Author: The Cachette

Five Minutes in a Photo Booth in the Middle of a Pandemic

Nina is singing while she dresses paper fairies in a sticker book I snagged at Carrefour yesterday:

hohohohccccccackkkcackcackcackhuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhcocococococo cwa cwa cwa cwa yeeeee attends moi woc woc woc et le neee neee nee umadhhhmehhh maman je veux jouer avec mon playdough yup-pyuu pyuu, yup-pyu pyuuu, cahhhhhhhhh.

About an hour earlier, she was asking me to name things that are jaune. She did not believe me that birds are yellow, and somehow that feathered creature conversation has subconsciously flown itself into the depths of her tout-petit brain stem so that the only song she can sing right now literally is that of a morning bird. A small but resilient morning bird (the kind that can wind their way through my rose bushes at full speed without getting pricked) that is overstimulated from the chocolate morsels that swirled their way into my bowl of pancake batter and onto a certain three-year olds breakfast plate earlier today.

This is day one/morning one of a 15-day home confinement in France.

We sensed this was coming and knew it had to happen when the news reports Sunday night showed scenes of city goers continuing on with life as if nothing was happening. Ca me deprime were the words of one man interviewed when asked about the crowds of people hanging out behind him despite the recent order to stay home and avoid assembling. Was it defiance against being told by the political machine what to do? Was it a unique disregard that stems from a fundamental lack of roots most have grown in their cultivation of empathy and compassion for others? Was it simply fear and a lack of courage on display – because doing what is uncomfortable/being vulnerable requires everything brave within us? Probably a mix of it all.

In any case, I started hearing reports yesterday morning that full confinement orders were being finalized and prepped for public presentation. My biggest concern, apart from not being able to get to my in laws and help if needed, has been my appointment scheduled next week for the renouvellement de mon titre de sejour. Of course. My visa appointment had to fall in the middle of a pandemic. So while all of France was readying themselves with caddies of food and drink – or driving to summer homes to escape the city (I heard reports of a big uptick in ferry traffic to Belle-Île), I was at Carrefour yesterday camped out at the copying machine trying to finalize a dossier that awaits with impatience its date with the prefecture. 31 copies and 6,20 euros later, I was done with step one. I realized that I had no cash left to operate the photo booth to get my ID photos for step two, so I went to the bank, returned, and stood at the accueil to wait for someone to break my 10. But I soon learned that no one is going to voluntarily come to you and your germ-infested bank note in the middle of a pandemic. And if you stand at the accueil long enough by yourself in the middle of a pandemic, you’ll soon be overcome with an eerie sense of impending doom as your eyes pan the aisles anticipating a scene from a robert kirkman thriller and bring this reality into view: the store will be packed with people, the store will be silent from noise, and the store will be absolutely empty of food. There are exceptions.

— I saw a lot of disappointed pineapple, two heads of green cabbage (the kind you expect to find babies growing in), a sad box of eight forgotten kiwis, a few pears, and two barquettes of baby tomatoes (now in our pantry). A few packs of shrimp. A freezer full of smoked salmon spreads and the like. Two packages of magret de canard, sliced thin. A half row of ham in the bio section.

— A woman of about 70+ walked into the store and rushed passed me, suddenly pausing. Il y a une guerre ou quoi? Il n’y a plus de rien. (Is there a war or what? There’s nothing left.) I turned and met her eyes which were red and weepy. A routine cold or a consciousness that only hard-lived experience can invoke? I almost wish for the cold.

— There was a store employee with a scarf wrapped tight around her neck as she moved around with so much speed that I almost remember her being on wheels. Once customers caught on that this woman was giving 200% to helping anyone in need find a substitute for items on their shopping lists, they flocked to her. And my eyes stayed on her. Stayed on her scarf. It was red white and blue and full of stars. An American flag. I stared. I’m sure I opened my lips and mouthed mom. I thought of home. This home. That home. The global home. What the hell is going on? Will Nina believe us when she’s 17 and listening to me recount the time the world stopped?

