Sunset, Juan-les-Pins

Spontaneity, as a frame for an outing, can allow one to loosen the leash of expectation, as was the case last week. It was a few days  before her arrival that Debbie let me know she was coming, and while I had at the time been deep in a routine of acclimation, there was no reason to not switch gears.

Deb's wish was that she not make decisions, so soon, a plan began to emerge. Within hours of her arrival, we were sitting on our twin couches, hanging out as though we lived down the street from each other., spending her first day touring the markets and seeing the Paul  McCartney exhibit at the Musée Granet, sadly missing tea at the too popular Hotel Caumont, which is pretty special.

Cassis is a must stop for anyone who hasn't been there, and after lunch, we walked to the Calanques and watched the high divers, seeing that water of an otherworldly color. We were on the highway headed back in our rental car, when it quietly let us know that the air pressure was low in the back left tire. Limping into the gas station in Aubagne, we pumped up the tire and watched it deflate immediately. After trying and failing to loosen the bolts with the mini lug wrench provided with the car, we called roadside assistance, taking turns to tour the nearby Auchon, which is something between Costco and Target, for on the fly dinner options. I sat on the curb and surveyed every car, motorcycle and truck that entered the gas station, doing that thing you do when meeting up with someone  you don't know, giving that questioning glance and waiting for a response of acknowledgement. But it was obvious when a very long tow truck pulled in, driven by a young, kind and handsome man who brought his own lug wrench. He was incredibly compassionate, leading to an emotional crisis when I tried to reconcile his perception of two old and helpless women needing help in a foreign country, and mine of two people of indeterminate age who had a sucky lug wrench. We were back on the road in time to make a switch at the rental agency (lesson learned: get roadside assistance coverage in a country other than your credit card's). In case you were wondering, flat tire is pneu crevé in French. I am developing an funny lexicon of French words like this and branché (plugged in), which the folks at Orange WiFi and I trade back and forth. 

Our home for an hour and a half

My friend Erica had just texted me about her visit to the Matisse Chapel, which proved the perfect prompt for our next day's activities. We found the chapel closed for lunch, so took it as an invitation to have our own, which The Google told us was a 15 minute walk, which turned out to have lots of downs and even more ups, but it was worth it. We ended up in Vence which is not as over the top as St. Paul de Vence, but pretty and home to a fine pizza, made with Cantal rather than mozzarella, which was a good thing.

On the way to Vence

Downtown Vence

The Matisse Chapel is a jewel box; small, simple, perfect. There was a super-annoying woman accompanied perhaps by her mother, doing some kind of social media thing, making that stupid face they all make, eradicating any sense of sanctity one might have in a chapel designed by a talented artist. I sat in the back row, doing my best to feel the feeling of being there, and after, waiting for this terror to leave, as did, it turns out, others. Once she was gone we gently took turns taking our photos of this chapel Matisse called his life's most important work. I was once again moved by the simplest of his drawings.  

Matisse Chapel

From there, we left France, entered Monaco, re-entered  France and minutes after, Ventimiglia, Italy, all within an hour or so. We were headed to what had been called the largest market in Italy, recommended by many I had met. Our rudimentary yet charming Airbnb had a view of the Mediterranean, and was a short walk to the older hill town, a little longer to the "modern" town, where the market was. There's something about being in a place I've never been, especially when the golden hour approaches, that compels me to go out exploring, no matter what else is going on. I walked away from the sea,  through a very old arch, climbing a ramp of cobblestones wide enough for a horse and cart which led me to a piazza with a church and the town hall, one wall adorned with crocheted squares. There were no tourists. People were gathering in the square, on steps of their houses, in cafes, there was a feeling of having barged into people's lives without invitation. In church a woman (yes!) was saying mass and the only women attendants responded. Up and around and down I went, on squiggly paths, some of which reached dead ends, private house doors that had curtains instead of anything wooden, the smell of boiling pasta pervasive on that Thursday early evening. It was a memorable window into lives of people who had likely known each other since birth, I thank them for letting me have a glimpse. 

Old part of Ventimiglia

The Friday market supposedly goes from 6 am to 6 pm and we'd heard it would get crowded, so we were off by 8ish, finding that not all stalls were  set up. Certainly the tall African men with worn out shoes, carrying white flat sheets filled with knock off LV and Gucci bags weren't there yet, in fact they didn't show up until our third loop through in the afternoon, cautious and ready to roll everything up and move along. But it was fun to look at all the clothes, kitchen equipment, salami and leather goods while listening to the melodic Italian patter between stall keepers. After a loop through and a walk in the beautiful food market,  we were peckish, and headed to the Caffe Paris, in the middle of the "new" town, where tourists and locals were meeting for a quick coffee before starting their Friday. Debbie raved about her latte and I committed to coming back for another very thin focaccia with mozzarella and tomato, plenty of salt. 

We returned to the market for two more tours, in part because Deb had her eye on some pretty printed bathrobes, and I a wallet and maybe a small bag. I ended up not getting anything, in part because I will still thinking about the fregola, porcini and mussels I'd had for dinner at U Funtanin the night before. Dreamy. The quality of food in Ventimiglia must be incredible because this restaurant wasn't even on any top 10 list.. Later that day, I took a wander to the harbor, surprised I could walk right onto any of the docks. It was a pretty time of day, all the lackeys hustling on their motorized skateboards to gather provisions for whatever billionaires consume on their obscenely large and imposing boats. 

Interestingly, many of them had Maltese flags*, which at first I found a happy coincidence, as that day Nat had finally had her appointment at the Maltese Embassy in Amsterdam to get a passport. The man taking her photograph asked if she'd like to tidy her hair first, a question which she wasn't sure how to answer. Either before or after that, someone on the street spontaneously handed her a bottle of water, and someone else later, a sandwich, prompting her to re-assess her morning styling. When I texted to ask her if it was OK to tell this story, she was on a ferry and apparently was approached by someone who offered her some dessert. Beauty Queen Makeover coming up when she visits this week. 

