The pull of a place

In 2009 Jack and I drove from California, where we'd spent three years training in Alexander Technique, back home to the east coast. Our route involved several switchbacks in order to visit family: first to Pennsylvania and Delaware, then to Kentucky, then finally to Asheville.

Driving cross-country, in my experience, is an exercise in delirium. The monotony of the road, the discomfort of so-long sitting, the inevitable boredom with the stacks of CDs, books on tape, and conversation are hardly moderated by frequent stretch breaks, chair yoga, even the occasional hotel pool.

Appalachian vista

I remember distinctly that I was in a vague state of sleep in the passenger seat when it happened, each time: a strong pull compelled me to open my eyes, and realize we were crossing the Appalachian mountains. Three times I awoke this way, and was moved not only by the mountains' beauty but by the surge of energy I felt in their presence.

Left Bank neighborhood

A few days before embarking on this trip to France, I took a walk in the woods. A deliberate one, where I was conscious of sensing that mountain terrain under my feet while wondering out loud what the terrain of my ancestors would feel like. I haven't been everywhere in France of course, but I've been through (almost*) all the places my relatives have lived.

Ceiling,Église de Saint Nicolas du Chardonnet

Before leaving Paris in April, I walked to the cathedral where my great-great-grandparents were married -- noticing an unusual emotional sensitivity and appreciation for the surrounding neighborhood, but unawares until later that I had happened to walk past both of their family residences listed on the wedding certificate. You might remember, too, that in a Paris cemetery I was nudged out of a somnolent mood by the sudden appearance of a gravestone with my family name.

Well, it happened again today! A fierce head cold has been dogging me, and I was nearly passed out against the train window when I perked up at the approach of a little station. As I admired these particular trees and cottages, a woman in front of me repeated several times to her seat mate: "La Suze-sur-Sarthe." My grandmother's hometown! From my seat across the aisle I eyed the street I could see leading away from the station. I wish I'd gotten straight up and moved to the closer window, because when the train started up we crossed the river Sarthe and I could see a beautiful bridge and village. Oo la la! Thank goodness these places don't go away-- my most favorite thing about France is that it's been lived in, walked on, and farmed for so many generations -- and now I know I'll be back to stop in that little town, walk its avenues, listen for my grandmother's footsteps.

Bridge over the river Sarthe

* Thursday I plan to go to Saint Arnoult des Bois, to inquire about my relatives who (used to) live there. Wish me luck....

 

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