Some mornings I still wake up with little tears on my eyes.
I’m missing France very much. I do feel lucky to wake up to the California mountains
and palm trees that have greeted me out my window in every house I’ve ever
lived in my home state.
However, on mornings such as this, I can’t help but give
myself over to how badly I’d like to open my window and find France waiting
outside. I'm not surprised that throughout history, it's landscapes and people have attracted so many artists and thinkers. It breeds creativity in it's breathing trees and dreamlike rivers.
I left Paris for home after nearly 3 brilliant weeks and hit
American soil on November 18.
If you’ve been
to France or live there, you know.
The air smells like all the things that make it beautiful. All my
favorite things….Rose and Violet, Chocolate and rich coffee, wine and smoke,
soil and wet stones. Something floral and something wood. It’s sweet.
I fell in love.
As soon as I got home I began a journal of my trip. This
version is edited…because if you tell a dream it won’t come true…and if I tell
you EVERYTHING there is nothing left for me…and why kill the mystery? However,
I’ll give away some of the diary so you’ll understand why I say…if you meet
her, you’ll fall in love too.
I landed in Paris on November 2. It was my third visit to
Paris, but the first for my friend. We were equally excited to land and feel
the air a little cooler than in the suburbs of LA.
Our driver was very enthusiastic upon noticing my little
travel guitar in the midst of our baggage. In fact, he brought it with him to
the front seat and tuned it for me before playing us a little Neil Diamond. He
played us “Sweet Caroline” in a French accent, so I sang him “Escale” in an
American accent.
That first night we walked all over town, got lost, took
photos of those fantastic art nouveau Metro signs. We sipped café au lait at a
little shop right next to our hotel and were surprised to find that there were
kitties running about in the coffee shop. Animals aren’t as taboo in
establishments that serve food as they are in the US. It made me laugh to think that just a few weeks
prior I was scolded by a fellow customer in a furniture store in Pasadena for
bringing my little Papillion in with me. The store sold tiny bags of 2-year-old
Halloween candy, so this cranky middle-aged goiter had a fit. “Unsanitary” she
called my little HoneyBear. I told
her that her attitude was unsanitary.
Anyway, we were so enchanted by walking the city at night
that we ended up on the other side of town and even with the help of the map,
we had to stop into a random hotel to ask for directions at the front desk. The
clerk informed us that we were a 45-minute walk from our hotel. This was ok
with us. The air was brisk and sweet and the walk felt good. I remember an old man with very dark
skin and very white hair who winked at us before shuffling into a red lit bar
called Diablo. I liked him. He seemed like a troublemaker.
I wanted to begin at the bones of the city, so the first
morning in Paris, November 3, we hopped in a taxi and drove to the Catacombs. As
a fan of spooky things, I was very excited. Also…being only a few days past
Halloween, All Saints Day, and All Souls Day, it seemed fitting.
The history of the underground tunnels and how the rock
built the city in which all those people died is fascinating.
The long dim-lit hallways and markers of basic year and
place of death made me feel as if I was walking down a timeline of bony
historical meet and greets.
Some bones and skulls are positioned to make designs…hearts
and crosses….however most are just stacked in piles taller than my head. I
tested to see if they were stuck together. They were not. For a moment I accidently wielded a
femur.
I found a stone from the wall for my Dad. For as long as
I’ve been travelling, I’ve been collecting little stones and flowers as
treasures from around the world for him. My brother does it too. Our father has
a piece of the Great Wall of China, The Coliseum in Rome, Westminster Abby, and many other
places.
I’m telling you this to explain a funny happening at the Catacombs…
As we walked amongst the bones, my friend picked up a slab
of stone from the ground and handed it to me saying,
“You should give your Dad THIS!”
I took it and gasped, “I can’t do that!!”
She asked, “Why not?”
“Because”, I whispered, “it’s a piece of someone’s head!!!”
She had found a bit…and not a small bit…of skull. We put it
back on the pile and scurried away.
I loved imaging who all those bones belonged to and whose
soul might be watching us from the pile.
We took the metro to Montmartre to see the Cemetery. It
seems rather small compared to Pere Lachaise, but it is a precious and crowded village
of graves nonetheless.
There is one enormous chocolate brown grave that almost
looks like a jukebox. I adore it. I wish I had written down who was buried
beneath it. Another curious grave
appears to be a cactus flipping the bird.
However, my favorite part of this cemetery was all the cats
living on the grounds, skulking around the premises. At night their eyes light
up and they add to the spooky vibe. The moon nearly full, and the kitties with
their glowing green eyes made for some amazing photos. When the hand held bell rang we had to
run to the gates before they closed…although I wouldn’t have minded a night
spent in the cemetery. There is no more peaceful a place than to be surrounded
by so many people who have been loved.
From there we walked to Moulin Rouge to take the famous
photo of the windmill. I’ve seen
the shows and the building a few times but it still is every bit as inspiring
as the first time. I’ve always liked the significance and general aesthetic of
windmills, so I can’t help but love this one. Its red wings invite you in.
However, we did not go in. Instead we walked 15 minutes to Le
Grand Hotel that stands near the beautiful golden-lit Opera.
It was out first meal in Paris, so we tried everything. The
truth is, in general, I don’t eat meat or dairy, but to not try every flavor is
to deny one whole sense. I just couldn’t do it. I ate a frog….probably a frog
prince. He was delicious, poor bastard.
I like Le Grand Hotel. The local friends we made rolled
their eyes at us for visiting an establishment that they deemed “touristy”, but
we felt awfully special under those beautiful frescoed ceilings.
It rained on the way back to the hotel and the golden
lighting made the drops look like flecks of gold. It is easy to see why Paris
is considered such a romantic city. It’s as if it is illuminated by candlelight.
Back at the hotel I opened the bottle of Absinthe I bought
at the Catacombs gift shop. Skulls and Absinthe....what a fantastic day.
The next morning, Nov 4, we headed to Basilique Saint-Denis.
Right before we stepped inside I met a man from Kenya with
his little boy. I know a little Swahili…I mean a VERY little, but we spoke for
a moment. Actually, we sang “Jambo Bwana.” I really like the blending of
cultures in the city.
Some of my favorite parts of Saint Denis were the little
animals beneath the feet of the sarcophagus figures. These were animals
representative of the personalities of the royalty or notable people held
inside, whose figures were carved in marble or stone on the outside.
I loved the delicate paintings on the knight’s chairs. Each one
different, but all with colors red, gold, teal and blue.
