Glanum, Baux and Eagle Ears in Provence

It's Monday morning, and we are eating outside on the gravel-covered terrasse under the spreading mulberry trees. It is quiet, peaceful and larks are fluting in the trees.  Eventually, we brush off our croissant crumbs (creating a little snow storm of crust bits because the pastries are so crisp and flaky), and drive away to Glanum, which you've never heard of. I hadn't either.

The Romans, as they expanded outward from Rome sometime before Jesus worked his miracles, came to this area and appropriated small settlements of the Gauls and built temples, aqueducts, baths, public plazas and roadways. They were a busy lot and impressed everyone for many kilometers in every direction. Then eventually they "fell" and left behind a lot of interesting artifacts.

Here in the area of what is now Southern France, the Romans appropriated a lot of little villages and towns.  One such area was a settlement called Glanum. Archeologists discovered the area in 1927 (give or take a few years), well after Vincent Van Gogh strolled around here painting pictures. It is said he never knew the site existed.

These are things we learn by touring the archeological ruins. The interpretive signs in English and French show terrifically detailed views of what is there now and how it would have looked in various time periods for more than two millenia. What they have been able to discern by seeing vague scratches and indentations on large blocks of limestone is nearly miraculous.

Some restoration of part of a temple has been done and much study made of the underground water system including lead pipes and canals beneath the ground that not only transported fresh water to public places but to homes as well. There were latrines, warm, cold and hot baths, swimming pools, springs, wells, fountains and sewer lines.

The most revelatory items I see in the little museum on site is a display of very tiny utensils made of iron. A delicate perfume box only an inch long and tapered in the shape of a fish was exquisite in its fine detail, a great contrast to all the huge stone building blocks the site was made up of. Artifacts date back about 300 years BC.

Satisfied with our tour at Glanum, we head south over a range of stubby mountains called Les Alpilles. The road winds and twists through a forested area and then reveals an escarpment in the distance that sports the ruins of a castle.  Of course it does, it's France. Castles and craggy ruins crop up everywhere here. The one we are looking at is called Baux, another one of the 150 Most Beautiful French Towns.

This upswept ridge of limestone was a strategic place to integrate a castle right into the cliff face.  It was sacked eventually and fell into ruin for a while. It is now a showplace for medieval weaponry and lots of fun for giggling schoolkids who dress in costumes for their day at the castle with classmates.  As is true for these hilltop wonders, we are made to park down below (for 4 Euro) and walk up steep old stairways to the upper plateau where the town begins.  I imagine the original people who built the place strong and nimble as mountain goats, obviously capable of immense work.

As soon as we reach a cafe, we head in and have a salad and bread with a lot of chugging of water after having become intensely thirsty. I am getting very slowly better at asking for water, but the waiters usually look some version of exasperated, puzzled or fearful of being infected by me when I attempt to ask for a simple pitcher of water instead of bottled water. I am determined to improve my French as it is an important language, especially since I will die of thirst if I don't.

It's a hot day with clouds looming over the distant castle crags.  We manage to top off finally and then leave to tour the ramparts. No sooner are we out on the upper plain of the hilltop than I manage to slam my left foot into a jutting rock in the ground and basically say "ouch" and wonder if I still have my foot connected to my ankle bone.  Yeah, that was painful all right.  I need to scream, but I'm in France and I cannot scream in French yet, so I hold my comments for later.

I am distracted by a demonstration of a trebuchet anyway, so I get going to watch.  A trebuchet is the coolest mechanical weapon ever invented because it seems so much more like a big toy than a thing with which to whack enemies.  It is basically a huge windup slingshot with a counterweight that causes a long arm to fling a load of something way high up into the air and far away from the trebuchet itself.  The demonstration throws a massive water balloon something like 300 yards away where it explodes with a massive splat that sets the crowd of kids cheering wildly.

The kids get to learn how to play tether ball with a large leather hackey sack thing on a rope, duel with cardboard swords, see other large weapons set loose on the enemy and tour the lower parts of the old castle ruins.  We take a self-guided tour of the area and try to imagine the way it looked in its hey day.

A bit of shopping follows in the little town itself, but we buy nothing. The idea is that there is a market on Wednesday in San Remy that will offer better prices, so we hold off.  With plenty of daylight left, we pile back into our oven-like black Peugeot and take a different road down the hill. The radio plays Euro pop and French talk radio.  We zoom along a winding road through a pretty forest heading north and find ourselves lost again. But lost is good; you never know what will happen next and it's usually interesting. We get to see more of unscripted, open countryside blanketed with leafy trees, grassy meadows, wheat fields, vineyards, olive groves and tractors pulling out into onrushing traffic.

