We pulled off to the side of the entrance, sitting as far away from the crowds as we could so that we wouldn’t have inquisitive eyes on us as our English pierced the French countryside.
It was the last day of our trip before heading back to Pittsburgh. Since our last house showing, we had visited Nice, zipped through Villefranche-sur-Mer and popped by Menton before crossing the border into Italy and spending four glorious days in Cinque Terre. It was the perfect ending to quite the epic journey. Between hiking, eating and just simple exploration we were able to establish enough distance to clear our heads and really think about the possibility of becoming homeowners abroad. Over gelato, roaming the narrow streets of Riomaggiore, we chatted about costs. Would this change how we would have to live back in Pittsburgh? Nibbling on focaccia along the beach in Vernazza we considered what our summers would look like. Did we even want to go to the same place every summer? Sipping on spritz in Monterosso we mulled over the idea of what exactly was art and that conversation brought us to this particular meeting while in the middle of our EuroDisney trip. I still can’t believe I was able to pull Andy away from an amusement park for enough time to have a meaningful conversation with someone, but here we sat, via facetime, looking at an older woman sitting at a dining room table. She was moving the phone back and forth, trying to capture the best angle, finally stopping when just her head filled the frame. Her name was Dana and she was an American who found herself living in a small village house in Vaison-la-Romaine with her husband Jim, also an American. She had a warm, soft presence about her and for a moment, it was hard to imagine the two together when I thought back to the brief meeting with Jim outside of the rum bar. “Hello you two! I am here with Olivier,” she said, panning the camera to the left and focusing on him standing behind her. “You can ask me anything you’d like,” she said, refocusing just on herself. Jim trudged through the shot and gave a small, hurried wave, not looking in the phones direction. “Jim says hi,” Dana announced, “so, what exactly would you like to know?” We began by explaining that we thought Olivier had done a great job showing the house, but we didn’t quite understand what exactly was staying and what exactly was going and, most importantly, what was considered art. Andy explained further that the stairs were mentioned in the showing and how we thought perhaps it was a lost in translation moment. She chuckled a bit and nodded. “I can see the confusion now,” she looked up at Olivier then back down at us. “So, Jim’s installation on the side of the house will be taken down along with the stairs he built at the bottom door. The cave was too small for him to work in, so he built the stairs to give him more room to work. There are stairs under the wooden platform, though, that are original to the home, so you will have stairs, don’t worry.” “And the doors? Windows? Other stairs? They all stay too?” Andy asked, leaving no stone unturned. “Yes, those all remain,” she confirmed, smiling at the ridiculousness of the confirmation, but understanding now our reservations. We looked at each other and smiled as if relieved. “Olivier had said he wasn’t sure what appliances were going to stay,” I started. “Are there any remaining with the house?” She looked up, her gaze directed into the kitchen, no doubt looking at the fridge. “We bought this house for me because Jim was diagnosed with cancer and we were told there was little chance of him surviving,” she paused, breathing in deeply, then exhaling. “He wanted to set me up in a small house in the middle of a town where I could walk to anything I needed. It was the perfect house for that, but Jim actually ended up beating cancer and surviving. Because of this, the house isn’t fit for our lives. He needs a much bigger place for his work,” she finished with a small shrug. We paused, a little surprised with the dark turn the conversation had taken. Despite the decade or so Dana had spent in France, she was still very American, talking candidly about private matters with complete strangers. The mood had shifted and she looked sad, as if she didn’t want to leave her cozy, little village home. I absolutely couldn’t imagine buying a home in order to get yourself established for when your husband died just a few short months later. Knowing the space would only be yours and that you wouldn’t share it or the experiences within the walls with your other half. To have mentally prepared yourself for watching your partner slip away and for you to start a life all on your own in a foreign country to then have everything flipped upside down and have him survive. She must have been on a complete emotional rollercoaster the past few months. My heart broke for her and her circumstances. Andy interrupted the silence to continue the meeting. “Do you know where you will move too? Somewhere close by?” He asked, steering us away to a less dark, original topic. “We were thinking out west, towards Bordeaux. We’ve been looking at some old farms that have plenty of space for Jim. Moving large items so far, though, would probably be more costly than just rebuying them. Because of that, all of the appliances would stay,” she said, looking back in the direction of the fridge. We racked our brains for any other questions we could think of and, when we came up short, Dana suggested we get back in touch if we thought of anything later. We thanked her for her time and found ourselves sitting by the entrance for a few moments after the call had ended. “That poor woman,” I started, biting my bottom lip, thinking about her. “Yeah, really! Olivier didn’t tell us THAT part!” Andy said. “She probably started to envision herself growing old in that house, so this is all bitter sweet,” I concluded. Andy nodded, but, remembering he was at an amusement park, patted my leg. “Come on, we can discuss more when in line for things! The park closes in three hours!” I sighed, feeling exponentially heavier than when we started the meeting. Why did the two homes we loved the most have to center around death? I wondered. Despite the topic of buying being a theme of conversation all throughout Italy, we hadn’t reached out to Olivier since our showing. We didn’t want to give anyone false hope or mixed signals until we had taken the time to flush out all of our thoughts, concerns and ideas. It was Olivier who reached out two days before we were due at Disney, wanting to know if we had any questions and if we needed any further information. For some reason, this effort of contact pushed us to vocalize our interest and set up the meeting with Dana. The only thing really holding us back at that time was the fear that we’d be somehow duped into buying a home where the previous owners would consider basic things “art” and we’d show up, keys in hand, to a shell of the house we originally toured. Not having experience buying abroad, we weren’t sure what the normal practices were and, trying not to be culturally insensitive or daft, we mostly confided in one and another and heavily in Google searches to fill in the gaps we left home showings with. We had read that it wasn’t uncommon to have kitchens where the previous owners have taken all of the appliances. I was glad for the chat with Dana and even happier that she was American. I feel like despite her and Jim living in France for so long, they understood our lost in translation moments and could, if not relate to, at least understand the expectations we would be coming into this with. We decided to consider things we wanted to change about the house, our budget, recent home sales in the area and conjure up an offer as soon as we touched down in the United States.
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The next day we packed up our little car and headed further south to our next destination, Antibes. As you scootched yourself closer to the Côte D’Azur, housing prices jumped along with the throngs of crowds, all vying for a piece of the French luxury they had scrolled through on their Instagrams throughout the winter. This was the part of the trip where we had the fewest homes to see, only two, which were both conveniently located in the same town, Fayence.
We spent our evening in Antibes, wandering around the old, narrow streets and finally claiming the last free portion of the beach, surrounded by locals with their colorful beach blankets and coolers of beer. Some sat and played music, others brought pizzas to share amongst their growing number of friends. It felt like one of those moments of true authenticity that you don’t always get to feel when you are a stranger in someone else’s country. Sitting with our feet buried deep in the sand, cups of gelato and a deck of cards, we played Rummy until we couldn’t see the suit’s in our hands anymore. Reluctantly, we packed up, allowing the still remaining crowds of people to enjoy the soft glowing moonlight and good conversation. Fayence seemed to be the perfect distance from everything you thought you wanted to be close to. All of the famous beach towns were no more than an hour and a half away, allowing you to feel close to the action, without being swarmed by it on a daily basis. As we drove to the listings, the landscape changed to forests and, then, suddenly we were riding along a beautiful lake filled with hundreds of paddle boats and kayaks gently bobbing in the bright, blue water. Saint-Cassien lake rests at the bottom of Fayence, just a short thirty minute car ride. As most of the listings we were viewing did not have a pool, having a lake so close seemed like a perfect solution. When we finally arrived at Fayence, we were surprised to find that it was market day, but that the town wasn’t swelling with people despite the event. As we walked to the agency, it seemed like mostly local people walking the streets, completing their daily tasks, which we both mentally took note of, liking the quietness of our walk. The agency sat in the middle of town, tucked a little off of the street behind a few shady Plane trees. Opening its thin glass doors, we were greeted by three tall, blond women dressed in chic, well fitting, summer dresses. The three threw out a customary “Bonjour” in unison before our agent, expecting us, switching to English. “Please, have a seat,” she said, motioning us away from the door and to the large table in the corner of the room. Uh oh, I thought, the last thing I want to do is talk about the listing we had already been ogling over for the past 3 months. As we sat down she opened up her computer. “So, we have a little bit of a problem,” she started, “the owner of the home had to leave suddenly to take care of a problem out of town and so we can’t go and see the property today,” she said, folding her hands and resting them on the laptop’s keyboard. “We don’t mind going without him,” I said, hoping that would reignite some movement on the viewing. “Well, he has the keys,” she said, a little defeated, “but, I am going to show you some other properties we have that may interest you.” Andy and I looked at each other with a little shrug. What else could we exactly do, other than indulge her. We began to go over our wants and deal breakers and then discuss the price before she realized that she had nothing in this region close to our price range, and, if I was being honest, even the one she was showing us today was just over what we felt comfortable with paying. After reading up on etiquette when home buying in France, we knew that it wasn’t a faux pas to offer a little less. This gave us the comfort to book the viewings, knowing we had a little wiggle room. The agent frowned, not sure what exactly to do now that all of her options had been exhausted. Feeling a little awkward and unsure of protocall, I slinked back in my chair, hesitant on how to announce we had spent all of our allotted time here and now must go to our next listing. I leaned forward, resting my elbows on the desk. “We appreciate your help,” I started, deciding just to go for it, “but we actually need to be going. We have another showing in a few moments and don’t want to be late.” She nodded, pushing her seat away from the table to escort us to the door. We exchanged the customary thank you’s and goodbyes and exited into the warm provançal sun. That was easier than I thought! The next real estate agency was located across the street and a few doors down. A petit, brown-haired woman in a slim-fitting skirt held a dossier of materials next to an office window lined with homes for sale or rent. Assuming she was glancing around, looking for us, we gently waved in her direction as we crossed the street and started our descent down to her. When we were close enough, she asked, “Rachel and Andy?” We nodded, smiling from ear-to-ear, excited at the prospect of seeing any home today. “Shall we be off?” she said, feeding off of our enthusiasm and excitedly starting down the street, then veering off of the main road and down a flight of old stone stairs. At the bottom she paused, allowing us to take in the beautiful foliage and antique fountain. “It’s so quiet here,” Andy said, looking around the small courtyard. “Yes, the house is close to everything, but set back in a quiet corner of the town. You will see, you even have one of these in front of your house,” she pointed to the fountain and all of the greenery. “Come, it’s not far from here,” she said, leading us down another small set of stairs and past a few village homes, stopping in front of a small cul de sac with 4 homes encircling a small, lush sitting area with a fountain in the middle. “The house is here,” she said, pointing up to the first house on the corner. My eyes rose up and up and past the rooftop terrace, rising a little more. “It is massive!” I said, my gaze still resting on the final level of the home. “Yes,” she agreed, “it’s a lot of house!” She went to work, unlocking the thick, wooden door, opening it with a low creek, then, stood in front of it, using her body weight to hold it in place as we entered. “Directly to your left is the kitchen,” she said, pointing in that direction. We passed through the entryway and into the kitchen and she followed closely behind us, allowing the door to swing shut with a large thud. The kitchen was one of the rooms featured in the few photos provided on the listing and one of the main reasons I booked the tour. I just hadn’t, at that moment, realized that the kitchen was located on the bottom floor. It made me immediately think of the television show Downton Abbey, whose basement was the staff’s domain with a large kitchen at its center. Looking around at the home’s modest interior, however, I didn't think this particular home’s inhabitants ever had a service staff, catering to their whims and needs. In the photo on the listing, the kitchen was a large room with bright red, classic terracotta tiles and a large, worn butcher block countertop that wrapped its way around the space, encasing large, black cupboards with intricate, antique hardware. The centerpiece of the room, however, was the massive antique black stove that was only highlighted further by its beautiful gold accents. The photo oozed rustic, country French appeal and I could immediately see myself hovered over the stove, whisking away at the continents in a bubbling copper pot. Looking around now, however, the image was a bit harder to envision. To say the kitchen looked lived in was an understatement. Looking around the room, it seemed as though the owner had thrown a large dinner party and didn’t clean up before heading out of town for a week. Moldy, rotten fruit sat in a basket on the counter. Every surface looked as though someone broke off a piece of baguette over it, leaving flour dust and crumbs trailing about. The sink was piled high with unrinsed dishes, and flies swarmed over the mess. Grease stains and splattered food coated the fridge and stove. “It looks like a bomb went off in here,” Andy said, unable to hold back. “Yes, well, the owner is still living here at the moment,” the agent said, trying to justify the state of the kitchen. Instead of justifying it, though, it made me even more confused. People were actually living in this? It made me wonder if the woman was much older and perhaps couldn’t care for a house of this size anymore? Or maybe it came down to the laissez-faire attitude of the inhabitants of the South. No matter the situation, the go to attitude for this region seemed to be I’ll get to it tomorrow. Or perhaps the woman was being unapologetically herself. In the few weeks we had been here traversing the South, the people we have met have been warm and welcoming, but also accompanied by an undertone of, this is me, take it or leave it. The agent walked over to the far end of the kitchen and opened a small door. “This is a storage room. Maybe like a basement in the U.S.?” She flicked on a light. Down a few steps sat what resembled a wine seller that was easily the size of both my dining room and living room at home. “This is a great sized space,” Andy remarked, looking from side-to-side at the big, almost empty room. The agent flicked off the light and led us out of the kitchen and back to the front foyer. “On the first floor, you have a bedroom and a bathroom,” she said, starting her climb up to the next level.They layout was something I had never seen before, as doors would just appear as you wound your way up the stone, spiral staircase. The first door led to a bedroom that mirrored the same titiness as the kitchen. The closet door was open and a mountain shoes stumbled out of it to the foot of the bed. The curtains were drawn tightly, allowing the smallest sliver of light to peek through where they met and illuminate the room gently. Unable to maneuver around the belongings strewn about, we stayed in the doorway. “Up a few stairs is the bathroom,” she said, continuing on until a doorway appeared and she stepped through. We followed behind her, stepping into the less cluttered bathroom. The room was large, but dated, with a heavy, white porcelain tub lining one full wall of the space. Andy rested his hand on its lip. “This would take an hour to fill up!” He said, turning back to the agent with a smile. “I’m sure you love this!” He said, knowing my obsession with large soaking tubs and the hours spent while reading and unwinding. I smiled. “The size of the bathroom is great. It has everything we need in one room and so much storage. I think it would all just need a little updating,” I said, looking at Andy. He nodded, agreeing that the space had good bones. We all filed out the door and continued climbing further up the staircase. The next door that appeared let you off in a large, almost empty room. The floors and walls were done in wood, giving it a warm and cozy feeling. As we went deeper into the room, though, we saw a small black card table off to the side. On it was a cutting board and more rotting fruit. I turned to Andy, “I was wondering what that smell was!” I said, wrinkling my nose. It seemed so odd to me that someone would not want to make sure their home looked its absolute best for a viewing. Was it a cultural thing? The agent, not wanting to dwell on the negative, walked deeper into the space, past the card table and into the next room. While the first room looked as though it could be used as a dining room, the second room seemed as though its original purpose was a living room. The space was also done up in wood, but had a small staircase off to the side that led you onto a balcony, overlooking the living space below. All the curtains were pulled and the room’s only light was being pulled from the previous room. An empty bookshelf sat in the corner and a leather recliner remained in the open position in the center of the room. I turned around in the large space, taking it all in. Being two people more on the smaller side, I wasn’t sure we needed even half of the space the house provided. “There is a small kitchenette off of the dining room,” the agent pointed towards the small doorway that sat next to the winding, main staircase. I snapped back into house tour mode, perking up at the prospect of not having to go to the dungeonous kitchen for food. “That is really convenient,” I said, hurriedly walking through each of the rooms and into the small door at the other end. Once inside, I struggled to fully turn around in the small, closet-like space. I think I was so excited to hear that there was any semblance of a kitchen so close to the dining space that it didn’t register that she said kitchen-ette until I was standing inside the “room.” A microwave sat tucked into the corner of the counter, surrounded by stale baguettes and more rotted fruit. Under the counter, a mini fridge took up most of the space that side of the room had to offer. Clearly, there was no real cooking happening in this room. I backed out slowly, as if by doing so, I could pretend I was never there. Andy walked over and looked at me with a “how is it in there” look. My eyes got wide as I silently shook my head, indicating that he shouldn’t go in and he nodded his understanding, walking towards the stairs to continue the tour, ignoring the space completely. Also noticing my reaction, the agent remained silent, immediately following Andy up the stairs. A little ways up there was a door leading to a small, outdoor terrasse. The space was completely bare with the exception of a layer of faux grass partially lining the ground. I walked over to the edge of the space looking out at the beautiful landscape around the village and beyond. Rolling hills of forests cascaded down the mountain, leaving a blanket of green as far as the eye could see. My mind drifted back to the view from the Vaison balcony; the ancient architecture, the softly rippling river below, the muffled sound of French tourists discussing the bridge’s history. My mind fluttered further back to the conversation that led us here to this exact moment, the discussion of not being wilderness people and not finding comfort in being surrounded by complete nothingness sank in. Even cleaned up with a handful of remodeling projects, this was not our house. “It’s quite a view, no?” the agent said, resting her arms next to mine on the banister. I nodded with a smile, then turned to look up at the house. There appeared to be still another layer to the never ending home, but I was already feeling quite tired from the climb up the stairs we’ve already done. “Are there even more rooms in the house to see,” I said, pointing upward. “Yes, one more space. The owner’s daughter used to live there, it’s a little apartment.” This piqued my interest. I’ve always wanted a rental property, but never wanted something that shared the same exit or entrance with our living space. If the rental property had its own private entrance, that would be fine, but overall a rental in a separate location would be ideal, giving us passive income and privacy. Andy and I followed her as she climbed the remaining steps. The higher we climbed, the narrower the staircase became. At the top sat a small door that was slightly ajar. The agent pushed it open further, allowing us access to the small living room, kitchenette combo. “Eh, voilà!” she said, turning around to see reactions. Andy pulled at his shirt, trying to fan himself from the intense heat of the refinished, but not properly ventilated attic space. “Yes, well, with the windows open and a fan, it’s much more comfortable up here,” she said. She walked deeper into the space, edging herself closer to the small bedroom and bathroom that sat at the back of the space. We didn’t move with her. Together, unconsciously, I think we had decided at that moment that we had had enough, the tour was over. Or perhaps Andy felt as though if he went any further, he may melt. Either way, the agent, being good at reading body language, understood, making her way back over towards the entrance. “I have a couple who saw the property today before you arrived. They seemed to really like it and discussed a potential offer,” she said in a last ditch effort to apply pressure. “Ok,” I said, looking back at Andy. “We have a lot to talk about and if we think of any questions, we can reach back out and inquire.” She nodded softly, looking a little defeated. I can’t say I blame her, the last thing I would want to do is climb a hundred plus stairs twice in sweltering heat. She shrugged, clearly not thrilled with the answer we had provided. We descended the staircase in silence, glancing into each of the rooms that reappeared as we continued our journey down. Without stopping at the bottom of the staircase for the typical debrief, the agent opened up the door and ushered us back outside, into the blazing sun. “Bon, well, if you find that you have any questions, you have my email. It was nice meeting you both. Good luck with the rest of your trip,” she said, nodding her head forward then taking her leave. We decided to take the long way, wandering through the market stalls and weaving our way through the back streets of the town. We were almost to the end of the stalls when Andy turned around to face me. “ Did you know Vaison’s market was started in 1483?” We had just left a house showing but it seemed as though Vaison was on both of our minds. “I didn’t,” I started, “but aren’t you wondering what exactly is ‘art’ to these people? We could buy the house and come back with no doors or windows attached.” “Maybe this was a lost in translation moment?” Andy said, more optimistic than he normally was. “I can see myself on that balcony,” he added. “Hmm, we leave for Nice tomorrow. Should we message Olivier? Are you completely over the Chic house?” The lack of time left made it so I felt more of a sense of urgency. As the days went on, we’d find ourselves further and further from the house, leaving Nice for Italy and then Italy for Paris to catch our flight home. We pulled off to the side under a sprawling, shady tree. “I think I’m nervous about the Chic house. I love it. It has a cool history and it doesn’t need any work. It’s also on the lower end of our budget,” he started. I sensed a but coming. “But…” I prompted. “But, if we want to rent it, I don’t think we’d get any guests. If it was between that space and the luxury hotel that isn’t expensive just around the corner, I’d choose the hotel handsdown.” I nodded, agreeing that I would do the same. He continued, “also, if we needed to sell it in a pinch, I’m not sure if we could, which makes me nervous.” He had some really solid points. “For Vaison, you know how important walkability is for me. That house sits just at the base of two towns that have a lot going on and if we didn’t want to drive, we could easily go into town to shop or go to restaurants,” he finished. I paused, making sure that his thoughts were finished before jumping in with my own. “Well, if we wanted to make the grownup choice and pick the one we could rent if we needed to, the one we could sell if times get tough, then it seems like one choice is clearly smarter. We talked about the ability for the home to pay for itself if it needed to. It would be very stupid of us to buy a home knowing it didn’t have that potential,” I added. “We also wanted to be in a nice sized village that had basic amenities and a house that provides you with a usable outdoor space that is easy to manage when not here. One house clearly checks all of these boxes.” Our mental pros and cons lists were stacking up and one place was clearly the winner. All we had to do was decide if we were really serious about taking that jump, or if this had all but a fun trip with an excuse to indulge our guilty pleasure of real estate browsing. The next few days would be telling. "Théâtre antique d'Orange is a Roman theater dating back to the early 1st century AD and is considered one of the most well-preserved Roman amphitheaters in the world,” I read outloud from the placard that was affixed to the circular, semi-enclosed exterior hallway wall. Stepping back and turning around, I stepped through one of the many curved openings that lead you back outside and into the amphitheater's last tier of seating before the next level began. They were setting up for a show that night and from where we stood, the crew dressed mostly in black shirts and dark blue jeans, looked like small ants scurrying around the base, moving equipment and adjusting lighting. “Kind of wild that this thing still gets really big acts!” Andy said, pulling out his camera and angling it for a shot.
