Move Out of The Way - Heading to Blaye (France)!

Move Out of the Way… Heading to Blaye, France!

Walking around my Sousmoulins gîte, my eyes were drawn to a magnificent print hanging on the wall. The colors invited me in, and the words echoed something I’ve been practicing for quite some time:

“Be your own shrink.”

Funny how life works. When we’re young, we rush toward adulthood. Then we become adults and spend the rest of our lives trying to rediscover our inner child.

Sitting at the desk and gazing at that print, I found myself speaking to myself in French:

Va conquérir tes peurs.
Go conquer your fears.

And so I decided to take the little Euro car out for an adventure to Blaye, in the Nouvelle-Aquitaine region of France.

Driving on the right side of the car. Shifting gears with my left hand. On narrow roads. In a foreign country.

No pressure.

The Drive: Cameron Diaz Energy

Here I go. I’ve got this.

30 km/h.
50 km/h.
70 km/h.

And suddenly I’m screaming like Cameron Diaz in The Holiday:

“Ahhh! Don’t hit me! No!”

The sun was shining. It was a gorgeous day, almost mystical. I passed fields of cattle, goats, and horses, with hay bales rolled neatly from harvest. I drove along narrow, winding roads that felt built for one car and one car only.

But I didn’t mind.

I was soaking it all in.

Countless vineyards, at least fifteen in the region. Sunflower fields. Kale fields. Endless beauty.

When I finally arrived, intact, at La Citadelle de Blaye, my mouth dropped at the view. All the anxieties of driving dissolved instantly.

La Citadelle de Blaye: A Fortress with a Soul

Designed in the 17th century by the famous military architect Vauban, the imposing Blaye Citadel stands majestically overlooking the Gironde Estuary. It was built as a true walled city to protect Bordeaux from sea invasions and is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site as part of the Major Vauban Sites.

I stood there and breathed in.

Then exhaled a deep sigh.

As I approached this massive compound, it was impossible not to feel the blood, sweat, and tears that had once been poured into the very ground I was walking on.

The fortress felt alive with history.

I walked through the thick gated entryway and climbed to the highest point to take in the view.

Wow.

I’m here.

This is real.

The fort itself felt like a small village, complete with everything one might need: hospital space, watchtowers, vineyards, gunpowder storage.

I continued along the path toward the Tour de l’Éguillette, a tower dating back to the 15th century.

In awe of all that had existed before me, I sat down, my heart overflowing with gratitude. I wandered around the remnants, cannons, stone structures, and gnarly umbrella pine trees that seemed to hold stories of their own.

The picturesque grounds were surrounded by the murky Gironde waters, connecting France to Spain and Portugal.

And there, in the Vestiges de l’Abbaye Saint-Romain, the medieval abbey ruins, I saw something unexpected.

A tombstone.

A white flowy sheet.

And beneath it… two young people seeking afternoon delight among the passersby.

I heard their voices, smiled to myself, and quietly slipped away through the thick medieval doors.

The Journey Was Only Beginning

The day was far from over.

Because conquering fears takes many forms.

Just down the cobblestone street, I noticed a French restaurant with café-style outdoor seating. I walked by it twice.

Once to be sure it was where I wanted to hang my scarf for lunch.

And the second time to pray for the strength to actually go inside.

The Irony of Language

It felt ironic.

As a child, I spoke French until fourth grade. There was a boy named Rudolf, and my teacher, Mrs. Harmon, encouraged it. But I remember crumbling inside myself at the thought of speaking in front of my peers.

Now here I was in France, faced with the opposite fear.

Speaking English.

With a quick prayer in the street, I courageously pushed open the door.

The Wrong Door Was the Right Door

Standing in front of me was a handsome, salt-and-pepper-bearded man with the kind of presence that makes you straighten your posture.

I realized immediately.

This was not the restaurant.

In my best Italian accent, I blurted out:

“Dispiace… stavo cercando il ristorante.”
Sorry, I thought this was the restaurant.

Thank you, Duolingo.

