Fair Lay Vah Lees

I'm doing the last minute mad dash to get ready to go the United States for the holidays. I was hoping to be starting another home refurbishing project while there, but it looks like it's not to be. No worries.  I'll just enjoy the holidays with my family and friends and try not to be too conspicious as I park myself at the home of this person or that during the 2 months. Most of my time is spent at my sister and brother-in-law's home. My poor brother-in-law. I am quite sure he didn't sign on to have a sister-in-law who visits twice a year and seems to stay…and stay….and stay!

As I was packing and cleaning yesterday, I found a little post-it note in the suitcase that I used for this same journey a year ago. I'm not sure why I saved it but it cracked me up when I found it.

At the time, while staying with my sis, I was expecting a call from France. From somebody who did not speak English. I needed to go out and knew I wouldn't be there to take the call. The idea of answering a phone call in French raises panic around those parts so I posted a note by the telephone to help out whomever should answer the phone.

Here's the note.

No this is not Hungarian, Sundanese or even Pig Latin. This is apparently my version of phonetic spelling.

In real French it would go like this: 

Elle n'est pas ici en ce moment. Elle fait le shopping avec ses enfants. Elle va revenir vers cinque heure.

Translated this simply means:

 "She isn't here at the moment. She's shopping with her kids. She'll be back around 5 o'clock".

It seemed so simple. In reality it was not and no usable information was passed between the two parties. I guess I need to work on my phonetic spelling.

This year, Jennie, I promise no phone calls and no home improvement projects. And Dan, I'll try to not hang my drying underwear all over the bathroom. And I will cook Thanksgiving dinner in its entirety (my first Thanksgiving home since 2008!).

Your sister ay tray um-pah-see-ahnt duh reh-veh-neer shay voo.

P.S. Provence Rugs will be offering free shipping from November 23rd until Christmas Day. Our new Brocante items will be on the site starting tomorrow. Yippee!

hint

God is in the details

Last Friday, my friend Marcia sent me a message asking if I might meet her in Lourmarin the next morning for coffee, a gab session and perhaps to take in a bit of the Friday market. I did not have to fret as I've become accustomed, "geez, I wonder if there's a bus that goes there?  I wonder when it leaves? I wonder when I'll be able to get back?  I wonder if I have the energy for all that?" All I had to do was check my calendar (I do this on the off chance there might actually be something on it) and say "Yes!" Because I have a car.

Yep, last November, I got me a car! I wasn't sure I was ready for one nor did I really feel I could afford one. But I had been thinking about it. I was beginning to need to get places for the business and on my schedule, not the bus schedule. Then one day in November I received a notice in the mail informing me that my name had finally come to the top of the list for a parking space in Aix. A parking space in Aix! This is like being given an enormous black truffle…a pair of hot high heels that are actually comfortable…a menopause with all its perks and none of its side effects. I'm serious!

 I had put my name on that list 2 years before in anticipation of perhaps, someday having a car. Actually, I had signed up for a parking garage a little closer to my apartment but in October, when I went to check my position on the list, I was told I would probably have to wait at least 5 more years.  Magically, one month later I got said letter and though it's in a different garage, my spot is actually quite close...maybe only 5 or 6 blocks away. Of course, all I really won was the right to start paying for a parking spot, but this is not nothing. I was told to show up within 2 weeks with the registration for my car and proof of my address. This posed a teeny, weeny problem. I had no registration because I had no car.

Sometimes decisions just seem to be made for us! And thanks to a friend, I did find a car. And pretty quickly, I might add. When he asked what my budget was and I told him no more than 1000 euros his faced dropped and he gently said, "that's not very much, you know".

"Yes, I know but I can barely afford that so if I can't find one for that price, I'll let the parking space go."

He put out his feelers and bless his kind, french heart, he found me a car at a scrapyard owned by a friend of his. The car had been in a teeny accident but its repair costs surpassed its value so...I got myself a lovely, little white Ford Fiesta, wearing only 72,000 kilometres and a dent dimple on its right fender butt cheek. It passed inspection immediately after I drove it off the lot and I sailed down the freeway, hair blowing in the wind of the open windows, and feeling all grown-up again. And I payed only 700 euros. That's all! Even though freedom has a price, in this case it was a small one and well worth paying.

