Life is a Beach

I'm resting myself today after two days in a row at the beach. Yes, I know, EVERYONE is at the beach at this time of year in the south of France. But I've got a perfect spot that takes only a slight effort to reach but once there makes the effort so worthwhile. Though not perfectly private and not sandy, there are fewer people and the snorkling is great. Okay, it's not the Seychelles but relatively speaking, it's not bad. And there is just something so restorative about the sea. All it takes is a whif of salt water and I feel better.

To get to my favorite place (notice I'm not telling you where), I have to pass by the throng of plebeians on the regular beach (the poor sardines) and I can't help but make comparisons to beaches in the United States.

What you do see here is the usual stuff;  families, singles, couples, lounging and swimming, enjoying their moments of sand, sea and sun.  Of course, one of the differences is the preponderance of topless women and speedo clad men, but I've already talked about that here, and it's really just a given.  But also what I note is that most women, no matter what their size, shape, or age, are wearing bikinis. I remember my first trip to the beach here in France. I was thinking I was all that because I was actually wearing a two piece. The bottoms were a little skirt and the top also had a skirt that covered up my stomach. Of course, I did not buy this little number in France. In fact, I've never seen one like it here. But my back was exposed and I really thought I was something. Within minutes after settling myself in I realized I looked more burka-clad than bikini-clad and some changes were in order. But where I come from, if you're not close to perfection, as in young, thin and no stretch marks, you wear a one piece. It's just expected. Here, after I got my game on and trepidatiously bought my first bikini in 30 years, I realized if they don't care, I certainly don't and it allows me to feel far less self-concious about my body. This is a very good thing. It's also far easier to go topless! I do notice however, that when I don said bikini while in the states, I revert back to shame. Very sad.

What you don't see are blankets laden with giant coolers containing a 24 pack of beer or bags of chips strewn around the claimed space. What? The beach with no beer…no salty snacks? Is this possible? Of course, people eat at the beach. They extract their sandwich, fruit or salad out of their tiny cooler at the appointed meal time, nibble away, and put everything back again after meal time. The french are sticklers for appointed meal times and they don't really snack, even at the beach. They may drink a beer or a glass of wine but I don't see it often. It's all so very civilized! And it might explain why there are more bikinis but that's another article.

I've staked my claim at my spot on mystery beach and my girls and I have vowed that we must go at least once a week until the season is thoroughly finished. In our bikinis and without the Doritos, damn it! It really doesn't get any better than this. We're lucky to live here and we know it.

I hope you are all having a wonderful summer.

Eau de Vie

Last week I harvested my first cherry tomato of the season. And a gigantic, mini tomato it was! It took all of 15 seconds before this still warm beauty was sliding down my throat; a bit of its wayward juice dripping down my chin. It was really not the first. I’ve had others that had already ripened but they were rendered inedible because of some sort of blight which I’ve since discovered is due to lack of full and regular watering. Geez, water! Why didn’t I think of that?

Well, I have actually. You see my terrace is on the second floor of my apartment and it doesn’t have a water source. It does have a faucet and it would follow that there would be water in that faucet. Mais non! Apparently someone cut off the feed pipe during some work on the building a few years back. Brilliant.  Thus, I’ve had to haul my water up these stairs at least 8 times a day. Double that if it's really hot and, well, I just get lazy. 

I don’t mind going up and down..at least the first four times.  It’s just that these stairs are slippery, the steps pitch slightly forward, and there is no railing. So it’s a question of odds, really.  And I do not have one of those buttons to wear around my neck with which I can call someone nearby and feebly whisper “help I’ve fallen and I can’t get up! ” Remember this?

So the project a couple of weeks ago, after realizing that it was not only me in danger, but my precious tomatoes as well, was to figure out how to solve this problem. There is a tiny sink in my upstairs bathroom that could work as a water source  but I really don’t want a hose running through my bedroom. With my clumsiness, that’s another game of odds! But there is water in my kitchen. Aha!  And the kitchen window is the story below the terrace. AHA!

