Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 4

Next to Normal – are you? Definitely not over here.

I am looking out at a tree coming into bloom, but I cannot remember its name; I’ll have to look it up in my gardening book. That scares me, except that I’ve always had blocks about the names of certain plants. Spirea. Could never remember. Wisteria. These names fall into a hole in my memory.

Viburnum! When I think about something else, it swims up from the depths. Sheesh.

Another gorgeous day in this long slow spring. Yesterday, a great treat: Jean-Marc called and suggested we have lunch together. Great, I said, except that I’m going to my 12.30 class at the Y, so it’ll be late.

Forget the Y, he said. Let’s cycle to the island and have a picnic.

What a wonderful excursion – 15 minutes by bicycle to the lake, 10 minutes on the ferry, and we’re on the islands, along with – as JM pointed out – crowds made up almost entirely of immigrant peoples, who appreciate huge open green spaces with a phenomenal view of the metropolis. Bonus: we lunched near an avenue of cherry trees in full bloom. Beauty.

Thank heavens for dear JM, another lonely self-employed writer with time, occasionally, in the middle of the day.

Last night’s treat — TV, which was good because I was tired. Next to Normal, a Broadway musical, shown on PBS with the superb British cast — a difficult show about a bipolar woman struggling with long-term grief that leads to depression, breakdown, and mania, and how her teenaged daughter, husband, and shrink attempt to cope. All done in song. Phenomenal. I wrote to my kids today, You have many things to complain about with your mother, but luckily for you, bipolar disorder is not one of them.

This morning, to the north farmer’s market, a new building recently opened, spacious, clean, and bright. All my favourites were there: Barbara the nut lady, the Mennonite farmers with their meat, the lettuce people, the mushroom ladies, the apple folks. The woman who sells a slab of focaccia covered with sundried tomatoes for $10, which I just had a piece of for lunch, with an asparagus chaser. I went to buy Mother’s Day dinner, which as usual I am cooking … beef stroganoff with noodles, which I hope will make the boys happy since they really like meat, with lots of mushrooms to make me happy. Anna invited me over there, where she’d cook, but I’d rather have them here, despite considerably more effort for this mother on her day. But giving a break to my daughter, a much more deserving mother.

The world — hell in a handbasket. Gaza, Ukraine, unspeakable. BUT there’s a new pope with Creole roots and a Peruvian passport, who speaks of social justice and peace and puts down Vance and Trump. That’s a huge win, we hope. The courts are slowing down the trail of wanton destruction to the south. I am listening to Bach, will soon finish editing a client’s novel and a student’s essay, water the indoor plants that will soon go outdoors, and continue the winter/summer clothing exchange. I’m reading The Great Gatsby, ashamed I’ve not read it before. Beautiful writing, F. Scott.

A lovely thing: one of my most beloved pieces of writing on this website under Articles is “Secret,” about my best childhood friend Penny Harris, the island world we invented as girls, and the terrible secret I found out about much later. https://fullgrownpeople.com/2022/02/17/secret/

I posted a picture I drew in 1962, at 12, of the secret cottage in the woods we orphan twin sisters rode our horses to. And recently, in the lovely stream of photos my friend Chris posts each day on his blog was a picture of the actual cottage. It actually exists. What are the chances?

And now out to smell my viburnum. May you all have a joyful fantasy come true. Happy spring to all.

The post Next to Normal – are you? Definitely not over here. appeared first on Beth Kaplan.

Spring update, including Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

This has been a long slow spring here in TO — hot one day, chilly and grey the next. But I’m no longer sick, so energy and focus have returned to the land. Kind of.

Sad to say, my U of T class was cancelled because of low registration, although I’m pleased one student got in touch and asked to work with me privately. I sent out a newsletter reminding people I’m happy to work on Zoom, one on one, and edit, coach, cheerlead, whatever is needed. FYI.

On Thursday, I was finally well enough to ride to St. John’s Bakery and buy $70 worth of bread, treats, and coffee. Have to say, their croissant does not compare to a French croissant, which isn’t to say there aren’t superb buttery flakey croissants in Toronto. But the St. John’s sourdough is superb. My grandsons had a sleepover this weekend, and it gave me great pleasure to provide them with slabs of good bread covered with Adam’s peanut butter (one American product I cannot bring myself to give up.)

