Thursday 19th.
Today is the 5th anniversary of the death of my best friend/sister Taney. She had endured a hard life but found love finally with an Australian man. She died just three months after they married. I was matron of honour at her wedding. Strangely we were on the train from London to Paris when we heard the news, and here we are, five years later, spending our last day in Paris.
It’s a glorious day - a clear blue sky which we haven’t seen in over a week. It’s warm too and the Paris skies are calling us. We waited until today to make our trip down memory lane - a visit to our old hangouts at St Germaine des Pres. We walked just a few doors down and saw the amazing church of St Gervais ( Tony says an ancient ancestor of Ricky Gervais) on the way to Chatelet metro station. Paris isn’t at all friendly towards people with disabilities. We saw some tourists, one of their members in a wheelchair, gazing perplexed at the stairs down to the Metro, with no way of getting the wheelchair down. The station is weird….with long passages to the various lines. Every few yards there is a flight of stairs….wither up…or down. Just to get to line 4 we manoeuvred 12 flights of stairs. I was completely stuffed before we even reached the platform. But it was worth it. St Germaine was everything we remembered it to be….charming, quirky, arty. When we made it up into daylight Tony wondered if he could remember where Les Deux Maggots was. And there it was facing him, just a few feet away. The patron saint of travellers seems to have everything within our reach. Les Deux Magots is Paris’s literary café. Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir discussed philosophy over cofee….Picasso regularly had his Pastis there - even Ernest hemingway made it his hangout when in paris…and of course Tony and I are among the glitterati! We sit and order Café Crème. It comes in little brown jugs…the tray looking so beautiful that I just have to take a photo of it. It’s served by a waiter in black monkey jacket and waistcoat, a bowtie and a long white apron. The whole ritual wreaks of class and of course Paris already does class effortlessly. But class comes at a price…almost 10 Euro ($15) for two coffees. We figure it is worth every cent as we sit and watch the passing parade. Later we look for Le Petit Zinc - a reasonably priced Bistro masquerading as a grande salon of la Belle Epoque. It’s Art Nouveau interior is just magic. We discovered it and had dinner there on our last trip and now the hostess invites me in to take photos. Later we wonder through St Germaine, down the windy cobbled streets. When we come back to Paris it will be to this place, which feels so much like home. We walk to St Michel and have coffee in the Square near the exotic fountain and statue of St Michel himself. WE stroll along the Seine before finally reaching home, where we empty the suitcases and start to repack.
And there is the last lovely surprise. Tony’s French flag…the one he has encouraged to unfurl itself every day, has finally broken free from the trap of the flagpole and is proudly displaying its Tricolor….fluttering in the breeze. Tony is thrilled, as if all his cajoling is responsible for the flag fluttering. Silly but charming - and worthy of Paris. We dine out tonight at a bistro we have been salivating over for two weeks. It’s in our street and has that look that could only be Parisien. We stuff our faces with food and divine Sancerre wine. Then, almost too full to move, we wander along the side of the Seine as darkness closes in.
Now the holiday is almost over, and this is the last entry before we fly out. When I’m home I’ll look back and ponder what this 66 days has meant and perhaps post an addendum. What if anything have I learned about myself? About Marriage - and life over all. It’s too soon to tell yet But three things have been enforced. I love life; I love my husband; and I love France - Paris most of all.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
65/2 Yesterdays
Wednesday 18th.
It’s Tony’s sister B’s birthday today ( she of Provence and lettuce drying fame) and so we start the day by sending her an e-card and then phoning her in London. She has so much planned I am amazed she has the energy.
Yesterday afternoon, while Tony slept, I went walking and souvenir hunting on my own….2 ½ hours down side streets buying trinkets for loved ones…especially Allie. We’ll buy the cats a Barbecued chicken on Sunday and tell them it came from Paris. It was wonderful to have that time alone to explore and much needed. I love being with my husband but sometimes I just need down time on my own - as does he - and we always respect that in each other.
Wednesday - the hump day of the week when generally not much happens. Certainly we didn’t plan anything special. Sometimes a day just clicks together perfectly - and this was one of them. In the morning we walked down by the Seine…. Because it’s summer and they have the artificial plages ( beaches) there are no cars down there - (it’s generally a fast way of avoiding traffic). The “beaches” have sand, and bean bags and sun loungers, even deck chairs, and Dj’s in the evenings and there are ic-cream stands and little kiosks selling beer - all for Parisiens who can’t get to the coast for their August Vacances. The weather is warming up again but it’s not sunbaking we have in mind. On our side of the Seine - just under our little bridge - are the patonc pitches - and you can play for an hour, day or night. Although it basically has the same rules as lawn bowls, Patonc ( named for the noise the metal balls make when they hit each other) looks waaaay more cool when it’s being played. Whole family groups play together, young men take it very seriously and there are Patonc leagues; workmen come out at lunchtime and use their lunchbreak to hone their patonc skills. It’s BIG and FUN! Best of all, Le Mairie de Paris provides the Patonc facilities FREE to everyone. So Tony and I take our heavy metal patonc balls to our assigned pitch. I’m expecting Tony to beat me hands down as he is an athlete and good at every sport. But lo and behold, I kick his arse!!!!! 20 - 9.….. The only other time I have beaten him at anything is crazy putt putt…and he used to be a golfer! We hug and kiss and laugh and make jokes and behave like any other young lovers, because that’s the way we feel inside. Afterwards we drink French beer from plastic cups and just sit and watch the passing Parade of people and the endless tourist boats on the Seine. Four of the local council litter collectors stop for a beer….and so do the police. On the bridge above us is a busker….a lone clarinet player playing Benny Goodman style swing….it’s the perfect accompaniment to the day. We hold hands and smile a lot….not much need to talk. Two workers, Patonc players, are oggling the females passing by….Tony joins in with them and the three are either making appreciative grunts and nodding - or shaking their heads. The two Frenchmen love it that I am laughing and am not annoyed - and I love that France is not politically correct and Big brother regimented in the way that Australia is…. Men are still free to whistle at pretty girls here….and the girls love it. We wander back and pick up fresh bread and stuff it with Brie and ham and hard boiled eggs and French Mayo - which is a taste to die for. We wash it down with mineral wayer and then fall into bed for our snuggle/nap. But there’s more great stuff to come.
When we wake we decide to make the Loooooooong haul, fifty metres across the road to 38 Rue de Rivoli - un caveau which claims to have cool jazz from 3.30 - 7pm ( before turning into some kind of performance space. Paris is filled with caveaus….cellars with arched roofs giving them a cavelike feel. We don’t know what we will find as we climb down all the stairs. In the funny little cave it is like a rehearsal room. A motley collection of musicians - some better than others but none of them good, are amusing themselves. Despite the fact that entry is free to the public we are the only ones there. The music is not very good but the girl singer is nice. We order a beer and plan to make a quick getaway, but they start on Lullaby of Birdland and she doesn’t know the lyrics….so I join in the bridge “And there’s a weepy old willow; he really knows how to cry. That’s how I’d cry in my pillow - if you tell me so long and goodbye…..”
And the next thing I know they have asked us to join them….and Tony takes over the drums, the drummer takes over piano ( since he’s better than the pianist) and we have two hours of the most fun ever! I am scratchy vocally and it’s been a long while since I have scatted….but GOD I have missed this. I explain in half baked French that I used to be a singer forty odd years ago and there are great protests…No no…you still are.! And when I do a pretty decent version of Yesterdays, ( Jerome Kern…not Guns N Roses)which they all applaud, I know they mean it. And beloved, who is a jazz elitist to the point where I no longer sing at home, is surprised and hugs me and says it was good! The five French musos are lovely and the jazz tuba player is hysterically funny….taking all the top notes the husky voiced chanteuse can’t manage and doing a hilarious vocal version of “Some day my prince will come.” We laugh until we’re exhausted, and they ask us if we will come again tomorrow. But Tony and I know you can’t hope to duplicate something that special that happened that spontaneously and so we say goodbye - feeling as though we are leaving friends.
I cook some beautiful salmon for dinner - and then open the crepes we bought, spread them with apricot conserve and simmer them in Peach liquer and fresh squeezed orange. Crème fraiche on the side….heaven…and we finally open the bottle of Champagne with dinner and finish it while watching Dumbo on DVD…..it’s a day we’ll remember for the rest of our lives.
It’s Tony’s sister B’s birthday today ( she of Provence and lettuce drying fame) and so we start the day by sending her an e-card and then phoning her in London. She has so much planned I am amazed she has the energy.
Yesterday afternoon, while Tony slept, I went walking and souvenir hunting on my own….2 ½ hours down side streets buying trinkets for loved ones…especially Allie. We’ll buy the cats a Barbecued chicken on Sunday and tell them it came from Paris. It was wonderful to have that time alone to explore and much needed. I love being with my husband but sometimes I just need down time on my own - as does he - and we always respect that in each other.
Wednesday - the hump day of the week when generally not much happens. Certainly we didn’t plan anything special. Sometimes a day just clicks together perfectly - and this was one of them. In the morning we walked down by the Seine…. Because it’s summer and they have the artificial plages ( beaches) there are no cars down there - (it’s generally a fast way of avoiding traffic). The “beaches” have sand, and bean bags and sun loungers, even deck chairs, and Dj’s in the evenings and there are ic-cream stands and little kiosks selling beer - all for Parisiens who can’t get to the coast for their August Vacances. The weather is warming up again but it’s not sunbaking we have in mind. On our side of the Seine - just under our little bridge - are the patonc pitches - and you can play for an hour, day or night. Although it basically has the same rules as lawn bowls, Patonc ( named for the noise the metal balls make when they hit each other) looks waaaay more cool when it’s being played. Whole family groups play together, young men take it very seriously and there are Patonc leagues; workmen come out at lunchtime and use their lunchbreak to hone their patonc skills. It’s BIG and FUN! Best of all, Le Mairie de Paris provides the Patonc facilities FREE to everyone. So Tony and I take our heavy metal patonc balls to our assigned pitch. I’m expecting Tony to beat me hands down as he is an athlete and good at every sport. But lo and behold, I kick his arse!!!!! 20 - 9.….. The only other time I have beaten him at anything is crazy putt putt…and he used to be a golfer! We hug and kiss and laugh and make jokes and behave like any other young lovers, because that’s the way we feel inside. Afterwards we drink French beer from plastic cups and just sit and watch the passing Parade of people and the endless tourist boats on the Seine. Four of the local council litter collectors stop for a beer….and so do the police. On the bridge above us is a busker….a lone clarinet player playing Benny Goodman style swing….it’s the perfect accompaniment to the day. We hold hands and smile a lot….not much need to talk. Two workers, Patonc players, are oggling the females passing by….Tony joins in with them and the three are either making appreciative grunts and nodding - or shaking their heads. The two Frenchmen love it that I am laughing and am not annoyed - and I love that France is not politically correct and Big brother regimented in the way that Australia is…. Men are still free to whistle at pretty girls here….and the girls love it. We wander back and pick up fresh bread and stuff it with Brie and ham and hard boiled eggs and French Mayo - which is a taste to die for. We wash it down with mineral wayer and then fall into bed for our snuggle/nap. But there’s more great stuff to come.
When we wake we decide to make the Loooooooong haul, fifty metres across the road to 38 Rue de Rivoli - un caveau which claims to have cool jazz from 3.30 - 7pm ( before turning into some kind of performance space. Paris is filled with caveaus….cellars with arched roofs giving them a cavelike feel. We don’t know what we will find as we climb down all the stairs. In the funny little cave it is like a rehearsal room. A motley collection of musicians - some better than others but none of them good, are amusing themselves. Despite the fact that entry is free to the public we are the only ones there. The music is not very good but the girl singer is nice. We order a beer and plan to make a quick getaway, but they start on Lullaby of Birdland and she doesn’t know the lyrics….so I join in the bridge “And there’s a weepy old willow; he really knows how to cry. That’s how I’d cry in my pillow - if you tell me so long and goodbye…..”
And the next thing I know they have asked us to join them….and Tony takes over the drums, the drummer takes over piano ( since he’s better than the pianist) and we have two hours of the most fun ever! I am scratchy vocally and it’s been a long while since I have scatted….but GOD I have missed this. I explain in half baked French that I used to be a singer forty odd years ago and there are great protests…No no…you still are.! And when I do a pretty decent version of Yesterdays, ( Jerome Kern…not Guns N Roses)which they all applaud, I know they mean it. And beloved, who is a jazz elitist to the point where I no longer sing at home, is surprised and hugs me and says it was good! The five French musos are lovely and the jazz tuba player is hysterically funny….taking all the top notes the husky voiced chanteuse can’t manage and doing a hilarious vocal version of “Some day my prince will come.” We laugh until we’re exhausted, and they ask us if we will come again tomorrow. But Tony and I know you can’t hope to duplicate something that special that happened that spontaneously and so we say goodbye - feeling as though we are leaving friends.
I cook some beautiful salmon for dinner - and then open the crepes we bought, spread them with apricot conserve and simmer them in Peach liquer and fresh squeezed orange. Crème fraiche on the side….heaven…and we finally open the bottle of Champagne with dinner and finish it while watching Dumbo on DVD…..it’s a day we’ll remember for the rest of our lives.
64/3 at the end of the line
Tuesday 17th.
YAY! The rain has stopped at last. It’s not exactly a Provence day but there is at least a watery sun trying to break through the pale grey sky. We really get a move on this morning, determined to get out before the weather has a chance to change it’s mind. We had hoped to go to Versailles for a day - but it’s cost prohibitive - so I guess we will just have to come back again some day. I do love Paris, but not sure I would want to live permanently here. When I ask Beloved where in the world he would live if money was no object - he immediately says Perth - and I feel guilty once again that circumstances made me sell our house there and move east. But there was, and is, nothing I can do about it.
We have decided to take the metro to the end of the line and see what’s there. Since it’s called Chateau de Vincennes we are figuring there is a pretty good chance there will be a chateau - duh! Not only that but the stairs from the metro come up literally in front of the front gate to the Chateau. This place is largely 16th and 17th century - almost new - hehehehe - But the oldest parts date back to the 14th century….which is the 1300s for those that get confused. The original Dunjon ) no…it’s not a prison… was the home of King Charles v - before all the Louis’ came to power. It’s the oldest royal residence in France - possibly the world. The Chapel is a sister to Paris’ famous St Chapelle….. Complete with the same round stained glass window which is so famous. It’s funny - because the queues go for miles in Paris to get into St Chapelle on the Ile de Cite…..and for just 1 euro 70 ( about $2.50) you can hop the train to the end of the line and be the only one looking. Just 5 miles out of Paris Vincennes is supposed to be a very crowded suburb - but you’d never know it. The same wide boulevards greet you, and having the chateau in the middle of the town gives it an air of space and time. Because so much of Paris and its surrounds dates back 4-5 hundred years, there’s a uniformity of design, so the suburbs look like extensions of the city rather than Melbourne suburbs which are a mish mash of styles and often quite ugly. If I were to come here to live I would live in Vincennes and catch the metro into the city each day….Magic. We spend a leisurely few hours wandering around the chateau grounds….much of it is still in use as government offices…and drink beer at a nearby café, sitting out in the watery sunshine. It’s so relaxing and when we take the train home we feel refreshed and relaxed. It’s amazing what you can find at the end of a train line!
YAY! The rain has stopped at last. It’s not exactly a Provence day but there is at least a watery sun trying to break through the pale grey sky. We really get a move on this morning, determined to get out before the weather has a chance to change it’s mind. We had hoped to go to Versailles for a day - but it’s cost prohibitive - so I guess we will just have to come back again some day. I do love Paris, but not sure I would want to live permanently here. When I ask Beloved where in the world he would live if money was no object - he immediately says Perth - and I feel guilty once again that circumstances made me sell our house there and move east. But there was, and is, nothing I can do about it.
