Sunday Funday

Ashley and I had a nice little Sunday. In the afternoon, we walked along an old elevated traintrack that's been turned into a park, or rather a promenade: the Promenade Plantée. You can also do this in New York, on the recently opened High Line. I lived a few blocks from the High Line, when the movement to turn it into a park began, but I didn't stay in New York long enough to actually see it happen. One of the models that High Line proponents pointed to was the Promenade. Also known as the Coulée Verte ("Green Corridor"), it stretches from just south of the Bastille opera house to a park on the edge of Paris, 4.5 kilometers away. We made it maybe half that distance before hopping off. My impression of the High Line is that what's striking is the contrast between the elevated strip of green you find yourself on and the ever-present cityscape in the background. ("Studio 360" has a nice audio slideshow of the High Line.) On the Promenade, tall plants and bushes cut you off from the cars, buses and motos that you would otherwise hear, see and smell on the avenue below. At certain points there are openings in the vegetation where you can see down side streets or spot landmarks, like Gare de Lyon, that can orient you. Otherwise, there are no maps or "Vous êtes ici" signs to mark the way. You're lost in a not-so-urban jungle.

From the jungle to a vast, grassy plain: That's where we were Sunday night, along with several hundred (perhaps even a thousand-plus) people. The occasion was Cinema en Plein Air, wherein the city of Paris sets up a film projector on one end of said plain, in the Parc de la Villette, inflates a giant white screen at the other, and invites people to gather in between on blankets and chairs and, once the sun has set, watch a movie. This is also something you can do in the States: Ashley watched films on the Mall in DC, and I saw a few in Bryant Park in New York. Sunday was the last showing of the year in Paris, and it seems that, after some rather serious fare (A Clockwork Orange, Mystery Train, My Own Private Idaho, among others), they decided to end on a feel-good note: Grease. I wasn't sure what the French would think of a film that's so American (Olivia Newton-John notwithstanding). Turns out they love it. They laughed, they clapped, they sang along. They even stood up and danced during the closing number. We were right there along with them, thus feeling, for the second time that day, like we were not quite in Paris.

Here's the one picture I thought to take all day long. The links above have some good photos.


-- MBB

Ou est Charlie (and Ashley)?

As our next door neighbor so adoringly pointed out, Matt looks like the character Charlie from the series, Ou est Charlie?. Here in America, Charlie goes by a different name: Waldo.

So where has Matt been, and why have we not been diligently blogging away like our days of yore? It is quite standard in France to "take August off." People run to the south, flock to the beach, and simply don't work in August (our laundromat was even closed. Who knew that machines needed a one-month holiday?). It is against our nature as Americans to do just this. A month of vacation and relaxation seems preposterous, and in the case of Charlie and Ashley, the exact opposite of how we have been spending our first August in France. You know it is in my nature to go against the grain (that is not being served in out patisserie because it is closed!), and so we have booked ourselves solid.

We started off August with a delightful visit from my parents combined with the beginning of my internship at Lagadere. Throw in teaching English, babysits, house-sitting, cat-sitting, editing online newsletters, a weekend jaunt with a bootcamp friend and compiling the September bulletin for AWG, and you have just about figured out why I have been a little hard to spot. If I could do it over, I would do it just the same. I simply need to be this busy, and similarly to Waldo, it works best for me when I am all over the place.

Is it me as a person, or simply the American way? Whatever the answer I know that the French would be horrified. Which is perhaps another reason why I am going to do my darnedest to keep running in circles. And although Waldo can jump from page to page and continent to continent, I can not. So if feeling closer to home means keeping every minute booked, well then my Lilly planner is going get some solid usage.


Some pics from being out and about:

Champ de Mars: Soleil Festival (for underprivileged and disabled kiddos)

Marche on Avenue Saxe

Invalide (and the top of La Tour Eiffel) as seen from the Rodin Garden

Town in the Loire where we stopped for dinner

Gardens at a Loire Chateau (where the owner was from PA!)

Chateau where we stayed in Poitier

Queen for a Day

I was never really the “hang out on the playground” type. I was too busy as a wee one worrying about what game my peers were playing, and as an adolescent there was no way that just chillin’ on the mulch would ever take precedence over Model OAS meetings, Student Council events and sports practice. Plus, the swings make me motion sick. But, as I have been watching the cutest little kiddo for four days now, I have found that around 3pm we throw the sandals on, the sand toys in the stroller, and head for the Champ de Mars (yes, also home of the Eiffel Tower).

