The Villa

Our hero loves living in the city. The constant energy and availability of options mean you can go anywhere and do anything at any moment. But there are times to leave all that behind and head out into the countryside, where life is slower and the air is fresher.

A colleague informed our hero there was a luxurious villa to the east of Paris in which he would be residing for several days. Invitation extended, our hero made plans to join for some much-desired R and R.

Deep in the belly of Gare de Lyon lies a little bar called Croque Mie. This tiny oasis of drank is standing room only. No seating, you must stand at the bar. This situation is eased by the fact that pints of Kronenberg are only 2.80, the cheapest draught beers in the city.

He waits at this designated rendezvous point until the others join. Another round. A couple cans for the road. Together the troupe boards the RER A train towards Marne-la-Valle. Little by little the buildings and urban structures disappear, giving way to rolling green hills and fields of bright yellow flowers.

Their host left the door cracked and upon arrival the troupe finds him lounging in the setting sun, fresh out of a three-hour bath, sipping Bordeaux. The patio opens to a multilevel swimming pool and a pond, complete with ducks waddling about. Five or six bottles of unopened red sit on the table.

Wine is opened and poured around as people explore the compound excitedly. Immediately it is decided that a feast should be prepared and drinks in hand, they head to the local market. Our hero has a menu in mind and upon sharing it, the others are on board.

Our hero slips into his role of executive chef easily, slicing, dicing, cutting and chopping while his friends sit in the dwindling spring evening telling stories. Piles of minced garlic and chilies are separated then added to the meat for marinating. Bell peppers, potatoes and various spices simmer in olive oil, making love to one another in the frying pan. Thick, fresh tomato slices are garnished with crumbled Roquefort, drizzled with balsamic vinegar and taken to the patio.

Pasta and salmon wait in the wings but no one can fathom the subsequent courses. Perhaps later in the evening.

Lethargic but fulfilled physically and spiritually from the meal, the evening winds on in slothly bliss. Eventually our hero ascends the stairs and makes it to his quarters. He cracks the windows, inviting in cool breeze and the passionate, comforting bellows of mating bullfrogs. These sounds lull his spirit and lost in a sea of contentment he drifts off, to places and possibilities unknown.

The next morning our hero wakes in a cloud, swimming in pillows and soft, silken sheets. He enjoys an absurdly long shower in the spacious, gilded bathroom. It’s early and he’s refreshed; a rare combination considering the wheels off, rogue lifestyle he’s grown accustomed to.

In a sense, that’s why our hero loves life in France: the cup overfloweth. Food and drink abound, as does a sense of sharing in a communal atmosphere. It’s a loving and giving environment where friends and companions go the distance for one another. Burdens are bared, weight is pulled and loads are shifted. What can our hero do for you?