Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 149

la Promenade des Anglais et Canadiens

Oh the misery - me in our squalid living room in the sweater Lynn bought for me and pants I bought myself in Paris.  A new fashion discovery: dark blue.
 Place Garibaldi as the sun starts to go down - packed with people heading to and from the ocean
 and a huge park just off screen again, packed. Fantastic street life. And those tall white things are naked plastic men sitting on poles, reflecting the giant naked statue. Okay, sure.
From the Promenade - the rich people's part of the beach and the poor. People were swimming. Madness. At the end of the day, again in our dark, squalid living room, in the yoga pants and t-shirt I bought for myself at Doubletake - an old fashion discovery, second-hand - with my favourite beverage and piece of technology. A wonderful visit with Brucie. Today - my last day in France. For this year.

P.S. Indulging in pix of myself because usually, as someone travelling alone, there aren't any. But now I have Brooz.

I've just made a list of all the packing mistakes I made this time, even after many trips of this nature. I'll share it with you when it's definitive. You'd think I'd have learned by now, but no. Sigh.

Nice with Bruce

If it's Saturday, this must be Nice. In Nice with Bruce, which could be a song. And our time together so far has certainly been song-worthy.

He came from Genoa and I came from Montpellier, to meet late afternoon here, where he had rented us an airbnb flat. His trip was uneventful; mine was too until the arrival in Nice, when because of renovations, the quai was so jammed, it took 20 minutes of fighting an immense crowd to get out of the station. That's a first - the ride okay but the station a nightmare. But at the end, my reward - Brooz, waiting.

Our flat is only a few blocks from the station and it's spectacular - two bedrooms, comfortable beds and sofa, a wrap around balcony, windows and doors that flood the place with light, and it's right downtown. Though we are using the humble plates in the kitchen, there are even some lovely Limoges dishes in the dining room. Lynn and Denis dine on his grandparents' Limoges. I could get used to Limoges. Yesterday, once we had figured out various things - the locks, the stove that took Bruce half an hour on Google to figure out, the light switches, all strange and difficult - we left immediately to walk on the Promenade des Anglais in the sun with thousands of Niçois celebrating the end of the work week - though there was a pile of wilted flowers as a memorial to those killed by a terrorist in a truck not that long ago, and new work being done to make the Promenade inaccessible to cars. And of course the usual bands of very young soldiers with submachine guns, one group gathering to take a selfie.

We sat in the market square of the old city having an aperitif and getting caught up. It was late by the time we made our way home, so we picked up supper and ate in the flat, and guess what we ate - ham, cheese, bread, my staple since I arrived in Europe. Plus a salad of carottes rapées I've rediscovered through Lynn and artichoke hearts, for some veg. And I bought myself a grand St. Emilion for 6 euros.

Sigh.

Today after breakfast we set off uphill - Bruce navigating with Google maps - to the Musee Marc Chagall - both of us expecting to enjoy it, but not to be overwhelmed by this magnificent place. The museum was created especially for a series of huge biblical canvasses Chagall donated to the country at the end of his life - stunning, vivid, glorious. We watched a film about him, which made me fall in love with this gentle, playful, laughing, humble, handsome man who immortalized Jewish life. A new hero. (Click to enlarge)
The beautiful white room full of colour and peace
This was in an entire room dedicated to canvasses inspired by the Song of Solomon, which was accompanied over the headphones by Air on a G string by Bach. Of course, I wept.

An added bonus - lunch in the courtyard outside. I had, of course, salade nicoise. There was a beautiful little pure white Scottie dog wandering about, obviously very much at home and yet collarless and seemingly unclaimed. I decided it was dear Marc Chagall, keeping an eye on us all.

Another walk straight uphill to the Musee Matisse. Imagine, two of the world's greatest artists, nearly side by side, and similar in some ways - the incredible colour, the lightness and magic, the humour and sensitivity. I've long adored Matisse. The museum is a bit light on product, but it's lovely nonetheless, with not only his art but some of the artifacts he lived with, loved and painted.
We walked home, downhill all the way, passing the wedding cake buildings of Nice, pink and white, faded by the sun, with their fancy grillwork and rococo roofs and balconies. Here's the hotel Regina, where Matisse lived for a time and so did Queen Victoria, immortalized nearby.
We stopped at my favourite store, Monoprix, to buy groceries for supper on the way home. Now BK is napping and the other BK is on the sofa in our luxurious living room, writing to you. Soon we'll go out again, into the sun. It's sunny but windy here, perfect, in this elegant town that has a Vancouver feel, the ocean, the fresh air, casual and free - but in a French way with more than a touch of Italian. Heaven.

