July 4th Revisited

I wrote this article on the 4th of July, 2009 during what was to be my first and last year in France and decided it was a good day to reprint it.  It's amazing to me that this is my 5th Independence Day as a resident of France. Apparently the coffee klatch is not over! Today, we watched the 6th leg of the Tour de France depart from Aix en Provence and it's an exciting day. I thanked all the French people around me for organizing such a fun party just for us Americans. And tonight I'm making burgers on the grill for a few of us expats, who, though we've chosen to leave our country for various reasons,  still consider her number one in our hearts. Happy Independence Day Americans. And as my cousin Joe reminded me, the French were instrumental in our victory so long ago. So it's my turn to say, thank you France.

I have spent many important days away from my home base. I have missed family birthdays, I have been absent for the birth of friends’ babies, and the funerals of loved ones. I have spent Christmas in the Caribbean, Easter in England, and Thanksgiving in Canada.  Being away at such times is never easy.

But as I was contemplating what to do on Saturday, I realized that I have never in my entire life spent the 4^th of July outside of my own country. And when you’re not in the U.S. on this particular day, you really celebrate alone.

Generally on the 4^th of July, I spend the weekend with family at my mother’s cabin in Northern Wisconsin, or I spend it camping with close friends. Either way, it involves food, beverage, chatter, camaraderie, fireworks and a day off work.  Not always however, has it involved much reflection. I mean, let’s face it. We all sometimes tend to take for granted what we have and how we came to get it.

So on this day, as I made an arrangement of white flowers in a blue Provencal pitcher and stuck my tiny American flag in it, I thought about my country, which I have chosen to leave for awhile, and what I love about it and what others love (or don’t love) about it.

The French love to TALK about everything and everywhere you go you hear them discussing politics, religion, art, music and philosophy. This is one of the things I find charming about them and also something I find very frustrating at times. However, the subject of my country has come up often and I am always curious to hear their thoughts even if I don’t agree with everything that is said. There is always value in discourse, isn’t there?

Of course there are criticisms of the U.S., some valid and some more a result of the caricature of the United States built on the back of American films, television and media coverage.

The general criticism of my country is its arrogance. The way America and Americans often seem to think that no matter where we are in the world, it belongs to us.

We are sometimes referred to (not kindly) as “les gendarmes du la monde” or policemen of the world.

They think we are a consuming monster much of the time (And we are. I am continually amazed by the way people here manage with tiny cars, smaller homes, less land, fewer belongings and clothes and how they have succeeded in incorporating so many energy saving tricks in their daily lives).

Some think we’re bossy, egotistical, warmongering and secluded and uninformed about the rest of the world.

All of these criticisms hold some grain of truth…some more than others (as do our criticisms of the French) but that’s not what I want to write about. That's another article. Today I want to think about what is loved about where I come from.

So what do they love about us? In fact, they love a lot of things, even if they don’t always admit it (a French friend of mine says they’re just jealous). They love our spirit and our exuberance and attitude that all things are possible. They are thankful for our strength (on D-Day a French friend called me just to say thank you) and they love our inventiveness and our entrepreneurship.

Another French friend of mine likened his country and the rest of Europe to “an elderly person”. I, in turn, compared my country to a teenager. Those of you who have had teenagers (at least teenage boys, which are my only experience) know of what I speak. They eat all the time, they take long, water and heat consuming showers, they sleep too long, stay up too late, they bounce off the walls and trip over their own feet. They are egocentric and not always very cognizant of how their actions affect others and what kind of havoc they can cause in their wake.  They are always right. They have a short history and though on the verge of adulthood, they don’t always have the wisdom of years. 

On the other hand, they are excited about something all the time, they are full of ideas and hope, they are sure they can accomplish all of their grandiose ideas, no matter how off the wall they might seem. No is not a word they seem to understand nor is “you can’t do that” or ” that’s not possible”. They are physically strong and are still not really sure of the best way to use that power. But they have faith that their future is promising and bright. They are both charming and hateful but completely lovable.