Not happy about being potentially too lost, we argue briefly about how to proceed, decide on a plan. We choose Eygalieres (I decide to corrupt the word horribly and call it Eagle Ears) as our next destination as it is listed in our guidebook as a town of "character." Character = rustic, charming and real.  Its oldest area was built probably 500 years ago or more and occupies the highest promontory, the most defensible space for miles. As towns have grown, they have spread out from their upper tips to the flanking plains below. It's a sweet place to wander and I love it. I want to take it home with me.

Satisfied with the day but with my toe turning purple, I vote for going back to our pleasant hotel, Canto Cigalo, for dinner. My toe's okay, just discolored and kind of puffed up a bit, but it still fits in my shoes, so I can dress for dinner, which I do. The dinner is a cold but delicious salad made of hard boiled egg, slices of cantaloupe, lettuce, sun-dried tomatoes, olives, crisps of toast with rounds of brie on them and the ever-present French bread. I've survived in fine style,  as evidenced by my vivid toe, and I am ready to think of tomorrow.

Tomorrow, two UNESCO world heritage sites are on the list.

Provence Eats Me Alive

Wait, where am I?

I wake up in the middle of the night after dreaming about accordions and rocky hillsides. Did I dream about being the middle of a huge outdoor marketplace in an ancient town in Provence called Isle sur la Sorgue? No, it was real, but it seems so long ago now. Traveling is bringing on a familiar disorientation to time. It's only a problem if you have to deal with reality in any significant way.

We awakened early this morning in the villa hotel, in the outskirts of an old weatherbeaten town in the south of France called San Remy de Provence. The hotel - more a B&B than anything - has about 20 rooms or so, each one tastefully if not fluffily decorated and outfitted with many of the comforts of home. It has two stories and two terrasses (the French word describes a combination of patio, courtyard and deck), the main one being out in the villa's front area where several tables are set with chairs and market umbrellas. Out on that terrasse, we eat our petite dejeuner. With no other Americans evident, we represent the USA in the eyes of the other guests who are from France, Germany, Portugal and England, judging from the accents I overhear. We behave ourselves and do the country proud.

Two cups of caffeine and maps helping quite a lot, we round up our rental car and set off for Isle sur la Sorgue (island on the Sorgue river). There are very long flat stretches of country two-lane highways that are bordered on both sides with tall old sycamore trees that form a green tunnel of dappled light. Did Napoleon plant them? Or some fanatic gardener turned regional government leader? I love them, as they feel a lot like I am traveling into a beautiful time tunnel out which I will emerge in the middle of another century.

We arrive in Isle s.l. Sorgue, park about a click away from town and walk in to see it. Lo and behold, there is an open-air market going on. What at first seems like a small plaza of space taken up with a few stalls, we wend our way further and further into the old part of town amidst hundreds and hundreds of people cramming the narrow spaces between buildings and the vendors stalls.

Here is Provence in all its color, flavor and vigor. It is upon me in an instant like a welcome tsunami of flavor, fragrance and energy. Provence is a region massively identified with a zillion types of olives, tapenades, olive oils, earthy colors, cicadas (like hummingbirds and dragonfiles are popular in California), bees and honey, chevre cheese, lavendar and herbs. All of those are displayed in heaps, baskets, bags and trays throughout the market. A man selling fruits has cherries on stems draped from his ears. A woman shouts to the crowd about her olives, oils, and garlic. I taste some and want to buy all of it (of course). Another booth is selling roasted chickens and has a huge tray of paella to sell. Flowers, pretty dresses, linens, jewelry, and some booths selling more ordinary junky stuff go on and on, winding street after crooked street. It is Monterey's farmers market times 1,000, without exaggeration.

As if spit from a chute, the market releases us at last. I managed to find a good bargain on a pretty scarf and a set of four bowls painted in Provencal colors. It takes some time to calm down, catch my breath, get a grip on reality. The market is addicting and intense. I want more. My husband drags me away. I thank him for it later.

Then, while we begin our long walk back to our parked car, we see a big waterwheel next to the road, slowly turning its moss-covered paddles in the stream. This is one of seven that remain from 200 years ago when they powered silk factories and paper mills. We snap pictures, admire them and the steady flow of the shallow streams and decide to take a shortcut back to our car. Ha ha ha. An hour and a half later, after getting totally lost (hoping our supposed shortcut will eventually pan out), we get to our car all sweaty, tired and very footsore. Ugh, food please, water please. I am thinking I have to suffer for my joy in this world and this proves it.

While baking to death in our black car parked in the blazing sun (no shade to park in), we see a nearby town on our map marked with a star and decide that's our destination. So, off we zoom with A/C on full blast. My feet are throbbing and I hate France for a split second until the interior of the car gets cooled off.  Then, I love it again.  Fickle, huh?

