A few years ago I found this turn of the century scrapbook, there wasn't any writing, nor name in the book, instead, there were
plenty of cards, chromos, and images. I sold it a month ago.
Chromolithograph :
"A colored picture printed by lithography, especially in the late 19th and early 20th centuries."
When I lived in a monastery, the Abbot asked who knew how to cut hair? I raised my hand, I had never cut anyone's hair in my life but being 19, in a monastery, I had to claim amusement where I could.
But before I started my new job as the hairdresser, my friend Laura asked if she could cut Sweet Father Dominique's hair, he was the first guinea pig.
She asked him what type of haircut he wanted, he said a light trim. Slowly, with a gleam in her eye, she buzzed every single hair off his head. Every single hair. He smiled.
Then with the same look in her eye, she asked if she could trim his beard? He said yes. She shaved it off- his beautiful salt and pepper beard, gone! I was aghast, how could she. Shyly Father Dominique asked if she was having fun? Laura giggled, "Yes indeed." I did not understand Laura's humor nor Father Dominique's calmness.
Then she asked him if she could trim his eyebrows! I could not believe my ears I shook my head no. But he agreed, she shaved them too. Father Dominique looked stark naked.
Father Dominique looked in the mirror, then he looked at Laura holding the clippers. He smiled, stood up, shook the hair off, and said, "I need to go now, for I am certain you will ask me to trim my eyelashes, and I fear I would agree."
Sometimes, the holiest thing we can say is no.
One of the first signs that a person is falling in love is that the person smiles constantly.
I was looking back at some blog posts when I stumbled upon this post that I wrote about Chelsea when Martin (Mr. Espresso) came to Willows ten years ago. Ten years ago. Ah, one of the many good things about journaling and or blogging is the ability to look back to see how far one has come.
Ten years ago almost to the day, they married this year I wrote:
Those who are lucky enough to know a person falling in love find themselves in a whirlpool of emotions: A combination of happiness mixed with fear. Tenderness tossing around caution. A longing to peek in with sweetness while offering a listening ear.
If you are the parent of a child falling in love for the first time... well let me tell you it is a whole new arena of dos, don'ts and what ifs...and please tell me where is the book called: "What to Expect from Your First Child Falling in Love for the First Time?????"
As the parent of such a person I feel like I am sitting in the nosebleed section: so far away yet ever too close. Wanting to cheer, and at the same time aware of the ting of mothering that wants to grab my baby and run back in time.
People who are falling in love affectionately touch one another.
Ah, the sparks of happiness, the fire that burns, trusting that your child is growing and experiencing those wonderful first moments of what it feels like to be loved outside of the family circle.
Yes, it is good. Who knows what will happen, but for now it is a glorious journey towards knowing.
xxxx
The sun sends forth the last rays of light, as it pours through my kitchen window spreading across the kitchen table, the gift of light: The sun gives whether there are clouds, rain, or things in the way, then repeats the same gift the next day. Steadfast. Light for everyone and thing regardless who or where or what they are.
Contently, as I witness a simple gift of the moment.
And thankful that I have peace of mind to appreciate the moment when so many do not have.
Last night I watched a video (linked below) called: The Birth of a Word. I was amazed and moved. Amazed that someone could imagine how to capture the birth of a word, and amazed at that implication of what that means.
Imagine capturing the birth of a word?!
While watching the video I realized in a profound way the gift, or trouble our words can have on one another. That what we say does matter. That our prayers are heard, that our life song can lead others to move. Our words have, whether we believe it or not, whether spoken out loud or in our hearts, an energy, a vibration, a rich source that can be given to one another as a healing balm and or as a tool to move forward... Depending on how we use our words of course.
If we see our words as tools then what we think and say should not be taken lightly. If we add our words to actions, then we can be encouraging vessels of love, goodness, and hope.
The power of words spoken out loud, and in one's heart... it is a gift I want to embrace.
In the video "The Birth of a Word" I was struck by the graphics Deb Roy created to explain his point. While listening to Mr. Roy sharing how he collected information regarding television programming, then matched those words to a massive collection of words being said at the same time regarding the televised program they were watching. I was awestruck by the avenues that Mr. Roy's thoughts lead me.
Where two or three are gathered...
One of the avenues my thoughts went to was about prayer: How words spoken in prayers do resound, move through space and time such as Mr. Roy's graphics showed, creating a mass, one voice. It made me believe even more in the power of prayer.
I thought of those in California, the fires and how hundreds, thousands of people have "prayed" "talked" gathered to help process the tragedy, understand and seek refugee, to share the long journey of healing in prayers a unison voice of love.
Another thing Mr. Roy made me think about was how he was able to collect/record the words said over five years in his home, then trace them (by video) to where in his home they were said, and then showed, for example that the word "water" was said more often in the kitchen or in the bathroom. Not that I expected the word water, being said by his child, would take place anymore in any other place. But the thought that stirred strongly in me was, "What word circles around me? What word or words, represents me? If the word "water" in Mr. Roy's description was heard, spoken and helped learned by being in the kitchen and or bathroom, then what word is thought of when it comes to me, or any of us as individuals?
What do we offer others by our being who we are? If words are learned by being around you or me then what would they be?
Hope-
Love-
Forgiveness-
Joy-
A helping hand?
Encouragement-
Generosity.
I better stop swearing today.
Words, prayer, good intentions may ours be ones that lead to all that is good and worthy, and less towards distraction and false avenues.
Photo Via Facebook Tracy Englund
A letter recently posted by Aaron Draper to the students at Chico State University:
Dear Students,
Our CSU Chico President, Gayle Hutchinson, has decided that it would be best to cancel classes next week. I support this decision 100%. The air quality is unhealthy to breathe and many students, faculty and staff members have been affected by what officials are calling the Camp Fire. It is the largest fire in the history of our state.
During this week off I don’t want you to think about your homework assignments. Don’t think about what will be due when you return. In fact, I don’t want you expending any energy or thought on your studies at all. This might sound counterintuitive coming from your professor. When we return to school I will bear the burden of figuring out how to account for our missed time and this burden will not be passed onto you. But while our classroom learning has been paused, there is an opportunity for another type of learning.
Learn what you can do to help our neighbor. For those of you who live locally, find a way to volunteer to help those affected by the fires. If you have the means, donate anything to help with the recovery effort. (I’ve listed a link at the bottom of this page). Learning how to help your fellow humans is just as important as academic learning – in fact, I believe it’s even more important. Let this week be a time when you can grow closer to others by serving them. Don’t view this time as a vacation but view it as an opportunity to enrich your life by helping others. There is no greater way to enrich yourself than by helping someone else."
