Au Revoir, France

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

We've made it on the shuttle with our luggage to the airport, then to the Open Skies Lounge, where we have breakfast. We pass through security, once as we enter the airport gate area, and again before boarding the plane.


We have great seats, plenty of room, and Bernie has lots of legroom.

We're off the ground.

Au revoir, Paris, au revoir France. You've been wonderful to us. Thanks for the Liberation celebration, for loving our country. We love yours, too.

You're beautiful. And full of life.

We love your peaceful country villages, your castles, and the City of Light.

Nous reviendrons, God willing.

We're going home.

Last Day in Paris, the Musee D'Orsay

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

The Musee D'Orsay picks up where the Louvre leaves off. Here are great works of the late 19th and early 20th century, including many paintings we've seen hundreds of times in photos, ranging from Romanticism to Impressionism to Cubism. Whistler's Mother resides here, as well as some of my favorite paintings by Mary Cassatt, who was born and studied in Pittsburgh before moving to Paris and being accepted as part of the Impressionist movement.





























The Orsay is a fun museum. We're constantly oohing and aahing over something we've always wanted to see, and here it is. Van Gogh, Picasso, Degas, Manet, Monet, Gauguin, Rousseau-it's a smorgasbord.

At last we are forced by hunger to take a break. We find the restaurant and-surprise-it's as beautiful and delightful as the rest of the museum. Chandeliers, gilded mirrors, fresh flowers and the flood of natural light from the large windows- this is a great dining room!

The meal takes a while-again, dining in France is a leisurely experience, and we are truly refreshed after we polish off dessert.

We move toward the furniture exhibits without high expectations. We've seen some art deco stuff before and have not been overly impressed. But oh, this is fabulous! The pieces of furniture are works of art. And there is room after room of it.

We have to keep moving because there is so much to see. We could spend so much more time here. Another reason to come back to Paris, but then who needs another reason?

As closing time approaches we try to take it all in, however briefly. We have dozens of pictures, trying to capture the color, the way an artist has captured an expression, a special detail. We know it's impossible, just as it's impossible to capture a truly majestic landscape. Some things you just have to see.

There is just an hour after the Orsay closes until Galleries Lafayette closes, so we're back on the Metro to L'Opera. Galleries is so big, though, that the men's department is across the street in another building.

I always agonize over gifts for my sons-in-law-actually all our men are hard to buy for- so I search intensely for just the right things. At last I narrow it down to shirts for Kenny, Josh, and Evan. Then it's a matter of getting the style right, the color, something they will actually wear.

We exit the store with minutes to spare.

No real dinner tonight. We need to get up early to catch our flight.

We take the Metro and the train to Orly, where I find a tuna baguette. Bernie opts for a slice of pizza to take back to the hotel, and we climb into the shuttle. Our last night in Paris.

Cars, Trains, and Taxis

Monday, September 7, 2009









Joan and Bill are up early, though I know they've not had much rest. Joan's already fed the cats by the time I get to the kitchen.

We update them on messages, the cats' wellbeing, our adventures. They tell us England had horrible weather the whole time, and that the last week was as cold as winter there.

When we tell them we are leaving this morning, they understand and say that's fine. I think they will be relieved not to have anyone underfoot as they try to get settled back in, and they will be able to rest without having to tend to us.

Bernie, The Magnificent One, drives straight to Le Mans and pulls up in front of the rental place without a hitch. That's my man. After inspecting the car, they tell us it has a scratch, heretofore unrecorded, on a wheel cover. It will take several days to know if we're going to be charged for it so there's nothing we can do now. The good news? We still had four kilometers of our 3000 km allowance to go!

The train station is almost next door to the car rental agency. We're excited because we're taking the bullet train into Paris.

Once we've purchased our tickets, I start looking for food. There's a nice place with fresh sandwiches down the concourse. We're fortunate to have found seats, and we have time to finish lunch before our train is ready to depart.

The ride is so smooth I am not aware of how fast we are traveling for a long time. When Bernie says something about moving at 100 miles an hour, I say, "We are not!" Then I begin watching the utility poles and trees whip by. Yeah, Glenna, we are.