Local wildlife excitement: while I was away, Carol had to deal with a dead raccoon in the front yard; it had fallen off my roof. She did what I would have done — she called Jean-Marc, who arrived promptly, bagged the body, and labelled it for the city to take away. Then Monique discovered five raccoon kits in her front yard; probably it was their mother who died and they were forced to leave the den. Someone came to take them away. We’re still on the frontier here.

Saturday was Anna’s 44th birthday, and my gift to her was to welcome the boys here for 24 hours, so she could have a party and some time to herself. As you know, they are a hurricane, a whirlwind, sweeping all before them. I managed to keep them fed, busy, and alive. The most recent Mutant Ninja Turtle movie was on Crave and had great reviews, so we watched that, and amazingly, I liked it almost more than they did; it was really good. We finished reading the first Percy Jackson book, and luckily, have four more to go.

At one point, they came into the kitchen and told me to look up at the skylight above the kitchen table. There, stuck to the window, was a note: “I see you. I see you. I am waching you.” It was funny, except it meant they’d been leaning over the skylight to stick the thing in place, risking life and limb, so I was not pleased.

On Sunday we went to Cabbagetown’s Forsythia Festival, where Ben rode a bucking bronco for a whole 22 seconds, a record. I was wearing the white beret I bought many years ago at a second-hand store in Paris, and someone pointed out that the design on it depicts the maze at Chartres Cathedral. I’ve wondered and been asked about the design but have never known what it was. Wiki says the labyrinth was probably laid around 1201. “Although labyrinths can be employed as spiritual tools in countless ways, this one has a distinctly Christian interpretation, one which monks at Chartres used in their contemplation: the labyrinth as a representation and embodiment of the Christian arc from sin to redemption.”

Imagine, I’m wearing all that on my hat!

The boys and I went to a concert of Indigenous music and dancing at Roy Thompson Hall, and then I was able to deliver them back to their mother with limbs intact.

I’m emerging from the up of travel and the down of the flu, back to myself, back to routine. Lists. Getting stuff done. Thank heavens, because there is a great deal to do.

A THOUGHT FOR TODAY: When a clown moves into a palace, he doesn’t become a king. The palace turns into a circus. Turkish Proverb

I love this: “The purpose of being a serious writer is not to express oneself, and it is not to make something beautiful, though one might do those things anyway. Those things are beside the point. The purpose of being a serious writer is to keep people from despair. If you keep that in mind always, the wish to make something beautiful or smart looks slight and vain in comparison. If people read your work and, as a result, choose life, then you are doing your job.” SARAH MANGUSO

Out of order: Ben and the bronco. Lynn’s party, including the cake reveal – it was a grand piano. Ranunculus I was urged to take home from the party — my favourite flowers. St. John’s Bakery. The Chartres beret.

Our prime minister is headed to Washington to confront the beast. Godspeed.

  

The post Spring update, including Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles appeared first on Beth Kaplan.

Poor Mark Carney, PM

I finally had to go to bed at 11.30 last night, couldn’t stand the tension of watching the election. The Conservatives had a much stronger showing than was predicted, seemed to be surging, and I was too nervous. In the end, the Liberals came through, albeit with what seems, unfortunately, like a minority government by only a few seats. PP lost his own seat thanks to the indefatigable Bruce Fanjoy and his ebullient team. The NDP are eviscerated, and the Bloc Quebecois not much better.

My own province — the city itself a sea of red, and the surrounding suburbs, the places that elected the vile Doug Ford, a sea of blue. Talk about two solitudes. We are close neighbours but have diametrically opposing views of the world in which we live. My former cleaning lady and friend who lives in Mississauga would ask me about stuff she’d heard about or read — conspiracy theories, absurd medical lies, Covid myths — and I’d ask where she’d heard them while I tried to set her straight. I know, the concerns of the 905 are genuine; there was a desperate sense that food and housing are too expensive, that change is needed, and that the Conservatives, who vote against social programs, health care, public education, and everything good, would help them. Like Trump voters, they would have been in for a big surprise.

But have to say, of all the people in the country I do not envy today – chief among them Pierre Poilievre – the one I feel sorriest for is Mark Carney. An inexperienced politician, he has at least 168 ambitious souls to manage, two prairie provinces that hate him, a threatening lunatic to the south, a number of unstable countries and vicious wars, a burning planet. Who would want to take that on? I wish him godspeed and all the luck in the world.

