The Other Side of the Ocean

You have to feel warm about this town. How many of you, out there in distant lands (sniff!), can lay claim to this scene on your way to pick up a cup of espresso?

Two deer, necking, in a field of corn… (go on, click on it for a close up if you don't believe me)





And then another: a deer, looking at me from behind.





It was a beautiful day. (Even though the mosquitoes were way too bloodstarved and the drill that Ed rented for the shed still did not have the force to make, well, holes…)


We watch the farmers spin their webs for the stalks that would soon give them the crop they so need.





Beloved Madison. It’s a tough place for the grumps.

What makes a day that? Not monstrously difficult, not high on anxiety, not any of that. But disagreeable.

I have a habit of eating a regular breakfast. So regular is it that I have been made fun of just on the issue of its never wavering content: granola, with berries and a café crème at the side. In good weather, I will eat this outside. In bad weather, I will eat it at the table, with all appended formality.

What can I say about a day where I wake up at sunrise, but do not get to this routine until well after noon?

Disagreeable.

There are good moments. I talk to all sorts of good people who are in less saucy states – including my dad (in Poland) whose birthday it is today. Happy birthday, tatek! (He doesn’t key in to the Internet; in this one way, my parents are alike: neither likes nor reads Ocean)

At dusk, I have no photo, no story, no mindset for a post. Ed comes over. We talk about dinner in between snarky comments about how difficult the other one is theoretically capable of being (you’re a handful gets tossed around for emphasis). Finally, we settle on an online recipe that promises health, fulfillment and cost effectiveness. We go to the grocery store. Still, no clue as to a post or photo.

On our way back, we turn toward the condo and to the right of the road, we come across … what, a Brittany sailor? A Normandy wind surfer? What? I am flooded with memories…





He’s clearly practicing. Ed, get closer, please, get closer!

I think we freak him out, spinning there, behind him, in the Department of Transportation parking lot in Ed’s old and rusty Geo… I try to convey greetings and good cheer, but any words shouted from the Geo tumble into nothingness.




We come back to the condo, Ed and I, and I fix the recipe for our simple meal. Ed watches the Last of the Samurai and I think how at one point I may have found it a fascinating movie.

A brilliant Saturday morning. Buoyant. Blazing with sunshine. The Westside Community Market is totally about summer foods and flowers. And the merchants? All grateful grins and wistful gazes.













It was a good morning.

After that? Well, there was the matter of the earth drill and it's incapacity (earth drills like only certain type of earth).

More. There was the matter of impending storms.





…that quickly passed.

Ed offered to buy me a cup of coffee and that was lovely. In an American parking lot sort of way.






Did I say basic? Our next stop was a discount store. Where you were supposed to be excited by the … leftovers.





I wasn’t. I sat in Ed’s pick up truck and tried not to pay attention to the (dented) scenery before me.






Back at the condo, people gathered on the roof to see if they could catch the biggest firework display in the Midwest, some miles north of us. Rhythm and Booms. I passed. But I did light my own stick of cold fire out on the balcony to see if it would remind me of childhood times. It didn’t.

Preoccupied. Ed is contemplating how to reinforce the retaining wall at the eastern edge of the writer’s shed. I try to follow his reasoning on this, but I confess to being only slightly capable of distinguishing between earth rods and anchors. If truth be told, I want only this much: that the project not become too difficult for Ed and that whatever we choose to do will be effective, so that the shed does not sink down into the ground, with me in it.

Meanwhile, I’m thinking about my summer class already, knowing that before it begins (in three weeks) a lot will happen, but the combination of events is yet undetermined.

And I’m starting work on a Fall art show which will include (gulp) some Ocean photos. Selecting proper ones is impossible. I visit one artist’s display and I read how her camera just flies into click mode and she is then astonished and pleasantly surprised at what comes out. Me, I am with hope when I click and profoundly disgusted thereafter.

And before I know it, it’s evening. I bike to the library to pick out some background noise (meaning bad DVDs) for the late night. I pass the Community Garden where a mom weeds and a little girl waits.




I can’t decide whether at the moment, I feel more like the mom, or the little girl.

Longtime readers may associate the phrase with my favorite eating places. Today, it has double meaning here, on Ocean.

I left my office to take a look at the Union Terrace by the lake. Rumor had it that the lake stank (from a build up of algae for all the known high water reasons). So much so, that biking along its shore (my route home) would be down there with driving through New Jersey.

Imagine my surprise then when I found the Terrace by the lake chock full of people. And they weren’t choking. They were eating and drinking – a lovely scene that puts the Terrace up there with your favorite café-brasserie. Outdoor tables, mildly alcoholic beverages, lunch foods, by the fairly fresh waters of Lake Mendota…




But the food! Chips? Buns with an unpleasant surprise? I’ll forgive the honey toned beverage – I know it to be yummy Wisconsin beer, with a hint of hop and touch of malt, etc. And I guess I understand the love of brats. It is an acquired taste and people do acquire it.








Sigh.

You could argue that brats in white buns (and they are very white, once you get past the paper thin outside "crust") are no more grossly fatty than a baguette with Brie de Mieux, butter, tomato and arugula.

Still, I crave the latter.

But hey, let’s get some can do spirit here! You want that sandwich, woman, go make it!

I try. No Brie Mieux at Whole Foods, but a nice goat milk cousin of it is equally pleasing. No shortage of tomatoes or arugula. Let’s skip the butter. And finally… oh! Where is the good bread??

I remind myself that Ed takes pleasure in such uninspired things as tortillas and powdered refried beans. With raw onion. And so we take my dream-wiches, such as they are, to our ever friendly and accommodating café and settle in.





A few steps away, we come across yet another Dane County market – this one in wild little Fitchburg. (Truthfully, Fitchburg is not wild. Fitchburg is a no-town. A satellite of Madison, it has no core, no center, no downtown, no personality. But is does have a market. And it is the postal address of Ed’s farmette.) Nice! Tomatoes, peas, berries...





Max, the owner of Stella’s Bakery is also there.





Stella’s is the winner of the best vendor award at Madison’s Captiol Square farmers market. Max grins when I congratulate him. If I am the number one vendor of the number one market in the US, that makes me the number one vendor in the US, right?
Oh! I see baguettes! They’re warm, too. And they look promising: crusty on the outside, not too rotund...

Too late. Still… Tomorrow, can I get these at your store?
I no longer operate a store. Just farmers market sales and some wholesale stuff.
Okay. You sell at my Westside Community Market. I’ve seen you. Can I get your baguette there next Saturday?
No, I don’t bring baguettes there. Too much demand for other stuff.
Fine, then at the downtown market?
No, not there either.
Okay. I’ll get them here in Fitchburg.
Can’t guarantee it. Sometimes.
Next week, please?
Alright. Next week.

Bottom line: lake’s okay, Terrace is business as usual, and good baguettes continue to be elusive on this side of the ocean.

I never had much use for it. Perhaps because I recognized its shortcomings. It doesn’t push you to be a better person, I’d tell myself. It pushes you to feeling putrid about yourself and there are enough other forces doing just that, so you may as well kick guilt to the wayside.

But these days, now that I’m less anxious about keeping things rolling, both for my family and my career, guilt is pushing its way into my everyday.

Consider this, for just a wee small example:

Ed gets going on the shed project at dawn. A forecast of severe storms, along with the imminent (you never know) arrival of Amos, make him nervous. He is almost done with constructing the frame for the fill dirt. At sunrise, he gets to it. By noon, the first truck load of dirt is set to arrive.

I’m busy with my own chores, back in condo-land, which include a very pleasant stroll down to the Hilldale market. (Madison has a bunch of markets during the week – you just have to know where to find them.)











By noon, I can’t stand the guilt. Ed is being ravaged by mosquitoes, he’s been working on MY writer’s shed since 6, surely I should help. And I do.













So sprightly is our effort, that within an hour or two, we are ready for truckload of dirt number two.

Unfortunately, the truck with the second load gets stuck in Ed’s driveway. The load is heavy, the wheels sink into the chips and soil. It’s a no go. We try everything, including digging great basins around the tires, putting boards down, you name it. The tires spin deeper and deeper into the now completely damaged driveway.

The driver calls his company for help. Me? I leave to continue with my own chores. But without the light heart. I am consumed by guilt at so many levels, I can’t begin to spell them out.

One chore is to pick up a replacement plant for one that died (long and boring story). And as usual, I pick up an extra plant, because it’s just so pretty. But I load it into the car with guilt. Didn’t I just spend my salary on travel? And now a plant?

I guess there is value in beating up on yourself. It’s sort of like beating on a carpet to get the dust out. Besides, after you’re done with the guilt, you have such gorgeous flowers to enjoy on your condo balcony. That has to count for something.

Amos, the co-builder of the writer’s shed, calls early. I’m ready to get on it now. I have the materials you wanted.

Ooops. We’re not ready to have him tell us that the structure is (almost) up and ready to be transported here. Leveling land takes patience and although Ed is known worldwide for his patience, he doesn’t much care for mosquitoes. And there are many, tons in fact, right now. So leveling land has become a monstrous chore and I am no help at all. Compare my role to his:











We move into high gear. Ed puts on Deet and braves the bugs and I bike over with my work, staying mostly indoors.

And by the way, it is great biking weather. Mosquitoes can’t keep up with cyclists. And there are a lot of us enjoying the many super lovely bike trails around the city.

