Michel and Matthieu

Matthieu and Michel...(too bad Matthieu's head was cut off).

The Marché de Fleurs in Nice is wonderful. Restaurants flank both sides with people outside enticing customers in.

I passed up lobster, my absolute favorite food. I'm so glad I did because just a few restaurants later Michel with his pestle which he used as a faux micro invited us in.

It turned out not just a delicious meal, but one of the most fun ones I've had in a long, long time.

My rabbit and Rick's pork jowls cooked in red wine was lick-the-plate good.

Michel had two customers from America yesterday. As they walked by he grabbed them and introduced us. They were from Woburn. I grew up in the next town, Reading.

Matthieu, the water made a game of placing the glasses just so. And when I took a photo, he took the camera and is the only waiter in history that took not just the polite one shot, but several from different angles.

Michel and I became involved in a deep conversation about the state of the world ending, with the three of us singing "We will Overcome" right before we left.

Their address if you're in Nice...
12-14 Cours Saleya 06300 Nice
Tel: 04 93 85 77

A moment of panic

"WeeFee?"  Colette, the small Frenchwoman, showing us around our 11th AirBnB, looked confused. She was petite and stylish in the way only older French women could be. She didn't think there was any. Colette, was Sam's aunt. Sam, the owner of this one-bedroom flat, is about to deliver, so her aunt was pressed into service.

Being without wifi is almost like being without an appendage.

"We'll find a café," I said in French. She looked relieved.

We poked around the rest of the flat in the Vielle Ville in Nice.

I loved some of the original art work.

One wall was a bas relief.

Or the wonderful piece of pottery.

A handmade book with a welcome done in calligraphy and all the info we needed as tourists for emergency situations.

Original beams.

The first night we didn't want to go out to a restaurant, so Rick went foraging and brought back a wonderful meal. We loved the place except for lack of wifi

 

I looked up from the meal and there on the blackboard I found...

All the information for WiFi or Weefee... It works great.

Now we've had 11 good experiences in AirBnB out of 11.

The earlybird gets the sunrise

Catching a 6:52 train seemed like a much better idea than when the alarm went off at 5:00 a.m. to allow for final packing. But like our recent before-dawn trip to Girona, Spain's airport to drop friends, we were rewarded with a spectacular sunrise.

Rick videoed it from the train but he sent me a couple of the stills.The video is here.

Dear reader, enjoy a French sunrise without ever getting out of bed or buying a ticket. 

Slivers of silver

Pink, roses, reds burst forth as

The sun says hello

Neese is Neyese

Rick and I are in Nice to meet up with friends from a lifetime ago. Blogs will come between so many wonderful things. If I were any happier with him, the idea of seeing G&R, or exploration of a new place I'd burst.

Medieval ms.

I am so excited. I've found a free five-week on-line course on medieval manuscripts beginning this month.

Of course, I signed up for it.

Siblings/parenting

VS.

A woman in her early forties was talking to me about how her parents still thought of her as the baby of the family and a bit "flaky" a description that does not match what I know of her. But, they might consider me "flaky" too.

She also was unhappy how they listened to her brother and gave him credence and not her, even when he was wrong and she was right.

As a mother of one child I didn't have to worry about showing favoritism. I could be as bonkers about her as I wanted without having the accusation that I loved her best. 

Not showing preference and being fair is something that must be difficult, especially when children (little or adults) have different personalities and different needs.

I so admire another friend with two grown sons who are so different in personality and needs that if I didn't know better I would think they came from different sets of parents if not different species. She sweats making sure that both are treated fairly. If she were to treat them identically, one of the other would be unhappy, but she resorts to balancing values and doing what they need from her.

Siblings also see slights, some intended, some not.

Even though my mother died 25 years ago, I've gone from resentment to annoyance that when my mother had my brother and I to dinner at the same time, she could carry a six-pack of beer up the stairs for him, but my liter bottle of Coca-cola was too heavy. I resisted taking out a scale to prove her wrong.

And I doubt if my brother will ever forget that my grandmother wouldn't believe that her little angel, me, ate his last cupcake (it was delicious!). I'm afraid to ask if he's forgiven me.

Some kids are born into the wrong families. An artistic child might not be understood by accounting parents or vice versa. 

Although I believe 99.9% of parents want to do the right thing by their children, never will any on-the-job training be so difficult. 

 By the time we learn, the kid is on his own and probably complaining that we didn't do this or that right...they would be correct.

If you have time, please...

