Rocquefort, Poilâne, and a Frenchman: FWB redux

            This weekend at the Carrousel du Louvre is a wine salon. Naturally, my FWB is attending. He came up last night on the TGV after his interview in Nîmes for a VIE (Volontariat International en Entreprise), i.e.:

                Le Volontariat International en Entreprises (V.I.E), instauré par la loi du 14 mars 2000,  permet aux entreprises françaises de confier à un jeune, homme ou femme, jusqu’à 28 ans, une mission professionnelle à l’étranger durant une période modulable de 6 à 24 mois, renouvelable une fois dans cette limite.

                The International Business Internship, inaugurated by the law of March 14th 2000, allows French business to entrust a young person, man or woman, up to the age of 28, a professional mission abroad for a flexible period of 6 to 24 months, renewable one time within this limit.

              Unfortunately for him, the business he's looking to VIE for already has someone on-site in New York currently doing a VIE and they will most likely hire that person full time with an American J-1 work visa, aka, meaning they won't take anymore stagiaires, such as my FWB, in NYC. (YES!!!! VICTORY!)  However, should the business not hire the current individual in the job, my FWB explained that he is one of four candidates to be sent to New York in that person's place. 

           Oh sweet Jesus I am a horrible person who wants you to S-T-A-Y.

          Funnily enough, I was also turned down for a full time job yesterday in Paris, for the third time. Oh how timing is everything right now, or so it seems. Hélas. 

          Last night I spoiled my FWB and bought him amazingly good cheese from Nicole Barthélémy, which is Barefoot Contessa Ina Garten's favorite cheese shop in Paris. Nicole is the queen of cheese and regularly given national awards for her craft. If you like cheese, it is heaven, and I happen to love cheese (there's a reason my own father used to call me ¨Mouse¨ when I was a kid!). I share this love of cheese with my FWB, who like any red flooded Frenchman, can't get enough. 

            I was also eager to show my FWB the difference with his own local Claudine Vigier, who is Nicole's rival.  Cheese is serious business in France. You walk into Nicole Barthélémy and you are immediately helped by one of the staff fromagères who ask you what you're looking for. These goddesses of all things cheese will then propose not only several varieties of what you're searching (comte, gruyère, brébis, tome de brébi, the list goes on) but also multiple affinages based on how long the cheese has been left to age, most commonly 6, 12, 18, 24, and even 36 months.  A cheese's character and taste change over time, like a wine's. You can also tell, as my FWB taught me, how long a cheese has been aged based on the thickness of the rimmed crust ( the croûte ) which is produced as the milk in the cheese dries out. I've been in this country two and a half years and yet there is still so much to learn...

             Thus, to prepare FWB's arrival, I walked around the corner and picked out a fabulously rich and salty Rocquefort (one of FWB's and my favorites), a good comté, and his ultimate favorite cheese, a beaufort d'été. Then it was on to charcuterie (rillettes, saucisse séche, mousse de foie, saumon fumé) and...drum roll please...Poilâne. 

The pretty paper bag the bread comes in :) 

            Poilâne is a Parisian institution. Founded in 1932 by a young baker from Normandy, the bakery is still located on 8, rue du Cherche-Midi in the 6th arrondissement and about 10 minutes walk from my studio. FWB had tried slightly dried out Poilâne that we'd bought at Claudine Vigier, and I wanted him to try fresh Poilâne to taste the difference. I bought a quarter of a round.  I should've bought a half a round...when I say he likes bread, I do not lie. He downnnned slice after slice. Yet he is trim...sigh. If I ate bread like he does, I'd be a whale. The small price to pay for being a woman, alas. He was very, very happy with the bread though. 

            ¨When the bread isnt good, you don't eat a lot of it,¨ he explained. ¨But when it's really, really 

good, you eat a lot!¨ 

            The same apparently goes for cheese. What was supposed to be our apéro turned into our dinner. Full of good cheese and charcuterie (we both LOVE rillettes like mad, I've discovered) and wine he brought, he was sleepy and laid back onto me on my couch. I was so happy to have spoiled him. So damn happy. I put his head in my lap and stroked his hair and he closed his eyes. There are moments when I just want to hold him forever and never let him go, I am so at ease around him, so comfortable and so happy. It feels very natural, nothing is forced. Even the silence between us is easy, sometimes there is no need for words, no need to feel the gaps with idle chatter. 

              He is again staying at my place this weekend while I jet off to the countryside for work (UGH. I need my life back!)  but he was adorable this morning and didn't want to go (!!!!) to his wine salon, which started at 10. We woke up at 9 and he hugged me and exclaimed: 

               ¨I don't want to go I don't want to go I don't want to leave!¨

               Don't go don't go don't go then stay here stay in France stay with me invite me down for Christmas and I will stay and you will stay and we will stay all we want. 

               I handed him my set of spare keys and hugged him. Then he left, off to taste a large list of wine. I'll be back early enough on Sunday to see him before he leaves again for Avignon. 

               Then I went off to Poilâne, and bought him a half a round of Poilâne for the week-end...

          

     

           

            

Tempted to Have These Made

     Am I nuts? And can you tell what team I'm rooting for?

       You can judge while I sip my Côtes-du-Rhône. I care not.

     

The Day After the Fairytale

      Monday in Paris was cold and grey. It felt empty and lonely and I wanted it to be Thursday. I couldn't help but see FWB everywhere: in the wine shops on rue du Bac and rue de Grenelle, smiling outside my front door like he always does when I see him.

       I thought about the cheese shop around the corner, Nicole Barthelemy, and how on Thursday I need to pick up brébis and beaufort d'été for him, and hot chocolate because his favorite breakfast is good toast dipped in hot chocolate. He doesn't drink any form of caffeine, never has.

        I thought about how we bought the famous Parisian bread, Poilâne, at the fromagère in Carpentras, and while it was good, it was a few days old, so I'd have to buy fresh Poilâne for him to try.

        FWB makes me want to do nice things for him, thoughtful things. He makes me want to surprise him and buy his favorite cheese and just hug him half to death.

        My concentration is shot to hell. I had a midterm in Italian and had a hard time focusing.

