Missing Provence

Last week, after all three boys and Ed had gone off to their respective schools, I had a moment to think.  And I realized that we have slipped back into our Canadian lives so easily that it is almost as if we had never gone off to France.  Never spent our days struggling to communicate, never spent our days surrounded by the sunny rich walls of the old city.  And that made me so sad.  And so nostalgic. 

What do I miss from our time away?  More than anything else the unhurried pace of our life.  But that was mainly due to the special circumstances of being on sabbatical, with the freedom of fewer classes, fewer must-do’s and a mind-set of taking advantage of all of the opportunities and the historically rich surroundings. 

                                   

I miss the buildings’ shadows cooling the narrow streets, the rich ochre color of the walls, the small storefronts with a little of everything in a few-block area.  I miss the whoosh of the breeze as I opened the gate into the courtyard, and the cool air rushing at me when I stepped into our entryway.  I miss the sight of every market vendor selling the ripest fruit as it arrived just off of the trees.  It was impossible not to know if it was fig season, or Jerusalem artichoke season, or walnut season. 

I miss the music wafting out of the dance studios both next to and across the street from us.  I picture the beautiful pianos in the studio next door where Julian took his lessons.  Our living-room upright piano pales in comparison to the dark Steinways there, and the passionate tones of the instruments fit right in with Julian’s classical, French training.  I miss the little theatre in the basement of our building.  The feeling of soaking in a performance, getting the majority of what passed, but still feeling on the outside.  Wandering the gallery, wanting desperately to fall in love with a painting.  Entering the theatre as a participant, through birthday parties or, more meaningfully, as part of the group of CircleSong singers.  Making music, without singing words, a place where we sang as a family, melding with others. 

But more than anything else, I miss the people with whom we spent the year.  I keep walking through my life here and catching glimpses of people whom I think I recognize.  And then realizing that the woman in question, or the gentleman across the way, was actually the parent representative at the neighbouring school, or the cashier at the corner store, or… It is very disconcerting to have been so involved and invested in a life that is no longer.  I miss my market vendors, I miss my fellow Canadian ex-patriots, I miss the Faillard family.  And I miss all of the friends and families from the boys’ schools.  All of their little buddies who took the time to share their lives with us for the short term, knowing that it would all end shortly. 

Our rentrée here has been sweet, because it is so lovely to be surrounded by the comfort of my own home, close to my family again, and all of our friends.  But it is bittersweet, because the magic of our year away feels like it is being swept away by a breeze, a Mistral even.  And I ache for a little more of our Provencal days to stay…