*Turns out there are tax advantages to registering your floating mansion in Malta

Ventimiglia food market beauty

So much crazy. Most of the yachts were registered anonymously, but one wasn't, $100M price tag

And then we were off back west. Quick stop in Monte Carlo, which was less bad than anticipated. Nothing else to say, apparently I'll be back later in the month to play tennis there. Hopefully next to Svitolina.

The old part of Monte Carlo was very clean

And some nice pocket parks

This was the overall vibe

Royal monogram on graves in the church where they're all buried

In Antibes, we stopped for a classic provencal lunch, grabbing the last fish and the last chicken at  la Tete d'ail, which is outside the tourist area and served a fine meal. We returned to Antibes the following day to go to the Picasso Museum, literally getting stuck in the middle of a market stall that sold linen dresses. We chatted with a Scottish mother and daughter who, when I told them I was from Boston said "Oh, Boston loves us" which is of course true, after the World Cup. The museum was fine, focusing on his work related to the area, and a bunch of nymphs and satyrs. There wasn't the huge variety I'd expected, and it reminded me a bit of going to the Vermeer Museum in Delft which didn't have any original Vermeer's. I bought and am now reading a book called Life with Picasso by Francoise Gilot, his girlfriend and mother of two of his children, 

This was my favorite

Exterior, Picasso Museum, Antibes

We spent the evening in Juan-les-Pins, which interestingly, had a larger number of what I'm guessing are Orthodox Jews than I've seen in my short time here in France. It's a pretty place on the other side of Cap Ferrat from Antibes, a little more low key, at least when we were there. We witnessed a most beautiful goodnight to the evening, with silvery water and a gentleness in the air as folks ambled back and forth along the boardwalk. 

My yellow room in Juan-les-Pins

After we scraped the side of our rental car exiting the garage, we scurried back to Aix to buy toothpaste and a micro fiber cloth, which Deb used to get most of the scrape off, but certainly, there is business that needs to be done and by the end, we were both sick of rental cars. What turned out to be a bargain was anything but...Oh well.

Happy. Thanks for visiting, Deb.

Classic Aix

After the many blessings August held, a misgiving or two might have arisen while traveling over the Atlantic. But even arriving at 5 in the morning to a deserted Charles DeGaul provided a happy and light feeling. Perhaps it was hearing French again, or the laissez fairness of everyone and low level of, if not cheer, amusement. 

Arriving in Aix, sleepless, 95 degrees (it's a dry heat), hauling an "extra large" suitcase with non-working wheels through hordes of cruise boat victims following bored guides holding up signs, none of it mattered, it was so good to be back. First priority, off to the "backyard", the small market. There's the old ambivalent cheese man wearing his Amish-like fedora, handwritten signs still the same. Deux chèvres cremeux, s'il vous plait. Tomatoes in vibrant colors and varied sizes, then to Hat's for buckwheat bread. Turns out that while the meal was good, the exercise was actually a reassurance reconnaissance. And everything checked out. 

First forage

My new apartment is I hope my long-term home. By French standards, it's big  with large rooms, high ceilings, beautiful high windows, lots of storage space, newly renovated, two bedrooms with en-suite in each. Most exciting for this Ludite is the ice and water dispenser and dishwasher that lights up the floor with the length of time left in the cycle. Such mod cons. Lots of business setting up the new place; hunting, gathering, moving, unpacking. While it was a time with a fair amount to do, leading to a certain goal orientedness, Aix has a way of reminding it's citizens that there's more to life than whatever serious thing it is that they're doing.  It happens so often that I can only laugh now, switching into a less focused and more joyous mode. Stop, look around, appreciate, smile, sometimes giggle, become centered.

Kitchen

Living room

My bedroom

Guest bedroom

Courtyard 

First guest,. New plates and glasses, farm flowers and tomatoes

Yesterday, on the way to buy milk, it was a trio playing keyboards that sounded like organ,  and an early woodwind and small trumpet playing Bach-like pieces, ever so casually in front of the church that's been under renovation since I arrived two years ago. They played on while kids kicked a football and old men sat on their bikes, talking and showing each other things on their phones. Music sounds more holy when it's performed in proximity to a building created about the same time as the original score.

Today it was less holy but very entertaining; old men with their antique cars, proud as peacocks showing them off, so shiny with French flags sticking out, posturing next to the cars or inside. After the market one morning, there was the exhibit in the church that's never been opened, to me telling the story of death and resurrection or whatever happens after we die. And I'd be remiss if I didn't mention last Sunday, or was it the one before? being the annual blessing of the calissons which included a church service and full processional, along with a demonstration of the almond crushing machine. If those weren't enough, there are the daily, hourly reminders; parents having long and interesting conversations with their children, people using cafes as their living rooms and an abundance of churches, there to duck into when it's hot, that smell that settles me and once, the organist practicing. 

There is so much here that fills my heart. 

Resurrection

Death

Pretty church intersecting with art

On my way to the gym I happened upon these lovely ladies blessing the calissons. You can't see the fife and drummers, but they were there, making merry. 

It feels lazy to lean on the markets, but they do make daily quality of life so much better. They are beautiful and local and gritty and provide an ongoing simple and satisfying sense of abundance. Tomatoes, peaches, all manner of plums and melon have been on heavy rotation. It is also bean season, so when I saw cranberry beans the other day, I felt compelled to buy them along with haricot vert and runner beans, putting together a classic soupe au pistou. I got out my olive wood mortar and pestle and got to pounding basil, salt and garlic. An hour later, a beautiful soup was complete, but sadly tasted like absolutely nothing. 

I didn't know I liked cantaloupe until moving here. They are perhaps my favorite right now.