We have decided to take the metro to the end of the line and see what’s there. Since it’s called Chateau de Vincennes we are figuring there is a pretty good chance there will be a chateau - duh! Not only that but the stairs from the metro come up literally in front of the front gate to the Chateau. This place is largely 16th and 17th century - almost new - hehehehe - But the oldest parts date back to the 14th century….which is the 1300s for those that get confused. The original Dunjon ) no…it’s not a prison… was the home of King Charles v - before all the Louis’ came to power. It’s the oldest royal residence in France - possibly the world. The Chapel is a sister to Paris’ famous St Chapelle….. Complete with the same round stained glass window which is so famous. It’s funny - because the queues go for miles in Paris to get into St Chapelle on the Ile de Cite…..and for just 1 euro 70 ( about $2.50) you can hop the train to the end of the line and be the only one looking. Just 5 miles out of Paris Vincennes is supposed to be a very crowded suburb - but you’d never know it. The same wide boulevards greet you, and having the chateau in the middle of the town gives it an air of space and time. Because so much of Paris and its surrounds dates back 4-5 hundred years, there’s a uniformity of design, so the suburbs look like extensions of the city rather than Melbourne suburbs which are a mish mash of styles and often quite ugly. If I were to come here to live I would live in Vincennes and catch the metro into the city each day….Magic. We spend a leisurely few hours wandering around the chateau grounds….much of it is still in use as government offices…and drink beer at a nearby café, sitting out in the watery sunshine. It’s so relaxing and when we take the train home we feel refreshed and relaxed. It’s amazing what you can find at the end of a train line!
63/4 - Rainy Days and Mondays
Monday 16th
Another rainy day.
The plan was to catch the metro and walk around our old stamping ground, St Germaine des Pres - which Tony calls Sandyman Depraved. Even though we have settled into Le Marais, we do miss the Arty feel of the left bank. We’re close enough to make a dash for the Metro…but then what happens at the other end…there’s no way we can walk in this….such a shame. So we are confined to the apartment for another day. I sort out all my holiday clothes and decide to dump most of them ( I planned that back in Melbourne). WE have a lovely Mauritian cleaning lady called Danielle….tall, slim, chic….she looks like a supermodel! When she hears I am throwing out so many clothes she asks if she can have them for her sister in law who is “ a lady big like you.” At least I am going home with a half empty suitcase - not many people could say that after 9 ½ weeks away.
There’s no-one in the streets today - the weekend tourists have gone home, the locals are not stupid enough to be out. For the first time the supermarket is empty and we buy enough provisions for three dinners, lunches and snacks. Grand total 34.70 Euros….cheap as long as you don’t translate it back into dollars. On Thursday we will go out for a farewell dinner and blow our last 100 Euro. Now that we are finally in countdown mode I am thinking a lot about the house and the furkids!
We mellow out and read and for dinner I make a roast chicken with vegetables and the lovely new potatoes they have here. There’s a tarte tatin for dessert with Crème Fraiche and a lovely bottle of Sauvignon which goes down well. Then we watch Pirates of the Caribbean and can’t decide if Johnny Depp is fantastic or awful ( but he sure as hell looks HOT!) Early to bed…. Please don’t let it rain like this for the rest of our stay.
Another rainy day.
The plan was to catch the metro and walk around our old stamping ground, St Germaine des Pres - which Tony calls Sandyman Depraved. Even though we have settled into Le Marais, we do miss the Arty feel of the left bank. We’re close enough to make a dash for the Metro…but then what happens at the other end…there’s no way we can walk in this….such a shame. So we are confined to the apartment for another day. I sort out all my holiday clothes and decide to dump most of them ( I planned that back in Melbourne). WE have a lovely Mauritian cleaning lady called Danielle….tall, slim, chic….she looks like a supermodel! When she hears I am throwing out so many clothes she asks if she can have them for her sister in law who is “ a lady big like you.” At least I am going home with a half empty suitcase - not many people could say that after 9 ½ weeks away.
There’s no-one in the streets today - the weekend tourists have gone home, the locals are not stupid enough to be out. For the first time the supermarket is empty and we buy enough provisions for three dinners, lunches and snacks. Grand total 34.70 Euros….cheap as long as you don’t translate it back into dollars. On Thursday we will go out for a farewell dinner and blow our last 100 Euro. Now that we are finally in countdown mode I am thinking a lot about the house and the furkids!
We mellow out and read and for dinner I make a roast chicken with vegetables and the lovely new potatoes they have here. There’s a tarte tatin for dessert with Crème Fraiche and a lovely bottle of Sauvignon which goes down well. Then we watch Pirates of the Caribbean and can’t decide if Johnny Depp is fantastic or awful ( but he sure as hell looks HOT!) Early to bed…. Please don’t let it rain like this for the rest of our stay.
62/5- A Sunday kind of love
Sunday 15th
Have I mentioned how NOISY it is here? The Scottish pub down the road closes its doors at around 2 am and that’s when all the drunken Scottish/English hoons with bottles in their hands congregate at our end of the street. So I’m woken up at 2 am regular as clockwork…and though the hooners are gone within half an hour it takes ages to go back to sleep. Beloved doesn’t hear it because A) he sleeps the sleep of the innocent and B) he’s DEAF!!!
Our Apartment is two doors in from the corner. If we turn right at that corner we are 20 metres to the Rue Rivoli; if we turn left we are 100 metres to the river Seine, 200 metres to the Ile St Louis and about 400 metres to Notre Dame Cathedral where we had actually planned to go to church this morning as they have a gospel choir singing. 400 metres…but there’s no way we can make it. It is pouring with rain….not just the light showers which have shown their faces almost every day since we’ve been here. This is torrential, turn your umbrella inside out, RAIN. Serious stuff. We’ve forgotten to buy extra bread ( France doesn’t bake on a Sunday) so Tony races down the street, with the umbrella, and all he can get is some English muffins and two of those half baked loaves from the supermarket. Despite being gone only 5 minutes, tops, he is soaked to the skin. Through the window we see tourists, perhaps only here for the weekend, getting soaked to the skin but wanting to make the most of every moment. Paris in the rain is better than no Paris at all. We are lucky - we have five full days left. That’s more than most people spend in Paris in total. There is only one thing for it. We take our coffee and English muffins and we climb back into bed. And there we stay for the day - or most of it. We play some great jazz, Tony reads, I do Sudoku, and we doze. In the evening we cobble together some dinner - pasta with ham and cream - drink a bottle of wine and watch a Harry Potter movie - one of only 4 DVDS in the flat. WE discuss whether to also watch Pirates of The Caribbean but decide against it. After all, who knows how long the rain will last. Besides - the weather’s quite cold and the bed is so warm!
Have I mentioned how NOISY it is here? The Scottish pub down the road closes its doors at around 2 am and that’s when all the drunken Scottish/English hoons with bottles in their hands congregate at our end of the street. So I’m woken up at 2 am regular as clockwork…and though the hooners are gone within half an hour it takes ages to go back to sleep. Beloved doesn’t hear it because A) he sleeps the sleep of the innocent and B) he’s DEAF!!!
Our Apartment is two doors in from the corner. If we turn right at that corner we are 20 metres to the Rue Rivoli; if we turn left we are 100 metres to the river Seine, 200 metres to the Ile St Louis and about 400 metres to Notre Dame Cathedral where we had actually planned to go to church this morning as they have a gospel choir singing. 400 metres…but there’s no way we can make it. It is pouring with rain….not just the light showers which have shown their faces almost every day since we’ve been here. This is torrential, turn your umbrella inside out, RAIN. Serious stuff. We’ve forgotten to buy extra bread ( France doesn’t bake on a Sunday) so Tony races down the street, with the umbrella, and all he can get is some English muffins and two of those half baked loaves from the supermarket. Despite being gone only 5 minutes, tops, he is soaked to the skin. Through the window we see tourists, perhaps only here for the weekend, getting soaked to the skin but wanting to make the most of every moment. Paris in the rain is better than no Paris at all. We are lucky - we have five full days left. That’s more than most people spend in Paris in total. There is only one thing for it. We take our coffee and English muffins and we climb back into bed. And there we stay for the day - or most of it. We play some great jazz, Tony reads, I do Sudoku, and we doze. In the evening we cobble together some dinner - pasta with ham and cream - drink a bottle of wine and watch a Harry Potter movie - one of only 4 DVDS in the flat. WE discuss whether to also watch Pirates of The Caribbean but decide against it. After all, who knows how long the rain will last. Besides - the weather’s quite cold and the bed is so warm!
61/6 - So we'll walk up the Avenue
Sat 14th.
Tony wakes at 8 am. He’s had 17 hours sleep and is as bright as a button. I, on the other hand, am completely wrecked and feel quite sick. Worry and lack of sleep will do that, trust me. I stagger out of bed and to the table - luckily not very far - and manage to drink some coffee and eat a piece of bread, but I am exhausted. By the time we make a short trip to the supermarket I can barely stand up. By lunchtime I am back in bed. We’re planning to walk the Champs Elysees this evening and have dinner out - we’ve only eaten out once a week in nine weeks, so this is quite a big deal, TWICE in one week - but not if I don’t get some sleep first. Luckily Tony has a date this afternoon at the Scottish pub - The Olde Alliance - just a few doors down the street. If you asked Tony the three things he loves most in the world he would probably say West Ham United, Jazz, and me…. Yep, in that order. He has been a staunch supporter of the football team for 65 years, since his Dad first took him to a match after the war in 1945. The chances to see a match live on TV are very slim in Oz….but the sports bar is showing the match live at 3pm. He didn’t have the heart to suggest it, so I did, and he jumped at the chance. So Beloved goes off to watch football and I go….to SLEEEEEP!
Five hours later he is home and happy after making a few friends and having a couple of beers, ( West Ham lost but that is normal) and I am awake. We smarten ourselves up a bit - it IS the Champs Elysees after all and we take the metro to Etoile ( The Arc de Triomphe). It’s late evening but there is still about 2 1/2 hours before sunset and one of the most famous streets in the entire world looks absolutely stunning as the sun decides to come out and check out Paris before going to bed. A bit like us really!
We walk slowly - the avenue is over a mile long but we have plenty of time. We take in the cocktail parties in the new car headquarters, Peugeot, Renault, - a hots of showrooms with concept cars and the beautiful people drinking champagne. Then there are the local matrons - shopping and conversing animatedly with a cigarette between their fingers. Impeccable coiffured and coutured, they mostly look bored. There are tourists by the thousands, mostly consulting little maps or guide books with little idea of where they’re going. They’re so involved with what they hope to see that they miss the teeming panorama of life going on around them. Every other shop is a café/bistrot - most with lovely alfresco eating areas with canvas roofs. The pavements are about 10 metres wide so there is plenty of room. I think it would be great to say we had dinner on the Champs Elysees and I want to be there when the lights come on. Tony thinks it would be better to get away from the tourist traps and also cheaper to find a little café in a side street. AS usual he’s right but he gives in and I let him choose the restaurant. Money is something of an issue. We’re counting pennies now and need to save enough to get to the airport. He chooses a place called Leon’s of Bruxelles. It’s a chain restaurant ( warning, warning) that specialises in mussels ( moules) and we both love them. But the mussels are very ordinary and the service is lousy and we’re glad when dinner is over. I hope to have ONE good meal in Paris before we leave. The problem is we can’t afford to go to places where the food is always good….so the best meals are those I’ve made in our little apartment.
The sun is setting and I try to get photos as The Arc de Triomphe is due west and is now starting to stand out in silhouette against the deepening pink sky. By the time we walk down to Place de la Concorde the lights are all coming on and we’ve seen the Palais Royal and it’s little sister across the road, and numerous statues and as we come onto Pont Alexandra 1, the bridge that leads to Les Invalides, there it is, all lit up against the darkening sky….The Eiffel tower (looking suspiciously like an abstract Christmas tree) . It’s a beautiful sight - the moon is rising, the lights are on, and Paris looks more beautiful than ever.
Tony wakes at 8 am. He’s had 17 hours sleep and is as bright as a button. I, on the other hand, am completely wrecked and feel quite sick. Worry and lack of sleep will do that, trust me. I stagger out of bed and to the table - luckily not very far - and manage to drink some coffee and eat a piece of bread, but I am exhausted. By the time we make a short trip to the supermarket I can barely stand up. By lunchtime I am back in bed. We’re planning to walk the Champs Elysees this evening and have dinner out - we’ve only eaten out once a week in nine weeks, so this is quite a big deal, TWICE in one week - but not if I don’t get some sleep first. Luckily Tony has a date this afternoon at the Scottish pub - The Olde Alliance - just a few doors down the street. If you asked Tony the three things he loves most in the world he would probably say West Ham United, Jazz, and me…. Yep, in that order. He has been a staunch supporter of the football team for 65 years, since his Dad first took him to a match after the war in 1945. The chances to see a match live on TV are very slim in Oz….but the sports bar is showing the match live at 3pm. He didn’t have the heart to suggest it, so I did, and he jumped at the chance. So Beloved goes off to watch football and I go….to SLEEEEEP!
Five hours later he is home and happy after making a few friends and having a couple of beers, ( West Ham lost but that is normal) and I am awake. We smarten ourselves up a bit - it IS the Champs Elysees after all and we take the metro to Etoile ( The Arc de Triomphe). It’s late evening but there is still about 2 1/2 hours before sunset and one of the most famous streets in the entire world looks absolutely stunning as the sun decides to come out and check out Paris before going to bed. A bit like us really!
We walk slowly - the avenue is over a mile long but we have plenty of time. We take in the cocktail parties in the new car headquarters, Peugeot, Renault, - a hots of showrooms with concept cars and the beautiful people drinking champagne. Then there are the local matrons - shopping and conversing animatedly with a cigarette between their fingers. Impeccable coiffured and coutured, they mostly look bored. There are tourists by the thousands, mostly consulting little maps or guide books with little idea of where they’re going. They’re so involved with what they hope to see that they miss the teeming panorama of life going on around them. Every other shop is a café/bistrot - most with lovely alfresco eating areas with canvas roofs. The pavements are about 10 metres wide so there is plenty of room. I think it would be great to say we had dinner on the Champs Elysees and I want to be there when the lights come on. Tony thinks it would be better to get away from the tourist traps and also cheaper to find a little café in a side street. AS usual he’s right but he gives in and I let him choose the restaurant. Money is something of an issue. We’re counting pennies now and need to save enough to get to the airport. He chooses a place called Leon’s of Bruxelles. It’s a chain restaurant ( warning, warning) that specialises in mussels ( moules) and we both love them. But the mussels are very ordinary and the service is lousy and we’re glad when dinner is over. I hope to have ONE good meal in Paris before we leave. The problem is we can’t afford to go to places where the food is always good….so the best meals are those I’ve made in our little apartment.
The sun is setting and I try to get photos as The Arc de Triomphe is due west and is now starting to stand out in silhouette against the deepening pink sky. By the time we walk down to Place de la Concorde the lights are all coming on and we’ve seen the Palais Royal and it’s little sister across the road, and numerous statues and as we come onto Pont Alexandra 1, the bridge that leads to Les Invalides, there it is, all lit up against the darkening sky….The Eiffel tower (looking suspiciously like an abstract Christmas tree) . It’s a beautiful sight - the moon is rising, the lights are on, and Paris looks more beautiful than ever.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
60/7 - There is Superstition!
Friday 13th
I’m not superstitious, well….not most of the time. But it has been an odd kind of day. Today is the last chance we have to catch up with Phillipa, who has moved with her galpals from Bagnoles to Montmartre….which is the trendy place to stay if you are 21 and a Mosman girl! We arrange to meet at Sacre Couer, as I have candles to light and promises to keep. Then the plan is that we have lunch together. No sooner do we get to the top of the hill via the funicular, than it starts to rain. Not a light shower - it’s torrential. Thank heavens for the umbrella. We wait, and wait, and wait until Philly appears - by which time we are pretty wet. Sacre Couer is incredibly beautiful and looks more like a mosque than a church. It’s actually only a couple of hundred years old but it totally dominates the landscape in Montmartre. I have promised to light candles and say prayers for a number of people and I do - adding one for family friend Cath who has suddenly collapsed with viral pneumonia and is in critical care in hospital back in Melbourne. And then we leave and join the milling tourists outside. Cameras aren’t allowed in the church, and so people are snapping anything and everything outside. The view is spectacular but from the hilltop Paris looks flat and grey and gives no hint of the charm in the streets below.
We all go to lunch at a restaurant that had caught Tony’s eye on the way up. It a good Carte Formule and only 13 Euros. 5 years ago such menus were 18-23 euros, but the prices appear to be tumbling in an effort to drum up business. WE order French onion soup and beef Bourgignonne, but Philly wants A la carte - and orders Escargots and Salmon. I start to panic until I realise she has every intention of paying for herself. Go for it kiddo!