I stepped back, trying to take the space in wholly. Being from the United States, it’s easy to not have the same understanding of antiquities like they do in Europe. I remember thinking our home was old when we toured it. It was built in 1865, which is on the older side for the U.S., but that was nothing compared to some of the chateaux and structures found in and around France. I let my mind wander, sifting through all of my travels like a rolodex and considering if I had ever stood in something as old as this. It seemed like in Europe, no matter where you were, you were literally surrounded by ancient history and I liked that. When traveling, Andy and I enjoyed visiting antique stores and flea markets, inspecting all of the gathered artifacts from long ago and wondering how they ended up there. Were we standing among objects belonging to nobility or royalty that had been pillaged decades before, no one knowing what sits for sale on their dusty cluttered shelves? Or was it just the continents of an attic belonging to someone’s grandmother, cleaning the space and getting rid of items with no emotional attachment. The stories of objects had always intrigued me. I looked around the theater, taking in the other tourists who had gathered in small clusters, taking in the beauty while also taking a rest on the many tiers of slab seating. We started our descent down the thick, stone stairs, making our way to the bottom and to the exit. We had an hour before we had to be in Vaison and, even though it was only a 30 minute drive, we had decided to leave early just in case we got lost or couldn’t find parking. “I’m glad they could fit us in so last minute,” I said, as we crossed the street back to where our car was parked. “Yeah, it’s nice to be able to see different parts of Provence,” Andy said, getting in and adjusting his mirror. Hmmm, I thought. Perhaps he was coming into this with more of an open mind than I thought? We pulled up our map and started our half hour drive to Vaison. “I’m not sure if I am counting this right, but it seems as though this place has ten boulangeries!” I said, zooming into the map on my phone and using my index finger to count. “Wonder how big this town is?” I turned to Andy who shrugged. Finding a home in a location that was on the smaller side was important to us. We didn’t want to live in a city and we surely didn’t want to be in a town large enough to be found on one of those “best of” lists. We wanted something small, quiet and authentic. Ten bakeries gave me the sense that the town may be more populated than I once thought. Wait til you’re standing in it, I told myself, trying to take my own advice. See how it makes you feel to be there. “Should be coming up in the next minute or two,” Andy said, glancing at the map. We drove over a small bridge and passed a small organic market that was flanked by a tree-lined street and an old stone church. Continuing up the road, we passed small businesses mixed in with ancient homes that sat behind iron gates interlaced with ivy until we came to a stop sign at the end of the street. The road curved to the right or the left, but had metal gates in place stopping you from advancing forward, sectioning the area off into a pedestrian walkway and allowing the cafés to spill out into the blocked off space.“Hmm, we can either go left or right. I think right would get us closer to the agency,” he said, nugging his turn signal to the right. The small road wound us through town and past boulangeries and more small sidewalk cafes intermixed with a tabac and other small boutiques selling soaps and books. Fragrant bundles of lavender decorated shop windows, reaffirming you were in the south. It was lively, but didn’t seem to be overrun with tourists. Most importantly, the language wafting through our open car windows as we drifted by seemed to be bits and pieces of French. “There are people everywhere,” Andy said nervously, inching slower and slower down the tiny road, “and nowhere really to park.” The road looped around the town and took us back across the bridge and out again towards the organic market. “Let’s just park here, there is plenty of parking for the market and the church and that way, we can see more things as we walk,” Andy decided, pulling into the church parking lot, glad to be off of the unfamiliar, tiny streets. “We’re only about a nine minute walk from the agency anyway,” he added. We started our walk past the old stone church, making our way up the hill into town. When we reached the top, we stopped in front of the gated off section to admire the outdoor restaurants and the many people sitting back and relaxing, chatting over their chilled glasses of rosé. “What a leisurely lunch,” I said, dreamily picturing us sitting at a table after a busy day shopping at the market. We continued past the terrasse and rounded the corner towards the agency. An old boulangerie painted in art deco browns and golds sat at the corner with patrons spilling out onto the cobbled street and snaking around the shop, ending around the agency door. “Well that’s a good sign,” I said to Andy, stopping outside of the agency and eyeing up the impressive line. We lingered outside, drawn to the listings delicately hung in high end, all glass frames, suspended by thin wires behind the window. “Jesus christ, every one of these listings are 700,000 euros and up! No wonder we had to press to get a time. We’re probably small fries compared to these other clients,” Andy said, his eyes darting from listing to listing. “This one is located here in “haute ville” for 1.2 million euros,” I said. He walked over to my window and followed my gaze to the listing. I looked over at him. “Hmm, remember me saying this town is split in two? Maybe “haute ville” is upper-town?” We peered around the listing into the highly stylized agency. A well-dressed man sat at a minimalist teak desk, busily typing at his computer. “Well, I guess, we’ll find out,” Andy said, grabbing the door handle. We opened the door and the man froze as if he’d just been caught, then raised his eyes from the computer slowly to see who had entered. “Bonjour,” I started. “Nous avons une réservation avec Olivier.” “Oui,” he replied, switching to English, “he should be back shortly. Please take a seat while you wait,” he pointed to the two empty chairs that sat in front of the windows and then went back to his task at hand. We quietly sat down, trying not to disturbed his work and began to look around silently at all of the beautiful stills of luxury property lining the walls. Andy and my eyes met and I led his glance over to one particular property with a lush garden surrounding a tiered pool that sat off of a beautiful terracotta terrasse equipt with a summer kitchen, located on what looked like the edge of a craggy cliff. His eyes got extra wide. It resembled something out of a 5 star hotel advertisement. Everything manicured, everything prestinly white and clean, everything looking very, very expensive. I fidgeted in my seat, questioning if the agent behind the desk was wondering how these two backpacking American kids stumbled into his luxury real estate office. I didn’t get too far down the rabbit hole of self deprecation, though, as my thoughts quickly shifted to the stylish and tanned man who had just walked through the door. The agent again looked up from his computer to the man and then down to us as if silently saying, “these are yours.” We looked up at the man wide-eyed and hopeful then back to the agent sitting behind the desk. “You are…Rachel and Andy?” the man said slowly, as if thinking through his English. “Yes and you are Olivier?” Andy asked, starting to stand up. “Yes,” he said with a nod. “You are ready to go see the house?” He said opening up the door. I stood up, more than happy to get down to business, and followed him back out onto the street. Up until that point, it seemed like a lot of the agents wanted to take their time, discuss potential other listings, find out more about our situation and, a lot of the time, take their time getting you to the home you originally came to see. Looking back, I wonder now if that had a lot to do with how young we look. Perhaps they were feeling us out, wondering if we were serious buyers before getting too invested in the tour. “We parked down by the old stone church,” Andy said, pointing in the general direction of where we parked. “Should we get the car and meet you?” “You don’t need a car,” Olivier started, “we can walk to the house.” Andy’s eyes lit up. All of these restaurants and boulangeries and shops were within walking distance? While I think Andy was interested in the ways of rural French life, I don’t think that he was leaning as heavily into the concept as I was. He was a city kid at heart who wanted accessibility. This town, however, felt a little like the best of both worlds. We rounded the corner, past the elegant boulangerie and onto another street that was gated off and made into a pedestrian walkway. Some people bustled from shop to shop grasping straw bags overflowing with baguettes and other market treasures. Others were stopped along their route, chatting with old friends and catching up in a flurry of cheek kisses. We passed a large pharmacy and I took a mental note of how fantastic it would be to have one so well-stocked in walking distance. I looked over at Andy who was excitedly looking all around the street. From the homemade soap store with its own washing basin right out front for those wanting a sample of the products to the sweet and colorful childrens store brimming with toys and books, Vaison had a small, hometown vibe to it. We passed an ally that was lined with small tables and a bright chalkboard sign advertising couscous and other Morocaine delicacies. A little further up, a gem and jewelry store cascaded down its stairs and around its front window with tables of trinkets and bracelets set in pretty pastels in all shapes and sizes. A little further past, an Italian restaurant caught my eye with fluffy squares of tiramisu dusted in cocoa tempting me from the window. Across the way, a shop with mosaic tiled tables in every color imaginable drew in your gaze through its floor to ceiling windows. Each business was unique and charming, oozing the character and warmness that only small, family establishments could. We started down a small hill that led the pedestrian path to another main road lined with more little shops. Olivier veered us off to the left and wrapped us around the small bend, stopping in front of a small rum bar. The bar was at the base of a small flight of stairs, using each wide step to house a small table and few low sitting chairs. The place had a very bohemian vibe, with brightly colored pillows strewn about and food being served in carved wooden bowls. Here people were taking refuge from the hot sun under the canopy with their mojitos and snacks. A little further up the stairs, a man sat sketching in a worn leather-bound notebook. “Here is the bridge from the first century,” Olivier said, pointing ahead to the bridge expanding the river below. Tourists stood below a placard, snapping photos of themselves with the bridge. “Is this a famous bridge?” Andy asked Olivier, squinting his eyes. “There is,” he paused to think about which words in English would fit the best, “ a line,” he drew a straight line with his hand, “from how tall the water was.” “The water?” Andy questioned, now suddenly more interested than he originally had been. Natural disasters always put Andy on high alert, so I was interested in how this conversation was going to play out. “Yes, water was coming out of the neighbors….” he pointed to the windows. “Jesus!” Andy exclaimed. “But the river is very dry now. No worries of floods,” Oliver said, trying to sooth Andy’s racing mind. “The house is up here,” he started to walk across the street and into the rum bar, climbing the stairs before Andy could inquire further about the flood.We scurried across the road behind him and started up the stairs. Andy stopped before making it too far up, turning around to face me. His eyes got wide and he had a huge smile on his face. “It’s in the middle of town!” he gasped. I smiled. Olivier’s quick change of subject paid off and Andy's mind was miles away from any thought of the water. I had to agree, the location was pretty exciting. We had seen other homes that were technically “in the middle of town,” there just wasn’t any town around them. We hadn’t seen anything quite this centrally located and the thought of it all being within a minute or two's walk was intoxicating. To me, this town embodied living authentically French… but comfortably. As we climbed further up the stairs, we were greeted with beautifully manicured potted plants nestled around each of the residential doors. The small staircase almost felt like a secret once you continued up past the rum bar. Halfway up the staircase, Olivier stopped in front of a door. “You really are steps away from everything,” Andy said, turning around to admire the bar patrons resting a few stairs away. See how you feel when you stand in the town. I kept thinking to myself, looking at Andy’s massive grin. Olivier grinned back as he inserted the key and unlocked the door. As soon as you walk into the home, you step down into the base of the steps that lead you up to the second floor and, around the staircase, directly into the living room. The room had large wooden beams that had been painted gray and, with the white tiled floor, gave off a very relaxed, cool vibe. Andy walked deeper into the living room, attracted by the large French doors that connected the space to the outside balcony. Olivier walked over, swinging the doors open so that he could take in the whole effect. Andy followed him out onto the balcony and brushed some wisteria away in order to gain a clearer view. “Oh wow, there is the river and the bridge,” he said, pointing below. Hearing all of the commotion, I sauntered outside to catch a glimpse of the view. The balcony was long, running the length of the house and offering access into the dining room further down at the other end. I put my arms out, touching the exterior wall of the house and the balcony railing. “It’s a bit of a tight squeeze, no?” I asked, trying to gauge Andy’s reaction. He was the one who wanted an outdoor space, so it was important to me that he was fully content with it. “They have a small table and chairs out here and you could easily get a chair for lounging,” he said, eyeing up the extra unused space in the corner. “What is that over there?” I asked, pointing to the other side of the river. “Is there a church up there?”Andy asked, pointing high up on the hill. “C’est le haute ville,” Olivier started. “There are two towns in one here. The house is in the young part of town. On that side, it is old town,” his finger traced the small road that hugged the hillside leading up. “There is…” he paused, searching for the right words, “pieces of old chateau up there.” “Oh, chateau ruins?” Andy chimed in. “Yes,” Olivier confirmed. “The location is great!” I said, loving the idea of being so close to two very different feeling towns with so much history. Olivier walked down to the other end of the balcony and opened the other two French doors that lead to the dining room. “Here is the dining room,” he said, sneaking himself between the two large buffets and the dining table. The house was charming and had a very “South of France” vibe, but there was so much large, heavy furniture. It almost felt as thought the house was being swallowed up by it all. The dining room spilled into the kitchen which was long and narrow, but somehow felt as though it had more counter space and cabinets that one could ever need. It was recently redone in a soft gray, white and black color scheme that I found myself really liking, much to my surprise. It gave the feeling of a blank slate, allowing for almost any pop of color to be introduced without looking overwhelming or out of place. “And here,” Olivier said, opening up a door in the kitchen, “Is a bathroom.” He held the door open so we both could take a peak in. “This bathroom is literally in the kitchen,” I said, before I could hold back my ungartered opinion. I paused, wanting to give a beat before speaking again and not sound too reactionary. To my surprise, it was Andy who spoke next, defending the space. “But it is nice to have a second bathroom for when we have guests.” He was finding positives about the house…. did this mean??? Before I could let myself consider the idea of Andy falling for a place I thought he had already written off, we were whisked out of the kitchen and down the stairs to the beginning of a cool, dark basement. At the bottom of the first flight was a small room with a massive antique bureau built into the stonewalls. I walked over to it, running my hand over the wood, “this is so pretty,” I said, opening it up, “and huge! What great storage!” “What was this room used for originally?” Andy asked, quizzically looking around at the long band of electrical outlets that lined both walls. “I think an office,” Olivier replied with a shrug. He turned and continued on down the stairs until he reached the bottom and two doors. Andy stopped halfway down to admire the massive protruding rock that made up half of the wall. “It’s built into the stone,” Olivier said, pointing up at the jagged rock. “Et c’est la cave,” Olivier added, turning to his right and opening up the small wooden door. I peeked into the musty, small room carved into the rock. Work benches lined the walls with rusty tools and bits of wood and metal strewn about. Andy shimmied past me, intrigued by the idea of having his own workspace. “This is great!” He said, eyeing up all of the obscure tools. “The man, le propriétaire, il est artiste, il travaille avec,” he pointed to the metal and wood. We nodded, showing our understanding. “I will show,” he said, waving Andy out of the cave and opening the other door. Bright light spilled in as it opened and we immediately found ourselves stepping onto the side of the main road with the bridge in front of us. He pointed down to the small wooden porch we were standing on and then up to the side of the home. Barbed wire looking material stuck out of the side, wrapping around different points and anchoring back into the wall. Next to it, a sculpted metal head of a man rested below with a hand protruding out and reaching above for the tangled mess of wire. “L’art…” he started, keeping his fingers pointing to the porch and then to the decorated exterior wall, “all this will go. He will take the art.” Andy and I looked at each other quizzically. “He’s taking the stairs with him?” I said, pointing down to the porch. “Oui, l’art,” Olivier nodded. I looked back at Andy then back at him. “The stairs are art?” I questioned again, wanting to make sure I understood. “Oui,” Olivier confirmed. Feeling as though he had successfully conveyed his point, Olivier pointed off to the left to a parking lot in the distance. “Here you can park. You must pay, but it is….” he paused to think of the best word to fit, “it is cheap.” “That is nice to have parking so close,” Andy said, peering down the road. Olivier turned his body in the opposite direction. “And down the road, there is another lot. It is free,” he pointed down the street. “Is it far down the street?,” I asked, looking in the same direction as him. “No, maybe, 3 minutes. Same distance,” he turned to look back at the other lot. “I like that we have different parking options so close,” I added. Olivier nodded, shuffling us off of the small, wooden porch and back up the basement stairs. We emerged into the hallway connecting the living room to the dining room. “Let’s go up the stairs,” Olivier said, only pausing for a moment before leading us through the living room and up the stairs. We stopped at the top of the stairs, taking in the incredibly large space. “I love the terracotta tiles,” I said, looking down at the worn, burnt-orange squares under my feet. “And the walls,” Andy walked over and ran his hand over the lopsided wall, angled and concaved in different ways, giving it an ancient, homemade feel. Growing up in an old Victorian, Andy had become accustomed to homes that didn’t have perfectly square walls with flat surfaces. To Andy, this was a sign of authenticity, before the cookie cutter, overly manufactured homes became the norm. “This space is so big, it could almost be considered a whole other room to be used,” I said, walking over to the stair railing and looking back down to the living room and front door below. The white walls and high ceilings gave it a very airy, relaxed feel. I turned back to Olivier and Andy. “Yes, they used this as an office,” he said, pointing to a desk in the corner stacked with boxes overflowing with clothes and linens, the beginnings of packing away a life. Olivier walked over to a door off the landing, opening it and stepping aside so we could pass through. “This is the guest bedroom,” he said, following behind us into the small, cavernous room. The terracotta tile continued into the bedroom and was illuminated by the small window against the back wall that faced the river and bridge below. “It’s small, but big enough for guests,” Andy said, moving around the room towards another door at the end. Olivier walked around the bed and exited through the door on the other side. “This room,” he started, “is the master.” The room was big, equipt with a large, built-in closet. Andy’s eyes rose to the ceiling. “I like the sky lights,” he said. “It really brightens the room.” I looked around the room for a sign of other lighting elements. “Are these the only things lighting this room?” I said, looking up and then back at Olivier. “Yes, but installing lights is no problem, very easy,” he assured me. To some, a room without lights may be an issue or even a reason not to buy, but to us, it was something we were used to. None of our bedrooms in our Pittsburgh house had lights. We lazily installed a few lamps, promising to install swag lights at some point, but still haven’t gotten around to it. Andy eyed up another door on the opposite wall. Olivier followed his gaze, walking over to the door and opening up. “Here is the bathroom,” he said, extending his arm in a gesture