To The Future

 I returned from  France 10 days ago.  The culture of my village is evolving much to my dismay. More Americans are buying houses in an attempt to escape our government.  They often speak no French but want to learn the language. The Brits who already discovered the village may or may not choose to learn the language.  For she who goes to France to speak French, I find this very disheartening. Merchants  immediately assume people they don't recognize as non French speakers.  This actually makes me  very angry, although if I am among non French speakers with whom I am speaking English, this is a logical assumption.  I am thinking of getting a  giant button that reads "Je parle francais."  It might be possible to get a volunteer job where French is spoken in the village. Or maybe I need to get out of town more. Anyway, this bizarre dilemma of not being able to speak French in France or specifically in Monflanquin requires more thought. I may need to reframe my language practice as quality over quantity. Luckily, my older French friends speak no English. May they all live until 101, the age of my oldest French friend Madame Gerard.

I spend my last  precious weekend in France in Paris. At the top of my list is a visit to Notre Dame de Paris to see  her renovation.  It is possible to reserve a time slot online for visitors, but no spots  are left for this particular weekend.  When I optimistically arrive at the cathedral, the queue to get in looks  intimidating, but I make my way to the end,  quite tricky to determine.  Around me, excited tourists speak Italian, Spanish, German, Dutch, and even some French. One hour later, my little pod is permitted entry. Notre Dame looks stunning. A feeling of awe and appreciation for the labor of love the renovation represents fills me with joy.  Artisans from all over France helped rebirth Notre Dame and in the time frame set by President Macron.  As an unexpected bonus, a mass is taking place as we walk softly along the perimeter of the pews.  Looking all around, I take pictures of the renovation, wishing for a guide to explain the work in detail. Below please enjoy the pictures of Notre Dame in her  renewed glory.

Change is inevitable. We can fight or accept it. Does the renovation of Notre Dame look exactly as before? No, but Notre Dame welcomes us back into her present and into a future meaningful for the individual and the community.  So my Monflanquin is evolving. That will be acceptable as well. Beauty and magic  and the possibility of speaking French still exist.

Get Out of Town, Lady

 So comfortable for me just to hang around the village, do my daily routine, and not really go anywhere except to the grocery store. As my departure time nears, people ask what are your plans for the rest of your stay. Plans? I am supposed to have plans?  I spent all summer avoiding over planning, trying to live in the moment, and enjoy whatever came my way.  Slowly a whisper of a desire creeps in. An adventure? Maybe an adventure?  A little trip to an unknown village on top of a hill. Lunch at a cafe where nobody knows my name. Castelnaud de Gratecamb, situated approximately 9 km from Monflanquin, a classified  "Most Beautiful Village in France", population 516.  I research how to get there in my little car. It seems manageable. Cafe Cambe in the village is highly rated plus as a bonus it sits atop a hill. I call to reserve a table with a view. As usual, I get just a little bit lost on my way to the village and can't find the cafe upon arrival. Luckily, there is a very pregnant woman walking slowly on  one of the main streets. I roll down my window to ask directions to the cafe.  It is just  straight ahead around a corner.  Plenty of parking in front of the cafe.  Victory!

Once inside, the hostess seats me at a table with a lovely view. She pulls up the  traditional slate board with today's fixed lunch menu. For 17 euros, I am entitled to three courses.  The starter salad with home made croutons, vegetable sticks, and bits of  sausage reminds  me of something I myself might throw together for lunch. Then comes my main course: bite size chunks of chicken sitting atop a bed of delicious buttery tagliatelle in a creamy sauce. This reminds  me of a dish grandma might serve. As for dessert, it's fruit in a creamy yogurt.  I look around to see every table filled.  We are all eating the same thing though some ordered beer or wine to drink.  Colleagues from work laugh and chat together. The atmosphere feels friendly and communal.  I decided to pretend I am a restaurant critic who needs to snap many pictures and take notes.  Two servers work  the  crowded room. Consequently, service is slow, but nobody seems to mind. I busy myself between courses by doing my word puzzles, a fun way to pass the time. 

