Photographs taken by the author of her new surroundings in Provence. Lower right, Ms. Fieldsteel.
Greenwich Village to Provence: Leaving One Home, Finding Another
By Patricia Fieldsteel
Perhaps the best I can say of my first 50 years is I survived them. My expectations for whatever time was left, based on prior experience, were not tremendous. Then miracles began to happen. In July 2002, at the age of 55, I gave up the rent-stabilized Greenwich Village studio apartment in which I’d lived for more than 30 years and moved to Provence. I’d unexpectedly bought a nine-room house in the Vieille Ville (Old Town) of Nyons just a few months before. This came about because of a cat, several cats to be exact.
I was always allergic to cats – the type of allergy where one’s eyes swell shut, one’s throat tightens, and it becomes difficult to breathe. So why did I decide to adopt a six-week-old kitten in September 1995? To this day I don’t know. Forty-eight hours after I brought her home, my nose began to run, my eyes swelled shut, and I started to wheeze. Everybody told me to give the kitten back, I’d be crazy to keep her. But it was too late; we were bonded like Epoxy. After two hellish weeks the allergy subsided. I had become, after a lifetime of being a dog person, a full-fledged cat lady.
My neighbor, the French cooking teacher and cookbook author Lydie Marshall, was also by reputation a cat person, and our casual friendship evolved from occasional cooking advice to discussing our cats. Unknown to me at the time, Lydie and her husband had decided to live most of the year in the 11th-century feudal château they’d bought and restored in northern Provence. Once they made the move, their cat population rapidly grew to eight. These were château cats. Clearly they could not be left alone when Lydie and her husband returned to New York for three months in the winter. The cats would need a human companion and caretaker to maintain the lifestyle to which they had become accustomed. Lydie thought of her neighbor Patricia, living in a cramped studio apartment on Jane Street. She knew I was working on a book and desperately needed peace, quiet, and space, qualities for which Manhattan is not renowned.
Apparently, Lydie also approved of the manner and style in which my own by-now two cats and dog were living. She hesitantly approached me: Would I mind terribly living in her 25-room petit château in Nyons for three months free of charge so I could look after her cats? Sacrifices made, a trustworthy person found to live in my apartment to care for my own three pets, I flew from Newark to Paris on January 11, 1998, and arrived on the TGV (high-speed train) at the old gare (train station) in Avignon on January 12.
Driving “home” to Nyons, somewhere along the D541 road between the tiny villages of Saint Pantaléon les Vignes and Venterol, I fell in love, in one of those thunderbolt epiphanies after which you know your life will never be the same. I don’t know what it was exactly – the olive trees, the humpy mound-like mountains of the Drôme, the tiny perched villages, the brilliant white light, the lack of sleep ...?
Before that first Nyons visit I’d had a vague idea, a fantasy, of what it meant and felt like to actually live in Provence, but as with all such reveries, there was a paucity of concrete detail, an utter lack of any sense of the dailiness of life. I had always been a Francophile, but I’d been able to visit France only twice in the past few decades, each time to Paris for a week. My spoken French was seriously rusty, my comprehension nil. I had created a fantasy France for myself, based on books I’d read, films I’d seen, paintings, magazine articles, selective memory, and creative imagination. Would my fantasy country bear any resemblance to the real thing?
Fortunately, my imagination proved to have been limited. There was no way I could have imagined the myriad small treasures: the old woman who walked her donkey into town to cart her purchases on his back; the smoke from the wood-burning stoves curling up from the ancient red-tiled rooftops like the tails of so many contented cats; fresh-baked bread and croissants every morning still hot from the bakery; the pristine white clouds hanging low and striated far below the mountaintops. There was the thrill of shopping in the outdoor market that takes over the town every Thursday morning, of buying fresh-picked local vegetables and fruits from the surrounding farms, homemade butter and cheese, sausages from the actual people who’d made them … The dazzling array of culinary delights seemed endless as I loaded my wicker panier (basket) each week in the Provençal manner. There was no way I could have imagined driving the car and being seduced by the magic incantation of names on the road signs – Arles, St-Rémy, Les Baux, Avignon, Carpentras, Marseilles, Aix-en-Provence, Mount Ventoux, Châteauneuf-du-Pape – and the once flourishing vanished civilizations those names conjured up.
I returned over the next five winters to baby sit Lydie’s cats, and each year the agony of having to leave deepened. There had been a time when I’d felt that way about New York. New York City and I had shared a decades-long love affair that, like so many passionate relationships, had slowly unraveled. The strain of trying to make ends meet, of battling with my landlord, of too much noise, too many people, bad air, and not enough space combined with painful personal memories, had worn me down. But it wasn’t until I came to Nyons that I realized I badly wanted out. I knew I wanted to live in Provence, but financially it seemed out of the question. I had resigned myself to spending the rest of my life stuck in the room on Jane Street.
