Ingolt and Kiki gave a party at the Hotel Hostalet inviting their Danish friends, both seasonal and permanent, along with the Catalan neighbors and misc nationalities, in this case, French, Spanish, Australian, English, American and almost Swiss. Barbara and I switched places in her store so she could attend, although the party continued long after closing.
A free concert played at the square behind the house Barbara and I originally owned in the village. A fountain, a bronze pillar with a laurel-covered curly-haired man’s face, is in the center of the square and that is surrounded by planters with pink, white and purple begonias and benches. From the middle ages the fountain (in earlier shapes and designs) supplied the water for the houses surrounding the square. Today people no longer need to fill buckets and carry water into their homes.
The concert over, we stopped by William and Claire Sargeant’s house. He and I wondered if we were relations way way back, because my mother’s maiden name was the same as his, although my branch of the family migrated to the new world in the 1600s but not on the Mayflower.
We ended up eating there.
This Sunday morning I went out to buy a courgette which I want to bake with some left over feta for lunch. I was going to come right back and write, but thought a cup of tea at La Noisette would certainly help in the creative process.
Almost two hours later I had chatted with more than 12 neighbors and friends, some stopping to have coffee. Winde from the cheese shop carried her coffee cup back. Franck supplies the small shops with coffee brought in a ceramic cup and saucer and on a tray (Starbuck's can't do it that way)
A helmeted person went by on a scooter. Robbert!!! is down for the weekend. We caught up on his move, the Swiss train failure (almost unbelievable), and how we could catch the train back to Argelès when I come back down after Geneva and Rome in August, his son and anything else we can think of. Robbert and I shared the company flat in that little Swiss village for almost three years. A friend has described him as the brother I always wanted. It’s a good description. He is also the type of friend who has what I call peelability. Even after 15 years I am still discovering new levels to him and his knowledge.
Finally I head back to the flat to write. Sunday is also the day of Meet The Press, Late Edition, Dateline (BBC), Diplomatic License. Like Dateline the French also air a program where journalists from several countries give their perspective on different stories from around the world. I can get lots of needlework done.
And at one time I was worried I would feel isolated when I was here. To quote my daughter. "Ha!!!!"
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Thursday, June 23, 2005
La Fête de St. Jean
The flame has come down from Mount Canigou marking the summer solstice. Argelès has celebrated la fête de St. Jean http://membres.lycos.fr/monjoan/page67.htm The origin of this festival goes back to Charlemagne in the 9th century.
The flame was lit this morning at the top of the mountain and stopped at villages along the way to light bonfires. It was slated to arrive in Argelès at 22:00. The packing lot by the Shoppi supermarket had been cleared and the wood for a bonfire was placed in the center. While the crowd waited, people danced the Sardane http://perso.wanadoo.fr/mairie.laroque.des.alberes/laroqpg/laroq064.html
Children ran around. A group of little girls played a version of red light and Simon said. Neighbors greeted each other.
The fête is free. Nothing is sold. People come to enjoy it without a single commercial interest.
Overhead four rows of small flags hung: the EU blue with the stars circled, all the flags of EU countries, the French flag and of course, the red and yellow stripes of Catalonia.
A little after 22:00 people were asked to move behind the barricades. In front of the old gendarmerie drums beat. Giant sparklers shot stars into the sky. The drummers were followed by people dressed as witches, devils and jesters. As they danced around the wood for the bonfire, they swung sparklers in eight-shaped patterns that sent stars at least in 12-foot diameters. The drumming and dancing went on and on. The smoke from the fireworks were so thick that the flags above were no longer visible and the gunpowder smell was heavy in the air.
The sparklers were extinguished. One flame remained. The carrier lowered it to the wood. It caught sending the flames skyward. The Barricades were removed and led by the dancers and drummers the crowd circled the bonfire. Then the drummers and the flame moved on to the next village.
Summer has begun.
The flame was lit this morning at the top of the mountain and stopped at villages along the way to light bonfires. It was slated to arrive in Argelès at 22:00. The packing lot by the Shoppi supermarket had been cleared and the wood for a bonfire was placed in the center. While the crowd waited, people danced the Sardane http://perso.wanadoo.fr/mairie.laroque.des.alberes/laroqpg/laroq064.html
Children ran around. A group of little girls played a version of red light and Simon said. Neighbors greeted each other.
The fête is free. Nothing is sold. People come to enjoy it without a single commercial interest.
Overhead four rows of small flags hung: the EU blue with the stars circled, all the flags of EU countries, the French flag and of course, the red and yellow stripes of Catalonia.
A little after 22:00 people were asked to move behind the barricades. In front of the old gendarmerie drums beat. Giant sparklers shot stars into the sky. The drummers were followed by people dressed as witches, devils and jesters. As they danced around the wood for the bonfire, they swung sparklers in eight-shaped patterns that sent stars at least in 12-foot diameters. The drumming and dancing went on and on. The smoke from the fireworks were so thick that the flags above were no longer visible and the gunpowder smell was heavy in the air.
The sparklers were extinguished. One flame remained. The carrier lowered it to the wood. It caught sending the flames skyward. The Barricades were removed and led by the dancers and drummers the crowd circled the bonfire. Then the drummers and the flame moved on to the next village.
Summer has begun.
This is the end of the short starkist cherry season, which only last about two weeks. These are the sweetest cherries I’ve ever eaten. Apricots, nectarines and peaches are beginning to appear on the market where green and white asparagus was displayed.
Much of what is sold is grown within a 100 mile radius. Most of the local green grocers mark where the items comes from. When things are available only in season, their taste is more appreciated. I still miss the silver corn available at the end of the New England growing season. The idea was to pick it while those at home set the water to boil. Shuck it as soon as you come in the door and eat it a few minutes later. The Green Giant doesn’t even come close.
Much of what is sold is grown within a 100 mile radius. Most of the local green grocers mark where the items comes from. When things are available only in season, their taste is more appreciated. I still miss the silver corn available at the end of the New England growing season. The idea was to pick it while those at home set the water to boil. Shuck it as soon as you come in the door and eat it a few minutes later. The Green Giant doesn’t even come close.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
The Ball
The first ball of the season was held last night. This was not the balls of debutants or romantic novels with women in long gowns and men waltzing by in tails. These balls are held outdoors at the Place de la Republique.
Two sides of La Place are flanked by eight pastel colored houses with iron-railed balconies. The Ecole de Musique, the former town hall, dominates one side with its red-bricked building and blue-trimmed windows. L’Hôtel Hostalet and La Café de la Place set out their white plastic tables and chairs, which are covered with glasses of wine, Banyuls, champagne, beer and a can of Coke of two.
When the tarmac needing replacing four years ago, the village fathers decided to put down stone tiles with a hint of pink making a smooth dance floor. All cars have been cleared for the dance.
The band was live performing French, American and Spanish songs. This ball was for is the Fête de Musique, started over a decade ago by J. Laing, the then cultural minister. Tonight there will be concerts and dances all over the country.
Although many people sat, almost everyone danced with no self consciousness at some point during the night. Older women danced with their friends, their skirts whipping their legs. A man held his four-year old daughter, dressed in a white frock, and it could only be described as a frock in its delicateness. As he held her in his arms, she threw back her head and laughed.
Another man with a girl of the same age swayed as she stood on his shoes. A few women and two men dance alone. I saw my neighbors, the Fernendezes, the people who worry about my plants more than I do, swing by. The Dubois moved with a grace that I never knew neither of them had. There was another couple who could be in dance contests their foot work was so complicated. I remembered them from previous years.
An eight-year old boy shinnied up one of the four trees and watched us from the branches until his mother saw him and insisted he come down. He swung like a monkey from a branch before dropping into her arms and be shuttled home faster than he wanted to go. Hugo, a two year old, watched from his balcony. He was naked, his way of keeping cool in the heat. Next to him was his dog who has a Benjie head but with longer legs.
Although the music played until 12:30 the crowd thinned out after 11:30.
During the summer there will be many more dances. Many nights people will be in a circle dancing the Catalan native dance, the Sardane (http://www.reynes.fr/html/sardane.htm lets you hear the whiney music) where dancer take three steps right, three left, lowering and raising their arms.
The band packed up. I quickly helped the hotel owner clear off the tables and headed home.
Two sides of La Place are flanked by eight pastel colored houses with iron-railed balconies. The Ecole de Musique, the former town hall, dominates one side with its red-bricked building and blue-trimmed windows. L’Hôtel Hostalet and La Café de la Place set out their white plastic tables and chairs, which are covered with glasses of wine, Banyuls, champagne, beer and a can of Coke of two.
When the tarmac needing replacing four years ago, the village fathers decided to put down stone tiles with a hint of pink making a smooth dance floor. All cars have been cleared for the dance.
The band was live performing French, American and Spanish songs. This ball was for is the Fête de Musique, started over a decade ago by J. Laing, the then cultural minister. Tonight there will be concerts and dances all over the country.
Although many people sat, almost everyone danced with no self consciousness at some point during the night. Older women danced with their friends, their skirts whipping their legs. A man held his four-year old daughter, dressed in a white frock, and it could only be described as a frock in its delicateness. As he held her in his arms, she threw back her head and laughed.
Another man with a girl of the same age swayed as she stood on his shoes. A few women and two men dance alone. I saw my neighbors, the Fernendezes, the people who worry about my plants more than I do, swing by. The Dubois moved with a grace that I never knew neither of them had. There was another couple who could be in dance contests their foot work was so complicated. I remembered them from previous years.
An eight-year old boy shinnied up one of the four trees and watched us from the branches until his mother saw him and insisted he come down. He swung like a monkey from a branch before dropping into her arms and be shuttled home faster than he wanted to go. Hugo, a two year old, watched from his balcony. He was naked, his way of keeping cool in the heat. Next to him was his dog who has a Benjie head but with longer legs.
Although the music played until 12:30 the crowd thinned out after 11:30.
During the summer there will be many more dances. Many nights people will be in a circle dancing the Catalan native dance, the Sardane (http://www.reynes.fr/html/sardane.htm lets you hear the whiney music) where dancer take three steps right, three left, lowering and raising their arms.
The band packed up. I quickly helped the hotel owner clear off the tables and headed home.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Preparing for their future
The Swedish couple is leaving on Saturday after a week here. They'll drive 25 hours straight, alternating sleeping, and taking only quick food and potty stops. They do have 25 minute ferry ride. They are renovating Antoinette’s old house.
Antoinette died last summer at 91. She was an old Catalan woman who sat on her chair outside the door snapping her beans and telling everyone how she didn’t feel well. Each day she walked to the cemetery to visit with her husband. Neighbors said she was making up to him for driving him so hard in life.
The house is a huge Catalan house opening on two streets.
All houses have a problem with damp first floors that causes paint to flake no matter what kind of paint or what kind of surface unless there is year around heat. The man thinks he has found a solution by digging up the floor and laying a special subfloor. On all his holidays he is here with his wife and children. Cartloads of dirt have been shoveled out. They will be back for three more weeks at the end of the summer.
As the couple took a break with me at Franck’s café he talked about the possibility for not waiting until retirement to move down here permanently but to open a construction business.
As they say, on verra.
Antoinette died last summer at 91. She was an old Catalan woman who sat on her chair outside the door snapping her beans and telling everyone how she didn’t feel well. Each day she walked to the cemetery to visit with her husband. Neighbors said she was making up to him for driving him so hard in life.
The house is a huge Catalan house opening on two streets.
All houses have a problem with damp first floors that causes paint to flake no matter what kind of paint or what kind of surface unless there is year around heat. The man thinks he has found a solution by digging up the floor and laying a special subfloor. On all his holidays he is here with his wife and children. Cartloads of dirt have been shoveled out. They will be back for three more weeks at the end of the summer.
As the couple took a break with me at Franck’s café he talked about the possibility for not waiting until retirement to move down here permanently but to open a construction business.
As they say, on verra.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Sunday Breakfasts
La Noisette, Franck and Louise’s tea room across from the church, now serve English breakfasts. I fell asleep Saturday night thinking about Sunday morning. It was everything I dreamed it would be, two sunny-side up eggs, beans (I am New Englander rooted enough to prefer molasses in my baked beans except in an English breakfast), baked herbed tomato and of course, a good cup of milky tea.
However the French flavour was maintained with the baguette and neighbours walking by saying “Bonjour” and “Bon appetite.” Babette, the green grocer, two buildings up the street, waved and asked me if it were good. I held two thumbs up.
Franck stood at one end, trying to figure out how to protect the outside area on windy days, then tended to the flowers in the two planters flanking the terrace.
Sunday morning breakfasts have always been special. From the days on Wigglesworth Street starting when Bill would whip up a meal that would satisfy our hunger late into the day. Sometimes they even arrived on trays in bed along with parts of the Boston Globe. One time he presented us with printed invitations and a menu that included eggs of choice, bacon, sausage, English muffins, bagels, blueberry muffins, juice and more. We called my daughter who lived on the next block. Although not a morning person, the idea of a Bill breakfast, got her to Wigglesworth Street in record time.
When I was doing my masters in Wales, Geoff at the B&B used to do the English breakfasts, which was a good thing, because the food at the university’s refractory took courage to put in your mouth, never mind swallow.
In Geneva, I made myself a big Sunday breakfast, set the table often decorated with flowers from the previous day, and sat at my table looking at the field and the château across the streets. My new place is close to the lake and I still imagine going into the garden and eating a big breakfast when I get back there next month.
As much as I love croissants and brioche, the idea of having an English breakfast within a few minutes walk gives Sunday a whole new meaning.
However the French flavour was maintained with the baguette and neighbours walking by saying “Bonjour” and “Bon appetite.” Babette, the green grocer, two buildings up the street, waved and asked me if it were good. I held two thumbs up.
Franck stood at one end, trying to figure out how to protect the outside area on windy days, then tended to the flowers in the two planters flanking the terrace.
Sunday morning breakfasts have always been special. From the days on Wigglesworth Street starting when Bill would whip up a meal that would satisfy our hunger late into the day. Sometimes they even arrived on trays in bed along with parts of the Boston Globe. One time he presented us with printed invitations and a menu that included eggs of choice, bacon, sausage, English muffins, bagels, blueberry muffins, juice and more. We called my daughter who lived on the next block. Although not a morning person, the idea of a Bill breakfast, got her to Wigglesworth Street in record time.
When I was doing my masters in Wales, Geoff at the B&B used to do the English breakfasts, which was a good thing, because the food at the university’s refractory took courage to put in your mouth, never mind swallow.
In Geneva, I made myself a big Sunday breakfast, set the table often decorated with flowers from the previous day, and sat at my table looking at the field and the château across the streets. My new place is close to the lake and I still imagine going into the garden and eating a big breakfast when I get back there next month.
As much as I love croissants and brioche, the idea of having an English breakfast within a few minutes walk gives Sunday a whole new meaning.
Friday, June 17, 2005
The Danes Are Back
Some of my favorite Danes came back last night. Thanks to a Danish TV presenter on the Scandinavian level of Katie Curic, who bought a house years ago that she rented to other Danes in the television and film industries, Argelès, especially in the summer, has become Copenhagen South. Her renters bought homes that they in turn rent to other Danes in the various parts of the entertainment industry. Some make their homes here permanently, others vacation here and some come to work off season, although I suspect the warmer climate has more to do with that than escaping the diversions of home.
This family is a film producer and his surgeon wife, accompanied by his grown daughter and her handicapped son. The producer, who has won two Emmys for best foreign documentary always dresses in black. His wife is always in white. Although he is not heavy he fills up any space that he occupies with his flamboyance. She is quieter.
