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.

Royalty's Revenge

Yesterday was Bastille Day here in France. They don't call it Bastille Day. The call it quatorze julliet or La Fete Nationale. Nonetheless, the day would be similar to our 4th of July in the United States. It celebrates the storming of the Bastille and the ensuing overthrow of the monarchy. Okay, it was sort of a hijacked and botched attempt at democracy...but every country has to start somewhere! France still had to get through Napoleon a couple of times and another king or two. Nonetheless, it's a big deal and all over the country the day is celebrated with military parades, awesome fireworks displays and cultural events.

I've been to our fireworks event here in Aix before and it is superb. It's held at the Rotunde, the big fountain at the center of the city.  This magnificent display is coordinated with some morsel of inspiring classical music and the most awesome thing is, it's not performed in a stadium, seemingly miles away. Or an athletic field....or across the river. It's right in front of you... over you...smack dab in the middle of the city. No lawyers are waiting in the wings to sign up the injured. No police officers are barring entry any closer than 3 miles from the display.

Last year I attended the military parade in the afternoon. It was fun...interesting....and one military parade is usually enough for me, so I chose not to go this year.

But I'm not going to miss the fireworks. No siree! And...and....and...I read that there was to be a ball afterwards. At the Rotunde. Well just how cool is that? Especially considering that when I was home in May, my darling person-who-birthed-me-whom-I-promised-to-never-mention-in-a-blog-again gave me...yes folks...my life just keeps getting better every day...my very own......TIARA. Complete with pink feathers. She knows how much I've been missing one...mostly because I mention its absence every year on my birthday. And she knew how happy it would make me. And it DID! And now, it would be a perfect accessory for a Ball.

So last night, I donned my tiara, and everything pink to match, and my friend Tenley and I went to the fireworks. Amazingly we found a table at the outdoor cafe just next to the Rotunde. Amazingly, we got a drink. We watched the fountain as it was lit up for the pre-fireworks show and listened to the accompanying music (when we could actually hear it over the ghastly techno music that was playing at the cafe. Why didn't they turn it off?) We wondered just how dark it had to be before our real entertainment would begin. I marveled at how the crowd was just "not what it used to be"(makes me feel so settled to be able to say something like that). Eventually we got up to move closer and we were able to walk in right next to ...I mean within touching distance... of the fountain. We were just so....AMAZED.

Ditto for when the gentleman walking around the Rotunde informed us that, no...of course there would be no fireworks tonight. Because of the mistral. Our lovely mistral wind that had so kindly cooled down our city! We moaned, we groaned. Tenley protested, "but I've spent the entire evening hanging out with a woman wearing a pink, fuzzy crown!"

French shrug. "What can you do about the mistral?"

So there we were. All dressed up with no place to go.

We wandered down the Cours Mirabeau, teeming with people enjoying the cool, clear, night. We eventually found The Ball. It was a 12 piece band set up on a grand stage at the head of the Cours. They were performing disco...which I didn't even like when disco was king.  Some people were...LINE DANCING! There was not one single prince in sight and I was decidedly overdressed.

We listened for awhile because the band was good but eventually agreed to leave the ball before midnight. I did not want my precious crown to go poof! At least not before my next birthday.

Still it was a beautiful night with a just waning moon. And it was so nice to be out. And a little promenade while wearing a crown can never be a bad thing. Well, unless it's after the July 14, 1789 and your name is Louis XIV or Marie Antoinette.

Perhaps it's bad form to celebrate the demise of royalty with a crown. Perhaps that is why we never got our fireworks. Some sort of cosmic intervention. Frankly, I don't care. Marie Antoinette never said this...but I will....

Let them eat cake!

And Many Hormonal Returns

Saturday was my birthday. And I behaved completely out of character. During the days before The Grand Event, I fell into some sort of premenstrual/ menopausal funk (how can this possibly be fair?), although I didn't know what the hell was the matter with me at the time, and I had no desire to announce my day to the world. This is not like me. I normally take every, single opportunity to tell the world it's my birthday and revel in the warm fuzzies of it all.  But this year, I didn't send out a pre-announcement on my blog, I put nothing on facebook, I didn't even take out an ad in the newspaper (which I've never done but I've considered it!)

I mourned the fact that I still hadn't found a birthday crown, I took a gander at the royal wedding and realized the damned princess had made off with MY crown,  I half-heartedly tried to decide which pair of high heals I'd wear to make up for the missing crown, I baked another tarte au citron and tried a new, fabulous, simple recipe for a Hazelnut-Chocolate torte, which I found over at Darjeeling Dreams, another one of my go-to blogs for great recipes.