        Instead I wrote like a madwoman on this blog trying to get it all down so I won't forget anything. Like I did in my moleskine journal last year after I met him.

         Then I went down to the card shop on rue du Bac and bought two thank you cards, one for him, and one for his parents. I sat down in my apartment to write them both, paying super close attention to my French, and then went to the post office. They were whisked down to Provence last night.

          My words are the truest gift of self I know how to give. This is why I slipped him a goodbye letter in his backpack last year before he left.

          I am alone, pinching myself, unable to concentrate, completely and hopelessly swept off my feet, and afraid. Very afraid of the unknown, either way: of him leaving and disappearing, or of him staying and me not knowing where this will go in either case.

          I do not know how this story ends.

          This is but a chapter.

         All I know is what I knew, somehow in my gut last October: it is not over yet.

A Fairytale in Provence: part V

              On Sunday we were dead tired from dancing. We really slept in. Normally a morning person, I felt strange sleeping so late. By the time we were up, it was near noon. As I dressed I could hear FWBs grandma upstairs.  He came down the stairs to get me once I was showered and presentable. And then I had to face the fam.

              Odette, FWBs maternal grandmother, is in her 80s, and insanely close to her grandson, who is very much the pride and joy of both his mom and grandma. Grandma is apparently a fabulous cook who still makes FWB the lunches he takes to work, the way she has been feeding him since he was a schoolboy. But you know what they say about men: if a man knows how to treat his mom and the women in his life, he'll treat his significant other or wife well too. This is certainly true for FWB: he's taking his grandma on a surprise ten-day cruise in December to Malta and the Grecian islands. She knows he's taking her somewhere, but not where yet, and she is adorably worried.

               Once upstairs I was ushered into the living room and met the famous grandma. We then sat down to a formal lunch prepared by FWB's mom, an entrée of salad and French cake, which is like a soft egg bread filled with cheese and ham and olives, and then mushrooms in a vinagrette. This was followed my a truffled omelette and then a typical southern dish, tomates farcies, which were fragrant and delicious. We finished off lunch with a mirabelle and apple tarte since it was FWBs dad's birthday (which I didn't know until the last minute! Or I would've brought something!) and delicious red wine and a mousseux de limoux with dessert. I was very full.

                 FWB's mom coyly asked how we met through the course of the meal.
 
                ¨ At a bar in the 6th after the first week of Master¨ he explained. He was trying to avoid what I like to call, and what my mom likes doing (love you too Mom), the Spanish Inquisition.

                Oh if you only knew you adorable French woman. She cannot be stupid, as most mothers aren't: it's not every day your son brings home an attractive young 20 something Californienne, not to toot my own horn. But I know mothers because I am close to mine and FWB's mother cannot be oblivious. She clearly, clearly had more questions she would've liked to ask.

                 Once lunch was over she and I chatted more and I said that it must have been hard for her to not have her son for a year, especially since he is an only child.  It must be even harder thinking that he might leave for the states. She said yes, but that it's different with boys, that she would've liked to have a daughter because mothers and daughters tend to be close. I nodded in agreement and explained this is the case with my mom.

                  ¨Maybe one day I'll be close to my daughter-in-law,¨ she laughed instead.

*  *  *

                  On Sunday, my train did not leave until 8h30 at night. I deliberately scheduled the latest train I possibly could to maximize my time down south. At three in the afternoon I could already feel my heart crippling under the dread of leaving, my chest tightening and choking back yet unshed tears. It was sunny out and FWB's parents suggested we take advantage of the sun since rain was in the forecast but held off. 

                    FWB then drove me to the hill at the top of his village where we overlooked the acres and acres of golden vineyards who slept in repose after the harvest. We went to the little church, which dates to the 12th century, overlooking the rest of the sleepy village.

                    ¨It's where I had my communion,¨ he touched the wooden doors. 

                    Then we hopped back into the car like we had all week-end. He took me to Séguret, where his grandma was born, then to Sablet, some of the most picturesque villages in all of France. I teased him, said it reminded me of Belle in Beauty and the Beast, and that I felt like I was walking through Disneyland the village was so quaint. 

                     Afterwards we drove to the dentelles de Montmirail and hiked to the top. We gazed out over the green, lush mountain tops hunching over pruned vines whose grapes were long gone. 

                      Then it was off to Vacqueyras and Gicondas, where he drove us through the vineyards. We stopped at wineries where he had worked summers as a teenager, and in Chateauneuf-du-Pape we pulled over so he could show me the AOCs famous stones: the vines grow upward through a thick layer of stones that, in the summer, absorb the heat of the day and reflect it back on the fruit in the evening as it cools, producing a rich, full grape bursting with juice. I picked two of the stones and he picked another one for me and I slid them into my bag to take home. 

                       The sun was sinking ever lower and time was passing ever more quickly. 

                       FWB mentioned that it was a shame the tasting room was not open, because we should've gone. 

                        ¨Next time you're here,¨ he said. La prochaine fois. You clearly want there to be a next time. But when will that be? I do not know. 

                       I did not want to leave. 

*  *  * 

                       After the vineyards, we went to the little island cross from the Pont d'Avignon and walked arm in arm, hand in hand. It was dark and the lights reflected on the river water. I tried to avoid looking at the time on my cell phone. 

                       ¨On se promène en amoureux,¨ he teased. 

                      Then we went to Avignon one more time, to grab a warm drink before I had to leave. We were across from one another,  him caressing my cheek, me doing the same.

                      ¨What was your favorite village? Or your favorite thing this whole weekend?¨ he asked me.

                      ¨Getting to see where you are from. Your village,¨ I replied. He smiled. He tried to make me pronounce the name of his village again. It is very, very hard given the first letter is an R. French R's are brutal.  He teased me all weekend when I couldn't quite get it.

                       ¨Not bad not bad, but not quite...you're getting there though!¨

                       ¨It's hard!¨ I laughed. ¨R is hard!¨

                       Then he took me to the train station. 

