You'll Make a Great Housewife
I’ve been meaning to write this post for awhile, but moving and life have delayed me. This is an overdue homage to Papi Pierre!
I think my favorite thing about traveling around Europe solo for 3 months last year was how it heightens all of the senses, particularly the necessity of relying on non-verbal communication. When you are in a place where your native language isn’t spoken, you are forced to rely on intuition and observation. Connections are made with people who you can barely exchange anything with except smiles, hand gestures, eye contact and something that precedes all of that. Call it kismet or kindred spirits or past life experiences. It’s real.
Like Amilee. The 27 year old woman who worked at the Pizzeria in the town where Plum Village is. I’ll get back to her in a moment. Of course, I first connect with the only other mischievous one at the monestary - Sinead, a firey Irish woman who survived a terrible divorce from a man who was cheating on her with a friend. One night before evening meditation she asked me to walk into the village with her to drop a postcard in the mail. “If we hurry, we can get there and back before meditation.” I agreed.
Once we got into the village, about a 25 minute walk from the monestary, Sinead suggested that we check to see if the Pizzeria would be open the following night so we could come up for a farewell dinner and glass of wine with some of the other women in our house. We stepped up to the front door and heard the sounds of merrymaking coming from within - music and laughter. With a sideways glance she looked at me and I looked back, “We should probably go in for one, don’t ya think?” she enticed in her thick Irish accent. “Um, um,” I hesitated because I was truly at Plum Village for a break from everything, including alcohol. But, you know that old saying (that I just made up), you can’t look a wine gift horse in the mouth. We went in.
A tall, lanky woman appeared from the kitchen. She was naturally gorgeous - wild, curly hair sat atop her head, swept up in a hair claw. She wore an apron and smoked a cigarette, her face glowing no doubt from cooking. She reminded me of Ann Hathaway in Les Miserables. Sinead and I very unskillfully ordered two glasses of red wine. When the woman brought out the bottle of house red and poured it into our glasses it looked and tasted like thick, chilled, liquid raisins. I have never tasted anything so divine. It wasn't processed the way wine normally is. This was fresh and thick. I instantly had some sort of unexplainable kindred spirit connection with Amilee. Sinead, Amilee and I giggled back and forth over my French/English dictionary. There was a wisdom to Amilee's energy; she moved about the restaurant leisurely, a creature comfortable in her environment.
A few British expats turned local contractors wandered in and replaced the need for our dictionary, bridging the language barrier between Amilee, Sinead and me. Upon hearing we were from Plum Village (which is completely vegan and dry) Amilee promptly made us pizzas, one covered in fresh goat cheese, drizzled with local honey and served with some spicy oil that came out of a bottle. The bottle looked like it came with the 500+ year old restaurant building and had an oil-soaked cork in it that was as old as time. We learned that Amilee was a cancer survivor, a butcher and cook at the restaurant (OMG my badass lady idol, living out my francophile dream life). Her mother owned the vineyard and made the wine that supplied the restaurant. Amiliee and her boyfriend lived above the restaurant as well.
Sinead and I ended up drinking wine with them by the fire into the wee hours of the morning and smoking hand rolled cigarettes on a 6 foot long fireplace hearth in the back of the restaurant. We reached a point when there was no turning back - we had to stay at the Pizzeria, drinking wine until ‘lights out’ so, we could (in theory) sneak back in, unnoticed.
My kindred spirit connection with Amilee came into play a few days later. The nuns at Plum Village only drive to the train station once a week on Fridays. On that Friday I was unable to get a train ticket on the TGV to Vienna because the train was full. The transit official explained that I could get a ticket to Paris for the following day, rolling the dice that I could then get a ticket to Vienna once I arrived in Paris. So, I booked it, later realizing that I couldn’t get a ride to the train station on Saturday. My wonderful anxiety kicked thinking, “Oh my god how am I going to get a cab in the French countryside?! I can’t spend 100-150 Euro on a cab ride to the train station!” Then, I thought about my connection with Amilee.
That night I walked back to the Pizzeria with a translated note asking if she could give me a ride to the train station the following morning. She agreed, asking me to meet her at the backdoor at 9AM the next day. After dragging my suitcase along a windy French country road past two very curious white horses, I made it! Her boyfriend answered the door wearing a Bart Simpson t-shirt, smoking a cigarette and with a very thick French accent said, “Come in. We take coffee.” Bob Marley was playing in the shuttered restaurant as he made me an espresso. Amilee appeared and handed me an alluminum foil parcel filled with chocolate cake, “For you,” she said in a motherly way as she handed it to me. I gifted her plum jam, made fresh from the village and flowers I picked the day before.
She drove me to the train station, smoking cigarettes the entire way (of course) with AC/DC on the radio, both of us trying really hard to make drowsy small talk in broken English and broken French. She hugged and kissed me when I got out of the car and said something along the lines of please come back again and see me again. And, I thought to myself how strange it was to be taken care of by a total stranger and how even AC/DC, something completely annoying to you in the US, can make you feel at home.
