Breaking Camp

It's Thursday night and we're in full-steam-ahead packing mode. (Note: In this instance, I use "we", to indicate that Ceil is working diligently, moving from room to room with purpose and intensity; I'm carrying items from one place to another with no apparent plan or design; Lee is following Ceil, pulling items out of suitcases and complaining, "But I'll need this on the plane!"; and Miles is sitting near the fireplace, saying, "We don't need to bring this home, do we?... okay if I burn it?")

We had a terrific snow-storm on Tuesday night which scotched our plans for a farewell dinner with my team-mates from work. The movers, previously scheduled to arrive on Wednesday morning, called and asked if they might come on Tuesday night instead, lest the advancing glaciers prevent them from making it back to Paris on Wednesday. This put us into high-gear as we gathered all the things we didn't care to carry on the plane. (Note: In this instance, I use "we" to indicate Ceil had to cope with this crisis alone, as I was creeping home in my car, wending my way between jack-knifed tractor trailers and ridiculously cautious French drivers who could have made it home faster if they walked.)

Come Wednesday, the snow subsided, but the weather was still foul, and the roads icy, so we all stayed home... until the afternoon when Lee finally succeeded in cajoling Ceil to take her and a few friends to the public pool in Chateauroux. Miles and I remained at home, doing our best to work through the inventory of frozen goods, pastas, and cheeses which still cluttered the cupboards.

And so now it's Thursday. All that's left is to pack our clothes and empty out the kitchen. Ceil and the kids are down to a suitcase each. And a backpack each. And also a brief-case for the computer. And Ceil's purse. Oh, and Lee got a purse today, too. Dropping them off at DeGaulle next Thursday will be interesting.

We'll have dinner with Jerome and Anne Marie tomorrow night (in addition to the usual hostess gifts, we'll also be bringing a collection of surplus canned goods, baking supplies, and the remnants of our liquor cabinet.) And then we'll check-out on Saturday morning, settling our account with Madame Chautard and bidding farewell to what in all likelihood will be the last eighteenth century farmhouse we'll ever occupy.

We'll spend the weekend along the northern coast of France, finishing with a visit to the beaches of Normandy on Wednesday, before heading to Paris our Thursday flight home. (Note: when I say "our", I mean "their" and I get a lump in my throat thinking about it, so enough said.)

I have yet to figure out where I'll stay once Ceil and the kids leave. There's a monastery in Issoudun which rents out rooms -- I hear they're clean, quiet and inexpensive. I'll try that for a week or so and if necessary, retreat to the comforts of a local hotel. If nothing else, moving to Issoudun will cut my commute by 30minutes each way. Who knows, maybe I'll walk to work. (Stop laughing. I'm serious.... really.)

Thanks for your comments and emails. Love to all.

A whirlwind homecoming… and a change in plans

I flew home to Seattle last week – a few days of meetings, workshops and dropping in on colleagues and bosses (“Remember me?”). I still have not sorted out the mixture of emotions I felt viewing my neighborhood as the plane banked into its final approach: a sudden and intense homesickness, a regret to lose the “special-ness” of living in a foreign land, frustration that I would not yet be sleeping in “my” house, anticipation of seeing family, friends, and favorite restaurants. All these thoughts jumbled together in my head and I stumbled through customs and the baggage claim in a daze.

After visiting my parents for an hour or so (my mother’s hair had grown in nicely, though it would all fall out again before I left town), I decamped to Phil and Cora’s, dear friends who would host me for most of my stay. I enjoyed a weekend of dinners out, unannounced visits to friends, and uneven sleep patterns.

One of my first stops (I’m only slightly embarrassed to say) was to see our cat, which has been living with friends while we’ve been away. Our re-union was not the tearful, Hallmark Greeting Card scene I had envisioned. Indeed, Blacktop clawed me quite severely when she was placed in my lap. I won’t describe all my pathetic entreaties to her, but I confess to crawling around under the dining room table, as Blacktop stayed just out of reach, studiously avoiding eye-contact. It was suggested that she remembered me and was expressing her anger… so too was it suggested that cats don’t have such mental faculties, and I simply seemed to be an imposing stranger. Not sure which explanation is more comforting – perhaps we’ll find a family-feline therapist to sort it all out during the coming weeks.

It was a roller-coaster week at work. The big event came when the supplier I’ve been supporting made a request to have me stay with them for three more months. I discussed it with Ceil, and we agreed that I would stay in France while she and the kids return home as previously planned. This decision increased my inner-machinations exponentially – relief at being able to see my work through to the end, remorse at being away from the kids, excitement at the chance to see more of Europe, guilt over asking Ceil to be a single-parent while I indulged my professional urges, pride that the supplier valued my help enough to pay my way… on and on. Suddenly, what had been a quick preview of homecoming became lungful of air, gasped before diving back under salty waves.

