French la Vie

Breakfast and Bedhead

 

 

Yes, Cousin Christine we had Cocoa Puffs.

 

Gabriel

Gabriel had dinner with me in our apartment in Paris.

He told me we were going to sit at the little table, and since he was starving he was going yo eat a yogurt right away.

When I turned around this is what I saw. I grabbed my phone and hoped I could capture every ounce of heart warming sweetness before he turned around.

Every minute spent with family is a gift x

Life is …

Cassis’ Lighthouse

French Quote

Faux Pas Big Time

 Without going into all the details, I will go straight to the point and keep this story short. While antiquing with the French la Vie, a woman on the street tripped and fell. She broke a tooth, skinned her face, and her toe was mangled. There were a couple of musicians nearby, and they ran over to help her. I reached into my purse for arnica. Everyone in France carries arnica with them. I put ten granules into the cap giving it to the person holding the woman who had tripped. "This is arnica," I said to the woman, "Would you like some?" She nodded.

In French, I said, "Take it all at once." Just then, everyone around froze, staring at me in disbelief. At that moment, I realized the faux pas I had mispronounced the words "all at once" and instead had said, "Put it in her butt." 

Thirty-four years later, I am reminded of the book... Me Talk Pretty.

 

... dans ton cul (in your butt)

... d'un coup (all at once)

Photo Bomb

The Bus Perception

Bumping along on the bus dancing wildly in my mind to a song on my phone, holding bags full of food, calculating how much time I had to whip up dinner when a thirty-something-year-old motioned at me if I wanted her seat as she was getting off at the stop. I smiled politely, thinking I got this. 

The next day back on the bus, standing room only, a young man got up and offered me his seat. I looked around to see if he meant it for someone behind me as I was uncertain if he meant it for me. I sat down but felt funny about it, wondering if I gave him reason to believe I needed it or if he was a gentleman, "How rare these days for strangers to be gentle towards others," I thought, "Best to take the seat because next time when there is an older person he will offer the same thoughtful gesture because I accepted."

Older person...

Wait, did these people who offered me their seats think I was THAT old that I NEEDED to sit?

I missed my bus stop with that thought rattling around my head. I looked around and laughed. Dang, I am the oldest person on this bus.

As if that wasn't enough of a shock to my 64-year-old being, I was back on the crowded bus later that day. A woman older than me, indeed older than me, at least ten or fifteen years older than me, stood up and offered me her seat. I was dumbfounded. If the bus right then and there came to a screeching halt, I bet she would have fallen before me. I think crazy shit like that (Sorry, I swear, and from now on, I am going to write how I talk.). I smiled, shooked my head, saying (in French), "That is nice of you, but no, thank you." Under my breath, I was saying, "Seriously!!! I am not as old as you." But my better self refrained and retracted my thought, "She probably needs to feel worthy and strong, and I am the second oldest person on this bus."

I got off the bus and walked back to our apartment.

I must look like a frail 95-year-old. 

How odd it is to be perceived as old. To see one's self through the eyes of another.

Do I feel old? No.

But to be perceived as old...

The next day the perception continued:

While waiting for the train, a fifty-something-year-old man approached me; he needed money. He started with,

"Mamie (Grandmother in French), do you have a few euros?" 

I laughed out loud; it probably scared him.

I am a grandmother. But, dang, this is a new adjustment, this perception thing.

As my mom says, "It is just a number."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Where do you Swim?

Story Lines

 

There are pages

written on my face

line by line

that read the story of you and me and others and things

Some are in-depth stories.

Some are new and half-written

Some have yet to reveal their punchline.

Some I didn't even know until this morning; what a surprise!

Oh, on the story's page, the day holds a constant edition. 

Should I erase some lines? Rewrite them the way I want to see them?

The pages are becoming worn like an old loved book, dogged ear, bookmarked, memory charger, and there are a few underlined sentences to remind me that I what to remember that moment, but how could I forget when it is written on my face,

I see you.

...

2006 I wrote:

 

                

My Vavie, my Grandmother often told me that she felt young, not one day older than fifteen. The thoughts she had or the feelings she felt seemed to be the same as when she was younger. The only indication that she was growing older, she'd say, was her reflection in the mirror.

"I see myself in the mirror and think, WHO are YOU!? That old lady certainly can't be me. Where did she come from? How can I feel this young and look that old?! Who I see in the mirror does not reflect the "me" I know. So I don't look in mirrors anymore."

