French la Vie

Normandy Beaches are Endless

 

Normandy is where Yann's mom moved to be closer to her daughter. A seashell's throw from her new home is the coast with its endless miles of beach. It is absolutely my favorite place to walk.

On the beaches in Containville, the tide goes back far due to the area's large tidal range, which can be as far as the eye can see in some places. This significant tidal range creates expansive sandy beaches when the tide goes out and a vast, breathtaking expanse of sandy beaches when the tide ebbs, providing a wonderland of serenity.

Tides in Containville

 

 

Beet Salad by Ben

 

Driving around the Italian countryside, our stomachs begged us to stop to dine somewhere. Given it was Sunday and way past lunchtime, I had doubts we would find anything open; this is Italy, for God's sake.

At a few stops, we were greeted with a closed sign or someone to point us to a possibility on the other side of the mountain. An hour or so later, we drove up to Villa Inglese. The door was open, but the waiter told us they were closed. Looking at her watch and then at us, we got the subtle hint: we are not rule followers.

But, after a polite conversation, with Laurie who never meets a stranger, the waiter told us a simple pasta could be made and a bottle of wine served. Little did we know that we had stumbled upon a Michelin-worthy restaurant that wasn't fussy or fancy.

A simple pasta that is putting it lightly, a beet salad, cheese, homemade bread, and a deconstructed tarte Tatin in five bites but packed with flavor that each bite was worth ten.

I would drive over that mountain again and again.

But above all was the owner and chef Ben, a charming, easy laugh, fantastic storyteller, rich vocabulary, wine connoisseur, local folklore, and food enthusiast, he was the cherry on the cake!

...

 

In his kitchen, not far away from his garden and local producers,

Ben gathered these flavorful ingredients:

• Finely sliced beets, like shards of amethyst marinated in
• Red wine reduced to a shimmering syrup
• Chestnuts, cut as thin as parchment scrolls
• Pomegranate seeds, crimson gems glistening
• Roquefort sheep cheese crumbled like fallen meteorites
• Tiny cubed apples, a hinted sweetness
• Fresh beet greens and added surprise.
• Magic called a salad.

Villa Inglese, Ben owner and chef.

Porto, Portugal A Superstar of Generosity and Kindness, A Must See

 

A little video of Porto!

 

Swimming in the Atlantic

 

The Tidal pools of Leça da Palmeira Piscinas de Maré de Leça da Palmeira 

A swimming area on the beach of Leca da Palmeira.

 

The structures consist of two natural pools filled with fresh seawater,

designed and built between 1959 and 1973 by Portuguese architect Álvaro Siza Vieira.

My friend Ellen, an architect in North Carolina, has longed to visit the creation of Alvaro Siza Vieria since she was in her twenties. As the sun gave way to setting, we went to the seawater pools of Vieria as the waves pounded around us.

Yes, it was cold, but not as cold as Cassis. We swam and admire the architecture from different vista points.

If it weren't for my friends Ellen and Frank, I would have never seen Porto through the lens of architecture nor experienced swimming in this pool.

 

 

Porto Portugal

 

Guess Again

Not Italy,

Not California,

Not a brocante,

Not the Azores

Not Greece…

Think blue tiles-

A fabulous art museum

An old bookstore 

and along the coast.

 

I am with my friends Ellen and Frank.

xxx

Sacha’s Photos of the Northern Lights

 

Sacha had been discussing his plans to take photos of the Northern Lights,

crossing his fingers that Mother Nature would be on his side.

Sacha said, "There was a small chance of seeing the Northern Lights on July 13th after the forecast changed." 

Nonetheless, he decided to hike up the mountain with some friends.

Preparing the camera equipment and setting up some of them for long exposure shots.

Then fingers crossed they awaited the celestial spectacle.

As fate would have it, Sacha's lenses captured the Aurora Borealis,

which was not visible to the naked eye.

 

 

Have you ever seen the Aurora Borealis?

 

I have once when flying over Canada. At first, I thought I was dreaming so I blinked my eyes a few times.

But, there it was ribbons of light dancing in the evening sky.

 

Sacha wrote,

“400km of driving and home at 4:30 am, but it was cool!”

We are Roses in Life’s Garden

We are as a rose, embodying beauty's paradox, the coexistence of contrasting elements: Thorns and petals entwined, a duality of gentleness and pain, captivating and fleeting, yet full of power and grace, prickling with defense, and yet, soft and accepting.

 

Beauty's essence lies in the lyrical contrasts—petals unfurling, thorns guarding, vulnerability, and strength intertwined. It's a fragrance that permeates, inviting release and surrender, fullness amidst delicate letting go. True beauty flourishes in the paradoxical movement of life, embracing the ebb and flow with soulfulness.

 

 

By embracing the paradoxical nature of beauty, we gain a profound insight into the intricate tapestry of existence. We discover that life's contradictions and complexities are not to be feared or dismissed but rather to b explored and embraced. Acknowledging the delicate dance between thorns and petals, we find a deeper understanding of our multifaceted being. Through this lens, we can navigate the world with greater empathy, gratitude, and an unwavering appreciation for the soulful beauty surrounding us.

 

Italian Dream

 

Yann and I are visiting our close friends Laurie and Willie in Southern Italy. I was here in February and, like my last visit I fell in love again, so much so that I begged Yann to come with me this time to see, to feel what I hold dear. Within five minutes or less after being here, he felt the same attraction, and tugged on his heart. And it wasn't just the pasta because anyone who knows Yann knows how he loves pasta.

Italy is a region brimming with enchantment and charm, where time seems to be forgotten. Its sunlit landscapes, old beauty, and charming hilltop villages beckon me to travel down one more path, one more road, one more hidden corner... Among its bounty lie old farmhouses tucked away in the countryside, waiting to be discovered by those with dreams of living here longer than a holiday.

For me, the thought of owning a farmhouse is a pleasure-filled dream. The allure lies in its ability to transport me to a different era, where simplicity reigns, where the rural community takes center stage with its abundant nature; it reminds me of my childhood where roots held us close.

 

One of the most intriguing aspects of these old farmhouses is their inexpensiveness. In contrast to the soaring property prices where we live, these rural gems offer a chance for ownership at a fraction of the cost. They present a golden opportunity for those seeking an affordable investment or a home away from home. Add that to the sacredness of all that is good and real; it is hard to look away.

As I wander along the one-lane roads and rolling hills, the sensation of being far from home fades insignificantly. The countryside, with its absence of publicity and consumer attractions, the soft sweet air sings an unmistakable song that makes me feel like this is paradise. Imagine you can hear birdsong while driving. Plus, the incredible warmth and hospitality of the locals further reinforce this sense of belonging, making it easy to imagine a life intertwined with this land.

 

Every farmhouse tells a story, its ancient walls whispering secrets of generations gone by. They bear witness to the toil and fortitude of those who worked the land, nurturing it with their sweat, desire, and love. Olive groves stretch as far as the eye can see, their gnarled trunks standing as testaments of years of cultivation. Vineyard promise of hearty wines, where gatherings with family and friends fill long tables under the jasmine-filled terraces, and the summer evenings are lit by moonlight and laughter. And as the sun sets, beyond the fields, its rays paint the sky in hues of gold and orange; I can't help but feel a profound connection to something beyond myself. The dream of living in Italy conjures up a feeling far from the ordinary, a chance to forge a deep bond with a foreign and familiar land. 

 

The dream of owning an old farmhouse here goes beyond the physical possession of a property; it's an immersion into a way of life. It's about embracing the slow-paced rhythm of the countryside, where time is measured by the changing seasons and the ripening fruits. It's about finding solace in the simplicity of everyday tasks and the beauty of nature... It is my childhood remembered and reawakened.

Will we buy something here? Hum, I don't know... it is a dream delicious and ripe, and that alone is a gift I am thankful to have in my heart.

Thank you, Laurie, for inviting us and sharing your world.

 

The Challenge of the Graceful Path

These trees leaned towards the river, with their roots woven into the soil. Many walked carefully along this narrow path for hundreds of years, not to hook their foot into the trees' roots. 

How often I stood there casting a stone into the river as a symbolic gesture of letting go, and at the same time, prayed that as I let go of whatever was bothering me, my roots would be like the tree's roots strong, steady, and secure. The imagery soothed in its lessons: Letting go, holding on, and like the river reaching out, a continuous circle of contradiction and connectedness. Not all at once, but it gave a passage for anyone who might need to sort their heart, mind, or deeper self if they stopped and contemplated on the imagery the trees gave.

As I mentioned earlier on my blog, nearly fifty of them were felled due to disease.

The path looks vastly different. One could say empty or an avenue for sunshine to fill the space.

Both are true.

Understanding and accepting something or someone rarely goes hand in hand.

But when it does, the path opens up gracefully.

What allows that challenging path to give way to grace?

 

 

 

 

 

Coddiwomple

 

Yesterday morning-

A spectacular sunrise show appeared outside my bedroom window.

Pink wispy clouds.

Mesmerized, I was by the beautiful morning and the distant bird song that carried me somewhere spiritual in an instant. 

The gift of life before us.

 

 

___

 

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French la Vie… Happy Place

Heatwave in France and Knee Socks.

On a blistering hot summer day

Gabriel decided to wear knee socks.

Because that is what three-year-olds do.

 

We watched a group of men jumping into the canal Saint Martin. It was very tempting, the splash of the water, the hot sun on the pavement, the lack of air… tempting. 

 

We tried to stay cool.

We had ice cream.

France has a heat wave. As I grew up in the Sacramento Valley, hot days in the summer were very common. I wouldn’t say I liked those days back then, and I certainly don’t want them now. The only difference - my cousin’s pool - And that was a big difference, a wonderful difference, the memory-filled highlight of summer days.

But heat waves in France are uncomfortable, especially in Paris. 
But not if you are three with knee socks and a teeter-totter.  

And cherries.

 

 

 

The End of the Season

 

 

 

 

 

Open heart pomegranates delicately hang

on barren branches

under a cold blue sky.

Surrounding harvested fields echo their farewell song.

 

Hello Lovely Friends

   
        

 

 

Back in Marrakesh

 

 

Well yes, I am back in Marrakesh with friends Ching and Gary. The weather is beautiful and warm with the perfumed air enticing me further and further into the souks, and the spices teasing me to take Moroccan cooking lessons.

 

 

 

We were supposedly looking for a rug for their apartment in Cassis but it is so easy to get sidetracked in the Medina and lost. But by some miracle, I haven't been lost and I haven't used a map, nor GPS, visuals have been my guide. That doesn't mean if someone asked me how to go somewhere in the Medina or draw a map that I could. No, it simply means that I know how to get back to the El Fenn Riad where we are staying. A true miracle.

 

 

But the big question is How many of these slippers do my friend buy?

 

 

 

If you have any questions about traveling to Marrakesh let me know and I will try to answer them in regards to my personal experience. Of course, I know very little but if you are thinking of traveling to Marrakesh I would encourage you to do so.

 

 

El Fenn Riad where we are staying

 

 

Autumn Delight in November

 

 

Such incredibly beautiful weather for this time of the year. We had lunch outside today.

My mom made her delicious cream puffs I wanted to devour all of them and somehow manage to refrain. 

 

 

 

 

 

We had chilled pea soup, roasted and fresh vegetable salad, mushroom rice, and dessert. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Was Born to Do This

 

 

 

One of the many characters in the French nativity santon,

hand painted over a hundred years ago.

Carries two baskets from the market filled with cabbage.

Some brought incenses,

some brought gold,

some came by with their lambs and drums;

The French santons, the many characters of the village come to the Provencal nativity, 'it takes a village" comes to mind when I see them set up.

I collect the old shabby looking ones, but the characters never change, I love this one who brings cabbages, like why not? The Provencal nativity scene

symbolically says to me, "Give what you have, come as you are, we can create a loving world if we bring our gift and share."

The santons make me feel like everything has a place and a purpose.

My brother Marty told me a story of a Man who was in Paradise the day of the fire, his volunteered service was to look in on the elderly, that day his boss called him and asked if he was going to Paradise, and the Man replied that he was just entering the town as they spoke. His boss said, "Come Home! It is too dangerous they are closing the roads." So the Man started to turn his car around to head home. But then he thought of a Shut-In that he usually visited and he knew he would not be able to escape if the fire should come to his house. So instead of turning around, he went to the Shut-Ins house. When he arrived the fire was close and the Man was scared thinking they were both going to die! He ran into the house and the Shut-In was sitting in his chair with a sleeping bag. The Man asked the Shut-In what he was doing with a sleeping bag, and the Shut-In replied, "I figured once the fire came in I would just zip myself up in the sleeping bag so I wouldn't see it." The Man picked him up and carried him to his car. On the terrifying ride home, the Man thought to himself how stupid he was because there was no way out of the burning furnace ahead of them, he thought I could have been safe and now it looks like I am going to die. On the way down the horrific firey road, he picked up other people whose cars had burned or who had run out of gas, when at last they made it out he thought, "This is why I was born. I was made to do this. Simple me, I am a hero." 

