Take the long way

What a statement, especially after that last trip.

Let’s unpack…

Having been in Tuscany (Castellina in Chianti) and then the French Riviera (Villefranche-sur-Mer) for the third summer, we could not have been more spoiled, fortunate, and miserable—self-awareness is key.

From the billion-dollar views to the small coffee cups with no brewed coffee maker, to the modern interior design (aka no character) and massive square footage you only find in luxury penthouses in the States—we were pissed. Threatening to leave and drive the French countryside looking for our next discovery. Mind you, my parents—who were joining us—were due to arrive in two hours. The bed was concrete, the furniture IKEA or non-existent. The view? Insane. Personally, we couldn’t stand being in that rental, so we went uphill and across the street to a solid little restaurant, seated outside. There we discovered our penthouse was essentially a fish tank the whole world could see into.

My parents were now texting that they’d arrived. I was admittedly throwing a tantrum in my mind, as I knew they wouldn’t know the difference between a “French” place and a modern place—but it sure bothered me. I wanted to show them the Riviera that Ashley and I had discovered two summers earlier. Ashley volunteered to meet them and take them up to the unit while I sat, waiting at the restaurant, watching for when they entered so they could join me. Over snails and lettuce we did everything in our power not to let on that we were pissed at the state of our unit. Both Ashley and I had been communicating with the host about refunds, early check-out, dirt, squeaks, lights being out, etc. Everything bothered us about the unit.

Now, mind you, this trip was meant to be a recon mission to determine whether we should purchase in France. I tell you this because it’s a different mindset than vacation. Not to mention, we worked the entire holiday. As referenced in a previous post: 8am in Seattle is 5pm in Nice, France.

Over the next 48 hours we dragged ass. Eventually I felt my mom knew, so we told her we hated the place we were staying. She acknowledged some of the shared points of concern; however, we could all agree on the view and the sheer square footage. My dad, you would think, was in heaven. He likes modern, which is always interesting as he’s semi-conservative—or maybe that fits. Needless to say, we didn’t tell him we hated the unit. I’m sure my mom told him the second they were alone on that second day.

Ashley and I were on our early morning workout walk when she said, “Let’s go get a coffeemaker and buy all the things the place is missing so we snap out of our funk.” So we did. From paper towels to beach chairs to a brewed coffeemaker—which is actually semi-hard to find as this is an espresso country—we went grocery shopping. Slowly, every time we opened the door to the unit (or as we called it, the “ice box,” with the AC running—it’s humid and hot this time of year, late August), we smiled and gave each other a look: “It’s not that bad.” Eventually that look became laughter at our own craziness just days earlier.

Then one morning, as my dad made breakfast and my mom and I sat across from each other sipping our coffee quietly, the flood of emotion—this is what it’s all about—drowned me. Suddenly, I didn’t give two fucks about the view or the shitty unit. My parents and my best friend Ashley were with me, and nothing else mattered.

There were several moments when all four of us were on our phones, and I’d snap to attention: “Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Meaning: let’s go drink our late afternoon espresso and cigar session at our favorite gathering place—the Welcome Hotel.

No one remembers anything you did, only how you made them feel. And eventually, even that fades into death.

I’m on a northbound train from Nice to Paris. The air is thick. Sitting next to Ashley, listening to music, reviewing pictures of the past week, and looking out at the French countryside, I’m thinking. Thinking of the paintings I want to paint, the upcoming work schedule, wondering if my parents are safe on their continued travels. And poof—that last week is all but a memory (with some pics and stories to tell).

You’ve undoubtedly heard the saying about wanting to be back in the moment—for all the money in the world you’d trade for the time back. I have never been more certain that it’s true.

Take the long train to Paris, drive from Rome to Tuscany, stay the extra night in Paris—it’s the moments of nothing, delays, sitting around, long haul flights, car rides, we will miss most.