Welcome to London

England was my first love,  and London has always been the force behind that,  Chiswick the epicenter, my aunt the reason. I love flying in and looking down at all the green patches, taking the tube to Turnham Green, seeing what's new and what's gone on Turnham Green Terrace, and walking down the Devonshire Road, underneath the tunnel that smells like piss and then up on the other side of the Hogarth Roundabout where we saw King Charles who was then Prince Charles in the back of a brown Bentley with paperwork, and after that it's the beautiful and wholly untouched Mall.

Little has changed at the Mall since the 15th century 

​But for the last few arrivals, the weather has been less than welcoming, forcing me to stagger along with my suitcases, shoulders up as though doing so might keep me drier, zero interest in looking around, rather looking down to avoid large puddles. Wait, why did I leave France?? 

But this time, things had started going wrong way before the attack of sharp and aggressive raindrops. Last year, in order to renew my British passport, I had to send in copies of every page of every passport along with 200 quid. Because my Maltese passport didn't include a middle initial, the request for renewal was denied without a refund, which didn't warm me to The Land of Hope and Glory. When in touch with the Maltese authorities, I was told it would be a year before any passport would be updated, they were understaffed (??), an awkward amount of time given that it was my proof of EU citizenship. So that project got put on hold in favor of things like finding a place to live and learning how to say "I'm so sorry to ask this, but can you please reset my bankcard password a third time?" in French. When booking this trip, the Air France app might have told me to be concerned about English paperwork, but that doesn't apply to me, I thought, this is a Brexit issue, cocky as I was about being able to use my American passport. Turns out that a new rule went into effect in the UK, not surprisingly coinciding with #47's first day in office, that Americans now have to file information and pay money to enter this bloodsucking country. That I found this out at the airport and had to pay an expediting fee, putting me back £169, didn't warm me to  the old Britannia, nor did the glowers I received from my fellow passengers as I finally entered the plane. 

But the sharp rain pellets that attacked me were the last thing that went wrong, followed as they were by a steep happiness curve with lovely walks, pub visits, old friends, drinks parties, jolly times celebrating my aunt's 92nd birthday, and that whole Christmas thing. 

Quintissentially British, at the Cheese Market

There was no question about attending the cheese market, at which I'd stuffed myself in previously. Nat, with years of Costco sampling under her belt (there was a time when she contemplated bringing varied sweatshirts to improve her harvest), joined me. A grey and cold morning after a pub night, of course we were going to the raclette booth, where we shared the vegetarian version of a breakfast a friend had called the Seven Deadly Sins which included every sort of fried meat, bread and potatoes; ours was roast potatoes with a serious amount of oil doused on them, topped with melted raclette, cornichons and what they were calling black ketchup which tasted like Pickapeppa.  You have to keep moving after a meal like that... So we did, going to the Columbia Flower Market to stare at all the people staring at people. 

Other days we walked along the river to centralish London, had not bad dim sum in Chinatown at Lido, visited Brookline friends now living in Islington, said hello to the deer at Richmond Park, bought lots of fresh orange juice. In France, I have no interest in drinking, but find it hard not to in London, whether because of the grey, or the staggeringly good array of pubs. So to pubs we went, finding a new favorite at the Black Lion, where with two of the lads (more about them later), we enjoyed a few pints and some dinner. 

Elegance personified

My aunt's friends are a couple who have been married many years. He is a story teller, she is not, nor does she want to become one. After they'd been together some years, she found that her elbow wasn't quite as sharp as it had once been, rendering undercover jabs at him less effective. Instead of giving up, she had some cards made of nice,  thick and luxurious off-white stock that she hands out generously. 

Art, the Calmer and Baz, the Cook

After Christmas, things quieted down and there was a fair amount of walking and staring at the river or the sky or other people or a beer. On the last day after Nat had left, I walked along the river, almost as far as Richmond before realizing I needed to get back to pack. It was nice to have quiet time alone. Even though my aunt is 92, it's somehow usually bedlam at her house. 

I have no idea if this is old school, but seems it

And then it was back to Marseille, delays at Charles de Gaulle**, but eventually home and so happy to be here, the actual light, and the lightness of people, the sense of humor of even the passport people and Uber drivers and well, I'm in the right place and feel so very lucky.  

Supplies at the Italian grocer next to my apartment

The saga has ended. Well actually, I'm not sure it's ever going to really end. There's a voicemail on my telephone that I haven't had the strength to listen to, addressing what to do with the second WiFi box that was installed last week at what was supposed to be a reduced price, but in the end will cost more than I should be paying because it includes a years worth of TV coverage which I won't ever watch. So I've got that going for me. Every single thing is like that, every thing. Challenged by logistics in my own language, it's pretty much never ending. Next up, registering for health insurance. Wish me so very much luck. That aside, some things must have gone right because I have a home with an address and a mailbox and a buzzer with my name (sort of) on it. 

Getting there.... I have so many small things like this to fix

This process has been that of a village helping, starting with my dear friend Carin, who not only held onto my boxes in Brookline for far too long, but had to unpack them when I was notified that the French customs officials would treat Annie's macaroni and cheese as a not allowed dairy product, along with a leather bag which apparently falls into the meat category. And then there's the address labels I was so careful to print out and affix that I late in the game realized said TBD for the delivery address. She had to fix that... Bless you, Carin. Last year it was my socks she had to get to me....