I have come from a country that is still experiencing its teens. With all the charms and foibles that accompany those burgeoning years. And right now I’m visiting an elderly neighbor. You know the one…. you love to visit her home and share coffee and a pastry. You chat and listen to the stories of days gone by and look at her collections of old, beautiful things. You love to hear about what she’s learned through the years and you hope to gain wisdom from her mistakes and her triumphs. You listen patiently (but you’re slightly annoyed) as she explains how things used to be and how uncultured today’s generation is. You agree in many ways but you also know that today’s generation has it’s own wonderful and unique qualities that you wouldn’t trade for anything. You nod your head and smile because she is delightful and wise in many ways, in spite of  some of her exasperating opinions.

But sometimes, she just spends a lot of time complaining about almost everything, seems a little resigned to the way things have turned out and she talks a lot but doesn’t seem to get much done.

So I’m still having coffee at the neighbor’s. I’m having a lovely time and enjoying every minute of it and our conversation is not over yet. But the life that I know, back in the good, old US of A, is still the one I will return to…after the coffee klatch is over. And when that time comes, it will be good to be home.

                                                        

Dommage

The visitor season has begun. And though it's not a long one this year, my visitors are arriving back to back. So in the few hours in between, I'm washing sheets, toilets and my hair (yes, in that order) and trying to put some order back into the refrigerator.

Last week, I picked up my friend Judy from the Marseille airport. I haven't been to Terminal One since last fall and this time I was greeted by a nasty surprise. Gone is the little coffee bistro where you could get yourself a tiny cup of coffee and perhaps a pastry. I don't even think they had sandwiches. Nonetheless, it was a typical cafe and well within the ambiance that should greet visitors as they arrive in France.

However, all that has changed. The bistro is gone and in its place they've built this.

And if you want a cup of coffee, you've now got this.

Both are a bad idea in my opinion and it never ceases to amaze me why nobody asks ME before they embark on projects such as this. This is like the 'malling of America' only worse.  C'est tellement dommage. It's really too bad.

My friend and business partner, Libby, is on the train from Paris as I write this and I'll be picking her up at the TGV station in a few hours. I know they've been doing some work on the interior. I hope I'm not going to be greeted with any more horrible surprises.

Have a great week,

Cubism

The first time I saw a box of wine in France, I was shocked. SHOCKED!

Boxed wine in France? This is an aberration. It can't be true!

I was at a village picnic and I was told to go get myself a glass of wine at the beverage table set up in the field. This was my first summer here and certainly my first village picnic. You can probably imagine what my visions were, but just to make it clear, it involved buckets and buckets of chilling bottles of wine, refracting the rays of the late afternoon sunshine...blah...blah…blah.

Sort of like this.

Except it wasn't.

Instead, what I found on the long, plastic table were boxes of white, red and rosé, lined up like soldiers along the table's edge. The villagers, who obviously were not shocked about this outrageous oddity had brought pitchers along with their picnic and continuously passed by the table to fill and refill as the evening went on. If truth be told, the more I poured from our table's pitcher, the more I found the whole thing kind of charming. And the wine was actually good.

So yes, sorry to break it to you, but French people do drink boxed wine, or a cubi as they call it. To prove it, here's the aisle of Rosé at the supermarché. This being the beginning of Rosé season, they're well stocked.

Red and white fans have a pretty good selection as well.

Of course, these are generally not the high end varieties, but even our low and medium end can be pretty damned good. The advantages are, as with all boxed wine, it's cheaper, it lasts for 6 weeks, or so they tell me, and you can drink a glass or two at a time without losing the rest of the bottle. This is also hearsay, since I'll be damned if I'm going to ever let half a bottle go to waste

My last box sat on my kitchen counter for a day or two, but then I hid it from myself.

Too much of a good thing is, well, just too much. And this one turned out to be not so great. The giant Hyper U symbol on the side might have been my first clue! That is the negative side of boxed wine. If you don't like it ,you've got 3 to 5 litres to finish before you get to try something else.

But if you liked it, and after you've removed the bladder from the box and squeezed out every last drop (my friend Holly has experimented extensively with the bladder squeeze and says there is always another glass and 3/4 left in the bag) the effect can be rather tragic.

Isn't this just a sad photo?

 Poor, broken down, shell of a bag.

