Month: May 2012

Dreaming of a where and a when

One of my favorite aspects of travelling is imaging myself living an entirely different life in my new found environment. And I like to dream big. It doesn’t cost anything does it? Just a dash of wistfulness perhaps. So be it…

The click of my satin court shoes echoes on the parquet running the length of the chateau. Back and forth I pace, pouting over a disagreement with my portrait painter. How many times must I tell him that I will…not…wear…purple!? I grab my cream silk morning coat and storm out into the labyrinth of boxwoods. He can wait.
From the cool shelter of my Renaissance cave, I turn the pages of an original Rimbaud manuscript that has been brought to me from Ethiopia in a gilded box, pronouncing each poem out loud in a rhythm that descends with the cascading waterfall. Gradually lulled, I curl up on the fur-lined blankets that cover the uneven dirt floor.
I fling open the shutters of my maison du village to twitter along with the birds outside my window and giggle at the burbling brook that spills over from last nights rain. “Bonjour, Madame Robinson! J’ai un colis pour vous!” shouts out the postman. When I open the beribboned box that he places in my hands with a short bow, I am overwhelmed by the perfume of three dozen roses sent all the way from Paris. I burst into song as I turn to close the door, like a joyous Edith Piaf.

My Sister is getting married today. We have opened up the chapel to air and brought the largest table out into the garden. Thirty bottles have been lined up for lunch. In the kitchen I check on les quiches and les gougères, I pour broth over les rotîs, I smooth out the purée. I have already lined platters with asperges, others with les huîtres, a long board groans with les fromages. Next to me, Amandine tries to roll out the dough for her famous millefeuilles while swatting away the minou, who leaves paw prints in the flour. We can hear the first car down the road as the family begins to arrive.

Or maybe I am content just in this little cabanon, working hard to bring the vines back to life, to shore up the beams under the roof, to splatter a fresh coat of lime-wash on its pebbly walls. I listen to the windmill crank, bringing up water from deep inside the earth and know that I have all that I need.

Hoping that you all let yourself dream a bit over the next few days, no matter where you are. Thank you so very much for all of your kind responses to my previous post and for your music as well…

Bon weekend! 

Disappearing act?

Just a wee hello out into the void or perhaps not so. My blog friend Jeanne of I dream of put the fear into me that I had, indeed dropped off the Blogger Dashboard. Off the dashboard and into the fire? I certainly hope not. But while I realize that this may be a sort of “what is the sound of one hand clapping?” kind of proposition, would anyone that does see this mind letting me know if I am indeed “still here”?  I actually thought of calling this post something of the sort but was all too aware that I would be called out for going “deep” yet again. Sigh. My friends. I have had so much goodness coming from you all of late. And for those of you that have asked for larger photos, well, as you can see, it is possible, although they won’t stay at this XL size any more than the gorgeous pivoines could stay with us forever. If only.

And as it is a mega rarity that I put out such a random post, I will take advantage by wondering what music are you listening to right now? I would love to know!

Thanks for being here…

*Update: You are all so amazing! Thank you for the reassurance. Must have just been a coincidence of a drop in visits and Jeanne’s question. But I need to go missing more often. Especially if it is an excuse to hear what you are all listening to–I love how the choices fit so perfectly each persons personality. Brilllliant! *