I hope I would have the courage to do the same.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Italian Neighbor

 

Italy is less than two hours from our doorstep. My neighbor. Seductive enchanting Italy. I love that. Zip across the border, Italian enchantment rushes up, grabs me, Bacio qui! Limoncello in the afternoon, then back to oh la la France in the evening. 

 

 

 

San Remo is a lovely seaside town. Every Tuesday and Saturday morning there is a market. Yeah, yeah I know markets galore in France, so why drive two and a half hours for a market?

 

 

 

 

Italy that is why!

Italian Christmas pastries,

Lunch,

A change of scenery,

The smell of Pizza, garlic, and oregano,

The Italians,

Licking windows, as the French say for window shopping.

Happy stroll.

 

 

 

 

L'Erbolario, one of my favorite shops. Natural products, wonderful fragrances, soaps and the best herb tea, red fruit tisane. Christmas gifts.

 

 

 

 

 

J'adore this black coat. Hidden buttons, the back side of the stand up collar was in leather.

Sleek, chic, yum.

Do I need a coat?

No.

Christmas shopping was the goal, and that coat almost got me off track.

Taking a photo of it helped me feel like I was putting it in my closet.

 

 

 

 

 

San Remo market is every Tuesday and Saturday morning, 8 am until 1pm.

In the town center next to the tower.

Cashmere scarves, cashmere sweater, beautiful leather belts, and gloves...

and the quality is superior then the prices let on.

My favorite is the food! Massive chunks of Parmesan cheese, Balsamic, Fresh ravioli, hazelnuts, people line up for a fifteen-minute wait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

San Remo: Old meets new.

Note those new street lamps next to the old facade?

I wished those street lamps would disappear.

If I was on the city planning I would be barking against those sort of lamps.

I like new things, I do... but not this style of new.

 

 

 

 

 

For example new things like gadgets.

French Husband loves gadgets, or I should say sorting through gadgets.

I do not like this sort of shopping.

But, I must say he finds the best things! Techy can of cool stuff that I do not even know what it is until he explains it, then I want it too.

San Remo market has its share of gadgets. 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, Italy.

You just know how to romance life,

Conversation outside, bundled up in love with hot chocolate and hand holding, Christmas decor, and pasta without guilt

Italians just ooze sensuality. 

Plus it is a Christmas shopping tradition of ours.

 

Homecoming: Rolling Between Both

 

Home the deep well, unending ever rich the source of who I am and the springboard to my tomorrows. Home that comes with me wherever I go and roots me when the wind tries to cause unbalance. It is my everything, it is the threads that connect and bind me, the threads of memories, faith, family, friends, threads that my parents have woven together with their very lives for the sake of their children, a deep, unending ever rich...

My life.

Ever grateful for the path that my family, community, faith have created, fortunate for the gift freely given, and that I hold with all that I am.

 

 

 

 

 

We had a short visit a few days with my family in Willows and a few days with our son Sacha in Seattle.

It is always too fast.

We are lucky.

I am grateful.

It ends so quickly and I leave hoping it will be there when I return.

Home.

And this trip was infused with Paradise, reminding me that nothing is forever except what we hold within.

Relationships.

Community.

Faith.

Paradise reminds me to keep what is important in front: to learn to grow in love.

To put love in front and keep it as my focus.

Not to get weighed down by anything that comes to distract me from loving.

That is the goal one that I need to work out to achieve.

 

 

 

 

 

Emptiness or pregnant space?

That field, that sky, that land I call home.

My inner child runs to meet the child that was happy go lucky playing in the fields behind my home.

Where is your golden field?

What do you cultivate from it?

I want to plant seeds of thanksgiving.

 

 

Thankful for the road ahead, for the road behind and most of all for the road where I am right now, rolling between both.

 

Sacha's Photos of Our Stay in Seattle

 

 

There is a connection between people who love one another that runs deeper than time and space, a bond that unites in an unseen world that intertwines memories, moments collected unknowingly, the essences of love that cannot be defined by words. 

I am holding on to that invisible cord that wraps around me with my family and friends. Leaving is never easy. Goodbyes trigger the space that I know will be between us, the ache of senses that go unfilled. That space that I must put back into the familiar place in my life that is safe but does not haunt me every day with "longing to be with that person". But at this moment it is not easy to say Goodbye such a familiar word when one lives abroad.

Of course, we are fortunate to have the tools, the energy, the means to see one another more frequently than ever before, but even with all that I am selfish and would like it to be easier, easy as around the corner to drop in whenever... Lend a hand, share an impromptu meal, sit around and watch the day passby...

 

 

 

 

We entered Sacha's new world, his place he has called home for the last fifteen months. 

Seattle is fantastic city and the area around is beautiful. Plenty to see, do, interact and be part of, even if the skies are more grey than Provence and the drizzle part of the day to day life it wasn't as hard to adjust to as I thought it would be. Mind you I carried an umbrella defining myself as a tourist. People in Seattle seem to view drizzle and cold as a way of life we were dressed for our coldest day in January and our hair turn into puff balls.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sacha looking more American than French.

 

 

 

 

We met up with a few friends Judy and Bill who we met through blogging years ago, they have one of the most enchanting love stories that I know. Sacha spent last Christmas and will spend this Christmas with them in Portland.

 

 

 

 

We saw my cousins Ginny and Courtney and their husbands Jim and Craig. Sacha was an intern for Craig and Courtney in their Production Company Kontent Partners. Sacha does some freelance for them.

 

We visited Martina, who was one of the first persons ever to read my blog. Over the years I have come to know Martina through her comments and emails. Martina lives in Seattle and has 69 or so rose bushes. This year for Chelsea and Martin's wedding she lovingly gathered and dried to perfection five gallon bags of rose petals for the wedding toss. How thoughtfully generous is that!

 

 

A blurry photo of Lamont and Julie who we also met through blogging years ago, they come to France every year, they stayed in the House Next Door and while Lamont rode his bicycle over the mountain trails behind our home, Julie took French lessons with one of the locals.

 

 

 

And Christy, who lived in Provence, married a Frenchman has three children. When they lived in France we hung out together. Often with our children and at the brocante. We use to have to go opposite ways at the brocante as we liked similar things. Many years ago Christy and Co. moved back to Seattle. Christy's daughter Natacha has stayed with us, and now is studying in Paris. Christy's daughter Sonja is the one who gave me one of the best gifts of my LIFE... she is the one who told me she has an allergic reaction to caffeine which caused her to have migraines, I never had thought my migraines were caused by caffeine but they were!

 

 

 

 

 

 

We had a wonderful time exploring Seattle, with Sacha and our friends. There is plenty more to see, do and just be in this place which Sacha has bloomed. The comfort and joy knowing he is happy, he is doing well, he is growing...

 

 

 

 

 

A gum wall. Really, a tourist attraction? It was disgusting, and smelled sweet like candy which was an odd combination.

 

 

Space needle walking on the glass floor.

 

 

 

 

We were not cold how could we be with Sacha surrounding us with his love and attention.

Oh Beautiful Boy we love you.

xxxx

 

The Space Needle

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Maggie, The First Person to Have Stayed in the Tiny House

 

 

 

 

 

 

"The Guardian's House, now known to us as the Tiny House, stands in a mature, lovely garden surrounded by ancient stone walls and enfolded by a monumental cypress tree. Rosemary bushes, wild thyme, a magnolia, chestnuts and countless woody shrubs that thrive in this climate circle the house, laced with gravel paths and bulb flowers

just now poking up through the green. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The villa to which the Tiny House is attached to one side overlooking the mountains and endless greenery. It is more beautiful and though petite, larger than I ever imagined. When Corey let me in off the street through the large wooden doors opened by a lovely brass key, I was astounded to realize I would live in a totally walled, private garden, unseen by the village for countless years, in a typical Provencal house with ochre walls and pale blue-grey shutters. Entering through the ancient wood door using an 8" iron key of equal vintage, I climbed the stairs to the charming kitchen and sitting room completely decorated in Provencal antiques including old oil paintings, potteries, demijohns and vintage cupboards, a room replete with an ancient peeled log beam. Does it get any better than this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Corey had taken the time and heart to make the Tiny House truly an inspiration. Antique terracotta pavers create the floors throughout punctuated by lovely area rugs. As we continued up the perfectly restored stairs to the bedroom and sitting room/bath, the walls were decorated with oil paintings, needlepoint tapestry, paintings on linen cloth, antique French prints, all with age and patina that makes the heart beat very fast indeed! These compliment all the furnishings, most of which are very old and very beautiful.  The bed is dressed in French comforters and pillows in black and white toile, quilts in muted neutrals; the chairs, tables, stands are all vintage, some painted a lovely grey-green

to harmonize perfectly with the many paintings and other details.

 

 

It is all beyond charm. It is elegance.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 The French say elegance is often the result of restraint, simplicity; Corey gathered the collection over a period of weeks, lovely pieces from her own home, from the owners, from their attic of the big house, and a cellar area as well. She also installed all of it. All details of daily modern living are here as well. 

 

Corey has put heart and soul into this project, one she really created, having talked to the owners, long-time friends of hers over a period of months. I had written to see if she could find me a wee place to live during the winter until late April when I would need to return home, see my children and grandchild,  and tend to my own gardens and house. Voila! This is what she accomplished! I can't find the words to express my joy and contentment, most of all my gratitude. The Tiny House and gardens, the entire landscape of Provence soothe my spirit,  providing both a perfect refuge from my Upstate N.Y,  U.S. frigid winter, and the inspiration to dream, photograph, write, paint, and breathe in the soul of a storied region of France with its classic villages like this one begging for exploration and expression. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By the way, the violets are in bloom! And a river runs through it. There is no snow. I'm in heaven." Text by Maggie.

 

 

Maggie was the first person to stay in the Tiny House, she stayed nearly three months and we went walking nearly every day.

 Ever since then, when early February comes around my walks remind me of Maggie.

 

 

 

For more about the Tiny House click here

(rents for 500 Euros a week, or 1300 Euros a month.)

 

Licking my Lips in Lisbon

 

 

We were on Tram 28 which connects and passes through some of the most popular neighborhoods in Lisbon Martim Moniz, Campo Ourique, Graca, Alfama, Baixa, and Estrela. The trams and the hills at moments whisked me back to San Francisco especially while we weaved through the narrow cobblestoned streets with the brakes singing their tune and the conductor guiding us with expertise, the red tram followed directly behind us.

 

 

For more information about the trams in Lisbon.

 

 

 

 

As it was our anniversary we went to a few places to celebrate.

100 Maneiras was one of my favorites. 

I am not a dessert fan, I can take it or leave it, but this dessert Arroz de gengibre, pudim Abade de Priscos e manjericao or in English, Ginger rice, rice serum, Abade de Priscos Portuguese pudding and basil sorbet was by far the best dessert I have ever had. I would go back tomorrow for it, and God's bread.

 

100 Maneiras is a tasting menu, we had over ten courses.

D E L I C I O U S !

 

Please check out their website to see how original and inventive they are.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We called the restaurant the day before to mention that we do not eat meat or poultry, unbeknownst to us instead of the pork that was on the menu that night, they made us an Amazon forest, it was nearly too clever to eat.

The black bits are dried olives crunchy and now I want to learn to dry olives!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tasty wonder: Shrimp skin with droplets of sweet and sour on a bed of rocks.

 

 

 

 

 

The dishes too were unusual, clever, inventive... fun.

This was an extremely oversize bowl with a tiny mouth.

But did the "cleanse the palette" bite every provide a mighty wow factor:

Iced celery and rosemary.

Frozen celery was incredibly good.

Let's freeze celery and see!

 

 

 

 

 

Cool tile floor at the Brown's cafe, at the hotel that we stayed at.

 

 

 

 

Eye candy everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ALMA'S   in   L I S B O N 

 

We also had dinner at Alma's.

Another tasting menu.

Equally as good.

Thirty years was celebrated with such good meals and wines.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alma's Chocolate Bomb that French Husband enjoyed, and I did not dare him to lick the plate or he would have. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alma's interior was sleek, modern and refined. Though the light's added such glare that it made it difficult for me to take a photo. So I enjoyed each spoonful instead. 

Impeccable service.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Are you full yet?

 

The restaurants we enjoyed:

 

Alma's

 

100 Maneiras

 

Sea Me

 

Cantino do Avillez

 

12 Reasons to Love Lisbon

 

and a must go to the market place Mercado da Ribeira.

 

 

 

Sintra Portugal

 

 

"The town of Sintra is one of Europe’s wonderful example of the whimsical and colorful romanticism style of architecture. This elaborate 19th-century design was inspired by the love of art and the mysticism of ancient cultures, to create decorative and flamboyant buildings, of which the Pena Palace is a true example. 

For such a relatively small town, Sintra contains an abundance of historic monuments and enthralling tourist attractions. Within the town, there are more than ten national monuments, and these varied buildings range from extravagant palaces and decadent houses through to ancient ruinous castles." To read more follow this link.

 

 

 

 

We took a direct train from the metro stop Rossio in Lisbon. The round trip ticket is less than five dollars and the trains leave three times each hour, the ride is forty minutes. At the train station, you can either hike to the center of town or take a bus or tuk-tuk. French Husband I walked up to the center of the charming little town and had lunch at the Lawrence Hotel.

