, Trieste, Rome, Istanbul, Tripoli, Algiers. I could see these places in my mind as he told them over and over again. The 2CV taxi in Marseille, he and his buddy had to get out and push up the hill, 'cause it just couldn't go. The spice market in Istanbul, monkeys of Gibralter, walking down the "can-o-beer". I wanted to be in those places, know about those people, and what it was like to live there?

Soon after, I would meet my "Travel Muse". She a teacher, mine, 5th grade, was unlike anyone I've ever known. Classically trained in Greek and Latin Literature- she traveled extensively each Summer. When she arrived, she had already "been". She new the history, art, myth and culture of a place. It was alive for her. And each Fall for nearly 10 years I sought her sage and would find myself lost in her Summers adventure. For her- these were not just places- but people, events, the interconnectedness of everything. The mental images she could conjure-so real! She was Francis Mayes, Peter Mayle and MFK Fisher- I didn't yet know them.
And I was hooked!! I vowed I too would learn to see beyond the place- seek the richness of experience- and most of all, travel at every opportunity. Life sometimes has it's way with you- it took me 15 years to begin- but since- it has been and is the sweetest 15 year work in progress.

Cousin