1 April, 2008...3:44 pm
Insomnia in Provence.
Last night I had wretched insomnia–really wretched. I collapsed full and happy at 8:30 after a dinner of bread, tomatoes, and goat cheese and a couple healthy glasses of Merlot only to wake up again at 12:50 a.m. unable to fall back asleep. No problem, I thought, reaching for my trusty bottle of sleeping pills. This happens to me on occasion; something about an imbalance of melatonin aggravated by emotional and/or physical stress. However, tonight the bottle of pills was empty. And what I had also failed to notice was that my doctor (whom I hate; I need a new one) didn’t prescribe any refills either. Lovely.
I lay still for two hours willing myself to think about something pleasant. When I was younger I used to love the half hour it took me to fall asleep. It was a whole half an hour to let my imagination run wild and spin material to weave my dreams with. Now in my twenties laying in bed awake is tantamount to Chinese water torture. Every second that tics by is a second that I’m not asleep and therefore not recharging.
About 3:00 a.m. I had had enough. If I couldn’t sleep, at least I wasn’t going to waste the time. I grabbed a book from one of the (many) piles at the foot of my bed: A Year in Provence, bought on whim at the used book shop, only for the illustration on the cover. While it didn’t put me to sleep, reading about the author’s first winter in Provence, and his experience with the Mistral, and the incredible food did give me something to think about while I wasn’t sleeping.
Frenchie spent last spring in Aix, and I planned to join her during the summer, but sadly she had to return to the states before I got my chance. However, last night I was reminded that she and I solemnly swore we would return to Europe together before our twenty-fifth birthdays. To add to the drama of the situation, at the time the pact was made we were eighteen years old and standing among castle ruins on a hill-top in Wales at dusk. We drew up our pact on a scrap of paper from Frenchie’s journal and daubed our signatures with blood from cuts we made on our fingers. Twenty-five is not far off, so I’ve got to get on that.
I wonder what happens when you break an oath you made in blood.
I had to stop at the local bakery this morning to buy an almond croissant and an espresso after last night’s apetizing read. My trip to Europe will need to include a stop in Provence … if not a permanent one.
Leave a Reply