Check out my two new Flash Fiction exercises...

http://flashfictionexercises.blogspot.fr/2015/04/as-my-writing-pal-and-i-sat-in-cafe-we.html

http://flashfictionexercises.blogspot.fr/2015/04/beige-cowboy-boots.html

Another example of me as a COW

COW = Cranky Old Woman

It has to do with body lotion, shampoo and après shampoo bottles.

I am also cheap. When I buy any of these products, I want to use all of what it contains. Now I admit, I'm not the strongest person in the world, but the amount of strength needed to squeeze out the last drops is beyond me. Likewise removing the caps are hard.

I mentioned my difficulty to Rick, (one of the advantages of our marriage is that I have a pair of hands to open recalcitrant containers of all types) and he admitted, he too had the same problem although he refused to be beaten by a bottle of shampoo.

The next sentence proves my cowdom...I remember the good old days with soft plastic and easy to remove caps. I wish they were back at least as far as these containers are concerned.

THERE--I've said it. I feel better. Moooo. 

Lighting a candle

Rick automatically hands me two euros whenever we go into a Catholic church to admire the architecture so I can light a candle for my beloved stepmom.

It brings back two wonderful memories.

As a divorced woman marrying my father, a divorced man, she was shut out of the church. After he died, I was with her, the first time she was able to take communion. Her tear-filled eyes as she walked back from the altar told me all I needed to know about how she felt. I reached up and squeezed her hand.

My second memory was an Easter spent in Argelès with her and we went to Mass in this church. She was fascinated by the dancing statues.

Thus when we walked by the church Saturday and I looked in and saw the statue and the candles, I decided to light a candle for her. "I don't have any money with me," Rick whispered. He knew what I was thinking without me saying a word.

I did.

The candle said how much I loved her, how much I respected her beliefs so different from my own.

Then and now--a flower essay

Years ago, when I bought my condo in Boston, flowers were a luxury.  My first expenses were always condo payment, car payment, food, gas, electricity. Although I had no credit card debt, each penny was watched as it was dispensed, so when I bought flowers,--a bird of paradise, tulips, some carnations, roses--they were a real treat.

I understood when writer Alice Walker wrote that when she received one of her first checks for her writing she used it to buy lamb chops .  . . and .  . . flowers.  Food for the stomach, food for the soul, so to speak. Flowers add to my soul.

Flowers in Argelès are not that expensive, especially in the marché. They are also given as gifts as the bouquet above from my landlady who shared our Easter dinner yesterday.

Every time I look at these flowers, I see them reaching out for the world. They don't see the vase as limiting. Did they enjoy our conversation yesterday during Easter dinner? Did they laugh at the mafioso in the neighborhood story and the one where the woman was locked on her terrace in only her nighty? Do they listen to the news on the nearby television and wish we would switch from the Russian, English, French and Arabic newsstations more or less?

This bouquet, hand-picked in the countryside by our Swiss neighbors, have extra meaning. I can picture them making their decisions on which to pluck. Their delicateness carries a different kind of beauty.

Flowers as metaphor. Once upon a time there was a yellow iris who lived with purple irises. She didn't mind being different, and the purple irises were tolerant and accepted her without questions. They knew that her yellowness did not diminish their purpleness and she knew their purpleness did nothing to hurt her yelowness. Together they were able to enjoy while enhancing the white sculpture.

Our patio, which is sheltered from the wind and receives lots of sunshine, is blooming with spring flowers. The  bougainvillaea is sprouting leaves and I'm sure is planning pinkish/violet dsiplays by the time we're back from Geneva/US.

I can't believe that we kept this flowering cactus alive for over a year. It has never stopped blooming. We picked it up at the special flower market for mere centimes and it has brought hours and hours of pleasure as we admire its strength.

That I no longer have to save up for flowers is a reward for hard work and aging. That I can splurge on more than one is a joy without losing the appreciation of having beauty in my home is a gift denied to too many.

If I ever forget how lucky I am, will someone, anyone please remind me.

Together again

My housemate drinks fresh lemon juice every morning. I was able to locate the top but not the bottom.

I looked in all the logical and some of the illogical places.

She left on Wednesday. I found it on Thursday. I don't know who put it behind the pans. . .

but it could have been me or Rick or that malicious elf who spends so much time hiding our stuff.

I'm voting for the elf. I think she took my violet pen, too and hid it under the bed.

Déjà vu-Talking History

When I went to work in Switzerland, my first stop was the UK to meet Mike, the manager of that branch, who was to explain to me the basics of the company database and how the two offices related to one another.

He was an ex-RAF Colonel, who thought of women as "dolly-birds" and most Americans as "ignoramuses" at best. 

