The Land of Oz

It's my last full day at Germolles. As usual, I'm a bit tired, my muscles are sore from gardening, and I'm thinking of my time here. It was different this year, for many reasons, but still a great visit. Matthieu is an intellectual with a surprising kind of child-like humor that I find so endearing. He is a man with his old teddybears still next to his bed, and shoes in the fireplace. He finds beauty and pleasure in many things, as we all should. He is my cowardly lion -- not so much the coward as the big creature with a soft heart. Christian makes me laugh like no one else I know. He is quick-witted and sharp, and dramatic in all the right ways. I am sure we knew each other in a former life, and he is a kindred spirit to me. He is my scarecrow, and it's him I find it hardest to say goodbye too. And then there is the little (well not really) black dog, Balzan, who did not want to leave my side this morning. I think he really does know that I am leaving. He is not as naughty as last year, and still very lovable.

This year we also had Mamùt -- Christian's mother -- what a character she is! Last night she instructed me to eat my spinach because it would "give me a good ca ca (sh*t)". I laughed so hard tears streamed down my face and I couldn't eat. Oh, the meals we have had here! As the French say, "oh la la".

Matthieu and I connected over shadow puppets and last night he showed me his incredible collection -- at least 50 of them. He is just as delighted by my puppet shows with puppets made from cereal boxes and whatever I can find to McGyver a puppet together. He has asked me to put on a great show for the public here at the chateau the next time I come visit.

It's a quiet and picture perfect day at the chateau. I leave tomorrow morning for one more night in Paris, then home. As always, it has been a grand adventure!

The French Revelation

Though I didn't expect the garden would be in the same condition as when I left it last year, I did expect that the perennials I planted would return in some state. It was a surprise and disappointment to find only two -- yes, two! I could not understand why. Then, a few days later the mystery was solved when I was talking to Christian about it.

Did you follow the instructions I sent? I asked.

- No.

I see.

- Perhaps we should follow them this time?

Yes, because you asked for them. And you should listen to me since I do know something about gardening.

- Yes, in fact, I think that you do.

Did you at least water them?

- That was Matthieu's job and he didn't do it.

Ahhh....

So, a bit later I am speaking to Matthieu:

Matthieu, the reason the flowers did not return is because you didn't water them.

- Ahhhh -- you must water them?

Yes, I said so in my instructions.

- Even when it is raining, you must water them?

No, not then, but when it does not rain, you must.

- I see. Okay, we will do that.

I think that would be a good idea.

THE FRENCH REVELATION -- if you water them, they will grow!

Sometimes, it's not much different than teaching junior high (lol).

So -- off to Jardinland we went for more plants -- this time buying some that were even more indestructible (let's hope). And after some archaeological weeding, I found some of the plants which had made a valiant effort to survive long enough to be rescued by me. A tiny balloon flower popped up as if to say, "I'm here! I'm here! Amy, I'm not lost -- just very thirsty! And by the way, please give those naughty Frenchmen a stern talking to!"

In the meantime, it is hot and humid here -- which puts a bit of a kink in productivity as you are a melting, sweaty pile of goo within 20 minutes or less. I made a shadow puppet show to entertain us in the hot evening and distract us from the mosquitos (which have bitten me so badly that I think I'm down at least a quart). If I can, I'll film it and post it later. As it turns out, Matthieu has a collection of about 50 Indonesian shadow puppets which he has promised to show me. Very cool -- especially after taking that course on shadow theater a few weeks ago.

All for now -- blogging is a bit hard on a French keyboard. Hope you are all well.

Amy

It's good to be here.

I arrived last night at the Chalon station where a smiling Christian was waiting for me. It is so good to see him and Mattieu again -- and to be at Germolles; a place I love dearly. It is very hot but the evenings are nice and we had a nice meal prepared by Matthieu's friend; who was visiting. Christian's mother is also here and she insists I call her Rachell, not Madame. *

This french keyboard is difficult so that is all for now:

Life is good!

Apparently, rather good.

