Secret Sharing

For the past three months, Michael and I have been sharing a secret. This is a secret that has been closely kept between just the two of us. We have shared bits and pieces with each of our families, but the 'full' secret has been solely ours. Today, as I drove past the Alpilles mountains, I finally realized the full beauty and the weight of this secret that we have been carrying with us. You see, the Alpilles mountains have become our own. One part of the ridge has four distinct peaks that Michael and I adore. Every time we drive by them, or every time we're out walking along the road, we comment about how much we love the Alpilles. We say, "Look at our mountains today! Aren't they so beautiful?" Today, as we watched them fall over the horizon in the rear view mirror, a thought occurred to me. I began wondering when I'd be back to visit St. Remy again and who would be with me. At that point, I knew that the only person I would ever want by my side would be Michael. He's the only one that shares the same emotions for this place that I do. I realized that no one else would love those mountains in the same way that I would. I realized that my friends and family wouldn't think they were extraordinary compared to the Rockies or even the Smoky mountains for that matter. And I finally understood that this place is a place truly loved from the heart by both Michael and me.

For us, Provence began as an extended vacation. We chose St. Remy because we liked Provence and liked Mas Dagan (from the pictures we found online). We went into this experience comparing it to other vacations we've taken; Mexico, California, etc. But, reflecting now, since those first days, Provence has become our home. We lived our lives here the past three months and this place has brought us closer together. It has helped to bind us and wrapped another thread around us. Michael is the only one who has shared the weight and beauty of this secret in the same way as I have. We have loved this place as a home rather than a vacation spot. We have loved it with our whole hearts, not just with taste buds and tanned skin. We have learned, grown, and changed since we've been here, much like you do in your homes. It makes me sad to know that you won't know about the little laundry room detached from the house; a place I thought peaceful and intriguing. It makes me sad to know that when you hear us talk about Ozzie and Pudge, they will just be stray cats to you; to us they made our months here exciting. It makes me sad to know that our stories will just remain as stories to you; to us our stories are our memories we will forever cherish as being some of the greatest times in our lives.

We all have secrets, don't we? Be grateful and thankful for them, and love those you share them with. They may just be some of the greatest times of your life.

The Stogie

I don’t know exactly what got me going. I don’t know if it was the south of France or too much time or simply watching Terry Benedict on the Ocean’s movies, but it seemed to me I needed to smoke a cigar. As you well know, the selling of Cuban-made cigars in the United States has been illegal for many years. However, here in France and all over Europe, the nation’s don’t seem to have the beef with Cuba that we do. So, needless to say, Cuban cigars are in every corner tobacco shop. Since Europe allowed me this freedom I felt, for some strong, but seemingly random reason, that I should not, could not leave this continent without having first puffed on a true Cuban. I dwelled over my decision for many days. At this point in our trip, a five-euro cigar is a major luxury, and yet I persuaded myself to do it, take the opportunity and have 20 minutes of tobacco burning bliss. I purchased my very high-end Romeo y Julieta cigar for five euros and thirty cents. When I got home, I pulled it out of its case and inhaled the scent of cedar and tobacco and imagining myself contentedly puffing away on our porch, watching the sun set through the thick wisps of smoke. After a day of delay, I decided that the afternoon had arrived. I brought a book, a box of matches and the precious stogie out to the terrace. I lit, I puffed, I enjoyed. And then came the last bit of the cigar. I had taken my time, enjoying the weather and the atmosphere and thinking of when I was going to start my own fine cigar collection, when I started to feel slightly off. My head became a little lighter than normal and my fingers felt tingly and my stomach began to churn over breakfast and lunch. Now I have to tell you, this wasn’t the first time. I have had my share of bad cigar experiences before. Nausea, tingling, sweating and even eventual vomiting had all been apart of my incident-plagued past. For some reason, I felt this was different. I had taken my time, I had enjoyed the moments and I had truly felt that it was something I could get used to. And then, after stumbling quietly into the house, my head pounding by now, I slept. For two hours straight, with the scent of burnt leaf still on my fingertips, I slept. When I awoke, and the feeling remains, I wanted nothing to do with cigars. Every time I have tried them, I have had the image of myself in my mind, something, someone I wanted to be. I wanted to be able to open the door of my humidor and offer my best friends a very pricey, very rich, very Cuban cigar. And yet, it seems to me now that wanting to love cigars, for me, was really to love the idea and the image of what I would be if I smoked one. I think sometimes I end up doing that same thing through my life. I get myself involved in things, buy things, research things and get interested in things that in reality, I don’t even like. I like them for other people, I like them so that I look like I like them and look the way I want to look to everyone else. I guess I have gotten caught up in the image of life, not the reality. I have taken to trying something till it makes me nauseous, sleeping it off and then forgetting about it until the next time, trying not to remember if I liked it or if it mattered at all, but seeing myself as I pictured, the image of who I desperately want others to see. I think I’m going to try honesty for a while. I’m going to like things that I actually like and be not who I picture, but who I really am.