It didn't help that my plane came in just as traffic was at its worse when he picked me up. The drive back to Windsor, where the office was based, did not bode well. I expected that his chain-smoking might be the best part of the journey as the car inched forward bit by bit toward our destination.

Little did I know I had the magic key to be removed from the dolly-bird and ignorant American categories. 

I not only loved history, I knew British history having studied and adored it university. 

In 1990 when I moved to Switzerland, I could name all the English kings and queens in order (don't ask me to now), the significant part of their reigns, and the major events and some of the minor ones between the Anglo-Saxons setting up camp in the 700s and present day. 

The atmosphere in the Vauxhall changed immediately when I dropped some historical nugget about where we were. 

During my stay, he gave me a tour of the area, skipping Windsor Castle where I'd been twice before, doling out morsels of history like fine chocolate.

Instead of leaving me alone after work, he and his wife, a lovely woman who made me wonder if he'd always been a curmudgeon, took me to dinner in a pub that went back centuries. 

On subsequent visits, he found hotels or BnBs with a history behind them, took me to see an oak that had provided shade since the Tudor Kings or so the locals claimed. It certainly was thick enough with branches imitating octopus arms.

Fast forward to the marché in Argelès.

Rick and I stopped for our "cuppa" at La Noisette.  A British couple of retirement age chose the table next to us, half because most patrons were crowded inside rather than sit in the Tramontane and there were only a couple of tables free. Only the most ardent smokers faced the wind.

He had that public school accent, which I recognize far better than I do the regional ones.

Within minutes we were discussing King George III, William IV and I held my own, although I did do a bit of brain-racking on significant events during each of their reigns. Afterwards, I wished I'd remembered that George was king when England united with Ireland, and William of Orange was of William and Mary.

That I was currently reading about the Spanish/Dutch war during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I and plucked the name of a 7th century saint from Ely, seemed to give me enough cred.

Like the oak tree, that Mike showed me, history is a complicated subject. There are the great events: wars, reign changes, disasters. But there is also the lovely local histories to be gleaned from the present.

I hadn't thought of Mike in years and I assume he is long dead. No one could survive another 25 years with those smoke-damaged lungs. Small details flooded back. Even if they hadn't historical topics sometimes just makes for a great conversation with people you meet by chance.

A catastrophe? Not quite...

Catastrophe is a word that is over-used and should be relegated to things like death, destruction, war, plague, floods and other things like that...

This was an inconvenience that was cause for some rethinking and amusement.

Tuesday, I'd ordered a duck for my Easter dinner from the cousin of the owner. He is the same man who didn't deliver a whole turkey for my February Thanksgiving dinner but one cut up. The dinner was still a success.

My menu will be:

Apèro of fois gras on crackers with champagne

Easter egg hunt (thank you J for the chocolate eggs--and I found cute bags in place of baskets)

Amuse bouche (pastel colored whites of deviled eggs -- I've done a trial run)

Rocket and roasted pepper salad

Two potato mash (white and sweet)

Fresh asparagus (found some wild on the marché)

Roast duck

Baked camembert with nuts and fruit

Pineapple and basil blended into the juice

Coffee

My guests will include wonderful Swiss musicians, a Danish artist and Rick and I supply the writing element. But it isn't the creative talent that makes it wonderful to celebrate a feast with them. It is they are kind and generous friends whose warmth puts good vibes into our home.

I arrived at the boucherie. He is Halal. Some narrow-minded people in the village don't want to do business with a Muslim. All the Muslims I know are wonderful people. I refuse to judge any group by the bad. If I did that I would have missed knowing some fantastic humans.

Many people were ahead of me and there was much talk and laughter between the customers.

When I asked for the duck, he realised that his cousin had again messed up and hadn't ordered it.

We stood there and thought.

Substitute lamb chops. I've a great recipe that includes thyme, basilica vinegar, and bullion.

He reduced the price a bit because of the mix up.

Even with the two mix-ups his meat is wonderful and if I don't pre-order from his cousin, I do get recipes for whatever I buy. The man has some great ideas.

I am so happy I'm bursting.






 

Easter Carols

Easter in Argelès is filled with people of all nationalities taking advantage of the 3-4 day holiday weekend, depending on which country they come from. The streets are full of Danish, German, Swiss-German, English-English, Irish-English, Swedish and Dutch words along with the French, Spanish and Catalan.

Easter weekend is also when the village is full of singers, in native dress including the red wool bag-like Barretina, that was worn almost daily until the 19th century. Now Catalan men wear it for ceremonial and patrimonial occasions. The women are in their white lace caps, skirts and shoes.

