from somewhere in Paris, by the river Marne: quotidien

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.

from somewhere in Paris, on the Marne: day by day

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.

from Honfleur, Normandy: reconsidered

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.

from Normandy: the high-brow

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.

from Normandy: on this day, sixty-four years 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.