*  *  * 

                        At the train station, he took my suitcase in hand. We had a bit of time but I could feel my heart welling. He is planning to be in Paris this coming Thursday night, after his interview in Nîmes for his potential job in the USA. But  with time to kill, we went to the billeterie so he could buy his ticket for Thursday. 

                         Then I had to board and he walked me to check-in. There were trains on the tracks departing, not mine, but others. 

                         ¨Look, your train is leaving, I guess you'll have to stay, you're stuck here! You're not allowed to leave!¨

                         ¨I wouldn't mind that,¨ I felt the lump in my throat. I turned to face him and knew the tears were there. I hugged him. He leaned in and kissed me and I know he saw the tears I was fighting to hold back. His looked a bit teary too. He tried to say goodbye quickly, because it was painful, because neither of us wanted to. 

                          Then he left me and I bawled waiting for the train. 

                         I am not a crier. It is hard to move me this much emotionally, I can usually hold it together. The last time I cried like this was when he left the first time. 

*  *  * 

                          Once back in Paris, in my studio, after midnight, I started to unpack. My suitcase seemed oddly heavy. I laid it on my couch and unzipped it. 

                          There, nestled in amongst my sweaters, was a bottle of Vin Doux Naturel. The one he made me taste on our first date. The one I searched Paris high and low for last December to bring home to California, and had told him I hunted for. The one made by the local cave in his village. 

                            He had snuck it into my suitcase lord knows when. 

                           It is this sort of attention to detail, this caliber of thoughtfulness that is going to kill me, that has stolen my heart and whisked it away. He is out to rip my sentimental heart straight out of my chest. You cannot do these things and not expect me to get attached, to not expect me to fall for you. 

                           I didn't think it was possible that someone like this could exist, and if they existed, that they would want to do this for me. This is the sort of thing that happens in a fairytale. Pinch me now, how is this real? And how is it happening to me? I do not know what I did to deserve it, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world right now. 

                           But it also elicited another round of tears. It is painful not having him here, thinking about what could happen, where he could go. Where I could go. 

                           I texted my best friend in California. 

                           ¨Damn girl,¨ she messaged me back. ¨Think you snagged yourself a good one.¨

                           I have I have good lord ever I have, please just let me keep him. 

                          My heart has been stolen. I want no one else.

                          I am Cinderella, living a fairytale between Paris and Provence, afraid of when the clock strikes midnight and the spell will be broken. 

A Fairytale in Provence: part IV

           At Y's later Saturday evening, we arrived with the six cheeses and two loaves of bread (like I've said, cheese and bread are serious business in this country), at Y's. Y had picked up a bucket load of oysters and FWB had also carefully picked two bottles of wine from his personal collection, housed in the cave in his basement. Y then got a call from their friend JP to come to his parent's mansion, seeing as they were away for the weekend.

            I had brought clothes to change into, and needed to freshen up. M lent me her straightening iron and I did my hair and makeup. When I walked out, and just as we were leaving for JP's,  FWB pulled me aside and said in a silly voice ( he's a big goofball half the time ):

             ¨You are dressed too sexily to go out! You have to stay here!¨

             I looked at M. I was in opaque black tights and a long t-shirt dress in a pretty green paisley print that was slightly décolleté, but no where near indecently, and I had put on my favorite red Dior lipstick.  M retorted that it was just because he didn't want other men to steal me.

             ¨Ne t'inquiète pas,¨ I tapped him on the nose. ¨ C'est bien difficile de m'attraper.¨ In other words, there is no need to worry my FWB: I am all yours, and only yours. 

              We--me, FWB, Y, M, and their friend Bob--made our way to JP's a few blocks away. M and I explored the house, which had to date back to the 18th century, while the men opened the oysters and prepared the cheese. Our contribution was plating the pre-cut bread. We sat around the formal table and lit the candelabra and had wine and oysters in the dark.

               Then, like any good adventure in wine country, we explored the cave of the house. It was cold and FWB nestled into me, and then he got my jacket for me. We were glued together, my hand in the back pocket of his jeans, his arm around my waist. I could've stayed there all night tucked into his side.

               *  *  * 

                After dinner, we made our way to the place Pie for drinks. We were seated outside at tables and I was slightly tipsy from all the wine, but not enough to be warm. Seated once again next to FWB, we were once again nestled into one another when Y exclaimed: 

                ¨Alright, I'm finally drunk enough to ask this, are you two together or WHAT? What with all your back rubbing and cuddling!¨

                We were both silent but didn't curl out of each other's arms. 

                The truth is that that is a complicated question. If we were in the same place and not trying to go to each other's respective countries at the same time, I would've without hesitation said yes. Because the other truth is this: I do not want anyone else. I do not want to see any other people anymore. I do not give a damn about E or Monsieur Lawyer. I want FWB and only FWB. And I would give just about anything right now to be able to keep him. I am beginning the heavens on my knees to please just let me keep him. I am tired of dating people who are content to let me get away, I cannot bear to live through another person who just lets me get away. 

                Please don't let me go. Please please please please. 

               But I do not have any answers. Half of me wants to curse myself. This would all be so much easier if he had just gone off into his life and never got back in touch with me. If he had done his trip around the world and disappeared into oblivion like I was completely expecting and mentally prepared for. I never mentally prepared myself for this. If I have to say goodbye again I don't know if I'll be able to handle it.  There are moments when I wish he hadn't found me again. 

               ¨ It's ok. You two will be married in a year!¨ Y chuckled benignly. ¨Well hey, I mean you're both trying to go to each other's countries! You could at least help each other out and get PACSed!¨

               I pulled Y aside and whispered to him that, just between the two of us, FWB had already offered that in September if I needed a way to stay. I didn't say yes....that is not possible when you have to live with the person you PACS, and when my FWB wants to go to my homeland, which will not recognize a PACS. 

                I just want to keep him. Somehow. Someway. And I'm afraid he doesn't feel the same way, that this is just me, that I'm precariously walking the tightrope of vulnerability. 

*  *  * 

                 Once the place Pie shut down at one, we proceeded to dancing. And the rest of the night FWB didn't let me go. He had mentioned earlier in the day that he wanted to learn to salsa. I know the basics so I replied that I could teach him.