…and outside the city. This is the point 7.5 mile from my condo, on my way to Ed’s farmette (a mere 12 miles from my home, via bike trails). Shades of green!









At the farmette, I check on our various plantings and retire indoors. I mean, the audacity! When the Wisconsin mosquito starts hitting on the French lavender, you know that it’s time to close shop and retire indoors.





And still, Ed continues to build the foundation for the shed.
In the evening, Amos calls. You gotta love his pace. Which has slowed down again. I’m back to yesterday’s prediction: sometime this summer there will be some part of a writer’s shed, somewhere. You just can’t rush life. Or Amos.

Am I hiding? Avoiding Ocean maybe? No, not really. But it’s tempting. Like the nasturtium flower on my balcony. It’s sort of marginal. Shy all of a sudden. Letting the leaf shine and take credits.



Some days it’s good to just not say much of anything.

The sounds of a Sunday back home:

Mosquitoes. I’m at Ed’s farmette and the buzz is horrific. Maybe if I butchered some of the grasses and shrubs, where they wait before hitting on us, they’d be less pernicious?
I take the lawn mower out and hack away at the weeds and grasses at the site of the future writer’s shed. So, the sounds of Sunday include a lawnmower running wild over Ed’s property.

The tilling machine used by the Hmong farmers renting land just to the side of us. (Whom are they renting it from? Don’t know. The developer maybe? Because rumor has it that it’s only a matter of years if not months before these fields will turn into a subdivision.) Working hard on what traditionally is a day of rest. When the machine is quiet, you know they’re hitting the weeds by hand.





Ed’s saw: he’s cutting beams to create the contours for the shed. The area is cleared now. (I took down the last tree that was in the way this morning. Ed doesn’t have the heart to take down trees.) But it’s not level. Our “co-builder” Amos is threatening to deliver the frame of the shed in a matter of days (which I translate to mean sometime this summer) and the ground is still far from even.

If you listen carefully, you’ll hear Ed’s five-pund hammer pounding in posts. I’m at this moment taking a break from digging holes for more possibly-dead roses.





Coffee? Yes! The sound of the motorbike. Past fields of green, to a very pleasant place. Just down the road. Fields of green and skies of… increasingly, gray.





So pleasant is this pause that we never notice the darker clouds taking charge up above. We race back with sounds of thunder and drops of rain chasing us to the shed. (The finished one, the place where Ed hangs.)


Meanwhile, somewhere in Paris, by the River Marne, you will have heard forks and knives clanking against plates as people settle down to serious Sunday eating.

Followed by a river walk. Shades of green.

Like ours? Just a little bit?

First day back. Ed and I run errands. The Law School first. I run into a friend.
That’s a French blouse, isn’t it?
Uh-huh. I’m keeping France alive in small ways.

Car shop next. Here I am, very Wisconsin, in spite of very French blouse (from a little nothing store in Normandy). No, no. I'm not into coke. That's a café crème in my hand. Okay, a latte, but I can pretend.





At Ed’s place, I survey the progress on the Writer’s Shed. Not for long though. The mosquitoes are vicious. Hi, Wisconsin. Thanks for the reminder that you’ve got bugs.

Evening time, I am on the rooftop of my condo building. Big puffy clouds against the downtown, a sunset over the lake. Sigh... I’m wondering how the art show is going in the little carriage house somewhere in Paris, on the River Marne.





In the morning, I am at the Westside Community Market. And now I feel I am home. People who read Ocean ask about the trip (so sweet). It feels warm and welcoming to run into friends.

And the vendors – here my heart goes out to them. Such a spring! Too little sun, too much rain and now the awful mosquitoes. Oh, but you weren’t here last Saturday. We had hail! The tiny apples, they couldn’t take it!

I feel the French vendors have it too easy, at least compared to our guys. The produce falls from crop, to the hands of willing and ever present buyers, at prices that make me wince. And this year has been normal there (weatherwise). Our guys are having a second tough year. The flooding has ruined May young crops. I am told the strawberries aren’t as sweet due to the absence of sun and that the peas are, well, not great. And that such staples as tomatoes and corn may not be abundant.

And yet, here they are, delivering the bad news and the stories of a tough month with a smile and with fistfuls of good things. I buy garlic scapes, peas, baby potatoes, tomatoes, oyster mushrooms, basil flats and a hanging basket of flowers for my patio. And more tomato plants. Only in part because I like the family of sellers (Ed and I have already planted 30 tomato bushes, but Wisconsin weather has made them... fragile.)

So, our market...











garlic scapes




grown in tough times, sold with a smile




good, but sourdough




for the condo balcony



No, it’s not a French market (where are the multiple varieties of cheese???). But its simplicity is beguiling. It’s like the little company that tries so very hard, that you want to put your heart and money into its efforts. Because you know they’re doing it right and against all odds.


In the afternoon, Ed and I plant roses. Bagatelle roses. Olivier and Aurore roses. Well, not either, really. Ed roses.
Nina! – Ed is calling me in France. They’re selling roses at a $1 a plant! Should I get some? They look dead, but still, so cheap!
Get some. I am dying for roses back home – climbers, grandiflora, floribunda, hybrid, any and all, mixed in, in abundance.
How many?
Lots.

Ed buys twenty and they do indeed look dead. We work with awful clay soil, improving it as best we can. It may be futile, but it’s the American way, no? Bad soil, mosquitoes, and these bundles of paralyzed sticks that would make a Frenchman shudder. But it’s what we have to work with. And the deer will eat them and pests will invade them but hey, we will plant again and maybe the next time it will be better.

Look, I’m trying.

So what will I remember most, now that I am heading home? Oh, the two little girls, of course!





…and their parents, Olivier and Aurore.




…and the music notes coming from the house. A trill of oboe notes. That would be Olivier. And piano… is it the older girl? Yes, yes, and don’t forget the paintings and the pictures and the chirpy voices calling out hello!

They bring me cards with ponies painted on them and sweet, sweet messages for me to take home. I open the refrigerator. It’s all that I have to offer. Don’t forget to take some cherries and strawberries! The youngest has an insatiable appetite for both. A fistful of red fruits, a wave, and a bientot! And joyfully, that bientot happens quickly, because they are back again and I see their smiles and the day is made fine by them.

Aurore and Olivier, you have such fine daughters!


And then there is Paris.

It is my last day and I choke when I think about it. The city where no number of days suffices. Here, see this and this and this! Take a look! And stop a while! Take a minute to just sip une noisette or a café crème -- because that one takes longer. Share a breakfast pain au chocolat with someone from the neighborhood and watch the sun pour honey rose colors on the buildings around the Place des Vosges, the oldest of the Parisian squares.









I gave east Paris my last day. The walk was one that I have taken dozens of times and each time I like it immensely: from Bastille, through the Marais (with some museum stops, but gentle ones – nothing hurried), windowshopping, oh, all right – one little something purchased here – but so many things passed over, can’t spend, can’t spend.













Yes, but the colors! Rose colors, rosé colors!

And there they are again, the roses of Paris, there in the garden of the Museum of old Paris, and in the garden of the Picasso Museum? No not there. Just art. Just art! Let me take a pause.









Then, through the old neighborhood, on to the Centre Georges Pompidou, where everything is lumped into one scene -- the old, the very old, the new, the art, the French, the public spaces...













And now, close to Les Halles, looking into all those restaurant stores in the back streets (Nina, you must stop saying Les-alles, there is no s sound before an “h”!)… (“they will restore Les Halles again, Paris will reclaim its arcades!”) and then I cannot stand it – ten days of not setting foot in a restaurant and now I break my rule because I want to sit at a sunny table and eat something, just an omlette nature, with salad and a rosé, not more, but ohhhhhh, is it good!







Finally. I cross the Seine on the buffed up Pont Neuf to my Paris, the Paris of Luxembourg Gardens and the Odeon. It feels odd to walk through it without it being home; the bakeries, the markets – they’re not mine this time, I am a visitor. I have a different neighborhood that’s home – it’s by the River Marne and it is beautiful! But I remember you – you are my classic Paris, the Paris to which I always, sooner or later, return.





I have a few small errands and then I know I must wind down. I know, I know, it’s my final walk and my steps are as they always are – up past the tip of the Gardens, waving to the boy with the flute, down to the RER and off, not toward the airport, not just yet, but to Champigny, for one last night by the River Marne.

Epilogue:

I am at the airport now, missing my own not-so-little daughters, happy to be seeing my family soon, Ed imminently, happy to be home.

But I close my eyes and think back… she comes in running. Her sister is on the doorstep too, smiling. Hello! Hello! And Olivier is asking – how was your day in Paris? Aurore is pouring tea… Misty eyed scene of Paris, the other Paris, the one of another family and the pleasure of sharing the everyday.

A bientot, for sure.

[If you want to stay in the coach house, or recommend it to a friend, look for it at here (it’s no. 00142), but please, only give the address to good people, okay?]

I’m traveling today. As always, it’s a long trip. Tomorrow, I’ll roll back to my last day in Paris. I’m jotting things down now, but you’ll have to wait until Friday to see it posted.

A bientot.

I tell Aurore and Olivier that I’m thinking of heading out to the Champagne region.

We have a friend who is a grower and producer! She has a very small champagne house but she makes excellent champagne!

Is it that my own friendship pool is unusually limited, or is that the French, by continuously (and with great care!) developing and expanding their social networks, all end up with a rich and varied pool of friends? I think about the academics and lawyers who have populated my social circles back home. Ed (et al.) blissfully expanded my range. Still, it seems that in the States, professional people mix along professional lines (or spouse’s professional lines). Here, it’s wonderfully more complicated.