saying, “after you.” We both stepped up into the space with Olivier close behind. I turned myself around the massive and brightly illuminated space. “This bathroom is so big!” I said, looking up at the vaulted ceilings encapsulating another skylight. It wasn’t exactly the most unattractive bathroom we had seen on our visits, but it was definitely dated. A large, rocketship-type tube sat in the corner with jets and buttons lining the interior walls. “This is the shower,” Olivier confirmed. We nodded, unsure of exactly what we were looking at or if we were brave enough to step inside and find out. I looked down at the floors, a cushioned-cut, off white tile with discolored and stained grout. My eyes rose to the walls and ceiling, both encapsulated in huge, burnt red, dated tiles. “There’s a washer and dryer,” Andy said, walking over to the unit. “This will stay?” I asked, wondering if it was considered art. “I will ask,” Olivier started, “the couple, they are getting divorced. They will need appliances for the apartments they move into.” “Appliances? Are they taking the appliances?” I questioned, wondering if I shouldn’t get too attached to the beautiful fridge and freezer combo downstairs. “I will ask,” he said, with a small shrug. “Why is the toilet almost attached to the tub?” Andy asked. It seems as though he had clearly moved on from the appliance comment. I looked over to where he was standing next to a large, deeply set tub that sat against the wall. Walking over to it, I instinctively turned the nobs. Nothing. Hmmmm. “I’m sure an easy fix!” Olivier said with a hand wave. I looked over at Andy. “It is kind of weird the toilet is next to the bedroom door and the tub,” I said, looking down. “It is the only reasonable place,” Olivier said, waving his hand over the bathroom, as if challenging me to find another one. I remembered one of the past agents, Kerry, mentioning if you point out things you plan to change, you can add that as a justification of your offer being lower. I followed his arm around the space and waited for him to lower it. “Perhaps we could move it? The bathroom is quite dated, we wouldn’t keep it in this state,” I said, looking over to Andy. “Yeah,” Andy agreed, “perhaps it can be moved if we rearrange things.” He slowly spun around the bathroom, squinting and reimaging a new layout. “It’s usable as it is,” Olivier reassured. “It is,” I started, “but, just aesthetically, it needs a facelift.” He nodded, understanding this was a losing battle to keep fighting, and walked out of the bathroom back on the landing. “I like it,” Andy confirmed, “I like the location and that it has two bathrooms and two bedrooms.” “I agree, but the bathrooms are both kind of dated and dingy,” I added, trying not to sound too eager or interested. Andy took the cue, adding, “we have a lot to think about. We leave tomorrow, but will not be going too far away, only two hours. If we wanted a second viewing, is it possible?” “C’est possible,” Olivier started, “I am very busy, but I am sure we can find a moment.” We started down the stairs, all silently agreeing the tour had come to an end. At the bottom of the stairs, Andy took one last look around the banister through the French doors to the view. “That would never get old,” he said, turning with a smile to Olivier. He smiled back and opened the front door, stepping aside to allow us to exit. Andy stepped back to admire the facade. “These shutters would look great with that color I saved in Avignon,” I said, pointing at the thick, wooden shutters that were sprawled open. “Yeah, against the sand-colored stone, it would really pop,” he agreed. Olivier locked the door and started walking down into the rum bar seating and we followed. Halfway down he stopped, turning to the man scrawling in the leather notebook. “On est fini,” he said. The man nodded and Olivier turned to us. “This is Jim, he is the owner, he is American too.” “No way! How cool! We really like the house,” Andy said. Jim seemed to be a man of few words, nodding again and setting his notebook aside. “They may want a second visit, but will let me know soon and I will contact you,” Olivier said, waving us along, down the stairs. “D’accord. Merci et bon journée,” Jim added with a small wave, picking up his notebook again. When we reached the bottom of the stairs Olivier pointed towards the small road winding up to old town. “Have you been around town yet? Le château est là et les antiquités romaines are that way,” he pointed in the opposite direction. I squinted to show that I didn’t understand. “Les antiquités romaines? Roman antiques?” I translated, still unsure as to what I was saying. “Yes, that is it,” Olivier nodded. “The town is named Vaison la Romaine because it was inhabited by the Romans. A town has been uncovered. You can tour the ruins,” he said, pointing back in that direction. “Wow, that is really neat!” Andy said, a little in disbelief that the town could keep getting better and better. “We haven’t wandered into old town yet,” I started, “and we have a little time, so why don’t we walk around up there for a little.” Andy nodded, agreeing with the plan. “Ok, then,” Olivier said, extending his hand. “Enjoy and let me know if you have any questions about the house.” We shook hands and parted ways, starting across the first century bridge, excited to embark on our tour. Winding up the hill, we passed a few touristy restaurants selling boles of ice cream and hot dogs and an art gallery before following the sharp left turn that takes you under the ancient bell tower. Taking our time in order to take it all in, I looked down to the slabs of stone that lined the path. There on their smooth faces were tattered and worn books. I moved closer in order to read the sticker that was attached to them. “Thank you for adopting me,” I translated to Andy. “That is so incredibly precious!” I said, picking one up delicately. They seemed to be second hand books, once loved by someone else, but now ready to find a new home and ready to take someone else on the adventures found within its pages. I glanced at the other books, laid out side by side, vying for each passerbyers attention. They all seemed to be older titles, all in French. Andy, getting antsy, grabbed my hand to gather my attention. “We should keep going,” he said, pulling me up the hill and through the bell tower’s rounded pass through. After exiting the other side, we turned around to face the back of it. A small staircase wound up to the top of it, stopping at three different sized doors, all located at different points of the tower. To the right was a door to a home that was connected to the tower itself. “Can you imagine living here!” Andy started, “I think this is all a part of the bell town!” His finger traced from the home door up the wall to the top of the tower. “Wonder how old this thing is?” I asked, looking around for a plaque. Past the tower was a small hill that took you either right to the beffroi or the left to the old church. Andy, loving the old architecture of churches, immediately turned left. Winding up the cobbled hill, past a few grand homes built along the path until we reached the small church with a small overlook. Andy walked to the edge and immediately pointed down. “Hey, there’s the house!” I came up behind him and perched myself against the wall, looking down in the direction he was pointing. People walked alongside the road next to the river, stopping to point at the house and take photos of Jimr's metal sculpture. “What do you think of all of this?” I asked, turning to Andy. “It’s definitely more lively than the chic home we’ve been debating,” he said, looking a little sad at admitting the faults of the beloved home. “This home seemed to have taken us by surprise,” I said with a nod. “Let’s get back to Avignon. We have a lot to think about,” I grab his hand. He nodded and we started our descent out of old town. Right before you begin to enter into the town of Gordes, you will see a small space carved out within the sprawling rock cliffs and tourists pulled off along their protruding edges. Each person has a camera in hand, vying for the best angle to capture the beautiful village that juts out from the rocky hillside just across the valley. From this viewpoint, the town looked as if it was radiating, the bright beams of the sun bouncing off of the white village homes that dotted the lush hillside. I stretched out over a smooth rock face off to the side, enjoying the light breeze and soaking in the rays that saturated the space. Andy shuffled around the overlook, gazing through the lens of his vintage camera with every few steps, checking to see if the light, angle and camera’s lens aligned to create the most perfect shot. We were on our way out of Gordes, a town so famous, we couldn’t find a “best of Provence” list that it wasn’t on, but somehow, we were leaving feeling as though we missed something. The town seemed kind of quiet, which was understandable, since it was about 3 weeks before Europe’s holiday season truly began. We walked around the main streets and even found ourselves wandering down the tiny, cobbled side streets, but, after about two hours of exploring, we were wondering what exactly the allure of the town was. Were we getting jaded with small, idyllic French villages? I didn’t think so. I think, though, for all of the hype from the many, many lists and blogs, I was expecting something different or perhaps more. The town had some restaurants and a few high-end hotels, the typical gift shops sprinkled in here and there, but nothing too out of the ordinary for a typical tourist town. After seeing what we believed was all of it, we headed back to the car in order to stop at the overlook and snap a photo or two before heading to Lioux. Here, at the stop over, seemed to be where most of the tourists were, seeking the perfect spot to get the best photo. Andy sauntered over to me. “You ‘bout ready to go?” “Sure? But did you get all the photos you wanted?” I asked, squinting up at him through the bright rays of sun. “I did,” he started, “but there are only so many photos you can take.” I laughed and started to slide myself down off of the rock. “Tara must be really determined to sell this house!” I said, starting to walk back down the path to the car. “Yeah, offering to meet up a few hours before her wedding is a real commitment!”He agreed, studying his phone, “It says we’re only about fifteen minutes away,” he said, turning his phone to face me so I could study the map.
As we descended the hill from Gordes to the listing, we wove through lush valleys lined with lavender fields and olive groves. It was a desolate journey with not another town in sight from the road, but every few moments a small sign or two would appear, indicating civilization and that a winery could be found at the next dirt road and open for tastings and tours. We followed the small arrowed sign indicating we were entering into the village of Lioux and were met by Tara, standing alongside the castle, waiting to guide us into an unmarked parking spot. Opening the car doors, we were immediately hit with the fresh smell of lavender since parking in between the castle and its adjacent lavender fields. “Hello! Welcome!” Tara said, walking over to meet us, her flowy sundress trailing softly behind her. “This is incredible,” Andy said, looking over his shoulder at the fragrant purple fields behind him. “It’s a beautiful time of year to be here,” she agreed, breathing in deep. “So, this is the chateau?” I asked, turned in the other direction. “Yes, this is it! It was purchased by a famous French designer and restored, but he just died and so we are wondering who will be its next owner,” she looked up lovingly at the castle as a car pulled up next to ours. A well dressed man got out of the car with a huge grin. “Mon dieu!” Tara started, “you aren’t supposed to see me yet!” she squealed. “This is my fiancé. This is Rachel and Andy.” We exchanged handshakes and a quick congratulations before being swept off, around to the front of the chateau to see the home. “My fiancé and I live here in Lioux. We love it! It’s so close to everything, but it’s peaceful here and we’re such a tight knit community,” She stopped in front of a blue shuttered stone home that shared an exterior wall with the chateau. “This is it!” she said, looking back at us to gauge our reactions. “It’s very cottagey” Andy said, nodding his head. “It’s currently being used as an air b and b, but the owner wants to get out of that business. Come, let’s have a look,” she said, opening the front door. We entered, walking down the small hallway that spilled us out directly into a cozy living room that had a very lodge-like feel to it. Andy’s eyes immediately rose to the ceiling. “I’m a sucker for exposed beams,” he said, taking in the detail. “Yes, this little stone cottage has a lot of older details I think you’ll like,” she said, leading us into the adjoining kitchen. I passed by an end table that had a guestbook and pencil resting on top and took a mental note to make sure to read it on my way out. Following Tara into the long, “L” shaped kitchen, I looked around the tidy, minimalistic space. “I like the size of it. It’s big enough to move around in and seems to have a lot of counter space and cupboard space,” I ran my hand along the long counter top that divided the living room from the kitchen. The large farmhouse sink sat under a large window that faced the main road. I turned away from the window to further inspect the space. “The only thing is there isn’t enough room for a table. The room is long and spacious, but not wide enough to also fit a table, so where would we eat?” Tara looked around the space, trying to think of a clever solution. I think that there is plenty of room in the living room to add a small table off to the side,” she said, wandering to the entryway and standing between the rooms. “You can have a dining room, living room combo and not feel cramped,” she added. Satisfied with her solution, she turned and paused, then nodded and headed for the stairs that were tucked against the back wall of the kitchen. “Up on the second floor you have two bedrooms and a bathroom.” We followed behind diligently, turning to each other halfway up the stairs, trying to silently read each other's reactions. Andy gave a little shrug, indicating his opinion was still up in the air. I nodded, agreeing. I enjoyed being at the point in our relationship where all we had to do was exchange a single glance and 1,000 words were spoken. When we reached the top of the stairs, Tara walked forward into the bathroom, switching on the light. The windowless room was small, housing a tub and shower combo with a sink resting in the corner. We ducked our head into the doorway to take a peak, not all being able to fit into the space at the same time. “I like the beige color, very neutral,” I said, thinking back to some of the hideous bathrooms we had stumbled across on this journey. While beige and neutral weren’t two adjectives I’d ever think to use to describe Andy or myself, I was starting to almost hope for plain and basic tiles as opposed to the electric blues and greens that stung our eyes on some of the other tours. Tara turned off of the light and shuffled past us, leading us into the first bedroom. It was a small space that lacked any and all personality. Definitely an Air B and B, I thought looking at the basic setup of the room. A small window and a nondescript painting covered the largests wall with a small bed and nightstand filling the rest of the empty space. “Is this the main bedroom or guest?” Andy questioned. “This is the main,” Tara confirmed, pausing for a response. After a brief moment passed with no additional comment, she continued on. “And down the hall is the guest bedroom.” We entered, finding a similar sized room filled with the same paired back amenities, perfect for the traveler passing through for only a few days. “Is there any storage?” I questioned, looking around the room for a closet. “There is not,” Tara started, “but you could easily add a dresser or armoire to hold clothes and linens,” she said, pointing to empty wall space along the back wall. The room fell silent again. Usually we had a lot of things to ask about a home. We’re we running out of steam on this house tour? Or was the house itself such a basic shell that no questions needed to be asked? We walked back onto the landing, huddling around each other to debrief. “I like that all of the floors are wood and, of course, I also love the wooden beams,” I started. Tara nodded. “But, I don’t think I saw an outside space,” I looked at Andy, knowing that was a top three want for him. He seemed a bit more engaged, leaning awaiting Tara’s response. “There is a little space out front to perhaps put a small table and chairs by the door,” she suggested. “The house is very cozy,” Andy added, trying to insert some positives, “and I think it's a great space for a holiday home, not too big, not too cramped.” “I agree,” I said, shaking my head. “It seems like a manageable size.” Another pause. “We have a lot to talk about,” I said, looking at Andy, trying to give him my now “go to” subtle glance. He caught on and nodded back. “Yeah, we should talk over the positives and negatives and discuss what we think.” We started down the stairs, signaling the end of the tour. Andy paused in the living room admiring more wooden features and I took that time to wander over to the guest book. Opening up the book, I flipped to the halfway point. Blank. I grabbed another little chunk between my finger and thumb, moving closer to the front, and opened it. Blank. Hmm, I thought. I flipped to the first page. “The house was cozy and had a great location.” Great location? I thought. Perhaps in proximity to other towns? I flipped to the next page. “Thanks for a wonderful stay!” I flipped to page three, it was blank. The owner wants to get out of the business, I thought, thinking back to Tara’s reasoning for the sale. What business? Seemed like no one was renting. I placed the book down and turned back around to see what Tara and Andy were up to. “We probably drive to Aix about three times a month, just to look at all of the specialty stores and do some shopping. It’s a nice city to have so close,” she was explaining. I locked eyes with Andy and he nodded, edging closer to the front door. Stepping outside into the bright Provence sunshine, Tara pulled the door shut, locking it behind her. “Before you leave,” she said, turning back to us, “please, let me walk you through town, so you can get a sense of the surroundings.” “Sure,” I agreed, “but only if you have the time! We are so thankful to you for even showing us the place with your wedding only a few hours away!” She waved me away, “it would be a memorable way to start the marriage, personally being the one to sell to my potential neighbors,” she started up the small road outside of the house. I remember Tara mentioning in one of our emails that she was American. It seemed like a lot of the people that we had met so far shared similar stories, coming to France for what was supposed to be a small stop in a longer journey and then never leaving, clearly falling under its incurable spell. The dirt path was narrow, but there were no cars around, allowing us to walk in the road, admiring each village house we passed that lined the road. “This is kind of the best of both worlds,” Tara said, longingly gazing at her surroundings. “You have a lot of well known towns not far away and Aix is just a little over an hour away.” Andy followed closely alongside her, nodding. “Yeah, I want to stay around this part of Provence. Any higher and I’m not sure I’d feel like I was in the South of France.” Behind them I rolled my eyes, thinking of the home tour we had booked for tomorrow about an hour north from Lioux in Vaison-la-Romaine. One obstacle I kept trying to overcome was Andy’s ability to write off any house without having an open mind. The comment made me think that perhaps his mind was already made up about the home, which was fine, he didn’t have to want to buy it, but I just wanted him to at least go in with a completely open mind. We came to the end of the dirt path, leading you straight into large fields. “Shall we turn around?” Tara asked. “Um, sure,” Andy replied, a bit confused, “but, was that town?” Tara paused. “Yes, again, Lioux is very small, but has many benefits in being small,” she started walking again in the opposite direction. I made a quick tally in my head as we walked the short distance back to our car. Ok, one chateau, one lavender field, perhaps 25 homes, 2 fountains. So, no restaurant, boulangerie, surely no weekly market, no cafe or pharmacy. I didn’t mind small, but desolate is where I drew the line. We thought we had visited small villages before, but Lioux really set the bar for a small village. My mind went back to the chic home and it's five minute drive to Uzès, not seeming too inconvenient after all. We’re all of the home tours that were left going to essentially show us how great the chic house was? Or was this us settling? Going for the best home out of the lot, but not the best for us? We stopped next to our car, taking one last look around at our surroundings. “Thank you so much for showing us the home, and on this very special day!” I said, shooting Tara a warm smile. “Please, let me know if you have any questions or are interested in a second visit,” she replied. “We will, but not today. Today you are busy,” Andy said, walking over to the driver side door. I rolled down my window. “Thanks again and congratulations!” I said, sticking a hand out the window to wave. Tara nodded, softly waving back as we slowly began to pull away from the chateau and lavender fields, on our way to L'isle sur la Sorgue. Pulling up our discarded home list, I saw the listing in Vaison’s link. Clicking it, I scrolled directly to the listing agent's information. Daniel Brewer was linked to an agency based in the U.K., which made it strange that he was listing the house while living in a different country. Thinking there was probably a reasonable explanation for it (what did I know? I had just started my home search abroad) I opened my email and sent him a simple inquiry about the home and our interest in viewing it.