The town is called Gordes. It's on a steep hill overlooking a pastoral valley whose gently undulating slopes have settled in over the years just like a pretty coverlet laid over someone's knees. We climb up and around a winding narrow road that begins to show signs of arid ruggedness; rock walls are lining it on both sides, and they are dry white stone with jaggedly angled slabs of rocks along their tops. All of a sudden, the medieval town comes into view and I yell, "Oh my God, there's a castle on top!" See what an American I am? It's a densely clustered heap of crazy steep angles, stone walls sloping upward and all clinging together as if a regular town on the plains has been pushed upward by a big hand and smashed together there with plaster.  That sounds ugly, which it isn't. It's just so fairy-tail-ish that my words fail me.

We park our car, pay the lot attendant and begin the walk up to town with me taking pictures of every step, every pebble, every little thing. We get to the town center and see that the area is a big abbey cresting a steep hill surrounded on its lower flanks by the town, which now basically serves as pit stop for tourists. There are many fine restaurants, cafes, ice cream vendors and beauty everywhere. I find a "saladerie" and we enjoy the plat du jour consisting of a vegetable torte, leafy green salad provencal and plenty of water. This is just what we needed after our long trek back in the last town. Refreshed entirely we explore the nooks and slopes of this beautiful old city. The local stone is very pale limestone, the same color as the plaster. Iron fixtures are used in graceful ways to attach doors and shutters and small peepholes emerge in the oddest spots, all charming and a perplexing at times. It's amazing to think that people live in such a place and think of it as just a regular ol' place.

The tourist information center is in the citadel abbey at the tippy top of the rugged hill. There is a man at the counter who speaks good enough English to be able to answer my question about the status of the town as one of France's 150 most beautiful towns. He gets out a map for me, indicates others in the region and wishes me bonne journee.  I ask him about the most prominent and austere landmark in the entire region, Mont Ventoux. He shrugs that classic Gallic shrug with a chin gesture that says, "What can you say?" Mont Ventoux is one of the h'ors categorie (beyond category) climbs in the Tour de France that humbles every racer to a point of tears. I see it and think of nothing but the Tour and its legends. This mountain is one of the most legendary of all climbs, a killer. It's a white ghost-like hump some distance to the north, and it looks frightening in its massiveness, bare at the top and known to be windy as hell and unearthly to riders as well as ordinary humans who drive cars.  It's a beast.

We see that Roussillon is across the valley, ochre and green in the distance. It's our next destination and one of the 150 Most Beautiful Towns, a must see.

Oh, my dear lord, I love this place. It was recommended by my sister who is an artist and who knows me pretty well. "I think you're really going to like Roussillon." It seems like saying, looking back on it now, "I think you'll really like breathing."

It's off-the-charts beautiful, saturated in colors that range from a dark rust to orange-red to melon orange and then to paler shades of sand and brown. All colors are derived from the local sandstone cliffs and their mineral deposits that are so vivid that they have to be seen to be believed. When you see them, one's usual aversion to over-the-top intensity in bright colors flies right out the window.

I take more and more pictures. It seems nearly impossible to take a bad shot. Nothing is ugly in this town. Well, a few dog piles kind of miss out on beauty, but the rest is spectacular. Photoshop is unnecessary. As a matter of fact, when I see the images downloaded later, I think they are so satisfyingly rich in color that no one will believe that they are raw. They are unretouched, totally as the scene was recorded by my iPhone.  

The car is parked again at the bottom of a modest hill that we walk up slowly, taking photographs. It's exciting to see so many shots. I think about sunset and how a good sunset would be incredible here, but we are a little too early to be able to see that last best light of the day. It's getting better, but we can't stay until sunset.  A sorbet and a bottle of water renews our flagging energy, and we finally say good-bye to the colorful, rustic town perched on a sandstone cliff and promontory in this visually rich part of France.

On the drive back to the hotel, it seems that Impressionism had to evolve here because of the nature of light and the textures of grasses, the soil, the trees and shapes of the craggy limestone cliffs and promontories. I wonder if Van Gogh hadn't painted what he saw, would someone else have eventually produced similar images? Most see that his images are timeless in their freshness and ingenuity, and it is certain that when the artist found his muse in the region of Provence he was unable to resist the urge to depict scene after scene.

We wind up the day at a pretty ordinary pizza joint in San Remy, one of a handful. I am in a bit of a fog after so much looking around today, maybe not a new sensation to me really, but it's due to the visual overstimulation. I have to sleep, have to process, have to let it sink in. This place, a jumble of things at first, is just beginning to layer into my conscious mind. People who live here have deep roots that go back centuries. The buildings are mostly 300 years old, some 800 or 1,000 years old, and things are done in certain ways for a reason, usually generating from the very stone and dirt itself. Nothing is skin deep, no place is temporary. I have a lot to learn.

