Another Day In Paradise

Wake up and open the balcony door. It's warm and humid, not necessarily sunny until later in the day.  First up, breakfast at the buffet and sitting at the family table. This brings me joy. Delicious food and good company.  At first, I try to stick to my usual breakfast routine: Greek yogurt with crunchy toppings. I do try a croissant, but find it lacking in flakiness.  The next day I take eggs and a piece of brie. After that, I  tell myself  I am on vacation and  eat whatever I like. I am after all exercising  daily, doing aqua aerobics and the occasional hike. Most of all the food is so good, so many new Caribbean dishes to try, including Club Med signature dishes, and the delightful sorbet and ice cream station. Oops, I almost forgot about the open bar. On our last day, one of my cousins calculates that we  eat three courses at every meal. Of course, we all know this in our stomachs , but hearing it said out loud makes us burst out in hysterical laughter. We collectively anticipate food withdrawal at the end of the Club Med experience. That proves to be the case.

During my stay, I enjoy consulting the Club Med app because activities,  times, and locations are listed for each day. In the evening, the app announces the dress code for dinner: tropical or white or pink and beige, blue and white or  just plain elegant. White night feels especially enchanting as club members  look like little sparkling angels. Although dress code is not mandatory, I find it entertaining to see what my vacation wardrobe could provide, and it does surprisingly adequately provide.

The staff at Club Med tends toward friendliness and politeness with the exception of the Bureau of Beach Towels. Located in the central lobby near the pool, the Bureau of Beach Towels staffs a person to give out two towels per room number.  Without fail, each time I approach the bureau, I am told my room number is not on the list. Then a rather terse interrogation begins about the length of my stay and towel usage. I rename the Bureau, the Bureau of Bitchies because honestly this little game gets annoying fast. In fact, I decide to avoid the Bureau of Bitchies completely by promenading to the Zen area of the Club where towels  live unmonitored in spiritual harmony. 

In stark contrast,  I am treated like a queen in the dining room. One server whose food station I particularly like starts to call me "my cherie" so pleased is he by my appetite for his creations.  I expect a marriage proposal the next day.

Here are some views from the coastal hike Bill and I took. A much harder  hike than anticipated, one younger cousin's hand kept me upright during the rocky uphill climb in my Jazzercise shoes.

At Club Med in Guadeloupe- oh la la la la la la

 The back story:  September 2024 :  I am eating  an early lunch with my cousin in Manhattan who happens to mention that his family is planning a trip to Club Med Guadeloupe in January. My eyes light up.  I can't help myself. It's Club Med in Guadeloupe!!!  Since childhood,  my dreamy fantasy is to  experience Club Med: comfortable lounge chairs, intriguing people, fun activities: No planning, no shlepping, no trains to catch in the wee hours of the dawn. Just relaxation and bliss.

My cousins reads my mind. "Why don't you come?" Does he mean it? I ask him to send me the details feeling sure he will never remember to do so. He does. His sister sends me an encouraging text. So they do mean it. Okay.  Let me check airfares. Not only do I experience sticker shock during my initial airfare  search, I feel certain the fantasy trip ends here. Moreover, the estimated time to get to Guadeloupe clocks in at about 48 hours. 

Another dilemma named "Would Bill go with me?" looms large.  Do I want to travel all that way alone? How would I fit in with these cousins whom I rarely see and don't know that well?  I decided to let it be for a while. I would take a sneak peak at air fares now and again only to be continuously horrified. My cousins inquire periodically about my decision. Everything depends on airfares I report choosing  not to share other misgivings.  After a couple of months, airfares begin to drop. Misgivings do not. But Club Med... But Guadeloupe where French is spoken and palm trees abound. I decided to discuss this situation with son  Daniel who astutely asks me repeated questions about how badly I wanted the Club Med and Guadeloupe experience. He strongly feels I should not go alone, suggesting asking  Dad/Bill one more time. Amazingly, Bill says yes. 

Our  reliable dog sitter puts Maggy on her calendar.  Bill and I  finally get out our laptops to book. As it makes sense to visit Michael and Erin after Guadeloupe, my trip would be 10 days longer than Bill's. He would fly home earlier to be with Maggy. 

Packing for a tropical vacation  followed by January in New York City feels daunting. I decide to prioritize  summer dresses, swim wear, exercise clothing, then compression bag my favorite cozy sweater, light weight winter coat, a soft  black cardigan , and heavy tights.  My red hat and scarf are already waiting for me in Brooklyn as well as a pair of winter boots, a gray turtleneck, and a warm night gown courtesy of Amazon. 