“So,” Andy said, adjusting his mirror, “what are you thinking?” He had been intrigued by my “not necessarily” comment, but I got so caught up in putting my plan in motion, I had forgotten to include him. I refocused back on him, wondering how I could suddenly warm him to the idea of the home visit. The house to him already had two strikes without even seeing it; the location and the style. “Well, if we are in fact actually free, we should go and still see A house,” I put an extra emphasis on the “a”. He nodded. “Sure, I’m down. What do you have in mind?” He looked over at me quizzically. “The house in Vaison that you thought was a little too modern, even if it’s a total bust and we don’t like it, we will still be out exploring a different part of Provence.” He paused for a moment, taking in the new ideas. “Think of it as an adventure either way,” I added, trying to lay on more positives. Without any other plans lined up, he was quicker to agree than I had originally expected.“I mean what else are we doing? We’re here to see houses,” he said, agreeing to the change. A message came into my email box from Daniel. “Hi Rachel, viewing the property should be fine, but before I set up a viewing with my agents in that area,” hmm, I thought. He must be working remotely from England, “can you please take a moment to answer the following questions?” Bullet points of about 20 questions followed ranging from when are you free to visit to where are you staying while you are visiting the area.” He must deal with a lot of Brits who buy abroad, as the questions didn’t seem like questions that would be asked to a local. As I finished my reply, we started to arrive at our destination, Villeneuve-lès-Avignon. Connected to the hectic and bustling center of Avignon by a short bridge, the town was noticeably more relaxed and less congested, which was a welcome change after the insane cluster of traffic we dodged on the Avignon side to get there. Andy pulled down a narrow alleyway leading to the hotel and found a small pull off to park the car while we checked it. “Let’s get settled in the room and go find some dinner. Then, we have a lot of planning to do for tomorrow. We have a house tour in the afternoon, but will be around some really cool towns. We should definitely sandwich the visit with two really great stops to explore,” I said, clicking off my seat belt. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, let’s check in first!” Andy said, trying to slow me from getting too far ahead. *********** Walking along the cobbled alleys in search of dinner, it was pretty easy to see why people flocked to this part of France. If the color palette of pale blushes and sands didn’t immediately put you at ease, the soft winds carrying scents like lavender and rosemary most definitely would. I stopped in front of a nondescript building. “I absolutely LOVE this color,” I said to Andy, pointing to the wooden details painted in a dark blueish gray shade, contrasting against the pale colored stone of the building. “One day, I will paint my shutters this color,” I said, pulling out my phone and snapping a photo for reference. He laughed, nodding his head. “So, tomorrow we have a house in a small town called Lioux, but I can’t exactly place the home, the agent had said it’s built into the old chateau walls right next to a lavender field. Can you imagine!” I said, continuing down the street. “That would be really cool,” Andy agreed, “what is it near?” “Well, you have Gordes about 15 minutes away and Lourmarin, Bonnieux or Roussillon not too far either. We will pass by I’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue on the way back home too. We almost stayed there,” I said, trying to shoehorn in another great option. “We should totally visit Gordes on the way there and then pick somewhere for the way back,” he said, stopping at an outdoor restaurant menu to catch a glance. “Don’t get me wrong,” I started, he turned away from the menu and back to me, “I love the Chic Home, but the vibe here, don’t you just feel different being here?” Looking back, it sounds ridiculously naive to say, at that point, I had only been there maybe an hour, but something about Provence really did just feel different. Even Andy, who was notoriously anxious and tense, felt at ease since arriving. “I can see us there, me, sitting on the balcony working, you in the kitchen, cooking things we just bought at the market,” he said, allowing himself to daydream. “I know, I love the house, but we have to see what it’s like there during other times of the day, not just in the afternoon. We don’t want to accidentally end up in a ghost town because we didn’t dig enough. Also, aren’t you a little worried that there’s a world renown chateau hotel right behind the house? If we were considering renting, we may not have any guests. Anyone coming, seems to be coming strictly for the chateau and if you’re coming to that area, who wouldn’t want to just stay in Uzès, in the middle of all of the action? Then, on top of all of that, it also makes me wonder if we could sell it easily if we had to.” Andy looked at me surprised, up to that point I had focused on all of the positive aspects of the home. I put my hand up, insinuating for him to stop looking at me that way. “No, no, stop that look. I love, love, love the house and I could easily see us there.I love that we can walk in and just start living, no projects needed, but I want to make sure we make the best choice for us. This is the home that we will potentially retire in, it just has to be the right choice,” I said, trying to reassure him. Up to that point, there was no other home that I could envision us living in, but I was cautious not to jump in head first without considering all aspects of what life could look like, especially if things didn’t go as planned like the current owners. Andy looked up at the clear blue sky and the sun, still shining. “It’s six o’clock now,” Andy started, “why don’t we head back to the town, walk around, see what it feels like at dusk. Then go have dinner in Uzès? It would let us feel what it would be like to be there around dinner time and then head into Uzès and explore their dinner time crowd,” he suggested. “That is a great idea!” I said. He turned away from the menu and started walking. Following close behind, I looked at Andy, weaving his way through the pedestrians and cars, on the way back to the hotel and felt truly lucky. There aren't too many people in the world that had no intention or interest in buying a home abroad, but had enough sense of adventure and pure wanderlust to take the leap and come along on what may be the greatest adventure of our lives together so far. Of course, he was his overly concerned, questioning everything self, but he let things go just enough to enjoy the experience and embrace the unknown. I’m not sure too many people who hadn’t already discussed the possibility of buying abroad would have taken such a leap. The amount of questions and unknowns, paired with the language barrier was enough to deter any sensible person. I reached out and squeezed his hand, knowing that even if we don’t leave with a house, I had just discovered a different side of him that perhaps not many get to see. Was this a hidden side that was buried deep, waiting for the right person to come along and cox it out? Or had it always been there, only emerging if the timing and circumstances were right? Something told me I’d get that answer the more the trip went on. ************ On the car ride to the house, we talked about all of the possibilities that could be at play. Running the gamut from, would we be financially ok if we bought the home and couldn’t rent it? Did we need to rent it? We weren’t considering buying it out of guilt for Madame and Monsieur’s situation, were we? Sometimes we let our hearts/emotions get the best of us and we wanted to make sure that wasn’t the case here. Would a five minute ride to Uzès be as quick and simple as the agents had suggested it would be? Would we feel slighted by a boulangerie not open every day? We both agreed it almost felt like you were getting the short end of an authentic French experience without a fully functioning boulangerie within walking distance. But, as an American who was very much coming of age during the time of all of the no bread diets and gluten-free fads, part of me wondered if having a limited boulangerie was that bad of a con? No one needed to eat bread 5 or 6 times a week. When we arrived, we parked back into the spot we had left just a few hours before. “Is it a bad sign that all of the three parking spots on the street are all still available at dinner time?” Andy questioned. Clearly no one was driving here for dinner with Uzès just a short distance away. Wonder if the restaurant was even open or did it too have limited hours? We got out of our car and were surrounded by complete silence. “Let’s walk around, see if the restaurant is open, walk past the chateau,” I said, intertwining my fingers in Andy’s. As we walked past the “Chic house” we looked up, looking for a sign of life within the stone walls. Even it seemed closed up, locked tightly from the outside world, adding to the unhinged silence. As we walked closer to the Maire’s office and the outdoor terrace for the restaurant, we saw a woman scurry across the street from the restaurant’s entrance with tall glasses of electric orange liquid, sloshing around on her tray. This was the most action we had seen in the town so far since arriving. Excited at the prospect, we followed in the direction of the server, coming to the terrace where about five tables were filled with an eclectic mix of people watching a soccer match on a T.V. that had been rolled out for the occasion. A goal was scored and the crowd burst into cheers, clinking glasses and exchanging hugs. I almost felt like a fly on the wall, sitting just far enough back to not be noticed with all the commotion swirling around us. “This is something,” Andy gestured to the crowd, “but it is not great. It’s dinner time and only a few tables are taken. Where is everyone?” I shrugged, “the chateau?” I questioned. We started to walk in the direction of the chateau, veering to the left on a street that was stacked with parked cars. “We’re getting warmer,” I said in a sing-song tone. Beyond a large, mossy stone wall rose a large, fortress-style castle. Across the street were grand iron gates, sprawled wide open, as if revealing a secret scene. We shuffled over, hoping not to bring too much attention to ourselves. We kind of felt like intruders… a pair of trespassers who had wandered on someone else's property and were doing all they could to go unnoticed. Stopping in front of the gate, we stepped off to the side so that most of our bodies were covered by the tall shrub wall and peeked inside. The space had a massive manicured yard encompassed with an old stone wall which was then encircled in tall shrubs and trees, making the space feel enclosed and hidden from the outside world. Elegant, white loungers lined a long, pristine pool, while tanned legs stretched out on them. Bottles of rosé encapsulated in ice buckets sat elevated on miniature wooden tables next to them, glistening in the late day sun. Behind the loungers sat large white umbrellas that covered high-end teak tables where sophisticated people in beautiful swimwear drank spritz and dined on elevated meals. It looked like a scene stolen from Provence magazine showcasing “the good life” along France’s famous Azur coast. Andy looked at me, “the chic house is chic, but how could we ever compete with this for guests!?” His whisper trailed off as a staff member dressed in khaki pants and a white polo rushed past us carrying a tray of dinner plates. The house was priced low enough for us to not have to rent it, which didn’t make the fact that this luxury chateau sat behind us that big of a deal breaker, but we were two people who wanted a community experience. When we were house hunting in Pittsburgh, we both had the idyllic scenes of neighborhood picnics and community yard sales clouding out expectations. We wanted to be active members of our community and live in a place that valued coming together and just simply being neighborly. What we wanted and what we ended up with were two very different things, uknowlingly buying a home in one of the most transient neighborhoods in the city. We didn’t want to make that same mistake again, but, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, the most lively spot in town was only hosting out-of-town guests. Our nextdoor neighbor, who we were literally attached to, would be the church, which didn’t exactly sit well with two non-practicing, non-secular people. The closest we had come to religion was when we would set out the menorah for hanukkah. Usually we’d realize on about day 5 that we had forgotten about it and had only lit the first candle. This year, I actually hid it in the TV stand, hoping Andy would forget about it and we’d actually have a cohesive looking holiday set up with the usual suspects of red, green and white, minus the random blue and gold piece that sat unused, usually in an awkward spot, dripping old candle wax and clashing with its surroundings. It was forgotten about and everything looked picture perfect! I snapped back into the moment and noticed Andy was on his phone. “Rooms are only for at most 250 euros a night. That is not astronomical,” Andy said, still thinking about our future guests. “Let’s walk back through ‘town’,” I said, placing air quotes around the word town, “and see if things have gotten a little more lively. Besides, I’m hungry,” I said, a little defeated by what we found so far. Andy nodded in agreement. We still had four more homes to see before our house hunting trip came to a close, so there was no reason to put all of our eggs into one, slightly imperfect basket. We wandered through the now, almost desolate town as the street lamps started flickering on, one-by-one, happy to rest after such a busy day and talk about our whirlwind day of house tours. The”Turret House” was a house that really eluded us. This was one of the few listings that provided a lot of photos, but it was hard to really get a sense of the home’s layout despite the many angled, detailed shots. The main attraction for Andy was the original stone spiral staircase that looked as though it came straight from a medieval castle and probably dated back to around that time. The staircase wound through the entirety of the home, finally opening at the top of a grand, intricately carved, stone turret that gained you access to the rooftop terrace overlooking the whole town. Some rooms in the photos looked modern and tastefully updated, while others looked like you were sitting at King Authur’s court. The living room, in particular, had a large, deep set stone fireplace, big enough for a family of four to stand comfortably in and ancient woven tapestries, each on opposing walls. The house definitely piqued our interest, as we couldn’t make sense of the style or even who its agent was. This was the first home we had found on six different websites, with six different agents. At that time in the searching process we didn’t realize that this was common in France, but, after making our way across half of the south and doing numerous home tours with varying agents, it was explained that an owner could have as many agents as they wanted. “It’s also why you don't often see photos of the home’s exterior,” Kerry, agent of the Mediterranean house explained. “By not showing the front of the house, other agents couldn’t see the home, find it and then approach the homeowner, attempting to become another agent on the listing.” I took a reflective pause. I guess I hadn’t really even considered that there weren't many photos of most of the home’s facades. My focus had strictly been on the lack of photos in general. The whole concept of poaching listings seemed quite cut throat and a little sneaky to me and I wondered how that type of setup would play out in the U.S., where people in general seemed to have less respect or general kindness towards one another like they did in France. “And have some agents asked you to meet at the town fountain or the church,” she questioned on our way back to our car. “They don’t want you to know the exact address or town of the home or else you could find it and approach the owner, cutting them out of the process and losing their commission. Some will also make you sign contracts saying that you wouldn’t go behind their backs to talk to the owners after the visit and cut them out of the home sale,” she added. Andy raised his eyebrows in a surprised look. It was so different from the U.S. process and it was starting to make sense why so many Americans sought out English speaking agencies to help them understand all of the cultural idiosyncrasies, a process we couldn’t exactly do since we weren’t staying in one town with the same agent.
When it came to the turret house, first, I emailed two of the agents, thinking that if one didn’t respond or wasn’t free the days we could visit, we had a back up. When they didn’t respond after five days, we emailed two more and waited. “How weird,” I said, relaying the situation to Andy. “I can’t get anyone to respond to my inquiry about the Montfrin house. I’ve now tried four different people without a peep back.” “Wonder why people aren’t interested in showing the home, it’s covid, they can’t be that swamped with viewings,” he shrugged. Leading up to us leaving for France, Andy himself had been swamped with work, leaving little time to help plan the cross country trek. All home viewings, hotel bookings and scheduling arrangements were left to me, someone who usually likes to plan once I’ve arrived at said location. This personality trait made Andy crazy. As someone who likes to research every aspect of a trip before taking it, the whole “let the city wash over and you take you where you should go” school of thought was insanity. In order to build some kind of itinerary, though, I found myself scheduling home visits within a cluster of 3-4 days and then planning the next stop’s visits in the same manner until each stop had a handful of days in between the next, slowly sliding us to our final destination of Cinque Terre, Italy. Andy would be proud, I thought, each time I confirmed a house tour and made more of a set schedule for us. Back to the computer and two more emails were sent in an attempt to connect with anyone listed on the “Turret House.” When two weeks went by we started to feel a bit frustrated. “I really want to see this house!” Andy said. “I know, but no one is responding, I’m not really sure what to do. When all of the agents didn’t respond after a week, I reached directly out to their agencies, again no response,” I slumped down onto the couch next to him. He pulled up the listing, scanning the photos. “How cool would it be to have a stone turret in your house!” “Yes, yes, I’m with you! As soon as I can get in touch with someone, we can make it happen,” I said, trying to quell his frustration. We had a few weeks before we left for France and so I decided to reach out again to all six agents, hoping someone may have missed the first email and would see the second and reply. Most of our itinerary had been scheduled, but there were a few loose ends left hanging free. May and June are complete and utter chaos at school, as the kids have large rounds of state testing and teachers scramble to finish up any last important lessons before the year clicks to an end. At this point, I found myself drowning in work and in the trip planning process. Every few weeks, Andy and I would visit our favorite local coffee shop on a Saturday when he was able to sneak away from work for an hour or so and we’d sit over steamy dirty chais while I’d catch him up to on my progress and introduce him to a few of the new listings that piqued my interest. Two new listings had appeared and would be perfect additions to our Avignon stop. “Fontaine du Vaucluse,” Andy read, studying the listing. He turned to his computer to google the location. Pictures of craggy coves and pristine blue water shot across the screen. “Oh wow,” I said looking over at his screen. “It’s beautiful!” He nodded, flicking back to the listing and its three, blurry photos. “There isn’t much to go off of, but I’m definitely interested,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee, “what else did you find?” “Well, I know this home seems a bit more modern than we wanted, but it seems really, really cute,” I said, pulling up the listing. “Where is it located?” He asked, scooching his chair closer. “A place called Vaison-la-Romaine,” I read, pointing to the town name on the listing. Andy quickly pulled up a map and just as quickly shook his head. “Eh, it’s a bit too far north I think,” he said. “Why not look at the home first and then decide,” I said, sliding the computer closer to him. He clicked through the photos, giving a pretty cold reception with each swipe. “Yeah,” he said, coming to the end of the photo gallery, “it looks small and isn’t quirky enough, I’d rather see the other town’s house. Do you want me to reach out for this one? Take something off your plate?” “Sure!” I exclaimed, feeling ten pounds lighter with the offer. “Ok, great. I’ll send an email to the agent, just give me the days we are there.” “The second through the fourth of July,” I confirmed, moving the Vaison home out of the list of favorites and into our “rejected” list. The days ticked by and it wasn’t until the week before our departure that I received a reply from a man named Jean-Christophe, who explained he had just been put on this listing and their agency forwarded him my correspondence. I explained our situation and that I spoke some French and it was decided that he would bring an English speaking colleague to help with the words and phrases less known. An afternoon slot was set and we agreed to meet up during our last leg of the journey to Avignon. I clicked off a “HeavyWeight” as we pulled into the town’s parking lot that bordered an unmanicured apartment complex. “Ok, he said to meet him on the main road next to the lawnmower shop,” I relayed to Andy, shutting my car door and checking my maps app. He walked around the car, looking at the location over my shoulder. Walking through the small brick tunnel that connected the parking lot to the center of town, we emerged directly in front of the main artery of the town lined with shady plane trees and park benches. “This is kind of cute,” Andy said, looking around. We started walking along the main road, getting closer with each step to our final meeting place. “Ok, it’s across the street,” I motioned, pointing to a small shop on the corner. Getting ready to step into the street, a loud buzzing noise started. We looked around, trying to spot the noise. Finally, two teenage boys recklessly riding dirt bikes came into our vision. It was the first sign of life we had seen within the town, no other cars or pedestrians had passed us yet, making us wonder where everyone was. We hung back from crossing the street, unsure of the path they were planning to take. Taking note of us, the two started showboating, popping wheelies and spinning doughnuts, but always keeping a distance of a few yards away. Finally, wanting to make their feelings incredibly clear, they took off,coming down the road towards us at double the speed limit. We remained still as statues, waiting for them to pass so we could continue on our journey, not really sure how the interaction would go. They inched closer and as they passed, the one closest to us flipped up his helmet so he could look directly at us, shooting up his middle finger, twirling it around so it wouldn’t be missed. Andy looked back at me. “This has definitely been the least warm welcome we’ve ever received!” “Yeah, I agreed, this town feels awfully desolate and if these two punks are the welcome wagon I think I will take a hard pass!” Looking around the main street as the two zipped off deeper into the town, I became more apparent of the town's age and all around dinginess. All of the shops, with the exception of the lawnmower shop across the street, were shutted with thick, rusted gates. Some of their windows were tagged or broken, showing not only a lack of respect from the residents or visitors, but also a lack of maintenance and caring from the owners. Andy looked at me, as if to say, what now? “It literally took me months to track down someone to show us this house and we are here. Let’s go and see the home. It would be silly to not,” I said. He nodded and we crossed the street to our meeting place stopping in front of an outdoor display of manual push mowers. I had just pulled out my phone to send a “we’re here” text when a family-sized sedan pulled into a parking space across the street with our agent in tow. Each email correspondence was signed with not only his name, but a headshot photo of him smiling over his shoulder. This little addition made it easy to spot him when the time came. Jean-Christophe was a bald man with skin colored in a rosy pink hue. He was dressed in a pair of jeans with a polo shirt and a worn,leather satchel slung over his shoulder, trailing behind him as he walked. I waited for another car to appear carrying his associate, thinking they had driven separately. Spotting us he waved furiously over his head, shooting us the same warm smile from his signature photo. We watched as he then walked around his car and to the rear passenger side door, opening it.There was a hesitation before a girl hopped out of the seat. Andy and I looked at eachother. Was it “bring your daughter to work day”? Did they even have that “holiday” in France? Could he not find a babysitter? The two trotted across the street to meet us at the designated spot. “Bonjour, Je m’appelle Jean-Christophe et sa, c’est ma fille Anne-Sophie, elle parle anglais très bien!” Andy looked at me, waiting to see what had transpired. I looked up at him and back at Anne-Sophie and then Jean-Christophe. “Umm… so…. Obviously, this is Jean-Christophe and this is Anne-Sophie, his daughter. She is here because she speaks English,” I looked at Andy. He shrugged, “ok,” he said, unable to complain too much as he spoke zero French. As we walked up a small cobbled alley, Jean-Christophe explained the home’s circumstances while Anne-Sophie clarified the bits and pieces I didn’t understand. She was young, but I couldn’t exactly tell how young. Recently I found myself in shock and awe as sometimes a kid who could pass for a university student sat down in my middle school classroom. Was it me, or did some kids seem to be developing at a supersonic rate? A broad guess would be that she was between 13 and 18. I only guessed a little higher than her appearance strictly based on her attire of choice; skin tight ripped jeans and a crop top which she spilled out of at both the top and bottom. It seemed like a mature teenage look, but, based on our first human interaction in the town, upbringing and age may not play a dual factor. He did say colleague, I reminded myself. Maybe she was older and working together with him at the agency? “And so the wife is recently, very suddenly, widowed. The house is too big for her and she must downsize,” Anne-Sophie said as we stopped in front of an absolutely huge stone facade. My mind focused on the “recently, very suddenly” part and couldn’t help but wonder if it was Covid. The road itself was tiny, only allowing one small car at a time to wiggle through, with homes and shops lining both sides of the street. It looked like it had the potential to be a bustling little town, we just hadn’t really seen too many people. Jean-Christophe unlocked the door and we all entered into a warmly lit entryway with a dirt floor and cavernous rock ceilings. Off to the left was another large door which he went over and unlocked, giving Anne-Sophie all of the main details and then staring at us to gauge our reaction as she explained them. “This part of the home is next door, it used to be a boulangerie many, many years ago. The old oven is still there,” she held the door open for us to see. It was dark, but a rounded stone oven’s shadowy figure could be made out amongst the other forgotten pieces left scattered around the room. “That’s really cool,” Andy said, taking a long look around the space. “The first floor is just up these stairs,” Anne-Sophie said, translating her father’s segway. Walking a little deeper into the entryway, a hand-carved, stone spiral staircase emerged. The one from the photos. The walls leading up were also lined in heavy, light gray brick, giving it the allure of a castle. We wound our way up the stairs and were spilled out into the medieval style living room with the massive fireplace and tapestries. The room continued on into a dining room that had the esthetics of a Paris loft. Large floor to ceiling windows took up the entire back wall, illuminating the space and lighting part of the dark and drab living room behind. There were a few, minimalist paintings hung around the one wall and a large dining table sitting square in the center of the room. The space felt like the complete opposite of the living room, which felt like it hadn’t changed for centuries. I was almost surprised there were any modern amenities in there, such as electricity. A half wall divided the dining room and the kitchen area, making the two spaces feel open and connected. While the living room felt like something from the stone age and the dining room felt like something modern and hip, the kitchen felt like something straight out of the 70’s with a color scheme of bright yellow and lime green flowers. “This room actually hurts my eyes!” Andy said, stepping into the large open space. The room was long, with counter seating that ran the length of the kitchen and the dining room on both sides. “This is actually pretty neat,” I said, running my hand over the bar. “I could be cooking and entertaining people in the dining room and people could sit in either room at the bar, eating and chatting.” It did make sense why we couldn’t exactly place the rooms or the layout. Based off of this floor alone, one could feel like they were stepping through three vastly different decades. Jean-Christophe guided us out of the kitchen and back to the stone stairs. “The next level has the bedrooms and a bathroom,” Anne-Sophie explained over her shoulder as we followed closely behind, winding further up the stairs. The next level revealed a small landing with three doors lining the corridor. The first door led to a spacious master bedroom that mirrored the esthetics of the living room below. The room was made out of large, gray stones that covered the walls and the floor, giving the room a cavernous castle feel. A dressform sat in the corner, dressed in a creamy white cupcakesque wedding dress, its tulle and beading spilling down the bodice and cascading around the skirt. I remembered why the woman was selling and averted my eyes from the dress, feeling a pang of sadness. “This bathroom is a pretty nice size,” Andy said, echoing through the corridor and into the master bedroom. I followed the voices and found everyone comfortably walking around the space, with plenty of room for me to enter. The room felt electric, with its bright white tiles and fluorescent lighting. I rubbed my eyes, hoping they’d adjust. In between the white tiles sat a beautiful pattern of navy blue tiles that created a chair rail around the room, breaking up the shocking white. “This room is great! A shower, tub, toilet and sink all in the same room and there is still so much extra space,” I said, spreading my arms out around me. Anne-Sophie chuckled and I looked at Andy, feeling a little self conscious. I wonder if she was thinking, of course the American likes the most American room in the house, as toilets are sometimes separate from the bath or shower there. I lowered my arms and made my way over to the door. “So there is one other bedroom here?” I asked, directing the question in the direction of both Jean-Christophe and his daughter. “Oui, yes. It’s right next to the bathroom,” she said, exiting the space and leading me through the next door. This room felt more like a traditional bedroom, with wooden floors and plaster walls, it had a simple bed and large armoire that filled the space nicely. A few decorative paintings sat square on each wall, giving it the feel of an unused guestroom more than a room regularly occupied and personalized. We all silently took in the room and then backed out, meeting all at the top of the stair’s landing. “The stairs become quite narrow for this last part,” Anne-Sophie started, “but I assure you it is worth the… how you say… squeeze,” she said, holding her hands in front of her and slowly moving her palms closer together. Andy looked at me, his eyes getting wider. “The roof!” he said, smiling. One by one, we made our way up the winding small staircase until we were stopped in the belly of the turret. Jean-Christope fiddled with the lock, releasing it to reveal a bright strip of sunshine that peaked through the crack between the door and the wall. The wind picked up, nudging the door fully open. Jean-Christophe stepped outside, holding the door steady for everyone to pass though. The stone wall came up to my chest and I walked to the furthest wall and crossed my arms, resting them on the wall’s ledge. Looking out amongst the rooftops, Monfrin seemed to go on for miles, compared to the little speck of land I highlighted on my map search. The wind whipped around my hair, giving me the feeling of being on a mountain summit. “This is so cool!” Andy said, pleased that after so many attempts, he was finally here on top of his turreted rooftop. I let out a sigh. Three vastly different homes in two vastly different towns in under three hours. It was an exhausting day and we hadn’t even found or checked into our hotel, which was another half of an hour away. I looked over at Andy across the way, pointing things out to Anne-Sophie and Jean-Christophe. While I was glad that we finally tracked someone down to show us the listing, I didn’t like the feeling the house exudes. Maybe it was all of the old stone or the story behind the sale, but the house had a very sad aura. I didn’t get the sense that we could live there and be happy. I made my way over to Andy, now a pro at the final steps of moving on from a home tour. “We had such a long day and we still have to get to the hotel. Let’s start heading out and we can discuss the home on the way. If we have any questions or want anything clarified, we can reach out to Jean-Christophe in the next few days,” I said, rubbing his arm. Jean-Christophe looked at his daughter with large eyes, wanting to know what was said. She diligently relayed the message and he nodded in agreement. Walking back to our cars, Jean-Christophe wishes us a bonne journée and a bon voyage (a good day and safe travels). There wasn’t much talk about the home. I think everyone understood this wasn’t the home for us. Not only did the town feel off, the home was a bit too esthetically erratic. We got into our car and I ritualistically pulled out my phone to make sure we had confirmation for our next listing and everything was set. “So, what time are we visiting the Fontaine du Vaucluse tomorrow?” I asked Andy, waiting to add the details to my list. “I don’t know. I thought you emailed for that one,” he said with a shrug. “No, you told me you’d take care of it, did you reach out?” “I don’t remember saying that,” he said, starting to get frustrated. “Let me look at my emails, maybe I did?” I said, pulling up the search bar for my emails and typing in Fontaine du Vaucluse. Nothing appeared. “Hmm…” I said, going to my spreadsheet to find the house’s listing link. I clicked it and was redirected to the main page of the agency. “Ummm…. The listing isn’t even here anymore. Maybe they sold it?” I said, turning my phone to face Andy so he could see. “So we have a free day tomorrow?” he said. I recognized the look on his face, it was the look that said, “this is why I usually do all the scheduling, I would have noticed this sooner.” I looked down at my list of potential homes for this leg of the trip and smiled. “Not necessarily!” Set back from the street was a small square filled with tables belonging to the adjacent cafe. It was the end of lunch time and only two of the tables were sat with patrons enjoying some rosé and conversation. Behind the cluster of tables sat a peach colored building with bright teal window frames and a terracotta tiled roof. The French flag was perched proudly above the first row of windows, dedicating it as a government building. We looked around the square and saw Clèment scrolling on his phone taking refuge from the afternoon heat under a flourishing plain tree. Though I had never seen him, his appearance matched the voice I had been chatting with on the phone.
