Mother's Duties

Yesterday was Mother's Day in the U.S.  I almost completely missed it because our Fête des Mères here in France is on May 25. Thus I didn't have the constant Hallmark barrage of reminders. Luckily I spoke with my sister earlier in the week and was set straight.  Too late for a snail mail card but not too late for a video card and a phone call. But I could have missed it!


I told my Mommy that I love her and that I value all the love and support that she's given me throughout my lifetime. I did not tell her, and should have, that I realize what a lucky woman I am to have had such an idyllic childhood, a mother who always believed in my every quality even when it didn't exist, a mother who eventually accepted my weird needs to run off on adventures but whose resistance to those same adventures was only out of her concern for me.  A mother who is still with me even if we are an ocean apart. 

Yesterday was Mother's Day in the U.S.  I, however, did NOT get a message from either of my boys. This is not acceptable; not to a woman who insists on wearing a tiara for every special occasion. This is also not their usual style so I'm not hot angry, just a wee bit surprised. I was thinking I would just let it go and their shame or realization would eventually rise to the surface. Then I decided this is not something one should let go. I'm their mother. It's my job to teach them good manners. To honor their elders, especially their mothers. To remember their responsibilities. So I've chosen to fulfill my motherly responsibilities  it in a classic mother way. 

Public Shame and Guilt. 

So this morning, on each of their Facebook pages, I posted:

Dearest Mother, I just wanted to take the opportunity to tell you what a great mom you are. Happy Mother's Day. Colin/Ryan

(please feel free to copy and paste to your mother's page...since you forgot!)

And now I'm writing this blog post. I'm hoping I've done my job!

Happy Mother's Day (a day late) to all. And if you forgot, your mother still loves you. But call her right away. Public Shame and Guilt is far too easy...and far too much fun!

Home Sweet Home

Yesterday was an at-home day. Except for the 3 hours in the morning that the entire quarter was without electricity. Nobody knows why and nobody was notified in advance but we assume it was because of the work being done down the street.  When I left the dark apartment to go to the market, all the merchants were standing outside their similarly dark stores, smoking cigarettes and shooting the breeze, occasionally glancing up the street for any clues as to the problem, and then shrugging their shoulders while continuing their extended coffee break (without the coffee because nobody could make it). Nobody seemed too worked up about it.

I caught these two next door, outside their dim apartment doing much the same thing.

During those dark hours, I took off for the market to purchase the finishing touches for the summer terrace. It is finished, I am content and apero will be served tonight at 7.

But while working around the apartment today, I had time to notice some odd things in my building. I don't know its age, I just know this building is old. At least old in American terms. I've tried to do research on the street and my building in particular but I can't seem to find much. I have found references to the street, called Rue du Puits Neuf (Street of the New Well) as far back as the 14th century and I've been told that the shutters in my bedroom are at least 400 years old. So at it's youngest, this places my building's birth somewhere before the founding of Jamestown in Virginia.

The apartments in my building are situated around a very tiny court that I pass by to get in and out. I pay little attention to it because it's dark, damp, and sometimes very...stinky.

Once in awhile, Arthur-the-cat likes to escape the apartment, run down the stairs and gallivant around the court as if it's his own personal playpen. Yesterday, he made his move and I found him over in the corner, using some sort of stone basin for a litter box. As I chased him out, I took a closer look at the basin.

I'd never seen it before because it's hidden by the bike that nobody EVER uses. It looked very similar to basins I've seen near ancient, public water sources so I checked out the fenced area behind it. I had always thought it to be some sort of platform or planter. But, in fact, it is a well . Yes, an open well! I don't know about you, but I find this fascinating. I didn't realize that old buildings had their very own wells.  Unless....unless...this is The Puits Neuf of medieval times and the building was actually built around it later.  I'm just making this all up but it IS a possibility and I really must find out. Of course, in the states, a pit of danger like this would have been filled in and covered long ago.

And while we're on the subject of plumbing...sort of....I want you to check out my bathroom. At least the outside of it. This is how it looks across the court from my kitchen window. 

The bathroom is, of course, a tiny bit bigger than that but this little triangle holds the toilet. And yes, with that pipe running out the bottom of it, everyone in the building is aware when I'm using it. Now this could possibly be an addition to the building, because, of course,  there was generally no indoor plumbing at the time it was built. But on closer inspection yesterday, I could see that the beams that support it are original. So perhaps it was some sort of version of the first toilet which actually was invented at that time and used more in France than other countries. Probably not, but this is my story. 

That being said, yesterday as I was staring at the bathroom from my kitchen window I noticed something. Something which is a little worrisome.

Can you see that big crack on the side? The one that seems to have been repaired over and over? Yeah, that one. There's another one on the other side...and another BIG one inside the bathroom. All I can say is, if I eat any more French cheese, there is a strong chance that one day they're going to find me, pants around my ankles, at the bottom of that deep dark well. Tell me, how does one take precautions against this particular disaster?

I just hope it doesn't happen today. Because it's Friday. And that apero on the terrace starts in 2 hours.

Bon week-end à tous,

P.S. I really am interested in finding out more about my neighborhood and my building. It's probably more interesting than making up my own stories. If anybody can point me in the right direction, I'd appreciate it.