These plums too. The ones on the left, Reine Claude, float around my kitchen, shopping bags and pockets. There are also some yellow ones call Mirabelle, no bigger than a malted milk ball.

Basilicus Gargantuous

Soupe au Poo

I had just made my initial hike up to Tour Cesar and was almost home, hot, tired and hungry. But there outside the church that's part of the museum was a sign reminding us that it was the first Sunday which means free admission to any museum in France. Well, in I went and there was this funny exhibit of Alex Kosta's work, some of which I didn't connect with. But he created these pieces making two dimensional images three dimensional with cardboard, and I rather enjoyed his whole way of thinking about that. It's a little gallery and took me not more than 20 minutes to walk through. What a nice stop

This work by Alex Kosta best represents the three-dimensionality he played with

But I liked this best

An early recollection I have is of my father taking me to a ship launch in La Ciotat, where he worked when we lived in Cassis. Maybe I was 3, 4? So I hopped on the 72 to Aubagne, switching to the 69 to La Ciotat depot, which is on the opposite side of a very pretty harbor from the shipyard. A quick perusal told me it was a much less touristy, but just as pretty harbor as Cassis, having the additional allure of a long boardwalk abutting sandy beaches with windex water. After getting as close to the shipyard as I could, and visiting the Maritime Museum, no more of the memory came to mind, so I put that aside and climbed the hill to the Calanque du Grand Mugel. According to the google, a calanque is "a narrow, steep-walled rocky inlet or cove carved into limestone along the Mediterranean". There are many between Marseille, Cassis and La Ciotat. Not wanting to have worn an extra layer of one piece bathing suit on a very hot day, I gracelessly pulled it on under sweaty clothes and over sweaty skin, people sitting less than a foot away (the beach part is small and it was crowded). But it's kind of OK in France, and was worth it, diving into that very clear, cool and somehow soft water, sounds of talking and splashing echoing more as the beach was enclosed. 

La Ciotat is a place I'd tell people to go as it's pretty and there are many options for entertainment, without the competition of Cassis.

La Ciotat harbor

Calanque du Grand Mugel, La Ciotat

Along the boardwalk, La Ciotat

On the way back, I stopped for a bit in Aubagne, going to Ravel, which is a very old provencal pottery making place that I had visited last year. It's about a ten minute walk from the bus station, and it was funny to remember how incredibly cold it had been last time around as sweat dripped off my face. Crossing over a bridge, there were many men seated, looking down at a football pitch, where the Aubagne team were playing another. There were the same sorts of sounds as an American football game, drumming and singing and who knows what else. I stayed until Aubagne got a goal, sad when learning later that they lost 1-2.  One gets attached...

When Aubagne was still winning 

One last story.

Christine, who organizes Tuesday hikes, sent a text out telling her group that she was going out of town, but that her garden in Fuveau was full of lavender that needed picking, that in fact we'd be doing her a favor. Being a pensioner, I don't think about planning any kind of trip in advance, I simply go to where the google tells me and wait to see what happens. And so for 20 minutes I waited for the right number to come along. It was only once on the bus that it became clear the next stop, not even a kilometer later, would be mine, where I'd switch. Off I got and sat in the hot late morning sun, waiting for about 45 minutes, buses to the country not coming quite as often. There were two other riders on a rather large bus, and I was the first off at Cimetière, or Cemetery. Not a soul to be seen, not even a house, sun beating down a little more insistently. I followed the google down a lane and up a pretty steep hill and back over the hill and down with a beautiful view of Mt. Ste. Victoire. By then there were occasional houses in the distance as some bushwhacking started. As it seemed like snake territory, a lot of stomping took place, waking up dogs who barked angrily at having been interrupted. 

After about half hour an hour, I reached her house, of course at the end of the road. There were fig trees in process of being picked, and a profusion of lavender, among other things. I took out my trusty Joyce Chen scissors and went to work. Turns out it's possible to cut an obscene amount of lavender in less than 10 minutes, which seemed a bit of an anti-climax, having had an image of me bent over all day with some sort of sickle. There was nothing to be done but head back up the hill by an alternate route with less dogs, bringing me to a ridge line that allowed a view of both Victoire and a hill with pine trees and pretty provencal houses on the other. Soaking wet at this point, my left arm cramping after holding the lavender haul, I started cackling, thinking about the joy and absurdity of me walking along this lane looking at these houses with a large load of lavender. It was a great moment.

Intentionally not having looked at my phone to see the time of the next bus coming, because who wants to rush in a situation like that? I wasn't surprised, though I was dismayed to see an hour wait until the next one. And so it was that I made myself at home near the cimitière, finding a stone wall that was in the partial shade. I took out my scissors and went to work, trimming all the lavender and putting it in bunches so that all I'd need to do when I got home was tie it up.   When finally on the bus, everyone remarked about the smell. It was only when back walking through the tourist shops that it became apparent that my flowers were post peak, grey instead of purple. But the smell was there and strong. 

Walked along a train line for a while to get there

Score

Lavender processing station near the bus stop

OK, Deb's arriving tomorrow from Santa Monica and we're likely headed to Italy for some adventure. More soon.

Luckily, Air France asked me to check this carryon. Would have had to depend on the kindness of strangers to lift such a load otherwise.

It's hard to articulate the despondency that overcomes me when at a bookstore or antique book market in France. So close and yet so far, shut out by language, still.  This repeated alienation has led to a not low level of anxiety around English language reading materials and maybe a wee bit of hoarding. Brookline has spoiled me with its extensive and responsive libraries, numerous well-stocked Little Libraries, the Booksmith. So, when coming upon a seller of English language books in another country, rationality doesn't always rule. Making a purchase once at Schipol, I was handed an additional for free. Because it was in English and I was about to take a flight, I read it, even though it was called the Pumpkin Spice Cafe, a story of a young woman and man who are dating in a small town that holds regular fairs with balloons, where everyone knows each other and bands together in times of need, resulting in a positive outcome with a moralistic bent. 

