The French National Food

Only in Paris would there be an expo dedicated to chocolate! We spent the several hours today at the chocolate show in the suburbs of Paris, sampling and just taking in the devotion of the French to one of their most important foods.

In addition to tasting, there were demonstrations, movies, dancing, and even massage with chocolate oils. One exhibit featured the winners of a chocolate art competition. At another booth, a man was carving chocolate.






Classes of French children were on field trips to the chocolate expo.

I thought the impossible had happened as I left the expo hall: I was chocolated out. But I was ready to eat a chocolate dessert for lunch just a couple of hours later.

We spent the afternoon wandering in the Marais, the Jewish quarter of Paris, where we visited a fantastic museum dedicated to Jewish history.

On the walk back, I took this picture of my favorite motorcycle. It has a roof and even a windshield wiper. So sensible!

As the sun was setting, I started to say my goodbyes.

Winding Down

It’s a lot more work to be a tourist in Paris, a city that begs you to walk morning, noon, and night. I literally walked my ass off today because it was a perfect day and there is just so much to see.

This is the view out the window of the cafe where I get free wi-fi.

This morning we took a walking “DaVinci Code” tour with a 25-year-old who is in a lot better shape than I am. We met at the Ritz Hotel in one of the priciest sections of downtown Paris. We learned that the rooms in the Ritz range from 900 to 9,000 euros a night. I just had to take a picture of the bathroom because it is in such contract to the one from last week with the footprints and the hole in the ground.


Our young guide did a commendable job at giving us a history lesson, while pointing out the spots that figured in the story and also pointing out the inaccuracies in Dan Brown’s novel. We walked for most of 2 hours from the Place Vendome, where the Ritz is located, through the Louvre to St. Sulpice, the church that played a big role in the story, which is located in the Rive Gauche.

Lunch included 6 of the oysters I have been eying since coming to Paris. They came with a shallot vinaigrette dipping sauce. They were wonderful. After lunch we visited La Maison du Chocolat, where a free taste resulted in a purchase of melt-in-your-mouth pieces of chocolate.


We spent the rest of the afternoon at Montmartre, seeing Sacre Coeur and just soaking up the ambiance of this place that was the home to so many famous artists. Getting up to this highest spot in Paris burned off all the calories we had taken in today as the funicular was not working.


Kris and Bill are doing a bateau mouche trip on the Seine tonight. David and I are just too beat to join them. We’re going to have a crepe or two across the street from the hotel and just relax, something we’ve forgotten how to do here in Paris.

As our trip winds to an end, I realize that as much fun as it’s been, I’m really ready to go home. I feel over-stimulated by so many things to see and do and EAT! It’s time to get back to the simplicity of my daily routine with things like fruit and cottage cheese for lunch. It’s time to play with my dogs. It’s time to go back to work. All good things must come to an end.

One more day to be a tourist…
Happy Halloween! This picture of a stack of "courses" was the best I could do...

Even in the Rain

Paris is still the most beautiful city in the world. We arrived on what appeared to be the last day of summer. The street performers were out in full force last night as we strolled along the Seine in the Rive Gauche in short sleeves.

But today it is damp and markedly colder. Even two café-au-laits failed to take the chill away.

We are staying under the shadow of Notre Dame on l’Ile St. Louis. Here are some pictures I took on the block where our hotel is located.



Right now we’re sitting at an outdoor café in the Tuillerie Gardens waiting for the Musee de l’Orangerie to open. This is the home of Monet’s 91-meters of water lilies, which was closed for renovation the last time we were in Paris. The scene is considerably different than it is on a sunny Sunday, when young children are sailing their boats in the pool, couples are lounging in the grass, and musicians are adding the background sound that so typifies Paris.

Instead I can hear the crunch of leaves underfoot, the chatter of children confined to their strollers, and the clink of spoons from those sipping hot drinks. What a window on humanity as they stroll by on their way to who knows where.



The afternoon ended with a little sun and a chance to sit and meditate while listening to an organ concert in the Eglise de la Madeleine. Even though it’s not my religion, the church is magnificent. And the concert was free, as many are.

Saying Au Revoir

I’ve always had trouble with saying goodbye – to good friends, to favorite places, to healthy changes of pace. So how did we spend our last day in Provence?

Breakfast was a mixture of leftovers – yogurt with fresh plums, a hunk of toasted baguette with butter, a cup of coffee. The cereal, milk, and juice are fini.

Today was market day again in Lourmarin. So I went with particular things in mind -- soaps, gifts for David’s mother and aunt, a little pomade of lavendar to sweeten the layette of Leyla’s unborn baby, and something for our wonderful friends at the Moulin Hotel who have treated us like guests as we mooched their wi-fi.



We had also agreed to buy dinner, thinking the lady with the roasted chickens would be back. But instead there was a man making fresh paella at 5 euros a portion – quite a bargain.

Street musicians playing jazz near the market.

A Frenchman with this dogs.

Art that caught my eye.
David and I packed a picnic and headed out for a final bike ride. After a hilly start, we found a road that was only a gentle uphill. We tried unsuccessfully to buy wine for dinner at several local caveaux, or wine cellars, only to find them closed for the midday break.

As we walked our bikes over the bumpy cobblestones, we stopped to look at listings of houses for sale in the Luberon. Now if someone would just leave us the equivalent of a million earos…

My treat of the day was to get my hair washed and “brushed” (as they say here) at the local coiffure. It may not look as good as when Richard does it, but my helmet head from wearing a bike helmet for 10 days was definitely gone. My stylist Ellen told me how much she would like to live in Miami. She was also lamenting the fact that there is no place to get a massage in Lourmarin. I know someone who could provide such a service… She even speaks some French.

I have yet to say goodbye to Mousse, the black-and-white cat, and Batshik, the adorable hotel dog.

My only consolation in leaving Lourmarin is that we will be spending the next 4 days in Paris, the most beautiful city in the world.

