Spee-der-mon

"Madame! Madame!" Concentrating on the lovely ceramic dishes tastefully arranged on the display table in a small shop in old Apt, I was only vaguely aware of the child's voice. "Madame! Madame!" more insistently now and accompanied by several tugs on the tail of my jacket. I looked down into the sparkling brown eyes of a small Provencal boy who appeared to be about 6 or 7 years old. "Hello!" I said, smiling. Seeing that he now had my full attention, he launched into a torrent of French accompanied by many hand gestures and ending triumphantly with "Spee-der-mon!" "Spee-der-mon?" I puzzled under my breath. "Oh yeah...Spiderman!" I laughed as the petit garcon's Papa scolded him gently. While I couldn't understand much of what he was saying, I got the drift...leave the nice Madame alone. Taking his son's hand, he apologized to me for his son's exuberance, and they wandered off to look at vases. Not before the little guy turned and grinned. With a big thumbs up, he declared once again..."Spee-der-mon!"


Kids are the same all over the world, non?


I took this picture as Marie and I awaited the TGV in the Gare de Lyon that would whisk us to Provence...and my brush with Spiderman.

"...And be thankful."

It's Thanksgiving morning, and I'm overwhelmed with thoughts of family and friends! While I'll stay home this holiday, my thoughts will travel all over the country, and indeed, the world. I wish I had pictures of all my family and friends to share; this collage of Travis, Becky, Parker and Chase will have to represent everyone. They are so dear to me! I am so thankful for the gift of family and friends. This entry's title comes from verses in Colossians 3:14-17. My friend, Randi, has challenged her older children to find verses in Scripture that reference being thankful, write them down and place them in their "Scripture jar." Her family will read the verses that Kennedy and Eli found at Thanksgiving dinner tonight. Wonder if they found these verses from Colossians?

In the Postcard Shop

"Non, non, non, Madame! Please, non!"

Startled, I looked up from my purse where I had been fumbling for the euros to pay for my postcards and stamps. What did I do? Did I inadvertently offend? Had I committed some heinous American faux pas? I stared into the swarthy face of the man behind the counter of the hole-in-the-wall souvenir shop on the corner of rue St. Andre des Arts.

Seeing my dismay, his black eyes softened as he stepped up to me. Gently, he chided me..."Madame, you must always have your money ready, your purse organized. If you are searching for euros, you are distracted and a perfect target for the pickpockets."

Before I could move, he deftly took my tiny shoulder purse and lifted it from around my neck. "Let me show you the best way." I stood there, dumbfounded as he helped me out of my fleece jacket, zipped the purse and replaced it around my neck. "Now, Madame, put on your jacket and zip it up. Your purse is now safe against your body and out of sight. Wear it this way. Always prepare for your purchases and have your money ready."

I could only stutter, trying to think of something to say, as he continued, "You think thieves and pickpockets look like shifty-eyed Frenchmen, and that you'll recognize them. Actually they are innocent appearing teenage boys wearing jeans and American tee shirts!" he proclaimed.

I finally found my voice..."Merci, Monsieur." I know I still sounded puzzled.

"You see, Madame, I make my living from the tourists. If tourists are pickpocketed and have a bad experience in Paris, they tell their friends and no one comes to Paris anymore. That's bad for my business. So, I try to help this not to happen," he smiled and shrugged that quintessential French shrug that seems to say 'makes perfect sense to me.'

Merci, Monsieur! Merci beaucoup!

More Movie Recommendations

My blog-o-sphere friend, Isabelle, recommended movies about Provence that she thought I might enjoy. I've reviewed two of them in previous blog posts, Jean de Florette and Manon of the Springs. Last Sunday evening I watched the second of a series of two that she also thought were really good...My Father's Glory and My Mother's Castle. Like the first two, these are also based on the novels of Marcel Pagnol, a Provencal writer. And like the first two, these are set in the Provence of the turn of the century, steeped in the beauty and culture of this quietly beautiful land. If you decide to view them, you should watch the Father one first. My Mother's Castle begins immediately after the end of My Father's Glory and makes more sense if you've watched them in the correct order. Again, I watched them in French with English subtitles which helps me be more engaged in the story, but still understand it. I won't spoil the fun by telling you the plots of both movies. I will tell you that they are simple and innocent stories of family love and values, of respect and acceptance. This is a family in which the adults are gentle and wise, the children act like children, and everyone desires the best for their loved ones. My Mother's Castle ends very differently than I expected. You'll have to watch the film to know why, but be sure you have a box of kleenex handy.