Now if boxed wine isn't to your liking, we also have wine fill-in stations.  I'm not kidding! Take your plastic 5 litre jug to the local wine co-op which you'll find in every other village,  and they'll fill it up with their table wine variety in any color.

This has to be consumed or bottled pretty quickly since it won't last more than a day or two but it's great for a party and it amuses the hell out of my visitors. 

My box of wine is gone, consumed during a long and very late table conversation which probably wouldn't have been nearly so long and late if I hadn't had that ginormous box of wine. I think for now, at least until visitor season starts in two weeks, I'll stick with bottles. It's safer. 

Something Old, Something New

Once again, welcome to another self-promoting blog post of the shameless variety. 

If you've ever clicked on the button over on the side of my blog, called Provence Rugs, you'll know that I have an Internet store that sells handmade rugs and accessories from the south of France. 

Today we're announcing new products and hope you'll take the time to check them out. New in our line-up of cool, French stuff are table linens, as in

 placemats….

napkins...

and tablecloths.

All featuring our beautiful, French cotton fabric and all (mostly) made in the U.S. of A.

My favorite feature in our new product selection is the Brocante. This is because this gives me a great excuse to scour the Brocante markets here in France. Okay, I do that anyway but this gives me an excuse to buy as much as I want! This month we're featuring vintage, linen dishtowels which are a hot item 

and will probably be gone before I get back to the states in a week with a suitcase full of new treasures. Namely, luxurious linen, vintage monogrammed sheets. Here's a sneak peak. Drum roll please…...

I can't even tell you how hard it is for me to sell these new finds.

Please push that gigantic, yellow button over to the right of my blog and do a little window shopping. Or you can click here. Don't be afraid to buy…it's the giving season you know!

* * * * *

And while I'm self-promoting, I want to mention that someone has nominated me for the

 ExpatsBlog.com Top blog award. I don't really know what that means, but if you like my blog (particularly on non shameless self-promotion days) and have a moment, head on over there and write something glowing about it. I would like that very much.

Okay. I think I'm done. 

From here on out, I'll be back to my vie quotidienne.

I promise.

Thanks for hanging in there with me!

French Feline Affliction

Meet Arthur the Cat. 

He's chronically stressed.

I'm sure you can see how stressed he is.

Poor guy.

This is basically Arthur's life. He eats, he sleeps in the sun, he snuggles up next to me at night. And then he starts all over again.

Oh yeah, and he travels a lot.

And I travel a lot.

Which is apparently what is causing all this terrible stress.

When we were staying at the mansion at the end of the summer, Arthur saved me from 2 near-deadly bats attacks on 2 separate occasions. Simple as pie. I duck out while bat is flying around looking to kill me, I shut the door leaving Arthur to the wolves, and he apparently (though we shall never know because the door is shut) jumps up and grabs killer bat and brings him out to me within 1 minute, not quite dead. More as a squirmy, little, evil, present. You'd never know Arthur was a city cat. I was so proud.

But after "the bat incidents" I took Arthur to the vétérinaire because I figured I probably needed to bring him up to date on his shots. Bat rabies and all that.  The vet took one look at him and announced that Arthur was stressed.

I said, "of course he his, I shoved him head first into his kitty carrier, descended 3 flights of stairs, walked half a mile to the parking garage, put him in the car, left him in the car while I stopped at the grocery, and then brought him here. He's not laying in the sun this afternoon. That's why he's stressed."

No, she said, look at his stomach and his butt. He doesn't have any hair. He's licking it off. Watch him. This is chronic stress. Has there been something stressful in his life lately?

To self: "Well, he's French. The French are more stressed and depressed than anybody in the world. I'm sure it's that French thing. You know, 35 hour work weeks, affordable health care, 8 plus weeks of vacation a year. French cats probably take on all that French stress."

To her: "Well yeah, but he's like that sometimes. He was partially plucked when I rescued him from the Cat Refuge. And he's always slightly bald after I've been away. Or when he has to go away. Or when the two of us go away together. 

Have you been away much?