Tall and thin with messily gelled spiky dirty blond hair, Clèment couldn’t have been any more than 23 years old. He wore a soccer jersey over some ripped worn jeans and a pair of black and white Puma sneakers. I had probably sent out close to 50 emails to different agents requesting a showing or more information about a property. Clèment was the only person who called the next day, explaining in rapid fire French that he was excited to receive my email and wanted to know when we were coming to the area. I made out that he asked me to call him back and ended with a hopeful “à bientôt.” He sounded young, but warm and friendly, giving me a little more confidence about returning his call. Up to that point, email had been my safe haven. It allowed me to carefully craft my grammatically perfect emails in French, taking as long as I needed to look up unknown words like freelance to describe Andy’s work or kidney failure to describe his health ailments and the reason why having a well stocked hospital close was top priority. I’m a pretty shy person and tend to hate the act of talking on the phone, even in English. So the idea of talking to someone in a different language whose face I couldn’t see to gauge their reactions or facial expressions was a little terrifying. I don’t think anyone realizes how much they use social cues during a conversation, until they are having a telephone conversation with someone in a foreign language. You really depend on the other person’s reactions in order to know what direction your conversation was taking. When it came to speaking French, I tended to freeze in situations that made me nervous, no matter how elementary the conversation tended to be or how many times I’ve used the words or phrases before. I took a deep breath, sitting down at the dining room table with a piece of paper and pencil, considering what my talking points were going to be. I had decided to write out my conversation, that way if I got a little nervous or unsure I could just look down and see some key words and phrases and hopefully guide myself back on track. After about seven minutes, I looked down at the bullet points I had listed out; the date we’d be in the area, times we were free to see it, things that were on the top of our “wants” list in case he asked, followed by things we absolutely didn’t want. Going back into my voicemails, I found Clèment’s message and hit “call.” The phone rang only twice before a voice appeared on the other line. “Bonjour?” I paused, drawing in a long breath and then exploded in a handful of phrases, as if by doing so, he wouldn’t be able to respond and derail my perfectly planned, pre written conversation. “Bonjour, je m’appelle Rachel. J’ai reçu votre message et je voudrais un rendez-vous pour la maison proche d’Uzès. Nous allons rester à Avignon entre le premier juillet et le quatre juillet, mais le premier est mieux pour nous, après déjeuner.” (Hello, my name is Rachel and I received your message and would like a meeting to see the house close to Uzès. We are going to stay in Avignon between the first of July and the fourth, but the first is best for us, after lunch.) There was another pause as I caught my breath, reflecting on if I had answered the questions in his voice mail. Another beat of silence, perhaps he was waiting to see if I had anything more to blurt out, and then he began. “Bonjour, Rachel! Je suis content que tu m'appelles. Zu zu zu… zu zu zu, juillet… zu zu zu deux heures zu zu zu avec moi.” He paused, letting me know that he perhaps asked a question. “Uh….” I looked down at my notes, trying to see if any of my notes may have applied to his question. “Désolé, je suis américaine et mon français est pas bien,” I said, going off script and feeling a bit defeated. (Sorry, I’m american and my French isn’t that great.) “Anglais?” He asked. “Oui, s’il vous plaît,” I said, a sadly. He chuckled. “I am sorry, my language is not so good,” he said, taking his time to enunciate each word. We took the next few minutes carefully balancing in a state of franglish. “The owners are looking for a… how you say…sale très rapide,” he explained. “Ah, a quick sale?” “Oui, yes. That is it. Their daughter is… mortellement malade,” He said, searching for the right words. “Mortellement,” I repeated. “Ah… mortel.. comme… dead sick?” I guessed. “Peut-être,” he said, not quite satisfied with the final consensus. “Wait, she is very sick. She is dying?” I said, finally catching all of the information. “Bah oui! C’est ça! It’s very, very sad. Elle a deux enfants,” he explained. “Two children? Are they young?” “Oui, yes. Under ten. The sellers want to sell quickly to move to be with her,” he explained. My heart sank. It was a horrible weight to add onto this visit, knowing the story behind the move. By the end of the conversation, however, we had set a date and a time despite the barrier and found ourselves wishing each other a “à bientôt et merci!” As we came closer Clèment looked up, feeling our presents and gave a soft wave. He was completely different from the flashy, more established Laurent and, for some reason, felt more approachable and trustworthy. He reminded me of someone’s kid brother who was starting their first ever adult job and really trying to make it in the world. “Bonjour! My English,” he moved his hand back and forth to insinuate so-so and we nodded. “I last speak this in school,” he confirmed with a boyish grin. “C’est n’est pas grave,” assured him. “Mon français est pas mal, mais pour acheter une maison….,” I let my voice trail off. (My French is not bad, but to buy a home…) “Alors, ensemble, we will work in les deux langues!” “Together we will work in both languages,” I told Andy. He nodded with a smile and we started to walk. “I have a very silly question.” Clèment looked at me waiting for the inquiry. “How do you say the name of this town?” He laughed and then stopped to break it down for our American ears. “Arr- Pie- Arug,” he said, overly enunciating the clusters of syllables. “So, this home is, how you say, connecté to the old church. In the,” he paused, then gave up, continuing in French, “Les quines cents ans, they needed a more private way to bring… les cadavres into the back, so this entrance was made,” he said, stopping outside of a tunnel-like entry completely made out of light colored stone. “So this is the entrance to the home?” Andy said, becoming more interested than he had been before. This house was completely turned key, which appealed greatly to my wants, but Andy thought perhaps it was a bit too polished, too styled. He was essentially just tagging along for this viewing, as I had done for the last. “Oui, yes. The entrance way is built into the tunnel wall. Come, they are expecting us,” he said entering the tunnel. “Qui?” I said, trailing behind him. “The owners,” he said, stopping at a massive wooden planked door with an intricately designed metal door knocker in the shape of a delicate woman’s hand. “Does this stay?” Andy asked, picking it up with his hands and lightly setting it back down on the door. “Bah, oui. It is part of the porte… door,” Clèmence confirmed. I took a deep breath. Knowing the owners story and why they were selling made it slightly uncomfortable having them there for the viewing. Clèmence lifted the door knocker and tapped it three times. A few moments later, a man in his 60’s opened the door. “Bonjour,” he started. “Bonjour,” we all said in unison. “Entre, S’il vous plaît,” he said, waving his hand into the door to coax us in. He had soft eyes and a warm smile, which made my heart break even more for his current situation. He closed the door behind us and we all stood in a small entryway that was completely made out of the stone used to construct the entrance outside. There was a place to hang up coats on the wall facing the door and a large stone staircase, “original to the home,” Clèmence added, leading up stairs to the home. The staircase was lit with just enough light to bathe all of the curiosities purposefully placed on the stone ledges that protruded out of the wall, but soft enough to set the mood for the home. Old books with worn spines and lightly colored dried wild flowers in brocante-style vases were placed here and there, giving the space a presence and personality. At the top of the stairs, we arrived in the kitchen I had seen from the photos. It was quite possibly the most stunning kitchen I may have ever seen. The color palette was an off-white and gray lending itself to a calm and cool feeling. At the island counter stood the seller’s wife in beige linen pants, a soft, flowy white oversized button down shirt, accompanied by a large chunky necklace. She was petit, with the aire of a former ballet dancer, poised and elegantly awaiting our arrival. “Bonjour,” she greeted us, walking over to the entrance. “Bonjour,” we all said again in unison. “They do not speak English,” Clèment said, looking between us and then back at them. We nodded in understanding. I looked around the kitchen. “Is it ok if I look?” I said to Clèment. Everything was so immaculate, that I didn’t want my presents to throw it off balance. “This is why we are here, non?” He said, with a chuckle. “Oui,” I said with a smile, walking past him and deeper into the space. “It is so, so beautiful,” I said to him over my shoulder, “I love it.” The owners looked at him, waiting for him to explain what I had said. I looked back at them and felt a pang of sadness. Both had an almost panicked, on edge look on their faces. A lot was riding on this visit. Clèment explained that I loved the kitchen and the woman looked as though someone had taken 100 pounds off of her shoulders. She signed and smiled and then began speaking rapidly to Clèment. I went back to walking around the kitchen inspecting all of the high end appliances, knowing he’d relay her message when she had finished. “Alors,” he started. “Everything is new. They have retired from Paris two years ago and moved to the sud to live.” “Sud?” Andy looked at him. “South,” I replied. “Does everything stay?” I asked. He looked down at the women and they exchanged a few phrases before he turned back to us. “They need to leave with as little as possible, so most things can be left. Did you want something in particular?” My eyes fell on the massive farmhouse table with worn white and gray accents and to the huge chandelier delicately balancing over it. He and the woman went into more phrases and he began to point in the direction of the table and chandelier, then looked at me. “They are moving to an apartment and these items can not be taken,” he confirmed. A door opened behind me and I turned around to find Andy heading outside. “There is an outdoor space?” I stated, more than asking. “Yes, it’s perfect for dining as it is à l'extérieur de la cuisine,” he said, walking over to follow us out. It was the perfect shaded balcony decorated with potted olive and lemon trees and a small cafe table for two. Below cars wizzed past on the main road. “This space is nice, but the cars are constant. I feel like it would be hard to focus on work here. It’s been nonstop since we arrived over an hour ago. Is it always this busy?” “This is a main road connecting many towns, but the mairie has petitioned to get a stop sign put in to slow down the cars,” he said, hoping his solution would calm Andy’s discontent. “This really is the perfect space. When we aren’t here, it wouldn’t need any maintenance,” I said, popping my head out to the balcony. “The living room is just off of the kitchen, come see,” Clèment said, leaving the balcony and walking through the kitchen that opened into a small similarly colored living space. A large fluffy white couch stacked with light gray pillows sat in the middle of the room with lightly stained wooden pieces of furniture purposely displayed around the space; a bookshelf here, an end table there, an antique rocking chair. The style was minimalist, clean and chic and it felt very elevated compared to a lot of the places we had seen before. My mind wandered back to the stone tub set into the wall for slaughtering the pigs at the winemaker’s home. “Now, going back to the top of the stairs of the main entrance, there is another case of stairs that lead up to the bedrooms and bathroom,” Clèment said, shuffling us past the owners who stood statue still, trying to read our reactions or thoughts. At the top of the wooden steps was a small landing that had a door straight ahead or you could curve to the right and continue up another small flight of stairs to the next level. “This is just storage,” he said, opening the door and flicking on the light. Everything sat neatly stacked in boxes and baskets, filling its designated place in the room. He flicked the lights off and continued up the rest of the stairs entering the first room off of the staircase. “This is the guest room,” he announced, walking to the other end of the room to allow us to enter and take it all in. It was bright and peaceful, with high ceilings and a minimalist Scandinavian-style platform bed wrapped in beige and white linen sheets. A small chest of drawers in a light sand colored wood sat at the foot of the bed. Small decorative objects had been placed on it to give the space a personal touch, all consistent with the colors of choice from the floor below. We left the room, walking down the open, loft style hallway, passing a small desk and entering directly into the master bedroom. The room felt huge without the presents of doors or one of the walls. In the middle sat another Scandi-style platform bed with cream colored lamps on each night stand. Again, the decorations were minimalist and tasteful, giving the room an airy and light feel. I thought back to the English B and B house and how many of the bedrooms just felt smothered in things. Furniture, linens, decorations, it was all too heavy handed. Andy started walking ahead and into the bathroom. It was a completely open concept, having only a partial wall jutting out and creating a shower. A bamboo vanityt with a stone sink basin helped solidify the zen feeling. “This is probably the nicest bathroom we’ve seen this whole trip,” Andy said, looking at me for a reaction. “I mean it’s updated, clean, modern, pretty, spacious,” I said, holding out my arms. “But if we had guests, they would have to come through our bedroom to use the bathroom and they couldn’t even knock since there isn’t a door,” I said, thinking about awkward moments when a future guest would have to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. “Yeah, it could be a thing,” Andy agreed. “There is another level to show you,” Clèment said, trying to keep the visit positive and moving along. He walked through the bedroom and over to the metal staircase, placing his hand on its railing. “Vous êtes près?” “Sure,” I said with a shrug. As we followed him up the stairs our eyes landed on the floor of the next level. “No way!” Andy said! The mezzanine-style hallway’s floor was done in complete glass. “Is this safe?” I asked, my fear of heights kicking into overdrive. “Completely!” Clèlement answered, pointing up, “and here are your puits de lumière.” We looked up at the massive amounts of light pooling into the space. “Ah, skylights,” I confirmed. “Come, you can see this next…how we say…salle bonus,” he said in an almost questioning tone. “C’est la même chose,” I confirmed, “bonus room,” I replied in air quotes. “Oui, c’est ça,” he said, nodding his head. At the end of the small glass walkway sat a room with an off-white lounge sofa and walls lined with books. There was enough space to enter and crawl on to the long couch and that was about it. “Oh this is such a nook!” Andy exclaimed, taking a seat on the couch. “It’s a fun room,” I agreed, but I can’t imagine us ever using it. “What are you talking about? I’d be up here all the time!” he said, letting himself fall back into the cluster of pillows on the couch. “So there is no attic, but is there a basement?” I asked, trying to get the lay of the land. “Bah, oui. Sort of. Come, I will show you,” he started back down the stairs, through the master bedroom and down the main stairs to the kitchen. The owners stood at the island where we left them, silently waiting for our descent. Clèment explained that we were going to see the last space and the man handed over a set of keys. “Suivre-moi,” he said, heading towards the stone-staired entry. “So, this last space is quite,” he paused, searching his English for the best words, but came up short, “formidable.” Andy, taking note of his excitement and deducing that it was a good thing, nodded his head as he followed us down the stairs and out to the main street. Going back to the front of the house, Clèment stopped at a garage door. “Here you have a garage and cave,” he announced,fiddling with the locks. Andy leaned in close to me. “Did he say cave!? This place keeps getting better and better!” “No, silly. Cave means wine cellar here.” He shrugged, “that is still really cool.” It was the first home we had toured with an actual wine cellar, which was quite surprising as the actual wine maker’s home didn’t have one. Clèment released the lock and the door creaked open a few inches. He grabbed the ajar door and swung it open, revealing a tiny garage, stuffed with a Volkswagen bug and lined with a long workbench on one side of it cluttered with tools and forgotten projects. The other side had a narrow walkway between the stone wall and the car with two doors, one at each end of the space. We shimmied past the workbench and their car, walking around the front of it in order to access the furthest door. “This is the space the owner used as a… studio de musique,” he opened the door and switched on the light. It was a small, cavernous space with recording equipment set up on tables and guitars hanging on the walls. It literally was a man cave and I could picture the monsieur in the space, tinkering with the electronics and strumming a few notes. I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. When they bought this little home a few years back, they spent months meticulously renovating and decorating what they thought was going to be their final home. It was sad to think about them having to part with it and the conditions their sale was under. Clèment headed towards the entrance, waiting until we passed through to flick off the light and shut the door. “If you walk down to the end,” he instructed, "that door is the cave.” We shuffled, single file inbetween the car and the wall until we made it to the end and a doorless room appeared. I peeked my head in, looking for a light. “There are no lights, just the sun from the window,” he said, appearing behind us. The room was dark, but bright enough to make out the layout. The whole wall was lined with shelves that held glass jars, some of them empty with rusted lids, some of them still holding things from owners long ago. I picked one up and read the faded cursive scrawl. “Apricot jam,” I translated, holding the jar up for Andy to see. He smiled, loving old treasures that were left behind. We carefully shifted our positions, trying not to bump into anything in the small, narrow space. The back wall was lined with an empty wine rack, giving just enough space for one person to collect or deposit items and that was it. I looked down at the dirt floor, wondering if my great grandmother’s root cellar from a lot of our past family stories resembled something like this. “This would be a great space for all of my canning,” I said, running my fingers along all of the jarred items on the shelf. “It is the meilleure temperature,” Clèment agreed. “The best temperature,” I relayed over my shoulder to Andy. We emerged out of the cave and started our shimmy around the car to get back to the entrance. “There is a lot to like about this house!” Andy said. I was surprised that he liked it, but was happy we were on the same page. We exited the garage single file and stopped in front of the house. I looked across the street and a little ways down at the previous house we had just visited with Laurent, but Andy didn’t. Hmm, maybe that was a good sign. Perhaps he wasn't as head over heels for it as I thought. “We have heard from the other agent that there is a chateau behind this street that is a famous hotel and a part-time bakery, but no weekly market,” Andy started. “Seems like a lot of our typical Q and A portion was already answered by the last agent,” I smiled. Clèment shot me a quizzical look. “C’est quoi ça Q and A?” “Question and Answer,” I replied. “Ahhh,” he shook his head showing he understood, “so, what do you think? Do you like the house in general?” He asked, knowing the owners would want a full update. “I love the style,” I started, “but I’m just not sure of the location. If we want to go to a restaurant or to the market we will need a car and it’s just not something we’ve discussed in too much detail.” “Many people in France go across the frontière to Italy and buy their car. It is much cheaper this way,” he advised. “That’s really interesting,” Andy said, “and this is the only place so far we’ve seen that has a garage,” he said tilting his head towards the garage as a reference. “It’s a lot to think about. I know we talked about the potential of renting the home when we weren’t here, but with a world renown chateau next door, who really is going to come to rent this place. This town doesn’t really seem to be a tourist destination,” I said looking around at the empty streets. I really loved this home. The home’s history was quite interesting and the fact that it didn’t need any work done to it and that the updates were timeless and beautiful made it the perfect choice. The price was well under budget and it had an incredible kitchen to boot, so why was I picking it apart? I wanted to help this family, I wanted to give Clèment a sale and help boost his career, I wanted a home that looked like it was plucked from the pages of a Provence magazine. Andy and Clèment were engaged in some small talk when I focused back in on the conversation. “We’ve had a long day and still have quite a lot of driving left to do before making it to Avignon,” I said, waiting some alone time with Andy to shuffle through our thoughts. “Well, please, come say goodbye to the sellers, I’m sure they’d like to thank you for your visit,” Clèment said, locking the garage door. I looked at Andy who shrugged with a simple, “ok.” He knew what he was doing. Let’s put them back in front of Madame and Monsieur so they can see their deeply sunken stress lines and sad faces one last time. I sighed and followed behind. Clèment gave a quick synopsis of the tour and let them know that we were heading out, but that he’d be back to discuss with them after he walked us out. They nodded, seeming happy with the little news he provided and then turned to us, both giving a “merci et une bonne journée” accompanied with soft and kind handshakes. We left Clèment at the main entrance and told him we’d get in contact once we were settled into the hotel and had more information. “It was fun, you know, to practice my English,” he said with a smile. “Your English is parfaît,” I said with a nod. “Merci! Et um.. Drive.. Bon? Safe?” I nodded and looked at Andy. “It was nice to meet you!” he said, extending his hand to Clèmence, “but how do you say this town’s name again?” I looked at Andy, could we really buy a home in a town we couldn’t even pronounce? We had one more house showing to do about 35 minutes away from Avignon, again, located on the way, but the car ride would provide plenty of time for a much needed tête-a-tête! Early on in our relationship, Andy and I got into the habit of listening to podcasts when driving long distances. Our usual hours-long car ride was the journey between Buffalo and Pittsburgh to visit with Andy’s family, but the original trip that started this tradition was our 9 day trek through Iceland. Though we were pretty new into our relationship and I’m sure could have filled the time with the usual “getting to know you” questions or silly childhood stories, we both enjoyed hearing the eclectic stories and sharing our options at the end. I really do believe that you can learn a lot about a person when listening to a podcast together. What kind of shows do they gravitate towards? Does the theme of the shows align with your beliefs and lifestyle? Do the topics conjure thoughtful debates and discussions? Are you on polar ends of your opinions of those discussions? Is sitting and sharing this podcast a mutually enjoyable event? During that time our podcast of choice was This American Life, usualling listening to three on the way up to Buffalo and three on the way back. We had packed up our car and set the Google maps to Uzès, a commune located in the Occitane region about 25 miles West of our stopping point, Avignon. We were scheduled to see two homes around Uzès and had planned to make the stop as we drove through, on our way to the hotel. It was about 2 ½ hours from Carcassonne to the agency, landing us there around lunchtime. I furiously scrolled through the episode offerings, trying to find one we hadn’t listened to yet. “I think we’ve actually listened to all of these,” I said, scrolling to the previous year's episodes. “Are you serious?! What will we listen to?” Andy exclaimed, backing out of the spot. Up until that point, we had opted for French radio for our shorter trips to home visits, but were exhausted by the continuous stream of top 40 American music mixed with the random French classic. We didn’t like listening to that kind of American music at home, and didn’t really care for it across the ocean either. “A few weeks ago I saved a post on Pinterest of the top 10 podcasts you should be listening to. Let’s try something new,” I urged, opening up my Pinterest app. “Ok, what about The Memory Palace?” “What’s it about?” “The podcaster tells the stories behind untold pieces of history,” I summarized the description. “Boring. I’m not trying to be put to sleep here!” “Ok, ok,” I scrolled down to the next one. “What about Lore? This one is about exploring legends and folklore.” “Eh, maybe. What else ya got?” “Heavyweight, Jonathan Goldstine helps ordinary people find closure for unresolved situations in their lives,” I read the description. “Any examples,” he pressed. I opened a new tab to search for some past episodes and started to scroll to the beginning of the page. “Here is one, twenty years ago, Gregor lent some CDs to a musician friend. The CDs helped make him a famous rockstar. Now, Gregor would like some recognition. But mostly, he wants his CDs back,” I looked at Andy for a response. “Intriguing, let’s do it!” He said, pulling his phone off of the holder and handing it to me so I could find it on his podcast app. I loaded the episode and hit play, settling in for the long drive. By the time we pulled into a sunny, tree-lined parking lot in Uzès, we had listened to two and a half episodes and arrived 45 minutes