Story 9 | My Morning Croissant
A woman travels to France to eat-pray-love after a devastating breakup and falls in love in an unexpected way while buying her daily croissant.
In September, I traveled with my parents to the village of Beynac-et-Cezanac in the Dordogne region of France. Every morning, they walked down to the boulangerie to buy croissants while I wrestled with jet lag and pregnancy fatigue. I did walk the path many times, just later in the day.
My Morning Croissant came to me in a sleepless fit between 3 and 7 a.m. while on this trip. When I awoke again later that morning, I was very pleased to see my notes were indeed coherent. Insomnia at its most productive!
While these events are fiction, the setting and atmosphere of this story are very real. Add this town to your travel wishlist.
My Morning Croissant
Day 1
How big of a cultural phenomenon does something have to be to conjure its own verb? Like eat-pray-love. In all fairness, they were already verbs to start, but Elizabeth Gilbert’s book transformed the meaning. And now, here I am on my own existential journey trying to shake loose some semblance of authentic self after the shattering of a romantic and professional breakup.
My sister booked me a week at a rental apartment in the southwest of France to clear my head. “Go eat-pray-love, please,” she said as she shoved my suitcase at me while dropping me off at the airport curb. Incredibly generous of her, if you set aside the fact that she used my credit card, but I think it may have also been slightly self-serving as she was tired of my weeping on her couch every night after she and her husband put her three kids to bed.
This village in France is quaint and historic, a kind way of saying old and crowded with retirees. I suppose it could be pretty, but the unrelenting cloud cover had thrown a sad blanket over the stone buildings, taking them from aged to bleak. The weather matched my emotional state: soupy and gray, just the right temperature where the humidity undermined your hair, but the moisture gave you a chill you couldn’t quite shake.
My sister or maybe the rental host, who the hell knows, failed to mention the place was located midway up a cliff and could only be reached by foot, requiring trekking up a path at an incline that only people who carved abodes out of stone without technology would be okay with.
So yeah, I’m in a state. I’m now headed down that path – easier physically than going up, but more immediately fraught with potential fall risk – to the boulangerie to buy my morning croissants. The rental guidebook suggests this is a daily necessity; one can’t stock up because a day-two croissant is categorically not the same as a day-one, particularly in France, where preservatives are not recognized. I feel bad for Costco shoppers who buy those cardboard trays of croissants and think they’re getting something special, something thoughtfully made. I don’t mind the idea of a daily walk mostly because carbs and I are in a deeply committed relationship, unlike my partnership, and I’m usually willing to make sacrifices to preserve a life-giving relationship.
We were trying to be current and called each other partners, but I’m realizing now that as gender-nonconformity-forward as it was, we lost our status in the term. I lost the distinction of boyfriend-fiancé-husband, and it would have helped, well, me, at least. I used to explain to my sister that he and I weren’t married-married per se, but we were wholly committed to a lifelong partnership, and how would a piece of paper with a legal definition be additive? Our love couldn’t be contained. It was a “Moulin-Rouge”-fever dream of romance and consumption – the happy part, that is. She would rebut that we weren’t married, but I discounted her argument because she wasn’t in the relationship, how much could she know? Apparently, plenty. Annoying.
We were also partners in business, and at least he had the decency to buy me out when he forced me out. By decency, of course, I mean legally compelled decency. Which technically he had originally insisted was necessary, and me through my rose-colored glasses laughed and blithely signed the document certain this professional prenup would never be exercised, instead of taking it for the red flag it so clearly was. Okay, maybe not a red flag, but an early sign that he and I weren’t on the same page. I wasn’t financially destitute, only emotionally destitute. If only there was a prenup for the heart, sort of a pre-emptive “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” – less about erasing your past and more about reclaiming ownership of your own heart.
Anyways. Back to the matter at hand.
Some might consider the construction of this path an incredible feat, for how its stone and mortar have worn yet endured the centuries, but they are treacherously slippery in this rain, and if I break my jetlagged ass falling, I may choose to convalesce like a homeless person at the bottom of the hill with the croissants, rather than ever making that climb again, even if it means a bed and wi-fi.
