- Published on
We three have progressed through various life transitions together, things like gaining independence when graduating from active playground moms to passive bench moms, taking a pass on PTO asks, having time to ourselves on Saturday mornings and in our current stage, planning these sorts of trips, which seem to involve going for long walks through fields and woods, having drinks at pubs and taking photographs of large piles of lichen-adorned rocks that are gravestones, pillars, walls, houses.
Having seen the small village of Bourton-on-the-Water when scouting for a pub the evening prior, we were looking forward to exploring when things were open, which proved to be an optimistic sentiment. I was reminded of the sameness of these scenic tourist places, whether Nantucket, Bonnieux, Telluride, Valetta, Roma or Tulum, the only variables being the soap scent, reflecting its habitat; aloe, lavender, eucalyptus, sea salt, olive oil, charcoal etc., or the style of dish towel. We tried to shop, we really did. In fact one of us actually picked up trinkets adorned with King Charles' crowned head. But she put them back and walked out, unburdened.
We took two walks, one about 4 miles, the other twice that, traversing fields, some dormant, others filled with sheep, goats, even one with a still bloody carcas that from far away without my glasses looked like a baked ham. There were beautiful and usually very tidily trimmed hedges, copses, barns and farms, a folly, some monstrous manor houses and a church that was as small as it was old. On our longer wander we walked from Bourton-on-the-Water to Stow-on-the-Wold, having lunch at The Hive, which had the feel of a couple of home cooks making a go of it, quite successfully. My soup was accompanied by a cheese scone that was large, light and with more cheese flavor than I thought possible. A sign asking walkers to take their shoes off at the entrance meant we traipsed through the restaurant and sat for lunch in wet stocking feet. One of us was so chilled that she got the good idea to warm her feet under the ladies room hand dryer, but disappointingly, there were only paper towels.
We retuned from our longer walk through Lower Slaughter, which is apparently one of the chocolate box towns one sees on postcards, but as confirmed by my aunt who is not known to mince a word, filled with a population too closely related. Houses are close and it was freakily peaceful and tidy. One of us noted that it would take one small act by a resident to go from peaceful scenic to horror movie. You might have had to be there to understand.
We visited two farms, the first, Daylesford, was situated on a large and open piece of land with a big parking lot full of Land Rovers and Porsches. It had become so successful that a new building had recently been completed encompassing a greenhouse, home goods, furniture, incredible produce and prepared food to takeaway, a full cheese room where I would like to spend the end of my life, two restaurants, a cookery school in a beautifully airy space and a padel court, and it turns out, locations in all the posh London neighborhoods. My friends had scones and tea, sadly I found myself still paying for the Maltesers and chips that were "to hold me over" and couldn't gain the necessary momentum. We then went to Diddly Squat Farm, which is somehow famous related to TV and I bought a head of smoked garlic which stunk up the car for two days and almost a week later, still hasn't been used.
Auntie had told us we MUST go to Stratford-upon-Avon to experience the Royal Shakespeare Company, so we headed up north, eating a Daylesford takeout dinner on the sly at the Garrick Inn, a Tudor half-timbered building dating back to the 16th century. While I'll admit to having a small amount of dread prior to what was advertised as a three hour Othello, it whizzed by and I found that, just like watching Derry Girls, the essentially foreign language becomes easier to follow after a bit. It certainly helped that one of my more educated friends had given me the Cliff Note version before.
It was a raw cold in Bath with little sun, but there were plenty of places to warm up. It is a city that goes back to Roman times and is famous for the Roman Bath, and for the crescent shaped buildings. We saw the sights, did some shopping and shared a whole Cornish brill for dinner one night at the up and coming Checquers..
Not cowed from packing one more thing into our itinerary, we stopped in Salisbury on the way back to London, taking in the largest cathedral in England by walking around the perimeter where the wheezing heaters were. Much old stone and stained glass and stories about long ago kept us engaged for a while, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that the highlight of the day was lunch at the Haunch of Venison (is that a name or what?) which smelled deliciously of bacon and had a nice fire going on the second floor where we lunched. Sheepishly, I ordered soup and salad, but my friends ponied up to a venison burger and boar sausages, which appeared more abstemious than the groaning Sunday roast plates we saw going by.
My dear friends set off next morning, back to their regular lives and responsiblities, and I woke up thinking "Hmmm, now what?"
Having seen the small village of Bourton-on-the-Water when scouting for a pub the evening prior, we were looking forward to exploring when things were open, which proved to be an optimistic sentiment. I was reminded of the sameness of these scenic tourist places, whether Nantucket, Bonnieux, Telluride, Valetta, Roma or Tulum, the only variables being the soap scent, reflecting its habitat; aloe, lavender, eucalyptus, sea salt, olive oil, charcoal etc., or the style of dish towel. We tried to shop, we really did. In fact one of us actually picked up trinkets adorned with King Charles' crowned head. But she put them back and walked out, unburdened.
We took two walks, one about 4 miles, the other twice that, traversing fields, some dormant, others filled with sheep, goats, even one with a still bloody carcas that from far away without my glasses looked like a baked ham. There were beautiful and usually very tidily trimmed hedges, copses, barns and farms, a folly, some monstrous manor houses and a church that was as small as it was old. On our longer wander we walked from Bourton-on-the-Water to Stow-on-the-Wold, having lunch at The Hive, which had the feel of a couple of home cooks making a go of it, quite successfully. My soup was accompanied by a cheese scone that was large, light and with more cheese flavor than I thought possible. A sign asking walkers to take their shoes off at the entrance meant we traipsed through the restaurant and sat for lunch in wet stocking feet. One of us was so chilled that she got the good idea to warm her feet under the ladies room hand dryer, but disappointingly, there were only paper towels.
We retuned from our longer walk through Lower Slaughter, which is apparently one of the chocolate box towns one sees on postcards, but as confirmed by my aunt who is not known to mince a word, filled with a population too closely related. Houses are close and it was freakily peaceful and tidy. One of us noted that it would take one small act by a resident to go from peaceful scenic to horror movie. You might have had to be there to understand.
We visited two farms, the first, Daylesford, was situated on a large and open piece of land with a big parking lot full of Land Rovers and Porsches. It had become so successful that a new building had recently been completed encompassing a greenhouse, home goods, furniture, incredible produce and prepared food to takeaway, a full cheese room where I would like to spend the end of my life, two restaurants, a cookery school in a beautifully airy space and a padel court, and it turns out, locations in all the posh London neighborhoods. My friends had scones and tea, sadly I found myself still paying for the Maltesers and chips that were "to hold me over" and couldn't gain the necessary momentum. We then went to Diddly Squat Farm, which is somehow famous related to TV and I bought a head of smoked garlic which stunk up the car for two days and almost a week later, still hasn't been used.
Auntie had told us we MUST go to Stratford-upon-Avon to experience the Royal Shakespeare Company, so we headed up north, eating a Daylesford takeout dinner on the sly at the Garrick Inn, a Tudor half-timbered building dating back to the 16th century. While I'll admit to having a small amount of dread prior to what was advertised as a three hour Othello, it whizzed by and I found that, just like watching Derry Girls, the essentially foreign language becomes easier to follow after a bit. It certainly helped that one of my more educated friends had given me the Cliff Note version before.
It was a raw cold in Bath with little sun, but there were plenty of places to warm up. It is a city that goes back to Roman times and is famous for the Roman Bath, and for the crescent shaped buildings. We saw the sights, did some shopping and shared a whole Cornish brill for dinner one night at the up and coming Checquers..
Not cowed from packing one more thing into our itinerary, we stopped in Salisbury on the way back to London, taking in the largest cathedral in England by walking around the perimeter where the wheezing heaters were. Much old stone and stained glass and stories about long ago kept us engaged for a while, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that the highlight of the day was lunch at the Haunch of Venison (is that a name or what?) which smelled deliciously of bacon and had a nice fire going on the second floor where we lunched. Sheepishly, I ordered soup and salad, but my friends ponied up to a venison burger and boar sausages, which appeared more abstemious than the groaning Sunday roast plates we saw going by.
My dear friends set off next morning, back to their regular lives and responsiblities, and I woke up thinking "Hmmm, now what?"
- Published on
We three saw many interesting and beautiful things over the last week, but it is the friendship of enduring gentleness, lack of judgement and ease of being together that will shape my memories of the fun we've had.
As parents of young daughters, June and I ran in the same circles, which included most socially significant, Saturday morning soccer, an occasion for much parental hobnobbing. But it was one Halloween when we escorted our girls in their complementary candy outfits that I recall a deeper connection. Since then, I have valued her always well thought out opinions, as well as her ability to question her own presumptions and those of others. She is as generous as the day is long, bestowing on me logical advice (my car's name is Junie thanks to her guidance during the COVID car drought), example setting (her adoption of fake mashed potato to perfect making cake rosettes) and genuine hospitality of the kindest sort, all over the place. And as it turns out, she's also able to drive down British country lanes with no markings at night when there are cars coming in the other direction with their brights on.
Carin was very pregnant with her now 18-year old when she, before having moved into her house across the street, attended a neighborhood meeting at our house, true to her commitment to developing a good understanding of any given subject. She is quiet and the best listener I know, always thinking before she speaks and responding in a way that conveys compassion and her lack of agenda. She is the only person who made me cry during a difficult time for our family when she stopped me on the sidewalk, looked me in the eye and said "How are you? I will bring you dinner."
Both Carin and June are self-professed Anglophiles, having a penchant for Jane Austen, among other British writers. When a few months ago, we were casually chatting about my drifting over this way, the idea of us spending a week together came quickly and easily, despite some pretty complicated schedules.
