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.

Where did everyone go?

I  am reminded of my beautiful dog  Maggy sitting in the backyard alone after all the guests left Michael and Erin's engagement party.  Looking lost, Maggy was squarely positioned in the middle of the yard.  I am feeling kind of lost too.  I arrived in Monflanquin,  Saturday, 5 days ago.  For the past month, I traveled  throughout France with a dear friend. We stayed in separate rooms, but she was always there waiting  in the morning. When she left Paris to return to Portland, I checked into a hotel in the city and spent the next six days sight seeing. The grand finale was hearing my friend from Jazzercise sing with her choir at the Eglise La Madeleine.  Although I was indeed on my own in Paris, I did not feel alone. In the hotel, the other guests made happy noises from their rooms. In the hotel's  breakfast, room,  I observed tourists from all over the world eating croissants and drinking coffee.  On the streets of Paris, people and more people crammed the streets. 

On my own in Monflanquin, it is very quiet. I can do what I want. I can eat what  I want.  I set my own schedule.  Two things can be  true:  I like and don't like this situation. It used to be more fun to be alone here years ago. I am not sure what changed. Maybe it's getting older, feeling more vulnerable.  There are many women living on their own in the village. It actually feels like a club. We look out for each other, especially the women with whom I hike. The pouring rain most of this week does not help my adjustment. Thursday market, usually a lively open air event, the place to see and be seen barely resembled itself. Half the vendors chose to stay home. The English and Dutch tourists stayed home.  Only the loyal French showed up to buy their fresh produce and tangy cheese.

Outside the house, people do like to talk to me, maybe too much. They feel safe telling me, a non permanent resident, about very personal problems and traumas. On Tuesday, inexplicably, almost everyone I met overwhelmed  me with painful stories. Yesterday, I drove to a different village. The anonymity dispersed my heavy mood.  I returned to Monflanquin, but instead of going out, I crawled into bed and read and read and read. I think I needed that self imposed  curtain between the liveliness of tourist traveling  and the small town culture of village life. 

It may take a few more days to complete my adjustment to village life. Better weather is predicted for next week. 

Un Grand Creme-half the price of one in Paris

My latest collage of joyful trip moments

Puppy Yoga in Paris

Puppy Yoga in Paris

So adorable

Playful Pups

Accidents will happen

While on the train from Lille to Paris, I was missing Maggy and decided to google Beagles in Paris. Not even sure what I was hoping to find, I found Puppy Yoga!  The site explained that participants would get 25 minutes of yoga and 35 minutes of puppy play time. The objective of both parts of the class is relaxation and de-stressing. It sounded wonderful to me especially since some of my knitting friends and I did goat yoga at a farm in Hillsboro, Oregon a couple of years ago. We still talk about it and look at the pictures of the pygmy goats climbing all over us as we try to do yoga poses. Not only did goats climb all over  us but so did kittens.  In Hillsboro, our entire hour included a visit from the goats, kittens, and any other farm animals who happened to be in the neighborhood. Needless to say, not much yoga got practiced, but boy did we have fun.

Paris Puppy Yoga felt completely different. First of all, the yoga class is taught in French which I found somewhat challenging due to unfamiliar French yoga terms. In fact, when the teacher asked us do poses with our eyes shut, I cheated so I could see what the heck she meant. At the end of the yoga class, the yoga assistants woke up the sleepy 2 month old  absolutely adorable Labrador puppies . Some puppies wanted to play with  toys, others wanted to lick and nibble our different body parts, some wanted to roughhouse with each other, some wanted to escape, and some just wanted to sleep.  The environment felt more controlled than goat yoga probably because of French cultural differences and the very young age of the pups. The other women in the class might be more accurately described as girls one third my age.  However, I felt proud of sitting cross legged on the floor and able to do the movements. Thank you, yes2next you tube stretching exercises.  The yoga instructor told me all the puppies are already claimed for adoption. Oh, well, a puppy in my carry on might have shocked U.S. customs not to mention Maggy who is the reigning queen of our home. They were pretty cute though........

 

Beggars can't be choosers or can they?

