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.