I parked the car in my new parking garage immediately and a week later when I went to retrieve it, I'd  forgotten exactly where I'd left it. I had to search 3 floors of cars before I found it and this was still not a simple task. You see, it seems that 3/4 of the people in France have an affinity for little white cars. This is what I faced when I went looking for it. And that was only the first floor!

To solve this problem, and because I tend to give human qualities to my cars, I had to give it a name. And there was really no question what it would be. Thor. There's a long story behind the name, but the fact is, I had a bumper sticker with this name on it and I needed some way to identify the car. This works like a charm....unless I back into the spot and then I'm back to finding my proverbial white needle in the parking haystack. The added bonus is, Thor is a word that French people cannot pronounce. It's simply not possible. I sort of like that.

Thor drinks gasoline, not diesel ,which is not a good thing since diesel is much cheaper here. He's also very thirsty for some reason. There is not one automatic thing on him, nor air conditioning and I discovered on my way to Marcia's, after I filled up precious and, until then, unused Starbucks mug with coffee, that he has no cup holders (not unusual here if you can possibly imagine!). So I held the mug between my legs while I shifted up and down the mountain roads. My tan skirt became a very sexy leopard print by the time I arrived.

Despite his imperfections, Thor is a god. A god of freedom. He's loyal. When I came back from 2 months in the states and once again did my three floor tour to find him, he started up with nary a complaint. He's discreet: with all the other little white cars, nobody notices him. He fits in almost anywhere: I've learned to park him like a french car in any teeny crack or crevice barely big enough to hold him. He's the right age: old enough to be comfortable in his somewhat damaged skin but not old enough to be falling apart.  Honestly, I was just about to start talking about holding on to his stick shift but that suddenly seemed very weird! We'll…just…let…that…go.

We don't go out often together, but when we do, I become a goddess.

The word for car in french is voiture. This word is feminine, which means I should refer to my car as a she. But he's Thor, a god, and I refer to him as he. I'm constantly being corrected on this but I owe him his dues, don't you think? I don't understand why the french language does not allow me this right and I'm sticking to my guns.

Thor and I are going on a wine tour with friends tomorrow and to Cassis with the same friends on Friday. He's just too awesome not to share.

Now if I ever meet the Thor in the picture above, I am really going to have a story to tell!

London Bridge Fell Down

Last week I was in London, taking a trip down memory lane and revisiting the town where I spent 5 months as a student in my 21^st year. As we wandered and reminisced, I mentioned to my friends that since those days, I have had a reoccurring dream about the London Bridge. Well, it’s wasn't really the London Bridge. That fell down. Several times.

This is the real, modern London Bridge. 

Not very impressive, is it?

This is the Tower Bridge...the bridge in my dreams.  Much better looking and the one most think IS the London Bridge.

Dreams, I've discovered, are a powerful thing. I rarely remember mine and have never taken much notice; even the ones that cause me to wake up laughing hysterically or crying in the same manner.  But some people take more stock in them. My last love was a premonitional dreamer. He didn’t tell me about this odd phenomenon until I recounted a dream to him (one that I actually remembered which is why I was detailing it to him) and he immediately took notice and asked me all sorts of questions. He took such an interest because the dream was, in fact, predicting an life event for him, something he understood immediately and which bizarrely came true several days later. So I was premonitionally dreaming for him.  Other times, I would describe conversations that I’d had with him in my dreams and he had had the same conversation with me in his sleep.  We were conversing in our sleep which actually worked out pretty well since we both had a tough time with the other’s language during waking hours!  And once I had a dream that alerted me that a dear friend of mine was in grave trouble.  He had almost exactly the same dream on the same night.  Problem is, I interpreted it correctly; he misinterpreted it and broke up with me. Again. But this whole experience made me think that perhaps I should be a little more alert when it comes to my dreams.

I do seem to remember reoccurring dreams. When I was younger, the dream had to do with a giant wolf dressed in green clothing who chased me up and down the steps of a Cathedral. In college and still, I have the dream all students seem to have. The one where it’s exam time and you’ve never even attended the class, or a version thereof.  And I often have dreams about a writhing pit of snakes. I know, I sound like a whack job!