We take a very long overnight flight to Miami and meet up with our  East coast cousins at the gate for the flight to Pointe a Pitre, Guadeloupe in the morning. An airline that will not be named keeps us waiting on the ground for two hours as late comers are permitted to make the one and only flight to Guadeloupe that day. Our cousin group consists of five people over fifty, four youngsters in their twenties and one 18 month old baby who keeps saying no indiscriminately. His mother is about six months pregnant. Luckily, patience seems to be a family trait.

Arriving at the Pointe a Pitre airport, we find ourselves in a party atmosphere.  Miss Guadeloupe 2024 who will be on her way to compete in the Miss France competition in 2025 is in the house. Surrounded by Miss Guadeloupe  dancers and cheering fans, we perk up a bit after our long voyage.  But with all the extra crowds and noise, we struggle to find the Club Med representative. A very nice airport rep calls the club for me , then leads me to the Club Med desk.

A shuttle transports all of us and our luggage to Club Med. En route,  I notice large billboards in French which are not usually done in France. Guadeloupe is a French overseas territory. The people speak  a Creole dialect of French (challenging for me to understand), use euros, drive cars with French license plates, vote in French elections, and eat a French diet with a Creole twist. 

As we pull up onto the Club Med  property, about twelve Club Med GOs  (gentils organisateurs) greet us with big smiles and enthusiasm. This tickles me, reminding me of some TV show whose name I have long forgotten. We get our club bracelets not to be removed until the end of our stay.  It opens our room due to some nifty technology and allows us access to the dining area, the beach, and  all Club Med activities. More on how Club Med works in my next post. Below enjoy some of our initial  views of Guadeloupe.

Lower East Side Food Tour

 We met our guide Jack at the famous Katz's Deli where a mile high pastrami sandwich will set you back $40. It is big enough for two to share and does come with a pickle. Almost everyone in restaurant  was eating one. Our tour guide brought us a platter of pastrami, rye bread, and pickles for our group of eight: two young women from Germany, a couple from Scotland, a mom and two teenage sons from Atlanta, and me. After this first stop, the guide offered us delectable raspberry rugalach from Russ and Daughters, the first business in NYC to put daughters instead of sons in their business name.

We walked a few more blocks to a local Dominican restaurant, El Castillo de Jagua  where we sampled plantains, fried cheese, pickled onions, eggs, and sausage accompanied by a drink which in Spanish means to die from dreams. The drink tasted like an orange Creamsicle.  I would definitely return.

At the Essex Formaggio in the classy Essex Market we savored Grey Owl goat cheese from Québec, So creamy and tangy! My thoughts flew to my cheese tasting tour in France this summer. What is life without good cheese, I ask you?

Our tour guide Jack fed us the fascinating history of the lower East Side as we walked and tasted. I appreciated learning about the role of Jewish immigrants in the neighborhood.  My father used to take me to the Yiddish Théâtre which played a key role in the Jewish Community until the Jews started moving to the suburbs. 

The rest of the tour passed quickly. At The Pickle Guys, Jack surprised us with pickled pineapple. Nobody jumped up and down for that one. We noted they pickle everything from turnips to okra to lox. The cake donuts at Donut Plant

Pastrami anyone?

Dominican  Deliciousness

Gorgeous Goat Cheese

Pickled everything

and the bagels and bialys at Kossar's  found a lot more fans.

My new friend from Scotland and I agreed on the excellent variety of the food we tasted and the  preparation of the well informed tour guide with his magic backpack full of paper plates, napkins, and water bottles.

Oops, I almost forgot Economy Candy specializing in the old fashioned candy we all grew up with. What was your favorite?

I thoroughly recommend this tour the next time you get to New York. What a fun and yummy way to explore the lively neighborhood of the Lower East Side! Enjoy the photos.

Travel After France : New York City

 I get off the plane and the melting pot that is New York City greets me.  The taxi  from the airport pulls up to Michael and Erin's door located in a  lively Dominican neighborhood.  I unpack and decide to take the first cultural plunge into the bodega on the corner. My goal is to find white corn meal. Last evening I baked Jimmy Carter's corn bread recipe from my new cookbook, Baking in the American South by Ann Byrn. This cookbook is a treasure: each recipe is preceded by a story, a legend, a glimpse into the history of the South.   President Jimmy Carter did not bake this cornbread, but his White House Chef did. White corn meal, yellow corn meal, butter, flour, baking powder, milk  and an egg. The recipe could not be simpler except for the difficulty finding white corn meal.  Bill luckily found it at Fred Meyer in Beaverton.  To my great surprise, the corner bodega does not carry it. Now I am on a mission to find white corn meal somewhere in NYC so I can bake Jimmy Carter's Cornbread for Michael and Erin before returning to Oregon.

