Bartavelle, More than a Restaurant

 

 

Bartavelle is more than a restaurant for us. It is an experience and for the last decade plus it has represented more than dining at its finest.

Before Rick came into my life, my reward for a good week of writing was a lunch there. I'd take my book, sit in the corner and be rewarded with food that was imaginative, beautiful and every bite a delight.

The restaurant is run by a couple, Stephanie and Thibault who are more than chefs. They are artists with food as their canvas, although Stephanie is also an artist with paint.

12 years ago they prepared our pre-marriage commitment dinner where we could entertain the 16 people who traveled from other countries. One of the guests, also an artist, still says it's the best meal he ever had.

So, it was natural Rick and I would have our 9th anniversary meal there. (In France and Switzerland only a ceremony at city hall is legal.) 

Stephanie, in her charming and welcoming manner, described the choices. Thibault does combinations of spices, sauces and food that even my picky husband will savor things he ordinarily might not eat and love it. 

The Catalan couple seated next to us heard her congratulate us on our anniversary and we chatted a bit with them. They have been married 60 years.

Another couple, whom we had not noticed and not seen for a while, recognized us. He came over and we talked too. He said it was his wife's birthday.

We had some special olive oil to sample, the amuse bouche made me want to lick the pretty cup. I chose tuna, Rick chicken, but again, the imagination and the presentation was like nothing we ever had before. Trying to decide which bite to have next was a challenge, one we happily took.

Our deserts each had a tiny candle, and Stephanie had a special music box which played a tune. We whispered the woman two tables away had a birthday. Stephanie smiled, disappeared. When she returned, the woman, much to her surprise, was presented with a candled desert and music. 

The restaurant's other guests sang to us.

The upper floor of the restaurant have been turned into an art gallery featuring local artists. Before paying, we had to go up and see the new exhibition.

Before we left, the gentleman next to us, said in French. (I'm translating) "I'm a Catalan man, so I will say it in Catalan," Then he did: "Feliç aniversari i molts més."

Our anniversary was so much more than just a lunch. It was an experience.

If anyone reading this is ever in the area, we suggest a booking a meal here. https://www.restaurant-labartavelle.fr/

Marriage and Magnets

 

Today is the 9th anniversary of our official marriage at the Corsier, Switzerland Mairie. In Many European countries, the only legal marriage is done at the city hall. 

Our witnesses were my housemate and her son. We sat at a table as the legalese was read and signed our agreement with a silver Caran D'Arche pen which they gave to us, along with the huge bouquet decorating the table.

Although I'm a minimalist, I collect fine pens and still use it to write.

We went to lunch at Marro, our favorite restaurant. The manager gave us champagne. 

English/French are our house languages so when my housemate and her son started speaking in German, I was confused. My German is rusty at best, but I thought she was worried that he had to go to work and could she pick him up after. 

Back home it became a normal writing day. Late in the afternoon Rick and I decided to take a stroll along the lake, a mere five-minute walk from our front door to the water.

When we came home, we were greeted by friends and food, including the son's guacamole. He had made it back in time. The German now made sense. Bless our sneaky housemate for adding to that day making it a lovely end to the day with lovely people.

Two years before we had a commitment ceremony in France, legal only in our eyes but more important for the promises made.

The two events were different. In France there were 40 people from seven countries. Our Swiss friend played his cello, his wife read a poem. We talked to all the people present, people we knew and cared about.

 

Now what has this to do with the 150+ magnets gracing our fridge?

 

In a way they are a symbol of our marriage which has been extraodinarily happy.

 

This is not to say we haven't had minor annoyances.  99% of any problems have been extermal such as the struggle for Rick to get his nationality or my cancer. Yes, the cancer was external because it strengthened our relationship, although I would have preferred another method.

 

My favorite magnet. Push the bagpipe and it plays.

 

Everywhere we go, we bring home a magnet: they come from Scotland, Ireland, England, Boston, Germany, D.C., all parts of Switzerland and more. They mark our visits to museums and golf tournaments. Each one is a reminder of happiness on top of happiness. 

 

We also enjoy sitting on the couch, watching Netflix, reading in bed, sharing writing, a thousand little daily activities that make up our life together.

 

Nine years.

We received a card today from our witness. She said it all.

"9 years ago it became official! Lucky guys - and I, for one, am glad that you have had these years. Everyone is precious!"

She is right. Everyone is precious.

 

 

 

 

 

Free Write The Candle

 

A rainy Tuesday at Mille et Une as Rick and I prepared for our Free Write. In Switzerland, Julia received the prompt, a candle of a woman's face. As usual we took ten minutes to write non stop based on our response to the prompt.

