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

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!

Longwood entrance that lifts my spirits without fail

On the first day of my second summer at Longwood, I sat inside at a big round table with someone I knew and others I didn't. Without prompting, each shared the ailment impinging upon their game. Others had sympathy and advice, doctor recommendations. Around it went.  I was probably dealing with my recurring foot problem exacerbated by paddle, and it was both reassuring to be amongst others with similar challenges, while also shocking to know that this was where we were. A time when good health becomes a blessing. And at least a part-time job.  I suppose the fact that we're erect and determined to beat these physical challenges makes us stronger, at least mentally. The video of the oldest world champion tennis player, whose secret to continuing play into his nineties is not letting injuries slow him down, has been on my mind a lot (sorry, can't find it). As has the documentary about the Blue Zone, which was fascinating. Loma Linda, California? Who knew.

Early on in France, I noticed my left, non-dominant shoulder could no longer stay in its regular position when sleeping belly flop style, something I attributed at the time to the Ikea Asbygda 1 1/2 inch mattress. Or maybe it was the 9 inch high square pillow. But I put concern aside, thinking my Boston-based down accoutrements, nice mattress and most talented chiropractor, would heal all. But not much changed, and then I found a friend having the same issue with her non-dominant shoulder. How odd. It wasn't anything serious, but with every discomfort that makes itself known, the approach must be that of a thin end of a pernicious wedge to be aggressively neutralized. I happened to be listening to one of my favorite podcasts on Zoe again, about Omega-3 Fatty Acids and their importance. And Mr. Fatty Acid Researcher mentioned that stiff joints are caused by inflammation (not of the joint, but of one's body) and that Omega 3 can bring that down, but you need to ingest the equivalent of 1000mg a day.  That's a lot of salmon.  

Sometimes my head is like a cooped up dog that has finally broken the leash, wildly running around and into traffic. The most odious and repetitive example is when I'm about to receive serve from someone. The server throws the ball up and I involuntarily begin to think about the mechanics of how I actually grip the racquet and how my swing works, as an extension of my body. Things quickly get existential and invariably, the ball does not land in that rather large rectangle on the other side of the net. Sigh. In The Inner Game of Tennis by W. Timothy Gallwey, the author talks about how if we were to think about the mechanics of turning on a light switch, we'd be paralyzed, and with hitting a forehand, it's the same. That mischievous head of mine also causes havoc some times when I'm about to eat fish. Without my asking, a picture of a happy trout or tuna, swimming through the water appears.And then it's dead and I'm eating that muscle. I hate it when this happens, it wigs me out, despite my general enjoyment of fish. But I wanted to try to eat one of the SMASH fishes mentioned in the podcast (Salmon, Mackerel, Anchovies, Sardines and Herring) but for valid reasons don't trust Whole Foods, which I call Amazon, further than I can throw my car. So I decided to embrace my inner Aunt Agatha from Travels with my Aunt, whose favorite expression was "It's not the destination, it's the journey",  and have a boondoggle one Saturday after playing some rousing doubles. 

It's always interesting to go to an unfamiliar places, so Fall River, which along with New Bedford, has plenty of beautiful granite warehouses, was a welcome destination.  It's not a long drive to Portugalia, the Portuguese equivalent, albeit on a smaller scale, of Eataly, to peruse their extensive collection of tinned fish that will take years to get through. After a fine espresso in their cafe that also serves delicious looking cakes, I had a wander through the housewares, passed the bacalao room, contemplated but didn't buy a Porto soap, resisted olives, olive oil and bread, on a mission as I was. Because the choice of fish was so overwhelming, I narrowed things down first to sardines, then sardines with tomato, then sardines with tomato and picante, and then to those with pretty designs. Had to! To complement the eating sardines, it seemed right to have a bowl with them painted on as well. 

Tried the Nuri, rated them a 7.

The cadence of work, tennis, porch at Longwood on a summer evening or weekend would be very hard to beat and I thank the Gods every time I'm there. .But as soon as I was in Fall River and saw people wearing bathing suit coverups when doing their business, Beach Season appeared!  Paula had just been talking about a great visit to Middletown and Hetty was about to start two weeks at her house in Westport, and then there was her friend who lives in Padanaram. It was all in my head and I suddenly realized I had been missing out..

So instead of going home after the big sardine purchase, the car headed south to the Norman Bird Sanctuary in Middletown.  It was nice to be back there as, in my twenties, without giving away names or links to their profiles, I spent quite a bit of a time with a bunch of wild and crazy guys at a beautiful house right next to this sanctuary. The only bird I ever saw was at the Red Parrot on Thames St., where one night a group of us consumed so many shots that the bar ran out of glasses. But that was many moons ago, and this time, it was serenity and natural beauty I was seeking. Quite soon after heading on a trail, I made friends with a doe and her two beautifully spotted fawns, who let me come within 2 feet of them before they scampered off gracefully and not too urgently.  There were few other people, something floral was blooming and many different flying friends were starting to sing for their evening supper. It was a lovely and gentle place. 

