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,

The Moroccan Two-Step in Four-Four Time

Saturday night, after I dropped the last visitor off at the airport, I turned the sign on the door, so to speak. Despite the fact that I still seem to have a straggler on the couch, this guest house is "now closed for the season" and life will return to normal, whatever that is.

I always have mixed feelings about this moment of the year when there are no more expectations of friends coming to visit or new travels on the immediate horizon. It's exhausting but at the same time a grand gift to have a revolving door that deposits so many wonderful people in my foyer or sends me to so many fabulous places to visit them. However, this year I'm done. Worn out. Definitively finished. I've been drained…literally!

I've spent the last two weeks with my dear friends and fellow troublemakers from our London days.

One I've kept in contact with since that semester so long ago and another we reconnected with three years ago. The two have come here together for the past two years. This year however, we finally found the fourth member of our posse and we were all together for the first time in 20 years.

My grand idea for a little side trip this year was to jump on over to Morocco for 4 days so after a short 1 1/2 days in France we flew to our exotic destination. I'll write more about Morocco in a future post but I will tell you what we came home with from that trip.

Tourista (in French)…otherwise know as Montezuma's Revenge, Turkey Trots, Delhi Belly or you may fill in the blank here with whatever name you find amusing ___________. The fact is, it wasn't.

Two of us fell ill while in Morocco and our fear was that we wouldn't be able to get back, but a break in the action lasted just long enough to get back to France, where it started all over again in full force.  So there we were, 4 women locked in my little apartment (thank god it has 2 toilets), no escape. Periodic sorties for more toilet paper and nourishment were all we could manage and by the end of their trip, my friends had managed to see:

1. A couple of streets in Aix en Provence
2. Fes, Morocco
3. The inside of my apartment with a special concentration on the bathrooms.

My poor girls. My poor stomach. This is a really SHITTY way to lose a couple of kilos. And one should never lose kilos on a trip to the south of France. I believe it's forbidden, actually.

So we talked, we laughed, we cried, we watched Gone With the Wind all the way through. We attempted meals. We gave up. We stepped over each other and on each other. We discussed our gastrointestinal systems to no end. Potty humor became our means of survival. We napped. We talked some more and laughed and cried all at the same time.  And we had a wonderful time. Really.

My living room on a normal day

My living room after 4 days locked inside

My bedroom after the same 4 days of confinement

For all of us, new wrinkles and sags, creaks and aches have hitched a ride with the years, as have precious moments and beloved memories.  Time has also brought with it unimaginable tragedy for one of our lives and deep sadness and loss for all of us in one form or another. Those things that were unthinkable in our youth and most definitely not in the in the plans we had for ourselves.

What amazed me is that in spite of it all, we are really all the same people that we were back in 1980. On the other hand, because of it all, we are not. Each of these wonderful women has taken what life has thrown directly in her gut with no gentleness whatsoever, and has produced something good and hopeful from the pain. It is for this that they are not the same women I knew then. They are better. I am so proud to know them and be a part of their lives. I hope they come back. I would really like for them to see more than this...

or this...

and most especially this!

Next year I think we'll go to St. Tropez!

Slumber Party

It's Monday and I'm tired. Yesterday I couldn't manage much more than a long sit in the square, drinking coffee in an attempt to fend off the nap that was threatening to take me over at any moment. I finally succumbed, walked home and tumbled into bed for an hour in spite of my 5 cups of espresso.

I'm not sick, I'm just recovering. Because I got to spend a portion of this weekend with 3 friends whom I had never met before...except through our blogs. Two Texans, Sara and Adrian and Kirsty, an Aussi, who live here in the south and who also blog about their lives as expats. If you read their blogs, you'll understand why we had so much fun! These women were a kick times 10.

I shouldn't be tired. We only had two things we HAD to do. The first was get to O'Shannon's pub so Sara could watch the first half of the Ireland/Italy rugby match. I don't know why it was specifically O'Shannon's but I led the group to what I thought was O'Shannon's.

 Except it was not.

Oh sorry. Oops. 

Now I know where it is. We can get there in a few minutes.