More meetings at work, shopping for souvenirs of Seattle for the kids to distribute to friends and teachers. I spent two nights with Rick and Kerry, relishing home-cooked meals and the familiar chatter of kids declining to do homework, chores, personal grooming (no, wait, strike that last bit – their kids are very well groomed). The “boys” got together for a night of Poker, telling of old jokes and giving our money (as ever) to Richard Wedgwood Slim Shumway. I made it my business to sit very still the following day – all the better to absorb the ease and well being I felt amongst friends… and also because I was more than a bit hung-over.

Sunday came, more football, sans Seahawks, and then, suddenly, I’m on a plane. The flight back is a blur (I’m told that I slept soundly), the passage through Copenhagen, gathering bags at DeGaulle in Paris, staggering to the rental car and then a zombie-like drive home to Arthon. I was greeted by the sight of Miles and Lee sitting up in the bed room window, waiting for the headlights to appear at the end of the drive-way.

My thoughts and emotions are still jumbled – I’m glad to be staying on, sad to say good-bye to the family. But for that moment, though, standing in the door-way, kissing my family hello, things were clear… blessedly, blessedly clear: I’m home.

2 Million Ordinary Heroes

Two million and one.

Jan. 2... Nice to Arthon

Closer and closer to home
On the day after New Year's, we packed up the kids and made the 8 and a half hour drive from Nice to our house in Arthon. The kids, by now used to the long car trips, did great, and the trip was very easy.

The house was dark and cold when we arrived, and all of our things were still packed away in the chateau (recall that one reason for our vacation was that our landlord had a pre-existing booking for other folks to use the place during the week of Xmas -- so we had to move all of our belongings out and pull up stakes for a week or so). But we were each thrilled to be back -- we've grown quite attached to this old place.

Recap of Nice
Our stay in Nice was a great finish to our holiday. We struck a good balance between indulging the adults' desire to visit a variety of museums, sites and restaurants, with the kids' wishes to re-visit the same pizza restaurant for every meal and have at least three slap-fights a day.


Our day-trip to Cannes was a terrific success. We met Ceil's friends Annie and Gerald at their weekend place -- a lovely three bedroom apartment a few blocks off the water. The conversation was not easy, but we muddled through: for example, I think Gerald explained that they manage to cover all their annual expenses for the house simply by renting it out during the Cannes film festival. Apparently life in Cannes is turned upside down for 15 days each May and the prudent thing to do is to pull up stakes, live somewhere else of a couple of weeks, and charge Ben Affleck $20,000 to use your place.

Annie and Gerald took us for a drive in the mountains around Cannes where we took some Mimosa cuttings (I was hoping for the champagne and orange-juice cocktail, but in this context, Mimosa refers to a flowering tree which blankets the hills with delicate yellow blossoms early each spring). Keeping with the theme of fragrance, we then visited the town of Grasse, a center for the manufacture of perfumes, soaps and 'smell-well' products.

We took a drive to Monaco the following day. It's only 30 minutes or so from Nice, but we took the scenic route, hugging the coast-line and eschewing the highway, so it took a bit longer. Monaco was lovely, but so were the three or four other towns we passed through along the way. So what makes Monaco a fixture in my imagination, while I've never even heard of (nor can I recall) the other towns? It must be their monarchy and all the stories of Princess Grace, Prince Albert; it must be the casinos and images of tuxedo clad spies playing baccarat; it must be the elegant food served in glamorous water-front settings. Surely these are the things which drew me to Monaco.

Well, surely or not, we managed to avoid each of the above during our five-hour stay, focusing instead on the local aquarium, a run down Italian restaurant on a back alley, and a tour of public parking garages as we searched for a spot, and later, our car. Joking aside, it was a great visit, though if I ever decide to vacation here, I'll stay down the coast in one of the other towns we passed through. On the way home from Monaco, we swung through Vallaurus to explore a few of the shops selling the porcelain the region is known for (known to who, I wonder?).



We had an uneventful New Year's Eve, staying in and devouring a feast purchased from Picard, a French purveyor of all manner of yummy stuff, frozen and ready for your microwave (see previous post). We watched a few DVD's, occasionally making half-hearted entreaties to the kids: c'mon, let's go down to the water and watch the fire-works at mid-night. Their responses were not half-hearted: no, leave us alone, we want to go to sleep.


We finally got to spend some time exploring Nice itself during New Year's day. Like so many places we've visited over here, the city is in the midst of a huge construction project, installing a new subway / train system. C'mon, Seattle, if Nice can do it, what's holding us back? During a walk on the beach, we ran into some other Americans -- from Sammamish, WA, actually, quite close to Seattle. Kids the same age as ours, husband works at Boeing -- egads, we've bumped into a cookie-cutter copy of ourselves 9,000 miles from home. Ahh, but the key difference: these poor folks are cramming London, Rome, Florence, Nice and Paris into a two-week vacation before rushing home, while we on the other hand get to take our time before making our way back to Arthon. And our neighbors. The cows. Hmmmm...


We checked out of our place on Jan. 2, snapping a few photos on our way out.