I bought a length of hose, cute, curly, blue hose, and with the help of a friend, threw one end over the terrace wall as she caught the other end and pulled it in the window. And it was as I feared, they wouldn't connect.

Okay, off to the hardware store. I have no idea how to ask for an adapter that connects an outdoor hose to an indoor faucet, so I unscrewed the faucet and took it with me. Let there be no doubt. 

With my faucet in hand and the word for adapter in my head...imagine this...it’s adapteur, (one of those great words that’s the same in english if you just add a little french accent to it),  I found directions to the correct aisle. Where I found 21 different adapters that all looked exactly the same to me. An older couple was standing before them, trying to make their own selection, and I asked the gentleman what I should buy. He kindly began to help me as his wife disappeared and I had my hands full of little packages when she arrived back with a store clerk in tow. She whispered to me, "my husband thinks he knows what he's doing but he rarely does. I thought you'd be better off with an expert", and we shared a girl giggle. She knew her husband well because he did have it all wrong and in the end I walked out armed with my one little package.

So the hose is now hooked up. Okay, it's not so pretty on the outside but I don't have to look at it! And I consider it a lifeline, as in I have less chance of losing my life in a stairway accident now that I have it.

And the garden is looking lovely. Watered.  Some things are just so simple in a roundabout sort of way! No more bottom rotten tomatoes and the rose bush, well, it should come back. The morning glories I planted a few weeks ago from seeds given to me from a parting friend,  though not flowering yet, are threatening to cover the entire wall and I now have the opportunity to hose myself down when it just gets too hot. We are all happy and we are all still alive and flourishing. 

  

And now that I have water, I think the next purchase will be a little, inflatable swimming pool. Pool party anyone?

Close Just Ain't Good Enough

"Oh my god, I think I called the mayor at prostitute this morning!"

These were the first words out of my friend Tenley's mouth when she came to visit the other day. Tenley used to be my neighbor here in Aix but last fall she moved up to a tiny village in the Luberon. And I'm not kidding when I say tiny. Four hundred people and not even a bakery. How does one live without a bakery, I ask?

Sorry, I digress. And in the first paragraph, no less. It's just that I get so upset about that bakery business!

Anyway, as she drove down here to Aix, she was ruminating over the conversation she'd had with Madame mayor that morning and it dawned on her what she may have said. But she isn't sure. And neither am I.

I'm just NEVER sure. I'm not afraid to talk and not afraid to try.  Generally. But language screw-ups are part of daily life when you aren't a native speaker and are often just too funny. Certainly there are those times when you get the word completely wrong but usually it's words that are just...so...close.  Like the time I was on a date and the monsieur pointed out to me, kindly I thought, that there was a little fleck of something just under my nose. I had a little scab there and I said brightly, "Oh don't worrry, it's just a booger". I used the word crotte (crotte de nez is a booger; crotte de chien is dog poop) instead of croute (scab). I didn't realized my mistake until I saw the look on his face which was something between dismay and disgust. Crotte….croute…close, but not close enough.

This past weekend, a team of masseuses and I volunteered our services at a charity regatta in Marseille. Beforehand, I was trying to describe our project to a friend. I explained that we would be massaging teams of…well, this is where it got tricky because I wanted to say 'teams of sailors' and the word for sail is voile. Instead, I said  'teams of voleurs'. WRONG! We were not going to massage teams of thieves. I corrected myself and said "teams of violeurs". WRONG again! Nor did we have any plans to massage teams of rapists. I never did arrive at the word I needed because it apparently doesn't exist. The word sailor does not even have the word "sail" in it! We eventually got to the point but not without a lot of both confusion and hilarity. Close but no cigar.


My friend Doreen and I were laughing about this story and she recounted her latest horror. She is German and is but is also considered fluent in both French and English.  But fluency doesn't make her immune to these faux pas. She works for a distributor of grains, seeds and other health-foody sorts of things. She was speaking to a customer last week to tell him that his shipment would be late because they didn't have enough of the algae he needed in order to fill his order. She kindly assured him that it would only be a few days before the manufacturer could produce his full half-ton of fetuses and she would send them to him directly.  Fucus...fetus....I mean they're almost the same, aren't they?