 Of course, coming to France every year, I can't help but notice changes.  Both French men and women look more and more like us  with their hoodies, sweat pants,  jeans, jean jackets, tennis shoes, and baggy clothing.  When someone well dressed and fashionable walks by, I take note.  In Paris, across the street from the Gare du Nord train station,  I see Burger King, McDonald's, and even Popeyes.  As a result, the French  are looking  a lot bigger and rounder to me.  Sadly, the children are too.  An even more striking change is the number of street beggars. I am approached several times a day, sometimes aggressively, for money.

In Lille, my friend and I buy cheese and other goodies at the gorgeous  indoor market. We spread our lunch out on a picnic table. A young man comes by our table and asks us for money. We offer to share our lunch with him. He refuses "I just woke up and need money for breakfast, he says."  We look at each other in disbelief. How could he reject our beautiful cheese and our offer of food?  Off he goes. I watch as he asks person after person for money until my soul hurts.   One afternoon, I leave my hotel to get a few provisions, when a child  approximately age six or seven asks me for money. I see no parents in sight. This is the second time, I have experienced this in France. The first time, I did actually see the child's mother. I wanted to scream at her. How could you send a child to ask for money? But I did not. 

At the Lille train station, I get in line at a food stand to purchase a sandwich for the road. A young woman pushing a baby in a stroller approaches me. She tells me that she and the baby are very hungry.  I look over at the baby who looks chubby enough and is eating  three fries. His clothes are quite dirty.  The young mother then conveys to me exactly  what she would like: a croissant, a chausson  aux pommes (an apple turnover), and a coke.  Would I buy that for her ? Surprised, I agree because she requests food not money. While I wait for my change, she asks me if she could have that too.  We are talking 10 euros. To that, I say no. She asks two more times.  Finally, she accepts my refusal, thanks me and goes on her way.   My friend who lives just outside Paris met me for lunch today. I told her about these experiences. She related  her  own story of being approached for money while holding a bag of chocolate rolls from the  local bakery.  She offered  the guy  the entire bag. The man  became really angry and said he did not want the  bakery bag, he wanted money.  Is this a trend?  Beggars refusing help because it is not exactly what they want. I don't know what to make of it. I am just so tired of being asked for money on this trip. My friend told me she thinks my friendly open face invites begging, and that I need to look mean. Maybe I will try that technique tomorrow.

I am  truly sad to witness extensive begging. How did each individual beggar get to this difficult place in their lives? I  also realize my good  fortune to be able to buy trip souvenirs, eat at nice restaurants, stay at comfortable hotels, and buy a plane ticket to France.  Yesterday, I visited the massive Marche aux Puces which takes place on Sundays in Paris. I treated myself to some new pretty vintage clip on earrings pictured below. Maybe beggars  in 2024 should be thought of as individuals with specific needs to be met.  Food instead of money for some; money instead of food for others.  Let's ponder the question while expressing gratitude for all that we have.

My  deeply appreciated treasure  from the flea market.

The Relentless Physicality of Traveling at Age 69

 

Cappucino

Personal Pizza

Egg & Asparagus & Fries

Chocolate Hazelnut Muffin

My travel companion and I use the word "schlepping" a lot. Back in 1994, I coined the  French verb "schlepper" although the Academie Francaise  is still debating on adopting it as part of the official French language. Why it is taking so long I cannot understand. Since I left home on May 18,  besides the usual plane, taxi, and car rides, we have taken 5 major train trips.  Paris - Agen,  Agen-Paris,  Paris-Dijon,  Dijon-Paris,  Paris-Lille. And there will be two more major train trips until I get back to Monflanquin. As my son Michael pointed out I am actually circling the interior of France. 

Although, I do my best to pack lightly, it never works out that way.  This time I even  packed  my new 5.5 lb  light weight suitcase with more underwear than clothes for  the schlep. Even so my suitcase still feels too heavy.  Of course more often than not,  I pack all the wrong clothes. Pre-arrival visions of warm spring French days turn into a chilly wintery  reality as on this trip, we wake each day to gray skies, drizzle, and the need for multiple layers. 

The circle journey begins. My back protests as I schlep my new "lightweight" suitcase up and down the train station stairs.  More accurately, my back waits until the next day to protest. Of course, my neck wants to get in on the protest as well. Luckily, April and her  adorable mom who produce the yes2next  videos  rescue me with their gentle stretching exercises for seniors. Each video takes only 10 minutes and offers relief. Check out these stretching videos at www.yes2next.com if your body likes to protest like mine.