Why am I telling you about this? As a disclaimer and acknowledgement that some reading can be a bit to treacly. As many times as I've rewritten this post which preserves my bookend to summer of 2026 in Boston, I can inject no irony, seamy underside. There was nothing but goodness and profound kindness to which I've done my best to do proper, though still inadequate, justice. 

It was to a celebration of Deb's birthday that 12 of us were gathering to play some tennis, though when I arrived, Iit was confusing to see Jenn, who is not a rule breaker,  wearing a (mon Dieu!) black hat, and then she was with flourish, handing out French flags. Slowly, light dawned on marble head. She and Deb had put this lovely afternoon together that I hope celebrated Deb and Anne, who both had birthdays, as much as sending me off to the place of wine and cigarettes. It was dear and special, filled with such happiness and kindness that it was impossible to not have doubts about eaving.  That Anne, at my behest, bought the birthday cake for someone else without mentioning it was her birthday might give you an idea of how lucky I am to have the friends I have.  Dear Jenn and Deb and Anne especially, but everyone else too, thank you for being who you are and making life so rich. It was such a fun afternoon.

Lindsey, Chrisanne, Mary, Sally, Sandra, Nancy, Jenn, Erica and Liz, then Anne, me and Deb in the front row. So much fun.

Have I told this story before? If so, feel free to skip ahead. Many many years ago, Jude and I had just flagged down a cab outside her apartment at 72 W 72nd.  A woman got out and we got in and after a few minutes, we noticed a classic black bridle Hermes scarf on the seat next to us. Jude, who had many beautiful Hermes scarves, but is also obscenely generous, gave it to me. For ages, it was a part of me, dressing up kilts and coats and cardigans and evening wear. One day, I ran for the C Line, just making it. When I sat and looked out the window, there was a woman picking up that scarf and walking away with a smile on her face. After feeling a painful pang of loss, I came to understand that the scarf had only been mine for a bit, and was now meant to be enjoyed by someone else. I wished her much joy.

Years later, the only time I've ever had a storage space, the owners doubled the rent a month after I'd moved everything in. In retribution, I took everything out and distributed the contents to various sidewalks around Allston and Brighton. While there was likely some holy underwear, sweat stained tennis tops, and chipped coffee mugs, there were also place settings of Tiffany tableware, silver serving dishes, other antique junk I'd been keeping for ages but knew I'd never use. I imagined an old Russian lady with one of those shopping caddies, finding and taking the silver serving dishes, later showing her daughter how there's silver on the sidewalks of Allston. One of my friends still gets a little green when we rehash this story, but something had happened with the scarf that made me understand how everything is transient. The storage boxes helped me to understand that for me, belongings have a weight to which I am beholden. So, after wasting a bunch of time on FB Marketplace, I gave most of my earthly belongings away, which, after the logistics were done, allowed for deeper breaths. 

Not going to lie, still a little painful

These plates were a part of me, but it was time.

Bags getting packed, lived in chaos for a few weeks

Off to a Northeastern dorm room

Last morning at Kilsyth

I've never liked questions like Who is your hero? Am I supposed to say Gandhi? I don't know. I've never had one. But someone who comes close is Roger Federer; his breathtaking style of play, impeccable manners, always perfectly tidy hair even after a five set thrashing. So when Jenn asked whether I'd like to go to his induction into the International Tennis Hall of Fame, any thought of packing or deadlines was thrown out the window. We tootled off one Saturday to Newport, meeting up with a bunch of buddies to ogle the absurd amount of tennis history walking by on the red carpet. And then there he was, introduced beautifully by his wife. It was an honor to be there, and even more fun to have one last day with Jenn.

Don't judge, we were hungry

Angela, Katie, Mariellen, Jenn, Beth, KO and me, ITHOF

The Legend

When a gap arose between the time I needed to vacate my apartment and the USA, dear Chris and Carin raised their hands and gave me, I really can't say roof over my head because it was nicer staying with them than it ever was in my apartment. The way I know I love them both is the level of comfort and contentment sitting at the kitchen table with them,  on say a Sunday afternoon while Carin and I are having a cuppa and Chris is making focaccia or a bolognese or my favorite, scallion pancakes. It's not really important what we're talking about and there's certainly no end goal, we're just happy to be together and that is just the best feeling in the world. It is that that they gave me and I'm sad I don't have a photo to share of both of them in their natural habitat.

For the last night in the US, my dear friend Katharine drove down from Newburyport to pick me up at Longwood, where I had stashed a yellow Ikea bag holding my remaining belongings, in the bushes next to the parking lot. She first drove me for an emergency last stop at Kikis for a 500g jar of Marmite to be transported back across the Atlantic, and then a very good lunch across the street at the Brazilian market. After, she carted me up north, where we had a killer ice cream at Hodgies in Amesbury, oh it was so very good. She made a most excellent lobster dinner, and then it was early to bed, with the end in sight.

But when waking up the next morning, the weeks of well-denied stress finally crescendoed, putting my back into a spasm. I was at a loss, and Katharine took control, going mom while I reverted to toddlerhood. She mapped out the day, told me what I needed to do and when, got me to the chiropractor in Newton, fed me, carried my bags, and somehow got me to the airport on time. And Rob, bless him, gave me an electric stim experience and some drugs to be used in an emergency. While the logistics proved  important, it was the love and care that this dear friend of so many years showed me for which I'm most grateful. Of all the people I've ever met in my life, she's the person who is the most intrinsically kind.

So thank you, Katharine, and thank you everyone else, my village that's not so unlike the one in the goofy book, for making it so difficult and easy to leave Boston. It's not that we deserve or don't deserve happiness or kindness, but I am not quite sure how I got so lucky to be given so much. I will miss you.