Montpellier

The ordinary little Chamber of Commerce. Periodically, there are groups of soldiers in full camo carrying submachine guns patrolling these streets packed with young people and hippies. Montpellier is a very young town. (Click to enlarge.)
 The main square - Place de la Comedie, with the opera house at the end and amazing street life everywhere. Many homeless people make their way here, because the climate is so forgiving.
An ordinary building on a side street near Lynn's
One of the movie theatres - a wonderfully ornate building
[image error] Be still my beating heart - my friend in the Monoprix cheese department. She bought a reblochon, a St. Marcellin and a chèvre. Yes. Yes. Yes yes yes. And though I had sworn not to buy, I bought a simple, cheap summer dress, sunglasses and perfect socks. Monoprix is the BEST STORE!
And nearby in this supermarket - a prize-winning Bordeaux for just over 4 euros - about $7. Sigh.

My last day in Montpellier, the sun is shining, the air is mild, I don't want to sit here and write, I want to be out there soaking it up. Mind you, I'm not off to London with its misty grey damp just yet - I'm off to Nice tomorrow. Something tells me I'll find a bit of sun there too.

More anon, dear bloggees.

black eye

Yesterday, after my visit to L'Arche, Magali's husband Dan drove me back to Gordes. Denis wasn't there, so I called his cell; he was taking a bike ride. He'd spent the afternoon installing a new washing machine and asked, since Dan was there, if the two of us would lift the dryer back down - we'd slid it earlier onto the freezer but now it was going not on top of the washer but on the floor, and since his operation he's not supposed to lift anything heavy. The dryer was fairly small, as French machines tend to be, so I was sure I'd have no problem. However, when we started to lift, it was much heavier than I'd thought, I started to drop it, leaned forward to grab it properly, and it hit me in the eye. Long story short, we got the dryer into place, and I have a purple/blue/black eye. My great beauty is temporarily marred.

We went for a walk this beautiful Provencal morning to pick tiny daffodils in the woods and then had lunch on the patio; Denis made an endive salad and steamed broccoli and fried fish and then we had cheese, coffee, chocolate, fruit, with of course, a superb bottle from the cave. A simple lunch. Then, time to pack up the Gordes house and drive to Montpellier, where they have an apartment; Denis had a physio appointment and Lynn is coming back from Paris tomorrow. It feels like the tropics here - I'm in a sleeveless top.
 I asked Denis to take both the daffodils and my eye, but with my hooded lids, you can't see the lovely right eye.
Better, anyway, to look at the tiny daffs in their tiny backyard.
From the car - the ancient walls of Avignon as we drove by.

Two days here, and then on Friday, off to Nice for the second last stage of the journey - the weekend there with Brucie. If this is Tuesday, it must be Montpellier.

visit to L'Arche

My friend Denis chose a good bottle of wine from his cave, like the good Frenchman that he is,

and we set off for lunch in Isle-sur-la-Sorgue at the home of Dan and Magali. I'm here partly to revisit my past for the memoir I'm now writing, about my four months in 1979 working in the L'Arche community of which Denis was the director. When I learned that 3 of the handicapped men from that time still lived there, I wanted to visit, plus Magali also was there with me and still works there. She was 20 then, and I turned 29. Later she married Dan, who's from Texas and came to volunteer at L'Arche, and had 3 children. They have a lovely house next to the community; we had our aperitif outside under the trees and a fabulous meal inside.
And then we went to visit the community, Le Moulin de L'Auro, which is now huge. In my time there were 8 handicapped men; now there are scores of people of both sexes, many staff, big workshops, two homes. Extraordinary, an absolutely wonderful place. Best of all - my dear friend Jean-Luc, who changed my life. You'll have to read the book to discover how. That's him in the middle. Seeing him again made me cry.
 