I made it out of the store. Arms full of my long-loved Trader Joe and HEB bags and two sacks of dog food. I eventually found someone at the accueil to break my 10, and I spent 5 minutes in a photo booth in the middle of a pandemic. The stool was too low, so my squats came into good use as I had to balance my thighs to get me leveled at just the right height. Doing this + trying to push the right button to start the camera without my glasses on is a skill. I took the first round of photos without using my two extra attempts and drove home. Once I got a chance to really look at those photos, I touched my face on the photo paper. Dear girl. Dear me. The face of giving everything you’ve got in the middle of a pandemic. I wake up each night in a deep sweat, even if the window is open. My eyes beat the 6 AM alarm by minutes. I do my best to let the little things tumble by. I read 3-4 children’s books a night in two languages and fall asleep in a toddler bed, always brushing my teeth before dumping myself into our bed down the hall. And there’s work and being a partner and being my own human all folded up in there. So that face. Dear girl. Dear me.

After dinner, we crowded on the couch and quickly found the channel for the presidential address. Someone was live transcribing the words coming out of Macron’s mouth, and I couldn’t help notice the corrections they’d make on the screen as words were typed incorrectly, deleted, and type correctly again. Nous sommes en guerre. Nous sommes en guerre. We are at war declared Macron. We must all do our part to get through this. Businesses will have their overhead fees, like utilities and rent, waived. Associations will be given funding to support residents in need of food. And we will be in confinement for 15 days. In order to leave the house, we will have to print out a permission slip to present if/when asked by the authorities. Even to go for a run.

There’s not much more to say. It just has to be done. Nature will get us through this. Coloring and playdough will get us through this. Being reasonable and understanding will get us through this.

Dear girl. Dear me.

When this is all over, I will be making a trip back to that photo booth. To record the face of what one looks like on the other side. To test my thighs in that 5-minute squat. To find that woman with the scarf and share a smile and probably way more than she wants to hear.

Somewhere Between Motown & Modest Mouse

I woke up this morning wanting to read anything I could that did NOT make reference to COVID-19 or remind me that my fellow humans are engaging in shouting matches with store employees (who are psychologically and physically exhausted and still trying to serve) over bottled fucking water. WE CAN DO BETTER HUMANS. My reality at the moment – along with the 67 million others here in France – is that we are shutting down and being told to stay home (except if you want to go and vote today – voting or bust apparently – that’s another story) care of l’arrêté du 14 mars 2020. This rocks everyone’s world with a far-ranging scope of effects that I am (with all my gratitude) privileged enough to be financially/mentally/physically prepared for at this moment in time yet empathetic enough to understand the WHY behind it. France is the proverbial meat patty wedged between two hamburger buns: Italy and Spain. COVID-19 has it’s jaws pressed firmly into each bun, and as those viral dents clench tighter to bite down and chew, it’s our steak haché that’s going to get more than its share fair of the feels.

Lame food metaphors aside, France is going to feel this. The world at large is going to feel this. And the lack of care towards pro-actively making the effort to reduce the impact (along with the absurdity that results with mass hysteria/only listening to these related sound bites) surprises me but doesn’t, sadly. As one message I scrolled past on social media this morning stated, yes, I’d probably be fine if I fell ill. But it’s the others who’d catch the virus from me who might not be able to survive. If you don’t believe this, I challenge you to the following: reach out to someone elderly near you and propose a helping hand. Do it via telephone – don’t just show up at their house (because depending where you are, they might want to avoid all in-person interaction right now to keep themselves alive). See what kind of response you get. I woke up yesterday and thought about an older Irish woman whom I’d met a few weeks earlier in the woods while hiking. We’ve come across each other a few times since then and exchanged numbers at some point (it’s nice to have an English speaker sometimes for a lazy afternoon chat). So I thought about her, knowing that she was in the age group of those who are most at risk right now, and I sent her a text that started like this: I just wanted to send a message to say hello. With this virus going around, please let me know if there’s anything that Romain and I can do to help if you need something from the store but don’t want to get out.