Feeling young runs in my family's blood. My Father rode a Harley Davidson and could keep up with any of my four brothers. My Mom wakes up before six in the morning every day and goes like a motorized bunny until nightfall. What I see in them is a passion for life; they are motivated day-to-day-to-day pleasures of living. There isn't anything, certainly not age, to keep them down.

The mirrors in my home are antiques. The mercury glass is spotted with age; looking at them, I can differentiate myself from the dots, spots, creases, and other effects of the antique glass. I might not feel like an energized bunny, nor could I manage to ride a Harley Davidson. Mostly, I hear the words of my Vavie, "Who are you?" When I see myself in a mirror, reality presents itself; I am becoming a woman of a certain age.

...

The story across this page continues.

Though it is starting to resemble a road map leading me forward,  

new roads ahead.

 

 

 

A Tribute to my Cousin Julie

Today would have been my cousin's 65 birthday.

Julie was a few months older than me, she led the way into the new year, and I would catch up in February.

 

Julie was our "person" at our wedding, as we did not have standing witnesses.

 

She is Sacha's godmother, but we called her "Buddha Mere" as she didn't want to be called Godmother, as she said at the time she was agnostic.

 

She was one of our first guests in our studio in Paris:

 

Here are Julie's favorite French words:

Poubelle - Garbage can

Gendarmes - Police

Pamplemousse - Grapefruit 

Libellule - Dragonfly

 

 

We (Julie, my mother-in-law, Sacha, and I) were to go to Greece. We arrived at the airport and missed the plane because we were going to have a bite to eat. As I begged, argued, and tried to get the hostess to get us on the plane because it still had 50 minutes before taking off, Julie stood by me at the counter eating pizza UNFAZED. Later she said, "What was I thinking! We missed going to Greece!!"

All I could muster was, "You were eating Pizza!"

We laughed about that for years to come.

 

That blameful pizza, and it wasn’t that good.

 

 

We went to Egypt, where she paid a dollar for Chelsea and Sacha to ride camels. As they rode off with two guys we didn't know, I turned to Julie and said, "Maybe we should be concerned?" 

She shrugged, "Why?" 

"Well, they are 12 and 8 years old, with two guys we do not know, riding towards the horizon at a fast pace..."

 

"Oh, shit!"  she laughed with that worried kind of laughter.

 

 

Years later, we went to Marakesh when we arrived at Jemaa el Fnaa completely in awe through every sense: the smell, the sight, the music, the hecklers, the snake charmer, the fire eater, the food; we wandered. There, I realized Julie had a lousy sense of direction and needed a drink in a country without readily available alcohol. 

 

We illegally crawled through the underground in Paris, hours and miles through damp, weirdness, darkness, wild parties, and balancing on telephone wires with rubber boots, and trusted Yann's friend to get us out of there. Truly a mad experience that was amazing in that I wasn't afraid most likely because Julie was a nurse she and Yann saw adnveture as a healthy challenge were I saw it as the underbelly of what could happen if...

 

We sat on a church rooftop in Camargue, and Julie took beautiful photos of Chelsea and Sacha. She loved my children as if they were her own, and they loved Julie as if she was one of them. 

 

When I moved to Paris, she cared for my seven-year-old goldfish called "Sweetlips." My goldfish was so depressed that Julie called me so I could perk him up by putting the phone to his bowl. She said he jumped when he heard my voice. "What?" I exclaimed. "Who is exaggerating now?"

 

She constantly claimed I exaggerated, and I swore that recalling memories or sharing about something and stories needed that, or they were just words utter. We went round and round about it. Julie and her facts, me, and my imagination came together in a place called admiration.

 

Julie was a nurse, she was my go-to person wherever I wasn't feeling well. Being in France and not speaking the language well, Julie was my living "Google" she knew how to calm my fear and put me on the right path to healing. As a nurse, it seemed nothing razzled her, but within that sensitive soul,, she carried a tremendous amount of sadness. Watching people suffer is only for the brave and those with a steadiness of trust. Julie called the ambulance when she felt within her the signs of a stroke.

 

She hated Grey's Anatomy and loved Taylor Swift, and I liked Grey's Anatomy and thought One Direction boy "Harry" was better than her Taylor... all said to get her goat. 

"Taylor Swift's "Folklore" has off-the-chart lyrics, she is a genius at expressing depth. Have you listened to it? Her words are easy to relate to..." she went on and on about this album.