Our first stop was Oxford, about an hour northwest of London. We encountered the kind of situation that drives me round the bend. Having successfully found a parking lot, when we went to download the app, nothing showed up. The website wouldn't load. After each of us trying, much walking back and forth from one end of the lot to the other while noting a train going by that was all restaurant cars with formally set tables, we somehow cracked the code. Useless time lost is how it always feels to me. My compadres were more sanguine.
Carin had booked a tour at the Bodlean Library, which was first established in 1488 and has many old tomes I'd never heard of but probably should have. Because books were so rare when it was established, each was chained to the building and stored laid down horizontally to not destroy the spines. Of note is a book in the library made out of cheese, and one that is 3 x 2.5 mm (a German ABC book from 1791). All Oxons wanting to access the library must agree in writing to not burn it down. If you were able to read one book a day, it would take 600 lifetimes to finish the collection.
I regret not having bought the book advent calendar at the library bookshop, but may scavenge online.
After a satisfying dinner at the Kingham Plow in Chipping Norton, June got us to our cozy cottage in Bourton-on-the-Water. Two of us friskily set out for a pub drink at 8:30, despairing to find almost everything empty, though we did have a nice walk around, noting that the wee bridges over the River Windrush reminded us of miniature golf courses. The place we finally entered turned out to not have six patrons, rather workers who had just finished up, giving off the feeling that we were entering somewhere to which we really hadn't been invited. Well, that's except for the little too friendly sous-chef from Newcastle who had been to Mississippi and wanted us to come back for dinner the following night. No thanks.
As parents of young daughters, June and I ran in the same circles, which included most socially significant, Saturday morning soccer, an occasion for much parental hobnobbing. But it was one Halloween when we escorted our girls in their complementary candy outfits that I recall a deeper connection. Since then, I have valued her always well thought out opinions, as well as her ability to question her own presumptions and those of others. She is as generous as the day is long, bestowing on me logical advice (my car's name is Junie thanks to her guidance during the COVID car drought), example setting (her adoption of fake mashed potato to perfect making cake rosettes) and genuine hospitality of the kindest sort, all over the place. And as it turns out, she's also able to drive down British country lanes with no markings at night when there are cars coming in the other direction with their brights on.
Carin was very pregnant with her now 18-year old when she, before having moved into her house across the street, attended a neighborhood meeting at our house, true to her commitment to developing a good understanding of any given subject. She is quiet and the best listener I know, always thinking before she speaks and responding in a way that conveys compassion and her lack of agenda. She is the only person who made me cry during a difficult time for our family when she stopped me on the sidewalk, looked me in the eye and said "How are you? I will bring you dinner."
Both Carin and June are self-professed Anglophiles, having a penchant for Jane Austen, among other British writers. When a few months ago, we were casually chatting about my drifting over this way, the idea of us spending a week together came quickly and easily, despite some pretty complicated schedules.
Our first stop was Oxford, about an hour northwest of London. We encountered the kind of situation that drives me round the bend. Having successfully found a parking lot, when we went to download the app, nothing showed up. The website wouldn't load. After each of us trying, much walking back and forth from one end of the lot to the other while noting a train going by that was all restaurant cars with formally set tables, we somehow cracked the code. Useless time lost is how it always feels to me. My compadres were more sanguine.
Carin had booked a tour at the Bodlean Library, which was first established in 1488 and has many old tomes I'd never heard of but probably should have. Because books were so rare when it was established, each was chained to the building and stored laid down horizontally to not destroy the spines. Of note is a book in the library made out of cheese, and one that is 3 x 2.5 mm (a German ABC book from 1791). All Oxons wanting to access the library must agree in writing to not burn it down. If you were able to read one book a day, it would take 600 lifetimes to finish the collection.
I regret not having bought the book advent calendar at the library bookshop, but may scavenge online.
After a satisfying dinner at the Kingham Plow in Chipping Norton, June got us to our cozy cottage in Bourton-on-the-Water. Two of us friskily set out for a pub drink at 8:30, despairing to find almost everything empty, though we did have a nice walk around, noting that the wee bridges over the River Windrush reminded us of miniature golf courses. The place we finally entered turned out to not have six patrons, rather workers who had just finished up, giving off the feeling that we were entering somewhere to which we really hadn't been invited. Well, that's except for the little too friendly sous-chef from Newcastle who had been to Mississippi and wanted us to come back for dinner the following night. No thanks.
- Published on
It's been a minute, and much water has flowed under the Hammersmith Bridge since we last spoke. There was last Tuesday and all, coinciding with the day I fled. To avoid bringing you down what is likely another rabbit hole of despair, I'll instead list words June shared with me that may find a resurgence.
Facinorous
Mixship
Repudious
Skelm (personal favorite)
Derf
Gallows
Nineted
Flagitious
Nietheful
Mislived (second choice) and Unperfect
Let's talk about something else, shall we? HQ in Londin is Auntie's mid-17th century pile of bricks, a most spectacular place in a brilliant hood. Facing a quiet road with rare car traffic, a river garden, then the tidal part of the Thames whose light permeates the front of the house. Auntie's bedroom at the top of some curved stairs, looks out through a wisteria covered bow window at the river. The view from the back is of a perfectly maintained and colorful garden.
It's common to hear an English male voice through a megaphone guiding a pack of oarsmen or women doing their early morning workouts. You might also hear seagulls, other birds, water sounds, runners, walkers and planes coming into Heathrow. There are then the hourly bells, number of chimes corresponding to the time, Auntie's grandfather clock which does the same at a slightly different time, before the grandmother clock, also different. Then there's the kitchen clock which lets out various wild animal noises on the hour. The floors underneath the carpets make a most lulling sound when being walked upon.
The neighborhood often has a delicious smell of beer being brewed, London Pride among others, emanating from the neighboring Fullers Brewery, which has been there since 1816. In early December, there's a Santa run that goes through and it's always big business in this neighborhood during the boat races.
Auntie has given and inspired me to put together a few mugs on my kitchen windowsill, but hers are the real deal. She is a collector of beautiful things, and has an excellent and unpredictable eye. Her preference for animals over people is exhibited around the house, whether black dogs, giraffes, elephants, ducks, hippos or llamas. She saves stale bread to feed three very clean and elegant pigeons who fly in when she calls them. It is the one she has named Gimpy who is most aggressive, taking more than he (or she) can ever eat and doing his (or her) best to ensure the others don't get anything, despite there being more than enough. Auntie is not shy about telling them how to behave. There is also a black cat who comes in from time to time, responding to her calling with his own sound, though he has been frustratingly ineffective at scaring away the "adorable" kitchen mouse that "better not have babies". Jemima the puddle duck hasn't been around for a while, but that's because it's not her season. It's hard to say whether my aunt loves animals or flowers more, but the house would not be the house without both. She has a beautiful garden, and fresh flowers wherever she and her guests are. On the day of a big birthday last year, she joked that her house looked like a funeral home.
I share all this for context, explaining both my environment and the reason it's easy to be drawn here. As well as having always been incredibly generous and there for me at difficult times, she is a woman who never runs out of fascinating stories, nor does she ever lose her curiosity or enthusiasm for life and what's going on in it. The house is usually busy with relatives and friends, which makes for additional entertainment, not that any is needed.
While arriving at Heahtrow at 5 instead of the traditional 7am was a drag because it meant less sleeping on the plane, getting through customs and picking up my way too much luggage took less than 10 minutes, a nice surprise, leading to an earlier morning nap. When I awoke, I could hear an American accent that sounded vaguely familiar, but couldn't place it. To my surprise, it was my NYC niece, here for work, with whom I got to hang that evening. We had a lovely pub dinner that was better than the roast and Yorkshire pud you might expect.
Nat arrived the next day and so begin our wandering and feral ways. Actually, we were pretty mainstream. Tower Hamlets, the City for a nice pub drink with the after work crowd, Soho, Theater District, Portobello/Notting Hill, Brixton, Islington, Shoreditch and probably a few other places I've forgotten. Here's one I just remembered: Middle Temple which, because this post is already long enough, I'm not going to explain, but it was very cool, especially at night.
Touristy as it is, it's hard to pass on Portobello, which always provides, if nothing else, great people watching. But this time, a nice Barbour coat was scored for £35, which will be a deal if what I'm going to charitably call the smell of wet hay can be eradicated. One so hates to announce oneself before entering a room. The Iraqi food stand was solid, throwing some basmati rice with many herbs and fava beans, along with other really well cooked vegetables, at us.
The Columbia Road Flower Market, I find out after, is the place to be seen, where fashion meets media and social media. But I was on the hunt for flowers, doing my best to not get pulled in by the monstrous cinamonny buns and bars that the coffee shops across the street were offering. Settled for some very dark red amarylli, an orange something or other and some pinkish dark red something or others, all looking very elegant in Auntie's eating area.
Then Nat was gone and it was to the Churchill War Rooms with June and a complete overstimulation of my ADHD brain as I did my best to listen to the required audio guide while reading signs, moving along and taking in the actual exhibit. It was the time to be at Westminster, on Remembrance Day, just after the parade had finished and the streets were full of every kind of veteran tarted up with medals and uniforms, with a few at the age of 103 having led the parade.
Returning to elephants, at dinner we talked about many different things and when we touched around the edges of the one that will be in our living room for the next four years, my wise friend reminded me that we have the ability to choose, every day, to be a nice person, to be a good person, and to perpetuate whatever it is we yearn for.
Peace and Love out.
Facinorous
Mixship
Repudious
Skelm (personal favorite)
Derf
Gallows
Nineted
Flagitious
Nietheful
Mislived (second choice) and Unperfect
Let's talk about something else, shall we? HQ in Londin is Auntie's mid-17th century pile of bricks, a most spectacular place in a brilliant hood. Facing a quiet road with rare car traffic, a river garden, then the tidal part of the Thames whose light permeates the front of the house. Auntie's bedroom at the top of some curved stairs, looks out through a wisteria covered bow window at the river. The view from the back is of a perfectly maintained and colorful garden.