His daughter has sometime alone, sometime with her ex and son and then time with her son alone giving her a vacation. On a rainy day last year she was biking down to the sea to swim. For me it was too cold, but a quick reminder of the North Sea, made me understand.
I look forward to some good conversations.
This family is a film producer and his surgeon wife, accompanied by his grown daughter and her handicapped son. The producer, who has won two Emmys for best foreign documentary always dresses in black. His wife is always in white. Although he is not heavy he fills up any space that he occupies with his flamboyance. She is quieter.
His daughter has sometime alone, sometime with her ex and son and then time with her son alone giving her a vacation. On a rainy day last year she was biking down to the sea to swim. For me it was too cold, but a quick reminder of the North Sea, made me understand.
I look forward to some good conversations.
Silence
Watching the French film Lemming at the theatre around the corner, I suddenly was aware there was no background music. The wind in the trees, the coffee percolating, the whir of the lettuce dryer could all be heard under quiet conversation or no conversation at all. The only music was when something bad was about to happen, jarring the audience almost as much the event itself.
I thought of the air for Daiken air conditioners that I saw in Syria. There was a mime, no music, no voice over, contrasting to the usual hysteria of TV adverts. Then they showed the 3ftx1ftx4in wall mounted air conditioner and said, “Celebrating five years of silence.”
Silence, is it possible?
When I write I usually have music on. In the morning it is a cock that wakes me and if I don’t hear him, it could be garbage truck or the street cleaner that acts as an alarm clock. Even if those fail, voices of neighbors wishing each other good morning will do it.
In the middle of the night the frigo hums letting me know it is doing a good job in keeping my food cold. Thank you!
Climbing to Montsegur http://www.citaenet.com/montsegur with Robin, Ruth and Barbara last week (Make sure you look at the site to get an idea of the height) R&R were ahead of me, B behind, all out of sight. I was alone on the path. No traffic was close enough to hear. However, birds sang and somewhere near bees buzzed. A light breeze ruffled the leaves. This was as silent as it gets, but it was anything but silent.
I tried an experiment by laying still, windows closed, TV and radio off, doing nothing. This is not meditation but listening to quiet. My mind wanders to old cloisters with sisters who took the vow of silence. Could I do that? I doubt it. What I like is the various noises that indicates life is around me, crowing, singing, buzzing, humming.
I thought of the air for Daiken air conditioners that I saw in Syria. There was a mime, no music, no voice over, contrasting to the usual hysteria of TV adverts. Then they showed the 3ftx1ftx4in wall mounted air conditioner and said, “Celebrating five years of silence.”
Silence, is it possible?
When I write I usually have music on. In the morning it is a cock that wakes me and if I don’t hear him, it could be garbage truck or the street cleaner that acts as an alarm clock. Even if those fail, voices of neighbors wishing each other good morning will do it.
In the middle of the night the frigo hums letting me know it is doing a good job in keeping my food cold. Thank you!
Climbing to Montsegur http://www.citaenet.com/montsegur with Robin, Ruth and Barbara last week (Make sure you look at the site to get an idea of the height) R&R were ahead of me, B behind, all out of sight. I was alone on the path. No traffic was close enough to hear. However, birds sang and somewhere near bees buzzed. A light breeze ruffled the leaves. This was as silent as it gets, but it was anything but silent.
I tried an experiment by laying still, windows closed, TV and radio off, doing nothing. This is not meditation but listening to quiet. My mind wanders to old cloisters with sisters who took the vow of silence. Could I do that? I doubt it. What I like is the various noises that indicates life is around me, crowing, singing, buzzing, humming.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Working for Barbara
My friend Barbara sells books, African art, jewelry and ethnic clothing plus clothes that she designs and makes. During the season she is open 7/7, and I try to work for her a couple of afternoons a week to give her a breather and/or catch up on her sewing. If I don’t work, I feed her a couple of times so she doesn’t have to cope with dishes. This is not for money, nor does it take a job away from anyone because she would not hire anyone for these shifts.
She’s been my neighbor in three different places over the last 25 years and we’ve developed an easy friendship that is based on good times, meal sharing, and what do you need. Thus we’ve shlepped things up and down stairs, driven places to accomplish whatever.
Thursdays afternoons tend to be quiet, but it is always a surprise who might come in. Two women from Toronto wanted bracelets for one of the women’s daughters, a young boy was disappointed that we had nothing Mexican and an English woman and her American friend came in. The American was like Barbara and I, a person who spent more time outside our native country than in it.
Across the narrow street, Hugo, a two-year old, walks out on his balcony. He spends a lot of time on his balcony watching people walk up and down the street. He spies me sitting in the store and laughs as I wave.
On hot days I might sit outside the store and chat with Babette, the green grocer, the jeweler or anyone else who works by. It is a nice break from writing.
She’s been my neighbor in three different places over the last 25 years and we’ve developed an easy friendship that is based on good times, meal sharing, and what do you need. Thus we’ve shlepped things up and down stairs, driven places to accomplish whatever.
Thursdays afternoons tend to be quiet, but it is always a surprise who might come in. Two women from Toronto wanted bracelets for one of the women’s daughters, a young boy was disappointed that we had nothing Mexican and an English woman and her American friend came in. The American was like Barbara and I, a person who spent more time outside our native country than in it.
Across the narrow street, Hugo, a two-year old, walks out on his balcony. He spends a lot of time on his balcony watching people walk up and down the street. He spies me sitting in the store and laughs as I wave.
On hot days I might sit outside the store and chat with Babette, the green grocer, the jeweler or anyone else who works by. It is a nice break from writing.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Spending a night in an old jail
The six-room hotel we found in Mirepoix http://www.ot-mirepoix.fr/ goes back to the 14th century when it was jail. http://www.maisondesconsuls.com/hotel.php although much has been done to it since then. Now it is a three-star hotel. Mark with an English K nor Marc with a French c welcomed us.
The town is also medieval http://www.ot-mirepoix.fr/ and I even had a character from Mirepoix in my novel Heretics and Lovers.
Barbara’s and my room was called the Chambre du Marquis. The big bed was surrounded by curtains, the small bed doubled as a couch in front of the fireplace. The armoire was an antique. The floors were a Spanish tile and the ceilings still had the original beams on 11-foot ceilings. Our view was the square and a gothic church spire. Robin and Ruth had the same view from their Chambre du Marchéchal.
However when we went out to eat we walked under the wooden arcade that ran the length of the street on the square. “Look,” Robin said. We followed his finger to the hand carved wooden gargoyles that lined the arcade. On the street side there were two other rows of carved wooden gargoyles. The top row was harder to distinguish because wind and rain had worn them away, but the lower row was sheltered and therefore protected and better preserved.
The next morning we woke to the sound of metal as merchants on the marché put up their stands. With over 200 stands, it was one of the largest marchés I have found in France.
Having spent lots and lots of time staying in chains during business trips, the idea of any place that it totally unique, is a pleasure. It is impossible to make a chain out of a hotel that began life as a jail seven centuries before.
The town is also medieval http://www.ot-mirepoix.fr/ and I even had a character from Mirepoix in my novel Heretics and Lovers.
Barbara’s and my room was called the Chambre du Marquis. The big bed was surrounded by curtains, the small bed doubled as a couch in front of the fireplace. The armoire was an antique. The floors were a Spanish tile and the ceilings still had the original beams on 11-foot ceilings. Our view was the square and a gothic church spire. Robin and Ruth had the same view from their Chambre du Marchéchal.
However when we went out to eat we walked under the wooden arcade that ran the length of the street on the square. “Look,” Robin said. We followed his finger to the hand carved wooden gargoyles that lined the arcade. On the street side there were two other rows of carved wooden gargoyles. The top row was harder to distinguish because wind and rain had worn them away, but the lower row was sheltered and therefore protected and better preserved.
The next morning we woke to the sound of metal as merchants on the marché put up their stands. With over 200 stands, it was one of the largest marchés I have found in France.
Having spent lots and lots of time staying in chains during business trips, the idea of any place that it totally unique, is a pleasure. It is impossible to make a chain out of a hotel that began life as a jail seven centuries before.
Three wives
Barbara, Ruth and I, along with Ruth’s husband, Robin, headed for the medieval city of Minerve, pronounced menerve. In a pun the phrase in French can mean – it annoys me. The village and scenery did anything but annoy us. Minerve made one of the last stands to defend the Cathars. http://www.ot-herault.com/minerve.html
After wandering the ancient streets, our next step was to buy some of the local Mirepoix regional wine.
Although caves were plentiful, we chose one, which had a beautiful show room. An older man poured various wines. Barbara was interested in buying wine in boxes, certainly something that might shock wine connoisseur pretenders, but wine keeps better in boxes than in bottles.
At one point the salesman said to Robin, “You are lucky to be with three women.” As he poured and talked, we could see him trying to figure out who belonged to Robin. Barbara sat next to Robin in the front seat as the salesman helped carry the boxed wine to the car and we guessed that he had it figured out, but wrongly.
We teased Robin that we should have boosted his macho image by all of us calling him darling or two of us arguing about whom he favored.
In the hotel we stayed at later the same day, Robin received the same comment on his good fortune. Again the inquisitive stares. We wandered up stairs alone so none of the staff knew for sure who was with whom. Since we struggled down to petit dejeuner at different times and since Barbara settled the bill for us all, there was no way they could ever have figured it out.
I suspect, that although Robin, who is a good looking man, loved being thought of as such a source of female attraction, he would not like being a spouse to three very strong women.
An overnight trip should have been enough for him.
After wandering the ancient streets, our next step was to buy some of the local Mirepoix regional wine.
Although caves were plentiful, we chose one, which had a beautiful show room. An older man poured various wines. Barbara was interested in buying wine in boxes, certainly something that might shock wine connoisseur pretenders, but wine keeps better in boxes than in bottles.
At one point the salesman said to Robin, “You are lucky to be with three women.” As he poured and talked, we could see him trying to figure out who belonged to Robin. Barbara sat next to Robin in the front seat as the salesman helped carry the boxed wine to the car and we guessed that he had it figured out, but wrongly.
We teased Robin that we should have boosted his macho image by all of us calling him darling or two of us arguing about whom he favored.
In the hotel we stayed at later the same day, Robin received the same comment on his good fortune. Again the inquisitive stares. We wandered up stairs alone so none of the staff knew for sure who was with whom. Since we struggled down to petit dejeuner at different times and since Barbara settled the bill for us all, there was no way they could ever have figured it out.
I suspect, that although Robin, who is a good looking man, loved being thought of as such a source of female attraction, he would not like being a spouse to three very strong women.
An overnight trip should have been enough for him.
French Patchwork
Patchwork is an American folk art form. However, patchwork and quilting is sweeping France. In the last week I’ve been to two exhibitions. One was local and could almost be described as painting with cloth. The other was about 60 kilometers away where there is a patchwork museum http://www.patchwork-cep.com We drove up on Sunday and found the museum along a canal where red-headed ducks swam as dogs ran up and down the paths that ran parallel to the water. We lucked out on the day we were there. There was a special marché of all types of materials to support sewing crafts.
The displays and information were first rate. We even lucked out on the price. One Euro instead of three.
Singers entertained us, there were snacks to eat.
Although I never expected to find such a museum in rural France, patchwork is a rural art. My favorite was a donation by an American woman, who said since she was 89, she didn't need the quilt anymore, making a marvellous international connection between generations, artists and nations.
The displays and information were first rate. We even lucked out on the price. One Euro instead of three.
Singers entertained us, there were snacks to eat.
Although I never expected to find such a museum in rural France, patchwork is a rural art. My favorite was a donation by an American woman, who said since she was 89, she didn't need the quilt anymore, making a marvellous international connection between generations, artists and nations.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Swiss Democracy
What do Swiss do on Sunday? Go to church and vote. Well not every Sunday, but lots. This real democracy has been in its present form since the 1800s when it copied almost, the American bicameral legislature, although it has existed since 1300 in some form or another, making it one of the world’s oldest democracy rivaled only by Iceland.
Often the more numerous Swiss Germans vote one way overruling the Swiss French vote, but last Sunday the country approved the Schengen Treaty making border crossings easier as well as approving civil arrangements for couples.
This time there was no talk about the Roesti Curtain. Roesti is the hash-brown potato-type dish of the Swiss Germans. The term is used to describe the different attitudes in voting. However, lots of Swiss French eat Roesti.
Long may the continue the voting tradition.
Often the more numerous Swiss Germans vote one way overruling the Swiss French vote, but last Sunday the country approved the Schengen Treaty making border crossings easier as well as approving civil arrangements for couples.
This time there was no talk about the Roesti Curtain. Roesti is the hash-brown potato-type dish of the Swiss Germans. The term is used to describe the different attitudes in voting. However, lots of Swiss French eat Roesti.
Long may the continue the voting tradition.
PMS Replacement
I am probably one of the few women in the world that misses PMS. Instead of getting bitchy, I went into overdrive accomplishing chores that I had put off for four weeks. My roommates used to either save up things for me to do, or hide out during this period.
The scene in my novel Chickpea Lover, where the heroine washes the inside of the chimney, is autobiographical. Sadly the following sex scene wasn’t.
Today I went into overdrive in cleaning just like I did with PMS. My daughter has mocked me because I wash my cleaning appliances and I do admit I am neurotic. I don't want dust under my fridge, dust between my books. I wash off fingerprints on my cooking appliances, etc. Mega cleanings means moving everything out including the fridge and washer.
In a small space this isn’t that hard. Before Gérard, the unusual on-time French workman, pointed the original stone wall, it gave off dust to the point that if I swept down the stairs, by the time I was back up they were coated again. I suspected Catalan Leprechauns were bringing sand in from the beach just to dirty my stairs, but that is a problem of the past.
Anyone reading this who is planning to visit me, Rosemary and others, don’t worry that my neurosis will ruin your holiday. I revert to something normal when I have company. It may be all the threats of nursing homes if I didn’t shape up made by my daughter. She means now, not when I become old and infirm.
Today’s surge had nothing to do with PMS. I have found another catalyst. There was an article I didn’t want to write. Computer or cleaning cloth? The cloth won.
The scene in my novel Chickpea Lover, where the heroine washes the inside of the chimney, is autobiographical. Sadly the following sex scene wasn’t.
Today I went into overdrive in cleaning just like I did with PMS. My daughter has mocked me because I wash my cleaning appliances and I do admit I am neurotic. I don't want dust under my fridge, dust between my books. I wash off fingerprints on my cooking appliances, etc. Mega cleanings means moving everything out including the fridge and washer.
In a small space this isn’t that hard. Before Gérard, the unusual on-time French workman, pointed the original stone wall, it gave off dust to the point that if I swept down the stairs, by the time I was back up they were coated again. I suspected Catalan Leprechauns were bringing sand in from the beach just to dirty my stairs, but that is a problem of the past.
Anyone reading this who is planning to visit me, Rosemary and others, don’t worry that my neurosis will ruin your holiday. I revert to something normal when I have company. It may be all the threats of nursing homes if I didn’t shape up made by my daughter. She means now, not when I become old and infirm.
Today’s surge had nothing to do with PMS. I have found another catalyst. There was an article I didn’t want to write. Computer or cleaning cloth? The cloth won.
How Many Frenchmen Does It Take to Change a Light Bulb
Eight.
My first run in with French light bulbs was years ago when I was living with Michel. As a good housewife I went to buy a light bulb. When I couldn’t find it and I didn’t know the word, I went to a clerk and acted out turning on a switch, not being able to see, unscrewing the bulb and shaking it to my ear. The clerk said, “You want a light bulb?” in perfect English. I hadn’t thought to ask if he could speak English, and he was enjoying my performance too much to tell me. “The word is ampule,” he said as I left.
