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I made it, safe and sound.

I may have some photos from Eddie to post regarding our last night in Paris. If so, more later.

This trip has been quite an amazing journey. Like the French language, I think I just need to let the experience sink in. The journey fulfilled my desires in so many ways, and also provided some unexpected challenges, which, I'm happy to say, I was pretty much able to manage.

My time in Montpellier wasn't exactly as I had anticipated. Before I went I was looking forward to meeting Jacqueline and thinking that, perhaps, I may be making a new chum. Well, we all know how THAT turned out. But sometimes challenging people come into our lives for a reason. I was also not expecting French lessons to be so challenging, or to be quite so overtaken by culture shock! The shock of culture shock (in France???) was completely unexpected. But I really loved my teacher, Christian, and I'm sure the lessons have given me a good basis for further studies, and I really liked the city of Montpellier a lot, and my experience overall there was so good. I was also very happy that, despite the challenges, I was able to learn so much. It's a good feeling, knowing that the mind is still capable of absorbing and learning, no matter what the age! So, back here at home, writing this, I feel very satisfied with my Montpellier experience overall.

And then there was Aix. It was in Aix that I reached a crisis point, and the disappointment of Aix was so….. disappointing. But I think I arrived there in such an exhausted state that it just couldn't be otherwise.  (And, even though the bed was so comfortable, I think there was just something about that house that was unsettling and had something to do with sleepless nights.) But seeing the Carriers of Bibemus is what I'll really remember of Aix, and that was really wonderful; and I have my lovely new red blouse from Aix as well, AND it was in Aix that I was finally able, after weeks, to calm my beating heart and to ease the anxieties and exhaustion of navigating day after day after day in a foreign language and culture, having to be alert at every second and aware every moment. Even though I didn't sleep much, it was in Aix that I was somehow able to make a necessary transition for which I am thankful, because I would have hated to have arrived in Paris in the state in which I arrived in Aix. So, there is that!

And Paris? Well, I adored just about every second in Paris, including days and days of walking miles and miles and miles. But I think that anyone seeing my posts of Paris could conclude that for themselves. And, of course, there was Edouard! I felt such a bond with him. One day as we were travelling along I said that there were not many young men who would be willing to spend so much time with their grandmothers, and he said, "but Dee, you are so much fun!" We talked non-stop every minute we were together, and when we parted he hugged me two or three times. Being with him just did my heart so much good.

On Friday evening Eddie agreed to go with me to Notre Dame for the Vespers service. A young woman sang the psalms in a beautiful soprano voice, accompanied by the organ. The entire experience was full of simplicity and yet grandeur. It was deeply and profoundly moving.

Afterwards, we went to dine at a Japanese restaurant, and even though I had told him that I wanted an early night for my last night, he had arranged with a young friend to pick me up and drive me all around Paris. His friend, Adele (whom, he said, I had met at his 18th birthday party), is a driver for a company that provides private tours of Paris. She, an adorable French girl, dressed in a black and white striped long-sleeved t-shirt and jaunty chauffeur's cap, arrived in an old, hot pink, open-topped Citroen. And here we were, in the brisk cold night, zipping around many arrondissements of Paris and laughing and talking, me bundled up in blankets and my head wrapped up in a scarf like an old babushka, trying to keep warm, with tourists taking OUR photograph, as Eddie used Adele's camera to take some shots of us seeing Paris. Needless to say, I didn't get my early night, but, rather, had about four hours of sleep before beginning what was to be a 19-hour day of travel.  But with all that being said, it was a marvellous end to my journey.

So, within the last 72 hours or so, I have been to the top of the Eiffel Tower, participated in the glory of Vespers at Notre Dame, and was driven around, laughing and chatting, and blowing in the cold wind, in a little pink Citroen in the company of two vibrant and intelligent young people.

This morning, it was glorious to be in my home church — I could feel a new spirit of love moving within me and I made within myself an intention, a resolve to release old hurts and pain, and a commitment to living more without these things in my life. I am intending to look upon my life anew as full of opportunity, and seeking new ways in which to be of service and to realise more of my own potential. And now, having left Paris a little more than 24 hours ago, I'm here on my sofa, looking out at the bright glory of a deep blue October sky and the golden trees that surround my home.

Life is so good. Life is so incredibly amazing. And I am so happy to be alive. Thanks be to God.
 

Home Tomorrow

Home seems so very far away and life there seems so very long ago. It seems as if I've been gone forever, and the U.S.A. is just a distant, faint memory. Other than the tragic incident in Oregon, keeping up with the Cubs, a couple of phone calls to family, and occasionally keeping up with news of friends on Facebook, I have had no more thought of America than I have of any other country when I am at home in Illinois.

It is always so interesting to return to the States after an extended period of travel. Needless to say, I am always most, most appreciative of my home and its many comforts. The idea of actually cooking a meal in my own kitchen and taking a bath in my own bathroom sounds like heaven right now. And sometimes when I return, the USA seems so familiar and yet so new and big and fast and foreign — I see the place with very different eyes.

So, after shopping for a few groceries, unpacking my suitcase, sorting through the mail, and doing laundry, I'll be sorting through hundreds of photos and publishing them via iPhoto, and reminiscing and sharing stories. I'm so glad I blogged about my journey. Writing about it has not only allowed me to share this experience with friends, but has given me a great little memory book, if you will.