Rick's Free Write Candle

She was a beauty. A face of perfect symmetry. The smoothest complexion. And that hair! Curls upon curls, layered atop her head, and tied in a bow under her chin.

But who was she? Archaeologists had discovered her mask in the ruins of a small Roman village in south central France, not far from Carcassonne.

Was she royalty ? A mistress to a general in Caesar’      army ? Or simply a village girl to whom the sculptor had taken a fancy ?

As the diggers explored deeper, they found bowls and combs and knives. The accouterments of a hairdresser perhaps ? Or mere household items ?

They decided to call her ‘Tress,’ a shortened and modified version of Theresa. ‘Tress of the Corbières,’ one English digger wagged.

Did Tress have any descendants still living in the village ? Or had her line died out in the various plagues and wars that had ravaged the region ?

Tress is now proudly displayed in the tiny museum in centreville. You can take her home to live with you – as a candle, a postcard, or a magnet.

D-L's Free Write The Waxed Mask

Thomas watched the cleanup of champagne glasses after the vernisage. He preferred the French term for an opening just as he named his gallery Les Bougies instead of the Candles.

Everyone told him a gallery of just candles would never work, even on Boston's arty Newbury Street.

They were wrong. The number of sold red dots proved him right.

He wondered if any of the buyers of his one-of-a-kind candles would burn them after paying four figures.

His buildings, the Sydney Opera House, the White House and Buckingham Palace with the royal family waving on the balcony, all sold quickly.

His panoramas sold even better. His first sale had been the boat on a sea with dolphin candles around it.

Stephanie's mask hasn't sold because he already had placed a red dot making it his forever.

How he had to fight with her to do it. She didn't want to be immortalized in wax. She'd called him crazy,

The skin-colored face with it perfect features rested in its place of honor in the center of the gallery: Closed eyes, a perfect nose, a mouth made for kissing.

 Curls surrounded Stephanie's candle face. His name for this candle, Death Mask, would stay his secret. 

Julia's Free Write

She was gorgeous, albeit very pale.

A patrician nose, curly hair, lips that were just a tad too small and puckered. She wasn’t frowning, nor smiling; her eyes were closed.  Did she not wish to see, or was she internalizing what she had seen?

No indication of her origins, neither by dress nor skin, although her hairdo wasn’t currently popular.

Sitting in a corner with a telephone by her side, I wonder who has called her or whom she has called.

Does she have a family, children, a job, or not?

And so my mind wanders.

But wait, questions all answered: “she” isn’t a person at all but a very life-like female head made in wax: yes, you read that correctly, “she” is a candle; one with a wick that has never been lit

Julia has written and taken photos all her life and loves syncing up with friends.  Her blog can be found: https://viewsfromeverywhere.blogspot.com/ 

Rick is an aviation journalist and publisher of www.aviationvoices. com

 

D-L has had 17 fiction and non fiction books published. Check out her website at: https://dlnelsonwriter.com

 

A Creative Week?

 

Church bells ring at 7:05 signalling what I hope will be a creative week.

I'm finishing a final proof of 300 Unsung Women, a project that was fascinating when I started the research and write the bios, but I'm ready to get back to my two novels, my half-finished Twins and Bean Pot for which I have the dates I need. I wrote the beginning chapter about Medora Young Stockbridge while it was in my mind. Plot twists for both novels keep popping into my head as I search for typos in Women.

We are about to move up to our Geneva home for the summer to avoid the canicule that is sure to come.

I'll miss Argelès, the ability to amble down the street for fresh veggies, sitting in the cafés drinking tea and greeting all the people I know. I'll miss the merchants with whom I have more than an acquaintanceship. 

I'll miss the smell of baking bread from the several boulangeries and the roasting chickens on marché day.

Before we leave, I hope we can get Sherlock to the beach where we can do his zoomies. Until now it's been too much needed rain and the Tramontane would blow sand in his eyes. 

There are second-home friends who've left and those who've come in the last few months while we've been here. Also the locals whom we know so well. And of course, we know all their dogs.

We'll return in September.

I'm also looking forward to Geneva. Our studio is cozy. The fruit trees in the garden will provide mulberries and plums and a place for Sherlock to sniff and play.

The walks through the fields will stimulate my senses and writing. I'm looking forward to seeing the donkeys and ponies and watch the different crops, rapeseed, sunflowers, corn, develop. I want to see Mont Blanc in all its glory as I walk down the hill to my home.

