Loved this throwback, Madison

I am learning some things about the best way to travel while understanding prior mistakes, at least for me. Last big road trip, the max driving time was 6 hours per day.,this time it's 4. Last time I did research about prime destination, but didn't stop in between, this time I did research but then forgot to heed it, and stopped in between. So while my takeaway of Milwaukee wasn't bad, just not compelling. It was only a day later that I remembered the Bobblehead Museum! Today I forgot to stop and admire the world's largest ball of twine. So be it, logic goes that if I forgot about it, it must not have been that important.

After Milwaukee, I was marginally concerned about Madison, as from my research, the former seemed a better fit for me. Perhaps it was due to easy maneuvering with the car, a nice hotel location and view,  it proved a lovely stop. But more likely, it was the lovely vibe that Wisconsonians provided during that 24 hour stretch.  The Capitol, which is a sort of nexus, and close to where I was staying, sits nicely at the top of a hill with grass and flower beds all the way around, accessible from all directions. There are a bunch of restaurants and bars nearby, all with an interesting vibe. Everything is clean and tidy, the roads are wide and not full of cars, and yes there's that famous Saturday Farmer's Market.  Well, I don't know if it's the best in the world, it wouldn't be a hard argument to put Union Square above it, but it was huge, very well attended, had a lovely midwestern flair with very high quality produce and flowers, along with more sweet rolls, cheese curds and jerky than you could throw a stick at.

The external part of the market, the main event circled the Capitol, all the way around. 

Always enjoying the morning hunt for coffee, I went out at 8 (the market starts at 6:45!) after a workout, intending to go back and shower and then return for the market later, but got immediately sucked in, and was glad I did because later, it was so crowded that everyone had to move as a group, patiently waiting in line to just look at each stall. Most were in groups and so good natured and patient, the vendors were chatty and free with samples, everyone seemed to enjoy the experience. Even impatient I couldn't help but get caught up in the good humor of every kind of person imaginable, including an old man who had a sweatshirt on that said "Eternity is a long time, don't get it wrong"

Asparagus was the vegetable on offer, so I scored a bunch for car snacking, as well as some real baby carrots. The flowers were so beautiful, lupines, iris, daisies, other wild things, everyone had a bouquet, it was hard to keep walking. There were many unfamiliar meat products, either from non-farm animals, or prepared in ways I'd never seen.  There were a wide variety of mushrooms, including mushroom coffee, baked cheese in the shape of a pizza crust and beautiful multi-colored eggs. By 11;30, I was ready for lunch and had scoped out a small cart that was selling my sorts of things. He made me a knock your socks of "Moroccan" vegetable medley, it really was one of the best things I've had in a long time. With my to go container, I saw on a Jersey barrier, watching the world go by, when a rather rag tag and ostentatiously dressed band began playing some Midwestern polkas with their brass, along with chants about how bad it was to bust unions.

The University of Wisconsin Madison is nearby, and so I had a quick walk around and was so feeling the Madison vibe that I came close to buying a really nice Champion 80/20 Wisconsin Badgers hoodie, then remembered it had to be carted across the ocean.

My favorite was the man on the left with legs whiter than his shorts were short

Then it was time to be reunited with my enduring friend, I-94, towards Minneapolis. The land in Wisconsin on the east side seemed beaten up to me, I wondered if it was from all the winter weather as Eastern Canada has the same look. But as the car went Northwestwards, the rolling green hills with barns and trees appeared, beautiful, that image that perhaps most of us have of farms in the midwest. Along the way, there was a sign for  Cascade Ski Mountain, but when looking around, there was nowhere it could be, flat as the eye can see. There was also an advertisement for bank loans for "leisure and hunting expenses". Within the last 200 miles or so, there were many billboards informing us that babies have a heart beat after 3 weeks and eyes after I've forgotten how long. Strangely, more dead animals on the side of the road than I've never seen. Granted, there are likely lots more wildish animals in Wisconsin and Minnesota, but I must have seen 10 rotting deer carcasses, a small black bear, and multitude of raccoons and a couple of dogs.

When I pulled into Minneapolis, it was big and skyscrapery and dirty and deserted, depressing. My hotel was next to the Target baseball field, which is perplexingly and entertainingly right in the middle of everything, but wasn't in action and isn't the prettiest. Hungry for something, I begrudgingly went out and took a guess on a direction, ending up in the Warehouse district which was clean with those beautiful wide roads, nicely renovated buildings that had become places where wine is served in crystal, scents are made to order and dresses are by Akris.  It was great fun wandering around, there was one store called Combine that was like a museum, taking over a vast amount of space, breaking up rooms with different men's and women's collections, along with books, chocolate, jewelry, perfume and in the back, a bar and a barber shop. It was truly beautifully renovated and everything in it was expensive and perfect, reminding me of ABC Carpet in the good old days, After a very long time, I left content, with Aesop grapefruit lotioned hands. 

Wedding dresses hanging in a window, Minneapolis

This morning, I again went out to forage for coffee and ended up walking for 20 minutes through a deserted downtown, only to find my destination inside the convention center. So I powered on to a place near Loring Park, an overgrown green space in the middle of some part of the city that I couldn't explain to you. While sipping a cappuccino, I read about significant historical occurrences in Minneapolis. While George Floyd's death wasn't mentioned, the raccoon who climbed 23 floors of the exterior of a downtown building was. 

It was a beautiful sunny day as I walked along a path that follows the Mississippi River. There was a feeling, with the very few others around, of owning the city on a holiday weekend, all other residents presumably on a motor boat in one of the 10,000 lakes. My destination was the Mill City Museum, about Minneapolis' flour production, but it was too beautiful to spend much time inside, so I took a few photographs and had more of a wander, seeing every style of building, again, wide streets and the reassurance of midwestern solidity.

​On the way to Fargo today, I stopped in St. Cloud, which I'm going to guess is a very religious town because it was as closed down on a Sunday as France. When I got out of my car, the Bible ladies were there, you know, the two people you see with the sandwich board and a black wheelie at pretty much any city in the world. I had my response prepared "Thank you for asking. I'm spiritual but not religious and wouldn't dream of imposing my beliefs on you", The things I think up!  They were nothing but warm and friendly, never mentioning the Holy Book. One of my goals for this year is to try to not assume the worst...So far, not doing too well.