Oh geez!  That's not it either.  Who knew finding an Irish Pub in a French city could be so difficult? Or that we'd have so many to choose from. Sara said, "it's across from a fountain, just at the end of Cour Mirabeau and off to the right".  Oh yeah, I know where that is. I spent St. Patrick's Day there once. I forgot about that one. 

Strike out. 

It starts with an O. Doesn't that count?

No, she said, I think it's on the other end of Cours Mirabeau...to the right. At this point we'd covered most of the town but we schlepped to the other end of Cours Mirabeau, running the last few meters because  Adrian and Sara (who have both lived in Ireland) wanted to hear the national anthem. National anthems make them cry.

Score! 

We talked a blue streak ( in English....yeah!) through the first half of the game.  Sara, being a woman, was able to watch her game and talk trash with the rest of us AT THE SAME TIME. 

The only other thing we HAD to do was put down the wine bottles on the terrace in time to get to dinner. Which we managed because I'd already scoped this one out. Properly.

So here's the deal. These girls were rarin' to go at about 7 am the next day. AND they had to return to their families, husbands and dogs and hit the ground running. I didn't have to do anything. Except attempt to polish off the chocolate cupcakes. And sleep. Which, as I said, was all I could manage. Is this the difference between the being in your 30's/40's and surpassing age 50? I guess I could be depressed about that...except I'm still giggling thinking about all the funnies from the weekend. 

Thanks girls. Let's do it again soon. But give me a little time!

Triple X

It’s Monday. Yes, it’s MONDAY. I don’t really mind Mondays. They’re days to begin anew…with new resolve….with a plan. And this is my Monday. All my visitors are finished for the season. All those dinners and lunches out, no gym, little writing, almost no reading…those days are finished and with a little weekend bridge in there for good measure, that brings me to MONDAY.

I’ve had all kinds of visitors this year. Great old friends, people I’ve never met until they were sleeping on my couch, friends of friends, people I haven’t seen in 15 years, and my business partner. But probably the most interesting was the visit of …ta…da…the first ex-wife of my only ex-expectorant. Yep, the ex of an ex in Aix!

Doesn’t that beat all?

It all started with a comment on one of my early blogs. She left her name and I responded by saying I knew someone in another life with that name. Was she, in fact, that person? Indeed she was…and this began a facebook friendship and many long nights of chatting and comparing notes, so to speak. Oh my, oh my! I shan’t go into all we’ve talked about (I’ll save that for a book) and all we’ve learned but let’s just say our mutual past has cemented our friendship. Who’d have ever thought?

During those chats she talked about how much she’d like to pack up her family (she has 2 young girls ages 12 and 13) and take off for a time to see the world. I, of course, being one who understands pipe dreams but also someone who believes they can become reality, encouraged her.

As it turns out, she didn’t need much encouragement. Within 6 months, she and her husband had made the decision to rent out their house for a year, take the girls out of school, and make their dream a reality. And they took off this summer for parts unknown. Now doesn’t that make her all the more interesting?

And so the entourage arrived chez moi last week. So far the girls have seen England, Germany, Spain, Holland and France. After Italy and a few other countries they will make their way to South American where they hope to stay for a length of time so as to soak up a bit of the culture and possibly the language. They will learn more in this year then they ever would in school.  And I got to be a little part of their journey. I’m honored and so happy to have met (or re-met) them all. And who'd have thought...I really like my ex's ex!

Back to my Monday. During the time of “all the visitors” I developed some sort of allergy to insects. What insect, I don’t know…a french one...but whatever it is, when I get stung my reaction is over the top. At first it was just large swelling and itchiness that lasted weeks. Then it became blisters (now if a giant yellow blister on your arm or you’re your forehead isn’t gross, I don’t know what is). Yesterday at the movies, I was bitten by something on my eyebrow. I could feel the swelling almost immediately. And today, my Grand Monday…the Monday to return to the gym and get some writing and reading done…this Monday I woke up to greet Quasimodo in the mirror. 

 Oh wait...that's not me...this is me.

But I'm sure you can see the resemblance. 

I have been taking all the medicine the pharmacy recommended and today when I returned there and removed my sunglasses, the pharmacist took in a breath and said, "Madame, we've given you all we have. You NEED to go to a doctor". Which I promptly did. I don't want to scare anyone on the street. 

I announced to the doctor that apparently, “ j’ai une allergie aux insects”.