Olivier finds a cheap rental car for me and I am set to go. I love the little red mini. And the fact that I am a speeding commercial for the sweetest rental agency in town. Monsieur Jean Christophe really tries hard. Avis should take lessons.





You’ve read, maybe, that the Champagne region could be slightly "adjusted" in the years ahead. That is, more growers may be included in the terroir. A godsend to some, I’m sure. Overnight, your land value rises ten fold or more. The world craves champagne. I understand. These fields of grain, bordering on the vineyards, may tomorrow yield your best bottle of champagne.






For now – there are almost 15,000 growers, serving slightly more than 100 champagne houses. Some sell to a cooperative, some affiliate with the large priducers. Madame Baillette, of the Jean Baillette-Prudhomme champagne house, does it all herself. For this, her bottles are adorned with the special symbol (vigneron independant), which is both to the point and heartbreaking: because doing it yourself is so hard!





A handful of years ago, the champagne house was run by her husband. But, quite suddenly he became ill and in three months she was alone. With her two daughters. And thankfully, with a hard earned degree and certification in champagne production.


I drive to Reims first. I’ve been to Reims before. A week after September 11th 2001. It boggles the mind how much has transpired since then. But let me concentrate here on the stable, the enduring.

Reims. Is it the champagne capital of the world, or is it the place with magnificent cathedral? Assume both for now (though I think champagne has somewhat taken over this place, turning into a rather upscale town. It’s only fitting). Let me post at least one or two views of the cathedral. And do apprciate how perfectly the tree covers the immense scaffolding that you would otherwise see.













But my pause in Reims is brief. I want to spend time in the vineyard and if I want to stay with the super low rental price, I need to return the car by 6:30.

I know, I have been away for over a month, moving around France, and it has taken me this long to get close to vines and cellars! But I am here now, and it feels magnificent to be lost in rows of... grapes. I didn’t have much time and so photos are limited, but do put yourself there, in the gentle hills of Champagne for a moment…













It's quiet here. Workers move stealthily between vines. Occasionally a piece of equipment will roll by. Most often I haven't a clue what its purpose may be.










At 2:30, I come to the little village of Trois-Puits. Madame Baillette is in a small turmoil. Tomorrow she is starting the removal of yeast sediment in her bottles of champagne and in two weeks she is leaving for New York to visit her daughter (who is doing an internship there, having to do with wine export). For how long? I ask. Forever! I am not coming back! And then she laughs. I love my work with a passion. But there is a lot to do just now.






We go on a hike through her network of caves. Fourteen meters underground, she tells, me. Always 10 degrees C. Humid.





Madame picks up a bottle and eyes the sediment. Perfect, she says. It looks sort of the same as all others to me, but when faced with the damp smell of fermenting champagne, with cases and cases of turned bottles waiting, for three years waiting, my senses get a little woozy at the enormity of it all.





I taste the brut and the brut rose and of course, I am going to purchase these gems and not worry about carrying them back. I’ll figure that part out later. For now, as I munch on an exquisite Reims chocolate that she offers me, I am on a sensory overload and reason has left me, somewhere in the humid cool 100plus year old caves.






There is a photo in Madame’s office where her husband is laughing next to her, with his arm loosely draped around her shoulders. She mentions him now and I haven’t the French words to express my sadness for her loss. She gives a slight shake of her shoulder. That’s life, isn’t it? The champagne house has been in the family for six generations. She is continuing, now alone, a beautiful tradition.










I have spent the better part of the afternoon with her and now I have to hurry to return the car. Tell Olivier and Aurore that I haven’t seen them for a long time! I pick up four boxes of champagne for the two of them and one for myself and head home.

But not for long. I realize that I left my notebook at the champagne house. I am forced to turn around. And now I have only 90 minutes before Monsieur Jean Christophe is closing his Rent-a-Car shop. 130 speed limit serves me well. I am on the outskirts of Paris in... no time.

It is natural that I should then get lost. Of course. I weave around these neighborhoods that are in and around the River Marne and I cannot find my way back.

And then, really, as if on cue, magically I pull up to the Boulevard Strasbourg and he is there, just leaving and I pound on the horn and wave my hand and he smiles. Monsieur Jean Christophe shouts back -- Don’t worry, I’ll wait. Just going to watch the soccer game, that’s all.

Madame Baillette told me how much her daughter liked Americans. So friendly! Madame says. In Paris, we were asking about parking and we nearly had our heads chewed off.

I’m waiting for my bad encounter here still. I’m waiting to get my head chewed off. As I stand at the corner of Boulevard Strasbourg in Nogent sur Marne, waiting for Olivier to pick me up in his car, I’m thinking how many people went way out of their way just today today to be helpful and kind to me. And with a great big smile. I’ll drink my first sip of champagne back home to all of them.


I pick up a quiche at the local bakery for supper. It’s the end of the day. Madame, the baker throws in an extra baguette for me to take home.

The baguette. I buy a half a baguette each day. I can’t ever finish it – it seems like a lot of bread to me. But its staying power is minimal: best consumed within hours of purchase. And next morning it is hard as a rock. Ed tells me reheating it in the microwave softens things up considerably. But I cannot do it: reheat a baguette in a microwave?? What, with maybe a reheated cup of espresso?? There are some things that must be consumed fresh, or not at all.

It’s a work day for me and so I limit my excursions to two: one for a purchase of a half a baguette (for dejeuner) and a café crème at the bar. The other excursion is an evening bike ride along the River Marne.

Shades of gold, shades of green.

First the gold: my baguette is warm and crusty on the outside. It begs to be eaten right now, but I say no, you are for another hour. I watch person after person purchase three baguettes, three and a half, four even. What family needs four baguettes in a day? Aurore tells me – my little one can eat a half in one sitting.

I pass a bus stop where a man is holding only one. I am certain that it is a supplement to the three his wife has already picked up early in the morning.




Okay, so French people are constitutionally formed to deal with the onslaught of baguettes. I envy them.

The thing is, in three days, I will go from abundance to zero. There is no good baguette to be had within 100 miles of Madison (where I live). Possibly not even 1,000 miles. Actually, most likely 10,000 but I don’t know for sure.

I tell this to Aurore, expecting sympathy. She, ever the kind host, answers – yes, but you have wonderful pancakes! (I do not reveal that those can be had with a flip of a Bisquick box lid; let the French stay with the impression that we do one thing right in the kitchen.)







Now on to the green: I take Aurore’s bike and ride up the River Marne, just to wipe cobwebs from my brain after a day on the computer. I return two hours later, marveling how no matter which direction you take along the river, you always wind up closer to central Paris. It’s what happens if you live inside a river loop.

Not many photos from the ride. You’ve seen the river. Though perhaps you’ve not appreciated the many shades of green that it offers. And the animals that find shelter here. What is this one? A very large water vole? Like in the Wind in the Willows? What?






Oh rivers! How much romance and beauty flows through them! No photo (of mine) could adequately depict either, but I'll leave you with a touch of both.

Sunday again. So, it’s been a week. But now I’m on the countdown. Three more days. I should work, shouldn’t I? But I’m so close to places that offer so much! Three hours and I’m on the Mediterranean, or Bordeaux or Brittany!

No, the deal (with myself) was that I should work. And not eat in restaurants. And not look for distractions. I’ve done reasonably well. My days are local. My shopping is for foods to eat at home.


Sunday. I came last week just as the markets were closing in La Varenne. From my coach house apartment, it's a twenty minute walk to La Varenne (it’s the next stop on the RER), longer if you take the river path. La Varenne – the commercial heart of this cluster of “Parisian villages.” And not surprisingly, the Sunday market at la Varenne is big. So big, that it draws people from up and down east Paris. Crowded. Packed with serious shoppers, so that it is nearly impossible to photograph. Let me throw down just a few shots (some, like the thin green beans, have made an Ocean appearance earlier in the week, but note how differently arranged they are in each place! Food matters. It matters at the Bon Marche or Galleries Lafayette, it matters at the markets of la Varenne and Champignol, it matters in Lannelis in Brittany).


























La Varenne, the neighborhood, is a mix of light affluence and a more ordinary life style. The market has as many stalls of cheap clothing as of food and I find myself fingering the linens and cottons along with the rest of the crowd. Some vendors guarantee “French made” (in the alternative, it may be Italian, one told me, but not from anywhere else!), but this crowd doesn’t seem to care. Cheap is attractive.





At the café, I sip a very late café crème. It must be late, because the men are already moving on to the morning glass of wine.





Or, a straight shot of espresso. The woman next to me – an African-French woman, so stunningly made up that I almost have to stare – sips a hot chocolate. We are the two from elsewhere. Our drinks say it all. She munches on a tartine (slice of baguette with butter) and comments to me that it’s too loud here. I nod, but really, I don’t mind. I hide in the noise of café bars. I exhale.





My camera is conspicuous. This isn’t a place you’d seek out as a tourist. La Varenne is a good 30 minute commuter train ride from L’Etoile in Paris. There are plenty of closer markets for someone who wants to photograph produce. But if, like me, you do migrate here, you’ll find the feeling of neighborhood to be so strong, that your presence as an outsider will be noted. Madame at my breakfast café asks if I am living here now and Monsieur and Madame the cheesesellers hail my camera (and, by extension, me) at each encounter. There you are! Go ahead, take a photo. And how are you today?