On the way in to St. Cloud, I had noticed that there were a lot of Somalis walking about. Wanting some caffeine but not at Starbucks, I ended up at a place called Fabiola Coffee, a very small shop in a strip mall. When I asked about a bathroom, she said it was next door in the mall, which didn't make sense based on how small the building was. But I followed her directions and went in, and there was an alley with small stalls similar to those I'd seen in Morocco, each selling something different. Children were playing ball in the hallway and there was a call to prayer by someone who didn't sound as though he had much energy. I was clearly an interloper and did what I needed to do quickly. throwing the ball to a boy about 10 who lost control of it. 

St. Cloud Main Street. Not a soul.

Over and out from the Jasper Hotel in Fargo

Erica asked why? A fair question. When I saw a Japanese couple gushing over a squirrel in the Public Garden, I realized that medieval villages have become my squirrels. Not that they're rodents or I don't like them, but I've been exposed to them enough that they've got me wanting to see other things. For the last three months or so, wide roads with lots of sky. This trip will mean I've completed visiting all 48 contiguous states. And finally, there's that sign on the Mass Pike, the one that says Second Highest Elevation after Oacama, SD, where I've always wanted to go.

Soo I found myself, after having spilled my miserly guarded fresh French almonds all over my seat neighbor on the plane, chatting her up and learning more about what I should and shouldn't do upon arrival at Cherry Capital Airport in Traverse City, MI. That luxury of time proved to be a blessing, allowing me to instead of blasting through Traverse City, stop and have a walk around, chat with a few people and eavesdrop a bit too. Seems like a nice place, right on the lake. It had that feeling of mad primping before the summer hordes arrive. 

They drive large and they drive fast on the UP. A country of Suburbans and  Dodge Rams pulling all kinds of machinery and adult toys.I wondered if humans feel compelled to fill a vast space with vast cars and houses and plates of food. The roads were all cherry farms, all in bloom, looking much like I envisioned in Tom Lake by Ann Patchett. 

Fishtown, or Leland, MI

The SS Badger is a National Historic Monument, which sounded cool, but it turns out that the fuel is historic, still running on coal, it was awful to see all that black smoke spewing out and knowing I was supporting it. Inside the ship, there is a museum, a documentary film, oodles of cafes, a gift shop and the biggest hit, Badger Bingo. It's 4 hours across with an hour before as they put the cars in, so people were resourceful and brought games and books, coloring, crosswords. The weather app had told me the crossing would be rough, and remembering that hellish trip from Brindisi to Corfu in the 80s when everyone got drunk first, then sea sick, I popped two dramamine, but then couldn't keep my eyes open, fell asleep drooling on my book, snorted myself awake. Oh well, they're an understanding people.

There was one woman with not a hair out of place who was watching a movie on her iPad while making some kind of paper decorations, she had brought all manner of tools and materials. And then there was the family of four, parents of an adult male and his wife, who sat together and played rumikub right next to me, it was impossible not to listen. They were so very kind to each other and had such a nice time together, as it seems most midwesterners are, comfortable in each other's presence. I wondered if it's only in the major metropolitan areas of the US that people are so stressed and disconnected. 

Alway like to slip in a little Wes Anderson

The ferry arrived in Manitowoc WI, and from there it was a coffee stop in Sheboygan, which was sweet. And then not a long drive to Milwaukee, where I intended to spend the night, but felt no compulsion to stay after roaming around the Historic Third Ward and getting the vibe. So it was on to Madison, where there will be what has been called one of the best farmer's markets in the world (hmm, says this skeptical Aix citizen, let's see about that...) tomorrow morning.  I love the roads here, they're concrete or cement instead of asphalt. The lighter color is really nice to look at. 

​I have to learn not to make food assumptions. I ordered yogurt with blueberries and bananas this morning and it was sweetened, and then tonight I ordered black beans, and they were refried, like liquid. Good thing I've got a loaf of sprouted whole wheat, a jar of peanut butter AND a jar of marmite!

​Over and out. 

Hiking Crew at Les Calanques, back in April

Back there in my other life, on a Tuesday hike, I'm pretty sure it was the one above, Amanda from Wales brought up the subject of past lives, something  that has always made me fascinated and a little bit scared, remembering when a ghost kicked Jenn and me  out of the upstairs Do Not Enter part of an old mansion. Amanda mentioned a book, Many Masters, Many Lives, which was apparently big in the 90s. 

Now Aix has an English language bookstore, which was initially a relief and a delight, but it turns out the books are pink and yellow and teal and have long titles that engender profound feelings of despair. I'm a product of COVID little libraries and the wonders of Brookline Booksmith, both of which put previously unknown books in front of me for me to read. So while Book in Bar (still don't understand that name) will order any book I want, I'd walk in, look around fretfully,  be put off by novels that have ice cream or cinnamon toast in the title, and leave unfulfilled only to become dejected on Sundays when the French book market happened and there they were, all these old and interesting looking books that I can't yet quite comprehend.

All this to say that when I heard about Many Masters, Many Lives, instead of trying to find it, I went online and listened to a podcast interviewing the author. A Columbia and Yale educated MD who ran the psychiatry department at a major US hospital, and nonbeliever in anything supernatural, he was the perfect person for me to learn from. Through work with a patient who had many serious problems in her life that he found incurable with traditional psychiatric methods, he fell upon hypnotherapy as a last resort, finding it effective, and a portal to the past lives of his patient.  He disabused me of the notion that karma is a sort of just desserts, rather his our souls having a particular thing that needs resolution in each life, the burden of which is carried over to the next if it's not solved in the current. 

​At the end of the podcast, he mentioned a YouTube video he had posted that allows the listener to do a past life regression meditation. With nary a book around to read and a rainy afternoon, I was all in. I'll tell you that among other things, I went back to being a powerful, cruel Egyptian beatch. The image below is actually of a goddess, which I certainly was not, but she looks the most like the picture I saw.  I know, we're all over the map on belief of things like this, as am I, but I went through it and I saw this, clear as day. Doing this gave me a clear understanding of what I need to resolve in this particular life, dovetailing perfectly with the EMDR I had done with a therapist a few years back. Turns out they're not so very different, only the EMDR didn't go back quite as far. 

