Virginia Woolf began her 1937 novel The Years with an enigmatic sentence: “It was an uncertain spring.” She was speaking about the weather, but she could just as well have been describing how European governments, struggling with whether and how to open their societies and restore their economies, cautiously dip their toes into the shallows rather than take the jarring, icy plunge into the deep, not knowing where the bottom is but desperately seeking it. Prudent and compassionate, each nation assesses its grim statistics on infections and deaths from COVID-19 with a unique calculus.

The indigenous culture and economy of each country inform its deliberations. Denmark immediately allowed its children to return to school. Italy allowed some, but not all, businesses to reopen. The UK and Spain watch and wait. German Chancellor Angela Merkel—who earned her doctorate in quantum chemistry—extended Germany’s lockdown for twenty days but allowed businesses that permit social distancing to reopen. Merkel is inclined to respect, and understand, the findings of science.

In France, President Macron extended our lockdown from April 15 to May 11, at which time large industries can resume operations and kindergartens (les ecoles maternelles) and elementary schools (les ecoles primaires) can reopen.

Thousands of Parisians have decamped to rural French villages, either to second homes or to the homes of relatives. They flee the coronavirus just as their grandparents fled the Nazi occupiers in 1940. The thunder of pounding boots as German troops marched down the Champs-Élysées on September 8 of that year struck Parisians as obscenely poignant.

To celebrate the tireless and selfless medical workers of France—l’equipe pour tout, “the team for all”—workmen at the Cathédrale Notre-Dame de Paris sounded the resounding F# note of “Emmanuel,” the oldest bell in the cathedral. Citizens five miles distant heard the acclamation. The bell dates from the 15th century. In 1681, King Louis XIV ordered it recast. It has heralded French Kings’ ordinations and the end of WWI and WWII. It is as important to French citizens’ pride in their history, art, and learning as Notre-Dame de Paris itself.

And what of life in Laroque des Albères, our small village in the Languedoc region of France? Rocatins, as the residents of Laroque are called, straddle French, Catalan, and Spanish cultures and languages. In spite of, or because of that colorful commingling of traditions, they gracefully comply with the government’s directives to stay home except to shop, exercise, or help others. You will find no trace of the supposed French disdain of authority and queuing here. I was surprised when, years ago, the French, with little complaint, replaced the French franc with the euro.

As we shop every morning for our baguette and croissants, our fresh vegetables and fruits, we smile at each other—above our masks, with our eyes. “Bonjour! Ça va? ” We wait patiently in line for one shopper to leave a store before another enters. Darice and Rene, owners of L’Epicerie, stand outside their shop and invite me to share a coffee with them. I am happy to accept their kindness. They tell me about the particularly sweet strawberries they just acquired, and I buy many. Next door, I pop into the butcher shop (le boucherie) to see what Murielle has prepared. I buy a potato-and-mushroom dish, not knowing that it contains truffles, with their spectacular, earthy taste that I have never, ever experienced.

Gretchen and I walk every day. She either walks into the Pyrenees or to the nearby town of Sorède. From Sorède, she always returns with newspapers (les journaux) including French papers and the New York Times International Edition.

I can’t resist walking through the communal gardens (les jardins florentine) wherein lie delights of sight, smell, and taste—the best antidote to the daily reports of viral infection.

Come walk with me!

Every day the gardens display new treasures. From far above, we see trees with brilliant yellow lemons, tempting us to rush down and pluck them. But of course, we don’t. Farther on, we can even see trees bearing oranges. Orange poppies, not fences, separate the plots. Crossing the bridge over the Laroque River, we walk down into the gardens. Let’s linger mid-bridge to hear the river and gaze into its limpid water. The southern France sun and lengthening days encourage green seedlings to burst through the fertile, brown soil. The new arrivals flourish, nourished by compost from last year’s crops and moistened by water from the melting snow in the Pyrenees.

The first daffodils of the year delight us with their orange trumpets and pale yellow and white mantles. “Bonjour! See how pretty we are?” The bearded, purple and white wild irises behind them add to the vibrant harmony of the gardens’ floral adagio.

As we climb out of the gardens, we stop for a moment to admire the sturdy marble arches that frame the 12th century Church of Saint Félix. The church door is open. Let’s walk inside and linger in front of the dazzling gold altarpiece that Catalan sculptor Joseph Sunyer carved in the 18th century. Once outside, we amble over to inspect the door of the oldest house in the village. Our real estate agent once opened it for me. I laughed because I couldn’t stand up beneath its low ceiling without bumping my head. The house was made for 12th century Rocatins, not me.

On our way back down from the old village, we pass by our neighbor Guy and his dog Pepsi. Pepsi doesn’t bark at me anymore, rushing forward instead, imploring me to pat her.

A food bank has appeared in Le Bridge Club, the building where I attended yoga classes last year. We stop by and contribute a few euros. They won’t let us leave before they give us a receipt. Le Pharmacie handed out masks until they had no more of them. French bureaucracy!

Since the time of Charlemagne in the early middle ages, our village has known war, and Rocatins, therefore, know that nothing is permanent. Perhaps that’s why no one in our village complains when we are inconvenienced. Life is not difficult, it is simply changing. That is not to say that Rocatins are defeatists, resigned to a life of tragedy. Rather, we know that life is a beautiful gift, celebrated in well-made tapenades, flower baskets hanging from balconies, endearing village art, rustic rural music, and simple walks through gardens.

And, yes, Gretchen and I must contend with canceled airline flights home. Yet we’re in no rush to return to Houston. We are safe here. Life is rich and fragrant.

We are not alone in feeling this way. Our friends Sally, her husband, and two young boys have just returned to Laroque after briefly visiting their residence in York, England, where they took care of some business. I asked Sally, “How long will you stay here?” She looked at me as if I had asked an absurd question and then declared, “This is our home.”

I understand, Sally. I really do.

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