early. Uzès was the first larger town we had booked home tours in. It wasn’t quite a city, with around 9,000 inhabitants year round, but it wasn’t as tiny and quiet as the other towns we had visited thus far. It was the perfect size, small enough to walk to all amenities, but large enough to have all the commerce that we had originally hoped for. I looked around, admiring the bustling neighborhood. “This could work!” I confirmed to Andy with a head nod. We got out of our car, stretching our legs and looking around for the agency. “It says the agency is across the street and down a little,” I said, pointing in the direction of the map’s arrow. “We have time to kill, let’s walk around the town and see what’s here,” Andy said, crossing the parking lot to the sidewalk lined with buzzing businesses. No wondering where the bread was here. As we weaved our way around the town, every street we wandered down had varying businesses with brightly painted, welcoming facades. Some were selling artisan ice creams, others tropical plants, some had window displays full of spices and oils, and almost every street had a boulangerie or patisserie with windows piled high with the most beautiful confections! Each street also had a packed to the brim café that spilled into the sidewalks, catering to the hungry lunch crowds. This was exactly what we were looking for! As we got close to our appointment, I messaged the agent via What’sApp, letting him know we were here. “Parfaît!” Laurent replied, “I will pick you up in front of the agency and take you to the home.” I looked at Andy. “Ummm,” I stopped near a fountain, pulling off of the path to respond. “What is it?” Andy said as he stopped, looking a bit confused. “He says he wants to drive us to the house,” I said, flipping my phone to face him. “Maybe it’s on the outskirts of Uzès? Not sure why we’d have to carpool,” he said with a shrug. “Tell him we can’t, we have an appointment literally right after his. We need to have our car with us.” I typed the message, pausing frequently to reword things to sound more culturally appropriate. Surely he couldn’t be offended if we had another appointment after his. We were house hunting and seeing multiple listings. “You can follow me to the place in your car,” he replied, not acknowledging the mention of the second listing. We made our way back to the car so we were closer to the agency. This particular stop had one home that Andy was really excited to see and another that was at the absolute top of my list. “The Cave House '' was a home whose pictures looked as though they were mostly set in a wine cellar. Curved, tanned brick stones lined the walls and floated up to the arched ceilings, giving the space a historical, village feel. It also had an outdoor terracotta balcony that had a summer kitchen and enough room for a dining table and a plethora of potted plants. “The Chic Home” looked as though a Parisian designer had hand selected each item, carefully curating the color palette with soothing off whites and tans. These people obviously didn’t have any children, was my first thought, as everything looked gleaming white and untouched. My favorite picture, though, was of the large open kitchen, decked out with matching off white Smeg appliances and a beautiful stainless steel stove and oven. A classic chandelier hung delicately over a large, worn white farmhouse table. Yes, this was my kind of kitchen! It looked like something Ina Garten would be found working in, her linen attire floating behind her as she moved from the sink to the stove. I too could picture myself moving about the space, chopping and sautèeing as Andy worked at the large butcher block island, typing away at his computer. “It’s almost one. Let’s head over to the agency,” Andy said, slamming the car truck closed. We followed our map across the sidewalk and down the street, finding a chic agency resting at the corner. We climbed the stairs, entering through two enormous glass double doors leading us into the cool marble entryway. I saw a woman who appeared to be the secretary at a large teak desk sitting amongst a mound of papers in another room off to the left. We entered softly, not wanting to disturb her work. “Bonjour,” I paused the expected three to four seconds. “Bonjour?” The receptionist replies in more of a question, looking up from the document she was holding. “J’ai un rendez-vous avec Laurent,” I continued. “Ah, oui. Une minute,” she replied, picking up the phone. After a brief conversation, she set the receiver down. “Il arrive devant l’agence,” she said, pointing to the double glass entryway doors. “Merci!” I replied, beginning to leave. “She says he is arriving outfront of the building,” I relayed to Andy. As we walked through the door a sports car stopped abruptly in front of the building and slickly rolled down its window. Laurent leaned his head over the passenger side seat. “Bonjour, do you want to follow me?” “Sure,” Andy began, “but where exactly are you going?” “To the house of course,” he said with a chuckle. “Yes, yes, but isn’t the house in Uzès? The listing says Uzès.” He gave Andy an exasperated sigh. “It is a five minute drive from here. Too far to walk,” he explained. “Follow me, I wait here for you,” he said, rolling up his window to prevent any more questions. I looked back at Andy, raising my eyebrows. We started towards the car, a little unsure of what we signed up for. Up until that point, our agents had been foreigners, all with a little rough around the edges, small town feel to them. Maybe the size of the town coincides with the self importance of the agent, I thought. We pulled our car behind Laurent, who was busy shuffling his hair between his fingers in his car’s rear view mirror, trying to achieve a flawless tousled look. He caught a glimpse of us behind him and self consciously adjusted in his seat, kicking the car into drive. We slowly drove around the parking lot and headed the way we came just an hour before, out of town. Hitting the first roundabout, we turned off in a new direction, the surroundings instantly turning into picturesque French countryside. The gravel road was lined with ancient plane trees, shading us from the afternoon warmth. Sunflowers grew in the fields that lined each side of the road, tilting their faces up to sun, soaking in its rays in unison. “This is so quintessential French countryside,” I squealed, trying to take it all in. “Yes, but we are definitely not in Uzès anymore,” Andy said, scrolling out on his phone’s map. The trees started to become fewer and finally we spilled out into a paved road that led into a small village. Driving past a pharmacy, homes started to appear, lining the street. Laurent flipped on his turn signal and slowly pulled into a parking spot along the side of the road next to a small cluster of homes. We followed suit, parking next to three homes that sat neatly attached, rising up from the sidewalk. Laurent glided out of his car and to the sidewalk, taking care that his Italian loafers didn’t touch a speck of dirt. He buttoned his camel-colored sports coat and smoothed out his matching dress pants. I looked at Andy, feeling a little undressed in a simple flowy black sundress and pair of worn out sandals. We got out of the car and met Laurent in front of a tall, skinny light stoned home with large mauve shutters. Andy looked around as cars buzzed up and down the main road in front of us. “So, where exactly are we?” He asked, still looking around for a sign or placard to explain. “You are in what is called Arpaillargues, a five minute drive away from the amenities of Usèz, but with all the classic country charm of a southern France village. It truly is the best of both worlds,” he said, turning his back to unlock the door. We were immediately led into one of the rooms from the photo. High, rounded vaulted ceilings hugged the main area, spilling around a wall that divided the large room into two separate spaces. I looked around the first room and noticed the whole left wall was complete stone, as if the room had been built into a mountain. A large piece of rock jutted out from the wall and had what looked like a plexiglass cover resting snuggly on top of it. I walked over and looked down. It was completely black. I tilted my head to catch a different angle with no help. Laurent shuffled over to the rock and flicked a light switch next to it. The space illuminated into a long, dark hole. This caught Andy’s attention who came over to see what was going on. “It’s the old well,” Laurent started. “They wanted to keep it, but make it safe and so they added this glass on top and light to make it visible.” “Is there still water in it?” Andy asked, thinking of all the damp homes we’ve toured so far. “I actually don’t think so,” Laurent said, shaking his head. Around the wall and into the next room sat a double bed and small desk. Off in the corner of the room was a small, dated bathroom. Functional, just not aesthetically pleasing in an off color, 70’s shade of green. There wasn’t a door to the room, with completely open entrances on either side of the wall, making it an odd choice for a bedroom. “Did someone use this as a bedroom,” I asked. “Only when they had too many guests. Despite the lack of doors, it’s quite private,” he added. The front room had light pouring in from the front windows and the small window cut into the door, but this space was poorly lit and dark, even with the lights on. The lack of windows along with the vaulted curved walls made the space feel cavernous. I turned my attention to the little bookshelf that hung next to the desk, stocked with English and French reading materials of all genres. Andy noticed my gaze. “Is this a French owner?” He asked. “It is. It is a single woman who is looking to downsize. I think she wants a home with minimal amount of upkeep as she gets older,” he said, walking back around the wall and towards the curved staircase that sat in the middle of the first room. “Up the stairs you have your kitchen and a sunken living room,” he started up the stairs and stopped at the landing that spilled directly into a terracotta tiled kitchen. The set up was shaped in an “L” configuration with floor to ceiling windows taking up the other half of the wall where the counters ended. The room felt very open with a small dining table in the center. Sunshine poured in from the windows that faced the main street and Andy walked over and peeked down to the traffic below. “Off the kitchen is a small living room,” Laurent said, tossing his hair, trying to look casual. He led us around the kitchen and down a step into a simple, but bare living room. “It’s a big enough space,” Andy said, peeking his head into the room. “Yes, enough space for some furniture, a lamp or two and bookshelf,” Laurent agreed, studying the room. “The next level is just the main bedroom and bathroom, let’s go take a look,” he said, backing out of the room. “You know, I lived in the U.S. for quite a bit,” he said, starting to ascend the stairs. “Oh, really?” Andy said, “Where?” “I was an agent in New York for a few years. I loved the lifestyle, but wanted to raise my daughter in a more traditional setting,” he finished, reaching the top of the stairs that left us directly in the bedroom. After hearing a little about Laurent’s background, his suave appearance and demeanor made more sense. I could totally see him schmoozing highbrow clients in swanky dimly lit restaurants in NYC. I looked across the room at Andy in his drawstring khaki shorts and tevas and wondered if Laurent regretted his choice to leave the big city and more posh clientele. I let my mind drift back to Pittsburgh, where while getting my masters, I worked at a local French restaurant owned by a Frenchman who had married an American. He reminded me a lot of Laurent. Always dressing as if he was attending Paris fashion week, stopping at any mirror he passed to fix his hair and straighten his suit. The restaurant was his passion project, but during the day he sold luxury cars, toting that Americans think of luxury when they think of the French. He was smooth, came across as elegant and could charm anyone into buying anything, even if it was a few hundred thousand dollar car. With his presents, appearance and accent, I’m sure Laurent did quite well in the New York City real estate market. Andy and Laurent were discussing something in the corner of the bedroom and I snapped out of my thoughts and back to our home visit. “This house is very different from a lot of places that we’ve seen strictly based on the fact that the only door in the place so far has been just the front one. It’s fine because it’s just us, but this place really lacks privacy,” I added walking deeper into the space. “The open concept is very hot right now,” Laurent said, waving his hand to show off all of the space not restricted by walls. The room sat directly on top of the kitchen, mirroring the space below with the same terracotta flooring throughout and large windows, illuminating the space and backlighting the bathroom. The only difference on this level was that the bathroom was located where the living room had been downstairs. I walked over to the bathroom space. The sink and mirror sat open to the bedroom against a wall that held the door leading into the bathroom. “Wonder why this isn't all in the same room together?” Andy asked, peeking into the bathroom. I followed suit, looking around the functional but not aesthetically pleasing bathroom. In both bathrooms, choice of color seemed to be the common downfall of the spaces. Each were functional and even livable for the foreseeable future. If anything, it was all aesthetics. This bathroom was done in a cotton candy pink shade that made it feel as though a bottle of pepto bismol was being poured on you when you stepped into the room. I heard the clicking of Laurent’s heels and turned to see him ascending a completely metal stand alone spiral staircase to the next level. Andy and I looked at eachother, backing out of the bathroom and following suit. “This space is where most of the living happens,” Laurent said over his shoulder. At the top, was a small sitting area that connected itself via two sliding glass double doors to a beautiful terracotta outdoor balcony, the space from the photos! Andy went directly to the doors, jarring them open and slipping out. The space set back from the roof, giving the location complete privacy and it was the perfect size, small enough to maintain, but large enough to really be functional. Andy walked over to the summer kitchen and started to study all of its facets while I walked over to a little door built into the brick exterior of the house. I studied it for a moment before pulling the latch and prying it open. It was empty, with a rope hanging there and descending into the dark below. “Laurent, what exactly is this?” Laurent stuck his head out of the door and looked around for where the question came from. “Ah,” he said, spotting me. “It is a pulley system,” he said, walking over and beginning to pull at the rope. A few moments later a bucket appeared. “It is how they would get items from down stairs up here with more ease. Your wine or snacks for your apèro. You know, things like this,” he said, checking the bucket to see if anything was in it. “How cool,” Andy said over my shoulder. “There is also a waterline up here. You could use this for laundry or perhaps a bathroom,” Laurent said, pulling Andy away to look at the feature. I took this moment to check my phone. We had 25 minutes to get to our next appointment. I clicked open Whatsapp to see if Clément had sent a message with our meeting location yet. He had, “Mairie in Arpaillargues. I opened my google maps and typed in “Mairie Arpaillargues France” and my map zoomed in on the location. I took a moment, studying it when I realized my phone's blue dot locator showing my exact location was on the map, what looked to be a street away. I clicked “directions.” A two minute walk appeared as my journey time. Well, that’s quite convenient, I thought, turning back around to catch up with the boys. Resting my arm on the warm ledge of the balcony, I watched them through the double glass doors, crouched down and fiddling with the water hook up. Laurent rose and dusted off his pants and I crossed the balcony to join them in the sitting room. “So, tell me more about this town. I noticed a sign for a boulangerie two doors down, but they didn’t appear to be open,” I said, a little thankful that such delicious pastries couldn’t be purchased with such convenience. “I believe he opens every other day, this baker,” he said with a nod. “There is also a restaurant on the corner by the Mairie and, around the back road, is an incredibly famous chateau that is now an inn. People come here from all over the world to visit it. They have the most incredible lunch and gorgeous pool. As a resident you can pay I believe 5 euros a day and you can go to the pool and make a day out of it. It’s such a great amenity to have so close by,” he said, overly excited about the proximity to wealth and luxury. “Is there a weekly market,” I asked, sliding the double doors shut, signaling it was time to shut the place back up and begin our descent to the main entrance. Laurent took the hint and headed towards the stairs. “There is not,” he began, “but Uzès has two weekly markets and is a short car ride away.” We reached the kitchen, walking through it to reconnect with the stairs and get to the lower level. “I have a feeling we’d be hopping in the car and heading there for lots of things,” Andy began, “like dinner or some of the specialty shops or to go and lounge at a café.” “Yeah, it is conveniently close, I agree, but I guess we’ve never discussed the aspect of a car. Do we want one? Would we rent one? Do we want to live somewhere where we’d have to drive to do anything? It’s a lot to think about,” I said, reaching for the door handle and stepping out onto the sidewalk next to our car. “Why don’t you take a walk around the village and walk over to the chateau. It’s quite beautiful!” Laurent suggested. “That is a great idea,” Andy agreed. “Well, our next viewing happens to be in this town too and we're meeting him at the Mairie, so we’ll get to see some of the sites before the next listing,” I said, checking my phone time again. Andy, always focused on the not-so-positive, latched on. “Should I be worried that there are so many homes for sale in this tiny town?” Andy said, turning to Laurent. “I noticed the for sale sign in the neighboring home’s window. For a town that doesn’t have a lot of homes to begin with, why are so many people looking to leave?” Laurent seemed a bit taken aback by Andy’s accusatory tone, as if he was hiding some grande scandal that was taking place in the town. “I assure you this is all circumstantial for the sellers,” he said, raising his hands in a “I surrender” gesture. “And stop. Let’s go see the other home and then we can walk around the town and see what we think. We wanted to live in a town like Uzès, but have a slower pace of life. Maybe five minutes away isn’t too far?” I said, still daydreaming about the next home and the possibility of building a part-time life there. “Yes, Rachel,” Laurent said, pointing his sunglasses at me. “You will see! This town is the perfect balance of what you’re searching for,” he unlocked his car with a soft beep that punctuated his statement. “Once you get to Avignon and have had some time to unpack and grab dinner, you can let me know if you have any questions,” he said, walking over to his door and opening it. “It was nice meeting you both, please have a safe trip,” he slid into his car and before we were able to respond he was off. We looked up and down the main street, which didn’t have any open businesses on it and no people walking around, but it did have a lot of cars wizzing up and down in front of us. Seemed like not too many people wanted to stay here, but many wanted to use the main artery to go somewhere else more desirable. “I’m here!” A Whatsapp message popped up on my screen. The chime brought me back to the moment. “Clèment!” I said, reading his message. “We gotta go, he should be right up here on the right,” I told Andy, who was taking a step back and taking in the house. It was as if he was taking a mental pause and making sure that he was 100% present in the moment, taking it all in. I was eager to see the next home and so, I started walking, hoping Andy would follow me when he snapped back to. After a few steps I stopped to Look back at him. He was gazing longingly at the home and I started to panic. I knew the look in his eyes. I knew he was falling for the house. The “English B n B” was located in the rural commune of Fraissé-des-Corbières, though I don’t know if we realized how rural it exactly was until we started driving. When Andy and I decided to begin this journey, we went back and forth about what kind of town we wanted to end up in and consistently had the same shared vision. In Pittsburgh, we lived in a neighborhood that was vibrant and eclectic with a very “city” feel to it. Within a three minute walk, you can grab yourself a French pastry, a variety of local artisan crafts and gifts, ice cream for your pups, some Egyptian food, a movie ticket, a haircut and four different styles of Mexican food and that was just on one block. We loved the convenience, but agreed we were looking for a more slow, authentic experience in moving abroad. How slow, however, wasn’t exactly discussed in great detail up to that point. “Is this a road? Or a tractor path?” Andy said, studying his google maps, ready to abort ship. “Either way, it says we have to take it,” I urged, as he cautiously turned down the path, as if driving into oncoming lava. A large family winery sat on the entire right side with rows and rows of grapes arranged in perfect lines as far as the eye could see, cascading up and over the rolling hills. “It’s peaceful out here,” I said, taking in the view. “Maybe a little too peaceful,” Andy said, directing my attention to the opposite side of the path with a head nod in that direction. “What? Do cows equal tranquility?” I asked with a laugh. “I don’t know, we're not really “farm” people,” he said, shuttering. “Well, we aren’t in town yet, let’s reserve judgment until then.” Everytime Andy and I would save a listing, we would immediately google the town, trying to acclimate ourselves with the area. A lot of times, the photos provided didn’t really show the town in the best light. To be fair, a lot of them came from retired tourists with shaky hands and a basic, if not non-existent, understanding of their cell phone cameras. A hazy 12th century church here, an overly brightened 17th century chateau there. I thought it was cruel to base our judgment solely off of someone’s blurry holiday photos. Andy, on the other hand, had a tendency to write the home off completely, wanting to take it off of the list. If I really liked the home, however, I would always tell him that we must stand in the town and see how it makes us feel and that it was unfair to judge a town based on a few less-than-flattering photos. This was very much the style of our relationship. Andy is very reactionary in every sense of the word, in good or bad situations alike and I tend to always find myself being the voice of reason and nudging him to step back and take a moment to reflect before reacting. When it came to putting ourselves in each space before deciding, it seemed to have worked in our favor thus far, knowing immediately that the town either wouldn’t gel with our expectations or left us wanting to know more and trying to envision how we fit into that community’s fabric. “It says we are three minutes away,” Andy said, taking his hand off of the steering wheel and pointing to the estimated time on his phone. A beige stepple started to appear further ahead, surrounded and rising above various heights of tanned roofs. “There are so many wheat-colored shrubs and all of the buildings are made from the same tanned colored bricks, it all blends together!” he added, not too keen on the continuity of the color palette. “Last town the warm colors were welcoming and beachy, here they are drab,” I said, reminding him to take a pause. He waved my comment away with his free hand. The dirt road began to turn into a paved small path, barely big enough for one car to pass through. Andy’s demeanor began to change and he gripped the wheel a little tighter. “We should find a place to park while this car still fits on this road, we can walk the rest of the way,” he said slowly creeping the car down the tiny alley, now surrounded by ancient, stone village homes on each side. Ahead we saw a few cars pulled up onto the sidewalk and decided to take our chances and leave the car there. “How in the hell are we going to turn around to leave!” Andy asked, shutting off the car. I shrugged, grabbing the phone from the holder and getting out. Once in front of the car I began twirling around, trying to orient myself with the map. “Ok, so, we keep walking up this path and it says that Rue de l’Église should be on the left. We’re looking for number 2.” “Wonder where everyone is,” Andy said, closing his door and following behind me, looking back down the path we came. “Is this how we get murdered?” That was Andy’s go to question when we found ourselves in prickly situations in the middle of nowhere with not a single soul around to testify to our whereabouts. “Come on, goofball, or we’re going to be late. This agent’s name is Lesley,” I reminded him, stopping at the first intersecting path. “Hey look! Rue de l’Église,” I said, pointing up to the worn placard guiding us to the left up the small hill. At the top sat a church with a few stone homes on both sides. “Ok, so we’re obviously on “church street,”” I said, pointing to the ornate building. “Let me tell Lesley we made it. Which one is number two?” I asked Andy who had started to walk ahead and look at the homes. “None of them,” he said, looking back at me. “Around the back maybe?” I shrugged, finishing my What’sApp text to Lesley. We walked the whole perimeter of the church, but there were no number 2 homes in or around the building. “Is there a number one at least?” I asked, hoping Andy saw something I had missed. “No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I’m standing in the town and I don’t like it,” Andy whined impatiently. “Oh stop. We are here and we are going to see the house and then come to our conclusions,” I said, looking down at my phone to see where Lesley was. “She says she is here and standing in front of the church.” We looked around the empty church facade. “You are in Fraissé-des-Corbières and not just plain old Fraissé, right?” Her message asked. I zoomed out on the map on my phone. “Merde!” “What?” Andy questioned, walking over to me. Though he didn’t speak French, my tone and exasperated sigh after, let him know things weren’t good.