Into the Heart of Provence I Go

It's time to pack up and leave Paris. At last I'm going to Provence, something I've waited to do for years. It's the mediterranean allure that attracts so many, a sensual, historically rich region that is really calling me. I'm excited not only about the travel ahead but that I've gone through a week (only a week) of living in Paris and getting a glimmer of an idea of what this city life might be like for a longer time. There is something about Paris that feels innately feminine, sophisticated and patient. Yet it has energy and verve.  A lot of what appeals about Paris is simply that it's European. The time frame of the day is different, and because of that your spirit has more room to breathe.

But, I do have a couple of hours before the train leaves Gare du Lyon at 1:15 PM, so my husband, who has just returned from Chartres after completing his own retreat, and I walk over to a cafe where the snappy waiter in black and white formal and traditional attire, seats us, takes our order, trying to sell us the big breakfast. I decline him and off he sprints for my coffee and croissant. My husband tucks into an omelette and we drift away into conversation and watch Paris from our cafe window.

Afterwards, we have enough time for a walk and angle over to Notre Dame past the dashing and beautiful fountain depicting Saint Michael and past St. Severin church and some very classic cafes nearby. Then the Seine is flowing past us and we see Notre Dame and its hordes of tourists again. It is so tremendous a structure with its glaring gargoyles and grotesque buttresses, spiny peaks and steeples that I am both fascinated and revolted by it. It does not inspire my faith to be stronger, what faith I have at this point, but it does instill fear and awe, not emotions I believe relate to heaven or aspiration to goodness and piety. I think it might be closer to morbid curiosity actually, reinforcing the belief that wickedness thrives in the world.

One way or another, we find ourselves shopping along the main narrow street on Ile St. Louis, the smaller and most elegant of the two islands in the middle of the Seine. This is an old world place, where shops are very tiny and very specialized, every one of them fine purveyors of ultra gourmet foods. A fromagerie, a patisserie or two or three, a boulangerie, a marionette store, an olive oil store, a charcuterie where chickens are sold with their long legs and feet sticking up into the air like weird dancers. It is possible to go to a different store for every ingredient of your meal along this street.

Then, with time growing short, we walk rapidly back to the Boulevard St. Germain, take the metro a half mile to our hotel's neighborhood, grab our bags, hail a taxi at the taxi stand back on the boulevard and wave good-bye to the busy urbane place that feels so foreign and so familiar all at once.

At Gare du Lyon, which is a wonderful place to watch masses of travelers as they await their trains, we eat a salad and some bread and then board the TGV, the ultra-fast super train that will take us to Avignon, a distance of 450 miles in less than three hours. Other passengers settle in and then unwrap their baguette sandwiches and drinks while the train, whisper quiet and smooth, begins to move.

After a few kilometers while we clear the outer bounds of Paris, the train accelerates up to a speed that is deceptive in its silkiness. I cannot guess the speed, but the train is capable of going 200 mph, so it must reach 150 at times. Every once in a while a train from the opposite direction causes a sensation of compressed air as it goes by with a sound like phooomph! Very cool. To my knowledge, we have nothing like it in the USA.

We arrive at the Avignon station. We have a very easy time getting our reserved car from Hertz and settle into the economy-sized Peugeot. The French drive on the same side as we do, but they use roundabouts, which I enjoy quite a bit since they feel like a nice flow of direction instead of intersections with stopping and starting all the time.

It's obvious that Provence looks like California in its best and prettiest regions just inland from the coast. That's a disorienting feeling, not only because we've just been whisked from Paris but because we really aren't in California at all. Olives, wines, cheeses, citrus, fruits and terrain are very familiar, but while some would say we are copying the French in California, Provence has been what it is for two millenia, since the times of the Roman empire.  The croplands have been plowed a long time and buildings were not built to code, if you know what I mean.

We arrive at our our hotel, which is a villa on several acres, charming and very peaceful. The land is arid, like our western states. I think we are the only English-speaking people here. The desk clerk, one of the owners, helps me by trying his English while I hesitantly give it a go in French. It's weird, but sometimes I am fine and others I do very poorly. Not enough practice. Anyway, we are here.  We are tired, too.

After a nap, we dress for dinner and drive into town, San Remy de Provence, and begin a search for a dinner place.  There are winding streets and the town is on a gentle curving slope, so it's easy to get lost in the maze. I am fascinated, as usual, with architectural details, style, colors, light, texture, the air, the sun, everything. It's slowing me down badly, but I love it.

We find a bistro so cute it's ridiculous, the real deal, called Bistro de Marie, and I have to say I cannot describe it to you except that it's in an old building whose stone interior is worn, charming, decorated with many, many collections of old toys, kitchen items, furniture pieces, pictures, art, and curious lighting. Again, living up to a building code would be totally impossible. Building inspectors reading this, do not come to Provence; you will have nightmares.