It's common to hear an English male voice through a megaphone guiding a pack of oarsmen or women doing their early morning workouts. You might also hear seagulls, other birds, water sounds, runners, walkers and planes coming into Heathrow. There are then the hourly bells, number of chimes corresponding to the time, Auntie's grandfather clock which does the same at a slightly different time, before the grandmother clock, also different. Then there's the kitchen clock which lets out various wild animal noises on the hour. The floors underneath the carpets make a most lulling sound when being walked upon.
The neighborhood often has a delicious smell of beer being brewed, London Pride among others, emanating from the neighboring Fullers Brewery, which has been there since 1816. In early December, there's a Santa run that goes through and it's always big business in this neighborhood during the boat races.
Auntie has given and inspired me to put together a few mugs on my kitchen windowsill, but hers are the real deal. She is a collector of beautiful things, and has an excellent and unpredictable eye. Her preference for animals over people is exhibited around the house, whether black dogs, giraffes, elephants, ducks, hippos or llamas. She saves stale bread to feed three very clean and elegant pigeons who fly in when she calls them. It is the one she has named Gimpy who is most aggressive, taking more than he (or she) can ever eat and doing his (or her) best to ensure the others don't get anything, despite there being more than enough. Auntie is not shy about telling them how to behave. There is also a black cat who comes in from time to time, responding to her calling with his own sound, though he has been frustratingly ineffective at scaring away the "adorable" kitchen mouse that "better not have babies". Jemima the puddle duck hasn't been around for a while, but that's because it's not her season. It's hard to say whether my aunt loves animals or flowers more, but the house would not be the house without both. She has a beautiful garden, and fresh flowers wherever she and her guests are. On the day of a big birthday last year, she joked that her house looked like a funeral home.
I share all this for context, explaining both my environment and the reason it's easy to be drawn here. As well as having always been incredibly generous and there for me at difficult times, she is a woman who never runs out of fascinating stories, nor does she ever lose her curiosity or enthusiasm for life and what's going on in it. The house is usually busy with relatives and friends, which makes for additional entertainment, not that any is needed.
While arriving at Heahtrow at 5 instead of the traditional 7am was a drag because it meant less sleeping on the plane, getting through customs and picking up my way too much luggage took less than 10 minutes, a nice surprise, leading to an earlier morning nap. When I awoke, I could hear an American accent that sounded vaguely familiar, but couldn't place it. To my surprise, it was my NYC niece, here for work, with whom I got to hang that evening. We had a lovely pub dinner that was better than the roast and Yorkshire pud you might expect.
Nat arrived the next day and so begin our wandering and feral ways. Actually, we were pretty mainstream. Tower Hamlets, the City for a nice pub drink with the after work crowd, Soho, Theater District, Portobello/Notting Hill, Brixton, Islington, Shoreditch and probably a few other places I've forgotten. Here's one I just remembered: Middle Temple which, because this post is already long enough, I'm not going to explain, but it was very cool, especially at night.
Touristy as it is, it's hard to pass on Portobello, which always provides, if nothing else, great people watching. But this time, a nice Barbour coat was scored for £35, which will be a deal if what I'm going to charitably call the smell of wet hay can be eradicated. One so hates to announce oneself before entering a room. The Iraqi food stand was solid, throwing some basmati rice with many herbs and fava beans, along with other really well cooked vegetables, at us.
The Columbia Road Flower Market, I find out after, is the place to be seen, where fashion meets media and social media. But I was on the hunt for flowers, doing my best to not get pulled in by the monstrous cinamonny buns and bars that the coffee shops across the street were offering. Settled for some very dark red amarylli, an orange something or other and some pinkish dark red something or others, all looking very elegant in Auntie's eating area.
Then Nat was gone and it was to the Churchill War Rooms with June and a complete overstimulation of my ADHD brain as I did my best to listen to the required audio guide while reading signs, moving along and taking in the actual exhibit. It was the time to be at Westminster, on Remembrance Day, just after the parade had finished and the streets were full of every kind of veteran tarted up with medals and uniforms, with a few at the age of 103 having led the parade.
Returning to elephants, at dinner we talked about many different things and when we touched around the edges of the one that will be in our living room for the next four years, my wise friend reminded me that we have the ability to choose, every day, to be a nice person, to be a good person, and to perpetuate whatever it is we yearn for.
Peace and Love out.
- Published on
It has been a while, yes, but I had to first get the Russian set up in my nest. And before that, I had to find him, which took a while too. But now his liquor cabinet is full (his son calls him an equal opportunity drinker) and shelves are cleared for his Cyrillic philosophical journalism books. And there's a Brown Betty teapot waiting for him.
Sandra, who has experience in these things, had suggested I use what the traveling nurses use, Furnished Finder. Erica told me about sabbatical.com. I signed up for both and took an aggressive stance, reaching out to subscribers to see if they might be interested in living somewhere different than where they'd designated in their profile. Next, I stopped by local realtor offices, asked whomever I happened to be with, and finally when I started getting nervous and it was suggested I reduce the rent or minimum stay for my apartment, sent out an APB to pretty much everyone who might know someone. Just like when searching for new business, I put my energy in one place, and the answer came from somewhere else. But the answer came. Gentle Andrew and his skeptical wife Lena toured my apartment, he smiling and nodding, she with a tight face and no eye contact, perhaps frustrated that he was going to put his father in a nicer and more expensive place than she thought right.
As with all stories about lives and decisions, this one is somewhat convoluted. There had been the question of where I belong knocking around in my head for years, and once I no longer had familial responsibilities, it visited more frequently. Despite good intention and significant effort, I wasn't able to get any closer to an answer. Enter a previous blog post, about Ghosts, which had me going to the website of Mrs. West, because that will always be here name, and some kind of weird thing happened, taking over my judgement and resulting in my sudden and shocking ownership of a three-session package for spiritual guidance. In our meetings, she said many things that were breathtakingly spot on, the one causing the most relief and clarity being the answer to the above question: I should never be in just one place. I could feel muddle and struggle draining away, and new energy and excitement coming in.
"So, you're moving to France because a medium told you to?" asked Julie quizzically.
"Yes."
After a return to the south of France last spring, I was leaning towards Aix-en-Provence, given that it was geographically and population-wise what I was looking for, then a dear friend told me about a connection she had there, which inched me further. But I was having trouble getting enthused as I couldn't envision anything, not having been to Aix for 20 years. Leap and the net will appear, I told myself. It was a time to continue moving forward, but pay attention to the discomfort., I decided.
On a grey Saturday, I was lying on the couch trying to figure out where I'd be hanging my hat on December 1st, when I heard the What's App buzz on my phone. It was an old family friend I'd not been in contact with for perhaps a year, year and a half. She asked me what I was doing, I came clean, then she asked me if I wanted to spend the winter in Arles with her. Without having any more details, I replied yes, and that was that. It felt decisive
But then there was the question of what I was going to do when I was there. With a plan initially launched after digital nomading in grey and windy NL the world is my oyster, though due to a changing executive search landscape. I don't currently have any work. I had spent the summer virtually pounding pavements with an unusual lack of success, eventually forcing me to revisit the definition of crazy. I found myself wondering whether there was something else out there for me, and advised myself to let worrying about it take a back seat. A state of limbo will have to do. Stay tuned and send ideas.
So, I committed to my Russian patriarch having a three month stay with the possibility of an extension and currently have a one way ticket to London, where I'll be beginning this leg of life with a stay at auntie's and a boondoggle with the other two wenches, as we've named ourselves, doing things like going to Stratford-on-Avon to see Othello and navigating congestion tax.
So, some beginning logistics are done and the mental movement can begin. It's an odd thing, stepping away from a life you love with people you love, doing things you love. Why? Perplexed, I have asked myself many times within the last month. But I know the answer. There has been a voice in me for years, wanting to spread my wings, and Europe has always felt more comfortable for me. So, the past days have had a crystalline clarity, with long goodbyes like those in the photo above, and many more. It's been surreal, life examined is life in slow motion, as I cherish love shared and received.
Last night, my last night of USA and uninvited texts from political causes, arose from a paddle game that prompted Laura to invite us for dinner at her house. We sat at her beautiful table laid with plates she'd bought in Hungary, enjoying bourbon and Vermont cider with a thyme sprig, an Instagram recipe for her Vermont-grown squash among other delicious things. We collectively forgot it was a Monday night, sitting for hours, moving from one topic to the next with an ease that comes from being with people you know well and trust. Moms, Halloween, health, Cincinnati, 70+ year-old influencers, sons, the F word, retirement, Stowe, Norwich and Hanover, benign neglect, and my favorite saying of the night "(a certain political party) has the mental acuity of dental floss". As it turns out, the calm before the storm of the election the next day.
With one foot in Laura's kitchen and another in Concourse C, I have equal amounts of agitation to get this party started and to return to all of you who have made this last month one of the nicest I can remember.
Sandra, who has experience in these things, had suggested I use what the traveling nurses use, Furnished Finder. Erica told me about sabbatical.com. I signed up for both and took an aggressive stance, reaching out to subscribers to see if they might be interested in living somewhere different than where they'd designated in their profile. Next, I stopped by local realtor offices, asked whomever I happened to be with, and finally when I started getting nervous and it was suggested I reduce the rent or minimum stay for my apartment, sent out an APB to pretty much everyone who might know someone. Just like when searching for new business, I put my energy in one place, and the answer came from somewhere else. But the answer came. Gentle Andrew and his skeptical wife Lena toured my apartment, he smiling and nodding, she with a tight face and no eye contact, perhaps frustrated that he was going to put his father in a nicer and more expensive place than she thought right.