About half an hour later, I received her response which began like this:

Hello Joani, I was very touched by your offer. For the moment, no problem though I have cancelled all activities since the case was reported in Auray. I have an auto immune problem plus fragile lungs, so I prefer to be careful.

Rien à dire de plus.

Onward. We lead these next few uncertain weeks with a full heart, full cups of coffee, and a full playlist. Today we were somewhere between Motown and Modest Mouse.

Nina woke up at 7:45 AM with her signature appel: Mamaaaan. Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaan. When that happens, there’s a 98% chance that she’s going to kick Romain out of her room if he attempts to go see her in my place. As these stats don’t lie, that’s exactly what happened. After I got her to the potty and back, she was focused on playing solo in her room which meant I got to read (eye-opening piece on giraffes). In bed. In the morning. With our beautiful magnolia tree blooming and beaming at me through the bedroom window. BECAUSE IT WAS NOT RAINING. And Nina brought us (imaginary) coffee and breakfast treats (wooden necklace beads, plastic veggies, and viennoiseries made out of felt that my MIL crafted last year).

Cue Please Mr. Postman.

Breakfast was a melange of three separate dishes: spinach and eggs (Romain), pain au chocolat with a fruit bowl (Nina), and my usual yogurt + granola + one banana mix. Real coffee. Pajamas. No rush to be anywhere but here.

I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bun).

Wrapped up the first half of the day with more time in the kitchen and flour in Nina’s hair. My secret mom ingredient is cream of tarter. With it, I have made play-dough for children in three different countries that out rolls/out lasts anything that you’ll buy at the store. Nina can now recite the recipe which I share here in hopes that caretakers can use it – and then take a breather while kids stay creative: 1 cup flour, 1/4 cup salt, 2 tsp cream of tarter. Mix in a pot on the stove. Turn on your heat, add 1 cup of warm water and a tiny drop of oil. Stir at a high heat until that mass thickens up (don’t stop stirring). Add in any food coloring and be done. Take out and knead a bit. Let it cool off before you hand it over to your little people. You’re welcome.

One Chance. And pretty much all of Good News for People Who Love Bad News (except Black Cadillacs – little ears over here).

Jumping off for more reading. As Brené Brown writes, what stands in the way becomes the way. So I’m keeping my way filled with what I can control, what brings me joy, and flexibility so that I don’t get stuck and lose sight of the light ahead when things do get tough (because they will – but we are resilient beings). This too shall pass my friends.

In the Heart of a Pandemic

It’s been some time since I’ve come here to write. Perhaps this is because I spend my professional life online, capturing behind-the-scenes product logic and details from the trans-Atlantic mouths of my brilliant, code-filled colleagues and transforming it into digestible material for our clients. I absolutely love it. But when my work day ends, my WANT TO DO list looks something like this:

  1. See my girl.
  2. See my man.
  3. See my dog.
  4. Color. We have a family set of map pencils, crayons, and markers that get put to good use each late afternoon alongside some good tunes and drinks. This is our family apero.
  5. Actually complete a full crossword puzzle (this is me dreaming – I get a puzzle in MAYBE once a month).
  6. Read. Brene Brown’s Dare to Lead sits with a bookmark on page 47 next to a thin paperback in French that I grabbed months ago in town.
  7. Get outside. Nature is constantly calling.
  8. Soak in any sun that might find a way to shine through given that it’s been raining in Bretagne since October.
  9. Prune my rose bushes. Machete off dead branches from my banana tree. Snip away flowers and weeds from our very Honey I Shrunk the Kids yard (we haven’t cut the grass since October).
  10. Get in a full phone conversation with my mom and dad (that’s not interrupted by a certain 42-month old needing to ask “Maman, le requin mange quoi? Et le toucan?”).
  11. NOT look at a screen.
  12. NOT sit in front of a computer.

So with that, I’ve purposely distanced myself away from technology during my “me” time in a concerted effort to give space to those people and things that bring joy to my life. Yet, with our current COVID-19 situation, I need to give space to documenting what is quickly reshaping all of our routines.