View from the end of Katharine's road, Newburyport, MA

Rob and Katharine and some very delicious lobsters

Real tomato with Jude's man who will make the journey next year

Looking back on the month of August, I have an overwhelming memory of profound kindness from such dear people, it's moving to think how lucky I am to know the people I know, and definitely too hard to convey here. But it was a truly moving month, and I'll be writing about a lot of these experiences, because they are holding important places in my heart. 

When this randy brain has something complicated to solve, such as liquidating and moving one's earthly possessions within a limited window of time, it tends to do a bang up job of producing problem-solving snippets. But things tend to go awry when it comes to pasting them all together, invariably leading to last minute crises. Given this, one might begin such work early, allowing for maximum pivoting time. But just as socializing seemed crucial on the nights before big exams in college, instead of plodding along, I opted for a delightful panoply of experiences, accompanied by a low-level dread for sure, but that's par for the course. 

Dear Carin and me on the Fast Ferry to Provincetown

Me inside the Pilgrim Monument, Provincetown

Provincetown is a good place to live if you're an annual

Earlier in the month, Carin and I cheekily met early one morning at the wharf where Codzilla lives, to  tootle over to Provincetown on the fast ferry. After being surrounded by sky and sea for a few hours, it was a bit of a shock to disembark into hordes of day trippers like ourselves, staring at each other, mulling around seemingly without intent. We also hadn't a plan, but after a frozen moment, committed to spending the grey day looking at art. We stopped in at most of the galleries on Commercial Street, each getting better than the next as we moved away from the wharf, ending at the Provincetown Art Museum, which had exhibits of three different artists who had painted there. Carin ran into someone she knew who apparently traveled from Brookline to PTown regularly. Being as usual peckish, I asked if she had any recommendations for lunch places. After giving us the name of a restaurant nearby, her endorsement was "yeah, it's great, it's really big". Carin and I looked at each other with wide eyes, thanked her, then crossed the street to the wee grocery store on the sea-side, the one with the old fashioned wooden screen door that slams just how you like it, to enjoy the lyrical Jamaican patois of our sandwich makers, if not the sandwiches. PS Jalapeño Cheese potato chips are not a good idea.

Later, we climbed the Pilgrim Monument and were at first miffed that there wasn't a carved stone for Brookline inside the monument, as there were for most other towns in Massachusetts. But when we learned the reason, that the town Fathers hadn't ponied up to support building the monument, we became sheepish and then determined to write a letter to the always earnestly concerned neighborhood group. We never did.  Because A Prayer for Owen Meany was still in my mind, we admired the stone carving work.

It was the perfect day with a most wonderful friend. 

I would be dishonest if I didn't include this. Lots but not enough

Weasel and rabbit

Yes, there was tennis, some lovely tennis. At first the grass wasn't open much, and my body was a little shocked after taking the winter off. Dr. Lauren taped me up, but then it rained so the grass wasn't open. Then I started hitting singles and loving the pace and movement, the ability to get in the flow. And then Kid, who likes to belt the fuzz off the ball, arrived and I was commissioned to be a human backboard, which was profoundly fun. But through it all, I never quite got in the classic doubles on grass vibe, and maybe spent only one night on the porch, which is a travesty. Needless to say, mental plans are being made for next summer already. 

One morning, playing doubles on clay next to the brick path, we heard that awful animal fighting or giving birth sound. On the other side of the brick path was a weasel attacking  Peter Rabbit's great great granddaughter, so heartlessly. It went on and on as we stood there frozen watching. Without thinking, I went over to the skirmish and used my brand new blue Babolat to separate them, but the weasel's teeth were dug in deep and it was having none of it, so I started hitting the weasel, forcing it to eventually wander off. But Flossie was half way to her maker, there was no bringing her back, and Nate, who heads up the grounds crew which spends a fair amount of time ridding the beds of rabbits, in his quiet and patient way took her to her resting place. It was easy to see in retrospect that hitting a weasel with a blunt instrument isn't any better than letting a weasel attack a rabbit, presumably for food at least, and that I was intervening with another animal ridding Nate of a garden predator was likely not appreciated either. 

So when I looked out the window of my new apartment in France (which I'll get to in another post) and saw two pigeons attacking a third one, despite wanting to stop the brutality, I knew not to get involved. It seems to be a hobby in which they partake every afternoon, these two bullies. What is it about creatures that we need to pick on those less strong? For food is one thing, but the google tells me that pigeons don't eat pigeons so why not just bloody leave that poor thing alone? And I'm not even going to get into humans.  OK, I'm done.

My dear one, Newburyport

And then who popped into town in the middle of everything? Mrs. Fun, and fun we had My low-level dread and guilt disappeared for hours at a time as we did our thing, which almost always involves wandering in one form or another. We went into Boston a few times, once to eat salt and pepper shrimp at Peach Farm, nicely accompanied by another favorite, garlicky pea shoots which had just the right amount of bite. Despite my daughter not wanting to see the elephants on the Commonwealth Mall, I forced her. We saw, we photoed, we left. 

We also took a trip out to the Berkshires and Upstate New York to see my sister Jude, who was going through the same thing as me; clearing out a lifetime of stuff in anticipation of moving to a smaller place. Nat, who coincidentally was also moving into a new home on September 1st, hadn't seen her in many years, and it brought me such joy for them to have time together and understand each other. They share the same ability to pay attention to the world in a way that's different than most people. And a profound kindness. And they're both recipients of my profound love.

We toodled around the Woodstock hardware store, which is one of the best, and after in Jude's cabin, I said goodbye to many of the things that have been associated with Jude over the years, going back to the 80s. And as is customary when seeing her, we left ladened with beautiful things.

In the Berkshires, we stopped in at High Lawn Farm, prompting us to rethink using milk products, those poor old cows don't have a great life. And so we climbed my old daily climb, Monument Mountain, where I showed Nat the rock I sit on when I throw off wedding rings from prior husbands. Good role modeling, I know.