Eddie asked me yesterday what my plans were for the rest of the year and beginning in the new, and I was a bit taken aback, because I realised I didn't have any plans. "Oh, once November hits, we'll be celebrating Thanksgiving and then getting ready for Christmas," I said.

I will also look forward to being in the classroom as a teacher (a much easier job than that of being a student!!) and, as we waited in the Eiffel Tower line for tickets yesterday I spoke of some of my students and my admiration for them as they endure many hardships.

Of course I have always empathised with my students and have done my best to create a loving, fun atmosphere in the classroom. I have always admired them for their tenacity and their courage. My experience in the classroom as a student has only increased my respect for them. As difficult and as confusing as my first few weeks were for me, I was on vacation! However, not only do they have to endure the disorientation of culture shock, they have to endure the pains of often leaving family behind in difficult circumstances, work at jobs that most Americans don't want, support their families here, while sending money back home, and deal with all of the necessities of everyday life (how to get medical care, a driver's license, etc), all while dealing with a mind-numblingly exhausting daily routine with very little sleep. And while doing this, they are learning a new language. My experience here has given me a little bit more understanding, but anyone who has not learned a new language and has had to use that language to survive cannot possibly comprehend what the experience is like.

I do wish I had the energy to be in the classroom on a regular basis. I plan to return to substitute teaching when I get back, and hope I can rack up some hours — not just because I love doing it, but also because the money could come in handy. I had saved for many months for this trip, but, of course, there were some unanticipated expenses and I'd like to be debt-free asap.

I also might audition for a play, but then again….  I kind of feel the muse may be calling me back to writing. One thing I love about travel is that I really feel the urge to write. Perhaps I can utilise some of my new-found grit and determination and apply this to getting myself to sit down and write every day.

Well, the bells of Notre Dame are pealing, pealing, pealing under an iron-grey sky. I must pack, clean the apartment, and scout out the St Michel/Notre Dame Metro stop, get my ticket for the RER train to CDG, and see how many stairs I am going to have to navigate with my heavy suitcase. Then I'm going to amble around, and possibly stop into Shakespeare and Company. This afternoon I'm going to ask Eddie to come and help me return the gigantic bed into a sofa (which means I'll sleep on a foam mattress on the floor tonight). We plan to go to Vespers at Notre Dame at 5:45, then some supper, after which, Eddie tells me, depending upon the weather, I might have a surprise. Then an early night for me, since I want to awaken at 4:30 am. (Eric is going to call me as a backup to my little cell-phone alarm.)

Please say a prayer for me — that I wake up in time, successfully navigate the Metro, get on the right train, arrive at CDG three hours before my flight, get successfully checked in and through customs, and arrive in Minneapolis, then Moline, at 4:09 p.m. Central Time on Saturday.

Au revoir from Paris (and thanks for travelling along)!

A Monumental Day

We went to the top of the Arc de Triomphe today, as well as to the very, very top of the Eiffel Tower. Down below, waiting in line to buy tickets, I was pretty hesitant, but Eddie was pretty insistent. I began to feel a bit of anxiety just at the thought of it, but then I decided that the thought of going up was probably worse than doing it and so we went, and it was just fine. Wonderful, in fact.

La Tour Eiffel, from the top of L'Arc de Triomphe

The "high"light of my journey ;-)

I Walked for About Six Hours Today

Today I took the Metro up to Les Invalides to meet Eddie and his mother Beatrice, who happened to be in Paris on business (and also happened to have a morning free). We sat and chatted in French for a few minutes and then chatted in English for the two hours or more that we walked around Les Invalides, crossing bridges, going hither and yon, and then talked some more over a beautiful lunch at a Spanish restaurant which was Beatrice's treat.

After lunch Beatrice gave me a warm, Gallic "good-bye," with admonitions to kiss all my family from her, and then Eddie and I got on the train to Versailles. The place was pretty much as I expected it to be. The mind boggles at the size, not only of the building itself, but the immense size of the gardens and parks that surround the place. The place was PACKED with thousands of tourists and, after about an hour and a half of walking through room after room, I began to tire of being in tight spaces with not enough elbow room. After we finished touring inside, we went outside and took one of the open trams that go all around the estate.

Afterwards we returned to Paris and, rather than going out with Eddie for the evening, I begged off. We went to a little corner cafe — the Sarah Bernhardt — and we each went "American" and had a cheeseburger and fries. It really hit the spot. I had the best drink consisting of vodka, lots of lime, and sugar.

Now home and resting for another big day out tomorrow. Not sure exactly what we're going to do, but it will be my last big fling. On Friday I will clean my apartment and pack and then perhaps do something light, like maybe wander over to Shakespeare and Company and see if I can find that E.M. Delafield book and just sit and read.

Beatrice, Eddie, and me, in front of Les Invalides

Napoleon's tomb, under the dome in Les Invalides

The chapel in Les Invlides

My lunchtime cup of coffee

Versailles

Versailles

Versailles

Versailles

Versailles

Versailles

Eddie!!!