COVID birthday party in Emerson Garden

When Philip and I had only known each other a little while, we went on a road trip to Nova Scotia, taking the overnight car ferry with a casino, from Portland, Maine. I brought along a beautiful long dress for my first visit to a gambling parlor, and was crestfallen when perceiving the dingy room below deck filled with old women with long cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, pulling the handles on the slot machines repetitively. To make matters worse, Philip became sea sick, so not off to the best start. But poutine cheered me up and the peninsula had few people and oodles of natural beauty. We soon got into a rhythm of stopping and driving enjoying many breathtaking sights. On one particular day on our circumference of the peninsula,  we had just passed the northernmost point of Meat Cove, finding one of those tiny motel cabins that have a room and bathroom, along with a porch not big enough for two chairs. We had more than one load to bring in, and despite being in the middle of nowhere and not another soul in sight, Philip locked the car door in between. It made something happen to my stomach,  a message we weren't aptly suited. We talked about it and ended up agreeing to disagree. Prior to that and since then, anyone could accuse me of being lax about security, whether about locks, windows, or phones and wallets in public places. My general thinking goes that the worry used to lock up, along with the assumption that humans are bad and out to take my things makes me feel as though I've already been robbed. I acknowledge that this is somewhat out of the ordinary.

Marry we did, and procreate we did (and quite well, I might add!), settling in to life in Emerson Garden. Now Brookline Village is a perfect place to raise a child. The park is a social magnet, allowing posses of kids of varying ages to play together and be independent. They could walk to school, the library, the inconvenient store, as Jenn called it. The train to town was steps away and the text chain shared with Julie and Carin that we used to fill in last minute dinner ingredients was a blessing on many different levels. Despite this, while in general I don't lean conservative, there was a homogeny in that liberal bubble that could make it hard to breathe. And as a friend once remarked, given the fluidity between families and houses, it could sometimes feel a bit like living in a fish bowl. Once we became separated, I craved a low profile even more. 

So there was part of me looking forward to being back in my bachelorette pad in Cleveland Circle, or "the inner city" as Mary once called it.  The anonymity was appealing, as was the diversity, with orthodox Jewish men in fur hats, lots of East Asians, Russians old and young, post collegiate sorts and, well, pretty much everyone in-between, albeit at a lower income bracket.  

Speaking of orthodox men in Jewish hats, yesterday I was walking around the reservoir in the middle of the day in a long skirt, shirt and sneakers when a much younger man, walking towards me, gave me a respectful smile and a "shalom", apparently thinking my frizzy hair was a wig. Oy, not a look I was going for.  

But back to the story. While the anonymity was nice, it was surprising to learn that people didn't say hello or acknowledge my general existence, absorbed as they usually were in their phones and earbuds and dogs peeing. Those in my building seemed fine, but folks never looked me in the eye or said anything more than "hi" or "thank you".  There was one exception, a young woman with whom I share a back balcony. Every time I saw her, she'd smile and say hello. She even introduced herself, and I was embarrassed to forget her name immediately. Not because I didn't care but because, well, that's just where we are these days...

Before I left for France, she told me she had her roommate had been broken into, having cash and jewelry stolen. Most alarming was that the thief had come in through the back balcony and done his deed while the roommate was asleep.  Creepy enough to motivate me to close my kitchen window. For one night. I probably forgot and then opened it the next day, and that was that, and then I was off.  They purchased a Ring system and went back to their lives. 

A few weeks ago, there was a note under my door from this neighbor warning me that they had been broken in again and that the Ring system was sending them videos almost every night of a guy who was hanging out in our back courtyard. There was evidence of his presence as they daily found Mich Ultra caps and bottles, and black liquor store bags. And there were videos of this guy, walking around in no particular hurry, looking up, in one instance, straight at the camera, and then back again he was the next night. We had originally thought the guy's intent was to rob us or someone, but my window had been open and he hadn't come in. And there was nothing stealthy about his actions. My neighbors began calling the police when the videos would come in at 12:30 am. The police either didn't show up, or would come too late, despite there being a predictable time the guy would show up. Once when the police didn't show up and the roommates called back, they were told that the dispatcher answering the 911 number never conveyed the message. These poor girls were sleepless and getting frustrated. Eventually they reached out to our state rep, Kevin Honan. That night the police finally came at the correct time and arrested this guy who had been lurking around, it being clear at this point that he was more of a stalker than a thief.  The next day the ladies  both went in and filed restraining orders. 

