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.
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.
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 SacreCoeur. 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 SacreCouer?"
I tell him I am. He gives me directions, and I thank him profusely.
SacreCouer, 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 aulait. 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 SacreCouer 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 SacreCoeur-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.
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 PontNeuf. 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 daVinci'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 deTriomphe.
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 deTriomple. 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 deWagram 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
Tomorrow we go to Paris. Marie-Louise will feed Sunshine, Tinkerbell, Tuppence, Diablo and Duchess plus the big guy who belongs to the neighbor who comes here to be fed.
We've learned each cat's personality and quirks. Sunshine does not move. If he's in the courtyard and you want to bring him in, you'd better get out of the car, pick him up and move him. He lives to sleep. But even though he's fourteen he's still able to wallop Tuppence if she goes too far with him. He's on our bed most of the time. Bernie calls him Earl Fisher (Bernie's dad's name) for reasons that escape me.
Tink is a crabby little old lady with a round belly, delicate face, thin legs and small feet. Though she has no Asian features, she reminds me of a Chinese Dowager Empress. She swats her kitten, Tuppence, who, though fully grown is, in my opinion, still her baby and should be treated as such.
Tuppence is full of personality, doesn't know to retract her claws when she plays with people, and is absolutely irresistible. I know each time I poke my finger between the door and jamb, she's going to be faster tan I am and I'm going to get scratched, but I can't stop because her little face looks up at me expectantly with those bright, alert eyes and her ears perked up.
She roars up the stairs, climbs on the old exposed beams, then gallops all around the landing sounding like a herd of cats.
And she's our defender. Joan has been feeding a neighbor's cat because he is not getting fed well at home. Now he wants to be a part of the household but he bullies the two younger cats and makes Tink a psych case (she pees and poops on the floor - aargh!)
So Tuppence guards the cat door in the morning while the other cats are eating, keeping the neighbor cat, who is twice her size, at bay. I just love this spirited little cat.
Diablo and Duchess are twins, a boy and a girl, pure white, and two of the most loving cats I've ever seen.
Trouble is, we never know which cat is which. It's a relief when both of them show up in the kitchen at the same time. Since they both love to stay out all night, and sometimes half the day, we like to know that nothing has happened to either of them. We don't know where they go, but we suspect they rule the big cornfield across the road, where no doubt mice also have field day.
And the neighbor's cat, even though he's a bully, even though I know he comes in at night and during the day when we're not here, and eats all the cat food, he's got me softened up. When I hang up clothes he rubs my legs. When I'm in the courtyard, he wants attention. He even pauses to be petted before he begins eating when I take his food dish across the road to keep him away from our cats.
I'm glad I'm not the one who has to decide what to do about him.
I'm going shopping this afternoon. I'd like to get a pair of pants since it looks as if the next few days might be cooler and I don't like the way my others fit. I swear for the 100th time never to buy anything that doesn't fit perfectly from the first try-on, no gaps in back, too-low rise, blah, blah, blah.
But my real reason for shopping is to buy the nice underwear I saw at the clothing store as gifts for my girls.
At the store I discover they also have very cute underwear for little girls, made smooth and flat for comfort. One great thing about giving underwear as a gift is that it takes up so little space in my maxed-out suitcase.
As for clothing for me, I buy leggings that are too big and a tunic that's too small, as I discover when I'm back at the house. I hope they are amenable to exchanges.
We're visiting Dominique tonight for a short while to take her flowers and to thank her for her kindness.
Flowers are very important in France; every town bigger than a small village has a florist. The arrangements are just a little different than at home, and very beautiful.
Dominique has taken on a lot of responsibility lately, and she is tired. We stay for only a short while, exchange e-mail addresses, and say goodnight. We want to get an early start for Paris in the morning.
We're on our way to the Loire Valley again, this time to Saumur, Chinon, and, we hope, to Chenonceau.
At Saumur's Tourist Information office, though, we learn that the chateau is undergoing renovation and is closed. There seem to be a lot of these projects underway at cathedrals and chateaus. The work is funded by the French government, and we wonder if this is part of a stimulus package.
