"Dinde pour Thanksgiving"

This year we are hosting Thanksgiving. This, the grandest-of-all-meals holiday, can be a lot of work. Basting and cooking the turkey, rolling the dough for the home-made apple pie, mashing the potatoes and saucing the cranberries and remembering through it all to be thankful that I haven’t burned the turkey or burned my hand or burned down the house. And that is Thanksgiving in America. Now, don’t get me wrong, France is as gourmet as they come, but they don’t have apple pie. They don’t have frozen corn or Cool Whip or Jennie-O turkeys in the deep-freeze. While they may have Jell-O, I couldn’t find it and I’m pretty sure they aren’t into sweet potatoes or Stove Top stuffing. So all that to say, Thanksgiving in France is a lot more work. Whitney has been stressed about the centerpiece of it all, the turkey. We couldn’t find one at the supermarket and we weren’t sure where else to turn. So today, we wandered into the Boucherie where we were hoping for some French-butcher magic. As usual, we stumbled through our request, pointing out ‘dinde’ (turkey) in our French-English dictionary to the questioning butcher. At this realization he quickly and emphatically shook his head. Adding to our fears he said something about ‘not in St. Remy at all,’ but out ‘there’ with a gesture to who-knows-where. So a little downtrodden, we left the store and stood stunned in the Provencal sunlight of the square. Whitney, while not quite near tears, was helpless. This was the biggest, most crucial part of the Thanksgiving feast and it was all about to go down the drain if the best we could do were a couple of wimpy, head-still-on, 3 pound chickens. I mean, really, what is Thanksgiving without turkey? The turkey is the real reason for the season, the real accomplishment for which we stuff our faces and then roll ourselves to the couch for the Lions-Cowboys game or a first-of-the-year Christmas movie on Lifetime. Who remembers the Pilgrims anymore anyway? So despite the lack of good ideas (I had thrown out the option of picking our own turkey at the local farm, needless to say that idea was turned down out of sympathy for the turkey) we headed back to our car, arms vacant of that turkey we had so hoped to be cradling back to our home. I was starving so we had to go get our apple turnovers at the bakery and had to pick up a few things at the supermarket, so the potential for a miracle somewhere along the way gave us hope. And a miracle it was. Sitting precariously between the electronics store and the magazine shop was a meat market that looked like an autoshop. Whitney’s eyes gleamed with the hopes of redeeming Thanksgiving. In we went, chock full of anticipation and random turkey-related vocabulary. Two of the nicest Frenchmen we have met greeted us with smiles. Whitney masterfully (or at very least, effectively) communicated our dire need for the large bird and they agreed that this feat would be possible. It was a victory. We walked out triumphant, saying ‘au revoir’ ‘til Thursday morning when we would finally meet the meal and get a few last minute cooking instructions. Through this adventure, I must admit, I was skeptical and essentially void of the passion Whitney had in seeking the ingredients for the perfect Thanksgiving feast. I figured, worst case scenario, we would stuff a few chickens with Stove Top imported by the Zimmerman clan and wash it down with a little French wine. No biggie, all would be well. And so, at first, Whitney’s tenacious pursuit was baffling. Then it seemed, slowly as usual, to dawn on me. This turkey wasn’t the focus of her resolve. She didn’t truly care whether or not she munched a turkey leg or a chicken wing. What she wanted was home. She wanted some sense of order, she wanted everyone to feel comfortable, she wanted things to be the way they should be. And for that, we needed a turkey. In a week, if all goes well, we will be sitting around a table surrounded by the beauty of southern France, embraced by the warmth of our friends and family and staring at a big ol’ turkey. And then, all will be well. All will be as it should be.

The Feel of France

While sometimes words can describe perfectly, bring you to a place, transport you to the sounds and smells of a faraway country, sometimes a picture can help give a feel. Hopefully these can help convey a little better what we are experiencing here at Mas Dagan. All of these pictures are of the property.
Going directly to the slideshow is much better than the dinky imbed so here's the address:
http://picasaweb.google.com/michaeljohnlarson/MasDagan#slideshow

g'morning.

