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.

Marché aux Poissons

The outdoor food markets were booming today here in Aix. Tomorrow is Easter or Paque and everything will shut down for two days. Townspeople were laden with sacks of vegetables, meats, cheese and flowers and I was no exception. However, I'm forgoing the chocolate easter bunny this year because the lines at the Chocolateries were out-the-door-and-down-the-street. I did take the time to wait in line at the patisserie for a beautiful little cake...I'm not totally crazy!


As promised, today I'll give you a peek at our fish market. 

On Saturdays there at least 3 fish venders at Place Richelme. I am only familiar with about 1/20th of the varieties of fish that they offer. Oysters and shrimp I understand...

 .

BUT.....what are these things anyway?

And some are just too ugly to eat...although I hear that the more grotesque the fish, the tastier...

Others, like the Coquille St. Jaque (scallops) are truly a beautiful miracle of nature...

The venders will scale, cut, filet or shell your fruits de mer (fruits of the sea) if you ask. Very helpful for someone like me.

I'll leave you with these two fellas...

I swear I could hear this one screaming HELP!.. in a teeny, tiny voice....

...and this poor bloke seems just a little stunned by the fate that has befallen him.

My little, black goldfish, Maurice, is swimming about nervously as I write this page. I wonder what's up with him?

This Just In....

The French Government today, announced several far-reaching changes that it says will go into effect within the next several years. This announcement has caused a huge stir here in France resulting in retaliation plans by several trade unions and government worker groups.

In an effort to conserve paper, the government will require all it’s offices and subsidiaries to reduce required paperwork by half. Ecologists have taken to the streets in celebration but paper companies have threatened to shut down all importation until the law is repealed and The Copy Machine Conglomerate is quickly organizing a group to begin talks with the Sarkozy administration.

As an addendum to this new change, the government says it has assembled a think tank group to devise a way for simple and necessary information to be accessed by computer at all related government agencies. The group is also being charged with the daunting task of devising an efficient telephone answering system in all government offices in order to “prevent the current practice of taking the phone off the hook”.

“Our government is paying millions of euros per year to store the mounds of paper we have accumulated”, said one government official. “And we have yet to find a way to locate any particular document when it becomes necessary”.

In addition, a new program is being established that requires all government workers to attend 2.5 hours of continuing education per year in order to learn the art of pleasantry and smiling. This program will replace the current CE program entitled “500 Alternative Ways to Actually Say “Here is your copy. Do not lose this because we will lose all of ours.” Government workers have put their foot down and plan a strike for the entire month of September. An unnamed spokesperson said today, “this should extend our already extensive August holiday by 4 weeks and with all that is now being expected of us, we deserve it.”

One Person’s Trash…..

Like every Monday, today's story was originally written in 2009, during my first year here in Aix en Provence. However, the photo was taken yesterday. I still continue my exploits!

Yesterday, while walking down my little street, I came upon a shopping cart. Yep, the metal basket on wheels found at the grocery store or next to a homeless person sleeping in the park.  I have to say, I was really excited to find it and actually walked around it a few times, trying to figure out how I might be able to get it up the stairs and where I would store it in my apartment.

In fact, a shopping cart all my own is practically like having a car. With my very own shopping cart I could haul all my treasures around without breaking my back. I could ride it down the street just for fun in the middle of the night when no one is looking. I could move from one apartment to the other without having to beg friends for their cars.

However, I stopped, got myself in check, and decided I really didn’t need to finish my first year in a new town wandering around with a shopping cart!  Delana, get a grip!

Le Marché aux Fleurs

I love Saturday mornings in Aix. The streets are alive with people and all of our markets are bustling. I never tire of the markets. The explosion of colors and smells and people draws me at least once each week and Saturday is my favorite.

St. Victoire

When I first saw La Montagne Sainte Victoire, I was mildly disappointed, I have to say. I was expecting a monumental, snow peaked sort of thing. A pillar of cold fire that would make me feel small and little frightened. Instead I found a sturdy, reliable, limestone mound of everything-you-want-it-to-be-when-you-need-it. 

  

Paul Cezanne painted this mountain more than 60 times. I'm beginning to understand why. This mountain has a base like my rear end…wide and far reaching. It’s solidly planted (I, however, am not) and it's sort of raw and utilitarian. It has a completely different persona depending upon your vantage point. From the south it solitarily rises up from the planes like an eruption and takes you by surprise. From the north, near the village of Vauvenargues, it has the appearance of foothills and it seems to wrap itself around you. There it gives me the sense of being nestled in…comfortable.

French Expressionists

This past week, 82-year-old Simone Veil was inducted into the Academie Française. This amazing woman is a holocaust survivor, champion of women's rights here in France and across Europe, and only the 6th women to become a member of this prestigious institution. She joins the likes of Alexandre Dumas, Louis Pasteur, Voltaire and Victor Hugo on the list of those who have worn the green robes. This Monday memory is in honor of her induction....even though I'm absolutely sure she'd be mortified if she knew it.

The French language is for me, one of the most beautiful in the world. It is fluid and melodic and these qualities… this euphony…is considered one of its most important characteristics.  The French share my enthusiasm for their mother tongue. They are proud of it…proud enough to actually have an official body, called the Academie Française, whose job it is to stand as sentinel against any perceived pollution of the language. These 40 people, who are appointed for life (thus they hold the title “les immortels”) make decisions on grammar and usage, which words will be permitted into the official language, what English words will not be allowed and what should replace them. They direct the compilation of the official dictionary and have been doing so since 1635. (In recent history, they’ve only allowed regular, or simple, verbs that are all conjugated exactly the same way which is great news for imbeciles like me!)) And luckily for me they are only safeguarding the written language because there is much more to it than that.

One of the funniest things I’ve observed when watching and listening to French speakers is their use of sounds, facial expressions and body movements. Of course, people of all nationalities use them. But here in France, these seem more vigorous and distinct.  Of course writing down what they sound like is impossible and their exact meaning is even more difficult to discern which is probably the reason “les immortels” have avoided the issue entirely! But les gestes français are considered important enough to be taught in French language classes and explained in detail on numerous internet sites.