Guy who was stalking my neighbors. Wonder if HR at Lendbuzz knows

The whole time this was going on, it had been my intention to stay up until his 12:30 arrival time to try and talk to him, to encourage him to get help and inform him we were calling the police. It just wasn't making sense to me, and it seemed a good idea to at least get a look at him. Alas, I always fell asleep too early. But the day he was arrested, I decided to take a walk in the afternoon to his home address at 11 Embassy Road, Apartment 3. Sure enough, there he was, released on bail, standing in the parking lot looking somewhat sleep deprived in grubby Celtics long shorts, a grey UnderArmour shirt and a two day growth. He had a bud in his ear and was talking, looking slightly away from me, allowing me to take it all in as I walked past. One of the advantages of us old folks is that we're less noticeable, so that while I know he looked at me, he didn't really see me. I walked on for a while, deciding what I wanted to do, having a mixture of emotions that included anger for making these women's lives so miserable along with compassion for some guy who was likely mentally not all there and had unrequited love for someone. I turned around and intended to just head back, unnoticed again when I found words coming out of my mouth. "Why did you do that?" I asked plaintively, because I did really want to know. He ripped is earbud out and yelled at me saying he had no idea what I was talking about. I walked home, looking behind me every 25 feet or so.

Andrew the Stalker. He always wore the same thing at night, different than what I saw him wearing when I spoke to him

So, arrested, restraining orders, police finally paying attention and showing up, the girls were still anxious.  That night, more videos, but a different guy wearing socks and flip flops, holding himself, luring around a window where two other girls live.  I'm not sure of the timing, but he got into the apartment of these other girls and hid in the closet, where one of them, 5'3" found him and beat him until he ran away.  Next night, back again, and my neighbor's boyfriend chased him a way with pepper spray.  How could there be another guy??  There are people in the neighborhood who recognize this second guy, and by the looks of his flip flops with socks, he also exhibits a lack of mental balance. We're thinking there's some kind of half way house around here.  

Quiet for a few days and then yesterday, I was on my way to meet my dear friend Hetty for lunch, when I saw a woman who is not the kind of woman one sees around here. I had been thinking about how to rent out my furnished apartment for the winter (if you know anyone who might be interested in it, 1 BR appx 9/1-5/31, I'd LOVE to hear from you) and thought she might be a realtor, so asked. She said she was from Channel 7 news and that they were doing a story about a Peeping Tom and when she found out I lived in the affected building, asked if I'd like to be interviewed, I declined.  That night, after a raucous evening playing padel, I arrived home to multiple trucks, vans, TV cameras etc. One was outside my bedroom window, which I always keep open, spewing fumes in. I not so politely asked them to go and bother someone else and mentioned that there might be a reason that #47 made up the expression "Fake News". I guess it was a slow news day.

Stalker #2

Fake News camera and car

The grace and bravery these two women exhibited throughout this ordeal that is hopefully done sits in contrast to these slothful, gas-guzzling, trashy news gathering companies who will find absolutely any misfortune to raise the population's anxiety, manipulating the misfortunate of individuals for their own clickbait. Just don't even get me started. A fishbowl of a different variety, this one fetid.

Sailboats moored near the Trefethen-Evergreen Improvement Association, Peaks Island

Having likely waxed on about other places that have become a part of me; Duxbury, the Isle of Wight, Newport,  Peaks Island has been neglected. 

Philip's, Nat's and my introduction was Labor Day weekend of 2002 when baby Nat had just realized she had the ability to take off her own hat, drunk as she was with the power to rip it off and throw it on the ground repeatedly. Portland was all new to us and we weren't sure where the ferry was, at a time when directions were printed out from Mapquest.  

A perfect place to be with babies, we new parents didn't feel we were missing anything because there was nothing really to do on Peaks Island. The quiet charm of rusty old cars with no license plates, pancake breakfasts and used things put out on the curb for the taking was the perfect antidote for our overwhelming lives. 

On our first four mile walk around the island, we came upon the Eight Maine Regiment Memorial, a large, functional Victorian with a wraparound porch, sitting on rocks that look out over islands and the Atlantic. We were with one of those people who forgets about everything else, becoming fascinated with whatever's in front of him, and he couldn't pass up going into this funny place to ask enough questions to make a chatty Mainer run for the hills. While the rest of us were bleary and wanted naps, he created a mental dossier shared over steel cut oat pancakes he made out of leftovers the next day (do not try this). By the time we left on Sunday, we'd booked a stay at the Eighth for the following Labor Day. 