High Lawn Farm, Lee MA

Nat, Jude and me at Jude's wee cabin in Woodstock, NY

Bob Cronin's painting, which I treasure, that Jude gave me. 

A quick stop for ice cream in Hudson NY. It was a Monday and everything was closed, but we had a nice kale salad and felt August sun pounding down on us mercilessly

Waay back in the party days, my mother would repeatedly ask "Are you playing any tennis?" to which I'd give my predictable answer, "No", to which she'd always respond "I wish you would, you meet the nicest people playing tennis." Eyeroll.

My dear friend's son was getting married in York, Maine, providing an opportunity to get in touch with a friend I'd met playing (paddle) tennis, back when we traveled New England to play tournaments. She was the first Mainer I met, I liked her immediately. We stayed in touch and at one point, a few of us put together a Beanpot tournament, Brookline vs Maine, and we'd play more for fun, then celebrate after. Because I'm sadly no longer in the paddle tennis loop, we'd been out of touch for a few years, but this wedding turned out to be a lovely excuse to reconnect, so she came down to Longwood, and then was kind enough to have me to stay at her house overlooking a river, full of birds and flowers. While we'd always had fun together, on and near the court, this time we had the luxury of spending an afternoon and the sliver of a morning together, just the two of us with no distractions, which was very special. Yes Mom, you're right, you do meet the nicest people playing tennis, she says sheepishly. 

Lucas and Racquel's wedding day. Wishing them both all good things

Old ladies on the dance floor; Janet, Katharine and me, York, ME. 

Karen's toes and a sunrise, Tunbridge

Did you ever think about your life as existing on different planes? While hustling for a place to live in France and trying to rent my place out in the US, I've been texting people from worlds that will never collide, moving from one to another and then back again. Everyone fully enveloped in their own worlds, all going on at once, me lucky enough to dip into one for a bit, learn or observe something and bring it with me to the next. And then there are all those closer to home, one of which I dove into the other day.

The laptop I ordered the week after Tax Free weekend and in the midst of Back To School for college students was to arrive the other day, sometime before 9pm, requiring a signature. It was a long and boring day at home. At 8pm, an email arrived announcing that my order had been cancelled, a refund would be issued. Upon calling the store, I was told it would be waiting for me (in Framingham) the next day, which frustratingly turned out to not be the case, the woman who had promised it had apparently been in another country and had no authority to grant such relief.  Lucas, who was trying to resolve my conundrum, did what he could to track down a different laptop, which because of shortages, turned out to be more figuring out what had happened the prior day and finding that particular order. After an hour that involved talking to many parties at the store in person, on his little mic and walkie talkie, watching videos and checking rosters, it was determined that the delivery person had absconded with said laptop and already had a warrant out for his arrest. Apparently. this is not uncommon, making me grateful for minimal brushes with electronics and deliveries.

But that's not why we're here, rather let's talk about a new favorite place, Tunbridge, Vermont, where Laura's farm/property, which has been in her husband's family for many generations, lies.  After weeks of packing and purging, using both remaining neurons to work out sequencing and pacing of the current chaos, it was a gift to sit in the back of an air conditioned car,  driven past trees, trees and more trees, with the knowledge that there was nothing to do for the next two days and that my phone had been safely forgotten in Boston.

Town green, South Royalton, VT

The Block, South Royalton, VT

After exiting Route 89 in South Royalton, it's a few miles north to Tunbridge, following alongside the White River and passing a charming General Store founded by said family above, the Tunbridge World's Fair where there was some kind of horse event going on, then a right where the covered bridge went left, a left up a dirt road that we found out the next day at the end of our hot and sweaty walk, is not un-steep. As soon as you make the turn into Laura's, there's a feeling of sanctuary that comes flying at you. A barn and house, a vegetable garden with cosmos and a sunflower big enough to enter the competition at the World's Fair. There are other plots for vegetables, though I didn't wander over because that's where the milk snake hangs out, a pasture with a beautifully mown path taking you to the pond, and layers of hills in the distance. When we arrived, Laura was characteristically in motion, work overalls on with many signs of industry.

Laura being inspiringly Laura

Purple cabbages that really are purple

Out on the porch, which is L shaped and has two Adirondack chairs adjacent to the most delicious swinging couch, there were signs of garlic work, which we happily took up later in the weekend. The thing was to first bang the dirt out of the roots, then cut the roots short, cut the stem and then peel that dirty layer off. It's the kind of thing I'd be happy doing, sitting and looking at that beautiful garden, for days on end. As my first ex used to say, "hands are busy, mind is free"

Pre peeling

Tools for garlic production

Laura can just go and go and go and go. She is famous for cross country skiing a few towns over during a blizzard to have a beer, or biking solo from one end of Vermont to the other. Some of the time we tried to keep up with her, but there were times that the white flag had to go up and a load be taken off. It seems quite clear that she was a farmer in another life as well as this one.

The mom of three boys, she is an incredible host and talented cook, making us blueberry pancakes on our first morning and then what I understand were killer omelets the other. But my favorite was our Saturday night dinner. As a young woman, she had lived in Budapest and continues to hold dear experiences and friends there. So when she said she'd make us goulash, there was no pulling out the Le Creuset and banging it on the stove. Rather a tripod with a large chain and hook with a copper cauldron was set up in the garden, as is done in Eastern Europe, dried wood was chopped and lit, a cutting table was brought outside, then she went to work.  That we had a box full of just-picked vegetables from the neighboring farm to dive into was a nice addition,  I observed her using a variety of paprikas, among other things, making a most perfect dinner.