Dinner? Slices of barely seared duck in a light mustard sauce paired with arugula in a dressing, braised Provencal rabbit with olives and potatoes. Mango sorbet floated on stewed cherries finished my meal. All light, all seasonal, all new to me. That, mesdames et messieurs, was quite a day.

Last Night in Paris

The last full day in Paris is when I feel like I've got my routine figured out, walking around, dealing with things.  Only problem is I wake up feeling a little funky and don't know if it's going to get better or worse.  I usually recommend water and exercise to get de-funked, so I take my own advice and do just that. But, I do not feel better much faster at all.

Feeling crummy in a big foreign city is just the same as feeling crummy in your own home except you have to plan better.  I sit on my bed and think:  Okay, this is not a bad thing, it's just a not-so-great thing. It could be a lot worse. I am feeling stable, no fever, just a headache and kind of not on top of my game. Not so awful. What do I need to do?

I dress, gather my things, and go to the front desk of my hotel. "Ou est le pharmacie?" I ask.

"A droite," says the clerk. "C'est ici, a droite."  It's right here, to the right. Cool. Who could ask for better than that?

I buy a little packet of acetominophen and begin my walk to the 5th Arrondissement with waves of Not Feeling So Good coming over me.  Little waves, but waves nevertheless. Malaise. On the uphill walk along Rue St. Michel, a big long group of school kids overtake me, surround me and sort of carry me along in their energetic, talkative midst, going my direction for quite a way. I forget about waves of feeling Not So Good and imagine I've begun floating on a river with a lot of otters who are creating the current.  They peel off when I have only about a quarter mile to go and disappear. The air seems to go flat.

I reach the last corner and think about going back to my cafe, la salle de manger, I spent time at yesterday. It seems to be calling me, so I answer with a happy sigh and give in. I have quite a bit of time. If you are going to ever spend time looking for your perfect cafe, give it time. Do not rush the cafe experience. Most of the good of it is in watching the world pass by your table and thinking about your day, your evening, your plans, your everything. You need time.

I take my time and my medicine and my writing pad and pen and sit at a table where the attendant leans toward me, states what I want before I even say it, then brings it to me in about a minute. Same as yesterday, thank the angels in heaven, I munch on the croissant spread with cherry jam and sip my espresso. I take my medicine with a steady supply of water and after some writing and thinking about life and writing and the size of my feet and what I've learned this week, I feel better.  Not so random. You think about those things, too, admit it.

The Paris Writers Retreat commences on its final day and then has to draw to a close. Of the thirteen who started, twelve finish and of those, two or three have very unique and powerful stories that will nearly write themselves. In cases like that, the author almost has to just step out of the way so the story can flow out. The rest of us will have to keep working on story line, character development, and setting until it all hangs together. I am encouraged and discouraged all at once but I have lots more tools to use now. I feel it has been worth it.

We all agree that coming and going to and from one place where we have spent time and had many conversations has given us a unique and much-appreciated vehicle with which to experience this city. We are invited by Wendy Rohm, the instructor who also has her own agency, to send her our query letters once we get our manuscripts written. She has a little more sympathy for writers than a lot of agents do because she also writes.

I am well again, I feel pretty good, and I have an armful of new friends.  One of them, Fabrice, a French playwright, announces it's his birthday, so someone runs off to a patisserie nearby for goodies and comes back with a couple of boxes of pastries so delightful it seems a real shame to cut them up and eat them. We sing to Fabrice, snap a lot of photos and enjoy a classic traditional French meal at La Forge for a couple of hours.  My meal is a white fish wrapped in bacon strips and bathed in a delicate white wine sauce with braised leeks. I keep seeing things on the menus around town that I've no idea about and keep discovering flavor combinations and that you don't have to die to go to heaven. You can just eat in a restaurant in France.

There is so much I don't know, I wail to myself, so much yet to experience and discover.  One lifetime is not long enough. If anyone ever says "I'm bored," all you have to do is kick them out of the house and tell them to go travel. Boredom will instantly stop. If that doesn't do it, they're hopeless.

I finish my day by walking a different way home with one of the retreat attendees, Julia, and we say our quick good-byes. Wow, my last night in Paris, sort of. I'll be back at the end of next week but in a different part of town. It's getting cloudy and sunset will be upon me in a little while, so I duck into the supermarket across from my hotel, buy some groceries for dinner and hide out in my little hotel room.