"What are the chances?", I thought, that I'd see the Cat Man again. For those of you who don't know (or do know and forgot), last year when I was in Paris I went to the Montmartre Cemetery. In a rather surreal moment, I met a man who feeds the 100 cats that live in the cemetery. We started talking about cats, he asked where I was from, and then he said, "follow me, I want to show you something". Now, some people would think that was a bad idea but the guy is about 75 years old, and probably 5' 1" on a good day, so I figured I could take him. He lead me to a crypt and opened it. Inside were bags and bags of cat food. I asked him if it was his family's crypt. "No." What a surprise the real owners will have if they ever pay a visit, I thought. Anyway, a moment later he asked me for a donation to pay for the cat food, I gave him a few Euros and he was gone... like a ghost. "He'll probably become a character in my next play," I thought, shaking my head. Well, he did. He became "Marcel", the Cat Man in "The Ghosts of Montmartre". And that scene was written into the script.

I often thought when I had the opportunity to return to Paris that I would love to find him again and tell him what he inspired. Seriously, though, what are the chances I'd find him again?

Apparently, rather good. Creepy good, because just as I turned toward the cemetery to search him out, who should I see walking toward me! I couldn't believe it!!! I stopped him and asked if he was the man who fed the cemetery cats -- he was, and had about 20 pounds of cat food in bags to prove it. I reintroduced myself and asked what his name was -- he replied, "Marcel"! HOLY MERDE!!!! I was just about beside myself. He asked if I would have a coffee with him. Heck yeah! What a great "part two" this will be, I thought. There was a cafe just ahead... oh, but he meant at his apartment. Well... a little strange but as I said before, I figured I could take him.

His apartment was neat and had so many things to look at that I can't even begin to describe them. There was beautiful wood paneling and a tiny kitchen where he made the coffee. We chatted for a bit, distractedly. He has an enormous cat of his own, Felix, who makes Stacey's cat Jimmers look like a petite little thing. He asked if I would take our photo, and one of Felix. I did and he gave me his address so I could send him a copy. Really, how could this story get any more amazing? Well... hmmm... let's just say grand pere made a pass at me. He is French, after all... and, as I said before, the senior citizens of Paris seem quite taken with me. That was my cue to exit, which I did quickly -- making sure to avoid "un bise" (kiss on both cheeks) while giving him a donation for the cat food and saying goodbye.

Paris is an interesting place -- with interesting people to be sure. And, if nothing else, they give me lots of good stories to tell. :)

Apparently, I'm big with seniors.

My first meal in Paris (aside from a quiche de champignons for a snack) was a fresh baguette, some marvelous stinky Cammembert, mirabelles (plums), a fantastic dessert called Sully, and a beer. Yes, I know I probably should have been drinking wine to be truly French, but the beer was cold and the wine was not. Besides, after a very hot and humid trek through the Metro stations with luggage, a beer sounded really good. My hotel is just two blocks from Rue Cler -- one of the best places to get picnic supplies -- and a block from the park near the Eiffel Tower -- so while I could have gone to a restaurant, a park bench with the view of the tower wasn't too shabby.

On a bench across from me, an older bearded gentleman talked with a cyclist. The bearded man thumbed his guitar. After the cyclist left, he came over to me. He spoke as he played, low and incomprehesible. The only words I understood were "what is it" and "timide". When I said I didn't understand, he went back to his bench, thumbed his guitar again, without playing a single song, and nearly without making any noise.

On another bench sat a stout man who was eating all his popsicles in one go. I counted them... one... two... three... four... five? Yes, five, I believe. The whole box, chocolate and yellow -- whatever flavor yellow is... vanilla? Citron? Banana? I think banana. I have never seen anyone do that, and it amused me.

Later, I took a walk up to the Tower and the Trocadero. I practiced my French when another gentleman came to sit beside me on the bench. He was pleasant enough, older. He thought I was Portugese. Russian? Funny how I think I must stick out as an American yet I've been asked if I'm Spanish, Brittish, and several other nationalities. When monsieur asked if I wanted to get a drink I said I didn't understand, then politely made my excuses. Hmmm... where are the handsome 39-year olds? :)

Got a bit of a late start today. My body seemed to think it was time to be awake at 2 am. No. Finally up and out for a coffee at about 10:30. Met one of the locals who asked if I liked dining all alone. I think that is what he asked me. Anyway, I said, "yes". Well, when you're traveling by yourself, you better like eating alone. :) After several mix-ups and closures on the Metro/RER I finally made it to the Musee D'Orsay. I enjoyed the shadow theater exhibition from Le Chat Noir, and the collection of Guimard's Art Nouveau work. Spent the rest of the afternoon wandering.