But often, it's not a question of getting the words wrong, it's simply a question of pronunciation. There are some words that sound so similar that I can't hear the difference much less pronounce it. Like the words dessous (underneath) and dessus (on top of). Opposite meanings but they sound exactly the same to me. It has something to do with the horrible "u" sound that we don't have in English. I've been tutored on this. I'm supposed to make the long e sound at the same time I'm forming my mouth into a tight "o" while sticking out my lips. Hey, you try that! Then pat your head and rub your stomach at the same time.

Last year after going to see a movie, I announced to my friend that I had spent a half-an-hour in line just to get in. He looked at me with astonishment and asked me to repeat what I'd said. I said it again with authority. And then he began to laugh…and laugh….and I knew I'd done it again, whatever it was this time. My sentence was "j'ai passé un demi heure dans une queue". It seems to me this sentence is correct.  But apparently what I really said was the word cul, which in common language means ass, and not the donkey kind. Yes, I know, they look completely different when written but they sound exactly the same to me.  The second, however, involves the aforementioned convoluted mouth/lip formation. Which I obviously haven't yet mastered. This explains why the 3 elderly ladies at the end of the line that day did not respond well when I asked if they were the end of the ass.

The word queue can also mean tail, or dick. Cul can also mean porn or screwing, among other things. Both words, with all their meanings, are truly useful in conversation. But not in MY conversation. You will never, ever hear me mention my cat's tail and I now wait in a file d'attente.

We still don't know what Tenley actually said to the mayor but they're still talking so apparently either there was no insult, or people in her village are still talking to her just to see what she'll say next. My bets are on the latter.

P.S. I want to take this opportunity to wish my beautiful mother a very Happy Birthday. Je t'aime Maman. xo

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. 

Le Vent Rend Fou

Translation: The wind makes you crazy. 

Here in Provence, we are treated periodically to the crazy wind that comes in from the north/northwest, called the Mistral. It can blow for one day or many and after several days of the constant onslaught, it just plain wears you out... or makes you nuts. After trying to navigate one particularly nasty mistral in Isle sur la Sorgue, I ended up with vertigo for several hours afterward and really thought I was going bonkers until someone assured me that this feeling is common. Local lore says that if the wind lasts for more than one day, it will last three. If it continues longer than three, it will last six. After that it's a nine-dayer. By the time we get to nine days, which I've never experienced, everyone in Provence would be completely off their rocker and the psych wards would be overflowing, I'm sure.

Here in Aix en Provence we are partially protected from the wind because we are situated in a valley. Don't get me wrong, we get the Mistral, but in Arles or Avignon, for instance,  it can be far worse. If you're the economical type, there you can treat yourself to a free, full facial exfoliation simply by situating yourself properly during the mistral and its ensuing blowing sand.

The mistral wind has truly moulded the landscape of this region with its ferocity. In many places in Provence our trees grow at a slant because of the wind's force. Growers anchor their fruit trees on 3 sides to guard against toppling, and farmers plant rows of Cypress around their fields to protect against its violence. Traditional Provencal architecture has also taken the wind into account. Farm houses, particularly in the Camargue, are built facing south with very few or no windows on the north wall, and our bell towers are often fashioned out of lacy iron so the wind can blow through them rather than blow them over.

Yes, the Mistral can be a bad thing. In the summer when the landscape is hot and dry, it can pick up a spark and turn it into a ferocious and devastating fire in minutes. I was having dinner near Martigue one night last summer as one of these balls of fire roared past us. Everybody told me not to worry because the wind would move it south so fast it wouldn't touch us. They were right, it didn't, but an entire town  that was unfortunate enough to be in its path had to be evacuated. And the Mistral can turn a perfectly warm, inviting Mediterranean sea into an ice bath overnight with no thought at all for anyone's weekend beach plans.