Cannes and the Ile Saint-Honorat

Sometimes I get the jitters. I see something so beautiful that tzzt, tzzt my brain freezes up and does not compute. Who gets nervous in the face of extreme beauty? Well, sometimes, I do.
Yesterday I experienced one of those moments but for now, I will have to keep it under wraps and protect my memories with the austerity of the body guard above on the Baie de Cannes. 
Oui, Cannes! And although the opening ceremony of the 65th Festival de Cannes will take place this evening (and yes, Francois Hollande was also sworn in as the French President today! Woopwoop!), our visit in April was a world away from glitter gowns on the red carpet. Time to replace the swank of the silent screen with an entirely different power play.
Remi, Ben and I watched the rooftop of the Carlton sink as our ferry pulled out to sea. After 20 minutes of a gentle rise and fall, we had arrived at the Ile Saint-Honorat, a shaded drop of rocks some 1000 meters from the Croisette. So close and yet so far…
There has been a monastery on the island for sixteen centuries. Yes, centuries. In roughly 410 AD, Saint Honoratus came to live as a hermit on the uninhabited island known as Lerina. By 427, monks from across Roman Provence had followed him to found a thriving monastery.
Many trials followed. Despite its eventual fortification, the monks were exposed to numerous attacks by the Saracens, young monks were captured and sold to Spain, the property was pillaged by pirates. And yet they persisted until the French Revolution, when only four remained. The island was privatized and sold. A certain Mademoiselle de Sainval, then a famous actress, turned the chapels into her receiving rooms.

But in 1859, the monastery was bought by the Bishop of Fréjus. Ten years later, Cistercian monks from the Abbaye de Sénanque took up residence, a tradition which has remained until this day. There are 30 monks currently living on the island, which is, rather amazingly in my mind, open to visitors such as ourselves that are looking for a respite, our numbers restricted only by the capacity of the ten ferries that run the course from the mainland each day.

Peace seems to fall from the trees and whisper on the waves. A bit too perfect, it is hard to take in.
Just beyond the neighboring Ile Saint-Marguerite the Alps puncture the sky with their chalky white peaks. Is it mirage? How can the snow and sea be so close?

Words fail me, my eye starts to falter. My camera could not capture the truth of a blue beyond believing no matter how much I wished it to.
Better then to admit defeat and go to lunch, n’est-ce pas?  

Yes, there is one restaurant on the island, La Tonnelle, and it is good. My only advice would be to immediately reserve for lunch upon stepping off the ferry and go early enough to be assured of ordering the menu at 25€ for two courses or be prepared to pay the piper of La Carte. After taking a sip of an  excellent, slighty salty white wine (made by the monks) that I had ordered while waiting for our table Remi turned and said, “You did see that the wine is 9€ the glass?” I nearly did a spit take. Next time, we will bring a picnic.

 
Clouds lowered as we finished our repas and yet the island was all the more appealing for it. 
The many shades and textures of the shoreline popped into relief.

I fingered scrubby brushes of palm while nervously watching Remi caper on the rocks. That man will do whatever it takes to get his shot. No jitters for the professional. Ever. 
As we headed back to the dock, I saw a switch of feathers rustling in an olive grove. A wise pheasant who had chosen his home well. Somehow his presence wasn’t the least bit surprising, only reassuring.

What a dramatic shift as we stepped back upon the shores of Cannes. The silence that reigns on the Ile Saint-Honorat swiftly imploded.
But it is a joyous Super Bass of beachiness that radiates all along the Cote d’Azur, especially early in the season when everyone still believes their luck is too good to be true…
…that they may find just the right wave…
…to surf on a surge of a beauty–the simple kind–all the way home.

I love everything, three

I love Aix-en-Provence. Those of you that have been with me for a while have already read about my rapturous, snap-happy moments here as well as here. It is just. So. Elegant.
And as some of us were in the doldrums, some a bit out of sorts and another over-worked we decided to take a trip to down our anti-stress med of choice: beauty.

 
Because there is really nothing like a whop of biddy-bump (the above two photos were my view during lunch on the left and right respectively) to turn that frown…
…upside down, my friends.
However, it was hooot. As in 32°C or nearly 90°F! Holy Cannoli, not even my perspiringly chilled glass of rosé could put out that fire. And with Ben along (who was offered water everywhere–Vive la France!), we knew that it would be a shorter stroll than usual.

We did stumble upon the Maison d’Emmaus, the local branch of the amazing Emmaus Organization. For those of you that have not heard of it, think Salvation Army with a more active role in changing the circumstances surrounding the lives of the needy. Always good to give to a worthy cause yes?

So I was all too willing to fork over some truly small change for a new/old linen pillowcase, a bronze silk shirt and a lady-like Lancaster handbag. Time to take a short ride on the karma train! 