Those boxes were added to the luggage I had left in France last year, which was added to the luggage I brought this year, which was enhanced with some household things I proactively purchased here, rounded out by all the belongings Julia kindly passed along before buzzing back to Brisbane. So much for traveling light. 

When I turned 50, I wanted the newly published New York Times cookbook, so bought it for myself and copying a friend, wrote on the front page, To: Anna, Happy Birthday, I hope you enjoy this for many years, Love Anna. It was a cookbook that got a lot of hype and one of the things I read either in the book or prior, was that Amanda Hesser, the editor mentioned that her mother's fitness regime consisted of cooking, cleaning and manual labor around the house. I often thought sheepishly about this when scampering off to the gym while the Brazilian cleaners carried vacuum cleaners and other things into my wee apartment in Brighton. So as I believe I've mentioned, I'm trying to turn over a new lease here in France. 

So I got the idea to carry my stuff from my old place to my new place. With six days of crossover, it was .8 of a mile, uphill, why not put my clothes in garbage bags and haul them up instead of going to the gym?  For two days I did this, four trips a day, falling into bed at night with sore muscles and a need for deep sleep. But on day 3, I started doing the math, likely something most would do prior to beginning the project, while also wondering whether I could carry that box of cookbooks on my head and would people stare at me. When rain entered the forecast, I threw in the towel and called a cab, one of the few cars able to penetrate the pedestrian barrier where I live. This most wonderful and cheerful guy showed up in a car I was convinced wasn't big enough, but he told me of his recent trip to Paris, moving his daughter, and within minutes, had every bit of space filled, and we were on our way. Minutes later, we had unloaded into the lobby of my new building and he was on his way, though not without having to walk around the neighborhood outside my apartment with his card reader, looking for a signal. 

Ugh, I didn't even ask his name, he was a very nice guy

As I listened to the rain patter while I carried all my things up a flight of stairs, I thought about how nice it would be to be in my new, cozy apartment, but alas, the key didn't move in the lock. So, I'd go down, get another load, try again, to no avail. Prior days, it had been a struggle to get it to open, involving some unknown combination of pulling, pushing, holding the key hard and then soft. But this time, no results, with all my things blocking the hallway. 

Over the years, the spectre of the ugly Americans has haunted me and I have taken my PR responsibilities seriously, wanting to do what I can for the reputation of our blighted citizens.  Apparently the relationship between landlord and tenant is somewhat different here, with tenants responsible for more than they might be in the US. So, after struggling for a few hours, I took a chance and apologetically texted my landlord who responded immediately, ordering a locksmith, saying the guy would arrive in an hour. I went out for a walk, and of course it started to rain again and I got soaked. Came back, tried, the lock again, to no avail, got a call from the locksmith, he'd be another hour. Went to a cafe, had to have a pain au chocolat, another hour, he still wasn't there. Eventually he did show up and didn't seem to notice my sorry state, body slamming the door to open it, which I guess bypasses any sort of lock problem. I explained that this wasn't necessarily an amenable solution for me, and he pulled out his power tools and did some things that made noises and pronounced the lock fixed. It is better, but still gets stuck and honestly, I'm traumatized. So, since then, driving my poor dear friend Ank crazy, I've resorted to what shocked my neighbors in Boston, and left my door unlocked. Everyone happy.  Phew. 

At night the radiators make that noise, I deliberate about whether to say something, eventually decide to, get a plumbers appointment a week later, they come, bang around, make the radiators leak water on the floor, don't stop the noise and put the thermostat up to about 87 degrees, forcing Ank and me onto chairs with YouTube videos. 

I tell you these shockingly uninteresting stories to illustrate how incredibly complicated every little thing is and to rationalize my re-watching of Schitt's Creek, which is somehow the balm that soothes my tired head. In any case, I'm on the other side of the mountain, and while there will surely be rubble and perhaps a few avalanches I'm putting the crampons away. The apartment is lovely and funky. It had been an airbnb and so there was a fair amount of de-cluttering to be done, which got me thinking that perhaps Airbnb was solely responsible for the birth and growth of all those stories that sell random home shit.

And this

Off to London tomorrow morning for Christmas week. On the way back, I'll be diving into house cleaning and I'm sure there will be some adventures there. 

Happy happy whatever you celebrate and hope you have the week off!