So, you might be wondering what does all of this have to do with Papi Pierre? The answer is, nothing really, except that Amilee and Sinead were my first kindred connections and I wanted to write all of this down before it escapes my memory. After my trip to Vienna, I traveled to Savour Provence in Roaix, a gorgeous home made by two gorgeous people (Jillian and Patrice) in the south of France. It had been a few stressful days leading up to my (delayed) arrival in Roaix because my passport and wallet were stolen on the night train while I was sleeping. I ended up back at a friend's place in Vienna for an extra week or so dealing with the American Consulate, instead of Croatia, where I meant to go before Provence. First world problems...speaking of, here's a sidebar travel tip: always spring for the overnight train compartment with a lock. Trust me the extra Euros paid are well worth not having to deal with the consulate, re-ordering debit/credit cards etc. Also, never wear a money belt, which makes you so obviously a tourist and therefore a target, unless you are sleeping on the night train.
Flash forward to finally arriving in the picturesque village of Roaix and meeting Papi Pierre. I instantly loved this man, even though we could barely communicate with each other. I wasn’t even mad, I was quite charmed in fact, when he announced to the dinner table one evening that I would make a great housewife. His reasoning behind this was I could read the glasses, filling them as they ran low. Perhaps he could get away with being old-fashioned and a bit of a hard nose from time to time because of the soft playfulness behind all of his ornery comments. He stood in the kitchen, supporting himself on a cane, rummaging around for two glasses and insisting that I take an apertif with him at 2PM. He joked that he drank two liters of water per day for his kidney, so he was allowed to drink two liters of rose.
You could tell he was an opinionated man and thought there was a way things “should” be. He was completely dapper in his blazer - every day he wore a pressed, collared shirt, a sweater over the top of that, his blazer and trousers. Even at 90 years old, he was never in casual dress. He never wanted help up the stairs, even though he could have used it. When I came downstairs in the morning he would be reading his iPad, which he insisted was the wave of the future and going to replace everything. He enjoyed FaceTiming with his grandchildren.
Jillian confided in me that when they tried explaining the concept of WWOOF’ing to Papi Pierre he was very leery and borderline un-accepting. He worried that these strangers coming into his son and daughter in law’s home were going to be freeloaders, just there for a free meal. By the end of his stay alongside us WWOOF’ers, there were tears streaming down his face as he departed for his home in Lyon. At dinner before he left, he made a toast and said that he had always wanted to travel, but wasn’t able to because his late wife didn’t enjoy it. Instead, he often got his travel fix by watching documentaries. Thanks to the WWOOF’ers, the world came to him and was sitting right in front of him at his dinner table. He joked about it being such a pity that he had had such boring friends all of his life and was just now realizing it after hearing what drove each of us to become WWOOFers.
It rained for most of my stay at Savour Provence. So, rather than working the vineyard or any other extensive WWOOF'ing, we did some light gardening, planting a large ground cover of ivy. The rest of the time I tagged along with Patrice as we stopped by the butcher and winery (where wine floweth from things that look like gas nozzles into containers of your choosing!!) I met friends from Paraguay, North Carolina, Brazil and Germany. We all took walks, sipped wine, made beef bourguignon and yogurt flavored with fig jam. We explored the nearest village in the rain. And I became close with Jillian, Patrice, Patrice's daughter and his father, Papi Pierre.
A little over a month ago I received an email from Jillian explaining that Papi Pierre had suddenly passed away at their home in Roaix. He had woken from a sleep, calling out for them. When they arrived at his bedside, his breathing was labored and it became clear that something more serious was going on. By the time an ambulance reached them, Papi Pierre had slipped away.
I received the email about his death one sunny morning, in Minneapolis, before moving to NYC. I had just made my morning French press coffee, so I poured a cup and retreated to the back yard to deliberately reflect on my time with Papi Pierre, Patrice, Jillian and the rest of the WWOOFers. Where was everyone? Did Diego start working for the NGO he was planning to work for? Was Katherine back in the States making inappropriate dad jokes? Did Papi Pierre finally feel like he saw the world through the stories and youth of the WWOOFers around his table?
I couldn't think of a better tribute to Papi Pierre than soaking up a few moments of Mediterranean-like sunshine with a drink in hand (even if it wasn't rose). I recalled the last meal Papi Pierre had with us before going home to Lyon. Patrice made lamb confit, Papi Pierre's favorite. As soon as one course left, another came out, finally ending with two cheese boards filled with 15+ different types of cheese, an espresso and (you guessed it) a nap. You should have seen the satisfaction on Papi Pierre's face as he commended Patrice for a job well-done on the lamb. But, that was no match for what was written on his face at the sight of his family at his dinner table - a son, happy in love and a grand daughter translating his stories. It was the look of a life well-lived, a quiet contentment that I imagine only comes after the hustle and striving for achievement has faded and you are in the winter of your life. In his glance was the reassurance that life was at last complete.
Here's to Papi Pierre - a kindred spirit I am thankful to have met along the way!