Phillipa is doing a fair impression of Paris Hilton - without the money- as she tells us how she and the girls went to the Hemingway bar at the Ritz Carlton. It’s rated in Forbes as the top cocktail bar in the world!!! The cocktails START at 30 euros ( there’s a Bloody Mary at 200 Euros….for that money it would have to be Queen Mary’s REAL blood for me.) So the girls blew a few hundred euros ( each)just so they could say they’d been there. Hell…they could have done the Orsay for 13 Euros!
When we get home mid afternoon it’s clear Tony is feeling what he calls “lumpy” which is generally unwell but with vague symptoms. He falls asleep for a couple of hours but when he gets up at six he looks terrible and says he needs to go back to bed. No dinner, not even a drink of some kind. That’s when the shivering starts. He wraps himself in a blanket, cocoon like and goes back to sleep in minutes. There’s no sweating, no sign of fever - just the shivering in spite of the blanket around him. I don’t know whether to call a doctor, make plans to shorten the trip and fly home, wake him and make him eat. When in doubt, do nothing. So I sit, and I keep watch. And I’m still wide awake - sitting, watching, till 4.am. That’s when he throws off the blanket and I can see that he has stopped shivering at last. Only then do I sleep.
I’m not superstitious, well….not most of the time. But it has been an odd kind of day. Today is the last chance we have to catch up with Phillipa, who has moved with her galpals from Bagnoles to Montmartre….which is the trendy place to stay if you are 21 and a Mosman girl! We arrange to meet at Sacre Couer, as I have candles to light and promises to keep. Then the plan is that we have lunch together. No sooner do we get to the top of the hill via the funicular, than it starts to rain. Not a light shower - it’s torrential. Thank heavens for the umbrella. We wait, and wait, and wait until Philly appears - by which time we are pretty wet. Sacre Couer is incredibly beautiful and looks more like a mosque than a church. It’s actually only a couple of hundred years old but it totally dominates the landscape in Montmartre. I have promised to light candles and say prayers for a number of people and I do - adding one for family friend Cath who has suddenly collapsed with viral pneumonia and is in critical care in hospital back in Melbourne. And then we leave and join the milling tourists outside. Cameras aren’t allowed in the church, and so people are snapping anything and everything outside. The view is spectacular but from the hilltop Paris looks flat and grey and gives no hint of the charm in the streets below.
We all go to lunch at a restaurant that had caught Tony’s eye on the way up. It a good Carte Formule and only 13 Euros. 5 years ago such menus were 18-23 euros, but the prices appear to be tumbling in an effort to drum up business. WE order French onion soup and beef Bourgignonne, but Philly wants A la carte - and orders Escargots and Salmon. I start to panic until I realise she has every intention of paying for herself. Go for it kiddo!
Phillipa is doing a fair impression of Paris Hilton - without the money- as she tells us how she and the girls went to the Hemingway bar at the Ritz Carlton. It’s rated in Forbes as the top cocktail bar in the world!!! The cocktails START at 30 euros ( there’s a Bloody Mary at 200 Euros….for that money it would have to be Queen Mary’s REAL blood for me.) So the girls blew a few hundred euros ( each)just so they could say they’d been there. Hell…they could have done the Orsay for 13 Euros!
When we get home mid afternoon it’s clear Tony is feeling what he calls “lumpy” which is generally unwell but with vague symptoms. He falls asleep for a couple of hours but when he gets up at six he looks terrible and says he needs to go back to bed. No dinner, not even a drink of some kind. That’s when the shivering starts. He wraps himself in a blanket, cocoon like and goes back to sleep in minutes. There’s no sweating, no sign of fever - just the shivering in spite of the blanket around him. I don’t know whether to call a doctor, make plans to shorten the trip and fly home, wake him and make him eat. When in doubt, do nothing. So I sit, and I keep watch. And I’m still wide awake - sitting, watching, till 4.am. That’s when he throws off the blanket and I can see that he has stopped shivering at last. Only then do I sleep.
59/8 Come into the Garden
Thursday 12th
First - two observations.
There are no flies in Paris. Really! We’ve been here a week tomorrow and we haven’t seen a single fly. Of course it’s possible that they have all packed and gone to Provence for their holidays and are even now visiting relatives in Uzes.
Second observation - for someone so complicated my husband is a very simple man. He has adopted the French flag which hangs on a diagonal flagpole on the building across the street- The Ecole Maternelles. The flag is mostly wound around it’s flag pole, but when a breeze blows it starts to unwind itself. Every morning beloved offers it words of encouragement…”C’mon little flag…you can do it…you can be free and flutter.” Sometimes the little flag hears and tries to unwind…sometimes it doesn’t - but I love my crazy man for talking to a flag!
Today it’s The Orsay museum and the Tuileries. We catch the metro from St Paul down to concorde, as we know there will be plenty of walking to do when we get there. It’s still quite cool but at least the sun is shining - which might account for the queue that is several hundred metres long at The Orsay. It’s incredible. People who wouldn’t think of going to an art museum in their own home town will queue for hours to do it in Paris. We sit at a nearby café and sip a beer, waiting for the crowds to die away, watching them as they leave the building. None seem overwhelmed or enhanced by what they have seen - no-one is transmogrified ( love that word) by the experience - and I wonder how many go just so they can say they have been….a bit like going to church to be seen!
It’s a stunningly beautiful building filled with an amazing collection of artworks. Paris is full of stunning buildings and amazing art. It’s actually overwhelming.
The Tuileries are beautiful in summer, although the chestnuts are already forming on the chestnut trees - a sure sign that autumn is just around the corner. But there are flowers everywhere in shades of pink, white and purple. The fountain in the huge pond is filled with ducks and seagulls performing their ablutions, and all the chairs around the perimeter of the pond are full of people sunbaking or reading. We sit and enjoy the sun and look at the trees and the statues, awestruck yet again by the sheer size of the open spaces and the formal gardens. Everything is in such exquisite taste; but just to remind us that this is the 21st century and it’s a crass old world, the big ferris, to the left of The Louvre, is doing its thing - and almost as many people are trying to get on as there were trying to get into the Musee D’Orsay! Go figure.
First - two observations.
There are no flies in Paris. Really! We’ve been here a week tomorrow and we haven’t seen a single fly. Of course it’s possible that they have all packed and gone to Provence for their holidays and are even now visiting relatives in Uzes.
Second observation - for someone so complicated my husband is a very simple man. He has adopted the French flag which hangs on a diagonal flagpole on the building across the street- The Ecole Maternelles. The flag is mostly wound around it’s flag pole, but when a breeze blows it starts to unwind itself. Every morning beloved offers it words of encouragement…”C’mon little flag…you can do it…you can be free and flutter.” Sometimes the little flag hears and tries to unwind…sometimes it doesn’t - but I love my crazy man for talking to a flag!
Today it’s The Orsay museum and the Tuileries. We catch the metro from St Paul down to concorde, as we know there will be plenty of walking to do when we get there. It’s still quite cool but at least the sun is shining - which might account for the queue that is several hundred metres long at The Orsay. It’s incredible. People who wouldn’t think of going to an art museum in their own home town will queue for hours to do it in Paris. We sit at a nearby café and sip a beer, waiting for the crowds to die away, watching them as they leave the building. None seem overwhelmed or enhanced by what they have seen - no-one is transmogrified ( love that word) by the experience - and I wonder how many go just so they can say they have been….a bit like going to church to be seen!
It’s a stunningly beautiful building filled with an amazing collection of artworks. Paris is full of stunning buildings and amazing art. It’s actually overwhelming.
The Tuileries are beautiful in summer, although the chestnuts are already forming on the chestnut trees - a sure sign that autumn is just around the corner. But there are flowers everywhere in shades of pink, white and purple. The fountain in the huge pond is filled with ducks and seagulls performing their ablutions, and all the chairs around the perimeter of the pond are full of people sunbaking or reading. We sit and enjoy the sun and look at the trees and the statues, awestruck yet again by the sheer size of the open spaces and the formal gardens. Everything is in such exquisite taste; but just to remind us that this is the 21st century and it’s a crass old world, the big ferris, to the left of The Louvre, is doing its thing - and almost as many people are trying to get on as there were trying to get into the Musee D’Orsay! Go figure.
58/9 - Pompidou and Circumstance
Wednesday 11th
Today we headed for for Les Halles and the George Pompidou centre. Les Halles was the original markets of Paris and goes back in time to the twelfth century. Since the war though it had fallen into disrepute and disrepair and by the 70s it was well on its way to being a full blown ghetto in the heart of Paris. When we were here last it had been closed and a giant renovation project was under way. It’s nearing completion…but that hasn’t stopped the homeless from taking over and once again urine is the only French perfume of the district….it’s more inexplicable here because there are public toilets open, yet I saw one man relieve himself against the toilet door. There’s graffiti galore too - but along with that there is interesting and sometimes witty sculpture; the gloriously restored cast iron arches in a parklike space; and a new shopping centre which is partially underground. In another ten years it will be just sensational…providing the French economy doesn’t crash. We’re conscious that it’s teetering and each day we discover that one or two of the shops we thought were just closed for August has gone out of business. The rest are all having sales with up to 90% off. How some of them are managing to exist we don’t know.
Off to the Pompidou Centre!!! I am not averse to modern architecture - really I’m not. If there’s a sense of style, of purpose, if it’s aesthetically pleasing, then bring it! But I have different reactions to the Sydney Opera House ( Love it) and the Guggenheim at Bilboa ( hate it) even though the former inspired the latter. There is something spiritual, birdlike about the SOH…and something dark and threatening about the Spanish Guggenheim….. Like a huge deadly insect. I even like London’s “Gherkin” ( Barcelona has one too).But OMG! The Pompidou centre has to be one of the ugliest buildings I have ever seen. Tony describes it as “ A sewer turned inside out”. It’s a matter of taste I know…For me it’s more like one of those plastic contraptions they use to choose the winning balls in Lotto. It’s big, it’s ugly and ungainly, and in no way is it in harmony with its surroundings. Its glass tunnels carry the escalators which hold thousands of tourists looking like mice in some bizarre lab experiment. I’m not ambivalent about it….I actively dislike it! It’s filled with various modern art exhibitions each one at an entry price of 12-15 Euros. Luckily there’s no Lucien Freud or Andrew Wyeth…or even David Hockney…. So we pass. After the fiasco of last night’s dinner, I’m cooking…Escalope de Dinde ( turkey) with mushrooms and cream and baby spinach. My husband is a lucky man…. Hehehe.
Today we headed for for Les Halles and the George Pompidou centre. Les Halles was the original markets of Paris and goes back in time to the twelfth century. Since the war though it had fallen into disrepute and disrepair and by the 70s it was well on its way to being a full blown ghetto in the heart of Paris. When we were here last it had been closed and a giant renovation project was under way. It’s nearing completion…but that hasn’t stopped the homeless from taking over and once again urine is the only French perfume of the district….it’s more inexplicable here because there are public toilets open, yet I saw one man relieve himself against the toilet door. There’s graffiti galore too - but along with that there is interesting and sometimes witty sculpture; the gloriously restored cast iron arches in a parklike space; and a new shopping centre which is partially underground. In another ten years it will be just sensational…providing the French economy doesn’t crash. We’re conscious that it’s teetering and each day we discover that one or two of the shops we thought were just closed for August has gone out of business. The rest are all having sales with up to 90% off. How some of them are managing to exist we don’t know.
Off to the Pompidou Centre!!! I am not averse to modern architecture - really I’m not. If there’s a sense of style, of purpose, if it’s aesthetically pleasing, then bring it! But I have different reactions to the Sydney Opera House ( Love it) and the Guggenheim at Bilboa ( hate it) even though the former inspired the latter. There is something spiritual, birdlike about the SOH…and something dark and threatening about the Spanish Guggenheim….. Like a huge deadly insect. I even like London’s “Gherkin” ( Barcelona has one too).But OMG! The Pompidou centre has to be one of the ugliest buildings I have ever seen. Tony describes it as “ A sewer turned inside out”. It’s a matter of taste I know…For me it’s more like one of those plastic contraptions they use to choose the winning balls in Lotto. It’s big, it’s ugly and ungainly, and in no way is it in harmony with its surroundings. Its glass tunnels carry the escalators which hold thousands of tourists looking like mice in some bizarre lab experiment. I’m not ambivalent about it….I actively dislike it! It’s filled with various modern art exhibitions each one at an entry price of 12-15 Euros. Luckily there’s no Lucien Freud or Andrew Wyeth…or even David Hockney…. So we pass. After the fiasco of last night’s dinner, I’m cooking…Escalope de Dinde ( turkey) with mushrooms and cream and baby spinach. My husband is a lucky man…. Hehehe.
57/10 - Oh Boy Auberge!
Tuesday August 10th
I slept badly - with a lot of pain. I am not going to be able to put off this knee surgery and hip replacement for much longer. I don’t think the fall in England did it much good either. Tony is hopping on the metro this morning to go to the Australian embassy and vote. I haven’t voted for years, which leads my girls to say I have no right to make any statement on the government! Honestly though - I don’t consider any of them fit to lead. Why can’t we have Barack Obama? Although even he is stonewalled in every major decision.
Though Tony suggests I come and visit the Eiffel tower while he’s at the embassy, I demur. Nothing could top the day Tony proposed to me under the tower in 2003 ( the queues were too long for us to get up to the top…where he had planned to do it.) I saw the views from the top of the tower a few times when I was in my teens and have no need to see them again…..though I am happy to look at the tower on the skyline from a bridge on the Seine - but I don’t want to spoil the most beautiful of memories.
So I sleep in. I’m almost used to the noise of the mornings here. It’s a one way street and the buses and police cars use it - not unusual to hear police hooters ( I know no other word to describe that “bee barb bee barb” noise they make) at any time day or night. But I’m woken up by HORSES! From the French windows ( naturally) I see a whole brigade…or whatever it’s called of mounted police…cute gendarmerie in knee high boots….Stunning horses, fifteen all together. They’re coming down the street two abreast - 14 of them. Behind, at snail’s pace, is all the banked up traffic….it was like a May Day Parade.
Tony voted without problem….no-one there at the embassy except an under-secretary who didn’t even ask for his passport to prove who he was. No problems..but no sausage sizzle either .
Tonight we went to the Auberge Deux Ponts. Five years ago we were just starting dinner when a quiet man of indeterminate age stopped to read the menu. I don’t know what I was doing at the door ( maybe I sensed he needed a hand) but he thought I was the owner and asked in pretty dire French what the cost of individual dishes was. I explained in French that it was Carte Formule….an all inclusive price, and within minutes he had joined us, shared our wine - and our love of all music - ( he told us he was a musician and songwriter, but he shone his light low) and it was one of the best nights of our whole trip. The food was terrific and the company superb. We felt as if we were strongly connected and had made a new friend. We met for coffee the next day and he had been to the Orsay and was blown away by the art. He was informed, creative, intelligent, sensitive and passionate about all things in a quiet shy way. In other words - not your average American!!!! It was only months after I got back home that I discovered Tim was a well known songwriter, had four or five albums, and had written an exquisite song called Second Avenue which Art Garfunkel made a hit ( though Tim’s version is better). We’ve stayed in touch - mostly through FB - and going to the Auberge tonight was an hommage to the night we shared five years ago. Alas, the little place had changed hands - and though the new owner was a charming Frenchman, the food was terrible! Mostly precooked or frozen and heated in a microwave. We did raise our glasses to Tim though - and agreed the night would have been so much better with his company. We had asked him to join us in Provence but he wasn’t able to. It’s funny how you have no way of knowing, when you meet someone, what part they will play in your life. Or would we actually want to know in advance? I guess not. We walked home with me humming Second Avenue, Tony’s arm around my shoulder as it was suddenly quite cool.
I slept badly - with a lot of pain. I am not going to be able to put off this knee surgery and hip replacement for much longer. I don’t think the fall in England did it much good either. Tony is hopping on the metro this morning to go to the Australian embassy and vote. I haven’t voted for years, which leads my girls to say I have no right to make any statement on the government! Honestly though - I don’t consider any of them fit to lead. Why can’t we have Barack Obama? Although even he is stonewalled in every major decision.
Though Tony suggests I come and visit the Eiffel tower while he’s at the embassy, I demur. Nothing could top the day Tony proposed to me under the tower in 2003 ( the queues were too long for us to get up to the top…where he had planned to do it.) I saw the views from the top of the tower a few times when I was in my teens and have no need to see them again…..though I am happy to look at the tower on the skyline from a bridge on the Seine - but I don’t want to spoil the most beautiful of memories.