Eddie (a foreign-exchange student with Craig and Marcia, 2006-2007) is the most wonderful person, and I had really been looking forward to meeting up with him in Paris. Today we made arrangements to meet at a little cafe near my metro stop. This evening I sat at a little round table, drinking a beer as I waited, and when he came in and we hugged and kissed hello, it was so wonderful to see him that I just didn't want to let him go. He ordered a beer and we conversed in French for a while; but when conversation became too complicated for that, we switched to English and he talked pretty much non-stop the entire evening.

We headed over to Au Vieux Paris (a couple of steps from Notre Dame), one of the oldest restaurants in Paris, for dinner.

Over wine and dinner he updated me on all his news about his studies and prospects for his career, and the news of his brothers, parents, and grandmothers, and I updated him on my news, telling him of the family, particularly grandchildren Sarah, David and John. We recalled with happiness his amazing 18th birthday party that Craig, Marcia, Carrie and I attended in 2008. I told him I'd never been to a party like that before or since. (The French really know how to throw a party!)

After dinner he asked if I wanted to take a walk to see the oldest buildings in Paris, so we headed north over one of the bridges across the Seine to the location of a couple of 13th-century structures that somehow escaped Baron Haussmann. 

Hmmm, I thought, "older, oldest, and old." (One of the oldest restaurants, the two oldest buildings, and an "old" friend.)

Night-time in Paris: Eddie, with me (wearing my trusty green raincoat, new beige hat, and "sofa scarf")

Then he suggested one of his favourite bars, also right in the neighbourhood of Notre Dame, and so, merrily we trudged back south, passing Notre Dame and across the river, along the busy streets, dodging traffic and tourists, and chatting non-stop all the way.

It was a bar on a corner and we went in and sat down, Eddie, happy because we were at "his" table right near the door. He told me that the bar doesn't close until 5 a.m., and spoke of all his exploits with his friends. I said, "oh just like in the song" and hummed and sang a bit, "those were the days, my friend, we thought they'd never end." I told him it had been a Mary Hopkin song from the 60's, and he said he thought it had originally been a tune by Edith Piaf. He spoke with great warmth about an "amazing American girl" whom he met one night and talked with for hours upon end. He told me of his disappointment when he realised he had lost her number. With the sounds of people talking and playing and singing around us, we spoke of other lost loves as well.

Eddie's favorite piano player, and a favorite chanteuse

At the Musee Picasso

Since today's ramblings had brought me into the Marais, I decided to find the Musee Picasso. Finally there, I paid the entrance fee and spent the entire afternoon.

I really enjoyed being at this museum. Aside from the artwork itself, there were two things I enjoyed: 1) it was not the Louvre (I've only been once — in 2008 — and found it too overwhelming), and 2) of the hundreds of people there, I only saw two people taking photographs of the artwork. I just must insert a strong personal dislike here, that being people who amble through art galleries taking photographs of the art. When I'm at an art museum, I like to look at the art, not be surrounded by camera after camera. It just grates me no end. Come on folks, have the experience of looking at the art. Absorb what you are seeing, be here in the moment and savour the experience! If you want a picture, buy a print or buy a book — those photos will be superior to what you are taking. My mind was boggled when I went to see the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. The room was filled with people with cameras taking photographs of the painting. Of course now there will be people with cameras taking selfies with the Mona Lisa in the background, right? UGH!  Okay, sorry for the rant, but I needed to get that out of my system. Anyway, I don't know what accounted for the scarcity of cameras, but I was very thankful for it.

Anyway, as I was saying, I really enjoyed the experience at the Musee Picasso today. It was so interesting to read of what influenced him and how he evolved. I loved hearing about the relationships he had with his friends, with his wives and mistresses — so many names I recognised, and it was so interesting to see his paintings of them, as well as some period photographs. I loved seeing a faded photo of Picasso and Fernande with their two little dogs. (It recalled to mind the one-woman show I did as Gertrude Stein, talking about all these people.)

I had obtained an audio guide and that, along with printed copy, provided some great background and explanations. I have a long way to go in terms of understanding Cubism — art, to paraphrase Picasso, as a concept that can be comprehended by the mind, but not understood by the eye. I would like to understand it, but then again, here is a quote by Picasso:

Everyone wants to understand painting. Why don't people try to understand the song of the birds? Why do people love a night, a flower, everything around them, without trying to understand it? Whereas, with painting, they want to understand……… Those who try to explain a painting generally get it wrong.

The view from my window. I can envision this reconstructed as a Cubist painting.
Notre Dame is just on the other side of this building and across the river.
When the bells are pealing, pealing, pealing, I sometimes open the window and just stand and absorb the sound.

It's Really Not Smelly, Though

"It's really not smelly, though" — the first words I uttered this morning, upon deciding that one of my two tops warm enough for Paris did not need to be washed. (I only brought four blouses — two light ones I brought for the south of France [which are not warm enough], and my two black knit tops, and haven't bought anything new, other than the pretty red one, which is not suitable for my purposes here.)

"It's really not smelly, though" — high standards indeed! It's amazing, how little it takes to get by. On Sunday, for church and the opera, I dressed up my green raincoat by using the scarf that had been draped over the sofa in the apartment, and I looked quite passable. But maybe a shopping excursion for a new blouse (or, better yet, a nice warm sweater) and a new scarf is in order today!

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Of all the gin joints in all the world…. er…. sorry, let me begin that again.