I got the ampule home only to discover that the French have many kinds of screw in, push in, and snap in bulbs. Also there are different sizes of all the bulb endings.
The lighting during the day in my Argelès flat, thanks to the skylight is bright, but at night the developer had saved money by limiting the lights so if someone was within a few feet, I almost had to call out, “Is there anyone there?”
Gérard, the unusual French workman who shows up when he says he will, put in track lighting two years ago. The first Halogen bulb burned out Monday. There was no problem removing it. I went to the first store and found one identical in size, but instead of two nibs at the point of insertion, there were two points. “Try Shoppi,” Frenchman number 1 said.
“Try Weldon’s,” Frenchman number 2 said.
“All the way to the back and right,” French number 3 said.
“You should have gone left, Frenchman number 4 said.
I got to the checkout counter and noticed the writing on the bulb said 50W 230 while my sample bulb said 50W 220. “Is this a problem?” I asked the check out clerk. French number 5 called Frenchmen number 6, 7 and 8 who debated what it meant. “Try it, and if it doesn’t work, bring it back, number 5 said.
It worked.
My first run in with French light bulbs was years ago when I was living with Michel. As a good housewife I went to buy a light bulb. When I couldn’t find it and I didn’t know the word, I went to a clerk and acted out turning on a switch, not being able to see, unscrewing the bulb and shaking it to my ear. The clerk said, “You want a light bulb?” in perfect English. I hadn’t thought to ask if he could speak English, and he was enjoying my performance too much to tell me. “The word is ampule,” he said as I left.
I got the ampule home only to discover that the French have many kinds of screw in, push in, and snap in bulbs. Also there are different sizes of all the bulb endings.
The lighting during the day in my Argelès flat, thanks to the skylight is bright, but at night the developer had saved money by limiting the lights so if someone was within a few feet, I almost had to call out, “Is there anyone there?”
Gérard, the unusual French workman who shows up when he says he will, put in track lighting two years ago. The first Halogen bulb burned out Monday. There was no problem removing it. I went to the first store and found one identical in size, but instead of two nibs at the point of insertion, there were two points. “Try Shoppi,” Frenchman number 1 said.
“Try Weldon’s,” Frenchman number 2 said.
“All the way to the back and right,” French number 3 said.
“You should have gone left, Frenchman number 4 said.
I got to the checkout counter and noticed the writing on the bulb said 50W 230 while my sample bulb said 50W 220. “Is this a problem?” I asked the check out clerk. French number 5 called Frenchmen number 6, 7 and 8 who debated what it meant. “Try it, and if it doesn’t work, bring it back, number 5 said.
It worked.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
Lights Out
I hadn’t realized the lights had gone out because the computer had switched to battery until I tried to turn on the light. Nothing worked, the fuse box had all switches at normal position. Going downstairs, the neighbors were out on the street, not unusual because many of the neighbors sit and talk for hours on the street. They were without lights too.
An examination showed a good part of the town was out. I went to my friend Barbara’s. Since she had a gas stove, she was able to cook dinner, goat. At this time of the year it doesn’t get dark until at least 10 p.m. We ate by candlelight and I was about to borrow a candle to get back to my place.
We looked outside. The lights had come back on and we hadn’t noticed.
An examination showed a good part of the town was out. I went to my friend Barbara’s. Since she had a gas stove, she was able to cook dinner, goat. At this time of the year it doesn’t get dark until at least 10 p.m. We ate by candlelight and I was about to borrow a candle to get back to my place.
We looked outside. The lights had come back on and we hadn’t noticed.
A trip to the beach
On the twenty minute walk to the beach I was engulfed by the smell of lavender. I walked a little further and was overwhelmed with the smell of jasmine. I remember my trip to Grasse years ago where I toured the perfume factories. The perfumers took almost one square foot wooden boxes, filled them with an amber gel and petal by petal of jasmine formed a single layer. The gel absorbed the scent. After several days the gel is melted down and used for the perfume in various combinations.
Some web sites about Grasse: http://www.fragonard.com/ http://www.provenceweb.fr/f/alpmarit/grasse/grasse.htm and the best site is http://www.apagrasse.com/
I had earned the beach break. Not only had I added more about Pope Benedict XII to my novel Heretics and Lovers, I had nailed a scene in my novel Triple Deckers where Peggy realizes how loveless her life has been when she sees a couple hugging while waiting for the Red Line to Harvard Square. I had also cracked a story I am writing on the arts in Cork and sent out some of my last newsletters. I intend to continue writing W3 monthly but will blog it instead of emailing it. When the list went over 7500 it became too much.
The road to the beach was once all vineyards but it is now full of houses, but most have more flowers than I can identify.
The beach is the last sandy beach before Spain. The blue flag signaling the EU had tested the water and found it unpolluted was flapping in rags in the wind. Heavy winds had taken their toll. The water was 20°, the air 30°. (28° is 82°F).
I don’t worry about what people think of my body. There are too many bronzed beauties strutting around the beach to notice my chicken white skin. I stretched out my towel and shut my eyes listening to the waves, a few birds and the conversation of two young French girls. Their twittering increased. I sat up in time to see a well built young man, check to make sure they were watching. He did a quadruple somersault backwards into the water. I decided to walk along the edge of the water letting the waves break up to my knees. By the time I had come back, the young man was sitting with the girls.
Next month the beach will be towel-to-towel full, but today it was sparsely occupied. I always find a place, but then an English woman comes next to me and inevitably has a stream of speech that includes conversation like this: “Samantha, that’s not the way to hold your shovel. Simon, you need three towers on your sand castle. No, you can’t have a biscuit for another three minutes. We’re having lamb tonight, won’t that be nice. Now where is your father? I can’t stand to come to the beach, because he disappears...” and on and on and on and on. I never said I could understand that he was trying to get away. In ten trips to the beach, I have run into at least eight motor-mouth women all who sound like the sample above.
Walking back I really wished Llara could have been there. Despite having blond hair and blue eyes my daughter turns bronze if a sunbeam even comes near her. On one trip here, she was working on changing racial profiles, and decided she was a goddess in training, a tan being the requirement to make it to full goddessdom. I asked her what she would be a goddess of. “Goddess of management,” she told me.
Some web sites about Grasse: http://www.fragonard.com/ http://www.provenceweb.fr/f/alpmarit/grasse/grasse.htm and the best site is http://www.apagrasse.com/
I had earned the beach break. Not only had I added more about Pope Benedict XII to my novel Heretics and Lovers, I had nailed a scene in my novel Triple Deckers where Peggy realizes how loveless her life has been when she sees a couple hugging while waiting for the Red Line to Harvard Square. I had also cracked a story I am writing on the arts in Cork and sent out some of my last newsletters. I intend to continue writing W3 monthly but will blog it instead of emailing it. When the list went over 7500 it became too much.
The road to the beach was once all vineyards but it is now full of houses, but most have more flowers than I can identify.
The beach is the last sandy beach before Spain. The blue flag signaling the EU had tested the water and found it unpolluted was flapping in rags in the wind. Heavy winds had taken their toll. The water was 20°, the air 30°. (28° is 82°F).
I don’t worry about what people think of my body. There are too many bronzed beauties strutting around the beach to notice my chicken white skin. I stretched out my towel and shut my eyes listening to the waves, a few birds and the conversation of two young French girls. Their twittering increased. I sat up in time to see a well built young man, check to make sure they were watching. He did a quadruple somersault backwards into the water. I decided to walk along the edge of the water letting the waves break up to my knees. By the time I had come back, the young man was sitting with the girls.
Next month the beach will be towel-to-towel full, but today it was sparsely occupied. I always find a place, but then an English woman comes next to me and inevitably has a stream of speech that includes conversation like this: “Samantha, that’s not the way to hold your shovel. Simon, you need three towers on your sand castle. No, you can’t have a biscuit for another three minutes. We’re having lamb tonight, won’t that be nice. Now where is your father? I can’t stand to come to the beach, because he disappears...” and on and on and on and on. I never said I could understand that he was trying to get away. In ten trips to the beach, I have run into at least eight motor-mouth women all who sound like the sample above.
Walking back I really wished Llara could have been there. Despite having blond hair and blue eyes my daughter turns bronze if a sunbeam even comes near her. On one trip here, she was working on changing racial profiles, and decided she was a goddess in training, a tan being the requirement to make it to full goddessdom. I asked her what she would be a goddess of. “Goddess of management,” she told me.
Monday, June 06, 2005
Dibs and Dab
1. M6 (TV station) now has a morning exercise show. For years I’ve done some form of exercise on waking from jogging to sit ups but am delighted to have something to exercise to. However there is less cellulite on the long-haired, long-limbed women gyrating on my screen than I had at 10 so I can’t even blame it on age. One reason I don’t join a gym, I prefer to be a clutz in private.
2. Criticism for the lack of black artists on the upcoming Live Aid concert. Why is it no matter what someone tries, someone attacks it?
3. The Brits are floating the idea of a road usage tax having cars pay for each mile they use varying from a few pence to £1.34. I bet if American ever had a $1.00 a mile tax we would suddenly not be driving to the store next door in the same shopping mall, and begin car pooling big time. Money could be used to finance public transportation. Anyone who knows me, knows I detest any non fuel efficient car. Anyway, although maybe not in my lifetime, oil will run out. Dinosaurs are refusing to die to form more fuel. I doubt if the taxes will happen.
4. Someone who reads my blog regularly asked if I ever wake up and say another shit day. I do intend to write about the positive. My “bad day” yesterday was discovering my milk frother didn’t work, my satellite company changed my subscription so I didn’t have BBC prime, and a light bulb burned out. Since France has many different type of light bulbs instead of a standard screw in model, I need to do a safari for a replacement. Any annoyance at my “bad day” was swept away by BBC’s reports on Dafur. I must remember that I and everyone I know live better than 99% of the people who ever lived in the world. I will return the milk frother, the TV is now back to normal, and the light bulb safari is a project for today.
5. For some reason I have had a tremendous prgnancy-strong craving for corn flakes lately. I mix yoghurt and fresh figs, add bananas and then the cornflakes so they don’t get mushy. I am sure I will get back to the crusty bread from the local bakeries at some point.
2. Criticism for the lack of black artists on the upcoming Live Aid concert. Why is it no matter what someone tries, someone attacks it?
3. The Brits are floating the idea of a road usage tax having cars pay for each mile they use varying from a few pence to £1.34. I bet if American ever had a $1.00 a mile tax we would suddenly not be driving to the store next door in the same shopping mall, and begin car pooling big time. Money could be used to finance public transportation. Anyone who knows me, knows I detest any non fuel efficient car. Anyway, although maybe not in my lifetime, oil will run out. Dinosaurs are refusing to die to form more fuel. I doubt if the taxes will happen.
4. Someone who reads my blog regularly asked if I ever wake up and say another shit day. I do intend to write about the positive. My “bad day” yesterday was discovering my milk frother didn’t work, my satellite company changed my subscription so I didn’t have BBC prime, and a light bulb burned out. Since France has many different type of light bulbs instead of a standard screw in model, I need to do a safari for a replacement. Any annoyance at my “bad day” was swept away by BBC’s reports on Dafur. I must remember that I and everyone I know live better than 99% of the people who ever lived in the world. I will return the milk frother, the TV is now back to normal, and the light bulb safari is a project for today.
5. For some reason I have had a tremendous prgnancy-strong craving for corn flakes lately. I mix yoghurt and fresh figs, add bananas and then the cornflakes so they don’t get mushy. I am sure I will get back to the crusty bread from the local bakeries at some point.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Daily Life in the Time of Calvin.
At the Place du Molard in Geneva, used book sellers had set out their offerings around the flower-decorated fountain. Although I was meeting my former and current landlady who is the same person plus the family that are now living in my old flat for lunch, there was time to browse.
I try and read at least one French book a month. Unlike English books, which I eat, French takes me longer and the book has to be fascinating. I prefer used books, because they are cheaper, and if I am lucky someone has put notes in them. It is a type of communications between other readers and me.
The book La Vie Quotidienne à Genève au Temps de Calvin almost jumped into my hand. I am trying to develop a mystery series set both in modern times and with a subplot somewhere in history. I also want to set them in different cities. Murder in Argelès is written, but needs a rewrite. Underground Railroads, is set in Rockport, MA and is also written and making the rounds. Last month I researched Murder in Damascus while in Syria, and I have been postponing researching Murder in Geneva.
However, this 245-page book has all the background I need on what Geneva was like during Calvin’s time.
The woman said there was a newer edition out, but at 8 CHF, I was content. As I walked across the street and sat on the steps in front of yet another fountain waiting for my lunch partners, I started reading.
I learned that where I bought the book in the time of Calvin was beach front property. Lake Lehmann had come up all the way to the Place du Molard. Now it is a couple of rather large streets away. I also learned that despite the proximity of the lake, water was a problem. It had to be hauled from the lake up the hill to the Old Town.
Somewhere in the 1400s a man from Avignon had offered to build 12 fountains for 800 Ecus. The city fathers only authorized one, at the place I was sitting. I looked behind me. The fountain was definitely newer, but I still could imagine a woman in a long dress and apron walking down the hill along the cobblestones with her pitcher to get water to wash her luncheon dishes. Before I could go any further either in my imagination or the book, my landlady called to me. The sandwich shop where we were eating, was definitely of modern times.
I try and read at least one French book a month. Unlike English books, which I eat, French takes me longer and the book has to be fascinating. I prefer used books, because they are cheaper, and if I am lucky someone has put notes in them. It is a type of communications between other readers and me.
The book La Vie Quotidienne à Genève au Temps de Calvin almost jumped into my hand. I am trying to develop a mystery series set both in modern times and with a subplot somewhere in history. I also want to set them in different cities. Murder in Argelès is written, but needs a rewrite. Underground Railroads, is set in Rockport, MA and is also written and making the rounds. Last month I researched Murder in Damascus while in Syria, and I have been postponing researching Murder in Geneva.
However, this 245-page book has all the background I need on what Geneva was like during Calvin’s time.
The woman said there was a newer edition out, but at 8 CHF, I was content. As I walked across the street and sat on the steps in front of yet another fountain waiting for my lunch partners, I started reading.
I learned that where I bought the book in the time of Calvin was beach front property. Lake Lehmann had come up all the way to the Place du Molard. Now it is a couple of rather large streets away. I also learned that despite the proximity of the lake, water was a problem. It had to be hauled from the lake up the hill to the Old Town.
Somewhere in the 1400s a man from Avignon had offered to build 12 fountains for 800 Ecus. The city fathers only authorized one, at the place I was sitting. I looked behind me. The fountain was definitely newer, but I still could imagine a woman in a long dress and apron walking down the hill along the cobblestones with her pitcher to get water to wash her luncheon dishes. Before I could go any further either in my imagination or the book, my landlady called to me. The sandwich shop where we were eating, was definitely of modern times.
Buying a Milk Frother
I went shopping. Yup me. Shopping. By choice. I went to the Geneva branch of the Manora Department Store, fourth floor, household goods to buy a milk frother.
It was identical to the one I had given a cappuccino-loving friend. Like most Americans, he found more than one use for it. It was also great to make salad dressings.
Not to brag too much, but I am renown for my salads. Whenever there’s a pot luck (or Canadian supper as pot lucks are called here) and I offer to bring a pie, vegetables, etc., people always say, “but your salads are so good. Can you bring that?” Now I know I also make good pies, vegetables, etc. so it is not a fear of my other dishes that makes them ask for salad. My not-so-secret secret is in the dressings, never store bought, but made with the freshest of oils, herbs, soy, seeds, whatever, whisked and whisked and whisked…
For the last artichoke I cooked I made my usual vinaigrette, but the emulsion just wasn’t smooth enough. I gave in. After all, thinking about a 19.50 CHF purchase for eight months isn’t exactly an impulse buy.