So I sleep in. I’m almost used to the noise of the mornings here. It’s a one way street and the buses and police cars use it - not unusual to hear police hooters ( I know no other word to describe that “bee barb bee barb” noise they make) at any time day or night. But I’m woken up by HORSES! From the French windows ( naturally) I see a whole brigade…or whatever it’s called of mounted police…cute gendarmerie in knee high boots….Stunning horses, fifteen all together. They’re coming down the street two abreast - 14 of them. Behind, at snail’s pace, is all the banked up traffic….it was like a May Day Parade.
Tony voted without problem….no-one there at the embassy except an under-secretary who didn’t even ask for his passport to prove who he was. No problems..but no sausage sizzle either .
Tonight we went to the Auberge Deux Ponts. Five years ago we were just starting dinner when a quiet man of indeterminate age stopped to read the menu. I don’t know what I was doing at the door ( maybe I sensed he needed a hand) but he thought I was the owner and asked in pretty dire French what the cost of individual dishes was. I explained in French that it was Carte Formule….an all inclusive price, and within minutes he had joined us, shared our wine - and our love of all music - ( he told us he was a musician and songwriter, but he shone his light low) and it was one of the best nights of our whole trip. The food was terrific and the company superb. We felt as if we were strongly connected and had made a new friend. We met for coffee the next day and he had been to the Orsay and was blown away by the art. He was informed, creative, intelligent, sensitive and passionate about all things in a quiet shy way. In other words - not your average American!!!! It was only months after I got back home that I discovered Tim was a well known songwriter, had four or five albums, and had written an exquisite song called Second Avenue which Art Garfunkel made a hit ( though Tim’s version is better). We’ve stayed in touch - mostly through FB - and going to the Auberge tonight was an hommage to the night we shared five years ago. Alas, the little place had changed hands - and though the new owner was a charming Frenchman, the food was terrible! Mostly precooked or frozen and heated in a microwave. We did raise our glasses to Tim though - and agreed the night would have been so much better with his company. We had asked him to join us in Provence but he wasn’t able to. It’s funny how you have no way of knowing, when you meet someone, what part they will play in your life. Or would we actually want to know in advance? I guess not. We walked home with me humming Second Avenue, Tony’s arm around my shoulder as it was suddenly quite cool.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
56/11 - Monday, Monday
Monday 9th August.
Time to get our act together and get “up and attem” or we will wind up seeing and doing nothing. Not that it would be a tragedy if we didn’t - but there are still places we haven’t seen and sights and sounds we haven’t experienced. We get up early, full of good intentions. Yummy….Tony gets fresh croissants and the coffee is good. We feel so content we promptly fall back into bed and sleep for another 2 hours. By now it’s almost lunchtime…so much for our good intentions!
The street we are in, Rue Francois Miron, is home to the oldest remaining house in Paris. Its foundations date to the 13th c and the current house was completed in the 15th c. It’s currently still occupied - as a singles club! Middle aged men and women give a knock and a little grate opens and asks for their membership number. I love the incongruity of that - a historical artefact as a sex club! Ca c’est Paris. I watch out of the window as people read first the historical facts on the plaque - and then the opening hours for the singles club. The look of confusion on some faces is hilarious.
Today we buy postcards and vow to make them out and post them quickly so they won’t end up sitting in a bag for weeks ( we have still never posted the cards from Oxford). We walk across to the Ile St Louis which is so close to us. There’s an accordion player sitting on the pavement playing “under Paris Skies” - it seems to be an obligatory song for buskers. WE put 50 cents into his case. Further on there is a beggar with lifeless eyes. Cradled in his arms on his lap are two puppies - they look identical and are probably from the same litter. Their eyes are lifeless too. All three are silent, unmoving, without hope. Tony tugs at my hand. He wants me to walk past and a part of me knows he’s right….but I just can’t do it. I stroke the puppies, who still don’t move, and then I put 2 Euros in the man’s cup. I can scarcely hear his whispered Merci as we walk away.
We check to see if the little Auberge restaurant we loved so much 5 years ago is still there. It is, but it isn’t open tonight. So I fix a light dinner and we walk down the few blocks to where the jazz clubs are. The largest and best known - the Duc des Lombards - is closed for it’s summer holiday but the street has several other jazz clubs and Le Baiser Sale has a septet playing and then a jam session. Even better - there’s free entry. So we go upstairs into this tiny room where around 80 people are crammed. We fight our way through to two empty seats and then pick up the drinks menu. A notice on the meno says there’s a 7 Euro increase on the price of the first drink? Is it just a bad translation? Do they mean a minimum charge of 7 Euros, which would be acceptable? No….they mean an increase on the price - 7 Euros extra. But surely that is a cover charge? No says the waiter. But you advertise free entry I counter. You entered free, he tells me. No cover charge….just a 7 euro increase on the first drink. Bizarre! So our free night with two beers costs us 30 Euros. But the band are starting…and it’s a 7 piece line-up - so maybe it will be worth the money. It Wasn’t! But we did hear an amazing jazz French horn player and couldn’t help wondering what the hell he was doing with the rest of the bunch. He was a much finer musician and deserved to be somewhere better. I guess, like most jazz musos these days, he was grateful to be earning a living. We left at 11.30 after the first set and walked slowly home. The cafes in the jazz district, and the pubs, were still full of revellers….mostly young. A few of them looked at us holding hands and chuckled or passed remarks to each other but we didn’t care. It was a lovely moonlight night and even though it wasn’t a great evening we enjoyed being out together. Once we hit the Rue de Rivoli the traffic all but disappeared. Even for a Monday night it was incredibly quiet. Back in our little nest…which Tony has nicknamed the Tardis… we were still in bed by midnight.
Time to get our act together and get “up and attem” or we will wind up seeing and doing nothing. Not that it would be a tragedy if we didn’t - but there are still places we haven’t seen and sights and sounds we haven’t experienced. We get up early, full of good intentions. Yummy….Tony gets fresh croissants and the coffee is good. We feel so content we promptly fall back into bed and sleep for another 2 hours. By now it’s almost lunchtime…so much for our good intentions!
The street we are in, Rue Francois Miron, is home to the oldest remaining house in Paris. Its foundations date to the 13th c and the current house was completed in the 15th c. It’s currently still occupied - as a singles club! Middle aged men and women give a knock and a little grate opens and asks for their membership number. I love the incongruity of that - a historical artefact as a sex club! Ca c’est Paris. I watch out of the window as people read first the historical facts on the plaque - and then the opening hours for the singles club. The look of confusion on some faces is hilarious.
Today we buy postcards and vow to make them out and post them quickly so they won’t end up sitting in a bag for weeks ( we have still never posted the cards from Oxford). We walk across to the Ile St Louis which is so close to us. There’s an accordion player sitting on the pavement playing “under Paris Skies” - it seems to be an obligatory song for buskers. WE put 50 cents into his case. Further on there is a beggar with lifeless eyes. Cradled in his arms on his lap are two puppies - they look identical and are probably from the same litter. Their eyes are lifeless too. All three are silent, unmoving, without hope. Tony tugs at my hand. He wants me to walk past and a part of me knows he’s right….but I just can’t do it. I stroke the puppies, who still don’t move, and then I put 2 Euros in the man’s cup. I can scarcely hear his whispered Merci as we walk away.
We check to see if the little Auberge restaurant we loved so much 5 years ago is still there. It is, but it isn’t open tonight. So I fix a light dinner and we walk down the few blocks to where the jazz clubs are. The largest and best known - the Duc des Lombards - is closed for it’s summer holiday but the street has several other jazz clubs and Le Baiser Sale has a septet playing and then a jam session. Even better - there’s free entry. So we go upstairs into this tiny room where around 80 people are crammed. We fight our way through to two empty seats and then pick up the drinks menu. A notice on the meno says there’s a 7 Euro increase on the price of the first drink? Is it just a bad translation? Do they mean a minimum charge of 7 Euros, which would be acceptable? No….they mean an increase on the price - 7 Euros extra. But surely that is a cover charge? No says the waiter. But you advertise free entry I counter. You entered free, he tells me. No cover charge….just a 7 euro increase on the first drink. Bizarre! So our free night with two beers costs us 30 Euros. But the band are starting…and it’s a 7 piece line-up - so maybe it will be worth the money. It Wasn’t! But we did hear an amazing jazz French horn player and couldn’t help wondering what the hell he was doing with the rest of the bunch. He was a much finer musician and deserved to be somewhere better. I guess, like most jazz musos these days, he was grateful to be earning a living. We left at 11.30 after the first set and walked slowly home. The cafes in the jazz district, and the pubs, were still full of revellers….mostly young. A few of them looked at us holding hands and chuckled or passed remarks to each other but we didn’t care. It was a lovely moonlight night and even though it wasn’t a great evening we enjoyed being out together. Once we hit the Rue de Rivoli the traffic all but disappeared. Even for a Monday night it was incredibly quiet. Back in our little nest…which Tony has nicknamed the Tardis… we were still in bed by midnight.
55/12 - Easy Like Sunday morning
Sunday August 8th.
We don’t hear the church bells till 10 o’clock this morning. Obviously Paris doesn’t rise early to go to Mass. It’s a grey day - not at all like the stifling heat of the last time we spent August here. We had forgotten that there’s no fresh bread or croissants on Sunday so we make do with half a loaf from yesterday, heated in the oven - but it doesn’t amell or taste the same. Today its my turn to feel tired - or maybe it’s the weather. In the mirror I can see how much good this break has done me. I have a golden tan for the first time in years. My eyebrows and eyelashes are bleached white from the sun and my hair isn’t far behind….I am incredulously blonde - which would be okay if I were a 19 year old Californian girl or one of the English lizard necked burnt orange menopausal matrons who hang out in Spain! But I look well, and the sugars are under control, so I’m happy. I will get back to OZ rested which is just as well as it looks like we have to go into another draft of this film script the minute I get back. Still I am grateful there is work waiting as we are going through money like water. Paris isn’t Provence. Understandable everything costs more. A coffee that was 2.20 euros in Provence is 4 euros here…almost double. I’m budgeting carefully but don’t want to cook every day though eating out is very expensive.
We take some time to wander round the Marais and get our bearings. There’s a Sunday morning market in the square just before the Hotel de ville - mostly fruit and vegetables and African trinkets. Another little square hosts Le Maison de Magique which I mentally list as a place to possibly go. I LOVE table magic, sleight of hand. I don’t want to know how it’s done - for then it wouldn’t be magic. Life and love are a bit like that - once you actually understand how the magic is done, the journey is pretty well over. There’s a jazz concert tonight in the Rue des Lombards and we make plans to go after dinner - which is a pretty basic fettucine Carbonara. It’s tribute to Thelonius Monk…who can be inaccessible even when HE played…let alone listening to someone interpretr him. In the afternoon we watch people relaxing on the Plages…. The artificial beaches that Paris sets up during the summer down by the Seine. There are kids building sandcastles, parents chilling, couples having picnics - there are even about 10 Patonque or Boules pitches in the sand and Tony and I but that down as another thing to do IF we get around to it. Later we put on Tony’s fabulous CD of The Gerry Mulligan Big Band Live. It is soooo great, and so cool, that suddenly we decide a Thelonius Monk tribute will be an awful letdown and we cancel plans to go. We really haven’t done anything much to speak of…but still we feel it was a good day.
We don’t hear the church bells till 10 o’clock this morning. Obviously Paris doesn’t rise early to go to Mass. It’s a grey day - not at all like the stifling heat of the last time we spent August here. We had forgotten that there’s no fresh bread or croissants on Sunday so we make do with half a loaf from yesterday, heated in the oven - but it doesn’t amell or taste the same. Today its my turn to feel tired - or maybe it’s the weather. In the mirror I can see how much good this break has done me. I have a golden tan for the first time in years. My eyebrows and eyelashes are bleached white from the sun and my hair isn’t far behind….I am incredulously blonde - which would be okay if I were a 19 year old Californian girl or one of the English lizard necked burnt orange menopausal matrons who hang out in Spain! But I look well, and the sugars are under control, so I’m happy. I will get back to OZ rested which is just as well as it looks like we have to go into another draft of this film script the minute I get back. Still I am grateful there is work waiting as we are going through money like water. Paris isn’t Provence. Understandable everything costs more. A coffee that was 2.20 euros in Provence is 4 euros here…almost double. I’m budgeting carefully but don’t want to cook every day though eating out is very expensive.
We take some time to wander round the Marais and get our bearings. There’s a Sunday morning market in the square just before the Hotel de ville - mostly fruit and vegetables and African trinkets. Another little square hosts Le Maison de Magique which I mentally list as a place to possibly go. I LOVE table magic, sleight of hand. I don’t want to know how it’s done - for then it wouldn’t be magic. Life and love are a bit like that - once you actually understand how the magic is done, the journey is pretty well over. There’s a jazz concert tonight in the Rue des Lombards and we make plans to go after dinner - which is a pretty basic fettucine Carbonara. It’s tribute to Thelonius Monk…who can be inaccessible even when HE played…let alone listening to someone interpretr him. In the afternoon we watch people relaxing on the Plages…. The artificial beaches that Paris sets up during the summer down by the Seine. There are kids building sandcastles, parents chilling, couples having picnics - there are even about 10 Patonque or Boules pitches in the sand and Tony and I but that down as another thing to do IF we get around to it. Later we put on Tony’s fabulous CD of The Gerry Mulligan Big Band Live. It is soooo great, and so cool, that suddenly we decide a Thelonius Monk tribute will be an awful letdown and we cancel plans to go. We really haven’t done anything much to speak of…but still we feel it was a good day.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Day 54/13 - One fine day
Saturday 7th August
Everyone knows what Paris looks like - at least we all know its most famous landmarks. But when you have been to Paris a few times you realise that the sounds and smells of the city are just as evocative. It’s impossible to get away from church bells - or chiming clocks for example. And Parisens shout at each other from the windows to the streets, and use the horns in their cars. Add to that the incredible amount of buskeras in the streets ( and on the trains) playing everything from French accordions to Tubas! And you can see how Paris is a wall of sound worthy of Phil Spector.
And the smell of fresh bread and coffee is always present, along with the smell of stale urine (human) and dog crap. The most beautiful city on earth has some of the ugliest elements, but that’s what makes it Paris.
This morning we wake to the church bells….most probably Notre Dame, although there is a huge church just down from us in the Marais - the church of St Paul and St Louis - or maybe it is both because they seem to be playing in counterpoint. It’s wonderful to know we don’t have to get up - or get out of our room and we can have breakfast when we want. The bells are relaxing and although it’s a grey day - a bit of a shock after Provence - it FEELS sunny here in our little studio. I make some coffee and then Tony goes to buy fresh bread. French bread is fantastic but it contains no preservatives and so is designed to be eaten NOW. The Boulangeries are baking all day and the smell is tantalising.
The bread tastes like heaven with French butter and thick apricot jam and we make more coffee to wash it down. This is the magic we have been dreaming of.
On the flip side - the French are notorious for not cleaning up after their dogs…and they take their dogs EVERYWHERE. It’s quite normal to see the woman at the next table in the Café with a little dog in a shopping bag. West Highland whites seem to be the dog of choice in France this year. Gorgeous little dogs but you don’t see that many in Australia.
The other smell that overpowers is that of stale urine in the streets. The street cleaners come through every other day and turn on the water hydrants and scrub and flush, but it never completely goes away. It’s shocking how many beggars there are in Paris - and homeless living on the streets. This is a city of great wealth living side by side with poverty. And homeless men don’t bother to go and look for a nearby pissoire…they just go in the doorway where they are sleeping. The smell is worst in the Metro stations, but it’s always present - somewhere at the back of your nostrils. It isn’t enough to spoil Paris…nothing could do that.