Le Bistrot d'Henri

Writing about my experience at Le Procope got me thinking about the wonderful places I've eaten in Paris. You know...the food is one of the main reasons to visit France! My budget doesn't allow me to eat at any of the 'starred' establishments (maybe someday?), but I've had many great meals at the less pricey places around town. Marie and I have eaten at Christine's in the 6th arrondissement and its neighbor, Rotisserie en Face; we've eaten at Marie's favorite, L'Epi dupin twice. We've enjoyed a meal entirely of souffles at Le Souffle on the Right Bank, and we tried great Moroccan food at a tiny place we couldn't find on our second trip. We've had our morning croissant and cafe creme every day at Paul's. My very favorite place, however, was Le Bistrot d'Henri (pictured here courtesy of Google).

I've eaten at Le Bistrot twice, and it was wonderful both times. Walking distance from our hotel on Blvd. St. Germain, it's tucked into a tiny side street, rue Princess. It's warm and cosy; the atmosphere is friendly and lively. I love it! and the food is delicious. My travel journal reminds me that it was also 'very charming, very Parisian.' I had pork chops on a bed of noodles with a sauce flavored with a tint of Dijon mustard, haricots verts with a curry-tinged dressing and the ubiquitous molten chocolate cake for dessert. On my second visit, I tried the lamb dish that the bistrot is famous for...lamb shank cooked for hours until it makes a thick gravy with prunes, onions, and carrots flavored with a touch of cinnamon. It's served in its own small Dutch oven (or is that a French oven?). A salad of endive, chopped pear and roquefort cheese chunks and again, the chocolate cake rounded out the meal. Sipping a glass of wonderfully thick red wine, I could, indeed, murmur "J'ai mange tres bien!"

A Step Back in TIme

I googled this picture of the Cour du Commerce in the Latin Quarter of Paris to introduce you to an 'historic' view of Le Procope, the restaurant featured in yesterday's blog entry. Paris is full of
these passages back into time. You'll be walking along a busy street and spy an opening like this. Some passages are completely covered; this one is only partially covered as you can see. Once you pass the shops Cour du Commerce opens onto a narrow, cobbled, very uneven street...it's one of the oldest surviving streets in Paris, now open only to pedestrian traffic. It's hard to imagine carts and horses ever traveling through such a small space. Dr. Guillotin developed and perfected his humane instrument of death, the guillotine, at No. 7 in the late 1700's. Now the street is lined with cute shops and restaurants, most notably, Le Procope. The story is that Le Procope is the oldest coffee house in Paris, established by a Sicilian, Francesco Procoperio dei Coltelli, in 1686.



This is the restaurant's 'backside' as you walk along Cour du Commerce. It's main entrance faces rue de l'Ancienne Comedie, but it was this view that intrigued me. Many famous French and American authors and politicians have dined here over the years...Napoleon, Voltaire, Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson...and their pictures decorate the windows. It went on my 'to-do' list the very first time I saw it. My lunch and its historical ambiance did not disappoint when I finally made my visit on Good Friday 2007!

Le Procope

"Pardon, Madame, my wife and I couldn't help hearing you speak with the waiter. Are you American?" I turned to reply to the well-dressed Frenchman having a quiet lunch with his wife next to my left elbow.

"Oui Monsieur. Je suis Americaine."

"Ah, we thought so...is this your first trip to Paris?"

My French skills almost exhausted, I answered in English: "No, this is my third trip, but it's the first time I've eaten here at Le Procope even though it's been on my 'to-do' list each visit."