There's something amazingly therapeutic about beating egg whites, don't you think? 

I wrote a couple of completely dismal, self-pitying emails, I wondered if I was going crazy...and then...

I woke up Saturday morning....to find the hormonal haze had lifted and it was going to be a great day!

And it was. I once again boarded the bus, this time headed for Lynn's house, with a sack full of baked goods, announced to the bus driver and all who could hear me (which I assume was everybody on the bus...I was feeling so great) that it was my birthday and I let them sing for me.

I lunched with these fabulous women

Upon my return, I announced to the landlord (who happened to be in the upstairs window) that it was my birthday so that I could graciously receive my birthday kisses from he and his wife.

I had dinner with more friends and partied until two am. I even took the liberty of taking a birthday extension (which I did announce on facebook....obviously feeling myself again) and went to the market and dined with more friends on Sunday night.

There was no announcement, no crown, no high heels...and it was still a great day weekend. My mom's card this year said "behind every super woman is a great pair of shoes". This is what I ended up wearing this weekend....

and I still felt REGAL! Birthdays have a way of doing that. They're even stronger than wacked-out hormones.

Exorcism

He arrived, a reluctant demon, loath to be exorcised from his unwilling host. He ripped, he tore, he kicked. He used his substantial size to terrorize and in the end, after the body of the possessed was spent…exhausted…completely beaten down in battle, he decided…maybe being born is an okay idea after all!

Today (actually Sunday but I'm late posting as usual) marks the 25th anniversary of the birth of my first-born. After doing his very best to kill me, and only succeeding in wounds that would eventually heal, this scrunched up, red faced, nine-and-a-half pound, pointy-headed little egg roll was laid on my chest.  I took one look at him…. and understood what perfection was.

My perfect baby Ryan, whose name means little king, remained perfect. He slept, he ate, he laughed…. exactly when he was supposed to.  Okay, except for those 6 months after his little brother was born when he saw that his kingdom was in great danger from a usurper and his head spun around 12 times, his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he transformed from royal prince back to demon again…. but only for 6 months.  He returned to his state of perfection as soon as he was reasonably sure he had squashed the insurrection and had simply gained a new subject. 

The problem with first-born children (and perhaps all…I’m just speaking from experience) is not their problem at all. It’s the problem of their parents. From the moment they arrive, we praise, we clap, we encourage by using words like perfect, and marvelous, and wonderful and again, perfect. There is nothing they can’t do, and we are quick to take note and share their most amazing accomplishments with all who will listen. …and if they don’t do it, we let them know, in no uncertain terms, that they a perfectly capable of perfection. We expect it. And soon they become very aware that it’s required of them.

But the day comes when they simply can’t live up. It might be grades, it might be personality, it might be sports ability…whatever, and the non-stop clapping diminishes. The words of encouragement are replaced often with words of disappointment. They’re not sure how it happened but they know that they are falling from grace.

I’m overstating my case a bit because, in fact, we really don’t expect our children to be faultless human beings. We are doing these things to encourage them to be the best they can be. And with first children we are so in awe, so sure that we have actually produced the greatest ________ (you fill in the blank: President of the United States, nuclear physicist, classical composer, painter….) that was ever born. And because we’re brand new at this whole parenting thing and want to make sure the next_________ is properly nurtured, we go just a little over the top!

I was a first child. I really had a perfect childhood. But the day came when I realized I wasn’t the most beautiful, intelligent, funny child that ever walked the earth. I was just a normal kid like everyone else. Algebra was my first hint at that…. French class, my second!  The list after that is just too long. And I spent the rest of my school years…and still continue today…waiting to disappoint, though desperately not wanting to. Waiting to fail someone… parents, teachers, friends, bosses, co-workers. Anyone who expected more of me when I couldn’t or wouldn’t comply. Eventually, I stopped trying and just rebelled against the whole stupid nonsense.

My perfect son reached that point, like many others, when he hit late Junior High. And I was hard on him. The more I expressed my disappointment, the more he rebelled. And I knew exactly what he was doing…I did it myself. But I never relented. Mostly.

I’m not sure if I’m any smarter today or if I would be capable of doing things differently. I know I would try. But I, as all other parents, did what I thought was the right thing; the best thing for my child.