​Back when white painters pants were a thing first time around, a woman I'd known in high school invited me to join her on a weekend trip from Boston to Burlington. As we drove north on Route 89 in the snow of deep winter, her Subaru started to make unfamiliar sounds just south of West Lebanon, New Hampshire. We pulled off at a gas station/convenient store, but it was late on a Friday night and the only person working was a kid also in his early twenties. We told him of our troubles and he kindly locked up the store and came to look at our car, determining that we needed a new fan belt, an easy fix in the morning. He called a tow truck and invited us to sleep on his and his girlfriend's couch, which we gratefully accepted. In the morning, they made us breakfast and he drove us to the garage. As though he hadn't done enough, he said he'd guide us back to Route 89. Stopped at a light, a car T-boned his hardworking and already beaten up old car. We pulled over, moritified. After what was likely not enough back and forth, he (still warmly and politely) convinced us that staying wouldn't help, so we thanked him and went on our way, while he focused on more important things. The whole weekend long, we thought about him dealing with his cracked up car, knowing how little he and his girlfriend had, while we were whooping it up at UVM. We didn't have his last name and being lame 20 somethings, didn't try to find any identifying information. I have never forgotten his largesse, lamenting the disadvantage in which he was put because of it, and so uncomfortable with the inequity of our response and thanks. While it comes up regularly, it's particularly on my mind today. 

Last Friday afternoon, my dear friend Ank arrived on the train from Basel to celebrate my birthday. She brought her beautiful smile and hearty laugh, absurdly good Swiss chocolate and pretty candles that give a warm glow in the evening. It had been two years, but was only minutes before we were back in it. While we've shared hard things in the past, we've also had a lot of fun. We're both the ones who say "Sure" if someone suggests doing something, though it's unlikely anyone will make a suggestion before we do. So I made many plans in my head for adventures we'd take over the five days she was here. But alas, I woke up sick the day after she arrived and as time went on, felt worse. There was my friend who'd just recovered from COVID, stuck in the germ factory of my not properly furnished apartment with me either sleeping or hacking up a lung. 

Every morning I'd wake up saying I was feeling better, and suggest some  plan or other. She'd just nod patiently and say "Let's see how things go" with a smile, only to end up padding quietly around the apartment, bringing me tea and meals. When I had a little energy, we went to the hardware store and she picked out the right lightbulb. She put up my hooks and fixed the thermostat, standing on a chair with flashlight and YouTube. Through it all she was warm, kind, funny, exhibiting not one iota of the annoyance I imagine I might feel in her place. And we never stopped talking and laughing, never ran out of things to say. Our time together and the love and care Ank bestowed upon me are gifts so graciously generous that I'm moved to tears every time I think about the last few days. My thanks in return? Sending her back to Switzerland with my illness, all her plans cancelled. Rest up my friend.

Next up and finally, the move and the apartment.

With my dear friend Julia

Since last Saturday when Julia and Parkie began their 24 hour journey back to Brisbane,  an empty feeling comes over me, sometimes when the light is right for a nice sit and chat, other times when the magpies are in evening vespers, and often when unpacking my my new place, spoiled by hand me downs.  It's a funny thing to have a friendship with someone so young, but she's old beyond her years, despite her puppy-like enthusiasm for the Harry Potter store, which was hard for me to understand. 

We met through Facebook, which is funny because neither of us uses it. This sunny Aussie girl asked me out to lunch, and that first time together cemented things immediately. Julia moved to Aix here to be with Parkie while he was on a contract with Airbus in Marseille. For someone so young to have only minimal responsibilities must have been a little disorienting and at first, she was unmoored, painfully missing her family and life back in Brisbane. But gradually, they both grew a friend group who went indoor climbing on Friday nights, then she joined a pool and got back to swimming and became a barista at the volunteer coffee shop, meeting another friend for life from South Africa. So by the time last week rolled around and the two of them finally put a lid on a month of goodbyes, although she was finally going back to her family, I believe she felt a bit torn away from a life she had grown to love.  She taught me words like yabby and brekkie and chook, but really it was that instant and very deep connection we shared that was what mattered. Julia taught me to be warm yet unapologetic with everyone, even French waiters, I can't think of anyone who is engages unfamiliar people more easily.

She's about to start med school in Perth, and plans to take her fellowship year in the bush, from which she anticipates never returning. Interesting, doctors who work there need to be trained as a GP, as well as in general  surgery, OB/GYN and even some dental.  So, happy trails, you two, as your lives open up to the next chapter. You left your mark and are missed.

First night of Advent at Cathedral Sainte Saveur

English language carols were held on the first night of Advent, and two of us got some of the last seats in this cavernous place. I had to squeeze by an older woman "from the region" as my friend Ank has taught me, meaning from the countryside, on a trip into the city.  Her perfectly rounded helmet of jet black hair was the first giveaway, and sitting next to her, I could see how tightly she grasped her faux leather handbag. When the choir was doing the equivalent of orchestral tuning, running scales, she began shushing those around her, fortunately not me.

I was pumped up for a big old carol singalong and there were many and the little American girls were singing the 12 days of Christmas at the top of their lungs and dancing, which was lovely. At some point, an very fair American, who likely stayed on the train that had deposed the Mormons I had seen the prior week, went on about how awful we humans were and did begin talking about burning in hell at which point the woman I was with and I rolled our eyes at each other. At the same time, my French friend on the other side of me, who endearingly had been following along with the English language carols with her finger underneath each word, remarked that this man was talking too much and why would he do that when there were French people in the audience who couldn't understand? I told her she wouldn't want to understand. And then we were friends.  When finally it was time for Silent Night, she used her finger and sang for the first time, a voice rich and beautiful and moving. When the song was over and I had teared up, I passed on my appreciation, embarrassed that she'd had to listen to me for the last hour. She told me she'd been a singer in her thirties, but now that she was 89, her voice was "horrible". I complemented her on how young she looked and was delighted to see the way she jumped up from the pews, and later outside, saw her talking on speaker, her phone covered with a  brash flower design. Something about her made my day and I topped it by finally trying a coronet of châtaignes grillées, or roasted chestnuts, eating them while I roamed around Aix on a Sunday night, full of people and lights and happiness.