Since my time in London, I’ve had this dream about the bridge. I’m always looking at it from above and to the right. It’s not situated in its proper place but it’s most definitely in London. I can’t seem to figure out what the rest of is about except that it involves some sort of regret. Something I didn’t do, something I missed, something undone.

My mom’s advice to me was always do what you want, take chances, but don’t do something that you think you’ll regret. It’s probably more sage advice than that which I gave my boys : always have a valid passport and use two forms of birth control. I hope my boys are better at following my advice than I was with my mom’s because I’ve done plenty of things I regret. Nothing serious, but hey... how am I supposed to know I’m going to regret it until it’s already been done? (Geez! Now that I think about it, what kind of advice is that?) And I’ve not done many things and regretted that as well.

So when my friend said to me, on my last day in London, “don’t you want to visit the bridge and find your regret?”, I was all for it. After my experiences with “the dreamer” perhaps something magic would happen.

As Amy and I approached the bridge it felt almost surreal, seeing it again 'in the flesh' after visiting it so often in my dreams. We traversed its expanse... slowly...waiting for my regret to jump out at me, on the alert, slowing down at the finish in case we were going too fast for the regret to catch up with us. It didn’t. NOTHING happened. Nothing. We ate lunch on the other side and then took one more swipe at it for good measure. Still nothing.

Not much of a story is it? A big build up with an ending that fizzles out. Good thing nobody is paying me for my stories. So I just can’t figure this out. Perhaps my regret was just never having actually walked over the bridge. Perhaps it was that I feel I didn’t take enough advantage of my first excursion abroad, spending more time learning the inside of the neighborhood pubs than taking in the sights. Maybe the dream comes when I’ve felt I’ve not properly grabbed hold of a moment or an opportunity. Perchance, in another life, I was imprisoned in the Tower of London (which would be exactly the view that I have in the dream) and I'm regretting ever having gotten mixed up with that damned Henry! 

There's a chance the dream will never come again, now that I've revisited the bridge, and I'll never know what it was all about. Or maybe when I have it again, I'll now know exactly what it was telling me. Or maybe it was just a dumb dream with no meaning or message whatsoever. In which case, I'm sorry about the long-winded explanation.. of nothing! 

Still, I'm hoping for clarification. Eventually. It would make a much better story.

London Fog

This past weekend I was here.

In Carry le Rouet, a little village on the sea just south of Aix en Provence. Enjoying the warmth of the setting sun before sitting down to a dinner of fresh fish and a mediterranean salad.

Monday I was here

Downtown London, bundled up in a sweater and scarf, after eating a real breakfast of eggs and bacon. And bending my head against the seemingly ever-present London rain.

I have landed in 5 countries in 4 months and each time I arrive in a new place, I'm amazed. Yep, still impressed by it all. That one can change places, languages, cultures, scenery....so quickly and easily.  It always feels a little surreal but it always makes me giggle with pleasure at the miracle of it.  I often wonder if and when I'll get over the awe and become a jaded traveler.

I was feeling a bit world-weary before I headed out on this trip to London. I was just so tired. I hadn't been able to sleep for seemingly weeks and the fatigue, added to the continuous travel left me really out of sorts. It's amazing how fatigue like this can affect a person. It affects me physically so that I want to do nothing and everything hurts. It affects me mentally. There were days during these last few weeks that I really detested all French people. There were moments that this verged on HATE.  Simply because they spoke French! And I was unable to follow or contribute. My brain was all mucked up. And the crankiness went deeper. I was mad at my cat....for being cuddly and loving and always trying to break through my bad-humored barricade. I was mad at myself for whatever my transgression was that day and couldn't pass myself in the mirror without talking nasty to the poor, haggard looking woman reflecting back at me who really only needed a little sleep. And on and on and on....

The debilitating affects of exhaustion make me wonder how I ever got through college. Truly, if had spent more time sleeping and less time partying, there's a strong possibility that you'd be addressing me as Dr. Nelsen right now. And how in the world did I raise 2 little babies without causing them serious mental or bodily harm?