In the afternoon, I take a walk along the River Marne, away from La Varenne, along the Champignol (my “Parisian village”) bank.









I am looking for a guinguette. You’ve heard of them maybe? Riverside restaurants, with music and dancing, all very unfussy, traditionally for the working people to enjoy on a Sunday afternoon. Renoir’s version in Luncheon of the Boating Party is what sticks in my mind.

It’s not a bad comparison. People eat, have a coffee or a dessert, dance. At least, the older couples dance. It’s no disco floor. The melodies are French cha cha and waltzes and who knows what else, except that they sound at least two generations old.
















The younger set? They talk, they eat, they drink wine and look into each others' eyes.













I head back home. My hosts are about to return from a visit with les grandparents up north. The skies are going to unload rain. Time to settle in and work.

First, let me put it right here: to all dads, especially to the best of the lot (yes, you!) – happy father’s day.





Were you a dad in France, you could well be treated with cakes and champagne, and a bouquet of flowers would sit festively in the middle of your table.













All, of course, purchased at or around the market.

Saturday, the Parisian village where I live (okay, it has a name: Champignol, which is part of the larger Ville de Saint-Maur-des-Fosses, which in turn is part of Paris; now you see why I avoid naming it) has its big market. Everyone who was selling on Wednesday is here, but there are many others.

Aurore tells me – go at 11. People come together then to shop and to talk.

Indeed.

A visit to the market is my only activity this day and so you have this to keep you happy: people coming together over white asparagus and orange melon and cheese. (I bought all three.)





















You may as well make the acquaintance of my cheese man (and his wife). Because I don’t dare go to anyone else. He is nice to me and I am nice right back. It’s not hard – he has a wonderful selection.





And this is how it works in these Parisian-village markets: they roam from Parisian village to Parisian village so that if you go from one to the other, you’ll meet your favorite vendors again. Some sell only a few products from their own backyard, but the vast majority present foods from a number of growers (most from France, but in seafood – some from Madagascar and in some fruits – Spain’s there as well; it’s easy to tell – most foods have place of origin clearly marked; if it’s French, it comes with an exclamation mark!).

So, I leave you with a bouquet for this holiday. Cleverly presented with roses and berries. Simple and sweet and so very pretty.

grande l'Etoile, petit Citroen






romance




Eiffel Tower and Dior





shared ipod





Ten hours in Paris:

One hour: listening to Aurore rehearse with the Orchestre Philharmonique de Radio France. Brahms 4th. Exquisite! No photos. Don’t want to abuse privilege.

Five minutes: breakfast is late. After the rehersal. Out of croissants. Happy to take pain au beurre with the café crème.





Twenty minutes: enjoying a picnic in the rose gardens of the Bagatelle. More on that in a minute, but here is my lunch of choice (that's true pretty much every day) and this is my view from the bench where I ate it:










Twenty-eight minutes: waiting for the traffic to clear by l’Etoile so that I can take a photo. At rush hour, this was a fete. A miracle, really, that I could catch that one second during which there would be an empty space. And, to add cream to that unbelievable milisecond of luck, I watch one small old Citroen putting along, right in front. (See photo above)

The balance – eight hours and seven minutes: walking. Covering most every street (or so it seems) between l’Etoile, the Eiffel Tower and the far corners of the Bois de Boulogne.

This is why I cannot stay in central Paris. My work would fall to the side. I would set out for a short stroll and I would be gone the whole day. Walking, watching, photographing. Waiting for traffic to pass so that it would not clutter the picture. Admiring. Imagining. Taking in Paris.


On this day, my goal was the Bagatelle Gardens. Quite a hike from the Philharmonic Hall. And absolutely impossible to find. Somewhere in the Bois de Boulogne. No one can point me to it. I follow empty paths through forests that, in my mind, are more horseback riding friendly than strolling friendly.










But all roads eventually do lead to either Rome or roses. And the Bagatelle roses are something else. Not surprisingly, the gardens are the site for the international "new rose" competition. So, which of the 100 bushes was the winner this year? Here are some possibilities:


















The bees really liked this one:









But the judges picked none of the above. The first prize went to this small flowered variety:





And the "best fragrance" award went to this one:





I can't post fragrance on Ocean. But trust me, you'd agree. And the handful of people in the Bagatelle Gardens concurred. (Do the Gardens attract such small numbers because they are hard to find, far from metro stops, or because they're off the Paris map? I'm in favor of keeping them quiet, but if you happen to be in Paris while I'm not there, by all means, go look for them. Or if you're rich, take a cab. Then sniff away. It's a heady place.)





And speaking of rich, Bagatelle is more than just roses. I have plenty of photos of peacocks and children talking to peacocks and older people walking arm in arm and flower beds and such, but that's just too much for one day. I'll leave you with a photo from the Bagatelle Restaurant -- a posh place for that posh side of Paris that I actually rarely see. The right bank people who press their clothes with care and make sure every strand of hair is just so. Every big city has posh people and Paris seems to have quite a few in this part of town and so in the interest of fairness to them (because I'm sure they care), they shall have their moment on Ocean.




After, I stumbled around until I came to La Muette (the neighborhood of the Marmotan!), where I got lost in windowshopping.

I didn't take many photos. Because GW Bush was in town (why? isn't he lame yet?), traffic was snarled and drivers were more grouchy than usual. I could do a whole post on the time I spent watching everyone jostle for a spot on a crowded square or circle. But in Paris, you can turn a corner and the noise of traffic falls away, behind you. And in front? There's always the Eiffel Tower.

Well, they said it would rain. Clouds and big drops of water, plastered all over the little image of Thursday on the weather site. But I had no choice! All remaining days here are accounted for. And Thursday is for Monet’s garden in the village of Giverny. Besides, rain and I are friends. I’m used to getting wet, used to protecting my camera, used sloshing around in drippy pants.

The skies don’t look too threatening. Initially. By 7, I am on the commuter train to Paris and by 8:15, I am on the train out of Gare St. Lazare. Watching the landscape grow darker as we zip due north.

And now I am in Vernon, the closest station to Giverny. From here you take the bus. Last time, I walked. An hour’s hike. This time, I got it into my head that I should bike.

I’m in a mild hurry. The gates open at 9:30 and I want to be there before the usual avalanche of impatient souls, each wanting everyone else not to be there. I pedal fast. It’s a crappy bike, but it is cheap. The savvy monsieur at the station bar-café offers me a special deal! And I am a sucker to take it! Who else will rent from him on this soon to be very wet day? Of course, monsieur assures me “it’s a new velo!” Right. Utterly believable. It got messed up in shipment, that’s all.

Two minutes into the ride, I notice that the seat falls back every time I go over a bump. I can handle it! I am in a hurry! I wont even pause for a morning café crème avec pain au chocolat and there isn’t much on this planet that will keep me away from that routine.

I’ve arrived. I’m inside the gardens with only 350 people sharing the narrow paths with me. Which is way better than the sunny day in July when I swear, there were 10,895.

So what! It remains a splendid place. Both in concept and execution. It always seems so fantastically random, even as it isn’t random at all – it’s painstakingly well planned.

I am between flowering seasons again. Spring is over, summer hasn’t taken hold. The roses are still blooming, but the irises are gone. Poppies dominate. Nasturtium are so nascent as to be invisible. Water lilies are just beginning, but they’re plenty beautiful already. Sit back now and revel in the abundance that is Giverny:






















































Ninety minutes later, I am done. I sip my grande crème and consider my options. The hike to the next village seems silly. It’s gray and damp and I am unlikely to enjoy a forest slosh. I grip my bike and head out to the top of the hills behind the village of Giverny.

And it starts raining. A little at first. Heavily within minutes. I challenge you to try this: to work a multispeed bike with a lopsided seat up a hill, while protecting your camera and holding an umbrella.

At the top, I am spent (and I admit to getting off and pushing the damn bike up at least half the incline), wet and mumbling things that a person of good standing should not be mumbling, even in the middle of nowhere.

But I grow quiet quickly. Because it’s sort of pretty up here. And I can imagine that the Monet family must have run up this hill often enough, to get away from terror dad who made them carry heavy cans of water to sustain his garden dreams.

And then I see the poppies in the green fields of grain and I am enchanted, because for me, this pastoral scene is sublime. (Up there with Normandy cows.)









Admittedly, the excursion did not end majestically, on this high note. For one thing, I had to get off that hill and there isn’t much that can be said for zipping down in the rain at a rapid pace without a bike helmet. (The French will not wear bike helmets casually. Given their love of biking, it is a complete mystery to me why they avoid this very basic protection.)





In the last stretch, while crossing the River Seine, my chain disengaged and I spent a wonderful 10 minutes contemplating the traffic, the river, the train schedule and the sad state of affairs with respect to the bike.



And now I am off the train and in the city. I could have spent the rest of my day in Paris, but I have had enough of cloudbursts. I poke around Les Galleries Lafayette, buy a sack full of beautiful but overly expensive foods and take the train home. I couldn’t wait to find out if Aurore and Olivier's daughters had had a good day in school.

At 5:30 in the morning, my computer is ringing. I sit up listening, confused. I stumble downstairs and ask the one person who Skypes me, Ed, what’s wrong.

Just wanted to say hi… he says in a very sleepy voice.
It’s 5:30!
Oh, you’re eating dinner?

The man is turned around. Having dozed off himself, his level of awareness is about equal to mine.

