France Summer 2018: It's a wrap or a crepe!

It's August 16 in Paris, the night before my flight home to Portland. I have been gone 75 days. Who sent me to the best sleep away summer camp ever? My friend Angela calls Monflanquin an adult playground. Agreed!

Bill and I are dining at one of the many creperies near our hotel in the 14th. Somehow Bill's vegetarian order transformed itself into a charcuterie extravaganza which even I couldn't eat. The waiter was very apologetic about the mix up. We ordered an especially tasty dry Breton cider.  All good.

Looking back, this summer in France stands out as one of surprises.  Wonderful unexpected experiences, new friendships, and increased self confidence. The latter grew from being the director and chief of our house in France, managing repairs, entertaining guests, adding to decor and comfort. Amazon.fr is my best friend.  On the road, I navigated an SUV. Way out of my comfort zone but without mishaps. Each week, I forced myself to take an out of comfort zone drive. Good for me I rationalized. Then there was swimming practice. The municipal pool felt like second home as my practice sessions grew more and more frequent during the heat wave, and my breast stroked progressed.

In a small village where so many people know each other, there is a diplomatic art to relationships. Often, I would hear two sides of the same story and just nod with interest.  People's problems become gossip,  embellished versions of the truth, or a source of conjecture.  Again, the sympathetic nod. It works for me.

The village boasts many octogenarians and nonagenarians. They eat well, live less stressful lives, and enjoy community and village activities.  Back home now, I am aching to hear Bonjour, an acknowledgement of simply being a person, see the twinkle in a French person's eyes, relish the enjoyment of conversation. The village mailman stops his truck in the middle of the street to give me the traditional French kiss on the cheeks greetings through the open yellow postal truck window. My visiting American family just stars. But c'est normal!

So it's a wrap or a crepe!  The  French summer memories will nurture me until next time. I worked hard to make my life in Monflanquin  soulful and  joyful.  Out of all my experiences,  I leave you with this personal challenge:  Follow your dreams!

Much love,
Giselle

Medieval Madness

 Every August 15, Monflanquin gets a Medieval Makeover for the annual Medieval Festival.  Ten pigs are roasted on a spit. Wild boar and sausages are served in food stands. Drinks include a beverage called Donkey's Piss and Medieval Meed.   People parade in glorious Medieval costumes. Music, dancing, flag waving, and reenactment of Medieval life abound in the streets and alley ways of the village.  We enjoy watching a jousting tournament, a choreographed dog herding duck and geese program, elegant French dressage, snake tricks, and more.  Hundreds of people pour into the village for a couple of days of festivity.  Tourists love it, locals not so much.

Herding dog named Darkness stands guard,

 Our visiting family finds the shows highly entertaining. My favorite would be the dog leading his web footed prodigies through an intricate dance routine then showing us his talent for math and counting.

I do like to get into the spirit of the festival by dressing up a little. Many refuse finding the weather too hot for costumes. The Medieval Market down the hill sells beautiful leather wares, jewelry, books, and accessories in accordance with the festival theme. 

In this picture below, I am posing in front of our house. Unfortunately, the grapes above the door suffered from extremely cold then extremely hot weather this summer. By the time they ripen, I am at home in the classroom for another term. Hopefully, neighbors get to enjoy them.

We are planning to leave the village tomorrow. I have spend the last few days packing away valuables, giving final instructions to the family staying on, and saying my good-byes. The good-byes feel flat. I am too tired and numb to feel anything.  Leaving is so hard.

Me in my Medieval Garb

A Child's Delight

Loving chocolate, I barely pay attention to other kinds of candy. The weekend I hosted my French pen pal, her two daughters, and sister, all that changed. One of my favorite sections in the local French grocery store is Confiserie/ Bonbons. Falling under the category of academic research, I regularly try all kinds of flavored chocolate, mostly dark. The weirdest one was dark chocolate with sesame seeds. It sounded better than it tasted. Dark chocolate salted caramel came in among the top five as well as dark chocolate orange, dark chocolate raspberry, dark chocolate pistachio, and just plain dark chocolate.