Of all the shops in all of France, and I finally walk into his. I can't tell you how many shops I've popped into, trying to find a warm sweater or a new winter coat. My current black winter coat was purchased in 2006, when I came home from Sitka, and I had decided that it would be fun to come home with a new coat from France. But it appears as if it is not meant to be.

Likewise, I like to buy a new sweater each winter and thought it would be fun to come home with one from France. I have looked and looked, but to no avail. Either the styles were not to my liking, or the sizes were not large enough, or (as was the case with a gorgeous cashmere sweater today), the prices were out of my league.

Until today.

I ended up in the Marais district (and walked past the apartment building with the red door where Carrie and I stayed in 2008), and after having lunch at a little corner bistro, I ambled along and stopped in at some beautiful shops. And then I found Antoine & Lili — a store that had some very unique and beautiful clothes that were tremendously appealing to me (and at affordable prices). Unfortunately, the deep teal/greenish wool coat that I adored and would have bought in.a.heartbeat was just a tad too small and a tad too short; however, I was sure I would find something, and the tall, elderly, elegant man with a moustache and be-jewelled fingers was very courteous and accommodating.

I ended up buying a large, loose-knit red cardigan that, being a style meant to look oversized, fits me now and will still look good when I get back to my pre-France weight. (The salesman suggested it to me, since it is the same colour of my little red hat.) I also found a lovely, deep teal, light-weight wool scarf. And, even though I was trudging along in my "not smelly" black top, trusty green raincoat, and "sofa scarf," I felt tres chic, walking through the Marais with a shopping bag containing my treasures wrapped in bright, fuchsia tissue paper.

Pere Lachaise

Oscar

Gertrude and Alice

For Craig and Eric: Léopold Mourier président d'honneur perpétuel de la mutuelle des cuisiniers de France.

Edith

Marcel et moi

Jim

Fred

Heloise & Abelard
the first inhabitants
(in a monument constructed long after their demise)

Dimanche en Paris

I am going to make my first foray into the Metro system today. Well, the first foray on THIS trip. When I was here with Carrie in 2008, I found it to be a bit of a challenge, unlike my trip to London with Karen in 2011, when I breezed easily around and in and through the Tube. So, hopefully, my London experience will inform me as I travel the Metro this week.

My objectives today are twofold: to make my way to the American Church in Paris for the 11 am service: and then, to the Opera Bastille, where I hope to arrive in time to stand in line for an inexpensive ticket to see the final performance of Mozart's Don Giovanni. Please wish me luck (retroactively, since I am writing this now at what is 2:29 am, Central Time, and you may not see it until many hours later).

I had so wished to see an Opera at the Palais Garnier, the majestic and beautiful old opera house; however, the Opera Bastille (a frighteningly modern-looking place that apparently produces operas in a modern style) is where Mozart is playing. Of course, at this point even going there may just turn out to be a pipe dream, but I'm on a mission.

I am very much in need of some spiritual refreshment. Church and my prayer life have not been regularly maintained and so it will be good to get a boost in church today. Needless to say, my time at Notre Dame Cathedral was incredible, and I just may pop in for a mass on occasion, should time and opportunity present themselves this week.

My friend Susan F. just sent me the link to a most amazing piece, "For the Traveler," which so beautifully captures the spirit I seek to realise when I travel. It is a beautiful and timely reminder for me, particularly this section, since I am continuing to "free my heart of ballast." Freeing my heart, as I wrote in one of my earliest posts, is not done by distance, but by time. Simply crossing the ocean does not make a difference; however, using this journey as an opportunity to explore new dimensions within myself is the key to creating a new perspective of life and love.

A journey can become a sacred thing:
Make sure, before you go,
To take the time
To bless your going forth,
To free your heart of ballast
So that the compass of your soul
Might direct you toward
The territories of spirit
Where you will discover
More of your hidden life,
And the urgencies
That deserve to claim you.

The entire piece can be found here: https://ivor.wordpress.com/2015/10/17/for-the-traveler/.

Well, I have two hours to get up, get dressed, get breakfast and get the Metro before the church service starts. I must be moving on.

Happy Sunday,  everyone!

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7:15 p.m. here, and I just came home.

I made it to church — it's all the way out near Pont L'Alma, right in the neighbourhood of the Eiffel Tower. The church was packed from top to bottom. I loved the hymns — when we sang "Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee" to the tune of Beethoven's Ninth, I thought my heart would burst with happiness. If only we had just sung. Could not figure out what the point of the sermon was. To paraphrase the emperor in Amadeus again, "too many words." But I'm really glad I went. This week they are celebrating the 50th anniversary of Dr. M.L. King's visit there, after he had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. It seems to be a very vibrant place, with lots of young families and children, old folks, middle-aged; English, American, and huge Filipino and African communities.

After church I walked across Pont L'Alma, going north across the river; and, although I was now on the Rive Droite, I behaved in a pretty gauche manner, just addressing a group of people in general who were waiting at a stoplight: "does anyone here know where the Metro stop is?" And an American laughed and pointed me in the right direction.