We sat inside surrounded by windows which allowed an enchanted view of the forest.

There is a bus stop two steps away from the Lawrence Hotel that we caught to go to Pena Palace.

 

There is a pastry / cafe at the Palace.

 

 

 

 

 

The bus leaves you at the base of the hotel, the hike is a gradual climb on a cobblestone path that weaves through a forest/garden.

 

 

 

 

One of the views from the bottom.

 

 

 

As it is up in the hills it is a bit cooler than Lisbon.

No matter the weather do go, as the view it offers is spectacular and I imagine in the fog it would allow for some incredible photos. Rain or shine it is dramatic and eye appealing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Unsurprisingly, Sintra is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. There are traces of human habitation stretching all the way back to the Neolithic times and the Romans also spent some time here. Fast forward to now, and the town seems to be filled with castles, parks and monasteries." Read and See more by follwing this link.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Other things to do in Sintra?

Follow this link.

 

 

A delightful pastry/cafes in Sintra

Brightly color yellow pastelaria Piriquita 

 R. das Padarias 18, 2710-533 Sintra,

and Cafe Saudade

Av. Doutor Miguel Bombarda, nº6, 2710-590 Sintra.

 

Belem Enchantment

 

 

"Beautiful, culturally resplendent and immensely significant in Portuguese history, Belém is one of the jewels in Lisbon's crown. In terms of places to visit and sights to see, this elegant area of the city probably holds the record. Situated alongside the River Tagus, at the point where it meets the Atlantic, Belém is the place from which the caravels sailed on their voyage of discovery and in the 16th-century life here revolved around the port..."

Read more by following this link to the full text about Belem

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Belém whose name is derived from the Portuguese word for Bethlehem.

 

 

 

 

 

 

"The first rhinoceros to set foot on European soil since Roman times did not last long. Surviving the 120-day sea voyage to Portugal, the rhino was a diplomatic gift from India. Arriving in 1515, the Indian rhinoceros was off-loaded near the construction site of the Tower of Belem in Lisbon.

For a few months it was kept shackled and on display, at king Manuel, I’s Ribiera Palace, where it was used for less-than-sophisticated hijinks: The Portuguese attempted to make the rhino fight an elephant (the elephant wasn’t up for it, and walked off). Before long, Manuel grew tired of the rhino and decided to have it shipped off to Pope Leo X, whom he was buttering up for political favors. The year before, Manuel had sent Leo a hugely popular gift of a rare white elephant, which the pope kept as a pet and named Hatto. (Hatto died two years later of constipation—or rather of hair-brained “cures” for elephant constipation.)

Tragically, the rhino never made it to Rome, drowning instead in a shipwreck off the coast of Northern Italy.

Strangely, the short-lived rhino inspired a famous woodcut by the artist Albrecht Dürer, who never saw the animal in person. He based his illustration on secondhand descriptions and a sketch by an unknown artist. The resulting woodcut shows a magnificent beast in riveted armor. Real rhinos being in somewhat short order at the time, this fanciful interpretation of reality became known as “Dürer’s Rhinoceros” and went on to inspire dozens of paintings and sculptures across Europe.

The beautiful Tower of Belem was being built as the third in a series of fortifications designed to protect the natural port of Lisbon. Constructed between 1514 and 1520 of local lioz limestone, the tower is an example of the distinctive Portuguese “Manueline” style, named for King Manuel I. The style incorporates motifs inspired by the great Age of Discovery and the recent return of Vasco de Gama from explorations to the Far East. Design elements from Morocco, Venice, and India mingle with nautical symbols like a rope. The entrance to the tower is marked with carvings of armillary spheres representing Manuel’s support of exploration.

The turrets are decorated with carvings of exotic beasts. At the base of one of the turrets, stone carvers immortalized the rhinoceros they saw in 1515, now well worn, but notably lacking the armor of Dürer’s interpretation.

The 100-foot tall tower survived the disastrous earthquake of 1755 and has been restored many times. It is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site."

Text  via Atlas Obscura

 

 

 

 

 

 

Read more about Belem here.

 

How to get there from Lisbon and what to see and do.

 

We took a tuk-tuk, the driver was a college student who lived in Belem, his mother was an antique dealer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Isn't it romantic and mysterious, I wanted to be standing in a long dress with a veil billowing over the tower wall.

 

 

The Sweet Feast Lisbon Offered

 

In Portuguese the word to eat is "comer". Growing up my mother made a few Portuguese dishes but mostly they were desserts so the first thing we did when we arrived in Lisbon was to go to a bakery, and then another, and another... I do believe Portugal has more bakeries than France, and that is saying a mouthful.

Wonders never cease with what one can do with fresh egg yolks, flour, creamy butter, and sugar. In Portugal, one of the defining roots of their culture is the pastry shops where home made or "fabrica proprio" is a given. The pastry shops are never empty and coffee "cafe" is always served, as you might know, I do not tolerate caffeine, but the smell of coffee is and will be a very pleasant experience. My Grandmother Leonardo served "cafe" in thick ironstone mugs, the sound that the heavy cup made on her wooden table, her heavily accented voice asking if I wanted warm milk and sugar, my mother saying, "Not the children.." My Grandmother serving us anyway. The spoon going around and around the rim of the mug, while my mother's sisters would speak English and Portuguese within the same sentence, fresh sweetbread being cut and buttered, children running around... a snippet of memory brought back when I walked into the first Lisbon pastry shop.  

Pastry shops are the heartbeat filled with the young and old, from sun up and way pass sunset. Pastries with sweet sometimes holy names such as Jesuita (Jesuit), bispo (bishop), travesseiro de Sintra (Sintra's pillow), brisa (breeze), borboleta (butterfly), imperio (empire), maravilha (marvel), Papos de Anjo (angel’s double chin), Pastel de Feijao (bean pastry I had the sweet potato verision), But our favorite, even more than my beloved childhood favorite "Filhos" was a bread dessert called "God's bread" just writing it makes my mouth water. Portugal claims two hundred traditional pastries. I think I had one hundred and ninety-nine of them in my dreams.

 

 

 

Pastries and pink were my first two impressions. Do you know that the President's palace is pink. How could a country be any better with pastries and pink to greet you?

(The photo is not the palace.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

King Crown's Cake for the feast of Ephinany.

From the Confeitaria Nacional:

After six generations (1829) the oldest pastry shop in Lisbon still remains in the family of the founder, Balthazar Castanheiro.

Sitting at a table, two elderly women dress for an occasion, nylons, heels, coats with fur collars, hair puffed, gloves on the table they looked like my Tias (Great Aunts) going to church, though it was six that Friday evening. They had a cafe and a plate with thick slices of something delicious. I asked the waitress if she could tell me what they were having? She looked over my shoulder, then looked back at me and said, "Toast" with a look that implied, "Honey you need to get out to the Portuguese pastry shops more often."

 

 

 

 

 

My favorite pastry shops to visit in Lisbon, I won't tell you what I had at each of them because everything, anything all of it was divine, here are a few examples, though I wish it were samples.

 

 

Confeitarian Nacional

 

Bolo de Arroz.

Photo Via Confeitaria Site.

 

 

 

Pasteisdebelem

 

Pasteis de Nata, deliciously soft, sweet, custard tarts, are a cult in Lisbon.

Photo via their site.

 

 

 

Manteigaria

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tease

 

 

 

Photo Via No Man Before.

A Padaria Portuguesa

(The best God's bread or Pão de Deus, as it is called. I asked my mother if she knew it, and she didn't. Darn I wish she did  because she could make it for us when she comes for Chelsea and Martin's wedding!))

This was my favorite bread dessert.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pastelaria Sao Roque

A charming bakery from the beginning of the century.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cafe Pasterlaria Versailles

"An absolute gem of a café, Versailles dates from the early 1920s and stands replete with original marble-clad walls, decorative stained glass panels, and dripping chandeliers. The bygone ambiance is immediately disarming and customers can spend several minutes taking in the scene before remembering to order. The specialty here is hot chocolate, a rich dark concoction that can only be drunk slowly, especially if coifed with a dollop of whipped cream. Staffed by a small army of bow-tied waiters in smart tunics, Versailles is always busy, mostly with locals who still appreciate the yesteryear elegance of Lisbon's most famous teahouse." Via 10 best

 

 

Pastelaria Alcoa

 

 

 

 

 

Spoonful memories, transporting me back to the table of life and love, family and faith, comforting nourishment stirring me to this day; 

The aroma of cinnamon sprinkled on my mother's rice pudding, the remaining crumbs of the blackberry pie crust, the last bite of a Filhos, the smell of onions frying, butter dripping down my chin, finger licking from the cookie batter, stained fingers from eating a pomegranate in my mother's garden, Uncle Jule's roasted fava beans, Va Amaro's oatmeal cookies, Aunt Louie's and Aunt Evelyn's sweet bread, Aunt Eva May's Chocolate toffee, Uncle Jule BBQing, My mom dancing in the kitchen, Annie's dolmas's, Merisi baking apple strudel, Aunt Mary sitting at her dining room table with her six daughter's, Ritz crackers with butter at Julie's and Christine's house, a glass of wine with Zincman, Communion after my father died, lunch on the fifty something floor in Shanghai...

Lisbon was a feast, a generous gulp of growing up Portuguese in California, I had no idea that it would take me to my childhood in such a way that it did, but flavors, scents, aroma, language, the faces reflecting my own... I am thankful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ginjinha Espinheira Bar in Lisbon

 

 

Whenever French Husband and I travel it is usually a last minute decision (since we both work from home and the internet is our office desk freedom to do so is easier), with next to zero preparation, and our only desire is to "let it find us" instead of having to see it all. We travel with small expectations which living in Europe affords us that luxury as traveling two hours by plane can take us to a whole new world.

Ryan Air is another advantage.

 

The day we arrived French Husband and I started out walking, aimlessly. Going where ever I eye caught something or as Yann says, "Corey's Feeling". 

We found out within five minutes that Lisbon is hilly with the most intricately beautiful cobblestone sidewalks. As I had fallen face first a few days earlier I held on Yann's arm most of the time out of love and fear. Though love would have been enough.

 

 

 

 

Lisbon is easy to get around on foot or by trams, buses, tuk-tuks, metro lines, taxis... without an ounce of intimidation.

Though it is hilly, in the historical center stairs often lining the streets.

 

Some of the places I found charming and a must see:

 

Follow this link to see a few...

 

LUVARIA ULISSES

A 1920's charming glove shop

Rua do Carmo, 87A (Chiado) 

 

Bertrand's

1732 the oldest bookshop in the world, and wall to wall books,

Rua Garrett, 73-75 (Chiado) 

 

TOUS (OURIVESARIA ALIANÇA)

For over 100 years this was the jewelry store, though, in 2012 the owners changed, thankfully the interior has not changed. It is one of Lisbon's most beautiful shop, Louis XV-style. 

Rua Garrett, 50 (Chiado) 

 

 

A VIDA PORTUGUESA 

An old fashion flair shop with long-forgotten products made in Portugal, in a former storage space filled with wooden cabinets, and filled with a large variety of Portugal's famous soaps. ( soaps by Claus Porto in art deco boxes (clausporto.com)

Rua Anchieta, 11 (Chiado) 

EMBAIXADA

What started as a palatial residence in the 1800s is now Lisbon's most interesting shopping destination Praça do Príncipe

Real, 26 (Príncipe Real) 

                                                                                                                               

 

 

Loja du SE

My mother inherited a woolen blanket that my grandfather brought with him from the Azores, because of that blanket I wanted to find one of my own...

Woolen goods, blankets, scarves, coats, hats, toys... The colors and patterns were given an updated version of the old styles, yet each item is traditionally made. They have an online shop as well.

Rua Augusto Rosa 22-24

 

 

 Perfumaria Alceste

Is filled with dusty bottles of homemade cologne and fragrance. An old-fashioned style woman who did not smile refused to let me take a photo. The shop was out of a movie set! 

 

Rua da Conceição 85

 

I could go on and on, but I will save some for tomorrow.

 

 

 

 

 

"The Elevador de Santa Justa is a 19th-century lift that transports passengers up the steep hill from the Baixa district to the Largo do Carmo and the ruins of the Carmo church. The lift dates from an era when wrought-iron was both a construction material and art form, and the structure is adorned with glorious neo-gothic arches and geometric patterns, while inside two sumptuous polished wood carriages whisk passengers up in style."

 photo/text via Lisbon Guide

 

 

 

 

 

 

This tiny bar serves only one drink, and rightly so.

I noticed people standing outside sipping from tiny glasses.

The Ginjinha bar is located on a charming street where I felt I had stepped back in time. A few doors down there was a seed shop, wooden shelves wall to wall, floor to ceiling full of seed packets.

 

 

 

 

Anyway, since French Husband could not get why I found that seed shop "too cute" and why it was so unusual we carried on. But when I saw the Ginjinha bar, well nothing could stop me from giving it a try. 

