Month: February 2012

Haunted, 3

“There’s a certain slant of light,

On winter afternoons,

That oppresses, like the weight

Of cathedral tunes.

Heavenly hurt it gives us;
We can find no scar,
But internal difference
Where the meanings are.

None may teach it anything,

‘Tis the seal, despair,-

An imperial affliction

Sent us of the air.

When it comes, the landscape listens,
Shadows hold their breath;
When it goes, ‘t is like the distance
On the look of death.” 

–Emily Dickinson

I thought of this poem today. I can’t remember if I have posted on it before but it is one of my favorites and seemed appropriate for the last of the Haunted series. Tomorrow evening I will board my flight back to France after such a wonderful, happy time. It passed in the blink of an eye as I knew it would. Now it is the beginning of the in-between time when I am not quite here nor there. I’ll hold my heart tight as the light shines from between my fingers, waiting to see where I will be on the other side of the dawn.

Haunted, 2

Hello everyone, I am delighted to announce that I have my first guest post ever up today on the exceptional blog, From The Right Bank. Ally is one of those people with whom I just clicked. We share quite a bit in common–we are both nomads who have spent time living overseas and live for travel. She also has an insatiable curiosity (regarding more fields than her already encompassing blog can show) and appreciates putting her creativity to use wherever she can. It is a true thrill to have been asked to participate in her “Living La Belle Vie” series and I hope that you will enjoy it. 

Thanks to all of your interest for the first in my Haunted posts. The photos continue below with an entirely different subject matter as I am really fascinated by the culture shift during my visit back to the States! 


I stare at the photos of these old stones blinkingly. The quiet reverberating inwards, secrets held as tight as an embrace or a throttling, your choice. It couldn’t be more different than my current environment. 
I love the “joyful noise” of the United States. My fingers hover above the keys while I take in the sounds coming at me from all sides. 

I am nowhere special. Just at a coffee shop during the lunch rush on any old Monday. So few people are alone. A Mom and son sit across from me, heads nodded together in complicity. A newish couple behind me flirting: “You’re hi-lar-ious” he just punches out into the sky, drawing out the syllables until she smiles unwillingly. Just beyond two co-workers, one shy enough that she laughs into her palm with a “Woowoowoo” like a cartoon ghost, her companion reacts with a hair shake and a whinny.

I know that everyone can’t be happy but it certainly seems that way. I love the volley of volume. The unselfconscious clink of silverware. Or even determined tapping of a silver spoon on the side of a mug in time as someone chases after lost thoughts. The staff enquiring earnestly “How are you doing today?” or “Do you have everything you need there?” without the least bit of cynicism. I had to do a double take.

Hands flutter in delicate gestures, drawing glasses to lips. “Do you want to try this? It’s very good,” I hear over and over again. As well as a chorus of polite “I’m sorry”‘s at the pile up at the trash can. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Sheepishly. 

It is President’s Day (can you imagine a president’s day in France where we don’t even cheer for the current leader on Bastille Day as he parades down the Champs Élysées?) so there are families crowded around small tables pushed unevenly together. Little squeaks of asking followed by patient explaining. Hiccups of giggling.

It is now nearly 2 pm so the voices have lowered into a post-repas lullaby. Sentences no longer leap for my attention. I can feel a pull at my back and look behind to see a braided ten-year old using Ben’s velvet  painting eyes on me while sucking on a straw, immobilized. I wonder what it is that she sees in me or is she just lost in thought? Funnily enough, I find enough space around the sound. Wide-open spaces, like America.

My attention snaps back to the screen and these old stones are still there, in that haunted abandoned village far away. It must be night now with the time difference. No light but the stars, no sound but the wind.

How different, how unchanging. I will walk back soon to my Mom’s apartment, wrapping my pashmina around my neck with each step, rearranging it while waiting at the light. I will most likely be the only person not driving as I was on the way here.  I’ll keep an eye out for the cardinal that lives in the tree outside her front door. Weeks from now, I’ll remember the bell-ringing “all-righty”‘s and “You have a nice day now” as I walk around the Roman Arena in silence, utter silence knowing one is not better than the next, just different and unchanging.

Haunted

High above the sleeping lavender fields lies the remains of a village I will not name. 

Odd of me, I know and not terribly professional but so be it. Up we climbed, as always with Ben, our Golden, running back to me with impatience. Come on, time to discover. Hurry up to find.