I took the subway all the way back across town, with one station change, to the Bastille stop and arrived at L'Opera Bastille, where — ta da — I was successful in getting a ticket at a discount rate. Mozart's music is, of course, incredible, and the voices were sublime. The opera lasted for three hours and 40 minutes (including a 35 minute intermission). It was an incredible experience, although I must say I do not like the Opera Bastille building. It functions well, but it is so ugly. And the costumes and the set and the staging? Just … I don't know what to say, other than it actually made me angry because it was so distracting. The chorus came out with scrub buckets and mops and was dressed in purple and teal janitorial costumes, and for the office party, they donned ugly mouse masks. And at the end, Il Commandatore came out in a wheelchair, wearing a bucket-shaped, white cone on his head that was lit up from within, and his voice sounded like it was recorded or something. I had been told that L'Opera Bastille's mission is to bring music to the masses; however, I really doubt that any maids or street cleaners were in the audience! If I hadn't wanted to read the translated libretto above the stage (the surtitles), I would have kept my eyes closed the entire time, because when all I experienced was the voices and the music it was divine.

After the opera I asked an usher for help in figuring out how to return home on the Metro. It took three people who discussed it for quite some time; however, they ended up giving me good directions, and I made my way home with no problem at all.

So, hallelujah on all counts today.

Wonderful Paris

The apartment is comfortable — small, but I have everything I need. Well, I don't have a fridge in the little kitchen, so I'm limited on what I can buy, but I can make it work. Today I stopped at one of the open-air fruit markets and bought some tangerines, grapes and bananas, and last night I bought 1/2 dozen eggs (eggs are not refrigerated in France), and I've located some little patisseries and bakeries that also sell sandwiches and inexpensive salads that I can pick up and bring home. I'm happy to be returning to more of my routine, food-wise. I'll have a big lunch every day and have my egg for breakfast and light suppers. You may have noticed from the photo of me in the red blouse that I've put on several pounds. I'm not beating myself up about it — it was bound to happen, eating all those large dinners at Jacqueline's every night, and practically every cafe serves frites (french fries) with their lunches, and the menu of the day always includes a delicious dessert. I'll continue to allow myself a nice lunch, enjoying whatever is on the menu, but simply having a boiled egg in the morning, and cutting back on big meals at night will help.

I had a wonderful day today. Paris is rainy and cold, and I am here with light-weight blouses, a very light sweater, a light jacket and a raincoat. So, the first thing I did after leaving the apartment today was to find a little shop I had passed yesterday and go in and try on a hat. I ended up buying the hat I saw in the window yesterday — a beige woollen hat with a little flower on it — super warm, and a bit stylish. I figured that, since 80% of the body's heat goes off the head, that if I can keep my head warm, the rest of me should be okay.

I walked and walked all day today. I did some shopping — found some nice postcards and some little souvenirs, tried on a few coats and sweaters, but no success there. I had a nice lunch — frogs' legs, a delicious chicken dish with mashed potatoes, and strawberries and cream for dessert. I was up and down and all around the Boulevard St. Germain. I lost track of the boulevard a couple of times; once, wandering past a church, I was stopped by a gentleman who was inviting people to come in for the service. We had a really nice, long conversation about the church (and I even understood most of it!!!) and when he asked me my religion, he had no comprehension of "Episcopalian." He said "ah, Presbyterian!" and then I tried to explain "L'eglise d'Angleterre" and he acted as if he knew what I was talking about, but I don't think he really did. He ended up giving me a religious medal related to a miracle at Lourdes and I told him I would return for a service on another day.

I am having much more success in being understood in Paris. I honestly don't know what the problem was in the south of France. Well, Jacqueline told me that she sometimes has a difficult time in being understood there, so there IS a regional difference. I had the most difficult time in communicating even the most simple information. For example, when I was asked where I was staying in Aix, I replied "Le Jardin de Marie." I had to repeat it two or three times, and the woman actually ended up asking me to spell it! And then another experience really took the cake. I was in a little cafe and ordered a beer, saying the name "Monaco," while pointing directly to it on the menu, and the waiter said "Leffe?" which was the beer on the line above. So, obviously, the problem was NOT all me!

But in Paris, it has been quite different. Perhaps it's a regional thing, and my accent is more closely related to the Parisian way of speaking, or it could be that they are more used to understanding the tourists who are butchering their language, or maybe I'm just so happy to be in Paris that my tongue has mysteriously untied itself. I've had several interchanges with sales people today and all of them seemed to understand me. So that makes me feel a whole lot better.

One of the highlights of my day was being in the upper rooms of Shakespeare and Company and finding an old, 1928 edition of a book by E.M. Delafield. She is an author I discovered about 25 years ago — Prairie Lights in Iowa City had some editions that had been reprinted; however, she has written a lot of other things that are currently out of print, and what a joy to pick up a book and see her name on the spine! It was just a great little moment. I took it down, with a little $2 Wilde title to pay for it, but unfortunately, it was not for sale. It is part of their reading library, and if I want to read it, I'll have to return and sit and read it there. (WHAT an inconvenience.) I told the young man at the cash register exactly where I had found it at the store, and he said he would do his best to put it back so I could hopefully find it again. The tiny rooms and corridors of the place were absolutely mobbed with people. It was very difficult to browse the titles, having to move out of everybody's way every 15 seconds or so.

I ended the day with a free organ concert at Notre Dame. It was sublime. This was part of their free concert series, wherein guest organists come from all over the world. Tonight's concert was given by Alexander Gorin, from Tel Aviv, who played some Bartholdy and some Bach (which didn't sound like the Bach I know — it was very soft and quiet).