 

"Isn’t it just so pretty to think, all along, there was some invisible string tying you to me.”

 

When I arrived in SF (as Chelsea, Sacha, and I did as we always stayed with Julie the night or two before we headed back to Paris- Oh God, I dreaded lugging our six suitcases at 72 pounds each up her fifty straight up stairway!) Julie was downstairs helping us unload our luggage. She sang, "My Lady Lumps from Black Eyed Peas" I stared at her, "Are you talking about your butt or boobs in front of Chelsea and Sacha?" Just then, she started to slap her butt at the beat. Julie's love for popular music was beyond the scope. 

 

Julie made us music tapes, then CDs of music, and we were thrilled to receive them.

 

 

Fat Boy Slim https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ruAi4VBoBSM 

God, we danced a lot to that song!

 

"We've come a long, long way together 
Through the hard times and the good
I have to celebrate you, baby
I have to praise you like I should

"

We've come a long, long way together 
Through the hard times and the good
I have to celebrate you, baby
I have to praise you like I should

I have to praise you 
I have to praise you 
I have to praise you 
I have to praise you like I should

I have to praise you 
I have to praise you 
I have to praise you

We've come a long, long way together
Through the hard times and the good
I have to celebrate you, baby
I have to praise you like I should..."

 

So many fucking memories, bringing them up, tears well in my eyes. My earliest memories are from childhood when we would play under the Weeping Willow tree.

Today is your birthday, and I am celebrating you as I should.

---

Our best bicycle race from my childhood home to hers was five minutes flat out between my house and hers. But maybe I am exaggerating. But I am not. We were young and robust. 

 

In my mind’s eye, my cousin Julie and I are riding bicycles again on county road P.

We are about 13 years old.

The sky is blue,

 the  rice fields are waving that brilliant green,

our long brown hair wiping around our faces as the wind is at our backs …

we let go of the handlebars throwing our arms into the air,

we look at each other, laughing!

We let the wind take us home.

 

Missing you has become a new normal. Thankfully, I can still hear your easy laugh, hear your voice in songs you sent us, and feel your love caressing my face.

 

When someone we love leaves us 

Life around us shifts, and changes, leaving us with an empty space. 

A seed of their life roots slowly within us, in that inner space, often invisible, over time leading us to a relationship with our memory and usually a spiritual connection. There, the space is renewed, and the one we loved/love blooms.

 

Ponytails, Learning to Stand, and Fun with GrandPapa

Photos and texts were sent to me by Chelsea.

 

Meanwhile, someone is standing and dating to walk.

 

French Quote of the Week

Join Me on a French la Vie

 

Our Last Day of the French la Vie in Cassis

 

 

Dede

 

Delise

 

 

Cathy

Yann in a tee shirt that Terry from the last French la Vie

made for us.

 

Debbie

 

Yann’s Brocante Purchase

A huge contemporary painting.

He officially has the Brocante Bug (well, that might be wishful thinking on my part).

He has been with the French la Vie every step of the way. He is a big help and adds so much fun to the mix by teasing, carrying packages, driving, giving motorcycle rides, and so much more, like assisting with buying, translating, and finding stuff!

I think he might take over!

 

 

 

 

Very Full Days... Waking Up Early to Start at it Again!

 

Another enjoyable day was spent sharing Provence with the French la Vie.

I have so much to share and stories to tell, but by the time I come to put it all down on my blog, I fall asleep typing. I can imagine one day, I will hit the post button to my blog, and all you will see is

"q aced fqflqjhcq" type sentences and an upside photo.

I am falling asleep with dreams of tomorrow's journey playing in my head.

 

 

 

 

 

Which Way?

All the way in the right direction.

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Merci xx

French la Vie: Off the Beaten Path, Straight to the Heart of the French

Today we visited two brocante friends I have known since I started brocanting in France over thirty years ago. 
Friends Meeting Friends.

We went to their homes for a private visit and shopping. The French la Vie is a unique way of traveling, one where you step into the authentic lives of my French friends, sharing a personal experience that most travelers only dream about.

We had the most delicious, delightful lunch at Regina and Gerald’s, five courses, homemade! The highlight among many was a lobster bisque that took over 16 hours to make. My generous friends opened their homes to my groups, giving them a taste of French culture and hospitality. We rolled  out of their home to Christine’s home,

One open heart to another. 
We visit at least ten personal friends’ homes, shops, and other favorite places in a week. French la Vie leads the way when the expression off the beaten path is used.