Wisdom of the Ages

Never let a Birthmonth go by without announcing it. That is my motto. My birthday is on the last day of April. Which gives me until the 29th of May to celebrate. I learned this trick from my friend Marcie whose birthday is in mid-October. She begins Birthmonth the first of the month, celebrates until the last day and revels in every moment of it. Sometimes she goes even longer if she feels like it. In fact, she takes a lot of liberties with her Birthday. On her 29th she decided to have an colossal party and sent invitations to everyone she liked or had even liked for a moment. But when I received the invitation I realized it was for a 30th Birthday party.  I called her on it, sure that she was only 6 months older than I, and also quite sure how old I was at the moment. She said that she'd decided to save her 29th birthday until she felt she really needed it.  I always loved the way this woman thinks.

And I love my Birthday (Birthday is capitalized like Labor Day or Christmas) and everyone knows it. It's a celebration of being alive and I just don't understand why that shouldn't be everyone's most important holiday of the year.  If it weren't for my birthday, or yours,  there would be absolutely nothing else to celebrate, right? But there is always a bit of disappointment surrounding it because...nobody has a parade for me. I know. Completely unreasonable and I've never held a parade for anyone else's birthday so what do I really expect? But still. 

Yes, I have to admit that sometimes on my birthday I get a little depressed. I don't think it's age that bothers me. In fact, I don't really know what it is but if I'm not careful, it will creep up on me. So I've learned to try to mindfully anticipate the day. I mean, it's my birthday so it's up to me. This year I bought myself a bouquet of pink peonies the day before and shined up my fuzzy pink tiara. I painted my nails and toes to match both. I accepted an invitation for myself and my friend Tenley to go up to Holly's house in the Luberon Valley. And I went to bed with expectation.

I woke up to pouring, dismal rain and I felt down and tired. Tenley called to cancel because she felt the same way. I too was at the point of erasing the day because as it went on I felt worse.... even ill.  

But suddenly there came a moment when I asked myself, "what would Marcie do?"

Well, she sure as hell wouldn't mope around on her birthday, that's for sure. And I can also hear her say, as I have so many times,  "I don't have time to be sick". She would take matters into her own hands with her usual joy of living.  So I sent Tenley a text and told her that, yes, the day sucked but we might as well all be together while it sucked. She saw the logic in this and agreed to go.  I bought a cake, packed an overnight bag and off we went.

And thanks to the wisdom of my dear friend Marcie, I was treated to a lovely soirée with friends and had the opportunity to see an evening sky like this. (honest, this is not photoshopped)

In the morning it was still beautiful.

I went to a vide grenier (village rummage sale) in the lovely village of Grambois.

I filled my aging belly with a giant American style hamburger and fries while enjoying the French national holiday of May Day (I've always thought it so lovely that there is a national holiday here where all the stores close in my honor. Come to think of it, that's almost like a parade!)

I spent the afternoon with my friend Claire and the evening on my terrace with another whom I hadn't seen in far too long.

 And I still have 26 more days of Birthmonth!

Sometimes I just need to count my blessings and get over myself. Because they are rich and plentiful. And when I'm not in the throes of feeling sorry for myself, I know it. Thank you Marcie for being one of the many important teachers in my increasingly long life. And HAPPY Birthmonth to me.

Pharm Assist

In France, people talk about their pharmacist like they talk about their doctors. As in, "Who's your pharmacist?" Or, "Do you have a pharmacist? Or "What did your pharmacist say about that?"

This was a curiosity to me at the beginning. My pharmacist in the United States was whomever was on duty at the 24-hour Walgreens, and I only ever talked to him/her after I'd made my purchase and he arrived at the window to ask me the required-by-law-question, "Do you understand how this medicine works?" End of relationship.

Not so here in France. Your pharmacist is your go-to guy. Whenever you have a problem, ache, or pain, you check in with him first before you do anything else (I'm using the masculine version because mine is). Then you get to recite all your problems and ask his advice on what to do. If he thinks you need to see a doctor, he'll tell you, but he's got all sorts of stuff in his arsenal for the first assault.

What is interesting about all this is often he will give you a homeopathic remedy. The pharmacies not only carry manufactured medicines, but they carry herbs and tinctures and essential oils, which they DO recommend if they think it's right for you. I love this.

I do not love the way medications are packaged. I swear, the medication industry here in France must produce more waste than any other (aside from the bottled water industry). Everything is packaged in blister packs, then boxed.  Nope, no giant bottles of 1000 generic ibuprofen here!

These are my feminine vitamins...my youth in a box, as the package says.

The French are also very fond of individual sachets, which is a package of powder that you mix with water. They always taste pretty good and might go well with vodka.

Prescription drugs are the same. They are not measured out and put in a bottle, the exact number for your prescription. You need to buy the whole box whether you need all of it or not.  As a result, French medicine cabinets are not a just a little shelf in the bathroom. They are generally an entire, overflowing kitchen cupboard devoted to all the leftover boxes filled with the individually wrapped surplus pills. The trick is figuring out what they're all for when you need them again.

