Month: September 2015

Ambling after the moon

“Do you ever walk through the village at night?” C’s question surprised me, I had to think. “No, no, I don’t really…” “Oh, it’s wonderful,” she responded with that soft Southern accent belying her to be “the Other American” (in truth, she is L’Americaine and I am the other but no matter) here. “I do it all the time, it is so quiet.”
She went on to tell me of how she loves to take visiting English immersion exchange students on evening strolls, including a young girl from Monaco who delighted in the ability to do cartwheels through the empty streets…such freedom to be seen unseen.

C and I had been chatting about the upcoming arrival of the Supermoon, the Blood Moon, so rare. 

She imparted that she had been charting its progress this month along with her two children, who were coloring its stages nightly for class and told me the best place to see it at the top of the village. I wondered why I had never had such cool and engaging projects in the Midwestern schools I attended as a kid.

Just after 7:30pm, the time that Mr. Moon was supposed to be on the up and up, I was sipping a glass of wine and listening to Miles Davis. I was feeling mighty comfy in that Sunday evening cook a chicken way. But the image of that whirling girl enticed me enough to walk up the two flights to grab my camera and attach its 300 mm lens. All right then, go see, go see…

I climbed the hill and breathed out a “Oh there you are” at the glowing bone ball. I was standing on what had been the cemetery, long ago. The description seemed appropriate and yet C had been right, I felt no fear. Only that quiet that she had mentioned, sinking in, calming my breath and steadying my often shaky hands as I lifted the heavy apparatus time and time again. I shifted the manual settings with squinting eyes as the dark settled in. “If only Remi were here,” I thought nearly automatically, “he would know what to do.” How many times I have literally seen him run to be in the right place at the right time to catch the light, such a precise hunter. Well, instead, I just ambled after the moon – I played, I was a little artsy, at other moments I felt like a grand reporteur on a mission, I leaned into the fuzz of the sunset – and all the while the moon just rose and rose, shifting shades and cutting clouds. I stayed until I was content and paused before swinging the camera over my shoulder and trotting down the hill to whisper “thank you” – to C, to the daring girl, and to the beauty of la lune. Such a mystery still and how I love it that way.
to listen to:
Have a wonderful beginning to your week everyone…

Our first olive harvest – 2015

I cupped my fingers loosely around my tea mug, tapping the tips. Today was the first morning where I needed the cardigan, felt comfortable in the weight of jeans. I looked up at the olive branches poking the bright sky of morning and thought, “Here I am sitting in our courtyard, in Provence and it is a beautiful day.” Those words came out of my mind in bold print and I seemed to pull a part from myself for a few seconds as if to check, yes, I am really here and yes, it is beautiful. Just the tiniest of pauses on the stop-watch before life kept rolling on.
My Mom, Linda, was here visiting with her Husband last week. It was Leonard’s first trip overseas and I witnessed quite a few of those moments of discovery, some of which were punctuated outright with thought in a bubble statements of delight. 
When they left last Friday morning, I admit that I cried, 46 years old and all. But I love them so much that it is the impossible pull of the heart that an expat knows which works its way on me. Remi is used to this reaction and was exceedingly kind. He thought it best to keep me busy, to have a project to do.
And so we decided to harvest our olive tree.
The grape harvest had been a resounding success and everyone has raved about Remi’s jam and jelly. Emboldened, he has decided that we will try to brine our own olives, to make the olives cassées that are such a symbol of la vie Provençale. 
Last year, the olives had been victim to the same flies and disease that decimated the crops across Italy, France and Spain. We simply swept them up as they fell, soft and rotten, in hopes of arriving before the dogs did. So Remi had research to do in regard to the hows but started by simply pulling the car over in the Alpilles one day and asking an oléiculteur directly.
As we do not wish to turn our olives into oil, the moment is now for the picking. And that is what we did that afternoon with my rhythmically plucking at the lower branches while leaving Remi to perch on progressively taller ladders to try – and fail – to reach the top of our unusually tall tree. We wanted the fruit unbruised, so “combing” the branches was not an option. It was a slow process but as Remi had imagined, it was just what the doctor ordered.
The dogs watched on with growing impatience as our work continued on past their normal dinner time. The light danced through the branches until it warmed into that golden glow that exemplifies this time of year. I dotted around, snapping away with my camera to document yet another “first” of living in this wonderful home. Remi made a joking remark about how normally, as the professional photographer in the family, he should be the one behind the lens! 
The beauty of the sun was rankling him and it warmed me to melt any lingering tristesse. 
Now, we have our first little harvest. I say petite for half had to be thrown out immediately – according to the olive farmer, the ones that float when rinsed are kaput. The remaining firm green globes have been nicked cross-wise and will soak for the next ten days or so. As Remi is away for work, it is my task to change the water twice a day. Then he will work his magic – he already has very specific ideas for the “sauce” – and we will put up our olives for the winter months ahead.
I might even need to send a jar back to the States as a reminder to my family that they might again be far away but are always right here in Provence with me, right within my heart.