Sur la Mer

Today we headed to the Cote d’Azur – to Cassis – to enjoy the French Riviera.

As we strolled into town, we had our pick of sidewalk cafes on all sides of the port, which was full of boats of all descriptions. Lunch was delicious garlicky fish soup with yet another chocolate dessert and espresso.

We had intended to take a boat trip to explore the Calanques – the fjord-like inlets along the coast. But the wind was blowing too hard to allow boats to safely exit and enter the harbor.

Instead we explored the labyrinth of side streets. We took in a serious boules competition in the town square. We finally planted ourselves near the beach to feel the breeze and hear the waves smashing against the rocky shore while seagulls flew overhead speaking the .same language they speak everywhere.




We missed the beach with topless woman bathers that Kris and Bill discovered on their walk to the lighthouse. Quelle domage!

We had our pick of a variety of flavors of sorbet before heading out of town.



On the way out of town as we drove up a very steep narrow road wide enough for just one car, we met someone coming down. We burned some serious rubber as Bill finally navigated the Kangoo around the oncoming car. The rest of us breathed a sigh of relief when we realized we were not going backwards into the ravine below.

Yet another adventure in the French countryside with the locals lamenting the American occupation…

Haute Cuisine

Last night was a lesson in French gastonomie as we dined at L’Auberge la Feniere. There were so many hints at why this was a multi-star restaurant, in addition to the food itself.

We were ushered into a rustic but beautiful dining room which exuded warmth and were shown to a fairly secluded table. When offered menus in French or English, David said “French” – probably not the right response since there is still so much food vocabulary that I haven’t learned. After the sticker shock wore off, three of us decided on the less expensive of the fixed price menus and David went for two courses: duck and chocolate. He has his priorities straight.

While we perused the menu and asked a few questions, we were served a plate of scrumptious one-bite appetizers: a single shrimp on a spoon of curry sauce, a little piece of toast topped with something like a tapenade, and a puffed pastry bite with who knows what inside.

The wine stewardess gave a good demonstration of how to serve red wine. She skillfully opened the bottle, smelled the cork, tasted a small amount, and then poured it into a wide-bottomed decanter. Only then did she offer it to us to taste and accept. The wine was a local full-body red produced just down the road from us.

Our bread plates were filled and re-filled every time we finished off a piece of bread. The bread was accompanied by fragrent olive oil.

Course #1 was a duck confit with some sort of delicious chutney (pictured above). The confit was creamy and melt in your mouth good. The chutney was tart and just right as an accompaniment.

The next course was a parmesan crisp topped with a mixture of sautéed wild mushrooms. You have to imagine this one because I was too anxious to taste it to take a picture first.

The main course was sliced roast lamb tenderloin, cooked to a perfect pink, with a puree of a white vegetable. We could never figure out the vegetable, even when the waiter brought out the uncooked root vegetable in a small bowl.

David’s duck was just as beautiful in its presentation. It was adorned by plump purple figs.

The cheese course featured 4 varieties of goat cheese with a salad topped with some sort of red berries.

At this point we were served a rosemary sorbet to cleanse our pallets in preparation for dessert. I would never have imagined rosemary as a flavor for dessert, but it worked quite well.

The final course was pineapple topped with marinated cooked apples, with a small serving of passion fruit ice cream at the other end of the plate. David’s dessert was a decadent chocolate log that ressembled a bouche de Noel.



A large part of the beauty of this approach to food is in the presentation of it. Each plate is decorated with sauces, oils, and garnishes appropriate to its content. The colors are perfect. Even the plate itself is selected to best display the food it contains. Artistic design plays a large role in French cooking.

After 5 courses of the best food I have ever eaten, we felt satisfied but not overly full. We walked out into the starry, starry night for the 5-minute ride home to Lourmarin.

This is a night when I appreciated the fact that I was not wealthy enough to do this on a regular basis, but I had enough money to occasionally splurge. It was definitely worth every euro!

In Search of a Farm

As we came back from a long walk on Sunday, I had noticed a sign about a farm which made essential oils just 3.5 kilometers away. Today we headed off on our bikes to try to discover La Ferme de Gerbaud.

After almost 3 kilometers of steadily climbing uphill, the road turned to rocks and we decided to lock the bikes to a tree and continue on foot. When we finally approached the farm, we were greeted by a pitbull who was sizing us up (for his next meal?) After coming this far, I was not about to just walk away. I told David not to run or make any sudden movements as I started talking quietly to the dog in whatever language I could muster.


Eventually he became less ferocious and we gingerly walked up toward the main house, where his owner greeted us and assured us he was tres gentil. She offered to open her showroom for us, where we found an array of local products, including essential oils and honey and lavendar and soap.


Paula proceeded to tell us all the beneficial uses of essential oils and it became obvious that this was more than just a business to her. We made our purchases and then sat down for a snack, with the dog (Daro) literally eating out of our hands.

The other animals on the farm included...


Perhaps the best find of the afternoon was a house with a large pool down the road which Paula rents for about half of what we are paying in the town of Lourmarin. It is surrounded by the 62 acres of the farm which supplies her business. Can you imagine living in the middle of lavendar fields?



The real joke was that Daro liked us so much that he tried to follow us home. When we hit the paved road and he was still leading the way, we called Paula on our phone and she sent her son down to get the prodigal dog.

I’m getting better at the biking. I managed the climb to La Ferme de Gerbaud without any real difficulty. And I must say the trip home completely downhill was a breeze.

Tonight we are eating out at a local country restaurant called Auberge La Feniere. We’ll see how this meal stacks up against our daube! It’s nice to let someone else do the cooking…

Vincent's Provence

Today blew in with a gray sky and threats of rain as we headed toward Arles, the scene of many of Vinvent Van Gogh’s paintings. Arles is an ancient town, having been a major thoroughfare for the Greeks and the Romans. The old forum, which has been partially restored, is a reminder of those earlier times. While the boys toured the forum, Kris found the Santons she had been looking for and spent a big chunk of her shopping budget.

