Bordeaux and Palmiers

I have a predicament.

Well, maybe not so much a predicament. Predicaments seem awfully serious, and it’s quite difficult to have a predicament when your days are filled with photo-taking and swimming and cooking. It’s hard to accept the fact that the only real job I’ve had in months seems much more like a vacation than my life of being an unemployed not-so-starving artist ever did.

Call it what you will, I do have a problem: it stems from having blogs that are so concentrated on one topic… this one on travel and the other on food. It means that when I have something else–something that doesn’t fit into either category–to write about, I don’t know where it should go.

What exactly is it that I want to write? Can I mold it to fit into the outlines I’ve set up for myself by constructed places where my creativity is limited? It’s an exercise in writing, of that much I’m sure–something I detested in creative writing classes I took in middle school, but something I know is probably the best way to stretch your mind. But the mindset of writing for the sake of it has slowly evaporated over the last few months when I was so concentrated on writing for work, and now I want to say exactly what I want to say and be done with it.

Why did I choose here? Because it’s a sentiment that, for me, is intrinsically linked to the place where I am: Paziols.

Paziols is a place that brings different things to different people, but to all of us New Yorkers, it has brought something new. I can tell, and not only because of what the girls write as they rotate through their own blog, extolling the virtues of small towns and smaller supermarkets and everyday events made monumental because of the lack of hustle and bustle that has become their lullabye.

For me, it’s the little things. Sending the kids down to Proxi–the aforementioned tiny supermarket–is a stressless situation (something I’m not terribly familiar with). The pace of life allows it: this is a town where everyone knows your name, a town where our neighbor calls in the morning to let us know that it’s probably a good idea to meet the mayor, because everyone is talking about us and no one knows our backstory in the way that they know the lives and habits of everyone else who lives here.

This is a town where we can eat dinner at 10 o’clock at night, where we can take walks under the stars through the vines. Where we’re more afraid of being chased down by wild boars than of the crimes that had become so banal when we heard them every night on the news–I haven’t heard them in weeks.

I could get used to this.

I was always a city girl… now I’m not so sure.

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