In other news, I have spent many, many hours deleting every cartoon from my blog over the last 18 years, but just received another threatening note demanding payment for ones posted more than a decade ago. Some poor schmuck is having to hunt through my blog day by day. I read online it’s happening to others with tiny little blogs like mine that have never made money; we simply post for the pleasure of readers. Hard to comprehend a company out to make money threatening people like me. I cannot imagine the cartoonists object to a fan posting their marvellous images on a personal blog read by almost no one.

So the only images that will appear here from now on will be ones I have taken myself. Here’s my lunch. I used to make it for the kids as a way to get them to eat vegetables, as the chief ingredient is broccoli; I called it frog soup  which made them laugh, and they ate it. It looks dreadful, but it’s the taste of their childhood and so my relative youth. I’m still hacking and sniffling, so soup is the thing. Cheers!

The post Poor Mark Carney, PM appeared first on Beth Kaplan.

A few last shots, out of many

The Musee d’Orsay. A pic of Alice B. and Gertrude Stein in their home full of masterpieces, from the Musee Carnavalet. A truck unloading public toilets onto the street. Another view of the magical Chateau Dissay. “Be yourself; the others are already taken. Oscar Wilde.” The Louvre. A road by the Seine that used to be for cars and is now for human beings. Hooray!

 

The post A few last shots, out of many appeared first on Beth Kaplan.

Trip recap

Luckily there’s chicken soup in my nearly empty freezer, because I’ve acquired a cold, sore throat and aches. I wore a mask much of the time on the plane; I think this came because of the stress and panic of those letters about copyright, plus jetlag. Was going to bike to the market today, but instead will go back to bed for a bit, thankful to have my own bed to go back to.

Right now, I’m looking out at the tender bright green shoots sprouting on the branches of the lilac, the curly willow, the viburnum and honeysuckle – so far behind France. But the big bunch of cut forsythia in my kitchen is brilliant; what a colour.

Annie left a pot of daffodils and a welcome home note on the front porch. My son left an omelette in the fridge. Monique came over for aperitif, so I could tell her how gorgeous her country is, which she knows. So much the French have done right: high speed trains, great public transit, major push for bicycles, emphasis on beauty and good food and so much more. We are far behind in many ways.

I just made a list of what was invaluable on the trip — with all the changes of temperature, from chilly to hot, the layers worked — and what I brought that I didn’t need, like a skirt, a third pair of shoes, lightweight summery stuff. I was worried, but the phone worked out really well with the app Airalo — a very small charge for every connection needed for the whole trip, wonderful.

And let’s face it, I was really lucky this time — the weather was stellar almost every day, and there were no strikes or major issues. Even at the end — the fact that the downpour forecast for the whole day held off until I was in the metro to the airport, and that there was a huge disruption at Pearson, with a shooting shutting down the entire area, not long after I was safely home. My good health throughout. Tickets worked fine. No bad news from home; once I was in a museum in Milan when I got a phone-call that the basement had flooded and the tenant was thinking of suing. I burst into tears. I was in London when my distraught son called to say a man had been shot in the street and Sam had held him as he died, and I couldn’t be there for him.

So much could have gone wrong and, this time, didn’t. Grateful for that. So much went right, especially connecting with old friends and new friends and my own past. And by the way, it seems I gained no weight in three weeks of devouring bread, cheese, many pains au chocolat, wine, delicious meals. Incredible. The miracle of France!

Now real life begins again. My course at U of T that starts May 5 is far from full, so I need to hustle. There’s a huge amount to be done around the house, administrivia, and my head is throbbing. Tomorrow I hope to be well enough to go across town to see my kids and grandsons. Robin came today to clean the windows, climbed all over the roof to do so, and now we can see clearly the good weather and blooms that are arriving.

Happy spring, my friends. Thank you for coming with me. It’s so good to be home.

The post Trip recap appeared first on Beth Kaplan.

Home again jiggety jig

In the end, a last gift from Paris … by the time I was ready to go out yesterday, the rain was reduced to a drizzle, and eventually the sun even came out for a bit. So I walked and walked, one last time around the 5th. Went into my favourite church, St. Etienne-du-Mont behind the Panthéon, which though smaller of course than Notre Dame is still magnificent inside, ornate and soaring, and as a bonus, the organist was practicing on the fabulous organ, including some Bach. I sat for a long time. A truly spiritual moment.

