We are so lucky! While others suffer miserably from the coronavirus scourge or find themselves stranded in the most irksome of districts on other continents, Gretchen and I couldn’t be safer or happier sequestered in bucolic Laroque des Albères, our adopted village in the Languedoc Region of France. Thank you, British Airways!

British Airways is what lawyers call the “proximate cause” of our good fortune. The carrier has canceled our flights home three (or is it four?) times, and as a result we are marooned in France. This reminds me of “snow days” in elementary school when, through no fault of my own, I could stay home and go sledding with a clear conscience. I am as cunning as Br’er Rabbit, of the black American folktale, who pled, “Please, Br’er Fox, don’t fling me in dat brier patch.”

As I reflect on my long and happy life, I feel grateful for so much. I am thinking now of the Zimbabwean rangers who, 20 years ago, led Gretchen and me on walks through the African bush. It was a trip of a lifetime! While in Zimbabwe, we stayed for a few days at an overpriced camp in a national park that our friends aptly called Afro Disney. We enjoyed roomy, wooden-floor tents we could stand up in. Every morning an attendant tiptoed in, gently tapped on the tent support, and placed our morning tea tray on the table. The tray bore china cups, a pot of freshly brewed tea, sugar, cream, and lemon.

Twice a day in Zimbabwe, the rangers accompanied us on our walks, teaching us to see the world the way natives see it and open our senses to all the natural wonders around us. We learned to delight in spider webs rather than swat them out of our way, to see where an insect or animal had chewed on a leaf, to recognize which plants have medicinal value and which are toxic. In the evenings, we watched the animals drink from the pond in front of the resort.

And now, when we take our morning walks into the Pyrenees—or simply go to the village shops—we see the world as Zimbabweans taught us to see it. Beauty and drama surround us.

In Europe, France and Germany have begun to flatten the curve of new COVID-19 infections and deaths. But many other countries, with grimly rising upward lines, don’t yet have a curve. France succeeded for several reasons: it imposed reasonable, effective, and enforceable restrictions; it believed the lives of French citizens are more important than euros; and it admitted that it was slow to react to the virus.

As a result, on May 11 France will lift most of its COVID-19 restrictions. France has designated the Languedoc Occitanie a zone vert, or green zone, because few here are infected. On the other hand, Paris and the entire northeast, where the virus has struck most severely, lie in a zone rouge, or red zone, and will continue to live with restrictions.

Italy now allows adults to leave their homes for short periods, and Italians employed in essential businesses may return to their jobs. The Spanish Parliament recently voted to retain its restrictions, while the UK seems perplexed about how best to move forward.

The EU committed $8 billion to fund joint research into finding a vaccine, while other countries, including the US, declined to participate. The EU also allocated $7.4 billion to mitigate what will be Europe’s worst recession ever. Some economists predict a depression in Europe. This year the French economy shrank by 33%.

Here in Laroque, spring, oblivious to the virus, is becoming, inexorably and by imperceptible steps, summer. Under the bright, blue southern France sky, daytime temperatures reach the low 80°s F.

On May 8, French everywhere celebrated VE Day. The Nazi occupation affected every French village except those in the “Free Zone,” a strip in central France that ran from east to west. This year, however, Laroque canceled its ceremony—another casualty of the coronavirus. I love our ceremony! Le Maire, the Mayor, wraps a tricolore sash around himself and delivers a modest but poignant speech. A small brass band then accompanies us as we sing La Marseillaise.

More purveyors have been attending our village market every Wednesday. Gorgeous fruits and vegetables are on offer and more kinds of cheese than I knew existed. We are partial to comté, Pyrenees tomme, chèvre, and whichever fromage blue (blue cheese) the cheese seller recommends. Soon the soap seller will appear, and we’ll replenish our store of the luscious Savon de Marseille (Soap of Marseille), which has been produced continuously since 1637. In 1681, King Louis XIV decreed that Savon de Marseille must contain olive oil rather than soda. The Romans used soap from the area in the first century. Savon de Marseille is made only with animal and vegetable fats and comes in green or tan cubes roughly the size of a softball. It is wonderful for your skin.

Rocatins, as the residents of Laroque are called, are the healthiest people I know, people who, seemingly, do not age. Laroque supermarkets don’t stock anti-aging creams, yet Rocatins’ skin, a pleasant tobacco color, is clear and wrinkle free. Trim Rocatin men, as they walk around a corner, are not preceded by their stomachs. Our seniors scamper effortlessly up the severe hills as if they were mountain goats, carrying bags of groceries or agricultural harvests. Are they so healthy because of their Mediterranean diet, their active lifestyles, or their genetics?