When Fanny age seven offered me the candy pictured to the right, I was taken aback. Why was she offering me pills? But no, the colored pills proved to be candy. I could see why a kid might like them. Fanny acquired these candy pills while on vacation with her aunt. Aunt Nadege offered me black licorice shaped like a snail. These I loved, but Fanny hated. Before she left, sister Wendy, age three, gave me more licorice as a parting gift.

 Friends Gary and Ellen who visited me mid July seek out unusual candy wherever they travel. They couldn't find anything unusual in the French grocery store. I wondered where they could get the kind of candy offered by Fanny and Wendy. Wouldn't you know it, the very week after the departure of my pen pal's family, I discovered an amazing candy stall at the Monflanquin Thursday market. Must be  a new addition for the summer. As you can see from the photos, the variety is  stunning.  Behold, the candy pills and licorice snails among the choices. With gleeful abandon, I started to fill my candy bag. Total for the bonbons, 50 euros. Oops. Out of my budget. Luckily the kind vendor told me I could easily change the desired amount.  I left the market feeling like the proverbial kid in a candy shop.

Fascinating to spend the weekend with two little French girls. Some childhood behaviors must be universal. Grave concern about boo boos and sleeping in  new places. The desire to touch merchandise in stores. I must confess I still do this. The love of coloring and the little girl attraction to pretty and pink.  How affectionate Fanny and Wendy are! Fanny insisted we hold hands whenever we left the house. She drew sweet  heart drawings for me and my friend Diana. Wendy let me hold her. She also wanted to see my pyjamas. I was in heaven. Of course, they had their melt downs too. Totally normal. Fanny and Wendy eat really well. No avoidance of vegetables.  What really cracked me up was their desire to put butter on radishes and slices of ham. We are not talking a pat of butter here.  I must agree. Delicious flavorful French butter makes everything better.

Our sweet weekend came to an end. The two little girls said good-bye with "Je t'aime, Giselle."
Awww.   Je t'aime Fanny and Wendy.

My friend Christine love these. There is a surprise in the middle.

Dog Sitting

I am  taking care of little Miss Penny today while her parents pack up their house to movie to the country. She is such a well behaved dog! She is panting due to the heat. It has been in the high nineties all  week.  What a challenge without air conditioning!  I go to the pool as often as possible.  My breast stroke is improving!

Post World Cup

Jazz/Blues at the Brasserie in Monflanquin 

Love these talented musicians!  They play so many instruments. Most impressive is the harmonica.

Life has gotten back to normal here in Monflanquin after the World Cup.  The Tour de France is still going on, but it does not have the same fervor as "le foot".  Our heat spell continues. I try to make it to the pool daily to get in some practice. Still working on the breast stroke. My comfort in the water is amazing compared to last summer when I was terrified.  The best time to go to the pool is mornings when there are less children flinging themselves into the water. The kids make me jealous and get in the way of my swimming exercises.

I have been gone so long I feel like I am away at summer camp. I forget the names of places at home and occasionally feel more French than American. My French friend Francoise invited me for lunch at her country home about 15 miles from Monflanquin.  My car and I are still not at ease. It is an SUV that is too big for me. Well, I have learned my lesson. I will only accept a petite car in the future. Some people might prefer a big car, but it is a pain in parking lots and on all those narrow country roads. 

I loved Francoise's house and vegetable gardens. She grows most of her food, cans  for  the winter, and even makes homemade ice cream. I tried to picture myself living in such a remote location, and honestly, I couldn't. I need people, and the liveliness of a town. It delights me when the mailman greets me and invites me to sit with his family to watch soccer or I run into my plumber at the bar. Market Day, Thursday is the most fun animated day of the week. Besides the pleasure of buying French produce, I see most of my friends in one place, and join friends  for coffee to end the morning.

