UNEXPECTED
I didn’t see this coming. We had followed a winding road through Provence-Alpes-Côte d’Azur and came upon the village of Fréjus. With little expectation other than finding a bite to eat, we strolled up the shop-lined hill and came upon a scene that I can only describe as “real Disneyland.” Hundreds of children running everywhere and right alongside, Donkeys. Dozens of them. If I step even a little to my left, I’m back to back with these long-eared beasts. The squealing can be heard throughout the village and not just from the children.
Heaven has a name in French and it’s Foire aux Ânes.
The Donkey Fair.
Who ever heard of a Donkey Fair and how could I have lived without it all these years?
The Donkeys have brought their friends—farm animals as far as the eye can see, each with this longing to be adored, and I eagerly oblige. After six weeks of travel I have discovered the antidote to my Great Dane blues. Soft fur, fuzzy ears, nibbles on the back of my jeans. This farm girl has stepped through an invisible portal, enveloped in the smells of a Kansas childhood of barns and ponies, pastures and soft-lipped cows.
I. Am. Never. Leaving.
Did I mention “real Disneyland?” Peeling myself away from my unruly four-legged friends I begin to notice the rows and rows of rustic carts bursting with handcrafted, freshly picked, and homemade everything. I am offered a cone of just-whipped pistachio crème glacée. I taste goat cheese from the block, nestle my nose into bowls of fresh-picked lavender.
I am lost in sensory overload. And then it happens. Someone gently grabs my arm and pulls me aside. There, in place of where my feet used to be, hundreds of sheep running down the center of our path. There is no warning for this complete takeover of both herd and heart. While shepherd calls and coos I have become one of her flock, moving to the rhythm of hooves and brays past ancient doorways and shuttered windows. Even at this pace I sense that everyone around me is smiling.
We have all invited the children within us to come out to play. We. Are. All. Playing.
The French must know that donkeys are magic, these misunderstood beasts with tender eyes. They listen with their radar ears to the sounds our hearts make. They nibble, cuddle, and bump us into who we were, once. Those big eyes, seemingly so sad, are weeping the blessed tears of joy.