A final lunch at a café, the only person outside as the weather cleared, then I picked up my stuff stored at the hotel; the hotel owner, whom I know well by now, explained about the single room, that apparently the changes have been mandated, and that next time I will have to book a double if I want a window on the street. All righty then. A 20-minute walk in the sun to the metro to the airport. When I bought the ticket to CDG, I bought another for my return. I’m ready.

As soon as the train pulled out of the station, the heavens opened, and it poured.

So farewell to this magnificent country. 45 minutes on the metro and into the tunnel of travel. My suitcase was so heavy — including two tablecloths — I had to check it. The flight was painless, just long. For the entire trip, except when I tried to sleep, I read a novel Lynn had lent me, Middle England by Jonathan Coe, a very entertaining exploration of pre- and post-Brexit Britain told from the POV of several linked and marvellously drawn characters. Had nearly finished when we landed.

Waited ages for my bag, those anxious moments as scores of bags tumble out and yours is not among them. And then it was. Home, James! From the cab window, the city was unrecognizable, terrifyingly huge, acres of high-rises, and I wondered why and how I live here.

And then I remembered — that moment of putting the key in the door — my key, my door. The forsythia was out, the house looked wonderful, Tiggy stared at me and stalked off, tail in the air. But she came round. It was after 10.30 p.m. when I got home — 4.30 a.m. my time

Read the second last chapter of the novel when I woke at 4 a.m. Toronto time. Gave up and rose at 6, to the sound of happy Toronto birds. And walked smack into a small nightmare. Opened two letters from a company that spends its time trolling websites looking for copyright violations. It accused me of violating copyright on my blog and asked for a lot of money for a Beatle image I posted over 15 years ago, and thousands for two New Yorker cartoons, also posted many years ago.

It’s horrifying. I’ve been posting cartoons and images for the pleasure of my readers since the blog started in 2007 and had no idea I should not have been. I Googled; this company is a “bounty hunter,” hunting down supposed infringements for companies like Associated Press. I called my tech helper who came over, and we spent hours going through the blog, finding images that might be in contravention, hours deleting them. I mean, honestly — my little blog! I have so much to do, there’s nothing in my fridge, and instead I’ve spent the day deleting cartoons. It hurts.

Beware, my blogger friends. The bounty hunters are out there.

However, it’s a heavenly warm day. I got out the cushions for the deck furniture and put out my new tablecloth. Despite today’s stress, I’m carrying all I’ve seen and done — and eaten and drunk — in my heart. Feeling profoundly blessed.

Despite the stress.

Today in the paper it says Toronto is the fastest growing city in North America. I believe it.

Below: St. Etienne-du-Mont, its ornate organ, its intricate staircases. Lunch alone on la terrasse. La rue Mouffetard after the rain.

I miss it already. But there’s an election to think about, and a great deal to do.

The post Home again jiggety jig appeared first on Beth Kaplan.

Last post from Paris

Kaplan voyage of April 2025, last day: it’s Paris, and it’s pouring, supposed to rain all day. When packing I made a calculated decision not to add the weight of an umbrella, a good idea until today. I have to check out of this mingy little room by 11, and my plane is not till 7, my plan being to walk the city all day until airport time. The hotel has no loaner umbrellas.

Ah well. I can go to a café and sit for hours if I want. I’ll undoubtedly get to the airport really early and relax. It will be a long day; we’re supposed to land at 9 p.m. which is 3 a.m. my time. I did not sleep well last night. But Thursday morning, if all goes well, I will be in my own bed.

On Tuesday night I took a sleeping pill and woke at 7, in time to walk with my early bird friend down to the village to buy two baguettes and six croissants for breakfast, a last pain au chocolat and sandwich for me, for the train. A walk in the morning sun, through the winding narrow stone streets of this ancient village, with a view of the entire Luberon valley. Breathtaking.

But oh, excitement, the market was setting up in the shadow of the chateau, and what did I see but tablecloths. One of my goals was to buy a waterproof Provençal tablecloth for the table on my deck. So Lynn and I walked back down half an hour later, and I bought one, bright yellow with flowers. A final purchase to brighten my summer.