I was on the lookout for fabric from which to make a myriad of things I had seen in the markets around Provence. I finally settled on a quilted print featuring the cigale or grasshopper, the symbol of the region. I bought enough fabric to fill a good part of the duffle bag which David had packed empty. I spent much of the rest of our driving time designing the things I want to make.


As we toured Arles on foot, I discovered another specialty of the French, the toilet with two footprints and a hole in the ground. Never before had I attempted to do what I did in that toilet. (At least one of you is saying TMI, so enough about French toilets.)


From Arles, we headed north to Les Baux, a town built on the side of a hill, which seemed to be largely a collection of classy souvenir shops. The good news was that if you held out until you got to the top, the prices were lower. We rewarded ourselves for trekking up the hundreds of steps of Les Baux with the best café au lait we have had in France. Even David decided to go for the caffeine, take his Lactaid pill, and experience the luxury of coffee as only the French can make it.


Our way home took us through St. Remy, the site of the hospital where Van Gogh recovered from his suicide attempt. It’s a good think Kris and I had put together this jigsaw puzzle because St. Remy proved to be a “just missed it” spot as Bill accelerated back toward Lourmarin. (“Just missed it” was coined by one of Kris’s and Bill’s children because of his proclivity to drive right past important sites without stopping.)



The rain never really proved to be a problem, but most things would have probably looked better in the sunlight we have been spoiled with most days.

Tonight we will finish off the daube, eat artichokes, duck pate, and a bottle of new red wine from a vineyard just down the road.

Tomorrow the sun is supposed to return. We’re thinking of staying near home and exploring a maker of scents just up the road from Lourmarin on bikes. The sand of our Lourmarin hourglass is running low…

Hanging Out at Home

Today is a day of rest after a busy week packing in all the sights and sounds and tastes of Provence that we could possibly process. We slept in, only getting out of bed as the town clock rang 9 times. The day began as it always does – with a crisp cool breeze and a bright sun.

It was just right for sitting outside at Café Gaby to enjoy café au lait with an omelette aux herbes de Provence and a baguette with buerre and confiture. The residents of Lourmarin rode past, walked passed, joined us for Sunday brunch.




The walk back took us past a bookstore for children.

I think you need a house tour of Las Maison des Iris, which we call home in Lourmarin.

This is our upper patio with its outdoor grill.

The kitchen where the daube was cooked.

Our bedroom with the winding stairs to the upper level.

The stairs down to who knows where from our living area. Quentin -- If you are reading this, note the theraband, which I am using for my exercises every day!

Our bathroom with antique tub. David after his first bath -- "How do I get out of here?"

The balcony outside our bedroom.

The stove in our dining room.

Our courtyard as you enter La Maison des Iris.

As you can see, the bicycles are taking a day off as well. We’re all getting recharged for another week in this paradise in the south of France. Tomorrow we venture south to join the rich of Nice and Cannes. Then a few more days in Provence before heading north to Paris.


Meanwhile Kris and I are plotting to buy boots, gaucho pants, and any number of other splurges that would quickly run up any charge card, but would render us fit to join the fashion parade of Lourmarin.

The Water of Provence

Today’s itinerary took us on the water tour of Provence, as we visited Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, Velleron, and Fontaine-de-Vaucluse. This was our first day to do a bike ride where we had to haul the bikes to the starting point. Only the loveliness of the area could have justified the effort to shlepp the 4 bikes in and on the Kangoo.

We drove into the car park in Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, about 50 km. from Lourmarin, just as the sun disappeared and the wind whipped up. Nobody mentioned the possibility of the R word as we got on the bikes and headed out of town, using the occasional bike path that presented itself. As we exited Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, the road took on its usual narrow width and the shoulder disappeared. The good news was there was very little traffic and virtually no trucks. As we stopped for a coffee in Velleron, we learned that the only way to get to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse was to go back to Isle. Oh well, the sun was now out, the road was relatively flat, and the route led back along the Sorgue river.

Isle is known as the Venice of Provence, literally being an island surrounded by water. There are charming water wheels along the swift-flowing Sorgue, which used to serve as a form of power for this mill town. We lunched in the shadow of a waterwheel, having a delightful eggplant tartine, salad, pommes frites, and a decadent chocolate dessert. A beautiful boxer sat at his owner’s feet right next to us.


Our trip after lunch took us north to Fontaine-de-Vaucluse on a gently uphill road lined with big trees and open fields. At one point we went under a huge aqueduct. When we reached Fontaine, the river seemed to magically appear from nowhere and then flow through the town past a lineup of cafes and shops.



The trip back to Isle was in record time since it was mostly downhill. There we repeated the arduous task of loading the bikes. But we are definitely getting better at it. It is always a good feeling to pull into Lourmarin and unload everything, where we thank God that the bikes didn’t fall off or hit anything since they stick out past the side of the car.

Tonight we ate the daube, which had cooked last night while we played bridge. Let me tell you this was one of the best meals I have ever had. There is a funny story associated with this dish, which calls for a fresh bouquet garni. We didn’t want to buy all those fresh herbs, so we absconded with all the garnishes we could come up with at dinner on Thursday night, simply stuffing the varied herbs into David’s and Bill’s pockets when the waiter wasn’t looking. The man at the market gave us lots of parsley, so we had a wonderful bouquet garni after all.

As if homemade daube was not enough, we sent the boys out to find dessert after dinner. They went to the hotel where we have been getting free wi-fi and where we stole the herbs and asked for a mixture of desserts to take out. The chef put together a group of 7 of the most spectacular desserts on a slate tile, which they agreed to return. All for 12 euros – which is about $15. Unbelievable!
I’m not sure what’s on tap for tomorrow, but it couldn’t get much better than today!