From Couch Potato to 5K...hopefully

So while we had all this time on our hands, here in the south of France, we decided it was time to get a little disciplined, time to pursue some of our exercise-related goals. Surprisingly, the dawn of a new year had nothing to do with our new-found passion for healthy living, it was just a coincidence in timing. Well, the grueling program has found me aching, fighting cramps and soreness and a generally weary body. And we’re only on day two. Seriously, though, for the first time in my life I feel like my age is catching up with me. Now don’t get me wrong, I realize I’m not an old geezer yet. I’m just a shade under 26 and that’s by no means a ripe old age. However, since starting our new running plan I do feel a few steps closer to the top of that infamous ‘Hill.’ I feel old because I am now forced to look back on the days when I could go out, run a few miles and not feel it the next day. When Whitney first broached the subject of getting ourselves into shape, I was a little hesitant. When she detailed the program of choice, the aptly named “Couch Potato to 5K Workout,” I became even more skeptical. This gradual, easy starting, fluff-of-a-routine wasn’t for me, I declared, I wasn’t to the point in my life where squeezing in a half hour jog was going to kill me. Or was I? The first day, and by ‘day’ I mean 20 minutes of an on-again-off-again jog/walk interval, left me literally hobbling home. My knee throbbed, my arms and legs were weary and I was ready for bed. The following day was a rest day, and thank the good Lord, cause I needed it. Again, my overconfidence at my recovery time rendered me a fool and I staggered out of bed in the morning, sore in places I didn’t know I had and definitely didn’t know I needed to be able to run. The following day, today, was day number two of the routine. Identical to number one it was just as simple and seemingly as ‘easy’ as the first. Working out for me has, for the first time, become a humbling experience. I am no longer invincible. From now on I will, or so it seems, think twice before dashing out the door for a quick jog, or hopping on a treadmill for a lunch break workout. However, I also think that with this change comes thoughts and wisdom and action that would have been out of place in my younger self. I am starting to want to be an adult. I desire responsibility and regularity and consistency. I want to settle in to a neighborhood where people know me and count on me. I want a job that I do well and do it for a long time. I want a family who looks to me as their support and knows that they can count on me. Every day I pray that I can fill this role as well as I hope and if I can, I’ll take a pulled hamstring or a throbbing knee any day.

A Parisian New Year

Perspective in a Cave

In Provence, Van Gogh is king. His picture is hanging in shops, his paintings are copied and sold all around, his favorite drink, absinthe, is stacked in great supply in the corner of every store. If he created but one painting in a certain place, you are sure to know it and the city is sure to capitalize on it. St. Remy is no exception; throughout the town, plaques with his paintings are placed in the spot from which he painted the original over a hundred years before. While we haven’t taken the official Van Gogh tour of Provence, each stop of significance another site from which he painted, we have explored a nearby spot worth mentioning. In Les Baux, an old city atop a hill, centered around its once grand and now crumbling castle, there are caves carved out of the solid rock. In one of these such caves a creative entrepreneur has put the space to better use than just a dark, dank place to get out of the rain. The Cathedral d’Images is a state-of-the-art tourist trap, worth every Euro cent. As we approached, the caves looked as ordinary as any of the others we passed en route. After paying a nominal fee at the simple ticket counter, we ventured into the heavy coolness of the space. Essentially, the Cathedral is a grand art gallery, but instead of stuffy critics, bundled-up tourists file through and instead of prized works, small and framed on the walls, the caves interior is bathed in the light of a dozen high-powered LCD projectors. Images of famous works, over three stories high, hang as tapestries of light and color from the stone walls and pillars. The images change and move, scrolling across the surface of the cave’s interior, projected from the machines overhead. I have been twice now, to the caves, the first at Thanksgiving and the second at Christmas. Between times, however, my perspective has changed a bit. One of the many works of literature that we brought on our European journey was a copy of Lust for Life, borrowed from Whitney’s mother. It is a poetic and richly descriptive biography of Vincent Van Gogh’s life. Written like a novel rather than a history book, it quickly captured my attention and ushered me into a place of understanding and appreciation of this oft misunderstood man. Before this simple education, Van Gogh seemed crazed, inaccurate, even inarticulate. I felt like he was a child, twirling his paintbrush through color and arriving at a harsh depiction what could have been a beautiful scene. But as I read, I better grasped the mind behind the canvas, the struggles, the rejection he suffered and the tenacity with which he pursued the excellence he eventually attained. Needless to say, my Christmas trip was a more rewarding experience. While initially I was awed at the genius of the project itself, the projectors, the atmosphere, the general idea of the thing, the second visit I was much more drawn to the work itself. While my knowledge of the artist’s life was still no more than elementary, I now saw behind the paint and canvas, to the pain he carried and the joys and triumphs that propelled him to some of his most renowned and beautiful pieces.