It finally came. I have waited for it, patiently and for months, and it finally came. The story I had written, unknowingly yet so clearly and precisely, finally came to be, like ink to the paper it came. My perfect morning.
I slept well last night, and despite staying up until 3:00am, woke before 10:00. Maybe I was eager to begin what I thought was my perfect day in France, maybe I just wanted another one of the delectable apple turnover treats from the boulangerie. Whatever it was, the down covers didn’t seem as inviting, the warmth of the sheets not quite as enticing and so I stirred from my sleep. I padded across the stone floor in my Minnetonka Moccasins and threw on my clothes. I covered my very American jeans and tee with a slightly more European pea coat and grabbed the keys. Driving into town this morning felt different. I know, its not as though I was up before the animals or something, or like the dew had yet to lift itself off of the grass or anything like that, but I felt fresh and as though my new home was becoming just that. Home. The peaks of the Alpilles, although faded behind a layer of haze, jutted out over the knotty trees as I turned onto D30 toward St. Remy. I have finally found a baker. This was a key piece of the perfect picture for me. Not having a baker in the south of France made me feel lost, like not knowing where the closest Chili’s is back in the states. But this morning, I knew where I was headed and although it was only my second trip, I felt like the baker was waiting for me, eager to greet me as a friend and distribute to me baked goodness, like a sweet nectar of the gods. I snapped back from my dreams of ‘Chauson aux Pommes’ and patiently searched for a parking place. Once around the small town and I happened on just the spot, two doors down from the patisserie. Inside the friendly owner had delights galore. Flaky crusts crammed with everything imaginable, but my eyes saw only one. There it was, the apple-filled delicacy, waiting for me to pluck it up. I bought two baguettes and two pastries (ordering in near-perfect French…) and proudly pulled away. Arriving back at Mas Dagan, I prepped my coffee and set it to percolate. This aspect, the coffee making procedure, was the sole blemish on an otherwise idyllic morning. In general, I like to French press my coffee, not because I’m haughty-taughty, but just because I like the way it makes me feel when I make it. Anyway, the coffee maker would have to do for today, so I placed my turnover on a plate and brought it just outside my doorstep to an antiquated table, bathing in the warmth of the sun peaking over the tree line. In moments my coffee was done and I filled my mug to the brim. Carefully stepping out to my chair, I pulled the door closed behind me and settled in. I was finally here, in the center of the painting of which I had become the artist so long ago. The canvas had been stretched, the brush had been cleaned and the final strokes of paint were drying. I was apart of my dream and all was as I had hoped it would be

Paris on A Bicycle

I experienced Paris as picture-perfect as it can be. From Thursday to Thursday we spent a week on Paris' left bank in the gorgeous home of our good friends, Anda and Marc. Together, they have spent the better part of two years in and out of the city, and Marc many years more so they were our personal tour guides as we explored the City of Love.