Usually our stroll down the picturesque tree-lined Avenue Suffern ends up in nothing more than an hour or so with Emile gallivanting around in the sand, trying to climb up the slide from the wrong direction, and me scaring off the friendly wee ones that wobble over by speaking to them in English. And today, as we piled our sand toys and sweaters into the stroller, and headed out into the cold, uninviting day, I assumed that today would be quite the same (minus the sun).

As we wheeled onto Champ de Mars, the noise emanating from the playground led me to believe that there were a few more souls that had gone stir-crazy over course of the last three days of inclement weather, and had also opted for damp clothes over one more round of tea party. As we got even closer, I could see that the playground was populated with what appeared to be a camp for kiddos ranging from 5-10 years old. As any mother (or maternal figure) knows, this can go in one of two ways: you spend the entire time telling the other kids to play nicely and grabbing back your toys, or a few of the older gals decide to take your charge under their wing. This time resulted in a slight variation.

As Emile was lugging himself up the primary colored slide stairs, he bumped into a young girl’s quite stylishly adorned feet. Teaching Emile the importance of complementing a woman’s foot wear at a very young age, I told him to tell her how cute her sandals were (or as close as he could get since he doesn’t yet speak). Her response; “thank you.” Yes, the two words I so rarely here on this side of the ocean, and music to my ears. That was the beginning of what would be “hang time” for me on the playground. So I was the oldest girl by about nineteen years, but as we all know, age doesn’t matter. As she and I began to talk, it was if the English words were magnets for any female (mostly from Africa) on the jungle gym between the ages 7 and 10. I was the “Rizzo” of the pink ladies, if you will. I was the leader of the pack. As we discussed sand toys and U.S. States, I experienced the mindless random chatter I so desperately miss here. It was almost as enjoyable as the three minute conversation I had with the American strangers on the metro platform about my Target suitcase. But then we all know that Target trumps all. Even hang-time on the playground.

For my parents, the Champ de Mars is the spot where my father first told my mother he loved her. For me, it is the spot where for one brief moment, I was Queen of the Sandbox. Dreams can come true. Just ask the ten-year olds I was hanging with today---I bet they would tell you the same. In English.

Provençal versus Provincial

As we drove down the A7 in our electric blue Chevy Spark, passing fields of shockingly yellow sunflowers whose heads were basking in the glory of the afternoon sun, we prepped for our voyage into the land of the lavender and cigales (cicadas) by listening to a podcast about Provence that was conducted by travel guru Rick Steves (mind you, this came after hours of Kathy Griffin and prior to my popping in the ear buds to enjoy a little Snookie and “The Situation”). One of Steve’s guests, a Frenchie, talked about the difference between Provençal (having to do with the region of Provence), and Provincial (anything outside of Paris). Whereas my initial reaction was one of disgust for Provincial, being a Parisian and a lover of all things Provençal, I do believe this week prompted me to turn my head a wee-bit, as the position of my sun has changed.

My initial, uneducated image of Provence prior to our visit was of fantastic linens (being sold in adorable markets found in charming little villages), and fields and fields of aromatic lavande blowing in the wind. I was not terribly far off with this romanticized image, but as Matt I quickly learned, Provence is no longer a charming little secret. If anything, it has become a very large, dirty lie. This is not to fault Fodor, Lonely Planet and Mr. Steves. With masses come destruction, and in the case of Provence, a grime that is not a result of simply cigale dung. As Matt and I tend to stray far from relaxation, and try to seize the moment, our week took us on steep mountain roads, in and out of Provencal villages and towns, and to the coast to seek out Puff Daddy in Saint-Tropez. With this comes my biased observations of the land of the lavande.

Our thoughts on the good, the bad, and the downright ugly:

Saint Saturnin les Apt: Perhaps it is because we called this small, delightful Luberon town home base for the week, or perhaps it was the medieval ruins we found ourselves climbing up for our pre-dinner walk the evening we arrived. We spent the first few nights having a picnic dinner in the town square, overlooking the mountains, eating Provençal fare from the boucherie and patisserie (with a bottle of rosé secured from a cave we popped into prior to touchdown). Our Tuesday morning began with a saunter around the open-air market, and our Friday was spent relaxing at the public pool listening to the cigales and owl who had perched itself in a nearby tree. Our Friday evening will wind down with a stroll to the moulin, and a final view of the Luberon.