It was wonderful to spend time with 3 of the 8 Blin grandchildren, good to note young people have similarities the world over — obsession with phones and screens, the right running shoes and sports logos on their t-shirts. The Gordes house is spacious and bright, full of interesting objets from their world travels, the best part flinging open the heavy shutters in the morning to the sound of birdsong and the wind in the ancient oaks. Les Blin have an amazing life, urban in the vibrant, crowded city of Montpellier, and rural in their retreat just far enough out of the teeming tourist hubbub of Gordes, which was once voted the most beautiful village in the world. Spectacular.

After farewells, Denis drove me to the Avignon TGV station, stopping on the way at a farm stand to buy just-picked strawberries and asparagus. Despite serious health issues in the past, he is still the fierce driving force of the family, keeping everything running. An admirable man, with an admirable wife and partner.

The train left and arrived exactly on time – not quite 3 hours to travel almost the length of the country. I marvelled, looking out at neat green farm fields as we whizzed by, that all the cows were white, like the sheep; the French had colour-coordinated their animals. I remembered which bus to get from the Gare de Lyon to this hotel, pas de problème. I’ve stayed at the Port Royal Hotel a bunch of times, a great location in my favourite quartier, but this time they stuck me in a tiny room at the back, explaining that now, all the rooms facing the street where I used to stay are doubles; this mingy space is the only single in the hotel. It makes me furious once again, the marginalizing of single travellers. However. It’s warm and dry.

I just have to figure out what to do in the rain between 11and 3, when I’ll leave to get to the airport early. I can’t go back to the Jardin des Plantes to say goodbye to my father, as planned. Will have to do so from here. Salut, mon père. Je te remercie encore une fois.

What a trip! Paris the metropolis, the small town of Neuville de Poitou with my new family, the wild youthful city of Montpellier and the beauty and calm of Gordes with my best friend and her family. Last night in Paris, dinner with old friends Suzette and Pierre, who took over Ode’s flat after I left; much talk, over a delicious meal, of the Canadian election and the frightening chaos of the world.

I return laden with riches — memories of beauty, history, and profound connection. Also, among other things, a bright yellow tablecloth, to remind me of this voyage. It doesn’t get better than that.

Except for the @#$@# rain.

A few pix below: the internet is not good here. The view. The market. The girls. What I brought for 3 weeks in France.

The post Last post from Paris appeared first on Beth Kaplan.

Easter Sunday avec les amis

It’s 7.30 p.m. Easter Sunday. Today felt like the very best of my trip, the golden day. Rain was predicted all weekend, and instead, we’ve had constant sun with a bit of cloud. Elissa, L and D’s youngest daughter, flew in for Easter from her job in Kinshasa, in the Congo. Today her boyfriend arrived from Marseille, where Elissa will probably be moving in the fall.

Lynn’s grandchildren are here, fraternal twins of 13 and their older sister, who’s 16 going on 22. Their father is Burundian, now divorced from their mother Sarah, L and D’s oldest daughter, and living back in Burundi. Sarah has worked for various NGO’s including Oxfam and Handicap International, and she and the boys have lived in Nepal and Kenya, among other places. Now they live in Lyon and able to spend vacations with their grandparents while their mother is busy or away; currently she’s working in Iraq. I’ve said before that the more cappuccino children in the world, the better, and these children are stunning. The boys remind me of my grandsons, punching, wrestling, playing with balls and on their devices. Maud their sister is an exotic creature, tall and slim with dreads to her waist. She spends almost all her time here talking on her phone, in her room, as any self-respecting 16-year-old girl should.

Denis went out before the kids were up to hide 66 small Easter eggs; he counted. We had to drag the kids out of bed, and the hunt was on, until all but 3 were found. Then L, D, and I went to Mass in the L’Arche community in Isle sur la Sorgue. The building I lived and worked in in Gordes in 1979 was sold, and the people there moved to a bigger place and blended with other local L’Arche communities; we had about 12 handicapped men, and now there are about fifty housed there, of both sexes. When we arrived today, Denis told the current director that I’m the only person to have written a book about this community: my memoir Loose Woman. My dear friend Magali, who worked with me then, and her husband Dan were there; big hugs.

Mass was held in a room with a makeshift altar and an electric piano. The priest was accompanied by little Jean-Luc, an important figure in my book, who stood beside the priest wearing a long white cassock, a plaid cap, and sunglasses. Two other men from my time were also there. They said they remembered me, although after 46 years I perhaps look a tiny bit different. I cried, of course, could not stop weeping. It was profoundly moving to see these people who once would have been the outcasts of society, at home in this safe, kind place. Jean Vanier turned out to be a hypocritical sociopath, but what he created in L’Arche is magnificent.