I’m intrigued by the decadent and tragic story of Marie
Antoinette, so I really liked the fact that her remains were there…along with a
less than modest…but still very beautiful sculpture of her. Actually she looked
more like Molly Malone from the neck down.
Feathers and frosting, Champagne and diamonds, and then a
beheading. I couldn’t have written it! She surely didn’t deserve the end, but
it is one of my favorite bits of history.
I also enjoyed the statue of Beatrice de Bourbon. She looks
like a Beatrice.
Below in the crypt lies, among many things, the heart of
Marie Antoinette’s son, the boy who would have been Louis XVII.
This medieval gothic church and burial site of many royals
is really beautiful inside and out.
From Saint-Denis we visited Pere Lachaise.
It was already late when we got there because we walked
around town for a bit first. The
cemetery was beautiful. We didn’t have much time before closing so we ran to
Jim Morrison’s grave…jumping the fence for a photo. We are doubtless not the first American’s to take ownership
and think we deserve to get close to him.
Actually, no, that isn’t fair…the people who jumped the fence after us
were Italian. Everybody loves Jim Morrison enough to break the rules for him.
The gates were closing so we left soon after our photo shoot
with Jim, but we knew we’d be back another day. I had to kiss Edith Piaf.
On November 5 we headed to Champs Elysees to do some shopping.
We visited many stores....Fall/Winter is my favorite season for fashion, but our goal was to explore further than the main drag
and reach La Duree (the big one was closed for renovation) for macaroons and
the original Chanel store on Rue Cambon.
Before we exited the metro station below, I heard music so I
followed it to find a 10-piece band playing French folk music…all songs I knew.
I listened for a few numbers before heading up the steps. They were actually
really talented. Not your average subway performers.
Upon emerging, the first thing we saw was the Arc de
Triomphe. I have giggled every time I’ve seen it…not out of disrespect, but
because it appears in reference to its location, as if they were carrying it to
some other more aesthetically fitting part of the city or country (maybe to
adorn a massive doorway) and it got too heavy….So they just dropped it in the
middle of the street, in the middle of the mall. “Guys, let’s just leave it
here.” I know that makes for a
backwards time line and reversed perspective, but that is where my head goes,
nonetheless.
I prayed that when I left the city a few days later, I would
not have to drive my rental car through, around, or anywhere near the Arc, as
the traffic looked absolutely terrifying.
I adore La Duree. It’s colors and flavors are perfectly feminine
and beautiful. There are rows and rows of colored and decorated sweeties like a
garden of pastries. Soft pink and pale green decorate the shop in Easter egg
colors with pops of bright pink and yellow.
My favorite are the macaroons flavored of rose, violet, and
orange blossom. I also bought a
candle that smells like firewood and candy and is dressed in a grey-purple pot
with bright purple wax. Macaroon scented bubble bath for Mama with a little
glass macaroon on the lid made me feel like a princess buying a gift for the
queen.
And then on to Chanel. How inspiring to know the history and
then walk the halls of that store. The look for Fall-Winter is gothic romantic.
I fell in love with a little art nouveau inspired firefly broach and a few of
the new scents that I can’t find in the US.
This shop is so elegant with its simple black and white and
it’s uniquely Chanel scent. I’ve always loved how all the make-up smells a
little bit like roses and every perfume has a consistent undertone so even if
it’s a new perfume, you know it’s Chanel.
Everything about the brand feels timeless to me and I have so much
respect for Coco with her artistic sense and inexhaustible work ethic.
We walked past all the beautiful shops and took photos of
our favorite window displays. Christian Louboutin took the cake. In the mock barbershop
window display there was a mannequin head with a 3foot tall beehive adorned
with pumps.
It was a shame that my own heels were hurting my feet….I
needed to buy some flats. ;)
The Arc at night is beautiful, but I was ready to show my
girlfriend the Eiffel Tower.
Its always breathtaking when I first see it. It looks like a
drop of melted gold.
As we walked toward it, we passed a bush covered in little
red berries the same as ones that used to grow near my home when I was a little girl,
(my Dad and I used to throw them at each other when we walked in the mornings),
so I took a photo of the bush with the Tower in the background and then
plucked a few berries for Dad.
Poor little Tower…everyone always looking up her petticoat!
One of my favorite things in Paris is the old fashioned
merry-go-round. Not the one with the hot air balloon on top…but a little
farther away. She is the oldest carousel in Paris and one of my favorites in
the world. There is something comforting to me about circles and spirals. A Farris
Wheel, a merry-go-round, a windmill, all dance in ¾ like a waltz.
I,2,3,1,2,3,1,2,3. Like my favorite songs…and probably also the reason I like stripes.
We walked to the Trocadero to take that famous photo of the
Eiffel Tower where we caught the Tower light show. However, we got side tracked
when I decided to climb the statues instead. It was very exciting up on that
one statue's shoulders and in another’s arms. How very long they’ve been
sitting there…with no one to hold them. So I did. We are all good friends now.
They’re very high up, those ladies.
We were exhausted that night.
The next morning, November 6, we headed to Versailles on the
Metro. I had forgotten that there is a change over to the train. I have never
been so lost in my life! I don’t know how I got so turned around…the metro
system is certainly different than NY but this was ridiculous. We got off in a
town that was as silent as death and felt like we might never get home. Especially
because there was no attendant at the gate and we were out of tickets…and
locked out. Luckily, we are both small enough to squeeze through the ticket
doors without a ticket and we hopped the next anything to anywhere. To our
astonishment we had boarded the correct train to Versailles, but without a ticket,
we were fined 50Euros…that should have been 100Euros but the ticket collector
felt sorry for our story. How grateful I am to her.
That is something I have to take a moment for. I’ve been
lucky to have had the opportunity to travel and meet so many beautiful
cultures, and there is something really special about the French. They are
unbelievably welcoming and patient. No one scoffed at me trying to speak the
language and people just seemed to get more wonderful as we left Paris and
began driving trough the country.
There was only one person on our entire trip who went
against the grain.
She was an attendant at the metro station near Saint-Denis.
A plump woman in her 30s with a moustache and an attitude like all the people
around her were vermin she was simply used to. Upon our asking for assistance
with a broken kiosk, she slowly sauntered past us with lips pursed and eyebrows
raised over highly annoyed lids. No eye contact.
Other than moustach-ina, everyone was ready and willing to
sing songs with me, give us directions, or exchange stories. I think the grace
of the French is in their patience. Longer meals, time taken to address people
who enter their sphere, eye contact. I appreciate it very much. It makes me want
to travel even more so I can discover the qualities that make every culture
beautiful.
