Déjà Vu All Over Again

I am in France – yes, France – yes, again. I attend a business meeting or, rather, a series of business meetings in Lyon. The last time I was in Lyon was with Mike for the Fete des Lumieres in December. It was cold, a little drizzly and packed with people. Now, it’s warm, sunny, and, surprisingly, not packed with people.

The afternoon was sunny and warm but not hot when I arrived. The Congress Center, the site of our meetings and of my hotel, is across the street from a large park with a lake, zoo, botanical gardens and rose garden - all criss-crossed by paths. My meetings left little time for exploring the city, but I was content with remembering our trip in December. My only personal task was to collect the items on Mike’s grocery list.

On arriving, I decided to take advantage of the good weather to do my shopping. Plus, I was less likely to fall asleep if I was walking. The bus took me downtown in search of a grocery store. But I’d forgotten French business hours. Everything is closed on Sunday – shops, department stores, grocery shops and many restaurants. Exasperated by not accomplishing my tasks, I was “forced” to go for a walk in the park. And that’s where I found French life – cyclists, families on roller blades, a dad rowing his kids across the lake, a young man juggling tennis balls to impress his girlfriend, runners, old couples walking, and others relaxing in the grass. Burly dads with muscles rippling under tight tee-shirts were on daughter duty. A tall, fit, young dad pushed a tiny, pink scooter as his toddler daughter ran ahead flat-footed with arms flailing and dark curls blowing. Teenagers clustered tightly looking oppressed. Their expressions reeked of, “I’m so misunderstood.” In the background, frogs chirped and geese honked as the adults nudged teenage geese (they looked fully grown except for their fuzzy, downy heads) back into the water away from the grasping hands of kids. Ahh yes, life – at the speed of life, not light. Closing stores on Sunday may not be a bad idea.

I took every opportunity to be in that park – in early mornings before meetings began or late afternoons after meetings ended. It felt refreshing, healthy and whole. The morning walks were the best. Crisp, sweet smelling air compelled deep breaths. The mirror-finished lake reflected sunlight so that leaves were backlit and glowing. Birds squawked and chirped filling the air with unexpected sounds. I counted a handful of duck varieties some with fluffy ducklings zipping along next to mom. Fir and pine trees dominated. Some had wiry branches with stubby needles. Others had layers of assertive branches, straight and long. Still others had curved branches with fingers of needles casually draped like curtains. My favorite trees were the sycamores – or plane trees, as they are called in France. They towered with sunlight striking the top leaves while the branches created shaded pathways below. Couples, families and friends strolled in the comfort of the shade.

As much as the park called to me, I could not neglect my grocery shopping. It’s not what you may think – the shopping. The bottom of my suitcase looked like a grocery aisle – cans of tuna filets, chicken bouillon, lavender honey, tilleul menthe herbal tea. I felt like a local. After all, who brings bouillon home from France? But these were things we’d grown accustomed to and could not find in the US. The big news was finding Mariage Freres tea at the Primtemps department store. My French teacher in Cotignac, Catherine, introduced me to Mariage Freres teas. Last January, I bought a box of Mariage Freres Marco Polo tea bags in Paris and carefully saved most of them to take home to Annapolis. The tea bags were sealed in a plastic bag and traveled around the world with us – or more accurately to Texas – the last time I saw them. Unpacking in Annapolis, I searched every pocket of the luggage. No tea. My mother looked in her house in Texas. No tea. It was my sister who solved the riddle. She knew exactly where my precious tea bags were. The dog ate them. Apparently, my mother’s Jack Russell terrier, Daisy, enjoyed the tea as much as I did.

This was my first opportunity to talk with professional colleagues from Europe. I laughed at how they teased each other about cultural stereotypes. I will forever be in awe of how they smoothly move between French and English. Even though English was the official language of the conference it was a wide range of “English.” I was entertained by English with the deep “lu-lu” of French, the clip of German, rolled rrrrs of Italians, and the lilt of the Irish. They comfortably accept difference in language and styles resulting from their long histories. I was included with ease and I felt a companionship now. So much so, that I was surprised when they referred to me as their American colleague. Which, of course, I am, but I feel a closer kinship than that like a distant cousin who is familiar but not.

Everyone asked how it felt to be back in France. The short answer – great! The real answer – confusing. It felt familiar but not quite; comfortable but not. Gone was that first-time flush when everything has a glossy veneer. But I did not feel like a native either. There is a wide space in between. In that space is where my relationship with France will likely stay. I like that space. Mike and I saw most of the main sites when we were in Lyon in December. That left me liberated from touristique pressures and open to observe French life - kids playing in the street, pretty waitresses in jeans and tank tops serving tables and smoking between. The comforting buzz of conversation rising from packed sidewalk cafes and bistros. I eaves drop on conversations, although it’s not really eavesdropping since I only catch a word or two.