As I went from interest to appreciation, I felt a surge of hope in my own life. So often I think that what I have to say is insignificant. While I would love to write beautifully and artfully and adventurously, I feel like the page ends with a drab, monotone depiction of an ordinary day in an ordinary life. And yet, when I look at Van Gogh’s work now, I don’t appreciate the depiction of a scene to its most minute and perfect detail, if I wanted such a scene I would buy a photo taken on that very spot, no, instead I see through eyes that are different than mine, eyes seeing through emotion and experience as a pair of glasses, eyes that saw shapes and lines and colors that I could never see. And that is what I can only hope to do. I hope to be another set of eyes through which the world sees, one that may be different enough that some learning or beauty or understanding comes by looking through.

Lost without Translation

Last night we were elbow to elbow with the locals. I had been anticipating the ‘Marche de Noel,’ the Christmas Market, for a few weeks and the evening had finally come. Traditionally, the gathering of local vendors was an easy and efficient way for the community to prepare for the ‘Gros Souper,’ or Big Dinner, that fell on Christmas Eve. However, the market seemed to have evolved a bit. We saw a variety of items strewn across a few dozen stands, most seemingly unhelpful in making the Big Dinner prep any easier. But we enjoyed perusing, just the same. The hot, sweet scent of crepes mixed with the soft smoke of the chestnuts, roasting, literally, on an open fire. Once inside the large tent, we saw that Santon figures, another Provencal tradition, were carefully set in strict rows, a colorful little army of bakers and huntsmen and grazing animals. The Santons are little clay objects, painted gaily and precisely, and then set up as peripherals to a huge nativity scene. Basically, rather than just Mary, Joseph, Jesus and a few accompanying characters, the Santon scene is an entire village spilling over the landscape of lavender and red-roofed homes. Take the little snow-capped village homes with twinkling lights that are sold in the States, multiply the popularity and size of the set-up by ten and you’re getting closer to the picture. The rest of the vendors were a combination of ceramics, art, fabrics and food. The food, while useless for preparing the Gros Souper, was delightful for the perusing tourist. We dipped some bread at a stand with a rainbow of vinegars to try. We nibbled a bit of cookie, not recognizing the flavor, but enjoying it just the same. We filled our pockets with several flavors of ‘fougasse,’ which I can only describe as the French response to the German pretzel. After getting our fill we walked out into the crisp night, the crowds still pulsing in and out of the tent, flowing through the town’s artery for the holiday weekend. While wrapped in typical winter gear, we were warm, the night had dipped only to 50 degrees, and the slight sense of wind was diminished by the buildings of the city centre and the crowds that filled it. I felt a sense of relief as we walked out, the glitter of white lights strung from tree to tree over our heads. I realized that a carefree event had taken on an indistinct pressure, here. The presence of a crowd, speaking a language with which I was so barely familiar, totally at home in their surroundings, had become a tinge overwhelming in the few minutes in the tent. While I would love to say the last seven weeks in France has given me courage in my ability to communicate, honestly it has done the opposite. Rather than attempting my staggering, staccato attempts at speech, it seems I avoid lingering eye contact or a smiling clerk or an offered sample, simply to miss the possibility of an awkward encounter.

