Time away

How does one start the next narrative? I do not know, yet here I am.  

I'm back in Greece after a blissful month in the South of France.  There, I had elongated days filled with walks, stone fruits bleeding with juice, and the clicks of heels along smoothed cobblestones.  Of course, I stopped in Paris for a few sunsets, and then I spent nearly a month in Aix.  Knowing me as an urban dweller mainly thriving from smog and city noise, friends were keen to watch me as the days rolled by.  I have a hunch a few had bets I would lose my cookies and run back to the winding streets of Paris with panhandlers and pickpockets, tourist queues, and the endless noise and complacent stress of city life.  Instead, as the days lingered, I found a rhythm and solace within the small town.  Vendors at the market started to recognize me; the cafe I went to for iced coffee treated me as a local after my third visit--realizing I was there a long haul--as I blundered my French, and two shop owners waved and chatted with me as our paths would cross during my flâneuring.  

Provence via the train. 

A full moon came.  Festivals toured the town.  From my fourth-floor rustic abode (third floor for my non-North American friends), with my windows wide open, I would listen to the touring sounds of summertime in the region.  Medieval minstrel players touted ditties of days nearly forgotten to the mainstream eye, rock bands blared one evening for a rock festival, and a local collection of performers gave us a rendition of jazz and song one glistening summer afternoon.  The days treated me with slower time and a restful nature.  

Artichokes at the market.  

I worked while there (and here), and yet my days in Aix were the slowest I have ever been.  They remain the closest to taking time off I have done.  I didn't write while there, though I did make some breakthroughs, and I taught my virtual courses.  Instead of 60+ hours per week, I rolled back to 30-something hours a week.  I slept without an alarm, letting the sun and day wake me--around 8 to 9 am--and letting the breeze and gentle rain tell me the day's path.  The romance of it all does not escape me.  I can still taste the rotisserie chicken from the farmer's market while smelling the stalls filled with lavender.  I can still smell the cheese section of the grocery and market, then find its way to my fridge to linger there no matter what I did to quench the odors of fermented and gently aged dairy.  

I was afraid I'd be bored there if I'm being honest.  Instead, I felt my body relax to a slower pace.  I didn't wake up from the silence, and I didn't fear exchanges.  Sure, I had a couple of xenophobic moments, but in the end my day-to-day was delightful.  My French, never eloquent, came farther than it ever has, and I am confident the longer I stay, the more eloquent it will evolve.  There was a lot of my speaking French and the other side using English, which we both appreciated.  There were days I only spoke French, in simple and truncated sentences, and by the time I left for Athens I sat for far too long trying to remember the English word for suitcase.  Why I didn't look it up, I don't know, but I texted my best friend, who laughed at the scene.  She lives in Turkey, and she's had her moment on occasion, too.  Though, she was shocked I was so comfortable there, knowing how much time I spend in Athens every year.  

My window view on a rain-kissed afternoon. 

I spend the winter thinking about Greece, my returns, and my days of natural vitamin D on my balcony with the roars of Vespas and screeches of city life. This year, I have pomegranate trees on my overlook, and the symbolism they provide has not escaped me. My first year, I had kumquat trees, the second was nada, the third was basic shrubs, and now I have a blossoming boon of a few trees.  Succulents thrive on the table. My legs stretch out next to my mastika liquor-laced lemonade.  The sun sets earlier in southern Europe, but the days are equally blissful and poetic.  My neighborhood sings my name most days, and the coffee kiosk has a moment of my soul with daily freddoccinos.  The picturesque brilliance of comfort and familiarity settle me here.  

Mastika mineral water with a lemonade riddled with mastika liquor and my Athenian view.  

Athens called me home again.  Even after the glitter of Paris, the turquoise waters of Nice, and the provencal days of Aix, the home of an Aegean heart remains true and wanders home for a season.