Our stop here is not wasted, however. The young woman who helped us at the Tourist Information office is can't-stop-staring, put-Hollywood-to-shame beautiful. Natural jet black hair, big expressive eyes, perfect skin. Bernie counts this as a high point in his day.
We drive by the chateau for a glimpse anyway.
Now we're coming up on the Royal Abbey of Fontevraud. It's the largest in Europe. The Huguenots desecrated the Abbey in 1561 (the Catholic Church was very corrupt during that period and reform movements had begun all over Europe - Martin Luther posted his 95 theses on the church door in Wittenburg in1517). In 1804 Napoleon turned it into a prison, and it remained a prison until 1963. During World War II Germans tortured members of the French Resistance here and killed several.
Founded in 1101, the abbey had five buildings housing orders of priests and lay brothers, contemplative nuns, lepers, invalids, and lay sisters. The founder of the abbey ordained that the entire community should be directed by an Abbess, and that she should be chosen from among the widows.
The order quickly became the place for queens who'd been put on the shelf and the females of wealthy aristocratic families to take refuge. The order became wealthy due to generous gifts and endowments from those aristocrats. Many of the Abbesses over the years were from the royal family.
If I were going to a convent, I'd like this one, at least for the setting, among rolling hills planted with crops. One thing I wouldn't like - only the room in which monks copied manuscripts was heated.
Despite the corruption and laxity of religious orders of the time, we remind ourselves that it was places like this, and monks who laboriously copied manuscripts here, that kept Western civilization alive. The Dark Ages were times of illiteracy, ignorance, and a great step backward for Europe. What we think of as the wisdom of the ages, including, very importantly, the Bible, might easily have disappeared had it not been for them. (I know, I know - you got all this in Western Civ, but it seems so much more real here, more urgent.)
Libraries perform that same function today.
So do public schools. There were no public schools in the Middle Ages. Only the few, children of wealthy aristocrats, received any education.
Detractors of public schools would do well to keep in mind the reason that autocratic rulers do not want education for the masses: ignorant people are much easier to manipulate. Education's purpose is to expose students to a wide variety of points of view and to teach them to think for themselves so they can evaluate those points of view.
Education is a powerful thing. For those who hold power, it can often be a very dangerous thing. Thank God.
Abbeys are not as grandly decorated as cathedrals, and only the church here has stained glass, but the architecture is just as impressive.
Henry II of England, his wife, Eleanor of Aquataine, and their son, Richard the Lionheart are buried here.
I can remember - again back to fifth grade - reading about Richard the Lionhearted going on Crusades to the Holy Land. Did I ever think I'd gaze on his tomb? Not a chance.
I know this is so corny but we both love being this close to history.
Driving to Chinon we see more troglodyte houses-they are endlessly fascinating.
The Tourist Information office in Chinon doesn't disappoint Bernie-there is a very cute blonde young woman here.
Before we tackle the castle, we need lunch. We always seem to arrive for lunch just as most of the restaurants have stopped serving it, and the in-between offerings are limited. In most towns, though, at least one place serves all day.
We park at the top of the hill above the entrance to the castle. There is a restaurant across the street. We take a seat and wait, and wait. Apparently we are not only not going to get lunch here, we're not even going to get a nod.
We go down the hill towards the center of town. It's a steep descent, but fortunately there is an elevator.
There are several cafes clustered around the Place de la Charles deGaulle. We find one that's still serving. At the next table is a couple from Dublin with their two girls. I'm always glad to see families traveling with children. We have a pleasant lunch, but we have decided we're going to have to start packing lunches - these leisurely cafe breaks eat up a lot of sightseeing time.
Francois Rabelais, writer satirist (whom I've not read) was born in Chinon in the 1400s. Chinon is best known for it's red wines, and after climbing up to the chateau we see the vineyards on the side of the hill.
All the castles we've visited on our trip have been fortresses rather than the luxury palaces and Chinon is no exception.
Joan of Arc pleaded with Charles VII to take the throne back from the English here, and he gave her permission to raise an army. He'd taken refuge at Chinon during the hundred Years War.
When the English captured Joan, Charles failed to come to her aid, and she was burned at the stake.