Market Day in Lourmarin

This morning we were offered a smorgasbord of the finest offerings in Provence at the weekly Lourmarin market. Truthfully I have never seen such a market anywhere. There was every variety imaginable of cheese, salami, bread, olives, fruit, tablecloths, scarves, hats, leather, and so many other things. This was not a market where people bargain, but a lot of money was changing hands.

We bought small gifts and lots of food, even a rotisserie chicken that came with roasted potatoes and onions. We found whole grain bread that should cure David’s constipation. We found artichokes the size of a large fist.



Kris and I returned to La Maison des Iris (our house) to assemble a daube, one of the most famous dishes in Provence. It is a combination of meats and vegetables that marinate in red wine and olive oil anywhere from several hours to a couple of days and then get cooked for about 5 hours. We had fresh herbs from here and there to add to the daube. I’ll give you a report when we actually cook and eat it.


This afternoon we went our separate ways. Kris and Bill took the car to do a hike recommended by Anton, the South African owner of our house. David and I launched off on bicycles toward the next town of Lauris. We got slightly intimidated by the big trucks whizzing by us on a busier road that was still narrow with no shoulder. So we turned off onto a smaller road that proceeded to get steep fast. That’s the point when I threw a tantrum, complaining about having to work so hard to have fun. I must say that David is good when I fall apart like this. He just kindly suggested we retrace our steps and head back toward home, stopping when we needed to.

On the way back, I spied a sign off the main road in the opposite direction advertising a winery. We rode for a little ways with grapes growing as far as the eye could see. Sure enough the winery of Chateau Constantin-Chevalier appeared up a driveway off to the left. After tasting three recommended wines, we settled on a fruity white that will go well with the rotisserie chicken.


The winery. The archway is the tasting room.


By the time we got back, I was in a much better frame of mind, anticipating sitting down to write, looking at my pictures, and thinking of eating again. It’s a good thing I am having to pedal hard uphill with all the calories I am consuming every day!

This is Batshik, a 6-month-old adorable resident of Lourmarin. Isn't he adorable?

Sur le Pont

La pluie came to Provence late yesterday. There was a sound and light show for much of the night as the thunder bounced off the stones of the old buildings of Lourmarin.

We had saved our wine-tasting trip for a rainy day like today. So while the clouds moved on, we sipped the finest of the Cotes-du-Rhone in the wine museum of Chateauneuf-du-Pape. Not usually drinking before lunch, I was feeling no pain after tasting #4.

Lunch proved to be our first French eating disappointment. The pizza reine tasted like Chef Boy-ar-dee and the croque monsieur was in bad need of a George Foreman grill.

As the sun started to peak out, we reached Avignon. Our afternoon walking tour included a small private museum with a few original impressionist paintings, numerous shops for clothing and sweets, the only synagogue in Avignon, and of course the famous bridge which ends mid-river.

This is marzipan of every variety possible!

Fashion knows no limit in France. Everything is displayed so beautifully.

This is the rabbi of the synagogue, who gave us a tour. His office is in the 12th century part of the building. The lighted part over his head is an old matzoh oven, which is no longer in use.

A parting view of Avignon from the famous bridge.

Now I Understand

They have invaded my little village of Lourmarin. The ugly Americans have arrived like a plague.

As I entered the local patisserie to buy breakfast croissants, I heard a man say “Do any of y’all speak English here?” in a recognizably southern drawl. As the proprietor shook her head NO, his wife followed with “What is the Be-st (in 2 syllables) thing here?” Both were speaking loud enough to be heard on the street. Then I realized these are the Americans the French hate. And I hate them too!

The man looked in my direction and said, “Maybe we should let her go first. She looks like she already knows what she wants.”

I quickly took him up on his offer, ordering un croissant, une baguette, et une petite quiche lorraine.

As I left they were still trying to decide, with more questions in English directed at the poor woman who had claimed not to speak English.

At times like this, I really don’t want to advertise my nationality.

Today’s travels took us to the small towns of Bonnieux, Lacoste, and Roussillon. The collective wisdom of the day as recounted in the car on the way home:
-- The osso buco and lamb shanks at the small café in Roussillon were outstanding.
-- “Mairie” means city hall.
-- The cigale or grasshopper is the symbol of Provence.
-- Bonnieux sucks (and I quote).
-- We need to get an earlier start tomorrow.

We are in search of the best pommes frites in Lourmarin for dinner tonight!

The French love their dogs. These two are having lunch with their owners in Lacoste.
These are the ocre cliffs of Roussillon, a small town known as the Santa Fe of France.

Painted doors in Roussillon.


The best osso buco ever at a bistro in Roussillon.

This is one good-looking Frenchman, don't you think?


The black and white cat, Mousse, is back. He lives in the house with the bright green door.

Debunking the Myth about the French

How many times have you heard, “The French hate Americans”? So far we have yet to find even one of those nasty French types.

What we have found is that approaching anyone in French completely dispels any notion of hostility (if it were ever there) and you end up with a delightful exchange of words of both languages.

Servers in restaurants are the most fun. They are invariably 20-somethings who always seem to know English, but who also know a multitude of other languages. A cute young girl replied “Danke” to us at lunch the other day and then broke down in laughter. An adorable waiter at dinner took our orders all in French and then in English launched into a discussion of his passionate love of the Marseille football (soccer) team, which was playing that night. (We could see the TV in the kitchen.)


I had a complete conversation with a precocious 3-year-old in front of our house. Presuming that the entire world speaks French, he asked me, “Ou est le chat?” to which I replied, “Cherchez-vous le chat noir et blanc? Je ne sais pas. Il a disparu.” The black and white cat, the red and white dog are important residents of this little village. Everyone knows them and misses them when they aren’t in evidence.

We ask questions and get directions in French, always repeating what we think we have heard to make sure we got it right.