What's next?
With our holiday vacation behind us, our thoughts are turning to our next home-coming... to Seattle. We've booked our tickets -- we leave France on Feb 2, spend four days in NYC to catch up with Ceil and her brothers, landing in Seattle late on Feb 6. We're, each of us, far more excited about coming home than we are sad about leaving. I suspect the last few weeks will go slowly.

But first, a few more trips and tours: this weekend we'll fulfill our promise to Miles and celebrate his birthday in Paris. I'm booked to fly back to Seattle for some meetings in mid-January -- I'll be in town for a week, before flying back to wrap up the work here. If at all possible, I still hold out hope that we can make a flying tour of the Burgundy region -- I've got a handle on what "Bordeaux" means in terms of red wines, but "Burgundy" is still a mystery. And we've planned one last, long drive on our way out of France to visit Brittany and Normandy for a few days before boarding our flight.

A photo-essay: Picard Frozen Food Store

Though it looks like the sign says "Picard... A Place for Surgeries", a more accurate translation is: "Picard... A Really Neat Store That Sells All Sorts of Cool Frozen Foods and If They Open One in Seattle, Trader Joe's and Costco Will Be in Trouble"Through the front door...
Grab a cart... maybe Lee shouldn't be in charge?
Nothing but freezer chests...
...labeled and arranged in the order of your five-course meal:
The soups...
The potato products...
The meats... there are other parts to a five-course meal, but these are the three food-groups I focus on.
Photos and prices displayed above the case -- and more photos on all the products. Ceil examines a variety pack of petit-fours.
Shrimp or scallops in olive oil with garlic... in the back, scary fish-sticks
You choose: snails stuffed with green stuff or mussels stuffed with green stuff. How can you lose?
Grilled eggplant or a variety pack?
Shrimp anyone? Nothing from Odyssey Seafoods here... wonder if they need a local sales rep.
Duck legs, stuffed with fois gras. The French know how to live.
A moment of doubt: Andy, I think we've bought enough. No way, francais.Not a nice thing to say about green beans, but wrapping them in bacon helps
Miles and Lee double-checking that we've covered the dessert aisle closely enough.
The cart is looking good... note the Chocolate Fudge Volcano Cakes: a taste sensation AND second degree burns on the roof of your mouth! Yummm...
On line to check out. Note the woman digging through her wallet -- the French are zealots for exact change. Go on, lady, take another twenty minutes... I'm sure you've got the thirty-seven cents in there somewhere... we'll wait.
And the best part... making the kids carry the booty home! I'm every bit as mean as they say I am.

Dec. 28... Barcelona to Nice

“Home” to France

I’m delighted to discover that after a week in Spain, I feel relief to be back in France, and once again able to walk into restaurants and shops, confident that I can make myself understood. Progress!

We’re staying in Nice through the New Year holiday, and truth be told, almost everyone I’m likely to come into contact with speaks excellent English. The advent of EasyJet and RyanAir have made the south of France an easy weekend get-away for even the most budget conscious Brits. While I groused at Ceil for ordering crepes in English last night (Me: “C’mon, Ceil -- use your French!” She: “I tried, but the look on the lady’s face made me think I was hurting her.”) most of the shopkeepers don't let us get very far in French.

Nice is a lovely little city… twenty or thirty blocks of trendy restaurants, high-end designer shops and three- and four-star hotels. It’s too cool to swim, but walking along the beach is terrific. Note: the beach itself is a touch disappointing – very coarse sand and stones. I was expecting something a bit more… Caribbean, I guess.) There are casinos and high-rise hotels along the water-front, and the Christmas ice-rink and ferris wheel will be up through the first week of the year.

We’ve rented an apartment for the weekend… this has been a terrific discovery for us: less expensive and more comfortable than a hotel. Making the reservation requires a bit more work on the front-end, searching the web, emailing the owner, sorting out how to pay the deposit, etc. but aside from those small hassles, I’m convinced this is the only way to travel, especially with grouchy kids in tow.

This afternoon we’ll head over and explore Cannes – maybe that’s where I’ll discover the glamor I was anticipating – and visit Annie, a woman Ceil befriended during aerobics class. Annie and Ceil get together for lunch once or twice a week, ostensibly to practice conversation skills in English and French. Annie has a vacation house in Cannes, and we’re meeting her for lunch.

On the way home this afternoon we’ll stop in Boit, a town known for it’s glass-blowing. Miles has heard that glass blowing can be very dangerous, and he carries high hopes that we’ll see someone burned or disfigured. Morbid, yes, but if that’s what it takes to get our budding-teenager on-board with our tourist agenda, then I’m not too proud to play it up. (Me: “… and so, anyway, Miles, ever since the accident, Dale Chihully has a huge hunk of colored glass stuck behind where is left eye used to be, and if you pull off his eye-patch and shine a flashlight in his mouth, a beam of blue-green light shines out of his eye-socket.” He: “Cool! Can we go there again tomorrow!”)