the old farmhouse

This was a day to take stock of our environment. Here's a key question that I posed to Ed -- it'll give you a sense of the kind of day I'm slated to have:

Early in the morning, I ask him -- do you think you're allergic to me??
He answers -- I don't know...

Ha! It grabbed your attention!
Well, here's the issue: this Fall, something in this farmhouse has been causing his old asthma to act up. Whatever it is, it's not present in the sheep shed, because when he is there (the days I was in France, for example), he is fine. (So Isie boy is not the culprit, as the cat follows him to the sheep shed in my absence.)

There are the usual suspects: we had a strong showing of mice this year. Stronger than ever before and we did not get aggressive about eliminating them until late in the season. (We seems to have caught the last one -- we've been clean for a whole week!) And so today, I did the awful, hideous job of vacuuming up every corner and surface and beam of the basement so that any mouse related matter would be sucked right out of there.

And he has changed the air filters. And I have vacuumed (with a different vacuum cleaner!) the entire farmhouse and all the upholstery. And aired out the place. The farmhouse shows no signs of mold, though of course, that's just a best guess at this point.

But it was early in the morning, before all this flurry of activity, when Ed admitted to the telltale asthmatic symptoms, leading me to ask -- what if it's me???

I can't tell you how hard we worked three and a half years ago, to restore this place to some form of glory. (Well, it probably never had much glory, but now it does! For us at least...) Ed spent days dismantling the old chimney -- chipping away at it, brick by brick. Every electrical outlet is a state of the art masterpiece fitted in by him. The floors were lovingly selected from the cheap options at Home Depot -- hickory here, pine there. Doors, wood trim, window frames -- all stained by me. It is a bit painful to see this place letting him/us down now.

Of course, part of me thinks this is just a rouse to get rid of the couch and bed -- both pieces of furniture he regards as superfluous and I'm sure if he could convince me that they are the source of his troubles, he would. (Though we may have to reconsider the heavenly quilt that keeps us warm -- it's filled with down and that's a possible trigger.)

It may take a while to figure out what causes his flareups. It could be that he'll have to take apart the ducts and wash them well, to get rid of traces of mice and men. In the meantime, I feel like our blissful moments at the farmhouse were made vulnerable today. So I post this photo with even sweeter recognition of the preciousness of it all. So sacred today, so vulnerable, too.



("you want me to take off my jacket, don't you...")




("oh, alright...")


And the cheepers? Oblivious to all the drama within the farmhouse, happy to be the beggars that they are, right at our front door again, adding color to a foggy, gray day.

meanwhile, back at the farmette...

On the upside, it's pretty warm outside!

I start with this flash weather bulletin, because it really is a dismally gray and somber day out there. You can't help but think about it when you look out over the slightly shrouded brown terrain. A dense fog advisory is issued for later and I am so glad that it's not affecting my travels.

The trip yesterday was long but delightfully uneventful. Perhaps the most shocking thing for me was to be asked something by my American seatmate on the long flight over and to stumble in my response. It hadn't taken long for me to become unused to responding in English. I smiled to myself at the effortless way a conversation could proceed again. When speaking in French, there will always come a point where the person I'm talking to will assume that I know more than I do. When I say then -- sorry, I didn't understand that, I get that surprised look, as if the person wants to ask -- why not? I'm just speaking normal French, for God's sake. Yes but...

Still, I was a tired beast by evening, so much so that for the first time ever, I did not even open my suitcase (to see, for example, if there was any damage to the bottle of poppy petal syrup I lugged back). I fixed a light supper of cheeper eggs and quickly after, followed Isie the cat upstairs, leaving Ed to his computer work.


This morning, as I write out all that I have to do in the next week, I ask myself why I always choose to go away just before the holidays. Well, never mind. I put on good music and get to work.

And there is, of course, breakfast. Hi Ed, across the table again!






We go out to check up on the cheepers together. I want protection in case of an Oreo attack, but in fact, the attack never comes. In September, I had been gone three weeks. I came back to a raging rooster! This time, I was away only twelve days. I'm learning that a rooster's memory is good for twelve days!