The Eighth was built by veterans of the Civil War who fought in the Eighth Maine Regiment, wanting a place to have reunions afterwards. As they died off, their descendants inherited it, and for many years the house was kept privately. At some point, it was opened to the likes of us, though never publicly. With three floors, the top is all clean and tidy bedrooms that likely haven't changed since the 1960's. The main floor has one huge room with a big fireplace, some civil war memorabilia, many rocking chairs, games, puzzles, a ping pong table and a reading room. In the basement is the "kitchen", which in one area consists of a stove and much cooking equipment, in another,  for each family: a table, cabinet and wrought iron double burner from the 1920s that I was too scared to light.  There's a separate section dug straight into the sandy dirt holding about 10 refrigerators, one for each family. Most visitors are families and extended families, stays are typically for a week or two. We only ever went for Labor Day weekend but did so every year until 2019.

It was not an easy place to visit at first. There were so many rules. No bare feet, no noise after 10, no food or drinks anywhere but the kitchen, children must be quiet, no running, all tables must be set at all times, beds must be made, etc.  But over time, we got the kids to log on and keeping to the rules became part of the tradition. There was a grouchy descendant in charge, with his dad, who was old enough to have found a dead German floating by the shore when he was fishing as a kid during WW2. Turns out the younger guy was caught embezzling, but that's another story for another time.  These days,  there's a very nice lady in charge who can talk up a storm long enough to make you want to bite off your own arm to escape. But she's lovely and was wearing a sweatshirt that had a picture of snowmen roasting marshmallows on a bonfire with the comment "Bad Idea".

Over the years, rituals developed, and while there aren't any distractions on the island, we were always entertained. The kids had their first independent bike rides there, going to the store to buy candy or ice cream,. Walking around the island was an opportunity to discuss the merits of owning a house on the Atlantic or harbor side. We'd catch up on life, taking turns walking with one person or another, sometimes all together. One afternoon, the dads would take the kids to gather sticks and branches for a bonfire on the rocks. Most likely I was sitting on the porch watching the tankers go by. After some years, we discovered that we were welcome to leave money in the honor box at the  Trefethan-Evergreen Improvement Association tennis courts, providing us with a hit on some of the prettiest courts, with a backdrop of Maine islands, glass-like water and sailboats. 

New counter Dusty made for me. Was supposed to take 3-4 days, took 13,  6 rolls of toilet paper and almost 2 cases of Spindrifts

It turns out Dusty is an apt name, I discovered, when trying to piece my place back together by doing a bit of cleaning, which turns out to have been ill-advised, perhaps because I never developed the proper muscles. But the cleaners weren't coming for a couple of weeks so I was up against the wall. There was a moments deliberation about acquiring a mop, but my knowledge I'd never mop again and loathing of extra things motivated me to instead tie an old hand towel around the broom. It was a sloppy job, but then I was thinking only of the cleaners disappointment should they show up and find there was nothing for them to do.  Finishing up this morning, I tweaked my back in a way that hasn't happened in years, so had to cancel much of the day and slow down.

Knowing that during a spasm, walking is more comfortable than standing or sitting, I took off for the BC Reservoir in a more relaxed state of mind than usual, knowing there was nothing waiting for me after. It turns out that it was exactly the state I've been craving, and my mind had the luxury of wandering off vigorously and in many directions.  So today's post is a welcome into my head, mixed and varied.

No tennis? Punt!

When we were changing sides on the court the other day, a friend told us about a graduation she went to at Emerson in 2024. The speaker, the dean, Kim McLarin, was addressing our tendency to be self-righteous at times, suggesting we adopt the phrase and outlook:  "I don't know; I'm not certain; I could be wrong".  World Peace could be ours. 

What are the chances, of, when watching only an hour of Wimbledon, I see an English guy I knew as a kid sitting in the audience? How funny. Siniakova was playing mixed with a Dutch guy, I wondered if they were together, they were so cutely flirty with each other. But also very good, beating the sixth seeds.

Jenn and I are trying to turn Mary into an influencer,  which she is interested in becoming for the sole purpose of getting a free case of Cavit, her favorite white wine. There's enough content in Mary to keep this going for more years than we'll be on this earth. The challenge is that while she's comfortable complaining bitterly about the lack of results so far, getting her involved has been a bit of a challenge. When we tried to schedule a time, she at first said she'd be there, but then texted that she's already on Only Fans and Feet Finder, and was busy watching Sabalenka. Will someone please explain to her? ​

Hostas

Not a lover of hostas, in my current living situation, they are the answer to the low maintenance shade requirements outside my apartment. They make me think about the importance of context, because sculpturally, they are beautiful, we just don't see them alone too often. 