Photo via Facebook Darci Williams
"But don’t text, email or send snaps. People are feeling alone and vulnerable and many don’t have service or have lost everything they own (including their phones). The only way to reach them is by being with them in person. Listen to their stories. Understand what they could never convey in a text. Share their emotional burden.
If you are not local and have gone home to avoid the polluted air and danger, please spend time with your families. Many have lost their loved ones and their homes. Enjoy both of yours. And even though you are far away from the tragedy, please reach out to those you left behind. These kinds of communications will bring us all closer together.
I care about each and every one of you.
Sincerely,
Aaron."
Volunteer/Donation Information:
https://sanfrancisco.cbslocal.com/…/help-victims-wildfire-…/
Thank you for your messages of concern, prayers sent and love shared. My family is safe but many others are not. Friends we fear have lost their homes, and or businesses the fire is devastating as you probably have heard on the news. The photos are apocalyptic, I cannot imagine the fear many experienced and what they must face with courage and endurance.
----
One reaches out, another touches deep within
One gives one receives
A circle life's embrace
xxx
First, political news that is unsettling and divisive, then another shooting in Southern California, and now a tremendous fire in Northern California near where my family lives.
Putting my hands palm to palm,
I opened them to form a cup.
I pray, imagining my prayer taking form into my cupped hands.
I imagine, God as love, with loving hands, underneath my own,
When every word of mine, no longer has a name, when only silence stands between my heart and hands, when my prayer(s) sits heavy in my hands--
I opened them, letting them pour out to the hands underneath.
Letting go.
Letting be.
Trusting that the loving hands underneath my own hold my prayer.
Faith, bring me courage, to face whatever comes my way.
Lately, after a shooting in the USA, there is a backlash against the wording "thoughts and prayers" understandable given that it is said so often that they are losing their meaning, like a quick band-aid on a boo-boo, or worse just words spoken without heartfelt depth or direction, almost like a badge shown "thoughts and prayers" instead of a true response. Those two words are becoming washed out and the loving energy they can bring thrown under the bla-bla-bla bus.
and yet this is what I can offer wherever I am-- my spiritual energy to go forth believing that it does make a difference beyond my fully understanding how.
Thoughts and Prayers as love and love knows no bounds:
Grace, healing, and courage lead us.
My friend's daughter Charlotte sent me the article below, Charlotte like my children grew up in France with bi-lingual/bi-cultural parents, her father is French and her mother in English. Charlotte thought I would enjoy this latest article from the BBC Travel by Emily Monaco. Hopefully, the article and photos attached well to my blog so that you can see it in entirety.
Why The French Don't Show Excitement
When I was 19 years old, after five years of back-and-forth trips that grew longer each time, I finally relocated officially from the United States to France. Already armed with a fairly good grasp of the language, I was convinced that I would soon assimilate into French culture.
Of course, I was wrong. There’s nothing like cultural nuance to remind you who you are at your core: my Americanness became all the more perceptible the longer I remained in France, and perhaps no more so than the day a French teacher told me his theory on the key distinction between those from my native and adopted lands.
“You Americans,” he said, “live in the faire [to do]. The avoir [to have]. In France, we live in the être [to be].”
Writer Emily Monaco was told that the key difference between Americans and the French is that the French ‘live in the être’ (Credit: Anna Berkut/Alamy)
The moment he said it, it made perfect sense. I thought back to my life in New York, where every moment was devoted to checking tasks off a perpetual to-do list or planning for the days, weeks and years to come. In France, however, people were perfectly contented to just be.
During two-hour lunch breaks, they sat at sidewalk cafes and watched the world pass them by. Small talk was made up not of what they did for a living, but where they had recently been on holiday. Women working at the post office chatted lazily with one another as the queue ticked slowly forward, enjoying the company of their co-workers while I impatiently waited to buy stamps so that I could fulfil my self-assigned obligation of sending postcards home.
I wanted very badly to blend in and live in the être, but it was harder than it looked. It seemed that no matter what I did, I exposed myself as an American. I smiled too much. I spoke too loudly. And I got excited way too often.
In France, people are perfectly content just to be (Credit: Jeff Gilbert/Alamy)
I knew before moving that the French word ‘excité’ was verboten. It is one of the first ‘false friends’ that a student of the language becomes aware of. Most French learners can recall the day that a classmate first uttered the phrase ‘Je suis excité’ (which literally translates as ‘I am excited’) only to have their teacher hem and haw uncomfortably before explaining that the word excité doesn’t signal emotional but rather physical excitement. A better translation of the phrase Je suis excité into English would be ‘I am aroused’.
French doesn’t have the excited/aroused lexical pair that English does, so one word does both jobs. Excité technically denotes excitement both “objective (a state of stimulation) and subjective (feelings),” according to Olivier Frayssé, professor of American Civilization at Paris-Sorbonne University, but the physical sensation is the one most often implied. “If ‘aroused’ existed, it would be unnecessary to interpret ‘excité’ this way,” he explained.
Our cooler, calmer, more reticent sides come out when we're speaking French
Anglophones, meanwhile, blessed with both words, are free to use ‘excited’ as we please – which we (particularly Americans) do with reckless abandon. We’re excited for our weekend plans, for the summer holiday, to get home after a long day of work and relax in front of our favourite Netflix show. But English speakers who live in France have no way to express this sentiment in the language of our adopted country. As opposed to other false friends – like ‘Je suis pleine’, which means not ‘I’m full’, as its literal translation suggests, but ‘I’m pregnant’, forcing Francophones to use periphrases like ‘J’ai assez mangé’ (‘I’ve eaten enough’) – not only is ‘Je suis excité’ not the appropriate way to convey excitement, but there seems to be no real way to express it at all.
“I usually say ‘Je suis heureuse’ [‘I’m happy’] or ‘J’ai hâte de’ [‘I’m looking forward to’],” one bilingual friend said. Neither quite captures the intensity of excitement, but it seems these are the best substitutes that French has to offer.
“I think it's safe to say I express excitement often and outwardly,” said bilingual Australian Dr Gemma King, who teaches French language and cinema at the Australian National University in Canberra, noting that when she speaks French, it is another story entirely. “My students and I often joke that our cooler, calmer, more reticent sides come out when we're speaking French,” she said.