Last week we went to a nearby chateau, famed more for its vineyards and olive oil than its buildings, to tour and to taste. We poked our heads through the heavy drapes that protected the bistro from the mistrals, and were led to a wine barrel table. The interior was inviting. Christmas trees propped in every corner and huge chandeliers cast a romantic glow on the dark woods of the tables and floor. We pulled out the menu and pointed out our requests to the friendly waiter. After we had spent a few minutes nibbling on our Swiss fondue and sipping the establishment’s fine wine, a thin, smiling, youthful man approached our table. He began in French, but hearing our accents and our delayed response, he asked if we spoke English. A relief spilled through me and I eagerly said ‘yes.’ We answered his questions, complimenting the food and the place and telling him where we were from. Then I began explaining how my family was coming for Christmas and we would like to come back and when are you open and what do you serve and where can we taste wines and on and on. Later I smiled to myself, thinking how gracious the man was in response to my little life story. I had unknowingly craved interaction and yet with the barrier of language, my smiles, my ‘mercis,’ and my gestures of politeness were falling so very short. When I finally had an outlet, someone who was comfortable with my language, I exploded with conversation, like a kid describing their newest toy.

These two events made me realize how much I need contact with people. I need daily connections with those around me, even if it’s as simple as getting directions from a gas station attendant or gawking at the amount of snow with the barista at a coffee shop. Funny how those things seem like such annoyances at home, how transactional they become, how you can forget that the person on the other side of the counter, or in front of you in line, or next to you at a red light is, indeed, a person. While I look forward to many things in our return to America, that is the thing I anticipate the most. Being able to communicate pleasure with the food at a quaint café or wish someone a Merry Christmas on my way out of the grocery store, these are the things that I sadly missed in my busyness of life and now I miss them in a whole different way.

Le Marche

An invariable part of our weekly routine in St. Remy is the open-air market. Every Wednesday, whether misting rain, mistral winds or brilliant sun and sixty, we meander our way through the stalls downtown, perusing the local goods. It has become one of the only consistencies in our time here. We drive into town, through the market area, and come out the other side, park next to the tourist information office for one Euro, and turn around, heading back into town to explore.

Our first stop is inevitably the traditional Provencal goods. There are soaps of every possible flavor, their scents so potent and perfect, it seems as thought they are pure concentrate. The dark green bar, rough and very masculine, holds the smell of a thousand olives, pressed closely and barely contained in one single soap. The soft purple one stands out, as there are so many more of this one, and without picking it up, acres of lavender fields waft from the table, through the other soaps, and into your nose. So of course, this first stop holds our attention for several minutes each week as we pick up every colored bar to breathe it in, surprised at how each one does indeed smell just like the name engraved on its face. The nearby tables are of items we don’t care too much to sift through. A large camper-style van unfolds to reveal hundreds of pairs of brand-new shoes. Another vehicle spews out purses and wallets and bags of every kind, covering the large tables and the ground nearby. Then we come to another traditional Provencal item and, of course, another stop in our journey. These tables are weighted down heavily in the authentic, time-honored fabrics of the region. Many are covered in bright yellows and oranges and reds and adorned with images of olives or stalks lavender. They come in square, rectangle and circle. There are napkins and placemats and tablecloths. There are outdoor and indoor and cotton and linen. Picking up each fabric, we continue to peruse, receiving a ‘bon jour’ from the stand’s proprietor. Commenting on each one, of course they’re all so ‘cute,’ we bid ‘au revoir’ to the friendly local salesperson and expertly steer our way through the scene. We may stop at another table or two, perhaps to look at a quilt or a briefcase or a new set of silver boule balls, but we have accomplished our goals on this side of the street and the remaining few minutes are really just steps to get us closer to the other part of the market.

Where the first section of shops seemed orderly, more like an outdoor store than anything else, the other side of the street is throbbing with all the life and wonderful chaos that just makes sense at a market. There is a Dutchman, selling chocolate wafer cookies. He’s heating them up a on a griddle and we eagerly take one of the samples. We buy a bag from him and discover he too is living in the south of France for three months, traveling from place to place, selling these simple wafers, in order to bring back a big bag of cash to his home in Amsterdam. Then there is a Vietnamese man, busily picking it out fried items, handing steaming bags of lunch to the line of hungry French people. His line is consistently the longest, we pass by and vow next time we’ll stop. Then we wander through the alley of fruit. Bright orange clementines adorn a large chunk of one table, they’re so fresh and vibrant, we can’t help but grab a few. There are bananas, carrots, avocados and pineapple. There are several kinds of mushrooms and huge cloves of fresh garlic. Tables of juicy, colorful produce spread out towards one end of the market, where they’ve stuck the fishmonger, and his smells, who brought his fresh catch today, salmon.