He chuckled and replied, "My wife and I have lived in Paris for years, and this is our first visit as well!"

We continued to chat. Madame had visited the States three times; I loved Ste. Chappelle. They were so gracious to let me practice my French and even helped me with pronounciation. Monsieur shared the restaurant's Napoleon legend: As a young soldier, Napoleon ate here, but could not pay the bill. He left his hat as collateral, promising to return with money and reclaim the chapeau. The hat sits still in a glass case in the main dining room.

The waiter cleared my empty plate..the filets of beef with vegetables had been scrumptious, my glass of wine was drained. Monsieur offered: "Please share the last of our bottle with us!" With that he divided their remaining Bordeaux into our three glasses.

"A votre sante, Madame!"

"A votre sante, Monsieur!"

We raised our glasses to Franco-American relations which at that moment could not have been any better.

I recall this story every time I hear someone bashing the French for being cold and unfriendly. When's the last time strangers shared their last glass of wine with you in an American restaurant??

Pictures: above right...the backside of Le Procope

above left...the interior of the restaurant

More about this historic place in my next post.

Dona Nobis Pacem

It's insidious. It starts with a simple blog and a few entries about your life, your family, the things that you find fascinating. Before you know it, one blog isn't enough; there are things you want to share about other parts of your life--parts that everyone won't find fascinating, but that are important to you. Then one Sunday you have an a niggling thought, and a song begins to play over and over in your head. It's a simple Latin round from the 16th century...Dona Nobis Pacem. In the blink of an eye, a new blog is born! I am suddenly the author of a second blog, one that will be filled with another part of my life...the part that searches for spiritual meaning, the part that spills out in spontaneous poems of praise and prayer. You can visit at: http://www.evelyn-dnp.blogspot.com/. Let me know what you think.

It's a Girl!

Okay...I realize this isn't as exciting to you as it is to me. You'll just have to indulge me a moment. This is the very first picture of my newest grandchild. She's expected on March 24, 2009 and we couldn't be more pleased. Although I did share with Becky that I'm a bit shaky about 'doing girls.' It's always been boys in my family. I think I can get used to buying frilly dresses, socks with lace and ruffled panties! And this could be the perfect excuse (as if I needed one) for a trip to Paris. You simply can't believe the adorable shops there filled with baby clothes.

Cafe Marly, Paris

I pulled yesterday's blog post from my Word document archives. It's part of an article that I put together about traveling alone in Paris. No, it didn't get published....darn. But writing the article really made me think about traveling on my own, how do-able it is, and how much I enjoyed the experience. If you clicked on yesterday's link to the Cafe Marly, you read a variety of reviews of that restaurant. Let me add mine: the experience was absolutely delightful and the food was very, very good. I've actually eaten there twice...once on my own in September of 2005 and again, in late February, 2006. I enjoyed it both times. On the warm, sunny September afternoon, I sat on the terrace and thrilled to the crowds milling around the Pyramid. In February I sat inside in the elegant and stylish dining room done in lovely soft shades of green and punctuated with crisp white tablecloths and napkins. My waitstaff on both occasions were quietly professional and polite. They certainly didn't try to rip me off by adding a huge tip to the bill. (See review by one disgruntled American diner) While I wouldn't criticize anyone on the strength of a restaurant review, I can tell you that I was able to identify American tourists instantly both in restaurants and on the streets of Paris...and not just because they were carrying Rick Steves' guidebooks! I have to say that I've been to Paris three times, and I've always been treated cordially at the very least by anyone I've encountered there. In fact, I've had some lovely interactions with Parisians...maybe a subject for a future blog post??

Alone...in Paris

“ Bonjour, Madame! Vous etes seul?”

