Part Five - Enter La Bourdonette

There didn't seem to be much structure to this place.

I saw loitering groups of people out in the hall talking about mission trips, a few more sitting on the counters in the big kitchen with bright blue cabinets, a little CD player lulling their conversation along.

Somehow I made my way to the place named the "lounge." Ten or so young people sat about: a handful circling a board game; someone at the piano. It was Sunday. Though my trans-Atlantic-travel-daze had me aching to go to bed, I was told that we were all about to walk to something called "High Tea."

Coats back on. Boots laced up.

Laughter and introductions led me down the opposite side of the driveway's hill. The same wall of bushes shushed the passing traffic. At the bottom of the hill, a gathering ensued. Though I had only just learned this lesson, apparently they were all familiar with the mountain road's lack of respect for pedestrians. We waited for the darkness that signaled it was safe, and all together glided across, like an octopus over the ocean floor. Downhill a few more yards and another beautiful chalet opened up to us.

I ate beside a man with shoulder-length, tightly-curled brown hair. He had a pointed nose and spoke in gentle tones. Next, the Worker (bee), in whose home we ate, read to us from a collection of Flannery O'Connor's short stories. He chuckled to himself at the funny parts and I barely stayed awake. Desperate to seem educated and aware of the weight of Flannery O'Connor (though in reality, barely recognizing her name), I fought and fought the tell-tale head-bobbing of the weary.

...

These pictures are slightly cheating, as they were of course taken years later. But in the first one, you can see the path curving off to the right and down the hill. The second picture is that very path towards the road.