Between work commitments I strolled along regular streets past a few charming buildings and apartments that were square, plain and industrial. Old women walked arm-in-arm, workers stole sidewalks for demolition remains, and kids returned from school. Ordinary life. A refreshing change from tourist shops.

Still, the desire for familiarity called. My ego was gratified with my ease in moving through the city, ordering at restaurants, and generally getting whatever I needed. I had a history here that gave an extra layer to the sites and streets. Turning each corner evoked memories: the broad, pedestrian street, the hotel where Mike and I stayed; the fountain from which Neptune rose from the mist, the bridge where fireworks spewed. Food, too, brought back memories. French food was a treat particularly the foie gras and cheese which I had at every opportunity. We had a group dinner at a restaurant next to the Place de Celestin. The Place is home to the Theatre des Celestin. During the Fete, it was made of light. Windows were eyes and doors were a mouth. Now, windows were windows and doors were doors.

Once again I found myself in a time warp, just when I was beginning to adjust to the U.S. The confusion felt stronger the longer I was there. France – US – France. Where do I belong? Honestly, I know the answer. It is here in my odd combination of Annapolis and Smithville. But the back and forth is disorienting. And, I was gone long enough from France to forget the sensibilities. I discovered – again – that even with best intentions, in the US, I measure “success” by how much I get done. In France, I measure success by how much I absorb of life.

I write now sitting under a blooming tilleul tree like the one on our patio in Cotignac. I smile at the memory of its beauty and shade and I whisper thanks that I’m not cleaning the pollen from the table top. My wine is finished and I sip tilleul menthe tea after a leisurely dinner. I’ve written more in the few hours since I arrived than in the last two months. Why does it feel natural here to sit, feel and write when it is seemingly impossible at home? Yes - it’s simply a choice but not a simple choice. I feel inadequate for not having the will power to make this choice at home. Maybe, that’s why artists go to places that inspire them. Maybe they too can’t make this choice when surrounded by pressures of “normal” life. There is a long history of artists and writers who traveled to France and back from the US. I wonder if they too, had that sense of déjà vu all over again. While I struggle with choosing wisely, I will take advantage of this moment to revel in French life that flows in all directions. I guess you could say, it is ubiquitous everywhere.

A New Plan

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Returning. We allotted three weeks from the time we returned from France until I started back to work – refreshed and re-energized. That was the plan. The plan changed.

After one week in the office, with an aching back from a week in heels following a year in flats, I woke to a pain in my right hip and leg that escalated throughout the day until I could hardly walk. Two doctors, one physical therapist, one physician’s assistant and a partridge in a pear tree later, we knew it was a piece of disc between L4 and L5 that broke off and was pressing on the nerve. I’ve been blessed with exceptional health so this level of pain was new and (sorry) unnerving. As someone who prefers a “less is more” approach to drugs, “steroids” and “Percocet” were soon part of my regular vocabulary.

I observed with wonder the change pain brings. I was home for four weeks during glorious, sunny, mild days. During that time, the garden came to life. The apple and pear trees bloomed, ferns unfurled frilly leaves, azaleas dazzled, rhododendron sported pink, pom-pom blooms, and a chorus of birds chirped and chattered. In the back yard, a robin built a nest in our wisteria. She went to and fro with sticks, twigs, and leaves to her hidden alcove. I struggled to see any of it. Pain seems to turn my thoughts inward. Even when my leg didn’t hurt my mind was still attending to it. “Don’t slump.” “Sit up straight.” “Don’t bend over.” “It doesn’t hurt now, but will it later?” “Is it better or the same?” Sitting on the living room sofa I’d think, “How badly do I want that Diet Coke?” Is it worth the pain of walking to the kitchen? No. Not really.

Outside the window on the cool, sunny mornings, runners ran by. They didn’t even register in my mind. Running was too far outside the realm of possibility. The walkers I noticed. Not the ones walking briskly for exercise; the ones walking casually from their car to their front door or ambling over to visit with a neighbor. What a miracle, I thought, bones, muscles, nerves and blood, all working together to allow us to walk without a thought. And how precarious it all is – like a house of cards. One little chip out of place and down it all comes.

And, I marveled at the thousand small household tasks we do in a day. Marveled because I could only sit and watch Mike do every, single one of them by himself. What to feel in those moments? Frustration that I can’t help? Gratitude that he does it all so capably and – astonishingly – so cheerfully? “Astonishing” because I couldn’t do what he does if the situation were reversed. Oh….I could do it physically – but cheerfully? Not so much. We argue the point. He says I would. I say – maybe, but not as peacefully as he. We agree to disagree. (Just between us – I’m right.)

And, so, I sat – for hours, days, weeks. Some days were productive. I did a little work, studied some French, organized hundreds of photos, and developed a presentation about our experience to share with others (I hope). Other days I sat on an ice pack or napped. All days were and are about making lemonade from this unexpected pile of lemons.

