An ongoing series about uprooting our lives in America and moving to France. For what's happened before, see previous Jours of Our Lives entries here.
“DON’T LOOK,” I said, “but this is such an incredible view. Really amazing…but don’t look!”
Jim was winding around the dazzling and dramatic cliffs of the Costa Brava with villages nestled among mountains that fanned and dropped to the sea. As the road climbed higher and higher, the view got better and better, but it was one of those terrifying drives, spectacular and scary with no railing along the way. If I’d been steering the car and chanced a glance, I’d have swooned with vertigo. One slip and, well, you could be Princess Grace with or without stroke.
We’d made a several-day detour to Barcelona ( a bit of Gaudi architecture from there on left) to visit Jim’s son and daughter-in-law, David and Erin, who were vacationing there. Now we were on the coast road from Spain to France, a trip that plays games with gravity. After the cliffs fling us mortals into the sky, the terraced vineyards quilting the mountains bring us back to earth. A fresh Mediterranean breeze blows seduction from shore to shore, while the hum of Catalonian history reverberates in the cicadas’ songs. It was an electrifying experience of a part of the world that neither of us had ever seen before.
To my chagrin, Jim stole a few peeks. But view or not, he was already thrilled—we were finally headed to Collioure. This French seaside village was just up the road and had been much on Jim’s mind since we left Belle Isle. Yes, besides charm and beauty, I’m talking a major artistic moment in the life of Matisse. The great painter saw (noticed, experienced, realized, understood, visualized, recognized) the light of the South, as in the gospel hymn. To add to the excitement, we’d also imagined the area as a place we might like to live. Southwestern France is said not to be as heavily traveled or as touristy—which makes it theoretically cheaper—though just as beautiful as Provence. Not to mention that I had long envisioned living in a fishing village (this began, of course, before I had my recent unpleasantness with fish).
Collioure
We’d read and heard about the Côte Vermeille, which also includes Banyuls-sur-Mer, a charming seaside village that’s also famous for its regional wine. The next village, Port Vendres, was also dandy—but neither held a candle to Collioure. We drove in through more mountains and vineyards, finally descending to the intimate bay with its citadel and castle floating on the Mediterranean. Narrow rues running up to the views and down to the water provided a piping of cobblestone that outlined the old village. Townhouses of many colors stood one after another. The energy was relaxed, but also vibrant. Between the sounds and the smells of the sea and the frying garlic everywhere, we immediately felt as happy as cooing doves at twilight. We thought we might want to live here, an idea that really hadn’t struck us anywhere since Paris (although there was a slight tug at St-Jean-de-Luz).
Collioure is a town of art and artists, and this began back in 1905 with M. Matisse. Back then the houses were not brightly colored, but were dull and drab and the bay smelled of anchovy innards. But even so, the setting was no less than splendid.
Even with the sky spitting rain, it didn’t dampen our enthusiasm. Our first day there we wandered and looked, seeing what we could see. After lunch on the waterfront, we dropped by a gallery that had caught our eye and curiosity. The owner, Carol Watanabe, had expressed her joy of Collioure in a colorful sign in front of her place—it was all about “finding her solace.” Why not? We were looking for ours as well. The fact that she felt so was a good omen, and inclined us to want to speak with her. I could tell from the sign that she was probably an American. The door was open, and we walked in.
Manning the gallery was an English woman and artist named Tessa Harris, who told us she’d lived in Collioure the past year but had stayed with a friend in the nearby Pyrenees for several years before that. We liked Tessa right away, as well as her painting of a nearby square. During our conversation, we told her we might want to find a flat or house here. As we were leaving, she remembered two apartments that had been available, and asked if we would like her to call the owner, Gerard, and inquire. Well yes, we would. She got him on the phone, and we immediately left to meet him. Could our luck really be this good?
Collioure
Gerard’s lovely old building was on the other side of the village away from the heavy tourist traffic. That could be nice, we thought, since in July and August the town is packed with vacationers. Also, Gerard’s apartments had just been beautifully renovated and air conditioned. The second floor flat was huge, with spacious rooms where we could work, live, and have visitors. It even had an elevator which was in and of itself a miracle and boded well for us and would be good for my mother when she came to visit. The only problem—the flat was unfurnished. With all the furniture we have in storage in Arkansas, we would have to buy more to live here. How could we commit ourselves to that? We’d just taken a house apart. We didn’t want to put one together again—and we certainly weren’t ready to ship our belongings over and then have to wrestle with this added baggage.
View from the third floor flat window (Illustration by James Morgan)
The third floor flat was a cool and nicely decorated loft. We loved the space and the view from a small balcony. But it was much smaller, and Gerard had in mind for it to be rented throughout the season on a weekly basis—which meant much more money than the larger unfurnished one.
These spaces had landed in our laps within 24 hours, but what to do? Neither one fit us perfectly, but as the French say, we had suffered a “coup de foudre,” a lightning bolt of love. That night we talked to Blair and Bret but couldn’t get Mother on the phone, and the next morning Jim went out sketching. He was deliriously happy. It was shining in his eyes and his body was lighter. The beauty of Collioure is radiant in its art and energy and sea and sky and vineyard-covered hills, and he was reflecting it.
That evening we had tapas for dinner at a local hangout called Le Zouave. The fresh garlic was pungent and pervasive in all our tastes of this and that, including fantastic calamari and fresh tomato puréed with the ail and dolloped on good bread. Collioure is in Catalan country, which is the collision of France and Spain on the opposite coast from the Basque side. Catalonia reaches as far south as Barcelona and north past Perpignan. The Spanish influence is felt in all the traditions, as well as in the food and the look of the people.
The next morning we met Tessa for coffee at a café near the sea. Gerard and a friend were sitting a few rows away, and they soon joined us. Gerard’s friend, Pamela, was Canadian and was preparing to return home after traveling for some months in France with not a lot of money. We talked as travelers often do about how much energy it takes to be open to see the world around you, to process what you find. Again, we notice that the people you meet wandering the world are amazing, interesting, usually open and adventurous. We impressed Gerard once more with our interest in his flat and then strolled a few blocks away to take a look at Tessa’s home. After meeting our generous new friend a mere two days before, she offered to loan us her furniture that was stored in the Pyrenees. We only had to retrieve it.
Late that afternoon, I finally reached my mother. She sounded excellent, which made me happy. I told her about the flat and its elevator that would be a big advantage for her when she came to visit this summer. She could walk the few steps to the sea and sit and look out, with her eyes and heart, at the blue Mediterranean. My family was always drawn to the water, and Mother found joy and peace in gazing at a river, lake, or ocean. She would also love the spectacular yet frightening Costa Brava drive, with me imploring Jim to keep his eyes on the wheel. We talked of my children and laughed and laughed.
I had no idea this was the last conversation I would ever have with her.
Beth Arnold
Barcelona - Costa Brava - Collioure
June 7, 2003
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Unless otherwise indicated, photos by Beth Arnold. Not subject to use without permission.
Beth Arnold lives and writes in Paris, where she produces her "Letter From Paris" new media project.
You can find the Chasing Matisse book by James Morgan here at Amazon--or you can find it in or order it from your favorite book store.
Jours of Our Lives illlustration by artist (and couturier) Elizabeth Cannon. To find out more about her, click here.