Dutchland

I'm going to have a separate post about moving and my new place, which I love, but the whole process has had me thinking so much about unspoken cultural agreements, generalizing, which I believe usually comes from collecting a fair amount of data. As I've mentioned before, this apartment hunting process has often left me feeling misaligned as a foreigner, nay American, which I fear is even worse. Here are two stories Nat has recently shared with me about Dutch people.

The first takes place at the food coop where she works, Dutch people are more focused on Sinterklaas than Christmas, one of the traditions being to give chocolate in the shape of the letter with which the recipients name begins. Apparently her store, Odin,  had been written up in the Dutch version of the New York Times as the purveyor of the best chocolate letters. Nat's words "so a flurry of people whipped through yesterday and wiped the store out in a matter of hours...Today all these adults came in asking please please if we had any more chocolate letters and would they be coming back in stock. all ended up leaving with those droopy forlorn shoulders." To me the Dutch are stoic and tough and bike in the windy rain. Yet here you have it. If you want to get some really funny views about Dutch culture, check out Double Dutch, this guy is really funny too.

The other is a story that was also in that NYT about how international companies in the Netherlands had started providing free cafeteria style lunches for employees. As Nat said "Everyone was understandably excited but there was some culture clash because Dutch people would take their lunch, and then bring extra Tupperware and pile up to bring home leftovers for their families. They apparently were just scooping and scooping until they reached the bottom, no regard for others. And then the international people would go get their lunch, and there would be not a crumb of food left. And so they got upset that there wasn’t enough left for them to even eat lunch and the Dutch people just Dutch shrugged and ...said "Well, it’s too bad you’re too late! You should have thought to come sooner."  I asked Nat if she thought that there would be a different outcome should a sign be placed saying that people should take only what they can eat in the cafeteria, and she said she wasn't sure, as the Dutch are particular, but don't like being told what to do.

I love both stories, but the second especially because it makes me laugh without even being there. But also because it's clearly a clash of mores. And yeah, it's a thing, will talk about it in the next post and how hard it is to navigate. 

Top of the mont in Montpelier, which in reality isn't on a mountain, but a pile of rocks

The original plan was to zip over to Spain to spend a few nights with Mary in Sitges, but when we did the math, the time spent on the train exceeded time there, so we put it off until February. But still I had the traveling spirit, and as the train to Barcelona was going to stop in Montpelier, it seemed the right direction to head. 

Sometimes we just don't realize how much we know. Lately I've been thinking about this in relation to booking travel, and this old dog has been doing slogging through learning some new tricks and it's taking a while. There's a helpful app called Omio which provides here to there quotes for whatever ways are available, and I've taken to doing what it tells me, which is book a round trip, which has to be at a particular time, even on the local train. As with Lyon, I got tossed out of shelter at 10 and had until 5 on a cold day. Hopefully next time I'll remember to wait on the return....  Can't, like in NYC, commit to the round trip and then decide later which return to take. I suppose it's much more organized here, with assigned seats and all. 

The non-TGV, i.e., slow train, was clean, had wifi and a funny little cart that came banging along, selling of all things, M&Ms. We were all, for some reason, crammed in next to each other on the same side of the train, the other side empty. I waited to see if anyone would move, no one did. There's something peaceful about being on a train, with nothing that needs to be done, so I watched an agrarian world go by, mostly vineyards. The walk from the Montpelier train station to the center of things was short, but windy and my new version of bone chilling (high forties), But palm trees greeted me, asking why I hadn't chosen a locale to live where they were as well. I could smell the sea air coming off the Mediterranean nearby. though never caught a glimpse.

After a fine meal of the Korean Kafe's best clumped up box linguine doused in a sweet "chili" sauce that tasted like burnt wok meat doused with artfully zig zagged mayonnaise on top, I returned to my monastic but perfectly nice Airbnb with an English language book!! (gold) I'd picked up at Le Bookshop and cracked open Mighty Red by Louise Erdrich. Meh. 

Weirdly awake for a lot of the night, I slept in, only just hauling my ass out by10, in search of caffeine. I think it unkind when Airbnbs provide Nespresso machines and no pods. Who knows why we pick certain things over others, for there were many cafes I walked by, but L'Arca called out and I answered, walking into an almost empty cafe that is going for a 50s diner meets 1970s plants vibe. I sat down and ordered a cappuccino and a pain au chocolat in a peaceful room from a young bearded man. The only other patron, a lanky man with beautiful silver hair sat nearby, I believe reading. While my coffee was being made in front of me, I sat still in the silence of the cafe, paying attention to the details of his movements,  the spider plants, the overhead lights that look like fans, and then the woman who appeared, first putting her frizzy hair up in a ponytail, then washing her very white hands with a simple gold wedding ring, tying on an apron and stocking the small glass cabinet with croissants. It was an intimate feeling, the four of us being in this silent room together, making me think of tumbleweeds rolling across the desert. The other patron turned to ask my name, and when I told him, he told me his (I've forgotten) got up and gave me the French kiss (not that kind!). We chatted about life, the lack of importance money has, what we like to do and his daughter, a professor of Ecology who makes only €2700 per month.

