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.

A Road Untraveled, and Unexpectedly Good Food

Wednesday, September 2, 2009














































One of the roads from St. Vincent forks just a few hundred feet out of the village. One fork leads to Commerviel, the other to Monhoudou. We've walked along the road to Commerviel to see the sunflower fields and a beautiful house with an impressive glass entrance.

So today we walk toward Monhoudou. It's a funny name for a town in France. It comes from Latin (Mons) and Greek(helios)- a strange marrying of language. Like many other villages, it has very old roots; archaeological finds indicate it was home to the ancient Gauls (as in Julius Caesar's time).

At the first farm, inquisitive white cattle come to the fence to look us over. Two calves poke their noses through the fence, and gaze unwaveringly at me as I take photos. I think they're posing because, after a minute, they turn to the side, displaying their profiles proudly.

Farther along, a break in the hedge reveals five or six black turkeys. As soon as they see us they begin to gobble. We continue to walk. They follow along inside the fence. At last we come to a corner where an even narrower leads to other farms.

Here is the farm gate, and as we approach it, the rest of the turkeys see us. There must be a hundred of them, all facing us and gobbling. It's as if we are conducting a turkey orchestra. They're lined up several rows deep at the gate.

Down the road we see what looks like small horses in a field. As they turn to look at us, we see the long ears. Not horses- perhaps mules or donkeys. As they come nearer the fence, Bernie recognizes the markings - shoulder crosses - they are donkeys. These markings, and the fact that Jesus rode into Jerasulem on a donkey, or ass (the correct term), has made for great legends.

We stay a respectful distance from the fence. Farm kids know donkeys bite, and we both lived on a farm as kids.

Back at Le Verger, our house in St. Vincent, we work at household chores and manage our own flock of cats until dinner time, when we drive to Mamers.

The Chinese restaurant, our first choice, is closed today, so we walk around the square. It's a chilly day and the Cambodian restaurant looks cheery and inviting. Once inside, we see the decor is Chinese Restaurant Anywhere, with pretty paper lanterns, lamps with silk shades, lacquer ware and paintings and sculpture. The menus are printed in French and English. Bernie orders Seven Perfume Shrimp and I choose Beef with Vegetables. Our appetizer, shrimp ravioli (yeah, I know that's Italian but it's how it's described) comes with a delicious dipping sauce.

Chinese beer, lots of green tea. The food is exceptional. At some point it dawns on us that we are sitting in a Cambodian restaurant in a small town in France and acting as if this is commonplace. I know that in many ways it is, but we still have the sense that the focus on our lens to the world is somehow changed.

A New Season Approaches

Tuesday, September 1, 2009









Today, as I often do, I walk the three kilometers from St. Vincent to Monce. Though so close, we can't see Monce from St. Vincent. Nor can we see St. Remy, about the same distance in the other direction. I nearly missed St. Pierre, another village with a beautiful old church, between Monce and St. Remy. All are within walking distance of St. Vincent.

On our fist walks in early August, we saw hundreds of butterflies, clusters of ten or more hovering around a wildflower, and bees hummed the eternal background music of summer, often the only sound we'd hear.

In the weeks since the landscape has changed. Fields along the road have been harvested, first the wheat, then the straw. Blackberries have ripened; hundreds of thousands of them line the roads.

Today there are fewer butterflies and only an occasional bee. Many of the wildflowers are gone.

Queen Anne's lace remains.

I'm seldom homesick anymore, no matter where I go. As a child, though, and sometimes even much later, I found comfort when in a strange place by finding things that were familiar. I'd begin with the sun, moon and stars and then look for trees and plants that grew at home.

This habit has stayed with me, and I was pleased to find the lacy white flower of the wild carrot growing along the roadsides in France.

For many years I'd gather the blooms on my daily walk for a bouquet.

That changed in the summer of 2007. As Jacob's life hung in the balance I was unable to find joy. I walked occasionally that summer but when Queen Anne's lace began to bloom I refused to pick it. When Jacob comes home, I told myself, I'll make a bouquet.