I entertain myself every once in a while by looking at the AI photos some website reproduced for me to use for a proposal that required a certain style I wasn't capable of creating on my own. 

Layers of hills from the Tanglewood Lawn

It's  always a jolly feeling heading west to the Berkshires. The delight of the Mass Pike going from 3 lanes to 2 and all the cars veering off for NYC, then green, green, green. At the other end, before the descent to what us old timers still call Exit 2, layers and layers of hills that exude the magic and serenity of which I can't wait to be part. 

A welcome from my dear, now retired ex-boss and her husband, who looked after me for a few nights in their highly air-conditioned place sitting up above the Stockbridge Bowl. Always interesting conversations and delicious things to eat.

Stockbridge Bowl from the town beach

​But I had been getting itchy to go and visit my wedding rings. Monument Mountain has a special place in my heart. First introduced by an ex in the early nineties, I used it as my gym during the Tanglewood. years, going up the steep route 4 or 5 times a week after work, always trying to improve my time. From the top, there's a view East/Northeast of Monument Mountain High School, the Appalachian Trail ridge line and on clear days, Mount Greylock. When sitting on the rocks and facing East/Southeast, you can see Taft Farms in the valley, the edge of Great Barrington, Catamount and its ski slopes, Berkshire hills and sometimes, the Adirondacks behind them.  There are pitch pines up there and black flies that seem menacing but aren't, and a feeling that it's all going to be OK. Once, when I was in the process of breaking up with my first husband but not quite ready to tell the world, a branch got stuck in my wedding ring, pulling my finger out of joint, which I took as a not so gentle suggestion. So, I had a little ceremony at the top of the mountain and tossed it off, only to repeat the same thing again a few years back. On this time up, the ascent again is steeper than it had been, bathed in shafts of light that sometimes illuminated single or groups of mountain laurel blooming.

On the way up, I had met a white haired woman about my age, with a small and fairly infirm dog, both climbing slowly enough that I wasn't sure which way they were going. On the way down, there they were again, and when her dog showed an interest in me, the woman and I began chatting. She was from Pittsfield and had always meant to hike Monument, had passed it a million times, and was finally doing it, thinking it a good day as our country had just gone to war. Her husband, God Rest His Soul, had been Indian and so proud to become American. How sad he would be were he to know where our country was now. She began to get emotional and apologized. I told her I appreciated her emotion as I had been married and divorced twice, actually dumping my wedding rings at the peak, clearly not meant for married life, and was touched to witness a woman who cared so much for her husband. She gesticulated no with her head and said that she too had been divorced, and was upset not about him, but the state of the world. We laughed. I thanked her for the nice moment with a stranger, she did the same, and then she said "Oh, by the way, I found the rings", winked and went off in search of her dog.  When I think of the magic of the Berkshires, it's things like this that always happen and I'm ever so grateful. 

Speaking of dogs, when Nat was little, she loved to change her clothes many times a day, sometimes wearing multiple layers at once. Going over to a friend's house, the first thing she'd do was open up their dresser drawers and take things out that she intended to wear. So it wasn't a surprise that one of her favorite books was No Dogs Here, which tells the story of Norman, Ginger and Rufus, three dogs who get sick of all the NO DOGS ALLOWED signs holding them back, so decide to dress up in human clothes. There's a line in the book "It was hotter than a parked car with the windows rolled up", which kept on popping into my mind those days out in the Berkshires, so swimming was called for.

New, pretty part of Tanglewood

​It seemed important to take a wee gander across the lawns of Tanglewood, as it was an early weekday morning, the shadows were good and there wouldn't be a soul there. Some changes, not many, and such amazement that I had the privilege of working there, trying to imagine how I, or anyone, could ever have been stressed out.

On the last night, Marion and I curled up on the couch, had such a wide-ranging, all enveloping conversation that we didn't realize we were sitting in the dark for a very long time.  Are there better things than these?

Can't wait to go back to these enchanted people and hills, yes, including Keith. And Baxter.

My current view

Here we are on Memorial Day, hope it's a happy one for you. I'm just off the tennis court and of all odd things,  playing paddle tennis later. A friend of a friend from Portugal wants to try it and in the interest of furthering the international language of racquets, I'm on board.  I suppose the weather has been right for paddle, this was my friend June yesterday. 

Kid and me in Cassis

Feeling sheepish about not having written for a while, I was reminded of something David Sedaris, whom as you may know I respect greatly for his writing, said. He apparently revises obsessively, taking an hour on the one or two sentences in his "diaries", Theft by Finding and Carnival of Snackery. He noted that it didn't give him much time for the business of living which he wanted to write about. So perhaps a rationalization for creating content can be made? It has been a busy time.