For more information (Ina), don't hesitate to get in touch with me:

coreyamaro@aol.com

 

 

 

 

 after another

French la Vie… Happy Place

He Is

Birthday photo

from

our friends Vlad and Denise.

xxx

 

 

Yann Says Thank You for the Birthday Wishesxxx

Yann said, “Please tell everyone to thank you for the birthday wishes. It feels good to be thought of by our blog reader friends.”

We had a lovely dinner with dear friends Vlad and Denise, who we hadn’t seen since Covid came onto the scene. They brought a crazy good birthday dessert from their town’s bakery. If that bakery were in our village, I would eat dessert daily and look like a cream puff! They took photos, so hopefully, they will send them so I can post them to my blog. Trust me; when you see this dessert, you will drool!

I am feeling somewhat better. Yann is going to continue to help me… I imagine he could take over the French la Vie and be a massive success! He did say, “You are going to do the talking, right?” 
That is all he asked me to do! Talk. I think that is easy enough.

Then he said, “By the way, you should write a blog called” What I Lost Today?” Because you lose stuff constantly, it doesn’t seem to bother you?”

He is right; I misplace stuff… like the purse I haven’t seen in about two months, which is small, so I haven’t lost s a great deal except it has my credit card.

Thankfully, Yann has what I need, and if I lose him, I will be talking to myself on some back road. 

I am sure my purse will turn up somewhere. It is the strangest thing how it just disappeared. 

All of us are well, even if I seem scattered.

XXXX

 

Yann Turns Sixty

Today Yann, my French Husband, is 60.

His birthday.

What did he do today?

He planted two shrubs as two dried up with the intense heat.

He vacuumed the entire house.

He carried and weighed two extremely heavy boxes that will be shipped for some clients of mine.

He fixed a light switch that I broke.

He picked up supplies.

He did for me since the French la Vie starts Tuesday and I haven't been feeling well.

I feel like it is my birthday with his loving gestures to help me.

This is Yann through and through a generous heart where helping others, even those he doesn't know,  without effort or fanfare. He is a loving man. 

When I told him I was sad since the day isn't about him, he said we would have 60 more to celebrate.

What a gift he is.

Hopefully, tonight we will go out to dinner. Since he said I dare not cook a thing.

 

 

 

Yes to This

Gabriel’s First Day of School

 

 

 

 

Gabriel woke up happily, anticipating his first day at school. Giggly with excitement, he went through his morning routine without a hiccup. Checked the boxes with ease:

Breakfast,

Brushed teeth,

Got dressed...

The day before, he said to his mom, 

“...you know at school I have to run and play.

Because I have lots of energy!”

Yesterday, in France, marked  “La Rentree,” Mandatory Preschool (starting at three years of age) up to University. Chelsea, Papioca, Martin, and Gabriel walked around the corner to his first day of the school alongside students who were doing the same thing all over France.

Gabriel knows the path to school as he has frequently walked past it on his way to the park’s playground. He hopped and skipped, gleefully holding his parent’s hands as they headed towards his new adventure.

But when he arrived with the multitude of parents and children entering the school, his eagerness suddenly turned a corner.

As Chelsea told me, he screamed, cried, threw himself to the ground, and had to be coaxed, held, and reassured... It was the exact opposite of his morning dreams. 

...

Chelsea sent a video after his first day of school;

Chelsea asked Gabriel as he sat on her lap,

“How was school today?”

With exburence, he said, “Good!”

“Did you have fun?”

“Oui”

“How was lunch?”

“Good!”

“Did you like your teacher?”

"Oui!"

“Was she nice?”

“Oui!”

“How were the other children?”

“Good!”

“Wow! A perfect day huh?!”

His demeanor changed.

Chelsea said, “Were you a little bit sad this morning?”

“Ummm, pas trop.” (Not too bad.)

“Pas trop?”

And with that, he drew her attention to something on the table.

 

My Niece Patti’s Loving Tribute to her Parents

(photo of my brother Marty and Suzy.)

“When I hear the word love, I think of two significant people in my life my mom and my dad. Today is their 38th wedding anniversary, and even without my dad here by our sides, their love still grows every single day.

The love my dad had for my mom was more than I could ever imagine, and I hope someday I get to find that same kind of love. Most everyone experiences some type of love in their life, but I know that the love of my dad had for my mom and my mom had for my dad was beyond special.