Magali got out some photo albums, and one of them, it turned out, was a scrapbook I'd made for the community before I left, with pictures and captions. We discovered this picture of the entire community of that time. So long ago - and yet, seeing Jean-Luc who has hardly changed, no time at all. Seven of the handicapped men, five assistants including Magali at the end, your faithful correspondent, and Denis, the tall one below. I'm the one shading her eyes and wearing overalls. I'd forgotten the overalls.

and now for something completely different

On our last day, my friend and I walked the city. I took her for her first visit to the Jardin des Plantes, full of people strolling on a sunny Saturday afternoon. My father's tree, in bud last week, was in full bloom.
There are always interesting things to see on the streets and buildings.
Fuck your moral. Interesting. I feel so Parisienne with the scarf and stripy sweater, on sale at Monoprix, and yet - no one would ever mistake me for one.

We had a glass of mint tea nearby at the Grande Mosquée de Paris, a big mosque with a packed tearoom (and a hammam - for my next visit), and then went to dinner at a friend of Lynn's near the edge of Paris, a professor at the Sorbonne with her husband and two young sons, a wonderful meal. They went last summer to New York for nearly 3 weeks, and I asked if they'd seen a show. "The show was in the streets!" her husband said. We talked a lot, of course, as everyone does around the world, about Trump, Marine Le Pen, immigration, Islam. The woman's father was Algerian and her husband is Egyptian; their olive-skinned children, she said, look like the kind of people Trump wants to kick out.

Sunday, I took my leave of my dear friend at the Gare de Lyon, on my way to visit her husband in the south of France. I had a slight worry; Lynn booked the ticket for me on-line and didn't realize she'd inadvertently booked not a non-stop direct train Paris-Avignon, but one with a change in Lyon. According to the ticket, I had 11 minutes exactly to leave one train, find the Avignon train, and drag my bag and backpack to another quai. I wondered if the timing was too tight. But of course, this is the unbelievably efficient, sleek, clean, fast French train system, and there was no problem at all. The trains are spectacular. You should all come to France just to see what a train system can be.

Denis, Lynn's husband, was waiting in Avignon and we set off to their home in Gordes, one of the most beautiful villages in France. I could take a photo from a previous visit, because the view never changes, so I'll find one for you at some point. They have a huge gorgeous house on the edge of the village, designed and built by Denis many years ago when their 5 children were young. Now Lynn and Denis live part of the time in Montpellier, where Lynn worked at the university and Denis now is the volunteer in charge of palliative care volunteers at the hospitals there. This house is their weekend home and also the centre for the family in the summer, when their 5 kids come from the 4 corners of the globe with their 8 children. Lynn says sometimes there are 25 at the table. But they're used to that.

Denis is recovering from breast cancer surgery, but he's strong and resilient. It was damp and chilly; we walked in the misty woods for an hour and a half.
On the way back to the house, a rare sight - friends greeting each other from their cars, one of them not often seen on these here medieval streets.
We made a simple supper - Denis is feeling the effects of chemotherapy and eats mostly vegetables - and talked and talked, about life, children, illness, getting old. I've known Denis nearly as long as Lynn - since 1970, when she first met him. He is very very French, and yet not, because he married a Canadian woman. A rare man in a beautiful quiet house in one of the loveliest villages of France - again, I am one lucky camper.

It's the next morning - if this is Gordes it must be Monday. I was sitting in the sun on the white stone patio when I suddenly realized that I was pain-free. I've had back pain every morning for months, sometimes lasting all day, sometimes slowly diminishing. But today, it's gone. Is it the bed, the birdsong, the fresh air, the fact that my trip is unfurling as it should? Who knows? I think it's the cheese.

les flâneuses

This morning Madame went out to buy fresh croissants and fresh hot - hot - bread, smelling of yeast, for breakfast. My happiness knew no bounds, especially with not only French jam but Canadian peanut butter to spread. At lunch yesterday, I nearly began to weep with joy. It happens often.
Before
After

We walked the 'hood, doing errands, poking in little shops - and in the market right outside our door, for junk and for food. Below, the view of our apartment building; we're on the second floor.


And then to a local supermarket, for wine. Just grocery stores are a great adventure.