We shower and dress and we walk across the Ile St Louis and across the bridge to Notre Dame. There are queues of people outside waiting to go up to the top of the tower where there is an observation deck. It’s not as high as the Eiffel tower - but the queues aren’t as long either - and the tower is not slap bang in the middle of everything like Notre Dame is. I find a gorgeous little Paris handbag for Liza’s stepdaughter Liesl, but nothing yet for Allie. Plenty of time - it’s only the first day. We cross to the left bank and go to Le Petit Point café, on the corner with a great view of Notre dame. Two doors up is the famous Shakespeare’s second hand bookshop. Tony finds a huge tome about the 1950s Suez crisis…so that’s his reading taken care of for the rest of the trip. We order two grande café crème and I have forgotten that in Paris un grande café means a soup bowl full!!!! We are served these huge bowls full of the most gorgeous coffee you could possibly imagine but it takes us nearly an hour to drink them. Afterwards we wander back to the right bank via a different bridge, marvelling at the architecture. If you haven’t ever seen a birds eye view of Paris, google one. The proportions of the buildings, and the squares - the parklands and the wide boulevards - are amazing. The entire old city is a work of art. The other amazing thing about Paris which makes it unlike anywhere else that people LIVE right in the heart of the city. Not just in one or two scattered apartment blocks but in every building…from the first or second floor up…there are young couples, families, old ladies - they are as much a part of the city as the shops, the museums, the public buildings - in the rue de Rivoli, which runs parallel to our street, you can see all the window boxes of geraniums on tiny wrought iron balconies, jostling for space with the weekly washing, and even an exercise bike or two. At night the lights are on in all the apartments and you can hear laughter and music…..the city doesn’t just pack up and go home to the suburbs. And the cafes and bars are always full…even though August is the month for annual Vacances and the city is supposedly empty. It’s one of the most endearing things about Paris - when you have had your fill of monuments, bridges, museums and history, there are the people. People watching is a favourite pastime in Paris. Seated at a pavement table at any good café, you can watch the French just living….and the tourists trying their best to live…if only for a few days. We fall somewhere in between, and it’s wonderful to sit at our French windows and watch the passing parade.
We walk home past the Hotel de Ville…which must be the most elaborate town hall in the entire world! http://http://www.google.fr/images?q=Hotel+de+ville+Paris&rlz=1I7GGLL_en-GB&oe=UTF-8&redir_esc=&um=1&ie=UTF-8&source=univ&ei=jqdlTMqhHoTa4gaL1qnSCg&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&ct=title&resnum=11&ved=0CFMQsAQwCgAgain, its proportions are just beautiful and the stonework is staggering; such amazing carving. In summer there is free entertainment in the square in front of it…. Rock concerts, movies, dances, always something happening.
We make ham and brie baguettes and drink some wine then sleep for a couple of hours. In the evening I cook snails and salmon and we go to the local café for a nightcap. It’s been a leisurely day - no hurried frenzy to see the tourist sights - we’ve already done all that in past trips. Tony is still really exhausted so we go to bed early - content and feeling we are home.
Everyone knows what Paris looks like - at least we all know its most famous landmarks. But when you have been to Paris a few times you realise that the sounds and smells of the city are just as evocative. It’s impossible to get away from church bells - or chiming clocks for example. And Parisens shout at each other from the windows to the streets, and use the horns in their cars. Add to that the incredible amount of buskeras in the streets ( and on the trains) playing everything from French accordions to Tubas! And you can see how Paris is a wall of sound worthy of Phil Spector.
And the smell of fresh bread and coffee is always present, along with the smell of stale urine (human) and dog crap. The most beautiful city on earth has some of the ugliest elements, but that’s what makes it Paris.
This morning we wake to the church bells….most probably Notre Dame, although there is a huge church just down from us in the Marais - the church of St Paul and St Louis - or maybe it is both because they seem to be playing in counterpoint. It’s wonderful to know we don’t have to get up - or get out of our room and we can have breakfast when we want. The bells are relaxing and although it’s a grey day - a bit of a shock after Provence - it FEELS sunny here in our little studio. I make some coffee and then Tony goes to buy fresh bread. French bread is fantastic but it contains no preservatives and so is designed to be eaten NOW. The Boulangeries are baking all day and the smell is tantalising.
The bread tastes like heaven with French butter and thick apricot jam and we make more coffee to wash it down. This is the magic we have been dreaming of.
On the flip side - the French are notorious for not cleaning up after their dogs…and they take their dogs EVERYWHERE. It’s quite normal to see the woman at the next table in the Café with a little dog in a shopping bag. West Highland whites seem to be the dog of choice in France this year. Gorgeous little dogs but you don’t see that many in Australia.
The other smell that overpowers is that of stale urine in the streets. The street cleaners come through every other day and turn on the water hydrants and scrub and flush, but it never completely goes away. It’s shocking how many beggars there are in Paris - and homeless living on the streets. This is a city of great wealth living side by side with poverty. And homeless men don’t bother to go and look for a nearby pissoire…they just go in the doorway where they are sleeping. The smell is worst in the Metro stations, but it’s always present - somewhere at the back of your nostrils. It isn’t enough to spoil Paris…nothing could do that.
We shower and dress and we walk across the Ile St Louis and across the bridge to Notre Dame. There are queues of people outside waiting to go up to the top of the tower where there is an observation deck. It’s not as high as the Eiffel tower - but the queues aren’t as long either - and the tower is not slap bang in the middle of everything like Notre Dame is. I find a gorgeous little Paris handbag for Liza’s stepdaughter Liesl, but nothing yet for Allie. Plenty of time - it’s only the first day. We cross to the left bank and go to Le Petit Point café, on the corner with a great view of Notre dame. Two doors up is the famous Shakespeare’s second hand bookshop. Tony finds a huge tome about the 1950s Suez crisis…so that’s his reading taken care of for the rest of the trip. We order two grande café crème and I have forgotten that in Paris un grande café means a soup bowl full!!!! We are served these huge bowls full of the most gorgeous coffee you could possibly imagine but it takes us nearly an hour to drink them. Afterwards we wander back to the right bank via a different bridge, marvelling at the architecture. If you haven’t ever seen a birds eye view of Paris, google one. The proportions of the buildings, and the squares - the parklands and the wide boulevards - are amazing. The entire old city is a work of art. The other amazing thing about Paris which makes it unlike anywhere else that people LIVE right in the heart of the city. Not just in one or two scattered apartment blocks but in every building…from the first or second floor up…there are young couples, families, old ladies - they are as much a part of the city as the shops, the museums, the public buildings - in the rue de Rivoli, which runs parallel to our street, you can see all the window boxes of geraniums on tiny wrought iron balconies, jostling for space with the weekly washing, and even an exercise bike or two. At night the lights are on in all the apartments and you can hear laughter and music…..the city doesn’t just pack up and go home to the suburbs. And the cafes and bars are always full…even though August is the month for annual Vacances and the city is supposedly empty. It’s one of the most endearing things about Paris - when you have had your fill of monuments, bridges, museums and history, there are the people. People watching is a favourite pastime in Paris. Seated at a pavement table at any good café, you can watch the French just living….and the tourists trying their best to live…if only for a few days. We fall somewhere in between, and it’s wonderful to sit at our French windows and watch the passing parade.
We walk home past the Hotel de Ville…which must be the most elaborate town hall in the entire world! http://http://www.google.fr/images?q=Hotel+de+ville+Paris&rlz=1I7GGLL_en-GB&oe=UTF-8&redir_esc=&um=1&ie=UTF-8&source=univ&ei=jqdlTMqhHoTa4gaL1qnSCg&sa=X&oi=image_result_group&ct=title&resnum=11&ved=0CFMQsAQwCgAgain, its proportions are just beautiful and the stonework is staggering; such amazing carving. In summer there is free entertainment in the square in front of it…. Rock concerts, movies, dances, always something happening.
We make ham and brie baguettes and drink some wine then sleep for a couple of hours. In the evening I cook snails and salmon and we go to the local café for a nightcap. It’s been a leisurely day - no hurried frenzy to see the tourist sights - we’ve already done all that in past trips. Tony is still really exhausted so we go to bed early - content and feeling we are home.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
53/14 - Ca c'est Paris
Friday 6th August
We’re on our way - no more stopping for Chateaux or coffee breaks - Paris is calling us loud and clear. Even the car seems to be surging forward as if impatient to end its journey. Phillipa sleeps, but I count down the kilometres - 187 - 132- now we’re under a hundred. We wake Phillipa up just outside Fontainebleau, barely 60 kms from Paris. The last time we were here was in 2005 when the car broke down on our way back to Paris and even though the Palace was just around the corner from the garage where I plaintively declared “La voiture est tres mal, m’sieur - peut-etre elle est morte.”, I never got to see it.
There is not a lot to excite anyone in this town EXCEPT the palace, and that is so over the top that you can instantly understand why the peasants revolted at the profligacy of the aristocrats. It is unimaginably HUGE and splendid. It makes Buckingham Palace look like a Frankston bungalow. Impossible to see it all in the time we have - and we’re hankering for Paris - but the idea that royalty used this as a hunting lodge, while peasants starved, means that there is probably a bloody good soap to be written set in 17th century France. http://www.musee-chateau-fontainebleau.fr/
I’m too excited to eat but Tony and Phillipa have a sandwich and I settle for a coffee. Come ON….Paris is so close I can almost smell and taste her.
Fussy Felicity is brought out of her box and Tony puts in the address and tells her to do her stuff. And she does…brilliantly. An hour earlier than expected she takes us off the periphique and directly to our apartment in Le Marais - just 100 meteres or so from the Seine and the Ile St Louis. We are in Paris, in Le Marais, Le 4th Arondissement…..but we’re not in our apartment! The code they have given us doesn’t work on the keypad and we can’t get in. What’s more the rental company isn’t answering their phone. I stay with the car - which is illegally parked - but Tony and Philly are stumped, and can’t leave the luggage. I’m annoyed…I don’t want any part of this Paris trip spoiled by ANYTHING. I call the emergency number and I’m welcomed by a rather jolly sounding young Englishman who is horrified that they have somehow screwed up. With ten minutes we have the right code and we’re able to get through the front door which is so heavy it takes 2 people to open it - and then through the barred gate which looks the way the barred gates in Prisoner SHOULD have looked. I’m very nervous. The hallway is very dark and the old stone spiral staircase is worn from more than 300 years of constant use. This isn’t what I imagined. There’s scarcely room to bring the cases up. Phillipa is looking very uncomfortable. But then we open the door….et Voila! The Marais delight IS a delight. It is everything the website promised - and more. http://www.alacarte-paris-apartments.com/Marais-Delight.html
There is a huge bowl of fresh fruit and a bottle of wine on the table as a welcoming gift. There’s cable TV ( all dubbed in French but hey….) and free wifi. There’s a stunning bathroom and a very high quality bed. Best of all there are TWO long French window which we instantly open to let Paris in. Phillipa is on the net contacting her friends immediately and Tony takes the car back to Gare de Lyon - which is only a short walk back while Philly and get very excited over how gorgeous this little place is. And we have two whole weeks to enjoy living here. Tony returns, looking tired, but leaving the car was painless and he loved the walk back. He’s bought bread and milk and we decide that and the olives and pate we’ve had in a cold pack will do us for dinner. Phillipa leaves to catch a cab and we’re faced with our first drama. A middleaged black Parisien man touches her - and Tony sees it and goes bananas - screaming at the man who has “assaulted” his daughter. Within 10 seconds the man is asking Tony to come down into the street so he can kill him - with Tony threatening police action and yelling…”je suis her pere!” I love this silly man who is so protective of his grown child. So I lean out and join in “je suis sa mere.” And it’s amazing how the phrase Fuck Off! Is understood in any language. He gives up, Pip gets her cab - and we are left alone. Smiling we fall on the bed and fall asleep. When we awake it is after 6pm and we walk a little to get our bearings. This is our fourth trip to Paris together but we have also been many times when we were single. Always we have stayed on the left bank in St Germain des Pres….but it’s become more and more touristy and far more expensive in the past few years. This time the budget wouldn’t stretch that far as the trip has been so long. On our first trip we stayed at the hotel where Miles Davis stayed in 1945...it’s over a market and so small the suitcases had to stay in the hall. But we loved it - Paris plumbing and all. For Tony it was like staying in a shrine….just magic. I wonder how this chic and ultra modern studio will stack up. At least it’s not a hotel room where you have to get out after breakfast. We can do our own thing in our own time. How magic. We are above a sushi restaurant which is closed “pour vacances” but le Rue Francois Miron is full of typical Parisien cafes and bistros, some quite renowned - and there’s a top class Boulangerie and a little supermarket nearby. We know this time will be special - not least because it is just the two of us and we are sorely in need of “together” time. It’s not that Tony inviting relatives to share this trip with us was wrong….it’s just that there were too many for too long. Now it’s just us - and, quite honestly, that’s the way we prefer it. It’s wonderful to eat quietly together and to curl up in a really great bed and sleep in each other’s arms.
We’re on our way - no more stopping for Chateaux or coffee breaks - Paris is calling us loud and clear. Even the car seems to be surging forward as if impatient to end its journey. Phillipa sleeps, but I count down the kilometres - 187 - 132- now we’re under a hundred. We wake Phillipa up just outside Fontainebleau, barely 60 kms from Paris. The last time we were here was in 2005 when the car broke down on our way back to Paris and even though the Palace was just around the corner from the garage where I plaintively declared “La voiture est tres mal, m’sieur - peut-etre elle est morte.”, I never got to see it.
There is not a lot to excite anyone in this town EXCEPT the palace, and that is so over the top that you can instantly understand why the peasants revolted at the profligacy of the aristocrats. It is unimaginably HUGE and splendid. It makes Buckingham Palace look like a Frankston bungalow. Impossible to see it all in the time we have - and we’re hankering for Paris - but the idea that royalty used this as a hunting lodge, while peasants starved, means that there is probably a bloody good soap to be written set in 17th century France. http://www.musee-chateau-fontainebleau.fr/
I’m too excited to eat but Tony and Phillipa have a sandwich and I settle for a coffee. Come ON….Paris is so close I can almost smell and taste her.
Fussy Felicity is brought out of her box and Tony puts in the address and tells her to do her stuff. And she does…brilliantly. An hour earlier than expected she takes us off the periphique and directly to our apartment in Le Marais - just 100 meteres or so from the Seine and the Ile St Louis. We are in Paris, in Le Marais, Le 4th Arondissement…..but we’re not in our apartment! The code they have given us doesn’t work on the keypad and we can’t get in. What’s more the rental company isn’t answering their phone. I stay with the car - which is illegally parked - but Tony and Philly are stumped, and can’t leave the luggage. I’m annoyed…I don’t want any part of this Paris trip spoiled by ANYTHING. I call the emergency number and I’m welcomed by a rather jolly sounding young Englishman who is horrified that they have somehow screwed up. With ten minutes we have the right code and we’re able to get through the front door which is so heavy it takes 2 people to open it - and then through the barred gate which looks the way the barred gates in Prisoner SHOULD have looked. I’m very nervous. The hallway is very dark and the old stone spiral staircase is worn from more than 300 years of constant use. This isn’t what I imagined. There’s scarcely room to bring the cases up. Phillipa is looking very uncomfortable. But then we open the door….et Voila! The Marais delight IS a delight. It is everything the website promised - and more. http://www.alacarte-paris-apartments.com/Marais-Delight.html
There is a huge bowl of fresh fruit and a bottle of wine on the table as a welcoming gift. There’s cable TV ( all dubbed in French but hey….) and free wifi. There’s a stunning bathroom and a very high quality bed. Best of all there are TWO long French window which we instantly open to let Paris in. Phillipa is on the net contacting her friends immediately and Tony takes the car back to Gare de Lyon - which is only a short walk back while Philly and get very excited over how gorgeous this little place is. And we have two whole weeks to enjoy living here. Tony returns, looking tired, but leaving the car was painless and he loved the walk back. He’s bought bread and milk and we decide that and the olives and pate we’ve had in a cold pack will do us for dinner. Phillipa leaves to catch a cab and we’re faced with our first drama. A middleaged black Parisien man touches her - and Tony sees it and goes bananas - screaming at the man who has “assaulted” his daughter. Within 10 seconds the man is asking Tony to come down into the street so he can kill him - with Tony threatening police action and yelling…”je suis her pere!” I love this silly man who is so protective of his grown child. So I lean out and join in “je suis sa mere.” And it’s amazing how the phrase Fuck Off! Is understood in any language. He gives up, Pip gets her cab - and we are left alone. Smiling we fall on the bed and fall asleep. When we awake it is after 6pm and we walk a little to get our bearings. This is our fourth trip to Paris together but we have also been many times when we were single. Always we have stayed on the left bank in St Germain des Pres….but it’s become more and more touristy and far more expensive in the past few years. This time the budget wouldn’t stretch that far as the trip has been so long. On our first trip we stayed at the hotel where Miles Davis stayed in 1945...it’s over a market and so small the suitcases had to stay in the hall. But we loved it - Paris plumbing and all. For Tony it was like staying in a shrine….just magic. I wonder how this chic and ultra modern studio will stack up. At least it’s not a hotel room where you have to get out after breakfast. We can do our own thing in our own time. How magic. We are above a sushi restaurant which is closed “pour vacances” but le Rue Francois Miron is full of typical Parisien cafes and bistros, some quite renowned - and there’s a top class Boulangerie and a little supermarket nearby. We know this time will be special - not least because it is just the two of us and we are sorely in need of “together” time. It’s not that Tony inviting relatives to share this trip with us was wrong….it’s just that there were too many for too long. Now it’s just us - and, quite honestly, that’s the way we prefer it. It’s wonderful to eat quietly together and to curl up in a really great bed and sleep in each other’s arms.