In 2001, my New York landlord began escalating his harassment of me in the hope I would leave, enabling him to raise my $536 rent to the $2,900 he is getting now. There were a series of “accidental” burst sewage and water pipes that destroyed nearly everything I owned, including many collectibles and rare books culled over the years mainly from thrift shops, flea markets, and trash piles. Just before I left for Nyons in January 2002, I collected an insurance settlement for the damage caused by the floods. For the first time, I had money to put into savings and would not be living hand-to-mouth.
Toward the end of February 2002, I decided to visit Aix-en-Provence overnight. Since I’d made arrangements for the cats, I didn’t think it necessary to tell Lydie. A French friend mentioned to her on the phone that I was in Aix, not realizing I hadn’t told her, and when Lydie asked what I was doing there, the friend said the first thing that came into her head: I was looking for a house.
When I arrived back at the château, I received a call from New York. Why was I looking for a house in Aix? Why wasn’t I looking in Nyons? Not realizing I had been looking for a house in Aix, I managed to feebly mutter something to the effect that she’d already told me I couldn’t afford Nyons, that if I wanted to live in France, I’d have to look in the Puy-de-Dôme – the French equivalent of East Cupcake, Kansas.
I was instructed she would call back in a few days for a report on my search for real estate around Nyons. Knowing I couldn’t afford so much as a dingy studio-apartment rental in Nyons, I trotted down to have a look at the postings in the windows of the local immobiliers (real-estate agencies) for the sake of a report back to my “Supervisor.”
Agence Bonnet had an adorable house in the nearby village of Grignan for 70,000 euros. Quickly doing the math, with a 10-percent down payment, I realized this house was possible. Unfortunately, it had just been sold. Was it as nice as the picture? Yes, said the brothers Bonnet, but they thought it had been overpriced. What was I looking for? Spewing and sputtering, since I actually hadn’t been looking for anything, I managed to come up with “ancienne” and “tradition.” They had the perfect house; it would be coming on the market the following week. They told me the street, quite close to the château, but not the number. I ran to look. La Rue Balzac. Large, beautiful 300- and 400-year-old homes and one minuscule, hideous wreck. That had to be the house. I was almost relieved.
On a bleak and rainy morning, the Bonnet brothers called to say they could show the house. It was exquisite, spacious, charming and had just been fully restored. My first thought was: This is much too good for me. As we went up the stairs, Monsieur Bonnet said, “With each level the house gets better.”
He was right. But the price was a little more than I could afford. I was due to return to New York in four days, and was already consoling myself with the thought it would have been great, but not something I could manage.
That night my Supervisor called. Had I been to any estate agents? One. And? Now it was her turn to sputter. I was instructed to make an appointment at the bank and use her name. Dressed in my most respectable clothes, make-up impeccably applied, I met with the loan officer – a hip, attractive, friendly young man. When I’d first come to Nyons, I’d opened a small checking account using Lydie’s local address, never keeping more than the equivalent of a $200 balance. In the eyes of the bank this now put me in the position of being a customer in good standing for five years, a perfect candidate for a loan. The day before I literally hadn’t known what a mortgage was; suddenly I was trying to negotiate one, and in French no less.
As we talked, I began to notice his office smelled strongly of cat pee. I discreetly looked for the cat. With the door closed, the odor was becoming unbearable. I reached inside my panier for a Kleenex. The entire panier was soaked. Félix, Lydie’s favorite cat, had struck again! The loan officer’s nose was twitching. Could a bank deny a mortgage to someone because she reeked of cat pee? I had come too far, too much was at stake. I cleared my throat, “I think one of Madame Marshall’s cats urinated in my bag.” The loan officer started to laugh and looked relieved.
We worked out a mortgage I could manage. That night was spent on the phone with friends in New York and in France. An architect friend checked the house out the next day along with four friends. I knew I would never find a house like this again. I also knew if I didn’t tell the Bonnet brothers I wanted it and didn’t sign the preliminary papers before I left, I would return to New York, get cold feet, and talk myself out of buying. Despite my hesitations and the total dreamlike quality of the situation, I had a strong sense that this was a one-time-only chance.
This was February 2002, and the dollar was still vigorous against the new euro. In New York I had barely been able to make ends meet, and although things had recently improved, I’d been struggling with poverty for nearly 20 years. In Provence, not only was the pace deliciously slow, but the cost of living compared to New York was also low and the quality of life extremely high. Living in Europe would allow me to lead what is referred to as a “comfortable life” beyond anything I could ever have imagined in the States. I would also be realizing a dream I’d held since childhood: To one day live in France.