Unfortunately, because we got so lost, we didn’t get to
Versailles until 2 hours before closing. Also, by the time we got our tickets
we were starving and ready for coffee and cigarettes, so we walked past the
palace and into the village. I’m so glad we did too, because it started the
trip to the Palace in a different way than I’ve seen it. It made me imagine
what it would be like to live in the shadow of the Royal seat when it was
thriving. It isn’t like the palace in Paris that gets swallowed up by the
magnificence of the rest of the area. The village near the Palace of Versailles
is still pretty rural and doesn’t seem to have changed much in the last 300
years. I love it because it has preserved its history.
Walking through the streets one can find evidence of the 1800s,
1700s, 1600s, 1500, etc.
We stopped at a patisserie at 2pm feeling a little funny
because we were drinking coffee while everyone else was drinking wine. And I decided on the fluffiest and
girliest pastry I could find to nibble on the way to the palace. It was giant with purple with silver candy jewels and a rose crème filling.
I imagine living in the shadow of Versailles NOW is pretty
strange. However, I don’t think many people venture into the village as tourists. We were respectful of that. We kept
quiet and aware that we were walking through someone’s daily life.
Versailles, like the Tower, is astonishing to me every time.
Because I like the story of Marie Antoinette, I always imagine what it must
have been like for her as a young teenager to drive up to those gates and into
a world that looks like an enormous Faberge egg.
The Hall Of Mirrors and Marie Antoinette’s room are my
favorites, and luckily we did get that far before it was time for closing.
Can you imagine waking up in that room? How dreamy…and how
overwhelming that must have been.
Especially because the people of the court were allowed to watch their
royals dress for the day at that time in Versailles to show an ownership of the
royals by the people. Even the birth of her children was available for viewing
in that room.
I’ve never been to Austria, but I wonder what her home
palace was like. Based on the portrait of her mother in her room, I gather it
was rather grey-ish. Momma’s look doesn’t fit the color scheme of the rest of the room.
I love the detail work in the carvings and the tapestries. I
love architecture. I love the frescoes, and the way that every room has it’s
own color scheme.
I can’t imagine being chased as a sort of criminal through
my own home. That must have been terrifying. Suddenly the garish and gorgeous work
commissioned by generations of self-elevating kings is nothing more than prison
décor.
We were sad to leave early. Next time we will go back for
the Petit Trianon and the
Queen’s little pretend peasant village.
On November 7 we visited The Louvre. We thought we might
just stroll through and see a few choice favorites but we in fact stayed for
the whole day and saw every corner of the museum…including the service elevator,
because we made friends with a woman on the museum staff. I'm so glad we stayed all day. There are so many wonderful pieces to see.
It is true that the Mona Lisa is alluring; it is also true
that it is smaller than you’d think. My favorite thing about it is its colors.
Chocolate brown, sepia tones, and then a deep blue-green sky.
I like the fact that while everyone is staring at this small
portrait of a girl, behind them is The Wedding At Cana with its 50 life size
people. The first time I visited the Louvre, I bought the book explaining the history of THe Mona Lisa. Her fame makes more sense having read it.
One of my favorite paintings ever is “The Coronation of
Napoleon and Josephine” by Jacques-Louis David. I like to find all the people
who are looking at the observer. I like the three women talking behind
Josephine. The clergy looks rather scary, but I like them too. The colors are so rich and the detail makes for such a vivid image. I can imagine I'm in the painting.
I also like Antoine Watteau’s “Pierrot (Gilles)” painting of
the sad white clownish man. I wonder what makes him so sad.
There is so much to see at The Louvre Museum that I almost
get desensitized. It’s as if I can’t take in that much at once and I don’t even
know what I’m looking at anymore. How lucky to have an experience of too much
beauty. I left feeling inspired to paint, draw or doodle.
On the subject of the building itself, it really is
interesting to me that so many people of power build monuments to themselves. I
told my friend that all the “N”s of Napoleon carved into the doors actually
stood for “Nalick”. Some people in
power still do it too. Perhaps there is some sort of psychology in it that says
that others will respect you more if you have the means and pomp to build
yourself a palace and a shrine. However, I’m glad
these monuments and buildings are there. They are incredibly beautiful and the
psychology works on me. It makes me believe in Napoleon’s healthy sense of self-esteem
beyond his triumphs. Maybe he
needed a retreat with Stewart Samlley of SNL. “Because, Napoleon, you’re good
enough, you’re smart enough, and doggonit, people like you.”
When we went outside it was raining again. It was beautiful.
I think that’s why I love to travel in Fall or Spring. The rain.
The nightly search for delicious drinks found us at Le Chat
Noir. Meow.
November 8 was our last day in Paris. We headed back to Pere
Lachaise to see the rest of the cemetery. It really is enormous. I wanted Oscar Wilde the most…but he was being washed of his
kisses.
We wandered through the maze of blackened stone and flower-adorned
sculptures and found Edith Piaf. Her stone is modest and small….as I hear she
was in life. I’m such a fan of Edith Piaf. My favorite song of hers is called
“Je n’en connais pas la fin.” The song is about a town square and it’s little
fair and the music from the carousel that draws people from Italy and all
around.
If you’d like to hear the song, it’s on itunes…and Jeff
Buckley also does a version.
I was happy to find Modigliani and to marvel at some of the
interesting and a little bit scary stonework, but I was really excited to find
Sarah Berhardt.
When I was in
third grade, my teacher called me Sarah after her. I’m sure it was because I
was a little day-dreamy and could come up with a very dramatic story if faced
with getting in trouble. Therefore, I was proud to sit with Sarah Bernhardt in
her resting place in Pere Lachaise.
We walked for hours in the cemetery, saying prayers and
leaving good thoughts and flowers with all the graves we took photos of. When we left it was raining hard and it
was time to pick up the rental car.
We were late getting the car and the rental place closed as
soon as we got behind the wheel. So there was no asking for help when the GPS
didn’t work.
Driving in Paris is a crazy experience for a few reasons.
For one, I think the general rule is that you just close
your eyes and go where you need to go. That’s not too different from LA, so
that was ok. Not a lot of attention paid to lanes. Oh…and the signs are on the
sides of buildings, so in the rain…or even in the sun and on foot you don’t
know where you are till you get there. I did have to…or rather get to…drive
under the Arc de Triomphe. It was an experience I will never forget. I was
pretty sure that was where I’d be using the insurance I bought on the rental
car….but we made it. We made it all the way to the first roundabout to Rouen…and
took the wrong exit…and came back to the Arc to start over….and then took the
wrong exit again….and then came back to the Arc to start over…Keep in mind we
had no GPS, it was night, and it was raining really hard. The map was of little use because it
was of all of Paris and the streets were so small we couldn’t see them.