I still haven't fallen back into the rhythm of really sound sleep yet, but I'm feeling better. It might have something to do with the fact that I'm back in London after 32 years away. I'm here with my friend Jeanmarie, who I met here when we were students living in the Maria Assumpta Convent in Kensington. Thirty-two years of friendship that began during those seriously sleep-deprived times (for us AND the nuns) when we lived in London, supposedly to study and when we did everything but!

Yesterday we visited our old stomping grounds. The convent is now a college, but the nuns, still dressed in purple, continue to scurry around the place. As do the hazy but cherished memories of my time in London. The days that sprouted my infatuation with travel that has obviously never died. But I really am looking forward to at least a month of rest (as in...rest in one place) before the insanity recommences in May. 

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Cabbage Patched

I got four days in. Four glorious days of skiing in the Alps. I have no photos of us actually skiing but I have plenty of us "resting"!

 But I promise.... I've been on the hills. And having an absolute blast!

Things seem to be slowing down a little, however.

Wednesday, Thomas, the husband of my friend Vreni, took a digger. This guy is an excellent skier and fast....really fast. So when he fell, he fell hard. But he's also a relaxed skier so his injuries were minimal;  a big, fat bruise on his upper thigh and the same behind his knee. 

Later the same day I was following Roland (a friend of Thomas's) down a hill. One minute I was behind him, the next minute he was gone. Poof! Just like that. He was there and then he wasn't.  I skied to where I last saw him, peered down over the edge of the hill, and there he was... far below. Luckily not skewered on a rock, but struggling in a pile of snow nonetheless. As soon as I knew he was alright the laughter began. But as the day went on, we realized he wasn't okay and it looks like he's done some ligament damage to his knee. One down.

That night, Vreni began her ministrations. She ran to the grocery store (not the pharmacy) and returned with two heads of cabbage. She rolled them out flat and began applying them to the injuries. Yep, a cabbage patch. I'm watching all this, laughing, and looking up cabbage cures on the internet. Sure enough, cabbage is purported to have medicinal qualities that aid in the healing of swelling and bruising. I don't know if it works but  it's an excellent way to get men to remove their pants. 

Applying cabbage to a knee injury is a straight up process.

 Getting cabbage to adhere to a rear end is a little more problematic.

I was laughing too hard to get a clear photo of this last shot.

I shouldn't have laughed (when am I going to learn this?). Because yesterday after a LONG day of skiing, and getting battered by a couple of hills of hard snow, I returned home to nurse a nasty boot bruise and eventually a knee that has progressively stiffened and swelled. My knees suck...they always have... and I don't think I actually injured it. I think I just wore it out.

So last night I found myself rolling out cabbage and applying it to my bum knee and my bruised ankle. I woke up in the middle of the night in a bit of a sweat (because of the damned wool socks I had to wear to hold the cabbage), and I smelled like the first whiffs of vegetable soup. This morning I peeled the limp, green leaves from my various body parts, and voila, the ankle seemed as good as new. Not so for the knee however. Two down.

So now Roland and I are hanging around the house for the day. It's not bad. We've got a terrace with a couple of lounge chairs situated in full sun. We've got our books.  I have my computer. I've got this to look at.

And hopefully another cabbage patch tonight will allow me to get back on the slopes tomorrow. 

The Pants

I leave for Switzerland tomorrow for my yearly brush with death. As I was watching television report about the avalanche that annihilated a ski station in the alps last weekend, did I worry about the possibility of this happening in at my final destination? Did I think that perhaps I should be going a little earlier in the season so as to avoid all that heavy, spring snow?

Absolutely not.  All I kept thinking was, "oh my god, I wonder if my ski pants will fit?". Yep, not worried about dyin'...just worried about looking good when I do!

Every year I go to visit my friend Swiss friend, Vreni, at her house in the breathtaking, eastern Swiss Alp ski station, Arosa. We laugh, talk in a bizarre mixture of 2 languages, eat, drink, and kick a little ass on the slopes. Okay, she kicks, I nudge. And each year, I have to borrow or rent all my gear. Not just boots and skis but clothing as well.  I've gotten by, but I feel a little bad each year as I don her son's pants, her husbands socks and her gloves and goggles.  I've now collected my very own jacket, long underwear and socks so I'm getting there. But last year, I happened to be there at the end of the season when....yippee...sale season was going on, and I bought a pair of ski pants.