For that reason, I can’t apologize to my son for all my faults and transgressions as his parent.  His turn may come and he too, like all of us, will struggle with the what ifs and how tos. And he will do his best, like the rest of us.

So today, his birthday…a time when I always spend prolonged moments reflecting about the day of his birth…all his subsequent birthdays and the wonderful (and sometimes not so wonderful) days in between, I want to say one thing to my little prince…my little demon.

You are still as perfect to me as you were that first moment and you always have been. Not because of what you do and how well you do it, but just because you are. Well, that and the fact that you’ve grown into a man of imagination, creativity, thoughtfulness, resourcefulness, talent, intelligence, curiosity and humanity. As I knew you would.

I will always be possessed by the perfection of your spirit.

Happy Birthday my sweet.


Je t'embrasse,
Mom

Cinque Terre

I promised a little photo diary of our trip to Cinque Terre in Italy. If you're not familiar with the area, check it out on the internet. It's beautiful, and though it's been Rick Steve'd over the last decade, it is enchanting, colorful, and well worth the visit.

Sonya and I drove from Aix en Provence and stopped at a gas station north of Antibes for our first fill-up. Check out the view from the service station.

We had pretty much decided that was The Most Beautiful Gas Station In The World, until we had to stop at another one for a cup of coffee...just before the Italian border. You decide...we couldn't!

The Cinque Terre consists of 5 old fishing and wine production villages along the Italian coast. It is now a protected area and cars are not allowed into the villages but there are hiking paths and a train line that run between all of them. We left our car in Levanto and took the train to our final destination in Vernazza.

We had been lucky enough to get a room with Giuliano and Michelle at Camere Giuliano, only because of a cancelation. Our instructions were to "go down the stairs from the train station, go into the first wine store on the left in the village and ask the owners to call Giuliano who would come to get us". He arrived pronto and helped us carry our bags up the 67 steps (these villages are all terraced)...

along the old pathway lined with ancient buildings (Michelle thinks they're an eyesore...I think they make for great photos)

to our final destination...a lovely 4 room bed-without-breakfast built by Guiliano, a local stone mason. I really thought the towels must have been added just for photos but, in fact, it had been raining (and continued) for almost a month and they couldn't get them dry!

When I turned around to look at the view, it felt like the eye of the universe was looking down upon us.

We spent the rest of the evening wandering the little town of Vernazza, which has everything you need. A bar, a pizzeria, a couple of restaurants...but with all the storms...no internet and frequent electricity blackouts.

And in spite of all the tourists and hikers, this ain't Disney World! These two have no camera, no guidebooks and wouldn't be caught dead in hiking boots!

The next day and a half we explored the villages, walked between Riomaggiore and Manorola (the saturated soil made the terracing unstable and all the trails were closed except for this one, which is really just a paved stroll)...

hopped the train between the other villages...

 explored, shopped, ate, drank the excellent local wine and celebrated Sonya's birthday

I was fascinated by the way boats are "parked" up and down the streets or in front of people's houses...and of course, as usual, by the color of it all..

Sonya loved the gates and doors...I swear she took a thousand photos of just that! I have to say this particular door and it's color and texture sends me.. I gotta learn to paint!

and I will someday have a secret garden like this...

Corniglia is the only village without sea access, the most remote and the least visited. Perhaps that's because you have to climb 33 flights (377 stairs) to get there!

Yes, those are the railroad tracks far below. There is a bus to get up to the village but we had eaten a lot of pizza and climbing stairs beats lunges all to hell!

Our last evening in Vernazza involved dinner, a few more photos...

a bottle of local wine on the terrace..

And this incredible scene as the sun disappeared.

Ciao!

oh and one last note...perhaps all the stereotypes of Italian men are true. We ducked into a teeny, tiny bar in Vernazza to get out of the rain. The baker came out for a little break...with his latest creation!

Today is my birthday...so there!

If you read my blog with any regularity, you've probably surmised (okay, you've been hit over the head with it) that I love birthdays. I can't help it...I just love them. On my birthday, I want to wear a crown and have someone hold a parade in my honor. I want to be surprised and delighted all day and go to sleep happy to have another year. And I love presents. YES I DO!

50 is the New 20

My friend Marcie doesn't celebrate birthdays...she celebrates birthmonths. I think she's got something there! April is my birthmonth and so as part of my usual Flashback Mondays, I'm including this story that I wrote almost a year ago.