 

 

 

 

Ginjiha Bar has one man pouring and washing the glasses. He fills them to the brim and never overspilled, I love that he had a cherry red sweater.

xxx

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Ginja is a sweet cherry liqueur that originated in Lisbon, and the small A Ginjinha bar is the traditional home of the drink. The A Ginjinha bar, also known as Ginjinha Espinheira bar, provides visitors with the opportunity to sample this wonderfully strong and sweet alcoholic drink. Ginja is based upon a fortified wine that has been infused with Ginja cherries and combined with vast amounts of sugar.

The Ginja drink is served straight, with the choice of either an alcohol-laden cherry or not. The Portuguese are incredibly fond of this drink, as it was a "grand-parent" wonder cure for all manner of illnesses, and this love of the drink has been passed on to younger generations. Ginja is the shortened name of Ginjinha.

The Ginjinha Espinheira bar was founded in 1840.

The shop "Ginjinha do Largo de Sao Domingo's" was owned by a Galician named Espinheira and was the first bar in Lisbon to sell the beverage. Advised by a friar from the Igreja de Santo Antonio, Espinheria experimented by letting cherries ferment in brandy and then adding sugar, water and cinnamon.

There are two variants of the drink of Ginja either with or without cherries. As the cherries have been soaked in the liquor, they give an additional kick to the drink. The special Ginjinha cherries are Morello Cherries or more commonly known as Sour Cherries. The miniature Ginjinha Espinheira bar remains busy from the moment it opens in the morning until the last person staggers home, attracting both tourists and Portuguese alike.

The Ginjinha bar lies to the east of the Teatro Nacional Doña Maria II in the Praça Dom Pedro IV square, which is more commonly known as Rossio. A shot of the sweet drink costs €1.20, and served in a small glass. "

via Lisbon Guide 

 

 

 

Lisbon Tiles of Love

 

"Elaborately-painted Portuguese tiles called azulejos,

fell out of favor in the early 20th Century.

But Lisbon today is embracing the art in its murals, museums and metro stations. 

Azulejos first came to Portugal in the 15th Century, when parts of the Iberian Peninsula were still under Moorish rule.

Although many assume the word is a derivation of Azul (Portuguese for “blue”), the word is Arabic in origin and comes from az-zulayj,

which roughly translates as “polished stone”.  Via BBC Travel to read more about Portugues tiles follow this link by clicking on it.

 

Up to the heavens, down to the ocean, covering walls, and above doorways,

Portugues tiles are there to greet with a history lesson, or to appeal to the creative side, also to remind us to cultivate richness in the simplest of things.

 

If I took a photo of every piece of tile I saw in Lisbon I would no longer have fingers for snapping photos all day. 

Lisbon is a must on the places to visit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"It wasn’t until Portugal’s King Manuel I visited Seville and brought the idea back,

that Portugal truly adopted this artwork into its culture.

The tiles were used to cover up the large areas of blank wall that were common inside buildings during the Gothic period

After their introduction by King Manuel I, simple geometric shapes were replaced by more ornate decoration.

It was (and still is) typical for the Portuguese to tell stories about their history, religion, and culture through this decorative means;

they soon became pieces of public artwork." Via The Culture Trip to read more follow this link.

 

 

 

 

 

Places to see Azulesjos

 

"Museu Nacional Do Azulejo

While Portuguese azulejos are beautiful to look at, they’re even more captivating when you know about their history and symbolism. Visit the country’s national tile museum, Museu Nacional Do Azulejo, to discover the roots of tile making and explore a stunning exhibition of five centuries of azulejo trends, from Baroque to Art Nouveau. A highlight of the museum is a huge 23m cityscape of Lisbon, made up of 1,300 traditional blue and white tiles.

Sant'Anna Factory

Continue your history lesson by watching tile-makers at work at Sant’Anna Factory, where craftspeople use traditional methods from the 18^th century to handcraft stunning ceramic tiles in a variety of styles and designs. After touring the workshop, visitors can browse the shop and purchase souvenir tiles or commission reproductions from the 17^th and 18^th centuries.

Fronteira Palace

Many of the most beautiful Portuguese azulejos in Lisbon can be found inside palaces such as Fronteira Palace, dubbed the ‘Sistine Chapel of Tilework’. The Room of Battles is particularly significant for its intricate scenes of wars and heroes – look up to see Venus, the God of love, standing with Minerva, the goddess of war. There’s also a large tiled deck, known as the Gallery of the Arts, which is covered in blue and white tiles depicting scenes from Greek mythology and decorated with statues of Greek Gods, such as Apollo.

 

National Palace Of Sintra

As well as being one of the oldest and most beautiful palaces in Portugal, the National Palace of Sintra houses one of the most striking tiled rooms in Lisbon. The ‘Room of the Coats of Arms’ is an artistic masterpiece. The walls are covered in extraordinary blue and white azulejos depicting scenes of historical imperial life, while the gold dome ceiling displays the coast of arms of the country’s most influential noble families. 

Monastery Of São Vicente De Fora

Another fine example of Baroque-style blue and white tiling can be found at the Monastery of São Vicente de Fora. An unbroken tiled pattern winds throughout the entire monastery, from the entranceway and across the gallery to the indoor hallways and atriums. A total of around 100,000 tiles were used, making it the world’s largest collection of Baroque tiles.

Viúva Lamego

A former tile and ceramic factory that’s now a shop, Viúva Lamego is worth visiting for its exterior façade alone. The entire front of the building is covered in emblematic Portuguese azulejos depicting flowers, fruit trees, and animals. At the top, a pair of angels hold up the phrase ‘Anno 1865’, marking the factory’s opening year, while figurative characters stand guard by the doorways. Inside, visitors can shop for tiles, order motifs reproduced from 16^th – 18th-century designs, or even commission custom orders for the ultimate souvenir."

Via Insider.Corinthina follow this link to see more

 

 

 

 

 

Yann and I went to Lisbon to celebrate our thirtieth wedding anniversary.

We stayed in the historical center at the Brown's Hotel  

The hotel was what I sense Portugal has become a tangible mix of their rich culture brought to date without losing out to the cosmopolitan modernity that has influenced most of Europe, as well as an openness by blending old and new together in a unique artistic hip beautiful way.

Portugal is vibrant, colorful, spotless, delicious, it appealed to my five senses such a feast and includes its spirituality by being ultra kind and generous or Brandos costumes or Gentle ways as the Portuguese refer themselves. 

Wherever we went English was spoken, I was amazed how fluent and ashamed that I only knew a handful of words considering my four grandparents, most my Aunts, and Uncles and my own parents spoke Portuguese fluently. As we walked along the streets snippets of conversation would caress me as I would recognize a word or two, then instantly with that be transported finding myself in the kitchen with my mother, or at mass with my Grandmother, or dancing with my cousins at a wedding. I felt the music of the language go deep into the roots of my being. 

 

 

 

While visiting the crypt of Saint Anthony, The Igreja Santo Antonio, three soul-stirring moments took place:

 

1) As we were in the crypt a mass was going on, as I said in an earlier post, I was able to peek open the sacristy door just at the moment that the Priest was raising the chalice.

 

2) While at the crypt I said a prayer, "Saint Anthony you must know me as I pray to you often because I lose things. I must say without you by my side a great deal would be lost." I chuckled thinking how funny to start a prayer like that, but Saint Anthony is the Saint I was told to pray to as a child when I could not find something. Suddenly, I was awash with the sense to pray for patience as I often lose it when French Husband and I miscommunicate over the simplest things.

And then while there, I read: "In need of a partner? Then the tradition surrounding the statue of Saint Anthony is for you. 
The tradition is that you will find a partner if you are able to throw and land a coin in the book of Saint Anthony on the statue in front of his church, the Igreja Santo Antonio.This tradition originates that Saint Anthony is the patron saint of lovers (and Lisbon) and this church was constructed at his birthplace." Via Lisbon Portugal Guide. Not that I want a new partner, but I NEVER knew Saint Anthony was the Saint of Lovers. 

Our anniversary saint, or counselor.

 

 

 

 

 

3) As we left the crypt and walked out through the back of the church, the community was walking up to the altar and kissing something. I was intrigued and followed the others to the altar, in turn, each person was kissing a glass covered relic of Saint Anthony. 

I think Saint Anthony is my new fav.

 

 

 

 

Between the colors, the intricate patterns, the lines going this way and that there is a graceful balance.

 

 

 

 

 

What is Saudade?

My Grandmothers, Aunts, my mom and my dad would often say, "No Saudade" when we cried or were sad. I found it comforting to hear them say that word with such gentle ease like an ocean wave, a wave of love going over me, While is Lisbon I saw the word "Saudade" often and wonder if my memory was correct so I looked it up:

"Saudade is nostalgy, it is a feeling of missing something or someone, it is quiet manners, so-called Brandes Costumes. Portuguese often can be seen somehow lost in their thoughts, looking towards never ending Ocean. They have some melancholy in them, always searching for something that can’t be found... something they once had and lost. Saudade could also be a synonym of pride."

 

 

 

 

 

Perched at the base of an urn, one foot planted the other foot in mid-air the bird reaches up to taste one of the berries.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"... A design has the capacity to communicate value and emotion in ways that escape written or spoken language. Even so, we can extrapolate elements of design through a culture’s use of language as a means of visual representation. At a recent showcase at Inform Interiors in Vancouver, Luis De Oliveira, founder and managing director of De La Espada, mused on the relationship between his country’s language and its contemporary design: “The Portuguese are a culture that is sensitive about certain objects.” The words for landscape and bridge, for instance, are grammatically feminine in Portuguese, whereas in French, Italian, and Spanish these terms are masculine. “We say we are a people of brandos costumes, of ‘gentle manners’,” says De Oliveira. He goes on to explain that, unlike in English, the word for thank you in Portuguese, obrigado, is an action. “Obrigado means that I am obliged to you, that I am bonded to you in some way.” This manner of being mindful seems to have permeated Portuguese design, including the spectrum of ways in which we relate to and interact with the spaces and objects that populate our lives."

Via NuvoMagazine

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The visit to Lisbon was a celebration of love past, present and well into the future.

I will post details of where to go, what to see, to entice you to visit in the days ahead.

 

xxx

 

Sanremo for the Day

 

 

We went to Sanremo to the market, but when we arrived it had been canceled as they expected bad weather.

The sky was blue, the day perfect in every way and the market was nevertheless canceled as it was decided the day before. Luckily for us, Sanremo is not that far away and the idea to enjoy the day still was on the agenda regardless of the market.

Usually, the market in Sanremo is every Tuesday a Saturday mornings until noonish.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The oldest street in Sanremo is in the old center, the winding streets go up and up. There were many houses on the street for sale. Some of the most interesting old doors. I wanted to buy the doors. But that wasn't going to happen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The colorful facades never disappoint.

Many of the shopkeepers spoke French, so I was grateful for as my Italian consist of food words and words that sound like French ones. As Sacha said last Christmas when we were in Sicily, "I speak food word Italian."

Even though the Italian border is two hours away and some, it feels like an entirely new world once over the border. A mini vacation, I love being in Italy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When in Italy espressos or hot chocolates are part of the experience, part of being part of Italy. It feels like if you can stand up at the bar order an espresso, say "Ciao" a few times, and walk arm in arm with someone then Italy gets into the blood and soaks the heart.

Unfortunately, as I cannot have caffeine because it brings on a migraine I had to skip the espresso and hot chocolate part. So I had a savory tart-like thing for breakfast that had rice and vegetables tucked into a fine pastry: one Italian food word I do not know. I guess I have to go back.

 

 

 

 

 

Our friend Gina, who often comes and stays in the House Next Door, went with us to Sanremo as she is Italian I thought maybe she might have a few Italian words in her, mais non she knew a few more words other than food words. It is a good thing we like to eat. We wanted to have lunch in small family owned place that looked like old Italy, we found one:

I Mulattieri, Via Palma, 11

It was all of the above, old fashion, red-checked tablecloths, inexpensive and good.

 

 

 

 

A pre-Christmas cheer!

 

____

 

The other day I posted a photo of some antique lace ornaments. A few of you asked where I found them. My friend Corinne makes and sells them. For more information check out her website at

http://baucisetphilemon.canalblog.com/ 

 

 

 

Last Weekend in Ardeche

 

 

There is something tangibly romantic about driving around lavender fields in a classic French vintage car. Arnelle and I went around Ardeche's back-back roads, where she lives part of the year. We gleaned the orchards for apricots too. I felt like I was in a French movie.

  

 

 

 

 

Arnelle used to have a catering service before she became an interior designer in San Francisco. While there, she fixed-up fingerling potatoes with creme fraiche, trout eggs, and chives.

A simple, delicious, elegant aperitif. 

 

 

 

 

 

Tangible romance from the moment we entered into Arnelle and Rodger's world...

A peek overlooking part of their garden.

French Husband and I slept in what used to be the mangnanerie (Magnaneries were rooms where silkworms were raised) 

 

Yes, they have a wisteria-covered terrace where they serve lunch and dinner. I adore simple elegance. Time stands still—the carefully crafted charm of authentic homes, where loving details matter. The generosity of friendship tends to the soul of everything around.

 

 

 

 

We hope to return in Autumn to pick their olives.

I can imagine the picnic under the trees,

and the drives in Arnelle's car, admiring the changing season.