Not only is ‘Je suis excité’ not the appropriate way to convey excitement in France, but there seems to be no real way to express it at all (Credit: Rostislav Glinsky/Alamy)
This is not, then, a mere question of translation, but rather a question of culture. Like other untranslatable terms like Japan’s shinrin-yoku (the relaxation gained from being around nature) or dadirri (deep, reflective listening) in aboriginal Australian, it seems as though the average French person doesn’t need to express excitement on the day today.
For Julie Barlow, Canadian co-author of The Story of French and The Bonjour Effect, this is largely due to the implied enthusiasm in the word ‘excited’, something that’s not sought after in French culture. She notes that Francophone Canadians, culturally North American rather than French, find workarounds such as ‘Ça m’enthousiasme’ (‘It enthuses me’).
“[The French] don't appreciate in conversation a kind of positive, sunny exuberance that's really typical of Americans and that we really value,” Barlow explained. “Verbally, ‘I'm so excited’ is sort of a smile in words. French people prefer to come across as kind of negative, by reflex.
My French husband agrees.
“If you’re too happy in French, we’re kind of wondering what’s wrong with you,” he said. “But in English, that’s not true.”
Julie Barlow: “The French don't appreciate in conversation a kind of positive, sunny exuberance that's really typical of Americans” (Credit: Norbert Scanella/Alamy)
For some, however, it’s not necessarily negativity that the French seek, but reserve.
“I think there is something cultural about the greater level of reservation French people tend to show in everyday conversation,” Dr. King said. “From my perspective, it doesn't mean they show less enthusiasm, but perhaps less of an emotional investment in things they are enthusiastic about.”
Indeed, those who are unable to show the proper emotional detachment within French society can even be perceived as being somehow deranged, something that is exemplified by the pejorative labeling of former President Nicolas Sarkozy as ‘l’excité’, due to the zeal he shows in public appearances.
The average French person does not need to express excitement on a day-to-day basis (Credit: Shaun A Daley/Alamy)
American Matt Jenner lived in France for several years and is bilingual. For him, it is not necessarily a matter of the French not being able to express their excitement, but rather that English speakers – and Americans in particular – tend to go overboard. The American public, he says, has been trained “to have a fake, almost cartoonish view on life, in which superficial excitement and false happiness are the norm.” By comparison, he notes, in France, “excitement is typically shown only when it is truly meant.”
Authenticity has been important to the French since the Revolution, according to Brice Couturier at France Culture. “The Ancien Régime, indeed, had cultivated a culture of the court and of salons, based on the art of appearances and pleasing,” he said. “This culture implied a great mastery of the behavioral codes of the time, as well as an ability to conceal one’s true emotions.”
Excitement is typically shown only when it is truly meant
In reaction, Couturier continued, the French revolutionaries fought back against these masks and this hypocrisy – something that the French maintain today by expressing their emotions as truthfully as possible to avoid appearing inauthentic.
This tendency was something that irked me when I first noticed it: French friends saying that a dish they tried in a restaurant was just ‘fine’, or shrugging nonchalantly when I asked if they were looking forward to their holiday. Their attitude struck me as unnecessarily negative. But on our first joint visit to the US, my husband opened my eyes to the somewhat forced hyperbole of American excitement. After our server cheerfully greeted us at a restaurant, he asked if she was a friend of mine; he could think of no other reason why her welcome would be so enthusiastic.
“I used to judge Americans because I thought they were always too ecstatic, always having disproportionate reactions,” he told me years later, though now, he added, “I feel like I have two worlds in my head, one in French and one in English. I feel like the English world is a lot more fun than the French one.”
The French express their emotions as truthfully as possible to avoid appearing inauthentic (Credit: Kathy deWitt/Alamy)
After 11 years of living in France, my innate desire to say “Je suis excitée” has faded. But I still fixate on the idea that the French live in the être.
When we were first dating, my husband used to watch me buzzing around like a busy bee, making plans for the future. He, meanwhile, was able to find not excitement, but contentment, in nearly everything. His frequent motto, whether we were drinking rosé in the sunshine or just sitting in a park, was: “on est bien, là” – we are good, here.
Excitement, after all, has a forward-thinking connotation, a necessary suggestion of the future. Ubiquitous in Anglophone culture, where we are often thinking about imminent or far-off plans, about goals and dreams, this is far less present among French people who, on the contrary, tend to live more in the moment. It’s not necessarily that they don’t think of the future but that they don’t fixate on the future. They consider it, cerebrally, but their emotions are in the present.
While English speakers often fixate on the future, French people tend to live more in the moment (Credit: Ian Shaw/Alamy)
“Life in France places you happily in the present tense,” Paris-based author Matthew Fraser told The Local, “unlike in Anglo-Protestant countries where everything is driving madly towards the future.”
Life in France places you happily in the present tense
The excitement that drives Anglophones to action, motivating us and driving us to look ahead is not nearly as present in France. But joie de vivre and contentment in simple pleasures certainly are. And when one is living in the moment, there’s no need to think about – or get excited about – what’s next.
French Bistro, Morning:
Walk straight to the counter, when the bartender looks at you, nod your head, point your pointer finger up, and at the same time mouth whisper, "Espresso please". Grab a croissant off the platter, pinch off a bit (do not bite into the croissant) and pop it into your mouth, when the espresso comes, down it in two gulps, do not wince if it is hot, glance at your phone, leave the amount on the tag. Say, Merci, Ciao, and leave.
Doing the French Bistro is not an art, but it looks like it when you see the French doing it.
It is such a part of their culture that they do it as easily as they smoke a cigarette without concern or shame.
Having a dog tag along adds to the look.
Sunglasses a must, the bigger the better.
Take your napkin to your lap the moment the waiter serves your meal.
Doing the French Bistro is not just about having a drink, whether you are alone or not, doing the Bistro is also about people watching. Any time of the day. Giving the one over, or being looked at up and down, is not uncommon, the French check out everyone as if they are on a runway.
French Bistro, Afternoon:
After breakfast and the morning espresso/croissant scene, lunch comes into play. If you walk into a cafe after 11:30 am and see some tables set up that means they are setting up for lunch. If you want a cafe either go to the counter or sit at one of the tables that are not set up.
12:30 is the beginning of lunch. Lunch is served until 2:30.
At the Bistro choose a ‘plat du jour’ from the chalkboard menu, or at the counter, you can order a sandwich, a classic baguette sandwich is sliced down the center with butter, cheese, and ham, or butter and cheese.
Soda is not a common drink amongst adults. Though if you want a drink order an Orangina.
If you want water you will need to ask for it- "Une carafe d'eau, si vous plait."