A new microbrewery opened here and a coffee/organic grocery store that serves lattes. Both are nothing like our American concept of these places, but bravo anyway.

That's about it for this week. Time to watch a Turkish movie on Netflix. I think I see Istanbul in my future.

Much love and good health to all,

Giselle

French Road Trip!

Roman City, with a beautiful cathedral and hostel for pilgrims.

 Mid week, Francoise, Mado, and I head off east of Monflanquin to Figeac where the Champollion Museum of the History of writing is located. We stop along the way to get bread for our picnic lunch. The bread turns out to be something very special called pain d'epeautre made of spelt flour. It even has bits of orange zest in it. To Mado, it is akin to dessert. We will munch on it later after we visit the museum.

Figeac  is lively, full of shops, cafes, and charm. The Tourist Office representative tells me of a concert this weekend put on by a school from Michigan called Blue Lake. They perform every summer. Francoise and Mado insist on telling everyone we meet that I am from a far off land called America but speak good French. The Museum of Writing delights me. It tells the story of Jean-Francois Champollion who was the first with his brother to decipher Egyptian hieroglyphics.  It includes the history of world handwriting: Chinese, Arabic, Hebrew, and more.

Outside, the temperature hits over 90 degrees and humidity thickens the air.  We finally find a shady spot to picnic. The haricots verts, tomato, and hard boiled egg salad prepared by Francoise is delicious and satisfying. We drinks lots of water and head out to Conques to visit the magnificent abbey and its cathedral renown for its unique stained glass windows fabricated by Pierre Soulages, France's equivalent of  Dale Chihuly, only in black and white. Conques is a key pilgrimage stopover on the way to Saint Jacques de Compostelle.  I am curious to see the monks who
preside here but can't find even one walking around town. Be careful what you wish for. Mado tells the religious bookstore clerk that this woman from far away America would like to meet a monk. She makes a phone call and before I could think of a way of to stop what is happening, I am standing before a man clothed in white.  Graciously, he asks me to follow him in to the church where he ushers me into a small room and closes the door. Horrified, my imaginative mind immediately races to pedophilia and all the crimes that have come to light about the church in the United States. And where are Francoise and Mado?They have abandoned me, thinking I wanted a private session to clear my conscience or ask for advice.
Face to face with the man in white, I ask him to describe a typical day in the life of a monk. He spends the next half hour explaining the difference between a monk and a brother. He is the latter. Clearly, he looks down on monks. Honestly, I just wanted to talk about monks and cooking since some of my favorite cook books are written by monks.  Never mind. It takes about three tries before the BROTHER realizes I am saying good-bye and thank you. I couldn't get out of there fast enough. Before I left, he said please close the door.

Francoise and Mado ask if I am  happy with my interview. What can I say, but fascinating, truly fascinating. Conques' magnificent cathedral is truly worth a visit. Although the stain glass windows are modern, they fit in beautifully. Next stop Rodez to spend the night.  Since I had made the booking, I felt responsible. Fortunately, the hotel was welcoming. We each had our own air conditioned room for about 40 euros for the night. In the morning, we drove over to the Pierre Soulages Museum.  His paintings are open to interpretation. Strokes of black, gray, and brown acrylic  with a light patch somewhere to given the impression of illumination. Super modern, no message attached. Not my cup of tea, but it grew on me. The most fun is to share what each painting evokes, kind of like a Rorshach test.

Perhaps we saved the best for last: the Millau Bridge, an elegant cable stayed bridge, the tallest in the world, 343 meters high,  two and one half meters long. It took three years to complete and is located in the Tarn River Valley.

As we headed back to Monflanquin, I reflected on the beauty of the sights we had seen, and all that I had learned traveling with my two French friends. And if you ever want to know the difference between a monk and a brother, feel free to ask.

 

Ornate Cathedral in Conques

Note the unusual stain glass windows in the cathedral.