A concert at Notre Dame. How does one describe the experience of being inside, listening to the organ in the body of Notre Dame, like the pulsating heart of a living being, transporting us in the night, as I imagined the stone sensing the sound — alive, somehow — and in my mind's eye, seeing the exterior of the cathedral in lights, while sitting inside and feeling the cathedral inside myself as well. Walking home, stopping on the bridge to see that sublime sight, that magnificent spot on the planet, and being a part of it in this moment in time.

Jzuh sweez on Paree

I love the sound of the whistle in a train station, and I love train travel. I’m writing this on my word processing program on the train, leaving Marseilles for Paris, happy that I had a pretty good night’s sleep — enough to give me enough energy to feel some excitement. But then the thought of Paris is enough to generate some excitement, even if one is tired. I mean, France is France, and France is wonderful. But Paris? Paris is something else.

An announcement is currently playing, none of which I understand except mesdames and messieurs, quarante, and, finally merci pour votre comprehension, which is a phrase I hear at the end of each announcement (and of which I never have any — comprehension, that is).

When I booked my ticket at the local SNCF station on Wednesday for today’s trip, I had the choice of either a) taking the bus to the TGV station in Aix and taking the TGV train directly to Paris, or b) buying a ticket to leave from the SNCF station (five minutes away from my B+B), and taking the regional TER train back down to Marseilles, then changing to the TGV for Paris. Standing there at the counter in Aix on Wednesday and needing to make a quick decision, I opted for the latter, even though it adds about an hour and a half to the trip. It seemed like a good decision at the time. After I left the station and thought about it I realised what had probably prompted this decision: I had not been to the bus station, nor to the TGV station in Aix; however, having had arrived in Aix at the SNCF station, via Marsailles (and knowing both stations) I think I just  wanted to go with the known, thereby eliminating the stress of dealing with stations that I didn't know. An extra hour and a half on the train was no great sacrifice. I love train travel and I wanted the chance to try and finish my novel along with way.

Yesterday, when I asked Marie, the proprietress of my B+B, if she would order me a taxi for 8 am today, she immediately got on the phone and arranged it, and the taxi was prompt and the driver put my suitcase in the trunk and began to drive a rather circuitous route to the train station. All of a sudden I realised that we were not going to the local station and, with an urgency in my voice I said "non, non, monsieur, ne pas le TGV! Je besoin d'aller a le SNCF dans la centre ville!" We had some quick exchanges in French, most of which I heard I could not understand, and I kept repeating SNCF. SNCF. He was rather perplexed, and I came to understand that, when Marie had ordered the taxi, she told him to take me directly to the TGV station (assuming that’s what I wanted, since that’s the most sensible and direct method to get to Paris). And, when he asked me porquoi??? I could’t find the words and I simply ended up saying je ne comprends pas….." ("I don't understand"), while THINKING I was saying "I don't know" ("je ne sais pas"), and wanting to say "I don't know how to tell you, en francais," while feeling like a complete boob. I suddenly had a few tears of frustration, not just because of the confusion of the moment, but also, in part, because my fare was going to be double than what it would have been, had he known directly where to take me. And, upon another quick impulse, I added a tip, since the confusion had not been his fault. IF ONLY, upon getting into the taxi I had said "le gare SNCF, dans le centre ville, s’il vous plait!" If only….

Entering the station I decided it was best to stop crying, and I noticed that an earlier train was preparing to leave for Marseilles. I asked if I could take it, they said yes, so I got to Marseilles a half hour earlier and went inside a little space and, upon learning there was no decaf, ordered a cafe au lait and waited for the platform number to be posted. Once on the platform, we had to walk about 10 minutes down a long, long, long train to its front cars. I am in voiture 5, bas, place assise 11, and now beautiful scenery is flying by, so closing for now and enjoying the ride.

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Arrived in Paris and waited in the queue for a taxi at Gare Lyon; and, although there were about 40-some people ahead of me, it only took about 15 minutes or so for my turn at a taxi. The driver spoke not one word of English, and so I told him (successfully!) in French that I needed to go to two destinations, and that I needed him to wait for me at the first destination, where I would get the key to my apartment.

After paying the balance of my security deposit and rent for my Paris apartment last week, I had received an email with instructions on how to obtain my key and how to get into my apartment. So, arriving at Boutique City Locker, a service where one can store suitcases, or, as in my case, pick up keys, the driver told me he would pull around the corner, so as not to hold up traffic. The place was always unattended and I had to enter a 6-digit code on the panel next to the door; however, after several tries of being very, very careful to enter the numbers correctly, I had no success. I had a number to call in case of emergency, and a nice young Frenchman, who fortunately spoke English, waited on the line as I tried and tried again.  "You have to push the numbers hard," he said. So, I pushed the numbers "hard," noticing that barely discernible beeps attended some numbers, but not others. So I pushed each number harder. "You also have to push them fast," said the voice on the phone. So I pushed them hard and fast. Meanwhile, the taxi was waiting and the meter was running. The young man on the phone said he had someone in the neighbourhood who he would call to come and assist me, so I walked to the taxi, paid the driver, retrieved my suitcase, and returned to the door. "I'll give it one more try," I thought. I once again entered the numbers exactly as I had before, and, voila! The door clicked. I went inside to the vault number I had been given and used the code to open the door of the small vault and retrieved the keys to my apartment. 