Now, I've had a shot in my back to relieve the pain and help with the healing. Supposedly, the offensive chip will shrivel and eventually float away. It's not clear how long that will take, or, due to the location of the chip, if it will cooperated. Worse case is out-patient surgery to remove it. For now, the pain is greatly reduced, enough to allow me to return to work.

In my heart, I believe all things fit together for the best, like a jigsaw puzzle whose pretty picture isn’t discernible from an individual piece. Consequently, like so many others who deal with more serious health issues than me, I wonder, “What’s the point of this?” What is it I’m supposed to learn from this experience, and – really – wasn’t there any other way to learn it? Sure, there’s drama in an overnight, incapacitating illness, but I think I would have picked up on a more subtle message. Wouldn’t I?

In the meantime, I’ll heal. I’ll walk, and, who knows, maybe I’ll even run again. Clearly, there is a new plan for me. I just haven’t been let in on the big picture yet. Maybe, as with the jigsaw puzzle, one day I will see a small corner of the pretty picture. For now, I the pain is a little less and I can walk. My wait for enlightenment may take awhile, so I think I’ll walk to the kitchen for that Diet Coke.

Life in a New 'Hood

The question has changed from, "How does it feel to be back?" to "How does it feel to be back at work?" The honest answer is that it's hard. I wouldn't be telling the truth if I didn't admit it - mostly to myself. The changes have come fast and hard in the last three weeks, and they are filled with contradictions.

First we arrived home...after much drama and emotion. The day after arriving we went to DC and found a condo to rent so I wouldn't need to commute during the week. That was followed by unpacking our house in Annapolis and packing for my move into the city. We moved me in on a Wednesday. Thursday my body had had enough and came down with a cold, and Monday I started work...and came "home" to a quiet and empty apartment.

My first day at work - in fact, my first week at work was filled with smiles and graciousness. Flowers were on my desk when I arrived from the staff, a miniature yellow rose was delivered from one of our associations and the RunHers sent a basket of plants. People all over the office stopped by. I'd sit at my desk in my big, new office and try to remember how to send an email when a head with a big smile - like the Cheshire cat - would poke around the door frame. Well wishers were around every bend - and there are a lot of bends in an office filled with cubicles. Everyone made me feel special and welcome. It made all the difference in a week that flowed smoothly on the surface belying the emotion flowing below.

It was wonderful to hear how well everything went in my absence. I never doubted that it would nor did I ever check on the progress of any of our programs while we were away. The staff is great; they and the programs flourished, we probably all learned something in the process. Plus, I don't have to be in a rush to get up to speed on everything in the next week. They've done fine while I was away and they'll continue to do fine.

The rhythm of the work place was a shock to my system - and it's not that busy for me yet. Being at a computer, in and out of meetings, listening intently, remembering what was while simultaneously taking in what is was exhausting. Each day seemed eternally long as it zipped by.

At the end of the day was a delightfully short trip home - or as Mike and I are calling it, our "city house." Twenty minutes door-to-door and I was at the condo. Wow. It was - and will be - great. And, I quickly realized that it was exceptionally quiet and a little lonely. After a year together, this arrangement - me in DC and Mike in Annapolis - will be a big change. I remain optimistic that it will do what we intend - reduce my fatigue while providing time to write, create, and be. It's going to take some adjustment to realize that vision. But, it's easy to see the potential.

Mike came with me to DC on the Sunday before work started. We unpacked boxes, hung the shower curtain, set up the printer and got the place for living. It's cute, comfortable and perfect for what we need. Afterward, we took a walk on the Mall. We were both struck by how beautiful Washington is with its monuments, regal buildings, bustling sidewalks and even outdoor cafes. We walked through the sculpture garden....my new backyard and around the Mall. The sun shone off the Capitol at one end and the Washington Monument at the other. We could glimpse the Lincoln Memorial in the distance. We vowed to take full advantage of the opportunity of city life for however long we have it.

Later in the week after meeting a friend for dinner, I walked home the long way which took me through LaFayette Park lined with red and yellow tulips, a near-full moon overhead and the White House lit for the evening. Turning the corner onto Pennsylvania, the sidewalk cafes of the Willard hosted a few lingering guests. It's a lovely place to be on a beautiful evening. I can imagine growing to appreciate and enjoy this lifestyle, and I miss my real home. Both Mike and me felt as though I were on travel...without maid service. I kept thinking - just a few more days and I can go home.

And in a few days, I did go home to Annapolis - and it felt great! And, it felt temporary, too. With only two nights at home, I never got to adjust there either. I found myself inadvertently moving something that Mike didn't want moved. There were times when I felt like I was visiting here, too. When it came time to go back to DC, my body rebelled again. This time it was the sciatic nerve in my hip and leg. Pain like I've never known hit and kept me on the sofa, and there I stayed all the next week. I'm still at home in Annapolis waiting for it to heal enough to make the walk from the Metro to my office.

