Five years ago we made the leap of faith to leave the US and start a new life in Provence. The decision was life-changing. Provence and all of her bountiful gifts showed us the beauty in appreciating life's simple treasures-time, food, friends, culture, and so much more. Read our story.
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And it was Supposed to be Only a Year in Provence…
Sep 08, 2006 by Lydia Dean
Little did we know when we decided to rent a village house in the South of France for a year, that it would change the course of our lives and the fabric of our little family. At the time, it was simply a chance opportunity to get away, to learn some French and see some more of Europe. The kids, ages three and five, were at a ripe age to take in a new language and our executive search business had the benefit of being portable. Naturally we thought why not us, why not now?
The idea seemed quite simple but frankly, it's much easier said than done to "leave your life" for a year. First, the reaction from friends and family was at times draining. A shocked then quizzical look would come over them, followed by a stream of questions attempting to nail down just exactly why we wanted to do this…as if there were just one reason. What do you mean go away for a year? That's an eternity! What's wrong with a two week vacation to France instead? What about work…and won't the language confuse the children? There were issues with respect to renting out the house, storing all the goods, figuring out what to do with the car. Months ticked by with little movement on renting the house and we prepared ourselves for the eventuality of not being able to go. Then only two and a half months before our expected leave date someone offered to buy it, certainly not what we had originally intended. This was our home and when the year was up where would we go?
Restless nights were spent grappling with the decision to go or not to go, to sell or not to sell. Amazingly, just when I thought the stress of the decision was going to foil the whole dream, a strange calm came over us, as if a protective blanket of hope and strength was laid upon us enabling us to walk through a completely foreign door. The decision then became crystal clear, yet the future entirely unknown. Within a few weeks the house and car were sold and only our most precious belongings stored. We hugged our loved ones goodbye and with butterflies in our stomachs, we flew across the ocean to plant our selves in the heart of a Provencal village.
Rognes is a lovely little town near the Luberon Mountains surrounded by vineyards thirty minutes from Avignon. Our rented maison de village stood three stories tall with exposed stone inside and out. We were only a few steps from the butcher, boulangerie, patisserie, pharmacy and doctor's office. On Wednesday mornings we would fill our baskets at the village market with tender rounds of chevre cheese topped with peppercorns and herbs, aged salami, and bright, juicy fruits and vegetables. From our terrace we smelled the luscious aromas of the boucherie cooking meats. A three-minute walk brought us to the cave of the local wine coop, where for mere dollar a liter the wine jug was refilled all too easily. We settled in nicely and my rusty French came back inch by painful inch. We bought a cute little convertible VW Golf that had seen better years but was affordable, and gave us the thrills of fresh air in our faces and star shows at night. For the first few weeks we drove and drove and drove, pic-nicked under olive trees, and stuffed ourselves full of figs, apricots and cherries on long walks in the countryside.
The children were enrolled in the local schools where not a word of English was uttered. I sat back, awestruck at the speed at which they adapted to and absorbed the language. After only two weeks at school my son came home and sang a Mother's Day song to me all in French with the sweetest most perfect little accent that it made me cry. I knew at that point that we were giving our children a real gift, one they probably wouldn't appreciate until much later in their lives.
I will never forget the woman sitting next to me on the last leg of the trip to France, from Paris to Marseilles. She was surprised to learn of our plan to live in such a small town - "You'll find that the locals will never accept you…" Our experience could not have been more the opposite. Settling in was made easy by the pure kindness of those around us. Everywhere we went, people extended themselves to us, sought us out, welcomed us. When our next door neighbor Marie-Joe was preparing the renowned foie-gras, she called and had me by to show me how it was prepared, as did Louise when she made her vin d'orange - a local aperitif made by soaking dried orange rinds and vanilla in rose wine. Through the school we met wonderful families, many of whom invited us for Sunday lunches, several coursed affaires where afternoon hours melted away into the evening.
The months slipped away and the changing seasons brought treats in all forms. On my jogs I saw great earthy fields transform from gorgeous red and yellow spring flowers to tall wheat and corn, rows of carrots, cabbage and lettuce. Later there was lavender and the sweet faces of rows upon rows of sunflowers. Nuts dropped in the road beside brambles of blueberries and blackberries. I delighted in watching the vineyards from month to month as their trimmed stumps proudly budded and grew into miniature trees brimming with fruit.
Over time I noticed subtle yet poignant changes in our selves and in how our time was spent. We seemed less focused on our search business- the whole concept of getting ahead started to feel foreign, perhaps even a little distasteful. What exactly did it mean to get ahead? Ahead of what? What had all the rush been about? I felt as though we had been running in a foot race and we had taken a step to the sidelines where we could take in the beautiful day and feel the warmth of the little hands we had the opportunity to hold. Something deep within us awakened, something pure and uncomplicated.
Length was taken around the table at mealtimes where food was enjoyed for its simplicity - salads tossed in olive oil, vinegar and salt, tomatoes sliced with fresh mozzarella and basil, vegetables baked with garlic and cream, chickens roasted on a spit. Food just seemed to taste better in Provence, yet such little fuss went into the preparation. We also found that Sundays are strongly regarded as family days, a day off limit for making phone calls or talking of business.