Paris has changed, lunch is served nearly throughout the afternoon... but Paris is not France. Most of France adheres to tradition, lunch 12:30 to 2:30. How dare those Parisians breaking the rules, especially after I left and move to the south.
French Bistro, After Two:
French people meet after two for a coffee if they haven't had one after lunch.
It is not uncommon to meet after two for a coffee and chat.
Alcoholic drinks do not usually appear until after four, though usually after six.
Around four in the afternoon, a little snack from the pastry shop, a tea or hot chocolate is acceptable.
Yes, in France there is an hour for every single thing you pop into your mouth.
Photo via google
When in France savour every bite.
Tips are not expected as they are already added to your bill. Though it is a nice gesture to leave a Euro or two.
When at a French Bistro, after your order has been served, the waiter will not approach you again, unless you make a signal that you want something. When you are ready to leave you must make eye contact with your waiter and raise your pointer finger again. Often tourists think the French waiter is ignoring them, but that is not true. In France when you sit at a cafe or at a restaurant your time is private, and the waiter is trained not to invade your private space unless you need them.
French Bistro, After Siix:
Bring on the cocktail hour(s)
Known as the "Aperitif".
Drinks before dinner, not at dinner. Wine at dinner. Drinks after dinner. Coffee before four or after dinner, but not during dinner.
Confusing?
You see why cafes are so important? Drinking hours really means drinking hours.
French Bistro: After Hours,
Linger.
The most important rule of all if you do not want to look like a tourist... talk softly, not because your accented voice will give you away, but because the French usually do not speak loudly in public places.
Usually.
"...Of Russian origin: Bistro. It is well known that a small restaurant or café in France where you can have a quick and simple meal is called a bistro. However, there are still debates over the etymology of this word. The most popular version maintains that the term originated during the Russian Occupation of Paris in 1915." via World Wise Words
An interesting article:
"Like the Eiffel Tower and the winding Seine, bistros are an iconic part of the Parisian landscape. From morning till night, hungry patrons flock to these casual eateries to chow down on hearty comfort foods and people-watch from tables on outdoor terraces. But as Ciara Nugent reports for TIME, the classic French bistro is in trouble—and one proprietor is leading a campaign to save them.
Alain Fontaine, who owns Le Mesturet in central Paris, is at the helm of a movement to secure Unesco “intangible cultural heritage status” for Parisian bistros. The designation recognizes “traditions or living expressions inherited from our ancestors and passed on to our descendants,” according to Unesco’s website. Receiving intangible cultural heritage status can have monetary benefits—Unesco funds efforts to safeguard certain practices—and it also brings much-needed awareness to cherished traditions. It is little surprise, then, that the status has become a key target for bistro advocates like Fontaine.
In recent years, money woes and a changing food culture have pushed the classic eateries to the wayside. Steep rents in Paris have forced some bistros to close, and bistro proprietors have found it difficult to compete with the low prices of imported American chains like Starbucks and Chipotle. Eating habits are also evolving; in place of drawn-out midday meals on bistro terraces, residents are opting to eat speedy lunches at their desks. Nugent reports that the France’s National Statistics Office has calculated that at least 300 Paris bistros closed between 2014 and 2018—around a quarter of what the city had to offer.
What makes a bistro a bistro? “By Fontaine’s definition, an authentic bistro is an eatery that’s open continuously morning to night, serves French comfort foods at moderate prices, and houses an active bar where locals can gather for a drink and some lively conversation,” writes Vivian Song of the BBC. (Heaven forbid you should confuse bistros with brasseries, larger establishments with more expensive menus.)
Bistros are said to have come to Paris in the 19th century, as migrants from south-central France flocked to the capital in search of work during the Industrial Revolution. Some new arrivals, according to Song, opened up cafés. While the husbands delivered coal, wives would serve up drinks and home-cooked dishes in these establishments at prices that laborers could afford. Fittingly, these eateries were distinguished by their signs that read “Vins et charbons” (Wines and coal).
While bistros of later decades became cultural and intellectual hubs—Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jean Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir were among the famous fixtures of several establishments in Paris—today’s bistros continue to be defined by their affordability and welcoming atmosphere.
“We have everyone here, blue collar workers, professionals, families, students, tourists,” Fontaine tells Nugent. “They can meet, share, argue.”
In the wake of the 2015 terror attack that killed at least 130 people in Paris and wounded hundreds more, bistros also became a symbol of resilience. According to Claire Mufson of the New York Times, Parisians shared photos of themselves on bistro terraces with the hashtag #tousaubistrot —“Everyone to the bistro”—as a sign that they would not be cowed by acts of violence.
For Fontaine’s campaign to be successful, it will need to be approved by France’s culture ministry, which will then recommend it to Unesco. The proposal will be submitted in September, but French bistros are already facing competition from other cultural staples. Parisian “bouquinistes,” or open-air booksellers, are also campaigning for Unesco status, as are the roofers and zinc workers who install the gray rooftops that cover many of the city’s buildings.
In Fontaine’s eyes, Paris’ bistros are as worthy of preservation as any of the city’s other rich cultural offerings.
“A bistro isn’t just some place for a quick bite to eat,” he tells Nugent. “It’s the home of the Parisian art de vivre [art of living]—that’s what we’re losing if these places die out: our way of life.”
By Brigit Katz
Read more: https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/parisian-bistro-disappearing-180969608/#DuqxB9lOkgiiVKGC.99
Flash Back 1988:
Staring at the French menu, French Husband translated it for me but not word for word. He read, "Chicken no. Lamb no. Bunny certainly not. The liver of a duck...Oh, I use to love the liver of the duck... mais no."
We were vegetarians in a world of meat eaters. Slim pickings' with a whole lot of desserts.
The waiter came to our table, pencil in hand, not a smile upon his face dressed in his black coat and long white apron. Food is a serious business in France. I felt like a small potato on a kitchen counter looking at the pot of boiling water.
Pretending I knew how to speak French I said, that we did not eat meat, and could he suggest something for us? Beaming with pride that my broken, heavily accented French had caused the waiter's left side of his mouth to turn up, I thought he smiled and waited for his response. Instead, he simply clicked his heels and said, "Alors? (Well then?)"
French Husband leaned across the table, grabbed my hand as if the moment were intimate, romantic, I felt a rush inside but my bubble burst when he said, "Corey, you just told the waiter, that we do not eat food."
My red face did not match my lipstick. I looked up at the waiter with an awkward smile.
You see the word "Beef" which is pronounced: "Boeuf," and the word "Eat" in slang is: "Bouffe." Looking at these two words you can see the difference is not extraordinary.
We dined.