It feels both delightful and strange to sit in Cafe Cambe. Nobody knows me.  What a pleasure to hear only French!  Americans escaping you know who and the usual English holiday makers are changing the nature of Monflanquin, but that's a topic for another post. Below are my pictures taken as my lunch critic persona.

starter salad

chicken in creamy noodles

                                                                     un  petit cafe

Stepping Stools

 

At home, when anything needs fixing or assembling, I just yell "Bill ".  I confess I don't even bother to try. In my French house, yelling for anyone would be futile since the only occupant is me. After Bill and Daniel left in July, I resolved to view my time here alone as a retreat, a chance to work on collaging, knitting, and writing, but also to take time to reflect and work on self development. 

This included  figuring out how to fix and assemble:  I learned how to wind my grandmother clock properly. I sorted out the persistent car issue, repaired the door bell, hung pictures, and changed an abundance of annoying batteries. Then the step stool arrived.

The step stool of course required assembly.  The instructions were in German, not my language.The pictures would help if only I could read pictures. I am all ears. The Amazon reviews claimed it only took ten minutes to assemble the step stool. Eager videos were posted among the reviews. I got out my ladies tool kit. The step stool came with a bunch of screws and an allen wrench, a tool new to me. Okay! How hard could it be? After watching a  few videos, staring helplessly at the pictures on the instructions,  I took the plunge. The included allen wrench seemed sub par so I found an equivalent in my ladies tool box. I ended up using both. Screwing in the screws took forever as my initial clumsiness caused me to drop whatever I held in my hands multiple times. Fortunately, the quality  wood of the step stool stood up valiantly to my abuse.  And every so often, I would scream. "How could this only take ten minutes?' Despite my lack of skills, I kept prodding along and making progress until it came to the last bit. The screws would not line up with the holes. More screaming.  Maybe there is a trick to this assemblage? I decided to text Michael, my renovation wizard.  He advised loosening all the screws to refit the steps.  No! I did not want to do this. Instead I switched the bottom and top steps. Maybe they were  numbered incorrectly.  And by golly, they were!  Success, at last! It only took me five hours, but my step stool felt sturdy and strong.  Now I could wind my clock easily and reach groceries and dishes on the top cupboard shelves. Boy was I proud. I felt such a sense of accomplishment, a sensation that accompanies me throughout my stay here as I reach out to new people, ask merchants if they would sell my book and book marks, give tours of my house to perfect strangers, practice swimming across the pool, interview a new house keeper, and on and on and on. I feel more sturdy and strong  than I did in July. I will pack that feeling in my carry on bag. Maybe just maybe there will be less yelling for Bill at home in Beaverton and more trust in myself.

The Tic Toc Killer and Other Weird Heat Related Phenomena

 About ten days ago, I bought a grandfather clock. See picture above. It just kind of happened. It was the weekend of the  brocante i.e. the antiques fair weekend. I said to Michael and Clare of the Monflanquin shop on the square that I wanted a grandfather clock or  a dog. Well, Michael took me seriously. A few days later, he told me he had found not one but two grandfather clocks which would be delivered to him after restoration that week. 

I did not think that much about it. I did learn that grandfather clock prices decreased significantly over the last few years. Nobody wants that style of furniture. Nobody has room for such a big piece.  In the age of IKEA,  it makes perfect sense. 

When the clocks arrived, Michael showed me the first one prominently displayed in the shop. Meh, I thought. The clock looked absolutely blah. The second clock was locked in his storeroom. As soon as he got a chance, he opened the storeroom for me. It was love at first sight.

Michael and his assistant hand carried the clock from the square. No delivery charge involved. The clock looked lovely in my living room. Sadly, it only chimed for two days before it became audible that something was wrong. In comes the village clock repair expert to disassemble the clock. Boy, was this hard to watch! I told the clock repair expert who shall remain nameless that hopefully, he would repair  her by the end of the week because of my attachment. (This is what happens when you don't have a dog, by the way)  When asked the cause of the repair, he looked at me and said. "She's an old lady." I don't think he was talking about me.

About four hours later, a knock on the door surprised me. It was the clock repair expert who shall remain nameless.  Beaming, he announced the clock repaired. Wow, fastest service ever performed in France! Of course, I thanked him profusely.  She's been chiming like a snazzy old lady ever since.

The next week, the clock expert  reappeared at my door. He wanted to show me something on his phone, a photo of another grandfather clock, almost as pretty as mine with a painting and children.  "Oh, it's the sister of my clock, I exclaimed."  "Yes, wouldn't you like to buy it? Two clocks would look great in your living room.  Michael and I both think so." No way, I thought, but politely, I asked the price and added I would think about it.