This is a country which loves its language. And who wouldn’t love something so lyrical? They simply want those who visit to try to speak their beautiful language. They help you along and then smile. Communication takes so many forms beyond words. Vive la France et vive le Francais!

Cezanne's Country

Today we visited Cezanne’s country – the place where he painted the same mountain 60 times in an effort to get it right. The nearby town is Aix-en-Provence, which is affectionately called "Ex" by the locals. We did Rick Steve’s walking tour of Aix, people-watching at a sidewalk café where we sipped café-au-laits and stopping to marvel at meringues and linens.



Then we headed up to Mont St. Victoire, the mountain Cezanne painted repeatedly, to hike and marvel at the view. I lasted for about 30 minutes as we hiked up and up and up. Then I found a nice tree and sent the others on up the mountain. You can imagine that hiking is not my best event, although I am always game to try for as long as I last.

I ate my peanut butter Clif bar, read 50 pages in my Peter Mayle book (that takes place in Provence), and then laid back to take a nap. When I woke up, I looked up to the canopy of green against a cerulean cloudless sky. What I noticed immediately was the only sound I heard was the wind. There was not a single other sound to admit the presence of humanity. WOW!

After a while I was rejoined by my companions and we hiked back down the mountain to discover rush hour in Aix. On the way out of town as we headed back to Lourmarin, I snapped this picture of poplars lining the road.


When we arrived back in our little village, we stopped by the local grocery store to buy the ingredients for dinner. This poor chicken came with head and feet still attached. While he roasted in the oven with olive oil, herbes de Provence, and garlic, we munched on fresh local goat cheese, a baguette of French bread, olives, marinated mushrooms, and local wine of both colors. We watched slide shows of everyone’s pictures while David advised on computer matters of all sorts.Dinner was spectacular, with the roasted chicken, baked potatoes, a tossed salad with vinaigrette, and still more wine. Could life be much better than this?

Lessons in Spontaneity

Little did we know when we started out on our first bike trip today that we would stumble onto a horse festival -- Festival du Cheval -- just outside Cadenet. I inquired in French in a café about what was actually happening down the road at the advertised horse festival. When the old toothless guy kissed his fingers and said there were horses and great food, we were back on our bikes headed in the same direction as most of the traffic.

Riding a bike in France demands a certain faith that the fast-moving small cars and motorcycles will not hit you. Otherwise even wearing our bright green and yellow helmets (les casques), we would be dead meat. There are no sidewalks and no real shoulders and the roads are incredibly narrow.

Today’s excursion included David, Kris, and me, with Bill opting to enjoy a long walk near Lourmarin instead. The total trip including a few mistakes was a total of about 10 miles. In terms of time, we spent about 95% going uphill and totally enjoyed the other 5% coasting downhill. Here are a few highlights of the day’s ride in pictures:

-- David and Kris in front of a vineyard with their bikes (see those bright helmets!)
-- A horse "carwash" where the owners could groom their beauties before the "spectacular"
-- Young horse fans
-- A jazz band called Cartoon Show which played New Orleans style jazz
-- The most fantastic paella to eat for lunch
-- Kris and Barbara in front of a hay wagon

The trip home was an uphill challenge for the first half, but it was a sweet ride into Lourmarin when it finally turned downhill. I set the record for the slowest rider ever on the uphill climbs, but like the tortoise, slow and steady prevails. I’m tired but so happy to have had a day of spontaneity full of surprises. As I sit here on our rooftop terrace writing about day’s adventure, we are listening to a soccer game finish up as the church bells strike 4. The talk is which restaurant to try for dinner. Life is tres magnifique!

Getting Organized and Oriented

This is downtown Lourmarin. It is a maze of winding stone roads with surprises around every corner.
This is the view from our roof terrace at sunset. Isn't it amazing?

We thought we were home free when we arrived in Marseille and so did all our luggage. I tried my French out on a maintenance man to find a bathroom and was successful. We rented our bright red Renault Kangoo, a car about as tall as it is long – the perfect shape to haul 4 bicycles.

But then we struggled with the badly marked French roads for what seemed like hours to go the relatively short distance from Marseille to Lourmarin. We had a few harrowing moments on two-way roads which were barely wide enough for one car. We ended up on one dead-end road. Part of he problem was knowing which spoke off the numerous circles to take. Made me feel sorry for the tourists in DC doing the same thing. (It was a Frenchman who designed our city.)

Things got remarkably better as we rolled into Lourmarin and parked the Kangoo. Our “landlady” for two weeks, Francoise, showed us to the most amazing place, with its origins in the 17th century. It has beautiful exposed wood beams, a labyrinth of rooms with doors leading off to who knows where, and a rooftop terrace from which to watch the sun rise and set.

We were all feeling fairly wiped out by this point, so we collapsed in an outdoor café to get refueled before going to pick up the bicycles. Lunch turned out to be a mixture of salads, cheeses, grilled meats and vegetables, and of course French bread with aromatic olive oil. The French haven’t gotten the word about low-carb diets.

Philippe, the bike guy in the next town over, managed to load 4 beautiful Cannondale bikes into and onto the Kangoo. We were fine until we tried to drive to our place to unload them and virtually got stuck in a narrow part of the curving stone road. All the locals came out to tell us it was just too narrow in a variety of French and hand gestures, which probably included “those stupid Americans.” We eventually unloaded the bikes and walked them the rest of the way, deposited the little Kangoo in the car park, and collapsed after a long day and very little sleep in the past 24 hours.

I hope we wake up refreshed tomorrow and are able to relax into our new routine in what has to be one of the prettiest places in the world. I am sure tomorrow’s activities will include a long bike ride in the French countryside.

Kris has the last word on our first day as she reads from Rick Steve’s guide book: “Louberon roads are scenic and narrow and it is easy to get lost. But getting lost is the point.”