Grocery shopping, errand running -- that takes up the better part of the daylight hours. One very pleasant errand is to take over some of the small purchased items to the expectant parents. I'm less than four weeks from becoming a grandmother. It feels very close!

(Yes, this is the place where I get to visit, too, with their very playful cats. Playful, but respectful of their beautiful Christmas tree, thank goodness!)











At home, the cheepers, noting that I am back at the farmhouse and remembering that I often give them treats just outside the farmhouse door, make the long trudge over and surprise me with their happy faces.






Inside, I put up our "tree" -- it takesonly five minutes!





And as I sit down to do some writing, I think for the millionth time how much I love being home and how strange it is that I really do have a burning urge to cross the ocean again and again. Even as these days and evenings at home fill me with such total peace and happiness.

In the evening I make broccoli veloute -- a smooth soup that tries to imitate one I had in France.







Within just these few hours, I'm fully immersed in my life back here,  but little bits of travel creep into the everyday. The best souvenirs are the ideas that I bring back home to try out here, in my own foggy corner of the world.

returning home

In the evening of my last day in Paris, I leave the warmth of my little apartment and head out to Pouic Pouic for dinner. It's only a five minute stroll, but I take a circuitous route, through the Bucci intersections where the cafes always, even in winter, spill out onto the streets, giving the impression of a canvas of the good life.





It never fails to make me smile. This neighborhood is on the young side (I think of thirties as being young) and the energy level is high.

And when I then walk into Pouic Pouic, there, too, the energy level is high.

It's a good way to end a trip. For me, the familiarity of it all counts. At the restaurant, I know the informal tables that sometimes rock just a tiny bit. I know the chef (Nicolas), with his pony tail just so -- here he is, working the small open  kitchen, training the next generation of cooks:






And the proprietors know me. I'm not a great guest -- I don't buy bottles of wine, I occupy a table with only one cover, but the French like familiarity too and so they make a point of greeting me as if I lived just around the corner rather than thousands of miles away. And this feels especially warm at the end of a trip when I've gone too long without friends or family or Ed.

They say -- Ah, here you are, always furiously writing something between courses! And with your camera! Yes, my date is my notebook, my friend is my camera.

The meal is excellent -- pumpkin soup, scallops, fruits and chocolate something or other. The price never varies. There are no surprises.

I leave happy.


I wake up an hour before my alarm goes off. I take care of some nonsense with online reservations -- that takes a good bit of time! -- and then I'm off, checking to make sure the apartment is in good shape, taking out the garbage to the bins in the back. (For my efforts here I get a huge reprimand from the building manager who comes out and reminds me (as if I knew) that you are not to throw garbage away before 8. Oops. It's only 6.)

The street is feel empty now, but only as compared to Paris at other times.






There is always traffic, there are always a few people rushing somewhere. Still, it feels quiet.

I walk by the Luxembourg Palace that abuts the Gardens...






...and then it's just a hop and a skip to the RER commuter rail, where I wait for my train to the airport.






Here's my last photo from Paris. Predictable. I am that.





In the air now. Over the ocean. Quite literally. Delta has received permission to put thingamajigies on top of the plane (that's how the flight attendant describes it to me) that allow it to pick up signals and give us WiFi in flight. I wont always splurge for this service (it's the price of a lunch in Paris), but I have nine hours worth of online work and so you get this post sent from way up high.

the last day

It seems to me that men in France (if employed) are a content lot. I'm not saying that women are not. I really am at a loss in making generalizations about women here. Yes, studies show that working moms are fairly content, or at least more content than working moms in the U.S., but overall, as a nation, France doesn't rank in the happiest top 10 (neither does the U.S. -- see last year's report here) and I'm guessing that the women here are pulling the numbers down.


Why do I assign a higher level of contentedness to French men? Obviously not based on scientific data. But do, please look around you when you're in France. The men here are socially connected. They have important things to say to their friends, to their colleagues, to the bar tender. And to the women in their lives.

Take this scene from breakfast: he told her stories with animation and passion the whole time I was at the cafe. She barely said a word. But she did nod and smile and give signs that she was listening and that she cared.





For better or worse (in my opinion - probably worse), women still do appear to want to please men. They want to look good for them, for instance. You can tell (and literature confirms this). Whereas I can't really recall the last time I dressed with care for Ed's benefit. Women I know back home like to look good for themselves and not necessarily for some guy's approving glance.