When I related this story to Michael and Clare, their first reaction was "cheeky". (They are English)  I agreed. They deemed clock repair expert's behavior highly unusual. Is he that desperate for a sale? Is he interested in you? Is it the heat? I mentioned that each time he comes over, he calls his wife.  "The lady is so happy that I repaired her clock so quickly, I overheard him say."  Hmm, murmured Clare. He talks about a wife, but we never see her. Maybe this wife is fictitious"  "Hmm, murmured Michael. Maybe he is the Tic Toc Killer?" Oh, great. Am I meant to be his next victim as he gains my trust with a fictitious wife and beautiful grandfather clocks? Clearly, the heat was getting to us all, but the imagining was super fun. He has not been back since. It's 106  F.  today. I guess I am safe. 

The Wink

Apricot and Raspberry Confections

 My American friend and I attended an outdoor exercise class this morning. Most of the women including the instructor are from the UK.  The instructor called us "team" and led a no nonsense class At one point she asked us to run around the field. I don't run. I strongly believe that  running is risky and  am not sure any 70 year old  should engage in this particular kind of perilous activity. The instructor caught on right away. "Fast walking is fine too, she cried. 

During class, innocent picnic tables now repurposed for planking were transformed without consent into instruments of torture.  I did the best I could. My exercise class at the Elsie Stuhr Senior Center seems much more civilized. However, overall, I did enjoy the exercises and plan to return.

After class, my friend drove us to the nearby town of Villereal for a much deserved coffee and treat.  The pastries chez Rodo are as light as air.  That must translate into no calories. Ha. (Wink, Wink!)

I decided today would be a no driving day for me as yesterday I bravely drove to the Toyota dealer in Villeneuve-sur- Lot.  Honestly, French drivers who believe that tailgating and passing at ridiculously dangerous times and speeds take all the fun out of driving here. So why was I driving to another town for car service when Monflanquin has a perfectly decent garage here? Because the perfectly decent garage changed ownership and could not sort out why my indicator lights keep flashing.  The Toyota dealer offers me a diagnostic for 89 euros. In addition, they cover your steering wheel and seat with protective plastic and walk with you around the car to look for any pre -existing damage. Of course, a signature or two or three is needed to complete the paper work. The good news is that a couple of problems are detected. The bad news is that the repairs cost 440 euros and would entail my leaving the car there. And who would transport me back and forth? I decided to email my Monflanquin garage to ask if they could do the specific repairs. Of course, came back the reply and for half the amount. My appointment is tomorrow morning. Fingers crossed. 

I entitled this post "The Wink"  because I keep getting winks from mechanics instead of repairs. Could this be a French cultural difference  meaning "sorry, lady" that I know nothing about? 

This Village Got Rhythm

r

Thursday Night Market

 We arrived in France on Bastille Day.  Our friend Nigel picked us up at the Bergerac Airport in my car. We flew Ryan Air, an airline noted for cheap fares and baggage restrictions. We paid extra for permission to bring our carry on bags with us. Still we needed to be vigilant about weight. I was advised to chuck more in my personal item than in the carry on since the personal item would not get weighed. I did as advised. My shoulder started throbbing that evening from the ridiculous weight of my personal item. Luckily, the pain persisted for  only a good part of the week and then subsided. Stretching helped.  Are these budget airlines really worth it?

We got to our house in Monflanquin without a problem despite three dashboard indicator lights that Nigel claimed lit up on the way to the airport. Bizarre!  This meant going to the garage the next day. I assumed it would be a quick fix and decided not to worry about it. Besides,  I was in my little French village, my happy place I  also felt grateful that another friend provided us with a few starter groceries for a simple dinner.  The house felt welcoming and cozy.  At 11 P.M.,despite our great fatigue, we made it to the dazzling psychedelic fireworks overlooking the valley.  Back at the house, I fell quickly into bed. The next morning, we rose early to go hiking with the Tuesday hiking group. Not sure how we managed to do this. It felt a bit like sleep walking at first, but the green lush scenery cheered us on. The hike ended with coffee and goodies at Clara's house. Clara's place impressed us all  with its water lily garden a la Monet. 