I remembered standing on the sidewalk on that exquisite Provençal-type Tuesday morning the previous September, watching the Twin Towers burning alive, and knowing they were filled with people who’d gone to work without the slightest inkling they were about to die. I remembered glancing over the whole of my life, seeing all the things I’d planned to do, wanted to do, and hadn’t yet done. In a second it could all be over. And I remembered asking myself: What the hell are you waiting for?
My last few years in New York had been desperately unhappy, but it wasn’t until the house on the Rue Balzac presented itself that I saw it was possible to leave for something much better. I signed the preliminary papers at the bank and with the estate agent before I returned to the New York, and gave Lydie power-of-attorney to sign the final papers in person. Everything else could be done by mail.
I came home and started to pack. Numerous people remarked the day I moved out of Jane Street that they couldn’t believe I was leaving, that I’d actually pulled it off so suddenly and smoothly. I could scarcely believe it myself. The animals and I moved in with a friend for our two remaining weeks in New York, which became a whirl of good-byes, final visits to the Met and MOMA, dinners with friends, last walks through Central Park, Greenwich Village, and the streets in the city I’d loved.
Meanwhile, Lydie was getting the house on the Rue Balzac ready for my arrival. It would be six weeks before the container carrying all my belongings arrived, but she had managed to come up with a bed, linens, a table and chairs, and some pots, pans, and dishes to tide me over. Other friends in France left housewarming gifts. I’d seen my house only three times and could barely picture what it looked like. After living in rental studio apartments with Pullman kitchens my entire adult life, I could scarcely imagine what it would be like to inhabit nine rooms. I would also be the owner of my own living space for the first time. Never again would I have to ask permission to hang a picture, listen to the opera at 2 a.m., call the plumber, plant a window box, paint my walls the colors I like.
July 16, 2002, was a typical New York summer’s day – sunny, warm, with a slight breeze. The animals and I left for Newark Airport in the early evening and took off for Paris at 11 p.m. Lydie was waiting for us the next morning at Charles DeGaulle Airport, where we boarded the TGV for the three-hour trip to Avignon, where she’d left her car. She drove us home to Nyons and the Rue Balzac. At exactly 4:58 p.m. on July 17, 2002, I walked in the front door of my house and began my new life.
Three and a half years, six cats and a new dog later, I continue to thrive. Have I ever doubted or regretted my move? Never. Which isn’t to say there haven’t been difficult moments. There have been times when I’ve thought I’d never master the French language, never navigate French bureaucracy with its seemingly endless and arcane protocols, never make peace with Mr. Charmer, the psychopath across the street who has done everything he can think of to make me feel unwelcome. But I could have experienced similar problems in New York or anywhere. I’m happier now than I’ve ever been, and I love my new home. Living way out in the country, in la France profonde (what some might call the boonies), suits me perfectly. There is much to be said for fresh air, space, slowness of pace, and a lifestyle determined by nature rather than the whims of self-centered humans.
I adore living in the midst of an ancient civilization, especially since my centuries-old house is wi-fi (or wee-fee as the French pronounce it) and has DSL. I can talk to friends around the world for free via my computer and download the latest episodes of Law & Order to watch on my iBook. I can also hop on the TGV and be in Paris in three hours. When I walk with my dog along the river by my house, it is not uncommon to stumble on an ammonite fossil from 160 million years ago. I may be listening to Philip Glass on my cute little pink iPod, while at the same time I’m skipping over Jurassic rocks in the shadow of the 11th-century château with Roman sewers where Jews hid during World War II.
People frequently remark on my so-called courage in picking up and moving all alone to a foreign country with so many risks; but I’ve never viewed my move in that light. I knew the place where I was moving, and I knew I was leaving for a better life. I was also 1,000-percent committed to making my new life work, and if for some reason beyond my control it didn’t, I would always have a beautiful house to sell.
In the past, friends often teased me about how I never left Jane Street, how I was set in my eccentric ways and too much of a homebody. I had accumulated too much “junk” in my apartment, they said, and was incapable of being away from New York for more than a few hours. In a sense they were right. But what they didn’t know, and what I see now only in retrospect, was that the path to Provence was being created all along. Slowly, quietly, almost secretly, I had begun in my mid-forties to trust my own instincts rather than listen to others – mentors, authority figures, shrinks, teachers, doctors, successful and accomplished friends – and do what I felt was right for me, even in the face of ridicule, criticism, and catastrophic predictions. Yes, in many ways it was pathetically long overdue to have finally had the courage to take my life into my own hands and grow up, but many people never actually do. It wasn’t the move that was scary, it was all that led up to it, all that time I wasted before I finally decided to test the air and fly free.