Other inhabitants of the castle at Chinon were Richard the Lionhearted, along with his mother and father, Henry II of England and his wife Eleanor of Aquatine, and Richard's brother, John, one of England's less popular kings.
Inside the fortess signs tell us that an English-language tour will begin soon so we hang out, looking over the ramparts. It's a long way down to the town and the river and the views are grand and sweeping.
Our guide arrives, says goodbye to her last group, and we have her all to ourselves. We're very interested in how the castle was built and about Joan of Arc's stay here and she is very knowledgeable about both.
Chinon is being renovated and workmen installing sewer pipes have found chicken bones inthe walls, indicating that another worker somewhere between 1000 and 1400 ate his lunch here and dropped the remains inside the wall.
We climb the tower, where there's a Joan of Arc museum, to the top. The walkway around the outside at the top is narrow, the view commanding and it's windy. I wouldn't have wanted this watch on a winter night.
Our guide tells us the land around the castle provided nearly all the castle's needs, so that the inhabitants couldn't be starved out in a siege. Food crops were grown on the castle grounds and deer and wild boar in the forests provided meat.
There are still wild boar as well as deer in the forests nearby. She says one of the big problems with traveling at dusk is the danger of hitting a wild boar! Surely enough, on the road as we drive home, we see a sign: "Wild Boar Crossing."
We want to take the interstate to get home before dark (incidentally, we're a little farther north than at home and when we first arrived it was light until after 10:00 p.m.).
The directions on the big highways are given in terms of where the highway ends rather than the next city. It's only once you've decided on a direction and are already on your way that you see a sign for the next town. If you know which direction the end city is, you're ok - it's like getting on I71 - you know it will eventually take you to Cleveland eventually, but you can also get to Columbus. If we gget on the road to Lyon, though, we don't know Frane's cities well enough to know which direction that is.
We've made a choice, however, and it's a few kilometers before we realize we're probably going the wrong way. So we find a rest stop and pull in.
In a few seconds we have maps out and are trying to figure it all out, but we're still not sure. We've pulled in beside a tractor-trailer. Bernie bets out , sees that the truck is right-hand drive and approaches the driver.
"Do you speak English?" Bernie asks.
"Quite well," comes the answer in a pleasant British accent.
The driver and Bernie talk for a couple of minutes, then come over to our car and spread a map across the hood.
I'm catching part of the conversation and it sounds as if they are lifelong friends.
We learn a lot about this very nice man in just a few minutes. He's driving this truck from Manchester to Gibralter. He's retired twice but due to the economy and lack of an adequate pension, he's had to go back to work. He's never received any money from the government. His son paid for his father's knee replacement. He's going to call his wife in just a little while.
He tells me to look out for Bernie and I promise to do that.
So many good, kind people in the world. So many lives and stories.
We try to keep the house neat here but some things pile up so today is our work day.
Monique is here. Monique cleans the house for Joan. I'm working hard to improve my French conversation by talking to Monique. She can't just give in and break out in English so we have to keep at it until we understand each other.
We have coffee and tea together. So far we've mostly talked about the weather, but today we talk about our families. She has two grown sons and one grandchild who is 18 months old. I tell her about our family and then remember I've brought pictures, so I get those to show her.
I believe she told me she was a little later than usual this morning because she was cleaning the school. I ask when school starts. It's next week.
She asks me how I like it here in the village. We love it and I tell her so. She lives in the campagne (country) and likes it because it's peaceful. Yes, it is. I don't think I have the capacity to convey what it's like to be here. Perhaps someone who grew up in rural American at least 50 years ago might have some inkling, but that's still not quite it. People here in the country have all modern conveniences, internet, phones, etc. Every village has a recycling center. So it's quite modern.
Yet they often live in houses that are hundreds of years old, and just as we have a wheat field beside the library and a cow pasture behind the house two doors down, the villages and countryside have the imprint of rural life of past centuries. Pigeon cotes and stone farm buildings abound, roadside shrines for travelers appear every ten kilometers. Nearly every village has an old church, one-lane farm roads lead from one tiny village to another.
I would love for everyone to experience this, but I fear it will be swept away before long. I hope not.
Now I'm making the blackberry pie I've been planning. It's a shame I can't share these berries.
