I didn’t technically steal Monsieur Petit’s goat nor was it my fault that no one bothered to tell me that you can’t swim naked in the Rhone. Actually, there were several things I didn’t know or think about when I decided to move to Provence. All I knew was that one day I woke up and found myself 25 years old and broken-hearted. I had oft been heard ranting at my dissatisfaction with my career, relative lack of adventure, and the fact that somewhere in the last two years, I had fallen out of love with life. My awakening after that long slumber I called my life had me ready for change and adventure. In three weeks, I had sold or stored all of my belongings and packed a small rucksack for my big move. This was sure to be the best thing I had ever done.

Unfortunately, I didn’t consider several things when I decided to move to France. First and perhaps most important, I don’t speak French. It didn’t really occur to me how problematic this would be until my plane touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport, and I stood dumbfounded in the middle of terminal C, trying to find my way out of the airport and into the city. After fumbling my way through customs, I managed to get myself onto a shuttle bus into the big city. I had two days to spend in Paris before my train left for Southern France. Relying on the advice of friends, I headed into the heart of Paris to capture a look at the Eiffel Tower before checking into my hostel for the night.

My first steps into the Parisian air were filled with music. I could taste, smell, and feel a centuries old romance in the wind. Elegance, charm, and the decidedly French culture danced around me, overwhelming me to the point where I couldn’t discern between reality and fantasy. Were these the things dreams were really made of? I quickly remembered the day when Elie Wiesel told my class that everyone should go to Paris, writers, artists, or musicians. I, the closet writer who had lost her passion for life, felt waves upon waves of intrigue rush upon me. I was nearly nauseous at the intensity of it all. Those first few moments in Paris were where I found my life beginning again.

Determined not to succumb to the misleading romantic perfection of Paris, I set my sites on a few choice destinations before I got some rest. However, I could not overcome the growing urgency to buy a dainty cup of coffee and sit at a café, philosophizing on the larger implications of the world. I still had the idealist heart, and my new life would be the movie in which I would star. As I sat down with my overpriced and undersized coffee, I envisioned myself in the leading role. I knew there would have to be a handsome stranger, a torrid love affair, and a broken heart. Sensing the urgency to start filming, I gazed hastily about looking for the one who might be cast as ‘Handsome French Lover.’ The scene was set ‘France, Café, Mid-day. The American sits forlorn at a table for one gazing into the Parisian streets. Enter Handsome French Lover.’ Yes, I was certain that this new life would be filled with mystery and intrigue. I coveted the role of the timid and intellectual American, emblazoned with an indescribable mystique. It never occurred to me that I had surrendered to the cinematic charm of Paris.

After giving up on casting ‘Handsome French Lover’ for the day, I headed out to catch a cab to the Louvre. The driver continued chatting to me in French and I had no idea what he was saying. I just kept repeating ‘oui’ and laughing whenever he laughed. He didn’t seem to care too much; he couldn’t see too well either. After convincing myself that I was to meet my death in a Paris taxicab, I admitted to myself that it didn’t seem so strange how Princess Di could have gotten herself killed here. The French drive worse than the Spanish, if that’s imaginable at all. I just knew that when we arrived at the Louvre I handed over my Euros and wanted to kiss the asphalt. I didn’t think that would be socially acceptable, so I opted instead to make my way inside.

I managed to transport myself through the centuries of France through the paintings. Yet, my trip through time sadly came to an end. As dusk approached, the necessity of finding my accommodations became even more important. An old French woman, who spoke no English, greeted me at my hostel. Although I’ll never be sure what she was saying, I am certain she was scolding me for something. After a game of charades and a drawing of a bar of soap, I finally managed to find myself in bed. Too tired to sleep, I snuck past the snoring French woman, Madame Elette, and wandered into the streets once again.

Two blocks from my hostel, I was fortunate enough to find a quaint little pub. I went inside and sat alone in a corner, feeling pitiful, drinking a Guinness. What was I doing alone in France? Convinced that my family and friends were right, I vowed that I would change my ticket the next day, and go back home. I’d beg for my job back and be where I was supposed to be. After beginning to cry, I remembered why I had left to begin with, and was only consoled when a square German gentleman sat down beside me.