It's very strange - I'm back at work; but my heart is elsewhere. I'm not quite at home in DC nor am I at home in Annapolis. The time will fly by - it always does - but it feels ploddingly slow. Everyone at the office tells me that it's nice to have me back. I tell them that I'm practicing my line, "It's nice to be back." And it is. Sort of. It will be. I hope. I'll feel at home again - where ever that is.

Seeing with New Eyes

It’s harder than I expected – this being at home. I can’t get over the strange feeling of it, as though I’m here but not here. And, it’s going to be harder than I expected to hold on to the wonder of the past year. I find myself, already, slipping back into old patterns of going about my day without really seeing. That’s rarely happened in France. Thankfully, I was jarred out of stupor.

It happened as I was walking on a sunny, cloudless morning. It was a beautiful day as I crossed the Eastport Bridge into downtown. And there it was, dazzling in the early morning light, Annapolis. The water was like glass reflecting the sky, the boats and the buildings. The brightness of the light against the white boats and the houses lining the creek made me squint, and gasp with wonder. If this had been a village in France, I would have been watching and waiting for the wonder, but here in Annapolis I was plowing forward without seeing. For the rest of my walk – and hopefully for much more time to come – I committed to seeing Annapolis as though I were in Honfleur. Here’s what it looked like.

The trees were showing off. Flower encrusted branches, some in soft pinks and others so pale they were almost white, were translucent in the sunlight. Tulip Poplars defy gravity with heavy blooms upturned to the sky. I had to duck under some of the branches of trees lining the sidewalk. I ambled along the quaint streets of the historic district admiring the old townhouses dressed in their muted colors. The smell of freshly mulched beds was in the air, and little kids were on their way to class at St. Mary’s. Parents were unloading vans full of them. A cute, little boy was running up the street to his friends as a neighbor called out, “Hey, Zach! How are you?” Without turning or slowing he yelled, “Awesome!” Exactly.

The view from City Dock was lovely. I’d forgotten how the skyline is filled with spires. Against the blue sky, the white of the Capitol dome gleamed and the steeple of St. Anne’s Church rose up behind. To the left was the spire of St. Mary’s Church and to the right, the dome of the Naval Academy Chapel. The day before, I was stopped in my tracks at a street-end park in Eastport as the bells in the chapel chimed across the creek, just as they did in Cotignac.

I’ve gone to Quiet Waters Park a few times since returning to let it work its own brand of charm. It is quiet there without the noise and smell of car exhaust. What delight there is in hearing the dry leaves rustle underneath tiny claws of scampering squirrels (there were no squirrels in France). Birds chirped overhead in the still-bare branches, and there was the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker working on a tree. Back home, our yard looks like a pink-themed New Years Eve party took place last night. The flower petals from the purple plum and star magnolia are falling like confetti.

Mike continues to be a source of amazement to me. He, like the squirrels, scampers around the house fixing this, cleaning that. I watch as he hauls out my enormous flower pots that I’ll plant next month. I don’t ask. He just does it. He is so clearly at home that it makes me smile.

And what’s next for me? Hmmm. I start back to work tomorrow. We rented an apartment for me in DC so that I don’t have to commute during the week. Last week was spent gathering furniture scavenged from friends, packing up a truck, and moving everything into the city. We were thankful to have Mindi’s nephew, Elan, to help load (he lifted a huge rug into the truck by himself!) and Maggie to help unload. I don’t relish being away from Mike during the week, but it will be nice to have more time and less exhaustion from the traffic. I can already tell that, for a time, I will feel a sense of loss. On top of missing France, I don’t want to lose connections with friends and the community of Eastport while I’m away in DC. Mike and I will sort that out as we go.

On the other hand, there’s much to look forward to in the future. I plan to periodically write blogs and hopefully some of you will keep reading. And, Mike and I want to write about our experiences. It’s a way for us to encourage others to follow their dream. Being alone in DC will give me time and energy to write and develop speaking materials to literally tell our story. I am excited about that - really excited. I can’t yet see how this may play out, but it will be fine. It’ll be more than fine. I want to be like that kid running to school. Without looking back, I know it’ll be awesome.

Gratitude

We’re home. Everyone asks, “How does it feel to be home?” Good question. How does it feel to be home? I’ve been trying to sort that out since we’ve returned. In one moment it feels like we never left as we drop easily into old routines. The next minute finds me staring at a wall. What’s with that? While I puzzle over my feelings, there is one thing of which I’m sure. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude. No matter which way I look or the direction my thoughts run, I come back to gratitude. The list could run to pages but here’s the top ten.

