I’m going to share a story with you.  It’s an interesting one, but it doesn’t yet have its ending.  I’m hoping that you, or another reader, can help me bring it to conclusion.

As you read, please consider sharing this story with others, so that it will find its way to the right reader.

This story begins in a small house in Oakland, CA.  I was living there with my wife, Loveleen, our dog, Babushka, and our friend, Aaron.  His girlfriend, Shilpa, also practically lived there.

One day, we were sitting around the kitchen table talking and the topic of beer came up.  I told Aaron that Belgian beer is the best beer in the world.  I said this with utter conviction because my rad friend, Raad, schooled me all about it in college.  In the early 1990s, my friends and I would sometimes do beer tastings, then brewed our own, and I later ended up in beer shops in Belgium, sampling and comparing from exotic bottles.  The walls of these tiny shops were often lined with hundreds of types of local treasures – triple fermented beers, raspberry beers, hard to obtain beers.  Coming from a less inspired land of Budweiser and Olympia, it was like discovering beer Shambhala.

Interestingly enough, the story of Belgian beer actually originates in the Trappist monasteries.  Inspired by Saint Benedict’s virtues of poverty and hard work, the monks made beer as a form of physical labor that sustained their abbeys.  Back then, the beer was much weaker, and safer to drink than the water.  Over time, through Divine inspiration no doubt, the beer has evolved into the intoxicating art form we see today.

When the words “Belgian beer” hit Aaron’s ears, his eyes lit up.  Something clicked.

We played around with the idea of taking a trip to Belgium and touring the breweries and monasteries.  We could even write a book about it.  In the book, we would tell the tale of our adventures while educating the public about Belgian beer.  We would include comparative tastings and have a blast the whole way through.  The name of our book would be called “Belgium on a Buzz.”

On a parallel track, we had also been playing around with the idea of buying a property somewhere exotic and fixing it up.  Most of the time, these dreams pointed toward Hawaii, or a similar tropical locale.   But one day Aaron found a classified ad posted in the San Francisco Chronicle.  It was an ad for a property in the South of France – a 400 year old stone house, situated in a medieval village.  We were both very intrigued.

We dove into what we might be able to borrow and pull together as an investment.  We then replied to the American owner of the property, Tami, and told her of our interest.  She encouraged us to come and see the property.

Now we had two highly intriguing reasons to go to Europe.  We would do our Belgian beer tour, journaling along the way, and then after shoot down to Southern France and check out the house.   It was a glorious plan.

On the financial side, however, the timing was rough.  I had just finished restoring a motorcycle – an intensive two year project.  I called my bike Goldy and had invested lots of time and lots of money into her.  As a result, I was financially drained.  For me, buying a plane ticket to Europe and spending a month traveling there felt financially threatening.  I would have to use up my reserve tank to make it happen.  I also felt like the time had come for me to make it up to Loveleen for all of her patience.  If we were going to do this, it was very important to me that we actually write the book.  Producing a book made it feel like an investment and not just an awesome, but ill-timed adventure.

I made it crystal clear to Aaron: if he committed fully to seeing the book through with me, then I was in.  He understood and agreed.  The trip was on, baby.

Coincidentally, I had also just taken two quarters of college French in Berkeley.  Those two classes gave me the final credits I needed to complete my Bachelor’s degree at The Evergreen State College.  Not only had I just officially graduated, but the French would serve us well.

It was happening.  We bought our tickets.  And were off.

Having spent so much time working on my motorcycle, I had developed a strong concentration.  I turned this concentration now to our book.  I wrapped my entire focus around the project.  Not only would we write and finish the book, it would be a masterpiece.  Both the vision and momentum were solidly in place.

Belgium on a Buzz – a Journey to the Heart of Beer

We first flew to Paris.  After arriving, we “hopped” on a train to Charleroi where we would begin our journey in Belgium.  We were having fun.  It was exciting.  Thrilling.  We got there at night, found a hotel in the red-light district, and crashed.

I slept like a baby.  Aaron not so much.  He tossed and turned all night and woke me in the morning with a very stark, “John.”  It was obvious something serious was about to follow.  “I’m really unhappy and I think I’m going to go home.”

Unbeknownst to me, and probably even to him, Aaron had a terrible travel phobia.  Apparently his mother had this also, and I guess he was way out of his element.  He said he needed to be with his girlfriend.  It was a stunner.

Not only had I made the financial commitment to go on this trip, I had invested the whole of myself to the whole of our project.  From my end, there was no stopping us.  But here we were; it was now over before it had even gotten started.

I convinced Aaron to stay one more day and give it a shot.  We would tour the famous Chimay brewery.  By giving it a day, maybe he’d feel more at ease and have a change of heart.  The next day, we had a great time.  We made our way to Scourmont Abbey, home of a Chimay’s monastery and brewery and tasted a variety of their beers.  We left with a major buzz and then hitchhiked back to our hotel.

Aaron agreed that it was a lot of fun, but he was still leaving.  There was no convincing him otherwise.

Years later, Aaron would go on to open a Belgian beer bar in downtown Oakland called The Trappist.  It’s become a landmark for beer connoisseurs, and has played a role in inspiring a craft beer revolution in the States.

But… the story doesn’t end here.

I was still there – left alone in Belgium with a fierce momentum I couldn’t stop if I tried.  I had come here to write the book.  Aaron or no Aaron, this book was going to be written.

But how?  With me all alone, it wasn’t the same.  It was no longer about two friends having an adventure.  It now seemed a lot more pathetic.  George Thorogood’s lyrics, “I drink alone,” began taking up more and more of my brainspace.