I tried to find a better image, but all the other ancient Egyptian woman faces are too kind. I was really mean.

So, that was the headspace with which I passed through ICE border control (they literally didn't even look at my passport) and traipsed back to Kilsyth Road. As I was also literally moving from one life to another, with the only crossover my phone and silver bracelets, I have been doing a lot of thinking about all of these different lives, and don't see the varied ones in this life as particularly different from those I may have lived already. The Egyptian experience and going to Monorpix to pick up dried Febres are both equally distant and abstract. As some of my friends are on the more skeptical side "I don't want to talk about this", I'm doing my best to separate what's in my head and what comes out of my mouth, a lifelong challenge. 

Kilsyth Road, did not plant the dogwood blossom

Back in this US life, it turns out I have been lucky enough to experience a second cycle of spring (what a great life plan, to follow springs around the world) . There have been so many things that have been delicious. Real, wonderful, warm and long hugs are by far the best. Good coffee! English, ice, kitchen gadgets, the ballet and unbelievable Chinese food, a shower, lots more space and large jars of kimchee. Sports with racquets! Oh I do love being in the flow while playing tennis so very much and yesterday had something close to a religious experience with Jenn on Court 4. 

In the spirit of spirits, I decided to head up to Brattleboro for Mother's Day to visit my mom, who had passed away a few years ago, but was the reason I used to take the Wantasquait trail to the peak with a nice view of Brattleboro and on clear days, the southern Vermont ski mountains. The ritual was to take this hike after visiting my mom at the beige but kind nursing home, in order to get the yayas out before driving 2 hours back. One time, at the top, of all the odd things, there were two others who didn't know each other, both of whom were there because they were exhausted dealing with older parents. We were all speechless.

My mother and I were similar in some ways, she certainly gave me the gift of genuinely feeling grateful more than most, for which I'll be eternally grateful. There was also the stiff upper lip. But there are many ways we were different, and she never quite understood that. If I'd express an opinion different from hers or do something that she wouldn't have done, she'd look at me a bit like a odd zoo animal and get uncharacteristically quiet.  So, I spent some time on that peak thinking about this and coming to be at peace with it, at the tender age of 65.  I know, when will it be done??

Zohar and Gene were behind the counter at Yalla, wearing cowboy hats and listening to Johnny Cash. Zohar said "it's been a while" and "thanks for remembering us". The prices had gone up significantly, bringing them closer to market rate, Star Trek still plays a prime role, though as I didn't go to the bathroom, can't confirm that Captain Kirk with Elvis glasses s still there. Still the best sandwich pretty much anywhere.

​So, Kilsyth is going up for rent year round and I'll sort out my next summer living situation at some point in the future  If you know anyone who's looking for a very spacious one-bedroom starting September 1st, LMK. And if you or anyone you know is in need of furniture, art books, kitchen equipment, rugs, pictures, linens, pretty much everything that's in my apartment, let me know, I'll need to hold on to most things until the end of summer but am happy to reserve things. I'll be taking nominal donations that will be passed on to Sportsmen's Tennis and Enrichment Center, my favorite charitable mission.   

Big adventures later this week, stay tuned. 

I rather love the word Musculation, at my gym, WellNess in Aix

I had mentally started a post last week about French culture, specifically at the gym. After arriving early for a stretching class, which is about as appealing as hanging over a swamp full of alligators, I got my mat, put down my towel and claimed a much prized space. As people started to filter in, you would have thought it a cocktail party, with kisses, exclamations, laughter, groups of joy that didn't fit with stretching, at least for me. Of the perhaps 30 people in the room, I was the only one not involved in a conversation with someone else. Had they been doing this class together for years? Were they neighbors? Strangers? Long lost cousins?Couldn't say. And then there's that group of men about my age naturally in the Musculation area. Out of a movie with tidy haircuts and shiny technical gear and clothing that almost always includes weightlifting gloves not acquainted with a dumbbell. They lean on the fly machine like it's a cocktail bar, opining, seemingly oblivious to it being one of the most heavily used pieces of equipment. It matters not. Instead, there might be some nodding or shaking of heads and certainly, that classic French  stretched out mouth/pulled down chin that I realize usually implies disagreement, but sometimes a reluctant agreement.  It's a beautiful thing to watch it all, and makes time go quickly.

This new pensioner status provides for nice and lovely extra time, the dogs of responsibility no longer nipping at my heels. About a month ago, a hiking buddy told me about a book she'd read that changed the way she parented. Despite my daughter being happy and thriving, there were things this friend mentioned that drew me to the book. It was starkly clear that what the author wrote was right, and new to me, hitting hard and in the gut. It brought to mind missed opportunities to be supportive in certain ways, and ways that have a better insight into what it's like to be a child of ours, of mine. All those judgmental comments in therapy from many years ago echoed loud "When I'm a parent, I would  never ....." Ugh.  So yeah, heading north before heading west seemed important. 

In the apple not falling far from the tree department, after mapping my destination from Schipol to Utrecht, I inadvertently ended up at the same address in Amsterdam. But being flexible folk, Nat and I both pivoted and met there, behind Vondelpark at a sort of brown bar called Craft and Draft. I sat looking out the window waiting for her, and was moved to see her biking by with her blue Ikea bag, just so very Dutch in her cycling casualness. 

I have a friend who has a house she's recently renovated but not yet moved into in Utrecht. She is a good friend and I had talked to her about this book I'd read and the regrets I was feeling. While the plan had originally been to stay in Amsterdam in an Airbnb, she offered us her home, which,  even though she was in another country, was such a huge hug. Nat was game, and so we had this sanctuary, in a neighborhood so pretty and tidy it looks fake. That her house is something well-suited to an Architectural Digest spread didn't hurt at all, nor did the park across the street so perfectly manicured, yet wild. There was a feeling of grace.