I called the young man back to tell him I had been successful and he was ever so sincerely appreciative of the fact that I had done so. After I hung up, I decided I would walk to the apartment. Before leaving the States I had studied a map of the area and knew that my apartment was not that far away, so, following my nose, I began to walk in the direction of where I thought my apartment to be. 

After a bit of back-tracking and circling around narrow, winding side streets and cul-de-sacs, I arrived at 8 rue grands degres, and now I had to enter the code to enter the first door (it was written on my key); then use one of the three keys to open an iron gate once inside, and then, climbing a set of stairs, a second iron gate, and then to use the elevator to get to the second floor where my apartment was located. Having had a similar key to Jacqueline's apartment, I knew that I had to turn the key twice, and, voila! Home at last!

After unpacking a few things and taking a look at the tome with all of the information concerning the apartment, I decided to go out and get some dinner. One of my concerns when I reserved this apartment was how safe I would feel when coming home in the dark at night. It's on a narrow side street; however, I am on main thoroughfares until just a few feet before my building's entrance, and I feel pretty comfortable with the thought of returning home at night. I certainly won't dally, and have already memorised the code to get in the first door: B1789 — my mnemonic device being B for "Bastille" and 1789, the year it was stormed before the revolution. Perfect, no? 

So, I came out onto my street and turned a corner and voila! Right before my very eyes were the buttresses of Notre Dame just across the river. I knew it was there because I had passed it on the way, but, still, it just kind of made me go "oh, wow!" upon seeing it like that. 

The Boulevard St. Germain is just one block to the south of my apartment and so I followed it along, going westward and feeling some happiness and excitement at being here. I turned down one side street and found a little restaurant, where I went in. Being cold (it's cold and rainy, and I only have a light sweater and a light jacket and raincoat, and, even wearing all three is not enough), I ordered a delicious bowl of onion soup and l'agneau roti, along with a glass of beer. 

The restaurant was so warm (I was sitting right under a portable heater on the wall); the beer was good, and I was excited to be in Paris. It was at that very moment that I really yearned to be sitting with a friend — any friend. (So if you happen to be reading this, catch a flight tomorrow or Sunday. I'll even share my hide-a-bed sofa with you.)

As I was about to begin my main course, two elderly women came in and I was so happy to hear them speaking "American" that I almost cried — did, in fact, just a little. I got up and went to their table. "Excuse me," I said. "American?" And when they nodded yes, I explained that I had been travelling alone in France for three weeks, hearing nothing but French. As I was telling them that I was so excited to see them, I reached down and hugged the first woman. She was a little surprised, but they both laughed and the second woman willingly accepted a hug from this quirky woman in a red hat.

We chatted for a few minutes and they told me how "brave" I was. (This is the most ridiculous thing to me. One does not have to be "brave" to travel in Europe. Now, Nepal? That was another thing — at least for me. I had a lot of fear about going to Nepal prior to my trip. To me, bravery implies that one has fear and, that, despite the fear, one moves forward anyway. I have never had fear about going to Europe alone. But I digress.) After I finished my meal and paid my bill, my two American friends and I wished each other "bon soir" as I left the restaurant.

Now to open up the hide-a-bed and test out the comfort level. Good night from Paris.

I Am Grateful

I am grateful for all that I have and all that I am and all who love me and all whom I love. I am grateful for my fine mind and strong, resilient body, and for the capability to take this trip, physically, emotionally, and financially. I would never have dreamed even 20 years ago that I would be able to do something like this. I am grateful for all the kind people I have met — for the server today who tried to express with her hands just what a certain dish was, and for the French customer nearby who got up from her seat and brought her plate to show me and explain to me just what was in the dish I had asked about. I am grateful for artists and painters and musicians and coffee, and trains and suitcases, and the pretty new red blouse I bought yesterday, and for my sweet house and little Mini Cooper, sitting and waiting patiently for me to come home.

Now, here's the deal: I don't know what's up with me — the bed is super comfortable, and the house has been very quiet, but last night awakened at 1:10 am (just like two nights ago) and was awake the entire night (just like two nights ago). UGH. This morning I just simply cried and the only thing I wanted to do was to come home; however, after a nice bath and breakfast things looked better, and today I'm soldiering on, working to be grateful and to express gratitude for all I have (hence my opening list). There's no way to get through this but to get through this. I'm just going to say that this 1600's house is haunted, but tomorrow I am going to Paris and and am intending that, when I'm in my new digs, I'm going to sleep like a baby!!!

So here's my place in Aix.

Down rue Roux Alpheron — far down on the left

The entryway (and stairs leading to a chamber)

This is inside my own chamber, and these are the stairs to my bed — one of the most comfortable beds I've slept in.
I also have my own W.C. and my own bathroom — you can see the light is on.
It is very modern, with a lovely big bathtub and plenty of hot water. 

The view out of my window

The parlour, where we are served breakfast and where we can relax

This is their enclosed garden — quite lovely.
Unfortunately I only got to sit out here for about 10 minutes.
They also have an outdoor kitchen which they use in the summer.