He cheered me up with his less than fluent English. After drinking three or four rounds of something red and bitter- known as wine by the French, I was feeling much better with Günter chuckling deeply beside me. We sang a poor rendition of “Proud Mary” and then he convinced me to sing a German beer song with him. The only line I could ever master was “Im Himmel gibt es kein Bier, das ist warum wir ihn trinken hier und wenn wir von hier allem gegangen werden, unsere Freunde unser ganzes Bier trinken werden“ It roughly translates to: in heaven there is no beer, that’s why we drink it here. And when we're gone from here, all our friends will be drinking all our beer. Our songs were only welcomed by the small expat population, and before I knew it half of the regulars had cleared out, leaving me and Günther to wonder what was going on. We found out all too soon.

Somehow, less than twenty-four hours into my life, I had already managed to find myself on the wrong side of the law. My poor command of the French language coupled with my relative inebriation almost landed me in a French prison. Luckily, the policeman was a good-spirited Frenchman with a taste for Ike and Tina Turner. We performed “Proud Mary” once more, and were sent on our merry way. At this point, I wondered if Günter would be cast in the role of ‘Handsome German Lover.’ The script now read, ‘Change in cast, Handsome French Lover will now be played by a rugged German naturalist.’ All I knew was that we were to meet the next morning to go to Versailles.

I’m not sure how I managed to get back to my room that night, and I’m not sure how I managed to get up the next morning. I woke up with a hangover, packed my bag, and walked outside. Certain that Günter had forgotten our arrangement, I planned on going to Versailles alone. When I stumbled outside, Ray-Bans in place, cursing the sun, I found Günter awaited me with a large croissant and a coffee. How did he know?

We made small talk on our way to Versailles, trying to outdo each other on our lack of foreign language skills. Once at the Grand Palace, I couldn’t help but make a fool of myself, and convinced Günter that we should play Marie Antoinette. I pranced about the balcony, looked at the King, and uttered those famous words “Let them eat cake!” No one seemed to appreciate our humor. After touring the majestic inside, my head and stomach needed some air. We sat outside in the garden and I laughed to myself as I remembered what Alex had told me. Before I left for France, she told me “Whatever you do, when you go to Versailles, never tell The Joke.” “What joke?” I inquired. “You know, the one: Why are the trees at Versailles so tall? Answer: Because the Germans like shade!” I chuckled then, and I laughed harder now, it could have been the Schnapps, but I was convinced it was the humor. I shared my joke with Günter; he was equally amused. As the day reached its end, I prepared to say goodbye to him forever. Instead, he booked a ticket to Marseilles as well.

Our ride to Provence went without event, but not without French champagne. Yet, five hours and fourteen éclairs later, I had finally arrived in Marseilles. With directions to my new job in hand, we set out to find someone to take us there, without luck. Finally, I ended up convincing a shrinking, elderly Frenchman to let us ride in the back of his truck to the vineyard. He was more than delighted to accommodate, I think. I could never be sure, I kept pointing to my paper, making the driving motion with my hands, and gesturing between Günter, his truck, and myself. He laughed, said ‘oui’ several times, and gestured for us to hop in the back with the rest of his travelers. We were to ride 4 hours in the blazing sun with fifteen goats, not exactly what I had in mind, but it did the job. I accidentally fell asleep on a goat that woke me up with a swift hoof in the jaw. Convinced I’d never eat again, I cried in agony as Günter laughed to the point of tears, at least he was crying too. When we got off the truck, Monsieur Petit motioned for our help to unload his goats. Being grateful for not having to walk, we obliged graciously.

He prodded the goats and us along with a cane, motioning for us to continue up a steep hill. In the distance, I could see vines upon vines of grapes, and a couple of small houses. As we continued up the hill, I became more tired, and more worried. What if I had mistakenly sold Günter and myself into grape slavery? My back hurt from carrying my pack up the hill, and I cursed myself for purchasing those three bottles of zinfandel, because it was ‘a great bargain.’ Monsieur Petit climbed the hill with no problem at all. He had to be over 80, and still he was in far better shape than I, singing songs I couldn’t understand, and smacking the goats. When we made it to the top, with Günter carrying my pack, we were introduced to Madam Petit, who sat us down at the table, poured us some wine, and brought us some lunch. She chatted with us for over an hour, kept refilling our glasses, and finally got up and gave me a kerchief. I had no idea what was going on.