                  ¨Not here,¨ he whispered. ¨Some other time.¨ We left the dancefloor a few times to take some air, but he didn't drop my hand. I had become fusionned to him, an apendage, inseparable.

                    We went home at four in the morning, claqués after a long, full day, but quietly smiling in the dark in his car along the back roads of the Vaucluse. And once home, like every night, he put me to sleep in his arms.

               

A Fairytale in Provence: part III

               On Saturday morning we were lazy and slept in.  That morning when we came up the stairs from the downstairs studio, before we went to the kitchen, I asked him to show me his room.  He walked me down the hall. In the corner was a shelf, full to the brim with wine glasses.

                ¨If you were an American boy, this would be full of sports trophies,¨ I laughed. ¨But nope. You have wine glasses, and lots of them!¨

                He has literally grown up swimming in wine. His maternal grandfather and grandmother lived in neighboring villages and met at a village festival. Raymond Marcel, his paternal grandfather was a wine maker who supplied the village cave with grapes for the region's signature wine. Likewise, my FWB's book shelves were full of years of class notes, the Hachette dictionary of wine, books on different wine regions, you name it. It moves me to know just how passionate he is about what he does, because he is a passionate person. In this way we are similar: we do not half ass anything. We love what we do with 150 percent. And I adore that about him.

               After the house tour, we ate a late breakfast at around 11h30...FWB's parents had been up for a while and had eaten but were with us in the kitchen. I was relieved. I like parents. I generally do meeting parents very well. I wanted to get to know them, and they clearly felt similar. It's not every day, or so I assume, that your son who was born and raised in a 700 person wine making village in the south of France brings home a Californienne. 

                FWB's dad is very similar to my stepdad. 57, gentlemannered, and apt to talk about politics and world news. He asked me about California and the presidential elections and I was having a great time chatting with him. FWB has his dad's bright blue eyes, a rarity for any Frenchman, who tend to be dark haired and dark brown eyed. But my baron is not: he has the brown hair but bright ice blue-grey eyes. I admit I cracked for them when I met him.

                 FWB's mom joined in and asked where we were going for the day. FWB rattled off a list of places of which I had no idea, FWB looked at the clock, said we should hurry if we were going to go château hopping, and ushered me out the door. His mom had invited us to lunch that day, but given FWBs plans, she pushed it back to Sunday. With grandma. Gulp.

                 And so we sped off off off through the Vaucluse and Drôme departments of France. We stopped first at the Chateau de Grignan, which is where the famous Madame de Sevigné, known for her letters, sojourned. The castle itself was the property of the Dukes of Adhémar, and much of the town has retained its medieval character. Additionally, the terrace had an amazing view, as it sits atop a hill overlooking the town.

              After Grignan, he took me to another medieval fortress, and while we drove, the song Without You (yep, you can laugh, Usher and David Guetta) came on the radio. I literally got teary eyed last year when he left as I listened to that song. He doesn't know this. But when it came on it made me think about having to leave him on Sunday and I got choked up. I had to stare out the car window in the other direction so I wouldn't get weepy. You can all judge. I'm not a crier, but this one makes me cry.

               Next, he showed me the castle of Suze-la-Rousse, which is where he trained to taste at the Université de Vin housed there.

               ¨It's no Berkeley,¨ he chuckled. ¨But it's a castle.¨

              Much of the weekend consisted of him showing me where he did his training, or places he did internships, or went to as a child. It moved me because it made me realize how much he is the product of where he's from, it gave me an unparalleled understanding of how he became the man he is. It also made me want, so so so badly, to show him California, to show him where I am from. To drive the length of the California coast and Sonoma and Napa and the Sierra Nevadas with him.

              ¨Il faut que je te montre la Californie!¨ I told him all weekend. He, on the other hand, would not stop using the word American all weekend. In all contexts. It was slightly excessive, his favorite word of my time there I would say. I explained this to M later that evening. She laughed and said it was because I am a foreigner, I am a mystery to him. In other words, it was a good thing.

              After the castle, we headed toward another local town, Carpentras, which happened to be on our way to Avignon. In Carpentras, we had one destination, and one destination only: the fromagère, Claudine Vigier, who was bequeathed the title of the Best Cheesemaker in France in 2009. We had to get fromage for the apéro we were going to that night in Avignon with Y and M and their friends JP and Bob. If you are in the wine business, you are also in the cheese and food business, because the French are damn serious about all three, and you are not a red blooded man in this country if you do not KNOW your cheese. We showed up a bit too early though, because the shop re-opened at 15h15, so instead we walked around the town all cutesy like as per usual.

              Once the fromagère was open, we spent half an hour choosing cheese for the evening. I love, love cheese, and so does the FWB. I thought back again to our first date, how while walking to the metro, I mentioned my love of cheese and then he wouldn't shut up about cheese. I didn't mind though.

              ¨There are 360 cheeses in France!¨ he exclaimed that night. He was wearing a green sweater that brought out his eyes.

               Then this weekend he taught me that there are 750 appellations d'origine controllées in the country. An AOC, in short, are the appellations given to certain regions for the production of their cheeses, wines, and other food products. They are heavily guarded and legislated, protected with an iron fist, often an indicator of prestige. Right next to FWBs village are some of the most prestigious AOCs in the world: the Chateauneuf-du-Pape, Chateau La Nerthe, the Vacqueyras, the Gicondas.

               Cheese in hand, we then went off to the Fontaines de Vaucluse, a natural spring in the mountains whose source is so deep geologists have never been able to figure out its actual depth. Oh my word. Stunning. The water is turquoise. We hiked to the source near the base of the mountain, scaled a rock, and sat next to one another chatting.

                And as the sun set, we once again were arm in arm. He opened the car door all weekend for me....I felt like a princess. We were off to Avignon again, to Y's for apéro, and an evening out on the town.

                I am still pinching myself.

               

A Fairytale in Provence: part II

               If I am not dreaming, and this is all real, and it all really happened this weekend, then I think it's just about as damn close as anyone could ever get to a real life fairy tale. Even here on Monday I'm waiting for someone to pinch me and to wake me up. This is coming from a relentlessly hopeless romantic to boot. I never thought I could be out romanced by anyone...until even my FWB out did me.

