When I decided to take another crack at this French adventure, the universe met me half-way and took me for a spin down south.
There was no turning back the clock, especially if French bureaucracy had a say. After five months back in the U.S., I wanted desperately to return to Annecy and salvage the experience I'd let crumble in the months leading up to my leaving. But the bureau that approves au pair contracts refused, referring to the fact I had already maxed out two years as an au pair. However, I stumbled upon a loophole and got a contract approved in a different region of France, a three and half hour drive south in Aix-en-Provence.
I swallowed my disappointment and leaned into the idea that a new experience, living with a new family in a different, also beautiful part of France could be a blessing. In any case I'd be a whole lot closer to Annecy, living in Provence, than I was back in Chicago.
And so September 2018 began a new chapter, full of its own twists and turns, disillusionments, revelations, wonderful places, and becomings.
March 22, 2019
"T'es venue ici toute seule?"
You came here alone?
Seven months in, I was feeling pretty disillusioned. I had accepted that my only viable way of staying in France longterm was to come back as a student. France had just rolled out new tuition fees for all non-European students, which, in addition to requiring proof of a year's worth of financial support to obtain a visa, made returning to the U.S. inevitable for me. Currently having about -$2,000 to my name (I'd dug myself a nice little hole of credit card debt, fighting off boredom and loneliness with a recent credit line increase), I would have to leave again; this time hunkering down to work and save everything I could for a year— a mountain, looming, in its own right. I was stuck between dreading returning home and not being particularly happy where I was at the moment either. “What was I doing here anyway?” I asked myself. When I wasn't fighting with teenagers or getting fucked over on dating apps, I was mostly alone. I felt broken in a way that I could not connect to people anymore, let alone make friends. The "déjà-vu" was brutal. I had promised myself, given the opportunity to come back to France, I would be stronger and more appreciative this time. But the depression I thought I had worked through, I now found myself just barely ahead of.
So what was I doing here? I asked myself– and then proceeded to do great things.
Spring in Provence was revealing itself in bursting mimosa and mild temperatures. Before the summer's impending canicule, I set out to hike la Sainte Victoire. The limestone mountain ridge, Cézanne's muse, towering outside Aix-en-Provence, is a stark contrast to the lush alpine landscapes I fell in love with, but indisputably beautiful in its own way. Its rocky paths lead you to impressive vistas of rolling Provençal plains, and on a clear day, the Mediterranean sea. Just below its 1000 meter high summit, a chapel dating back to the 1600's, Le Prieuré de Sainte Victoire, is charmingly nestled into the ridge.
I drove from Aix in direction of Le Bouquet where a couple parking lots can be found at the start. Camera and tripod stowed on my back, I started off on the clear path carved out between a wild mix of Mediterranean and alpine vegetation. For someone with no proper outdoor education, I'm probably just a little too adventurous for my own good. I have a handful of stories where I've gone rogue in the mountains. So when I lost track of the red balissages marking the trail, I just kept going. At a certain point, when my hike started to take a turn toward rock climbing, my buried voice of caution piped up. I could make out a man in the distance below, on what appeared to be a much more promising trail. I maneuvered a way back down and eventually rejoined the path. In spite of my small detour, I made it to the top around noon, after an hour and a half of walking.
Dangling my feet out over the ridge, I admired the Provençal villages sprawled out before me, the paragliders dotting the sky, and the water line in the distance.
As I began to photograph, I longed for a soft evening light.
The man I saw earlier, as I attempted to rejoin the trail, sat down beside me. We exchanged pleasantries in outdoor comradery. He joked about noticing me earlier, parkouring off trail, and I admitted having gotten a little lost.
"T'es venue ici toute seule?”
You came here alone? Yes, I say nonchalantly. He’s surprised, and laughs that his mom was worried about him hiking alone. He asks me where I’m from, and I explain that I’m American living in Aix as an au pair. He tells me he’s from a small village outside of Manosque, but lives in Paris and is on vacation in Aix with his mom. He assures me that my French is very good. I tell him that I’ve lived in France for a while and wax on about my love for Haute Savoie. He asks me what I want to do after au pairing.
”Je sais pas trop. Je suis en train de chercher ma voie.”
I don’t really know. I’m trying to find my way.
He sympathizes with me, explaining that he’s also trying to ‘find his way’ as he finishes his PhD in engineering, disenchanted with life in Paris.
We go on chatting here and there. Two chihuahuas dart around La Croix de Provence. He asks me if I’m going to head back down soon. When I tell him I think I’m going to wait to catch the sunset—due in six hours, he’s quite shocked. He then asks if I’d mind if he waited with me. I tell him, of course not. But really, I was hoping no one would be around when I awkwardly try to take a self portrait with the help of my tripod later.
