Lost

The church bells ring in the distance summoning the faithful to its doors. The wind races through the narrow cobble-stoned streets that twist haphazardly through Lodève. Lodève was obviously built before the slightest notion of automobiles. The streets are narrow, steep, and winding. Most of the streets in Lodève are hardly wide enough to fit one car, let alone two, but the population of Lodève seems to have some kind of esoteric system of one-way roads figured out; life flows through seamlessly.

The country has been on strike for the past 2 weeks. The door of the high school is blocked by trashcans and more effectively by the students sitting outside glaring at passersby. Transportation is unsure, trash is everywhere, and the country is concerned about its lack of fuel. Movement in the region has come to a halt, but the people seem to soak in the freedom of these open days.

As for me I am feeling the familiar pains of leaving everything behind. The solitude weighs heavy on me. In the morning I walk to the bakery for fresh bread and the occasional pastry. As I wait in line the lady smiles and greets the familiar faces in line around me. As for me, I am as of yet invisible. The strikes have efficiently cut off my only sure source of social contact. Without the brief conversations with other teachers I am just another stranger in this small town where I have not yet come to belong.

When I feel so cut off from the world around me it is hard not to give in to the nostalgia that fills my heart. I think back to the friends I have made all over the world; taking solace in the knowledge that these friendships also took time to form. I think of the families that welcomed me in Benin, and the friends that went out of their way to make me fall in love with Spain. Those times when I need a friend to talk to, lean on or just pass the empty hours with, are the times when I have no one to turn to.

It is not an easy situation to be in, my stay in France being transient and the lives of the people around me being set and full already. I know from experience that the friendships I am most likely to form are with other foreigners, others who feel estranged in this country, who seek new friendships.

Being fed up with my struggle to find a place here I seek comfort in the wild countryside outside the borders of the town. A 10 minute walk carries me to mountainous trails, calling to be explored. In the tranquility of nature I feel once more at ease, I feel alive, I feel loved and cared for by the world around me. Amongst the trees I am not a strange face; I do not feel alienated or judged. I can once more connect to the inner peace that we can so easily lose touch with. In the struggle to fit in I forget that I must let go of that nagging desire to please the world around me; forgetting that for now, until I understand the nuances of this culture, I can only please one person. Me.

So here amid the trees I find peace. In the midst of the trees the wind is no longer a bother. The wind plays a symphony for me through the leaves. I am on no schedule. Time is forgotten. I turn around and see Lake Salagou stretched out before me in the distance. Nature’s beauty mingles with the remnants of stone houses forgotten long ago. The crumbling doorways hint at stories of lives one lived amongst the wild before the charm of the Earth was overshadowed by the dazzle of the city.

Soumont

The path I walk winds up the mountain drawing me farther from civilization, until about 4k outside of Lodève I round a corner and am confronted by buildings. Soumont is much smaller than Lodève yet despite its meager population the French grandeur dominates. A large stone cathedral stands proudly in the center as old stone houses spiral outward in no particular scheme of organization. I wander down the alleys without fear, for every alley twists and turns back to the center.

All day I follow familiar signs as the yellow conch shell guides my way. I am for one more brief moment on the Camino. In France there are no yellow arrows guiding my path, in their place are a secret code of lines; yellow and blue, red and white. Like a scavenger hunt I desperately scan the stones and tree trunks for the marking telling me that I am not yet lost. As I wander further up into the wilderness I begin to lose track of the signs. Every time I must walk blindly the worry sets in. I embrace the fear letting it blossom into excitement, after all I had come in search of an adventure.

Soumont

As I reach the top of a mountain over Soumont I turn around, scanning the horizon for Lodève; but Lodève is tucked out of sight. The mountains undulate in the distance all around me guiding my gaze further until I see a bright gleam at the edge of the horizon. Up here, high above the world in which I live, I am starring out at the majestic Mediterranean Sea.

I stopped to take in the wonder of the moment, the feeling of being on top of the world, before I continued my journey. For a day my worries were forgotten. I was no longer an American, no longer trying to be French. For a day I was where I belonged, where language holds no sway. But like all things of great beauty, like the breathtaking setting of the sun, these moments are fleeting; a mere garnish to the life my feet carried me back to.