After the bodega, I walk over to the park. Although the neighborhood  feels so different, the rhythm of the 5 P.M. hour feels the same.  Tired looking people carrying shopping bags head home.  Dog walkers talk to their pets.  Smiley kids ride bikes.  Blue Amazon  trucks make deliveries. As I stroll deeper into the park, I

Soccer in the Park

Basket Ball Fun

Houses on nearby Ocean Hill

The Corner Bodega

am pleased to see all the tennis courts in use as well as the soccer and basket courts.  But wait,  something is missing. There are no soccer moms, maybe a few soccer dads or are they the coaches? A couple of women are setting up a snack stand with dried mango. Definitely a different vibe now. I also notice I am the only white woman in the park except for a few tennis players.  

Back at the house, I wait for Erin and Michael to return from work. They work so hard those two and still remain the most amazing compatible couple ever.  We eat one of Erin's delicious  healthy home cooked dinners. My heart hums with joyful relief knowing Erin takes such good care of Michael. To witness this again and again makes the trip to NYC worth it.

Vive la France

 

Bastille Day

Yesterday we celebrated July 14, French Independence Day.  Bill and I descended the village steps to theMonument  des Morts decorated with French tricolor flags. The monument honors those who died for France in  World War I, the Algerian War, and World War II. The mayor chose to read a text depicting the bravery of a local World War II resistant and the fatal shooting of a 16 year old during the same time.  We all solemnly bowed our heads.  After the dedication of flowers to the site of the monument, the local band played several marching tunes including the French National Anthem, La Marseillaise. If you ever really listen to the lyrics of the song, you may be surprised to find them shockingly violent.

 After the ceremony we marched back up to the Mayor's Office, where we were offered an aperitif. Bill helped finish my white wine. Day drinking does not agree with me, but I did partake of one of the regional specialties, prunes. French prunes, succulent and  moist, melt in the mouth and could be mistaken for candy, though over consumption of these scrumptious treasures would not be recommended.  We returned home for lunch. In the evening we made our way to the square where we danced to an unusual combination of Italian, Klezmer, and Latin music.  Flashy fireworks greeted us as we climbed up the hill, and so ended our day of honoring France's Independence. 

I would  now like to honor the French quality of life especially in our village of Monflanquin. Despite the fact that the French love to complain about their politicians, high supermarket prices, job shortages, and the like,  we expats who reside here part of the year know how lucky we are.  Today, I went to the municipal swimming pool. For 3 euros I could swim all day except during lunch.  It is a lovely salt water pool so my skin and swim wear do not wreak chlorine as they do at home. It took about 10 minutes to drive to the pool. On the way back, I decided to stop at the bank to pick up my new credit card. Still half wet from swimming and wearing a see-through cover up, I felt totally comfortable entering the bank and talking to the receptionist. Nobody batted an eyelid at my less than bank-like costume. Business done, I returned back home for lunch. Everything we need is in the village. We could not be more fortunate. I hope the French who live here appreciate that as well.  Vive la France!

 

 

 

 

 

The Beautifulness of Unknowing

An unknown path

Unexpected Beauty

"When legs are working, the brain rests."

Anticipating a 9 km hike classified as medium difficulty,  I give myself repeated pep talks. "You did a 9 km dinner hike a couple of weeks ago and survived. You even enjoyed it. You made new friends. You love hiking."  Well, this Friday morning hike reminds me that unless the route is familiar,  it could be a long pleasant stroll or a slightly excruciating endurance  test.  This particular hike turns out to be the latter.   The six of us, four women  of a certain age and one gentleman who could  pass for a mountain goat, bravely negotiate the cliffs and valleys of this hilly forested area in the Lot Valley, about thirty minutes by car from Monflanquin.  The shade of the forest protects us from the surrounding  sticky heat and humidity. However, my T shirt drips with sweat from the continual climbing up and down the craggly rocky trails.  We chat  amicably among ourselves in French and English. The chatting  strongly prohibits me from screaming. "What the hell was I thinking  by signing up for this hike?"  But watch me go, up and down, down and up, intrepidly clinging to my walking stick navigating thick mud which transforms my hiking boots into mud magnets.  My mind must not wander, but stay in the present so all my attention focuses on admiring the loveliness of the forest and keeping me safe. The gentleman mountain goat  points out the starts of mushrooms,  a ruin of a house hidden among the trees, the formation of a rising cliff.  

