I was twelve years old the second time I went to southern France. Old enough to appreciate air conditioning and electronics, or the lack thereof, but too young to feel the sweet taste of French wine on my tongue. The French countryside was typically pleasant and mild, but this year the cool wind had decided to calm down and the protective clouds had made way to the unforgiving sunlight, day after day.
In the mornings I would wake up to the sweet chirp of flies buzzing in my ear, during the precious hours of the morning breeze, before the sweltering heat rolled in. Closing the windows wasn’t an option, unless you enjoyed sleeping in a puddle of sweat. It was at that point that I learned the true meaning of curse words, especially when paired with the French fly. “Damn mouches” I would grumble as I got out of bed, fighting off my preteen urges to lie in bed all day and ignore my parents.
Our house was located perfectly in between a washed out bridge and a 15-mile roundabout through a narrow pathway barely suitable for a European clown car. If the weather permitted, which it never did, we would take an unpleasant stroll along the washed out bridge. Otherwise, we would caravan to the small town via clown car, honking our horns at every turn in the road, praying that no one was coming around the bend. It was not unusual to hear the occasional shouting contest in that car, especially between my focused Dad and all-pro backseat driver Mom. “Uhh, SLOOOWWW DOOWWNNNNNNN!!!,” she would say, kicking the imaginary break peddle on the dashboard. But we would get there safely every time, with just enough daylight to sit in an empty café for the next eight hours.
On one particular day, I had the pleasure of waiting for my neighbor, who had bored me close to the point of no return on several occasions. This day, though, I could not wait to see him. I waited in the village all day, hoping to spot their clown car in the distance. While waiting, I learned the art of throwing rocks at pigeons. When he finally arrived, I could not hear enough of his detailed description of the plane ride over. Anything to distract me from the village.
Every other day, I was relegated to the empty cafes, the mooches, and my parents, who were somehow oblivious to boredom. Breakfast was by far the most pleasant part of the day. Sitting in a café, I would sift through the French New York times, hoping to spot a baseball score from the night before, or even the week before. I didn’t care. Morning croissants and café au laits temporarily held my sanity, at least until I found the 1 Euro per minute internet café. As my parents would talk about unimportant things, like world politics, or the current state of U.S. economic affairs, I would immerse myself in the finer aspects in life, like my Gameboy, or French comics that I could only pretend to understand.
Everyday, we would return home with just enough time to sit in a warm pool for five hours. My favorite hobby during these hot afternoons was either getting incredibly sunburned in the pool, or annoying the living hell out of anyone close enough to talk to, or even shout to. I didn’t care. My particular favorite person to annoy was my brother Nigel, who loved the French countryside as much as I, if not more. When my two favorite hobbies would get old, I would find my temporary best friend, Pau, the dog who belonged to the owners of the property. In my best snooty French accent, I would say “Bonjour, monsieur Pau,” in which he would reply “Le rouf.”
When we crawled up to the house in the afternoon, looking like bored crabs, we would often see our parents reading a book, bottle in hand. Their sheepish gaze would turn from their book to their kids, and distantly say something like, “where have y’all been all day? Don’t worry, we’ll make dinner soon.” And with that, their minds would once again wander off to an alternate reality.
After dinner, which my parents typically cooked through their red wine daze, we would often sit on the patio, enjoying the few hours of non-mouche activity. My parents would exclaim, “How could life get any better? I wish I could quit my job, sell the house, and just live here forever.”
At that point, I knew there was something wrong with my parents.
I could not understand where my parents were hiding their dissatisfaction for this trip. Here I was, sun burning my day away, talking to dogs, and my parents seemed as happy as could be. All there was to do was to sit around, paint some yellow rolling plains of ripe peach trees or green vineyards, and drink the night away. How could that be fun? Where were the electronics to entertain everyone? I searched all over the place, looking in the shed for their secret TV, walked around the house trying to find their PlayStation, and scoured around for their laptop. Nothing. Either these parents were really good actors, or they had been drugged. There could be no other explanation.
By the time my organs had been peeled away from my sunburn, and Pau had started hiding from me to avoid getting thrown in the pool, I was ready to leave. Some days we would entertain ourselves with “fun” activities like hiking up mountains to see remote villages with cafes very similar to the one across the washed out bridge or 15-mile roundabout. The food was good, though. The best prison food I could have ever had.
Something needed to happen, I decided. Whoever was drugging my parents needed to pay.
For the next week, I kept an eye on everyone who I could spot. The waiters in the café, the food vendors at the American food truck, and the vendors at the Tuesday Market. Everyone. But no one ever slipped my parents any happy drug.
I never found the culprit, though I tried quite hard. It took me several hours to rule out Pau, but he was eventually cleared. It couldn’t be Nigel. I still have my suspicions about the landlord and his wife. But there was no way of knowing for sure.
After several days of searching, something miraculous happened. My parents finally snapped out of their daze. On the day that we were scheduled to leave, my parents quickly became snappy and uptight, and regained the drag in their step. When we got close to the airport, my Dad started screaming at me for choosing the wrong Rolling Stones song. “Finally,” I said to my brother. “They’re normal again.”
After two treacherous weeks of torture, we finally got back to civilization. The only thing that saved me from insanity was a dead sprint out of the Dallas terminal to find a remedy for my acculturation woes. Luckily, I found the Dallas Cowboys Sports Bar and Grill, suited with TV’s from entrance to exit, and the biggest cheeseburgers that any airport bar and grill has ever seen. Finally, vacation was over.
I vowed to find the man who drugged my parents. And when I do find him, I will ask for everything he has, then spend a few weeks in Southern France.
