A Foreign Affair

Preamble:

This month I join the rest of France in allowing myself a holiday from daily commitments—in my case, creating a new blog that offers a glimpse into my French life and hopefully a little life lesson or at least “food for thought.”  In the spirit of lighthearted, summer beach reading, I’m sharing a retrospective glimpse at my exhilarating love affair in France that began 15 years ago, and continues today . . . Enjoy! (Written August, 2011.)

Chamonix, France

Despite 25 years of marriage to an internationally ranked masters marathoner, I had never exercised consistently.  Instead of participating in sports, I leaned toward more sedentary pursuits like performing vocal and instrumental music, theater, and writing. In my early 40’s, during the transition from my corporate career to an entrepreneurial one, it seemed like the perfect time to transform my physical life as well.  With JB’s guidance, I became a resolute runner.  Though I’m generally inclined to resist change, once I start something I tend to be “evangelical” in my level of commitment (just ask anyone who has joined Weight Watchers with me).

That fervor is evident in my running protocol, which relies on an iPod for musical assists from Aimee Mann to U2, a sun visor tugged low over my brow (a bit like a horse with blinders), and a GPS watch monitoring heart rate, time, and speed (or lack thereof). Each day I bully my way through the miles, focusing only on the ground beneath my feet—lost in my own world, disconnected from my surroundings.  I once obliviously passed my husband returning from a bike ride in the nearby Blue Hills, despite his animated arm waving to catch my attention.  I doubt I would have noticed him even if he had he been joined by a naked “peloton” (group) of cyclists. 

To make matters worse, I am a creature of habit, sticking to the same route every day, with minimal variation.  When we lived in Boston’s South End, the repeated course was across town, through Back Bay, then along the Charles River and back.  Since moving to the burgeoning Fort Point Channel, Seaport neighborhood, I have been rambling up and down harbor wharfs through the North End, to the end of the historic Charlestown Navy Yard.  Every day, rinse and repeat—pure routine, about as interesting as flossing my teeth. 

I clung to this stagnant regimen until some vestige of the teenage girl in me fell for a summer love and embarked on a three-week running affair in France.  It began on the banks of Bordeaux’s Garonne River—dotted with quintessential cafés, flanked with elegant Romanesque architecture, and serenaded by the Gothic bells of Église Saint-Pierre. The need to concentrate on visually marking my way back to the hotel, forced me to leave my iPod behind.  Without that distraction, something began to stir inside me.  

It escalated when we moved on from the renowned city of wine to the alpine foothills of Chamonix, in the French Alps.  There, the already fading memory of Boston’s asphalt, concrete, and traffic noise was soon erased by sumptuous, earthy trails that meandered through dense forest. Leafy canopies sheltered fragrant wild-flowers, harbored mountain streams still gushing with spring’s melt, and offered glimpses of snow-capped summits.  No need for Aimee, Bono, or anyone else to energize me.  All I desired was the early morning mist nestling among ferns and fallen trees, its chill giving way to the July sun rising slowly over Mont Blanc, and a gulp of glacial water from a neighboring village fountain. 

Returning to the center of Chamonix, I was greeted by the aroma of freshly baked baguettes and the friendly “bonjour” of shopkeepers, hikers, and other blissful tourists.  No commuter rush, just languid lines waiting to board the bright red railway cars about to embark on scenic excursions from the quaint, Victorian station.  This brief running interlude in the mountain forest became so intoxicating, that I was more than a little heartbroken when a last-minute change in travel plans foiled my final tryst with the trail.  I couldn’t remember the last time I was disappointed because scheduling forced a missed run in Boston . . .

The morning after arriving home, jet lag nudged me awake at 4:00 a.m. and propelled me out the door well ahead of my usual departure time.  My preliminary stretching routine was accompanied by a lack of enthusiasm for my all too familiar route and a deep longing to stride along the Garonne River or the trails of Chamonix.  Luckily, I was too groggy to dig through yet unpacked luggage for my iPod, allowing something strange and wonderful to transpire. 

For the first time, I felt the city stir from its slumber. I listened to the awakening cry of seagulls searching for breakfast along the Channel.  Without my usual “do not disturb sign” of earbuds, the workers lugging tools and lunch pails across the Northern Avenue bridge toward Seaport construction sites offered friendly greetings.

For the first time, I appreciated the faded coastal colors of buoys draped along the entrance to the “Boston Waterboat Marina.” I contemplated patriotic monikers—like “Liberty,” “Freedom,” and “Independence”— painted on the stern boards and bows of vessels resting in the harbor’s still waters.   Though my urban course didn’t offer wildflowers and mountain streams, the sweet and spicy aroma of bayberry—drifting among the bright yellow lilies in the Children’s Museum rock garden—lured me onward.  A few blocks further, mounds of magenta and white impatiens bathed in the pre-dawn sprinklers of Columbus Park.

For the first time, the contrasting textures of seaweed and barnacles, clinging to granite and wood pilings, drew my attention as I zigzagged up and down familiar wharfs at low tide.  Suddenly, a brief gap between buildings magically framed the US Constitution’s spidery black web of masts and rigging silhouetted against a deep orange sky.  I broke stride to watch the sun draw its molten light back from the horizon and immerse the ship in pale blue sky. Simultaneously, the twin towers of the Zakim-Bunker Hill Bridge were suspended by sunbeams as its cables reflected the now advancing light.  When I looked toward the arched roof of the “Fleet Center” (always the old “Boston Garden” to me) an enormous real-estate banner was promoting condos with the inspirational name “LOVEJOY WHARF.” It seemed the prophets were punctuating a message to me on a grand scale—a call to my own “Eat, Pray, Love” awakening?

Of course, the beauty and allure of my running route have always been there, but like re-igniting an old love, on this day, I saw each overlooked feature as fresh and new.  Experiencing the thrill of a “foreign affair” opened my eyes and heart to the beauty of the familiar and the importance of removing distractions from the path of its potential pleasures.  But now that summer’s heat has begun to fade, and the first cool breath of fall will soon paint feathery frost on the buckled boards of Boston’s wharfs, I wonder if the intensity of that joy will wane.  Perhaps it will follow the ebb and flow common to most affairs of the heart.  But for now, I will savor the current spark and continue tending its flame. 

2026 Postscript:

Although my running has now eased to mostly walking, I keep the flame for familiar sourroundings alive. My early morning forays in Pau rotate a variety of routes, always without the distraction of earbuds!