June, 2000
As I reminisce about our earlier times together,
it is mid '90's and I was working in France at an art centre as a nurse on
staff. Gerald and I had started a 'special' friendship. The villa was high
atop a terraced village just below the castle, in the Auvergne, where they
say rush hour is the clanging of cow bells....I missed him incredibly but
always looked forward to his very creative and passionate letters from
home. He was a creative writer, as well as a visual artist. I recently
found an assortment of letters from him that I had packed away years ago
when I became busy with his health care.
We used to have lunch occasionally in some downstairs Chinese
restaurant in Toronto. His letter alludes to going there without me, but he
wasn't able to get in due to a movie shoot taking over. His letter is about
missing me and missing us.....and I sure did miss him, as much as I was
having a new adventure in France meeting many new and varied people
...it was still him I wanted to be with. In it he reminds me of his longing
and desire and how the “misses are getting BIGGER AND BIGGER”.
His stick men are doing somersaults, they are so full of joy. And in it also
is a very humorous 'memo', with caricature of him reminding us “always
remember the big stuff” and “always remember never to forget” and
“never forget to remember”.....
So here it is...
Years later, when Julian was seventeen, he was awarded a year in France
with the Rotary Club. We missed him so much when he left our home
for the year, but knew that this would be an incredible year of
experience for him, and a year to improve his French, so were extremely
excited for him. He met up with his brothers in France and he made
some wonderful lifelong friends.
We decided to visit him in France at the end of his school term and have
a vacation together. So, now that I am reading these notes from Gerry,
I become nostalgic and look over the French journal that I wrote in that
year long ago...but it still resonates.
I feel such longing for the missing him, yet I get such joy from the fun
and the memories....
MORE THAN JUST A VACATION
wonderful host family and the many exciting and interesting
friends, both French and foreign, whom he has acquired during this
year.
With me is my new (of 4 years - we still think of ourselves as
newlyweds) and gem (as in precious) of a husband, Gerald. His
sense of humour keeps me laughing. Gerald, even though he has a
passion for travelling in North America, is too looking forward to
this European trip.
He has always been extremely fond of Julian. Actually, the bonding
between Gerald and Julian began when Julian was just a newborn.
This was the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship.
Tues. June 6
So, it is early evening and we're off to the Toronto International
Airport. Once checked in, we stroll the airport bookstores,
impatiently awaiting boarding time. Gerald accidentally and
literally 'bumps' into someone as his head is turned -- peering at a
young, tanned, shapely, blond, mother of three, dressed in tight
eggshell-coloured capri pants with bright tangerine coloured jacket,
sandals and nail polish. “Great colour” he says, “great colour”--
oh yeh -- the artist in him!!! He is, as many say, one of Canada's
great colourists. I've learned to live with it -- joyfully.
After some waiting, we finally board. We take off. Climbing above the clouds, sun peeping through, Gerald makes his 26 (?!?!) comment about the rattling noises he hears. He's afraid of potential
dangers of flying. At home I never see him anxious, but when on a plane, his level of anxiety reaches new heights -- when
he hears the mechanical noises of the plane -- loose nuts and
bolts?!? He is an expert motorcyclist and therefore knows the
sounds of mechanical problems. In order to have his motorcycle
running topnotch, he must have it finely tuned. So he is very
familiar with the sounds of even the slightest of mechanical
problems -- and unfortunately, he carries this knowledge onto the
plane.
He tries to compensate -- he says “this plane is REALLY strong”.
I tell him “One more comment from you about the plane -- and I
change seats!” Silence finally. When I fly with him I too am
anxious about plane crashes -- when I fly alone my only anxiety is
“will my luggage arrive?” (our flying anxieties were different
before 'The Towers') Finally reading and silence. Good. Takes his
mind off the sounds of the 'loose nuts and bolts' of the plane.
Dinner comes - steak and noodles. Gerald does not eat red meat so
I eat his steak. He eats my noodles. He leans over and whispers in
my ear “Don't eat too much red meat - not good for the system!”
I think next time I'll travel on a separate plane. Scrunched in our
seats, we snoozed on and off throughout the night. The baby in the
seat next to us was quiet. She slept the whole time in her mother's
arms. Finally lights on -- approaching Europe. Little baby Clara
finally awakens -- as her mom hands her over to us while she goes
to freshen up -- to the 'toilette'. Baby Clara just filled her diaper -- I
held her and said affectionately “ you poopey girl”. She smiled.
Finally, we see French soil from the plane window. Gearing down.
Spirits up. Excitement! We land. We walk down the stairs of the
plane. We touch French soil together as we step off the last stair.
We kiss.
Our first real French kiss!
We taxi to our hotel. It is a grey morning. Will the sun come out?
“Ah non, mais peut-être” -- maybe -- says the cab driver. It has
been raining for days -- calls for more rain. After driving through a
very run down part of Paris we arrive at our small, family- operated
hotel. It was recommended to us by the young daughter of a friend.
We chose it because it was very inexpensive. Gerald says “Worse
hotel I've ever been in” -- maybe so -- but “no bugs” -- I say.
We meet the owners -- a charming young couple with a shy three
year old son, Jean Luc. “Bonjour”, I say. My first French word, so
far. The young mother coaxes Jean Luc to greet us. A shy and quiet
“Bonjour, madame”. My greeting must attract him, for now he
yearns to touch me. He pretends to touch my arm by accident.