Back around, past the Dutchman and the fried spring rolls, the Italian offers us a sample of his gourmet cheese, huge rounds, all identical, are stacked on each other, giving you only one, albeit very good, choice for the day. The meat vendors are next, shoving chunks of their savory treats on toothpicks into your hands, offering you toro, and beef and donkey. The next few stands are more of the same, a butcher stands by, watching the small chickens spin to a golden brown in the rotisserie. A man selling ‘confiture de candard’ and foie gras doesn’t attract too much attention from us, just passing tourists not quite daring enough to dip into anything that gourmet. Our favorite stand is next, a happy couple, bubbling over with conversation and tastes of their delightful product, invite us in. These tapenades are incredible. Tomato, basil, and garlic have become our favorites, so we pick up these three, again, and tell our friends we’ll see them next week. This week, due to our regularity, they include a special ‘gift,’ yet another flavor to get us hooked on.

The rest of the market continues, winding around a small square’s fountain, with more of the same. A butcher, a cheese vendor and a vegetable seller. A few tables of wine and a stand with heaps of olives, flavored with every spice and in every possible shade of green. At this point, we are usually content with our purchases and head in to town, perhaps to wander into a few shops or stop by our favorite crepes store, but that is for another post.

As we cross the street, heading back to the lot, cars slow gently for us, knowing today is market day, and I notice an odd sense of community has developed. It seems as though everyone in St. Remy comes to the square on Wednesdays. They may simply need a small bag of olives or a few pieces of fruit. It’s surely more practical or efficient or cost-effective to go to the supermarket, but the attraction of this place, teeming with energy, and the feel of a family, continues to draw people back. We have grown to love Tuesday nights, because we know on Wednesday just where we’ll be, just where we belong.

Beauty in the Rearview

As my car slowed around the bend, I peered into my mirror, searching through the haze. And then I saw them, the majestic Alpilles, veiled in a curtain of wispy fog and clouds. Snow crested, far off and strong these mountains had been here all along. It seems so often, however, that I notice them for the first time as I go home. It seems, sometimes, as though the entire day has been simply a string of events to accomplish, agenda items to check off the list in the most efficient manner possible. Here I am, in the most calm, laid-back place on earth. The South of France where it seems no one works, where people just eat and drink and be merry. And yet, old habits die hard, I suppose. I am an American, with an American work ethic and an American set of ideals and a tendency towards American efficiency. So yesterday, when we awoke to 60 degrees and beautiful sunshine, it became my goal to take advantage of such a perfect situation to accomplish as much possible.

We headed to Les Baux, a nearby village set atop cliffs and perched over an amazing valley. We got stopped, however, barely out of the front door. Our new 'neighbors' introduced themselves and we proceeded to spend the better part of 30 minutes conversing about travels, adventures and various destinations across the world. I hid my anxiety and eagerness to get out on the road, I hid my misguided goal-seeking mindset and smiled and nodded and chatted. So with that slow start I already felt 'behind,' as though at the end of the day I would be graded and these precious minutes, 'wasted' in our driveway, would bring me from an A to an A-. On our way out of St. Remy we decided to stop at the Glanum Ruins, a site birthed way before Christ. A sweet little dog became Whitney's friend and I felt, for whatever unusual, unfounded and downright wrong reason, that this little pup was an annoyance. We had things to do, museums to visit, ruins to explore and our day to get on with. We had no time to stop and pet a dog for five seconds! No way! So I hustled us across the street, paid our entrance and wandered through the ruins, stopping long enough to get a quick history and an idea of the territory. Glanum Ruins? Check! Now, off to our next destination. Winding through the roads leading to Les Baux, we both realized the increased amount of traffic since our last visit. Apparently we weren't the only tourists in France to be enjoying the weather. So pulling through the parking lot, attempting to avoid the German tour groups and the kids munching fresh caramels, I pessimistically searched for a spot. Getting into the city, I suddenly felt disoriented. I didn't know why we were there. I had seen this village three time previously, been in every shop at least twice and taken in the views from the cliffs more times than I had needed. So what was I doing here?, I so efficiently asked myself. I am among the throngs of men whose top leisure activity is not shopping. And so when, for the third time, Whitney decided to go into the cicadas shop and smell every one of the 29 soap flavors, I was moving from disoriented to impatient. Again, here I was, with complete freedom of schedule, of destination, of time, and yet I was wondering why we were still here and wondering how many more sites we could tick off before the sun set in two hours.

