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.
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.
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