Th coquille or shell marks the Pilgrim's route to Saint Jacques de Compostelle

View of Conques walking into village

Elegant Pont Millau

Loving Village Life

My  Little Garden

Sunset Over Monflanquin
View from Terrace

 Have you ever loved something so much, you are afraid it will be taken away? I feel so fortunate and grateful to have found Monflanquin.  Those of you who have read my book, MY LITTLE FRENCH VILLAGE, www.amazon.com know the back story and why this place means so much to me. Really, it's the little things which alone would be enough, but the little things are happening in French, which makes my heart sing. A French couple strolling by around 10 P.M. wished me "Bonne Nuit" as I closed my shutters for the night.  A French friend went out of her way to make me paella because I told her I had a craving for fish. This dish takes a massive effort and strain on the budget.  I taught her how to make a crumble, so happy to contribute in some way. It is my turn for Sunday lunch this week.  No way will it be the 6 hour paella extravaganza. Stay tuned for the menu, ethnic not French and the guests' reactions.

A friend made me paella. Amazing!

I taught my friend to make a raspberry apricot crumble.

 Over the weekend the village not only celebrated the Fete de la Musique in honor of the summer solstice, but also launched the first ever Festival of the Arts. Forty artists around the village opened their homes to the public. Some even offered workshops. The village came alive and hopefully people purchased an art object to take home.

 This week the chimney sweep came by, "a pinch me experience" in 2018. His wife scampered to the top of the roof and did most of the hard work. She offered that climbing on roof tops suits her just fine due to the beautiful views! My chimney got a clean bill of health and a certificate for insurance purposes.

Chimney Sweeping

By necessity and perhaps laziness,  much of our house decor comes from Amazon.fr. It's always a risk to order sight unseen, but after much study and some mastery of the metric system, online shopping works out well.

I ventured into the big city of Villeneuve -sur-lot last week and stumbled across Aldi, Trader Joe's German parent. How comforting to see the Trader Joe's brand, and yes, the prices are good. Aldi's feels like a warehouse and carries every thing from French cheese to bathing suits.

So there you have it. If you have any tips on conquering the fear of losing what you love, please send them my way. And to all of you, I hope you have someone or something you love as much as I love Monflanquin.

Be well!

A Taste of Home at Aldi's

My best  friend is amazon.fr

Delightful 10K Women's Hike around Paulhiac

Garden at the Manoir 

Weekly Friday hikes from the village end with cake and coffee. Each week a member of the group volunteers to host. Most of the members hail from England. This week a couple of Dutch and French women joined us. Only women are welcome to walk except for the summer when men are permitted. Today we enjoyed the hospitality of Charles and Margaret. How to describe their lovely home? Let's call it The Manoir. This group goes long distances. Today's walk at 10 kilometers was classified as easy. Not sure I could do any longer. The most distressful part was walking through bogs as the English call them. Translation: Muddy wet patches. If I had any delusion about my Merrells being waterproof, that would now be gone. The group published a bilingual French/ English cookbook called Cakewalk. I am hoping to buy one. The recipes look scrumptious.

Verdant Countryside

My Back Pack

Life is a basket of cherries

I've been in Monflanquin exactly a week now.  Days go by quickly here. People come over for coffee and a catch up.  I  keep the house  tidy as anyone could drop by at any moment. I prepare most of my meals, walk around the lake, watch a little French TV, read my book,  and admire the view from the terrace.

A couple of days ago, I picked cherries at my friend Mado's property. The woman  must think I am the Queen of Oregon. She cannot do enough for me. The Queen of Oregon receives brown eggs, an abundance of tree ripened cherries,  beautiful pink flowers,  5 kinds of homemade jam, and multiple invitations to dinner. No way to convince her of my ordinary citizenship. Believe me, I have tried. Mado is in her seventies and lives alone in her childhood home right outside Monflanquin. Caring for the land keeps her incredibly busy, but to this she adds, tai chi, and Internet classes.  Mado checks on the sick and the elderly regularly. Should Monflanquin suggest a saint, it would be Sainte Mado. Perhaps, it is time to drop Pope Frances a line.