Then he crawls under the reception desk and gently touches my
sandaled toes. By accident?! Papa takes us to our room -- still no
bugs -- but Gerald says “don't look too hard”.
The baseboards are rotting.
It is noon. We are to meet Julian here early afternoon. I can barely
stand the wait! He is taking the 9 a.m. train in from Nantes where
he has spent this past year with his wonderful host family -- the
family from paradise.
We wait, we snooze -- we wait -- we snooze. Finally, I pace the
floors -- it's mid -afternoon. Julian has not arrived. Gerald takes me
across the road to a little café to keep me occupied.
Where is Julian? Every parent's nightmare -- Is he okay? We wait
some more. Maybe I should call his host parents.. Gerald says,
“Don't worry, he's a kid -- he's always been so responsible. He'll be
here soon”. I try to wait patiently! It's grey and chilly.
Finally, at 3 p.m. our hotel door flings open. “Hi MA, Hi GER.”
Hugs, kisses, tears. I haven't seen him for almost a year. “Where
were you? I was so worried” I stutter. “Oh ma -- I got the 11
o'clock train instead -- I slept in!” Gerald apologizes about the
hotel.
Julian has already been to Paris several times this year. “Ah, it's
okay” he says -- “You're having a Parisian experience.”
Looking out the hotel window, the sun is out! And the view is
grand! So Parisian! Ceiling to floor length French doors opening
up to a bustling café-lined street. We all love it!
The sun has been shining brilliantly here in Paris for 2 days now --
and it's hot. I love it hot! I love the whirlwind in Paris.
We take in a few galleries. We enjoy Gerald's knowledgeable
comments on the Picassos, the Monets, the Renoirs ... We walk and
we walk.
I love walking in Paris with Gerald and Julian -- along the old
narrow streets, along the wide chaotic fashionable Champs
d’ Elysée, along the peaceful River Seine. For Gerald, it stirred
up sad memories of the 2nd World War - of the long distant Vichy
regime and of Hitler's triumphant march under the Arc de
Triomphe. Twinges of horror! How could artists survive in that
atmosphere? How did we all survive? But back to the present.
The only care we must now take is to avoid stepping in dog pooh --
which is plentiful on the streets of Paris. Julian used to write
disgusting comments about this. I thought he was exaggerating.
He wasn't!
We take one metro after the other. Julian is fluent in French now
and is able to find his way around quite easily. I say, after taking a
maze of metros, 'I feel like I'm living underground'.
Thurs. June 8
Our last evening in Paris. Julian meets Mark, a friend from Nantes.
After dinner, Julian and Mark run off to a Pearl Jam rock concert.
As they are leaving we're shouting “Remember to follow the
rules!” “Yeh, Yeh!”
They are good kids -- I think they will.
Gerald and I strolled after dinner and stopped to have a café noir in an
outdoor café. To our disgust, as we were chatting and sipping, a
woman walking her dog allows the dog to stop right in front of the café
to do its very smelly business. With no seeming embarrassment, she
then saunters off with her dog. Ah -- it's June in gay Par-ee!
Fri. June 9
One quick visit this morning to Le Cimetière du Père-Lachaise -- the
largest and oldest burial ground in Paris. The brochure says it is more
than a cemetery. It is a splendid picturesque garden with a varied
collection of architecture -- a truly unusual place -- with it's paths and
side paths forming a maze to stroll through. We saw the final resting
places of Seurat, Chopin, Moliere, Max Ernst, Oscar Wilde with its
many lipstick kisses from fans, and Jim Morrison of ' the Doors'.
A little drama on the way back from Le Cimetière - on the metro floor
is a man lying down -- we must step over him. Thinking he may be
dead, we call for help. Next metro stop 'les gendarmes' enter -- the
police. They feel his chest -- movement -- “ah, il respire” they say --
“he is breathing” -- just drunk -- reeks of liquor. They will remove him
at the last stop. Ambulance will be waiting, they say.
Back to our hotel to finish packing our bags and ourselves into our
very smooth VW rental car. Good-bye to Paris.
And I escaped Paris without stepping in a drop of Parisian dog pooh!
It's midday –Now on the road to Nantes -- to see the city where Julian
has spent the past year as an exchange student -- and to meet his host
family and many friends. Julian sitting in the front seat with Gerald,
navigating -- me sitting in the back with Julian's friend Mark. I
suddenly feel very nauseated -- car sick -- as I have been prone to since
childhood. “STOP”, I plead, “I'm going to be sick!” Within a short
distance Gerald finds ‘une aire de repos’ -- a stopping area. He quickly
pulls in and parks by a large lawned area.
He opens the door for me -- I flop myself down on the lawn -- flat
on my stomach. Within seconds Julian approaches shouting –
“MOM, you are lying in a patch of dried dogshit !”
I didn't escape it after all!
Feeling somewhat better, I take half a gravol to calm my nausea.
Back in the car for another 200 km. Approaching Nantes I have an
incredible urge to pee. And urgent it is. I had been trying to hold it.
“STOP”, I plead again. “I have to pee.” “I HAVE TO PEE
NOW.” Menopause (and age) has caused this urgency!
