The Circus Is Back in Town, and I Own the Tent

Tomorrow my first Airbnb guests arrive.

At this moment, the property is holding its breath.

The beds are made, the towels folded into precise white towers that suggest I am a far more organized person than I actually am, and the welcome basket sits on the table waiting for its next occupants. Lavender sways in the garden, mourning doves stitch the morning sky together, and even the ducks appear to have agreed to suspend their usual nonsense. At the bottom of the property, the pool sits there looking positively smug, the exact shade of a Tiffany box and fully aware that it is currently the prettiest thing on the property. After months of delays, invoices, discussions, second-guessing, and one particularly spirited disagreement with a pool company, I occasionally find myself wandering outside simply to admire it.

This is normal.

Or at least I hope it is.

For most of the year, the gîte (cottage) sits quietly across the courtyard, its shutters closed and its rooms waiting patiently. Then June arrives and it’s as though someone has switched on the lights. The beds are dressed, the flowers put on a show, the pool begins showing off, and the gravel driveway starts crunching beneath unfamiliar suitcases. Different languages drift across the garden. New stories arrive. The house stretches awake after its winter nap.

And not just the house.

By June, the Périgord Noir undergoes a transformation that can only be described as rural France’s answer to Las Vegas.

Not actual Las Vegas, obviously. Nobody is arriving by helicopter to see Céline Dion.

But roads that spent the winter carrying little more than tractors suddenly fill with Dutch campers, Belgian bicycles, British hikers, German motorhomes, and French vacationers armed with picnic baskets and opinions. Every village appears to be hosting a market, a concert, a food fair, a night market, or a celebration involving duck, walnuts, wine, or all three simultaneously. Fairy lights materialize in trees. Long tables appear in village squares. Accordions emerge from storage. Even the villages seem surprised by their own social calendars.

The Dordogne spends nine months pretending to be sensible and then, for twelve glorious weeks, turns into a dinner party that accidentally got out of hand.

The season hasn’t even started yet. The universe is merely stretching.

At the moment, however, everything exists in that magical state that lasts roughly twelve minutes before guests arrive: every cushion fluffed, every flower behaving itself, every surface suggesting that I have my life completely under control.

The illusion is magnificent.

Tomorrow the curtain rises, the audience arrives, and another season begins.

Summer doesn’t arrive quietly here. It comes rattling through the gates dragging suitcases.

For the next three months, complete strangers from around the world will arrive carrying backpacks, sunscreen, expectations, and occasionally questions that have never before been asked in human history.

Somewhere this summer someone will send me a message beginning with the words, “Just a quick question...”

It will not be a quick question.

Somewhere this summer I will receive a message describing an emergency. By the time I arrive to help, the emergency will have solved itself. Somewhere a guest will ask where to buy bread. Another will ask where to buy wine. A third will ask where to buy the exact wine they drank yesterday. By the end of the week, someone will be browsing French property websites and casually wondering whether a seventeenth-century farmhouse might be a reasonable life choice.

This is how it starts.

By mid-summer, the property develops the energy of a tiny independent nation. The gîte is occupied. Friends are visiting. The pool is fully booked. The washing machine has been running so continuously that I suspect it now considers itself a member of the household.

At any given moment, one guest is looking for the market, another wants restaurant recommendations, someone is trying to connect to the Wi-Fi, and somebody else can’t find the pool towels despite standing directly beside the pool towels. The ducks are holding what appears to be a committee meeting. My phone is buzzing on a frequency normally reserved for minor emergencies and political campaigns.

Meanwhile, I’m crossing the courtyard with a basket of laundry balanced on one hip, mentally inventorying wine bottles, baguettes, pool chemicals, and spare lightbulbs, while attempting to remember whether I already started a load of towels or merely thought about starting a load of towels.

The entire operation begins to feel less like hosting and more like directing air traffic at a small regional airport that also happens to serve wine.

And then, almost inevitably, someone appears at my elbow and asks if I have a corkscrew.

Somewhere this summer I will walk outside and discover that every piece of outdoor furniture has migrated to a new location. Not one chair. Not two chairs. All of them. As though they held a meeting after dark and collectively decided the view was better elsewhere.