The Happy Buzz

How's this for coffee shop decor in a building called the Docks, Quai Austerlitz?

Today started off in a jet lag fog. Although I planned my metro trip last night, I confused lines to end up taking a much longer route. For the first time ever, I experienced Paris metro rush hour. Doors opened; doors closed. I chose to wait. Even still,I was squeezed like a sardine as I finally rode to my unfamiliar destination, Quai d'Austerlitz and the City of Design and Mode Building where the Expat Forum is held annually.
The Expat Forum features organizations helping the French find work  or retire abroad. It sounded interesting. The Australian representative clearly summed up the key to getting hired abroad. The VISA. No surprise there. He left  me  with some interesting web sites to check out.  It would be fun to teach abroad for a few months. The Expat Forum seemed organized in an American way: Flyers, free candy, pens, and helpful representatives. Each half hour a new topic was presented. I found myself within ear shot of the working in America talk. The presenter could not emphasize enough how hard it is to get work in our country. Basically, she said America is closed.  So true.
Next stop the 11th arrondissement, gentrified and punctuated with fine restaurants serving farm fresh food.  I randomly chose a restaurant that looked good. Apparently, everyone else in the neighborhood thought so. No tables left. My next pick, Chez Lui,  was happy to seat me. I ordered the Menu: soft boiled egg on a bed of squid ink (amazing) and lamb chops with grilled broccoli and gremolata. Heavenly! Soon the host started turning people away as well. I felt fortunate to get a table and hung onto it as long as I could before meeting my friend Kristen at the Atelier des Lumieres, a renovated warehouse, now exhibiting a stunning sound and light show  representing famous paintings virtually like the Klimt below.  A must not miss for those traveling to Paris in the next few months.   Upon returning to my hotel, I realized a Happy Buzz  followed me everywhere today. People laughing and talking in  cafe after cafe. The clinking of knives and forks tapping rhythmically on plates.  Paris sings!

1. Today's Highlights

1. Quai d'Austerlitz
2. Chez Lui   
3. Atelier des Lumieres
4. Julhes - upscale wine and cheese shop

Finding Turkey in Paris

 Turkish Meatballs!

Aryan !

I am investing an embarrassing amount of time watching a Turkish soap opera called Love me as I am
on Netflix. Each episode is almost 2 hours long. Each season contains  at least 65 episodes. Do not do the math! I just started Season 3, but zut alors, French Netflix doesn't offer it. Withdrawal will be tough! One of the main characters is  a meatball chef. People from all over Turkey rave about his meatballs whose secret ingredient is sumac. No  two meatball looks alike, proof they are homemade. With the meatballs, people often drink Aryan, a refreshing yogurt drink made from plain yogurt and salt. Delicious!
I knew I could find Turkish food in Paris. I found it at Restaurant la Paix, 14 rue Odessa, the same street where we eat crepes and only 5 minutes from the hotel. The meatball plate came with salad, fries, and possibly bulgur in tomato sauce. Too tired to ask. Such tasty meatballs and all unevenly sized.
How fun to recreate the meal from my Turkish soap opera! Maybe I'll have crepes tomorrow.
P.S. Swedish meatballs are really Turkish.

Mystery on Air Canada

June 4, 2018                     The Weary Traveler
An uneventful flight to Paris from Toronto changed course when I innocently got up  to use the lavatory. A young woman looking distraught was hovering  inside with the door  ajar. She told me she  was looking for her watch which she had taken off to wash her hands and then placed on the counter. She  just got back to her seat when she realized she had left the watch in the w.c. But before she could retrieve it, a  serving cart blocked her path. She watched another passenger go into the w.c.  Then  as soon as she could, she returned quickly to retrieve her watch. It was gone!  As she told me this story, she was close to tears. The watch was the only thing she had  left of her father's. She pointed out the man who  went in after her.
Although, she had already asked him about the watch, I encouraged her to ask again. He clearly denied taking the watch. I tried to speak to him in French, but he spoke good accented English. His seat mates or were they family implied we should not accuse without proof. Were we accusing? I felt so bad for this young woman. She reminded me of my nieces. Later she told me she had gone into the wc to pray. I offered to help her look. Nothing. My " finding everything Bill loses skills "were not working.  She reported the loss to the flight attendant. An announcement of the lost watch was made right before we landed. So what do you think? Did the guy take it?