Florin, Utrecht

We wanted to go somewhere new, and while Nat claims that all cities and towns in the Netherlands look alike, I can say with confidence that Delft has white railings on the canal bridges, whereas Utrecht and Amsterdam have black. We happened upon a candle store in Delft, and fell into a lengthy conversation with the owner, who had been a teacher who burned out during COVID, something about which his wife wasn't initially enthused. And no, he said, his mental health didn't improve because he was under such pressure to make things work financially. He brought on his burned out school colleagues and politie, as the police are called, and I had to keep from giggling as I imagined all these exhausted people holding strings, too tired to talk, repeatedly dipping them into melted wax, starting at a wall. A different sort of therapy, perhaps. He was warm, kind and engaging. After taking eons to cheerfully wrap our package, he handed it to us and when we thanked him and said goodbye, he said "goodbye hummers", as apparently we'd been entertaining ourselves by singing along with some song from the 90s, couldn't tell you which. Which reminds me, Nat told about a little boy she babysat for every week who would ask her to play the same song repeatedly, here is the ear worm she gave me and I now give it to you.  

Super competitive ping pong in the park across from our nest. 

So, yes, as a retraitée, as I'll be called in France, there'll be lots of time to think about different things that might never have been able to make it to the front burner. And while it won't always be comfortable, I welcome this digging in and reflection and am obscenely grateful for the daughter who has graced my life. It certainly made for a lovely time in the Netherlands. Wait, I forgot to say, it was sunny. EVERY day!

See you in a few, Boston.

Ayup

Are you able to claim that you have had to push away the attentions of a French man? (June, you don't count) I thought not. I am able. His three houses and that which he sold on the beach were surely meant as bait, as was an explanation of the kingdom his job oversaw in all of Southern France.And while he tried repeatedly to get my phone number, some well honed diversion tactics kicked in, which should have been more effective given that it was becoming clear my suitor had dementia. Oh, did I not mention that? Nor his ill-fitting dentures? An oversight. But he managed to fish out his card and hand it to me with a lascivious look at my legs, though not nearly as lascivious as the one he gave our poor young waitress with whom he converses every day she works. So, I can effectively get picked up in French, my grammar is improving. 

Brita, Tony and I were sitting at the prized corner outside Weibel, one of the most popular stops for decadent pastries and drinks on the tourist trail. It was a Saturday morning next to a full on market, the sun had just crested the building for enough time to cross the alley then again be obscured. There were people and dogs and babies and cars and bikes and trucks going by and we were, studied cafe sitters that we are, content. I did my best to turn my back on Jacques, once he told me that Monsieur Trump would rid America of vermin, and dove into a game that Tony and Brita were playing, which was to choose the person walking by or at a nearby cafe that you would want to spend 30 days with on a deserted island. They both picked the same person, a woman with thick grey hair loosely pulled back, off-beat clothes. They liked that the man she was with wasn't white and thought she looked interesting. I chose a tall and thin man with dark hair and skin, wearing navy blue including a baseball hat. I liked his slightly spacey and entertained look, imagining him laid back and peaceful, with an off kilter way of looking at the world, though my commitment waned when he returned a few minutes later, looking confusedly at his phone. Perhaps it would be me on navigation on the island...

Tony and Brita

Tony and Brita are friends from London. Brita came to stay with me last year and we had a bang up time.  And while I didn't know Tony as well, the only times we had met were when he was creating an incredible feast with cheer, and absolutely no stress. They had been trying to get here for a while but were repeatedly waylaid by a staggering amount of responsibilities, felt a bit sheepish, finding their way this past weekend. They are like two toddlers in the best possible way, in that they're more fun than most people, and are each directionally challenged in their own beautiful way. One had only 3G and is no map, the other leans towards paper maps and has a penchant for wandering off unannounced for extended periods of time, leading to my escorting them home that first night. But on day 2 things were better, and in fairness to them, it's a winding sort of place and the buildings do all look alike.

We kept busy, though it would be dishonest if I didn't admit a fair amount of that busy was sitting at a cafe drinking coffee during the day or things with bubbles in the evening.  The criminal trial of the DZ mafia heads is going longer than expected, so one night we sat across from the Palais de Justice, watching all the wonderful pageantry of the French militia, definitely of the Go Big or Go Home variety. Many many motorcycles, armored cars, gendarmerie vans, choppers overhead, on and on and on, all in their crisp blue uniforms. When there we covered many topics, and while I'm not sure how it came up, they told me about Prince Charles' response to a proposed new wing at the National Gallery, calling it a "monstrous carbuncle on the face of a much-loved and elegant friend'. Since then I have been struggling to introduce the word carbuncle into conversation. According to my two translation apps, it's anthrax in French. Also the word stroppy needs more attention.

We laughed about our state of oldness. Tony introduced the idea of the list of  "things we can no longer do", which is true and when we started to discuss, naturally lost focus and began another conversation. We also shared our discomfort with technology and the feeling of getting older and not being able to keep up. As my dear friend Marion calls it, being a techno-idiot. Related, I shared a story with them that I thought might arouse a giggle. 

When I moved into my apartment here, there were two WiFi accounts it; my landlord having set one up, which I didn't understand before I set a separate one up. It took many phone calls and finally a visit by my landlord and me together to the Orange store, after I'd tried a few times on my own. Once that was done, I must have got cocky about being a technological problem solver, deciding that while I'd never had a TV before, as I was stuck with this big hulking thing in my living room, I might as well activate it. Because nothing happened when I turned it on, I went back to the Orange store and when they saw me coming, handed me a yellow stickie with a phone number to an English speaking customer service agent. After following this kind and patient person's directions, which entailed walking back and forth between my bedroom and the living room, doing lots of plugging, unplugging and pushing buttons, we determined there was something wrong with the remote, which wasn't responding. I was to receive a new one in a few days and call them back. As soon as I hung up, it occurred to me that a remote needs batteries, and that a lack of power might have contributed to the challenges. Awkward. I kept this to myself and called them when I received the new remote. Again, lots of back and forth, and pushing buttons but eventually, the TV was on with colors and pictures, I thanked them and hung up. But when I went to turn the bloody thing off, it didn't work, so I resorted to unplugging it. When I went to turn it on, the screen was again black, so I again called and we did the whole set up again. When it was time to deal with her training me in turning off technology, she advised that I first get the other remote. My confused reply was "What other remote? "  She then took a deep breath and said very gently,  "Ma'am, is there anyone younger at your house who might be able to help you?" I thanked her and hung up, unplugged the TV and there it has sat. 