The village had been abandoned long ago. And I mean really abandoned as in “take the last ball of yarn” not the semi-recluse yet nonetheless charming villages that I have visited before. 

And yet, oddly, it felt alive. Very present. The simple beauty of the church, the force of the vines pushing through the house’s foundations as if they were holding the walls in place for their owners to come back.

The texture of the stone was exceptional, fascinating. All of those many nicks by hand. Fitting into each other long after the mortar had evaporated. Worn away by a trilling wind.

I began taking photos like mad.
And yet a wave of cold washed over me. Stopped me in my tracks. I raised my head and looked out over the horizon. The farthest hills had turned black with the snow clouds rumbling. Could it be just the temperature falling?

Remi was working, Ben was with him. I felt so drawn to this place, almost euphoric at times but then again, that chill would come out of nowhere.

Mysterious arches led to deep tunnels in the ground, I did not dare see where they went. I scampered up higher where the sun shone brighter. Remi was there and he met my gaze questioningly but said nothing.

In a clearing a large tree raised its branches like proud crows wings and the edges were tipped in the red of new growth. A glowing red. A circle of carefully laid stones was in front of its trunk. Something wasn’t right.
I crossed behind the church towards one of the outer buildings. I heard a deep rustle from within the buildings shell. Louder than a small animal rustle and yet there are no large animals in these parts. “Remi?” I called out, moving quickly away.

I found him with Ben and I don’t remember who asked it but we both quickly agreed. Haunted. The sun was diving fast as we found the cemetery. I didn’t dare go in. Remi did. There were only three graves and it made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. And I think it goes without saying that he is not a man that spooks easily.

Still I felt within me a pull to stay even while I felt a stronger need to get off that mountain before the sun set. We did. Its beauty was undeniable and the light otherworldly. I will spread my frantic photos out over a few posts. 

Oh and the reason why I won’t tell you the name? Not because it is haunted, I realize that is up for debate. But as we came down from the village, I saw a sign that I had somehow missed in my initial excitement: “Proprieté Privé, Acces Interdit, Danger”.  Private property, no access allowed, danger.

Sunshine in a suitcase

Out of the frying pan and into the fire! That is me as I am taking a plane to the States just as it is starting to finally warm up here in Arles. But what care I? Bring on the snow! Blizzards even! Nothing can dampen my utter joy at the prospect of seeing my Mom and Sister after far too long. For those of us living overseas,   such a distance is a choice that can be the most difficult to deal with, even if we have loving families in France. But how wonderful to close that gap even just for a few days, not to mention soak up a much needed dose of Americana.
I love that at this time of year in France, it is considered absolutely permissible, even advisable to eat well during the winter cold. “Bah, there is no point in starting a diet right now!” advised the ever kind red-head at the dry-cleaners. “We need…” and she made a symbol signifying a big belly. Ah, oui. So to keep your spirits up, here is a bit of sun–and you can even dip carrots in it! Healthy, right? We have all had hummus up to the gills so this is a slightly, um, heartier variation. I’ll be taking this recipe with me as a bit of sunshine in my suitcase.

Mediterranean White Bean Spread

Large can of your favorite white beans
3 1/2 spoons of Tahini
2 spoons of sesame oil
7 spoons of olive oil
juice from a large lemon
4 pieces of softened sun-dried tomatoes
copious amounts of herbs de Provence
salt and pepper to taste

It doesn’t take a genius. Rince the cooked beans, add the tahini in a food processor. Mix. Do the same with the rest of the ingredients, mixing each time you add sometime you add something new. Spices to taste et voila! This is for a huge jumbo portion, either suitable for taking to an apéro or it will last in the fridge for up to four days.

I am hoping to be posting while I am gone and have some ready to go. Hope that you will travel with me!

Details of Sisteron via Cupidon

It might be best if I leave St. Valentine’s Day alone. Not that I am bitter, my no. True, there were many that I spent single in NYC, some while waiting tables on couples that were frankly a little too eager to have the perfect evening. Even as a child in chilly Mid-western classrooms, I wasn’t the one that would receive valentines, although I would collect those candy hearts and make up stories in my head. 

