HEADING BACK TO THE WEST COAST

On Sunday afternoon we pulled away from Lucia’s farmhouse to begin our journey home to California.  As we drove down the dirt road leading away from the house tears sprung to my eyes.  I was suddenly overcome with sadness that this amazing part of our lives that will always live in our memories, was coming to an end.  I reached for my sunglasses to hide my welling eyes and concentrated on appreciating the brilliant views of the French countryside for the last time.  I wanted to fully capture those final moments road-tripping in the Puegot (a.k.a the Puge) with the man I love and the wonderful miracle-of-a-toddler riding in the back seat.  Appropriately, we listened to the Coconut Records album that has sort of become our theme album since we began packing to leave New York in June - in particular the song, HeadingBack to the West Coast (for obvious reasons).  I love how music can bring you back to a specific place and time, and already hearing the beginning notes of this song play I picture our European road trip.   I see us driving on the toll roads, heading to Hossegor for a beach day with the tall skinny pines lined up out the window.  We are in summer traffic, cruising through roundabouts, driving from the market in Biarritz back to Bidart.  We are threading through Pyrenees heading for Spain, catching glimpses of the Atlantic to the east.  We are searching for castle sightings amongst the farmland in Portugal.  We are amazed by the endless Spanish desert and ruins in the distance.  We are relieved to see the lights of Barcelona, arriving in the night.  We marvel at the topography change as we snake along the switchbacks through mountains of Andora and back to France.  Eventually we are in the central southwest of France looking out at amber fields, rolling hills speckled with the richness of autumn, catching glimpses of stone walls and farmhouses that have been there for hundreds and hundreds of years.

Map in my hands, feet on the dash, we are tracking.  Then we are not.  We are lost, we are found again.   We are constantly finding our way, reading the road signs in our terrible accents, counting Euros for tolls.  Sometimes we are tired, other times silly.  Sometimes we are chatty, other times alone with our thoughts.  Occasionally we are frustrated (mostly when we are lost), but mostly we are happy.  I could not think of a better way to be spending these moments while our lives are in limbo, just counting the miles, dreaming out loud, anticipating our next destination, and imagining the lives of the local people so different than the American life we lead. Sometimes I ride in the back with Annie E, playing games and reading books and on the very rare occasion will take the wheel, provided there are minimal hills and traffic (I’m still not great with a stick shift).  Mostly, however, I hold court in the passenger seat assuming the role of co-pilot/navigator/observer/snack administrator.

Between our destinations, we spent quite a bit of time in the Puge.  Overall we drove about 8,000 kilometers – along with the sand, Cherrios and croissant crumbs collected along the way.  We said adieu to the Puge in the wee early hours of Monday morning just before our flight from Toulouse to London and then on to LA to head back home to the West Coast.  When I think back on our trip I will always think fondly of our moments in that car - just the three of us, a little voyaging unit -sticking together, discovering the world.