There are good things about the Mistral however. The mistral is precisely the reason that Provence is Provence. First and most importantly, it helps us grow great grapes! But also, this cold, dry wind generally blows away the clouds and clears the air giving us the exceptional Provençal light that so many painters have spent decades trying to capture on canvas. Though the winds generally come in winter or spring, on a hot summer day a mistral can drastically change the temperature and the humidity in all of 5 minutes. The first time I felt this I was sure I was going to see a major tornado blowing down the Cours Mirabeau (a natural thought from one born in "Tornado Alley") and I got out my video camera in anticipation.

And the Mistral brings gifts. I have received several pots, laundry baskets and mop buckets that have blown in from elsewhere, as well as some completely useless things like (ick) various and sundry socks and underwear.

Several weeks ago after a particularly maniacal three day mistral, I opened my terrace door and found this.

Yes, a another gift from the Wind Gods. The barbecue grill had blown in from somebody else's terrace and landed smack dab in the middle of my terrace, on its feet and in perfect working order (I did put the grill on straight for the photo). The mistral also brought a gift for Arthur-the-Cat. You can just see his ears peaking up from that cozy comforter that landed so conveniently on his chair and which he accepted as if it were his due. Of course Monsieur Mistral also brought all the other debris that is laying on the terrace and I'm finally getting around to cleaning it up today so I can do the planting.

I don't need this present since I already have a little one that is just the right size for me and my little terrace but I'm leaving it exactly where it landed, at least for a little while.  I'm thinking that the next wind might drop a couple of steaks or some nice, fat sausages directly on the grill. Come to think of it, I'd better get the fire laid in advance for this great moment. 

And if I'm really lucky, or unlucky depending on where I'm sitting at the time, this might blow in as well.

The guy above and behind me stores his bike on the roof. There is another one on the roof above that. If the Wind Gods stay with me, my terrace should be their direct target. 

But now that I look at this photo, I realize that my neighbor's lush forest of pot plants has disappeared. Pouf! Gone with the wind. Well shitballs, I wonder who got those?

Nouveaux Modele

As in most cities, Aix en Provence has it's share of street beggars. Some who are most likely in a heap of merde and some who seem to be professional. I know this because I've seen them "come to work" in the morning in their brand new vans. There are those that sit every day looking almost theatrically downtrodden, complete with props and won't leave you alone for a second and those who will not look at you but simply hold a sign that explains their situation. Some greet you with a smile and a hello and then there are those certain homeless who prop themselves up against the side of a building with a bottle of cheap whiskey, a paper cup for their winnings and their 4 scruffy dogs. I give periodically but I simply can't everyday, nor do I want to. I don't have any particular criteria, but I prefer that somebody offers me something for my money. Because it falls within the definition of work!

So there's the guy who sits in the Passage Agard every day. He spends his days making ashtrays out of soda cans. Yeah, I know, not the epitome of chic but at least he's doing SOMETHING! I don't know why, but I just like the guy. He says hello to everyone with a lovely smile and he doesn't harangue them. Every day that I walk by, he beams at me, says hello, asks how I am and waves his hand over his wares, inviting me to once again participate in his project. Well, okay, he beams until I ask him how he is and then he remembers to frown and tell me things are not good and he needs to eat. He seems pretty well fed to me but I like him nonetheless.

I have bought several ashtrays from him in the past which might explain his affinity for me. I really don't have much use for them. I set them on the terrace where they are generally not seen and they just blow away. Which is fine. I also use them to store nuts and bolts and such and keep them in the cupboard, again, where they can't be seen.

Yesterday, I decided it was, again, time to contribute to the cause and stopped to check out the goods. I surveyed his colorful scrapheap and picked up the red and green one. I said, "this one is very Christmasy". His face broke into another enormous smile and he said excitedly, "Yes madame, that one is a new model!

So not wanting to be behind the times and sure that you want to get with the program as well, I'm hearby unveiling the nouveaux modele from the workshop-of-the-guy-in-the-passage.

We're taking Christmas orders now.

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!