Anyhow, I’ve made it. Maybe a croissant will help. Or two. Maybe three.
Day 2
I’m not one to shake jetlag easily, but I will reluctantly admit that, after last night’s sleep, I feel remarkably more myself and less like a vertiginous shrew of a human.
I lock the rental’s front door, and I’m somewhat looking forward to heading down to the boulangerie for my croissants. Obviously, they were delicious, and I want more. The food here creates quite the quandary – I want to eat more, but after a few courses, I physically cannot. At the thought of consuming more, I have two physical reactions: my tastebuds are fully on board, while my stomach groans in protest. I’m going on a walk later with hopes it will generate more appetite and need for fuel.
This morning, I looked out my window. Somehow, I didn’t yesterday, too clouded by my general disorientation and checking out the rental for the first time to look beyond. That and the weather was abysmal, and why look for hope or beauty in the world when love is dead? Right. Reeling it back in.
What did I see out my window this morning? Perched halfway up the cliff as I am, the rental opens up to sweeping views of the curve in the river below, the further bank lined with lush green pastures and a freaking castle in the distance. My side of the river offers a birds-eye view of the village, elegantly worn stone buildings adorned with light blue shutters and terracotta roofs, nestled into the hillside. Fluffy white clouds prance along a pristine blue sky, and I felt a little stirring of life in my cold heart.
The view makes me wonder as I start moving down the hill. What else did I miss yesterday?
Today, the steepness of the cobblestone path feels less treacherous and more like an engineering marvel, ignoring the flagrant ADA-noncompliance. I take more time to notice this road is lined with more of the same stone residences with blue shutters. With this incline, everything is uneven and custom to the slope, with wild yet thoughtful vegetation softening all the rock. How does Europe do flowers so much better than we do in the U.S.? I pass sophisticated roses that make me stop to look, as well as so many other plants, vines and flowers I cannot identify.
There’s a light blue door tucked under a combover of vines, shrouded in a stylish, understated way that prompts so many questions. What are the interiors like? What square footage could lie behind this door? How does someone live halfway up a cliff like this? Where do they park? Do they get used to shlepping groceries by foot?
I pass a diminutive fountain, trickling water as if just for the ambiance created. How did this get here, and what is its purpose now?
At the bottom of the hill, a dilapidated building next to me feels like an eyesore after the gentle beauty of that walk, so I turn back to review the ground I’ve covered – and above. Naturally there’s a hulking castle on top on the cliff I had not previously noticed. I think someone told me it was one of the main attractions here. I’m more attracted by the croissants… and the view.
Day 3
I’ll be damned if I didn’t wake up to hot-air balloons floating by my window this morning like I’ve apparated into a sunny French fairytale. I was initially aroused by a periodic gushing sound that seemed to be coming from outside my window where, of course, there is nothing but air. I opened the blinds to find myself level with a luminous, red hot air balloon not twenty yards out. Another unexpected benefit of living halfway up a cliff. I wonder if city dwellers living on high floors experience similar sights. I don’t care how cynical, jaded, ruined by heartbreak you are: the sight was downright joyful.
The hot air balloons got me out of bed a little earlier this morning, so I’m starting my jaunt down the hill in less of a rush, using this walk to help me properly wake up.
Today, the path seems busier, one could hardly call it crowded, but there are tourists at every turn. They’re easy to spot from the few villagers present because they’re incessantly taking photographs, invariably with strangely large cameras, as though their cell phones would be insufficient. There’s even a full camera crew studiously filming what appears to me to be a stone wall, but maybe it’s the site of something? I don’t know.
What would my partner think of this locale? I can’t picture him here. I bet he’d just want to drive on by to find a bigger city with more “culture.” I probably would have agreed with him, partially but not completely to merely go along. I’m not without my own judgments. Most of these tourists seem quite nerdly, middle-aged or older. And must have some money if they’re buying these enormous cameras and traveling the world.
