Sun-Dried Tomatoes

Another afternoon is passing by. In Colmar, the sun is still shining. I think this is the last day of summer. Laura has just come back from kindergarten, and Luca has just woken up. It is the perfect time for a picnic. And not just any picnic, but one under our tree. In case you are wondering how on earth we came to own a tree, I can explain it very simply. If you look on Google Maps at the courtyard in front of Colmar’s central library, the tree closest to the library is ours. Mine, Laura’s, the whole family’s. By royal decree, during one of our first visits to Colmar, we claimed it as our own. And as soon as our little nightingale started kindergarten, we began visiting it every afternoon.

During the summer, the tree’s rich canopy casts a refreshing shade. You can sit beneath it in the cool air and look out at the intense sunlight in the distance. In the evening, as the sun begins to set, it is the last tree to lose the direct light. Eventually, the sun chooses to disappear behind the buildings. In August 2024, with a strawberry in her right hand and another in her mouth, Laura herself declared that from then until eternity, this would be our tree. A few days ago, we walked past it and she immediately pointed it out to me: “Look, Daddy, they’ve finished the work around our tree. We can come here again.” Today was the perfect time to pay it a visit.

Sun-dried tomatoes...

Many years ago, I visited Provence for the first time. We wanted to take a break from the everyday stress of Frankfurt, so we ended up in dusty little villages full of charm. In Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, we got lost like any tourists on the narrow streets. It was just the two of us, it was summer, somewhere around noon. The atmosphere of the place made me curious. Everywhere in the region, I had the feeling that time stood still. The day before, we had visited another small village with a hospital on its outskirts. By my standards at the time, it was difficult to understand how such a relatively small building could possibly function as a hospital. There were no underground parking garages and no multiple helipads like the ones I knew from Frankfurt. There was just a dusty building forgotten by time, in a village where time itself had stopped. Who would want to come and work here? According to the hospital’s website, they employed two general practitioners and two doctors from other specialties. Who would want to work there?

You know what it’s like when you go swimming? The longer you stay in the water, the wetter you get. The more time we spent in that place, the more I began to understand its charm. The weather was pleasant, the sun gently caressing our shoulders, backs, and bare arms with its rays. Time, which had somehow stopped, encouraged us not to hurry, to take our time, to explore slowly. In doing so, it forced us to enjoy life. Over the course of a few days, I managed to decompress. I managed to forget my old life and imagine what it would be like to live there. After all, why not? The only problem I could see was my personality. I was far too dependent on adrenaline, on commotion, on big cities. Too thirsty to prove to myself and to the world around me that I could still accomplish something. I was far too young for retirement. And moving to some God-forgotten little village felt like failure.

Even though I was flirting with the idea of living there, I could barely visualize a parallel universe in which I wouldn’t get bored. As we walked along the narrow streets of Saint-Rémy-de-Provence, I studied the stone architecture of the houses. Large, massive stones, polished to perfection, carefully placed one on top of another. Colorful windows with shutters opening outward. Suddenly, I stopped. On one of the wooden windows, I noticed something. “Sans souci.” “What does that mean?” I asked my wife out loud. “It just means without worries.” “Without worries? That’s all they’re trying to say?” “That’s all.”

What a stupid thing! How can you write something like that on the window of your house? And more than that, it had been carved into the wood, not merely written there. Someone had taken the time and energy to carve those words into the wood. I looked around. There was nobody there. Not a sound. It was pleasantly warm. I immediately started thinking, analyzing the existence of this window. I have always been like that. I analyze again and again and again whatever happens to me. I look for hidden answers that perhaps I missed the first time. Maybe that is also why I was good as an anesthesiologist. Every evening, I would come home and replay all the cases from that day in my head. I would remember every dose of anesthetic, every measurement I had taken, every complication, and ask myself: What could I have done better? Is there something I missed? Every evening, I needed at least an hour to clear my mind of the chaos of the day.

This time, I was doing exactly the opposite. I was looking at this window and trying to calm myself down. To empty my mind of every thought and feeling. During the years when I practiced martial arts, I meditated every day. Apparently, meditation never really left me over all these years; only the reason I meditate has changed. Here, once again, as I had done many years before, I was trying to empty my mind of every thought. Thoughts are like tiny flashes of lightning. They come quickly, distract you, and suddenly make you think about something else. For a fraction of a moment, I managed to become “free of mind.” I understood what it meant to be without worries. I came back to reality when my eyes caught sight of a jar of sun-dried tomatoes. That was the thought that interrupted my meditation. Returning to reality, I understood the luxury of living in a little village like this. I understood the luxury of having time for yourself and your thoughts. If I have a happy place of my own, somewhere I retreat to from time to time, then this is it. This blue window with the words Sans souci carved into it.

Even today, when I think about a healthy life, about eating well, the image that comes to mind is that open window, the summer, and the sunlight I felt that day. In this vision, I am the cook. I am frying tomatoes and garlic in oil. The windows are open, except that in this fantasy of mine, I am on the other side of the window. Inside. My wife and children are in the other room, waiting for dinner to be ready. Whenever I manage to access these memories while I am in the kitchen, I tend to reach for Provençal herbs. Many years later—in fact, quite recently—we visited Saint-Rémy-de-Provence again. Unexpectedly, I found this window again, the one I had thought was lost. My wife insisted on taking me there. I don’t think there is any point in telling her how many times I have imagined that house belonging to us. That one day we would retire there, quietly, frying tomatoes in olive oil.

Today, when we arrived at our tree, the sun was still in the sky. The entire courtyard had fallen into shadow; only our tree was still bathed in sunlight. We sat beneath it and began eating the fruit we had prepared at home. Laura was unchanged from this morning. Her little mouth simply would not stop. She talked and talked. This time louder, livelier. She was no longer talking only to herself; she was talking to us. I was holding Luca in my arms, appreciating the warmth surrounding me. I was enjoying the last rays of the summer sun. As I lifted him toward me, he raised his little head, looked at me, and smiled. His intensely blue eyes shone like the blade of a knife. When he looked at me, I had the feeling that he could reach deep inside my brain and read my thoughts. Suddenly, he smiled again and looked at me with love. Sun-dried tomatoes...

Quiet. Peace. No stress and no pressure from time. Nothing matters, only here and now. Here and now, I am holding Luca in my arms, trying to convey all the love in the world to him through my eyes. He understands, smiles at me again, and asks:

“Guu guuu?”