Add to the male plate of goodies a promise of a long vacation, a good meal at work and at home and things are looking fine, aren't they?

I have read though, that Parisians are overall more angst filled than their fellow country men and women. I am reminded of this each time I walk down the steps of my apartment building here, because I pass a flat that serves as a psychologist's consulting office. I suppose if I lived here year round, I could run down and knock on her door with my crisis du jour. I think living in Paris, some of the angst my rub off.


I am on my last full day in France. I'm posting now, before the day is done and will finish off my French blogging tomorrow, sometime in the course of my travels.

The morning has clouds, but they move fast and occasionally reveal a patch of sky.






I should be extravagant in my walking today, but I can tell I'm winding down because I mostly hover in the neighborhood. I go to breakfast, for example, to Les Editeurs -- an old favorite just a few blocks down -- where I eat too much bread products once again.






After, I walk. Rather randomly. Past the pastry shop. To the park. Out again.



(school girls, on the way to the park; young girls all have long hair, almost without exception)





(meringue and raspberry and rose petals, at my favorite pastry shop)





(an even more artistic creation at another shop)





(Luxembourg Gardens once more)





(high school girls jogging; she might be happier if she shed her scarf...)





(Luxembourg Palace -- now housing the Senate -- under a beautiful sky)


Up one street, down another. I'm still curious about what I see and this tells me I'm far from having my fill of this city. But my curiosity stays close to home.



(those chimneys!)





(still collecting leaves in December: will she grow up to be content?)





(is he content but anxious?)


I want a small lunch and so I enter a very very busy little bistro and tell myself that I can skip the dessert and just stick with two small appetizers. The plan fails completely as my little plate of herring turns out to be a big pot filled with herring and my salad with a warm cheese has indeed a whole melted Camembert on it. When did portions start being large in France?

I walk some more, resisting the urge to take a nap. Walking is a form of saying good bye to a city -- a city of content if somewhat anxious men and less anxious but maybe less content women.




(to be continued tomorrow, on the other side of the ocean)

Wednesday

It is a day without a plan. The only items that had forethought to it were dinner and breakfast. The rest evolved, responding in turn to changes in the weather and changes in my level of energy.

Breakfast -- on the late side. Ocean kept me up until 2. It was with great difficulty that I stretched my arm out of bed and picked up the laptop at 8 and I stuck to reading stuff on it until well after 9.

The clouds outside came back and though there's talk of later clearings, it's only talk. Still, I leave behind the umbrella.  I may live to regret this recklessness, but then, Paris invites a degree of recklessness: eat butter, walk alone at midnight, drink wine with lunch, ride a bike without helmet (not me, but everyone else), leave umbrella behind.

For breakfast, I step outside and note that there is what might be called a drizzle by some. On the other hand, people are funny: here, it is not unusual to see someone take her dog out for a walk in a bag.






I scoff at the umbrellas and walk over to the Rue Madame without one. To this cafe bar:






With a very serious, this morning, client base.






Well, except for me...






They serve Poilane bread here  (arguably Paris's best) and that's reason enough to order it for the morning meal: a tartine (which is a slice of baguette with heavenly butter slathered on top), some jam, and a coffee with milk. I worry that I'll regret passing on the croissant and so I order that as well.






Yes, piggish. What can I say. I left behind a little of each. Maybe they have cheepers out back who will appreciate it.

I then cut through the Luxembourg Gardens again.





And I buy the commuter rail ticket for Friday's ride to the airport at the Luxembourg Gardens RER stop. It's close enough in time for me to be thinking about it. And for me to fret:  I must fill these last days in Paris, I must! Alright, I'm motivated to walk to the Right Bank Marais neighborhood. I want to span the corners of Paris and not remain glued to the neighborhood that I inevitably call home.

I leave behind the area of the Sorbonne University... (These are surely Sorbonne types. I'm almost certain one of them is an American. Want to guess which one and why?)






Over the river. First thing I see is a guy toting his Christmas tree home without the bother of a car.