He’s apologizing now, but my eyes have wandered over to the window. Pink sky of a sunrise. As we chat, it gradually loses some of its pinkness.

I have to run down to the river! I shut down Skype, take the keys (gates shut firmly behind you in this neighborhood), the camera and jog down the block to the river.






No one is out yet. Oh! The family of swans! They know whne not to sleep.





Monet would have liked it now. I'm sure of it.



Later:

At the outdoor market, I add supplies of cheese, endive, carrots, and at the prepared foods store, I throw in a salad of leeks and shallots. Daily life. La vie quotidienne continues. The "village" is my studio.









As I take a lunch break, the little one joins me at the table outside. I’m eating, she is making pretty designs on her page. I already have two of her pieces of art – I pasted them to the wall before me. Her color choices are lovely. She must get inspiration from her home, her garden, no? I bring out my computer and write, she continues to add color to her creation, using markers now.



young painter




lunch




garden


Later:


We bike across town (or village, or Paris neighborhood, depending how you view it), because the ten-year old daughter of my landlords has art class and the teacher is letting me sit in.

And I learn something. I learn how to encourage the formation of art. The girls (I see only girls) paint with their own style and speed, in a setting that is tranquil and forgiving (the outdoors). Spills, mistakes, slip ups, imprecise angles – they are routine.



in the garden where they work










discussing art


My landlords’ daughter has a gifted hand and I think how exceptionally wonderful it is for her to do this on a day which, in the States, is reserved for schoolwork.


Later:

In the evening, I visit Jacques and Nathalie Seguin. I walk in with a grudge: I am leaving Paris next week because of you! I say this with a smile because in reality, I have to leave Paris no matter what. I am out of money, out of time, out of days to spend on the work I love. But it is also true that I have to vacate my apartment because on that midsummer-day weekend, Jacques and Nathalie are displaying their art at the coachhouse where I am staying. That was the deal. I can live here in June, but I have to be out by the time of their gallery event.

Fact is, I love their work. Both, though I will concentrate here on the paintings of Jacques, because this post is about paintings.

(Though note her magnificent work here, and visit her studio by clicking her name above:)



Nathalie Seguin



Long ago, I fell in love with Impressionism and especially with the work of Monet. You could say that my daughters grew up on this fancy of mine, because on our visits to Paris (and elsewhere), we made sure to stop by every conceivable place where a Monet was displayed. And there are many such places.

Giverny (Monet’s garden) kicked me into an intense gardening mode many decades ago. And it still takes my breath away, the onslaught of visitors notwithstanding. And yet, I am aware of how uncool it is to love Monet. It’s like loving Mozart or Bach. Or Honfleur or Florence. Or anything else that has gained the status of popular genius.

[To let you know how uncool I am: I studied the music of Bach in college, and I chose Honfleur over and above any other town in Normandy, and I’ve visited Giverny at least a half-dozen times, which is more than the average Parisian, I'm sure, even though it’s in their backyard and hardly in mine. Oh, and I regard Florence as being on par with paradise. So there.]

So imagine my delight when I hear that Jacques was inspired by Monet. Of course, his canvases move beyond the recreation of great art forms. To me, his genius is especially evident in the large paintings, the ones done with a paint knife. Should you invest in one, I'll be jealous for life.



Jacques Seguin







(Note: if you want to band together and surprise me with a canvas – I like a number of the large paintings! He’ll tell you which ones. Really, they cost small pennies compared to what they’re worth to the soul. And he ships for free.)


In the late evening, Aurore and her two young artists, brought me a piece of strawberry cake, done in the style of the north. I wanted to tell the two little ones (but I couldn’t, because it would take me beyond my vocabulary) that they have a special thing going here. They are surrounded by art and roses and good food and loving parents and earnest visitors (that would be me) and music. It’s a good life.

Finally, on Tuesday, the country wakes up from a post-dejeuner doze. The café where I want to be a regular café crème customer each morning is open. I bike over and settle in.





I play with my camera, but just a little. Mainly I am enjoying the coffee, the pain au chocolate. The camera is loosely in my hand. A gentleman calls out to me from across the street. Don’t take my picture this morning! I didn’t put on make up yet! It takes me a minute to translate this in my head. Putting on make up – a phrase from the past. I haven’t much use for it these days. But he is already laughing. No make up! He says it in French, then in English. I laugh too.

I’m not always sure how my camera will be received when I’m out and about. I am always quite obvious about it and these days, oftentimes I ask. In this section of Paris, no one has yet said no.


Aurore wants to know if I want to go to the market this morning. (If you know your village schedules, you can catch a weekly open air market every day. Except Monday. Yes, I know, I am in Paris, but I live as in a village, because this part of the city is, indeed its own village.)




I follow her on the morning rounds. Market, bakery, plant store.

The sellers are engaging. Young men, bantering about this rather unusual presence of a tourist. (My camera is dangling conspicuously again.) I assure them that for once, I am in a buying mode. Really, j’achete tous! Well, maybe not everything, but a lot. My backpack fills and Aurore lends me her second basket. I am a kid let loose in Disneyland. I am a person starved for markets that have dinner right there for you, so that you don’t have to sweat thinking and planning. Shop at the market, cook and serve – how complicated is that? And if you’re not sure about your cooking skills, throw in the cheese and fresh bread and everyone goes home happy.

















Except that here, I am certain that everyone must know how to cook. It is as important as learning to tie your shoes. (Does it show my age that I should use this analogy??) Some time back, in a country b&b in Brittany, my landlady said -- I don't cook much for breakfast. I only made a Brittany cake, some breads, yougurt, fruit... Right. Not much at all.



At the plant store, Aurore buys plants for the garden. I think her garden is already magnificent, but I understand the temptation to add more.













And then I am home again and I close the door and work.


In the early evening, I take a walk by the Marne. I’m in a people watching mode.





And I see this adorable family, where one girl is on a lap, the other is dancing around and there is a picnic basket at the side. I recognize it as my landlords and I tiptoe past them, not wanting to disturb a moment so singularly peaceful that it catches you right there in the throat.

Back home, the little one brings me a bouquet of mint and a sprig of tiny yellow buds.





Her sister looks up from homework and I think that surely homework must be pleasant, fun even, when it is on the terrace amidst roses. And when you know that the next day there is no school.

Wednesdays here are school free days and next year, the primary grades will cut their Saturday classes as well. The president wants to improve the performance of school children and he is doing this by eliminating some school hours. An idea I could totally get behind, being of the belief that school work took my own daughters away from family time far too often, particularly on the week-ends.


I eat dinner en famille and it is as if I am eating with my own family fifteen years back except that they’re all speaking French and so the analogy ends right there.





The girls play in the way that only children their age can play at the close of a warm, sunny day. With vigor!





And then the evening winds down. Two more minutes! I know that cry. Two more minutes, I have dreams about “two more minutes” in life, where I want to continue something but I know I cannot. It’s so intense, so good, just two more minutes please!

I work late, not wanting to give it up just yet on this day of such warmth and tenderness.

She comes to me with her clay and she shows me how she can mix colors. She names them for me in perfect English.

Aurore and Olivier’s (my landlords) girls are enchanting. (Okay, so are their parents, but I think we already cleared that one.)

The youngest is five and she and I have a perfect system of communications going. When she is not listing colors, she speaks to me in French. I’m especially good at five year old French. It’s when I get into technical stuff like politics and my work that I start to falter. Five year olds, unlike us, never ask about work.


I work steadily and my contact with the outside world is minimal. This morning, that awful French Monday morning, when you’re ready to move on and everything is STILL closed (digestion, remember?), I found a bakery and a café and I combined the two to form a perfect union of a breakfast type, but I had been working and it was so late by the time I got to it, that the waiter was already setting tables for lunch.










Afterwards, I wandered over to a big store and found the newest CD of the French singer Raphael and after purchasing it, I realized that my daily budget allowed for only 8 more Euros. Luckily, I had rose wine left over from the night before and large baguettes with chicken, egg and tomato were less than 4 Euros each. I was happy to still have change because you never know when the urge will strike to buy, say a pastry in the late evening. (I could go off budget, but I am proving a point to those who don’t believe I can do it. There are many.)


I think a lot about Impressionism while I am here. It could be because of the art in my apartment in the carriage house. There are numerous paintings of Jacques Seguin – a local artist who will appear in a later post for reasons that will also become clear later – and he has that slightly impressionistic stroke. But there is more to it: I am living an unremarkable but stunningly beautiful daily routine by the River Marne. In this, the quintessential vie quotidienne, I find inspiration. A girl making pink out of red and white clay, a woman taking a café on her way to the store, two friends and a dog taking in the warmth of a June day by the River Marne.





Except I have things to write and so I must let go and end for today. And my apologies about one more thing: this week for me is more about words than it is about photography. I think you can already tell.

The sun is making patterns on the wooden kitchen table. I prod the mullioned window open. I know Olivier is out with his daughters and it is ever so pleasant to hear their voices drifting in and out. A garden of birds and family sounds.





He’s in his jeans now. Minutes ago, he was still in his concert clothes. Aurore has spent the day here with their daughters, in their garden, where roses of all heights and hues of pink and red hug the walls of the two buildings. At other times, she must play her violin, I’m sure, as she is, too, a professional musician. Radio France Symphony for her, oboe at the Paris Opera for him.

The sounds of a Sunday.

So this, too, is Paris!