Gerald again soon finds a station -- but not soon enough. I run into
the station straight to the ‘toilette’. With only a short line up I
thought I could hold it -- with legs crossed tightly. The door knob
turns, out walks a lady -- it's my turn. Just as I am ready to enter
the stall, the janitor slides in ahead of me -- time to wash the
toilettes. HORROR! I feel drips of wet down my leg, now a little
riverlet -- I think I wet my jeans!
Humiliated I walk out -- I confess to Gerald what happened but he
assures me he is unable to see any tale tell signs on my jeans.
Back in the car for the last few kms to Nantes and meeting Hervé
and Frances, Julian's host parents. I begin to smell the foul smell of
old urine I often smelled as a nurse visiting the elderly -- hoping I
would never be in that situation . Now what humiliation --
that smell -- and meeting my son's host family in just a few
moments for the first time -- nowhere to change. Ah -- luck -- they
are not home when we arrive. I quickly bathe, powder, change --
just as they arrive home -- I'm smelling like a sweet rose! And a
lovely meeting -- special feelings -- I'm so thankful to meet the
parents who took such good care of my son.
They are most welcoming and charming. They invite us on their
boat. They are very skilled sailors. Their life is sailing. Many
years ago they built a sailboat and sailed across the Atlantic for
twelve days from France to the Caribbean with their two toddlers.
That evening we are invited by them to go to a most spectacular
outdoor event in a local village -- le Puy de Fou , a magnificent
festival of light and grandeur on ten hectares of open theatre stage
commemorating the history of the area.
Sat. June 10
For the first three months of his stay in France, Julian lived with
another family in the Loire Valley near Nantes -- in a village named
St. Sebastian sur Loire -- with Patrice and Annie and their two
daughters Isabelle and Lucie. They also wanted to meet us and
invited us for lunch. And an elegant one it was. Annie had the
indoor garden sunroom set up for lunch. They apologized -- for the
weather. Said they wanted to have an outdoor garden lunch but the
weather had been risky -- rainy and damp in Nantes.
As they are explaining this, the sun suddenly peeps through the
dense clouds. Shall we move outdoors? Too risky -- it has been
raining for weeks, for months, they say. After champagne and a
delicious lingering gourmet lunch, the sun is shining brightly
through the glass sunroom. No hesitation -- we move outdoors for
dessert and un petit café. We need a sun umbrella. Patrice positions
it perfectly over us. After lunch we stroll the perfect French garden
-- in the sunshine. Isabelle comments that her fiancé has a saying
that the weather changes for angels. Coincidence!
Another lunch invitation -- this time not elegant -- but with much
class and much sorrow -- to a small apartment in a highrise in a
rundown area of Nantes. Julian's friend from school, Leonis, and
his mom are Kosovan refugees living in France for the past year
after leaving war-torn Kosovo. Leonis' father, recently returned to Kosovo, held a high position at the University, and his mother,
Helena, was a teacher of English before the war began. Then war. All
was lost -- jobs, home, possessions. Family scattered. Life was
suddenly taken away. France accepted them as refugees.
Leonis guides us as we drive through the streets of Nantes over the
bridge of the Loire and to the outskirts -- the obviously poorer
district. We enter his apartment building and into the elevator -- with
much garbage strewn all over. Leonis, full of embarrassment,
apologizes. “The elevators are not cleaned on weekends”, he tells us,
as he picks up some of the garbage from the floor of the elevator. Up
to the tenth floor where his mother is anxiously awaiting our arrival.
A most sumptuous aroma of eastern spices and freshly baked bread
emanate from her apartment, which is sparsely furnished with only a
small table and odd chairs in the dining room and an old sofa and
coffee table in the small living room. Nothing else -- but a child's
drawing taped to the dining room walls -- from a friend's child -- for
Helena's recent birthday. She apologizes. Not enough room to sit.
Not enough cutlery. We bring her a flowering plant to brighten up her
room and a fine handmade wooden bread board which she proudly
displays. I could sense her soul filled with strength and pride and her
eyes filled with overwhelming pain. She brought out her only bottle
of wine for us -- it was waiting for a special occasion – and with a
toast she welcomes us and thanks Julian for being her son's friend and
helping him through some difficult days this year. He has lost all his
friends in Kosovo -- they are not able to contact anyone. Some
people have scattered. Many people were killed. Leonis' hands
shake as he pours us wine. Leonis wants to change schools next year -
- most of the friends he met this year will be gone and he feels distant
from the other French students. They are all quite wealthy and he
does not feel welcomed into their circle. He feels embarrassed by his
meager wardrobe and his 'home'. However, he is lost in bureaucracy.
The school won't give him the necessary papers to move. We wish
him luck -- and I say a little prayer for him and his mom.
After a wonderful but heart - wrenching visit and a most delicious
lunch with the best homemade bread I have ever eaten -- a special
eastern recipe -- it is time to say goodbye. Julian's last goodbye to
Leonis -- we are leaving Nantes tomorrow -- after a year of
Julian's e-mails to us telling us of his new found friend and his
sorrowful war stories of the past few years. Today I experienced
that sorrow.
They waved goodbye at the elevator. As the doors closed to their
waving hands, I sobbed and sobbed. Gerald's strong and tender
arms wrap tightly around me. “A mother's pain”, he whispers. And
Julian's young and tender soul tries to console, “It's okay mom,
Helena's made many new friends here. She's not too lonely”. But
what does one do with life when life has been taken away!