52/15 - Charite begins in France
Thursday 5th
Getting Phillipa out of the bathroom in under an hour is no mean feat - and that still leaves hairdrying time! But somehow we manage to get on the road by 9.30 - fortified with lots of scrumptious coffee and bread for us and croissants and hot chocolate for her. Tony is still looking tired and obviously isn’t relishing driving again today - but the plan is to just take it easy. There’s lots to look at along the way - the Loire is arguably the prettiest part of France - though I would still opt for Provence…. The Loire is a little too perfect for me…. Perfect “Grape fields” as Katie’s boyfriend Sam calls them, perfect river, perfect farms and Chateaux….boy are there perfect chateaus!. Every little village seems to boast one, beautifully proportioned, whether a “small” residence of some 20 or 30 rooms - or a virtual palace with hundreds of rooms. After a while you stop oohing and aahing because they are so commonplace - as we said in 2005 - it’s easy to get Chateaud out! At lunchtime though we stop after seeing a sign saying - “Chateau Ancien”. It’s in a little town called Lapallises, and we’re expecting it to be a ruin, as so many now are. But there it is in its palatial grounds….a genuine 14th century Chateau - and it’s stunning. It’s closed for lunch ( like everything else in France) but it’s too good to miss so we sit at the little Auberge next door and eat Croque monsieur ( a fancy way of saying toasted cheese and ham) and kill time until it opens for the afternoon. It’s very impressive, doubly so because it has been in the same family since 1430 - obviously they’re waiting for a real estate boom to cash in! Phillipa is more than impressed and decides she could quite easily live in a chateau, despite the hundred rooms that need heating, and the drafts, and creaking floorboards. Not me - a sprawling single level Provence house with French doors leading to the pool will do just fine….my needs are simple - Hehehe. Tony grabs a cat nap in the car while we bask in the sunshine and talk luxury. I try to take a picture of a clearly middle ages Weber barbecue and ancient plastic chairs. I just love the incongruity. By this time it’s gone 3 o’clock and we’ve covered only 150kms today. But before we take off Phlip has to use the public toilet - and goes through culture shock at her first confrontation with an old French style “jump” where you squat on a chine base with specified footholds and pee into a hole in the floor. I think it takes her several hours to get over the event…. She’s shuddering as she tells us, but everybody should experience it once….I’ve just never been able to master it without wetting my feet and anything else in the general vicinity.
We’re following the Loire as far as we can, which means we’re heading northeast. It’s such a pretty river, in sharp contrast to the Rhone, and there is always something to see. Tomorrow we will head due north, stop at Fontainebleu, and then head for Paris. I have bookmarked a little place called La Charite Sur Loire for tonight’s stay; mainly because I love the name, and it is on the river. Too often places with pretty names fail to live up to expectation….but not this time. La Charite ( can’t do the accent, sorry) sur Loire is as pretty a town as you could ever imagine. Founded in the 7th Century it runs from a hilltop right down to the edge of the Loire. Part of it is even on an island in the Loire and you cross by an old stone Bridge. Take a look at it here http://www.ville-la-charite-sur-loire.fr/anglais/reflets.htm ( I don’t know why I didn’t think of hyperlinks earlier in this blog.)
We are overwhelmed. We knew nothing about it at all except that it is on the river - and the Loire is very beautiful - with sandy banks, ancient bridges mainly beautiful weather. We walk around the ancient town. Around every corner there is something new/old to see. How has this stunning little place stayed a secret for so long? It’s only a little smaller than Uzes but the river is a plus. The tourist centre books us into a cheap hotel which turns out to be a doss house! No way is our Philly staying there - even Tony turns up his nose, and it takes a lot for him to do that. But right across the street is a charming little hotel called Un Mille et un Feuilles. We check in with the lovely Yves - a charming man who slows down his French and encourages my answers. I’ve managed to talk ONLY French outside the family while I have been here - and everyone so far has understood me….though I think I did call my husband my chestnut at one stage and got some funny looks.
For 41 euros we get a lovely double room…though the bathroom is behind concertina vinyl doors with a plastic shower unit. Philly pays 53euros for a mini suite in the attic. She’s in the George Sand Suite. And we finally discover that La Charite is a book town, and our hotel is where the writers stay….I tell Yves how appropriate it is, and he asks about script writing. But I’m more interested in hearing about his town. In this tiny town there are fifteen book shops and there is a book festival every year. Everything about it is charming. And the hotel’s name Un Mille et un Feuilles is explained to mean. A Feuille is a leaf or a layer of something. In this case it means pages or leaves in a book…but it could be pastry as in MilleFueille pastry ( to die for….literally if you’re a diabetic.) Yves saves us a table for dinner and we dine in style on Escargots…totally delicious ( Philly is now a snails addict) and chicken livers cooked in cream with white wine mushrooms. Escargots are local cuisine in the Bourgogne region and they are huge. The chicken livers are so delicate and melt in the mouth. Crème Brulee to finish and a bottle of Pouilly Fume - which is expensive even here. The Loire is famous for it’s two major white wines - Sancennes and Pouilly - from the towns of the same name. It’s exceptional and stays on our palate seductively. We want another bottle but that would blow the budget - and it’s already extraordinarily tight. Instead we go out for a walk and the most spectacular sunset is starting. WE grab the car and cross over to the island and hold our breath at the fabulous display the sleepy sun puts on for us before its bedtime. This truly is a magic spot and I say a little prayer that I will see it again, though I know it’s not likely. The two days of driving have felt like a mini holiday of their own - and there’s still Paris to come, with just Beloved and I in the city we love more than anywhere else. No too shabby at all.
Getting Phillipa out of the bathroom in under an hour is no mean feat - and that still leaves hairdrying time! But somehow we manage to get on the road by 9.30 - fortified with lots of scrumptious coffee and bread for us and croissants and hot chocolate for her. Tony is still looking tired and obviously isn’t relishing driving again today - but the plan is to just take it easy. There’s lots to look at along the way - the Loire is arguably the prettiest part of France - though I would still opt for Provence…. The Loire is a little too perfect for me…. Perfect “Grape fields” as Katie’s boyfriend Sam calls them, perfect river, perfect farms and Chateaux….boy are there perfect chateaus!. Every little village seems to boast one, beautifully proportioned, whether a “small” residence of some 20 or 30 rooms - or a virtual palace with hundreds of rooms. After a while you stop oohing and aahing because they are so commonplace - as we said in 2005 - it’s easy to get Chateaud out! At lunchtime though we stop after seeing a sign saying - “Chateau Ancien”. It’s in a little town called Lapallises, and we’re expecting it to be a ruin, as so many now are. But there it is in its palatial grounds….a genuine 14th century Chateau - and it’s stunning. It’s closed for lunch ( like everything else in France) but it’s too good to miss so we sit at the little Auberge next door and eat Croque monsieur ( a fancy way of saying toasted cheese and ham) and kill time until it opens for the afternoon. It’s very impressive, doubly so because it has been in the same family since 1430 - obviously they’re waiting for a real estate boom to cash in! Phillipa is more than impressed and decides she could quite easily live in a chateau, despite the hundred rooms that need heating, and the drafts, and creaking floorboards. Not me - a sprawling single level Provence house with French doors leading to the pool will do just fine….my needs are simple - Hehehe. Tony grabs a cat nap in the car while we bask in the sunshine and talk luxury. I try to take a picture of a clearly middle ages Weber barbecue and ancient plastic chairs. I just love the incongruity. By this time it’s gone 3 o’clock and we’ve covered only 150kms today. But before we take off Phlip has to use the public toilet - and goes through culture shock at her first confrontation with an old French style “jump” where you squat on a chine base with specified footholds and pee into a hole in the floor. I think it takes her several hours to get over the event…. She’s shuddering as she tells us, but everybody should experience it once….I’ve just never been able to master it without wetting my feet and anything else in the general vicinity.
We’re following the Loire as far as we can, which means we’re heading northeast. It’s such a pretty river, in sharp contrast to the Rhone, and there is always something to see. Tomorrow we will head due north, stop at Fontainebleu, and then head for Paris. I have bookmarked a little place called La Charite Sur Loire for tonight’s stay; mainly because I love the name, and it is on the river. Too often places with pretty names fail to live up to expectation….but not this time. La Charite ( can’t do the accent, sorry) sur Loire is as pretty a town as you could ever imagine. Founded in the 7th Century it runs from a hilltop right down to the edge of the Loire. Part of it is even on an island in the Loire and you cross by an old stone Bridge. Take a look at it here http://www.ville-la-charite-sur-loire.fr/anglais/reflets.htm ( I don’t know why I didn’t think of hyperlinks earlier in this blog.)
We are overwhelmed. We knew nothing about it at all except that it is on the river - and the Loire is very beautiful - with sandy banks, ancient bridges mainly beautiful weather. We walk around the ancient town. Around every corner there is something new/old to see. How has this stunning little place stayed a secret for so long? It’s only a little smaller than Uzes but the river is a plus. The tourist centre books us into a cheap hotel which turns out to be a doss house! No way is our Philly staying there - even Tony turns up his nose, and it takes a lot for him to do that. But right across the street is a charming little hotel called Un Mille et un Feuilles. We check in with the lovely Yves - a charming man who slows down his French and encourages my answers. I’ve managed to talk ONLY French outside the family while I have been here - and everyone so far has understood me….though I think I did call my husband my chestnut at one stage and got some funny looks.
For 41 euros we get a lovely double room…though the bathroom is behind concertina vinyl doors with a plastic shower unit. Philly pays 53euros for a mini suite in the attic. She’s in the George Sand Suite. And we finally discover that La Charite is a book town, and our hotel is where the writers stay….I tell Yves how appropriate it is, and he asks about script writing. But I’m more interested in hearing about his town. In this tiny town there are fifteen book shops and there is a book festival every year. Everything about it is charming. And the hotel’s name Un Mille et un Feuilles is explained to mean. A Feuille is a leaf or a layer of something. In this case it means pages or leaves in a book…but it could be pastry as in MilleFueille pastry ( to die for….literally if you’re a diabetic.) Yves saves us a table for dinner and we dine in style on Escargots…totally delicious ( Philly is now a snails addict) and chicken livers cooked in cream with white wine mushrooms. Escargots are local cuisine in the Bourgogne region and they are huge. The chicken livers are so delicate and melt in the mouth. Crème Brulee to finish and a bottle of Pouilly Fume - which is expensive even here. The Loire is famous for it’s two major white wines - Sancennes and Pouilly - from the towns of the same name. It’s exceptional and stays on our palate seductively. We want another bottle but that would blow the budget - and it’s already extraordinarily tight. Instead we go out for a walk and the most spectacular sunset is starting. WE grab the car and cross over to the island and hold our breath at the fabulous display the sleepy sun puts on for us before its bedtime. This truly is a magic spot and I say a little prayer that I will see it again, though I know it’s not likely. The two days of driving have felt like a mini holiday of their own - and there’s still Paris to come, with just Beloved and I in the city we love more than anywhere else. No too shabby at all.
Monday, August 9, 2010
51/16 - On the road again
Wednesday 4th
Take your pick - Canned Heat or Willie Nelson....even a touch of John Denver as we'll be on country roads.
We’re up very early. There’s a sense of disbelief that we are leaving Provence and may never see it again….yet also excitement because we are Paris bound, and Paris is our favourite place in the entire world.
Tony hurriedly grabs coffee and bread and takes off once again for Avignon, poor baby…… in the four weeks we’ve been over here he has driven nearly 4,000 kms and it’s another 800 to Paris….add to that the 2,000 miles we did round Britain and it’s small wonder he is tired and stressed.
Pip and I strip beds, do washing, sweep floors and pack, using up nervous energy and hoping that everything is alright with the car. When Tony returns - a little after 1pm…there is NO Michelin tyre…. Nowhere has one. Go figure. Instead there are TWO new front tyres but at least Europcar has agreed to pay for one. A hurried lunch and we pack the car. Tony is already looking exhausted….he is so eternally young that I forget hios chronological age until his body screams out…”I’m 73, give me a break!” I doubt we’ll get far tonight but at least it’s daylight until 9.30. Hurried goodbyes to Robert - a note in the Guest book for mal and Cristina ( we have left the electric fan as our contribution to the house and we are finally on our way.
Random thoughts fill my head with pictures…. The first time we saw the swallows diving in a whole flock; a little black scorpion on the wall of the terrace, springing for a gecko that was too fast for it…. An old rusted plough/tiller with lethal looking spikes sticking out….. The friendly dog who liked to rub against us…AFTER he’d rolled in the cow pats….a herd of deer in a paddock far away following a lone girl with feed for them…The arrogant little shit in the internet shop….who saw me every other day for 4 weeks and never once remembered me…. The smell of the Roquefort cheese as you spread it and cover it in fig jam …the bread, still hot, from the Boulangerie in Uzes ( they bake fresh every two hours) The first taste of Kir in Provence. The silly blow up kids paddling pool which Tony had to empty before we left. The pate and terrine - always a fridge full of it for snacking day and night. All of these things I take with me - knowing they will never be lost.
It’s 2.45 by the time we leave Uzes and hit the open road. We avoiding the Paeage motorways. They’re expensive and boring. Instead we’re using mostly the route National…with some D roads thrown in for good measure. Tony has plotted the trip and I am navigating….I enjoy that part and keep an eye out for likely places to visit. It isn’t long before Provence is behind us and we are travelling through the ardeche - a district that is rockier and more traditionally French. The architecture is changing….the pitch of the roof is different and the baked clay tiles are giving way to slate. We partially follow the Rhone but, while the river itself is lovely, the banks have been ruined by the endless power stations belching steam. We turn off and head for the mountains…looking for somewhere to stay. Toulon Sur Rhone is a picturesque little town and we would love to stop there, but it will put too much extra mileage on the trip tomorrow so we press on. Up, up we climb, thinking what a great leg of The Tour de France this would make as we reach the summit of the Col de Republic. There are so many little towns…but many of them are deserted, closed up for the summer. It seems we will not find another Toulon sur Rhone….and we make instead for the mining town of St Etienne.
It’s unappealing but we find a little 2 star hotel and book in. We just want a place to sleep…but Phillipa is very picky about the rooms and luckily she gets the best one. The building is very old but with a new façade. Inside though it is all stonework and I have to climb a spiral stone staircase. Ouch! There’s a little bar and a breakfast room and our rooms have modern bathrooms ( except the shower door is so tiny I can’t get in.) For 45 Euros a night it’s more than we expected. In the little square next door we find a great restaurant - Le Carre Soft. The 23 Euros 3 course menu is spectacular and eat a great dinner. The bed is okay but the pillows are the crumbed rubber type….an abomination from 30 years ago. I don’t sleep much, but I’m not sure if it’s the pillow or the fact that Paris is drawing ever closer.
Take your pick - Canned Heat or Willie Nelson....even a touch of John Denver as we'll be on country roads.
We’re up very early. There’s a sense of disbelief that we are leaving Provence and may never see it again….yet also excitement because we are Paris bound, and Paris is our favourite place in the entire world.
Tony hurriedly grabs coffee and bread and takes off once again for Avignon, poor baby…… in the four weeks we’ve been over here he has driven nearly 4,000 kms and it’s another 800 to Paris….add to that the 2,000 miles we did round Britain and it’s small wonder he is tired and stressed.