Remi’s fund-raising in honor of Cecil the Lion


Today’s post is a serious one but very important both to me and Remi. If this is not your cup of tea, please don’t simply “unsubscribe” but come back later in the week, there is plenty of Provence to follow…
Ben froze at the sound of the first shot. At the second, he took off at a run. Kipling, our wiry rascal looked up at me with confusion. Amazingly, Ben is still well-trained enough that I was able to get him into a sit just long enough to slip the leash back on him. All around the outskirts of our village, we could hear the loud firecracker pops. Ben’s eyes widened until each one resounded as “fear, fear, fear” and he began to tremble. He strained on the leash as we all headed home at a pace just under a run, to safety in their minds, for today is the opening day of hunting season.
In France, the hunting of most species is highly regulated but you wouldn’t think so today for it would seem as if everyone wanted to use up all of their allotments at once for the number of gunshots ringing out at the 11am start time. So now, I will have to be more precise with not only the when of our walks but most certainly the where, as a man was killed last year just beyond the village by his colleague who mistook him for a deer.
As I sat down to type, my heart still beating fast with adrenaline, a mad rush of images flurried through my mind while I tried to flip file my sentiments on the act of hunting. A sentence began to form: “In the different traditional societies that I have had the good fortune to cover in our travels…” pause…what was it that they did? No actually, most of them did not rely on hunting to survive, meat is often precious, rare and agrarian gains were key to nourishment. But that too is changing, as modern society infringes on their lands, certainly that is the case with the Maasai. We are pushing them to change. And certainly we are the ones that have convinced ourselves of the need for hunting to be a sport. 
As I have mentioned repeatedly recently, Remi, my companion, has been creating a tribute to our incredible wildlife in tribute to the needless slaughter of Cecil the Lion. Now, I should say that from the beginning of Lost in Arles, Remi has not wanted to be a part of this blog directly, so this is of my choosing but I know that quite a few of you have been following along. For those of you that are interested, the end of his six weeks of storytelling has culminated in a fund-raising drive for the Frankfurt Zoological Society, whose efforts have already saved 26 black rhinos in the Ngorongoro Crater (and have set up the security to protect the entire animal population) and are now focusing on the very high risk zones of the Serengeti National Park. Remi is calling out to the 31,000 members of his feed as well as the 2.3 million members of the feed for The Photo Society, which features the works of photographers that have been published in National Geographic.
I am incredibly proud of his work but especially so in that Remi, being Remi, has tried to raise the debate beyond just the horrific example of Cecil the Lion’s death. I will leave you with his words:

“Last July the killing of Cecil the Lion troubled me deeply. Mankind has definitely become the hyper-predator of planet Earth, who now possess the power to destroy anything we want while changing the global climate as well. And because of this super-power I feel that we have arrived at a turning point in our history and evolution: How can we control our own animality which sleeps in each of us from the dawn of time? It is my feeling that it is the biggest challenge of Mankind ever. To be able to grow together empowered by a vision: Responsible for the planet and respectful to all forms of life. And to do so, our societies should not think about the future as the idea to keep growing anymore, an overdue concept because we have already gone way too far. We should think of the world in terms of creating and keeping Harmony. Harmony versus Growing. The winning concept is the one you choose, yes, you reading here, because everything begins with oneself. From this awareness depends our own survival. On Sunday, pass the word, we will move to action on ig to feed together the Harmony and to balance the bad energy of one of us, a dentist who killed for pleasure.”

For those of you on instagram, you can find more information at @remibenali or @thephotosociety

For any of you that are interested in donating directly (thank you!) please go to: www.fzs.org/en/ or if you are in the US you can go directly to: www.us.fzs.or/en/support

Any amount, even a dollar, would be welcome and if you are so inclined and it is tax-deductible.

Please feel free to share this post or Remi’s feed on all social media, merci!
There is so much beauty in our world and I am grateful for it.
With my Highest Regards to all of you,
Thank you for being here,
Heather

La vie en flamant rose

“It was a good day, non?” Remi asked as we settled back into the car. “It was Coeur, it was a really good day,” I replied.