Nat didn't bring quite as much North Sea meteorological sturm und drang this time around, though I did have reason to once carry an umbrella. We took a favorite evening walk that heads up to the Terrain des Peintres, where Cezanne painted Mt. Ste. Victoire, then down through the gated houses with crisply trimmed hedges, to the lane that wanders through olive groves shut in behind rusty but regal gates, then past the meadow which grows wilder, right onto the next lane with high grassy side banks that look English, down the hill through thorn bushes that smell like pepper and give out a feeling of damp, past poppies, wild irises and grape hyacinths (the ones I could identify, there were many others). After that it's the past the subsidized housing and down the hill to the university, the fountain where a man can be found who lets pigeons sit on his head, past the cocktail bar where Sandra and I enjoyed the number 7 with a large ice cube, mezcal, hot pepper and something else, to my most favorite Place de Precheurs where the light is perfect at any time of day and the magpies still sometimes squawk in the trees but not as much as in winter, and then right, past the Onglerie (nail salon), boulangerie that only old people patronize, home made macaron store that is most often empty, cat book shop, expensive shoe store, left past the men's clothing store where the proprietor dresses according to his whim, which can mean country lord about to go hunting, 1960s businessman, or even raffish skateboarder who didn't get the age limit memo. All of the walk, whether up on the hill looking at the mountain, in the trees where the doves sing, meadows, squares, are bathed in doleful evening shadows that gently tell us it would soon be time to say goodbye to the day. 

Despite our heathen tendencies, we celebrated Easter, peering into churches to see if there was as much drama as in Malta (there wasn't, though all the statues were covered in purple cloth) and laughing at the "Easter basket" I made Nat from a balsa strawberry container decorated with hulls which actually dry nicely. I hid some eggs in the apartment, but there was never time for a hunt, so weeks later they remain in their very obvious places for the next guest to find.  We decided to go to Cassis, picturing it desolate because it was a Sunday and a holiday, but couldn't have been more wrong. We spent a lot of time watching men diving from cliffs at the Calanques.  There was a group of four, one who never even took his shirt off, no way was he going in, two jumped in easily and the fourth, for about half an hour, would go close to the edge, look down, and then turn away. The mom part of me was sending him messages to not be peer pressured, and only do it if he wanted to. Eventually he did, then repeating with pride and zeal. There were another four in wet suits who weren't on the rocks, but closer to us, still with significant height above the water. They threw many rocks down to see where they landed, then all of a sudden, there were flips and back dives in the air.  Finally, there was the "old guy", who had a white pony tail and wore a wet suit. On the highest peak of all, he demonstrated a most graceful swan dive. We wanted so much for him to repeat it, but the climb from the water to the top is not insignificant in bare feet. In fact one of the others wore socks, another slides while climbing. Through all of this, tourists boats and private yachts came into the cove, passengers egging the divers on.

The kid with the orange bathing suit was the one who took a while to jump. To the right of where they are, on the other side of the tree, you can see the higher point where the "old guy" swan dove.

A few days after Nat left, Sandra arrived, via Istanbul, happy to stop at a cafe for a drink before we'd dropped off her luggage. She insisted on not eating because she'd had three separate meals on her two flights, but it turns out that likely, one of them may have made her sick, so her first few days were hard, though she was a trooper, hugging the side of the couch and pulling herself up occasionally to have a look around at the neighborhood before she hunkered back down for a few more hours of sleep. After a few days of rest, it was off to Cassis for lunch at the harbor,  a nice walk over to the Calanques (no divers this time, it was a week day), and then a drink at Les Roches Blanches, where we discovered a room costs 800€ a night.

I had found out about a Challenger tournament at the Country Club Aixoise, and so one day we wandered over, convinced of our ability to be talent scouts in next lives. The second person we saw after arriving was Stan the Man practicing, one of my favorite players.  We later watched some up and comers, the most interesting a red headed Peruvian named Ignacio Buse, whom I later watched in the semis as he valiantly fought but eventually lost to Borna Coric, whom I rather liked until he spat a big glob right on the court, as well as repeatedly emptying his nose of whatever substance was in there.  It was interesting being a spectator with French people, who talk incessantly, bring baguettes full of various things to ensure hunger will be kept at bay, and somehow feel it's OK to huff on their vapers to make a nasty strawberry smell reminiscent of a 1986 NYC cab. The club has the most beautiful red clay courts, as well as padel and squash, so in the fall, I'll be doing a little research. There were two 10 year old kids getting a lesson who were better than any I've ever seen at that age, playing with grace and confidence. Yup, talent scout.

