The shower at Laurent and Nanou’s isn’t like the ones back home, it’s an exposed clawfoot tub with no shower lining. They keep a squeegee the size of a broomstick beside it to push the water into a central drain. Laurent says don’t worry about getting water on the floor, just use the squeegee. But the idea of that is bothersome to me so I sit in the tub with the handheld shower faucet hastily juggling the bar soap and faucet, feeling cleaner at the end of it but not entirely clean. No water on the floor to speak of. So many towels in so many states of usage (their whole family shares this one bathroom for bathing). All of it feels legitimately French.

Because they had to remove everything from their attic most of that is now in the hallways on the bottom floors, stacks of clothing and books, encyclopedia sets and French bibles, kids’ toys and elementary school projects, and more. A Moroccan rug Lily agreed to take back to her room in Strasbourg. They leave the hard cheese out overnight, uncovered. Compte. Mom needs to take something for her gut that has the consistency of embryonic fluid and porridge or applesauce, gray colored. When I pour the cream in my coffee a slab of something thick slips off the top and hangs off the lip of the bottle threads oozing down. Fat I guess. The kitchen is a riot of serving bowls filled with fruit, overripe tomatoes, walnuts, the occasional fly, stacked jars of grains, spices, honeys and jams, cartons of eggs, kitchen appliances, chocolates and nuts, crackers from Italy, grapes in three colors, many bottles of vinegar and cooking oil, bags of baguettes and croissants, a few random radishes with long, withered roots. It’s like we’re in a Belgian painting from medieval times if only there were hunting dogs and pasty looking people lying about looking drunk. It’s no wonder Laurent lost his watch.

Nanou squeezes the bread and croissants to gauge their freshness. We just eat bread and butter, some honey, with our coffee. Coltrane is best for Sunday mornings. The controlled chaos in the saxophone and clashing cymbals, the drums, is just like the kitchen. A dollop of cream fat slipped into my coffee with a plop and slowly melted. Tasted not bad and made weird striations like wind on the water.

We fantasize about going back to Morocco, this time maybe Fez. Laurent describes the souk, how the streets angle upwards and down again so you can’t see the horizon and never know where you are. He plays an Algerian guy on his phone who died young from too much of everything. It sounds like he’s playing an oud. My stepdad John, now gone many years, is never far off at times like these. We are all connected through John, through the English-speaking real estate agent Jean-François and the towns along the French-Spanish border and the sea: Collioure, Port-Vendres, Banyuls, Argeles. Real estate prices there are now insane and we lament letting go of that condominium where I last stayed that summer of ‘98. I’ve known Laurent since then but still can’t say “ninety-eight” with confidence in French. They stack the numbers Roman numeral style.

Laurent and Nanou are 55 like me and hell bent on retiring soon to the south. They will go back to Port-Vendres and often say my mom should join them. She is the godmother to their kids Valentine and Mathis. Mathis (18) has moved back there to learn Catalan. I point out the Catalan flag to Lily in the cathedral in Metz, so much stained glass it’s called god’s lantern: the flag is yellow with red stripes and the stripes represent the bloody fingers of the slain Catalan king as he gripped the gold flag on his death. Makes for a good bumper sticker with the letter C.

Today we travel to Strasbourg to spend a night at the château where Lily is staying, no plans to speak of. Tomorrow it’s back to Besigheim and back to work for me, with plans to see German friends most every day. I’m halfway in and my heart aches at the thought of leaving, how fast it all goes. Bought a couple used CDs for Lily at the shop; after she picked them out and went to the register I just tossed a bill on the shelf and walked out of the store. She tried giving me the change but I said keep it, you don’t have money for these things.

Categories: Creative Nonfiction, Memoir, Travelogues

Tags: Creative Nonfiction, Memoir, prose, travel