Everyone needs some kind of a refuge. A place away from home where they can go periodically to slow down, unplug and recharge their serenity levels. When I lived in Colorado, my refuge was probably the same as every other Colorado resident – some place at a higher elevation, up in the mountains, on a trail, near a lake or a river.
These days, my refuge is much different. When I came to meet Olivier in France in 2005, it was my second trip to France, but was the first time I’d ever seen any of the country outside of Paris, which is the best part.
I spent the first week of my trip at Olivier’s apartment in Montmartre, (which a year later, would morph into our apartment) and the second week, we hit the road. We stopped in places like Blois and Dijon. We walked through castles and ate in restaurants. We stopped among the volcanic landscape of Auvergne to meet his parents, (who a year later, would morph into my in-laws) and then he took me to a weird place I’d never heard of before.
We stayed in a tiny, 70s-style apartment. He explained to me that his parents had bought this place years ago, when he and his younger sister were just wee tiny kids. During their summer vacations, they would come to La Grande Motte to fish, play on the beach and run amok with their friends. It was a place that had history and sentimental value to him, and after our first trip there, it held meaning for me, too.
Now, each year, we pack up the car, put our dog in the back seat and make the 8-hour drive down south to La Grande Motte. We leave our wifi connection, grab a bunch of books and get our brains back into their proper alignment. Well, as much as that’s possible.
Yeah, it’s a beach resort town, but it’s not quite as hip as it was 30 or 40 years ago. Some parts of it really make you feel like you’ve time traveled back to the 70s. We always avoid the place during August, since that’s when the rest of France likes to go on vacation. An unhip resort during the off-season is perfect for us.
And, hey… if we need a bit of action, we just hop in the car and make the 20-minute drive to Montpellier.
Twice a week, there’s an outdoor market just a few blocks away from our apartment. We slowly roll out of bed, then amble on over to stock up on fresh fruit, spices, various types of marinated olives and maybe pick up a rotisserie chicken, or some saucisse. In the afternoon, we hang out in the shade on the patio, drinking pastis, snacking on olives and salad, moving only in slow motion until night begins to fall.
At night, we stroll a few blocks to whatever restaurant we’ve chosen for that particular evening. Then, maybe some ice cream or a gaufre while we wander around with our dog, Mooshie, people watching and looking out over the water.
We keep it all pretty mellow.
I mean, sure… we sometimes partake of some of the ridiculous beachy cocktails, but you know… just one. Or, maybe two.
But, this year, we said, “Hey! We’re on vacation! GIRL DRINK DRUNK, MOTHERFUCKER.”
We started out slow. The first round of drinks we ordered weren’t too outlandish, and they were human-sized.
They were also delicious. Like candy. We were feeling good. The weather was foggy, but warm. Our conversations were as nonstop and entertaining as they usually are. (To us, I mean. We’re one of those weird couples who talk to one another and find each other quite funny.)
We began reminiscing about how each of us used to be able to go all night, partying until the sun came up.
“Man, we used to be so rock ‘n’ roll,” Olivier said. “We’re getting old.”
“Fuck that,” I said. “No way are we getting old. We’re still rock ‘n’ roll. These youngsters can lick my boots, or fuck it.”
He looked at me, eyes twinkling. Pure mischief. “Wanna go get a drink at another bar before we go get pizza?”
It was then that our drinks began to take on strange proportions.
They also began to include bizarre ornamentation and accessories.
After a while, we headed to a pizzeria and stuffed ourselves with cheesy, meaty goodness while sipping on some wine. It seemed like dinner flew right by, but Olivier later informed me that I was not handling my food or cutlery with my usual finesse and that we were actually in that restaurant for a very long time before we finally wandered over to the arcade for some drunken pinball.
By the time we made it to the glacier, we were stumbling buffoons, but were still having fun. As soon as we finished with ice cream time, the chorizo madness of my pizza hit me.
“I am so goddamn SALTY.”
“I don’t know how you ate that,” Olivier said. “That was just salt meat pizza. That’s for maniacs.”
“It was delicious. But now I’m so dry and salty. SO FUCKING SALTY.”
By the time morning rolled around, just before the sun came up, I woke up with the booze sweats, wondering if I’d made it home with my wallet and my sweater. The old, familiar post-night-out-at-the-bar anxiety. My mouth felt like I’d spent all night sucking on a wool sweater worn by a giant, rum-soaked sausage.
Once the day had started in earnest and we were making way toward the outdoor market, I told Olivier about my booze sweats and unfounded anxiousness.
“See? We’re not cut out for this anymore. We’re not rock ‘n’ roll anymore.”
“The hell you say. There’s nothing rock ‘n’ roll about Girl Drink Drunk, anyway. That shit was never our style.”
He laughed. “Nah. Not really.”
“So… you know what the problem was.”
“No. What?”
“We were out of our element. What we need is dim lighting, Tom Waits playing in the background, a surly bartender and plenty of Guinness.”
“Yeah. Maybe. You still wanna go to that winery and do a tasting tomorrow, or are you too hungover to even think about it?”
“Too hungover? Please. Are you kidding? I want my vino, dude.”
Hey, I’m still rock ‘n’ roll. These days, I just prefer to rock out with less effort and to get to bed at a reasonable hour.