Now I must tell you the price for these pants. I have to tell you because it's shameful. Shameful that a stupid pair of pants should cost as much as my car! They were 589 Swiss francs. Which translates to $645. Did you throw up a little in your mouth? Of course,  I didn't pay that. I got them for 75% off. But, this is still double what I would normally pay...so...these things better fit! And if they don't, I'm not going! The Pants have been sitting in the corner for two weeks, labels still attached,  staring at me with their accusing, expensive, slim fitting eyes. And I've been afraid to try them on. Yes, I'm afraid of a pair of pants. Not an avalanche....A PAIR OF PANTS!

Tuesday I took the plunge with 3 days left to cancel my trip if The Pants and I didn't agree with each other. For 2 weeks we had danced around each other, looking each other up and down. And finally, it was I that backed down and with a prodigious, pessimistic sigh, I stepped out of my skirt for the battle.

Zip, clip, score! SCORE!

So just as the almond trees blossoms are busting out in all their springtime glory, I'm off to avalanche country. Me and my very best friend...The Pants.

   

 

Window Licking Good

I've come to the conclusion that 3 pairs of shoes for a week in Paris are not enough. I was really so proud of myself for keeping the number down. But these old hoofs are sore and though I've been re-shod several times, I'm still feeling lame. 

Sore feet led me to peruse the shoestores in my neighborhood today. Of course I would be doing this anyway but sore feet seem as good an excuse as any. As I wandered, I came  across a teeny-tiny shop on Rue des Entrepreneurs. A wee bit small for a shoe store but you know what they say about small packages!

I first noted these (not for me, of course but good looking nonetheless) in a chocolate brown.

 Then I noticed the women's shoes in the same window that came in a multitude of colors that caught my eye....but also in varying degrees of chocolate brown. 

I'm not sure if you're getting the picture here....so let me clarify.

Have you figured it out yet? 

Yeppers...I'd landed in a chocolate shop. With my mouth open for all kinds of obvious reasons. This little unassuming shop in the 15 arrondissement and off the beaten track was a feast for the all the senses. 

In case you're wondering, this is what one does with a chocolate shoe.

 But the folks at Jicara make all sorts of containers for their fine chocolates.

Form follows function is an underlying principal in modern architecture and design. In this case, I'm not sure which follows what!

Here in France, instead of window shopping we "lecher les vitrines" or lick the windows. Of course, we don't really....except maybe in this case!

Jicara Chocolat

91 Rue des Entrepreneurs

75015 Paris

Have a great weekend everyone. Gotta go. I've got more windows to lick.

Pack-age

I spent yesterday afternoon packing for my trip to Paris. I will only be there one week and I’ll be dog-sitting, so I should be able to get by with very little. I mean, one doesn’t need high heels or a cocktail dress when spending every free moment with a Dalmatian, right? So why is it so difficult to pack everything for a week in a little carry-on? I’ve decided that its age.

Normally my packing problem begins and ends with shoes. It’s a simple fact of female life that you have to have the right shoes for the right outfit, am I not correct?  But this time, with a minimum of outfits, all in black (this is Paris after all), I still needed 3 pair of shoes. And now I have to admit, this is NOT for vanity’s sake. It’s because my old feet get so sore and cramped that I need to change my shoes often when I’m doing a lot of walking. Plain and simple. So, one week…one pair of shoes and two pairs of boots.

Then there’s the personal product bag. It used to be one, now it’s three. First there’s the creams and potions. I try…I really try…to keep these at a minimum. But my face no longer seems to bounce back  when I go without. Plain soap and water causes my skin great agony and it quickly takes on the look of the leftover December grapes still hanging on the vines. It seems that every year I have to add a new cure to the myriad of miracles that will supposedly keep my skin young. Fat chance. This goes for hair products as well.

