I push out into the light: it’s morning. I’ve overslept my alarm, and that’s ok. There’s the church bells coming at 9, but these days they don’t tell me when I have to arrive, or where.
Today, I choose the banks of the Loire, heading east. This morning is an illumined morning, inside and out. My eyes and my heart catch the rosy glow of the rising sun upon the water, and I greet the seagull with joy.
The river runs its course, steady on, as if pressed for time; it continues on from Angers to Chinon, and will find the sea by the time the day is done. Quite the accomplishment.
While the city plays out on my right, with much to discover, I am not concerned with her today. Give me nature. The pavement opens to cobblestones on the left, and I follow them down to the water’s surface, losing the most invasive drones of traffic. The bare, brown structure of coneflowers are clambered over by still-green thornbushes, some still attached to their dried up fruits. At the water’s edge, there are baubles of yellow on some fall flower. I am grateful for these late bloomers.
The day stretches before me, and I have as much choice for my activities as for this morning’s route. Sometimes I wish there were a structure, a path. Today, however, I am glad for the freedom.
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I push out into the night. It’s barely evening; dinner is still an hour or two away. Yet the sky has gone dark and the kitchen windows have lit up. Those not home yet from work seem to be out on the streets and sidewalks; there are many passer-by to dodge on the narrow sidewalk. They can see my breath from far off, but avoid eye contact.
Across the downtown, I take a fork in the road at a high, stone wall. A grim 80’s building appears behind some hedges, its large windows revealing active figures within. The parking lot is abuzz. I climb the steps, grocery bags in hand.
Inside, tables are set up, and lines are formed. I can’t help but smile. Into the warmth we all come to pick up fresh, local food. The baker comes out from behind her table to greet me warmly and see how the job search is going. She passes me two large, round loaves sparkling with seeds; their aroma envelops us as we talk. There is milk from large coolers, wedges of aged cheese cut and wrapped, flour scooped into jars, and abnormally-small eggs from young hens just beginning to lay.
Then I wait for the veggies. We all wait; there are items to be weighed, and it takes time. I am glad there’s a little boy in front of me for entertainment. When I make funny faces at him, he says nothing but “Bah!” with a growl.
It’s my turn. It’s my favorite moment of the week, I think. I weigh funny-shaped carrots from the bottom of the crate—the rejects. Radish, turnip, leek, cabbage, frisé lettuce. The farmer and I chat. I don’t know which cabbage to choose, and take the closest one. There are tall, elegant lettuces called “Sugar Bread” laid out in the basket at the end. Their form is like Van Gogh’s poplar trees waving in the wind. Into the bag, tenderly. I thank Gregory for the beautiful vegetables, and cut through the line and out the door.
In the street it begins to feel like Christmas time. The classy clothes shops are setting up their storefronts with sweaters and fake snow. Homesickness strikes and I feel the sting in my eyes.
Not tonight, I decide, not this time. In midstride, I register where I am. I remember the thousand times I had imagined living in France, tracing cobbled streets and passing by wonky houses—not as a tourist, but with groceries. Not visiting, but living. Not alone, but with friends. It is a time to be thankful.
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