The device, which is about ten inches long, met my three criteria.
1. Does it give me energy?
Yes. I will enjoy using it.
2. Is it beautiful?
Yes. It is gracefully shaped, silver, and the little whip at the bottom looks like a
Euro-sized slinky in a circle.
3. Is it useful?
Yes. Considering I make salad dressing for almost every meal.
Later that evening I was having dinner with a friend and I told her about it. She knows how much I despise adding anything to my place that isn’t 892% necessary under my three criteria.
“I bet you are going to put it in the basket over the sink,” she said.
She was right.
It was identical to the one I had given a cappuccino-loving friend. Like most Americans, he found more than one use for it. It was also great to make salad dressings.
Not to brag too much, but I am renown for my salads. Whenever there’s a pot luck (or Canadian supper as pot lucks are called here) and I offer to bring a pie, vegetables, etc., people always say, “but your salads are so good. Can you bring that?” Now I know I also make good pies, vegetables, etc. so it is not a fear of my other dishes that makes them ask for salad. My not-so-secret secret is in the dressings, never store bought, but made with the freshest of oils, herbs, soy, seeds, whatever, whisked and whisked and whisked…
For the last artichoke I cooked I made my usual vinaigrette, but the emulsion just wasn’t smooth enough. I gave in. After all, thinking about a 19.50 CHF purchase for eight months isn’t exactly an impulse buy.
The device, which is about ten inches long, met my three criteria.
1. Does it give me energy?
Yes. I will enjoy using it.
2. Is it beautiful?
Yes. It is gracefully shaped, silver, and the little whip at the bottom looks like a
Euro-sized slinky in a circle.
3. Is it useful?
Yes. Considering I make salad dressing for almost every meal.
Later that evening I was having dinner with a friend and I told her about it. She knows how much I despise adding anything to my place that isn’t 892% necessary under my three criteria.
“I bet you are going to put it in the basket over the sink,” she said.
She was right.
He Was Hollywood Handsome
He was Hollywood handsome as he sauntered along the quai next to Lake Lehman. His blond hair was cut in a way that the rippling breeze left every hair in place. His body was gym perfect and he slung a blue suit coat over his shoulder. His shirt was pink striped and he wore jeans.
He looked straight ahead, or at least his head did not swivel to watch the speed boat pulling the water skier. Nor did he appear to notice the two young women on roller blades that did a double take and watched his perfect ass.
Behind him a little blond girl in a pink sundress with an aqua ruffle on the bottom and pink and aqua sandals peddled a bike with training wheels. She finally caught up with the man. He turned and took off his glasses. Their facial structure was so similar there was no need for a DNA test to determine relationships. Whatever he said, she started to cry. He walked ahead of her and she followed on the bike, only more slowly leaving a good amount of distance between them.
He was Hollywood handsome, but he was ugly.
He looked straight ahead, or at least his head did not swivel to watch the speed boat pulling the water skier. Nor did he appear to notice the two young women on roller blades that did a double take and watched his perfect ass.
Behind him a little blond girl in a pink sundress with an aqua ruffle on the bottom and pink and aqua sandals peddled a bike with training wheels. She finally caught up with the man. He turned and took off his glasses. Their facial structure was so similar there was no need for a DNA test to determine relationships. Whatever he said, she started to cry. He walked ahead of her and she followed on the bike, only more slowly leaving a good amount of distance between them.
He was Hollywood handsome, but he was ugly.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
The Birthday Party
Lillian’s 80th birthday party was held in a farm in Dordogne overlooking a valley of farms and the twisting river. Everything served from the foie gras to the chicken soup with the transparent tapioca balls was raised on the farm. Well not everything. The wine was from the region not from the farm.
Lillian, herself looked and acted as if she were in her fifties. (I’ve always hated saying some looks 32 or 61, because I am not exactly sure what 32 or 61 looks like, but Lillian certainly does not fit the concept of a little old white haired lady.).
Some 70 relatives had come not just from the area but from all over France, Canada and of course Switzerland. They varied in age from four months to 95, the latter being a woman dressed in white pants and a bright red blazer with jewelry, her blond hair modernly styled. She hopped from table to table talking to everyone. Not one person was obese, although there was one chubby and about four chunkies.
Like all family gatherings there were stories of who did what to whom and when, laughter, some tension between those that had problems in the past, forgiveness of others. Although I wasn’t part of the family, people went out of their way to include me or explain backgrounds.
I was reminded of the 50th wedding anniversary party for my Aunt Alma and Uncle Pat held in Florida twenty years ago. This hall looked out on a man-made lake. When we entered a room of 100 or so people, I said to my daughter, “There’s the family.”
“Where?” she asked.
“All over.”
It was the same atmosphere of happiness to see each other and to share a special time. At both parties, people kept saying the same thing: “We usually only meet at funerals, isn’t it lovely to meet for a happy event.” Like Tolstoy said “happy families are the same everywhere.”
Lillian, herself looked and acted as if she were in her fifties. (I’ve always hated saying some looks 32 or 61, because I am not exactly sure what 32 or 61 looks like, but Lillian certainly does not fit the concept of a little old white haired lady.).
Some 70 relatives had come not just from the area but from all over France, Canada and of course Switzerland. They varied in age from four months to 95, the latter being a woman dressed in white pants and a bright red blazer with jewelry, her blond hair modernly styled. She hopped from table to table talking to everyone. Not one person was obese, although there was one chubby and about four chunkies.
Like all family gatherings there were stories of who did what to whom and when, laughter, some tension between those that had problems in the past, forgiveness of others. Although I wasn’t part of the family, people went out of their way to include me or explain backgrounds.
I was reminded of the 50th wedding anniversary party for my Aunt Alma and Uncle Pat held in Florida twenty years ago. This hall looked out on a man-made lake. When we entered a room of 100 or so people, I said to my daughter, “There’s the family.”
“Where?” she asked.
“All over.”
It was the same atmosphere of happiness to see each other and to share a special time. At both parties, people kept saying the same thing: “We usually only meet at funerals, isn’t it lovely to meet for a happy event.” Like Tolstoy said “happy families are the same everywhere.”
Hotel Radio
The art deco exhibition last year at Boston’s Museum of Fine Arts had been wonderful, but I never expected to live in Art Deco surroundings. On the trip to Dordogne my Swiss friend Florian and I met up with his daughter Mathilde and her Swedish partner Hans, who had picked out the Hotel Radio. http://www.financialgroupservicesuk.com/html/review_047.htm
One look at the art deco lobby made me want to change to low-waisted dress, put on a cloche and Charleston across the lobby. The rooms were in the same style, in cheery whites and yellows. The sink was a huge bowl balanced on a wooden counter top the same way a soup bowl would be on a table.
The restaurant provided us with one of those memory meals, course after course of mini taste sensations presented in a manner that made me debate whether I should take a photo or eat it. Translucent leaf-shaped crackers with sprigs of dill cooked in them so they looked like fossils, is just one example. Our food was brought by two waiters so we all were served at the same instant.
This was even more impressive because Hans and Mathilde had their Great Dane Theodora with them and to reach Hans, the waiters had to step over the dog. (http://www.travelerstales.com/catalog/dogs/chapter.html to read a story I published about Dogs in restaurants )
Each course was served on a different art deco plate: a translucent checkerboard of white and black glass, a brilliant blue glass circle, a square white plate with the corners turned up. The butter dish was a 3x5x2 crystal cube with a slot for the butter knife in the middle. However the after-dessert dessert was a 8x2x.5 stone slab with five sticks each topped with a bite of a sweet, a tuft of cotton candy, chocolate, a strawberry and confections that we were too full to do anything but look at.
When we walked back through the lobby, my desire to Charleston, was non-existent. I decided I never wanted to eat again or until the next day, whichever came first.
One look at the art deco lobby made me want to change to low-waisted dress, put on a cloche and Charleston across the lobby. The rooms were in the same style, in cheery whites and yellows. The sink was a huge bowl balanced on a wooden counter top the same way a soup bowl would be on a table.
The restaurant provided us with one of those memory meals, course after course of mini taste sensations presented in a manner that made me debate whether I should take a photo or eat it. Translucent leaf-shaped crackers with sprigs of dill cooked in them so they looked like fossils, is just one example. Our food was brought by two waiters so we all were served at the same instant.
This was even more impressive because Hans and Mathilde had their Great Dane Theodora with them and to reach Hans, the waiters had to step over the dog. (http://www.travelerstales.com/catalog/dogs/chapter.html to read a story I published about Dogs in restaurants )
Each course was served on a different art deco plate: a translucent checkerboard of white and black glass, a brilliant blue glass circle, a square white plate with the corners turned up. The butter dish was a 3x5x2 crystal cube with a slot for the butter knife in the middle. However the after-dessert dessert was a 8x2x.5 stone slab with five sticks each topped with a bite of a sweet, a tuft of cotton candy, chocolate, a strawberry and confections that we were too full to do anything but look at.
When we walked back through the lobby, my desire to Charleston, was non-existent. I decided I never wanted to eat again or until the next day, whichever came first.
Snake Stories
The snake, no bigger than the length of my hand, a beautiful Hershey Kiss Milk Chocolate wiggled across the red dirt path.
Ignoring the phallic and Freudian implications I want you to know. I DON’T LIKE SNAKES.
My opinion was influenced by my Grandmother. Because we lived on 14 acres of land, much of it woods, snakes were not uncommon. We always knew when she saw one, even if the windows and doors were closed. Most of the neighbors knew. Some probably suspected her husband of wife abuse. She gave credence to the cliché screaming bloody murder.
As a student teacher I turned from writing on the chalk board to look into the flickering tongue of a snake, held by one of my less likeable students. Rather than repeat my grandmother’s reaction, I calmly (on the exterior) took the snake from the kid, being careful to hold it around its neck in case it was poisonous, asked him questions and pretending to be one of those people on TV who show animals to talk show hosts, asked the other kids if they wanted to hold it. This was NOT bravery. It had taken a nano second to realize that any other reaction would have brought daily donations of creatures that would be better left in the wild. The student was hovering between a low D and an F. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the teacher who wouldn’t be cowered.
Right before I gave birth to my daughter, I dreamed I was in bed when my mother arrived. She was wearing a fake fur white coat with black spots. The collar was a fuzzy snake that slithered off. I woke up and told my husband, got up, went to the bathroom as most very pregnant women do. After going back to sleep I dreamed the same snake wiggled over to my bed, raised his head cobra style and said, “I bet you thought you got rid of me in the last dream.”
My last snake dream was after a day in Montaillou http://www.mairie-montaillou.fr My friends Robin, Ruth, Barbara and I had visited the château ruins where in the late 1300s the Lady Béatrice had an affair with Pierre Clergue, the local priest. As Robin and I were heading down the path after Barbara and Ruth, a snake crossed our path. That night I dreamed that the snake had followed us, hid under the car, waited for us two hours while we ate in a restaurant, got off at the movie theatre in Argelés where Robin let Barbara and I off, followed me for two blocks to my home, slipped under the front door and up two flights of stairs, then made it under my door where a piece of paper is too thick to fit and up the last flight of stairs. Even though I knew it was totally stupid, I slept the rest of the night with the light on.
The little milk chocolate snake slipped into the brush at the edge of the path. I never thought that baby snakes could be cute like baby cats, dogs, monkeys, elephants, etc., but I was wrong.
Ignoring the phallic and Freudian implications I want you to know. I DON’T LIKE SNAKES.
My opinion was influenced by my Grandmother. Because we lived on 14 acres of land, much of it woods, snakes were not uncommon. We always knew when she saw one, even if the windows and doors were closed. Most of the neighbors knew. Some probably suspected her husband of wife abuse. She gave credence to the cliché screaming bloody murder.
As a student teacher I turned from writing on the chalk board to look into the flickering tongue of a snake, held by one of my less likeable students. Rather than repeat my grandmother’s reaction, I calmly (on the exterior) took the snake from the kid, being careful to hold it around its neck in case it was poisonous, asked him questions and pretending to be one of those people on TV who show animals to talk show hosts, asked the other kids if they wanted to hold it. This was NOT bravery. It had taken a nano second to realize that any other reaction would have brought daily donations of creatures that would be better left in the wild. The student was hovering between a low D and an F. Vengeance is mine, sayeth the teacher who wouldn’t be cowered.
Right before I gave birth to my daughter, I dreamed I was in bed when my mother arrived. She was wearing a fake fur white coat with black spots. The collar was a fuzzy snake that slithered off. I woke up and told my husband, got up, went to the bathroom as most very pregnant women do. After going back to sleep I dreamed the same snake wiggled over to my bed, raised his head cobra style and said, “I bet you thought you got rid of me in the last dream.”
My last snake dream was after a day in Montaillou http://www.mairie-montaillou.fr My friends Robin, Ruth, Barbara and I had visited the château ruins where in the late 1300s the Lady Béatrice had an affair with Pierre Clergue, the local priest. As Robin and I were heading down the path after Barbara and Ruth, a snake crossed our path. That night I dreamed that the snake had followed us, hid under the car, waited for us two hours while we ate in a restaurant, got off at the movie theatre in Argelés where Robin let Barbara and I off, followed me for two blocks to my home, slipped under the front door and up two flights of stairs, then made it under my door where a piece of paper is too thick to fit and up the last flight of stairs. Even though I knew it was totally stupid, I slept the rest of the night with the light on.
The little milk chocolate snake slipped into the brush at the edge of the path. I never thought that baby snakes could be cute like baby cats, dogs, monkeys, elephants, etc., but I was wrong.
49T
Some families hand down jewelry, houses, furniture, and other valuables. My family consigns the love of a license plate – 49T.
It started somewhere in the 50s when my father received the number from a Massachusetts Governor, which he kept until he was ready to retire to Florida. In MA you can only pass a vanity plate onto a relative, and although my cousin Frank pushed to be the lucky recipient, I as adored daughter won out over the much cared for cousin. My father in turn asked for and received the plate 49T in Florida. He loved big cars, I loved small cars and when our two vehicles were parked side-by-side, it looked like a boat and a dinghy with matching plates. His 49T is still on my Mom’s car.
When I moved to France I missed the plate. My then French lover had a fake French license plate made up as 49T as a joke but appreciated gift.
Vanity plates do not exist in Switzerland, and for the last 12 years I have not owned a car so 49T was filed in memory until yesterday when my daughter in her email announced she was going to try and get the plate 49T in her new home in Virginia. Family traditions may make sense only to family members, but I know if my father were still alive he would be flashing that grin that I loved so much.
It started somewhere in the 50s when my father received the number from a Massachusetts Governor, which he kept until he was ready to retire to Florida. In MA you can only pass a vanity plate onto a relative, and although my cousin Frank pushed to be the lucky recipient, I as adored daughter won out over the much cared for cousin. My father in turn asked for and received the plate 49T in Florida. He loved big cars, I loved small cars and when our two vehicles were parked side-by-side, it looked like a boat and a dinghy with matching plates. His 49T is still on my Mom’s car.
When I moved to France I missed the plate. My then French lover had a fake French license plate made up as 49T as a joke but appreciated gift.
Vanity plates do not exist in Switzerland, and for the last 12 years I have not owned a car so 49T was filed in memory until yesterday when my daughter in her email announced she was going to try and get the plate 49T in her new home in Virginia. Family traditions may make sense only to family members, but I know if my father were still alive he would be flashing that grin that I loved so much.