As with all stories about lives and decisions, this one is somewhat convoluted. There had been the question of where I belong knocking around in my head for years, and once I no longer had familial responsibilities, it visited more frequently. Despite good intention and significant effort, I wasn't able to get any closer to an answer. Enter a previous blog post, about Ghosts, which had me going to the website of Mrs. West, because that will always be here name, and some kind of weird thing happened, taking over my judgement and resulting in my sudden and shocking ownership of a three-session package for spiritual guidance. In our meetings, she said many things that were breathtakingly spot on, the one causing the most relief and clarity being the answer to the above question: I should never be in just one place. I could feel muddle and struggle draining away, and new energy and excitement coming in.
"So, you're moving to France because a medium told you to?" asked Julie quizzically.
"Yes."
After a return to the south of France last spring, I was leaning towards Aix-en-Provence, given that it was geographically and population-wise what I was looking for, then a dear friend told me about a connection she had there, which inched me further. But I was having trouble getting enthused as I couldn't envision anything, not having been to Aix for 20 years. Leap and the net will appear, I told myself. It was a time to continue moving forward, but pay attention to the discomfort., I decided.
On a grey Saturday, I was lying on the couch trying to figure out where I'd be hanging my hat on December 1st, when I heard the What's App buzz on my phone. It was an old family friend I'd not been in contact with for perhaps a year, year and a half. She asked me what I was doing, I came clean, then she asked me if I wanted to spend the winter in Arles with her. Without having any more details, I replied yes, and that was that. It felt decisive
But then there was the question of what I was going to do when I was there. With a plan initially launched after digital nomading in grey and windy NL the world is my oyster, though due to a changing executive search landscape. I don't currently have any work. I had spent the summer virtually pounding pavements with an unusual lack of success, eventually forcing me to revisit the definition of crazy. I found myself wondering whether there was something else out there for me, and advised myself to let worrying about it take a back seat. A state of limbo will have to do. Stay tuned and send ideas.
So, I committed to my Russian patriarch having a three month stay with the possibility of an extension and currently have a one way ticket to London, where I'll be beginning this leg of life with a stay at auntie's and a boondoggle with the other two wenches, as we've named ourselves, doing things like going to Stratford-on-Avon to see Othello and navigating congestion tax.
So, some beginning logistics are done and the mental movement can begin. It's an odd thing, stepping away from a life you love with people you love, doing things you love. Why? Perplexed, I have asked myself many times within the last month. But I know the answer. There has been a voice in me for years, wanting to spread my wings, and Europe has always felt more comfortable for me. So, the past days have had a crystalline clarity, with long goodbyes like those in the photo above, and many more. It's been surreal, life examined is life in slow motion, as I cherish love shared and received.
Last night, my last night of USA and uninvited texts from political causes, arose from a paddle game that prompted Laura to invite us for dinner at her house. We sat at her beautiful table laid with plates she'd bought in Hungary, enjoying bourbon and Vermont cider with a thyme sprig, an Instagram recipe for her Vermont-grown squash among other delicious things. We collectively forgot it was a Monday night, sitting for hours, moving from one topic to the next with an ease that comes from being with people you know well and trust. Moms, Halloween, health, Cincinnati, 70+ year-old influencers, sons, the F word, retirement, Stowe, Norwich and Hanover, benign neglect, and my favorite saying of the night "(a certain political party) has the mental acuity of dental floss". As it turns out, the calm before the storm of the election the next day.
With one foot in Laura's kitchen and another in Concourse C, I have equal amounts of agitation to get this party started and to return to all of you who have made this last month one of the nicest I can remember.
- Published on
The water filter beep had been going off for ages, due to the menacing nature of the replacement filters sitting on the dining room table. I wasn't going to be bullied. Finally, last Friday I emptied underneath the sink, an absurd amount of cleaning products and spray bottles of unidentified liquids, a 12-pack of sponges, 8 bottles of Mrs. Meyers geranium scented dishwashing soap that had won me free shipping, a Costco sized bag of baking soda that didn't keep my tennis clothes as white as advertised, and too many rolls of compostable garbage bags.
Only way to do this is lie on my back with head inside the cabinet, reaching in to unscrew each filter holder from the base. Ow. Get up, get the yoga mat, go back down. Need a flashlight, get up, OK, good, first one off. What the??? Forgot to turn off the water supply, water everywhere. Deep breath, get up, find a beach towel, clean it up, walk away. Which valve is cold and which hot? Nope, that was hot. OK, turn hot back on, turn the other one off, yup, that's the right one.
Back underneath, unscrew the second filter holder, get up, remove the filters from the holders, dump the water into the sink, put in the new filters, throw the old ones away. Back to plumbing position, try to line up two bumps half the size of a dime and then twist counter clockwise. Try, miss, try, miss, miss, miss, miss. Take a breath, try again, miss, Get up, walk away. Return, do it, yes, done. Second one is easier, I've got this down. Battery, where did I put that battery? Where does it go? Somewhere unseeable, only my left hand to feel around, yes, here it is, got it. Push it in, five beeps, phew, next, flush for 10 minutes. No water coming out.
Walk away, play some tennis.
Start over. Won't forget to turn the cold water off this time, but aaggh, there's water coming out of the hot water valve, gushing everywhere. Another beach towel. Biggest Le Creuset underneath, alternate bowl at the ready. Text Jorge Plumber, as he is named in my phone
Remove and re-attach filter holders, success. Flush water for 10 minutes. Done, but the gushing from the hot valve continues, not at all good. I knew those replacement filters were trouble.
Fiddle with valve, open it up all the way, decrease water crisis to a drip every second or so. Wait an hour to see how much is accumulating, do some math, yes I can go to paddle opening night but can't stay long.
Do some online research to see if there's a way I can at least temporarily stop the drip should Jorge Plumber not be able to come. Not looking good as all solutions require dry pipes. Go to Cleveland Circle Hardware, ask for help, walk out with silicone tape and an iffy prospect.
Text Jorge Plumber again.
He replies! Jorge (pronounced George as is custom in Portugal) works on big buildings during the week and usually commits his Saturdays a few weeks in advance, but bless him, he's coming. Midday Saturday, there he is with his big smile, long shorts, work boots, Home Depot orange pail that holds his equipment, and a fist bump, always. Walks over, looks at the situation, takes out a wrench, opens the valve up a tiny bit more, done. Another smile, an explanation, a wink and another fist bump.
How much do I owe you, Jorge? Ah, nothing.
Do you have an overwhelming feeling of gratitude every time your plumber comes? 617-460-6199, tell him Anna sent you.
Back to the hardware store to return the tape. The tall guy with the dyed black hair, pale and emotionless countenance who is usually behind the register was instead standing at the entrance, conferring with an older woman wearing starched harem pants the color of hospital scrubs, new black orthopedic shoes, a long shiny black down jacket with her hood up, and a mask on. Next to her was a dolly toting a full, black garbage bag. Shop man was doing something for her that required close concentration and precision. While I waited, she asked me if my sneakers were comfortable and what brand they were, bending down to read Vibram on the toe. Hmm, she said, I need to look them up on the internet. She turned around to open her garbage bag and all I could see inside was lots of white paper. She took out a small bundle, a bit bigger than her hand, and unfurled a carefully wrapped package to bring out a #2 pencil. She then took out a small, crisp piece of paper that had a word search on one side, and asked me to write down the brand of my sneakers, which I did, handing the paper and pencil back.She thanked me very much and told me I had a nice complexion.
Shop man had disappeared, then came back, looking shyly victorious when he handed the woman back a tiny pair of nail scissors that were no longer missing the piece adjoining the two blades. With unbridled joy, she looked this unassuming man in the eye and thanked him, telling him he was a gentleman. He gave the slightest smile, blushed and nodded his head. On her way out the door, she turned to announce to the store that she liked the service at that hardware store. Holding the door with one hand and pulling her dolly through, she had another thought and turned again to say pensively "It's the little things, really, isn't it? Not the big things".
And off she went.
Only way to do this is lie on my back with head inside the cabinet, reaching in to unscrew each filter holder from the base. Ow. Get up, get the yoga mat, go back down. Need a flashlight, get up, OK, good, first one off. What the??? Forgot to turn off the water supply, water everywhere. Deep breath, get up, find a beach towel, clean it up, walk away. Which valve is cold and which hot? Nope, that was hot. OK, turn hot back on, turn the other one off, yup, that's the right one.
Back underneath, unscrew the second filter holder, get up, remove the filters from the holders, dump the water into the sink, put in the new filters, throw the old ones away. Back to plumbing position, try to line up two bumps half the size of a dime and then twist counter clockwise. Try, miss, try, miss, miss, miss, miss. Take a breath, try again, miss, Get up, walk away. Return, do it, yes, done. Second one is easier, I've got this down. Battery, where did I put that battery? Where does it go? Somewhere unseeable, only my left hand to feel around, yes, here it is, got it. Push it in, five beeps, phew, next, flush for 10 minutes. No water coming out.
Walk away, play some tennis.
Start over. Won't forget to turn the cold water off this time, but aaggh, there's water coming out of the hot water valve, gushing everywhere. Another beach towel. Biggest Le Creuset underneath, alternate bowl at the ready. Text Jorge Plumber, as he is named in my phone
Remove and re-attach filter holders, success. Flush water for 10 minutes. Done, but the gushing from the hot valve continues, not at all good. I knew those replacement filters were trouble.
Fiddle with valve, open it up all the way, decrease water crisis to a drip every second or so. Wait an hour to see how much is accumulating, do some math, yes I can go to paddle opening night but can't stay long.