I’m living in the old carriage house. Here, you can see it from the driveway. It’s behind the house. And that's my bedroom -- just over the large wooden doors. (The lower windows are the cooking and living spaces.)









You want to see the house of my landlords? Sure. It’s lovely (they bought it in shambles and slowly brought it and the carriage house to its current splendid state). I'm sitting in my favorite kind of garden chair (childhood memories!) and admiring it now.














When I walk down a block, I come to the River Marne. It joins the Seine closer to the center of the city, but here, it twists and forms almost a full circle. I’m surrounded by it from all sides. A path runs next to it, for the entire ten kilometers of the loop.



a block from the house




a family coming round the bend




nibbling and snacking




the little ones




another family




friends flying




riverside houses




trees




children playing


Sunday is my hands down favorite day in France. I am so often alone here (as I am today) that I truly look forward to this day, when I can be surrounded by people. On Sundays, whether I am in the southwest of France, the northeast, or somewhere in between, I am most certainly going to find people. In groups, couples, families – they all spill out into public spaces, and I am, just on this day, part of their world and they are part of mine.

Okay, that’s a general statement about this day. Here’s the flipside: everything stays open, in preparation for the big eating frenzy that takes place nationwide between noon and 2:30. Everything. You need more bread? More wine? More fruits and veggies or prepared foods? Flowers for the table? Cheeses maybe? Shop to your heart’s desire. Until early afternoon. And then the nation shuts down to digest.


So that if you finally make it to your splendid apartment early on a Sunday afternoon, you better hurry up and find a place to eat, because if you go out too late, you may find shades drawn and doors locked for the day and a good part of Monday, too. Digestion takes time.

I hurry into a place that's about to close and order a delicious, big plate of spaghetti with wild mushrooms.






And in this way, out here near the Marne, I am not 100% in Paris (and this is a good thing). Because Paris is the kind of round-the-clock city where if you cannot find food at some odd hour, then you’re not trying hard enough.


I am here for not quite two weeks. I have a lot to do and very little money left after weeks of travel. This is my time to eat at home and not look for distractions. Posts will be shorter writing hours will be longer. You could say that I am in the French counterpart to my writer’s shed, only it’s a tad more put together here. And there’s running water.

I open the bedroom window to this – a fine day in Paris. But, that’s for another time. Now let me get back to work.

We pick berries on the morning of my last full day in Normandy. That is, we pick the small pack that looks most excellent among the many in the stall.




How can they be regional? Has the Wisconsin berry season begun yet? Oh, give me the coastal moderate climate any day!

Maybe I am especially pining for climatic moderation on a Saturday morning because here, like in Madison, it is market day. Except here, unlike back home, the markets are screaming bounty!



so much to sell!




gossip over mussels and cider




market greetings


I can’t buy much. Early tomorrow, I’m returning to Paris. Sort of. (Just outside the city.) Where I will move ahead with all sorts of work and nonwork projects. At least, that is the plan.

But today is all about Honfleur still. My landlady is rushing off to town to stand as an Honfleur council member at the memorial to fallen soldiers. We have a small ceremony today, she tells me.

We’re curious and so we follow her to the monument for those who died at war.




The flags are up. A small band marches toward the memorial, followed by two army jeeps. Flowers are placed among the many already there. The mayor (he looks mayoral, but it’s a guess) makes a speech and asks for a moment of silence. We listen to two full rounds of the national anthem.




It is such a small ceremony, with just a few bystanders, the Council members, a handful of very old veterans and a few men and boys in outfits that look sort of army vintage. But it is strangely touching. Traffic is stopped and the music surges up and down the street. Aux armes, citoyens! Formez vos bataillons!






At the close, the marching band, the vets and the Council members march down the main street toward the port. There, they will lay another wreath to commemorate those who died in the Normandy Landing. L’embarquement – the word I had, until today, associated with planes landing on time at Charles de Gaulle airport.














The sun is out now. My friend and I make our way to the port. The dozen (two dozen? more?) restaurants along the quay are starting to fill. I’m watching Honfleur begin to take on the week-end tone of merriment. We sit in the midst of it all. I’m basking in it, filling up for the months when I cannot be part of it.

I order my last galette (buckwheat pancake) with the Normandy trio – Camembert, Pont l’Eveque, Liverot. And crème fraiche, in case I think there aren’t enough calories on my plate.





Back at the b&b, I linger in the courtyard garden (the sun is so warm! finally!) and watch as bricks are being laid down to extend the patio.





So who comes here, to your wonderful b&b? – I ask Monsieur le Jardinière, who also admits to being the husband of the proprietor.
The English, mostly. Belgians. And Americans. Americans take two kinds of vacations in France: the south or the north. If they do the north, they go to Giverny, and then they’ll come here for two days, then the Normandy beaches, Mont St Michel, and Paris. Maybe the Loire valley. It's like that.
I like Giverny. And we’re here for more than two days…
Ah, you like to stay and explore. Like the French. But the French, we hardly see them at the b&b.
Why?
The French, they want a vacation, they pick up the phone and ask for a room. We’re fully booked for months! Americans and the English are much more comfortable with the computer. They find us early, they make reservations.
Ah, the French…
Yes, we like vacations. Americans… (and he goes off on the familiar theme of American work ethic).

I change the subject after explaining that I am very much in favor of vacations. So, how are you feeling about Sarkozy?
Negative. We have written him off. He’s out.
Really? And for what reasons?
He’s incompetent. We, here, we do not impeach like you Americans. We have the streets! The country will come to a standstill. We’ll have massive strikes. He’s out within the year. And your president, what will happen now?
Obama maybe…
We don’t know Obama, here in France. We know Clinton. We like Clinton.

And so it goes.


In the evening, I have my last Normandy apple cake.





At the b&b, Madame Lillianne asks me if I’m coming back next year. It struck me that indeed, there’s a good chance that I will pass through again. Madame and Monsieur are welcoming, gentle people. And Normandy? It really grows on you. Steadily. Expansively. Besides, it’s awfully close to Brittany.

We have passed several times through Deauville to get to Hornfleur, our home for the week. But we had never actually paused there.

Deauville. You’ve heard of it? In my mind, it is full of hoity-toity images. It’s where the Parisian rich and the European mighty go to play in the summer, no?

Worth a visit.

But first – sustenance.

When times were especially (as opposed to sporadically) rough in terms of WiFi at our b&b, the sympa mademoiselle at the Bureau de Tourisme suggested we try our luck at Le Perroquet Vert. Right here, looking out on the old port:





Le PV had served up its WiFi bounty well for one of us and now we are back, in grateful appreciation, catching a café and a croissant.

…And thinking that perhaps Le PV could stand even more appreciation, we return at noontime for a strong cup of tea (we must occasionally do the unpredictable) and a warm apple cake. With Normandy cream, to get that regional blast.




Alright, now. Deauville. The bus ride there and back is a mere half hour, so don’t think this is a long journey. [You could go there and back and not miss the end of the evening news. But not if you’re riding with me. If you’re with me, you’ll return quite late, because you’ll note that I will have forgotten (again!) to check the special note that tells you that these are the times for the navette (shuttle) rather than for the real bus, and if you should find this note yourself and ask me what it means in real words, I’d have to admit that I do not know. In any event, with me, you’ll now have to wait an extra hour until the real bus shows up. And then you’ll be fine. Late, but fine. If you get fed up with my bus catching idiosyncrasies, you can always hike. It’s a mere 17 or so kilometers to Honfleur, but the road is narrow and winding and it has buses whizzing by, of course. The ones you should be on. Trust me, it's scary.]

Deauville is a trifle less splendid than I imagined it would be. There are nice lunch salads to be had…





… and a number of Parisian stores may catch your eye. And there is a large casino and a largish hotel or two (or three, or three dozen for all I know),









...but these Normand structures do not line the seafront in the grand way that they should (according to my grand seaside town planning instincts).

Instead of grand houses, there are numerous bathing huts, and they have, peculiarly, names of older Hollywood stars. To me, that’s a singn of faded glory.





But the beach is magnificent! Walk along and nod in agreement.




still not the season

...except for children

and hardy young adults




and very hardy adults




and very very hardy adults




and lovers of undefined ages ...

We walk quite a ways and the water is nicely warm, so that shoe and sock removal is very much in order.

Yes, then there is that longer than necessary bus routine, but by evening, we are in our home town. Small town girls, returning to our base after a day in the big league.

We eat another fine dinner – moules et frites. All sweetly pretty in a port-side brasserie decked in yellows and blues. Simple food. Great food. Good to be back.

You are counting and so you know. Of course. Who wouldn’t remember?

We didn’t. At first.

It’s Kathy’s last full day with us and we have chosen it as the day to pool our resources and rent a car.

Easy? Not in Honfleur. For all the tourists that pass this way, I must say that they do so with their own wheels. There is no train service here. There is no boat service that I know of. There are buses, but they aren’t easy to plot and work with if you want to do more than go from point A to point B. And there aren’t really car rental agencies.

Except for Sarl Locagis. Sarl Locagis will rent you a moving truck and sell you as many cardboard boxes as you need for your big transfer. And on a slow day, Sarl Locagis will rent you a car. Thursday was a slow day for Sarl.


It was a pretty day for us. The state of the skies is best represented by a shot of the old harbor.





Nice, no? Cool, but who’s counting. We’ve got scarves.

Fishermen seem a tad idle, but that’s not weather related. We’re very aware of the tension at the moment here, in the port towns of France (and elsewhere in western Europe). Fishermen are protesting the high cost of fuel and the elimination of fuel subsidies. If you love seafood, you better visit soon because they say the current supplies are going to run out within a week.