“We’re in the wrong town. The other town is close, though,”I added, trying to soften the bad news. “Really? There are two towns with almost exact names and the same street names?” He asked. This was France, almost every town no matter how big or small had streets named after important landmarks, such as the church, saints, political figures or writers. “Yes and yes,” I confirmed, starting back down the hill. “Well, I didn’t really like this town anyway,” he confirmed. “There’s literally nothing here!” Getting back into the car, I received another message from Lesley. “The owner was supposed to leave the key with the neighbor, but didn’t. Someone else is running one over, so take your time.” Back in the U.S., agents had keys to get into the properties they sold or atleast codes for the lock boxes, but that didn’t always seem to be the case here in France. The owner let everyone into the property at the “winemaker’s home” and Michele had mentioned briefly having to go return the key to the neighbor before heading out of town herself. My mind drifted to the watchmaker’s home and how the agent wasn’t able to show the property without the family present. I bit my lip. It was the first time I thought about the watchmaker’s home that day. Was it a sign that I wasn’t as obsessed with it as I thought? Or had I just been too busy to let my mind wander? Earlier that morning we had chatted with the young girl watching the B and B as she placed homemade jams and croissants around our breakfast table. “That town’s close to the black mountains,” she told us, as we recounted the original and now derailed plans. “The weather patterns change so quickly and dramatically there. Perhaps you didn’t yourself a favor by not going and getting too attached,” she concluded with a nod, her tight, blond curls bouncing with the movement. When discussing the size of the town we wanted, we also talked about weather. Pittsburgh is so gray and swaps places every few years with Seattle as being the most rainy city in the U.S. We knew sunshine and good weather was one of the top three things for us. Would we have loved the home enough to overlook such a major top three want? I wasn’t sure any house we’ve visited so far had exceeded the love or excitement we felt for the watchmaker’s home. Could they have and I just wasn’t letting them? Be open minded, be open minded, be open minded. I kept telling myself, hoping the mindset would just sink in if I kept repeating it. I clicked on my seatbelt as Andy studied the map, trying to find a way out of town that didn’t involve us backing out slowly down the path. “Ok, so if we go straight, there will be a right that we can take to loop back to the start of town,” he confirmed, clipping the phone back into the holder. Only a few minutes drive away through more desolate beige countryside, the “English B and B '' property was located in a slightly larger town than the hamlet we just left. We pulled into a parking spot along the side of the main street, knowing we had made it based on an English-looking woman waving wildly in the middle of the road. “We’re heeerree,” I sang into Andy’s ear. “Oh Jesus,” Andy said, looking at her then back at me, unprepared for that amount of enthusiasm. I waved back, trying to match her excitement. “Last house of this region! You ready?” I asked, taking a deep breath. “Let’s do it!” He said, opening his car door just in time to catch the beginning of Lesley’s conversation. “So sorry about this key situation. It should be here any moment. I’m glad you found the right place, though!” she said, walking over to meet us halfway. “Come, let me show you the home.” she waved her hand in a “come along” motion and turned around, starting to walk deeper into the town. When we first stumbled across the listing of the “English B and B '' we were immediately attracted to the sense of warmth the photos gave. The sitting room with its light gray stone floor, the deeply-lined bookshelves housing centuries old titles, their spines split and tattered with age and use, the sunken, dark leather pub chairs framing the working fireplace, which was encased with an intricately carved oak mantle, chestnut-beamed ceilings stretching the length of the room, drawing your eyes upward and the worn, gilded-frames surrounding ancient painting of family members long forgotten. The room exuded the feel of an English cottage set somewhere in the damp, dark moors of the countryside . Not exactly the ideal vacation vibes compared to some of the other places on our list, but the character really drew us in. Being American and not accustomed to that kind of decor and ancient charm, we were intrigued. There were not many other photos of the house included with the listing, but one of the last photos showed a clawfoot bathtub resting on an old herringbone wood pattern floor with a porcelain antique washing basin in the background. “It almost looks like a B and B,” Andy said, head angled sideways in order to see my computer. He took a sip of his coffee. “It looks too hotel-y. Too pretty, too purposefully styled for it to be someone’s everyday home,”he concluded. If even half of the home was as charming as the two rooms shown, Andy and I would be in over our heads, drowning in charm! We continued up a small uneven stone road, passing old, connected village homes on both sides, but again, no commerce. Where was the boulangerie? The tabac? The café? This was France! In my mind's eye, the quintessential French village town resembled the opening scene of Disney’s Beauty and the Beast with villagers wandering down the cobbled streets at a lazy pace, baskets in hand, filled with their market selections and shop shutters stretched wide, allowing you to peek in and see their specialties, beautifully lined and displayed. One of my favorite things about shopping in France, whether at the weekly outdoor markets or in one the small, locally owned shops was the amount of pride the purveyors had for their goods. I once stopped at a local bee keeper’s stand to grab a few jars of honey as gifts and ended up spending a whole hour hearing about his bees and the process. To me, shopping in France was a more humanistic experience where I felt more connected to the items that I bought because of the stories told from the people I bought them from. Wanting to know more about a French person’s relationship with market life, I asked Agnès what she thought. “Well,” she started, “there are really outstanding products in the Provence region, well-known all over the country and beyond. That’s why the purveyors are so proud. Sure, some people do go to the supermarket and that is quicker and more of an everyday thing. Going to the market, though, is often a once-a-week thing when you can take your time, enjoy quality food, and build relationships.” So maybe the markets weren’t as much of a way of life in France as they used to be, but the personalized aspect of the experience still rang true for everyone. Sure, they had their big box stores like we do here, but there still were weekly markets in almost every town and specialty shops selling regional items, usually made by hand. Lesley stopped in front of a towering stone building with a large rounded wood-slatted front door. “This looks very, medieval drawbridge-esque,” Andy said, running his finger over the ancient metal hinges and half-dollar sized handmade nails holding them in place. “This was the stables,” Lesley started as her phone rang. “Pardon, I think this is the neighbor with the keys. Allô!” she said, answering the call and walking back down the path. “The horse stable?” I looked at Andy. “We like quirky history,” he said, stepping back to take all of the house in. Lesley appeared a moment later shaking a set of keys in her hand. “So, this property is owned by a British couple. They have had it for years and even used it as a B and B from time to time,” she said, jiggling at the key in the lock. Andy flashed me a “told you so smile.” The door yawned open, slowly revealing its continents in the afternoon light. “But, they are divorcing and trying to work out the financials. It is causing them to put this on the market. As I said before,” she stepped down and inside the home, running her hand along the wall, searching for the light switch. The room illuminated fully as she switched on the lights, “this was the old stables. They converted it into a reception area/living room.” We stepped inside the space and immediately the photos came to life. The stone floors from the photos were actually for practicality, now knowing the rooms original purpose. “Over here is the old watering hole,” she said, bringing us over to a large stone basin built into the wall, originally filled with water for the animals. Metal slats on the floor rested on top of a small drainage system, used to whisk away animal waste. These were details left out of the photos, giving away the spaces original use. In the corner rested a full suit of armor, boldly watching over the estate and its visitors. I looked to the lights Lesley had flicked on moments ago. They were in the shape of medieval torches. A family crest decorated the free space on the wall next to the armored suit. “I’m not going to lie,” Andy started, “this kind of feels like it’s something out of Medieval Times.” “Ah, yes, I can see how this room would remind you of the era,” she said, eying up the knight’s costume. “No, no. I don’t think you actually have them here, but there are actual restaurants called Medieval Times where it’s dinner and a jousting show and you feel as though you are in that time period,” I explained, thumbing through a few of the titles on the bookshelf. “How absolutely silly,” she said with a smile, amused by the idea of Americans wanting to experience such an old and boring part of her country's history. “Eh, knights aren’t really something we had in the U.S., it’s kitschy and silly for sure,” Andy confirmed. He walked over to the stairs, peeking up, not so subtly indicating he was ready to move on. “I must stay, I didn’t pick up on the medieval theme when looking at the photos online, nor did I get any stable or farm vibes either. It being a cold, damp place, I’m not sure we’d use it much,” I said, a bit disappointed that one of the rooms that initially got me to make the booking turned out to be a total sham. Suddenly the cold, dark, moor feel wasn’t as alluring as it once was. “Well there is much more house to see!” Lesley said, sweeping past Andy and gingerly up the uneven brick steps. “There is a small storage space and alternative bathroom in this little section of the stables,” she flicked on the bathroom light and stepped out of the doorway for us to pass through. Bracing myself for what a stable bathroom could potentially look like, I slowly entered the room. My expectations were lower than low from the bathrooms seen thus far, but I was pleasantly surprised. It definitely felt like I stepped into someone’s aunt’s bathroom from the 90’s, but again, compared to the others, this one was clean, dry, styled in a soothing pinkish vanilla color palette with decent lighting. Growing up, I associate matching colored tissue box holders, rugs that fit around the base of the toilet and toilet seat covers as something usually only found consistently in “nice” homes from my childhood. Now, though, those three elements gave the space a dated feel. While the bathroom would have been considered out of style for U.S. standards, it definitely felt elevated and updated not only for France, but considering the room we had just come from. I drew in a sigh of relief, happy that the theming didn’t continue into this space. Lesley switched off the light and began winding us up the large staircase and onto the next level. With each few steps, the family aged behind the glass picture frames that hung along the walls, marking their decades together. My eyes followed each picture as we curved up the stairs to the next level. As my eyes reached the landing I saw it, carpet. Dirty, stained, old, fraying at the ends, crusty, worn carpet. As I stepped off of the stairs and into the second floor of the home, I saw carpet of different colors and degree of dinginess spilling out of other rooms as well. “Let’s start with the kitchen,” she said, walking forward and into a large room absolutely inundated with massive amounts of furniture. I stepped into the kitchen, not sure where to look first. In each corner of the room, there were small mounds of dead flies, gnats, mosquitos and daddy long legs piled one on top of the other, making miniature black pyramids. Lesley noticed my gaze and quickly jumped in with an explanation. “When you lock and leave your home for so long, sometimes these things happen,” she said with a sympathetic shrug. “Nothing a good sweep and mop can’t fix,” she smiled, walking to the other end of the room and opening the kitchen door to let in some fresh air. The kitchen, though a little cluttered and dusty, had been updated somewhat recently. The space oddly looked as though the family went out to grab something at a neighbors and just never came back. Bottles of wine sat unopened on the edge of the counter with two glasses and a corkscrew sitting next to them. Mail and local advertisements rested in a neat pile on the kitchen table. Coats were hung over the chairs, as if not put away due to expected use in the near future. The heavy wooden dining table was pushed up against the right side of the kitchen, almost taking up the whole wall and jutting into the middle of the room. The left side was home to a grand, decorative fireplace that took up half of the wall on that side. The other half was devoted to a stove encased in counter tops that traveled the whole length of the wall, wrapping around part of the back of the wall, encasing the sink before stopping at a door that led to an outside space. I studied the room. “This could be a great space. There is just so much stuff in it, that it’s hard to envision things paired back,” I said, letting my eyes land on the massive cluttered hutch that took up the entire entryway wall. “Even by removing one of these big pieces,” she placed her hand on the solid dining table, “it would free up so much space,” she agreed, making her way over and through the open kitchen door. “Out here is a small stone balcony. It has a dining table and is perfect for summer dining.” We made our way out to the space, filling it to capacity with just the three of us and the table and chairs present. Large, lush trees and shrubs grew up and around the balcony, twisting their branches in and out of its stone work. The greenery completely encapsulated the balcony, giving it total privacy from the neighbors located just a few feet next door. “I like this space,” Andy said, peeking over the balcony to gauge how high he was. “I could see myself working from here all the time.” “And it’s really private and with all these trees, I can see this staying really cool in the summer. It would also be pretty easy to maintain, since we wouldn’t be here year round,” I added. “Yes, this is a great little space. When you come back, all you’d have to do is sweep off the space and wipe down the furniture. It’s perfect for lock and leave living.” The term lock and leave wasn’t something we really had heard of until actually being in France and looking at homes. Every single home up to that point was a lock and leave property with the exception of the winemaker’s home. No one had lived there in decades, all of the children having moved into their own homes after getting married and starting a family. With the last sibling married off, the grand estate sat vacant, withering and waiting for its second life to begin. But when touring these specific types of homes, I was beginning to notice the same trademark calling cards: a heavy stale smell that hits you as soon as you enter, dead bugs and spider webs collecting in certain spots around the home, a feeling of damp moisture despite it being warm and sunny outside. At each location, the agents raced to the windows, sprawling them wide, trying to breathe new life into the closed up property. When it came to locking and leaving our property, Andy and I had lightly discussed the idea of renting, but we were very big on collecting trinkets and treasures any time we visited antique markets and estate sales and using them to decorate our space. The thought of strangers carelessly fingering through our collection of 1900’s postcards or accidentally mishandling a nick nack from the 1800’s that could not be easily replaced led us to believe our curiosities were safer in an unrented space. Some people would say, “just put the things you don’t want broken away,” and I do agree with that to a certain extent, but I believe more in having a home that is unique and exudes our personality, than having a space that feels bare, boring and like a full-time rental. Standing on the balcony, looking back into the kitchen, though, I started to question if renting was, perhaps, the best move. Locking and leaving started to give off the feeling of deterioration and decay more than preservation and protection. “There is a living room and two bedrooms on this floor,” Lesley said, pushing back through the door and out of the kitchen. We followed diligently behind her, all ending up at the landing. “This first room is considered the master and has an ensuite bathroom,” she said, entering the room. The room itself was spacious, but felt suffocatingly heavy. An enormous canopy bed sat in the center, swimming in numerous layers of antiquated quilts and duvet covers, topped with mounds and mounds of frilly and ruffled pillows. Squeezed tightly against the wall and the foot of the bed sat a massive chest of drawers, expanding almost the entirety of the wall. Long, thick beige double layered curtains hung from the window, allowing small streams of light to peek through their dated ruffles. “It feels like a grandma’s bedroom,” Andy said, letting the faded curtains run through his fingers as he walked towards the bathroom. “This is usable, just dated. May just need a little freshening up,” he said, peeking his head in and out of the space as he walked by. I walked over to the bathroom and peeked in. The room itself was small, with a toilet, small sink and shower, but kept well. Tiles surrounded the walls and continued into the shower and spilled down onto the floor in the color of a 1970’s soft powder blue. Andy was right, it wasn’t awful, it just wasn’t good. I pulled my head out of the bathroom and followed Andy into the living room. So far, nothing on this floor was seen in any of the photos provided online and I was beginning to see why. Everything looked like it was locked and left from the 90’s, from the weighty, bulky furniture to the color palettes and the patterns used. The living room was no exception. I moved my feet in a marching pattern. “Why is the ground mushing under my feet?” I looked down at the reddish-brown carpet that looked to be buckling in spots around the room. “I don’t think it was nailed down too well,” the agent winced. “No, no,” Andy began, “that’s probably a good thing! It will make it easier to pull it all up.” He walked over to the floor to ceiling windows, pulling open layer upon layer of the long, worn, thick drapes. Finally reaching the actual pane, he looked down at the street we had entered from. Two large floral couches lined each wall of the room, both indented with years of sitting and lounging. “Are they planning on leaving everything or taking it?” I was honestly hoping it was the latter, unsure of how we’d dispose of so much heavy, large, worn items. “They are leaving it all for the lucky buyer!” she squealed. My face pulled a frown and she quickly lost her excitement. “Don’t you want them to leave items? You will be coming with nothing, right?” Andy backed away from the window to join the conversation. “We will, we just aren’t sure how much of this is our style, that’s all.” I shot Andy a “thanks for jumping in” smile as I started to walk out of the room. “How about the other bedroom?” I asked, stopping again at the landing, waiting for everyone to catch up. “Just right around this corner. It’s smaller than the others, but perfect for guests.” She led us to a small room with minimal furniture, just the basics. There was a small double bed with a plain, white quilt folded to cover half of the bed, a night stand holding a small reading lamp and a worn painting of a sailboat in muted colors on the opposite wall. The sparse items were all that it took to almost fill the room to capacity. We all stood in the doorway, admiring the space together from the outside. “The third floor has the other three bedrooms and a shared bathroom for the floor,” she said, flipping off the guest room light. As we ascended the stairs, we were greeted with even more carpet on the next landing. This floor’s carpet was a dusty mauve color, hiding the wear and dirt a little better than the downstairs landing's off white. “Here is the bathroom,” Lesley led us into the first door in front of the stairs. Here it was, the beautiful bathroom from the photos, yet, not looking so picturesque in real life. A layer of dust blanked the bathroom's entire continents. Picture frames, bathroom fixtures, and windowsills all had a haze of dust, making them look a bit fuzzy once the lights were turned on. I peeked inside of the bathtub. A ring of rust expanded around the drain and layers of build up and film rose up the sides. “Looks like it hasn’t been used in a while,” I noted. “Well, this tub isn’t working at the moment, but could easily be fixed,” Lesley chimed in. “Not working?” Andy strolled over to take a look. “What’s wrong with it?”He asked. Lesley started flipping through her manilla envelope that housed all of the home’s details and dirty secrets. Andy looked down at the wood parquet floor. “I bet the pipes,” he said, squatting down to feel under the feet of the clawfoot tub. “The floor is all warped, what a shame, I bet it was original,” he shook his head and pulled a frown. “Pipes can be replaced, it’s an easy fix,” she said, shuffling around some more papers. I turned to Andy. “This seems like a lot of house for just two people,” I said, waiting to gauge his reaction. Instead, Lesley led us out of the bathroom, “but you haven’t even seen it all!” She exclaimed. She led us through two smaller bedrooms that mirrored the guest room on the floor below before stopping at one last door. “This is quite an odd room,” she prefaced, “but I think some guests, if you were to rent it, would find it fun and charming, especially if they had children.” She opened the door to what appeared to be a narrow walk in closet. Once you stepped into the small space, it was lined on each side with storage and was loaded to the brim with all of the random effects a family would collect over decades of homeownership. Bedding was stuffed up on the highest shelves along with Christmas decorations, spare pieces of artwork that hadn’t made the cut, stuffed animals and boxes upon boxes of clothing labeled for different seasons. If you kept walking, however, the narrow space opened