Now a walk through a magnificent park in the sunlight -- Le Jardin
des Plantes -- to lighten the heaviness of the past few hours. We
stroll arm-in-arm pondering life, through a maze full of pathways
amongst sweet smelling blossoms and waterfalls and ponds and
colourful acanthes and giant sequoias. And old couples with stern
looking faces sitting on benches and children running through the
park, laughing playfully, enjoying life.
We arrive back home at seven, to our home in Nantes, to Julian's
host family. Exhausted physically and emotionally, we flop into bed
for a ten minute power nap. Before helping Julian pack his year's
clothing to send back to Canada tomorrow, I decide to don my
jogging clothes and off for a short run -- to try to burn off a few of
the many calories I've eaten since arriving in France -- through the
local park. Nantes is lush -- it rains a lot -- but the sun is shining
now -- and it's hot! In the park I see lovers strolling, mothers
hugging babies, fathers playing soccer with their young sons,
children riding the little carousel, screams of laughter, more
fountains, more ponds, more mazes of pathways, giant delphinium,
giant white lilies, -- but no one jogging -- only me -- no one
jogs here -- they look at me like I'm from another planet. Maybe!
Late afternoon, back home again, to Julian's host family, trying to
help Julian organize his packing -- a few things in his backpack as
he will be travelling for two months, through Italy, Hungary,
Bulgaria, Romania and then to Bosnia (to visit his brother
Jonathan, my older son). The rest stuffed into his suitcases -
clothes, shoes, books, CD's, typewriter (can't do without, he's a
writer and likes the feeling of writing on a typewriter), books,
winter coats, small speakers, more books, gifts from friends. We are
all in awe. Where will we fit it all? We have only two suitcases.
Gerald asks, “Julian can you sell or give away half of these items?”
“I already have”, he replies. “These are my necessities.” As we
keep working at it, Julian reminds us he must leave for the evening -
- off to meet friends he met this year from all around the world -- to
say his last good-byes. We are all leaving Nantes tomorrow. Will
he ever see them again? When we used to go to Jamaica for the
winters when he was a young child, his Jamaican friends would say
“Cool runnins Julian”. He would say “Sad runnins” when he was
leaving to return home after the winter living in the Jamaican hills
with them. Now my heart thinks, “sad runnins” -- they have
become such good friends. Hope they do meet again someday.
Mon. June 12
Monday morning, our last day in Nantes, another sunny day! Must
finish packing, do a small wash and off to visit more of Julian's
friends and their families -- Olivier's for lunch (Olivier will be in
Canada living with us for three weeks in July -- improving his
English) then off to Sylvain's family for 'a drink' at five, (Sylvain is
a vibrant 18 year old who was an exchange student in our town last
year. We called him our 'adopted son' as he ended up at our place
half the time -- and we loved his vibrant personality). Then a drive
down the West coast of France to a tiny hamlet south of Niort to
visit our gracious friends who have purchased acres of ruins and
restored them as the most charming living quarters. Paolo is an
artist whose soul is ART, as is Gerald's. They understand and appreciate each other's psyche, even though Paolo's psyche is totally 14 century European, and Gerald's is totally 20 century North American.
Wanting to bring flowers to Olivier's parents, but today is a holiday,
Pentecost, no stores open, so we arrive for lunch empty-handed.
They understand. Most elegant family -- living in a huge, palatial
flat, with chandeliers, grand pianos, large French doors leading to
the garden balcony overlooking the 'King's Garden'. They have a
son and a daughter attending the Sorbonne -- Yann, a gifted pianist
and Catrine -- and then Olivier, finishing high school -- where he
and Julian met. We have a five course lunch in the elegant dining
room. This begins with fine champagne and a toast, then a special
Bordeau wine for each course - the best we've ever tasted. Then
cognac on the garden balcony and the softest of classical music
from Yann at the grand piano. We have been transported into old
world elegance.
Back to Julian's host family -- and our last goodbyes, photo taking,
invitations to visit again, hugs, kisses and tears. Frances, Julian's
host mom, Gerald says “is a peach and an angel” -- I agree. We
love her. Julian, with the emotional strength of a male 18 year old -
- has no tears, but a sorrowful heart. “I can't believe I'm leaving
Nantes for good -- after a whole year”, he laments. It's 5 p.m. -- off
to Sylvain's for a drink to meet his family, to observe his father's art.
He is a graphic artist -- the best -- says Gerald after observing Yves
portfolio. It is all breathtaking - a genius and gifted. His mother --
most charming and reserved.
As we leave in the early evening, they all pile into their car to show
us the way to the autoroute to Niort -- and we follow in our car.
They leave us off at the round-about -- waving through their car's
open windows -- Julian's one last goodbye to Nantes and good
friends. My heart weeps for him. Sad runnins. A last goodbye
wave to Sylvain.
But new adventures ahead -- off to La Grève, a small hamlet on the
south-west coast to visit friends from years gone by. We make very
good time on the autoroute until we hit Niort -- then over an hour to
go only 3 km -- stop and go, more stop than go! The French drivers
jump out of their cars at each little stop -- greet each other, reach
into their trunks for baguettes, cheese, wine -- no frustrations for
them felt with hold up in traffic -- just another little adventure.
After far too many hours on the road -- we are finally lost on the
side roads -- only minutes away from our friends-- and they will
come to meet us. We arrive at 10 p.m. -- but dinner is waiting --
meat, roast potatoes, salad, green beans, fromages, bread, wine --
excellent and very warm greetings. We haven't seen each other for
five years.