Then there is my stomach. After almost three weeks of overindulging in rich and often unfamiliar foods, it decides to go on strike.  In Dijon,  I actually eat the entire pizza pictured above. Not sensible, you think. Well, I used to be able to eat an entire pizza like that years ago without consequences. Not any more.  No more big personal pizzas for me which makes me very very sad. The love affair is over.  C'est fini.

And then there is my left  ankle. In January, during my trip to Melbourne,  Australia I walked and walked without my usual arch supported shoes.  Lesson learned. The doctor diagnosed me with ankle tendinitis and sent me home with several exercises.  The ankle felt great before leaving for France, but in Dijon the cobble stoned streets did a number on the very same ankle.  So frustrating!  The cobble stones in Lille prove challenging as well, but somehow the ankle pain is improving.

I will stop complaining now. The cappuccino pictured above will be limited to once a day and may virtuously be replaced with morning tea. The French American Muffin pictured above represents another lesson learned. Do not let curiosity dictate food choices. I attempt to do well  the other night with a light egg asparagus dish. However  it seems that  fries accompany every dish in Lille. Of course, I feel obligated to finish them all. Today, I smarten up and order two starter dishes which permits me to try  endive soup and tarte  aux maroilles,  a creamy local cheese quiche. Perfect portions and kind to my belly.

Despite all the undesirable conversations in which  my body parts and I engage,  nothing is life threatening. The protests come to an end in time.  Today,  visiting the city of Lille, I walked five hours.  Totally worth it. Will there be corporal protests tomorrow? Maybe. But with the help of April and her mom, I will get through the physical discomfort and enjoy another precious day in La Belle France.

Dijon, France

The dog in the window of the vintage shop is not for sale

Bubble Coffee

New Shoes

 

A market masterpiece

Dijon Mustard

Yesterday we traveled about 12 hours to get from Figeac in southwestern France to Dijon in southeastern France. The French train system is designed to go most conveniently from north to south which meant our going from Agen to Bordeaux to Paris to Dijon. The most nerve racking part was changing train stations in Paris with a one hour train connection. Fortunately, when I stopped back at the house to repack for the next part of our trip, our friends and house renters handed me their unneeded Navigo cards. This saved us from lining up to buy metro tickets.  Our destination, Gare de Lyon which for some reason lacked signage would 

have thoroughly confounded us if not for an adorable French gentleman on our train who explained to us in detail the best way to get there.

When we actually collapsed into our train seats,  I declared a miracle. By the time we got to our hotel in Dijon, we were starving and exhausted.  We both felt grateful to find a brasserie on the corner. The fixed menu, the only option, sounded good. I soon realized the menu featured specialties from the southwest where Monflanquin is located. We traveled all those kilometers to dine on the cuisine we had just left. But what a meal! Homemade unctuous foie gras with onion confit followed by savory duck shepherd's pie, and for the finale, sweet refreshing strawberries with mint in a mouth watering strawberry sauce.  We spoke to the chef who graciously offered us red wine from Cahors.  The chef actually lives near us in Monflanquin and was working as a substitute that night.  We certainly felt at home while watching all the diners enjoy the cuisine from our French region like one big French family.

The next day, moving rather slowly, I agreed to meet my friend at the tourist office.  Despite a map, my infamous poor sense of direction kicked in. When I stopped to ask for directions from a lovely French woman, I did not expect her to offer to accompany me. On the way, we chatted. I learned that she worked as a bus driver in Dijon and Paris for over 20 years. I couldn't help but tell  her about Bill working for Trimet. 

Dijon is known for its gastronomy. We saw definitive proof of this in the massive covered  central market selling among its offerings a variety of farm fresh cheeses, meats, fish, poultry, fruits, vegetables, and the regional specialties of mustard and spice bread. The possibilities left us dazzled and hungry.

After lunch in a bistro close by, my friend and I went our separate ways. We do this regularly so we don't get sick of each other and get to experience one on one interaction with the French. With the weather so cold and rainy, I decided I needed to buy tights and some "sneakers" to add to my sandals and Mary Jane's.  The shoe store Eram advertised a 30% off shopping party. The rose colored shoes featured above fit me in size 36. With the money I saved, I purchased watering proofing spray and comfort insoles and celebrated with a French not so French Bubble Coffee. By the way,  what do you think of the shoes? 

