Ahhh. I have a dream of one day living in the south of France. Ten years ago I spent three months in a beautiful little village called Ollioules on a student exchange. My host family lived in a house up the side of a small mountain. The homes were shades of cream, rose, salmon, all topped with the famous rust coloured tiles, and shutters of every colour under the rainbow thrown open at the windows. The terrain rolled over the hills, filled with the purple hues of lavender or the red earth of vineyards. The sparkling blue of the Mediterranean Sea spread out below us and the smoky violet of the mountains rose behind.
I spent three months in paradise. I spent each day conversing in a lyrical language, basking in the heat of the spring and marveling that palm trees grew in such abundance in France. I strolled through markets that are open daily and visited daily by many. Fresh baguettes adorned the table at every meal, as well as a platter of unending varieties of cheese.
I cried the day I left. I have returned a few times, and each time feel a sense that I am returning home.
Before I had dreams of success, wealth, fame and many of the other ideas that infiltrate the mind of a young budding artist. Now I dream of a quiet unassuming life in a little village in France. Perhaps a modest Bed and Breakfast, or owning a small bookstore. Something quiet that allows a bit of interaction with neighbours and strangers alike. Now I dream not of a specific goal, but of an atmosphere, an attitude, an ambiance.