Tues. June 13
Next morning we awaken in a primitive paradise! Paolo and Ester
had purchased many ruins in this tiny hamlet and have restored
them maintaining the primitive old world charm. Such artistic
touches everywhere your eyes glance. Crème-fraîche coloured
stone walls throughout the house, with fine pieces of linen draped
over the windows. Julian says this paradise should be
photographed for a fine living magazine. I feel like I am
transported back 100 years in time -- with only the sounds of the
birds and the rustling of trees -- mixture of cypresses, palms,
banana, bamboo -- and gently rolling hills -- with L'église, the
church, standing alone atop a tiny hill, its red clay roof shining like
a jewel amidst fields of poppies and sunflowers, surrounded by the
local cemetery, each grave adorned with plastic and glass flowers,
and plaques -- ma mére, ma tante, mon ami -- my mother, my aunt,
my friend. We walk along the narrow roads and paths to the church
-- there is a feeling of loneliness and beauty and a brilliance in the
air. It is hot and bright. It is poetry here.
The light in Charentes - Maritime is so brilliant, a bright light, not
the golden light of the hills of Tuscany or of Provence, but a bright light. One we have never before seen. We are very close to the
coast of the Atlantic, 40 km inland. Paolo explains this brilliance.
It is not only the reflection of the light bouncing off the Atlantic, but
also, since they 'mine' salt on the coast, it is the reflection of the
'fleurs de sel'. They allow salt water from the Atlantic to come
ashore into little 'ponds', and when the water evaporates in the heat
of the sun, the salt remains. There is a top layer of fine salt dust,
and below is the sea salt. It is this fine layer of salt dust 'fleurs de
sel', in the air Paolo explains, that reflects the light and emits this
brilliance. Back down the paths and home for lunch -- not our
American lunch -- but a table full of cheese, patés, wine, baguettes
and patisserie. Then Julian renews acquaintance with Flavian -- an
18 year old -- a neighbour down the road whom he met many years
ago -- the last time he was here -- when they were both just
youngsters fishing in the local river, la rivière Boutonne -- catching
fish and a viper. Flavian remembers and they make arrangements to
go partying this evening into another village with friends. No need
for us to drive them. Flavian will take Julian on his 'motoscooter'.
The afternoon heat is exhausting, for all, but me -- we all have a
short siesta -- then Gerald and Julian off in the car, windows rolled
down, wind in their faces, exploring lonely back roads. Actually
there are no main roads here. They love this, memories of
motorcycling, a passion of theirs, curving around fields of wheat
and new baby cornfields. Moi, I lie out on the chaise lounge that
Ester has put out for us, in 'le jardin' basking in the sun, surrounded
by eucalyptus, vegetable gardens and the sweet aroma of herbs and
I write. My passion. In my journal -- a beautiful book given to me
as a 'bon voyage' gift from my good friend, Rayella. About my
travels and thoughts. Paolo returns from setting up his art exhibit in
the next town. He brings Ester and me some warm herbal tea --
herbs 'au jardin' -- from the garden. “Take care. It is very hot out”,
he says. I remember being in Africa, in Kenya and Tanzania, thirty-
two years ago, visiting friends from Canada who were teaching
there. We were having a mini vacation on the coast, on the Indian
Ocean, a small resort town, Melindi, near the equator. Hot!
Everyone said, “stay out of the sun, too hot!” I was in the sun --
loved it -- did not even burn -- I must be some distant relative of the
Sun Gods! Julian and Gerald return. A gentle kiss on the cheek
from Gerald and off to the indoors (too hot outdoors for his Russian
blood) where the huge stone walls of these restored ruins keep the
house cool. Julian comments in a quiet tone full of awe, “Mom,
how can you stand it out here? I can't breathe!” The heat is stifling
for him, also. Where is his Mediterranean blood, his ancestry, from
my family? Again in awe -- “The only way I can stay out here is
with a pool to jump into!” he says. I understand. I, too, like to
jump into pools. I remind him -- I have one at home -- a baby pool,
three feet across, one foot deep -- that I do sit in at times. Me and
the dog. When it is too hot for our charming boxer, Ali. Early
evening, still bright -- it stays light here until 11 p.m. -- we are off to
Aulnay de Saintonge with Paolo -- to visit a beautiful but simple
Romanesque church of the eleventh century. It was a stopping off
place for the pilgrims heading down to Santiago de Compostela in
Northern Spain. Magnificent -- the intricate sculptures on the
arches of doorways and the simplicity of the stone arches
throughout the church indicative of Romanesque architecture. My
favourite, although I appreciate the genius and intensity of Gothic
design, as in the Cathedral of Chartres, where Julian and I visited
six years ago when he was touring the main cathedrals of France on
a concert tour as a member of our local children's choir.
Many cypress trees in front of the church, which usually stretch
straight up to the sky, now bend towards the east permanently, since
the 'Tempest' - the worst storm of France's west coast, last winter.
Our friend Paolo says the 'Tempest' was so bad in his area that he
lay on the floor in his living room for six hours- the only safe place,
watching whole trees fly by his window. Much of his beautiful
garden was uprooted -- but otherwise he was fine. However, six
people from his area died in this storm. He was fortunate! “The
will of the Tempest is stronger than us all”, he says.