Fast Vacations
There’s fast food and fast vacations. My Swiss friend Florian vacations fast and infrequently. In 1993 he took one week to meet my friends and family in Florida and Boston. In 1995 he took me, my daughter and her significant other on a four day tour of Provence, but that hardly counted as a vacation because it was over the four-day Easter weekend when he couldn’t work. In 1998 he visited the Ukraine for less than a week, which was half pleasure, half business. Then last year he spent a long weekend visiting me in Argelès. Switzerland is a country where people vacation four to sick weeks a year.
Thus I was more than amazed that he proposed to take extra time while we went to his sister-in-law’s 80th birthday party in Dordogne. I was shell shocked when I got into his car that he wanted to add another day onto the trip.
When we were in Provence it was this is Nostradamus’s town whoosh, this is a medieval village whoosh and a number of other whooshes that remain pleasant blurs.
This trip seemed to be equally whosh. We saw the volcanic park whoosh http://www.inntravel.co.uk/destinations/rom_auvergne.htm, a medieval village whoosh and the château where Josephine Baker raised her adopted children whoosh. http://www.milandes.com
However after the birthday we headed for Futuroscope, http://www.futuroscope.com a park developed by the department of Vienne to develop the area as a conference centre and destination spot.
Long ago I learned not to prejudge what he proposed. We spent the day, one whole day, visiting the different theatres, admiring the architecture, flowers, water events, etc. One took us on a voyage where the water flowed under our seats and the birds flew over our heads. What impressed me most about the park was that there were only seven boutiques, selling either educational items or things that would not break or be thrown away in a couple of hours. The boutiques were tucked away. Not once did I hear a child cry “buy me…” Even the food in the park was priced equal to or less than one could pay outside the park.
We were not able to see all the exhibitions nor did we stay for the evening performances. This time it was my fault, because I had to get back to my commitments. He understood
Thus I was more than amazed that he proposed to take extra time while we went to his sister-in-law’s 80th birthday party in Dordogne. I was shell shocked when I got into his car that he wanted to add another day onto the trip.
When we were in Provence it was this is Nostradamus’s town whoosh, this is a medieval village whoosh and a number of other whooshes that remain pleasant blurs.
This trip seemed to be equally whosh. We saw the volcanic park whoosh http://www.inntravel.co.uk/destinations/rom_auvergne.htm, a medieval village whoosh and the château where Josephine Baker raised her adopted children whoosh. http://www.milandes.com
However after the birthday we headed for Futuroscope, http://www.futuroscope.com a park developed by the department of Vienne to develop the area as a conference centre and destination spot.
Long ago I learned not to prejudge what he proposed. We spent the day, one whole day, visiting the different theatres, admiring the architecture, flowers, water events, etc. One took us on a voyage where the water flowed under our seats and the birds flew over our heads. What impressed me most about the park was that there were only seven boutiques, selling either educational items or things that would not break or be thrown away in a couple of hours. The boutiques were tucked away. Not once did I hear a child cry “buy me…” Even the food in the park was priced equal to or less than one could pay outside the park.
We were not able to see all the exhibitions nor did we stay for the evening performances. This time it was my fault, because I had to get back to my commitments. He understood
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Conversation for a Summer Night
The first summery night I headed for the Café du Soleil. The manager Olivier, who I hadn’t seen in a couple of months, a record of time away, triple-kissed my cheeks and without my even asking pointed to where my writing mate was waiting for me on the upper terrace.
It stays light until well after nine, so we felt no rush as we ate. For almost 12 years we have supported each other in our writing attempts. Because we worked across the street from one another there would be emergency coffees or lunches as we critiqued each other’s work. The critiquing helped us become better writers. The moral support saw us through rejections. We would celebrate non form rejections offering encouragement, and we celebrated our acceptances.
Our lives are changing. We no longer rely on each other to approve each word. Our self confidence has grown. We can hear the other’s suggestions in our heads even as they flow from our brains to our fingers. We might still ask what do we think about this or that.
Despite my dropping the pepper mill that luckily didn’t hit anyone sitting below and confusion about my order, we caught up on what we doing. She is an Australian of German parents, married to an Austrian, living in France and working in Switzerland. Transitioning into retirement she is on the final steps of her move to Vienna. She was just back from giving a paper in Montreal. I told her where I was on my various projects, how lucky I was to have the right guide in Syria to visit Ebla and how he put me in touch with the man who translated the cuneiform letters from 2000 B.C. and how I would meet that man in Rome in July. When we talk about individual work, we know each others characters much like we know living/breathing friends.
Although she offered to drive me home to the other side of the lake, I suggested we wait for my tram. A man from our writing group appeared after attending a meeting on ending world poverty. A political conversation began.
A woman, an intern at the UN who arrived at the stop, added her opinions. Another man approached and joined in. The tram came, and my two writer friends went their way. The two new comers and I continued the discussion on the tram. The man had his groceries and kidded about preparing us a meal. A Dalmatian, who got on the trolley, checked out the bags, didn’t find anything of interest, and laid his head in my lap. He had no opinion at all.
It stays light until well after nine, so we felt no rush as we ate. For almost 12 years we have supported each other in our writing attempts. Because we worked across the street from one another there would be emergency coffees or lunches as we critiqued each other’s work. The critiquing helped us become better writers. The moral support saw us through rejections. We would celebrate non form rejections offering encouragement, and we celebrated our acceptances.
Our lives are changing. We no longer rely on each other to approve each word. Our self confidence has grown. We can hear the other’s suggestions in our heads even as they flow from our brains to our fingers. We might still ask what do we think about this or that.
Despite my dropping the pepper mill that luckily didn’t hit anyone sitting below and confusion about my order, we caught up on what we doing. She is an Australian of German parents, married to an Austrian, living in France and working in Switzerland. Transitioning into retirement she is on the final steps of her move to Vienna. She was just back from giving a paper in Montreal. I told her where I was on my various projects, how lucky I was to have the right guide in Syria to visit Ebla and how he put me in touch with the man who translated the cuneiform letters from 2000 B.C. and how I would meet that man in Rome in July. When we talk about individual work, we know each others characters much like we know living/breathing friends.
Although she offered to drive me home to the other side of the lake, I suggested we wait for my tram. A man from our writing group appeared after attending a meeting on ending world poverty. A political conversation began.
A woman, an intern at the UN who arrived at the stop, added her opinions. Another man approached and joined in. The tram came, and my two writer friends went their way. The two new comers and I continued the discussion on the tram. The man had his groceries and kidded about preparing us a meal. A Dalmatian, who got on the trolley, checked out the bags, didn’t find anything of interest, and laid his head in my lap. He had no opinion at all.
Riding in Cylinders
Why I get into cylinder objects to be hurled across distances is beginning to make less and less sense to me. Sometimes it’s an airplane, but more often it’s a train.
I’ve done the Argelès-Geneva train run for years. When I was still working I would take the train at 10 p.m. in Geneva arriving in Argelès just as Lopez was pulling the first hot bread from the oven. He would see me and put a tartine and hot chocolate at my table. I’d have two full days in my nest then Sunday night at midnight I would reverse the route arriving in Geneva at 8 with time to rush home, shower and get to the office only a little late.
French sleeper cars, called wagon lits, have six bunks. Granted they come with blanket, pillow and water bottle, but there is still a steerage feeling about second class. First class has four bunks not that much better. With the exception of the Paris-Argelès route, the sleeping arrangements are not gender separated.
During the many trips I have met some wonderful travelling companions. One group of mothers and daughters from Zurich turned into an overnight pajama party. Another time I shared experiences with a travel writer that was doing the handicapped person’s guide to France. When I thought a group of recent American college graduates would be a problem, they turned out to be great kids even if they didn’t know who John Calvin was, what the Protestant reformation was or even what a Puritan was, although Thanksgiving did trigger recognition.
Some have been less nice. One woman took my blanket so her small son would have something softer to lie on and made such a scene that I used my coat for a cover (people tease me about my duvet coats, but all the teasing in the world made the coat worth ecery feather). Another time a couple arrived and woke the whole car as they flipped on the light (most people try to be quiet) to arrange their affairs and had a lengthy and loud conversation long into the night.
Once I was with a girl friend. This was her first overnight train trip. We were in the top bunks, the lights had just gone out and she whispered across the car, “Good night John boy.”
Now that I no longer am working I more often take the day train, but on this last trip I decided on the night one. It is still off season and the middle of the week. There was only one other passenger, a man.
Being locked into a compartment with a strange man made me uncomfortable. Overall trains are safe. One summer there were a few pocketbook thefts and once someone was murdered in the toilet, but when I lived in the States two acquaintances were murdered, one in her home and one in shopping mall parking lot. I did not give up having a home nor would the murder keep me from a parking lot.
The only thing the man did all night was breath and from time to time turn in his bunk. He did not even snore. At Lyon he got off, giving me a private car for the next couple of hours. He was considerate enough to slip out silently carrying his shirt and jacket so he could dress in the aisle. I am sure he had no idea that his presence had caused me concern. Now on the other hand if I were to find myself alone in a compartment with Garou or George Clooney they might not be safe from me.
I’ve done the Argelès-Geneva train run for years. When I was still working I would take the train at 10 p.m. in Geneva arriving in Argelès just as Lopez was pulling the first hot bread from the oven. He would see me and put a tartine and hot chocolate at my table. I’d have two full days in my nest then Sunday night at midnight I would reverse the route arriving in Geneva at 8 with time to rush home, shower and get to the office only a little late.
French sleeper cars, called wagon lits, have six bunks. Granted they come with blanket, pillow and water bottle, but there is still a steerage feeling about second class. First class has four bunks not that much better. With the exception of the Paris-Argelès route, the sleeping arrangements are not gender separated.
During the many trips I have met some wonderful travelling companions. One group of mothers and daughters from Zurich turned into an overnight pajama party. Another time I shared experiences with a travel writer that was doing the handicapped person’s guide to France. When I thought a group of recent American college graduates would be a problem, they turned out to be great kids even if they didn’t know who John Calvin was, what the Protestant reformation was or even what a Puritan was, although Thanksgiving did trigger recognition.
Some have been less nice. One woman took my blanket so her small son would have something softer to lie on and made such a scene that I used my coat for a cover (people tease me about my duvet coats, but all the teasing in the world made the coat worth ecery feather). Another time a couple arrived and woke the whole car as they flipped on the light (most people try to be quiet) to arrange their affairs and had a lengthy and loud conversation long into the night.
Once I was with a girl friend. This was her first overnight train trip. We were in the top bunks, the lights had just gone out and she whispered across the car, “Good night John boy.”
Now that I no longer am working I more often take the day train, but on this last trip I decided on the night one. It is still off season and the middle of the week. There was only one other passenger, a man.
Being locked into a compartment with a strange man made me uncomfortable. Overall trains are safe. One summer there were a few pocketbook thefts and once someone was murdered in the toilet, but when I lived in the States two acquaintances were murdered, one in her home and one in shopping mall parking lot. I did not give up having a home nor would the murder keep me from a parking lot.
The only thing the man did all night was breath and from time to time turn in his bunk. He did not even snore. At Lyon he got off, giving me a private car for the next couple of hours. He was considerate enough to slip out silently carrying his shirt and jacket so he could dress in the aisle. I am sure he had no idea that his presence had caused me concern. Now on the other hand if I were to find myself alone in a compartment with Garou or George Clooney they might not be safe from me.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
This and That
I am about to transfer my life back to Geneva, taking the night train that lets me sleep to the gentle swaying of the bed. There’s lots of planned activities: a play, an 80th birthday party, a master writing class and the end of the year writing dinner with readings at the Café du Soleil.
I’m looking forward to seeing my housemate Julia and lunching with different friends. I have missed walking along the lake and as interesting as the Pyrenees are, they lack the majesty of the Alps. Even after 15 years of Swiss life the Alps shock me with their beauty. When once I thought I would take this beauty for granted, I was wrong. I will never stop marvelling at my good fortune to live where exceptional beauty is considered normal.
I want to eat filet des perches, tailleul bread, sushi (I know that’s not Swiss), to visit the library and to have Munchkin the cat curl up on my bed or lap as I am writing at the computer. If I am lucky I will see Phoenix, the remarkable Jack Russell of a Swiss friend. This is a dog who when on a walk gets tired, sits by a bus stop refusing to budge. I can report, he doesn't always chose the right direction, reassuring me he is only a dog genius and not competition for Einstein. I want to see the progress on the rebuilding in front of the UN and read the Tribune de Geneve in paper format not electronic.
Rather than buy any more food, I decided to treat myself to magret de canard in Banyuls sauce at Les Flowers. My favourite place next to the plant surrounded stone fountain was free. Eating alone in a restaurant has never held the horror it does for some women. In a way I can concentrate on the good taste in a way I can’t when forced to participate in conversations.
A very pregnant woman waddled in. She wore a form fitting dress. Many pregnant French women in no way camouflage their pregnancies. I thought of my Victorian grandmother and her generation of women who did not leave the house when their stomachs began to protrude. Even when I lived in Germany in the 1960s, I seldom saw a heavily pregnant woman.
My maternity clothes were loose fitting dresses, far prettier than my mother’s tops and skirts with the elastic insert over the tummy.
As the pregnant woman lowered herself into her chair, it struck me as pregnancy has gone from something to hide to something to flaunt.
I’m looking forward to seeing my housemate Julia and lunching with different friends. I have missed walking along the lake and as interesting as the Pyrenees are, they lack the majesty of the Alps. Even after 15 years of Swiss life the Alps shock me with their beauty. When once I thought I would take this beauty for granted, I was wrong. I will never stop marvelling at my good fortune to live where exceptional beauty is considered normal.
I want to eat filet des perches, tailleul bread, sushi (I know that’s not Swiss), to visit the library and to have Munchkin the cat curl up on my bed or lap as I am writing at the computer. If I am lucky I will see Phoenix, the remarkable Jack Russell of a Swiss friend. This is a dog who when on a walk gets tired, sits by a bus stop refusing to budge. I can report, he doesn't always chose the right direction, reassuring me he is only a dog genius and not competition for Einstein. I want to see the progress on the rebuilding in front of the UN and read the Tribune de Geneve in paper format not electronic.
Rather than buy any more food, I decided to treat myself to magret de canard in Banyuls sauce at Les Flowers. My favourite place next to the plant surrounded stone fountain was free. Eating alone in a restaurant has never held the horror it does for some women. In a way I can concentrate on the good taste in a way I can’t when forced to participate in conversations.
A very pregnant woman waddled in. She wore a form fitting dress. Many pregnant French women in no way camouflage their pregnancies. I thought of my Victorian grandmother and her generation of women who did not leave the house when their stomachs began to protrude. Even when I lived in Germany in the 1960s, I seldom saw a heavily pregnant woman.
My maternity clothes were loose fitting dresses, far prettier than my mother’s tops and skirts with the elastic insert over the tummy.
As the pregnant woman lowered herself into her chair, it struck me as pregnancy has gone from something to hide to something to flaunt.
A definition of wasting time
“I have no patience with boring people, anymore,” Elaine said. We were having hot chocolate at La Noisette, probably the last hot chocolate of the season. Paris is supposed to have temperatures in the 30°s centigrade, the beginning of a heat wave.
We had been talking about how lucky we were to be able arrange our schedules that did not include eight+ hours in an office dealing with stupid politics and sometimes stupider bosses, although both of us have had positive work experiences.
“I sometimes like to sit here, just reading, or even watching people going by, although some people would think that is wasting time,” I said.
Before she could respond, a four-year old girl with a pony tail and bangs/fringe (depending if we’re using my American term or Elaine’s English one) came up. She explained to us how she was putting the feather she found in the planter because if the bird came to look it, she would have a better chance to find it against the bright flowers than the grey pavement.