So, I did what any grown up would do…I called my Mother.
It was morning in LA and she got online to help us. We
were almost figuring it out…driving in traffic in the rain near the Obelisque…when
there was a knock on my window. A police officer.
He didn’t make a big to-do. He knocked on the window of the
person in front of me so they would move over and let me out of traffic where I
could pull over. Two officers stood at my window and tried like crazy to
conceal their laughter when I said, “Bonsoir. We’re lost. How do we get to
Rouen?”
“One”, said the older officer, “You need to get off your
cellular phone.”
“Desole.” I said meekly.
He continued, “And du, you are going the wrong direction.
Get out of your car and I will point to you where to go.”
I said, “D’accord. Just let me put on my shoes.”
“Trois,” he rolled his eyes, “you need to keep on your shoes when you drive.”
“Trois,” he rolled his eyes, “you need to keep on your shoes when you drive.”
“Desole…again.” I said in complete embarrassment.
I got out of the car and he pointed out where to go and told
me to stay West to Giverny, then to Rouen.
I was so grateful I could have hugged him.
The younger officer winked at my girlfriend and we were
off....ready to explore parts of the country that were unknown to both of us.
We drove for hours and finally arrived in the town of Rouen.
We knew we were close to the hotel but the street signs were sporadic and it
was so dark we couldn’t see them anyway.
So we pulled over at a McDonald’s….as you do…and found two
college kids who helped us out. They were architecture students, so in addition
to lighting our way, they also told us that the reason the buildings are
blackened is not from fire but from pollution. How terrible that we have caused
that kind of damage.
With buildings like Notre Dame Rouen and Saint Ouen towering
above, they must have a very interesting perspective on architecture. Thanks to
them, we found our hotel…otherwise we would still be driving in circles.
When we drove past St. Ouen, he was so beautiful that it
stopped us in our tracks. We literally had to stop the car and stare for a
moment.
We were relieved to pull into the parking garage of our
hotel…which is where I made good use of my rental car insurance while pulling
around a skinny corner in the garage.
November 9. Our hotel was right in the backyard of Notre
Dame Rouen, so the first order of the day was to go inside. There was a tiny
child’s playhouse in the courtyard of the church, and I liked the look of the
contrast. Big to small, grey-black to primary colors, past and future.
The church features a giant stained glass circle window and
such tiny details in the stonework that it looks like pencil sketches in the
photos.
There was a man sitting outside playing accordion against
the backdrop of the church. I put a few euros in his case remembering
something Tim Hogan told me once a long time ago, “If he’s doing a good job or
really trying, always pay the street musician. The only thing that separates
you from him is that you got lucky.” He's tight, you know. Karma.
The inside is as impressive as the outside. The perspective
shot reminds me of a painting…rows and rows of white columns pointing toward a
center alter and gilded crucifix.
I lit a candle and said prayers for all my love ones as I
walked around the massive church.
Although there was considerable damage to the church in a
1944 bombing, much of it was spared…or rather survived…and looks as it did
before attack. The virgin and child and the gothic architecture still stands
tall. And most interestingly, there lies a sarcophagus of King Richard The
Lionheart who left his heart to the Rouen Cathedral when he died in 1199.
My favorite bit of the cathedral is the stairway and door
that leads to the library. It reminds me of the movie “Labyrinth” when Sarah is
in the world of the Goblin King “I turned the world upside-down, and I did it
all for you!”
The famous half-timbered houses reminded me of
Disneyland. That is the lucky
thing about living in the shadow of a Disney theme park. It gives you a taste
of places around the world and makes you want to travel. Every country I’ve visited still feels
like home to me. Especially France. That may be partly just me and my tastes,
but it’s definitely a little bit of the Disneyland upbringing as well.
The town of Rouen is very cute. I liked it’s cobblestone
streets and the beautiful clock over the main archway....as well as the little
pastry shop.
The moon was getting fuller and brighter. I took her picture
over Saint Ouen.
We drove at night to Le Mont Saint Michel and checked into
Relais St. Michel where we were greeted by an adorable night-watchman called
Lucien. He gave us a room with a gorgeous view of Mont Saint Michel. If you
visit Le Mont, I recommend staying at Relais St. Michel. It is so close you can
walk to Le Mont…which we did.
It was breathtaking to awaken to the sight of the island
fortress on November 10. We were so grateful to Mr. Julien the Night Watchman
for giving us the room.
Mont St Michel has spent time as a monastery and later as a
prison. Architecturally it contains buildings of many styles and ages and in
it’s upper story it holds a Romanesque minster with an enormously tall spire.
To reach the top you must climb the steps and walk up the
skinny windy streets aligned with shops selling quiche, macaroons, and
gargoyles.
At the top are the cloister and the great citadel. I chose
the tallest wall and sat atop it for a photo. This became a theme on the trip
actually. I’d climb to the highest height for pictures. What a gorgeous view of
the coast of Normandy.
I loved walking the streets of Mont Saint Michel. Some of
the homes, which are still inhabited by people who work on Mont Saint Michel,
look like miniatures made for a scene in a movie…as if they belong in Mr.
(Monsieur) Rogers Medieval Neighborhood with a horse drawn cart instead of a
trolley.
I’ve always liked the story of Saint Michael and I really
enjoyed his winding medieval streets.
It’s easy to get lost in another time on those streets.
The Saint Michael chapel is small and wonderful. It is jam
packed with relics and statuary, giving it that Day Of The Dead look.
Back down at sea level, I took off my shoes to put my feet
in the sand of the Normandy Coast. It was soft and warm against that freezing
cold water, and it dried like clay.
We drove out early that day on our way to Amboise, stopping
at the old fashioned pump to fill up the tank.
Our hotel in Amboise was like a dream. Set on the Loire
River, Le Choiseul on 36 Quai Charles Guinot is a tiny hidden jewel of a
chateau with only a few rooms and a gorgeous restaurant.
Our room was decorated in turquoise, red, and gold flowers
with a crystal chandelier and a wood paneled window that opened up onto a
flower box and the great Chateau Royal…which we appeared to be in the back yard
of.