In Paris, we leave the train and move to the taxi queue. No rushing out and shouting "Taxi!" here. We follow the signs and take our place at the back of the line. Taxis are lined up in front of us, and as one is filled, another pulls up to gather the next passenger or group.

Our driver is Cambodian. Inside the taxi, we're once again treated to Frank Sinatra. This always happens when we get in a taxi in Paris. We wonder-is it just for Americans or do Parisian taxi drivers have a thing for Old Blue Eyes?

We're going to our hotel to check in and leave our bags. Our driver easily gets to within a block of Orly Field, but the Hilton is nowhere to be found. After several misguided attempts, our driver stops to ask a fellow taxi driver how to get there. Off we go again, now wondering what our fare is going to be. The hotel is still not easy to find, but with all three of us looking for it, we finally spot it and make our way there.

The driver apologizes profusely, and takes off part of the fare. Despite all we have heard about taxi drivers in Paris, we have found them to be completely honest and very helpful. And they drive where angels fear to tread.

The Hilton is clean, and wonder of wonders, has a hard-surface floor. No more wondering what's lurking in the carpet. I'm hoping this is the wave of the future in hotels.

We grab the shuttle over to Orly to get the train back into Paris. We buy two more two-day passes to get us around without hassle, and head for L'Opera stop. That's the shopping district, where the big department stores like Galleries Lafayette and Printemps main stores are located as well as many boutiques.

Too late, though. The extra time we spent in the taxi looking for our hotel has cost us. The stores are closing.

We stroll down the street checking out all the cafes and decide on one with a great people-watching view.

Oh, we are feeling adventurous tonight-Bernie orders Beef Tartare. Not-so-adventurous me chooses the homemade French onion soup, grilled duck, and vegetables in a balsamic sauce.

My choices are the evening's winners. The grilled duck tastes like steak. The vegetables are fantastic.

We share chocolate mousse for dessert.

Walking back to the Metro, we feel a little like real Parisians this evening. A leisurely dinner at a sidewalk cafe, strolling the avenues and looking into shop windows - Paris is all that it promises to be.

I'm Going to Miss the Breadman

Sunday, September 6, 2009







The breadman rolls through at about 10:30. I've learned his distinctive horn sound now.

It was only recently that I learned I could buy fabulous indulgences from him as well as my daily baguette. It's our last time to go to the gate and buy bread, so today we'll have treats.

He asks, as usual, if I want him to stop tomorrow. I tell him Madame Cameron may want him to stop, but that I won't be here because we are returning home. He wishes us a good journey, smiles as he always does, climbs in his van, and soon I hear his horn at Rennie's house as he makes his way to Monce.

Today is my last walk, and I choose the usual route, to Monce. The fields are empty now; we're told there will be another crop planted soon, since this area has moderate winters. I try to picture the landscape covered in snow. Easy, really, since I've seen paintings of snowy French villages from the 19th century. The French countryside looks essentially the same as it did in Monet's day. The old stone buildings have served well.

Rennie's dog, the beautiful red one that can leap straight in the air, comes out to greet me. Rennie and I have one of our usual conversations in which neither of us gets more than two words of what the other is saying. I admire his tomatoes and then worry that he thinks I've asked for one. He asks me again if things are going well. I give him lots of "Ouis" and nod my head vigorously.

Once I'm back at the house, we begin to pack. My suitcase, which was full on the flight over, is now bulging on every side.

I lay my clothes for tomorrow on a chair, and we go to bed.

Just after midnight I hear Joan and Bill pull into the courtyard.

A clean sweep

Saturday, September 5, 2009








Today we work on removing all traces of ourselves in St. Vincent. Monique cleaned yesterday, and we are giving the house some extra effort today.

Bernie carries the rug in the office out to the courtyard to clean it; early on in our visit Tink lost control of her mind and other things in there after an encounter with Mr. Big from down the street. We learned to shut the door when we weren't in there.

I'll put the last load of laundry in tonight and set it to run in the middle of the night.

Fittingly, dinner is leftovers.