While I improved over the next hour, disciplining myself for my mindset and vowing to take it a little easier in the future, I had successfully squandered two hours of what could have been such an amazing day. And then there we were again, back in the car, rushing around the final corner before Mas Dagan and I looked into the rearview. The Alpilles were still there, reminding me, chiding me, to not miss the beauty again, to see each day and each moment as something valuable. To see each challenge as an opportunity to learn, each interaction as a chance to love and each task as a moment to be a little less efficient.

The Scent of Home

I would say 95 days is pretty good. Not one post dedicated to missing home on this blog in 95 days. Not to say we haven't, I'll give you that, but I simply haven't mentioned it. Sure we have craved Chili's fajitas or missed our family traditions or even wished we were window shopping at Macy's Christmas displays (shocking coming from me, I know). Today, I was alone all day. Whitney is with her mom and sister in Florence, Italy so the cats and I are holding down the fort. To be honest, I spent most of the day in bed. Reading, watching movies and eating made up the good percentage of activities. One thing struck me, amidst the silence of this 'home.' Every time I got up, or moved to a different part of the house for whatever momentary errand I had to run before climbing back into the warmth of my bed, I noticed the smells. Its not that there are bad smells, although one room (that we've rendered off-limits) does smell a little bit like a dying animal (most likely an unfortunate mouse or six), its simply that the smells are different.

Back at Bay View Lane, I knew the smells of my house. I knew when I walked into the house and my eyes would sting from the burn of cleaning supplies, that the bathrooms had just been clean. I knew that when I went to the fridge to grab some water before heading to bed that the smells of veggies or leftovers or not-yet-cleaned pots were my smells. Here, however, the smells are different. There's a mustiness. It lingers in the closets sometimes or in the corners of the rooms, its not bad necessarily, just like a cabin smells before the summer starts and the trees have yet to blow away the winter that settled in for a few months. And sometimes there's a sweet smell, like someone had just cooked in the kitchen, but I hadn't. Then there are smells that I just dream up, like that one of the cats had another 'accident' on our duvet. But all of these smells remind me that I'm not at home. Different is good, so often I believe that to be true, but then sometimes, whether it be a musty closet or a sweet smelling kitchen that prompts me, I want the same. I want things that I know and remember and miss. And tonight, just a little bit, I wish I could be back in my home, where I know where I am and know that I belong and know that the smells, whatever they are, are mine.

"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.

Sobering Sites

The last 36 odd hours, we spent along the Normandy coast, in northern France. As I had done a month's worth of research specifically on D-Day during college, I was particularly interested in connecting some of the words on the page, to the real-life landmarks. We spent our first night in lovely Honfleur. Not quite a part of the D-Day beaches, this quaint little port town is very much a part of Normandy. Its cider, crepes and coastal views were as present as any other town. We wandered the art gallery strewn sidewalks and munched on a croissant and sipped our cappuccino. I think it was the first time in 60+ days that the picture in my mind matched reality. It was idyllic. We spent just a few short hours there and then began the more reflective, introspective leg of our journey. On our way to Omaha Beach, on which our hotel was directly located, we stopped in one of Normandy's workaday towns, bustling and busy and missing the charm of the rest of its neighbors. However, in the center of this city was the best museum that I had ever been to. The Caen Memorial Museum focused on WWII, yet was able to do so by bringing you through years of war and build-up, giving you the history necessary for a more complete understanding. Not only was the museum informative, it was eye-popping. Each room and each space in each room was deliberate and well done. The memorial space to the Holocaust was dimly lit, flickering candles bordering a mostly empty space, helping you to focus and meditate. The rest of the museum continued in like form. We learned much, but enjoyed the visit for more than that. The exhibits continued, winding their way up to the pinnacle, on which stood a moving, complete and touching storyline of September 11th. It was an incredibly sympathetic and personal look at America, terrorism and worldwide cooperation.