Do some online research to see if there's a way I can at least temporarily stop the drip should Jorge Plumber not be able to come. Not looking good as all solutions require dry pipes. Go to Cleveland Circle Hardware, ask for help, walk out with silicone tape and an iffy prospect.
Text Jorge Plumber again.
He replies! Jorge (pronounced George as is custom in Portugal) works on big buildings during the week and usually commits his Saturdays a few weeks in advance, but bless him, he's coming. Midday Saturday, there he is with his big smile, long shorts, work boots, Home Depot orange pail that holds his equipment, and a fist bump, always. Walks over, looks at the situation, takes out a wrench, opens the valve up a tiny bit more, done. Another smile, an explanation, a wink and another fist bump.
How much do I owe you, Jorge? Ah, nothing.
Do you have an overwhelming feeling of gratitude every time your plumber comes? 617-460-6199, tell him Anna sent you.
Back to the hardware store to return the tape. The tall guy with the dyed black hair, pale and emotionless countenance who is usually behind the register was instead standing at the entrance, conferring with an older woman wearing starched harem pants the color of hospital scrubs, new black orthopedic shoes, a long shiny black down jacket with her hood up, and a mask on. Next to her was a dolly toting a full, black garbage bag. Shop man was doing something for her that required close concentration and precision. While I waited, she asked me if my sneakers were comfortable and what brand they were, bending down to read Vibram on the toe. Hmm, she said, I need to look them up on the internet. She turned around to open her garbage bag and all I could see inside was lots of white paper. She took out a small bundle, a bit bigger than her hand, and unfurled a carefully wrapped package to bring out a #2 pencil. She then took out a small, crisp piece of paper that had a word search on one side, and asked me to write down the brand of my sneakers, which I did, handing the paper and pencil back.She thanked me very much and told me I had a nice complexion.
Shop man had disappeared, then came back, looking shyly victorious when he handed the woman back a tiny pair of nail scissors that were no longer missing the piece adjoining the two blades. With unbridled joy, she looked this unassuming man in the eye and thanked him, telling him he was a gentleman. He gave the slightest smile, blushed and nodded his head. On her way out the door, she turned to announce to the store that she liked the service at that hardware store. Holding the door with one hand and pulling her dolly through, she had another thought and turned again to say pensively "It's the little things, really, isn't it? Not the big things".
And off she went.
- Published on
When Nat was young, there were many challenging things going on in our family orbit, aside from the Terrible Twos. And then of course, I was trying to stay ahead of a full-time job in three days a week and be 100% present as a mother the rest of the time. Needless to say, success was not my partner, and I often found myself feeling and exhibiting an impatience not based on whatever was going on in the moment, but more the flames of an inherent overwhelmedness. This state of being made it a challenge to engage in that most wonderful rhythm of a toddler, drifting from one fascination to the next, taking time to examine in great detail every new thing that came into a new world.
We'd regularly walk the three blocks from our house to the Japanese restaurant in the Village, passing a foot and a half high wrought iron fence with arrow heads on top of each post. Somehow, this inspector had figured out that not all the arrows were adhered properly, thus wiggling if you held onto them. Without fail, when we'd get to this part of the walk, a lengthy interaction would ensue, resulting in an unbridled joy when the wigglers were found. It was easy to see how important this was, but if we were eating out, it meant I'd been at work with unhappy employees wearing out the upholstery on my visitor chair and was tired and hungry and ready to shut down. Making the leap to a shared enthusiasm was something I wanted to do, but couldn't always.
One evening, when I must have still had a neuron firing, I developed a game called Fast and Slow. Sometimes we'd walk very very very slowly, sometimes medium, and more often fast. I'd call it out and we'd get into step together. It was participatory, fun and would sometimes get us past the fence in less than 15 minutes.
Moving to where I am now, near Cleveland Circle (My friend Mary calls it the inner city), was an environmental transition. I don't know my neighbors the way Emerson Gardenians do, there's a much greater diversity of age, socioeconomic status, ethnicity, and even religion, and the area is more gritty and less traditionally pretty. So this summer I decided to contribute to the aesthetics by planting some self-sustaining hostas to fill a depressing area of mulch in front of yew bushes outside my apartment. Because everyone and their mother has a small dog they walk half a block at lunch time, and there isn't a lot of greenspace around, I put up one of those signs I always thought were annoying, choosing one that was polite and not adminitory. "Please don't water our plants".
One day, I was administering some much needed water to the leggy transplants, when a man who looked to be about 80 shuffled along with his medium sized, docile dog. He stopped to admire the plants and began talking to me about them while alternately reading the sign and watching his dog lift its leg and pee on one of my new hostas , then returning back to our conversation without missing a beat. I asked him to please not let his dog pee on my plants, then his dog spread his love to a different hosta. It seems silly now, getting mad at an 80-year old shuffler and his dog. but I was annoyed, so raised my voice and asked him to curb his dog. He shuffled off, I shook my head. Five minutes later, he returned in the other direction, stopped and said "I'm sorry", I thanked him and was touched, and by then embarrassed by my childish outbreak.
I had never noticed him previously, but of course after that see him many mornings, on my way back from a loop around the reservoir. The first few times, I had an awkward feeling inside, wanting to just pretend nothing happened and be invisible, but because of his lack of speed, there's plenty of time for eye contact which I suppose has necessitated conversation. Today I watched him inching along, his dog trailing behind him, reminding me of that time long ago when playing the Fast and Slow game with a girl now a continent away. And perfectly, he complained to me that his dog needs to stop and examine everything they pass. Perhaps he's not really a shuffler, but a more patient human than I.
We'd regularly walk the three blocks from our house to the Japanese restaurant in the Village, passing a foot and a half high wrought iron fence with arrow heads on top of each post. Somehow, this inspector had figured out that not all the arrows were adhered properly, thus wiggling if you held onto them. Without fail, when we'd get to this part of the walk, a lengthy interaction would ensue, resulting in an unbridled joy when the wigglers were found. It was easy to see how important this was, but if we were eating out, it meant I'd been at work with unhappy employees wearing out the upholstery on my visitor chair and was tired and hungry and ready to shut down. Making the leap to a shared enthusiasm was something I wanted to do, but couldn't always.
One evening, when I must have still had a neuron firing, I developed a game called Fast and Slow. Sometimes we'd walk very very very slowly, sometimes medium, and more often fast. I'd call it out and we'd get into step together. It was participatory, fun and would sometimes get us past the fence in less than 15 minutes.
Moving to where I am now, near Cleveland Circle (My friend Mary calls it the inner city), was an environmental transition. I don't know my neighbors the way Emerson Gardenians do, there's a much greater diversity of age, socioeconomic status, ethnicity, and even religion, and the area is more gritty and less traditionally pretty. So this summer I decided to contribute to the aesthetics by planting some self-sustaining hostas to fill a depressing area of mulch in front of yew bushes outside my apartment. Because everyone and their mother has a small dog they walk half a block at lunch time, and there isn't a lot of greenspace around, I put up one of those signs I always thought were annoying, choosing one that was polite and not adminitory. "Please don't water our plants".
One day, I was administering some much needed water to the leggy transplants, when a man who looked to be about 80 shuffled along with his medium sized, docile dog. He stopped to admire the plants and began talking to me about them while alternately reading the sign and watching his dog lift its leg and pee on one of my new hostas , then returning back to our conversation without missing a beat. I asked him to please not let his dog pee on my plants, then his dog spread his love to a different hosta. It seems silly now, getting mad at an 80-year old shuffler and his dog. but I was annoyed, so raised my voice and asked him to curb his dog. He shuffled off, I shook my head. Five minutes later, he returned in the other direction, stopped and said "I'm sorry", I thanked him and was touched, and by then embarrassed by my childish outbreak.
I had never noticed him previously, but of course after that see him many mornings, on my way back from a loop around the reservoir. The first few times, I had an awkward feeling inside, wanting to just pretend nothing happened and be invisible, but because of his lack of speed, there's plenty of time for eye contact which I suppose has necessitated conversation. Today I watched him inching along, his dog trailing behind him, reminding me of that time long ago when playing the Fast and Slow game with a girl now a continent away. And perfectly, he complained to me that his dog needs to stop and examine everything they pass. Perhaps he's not really a shuffler, but a more patient human than I.
- Published on
On this grey and chilly day when I'm texting back and forth about whether to cancel our 10 am game or not, I will likely begin to move life back inside walls to make lists, find sweaters and clear out underneath the sink. But I want to hark back to the weather honeymoon of the last month, which seemed to magically go on and on and now, two days later, seems so long ago.
But ti's not only the weather. Leaving the parking lot and entering the grounds is stepping into a fantasy of lush flora that surrounds, immediatley bringing blood pressure down and helping to lose the cares of the day. As well as being varied and healthy, everything from the courts to the pathways to planters to bushes, window boxes and hanging plants, is carefully thought out and perfectly maintained, providing a sense that all is right with the world, at least this world.
Prior to joining Longwood, I had heard members talk about their play per dollar and how it was too high. Perhaps they were pulled away by adventures in far away lands, stifled by wet, unplayable grass, or sidelined with an injury? Whatever the reason, I couldn't understand finding oneself in that position with such a welcoming playground, there to enjoy. During my first year there, my PPD must have been one of the lowest, delirious as I was to have not only 44 courts, but unlimited people of a standard way higher than mine, motivating me daily to work on my game.