The man’s words alarm me. He’s saying, “Hello, are you alone?”
How does he know? As I stand on the steps of the terrace, the comments of my friends begin to haunt me…

“You’re going to Paris alone? You’re so brave!”
“Aren’t you afraid to be in a foreign country by yourself?”
“You don’t speak French? I’d be nervous about that if I were you.”
Yes, I am nervous! In my anxiety I completely overlook the menu the man is holding, as well as the neatly folded white towel draped over the arm of his crisp white shirt. My mind continues to race as he looks at me expectantly. I wonder if he’s going to mug me. Is he one of the pickpockets I’ve been warned about? Then, quietly and calmly, reason prevails. Relax, Evelyn…he’s the maitre’d. He needs to know if you’re by yourself so he can seat you. I exhale slowly, almost unaware that I’d been holding my breath.

“Oui, Monsieur,” I tell him. “Je suis seul.” Yes sir, I’m alone.

He leads me to a tiny table overlooking the famous I.M. Pei glass pyramid in the courtyard of the Louvre. It’s a warm September afternoon, perfect for dining on the terrace of the trendy Café Marly. Pulling the table toward me, he murmurs, “Voila, Madame.”

I squeeze by the couple seated to the right and slide into the leather banquette.

“Merci, Monsieur.”

I breathe a sigh of relief and try to focus on the menu he’s handed me. All my reading has prepared me for this moment. My Rick Steves’ guidebook has cautioned me about tripe and andouillette, and my Pimsleur language tapes have provided me with enough rudimentary French to request a glass of red or white wine. I order an omelet with herbes de provence, a yummy tomato and chevre gateaux (a cake of soft, creamy goat cheese layered with tomato coulis, topped with a sliced tomato and drizzled with olive oil), and glass of rosé. I sit in the sun, watching swarms of people enter and depart through that spectacular glass structure in the square.

"Oh my God,” I think to myself. “I’m in Paris, one of the most exhilarating cities in the world, sitting in the Richelieu wing of a palace, home of French kings, quarters for Napoleon, and a monument to some of the world’s most famous art."

Yes, I was in Paris….alone

Save the Date

A couple of weeks ago I received a 'Save the Date' letter in the mail. The date: October 9,2009. The occasion: my 45th high school reunion! Can you believe that? I can't! Of course, I was a child prodigy, a mere toddler when I was in high school. Yeah, right! Anyway...I rsvp'd that I could possibly come and received an email a few days later from one of the women on the planning committee....Becky Ray....and a great wave of nostalgia swept over me (see blog entries from earlier this week). Becky and I were in the same 4th grade class at Orangethorpe Elementary School. The school year was 1955-56 according to the class picture I dragged out of the bottom of a drawer in my office. More on that class picture in another post; the picture shown here is one that Becky emailed me. Where she found it, I haven't a clue because I truly don't remember it ever being taken. But there I am, bottom left (wish I could claim to be one of the cute ones...alas not). The adorable girl next to me is Patty McGuire and Becky's identified the girl standing on the far right as Martha Tabor. Martha was one of my best friends in junior high, so this picture must be circa 1958-59. Neither of us can identify the other two girls. Maybe our friend, Mary Wiechec, will know who they are. Mary was my best friend in 4th grade; we lived walking distance to each other's house. She's also on the reunion planning committee, and Becky emailed the picture to her as well. Schoolmates from over 50 years ago, connected by the Internet. Who would have ever guessed that when we were 9 years old?!

Yes, We Can!

We did it! We made change happen. Now the really hard work begins...to restore the reputation of our country thoughout the world, to repair and rebuild the economy, and to revitalize the dreams of our citizens. Yes, we can! I can hardly wait to help. It's time to shake hands with our neighbors around the world instead of shaking weapons; it's time to listen and respond instead of spewing rhetoric. Godspeed to Barack Obama as he begins this journey and brings America along with him into the world.