And this gentleman -- I think he is quintessentially a Marais neighborhood guy. It's always dangerous to stereotype, but in Paris, may I remind you, we live dangerously.






Step aside now! This woman's in a hurry!






And this gentleman is protectively moving his girlfriend out of harm's way:






And this one? Well, she smokes and she wears black. That pretty much makes her a French woman through and through.





Close to the Place des Vosges, there is the Credit Municipal de Paris -- a bank that offers small, low-interest loans against inexpensive valuables (it celebrated its 375 birthday a couple of years ago by forgiving the debt of its poorest customers, making headlines around the world for this gesture). I see that they have a small exhibition in its gallery rooms. You could say it's the French counterpart to yesterday's Garry Winogrand exhibit. Here, they're displaying the photos of Jean-Philippe Charbonnier and the title of the exposition is "An Eye on Paris." So of course, there's no one in the gallery. The French are all ogling Texas and LA and NY (the French faves in America!) over at the Jeu de Paume. Paris, through the lens of a French photographer? Yawn.

For me, it's gold! Not even silver -- pure gold. (In case you think that this is just the usual excessive enthusiasm I seem to reserve for this city, I want to remind you that I visited three photographic exhibits in Paris last March and remembered/liked none of them especially much.) 

To celebrate my successful day thus far, I again shop for my little granddaughter (the one that hasn't been born yet), prompting Ed to later mutter something about babies and grandmothers and the ridiculousness behind it all, but I can tell that he is not altogether being serious.

It's now nearly 2 in the afternoon and I just want to ride the metro back to my apartment and put my feet up. Too many hours of walking.

And I do ride the metro back.
















But my plan to pick up some quiche or sandwich at the bakery and take it home gets knocked down when I pass the Danton Cafe by the Odeon Metro stop. So many happy looking people inside! Wouldn't it be nice just to sit among among them and order, say, a croque-madame? (That's the French term for a grilled cheese and ham sandwich, with a fried egg on top. At the Danton Cafe, it's actually called a Croque Mademoiselle, which is the first time I've come across that sweet diminutive.)






I finish with a coffee.






This really is one of Paris's surefire hits for cafe food, for nimble waiters and for terrific people watching.






And by now the sun is trying to assert itself in wisps here and there, but I'm not fooled. There is rain in that sky (I tell myself) and I do not have an umbrella so wouldn't it be just fine to retreat to my little apartment on the 6th floor and rest? 





I walk home and finish the afternoon by working on my photos.

As for the evening? Read on only if you are interested in food. I know how terribly boring it is to post descriptions of what went into your gut. We do it far too often and readers rarely like it. Indeed, I consider myself to be in the upper percentiles of those interested in food and even I tend to skim blogs that detail every ingredient of a beautiful dinner.

But I'm going to make an exception here because some of you may go to Paris and you will wonder -- where oh where should I eat? And for the Left bankers among you, I'll say -- Pouic Pouic is my favorite and Le Procope is reliable and then there is this and then there is that... And I'll wave my hand and say -- listen, just go and have fun and don't fret too much if the beef happens to be too tough for your liking that night.

But after tonight, I may also say -- make a reservation at Terroir Parisiene. (It's very casual. Don't dress up.)

I have considered going to this (5th arrondissement) restaurant for a long time now, but I thought it to be a touch smug in the description: it attempts to use, when it can, Parisian ingredients. Like, cheese from this area. Mushrooms, spinach, pears too. Mustard made here. Honey. Cherries that grow just outside the city. The list is long. 

And I thought -- why is this important? Isn't it just the French bragging about how they can respect local in ways that no one else can?

But I read yet again quite recently how this restaurant is no joke. It's just damn good. So I reserved and I went and I have to say that a couple of the dishes there were over the top good. Over the top! 

I actually bought a bottle of something there.





I had the affable waiter drag it down from a storage shelf. It's a syrup made from the poppies that grow in the area. They used it to flavor an aperitif (kir), but I thought it may have a million uses and I never saw or tasted anything like it. (Step aside, granddaughter  -- I need to fit in a bottle of poppy syrup!)

And now we're accelerating the speed of time (or so it always seems to toward the end of a trip). I have one more day left on this side of the ocean. To use it well, I must go to sleep before midnight! I must!