Günter knew more French than I did, which isn’t saying much. When Madam Petit left the room, Günter began to laugh maniacally. My feet hurt, my jaw hurt, and I was nearly drunk again. I wasn’t in the mood for his German humor. He finally broke down and told me that Madam Petit thought we were married and had been giving me marriage advice the whole time. He also said that she wanted to give us a goat to get us started. Well, at least she was hospitable.

A few hours later, we found ourselves in the cottage we would call home. As it had turned out, Monsieur Petit had actually been at the train station waiting for me. I was in the right place and I was to learn the fine art of wine making from the crazy old man with the load of goats. I decided to retire immediately, certain I was about to have a heat stroke from the sun or a heart attack from the food. I fell asleep on the couch and was awakened at 5:00 am by a very angry Monsieur Petit. He stormed into our cottage and began shouting at us. Günter tried to figure out what the problem was, but could only make out the word ‘thief.’ He pointed us both out the door and into our yard where Madam Petit had, unbeknownst to us, tied a goat to a tree. As he scolded first me and then Günter, Madam Petit came running out of the house with Monsieur Petit’s goat herding stick and hit him, hard. I suppose she apparently straightened the whole matter out because I’m fairly certain he apologized, and then she took both Günter and I by the arm and escorted us back inside.

There was no point to going back to sleep. Instead, Madam Petit made the two of us breakfast before we began our grape picking adventure. Six hours of grapes later, Madam Petit brought us lunch; we drank wine for another hour, and then went back to work. I wasn’t sure my liver was going to be able to take this. This same process continued for two weeks. Nowhere in my film, however, was ‘scare small children and frighten the elderly’, my next major faux pas.

Günter and I were given a reprieve a week later, and we decided to explore some of the countryside. Making our way toward the Rhone River, we decided on a nice picnic, expertly packed by Madam Petit. We wandered into town and tried to order croissants. My accent was a great point of laughter. Günter laughed too, I threw a baguette at his head. He stopped laughing. After paying for the baguette and croissants, we headed back for a walk along the Rhone.

The naturalist in my German friend finally got the better of him, and ultimately the best of me. He spotted a beehive and asked if I liked honey. I told him yes, unaware that he had spotted a beehive. He proceeded to take me by the hand and drag me towards a tree. I wasn’t paying nearly enough attention, and as I gazed at some people in the distance, I tripped on an exposed root, bumped into the trees, and upset about three thousand bees. Günter began shouting in German, and I had no idea what was going on. He ended up grabbing me by the arm, and I soon realized that we were being chased by an angry horde of bees. I couldn’t outrun them. They flew up my shorts and down my shirt, so in a moment of desperation, I hastily threw off all my clothes, and jumped into the Rhone. Günter followed suit.

As open as the French are about things, they weren’t too keen on the notion that we had just jumped into their river, in a crowded area, naked. Children were rushed away, and the police were called. Even “Proud Mary” couldn’t get us out of this one. We sat, soaked, itching, and wrapped in towels at a police station in Marseilles. The police officers laughed raucously as our story was retold. Lucky for us, Monsieur and Madam Petit came to rescue us. We told them what happened by drawing a comic book sketch of the incident. They found it incredibly amusing. One thing was for certain, the modesty issue between Günter and I was most definitely a thing of the past.

Looking back, I know that I made a great decision to move. I went where life wanted to take me and started my new life with new rules. Finally, I was happy. I continued to doubt my decision those first few weeks in Provence, but after one month in France, I ordered a croissant and no one laughed at me. I was going to be alright after all. It wasn’t all bad. I had made some great memories, and Günter found me, which I still remind him every day. Yes, it was the best thing I had ever done. I was in love again, with everything.

‘Dusk, a hilltop in Southern France. Handsome German Lover brings two glasses of red wine onto the porch. Glasses clink in a toast. Sunset. Fade to black….’