It meant a great deal that here I was, at mass in a community of people with mental disabilities, and I too had a place there. I was known. It did my heart good.

What else did my heart good was Easter lunch. It was hot enough outside to unpack and set up the table and chairs for the patio. Denis had made “seven hour lamb” – a gigot that cooks at low heat for 7 hours, which meant he had to get up at 5 a.m. to do something to it. First we had aperitif — champagne — then sat down to asparagus vinaigrette, then the gigot, salad, a platter of cheeses, and cake, accompanied by a fine Bourgogne. When the cheeses arrived, I told the table this was an orgasmic moment for me. Lynn replied, there aren’t many French people who’d say that.

After such a huge meal, I would have liked a nap, but this is the Blin family, so of course it meant a hike. Elissa had run 10 k. before breakfast, L had walked down to the village earlier to get bread, and she and D had cooked this massive meal, but no, a hike. They chose the Obama trail; the American first family came to do this hike at some point. It was straight uphill on a very rocky path lined with wild irises and the scent of wild thyme, with a great view when we finally arrived at the top. I should signal that Denis had a serious operation on an aneurism not even a month ago, yet was leaping ahead like a mountain goat. Maud and her dreads led us the whole way. And we drove there and back through Provence, endless vineyards and yellow stone houses. It is obligatoire, at least in Gordes, to build everything from that local stone.

Now we are home. The boys had stayed here; they have limits on their devices, so were outside playing soccer and punching each other, as boys should. We will soon cobble together another humble meal. Yesterday we had a big lunch of stuff the boys like, especially their grandmother’s chili and salad. Saturdays are movie nights, so we ate finger food in front of the very small TV while watching Nimona, a terrific film with plenty of cool entertainment for adults and kids alike. I miss my grandsons.

Today, I feel truly blessed to have this entry into real French life, and to feel that strangely, I belong here.

Sorry, pix out of order. Denis serving his lamb to Elissa and her friend Cantal. The cheeses, be still my beating heart. Jean-Luc and me and Denis; I look weepy because I’d been weeping. Hiking, and the phone stop at the top.

The post Easter Sunday avec les amis appeared first on Beth Kaplan.

In Gordes

Slept marvellously last night. The air in Gordes is sweet; it’s quiet: birds, trees, wind. And I have my own bedroom, so I was able to unpack, put things away, see where everything is. I’m an orderly person and find hard the chaos of an overflowing suitcase. Where’s my hairbrush? Where’s that red scarf? Oh, I think I left it in Montpellier.

I first came to Gordes in 1979, as detailed in Loose Woman, to visit L and D, who were living in a rented house with their 3 small children and had recently founded a new L’Arche community. I arrived in June and to my surprise, stayed to live and work in the community until mid-November, a real immersion in French life. Subsequently the family bought land, built this big house, and had two more children. I brought my own kids to visit in 1997; in Midlife Solo, there’s an essay about that visit, where my kids learned the importance of sitting down to family meals, a lesson I think influenced them — both endlessly hospitable cooks — forever after.

I learn these things anew each time I come to France: taking time to cook a good meal, sit down to eat it, taste it, relish it. Taking time to present yourself well to the world. Thrift, yes, always thrift, great care with money. Appreciation of beauty, history, art. I always return enriched, except last year, when I was sick almost the entire time I was in France.

But this time, I’ve had all these different experiences — being solo, except for two meals with friends, for a week in the heart of Paris. Visiting a distant relative who’s right at home in a small town. Sleeping on the sofa of my best friend in the busy, crowded city of Montpellier. And now, back to this house I know so well, which has been gorgeously renovated, in a famous tourist town in Provence. In a few hours, the next phase: three teenaged grandchildren arrive from Lyon to spend 2 weeks, and their youngest daughter comes in from Marseille for Easter lunch tomorrow. The house will be noisy. (L and D have five other grandchildren, scattered around the world; these are the only ones in France.)

Final phase Tuesday, back to Paris for one night, dinner with old friends Suzette and Pierre who took over the rental of the apartment I was staying in; and finally, late Wednesday, a very long flight back to Toronto, landing at 11 p.m. which will be 5 a.m. Thursday my time. I will be a wreck. But I gather it’s spring there now. One of the joys of travelling to a milder climate in April is that I get to experience spring twice. The glorious profusion of pink Judas trees and mauve wisteria all over this country!