The family who has moved into the old boucherie two houses down is having a barbecue. Friends have come to visit and the kids are laughing and playing in the backyard. We try not to spy, but from the upstairs bathroom window we look out over Marie-Louise's front garden and the new neighbors' back yard.

I'm struck much more often by the similarities of life here and at home than by the differences.

French 101, Paris Hilton

Friday, September 4, 2009

Today we see Monique for the last time. I make coffee for her again. It's funny how you can tell when people are good and kind even if you can't understand all they are saying. Monique is petite and attractive and good at her work.

Bernie, however, was very impressed by Marie-Louise's household help. She answered the door one day when we stopped by. She was wearing the traditional French maid outfit: white apron over black dress. Blond hair and a tattoo added to the mystique.




























It's cold today. We've arranged to meet Dominique at the Mayor's office in Peray. She wants to show us the very old church next door to the Mairie. Dominique's been very busy since she became mayor. She's also a newspaper reporter. As soon as she sees us, she begins speaking in French to us. After seeing our completely puzzled expressions, she immediately switches to English. I wish I could do that!

Parts of the old church at Peray date to the 11th century. Services are rarely held here, or in any of other village churches in France. A largely Catholic country, France has drifted away from the church since the world wars - indeed, since the French Revolution. Before that, the church was very much a part of the political machinations and closely aligned to the monarchy; hence it stands to reason that the people had little use for the church as an institution when the monarchy was toppled.

The French do, however, have great regard for their history, and nowhere does this appear so prominently as it does with old churches. The central French government funds restoration of many of these churches and the old cemeteries that occupy church grounds.

At Peray, the cemetery is the old style, in other words, with underground burials. New regulations demand that all burials must be above-ground.

Dominique points out some carving on the outside church wall. The inscription seems to mark the burial there of a high-ranking military officer from the 17th century, who died on February 10, 1681.

The roof of the church has begun to leak. Dominique is applying for funds to repair it, but matching funds must be raised in this tiny village, no small feat. Fundraising is a global problem, apparently.

It would be a shame to lose this building. Inside is wonderful decoration, some of it recording the history of the church and parishioners from long ago. Beautiful artifacts remain. Even the last priest's robe still hangs in the closet. An beautiful figure of Christ stands on the altar.

We thank Dominique and let her get back to her work.

Back at the house I take down the sheets I'd hung on the line this morning. We put clean sheets on Joan's bed and move our things upstairs again. They will be home Sunday night.

Bernie books our room for our last night in France - it's a Paris Hilton (Orly). It's modern, we understand, and has no particular character, but they provide shuttle service to the airport.

At dinnertime we decide to try the Chinese restaurant. To compare, we order the shrimp ravioli here, too. The Cambodian version was better.

We sleep in the loft again tonight. It's cozy and we can see the moon through the skylight.
bookings to go - Paris Hilton.

The French Chef

Thursday, September 3, 2009









I take my walk to Monce. Only a few butterflies, thistle bursting with down, cornstalks turning yellow, straw bales out of the fields and into barns.

School started here today. The local bus service has added additional runs to LeMans. Most of the children go to school there now.

Our time here is growing short. Back at Le Verger, I call Michael Cresswell and Tracey. He's the young man who spent the last few months in Nashville recording an album that's to be released in Europe in the fall. We've been meaning to get together with them, so we'd better try to make arrangements now.

Alas, Michael and Tracey are leaving today on a trip to promote Michael's CD. We're sorry for that. They both have a great sense of humor, and they're interesting and smart. Good company.

Tonight we're trying Sauce Normande. I bought pork cutlets (though they won't be an adequate substitute for the wonderful sausage we had in the fabulous appetizer). We're filling out the menu with green beans (known as haricots verts in this neck of the woods) and salad (made from the contents in our garden), a baguette and butter and the last of the blackberry pie.

Chef Bernard is at the stove, hovering solicitously over a saucepan, a container of cream and a bottle of Calvados nearby. Onions and the Calvados transform a white sauce into a delicious, subtle yet robust sauce that's a perfect accompaniment to pork.

Dinner is perfect. I could go on eating this way for a long time. I'm so glad our arrangements allow us to eat out when we like, but still cook at home.