Much Better Today

Yesterday was a bit of a crisis day for me. It was a combination of the tension I have been carrying in my body for a long time — even if I tell myself to relax and breathe, the tension builds as I try to navigate even the simplest of tasks. Every day. Plus, sleeping is sometimes a problem. The place where I'm staying now is a 17th century building and there is not much sound-proofing I can tell you. For days I could feel the tension in my body, my heart beating, beating, even as I lay down to sleep. I just could not relax and unwind.

Anyway, yesterday I was feeling a bit desperate, and so I posted a plea for prayers and well-wishes from friends on Facebook, and I received a couple of dozen loving responses that really soothed my soul. In addition, I finally made myself do some yoga, take a long hard walk, and, coming to a pharmacy, went in and a lovely young woman helped me locate a natural remedy to calm my heart and to help me sleep. So, with the combination of prayers and pills, last night I had eight solid hours.

I had planned to go to Avignon today, but after breakfast I returned to bed and read for a few hours. Then took myself out for pizza. I was too pooped to do anything but return home to bed, where I read and had a two-hour nap. I can honestly say that  I am feeling more well-rested than I have felt since the beginning of this trip. This evening I felt well enough to — ta da! Go shopping!. I bought some earrings in a Himalayan boutique, and this blouse from a lovely Vietnamese woman who told me that it was designed by her sister, who had hand-sewn the buttons. Then had a panache at Les Deux Garcons, one of the bars along the Cours Mirabeau, which had served the likes of Maurois, Churchill, Picasso, Piaf, Cocteau, and where Cezanne spent time with his friend Emile Zola. 

Tomorrow, a massage, and, if I'm up for it, I'd like to visit a couple of art museums with Cezanne's work. But if I'm not, it's back to bed with my book.

The Cours Maribeau

Not much worth mentioning

Today is quite a bit of a low point for me, but I'll spare you the excruciatingly boring details.

I bought a round-trip bus ticket for Avignon tomorrow. Going to find the Papal Palace, and perhaps an American friend. Still making arrangements.

Also bought my one-way ticket for Paris on Friday.

Today I Walked in the Place Where Cubism was Born

This morning I took a city bus to a point up, up and out to the car park for the Carrieres de Bibemus at the edge of town. Once we arrived at the car park, I got on the tour bus to take me out to the site — I was the only person who had come for the tour (having purchased my ticket yesterday at the tourism office). At first I was told that the tour had been cancelled because of the weather; however, a woman appeared, Marianne, who, as it turned out, was to be my guide. The van took me through a long stretch of forest along a long, narrow road, until we came to the entrance, and I had my own private guided tour of the Carrieres de Bibemus.

Although I was the only person on the tour, Marianne was very thorough and, as we walked through the cool, pungent smell of pine, under an overcast sky with occasional spots of rain, she shared her knowledge of the history and geology of the area, how stone was quarried, as well as her very good understanding of Cezanne's principles, explaining how he was the father of modern art. As she told me, people came to Paris during the teens and 20's from other parts of the world and they valued Cezanne's works and took them home. She said that the French were among the last to really appreciate Cezanne's work — "the French could just never understand it." She said it wasn't until the 80's that Cezanne was really appreciated in France. Found that curious.

Prior to modern construction, the City of Aix-En-Provence was entirely constructed of the stone from the quarries. As she explained, the Romans were the first to mine the quarries, using it for bridges and monuments and buildings. The name of the place "Bibemus" means "we drink," and refers to the need for water as a result of the back-breaking, thirst-inducing work involved in extracting stone from the quarries.

Another major period of quarrying was during the time of Louis XIV, when the aristocracy began to settle in Aix; and the last major quarrying was done in the 17th century, when another major era of building took place.

There was a phase when the quarries were dynamited to mine salt; however, the salt was not good, and the quarries were left to sit. In the 60's and 70's the quarries were havens for drinking and drugs, and people could pretty much come and go as they pleased. Fortunately, an American bought the land, and when he died, he bequeathed the site to the city of Aix.

At one point the value of the place finally became apparent, and the site was walled in and enclosed, and now people can only enter as part of guided tours. Areas were constructed with wooden walkways and places where one can see tiled replicas of works Cezanne painted that are placed at the viewpoint he would have seen as he was painting each work. And there were other paintings that were composed of various views put together. On the centenary of his death (2006), thousands of tourists came, and now the site is, of course, one of the major tourist attractions in Aix.

It was very special to be here, and she told me how fortunate I had been, since the afternoon tour had been cancelled because of impending rain. (And this morning's tour was the only English-speaking tour that I could attend, so I was doubly lucky!)

In the afternoon I visited the atelier Cezanne had built on the outskirts of town, where he painted. Many of the objects that he used are still in the large room, and, as we were shown photographs of his works, the objects were pointed out to us.

Here is a link to the site:

http://www.atelier-cezanne.com/anglais/visites.htm

Cezanne Country

I loved how Marianne described Cezanne's methods in creating depth and perspective. In the background is his beloved Mountain Victoire (which he painted dozens of times). Actually, it can not be seen from the perspective where he stood while painting this scene. I do wish I hadn't lopped its top off!

As a youth and young man, Cezanne used to visit and walk amongst the quarries. When he began painting, he had to take a horse and buggy ride, then had to climb a significant distance with his easels, paints and equipment. So he used this little place to store everything he needed. (According to Marianne, who has been a guide at the site since 2006, he had the place built. According to the link I posted he rented the place.)