Ma Belle France

There's little to compare with coming home.

Though American by birth, my heart and soul feel most alive and percolating when I'm somewhere on French soil. Perhaps it's because my ancestors were Huguenots forced to flee their homeland in 1685 -- and I'm merely returning their genes, albeit somewhat altered, to la patrie -- or because only in France are one's senses so delightfully tickled every single day, that I find myself, after eight years of self-imposed exile, once again in my élément and amoureuse. 

Here is Labastide-Espabairenque, a tout p'tit village in the Languedoc-Roussillon region of south-central France, and in particular La Muse, a writer/artist residency carved out of a once-crumbling nunnery embraced by chestnut, pear, plum, walnut, fig, cherry, apricot, apple and olive trees long ago planted between terra cotta-roofed maisons and gray stone walls. On the way here, I passed by miles and miles of sunflowers, their colossal yellow heads flirtatiously tipped to watch the sun overhead.

This is my first time in Languedoc-Roussillon, an area that tends to slip well below most people's radar, even of those as chronically francophiliac as I. While tourists rush to Paris and Provence, this largest wine-producing region in the world remains quiet, unpretentious, reasonably priced and delicious. Home to cassoulet, duck confit, wild boar, truffles, tapenade, hazelnut-flavored oysters and exceptionally fine olive oil, Languedoc-Roussillon maintains culinary traditions that go back hundreds if not thousands of years. (That said, I was heartbroken to notice a McDo in nearby Carcassonne the other day.)

La Muse is the brainchild of an American woman and her Irish husband -- in addition to their three young offspring, Kerry and John gave birth to this sprawling center of inspiration and peace for those of creative bent. One can feel the energy of past residents emanating from its thick, ancient walls. Each bedroom is cleverly named for one of the Olympian muses -- mine is Clio, a muse of history also known as The Proclaimer in ancient Greece.

In keeping with Clio's reputation, I proclaim that of the three residencies I've attended since May, since the start of an extended writer's journey around the world, La Muse resonates most closely with my spirit. ("Extended" meaning I have no idea where or when it will end.) I'm joined here by four other artists and writers -- from the States, South Africa, Canada and Germany -- all seeking the same fecund terroir in which to raise up their art.

I will stay at La Muse for three weeks, and no doubt be devastated when they kick me out, but hope my work on two short stories and a non-fiction book proposal will produce, of sorts, a bumper crop.

With all that ripening fruit on heavy branches outside the door, I'm surrounded by nature's abundant example and have little excuse not to follow it. 

I am, after all, once again chez moi.

Photo notes:

Having broken my first camera in southern Italy, and lost my second in Germany, I am, alas, sans ability to take photos. Maybe that's a good thing but it does mean I must find non-copyrighted images online.

1. French Huguenots in their finery, or are those their everyday clothes?

2. Languedoc-Roussillon grapes, but then that was probably obvious.

3. Clio as painted by one of my favorite artists, the great Vermeer.