So here's the 38 years, Mom and Dad. I love You so much.”

...

 

❤️

 

One of My First Blog Post from 2005

Our street was narrow, unpaved, and fenced by two large stone walls.  This was before the jolies maisons sprang up like mushrooms surrounding us, eating up the vineyards and olive trees. This was before our town became a bedroom community for Marseille. This was before we had to say goodbye to those who had lived on Rue du Moulin their entire lives giving us a passage that took us back in time.

Since the construction trucks couldn't pass on our narrow street, those stone walls that had been there longer than anyone living in the village had to come down; bulldozing the stone walls took less than thirty minutes. The tumbling of those walls brought an end to the life that used to trespass on either side.

Often upon a time, I strolled down the unpaved rue with my two children. I encountered the local color of our village every step of the way. How I loved those afternoon walks where it felt like I slipped back a century, seeing France that is romanticised and held up by dreamers like me.

"Monsieur Gaston!" I waved to our neighbor who, in his bleus walking alongside the vines. In his strong Provençal accent, he said, "Come see!" In the vineyard, at the foot of the mountain, he was gathering wild asperges, like he had done every year since he was a child.

Gaston's weathered hands offered us some, "Taste them; you can eat them raw, you know." He beamed proudly. We sat amongst the vines in the vineyard, eating from his loved, worn basket lined with a disheveled red and white dishtowel. Sacha, then a toddler, pulled on the vines, barely budding, which made Monsieur Gaston laugh.

"These asperges are my secret. Nobody knows they are here but me," he glanced around as if to be sure, "You see, I am alone." 

"Aren't they delicious?" Mr. Gaston winked, adding a few more wrinkles to his aged face.

After our impromptu picnic, we continued on our way to where we met Odette, who rode a bicyclette. That day a large cardboard box was attached to her bicyclette. As we grew closer, we could see the purpose of that box. Odette was collecting twigs. She shyly smiled, "I can never be too early. Little by little, I need to collect firewood for the winter. I can only carry so much at a time, you see."

My children scurried about making a game out of collecting a few dry twigs and eventually handed them to her. When her box was full, she waved goodbye; we waved back and continued down the Rue du Moulin.

Michel has had a limp from a childhood illness and hid his left hand in his pocket because it didn't behave either. Though that never stopped him from gathering fennel, marjolaine, lavender, and whatever else he could forage in the fields to sell at the local marché

Michel beckoned me towards the middle of the field, earmarked for construction, "Do you think we should dig up the wild tulips bulbs? The new houses will stand right on top of them." He was right; I hadn't thought about that. I glanced out into the open field, sadly realizing that I would see paved driveways next year instead of wild red tulips with yellow stripes.

Not very long after, we saw Annie, who was tenderly picking sage. After kissing the children 'Bonjour', she said, "Il vaut mieux avoir la sauge dans son jardin, qu'un frère médecin." (It is better to grow sage in your garden than have a brother as a doctor.) This is my garden!" As she closed her eyes and spread open her arms. Annie invited us to her home, where she prepared fresh sage tea that we ate with dry bread and black olives that she cured from the olives she picked in the fields along Rue du Moulin. 

Flanking both sides of the river were ancient plantain trees. Crossing the river was always a highlight of our promenade. First, we had to find our footing; if too deep, piggyback rides were in order. Next to the river was a laverie, le nettoyage à l'ancienne ~ long ago, the community gathered to wash clothes at such a place. Sure enough, Marie washed her clothes, scrubbing them on the washboard made of stone as the river ran through.

"Bonjour Madame et les enfants." Marie nervously added, "I know! I know! I'm crazy. But the clothes smell so good afterward, and at my age, I have time. I can do what I want... Non?" Looking at this 85-year-old lady, I had to agree, but I doubted I could be on my knees that long.

This daily walk down our street was real and happened just like I said, but when the walls came down, and the houses sprang up like mushrooms, this way of life was lost under the pavement, new homes.

And as the days flowed by, those who shared France with me from another generation, which I thankfully knew and enjoyed, have left this world filled with natural beauty and well-lived history that they shared so lovingly with me, the American.

Chelsea and Sacha were five and three years old then. They will barely remember those early days of our life on Rue du Moulin in our small French village. So I am penning them on my blog.

(When I first wrote this, I changed my neighbors' names. I have added their real names in honor of them and the gift they gave me.)