Let's see…this year? Ummmmnn…United States for a month, The Seychelles for 2 weeks, Switzerland for two weeks, England for a week, United States again for 7 weeks, Morocco for 4 days and, of course, several weekend trips. But he has really good babysitters. Lots and lots of really good babysitters. And he started obsessively bathing when we went to the mansion as well, and he was so content there.

"He's stressed. Cats are territorial and change is really hard on them."

Big bout of animal owner guilt. What have I done to this poor cat? Oh my, I'm going to have to find a better owner for him; one more deserving?  I can't stand to do that. I need him. He needs me.

Then I looked down at Arthur, sitting on the floor of the clinic, eyes nodding in half-sleep, which is apparently the way he looks when he's stressed…and when he's not, and said out loud, "get over it".

Oops, did I say that? Yep, I did. Get over it, Arthur. You've got a great life, you've met lots of wonderful people who generally like you unless they hate cats or are allergic to them. You get fed the best food there is, you have your own cat terrace complete with wicker chair and cat cushion, and you rule over all the other roof cats on the block. You sleep under down comforters and on down pillows, you have a cache of kitty toys and occasionally bats to play with and you're the only cat I know that goes on vacation every year to live in an 18th century manor house with your own 300 year old kitty door. For god's sakes, we all refer to you as King Arthur. So…just…get…over it!

I talk a tough game, but in the end I spent more on that damned, stressed cat than I have this entire year on my own health care. We now have natural medicines to help him feel more comfortable and a lovely little kitty pheromone diffuser that not only cost me at the outset and every month thereafter, but also uses expensive electricity to release calming voodoo into the air wherever he may be staying or whenever he is stressed, which is, apparently, always.

As I exited with all my expensive, guilt induced medicines, I asked the vet if there was such a thing as a pheronome diffuser for people. 

She said, "No, sadly not. Because French people could really use them."

ba dum bum!

Foot in Mouth

I've eaten all sorts of things here in France that I would never touch when I lived in the states. I was never a particularly picky eater but I'm not really into raw anything for instance. But since my arrival here, I've eaten raw oysters, raw mussels, raw snails, raw beef, raw fish, all sorts of fish eggs, raw chicken eggs and raw sea urchins. (In case you're wondering, one uses malt vinegar on raw mussels and lemon juice on raw oysters.) Mind you, I have not said I like all these items but I have voluntarily put them in my mouth.

I've tried blood sausage, partaken in pigeon, I regularly eat lamb and duck which I just didn't care for all that much in the states, and I adore a good foie gras.  I've explained before some of the odd (gross) stuff that people eat here in the south of France. And the anxiety is….okay, the dread is that I'll be actually expected to eat some of this stuff.

The moment of truth came last weekend. I was at a large dinner party, the sole American amidst a group of born and bred Marseillaise. All was going well. Too well. The hors d'oevres, though at times curious, were all things I've put in my mouth before. The champagne flowed and with it my ability to get along in conversation with very little trouble, in spite of some very thick Marseille accents. But there was a decidedly odd smell in the room. The smell of doom.

We were all seated and the hostess came to the table with a colossal caste iron pot, opened it up to serve and amidst all the oohs, ahs and ooh la las, my throat closed up as I recognized what was in the pot. It was the dreaded, disgusting, oh-my-I-could-never-in-my-life-eat-something-like-that, pieds et paquets (feet and packages)

I've explained these before but for a refresher, they are a mixture of sheep feet and little packages of sheep stomach (tripe) filled with some sort of stuffing which are cooked in a tomato based sauce. Here's a lovely, appetizing photo of these delicacies before they get to the pot.

What to do? The hostess saw the look on my face in spite of my best efforts to hide it. She said, "these are a little special. Would you like to try them?  Otherwise, I can find something else". Eleven sets of eyes stared at me (maybe they weren't but it felt like it). My mind batted the options back and forth in rapid fire. Do I risk offending the hostess by refusing? That would put me in the weeny American category.  Do I risk eating them and possibly vomiting at the table? George Bush, le père, vomited once while eating with the Japanese Prime Minister and his life went on. I could just go hide in the bathroom but I'd have to stay there a long time and french toilettes are so tiny. In the end, I really didn't feel there was a choice; I had to go down with the ship.