The next few days were spent getting back into the rhythm of village life. As always, Thursday is my favorite day here because  of the lively open air market and all the socializing it entails.  It's a chance to reconnect with dear friends who live here year round and second home owners like myself who arrive for the summer.  As a bonus, in the summer,  we are treated to an evening market where we can buy dinner  from a variety of vendors and dance to local entertainment.  As you can see from the above picture, the night market is extremely popular.

The Magic and the Credit Card

 After our fabulous musical treat, we leave Oxford Street humming Evita. It is well past dinner time. We need to find something to eat.  Bill googles a place close by with vegetarian options.  Unfortunately, after 5:30 P.M. dinner is no longer served we are told. Very strange! More googling. Hmmm.  Nothing pops up. A woman closing up the next shop looks friendly. I ask about dinner options. She recommends moving on to China Town. I am still gazing at the baked goods in the window of the restaurant we left. I spot a unique pastry so appropriate for our week in London. 

Wimbledom in Pastry Form

It costs 12 pounds and will remain in the window.  We walk slowly looking for a dinner place; China Town feeling way too far for our  poor tired feet.  On the opposite side of the street sits an Asian Fusion eaterie. Once inside, the staff tells us that we need to order in ten minutes as the kitchen is closing for the night. I go for a pad thai and Bill a rice dish with asparagus. I also order a  refreshing cucumber mint lemonade.  The food arrives quickly. No need to rush we are told, but the place is clearing out. I fumble in my cluttered bag even though Bill will pay. Beyond exhausted, we leave and thank the server. We are maybe half way down the block, when our server catches up to us. "You dropped a credit card on the floor."  What an honest establishment!  Someone could have charged, well, what?  Five Burberry raincoats, three Liberty scarves, and an evening gown from Harrods.  Luckily, the server saved me from going through the aggravation of a lost credit card and feeling like an idiot. I didn't even have time to feel like an idiot!  The third miracle of the day! Truly extraordinary positive travel karma!

The Magic and the Music

 

Same day.  Evening time. We discuss going to the side of the Palladium Theatre in London  where the actress who plays Evita, Rachel Zegler, comes out onto the balcony singing “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina”  to delight  passerbys around 9 P.M. We will never make it, I think, as Bill is still napping peacefully after our stressful afternoon. Suddenly, his head pops up to announce, “Let’s go hear Evita.”  Honestly, my feet do not want to cooperate, but my head thinks, why not?

How to get there? Here we go again. As you may conjecture, London is a confusing place to navigate even for a GPS. We study Maps and off we pop. Amazingly, we experience no difficulty arriving at the theatre and are even early.  When Rachel Zegler steps out onto the balcony and begins to sing the beautiful melody of Evita, I tear up. Bill and I got here successfully, we are in fabulous London, and the magic of the moment and the  music hugs and reassures us that life is beautiful.

The Magic Begins

 We arrive in London exhausted and  crabby.  Since I am with Bill,  Mr. Public Transportation,  taking a taxi or an Uber to our hotel from the airport is out of the question.  After what seems like an eternity, we finally get to our hotel by train and tube with  significant help from several kind English people who must perceive us as old and tired.  Our room is not ready even though it is 4 P.M.  We are offered coffee or tea while we wait. I chose a cappuccino which could be the best one of my life. Not sure if it's the jet lag or reality that makes me think so.   Our room becomes available shortly. We gratefully collapse on the bed, even more grateful for the powerful air conditioning. We might never leave the room except we are starving. I find an Indian restaurant close by.  Tomorrow we are meeting a dear family friend for lunch. I put my head on my pillow and look forward to seeing him again.

Next day, back on public transportation which is starting to seem less charming and offers of help less forthcoming without our suitcases, we get to Kensington without too much trouble.  Waking through Kensington Gardens, we spot comfy looking sling back chairs calling our names.  We still have a couple of hours before we meet our friend, so why not sit down and relax?  The answer comes in the form of a woman with a security vest and a  clip board. If we want to sit in these chairs, we must pay four pounds per person per chair. What?????  Normally,  we would have vacated those chairs immediately, but we are still so travel weary, we actually agree. So out comes the credit card. For four pounds, we get to sit for an hour. Bill spends the time happily reading a book. I play a word game on my phone. The time passes quickly. We stroll through the park. According to our phones, the restaurant looks close by. It takes  us an hour to find it. i Our GPS is as lost as we are.  We enjoy lunch with our friend and decide to head back to our hotel.

