Bordeaux and Palmiers

Despite the fact that it may appear from this blog that I’m still in Paziols, camp actually ended more than two weeks ago. Since then, I’ve been to Barcelona, Breuillet, Orléans and now I’m back in Paris.

I have tons of stories and tips from Barcelona, but arriving back in Paris last night got me thinking about Paziols again and the stark differences between the north and the south of France, so I’m afraid that you readers (if there are any of you out there…) are going to be stuck with at least one, if not a few more days of me rambling about the little 500-person town that somehow managed to steal my heart when I wasn’t paying attention.

The cliché is that small towns are slower, quieter… more relaxing than the big city. Cities are supposed to be busy and full of people, with so much going on that you don’t have time to notice that you’ve never met your neighbors. So how can I end up in Paris feeling so alone?

I used to have the same perceptions of small towns. I looked at some of the reflections I wrote when I was in Paziols last year, and I was surprised at how different my recollections are from then. My journal entries are full of musings about how quiet, how still, how dead the town was. How many places (including the Prade and the Pachaire… how strange to read that now, after having waited patiently in line behind the dozens who come to the Pachaire to use the rope swing in the summer) you can go to be alone. I was even looking forward to the solitude at the beginning of the summer… and so I was surprised to find that my memories were edited, created in the mind of a New Yorker who wanted the small town to be the kind that had been described in endless memoirs of people who knew their butcher by name.

I don’t know if these towns even exist, but if Paziols is any indication, that sort of constant solitude is impossible to find in the country. Sure, you can head out to the middle of a field for some peace and quiet, and no one will find you until you want to be found, but in the midst of the day-to-day, it’s impossible to be alone.

There’s always a neighbor coming along to ask you to participate in a town function or a backyard grill. Since we moved to town, there’s always a pickup game of badminton or hopscotch, or just some kids deciding to dig in the dirt for awhile. Heading to the market to pick up some milk in my PJs is a frequent morning ritual in anonymous Paris, but it’s unthinkable in Paziols, when you’re certain to be recognized by nearly everyone and asked what you were doing still in bed at ten.

Life in Paziols is nowhere near similar to life in New York or Paris, but not for a minute would I consider describing it as slower. I’ll miss everything about it… the fact that everyone comes out to the town festivals, recognizing everyone in the street, accidentally leaving the door opened all day and coming home to find computers, stereo equipment and iPods exactly as they were left. I’ll be waiting lazily in Paris for the day when I can head back down to the real fast-paced life, where knowing everyone holds you accountable for actually getting yourself out of bed and living.

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