We ended the day by going to a French movie entitled "N'avoue jamais. (Never confess)  For  a movie snack, my friend opted for popcorn. Much to her surprise, it tasted sweet and looked like cracker jacks. The Magnum ice cream bar, classic vanilla covered in smooth dark chocolate called out loudly to me. So satisfying, as was the senior discount saving me 2 euros. Amazingly, the movie featured a super cute beagle who played an important role like a pro.  I am certain this is Maggy's French cousin.

It seems like I have been saying "What are the chances ? "since arriving in Dijon. A southwestern menu, a bus driver, and a beagle??  I am truly loving Dijon.

Keys and Kindness

Chai Tea & Writing 

Yesterday I thought the key saga was over. But no! We came back to our accommodations this afternoon to find ourselves locked out again! Bizarre! Our host took all the keys with her yesterday so she could make duplicates today.  Consequently, we left the front door unlocked this morning. After a few choice words to myself in French, I called our host to explain our new predicament. Turns out that after making duplicates, she came back to our door to test out the keys and inadvertently locked our door. If you are not really following this, do not worry. I had trouble following this turn of events  myself. Madame returned to our place quickly, apologized, and let us in.

At one point, we thought the key might be in the dressing room of the Indian Café & Boutique where we stopped yesterday. I texted the owner, and both he and his wife graciously looked for the key with no luck. Today I received another text from them asking me if I wanted them to move things around and keep looking during the week. What kind people! Their thoughtfulness felt like the silver lining to this entire tedious key drama.

When we drank our tea yesterday, we also wrote. Both my friend and I love to write and will pull out pen, paper, and a writing prompt in a Café to seize a quiet moment. Today's Café turned out not to be tranquil as American country music started blasting from the speakers as soon as we started writing. Then a group of hell's angels charged in for lunch. Upon closer the inspection, all the bikers, both men and women, had gray hair and looked over 65 years old. A French senior citizen bike gang!  I admired their courage and sense of adventure. When we left, I noticed at an outdoor table, their helmets lined up and  waiting patiently for their owners to ride off with them into the sunset. Adventure comes to those who seek.

 

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A Day to Remember

 My traveling companion celebrated her birthday yesterday. We drove to a charming town called Marcillac-sur- Cele. There is an accent aigu on the last syllable though my accents went on strike this morning. Very French, n'est-ce pas?

We discovered Café-Caravane, a surprising combo of coffee shop and Indian boutique with imported clothes and housewares. In the spirit of India, I ordered chai tea. We sipped our lovely flavorful drinks while enjoying a magnificent view of the Cele River and the surrounding cliffs. Afterwards, we could not resist doing a little shopping. My friend bought an attractive tunic and skirt. I felt so happy for her as the experience fell under the category of what she calls birthday magic.

Lunchtime approached quickly. We popped back in my little car which I named "Le Happy" when I bought it. About thirty minutes later, we were seated at yet another table in a restaurant located in Cardenac. Hard to find a table because yesterday was French Mother's Day. We sipped a cool dry rosé instead of tea and ordered a three course meal. Feeling completely satisfied, we made our way back to our VRBO accommodations. Time to rest and digest until my friend announced she could not find the key to get in. Apparently, it had fallen out of her pocket somewhere. I called our host whose immediate reaction was she did not possess a spare key. How is this possible? She would however look in her house to see if she could find one. Long story short, she could not. She thought it would be impossible to find a locksmith to help us on a Sunday. I began to envision us sleeping by the pool. I started calling around for a locksmith which inspired Madame to do the same. She ultimately found one just ten minutes away. He arrived quickly and saved the day. In the states, the locksmith would open the door immediately upon arrival.  Not in France. First, he and our host needed to establish that their paths had crossed before. He knew her mother, bla bla bla. Finally,  we rushed inside the now opened door to use the facilities. My friend paid for the locksmith's visit which seemed a bargain at 50 euros on a Sunday. The host took away all the keys scattered inside the locked house to make copies. Very interesting to me was her typical French first reaction to problems. Impossible is what you hear so often in France after presenting a dilemma. Luckily, I knew this and together we made the impossible possible and created a birthday memory that will not be soon forgotten. Above is a picture of the pool near which we did not need to spend the night.