When we finished up, he invited me to have another coffee at his apartment nearby, I demurred easily. He asked if I'd like company wandering the city, I again, demurred easily, he held no offense. I asked if I could take a photograph of him as I might mention him in my blog, he came in for a selfie, kissed me again both sides and then on the hair, paid for my breakfast and left. All day long it felt as though there was a shawl of affection and kindness on my shoulders, the day was brighter and kinder. 

My friend thecomedian/poet/Indian jewelry seller

It was that bright sun you only see by the sea, and as the Jardins de Plantes didn't open until 11, an uninformed wander was in order, leading me to the oldest medical school in the world, where should you desire, you can peruse exhibits at an anatomy museum. The building is attached to St. Peter's Cathedral, which though only built in the 14th century, is at a most staggeringly large scale. The turrets and moat were exciting, conjuring up visions of Black Death and heretics. Sadly, the tower, which visitors are sometimes allowed to climb, was closed.  

Further along, I got stuck behind a recycling truck, which contrary to working with mechanical arms that lift up the bins and dump, instead hold a man who gets out of the truck, closes the door,  takes his wee bin the size of a basket, knocks on a door and is handed bottles. Chatting does happen.

Inside the Cathedral, looking towards the back at the organ

And then it was on to les Jardins, which was beautiful enough that I put a reminder in my calendar to come back in May, when the immense camelia tree will be in bloom. It was only on my way back to the train that I saw a contemporary art museum which looked interesting. And when reading something about Montpelier after I got home, realized I had missed the big tourist square and the water tower. Oh well. Je reviendrai.

And it turns out I busted out right in the nick of time. As the train from Bordeaux pulled in for those of us heading east, it disgorged about 50 very pale, dirty blonde haired young people in conservative clothing, with large suitcases. There's something a bit skewed about American people of faith coming to tell the French about God. 
​
A PS of sorts. Thank you to those of you who leave comments, I appreciate them, but don't reply because it's public and complicated logistically. 

Dear little kitchen that needs to be de-airbnbed

Here are some of things that make me smile

Calatrava's St. Exupery train station in Lyon

When I worked summers at Tanglewood, the HR office was wedged between the Box Office and the Friends' Office, where donors, most of them tri-staters as we called them, lined up to get their parking passes, invariably wanting upgrades that provided access closer to the Shed. One of my colleagues, herself a New Yorker, as was I, so I can say this, would do an on-point imitation, nasal and outraged  "This is unacceptable, simply.unacceptable!" to the likely 20-year old intern who had no power to do anything about their passes. On a side note, this college was very funny and once dressed up for Halloween as a Friday afternoon Symphony Hall subscriber, i.e., old Brahmin lady. As well as a pillbox hat and handbag from the fifties, she he'd a styrofoam plate with one of Billy's sandwiches that were bought by the multitudes who believed spending more than $2 on lunch was an obscene show of wealth.

Though it was many moons ago, I still think about this colleague's mockery of Tanglewood Friends, both because she nailed it so perfectly, but more currently, because it begs acts as a reference to a question that's been on my mind recently. How much should we accept and how much IS unacceptable?  And after accepting  something, how is it best to come to terms with whatever it is? There's a line, on one end the angry New Yorker always pushing for more, on the other, the human speed bump who no longer notices being run over all day long. Is there a happy medium, or has the human speed bump decided that she is happy that way?

When I compare myself to those by whom I'm surrounded, I'd grade myself closer to the speed bump than the New Yorker. After all, it took five years of chiropractor visits before she adamantly told me I had to get rid of the wooden dining room chair I'd been using at my home desk. Yes, I could feel the discomfort, but if I distracted myself... I've stayed in almost every job for too long, things are fine, they could be worse, I have friends, I'd think. Men and all kinds of people, I've stayed with both, despite an inequality of their taking taking taking. For many years when I could afford more, I'd stay in crappy places while traveling, thinking that I was only sleeping there, what did it matter? Two nights on the marble floor of the Athens airport, wrapped up in a towel, a night in a tent in a park on Victoria Island, brushing teeth at the bus stop restroom. Once I'd made a decision to do something, it was fine.  

But I can also compare myself to someone I used to know, whose famous response after opening a gift from me that was a sweater:  "Thanks, but I already have a sweater", I'm a prima donna. It's all relative. And that's what I'm trying to sort out now.