We both were sleepy from the excitement of discovery, kids post-aquarium style and squinting into the rose gold of the sunset as we headed for home.

It can be tricky nostalgia, looking back. Even in that word, if you roll it around on your tongue there is a whisper of a warning in it. And yet that is exactly what we have been doing as of late. Spending copious amounts of time on what once was.

As I mentioned previously, Remi has been doing an amazing storytelling on his instagram account this past month to raise awareness about the importance of protecting our wildlife after the shameful killing of Cecil the Lion.

He is a wonderful writer in his own right, although these days it is limited to instagram. It was because of his capabilities that we were able to convince the magazine Grands Reportages to give me a try just months after my having moved to France by his saying, “If you really don’t like what she does, then I will write something instead.” He didn’t need to rewrite that article and we set off on a series of adventures together that I could never have imagined possible.

One of the biggest surprises for me – who had still only recently been an “I can run in high heels to catch a taxi if need be” New Yorker – was my astonishingly deep love for being on safari. For me, there is no more direct route to feel one with the blinding bright beauty of our earth. It can be overwhelming and yet utterly reassuring at the same time. “Yes, this exists and somehow I am right here, a part of it. I am alive.”
Twice we were able to visit the Ngorongorgo Crater in Tanzania, the second of which in 2006 was for a story that was exclusively on this sunken caldera of twenty kilometers in diameter that is home to roughly 25,000 large animals, a true Cradle of Life. It was an exceptional experience, especially as the authorities had accorded us a few days of rare passes permitting us to leave the road to better explore, to get closer.

Remi’s photographs from that time are exquisite. Looking at them now while he puts the story together has brought out strong feelings for both of us, pride and wistfulness amongst them. Both of us peering back at our incredibly exciting past through the computer screen from the padded quiet of our house in a tiny, sleepy village in a forgotten corner of Provence.
Nostalgia. I said it could be a dangerous word.

And yet. And yet…

Last week Remi invited me to tag along with him as he made a repérage for another of his photography workshops, this time not in the Alpilles but in the Camargue. It is an area that I am not often fond of in its mix of rough terrain and touristy vibe. And yet, in visiting the Parc Ornithologique de Pont de Gau we were surrounded by both. But I have to say that the experience was…fantastic.
The paths and pass-rails covering the swamps allowed us to walk amidst the thousands of birds – pink flamingos or flamants roses, egrets and herons, just to name a few – and as they are habituated to the proximity of human presence – just like in the Ngorongoro Crater – they don’t flee but continue to eat and fish and chat amongst themselves.

After exclaiming with joyous disbelief, we fell silent with wonder. And then we began to take photographs, both of us aided by telephoto lenses. Mine was a 300mm, heavy enough to make my Olive Oyl arms wobble. Remi was using one of his Leica’s – even more monstrous – but after having shot five Olympic Games, well, he is used to it.

We moved and focused and focused again. Eyes searching wide and hearts leaping until we felt like we were flying on wonder – that same exhilaration we had known before – until we understood that we did not have to go to Africa to experience it. We were still capable of finding it all on our own.
Yes, it was a really good day.

This post was written as part of the series called By Invitation Only which unites a group of bloggers to express themselves on a specific theme. This month a question was asked, “What are you afraid of?” Now, that is a topic that is just across the border of what I am willing to discuss here literally. But there is one thing that I can tell you that I have always been afraid of: stagnation. Amongst the glorious birds of the Camargue, I found a way to keep growing, to keep moving forward, open.

To discover what the other bloggers have written on this very challenging theme, please find the links by clicking: Here.

To read Remi’s storytelling on instagram about the Ngorongoro Crater: @remibenali
To follow my feed: @lostinarles