The sunset is glorious, as if Joan of Arc could come tearing down the street on her white charger or Napoleon's army is on the march again. Italian tourists are whooping it up soon afterward in the cafe down on the street, singing in Italian and cheering for lots of things, small and large. Their voices are joyous, lifting all the way up to the highest rooftops, far into the distance to the river where they meet the currents and breezes that carry them far away in the night.

la salle a manger: My Little Cafe

I found a sweet little cafe in Paris yesterday, perfect for me. It took me some time, but I got it right. It calls itself "la salle a manger" all in lower case letters like that. It's modest, not very famous at all, not the classic French cafe style that knocks people out when they see them (cute bistro chairs, handsome waiters, cool decor, great croissants or coffee, cool wood paneling and decor).  

I like this little cafe because of where it is.  That is, near a lot of food in a genuine marketplace where a real community thrives. I can hear and see French ordinary life coming and going without a lot of traffic belching exhaust and kinetic energy everywhere.

I walk the route to the 5th Arrondissement every day this week, a distance that takes a solid 20 minutes of steady walking, a nice walk actually that can be varied quite a bit, and if I really lived here I would vary it. I live here only these five days though, so I stick to my usual path. The route ends on Rue Broca just a skip and a jump from the outdoor market at Rue Mouffetard.  

This rue (street) is written about in the tourist books, so I dog-eared the page when I studied up for this trip. Outdoor markets are a big priority for me, but this is different. Well, first of all it's France. Beyond that - which you have to realize immediately means you are talking about terrific bread, zillions of cheeses, thousands of wines, a cuisine that inspires many visitors to rapturous exclamations about flavor, beauty and richness - you have at least a millenium of tradition to deal with.  

So, with an eye for quality and a plan for a meal in mind, you walk slowly on this cobbled lane. It slants gently upward and is lined on both sides for a long city block with small speciality stores selling cheese, wine, meats, seafood, chocolates, pasta, outdoor stalls with vegetables and fruits, and a couple of bistros to break up all the gastronomic intensity.  

Young women pushing strollers, older women dressed in their market and town clothes, market men in their overalls, aprons or jackets unloading trucks and tourists holding maps as they scan street signs and buildings for hints of where they are - all of them come to this little street to get a sense of what the day has to offer and how things are going. You can imagine your own destiny, remember lost loves, create a new existence for yourself, as I did, once I found my seat. It happens so easily.

At this little cafe, you sit outdoors or in. The waitress (unusual as far as I know) brings you a menu written in the language you need. You order and she brings you a serving tray set with the items just as soon as your coffee is made.  Each cup is made fresh. If you wish some chocolate to drink in this city, you are given a small porcelain pitcher of hot chocolate and a foaming hot cup of milk.  You pour the milk into your cup, add as much of the chocolate as you like, add sugar if that suits you, and stir. It's a fine treat to indulge in, to satisfy your soul.

The attendant brings you a small holder of four jars that contain cherry jam, apricot jam, honey and a nutella-like spread. You get a flaky croissant that probably is about, oh I dunno, forbidden on Weight Watchers, maybe about 400 calories, something like that and some other bread.  You may have eggs or yogurt and other breakfast items. Yogurt comes in a small glass container with a foil cap pressed onto it.  It's mild and semi-creamy, very satisfying.



You may sit and read or talk or dream or write or anything reasonable, for as long as you need to. There is some little something about this spot that suits me better than the few other cafes (out of hundreds and hundreds all over the city) that I've tried.  Now that I've found my sweet spot in the world, I only have one other day to enjoy it.  I hope the memory sustains me for a long time ahead.  

Jardin de Luxembourg and the Sounds of Paris Streets

I am in the Jardin de Luxembourg in Paris. Sun is glowing through the branches and leaves of the horse chestnut and plane trees, between the wrought iron fences that have golden spikes on their tips. There are murmuring pigeons circling and strutting near the green metal park benches and chairs. Crunching footsteps go by on the dirt pathways. 

I have a sweet roll and a cup of coffee in a sack and I am sitting facing the Senate building at the North end of this large formal park. The garden before me is planted with new flowers. No gendarmes in sight, but I know they lurk, keeping order and calm.  

A group of school kids, probably 13 and 14 year olds, cluster briefly around a sitting woman wearing a green cardigan. She speaks in French to them. They are wearing casual street clothes. They are handed pieces of paper with instructions that they read. Then they set off in twos, threes and fours, running. Three boys angle over in front of me, step across a border of flowers, look back, then dash across the forbidden lawn to a statue in its middle. They run to it, stop, examine it, keep running to another. Other kids are running to other statuary in the area. They run everywhere.

The kids are slender and seem very familiar with each other. A girl sits on a green chair like my own. A boy comes and sits on her. She yells at him to stop, he continues, she yells louder, he continues, she yells and squawks for real and he jumps up. She's fine. 

The woman provides no snacks or water. The kids run off again, and again, always running hard and shout about the treasure hunt they are set on. There are no cell phones, no walking, no complaining, no obesity.  