But somehow this summer, I found myself, if not actually doing the PPD calculation, feeling sheepish about the number of times I'd been over there. First it was the dreaded neuroma in my foot, likely the result of that first year's enthusiasm, then July's extreme heat, both of which led me in other directions. So when I looked at the calendar the Friday before Labor Day weekend and saw nothing on it, I knew that a deep breath, laundry, a field ripened tomato and plenty of sunshine on the grass would make for the right combination of things to breed utter contentment. Instead of just going to play and leaving, I without plans aimed to camp out for much of the weekend. And that is what I did.
Pool bag, tennis bag, book, water bottle. Swim, tennis, chat, more chat, BLT extra crispy bacon (because as Debby used to say, I'm a bacon-eating vegetarian) on WW with no mayo and a pickle instead of chips, read, swim, tennis, iced tea and salty nuts, feet up on the porch railing, lemon water, chat.
Something happened that weekend that made me love this club something fierce. OK, the weather didn't hurt and continued not to for a very long time. Goldilocks perfect. Even my humble request to have the clouds move over the sun while I was serving was sometimes fulfilled. But there are other things. Our tennis hosts, who allow us to show up without a game and get on the court quickly. And Championship Weekend, where those of us who weren't in finals sat on that most wondrous porch and cheered for our friends, watching others so talented they made the US Open, which was happening at the same time, seem an unnecessary distraction. As a friend said, when we're all gathered up there, a magic happens. A simple and fulfilled pleasure similar to the joy of the ice cream line.
When the email came about Davis Cup in mid-September, I thought only about the opportunity to meet more people, somehow forgetting about my reliably subpar play in any kind of competition. But it didn't matter. As a member of the Japan team, I was part of mixed, women's and "leftover" doubles against people older and younger, with more and less experience than me, but all in it for the play. We laughed, patted each other on the back, yelled GOBATO, which someone on the French team told us is Japanese for Vamos, but is nowhere in The Google. Guess the Frenchies got the last laugh on that one.
As I get to know more people, I've come to appreciate my fellow members, hailing from so very many different places, having a wide array of life experiences, not to mention backhands, yet all sharing a profound love of the game. The man standing in a tux on a side court intently watching a match? He'd rushed over when his BSO concert was done so that he could watch his friend's tournament match, didn't even have time to drop his oboe at home.
That first year, it was a great place to play tennis. But now, Longwood has become somewhere that part of my life takes place. I'm prfoundly grateful for that and don't think I'll be needing to worry about my PPD in the future.
Go Japan!
But ti's not only the weather. Leaving the parking lot and entering the grounds is stepping into a fantasy of lush flora that surrounds, immediatley bringing blood pressure down and helping to lose the cares of the day. As well as being varied and healthy, everything from the courts to the pathways to planters to bushes, window boxes and hanging plants, is carefully thought out and perfectly maintained, providing a sense that all is right with the world, at least this world.
Prior to joining Longwood, I had heard members talk about their play per dollar and how it was too high. Perhaps they were pulled away by adventures in far away lands, stifled by wet, unplayable grass, or sidelined with an injury? Whatever the reason, I couldn't understand finding oneself in that position with such a welcoming playground, there to enjoy. During my first year there, my PPD must have been one of the lowest, delirious as I was to have not only 44 courts, but unlimited people of a standard way higher than mine, motivating me daily to work on my game.
But somehow this summer, I found myself, if not actually doing the PPD calculation, feeling sheepish about the number of times I'd been over there. First it was the dreaded neuroma in my foot, likely the result of that first year's enthusiasm, then July's extreme heat, both of which led me in other directions. So when I looked at the calendar the Friday before Labor Day weekend and saw nothing on it, I knew that a deep breath, laundry, a field ripened tomato and plenty of sunshine on the grass would make for the right combination of things to breed utter contentment. Instead of just going to play and leaving, I without plans aimed to camp out for much of the weekend. And that is what I did.
Pool bag, tennis bag, book, water bottle. Swim, tennis, chat, more chat, BLT extra crispy bacon (because as Debby used to say, I'm a bacon-eating vegetarian) on WW with no mayo and a pickle instead of chips, read, swim, tennis, iced tea and salty nuts, feet up on the porch railing, lemon water, chat.
Something happened that weekend that made me love this club something fierce. OK, the weather didn't hurt and continued not to for a very long time. Goldilocks perfect. Even my humble request to have the clouds move over the sun while I was serving was sometimes fulfilled. But there are other things. Our tennis hosts, who allow us to show up without a game and get on the court quickly. And Championship Weekend, where those of us who weren't in finals sat on that most wondrous porch and cheered for our friends, watching others so talented they made the US Open, which was happening at the same time, seem an unnecessary distraction. As a friend said, when we're all gathered up there, a magic happens. A simple and fulfilled pleasure similar to the joy of the ice cream line.
When the email came about Davis Cup in mid-September, I thought only about the opportunity to meet more people, somehow forgetting about my reliably subpar play in any kind of competition. But it didn't matter. As a member of the Japan team, I was part of mixed, women's and "leftover" doubles against people older and younger, with more and less experience than me, but all in it for the play. We laughed, patted each other on the back, yelled GOBATO, which someone on the French team told us is Japanese for Vamos, but is nowhere in The Google. Guess the Frenchies got the last laugh on that one.
As I get to know more people, I've come to appreciate my fellow members, hailing from so very many different places, having a wide array of life experiences, not to mention backhands, yet all sharing a profound love of the game. The man standing in a tux on a side court intently watching a match? He'd rushed over when his BSO concert was done so that he could watch his friend's tournament match, didn't even have time to drop his oboe at home.
That first year, it was a great place to play tennis. But now, Longwood has become somewhere that part of my life takes place. I'm prfoundly grateful for that and don't think I'll be needing to worry about my PPD in the future.
Go Japan!
- Published on
One of the reasons this area pulls me is the physical environment. There's something about the red clay and limestone earth, those Italian Stone pine trees, the aridity that feels right. So last week, I headed to Carrières de Bibemus, not even a 15-minute drive from old town's narrow alleys which while mysterious and exciting, can make life a little dark. Driving on a winding road with big houses set back behind gates with smatterings of Italian Cypress, I was reminded of a fun bike ride I'd once had with loved ones along the Apia Antica in Rome, where I had decided I wanted to retire. As if.
The paths on this hike were wide and full of scree, starting in red clay, moving to white/grey limestone and then sometimes yellow and sometimes dirt. The sun was out, there were a few other people. I walked by a lake that looked prettier in the web photos than real life, and then a very dramatic dam, and throughout the hike, a view of Cezanne's Mt. Ste. Victoire, which he allegedly painted more than 90 times. Because it was my first time there, I didn't follow the signs to his atelier, nor to a neighboring town, but will surely be back. The hike was the skeleton of a most perfect day.
So I suppose you could say I'm getting settled, in the sense that I have learned to only buy produce for the next two days, have ascertained the difference between drying and washing my sweaters in the machine, established something like a daily routine with some level of accountability at a time when really, I have none.
It's taken a couple of weeks, but now that we've spent over an hour together, Marianne, the lady who showed me how to use the stove, takes top seat as my best friend, over the waiter who asked me what I'd like to order. I knew she was serious when she invited me to join her at Le Grillon, which is the loc place to go. There, on a Saturday morning with her Vespa helmet, dressed in leather pants, cool shoes and a crazy jacket, full hair, makeup and nails, she ran into her father, an architect, who was holding court with his cronies, and then a high school friend who was back in town from Thailand, where she currently lives. Now I'll admit that I might have done a fair amount of sitting around and waiting during her interactions, but then I'm not sure we're close enough for her to begin family introductions, right?
In all seriousness, she has been incredibly helpful acting as a go-between for my landlord and me while also giving some great acclimation advice and being a very fun person. When she brought me to another apartment to preview, she needed to look something up on her phone and it was clear she couldn't see, but instead of fishing for the glasses I could see in her pocket, she said "oh well", which I appreciated tremendously. When we were through with the tour, she said she'd be staying at the there because she was going to be cleaning the apartment, looking posher than I would were I going to a gala, should I ever engage in such craziness as peeling off my Patagonia vest.
A few days ago, my friend from Malta who had originally suggested living in Arles arrived, and true to form, we hadn't even reached the airport parking lot when she'd already engaged someone, speaking Arabic, which she can do with ease, as she can with seven other languages. Due to her extroverted nature and career at the UN, which necessitated her living in a staggering array of war-torn countries and major European cities, she has a lot of friends. Everywhere. As I have zero friends or responsibilities here, we went straight from the airport to an apartment closer to downtown Marseille, for dinner. Of the couple, who call each other "beh-bee", with of course a french accent, my friend had met one of them in Rwanda, where he had been a doctor for the UN. His husband was a chef who, due to repetitive motion injuries, had to quit the work he loves, and is enthused about an intensive course he's attending to become a truck driver, which sounds more similar to learning how to pilot a plane than what I imagine happens in the US when one decides to drive a truck. They served us a beautiful dinner and we had many meaty conversations, switching between English and French as my brain worked hard on comprehension. It must be getting better, right?
The doctor kindly offered to take us around Marseille another day, so yesterday we returned, to first get a ride around the beautiful parts and up a very steep hill to the Notre Dame Basilica, which overlooks the sprawling city, the harbor and the Isle d'If, the French equivalent to Alcatraz. The church was the prettiest I've seen, the ceiling and walls with much gold and other vibrant colors, very detailed illustrations. In addition, there were a number of framed paintings, on one side they were of boats, all of which had been rescued due to some miracle related to the church, and on the other side paintings of other happy outcomes.
Afterwards, we descended through the elegant hilly neighborhoods of Marseille to the Vieux Port, enjoying a nice walk through the streets where global brands live, sigh. After Aix, which while hardly the countryside, is a little more vanilla, it was great to see a diversity of ages, backgrounds, skin colors and styles, and to feel the city's downtown vibrancy. Much of the areas where people live and work are really gritty, there's more graffiti than anywhere else I've ever seen.