 

More about Arnelle here.

 

 

 

Why I Travel

The words on the letter say, "Big Kisses."

 

Chelsea is back from Bangladesh, and if anything, she is deeper and more beautiful than ever. I am amazed by her depth, kindness, and generous spirit. I am grateful to be her Mother.

On her latest blog, Chelsea posted the following:

 

 

"This is why I love to travel.

Because it is humbling. Because it forces me to stop and think about why I do what I do. It changes my way of seeing things by offering new perspectives. It doesn’t necessarily change my values or what I believe in, but it helps me understand why others do things differently. While I travel, I become more aware of the influence of the culture and environment I grew up in. We are all shaped in some way by our experiences, by our surroundings, by paradigms we grew up with. Repeated over and over, they become so strong we think they are the unique truth worldwide.

Traveling challenges that, it challenges our “truth”

 

Sometimes you realize just how lucky you are for what you have and have access to. Simple things become amazing, and I find myself being grateful for aspects of my life I never paid attention to.
Other times you realize that things you thought were important, things you worried about, mean nothing, or are completely futile or extremely simple to address if you look at them in a different way.
What I mean is that if you are willing to be open-minded and embrace the difference, traveling can shift the way you see things. The things are still there, but maybe the lens is a different color or has a better focus, and everything seems more clear."

Posted by Chelsea on her blog Bengali Notes

Home Sickness by Sietske

 

2011

 

2011

 

 

2011

 

Last November, I went to California to visit my family: My mom, my four brothers and sister-in-laws, my twelve nieces and nephews, plus my aunts and multitude of cousins and friends. I have "gone back home" every year, sometimes twice since I left thirty years ago.

Homesickness is as common as breathing.

I am always missing someone, and loving whoever I am with.

Sietske, a blog reader of mine, wrote me an email when I returned. In it she described spot-on the feelings stirred and why they are stirred regarding homesickness.

 

 

 

 

Home Sickness by Sietske

 

"I stumbled upon your blog, by chance, because of my fascination with France (I am from Holland myself, but spend my summer holidays in France), some 7 years ago, and I have been reading you ever since, because I guess there were a few parallels in our lives. Like you, I married someone from another country and moved away to his homeland (Lebanon), and have two children (one who has left the nest, still grateful for having one at home). And your post about how leaving home, your American home that is, seems to get more and more difficult with age, really struck a chord. Your post touched me, because I have the same sentiments. Saying goodbye gets harder and harder all the time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I moved to Lebanon, there was a war here, and at times the only way of communicating with ‘home’, my parents, was through telex. In the beginning I would see my parents once, twice a year, sometimes no longer than a week, and somehow I was fine with it. I was young, I had my husband, I had my children, I had a busy life, and my parents had their own busy lives. Later on, I spent more time with them, but going back to Lebanon was never a problem for me, because ‘home’ - my parents and the house I grew up in - would always be there when I would get back the next time. I would still sleep in my old room, in the same bed, as I had done my entire live. The dishes in the cupboards, the books in the book case, everything the way I remember, would still be there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

But my mom passed away this summer, and my dad, although still living in the old house, is currently 101.  And now it dawns on me that every time I say goodbye, it may be the last time. And not only will it be the last time I will see him, but it will also be the last time that I will have slept in my own little bed, in my own room, and will have had breakfast at the old table, surrounded with all the things of my childhood. It will be the end of an era. It sounds strange but I think it is this realization, that at that moment, my childhood will be forever out of reach, that causes goodbyes to become harder and harder with age. 

 

 

 

Ten years ago

 

 

 

And it is different for me, for you too I guess, than it is for my brothers, who still live in Holland. They have set up their lives in Holland, and so, in a way, they have an alternatively established link to home, but my link to ‘home’ is through my parents and my ancestral home. The realization that soon this link will no longer be there, is making it -for me at least – each time harder and harder to say goodbye. The last 3 times were really difficult. And so when I read your post, it really touched me. In a way I am glad that I am not the only one that has this sentiment.

 

 

 

 

Now that I have a child of my own who has left to study abroad, I realize how difficult it must have been for my parents to have a child so far away. Anyway, this was all a very long story, just to tell you that I have been reading you for some seven years now, and although I never ever leave comments (I am more known as a lurker, I guess), I just wanted to share with you how your words have touched me.

 

Sietske Galama in Beirut

 

Thank you Sietske.

 

Cappello's in Palermo

 

When we travel we usually do not have a plan, other than a place to stay and a ticket to come home. Blame it on two things: 1) The internet being available on the cell phone. 2) Life is too short to be stressed and rushed on a holiday.

We usually walk around wherever we are staying, then rent a car and drive into the countryside, and then walk around again. I am the one who finds where we will eat. Which means it has to grab my attention. I have to have a feeling about it and I rarely make mistakes... not because I am a genius, but because we are a family who loves the whole food thing. Plus I have three people who trust my intuition and rely on the wow factor of "Mom how did you know?"

 

 

 

 

"One of Palermo's finest bakeries, Cappello is famous for its setteveli (seven-layer chocolate-hazelnut cake), invented here and long since copied all over Palermo. Its counter tempts with other splendid pastries and desserts, including the dreamy delizia di pistacchio (a granular pistachio cake topped with creamy icing and a chocolate medallion), not to mention velvety, ricotta-filled cannoli and fresh, glossy cornetti (croissants)." via Lonely Planet

 

 

 

Cappello's is not far from where we are staying. When we walked passed it, I turned around, walked back, peeked inside: Not a soul was there except the people who worked there, which usually is a red flag for me (As if to say, "It cannot be good if nobody is there.") But THE CAKES just seemed to sing straight to my tastebud's vision of loveliness, "This is your day!"

And holy moley guacamole those cakes were sensory overload, delicious gorgeousness.

When we returned home, I started to write my blog post. I went online to see if Cappello's had a website and found out not only do they have a website but they are considered one of the best bakeries in town.

Gulp.

Then I recalled asking John Cappello who was working at the cash register if he sold his hot chocolate powder? I am embarrassed recalling the encounter.... I might as well said, "Hi Master Chocolate person who I do not know, do you mind selling me some of your secret potion?" 

Duh non.

 

 

 

 

Via Cappello's, "To know the history of Pastry Hat must take a few steps back in time. The founder, Bartolomeo, was born in 1887 in Boccadifalco, a district of Palermo, where he started a small breeder of activities for the production of milk. Because of a dispute born for the sale of a sheep on the price of which had stubbornly balked came as a young man, nicknamed "Bartolo three lire.

Shortly after the start of the 2nd World War, along with Providence wife and his son John, he moved to Palermo in 1944 by opening a dairy seen the post-war primary needs. Until 1960 the dairy continued his activities together with that of small bar for serving coffee and cappuccinos, and in summer, artisan ice cream production under the direction of the grandmother Assunta assisted by the oldest son Bartholomew junior and the small Saviour. But it is precisely his uncle Salvatore, Giuseppe Ferruggia, who advised his nephew to start a small bakery teaching the preparation of well-known "cannoli", the "buccellato", the "Genoese."

 

 

 

 

"Salvatore falls in love so of his craft. Become an expert. Master Chocolatier, Master Confectioner, invents new desserts, creates them as if they were works of art. Invited several times on TV is known throughout Italy, and the pastry Hat is inserted between the Italian pastry shops "historical" of Panorama, in the guide "Italy cakes" of the Italian Touring Club Eurochocolate and the National Confederation of Crafts and, moreover, it is since 2003 in the guides "Bar of Italy" and "Pastries of Italy" by Gambero Rosso, in addition to part since 1997 the Academy of Italian Master Confectioners.

John junior, son of the Savior, he becomes a "little master pastry chef", he takes part in international competitions and strives to achieve dad watching with a smile photo, the great-grandfather "ZIU Bartolo three lire." (Via Cappello in Palermo.)

 

 

 

Yann had hot chocolate which in Italy is thick like pudding. Cappello's is the best I ever tasted (I had a tiny taste as I am allergic to chocolate (that is another story for another day) and let me tell you it took everything I had not to down that cup and deal with an allergic reaction!

Sacha had the above coffee.

 

 

 

Later we walked another million steps and found fresh squeezed pomegranate juice!

Before we drank we saluted my mom and my Aunt Louie who make pomegranate juice and jelly.

Chelsea I hope this makes you envious of our trip!

 

 

 

Feasting our way through Palermo.

 

Cappello's

http://www.pasticceriacappello.it/#storia

Sicily Wonderland

 

 

Italy is just too good for any words I could conjure up to describe it. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sicily, like most of Europe, celebrates Christmas a few days before Christmas Day and then throughout Epiphany.

Christmas decorations, and Living Nativity scenes and parades, a wonderful time to be in Italy.

 

 

 

Mount Etna behind Gangi. 

Video on YouTube about Gangi

French Husband heard about this town, and he wanted to see it. So we drove the most beautiful drive where sheep would cross the road and with olive groves with old homes nestled throughout the rolling hills, it was a dream like movie set.

 

"It's yours for the price of a cup of coffee - a historic house in a terracotta-tiled hill town in Italy.

Gangi is a hill-top town set amid the rolling wheat fields and wooded valleys of central Sicily, about an hour's drive south of the picturesque holiday resort of Cefalu.

Founded in the 12th century, it boasts a castle and access to hiking trails in the surrounding countryside.

The local council wants to sell around 20 houses, many of them derelict, which were bequeathed by locals who had neither the money nor the will to renovate them..." via Nick Squires, Rome

 

While we were there the entire center of Gangi was transformed into living nativity scene. Lambs, cows, drummer boys, shepherds, stalls with food and trinkets, Mary, Joseph and the baby.

 

 

 

 

 

 

It is common to see small motorcycle-trucks coasting along the tiny streets, carrying entire markets on their back-beds with the driver chanting to the locals, "Vegetables/Fruit: Eggplants, artichokes, onions, lemons... 

 

 

The markets where vegetables look like my cousin Daniel's garden. Damn the size, the aroma, the pure pleasure of seeing real food that creates the perfume coming from the homes I walked by. The cauliflower, artichokes, broccoli... 

Beautiful dreams of cooking were stirred. 

 

 

 

If you like olives. If you like to eat. If you enjoy the earthy, real, down to earth, tasty, in the kitchen and heart of Italian cooking, Sicily will steal you forever.

 

Cefalu.

 

 

 

 

Cefalu Cathedral.

 

 

 

 

Charming, pretty little town on the coast with a lovely sandy beach. More expensive and tidy compared to Palermo, but Palermo has the pulse that attracts me.

Cefalu, Sicily

 

 

 

 

 

 

Street eats at Capo Market

and Ballaro Market.

Battered and fried zucchini blossoms.

Read more about all that is delicious here:

Markets in Palermo, 

Where not to be on a Diet.

 

 

 

If you are a germ-a-phobic, carrying hygienic wipes and in need of sterile surroundings, then there is no need for you to venture to the markets in Palermo. But if that doesn't bother you, go. The food smelled so good, the freshness obvious, the people genuine, the taste is worthy the exploration.

I found paradise in Capo.

 

 

 Foodie's Heaven is Sicily

"Arancini: Fried rice balls, stuffed with meat ragu, or mozzarella, or spinach with gorgonzola, or peas hidden within. A popular Sicilian street food.

 

  Sfincione: Like a pizza… but even better. The dough is spongy and delicious, and the topping includes onions, caciocavallo cheese, bread crumbs, and (of course) olive oil!

  Caponata: Like many Sicilian dishes, this one is based on eggplant. Eggplants are chopped and fried, and then seasoned with sweet balsamic vinegar, capers, and sometimes pine nuts and raisins. The result is a sweet-and-sour “salad” that’s a delicious accompaniment to the meal as a contorno—or even the main dish itself." Via and for more specialities of Sicily, The Best Food in Sicily.

 

 

 

 

Sacha took this photo of me. On the coast in Cerfalu.

Earlier in the day he said, "Mom you take layering to a whole new level: Fluffy Blanket Wear."

Seeing this photo I had to laugh, I have on five layers... that day we had weather from 77 f to 35 f. I was ready for anything, except rain.

 

Segesta and Selinunte Ruins in Sicily

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Good Reads:

The Thinking Traveller 

The Wonders of Sicily

The Best of Sicily

 

  

 

Sacha stood on the tumbled temple stones. Our conversation went something along these notes: Stones have been around since the beginning. Some seem more impressive than others as they hold a story in their markings. Others might have been chips from the block. Each has a part to play, each important though many, like us, take a back seat for a grander revelation. Sacha grabbed a rock from the ground, that many like us had stepped over, "This probably has been around since this temple was built." And in someway we have too.

 

 

 

Only now looking at this photo do I see the the long columns' shadow on the ground, the play of light from the setting sun. At that time as the sunset in and out between the columns, I was content watching the changing light and stage before me. Now I wish I knew what this photo revealed because I would have stepped back to capture those long shadowy columns. 

If I ever come back I will go again at sunset.

