The Red-and-White Trail

The first week in France went by very quickly. Things are so different here. Even the sheets smell different, because they are hung on the clothesline to dry, and at first I had trouble sleeping. I am glad that I am finally getting used to things. On my second Sunday here, I take the white bicycle out of the garage and I ride past the cherry trees and down the driveway, just as I have done before. It is good that some things stay the same. It is a warm July afternoon, but when I am riding, the air feels cool and fresh. I go down the lane toward the woods, and I see the red and white lines on the trees. Luke Phoenix told me that these lines mark a hiking trail.

I follow the red-and-white trail and it leads me into the forest on a path that changes from gravel to dirt. There are tree roots and rocks that make the path difficult to ride on, so I begin to carry the white bicycle, telling myself all the while that the road will get better up ahead. The path descends through an old stream bed and then up and around huge tree roots that I struggle to navigate. Rocks are strewn along the way and I keep stumbling, but going forward, agonizing over my decision to continue. Shall I retrace my steps? Shall I go on? Just a little further, I keep thinking. The path will get better up ahead.

Heat from the sun is falling through the thin leaves of the olive trees and my skin hurts. The cicadas are singing their electric song.

Off to the left, I encounter an older couple. One of them is sitting on a fallen log in the shade, and the other is standing in a ray of light.

"Bonjour," I say, and the one standing nods.

"Bonjour."

They seem to be waiting for someone, I think, but I know they aren't waiting for Godot, like the people in Samuel Beckett's play. Sometimes, I feel like I'm waiting like that and I don't know what I'm waiting for, and it's not a nice feeling. It's a panicky feeling. It's a feeling that makes me want to swear and obsessively clean things, just like I'm trying not to do.

After I say hello, I carry the white bicycle past the two people in the woods and keep going forward, and the path grows more and more difficult, and I can hear my breath rattling in my chest. Just a little further, I keep telling myself. Scaling a sharp ridge, I fall and scrape my shin, and then finally I come to a stop. What if the path does not get better? What if I shouldn't have come into this forest in the first place? I can feel the white-out rising behind my eyes. I don't know what to do next.

Go back. That is the best choice. I toil through the white haze that clouds my vision and start back, sweat dripping down my neck from the heat of my long hair. This time, the couple are both in the shade, one still on the log, the other stretched out on the ground. I take a deep breath and the haze clears.

"Bonjour," I say, my voice cracking. "Bonjour," I repeat.

They do not answer. It is possible they are asleep, except that I think the person on the log is eating pistachio nuts. It is also possible that they are confused by the way I am carrying the white bicycle back and forth in the forest, and perhaps there is ridicule in their gaze. I don't know why but I feel hotter as I pass. I feel them looking at me, judging me. Look at her, there. The Freaker. Voices echo from the past and I wonder if I'll ever stop hearing them. I wish I could climb out of my skin and be somewhere else. The heat is terrible, and in the end I'm not sure I am on the same path as before. Even the stream bed, once I come to it, looks different.

But I emerge from the forest and put the white bicycle down on the gravel road, slip onto the seat, and put my feet to the pedals. Soon the wind is at my back and I skim along home, lost and then found. C'est la vie. Such is life.