He exclaimed, “Oh no, you’re not allergic to sex!”

But he said it with a twinkle in his eye, probably remembering my last visit, which involved a minor language problem. I told him, I don’t think so….unless it’s some sort of REALLY DELAYED reaction.

He loaded me up with pills and potions, from which I am reeling right now. (It’s probably this drug induced state that made me think it was okay to publish that photo of myself!)

Tomorrow is... Tuesday. Time to start fresh and new. Go to the gym...get some work done on my web site, go on a diet. And it's my Tuesday. I swear it will be. The pharmacist sold me heavy duty bug spray and told me to keep myself smothered in it. Well, actually she told me wear it like perfume..on my wrists and my ankles....all the time. Which will pretty much insure that I'm never going to have the chance to find out if I have an allergy to sex.

Have a great week!

More IS Better

This is a peanut butter stupor. Okay, 2 people know this is not true so I have to be honest. It's an alcohol induced stupor brought on by a night on the terrace with my girls. Wine, trash talk, more wine, not enough food, more trash talk (I truly hope the neighbors near the mansion can't speak English).....and then came the peanut butter. But all the same, I'm blaming it all on my girls. 


Jeanmarie and Victoria, my two fine friends who I met while we were all living in a convent in London in 1980, came to visit once again. They knew that they would each be taking a suitcase full of contraband back to the states for me, so they both arrived with said suitcase filled with goodies for me. In keeping with the American tradition of 'if one is good, more must be better', their extra suitcases resembled Mary Poppins' magic bag.

And as a result I now have 7 rolls of Press-n-Seal, 22 pounds (yes, pounds!) of Skippy Extra Chunk, 3 cans of Spam, 7 pounds of brown sugar, 3 boxes of Nilla Wafers (I can now make my friend Susan's banana pudding recipe), 1 bag of marshmallows, 1 box of graham crackers, 5 extra-large boxes of Ziploc bags, 2 bottles of Tero ant killer, 2 bottles of my favorite contact lens solution, and other assorted stuff. I’m delighted with all my treasures, except for the major problem of having to find a place in this apartment to store everything. I mean, really! Even I can’t go through 22 pounds of peanut butter…um…can I? But I do know I can kill every single sweet-eating ant in the south of France with 2 bottles of Tero.

And please note the 2...yes 2...cake carriers. These were a present from Victoria who had read about my cake carrying troubles and wanted to surprise me. One is even collapsable and when fully opened, will carry two layers of cupcakes. I guess now I'll have to make cupcakes. In the meantime however, I'll store my ziploc bags in them. 

The girls are gone now and I miss them. I miss their grief and their support, their insecurities and their strength, their humor and their tears, their chastising and their acceptance. 

Here's to fine and lasting friendships. In this case it is true... if one is good...more is ALWAYS better. 

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!

The Boogey Man

My apartment here in Aix is really adorable and absolutely perfect for me...aside from some of the noises that emanate from the other apartments. 

My 638 square feet of personal space is cute....the entrance to my space is not. Like so many other other old buildings here in the central town, the entrance is horrible. Ugly...dirty...unpainted...scary.  I still remember this phenomenon being one of my first impressions here in Aix. And an ugly entrance is not a good first impression!

I don't know who is supposed to take care of it . Often there is a sydicat who is paid collectively by the owners each month to clean, change lightbulbs, repair anything that's broken and the like. We must not have one. I mean, how many years should one have to look at this on the way up to one's apartment?

When the lightbulbs burn out and nobody replaces them,  entering or leaving is like falling into a deep, dark pit of....I don't know....snakes? I always warn my visitors that they must pass through hell before they can arrive in heaven.

I'm not afraid here. It's a secure building and a safe neighborhood. I've never been afraid....until a couple of nights ago. I descended the stairs, struggling with two large bags of garbage that I set just outside the doorway each night for pickup. I made my way through the section of dark hallway, arrived at the door, set down my bags, opened the heavy port......and stopped short. My stomach dropped to my toes.


Just outside the door, backed up against the wall and clearly hiding, stood a motionless man... obviously waiting for someone to exit. It was apparent that he wasn't very clever because I could see the tips of his shoes.