Again, it looks like another easy walk from the train station.  Well, it isn't. Bill is getting so stressed out that he is walking way ahead of me. My feet are killing me, and I desperately need to lie down in my powerfully air conditioned hotel room.  In annoyance, I demand that Bill hold my hand to prevent him from stress walking ahead. A man in a pink shirt seems to be staring at us. What now? Does it cost  4 pounds to cross this street?  He approaches us quietly. "Excuse me. It is so rare to see couples like you (older couples) holding hands. It is really wonderful."  He sure picked the wrong moment to make that comment. "Actually, I say. I am ready to strangle him.  We have been married for 44 years." The man says that his wife wants to strangle him all the time too. He has been married almost as long as us.Then off he goes without even offering to help us find our way.

That encounter lightens our mood.  It seems both miraculous for its timing and irony. At last, we make it back to our powerfully air conditioned room.  Below is a picture of a special lady taken in Kensington Gardens. 

Queen Victoria

The Frick Museum and Other New York Pleasures

 I spent the day before the bridal shower (see last post) exploring the Upper East Side of Manhattan.  By the time I got to the city from my son Michael's house, I was ready for lunch. Lunch can be tricky in this  upscale part of the city.  Plenty of restaurants with white tablecloths abound, but not for me traveling solo and simply. Instead I focused on finding a deli and hopefully a pastrami sandwich.  Luckily one popped up in my Google search.  The restaurant took only cash which was fine. The narrow space it housed barely accommodates `parties of three. I got a seat immediately and ordered my pastrami sandwich on rye with coleslaw and a pickle.  The sandwich fell a bit short of my idea of a New York pastrami sandwich, but the deli atmosphere made up for it. The server kindly served me five glasses of water. I get really thirsty when traveling. Below is a picture of my pastrami sandwich.

pastrami on rye with a pickle

Bonus Photo: Pizza in Connecticut

A True Delight

In July, niece Catherine and partner will tie the knot in London where they currently live. We celebrated Catherine at her bridal shower near her family's home in Newport,Rhode Island this past weekend. Catherine is a brilliant bubbly 36 year old professional. The bridal shower guest list included college friends from law school, four aunties, the groom's mom, and an assortment of close  female family members. Dressed in a pretty pink sparkly whimsical dress, Catherine floated serenely into the restaurant. Upon spotting each friend from college  however, she let out a joyful scream. I found this rather adorable.  While we waited for our food to arrive, bride to be  Catherine took the time to carefully introduce each of us. The intros reminded me of a who's who of accomplished women. What would my niece Catherine say about me I nervously wondered?  How well does she even know me?  Well, she managed to mention my career teaching French and deemed me an amazing knitter.  Evidently, she has not checked out my latest sweater project. Every five minutes I scream, but not in the least joyfully, for my knitting teacher Mary's help.

       Our restaurant  Aurelia which boasts a Forbes and  Relais et Chateaux  mention  did not disappoint.

mixed greens salad

lobster roll with onion rings and fries

four chocolate cake 

I enjoyed every bite, and between every bite I tried my best to make conversation with the mother of the groom who is as bubbly and beautiful as the bride.  Place fifteen women in one room, and the volume goes sky high.  Even higher when the bride to be resumes screaming again with joy as she opens her presents.

I spent a long time choosing a gift for Catherine.  Something lovely, heartfelt, and meaningful  does not come  easily to mind.  At the only other bridal shower I attended, the bride's mother gave her a onesie.  The girlfriends presented her with intimate lingerie. From me, she received a nightshirt with something goofy written about coffee, which seemed appropriate at the time. 

Back to my gift dilemma for Catherine. I spent hours looking at jewelry. With no clue as to what Catherine prefers, I sleuthed out her Facebook posts and any pictures I could find online. Sterling silver  was spotted in several of her images.  Ok, but what exactly in sterling silver?  Free association came to the rescue. A bridal shower evokes love, romance, tenderness. She needed  a keepsake. Ah ha! A locket! My illicit best friend Amazon offered too few quality options.  I turned to Etsy. A few sterling silver lockets big enough to hold a picture of Catherine and her beloved caught my eye. The vendor sent it to me accompanied by a more casual  second locket  as a thank you gift. In each locket lives a little dried flower waiting to be replaced with a picture. I added a homemade card of good wishes. Catherine screamed as she opened the card and the locket. Nailed it!

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.