*psst! This post may cut off in your inbox because apparently I exceeded the limit for gmail (again). Not to worry. You can read the entire post and see all the pretty pictures on erinmercer.substack.com.
Last week was supposed to be this week’s post. But at the last minute I decided that everyone, myself included, needed a flaky croissant interlude. Croissanting, a Lifestyle™ is an endless journey, full of endless inspiration. Future installments planned.
So that Frenchman. Where were we? Somewhere in Limogne-en-Quercy with heat exhaustion. In fact, I felt so crappy I decided to grant myself a little rest/catch-up day, but ended up taking 4 additional days off. I was still exhausted from the heat, had an upset stomach and developed a slight fever with chills.
In order to not overstay my Schengen visa, and to make up for lost time, I realized I needed to skip a few stages. Fine by me. I did some quick calculations, hopped on a train and found myself walking through gently rolling hills filled with drooping sunflowers again blue skies.
Two days I awoke to the weather saying 30% chance of rain. At 7:30am it started pouring and didn’t stop for 4 hours. I was soaked to the bone, sopping wet, walking through a labyrinth of cornfields and mud. All I had to protect me was my pathetic excuse for a rain jacket, a backpack with rain cover and trail shoes. Otherwise it was just me and the soggy elements.
After what seemed like fifty years walking through mud and corn, I finally spotted a village up the road. Perfect, just in time for my mid-morning second coffee. But hey, look at that little church on my right.
What I like about France is that most churches are always open, whereas in Spain they tend to keep them closed and locked up. In France I could always count on a village church to rest my body, fill up my water bottle near the cemetery, and just sit and think.
I’m not anywhere near a religious person, never went to church growing up, but when I say this was the best little church I’ve ever stepped into…
It was softly lit, warm and pulsating with the best energy I’ve ever experienced as far as churches go. I was totally enamored. It was the coziest place and I wanted to stay all day.
I know I’m supposed to be writing about a Frenchman, but I felt the need to go off on a churchy-tangent.
I catch my breath and continue on with the day. By now the rain had died down, I had found a place to change clothes and felt slightly more put together.
Entrer le Frenchman
I’m scrambling up a hill, panting, still damp from the morning corn water-flood. I hear someone and look behind me to see a man bringing up my rear. I turn around and immediately thought “oh shit, that’s him, that’s the guy”. So I turned around and said “I know you”. And like the smart ass he was, he waved his stick at me and said “how did you get here? How many busses did you take?”
Again, we’re talking about someone who averaged no less than 40-45+ kilometers per day.
After we established that yes, I did take a bus, he mentioned “you know, I was thinking about you the other day”. I said, “oh?”, surprised anyone ever thought of me at all.
The first time we met I could feel him trying to connect and I deftly avoided it. This time, I let him plug in.
Someone was paying attention to me.
We chatted and he walked ahead, saying something about coffee in the next down. I huffed and puffed up the rest of the hill and as I came to the top, I heard someone call my name. I looked to my left and saw the Frenchman waving.
We had reached the village of Pimbo and walked smack right into a little festival in full swing. All the townsfolk congregated in and around what looked to be the local restaurant hall. The wine flowed, as did the coffee. The Frenchman bought me a cappuccino and we sat outside, enjoying our coffees, chatting with locals and the town mayor. I was ready to stop for the day, exhausted from walking in the rain, but the Frenchman convinced to walk 5 more kilometers with him to the next town.
I gave in and we continued on.
Again, attention was being paid to me. I was like, what is this? How long has it been since someone was interested in me in a non-sleazy way?
Very long. Too long.
While we walked, I offhandedly mentioned no way in hell was I washing my clothes in a sink that night and hanging them out to dry. Nope, I was going to treat myself to a hot washing machine and dryer.
We arrived into town, found our gîte for the night, he chose the bed next to mine and the next thing I knew he had found a laundromat, told me to put all my clothes in a bag and disappeared to wash my clothes.
At that point I swooned a little.
While my clothes were being washed, we went out for a little aperitif before dinner. He got me settled with wine, shared a cigarette. I tried paying but was met with “god, you’re so American”.
So I chilled out, let him pay, not wanting to be that American.
He took me out to dinner, more wine was poured. We talked about cooking, his life in San Francisco as a chef, opening a restaurant in Bolivia, getting divorced and returning to France. During the summers he cooked in La Rochelle, north of Bordeaux, the winters he cooked in the French Alps. One of his hobbies was collecting vintage scooters, apparently he had an entire garage of them. He was a bit of a marathon junkie, running and biking, which explained his 40 kilometer days on the Camino.
I was loving every minute. I found myself a Frenchman (a chef no less) with a sexy accent, he’s pouring me wine, finding me laundromats, washing my damn clothes, taking me out to dinner. He even knew to order a dessert of lemon sorbet, a traditional French palate cleanser. I don’t know why, but I loved this.
This was my love language.
Being attended to without being smothered. Being listened to even if I thought no one was listening (laundromat situation). Deep conversation over good food and French wine. Lemon sorbet after dinner.
The pièce de résistance? After dinner we returned to the gîte, sitting on the edge of our beds and he grabbed my foot and started rubbing it.
It should be noted that I am not a foot person, I dislike pedicures…but the way the Frenchman rubbed my foot that night turned me into a puddle. As we were in a room with 6 other people, any funny business was kept to a minimum (but fun was definitely had).
The next morning everyone awoke early, packed their backpacks and prepared for another day of walking. I sensed the spell between the Frenchman and I had dissolved. The chase was over. He knew I couldn’t keep up with him, and I wasn’t interested in keeping up.
We stopped by the local boulangerie, he bought us croissants (I know!) and we made our way back onto the trail. The sunrise was pink and gorgeous so we stopped to take a few photos. He snuck a photo of me taking a photo of the sunrise and sent it to me that evening. We kissed goodbye and he disappeared into the landscape.
I thought about him a lot after that, wishing we could reconnect. But the moment was gone. I was back on my own again.
We stayed in touch over the next month but his texting skills fell short. The only thing he seemed to be interested in was “where are you?”.
Riveting conversation starter.
Someone told me later the French flirt hard. It’s an art and bit of a game. And that he could very well have someone back home.
But the experience reminded me that I do, in fact, have a love language. It tastes like good food and fine wine, washed down with lemon sorbet. It sounds like deep listening and excellent conversation. It smells like freshly washed laundry.
And it feels like an incredible foot rub after a long day of walking in the rain.
it's always the chefs!!!
I really enjoyed reading this, Erin! And lovely pictures.