I said, "Of course, I'd love to try them. But not too much please. I ate too many hors d'oevres."  She FILLED my plate and I grabbed several hunks of bread to help push them down and asked for more wine.

I took a tiny, delicate bite. Hey, not bad. I took another as somebody began to explain exactly what it was it that I was eating. The hostess stopped him and said "after...it's better to explain after". He didn't need to explain, I already knew. But in fact, I enjoyed them very much as long as I didn't think about what it was I was eating. I can't say the same for the feet, which are cooked long enough so that the hoofs and bones sort of congeal. Eew! The texture was a little far more than I could handle. I tried them but left the remainder on my plate and in order to make amends for my bad manners, I asked for seconds on the paquets and ate them with a certain theatrical gusto.

I believe I won some brownie points for my handling of the situation because afterwards a few people asked me what I really thought. When I explained that I honestly liked the paquets but simply could not handle the texture of the feet, several people agreed with me and said they skip them as well. Well, now you all tell me! It's just too much fun to mess with the American, isn't it?  I was also informed that this dish can often be crucified if the cook doesn't know what she or he is doing and this particular hostess is know for her excellent pieds and paquets. So at least my baptism by fire was overseen by someone with experience in pyrotechnics.

I can assure you I won't be making this Provençal treat anytime soon chez moi but I consider it one more culinary adventure under my belt. And it didn't come back up! Yesterday at lunch I was served little, tiny octopuses on a salad. I don't know if they were cooked but they were marinated in something which turned them a sort of rosy red. I cautiously popped the whole thing in my mouth, head and all, clamped down and began to chew…and chew….and chew. After all that masticating with no perceived value for my palate, I'm now adding whole, marinated octopus to the list of things I don't need to eat again. This list includes congealed sheep feet and raw snails. Somewhere along the line, a girl's just gotta have limits.

I would love to hear what sorts of weird things you've eaten and if they were worth the effort.

P.S. To all my American friends, please don't neglect your voting privilege today. We can't ever take that for granted.

P.P.S. There's a sale going on over at Provence Rugs and new items coming in this week. Check it out!

Blood Red

If you were to visit my apartment at this moment you would most likely recoil in horror, possibly vomit, and then call the police. A massacre has obviously occurred and the victim did not go down without a fight. The evidence is everywhere...blood on the floor, the cupboards, the toaster, the stove, even the ceiling. The perp wore an apron during her bloody deed, the evidence of her crime permanently stained in it's fibers and the towels she used in an attempt to clean up the site still sit in a bloody heap on the floor. Then, obviously pleased (or shaken) by her villainy, this beast helped herself to 2 bottles of vodka, a bottle of brandy, a bottle of eau de vie, and a bottle of a very nice Côtes de Bourg, the empty bottles still sitting on the floor.

There seems to be no victim.

 All that has been left behind is this tableau on the kitchen counter.

Yeah, we've already established that I'm a whirling dervish in the kitchen and nothing comes from my kitchen without the accompanying mayhem that I can't seem to avoid. It really does look as if a crime has been committed in my cuisine. That's because I spent this past rainy weekend trying to eliminate transform my freshly picked 18 1/2 pounds of cherries into....well, into cherry liqueur, alchohalised cherries, cherry preserves and a dismal attempt at clafoutis.

Thursday I was invited to my friend Saro's house to celebrate Claire's (my friend and her daughter)  birthday. The event coincided with cherry picking time and Saro's trees were full.

 I arrived with a giant, empty basket, mostly as a joke. I left with this.

Then began the messy (for me) job of what to do with all this delicious, exquisite fruit. I was suffering from a permanent stomachache from eating so many straight off the tree so I made a list of everything I wanted to make, bought all that was necessary to get the job done...including this fabulous device that pits cherries at the speed of light....and settled in for the weekend.

I started with Cherry Liqueur, recipe courtesy of my friend Marcia. 