Turns out the man, Leslie Kellen, proprietor of La Petite Cave, a wine and art bar, was indeed French.

But I digress.

He waved me in like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I speak English. You want food, we feed you. Stefan, get her food.”

“Pastrami, cheese, yes?”

Yes.

“Where you from? The U.S.? Where?”

Questions flying at me like one long sentence.

“What do you do?”

“Do you want wine?”

No, I’m driving.

(I’m sure he hadn’t heard that one too often.)

The banter went on as Stefan, the wine expert of the establishment, prepared something in the back kitchen of the cave.

Leslie eventually said, “I must go. Stefan, lock up when she’s done and give her a proper tour.”

Noted.

By this point, I was thinking the “wrong door” felt oddly… right.

I grabbed my open-faced pastrami sandwich with my hands like a barbarian, not overly concerned about the unsophisticated nature of my behavior.

I was hungry.

And grateful to be fed.

Stefan and I talked about the ramifications of Covid, the shifts life had taken, and why he had moved to Blaye after leaving Paris.

His story, though different, was strangely relatable.

A Tour Through History

After lunch, Stefan offered to show me the property.

We walked along a side road toward the entrance of a hotel and apartment building that was once known as the Prime Minister’s residence.

Inside, works of art lined a long hallway, mostly buildings and faces that looked like they belonged to another era.

Then we turned right through a small door and descended into the bowels of the building, down stone steps, with low ceilings and damp air.

The scene felt like stepping backward in time.

And suddenly, we were there.

The wine cellar.

Where history speaks loudly through cold stone walls.

Vintage cellar doors creaked like shackles opening and closing. Thousands of dusty bottles rested in silence. A tall black antique chair sat at the head of a dark wooden table, where I imagined the sommelier might sit like a king.

It was simply outstanding.

Each bottle, year after year, quietly becoming itself.

Someone once said that in France, wine is made with art, while in other places it’s made with science.

Standing there, I believed it.

Classic Cars and Art Studios

Back upstairs, Stefan led me through another door to the left. A space that had once been a horse stable now housed Leslie’s collection of classic cars and bicycles.

Then we passed through the courtyard of Villa Saint-Simon, and through another doorway, I heard classical French music playing softly in the background.

Up the stairs, into high ceilings, stone walls, and exposed 17th century beams, Leslie’s wife, Claire, had her art studio.

I marveled at her one-of-a-kind work and asked if I could take a photo or two. Every brushstroke felt intentional, like it carried a secret.

Then Stefan said, “Come. Now you see my studio.”

All Duck or No Dinner

Long metal keys rattled as he opened another tall door with creaking hinges.

Through double doors, I stepped into a large room, large for France, with a high ceiling, paints, brushes, easels, and an ornate French-style fireplace.

On the floor, amid the disheveled studio, lay a freshly painted piece.

“That’s where the magic happens,” Stefan said.

I looked down at the painting and laughed.

I call this one: All Duck or No Dinner.

It felt like the perfect title for the holiday season.

We moved through another room filled with hundreds of paintings. In one corner sat a box collecting coins labeled “for heartbreaks.”

Stefan and I laughed out loud and exchanged one of those looks that needs no explanation.

The Painting I Already Knew

Finally, we entered the last room.

The sun poured in through the window. Paintings covered every surface, hundreds of them, as if I had stepped into a film set designed specifically for me.

And then I saw it.

No really.

The one.

“What is that?” I asked, tripping desperately over my words. My mouth went dry. I could barely verbalize what I was seeing.

Stefan looked at me and said, “What are you saying?”

“That’s my work,” he said.

And I blurted out, almost breathless:

“You don’t understand… I have that piece where I’m staying. I’ve been admiring it for days. It’s been stuck in my mind. And now the universe brought me here… to you.”

“It’s not possible,” he said.

But it was.

And I promised him I would prove it.

Without hesitation, we embraced. Not in some lustful way, but like long-lost friends. Kindred spirits.

Two humans recognizing something bigger than coincidence.