After the Museum, a gourmet bite overlooking Omaha beach and a good night's rest, Monday was jam-packed with seeing the sites. I can't very well paint the picture of the gun batteries, or describe the incredible will it would have taken for the US Rangers to scale the sheer cliffs at Pointe Du Hoc. However, I can tell you that never have I had the perspective that I did during that day. I realized that the answers to the questions are never easy. War is never cut and dry. I came away feeling proud and sorry and sympathetic and angry. Above all, I felt surprised. On this Adventure, Whitney and I have seen ancient ruins, buildings built before Christ and a host of other not-quite-understood (but very old) sites, and yet, here we were, standing alongside a gun three times my height, that was sending explosives thirteen miles out to sea, just 60 years ago. 60 years. I hadn't realized that I had gained perspective on this trip. I hadn't realized that 60 years would seem so close, seem so yesterday, compared to the rest of history. There were cars, there were radios, there were restaurants and bars and cigarettes. There were elaborate plans, brilliant ideas and incredible military technologies. What may now seem so barbaric, and so heinous wasn't happening under the Cesar's rule or during the time of Sun worship. It wasn't ancient history. It isn't ancient history. It was just yesterday.

The Clothes On My Back

We are back to the pace of a week ago. Moving every two or three nights, our 'whirlwind' of Europe continues. We took a much needed hiatus from the journey in the Ukraine, a town of 14,000 called, yet definitely not spelled, Keetsmine. Mariya Turchek, a friend of the Zimmerman family for the past 7 years, graciously hosted us in her home. We were spoiled by her generosity. We were treated to the finest in local Ukrainian cuisine, we stayed in her 'little house,' a small space, independent of the main home, complete with bathroom, bedroom and kitchen. We truly felt humbled by her, and her family's, treatment of us. We were forced to sit down while the rest of the family would prepare a meal. We wouldn't be allowed to clean up or otherwise exert ourselves in the least bit. It was an amazing testimony to the serving hearts of Mariya and her family. While time may yield more reflection of these six nights, we were just so blessed to be among 'family' for a few short days. The time went fast and yesterday brought some tearful goodbyes.

As Mariya and her son-in-law, Pasha, pulled away from the Lviv airport (by the way, this was the smallest airport that we had ever seen or heard of), we continued our European Adventure, knowing that by the day's end we would begin the last leg of our journey. As I said, Lviv airport was about the size of my living room. Ok, I'm homeless I don't have a living room, but maybe the size of your living room. Fifty people packed out the waiting room. The check-in counter was A counter, under a stairway and operated by the same two individuals regardless of what airline was flying that day. I think they may have simply had alternative suit jackets depending on the airline; red for Austrian Airways, blue for LOT Polish etc. Anyway, after a long and arduous 30 seconds of the most lax security we had ever seen, we planted ourselves next to the coffee table in the waiting room. An hour later our bus arrived, to taxi us out to our eager aircraft. Aircraft is perhaps a generous term. This was also another first for us, you could actually see the propellors. They weren't like your typical airplane, jet engines booming, the propellors 'started up' when the pilot was ready. Anyway, we made it off just fine, a few jerks and bumps typical of a smaller vessel (I guess) and landed in Vienna. Whitney had been hoping for a good ol' American candy bar and cup of Starbucks coffee, but as we had arrived much later than expected, I resisted her plea. However, as we approached our gate a large snack shop awaited and we stuffed our bags with gummi bears and M&Ms. The flight was delayed (due to our late arrival, sorry EVERYBODY else, don't blame us), so we sat for a few minutes before boarding. Two short hours later we landed in Paris and went to retrieve our bags. Now let me say, up to this point we have been very fortunate. Last night, our luck stopped. As the conveyer belt made one final trek around the now-empty baggage claim, my hands were empty. Whitney's bag had made it from Lviv, to Vienna to Paris, mine, had not. So now I sit here in Brugge, Belgium (we arrived at 1am this morning) with simply the clothes on my back. No, really. We plan to spend two nights here and then backtrack to France where we begin our final week-long descent to the south of France and 'home.' I guess I won't have much trouble deciding what to wear today.

Well, off to sample some Brugge delights: chocolate and beer!