From Sow’s Ear to Silk Purse

Seventeen years ago we decided to move to France, which was a reasonable enough decision considering Cynthia’s ex had married a lovely French girl and wanted to take the kids to France with them, and the kids had said yes, but only if "mom and David can go." That part was pretty straightforward, but the way we decided to go to France and look for a house was pretty dumb. Lufthansa, at the time, had an offer of transporting motorcycles free of charge, as baggage, and we thought that sounded like a genius idea. I won’t go into how many ways this was not a good idea, nor will I bore you with descriptions of rainsuits and helmet hair, but if we hadn’t brought the motorcycle, I have no doubt that today we would not be living in our gorgeous mansion. We had two weeks till we had to be back in the States to collect the kids from their vacation. Time was of the essence. As we came down from Frankfort, we decided to cross at Strasbourg so we could explore a bit of the east of France, which neither one of us had ever seen. Getting out of Frankfort in rush hour traffic was a challenge, what with the rain and hard-to-decipher road signs (we had forgotten to learn German). Cynthia was on the back of the cycle trying to read a fluttering map, shouting directions to me at the top of her voice. From Strasbourg we proceeded toward Colmar in the rain, where we spent the first night. We walked around the pedestrian center and ate very well, getting our first instructions on how to approach a cheese plate, but we began to realize how tired we were; the adrenaline was wearing off. We were both suffering from jetlag, exhaustion and the high anxiety of managing a heavy machine that caused people to hold their ears as we went by. (Our Texas plates were an endless source of fascination.) We estimated three or four days to Shangrila, (Provence), but we were to be waylaid by Brigadoon. After Colmar, we went on to Besancon, which we found strangely hard to get into but easy to leave. Cynthia, who is an avid reader of travel guides, kept talking about some little village with a long name that was supposed to be very pretty. In fact, the quotation from the Berlitz 1992 edition says, quote: “The prettiest of all.” End quote. So we had to go. But I couldn’t find the right road. We kept roaring up and down the main street of Ornans (birthplace of Gustave Corbet), until half the town of Ornans was holding their ears, looking for the sign to Nans Sous Sainte Anne, to no avail. I finally remembered that in France you have to know the town beyond your destination that is big enough to put on a roadsign, which in this case was Salins les20Bains. And we were off. Leaving Ornans, we roared up to a plateau of pastureland and farming villages, which suddenly gave way to forest and winding roads with steep drops. At one point, on one such road, we came upon a white horse standing in the middle of the road. We stopped, unsure if we should proceed. (Was this our chance to abandon the project?) If we went ahead, we would have to pass very close to an animal (on a very noisy machine) that could have a very lethal kick. But I decided that he looked different from the horses I had grown up with; he seemed more like a phlegmatic farm animal that was probably used to loud farm machinery. As we passed slowly by, he eyed us calmly. I think he smiled. We had just entered into Brigadoon. In Nans Sous Sainte Anne we, at first, found rest; profound rest. We slept like the dead. There was always the sound of running water from the streams and rivers. There was the preternaturally bright stars and moon, the low drifting clouds, the sounds of the night birds and the day birds, the smells and sounds of the farm animals, the waterfall at the Source du Lison and its companion trails. We didn’t know it, but we were home. To be continued…