To keep it alive, I began morphing the concept into more of a philosophical book.  Sure, it would still be about Belgian beer and my adventures.  But I’m a deep guy.  I couldn’t keep it superficial by myself.  Maybe it would be more like Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, I thought– a combination of my experiences and deeper thoughts.  It was worth a try.

So I started along on my solo adventure.  I tried some great beers and had some interesting encounters.  But somewhere in Belgium – buzzed no doubt, I think along the roadway – I came to the realization that this wasn’t the journey I had signed up for.  It felt lonely.  Sad.  We came in search of the heart of beer, but I concluded that beer didn’t have a heart, only we do.  And my heart felt closer to my wife and dog than to propping up a broken adventure.  It was time to let it go.

So I called Tami to give her the disappointing news.  With Aaron gone, I now had only half the money to offer.  To my great surprise, she said to come anyway.  So, I hopped on a train heading for Avignon to meet with Tami.

A Stone House in Southern France

I arrived in Avignon in the evening to a summer festival in full swing.  The old city was so beautiful all lit up, with music and fashion and dining.  Tami came to pick me up in a white Peugeot and we headed back to where she was staying in a small town called Serviers-et-Labaume, near Uzès.

Along the way, we passed many beautiful, old stone houses.  It was so inspiring.  When we finally pulled into the driveway, I was blown away.  The street was breathtaking, with rustic, limestone houses left and right.  A large, storybook clock tower loomed magically overhead.

Tami was staying here with her friends, who owned the property – a British woman and a French man, along with their two little daughters.  Her friend was the assistant to a famous German artist.  Their house had been remodeled from old ruins and, not surprisingly, had been featured in several architectural magazines.  One wall of their living room interior was the actual stone hillside – which contrasted brilliantly with the rest of the interior, which was more clean and modern.   It was stunning.

Just being there rekindled my own art.  The drawings you see here were sketches I penned in my journal while there.

For a living, Tami staged photographs for magazines.  She had purchased her stone house together with her former husband, who loved to renovate.  Situated in a medieval village, their house, too, was a relic from a distant past.  Together they shared dreams of fixing it up in a minimal way to maintain its ancient charm.  Sadly, those dreams had crumbled with the divorce, and Tami was now ready to move on.

The following day, we drove to the small village called St. Jean de Valeriscle.  On the way, we passed by fields of sunflowers and lavender, vendors on narrow streets selling goat cheese and local wine, and landscapes of mesmerizing beauty.

We reached St. Jean de Valeriscle.  It sat nestled by the rivers and forests of the Cévennes mountains.

In the center of the hamlet was a picture-perfect cathedral, both inside and out.  From there, we strolled just a short way down the stone alleyways until we reached her place.  From the street, all that’s visible is the narrow face of the building, with its front door and two windows rising vertically.  Inside, however, it was surprisingly large – over 2000 square feet, with 3 stories and 8 rooms.

Tami pulled out the key to the front door.  Not a typical house key, this one was a full 6-inches long, looking like it, too, might have been forged in the middle ages.

Because it shares its 400-year old walls with houses on either side, it’s akin to a medieval condo (sans the HOA fees).   As I entered, some charming elements came into view, revealing its remarkable potential.  The arched ceilings were particularly beautiful.  The central stairway was cobbled together with randomly shaped stones.  Every room was thoroughly unique, including the “Moroccan room,” with its arched ceiling, perfect for lounging.  From the top floor, you can see views of the forested hills and river below.

Though its potential was clearly exciting, it also seemed like a lot of work.  The grout was old and crumbly; it needed plumbing and electricity; to get from here to livable would take some doing.

As much as I loved the idea of owning a property in Southern France, I also thought it was likely a bigger project than I wanted to take on by myself.

I called Loveleen to fill her in.  To my surprise, sight unseen, she wanted us to buy it.

I’ll admit, to leave without buying the property felt like another failure.  I would be returning home twice defeated.  And that just sucked.  Somehow, buying the property carried with it a different feeling.  As impractical as it was, it felt like an accomplishment.  A triumph.  I would be coming home the proud owner of a house in Southern France.  It had a nice ring to it.  And so, with a difficult decision to make, I chose a messier victory over a cleaner defeat, and bought that house.  We’ve owned it now for 18 years.  I’ve gone back to visit it only twice since then.  Some friends of ours went one time also.

Paying back the money I borrowed was a challenge that would lead to more stories, but I’ll save those for another day.

Though buying this house served a purpose in saving the trip from total failure, it didn’t seem to be in my destiny to renovate it.  Doing so would have been a dream for me, but I’ve never had the time nor the money in my life to live out that dream.  And it’s unlikely I ever will.

And so the time has come for me to pass the torch forward – hopefully, to someone who will finally do it justice and revive this historic home – actualizing its magical potential.

Tour of St. Jean de Valeriscle and a walk through our house

This here is where the story pauses.  I’ve put this story in writing in the hopes that it will spark the right person to carry forward the adventure, and create the happy-ever-after ending it’s looking for.

Might you, perhaps, be the Chosen One?

There are many possible scenarios.  A community of friends could all go in on it together, creating a timeshare, and having the experience of a lifetime.  Maybe it could become an art gallery, a small brewery, a potter’s studio, a writer’s retreat, or a guest house on AirBnB.  It could become your primary residence, where you retire or raise your family and live out your days in beautiful St. Jean.  Or just an awesome vacation home – something to be shared with others.

It’s up to one of you to dream up its fairy tale ending.

Here’s the deal.  At this point in my life, I feel a calling to write.  I’m hoping that the passing of this house will buy me a little time.

So… I’m on the hunt for great ending to this story… a reason for it having entered our lives.  With over 400 years of history, this, I’m hoping, is where the real magic begins.  Please get in touch!