House of Dreams

I rented A Good Year, the movie based on the Peter Mayle novel, this evening. It had the same delightful plot that all his books do and of which one never tires; the man who thought he had lost his soul comes to Provence only to be reunited with it.
I had this gut-wrenching feeling from the moment Russell Crowe's character arrived at the old house he'd inherited. It could have been the large bowl of ice cream I was eating at the time, but it also had something to do with the fact that I felt I was watching my beloved walk by and he had no idea I was standing there. Oh god, Russell Crowe is definitely not the beloved, if that's what you're thinking! He was kind of obnoxious. But the house was the very picture of what my dreams would look like if they materialized before me; an old stone house, well-loved and rough around the edges, longing to be filled with life and laughter. The colors were exquisite. The living space was not confined to the roof and four walls, but spilled out into gardens, swimming pool, vinyard and tennis court. It almost made me want to play tennis.
In Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert (the book of the year, in my opinion; a must read), the author tells of a little girl who so wishes for a house of her own that she places her tiny feet on a square of bright blue tile she's found and meditates upon this house of dreams, willing it into being with her inner vision. I have a mind to find me a square of old tile and do the same, or perhaps I'll start on the little $2 Ikea rag rug by my bed and build my house around it.