Moving Beyond a Sobering Thought

On the way to the airport, we jokingly considered putting a collar on Bill and turning him into a priest or casting Kris as a nun and saying that our destination was Lourdes. The growing anti-Semitism in France makes Jewish people think twice about vacationing in this part of Europe, where a growing population of fanatical Moslems continue to deface synagogues and declare their hatred of all Jews. Kris and Bill are bonafide Catholics, but David and I would be imposters.

I read Namaste’s recent post about nearly being abducted in East Jerusalem and pictured myself riding around Marseille gagged in the trunk of a car. The good news is that we are not spending most of our French holiday in a city of any sort, so there isn’t a great likelihood that we will experience any feelings of prejudice – at least not about our religious orientation. I have to hope the story of the ugly Frenchman who is intolerant of an American murdering his beautiful language is but a myth.

Earlier we discussed rules for Blogging on the trip. I just thought it would be good to get this out of the way before I possibly offended someone’s sense of privacy. The characters in this story over the next few weeks will be Bill, Kris, David, and of course Barbara. Pictures are allowed.

While we wait to board the plane, everyone is doing predictable things. David is taking pictures and schmoozing with the Norwegian guy who agreed to take our group picture. Bill is doing a crash course in French (book titled 15-minute French). Kris is devouring a book. And guess what – I’m Blogging!

So with Blogging rules established, passports in hand, and a plethora of reading material about Provence, we are ready to board the Lufthansa plane that will take us to Marseille via Frankfurt. We are psyched!

Reconnecting with an Old Friend

I had forgotten several things about PT – just how much some stretches hurt and just what a droll sense of humor my therapist had. After I told him about our upcoming trip to Provence where will be doing a lot of biking, Quentin (who is an avid biker himself) said without missing a beat, "You know that your therapy would be most effective if your therapist was following along behind." As right as he might be, GEHA will already be screaming after 12 office visits!

It was so nice to come into his new office in Ballston and write "former patient" in the spot on the form that asks how you found the office. I recounted to Quentin that I was never in better shape than when I was seeing him, taking yoga and pilates classes, and getting a massage each week. In fact I was so good by the end of the allotted number of visits that Quentin graduated me, said he couldn’t do much more for me.

He was quick to pick up on the things Dr. Speigel had noted on the medical order. Today was a day of getting baseline measurements with not too much painful manipulation and stretching. By the end of the session, he had formulated a tentative plan and given me home exercises to accompany the therapy.

When I mentioned AlwaysWrite, whom I had referred to Quentin with a knee problem, his face lit up as he said, "You know she wrote about me!" Yes, I did know that and I did realize that she had slightly exaggerated a few things, as we Bloggers sometimes do. She had given him her Blog address and he is a faithful reader.

As he was bracing against my right leg to try to relax my tight hamstring, I broached the subject of the "dream team" that I’m trying to put together. He immediately signed on before even hearing that I was more than willing to pay for his time. He simply said, "Are you bringing the snacks?"

After scheduling my next appointment and before walking out the door, I wrote "looking2live.blogspot.com" on the back of an appointment card and handed it to Quentin. I’ll be back for round #2 on Friday AM before I leave for the airport.

An update on the team: Reya, Leyla, and Quentin are now in. Quentin said, "I’m sure Chris will do it." These are people who really understand the role of a healer and are willing to try a new approach. I’m getting so excited!

Are We There Yet?

If I close my eyes, I can picture myself sitting at a small French café as I drink an expresso, eat a crusty bagette, and attempt to read the local French newspaper. But then I open my eyes and here I still sit at my desk with a million things to do and a meeting schedule tomorrow that barely leaves me time for lunch.

This has been a hard week to be at work, especially after I finally settled on what to take and packed my suitcase. It just sits there patiently waiting to be wheeled out the door on Friday.

Even my retired husband is in a dither. He just called to say he is stressed because he needs to pick up a package at UPS, A-1 Heating never came to turn on our heat, and the dog-sitter is due to come over any moment to get the lowdown on her "clients". He did find time earlier to check out the 10-day forecast for Provence, which looks delightful.

For me, having a big trip to look forward to tends to put a cap on my anxiety level. I have had several crises already today which have simply failed to phase me. I simply pass on the name of the person who is going to be in charge in my absence and go back to my fantasy in the café.

I do hope tomorrow comes and goes fast because I am so ready to blow this town and be leaving on a jet plane..

Get Ready, Get Set...

There are some things I do reasonably well, but packing my suitcase is not one of them. I tend to want to pack for every eventuality, which means I often take things I never wear or use.

Up until yesterday, I hadn't done anything in preparation for our upcoming trip, other than take 10 French lessons. I know I had been putting off that awful step of packing, or even thinking about what to pack.

Sunday night we had dinner with the couple who are going with us to France. She said she had laid out everything she was going to bring, choosing a color and carefully coordinating her wardrobe. She ended up with 1 skirt, 2 pairs of pants, and 6 tops of various types. She is going to bring a very small suitcase and carry a small tote bag on the plane. That's it! I remember exclaiming, "I'm sure I can do this. You've given me some great ideas."

But yesterday when I laid out my things, I had way more than what would fit in one small suitcase. I could never pick just one color, so my clothes were not completely interchangeable. I won't even begin to tell you how many pairs of shoes I had chosen.

Part of it is that I think of every eventuality – What if it rains? What if it's cold? What if it's hot? What if we go to a really fancy restaurant in Paris or Nice? What if we are riding our bicycles and I need to dress in layers? What if I run out of things to read? Snacks? You get the picture.

Instead of making these critical decisions, I simply pile up more and more things that must somehow be packed. It's almost like a disease. I would be far better off if someone gave me a packing list and said THIS IS ALL THAT YOU CAN BRING. By God, I'm sure I'd manage just fine. It's this freedom that gets me in trouble.