I don't understand enough French to know what it is they are looking for, but I can see these 15 kids who look energetic and healthy in the large clipped formal garden in the midmorning sun. 

After I've finished my sweet roll and coffee, I get up and walk through the park. There is a steady trickle of incoming visitors. It is a favorite park in the city for many. A Chinese man is doing tai chi by himself, his own interpretation of it that looks more like Kung Fu and dancing combined. He's focused and intent, though. He's on the bandstand under large shady trees, moving and grooving. 

There is something about sounds in Paris that I can't quite put my finger on. The blend of tiny sounds that always have a backdrop of louder traffic sounds seem less intense here. The loud police and ambulance wee-wah-wee-wah is the loudest, but it is not ear shattering like American fire trucks are. Many cars are electric, and buses run on an alternative fuel. I don't hear jackhammers or loud motorcycles. No Harleys or leaf blowers, thank God in heaven. No, it is definitely a quieter, less jarring city to move around in.  Thus, it feels safer.  However, traffic moves quickly and lanes can be narrow, so attention must be paid.  I have managed not to get myself into any trouble, but I am always reminding myself to keep my eyes open - not easy with so much visual distraction, i.e., shop windows and old buildings with flowers gushing from the window boxes.   

I don't have any intention of driving in this city. I've heard people describe it as a nightmare.  Walking around these neighborhoods is a very easy thing with signage for walkers separate than signage for drivers. There are separate lanes for taxis and the buses.  Gutters are flushed out every morning with a reverse-flow system where water actually comes out of spouts in the gutters, flowing downhill, carrying away trash and junk. What a good idea.

It's night time now, and the neighborhood down on the street is full of the rise and fall of many conversations. A little telltale jingle sounds; a bicyclist has just passed by. No more walking for my tired feet today, but I will be ready tomorrow. 

Details of a Day in St. Germain, Paris

It's almost 10 at night, and there is plenty of light left in the sky. The lights have come up around the neighborhood, and the cafes sound busy down below on Rue de Seine. An accordion has just begun to play, a meandering sound that stirs poignant memories of romance. Plates and silverware clatter and clink; crowded cafes are burbling with human voices in many conversations, an incessant flow of human sound. It has been this way for centuries. It is Paris.

A man shouts to someone, and I hear the buzz of a coasting bicycle. I cannot see the source of all these sounds, but I can see the dormers of the rooftop across from my window, an easy stone's throw away.  I like my plain room four stories up from the lobby in this little hotel.

I leave the hotel at nine in the morning the next day, wearing summer clothes and less fashionable but more reasonable walking shoes than yesterday, bandaids peeking out on my heels and arches. A cool breeze freshens the air. I turn right and walk past the fish shop, a chocolate shop and then the cafe. I am at the corner of Boulevard St. Germaine, named after a neighborhood church built probably 800 years ago. St. Germain is home base for a jazz festival going on these two weeks. Kyle Eastwood, son of Carmel's native boy Clint, played here last weekend. Home follows you everywhere you go.

I cross the wide boulevard with a covey of other walkers. No one says hello to anyone else as they walk. Even walking in  the middle of rush hour, there is no noise but that of traffic. A lot of people walk. You hear a quick "pardon" if they bump you or need to hustle aside for some reason, so you learn to do the same. I hear "jour" or "soir" when I enter places which is the equivalent to "evening" or "day" in the States, just like we do, shortening the more formal "bonjour" or "bon soir." When you buy something, the usual last phrase you hear is "bonne journee," all part of the "politesse" or polite way of conducting oneself. This civility is a pleasant touch that I try not to compare to Americans in general. Many Americans are polite and courteous of course. Overall, the French win. By a mile.

The walk to the Retreat apartment building is about 20 minutes from my hotel, and it takes me slightly uphill to the Luxembourg Gardens after I've gone past the big Odeon theater. I watch the scurrying people and take note of traffic. Women walk rapidly, on errands or to work, and some strolling tourists and young people in small groups move past me, slim and well dressed. I feel well assimilated today, able to blend into the crowd. I have to watch my step as I swivel my head back and forth looking around as I go so I won't accidentally whack my shins on bike stands or step off curbs with a lurch.

At the Retreat, we do a few exercises to sharpen our writing skills, pretend we are our characters. It's actually challenging, and we sigh deeply, each one in turn, as we take our lumps from our instructor. She's trying to free our minds up in order to look at the story and characters differently, with fresh eyes. She is patient. I am not achieving greatness yet and feel relieved when it's time to break for lunch.

We go as a group to a Greek restaurant nearby. Our waiter is handsome and valiantly attempts to understand our corrupted French. I order Moussaka and it arrives, fragrant and hot. My friends order a sample plate, which is delightful. We talk about living in France compared to the States. A couple of my companions are ex-pats who are content living in the South of France. We compare notes.  It turns out that they occasionally see young men with "jail break" style pants, which means the silly fashion of wearing the pants halfway off the rear end that is so laughable. I wonder if young men realize that every single older person who sees them thinks, "You look so incredibly idiotic wearing your pants that way."