We felt like Cinderella, so we in fact fell asleep watching
the Disney classic and awoke to rolling hills and sweet garden air. I sat in the
window to drink my coffee and simultaneously began recording a melody for a new
song with the tape recorder that I let rest in the flowerbed.
We loved Le Choiseul before we even saw the room. This was
all due to how warmly we were greeted by the staff at the front desk. Jean
Batiste and his colleague Alina welcomed us with big smiles and a map of
Amboise. Jean Batiste was so animated and playful that we now remember Amboise
as much for him as for its castles and museums. He is the perfect face of Le
Choiseul. They are lucky to have him and if you ever stay there, I hope you are
lucky enough to be greeted by his inviting laughter and very helpful
tips….(like, “The left lane is not the fast lane…it is the pass lane. You were
blocking traffic and that is why they flash you.”)
The moon in Amboise was very bright. I caught it in a photo
shoot. Smile Petit Lune!
Amboise is known for its flowers and greenery. It is called
the “Garden of France” and it does indeed smell like flowers. It is in the Loire
Valley, which is known for it’s Chateaus, it’s ties to Da Vinci (who’s buried
at Chateau Amboise) and it’s ties to Saint Joan Of Arc (who inspired King
Charles II to fight on in the Chateau Chenonceaux.
On November 11 after coffee and jotting down song ideas, we
asked Jean Batiste his recommendations for much to do and less time to do it
in. He suggested Chenonceaux over Chambord because although it is smaller,
there is more to see inside as it is completely decorated with original
furnishings.
It was a good suggestion. Chenonceaux is very dreamy. It is
Renaissance and built over the river Cher.
When you approach the castle it feels just as approaching a
castle should feel. You walk a path between two long rows of trees and slowly
the Chateau appears, half welcoming and still a little forbidding, mirrored by
the water on each side to make it look even bigger. In reality it is not enormous.
It is however, very suitable to a woman’s tastes. In fact, it was the favorite
of many women throughout history and it was enhanced and added to by
mistresses, queens, princesses, and regents.
The most interesting of these women to me were Catherine de
Medici and Madame Louise Dupin.
Catherine de Medici held Chenonceaux from 1559, when her
husband King Henry II died, until her own death in 1589. Catherine added the
beautiful gardens and used to throw lavish parties…including one that featured
the first fireworks display in France in celebration of her son Francis II’s
ascension to the throne.
In the early 1700s after the Chateau had been in the hands
of the very depressed (and rightly so…her husband was assassinated) Louise de
Lorraine-Vaudemont, wife of King Henry III (Louise de L-V, as a side note,
stayed in mourning until her death and she had her room painted black with skulls
and crossbones stitched into her tapestries. It still stands that way,) it was
frequently abandoned for the next 100 years. Madame Louise Dupin and her
husband, a squire called Claude Dupin enlivened the chateau. Madame Dupin
entertained Enlightenment leaders like Montesquieu, Fontenelle, Rousseau and
Voltaire. (Madame Louise Dupin is actually the grandmother of writer George
Sand.) Louise also saved Chanenceau from being destroyed during the French
revolution because it was the only bridge across the river for miles and miles
and it was needed for commerce as well as travel.
I liked Madame Louise’s portrait. It was said that she was
very beautiful and I agree.
I also enjoyed a painting commissioned by Francis I of “The
Three Graces” which were actually his 3 successive mistresses…and sisters.
What…a cad.
I love the story of the Great Hall of Chenonceau. First of
all, it was in fact itself the bridge over the Cher. But most interestingly, it
was used as an infirmary for soldiers during WWI. Beds were lined up against the walls, watched over by
carvings of famous people of the past, and men would fish out the windows. Can
you imagine that your refuge and place of recovery from war is a castle on the
water? You’d think you were hallucinating.
I also admired the kitchen rooms of the castle. They are
decorated with all of the utensils of the time. Brass pots line the walls, cutting
tools are on display, and a big black stove sits in the center of one
room. It’s easy to imagine the
staff bustling in and out of those rooms with warm bread and cooked meats for
parties.
Of all the castles and cathedrals we visited, Chenonceau was
the most feminine. It is certainly this way because it was run and funded by so
many women (there is even a “Bedroom of the Five Queens.”) Even it’s little
garden and farm look ladylike. I could have wandered around all day, but we had
plans for dinner back at our little chateau.
For dinner I ordered deer with sweet potato and gingerbread
crumbs. Shredded rabbit was out of the question because it was literally
translated to English as “shredded rabbit” and my theory on food is sometimes
you just don’t need that much information.
My dinner was delightful and my wine was even better. I
don’t remember what it was exactly, but it was dark and a little smoky. The further south we got, the more I
liked the wine.
The real story of this meal was the “cheese cart.” We were very careful not to be rude,
finicky, or timid, so we tried every cheese our waiter recommended…even if our
animal instincts and sense of smell warned us against one in particular. I’m
going to save the details for the personal diary, but it was absolutely the
most hilarious meal in France, and thank God for Jean Batiste who was good
enough to assure us that it wasn’t that we American girls were suffering from an
under-developed palate. He in fact would never have tasted that cheese after
having smelled it once long ago. We were pionniers de fromage!
Another silly moment at dinner…a few glasses of wine in, my
girlfriend asked me to place the accent of the people sitting behind us. I love
the accents when I’m touring so sometimes I can name them pretty well. I was thinking Savannah or Charleston
but I couldn’t place it so I said confidently…
“I’m thinking South America.” (Mind you, I was three sheets
and two glasses to the wind)
She narrowed her gaze at them. “Really? But they’re,
like…REALLY white.”
“No, I mean South OF America,” I tried to correct myself,
laughing.
She looked more confused…like maybe she gives me too much
credit.
“Like…Cuba?” She mused.
“I mean IN the South IN the United States of America,” I was
laughing so hard I was crying because this couple was so obviously Southern,
but my sweet friend was determined to believe I knew what I was talking about.
What a beautiful gift to have a friend like that.
I forgot to mention that before dinner, we stopped at the Da
Vinci museum down the street from our hotel. That meant we got to walk the narrow streets of Amboise,
through the little market town, and past a gorgeous little chocolate shop where
we collected goodies marked with images of Leonardo Da Vinci.
His museum is predominately outdoors, save for the Clos
Luce…the mansion where Leonardo lived and worked…. and is spread out over a
large park. Walking through the park one can view…and even climb on…some of his
inventions built to life size. I am sure that when they are blooming, the
gardens, built from plant life studied by Da Vinci, are really lovely.
