Marché partie deux, and other collected thoughts

We went to our last Pertuis marché this morning.  The chicken man was delighted to see Ben, of course.  They exchanged pleasantries, but they both knew it would be for the last time.  We'll have to find another chicken man in Lyon, but Pertuis chicken man will always be the chicken man of our hearts.

Pertuis marché.  Chicken man is on the right, with the yellow sign.

Olive oil for sale.

Looking back toward centre ville, on the way home.

It's sad to leave a place you've lived in for any substantial amount of time.  At our age, three and fours years in any one place definitely counts as substantial.  In August, I cried big, fat crocodile tears when my Bolt Bus pulled away from Union Station in DC.  It's funny how attached we get to certain places, and not to others.  I lived in Boston for fours years, but I didn't feel much else other than relief when I left.  I lived in London for only four months in college, but I was pretty disappointed to leave.  The chilly, grey day before I flew home, I spent walking around the Tate Modern Museum, across Millennium Bridge, and around St. Paul's Cathedral.  I almost can't remember what I did the day before I left Boston.  Wait, I know.  I graduated from college.

Ben has lived in Pertuis for four years, and I think he's going to miss the warm Provençal sun the most.  He keeps asking me if I'm going to miss the sun.  I will miss it, but when I think of warm sun, I think of baking in the disgusting humid swamp that is DC in the summer.  I'm ready to go to Lyon.  I'm ready to have a place that's our's - not his or mine.  DC was my home; Pertuis was Ben's home.  Lyon will be our home.  Ok, so what?  Just savor for a moment that we've spent the past four years apart, never quite certain if there would ever be an "our home" somewhere, anywhere.  We will no longer be guests in the other's home.  It almost makes me feel like a real adult.

Ben at his door.

All these momentous moments make me think of a phrase my French teacher taught us in high school (how appropriate!).  When learning which verbs use the auxiliary verb être in the past tense, we were to remember this delightful quote, "the ins and outs, the ups and downs, the comings and goings of life, tra la!"  The little everyday things that require special attention from the verb for "to be."  I bet some ancient French language maestro thought up which verbs fit neatly into the past être category and giggled at the obviousness of it all.  The verbs for being born and dying use être, to come and to go, to arrive and to leave.  All of these verbs account for one's present state of existence.  In August, my existence in DC was snuffed out; I left, I went, I was no longer there.  And now I exist in France.  I've had a rebirth of location, a renaissance of my reality.  I "be" here now, not there any longer.

Perhaps I'm also waxing poetic on existence because my 25th birthday is in a week.  Odd ages have always been my favorite, but this one's special because it's a whole quarter-century of Emily.  I'm going to be 25 (ha!).  I was the youngest in my friend group in DC, and when each of my friends turned 25, I wondered why they thought it was such a big deal.  In the past, if at 25 you weren't married with kids, or at least married, you were an old maid, past your prime.  These days, if you're 25 and you're married with kids, or at least married, you're like an urban legend.  So I think we women in our mid-twenties these days just aren't really sure where we fit in.  What should we be doing at this age?  Quitting our jobs and moving to France?  Planning a wedding?  Starting a career?  Going to grad school?  Having children?  I think it's that at this age, anything is appropriate, and so the glut of options is overwhelming.

When I was a kid, I always wondered what I would be doing at the age of 25.  I always focused on 25; not too young, and not too old.  I can honestly say, what I'm doing at almost-25 wasn't in my wildest dreams as a kid.

Finally, apropos to nothing, I discovered the flowers outside the door are called "4 o'clocks."  They only bloom at night, and the scent is heavenly:

During the day.

Pretty yellow and pink blooms at night!

Close up, 4 o'clock.