Pip and I strip beds, do washing, sweep floors and pack, using up nervous energy and hoping that everything is alright with the car. When Tony returns - a little after 1pm…there is NO Michelin tyre…. Nowhere has one. Go figure. Instead there are TWO new front tyres but at least Europcar has agreed to pay for one. A hurried lunch and we pack the car. Tony is already looking exhausted….he is so eternally young that I forget hios chronological age until his body screams out…”I’m 73, give me a break!” I doubt we’ll get far tonight but at least it’s daylight until 9.30. Hurried goodbyes to Robert - a note in the Guest book for mal and Cristina ( we have left the electric fan as our contribution to the house and we are finally on our way.
Random thoughts fill my head with pictures…. The first time we saw the swallows diving in a whole flock; a little black scorpion on the wall of the terrace, springing for a gecko that was too fast for it…. An old rusted plough/tiller with lethal looking spikes sticking out….. The friendly dog who liked to rub against us…AFTER he’d rolled in the cow pats….a herd of deer in a paddock far away following a lone girl with feed for them…The arrogant little shit in the internet shop….who saw me every other day for 4 weeks and never once remembered me…. The smell of the Roquefort cheese as you spread it and cover it in fig jam …the bread, still hot, from the Boulangerie in Uzes ( they bake fresh every two hours) The first taste of Kir in Provence. The silly blow up kids paddling pool which Tony had to empty before we left. The pate and terrine - always a fridge full of it for snacking day and night. All of these things I take with me - knowing they will never be lost.
It’s 2.45 by the time we leave Uzes and hit the open road. We avoiding the Paeage motorways. They’re expensive and boring. Instead we’re using mostly the route National…with some D roads thrown in for good measure. Tony has plotted the trip and I am navigating….I enjoy that part and keep an eye out for likely places to visit. It isn’t long before Provence is behind us and we are travelling through the ardeche - a district that is rockier and more traditionally French. The architecture is changing….the pitch of the roof is different and the baked clay tiles are giving way to slate. We partially follow the Rhone but, while the river itself is lovely, the banks have been ruined by the endless power stations belching steam. We turn off and head for the mountains…looking for somewhere to stay. Toulon Sur Rhone is a picturesque little town and we would love to stop there, but it will put too much extra mileage on the trip tomorrow so we press on. Up, up we climb, thinking what a great leg of The Tour de France this would make as we reach the summit of the Col de Republic. There are so many little towns…but many of them are deserted, closed up for the summer. It seems we will not find another Toulon sur Rhone….and we make instead for the mining town of St Etienne.
It’s unappealing but we find a little 2 star hotel and book in. We just want a place to sleep…but Phillipa is very picky about the rooms and luckily she gets the best one. The building is very old but with a new façade. Inside though it is all stonework and I have to climb a spiral stone staircase. Ouch! There’s a little bar and a breakfast room and our rooms have modern bathrooms ( except the shower door is so tiny I can’t get in.) For 45 Euros a night it’s more than we expected. In the little square next door we find a great restaurant - Le Carre Soft. The 23 Euros 3 course menu is spectacular and eat a great dinner. The bed is okay but the pillows are the crumbed rubber type….an abomination from 30 years ago. I don’t sleep much, but I’m not sure if it’s the pillow or the fact that Paris is drawing ever closer.
50/17 - The car that didn't eat Paris
Tuesday 3rd August
Sometimes the fates - or your husband - just conspire against you…the best laid plans of Mice and Men and all ( though what mice are doing making plans I haven’t the faintest idea.) On the way into Uzes Tony hit’s a BOULDER which was apparently hiding on the shoulder of the road waiting to spring out at him. The front tyre explodes and we’re stuck on perhaps the loneliest road in the whole of the South of France. I bite my tongue and don’t point out that he’s been driving too much on the verge - I know he feels pressured driving on the wrong side and in the Mercedes and this is just one of those things. But things aren’t helped when we discover there is no tool kit at all with the car! I tell him to ring Europcar but that would be too simple. Instead he walks around trying not to get into a foul mood ( he’s unsuccessful) and waiting for God or whoever to inflate the tyre or wind back time so that he can miss the rock ( though how he didn’t see it the first time is a miracle in itself!)
Fortunately a nice swiss couple stop to help…and then a Frenchman in a ute. Two cars in the one day on that road is practically a traffic jam. But at least they have tools and manage to put on the incredulously small spare which is meant as a temporary measure until we can get to Europcar - which is in Avignon - 50 kms or an hours drive away! Bang goes the swim and the horses as Tony wants me to come with him…it’s a chance for us to see Avignon….which wouldn’t be so impressive except that we have been to the town four times before and never seen a thing. Parking is a nightmare. So off we set….but Beloved’s mood is getting darker and darker - and when he says it’s my fault….WELLLLLL….I blow a tyre of my own. By the time we make Avignon, Europcar is closed for Lunch, naturally….if you plan on a big lunch and a couple of bottles of wine, French style, there’s not much point in keeping the business open. Just before Tony and I stop talking for the next four hours I ask him to drop us at the historic part of Avignon. He does so unceremoniously after driving round in circles - and then takes off, without any plans to pick us up again! Not that I entirely blame him. If only this stubborn man that I love would admit there IS such a thing as stress…and he has got it. Left alone, Phillipa and I wander through the ancient stone wall arches and back in time.
Avignon is an amazing city because so much of what is ancient is still intact….not just a roman ruin or amphitheatre, but a BIG city dating back to the 12th century. It was the home of the popes then - before The Vatican was ever conceived. We walk up the cobblestone streets to the palace of the Popes. It’s huge, and the cobbled forecourt seemed to be filled with peasants just as it must have been 800 years ago. This passage in religion makes a mockery of what the church purports to stand for. Here the popes kept their mistresses and illegitimate children, threw orgies and luxuriated in every penny they could bleed from the peasantry who saw the pageantry as a conduit to God. It’s both beautiful and revolting when taken in context….but it is special…there is no denying that. It’s around six stories tall and was built over a period of three hundred years when the church was at its strongest.
The bridge at Avignon….the one famous from our childhood, where everyone danced, only stretches halfway across the Rhone, but it costs a fortune to set foot on it. Despite the gob smacking history of it all, every monument is priced to fleece the tourists… 20 Euros to look round the palace….another 10 to step on the bridge.
We take it all in and sit in the shade and drink mineral water and wait for Tony to get over his mood, get the car fixed, and call us. After two hours we start to wonder if he will. We fill the time buying postcards and looking for a china Cicada that Kelly has requested….one she will like and that doesn’t have “A souvenir of Avignon” printed on it!
Finally the call comes and he picks us up. But the car isn’t fixed. Europcar insists only a Michelin tyre can go on the car…..and nowhere has any! Er, excuse me, but isn’t Michelin a French company??? The upshot is that a tyre depot has ordered one in but Tony will have to come back in the morning to have it fitted…another 100km round trip….and, because I didn’t take the “extras” insurance, we have to pay for it. We head back to Uzes…it’s hot and we’re tired and we haven’t eaten…..plans for dinner go out the window. Phillipa and I go to the pool for a long refreshing swim and to get the balance back into our day. Phillipa sunbakes and I enjoy the cool water. But Tony is still in his mood and opts not to come inside. When we finally come out he is sitting on a stone wall, fast asleep. I really do understand the pressure ( most of it self imposed) he is under and when he says “ sorry lovely, I’m just exhausted” my heart goes out to him. Once back home we eat up the remaining food in the fridge and Tony is fast asleep by nine o’clock….with Pip and I not far behind.
Sometimes the fates - or your husband - just conspire against you…the best laid plans of Mice and Men and all ( though what mice are doing making plans I haven’t the faintest idea.) On the way into Uzes Tony hit’s a BOULDER which was apparently hiding on the shoulder of the road waiting to spring out at him. The front tyre explodes and we’re stuck on perhaps the loneliest road in the whole of the South of France. I bite my tongue and don’t point out that he’s been driving too much on the verge - I know he feels pressured driving on the wrong side and in the Mercedes and this is just one of those things. But things aren’t helped when we discover there is no tool kit at all with the car! I tell him to ring Europcar but that would be too simple. Instead he walks around trying not to get into a foul mood ( he’s unsuccessful) and waiting for God or whoever to inflate the tyre or wind back time so that he can miss the rock ( though how he didn’t see it the first time is a miracle in itself!)
Fortunately a nice swiss couple stop to help…and then a Frenchman in a ute. Two cars in the one day on that road is practically a traffic jam. But at least they have tools and manage to put on the incredulously small spare which is meant as a temporary measure until we can get to Europcar - which is in Avignon - 50 kms or an hours drive away! Bang goes the swim and the horses as Tony wants me to come with him…it’s a chance for us to see Avignon….which wouldn’t be so impressive except that we have been to the town four times before and never seen a thing. Parking is a nightmare. So off we set….but Beloved’s mood is getting darker and darker - and when he says it’s my fault….WELLLLLL….I blow a tyre of my own. By the time we make Avignon, Europcar is closed for Lunch, naturally….if you plan on a big lunch and a couple of bottles of wine, French style, there’s not much point in keeping the business open. Just before Tony and I stop talking for the next four hours I ask him to drop us at the historic part of Avignon. He does so unceremoniously after driving round in circles - and then takes off, without any plans to pick us up again! Not that I entirely blame him. If only this stubborn man that I love would admit there IS such a thing as stress…and he has got it. Left alone, Phillipa and I wander through the ancient stone wall arches and back in time.
Avignon is an amazing city because so much of what is ancient is still intact….not just a roman ruin or amphitheatre, but a BIG city dating back to the 12th century. It was the home of the popes then - before The Vatican was ever conceived. We walk up the cobblestone streets to the palace of the Popes. It’s huge, and the cobbled forecourt seemed to be filled with peasants just as it must have been 800 years ago. This passage in religion makes a mockery of what the church purports to stand for. Here the popes kept their mistresses and illegitimate children, threw orgies and luxuriated in every penny they could bleed from the peasantry who saw the pageantry as a conduit to God. It’s both beautiful and revolting when taken in context….but it is special…there is no denying that. It’s around six stories tall and was built over a period of three hundred years when the church was at its strongest.
The bridge at Avignon….the one famous from our childhood, where everyone danced, only stretches halfway across the Rhone, but it costs a fortune to set foot on it. Despite the gob smacking history of it all, every monument is priced to fleece the tourists… 20 Euros to look round the palace….another 10 to step on the bridge.
We take it all in and sit in the shade and drink mineral water and wait for Tony to get over his mood, get the car fixed, and call us. After two hours we start to wonder if he will. We fill the time buying postcards and looking for a china Cicada that Kelly has requested….one she will like and that doesn’t have “A souvenir of Avignon” printed on it!
Finally the call comes and he picks us up. But the car isn’t fixed. Europcar insists only a Michelin tyre can go on the car…..and nowhere has any! Er, excuse me, but isn’t Michelin a French company??? The upshot is that a tyre depot has ordered one in but Tony will have to come back in the morning to have it fitted…another 100km round trip….and, because I didn’t take the “extras” insurance, we have to pay for it. We head back to Uzes…it’s hot and we’re tired and we haven’t eaten…..plans for dinner go out the window. Phillipa and I go to the pool for a long refreshing swim and to get the balance back into our day. Phillipa sunbakes and I enjoy the cool water. But Tony is still in his mood and opts not to come inside. When we finally come out he is sitting on a stone wall, fast asleep. I really do understand the pressure ( most of it self imposed) he is under and when he says “ sorry lovely, I’m just exhausted” my heart goes out to him. Once back home we eat up the remaining food in the fridge and Tony is fast asleep by nine o’clock….with Pip and I not far behind.
49/18 - Last days of Provence
Monday 2nd
We awoke this morning to find the power is still off and the cooler weather is still with us. The pools of water on the bedroom floor have almost dried up and there’s an air of camping about the whole morning….none of us fazed at the prospect of more candlelight to come. We were busy boiling water on the gas-stove for much needed coffee when Tony caught sight of Danielle and managed….through words and gestures … to tell her about the power. She desperately tried to make herself understood in very fast French but then gave up and went to find Robert who was down at another farm ( does he own all of Bourdiguet, I wonder to myself?) Very quickly he shows Tony that the safety switch had tripped in the other half of the house….Tony thought the fuse box in the laundry was ther only one for the whole house. Within seconds we have power again. Over breakfast we formulate a plan to leave Provence on Wednesday and stay two nights on the road. It will ease the burden of driving on Tony if we split it over 3 days and we’ll still arrive early Friday afternoon. Phillipa fills us in on her plans to stay away a year, and we are impressed by how sensible and grown up she has become. She has a very clear vision of what she wants from this trip and she’s ready for the experience. She helps us clean our messy Mas and then we start throwing everything in sight into the washing machine….just in case of another blackout.
Phillipa is quiet as we walk through Uzes and take in the sights. For a while we think she is bored, but she’s just taking it all in - and loving it. It would be hard to imagine anyone NOT loving Uzes. There is something quite magical and mystical about this little town that weaves its spell around you. Later I cook snails and they are yummy….dripping in garlic and butter and wine. Phillipa loves them and she has embraced kir as if it were a drink invented just for her. Eating at home is certainly saving us money and we haven’t gone short on anything, but after a big salad none of us has room for the framboise tarts. We haven’t made a lot of plans in Provence…just drifted from day to day and let fate take us whichever way the breeze blows. But now we sit down and plan what we will do. A trip to the pool for a swim and a sunbake….lunch in the little creperie near the fountain….then off to the national horse Haras to see Lucien Grass training the fabulous Andelusian horses. We head off to bed early but not until after another spectacular light show from the lightning over the hills. Only one more day in this magic place……only one more night after this in the squeaky bed - fighting off the flies! Aaaah…the Good, the Bad and The Ugly ( not a bad title that!)
We awoke this morning to find the power is still off and the cooler weather is still with us. The pools of water on the bedroom floor have almost dried up and there’s an air of camping about the whole morning….none of us fazed at the prospect of more candlelight to come. We were busy boiling water on the gas-stove for much needed coffee when Tony caught sight of Danielle and managed….through words and gestures … to tell her about the power. She desperately tried to make herself understood in very fast French but then gave up and went to find Robert who was down at another farm ( does he own all of Bourdiguet, I wonder to myself?) Very quickly he shows Tony that the safety switch had tripped in the other half of the house….Tony thought the fuse box in the laundry was ther only one for the whole house. Within seconds we have power again. Over breakfast we formulate a plan to leave Provence on Wednesday and stay two nights on the road. It will ease the burden of driving on Tony if we split it over 3 days and we’ll still arrive early Friday afternoon. Phillipa fills us in on her plans to stay away a year, and we are impressed by how sensible and grown up she has become. She has a very clear vision of what she wants from this trip and she’s ready for the experience. She helps us clean our messy Mas and then we start throwing everything in sight into the washing machine….just in case of another blackout.
Phillipa is quiet as we walk through Uzes and take in the sights. For a while we think she is bored, but she’s just taking it all in - and loving it. It would be hard to imagine anyone NOT loving Uzes. There is something quite magical and mystical about this little town that weaves its spell around you. Later I cook snails and they are yummy….dripping in garlic and butter and wine. Phillipa loves them and she has embraced kir as if it were a drink invented just for her. Eating at home is certainly saving us money and we haven’t gone short on anything, but after a big salad none of us has room for the framboise tarts. We haven’t made a lot of plans in Provence…just drifted from day to day and let fate take us whichever way the breeze blows. But now we sit down and plan what we will do. A trip to the pool for a swim and a sunbake….lunch in the little creperie near the fountain….then off to the national horse Haras to see Lucien Grass training the fabulous Andelusian horses. We head off to bed early but not until after another spectacular light show from the lightning over the hills. Only one more day in this magic place……only one more night after this in the squeaky bed - fighting off the flies! Aaaah…the Good, the Bad and The Ugly ( not a bad title that!)
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
48/19 - Sunday Sunday
Sunday 1st August.
Sunday morning; love and croissants and fresh framboises and lashings of coffee. If there is any better way to start the day I don’t want to hear it.
It’s a strange day. The sun is very hot even by 10am, but cloud is building up on the horizon. The air is oppressive but Robert tells us it won’t rain as the rain clouds always come from one direction…..and this isn’t it. We’re relieved. We don’t want the perfect weather to end. Phillipa is arriving today but we have no idea when. We shop for essentials so that we will be prepared and then return to watch the marathon in the athletics. Tony goes into a frenzy washing sheets and cleaning the upstairs room for Philly. He’s very excited. Even though we moved to Melbourne we still only see the girls about once a year. To catch up with both of them in two weeks in Provence is actually quite odd but very serendipitous.