Two weeks ago we met some friends at a movie theatre in Vannes. There’s always some kind of toddler-focused programming going on, and we love a good film (with popcorn – they sweeten it instead of adding butter here). It’s usually two short films followed by a slightly longer third one, and each one has their own respective artistry on display. Whether you’re nearly 4 or 40, the programming is thoughtful, and I appreciate how the theatre staff is involved with greeting the children, introducing the films, and handing out an activity pamphlet that keeps our child busy when we go to eat lunch afterwards.

Back to the movie: we noted in our conversation with friends that the COVID-19 situation was something to keep an eye on. But we were still out. The theatre was full of other families. Even in the rain, the street sidewalks were dotted with umbrellas. Our post-film creperie was packed as usual. A routine Saturday looked and felt like a routine Saturday.

The next day, the first COVID-19 cases in our area were announced. And a cap of 5,000 people was put into place for the max limit allowed in public assemblies. The buzz around COVID-19 was taking off. And though we weren’t still sure what this meant, we talked about it a lot with the initial conversation thread being something like this: WTH is really going on with COVID-19? It’s wrapped its wheels around the global media circuit and steamrolled forward, leaving environmental and social issues in the dust for now.

I’ve kept my ears open to information coming in from reliable sources amid an inundation of news. For me, this has included tracking what’s been happening at a local level via the Prefet du Morbihan. They’ve done a great job of harnessing social media to reach the community, posting a regular “point de situation” each day, and responding to questions from the public.

It’s also meant staying attentive to Italy and the situation which continues to unfold there because this story is the one that demonstrates what we could be facing in France. The key points that rest in my mind are:

  • An aging population has the highest risk. And France has a large aging population.
  • No matter how much infrastructure exists at present to support those who are ill, there is not enough infrastructure to meet the needs when the young and healthy fall ill alongside the elderly and anyone with a compromised immune system. ALL AT THE SAME TIME. There simply will not be enough medical staff and ICU beds and specialized equipment to meet these needs.

It’s these two points that sit heavy on my mind. I have been calm – and rational. We wash our hands. We live in a very small, rural village, so it is easier for us to distance ourselves from others. But I think about my neighbors in this community, one where every association is geared towards retirees because most people are retired. They are part of this aging population who will be most affected in the coming weeks days.

I went to the grocery store today a little after lunch time, and the parking lot was eerily empty. The first two rows closest to the entrance are usually packed. Today I probably counted 12-15 cars in the entire parking lot of six rows.

Inside the store, everyone was at least 60+ years old – and very much keeping to themselves. I wondered how many of them had to pep talk themselves into getting into their car to grab extra items today. I was humbled by the fact that the aisles were stocked with toilet paper and bottled water and all the things people in other areas/countries seem to be running towards (like the Best Buy big screens on Black Friday). One woman was in the yogurt aisle with her cloth handkerchief that she used to discreetly dab at her runny nose. I thought, the risk for her is everything – to be elderly and perhaps afflicted with a minor cold – but needing to come to the store. Who do you call to grab the basics when, well, you have no one to call?

That whole grocery store trip felt off. All of this feels off.

Fast forward to a few hours ago: all schools nation-wide are being closed in France as of Monday, March 16.

We’re in the heart of a pandemic.

I need to sleep on this to process what our dear France will become in they days, weeks ahead. And of course, my mind turns to the large-scale question of what will WE become? Will we check in on each other and act with patience and compassion? Or will the worst of us be on display – will we see a global state of “each human for themselves”?

For now, I look to nature. That beauty will be what saves us all right now. With the forecast finally showing multiple days of sun, we will retreat to the yard for more of maman’s wacky gardening habits – and mud pies with flower soup. We will retreat to the forest for a quick run in the early morning and late afternoon. We will retreat to the beach to search for shells at low tide and breathe in that fresh, cool Atlantic air that stirs the body into taking a deep afternoon nap. I have a feeling that we will all need as much rest as we can get to fuel us as we move forward.