My Cup isn’t Running Over

 

Many moons ago I saw this cup at a brocante.

As I was with clients I didn’t ask the price. Instead I walked ever so slowly by it wishing upon wishes that I could just scoop it up. 

Isn’t is a lovely.

Maybe, if I bought it I wouldn’t think about it as much.
If I were a potter I would try to lake one.

But I am not.

Have you seen an old cup like this before? 

 

 

 

 

Inner Landscape

Photo Via Laura Makabresku on Instagram

 

With two words, "Inner Landscape" one looks within peering over the vastness of self

It is such a lovely thought to explore.

 

 

 

Via Laura Makabresku on Instagram

Sweet Goodbye

 

The day came to an end; we went to say our goodbyes.

Hugs and kisses, full of thanksgiving, and memories tucked in.

Gabriel took my hand I bent down; he leaned in, kissed my arm, then said,

"Vavie, you can come to stay with me in Paris. We have many beds, but you can sleep with me. Okay, come!"

And that was the final cherry blessing on top of the delicious holiday in Ardeche.

Ah, three-year-olds. Talkative, loving, full of questions, energy, and frustrations, and soaking up everything at record speed, wanting to be with those they love all day long. Childhood is not wasted on me such a raw gift to be able to witness. 

 

 

Turtle Joy

Olivia’s word is, “Turtle” she says it when she wants her stuffed turtle, but also any other stuffed toy. At ten months she “talks” more than all of us put together.

Here we are the last day of our summer vacation. Completely happy. Thank you, Arnelle and Rodger, for sharing your beautiful home with us again. A paradise found, a generous friendship, we are pinching ourselves we feel so lucky x

Guess What Olivia’s First Two Words Are?

From day one I have said this little baby was going to talk soon and often and she has! A chatterbox we can actually hear her repeating sounds. Two words have emerged…

Ball,

and

- - - - l-

 

 

 

 

What Would You Search For?

(Not someone but something.)

A quilt that my Grandmother made me when I was maybe eight years old. It had irregular squares and rectangles in cotton and silk, but probably rayon, from dresses from the 1920-40s.

I loved that quilt, passing the time tracing the patterns with my finger and imagining an entire world around the tiny fragments.

 

What did you do today?

Gabriel licked the beaters.

 

 

Olivia grew out of her swimsuit.

 

 

Thirty Pounds of Roses

 

My cousin Linda sent me this enchanting video as it reminded her of my friend Annie and our rose jam.

What Type of Doorway is This?

Blackberry Teardrops

Blackberries

Very few this year, I stead of stained hands from blackberry juice I had more scratches than berries, and those I did pick were not plump. The handful above is after a mile of walking along dried-up berry bushes, the vegetation aching for water.

Nevertheless, I am determined to find some more to make at least one pot of jam.

 

The Invitation: Oriah Mountain Dreamer

 

"It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, 'Yes.'

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments."

Text from

The Invitation Oriah Mountain Dreamer

Husbands Who Say Yes

 

A group of us talked about our husbands and how they sometimes don't seem to listen; instead, they say yes to whatever we are saying and later say, "What? I didn't agree to that?!" We were sharing tales and laughing in relief that we were not alone in having similar husbands in the yes game.

A recently married young woman chimed in, "My husband is the same," she started, "Several months ago, my husband and I were staying with a bunch of friends for a weekend in a house in the countryside. Upstairs there was a large dormitory, and as we were the last to enter, two twin beds literally on opposites of the room remained for us. Nothing could be done about it, so we said goodnight, crawled into our beds that felt miles apart, and went to sleep."

I wondered if she had missed the point of our comparing notes about our husbands when she added, "As I often do, I started blabbering in my sleep. The next morning at breakfast, our friends were having a good laugh as they told us that I was carrying on a nonsensical monologue the night before and that my husband on the other side of the room was responding to me in his sleep, saying, "Yes, yes, yes..."

 

 

Tender Heart, The Meaning of Life.

Gabriel was sitting on the couch, his little legs in a position I could not mimic, his hands on my knees as I told him stories of my dad. "My dad, named Vo, loved motorcycles. He had motorcycles to ride in the fields, on the roads, on uphills, and on racetracks," I leaned in close to Gabriel, "Vo would be impressed with your bicycle riding; you are so fast!" Gabriel listened thoughtfully. He asked, "Where is Vo?" I smiled into Gabriel's eyes; "Vo died long before you were born." 