As we were contemplating whether we might stay in France longer or return home, we stumbled on an uninhabited old folk's home in the countryside complete with a small vineyard, fruit trees, and the smell of fresh pine in the morning cold. The view out of the back exposed the grey-blue rocks of the Luberon Mountains and the scrubby grass underfoot was in fact clumps of thyme, rosemary and sage. The building was three stories high and in need of a tremendous amount of work but had the gifts of being voluminous and strong. All of its bedrooms were flooded with sunshine during the day and their creaky vine-covered shutters opened up to views of the vineyard. The son of the previous owners agreed to teach us how to tend the precious vines, whose grapes would be taken to a small coop winery a few miles away. Le Mas de Gancel, as it was named, reeked of neglect in almost every respect but to us it represented a small haven, a retreat that reached out and would not let go. It soon became clear we couldn't go home.
Our plans were to create a fabulous vacation rental for the tourist season. Appropriate for groups of 10-18 with its nine bedrooms we felt the Mas would have great business potential in being one of the few large villa rentals in Provence. While the house was rented we imagined traveling to all the places we had always wanted to go returning in time for the school year to start and the beginning of the grape harvest.
Dreams and visions for restoration came easy but the follow-through was a challenge. In order to conserve funds, we decided to be our own general contractors. We put together a team of local craftsmen consisting of electricians, a plumber, a tile layer, a pool builder, and masons. These men were soon to be like family to us as we passed the cold months together in a half demolished retirement home. Our knowledge of French gros mots (swear words) rapidly flourished. But there were daily misunderstandings due to a combination of language difficulties and of restoration know-how. We had renovated our first little home in downtown Orlando some years prior but nothing near this magnitude. Determined to redo the Mas in a style typical to the region, I spent hours pouring over Provencal architecture books and magazines. Luckily, the locals were not shy in pointing out when we stepped out of the bounds of what was normally done, and at times this meant redoing something entirely.
We lived in the house as it was being restored and after long days of work we were often faced without heat or hot water. Our hands quickly became cracked from the sanding and scrapping and I forgot what it was like to be clean and feel pretty. Some days the frustrations were too much and I wondered why we had taken on such an endeavor. Fortunately, the tensions of the project would easily melt away with the fading sun as I sheared and trimmed at the vines, readying them for the next season. The children were amazingly oblivious to the stresses, happy enough to smash old tile with hammers or bundle up and roast marshmallows outside over a bonfire. It didn't matter to them that their hot water had to be heated on the stove for their baths.
The mistral wind blew hard through the winter months but the house was filled each day with the contractors' loud echoing chatter, bickering and laughter, filling all of the empty corners. Dust and plaster thickened by inches on the floor as the Mas was transformed, metamorphosed from a urine-smelling institution into a warm and inviting rambling Provencal home. At times the thought of people having died there made me uncomfortable. More and more, however, I was at ease with the idea that life came and went under its roof, a symbol of the circle of life that keeps us in constant motion. Now as these bright faced, passionate men took over the place, it felt as if rebirth was abound and little by little the house became what we had envisioned.
I look back now on our decision to move away for a year and how it has affected all of us. Undoubtedly it was hard to start a life in another country, in another language and there were and still are sacrifices. We missed big events at home, the births of babies, the death of our friend's mother, family illnesses, and the sharing in an unforgettable American tragedy. My heart ached as my son curled-up in my arms and cried about feeling different at school. But our moving abroad was also an extraordinary opportunity to examine just how we were living before. Maybe it is when you are truly out of your own waters that you can look back over your shoulder to see how you were living and perhaps what might have been missing. For us, it had been time that had been absent- to think, to breathe, to appreciate. Time to get to know our selves, one another, and to develop a foundation for our family. In France we afforded ourselves this beautiful luxury and the benefits continue to reveal themselves each day. We found also that distance does truly make the heart grow fonder, that our relationships with friends and family at home continue to grow.
I won't ever forget that feeling we had before leaving the States- the final push from who knows where that told us it was time to get out and learn, time to live. A faith within us emerged giving us the strength not to be afraid of what may lie around the corner or across an ocean.
Old Stones in Provence
Sep 08, 2006 by Lydia Dean
With a mason's pick I chip off plaster along a wall some 400 or so years old in our village house in Provence. My arms feel like lead but I forge on. Some of the ancient plaster crumbles off easily, making neat little mountains around my feet on the cracked terra cotta tile. Other areas of the wall take several minutes to chip through a mere square inch. Beneath the plaster lie stones we wish to expose, pierres apparants-beautiful, rugged, everyday Provencal stones that are as common here as baguettes and wine. Ancient villages that stand strong to this day were built using them, along with farmhouses, walls, bridges, streets, and cabanons sourrounded by endless fields of olives trees and lavender.Once the plaster has been removed, I carefully scrape out all of the hard earth and old grout in between the stones. At times it's difficult to decipher what is stone and what is old mud or concrete. I chip more, scrape more, feel with my hands where it crumbles, where it doesn't. Then slowly as if out of darkness, the shape of the stone emerges, and continues to protrude proudly, firmly, a shining star in a galaxy. With a tiny hand brush and archeologist's conscience I brush away the remaining dust and dirt all around the stones. Its deep pores now free of mud it glows a mixture of soft yellows with traces of rich ochre. I stand back and admire my treasured pierres wondering what they have lived and withstood over their lifetime.