Part of me is determined to go home tonight, pick a color – like black – and put about half of what I packed that doesn't fit with black back in the drawers, back in my closet. Will I actually pull this off? Unlikely. Instead I will probably take my medium-size suitcase (fully expanded), my small suitcase (not completely full so there is a little room for purchases), and my laptop in its rolling case. After all, I am going to be gone for 17 days. I continue to rationalize the extra weight and space by the fact that we really aren't moving around much once we get to France.

How are you at making packing decisions? Do you pack for all occasions or just take a chance?

My Fantasy Team

Now that I’m coming to a better understanding of my peculiar gait, I’ve created this fantasy of getting all the people who might be able to help me deal with it in the same room. With any sort of medical intervention, whether it is with medication or some alternative form of treatment, it’s so important that the components be compatible.

I expressed this idea to Deborah today, who sort of rolled her eyes and said, “How much money do you have to throw at this?” I would want to compensate everyone for his or her time, and I don’t know how much that would come to, but I think it might be a good investment.

So exactly who would I want on this team?
– Neil Speigel, physiatrist (“captain”)
– Quentin, physical therapist
– Reya, massage therapist
– Chris, pilates teacher
– Leyla or Ajit or Marianna, yoga teacher

These are the people who have given me the most help with this problem over the past 2 years. I have this idea that if I could get all of them together, Dr. Spiegel could map out a treatment plan and translate it into the specific things that each of them needed to concentrate on. He has considerable knowledge of each of their specialties.

This is probably crazy, but it just seems to make so much sense. For people with serious, often terminal diseases, I have heard of a team approach. Why not for less threatening things, like my condition, with the objective of just improving someone’s quality of life?

I’ve always been good at tilting at windmills, but maybe this is just one case where I can turn fantasy into reality. We’ll see...

The Notion of a Health Tree

In the past 6 years I have traversed a wealth of new pathways in my quest to rediscover my soul and at least come to terms with my body. It recently occurred to me that I could come up with an interesting “tree” of my health family – those individuals who have provided the pathways. In many cases they have become as important as family members, so why not?

So here goes, without the slightest idea how to record all these names:

Yoga – John from my office –> Leyla –> Marianna –> Ajit
Massage – Marianna –> Reya, Mary M –> Lori
Acupuncture – Marianna –> Marjorie, Reya –> Mary R
Internist – Reya –> Bill –> Deborah
Dentist – Reya –> Larry Bowers
Personal Trainer – Marianna –> Brian
Meditation – Reya –> Healing Arts, Leyla –> Capitol Hill Yoga studio
Psychotherapist – Leyla –> Ann, Barbara B –> Kathryn
Pilates – Mary M –> Chris
Physical Therapist – Chris –> Quentin
Osteopath/Physiatrist – Leyla –> Reya –> Greg Craddock –> Neil Spiegel
Dermatologist – Enrique –> Martin Braun Sr. –> Gary Peck
Endocrinologist – Deborah –> Yassar Ousman
Blog – Reya

I’ve been to a few less memorable health providers over the past few years, but these are the ones that are most important to me.

As with any family tree, you see how very important the ones at the top are. If it hadn’t been for John from my office, most of these paths would not have been discovered. He dragged me (his boss) and another office slug to one of Leyla’s yoga classes and I was hooked. That was just the beginning of what has proved to be a life-altering trip. There are other significant repeating names along the way.

Sometimes I wonder how I coasted through so many years with so little to wake me up, more like shake me up. It was almost like I was on auto-pilot in an infinite loop.

In the last 6 years, I have beaten thyroid cancer, survived a couple of melanomas, gotten my teeth straightened, confronted my anger, most recently had some revelations about my strange gait, and been reminded about how important friends are. I’m sure this tree will continue to sprout new branches. The process is irreversible.

Have you given any thought to your “health tree”?

A Shocking Piece of the Puzzle

My visit yesterday to see Neil Spiegel, a specialist in physiatry, handed me a new piece to the puzzle of my strange gait, and one that left me incredulous. Dr. Spiegel postulates with great certainty that I had a mild case of CP (cerebral palsy) when I was in utero.

How could that be? I thought about all the CP children I had ever felt sorry for. They were in wheelchairs. They held their limbs in peculiar ways. Their heads tilted to the side. I never looked like that!

He suggests that I was able to compensate until just the last few years, fairly well disguising the effects of this stroke in utero – I learned that is what CP is. It’s a brain cramp that can have a wide spectrum of effects. In my case, it was a slight weakening of my right leg and foot that now causes me to swing my right leg out and around when I walk. He says that I am basically walking on my left leg.

This condition, which goes under the broad term of spasticity, is common to people with MS, those who have had strokes, and those individuals who suffer from CP. He determined that I could not have lived for 57 years with MS without it becoming considerably worse. The fact that I’ve had this condition all my life points only to CP. We both decided that it’s not worth an MRI to confirm his diagnosis.

The important thing now is to intervene with some form of therapy that deals with the constricted muscles that are making it increasingly difficult for me to walk easily. I now understand why my round of physical therapy last year and my weekly massages, which I gave up several months ago, were so beneficial. It’s exactly this form of therapy that I most need.

Dr. Spiegel did some painful stretching that actually showed demonstrable results in the office. I will continue to see him probably every 2-3 weeks for a while, getting acupuncture as well as physical stretching from him. I will supplement this with visits to my physical therapist Quentin, who now has an office in Virginia. At some point, I may attempt to put massage back into this therapy picture.

Although it is a shock to hear such a diagnosis, I am relieved to finally start to understand this physical condition of mine that has puzzled doctors and therapists alike for 57 years. I am encouraged that I may be able to prevent any further deterioration and even to become stronger with the help of Dr. Spiegel and Quentin. I am so luck to have found people who can think outside the box because this is quite a puzzle!

The Lost Art of Handwriting

As I sat down to write thank you notes to my recent committee chairs, I realized that I’m woefully out of practice when it comes to hand-written notes. My once-beautiful handwriting has turned ugly and I make mistakes that can’t be corrected by backspacing and typing again.