Summer of 1967

Okay....this is the DVD that I didn't watch last night. I think I left it at Travis' last summer for him to watch. It didn't dawn on me until I put a CD of the Festival in my DVD player that...oops, not the DVD! That's what happens when you become a woman of a 'certain age.' So instead of watching the summer of 1967, I'm listening to it as I write this. Specifically listening to Jimi Hendrix, and even without the visual cues, I remember exactly, precisely, in vivid color his performance and all the others at Monterey. My friend, Christine, and I drove to the coast from Bakersfield where we were working. A year out of nursing school, we thought we were pretty worldly...good jobs, boyfriends, living in an apartment with a pool. But the Monterey Pop Festival was a truly eye-opening experience! We drove into a world filled with hippies and flower children, psychedelic colors and peace signs, long hair and pot. And music--wonderful, wonderful music. We went eager to see Booker T and the MG's, Lou Rawls, and Otis Redding and left enthralled with Janis and Big Brother, Grace and the Airplane, and Eric and the Animals. And Jimi! Oh my! I'd never, ever seen or heard anything quite like Jimi...raw, rhythmic rock and roll with a stage presence that was sexual and overpowering. Chris and I weren't the only ones in the audience that were totally blown away when he set his guitar on fire as the grand finale to his performance. Damn, that was good! It was truly the dawning of the Age of Aquarius that weekend in June. We felt embraced by love and good vibes and peace even in the midst of the huge crowd of really 'out there' people. Or maybe it was just a contact high from all the pot?

We worried a bit as Otis took the stage in the final set Saturday night. Would this crowd of flower children even like him? Not to worry....Otis literally brought down the house. All of us were dancing in the aisles by the time he finished playing. I find myself smiling even now forty years later remembering all those good vibrations from the summer of 1967.

1968

I have been washed by waves of nostalgia the past couple of weeks. Why is that?? I think some of it has to do with being of a 'certain age.' It's hard to be nostalgic about anything when you're 25; it's only with age that you accumulate worthwhile memories. And it's only with age and experience that you can place those memories in perspective. So, my next few blog posts will focus on some of those 'waves' that have come my way recently. Echoes of 1968 reverberate. This picture of Bobby Kennedy was taken by a friend of mine...actually in 1966 during a Colorado speech. Art was a still photographer for CBS back then; he made me several copies of photos he took of RFK that year. Bobby was my first political 'love.' I was too young to vote for his older brother and still too young to vote for Bobby in 1968. Inspite of not being of voting age yet, a friend and I went to hear him speak in San Diego a few days before he was assassinated in Los Angeles. I wept when I heard the radio announcement that he had been killed.This was only one of the tumultous events of that year. The Viet Nam war was raging, Martin Luther King was assassinated, there was violence at the Democratic National Convention, the 1967 summer of love had given 'way to the 1968 summer of hate. Listening to 'Hearing Voices' this morning on NPR, I was mesmerized by those events and others. I wept as I heard Martin's "I Have a Dream" speech. Forty years...we're almost there...hold on, Martin! The music of the era was the underpinning of the radio program. The Beatles, Joe Cocker, Aretha, Cream...songs of my young adulthood. I wept again...where did that idealistic and youthful time go?

Is this what nostalgia is about? Feeling sad, shedding tears, wondering if things have really improved in the past 40 years? Maybe...but I intend to pull out my DVD of the Monterey Pop Festival and watch it this evening. Let's see if the 1967 'summer of love' can lift my spirits! I'll get back with you.....

La Toussaint

Without children around I don't do much for Halloween. Actually I haven't lived anywhere in the past 20+ years where kids even trick-or-treat! One advantage, I guess, of living in the country. I am intrigued, though, with the day after Halloween. In Mexico and in the Southwest, this day is celebrated as Dia De Los Muertos or Day of the Dead. These guys are representative of how Hispanic cultures celebrate the holiday. Several years ago I spent the holiday in Taos, NM and totally enjoyed all the festivities. Every shop window was filled with colorful displays of costumed skeletons, flowers, and skulls. The waitstaff at the fancy restaurant where I dined were fully in costume and into the celebration.

The French also celebrate November 1st as La Toussaint or All Saints' Day. It is both a legal and a church holiday. According to my Larousse dictionary, "in France on 1 November people celebrate All Saints' Day by laying flowers (typically chrysanthemums) on family member's graves. People often drive long distances to reunite with their families around the tombs of loved ones."

I will neither party nor visit the graves of my loved ones today; I will instead pray for all those I love tonight at church.