The waiter smiled.
I learned how to say vegetarian right then and there.
This is our grand niece Tatianna she is fifteen years old.
In 2009 I wrote this about her:
The mothers gathered at the school gate wore their coats unbuttoned. I took off my scarf and stuffed it in my pocket. The Autumn day felt more like late summer than mid-November.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Today while hanging out with Tatianna and her mother Juliette, we spoke English, I was amazed by her progress.
A little girl who had short red curly hair, bobbed up and down the aisle while her Mother looked at undergarments. I was amused by her non-stop chatter and her Mother's forthright replies. When the little girl wandered-off, the Mother would question, "Where is my shadow?" The little girl would quickly return assuring her, "Here I am!" I was captivated by their relationship.
Soon thereafter another woman came into the shop to look at undergarments. The little girl looked the woman up and down a few times over then pointed at her exclaiming,
"Look Mommy SHE' S really, really big!"
Her mother paused... then gathered the little girl in her arms, "Yes she is big and you are small. The woman is just right the way she is. I am just right the way I am, and you are just right the way you are. We are perfect however we are made, big or small." The Mother put her daughter down, and the little girl started twirling, her red hair danced on her forehead.
Isn't it good to know we are "just right" the way we are?
Hearing that message (which certainly was meant for me,) made me think how satisfying it would be to never criticize or think about how I looked ever again. To simply get up get dress and not waste another nanosecond on trying to look one way or another. To accept with gratitude that I am just right the way I am and not be bothered dying my hair, wearing makeup, those extra pounds, this double chin, this nose and instead see the naked me in wonder and awe.
This evening I put two paper mache pumpkins on the window sill, though within minutes the rain had reduced them into an orange puddle. I turned on the outside light in hope that some brave Trick or Treaters might come to my door. Halloween is on the rise in France, each year it becomes more animated.
This year there was a display of candy at the entrance of the grocery store.
When my children were young I would put on a Halloween party, but as the years went by I stopped as it just didn't feel like Halloween as it was hard to grow excitement when the others looked at me oddly about bobbing for apples and eating pumpkin pie, or saying: Trick or Treat.
Or I could blame it on my Mother. My mom decorates every inch of her house in an Autumn decor plus she makes a buffet dinner in which everyone is welcome to come and grab some real food after trick or treating. I wonder how many people she will have this year, 20? 50? 85?
Beans, Pizza bread, salads, and cream puffs are usually on the menu, plus whatever other tricks she has up her sleeve, and she has plenty. I love going home for Halloween.
In the pouring rain, six children came to my door and for the first time ever they said, "Trick or Treat!" I was so thrilled I filled their little plastic sacks with candy (plastic pumpkins or Halloween containers have yet to be seen.) Also this year everyone was in costume, scary costumes.
How many Trick or Treaters do you usually have?
The above photo was taken when I was four years old, in a ghost costume that my Mother made. I wish I had a photo to share of when I was dressed as a bumble bee at twenty-six, or a photo of myself dressed as a mermaid and out of gas on the freeway at midnight, or the time my Mother dressed me up as Marilyn Monroe when I was around five years old.
My Mother made matching Mr. and Mrs. Ghost costumes for me and my brother Marty. My brother is younger than me, my Mother wanted me to dress as Mr. Ghost since I was taller. I threw a fit and refused to be the Mr. at Halloween. My Mother was disappointed but agreed.
What is one of your favorite Halloween costumes?
A homeless man rummaged through the garbage at the train station, he found a coffee cup that someone had thrown away he opened it to find it empty. He gently put it back in the garbage then turned around not looking at anyone he was smiling. He stood and watched the crowd seemingly entertained I assumed he was mentally challenged by his movements and actions I wondered what his life must have been to be rummaging through the garbage and not asking for money. I approached him, tapped him on his shoulder and asked him if he would like a coffee, he shook his head yes. I gave him some Euros and he walked over to the coffee machine dispenser. His sincerity struck me: the man was hungry, not begging, admiring people, smiling even though he had little- holey shoes, worn coat, unshaven- he was in need and nobody noticed him despite the fact that his soft-spoken eyes took in everyone.
I felt spoiled and fortunate. Grateful and sad. Conversations rattled with questions, proclamations, at the speed of light through my mind and heart: What is life all about? Why him and not me? Why am I so lucky to be born by loving parents, brought up in a safe environment, and not him? What is this all about? And God, or and this Energetic Force of incredible life and love that I believe in what is the point of this? Food wasted, lives wasted, richness, division, reality stupid TV, barriers, a man digging through the garbage at a train station with at least several hundred people who have full bellies, warm clothes, do not stink of urine, have beds to sleep in without a threat of bombs or fear standby.
I turned around and went back to talk to the man, but he did not have words, just a smile.
I asked, "Are you hungry?" He shook his head yes. I asked him to follow me to a cafe counter which had food ready-made, "Please pick something to eat and I will pay for it." Slowly, he studied each plate of food. Hesitated with uncertainty was it over preference? I could hear the expression, "Beggars cannot be choosers." How sad. I said to him if you want more than one plate that is fine with me.
He chose pasta with chicken. I pointed to the desserts, "Would you like a dessert?" He shook his head and selected yogurt with fruit.
We walked together to the checkout counter and I handed him money that was enough to buy what he had in hand plus dinner and breakfast the next day if he wanted. He was surprised. I said, "Bon Appetit," and walked away.
Am I a good person simply because I extended myself to someone in need? Maybe, but not a Superhero or worthy of a Nobel prize for generosity, it was a small gesture that took a few minutes of my time, and gave a hint of a respite for him. Nothing more than doing the right thing because I could. A few moments of my hours of good fortune and comfort and only a full belly for him for a few hours.
Life is unfair. And more so when the players think it is fair that their God might be handing blessings to some and not others. Or some sort of karma thing, "what goes around comes around." I have always had a problem with that. To me, that seems like a calculated love, a childish reasoning, "If I am good I will get a candy blessing and if I am bad I will not have one." If that is how it works it isn't challenging to love deeper, but to aim for a reward. That isn't love to me, that is only selfishness disguising as love.
The man who was digging was searching for his meal, how many times have I walked on by not extending myself to the person in need. How many times have I justified my actions with judgemental words that seem to make my not doing something acceptable?
His gentle smile spoke of his acceptance or ignorance... either way it is a life so very different from the comfortable one I have. It woke me up to his need.
"I see the world being slowly transformed into a wilderness; I hear the approaching thunder that, one day, will destroy us too. I feel the suffering of millions. And yet, when I look up at the sky, I somehow feel that everything will change for the better, that this cruelty too shall end, that peace and tranquility will return once more."