There is an 'Office du Tourisme' across from the church. Last year,
Paolo had a very successful art exhibit there. He tells us with his
good but not so perfect English, “ Last year, I exposed myself
there”. We laugh -- not at him -- and explain to him what this
means. We all laugh. He's a good sport!
Home late, our hosts, tired, are off to bed early. But first offers of
drinks, wine and Pineau de Charente. Pineau, a delicate liqueur of
the area -- discovered 500 years ago by a wine maker who
accidentally threw some slightly fermented grape juice into a barrel
which had a little cognac on the bottom. Pineau -- wine and cognac
kept in oak barrels for three years, at least. Then allowed to be
called Pineau. Gerald and Julian and I decide to walk through the
local hamlets -- it's 10 p.m. and just starting to get dark -- but a full
moon brightening a darkening sky encourages us. We walk, arm-in-
arm, hand-in-hand, laughing, joking, observing the gardens,
breathing in its ancient history. A family again. I've missed that
incredibly in the past year with Julian being away.
The past year -- my first in 33 years without any children at home.
My two older sons are living afar. My eldest Jason and his
American wife, Jennifer, -- in San Francisco, and my second,
Jonathan – having graduated in law, specializing in post war
conflict, has taken a position working in post war Bosnia. I will
visit him in Bosnia next week. Can't wait. Haven't seen them all in
a long time.
Wed. June 14
Early morning, we open our shutters. Ah! The air is fresh and a
little misty. The birds are chirping loudly. We awaken to the aroma
of freshly ground, freshly brewed coffee. A 'petit déjeuner' à la
continental --coffee, freshly baked croissants and homemade
strawberry confiture. The mist burns off. Another hot, bright, sunny
day. Gerald, Julian and I decide to journey to Il de Re -- a short one
hour drive to the coast. “The new Côte d'Azur”, Paolo assures us.
The stars and princes now vacation there and the 'nouveau riche'.
Not our kind of place then. We like to be away from the crowds.
However, it is still early June and not quite the busy-ness of July
and August. So we go. The first magnificent view to the island --
over the Pont d'Il de Re -- the long, slender two km sloping bridge
that joins the mainland to the island. “So French”, says Gerald --
who loves their sleek design. Magnificent views, magnificent ocean
-- soft, beautiful pastels are the colour of the low buildings. A
beautiful harbour, perfect scale. We have a long, leisurely lunch
slurping oysters de Re, large delicious raw oysters with lemon.
Julian's first. 'I won't eat any living thing' he says. A self
proclaimed vegetarian years ago, at the tender age of two -- when he
would look at the meat on his plate and mutter “what animal is
that?” We would reply “Meat, just meat -- eat it”. It was always
left on his plate, after many demands for “more salad, more garlic,
more avocado, more vegetables!” Now he slurps down his oyster --
“m-m-m -- it's good!” But no thanks to Gerald's offering of a
second.
Home bound again to Paolo's a few hours later, Julian, typical of his
age – “I'm hungry.” Not wanting to bother our hosts -- we stop at a
small pizza truck in a tiny village run by an elderly couple. After
ordering ‘trois fromages avec des herbes de Provence’, we are
tasting the best thin crusted freshly baked pizza that ever crossed
our palate. Minutes later we still have a slight taste of the best
chèvre -- goat cheese -- and herbs in our mouths.
Thurs. June 15
Off to Saintes -- a nearby town -- 'la ville d'arte et d’histoire'. Yes,
very much art and very much history, dating back to 40 B.C. – with
its magnificent amphitheatre. Walking down the steps and onto the
floor of the ruins and then into a cave, I imagine the lions coming
out of here -- the place where I stand! I realize Canada is so young.
And off to l 'Abbey -- home of the monks -- built in the 1400's –
the blonde and dusty rose stone of the buildings sparkling in the brilliant sun. Sitting in the courtyard with Gerald and Julian, I see
monks in brown robes, their hands hiding up their sleeves, silently strolling by in the 14 century -- in my imagination! Home again
we pass by a village named Surgères, pronounced Sir Ger, now
Gerald's new name.
Early evening, Gerald and Julian, off to a nearby café -- Paolo and I
go Pineau tasting -- to the finest vineyard in Charentes. Their
Pineau is not exported or sold in stores -- it is so precious, one must
purchase it at the vineyard only. Sold only in the estate -- the stately
maison covered with vines and geraniums. We purchase several
bottles of the 'vieux' -- the 10 year old -- deep amber and full of
body -- for gifts and for ourselves. Driving home, we pass by
Paolo's friend's 'maison' -- the home of the doctor and his lovely
wife. They are having a show of 'les anes du Poitou' -- the donkeys
of Poitou - long haired donkeys raised for 'show' -- a mix of local
and Spanish blood heritage. The doctor invites us into his large
courtyard with his many guests for a drink -- as he rushes off in his
bright yellow Porsche convertible -- perhaps on a house call!
Home now to a fine meal of local fish and whole fried potatoes,
fresh salad, and the usual baguette, fromage and much wine. A
quiet and poignant evening, our last in Charentes.
Friday, June 16
Off to the Auvergne today -- sad goodbyes to our wonderful friends,
Paolo and Ester, -- “a la prochaine” -- until we meet again. We have
a rather long unexciting drive ahead of us to Clermont - Ferrand. A
few minor complaints from all of us, sore bodies, the seats of the
rented Passat, designed poorly. And every so often a comment from
Julian, the teenager. “I'm starving -- what's to eat?” We call him
'the Hoover King.' We are heading east -- the north/south roads in
France are very good -- but the east/west are slow, back roads,
through village after village -- not too pretty, and slow going -- until
we hit Limoges. Limoges -- the city of porcelain.