La Grasse Matinee

I slept in until almost 10 AM today. We all did – and this was something of dreams. For me at least, it was the culmination of many nights of absolutely no sleep over the past week. We suffered through the heat wave in much more mild ways than others (living in a large stone house first built in the 1400s keeps things cool), yet we inevitably had some baked, still nights where it felt I was trapped in one large exhalation of someone else’s hot air. Toss and turn and sigh. I put the better of the two fans that we have in Nina’s room because that’s what mom’s do, so in the end for us, it was a choice between listening to the horrid mechanical whirl of a near-death mini machine – or putting it and ourselves out of its misery by leaving it off. We chose the latter.

Then there’s the subject of trying to find a place to live. Lots of driving to see towns and villages and visualize ourselves in them. Many pros and cons to this – I can give you a verbal highlight reel of everything along the coast between Concarneau and Guerande (it’s beautiful and includes visits to over 12+ different beaches), but it has come with the price of my time (and I’m talking about the ability to dedicate my focused attention how I choose: on my child, on my husband, on myself, on fun) and sanity. And since where you live is a big decision, renting something seemed like the most logical option to begin with when you think about finding the “right” spot in a country where you’ve never permanently lived: near the water, in a house with enough space to feel cozy and a yard (I need to be outside and want to raise our child with bare feet in open air), near a large enough town, in the country versus in the city versus the country versus the city (I torment myself with romanticized notions of what city living could be like), not too far from family, not too dead in the winter, near trails, good for raising a child, etc. So after countless hours – many of these in bed at 3 AM when I could not sleep – of searching leboncoin.fr and compiling lists of numbers for Romain to call and investigate, we saw our first three houses. One was beautiful and modern and within walking distance of everything in a small town, yet it was in the middle of a massive lotissement: an area of residential plots kind of jammed into each other. Once I stepped outside of the house, I felt like I was on some odd television show where everyone lived in the exact same house and had a window to peek into the yards and houses and lives of everyone else. It was claustrophobic and to me – someone who grew up in the country and spent the last few years living in the country again – it felt artificial. I just wasn’t for me or for us. The second house was on a small space right where two roads converged, so I could hear cars from every side of the house when outside. The kitchen was tiny, and the bathrooms were old in style. The current long-time tenants were former owners of a chateau, so they had rented this house to use for guests (or so the story goes). It was decorated with giant vases and elaborate tables and all the things a toddler really can’t touch. I felt like we were in a museum, and even though the furniture would be gone, the space never quite sat right with me because of it. X. Finally, we arrived in Gestel to visit what appeared to be the perfect house. It was located on a small dead-end street and within walking distance of two very important things: a maternelle where Nina could go to school and a trailhead into a nice wooded area. The house had a gated yard, a garden, and a trail behind it. I was thinking YES YES YES….until we got inside. It smelled like the duo of pugs who were racing around my feet, and it was small and dark and not well maintained. As I walked into another room, I kept hoping things would improve, but they only got worse. It would make no sense to rent a house where you had no desire to be inside your space – and to put money into remodeling a house that is ultimately not your own. The disappointment was excruciating.

There are more tales to recount: the cute Herbignac house with apple trees in the middle of nowhere (and difficulty getting a good wi-fi signal), the amazing property in Landevant that left us speechless – and ultimately broke our hearts (because the owner selected someone else without explanation), the wooden house in Quimperle that we crossed our fingers for but realized it was just not for us, the tiny Vannes townhouse with a surfing theme whose small size made me physically feel disoriented. And these are only some of the houses that we were actually granted the right to see. When you contact a rental through an agency and even directly through an owner, sometimes they don’t want to know anything about you. They just want you to see the house first. Other times they want to know your life history before you even have the right to take a viewing appointment. We encountered all variations of this – and sometimes it made us lose a lot of time. Sometimes it had us getting our hopes up. We quickly learned that we had a situation atypique: you can have all the money you want to show them in the bank, but if you haven’t lived in France recently – if you aren’t getting paid directly into a French bank account – if, say, you’re like us and have been following a strategic plan to move your family abroad that included downtime in Texas with family before moving to France, then forget it. People don’t want to hear about your amazing project management and plan creation skills. They just want what the country of France is demanding them to require. Renters have a lot of rights here as well, so I’m sure owners proceed with ALL the caution. It is what it is, and I get it if I were renting my home. But to be on the other end of it all right now, after all we’ve done to get here and to be REALLY ready to finally have our own place again has been feckin stressful to say the least.