But the Vieux Port was everything an American tourista would want; boats in the harbor, cafes, sun, people watching, an Aix rosé and good conversation. We took a wander afterwards, coming upon some Christmas markets, which are in every town. These were focused more on crêches, which are big in Provence. My two friends did quite a bit of window shopping, admiring and comparing while I took it in, trying to understand why these are so prevalent. We ended our walk at the Muceum, which is one part of the serious renovations that have been done on Marseille's waterfront, with a fort on each side of the harbor, both pristine.
On another day, we had a failed attempt to have lunch with someone who lives in Annecy, about three hours away. Our plan was to meet half way in Gap, which meant driving through the beautiful Luberon and successive valleys to the foothills of Haute Alpes de Provence. It was while on this drive that I asked myself why I would ever leave Provence before the land started getting green again... Well, my friend is like me and somehow got the day wrong, or perhaps her friend did, so the two of us had lunch in a restaurant made to look like a cave and drove back home, enjoying beautiful evening light and stopping at Sisteron, a town that should definitely be in a Wes Anderson film.
So, a couple more days of meeting new people, having robust conversations and then it'll be a few days of quiet before heading back to London for Christmas. But I've taken the tentative yet slightly cheeky step of committing for an extra month here, until early March, so stay tuned.
For those of you who have sent me notes, thank you, it has meant so much to hear from you. I'm grateful to you, friends and family whom I'm not with right now. I miss you all dreadfully, but hope to take you on my adventure at some point. Happy Christmas, Hannukah, New Years or just Friday.
The paths on this hike were wide and full of scree, starting in red clay, moving to white/grey limestone and then sometimes yellow and sometimes dirt. The sun was out, there were a few other people. I walked by a lake that looked prettier in the web photos than real life, and then a very dramatic dam, and throughout the hike, a view of Cezanne's Mt. Ste. Victoire, which he allegedly painted more than 90 times. Because it was my first time there, I didn't follow the signs to his atelier, nor to a neighboring town, but will surely be back. The hike was the skeleton of a most perfect day.
So I suppose you could say I'm getting settled, in the sense that I have learned to only buy produce for the next two days, have ascertained the difference between drying and washing my sweaters in the machine, established something like a daily routine with some level of accountability at a time when really, I have none.
It's taken a couple of weeks, but now that we've spent over an hour together, Marianne, the lady who showed me how to use the stove, takes top seat as my best friend, over the waiter who asked me what I'd like to order. I knew she was serious when she invited me to join her at Le Grillon, which is the loc place to go. There, on a Saturday morning with her Vespa helmet, dressed in leather pants, cool shoes and a crazy jacket, full hair, makeup and nails, she ran into her father, an architect, who was holding court with his cronies, and then a high school friend who was back in town from Thailand, where she currently lives. Now I'll admit that I might have done a fair amount of sitting around and waiting during her interactions, but then I'm not sure we're close enough for her to begin family introductions, right?
In all seriousness, she has been incredibly helpful acting as a go-between for my landlord and me while also giving some great acclimation advice and being a very fun person. When she brought me to another apartment to preview, she needed to look something up on her phone and it was clear she couldn't see, but instead of fishing for the glasses I could see in her pocket, she said "oh well", which I appreciated tremendously. When we were through with the tour, she said she'd be staying at the there because she was going to be cleaning the apartment, looking posher than I would were I going to a gala, should I ever engage in such craziness as peeling off my Patagonia vest.
A few days ago, my friend from Malta who had originally suggested living in Arles arrived, and true to form, we hadn't even reached the airport parking lot when she'd already engaged someone, speaking Arabic, which she can do with ease, as she can with seven other languages. Due to her extroverted nature and career at the UN, which necessitated her living in a staggering array of war-torn countries and major European cities, she has a lot of friends. Everywhere. As I have zero friends or responsibilities here, we went straight from the airport to an apartment closer to downtown Marseille, for dinner. Of the couple, who call each other "beh-bee", with of course a french accent, my friend had met one of them in Rwanda, where he had been a doctor for the UN. His husband was a chef who, due to repetitive motion injuries, had to quit the work he loves, and is enthused about an intensive course he's attending to become a truck driver, which sounds more similar to learning how to pilot a plane than what I imagine happens in the US when one decides to drive a truck. They served us a beautiful dinner and we had many meaty conversations, switching between English and French as my brain worked hard on comprehension. It must be getting better, right?
The doctor kindly offered to take us around Marseille another day, so yesterday we returned, to first get a ride around the beautiful parts and up a very steep hill to the Notre Dame Basilica, which overlooks the sprawling city, the harbor and the Isle d'If, the French equivalent to Alcatraz. The church was the prettiest I've seen, the ceiling and walls with much gold and other vibrant colors, very detailed illustrations. In addition, there were a number of framed paintings, on one side they were of boats, all of which had been rescued due to some miracle related to the church, and on the other side paintings of other happy outcomes.
Afterwards, we descended through the elegant hilly neighborhoods of Marseille to the Vieux Port, enjoying a nice walk through the streets where global brands live, sigh. After Aix, which while hardly the countryside, is a little more vanilla, it was great to see a diversity of ages, backgrounds, skin colors and styles, and to feel the city's downtown vibrancy. Much of the areas where people live and work are really gritty, there's more graffiti than anywhere else I've ever seen.
But the Vieux Port was everything an American tourista would want; boats in the harbor, cafes, sun, people watching, an Aix rosé and good conversation. We took a wander afterwards, coming upon some Christmas markets, which are in every town. These were focused more on crêches, which are big in Provence. My two friends did quite a bit of window shopping, admiring and comparing while I took it in, trying to understand why these are so prevalent. We ended our walk at the Muceum, which is one part of the serious renovations that have been done on Marseille's waterfront, with a fort on each side of the harbor, both pristine.
On another day, we had a failed attempt to have lunch with someone who lives in Annecy, about three hours away. Our plan was to meet half way in Gap, which meant driving through the beautiful Luberon and successive valleys to the foothills of Haute Alpes de Provence. It was while on this drive that I asked myself why I would ever leave Provence before the land started getting green again... Well, my friend is like me and somehow got the day wrong, or perhaps her friend did, so the two of us had lunch in a restaurant made to look like a cave and drove back home, enjoying beautiful evening light and stopping at Sisteron, a town that should definitely be in a Wes Anderson film.
So, a couple more days of meeting new people, having robust conversations and then it'll be a few days of quiet before heading back to London for Christmas. But I've taken the tentative yet slightly cheeky step of committing for an extra month here, until early March, so stay tuned.
For those of you who have sent me notes, thank you, it has meant so much to hear from you. I'm grateful to you, friends and family whom I'm not with right now. I miss you all dreadfully, but hope to take you on my adventure at some point. Happy Christmas, Hannukah, New Years or just Friday.
- Published on
Important update: That smell wafting into the living room is more prevalent in the afternoon. I've decided it's not croissants, but the gauffre shop across the street, selling monster waffles with whatever you want on them.
About that volkenbrodt.... Remember that roulette de fromage I posted a photograph of the other day? Well, I knew it wouldn't be long before it got the better of me. It wasn't the chocolates, waffles, pralines, sweet pastries, the almond callisons they sell everywhere. No, it was the cheese bomb at Cafe Weibel, unfortuantely the OG pastry shop is located less than a block from me. Deciding to be pragmatic this past summer, I read a book about how to control sugar surges and learned that one could either ingest a tablespoon of vinegar, or more appetizingly at 9 in the morning, have a vegetable and some protein first, ameliorating bad sugar effects. So, after having a salad for breakfast I headed on down and attacked that thing. Yeah, it was so very very good, served warmed, sitting outside at a table in the sun. Then almost passed out. Oh well. Think I've quelled that urge.
Last time we talked, I was going to Arles. So what happened? As the days went on, the plans of my friend, who wanted to go there didn't solidify, while mine did, and I began to be concerned about being stuck somewhere where I knew no one, in a quieter and less connected community, so pivoted at the last moment, if for no other reason, there's more going on. Committing until Pre-Christmas allows me to do some scoping and make a more informed decision about January and maybe even February.
Now I do understand French, and have found that when reading a magazine or something like that, I can comprehend almost everything. Words also come pretty easily, perhaps not to have a debate about whether truth or loyalty is more important, but I can ask basic questions, buy stuff, generally communicate needs of the logistical sort. A problem only arises when a live person replies and all I hear is Charlie Brown's teacher, wah wah wah WAH wah. Sigh.
As part of my French immersion therapy, I've committed to doing one thing every day that I'd really rather not, usually because it's some sort of mundane thing that would take seconds and be forgettable in the US, but here is laced with complication, stress and anticipation of making a mess of it.
So yesterday, I decided to fire up the apple car to go and check out Arles, which alone was a mental hurdle, given my last experience. When I got to the garage, there was a man in a small truck on this very narrow street, blocking the entrance. He smilingly began wah wah wahing, ending on an upbeat, so I at least knew it was a question, though had no answer. I told him that I can understand French if he speaks slowly and perhaps because my brain is still adjusting to this new language, the second time I heard waaaah, waaaah, waaaaah, WAAAAAAH? Well, I still couldn't get it, so just gave him my best smile, put my hands up in the air and walked into the wicked steep sloped garage. I noticed that the few other cars in there had parked nose out, which I tend to associate with Republicans who have tidy yards, but suspected there might be something else going on here. It took perhaps a 12-point turn, and then it was revving the engine adequately to get up the steep slope. When almost to the top, I realized it had taken long enough to get up there that the garage door had closed, so had to stop mid-wicked steep hill and re-open the garage. I'm most proud to say that I managed without incident, and was surprised that my conversational sparring partner was sitting in his car, waiting for me to come out. Perhaps he's headed in? But no, he then folllowed me out of town. I have no explanation, it will forever remain a mystery.