When the child moved on Elaine said, “Doing nothing is not wasting time. That’s feeding your soul. Wasting time is doing what you don’t want to do.”
I have to agree with her. It is the difference between feeding and draining your soul.
We had been talking about how lucky we were to be able arrange our schedules that did not include eight+ hours in an office dealing with stupid politics and sometimes stupider bosses, although both of us have had positive work experiences.
“I sometimes like to sit here, just reading, or even watching people going by, although some people would think that is wasting time,” I said.
Before she could respond, a four-year old girl with a pony tail and bangs/fringe (depending if we’re using my American term or Elaine’s English one) came up. She explained to us how she was putting the feather she found in the planter because if the bird came to look it, she would have a better chance to find it against the bright flowers than the grey pavement.
When the child moved on Elaine said, “Doing nothing is not wasting time. That’s feeding your soul. Wasting time is doing what you don’t want to do.”
I have to agree with her. It is the difference between feeding and draining your soul.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Liking Lives
Winde (Wendy) and Sven brought out tomato salads with basil picked from the edge of their 6x4 foot terrace. Tarragon, thyme, mint, petunias and tiny trees bordered the area. Although this Belgian couple look as if they should be cramming for final exams they’re pushing thirty. Despite the age gap, they invited Barbara and me to lunch.
Their rented fieldstone house is part of an old Mas on the Massane River. The Pyrenees rose green against the grey sky that promised storms to come. Most of the houses in the neighbourhood were renovated buildings from the original farm.
Snap, the sort-of golden retriever Sven had adopted when travelling in Paraguay, put her paws and head on my lap, trying to convince me that she was love-deprived. A look at her basket, food dish, and well brushed coat, told more about her place in this household then her acting. Two black kittens that have just gone gangly flew out the door. Winde scooped them up and placed them back inside, and offered them to Barbara and me. We both turned down the offer as we did the next few times. We did promise to be on the outlook for prospective cat parents.
I like having friends from a variety of ages. When I was a bride of 20 living in Stuttgart one of the couples we hung around with was in their 40s. In Geneva, one of my neighbours in her mid 80s was a shared-meals-and-conversation friend. My next door Indian and Syrian neighbours were in their late thirties, and my work buddies were ten years younger than I am. I also have friends my age.
Although my parents loved their retirement community in Florida, I want to hear children running up and down the street and see everything from joggers to wheel chairs. I won’t disparage these communities with names like senior citizen ghettos. That life style made my parents as happy with their choices as I am with mine.
Sven is trying to make it as a free lance journalist. Winde is a sales girl in the new cheese shop working both behind the counter and the marchés. She is good. Since Sven writes in Flemish I have no measure of his talent. Last year, before they found this house they lived in a tent with the animals.
Much of our conversation concerned the French vote on the EU constitution, a little on Barbara’s and my winter in the US, parents, friends and family, especially in context of positioning and expectations.
The time passed quickly. The storm held off. We took our leave. As we headed for our car, one of Winde’s and Sven’s neighbours told his German Shepherd it was not a good idea to chase the black kittens. The dog obeyed instantly. This led to a discussion of a pink spikey flower in the stone pots in front of their house. No one knew its name in French or English.
The man led us down the path to the river. Snap and Winde joined us and Winde told of the pleasure of walking the dog along the river to the next valley. The water burbled over the rocks. The river was down from February and will be trickle in August. Snap and the Shepherd splashed in the water.
One of the things that struck me was Winde’s and Sven’s total satisfaction with their lives. They like their work. They like each other. They have all they need and want. No, that’s not true. They need to find homes for the kittens.
Their rented fieldstone house is part of an old Mas on the Massane River. The Pyrenees rose green against the grey sky that promised storms to come. Most of the houses in the neighbourhood were renovated buildings from the original farm.
Snap, the sort-of golden retriever Sven had adopted when travelling in Paraguay, put her paws and head on my lap, trying to convince me that she was love-deprived. A look at her basket, food dish, and well brushed coat, told more about her place in this household then her acting. Two black kittens that have just gone gangly flew out the door. Winde scooped them up and placed them back inside, and offered them to Barbara and me. We both turned down the offer as we did the next few times. We did promise to be on the outlook for prospective cat parents.
I like having friends from a variety of ages. When I was a bride of 20 living in Stuttgart one of the couples we hung around with was in their 40s. In Geneva, one of my neighbours in her mid 80s was a shared-meals-and-conversation friend. My next door Indian and Syrian neighbours were in their late thirties, and my work buddies were ten years younger than I am. I also have friends my age.
Although my parents loved their retirement community in Florida, I want to hear children running up and down the street and see everything from joggers to wheel chairs. I won’t disparage these communities with names like senior citizen ghettos. That life style made my parents as happy with their choices as I am with mine.
Sven is trying to make it as a free lance journalist. Winde is a sales girl in the new cheese shop working both behind the counter and the marchés. She is good. Since Sven writes in Flemish I have no measure of his talent. Last year, before they found this house they lived in a tent with the animals.
Much of our conversation concerned the French vote on the EU constitution, a little on Barbara’s and my winter in the US, parents, friends and family, especially in context of positioning and expectations.
The time passed quickly. The storm held off. We took our leave. As we headed for our car, one of Winde’s and Sven’s neighbours told his German Shepherd it was not a good idea to chase the black kittens. The dog obeyed instantly. This led to a discussion of a pink spikey flower in the stone pots in front of their house. No one knew its name in French or English.
The man led us down the path to the river. Snap and Winde joined us and Winde told of the pleasure of walking the dog along the river to the next valley. The water burbled over the rocks. The river was down from February and will be trickle in August. Snap and the Shepherd splashed in the water.
One of the things that struck me was Winde’s and Sven’s total satisfaction with their lives. They like their work. They like each other. They have all they need and want. No, that’s not true. They need to find homes for the kittens.
Friday, May 20, 2005
My Mom and Claude François
This is a corrected version of an earlier posting.
I wish my step mom had been here last night to watch the two-hour variety show staring the French singer Claude François (CF). Although I call her my step mom, she is much more my mom. In the forty years she has been in my life, we have never had a cross word. This woman doesn’t even know the ugly step mother manual exists. I doubt is she even read about those wicked women in Snow White or Cinderella.
The program was over 30 years olf. François was electrocuted in his bath in 1978. http://www.geocities.com/claudefrancoisforever He pioneered pre-Brittany type acts and wrote the song MY WAY (no, it wasn’t Paul Anka who changed the lyrics. To see different translations of the song that has provided François’ sons with money for life http://www.nakedtranslations.com/fr/2004/07/000194.php )
French TV couldn’t function without dead singers. They regularly celebrate the anniversaries of their deaths with programs which I call the 25 ans déjà (25 years already) syndrome, although it could be another time period. Their music is replayes, people talk about the deceased, etc. But then this a country that announces deaths without saying the word death. A judge might bang his last gavel, a lion tamer tame his last cat. Arthur Miller’s death was announced as Arthur Miller joins Marilyn in Paradise.
So the replay of the old show was no surprise. Why did I wish my mom was with me? When she visited me in Geneva years back, I showed her a tape of one of the X Ans Déjà programs about CF. She barely noticed his dancers, the Claudettes, with their exposed breasts. She was too busy tapping her feet.
She loved his music so much I gave her a CF CD, solving the problem of what to buy a woman who has what she needs and wants. When I was in Paris I took a photo of the place where CF had lived and worked and sent it to her.
I’ve always loved the book stalls flanking the Seine. Once I could read French, I loved to browse and buy. This springtime walk had had so much rain that the Seine was almost overflowing. Everything smelled fresh. A boat with tourists drifted towards Notre Dame. One stall sold old issues of magazines and I spied the March 1978 issue of Paris March http://www.parismatch.com/ which is a high class People. Lots about celebrities, but they also have articles about writers, painters and world events. CF was on the cover and inside were photos of his life and death. I grabbed it and mailed it to her. At least I knew she wouldn’t have two.
Watching the program brought back good memories of a good woman much more than memories of CF.
I wish my step mom had been here last night to watch the two-hour variety show staring the French singer Claude François (CF). Although I call her my step mom, she is much more my mom. In the forty years she has been in my life, we have never had a cross word. This woman doesn’t even know the ugly step mother manual exists. I doubt is she even read about those wicked women in Snow White or Cinderella.
The program was over 30 years olf. François was electrocuted in his bath in 1978. http://www.geocities.com/claudefrancoisforever He pioneered pre-Brittany type acts and wrote the song MY WAY (no, it wasn’t Paul Anka who changed the lyrics. To see different translations of the song that has provided François’ sons with money for life http://www.nakedtranslations.com/fr/2004/07/000194.php )
French TV couldn’t function without dead singers. They regularly celebrate the anniversaries of their deaths with programs which I call the 25 ans déjà (25 years already) syndrome, although it could be another time period. Their music is replayes, people talk about the deceased, etc. But then this a country that announces deaths without saying the word death. A judge might bang his last gavel, a lion tamer tame his last cat. Arthur Miller’s death was announced as Arthur Miller joins Marilyn in Paradise.
So the replay of the old show was no surprise. Why did I wish my mom was with me? When she visited me in Geneva years back, I showed her a tape of one of the X Ans Déjà programs about CF. She barely noticed his dancers, the Claudettes, with their exposed breasts. She was too busy tapping her feet.
She loved his music so much I gave her a CF CD, solving the problem of what to buy a woman who has what she needs and wants. When I was in Paris I took a photo of the place where CF had lived and worked and sent it to her.
I’ve always loved the book stalls flanking the Seine. Once I could read French, I loved to browse and buy. This springtime walk had had so much rain that the Seine was almost overflowing. Everything smelled fresh. A boat with tourists drifted towards Notre Dame. One stall sold old issues of magazines and I spied the March 1978 issue of Paris March http://www.parismatch.com/ which is a high class People. Lots about celebrities, but they also have articles about writers, painters and world events. CF was on the cover and inside were photos of his life and death. I grabbed it and mailed it to her. At least I knew she wouldn’t have two.
Watching the program brought back good memories of a good woman much more than memories of CF.
Uninvited Visitors
Flapping wings and frantic tweets woke me. It was not a dream. Alfred Hitchcock was no where around. My bed is under a skylight and many mornings I watch little birds from the underside tap dance over my head. The Argelés Tabernacle Bird Chorus serenades the street from the roofs opposite. However, this flapping and tweeting came from my chimney.
When I looked up the chimney a soot-encrusted bird landed on the pine cone filled copper dish that decorates the fireplace when there’s no fire. He shook his head and took off circling my flat. His attempt to fly through a closed window stunned him, but by the time I found a towel to cover him for release he had staggered to a hiding place.
I opened the window and tried again to capture this. He took off running then flew to freedom.
This is the second time I have an early morning avian experience. Two years ago I was showering in Geneva when my daughter screamed, “Gwen has a bird.” Lady Guinevere (Gwen) has Garfieldesque body that moves slowly except when she’s hunting. Llara passed the cat through the bathroom door. Her legs were still racing although she was two feet off the floor. Her mouth was clacking.
Then Llara screamed again, “the bird is alive.” We shut Gwen in, threw a towel over the bird and threw it out the window. Gwen when released came out of the bathroom anxious to reclaim her prey. Meanwhile Llara and I were sure that the bird was telling its friends about its narrow escape and warning them that my balcony was probably not a good place to land.
Now listen up all you birds. Wait for an invitation. Attends une invitation. D'accord?
When I looked up the chimney a soot-encrusted bird landed on the pine cone filled copper dish that decorates the fireplace when there’s no fire. He shook his head and took off circling my flat. His attempt to fly through a closed window stunned him, but by the time I found a towel to cover him for release he had staggered to a hiding place.
I opened the window and tried again to capture this. He took off running then flew to freedom.
This is the second time I have an early morning avian experience. Two years ago I was showering in Geneva when my daughter screamed, “Gwen has a bird.” Lady Guinevere (Gwen) has Garfieldesque body that moves slowly except when she’s hunting. Llara passed the cat through the bathroom door. Her legs were still racing although she was two feet off the floor. Her mouth was clacking.
Then Llara screamed again, “the bird is alive.” We shut Gwen in, threw a towel over the bird and threw it out the window. Gwen when released came out of the bathroom anxious to reclaim her prey. Meanwhile Llara and I were sure that the bird was telling its friends about its narrow escape and warning them that my balcony was probably not a good place to land.
Now listen up all you birds. Wait for an invitation. Attends une invitation. D'accord?
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Blessings
Retirees say they are busier now then when they worked, and before I “retired-HAH” as my daughter refers to my alleged retirement. However, I often feel I don’t get done what I want to accomplish each day at the same time being aware that my mental to do list is not realistic.
Today I happily worked on my novel. After not being satisfied with what has been happening, my heroine Peggy has taken a temp job she likes after being fired from a bank where she hated working. She will meet with her niece and her reporter boy-friend to plan her next steps in her anti-war drive. Meanwhile sister Katie is heading for Florida with her husband to look at houses. Katie doesn’t want to move, but her husband is fed up with New England snow. Progress. The words still don’t go deep enough, but I know each day when I go back to polish the sentences will be strengthened.
I’ve solved the time consuming mailing of my newsletter W3.It has taken too much time to send it out of my 7000 subscribers, but I need to do one more to tell them I have created a new blog http://wisewordsonwriting.blogspot.com I know I’ll lose some readers, but I will post once a month. I transferred the old newsletters from my web site.
More important I caught up on paperwork and emails, including setting up my new journal. Barbara and I split outside chores, she taking my letters to the post office when she mailed her toothpaste orders and I took her old thrown out clothes and mine to the recycling center.
Then a trip to the train station for my ticket back to Geneva next week, about a five minute walk. A lot of things are coming up there that I don't want to miss, a play, a master writing class, a night of readings, a birthday party for the sister-in-law of my Swiss gentleman friend, plus a mini vacation with him. I will be busy when I get back.
I felt I earned the café sit at La Noisette across from the church. The outside tables have an African print in golds and rusts. The tables are blocked from cars by planters. The plaza across from the church (see http://www.argeles-sur-mer.com/ for a photo) is surrounded by old houses. Two men, their shirts off and their bronze skin cover muscles that should be only on models, lay red roof tiles against the bright blue sky.
I read my book SEA GLASS as I sip my peach iced tea in the warm afternoon sun and listen to the buzz of French conversations around me. Two women, one in a red shirt and the other in green, order syrups, mint and strawberry, with bubbly water. Franck, the owner, serves them in reverse order and they joke with him they ordered the colored of their drinks to match their shirts.
I need to get back to my to-do list: needlework, the newsletter, the novel, checking e-mail, reading various political sites, and some research on my future Syrian novel and a project that has been bouncing around in my mind. There are articles I need to write. Barbara is coming for dinner, although it will only be pizza bought from down the street. There is no way I can do it all today, and I tell myself that is all right. Stop beating myself up for trying to do so much, but the problem is not the shortness of the day, but the great number of things that I find so enjoyable. And if it is stupid feel guilty for not doing it all, there is a larger awareness of how lucky I am to be doing so many things I love.
Tomorrow is another day. The one thing on my to-do list that I can’t forget is be aware of how truly blessed I am.
Today I happily worked on my novel. After not being satisfied with what has been happening, my heroine Peggy has taken a temp job she likes after being fired from a bank where she hated working. She will meet with her niece and her reporter boy-friend to plan her next steps in her anti-war drive. Meanwhile sister Katie is heading for Florida with her husband to look at houses. Katie doesn’t want to move, but her husband is fed up with New England snow. Progress. The words still don’t go deep enough, but I know each day when I go back to polish the sentences will be strengthened.