As always, thank you for being here.
With my Best from Provence,
Heather

Grapeageddon, our second vendange

Eh, oui. It is that time of year. 
One of the gorgeous aspects of this house we rent in Provence is its courtyard, half of which is dominated by a giant olive tree, the other through an ancient vine that snakes over a wrought iron trellis. Both provide glorious dappled shade, a precious commodity during this past blaze of a summer.
And while that sun often taunted me into hiding behind closed shutters, it certainly did an enormous amount of good for both the olives – which are looking splendid – and the clusters of hanging grapes that glowed like edible chandeliers. 
I remember that the owner of the house had said that the vine is fruitful every other year or so. Last autumn we had been so disappointed when the grapes turned into mildewed globs practically overnight. The harvest then was easy, smelly but easy. Remi extended his trusty trimmer and I was on clean-up crew.
However, this year, well, of course, we wanted to save as much as we could but it was time they came down, not only as they were perfectly ripe but the bees were starting to eat more than we were. So today was the day. Some inner voice suggested that I put on an old t-shirt and Remi blocked off the area from the dogs as grapes are not good for their livers, no matter how much they love the taste.
I rolled open a grocery bag and extended my arms, trying my best to catch the mana from heaven as it rained down, pelting my face, my hands and the pavement. And how I laughed while doing so. It was ridiculous and by the end I looked – if you will excuse me for saying so – rather like a giant had used me for a handkerchief. We recuperated enough grapes so that Remi will be able to make a second go with his jelly, this time promising to actually stir the agar-agar so that we are not stuck with ten pots of rather delicious sauce for ice-cream.
As I am typing, I can see the last rays of the sunset reflecting off of the building en face, the one that they call “Le Chateau” and perhaps it is. As I told Remi earlier today after la vendange was finished, I feel lighter. There is less literally hanging over-head, just the promise of my favorite season in front of me and more importantly, that of some incredibly important visitors arriving within the week.
Let autumn in.

Ps. For my fellow antiques lovers – and I know that you are many – my friend Ellie is having a phenomenal sale at her shop on Have Some Decorum. I honestly don’t know how she finds such exceptional pieces, many are finer than anything that I have seen during fourteen years of antiquing in France. Her readers are chomping at the bit so much may be already sold when you see this but if you are interested, then by all means quickly click: Here.
Happy Labor Day Weekend to those of you that are celebrating…and happy Happy to everyone else…

Celebrity sightings in Provence

Well, now that got your attention, didn’t it?
Mm-hmm, I see. Kids, don’t forget that I come from the press where we know how to toss out a line all the better to real ’em in. 
And while I am on the subject of the press…I know that some of you already follow Remi on instagram  but for those of you who don’t, he is wrapping up a gorgeous storytelling on one of my favorite places that we ever covered together, the Ngorongoro Crater in Tanzania, as a month-long tribute to honor Cecil the Lion and all that he represented. If you are interested, you will find him @remibenali. Bravo, coeur, for all that you are doing and for taking it to 31,000 followers around the world everyday.

Where were we? Ah, yes, celebrity sightings. What, getting a bit impatient are you?
Yes, the bright lights do tend to love the bright light of Provence and my beloved Arles especially is having a “moment” this summer.
So now, who exactly was the famous person that was spotted beyond the crowd in Arles today?
Well, I hate to let you down but it would turn out to be…
Me.
Or at least that is certainly how I felt, fluttery and full with recognition. My doctor (whose family has been doctors for generations, including one of Mr. Van Gogh’s main doctors but don’t let that diminish their reputation) is mere steps from our last apartment near the Place du Forum. As I am redhead loyal, I still go to her even though there is a doc even in our tiny village. I was quite a bit early and so thought that I would poke around the old neighborhood, for I needed a dose of its buzzy energy. Happily, my copine, the very talented Christine Millerin had already opened up her atelier and invited me to have a tea across the street at the Cuisine de Comptoir where the handsome owners, Alex and Vincent, both gave me “les bis” the South’s quick triple cheek kiss. While we perched on the tiny terrace in view of her shop in case she had customers (a very, very Provençal thing to do), I was given the same treatment by the lovely Sophie Lassange who has her workshop next door and even a big hug (highly unusual for France) by Sylvie who was our post-lady for ten years that we lived in Arles (we used to joke that we could only rent in her postal zone).
It felt rather wonderful. And while there are kind folks that do regularly say hello to me in the village – and of course, there are those, as we know, who do not *cough* – I do miss being a part of that neighborhood and its everyday pleasantries that are enough to make even a dull day feel special and a shy person like me, a star.
Oh, all right, I won’t just leave you with false hopes, that wouldn’t be right. So who have I seen? Sarah Jessica Parker in St. Remy (mirrored aviators, flowing sundress) and Ines de la Fressange in Arles (dressed ex-act-ly like she proposes in her great book). Et pour mes lecteurs français, je peut ajouter Edouard Baer qui a une maison à Arles et il y a quelque mois, Remi a vu Mika sur la Place du Forum – mon dieu! Dommage que je n’était pas las…Of course, after many years of living in Manhattan I am Pavlovian trained to pay no attention to such things. No, instead you will find me face up to the big blue, staring at the sun…
A final Pop of Summer…
…et bienvenue septembre!