Over the last few months, I’ve been waking up very early, in anticipation of the flood of calls from plumbers who can’t make it that day or carpenters who need me to pick up some wood for a new job I’ve undertaken, a gut renovation of an older home. I stumble into the bathroom, splash my face and squeak the crust out of my eyes to review my handwritten notes for the day ahead. I’ve always dreamed of creating new living spaces for individuals or families and now I’m finally doing it.

But this morning, the birds wake me up instead. Or it could be the sweetness still lingering in my mouth from the night before, from three perfect profiteroles, a pastry -each the size of a walnut- sliced in the middle and filled with vanilla ice cream, surrounded by pools of bittersweet chocolate that would stir even the most complacent individual from slumber.

I am far from home, in this quiet French town of Tours, the gateway to the Loire Valley with its jazz, magnificent chateaus, and abundant wine. Tours is also the birthplace of the 15th Century heroine, Joan of Arc(Jeanne d’Arc).

I was so overtaken by this dessert last night, an unusual occurrence for being a salty soul, that I purposely made the effort to speak in my Kindergarten French to the pastry chef about the spiritual awakening I had while eating her exquisite profiteroles. She gave me a wide, toothless smile, explaining her 33-year devotion to this decadent piece de resistance.

Despite my longing for another sweet bite, I try to go back to sleep beside my daughter, in our twin beds pushed together and tightly wrapped in fresh white sheets. I’m comforted by her curly locks that cascade over the pillow and her intermittent sighs that I rarely hear because she’s all grown up now and lives far away from home.

Wide awake, I think about the heaps of pictures of Joan of Arc I cut out for my Grade 6 history project- Joan, strong and courageous, on horseback leading the French army against the English – and the effect this young woman had on my blossoming feminist mind.

Comparing myself to Joan, I start to ruminate about the triviality of my new career as a renovator/home builder. Many of my female friends are powerhouses in their own right; some are seasoned health professionals, yoga teachers out to inspire and heal, coaches, award-winning writers or VP’s of companies- controlling hundreds of thousands of dollars. And I am proud of them all.

I’m not exactly sure why I’ve decided to take on this traditionally male-dominated business but it feels right. I deal with mainly guys. Some of them welcome a female presence, others ask me, “So who’s the contractor?”, as they see me carrying heavy boxes of tile up the stairs with a fat measuring tape sticking out of my dusty oversized jeans.

I feel eager each morning to pull on my clunky work boots, in anticipation of sweeping piles of sawdust, hammering nails, hauling debris into the bin, or just shooting the shit with the painters over coffee and a mixed box of Timbits. Getting my hands dirty has never felt so clean.

When the sun finally shines through the tiniest holes of the darkened drapes, in this cozy hotel room, I decide it’s time to get up.