A Lovely Escapade

It's not much.
164 small pages.
A bright, colorful cover of rice paper bags.
And a wonderful title that plays beautifully with the French language. A title I can only dream of translating. Something that goes way beyond words and carries a whole world of meaning - a title-universe.
A true and rare gem.

I am a huge mystery fan. I read loads of them, and has this silly and frivolous pleasure to be able to put my hands way before my beloved friend Anne (back home) on the last Elizabeth George's installment. I do own (almost) all of them. Love.
I am not and has never been ashamed of my fascination with detective stories. I started as a kid with Enid Blyton and her 'Famous Five', 'upgraded' to the Alice Roy series and never stopped since. I am really and truly addicted, and have devoured hundreds of titles over the years. It was my vice as a literature student but one I proudly embraced; I even considered for a moment writing my dissertation on it.
But one cannot seriously live off one's vice, right?

I like my books like old faithful friends. Always entertaining, never disappointing.
A solid rock to rely on, one of the best ways to live through the long winter days. And a nice collection of memories.

But they are not earth-shattering. They don't make my heart flutter, don't fill my stomach with butterflies, don't transport me over the clouds.
Don't bring me to tears - of laughter or emotion.
They are companions.
Not lovers.

L'Echappée belle is one of these jewels that make you live. And shine. And want.
It's not only a 'lovely escapade' - a possible translation, but one that only would only cover half of the meaning; therefore actually impossible.
Yes, it is a charming and bucolic little piece filled with swirling butterflies, summer light, humming bees and warm hay smells. A fond look on the French countryside, its simple beauty, its rusticity, its essential earthiness. The 'profound' country of my childhood, virtually unknown on this side of the ocean. The small village wedding. The terrace of an old-fashioned café on the main square, with its tables under the chestnut trees. The picnic on a plaid blanket by the river. Red wine and saucissons, fresh bread still warm from the bakery oven, plump fruits and daisy necklaces. The old castle in ruins hidden behind the road curve. Wild flowers. Church bells.
A simple, provincial form of happiness that talks to the heart. Words so powerful in their suggestive power that I could almost feel the breeze on my face, hear the chirping birds and feel at home.
Almost.

I escaped for a (too) short couple of hours with the characters, left my life behind and just let myself be. Feel. And it is tough nowadays.
Reading Anna Gavalda made me incredibly home-sick, but also loaded me up with joy and nostalgia. Few books can claim that pride. But when I find one of those, I cherish them all my life.

I haven't talked about the second aspect of the title; s'échapper is of course to escape, but l'échapper belle is even more than that; you escape just in time. You barely made it. But you did. And that's what counts, after all.
To make it.