Actually one of the best memories I have for this particular holiday is that of me marching (literally) across midtown Manhattan during a blizzard to Tiffany’s. Yes, you read right. What I thought I would find there I didn’t know. My funds were quite feeble. And yet Tiffany’s never disappoints. 
As someone who has spent her fair time at the altar of Audrey Hepburn, I should probably blush at the obvious reference but I certainly didn’t then. Like Holly GoLightly, I would often stroll around the quiet of the store when well enough dressed to do so, just to peer into the cases and feel the curious glances of the salesclerks from behind their upholstered perches.
I actually did find something that day. An Elsa Peretti pendant on the thinnest silver chain. A square rectangle with an indent the size of a thumb print. One that I would later pass over and over again like a rosary to keep my courage high. I couldn’t really afford it but then again, I couldn’t really afford not to. Not on that day.

Not all of us fit in to just the right places at just the right time. I felt that also while walking around Sisteron not long ago. What is appreciated, what is put by the wayside? As I mentioned recently, Remi and I spent a few days in the northern Luberon with Sisteron as our base. The town is for many just the first break of sunshine after a long journey from the North. It surprised me to see that so little of its Centre Historique had been renovated and yet how incredible to see the swaths of time untouched.

The gorgeously sculpted door in the first photo is absolutely the most beautiful that I have ever seen in Provence. And just about anywhere, I would garner. And yet it is the entry to an unremarkable building, forgotten perhaps save for the carving at its entry that is too beautiful to not be remarked upon. The bombshell of Sisteron, so to speak.

There is beauty all around us. Sometimes someone sees it and appreciates it for what it is, whether it is perfect or no. Today, I am sending out my best to the single women and men who happen to read this blog. I can never begin to understand the timing of the world and yet today is just a holiday. Celebrate it as you see fit.
As for me, well Remi and I did find each other, both of us carrying all of the patina of the last door. It is never easy nor a fairy tale. I am grateful for him and Ben and the rest of my family everyday. And not just on St. Valentine’s. 
Love is love.

Frozen

I am not a photographer. I know this because I saw something of a terrible beauty tonight and yet I could not lift my camera from around my neck.
As some of you might be painfully aware, Europe has been hit with a cold snap. One that neither humans nor nature knows on a regular basis in this corner of Provence. Tonight, Remi wanted to take a drive in the Camargue, the immense swampy region and regional park to the south of Arles. It is austere under the best of conditions, I would have thought that we would be alone, as the temperatures had taken a dive to -12°C and yet no. The tiny back roads surrounding the Etang de Vaccares were as full as a Sunday in July, save that nearly every car had pulled over to take a photo of the frozen water (either an enormous pond or small lake depending on your opinion) as it was the first time that it had been frozen over since 1985. 

I wish that the ice, stopped as waves lining the shore, was the only issue. However, we spoke to a park ranger who had collected in the trunk of his car ten flamant roses or flamingos that had frozen. While we spoke, one flew over my head and perched nearby in a tiny pool where the ice had not yet taken its hold. My empathy got caught in my throat.

In parting we saw a flutter of pink at the side of the swamps. A flamingo wing. It was perfect in its shape and color, glowing against the faded background of the winter reeds. A supremely delicate contrast. And yet I couldn’t capture it, too saddened by all we can’t control and how little most of us do to protect our planet when we can…

Win Win

Ah, the decorating domino effect. We really have been careful about what we bring into this new apartment as we already have too much of muchness, especially as far as art is concerned. But when I found this Gobelins tapestry for, I’ll admit it, 15 Euros (since several of you have asked), I couldn’t resist. As it is gigantic, there was only one place for it that really worked, above the fireplace in the bedroom. We still haven’t had the moment to gallery hang it but are thrilled with the peace that it brings. Similarly, I am loving the soft light emanating from the mercury mirror that has now by default been shifted to the living room. Win, win.
Speaking of winning, I was recently given two awards for Lost in Arles. Hooray! The incredible Karin, a veritable one-woman walking Wiki of good taste, was kind enough to give me the Blog on Fire Award in January. Do you know her blog, La Pouyette? To give you an idea, she recently constructed an imaginary dinner party for 12. Her invitées included Frederick the Great, Karl Lagerfeld and Oscar Wilde. Impeccable. Merci, Karin!