Road Trip

 We took my little car and headed for Figeac, located in the Aveyron about two hours from Monflanquin.  Our mission: to learn about the cheeses in the area and taste as many as possible.  Look, somebody has to do this.

The idea for this trip came to me after finding a delightful  brochure about AOP cheeses in my filing cabinet. Sometimes it does pay to do some paper purging. AOP stands for Appelation Origine Protégée, a label meaning in this case that the cheese comes from the local area and certified as authentic to the region. In the Aveyron, the four major AOP cheeses are: Roquefort, Rocamadour, Laguiole, and Bleu des causses. If you read French and would like a brochure about AOP cheeses throughout France, please let me know. I requested a bunch for students and generously received quite a few and a bonus poster.

Besides the deliciousness of cheese tasting, we are enjoying the lush beauty of the region.  See pictures below. 

The Foot

 Comfortably seated in our train seats, my friend next to the window, me on the aisle, I look up from my knitting and cringe in horror. In my direct line of vision is a foot, not just any old foot but a foot belonging to a French person. What is this foot doing? There in all its bare glory, it is sitting  up on the table, the table meant for  crusty baguette sandwiches with ham and cheese,  brightly labeled soft drinks, best sellers  and crossword puzzles, baby toys and pacifiers.  The foot looks quite dirty as if it walked all the way to the train station with neither socks nor shoes. I try to ignore it, but I can't. It is a woman's foot, a woman in her forties surrounded by her family in the compartment meant for four passengers. Every time I look up, I see it. I cringe repeatedly. Finally, I mention the foot to my friend. She squints to see it through the peep hole between seats. Much to my relief, she is horrified as well.  We discuss how scandalous this behavior is in French culture, maybe any culture.  The ticket controller walks by and totally ignores the foot.  It seems permanently stuck to the table.  As we finally approach our destination, I ponder saying something to her.  How would I approach her? Excusez-moi, Madame,  your foot is on the table, and I don't think that is done in France.  Or excusez-moi, Madame, is there a problem with your foot? Are you in pain? Can I get you a shoe and a sock? How about a fine for incivility and indecent exposure of a foot.  But I am too jet lagged to brave this confrontation. So I too say nothing. What is happening to French manners and politeness? Many of the passengers exhibit strange behaviors like wiping their nose on their sleeve. I will spare you other examples since you most likely get my point.  Next time I see a scandalous expression  of rudeness, I resolve to put my foot down and say something.

Picture of my beautiful omelette with mini crepes to combat the image of the dirty foot

Woah!

 My flight over to Paris via Amsterdam went smoothly. I watched a full season of The Golden Girls. Now that I could be considered a Golden Girl, the show felt very relevant to me. The other  day, someone asked me which Golden Girl I could be. With confidence, I can now reply Dorothy. She, like me enjoys words and likes to be witty. 

I met up with my friend at Charles de Gaulle Airport. We decided to share a taxi to our hotel.  Our taxi driver from the approved taxi line seemed a little gruff to me.  We sat in the back seat and peered out the window hoping to catch glimpses of the Eiffel Tower and other iconic monuments. I soon realized that the taxi driver was using a route unfamiliar to me. What were we doing in Montmartre on the way to Montparnasse?

Medieval Bench in Monflanquin taken after we made it to the village and proof we survived the taxi ride

He seemed to be following his phone. Horrendous traffic met us everywhere he drove. The taxi driver became quite agitated. After a while, he could not help himself and started using every curse word a French teacher is not supposed to know.  My friend and I just looked at each other.  This ride went on and on and on. Suddenly, we became aware of the driver sniffling continuously, My friend pointed to her nose and looked at me. I thought she meant to convey that perhaps the driver was sick with Covid.  Finally, we arrived at the hotel. The taxi driver took our luggage out of the car gruffly.  What a relief to be at our destination where we could speak freely!  My friend turned to me and said she thought the driver to be a cocaine user.  What did I know? I thought he had allergies.  We are lucky to be alive, That was one wild ride.