A heatwave and a dose of homesickness

Hard to believe that it's only the fourth time this decade that I set foot in France, and just the second since acquiring my nationality three years ago now. I know it's the just a marketing slogan combined with the fatigue for travel across nine time zones, but I still nearly tear up seeing the signs Bienvenue : Paris n'attendait plus que vous upon my arrival at the airport. (Welcome: Paris was only waiting for you.) One sweltering commuter train ride later, I emerged into the shadow of Notre Dame, which couldn't but draw out a smile despite the sleepless journey. After a couple gleeful selfies, I dragged my bags down the Seine to Caféothèque for a couple of rounds of caffeine until my Airbnb allowed me the luxury of a shower and a change of clothes. Refreshed, I spent a couple hours touring the city (and even discovering Fragonard's latest take on a fig scent!) before Nico's train brought him down from Lille after his week-long business trip. Together we picnicked along the Seine and dined on a terrace like proper Parisians, enjoying the sunlight that stretched well past 10pm.

I've missed this all dearly. Am I allowed to feel most at home in a place where my accent betrays me as someone who doesn't belong, even if I now hold a passport that says I'm one of them? But Hemingway himself said that for those lucky enough to live in Paris as young adults, it stays with them. And I can't disagree. The following day, my Word Daily vocab word was very on point: 

My daily vocab lesson email gave me the word for the feeling of the day as I bid Paris adieu.

We raced the sun out of bed the next morning to make our train out of Paris to the next chapter of our summer vacation: a weekend in the Drome region with Nicolas's sister, brother-in-law, their kiddos, an extra niece, and his mom. While there isn't terribly much to do in that part of the country, we did spend some time exploring one man's fever-dream-turned-30-year-passion-project, the Palais Idéal du Facteur Cheval. Beyond that, it was mostly family time in the midst of a brutal heatwave, in a country where air conditioning is a controversial concept. Such conditions hardly leave folks on their best behavior, but all except the smallest of us managed reasonably well.

Family time in the Drome visiting the Angkor-Wat-styled Palais Idéal du Facteur de Cheval

After family time, the next stop was Corsica, uncharted territory for the both of us. But first, the journey there: we wound up splurging last-minute for a private room on our ferry from the south coast of France after an unexpected 4-hour train delay left us less than 8 hours between our Airbnb check-in and check-out in Toulon. A day of naps and drinks with a view were the perfect recovery from the aching heat of the prior days, but hardly helped with the jetlag. We rolled into our Corsican Airbnb shortly before sundown to begin the tropical leg of our week abroad.

Eating, napping, sipping drinks, and enjoying the views on the 8-hour ferry ride from Toulon on the south coast to Ile Rousse in northwest Corsica

We'd booked ourselves 3.5 days in Corsica (gotta love the American vacation standards - the French measure their stays in weeks, not days) but we'd only pre-planned the first of said days: Bastille Day on the water, touring the Scandola nature reserve, which is only accessible by boat. Bright and early, beating the morning heat, we headed down to the port from our perch up in the Haute Ville of Calvi, the old fortified citadel. We loaded up into a small boat with just a handful of other tourists for a six-hour adventure that didn't disappoint. We saw eagles, mountain goats, Corsican cows lounging on the beach, and a whole lot of stunning volcanic formations. The water was even beautiful enough for Nico (infamously anti-swimming) to not only dive in but to also coax me to follow when the temperatures didn't feel quite to my liking.

Touring the Scandola nature reserve

Bastille Day went out with much more of a whimper than a bang, despite the fireworks, delayed as they were to allow the locals to watch the disastrous World Cup semi-final match in which Spain knocked France out 2-0. As the internet said, much respect to the French for their commitment to never working on a holiday.

Calvi, a small and not-overly-touristed city in northwest Corsica that we used as our home base

Our own personal travel agent, Google Gemini, advised us that the next best thing to do in northwest Corsica was hiking, and so much of it. But for unseasoned hikers in the midst of a sweltering heatwave, we had to temper it. We spent the better part of the next day strolling along the Fango River and then jumping (or shimmying) our way into the water. Some more enterprising fellow hikers brought waterproof backpacks along, and just let the water do the latter half of their hikes for them. I may have been just a wee bit envious.

I did my best to be a sport on our day of gentle hiking in the midst of a brutal heatwave

Try as I might to be a sport of it, a day of hiking (in this heat) was really all I had in me. In the interest of catering more to his urbanite wife, Nico planned out our Thursday in Bastia, the nearby fishermen's village of Erbalunga, and the Patrimonio wine country. What can I say? Fine dining with the charm of a little town where everyone's grown up together is my happy space, and Bastia's Radiche was the highlight of my time in Corsica, down to the liquor listings which included the categories of spirits, whiskeys, dessert wines, and "stuff from our friend Charles". I went in for the latter and got some homemade myrtle berry liquor, which wound up being on the house because of course it was. I'm not terribly proud to wander through one of the most stunning natural regions in France and still gravitate to the most city-dweller of activities, but luckily no one in France will ever shame you for being a "foodie" - I don't even think they have a term for that, since that is simply part of being a French(wo)man.

Yes, our meal at the restaurant Radiche in Bastia merited its own collage

There were other things to see (and drink) in Bastia, Erbalunga, and the Patrimonio wine region, though none perhaps quite as memorable as that lunch in Radiche.

As American vacations are wont to do, this one wrapped up entirely too quickly. Soon enough it was Friday, and we packed our bags to check out from our Airbnb. In the few remaining hours before our flight, Nico drove us through the hills to visit a collection of idyllic villages, where we stopped to wander and get in my steps. Everything was beautiful and it would have been lovely to stay longer (and ideally crank the temperature down 5 to 10 degrees Celsius).

Corsican mountain-top villages certainly have their charm

Last stop: back to the City of Lights for a final chill weekend. For the first time since we've been living abroad, we had to fend for ourselves this time when it came to housing. Nico's dad had been kindly putting us up in his spare home in Paris all these years, but he'd sold it right after our last trip out for the Olympics. Having to shell out sent us to a decidedly less central neighborhood than we'd previously been spoiled with. We stayed in a distinctive neighborhood near Montmartre, whether the crowds didn't really do bedtimes much before sun up. Luckily my jetlag and the diphenhydramine were carrying me through the nights, but I'm not sure Nico could report the same. We went to a film, our fourth time in twelve years actually going to the cinema, and the first time in Paris. Not too shabby either: we went to the Grand Rex, the only French theater showing Christopher Nolan's Odyssey in its original 70 mm format (not that I'm sure I really noticed the difference - shh). We window shopped, ate, wandered, and sipped the weekend away. We caught up with Nico's friends over drinks, a picnic, and the World Cup final.

Paris, je t'aime

On our second departure from Paris (certainly too many for just one week abroad), we actually did beat out the sun. The city felt intimately ours as we wandered through the silent aftermath of the previous night's World Cup celebrations and the first beams of light stretched out across the city well before she'd awoken. We made it safely to the airport with wiggle room for our 8:40am boarding time. I'm thrilled to report that we're already booked to return in November, and the big return home for good cannot come soon enough (though that much isn't scheduled for this year). To paraphrase Hemingway, I was lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young woman, and now wherever I go, it stays with me. But I cannot wait to see the day that Paris doesn't have to stay with me, tucked in my heart, because I will be staying with it, at home once more in the City of Lights.