I hear countless languages as I walk on – maybe this is a happening vacation destination? But where are they all staying? This village is fairly remote and tiny. I spied a hotel on the other side of the village from the boulangerie, but it seemed pretty cheesy and obvious. Nerdly they may be, but these tourists must have some level of good taste to choose this village to visit over the typical major-city itinerary.
Evidently, I’ve been charmed by the view and the hot-air balloons to even toy with the ideas that this destination potentially stacks up to a Paris. In reality, travelers should visit both. They should stand in awe before the Eiffel Tower with a crêpe in hand, people-watch from a café perch and get lost in Musée d'Orsay. Bonus points for visiting Montmartre and Sacré Coeur to relive scenes from “Amélie.”
But as much as I’m a city gal, I’ve always been taken by the beauty of nature and a wide-open landscape, when I encounter them. I can breathe, I can think. Huh, maybe my sister knows this about me.
The bottom of the hill lands me before the rundown building from yesterday. Like the residences that line the path, there’s no real telling where the structure begins and ends, as it melds into the façade behind it, curving and twisting with character, not function. One of the many doors sports two signs I missed before: a faded “Hotel Bonnet **” and a fresher, but still dusty “À VENDRE.” For sale.
So there was another hotel in this town, but it appears to have gone under or been closed long ago, given the state of the disrepair and neglect evident at every turn as I walk by. I don’t know how well a two-star hotel served this audience, but maybe they were on to something if they were one of the only games in town.
Anyways, croissants are waiting, and I think I need a pain aux raisins. And they have all these desserts I can’t name in the case. Trying them would be a good way to learn more French.
Day 4
I’ve decided not to wonder if the baker is questioning where all the bread is going. I’m not going to ask myself if she thinks I have a family of five or a voracious lover back in the room who have never shown their faces but would help account for disappearing the increasing multiples I’ve been ordering. I’ve decided she’s happy to take my money and happy to not have leftovers of her labor-intensive treats remaining at day’s end. I’m supporting a small business! Her work is legitimately good and should be celebrated. So yeah, I’m heading there now, unbothered by any possible judgment.
On the phone last night, I told my sister about my morning walks to buy butter-soaked carbs. I think she was just happy I wasn’t ruminating on how he-who-shall-not-be-named started sabotaging our relationship so I would try to suggest we work on our relationship all so he could be the one to suggest I move out because I was oppressing him. Oppressing! Right, not going there.
She did have one question that got me. When I mentioned the long-abandoned hotel, she asked if the real estate listing had any pictures. Depending on when they were last updated, the interiors could be incredible. Imagine the possibilities, she said, what if it’s a diamond in the rough with rustic beams and an open hearth. Or a haunted nest that should be torched, I responded. But now I’m curious.
As a result, I’m hustling down the hill because I’m going to peep in the windows. Note that “hustling” down this steep slope really means walking at a tentative normal pace, as opposed to gingerly placing every footfall and looking for handholds in the case I should go down.
What if the hotel really is a neglected masterpiece that could be revived with renewed vision? A musty lobby that hasn’t seen sunlight in years could be painted and draped with curtains that play up the ceiling height, fresh flowers on the mantle and a private alcove to meet and greet guests, while those waiting or resting lounge on antique furniture that makes them feel like they’re in a fancier version of home.
Maybe the hotel houses ten rooms, each a unique footprint but all facing the river. I would decorate each completely independently, so guests want to pore over the site pictures and choose the precise room they want to book, not an approximation of a room tier. Hotels never show enough pictures of rooms, I can’t figure out why. In the age of Zillow, we want every angle and detail shown off. I want the FOMO of not staying in that room to be palpable before you click away.
And what if we didn’t serve meals on-site – I mean if I were running a hotel, I wouldn’t want to add the work of a restaurant. But I bet there’s a kitchen in there, so what if we opened it up, redecorating it like a Nancy Meyers kitchen, crossing France, the Hamptons and California to create this light-filled common space, where as a guest you could prepare the foods you bought at the marché or uncork that bottle of wine and actually not go out to eat at every meal. It can get old. And being that we’re serving a more affluent guest, they hate to be nickel-and-dimed, so what if there was a fridge laden with a particular few complimentary items from local purveyors. Stacks of croissants, in partnership with the boulangerie around the corner, cheeses and pate, wine from vineyards we recommend visiting.