As part of accepting this award, I need to tell you five things about myself that you may not know:
1) When I am as homesick for the States as I am right now, I admit that given the opportunity to have either an authentic Sunday Brunch or a menu degustation at a Michelin-starred restaurant, I would, without hesitation, chose the brunch. Tragically, I would probably also pick peanut butter over foie gras. 
2) I have a built-in radar that can hear a champagne cork popping within a five-mile radius. 
3) I once sang “Summertime” for a tribe on Tanna Island in Vanuatu in the Pacific to thank them for performing a dance for me.
4) Secret talent: Killer yoga toes.
5) To my shame? I have the worst memory for faces of anyone I know. Not such a big deal while living in Manhattan when the chances of running into someone you know are slim but in a small town like Arles? Very, very embarrassing. 
Natalie Rapoport lives in Toronto but is a world-traveller who loves to share those special moments, les petites bijoux, that we come across as we go. Hence her charming blog, Jewel yet to find. I love her patient eye and her attention to detail so was very excited when she decided to send me the Liebster Blog Award. Wow! Thank you so much, Natalie.
Something wonderful that both of these awards have in common is that they are in recognition of blogs with under 200 followers. So I am happy to pass on the baton to five of my favorite small blogs and am awarding them BOTH the Blog on Fire Award and the Liebster Blog Award. 
*For the winners, please see the “rules” at the bottom of this already crazy long post. 
1) I dream of. With such a title, I knew that I would be hooked but Jeanne’s blog has instantly become one of my favorites. Why? She has so much heart, as corny as that sounds, not to mention oodles of talent. I am predicting here that she will become a darling of the design blog world.
2) Looking Glass. Clare is a classic beauty, a model and an actress but that is where the classicism stops. She always has surprises up her sleeve, including a very frank series where she interviewed burlesque performers. Have to love that Aussie mix. 
3) Shifting Gears. Judith Ross is an accomplished writer whose intelligence and authenticity never cease to inspire me. This blog is dedicated towards “navigating middle age and beyond” and she does so with a light hand. 
4) oh-fancy that. Four really funny and fabulous ladies that have an amazing take on DIY, fashion, food (a favorite post is the recipe for pecan, bourbon and butterscotch bread pudding). Just read their “About Us” and try and not be addicted. For sure they will be wondering “An award from who?” but I love your blog!
5) Concrete Jungle. Heather doesn’t post all the time but I never know from what part of the world she will when she does. Girl gets around. An interior designer based mainly out of Thailand, she puts her trained eye to good use, no detail is too small. To boot, she has formed a great charity to help out at home.
There are few other blogs that were awarded at the same time I was otherwise, they would be on this list and are well worth the gander:
French Girl in Seattle
Eiffel Tells
Francine Garnder/Art de Vivre
and Helen Tilston Painter, who, I am assuming has already been given both of these awards…
Additionally, I would like to give Ben, my Golden Retriever, the Siberian Survivor Award for handling the European cold snap with panache. True, he slightly resembles Ben in a Burqa but a dog has to do what a dog has to do to stay warm. 

The Rules for the Winners
 To keep these awards going (and I realize the slightly chain-mailedness of that phrase), please recognize blogs with under 200 followers and…
1. Thank the person who gave you the award and link back to their blog
2. Choose five blogs to nominate and let them know by leaving a comment
3. Request that the chosen blogs pass the Award on to their favorite five
4. Copy and paste the award on your blog post
5. List five things about yourself……

Number 5 is just for the Blog on Fire Award, so if you don’t want to divulge (it really isn’t that painful), there is always the Liebster Award… 

Thanks to all of you that have stayed with me this far…et bon weekend! 


Snow clouds and winter berries

We stopped the car, realizing that we were, well, if not lost than entirely on the wrong road. As I got out to stretch my legs, I sucked in my breath from the cold and the sight of a liquid cloud, spread across the sky like an ink stain. “It is snowing in there,” I thought to myself with pleasure, imagining all the things in nature that we don’t see but are right there in front of us.

Once safely on the other side of the mountain, we stopped in a field outside of a small village. Neither the field nor the village had yet awoken from the night before. Frost glistened and dew dropped from winter berries and their pom-pom fronds.

Further on, the remains of an ancient wall crumbled into the folds of the earth. Forgotten, forgotten the houses here before. Shards of terra cotta roof tiles pulsed with a slight covering of verdigris lichen and roots crawled crab-like to warmer climes.

I sat next to Ben, as patient as ever and took in the world from his point of view. So much life within the tiny patch of dirt near his paws. Two miniscule beads of water reflected or refracted the interior of the earth. Get closer. It is good at times to smell something as vague as life. 

