If Sancerre, with its medieval architecture and cobblestone streets, is the quintessential French village on a hill overlooking the Loire Valley, then Collioure is a version of the same thing but tucked into the foothills of the Pyrenees where rolling green hills tumble into the deep blue of the Mediterranean.  Nine months ago, planning the tail end of this sabbatical, I sat at my desk using Google Maps to scroll across the European continent, searching for that perfect out-of-the-way spot to plant ourselves for a month and dissolve into the ether and mystery of a few weeks without a to-do list.  I had in mind an impossible task: a quaint fishing village, undiscovered by Americans (except me), but with enough interesting things to keep us occupied in case my romanticized vision of doing nothing proved less than romantic.

After hours of searching, I centered the map on the French coastline where it meets the Spanish border. As usual, nothing that matched my vision appeared until, for reasons known only to neuroscientists, psychologists and God, I happened to zoom in at precisely the right location for the word “Collioure” to materialize.  I clicked on the name and knew immediately that I had found our final resting spot, in a manner of speaking.  I booked a house for a month and paid in advance, telling my anxious alter ego to simmer down and, for once, stop obsessing about the what ifs.  

Getting to Collioure from Sancerre was a bit trickier than I had imagined.  I assumed we could take a train.  I had been told, probably by Melissa, the Francophile, that trains run everywhere in France because, as I have mentioned before, in Melissa’s mind, everything in France is as close to perfect as we humans get.  Trains do indeed run from Sancerre to Collioure, but they take over eleven hours to get there.  In the end, we rented a car and drove south, seven hours, dropping the car in Perpignan.  Collioure does not have rental car companies.

After an hour wait in the Perpignan train station and a twenty-minute train ride, we found ourselves, roller bags rattling behind, walking with a half dozen other travellers (all local) down a hill towards a plaza and a small port.  We were hungry, tired from the drive, and trying our best not to imagine the worst.  The evening sun was setting, turning the stone streets of Collioure the color of fresh-baked bread.  In our state, we overlooked this daily miracle.  

Melissa is not a fan of using navigational devices in small French villages, not because they rarely work while winding through the labyrinthian streets, but because she believes with religious fervor that it is possible in these unique and magical situations to find whatever we are looking for through intuition.  We eventually asked for directions to our apartment.

In an alley narrow enough for two people holding hands to touch either side, we found a Hobbit-sized wooden door wedged into a four-story stone wall with a weather-worn number “7” nailed above it.  We did not notice the art galleries lining the alley, or the tapas restaurant with two tiny tables squeezed against the sides of the alley, or the ivy and flowers hanging from the second story balconies, or the sections of the stucco and stonewalls painted lively shades of tangerine, lime, lemon and peach.  Even after nearly six months of travelling, transitions are still challenging.  We found something to eat, intentionally postponed unpacking until we had our bearings, and fell into bed in what we vaguely perceived as a small, dark apartment on a narrow, dark alley.  Melissa, being incapable of hiding her emotions, especially after our spacious, light-filled apartment in Sancerre, said, before turning over to fall asleep, “Maybe we can find some flowers to brighten up the place.”

Lying next to Melissa, I watched my reaction to her reaction to our new home.  I saw (and felt) the resentment; I heard the rising chorus of voices insisting that this was not my fault, that I had done everything to plan the best possible trip, that she was being ungrateful, that I had, maybe, possibly, screwed up.  Silenced by this cacophony of insecurity, I sensed more than heard the voice of wisdom telling me to be still, to get some sleep, to see things fresh in the morning.  I fell asleep holding lightly my discomfort.

In the morning, I woke, as I usually do, much earlier than Melissa.  We needed coffee and orange juice as well as something to eat for breakfast.  I was determined to forage for these essentials and have them in the apartment by the time Melissa got up.  Somewhat bleary-eyed (I mentioned we did not have coffee) I stumbled out of our alley and onto the main cobblestone road, which looked, in the bright light of morning, magically transformed.  A winding, graceful walkway lined with merchants: several clothing stores (including one, at which I would buy later in the week, a beret and a “man scarf”), a boucherie, a boulangerie, a store with a mouthwatering selection of gelato and an entire wall mounded with fresh baked cookies in every variety imaginable, from coconut and pistachio to chocolate-dipped shortbread.

I bought croissants and a baguette in the boulangerie from a young woman who smiled at my vain, but sincere attempts to communicate and wished me a good day when I left.  I would visit her many times in the next week and she would greet me with a knowing smile and a delightfully sincere, “Bonjour, Monsieur.”

I continued my morning walk to the end of the road and a quay where traditional wooden fishing boats (like a page out of a children’s book) were painted the colors of a box of crayons and moored to giant iron rings set in the ancient concrete.  Along the quay, a string of restaurants opened onto the water, with chairs and tables set under umbrellas. 

Across the street, the plaza had been converted, as we learned it would be every Sunday and Wednesday, into an outdoor market featuring everything from soaps and clothing to cheese, meat, seafood and fresh produce.  Amidst the sights and smells, in the warming sun and gusting breeze, one stall in particular trapped my gaze and forced me to smile at God’s perfect sense of humor.  The stall overflowed with a cascade of fresh-cut flowers.

When Melissa woke up later that morning, we had coffee, orange juice and croissants.  We had fresh-cut flowers that Melissa separated into vases and placed on the multiple floors of the apartment.  The apartment is four stories including a rooftop deck. We had a different outlook.  Our eyes were no longer clouded by fatigue-fueled emotions.

Like a kid at Christmas, I all but shoved Melissa out the door and into the intertwined alleyways. We ventured up one street and down the next before tumbling onto a rocky beach sheltered from the wind-whipped waves of the Mediterranean by a nine-hundred-year-old castle and clock tower, the soaring stone walls of which plunge directly into the inky blue waters. We discovered trails leading up the hills through the green vineyards to, of all things, a Don Quixote-like stone windmill, and farther up, a star-shaped fortress perched like a sandcastle on the highest peak overlooking the port.  The rolling hills give way at the horizon to the snow-streaked peaks of the Pyrenees.

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Collioure is the town to which artists such as Dali, Matisse and Picasso came to paint because of the unique quality of light.  Matisse remarked, “No sky in all France is as blue as Collioure.”  Because the wind blows out to sea, Collioure has few clouds. Because the Mediterranean has virtually no tides and is therefore always a deep, majestic blue that contrasts perfectly with the rolling green hills, another artist said, “Collioure has no shadows.”  

The light of a new day splashed a new coat of paint on everything.  Although potentially poetic, I do not think that statement is accurate. Beauty surrounds us daily if, as the prophet tells us, we have eyes to see.  I think this sabbatical has taught me many things, but the one I hope to carry with me is the wisdom to focus, in all situations, with the clarity of stillness, and to hold lightly the ceaseless ebb and flow of emotions.