My reverie keeps me occupied until I’m facing reality again: the hotel is surrounded by a tall chain-link fence, so there will be no peering in windows today. I suppose I could climb the fence. I’m less concerned with getting busted for trespassing and more concerned with busting my ass climbing over or worse getting stuck inside and all this being witnessed and judged by the nerdly tourists everywhere.
I still want to see inside though.
Day 5
What if it wasn’t an idle vacation daydream? What if I Under-the-Tuscan-Sunned it? Can that one be a verb? I mean, I’ve got the sad divorcée bit down, but my relationship status is so lame I can’t even say I’m divorced; it’s more accurate to say we broke up. As if they’re the same thing. Like we were a pair of teenagers who tried dating for the first time and broke up dramatically via locker notes that capsized them emotionally. To convey the proper magnitude of things, I’d have to say I lost the love of my life, but he hurt me so badly that’s not even true anymore. This is not “The Notebook” where I’m Noah pining endlessly and willing to wait forever. That depth of love isn’t there. It’s dead and buried after his unmasking these last months, the unraveling of the man I loved into a stranger I don’t even really respect anymore.
Oh.
That’s interesting.
Huh.
No but really, I ran a company before. I have customer service standards, and I can’t design myself, but I can certainly communicate a vision to someone else. This hotel has been on the market for seemingly forever, so the sellers, if rational, must be willing to negotiate. Not to mention the project objectively requires considerable further investment. Depending on the square footage, I could pull it off financially.
The big obstacle will be the visa, I don’t know the first thing about that. But lawyers do. My French is only so good, but man, English-speaking tourists will feel right at home. And I can hire local employees to offer more of an authentic French feel.
What if I lived here? Would this intimate village be enough for me? Would managing a hotel be life-giving or soul-sucking? I could always sell it once I fixed it up. Not flip it, but curate a gem of luxury property known for design, service, views and some other hook I can figure out later. Then ideally turn a profit by selling it off to a boutique hotel group. The project of building it out, reviving the structure itself, and crafting a brand and reputation that piques interest – that, I’m into. The game of booking guests and events and weddings… Would I do weddings? This doesn’t feel like a weddings moment, but it would depend on the property’s layout. I can debate simplicity vs. multiple revenue streams vs. market demand later. But booking rooms would be a fun game. Would it get old? Would living here feel vital? I could travel more through France and Europe, particularly once things were up and running. Or I could consider earlier trips research!
I shift into making a mental list of to-dos as I near the bottom of the hill and the hotel. I need to call the real estate agent on the listing to get a showing – that’s the major reason for my trek this morning, though I will of course stop by the boulangerie. I need to crunch the numbers on what my budget can support. I still haven’t even seen the interiors, don’t know the price, condition or size. Or how to run a hotel. Am I getting ahead of myself? Definitely. But this beats crying.
Day 6
There’s something about this view that cues a violent cuteness aggression in me – I strangely, viscerally want to eat it. I’ve stared at it for the last few days, and Lord knows the camera roll on my phone is full of pictures of every shade of whatever sunrise and sunset and midday sun cast over the river and pastures before me. It’s not enough. Ingesting it would help, I’m certain of this.
It's another perfect day, with a crystal blue sky laced with only fluffy, happy clouds, warm but not hot sun, a gentle breeze just to add to the mysticism of this place.
That said, I’m nervous. I’m on pins and needles waiting for this real estate agent to call me back. I’m not so much checking my phone as keeping it alive and in front of my face at all times.
I want to run this hotel. I want to move to France. I want a new, exciting challenge that will upend my life in the most productive, thrilling way. Change had already been thrust upon me; this is a change I can choose. I am physically willing this property to be rundown perfection that will give me, and me alone, clear vision for how it wants to be transformed.
