Why Magalas France?

Are you living a derivative or authentic life?

I was asked several times why I choose to live in Magalas, France. I was looking for a quiet, affordable place to settle down and write. I have no intimate relationship or family to feel obligated and was free to choose a place that I could live and enjoy my waning years. I wanted a place where being a senior wasn’t regarded as a disease. A place where my pension could be stretched if needed. A place where I could grow. I choose France because I have lived here before and the country ticked all the boxes. I have lived in Italy for two years, Greece for three, the Caribbean forever. The world was open to me. No strings. No boundaries. No compromising influences.  

I have an innate affinity for France. I am familiar with the different regions and cities like Paris, Bordeaux, Nantes, Marseille, Antibes, Nice, and Saint Tropez. I have lived and worked in all these places. I am comfortable in a culture where people work to live rather than live to work. A culture that is defined by its language in the sense of Frenchness. A culture where a writer or artist is treated with respect and admiration. Coming from the LA film industry, it is refreshing not being judged as a cog in the wheel of creation. When a producer goes through your script to cut out unnecessary dialogue having never writing a word of dialogue in his life, well you get the picture. Here, artists and their work are respected.

An area I didn’t know much about was Languedoc. Located in the South-Western corner of France on the Mediterranean side north of Barcelona, Spain. The cities from east to west, running along the coast, are Marseille, Montpelier, Béziers, Narbonne, and Perpignan. It is an area rich in history and beauty.   

My friend Gary Palmer retreats to the French side of the Pyrenees, Saissac, every summer to paint. His pictures inspired me to think about the interior of France rather than all the coastal cities. I’ve sailed the Mediterranean and Atlantic coasts of France extensively. I’ve visited nearly every little port over the forty years of wandering the oceans. Honestly, France seemed like home to me.

Languedoc is known for its wine and food. It is a robust agricultural area for wine. Unlike Provence and French Rivera areas infested with the chic retirees, it remains honest and straightforward if not a little boring. I had spent enough time in tourist areas to know I didn’t want to live in that environment. I find the tourist culture defaults to the French romantic projection. It was as if I were living in a commercial for France perpetuated by the very customer’s projected romantic dreams of France. It is exhausting and honestly very derivative.

I started searching for the writer’s hideout in an authentic and honest environment.

Although writing novels in the south of France sounds like a romantic endeavor, for me, compared with my experiences of roaming the oceans all my life, it is not. For me, it is clearly a destined and logical end.

Am I living a derivate life or an authentic life? This is a complex question that begs answers. Still, it is one that needs asking. I asked that question at a large gathering in a garden, and the resounding answer was authentic. These were all travelers and longtime expat residents of France. The answers are knowable.  

Why Magalas, France?

It is an authentic French working village. No frills. No antique markets. There is karaoke at the local restaurant and bar. Off key dreamers belting out songs they practiced in the shower. There is a lovely old Frenchman who sings French songs in the early evening. He always receives a nice round of applause. Respect for the elders is understandably real here. He sings, then finishes his wine and falls asleep in the plastic chair until his grandchildren come and get him.

There is a contingent of young men wearing their man purses that work the vineyards around the commune or as tradesmen, construction workers, service employees who occupy nearly all the seats outdoors at the Excalibur. Some have their young wives with baby strollers sitting in the corner of the bar, smoking and drinking. I get the impression they all have known each other since school. 

The surgeon warnings about cigarette smoking haven’t reached the provinces.

The music is old R&B, power songs from the 80s with a sprinkling of Johnny Hallyday ballads. They sing until one in the morning. I can hear them as I am just a half a block from the venue. No one minds or complains. It’s the weekend, and that is just about the height of activity.

During the week, the day’s activities flow like this. In the morning, residents walk to the boulangerie, usually chatting with a friend they met along the way. The bank is busy with people dropping off payments and other using the ATM. It’s the only one around for miles.

By one thirty, there is no traffic outside of a tractor or backhoe driving through town. Otherwise, it is quiet except for the bells on the church clock and the call to service at five after noon.

The noise picks up after the kids get out of school.

The football stadium has its moments with local football, but no one is around and it’s quiet except for the occasional moped or dirt bike. If I was a kid, this place would be heaven for dirt bike riding.

Speaking French is required. The locals know some English, but I don’t rely on their English. I rely on my French.

Magalas is a vibrant community. There are plenty of community events and school events. The Marie (city hall) is very active. Magalas is lucky the train from Béziers stops at the station and there is frequent bus service. The airport isn’t far. Yet it remains a sleepy little village of about 2,000 people, although that number fluctuates during the seasons.

As I write this, the church bell is ringing for twelve o’clock mass. The smell of burning wood, the clippings from the vines, wafts through the air. The shops will close soon and won’t reopen until four o’clock, about the time the high school kids rush into the street to go home.

I don’t feel pressure to accommodate anyone else. I am working on crafting paragraphs and strong sentences. The story unfolds on my computer screen with deliberate speed. The pace of the community is reflected in the pace of my work.

I will finish my second novel this year. “The Fisherman.” My other novel “The History Of Water” is out making the rounds. In a week, my collection of short stories will be published. And I have a play about to be published. So, I will stick to my authentic self and continue to enjoy my life as a writer.

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