My husband John pulls on his grubby clothes and works day by day alongside Denis our mason, learning the ropes, an apprentissage in everything from plastering to plumbing and electrics. Atypical for a mason in Provence, Denis works non-stop 7 days a week only stopping for cigarettes, the odd pastis, the local drink, or chocolate which he eats by the pound. Rail thin from days of physical work with little food, his body appears worn yet his eyes reveal a man with an unwavering zest for life. Through the wet overcast months with the treacherous mistral winds blowing, John and Denis have spent almost every waking hour together in the damp chantier, or worksite, surrounded by dust and crumbling house. I often think of what an odd combination they make. John, a born and bred American with a fire in his belly, a man who loves to get ahead, a man who salivates at the thought of business opportunity working alongside a patient and calm mason who delights in the slow cut and build. But they are both bons vivants, each reveling in living life to the fullest, and stretching oneself beyond normal limits. They thrive on hard work and precision. Their companionship grows the further they progress.
I have mud and dust in my nose, ears and hair. It is tedious work, yet the further I advance in my travail, the more comforted I am by its monotony, its relative menial importance. At this very moment in time there could be nothing more important than the wall, how it feels to my fingers, the freshness it exudes, its faint cool odor of Earth. The clock ticks as I chip, scrape, brush and breathe, but I am not aware of its movements. Time is irrelevant within these walls.
During our first years in Provence we enjoyed living at a new pace, one that put time before accomplishment, and family before success. Simplicity was a novelty and came in so many forms, in the freshness of food, the outdoors, the local markets brimming with the season's finest produce. But as we labor away restoring this village house 4 years later on the Rue de La Republique in Alleins, across from La Poste and a trickling fountain, deeper meanings of time and simplicity unveil themselves. Our inner clocks have begun to transform yet encore, they have slowed and intensified further in synch with our rhythmic chipping and scraping. As the days go by and the plaster crumbles, the house draws us in, tempts us to lose ourselves further in the process of doing instead of getting something done. Provence is like a wise and mature woman bent on enlightening those who are willing to learn. But we find her knowledge and gifts not free. She demands perseverance and patience.
My work on the stone wall pales in comparison to the efforts John has made, the changes he has made. So often the work through these cold months has been thankless and backbreaking, with no beginning or end. Day after day he single handedly lugs tons of sand and cement up and down the four flights of stairs, and equally as many tons of old rubble out. He spends unfathomable hours on his back on rickety scaffolding sanding the traditional wooden plank ceilings and beams. He trudges home with several inches of muck on his clothes and skin, sometimes with only the whites of his eyes showing.
In a matter of weeks we manage to enrage neighbors on every side of us. To the left we have the Alimentation / Tabac, a small food and cigarette store. The dust from our project lines their shelves and the poor lady who runs the shop suffers with terrible allergies only exacerbated by our dust-making work. The two old ladies to our other side send a letter to the Mairie, town hall, requesting all work to be stopped due to windows we had placed that overlook her rooftop. And it is no small detail that we have nearly killed all of the plants that they so carefully tend to outside their front door. As we chisel and bang away inside our house, walls crack and crumble on the other sides, in the homes of all our adjacent neighbors. Luckily the Provencaux are forgiving, for when John makes the rounds with armfuls of wine and chocolate, promising to clean up dust, redo walls in their homes, all is forgiven over an aperitif.
Occasionally we notice the Alleins townsfolk slowing down as they walk by the house to get a peak at the transformation. The house that has stood for hundreds of years and uninhabited for the past 40, with it's cracked and faded brown shutters hanging precariously shut from old hinges now begins a new phase of its life. Windows strewn open despite the cold, through clouds of billowing construction dust and the sound of screeching power tools, the towns folk peer up from the street and see our pierres standing proudly with new grout. Golden-colored wood in the traditional Provencal ceilings emit the cozy warmth that only ancient things exude. "Qu'il travail comme un foux (crazy man) cet American." Word has it that villagers are shocked by the intensity at which John and Denis work, something rarely found in Provence . The foreigner here doesn't normally get himself so dirty. But there is something hidden in the muck of mixing concrete oneself in an old house in the South of France. Something that had not been found in our lives back home.
Down the cobblestone street John and Denis walk side by side to the Caf du Commerce for sandwichs poulet mayo and a cold pression, covered head to toe in dust that puffs out from various places as they move. They chat away like two old women, chuckling about this and that, discussing politics, how they are progressing on the chantier. I think about John's first year in France, spent virtually in silence due to the language barrier. And now, only 4 years after leaving a busy professional life in America he is completely immersed in Provence life, full of friendships, projects in the vineyard, in the house, in the community. Completely at ease with the language, the culture and a career switch from business to masonry, he is a walking example of the goodness one can gain by chipping away at old stones, by stepping out of your life and opening oneself up to another.