Brita at a cave on our hike. She wanted to climb the fence to get into the quarries, which were closed.

Yesterday, we went to Chateau LaCoste, though this time, instead of just eating, we took the 2 1/2 hour walking tour of the grounds, which is mostly vineyards with sculpture and a building or two. I had told Marianne, who initially took me to both, that I preferred Chateau de la Gaude, which her husband had designed, better than Chateau LaCoste, which is bigger and more famous. Going back for a second time to the latter, accompanied by a landscape architect and designer, this was confirmed. Owned by a Irishman who has asked every famous architect and artist to add something wherever they please, it is impressive from a compendium standpoint, but as Brita noted, the lack of a master plan looms large, leaving one with feelings of confusion and occasionally asphyxiation, as sitting at the cafe, one is surrounded by old provencal buildings on two sides, a Tadao Ando building and water feature jammed right in there and fairly nearby on a third side, and quite close by, two metal hangar like buildings. But in the end, while there were things that jarred, there was enough good to look at, and looking at art in vineyards is not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon. 

Legit embassy

In the end, they were sadly housed in a legit building and my girl Kimberly proved warm and helpful, a first on this most comical journey. A form of some sort has now been singed, witnessed, submitted and processed, documentation provided. Some thing, I'm not sure what, must be moving forward. Oh, what will be next and how delightfully will it be complicated with me being in the US this summer? 

Paris was wonderful. The weather was perfection + 5 degrees, any sort of tourist visit inside was out of the question, instead I chose to walk from the Gare de Lyon on the east side of the rive droit to the 16th, where I was staying with a kind woman I'd met in Aix. So many had told me to brave the lines to see the new Notre Dame, the word luminous was tossed around liberally, but when I got to that part of the city, surrounded by overheated, grouchy people, it just wasn't possible, The 16th, which to me has the feeling of the Upper East Side, I loved for its quiet elegance, and could have camped out there forever. But as I was only there for a day, after becoming acquainted with the GSpot and submitting my form, I hoofed it back to Gare de Lyon via the Seine, where everyone seemed to be taking their last run before the marathon the Paris Marathon that I believe was yesterday.

Where the business happens

The joy of life here is in the details. I check in with the view above frequently and it often lures me outside.

​There are the ongoing things; the cavity in the sidewalk where a puddle forms,  allowing me to see how much it's raining. There are the restauranteurs who receive deliveries and put out furniture, the high strung woman at the fifties diner vibe called Betty's Resto, who takes her buggy to the market daily, her impatient actions seeming more American than French.  Often I see a woman with bleached blonde very short hair who works hard on her daily outfits, yet always seems sad in a solitary way. And the lady with the German Shepherd who washes away her dog's pee, which always lands right in the gutter. But I haven't seen the tall and slender man who sometimes wears a black patent leather unitard for a long time.  By far my favorite was a woman and man of mid thirties who met up in front of the cafe below my window. Eschewing the traditional kiss on each cheek, the man, with a big smile on his face, held his right hand in the air and bowed an iota. Her hand met his, he pirouetted her around, she following gracefully, then curtsied. They then sat down and began talking, which happens quite a bit here, the French really are good at it. 

Finally, the rain has gone.the gelato shop has opened, the fish market is back every day and the Chinese tourists are evident on the Cours Mirabeau. The first blush of spring when the grass is so absurdly bright green has come and gone, now it's at the awkward tufty phase, with all the delicious wild flowers popping out their heads. I haven't seen a poppy yet, but there have been irises, orchids, daisies and daisies and daisies, and my favorite this week, wild grape hyacinths. When I hiked up Mt. Ste. Victoire, there were yellow daffodils with heads smaller than a dime. The rosemary, which is everywhere, is ablaze in light purple/periwinkle and little thyme tufts have started blooming dark purple flowers with dark red leaves. There's never any need to buy thyme, rosemary or bay leaves here.

The perfect flower for making a flower crown. Or a daisy chain!

But the big story right now in Aix has received national attention, and more importantly, provided some good viewing out my window. After going down some serious research rabbit holes, I can tell you that there is a Corsican mafia, and that they control many of the businesses in Corsica, from a protection perspective, and that they have expanded to the south of France. At apéro last Friday, I heard conflicting stories about how involved they were, some saying they ran many of the restaurants in Aix to launder drug money, and that you could tell which because there was never anyone in them or they were renovated every year. Furthermore, I was told that it was the Corsican mafia who were responsible for the fire at Les Deux Garçons in 2019, resulting after the owners refused to pay protection money. But then there were others saying other things, so who knows. Les Deux Garçons is wicked famous, Zola and Cezanne, who both hailed from here, used to hang there, as did MFK Fisher and many others. Because it's a historic building, once it burned down, it was required that one of the few historic artisans in the country renovate it, and so it continues, slowly, and will one day re-open and hopefully be just as charming with as many bad-natured waiters, for which they were apparently known.

Anyway, back to the drama here. So, there is the Corsican mafia, and in Marseille there is the North African mafia who control the drugs, Marseille being a main point of entry for Europe. They are responsible for most of the violence you hear about (in a part of Marseille that neither your nor I would ever go to, but Nat did because she took an Uber from the airport and put my street address in for the destination, neglecting to put Aix, and so was taken to that address in Marseille, which wasn't the most savory, especially late at night. She lived to tell the story and her mother aged many years). Well apparently the head honcho of the Corsican mafia and the head honcho of the North African mafia were in the same high security prison and got to networking and bonded, creating a perfect union. So, we've got that going for us,

One of the trials is about two North African brothers whom, after they killed someone, cut the poor sod up into small pieces and put him in the back of a car. As one of the brothers had already escaped from prison once, thanks to a bribed prison guard who also let him know where a certain inmate was located, and who is, ahem, no longer with us, security was tantamount. And the French are a belt and suspenders people.