Bonne chance, guys! Hope things settle for you soon. Love those little crevettes!

We come to Sarl Locagis a bit late. No matter. We have the car for the whole day, but we only have 100 free kilometers. That’s not a lot of driving. But, the very sympa mademoiselle at the Bureau de Tourisme noted that the D-Day beaches of Normandy are only some 35 kilometers away. They are our destination. That’s 70 kilometers round trip, with a little extra for mistakes and detours.

(Such bad math that was!)

And so we pile into the car, put on some French music and head west.
Shortly into the drive, someone throws out the idea that a stop might be nice. With perhaps a little beach time. Now, you may think that this is pretty wimpy. It speaks of poor road trip attitude if you can’t go for more than 30 kilometers without stopping.

Well sure. But frankly, we were coast deprived. Or at least I have been feeling that. Honfleur, for all its coastal glory, is really quite sheltered from coastal waters. It’s just enough around the bend in the Seine estuary that you can’t really see the sea. And on this day, driving along the coast, we are tantalized by fleeting vistas of sandy beaches and rippling waves and the desire to get out and crunch on sandy shores really takes hold.

At Villers sur Mer, we stop. A small little place, with a market and a beachfront café. Two essentials of life in this type of community, so far as I’m concerned.

It's so different from Burgundy! Look at the houses, for instance:

















So there we are, tasting sausage samples that Madame cuts for us at her stall and buying wild strawberries and thinking that life, in general, cannot be faulted.





And on the beach, we crunch sand and shells, lots of shells and we exhale.


















And now it is time to keep going. Or is it? The astute reader will have noticed that we are some 30 kilometers into our journey. The D-Day beaches are not even a mirage on the horizon. Bummer.

So here we are – at the doorstep of history and the odometer is hovering near our Cinderella warning kilometer. What would you do? Bite the bullet, of course. Even at 26 Euro cents for each additional mile. Right?

It will be a long time before I agree to such rental terms.

In the meantime, I mentally magic-brush the odometer off the dashboard and accelerate.

And now we come to the crossing of the River Ome and then, just a breath away, the Pegasus Bridge over the Caen Canal.


Exactly on the midnight of this day, in 1944, the Normandy Invasion began. D-Day. And it started with the Allied army capture of this bridge. The first soldier to die in the invasion, Lt. Brotheridge, is buried nearby. The family Gondree installed a commemorative plaque by his grave. They live in the house that was the first to be liberated during the invasion. This house.





Now a café, run by a woman who was a little girl living there on June 5/6, 1944 (no photos inside allowed).

And so by the chance of Sarl Locagis’s schedule, we stumbled on the annual reunion of World War II veterans, their families and friends, school groups, onlookers, all here now, all thinking back to a day when the weather was slightly worse and the toll on lives lost is hard now to fathom.



















Hit hard now by history, we push forward.

The villages along these Normandy shores are quiet places now. Summer homes and water sports centers draw the attention of the families who come here to enjoy the stretches of sand and water.

But there are monuments as well. And flags: English, American, Canadian, Polish. And plaques. And cemeteries.

Like for so many, D-Day images for me, come from movies. The Longest Day, Band of Brothers.

Not after today.





We picnic at Lion sur Mer, right on the water’s edge. It turns cold and a few dark clouds roll in, threatening rain.

A million men landed, a war was won. Much later, but it was won. No one doubts that it needed to be won.


Sar Locagis forgives us the extra miles. The many extra miles.


We eat well on this night at Le Breard, where plates resemble paint palates and food is presented with pomp and flair.





But it’s the Normandy cheeses, served at the end, that stay with me. Pont l’Eveque, Livarot, Pave d'Auge, Camembert. Creamy, soft and pungent, the same as they have been for so long. Centuries. Years of war, quiet times. Same cheeses.

If you come here for the cheese (Pont l’Eveque: one of the most popular French cheeses, right up there, I am told, with Camembert, Brie and Roquefort), you’ll be disappointed. I mean, you can find it in stores, sure. But then, I can find it in Whole Foods, Madison. What you cannot find in Pont l’Eveque, Normandy, is a Pont l’Eveque cheesemaker.

Which is fine. Especially if you come here on a partly cloudy day, after a miserably wet one and you expect to be charmed by other Pont l’Eveque attributes. Like buttercups.

But maybe I’m jumping ahead too much.

First, you have to be told that it is the place to go if you want to see a charming village in the Department of Calvados in the Province of Normandy. Well, maybe not THE most charming village. For that, you should hike from there to Beaumont en Auge. That is absolutely THE most charming village.

Yes, fine. We can do all that. We don’t have a car, but we are so absolutely on top of things that we can work with bus schedules and we can get ourselves anywhere.


And so we set out. [Oh, wait. There is the matter of the Honfleur market. We are staying in Honfleur. The official Honfleur market day is Saturday, but trust this place (what with its artists and super with it locals) to develop, in addition, an alternative market – a bio market (meaning organic), on Wednesday mornings. How perfect! I stock up on the red treasures of the region: strawberries, cherries, apples, tomatoes, and a good and heavy bottle of Normandy apple juice.]










Oh how I love to go for a ride,
To see the country far and wide…

I hum this to myself as we climb the bus and speed down south to Pont l’Eveque. Maybe speed is the wrong word here. It’s not really a long trip, worthy of great speed. Fine, it’s a very short trip. Pont l’Eveque is a mere 17 kms from Honfleur.

We’re happy as we’re rolling along…

How true.

And so we find ourselves in this quaint old town ...which we fully intend to leave ASAP, because we really do want to get to THE most charming village in France.

So, we look this way…





…and that…



…and we head out.

Mind you. Not all of us are avid hikers. In fact, I later find out (much later: after I whip everyone along on this close to 20 kilometer round trip trek) that an alternative may have been to take a more contemplative move through the day, one which would include a lot of pauses and conversations. Like, maybe, this:




But, the skies are almost blue, the buttercups are in full bloom and the there’s the prospect of discovering all that charm. Who can pass on that!

We walk slowly at first, each taking, most likely, the same picture, but in three versions. Perhaps all of our photos look something like these:



cows, knee-deep in buttercups










And we are charmed by similar things. Like this mom donkey and her donkey kid. Can you even guess how long we spent looking at the two of them chasing each other in a the field of buttercups? (And we did it both going there, and on the return)



let's play, mommy!




oh, I'm hungry...




walk with me




not now, I'm prancing!




oh, come here!

And then, suddenly (perhaps not suddenly enough for some) we were in Beaumont en Auge. Actually what Beaumont was really sur (on) was a pretty steep hill. Which added a nice little denouement to the whole journey.

But, hills do give good views and I’ll let you judge for yourself if this qualifies. Zooming in, you can see Deauville by the Channel…

…and zooming out, you can still see the sheep. I always like sheep. Especially knee deep in buttercups.

Some people, those who live here, for instance, may find this view to be commonplace. They'll come to this spot for the quiet that it offers. A place to read a newspaper.

I'm not so jaded. For me, it's heavenly up here, in Beaumont en Auge.

And the village itself? Not sure how any of us felt about the MOST CHARMING label. Here, take a look:

It was pretty alright, but then, so many of these villages are lovely. And besides, we were too hungry to chew over the matter of labels. We wanted dejeuner (lunch)! We find the one open eatery and settled in among the men and women of Beaumont en Auge. Here, you see mostly muscled men. I assure you, at some tables, there were women. An older mother and her son, both with their dogs. A couple. And us.

The food? Here are my choices:

(The hearty men ate heartier dishes -- meats and gizzards and such; I didn't notice the plates of the mother and son, but I did note that one of their dogs liked a morcel, and French dogs are fussy so I am certain it was good.)

Afterwards, well, one had to get back. There was mention of a taxi maybe, but that thought drifted toward the sea as Beaumont was low on taxi stands. In villages of about 52, you just don’t have much use for cabs.

In Pont l’Eveque, we compensated for the absence of cheese makers (they’re all outside the town, which figures as cheese makers are often where the milk is) by visiting a Calvados distillery. We sampled the stuff, but I myself will admit to not appreciating anything that is that potent and so one of us purchased small quantities for gift purposes while the others delighted in being offered free samples of everything in very large glasses.

More fruitful shopping, so to speak (I'm feeling so clever now, long after midnight) was accomplished at a local clothing store where everything was tres cheap and billowy and cottony. Sort of like this frock (in an antique shop next door), except much more au currant:





And then it was time to leave. Except, perhaps you have not been reading this blog carefully or for a long time and so you do not know that I am notoriously inaccurate in reading French bus schedules. I always miss the pertinent piece of information, like that the bus takes a vacation on Wednesdays and this happens to be Wednesday, or that the bus does not stop at this particular stop on any evening run and here we are – stupidly waiting at evening time.

The point is, it took almost as long to finally get ourselves on the seats of a bus to Honfleur as it takes a meringue to bake to a fine crisp texture.


Back in our home town, we bought Pont l’Eveque cheese and many other things and one of us opened her secret bottle of champagne (well, not too secret – everyone at the b&b knew about it after all) and we ate and chatted until I pushed back my chair and retired, to go off and post. Loyal to Ocean readers, to the core.

