This is how it all started:
When my brother and I were young, our parents would often pile us in the car to go visit our family and friends on the West Coast. California, Oregon, Washington, Arizona- at the time, we thought this was SO COOL. We would play the license plate game in the backseat, giggle at all of the crazy Mad Libs stories we concocted, eat McDonald’s from the drive-thru, and stay in motels- all of which felt like an awesome adventure. We would swim in the hotel pool until our fingers turned into prunes, watch funny shows on TV, and mix together every single sugary cereal we could at the hotel breakfast buffet.
In the quiet time in the car, I loved staring out the car, imagining what lives were happening behind curtained windows and down pretty driveways. This time always felt separate somehow from reality. Upon arrival at our destinations, we were frequently greeted by slobbering dogs or chirping birds, dashing madly into a backyard swimming pool as soon as we could manage it. While I realize now that these road trips and stays with family were away for my parents to afford to take us on vacation without having to spend a lot of money, these trips planted travel seeds somewhere in my psyche. The trips instilled in me the urge to get the heck out of town every now and again, for a change of scenery, different food, and climate, and as a way to meet new people, if just while playing in the pool.
One of my earliest memories of the French language is the play that our second-grade French class put on for our school. We set up a small, round table on the school auditorium stage, covered with blue and white checked tablecloths, tiny vases with flowers, and tall menus standing on end. Our little café complete, we donned our berets, took our places, and sat nervously as the other school children filed in. Our wonderful teacher, Madame Bernabe, directed quietly as we ordered hot chocolates and slices of quiche from our classmates, making sure to pronounce our words correctly and loud enough for the auditorium to hear. I don’t remember much of what happened after that, but ordering my first hot chocolate and slice of quiche in a Paris café some twenty years later, that memory came warmly flooding back.
My brother and I were constantly in and out of private and public schools throughout our childhood. While my brother took up Spanish in 7th grade instead of French, I stayed on with French because I loved it. In class, I watched how crepes and raclette were made- my brave teacher making us snacks in the classroom to demonstrate the importance of food in French culture. We sang the songs that French children sang at Christmas, watched video stories of French children exploring Paris after school, and began to recognize different cities on a map of France. Over time, I studied the art and architecture of France, falling in love with Monet and the Rococo period, and learning more about France’s complicated history. I loved the sound of the language, and the personalities of the people I absorbed from the page, the screen, and the paintings. I longed to go to France and see it all for myself.
It would make sense then, that on a snowy, freezing winter day in New York City when I stumbled upon a used book called “A Year in Provence” by Peter Mayle in a bookshop that I ducked into in order to escape the cold, I snapped it up immediately. In fact, there were 3 other books beside it on the shelf that I bought, too- “Encore Provence”, “Toujours Provence” and “French Lessons”. I spent that winter spellbound by the magical, sunny world of Provence, the author’s adopted homeland. Mr. Mayle spun hilarious stories of home renovation, wily peasants, funny plumbers, weekly open-air markets, visits to vineyards, epic dinners, and the pleasures of whiling away time people-watching in a café. They were tales of a pace of life and culture that resonated in my heart.
Since that snowy winter, I’ve traveled to France many times. I’ve even completed the wine Marathon du Medoc that Peter Mayle described in one of his books. My Mom and I have explored much of this vast, complex country, eating, drinking, and laughing our way along while learning ever more about France and French culture. We’ve tasted Champagne in cellars four stories beneath the streets, accidentally ordered swordfish tartare in a smoke-heavy restaurant, listened to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons performed in the glittering Chapel at Saint-Germain-de-Pré in Paris, battled jet lag on a train to Avignon, wandered around Roman monuments and World War Two memorials, and laughed so hard driving down a country road that we had to pull over because we had tears streaming down our faces and could no longer see. Our adventures have not always been glamorous or without challenges, but we have taken them in stride as we have embraced being foreigners in a new place.
The little girl in a beret carefully pronouncing her vowels on the auditorium stage would be proud. So would the little girl daydreaming in the backseat of our family car, and the young woman curled up reading in a Manhattan studio in a snowstorm. I can’t wait to get started on this next great adventure- Vibrant Travelers.