• We made it home safely. There were times when we weren’t sure that would happen as we left a trail of pestilence in our wake.
• We’re healthy. After a year without seeing doctors, our many checkups show that we’re in wonderful health. Most importantly, Mike’s cancer checkup was better than ever.
• Skeeter is alive and well. Our little, furry kitty almost didn’t make it, but with loving care from Wil and Siena, he is now curled up on the sofa doing what he does best – sleeping.
• Our home was beautifully kept. Thanks to the hard work by Denise and Ron, our home was spotless when we walked in the door. They made sure it was ready for our return.
• Sleeping in our very own bed. Enough said.
• My job is waiting for me. Due to the efforts of my boss, I am able to return to my job at USDOT. And, thanks to the hard work by the staff, my deputy and my bosses, the program has moved forward without a hitch.
• I’m running again. After almost a year without running, I’m back running and running with my girlfriends – the RunHers.
• Spring is coming. It’s been a little chilly since we arrived, but spring is on its way. The yellow, spiky branches of forsythia are in bloom, perky daffodils look like little suns, our purple plum tree is in full bloom perfuming the yard, and robins hop along the freshly tended flower beds.
• Our friends. Everyone has been so wonderful. They have made us feel welcome and loved, and I have much more to say about that.

Here’s what our first few hours were like. As we walked off the plane, I was a bundle of nerves. Mike sat by the window as we flew into Baltimore because I couldn’t bear to look. Still, from the plane I could see the ruddy, red trees about to leaf out. After being on fourteen flights within six weeks, it was surreal to step into the BWI airport. Like many things to come, it was at once familiar and strange. And my tears started. Why the tears? I still don’t know – happy, sad.

Maggie and Enser and John and Raleigh were waiting for us. As we walked down the aisle, Mike said, “I see John waving!” Sure enough, there they were, waving and smiling – and John with his video camera. I collapsed into the arms of our friends and sobbed. Bless John – he sobbed with me.

They drove us home – in separate cars with our six bags and two backpacks. Maggie took the route through downtown Annapolis. It looked the same – as though we’d never left. Odd. How could it look the same? And that was only the beginning. Even after two weeks, I don’t know what I felt driving into the driveway of our house. “Numb” is as close as I can come. We walked inside and there we were. Home, but not home. Everything was immaculate. I inched through the rooms with a deer-in-the headlights stare. Our understanding friends left us to our thoughts along with a bag of goodies – wine, Mike’s favorite sparkling water, cheeses, homemade gluten-free bread and more. How very thoughtful. They went to a restaurant to wait for us.

Mike was amazing. He was instantly a man on a mission. He raced through the rooms already busy with hot water heaters and thermostats. He is great with caring for the house and he was back in his element. He hasn’t slowed down yet! I, on the other hand, was dazed and confused. Our home is filled with travel posters from our various trips – many of which were in France. There on our walls were images of Nice, Avignon and Antibes. I found myself standing in front of the poster of Antibes in the dining room. We bought it several years ago during a vacation in France…back when Antibes was a charming vacation destination. I saw it now with new eyes. Antibes is part of a different “home.” I know the streets, the restaurants where we ate with Linnea, Bobbie and Robert, the days of their market, and my favorite wine shop. The poster is the same but all is different. Obviously, it’s me who is seeing with different eyes and feeling new things in my heart.

Thankfully, my phone jangled and brought me back into this home. It was a text from Sharyn welcoming us home. The text was filled with “XOXOXOXO!” How great is that? And on the back porch was a festive pink flower with a welcome-home note from the Slawsons. They would bring dinner for us the next night. So very thoughtful. As Mike and I stepped out of the house to walk up to Carroll’s Creek, a car pulled up. It was Sharyn, Teddy and Mindi! When they received my response text, Sharyn and Teddy jumped in the car, picked up Mindi and rushed over for, as they said, a drive-by hug. Yes, there were more tears. All of this was within the first four hours of landing. Since then, we had wonderful dinners with the Baldwins and the Scotts, and ran into friends and neighbors all over town. Yes…..this is home.

Mike and I talk about the differences that stand out like the impatient customers at Starbucks, honking horns at the precise minute that the light turns green, the wide roads, really big coffees, iced tea, garbage disposal, lighting fast restaurant meals with no one lingering over coffee or tea. Portion sizes are bigger, too. Mike took home a doggie bag – something that is unknown in France. A request for le doggie bag would bring perplexed stares. We’ve already left behind our habit of walking everywhere. Oh well.

As the last two weeks passed filled with unpacking a dozen boxes as mountains of paper accumulated, my dazed feelings are diminishing, but there’s something still unsettled. I can’t seem to reconcile how different I felt there with coming home where time stood still, and struggling with how to balance it all.