Ditto on the makeup. Now, apparently, I must spackle my face and eyelids with various emulsions before applying makeup, in order to keep it from permanently lodging in the crags and crevices of the years. I’m thinking at this point that if it rained on my face, the droplets would slide off…the same theory as that stuff you put on your windshield. None of these products have managed to keep my lipstick from making it's daily migration up to the base of my nose, however. 

Undies. One ugly bra in beige used to do it. And a couple of pairs of cotton granny panties that I could wash out every other day. Now I have to have at least 4 sets and they have to all be different, pretty and matching. This is not the fault of age however. It’s the fault of France. But these bras do take up a lot of space and that IS because of age. In order to replace, reorder, re-hoist all that has fallen or completely disappeared, they require a lot of extra parts and pieces. 

 

I’ve also had to pack 5 French books because I fully intend to do some studying while I’m there. I’ve been lax and it shows in my conversation abilities disabilities. And I’m afraid I have to attribute this to age as well. If I were younger, I’m sure I would have been able to learn to speak French correctly within the 3 years that I’ve been here. But I haven’t. My old brain is still trying to work out the pluperfect, conditional perfect and the future perfect as well as feminine and masculine versions of everything. And I've decided I’m not even going to require myself to go any further than that.

Then there’s the comforts that I’m no longer willing to do without. A pair of warm slippers, lounging p.j.s with a nice, comfy ELASTIC waist. I had to leave the down pillow at home this time, which has me worried. Will I be able to sleep without my squishy pillow that goes everywhere with me? Or without my down comforter?

On top of it all I have to pack 3 pairs of glasses, one for day, one for work, and one as a spare, plus all the junk for contacts if I should choose to wear them.  

As I was packing, rearranging, adding and subtracting, I wondered what the hell has happened to me? Will I soon become one of THOSE woman, hauling around several giant bags for a 2-night sejour in Sandusky? You know, the one that takes up all the trunk space of the taxi so her friends have to resort to sitting on theirs in the back of the cab.

I’m writing this while on the high-speed train to Paris. I did manage one carry-on style bag and my computer bag with any and all electronics, chargers, cords, and cards that I might need. I have a one bedroom in the 15^th in exhange for the dog-sitting, so I imagine I can do laundry. Which will be necessary... considering there was barely any room in my suitcase for actual clothes.

Last Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer

I've been zigging and zagging around France these last couple of weeks and thought I'd share a few photos. All of these places I've been before, but each was so beautiful and a the trips were lovely way to end the summer travel season.

I went camping....yes camping. This is camping like I've never done before and I'll write more about it later. Suffice it to say that it wasn't the wild, private camping I'm used to, although we did have a tent! But take note of the roof of the house just over the hedge. Nope...no bear here! But the view of the Iles de Hyères made it well worth the lack of wildlife and privacy. And the sea was silky and warm.

The village of Cavalaire sur Mer is situated on the south side of the Presqu'îsle de St. Tropez and only 5 miles from the village of St. Tropez. Of course, a visit to the village is obligatory where we watched yacht after yacht, each larger and more glam than the other, make their way into port...to do whatever it is they do in St. Tropez. I guess to be gawked at...like I and these other poor sods were doing at the House of Chanel-St. Tropez.

A little touring in the Var region...which is absolutely beautiful by the way. So green and mountainous...not at all the terrain we have here near Aix en Provence.

We discovered the medieval village of Grimaud after following a few mountain roads that scared the bejeezuz out of me. For some reason I really like this photo.

This one not so much. Remind me not to wear that dress again! My hips look larger than the village of St. Tropez which you can see behind me from the ruins of Chateau Grimaud. Horizontal stripes...what was I thinking???

The camping trip was immediately followed by a quick trip to the Haute-Savoie region of France and a pop into Switzerland.

If you've never visited Yvoire, France which sits on the south end of Lac Lemond (Lake Geneva), put it on your list. It's enchanting.

As is the village of Annecy.

And now I'm settled back into the mansion in Aix en Provence and the month of visitors begins....starting tomorrow. There isn't much to do...except defrost my freezer. I'm doing this because my girls and I are going to NEED ice cubes....and because Keith, over at A Taste of Garlic, hasn't stopped razzing me about it's previous sorry state. Keith, we'll drink a cold one...or two... for you!