I sit in a writer’s dream chair. It’s old and made of wood, comfortable and sturdy. It’s the type of chair with its own story to tell, if it could. My computer also sits on a rustic piece of furniture, a wooden table with white metal rusty legs. It’s the kind of table with many tales to tell, if it could.

And this view….well, this view is beyond what words can paint, so here is a picture for you.

A Writer's Dream Chair in the Alpes of France. 

Magical and majestic, like the Pacific Ocean of my California homeland, with waves and waves of mountains as far as the eye can see. Like the ocean, this mountainous landscape is dynamic, always changing. It could be cloudy and grim one moment, and then in the next, the sun could peek through from behind a fluffy cloud, and suddenly it’s warm. Instantly, in a mere moment, it could change again, back to cloudy and grim, or something else entirely. And like the Ocean; these mountains can be peaceful, even healing.

With every turn of the road or trail, she offers another perspective, another glorious sight to be seen. One thing I admire about this piece of land, which I currently call home, is that there are little spaces to discover everywhere you go. Spaces with already majestic views offering the seeker things like old rustic tables to place computers on and write admiring words about, can you believe that these spaces exist?!

Well, they do here. Magically so.

It’s hard to believe that it is August. I have been away from home for nearly 2 months now. Feels like longer, though. Perhaps because I am learning so much: a new culture, new foods, new language, new daily priorities, a new way of life. The Lavender Fields of Summer have been harvested, and the crisp morning air has introduced us to what feels like an early Autumn. I have been invited to stay for the rest of the bee season here on the farm and curiously await for what happens next.

I am fully immersed in a new world where I am like a child learning how to speak this lyrical and elegant language, forcing my tongue and mouth muscles to contort in ways never asked of them. French is challenging to learn but worth every embarrassing, blundering attempt to speak with strange faces and familiar ones alike. I just take a deep breath, cross my fingers, and go for it. Sometimes it’s a success and I get a reply which I sometimes do understand, or which I sometimes completely don’t understand but smile politely and nod anyway.

Usually this happens in Guillaumes, the closets village to us and one where we sell our honey and essential oils at the marché. I help set up our table with our shiny jars of honey and ethereal essential oils. Despite the blunders, I am proud to say that I have mastered at least two French phrases, which I say to prospective clients walking by our table: Vous voulez goûter le miel? (Would you like to try some honey?) and Vous voulez un sac en papier? (Would you like a paper bag?)

"Wo-maning" the honey table. Photo: Jorris

After a few markets, I have had much success with these phrases now. Being understood is something which I value so much more since being here. Perhaps it is a new appreciation, which foreigners living in another country garner. When you feel like you have to learn how to speak again, even the simplest question or phrase successfully communicated feels like a major feat of accomplishment. To me, when a customer replies yes to taste some honey, or no to a paper bag, I feel like I have done some good for the day.

People watching at the Guillaumes Sunday Market is delightful. 

The Sunday Market is my favorite. It’s small and quaint, busy enough to feel busy and slow enough to grab un café and une tarte aux pommes between busy times and slow times.  Or free moments to just people watch: moms playing with their babies, children racing on bikes, hitchhikers passing by for some veggies for the road. There is Nicola who sells his delicious cheese and yogurt, Isabelle who sells fresh veggies, us who sell honey, and a few other new vendors here and there, such as Marie, a woman I met yesterday who sells this sheep cheese and yogurt which are to die for. She had a picture of her milking her sheep by hand in the mountains. I offered my hands to help her one of these days. It would be fantastic to learn how these decadent foods are made. We traded honey for cheese.

***

While I am not an expert in French, yet, since living as a Mountain Woman I have become an expert in a few things:

1. Peeing in the woods. Sounds easier said than done if you haven’t done so already. If you have, you know what I’m talking about. Peeing in the woods is all about finding the right place. The right slope so pee doesn’t become a puddle around your feet; the right amount of shrubbery so you are hidden but also not too much that you get poked by some sharp thistle; the right width of your squat so you don’t get urine splatters on your shoes, yes, I share this with experience. As embarrassing as it may be, I’ll be brave to share it because I wish someone had shared it with me. Spread your feet wide apart ladies.

2. Making veggie pasta of courgette, aubergine, oignon, ail, and tomates with a butter knife, two camping gas burners, and two tiny camping pans. Work with the butter knife, and it’ll be your friend. Be grateful that you even have something to chop up your veggies with. 

3. Stargazing. With a night sky like the one here, it would be difficult not to become an expert, maybe even impossible.

*Photos by Tiffanie Ma