As I drive around town running countless errands (how did we live in France without a full day of errands?), I am sometimes comatose. I drive along familiar streets and feel that I never left. France is a distant memory. Other times it’ll hit me. I imagine my morning walk down the hill into town where Marie would be sweeping outside the brasserie, the young men running the Spar would be pushing their vegetable carts outside, Mr. and Mrs. Frank (of the hardware store) would be walking to work, and my little man would amble by with his cane and black cocker spaniel. I can smell the buttery croissants baking at Pouillard. It’s enough to make me ache all over. I miss it so. Or maybe I miss the me I was there.

I try to focus on feeling grateful that France is a part of me now but the ache is still there. Without thinking, I find myself buying little things that seem to be a salve to my heart – a lavender scented candle, French cheese or wine – or I listen to French music just to hear the cadence of the language. In my first visit to our gourmet cheese shop, I nearly tackled the woman behind the counter in excitement. There – before my eyes – were some of our favorite French cheeses. Yippee! Without thinking, I snapped up little slivers of Compte and Beaufort like we bought every few weeks at the Cotignac market. Proudly, I showed them to Mike. After an appropriately enthusiastic response, he said, “Shelley, did you notice how much these cost?” Well….no…in my excitement I hadn’t looked. One was $4.50 and the other was $9 – for a sliver – and they weren’t as good (shipping changes the flavors)! The French cheeses will have to stay in France. Having learned my lesson about checking prices before purchasing, most of my favorite French wines will also stay in France. That’s how it should be, I suppose – at least for cheese and wine – but I don’t want it to be that way for me.

When we left France, I promised myself that I would do what was necessary to preserve my new-found balance. My ideas, in the quiet of our French lifestyle, were grandiose. I’d change my lifestyle. I’d prioritize my time for the important things. I’d exchange the Annapolis Shelley for the French Shelley. Guess what – it’s harder than I imagined. Still, my goal is to maintain the important new aspects of my life – learning French, writing, creativity and meditating. I have not been terribly successful at it so far. Sometimes, they become just new additions to the to-do list. As my first day of work looms, I can’t imagine how I’ll do it while working full time. I guess that’s the crux of it for all of us. How do we make our way in life, raise families, make money, and still hold and develop the fullness of who we are? It sounds like a journey of growth and self-discovery. That’s what I said about moving to France, but thanks to France, I have a sense of who I can be. To quote Marcel Proust, "The real journey of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes but in seeing with new eyes."

Some would say that our journey has ended, but for me, the affects of the last journey linger and the new one can only be glimpsed. And that is the top thing I’m grateful for – the excitement of the journey continues.

Boogie Back to Texas

As we walked off the plane in Austin, I experienced that odd combination of surprise and familiarity. There, across from the gate was Salt Lick Barbecue. A neon sign above read “Asleep at the Wheel” (my favorite Texas music group) and the shop next door sold tee-shirts in UT orange that blared “Don’t Mess with Texas” (for those who don’t know, this was a litter campaign slogan started by the Department of Transportation decades ago). It made my head spin with culture shock. Downstairs I felt like a stranger in my own homeland. My yoga top and pants – my standard travel uniform – seemed out of place midst the jeans, tee-shirts and boots. Outside gigantor pick-up trucks claimed happy travelers.

We had our own gigantor pick-up truck to claim us. George was waiting outside in his new Dodge Ram pick-up with the extended cab and full-sized bed. It was huge! We saw him approaching with my mother’s tiny head just visible above the dash. We felt like locals as we stowed all the luggage in the bed of the truck and piled into the cab. Off we went for the familiar drive home to Smithville. But first, I had a very important date.

We stopped for lunch in Bastrop at Guadalajara. We barely sat down before chips and salsa appeared. Perfect. Next was a Texas-sized glass of iced tea. Perfect. A long-awaited lunch of TexMex followed. Even more perfect. Over the course of five days, my dear husband humored me. He ate tacos at four different Mexican restaurants, sometimes having Mexican food for both lunch and dinner. He was lucky to be spared breakfast. I had enchiladas, tacos, tamales, rice and refried beans (cooked in bacon fat). Yuuuuum! And, of course, we had barbecue beef and sausage, too, from Zimmerhanzel’s. My mother hadn’t been feeling well and lost too much weight so I sacrificed myself by accompanying her to Diary Queen where we split milkshakes or ice cream.

With all this food, I looked forward to running through town. Smithville is small (about 3500) and is laid out in a grid, making it easy to run up and down the tree-shaded streets where I refreshed my memory of the houses, yards and, well, life. The wood-frame houses with big porches and rocking chairs are painted in sherbet colors or deep mossy greens. Many have tin roofs that make the most comforting sound in the rain. Pecan trees were budding and red bud trees were just showing their pink blooms. Blue bonnets were beginning to blanket the roadsides. As I ran, glimpses of life poked its head out. There were two little boys in their pajamas throwing paper airplanes in the yard. A woman’s voice behind a picket fence called out, “Ready or not, here I come!” Birds chirped and chortled outside our window. Trying to be helpful, I decided it was time to remove the Christmas wreath from my mother’s front porch. Its red balls, bows and festive bird nest seemed a little out of place in March. But, when I reached to grab it, the tiny brown bird in the nest moved! The nest, it seems, was not part of the decoration but had been carefully built inside the wreath as a new home. The wreath will have to stay on the wall a little longer.