Anne Frank
A step in a good direction, his direction was needed. Even if it was one step. It was at least a step forward.
In the wake of the suffering we see happening around us, we wonder what we can do, how we can give, how can we really help when the need is vast, endless and beyond our scope. The story of Mother Theresa comes to mind:
Mother Theresa focused on hope she stood in the sea of suffering doing what she could:
A small stone cast caused ripples. Those ripples went forth regardless on where they would run.
To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.
Friedrich Nietzsche
"Whatsoever you do to the least of my brothers/sisters so you do unto me..."
And who is me? Who is God?
You. Him. Her. The man digging through the garbage for something to eat, the immigrant, the refugee, the person of a different race, color, faith, the air we breathe, the link that connects us all, the source of love, the thread that holds us because we are one.
We are God and God is us. Today I shared with God and he gave me his hand to hold and I felt strengthened by his smile.
Painting Paris. Painting France. The vivid colors of day to day life mixed in with the fantasy and history. The stuff of dreams: Golden baguette, blue shutter, red-checked cloth, a dab of red wine, a splash of the Mediterranean and a swirl of Versailles.
Where does your paintbrush take you? Where does the color blend in, fade way, add texture, give highlight, blur the lines...
Does the line between dream and daily life giveaway? Or does it bring contrast?
Is life pale blue or hints of green sprouts or a moody grey?
What would you add to your canvas?
Different scenes,
Old facade,
Open door,
New path,
Romance at twilight,
Soft shades of mystery?
What kind of artist are you? Do you sketch details out in your mind first? Or do you get in and get your hands dirty?
I tend to stare at the paper for a long time blank space allows pregnant thoughts to emerge, or if truth be told: Last minute is my best friend for motivation. Last minute is a nice word for Lazy Procrastinator who hopes all will work out in the last minute. Yann would say, "Lucky is my middle name and Crazy my first name."
I find it funny how something can brew within without knowing, without direction, or plan. How the unconscious mingles with reality, sparks dreams, tugs at one's desire then seemingly effortless, as a whim, it appears and the scene is made whole.
Colorful life nourishment for the soul.
I wonder if ideas, thoughts, and even friend's and warrior's messages stack up in the back of the closet like clothes we hope to wear one day. I wonder what color they would create if I didn't clean them out from time to time.
Every moment creates a scene even if brief, a dab of color is a dab of color, each stroke lends to another. Such as a rainbow after a storm.
Contemplating the next move. As the river runs by, and a bridge offers passage.
Wine, the back side of a canvas and two boys in long aprons talk about the meaning of life and what person they want to ask out.
A dab of
red
blue
and
two empty glasses.
Memories, moments, blending into the day that is how it is, isn't it?
Waiting for someone to come, sit down, make the scene complete.
The Master Painter and the canvas.
I haven’t heard much from Yann. Three phone calls: One was to say he arrived and all was will, the second was while I was in the train and the connection kept cutting out, « ... I had a fall at 80km... don’t worry... great time... all ok? », and the last call was at four in the morning, «... leaving for ... ten hour train trip... the guide and trip are intensely amazing, hard rides... »
Though the calls have been few, and photos limited his excitement and utter joy are evident. I feel his freedom to ride and his pleasure to witness such vastness and culture.
Ganges.
The latest ride is here... but I do not know where.
Stories to tell once he returns.
I could barely focus due to how cold it was at the brocante in Paris this morning. It did not help that I wasn't dressed for the 20-degree drop in temperature. Before I left to go to the brocante this morning I put on nearly everything from my suitcase: Three sweaters, a down vest, a hat, two scarves plus a coat did not help me to keep warm. It caught me by surprise that the coldness was ruining my happy place, usually, nothing can get in the way of me enjoying the brocante.
Then in the middle of the brocante, right before I called it quits and headed for a warm cafe I saw a brocante dealer unloading vintage woolen sweaters. Boxes upon boxes of sweaters from one person's collection. Those sweaters looked like life savors, they looked like a million bucks, they looked like the warm cafe in which I was heading. Even as cold as I was I tried to find one or two that were "cute" and serve the purpose of saving me from leaving the brocante.
As I did not want to take off anything to try them on I started to layer sweaters over my clothes. Call me Snowman, call me a Ding-Dong, call me Bag Lady... I was warming up and the brocante looked like a sunny beach front again.
Laurie was freezing too, so she started looking for sweaters and soon thereafter a bunch of women were layering sweaters on just like us trying to stay warm.
Then the funniest thing happened I got stuck in a yellow sweater, I could not get it off or on. Laurie and Lizzie started laughing and the more they laughed the harder it became to try to get the sweater to budge.
Warm and stuck was not helping my getting on with the brocante.
Oh, the joy of brocanting in the cold and finding something to laugh about.
I bought three sweaters and wore all of them, and did not care one bit how I looked. Laurie bought a few as well.
Lesson learned: Never go to the brocante at the end of the year without a warm coat and GLOVES on hand.
P.S. Yes Denise I forgot to pack the gloves you knitted for me! And yes Mari it was as cold as last year when we did the March! And YES Gina I missed the heat warmers that you have, God did I miss them! And yes Yann I missed you the most because you are always prepared and I lean on that fact way too much.
A friend who was staying with us told me I had too many people in my home. When I asked him to explain he said he counted 55 things (dishes, paintings, etc.) that had faces on them in one room alone.
If I bought this I guess it would be considered a crowd.
I am guilty of liking things with portraits on them.
Before arriving in Paris Lizzie, Laurie and I had a private brocante at an antique dealer's home in Provence, and if that wasn't the cherry on top of the delicious cake of a time we were having the antique dealer served us lunch. We had a tomato olive tart that I asked for the recipe and will have to share.
From the floor to the ceiling brocante finds from the couple's twenty-five years of antiquing gathered. My eyes did not rest. How lucky that after years of antiquing/brocanting in France I have not only learned about antiques and the history of such pieces but more importantly I have met such interesting creative people who have become dear friends.
The antique dealer showed us her home which I left a trail of drool from one room to the other, the collection of gilded frames with seventeen-century oil paintings were just lovely. All of them I wanted, and thankfully they were not for sale. Restraint comes with things I cannot have.
On a dresser she had a collection of wine decanters, candy jars and oil lamps.
I felt so happy to see someone had collected more than I had and had boxes upon boxes, cupboards, and armoires and under their bed stuffed with fabulous finds. The Brocante Bug has bitten them more than once.