1 1/2 lbs red cherries, with pits,no stems

1 1/2-2 cups sugar, sweeten to taste

2 1/2 cups vodka

1 cup brandy

Mix vodka, brandy and sugar in a large glass measure or medium mixing bowl; stir well to dissolve. Cut each washed cherry slightly to open, leave in pits. Place cherries in two sterile, quart wide mouth jars or one larger aging container. Pour liquid mixture over cherries; stir and cap with tight lids. For the first two weeks, shake jars several times. Let age in a cool, dark place for at least 3 months for best flavor. Strain off liqueur through a wire mesh strainer and discard cherries. Re bottle as desired. Liqueur is ready in 3 months

Next, following the theme, which seems to be cherries AND alcohol, I made

 Cerises à l'Eau de Vie

This recipe came from Monica...I adore the videos she makes with her grandson. And her hands.

They remind me of my grandmother's hands.

I can't wait to bite into one of these potent little morsels when they're ready...in about 6 months!

Still more cherries so I moved on to Cherry Preserves, thank you David Lebovitz, and since there was a little Brandy left over and since this was theme weekend, I added that to the jam.

I'm not even going to talk about the miserably failed clafoutis. Perhaps I should put in a call to Monica to learn how to REALLY make this traditional french dessert.

And then....and then...the cherries were all gone. How can this be? I still want to make Cherry Compote, Cherry Crumble, Pickled Cherries and more jam. None of which include alcohol, by the way. Luckily Saro called and said we have to come back. They've picked and eaten, picked and frozen, picked and given away, and the trees still have fruit to offer. So as soon as the rain lets up, I'm on my way back with my empty basket. And hopefully I'll get to spend another weekend in the kitchen. I'll try, I'll really try, to do it more neatly this time!

Home Sweet Home

Yesterday was an at-home day. Except for the 3 hours in the morning that the entire quarter was without electricity. Nobody knows why and nobody was notified in advance but we assume it was because of the work being done down the street.  When I left the dark apartment to go to the market, all the merchants were standing outside their similarly dark stores, smoking cigarettes and shooting the breeze, occasionally glancing up the street for any clues as to the problem, and then shrugging their shoulders while continuing their extended coffee break (without the coffee because nobody could make it). Nobody seemed too worked up about it.

I caught these two next door, outside their dim apartment doing much the same thing.

During those dark hours, I took off for the market to purchase the finishing touches for the summer terrace. It is finished, I am content and apero will be served tonight at 7.

But while working around the apartment today, I had time to notice some odd things in my building. I don't know its age, I just know this building is old. At least old in American terms. I've tried to do research on the street and my building in particular but I can't seem to find much. I have found references to the street, called Rue du Puits Neuf (Street of the New Well) as far back as the 14th century and I've been told that the shutters in my bedroom are at least 400 years old. So at it's youngest, this places my building's birth somewhere before the founding of Jamestown in Virginia.

The apartments in my building are situated around a very tiny court that I pass by to get in and out. I pay little attention to it because it's dark, damp, and sometimes very...stinky.

Once in awhile, Arthur-the-cat likes to escape the apartment, run down the stairs and gallivant around the court as if it's his own personal playpen. Yesterday, he made his move and I found him over in the corner, using some sort of stone basin for a litter box. As I chased him out, I took a closer look at the basin.

I'd never seen it before because it's hidden by the bike that nobody EVER uses. It looked very similar to basins I've seen near ancient, public water sources so I checked out the fenced area behind it. I had always thought it to be some sort of platform or planter. But, in fact, it is a well . Yes, an open well! I don't know about you, but I find this fascinating. I didn't realize that old buildings had their very own wells.  Unless....unless...this is The Puits Neuf of medieval times and the building was actually built around it later.  I'm just making this all up but it IS a possibility and I really must find out. Of course, in the states, a pit of danger like this would have been filled in and covered long ago.

And while we're on the subject of plumbing...sort of....I want you to check out my bathroom. At least the outside of it. This is how it looks across the court from my kitchen window. 

The bathroom is, of course, a tiny bit bigger than that but this little triangle holds the toilet. And yes, with that pipe running out the bottom of it, everyone in the building is aware when I'm using it. Now this could possibly be an addition to the building, because, of course,  there was generally no indoor plumbing at the time it was built. But on closer inspection yesterday, I could see that the beams that support it are original. So perhaps it was some sort of version of the first toilet which actually was invented at that time and used more in France than other countries. Probably not, but this is my story. 