​I had such a wonderful place to live last year, and it gave me a vision of what I was going to look for in a place that would be home here. To me, it doesn't seem much, but somehow, my criteria doesn't seem to be being met and it's beginning to cause frustration. So ask I ask myself: Am I an entitled American looking for, oh brother, her dream apartment?  Or am I a woman who, after making compromises in her past she wishes she hadn't , wants to do well by herself and live somewhere that will feel like a home? It seems reasonable to me that my person is beginning to get frustrated. But is also seems reasonable that I'm holding true to what I want, which I promise you does not include a gold plated toilet. So, on the advice of yet another Philippe, this one whom I met at the French meet up and  works at World Bank, I booked a round trip to Lyon with the intention of getting myself out of this swamp of compromise. 
 
The Ste. Exupery train station, a beautiful welcome to the city, was the culmination of my first TGV journey. Did you know that the TGV and many other trains in France travel on the left-hand side, having been built by the Brits? And that the train provider I took, Ouigo is the Ryan Air of the TGV? I'll admit to wondering why my round trip was only €48 instead of in the more common €148, but everything became clear when I got my first glimpse of the Miami Vice party going on in the carriages, bright pink and teal seats, families and individuals and their stuff spilling out all over the place, not quite sheep and chickens, but almost. Unlike with Ryan Air, I might use them again, though I'd try to not make the same mistake of paying extra for an aisle seat. 

It's an hour or so from the Ste. Exupery  to downtown, but it was a civilized ride, half above ground, traversing different suburbs. Lyon is a city with two rivers running through it, the Rhône and the Saône. From my minimal viewings of the Rhône, I'd categorize it as an ugly river that does beautiful things. Likely, closer to the source it has more natural beauty, but in Lyon, Arles, Avignon and places in between, it's as uninteresting as the Mississippi delta. But the light reflecting off it is something breathtaking. When I was riding through these somewhat nondescript suburbs, mid-afternoon, the sky was both blue and yellow, making shadows on buildings that were pronounced.

Loved this subway story

Adam from Brisbane told me about a friend of his who only stays in secondary cities, or half an hour outside of primary cities, which gave me the idea of, as I begin traveling the French countryside, staying in middle-class residential neighborhoods . So in Lyon, home was the Crois-Rousse (reddish cross) arrondissement, which didn't disappoint. Most of it is at the top of a hill, but my place was lower down, amidst record stores, tattoo and coffee shops. A long time ago, my hill was called the hill that works, while the other, Fourvière, was called the one that prays.  The people who originally settled and worked on Crois-Rousse were Canuts or silk weavers, Lyon having been the capital. The Canuts were, of course, not treated well by wealthy industrialists and became disillusioned, now known as the first band of workers to revolt, causing ripple effects around the world.​ 

Crois-Rousse up top, with Saône River in the foreground

​The hills are very steep and there are lovely stairs, many of them painted, making moving around easy. To get coffee, I first went through a traboule (tunnel) and then climbed 75 steps. There are also bigger tunnels, engineering masterpieces, really, underneath the hills and buildings, that I suppose cars and trucks use, as there were few on the roads.  Lots of bikes, scooters and runners. But also very very old people climbing the steps (and standing on the subway, seemingly unconcerned they weren't offered seats).

Can you see what the light is like? Amazing! On the way up to the top of Fourvière, I took a path, on the way down, where this photograph is taken, there were stairs. I counted about 700. There were a bunch of people walking up, including a woman who looked like a great grandmother.

Lyon is much more diverse than Aix, but less so than Marseille. Things go on as they do in a city, there are headquarters and trams and commuters and suburbs that stretch out forever (see photograph above). And there are refugees. On my way down Crois-Rousse, I stopped to look down at the river view and saw a huge tent population. As I got closer, I took the photograph below. Everything in the community was set up thoughtfully and tidily, there were rows and rows of portapotties and portashowers, a canteen truck serving food and lots of clothes hanging out to dry on various things. If you had to be a refugee living in a tent community, it couldn't get much better than this one, but it is a tent community and a difficult way for any human being to live.  There were only Central African men visible, but likely women and people from other countries were there as well. It was quiet, clean and orderly. I stood there for a while, not to stare, but because this refugee community filled with humans no different from me literally stopped me in my tracks. You hear about things like this, but seeing it was both moving and shocking; the will strong enough to invest in a better future, but then life circumstances so dire that this is a better arrangement, and was worth the risk. It's near impossible to really understand. As I walked away, there was a well-dressed man walking in the other direction who must have seen my shocked face, because he gave a smile of compassion, whether for them or me, and nodded. 

Amsterdam marathon runners under the bridge

And low lands they really are. We watched the Amsterdam marathon for a bit on Sunday at the top of a "hill" after the bridge, one that even I, after running 36k, could have summitted in less than a minute. No Heartbreak Hill for sure. Participants were almost solely men, and had first names on their bibs which allowed for sprightly personalized encouragement. Seeing the front runners, who have dedicated so much of themselves to this, ankles the width of a child's wrist, yet so strong, graceful and sure, never fail to bring tears to my eyes. 

Still can't sort this out

The marathon was one of many things seen over four days with my favorite Dutch tour guide, who is currently living safely away from Centraal, magnet to bridal parties, drug seekers and tulip devotees. She's closer to Oosterpark, which is quite beautiful in the fall with different color leaves on a variety of trees and graceful lines otherwise. There's a red tennis court that is fenced two feet back from the baseline, another indication of the shortage of space in the Netherlands, I suppose. We watched players with big forehands who had seemed to have adapted fine.  As well, it's a community shaped by immigrants that has a cozy, village feeling with many produce shops, boulangeries and general places such as shoe repair, curtain stores and stationery stores that we used to have in the US.