 

 

 

As we drove back to Palermo the setting sun transformed the sky to a rose colored hue which then slowly, majestically went through the color spectrum that the visible eye could see, ending in the deepest red. The red sky, as coals can be, shadowed behind the olive grove was intensely beautiful. So much so I could not take a picture as I did not want to miss a single second of its beauty.

 

 

 

 

 

Feasting in Sicily, Palermo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Hasn't Been Happening?

 

 

French provencal pottery, you see the piece with the green spot do you know why it is there?

 

When people come over to our home I am afraid if they ask me a question about anything in our house I will carry on for the next twenty hours or so, non stop. Passionate- yes, brocante fever from the bite- yes, love to share the history- yes, like to talk? I think yes.

 

 

 

 

What are antique French quilts called?

 

My friend Valerie brought a group of sixteen American women over to my home for a personal brocante that Ruth and I set up. So added to the mix that the construction of the house next door was wrapping up, renters were coming in, that our house was a dust bowl mess from two months of planning, collecting and me operating a gravy train as I cooked for Rene and his brother in law, setting up a brocante just added to the fun of a whirlwind summer.

 

 

 

 

What are these made of? And where do they come from?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Did you know it is a thing to make rings out of mother of pearl buttons?

 

 

 

 

 

Remember these?

This is the last box.

 

 

 

 

 

 

And these guys?

What were they used for?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sold out in a blink of an eye.

 

 

 

 

 

Red letter monograms from the turn of the century.

There is a purpose and looking cute is not it.

Most people look and want to buy their initials. Though I prefer to make up words with the initials:

B.G. = Beautiful Gift

M.S. = Magical Surprise

C.P. = Creative Purpose

 

 

 

 

Stack of books that I have never un-tied.

 

 

 

 

 

 

To keep it intimate Ruth and I put out our brocante wares all over the house and garden.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yann got into the fun of it, pouring Mimosas and chatting up the ladies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Thank you Valerie, and thank you ladies for coming over, we enjoyed every minute.

 

 

 

 

 

 

That night our first guests to the house next door (gotta find a name for it) came over.

Rebecca and her husband John. Rebecca's sister is married to my cousin Brad. 

Small world of cousins connects me to nearly the entire world.

John is a cook, so he invited us to dinner. Dinner in our newest guest house.

The photos are dark because it was late and that is how I roll. Such a lovely evening: Thanksgiving in October, without a turkey, that is how it felt.

Rebecca was bite by the brocante bug... yes she was. Plus she said she wanted to hide in the massive bathtub and never leave. I would have been fine with that!

 

 

 

  

 

 

So tell me when are you coming?

Three homes await you.

The Slow Travel Lifestyle with a Brocante Bite to add to the fun.

 

xoxox

A Place I Call Home: Saint Zacharie

 

A longtime blog reader, and "feel like I know you friend" Peggy came to our part of the world for a month long visit with her husband Bob. They settled into our town on the boarder of two great regions, and dove deep into the slow lifestyle travel. Everyday they went to an off the beaten trail to a local market, where English was not heard and because of that the reality that this is France, and not catering to the tourist but to the locals who live here. They gathered their daily meal, plus baguette and wine from the local vendors, then had lunch in the walled garden where they were staying. Each afternoon they would head out on one of the many local trails into the Saint Baume forest. We live at the base of Saint Baume where tourist barely thread:

 Saint Baume has the ruins of our town that burn down in the year 1200,

found the roman road,

hiked to Marie Magdeline's grotto,

met boar hunters,

had vistas to the sea,

where they walked miles in the forest that Napoleon came to claim for his war machine and ended up declaring it holy and left it intact.

 

This summer we have at least fifty or so guests, some have stayed with us, some have stayed in the tiny house and recently in the house next door. Each guest/friend has left our little non touristic town declaring it holy and leaving it as it is...

 far off the beaten trail.

 

 

With pleasure I would like to share Peggy's blog post about our town:

Saint Zacharie

 

The following Photos and Text is from Peggy on her blog:

http://cococooks.net/september-in-france-or-nine-hundred-photos/

 

"The British author, Peter Mayle describes me best; I am not a scholar.  Rather, a dreamer, one who crowds a collage of perfectionistic photos and places them (complete with fragrance and aroma) percolating and illustrated 'on location' in my fixated fantasy land; recently, Provence.

MP and I dove into the deep end; during September we settled in a small out-of-the-way village, Saint-Zacharie, nestled in the hills of Provence-Alps-Cote d’Azur at the foot of Saint Baume Massif.

Rooted in remote mind-boggling history, the sweet hamlet is located on the edge of the Huveaune River, flowing with life-giving water and mythical fairy lore.  (Although, the river was dry this year for the first time in twelve).

Off the beaten track, without a monument, museum, or lavish fête in sight, its proximity to the sea, countryside, and terraced medieval towns makes a seamless dot from which to ‘slow travel’.

Facebook video here:

Without an agenda, we settled into a ‘guardian house’ attached to a massive 300-year-old home situated in a walled garden where notable trees, trailing vines, and hiding bushes--according to Arnaud who spent boyhood holidays in the garden-- speak to each other and applaud the towering Au Grand Cedre, who claps his hands and in a deep voice dominates over them all, I imagine.

We slept well and took time to listen to cooing doves, French schoolchildren on the boulevard below, and the bells of St. Zac chiming on the hour ( if you forget to count, a re-chime occurs a moment later); a pure melodic heartbeat signaling a call to set aside unspoiled mealtime, worship, celebrate and to mourn.

A zillion trails in fragrant forests, some steep strewn with rocks and steps, others with wide open red soil, earth and sheer cliffs leading us to Calanques de Cassis, carried us over 90 miles in 25 days.

Slow days, simple pleasures of the daily baguette and a bright, juicy melon, fresh green markets, touring bigger cities, cathedrals, synagogues, rows of Brocante wonders, even an endless cheese trolley, allowed us to be present in the moment.

Our senses were seduced, our bellies indulged, and we were cared for with only a few words of French in our quiver.  Unassuming ambassadors, guests of another culture to respect, we knew if we were polite, kind, unhurried, able to laugh at ourselves,  puff appropriately, shrug and hold an open palm of coins when the math eluded us, spontaneous bouts of infectious laughter ensued--buying mosquito repellant in the pharmacy comes to mind.

Doors widened; new friendships tendered vulnerable conversations, and old-fashioned genteel correspondences came about.

Therefore, short of a novel, I posted an abridged summation of our treks, food foibles and triumphs on Facebook during #septinfrance with photos and comments. Many of you tagged along which presented a super highway moving picture postcard of inspiration.

When we left St. Zac for Paris (another thunderous bolt for the oozing senses) at the end of the trip, I wrote this of our 20 days,

Our last day in St. Zac meant pack... we lingered a little longer when our neighbors invited us to share a lunch of purplish green artichokes (with the biggest hearts), sliced beets, cheeses, and sourdough baguette below the grand cedar in the garden. Being o'so polite, I took a few pictures of our new friends. I dragged my bag, feet, and heart to the gate, looked up to lime green pomegranates and yet to flower wisteria vines; equally green. A source close to the garden said, "Stay until we bloom."

More reflections may indeed come forward!

Pinch me!

Photo source: Yann Rolland-Benis

Thank you, Corey and Yann for your generous spirits' and mischevious gifts-- ♥

If you have found my blog because you too know Corey Amaro and hers, Tongue in Cheek, message me for the details to glean what I learned to make your dream happen too!"

 

Photographs and text used on cococooks belong to, Peggy Lunde unless linked otherwise.

 

Just Another Day in Paradise

Paradise is where you find it, and hopefully it is right next to you, inside you, and every where you look.

Sacha is home for a few days and since he hadn't been to Cassis in awhile, we ventured yonder in the late afternoon for a walk on the beach, plus he had an ice cream, three scoops.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Cassis in February

 

 

 

Cassis had one of its rare day where the waves were crashing in, 

Sacha and I went towards the lighthouse as he wanted to take some photos.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Out he went along the rocks, the breaker to catch the sea mist on photo.

 

 

 

Sometimes it caught him instead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Strike a pose.

 

 

 

Jump back.

 

 

 

 

 

High.

 

 

 

Higher.

 

 

 

Going up.

 

 

 

Over the top.

A special day in Paradise is when the ordinary surprises, when it makes me catch my breath, when out of the blue everything seems extraordinary, delighting the heart in the simplest way.

 

A Look Back: Alice Two Years Ago...

 

Two years ago... we took Alice on a Mini Tour of Paris in an Electric Car:

 

We got up at six.

Took a bus to Marseille.

Caught the train to Paris.

We arrived at lunch, stopped at the Train Bleu.

Alice's socks fell off.

I was pleased, "If you like this you are my kinda of girl!

Chauffeur-Who-is-Always-Lost-Though-is-French" drove us around in an electric car.

The-American-Me-Who-Knows-Her-Way-Round-Paris-With-Her-Eyes-Closed did not fall asleep while commanding the mini tour of Paris.

I asked Alice who was the Person-to-Show-Around, "Are you game for a mini tour of "in and out of the car" of Paris?"

She laughed.

 

 

 

Chauffeur drove, turned on a dime and stopped wherever I gave the shout,

"Stop!"

Alice hopped out, laughed, glowed, admired Paris in a flash and jumped back into the electric car: A Go Go Girl!

I was in my element, off the wall, loving Paris, spontaneous, in the moment:

Let's go!

And so it went:

"Stop!"

"Jump out!"

Take photo and go.

Eiffel said, "Hello! Come again!"

Reassuringly I offered, "This is just for fun! How much can we see in an hour? Are you really ready?"

 

 

 

 

Alice jumped out at Napoleon's hangout.

 

 

 

 

 At Pont Alexandre III the bridge, The chauffeur refused to stop in the middle of the bridge,

"You are craz-zee!" I did not listen.

 

Alice jumped out on command, at the stoplight before the bridge.

She ran across. I cheered her on.

Across the bridge we made a pit stop at the Petite and Grande Palace.

 

 

 

 

 

Down the Champs Elysees, around and around and around the Arc de Triomphe.

I pointed to the Eiffel Tower, "See it peeking out over there? Its a show off!"

 

 

 

 

 

Standing in front of the car on the Champs-Elysees avenue.

Crazy.

Then we did it again.

 

 

 

 

Alice ran around the Place de la Concorde.

She is such a good sport.

(By the way, I got out each time to, ran and took a photo of her.)

 

 

 

 

Alice stood in front of the L'église de la Madeleine! At the stoplight.

I had her run into Fauchon to admire the macaron tower.

And stood by the man who parked the cars for Fauchon.

We were getting out exercise getting in and out of the car so many times.

 

 

 

 

Alice took a second to stop and smell the roses at the flower market.

 

 

 

We stopped and admired Joan of Arc.

Next to the Louvre.

 

 

 

 

I saw a young man sitting on a bench, I nearly peed my pants when I shouted, "Stop!"

And French Husband did, which is nothing short of a miracle as the street was crowded.

 

Alice and I jumped out, as French Husband drove on. I asked the young man if I could take a photo of him with Alice and he agreed. Better yet he remained in the same position as I had seen him.

Every girl needs to cozy up to a French Man.

 

 

 

 

I loved how Alice did whatever I asked:

Jump out of the car...

Sit with the young man...

Pretend you are at the cafe... Nemours in Paris.

She was game, which made the mini tour hilarious.

 

 

 

 

"Oh Alice... Stand on the Pillar!"

"Where are we?"

"At the Palace Royal."

And poof we were gone.

 

 

 

 

Two Parisian waiters were taking a break. I asked if I could take their photo with my dear Alice.

How could they refuse such a sweet girl.

I should have asked for champagne.

Ding Dong!

 

 

 

How to burn calories in Paris?

 

 

 

 

In front of the Orsay.

 

 

 

 

 In front of one of the many billboards depicting what is happening in Paris.

 

 

 

 

 

Our mini tour lasted an hour and forty five minutes.

The sunset was the reason we stopped.

We took this photo in front of the Louvre.

Across the street the Eiffel smiles with the setting sun.

 

 

 

 

 

Night fall in Paris is equally as beautiful.

I wanted to have at least two more photos.

My iphone was proving to do the trick.

I took all the photos on our mini tour with it.

 

 

 

 

 

One of the:

The Belle of the Ball and the Mini Tour as well,

at sunset over the Seine.

 

 

 

 

 

And seeing the Eiffel Tower twinkling for the first time at sunset.

 

 

 

 

 

The mini tour of Paris, a non crash course of seeing some sights.

 ____________

 

Alice returns home to Australia tomorrow.

We will miss her xoxo

 

 

What We Did Most of Our Cruise

 

What we did most on our cruise:

 

We ate.

At every port we docked we would try the specialities of the land.

No better way to have a sense of a place.

 

and more than that we...

 

 

 

 

Danced and danced and danced....

 

 

Our Journey in Greece

 

 

On our journey we went to Greece and Italy, my Belle Mere, Alice, French Husband and I travelled together for two weeks. We had a wonderful time, the weather was oddly flawless. My Belle Mere, her name is Monique, but I have always called her Bonne Maman, like the French confiture; Well actually her grandchildren called her Bonne Maman, so I did too, and so do our children. Anyway Bonne Maman rarely sat, and when she did I took this photo. She never said no to anything, was gamed for everything, no matter how many stairs or how far away. When we returned to the ship, she would go to the jacuzzi, the sauna and then dance until midnight. Some would say they hope to be like that at her age 86, but I say I hope to be like that now.