So, every morning around 7am, I begin to hear walkie talkies and French men sounding authoritative, and when I look, see a few outside the window, holding pedestrians, bikes, scooters and trucks up. We'll then hear a siren in the distance and before you know it, anywhere between 2 and 6 motorcycles with blue lights flashing will come down tiny little Rue Pierre et Marie Curie and then something will follow them. Sometimes it's 6 black vans, sometimes it's a Mercedes sedan, often it's a slew of Gendarmerie cars, and this morning, it was this really scary looking matte black tank-like thing that I'm guessing held the prisoners. This repeats three or four times before 8am every morning, resulting in many many men who appear to be alarmingly casually holding their Remington 870s while talking sports scores to their colleagues (yes, I heard them). There are choppers circling above for a lot of the day and news cameras asking us for opinions, and apparently even the magistrates are searched and screened when they enter the building.  You can read more about it here and hopefully won't go on as deep as dive as I did. ​

Police Nationale at Place du Verdun. Not exactly vigilant, but boy do they look cute in their uniforms.

There have also been municipal elections over the past week. There were I believe 7 candidates, and each of them had a poster put up on the side of town hall, with their party. After the first round, some were eliminated, their poster was removed. The incumbent, Sophie Jossains, a right of center candidate,  received 47% of the vote in the second round, and won. She is the daughter of the former mayor, who was apparently busted for accepting bribes. When sent to prison, the felonious mayor put her daughter Sophie in her stead, and there she has remained. Whether this is true or not, I don't know, but I'll say that from my perspective as a visitor/resident, it seems the daughter  does a very good job. There are many many things that go on here, with a large population living and an even larger one visiting. Everything works smoothly, trash is picked up twice a day, everything's clean and orderly pretty much always. There are always areas being improved and there seems to be a fair amount of support for people with those who one might think would be marginalized.

Mt. Ste. Victoire

So, instead of thinking about the world's many different flavors of crazy, we take off every Tuesday with a large pack of dogs and a picnic. Last week, for the first time I had the opportunity to climb up Mt. Ste. Victoire, which always seems to be lurking around, being a bit of a bully with its bigness and greyness. Apparently Cezanne painted it more than 90 times. I can see why, it's hard to miss. It takes about two hours to climb, and there were about 15 of us, stopping half way up because it was hot . We didn't want to carry all our layers, so took them off and hid them behind a bush. Almost at the top is a little chapel, which, when you've just experienced the steepness and not so easy rocks that need to be climbed over to get there, is a miracle. I couldn't stop wondering how everything had been brought up there. Later, someone told me the rock was blown out to make bricks. 

Lunch outside the chapel

Others climbed up to the cross, which was another 20 minutes, but by then, I had tripped up the hill and banged both my knees, concerned that I wouldn't be able to get down without someone carrying me or a chopper coming.  Fortunately it wasn't so bad,  made my way down slowly and even did some sliding on my butt. Forgot about my layers, but one of the kind people brought them down for me. All's well that ends well, but I keep seeing that cross at the top and it's challenging me, I need to get there. 

Today we climbed up into the hills above Marseille where Marcel Pagnol, the creator of Jeanne de Florette and Manon of the Spring was from. We had a view of the whole city and the islands out in the harbor. There  were many of us and we straggled along, chatting, having lunch, taking photographs and agreeing that it was the best way to spend a Tuesday.

No, this wasn't in Basel, rather in front of a tall not empty ashtray and two anemic bushes that were camouflaging a ratty two star hotel, I suppose Aix' version of nature, though we did go on a multi-hour hike but I forgot to take a photo then. Isn't she just the best? That she pulled up a stool to wash dishes in the kitchen, asking Why wouldn't I? made me love her even more

Ank is not one to miss a call at an agreed upon time, but minutes after having done so, she left a voicemail apologizing, explaining that she was about to go into surgery to fix her broken right arm. Apparently her broken pelvis would have to heal on its own, but she'd get a cast for the breaks on her left arm and hand. The horse did not need surgery.

Fast forward a few weeks and there I was on the TGV, this time with a window seat! going too fast to take photographs, through Avignon, Lyon, Dijon almost all the way to Strasbourg. The hilly fields were a vibrant green, blooms of fruit trees looking like pastel fireworks, scenic livestock peppering the hills with a medieval church sprinkled in every now and then. After arriving in the beautiful Basel SBB train station, I picked up the 15 tram to Brudholz and walked a few minutes with my much too heavy and noisy wheelie.  

The old part of Basel is dear and earnest. ​It is clean, picturesque, has many independent stores and lots of outdoorsy people with messy hair and bike clips, which made me feel right at home. Not a lot of pretense. At the train station on my way back, I saw young couples heading off for the weekend, dressed in rain gear and plastic covered big packs and babies. Good for them! And much better than the man I saw here in France who was mountain biking down a steep and rocky hill with a really small baby strapped in. 

The sublime hills of Basel, and my sublime friend, walking 10,000 steps!!

I'm not sure how many bones Ank broke, but it was not a few.  Over our five days together, I watched her good humored determination to get the better of her situation, working hard to do painful exercises, laughing at her inability to do certain things, gracefully overcoming what can not be much fun. While she was reliant on a wheelchair, crutch, cast and sling when I arrived, by the time I left, she needed none of them and had walked 10,000 steps, as well as taken the 15 from Brudholz downtown to a posh bar for Friday night cocktails. 

We were exhausted every night from being busy all day doing I don't know what. Don't ask me to explain, maybe it can be addressed with a quantum physics framework. OK, Here are some random things we did. Drove to France to buy Swiss Vacherin (best cheese I've had in a long time, try some soon) and a puzzle. Had coffee and a marron cake at an adorable café. Went to the equivalent of Home Depot to buy the felt things you put under chairs. Went to the hospital where Ank had been treated, and downtown for various errands and enjoyments. We also did puzzles, starting with a gateway 500 piecer and graduating quickly, like the addicts we were, to a 1500 piecer. We worked well as a team, having roles that matched our personalities; me searching for shells on a Sanibel beach, and Ank project managing, finalizing and making it look good. We'd get these freaky glimpses into our future, hopefully not for many years. But I'll tell you, I know one person I'll be happy to be feeble with, someone who will teach me to grow old gracefully. 

