Our nomadic friends that we’re joining have already settled into Cadenet for a week. We’ve known them for a few years through my writing work, and when they visited us in Oregon the summer before we left, we witnessed how well our kids got along. On their own family European trip, they’re currently living in the heart of the village, in one of the row houses. Between us, one family is renting a house in town for easy access to shops; the other is renting a house just outside town for access to land. Our moulin à huile d’olive offers a yard for our lot of seven kids; their place provides a place to park in the middle of town. We will share.
They’ve invited us to our first breakfast in France, since our kitchen is still empty. We knock on their front door, one among many standing like soldiers in sepia-colored plaster, and a collective shout of English resonates through the wall.
“They’re here! It’s them!” I hear a young boy squeal.
Our friends are Ryan and Stephanie, entrepreneurs with a million ideas and the zeal to accomplish them. They have four kids—Abigail and Caden are the same ages as Tate and Reed, and Johanna and Kepler sandwich Finn in the middle. Stephanie is pregnant with Oliver. I think about lugging my backpack on the Sri Lankan train, late-night interludes sitting at east African airport gates, and marvel at her willingness to backpack Europe thick in the second trimester of pregnancy. They are a boisterously loud and well-traveled clan.
After breakfast, Stephanie shows me around Cadenet. It doesn’t take long.
“Here’s the bakery; they have really good pain au chocolat. Here’s the coffee bar, but it’s hard to work there with all the cigarette smoke. Here’s where they have the farmers’ market on Tuesdays. Down there is the post office, but I haven’t tried it yet.”
Stephanie reminds me of the French custom of greeting with Hello, how are you? every time you enter a place, and Good-bye, thank you before leaving. We turn a corner and walk into the market, a village grocery shop the size of an American roadside convenience store.
“Bonjour, comment ?a va?” Stephanie and I say in unison. An aproned woman smiles and nods at us.
I add oranges, apples, butter, yogurt, rouge d’hiver lettuce, and a roll of paper towels to my basket, then ogle wheels of cheese on display through glass.
“I haven’t had a bad one yet,” advises Stephanie.
“Comment puis-je t’aider?” asks the woman behind the counter.
“Umm . . .” I mull, then point to one. I shrug and smile, ask Is it any good? with body language.
“Trés bon, madame.” She shaves off a sliver, hands it to me. I slide it in my mouth. It is a symphony. I close my eyes, give her a thumbs-up and instantly pray the hand gesture isn’t offensive. She laughs, butchers off a wedge, and wraps it in paper. We pay, say merci and au revoir, and leave.
We walk ten steps and head into the boucherie. It smells like chicken soup on a cold day.
“Bonjour, mesdames!” a middle-aged man greets us wearing a grease-smeared apron. Stephanie introduces me, and he shakes my hand and says, “Bienvenue!”
I point to some bacon, smile, and nod. He pulls out a slab of pork belly and slices it into gossamer strips. Stephanie knows more French than me, and they rattle off a conversation while he slices. He is affable; his laugh reminds me of John in Kenya.
He hands me the bacon and asks, “Rien d’autre?”
I point at a row of chickens behind the glass, then slice my neck with my hand. The butcher finds this hilarious. He pulls out a chicken, lays it on the counter, and whacks off its head with a thud.
Stephanie orders her meat checklist; then we pay, say, “Merci, au revoir!” and head out.
He runs to the door, says, “Attendez une minute!” and points to a notice taped to the glass window. We look at him in confusion, and he explains its meaning in rapid-fire French.
“Got that?” I ask Stephanie.
“Nope,” she answers.
I take a photo of the paper, nod, and smile, say merci. I am doing a lot of smiling and nodding. When we return to the Langfords’ house, I look up the words. The sign reads, We will be closed next week. We’ll be in Chamonix, skiing.
Our regular small town is devoid of guidebook features, so we immerse ourselves into life in a working community. These days in southern France begin with school and work, then in the afternoon, daily trips to various stores and markets to replenish supplies. If we’re at our friends’ house, the kids walk to the park together and pop in the bakery for pain au chocolat. If they’re at our house, they explore the orchards and creek.
After schoolwork, the kids are free to wander outside the olive mill, so long as they stay together and don’t bother the crops or farm equipment. Over several afternoons, the seven kids create a village along the creek bed, various trees landmarking each of their houses—leaves, grass, and sticks as walls, floors, and roofs. They dedicate a mayor, doctor, teacher, and mailman, and over long afternoon hours hold town meetings to discuss events and air grievances. The town is christened Terabithia.
Terabithia is freedom, permission to play. Their afternoon agenda is sticks and mud, imagining the orchard is the Daintree; the creek is the Nile. Each evening, our friends’ kids go home and our kids take showers to wash off the French dirt. We eat roasted chicken and vegetables for dinner, then read in bed until sleep takes over. There is no Little League, no ballet lessons, no school playgrounds or trips to the arcade. There are books and blocks inside and nature outside. There are ingredients to sample at the farmers’ market. There’s French cuisine, the local bakery, and day after day, there is always Terabithia.
It becomes a third second home for them, a home away from home away from home.
Even though we’re quite content to never leave Cadenet, it’d be a mistake to not explore her surroundings. When we make shopping trips into Aix-en-Provence, we pull over and investigate Roman ruins marked by official signs like scenic overlooks in America. We ride a Ferris wheel along the waterfront in Marseille and eat more Quick burgers. I leave for a weeklong work trip to Israel, and Kyle takes the kids to the Ochre Trail in Roussillon.