June 3, 2018 Off I go to France: Portland, Toronto, Paris. May it be easy. So far it is. I am in  the Toronto  Airport working on this blog. Already a lovely coincidence. Daniel's Montessori School teacher was on my flight to Toronto. She and her family are traveling to Copenhagen.
The plane was tiny. Two seats on each side. Luckily, my green bag fit in the small sized overhead bin. I tormented Bill last night by asking him to weigh my luggage a half a dozen times. Air Canada allows 10 kg for carry on and 10 kg for personal item.  Green bag kept weighing in at two pounds overweight. Thus the dance of shifting items between the two bags began. I took out some underwear, a shirt, and threw all supplements in a ziploc bag without their original bottles.  A frustrating evening as I had spent the last few weeks calculating everything for maximum efficiency. Oh well!  Of course, after all that, nobody even weighed my bags. Hopefully the flight to Paris will be smooth as well.
No food offered on the way to Toronto. I purchased a chicken ban mih (sp) sandwich. Edible!  The Air Canada Terminal is all technology tables from which you can order food without leaving your seat. It works really well and is super comfy. All the tables are equipped with charging stations!
That's it for now. Back to Netflix to continue watching my Turkish soap opera. Miss you all already!
Please feel free to comment or email me Giselle.bawnik@gmail.com  Merci!

Please join me at the West Slope Library, 3010, 3678 SW 78th Avenue, Portland, Oregon on Wednesday May 16 at 6:30 P.M. I will be reading from my  book MY LITTLE FRENCH VILLAGE.
"In the 13th century village of Monflanquin,  Giselle Bawnik finds herself experiencing unexpected magic and personal transformation as she realizes a lifelong dream of owning a house in France and begins a love affair with the town's residents."

Hope to see you there!

Amicalement,
Giselle

Floating Away in the Dead Sea

March 22, 2018   I am now off the tour and on my own.  How to get to the Dead Sea? Luckily the Tourist Bureau of Israel offers the Dead Sea Shuttle Bus billed as the fastest and most economical way to get to the lowest point on earth from Tel Aviv. It leaves at 6:30 A.M. from a nearby hotel.  I am ready and eager. But wait! Savlanoot, Patience in Hebrew! The shuttle bus picks up  passengers in Jerusalem.  Two hours later, we are still not there. According to the shuttle bus driver, we need to stop at Israel's best felafel place. Happily, we did. That felafel was amazing! My seatmate, Melissa, who reminds me of my nieces starts to chat. She is  from Melbourne, Australia and her parents are Egyptian Christians. She is traveling on her own, brave girl, to check out the Holyland.  When we finally arrive at the Dead Sea, the driver tells us to enjoy ourselves and will be back 6 hours later to pick us up. At this point, I am not sure what there is to do at the Dead Sea for 6 hours plus with my fair skin, I am supposed to stay out of the sun. Whatever! The first order of business is float in the Dead Sea,