But my wandering eye had obliterated my companion’s patience (why is that?) and so the rest of our visit would have been a jog if it wasn’t just too warm for that. Have you ever seen those poor tourists that are literally taking pictures while walking? That was me today.

 But one element that I really felt strongly, despite the nearly manic race back to the air-conditioned vehicle, was the electric energy of the café culture, something I had noticed before but was especially zapped by it today. The people watching was divine and the eaves-dropping delightful…The sweet push of youth finding their way during just another gorgeous day in Aix.

The title of this post, while a link to the others, is misleading. While I do love everything in Aix, there is really only one thing that I need to write today:
I love you, Mom!
I know how lucky I am to have such a beautiful, funny, intelligent, giving and all-around incredible person for a Mom. I hope that I tell her enough on other days beyond her celebration tomorrow.
I wish that I was there with you.
And as if this post wasn’t already hopelessly too long (Editing, Heather, editing!) I have a ps. or two. First off, the zucchini blossoms were just too fantastic not to share. My honey stuffed them with a shrimp, crab, bready-eggy mix and lightly fried them. Madness on a plate. Either that or I was delirious from eating them.
And secondly, look at this painting that I found while searching for information on Boulouris! Do you believe that it is the ocean pavilion of Pax, My Dream House on the Cote d’Azur? I do!
Have a wonderful Sunday everyone!

Edible

Isn’t that the oddest word? Edible? Yet, unlike its French counterpart mangeable it does sound like the act of gobbling. And what is going on with the Gallic translation of “yummy” into “miammy” or worse “miam miam”? I take my eats seriously, no need for childlike lingo here.

Especially in the spring when the market takes on Cradle of Mankind proportions. Or at least that is how I felt yesterday when the maliciously grumpy herb guy (truly he intimidates me so much that I often can’t get up the nerve to speak to him) suddenly decided…to like me. I decided to brave his steely glare as he finally had zucchini blossoms after a month longer wait than usual due to the lack of rains. Can you imagine my shock when instead of charging 12 for 2,50€–clearly a bargain–he threw in everything that he had left with a flick of the wrist, mumbling something about “being special to the ladies”? I was dumbfounded but credit the strength of my perfume with this miraculous behavioural transformation and won’t hold my breath for it to happen again.

Flowers you can eat! Easily amused, I giggled over the concept and placed the fragile packet on top of my other purchases, the Queens of the panier. I found it indescribably reassuring that the stems were still caked with dirt from his garden and the interiors dotted with the remains of morning dew. Stray petals clung equally tenaciously inside the basket of ruby red strawberries.

Speaking of those edible jewels, after fingering the remaining money in my pocket, I returned to buy yet another pot of strawberry jam from Tata Yette. This year, I am storing up after a woe-fully mismanaged previous year–it can’t be underestimated how quickly the jam will disappear and the sadness that will produce when it does. Madame Yette is a big woman with an equally round smile and does not take it for granted that I have shunned the other, more professional artisans for her home-made confections. They have the power to heal, I tell you. Remi was cured of a life-long aversion to the fruit after just one spoonful. Woe betide me if I dare set foot at my Mom’s doorstep without an offering of Tata’s abricot jam at the ready–but that is another story…better to breathe in the scent of the thyme citronée and relax. 

We certainly deserve to. Over the past week tensions have risen and fallen with the fact and aftermath of the elections–something that admittedly I face with a twinge of regret. For when the times get tough, the French get cooking. Or at least my particular Frenchman does. The more harrowing the scenario, the greater his need pour s’exprimer. Lucky me as I indulged in two of my favorite dishes in recent memory: a porc roti that had, amongst myriad other spices, the smack of cinnamon on its crackly skin and individual coquelets baked in mustard that somehow seemed much more than Dijon. 
It was almost, almost enough to ask me for the return of Martine Le Pen (or as I call her in my more snarky moments Martine Le Pew) but not quite. And I tell you, I was just one glass of wine short of declaring that both meals were “miam miam”. 

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