One of our favorite pieces of the week, was a relaxing coast through the winding streets, perched atop our rented bicycles. While not quite a birds-eye view, seeing the city from two wheels instead of two legs gave a different perspective. Starting from their apartment, the four of us walked down the block, a quaint and comfortable street in stark contrast to the typical city-center feel. Art from Chinese ancients to brightly colored modern to life-size plastic Native Americans adorned from head to toe in typical tomahawk and headdress, graced window after window of the street's shops. Smells wafted through the open doors as the restauranteurs swept out their dining rooms into the street and readied for another busy day in the cuisine capital of the world. Our friends pointed out their favorite cheese shops, bakeries and floral stands. Around a corner not 2 minutes from their front door was a high-tech bicycle lock-up rack. Several identical bikes stood, ready and waiting to take us for a spin through the tangled lanes of inner Paris. With a credit card and a few simple instructions, we were all aboard, our borrowed vehicles completely ours for the day (to be returned to any similar stand throughout the city. brilliant!). We first followed the city's former lifeblood, the Seine River, pedaling our way through a pedestrian-only paradise. We saw beautiful architecture, gorgeous cathedrals and a few 'mosquito boats' toting tourists on a lunch tour of Paris. We arrived at our first destination, a mansion formerly owned by an avid art collector, whose collection still stands as one of the most impressive in the city. While the line to see the art was over an hour, the line to see the lunch menu was less than half. We vied for the more timely option and enjoyed crisp salads overlooking the courtyard. While Marc had a lunch meeting to catch and was forced to leave, the three of us decided for the scenic route home, so back on the bikes we went and wandered along. At this point we had seen the Eiffel Tower only at night, flashing its brilliant whites and blues, so with that as a landmark, Anda skillfully guided us through her town. For a moment or two, I would get disoriented, only to turn the next corner and see the tip of the Tower guiding us in. After a myriad of photos beneath the most famous of landmarks, we all stood back and enjoyed the beauty of it. Just slightly behind the David, this was the most striking man-made creation of our trip. Steel made to feel soft, a delicate balance of strength and art and grace, the pictures do no justice. Back on our bikes we struck for the Seine and our home. We bumped into the Champs-Elysees, its hoards of people and shops and traffic and then not a block away found ourselves in the peace and quiet again, a residential street lined with cafes, almost inviting us to spend the afternoon. But onward we pressed, by Napolean's tomb (a practically stadium sized mausoleum), the famous American Church and by some of the most elite, high-browed eateries in the city. We returned our bikes, walked home and rested our tired legs.

The beauty of this city, to a foodie like myself, is that you can eat whatever in the world you want each night. Literally. One night we had Mexican (a rarity over here!), another night Gaon grill food, another night Indian, another night Italian and one night traditional French. All came with their own unique geographical flair, but all came with a 'Bon Apetite.'

For me, Paris had a lot to live up to. The favored European city for all of the Zimmerman women, I had high expectations. With the ambience, the friendliness, the food and the sites, this city was indeed all I had hoped for.

Pushing Through The Lockjaw

Through this blog I have realized one thing about me as a writer. I have always enjoyed engaging in thoughts, ideas and emotions. The intangible, I believe, is where the most important of life's events truly take place. The things we think about before we doze off at night, the things we think of when we're alone, when we're afraid, when we're not being watched or when we can completely be ourselves; these are the things that truly make up the substance of our lives. And yet, these things that mean the world to me, are so often slippery. I feel as though I can't say what I mean, I can't impart the true depth or feeling of something. The idea squirms as I try to peg it to the page with words and phrases and not-quite-perfect analogies. This handicap often leaves me mute, simply lockjawed into saying nothing at all. Tonight is one of those times. And yet, with the discipline of this blog and the focus of this entire trip, I simply must force myself. And so out it will come, as a babbling perhaps, like a baby's first disjointed words, but hopefully in some way clear, in some way, while perhaps not inspiring, at very least relevant and relatable and true.

I have always been the 'jack of all trades, master of none.' I have felt eager, although not passionate, about many ventures in life and have engaged in a multitude of various pursuits. At this point in my life, however, this trait has no longer become simply a feature of my life, a present and neutral fact with which I had to live. No, at this juncture I wish I was a master; being a jack has become a pain. A master of anything, I guess: of finance, of tennis, of opera. Of writing or reading or rugby. As I think of my life in America starting back up in three very short months, I can't picture me. I don't see my profession or my home or my passions. There are options and ideas that I have, of course, but nothing that I know is right. Nothing that I know should be. As this thought planted itself uncomfortably in the soil of my mind, something began to grow. I want an earthly passion. I want a job that I'm good at and friends that know me and a family that is safe and a home that is secure. And yet, whether all of this or none of it, I want a life that lives on. I want a lantern that, when I have the courage and discipline to hold it up, gives the things of my world significance when seen in the light of its warm and steady glow. And that thought gives me security. I feel that although the 'jack of all trades' may be forever my bane, I can pursue something that will make mastering anything or nothing a matter of little importance. I can trade stocks, teach class or sell t-shirts. I can preach or paint or perform surgery. I can be the president or be fired. All of it will have value when I lead the way with this lantern and none of it will matter if I don't. While my soul wrestles through the specifics, the day-to-day of this realization, I know, I can't help but be sure, that this lantern creates a backdrop of purpose, in front of which can take place the greatest scenes of my life. And I know that somehow, this is all spiritual, that my soul craves the purpose for which I was placed on earth. Slowly, I am finding that it is all that matters, finding that lantern and tending to it, spilling its light on my future and giving everything meaning. It may seem far-fetched, it may seem extreme or simplified or cheesy, but I think its right. As it seems with every dawning of an important idea, however, this is just the beginning.