I’ve solved the time consuming mailing of my newsletter W3.It has taken too much time to send it out of my 7000 subscribers, but I need to do one more to tell them I have created a new blog http://wisewordsonwriting.blogspot.com I know I’ll lose some readers, but I will post once a month. I transferred the old newsletters from my web site.
More important I caught up on paperwork and emails, including setting up my new journal. Barbara and I split outside chores, she taking my letters to the post office when she mailed her toothpaste orders and I took her old thrown out clothes and mine to the recycling center.
Then a trip to the train station for my ticket back to Geneva next week, about a five minute walk. A lot of things are coming up there that I don't want to miss, a play, a master writing class, a night of readings, a birthday party for the sister-in-law of my Swiss gentleman friend, plus a mini vacation with him. I will be busy when I get back.
I felt I earned the café sit at La Noisette across from the church. The outside tables have an African print in golds and rusts. The tables are blocked from cars by planters. The plaza across from the church (see http://www.argeles-sur-mer.com/ for a photo) is surrounded by old houses. Two men, their shirts off and their bronze skin cover muscles that should be only on models, lay red roof tiles against the bright blue sky.
I read my book SEA GLASS as I sip my peach iced tea in the warm afternoon sun and listen to the buzz of French conversations around me. Two women, one in a red shirt and the other in green, order syrups, mint and strawberry, with bubbly water. Franck, the owner, serves them in reverse order and they joke with him they ordered the colored of their drinks to match their shirts.
I need to get back to my to-do list: needlework, the newsletter, the novel, checking e-mail, reading various political sites, and some research on my future Syrian novel and a project that has been bouncing around in my mind. There are articles I need to write. Barbara is coming for dinner, although it will only be pizza bought from down the street. There is no way I can do it all today, and I tell myself that is all right. Stop beating myself up for trying to do so much, but the problem is not the shortness of the day, but the great number of things that I find so enjoyable. And if it is stupid feel guilty for not doing it all, there is a larger awareness of how lucky I am to be doing so many things I love.
Tomorrow is another day. The one thing on my to-do list that I can’t forget is be aware of how truly blessed I am.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
We need more Galloways
At last. I heard someone in the Senate savage our policies in the Middle East from the Reagan days through now. Unfortunately, it was a British politician, George Galloway, who won libel suits against papers that printed the same charges that he was supposedly testifying about, yesterday.
My only sadness is that everything Galloway said should have been said by our own people.
Sadly, reading the Washington Post this morning, the meat of what he said had been cut out. I could find nothing in The Boston Globe. CNN’s web site and CNN international covered it thoroughly.
If I had one wish, it would be for the American leaders to listen to Galloway.
My only sadness is that everything Galloway said should have been said by our own people.
Sadly, reading the Washington Post this morning, the meat of what he said had been cut out. I could find nothing in The Boston Globe. CNN’s web site and CNN international covered it thoroughly.
If I had one wish, it would be for the American leaders to listen to Galloway.
Rainy Day and Tuesdays Don't Get Me Down
The pounding of the rain on my wooden cathedral ceiling woke me. Rolling over I could barely see the red tiled roofs across the street. Sheeting rain looked as if I had hung sheer curtains on the outside of the window.
Years of going out to work in bad weather when I wished I could stay inside were forgotten. I wore my sweats, read, did needlework, wrote and even played a couple of computer games. Thunder and lightning came and went. The wind blew down the chimney. A wire danced.
It was necessary to turn on the heat to take the chill off later in the day. My heater is on my wall and is also an air-conditioner. Its 3x6x.5 feet. Its manufacturer has a great ad with a mime and no sound. At the end the sign reads “Celebrating five years of silence.” After loud, blaring commercials, it makes me doubly glad I gave in to my daughter’s insistence I buy the unit. Of all the noise generated by computers the silence stood out.
Silently I shut the heater off, celebrating the day inside.
Years of going out to work in bad weather when I wished I could stay inside were forgotten. I wore my sweats, read, did needlework, wrote and even played a couple of computer games. Thunder and lightning came and went. The wind blew down the chimney. A wire danced.
It was necessary to turn on the heat to take the chill off later in the day. My heater is on my wall and is also an air-conditioner. Its 3x6x.5 feet. Its manufacturer has a great ad with a mime and no sound. At the end the sign reads “Celebrating five years of silence.” After loud, blaring commercials, it makes me doubly glad I gave in to my daughter’s insistence I buy the unit. Of all the noise generated by computers the silence stood out.
Silently I shut the heater off, celebrating the day inside.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Getting Barbara's Goat
The drive to the goat farm was through a vineyard into the mountain foothills. We turned off the road, crossed a stone bridge where a small stream gurgled over rocks.
The farmhouse itself was in an old stone house built centuries before. A stable was to one side.
For years I had seen one of the owners, Leo, selling his goat cheese at the Saturday marché dressed in blue coveralls like farmers wear in kids’ books. His beard is Santa Claus thick. For many years there was a video on his stand showing how the cheese was made, contrasting low and middle tech.
My friend Barbara and I were searching for a goat, a three-month old male that had been culled from the 15 goats born this spring. Two bucks ans all the females survived. We weren’t looking for a pet, but dinner.
I am 90% vegetarian. I eat meat when someone cooks it for me. I don’t buy it. Seeing pigs, sheep and cattle stuffed in cars like the Jews in Nazi Germany, travelling miles to be slaughtered turned me off meat. I also don’t like American meat because of the hormones. Although no one listens to me, I think the fattening-up hormones in American meat is also contributing to the obesity in the US. So when Barbara who had lived in Africa and ate goat there raved about its taste and was thrilled she could get goat meat from Leo, I was willing to try it because I knew the goat had been treated humanely. I loved the taste and so the news that she was about to get more, pleased me.
We were greeted by Marjika, Leo’s wife. She and her husband aren’t French, but Dutch. Like so many a trip to Southern France led them to move. They managed to buy an old farm before prices in this area went crazy and succeeded where so many have failed, living off the land. Their vegetable garden provides most of their needs and I could see tomato plants, onions and raspberries in early stages of growth. Both have certificates in cheese making.
Because it was Sunday, the goats were in the long stable. During the week, they have the run of the farm. The stable was long, with about 70 goats sorted more or less by age. The bucks were separated from the females. They ranged in age from babies to about 12. A milk goat usually produces until they are 10 or 11. Marjika said that she only milks her goats nine months a year. Feeding them just straw causes their milk to dry up. Baby goats restart the production.
She keeps four bucks. I thought of the New Zealand’s Footrot Flat’s comic book character of Cecil the ram, who is too lazy to do his job http://www.oneil.com.au/footrot/ch_cecil.shtml None of the bucks looked as if they would avoid their siring responsibilities.
Two female goats were good friends, always together, Marijka said. “Maybe once a year they fight, I separate them for a couple of days, then they are back to being friends.”
The goats greeted us, one deciding that my sweatshirt tasted good. The goat that learned to open the gate was identified as we walked to the milking room.
Two cats, one a taffy tiger male and a calico angora walked us back to the showroom where we packed up our butchered meat, the source of many good meals to come. I imagine eating the roasts and chops over Barbara’s shop with a good local wine and whatever vegetable is the freshest. We will have many good conversations as we eat. I will not try and think of their eyes and their personalities.
The farmhouse itself was in an old stone house built centuries before. A stable was to one side.
For years I had seen one of the owners, Leo, selling his goat cheese at the Saturday marché dressed in blue coveralls like farmers wear in kids’ books. His beard is Santa Claus thick. For many years there was a video on his stand showing how the cheese was made, contrasting low and middle tech.
My friend Barbara and I were searching for a goat, a three-month old male that had been culled from the 15 goats born this spring. Two bucks ans all the females survived. We weren’t looking for a pet, but dinner.
I am 90% vegetarian. I eat meat when someone cooks it for me. I don’t buy it. Seeing pigs, sheep and cattle stuffed in cars like the Jews in Nazi Germany, travelling miles to be slaughtered turned me off meat. I also don’t like American meat because of the hormones. Although no one listens to me, I think the fattening-up hormones in American meat is also contributing to the obesity in the US. So when Barbara who had lived in Africa and ate goat there raved about its taste and was thrilled she could get goat meat from Leo, I was willing to try it because I knew the goat had been treated humanely. I loved the taste and so the news that she was about to get more, pleased me.
We were greeted by Marjika, Leo’s wife. She and her husband aren’t French, but Dutch. Like so many a trip to Southern France led them to move. They managed to buy an old farm before prices in this area went crazy and succeeded where so many have failed, living off the land. Their vegetable garden provides most of their needs and I could see tomato plants, onions and raspberries in early stages of growth. Both have certificates in cheese making.
Because it was Sunday, the goats were in the long stable. During the week, they have the run of the farm. The stable was long, with about 70 goats sorted more or less by age. The bucks were separated from the females. They ranged in age from babies to about 12. A milk goat usually produces until they are 10 or 11. Marjika said that she only milks her goats nine months a year. Feeding them just straw causes their milk to dry up. Baby goats restart the production.
She keeps four bucks. I thought of the New Zealand’s Footrot Flat’s comic book character of Cecil the ram, who is too lazy to do his job http://www.oneil.com.au/footrot/ch_cecil.shtml None of the bucks looked as if they would avoid their siring responsibilities.
Two female goats were good friends, always together, Marijka said. “Maybe once a year they fight, I separate them for a couple of days, then they are back to being friends.”
The goats greeted us, one deciding that my sweatshirt tasted good. The goat that learned to open the gate was identified as we walked to the milking room.
Two cats, one a taffy tiger male and a calico angora walked us back to the showroom where we packed up our butchered meat, the source of many good meals to come. I imagine eating the roasts and chops over Barbara’s shop with a good local wine and whatever vegetable is the freshest. We will have many good conversations as we eat. I will not try and think of their eyes and their personalities.
Sunday, May 15, 2005
Changing Nationalities
I looked at the piece of paper in my hand and cried with relief and happiness. It said the ruling on my Swiss nationality was favourable from the Federal Government in Bern and the Cantonal Government in Geneva. It has only taken just under 15 years from the day I embarked on a new life in the Val de Travers in the Jura Mountains.
When I had my first interview with the authorities last November 20 months after filing my papers, I told the woman who shared my love of animals, that changing nationality is like changing religion. You don’t do it lightly, you really have to believe. With the 12 year waiting period and the amount of paperwork, official translations of documents and a mini essay on why I wanted the nationality it wasn’t easy.
I don’t remember exactly what I said in that essay, but it had something to do with wanting to be a full participant in my new country in repayment for the better lifestyle I was given. With rights go responsibility to the society you live in. For the first time in my adult life I was paid more than enough, had six weeks vacation, felt safe on the streets. I was living in a country with universal health care, albeit I paid for my own coverage, but it was affordable. With my Permis C, earned after five years, I had almost all the rights of a Swiss in buying a home, changing jobs, etc. but I could only leave for a limited amount of time without not being allowed back and most importantly I couldn’t vote. Other than not to create mayhem, I had no responsibilities.
I had been once to watch a session of the Bern government in session. It is set up like the House of Representatives and Senate, but instead of president there is a council of seven with the president rotating every year. It is a multi-party system.
I am not so naïve to think that this is a perfect country. Watching the politicians, certain scandals, things that are down right annoying, I know Switzerland like all countries has problems and is ruled as all countries by flawed human beings. Still it works, better than any other place I have ever lived. I like the fact they vote on issues that in other countries are done by the government. Imagine voting on if the Army should buy planes or not, the retirement age and other social issues. Nor do I always agree with the decision, but I do appreciate it going to a national vote. It is easier to live with a dissenting decision if it comes from a consensus.
I have a couple of more steps to go through, including having to sing the national anthem. I did warn the woman who interviewed me, that this could be awful. My daughter at three asked me not to sing her any more lullabies, because my singing hurt her ears. She laughed and did say that singing well wasn't a requirement. I still wonder if my commune will do an interview or not.
None of this negates my American roots, the one where honesty and doing the right thing was drummed into me. Nor does it rub out the fact that I received an excellent education that is less and less possible in the US, with driving teachers who wanted top performance from me. And there are still people I adore in my natal country. One Swiss man who I talked to said the acceptance of foreigners as new nationals means they bring a different depth to the country, and I hope I can do the same by being myself, a dual-national.
At one point there was discussion about dual nationals having to give up their other nationality if they wanted to remain Swiss, and I wondered what I would do. At this point so much of my life has been lived here, I realised I would keep the Swiss, but it is not a choice I have to make. The Swiss voted down the recommendation.
On a less serious note, I am waiting for the first time I am asked whether I am American or English. It happens often when I speak with my heavily accented French. I am dying to see the person’s face when I reply, “Swiss”.
When I had my first interview with the authorities last November 20 months after filing my papers, I told the woman who shared my love of animals, that changing nationality is like changing religion. You don’t do it lightly, you really have to believe. With the 12 year waiting period and the amount of paperwork, official translations of documents and a mini essay on why I wanted the nationality it wasn’t easy.
I don’t remember exactly what I said in that essay, but it had something to do with wanting to be a full participant in my new country in repayment for the better lifestyle I was given. With rights go responsibility to the society you live in. For the first time in my adult life I was paid more than enough, had six weeks vacation, felt safe on the streets. I was living in a country with universal health care, albeit I paid for my own coverage, but it was affordable. With my Permis C, earned after five years, I had almost all the rights of a Swiss in buying a home, changing jobs, etc. but I could only leave for a limited amount of time without not being allowed back and most importantly I couldn’t vote. Other than not to create mayhem, I had no responsibilities.
I had been once to watch a session of the Bern government in session. It is set up like the House of Representatives and Senate, but instead of president there is a council of seven with the president rotating every year. It is a multi-party system.
I am not so naïve to think that this is a perfect country. Watching the politicians, certain scandals, things that are down right annoying, I know Switzerland like all countries has problems and is ruled as all countries by flawed human beings. Still it works, better than any other place I have ever lived. I like the fact they vote on issues that in other countries are done by the government. Imagine voting on if the Army should buy planes or not, the retirement age and other social issues. Nor do I always agree with the decision, but I do appreciate it going to a national vote. It is easier to live with a dissenting decision if it comes from a consensus.
I have a couple of more steps to go through, including having to sing the national anthem. I did warn the woman who interviewed me, that this could be awful. My daughter at three asked me not to sing her any more lullabies, because my singing hurt her ears. She laughed and did say that singing well wasn't a requirement. I still wonder if my commune will do an interview or not.
None of this negates my American roots, the one where honesty and doing the right thing was drummed into me. Nor does it rub out the fact that I received an excellent education that is less and less possible in the US, with driving teachers who wanted top performance from me. And there are still people I adore in my natal country. One Swiss man who I talked to said the acceptance of foreigners as new nationals means they bring a different depth to the country, and I hope I can do the same by being myself, a dual-national.
At one point there was discussion about dual nationals having to give up their other nationality if they wanted to remain Swiss, and I wondered what I would do. At this point so much of my life has been lived here, I realised I would keep the Swiss, but it is not a choice I have to make. The Swiss voted down the recommendation.
On a less serious note, I am waiting for the first time I am asked whether I am American or English. It happens often when I speak with my heavily accented French. I am dying to see the person’s face when I reply, “Swiss”.
Friday, May 13, 2005
Three Questions
The reading group where I went a while back to discuss my novel was nice enough to give me a gift certificate to Payot, a Swiss book chain. The one on Rue Chantepoulet, is enlarging its English book section. The woman who works there is the former owner of the now defunct Elm Book Store, an English bookstore that gave great support to Anglo-writers in Geneva. Payot is trying to build up its English books section using her expertise.