One evening, we were walking past the movie theater and wondered about going. My French friend had told me that VO or VF meant with English subtitles, so when we saw the title How to Make Millions Before Grandma Dies, we both wanted to jump in. We were a little confused when the movie began, in Thai, with French subtitles. I looked at Sandra and true to her nature, she didn't look concerned (she doesn't speak French), so we stayed. I followed quite easily, rather smug about the hours I'd spent "learning French" by watching the The Parisian Agency, a trashy reality show about a family of realtors who show zillion euro properties.  Well, we left the theater and Sandra pretty much had the gist of the plot, based on the faces of the actors. Oh well.  I later learned that the movie went viral after people posted videos on social media of themselves crying while watching it. 

Savon noir is a great moisturizer, bought some today.

My French friend Carole, with whom I share a love of discovering new places, had for a while planned a day for us, which we were only able to execute recently. After having packed up all the stuff that's staying in Aix and handing my suitcases over to the young, kind Australian friends who will babysit them for the summer, Carole picked me up on the ring road. We got to chatting, missing our exit, resulting in a circuitous but beautiful route through alternating fields of bright green wheat, psychedelic red poppies and yellow something or others. The trees were all abloom still, so there were smells in the air, and that feeling of so much beauty it must be a movie. Broken down old farm houses, pretty little towns with only a boulangerie and a cafe and sometimes big castles in the background.

Lac de Sainte-Croix

Our first stop was Lac de Sainte-Croix, which I kept on thinking must have been artificial because of its color (it isn't). It was so tempting to join the paddle boat fun, but we had other places to visit, so we continued on. Driving up and up and up, lots of zigzagging, we eventually stopped, according to Wikipedia, 6300 feet above sea-level, to look down on a gorge that feeds into the beautiful lake above.  We pulled out our picnic of baguette, comté, tomme de brebis, beets, olives and artichoke tapenade and had a feast, watching some raptors catching air currents, jealous of the way they can do it and be kings of all they survey. Carole, who doesn't love a height, was brave for looking over, and kind for taking me there.  We finished off the day with a visit to Moustieres-Sainte-Marie, a little hill town that has a church at the top, which you can climb up to (we didn't because we were wearing clothing that was already making us too warm), giving a view of the lake on one side, valleys and plateaus on the other. 

But it hasn't all been fun and games. I have been slowly immersing myself in French bureaucracy, a significant challenge for me even in my first language. To rent a place, I need a bank account. To get a bank account I need a lease. To get a lease, I need to rent a place. Mon Dieu!

The rental agent sent me to a bank, BNP Paribas. They told me there's a 15,000€ minimum. I ask my French friend if that sounds right, she calls her bank, they laugh. Fortunately not everyone takes advantage of the gringos, so I met with Estelle at Credit Miutuel, and over the course of 45 minutes, managed to, (in French!) open an on-line account with no minimum. At least that's what I think I did...  Next is preparing for the rental, which will require the following: Deed to my condo in Boston, real estate tax bill, personal and business tax returns, certificate of business, bank statements, electric bill, rental agreement with future tenant, passport. And then on top of that, I need to insure myself in case I don't pay rent. No wonder everyone smokes here.

I'm off to Boston tomorrow for the summer, more to come, it's been an absolutely fabulous winter in a place I love with wonderful people visiting, which has made it even more special.

Such a happy time; Jenn, KO, me and Laura at Les Roches Blanches

I have a friend who is rarely in one place, though when at home she is likely cooking a seriously delicious dinner for a gaggle of friends, or maybe hosting people at a weekend house. When away, she could be in another part of the country looking after a parent, flying to an obscure corner of the globe (corner?) for work, spending a week in the jungle with her family, or exploring a major metropolitan and very foreign city alone. I should mention that she has the kind of job with many relying on her to make decisions that have significant ramifications. Also, she's warm and kind, makes her own curtains, runs half marathons, speaks four languages fluently, plays the piano and is much better read than I. The only parallel we have is our equally bad performance in an escape room. Left to our own devices, we'd certainly die, hopefully quickly. 

And I'm worried about facing a significant emotional challenge by moving from France back to the US while not having worked for six months and only one quarter mastered one additional language??  I guess there's no good comparing apples to chairs here. While as kids, I was traumatized by unbridled and barefoot summers being upended y alarm clocks, regular bathing and disapproving teachers, she was likely admiring her new pencils after having done more than the required summer reading. Yes, I'm having that "first red leaf" feeling, a dread in the pit of my stomach, as leaving Aix looms.