               On Friday morning I woke up curled next to him. He's a cuddler who likes to kiss me on the forehead and cheeks, stroke my hair, and bear hug me. This helps when I am freezing cold and he warms my hands and feet. We had to hurry out the door to Avignon, however, because he had to work a half day...he's finishing up his Master in Wine Management and has a full time internship as part of the conditions of that master, so it was off to the office. I planned to pass the morning with M doing girl things while the men worked.

                I met FWBs mom and dad super quickly that morning as we ate breakfast and then sped out the door. I was so nervous, and even more nervous because when my nerves get me my French goes out the door. I felt bad though because I wanted to really get to know them, but that would be reserved for family lunch on Sunday. Alas.

                M and I went site seeing around Avignon in the morning, so I really got to know her. We went to the Palais des papes ( see right )
and the famous Pont d'Avignon (oh high school French classes...)

M's own story with Y is quite the doozy. They met when she was 15 and an exchange student in high school. They lost contact for 9 years, then started e-mailing. She came over to France to visit. They've been inseparable ever since and just married this summer.

                 ¨How do you ever know if someone is The One for you?¨ I asked her.  We were sipping coffee and being women.

                 She was asking me how I felt about FWB. I admitted that because I don't know what's going to happen (he is currently trying to work in the US, has an interview for an import company based out of NYC on Thursday afternoon in Nîmes, and in the meanwhile I'm trying to stay in France and get my dual citizenship...), I'm trying not to get attached. But I'm an attacher by nature. And he is definitely not making it easy at all not to fall hard for him.

                 ¨You feel it in your gut,¨ she explained. ¨You'll just know.¨

                 Gulp. 

                 ¨ My problem is that I don't trust my gut,¨ I replied. ¨I tend to misjudge it and overanalyze it.¨

                 ¨Don't,¨ she smiled. ¨It's almost always right. Just leap.¨

                My weekend was wavering between heady romance and heady heady thoughts.

*  *  * 

                Once my FWB was off work, he hurried us both to his car. 

          

                ¨Let's go let's go let's go!¨ he said. ¨We've got lots to see!¨ And then commenced the whirlwind of site seeing that did not end until Sunday night when I left. France is not divided into states, but départements, and in the space of three days we did about two whole departments in his car. That's no small feat. 

                That afternoon, he sped me off to the summer palace of the Popes, which was unfortunately destroyed by the Germans in WWII. All that remains is one wall. When he told this, I could feel my heart splintering. I can't bear the thought of historical, precious, irrecoverable things being destroyed. But the view at dusk, with the lights in the distance, was stunning. 

                  Our second stop was the city of Orange, to go and see the Théâtre Antique, which is much like Berkeley's Greek Theatre except much much much older and bigger and Roman...At the gate FWB reached into his pockets like he was searching for keys. 

                 ¨Holy cow you have the keys to this place!?¨ I blurted out. He laughed deeply and then pulled his hand out of his jean pockets. They were empty. 

                     ¨No,¨ he smiled. ¨But I had you there for a second!¨ 

                    With the way the weekend was going, I would not have been surprised if he actually had had the keys to the place. At this point he had gotten into the habit of holding hands with me when we walked, or of us walking with out arms around one another. It reminded me of the first time we had walked around Paris together, how he had never hesitated to take my hand, to show me affection. It made me think of how no one, no one else, not E, not Monsieur Lawyer, not anyone, has ever just wanted to hold my hand.  And not even just hold my hand, but stroke my palm with his thumb and fingers and not let me go. 

                     At nightfall, we sped along the dark back roads of the Vaucluse. I didn't know where he was taking me, but the path reminded me of the Silverado trail in Napa, what with the surrounding hills and mountains, the wineries, and the way the road wound snakelike past vineyards and flowers and trees. I told him so. 

                     We ended up in a tiny medieval village called Vaison-la-Romaine. We parked and had our arms wrapped around one another and walked to the river, to the Pont Romain...

                        It was dark and cold and we crossed the river to see the medieval village on the other side. We walked up the hill and he showed me the gallery of his favorite painter, a man from Marseille still living and painting by the name of Léon Zanella. 

                         ¨That's the first thing I'm buying once I get my business off the ground,¨ he sighed. ¨A real Zanella painting.¨ Once I'd seen the paintings, I understood why. They are absolutely stunning. 

                        FWB's goal has been, and he told me this when I met him, to start his own import business in the States. He will tell you the problem with French wine is not the quality, but the fact that it is produced in such small quantities by family owned wineries (like his own family's) who don't know how to export it. He is out to rectify that, and fast. And given his expertise ( he know everything from the planting of the vines to their care to the actual fabrication of the wine to the commercial side of the game) and his charm, I have no doubt he will succeed. I want nothing less for him. 

                        Seeing the Zanella paintings with him showed me another side of him, his artistic, cultured side. It gave me a glimpse of him that I hadn't until this point had, and I felt myself melting inside. It made me want to be able to buy him a Zanella one day, it made me think about what it would be like if that painting was in our house. At 24, these kinds of thoughts seem strange and foreign and somewhat taboo, not to mention terrifying, but with him I cannot help but think them. I cannot help but think them because part of me is wanting them to happen, to become true.

                      I want to keep him. I don't know how many people like him exist. I'm scared to have to find out. I want to keep him. He is, I am coming to learn, in so many ways what I need in someone, because I am this way: thoughtful and generous and warm, affectionate and giving. I never thought I needed this in a man until a good friend, the Diplomat's wife, actually, made it clear to me last year when I was living down the remains of the Mr. Seven Year Saga crisis and discussing it with her. She made me realize that in the long run, I need someone who gives just as much as I do. The only person I have met like this, up to this point, is my FWB. And I am terrified of that. For better or worse. 

                        I want to keep this one very very badly. It reminded me of what he said one of the last times I saw him before he left for a year long trip around the world last October: 

                        ¨Si je restais, je te garderais.¨ If I were staying, I'd keep you. 

