I didn’t anticipate how hosting a women’s retreat in France would steep me so deeply back into my French roots.
One of my prominent roles among this gathering of women, who had traveled far and wide to Provence, was to be their unofficial tour guide. As we navigated bustling markets, cobblestone streets, and locals going every which way, I surprised myself with how much I actually knew.
I showed the group which cheeses were from the Alps or the Pyrenees, and which were made from cow, goat, or sheep milk, and what direction to cut them. I helped wind us through the village market, directing us to antiques in this corner, food over in that area, and clothing through the back aisles. I taught the small, necessary rituals of always greeting the shop attendants with a “Bonjour, madame,” and departing with a “Merci.”
I got to see this little village, which has formed so much of me, through the eyes of these women. I reveled in their awe and appreciation for this place, and I felt honored that I could help form their bridge into it.
This retreat helped me remember how much of me is, and will always be, French.