They go from place to place singing, what I call Easter Carols, but that is my term, not theirs. The first time I heard it was in the late 80s and I was here with my beloved stepmom and daughter. We heard the music and rushed out to see and listen.

The director lost his music to the wind and the listeners returned it to him. A listener held it for him. But not a note was missed.

A villager was able to watch and listen from his second (American) and first (European) window.

Goodies are handed out from a basket draped in the Catalan flag colors.

Rick is doing a duelling blog which if it isn't up now will be shortly. 

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Spanish sunrise

A sunrise from Spain

Early trip to the airport

Was our great reward

4:00 am Alarm goes off

4:30 am Walk to the car

4:45 am Load luggage and friends into car

5:15 am Cross into Spain

5:59 am Reach Girona Airport and drop of friends and luggage

6.07 am Head back to France

As the sun rose we were treated to beautiful red and pink skies, unusual cloud shapes, silhouetted trees for kilometer after kilometer after kilometer after . . .

7:43 am Breakfast at the wonderful bakery outside Argelès

8:37 am In bed for a nap.

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More on the new bunnies

Hunny Bunny: So what are your names?

Blue Bunny: DustBunnybutmyfriendscallmeDusty.

Herr Hare: Can you repeat that?

Blue Bunny: (more slowly) Dust Bunny, but my friends call me Dusty.

Pink Bunny: I'mrustybecauseofmycolor. (notices that Hunny Bunny and Herr Hare don't understand her Texas accent) and she repeats slowly) I'm Rusty because of my color.

The story of the lilies

I was in the florist buying lilies. I wanted to greet my housemate at the train station with a bunch of flowers.

That was when my esophagus attack struck. I made it the two blocks to the doctor's surgery and then spent the rest of the day in the hospital. 

I left the flowers with the doctor and told him to give them to his wife. I also left my shopping basket which had bread from bakery.

At the hospital I remembered my housemate loved the look of lilies, but loathed the smell. 

The next day when I picked up the basket, the receptionist brought out the flowers. Maybe the doctor was afraid his wife would think he was guilty of something if he brought home flowers for no reason. 

My housemate was with me. "I've learned the secret," she said. As soon they open you cut out the stamens."

We brought them home and put them in vase. They still weren't open, put as soon as they did, I amputated the stamens. It helped, but not totally. They gave off the smell of funeral home with a surplus of flowers and was much too cloying.

Thus the lilies were banished to the patio where they still look beautiful, but odorless.

Week 3 52 Budget challenges

In week 3 of the 52-week Budget Challenge, they recommend a no-buy month. I once has a no-buy year. For 12 months I only gave in to three things.

I needed a mop.

Sandwich boards, which I've only been able to find in Germany. When I was in Stuttgart, I picked them up. We were almost at the end of the no-buy year.

A poster of an Underwood Typewriter. My dad had an Underwood typewriter franchise in West Virginia when I was little. I used an Underwood when I worked for a newspaper. It met my three criteria before I buy anything.

1. It be useful

2. It be beautiful

3. It carries a memory.

These purchases met numbers one and two.

Thus, I don't see how a no-buy month will help since I always think and rethink most purchases. Most of the time I don't need what I looked at.

Confetti haiku

The last confetti

Found in a jacket pocket

Parade memories

What did they say again

Pink Rabbit: Howdy!

Blue Rabbit: Howdy!

Herr Hare: Bonjour!

Hunny Bunny: Bonjour! (whisper to HH) Qui sont-ils?

Herr Hare: Aucune idée.

Blue Rabbit: We just flew in from Texas. Glad to meet y'all?

Herr Hare: Y'all? Je ne comprends pas un mot de ce qu'ils disent. Ce est comme ils ont marbres dans leur bouche.

Hunny Bunny: Bienvenue chez nous. Welcome. Herr, we better switch to English, I think that's what they are speaking.

Pink Rabbit: Kinda like this place. We could be mighty comfortable here. Heard y'all have a lot of fun from that darn dawg, Scooby. What a guy.

Herr Hare: Oh, Oh,  Nous devons conseiller Petite Cougar tout de suite

 

This doesn't hurt me as much as it hurts you

Petite Cougar: I don't care if spanking is illegal. Whoever wrote the law didn't have a kid that is always running away.

Scooby II: (thinking) I hear Rick is going to be travelling later this month. I'll pretend to be good until then. Maybe if I stow away in DL's things, no one will notice.)