Laura and her dinner potion, sublime

Aside from being spoiled, we went for a walk on what started out as a grey day. Soon after our circuit began, the sun came out in a humid and bullying kind of way, but there was nothing to be done but continue on, enjoying the views on the mostly dirt road where we learned to identify calendula, saw sheep hiding from the sun under a trampoline that had been specifically bought for that purpose, admired the Vermont state flag, and learned not to be fooled by the sign that said it was Covered Bridge Month, as it's apparently always there.  A stop in the General Store proved a welcome cool down and hydration spot, along with a nice place to browse and for one of us, try a creemee for the first time.

And then it was time for the march back, in my case already with a shirt so sweaty it felt wet.  Briefly along a road with no sidewalk, then up the aforementioned steep dirt road. When we were almost back, Laura pointed out her friend Wendy's Tunbridge Hill Farm. It was she who had brought the box of fresh produce for the goulash, and she who Laura had helped by bagging arugula (apparently jamming a little too much into each bag, but she got the hang of it) for the Waitsfield Farmer's Market Wendy sells at every Saturday.  We stopped to admire the rows of obscenely healthy vegetables and chatted with Wendy's daughter, who was driving around in her mule, a sort of four wheeled golf cart. The sun beat down, but we dragged along behind Laura as she determinedly marched up the hilly pasture.

Vermont state flag

The ladies, on our walk

A neighboring farm

Wendy's farm

Tunbridge Hill Farm, garlic on a crazy scale

It was only later, after we'd cooled down after our walk and revived our senses of humor that one of us admitted she had been about to mutiny when Laura appeared to head into the woods to show us a tree or something. But we made it back and as Laura and I reached the crest of the hill and entered into the driveway, she breezily asked me if I would help her carry some wood. Outraged, I first replied NO! and then lightened up, following her lead. What did she do after, when I sat in an Adirondack chair, trying to dry off? Zipped up her charmingly steep farmhouse stairs to change into her bathing suit, put her paddle board in the back of her mule and took off for the pond with Jenn and her dog Elliot.

Later, she showed me where last weekend's wedding had been, up a hill through a pasture with mowed paths, chairs facing a most perfect tree. An area had been cleared for dancing and tables built for the pies that everyone in the neighborhood had made. Even though it was a week later, it was easy to see what a gentle, community, joyous even it had been.

And then back to the plane of large Tupperwares and moving furniture. Tunbridge was such a welcomed respite.

Due to logistical challenges I wasn't able to overcome, I'm leaving for France early, on 8/31, so likely won't write again until I'm back in the +33 country code. Happy summer all.

Untouched photo, parking lot near Bloomingdales 7/15/26

There has been all kinds of freaky shit going on, weatherwise, a deluge just ended, a friend telling me that she had to wade through rivers to get home. And then there was that weird sky, which the Canadians told Donald Trump, was in honor of him, just as the green reflecting pool was in honor of Greenland, and that he should breathe in as much of the orange tribute that he could. It's better now but there's still that COVID smell in things.

World Cup, Wimbledon and then the Tall Ships. It has been a month of excitement swirling in the sometimes vanilla city of Boston.

If it weren't for Marmite, England might not have made it to the semis

I worry that Laura's scapes are going to strangle me at night

When early in my HR career I thought that resting my bare feet on my trash can was a way of make interviewees feel comfortable, I met a woman named Katharine who went on to be hired as the executive assistant to a man who'd regularly nip out for a few sets of tennis at the B&T. I'd met him on an errand to get a check signed in my first week on a summer Friday afternoon. Opening the door to his department, I was greeted by a whirring sound and his strawberry daiquiri stained tongue, which was regularly found hanging out of his mouth.

My boss, who had the habit of taking credit for work I'd done, was not a bad person, just likely dropped on her head as a baby, as we like to say. The first Christmas I reported to her, she gave me an acrylic brown and bright blue argyle sweater, with gold threads running through, three plastic gold buttons on each shoulder. I knew that she was proud of her purchase and took great pains to wear it once, but always wondered what in my regular office attire had inspired such a choice. 

Katharine and I became friends, the same age and single, both enamored of a weekly column in the Phoenix about Alice K and Ruth E,, also two single women, one of whom was in the most charming way a tad selfish, while the other a victim of said selfishness. In those early professional years, we may not have respected our bosses, but understood they controlled our future and felt thus constrained, which was in great contrast to a rich life we both craved.

There was a feeling of unbridled freedom when quitting Symphony Hall on a summer evening, intoxicating. We'd walk in a vague direction, between us a tacit understanding that we'd end up where  we were pulled. Filenes Basement was often a stop, with much determination to find that right size and color, only to put it back, the hunt being more appealing (and cost effective) than the kill. There were the people we'd recognize on the street who felt like placeholders; the Bikes Not Bombs guy with buttons all over his hat, the homeless guy with the dyed black or orange hair and our favorite, the Irish nun in brown who spoke quickly and poetically, almost in prayer, asking for money at the Downtown Crossing T stop. Boston was a rich and rewarding playground, enveloping us in the theater of life. A pastime  it turns out has enriched not only both of our lives, but now those of our kids as well.

Last week we determined a time and place to meet, she coming from her house by the sea, me from my grass tennis courts, with some vague talk of the Tall Ships. We started with coffee and then ambled over to the North End. Finding every restaurant packed, we ended up at an old standby, Antico Forno on Salem Street, where for some reason, we've never had trouble getting a table.  After a satisfying late lunch, we found ourselves walking down Hanover  towards the water and, just past the Paul Revere monument in front of the Society of St. Joseph's, were distracted by a police car with flashing lights in the middle of the street. After taking in the requisite three plastic chairs outside the Society, filled by OG Italian men with large bellies and shiny dark hair, we saw a huddle of younger men, all with grave faces, taking orders from their elders to properly get the Virgin Mary, adorned with dollar bills, ready to be carried. The red and black attired marching band appeared, providing pomp and ceremony as they walked ten feet to the adjoining society. A bit of waiting ensured with that feeling that something was about to happen, so we joined the small scrum and watched as they then exited the second Society and began a march towards Cross Street. We silently said goodbye and thank you very very much.