A little frown on his brow, "Why did he die?" he asked.

"He died because he was old." as soon as I uttered those words, his lip quivered as if his heart knew the depth of life, his heart, you could say, was on his sleeve.

I knew how Gabriel looked at me; he was thinking, "Do you think Vavie is old?"

With a child's honesty, he solemnly said, "Yes. Why aren't you dead?"

Looking into his sweet baby face, I grinned,

"Because it isn't my time yet. I am here, and hopefully,

I won't die so we can play for a long time."

His frown softened.

Chelsea added, "Do you remember what Mana (his other grandmother) said about people who die?"

"Yes, they go to heaven."

"Do you know heaven is?" I asked.

"No, it is in the sky. Do you know?"

"I want to believe it is love, a big happy love, love that holds us all together forever."

And with that, he said, "Come play with me."

And I did.

 

My French Village

 

Before living in this French village, we lived in Marseilles; before that, we lived in Paris. Our village isn't touristic; it is over 1200 years old.

 

 

 

For the thirty-four years, I have lived in France, this is where I have called home the longest.

 

 

 

The French boulangerie (bakery) with a wood-burning oven is around the corner from where I live. There are three bakeries in our time. The one above was the most beautiful. They retired and took everything out and turned it into an apartment. The front is now grey and not at all charming. 

 

 

The French baguette. A daily event. 90 cents.

 

 

 

As well as the daily temptation.

 

 

 

The Maisons (houses) are painted in eye-candy colors.

(Want to take art classes in France, ask my friends, the Vieths.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You can read part of a person's life through French window shutters.

Chances are that if they are closed, the person is not home, the afternoon sun is too hot, bedtime or they have moved.

Otherwise, the shutters are opened.

 

 

 

There are sixteen fountains in the village where I live. They are dried up from the drought.

 

 

 

 

This is my neighbor's car, and I want it.

 

 

 

 

 

The Mediterranean is twenty minutes away. The French Rivera a hop skip and a splash. The best bit about our village is there are over twenty-plus brocantes (antique fairs) every weekend within an hour's drive.

 

 

 

The door that leads to my friend's home is right around the corner from where I live.

There is hardly any parking in our village center, so walking is the easiest way to travel. It takes me as long to walk to her house or the grocer's, the post office, the bakery... as it does to walk to my car.

 

 

 

Most French villages are circular in design. The church or city hall is in the center.

 

 

 

 

In the southern Provencal region of France, the shutters are often pastel, with red tile roofs called "tuiles." Also, there is a thin sugar cookie called a tuile, shaped like the roof tiles. They are served with ice cream. The rooftop tuiles were made in our village as it produced many tiles and tuiles. Tuiles were made by women using their thighs as moles. Hence, various sizes exist.

 

 

 

Everything we need is within walking distance. That is the luxury of living in a small French village:

You never have to use your car for the basic needs of running a household.

The grocer, the doctor, the post office, the church, the bar (like how I put church and bar next to each other?), the bakery, the hardware store, the bank, and the pharmacy are all within five minutes on foot.

(Want to know the most popular baby names in France, check this link, I can tell you "Corey" is not one of them.)

 

 

 

Living in the village center, you can hear the church bells and the children playing at recess.

I also hear our neighbor's chickens. It doesn't bother me, but I might consider complaining if they bring in a rooster.

 

 

 

Though it takes more than five minutes to walk anywhere when you live in a French village because one runs into everyone and their dog, two kisses and "Ca-va?" takes time, which is an extra plus.

(A list of the top French films... or at least this site says so...)

 

 

 

When the fountains were running...

And trees were around every corner.

Over fifty of them have been cut down due to a 

Bug brought in on the American cargo ships from WWII.

___

 

 

The church around the corner rings its bells every hour, telling the time of day or night by how many bells rung. So when it is twelve o clock, it rings twelve times and then repeats itself in case you missed it. Plus, it rings every half of an hour twice, which makes one o'clock confusing.

____

 

Do you have any questions regarding French life?

There is Light

    

 

 

« We do not get what we expect,

we stumble on cracks and are faced with imperfections. 

Bonds are tested and tightened.

and our landscape shifts

In sunshine and shade.

 

There is light.

 

There is.

 

Look for it.

 

Look for it shining over your shoulder.

on the past

 

It was light where you were once-

It is light where you are now-

 

It will be light where you will go again. »

 

A beautiful passage from Call the Midwife.