On warm days, men wear t-shirts and loose-fitting shorts that hang below their knees. Women wear loose-fitting tops and mid-calf-length slacks or attractive dresses that swish at the hem when they walk. Everyone wears sandals. I always thought Australians had the best hats, but Rocatins, with their becoming, wide-brimmed straw hats, give the Australians a run for their money. Some women adorn their hats with ribbons in the yellow and red colors of the Catalan flag. Others brighten them with flowers.

The elementary school has reopened and now holds classes five days a week, including Saturday. It closes Wednesday afternoons, a throwback to the days when the children attended catechism classes on Wednesday. France funds all schools the same, regardless of whether they are in prosperous cities or humble villages. The two young sons of our Yorkshire neighbors go to the village school. They will soon become bilingual.

French education is rigorous, which is not surprising, since the French language contains more than 20 verb tenses. Many of these are les modes, which both express the mood of the speaker and also serve as the engine of the sentence, providing the action that moves things along. How can anyone govern a country with such a formidable tangle of tenses? The daunting logic of signs that inform you of a restaurant’s hours of operation is also problematic. Ouvert tous les jours. Fermé Mercredi, Jeudi Après Midi, et Dimanche. Open every day. Closed Wednesday, Thursday Afternoon, and Sunday.

Our house sits on a corner. The broad open space that lies before it isn’t large enough to be called a plaza yet is big enough that when school is out boys can toss rugby balls there (in Southern France, the most popular game is rugby) or tear around on their bikes. So, each day we are spectators to our own Tour de Laroque. Our open space is ideal for enjoying impromptu block parties during warm, soft evenings. Swallows dart around (at speeds of up to 65 km. an hour!) eating flies and other flying insects, casting shadows on the neighbors’ houses like scenes from an Alfred Hitchcock movie.

The French admire those who think, speak, and write well; they do not, unlike other societies, celebrate the rich. They are also literalists—so you must be precise when you ask a question. A few years ago, someone broke into our rental car when we were in a Spanish beach town. We tired of driving with a broken window and wanted to exchange the car. I called the Europcar rental office in Perpignan, about 50 km. north of Laroque, and asked them if they were open on this national holiday, and they replied, yes, they were. I told them I wanted to exchange our damaged rental car for another and would be there soon. When I arrived at the office they were open but had no cars. When I complained, they said I had asked them if they were open, not if they had any cars. Sacre bleu!

At precisely 8:00 p.m. every evening, Rocatins are on their terraces saluting the country’s medical personnel. The blare of a cacophonous vuvuzela announces the hour. The English boys pound on a snare drum, and our neighbor Guy bangs on a saucepan. We join together in call and response, drumming simple, universal rhythms. Malcolm, another neighbor, drapes his homemade sign over the terrace railing: Merci aux les soignants!!!  Thank you to the caregivers!!!

The cafés have now opened for takeout. We order scrumptious three-course meals from Le Catalan, a restaurant we enjoy and that has existed as long as anyone can remember. Once the favorite bar in Laroque for Catalans to play cards in, its delights are now known to all. It sits in Le Place de République, which is anchored by the church of St. Felix at one end and an ancient plane tree at the other. To me, that sturdy tree is the symbol of Laroque, tall and stately but as dignified and graceful as a pieta. From there, if you walk higher up to the old castle you can see the blue strip of the Mediterranean.

I can’t resist gazing at the Pyrenees. So, when I go to Le Catalan to pick up our dinners, I walk the long way. Older than the Alps, the Pyrenees were created between 100 and 150 million years ago, are more than 300 miles long, and rise to 11,000 feet at their highest point. In the 1950’s, 100,000 Spaniards walked across the Pyrenees into France to avoid Franco. The French, in one of their finest hours, took every one of them. When the Nazis invaded France, Jewish Spaniards in France retraced their steps back over the Pyrenees and into Spain. These Spaniards went to the village of Thuir not far from Laroque. Nearby is the village of Elne, where Hannibal rested his 90,000 foot soldiers, 12,000 cavalry, and 60 elephants on his way from Carthage to Rome in 218 BC during the Second Punic War.

I contemplate the Pyrenees’ jagged peaks. When Gretchen wanders up into the foothills, she discovers secret swimming holes and the ruins of ancient monuments. Steadfast and reassuring, the Pyrenees folds back on itself in a benediction of hope and love over Laroque. Thank you, British Airways, for making it so difficult to leave.

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