Yesterday, I was getting ahead of myself. Today, I’m fully overinvested. The universe owes me a win after the unfettered drama of these last months. This could be it. I could use my “Under the Tuscan Sun” parallels as a marketing angle, sharing the renovation on social media to help drive attention. I obsessed over the hotel all day yesterday, writing notes, pulling design inspiration images and researching the history. I’m not yet certain of the age of the building, but the hotel dates to the 1920s, which I love – and could be a fascinating jumping-off point design-wise. I called my sister and sent her all the pictures I took of the exterior, talking her through the idea and asking her opinion on how insane the idea is. Surprisingly, she was in full support, aside from the whole leaving-the-country element, which was sweet of her.
When I finally went to bed, my mental engine was so revved I couldn’t sleep for incessant ideas popping up that were too good not to write down. After a time, I gave up on the pretense of turning off the light and just wrote everything down until there was nothing left.
I organized the notes this morning before I headed down the path. They were surprisingly not nonsense. It’s the beginning of a business plan. I’m too nervous to eat right now – of all things, why am I nervous? – but I want to stand in front of the hotel and hope it wills the real estate agent to ring me back.
Okay, I’m here. Just waiting for the phone to ring. I want to call the lawyer and designers I researched yesterday, but it feels smarter to keep the line clear. I’ll try them later this afternoon. I also need to look into postponing my flight home.
Day 7
I step out of the boulangerie, clutching bags filled with half the contents of their glass case, necessary provisions for the epic pity carb party I’m about to throw for myself.
If I’m being positive, and I don’t want to be right now, I would say my theory of standing in front of the hotel to prompt a call worked. It’s just that the freaking real estate agent called me not yesterday, but just 20 minutes ago to share that the hotel sold to a developer eight freaking years ago, and she’s been meaning to take down the for-sale signs, but she hasn’t gotten to it yet as her region is so broad and doesn’t take her through the village often. She went so far as to say she was surprised to hear from me and suggested if I had spoken to any of the 500 residents in town, they would have expressed their frustration that the developer plans to tear down the historic building to build modern, luxury apartments, which while lucrative, seems antithetical to the very premise of this place. Hence the chain-link fence, to keep people out.
I’m crushed. Sure, I should have known better and maybe shouldn’t have set my heart on something that wasn’t yet remotely real. But come on, maintain your for-sale signs for crying out loud. Wouldn’t you want to boast you sold something? Well, maybe not if the town might turn on you. That does explain why I couldn’t find listings online. I simply thought browsing French real estate wasn’t as intuitive as Zillow.
Carbs aren’t going to cut it. I want to be crying on my sister’s sofa. I was so excited about this. I don’t care if it’s 4 a.m. her time, I need her. Ambitiously, I start walking uphill, the hotel to my back, as I dial, and the phone starts ringing.
“Hello?” She sounds as she should: asleep.
“Hi sis.”
“Are you dying or sad?”
“Just sad. Except, like, distraught. The hotel isn’t happening.”
I fill her in on the real estate agent’s news and try to focus on being dramatically angry so I won’t sob and scare the nerdly tourists who are merrily unaware of my grief. They just see a loud, obnoxious American. Which to be fair, in this moment, I am.
“It didn’t work out. I feel like I’m cursed. Nothing works out. Don’t tell me I can find another property. I don’t want to. It was that or nothing.”
“Babe, you’re looking at this wrong.” I hear her sigh and shift around in bed, whispering so as not to wake up her husband. “I see this as a huge win. You’ve been a mess for months now. But after a week in France, you’re dreaming again. This idea didn’t work out, but now we know this: you’re ready for something new. That’s huge. That’s exciting. Things are possible again. This is where you needed to get to. Now, I’m going back to bed. You think on that.”
I’m glad she’s hung up because I’m officially out of breath from climbing this path. I look out on the view and take a deep breath, setting the croissants down to pause and think. It takes a minute, but I realize she’s right.
I am ready for something new.
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Next Week’s Plot Twist…
You’ve probably noticed I don’t name many of my short story characters. Next week, two men in very different life stages are thrust into a bonding situation. So far, I know the characters, but not the action, other than it’s meant to be comedic.
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