While here for the week, we took advantage of being in the PACA region (Provence, Alps, Cote d’Azur). Below are personal observations after a week tearing up the terrain in our Chevy Spark.

The Good:

Lacoste: No clothing boutiques, but there is a design school located in this quaint mountainous village.

St. Remy en Provence: DO NOT venture here in the morning when the market is in full swing or you will miss out on the beauty of the village. However, if you do make a morning of it, head out of town on foot on the path that shows you where Van Gogh painted (and the loonie bin where he stayed after cutting his ear off!).

Outside the walls of Van Gogh's asylum

The exact image captured in Van Gogh's, "The Olive Trees"

Roman ruins

Bonnieux: The lavender fields are intoxicating and worth an afternoon of inhalation -- just wear the right shoes as the crickets are busy defending their territory there.

Sault: If you take the N7 there you will pass lavender fields and glorious mountains in the distance that combine to form an image that is postcard-worthy. This Luberon village is perched on the top of a hillside and looks down onto fields of lavender. Our favorite linen shop was here -- it is hard to resist Provençal prints when you are perusing with a view of lavender fields and lush valley.

Arles: Turned on by the idea that this large town has a Roman arena still standing (with bull fights a-plenty, and taureau meat as the local cuisine), we were pleased by the beauty of the town in addition to the history and unique traditions. This is the town where Van Gogh cut his ear off and gave it to a prostitute!

Garden from one of Van Gogh's paintings

Oppède le Vieux: Climbing through the ruins of a 12th-century castle atop a mountain is quite a unique feeling, only to be rivaled by a nature walk that the town has set up through the vineyards, next to old, quintessential Provençal estates, and down dirt roads to educate visitors about the wines produced in the local valley. Final stop: a wine-tasting!

Note: you could spend a week visiting chateaus, domains, caves and olive oil moulins. Matt and I ditched Aix (or "aixed it" if you will) to do a personal vineyard tour. Our visitors will thank us, as we are bringing back quite a nice sampling of local wine!

The Bad:

Yes, it exists. Although part of our memory of Avignon involves Matt on the phone dealing with more visa trouble (we knew it was too good to be true that our stars had aligned so quickly), the city itself is choatic and dirty. Any free space has been taken over by advertisements in the form of haphazardly placed posters, while the noise and chaos from the street performers (and protesters) is a distant second to the Provençal din of the cigales. The good news: all the low-end chain stores from Paris have found a place in Avignon, so you can get a cheap new pair of shorts when yours get Avignon grime on them.

Saint-Tropez (Cote d’Azur): I know this one will cause a ripple, but unless you are staying on your massive yacht docked away from the harbor, this is nothing more than a high-end shopping destination with inappropriately dressed (and surgeried) clientele. The view is quite breathtaking (once you are away from the harbor and in the water), which can be accessed one of two ways: from the ferry we took, or from the multi-million dollar mega-yachts dotting the horizon.

The Ugly:

Marseilles: Is a port town famous for producing soap, yet it appears only to export it and not use it. However, Quick Burger on the harbor has public restrooms -- always a plus.

I think what perhaps was the most upsetting for me over the course of the week, however, was not my fluctuation between like and dislike of the Provençal, but my extreme happiness when confronted with a morning of provincial life. In Apt, the larger town nearest to us (which already holds weight with the fact that it produces candied fruit), there are a few mega chain stores. As I found myself in E. Leclerc aimlessly roaming large aisles (very unfamiliar to this now Parisian), a thrill unlike any of the others this week came over me. We had parked our car in the parking lot, and were now perusing any and all categories of goods. As we walked out with an iPod cord and four ridiculously low-priced espresso cups (which meant we had to buy them), and climbed into our Chevy, I felt a sense of peace and belonging that I have not felt months. Like the sunflower needs it sun, apparently I need my dose of provincial. I am not ashamed, however. My new Provinçal tablecloth is going to complement my espresso cups quite nicely. And that iPod cord will allow us to blare Kathy Griffin the entire way home, beating out the crickets and cigales.