Laurie and Lizzie had a field day exploring inside those "treasure chests".
The week went so fast, we had plenty more we wanted to see and do, but time did not permit it. Oh well, more to explore next time!
We arrived in Paris.
And the fun continues. I want to know how I am going to go back to normal life after this trip?
Laurie knew of a shop that she said we had to go see. Oh, man was she right about that. So clever. Philippe designs and makes clothes using wool and silks that he dyes himself with pigments he blends. He also uses antique linen sheets to make many of his clothing line that he sells all over the world.
Plus he creates art from antique clothing. We also went to see his work studio and see his newest collection that he was sending to Japan.
Happy Camper am I to discover new places to visit and meet inspiring new friends.
Who needs the catwalk when Lizzie is
styling on the sidewalk.
Autumn in Paris!
Wow, what great guesses you gave! You never cease to amaze me with your creative responses. I especially liked Kathy B's about it being for plunking an elephant's eyebrows. Not that anyone would do that, but to think that the guessing game item might be made for that unimaginable task me laugh out loud. Elephant's hair is very strong.
On another note, some of you have mentioned that you have not been receiving my blog, and if that is the case you won't see this note. But if for some reason you do see this note you might want to check your browser and change to Google and not Firefox. Also, you might want to check your subscription by checking up above in the far right corner where it says SUBSCRIBE.
I am with my friends Laurie and Lizzie (who I met through blogging) while Yann is in India. They stayed with me in St Zacharie and now we are in Paris. We are in the Marais in the quietest sweetest courtyard. Today I met up with Sarah who came on an antique retreat last May and will come again next year. Blogging has been a joy and has brought the world to my corner in France.
Laurie and Lizzie did some serious brocante shopping in Provence. We went out over the weekend and this is what they did... half of the boxes are shown here, yes half. They did manage to save some antiques for another day.
You might say they have the Brocante Bug WORSE than me. Or as Lizzie says, "It is my preferred drug of choice: Brocante Crack."
Yann is having an incredible time in India. He is in Rajasthan riding through in rough terrain. He is with a small group of experienced motorcyclists. I could not go as it is for solo riders. He is very happy even if the ride is grueling yet exhilarating.
Above is the latest photo he sent me.
Looks like it might be carrying Laurie and Lizzie's load of brocante treasures.
I copied a pasted Sacha's latest Instagram story here for you to see how he is...
Actually, everything is going very well except for the noise level of his neighbor's at night.
The correct answer to the French Antique Guessing Game goes to:
French Antique Guessing Game
What is it?
An iron like tong with a long cord attached.
Every now and then I come across an antique at the brocante that I do not know what it is.
Do you know what it is, what it was used for? If so write it in the comment section, or if you do not know what it was used for, make up a response in the comment section. The first one to guess correctly will receive a gift as well as the most creative response.
Before Yann left for two weeks in India, I asked him to send some photos back.
Well, he did and without text. Some are easy to figure out, others well, you will see below.
I spoke with Yann yesterday he said, "India is AMAZING. It is incredibly different than anything
I have ever seen. He said ever one of his senses was on overload.
Laurie and Lizzie who I met through blogging came to stay with me while Yann is touring India. This morning when I went into the kitchen I noticed we were all wearing black and white striped shirts, we are a team!
We went to the Lourmarin market today, a beautiful market with a castle as the backdrop. While there I ran into two other blogging friends Judy and Maggie. What a small world blogging has created, what joy it has brought me, what friendship I have embraced.
Meanwhile, Yann arrived safely in India and has sent one photo and a text a mile long... which said India is amazing and his senses are on overload. I think he is very happy.
xxx
Several months ago Yann heard about a group that offered motorcycle tours but not just motorcycle tours, Yann rides a motorcycle nearly every day, rain, hail, snow, in the evening, in the summer, in a suit, in jeans, always equipped and I trust him completely, but tours on vintage motorcycles truly off the beaten path.
He signed up.
And today he left for a two-week adventure in India.
I am excited for him!
I cannot wait to hear his stories.
I hope he takes photos.
I will keep you posted!
____
After the wedding and before the reception outside in front of the church I asked Sophie the photographer to take this photo of us. This facade is right next to the church. I asked the owners who were sitting on their kitchen chairs (to Yann's right) if we could take a photo by their house, they agreed then I quickly told Chelsea, Martin, Yann, Jean-Luc, and Alethe were to sit or stand. This is one of my favorite photos... though in my mind's eye when I asked Sophie to take this photo, I assumed she would keep the owners in the photo and especially the older man above us in his white muscle man shirt who was smoking a cigarette because I thought the contrast of the of the wedding party and the owners and the man upstairs told a bigger and more interesting story. Nevertheless, the backdrop makes the photo super cool.
Funny, how I did not take one photo during the entire wedding, nor reception but the images I have in mind are vivid and magical. Thankfully, in the years to come the photos Sophie took will bring my faded memories alive again.
Books at the brocante are as plentiful as going to the library, the only difference is it outside, noisy, and you never need to return them. Books on every subject exist at the brocante: fashion, religion, history, dramas, dictionaries, and from current authors to authors whose names speak volumes: Voltaire, Racine, Proust, Hugo, Baudelaire... the list goes on. Though I prefer to buy books that are old and usually ones from the 1700s and older. Not because I am going to read them, literally, I like them because of their covers, or the engravings inside, or the deckled pages. I truly judge a book by its cover. Old, pretty, under the market value... yeah it's for me. Brocante dealers in France usually price their books on the subject, not how their covers look. How often I have said, "I buy books for their cover." As the Scandalous book alcoholic, that I am I add for good measure, "I buy them to decorate my bookshelves."
Religious books such as bibles, prayer books, missals... are the least expensive as they are plentiful.
Dominotée and parchment book covers often are the more expensive, and of course, they are the ones that knock my socks off.
Below is a peek of some of my books that reside on a church missal stand that I bought years ago for a decorative purpose only.
Happy Birthday, Mom and many more!
If you are in Willows please drop by and say hi to my mom. This morning when I called her she said she made cream puffs... "...that way I have goodies if anyone comes over to wish me a happy birthday."
That is one of the many qualities that I love about my mom she is always thinking of others even on her birthday!
A generous heart, generous soul.
xxxxxxxx
Photo by Sophie Epton during Chelsea's and Martin's wedding day.
My friend Valorie brought a group of American women over to my home for a private brocante.