I'd not picked Queen Anne's lace since. Then, a couple of weeks into our stay here, I gathered some as I walked, along with a variety of small purple flowers. I put them in a vase on the kitchen counter.

They were pretty, of course. The little thrill of pleasure at seeing them never came, though. After a couple of days, I let them go.

As I walk today, something has changed, something indefinable yet definite. Summer is closing up shop, folding the flowers back into the earth, stripping the fields in preparation for the new season.

I feel a pleasant loneliness. Our time here will soon be over. I've loved every minute of it. I'm not eager to leave; I believe I could stay on, live here.

At the same time, I look forward to being home. I want to be with our family. Juliet will have grown so much. The other grandchildren are back in school. We have plans.

Sacre Couer, Montmartre, The Orangerie

August 31, 2009































We'd planned to see the Orsay Museum today, but it's closed on Mondays, so we head for Montmartre. Montmartre is bohemian Paris, and home to the dazzling white basilica of Sacre Coeur. I was in Paris, at Montmarte, nearly twenty years ago. Then I was too stingy to have a sketch portrait made. I've since thought that was a silly economy. So if I see something I like this time, I'm, taking it home.

There is something almost startling about riding the Paris Metro, packed but silent, then exiting and walking up to street level to see hundreds of people, cafes, shops, all against a lively, colorful background. Coming up into Montmartre has that startle effect times a double espresso.

I stand on a corner, drinking in all the life going on around me, momentarily overwhelmed. A figure emerges from the crowd, an elderly man with a cane, wearing a dark green suit and a beret. He approaches me, tilts his head slightly to one side, and asks, "Are you looking for Sacre Couer?"

I tell him I am. He gives me directions, and I thank him profusely.

Sacre Couer, atop Paris' highest hill, commands a spectacular view of the city. Before we begin the steep climb, though, we need coffee and hot chocolate.

At the cafe we choose I place our order, and we take a table on the sidewalk. When our order arrives, I realize I didn't communicate well. We have one large (by French standards) cafe au lait. Now, I know I can't drink coffee-it will make me sick. However, I love coffee, and this coffee looks and smells wonderful. Bernie tastes it. "Mmm, it's delicious." I pick up the cup and taste it. It's heavenly. Though we share, I drink most of this perfect cup of coffee. I may pay for it later but now it's worth it. Another testament to the mystery of why we do things we know aren't good for us.

The climb to Sacre Couer is steep, and the approach is crowded with shops of all kinds-at least ten beauty shops specializing in elaborate African hair styles, inexpensive clothing in bins that open both on the sidewalk and the inside of the shop, tobacco shops and bars.

Several men are running a shell game in the middle of a narrow street. The amazing thing is that people are falling for it-one of the oldest scams in the world. It's obviously illegal, but the shifty-eyed crooks who've drawn a large crowd seem little concerned about possible arrest. There are no police in sight.

The of city streets opens to a park-like setting. We are just below the basilica on a path with an amazing view of Paris below us.

We've avoided most of the steps to Sacre Coeur-there's just one flight left. But here are all the recent-immigrant vendors with their wares on display. This year you can buy crystal Eiffel Towers. We're about to sweep past them when I see little battery-powered dogs trotting along, barking, tails wagging, eyes flashing. I don't know how I'll find room in my bulging suitcase, but I buy one for Elyse and Brookie.

Violin music pours from the top of the steps-a busker plays as tourists drop money in the box nearby.

Rules are posted a the entrance to the church: no hats, no photographs, proper attire, silence. They're enforced, too. Someone is told to remove his hat, another takes a photo and is told to leave. Silence, however, is elusive. It's clear the atmosphere here is not prayerful. Everyone seems to want to talk. We leave.

Instead of walking down all the steps, we take the finicular, then the Metro back to Central Paris.