We sign our lease for a dreamy house in the countryside tomorrow. True to my roots. I need space and an open kitchen. A yard and a trailhead and a goddamn shower. And on moving day, once we’ve arrived, I will hammer a stake into the ground with a poster board inviting all the neighbors over for tacos. They can love it or leave it, but one thing is for sure: if my toddler lets me sleep in again like this on a weekend, then our little Breton village better watch tf out. I’ll be whipping up tacos and guac and all the trimmings.

Five of Five Hundred: List 1

The Five of Five Hundred list is symbolic of the FIVE HUNDRED MILLION things on my mind that I’d like to do/say/write/organize/eat/see/dream on during one massive long sleep and grasse matinee. Since I’m not sure my brain, calendar, and toddler will ever unlock arms and allow me the time to write a full blog post again, I’m putting all my money on the Five of Five Hundred to bring me the cathartic outlet I need.

5/500 -List 1

1 – RAISING A BILINGUAL CHILD. A rare mix of awe and WOW and pride and cute overload – and a sense of nostalgia and imminent disconnection that I’ve never had before in my life. Nina stands with me on this vast European continent as my only flesh and blood life line to everything that has laid the foundation for what I am, what I know. So when I notice how quickly her French has advanced this past month (noting the irony that I’ve primarily spoken to her in French since she was born) – when she asks me to stop in English and restart a storybook in French – when she laughs and uses her “imagimation” to start/continue/end conversations with Marie in Montreal or Marine in Paris on her toy telephone that begin with “Bonjour, ca va?” and end in “A bientot” – I suddenly feel like I’m on a rocket ship that is blasting off from Earth. And that we will land somewhere, and I’ll look back to see that rocket leaving us with the last American flag of my life waving a slow goodbye as all of the American culture that made me who I am flees forever: Dr.Seuss, 90s country music, mom’s pot roast, crunchy peanut butter, and mixing all food groups together inside of a flour tortilla.

I’m so fucking proud of her. But it, this bilingualism, this dual nationality, this crockpot of culture, has suddenly stopped me in my tracks and made me wonder how will I preserve and hang on to what ultimately will always feel like home. More to come.

2 – MISSING MY SHOWER HEAD. If I could spend all of my money on one thing right now, it would be a tiny shower room. Installed on wheels. A tiny shower house of sorts that I could hitch to the car (that we don’t yet have – we’ve been renting a Fiat 500 – this saga of buying a car in France is a whole other story that I won’t get into right now) and set up in the parking lot of Le Clerc or along the salt marshes in Guerande so that I could stand and stretch and take the longest, hottest shower I wanted to without anyone bothering me. Without any tiny bain or mobile shower spray device or question as to what a shower should really be. And to top it off, I wouldn’t mind some steamy, super X-rated action in that shower room because no children or parents or in laws or dogs would be allowed.

3 – MAMA. I miss my mom. Five hundred times a day. She’s deep in the heart of Texas in her reading chair. Sunlight shining in on her. Reaffirming each afternoon that she truly is an angel.

4 – BY THE SEA. This is my calling. Sun. Sand. Shells. Saltwater. I can even take the momentary chill that the Atlantic brings because in its waters I know I am safe from sharks. I hope that Nina spends her summers like this. That one day she’ll suck down her own bowl of moules and huitres. That she will look back on this time and, upon seeing a photo of Piriac sur Mer or Finistere, she’ll smile and say “mon enfance”.

5 – AM I REALLY QUESTIONING THE WINE IN MY LIFE? HAHA. YES. I spent the seven months prior to France in Texas, and during that time, I worked out every day (short high intensity workouts that brought quick results) and ate really clean (I pretty much lived off avocados). So it was more than obvious once I arrived to France and sat in front of a baguette and butter each morning and three different types of wine each night that my abs were going to turn into dough if I wasn’t careful. This meant (gasp) saying no to bread and turning down my second and third glass of wine. I slowly made the switch to red, backing down from white and leaving rose for the sardine festivals. Romain pulled me out of my office to run a 6K during lunch yesterday, so if I can keep it up, I can keep off the dough – and continue to indulge in that nightly glass of wine I deserve.

