Retire in France

Author: Jian Kai / Country: Mainland China
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2005-01-01
Features: Good morning, Rambaud! Since leaving Paris and moving to Rambaud to live, I have truly found inner peace and tranquility. Every morning, the crowing of roosters and the chirping of birds wake me up. Opening the window of my bedroom, the morning glow carries the distant mountains, merging with the blue sky and white clouds before my eyes—sometimes silver-white, sometimes deep green, sometimes golden, sometimes orange-red. In short, I must use my eyes, my lungs, and my entire being to absorb all of this, to immerse myself in it, and to let nature fill and embrace me. Rambaud is a small village in the southeastern Alps of France. It has very few tourists, picturesque scenery, and fresh air. This morning, the baker arrived on schedule, as always, driving his old green bread truck to the center of the village—the Monument to Fallen Village Defenders. The truck’s horn is always very loud, slightly out of harmony with the village’s peaceful atmosphere, but it is enough to tell the entire village: the freshly baked bread has arrived! I put on my coat and took out some change. But the face peering out of the truck was unfamiliar, yet there was something vaguely familiar about it. The baker, named Steve, is usually a tall, strong, handsome young man with a straight nose, thick lips, and a radiant smile like sunshine. Today, however, the man with the same facial structure, though older and slightly heavier, was bearded and sorrowful, far less cheerful than Steve. I greeted the new baker politely: "Hello! Please take me one rye bread stick." Out of courtesy, I didn’t dare ask why Steve wasn’t here. Having lived in France for over ten years, I understand the French custom of not prying into others’ affairs. If they choose to share, I listen; if they don’t, I don’t ask—it’s called respecting others. After saying goodbye to the gray-faced new baker, I didn’t say "see you tomorrow," because I hoped to see our Steve again the next day. Living in a "paradise" like this, I still enjoy traveling. This trip has lasted nearly two months, and returning to the quiet village has made me cherish life here even more. The fatigue of the journey has faded, the restlessness brought by the big city has weakened, and I have found my usual calm and composed self. I think that no matter how far I travel or how many people and things I encounter, the tranquility of the village is eternal. Life here flows like a quiet stream, waiting for me. Only here can I find myself—this is my home.
The next day was Sunday. As usual, the villagers went to the small church. I’m not a religious person and don’t attend church services. While listening to the news on the radio, I quietly ate my breakfast. Looking out the window at the pedestrians, I noticed something unusual today: they were dressed in black, and some were holding white chrysanthemums. I thought it must be a memorial mass for a deceased person. There are many elderly people in the village, and there are always a few funerals each year. I don’t know whose elderly person has passed away, but with so many people attending the funeral, the deceased should rest in peace. I usually don’t participate in religious ceremonies, but I always write a sympathy card for the family.
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