I wonder if a genius like Da Vinci ever had moments of self-doubt
or if he wondered if he was crazy with all those thoughts and ideas. And if enough people had told him when
he was a child to pipe down and just draw stick figures like every one else,
would we be as developed as we are now in art and architecture and medicine? It’s incredible how much the mind is
capable of, and what I admire most about Da Vinci is his unlimited imagination.
The same thing that allows my nephew to draw a portrait of all of us on a farm
he’s never been to or seen, also turns out a Leonardo Da Vinci or a Steve Jobs.
How dare I ever tell my imagination to pipe down and let me “work”. I’m useless
without her.
I bought a book of Da Vinci thoughts and quotes. I’m sure I
will learn very much from His Beardedness the Genius.
On the morning of November 12, we left our little chateau
for a visit to the real Chateau d’Amboise. We were pleased to walk through the town again and up the
great steps into the courtyard of the Castle. The castle is a little bit Gothic and a little bit
Renaissance in design because it was developed over time.
The first thing I saw upon entering was the little Chapel of
Saint Hubert. The chapel is quite tiny and features stained glass windows that light and color the whole room.
However, the most exciting thing in the chapel is the grave
where it is said Leonardo Da Vinci is buried. Of course, this may not be true,
but just in case it is, I curled up on his grave to tell him
secrets.
Leonardo came as a guest of King Francis I in 1515 and lived
at the nearby Clos Luce, which was connected to the castle by an underground
passageway.
Chateau d’Amboise overlooks the Loire River and it was
something like a royal nursery. Francis I was raised there, as well as the
children of Henry II and his wife Catherine de’ Medici, including Mary Queen of
Scots.
It has a pretty bloody history as well. In the 1500’s, during
the French Wars of Religion, a political conspiracy was cracked and then
covered by the hanging of 1200 Protestants. The bodies were hung from the walls
of the town and the castle itself, and eventually the smell of rotting corpses drove
the whole court away.
How sad that so much of our world history and wars were and
still are fueled by religion. I
don’t believe there is a God who would have condoned any of it. Butcher, maim, and cause pain in my
name, so that you may all kneel and pray the same way. That sounds backwards to
me. I believe in the God who created a valley that smells like flowers, a river
that runs for millions of years, and great minds that build beautiful structures
lived in by kings and commoners alike.
The castle went through a period of abandonment, was
partially demolished during the French Revolution, an assessment of engineering
under Napoleon destroyed a great deal of it, and after a brief period of reconstruction
in 1848 and again in 1873, it was further damaged by German invasion in 1940.
This beautiful castle has really been through a lot of
reinventing, and she now stands as an historic monument….and I kissed her
Knight in Shining Armor, scribbled a short poem in front of her fireplace, and
jumped the ropes to sit in her throne. Thus, royal children’s nursery it
remains.
Smoking cigarettes and drinking that rich, never bitter,
always delicious coffee is one of my favorite parts of my stay in France, so we
did just that on the street of Amboise in the shadow of the great Chateau as
the sun set.
From there we said a sad goodbye to Jean Batiste and Alina
and we began the drive to Sarlat-la-Caneda.
The drive to this little commune in the Dordogne department
of Aquitaine was a long one. I believe this was also the night we pulled over
in a little village on the wrong side of the road to take photos of the moon. We were visited by a police car as we
snapped photos. I’m sure we looked crazy, but they simply laughed at us and
pointed the way back to the main road. It was a good thing we were stopped,
because we were a little turned around, but obviously unafraid. By this point,
France was our third girlfriend and we trusted her to lead the way.
As we drove I told my girlfriend a story I’ve been writing. It made the time fly by and soon we were sleepily pulling into the tiny
medieval town in the Perigord Noir.
November 13 we awoke in Sarlat, a commune untouched by
modern hands. We stopped here for
two reasons. One, I wanted to see a medieval commune untouched by modern
hands…and Two, it lies close to both Chateau Beynac and Chateau Castelnaud. It
is a remarkable little quiet town. The whole area, including the Chateaus, has
been used for movies and stories and it’s easy to see why. It’s been perfectly
preserved and it bleeds antiquity, such that you almost have to use your
imagination to remember you’re living in 2011. It’s perfect!
On this first day in Sarlat, we followed the signs to
Chateau Castelnaud and from there we would visit Chateau Beynac. Beynac (for
girls who like fairytales) was used in the movie “Ever After”. Thus, I decided
it was a good day to wear my new sparkly Cinderella flats….to a medieval
fortress now known for its artillery collection.
Unfortunately, the Chateau Castelnaud was closed for the
season, but the grounds, as well as the River Dordogne were wide open, so we
wandered around and eventually landed on the water. I love to feel the water of another land on my feet. In fact, I try to go barefoot for a
minute or two in every place in the world that I love. In New Orleans they have a saying that
if you walk barefoot in the city, a little piece of your soul will be left
there. I did walk barefoot in New
Orleans, and I’ve gone on to apply the folklore to everywhere else. Thus, when
my body goes to play strip poker with the worms, my soul will be going on a vacation
around the world.
I would have jumped in that water too, if it weren’t so cold…and
there weren’t too many people around to take clothes off.
The stone facing of Castelnaud looks like someone wrapped
paper over the exterior and then rubbed all around with a piece of charcoal.
The streets wind so that it is impossible not to get lost...which was quite
fun. I accidentally wandered into
someone’s courtyard from a tiny little walkway. Their view of the river was
incredible. I felt bad for being on private property so I watered their plants....and from there actually made new friends.
Seeing a place like Castelnaud helps make sense of the
notion of a functioning Kingdom. It’s easier to fathom a city that is built
into a castle like we see in movies or read in books, where carved from the
same rock and upon one giant mountain there is a whole court and population
below where the king sits. One can envision being a working class person and having
the King himself bobble right past you in his carriage because that street is
his only option for getting back to his throne up on the hill.
Down at the water’s edge, I had a daydream of sailing up to
the fortress and climbing the hill to my home where I’d write poetry for the
King and water my own garden.
In reality Castelnaud was built as the rival of our next
destination, Chateau Beynac, and during the Hundred Years War it was under allegiance
to the Plantagenets…English throne, while Beynac was French and was once
captured by King Richard the Lionheart.
On the drive from Castelnaud to Beynac, we passed little
farmhouses that looked like a scene out of a painting. There was golden grass
and red-orange leaves surrounding grey and tan houses with ducks in the yard. I
wanted to knock on any door and ask to stay forever.
To our astonishment, Beynac was open. There were a few souvenir
shops, but for the most part it looked like a normal town….500 years ago…with
regular hard working people living in it.