I soon realize I am the only tourist ever to bring a swim cap and goggles to the Dead Sea.  I leave them behind  in my locker, but once in the sea, I feel lost without them. All of my swim lessons have been with cap and goggles.  The bottom of the Dead Sea coated with that famous therapeutic mineral rich mud is bumpy and uncomfortable to the touch of bare feet.  I wade further and further out trying to find a comfortable spot. Its too shallow here, too uneven there, Finally, strangely, I am most comfortable quite a bit away from the crowd. Melissa went off on her own ages ago. Ok! Time to float on my back. Oh, no. It is not happening. Will I be the only visitor to the Dead Sea never to float? Of course, I just learned to float back home in swim class about a week ago. Still, this is the Dead Sea, quiet, calm, embracing, salty as hell. After what seems like hours, I lean back and manage to float. Floating, floating floating, face burning under the intensity of the desert sun.  Great! Mission accomplished. Time to stand up and walk back. Uh, oh! I can't stand up. Something is fighting me. I try dog paddling on my back to shore. It works slowly, slowly slowly. No rush. I have 6 hours to kill.  But suddenly, the life guard is shouting at me in his megaphone. "Come back, Come back." What does he think I am doing?" Danger, danger, he shouts." What danger? This is the Dead Sea. That means nothing ever happens or it already did. He is still freaking out as I slowly dog paddle to shore. He finally decides it is time to come in and rescue me, but is clearly  reluctant to get his swim suit wet.  I get closer to him so he does not get  too wet.( I try to be thoughtful even in a crisis).  He grabs my hand shouting "Get up. Get up." I can't get up that quickly. I need to get my balance which he does not seem to understand. He keeps shouting at me to stand up. His Dead Seaside manner needs work.  I tell him I just started to learn to swim. Not sure he understood me.  At last, I stand up. He asks me where I am from." United States, I say. " His unique response. "Welcome to Israel."

People tell me later I was lucky. I floated into a current. I could have floated all the way ` to Jordan. Luckily, I did not know enough to be afraid. Next time, I will take a tour where the guide gives more information.
During the time left at the Dead Sea, I go to the Ahava Beauty Store twice, buy postcards, and find Melissa. We sit under a canopy and watch the scene. Muslims and Jews convene to enjoy the Dead Sea. To specify, Muslim men and Jews convene to enjoy the Dead Sea. The men are in swim trunks floating, playing, laughing. The women are in full burka separated with the children. Suddenly, Melissa and I notice a woman in full burka and shoes entering the sea holding her teenage son's hand.
He helps her to float on her back. She is clearing loving the experience. I am moved by her courage and spirit. I am saddened that such a simple pleasure is not readily approved. But another woman, also in full burka and shoes follows her. Yes!  Feminism  floats and triumphs at the Dead Sea.

What? No pool.

I am standing at the top of Mount Scopus. Below me is Jerusalem.  I studied at Hebrew University of Jerusalem in 1973-74, a memorable year because the Yom Kippur War broke out shortly after we  had arrived. I returned to Israel in 1976 after my college graduation to work on a kibbutz for a few months. Volunteers picked pears and olives, took care of the babies n the Children's House,  drove tractors, shaved plastic pipes, etc.  Now I am back in Israel on an educational synagogue tour called Discovering Your Jewish Roots. Actually, it feels like my Jewish roots are rediscovering me. I have posted many pictures on Facebook for those who want a visual of the variety and complexity of Israel today.  What struck me the most so far on tour was a visit to a kibbutz. Kibbutzim no longer have Children's Houses. Parents wanted to sleep with their children. They no longer take volunteers as they find today's youth do not work hard, and it results in a financial loss to host them.  Most importantly, the Kibbutz has evolved from a socialistic collective where "ours" has been replaced by a more capitalistic "mine".
The result is a return of the young people to the kibbutz, more incentive to work among its members,
and an economic gain.

Our tour is intense, educational, and fascinating. We are  now in Tsfad where Jewish Mysticism was born.  Although the hotel has a pool, it will not be open until summer. I just learned to float on my back before I left home. My teacher gave me some land exercises  which I can do anywhere. But wait! I am going to the Dead Sea. To be continued......

Really? Inside my head during first Pool Comfort Class.