In the Tuileries we buy ice cream and then enter the Orangerie, the beautiful Impressionist museum that houses Monet's Water Lilies in two oval rooms, displayed as he specified. On the lower level we also see some fine paintings by Utrillo, Renoir, Cezanne, Matisse and Picasso. Renoir does the most amazing things with color.

Late afternoon-we take the train back to Versailles. On the walk back to the hotel, I purchase the last tuna baguette of the day from a cafe.

We return to our peaceful village through lovely countryside this late August evening.

The Louvre and Arc de Triomphe

August 30, 2009

We arrive at Versailles at 10:00. Our plan was to park our car in the lot at the hotel, then check in later, but a room will be ready for us in about half an hour, so we have coffee and tea in the restaurant while we wait for our room. The hotel, Cheval Rouge, was built in 1676 and served as Louis XIV's livery stable.

We'll not see the famous castle today, though. We've chosen to stay in Versailles so we won't have to drive in Paris traffic, but we're just 30 minutes from central Paris via the commuter train. The 2-day pass we buy covers both the commuter train and the Metro system.

There is a man from New Jersey on the train from Versailles to Paris. He's already been to the chateau and is headed back to Paris to meet two friends for lunch.

The Metro and RER system make it easy to get around and it's easy to learn. And by buying a pass instead of purchasing a ticket for every trip, which saves time and money, if you make a mistake you just get off and get another train, but we've not gotten on the wrong train-yet.

We're across the Seine from the Louvre. We can walk across either of two bridges but we choose the Pont Neuf. At the Louvre the line under the pyramid moves quickly.













Once we have our tickets I approach a guide. We have a map and I ask her if a part of a certain wing is closed. It's not. Then I say, "I'm about to ask you the question that you're asked a million times a day...." And she finishes "...Where is the Mona Lisa?" We both laugh.

The act of seeing the Mona Lisa is not such a big deal. There are lots of people there, all taking photos, many of them of themselves and their partner in front of the Mona Lisa, proof that you really were here. You can't get close to da Vinci's masterpiece, and it's behind bullet proof glass. On August 2, a woman with psychological problems, angry because the French government had not granted her permission to emigrate, threw a coffee cup at the painting, but it was undamaged thanks to the bullet proof glass.

But it would be perversely silly not to see the world's most famous painting once you're in the Louvre.

The other two favorites are the Venus de Milo and the Winged Victory of Samothrace. Both live up to their fame (as does Mona) - wonderful sculpture.

Winged Victory gets a lot of my attention-fluid marble, proud and inspiring. It's located at the top of several flights of steps and seeing it from the bottom of the last flight of steps gives a hint of what she must have looked like in the original (sitting on the prow of a ship on a hilltop in Thrace).

No single-day visit to the Louvre will do it justice. Another reason, we tell each other, that we'll have to come back.

That said, we drink in the Grand Hall where great paintings cover the walls (and thickly, I might add) floor to ceiling, immersed in the overwhelming richness of the Louvre and take in as many rooms as possible where vast paintings such as The Wedding at Cana command an entire wall.

I love The Clubfooted Boy by Caravaggio. There are so many paintings I want to spend more time with if we are privileged to return.

Exiting through the glass pyramid, we pause to plot our Metro route to the Arc de Triomphe.

While we certainly want to see the famous Arc where the Champs-Elysee begins, we have a secondary reason for wanting to reach the landmark.

On the day before we left for France we learned that our next-door neighbor had been born in Paris and lived, until her early teens, on one of the 12 boulevards that radiate out from the Arc de Triomple. She'd said that not only could she see the Arc from her family's apartment, but, by leaning out the window, looking to the right, she could also peer at the Eiffel Tower.

So, once at street level, we turn down Avenue de Wagram and quickly succumb to the desire for a hamburger at the McDonald's there.

Once our hunger is satisfied we stroll down the street looking at apartment windows, imaging a petite blond girl looking at at two of the world's most famous landmarks