up to a small room that felt like that ultimate secret hideout. “I’m sure their son’s loved growing up with this space,” I said, remembering their photos through the years cascading up the stairwells. “Oh, yes! It’s the perfect private boys club, I’m sure they felt very covert!” Lesley smiled. After a deep dive into the hidden space, which was empty with the exception of a few boxes packed away for safekeeping, we all emerged back to the landing to debrief. “Again,” I said, still waiting for Andy’s two cents, “this space is massive for two people and would need a lot of work, the kind of work we weren’t planning on partaking in.” I paused, waiting for his response. “I agree, it also doesn’t really feel like us, if I’m being honest. Also, we didn’t really see much of the town, is there a town? A restaurant? Boulangerie? Café?” He said in an almost “I’ll take anything” kind of tone. “The mobile boulangerie comes once a day, but it’s only in the morning,” she explained. “This is now the second or maybe even third time I’ve heard of this mobile breadman. How does this work? Do you have to order in advance? Does he come door to door like the old milk men did in the U.S.? Does he come set up in the town square and everyone must come to him? Does he have everything a shop would have? Just on wheels?” I guess I didn’t realize I had so many questions about this concept until they began spilling out. “It all depends on the town and the breadmaker,” she replied, a bit overwhelmed with my rapid fire questioning. “If it’s something you’d like me to look into, I definitely can,” she offered. “Maybe we will go home and sleep on and let you know what we decide,” I started, now accustomed to providing the parting diplomatic closing lines. “It’s a lot to think about,” Andy chimed in. I started for the stairs, knowing we’d have plenty of time to finish the conversation on the climb down the many flights of stairs. “I completely understand,” Lesely said, following our lead down the stairs. When we got to the bottom I took one last disappointed look around the stables. The knight glared back at me and I sighed, disenchanted in the visit, but happy that we didn’t fall for a house in a town that didn’t align with our wants. Lesely grabbed the massive metal door handle in the shape of a ring and pulled the heavy wooden door shut. We thanked her for her time and headed to the car, thankful for our time in this region, but ready to see what moving a little more inland had to offer. As we kept going east on our journey, the prices kept creeping up, but so did the days of sunshine a year and our hopes. This region didn’t feel like us, but we were starting to get our feet wet and understand expectations and we couldn’t have hit our stride at a better time! Originally Written June 30th 2022 Yesterday, we had traveled up north to visit Cordes sur Ciel, but this morning, we were actually traveling south, making our way to the coast. Today we had the “Scandi home,” named for the nationality of the agency and the “English B and B,” named for the style that the house embodied in the few photos shown on the listing. The “Scandi home” was located in the Mediterranean fishing port of Vendres, not far from the Spanish border. The listing was being used as a holiday home for a French couple, but we were told they hadn’t visited in a few months. We parked our car in a small parking lot located in the center of the lively town. As I opened my car door, I was immediately hit with the smell of salty sea air. I closed my eyes and let the sun warm my face. Coming from gray and rainy Pittsburgh, this was the exact kind of location we were searching for. Something bright, sunny and just all around different. Looking around the space, people were going about their daily chores, baguettes sticking out of woven market sacs, small white paper bags from the pharmacy swinging from their sun-tanned arms. “I like that this is an active town,” I said, closing my car door. We had talked to enough agents now to understand that some towns are vacation spots and aren't really “working” towns on the off season. We definitely wanted to buy in a town that had residence all year round and business that didn’t shutter in the winter. “It’s funny how the colors of the towns change from area to area. Cordes had kinda darker shades and dark stones. Here, it’s all light colored sandstones and pale oranges. It all feels really beachy,” he said, locking the car door. He was right. For only being two hours away from each other, the towns had a completely different feel. Olive and cypress trees randomly lined the streets and bushes of rosemary and thyme dotted any free patch of ground surrounding the sidewalks and businesses. The home was located only a three minute walk up a tiny, tanned brick path, shaded by lightly colored village homes, all sandwiched one after another, making it look like one long building on each side with multiple doors and windows appearing at random. As we walked up the path, each occupant was preparing for the day, bustling around their kitchens, their lightly linen draped, open windows showing the scenes inside. When we reached the top of the hill, we were surprised to find a large open space, used as a terrasse by the two connected homes, one of them being the “Scandi home.” A small alley jetted off at the top of the hill to the left, leading to a large residence that shared a wall with the “Scandi home,” and continued on to share another with a small church that sat at the end of the path. “Wonder how much sound seeps through these stone walls?” I asked Andy, walking to the edge of the small courtyard and looking out. It felt very secluded and private for having the bustling town just minutes away. “You’ve found it! Excellent!” An accented woman’s voice rang out over the large, open space. She stopped as she reached the top of the hill behind us to catch her breath. Michelle was a Norwegian agent who came to France in her twenties, fell in love and into real estate and then, just never left. I was starting to feel like that bio could be applied to almost every foreign agent we had worked with thus far. France just really had a way of gripping people and never letting go! “So, this is it!” She said, taking off her sunglasses and raising her hands towards the house in a silent “voíla!” It was so quiet in the tucked away terrasse that it almost felt too sacred to be talking so loud, as if we were disturbing the peace of this tiny corner of the town. I walked over to the group, hoping that would lower her octaves. “It’s great, but, this outdoor area, who exactly owns it?” Andy said, getting directly down to business. Michelle let out a sign, not waiting to address the home’s negatives in the first minute of meeting. “Alors, technically, it is your Parisian neighbors, BUT, they come maybe for one month a year. So, while it is their space and they had a deal with the previous owners to say they may place furniture outside of their door, they are never here and so the space can be used by you for most of the year.” “But we don’t plan to be here for most of the year,” I reminded her. She waved her hand away, dismissing my statement. “Well, you shall see! The neighbors are quite nice and very reasonable. I would believe the same deal they had with the other owners would be the same for you,” she said, trying to move past the outside and shuffle us inside the house. She unlocked the French doors and stretched them wide. “I wanted to get here a little bit earlier, so I could open the place up. Since the owners haven’t been here, the home hasn’t been aired out in a few months, but I hit a bit of traffic” she explained, walking inside the home and directly to the windows, throwing open the shutters in the living room. Light spilled in through the large windows, illuminating the tiny, musty space. The large, stone window ledges sat a foot off of the actual window, making it an ideal space for a few cushions and perfect window benches on both the inside or outside of the house. The shared dining room, living room space was small, but functional enough for two people looking only to spend their summers there. Different hues of red, thick brick made up the floor and continued into the kitchen, giving the home a sense of warmth we didn’t feel up north in Cordes. I was starting to realize that you rarely saw carpet in French homes, which I really appreciated and when you did see the floors covered, they were usually covered by lots and lots of large rugs. In the few homes we’ve seen, we noticed that in some rooms, rugs were layered one on top of another, giving the spaces a very eclectic bohemian feel. I made my way over to the large hand-painted built-in in the corner of the room, trying the latch.“What’s up with the built-in hutch?” I said, trying to gingerly jar it open with little success. “Ah, yes, it’s to hide the heating and electricity,” she said, making her way over to the doors. Michelle gave them a gentle nudge and they slowly swung open to reveal electrical boxes and meters. “Hm, not much in the way of storage then,” Andy said, glancing into the cupboard while walking past us and through a stone-lined entry way, into the kitchen. The kitchen was cheerful, with bright robin’s egg blue cabinets and long, light-colored tiled countertops that cascaded up the wall, creating a matching backsplash. I looked at Andy, trying to read his reaction to the room and could sense there were a few features that had him ready to reach for a crowbar and hammer. Despite being a creative and artsy mind, Andy was also quite handy and liked doing home improvement projects. The only issue that I had was that he would start these grand renovations and then get tied up in work for a few weeks or months at a time, depending on the size of the project. This usually left our home in a constant state of construction and made it difficult to live in, so the idea of living in two construction zones, each located on different continents, was completely non-negotiable for me. “How old is this stovetop? Does it work?” I asked, trying to flick on the switch with no results. “The propane tank is probably out,” Michelle said, opening the cupboards below. I stepped back to get a clear view of the inside. “So, wait, there is no oven!?” I replied, a bit shocked. “That seems very college dorm-y. How do they eat?” Andy had shuffled over after hearing my complaint. “No oven, who cares about that, they have an actual tank of gas sitting below the heating element!” Up until that point, we hadn’t seen a propane-tank stove top or stove, which we were about to find out, is actually very common in France. “Oh this old thing? Of course it’s here, where else would it be!?” Michelle replied, standing up with a shrug. “In the U.S.,” Andy started, but then paused, hating to be one of those people who compare everything to back home, “it would be outside with your gas grill, not in the house.” “If you want gas appliances in France, you must bring the gas to your appliances. There are no gas lines here. The homes and villages are far too old for this feature,” she explained. I stood between the two silently gaging Andy’s response. Ever since I’ve known Andy, he’s been terrified of fires to the point where you’d think he had actually been a victim of one and that is where all of his fears stem. In fact, when he was very, very young, he snuck down stairs in the middle of the night and turned on the T.V. and “Fire Starters” was playing. It wasn’t until little Andy had watched most of the movie that his dad had come down and found him intensely staring at the screen. Unfortunately, the damage had been done. From then on, Andy was obsessed with fire safety, so the thought of a propane tank living in his home was terrifying. “We could replace this old stove top with an electric top and add an oven here,” he said, pointing to where the tank was sitting. He turned around, considering the matter closed. “And this over here,” he walked across the kitchen, “is this a washer?” By now, Michelle was starting to understand that the typical things in France weren't so typical yet to us. “Having your washer in your kitchen is not that uncommon in France,” she said, placing her hand on the machine. “Around the corner here is a small storage area and a half bath,” she continued, disappearing around through the small doorway. I followed diligently behind her, sticking my head in the little door to the half bath and taking it all in. Again with the dark, dingy bathrooms. Why did most of the bathrooms in these French homes look like you would leave them more dirty than you entered? Of course, this was a huge step up from the Turkish toilets many tourists have come home warning friends and family about. To this day, however, I haven’t come across a bathroom with just a simple hole in the ground. It is said that they are being phased out and there aren’t too many left, so perhaps I never will. You know that your mindset is shifting, though, when you are convincing yourself to look past a tiny, mildew ridden closet bathroom because it’s better than a Turkish toilet alternative. We took turns turning around and going back down the small hallway and out of the kitchen, back to the main living space. With the doors and windows open, the living room area felt like a big patio. Salty breezes kept wafting in and the sun was so bright everything had a slight shimmer to it inside the home. Michelle looked out the front door. “Twenty minute bike ride to the Med!” She said, taking a deep breath of the breeze. “That is a feature none of the other properties we are seeing have!” I said to Andy, with a slight shrug. “Let’s go see the newly remodeled bathroom and the two bedrooms,” Michelle instructed, climbing the stairs. Once reaching the top, we had the option of four doors located off of a small hallway, two down the center of the wall or one door at each end. “Let’s start at the end and work our way down,” Michelle suggested, leading us into the main bathroom. The space was small, but redone tastefully, with a beautiful wood floor and light colored tiles that made the space feel not so cavernous, despite the beautiful stone arch protruding around the sink. “I really like this space,” I said, studying the arch. “And I really, really like how they kept this original feature and the colors and materials they used are timeless.” My mind went back to the few bathrooms we’ve seen so far. One with bright yellow tiles with dated green daisies, another tiled in gray, red and blue. Perhaps it is an American concept, but I wanted my bathroom to be relaxing and serene. Some of the color schemes we’ve encountered felt chaotic and seizure inducing. “Around the corner is your first bedroom,” Michelle introduced, standing in the doorway of the bathroom with her hand extended towards the next door. We followed her lead into the room and right then and there, we were greeted with our first encounter of French carpet! I looked down at the thin, indoor/outdoor brown carpet that lined the room. Wood paneled walls and ceiling enclosed the space, making it feel like you were sleeping in a cedar chest. A tiny window allowed small streams of light to barely illuminate the room. “What are your thoughts?” Michelle asked, unable to gauge our silent processing. “If I am being completely honest,” I started, not sure how candid was acceptable for the situation. Michelle nodded, encouraging my true opinions. “I don’t want to have carpet, but I feel like if you pull this up, it would be more wood, which normally I would love, but in this case…” Andy cut in, “It would literally feel like you were sleeping in a coffin.” Michelles eyes grew wide. Was this because she wasn’t used to absolute honesty? Was that not a culturally appropriate response? Or was it Andy’s dark humor that tripped her up. Were the French usually a bit more coy with their interest, or lack of? I wasn’t sure. “I think what Andy is trying to say is that, perhaps it would be too much wood,” I tried glossing over the comment and giving a more diplomatic answer. “I see,” she said. “Well, you could easily remove some of the wood paneling or you could pick a different material for the floors of course. My partner and I renovate homes on the side and in France they are very cheap to do compared to the U.S.” I looked at Andy and shook my head. “We made the agreement, no large scale renovations!” “Ripping up some paper-thin carpet and laying down something else isn’t large scale,” he said, trying to convince me. “Well, if you aren’t sure about this bedroom, the next one is the exact same,” Michelle exclaimed, moving us out into the hallway and into the next door. Both rooms shared a similar layout with the carpet, wood-paneled walls and paneled slanted ceilings, absolutely no closet space and a small window framed out in more wood. “Which one is technically the master?” Andy questioned. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to be funny. I squinted my eyes at him then turned to Michelle. “They are both the same size and layout, so the choice would be yours,” Michelle responded, leading us out to the hallway and into the last door. The room was a long, thin rectangle that was currently being used as storage. “So, is this space why the listing says three bedrooms?” I questioned. “Yes,” Michelle nodded. “This room could have a double bed and be used as a guest room for visitors.” “A double bed and literally nothing else,” Andy said, ducking his head into the door and then quickly out, writing the room off completely. “Is there a third floor?” Andy asked from the hallway, looking up. Michelle appeared next to him. “No, this is the final floor of this home. It is your neighbor who’s home extends on top of this story,” she replied, drawing an imaginary diagram with her index finger of the neighbors property extending onto ours. “So what happens if there is a leak in his property that gets into ours,” he questioned. I could already see where this was going. “Then it would be his responsibility to fix it,” Michelle concluded. “But what if it happens and we aren’t here for a few months and by the time we get back it has sat for too long,” he followed up. “All of this is taken care of in your homeowners insurance. I am sure it is very similar to what happens in the U.S.? Anyway, it is up to the other homeowner to pay for all damages.” “How far does their property extend onto ours,” he asked, looking back up at the ceiling. “Why don’t we go outside and take a look,” Michelle offered, trying to curb Andy’s unrest. When it came to personalities, Andy and I couldn’t be more opposite. I called him Mr. Doom and Gloom because of the way he always picked apart each situation and thought up every and all worse case scenarios that could be possible. For someone like me, however, who embraced more of a “we’ll figure it out as it comes” attitude, I think his detail oriented personality with my live in the moment demeanor really balanced each other out. He was the half glass empty to my overflowing glass full. In situations like this, I knew to just let him go and work through all of his anxieties in order to move past it. If you tried to skip over something that he was focused on, it would lead to over analyzing and continual debating for the next few days. Making our way outside of the house and down the small alley towards the church, it was clear that the neighboring home stretched the full length of the “Scandi home.” “Yeah, I don’t like the look of this,” Andy stated, neck craned and looking up. “I don’t like being at the mercy of someone else’s intelligence,” he added, taking a few steps back in order to get a deeper view. “What truly are the chances of this happening?” I asked him, trying to quell his fears. “Our luck would lean on the more than likely side,” he shot back. Sensing the ebb and flow of this home viewing, Michelle had a feeling this house was not the one. She pulled out her phone and opened her calendar. “I have another showing at 4 pm, why don’t we go get lunch and I can show you some of the other homes I have in the area. If anything peaks your interest, we can go for a visit.” It was the first time an agent had tried to wrangle us into a lunch date. I looked down at my phone to check the time. “We have to be at our next visit in an hour and have about a 30 minute drive to get there,” I said, looking at Andy for backup. While this was the first time a showing was potentially extending into a lunch rendez-vous, we did have other agents try and take us back to their office to show us more homes. I hated feeling like the impatient, impolite Americans, but I had scheduled our time so precisely that we had multiple showings on each day in different towns with different agents, not leaving us too much time for exploration or being side tracked. I had also scoured each agent's website before making the trip, making sure we didn’t want to hit up any other showings before leaving the area. I already knew there wasn’t anything I wanted to see, but how to say all of this without being rude? “This home has a lot of positives,” I started, “and I think it’s only fair to go on our other home visit and sleep on it and then get back to you tomorrow morning,” I concluded with a nod, proud of myself for the diplomatic response. “But wouldn’t you be on your way to your next destination, didn’t you say Avignon?” she responded, desperately clinging to the time she had with us. “We will, but we are here to buy a home and if we like a home enough, we will extend our stay to visit again and continue the discussions about an offer,” I reassured her. “It’s still early in our journey. I’m not even sure we’ve seen enough to know what we exactly want or like, but with each viewing, it will become more clear,” I finished, feeling as though I had been codling her. “I understand,” she said, nodding. Andy, who had walked away to inspect more angles of the overlapping houses, came back to the terrasse. “We must get going or we wouldn’t make our next appointment,” I reminded him. He turned to Michelle. “Thank you so much for taking the time to show us this home,” he said, extending his hand. They shook and we waved goodbye as we started back down the hill to our car. “There is no way I would feel comfortable having someone live on top of me and us be gone for months at a time,” he said, stating his case. “I know, I know. You don’t have to convince me, that isn’t "the one",” I replied with a sharp head shake. “To the English B and B then, shall we!” he said, in ridicules accented English. I took one last wiff of sea salted air. "We shall!" I replied, getting into the car. |
**Above is our journey from the Spanish boarder through the whole south and all the stops in between. You may notice Vaison is not marked, it was a totally by chance we ended up there!
AuthorBonjour, Ciao, Salut! I'm Rachel and this is my story documenting our experience buying a home in France. If you are looking for advice on home buying, feel free to e-mail me or check the bottom of the home page for a link to a basic guide. Archives
July 2023
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