I now own goggles and two swim caps, one blue, one black. The swim caps are from a company called Friendly Swede, and they essentially sell two for the price of one .Very friendly, indeed!  Ordering this swim gear felt alien and uncomfortable. I went to a local store and tried on several pairs of goggles. None of them felt right.The sales person insisted that the googles must have a tight seal and make a popping sound upon removal.  The pop seemed impossibly unrealistic. So I did what I always do, order the best deal and the best recommended from Amazon.  Next dilemma. What color? So I did what I always do and asked Bill. He picked blue, and that's what I got. Is there a popping sound upon removal of the goggles? No. But they provide good coverage and work just fine.

I show up for my first Pool Comfort Class full of fear. The teacher is super sweet, patient, kind, and compassionate yet firm. She insists I put my head in the water and blow bubbles over and over and over again always checking on my comfort level. I feel very grateful for my goggles and swim cap. It surprises me that it is really possible to see under water with googles. My imagination takes over. I am Jacques Cousteau fearless underwater explorer. Ha! I can't even float or swim. Half way through the class, I feel like crying but am not sure why.  As a teacher, how can I not follow her suggestions? It is important to present myself as a good student, but to whom? She decides it is time to try to float. That seems utterly impossible to me, but I follow the steps she presents. Head in, blow bubbles, lift one leg then the other. I place my palms on her palms. My trust in her trust. Over and over and over again. Finally, by the end of the lesson, I am really floating with her hands parallel to mine. Matt her brother and fellow swim instructor takes the video of the last post. Lesson #1 is over.

MY FIRST PROGRESS REPORT
Well done yesterday, Giselle. You should be very proud of your progress. I'll be sending you your video via We Transfer. So keep an eye out for an e-mail from them. 

A few notes for practicing in between sessions. While developing comfort in the pool we want to progress slowly, securely and smoothly. If you feel confidently that you can practice on your own without causing too much anxiety I have written a few exercises below. If however, you feel that it may amount to too much stress, you can always wait until we have our session together to try out your new skills. What I don't want to have happen is you have an independent experience that causes distress or discomfort and detract from the work you've accomplished thus far. Be proud. You've accomplished great things in just one session.

When you are next in the pool, take a calm 5-10 minutes to yourself. 

• Breath smoothly in through the mouth and out through the nose 6-8 times. Fully inhaling to the diaphragm and exhaling completely out.
• With two hand firmly on the wall, start to blow bubbles, facing down. Continue until you run out of bubbles.
• With two hand firmly on the wall, start to blow bubbles, facing down, lift one leg up behind you. Hold this position until you either run out of bubbles are feel uncomfortable. Repeat, switching legs. Repeat this exercise until you feel completely comfortable with each leg separately.
• Still holding onto the wall with two hands, start blowing bubbles, facing down, lift both legs off the bottom to rest in a supine position. Hold this position until you either run out of bubbles are feel uncomfortable. Repeat until you feel completely comfortable with the exercise. 
• Once you experience calm and relaxation repeatedly, take a moment to observe how your body feels while its floating. What does the water feel like as it surrounds and supports you. Just make simple observations and relax in the knowledge that both your body and the water are supporting you. 

When we come together again next week, we will review what we covered making sure you still feel the same level of comfort we left off with at the end of our first session. Then we will continue to explore how our body relates and balances in the water with other positions and exercises. 

Great work, Giselle. Can't wait until next week!

Can you see me float?

FLOATING!!!!

I  am now taking private lessons to become more comfortable in the water. My teacher Jamee Small
uses the Total Immersion Method. During the first class, I practiced putting my head under water  and blowing bubbles  over and over and over again.  Finally, I practiced suspending one leg, then two legs.
Jamee who is so calm and friendly held onto me gradually letting go until I floated by myself for a few minutes. Major Progress. Yes, I felt unsure, a bit panicky, and needed a healthy dose of self pep talk.
Jamee even gave me homework which I did before Aqua Aerobics Class.   Got the swim cap, the goggles, and hopefully the courage and fortitude to keep on learning how to swim.