When I return, we drive two hours east to Monaco for the day, the world’s second smallest country and the wealthiest per capita. It’s a playground for the über-rich and full of parked cars when they’re not hosting the Grand Prix; we debate the merits of bringing seven children, but decide to try anyway. Fiats and Peugeots mingle with Ferraris and Bentleys, and our younger kids gallop and zigzag around mailboxes, lampposts, and luxury vehicles. All afternoon, I say things like “Stay away from the Lamborghini!” and “Don’t touch the Aston Martin!” Car journalist Doug DeMuro says, “Exotic cars are everywhere in Monaco. And I mean everywhere. You can’t walk down a street without seeing a Ferrari 458 Spider. You can’t turn the corner without hearing the roar of a Lamborghini Aventador.”1
We stroll to the legendary Casino de Monte-Carlo because Kyle and Ryan want a peek inside. It costs ten euro to enter the lobby before the casino, and they tuck in their shirts, smooth down their travel-ridden hair, and gallivant inside. Stephanie and I distract the kids outside on the sidewalk. A row of Lamborghinis are parked on the right and a crowd of Russian elite mingle on the left. There’s nothing for us to do but stand and wait. Stephanie rolls her stroller back and forth to lull Kepler to sleep, and I keep an eye on the squirming boys and say, “Please stop lying across the sidewalk.” Three women in gowns walk by.
I look in desperation for a distraction to amuse the minors and ask Tate and Abbie to see if they can spot a park. They come back in ten minutes and say, “All we can find are stores named Donna Karan and Estée Lauder.”
Late afternoon, we hike up the hill past docks parked with titanic yachts overlooking Prince Albert’s palace. The kids ooh and aah over boats, and I imagine the interior of the one named Nirvana.
Reed says, “I wish we were traveling around the world in that.” Kyle and I haven’t revealed to the kids our harbored secret dream of circumnavigating the globe in a boat as empty nesters. We don’t even know how to sail.
“You know what? I don’t,” I say. “I’m sure it’s cool in those, but think of everything we’ve done because we have to be tight with money. We’ve stayed with friends instead of fancy hotels. We visited Abubeker’s family instead of spending money on a longer safari. We’ve lived in neighborhoods instead of touristy parts of towns.”
“We ate cheese and crackers in our campervan in New Zealand,” Tate adds.
“We’re eating cheese and crackers in France too,” Reed says.
“Remember the tarantula in Sri Lanka?” Finn tosses into the conversation.
“Yeah,” Tate says, looking out at the yachts. “I like living like regular people.”
This evening, after our drive back to Cadenet, we pull our dusty rented Toyota Yaris into the gravel driveway at the moulin à huile d’olive and feast on more roast chicken and salad for dinner.
We tuck the kids into bed, and Reed sleepily asks, “Mom, do you think yachts are a lot of work?”
Morocco was cold, but southern France is even colder. We buy knitted hats and gloves at Cadenet’s farmers’ market and find sweaters in Marseille and Aix. I buy Moroccan mint tea at a market and make several cups a day. Proven?al mistrals are violent, freezing winds that rush through southern France during the crossover between winter and spring. They have become our uninvited guests. We leave the house under a cloudless bright sky, and while we’re sampling pistachios with the farmer at the Tuesday market, mistrals whip through Cadenet’s narrow alleyways like the angel of death. Just when it feels like we’ve settled in as long-term residents, I zip up my lightweight windbreaker and remember we’re here as pilgrims. Our plan for spring in Europe is to layer, layer, layer; soon, we will wear our paltry outerwear into the Balkans, and later, the Alps. I wonder how I’ll feel about my sartorial options come Paris and London.
Aside from the pleasure of good company, a benefit to living near friends is trustworthy child care. Kyle and I have gone on two dates in the previous six months (one in Sydney, thanks to Adriel, and one in Kampala under the mango tree, thanks to Joy), and one evening, after Ryan and Stephanie go on a date and leave the hordes of offspring under our care, it is our turn.
We drive four kilometers north through winding French country farm roads to Lourmarin, the next village over. It’s home to the gravestone of Albert Camus and the still-living British writer Peter Mayle, famous for his books on Provence. It’s a bigger town, a thousand years old and a magnet for tourists in search of a Renaissance castle and medieval farmhouses—and therefore offers more restaurants than humble Cadenet. We lace our fingers and walk through Lourmarin’s quiet, dark streets; puddles of rain shimmer on asphalt and fog hovers on top of streetlamps. The mistrals bite through my market hat and windbreaker, whip my hair like a scarf around my neck. My teeth chatter, and we lean into the violent wind. We sprint past art galleries and closed patisseries and duck into an open brasserie; it is seven-thirty in the evening, early for dinner in France, and the place is nearly empty.
A teenage boy walks up with menus. “Bonsoir—table pour deux?”
“Oui,” answers Kyle, and my heart flutters at the sound of the French word for two. It’s a rarity this year.
We sit by a large fireplace with a roaring fire under way, and my numb cheeks begin to thaw. We split orders of roast duck and asparagus pizza, and we share a bottle of wine. The marinated meat slides off the bone. We spoon velvety creme br?lée for dessert and order a round of espresso. The food is earthy and clean, like a farm in early spring. It is a meal for the books.
The brasserie fills with more patrons, but it’s still pin-drop quiet. We update each other on thoughts about the kids, news from our parents back home, our opinions on Provence, the novels we’re reading. Our time is spent side by side 24/7, but our thoughts catch up to us at night while we sleep, and it’s an effort to disclose them when the kids are never elsewhere. We laugh at bad inside jokes. We hide our laughter at the four old men who’ve come in wearing black turtlenecks and mustaches, as French men do. There is a reason people fall in love in France.
A few weeks ago, we risked a double date with Ryan and Stephanie, leaving our kids in charge of themselves in our friends’ house. We were four blocks away at a local brasserie. The oldest two were put in charge, and they were armed with half our phones so they could text in an emergency. This practice is not uncommon in these parts. We fed them a simple dinner and set them up with a new movie, and the four of us ducked out.
The waitress poured the wine; Ryan forked a hunk of bread into fondue, and asked with the bluntness of a hammer, “So—how’s your marriage holding up to the trip?”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“I mean, how are you guys doing? Has it been rough?”