Paranoia...for good reason!

Round One of Battle Royale with the Mice!
I apologize for the unedited version, we wanted to get this up right away!

Paranoia

So Mas Dagan, as a whole, has exceeded our expectations for a vacation home. Its decorations are Provencal perfection. The grounds are comfortable and interesting and lend themselves to exploration. However, a home of 250 years, comes with a few little quirks. As she departed from us a few days ago, our landlady warned us about a few things. "There are a few mice in the ceiling that may, rarely, scratch or move and create some sound." Ok, we thought, no big deal, a few mice every couple of weeks passing through, catching a little warmth in the roof wasn't going to be an issue. Hey, we might even appreciate the company, we thought. So we tucked ourselves into our cozy bed, pulled up the down comforter and settled in to a relaxing, dream-filled sleep. And then the scratching began. I awoke that first night to a flaky bit of terra cotta ceiling falling on my previously-closed eyelid. Startled, I threw off the covers and woke up Whitney in the process. The visitors had let us know they were there. Unfortunately, that wasn't the first and only visit. Sitting in the family room, reading, typing, talking, we have come to (almost) ignore the graveling, the shuffling, the practically constant moving around of our rodent friends. Now we haven't actually seen anything, but the level of awareness on which their presence has placed us is practically impressive. At the squeak of a door or the yawn of one of our unassuming cats or the rattle of the heater exhaling a breath of warmth, we are instantly on guard, our eyes glued to the ceiling, just waiting to see a tail or a snout or a tooth of one of these carnivorous intruders.

Sure, it has become paranoia, but how can we help it? How, when Whitney grabs a blanket and covers her legs and the little tassel brushes against my arm, can I simply ignore this very mouse-like touch? How, when putting away the bread after dinner and the shadow of the drying dishes look very similar to that of scurrying rodent, can I simply turn and walk away?

We have put a call in to the landlady, begging her for some intervention, some rat poison, a few traps, an exterminator perhaps? However, until then, paranoid I will be, thinking that these pesky creatures, with nothing but bad intentions, are constantly plotting and planning to ambush me when I'm unawares.

I often tell myself that my worries will be over if...If I make a decision about a new job; If I go on vacation; If I leave the country for six months, living in the south of France where there couldn't possibly be anything in the world to worry about. And here I sit, on edge, worried, paranoid about a little mouse (or maybe racoon...the most recent scratching episode made it sound HUGE!). While, of course, I say this tongue-in-cheek, there is a little truth to it. I have gone through life saying that the next phase will be worry-free, easy, very well laid out and obvious, and yet, when I eventually meet that new phase head-on, I realize that the blueprint isn't quite so simple, the map not as clear as I had hoped and my worries are just as present as they were last week. While I didn't embark on this European journey to avoid the worries of life, I think in the back of my mind I was hoping that somehow most of them would go away. Magically, for six months of my life, I would think of nothing but the flavor of the next delectable pastry I would consume or what time, 10:00 or 11:00, I would stir from my bed. I've realized that the mice of my life are here too. They somehow managed to find their way through the flights, the B&Bs all over Europe, even the trains, and have now very comfortably settled in to St. Remy. Job decisions, home decisions, baby decisions, all of these things hang over my head, scratching, shuffling around in the ceiling of my mind. I have always told myself that once I make the choices, once I have conclusion to the unsettled issues in my life, I will be able to relax. And yet, I am beginning to learn, slowly though it may be, that these decisions will never die. I will always have a new fork in the road, a new option and choice for me to debate. For now, I can't help but worry, I can't help but be paranoid, but soon, I hope and pray, that I will acknowledge the mice in my head and be okay. That their shuffling and scuffling and roof-spilling behavior would no longer be all that consumes me. Soon, I would like to be able to dust off their trouble and turn over, place my pillow on the bed and dream again in peace.