Still, a stupid criminal is a dangerous criminal!  I stood still, scared to death and quickly weighed my options. I finally decided to exit fast and swinging, so I picked up those heavy bags again, flew out the door ready to smash the SOB's face with old wine bottles and vegetable peelings. I turned to face my would be attacker, bags flailing... and stopped short. After the brief moment it took to collect myself...I burst out laughing...at myself.

Before me...my dangerous, would-be attacker....turned out to be...in fact....

a pair of shoes, set in the proper spot for garbage pick-up. And very neatly set, I might add.

Flat Out Foolish

I'm just finishing my ironing. I'm ironing sheets and pillowcases. Yes, you heard me right...I'm ironing sheets and pillowcases! I'm doing this... again... because my first visitor of the season just left and I've got another one coming today. Which really, as I think about it,  isn't a very good reason, is it? I mean, who irons sheets and pillowcases, anyway?

The French do, that's who! The French seem to iron everything and I seem to be integrating whether I like it or not. 


I had an ironing board in the states. And yes, I used it...to touch up my work clothes or iron the boys clean t-shirts that I'd left folded neatly on their beds and subsequently found laying in a heap on their floors. On Easter Sunday I would iron their only dress shirts, only to find that their arms had grown 3 inches since last Easter and it wasn't worth the bother.  My ex-pectorant used the iron to touch up his shirts between wearings, but he sent out his white collars and let somebody else do it.  Otherwise, the ironing board stood there and collected stuff. You know, just stuff. Like the kitchen table collects stuff, or the top of the washing machine by the back door collects stuff.

But it seems here in France, they're serious about their ironing. I am a femme de menage. This means, I'm a cleaning lady but I like the way it sounds in French better (do not mention this to the french government). I clean toilets, kitchens, bedrooms, fireplaces, and windows. And I do the ironing. The first time I went to my job, my boss opened a closet to reveal a stack of ironing like I've never seen before. I gasped. It's not like I don't know how to iron. When I was growing up, the bathrooms and the family ironing were my job and my mother carefully taught me how to do them both properly.  So apparently, returning to my childhood while here in France, I ironed washclothes, sheets, duvets, pillowcases, shirts, dresses, sweaters, leggings, nylon gym pants, old painting clothes and JEANS. Yes, jeans! In fact, I ironed a mountain of towels as well, which she later told me wasn't necessary...they just happened to be in the same closet. But still...washlclothes? Paintclothes?

When I see students moving in or out of their flats, there is always an ironing board involved. I'm not sure that my sons have ever owned an ironing board or an iron! My apartment is furnished and, of course, it came with all the equipment to do my ironing as well. I have since improved my equipment because I found a really nice, practically new iron (aside from the fact that someone obviously dropped it and it leaks...but only in a certain position) in the dumpster. It’s a plain, regular old iron. I point this out because when it comes to ironing, the French are not messing around. This contraption is very common here.

It's called a centrale vapeur. I don’t even know what it is but I hope when my heart stops, I will be here in France. Most certainly some well-meaning stranger will be able to defibrulate me with this sucker.

French artists seem to love ironing as well. Or rather, they like to paint women ironing. Obviously an interesting subject that Edgar Degas especially loved. This is just one of his many.

But Pablo Picasso, 

Louis Boilly 

and Armand Desire Gautier

got their hands in the picture as well.

 In the picture, yes, but I imagine not in the ironing. When I do the ironing I look more like Picasso's version than Boilly's lovely maiden.

Not to say that men don't iron here as well. In fact, I noticed that the champion of the Fer d'Or, a national ironing contest sponsored by Phillips Company, always seems to have a male champion. This time a Parisian barman. 

The strange thing is that I don't really mind this job. And there is something really heavenly about sleeping on freshly line dried, ironed sheets (not having dryers has a lot to do with the necessity of ironing). Okay, so I only do my pillow cases and the tops of my sheets. But the old linen sheets that I've been buying at the brocantes simply must be ironed. They just must. And of course, the linens for visitors. But I'll be damned if I'm going to iron jeans...or leggings! Anything that has to stretch that tight doesn't need to be ironed.

The assimilation process continues. I noticed today that my medicine cabinet is starting to look very French....as in...full to bursting. But that's another post.

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