                       Please stay. Please keep me. Please don't go to America and break my heart and leave me here. Stay stay stay. Stay and one day we can go there. 

                         We walked back down the hill, and then we went to dinner at a beautiful, beautiful restaurant across the bridge over looking the river, a tiny place called La Belle Étoile. 

                          

                          ¨You keep telling me you like stars and star gazing,¨ he smiled. The sky was so clear at night that you could see the stars in the sky. Again at dinner he chose the wine, which was amazing. He is also a bread fanatic, so he finished probably a whole basket on his own...but seeing as he's slim, he can get away with it. 

                           After dinner we shared a mousse aux marrons. I have a funny memory, and it tends to scare people, but I remember almost everything in detail and I know a few things about my FWB that he didn't remember that I remembered. On our first date he told me his two middle names, which are the names of his grandfathers. He had also told me his favorite crêpes are aux marrons. He was pleasantly surprised when I told him this at dinner. 

                           Once dinner was over we walked back to the car and he drove us home, and he put me to sleep by holding me close with my head on his shoulder and giving me a backrub, kissing me on the forehead as I dosed off, right before I saw him blow out the candles he had lit. 

                           

        

                

               

     

A Fairytale in Provence: part I

              This story begins on October 8th, 2011 when a 23 year old boy runs after a 23 year old girl as she is leaving a cocktail bar, hands her his business card, and invites her to learn to wine taste at his place. 

               How it ends I don't yet know. 

              But what follows is part of their story, however long it may last or what ever may come of it. And no matter what happens, it's a story this California girl will always, always cherish. 

               *  *  * 

               On Thursday I was set to depart for Avignon to my French Wine Baron. I could barely barely contain myself. I left for the Gare de Lyon right after class ended at 13h30 and waited anxiously to board the TGV. Once on, I couldn't bear to read the books I had brought. I looked out the window for two and a half hours at the insanely beautiful country that is France. I was nervous, but falling more and more in love with the country by the minute. 

               I was also smiling like an idiot. 

               J'appartiens à la France. I belong to France. 

               Unfortunately my FWB had a last minute mandatory meeting he couldn't get out of, so he sent his best friend Y to pick me up from the train station.  This was hilarious because as I later learned, best friend Y's wife also had to be picked up, the first time she came over to see him, by Y's friend. Oh my. Must be a French guy thing...or maybe a way to test the girl in question? Who knows. Either way, Y and his wife M had also invited FWB and I to dinner at their home that night, and FWB was meeting us at their place afterward. 

               I was super nervous to be meeting besty, but once I said hi things were fine. Y is a fantastically warm, funny, and amazing gentleman, as I learned over the weekend. We wound our way from the Avignon TGV to his place. Once parked, he started asking me questions and it became evident that FWB had given him the 411 about me. Right down to how we met in a cocktail bar. I didn't know if that was good or bad. 

               After Y and I had made it to his apartment, I met his wife, M, whom I adore! I handed them the chocolate I had brought to thank them for dinner and we got to chatting. I asked if FWB had told them the story of how we met. They nodded in the affirmative. I laughed. 

                ¨Well, there's FWB's version, and then there's Lindsay's version...¨

                ¨Give us the Lindsay version then!¨

                So I did. Right down to the part where I told them I thought I'd never in my wildest dreams see him again. They were slicing potatoes for a gratin over a cutting board and they both laughed. 

                ¨Ohhhhh you don't know FWB then,¨ they chuckled. ¨He's very special. He's rare. An old soul. He will come and find you. He will hunt you down!¨

                I smiled. Thank god thank god thank god. Please don't ever let me escape you...

                 ¨That's funny,¨ I looked at M. ¨People call me an old soul too.¨

               I sipped a glass of wine and waited nervously for FWB to arrive. Suddenly the doorbell rang.....and there he was, his beaming blue eyes above a dark blue sweater. I came forward to bise him when all I really wanted to do was wrap him in a huge hug and plant a kiss on him. I wanted to put my arms around him and run my fingers through his hair and just be. 

               Naturally, FWB showed up with the wine (two bottles, to be precise), explained to us what they were and how they were classed, then poured us all glasses. 

                 As the night went on, and after sipping on  red wine, I got to know more about my FWB...like the fact that he loves (and lots of Frenchmen, for that matter LOVE LOVE LOVE ) disco, especially French disco by a singer named Claude François, or Clo Clo for that matter. Well known for ¨Alexandra Alexandrine¨ and ¨Chanson Populaire¨. If you are at French parties or weddings, Clo Clo will inevitably make an appearance. He's like their Barry White. Not to mention FWB likes Barry too...

                 When we see each other after a long time, we're both hesitant for a while...as if we're both afraid of figuring out what we are to one another. But then it all clicks into place and it's like we never left one another. He finally came close to me and toward the end of the evening had his hand on the small of my back and on my arm and was fiddingly affectionately with the belt on my dress. I likewise had my arm around him. 

                    ¨So what are you going to show Lindsay this weekend?¨ Y and M asked FWB. We were all speaking English so that M could understand. 

                    ¨Oh, we'll see...¨ he smiled his huge big coy smile with his thick southern French accent. 

                     I said I was nervous about meeting FWB's mom and dad and grandma. They burst into laughter again. 

                     ¨With FWB, this is the order of things in life: 1. His village 2. Cheese 3. Grandma!¨ 

                     We were all joking and having an amazingly good time. Once Claude François broke out though, near dessert, it was all over. FWB and Y were hooting and hollering and dancing up a storm. That is until Y and his wife M were giggling and FWB took my hand and pulled me into the spare room and planted a good, solid kiss on me, pulling me tight to him with his arms around my waist. 

                   Again again again again please. 

                    At that point FWB grabbed my suitcase and as it was 23h30 at night, we thanked Y and M for dinner and headed to his car to drive out to his tiiiiiny little wine making village, about 35 minutes away. 

                     And so we sped along in the dark in his car, Claude François blasting on the radio, his hand alternating between holding mine and affectionately stroking my knee. 

                    Little did I know that I was in store for what has been thus far the most romantic, amazing weekend I have ever had in my life. 