Toll road? Another of those little things that I wouldn't think about in the US, but here had the potential to cause a major backup to be broadcast on the 6:00 news. No problem. On to Arles it was, apple maps telling me to exit when the sign said Arles straight ahead. And I've got to tell you, not to complain anymore or anything, but not being hooked up to the car screen, it's not un-challenging to look at my phone which is set down below in the drink holder near my feet, ejected every time I turn a corner. But that's another saga for another time. I did get off the exit as told and was immediately greeted by about 8 police people in their bright green coats, one standing in the middle of the street, waving some cars over into a parking lot, one of which was mine.
One on each side of me, they asked me to open the window. Turn off the ignition. I honestly (sometimes) didn't know what he was saying, he made a gesture of turning the key and I responded. I told him I didn't speak French after understanding perfectly well that I was being accused of going 5 km over, I mean 5k at a 110 KM speed limit? I wondered if French police loved croissants as much as American police loved donuts, and silently willed him to go searching for one. He asked for something like registration, I showed him the car rental receipt on my phone. He then asked for my license, I stared blankly for a minute, he charaded driving and small card. I gave him my US ID.
Ah, Americaine! (as if this explained everything) Combien de temps restez-vous ici?
Trois semaines, Monsieur.
Bon, profitez de vos vacances and conduire plus lentement.
Bien, merci et au revoir (although I don't ever want to re-voir him)
In Arles I saw the famous 2 km market, which is a series of vendors circling much of the old town. There were a bevvy of record and CD stalls, old shoes, junk jewelry, paintings of questionable merit, war memorabilia, African masks, kids games, hardware, clothing separates, household cleaning fluids and at the end, both produce and some delicious looking Moroccan and other prepared food. I like going to markets because it gives me a good idea of who lives in that town, and from what I gathered, there are a lot of transplants from North Africa in Arles. Even coming from Boston, which represents itself with black clothes pretty aggressively in winter, I was struck by the lack of color on people.
The old town is pretty in a faded, seen better days but still has beautiful bones kind of way. Situated right on the Rhone, which was a greeny brown, choppy and very unappealing, there was a wind whipping through the downtown that made it inhospitable. I did my best to take photographs and be open-minded about it being a different kind of nice, but found myself haunted by the tinned Christmas carols coming out of speakers somewhere close to an abandoned square, save the staffed 6 Christmas markets with no customers. I'm not sure if Van Gogh was living in Arles when he cut off his ear, but I was starting to understand. Parking paid till 14:00, be damned.
A British landscape architect who works in France and is married to an artist who lives in Italy told me to check out Tarascon, Ste. Remy and Ste. Etienne, so I looped back via the first two, missing the third. They were pretty, but left me thinking about the connection of the English word desolation and the French, desolée. Maybe it's a winter thing.
Since I arrived in Aix, I have been in the habit of taking an hour or so walk at the end of the day just before the sun goes down. But yesterday I spent more time, wandering up the Cours Mirabeau, the main drag downtown, full of families revving up for Christmas with long lines at all the kiddie rides. While I had no interest in buying spiced bread, imitation gold earrings or please help me, sachets of lavender, I knew that I'd rather be here among a jolly crew of people, even if I didn't know them. I was ready to commit to stay here for the next month or two, which felt right. Ready to receive visitors after 4th January!
Finally, I'll leave you with a word of advice. Don't mix writing and cooking.
About that volkenbrodt.... Remember that roulette de fromage I posted a photograph of the other day? Well, I knew it wouldn't be long before it got the better of me. It wasn't the chocolates, waffles, pralines, sweet pastries, the almond callisons they sell everywhere. No, it was the cheese bomb at Cafe Weibel, unfortuantely the OG pastry shop is located less than a block from me. Deciding to be pragmatic this past summer, I read a book about how to control sugar surges and learned that one could either ingest a tablespoon of vinegar, or more appetizingly at 9 in the morning, have a vegetable and some protein first, ameliorating bad sugar effects. So, after having a salad for breakfast I headed on down and attacked that thing. Yeah, it was so very very good, served warmed, sitting outside at a table in the sun. Then almost passed out. Oh well. Think I've quelled that urge.
Last time we talked, I was going to Arles. So what happened? As the days went on, the plans of my friend, who wanted to go there didn't solidify, while mine did, and I began to be concerned about being stuck somewhere where I knew no one, in a quieter and less connected community, so pivoted at the last moment, if for no other reason, there's more going on. Committing until Pre-Christmas allows me to do some scoping and make a more informed decision about January and maybe even February.
Now I do understand French, and have found that when reading a magazine or something like that, I can comprehend almost everything. Words also come pretty easily, perhaps not to have a debate about whether truth or loyalty is more important, but I can ask basic questions, buy stuff, generally communicate needs of the logistical sort. A problem only arises when a live person replies and all I hear is Charlie Brown's teacher, wah wah wah WAH wah. Sigh.
As part of my French immersion therapy, I've committed to doing one thing every day that I'd really rather not, usually because it's some sort of mundane thing that would take seconds and be forgettable in the US, but here is laced with complication, stress and anticipation of making a mess of it.
So yesterday, I decided to fire up the apple car to go and check out Arles, which alone was a mental hurdle, given my last experience. When I got to the garage, there was a man in a small truck on this very narrow street, blocking the entrance. He smilingly began wah wah wahing, ending on an upbeat, so I at least knew it was a question, though had no answer. I told him that I can understand French if he speaks slowly and perhaps because my brain is still adjusting to this new language, the second time I heard waaaah, waaaah, waaaaah, WAAAAAAH? Well, I still couldn't get it, so just gave him my best smile, put my hands up in the air and walked into the wicked steep sloped garage. I noticed that the few other cars in there had parked nose out, which I tend to associate with Republicans who have tidy yards, but suspected there might be something else going on here. It took perhaps a 12-point turn, and then it was revving the engine adequately to get up the steep slope. When almost to the top, I realized it had taken long enough to get up there that the garage door had closed, so had to stop mid-wicked steep hill and re-open the garage. I'm most proud to say that I managed without incident, and was surprised that my conversational sparring partner was sitting in his car, waiting for me to come out. Perhaps he's headed in? But no, he then folllowed me out of town. I have no explanation, it will forever remain a mystery.
Toll road? Another of those little things that I wouldn't think about in the US, but here had the potential to cause a major backup to be broadcast on the 6:00 news. No problem. On to Arles it was, apple maps telling me to exit when the sign said Arles straight ahead. And I've got to tell you, not to complain anymore or anything, but not being hooked up to the car screen, it's not un-challenging to look at my phone which is set down below in the drink holder near my feet, ejected every time I turn a corner. But that's another saga for another time. I did get off the exit as told and was immediately greeted by about 8 police people in their bright green coats, one standing in the middle of the street, waving some cars over into a parking lot, one of which was mine.
One on each side of me, they asked me to open the window. Turn off the ignition. I honestly (sometimes) didn't know what he was saying, he made a gesture of turning the key and I responded. I told him I didn't speak French after understanding perfectly well that I was being accused of going 5 km over, I mean 5k at a 110 KM speed limit? I wondered if French police loved croissants as much as American police loved donuts, and silently willed him to go searching for one. He asked for something like registration, I showed him the car rental receipt on my phone. He then asked for my license, I stared blankly for a minute, he charaded driving and small card. I gave him my US ID.
Ah, Americaine! (as if this explained everything) Combien de temps restez-vous ici?
Trois semaines, Monsieur.
Bon, profitez de vos vacances and conduire plus lentement.
Bien, merci et au revoir (although I don't ever want to re-voir him)
In Arles I saw the famous 2 km market, which is a series of vendors circling much of the old town. There were a bevvy of record and CD stalls, old shoes, junk jewelry, paintings of questionable merit, war memorabilia, African masks, kids games, hardware, clothing separates, household cleaning fluids and at the end, both produce and some delicious looking Moroccan and other prepared food. I like going to markets because it gives me a good idea of who lives in that town, and from what I gathered, there are a lot of transplants from North Africa in Arles. Even coming from Boston, which represents itself with black clothes pretty aggressively in winter, I was struck by the lack of color on people.
The old town is pretty in a faded, seen better days but still has beautiful bones kind of way. Situated right on the Rhone, which was a greeny brown, choppy and very unappealing, there was a wind whipping through the downtown that made it inhospitable. I did my best to take photographs and be open-minded about it being a different kind of nice, but found myself haunted by the tinned Christmas carols coming out of speakers somewhere close to an abandoned square, save the staffed 6 Christmas markets with no customers. I'm not sure if Van Gogh was living in Arles when he cut off his ear, but I was starting to understand. Parking paid till 14:00, be damned.
A British landscape architect who works in France and is married to an artist who lives in Italy told me to check out Tarascon, Ste. Remy and Ste. Etienne, so I looped back via the first two, missing the third. They were pretty, but left me thinking about the connection of the English word desolation and the French, desolée. Maybe it's a winter thing.
Since I arrived in Aix, I have been in the habit of taking an hour or so walk at the end of the day just before the sun goes down. But yesterday I spent more time, wandering up the Cours Mirabeau, the main drag downtown, full of families revving up for Christmas with long lines at all the kiddie rides. While I had no interest in buying spiced bread, imitation gold earrings or please help me, sachets of lavender, I knew that I'd rather be here among a jolly crew of people, even if I didn't know them. I was ready to commit to stay here for the next month or two, which felt right. Ready to receive visitors after 4th January!
Finally, I'll leave you with a word of advice. Don't mix writing and cooking.