Last week, three friends began a journey at the Monte Carlo tennis tournament, continued on to St. Tropez and then to Aix. To me their arrival felt like a harbinger of my departure, despite an excitement at the thought of spending time with them. But then here they were, on the patio of La Rotonde, only in Aix for an hour or so, settled in, talking, laughing, enjoying a Provencal rosé and watching the world go by. Any dread dissipated and not surprisngly, their company turned out to be the gift needed to banish any negative feelings and instead I was able to share my life and be reminded of all the good that awaited in Boston. 

These ladies have travelled together before, and it's evident, they are like seaweed in the ocean with each other, making room, flowing and bending as the currents come, each with their roles. Laura wants coffee early, always says yes and is busy observing, Jenn sleeps in and provides levity and warmth, KO is the mayor and on top of logistics and timetables, which is impressive with two lefties, if you know what I mean. We spent such a most perfect few days talking, wandering, hiking, getting lost, eating and seeing new things.  Our time flowed perfectly, then these fine people were off to Nice, Paris then Logan. It's thanks to them that this transition is nailed. 

Thanks, folks. Jenn, KO and Laura in front of their vestibule on their way out of town

The time coming to an end has motivated me to do all those things one puts off because there's so much time. 

One morning at the daily market, I overheard a woman telling a man that the market was too touristy and that anyone in their right mind would instead go to the Arab Market on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I did some investigatory work and eventually arrived there at the correct time and sure enough, there were between 20 and 25 stalls set up selling some similar produce, fish and olivy sorts of things, but more interesting were middle eastern grains, spices, sauces, robes, shoes, detergents, towels, etc. It was exciting to walk 20 minutes and be in another world without using a passport. 

The Museum Granet is always at the top of every tourist list in Aix, and one Sunday a month or so ago, I wandered into what I thought was the whole museum, exiting half an hour later, disappointed by the amalgam of Republic era statues, early civilization artifacts and very small collection of pre- and impressionist oil paintings that included a few Cezannes (the prodigal son of Aix). But the other day the mystery was solved as I discovered a second building a few blocks separated, holding a full collection given to the museum by a painter and art advisor named Jean Planque. In a beautifully renovated space that had been a church were many well laid out Picasso paintings, as well as those by Dufy, Van Gogh, Dubuffet, Bonnard, Klee, Monet, Degas, etc. It's a pretty special collection and for me was the perfect size. It made me realize I need to have my own Picasso in order to contemplate it regularly, which I know will lead to a better understanding and appreciation. It would hang either where I have breakfast or in the bathroom, preservation and conservation be damned.

Not quite as world class, but delightful, was the Museum of Old Aix, which took half an hour to go through, not because it wasn't compelling, but because it was small. Set in an Hotel de Ville, as the large old houses are called, it had a nice collection of mechanical sentons, or these little dolls, which are huge business here at Christmas time.  The museum is next door to another Hotel, which is prized for its dramatic staircase, which has walls illustrated with all the academic disciplines.  Also attended was the Tapestry Museum but the only kept me for 15 minutes, an odd mixture of the greyhound/hunt variety from way back when, and pink macrame. 

Door of church in Eguilles

​A bus visit to Eguilles gave me the gift of sitting in a tiny little church while the organ master perhaps rehearsed for Easter this Sunday, playing a riff over and over, humming along, not aware of my presence. It's a quiet and peaceful town up on a hill, looking out over the valley westwards. But not much to do there. On the way back, I saw one of those super super markets at the mall where the bus inspectors had jumped on and demanded my receipt, which I wasn't able to provide because I paid with my phone, so had to pay twice. After reading an email written by the food blogger David Leibovitz about how much the French love their monster supermarkets, I decided the next day to walk back to the dreaded location and check it out. It is perhaps larger, square footage wise, than Costco, and had an array of goods similar to that of a large Target, though with significantly more fresh food and better looking prepared food. Overwhelmed, I bought some Milka Easter eggs and apero crackers with conte, and headed on home.  

Dove Update:  The dove (ok, she might be a pigeon, turns out there's no difference, but I like to think of her as a dove. She makes such a soothing sound) is in the nest outside my kitchen 24/7 now. At first her name was Pascal, but I've changed it to Solange, we have become friends. (I later changed her name again to Camilla, which stuck). After a few windy days, I've learned she's not alarmed by shutters banging, nor my movements nearby. Research tells me that her likely two eggs (she actually had three healthy babies that I watched her feed by regurgitating food for them) will hatch in about another week and a half.  If you're curious as I was about fertilization happens, here is what I found out. The male mounts the female from behind while fluttering his wings for balance and support. In this position, their cloacas come into contact with one another in what appears as a gentle kiss—a momentary joining that facilitates sexual reproduction.