Chateau Beynac was built in the 12th century and
it sits atop a limestone cliff on the north bank of the Dordogne River, on the
opposite bank from Castelnaud.
On one side, it’s exterior wall rests on a sheer cliff face
hundreds of feet above ground and water level. This is where I chose to perch
for my photo. I think my heart stopped for a moment, but such is the way with
reaching a pinnacle…it was worth it.
The view from where I sat showed me all of the town, the surrounding
castles, the gorgeous fall trees and the Dordogne River. Grey, blue, orange,
yellow, green, brown, and white. Had I fallen, it would have been to fall into
a painting. Of course, my girlfriend brought me back to reality with, “Yeah ok,
but what would I tell your parents? She fell into a painting? Please get down.
You’re making me sweaty.”
There were actually a lot of places to perch at Beynac…and
we did a lot of just sitting and admiring the panoramic view of the valley. It
was days like this when we felt like one with the land and sort of lost in
time. These were the best moments.
Beynac has an unbelievable collection of medieval weapons
and artillery pieces. There are quivers, arrows, a trebuchet, a catapult, and
cannons, to name a few frightening and awesome key pieces. There are also
little holes in the walls for blowing bombs or shooting arrows.
There is also a wishing well.
Before leaving the castle, I noticed that much of the
exterior wall was built of protruding, misshapen stones, and no one was around,
so I took off my Cinderella slippers and scaled the wall until the stones got
too small for a California Girl or a medieval rival soldier to climb. However,
I made it all the way to the top of the archway…and a fair distance up the wall
too, where I pocketed a little piece of limestone for my father. I was so proud
and excited to brag to my adventure seeking, rock climber brothers…I scaled a
Medieval Fortress…barefoot…in a silk skirt!
When we left Chateau Beynac it was dark and all the shops
were closed. We drove back into Sarlat and walked from our hotel into the city
to find wine.
We discovered a little place, where we drank wine and ate
fois gras. It was not the first time I’d tasted any of the things I’ve
mentioned….except maybe for that one cheese…I’d have remembered that…but this
night and on this trip fois gras was the only thing that my mostly vegan
diet would not stand for. It was delicious and wonderfully prepared, but it
made me very sick. Still, I
recommend you try it if you ever have a chance. You might get lucky ;)
The next morning we awoke early. We had a plan to walk the
city before heading to dinner on the water of the Mediterranean and then to
Avignon.
There exists a line drawn between where I cautiously let you
in and where I politely shut you out. This story straddles that line. However,
you must be wondering how two female best friends fared for 3 weeks in another
country with pretty much only each other. The truth is, we got along fine, but
both being strong willed and quick-witted little firecrackers, we did snap once
or twice. This scenario happened
toward the end….
I awoke early to plot out the next few days. When she awoke
and saw me with several maps open on the bed, she asked….
“How can I help you?” She was still half asleep and probably hoping I'd say I didn't need help.
I answered without even looking up or saying good morning,
“In a minute. Just let me organize something for….(I trailed off)”
Finally I said, “Ok, I just need your help deciding on the
last few days. You ready?”
“Uh huh,” she replied. She was looking at my book of Da Vinci quotes and at facebook
on her laptop at the same time.
I figured she could do 2 or more things at once, so I
began….
“We can hang around town today and leave late for Avignon,
stopping in Montpellier for dinner. Or we can leave here early and visit the
caves full of stalactites and stalagmites before heading to Avignon. Or we can
go straight to Avignon and then leave Avignon early for Nice on the 16th,
stopping in Grasse on the way to visit Fragonard and the other perfumeries.
Either way we need to be in Nice on the afternoon of the 17th to
catch our flight back to Paris….”
I looked up and could tell she was reading on her computer, so like a
cranky, antagonistic twit, I added, “….and I’m pregnant.”
She turned to me with fire in her eyes and retorted, “I’m
LISTENING to you!”
I answered back with drippy fake sugar on my voice…as if I
hadn’t been kind of asking for it…
"I didn’t say you weren’t. I just…”
She cut me off and angrily rattled off, “We can go to
Avignon today! We can stop in Nice and see the perfumery! We can go to Grasse
and see the cave filled with bagpipes!! We can go to the water!! I heard
EVERYTHING you said!!!”
I slammed my maps on the bed and headed for the shower,
saying nothing when she asked, “Are we done talking then?”
I got into the shower and did the hypothetical conversation
trick where you say all the things you’d never be clever or ballsy or a big
enough bitch to say in real life…..
For example:
“There are 3 assholes in this room right now, and one of you
has to go!”
OR
“If it wasn’t for me, you’d still be lost in Paris, where
you’d have to learn the “Madame You Dropped This Gold Ring” trick to make
enough money to buy a plane ticket out of a paper bag!”
When I came out of the shower, we were silent for the
duration of our getting ready. I was certainly being a brat, giving her the grown-up
version of the silent treatment where you pretend you are extremely busy with
whatever you are doing PLUS your own thoughts PLUS the state of the thread on
the towel and a thousand other things that don’t matter at all, and you huff a
little here and there to make your pissed off presence known.
Finally she asked in a calm voice, “Are you not speaking to
me now?”
I answered snippily, “I’m just getting ready for the day.”
That’s when I realized I was lying and we both knew it.
I re-answered, “No, I AM not talking to you, because talking
to YOU means there’s a 95% chance I’m going to get yelled at, and only a STUPID
person ASKS for it!!”
She retorted, “No, I just REACTED because YOU thought I
wasn’t LISTENING to you!”
And I fired back, “No! I KNOW you weren’t listening to me!
Because the perfumeries are in GRASSE, we are LEAVING from Nice, and there is
no such thing as a CAVE filled with FUCKING BAGPIPES!!”
That ended the argument. We laughed really hard, realizing
that we were wasting far too much time and energy by acting like two Halloween
kitties passing each other on a garden wall. Best friends again.
Sarlat is surrounded by wooded hills and it centers around
an ancient abbey and a church, which eventually became the Cathédrale
Saint-Sacerdos de Sarlat. Its courtyard is dirt and stone in it’s foundation,
and inside it is spacious and bright with light from the stained glass windows.
I favored its pipe organ and it’s Stations of the Cross. The station featuring
Veronica wiping the face of Jesus and capturing His image on the cloth is my
favorite.
The town of Sarlat-la-Caneda is really lovely. Many memories
in that little town…but we had dinner in Montpellier and a bed in Avignon to
look forward to….and a long, beautiful drive in between.