I supposed we had both imagined but not articulated battling crowds in Seaport to get a tiny glimpse of a ship. But instead, we wandered to the end of Hanover and found an empty bench in the shade, looking out at the boats parading back and forth around the harbor, right in front of us. We chatted, admired, made inappropriate jokes at which our woke children would blanch. In concert, we got up, ready to walk, admiring spots we'd seen a thousand times, finding some docked Tall Ships. I was most grateful to be able to take  photographs of four Chinese women my age who wanted to be captured jumping together in front of a Tall Ship, painfully wanting to ask them for a photo. But no.

After, a wander through the old Financial District, enchanting when empty on a summer afternoon, seagulls doing their thing and shadows making the old buildings look older, worn granite sidewalks that have been there for hundreds of years. We parted at Park Street, where wasted men are still harassing young pretty women, though no longer us. 

Streetscape near the courthouse

Feet of a vet

Trying so hard to not take photos without permission. But loved this suburban couple, threatened by the big bad subway.

And yes, sorry again for not asking permission

A ship that is tall, disappointingly built in 1997

Italian men lifting the VM. Worst thing about World Cup is the prevalence of "the hair cut"

We'll always be in our late twenties in spirit

Early morning reservoir runner

*****I have a new hosting service, Articulation, because Weebly wasn't cutting it. This transition has left me rowing through the cruel and choppy waters of technological adversity. My hope that putting this up on the website is not merely a mirage, but actual dry land. Because of said challenges, this is a very old post. 

Carin asked early on in the summer whether I'd be going back to the Reservoir early morning walk ritual, and after thinking about it, thought I probably wouldn't because there was no longer any need to vehemently insert it into a day, not that time is abundant. But it turns out to still be an almost daily draw, an active contemplation rather than any kind of exercise, whether creative time, meditation, or plain old being out in the world. Today, it was creative, writing in my head. And along the way I laughed aloud, making more of a fool of myself than I already had by warming up my otherwise bare arms by keeping them inside my baggy t-shirt. 

Back in the late naughties, I had a company called picture life books, dedicated to preserving individual and family stories and their photographs, in coffee table books. One of my clients was a young and beautiful couple from southern California who were both toiling away at what turned out to be a fruitless climb from minor to major celebrities. The book was intended to capture both their family stories and then theirs, so I spent a bit of time interviewing parents and grandparents. There were wonderful stories, including one about a piano transported across half the country on a covered wagon. But my favorite was about an Italian immigrant matriarch who lived in Chicago who incessantly told her descendants to watch out for falling flower pots, which were common on windows and porches. Yes, Ma, they'd say while figuratively rolling their eyes. Well, guess how her life ended?  Flowerpot, square on the head, dead as a doornail. So maybe not all phobias are crazy.

Some picture life books, photos by Mary Giordano Brackett

Bozeman has been on my mind lately. It's funny, the time we were battered by hailstones on a hike, the staggering view of snow covered peaks from the CCC lodge, dinners out or beers on that great downtown main street aren't the things that crop up. It's random moments. And images. Nat and I talked about it the other day, texting favorite photos. It is a staggeringly beautiful place. But then it turns out, there are so many in the United States, aren't there?

A strong moment that keeps reappearing is the day we meant to hike but ended up turning around at the trailhead after reading the sign saying only idiots would progress without bear spray. To get there, we walked for some amount of time along a path that was prettily overgrown, strewn with purple and pink wildflowers. We were stomping along, giving resident snakes a heads up that large, scary mammals were coming through and they best get out of the way. In her inimitable way, Nat softened our stress by injecting humor, pronouncing them snahkays, which they will now forever be.  I believe she has an even bigger fear of worms, which reminds me of the time that, like a practical joke that went too far, when getting out of the car in Williamstown, there were thousands and thousands (no exaggeration) of dead worms, strewn all over an asphalt parking lot. I worried she would faint.

The David Hockney view, as Nat calls it, just east of downtown Bozeman. One of the images that comes back to visit.

My number one image, the Tetons, south of Bozeman on the way to Jackson, WY

On the sidewalk in Cleveland Circle the other morning, I looked down and twitched, then relaxed, feeling absurd. I sent the photo to Nat with no comment, and she asked me if it was a w*rm, to which I replied "no, it's a stick". But it was only today, walking around the reservoir that I thought about her spelling, so horrified was she that she equated a worm with He Who Will Not be Named. And that's what made me laugh out loud.

A stick, about four inches long

There was much talk on the porch last week about how the Scots visiting for World Cup had injected life into downtown Boston, and right they were, though there were also Norwegians and Moroccans, giving the town, I really can't call it a city, a less provincial atmosphere. In fact it was downright jolly. I took a spin through Quincy Market on my way from one place to another and saw loads of people at the outdoor bars watching footie on big screens. And the Scots really had taken over, they were everywhere. The first photo below was taken without permission, which I felt bad about after and wanted to rectify. I passed up a few posses of Scots, some with drab tartans, others too drunk, but eventually, I found the two lads in the second photograph below. They were delightfully accommodating, mentioning that they felt like Brad Pitt and George Clooney, having been stopped for photos regularly. One offered to have his photo taken with me, which of course I accepted. We chatted a bit, they told me the kilts only came out on special occasions, of which coming to the US to see their team was one. I thanked them and got a "Cheers, love" back.

A friend of mine who is not a big football fan had a birthday the other day. The week prior, her boyfriend (do we call them that at our age? ) said "Ever since you were a five year old girl in West Virginia, I know you've dreamed of seeing England play Ghana, and so I've arranged to make your dream come true, AND on your actual birthday!"  She's a good natured lass and laughed.

​There are too many teams to root for.....

Tartan and tatoos

Scottish lads and HomeGoods, Downtown Crossing

Third husband? Maybe not