La Grée des Landes: Return to Me + Return to Them.

It’s been a minute since I’ve had time alone. Not extended seat time in the bathroom (where faking it until they catch on is a real thing) or the slow, drowsy walk from putting a toddler to bed to trying to locate my own. Real, genuine alone time: a chance to stop thinking and responding and twirling about mental checklists of things to do for all the people and creatures and spaces that command/demand/request my attention. I love them, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t also love the freedom of simply existing with nothing on the day’s agenda other than to simply BE. So it was a much welcomed gesture when the Fête des Mères rolled around this year, and I found before me, alongside a bouquet of peonies (my favorite) and an oversized bowl of viennoiserie, a certificate for a morning all to myself at La Grée Des Landes.

I first visited this heaven in the heart of Bretagne a few years ago, and I was fortunate for this to be my third visit back. Coming from Vermont where I was enveloped in nature and enjoyed a community who cared deeply about eating local, stewardship, and holistic health, I have always felt right at home at La Grée des Landes. Spa Yves Rocher, being my absolute favorite feature of this 4-star establishment, offers a pleasurable experience with two intimate indoor pools, a full menu of massage treatments, and a traditional hamman. Sweating out eight months of transition and stress in a dark, quiet room will free you.

When Romain dropped me off the Monday after the Fête des Mères holiday, I stepped out of the car struggling to leave all thoughts of potty training, work deadlines, finding a permanent place to live, buying a car, and our shipping container sitting somewhere over the Atlantic behind. Yet, the vibrant red poppies that line the entrance way path up to the front doors immediately caught my eye. Maybe it was their flamboyant curves or natural brilliance set against a field of wild grass. Either way, those dear poppies held my gaze, steadied my breath, and sedated me with their mythical charm. I was pretty much ready to float the rest of the way to Spa Yves Rocher.

Fast forward to half an hour later: I moved from the front desk (love that I’m greeted by the same manager each visit), to the changing room (you could leave me in there with my plush robe and slippers, and I’d be happy), to the hamman (solo sweating and trying not to smile too big). Next was the infinity pool, and let me be honest: I was completely transported (as expected) by the sights and sounds of moving water in such a tranquil space AND trying not to cry at our reunion (this magnificent pool and I) AND also laughing at thoughts of wouldn’t it be amazing if someone rolled up right then and there with a piña colada (like the kind we had at a rooftop hotel in Belize years ago). It’s amazing how giddy you can get after just 30 minutes of intense alone time when it’s felt like a lifetime since you’ve been able to reconnect with yourself. I can reflect back and see the versions of the self that I’ve been, that I’ve moved through with ease and equal struggle, and that I’ve worked hard to become/overcome. This reflection process helps me remember who I am, how I arrived to X point in time, and how much potential still remains for me to see, be, and do all that I conjure up (because mid-30s…I’m just getting started world). So if you happened to get a glimpse of me alone in that pool swimming laps on my back while laughing, sitting still in a corner with closed eyes talking to myself, then spontaneously jumping up to do forward somersaults like a child – well, that dear friends was reflection in action.

I’m not sure how they got me out of that pool, but at 11 AM I was putting on my tissue paper bikini bottoms and sliding under a towel for the start of my soin du corps: fifty minutes of being massaged from scalp to sole and enveloped in jojoba oil. I’m a fan of the firmest pressure one can apply while giving a massage (all the fury that my patience shakes down has to go somewhere – it’s trapped in both shoulders), and my therapist did not disappoint. She was even forgiving when a little lost in translation moment occurred, and I remained in the room an additional 15 minutes (pretty much passed out on the table with my face wedged deep into the headrest hole) while she was patiently waiting for me outside our treatment room with a nice warm cup of tea. I would rate this as one of the best massages that I’ve ever had and give bonus points to my therapist for complementing me on my French (despite my confusion later) and checking in on me just enough during the massage to let me know she cared but understood I was in the middle of some serious zen.