                       

                      

                     

               

               

Over It

                Ok, this is going to be a bitchy vent post. You have all been forewarned. Should you chose to exit the premises right now, I won't be offended, but I need to get it out of my system now before I take it with me on the train down to Provence.

                I'm officially over this Lawyer.

                I saw him last a week and a half a go. He texted me last Friday, then took off for Normandy for the weekend. I didn't hear from him for four days. I stick to my guns when I say I do my part and then let a guy chose or not chose to get in touch with me. Again, as I have said a million times before, how he goes about things is very, very, very telling about how interested he is. Takes some restraint, but in my opinion, worth it nonetheless.

                Lawyer boy texts me Tuesday in the afternoon to see how I am. Fina-effing-ly after me being THISCLOSE to just not getting back in touch with him at all and letting it slide. He asks what I'm doing this week and, as per usual, asks ¨on se voit quand?¨

                Can I get a reign check here for a moment: I absolutely hate that question. ¨On se voit quand¨?  Can you please do something a bit more...I don't know...elegant? Maybe in French it is. I don't know. I don't need something as flowery and formal as ¨when might I have the pleasure of seeing you again?¨ because that just reeks of stick-up-the-ass, but I'd prefer something like ¨when can I see you?¨

                To be brutally honest, I also hate this question because in-the-messages-I-wasn't-supposed-to-see (yep, we've gone Harry Potter here, it's like he-who-must-not-be-named ), he used this question for all the other girls. I know I pay five bajillion times more attention to language and its use and its meaning than your normal human being because hey, it's what I've trained to do for oh...I'd wager half my life thus far and in two languages to boot. But I hate it because it's a leveler: I am, if he is still seeing them....even after saying it was just me, just like all the other girls. And even if I am, it's the last thing I want to feel.

                Most girls want one thing, and that is to temporarily suspend the belief that we are just like all ¨the others¨. We may be, we may not be, but it seems that we all want that one guy who makes us feel and makes us believe that we aren't, if it is just an illusion. One we buy into happily.

                After he asked me ¨On se voit quand?¨ I asked him what his schedule was like. He said he didn't know yet, it wasn't quite fixed. Always, always, always this sort of fluidity...like a bar of soap slipping through my fingers. He asked when I was free. I announced that I was free up until Thursday afternoon, when I would be leaving for Provence to see friends (ok. yes. I'm a horrible person. It's a white lie.)

                ¨Ok, Wednesday night then?¨

                ¨Ok. As long as I don't have to babysit.¨

               I then texted him Wednesday morning. No response.  I got off work. Nothing. I stuck to my guns. I am not going to chase you or hunt you. If you want me, you come after me.

                9 pm. Still nothing. Not even a text message.

                At 10:45 pm, I curled up into my bed, thinking maybe there was something unexpected or an emergency that came up and he'd text me an apology. I fell asleep.

                This morning, on my Blackberry, I had messages. My heart leapt. Nope. Just e-mails.

                In short, I'm over it. I'm wiling to understand tough schedules (I have a very, very, very tough one, between school, research, and working 30 hours a week), and unforseen circumstances (life is life, you know?) but it has become abundantly clear to me now that Lawyer isn't as invested as I am, that I'm always on the back burner  after something else ( ¨I have dinner with a friend, but coffee or dessert after?¨ ¨I have a birthday party Saturday night. I can see you after or on Sunday morning.¨ ).

                 It reminds me of what he said to me when I confronted him about the other girls and he said he'd see just me:

                 ¨Tu me plais vraiment, mais je ne sais pas ce que ça va donner dans six mois.¨

                 To get all language analytical here again, ¨tu me plais¨ is loaded for me. Roughly translated the construction ¨tu me plais¨means ¨I like you¨ or ¨I find you attractive¨. If I said ¨je plais à (someone)¨ I'm saying that I'm attractive to someone. Sigh. The way he said all this made it sound like he was capitulating, like he was sacrificing other things to see me.

                  Well you know what bucko? I plais à beaucoup de men. Just because you find me attractive doesn't mean that you get to do this to me. I don't want to just plaire to people, I want someone to appreciate me for my mind and my personality, someone who wants to know me and take the time to get to know me. You clearly do not, Monsieur.

                 I probably sound like a high maintenance beezy right now, which I'm not. But I don't want to continue this anymore. I'm over it.

                 Ladies, never settle for someone who doesn't want to make time to see you but says they do. Who doesn't take the time to get a hold of you after a couple of days. Who doesn't get back to you at all about things you've attempted to schedule. Who just wants to play you like all the others.

                 Thank Thanksgiving I am going to Provence this afternoon and FWB has dinner with his friend, Y who is a native of Avignon who recently married M, a canadienne from Vancouver, planned for us this evening.




               

             

         

Gift Purchased

                  It may not be super original, but I went the classy route and skiddaddled my tush down the street to The Conran Shop and picked up this....

 A vaccuum sealer with special wine stoppers that keeps oxygen out so that left over wine will not oxydate at all....

A wine thermometor, because the FWB tells me precisely what temperature I have to drink any wine he has ever given me and/or I have consummed in his presence....

A set of special oxygenating wine pourers that are inserted into the top of the bottle while the wine makes its trip to the glass...

     Then I walked a few shops down to the fancy papeterie (this is one of the things I love about France, the quality of the paper here is amazing and you can still find old fashioned paper stores) to pick up the pretty wrapping paper that I then put to good use.

       I love wrapping presents. I like giving them even more. I cannot wait to get down to Provence and then watch the FWB put these presents to good use!

        I should've started building my tolerance a long time ago.....

         A toute mes amis.

I'm so excited I can hardly contain myself!

        I leave for FWB's village in the south in two days and I am so excited I can HARDLY contain myself. I'm currently stressing over what gift to bring down as a houseguest. I asked FWB about this via text and his response was this:

        ¨Something you can't find in Provence...let your imagination run wild.¨

         Uh yeah, gee...that helps! At that rate I should just put a bow on my head and show up at the front door, but that will not do, so I've been wracking my brain out about what to get this boy and his family. OH CRAP I HAVE TO MEET HIS FAMILY!

