Living the Dream

I have just realized this morning that I am in fact living my dream, in more ways than one. I've always wanted to go to France and study my family history. I've always wondered if, when people are speaking French, it sounds like English to them when it's understood, or if it still sounds like French. I've decided on the former. And, most imortantly, I have my very own bathroom with colored toilet paper coordinated on a theme. And it's not just colored toilet paper, it's Lavender colored toilet paper with little flowers imrinted on it. You cannot imagine my joy.

Growing up, I always used to covet the pink and blue and green toilet papers of those more fortunate than me. Those whose toilet-paper-buyers did not insist on avoiding colored dyes in bathroom tissue paper. I was at a loss. All I could do was wait until I was finally out on my own and could buy whatever which toilet paper I pleased. At last it has come to be.

Two days ago, the hostel I was staying at was filled up for a special event of some kind. So I had to think fast. It was a good thing, actually, because I didn't really want to keep staying at the hostel anyway. So I went down to the tourist office, where I found out they had a listing of available apartments. I made a few calls and found out this one was free. I had no idea what I was in for. I basically needed a place to stay for a week. It was one of the cheapest, so I expected some run-down place with no lock in a sketchy neighborhood. I'd never been to the place it was on the map, so I had no idea. The lady asked if I had a car. No I did not. So she offered to come and pick me up in town in her white Peugeot.

We agreed to meet at 5:30. She was wearing a blue skirt. I was wearing a blue skirt. I arrived just at 5:30 and saw a white Peugeot pulling into the lot. I went up and knocked at the window. She smiled at me and put the car in park. She got out, came around, took my hand immediately and gave me two kisses, one on each cheek. She was like my grandmother. She is a grandmother, in fact, as evidenced by the child's seat in the back of the car. She also told me this later.

My huge suitcase barely fit in the back seat of the car. It is far too heavy with books. I will have to send some home.

So we started driving. I live "dans la campagne," she said, apologetically. "C'est bien comme ça." Inside I was grinning with glee. I had had enough of living in the city. All I wanted was a quiet rental in the country, but had no idea how to go about finding one that was accessible without also possessing a voiture.

The woman does indeed live dans la campagne. Of course, I had in no way imagined that where she lived would be where I lived also, but so it seemed to be. And on the way there, she carefully pointed out the bus stops along the way, right up to where she lived.

Turning up her driveway, it looked like a place that is easily missed. That is the house, behind the trees. She only spoke French. "Ah, oui." We pulled up and she opened the red door to the house. It was a big, apricot-colored stucco house with heavy red wooden doors on all the doors and windows. "Je cherche votre clès." I began to follow her inside. No, you are there. "Vous êtes indépendent." Another smile from me.

So we went around to the back. The place is situated in a little garden with a secluded yard filled with wildflowers and an old flagstone patio. I, too, have my own red door. Entering in, it was, at first glance, the smallest apartment I have ever seen. But it is amazingly efficient. There is enough space for a kitchenette, a little closet area, a lavender-painted table and chairs for two, a desk, a bookshelf, and the bathroom at the back. Not one inch of space is wasted. A stairway at the left leads up the the "couchement au mezzanine." A loft bed space. Yet another dream. Only it's real. It's here. It has a lavender bedspread. Joy of joys.

She leaves me to unpack my things. She comes back with a table and chairs for the patio and invites me for a cool drink. So we sit out on the front patio drinking jus de pomplemousse. Did I spell that right? I don't know. I can't remember. Anyway, we sat and talked for an hour about things. Sun, France, grandchildren, wildfires, California. I managed to stay with her, somehow, in French. And it was not too bad. She hosts a lot of students, she says. Her grandchildren live out back with one of her daughters. Another daughter lives down the street and her son lives in Marseilles. It's a close-knit family. She asks me if there is anything I need. Do I have food for the evening? Oui, j'ai du pain. She is like my Grandmother, again. My French surrogate grandmother looking after me. I have everything I need.

Except toilet paper. She brings me a roll. I make a note to get some more the next day at the grocery.

So I'm walking down the aisles. I get my fish with the head still on. I get my lemons, my capers. No eggs today. And there is the toilet paper. All I need is some plain paper. Nothing extravagant. But what is this? A pack of colored toilet paper? And it's cheaper than regular paper? Could it be? I look around, feeling guilty, like someone might catch me. The TP police, perhaps would come out and seize me. What do you think you're doing, young lady? Just buying some toilet paper, sir. White toilet paper, I swear. I was just holding this one for fun. But no one sees me. No one stops. No one gives me a second glance. It's just me and the toilet paper. And it's purple colored toilet paper. With little flowers. Lavender scented, it says. Well, not really lavender, but good enough. This will do nicely. I feel like I'm getting away with candy. As I walk away, six purple rolls in my basket, I think, can this be healthy? It's only a week. It matches my table and chairs. It matches my Bed. It's cheaper than the other toilet paper rolls. It even matches the label on my épinards as I carry them home. This is one happy girl, I tell you. Purple scented toilet paper. Sun, flowers and shade. A loft bed and my very own key. I have coffee for the morning. I have everything I need. This is nice. I like France.