Unfortunately, by the time we got to Montpellier, on the
night of the 14th, the restaurant was closed and it was too dark to
get to the water safely. Next time.
Instead we continued on to Avignon and checked into Auberge
De Cassagne just outside the city. Driving past the walls of the city of
Avignon, we knew there was something special inside. We were excited for a
visit the next day.
I liked the hotel. It felt like a garden and it featured a
curtained bed and yellow lighting.
I fell asleep drinking Champagne and Absinthe and nibbling on chocolate from
Amboise. Pure heaven.
The shutters in our room were green and they opened onto a
garden. I love the smell of the air in the South. Added to the violet, hearth,
chocolate, and rose smell, there is the scent of water. A little salty and a
little stale like it’s been sitting in a wooden barrel. I adore it.
On the morning of November 15, we crossed town, through the
protective walls and into the city of Avignon.
We got lost (as is the theme) trying to find parking under
the famous Popes Palace. Actually, we got ourselves stuck on a narrow street
because someone who was in a hurry told us to “just go” and we followed her
direction into a dead end. A helpful construction worker had to aid us by
calling whomever it is one calls to get those middle-of-the-street metal
roadblock posts lowered so we could pass.
We ended up parking on the street, and even though we looked very
carefully for signs, we did end up getting a ticket. And yet, to be reprimanded
by the law of a country I’d grown to really love, only made me feel more like a
child of it’s violet scented, no-No-Parking-sign having streets. Add to that
the probable speeding tickets, the ticket for not having a train pass, the
damage to the rental car, and I believe I am truly the troublesome adopted child
of France...but it’s child nonetheless.
Walking into the Northern edge of Avignon that overlooks the Rhone
River, you are greeted by a most austere and intimidating Palais du Pape. It
befits its station as the home of a few medieval Popes and antipopes, as it is
by far the most masculine of all the palaces we visited. It does indeed lord
over its audience like a stern father, and yet it still remains somehow
welcoming in its strength and grace.
The cutout in its center balcony doesn’t line up with the center window
in between the two front upside-down saber-tooth towers. I wonder if that
bothered any of the Popes who lived there. If any of them had OCD, it
absolutely did.
Our stay in Avignon was the highlight of our trip.
Remembering it feels like some kind of faerie-tale come to life. As such, I
hesitate to tell every detail. I’d rather keep it for myself. However, because
I chanced to meet someone who runs Avignon’s board of human relations, and I
told him that his town was like a secret I want to tell everyone…I should
explain a little bit about why Avignon is so magnificent.
First of all, its location on the Rhone makes it seem like a
faerie land. Then once you are inside the walls that surround the city just like
a medieval kingdom should, you find that despite the enormity of the famed
Palais, the population surrounding it is rather small. It feels and
functions like the close knit community that a parent would hope to find to
raise children in. However, it’s also a bustling city filled with a museum, a
carousel, a theatre, churches, tea parlors, cafes, restaurants, nightclubs, and
a university. The people were
welcoming and warm wherever we went and there was music everywhere…including a
man in the courtyard of the Palace who played Beatles tunes all day and into
the night.
AG Chocolatier was the home of the best chocolates I tasted
on my entire journey. They were actually the best truffles I’ve ever
tasted…ever.
We were honored to meet a family and their friends who came
from France, Italy, Chile, and the Ukraine. They treated us like family…and
everybody knew all the lyrics to “Hotel California” in English, so the language
barrier met its match. We had a full-on music session. Thank you a thousand times to all of our new friends in Avignon.
Simply put, I fell in love. If you ever have a chance to
visit France, go to Avignon.
We actually stayed late on the night of the 16th, so when we arrived in Nice on the 17th, we had just enough time to
shower, take a catnap, and head to the airport. Driving through the night and
early morning, I was very glad to have my AG Chocolatier Avignon truffles. Actually, I’m nibbling on a little lavender chocolate right now.
Leaving Avignon on November 17 was so difficult that only
fits of exhausted laughter could get us through. My girlfriend was nervous during take-off so I imitated what
exactly I think would happen if I failed to follow that “no-smoking” rule. “I wonder” I
asked, “what would they do if I repeatedly failed to comply? I bet they'd kick me
out over this ocean, with a pair of child’s floaties cause I’m like a child who
refuses to follow directions. Would I have to wave to you from the water below
as I float there in the water, floaties around my arms and neck and a cigarette
in my mouth? Saying, 'This is total bullshit' between puffs?”
That night in Paris we wondered into a little tiny
restaurant in the corner at the end of an alley near Rue Cambon. It was so
little that everyone in the restaurant; chefs, wait staff, and diners, all
spoke to each other over dinner. I don’t remember what we ate but I remember I
sang “Complainte de la Butte” and a few of them sang along. I also remember a
man dining alone as a customer but not alone as he was friends with the kitchen
and floor staff. He was introduced to us by the chef as “The Typical
Frenchman”. He jovially asked us
if we wanted to go home with him…which makes him a typical forward-man, but
doesn’t necessarily constitute typical French. He did however look like Maurice Chevalier, so maybe that’s
it.
I wish I had written down the name of that little place
because it was the perfect last supper in France. Quiet, friendly, and intimate. We walked back to our hotel
and realized that since we’d been out of Paris, Christmastime had begun. Twinkling white lights now glittered
the sidewalks and pictured in the windows were red ribbons around gold
packages. I know we are famous in the US for starting the Christmas season in
October, but being in a country that doesn’t practice the Thanksgiving feast, made
it feel like we arrived right after Halloween and left right before Christmas.
It made the trip seem much longer. I’m grateful for that.
The morning of the 18th saw us up early so we
could walk down the street for one last café au lait and cigarette. We walked
farther than we needed to so we could see the Eiffel Tower, the enormous Farris wheel,
and the whole Place de la Concorde one more time. We ended up meeting some
friendly construction workers, who spoke no English…so I bought them coffee
because good music, good food, and good drinks are universal languages.
As expected, we did in fact cry a little bit walking back to
our hotel and again in the car on the way to the airport. We had learned a lot
and made some beautiful memories, but it was time to go home.
I am so grateful to everyone who befriended us and welcomed us.
In closing, I think falling in love with a place is just like
falling in love with a person. To see them and find them attractive is to fancy
them. But to know their history…good and bad, breathe their air, sing their
songs, taste them, walk barefoot with them, feel lucky just to know them, and
still want more…that is love.
I fell in love with France and I can’t wait to go back for
more.
AnNa November/December 2011