So the hours pass; hikers come and go. The chihuahuas appear to be waiting out the sunset as well. He realizes they don’t belong to anyone on the mountain, so he calls the number on the collar. The owner, who lives in Vauvenargues, a village at the foot of the mountain, is unconcerned when informed that his dogs are on the top of La Sainte Victoire.
“Ah oui, ils aiment bien se balader.”
“Oh yes, they like to wander about.”
As sunset draws nearer, it starts to get chilly and eventually the chihuahuas head off on their way. Though I’ve brought neither a head lamp, nor extra food and water, I’m not worried about the descent; imagining it should only take an hour to get down and it won’t be ‘dark dark’ before nearing the parking lot.
The sunset is pretty spectacular. Blue melts into pink melts into orange melts into the sea. I unabashedly run back and forth, setting my self-timer, and take one of my favorite self-portraits.
We soak in the last rays, grab our bags and set off down the mountain at a hurried pace. Once we pass the chapel, I suggest that he take the lead as I briefly lost the trail on the way up.
Unfortunately, we soon realize that neither of us were qualified to lead the way. After scooting down a slope of pebbles, it’s clear we’re off trail and he concedes he doesn’t know which way to go. I’m calm, slightly giggly over the situation. I try to see what I can decipher from the map on my phone, but it’s of no help— and I’m beginning to run low on battery. We pick a direction and hope for the best. It starts to get dark, and we grow frustrated, traipsing through bushes, and slipping on rocks. After a while, we decide, instead of trying to find the way down, to try and find the way back up and start over. It’s now officially dark, and though our eyes have adjusted, visibility is dismal. We can really only see what’s directly in front of us, by the light of our phones.
He calls his mom to let her know he’ll be back later than he thought. She’s pissed because she already put the chicken in the oven.
As well as I’m doing communicating in French, while lost in the dark, I do call la torche (the flashlight) a torchon (a dish rag). He corrects me.
We throw rocks and listen for a thud; weary of a possible steep drop–off. We‘re both disoriented as we’ve lost all points of reference in the dark.
We don’t really notice the cold until, after two hours of fumbling about, we sit down to catch our breath and re-strategize. I begin to think we might have to wait until the sun comes up for any hope of finding the way down. All of a sudden, in what seems to be the not too far distance, we see lights, and for a moment, believe they are hikers coming toward us. But it’s just an illusion; the lights are from a far away house. I call my one confidant and fellow au pair in Aix.
”I just need to say this out loud,” I laugh nervously, “I’m lost on Sainte Victoire with a French guy.” And while there’s no way she can help me, it helps me to process the situation in my head. Of all the times I’ve tested my luck in the past few years, I think to myself, this might finally be my reckoning.
Encouraged by the cold, we choose to continue our attempt to find the path. My legs are cut and banged up, and my worn Salomon sneakers have seen their last day.
After another half hour of wandering in the dark, I notice a rock wall and bush opening that remind me of the place I had originally gotten off trail on my way up. With nothing to lose, we climb through to check it out. We find footing fairly easily and continue on. It feels progressively easier to walk, and we are elated at the idea we might be on the right track. By the light of his phone, we finally see a small red marking on the stone confirming that we are in fact on the trail. We can hardly believe it. Keeping our wits about us, we continue on.
With a great deal of stress alleviated, we are able to converse again. He starts to make reference to the Robert Frost poem, The Road Not Taken, and I light-heartedly warn him that one of my biggest pet peeves is the misinterpretation of that poem; the point of which is that we tend to give undue significance to our otherwise arbitrary choices.
He gets a text message from the chihuahuas’ owner, letting us know the dogs made it back home. (Well before we did.)
As we make our way to the end of the hike at around 11:00 p.m., the moon finally comes out from behind the mountain face, lighting the rest of the path, and I have to stop and take a photo.
With a Hallelujah, we successfully reach the parking lot. We congratulate each other on making it back and say our goodbyes. I apologize for the traumatizing sunset
quest.
I arrived back home around midnight. Being an intense combination of filthy, tired, and hungry, I ate a chocolate covered waffle while sitting in the shower.
The next day, I pulled his business card out of my backpack and sent him a photo souvenir of our Sainte Victoire sunset.
To my surprise, he thanked me for the photo and for the adventure, and wished me luck in my future endeavors.
-J'espère que tu trouveras ta voie. Tu la mérites.
I hope that you find your way. You deserve it.
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