There are people I want to see, but its preplanned not the walk-by type of encounters. I am happy our Tuesday Free Writes will include our third member face-to-face and coffee-to-tea at our local tearoom.

I am looking forward to the Jet D'Eau, the English Library, Pages & Sips books and scones, a walk along the quai, the many moods of the lake. 

Geneva is only about 20 minutes away by buses that don't need to look for parking. They are frequent and we can see the Swiss countryside and villages as we go until we come to the lake.

Sometimes I wish I could clone me and be both places at all time. Never for a minute do I forget how privileged I am. No bombs are falling on me. I have enough to eat, hot water for a shower and a chance to write, write, write as I am surrounded by beauty.

And now my women are calling to me to finish my typo hunt.

Note: Visit D-L's website https://dlnelsonwriter.com to see a list of her 17 published books.

A story of two dogs

One dog was so happy that he ran around chasing whatever he could. It made his owner so mad, that she shot it.

A second dog has a job at the Marie Institute in Paris. He was part of an experiment that already is showing success. It is his job to visit the ward of really sick patients and put his head on the bed near their knees.

Patients, with all their worries and pains, were recorded as smiling more and relaxing more after Snoopy, a rescue dog, visited.

Not everyone is a dog lover. My mother was afraid of dogs having been badly bitten as a child. Still she found amusement in my two Japanese Chins who visited her. A cat person, she always found homes for all the kittens produced by my brother's frequent adoption of pregnant cats.

I've never really trusted people who do not like animals without a reason like my mother or someone who has an allergy and even more I trust no one an animal doesn't like. Anyone who is cruel to an animal for no other reason than cruelty, is flawed. 

I do not need to mention names of two Republican alleged leaders who fall into the flawed category.

Finding Work in Europe

 

Rick wanted to see where I lived in the late 80s while I tried to find a way to live, work and write in France.

After dropping Llara at the Toulouse airport, we headed for the suburb Castanet, where I'd lived.

In the late 80s my French friend had suggested I sell my condo and use the money as a base. He offered his home with his two children.

I did sell the condo, which had almost doubled in price from when I bought it, and moved.

Much had changed in Castanet over the decades, but I quickly identified the church, cinema and boulangerie.

Peeking through a side street was the mark that connected the house with the village center.

We bought three burgers and found a park bench for a picnic.

Sherlock found a little female papillion to play with as I chatted with its owner. The pup was a rescue after being found un-chipped in an abandoned house. We exchanged medical histories, something I couldn't have done when I lived there because of lack of French.

We found the cul-de-sac and my old house where I worked hard at three things.

1. Learning French by attending the Academie Française and lessons provided by the little girl of the house. 

2. Finding work: I had one job interview in Paris and told although I was a perfect candidate, my French was too basic. Contact them when I was fluent. A post with Airbus where I was the last eliminated went to an in-house candidate. I did do some guest lecturing in English at the local business school and taught English to Chinese neigbors.

3. In between one and two I wrote, working on my first, later to be published, novel Chickpea Lover: Not a Cookbook and more research on my never published Heretics and Lovers. Some chapters I used later in my published Murder in Paris.

Memories of that time came flooding back as I looked at the house. I walked by Françoise's house where I spent so many late afternoons. She was a true artist restoring old books into works of art. Despite a lack of a common language we called ourselves "sisters of two frontiers."

I passed the path where I walked my Japanese chins Amadeus and Albert.

Leaving, I realized how much a tree had grown. 

My dream of living, working and writing ended when my mother wrote she had a "wee bit of cancer." I returned to Boston.

After she died, I could no longer afford to live in France without employment.

I started to send CVs (resumes) to want ads and PR/Marketing people listed in directories as well as mailing lists of people in my profession. Over the next few weeks I was a CV factory.

By fluke, I answered an ad in the IHT in French-speaking Switzerland. At that point I'd sent over 800 CVs. I set 2000 as a limit before I would replace my original dream with another. 

I didn't have to give up the dream. I just had to move it to Switzerland. Within two months I was installed in a tiny Swiss village and working in the nearby suburb of Neuchâtel. Fifteen years later I became Swiss. And yes, I had become functional in French, although spoken with a Boston accent.

My husband and I started the drive back to Argelès where we have a second home. We used the national roads because of a mega-traffic jam on the Autoroute. 

We enjoyed an ice cream in one village and the changing scenery.  

Bob Hope's theme song, Thanks for the Memory, kept running through my mind. The memories of the past, the memory of the last few hours. 

https://dlnelsonwriter.com