We wake up at 7:45 in our spacious bedroom with twelve-foot ceilings, wood floors, red and gold wallpaper, and a wrought iron chandelier painted white hanging from the center of the ceiling.  The floors creak loudly, more like a groan, as I cross the room to pull back the black out shades and let the brilliant morning sun pour through the white lace curtains, a stream of butter colored butterflies bouncing off the walls.

Through the door to our bedroom is the large main dining room and kitchen with matching chandelier and five foot windows on opposite walls, the kind of windows that look like glass paned shutters and open inward giving meaning to the phrase “pull open the windows.”  Here the wallpaper is pink and cream stripes, covering not only the walls, but the back of the door to our bedroom.  The entire apartment is very French and very old, with exceptions made in a nod to modern convenience like the Whirlpool dryer squeezed into the corner next to the radiator.  From the moment we crossed the threshold and stood in the small entryway, it felt like home: warm, bright, comfortable. 

Melissa showers first in our tiny bathroom.  The shower stall is only slightly bigger than the width of two people standing side by side. No toilet.  It has been strategically wedged into what must have been a small closet off the entryway.  The powder room is so small it is almost impossible to sit on the toilet and close the door without banging my knees.  Yet, in that wonderfully French aesthetic, the door to this little closet is also wall papered like the rest of the room so that when closed any thoughts of this unsightly necessity literally vanish into the woodwork.

We are here for two weeks while Melissa spends four hours each morning in French language classes with about a dozen other Francophiles, most of whom are returning to this school for their second or third time.  Melissa is not the youngest student, although arguably the most energetic.  There is a brother – sister duo in their twenties, but other than the siblings, Melissa is towards the less senior end of the spectrum. 

Two of her classmates, Brawnwin and Jillian, met for the first time several years ago while attending the school only to discover that they lived four blocks from one another in Melbourne.  At a wine tasting outing the other night to which I, as the trailing spouse, was invited, Brawnwin, seated next to me, leaned over and whispered, “does Melissa always laugh this much?”  “She’s in her happy place,” I said, which was true.  The vin blanc was merely a catalyst for her mirth.  If it’s French, Melissa loves it.  If it’s French and old, Melissa adores it.  If it’s French and taste good, Melissa wolfs it down without a second thought, and this from the woman who, despite swimming two hard miles, will treat herself with half a chocolate chip cookie.  Put some pate on that sucker, and she’ll eat the box.  Vive la France!

With Melissa engaged from 9 to 1 most mornings, I spend my time reading, writing and walking around this quaint, quiet town.  Sancerre, France is both a region (known for its wine) as well as a town.  Our apartment is located in the same building as the school, Coeur de France, which is located pretty much in the center of Sancerre, a block from the church and central plaza.

Think of your basic medieval town perched on the top of a hill and surrounded by a thick stone rampart.  Most of the streets are narrow cobblestone alleys hemmed in by two and three story stone buildings that form one long undulating wall in various shades of ochre and pale pink intermittently punctuated with blue, violet, black and green shutters.  The streets are virtually deserted and spotlessly clean.  I crossed paths one morning with a street-cleaner sucking up tiny tidbits of trash using what I can only describe as an unplanned mating between a vacuum cleaner and riding lawn mower. 

Our little hamlet overlooks acre upon acre of rolling hills covered in a geometric patchwork of freshly tilled vineyards, a checkerboard in shades of brown.  The Loire river meanders through this pastoral scene, a wide blue brushstroke on an earth tone canvass.  On my walk, I see up close tender green tendrils sprouting from ancient, thick vines pruned hard to the ground.  In six weeks, these fields will billow like a thick green blanket. 

This is a quiet time for me, a time to think and reflect.  The language barrier – I took Spanish in high school – erects a kind of wall that is hard to describe or break through.  Most mornings, I interact briefly with a few merchants as I point and mime the things I want to buy – pate and ham from the charcuterie, cheese from the fromagerie, a baguette and pain au raison or pain au chocolat or both from the boulangerie, and, of course vin from any one of the multiple wine shops. Despite the sincerely friendly greetings and helpful, funny interactions, these encounters are not conversations.  They are more like holding a door for a stranger.  It feels nice, but it’s not enough to sustain me.  

In the first month of my tenure as President of Agros, I visited a rural village in Guatemala, a twelve-hour drive from the nearest town.  During the day, an interpreter as well as a two-person American film team accompanied me as we visited with several families, discussing their farm operations.  In the evening, we returned to the main area of the village, a rough, somewhat level field of grass and rocks adjacent to a primitive structure that served as a type of community center. 

The interpreter and film crew left me to capture a few more shots to complete their documentary. Some boys started a soccer game in the field while a host of children too little to join the game darted about the fringe of the field engrossed in their own play.  Men in twos and threes slowly returned from their farms and reclined in the community center quietly watching the soccer game, occasionally calling out or laughing at a missed shot on goal.  The women clustered in small groups observing silently.

I stood at the edge of the field encased in and isolated by my status as President, my privilege as a white American, and my inability, despite four years of Spanish in high school, to communicate.  At some point, a small girl with bright eyes and black hair stood next to me.  I squatted so that we were at eye level.  I can’t recall why she approached me, or what, if anything we said.  We would not have understood each other anyway.  I do remember the mischievousness in her face, her shy, endearing effort to engage with this stranger.  I remember feeling less awkward.  The videographer who had accompanied me on the trip happened to return to the village at precisely the right moment to snap a photograph of this charming little girl and me.  I keep a copy in my office.  

As beautiful as Sancerre is, I understand the limits of beauty.  Without someone to share it with, its life-giving effects wither.

Melissa bursts through the apartment door a little after one, her face beaming like her best friend just showed up unexpectedly, or like that place inside her that craves interaction with another human has been jolted with a four hour stream of stimulation.  At her core, Melissa is both teacher and student.  My heart flutters.  We’ll eat lunch together and then go for a walk.  Another pretty girl, another mischievous smile.  I am in my happy place.