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Marjorie with her two children in Paris
Memoir writers often struggle with what memories from their well-lived lives to include in their telling. The more difficult experiences in our lives usually conjure up an emotional catharsis as we strive to talk about them authentically while at the same time refraining from a diatribe of angry words at those who have offended or hurt us. On the other hand, writing about the lighter, or more joyful moments can seem easy enough at first but often we later see that they, too, contain seeds of future transformation that will require a reckoning of some kind, reflecting as they do the ever-changing nature of events in our lives, like the ebb and flow of ocean waves.
In my memoir A Southern Belle in Paris, many joyful and lighter memories flooded into the life of my family when we moved to Paris. Called the “City of Light,” Paris exuded beauty and an artistry of jubilant expression generously sprinkled throughout its arrondisements and seen in its bridges, doors, window grills, museums and monuments such as the readily-recognizable Eiffel Tower.
Today’s book excerpt tells of a week-end visit to the wine country with new friends and of an unexpected and delightful meeting with Gypsies.
France’s Wine Country
Today’s Excerpt from A Southern Belle in Paris:
GYPSIES AND FRANCE’S WINE COUNTRY
Brightly painted Gypsy wagons stood motionless underneath a stand of tall willowy trees next to the river. The suddenness of their appearance on the landscape seemed no less magical than if we had happened upon a troupe of faeries. Saren drove a short distance past the colorful scene before our senses registered what we’d seen. We were on a week-end trip to the wine country of the Loire Valley in the mid-section of France with new friends Elaine and Michael.
“Stop,” Elaine and I yelled in unison. “Those are Gypsies! We’ve got to go back!”
“I doubt those were Gypsies,” Michael announced in his draconian I’m-an-accountant-with Price Waterhouse voice.
“Saren, we have to go back,” I insisted.
Gypsy Camp (Wiki-Media Commons)
Saren, who had a streak of adventure in his genes despite the rigidity of his chosen career in the military, turned the car around and pulled onto the narrow road leading into the Gypsy camp. The gypsies, dressed in an array of colorful clothes as magnificent as the fall leaves, immediately surrounded our car, wearing wide smiles that showed off gleaming gold-capped teeth.
“We live in Paris,” Saren said, speaking slowly in English. “We’re here to see the beautiful French countryside and the vineyards.” The Gypsies continued smiling and nodding, obviously not understanding much of what he was saying. Then, in a moment of inspiration, Saren switched to his native Romanian tongue. The Gypsy faces instantly lit up, shocked and delighted that someone was speaking their Romani language. They began talking gregariously, spewing out their words in rapid staccato, as though they were meeting with old friends whom they hadn’t seen in years.
While Saren and the Gypsies continued their unexpected and congenial conversation, we got out of the car to walk around and enjoy the unique spectacle of the Gypsies’ camp, admiring the women’s colorful skirts, embroidered peasant blouses and the abundance of gleaming gold jewelry adorning their wrists, ears and necks.
A wizened old woman, her face etched with deep wrinkles, waved for us to follow her to one of the nearby wagons parked under a large clump of trees. Pointing enthusiastically to exquisitely-painted scenes of flowers, trees, rivers and mountains, she told us in broken French that she’d painted the wagon herself.
“How marvelous!” Elaine and I both exclaimed in genuine appreciation. We told her how pleased we were that she’d invited us to see her painted treasure, delivered in our own broken French.
Saren motioned us back to the car, which by now had been surrounded by a group of children giggling, laughing, and shyly pointing at us. The whole camp had turned out to wave goodbye.
“What else did they say?” we asked Saren, as he slowly maneuvered the car back onto the roadway by the Gypsy camp.
“They’re from Romania and Bulgaria and they follow the grape harvest every year picking grapes in Italy and France. They told me how difficult their life is and how persecuted they are by most people. Some villages won’t let them park their wagons anywhere nearby because they’re afraid of them, afraid they’ll steal their money or maybe even steal their children and raise them as Gypsies.”
“What a hard life! Wonder if any of them ever leave and go off on their own?” I mused out loud.
“I bet they do,” Elaine answered.
“I wouldn’t trust them near my town either,” Michael replied from the back seat where he sat, arms crossed tightly over his crumpled 6 ft. 3-inch body. I couldn’t understand what Elaine saw in Michael. She and I had originally met at the American School of Paris while attending a parent-teacher conference for our children. She was beautiful, smart and vivacious with a personality that tended towards the ultra-dramatic, but it was obvious Michael adored her and had put her on a pedestal. Maybe that’s all that matters, I thought, being what your man wants and having him worship you, even if it is a false you. Of course, I didn’t believe that for one minute, but I still had more questions than answers as to what made a good, solid relationship. The good news was that Saren and I had become closer since moving to France where everyone and everything was different and another language was spoken.
At dinner that evening, we recited some of the new wines we’d discovered during our tours of the many excellent vineyards, ordering several bottles of those we’d liked. We were staying in a small, intimate auberge, a country inn, whose restaurant had received a 4-star rating in the Guide Michelin, the ultimate travel and reference guide for getting around Europe. We laughed, joked, ate and drank with gusto; felt the full weight of our privileged status as young Americans living abroad with the financial resources to enjoy the pleasures and beauty of the fabulous country of France. With full bellies and happy smiles on our faces, we said goodnight to Elaine and Michael and made our way to our small but comfortable room.
While falling asleep, I thought about what a great life we were living, traveling in France and Europe; about how confident Saren was that his position as U.S. NATO Liaison Officer to France was a significant step towards his dream of becoming a General in the U.S. Army. I thought of how proud I was of all his achievements and how lucky I was to be his wife; he’s smart, ambitious, and has a tender side towards the children and me, unless we “get out of line.” That thought made me smile since he was already the General in our household, giving orders to his troops, the kids and me. Despite the warning from the therapist at White Sands, New Mexico that “I can’t make you into a better Officer’s wife,” I still wanted to be a good Army officer’s wife to help Saren achieve his career goal because I loved him and believed in him. As his wife, his success was my success.
All the seeds of future transformation were there during our lovely weekend jaunt to the French countryside where we had drunk delicious French wine and met the Gypsies, mysterious and unique in their commitment to living life to the fullest and in ways both chosen and hoisted on them; in spite of the continual prejudice and persecution they’d received throughout Europe, they were living lives of freedom and authenticity we all wished we could live and thought we were living for a long time … until one day, the world shifted to what seemed like another dimension, and we couldn’t go back to the old ways because they weren’t there anymore, having disappeared forever like a lost Camelot or a band of Gypsy wagons that you’d seen parked by the Loire River and when you passed that way again, were gone, disappeared like a troupe of fairies in a stand of willowy trees next to a river.
If you want a signed copy of A Southern Belle in Paris, place your pre-order HERE
Do you have a copy of my writing workbooks?
Wild Women Write: Reconnecting with the Wild Feminine
Wild Women Write takes you to the core of your instinctual feminine essence by familiarizing you with tales & stories of women who walked in their power, providing archetypal models to reclaim & reconnect to that sacred place within ourselves that is both wild and powerful. Writing & art exercises help you to dive deep into your own unique self & to express what you find there!
Writes of Passage: Writing Through the Seasons of Your Life
Have you been wanting to write your memoir… tell your life story but don’t know where to start? Writes of Passage is the perfect book to help you get started. For each of the four phases of your life: childhood, young adult, mature adult, & elder, there are writing & art exercises that will give you all the material you’ll need to begin your memoir!
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Aloha! Marjorie