I bought fake ranuncule - ranunculus - on the left, to go with the real ones I bought a few days ago for Lynn, on the right. I'll take the fake ones home, to keep me company. To remember.
And then - lunch, our usual, Spanish ham, bread, cheese, salad, wine.
Tonight going to dinner at the home of a friend of Lynn's. Tomorrow I take the train to Avignon. The adventure continues.

Vermeer at the Louvre

The most perfect day in Paris ever. Ever ever. Well, I do exaggerate sometimes, but it was a pretty fabulous day. Started this morning after my friend went to work and I went out to poke around in the junk fair just outside the door, eventually, finally, buying things - a Waterman fountain pen and a sparkly decoration for a friend, for 12 euros. Lynn came home only a few hours later, and we set off to walk and walk and look for a place for a special lunch. Rejected this one, that one, almost stopped several times, and then we found the perfect place - L'Ebauchoir - on a side street, unpretentious but lovely, and - we got the last table. The place was packed; later we read that it's a well known and much-loved bistro - just our luck. Oh it was divine. We intended to have a glass of wine, but somehow, it was a bottle. Here's our main course, and my friend with our adorable waiter. She has eaten in France for 47 years, and pronounced this meal "perfect."

And then walking and shopping and walking and shopping and looking and talking and laughing. We shopped. My friend bought me an inexpensive little sweater, we both bought some summer pants on sale, I bought ink for my new 5 euro Waterman pen. We went to Merci nearby on the Blvd. Beaumarchais, the epicentre of trend but also a really interesting store - housewares, clothes, tools, paper stuff - we had a good time not buying anything. This is me with a nice big basket I liked.
Staggered home to rest for half an hour and dump our parcels before setting out again, to get the bus to the Louvre. Lynn had got us timed tickets for the huge Vermeer exhibition at the Louvre. 
We were dreading the long lines, but at 6.45 p.m. on Friday night, there was almost no wait time and we were in almost right away. Oh, what joy - Vermeer, my favourite artist - twelve, TWELVE, of his rare paintings, surrounded by other Dutch painters of the same time and the same subjects - women at harpsichords, writing letters, with lutes. Despite the crowds and our aching feet, it was overwhelming. There was another exhibition to see at the same time - Valentin de Boulogne, school of Caravaggio.

Glorious. Out into the mild evening, the metro home, and as soon as we got in, the heavens exploded and there was a rainstorm. We had supper in our flat - avocado vinaigrette, potato chips, ham, leftovers, and rosé. In our pyjamas. We walked over 15 kilometres today, Lynn knows because of her fitbit. I am wearing my new sweater and pants and full of food and wine and laughter, grateful for the magnificence of this world, this city in particular, and my beloved, joyful friend most of all.

Pere Lachaise

A gorgeous day, a long walk after a slow morning, off to Pere Lachaise Cemetery - because it's in the 'hood. Of course, once you get there, it's extremely confusing to find famous people, you have to search even for the place that gives out the guides, which in any case really aren't helpful. So French - the place full of people wandering about, completely frustrated! I decided to give up on finding the graves of the many famous people buried here and just wander in the hot sun. It's an oasis of gloomy tranquillity in the metropolis. As in the parks, you can hear the birds.
An ominous raven loomed up on one grave and hopped on the cross. Nevermore.
 I wondered if he regretted that outfit.
 Very dramatic, snake, cross, mossy rocks.
 Some American girls, including one named Sidonie, after Colette, led me here - I couldn't find her. So happy to find one of my writer heroes. I placed a stone on her marble resting place. Someone has left a book of poems dedicated to her.
 Had to find Jim Morrison, tucked in behind many others and behind a barrier, because of the crowds of kids. When I was in Paris with MY kids in about 1993, this was the only thing they wanted to see.
Chopin. And this is a store that sells construction materials - so beautiful!

Shaena Lambert's workshop on Cortes Island

An old friend, fellow UBC Creative Writing graduate Shaena Lambert, a prize-winning writer of short stories and novels, just wrote to let me know she is teaching a workshop at the beginning of June, at the Hollyhock Retreat on Cortes Island. June 2-7, "Going under the words: writing fiction and memoir." The retreat is a stunning place on a stunning island, and Shaena is a great teacher. Highly recommended.

https://hollyhock.ca/programinfo/lambert/
www.shaenalambert.com