          Thus, in order to calm myself, I have been listening to this song non-stop ( it always, always makes me thing of FWB, it's like my own personal theme song for him...a curious personal practice of mine, choosing theme songs for men....) and stalking pictures of his wine country on the internet.

           Veuillez regarder a pretty pretty preview:

                  GAH can it be Thursday already!? HOW AM I GOING TO THIS PLACE? So so so so so excited! 

The French Wine Baron Strikes AGAIN

            I just got back to my place in Paris 20 minutes ago after a long weekend of work. I came home to this:

             
              That, ladies and gents, curled in the arms of my good luck stuffed animal (thanks Bec), is a bottle of Vin Doux Naturel (VDN) from my FWB's village. The first date we ever went on consisted of me going over to his place and him teaching me how to taste the sister wine to that VDN.

               Last Christmas, I hunted Paris high and low for the VDN to bring home to California, to the point where I called the local cave in his tiny little town to ask where I could find it in Paris and they had their distributor personally call me. I bought two bottles and brought them home and made a Dutch chocolate bundt cake from scratch to pair with it.

              My heart is in grave danger. The FWB has struck AGAIN.

The Cheating Fox

               When she was in her early twenties, my mama was a looker. The kind of looker that makes Travis Tritt sing ¨T-R-O-U-B-L-E¨.  (And she still is a looker!) Posed on our buffet at home amongst pictures of my brother, my sister, and I as kids at varying ages, is a photo of my mom, dewey faced and fresh eyed with hair blown out into wings like Farah Fawcett in her Charlie's Angels days. Her regard is soft and distant but has a coy, subtle mischief to it. My stepdad calls this the ¨Cheating Fox¨ picture, and by this he means fox in that 1970's definition where fox= very attractive and sexy. But ¨cheatin'¨, he meant, in the sense of player. Oh stepdad...

                 When I was a pimple ridden adolescent girl, I used to look at this picture in awe, but also turn beet red when said stepdad would teasingly imply that one day, I'd become a ¨cheatin' fox!¨ I laughed it off and thought that was impossible given the state of my social life and face.

*  *  * 

                     This Friday, French Wine Baron came up to Paris on the TGV for a salon du vin held this weekend. He called me on Tuesday night after I was off work and after discussing train tickets, and mentioned that he might stay with his cousin that is a student at the Ecole Normale, but wasn't sure.

                     ¨Look, I won't be there, I have to go to Fontainebleau to work this weekend...but why don't you stay at my studio?¨

                    ¨Really?¨ he sounded a bit shocked.
   
                    ¨Yeah, why not?¨

                   So on Friday he arrived at the front door of my building at 15h45, twenty minutes before I had to leave to go get girl kiddos from school, and I gave him my spare set of keys. I wish I could have stayed longer to spend time with him, and said so, because I am downright tired of being imprisoned the entire weekend in the damn countryside for work, especially when it means I render 48 hours of my life but am only paid for 20. But alas.

                    ¨When do you leave?¨ I asked him.
   
                    ¨Sunday in the afternoon. When do you get back?¨

                   ¨ Near 6 pm at the Gare de Lyon.¨
 
                  ¨Ah. I wanted to wait until you got back to leave, but I don't know if I can stay that late.¨

                  ¨No worries, if you have to leave before I get back then leave. I don't want to hold you up just because you want to say goodbye. I'll be coming down soon enough as it is!¨

                   He smiled and then I rushed out the door with my suitcase. On the train with the girls I sent him a text message that read ¨ I'm sorry I can't be there this weekend, but have fun! Bisous.¨

                   His response?

                  ¨ :( your studio is cold and empty without you...but next weekend things will be better! ;) ¨

                 I wanted to jump off the train and run in the other direction back to Paris.

*  *  * 

                Last night, once the girls were asleep, I was skyping my family in California when Monsieur Lawyer texted. It was after midnight and he was on the metro when he sent me this:

                ¨I'm on the metro and there are 20 something year old Americans speaking loudly. It's cute!¨

                 Me: ¨ LOL. I'm strange enough as it is for an American girl.¨

                ML: ¨Because you speak less loudly?¨

                Me: ¨LOL that's a habit I adopted in France. Rather because I speak fluent French.¨

                We then started discussing whether or not Américaines in general are or are not coquines. I mentioned then that I might be coquine for wanting to give him a kiss. I had been terribly busy all week, as was he, so I haven't seen him since last Saturday. I'd really just like to give him a hug right now, but he's headed up north to Normandy with friends this weekend and I'm rotting away in nannyville as per usual. I NEED MY LIFE BACK.

                 ML: ¨ Oh that's too cute! Next week, I promise promise promise.¨

                Then it hit me: oh crap. Am I playing these two guys at once? That don't even know of each other's existence? Am I being a total hypocrite here? And which one do I like MORE? oh CRAP. 

                 I am starting to feel super guilty because I am the one who told Monsieur Lawyer that I couldn't handle getting attached if he was seeing other people and now am I or am I not seeing FWB? FWB is such a come and go situation...he's still trying to find internships in California, he's still down South, I want to stay here in the North in France...it's just not an easy situation. No one said things that were worth it were easy, but I don't know where it's going to go with him. I'm still rather astounded that after a year of globe trotting he came back to me. I'm trying not to be a girl and read into it, because one of the biggest held tenets I have in this life is this:

                  If you love someone, you set them free. If they come back to you, they're yours, if not it was never meant to be. 

                  Granted, I do not l-o-v-e FWB. Could I if things worked out for the long term? Maybe. Who knows? I won't even pretend to know right now. Though SHIT, I have to MEET HIS FAMILY NEXT WEEKEND. GAHHHH. Ok calming down.

                  What I do know is this: just when I think Lawyer is going to drop off the face of the planet, he surges back and makes me think he really truly is interested and I'm not going out on a limb here. But he is also competing with down right, hard core, charismatic Southern charm from an until-proven-otherwise sweetheart seemingly out to win my California girl heart and whisk me off to wine country.

                  And I finally feel like in some mad twist of this universe, I have become a Cheating Fox.