I told them everything in my house was for sale, and as a reference, I added, "... instead of saying
I do not want to sell that, or that isn't for sale I will just announce a crazy price like 10,000 Euros on objects I rather keep then sale." So when I said a crazy price everyone knew I did not really want to let go of certain things.
Lucky for everyone I had plenty of things that were not 10,000.
Must note that the Brocante bit these ladies hard, they had the addiction nearly as bad as I have it.
Everyone left happy and some treasures went to new homes.
If you are in Provence please come by to take a peek, and maybe the Brocante Bug will bite you too.
A scarred pumpkin from my cousin Judy.
Want to know how to do it?
Do tell me your favorite pumpkin recipe?
'Love is the whole thing. We are only the pieces.'
Rumi
Chelsea and Sacha a year ago, right before Sacha left for Seattle.
A blog reader of mine asked me about French gifts for her grandson who is four years old. I thought I would add my list of gift ideas (books) for children here on my blog. With that said my mother would suggest that the best gift to give is the gift of spending time with a child by playing with them, cooking, and or simply hanging out with them.
Reading was one of my favorite things to do with Chelsea and Sacha. Reading to them also helped me keep English alive in our home. Chelsea listened closely and study the illustrations, Sacha liked to skip pages ahead, then flip the pages back, and asks questions in between (drove Chelsea crazy). Their personalities were defined early on and it was a challenge to read to them with their various styles of learning and listening.
Below are a few of our favorite books, plus some that I have learned about overtime. These stories are about France or the French.
The Cat that Walked Across France
Monsieur Saguette and his Baguette
Paris in the Spring with Picasso
Stories collected, memories gathered thoughts that keep me going on dark days. The patterns in the sky, the unfolding of hearts, life in the monastery and how I learned to pray while cooking. Stories of finding and keeping and losing and weeping, the struggle of having lived when death thought to call. Moments of living the words of a dream: Life continues to continue even when unseen. Memories of childhood and Portuguese donuts and saying the rosary with my cousins. Running in dry rice fields, cracking walnuts, riding motorcycles and walking down the lane. Marty, Mathew, Mark, and Zane. The best deal I ever found in the shadiest puce was the rarest gem.
What words tumble from your heart and soul?
What words tell your story?
What book would you write?
Chestnut Soup
In a large heavy soup pan, saute a chopped large onion, three tall thin carrots, and the heart of the celery with their tender tops with a tad of oil or butter.
Toss in 30 or so *cooked chestnuts, stir around until they are coated with the sauteed mixture.
Add several (6 or so) cups of cold water. Bring to a boil, then turn the burner down to simmer until the chestnuts are tender.
Add a glass of white wine, and a shot of vermouth or bourbon.
Nutmeg, salt and pepper to taste.
Blend a cup of soy cream (or cream of choice) until smooth. Serve hot.
(*Frozen or canned whole cooked chestnuts will do.)
Note: I never use stock in my soups.
Some of my favorite photos from my friends Jean and Natalie's antique shop in Lourmarin, a must see.
Happy Birthday, Natalie!
If you are in Provence and would like to come by my home please let me know. Thank you, Judy, for your visit this week I enjoyed meeting you and your husband, I know our paths will cross again.
After climbing to the third floor you arrive at Gary and Ching's apartment. The landing or entrance is small and dark, it is behind the bathroom wall.
Today was the demolition day, and the bathroom was the first room Rene smashed up to itty bitty pieces that need to be hauled down three stories by foot. Just like our apartment, nothing can do left outside, not even the truck after ten in the morning.
Oh what fun!
Yann is not involved in this project. As it is not our apartment.
And so it begins.
After renovating numerous homes that Yann and I own, I have been asked to manage my friends Ching and Gary's home that they recently bought in Cassis, a stone throw (or should I say seashell?) from our place in Cassis.
The apartment is in the center of Cassis, on the main street with one of the most extraordinary views Cassis has to offer. Gary and Ching's home has a rooftop terrace with a 360-degree view, plus a large balcony off the kitchen/living room area that looks on to the Chateau.
The one bedroom, one bath apartment is on two floors. The last time it was renovated was in the 80s and one could live it in as is but Ching and Gary want to update it, giving it a modern clean look. So they asked me an antique die hard to weave magic and stretch her imagination. I am so excited and thankful for their trust in me.
The apartment like ours will have everything torn out, gutted and it will be a clean slate to work with. Unlike ours, the floorplan will remain more or less the same.
The above photo is the closet ( no exciting except that there is a closet and a big one at that) we will keep the framework but change the doors given it a clean line look.
The kitchen/living room has an original exposed stone wall and an old terra cotta floor.
The stones will be left uncovered, but the stone floor will be removed. I can hear some of you gasp, "Oh no!"
But if a clean line look is to be achieved one or the other, or both would have to go.
Decisions are not easy when the elements are old and beautiful. Though the goal is to have it not feel old and hodge podgey.
This is part of the kitchen.
The iron poles separate and protect the counter to the exposed stairwell going down to the bedroom, and up to the rooftop terrace.
The trick in renovating old places is hoping there aren't too many surprises when you start demolishes. We never know what we will find. For example, when renovating our apartment in Paris we found clay pipes embedded in the bathroom stone walls.
Rene will do the renovations, and he plans to save what he can: Tiles, fridge, air-condition units, washer, poles... and either sell it or give it away.
The bedroom and bath are on the first floor.
In Cassis, nothing on the facade can be changed or altered. The black iron grill, the window size, and shutters will remain as they are.
The apartment was bought furnished, though Gary and Ching will have the furnishings removed.
We will give it an entirely new look, from top to bottom.
Though the apartment is full of light, the stairwell feels dark and tight with too many textures and colors going on.
We will replace those iron poles as some of them are structural.
This is part of the balcony from the kitchen/dining room.
The stairwell leading to the entrance of the apartment.
Above it is a large closet, more like a big box above the stairwell that will be torn out to add more light and volume.
This is the entrance, the pink arrow points down to the stairwell that comes up to the apartment. The white wall alongside of the pink arrow is the closet that is going to be taken out to add volume to the small entrance.
Green X - Behind that wall is the bathroom and bedroom, this wall is going to be moved back about four feet to give the entrance landing a bigger more welcoming feel.
The yellow arrow points to the stairwell going up to the kitchen/living room.
The blue arrow points towards the bedroom and the closet space.
The bathroom is opened to the bedroom, behind the glass squares is the entrance to the bedroom and the closets. The bathroom will be gutted, and the back wall brought forward so the bathroom will be smaller and the entrance larger.
Hope you will tag along and watch the renovations.
Thank you Gary and Ching for allowing me to do what I love!