Honfleur is a small town. 8,000 residents. My guess would be that there are 1,000 artists, 4,000 involved in servicing both residents and tourists, and the remainder – in the production of regional foods (don;t quote me on that -- it's just a guess). Which, in Honfleur, would put the little shrimp, France’s crevettes, at the top of the list (followed by apple stuff and milk stuff).

In many sea-coast towns and villages in France, in those charming little restaurants that fill to capacity every beautiful weather day, they’ve given up. If you ask about their popular shrimp salads and shrimp entrees, they’ll reluctantly admit that the little crustaceans come from the coast of Africa. They’re good, but they’re not local.

Not in Honfleur. So much does this town jump around its shrimp business, that it celebrates it annually with a huge shrimp festival (in the fall). And if you can’t stand the idea of peeling a plateful of tiny little gray critters (pink, once cooked), you can attend the shrimp peeling contests and grab the stuff that gets pulled out of the shell.


And speaking of gray, today was a gray, wet day. So wet was it, that you could not make do with just an umbrella. I mean, you could, of course. But you’d get wet in spite of it.





Over breakfast, we reviewed our options. Day trips were postponed until less wet days.

And here's a digression: I remain certain that the reason we are such good friends is that we have much the same orientation towards life’s essentials. We believe in being prepared against adversity and so we travel with supplies of food, wine, champagne, too, just in case. Even in France, where the chances of running low on any of the above are very minimal.

And even when supplies are not low, because we have managed to eat satisfying meals at least three times a day, we restock.

Today, we went into at least one candy store (purchase of choice: caramel au beurre salé), one sardine store (peculiar, as no one was especially looking for sardines) and one bakery.

Let me pause in the bakery, because we certainly did pause there, perhaps to demonstrate our support for the craft of fine baking in this part of the country (as if it were inferior elsewhere in France!).















We bought provisions for lunch (the likes of which will not be described here, as you may find us to be perhaps a bit over the top in our food cravings) and waited while the proprietor took great care to heat them properly. None of this microwave stuff. (Do they even sell microwaves in France, or are they banned for reasons of culinary blasphemy?)

During our wait, we watched people come in for their lunch breads and supplements. I grew intensely jealous of the client who was known to Madame, so that she would reach for his daily loaf in a familiar way. Such intimacy seems to me to be a wonderful byproduct of living here.

After, we ate. And talked. In the way that only the closest friends, who believe that bread products can break all final barriers to communication, talk.


We then went on to pursue our various interests, which include painting (don’t look at me), photography, and writing – professionally and otherwise.

I felt my camera needed a work out after staring at food so much and so I set out in the rain. It was miserable out there for all but those under solid cover (“solid” is a matter of personal interpretation).













The lens of my camera kept up a steady stream and steam of protest, but I was determined. Honfleur is about gray shrimp and gray skies and I want to sample both. At times, in combination. For example, let me poke around the fishing trawlers some and see if anyone is still out and about.









Fine, camera wins. The lens refuses to stay dry.

I search for a café where the camera and I can recover. Though really, only a radiator will help me now as I am thoroughly wet. Still, I pause at a little place and study a book on Honfleur. (Did you know that the village of Quebec is just a few kilometers from here and that in the Canadian province of Quebec, there is a Honfleur?) And I study the jovial men that come for an early evening drink.





I can’t tell if they are in the art, shrimp or service industry, but they are a happy lot and it warms me up to be in their presence. The outside weather seems less formidable now.





Afterwards, I slosh home, passing two young boys who, like all young boys, don’t seem to mind anything having to do with weather.





For dinner? Oh, crevettes, of course.

A morning stroll into town. A look at the quiet bay. At the fishermen on the trawler, repairing the large net.









Time to explore a little more.


WALK No. 1

There is a hill behind our bed and breakfast. I ask if it is climable.
Biensur! There is a path even…

We climb. And you get the views. Of Honfleur, of the green fields of Normandy.









At the top, there is a lovely little church – chapel really – with a nautical theme. Paintings and models of ships are scattered in its small interior. We pause for a bit and listen to the bells do a melodic little spin at each quarter hour.

One last look over the mouth of the Seine, the new bridge linking upper Normandy with Le Havre (largest cable something or other in the world!)...





...and we head down for lunch. At an old cider press. Where one man is whipping out crepes and galattes for the entire roomful of people.





Classic Normandy: the (Brittany influenced!) buckwheat pancake, the cheese, the cider.


WALK No. 2

But the first walk only whets my appetite. I set out along the coast on a second run. Here is a case where the photo is better than the reality.





It could be that someone would be enchanted with what is an artificial stretch of beach along the river Seine. Me, I’m spoiled by Brittany. Le Havre on the other side doesn’t compete with pristine sands and hidden coves. I return to the road. That’s a mistake. Me and all those cars. No path to help me along. I turn back.

And even though I find a quieter road for the retreat, I am now hearing three very low flying, very loud helicopters.

After a few minutes of hovering, I’m thinking – hmmm, they’re not keeping an eye out on things, they’re chasing someone. Someone dangerous. They haven’t a clue where this person is! They’re searching from above! We are all doomed! (I admit that last sentence doesn’t quite follow, but when you are standing under the loud spin of the helicopter blade, you cease being entirely rational.)





I find out that there is a TV filming of a game show where contestants are madly trying to find clues. I encounter the contestants scurrying around in the quiet interior of St. Catherine’s Church.

Do the people of Honfleur care that the their town has been taken over by a TV crew? Sure.



looking up at the chopper




taking photos of the choppers



Me, I’m looking for a quiet spot. In the Boudin Museum, I find it. Here, I am reminded that Normandy was a 19th century heaven for painters. One book tells it bluntly: without Normandy, there would be no Impressionism. A little bragging, but not a ridiculous statement. I mean, Monet painted St. Catherine’s church – the one with the buzz of the TV crew just a few minutes back! And later, Dufy, the wonderful playful colorful Dufy painted fields of blé – buckwheat! Crepe material!






WALK No. 3

And now it is late afternoon and the clouds of the morning are retreating (for the moment) and I am antsy to wipe out the image of my unsuccessful earlier walk. I set out along a small road (and a hiking trail, at last!) away from the coast, into the deep country.

And only I would be thrilled with this – pastoral scenes, smells of meadowland, cows. Lovely, beautiful, happy, friendly cows.

















I am reminded of something Ed once said – he saw cows kissing and from then on he thought it would be difficult to enjoy their meat on a plate.

Now, here in Normandy, I watch two cows licking ach other’s faces which I suppose is a real French cow kiss.





I cannot say that I reject all meat henceforth on principle, but it was a lovely scene. And I continue along this empty narrow lane of a road until I see that it is almost 6 and every step I take away from Honfleur has to be retraced on the return. And still, I can't get myself to stop moving forward.













It's very late before I am back in the town again.


My patient friends are waiting. We walk to the old port for an evening meal by the bay.





I am lusting for seafood and there is enough of it in this town so that I am satisfied. And for dessert? Tart Tatin. About time!

You’ll see a lot of timbered houses on Ocean in the week ahead. I can’t help it. I’m in a place that has written the definitive book on timbered houses.





I’ve not been to Normandy much before this trip. Oh, sure. I’ve been here. Indeed, my very first trip, my defining voyage – to the States, as a kid – was from Cherbourg, which very much is in Normandy. I remember it as a countryside with white horses. I remember an old Normand telling me: lick your thumb, touch your palm with it, then slam the palm with your fist every time you see a white horse and you’ll have luck forever.

I’ve done that all my life and I’ve had great luck and so I highly recommend it. I say it from Normandy, so my words are quite authentic.

I took the train to Hornfleur with my two friends. Actually several trains and a taxi. The buses were taking a Sunday break. Honfleur has it all, but it does not have a train station.

It does have a very charming b&b, and the owner has given me a room in a small (yes, timbered) house by myself, so that I can do my work. The view is out onto the courtyard. Out the door, I see this:





Okay, then there’s the historic town – right there at the mouth of the River Seine, on the western bank, opposite the huge port city, Le Havre. You don’t actually see Le Havre from here, but you know it’s there. So, Le Havre to the east, Deauville and the Normandy beaches to the west, and lots of pasture land and apple orchards to the south.

And here’s the thing. I think the port is great. I do. Here, take a look:









But I know there are happy cows just south of us and (historically significant) beaches and cliffs in all directions so it could well be that time spent here will be supplemented with time spent meandering this way and that.

In the meantime, I offer you this Sunday walk through town. Get a feel for Honfleur! Meet the men, the artists (the concentration of studios here is intense), study her foods. Though, I have to remind you that the sister province of Brittany lays claim to the galette – the buckwheat pancake; they say that Normandy’s is inauthentic. Fine – I’m not getting involved in interstate food battles of France. Let’s all agree though that Normandy is the place of the tarte tatin (apple cake), Camembert and Pont l’Eveque (cheese). And the cap Normand – see below.



young men of Honfleur




...their caps




older men of Honfleur




artists of Honfleur




galette with cheese and potatoes




cat and rooster




dog and hard cider




evening

A week ago, Ed left and an hour later, my daughter emerged at the Paris airport. This time, she’s returning home (sob!) and within minutes, I’ll be heading north for a week with two friends from law school days.

We walked, she and I, to the RER station very early this Sunday morning, past shuttered houses and closed cafes, past the locked gates of the Luxembourg Gardens.



I let her go, in the way that one must let one's children go. To the station, through the turnstile, down to the tracks. A final wave and a forced smile as I watch her settle in to wait for the 6:54 a.m. to l'aeroport CDG.