Back to France, finally! Continue reading Paris et Chartres →

. . . or maybe not so sudden for most people, but I spent a lot of June with a lingering case of parainfluenza, something I hadn’t even known existed. Ugh. Avoid it if you can, even if it comes wrapped in a package as adorable as this:

We’re all well now. and I’m finally spending time outside, mostly catching up with gardening tasks.

Okay, I had nothing to do with this hydrangea. It grew on the patio of the little house I rented in La Rochelle, but very summery, right?

I haven’t made it back to France yet, but it’s high time I told you about another fab 2019 French adventure with Pascale, Jacky and friends, this one specifically celebrating summer and Châtelaillon-Plage, the beach just south of La Rochelle where the Kite and Wind Festival is held.

Don’t be deceived–these beach chairs were enormous, strictly décor!

Somehow, I never managed to write about this event, possibly because there was so much to tell. It was a huge deal, including street after street of things to see, including fabulous old cars . . . .

Then there was a multi-course moules frites meal for thousands on picnic tables lining streets as far as you could see. Those who had tickets (Thank you, Pascale and Jacky!) were given a specific color scarf and asked to find a table in the correct zone.

Seriously French, right? Americans, let’s be honest, would have had those lame plasticky paper wristbands.

After dinner, we and the hordes headed to a concert with Collectif Métissé,  who had us all dancing. One woman in our group wanted to move a bit closer to the stage, so started dancing her way forward and the next person hung on to avoid losing her, and then the next, etc. Soon we were all linked together dancing and everyone thought we were a conga line and let us through! Genius. I think we even picked up a few conga-line dancers along the way.

After the concert, we all headed to the beach for the fireworks. Pascale, Jacky, and I had lost sight of our friends, but found a perfect spot on warm, silky, white sand, right by the music. Bliss.

It was another “Just say OUI” adventure. It had been so hot all day, and we knew it would be crazy-crowded, but Pascale had already bought the tickets and friends were expecting us. I’m so glad we went. It was a perfect finale to my 2019 stay in La Rochelle (and environs). I’m thinking about it now, because . . . summer.

Also, fireworks.

There’s . . . a lot right now. A lot to worry about. A lot to argue about. But in the midst of it all, I’m praying for all of us: civil discourse, kindness, and the assumption–until proven otherwise–of good intentions. Have a safe 4th of July and a wonderful (and healthy) summer of grace and peace.

And . . . baby smiles . . .

France and my friends there are never far from my thoughts. I’m terrible at writing to them –Je suis vraiment désolée Pascale et Jacky ! I need to remember they probably don’t care if I make mistakes. I have resumed my French lessons with Natacha via Skype once a week–J’adore !

**Pascale, Jacky, on peut se parler de temps en temps sur Skype, peut-être?

The other day during my lesson, since Thanksgiving is upon us, I was trying to explain a recipe, the broccoli casserole we have at nearly every holiday meal, and a few minutes in, we were both laughing so hard we could barely speak. I lacked the vocabulary and Natacha lacked the experience with a recipe that involves broccoli and a bit of minced onion, baked in a casserole dish with Campbell’s Cream of Celery soup, mayonnaise, sharp cheddar cheese, topped with Pepperidge Farm Stuffing. She could not imagine the result would even be edible, let alone a long-time family favorite. It had mayonnaise but was hot? It had soup but wasn’t soup? Soup out of a can for a favorite recipe? It had stuffing that wasn’t stuffing, but wasn’t exactly croutons either?  All we could do was laugh. My French has definite limits. Still, so much fun.

In October, I drove down to the Monet exhibit at the Denver Art Museum, hence the photos of my visit to Giverny this past July. I’m afraid I don’t have a great shot of the famous arched green footbridge. The day I was there, it was always groaning under mobs of people, not at all looking serene like in the paintings. Oh well, the waterlilies were in bloom and the gardens were stunning. Don’t even know what this flower is, but isn’t it gorgeous? No wonder Monet couldn’t stop painting!

For the past few months I’ve been taking a few poetry classes. Here’s my poem about living in France:

La Vie en France

I’m a different person in France, in La Rochelle.

It takes a few days to acclimate, to slow down, to breathe,

to allow myself to see, rather than photograph,

to be, more than do.

 

Of course, these days I know

not to make eye contact in the street,

to never let my hands drop below the table during a meal,

to count thumb first, palm in, to bag my own groceries.

 

I know to greet my friends pressing cheek to cheek,

right, then left, with a warm smile and a firm grip of hands—

or upper arms, if one is very moved—

rarely a hug,

 

but I have to remember, when I’m out and about,

to save smiles for a moment shared,

instead of launching them abroad like a blast

from a confetti cannon on the unsuspecting crowd.

 

I have to resist touching the produce,

displayed like art at the marché,

I have to remember to know exactly when I will eat it and with what

and to trust the expertise of the vendeur.

 

It takes a few days to stop bellowing wide Anglo-Saxon vowels

and instead to shape my mouth like a kiss

to greet clerks and servers and bus drivers with a soft bonjour,

to whisper the faint V of voilà that is almost not there at all,

to feel the grounding of the slight gargle of the Rs in au revoir, merci,

to hear and think and feel and dream in French. But once I do—

 

I stand taller. I walk further. I stride with purpose like a local,

though no one thinks I’m a local—I’m too blond—

maybe English, possibly German, but I am in some ways Rochelaise.

 

En France I taste my food. I notice it. I sip my wine.

I take my meals in courses, even alone at home.

I do not read as I eat. I do not hurry.

There are no snacks—maybe an espresso and

a morsel of chocolate at exactly four o’clock.

Dinner’s at eight, as is breakfast, lunch by one,

mealtimes and customs regular as the tide,

 

which soothes me somehow, like the shush of sea on sand,

the drift of clouds over the wide blue ocean that calls to me—

Reviens—Come back—                                                                  from both shores.

(Written in loving memory of David, who made it possible.)

Wishing you wonderful times with family and friends and delicious food to eat, even if you can’t quite explain the appeal of your favorites!