Dining Conversation

 

When you visit Provence, we will taste our way through the countryside.

We will do breakfast at a cafe,

lunch at a bistro,

tea at a salon du the,

an aperitif at a bar,

dinner at a typical French restaurant, and if you have room...

We will have dessert too.

I will translate the menu if you do not read French. Though I must tell you I will translate meat dishes as cow, pig, duck, horse... Cote du Boeuf: is a side of cow, okay?

But when it comes to the desserts, you will lick my face with happiness, even if I do not share. I will translate each dessert down to the speck of sugar detail.

You will have lavender creme brûlée                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    , and I will have Tarte Tatin with vanilla bean ice cream.

 

 

 

When you come to France, please wear elastic band pants.

Be prepared to walk, talk, and eat.

"Eat! No, do not say that... do not say eat to describe dining. Say, Dine." French Husband corrects me and adds, "And the brocante?"

"And we will go to the brocante after we pig out," I add with my lovely twang.

 

 

Because I love the brocante, I love to do the food thing more, can you believe that?

I don't know if I do.

We will go to the grocery store, the bakery, and the market...

And at the brocante, we will buy dishes, linen napkins, silverware, and glasses.

Hot and Cold

This was the view from the brocante today.
It was over a 100 degrees.

Afterwards, we went to dinner and sat in the shade, the weather started to cool off. Before long it started to hail.
So strange to feel the heat of the day give way to hail.

Though ice and buckets of rain were welcomed.

The drought is severe within France - this hailstorm drenched me but barely the earth.

Favorite Finds from the Brocante this Weekend

Our home is going to look like a church if I keep this up.

11 Years and We Picked up Within Seconds

 

 

text by my friend Linda Marcov 

“ Sometimes things are just made to happen. Our friends Corey Amaro and Yann Rolland-Benis were attending an antique fair in a village about an hour and a half away from us. Not wanting to miss out on an opportunity to visit with them we agreed to meet at the fair. Corey is an exquisite designer and has a huge following of clients that she shops for. So it was understood she would be working first, playing later.

The parking areas were filled to the brim, and the fair is large, I said to Ludmil oh dear, how will we ever find them? We haven’t seen them for over11 years . 10 minutes into our arrival who should tap me on the shoulder, Corey and Yann? We hugged, chatted briefly and encouraged Corey to continue with her work we’d text one another and meet up later . It was a really hot hot day and sooooo many people! We decided to eat early, like 11:30. Guess who made the same decision at the same place . Mind you there are 1,000s of people at this fair . Again a quick chat and Corey was on her way , and we were as well . Fast forward about 30 minutes, and I say to Ludmil, “ I don’t think I can stay out in this heat , I’m going to text Yann and tell him I’m sorry I’m overcome with the heat and need to head home . Corey wasn’t expected to finish for several hours. Just as I’m ready to call him, he calls me , and tells me the heat has got them headed home to their friend's house and would we like to come by! Yes, yes, yes. So we could get in the pool, cool off, and have the most delightful visit. It was as though we had seen them last week. Time closes when you have that kind of friend connection, we retold old stories and new ones, they now have grandchildren, we have great-grandchildren…. It was hard to head back home; we talked on the way out the door, more in the driveway, again as the car was pulling out; that’s how it is with those kinds of friends. 

Corey will be hitting the pavement at the fair tomorrow, but for one time and one time only, I’m really happy it was so hot, and we all had to take a break at the same time. 

Photos of the outside of their friend's home, it’s a grand home, with exquisite French antiques, infinity pool, and a view that stretches out to the acres and acres of vineyards.”

 

 

Summer Days

Golden

 

 

Golden light on the first evening at our friends Rodger and Arnelle's slice of heaven.

Whenever I am here, I am filled with gratitude for their generous hearts and this beautiful countryside.

A pure gift.

Tomorrow there is a big fat juicy brocante nearby, and yet the temptation to forego it and stay here.

Thankfully, we will be here all week; otherwise, I would be in a struggle to debate my desires.

Fortunately, both are in my hands! How lucky, how thankful, what a holiday!

Work and pleasure gliding by each other without strain.

Golden light shines the way xx

 

 

 

How Do You Say I Love You?

How do you say I love you in sign language?

I taught Gabriel how to hold his three fingers up.

Chelsea sent me this picture as they were on vacation,

I noticed that Gabriel had his three fingers held up.

Of course, a sweet baby smile speaks of love too.