With the certificate in my hand I went to buy my stash. I suppose I could have supported Elm better, but with the cost of books and the fact I can go through six books in a week, I use the library for the good of my bank account. Also, unlike most writers I don’t keep books except for a few reference books, preferring not to have them take up my limited space.
I came across a book on reducing clutter and it said to look at each object in your house and ask three questions.
1. Does it give you energy when you look at it?
2. Is it beautiful?
3. Is it useful?
If you can’t answer yes to all three they asked another question “Than what are you doing with it?”
I didn’t buy the book, because I had all the information I needed. I have looked at every item I own, and have been able to answer yes to all three questions. However, I did get rid of a beach chair someone left in my place that I never use and an old radio and some clothes I will never wear again. Except for that nothing, absolutely nothing doesn’t merit a resounding three yeses, although sometimes the beautiful and/or useful are said with varying degrees of force. As for the books I bought, they are read and passed onto other readers.
With the certificate in my hand I went to buy my stash. I suppose I could have supported Elm better, but with the cost of books and the fact I can go through six books in a week, I use the library for the good of my bank account. Also, unlike most writers I don’t keep books except for a few reference books, preferring not to have them take up my limited space.
I came across a book on reducing clutter and it said to look at each object in your house and ask three questions.
1. Does it give you energy when you look at it?
2. Is it beautiful?
3. Is it useful?
If you can’t answer yes to all three they asked another question “Than what are you doing with it?”
I didn’t buy the book, because I had all the information I needed. I have looked at every item I own, and have been able to answer yes to all three questions. However, I did get rid of a beach chair someone left in my place that I never use and an old radio and some clothes I will never wear again. Except for that nothing, absolutely nothing doesn’t merit a resounding three yeses, although sometimes the beautiful and/or useful are said with varying degrees of force. As for the books I bought, they are read and passed onto other readers.
When I worked for Digital Credit Union in another lifttime, we instituted a telephone service where people could dial up and order checks automatically. One woman called me, and in a quivery voice that spoke of age, said she had dialled several times, she was sure she had done everything right, but no money came through the telephone.
I explained, the service cut a check that was mailed to her.
“Ah,” she said. “I wondered how it worked.”
Older people are supposed to be techno-phobic. My Swiss gentlemen friend says that computers were not of his generation, even though he has been saying it since his fifties and he is now in his seventies. He ignored me when I told him that a 95-year old woman from my writing group was complaining that surfing the web, emailing people known and unknown was cutting into her writing time. He still refused to even use an ATM card.
Thus, when I went to my bank’s ATM, I was surprised to see two very old women, grey-haired, well-dressed in heels and stockings, grey-haired, stooped, probably at least in their late seventies using the ATM machine. One was showing her friend how to use it. “Formidable,” said the neophyte user, “I should have done this years go.” It was formidable, wonderful.
I explained, the service cut a check that was mailed to her.
“Ah,” she said. “I wondered how it worked.”
Older people are supposed to be techno-phobic. My Swiss gentlemen friend says that computers were not of his generation, even though he has been saying it since his fifties and he is now in his seventies. He ignored me when I told him that a 95-year old woman from my writing group was complaining that surfing the web, emailing people known and unknown was cutting into her writing time. He still refused to even use an ATM card.
Thus, when I went to my bank’s ATM, I was surprised to see two very old women, grey-haired, well-dressed in heels and stockings, grey-haired, stooped, probably at least in their late seventies using the ATM machine. One was showing her friend how to use it. “Formidable,” said the neophyte user, “I should have done this years go.” It was formidable, wonderful.
Bisbal, Bills, Buffalos and Bulls
We hopped over to Spain, my friend Barbara and I. She wanted to get some tangines in Bisbal, a town that is 90% ceramic stores, sold at factory outlet prices. A large percentage of the products are made by local artists. It was our fifth trip and our favourite store is owned by Joseph and Carmen Torres, who also offer lessons in ceramics and a chance to try your hand in creating, setting them slightly apart from the other stores.
I had bought my bathroom mirror there, which is tiles with birds and branches, surrounding the mirror. The mirror is part of my goal to keep mass produced items out of my place, and only have things that I really, really love and use regularly. Even my dustpan is a signed work of art by am American artist. I get to sweep dirt into a pretty dustpan covered with painted fruits and berries. I won’t claim it makes sweeping the floor a pleasure, but it certainly is a slight help to keep my stupid decision to buy light colored tiles free of the crumbs that mock me.
As usual our transactions were done quickly and were followed by a more in depth conversation. They told us they had a couple from Boston and asked us if we planned to live in the States again. Both of us said we didn’t want to live in any country without universal health care.
Barbara is under the French system, while I am under the Swiss. Switzerland requires that I buy my own insurance at pre-determined rates. A portion of my payment is used for those that can’t pay. Barbara’s health insurance is part of what she pays taxes for. Costs for doctors are low 20 Euros, house calls are possible for 35 Euros and a large percentage is reimbursed. In both countries waiting lists are non existence, although a wait in the doctor’s office might be necessary. France is considered by the World Health Organization as having the best system in the world. Swiss costs are higher but covered after I meet my deductible. We are both worry free when it comes to health insurance.
The couple was shocked. They couldn’t understand how 45 millions could be without health insurance. They pay 216 Euros a month and after that everything is free. “But don’t people care that others are suffering?” They asked in at least five different ways. They couldn’t imagine having no medical insurance and life destroying medical bills.
We stopped for Tapas, before driving back to France. The potato and zucchini pies, the olives (I had grown addicted to olives as breakfast in Syria) the mushrooms in olive oil, parsley and garlic abated out appetites as we kidded about tapas as Spanish dim sum and dim sum as Chinese tapas.
We found a parking place at dusk by the river. River is a loose term. Most of the time there is no water. In fact I was here for at least 15 years before I ever saw water in it at all, although it has been known in times of severe storms to overflow the banks and wash away cars.
This night, I looked and looked again. “Barbara, there’s a buffalo.”
She was busy looking for something in the back. “Don’t be silly…and a-a-a camel.”
“And a horse with its foal.”
“And a long horn bull that could run with the bulls in Pamplona.”
Walking home we passed a neighbour, who confirmed the circus was in town, which explains buffalo and camels in the river, or at least I hope the animals were with the circus.
I had bought my bathroom mirror there, which is tiles with birds and branches, surrounding the mirror. The mirror is part of my goal to keep mass produced items out of my place, and only have things that I really, really love and use regularly. Even my dustpan is a signed work of art by am American artist. I get to sweep dirt into a pretty dustpan covered with painted fruits and berries. I won’t claim it makes sweeping the floor a pleasure, but it certainly is a slight help to keep my stupid decision to buy light colored tiles free of the crumbs that mock me.
As usual our transactions were done quickly and were followed by a more in depth conversation. They told us they had a couple from Boston and asked us if we planned to live in the States again. Both of us said we didn’t want to live in any country without universal health care.
Barbara is under the French system, while I am under the Swiss. Switzerland requires that I buy my own insurance at pre-determined rates. A portion of my payment is used for those that can’t pay. Barbara’s health insurance is part of what she pays taxes for. Costs for doctors are low 20 Euros, house calls are possible for 35 Euros and a large percentage is reimbursed. In both countries waiting lists are non existence, although a wait in the doctor’s office might be necessary. France is considered by the World Health Organization as having the best system in the world. Swiss costs are higher but covered after I meet my deductible. We are both worry free when it comes to health insurance.
The couple was shocked. They couldn’t understand how 45 millions could be without health insurance. They pay 216 Euros a month and after that everything is free. “But don’t people care that others are suffering?” They asked in at least five different ways. They couldn’t imagine having no medical insurance and life destroying medical bills.
We stopped for Tapas, before driving back to France. The potato and zucchini pies, the olives (I had grown addicted to olives as breakfast in Syria) the mushrooms in olive oil, parsley and garlic abated out appetites as we kidded about tapas as Spanish dim sum and dim sum as Chinese tapas.
We found a parking place at dusk by the river. River is a loose term. Most of the time there is no water. In fact I was here for at least 15 years before I ever saw water in it at all, although it has been known in times of severe storms to overflow the banks and wash away cars.
This night, I looked and looked again. “Barbara, there’s a buffalo.”
She was busy looking for something in the back. “Don’t be silly…and a-a-a camel.”
“And a horse with its foal.”
“And a long horn bull that could run with the bulls in Pamplona.”
Walking home we passed a neighbour, who confirmed the circus was in town, which explains buffalo and camels in the river, or at least I hope the animals were with the circus.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Deep Sleep and Purple Vases
I start awake from a sleep so deep that I am not sure where I am or what day it is. The place where I came from was my childhood home, the living room to be exact and I was looking at my grandmother’s two purple vases on each end of the mantle over the fireplace. Although the glass is thick and translucent they look perfect for ice cream sodas.
My grandmother promised them to me, but on her death my mother took them. Some years later she called me to tell me that she was selling them, but was giving me first chance at $300, then a week’s salary. I was furious. The anger comes back.
As I look around the room, at my orchid with its two flowers and six buds, I think of Colette’s mother, Sido, did not go to visit her daughter because the invitation came for a time when a much loved plant would blossom while she was gone and she did not want to miss it. Although I enjoy my orchid, it would not stop me from a trip. I see the German edition of my book with its changed title Jungen Gemüse . The covers of the Russian and English edition are so different, but I am still too sleepy to wonder about marketing decisions.
I see the stone wall, repointed a few years back by Gérard. Before he did it dust filtered constantly onto my stairs at a rate that as I walked back up the stairs after sweeping the dust away, more fell mocking me. Gérard had cleaned my flat cleaner than it had ever been. As good a worker as he is, I swear he would make a fortune as a cleaning person.
I am back in the correct place and the correct day, knowing that I will meet Rosalie for morning tea, Robbert will pop in later to use my faster ASDL line as he job hunts. No need to foodshop today, there’s enough in the frigo. I will drop off a newspaper to Barbara that might be a good place for her to advertise her shop.
I seldom sleep that deeply, but I was really tired from the night before when worry about my daughter’s cat kept me awake, and I had worked until almost midnight. I am reworking the beginning of my new novel Triple Deckers flushing out the character of the woman who lost her son in
I throw on jeans and a painter’s blouse, still happy I am not putting on a suit and stockings. My anthropologist friend calls clothing cultural coding, and I prefer this code, the comfortable code. I make my breakfast. For some reason lately I have had a desire for cornflakes, that American of breakfasts in the morning, even though the brand is local.
As I busy myself with morning tasks, making the bed, brewing a cup of tea, sweeping the floor, turning on the computer, I realise that had my mother given me the purple vases, I would have no place for them in my current lifestyle and I let go of the residual anger. In another way, their existence in my memory will last as long as I do and that is enough.
The triangle cat hunt
PLEASE BE THERE. It was almost midnight in Europe when the words flashed across the messaging screen. I had rewarded myself for a good day of writing with a computer game that kept going and going.
"What's up?" I answered Susan in Boston.
“Morgana is gone,” Susan typed.
Morgana is my daughter’s cat, who moved only yesterday from Boston to Leesburg, VA so Llara could take up her new job.
“How” I messaged back.
The people who changed the glass in Llara’s new apartment had let her out. Let may be the wrong word. Morgana, unlike her feline sister the Lady Guinevere (Gwen) is an explorer deploring Gwen’s under-the-bed style of life. Gwen has never been on the street. Morgana came to Llara as a foundling after college kids going home for the summer threw her out to fend for herself. Except for moves, she is not an outdoors cat but loves to escape whatever apartment is home to visit neighbours. I suspect she wanted to see who else lived in the new building.
Susan told of my daughter’s pain and the hunt plans as well as her helplessness being so far away across land. I was equally useless to help an ocean away.
There are times like this that you want to be there to do something useful, not offer verbal support. However, I still telephoned. Llara said the cat had been spotted around 1 a.m. outside Llara’s building. Morgana is grey and white angora and looks different than most cats, little chance it would be another cat. At least Llara knew she hadn’t fallen from the second story.
Perhaps I should add that I am more a dog person, but these two felines had wormed their way into my heart while they shared my Geneva flat. I still miss having pets, but when I am tempted to get a dog I wait until 10 p.m. on a rainy night and force myself to take a walk. Knowing its optional usually cures me of the puppy blues. None of this was important at the moment. I only wanted Llara to find her cat and to stop hurting. I wanted Morgana to be all right and cursed myself for every morning that I resented the cat who appeared on my chest, stroking my face not in love, but in placing her breakfast order.
Llara was walking her new neighbourhood on the way to the store to get paper to put up signs. She had already made the acquaintance of several neighbours.
With nothing more to do but to send good thoughts across the Atlantic I went to bed, but not to sleep. Around 3 a.m. the phone ran. “The lost is found,” Susan said. A very dirty cat was back in the apartment when Llara got home from her paper buying, mostly likely put there by the superintendent.
I rolled over in bed, feeling relieved. My daughter was no longer hurting, which even though she is a fully-capable adult, competent to handle her own problems, is a state I still would like to protect her from. I know I can’t and shouldn’t, but I still wish I had been there to walk the streets of Leesburg looking for the cat, rather than an ocean away offering moral support.
"What's up?" I answered Susan in Boston.
“Morgana is gone,” Susan typed.
Morgana is my daughter’s cat, who moved only yesterday from Boston to Leesburg, VA so Llara could take up her new job.
“How” I messaged back.
The people who changed the glass in Llara’s new apartment had let her out. Let may be the wrong word. Morgana, unlike her feline sister the Lady Guinevere (Gwen) is an explorer deploring Gwen’s under-the-bed style of life. Gwen has never been on the street. Morgana came to Llara as a foundling after college kids going home for the summer threw her out to fend for herself. Except for moves, she is not an outdoors cat but loves to escape whatever apartment is home to visit neighbours. I suspect she wanted to see who else lived in the new building.
Susan told of my daughter’s pain and the hunt plans as well as her helplessness being so far away across land. I was equally useless to help an ocean away.
There are times like this that you want to be there to do something useful, not offer verbal support. However, I still telephoned. Llara said the cat had been spotted around 1 a.m. outside Llara’s building. Morgana is grey and white angora and looks different than most cats, little chance it would be another cat. At least Llara knew she hadn’t fallen from the second story.
Perhaps I should add that I am more a dog person, but these two felines had wormed their way into my heart while they shared my Geneva flat. I still miss having pets, but when I am tempted to get a dog I wait until 10 p.m. on a rainy night and force myself to take a walk. Knowing its optional usually cures me of the puppy blues. None of this was important at the moment. I only wanted Llara to find her cat and to stop hurting. I wanted Morgana to be all right and cursed myself for every morning that I resented the cat who appeared on my chest, stroking my face not in love, but in placing her breakfast order.
Llara was walking her new neighbourhood on the way to the store to get paper to put up signs. She had already made the acquaintance of several neighbours.
With nothing more to do but to send good thoughts across the Atlantic I went to bed, but not to sleep. Around 3 a.m. the phone ran. “The lost is found,” Susan said. A very dirty cat was back in the apartment when Llara got home from her paper buying, mostly likely put there by the superintendent.
I rolled over in bed, feeling relieved. My daughter was no longer hurting, which even though she is a fully-capable adult, competent to handle her own problems, is a state I still would like to protect her from. I know I can’t and shouldn’t, but I still wish I had been there to walk the streets of Leesburg looking for the cat, rather than an ocean away offering moral support.
Saturday, May 07, 2005
Rabbits, Taxis and Trains
A rabbit hopped around the small green island. The only thing strange thing about that is that the grassy and tree area was in the center of a
My trip to Syria
So many people told me that going to
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