France is magnificent. Yes, there’s a ton wrong here, but as the saying goes, the French are a people who live in paradise and think they live in hell. They complain about everything and go on strike, yet they have one of the best healthcare systems in the world and mindblowing social services and benefits. The quality on display in grocery stores floors me, and how well-dressed people are, especially children. The French are also intolerant, unwelcoming to foreigners, narrow-minded, rigid. Things have to be done the way they’ve always been done.

But that’s changing, sometimes for the better, sometimes not. In the meantime, there’s a level of civilization, history, and beauty here that feeds the soul.

I think things will be busy; this might be my last post for a bit. Denis is off picking up the kids in Avignon; Lynn is preparing a large lunch. I will go help. Thank you for coming with me, my friends. A bientôt.

The view from my bedroom window when the shutters are pushed back.

The post In Gordes appeared first on Beth Kaplan.

Wednesday morning — road trip! As someone who lives witho...

Wednesday morning — road trip! As someone who lives without a car, I love getting into one and having someone drive me somewhere. Anywhere. First, Madame went out to buy a baguette and croissants for breakfast, my croissant the best ever, light as air, filmy, buttery, delicious, with Denis’s sharp homemade marmalade. Into the car, and we drove to the Mediterranean, which is only twenty minutes away. It was however an extremely windy day, and as we set off for a walk along the beach, I was a bit grumpy. Yes, it’s true, grumpy, MOI! But it was a marvellous walk even in a very high wind, on a beach littered with shells. We walked to what’s left of a 12th century cathedral, Maguelone, beautiful. A young girl there with her family started to sing, the notes echoing from the high ceiling and hanging in the air. Magical.

After the usual delicious, healthy lunch — curried beet greens with beet salad and rice, cheese, for dessert an apple — M. Blin went off to work, and Madame and I walked all over Montpellier in the sun. I had only one task, to buy anti-moth stuff, because the French make much better stuff than we do. But mostly we walked and talked and talked. And talked.

Dinner: sausages with a puree of potatoes and vegetables. For me, preparing one meal for others is a complex process. Lynn whips these things up with ease; she’s been feeding a French husband — a VERY French husband — for over fifty years, although he does a lot of cooking too, and she fed five French kids and now feeds their spouses and children too, often with twenty in the house in Gordes at Xmas or in the summer. I’m grateful to be on the receiving end of her skills.

A final treat: the last two episodes of Douglas is Cancelled, which turned everything we thought it was about upside down. Very clever and compelling, indeed important. The only trouble — it’s British people talking very fast, and our subtitles were in French, so we both missed a great deal. I should watch it again at home.

I have been sleeping very badly, not sure why, but luckily not much is required of my brain today. Today, we’re packing up here to drive to Gordes, a gorgeous town high on a mountain in Provence, where they moved in the mid-seventies and eventually built a big house, which is now not big enough for their very big family. This Easter, though, only three teen grandchildren and one daughter are joining us, from Lyon and Marseille. We will fit.

We went shopping for cheese, which was my treat — 43 euros, or $68 worth of superb cheeses, each provenance explained by the charming woman behind the counter — this one sheep, this one goat, or a combination, hard, soft, from all over the country. Then to the specialty tea store, then to Monoprix for a large gigot d’agneau for Easter lunch. I don’t buy lamb myself, pace my vegan friend Paul McCartney, but I will eat whatever is presented to me here, on the assumption that French farm animals are happier than Canadian ones. I don’t know if it’s true, but that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.

So, goodbye to this marvellous city with its narrow crowded medieval streets, beautiful vistas, fabulous little shops all a stone’s throw from each other. My suitcase, and my belly, and my soul, are more than full. A final pain au chocolat for me from the best bakery, and we’re off.

A few recent shots below, more to come when I have time: 1. a post-meal still life. Denis is from an old, wealthy family; the plates here are Limoges, the cutlery is heavy silver, the glasses crystal. 2. the medieval school of medicine 3. a street, with vista 4. if you look closely, that’s a trompe l’oeil – a facade mostly painted on. 5. a typically beautiful square. 6. Madame chooses cheeses. Be still my beating heart!

.

The post appeared first on Beth Kaplan.