We’re on tenterhooks until the text message arrives telling us that she will arrive on the 10.33 from Marseilles and can we pick her up at Nimes….we needn’t have bothered about supper but at least now we know. I cook dinner early and Tony goes to have a nap. The sky is darkening and there are ominous rumblings in the distance. But it won’t rain. Robert, who has lived here his entire life, says so.
At 7pm the storm breaks - The thunder is loud enough to burst eardrums and the lightning show is spectacular….much more impressive than quatorze Juillet fireworks could ever be:- But it doesn’t rain…..Until…..
The deluge opens up at about 7.30 and it’s time to get out a hammer and nails and build an ark. Sorry Robert - mother nature is poking her tongue out at you. I’m reminded of the floods five years ago and there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that we will be flooded in and Phillipa will be left waiting at Nimes station wondering why we never came. The power goes off and I search for emergency supplies of candles. There is still just enough light for me to see things but the sky is getting blacker and the rain ever heavier. A huge thunderclap wakes Tony and he finds me on the terrace still gob smacked by the lightning show. I’m worried about him driving in this torrent but the storm can’t last very long - can it?
By 8.30 we decide to drive to Nimes together - no sense in sitting in a dark house alone for hours and so we take off. Only people on a mission ( like us) or complete idiots, are out on the roads, a solid sheet of water follows us all the way. Just before the Nimes turnoff I take a call on Tony’s mobile. It’s Philly - The Nimes trains from Marseilles are cancelled and she’s coming into Avignon…. Which is about 40kms from Uzes. We change direction but the storm is determined to stay with us. By 10pm we reach Avignon and the storm has been raging for 3 hours and shows no sign of stopping. Phillipa is quite emotional at seeing us and Tony melts and hugs her for a long time. She chats away all the way home and brings us up to speed, but a sideward glance shows me that Beloved is feeling the tension of the drive and is a lot less confident than he sounds with thunder and lightning doing in his head and the rain making visibility negligible. But years of rally driving have made him an exceptionally good driver and we reach Bourdiguet without mishap.
The power is still off - though the single street light in the alleyway is working. We light six candles, drink mineral water ( it doesn’t even occur to us to boil water on the stove for a cuppa) and raid the fridge, scoffing pate, Roquefort with fig jam and cold chick all with fresh bread. At midnight, the storm starts to abate. It’s worn itself out with five hours of spectacular fury and we are all still standing so, grumbling away and with the occasional flash, it makes it’s way back to the storm storage shed until another day.
Walking into our bedroom we realise that the roof has leaked badly in two places and there are huge pools of water on the wooden floors. Tony paddles through it and collapses on the bed. He’s soon asleep, but Philly and I sit up and talk till after 1am. It’s so good to see her and realise what a marvellous young woman she has grown into. She takes a candle and the tiny torch to light her way to bed. Beloved has left a lighted candle on my nightstand so I can find my way and I take another candle to the bedroom and try to do Sudoku by candlelight but without success. The rain has eased to a light shower and the wet earth smells wonderful. Everything is clean and alive and there’s the novelty of a cool chill in the night air that makes me pull a doona over my feet. I blow out the candles and snuggle into Tony’s back and drift away. Great day.
Sunday morning; love and croissants and fresh framboises and lashings of coffee. If there is any better way to start the day I don’t want to hear it.
It’s a strange day. The sun is very hot even by 10am, but cloud is building up on the horizon. The air is oppressive but Robert tells us it won’t rain as the rain clouds always come from one direction…..and this isn’t it. We’re relieved. We don’t want the perfect weather to end. Phillipa is arriving today but we have no idea when. We shop for essentials so that we will be prepared and then return to watch the marathon in the athletics. Tony goes into a frenzy washing sheets and cleaning the upstairs room for Philly. He’s very excited. Even though we moved to Melbourne we still only see the girls about once a year. To catch up with both of them in two weeks in Provence is actually quite odd but very serendipitous.
We’re on tenterhooks until the text message arrives telling us that she will arrive on the 10.33 from Marseilles and can we pick her up at Nimes….we needn’t have bothered about supper but at least now we know. I cook dinner early and Tony goes to have a nap. The sky is darkening and there are ominous rumblings in the distance. But it won’t rain. Robert, who has lived here his entire life, says so.
At 7pm the storm breaks - The thunder is loud enough to burst eardrums and the lightning show is spectacular….much more impressive than quatorze Juillet fireworks could ever be:- But it doesn’t rain…..Until…..
The deluge opens up at about 7.30 and it’s time to get out a hammer and nails and build an ark. Sorry Robert - mother nature is poking her tongue out at you. I’m reminded of the floods five years ago and there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that we will be flooded in and Phillipa will be left waiting at Nimes station wondering why we never came. The power goes off and I search for emergency supplies of candles. There is still just enough light for me to see things but the sky is getting blacker and the rain ever heavier. A huge thunderclap wakes Tony and he finds me on the terrace still gob smacked by the lightning show. I’m worried about him driving in this torrent but the storm can’t last very long - can it?
By 8.30 we decide to drive to Nimes together - no sense in sitting in a dark house alone for hours and so we take off. Only people on a mission ( like us) or complete idiots, are out on the roads, a solid sheet of water follows us all the way. Just before the Nimes turnoff I take a call on Tony’s mobile. It’s Philly - The Nimes trains from Marseilles are cancelled and she’s coming into Avignon…. Which is about 40kms from Uzes. We change direction but the storm is determined to stay with us. By 10pm we reach Avignon and the storm has been raging for 3 hours and shows no sign of stopping. Phillipa is quite emotional at seeing us and Tony melts and hugs her for a long time. She chats away all the way home and brings us up to speed, but a sideward glance shows me that Beloved is feeling the tension of the drive and is a lot less confident than he sounds with thunder and lightning doing in his head and the rain making visibility negligible. But years of rally driving have made him an exceptionally good driver and we reach Bourdiguet without mishap.
The power is still off - though the single street light in the alleyway is working. We light six candles, drink mineral water ( it doesn’t even occur to us to boil water on the stove for a cuppa) and raid the fridge, scoffing pate, Roquefort with fig jam and cold chick all with fresh bread. At midnight, the storm starts to abate. It’s worn itself out with five hours of spectacular fury and we are all still standing so, grumbling away and with the occasional flash, it makes it’s way back to the storm storage shed until another day.
Walking into our bedroom we realise that the roof has leaked badly in two places and there are huge pools of water on the wooden floors. Tony paddles through it and collapses on the bed. He’s soon asleep, but Philly and I sit up and talk till after 1am. It’s so good to see her and realise what a marvellous young woman she has grown into. She takes a candle and the tiny torch to light her way to bed. Beloved has left a lighted candle on my nightstand so I can find my way and I take another candle to the bedroom and try to do Sudoku by candlelight but without success. The rain has eased to a light shower and the wet earth smells wonderful. Everything is clean and alive and there’s the novelty of a cool chill in the night air that makes me pull a doona over my feet. I blow out the candles and snuggle into Tony’s back and drift away. Great day.
47/20 - JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUNFLOWER
Saturday July 31st.
Today I am a sunflower. No, really. I have this long kaftan - it’s Georgette and it is bright golden yellow with some abstract flashes of burnt orange and dark forest green. I never wear it, except for once on our honeymoon nearly six years ago, because beloved doesn’t like kaftans. But I slipped it on this morning and discovered Tony got ponchos and kaftans mixed up - and he LOVES it ( but still hates ponchos!). I feel like the world’s biggest sun flower but the colours are soooo Provence and it is wonderfully cool. So, at Tony’s suggestion I wear it out. It’s market day in Uzes. That’s a big thing in this part of the world. Unlike the fiasco of last Saturday, this time we are prepared and go early. I stand out in these colours - they’re hardly subtle - and a seller at the flower stall holds up a bunch of sunflowers and says “C’st le meme coleur.” and smiles. Er ….yep….exactly what I thought.
The Uzes market is a sensory overload. Because the medieval city is round, the place des herbes - the town square - is right at its centre. Today it houses all the food stalls. There are entire stalls dedicated to herbs and spices……not the type you buy in cellophane packets in the supermarket. There are more kinds of salami than you could possible imagine and a bread stall with at least forty kinds of bread. Another stall has only lavendar…..mostly dried….. In varying shades and even some pink and white. Just gorgeous. The colours and smells are overwhelming and I snap away with the camera for everyone back home. Kelly wants a china Cicada….it’s the symbol of Provence….but I can’t find one that I think is just right for her. Mostly French children are well behaved but there is one throwing such a tantrum that her screams can be heard through the entire town. Tony says “cricket bat job” though he’d never raise a hand, let alone a bat, to anyone. We drink coffee at our regular haunt and browse the other stalls, mostly clothes and tablecloths. A hurdy gurdy man is cranking out a tune and the little city is full of life…as it has been for over a thousand years. It’s magical experience but I buy nothing except a melon and some Roquefort Noir. Back home we have it spread on bread with fig jam….another sensation…this time an assault on the taste buds.
It’s uncomfortably hot. The locals predict a storm in the next day or two and I am reminded of how we were flooded in at Nimes at roughly the same time 5 years ago. With no breeze and little relief from the small electric fan we bought, we crash out on the bed. The sunflower dress wilts on the floor.
Today I am a sunflower. No, really. I have this long kaftan - it’s Georgette and it is bright golden yellow with some abstract flashes of burnt orange and dark forest green. I never wear it, except for once on our honeymoon nearly six years ago, because beloved doesn’t like kaftans. But I slipped it on this morning and discovered Tony got ponchos and kaftans mixed up - and he LOVES it ( but still hates ponchos!). I feel like the world’s biggest sun flower but the colours are soooo Provence and it is wonderfully cool. So, at Tony’s suggestion I wear it out. It’s market day in Uzes. That’s a big thing in this part of the world. Unlike the fiasco of last Saturday, this time we are prepared and go early. I stand out in these colours - they’re hardly subtle - and a seller at the flower stall holds up a bunch of sunflowers and says “C’st le meme coleur.” and smiles. Er ….yep….exactly what I thought.
The Uzes market is a sensory overload. Because the medieval city is round, the place des herbes - the town square - is right at its centre. Today it houses all the food stalls. There are entire stalls dedicated to herbs and spices……not the type you buy in cellophane packets in the supermarket. There are more kinds of salami than you could possible imagine and a bread stall with at least forty kinds of bread. Another stall has only lavendar…..mostly dried….. In varying shades and even some pink and white. Just gorgeous. The colours and smells are overwhelming and I snap away with the camera for everyone back home. Kelly wants a china Cicada….it’s the symbol of Provence….but I can’t find one that I think is just right for her. Mostly French children are well behaved but there is one throwing such a tantrum that her screams can be heard through the entire town. Tony says “cricket bat job” though he’d never raise a hand, let alone a bat, to anyone. We drink coffee at our regular haunt and browse the other stalls, mostly clothes and tablecloths. A hurdy gurdy man is cranking out a tune and the little city is full of life…as it has been for over a thousand years. It’s magical experience but I buy nothing except a melon and some Roquefort Noir. Back home we have it spread on bread with fig jam….another sensation…this time an assault on the taste buds.
It’s uncomfortably hot. The locals predict a storm in the next day or two and I am reminded of how we were flooded in at Nimes at roughly the same time 5 years ago. With no breeze and little relief from the small electric fan we bought, we crash out on the bed. The sunflower dress wilts on the floor.
46/21 - BUSY DOING NOTHING
Friday July 30th
Doing nothing actually heightens your senses. No , really. Despite all that is said about keeping active, exercising your brain, mind power etc, doing absolutely nothing brings a different perception into focus.
I have always been able to lose myself in the moment when I am doing SOMETHING. Sometimes dangerously so. When I’m writing I am completely in the place I am creating, with no sense of time or place in the real world. My time frame is the script’s time frame. I don’t return to “real time” until the script is finished. It is an out of body, out of life experience where fantasy is reality. It’s interesting that writers have more autistic children than any other profession, but not surprising when you analyse it. When you are a writer, rather than someone who writes, it is much like autism - creating an alternative reality to function within.
Most of us have to concentrate on SOMETHING to do nothing. Even those who meditate usually have a mantra or a mandala or something to focus on. If anything breaks the focus, they are back to reality in a nanosecond.
This morning I realised I had been doing absolutely nothing for some hours….not daydreaming even. It was an unconscious meditation where time passed and I was in the world but not of it. The result was astonishing on the return to reality. I could see a hawk in the far distance and hear a jet plane that was out of sight….merely a tiny contrail in the sky.
When we drove to Uzes my senses were bombarded by things I might never have noticed. The long shadows of six pencil cedars against a medieval wall….a huge spider’s web horizontal between wheat stalks…..a flock of white birds - doves - though my first thought of course was cockatoos. I thought what brilliant photos Kelly would have taken of them…she is a gifted photographer where as I am hopeless. Kelly takes photographs for herself….anything that interests her. I do that with my eyes…the image stays etched in my mind but it doesn’t occur to me to reach for the camera. I take photos for other people to see - typical tourist shots. Just awful. My memory is far more artistic.
Bourdiguet now has official status! It happened while we were in spain. We were warned before we came that we would not find the village on the map or the satnav - but now there is actually a road sign outside of Aigaliers which says Bourdiguet 3 kms. And a larger sign as you enter the village. In truth the village is a collection of about 10 houses - most of which belonged to the old farm, and a couple of new builds. No shop, no post office, no school…. No nothing. I hope now there won’t be a rush of - say - four or five people wanting to enlarge the village.
Today we went to the local pool and swam. Impeccably clean, the water was a balmy 24C - comfortable after the 35C temperature outside the water. We swam for a couple of hours and then went home to sleep. This few days is all about US being together. I can’t remember what we ate…or if we ate - and I am drinking gallons of water; over the wine for the time being. We watched some of the athletics. Life is very gentle and beautiful right now.
Doing nothing actually heightens your senses. No , really. Despite all that is said about keeping active, exercising your brain, mind power etc, doing absolutely nothing brings a different perception into focus.
I have always been able to lose myself in the moment when I am doing SOMETHING. Sometimes dangerously so. When I’m writing I am completely in the place I am creating, with no sense of time or place in the real world. My time frame is the script’s time frame. I don’t return to “real time” until the script is finished. It is an out of body, out of life experience where fantasy is reality. It’s interesting that writers have more autistic children than any other profession, but not surprising when you analyse it. When you are a writer, rather than someone who writes, it is much like autism - creating an alternative reality to function within.
Most of us have to concentrate on SOMETHING to do nothing. Even those who meditate usually have a mantra or a mandala or something to focus on. If anything breaks the focus, they are back to reality in a nanosecond.
This morning I realised I had been doing absolutely nothing for some hours….not daydreaming even. It was an unconscious meditation where time passed and I was in the world but not of it. The result was astonishing on the return to reality. I could see a hawk in the far distance and hear a jet plane that was out of sight….merely a tiny contrail in the sky.
When we drove to Uzes my senses were bombarded by things I might never have noticed. The long shadows of six pencil cedars against a medieval wall….a huge spider’s web horizontal between wheat stalks…..a flock of white birds - doves - though my first thought of course was cockatoos. I thought what brilliant photos Kelly would have taken of them…she is a gifted photographer where as I am hopeless. Kelly takes photographs for herself….anything that interests her. I do that with my eyes…the image stays etched in my mind but it doesn’t occur to me to reach for the camera. I take photos for other people to see - typical tourist shots. Just awful. My memory is far more artistic.
Bourdiguet now has official status! It happened while we were in spain. We were warned before we came that we would not find the village on the map or the satnav - but now there is actually a road sign outside of Aigaliers which says Bourdiguet 3 kms. And a larger sign as you enter the village. In truth the village is a collection of about 10 houses - most of which belonged to the old farm, and a couple of new builds. No shop, no post office, no school…. No nothing. I hope now there won’t be a rush of - say - four or five people wanting to enlarge the village.
Today we went to the local pool and swam. Impeccably clean, the water was a balmy 24C - comfortable after the 35C temperature outside the water. We swam for a couple of hours and then went home to sleep. This few days is all about US being together. I can’t remember what we ate…or if we ate - and I am drinking gallons of water; over the wine for the time being. We watched some of the athletics. Life is very gentle and beautiful right now.
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