That being said, yesterday as I was staring at the bathroom from my kitchen window I noticed something. Something which is a little worrisome.

Can you see that big crack on the side? The one that seems to have been repaired over and over? Yeah, that one. There's another one on the other side...and another BIG one inside the bathroom. All I can say is, if I eat any more French cheese, there is a strong chance that one day they're going to find me, pants around my ankles, at the bottom of that deep dark well. Tell me, how does one take precautions against this particular disaster?

I just hope it doesn't happen today. Because it's Friday. And that apero on the terrace starts in 2 hours.

Bon week-end à tous,

P.S. I really am interested in finding out more about my neighborhood and my building. It's probably more interesting than making up my own stories. If anybody can point me in the right direction, I'd appreciate it.

Wisdom of the Ages

Never let a Birthmonth go by without announcing it. That is my motto. My birthday is on the last day of April. Which gives me until the 29th of May to celebrate. I learned this trick from my friend Marcie whose birthday is in mid-October. She begins Birthmonth the first of the month, celebrates until the last day and revels in every moment of it. Sometimes she goes even longer if she feels like it. In fact, she takes a lot of liberties with her Birthday. On her 29th she decided to have an colossal party and sent invitations to everyone she liked or had even liked for a moment. But when I received the invitation I realized it was for a 30th Birthday party.  I called her on it, sure that she was only 6 months older than I, and also quite sure how old I was at the moment. She said that she'd decided to save her 29th birthday until she felt she really needed it.  I always loved the way this woman thinks.

And I love my Birthday (Birthday is capitalized like Labor Day or Christmas) and everyone knows it. It's a celebration of being alive and I just don't understand why that shouldn't be everyone's most important holiday of the year.  If it weren't for my birthday, or yours,  there would be absolutely nothing else to celebrate, right? But there is always a bit of disappointment surrounding it because...nobody has a parade for me. I know. Completely unreasonable and I've never held a parade for anyone else's birthday so what do I really expect? But still. 

Yes, I have to admit that sometimes on my birthday I get a little depressed. I don't think it's age that bothers me. In fact, I don't really know what it is but if I'm not careful, it will creep up on me. So I've learned to try to mindfully anticipate the day. I mean, it's my birthday so it's up to me. This year I bought myself a bouquet of pink peonies the day before and shined up my fuzzy pink tiara. I painted my nails and toes to match both. I accepted an invitation for myself and my friend Tenley to go up to Holly's house in the Luberon Valley. And I went to bed with expectation.

I woke up to pouring, dismal rain and I felt down and tired. Tenley called to cancel because she felt the same way. I too was at the point of erasing the day because as it went on I felt worse.... even ill.  

But suddenly there came a moment when I asked myself, "what would Marcie do?"

Well, she sure as hell wouldn't mope around on her birthday, that's for sure. And I can also hear her say, as I have so many times,  "I don't have time to be sick". She would take matters into her own hands with her usual joy of living.  So I sent Tenley a text and told her that, yes, the day sucked but we might as well all be together while it sucked. She saw the logic in this and agreed to go.  I bought a cake, packed an overnight bag and off we went.

And thanks to the wisdom of my dear friend Marcie, I was treated to a lovely soirée with friends and had the opportunity to see an evening sky like this. (honest, this is not photoshopped)

In the morning it was still beautiful.

I went to a vide grenier (village rummage sale) in the lovely village of Grambois.

I filled my aging belly with a giant American style hamburger and fries while enjoying the French national holiday of May Day (I've always thought it so lovely that there is a national holiday here where all the stores close in my honor. Come to think of it, that's almost like a parade!)

I spent the afternoon with my friend Claire and the evening on my terrace with another whom I hadn't seen in far too long.

 And I still have 26 more days of Birthmonth!

Sometimes I just need to count my blessings and get over myself. Because they are rich and plentiful. And when I'm not in the throes of feeling sorry for myself, I know it. Thank you Marcie for being one of the many important teachers in my increasingly long life. And HAPPY Birthmonth to me.