 

 

 

 

Alice was twenty thousand steps ahead of us, of course she is young, so it stands to reason. But considering she was hanging out with us three older folk I was impressed she didn't ditch us.

Alice leaves for her homeland in Australia in February we are going to feel the empty nest feeling again.

 

 

 

 

When we got off the ship in Volos (Greece) we took a taxi to Meteora. Talk about stunning landscape. Photo-opt central! This is the sort of place you want to drive around, pray for fog or clouds to give depth to your photos, and have the different play of light throughout the day. 

If only I had my camera... but I gotta say the cell phone did a good job considering.

To see incredible photos click on this sentence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"The Meteora, literally "middle of the sky", "suspended in the air" or "in the heavens above" is one of the largest and most important complexes of Greek Orthodox monasteries, second only to Mount Athos. The six monasteries are built on natural sandstone rock pillars, in central Greece.

Caves in the vicinity of Meteora were inhabited continuously between 50,000 and 5,000 years ago. The oldest known example of a man-made structure, a stone wall that blocked two-thirds of the entrance to the Theopetra Cave, was constructed 23,000 years ago, probably as a barrier against cold winds.

In the 9th century AD, ascetic group of hermit monks moved up to the ancient pinnacles; they were the first people to inhabit Meteora since the Neolithic Era. They lived in hollows and fissures in the rock towers, some as high as 1800 feet above the plain. This great height, combined with the sheerness of the cliff walls, kept away all but the most determined visitors. The hermits led a life of solitude..." Via Wiki

 

 

 

 

Nowadays there are stairs going to the monasteries, so you do not need to be roped up as before. 

 

 

 

Up we went. Bonne Maman in heels with her clutch, "Are you okay?" I asked knowing the answer, but asked anyway, "Oui, oui, oui, just an everyday promenade."  She likes to say things in three: "No no no", "Oui oui oui" and her favorite is a tsk sound, "tsk tsk tsk." I wonder if she wrote a blog what she would say about me. THANK GOD she doesn't.

 

 

 

 

 

We visited three of the monasteries.

We were told that in the summer the lines are miles long.

Though in January we walked right in. I do not think I would do it in the summer. Crowds are not my thing, nor the heat.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few stairs here and there and everywhere.

 Everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

Rather stairs then being roped up.

 

 

 

"I am the official photographer," I teased, "Strike a poise."

Since French Husband's mom lives on the other side of France we only see here a few times a year. This trip was special for Yann as he was able to be with her, for two weeks without work or daily life activities. I figured the least I can do was let them have their moment, and take photos to show you what a tough little cookie she is.

One of my favorite things to do is tell people my Belle Mere's age... Their expression goes into shock, and then they look her up and down, those perfect legs, her wrinkle free face (not fair!) and then they say, "Incredible." I do not say my age, but I have thought to say I am 95 just to have an incredible reaction too. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is the loading dock where the monks use to haul up and down monks and supplies.

Stairs have my vote, and your vote too if you saw the drop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the left side of the photo you can see the rope bag that the monks still use to bring up supplies.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monastery on a sandstone pillar.

 

 

 

 

 

We walked up there!

 

Amongst the Ruins in Greece

 

 

She stands tall

Most her age cannot.

Some younger than her cannot either.

And since she stopped dying her hair, nobody thinks we are sisters anymore.

You might have thought I was talking about the stone pillar in Greece...

No, I am talking about my Belle Mere.

 

 

 

 

 

When we arrived in Greece we knew we would visit ruins, my Belle Mere had heels. I kid you not. Plus a dress and a dress coat. She looked like she was going to church. Don't get me wrong, my Belle Mere is sportive, she has been her entire life. As she said to me when I asked if she wanted to change shoes, "Why, we are not hiking, just a small visit." You see up to about two years ago she hiked 15 miles a week, went to the gym everyday and swam.

Call her the road runner, I am the slug.

 

 

 

 

 

So in Greece we walked around the Messini ruins, I would venture ahead, then would wave to French Husband and Belle Mere, as if to say, "Yes come this way." When I saw the temple in the distance I worried if it might be too far, too many steps...

Nevertheless, I waved to come over, and thought they will decide if it is a go or not.

As they walked towards me I stood in utter awe of my Belle Mere, the temple stood, and my Belle Mere was its match.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Up and down these large steps in the arena she went.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The trooper, and French Husband with my purse that had everything we might need, but didn't.

I do not like carrying a purse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Walking the long way around, or the sensible way around, slippery slope guided by a strong arm.

Note those tiny strong YOUNG looking legs!

 

 

 

 

 

So there I was exploring on my own, when all of a sudden French Husband is alongside of me by himself, I looked at him like I was a school kid on a day trip, "Where's your mom? Why are you not with her?" He grabbed me, saying, "Cannot I come and give you a squeeze?" I giggled, as he was giving me a squeeze I saw my Belle Mere in what I can only describe as, the photo of the trip!

I pushed that loving man away, grabbed my cell phone, wishing I had brought my camera on the trip, and prayed that it would at least capture what my eyes were seeing.

 

 

 

 

 I wanted to yell to my Belle Mere, "Stop!" But I knew that would not help, so in the rain I held my cell phone as steady as I could.

 

 

 

My Belle Mere would later ask if she really is hunched over like that photo shows. I told her she looked lovely.

 

 

 

 

 

The seasons unfold each beautiful, each with its own rewards...

 

I have been surrounded by strong women. Seasoned with grace, courage and such admirable beauty.

My Grandmothers, my Aunts, my cousins, my mother, my Godmother, my Mother's friends, Annie and my Belle Mere.

I should be able to take on the world.

Ha.

 

 

 

 

 

Another day.

More stairs.

No hesitation.

Up, up and up and up she went.

If we asked if she wanted to sit or rest, she would say,

"No no no." 

and keep on going.

Sometimes I wanted to sit but heck if I was going to look like the wimp.

 

 

 

 

Whenever I saw a church I went inside and lite candles for Annie.

This particular church had plenty of beautiful icons.

 

 

 

 

Annie's light shines.

I wanted to dance in that beam.

 

 

 

We walked up and up and up... certainly to the moon and back.

 

 

 

 

 

The journey continues tomorrow.

Cassis in Winter

 

The French Riviera conjures up images of an enticing blue sea. Where the likes of Coco Chanel and Brigitte Bardot mingled with the cicadas, alongside the parasol pine trees. Where famous towns such as Monte Carlo, St. Tropez, Nice, and Cannes recall a roaring twenties, with fashionable people wearing navy stripped shirts, and full leg white pants. Where sitting at a sidewalk cafe, sipping Pastis became a way of worshiping the sun with a tip one's sunglasses as a hello.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The French Riviera sparkles along a back drop of stark white cliffs. Where once-upon-a-time small fishing communities were common place along the way. Many of these small enchanting fishing villages and ports, are in my opinion, the heart of the south of France. Places such as Cassis, Sanary, Bandol, St Rafael... but more so the tiny inlet communities: Morgiou, Sormiou, Figuier, Port Miou... the list is as long as the twenty mile foot path that leads from Marseille to Cassis.

 

 

 

Cassis twenty minutes from our home, our back door outing, were we go to dinner when we go out.

I might have to buy s stripped tee shirt and white pants, though I would never wear them.

French Husband said I need to find a small folding table at the brocante, so we can have lunch on the port.

That I can do.

 

 

 

In the distance the Eiffel Tower of Cassis.

The Route de Crete.

 

 

 

Sheer.

Profound.

Far beyond and below.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pink is not a favorite color of mine, especially for a house by the sea... but in Cassis that is not the case.

 

 

When the waiters started to stack the chairs we knew

it was time to go.

 

 

 

Soon we will not have to cast our goodbyes at the end of the day.

 

 

Naples Santon Workshop

 

 

A few years back we went to Naples, we had been there twice before, and 'cause it is such a wonderful place to be we went back. Pompeii is in itself reason alone to go to Naples. And then there is the food. And then there is the part of the city that is devoted to selling and creating nativity scenes. 

Before we even docked I knew where I was setting my foot sails. Dreaming of place can lead to disappointment, in our mind's eye real life can take on a different shade called rose. Though I knew that would not be true, even though Christmas had passed by a few weeks ago, I was certain it would look as delightful as I remembered it. How could it not?

The street was less full, and most of the large sets had been sold. The artisans that I had seen a few years ago, were obviously enjoy a break after the holiday season. Other than that, it was exactly as I remember it. Small narrow streets, shop after shop of nativity artists, colorful facades, atmosphere so thick you could cut it with an imaginary knife. There was one shop in particular that I had my hopes on, three generations of nativity and santon makers, also the last shop that sells mostly antique pieces. I did not walk straight to it, but close enough, as soon as I entered I thought, why haven't I learned Italian?

 

 

  

 

Black and white faded photos adorn the walls, photographs of their father/grandfather working and creating nativity santons. In front of the black and whites are Italian antique santons... Some I remember from my last visit they are creations/or collections from the "grandfather" and are not for sale. 

My hopes were on one of them.

 

 

 

A well for the nativity stood outside the doorway.

 

 

 

 Parts of santons, feets, hands, head, and body ready to assemble, paint and dress.

 

 

 

 

 

One of the pieces from the Grandfather's collection. Though I think my name is underneath it somewhere... How I wish I could say that in Italian.

 

 

 Clay Christ figures are painted the traditional way.

 

  

 

These two well soon be dressed. I bought them for a blog reader/friend who asked me to keep a look out for some.

 

 

Most of the pieces I admired were made by the grandfather. The others they had either they created or painted themselves. Their small artist studio is stacked high, we talked with sign language, smiles and the passion of having something in common that can bring understanding to people who do not speak the same words, but have the same "feeling" about things.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Guess which one came home with us?

 

 

 

The photos on the wall tell the story of their journey as artists.

 

 

Naples 2011: Must be Re-told to lead into Tomorrow's Post

Naples, Italy 2011.

If you had only one day to spend in Naples, Italy around the Christmas holiday what would you do?

That was the question we asked ourselves on our cruise. Since we had been to Naples twice before visiting Pompeii, we decided to explore the city's center.

 

 

An Italian artist creating a nativity landscape... I wanted to flirt with his gorgeous-ness. But felt kinda silly considering he was creating a symbolic womb of Christianity, plus I am married, older, and do not speak more than ten words in Italian two of them being, "Bacio Qui... (Kiss here)". But oh, that strong arm of his covered up in his leather jacket. Gosh dang, those Italians have sexy style even when doing something religious!

 

 

Naples conjures images of dark handsome men in alleyways, women on balconies hanging out clothes, narrow streets running along colorful walls, church bells ringing next to wafts of garlic perfumed air and pizza dough swirling landing in wood burning ovens, while young and old gather outside hand in hand, arm in arm with full ruby lips that you want to kiss but cannot because they don't stop conversing, kissing, arguing and embracing conversation which seems nothing short of passionate foreplay.

 

 

 

I dream of being Italian: Long dark thick hair, a tiny waist, full bosom, walking with my hips to the beat of la Traviata.... conversing with my hands that say something simple like, "Do you want dinner?" but read life and death all in one twist of the wrist.

 

 

 

And so Chelsea and I set off for a day in Naples with three goals in mind:

1) To walk aimlessly soaking in the atmosphere.

 

 

2) I mentioned to Chelsea that I heard that during the Christmas season one should not miss the street where artist show their handmade nativity scenes. Though I had no idea where that stree tmight be. 3) Chelsea shook her head, "That's my mother," laughed and added, "I heard we should eat Pizza."

 

Without a map, we set out on foot direction, "Pleasure". 

 

 

 

 

Noting a long line of Italians outside a pizzeria we took that as a sign of a good eatery.

While waiting in line I noticed they had a take out service on the side. We ordered a pizza. I asked if I could take photos (by motioning) they agreed, motioning back that I had to take a photo of them with Chelsea.

Between taking our order, calling it out, smiling, kneading the dough, his pinched Chelsea's behind. (Note expression on Chelsea's face above.) He laughed, we saw no harm and laughed too. We were in Naples, the pizza was incredible, life was good, and Chelsea swore there was cheese in the crust. It was tender, light, with the perfect chew factor. Though I knew there wasn't cheese in the crust, instead it was centuries of experienced hands that knew just how to knead and pinch.

 

 

 

Across the street from I Decumani I saw another line of people going in and out of a bakery. Most of them came out carrying Rum Baba. After dining on our pizza from I Decumani on a street bench we headed towards the Rum Baba line. My stomach screamed, "FULL ALREADY!" Though my taste buds hollered louder to my heart, "Only in Naples for one day!" Then even louder, "...Naples is home to Rum Baba!"

''Traditionally, if you went into a cafe, you'd see a bunch of old guys ordering pieces of plain cake and pouring shots of (rum) or limoncello over the top,'' said Arthur Schwartz, the radio show host and author of ''Naples at Table'' (HarperCollins, 1998).