Another little park nearby

Having become something of the snowbird I used to roll my eyes about, I'd not been looking forward to the suffocating embrace of the North Sea, but with the exception of half an hour on the last day, the air was dry and the sun was often out, though it was significantly cooler than my protected nest in Provence. Both Nat and I happen to be living temporarily with clothes in storage, which in both of our cases, includes coats. So on the first day, I found myself regularly pulled in to racks of €10 plastic sweaters until finally we scratched the itch at the nicest vintage store I've ever been to, Penny Lane, where we both scored quilted coats of the perfect weight. ​

Because I know we walked 45 miles, we must have done other things besides eat, but am not sure what they were. And yes, we did eventually approach Nine Bridges and Albert Cuyp market, but early or late when it was easy to see the charm that made them the overrun tourist hubs they've become. 

There's a stall at Albert Cuyp that I have insisted on visiting every time since our first visit in 2017. They sell gozleme, something I had been transfixed by when staying on a beach in Samsara, Turkey many years ago. Women in many flowered layers and scarves (while we waited in our bathing suits) adeptly rolled out dough with something that looked like a shortened broomstick, then put this very thin layer of dough on a stone placed in hot ashes on the sand. They'd scatter parsley and feta, then let it cook, folding it in a way similar to a crêpe. So the first time I had one at Albert Cuyp, where they are made with spinach rather than parsley, it was both delicious and reminiscent. We were served by a teenage woman whom, every time we've been back, rain or shine, any day of the week, continues to be there. She has become more than a gozleme vendor, rather a person who was young when we first encountered her and has grown up with her mother, the roller and sprinkler, and grandmother, the dough ball maker, in the stall. There is often a line for their fine product, keeping the young woman focused on what she needs to do, so we usually get little from her but politeness. This time, perhaps because it was 11 in the morning and we were the only customers, we got a smile. I think of her often.

The photo

​These few days together made me look starkly at the arc of life. For years it was I who planned trips, packed too many things in, oh so gently nudging people who'd rather "chill" to carpe the diem in a new place. At first there were small changes; me not being the first to figure out where on the map we were going, which coins to use, or how to navigate a foreign subway system. As the young got older and the old got even older, we're now at the stage of me being egged along to do one more thing while I'm begging for a café stop. I know I could fight it for a while, but there's an inevitability that's hard to ignored. I have known enough people who posses an exceeding doggedness, modeling a commitment to sucking it up, for which I'm grateful. But there's an unpleasantness of character that can come with too much pushing oneself, an anger or bitterness. So, as I continue to age, one of my many jobs will be to figure out when to push through and when to beg for mercy and a cappuccino.. 

Sunrise on the construction site

Back in Aix, I'm living across from a construction site, which has increased by two storeys since I arrived four weeks ago, so that I can no longer see the mountains in the photograph above. There are double paned windows so it's not too noisy and I confess to finding it interesting to watch them. The crane is used a lot and there aren't that many of them, working really hard all day long. The only time I've seen them "idle", is when they open up their storage container, bring out a folding long table, light up a barbecue, cook a lunch and then all sit down together. Civilized enough that the crane operator climbs down, then goes back up after, no small ascent.

The house hunt goes on, no luck yet. The challenge is that I have a clear image in my mind of what I want and with the exception of the apartment below, nothing comes close to it. While the agency representing this dream apartment doesn't take applications from foreigners, I sent a begging letter yesterday, and am hoping it might yield some results. In the meantime, I'm lucky enough to rattle around in this temporary airy and uninteresting three bedroom, enjoying my walks up and down the pretty lane that smells sometimes like decaying plane tree leaves that remind me of the smell of human bodies, and sometimes if I'm lucky, burnt eucalyptus.

Vide-Grenier going on the other day

Yup, so there I was, standing in the middle of Place de Prêcheurs at a Vide-Grenier, or city-wide garage sale, overwhelmed and wondering how I got  there. But as at Brimfield, the only thing to do is narrow the vision and be content to let things pass by. Not a lot of details, but I can tell you there was in abundance black clothes, children's plastic things and used tomato sauce jars. I was pumped to score a good quality white button down shirt that turns out is too tight for me and likely will be too short for the girl. Bargain shopper extraordinaire! But the olive wood mortar and pestle will bring me years of joy. 

​So back in Aix, yes, and this time committed. The summer in Boston, filled with work and fun and friends and tennis, was made complicated only by deliberations about what of my things would be shipped to France, ending with a resounding crescendo of commitment to two Le Creusets, winterish clothes I'd no longer need there, books and items so random that I'm told explain how my brain works. They're in the big box below and their contents will be shared when they arrive, hopefully beginning of November. 

You can't really tell, but this bag is big enough for me to get in and be zippered up. Small le Creuset safely wrapped inside, big one in the middle box above, with a straw hat and a new down pillow.