We drive on, not intending to purchase -- but a decision to stop to view
the porcelain shops, if we see an interesting one on our way through.
Here is one. We stop. We enter. Stacks of porcelain dishes, casseroles,
knick-knacks, piled high on the floor. A maze of porcelain to walk
through. Common sense would tell us to leave -- but we don't. I ask
for the 'toilette' -- a tour through the factory to reach it. Upon my return
Julian recounts how Gerald almost knocked over a stack of plates --
trying to squeeze himself through the maze -- the sombre saleslady
asking him to be careful. I suggest we leave -- Gerald replies -- “If I
broke them, I'd buy them”, but I really don't want thousands of dollars
worth of broken Limoges porcelain. We leave.
Driving off, Gerald with his ever present sense of self - deprecating
humour -- calls himself “le grand boeuf” translated “the bull in the
china shop.” We laugh. I add a descriptive – “le grand boeuf,
charmant”, I say. He is ever so charming.
During the laughter, I recall last night's conversation with Paolo and
Ester. They were describing a good route to the Auvergne - our next
stop. They were informing us of the best way to ask directions if lost.
They say just to mention the name of the town desired, -- with an
inflection in our voice, and then a 's'il vous plait' -- please -- and an
example -- if we want to go to the town of Issoire -- just say “Issoire,
s'il vous plait?” Gerald, who speaks some Spanish, from his year living
as an artist in Spain many years ago -- speaks no French -- other than
“oui, non and merci.” ( I speak basic French. We have depended on
Julian -- who is now fluent after his year in France -- to translate all.)
Anyhow, Gerald thought “Issoire, s'il vous plait?” meant “Where is it,
please?” -- starts repeating -- -- “Issoire, s'il vous plait -- Where is it,
please?” confusing où est-ce? -- where is it? - with Issoire -- all the s's
sounding the same to him.
In our hefty laughter, we pictured him asking over and over “Issoire, s'il
vous plait?” and his ending up in Issoire, forever. Oh well, not a bad
place to end up.
We arrive late evening in Montaigut-le-Blanc (Mon-tay-goo) - our
destination -- after driving through the vast, rolling hills of the
Auvergne -- through beautiful tiny spa mountain villages with
unending views. These mountains of the Auvergne -- not the
jagged, rugged mountains of the Alps -- are smoother, with gentle
enticing lines like the sensual lines of a woman's hips. Our friends
and hosts, Paul and Babette, greet us, -- hugs, kisses -- four on the
cheeks -- it is custom – a drink and off to bed. It has been a long
day. Paul, an artist, and his charming wife, Babette run an art centre
in this magnificent terraced village, high atop the hill, their garden
full of lavender, roses, vine covered arbours, potted plants,
overlooking vast miles of Auvergne landscape. The Auvergne -- the
forgotten land -- very hilly, winding, blissful, empty, narrow roads,
and not on the route to the south, missed by tourists. Tourists do not
arrive here. The Auvergne - vast and unspoiled territory. So
pastoral, where they say that rush hour is the sound of the cowbells.
The Auvergne -- where every curve in the winding roads brings on
another little village-- full of indescribable charm -- les vieux ponts
-- ancient Roman bridges, fountains in the centre of town -- flowers
abound, old churches atop hillsides -- one built in 1000 AD with
skulls thrown into a covered cave, the ossuary, and an ancient mural, covering one whole wall, from the 11 century, still intact.
What a gift to be able to view this! The Auvergne -- full of
unsuspected richness. Each village abounds in ancient architectural
details. Someone once said, “God lives in the details”.
God is everywhere here!
Sat. June 17
Next morning we awaken to the magic singing of birds. We are so
high we see them soaring below us. Coffee on the terrace, we are
atop the terraced village, Montaigut, le Haute -- overlooking miles
of the Auvergne with fields of wildflowers, sunflowers and poppies
beginning to blossom. Sadly, Gerald leaves for home in two days.
He won't see them in full bloom. But there is the sweet aroma of
Linden trees which are in full bloom, everywhere. In the afternoon
we picnic under the sweet aroma.
Julian and I have been here before. This is Gerald's first visit.
Several years ago I worked for Paul and Babette at the art centre --
as a nurse to the elderhostel guests. Julian then met me here after
his concert tour singing in the Great Cathedrals of Northern France,
with the Children's choir. Grand memories and reacquainting of
old, dear friends in the village for me and Julian.
We delight in showing Gerald around. He drives our rental car fast
with great concentration and precision along these winding roads.
He is mesmerized by the charm. He is speechless. Certainly his art
back home will one day accommodate these visuals. We pass by a
small hamlet, Saint Julien and I insist on a photo -- yet another --
with Julian in front of the Ancient chapel, Chapelle de Saint Julien.
We see hidden cheese caves. In the countryside, strolling through
sleepy sheep meadows, we pass a small hamlet, population twenty,
overlooking an awesome panoramic view of the Auvergne.
Seemingly high above the earth, we hear the sounds of the
Auvergne -- the gentle ringing of sheep bells. Spirituality abounds.