I've been down the last two weeks with what seems to be a sinus infection. Oh, ouch. It's like waking up every single day with a massive hangover that cannot be cured with Coke and a package of Kraft Mac and Cheese. During a complaint session on my woes, my friend Lynn asked me if I'd talked to my pharmacist. Oh yeah, I forgot about him!

Off to Place Richelm to la pharmacie. After explaining, in my bizarre, roundabout version of French (I first told him I had a corkscrew in my head but then amended that by explaining that it was actually a traffic jam...or a cork...they're both the same word but obviously not the one I needed), I was given a homeopathic something or other to take every hour and a sachet that I should take 3 times a day.

Then my facebook friends emphatically recommended a Neti Pot. It was explained to me that this is a devise for cleaning out the sinuses with salted water. I checked out what they looked like on the Internet and took off again to the pharmacy. When I didn't find what I was looking for on the shelf, I finally, reluctantly, had to ask. This little request involved me iterating the nonsense about the traffic jam and that I need a little pot, that looks like Aladdin's lamp (I couldn't remember the word for tea pot), which I could fill with dirty water (and yes, I mixed up the word for salt and the word for dirty) and pour in my nose.  He's very patient with me, bless his heart. He said he had exactly what I was looking for and that they are very effective. After retrieving it from the back room, he pulled it out of the box, and rubbed it a little asking me what my wish would be. As I stared at this contraption, it all seemed just a little... risqué.

Because my magic lamp is not called a Neti Pot.  It's called a Rhino Horn. I proudly showed my new medical miracle to some friends the next day. Tenley, whose neti pot resembles the one above, looked at it and simply exclaimed, "Oh my!" My other friend wanted to know if...it came with batteries!

Hmmm...how do you suppose I would ask my pharmacist that question???

Black Diamond

"I got it!" he almost shouted into the phone.


"You got what?"


"Le truffe. And you have to come and eat it... soon. This can't wait. It's fresh...NOW!"


I think I probably need to explain all the ensuing shouting and jumping up and down. A truffe is a truffle. Not the chocolate kind that we make at Christmas. Those were named after the real truffe....the Black Diamond...because they share a resemblance.


A truffle is, plain and simple, a mushroom. But after that, it's not plain and simple. Black truffles are a smell and taste sensation, 80% of which come from Provence.  They grow completely underground and are not easy pickin's.  There are three ways to get them.


1. Have a nice, fat wallet and buy one.


2. Have a pig or trained dog that can root them out in a public forest where they may or not be and where nobody will shoot you if you find one.


3. Be a grower of truffles. These people buy oak or chestnut trees specifically inoculated with the spores and spend a lot of time, energy and money hoping their crop will come to fruition. And they still need a special dog or a pig and a lot of luck.


My friend has a colleague with a dog trained specifically to find truffles. It's a hobby and he does his foraging on public land where there is no danger of being called a poacher. It's a sideline that from time to time, cashes in.


I say "cashes in" because not only are they a taste and smell sensation, they're expensive. I mean, REALLY expensive. More pricey than my ski pants. More costly than my car, in fact! The December wholesale price of a quality black truffle was running about 1200€ a kilo ($1573)! Any way you look at it, they're a rarity, a very expensive rarity that I was soon to have the opportunity to enjoy.

On the menu: simple food designed to let the truffe shine. No fancy stuff here...I wanted to taste it.  But first, the truffle (ours was probable 200 grams or more...a great big one would wholesale at about 400€ and could double or triple for retail) was placed in a bowl with the whole eggs on top, sealed and put in the refrigerator for two days. Amazingly, the eggs take on the intense flavor of the truffle as they share space. Not only that, they actually took on a different color. The eggs on the left were the ones that spent a two day conjugal visit with their mushroom.

Then I mixed the slightly beaten eggs with a little creme fraiche and salt and pepper. I sliced the truffe in tiny, paper thin slices to mix into the eggs. When I dropped a couple slices on the floor, my friend was on his knees in a heartbeat, scrambling to pick them up and chastising me for my lack of care.. This is not something to be wasted. Then I cooked the eggs in a bain du marie, so they they slowly cooked without danger of burning.

In the meantime, we made a simple potato salad adding only olive oil, salt and pepper and sliced truffles. We used the whole thing up! All of it. I kept thinking this puppy could pay my air fare ticket to the United States but if I were to stuff it in my pocket and run like hell,  I would never have this experience again....so....


I tried to eat slowly. I really tried. But it was just so good. I've read up on truffles and "experts" say they're best raw. I'm going to disagree. I found the flavor more intense in the cooked eggs than in the potato salad and if I ever get the opportunity to play gourmet gourmand again, the truffles will go in the potato salad while the spuds are still hot.


Truffle season is over for this year (I wrote this in February but forgot to post it!) and today I ate...big surprise...peanut butter. But I've had my affair with The Black Diamond. And we're in love.

Just a note to ask you to check out this site for a free Provence Rug giveaway. They're not Black Diamonds...but they are a slice of Provence you can afford. Especially if you get one free!  http://www.thepixelboutique.com/2012/04/a-little-piece-of-france-a-provence-rugs-giveaway/

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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