Mas Dagan: The Tour

Here's a little video of our apartment in St. Remy-de-Provence, called Mas Dagan. We are settling in comfortably and will continue our writing despite the slower pace of our travels. We hope you enjoy!

From East to West to Home

The last few days we have put on a few miles (or 'kilometers' as they call 'em over here). After the beaches of Normandy we headed slightly south to the Valley of the Loire. It is a beautiful area known for its wines (as most of France is) and for its chateau. While we just couldn't find time to do too much of the wine, we were able to visit three of the most magnificent 'homes' I have ever seen. Our home base, where we stayed one very comfortable night, was in Chinon, the more quaint and quiet sister to more well-known Amboise. We stopped by another cute cafe, this time enjoying crepes and fluffy omelettes (a speciality in the Loire) and slept well. Our B&B was known for its array of jams, giving us a rainbow of choices that following morning. After sampling a dozen or so and begging to purchase a few jars (to no avail) we began on the scenic Route du Vignobles, a scenic road, lined with vineyards, connecting the famous chateau of the region.

Our first stop gave us a little lesson in French culture: don't mess with lunch. We arrived at 12:30 only to find that the next hour and a half was to be set aside for the ticket takers to have a leisurely meal. Dejected, we strolled back to the car and plugged the location of the next nearest monster home into the GPS. Not fifteen minutes later we had arrived at what we were told was the queen of Loire Valley chateaux gardens. Behind the home rested a maze of flowers, plants, vines and shrubbery. Each bush and tree trimmed to perfection, the birds-eye view from the second and third floor made the grounds look like a meticulous blueprint. The colors were vibrant, even the cabbages had a particular place in the scene. We made one last stop at the well-known Château de Chenonceau (seen in the picture), and toured its grounds and interior. This mansion was the first of its kind to be built purely for status, solely for inducing a 'wow' from the 'who's who' of society. It accomplished its goal. Over one half of the structure is stretched over the Cher river and the rest sitting on its bed, naturally surrounded, this home came complete with its natural moat.

After another night in the Loire, in Amboise, we set out for the east, to Colmar in the Alsace region. Another area known for great wine, we again took the 'wine road' and this time took the time to stop and sip a few regional specialties. The Cremant d'Alsace is a champagne-like bubbly that we very much enjoyed. One of the family-owned wineries that we stopped in, was in its 14th generation of production! Apples were also in harvest and we stopped in to quench our thirst with some of the incredibly fresh 'jus de pommes.'

Although we very much enjoyed the driving and wines of the Alsatian region, the rain and near freezing temperatures had dampened our spirits a bit. Our original plans to visit Chamonix and Mont Blanc near Switzerland became a little more than we could handle. We put a call in to our landlady in St. Remy-de-Provence and asked if an earlier arrival would be okay.

Needless to say, she obliged and I now write this blog from outside our new 'home.' The grounds and house are incredible, a full video tour will come shortly to give you a glimpse into our Provencal paradise.

Now begins the true adventure for us. The first 60 days have been a whirlwind of sites, tastes, smells, people, places and memories. We will be processing and recalling and reminiscing for the next several months, I'm sure. However, in one specific aspect the first 60 days were also not all I hoped they'd be. This trip is to process our thoughts, talk about our dreams and pray for our future. After 60 days and 31 different beds I am realizing the necessity of routine. In St. Remy, we will finally have what we have wished for. The peace of this place is real, its distance from the outside world comforting. While I know accomplishing the things we desire will, in the end, only come with discipline, I feel that this place lends a helping hand. We can finally stop checking the train schedules, calling the next B&B and checking the GPS for our next 'can't-miss' site. We are finally 'home' and our true adventure, the one that helps us face life, is just beginning.