Julian comments that this is much more beautiful than Tuscany --
but how can one compare two paradises. Perhaps he means more
untouched, raw. We see Vineyards here, abandoned since the first
World War -- because the men never returned, leaving only widows
to tend to the homestead. We see monuments to 'Les Enfants' -- to
the many very young men, eighteen years old, who never returned
from the War.
A moment's silence from us. We can't imagine the pain -- but fresh
flowers at this monument -- the village folk still remember. We're
glad! Our souls smile in Paradise.
Sun. June 18
Short walks in the area -- and then a café in the local Bar/Tabac in
Montaigut 'Le Bas' -- the lower part of the village -- where the main
garden with high stone walls of the surrounding buildings covered
in vines. A secret garden -- one can't imagine it is here when
walking along the street. I ask the attendant -- the bar owner if I
may purchase a ‘Pastis’ glass, I collect them -- he says “si vous
voulez” -- if you wish it! He gives it to me. How kind. Now back
to our terrace -- shorts on -- to bask in the sun with a glass of vin
rouge -- red wine -- and a large bottle of Evian -- eau Minerale
naturelle -- for it is HOT! And I begin to write again. About our
days in Montaigut.
Our hosts, Paul and Babette, with their cherubic 2 year old son
(reminding us of the 'Angel' in Sir Joshua Reynold's Painting) ever
so welcoming -- have been inviting us for breakfast, drinks, dinner.
We reciprocate and invite them for dinner tonight in a local town
where Marie-Françoise and her father are proprietors. Marie-
Françoise is an incredible young woman, with a young son Julien.
The last time I was here, years ago -- her husband and mother had
just died. But a smile -- and so forgiving of fate. And her elderly
father -- playing wild accordion during dinner, always. We love it.
But before dinner, as Gerald and I siesta, Julian reacquaints with
Nichola -- a local young man now -- whose family Julian lived with
that summer, several years ago. They meet friends at the local bar
for a café and then off to the lake -- for a short swim. Julian is
happy. His life is rich.
Now it is early evening and we are off to the restaurant of Marie-
Françoise in Champeix. I am so looking forward to meeting her
again. She is radiant. She remembers me and Julian. I introduce
Gerald -- “Enchanté”. She is pleased to meet him. The meal is ‘très
gourmand!’ Paul recounts a sad but humorous story about a cook,
Louie in a local town. He is very big and very wide -- fortyish --
and still lives with his mom. Last year he won a contest of sorts --
the prize -- a ride in the hot air balloon -- gliding over the massive
countryside. However, because of his size -- the hot air balloon
would not take off. He promised to come back after losing 10 kg --
he worked hard at this diet, lost the 10 kg, returned to claim his
prize, but the hot air balloon would not accept him -- still too heavy
-- it still would not leave the ground. He lost his prize.
After dinner we drive Julian to a local abandoned building by the
town's entrance, where he meets Nichola and his friends. They have
a band -- practicing reggae tonight -- sort of a soft reggae with a
French influence. We drop Julian off and head back to our chateau.
It's late. We lie in bed atop the village -- with the faint sounds of
Nichola's reggae music and a soft breeze seeping through the open
shutters. We sigh and breathe in the fresh mountain air -- and fall
asleep in each other's arms -- fully content!
Mon. June 19
Our last day in Montaigut. The weather was supposed to change
today -- stormy -- but it is not, still hot and sunny, a lovely gentle
breeze. Julian sleeps till noon, tired after a late night. We awaken
to the ringing of the church bell at 7 a.m. and go for an early
morning stroll through the meadows. Reading, writing journals,
leisurely lunch, siestas. More post cards sent to my son in San
Francisco. We miss him and Jennifer. Phone calls to finalize hotel
arrangements at the Airport in Paris -- Charles de Gaulle, car drop
off, calls to my son Jonathan, in Bosnia. He will be able to pick me
up at the Zagreb airport in two days. Excitement at the thought of
seeing him. But enjoying our last days here.
One last dinner with Paul and Babette -- and then goodbye kisses
and heart felt hugs – à la prochaine -- until we meet again!
Mille bises - a thousand kisses. Some tears, some smiles.
Tomorrow morning we leave Montaigut-le-Blanc -- yet another
time -- and a 7 hour drive back to Paris -- to our airport hotel -- a
different world -- the bridge that links our paradise in France to our
paradise back home. Gerald will fly back to Canada and back to his
studio to some necessary art time. He talked about new art ideas
here in France. Julian will fly off to Ireland to visit friends he met
in France -- then off on a two month back packing journey through
Italy & Eastern Europe ending up in Bosnia to visit his older
brother, Jonathan. I will fly to Bosnia to visit Jonathan for a couple
of weeks.
The end ... and the beginning for all of us.
Finishing my journal -- in the book given to me as a Bon Voyage
gift by my friend back in Canada, I recall her words --
when she saw this book, she felt compelled to get it for me because
of the quote. I once again glance at the cover.
On the cover, a quote by Nietzsche:
“One still must have chaos in oneself
to be able to give birth
To a dancing star.” 2
My life has been full of chaos, wonderful and rich with good friends and family.
As we stand out on our airport hotel balcony, just before our last
French “goodnight” - “bonne nuit”, we catch a glimpse of a
shooting star, dancing across the French skies.
( 2 from Thus Spoke Zarathustra )
( 2 from Thus Spoke Zarathustra )
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