The Village Between Two Cities
In August, much of Paris shuts down as people leave on vacation. Many shops close for three or four weeks, while larger stores and those in tourist-heavy neighborhoods stay open. In September, everyone talks about “la rentrée” like “back to school” in the States, but here it applies to everyone. Everyone returns, shakes off the lazy rays of sunshine. Paris looks well rested, already offering its annual preview of Fall before the calendar ticks over.
September marks the return to work, school, and research. My wife and I pick up our lists of contacts, areas of interest, and alerts, and slide back into our routine: homemade bread, toasted; freshly roasted coffee; and real-estate listings.
In France, countryside listings can be fickle. Some linger unchanged for months after a home has sold. Others reappear every week with new photos and a new price.
When we finally come across something that looks exactly right, our first reaction is less “Eureka! I’ve found it!” and more “What’s wrong with it?”
Hidden Gems
We keep full-time jobs and part-time dreams, sprinting between them with a phone full of listings that promise “hidden gems.” On weekends we run for the station, still half on work calls, and throw ourselves onto whatever train will take us to the next maybe. Sometimes that train moves at ten kilometers an hour for reasons no one can explain. Sometimes its engine and brakes are not on speaking terms. Sometimes we’re fifty minutes late and already texting the agent: so sorry, still on our way.
“Fifteen minutes from the station,” the listing says. Fifteen minutes can mean a sunny stroll, or thirty minutes along a forest road where wild boar consider their options in the middle of your lane. We don’t have a car yet, so it’s Uber—when Uber exists. The app is confident days in advance and then coy an hour before, then thirty minutes, then five. Or silent. There’s sometimes a taxi, if you can find a number. And if it happens to be on their route. The driver shows up smiling, narrates the town’s entire recent history (it was better before they removed the fountain, traffic is a nightmare now), and quotes the 20-minute ride at 51€, card accepted. She reminds us we’ll need a ride back, too, (you’ll have to coordinate that with my office though).
Digging Deeper
When I was little, maybe six or eight, we lived in a modest suburban house with a backyard that felt impossibly large. Huge trees lined either side, and the far end touched the land of a local animal doctor, so occasionally a lost duckling would wander up to our door.
It was there, with my mom, that I first began gardening.