There was a time in my life when I wrote lots of letters, many of them long missives, to my nearests and dearests of the moment who were somewhere else. I sought out beautiful stationery, sometimes perfumed, and even used various colors of ink in my fountain pen. I explored existentialism with Steve, an elusive search for love with Duke, and home-grown poetry with Joe. As I licked the stamp and posted each letter, there was always the question of when the response to my letter would arrive. Such a different mentality than the way we currently correspond in E-mail, where communication can be almost instantaneous.

After the High Holy Days concluded, I decided that appreciation should be conveyed in a form more permanent and tangible than e-mail.

I visited Capitol Hill’s newest card shop Groovy DC (on 8th St SE) to find the perfect note cards. What I love about this store is the fact that you are not overwhelmed with choices. Instead there were but three boxed possibilities, each of which was quite unique. I happily purchased two of the three.

The three or four sentences in each of my thank you messages had to be crafted in my head before putting pen to paper. I found myself saying: write SLOWLY, make it FIT in the space, no CROSSOUTS. Yikes! These things are hard to do.

What I realized is that for me writing by hand has become the mode of last resort – used only when a keyboard or a Blackberry is not available. In the process, I have simply lost the art of handwriting that for so many years supported communication of the written word.

I Too Had Braids

Mother of Invention inspired me to dig out this old photo from when I was 5 years old. Here’s what I remember about that time in my life:

– This was taken right around the time of my birthday. I was wearing one of the few store-bought dresses I had as a child. It was a blue and white stripe with a lace collar. The buttons were little white bumpy balls. I loved that dress.
– My Norwegian grandmother was visiting us at the time on one of the few forays she made outside the state of Minnesota. She braided my hair in a way my mother was never able to duplicate. She said uff-da a lot.
– That was my one and only year to take dance lessons. My class was a tap-ballet-acrobatics combo. At the end of the year, my parents asked me to choose between dance class and kindergarten – a pretty heavy choice for a 5-year-old! I chose kindergarten.
– In the picture my hands were probably in little balls because I was a nail biter back then and didn’t want the world to see.
– Life seemed so simple at 5. My big decisions were things like who I should play with that day, whether to go look for tadpoles in the stream, what new trick I might do on my swing set.

Like Ships Passing in the Night

"I think I’m going to quit and just move back home after I return from Africa," she said in passing as we both walked down the hall today. This was the woman who had sought me out to be her partner in the (raw) egg toss at last week’s afternoon office picnic.

She has worked in our division for how long? A year? Two years? I don’t know. I just recently learned that we are the same age. We both walk like 50-somethings. I’ll bet we have a lot in common.

I found myself saying, "But you can’t leave yet. I haven’t even gotten to know you."

She explained that she intended to quit her job, give up her health care, and just move out west closer to where her children live, where she will look for a new job. I realized that I didn’t know whether she had a partner or spouse or grandchildren or even a dog. I had absolutely no idea why she was going to Africa. But I had concluded that she would be a good friend.

She put her arm around my shoulder and said, "I only have one more 35-year period and I want to make the most of it." That was a startling thought. That we are more than half done with this life.

I replied, "Let’s at least go out to lunch before you take off. I really would like to get to know you better." Sometimes we take a person’s presence so much for granted.

Now I’m more curious than ever about this person. I’m thinking of slipping her a little note with looking2live.blogspot.com written on it as she heads out the door for Colorado or Montana or wherever her spirit leads her.

We were just two souls passing in the hallway today for such a fleeting moment.

A Thought for the New Year

Tonight I am more tired than I can ever remember being. My role as the co-chair of the Temple Micah High Holy Days has reached its end, except for the documentation. The many services happened without a major glitch. There were little emergencies, like one person who sliced his head open on a stone abutment in the church, another woman who fainted while fasting, but in terms of the services themselves, no real problems. By 7:00 tonight, everyone was more than ready for a break-the-fast.

One particular prayer tugged at my heart today, so I’ll share it with you:
***********************************************************
Ki Hinei Chachomeir

As clay in the hand of the potter, to be thickened or thinned
at will, are we in Your hand. Preserve us with Your love.

Your covenant recall, and not our imperfection.

As stone in the hand of the mason, to be broken or preserved
at will, are we in Your hand. Author of life and death.

Your covenant recall, and not our imperfection.

As iron in the hand of the blacksmith, to be thrust into fire
or withdrawn at will, are we in Your hand. Help us to heal
our wounds with deeds of charity.

Your covenant recall, and not our imperfection.

As a rudder in the hands of the sailor, to be guided or
abandoned at will, are we in Your hand. Prevent our constant
drifting.

Your covenant recall, and not our imperfection.

As glass in the hand of the glazier, to be melted or shaped at
will, are we in Your hand. Maintain our fragile balance with
Your grace.
***********************************************************

I view the new year as a clean slate, accepting the inevitability of my imperfections and hoping for some guidance from a higher power as I continue to muddle through life.

Grade 4 Little Miss Sunshine

This is in response to Beth's request for elementary school photos on October 1, relayed to me by Old Lady from Savannah. I took a picture of a picture since I didn't have a way to scan this in. It's not great but you get the idea. (I made the sailor dress.) The short hair was a pixie cut painfully growing out.

So what were the highlights of 1959 for me?
-- I started taking piano lessons.
-- I came down with mononucleosis while on a trip to Minneapolis and was in the hospital for a week while they tested me for leukemia and other scary things.
-- I was chosen to star in the student council play, not knowing that the selection was because of my long blond hair, which I had cut into a pixie just 2 weeks later. I still kept the part.
-- A boy from my class and I built a doll house that took up half my bedroom, was 2 stories tall, and had a swimming pool. We made all the furniture, including a drop-leaf table, and even made a car. It was a fun summer project. I learned how to saw, hammer, and put things together.
-- I finally learned (not first-hand) how babies were made (I was always the last to know things like this.)

It was all in all a good year!