To Sanilhac

How much I love you is rather obvious: claustrophobic, I will travel 8000 miles to you and back twice a year (more if I could) to see you, on a vintage 767, no less, popping scrips and eardrums, trying not to think of the wonder of flight, only the destination, in this case, you. I spend my spending money which is sometimes (often) yet to be earned, to earn the satisfaction of being with you. I leave the relative comfort of my midwestern coordinates to be in your presence, always with me in spirit, even when I'm away. I tolerate the stares of disbelief and questions of sanity when I disclose my love for you, my oversees secret.

But why do I love you? Perhaps that is more difficult as it's not as easy as the color of your eyes, the sound of your voice. You are a village, after all, not some Johnny Depp-like crush. So I'll dig a little deeper, to get at the heart of you. I'll think back to that warm summer day when I first visited you, traveling down from the north, through charming Uzès, only a few minutes' drive, but through some of the most handsome landscape - plane tree-lined roads, fields of frothy dill and sturdy sunflowers giving way to the high garrigue of fragrant evergreen herbs and groves of truffle oaks. The views were, and still are, amazing, on the left, to the east, Mt. Ventoux, to the right, over the collines and endless greens of vineyards, the blue haze of the Cevennes.

On this drive, I noticed, too, that you had distinct secteurs, some with newer housing, some with agricultural and business establishments, and some with archaic stone structures. This was a good sign; it indicated that you were not a one-dimensional tourist town that would be shuttered on all but holidays, but a true working village, with enough locals to support two restaurants and one of the best bakeries in the area. (Oh, how I wish I could take your bakery back to Ohio with me. . . .)

And your locals - how is it that they are either wonderful beyond words, and have become fast friends, or so colorful that I can't help forgive them their foibles and miss them when I'm away? Does everyone grow more authentic in your ubiquitous sunshine and rare silver rains? Let's see, there are our neighbors: the past owners of our house, she can whip up a divine mousse aubergine, he mixes a mean pastis, together they will lend a hand in any task one asks, large or small; there are the ladies next door - tres gentil by everyone's standards; the skillful sculptor across the way who is as deft with her hammer and chisel as her brother is with his self-deprecating humor; there's the Parisian restauranteur, growing more eccentric (as does his hair) each time we visit, and of course, Pierre, the organizer of the village fête, known by his moniker, ∏R, always questioning, but, in a way, accepting, too.

The locals are definitely your lifeblood, coursing through your narrow streets, headed to the aforementioned bakery, out for a summer stroll past your cicada-laden pines, with their dogs, or not, or maybe just hanging out at the square, with a pan bagnat, a coke, and a grandkid or two, catching up on the gossip.

But really, there is even more to you that fascinates. Situated as you are, at the edge of the high plateaus of what has been called a capricious river, you allow me to become totally lost in the breathtaking nature all around you. Whether it's a hike to a secret river beach, belvedere, cave, capitelle, or the ruins of some long-ago construction, you have treasures hidden all about like some high stakes scavenger hunt, just a walk away and waiting to be discovered.

And if I am feeling less energetic, say, if I am enjoying a glass of local wine in the perfect seclusion of my courtyard, you send signs of good fortune in the form of hirondelles, swooping and circling in the unforgettable sunsets of your skies as your bells toll out the evening hour. When I want to do nothing but wander your ancient darkened streets, hands in pockets from the crystal clear cold of your winter nights, you delight me with a sky so full of stars it makes me want to cry with joy. When I'm alone, jetlagged, and checking email in the middle of the night, you treat me to the murmur of your resident mourning doves softly cooing their song. I look out into the empty plaza in front of our house and I can feel your magic all around me. It gently taps me on the shoulder and whispers in my ear; it reminds me why I love you.

Bakery: in the village
Restaurants: 3 in the village
Hiking trailhead: in the village
Bicycle rental: in the village
Canoe/kayak: 3 km in Collias
Grocery store: 7 km
All shops & services: 7 km Uzès
Pont du Gard: 15 minutes by car, 8 km by foot
Nîmes: 20 km
Avignon: 35 km
Montpellier: 1 hour