One of the best things about being home in Smithville is seeing friends and running into all the people I know. It’s like – well – coming home. The day we arrived I bumped into Lynn Doty at the grocery store. As usually happens to me, there is an instant recognition but delay while my brain catches up trying to come up with name, context and history. In Smithville, the context is always about where this person was in relation to me in school. In Lynn’s case, she was several years older and she reminded me that she babysat me and my sister. I barely remember that but I do remember Lynn from when she was in high school and I was a grader schooler looking with envy at the grown-up high school kids. Some seemed aloof and untouchable, but not Lynn. I remember her as pretty, friendly and always smiling. She’s still like that. While we were in Smithville, I ran into familiar faces at the Post Office, the liquor store, the barbecue place, the Mexican restaurant, and shopping in Bastrop. The world keeps getting smaller but Smithville is smaller still.

A trip to Smithville wouldn’t be complete without visiting Bobbie Sue and Robert. After our wonderful time together in France enjoying French food, Robert wanted to cook for us – Texas style. Wow – it was wonderful! As we admired their recently renovated home, we munched on two types of venison sausage, as well as, javelina sausage from game shot by their son, Derek. There were kabobs with veggies, shrimp and venison (that Bobbie shot) – and those were only the appetizers! Dinner was homemade mashed potatoes, broccoli casserole, pinto beans, and salad. Then Robert grilled T-bone steaks and more venison sausage. All washed down with Bobbie’s famous margaritas, and finished off with her homemade lemon meringue pie. They outdid themselves!

It’s funny – being in Smithville again with lifelong friends after a year away brings up confused feelings. With no effort, I drop back into life here. It’s like there’s a slot in my soul where Texas just fits – or maybe, I just fit into Texas’ soul. Either way, there’s deep-seated comfort being in a place that is so familiar and with people who know me, know my family, and with whom I share a history. I open my mouth and am astonished to here myself say, “How’r yu?” I can go along any street and know something about someone who lives or lived along that street. Layers of memories flood back when I’m with my mother’s friends like Joyce, Jeannette or Silky. There’s never been a time that I didn’t know them as a part of my life. I become that little girl from Smithville again – for better or worse – in her jeans and tee-shirt. But, at the same time, I’m that woman in the little, black dress and pearls enjoying the opera at La Scala in Milan, Italy – and, here’s the miracle, it doesn’t feel like pretending. Sometimes, I relish this diversity that lives inside me. Other times, it feels schizophrenic. Which life is the real one? Wouldn’t life be simpler to be one or the other? As many times as I’ve asked myself that question, there’s never an answer. I’ll just have to live with one foot in boots and the other in high heels.

The main event was a joint 80th birthday party for my mother and George. Mother and George have known each other every day for those 80 years. I love listening to them tell stories of growing up on farms during the Depression. After raising their separate families and suffering through the death of spouses, they have shared the last several years together. George is the best thing that’s happened to all of us in a very long time even though our families couldn’t be more different. George’s is large – both in number and in size. He had five kids all of whom I’ve known forever, and his extended family seems to encompass most of Smithville. While they are many, we are few. We could have used Alison's husband, Jerry, to boost our numbers, but he was not able to make it. And then there’s scale. All of George’s kids are tall – and that’s putting it mildly. I barely come up to Bubba, Andy or Stewart’s chest. I have to look up to talk to their arm pit! They may all be tall, but they and their families have embraced my teeny, tiny mother into their family. George’s great grand children – Ryan and Will – run to her and crawl into her lap as she walks in the door (Six year old Ryan stayed with us the following evening. He and Mike bonded over shared interests like watching ghost stories on TV.).





The birthday party was held at George’s grand daughter’s house. Kristin, Allison and Katelyn made all the arrangements; Stewart, Shawn and friends cooked. This was another feast – fried fish, fried onion rings, fried fritters, fired poppers, fried mozzarella sticks, and fried potatoes (and there was grilled fish, salsa, and pinto beans, too). We opted not to fry the birthday cake or ice cream! Mother and George received lots of nice gifts but the best gift was to be surrounded by family and close friends who represent a life time of togetherness. (As an added treat, George presented his grandson, Jarold, with his acceptance letter to law school.) When the time came to go home, we all laughed as Mother, Jeannette and George’s sister, Irene, grabbed their walking canes and were individually escorted to the car and carefully loaded inside. It was quite a procession! Smiling and laughing, Jeannette said, “That’s okay! Y’all be old someday, too.” I sure hope so.