Discussion turns to which trail to pursue; which is more picturesque, which is shorter.  I offer no opinion. I never do.  My relief that  no one  expects  me to know anything about these trails equates to  a free pass, a kind of joy that I can just be part of this fantastic hiking group.  No pressure, no responsibility. My only job requires keeping  up with the group and  admiring the scenery.  I love not needing to know. It makes for a pleasant change from real life in which the insistence  on knowing can be unforgivingly relentless in certain circumstances.  Not knowing and not needing to know is a beautiful thing.

 

 

New and novel

 On Sunday, I was invited for  lunch at a dear friend's house.  Let's call this friend  Anouk. Knowing Sunday lunch could last 6 hours (I kid you not), I always take my car rather than car pool with another friend.  Let's call  this other  friend Marie.  Marie was asked to pick up  yet another friend. Let's call her Madame Lagarde. When I arrived at my friend's house, Anouk  was in a tizzy.  Madame Lagarde had not yet arrived with Marie. Anouk tried to call Marie on her cell phone, but as usual she had turned it off. She only uses it in emergencies. To Anouk, this was an actual  emergency, and why bother owning a cell phone if it  is never turned on!  Ouf!!!  Since Anouk and Marie often get into conflicts, I began to wonder how lunch would go today. When Marie and Madame Lagarde finally arrived, Anouk started to berate Marie  on her tardiness. Marie defended herself quietly saying she made a wrong turn and was only five minutes late.  Fortunately, Anouk let it go. 

I found Madame Lagarde fascinating. She is 99 years old and sharp as a tack. She turns 100 in September. Clearly she loves to eat and is not shy about asking for her glass of wine.  She makes jokes and gives off an impish look while teasing our host. I felt a real connection with her. She likes to take an afternoon nap like I do.  In fact, they asked me to drive her home early so we could both nap.  Drive her home! What! No! I can't drive a 99 year old home. In my mind, it is like making me responsible for a priceless antique vase.  So I treated her like precious cargo. "Tell me if you are too hot or too cold in the car, Madame Lagarde. Water is in the back if you need it."  Probably thinking, this American  seems loony,  Madame Lagarde helped me get her home with succinct directions. She lives alone on a massive property that was once a farm. I watched her negotiate the three steps up to her front porch. Although she is hunched over, she refuses to use a cane or a walker. She won't even allow a railing for the front steps. Her husband died fairly recently at age 97. What is this couple's secret?  As she said good-bye, she asked if she could give me a "bise", French word for the farewell kiss that French people do. I felt  truly flattered. 

 Yesterday, I attended a Hatha yoga class.  I did not know what  to expect. Would the women be gorgeous  young  French women wearing  tight trendy yoga pants? Would I be able to do the poses?  My first obstacle that morning was finding the class.I asked 3 women in the parking lot who tried to help but kept insisting I go to the Activities Center which did not sound right. I finally called the teacher who came and got me. Once inside, the other three women all wearing baggy street clothes said "bonjour". I kept up fairly well except for the balance poses.  These really need work. In fact, the teacher looked like she wanted to laugh when she  saw me trying so hard not to topple over.  Toward the end of the class, my concentration started to wane. I kept confusing right and left. The teacher tried saying right  and left in English. That did not help either.  The key issue  here is that I don't speak yoga.  And what the heck are "omoplates"?  Despite my trepidation,  I did enjoy the class and will go back next week for the final one of the season. I found it interesting that at the end of class, the women fled without taking time to chat.  At Jazzercise, they practically need to throw us out. We all want to stand around and gab.

I booked a facial,  the super deluxe hydration  package for the next day.  Again not knowing what to expect, upon arriving,  I was asked to lie down on a table and remove my dress. Remove my dress??? What did my dress have to do with a facial. The estheticienne  explained vaguely that my neck  and shoulders would be involved.  No way! I would not and could not take off my dress. She did not  even offer me a robe. Nothing at all.  She kept tugging at my dress to place hydrating lotion all over  my neck and chest.  Finally, I remembered my full slip underneath the dress so I volunteered to take my dress off.  Clearly, my ideas of modesty  and French ideas of modesty do not jive.  We passed from hydration to electrode stimulation to more hydration. My body began to relax and enjoy the experience. My face looked smooth and silky.  

All three of the above experiences took place  entirely in French and left me feeling very satisfied and more knowledgeable about the French  language and culture. Please do not think, I go through intense French language situations with comfort and ease. Sometimes anxiety creeps in as well as incomprehension. But overall, I encourage myself and all my students to jump into these kinds of situations and see what happens linguistically. These experiences tend to be the most fulfilling and memorable part of any trip to France.

My art and writing center in my home in Monflanquin.