Remi and I had spoken the day before about my timidity in photographing people so when we both saw this Citroen 2CV battling down the lane, he pushed me to flag it down.

I was glad that I did. The gentleman in the drivers seat was perplexed and amused at my request but was willing to concede that certain étrangères might appreciate his car. The truth being that his face, his way of being was far more interesting. Out of politeness, he only and addressed Remi and spoke softly when he did. “Soon, we won’t see that anymore,” Remi admitted as the blue bug lurched away and he is right. Best then to take it all in while we still can.

Une trouvaille

Hooray! Just a bit of fun. Last night Remi and I were skulking around an especially unpromising Depot-Vente or junk shop in the suburbs of Arles. Each went their separate ways, only half-heartedly in the hunt. And yet, what did I spy tucked behind a bulky dresser? A bit of tapestry. Yes, I know, tapestry can be so old-fashioned as to be sad.  But no, this one is so perfectly faded that its remaining colors only give the tiniest suggestion of what it once was. I called Remi over and with a heave he extracted it from its dusty realm. And as you can see, we swooped it up. For a song. A mere pittance. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
Especially as when we got it home I spied a label on the back frame: “Panneaux Gobelins”. 
It is so long, 2.2 meters that I am not sure where we can put it, but trust me, I will find a place. Aren’t such gifts from the world encouraging?
Bon Dimanche, everyone!

Searching for snow

While some fine ladies are willing to take the TGV for hours in order to fill a craving for truly Parisian pastries, I found myself seeking a change of season and was ready to go to equally great lengths to get it. Luckily, Remi had a similar idea brewing. We both were in need of snow. 

As wonderful as Provence is, it can be, well, a bit monochromatic with its skies that are forever blue. I grew up mainly in the Midwest, where each period of the year is marked by wildly different weather. Sweat would drip from the back of my knees as I scampered away from a summer bound dodge ball just as the winter wind would whip up tears that froze on my cheeks. I loved it all and miss that excitement of change.
We piled into the Range Rover with Ben in the back as well as enough clothing and supplies to last us for a few days. And yet we weren’t going far. Our base was the town of Sisteron, only a little more than a two hours drive from Arles. I never tire that in France you can shift your landscape so easily.

I have written quite a lot about the Luberon, most recently in my one too many posts on the questionably cute or not cute village of  Loumarin. But we were headed beyond the Peter Mayle zone to the Alpes-de-Haut-Provence, an area relatively unvisited save by Provençals heading to one of the local ski slopes or motorcyclists cruising the Napoleon Road. 

We fretted as we drove north. The ground was dry until Gap. Was our search in vain? As we turned up the long hill to the Abbaye de Boscodon, smiles spread slowly across our faces. The higher we climbed, the deeper the snowfall. Success! Ben, our Golden, had never experienced more than a mere dusting and so did not quite know to make of such snow but soon enough he was bouncing like a bunny and shaking every stick he could find with ferocious glee.

We had climbed to 1150 meters in altitude in a rather short period of time and I felt slightly dizzy and out of breath. The silence was so total that I could hear my blood pounding in my ears like waves in a seashell. I was filled with wonder at all around me, from the strange sight of mistletoe that had grafted itself onto a pine tree, to the comforting trickle of a stream in a gorge dangerously deep below.

We crossed fields where there were no other footprints but our own and I took care to put my feet in Remi’s tracks, to leave as little trace of my passing as possible.

How utterly drained of color the world seemed to be. And yet not in the least of joy. I couldn’t stop smiling. The cold makes me feel so alive.

Quiet voices echoed on the other side of the monastery walls. Incredible to think that the first monks arrived at the Abbey in 1142 (and that when it was returned to the church in 1972, its magnificent chapel was being used as a stable). Today the Abbey is renowned for its mixité, an openness towards multiple religious congregations. The pine covered mountains wrap around the buildings like a blanket. It is a perfect setting for contemplation. To go inwards. I felt myself doing the same and looked forward to what discoveries the next few days would bring…Can you feel the quiet?

We had an excellent time and I will be spreading the results of my visit out (again!) over a few posts as I think that it is an opportunity to show a side of Provence that so few people get to see.

And as a completely, utterly unrelated postscript (as I know that many of you are fellow dog-lovers), I would highly recommend the article in on the New York Time’s website: Wonder Dog about dogs that are being trained for placement with children that have special needs. The article is long but very worthwhile as is the accompanying short video.