Tomorrow I'm off to the cemeteries. Hope to see the cat man again. Having a great time in Paris.

A bientot!
Amy

Je suis ici!

I am here! Despite not sleeping at all on Sunday or Monday (brain was too excited) I'm feeling good -- thankful for small blessings like the open seat next to me on the flight from Liberty to Paris so that I could stretch out some. Thankful for getting to check in early at the hotel and for a shower and nap. Thankful that the cyber cafe is open since most everything else is not. Paris is quiet and everyone seems to be on vacation elsewhere. I guess even those who live in one of the most fantastic cities in the world like to have a change of scenery -- go figure! :) Looking forward to something to eat and drink, and walking around. No real plans, aside from Montmartre (to see if the cat man is there) and a few museums -- and that is the way I like it.

All is well. I am safe and happy.

Amy

In the summer, I am French.

In the summer, I am French. I wake when my body is rested, I drink my coffee – rather than chug it. I go into the garden. I sample whatever is ripe that day. I talk to the cats and the birds, and the bugs. I have a glass of wine at mid-day. I pull weeds and dig dirt and find wonders in tiny things that grow. I eat a lunch without the pressure of a 33 minute period defined by a very rude bell. I talk with the neighbors, I have friends over to visit, I enjoy. Sometimes I don’t care about how I look and instead decide I am beautiful as is. I have night fires with marshmallows, and bottles of beer to cool off an afternoon. I eat peanuts in the shell on the back steps. I think lots of thoughts or none at all. In summer, I am the self I want most to be. I am happy.

In the summer, I am French. I take trips to a place that fascinates and excites me. I eat everything in sight. I nervously order a coffee at the counter in the café around the corner from my Paris hotel – hoping I will blend in more if I do. I know now that those delightful little pastry bites are not filled with pistachios, but escargot, and should be avoided. I know all the other things I like, and that Madame will be kind as I stumble through French exchanges and that she will warm up my quiche avec chevre et champignons for me as I scurry off to Montmartre to visit my old haunts. I sample whatever is fresh at the market. I search for my favorite toothpaste at Casino supermarche. I go to BHV and find endless amusements and sometimes things to buy. I go to the Eiffel Tower. I talk to strangers and feel connected to a bigger world than the one I often live in. I ride the metro like a pro. And occasionally, very occasionally, I am mistaken for something other than American.

In the summer, I am French. I live, for too short a time, in a 13th century castle with two dear Frenchmen who I love as my family. I pull weeds and dig dirt and find wonder in tiny things that grow. I wait impatiently for 9:00 when Christian gets out the glasses to pour the drinks, and we ravenously eat crackers or paprika nuts while dinner cooks. We laugh about the day. Matthieu makes a gratin – again, and I hope it is well done (and does not contain pasta). I think about Thai food, and how I’m not sure they know what that is in Mellecey. I consider myself lucky to have variety. I eat cheese – copious amounts of it, all the while thinking how it always tastes better here, locked in some dark wood cabinet in a forgotten dining room with loaves of hard bread and cartons of milk that aren’t refrigerated. I sneak around the chateau and make secret movies. I wander the grounds and talk to the fish, and birds, and cows. I bring “salad” to the chickens and converse with the goats -- who are not sure what to think of me as they stare at me with their alien eyeballs. I sleep as I never sleep in America – in the bedroom of a princess with the trees singing me lullabyes goodnight. I push Balzan away from my bread at least 14 times in a meal – that stinky, naughty dog. I swear I won’t miss him but do when, on my last day, he won’t leave my side and is a perfect angel. I hold back tears in front of Christian and Matthieu as we say our goodbyes, and let them roll all the way back to Paris. In France, I am the self that I most want to be. I am happy.

This summer has been busy. So much so that I was less French than I hoped to be. So busy that all of a sudden, I am packing to leave for my favorite other place. At this time tomorrow, I'll be too excited to sleep, but wishing I could as the clock ticks by the minutes to departure. In the summer, I am blessed to be French.

I'll be posting as I can. Till then, a bientot!
Amy