I no longer ask why. I simply accept that furniture, like migrating birds, follows instincts beyond my understanding.

At some point a text message will arrive accompanied by a photograph and the words:

“This may sound strange...”

They’re usually right.

Of course, every season eventually produces something nobody could have predicted.

A few years ago, during a violent summer storm, lightning struck the gîte. Not nearby. Not in the general vicinity. The gîte itself.

Most hosts spend their evenings answering questions about restaurant reservations and Wi-Fi passwords. I found myself explaining to guests that being struck by lightning was not, strictly speaking, one of the advertised amenities.

It was not the sort of excitement I normally aim to provide.

The guests later described the experience as “memorable.”

On that point, we were in complete agreement.

This, it should be noted, was considered an unusual week.

Every circus has rules. Mine exist because, over the years, guests have demonstrated a level of creativity I could never have anticipated. Some are preventative. Some are aspirational. A few were clearly written after specific incidents.

After a few summers, patterns begin to emerge. Not enough to prevent chaos, unfortunately, but enough to identify its preferred habitats.

Experience has taught me that certain topics return every year with remarkable consistency: wine, stairs, recycling, wildlife, hot tubs, and the occasional lapse in judgment.

Which is how the House Rules came to be.

HOUSE RULES

(Compiled Through Experience, Distress, and Documentation)

The House

This building is older than your country.

Please act accordingly.

The Wine

One bottle of Bergerac enjoyed on the terrace may lead to thoughts such as:

“We should move to France.”

Two bottles may lead to:

“We should buy a farmhouse.”

Three bottles may lead to:

“We should buy this farmhouse.”

Please note that these feelings are temporary and generally disappear by breakfast.

The Jacuzzi

The jacuzzi is intended for relaxation. It is not a licensed therapist.

While it has listened patiently to discussions involving marriages, careers, retirement plans, inheritance disputes, politics, and one surprisingly heated debate about air fryers, it is not qualified to provide guidance.

The bubbles create a false sense of wisdom.

Do not trust them.

Recycling

The French recycling system appears to have been designed by a committee of highly educated raccoons.

Should you find yourself standing in front of four bins holding a yogurt container and questioning your entire education, congratulations.

You are integrating successfully.

Lost Property

I may be able to help you locate sunglasses, hats, flip-flops, and dignity.

For passports, perspective, and common sense, you’re largely on your own.

By August I will have answered questions about Wi-Fi passwords, adapters, restaurant reservations, weather forecasts, hot water, recycling, local markets, pool covers, and whether the ducks belong to anyone.

Then the review arrives.

⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“Relaxing.”

Which is technically true.

For one of us.

The reviews always make me laugh because they reveal the magic trick.

The guests see the flowers spilling over stone walls, the pool glowing in the late afternoon sun, the stars overhead, and a glass of wine on the terrace as the village settles into evening. They see the quiet. The holiday. The effortless version of the story.

I see the weather apps, the laundry, the maintenance, the adapter hunt, the text messages, and the invisible choreography required to make everything appear effortless.

The guests see the show.

The host sees the circus.

And honestly, that’s exactly how it’s supposed to be.

Every week people arrive looking for a vacation.

Most of them find exactly what they came for.

They linger at the gate, take one final photograph, look back at the house, promise they’ll return, and drive away.

I stay behind and reset the stage. Fresh towels. Fresh flowers. A new bottle of wine in the welcome basket. The beds remade. The cushions fluffed. Another opening night. Another audience.

Their vacation is over.

Mine isn’t.

That’s the part that still surprises me.

Five years ago I was counting down to vacations.

Now I wave goodbye to them.

I spent most of my adult life planning escapes, watching calendars, and waiting for those brief moments when real life paused. Then one day I moved to France, bought a 400-year-old farmhouse, survived a renovation that occasionally resembled armed conflict, opened a gîte, and somehow ended up living in the place other people come to escape to.

It’s a strange thing.

A wonderful thing.

And not something I take for granted.

Tomorrow the first guests arrive.

The pool is Tiffany blue.

The dog is already suspicious.

The towels are folded.

The welcome basket is waiting.

The house is ready.

So am I.

Mostly.

The circus is back in town.

And somehow, after all these years, I still own the tent.