We chose Chiang Mai because of its budget-friendly accoutrements and therapeutic resources, and we parked in Sydney because we had a free housesitting gig. Now, in southern France, we’ll live among friends. We don’t have local French friends, nor do we know expats here who’ve moved abroad permanently, but here in this village are fellow travelers we already know who’ve parked for a bit, wanderers who live like us, who know us in context outside our nomadism.
Our flight lands in Nice, on the French Riviera, and we drive west through Cannes in search of a village named Cadenet, population four thousand. The road hugs France’s Mediterranean coastline at sunset as incandescent glows of evening lights flicker in high-rise flats. I sit in the passenger seat, searching my phone in vain for inexpensive-yet-French dinner options.
“Between Nice and Cannes, it looks like the only family-friendly option still open is Quick,” I say.
“Yeesh,” mutters Kyle from the driver’s seat. “Yeah, okay.”
Quick is Europe’s answer to McDonald’s, and though we’re not beneath this, we had hoped for more genteel cuisine as our first meal in France. We debate stopping by a late-night market for bread, cheese, and fruit, but decide Quick will be—well, quicker. It’s late, and we have a long drive to our house.
We walk into Quick, and Finn shouts, “Yay! They have a play place! Can we go?”
“Uh, sure,” I say, and they run off. “Wait—what do you guys want to eat?”
“Whatever!” Tate says, answering for all of them. Patrons look up from their hamburgers.
I walk up to the girl behind the counter, smile, and ask, “Parlez-vous anglais?”
She returns my smile and says, “Oui, veuillez commandez là-bas,” pointing to a box behind me. It resembles a movie rental kiosk seen outside American grocery stores.
I walk up to the box. “Ici?”
“Oui.”
She returns to distributing fries on trays, and I touch the screen in front of me. Bienvenue à Quick, it displays, and below it, a British flag. I tap it, and the screen changes to Welcome to Quick.
“Oh, thank goodness,” I breathe.
The menu is straightforward and equipped with visual help, and I order burgers, fries, and bottled water, then walk back to the girl. I stand there and smile because I’m not sure what to do.
“I will bring your order to you, ma’am,” she says.
“Right,” I stammer. I head to our table, where Kyle sits with his eyes closed, halfway to sleep. It’s late, and after a day of trains and planes, we still have an automobile to drive.
“Wild to be finally here, eh?” he says, eyes still closed. The kids scream on the playground through the glass, knock on the windows, and wave at us. It’s nine in the evening, the diner is half-full for dinner, and it’s as hushed as a library.
“Yep,” I answer. I feel like I’m shouting.
Food arrives, and I crack the playground door to let the kids know.
“Yay! Guys, food’s here!” Finn bellows. People look up from their meals again.
“Shhhhh!” I snap. They run to our table and open their burgers.
“Hey guys,” I utter in a low voice, “Hear how I’m talking? This is the volume I want you to use right now. France is quiet, okay?”
“Okay,” says Tate.
“Okay,” whispers Finn, barely audible.
“I don’t know if I can do that,” Reed says.
We inhale our dinner and hop back in the car. It’s dark now, the sky starless. We drive away from the coastline and head into the countryside toward Aix-en-Provence, our only landscape headlight beams illuminating the road. Two hours till our village. Finn drifts to sleep in the back and the older two stare at nothing out the window.
We pull into the village of Cadenet near midnight. Streetlights evidence spindly routes winding between connected houses, but otherwise, it is dark, lifeless. It’s a small town, and our guesthouse owners gave us vague directions via e-mail as to the whereabouts of our house. We know it’s just beyond the village, so we drive two minutes north through town to the other side and begin our search. Our headlights pierce fields on either side of our two-lane road.
Back and forth, back and forth we traipse on this farm road, finding nothing. Veering onto a dirt road in hopes that it leads to our house, we find it’s dotted with only a few dilapidated farmhouses and machinery parked in fields, ready for tomorrow’s work. A porch light quivers on as we turn around in front of a house.
“Go! I don’t wanna scare them,” I say to Kyle, delirious and tired.
“I don’t want them to scare us,” he says.
“Maybe it’s that old lady in Ratatouille with a shotgun,” Reed says from the backseat.
We drive past a derelict shanty, lightless and brooding, and I’m nervous for a moment it’s our guesthouse.
Kyle pulls back onto the farm road, driving at a snail’s pace. On the left, a row of tall hedges reveals a dirt path with worn tire ruts we’ve missed in our search. He shrugs, turns the car through the hedge, and lets the car amble in neutral down the path. Our house owners are in Cuba for the week and have left a key on the coffee table for us inside, front door left unlocked. We have no way to call them.
Tucked behind the wall of formidable foliage sits a cottage with a gravel front porch. The porch light is on.
“This is it!” I exclaim. I’m pretty sure I recognize the cottage from its online listing.
We walk in the house, toss our bags on the living room floor, pilfer through them for pajamas and toothbrushes, then crash into beds. I’ll see where, exactly, we are tomorrow.
Fingers crossed this is the right guesthouse.
The next morning, I tiptoe through our compact cottage while everyone sleeps. It is simple, two bedrooms and one bath with a catch-all living room, kitchen, dining room. Small, still bigger than Beijing.
I slide open the wall of curtains hiding windows, and I gasp.
Our house is nestled next to a diminutive creek, with rolling vineyard hills outside one window and perfect orchard rows of olive trees behind the front porch. We are surrounded by cultivated land, lying dormant in winter’s end. Grapevines are bare and the trees are sparse, budding hints of what’s to come in two months’ time. Unopened bottles and jars wait for us on the kitchen counter, labels scribbled olives marinées, huile d’olive, tapenade, confiture d’abricot. There is a bottle of wine, and next to it, a card written with Moulin à Huile d’Olive Bastide du Laval, the same script on the jars and bottles. I walk outside and find a wooden sign with the same name, hanging from the hedge.
We are staying on an olive oil mill.