​NONFICTION  

"We'd flirt with the vendors at Les Halles as they opened up at 2am--
generous with their bowls of French onion soup for Les Americaines with no money!."

                                     Photo by Weebly.com                                  

Back to Provence *
by Elsa Fernandez
*  Published in Issue 11 of Vistas & Byways - Spring 2021

A year ago, the sweet and gentle man in my life, my partner, became ill. We were new lovers but old friends. For years, our worlds were very different until we started discovering more similarities and shared interests in our lives.
 
Mine had been a settled existence in the corporate world of San Francisco. Mundane? Perhaps. I soon realized the world of finance was making me self-centered and less creative. He was a sound engineer and tour manager for the jazz greats—Herbie Hancock, Branford Marsalis, Tony Williams, Joshua Redman, Chick Correa and Miles Davis. For 35 years, Lee travelled the world with the musicians to jazz festivals and musical engagements. He was a genius with instrumental feeds and sound mixes.
 
I listened to the stories of his experiences—fascinated by the music he loved. I'd laugh at the cheeky descriptions peppering his stories. "Ah yes . . .  she was gorgeous with legs that stretched up to her neck . . .." He started singing the often-misinterpreted Springsteen lyrics from "Born to Run”—“Just wrap your legs 'round these velvet rims and strap your hands across my engines.” He teased the musician about her, especially as the drummer was a foot shorter than she was, and totally smitten.
 
Lee especially loved the town of Montpellier and visited it often. He'd discovered it when he spent 5 months in France working with Bertrand Tavernier on the jazz film Round Midnight. Now Montpellier was something we had in common. 
 
After graduation, a friend and I bought cheap tickets to Paris on Icelandic Air. We wanted to do a memorable tour of Europe—carefree months before careers and paychecks. We'd flirt with the vendors at Les Halles as they opened up at 2am—generous with their bowls of French onion soup for Les Americaines with no money!
 
Hitchhiking was easy. We slept in youth hostels, sharing rooms and bathrooms with at least 50 others—Germans, Greeks, Tunisians. No tensions—just camaraderie. We cadged Gitanes from new French boyfriends.
 
Bonnieux . . . Menerbes . . . Gordes . . .
 
​Provence smelled beautiful. We biked through Le Plateau de Valensole, where fields of purple lavender and bright yellow sunflowers stretched endlessly around us. Artists and photographers flocked to see "L'Heure d'Or"—the Golden Hour, that magical hour before sunset when this fragrant world was bathed in an immeasurable carat brilliance. 
 
Every village had a tiny perfume shop where farmers' wives would create fragrances from the essential oils of flowers, fruits and leaves growing around them. All different. No two alike. Each one heavenly. Madame Deschamps showed me how to crush leaves from lemon trees and basil plants in the palm of my hand and rub the earthy fragrance on my ear lobes—merveilleux!
 
Lee and I shared our memories of the South of France. He dreamed of going back soon. "I want to take you to Montpellier—it’s a magnificent city with great food and unbelievable history.” But Lee's health was slowly declining. Cancer is unforgiving. It plays no favorites. As human beings, we yearn to keep our dreams alive as long as we can breathe.  
 
Just after Labor Day, FedEx delivered a package addressed to me. It was from Lee. Exciting—I wasn't expecting anything. It was from a small gift shop in Trinidad. We loved exploring Northern California's coastal towns. We followed the trails of the Pomos and Miwoks in Clear Lake and Mendocino. We rediscovered the beauty in our backyards.
 
One afternoon in Humboldt County, we stopped at a tiny gift shop. He saw a collection of essential oils and we talked about it. Unbeknownst to me, months later he called the owner and asked her to put together a collection of oils as a gift. She created a small apothecary for me in a carved redwood box with 12 essential oils of flowers, herbs and fruit.
 
Lee liked the lemon and basil oil I made and let me rub some on his temples. He had dictated a note to be enclosed with the gift. It reads "I may not be able to go with you to Montpellier. I want you to go there some day. Enjoy these oils from fragrances you remember. Think of me sometimes."
 
Lee died two days later.

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​​Elsa Fernandez grew up in Asia. She has lived in San Francisco since 1970 and never gets tired of this lovely city. She has travelled the world and still gets excited flying back home and to finally land at SFO. Her family is scattered around the world—India, Australia, Dubai, England, Ireland, and Argentina. She is a political junkie and majored in Journalism and Political Science. She loves music and plays the piano quite well (one of her dreams was to own a piano bar in upcountry Maui . . . she would probably call it the Maui Moon!). Writing poetry is an emotional outlet for her.

Editor's Note:  Elsa passed away at age 75 in January 2024

Other works in this issue:
Poetry:  
​That Third Day of March Last Year
​The Better-Than-Sex Blueberry Cake
Number 27 to Taco Nirvana

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