There was also the precarious task of renting out my furnished place for half the year, which took until the 11th hour.  I had become desperate enough to work with a local rental realtor that I'll call Fetro to protect their reputation, who brought me a couple who happened to be friends of the agent's, both 26, with backgrounds that made me nervous. As well as not flexing on the rent (in their defense, foreign student attendance is down by 15% in Boston thanks to new visa requirements, depressing the one and two bedroom market by an average of 25%, a first since I purchased in 1995) or timing, as well as insisting I give up my locked storage closet so that she could have somewhere to put her Christmas decorations. Bad bad vibes. Ready to sign with them, in the nick of time, Philippe, a French Harvard professor showed up with Einstein hair, an expensive bike, a violin and a suitcase. When I passed on the original couple, the agency sent me an email with so many profanities that I was physically scared to pick up the set of keys I had loaned them.  Tampis pour moi, as they say.

Now I'm not one for logistics, as anyone can attest, so the thought of coordinating this move, and then dealing with French bureaucracy, had been sitting heavy since last April, when I began researching long-term rentals. To rent an apartment, I needed a bank account, and to get a bank account, I needed a permanent address....  Some people are good at dealing with this sort of thing, but my way of dealing with it was to being looking into Bulgaria's reputation as a welcoming place for digital nomads.  Realizing that might not be a good Lon-term solution, I instead ponied up some cash early this summer to hire a well-recommended-by-Aix-ex-pats relocation expert, who would find me a place to live and handle all the logistics. And to make a long and not very interesting story short, I'll just say that I'm in an airbnb for a month with fingers crossed that  it will all be over soon. 

Apparently I will have to beg someone to let me give them money to live in their otherwise empty place, and some will still not take it, despite being tenantless.  So when I was at the grocery store two days ago, laden with items, and got a text saying "Can you be in Centreville in 20 minutes?" I dropped everything, did my best to aggressively shuffle home in Birkenstocks that are a size too big, changed into my sneakers and literally ran up the hill, only to wait for half an hour, heheheh, jokes on me. Oh, these French are so funny, they are. My real estate lady had been sending me potential apartments that were not at all what I was looking for; new with low ceilings and small windows, so when Jean-Luc finally arrived and showed me the apartment, I warmed to the ancient stone stairs and balustrade that winded gracefully, the high ceilings with a medallion, old glass in the tall windows. But the apartment itself was an odd configuration that seemed to only make sense in its iteration,  a doctor's office with three examining rooms.  When I expressed my confusion (in French, I'll have you know) about ways to lay things out to make the space livable, Jean-Luc agreed and shrugged, which made it all worthwhile.

Doctors office with a face lift, examining rooms lined up on the left

​After, we stood outside for about 45 minutes so that he could tell me about his son who had studied Russian and been there 40 or 50 times. This led to him sharing his unsolicited opinion of why Putin was actually a good leader whose people appreciated his strong oversight, which of course led to the scary "Ah, Americaine, Trump" blah blah blah (which according to google translate, is bla, bla, bla in French). I learned that Trump had been right to have berated the French for abandoning the manufacture of gas-powered cars. On and on. But here's the thing. While Jean-Luc may have been talking at me and doing his best to bait me, he was playful, with a sparkle in his eye, and handsome. For the most part I didn't bite, rather employed skeptical facial expressions and taught him a new expression. "Even a blind squirrel can find an acorn every once in a while." He laughed.

Bike on Falmouth Main Street

I was recently reminded of circadian rhythms, which made me think that mine involve not being able to settle down in summer. I have wanted to write, even tried once or twice, to squeeze something out of the creativity tube. Alas, it was dry.and hardened. Too much going on, though you'll not hear me complain about that. Soon enough it'll be me, myself and I staring at French walls and then the writing will come. So as I did when returning to P.S. 8 at the end of each summer, I have stutteringly completed my report on summer vacation.

I ate a lot of seeds and a lot of berries, boring my friends and family with talk of 30 different plants a week. Hypocritically, I'd regularly have a bag of potato chips for dinner. I suppose potatoes are plants....

28 versions of this standby 

Roamed around Brookline on a hot summer night, never wanting to go home

Internally screamed at those who choose, and presumably pay, for public art in Brookline

Giggled when one of us said "let's get a pitcher" which was interpreted as "let's get a picture"

Spunkily went for a 2 mile run in the rain, loving the pine needle patterns made by water runoff

Saved Carin from an premature death at Landmark

Contemplated adopting this as my life slogan

Reinjured previously broken bones in my right hand on this stupid thing which I will never touch again.

Was reminded of my mother by this friendly lad

Proudly taught my daughter how to pack check-in luggage properly

Loved Stanley Whitney at the ICA 

And Chiharu Shiota at the ICA Watershed

Carried a dead hibiscus flower around for a few days because it was so beautiful, but accidentally put it in my pocket where it got crushed, then sent it to its final death in the washing machine. Grieved.

Discovered that some jellyfish have pink sexual organs

Loved this one something fierce

Took great delight in this combinations

Worried for our youth

Finally went to a North End Feast

Old People In Carred

Hope you had a happy summer. Off to Aix in 20 days!