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.

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.