Giacometti, lots of evidence of him. Maeght, Ste. Paul

​I may be functionally incapable when in a new place, of following through on an original intention, distracted and pulled away as I do tend to get, but it often results in a nice surprise. But not always. Meaning to get on the bus to head back to the airport where I would switch to a train that would take me to the station at Nice Ville, I was lured by a  hill I knew to be Ste. Paul-de-Vence not so far away, and being a bit peckish, was easily diverted. But after choosing a panini to order off the menu at an outdoor cafe and being barked at that paninis couldn't be ordered at the table and couldn't be eaten there (and this is March, imagine how acerbic he'll be in August!), I got a bad taste in my mouth which only got worse as I realized SP-d-V was yet another hilltop village with no soul, filled with restaurants and stores selling home goods. It made me think that maybe I shouldn't have been so appalled when in Tuscany, my sulky at the time 13- year old daughter whined "How many hills with churches are we going to go to?". Or as a lifetime Stockbridge resident said about his town, "I can't even buy a. hammer here." Aix is as far as I'm willing to go down that road.
​

This is the vibe in Nice, classic old places next to newer apartment buildings. It somehow works.

The brocante was interesting, as much for the populace as anything for sale, though there were many beautiful travel posters from the sixties I could have easily bought. There were a bunch of old and even older men who one could tell spent significant time there, engaging vendors who knew that nothing would come out of the transaction and had work to do. Others browsing, funny that it was almost all men, reminded me of a certain place in the US where spares, or second sons of families with many things to inherit, go to live their lives of financial ease and ennui, peppered with a mental or emotional challenge. I'm thinking specifically about a guy I saw at the brocante who had orange pants on, a wool olive green vest and white pressed shirt that my first husband, who certainly fits into that category, would have worn, hand made leather shoes, hair almost to his shoulders that had been colored from dark brown to an orangy color, flipped into a situation that had hairpins and reminded me of Guillermo Vilas in the 1970s. He had a small, brown poodle that he attended aggressively.

Daffodils, the international herald of spring, Cimiez Gardens, Nice

Did you know that in Nice you can have lunch at a restaurant actually on the beach? A nice man in a white and blue striped T shirt brought me sardines, a little roll of French butter, some toasted baguette for the sardines, but dear to my heart, a brown bag of fresh baguette as well. Ordering a side green salad, I for some reason pictured one similar to what Pizzeria Uno might serve, in a brown bowl made to look like wood, with watery iceberg, pink tomatoes and white zinfandel dressing. What came was a ceramic bowl of the most recently picked greens, pungent olive oil and little else. The whole situation was heavenly, so I sat there on that beach thinking how incredibly lucky I was to be having the day I was having. 

Boardwalk life

On my last day, I walked down to the other end of the boardwalk and found the port, where French is not spoken and apparently all ex-pats live,. I also discovered the tourist nexus, a few alleys with ice cream shops and Lordy knows what else. It was a cluster. But right down on the harbor, I fell upon a grizzled man cutting up sea urchins, or orsins as they're called here. I have a memory of my father buying them for us when I was a child in Cassis, and while I've enjoyed them as uni in Japanese food, I'd not tried them out of the shell since way back. This man gave me 12, pointed to a curb with a low table, and there I sat with a small plastic spoon, scooping out their deliciousness. Would order them again in a heartbeat.

Tastu lunch

True to form, I had moments when convinced that I should move to Nice, there was much more going on, it's more of a city but not quite as overwhelming as Marseille. And we all know I love a beach and a palm tree. But as always, despite it having been a great few days, as soon as I got off the bus and was back in Aix, my heart was happy. 

And you, shy little thing in the middle of the big forest

First, an acknowledgement that it's far from spring in the US. I hope this doesn't feel as though your face is being rubbed, rather that you are being encouraged, reminded. 

The French friends I have insist it's still winter, but the tiny, brave little things that have been announcing themselves, not to mention the nearby fields' bright green corduroy rows punctuated by reddish brown, say otherwise. Perhaps, like the glass half empty, what to others is winter, to my state of mind, is spring. The last few days of sun after months of grey and so much rain (I know, I know, it's not snow and at least it's above freezing. I am truly sorry) have made being a citizen of the world feel something of a religious experience.  Back when I was trying to untangle all the assumptions that had surreptitiously wound around and knotted me up, my shrink tried to help me understand my very British mother and typically Mediterranean father, by telling me that research has shown that the nearer someone lives to the equator, the more likely he or she is to live for the moment. Naturally, not always true (as evidenced by my French friends), but an interesting framework to kick around. When the sun creates these crazy beautiful shadows on the solid but tired and washed out buildings of Aix, when bouquets of mimosa wrapped in brown paper are something of a regular accessory, when the cafes are packed from morning until well after midnight with content voices softly bouncing off the stone of the streets and buildings*, I am bowled over by a feeling of good fortune. So yes, why think about tomorrow when today is just so incredibly perfect?  It makes sense to squeeze every last drop out of it. And so it has been.

A feeling of freedom had been starting to percolate,  egged on by nice weather, but also brought on by having just about completed the painful list of bureaucratic headaches. Adding to that, I  finished what may be my last search and find myself inexplicably choosing penury over hustling for my next gig. I'm freeeeee. And  keep thinking of that license plate from the 80's: No clock, no shoes, no boss, no mortgage,  It's an odd feeling combination of unnerving and shockingly exciting. perhaps the late winter, early spring of a new life.... 

I can't stop thinking about Marianne's painted blue Virgin Mary that's in her hallway. She's too heavy to steal.

After a 10-mile hike on Saturday followed by dinner out, I was expecting a low key day on Sunday, but Marianne called  and said "Nous allons à Chateau LaCoste aujord'hui!" and up she pulled in her Mini convertible with the top down, and a TOP GUN baseball hat for me to wear. We drove past hills and  vineyards and crumbling old houses and some posh new ones, to arrive at this interesting property that some Irish guy developed, making bio wine, having a hotel and multiple restaurants as well as housing some interesting art (Louise Bourgeois' spider, a smaller version than was at the Tate Modern for all those years) that we would have had to pay to go and see. But it's a lovely property with some old buildings and a modern one designed by Tadao Ando, where we lunched, outside in the sun, overlooking the vineyards. 