Once I got myself off that massage table and said goodbye to Spa Yves Rocher, my next stop was lunch with Romain, who dropped in to join me just in time. The hotel’s restaurant prides itself on local, organic cuisine, and seeing how there is a serious garden on the property, I was eager to reap the rewards. We were warmly welcomed by the manager, and it’s taken for granted a lot, but that first interaction really sets the tone for the meal (and he continued to frequent our table throughout the meal). I can’t remember exactly what I ordered – and the menu had some funky naming conventions that I just went with – but I can tell you that everything was delicious. Each plating was extremely well done and thoughtful, and service took place for each guest at the same time. This meant we were all served at once, so there wasn’t a big hustle of coming and going on the restaurant floor from the kitchen, which I liked. Noteworthy items: fennel and apple (separately) used in creative ways, a starter of mushroom soup that had a little island of some magical bread ball smack in the middle of the bowl, and a thoughtful waiter who brought me a new expresso on the outside deck when my clumsy knees hit our table and sent my first cup flying.

I left La Grée des Landes with a clear head, jojoba oil glow, and few coffee stains on my jeans. Mind you, this was only a half-day visit, so I can’t help to imagine what wonders an entire weekend away would bring: unplugged, unattached, and undeterred from focusing on the self in a world that is often very demanding. But regardless, I returned back to my toddler and family and work and world with a bit more space and capacity to engage and share – and peacefully pull over on to a roadside stop and remain chill when Nina peed her pants all over her car seat seconds after telling us she didn’t need to go. Taking time to become the best version of this original self really does allow me to give the best version of all my selves (mother, wife, daughter, sister, daughter in law, friend, colleague, etc.) to the many people I love in my life. They deserve it, and I enjoy it. So if there is any question in your mind about whether you should take the afternoon off to take advantage of a nice sunny day solo in the park – or not feel guilty spending a half day alone at a spa, let me just remind you to do it. Return to you. Then return to them.

Week One. Done.

Week one down, and the transition abroad has been surprisingly smooth. I keep waiting for the bottom to fall out of whatever giant ass block of chevre I find myself atop of every evening after dinner, but instead, life is simply leaving me on the shallow end of a pool of toddler pee to clean up here and there, wine glass in hand. My favorite are those pee pee puddles that seem to manifest themselves three feet from the toilet. Is this an unappreciated gift – or is she punishing me for too much transition during the most trying of times: the terrible twos? In any case, we have arrived. After six months of soul stretching, alligators and other reptiles of the mighty Brazos Bend, a full season of crawfish boils, a stint of potty training (which has regressed), and a few tattoos in Montreal, we have made it to the French countryside. And I’m drinking every apéro I can get my hands on because, dear world, I deserve it. It’s hard to think about what goes on behind the scenes when one decides to be brave because everything that leads up to it spans all sides of the emotional spectrum: I ran, I hid, I threw myself out there and streaked down the I WILL DO THIS interstate, I sank, I clawed, I tossed everything out the window in a silent rage of slow tears, I chatted with mama, I screamed for mama, I turned to Nature, I buried it, I tore the ground up with my hands and pulled it all back out again and stuffed it into my pockets for safe keeping. But then I forced myself to sit with it in a very raw form and asked some honest questions: what matters now, what will matter then, what makes me as an individual human being feel good, what do I have the potential to be if I choose the positive – and what does my family have the potential to become if that’s the version of myself they move forward with in life? In the end, I chose what made me feel good. I admired the woman I’ve been and all the lives she’s led up to now. I honored the woman I’ve become and what she values, especially when family is involved. I stopped being scared of making the wrong choice and directed, instead, my fear towards what might happen if I made no choice at all. Fear went from being debilitating to helping me defy the obstacles that I used to have lined up around orange cones before me, waiting for someone with a clipboard to say go.

Week one. Done. And I’ve never been more proud.