Although most associate babas with France, the dessert is arguably even more popular in southern Italy, where babas probably date back to the 18th century. This is when Marie Antoinette's sister Maria Carolina married King Ferdinand IV of Naples, Mr. Schwartz said, and there was much cultural and culinary exchange between the two sisters in France and Naples." New York Times

To say it was the best Rum Baba I ever ate in my entire life is to say that Chelsea had to knock me out and drag me back to reality because I wanted to have ten more. Chelsea said, "Mother, focus! Seriously you cannot eat another one let alone ten." God, I don't like it when she gets all grown-up on me. I walked away with a trail of drool behind me.

I regret not having ten more, plus another pizza.

 

 

Video attached: How to make Baba Rum: Rum soaked cakes from the Neapolitan cookbook -- enjoy these boozy delights from GialloZafferano, Italy's #1 food website.

 

 

 

Naples is a feast not only for taste, but for the entire five senses. A paradise of living history. The architecture, the crowded streets, the people, the sounds dance to an underground beat mashed-up with opera. You never know what to expect, except pleasure without having to dress up.

Via San Gregorio Armeno, the Nativity street, came upon us with instant love and fascination.

 

 

The presepe or nativity scenes, or santons/creche in French, are a love of mine. Though the Italians take their presepe to whole new level. Numerous shops, and vendors pack the the street (Via San Gregorio) with creative, nativity figurines in splendor variations. Jesus, Madonna  and Joseph are but one of many of the figurines you will find. Perfectly detailed copies of household objects, gastronomic delights, exotic animals, houses, hillsides, plants, plus accessories to create your own presepe. Rolls of cork to create the mountains, ready-to-place houses, wells, waterfalls, fountains, columns, trees, grasslands, bridges, towers.... most items are handmade in Naples. Of course you can buy a completed presepe with or without the nativity pieces.

The presepes on Via San Gregorio, in Naples.

Art, as is. Aren't they amazing?

 

 

And as the Holy Night would have it I stumbled across an antique shop selling old nativity scenes. I felt like one of the wise men coming to the stable. Joy! Holy Wonder! Praising the high heavens. Thank you baby Jesus.

 

 

 

As the sun set we hesitantly made our way back to the dock withour taste buds bursting

we were not ready to sail.... though the sea beckoned.

Savona: Vino e Farinata

Savona, Italy

 

 

The main arcade street in Savona 

 

 

Arriving in Savona, Italy we walked along the arcade, visited beautiful churches, admired the towers, strolled narrow streets which took us to other little streets, went to my favorite shop, bought French Husband a coat, then stumbled upon Vino e Farinata and with that took Savona to an entire new level: We met Claudio.

 

 

 

The arcade is tiled with a colorful intricate mural.

 

 

Narrow streets with everyday banners waving in the sunlight.

 

 

 

Inside one of the many beautiful churches in Savona.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Painted ceiling in one of the churches.

 

 

 Sculpted gilded and painted wood choir loft.

 

 

 

 

Savona's colorful facades.

 

 

 

In a bank's window there was the most extraordinary antique pottery. I have never thought to rob a bank, but the pottery in the windows gave me reason to contemplate the thought, especially this piece.

 

 

 

 

Vino e Farinata caught my eye: The sign, the unusual looking pizza coming out of the wood burning stove, the long line of non tourists, the feeling that this was the place to be for lunch, that Sophie Loren might have made a movie here. The tables were way in the back and the line waiting was daunting

 

 

 

We met Claudio standing in line. He is Italian not tall, nor dark but handsome and someone who could melt the coldest heart.

He told us in Italian, "This is the place to be, I come here a few times a week, I haven't seen you before. How did you find it?"

Claudio soon realised we did not speak Italian, except for food words and "Baci Qui". Which Claudio laughed, "That is good enough."

He spoke French, saving grace.

 

 

 

We were two for lunch, and Claudio was by himself. I invited him to join us and he did not decline. He was in love with Alice, who doesn't speak Italian, nor French... but that did not matter one single little bit. Charmer and Charm they were in their matching outfits.

 

 

 

Claudio had "the usual" he ate very little of it. The waiter took us into the kitchen and by the wood burner stove, told us to pick what we wanted. The best part of travelling is meeting people and sharing a meal, and if I am fortunate enough to be invited into the kitchen, well then bury me, cause life does not get any better than that. This is magnify beyond the limits of truth to illustrate a point of great joy.

 

 

 

 

The cook.

The real deal.

Pure delightful beauty: Apron, big stove, full swing of the pasta pots.

 

 

 

 

 

A stack of dishes as the prize.

A stack that size can only mean five golden stars.

 

 

 

 

 

One of the courses we had was stuffed sardines that were baked in the wood burner stove.

 

 

 

Roasted potatoes

Stuffed sardine

A garlic cod frittata

 Vino e Farinata

and dessert.

 

 

 

Our waiter who took us into the kitchen.

 

 

Claudio's dessert.

 

 

Alice's viewpoint, lovely photo.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alice's photo of the semifreddo we shared.

 

 

Desserts,

Claudio's creme caramel and our semifreddo.

 

 

 

 

Wood delivered to the restaurant, since cars cannot drive down this narrow street, hand cut from the forest.

The wood was stacked against the entrance wall, where the line once stood to have their turn to the feast.

 

 

Just too good to be true.

I love this kind of stuff.

 

 

 

 

 

Claudio took the placemat, and we wrote our addresses on it, he cracked up: "I won't lose this."

 

 

 

 

Folding friendship.

He put it in his pocket.

 

 

 

 

Forever Italy with love.

I hope our paths with Claudio cross again.

Savona isn't that faraway...

three hours. 

 

 

Three hours away... from my home.

 

 

" Wine and Porridge "in Savona ; It is partly a farinotto and partly a restaurant , and you will taste the typical Ligurian specialties , and some preparations that you can only find in Savona . It is a simple place, from the family environment, at very reasonable prices, right in the historic center of Savona , and the old management without any concession to modernity.We tell you now of our tasty visits to this place.

The specialty of the restaurant is the porridge, but not limited to the classic that is also prepared to Genoa with chickpea flour , but also thewhite porridge made ​​with wheat flour , delicate flavor and special, they do only in Savona. From Genoa we say that this porridge is a little different from ours, much more thin and crispy, but still very good. The porridge is also sold to take away, for those who want a snack or a fast food genuine and speaking in dialect." via Buttalapasta.

 

Vino e Farinata

Via Pia, 15r, 17100 Savona SV, Italie

 

 

 

The Last Two Weeks on a Cruise

 

I have a confession to make, during the last two weeks French Husband, my Belle-Mere (Mother in Law), Alice and I went on a Mediterranean cruise. Which in itself is not a confession, the confession is that I cheated and wrote my blog posts in advance and had them posted automatically. I did not take my laptop, nor my camera, instead I opt-ed for my cell phone to take photos and used it three or four times to post to Facebook. In the last ten years I cannot recall such a break. It was much needed and felt divine to be disconnected. Overall I did not go online more than ten minutes during the last two weeks.

The sea, 

the stars,

the different countries and places,

the food,

the company

gave direction.

 

 

 

Most likely the next few days I will post about our cruise. We started in Marseille, went to Savona Italy where we met by chance an elderly man name Claudio and had lunch together. Then we went to Naples I headed straight to the santon/nativity streets and also had a baba rhum, the next stop was Kalamata where I asked the first Greek person I saw where could I have the best Greek yogurt, disappointment was nowhere to be found. So far it sounds like I followed my tastebuds around Europe... I did. After we sailed to Nafplio, the ship arrived early which meant we had two days to explore, after we went to Volos, grabbed a taxi to see the Meteora monastery... breathtaking. We sailed on to Athens where I tried to meet up with a blog reader Julia, but unfortunately we did not meet. It goes without saying what we saw... We had a few days at sea, the vast Mediterranean gently rolling us along where sea and sky are one, our last stop before home was Sicily. 

 

 

 

Saturated color follows me when I close my eyes.

 

 

 

 

Naples.

 

 

 

How much weight did I gain?

Go ahead guess.

Feast I did, and now famine will have to be my calling.

 

 

 

 

French Husband and I celebrated our 28th wedding anniversary on the cruise. Though the cruise was more about French Husband being with his mom. What a trooper she is! At eighty-six she walked, climbed, and danced alongside of us from morning pass midnight. Unbelievable appetite and she didn't gain a pound. My mother in law's stamina is incredible... many times I said to myself, "If I cannot do more than she can now, I will never be able to do so when I am seventy, let alone eighty-six."

 

 

 

Alice had her doubts about cruising, she felt a tad bit seasick at first and then the cruise life took over... She didn't gain a pound either, nor did French Husband, and they all ate as much or more than me!

Anyway we were a motley crew of happy well being.

 

 

 

Some of the steps my mother in law walked...

 

 

 

 

We took a tender to shore in Greece from the main ship. When we left the ship the sea was calm, but when we came back, what an adventure! But that story is for another day. My mother in law laughed the entire way as if it was a joy ride.

 

 

 

 

Orange trees lined the streets, but they were not edible.

 

 

 

 

 

A walk along the dock at twilight.

 

 

 

 

And then far out at sea we had a phone call...

Our friend, Thierry tried to take his life.

The empty shock, the utter feeling of helplessness, sadness.

We saw him today, many prayers are needed. Healing will be long from the monster called Bipolarism that is destroying his life.

Our cruise was one of many waves.

 

 

 

 

Prayers said at each and every church.

I lite candles for Thierry and Annie, side by side.

 

 

 

 

Annie was Greek. 

My thoughts held her close. I imagined talking to her, asking her about recipes, places, myth and the soil that keeps us grounded to the soul.

I felt her hand as I walked among the ruins, by the icons in the churches, and while I ate desserts that I never heard of.

I could so see her sitting on her chair by the kitchen table, leaning towards me in delight, asking me what I thought about this and that.

I miss her beyond anything I can say.

 

 

 

 

Light reflecting on the ruins of the Parthenon.

Nothing remains the same and yet...

 

 

How Many Hands?

 

Most things take a lifetime

which is easily forgotten

with cell phones, wifi, cars-

  Life is at our fingertips.

Whatever we want when we want it...click, snap, instant credit.

Such daily life routines, which use to be hours worth of labor, are readily available without much notice...

Time ticks on without us having to wind the clock-

Running water cold, warm or hot?

Need light, turn it on-

Warm home-

Gas station-

Dry hair-

Grocery store-

Buy bananas, tea, avocados or milk

in a town, let alone a country that doesn't produce such things.

 strawberries, tomatoes, pineapples, zucchini

out of season.

 

A friend use to say before a meal,

"How many hands did it take to bring me this?"

 

 

Capturing What I find Beautiful

 

 

A crown on her head, roses of the softest shade.

Along the streets of France history surrenders itself to anyone who wants to see.

Caressing my path, filling my desire... I sigh.

"You are under my skin."

The petals of her crown land at my feet.

 

 

 

Though it is not all a bed of roses in France, no place every is, it is a matter of choice, it is a matter of how one sees beauty or the beast around them.

The hand of both reaches out asking us silently with determination:

"Which will you hold? The rose or the thorn?"

 

 

 

 

How many times have I wanted to knock on such a door, and take a peek simply to see what is inside...

"If it looks this good on the outside imagine what it looks like inside!"

Imagination helps weave a path.

So does trust, so does believing, so does holding on to that which is good.

 

 

 

 

Call me crazy, but I find this beautiful.

Some would say, "Yep, crazy!"

 I could walk a thousand streets just to see more.

Have you ever felt something that is hard to explain, that has gotten under your skin, that leads you to yourself and sets you on fire? Like a song that makes you want to dance?

Love. Life. The age worn peeling wonder of it all.

 

 

 

Perfection.

Not shiny, not new, not in style, just standing the test of time, still winning hearts.

No need to change: Shutter, lantern, stone wall, roses climbing... Classic Provence.

"God, is that the gift I see?"

That I can be myself, simply me.

The history before me, the soul of time, I am a part of that, so are you, woven piece by piece.

All is good.

 

 

 

 

Like a crown above a doorway a few carved words remained: "Au Lait"

"Milk" it said.

"Cream!" I smiled.

Two hundred years old or more, I am so glad it remains.

France how did you become so faithful to old beauty? 

 

 

 

 

A hinge on a shutter, with a curl at the end.

That is what I am talking about.

The moment of surprise, the wondrous little surprises!

A curl.

The eye opener, that makes you catch your breath, quicken your step and fills your heart with enough "Wow" that smiling stays with you throughout the day.

 

 

 

 

Art without trying to be.

Living art.

Being art.

An artistic way, layer by layer, lives intertwined, with the passage of time.

Seeing beauty when nothing is telling you that it is.

 

 

 

 

Between two windows an alcove,

a pedestal of sort,

a base and a crown though the statue is missing.

Pregnant space.

Waiting for us to stand and say,

"Here I am."

 

 

 

An angel overhead, 

under a broken window.

A lady walking down the street asked me, "What are you taking a photo of?" 

I offered, "The angel above the door, with the broken window above it."

But under my breath I thought, "Capturing what I find beautiful."