We each took 485 photographs, stopping every 3 feet

It turns out that she does speak English, and funnily enough, once I knew that, it was easier to speak French. Spending time in this really beautiful place and being with someone who was so reverent was all that was needed for us to connect. Her kindness was repeated when I accidentally left my phone in her car when she dropped me off. After realizing it, I assumed I'd be taking a bus to her house that evening to pick it up, but when she found it , she drove back, parked her car and walked back and forth between where she dropped me off and where she last saw me (she didn't have my address). When I realized it was gone, my computer told me where it was and I went back and there she was, pacing the sidewalk, looking around. I thanked her profusely and she again acted in such a matter of face way, as though it was no big deal. What a lovely person.

Today I woke up to another beautiful day, making it an easy decision to blow off the gym and project that may turn into a business (more on that once the candle is lit), and so off I went on the 51 bus to Gare St. Charles in Marseille. I'd been waiting for a couple of months for a nice day to use my FREE bus pass to take a FREE ride to one of the islands or harbors in Marseille, figuring I'd  decide where to go based on which boat was leaving first.  I was shocked to find out that I'd have to pay, and that the boat to the Chateau d'If was full and the one to l"Estaque only ran in summer. So after a few minutes of deliberation under the Anish Kapoor at the Vieux Port, I toddled on over to La Joliette and got on the did I mention FREE? 35 bus to l'Estaque, which is a village that is part of Marseille, but is 11k away from Vieux Port. It followed the coast west, past the Corsica ferry and cruise ship terminals, shipyards, loading areas and dockyards. It was a fascinating ride that stopped me in this funny little village that is technically part of Marseille, but has the feel of a small town with a harbor.  

Somewhere between Sidi Ifni and Tazougart

One day, we borrowed Maria and Eberhardt's UN approved outfitted for the desert Landcruiser, which had at one time been Joyce's, to take a trip inland to an abandoned fort. We drove south along the Atlantic for a little less than an hour and then took a left, leaving the greener hills along with literally any sign of human life aside from the paved road. It's happened enough times now that I know to expect some kind of mystical experience when on land that is so devoid of humans and buildings, with only sky and a very very long horizon. It didn't hurt that the sun was out and that the windiness of the road, going up and down canyons, had a certain beauty of its own.

Road to Tazougart

What awaited us was an adobe fort, built in 1935 by the French Foreign Legion, then abandoned whenever ti was that their business took them elsewhere. It was hard to imagine what natural resources, in this usually arid land with little sign of life, needed military protection, and while there was talk that it was put there to quell local unrest, it seems a bit bazooka for a mosquito in its scale.

Nevertheless, there it was. As we got out of the car, Joyce said in passing "oh, mind for the snakes, I've heard they like it here" which sent me into a twister, but I let the two of them, who seem unperturbed, go first and kept eyes open in the front, back and side of my head. Like much of the building in Morocco, it's adobe, which needs to be kept up every year, or it starts to fall apart, resulting in this case in a haunted old place in the middle of nowhere, with nary another creature in sight. 

Who could have possibly attacked??

Joyce had made a reservation for lunch, which one has to do in order for the purveyors to have enough advance warning to drive the 40 minutes to Guelmim for ingredients,  It seemed an absurd place for a reserved lunch, but it turns out that the road leads onto the Sahara and Mauritania and is a big stop for motor cyclers. As it was only a couple of kilometers from the fort, I decided to walk, and was rewarded with a feeling of being alone in this peaceful, untouched and unfamiliar land, shared only with a few sheep up on a hillside in the distance, baaing away. Sure enough, there was a lodge, our table was set with a beautiful vegetable tagine, followed by another composed of fruit. 

*****

A shack where some of us took a postprandial nap. I couldn't stop humming to myself "Midnight at the Oasis" as sung in Waiting for Guffman auditions

Our next adventure took us northeast, about a 4 hour drive to the high desert (appx 1500 metres). For much of the drive it was cloudy or misty, but we were able to see green valleys and up in the mountains, graduated ledges that evoked tea plantations (I have no idea why I even have an image of these as I've never seen one), but as it turns out, were built to grow almond trees, which are no longer a local crop because they're too expensive to maintain. At the market in Tafraoute, we actually saw a bulk bag of almonds that said "California, USA" on it. We stayed at a cool place called El Malara, conceived, built and run by a couple who are French and Belgian, just outside of town. 

It was sort of a box canyon, like Telluride is a box canyon, only pretty different from Telluride. Mountains surround the area on all but one side, but there we were in the middle of a desert, argan trees and whatever the plant is that makes tumbleweeds were the only things that flourished . There were also huge rocks, and not much else. Again, the best part for me was walking out onto this sandy road at different times of the day with no other creature in evidence, feeling the silent majesty of the earth. There's something so reassuring about understanding how incredibly puny we all are. 

We're talking dry

One day I walked to one of two attractions, the painted rocks. A Belgian artist had painted them in the 60s, which to me seemed a bit presumptuous as I believe the Christos only ever put up temporary signs of human intervention. In any case, locals thought "well if a little is good, more is better", which turned out to absolutely not be true. 

From when our lunch originated

We decided to try and find the traditional Berber house, where Joyce had been before, and after driving through some beautifully manicured oases, found our way to this house up on a rocky hill.  The Berbers would keep the animals on the ground floor, creating heat that would rise up. There would be a hole somewhere for humans to send down all food refuse to the animals, the way this family lived until fairly recently. When the father passed away a few years ago, the son inherited the house (he must be in his late fifties) and decided to build a lodging nearby where he now lives. He continues to keep his old house open for people to visit, and gave us a warm welcome, making us tea with absinthe, showing us around and towards the end, playing his banjo, both a western and then Berber song about losing a mother.  We felt so honored to be his guests. 

Just one offering on this visual smorgasbord

And then it was home again, home again, jiggedy jig, with a stop in Tiznit as it was Friday, and as anyone knows, Friday is mosque day so it's couscous day. It's set to cook early before services, and then when they're over, it's ready and everyone sits down to eat together. We stopped in a funky place in the Tiznit Medina and had a fish couscous, which was delicious