A Sunday in Mougin

August 6th, 2006 

I find myself enjoying the sunshine and old world charm on a quaint restaurant terrace in Mougin one beautiful Sunday. This charming village was once the home of Cubist painter Pablo Picasso. The view from the town square is breathtaking; it’s no mystery why Picasso was drawn to this town. A look around the old village is enough to fill anyone with artistic inspiration. The thing is, I don't really know how I ended up here. I got in the car this morning with every intention of seeing the beautiful beaches of St. Tropez. But something drew me first to the old village of Mougin.  Miraculously I found parking right in front of the bustling Sunday antique flea market. As I got out of the car a beautiful old wardrobe caught my eye. I walked over to the lovely old Frenchman standing guard over his prized antiques. As I drew closer and saw the 1200 Euro price tag, I turned sadly on my heels.

All the dealers, mostly older men, were enjoying an elegant five-course meal, complete with real silverware and crystal wine glasses amid the bustling chaos of the flea market stalls. One case in particular caught my eye because it held a beautifully delicate piece of jewelry. My eye first gazed upon this gorgeous antique ring. An elegant silver ring with 19 pinhead-sized amethyst encrusted in a sinewy facade. The lovely dealer, Chantal, at once said that the ring was a hard sell due to it being "trop petite," or too small. I asked her politely to allow me to try it on, and wouldn't you know it, the ring slipped right onto my finger. I bought it right away for 30 Euros, a steal considering it is a sixty-year-old ring. Chantal explained that in France a piece is considered an antique only after it is at least a century old. So I got quite a buy! 

As I wandered through the village, I felt a distinct sense of culture shock. The sound of heavy freeway traffic and the hum of busy Melrose shoppers would be out of place in this centuries old village. The culinary world I grew up in was the LA restaurant scene, equipped with polite, attentive service and elegantly uniform dishes. Angeleno waiters are quick to stand at attention in their black slacks and starched white shirts, but they would be out of place in this relaxed French country setting. There is no place for a uniform in this quaint village in the South of France. Here the waiters serve in casual slacks, hugging ever so sexily to their hips. White is the last color seen here. Tables are dressed in every color of the rainbow, delicately coordinated to the theme of each sidewalk cafe. The rustic old fountain in the courtyard subdues the buzz of French families discussing their day’s excursions, providing a backdrop of tranquility.  Once I get settled at my table, it finally hits me, "we aren't in Los Angeles anymore."

I never imagined I would long to hear the flat American accent chopping up the beautiful flow of the French language.  After three weeks of sign language, I would love nothing more than to chat in my native tongue.  And in response to my homesickness, I suddenly hear the sweet droll of a southern American accent.  I presumptuously introduce myself.  Brian is in France on business, but is lucky enough to have an old French college buddy to show him the hidden jewels of the French Rivera.  I realize we are being watched and look over to see other diners sneer at our audacity at speaking English so freely. I take little notice of their superiority because my excitement at meeting another American will not sway me into embarrassment.  His kind companion Emerique quickly encourages my homesickness by informing me that his wife is American. He very neighborly asks for my card in order to pass along to his wife and their group of American expatriates. I am suddenly comforted with the possibility of making American friends.  Yes, that was no typo...I was excited about the possibility of making AMERICAN friends. As they depart, Emerique tells me to make sure to take their phone calls because his wife, Danielle, would love to show me around Mougin. I adore the French but the language barrier makes me slow to make local friends. 

I enjoyed the most fabulous omelet lunch. As a vegetarian, I find it refreshing to have another culinary choice at any meal. I felt so inspired by my surroundings that as soon as the handsome waiter cleared away my meal, I pulled out my laptop and began blogging about my day trip to Italy. I was deep into the article when a lovely Australian accent inquires if I am a professional writer. I blush with embarrassment and inform her that those are my aspirations. Her companion, a silvered-haired gentleman of great refinement, interjects to introduce them both. He is a wealthy businessman visiting from Monaco, and she is his guest from out of town. He explains that he has held an annual White Party for all his friends and business associates for over twenty years.  As he mentions the party I find myself fantasizing about attending it.  He must have sensed my desire and asked for my contact information in order to send along an invitation. Shortly after our meeting the billionaire and his beautiful Australian companion departed for their return to Monaco. As I walked back to the car I remarked at the auspiciousness of the day!  I wonder when my invitation will arrive?

I drove home grateful that I was able to enjoy an afternoon not dominated by the language barrier. My employers greeted me at the door with a glass of red wine and stories of their adventures as expatriates. I discovered that they were once in my shoes. The family lived in America for eight years in the 1990s and their support has been valuable in helping me acclimate into the French culture.

I drove home grateful that I was able to enjoy an afternoon not dominated by the language barrier. My employers greeted me at the door with a glass of red wine and stories of their adventures as expatriates. I discovered that they were once in my shoes. The family lived in America for eight years in the 1990s and their support has been valuable in helping me acclimate into the French culture.