By the way, as we were leaving for the birthday party, Bobbie called to say, "There's a huge forest fire between Smithville and Bastrop, and it's all your fault!" Our reputation for leaving a trail of mayhem and destruction is following us!

All too quickly, George’s truck unloaded us and our mountain of luggage at the Austin airport. With reluctance and a few tears, I said good-bye to my mother and promised that I’d be back in a couple of months. In the words of Asleep at the Wheel, I’ll “Boogie back to Texas; Back to my hometown.” I can’t wait, y’all.

Back in the USA

We’re back. I can no long ignore that fact. Technically, we were in the US once we landed in Hawaii. But Hawaii has that delightful otherworldly feel. I’m always surprised they accept US currency. And so it was that landing in LA that brought our return to my attention with brut force. Tears filled my eyes when we touched down. I’m not quite ready to be back.

Don’t get me wrong, seeing Linnea arrive to pick us up was a wonderful sight. Now we’re on our way to Texas to see my mother and George and friends. That’s all good. I can’t wait to see our dear friends in Annapolis. I missed the people who fill our life but I’m starting to mourn the end of the experience we’ve been enjoying.

We’ve both noticed little things that were common before but now strike us as unusual. For example, we keep waiting to go through passport control. At the LA airport it felt odd that we could just walk off the plane into the city. Didn’t anyone want to check us out? Guess not. Linnea whisked us off to our hotel although “whisked” may be a slight overstatement as we traveled a ten-lane freeway for the first time in ages. All around were enormous cars and trucks. They seem huge by the rest of the world’s standards. What is it that we need to put in all this space that others don’t have? Our car which seemed large in Europe now looks like a compact.

As I stood in line at a fast food restaurant for the first time in months, I fumbled with my US bills. How odd it felt to hold this money and realize that it felt strange. Plus, all the bills are the same color and size. That now seems like a rather inefficient system. Once I finished staring at my money, I handed it to the impatient, near-comatose fast food worker in front of me who reluctantly answered my questions. I was one of those pesky customers. It’s not like there wasn’t bad service in France, but, honestly, it happened rarely. As my French teacher explained, sometimes it’s less a difference between the US and France but more a difference between city and country living. I think, in many cases, that she’s right. In Cotignac, we knew the butcher, the café owner, the family who ran the grocery store and our favorite market vendors – and fast food literally didn’t exist. I’m still adjusting to the timing of meals. Mike keeps reminding me that we no longer need to allot one and half to two hours to eat out for lunch.

We stayed at a charming hotel in Santa Monica that was facing the ocean. It was beautiful. In the mornings, we could look out over the beach and ocean. I watched several groups of 20 to 30 runners jogging on the path. No more was I the unusual one who got up early to run. I had company!

Our hotel, The Georgian, reminded us of our hotel facing the Mediterranean in Nice where we stayed on our last night in France. Here in Santa Monica, however, there were no little sidewalk cafes to walk to. How odd to drive everywhere instead of walking along charming, narrow streets. As we went from one fabulous restaurant to another over the weekend, I noticed that I felt distracted by conversations at adjacent tables. Everyone was speaking the same language and I understood what they said! That was new and different. Then there was the constant presence of Blackberries. Everyone was spinning that little ball, punching on teeny keyboards, or talking (sometimes far too loudly) into little microphones dangling from their ear. It’s not like we didn’t see cell phones and such in France but it didn’t seem so pervasive. And you would never interrupt something as sacred as a meal with a cell phone or Blackberry.

We’re also back in the land of super air conditioning. It seems that the US is the place where indoor temperatures need to be – at least for me – freezing! I don’t know whether it’s that the people in Europe are generally small, but I never felt too cold until we arrived back in the US.

There are also more processed foods here. They were overseas as well but not as prevalent. I had to laugh at the “healthy” snack bar we were given on the plane (yes, a snack on a US airline!). The wrapper, covered with photos of fruit, read, “natural flavors with other natural flavors.”

Mike finished reading the sports pages to discover that they were filled with basketball and baseball. Soccer was relegated to a portion of the last page and rugby and cricket had been thoughtlessly omitted all together. Imagine!

I’m sure I’ll adjust and it’ll all seem normal again although I’m not sure that I want some of this to be “normal.” We’ve flown over the Alps, the Mediterranean, the Red Sea, the Indian Ocean, the coast of Australia and New Zealand, and the Pacific Ocean. From the plane, I look below as Arizona and New Mexico pass by and Texas looms ahead. I know I’m home. I know I’ll be glad. I know I’ll love being with friends again. It will just take a little time to adjust to this now foreign country. For now, I look forward to iced tea, TexMex, and barbeque. I just hope our passports work in Texas.