I shop with Julia, a new friend, on the way home from the Retreat, along Rue St. Michel with throngs of students and then stroll through Luxembourg Gardens. We part ways on the other side of the gardens. It is a fine afternoon and the streets are full of people out on foot. The city feels safe no matter where I go. I don't mind being by myself. As a matter of fact, it has its advantages since I can window shop to my heart's content and wander any path I like.

It's evening again before I know it and I get a bit lost, which is both exciting and frustrating. In this part of the arrondissement, the streets are not laid out in a grid. They curve and narrow down to a lane with narrow sidewalks, but they're calm and quiet. I sense the echoes of time passing with the merest wink and shrug, unhurried and lovely.

Paris Writers Retreat

I've been in Paris for three days. Or is it four.  Time continues to zip and unzip itself from the usual bounds of reality.  Paris is old, new, fast and slow, and it is seeping deep into my bones.

The Latin Quarter throbs with life until well into the wee hours of the morning, and last night was no exception. It became obvious at 1 AM that a drunken young Frenchman had lost all inhibition, whacking things with a long rattling    stick and screaming who knows what in loud wailing French. Because I could not understand his words, I heard instead the voice intonations and emotion as he half-yelled half-sang, which did not sound angry so much as unleashed and undone. He quieted eventually, and I returned to sleep.

In the morning, random thumps and friendly shouts echo up from the street four stories below my hotel window as shops prepare to open. It is Monday morning and I am dressed in comfortable summer clothes, ready to try my hand at metro riding on my own, no help from my husband. We say good-bye at the Odeon metro stop; he is departing in a few hours for Chartres to take part in his own retreat while I am bound for the Fifth Arrondissement to meet co-retreaters who are taking part in the Paris Writers Retreat this week. I descend into the metro below the city street, pay my fare and immediately get onto the wrong metro train. After going two stations on it, I realize my mistake, hustle off the train, read the signs a lot more carefully and get myself straightened out.  I find out later my husband made the same mistake and we laugh about it since we thought we had it all figured out.

I arrive at my destination with plenty of time to spare. The door at this particular address is one of the typical ones I see in the area. I push it open and step into a courtyard. Inside that space, there is yet another keypad for the individual spaces in the apartment building within. I make my way to the indoor hall upstairs, and then find myself in a loft which is essentially a huge apartment with comfortable and eclectic furnishings and a collection of modern and tribal art. The space is very conducive to creative effort as the light is natural and the surroundings spacious. The Retreat has rented it from a man who uses it as a second home when not in his native Spain, we are told.

Anxiety is not exactly palpable in the room, but attendees are alert for cues from Wendy Rohm, our instructor, about what will be required of us. We are given plenty of tasty croissants, fruit, juice, coffee and tea. We make our introductions and dig into the meat of the work we are here for:  Developing ideas for books, plays, any written work that has a story line.  We are reassured with information like: Make a big mess and clean it up later; they are only words, don't be afraid to throw them around and get rid of them if you want to; there is a difference between personal writing and private.

We break for lunch and walk up Rue de Mouffetard for a delightful repast at a restaurant perched on an elevated corner lot above the street. I have the plat du jour (special of the day) consisting of a leg of guinea hen roasted in herbed sauce, potatoes and pearl onions. I want to lick my plate again, but I am in the company of polite people who know better than that, so I sit on my hands.

We are getting to know each other. The attendees are mostly professional people with an idea that they might like to write a novel or two, make their mark in the literary world somehow. We are getting along well, figuring out how this week will go. I notice that the slender women at my end of the table are leaving quite a bit of their meals uneaten and feel like I will never be able to get my appetite under control, that I don't have any idea in the world how these nice women can eat like mice. It's a mystery.

The afternoon session continues the work we began in the morning, and ideas are getting fleshed out a bit more. No one has much conviction as yet, so I feel better as I think my own idea is garbage and not worthy of any work at all.  Not so fast, says Ms. Rohm; the ideas will change quite a bit and we will be surprised at what we end up with. I decide to trust her and do not ball up my paper.  I will be patient and give it a good shot, this extended writing, as I am new to it and, after all, that's why I'm here.

We break for the day later than planned, and I walk back to my hotel area with two other women, Camille and Marilyn, who have a hotel nearby mine. I plan to do some more photography this evening, but by the time I make it out of the supermarket across the street from La Louisianne with items I've bought for supper, I decide to call it a day, even though there is some light out even yet.  Paris is out there, I think, but realize a lot of it is in my heart and mind, and it is there for good now.