When I was 20, 40 seemed old. When I was 30, I was sure 50 would be the moment when I would become a grandma type. Yesterday I celebrated my 50th birthday.... in Paris. The same place I celebrated my 40th birthday. I didn't feel old 10 years ago and I still don't. What a lovely surprise. I'm sure anyone who has passed this birthday, as well as their 60th or 70th, feels the same way. Your body might betray you periodically but your mind still believes in its youth and is always a little surprised by the years it has acquired .You wonder where the time went but at the same time you celebrate the gifts that time has given you.  Yes, my feet hurt and I have to work a whole lot harder to stay in the same size jeans. I can't stay up for 48 hours or go longer than 6 weeks without touching up my gray roots. But what I've gained is worth more than comfy feet and a tight stomach.

I have two grown, wildly creative and funny children who are mostly on their own and whom I adore in spite of, or maybe because of, their problems, foibles, and youthful angst. I have a family, some related by blood and some whom I've chosen as family, who love me and care for me, in spite or, or maybe because of my problems, foibles and not- so-youthful angst. I still have my sense of adventure but it's now tempered with the ability to relax and not take things so seriously.  I spend far less time worrying about the little things, like the dirty windows or whether or not my dessert is home made. I'm less critical and judgmental of other people and let myself enjoy their eccentricities. I seem to observe and see more things than I ever have before. And most importantly, I can still laugh my fool head off for almost no reason at all.

Of course there are bad things that come with age. Losing someone you love to old age. Watching friends begin to succumb to the diseases of time and living.... like the big C. Feeling the pain of friends as they care for an aging parent while caring for a grown child who has lost their way...and knowing my turn will come.  Worrying that my generation did not do a good job as caretakers of the earth and leaving a better place for our children.  Knowing my knees might not make it through a full day of mountain climbing. Not being able to sleep until noon, even if I really need it.  And reaching the ripe, not- that-old age of 50 and not knowing what I want to do when I grow up!!

When I was 20, I was sure I would be doing something important when I was 40. When I was 30, I was certain that once the boys were older, I would find that fabulous career that I had decided to put on hold until they were in school. When I was 40, I knew it was just around the corner. 

I've turned a lot or corners since then and I still haven't found it. I've done so many things and enjoyed them all. I've been a trail cook in the mountains of British Columbia, a television journalist, an educational director for a non-profit agency, a computer trainer, a designer, a florist, and an advertising executive. But none have brought me to the point where, at 50, I know what is next. How does a person reach this age and find herself in this predicament? I envy those who were certain from the get-go and happily remain steadfast.

So here in France, I'm not only on a travel and cultural journey but it's personal as well. Trying to find my place in the second half of my life. Should I begin the struggle of trying to become a writer? Have I got it in me? Should I start the travel business I've been thinking about? Or do I settle for finding a job that gives me insurance and a retirement fund, both of which are just a wee bit important at this stage of my life? Much more important than they used to be.

My boys sent me a song for my birthday that they wrote and recorded. It's called 50 Is The New 20. It's hysterically funny and, of course, it's more than a bit of a stretch, but , in a way it feels sort of true. At this juncture, I'm more like a 20-year-old than a 50-year-old and I've really got to get serious.

Soooo......within 5 years I swear I'm going to be a grown up. I really mean it this time. I'll have a plan. Yes, a plan, and a bank account and possibly even a lease (in an apartment with an actual oven)! After all, I could have grandchildren by then and I'll need a place to bake cookies and rock them to sleep. I'll need money to take them to Disneyland and Washington DC.

On the other hand, they could visit their granny in her tiny apartment in a faraway, foreign country, sleep in a drawer, learn to make mousse au chocolate, which requires no oven, and enjoy their odd collection of acquired family that will most certainly be living in my apartment (currently, while I'm traveling for a month I have a 19-year-old Swedish au pair named Alessandra and a 56-year-old French businessman, both of whom are temporarily homeless, living in my apartment). I could introduce them to my friend who speaks 5 languages and is learning Apache.  Or the Irish barman who remembers every single book he's ever read (and the list is extensive) and seems to know the etymology of every English and French word in both dictionaries.  Then, I could show them the Roman aqueducts scattered haphazardly around the countryside and take them to real castles, built in the 11th and 12th centuries.

So what's a 50-year-old going on 21 to do?

My 50th in Paris. Curiously, everybody at the restaurant sang to me....in English! I was kind of bummed.