Application Status: All Graduation requirements have been met, the degree has been awarded.

… aaannnd exhale.



Ever since I picked up my (empty) diploma folder at the UALR commencement ceremony three weeks ago, I’ve had this nagging worry that maybe I hadn’t completed all of the hours I needed to graduate. This anxiety led me to check the status of my graduation application daily. Up until today, the status has been “pending.” I just knew that because I’d told everyone I was graduating and had my family sit through a two hour commencement exercise, I would be informed that some obscure thing had been overlooked:

“Uh oh, looks like you’re shy three credit hours. Didn’t your faculty advisor tell you about our new  Underwater Basket Weaving requirement? No? Oh, it’s a wonderful course – exposing students to artistic design, wicker, snorkels…”

“Is it a companion course to Seminars in Career Perspectives?”

Today I got the news that I am, indeed, a college graduate. In a few weeks I will get notification that I can come back to campus to pick up my diploma. (Somehow the thousands of dollars I’ve spent on “student fees” don’t cover a manila envelope and postage.)

Having already taken eighty hours in the ‘70s, I embarked on completing my college education in 2007. I didn’t know that was what I was doing; the original plan was to just take a few writing courses. The thing is, you have to meet with a faculty advisor before you are allowed to register for classes every term and these advisors treated me like a real student. I was enjoying the classes and, I admit, the validation so I decided to go ahead and finish. My kids were grown and I got a tuition discount so, why not?

Five years and sixty-two credit hours later, I got my Bachelor of Arts in English with an emphasis in Creative Writing. My GPA for those sixty-two hours was a 3.9, but unfortunately the courses I took during the “lost” years of the ‘70s dragged that grade point down too low to graduate with honors. It’s amazing what sobriety maturity can do for one’s work ethic.

My time at UALR was a rewarding experience, one of learning and self-discovery interlaced with regular doses of mortification. I could count on two, maybe three fingers the number of professors that were older than me. I remembered my Speech teacher from when his T-ball team played my son’s.

Friends ask me how I feel now that I’m finished and I tell them, “Semi-retired.” I sleep through the night again because I’m no longer awake worrying about completing an assignment. All I have to do is go to my job and then my time is all my own. I can read what I want without highlighters and sticky notes and not retain a damn thing. I can work in the yard and cross stitch without the guilt of neglecting my studies.

All in all, I’m glad I went back and got my Bachelors, but I’m ecstatic that it’s over.

Arkansas' "Mud"

I finally saw "Mud," the film written and directed by Arkansan Jeff Nichols (pictured with Matthew McConaughey).  The movie is also set and filmed in Arkansas, specifically on the White River and in and around Dewitt, Dumas, and Stuttgart.  As in his previous movies, "Shotgun Stories" and "Take Shelter," Nichols writes and films true to location and character.  The movie may have been a little too true-to-life for some in the way that some scenes did not lead to a big dramatic effect on the overall story.  For example, when Neckbone's uncle, played by Michael Shannon, spies on the boys on the island with Mud, one would expect something to come of it, be it sinister or simply a loud confrontation with Neckbone.  What Nichols gives us however is a quiet exposition of the type of relationship the uncle and nephew have.  I doubt a lesser actor than Shannon could have pulled off the subtlety needed to portray that character.  The same can be said of Ray McKinnon as Ellis' father.  The only adults in the movie that were not fully fleshed out were the bad guys.

Tye Sheridan and Jacob Lofland, as the 14 year olds Ellis and Neckbone, respectively, were the central characters and turned in outstanding performances.  No doubt due to their own acting abilities guided and honed by Nichols.

I saw Nichols' previous two movies on DVD at home.  I saw "Mud" at a Saturday matinee in a North Little Rock theater five weeks after its opening.  The theater was packed.  I cannot remember the last time I encountered so much audience participation at a movie.  It was impossible not to laugh along with everyone after practically every line out of Neckbone's mouth.  We moaned in unison out of sympathy or distress.  On the screen, it was apparent this was an Arkansas film but not any more so than it was apparent in that audience.  We Arkies love our creative artists and are as proud of them as we are our own children in their class plays and dance recitals.

Snapshots in My Mind

My daughter was married this weekend. The wedding was beautiful and unique, as it should have been since it was a year in the making. Every detail was meaningful.

I’ve not seen any photos or video yet so I have the luxury, right now, of putting my own slant on the images in my memory. I see makeup being tossed across a bed in a suite full of bridesmaids all laughing or asking, “Has anybody seen my …” I see Laura, extremely stressed, holding a tissue to her mouth to stop the bleeding from where she bit the inside of her lip. I see Ali putting Laura’s hair up and Lou putting makeup on 10-year-old Franny. I see Jawanda sitting in a chair, taking it all in. I see Laura step into her dress. I see friends at the site and am overwhelmed by how surprised I am even though I knew they were coming. I see Laura crying as pictures are taken before the ceremony. I see wonderful friends so carefully decorating mantels in the parlors of the Terry House Mansion. I see Erni being escorted down the aisle. I see Ben’s face the first time he catches sight of Laura at the end of the aisle. I see 8 beautiful girls strut down the aisle while my brother sings “Dimples.” I see Dan give Laura away. I watch as Laura and Ben recite the Pledge of Fidelity I wrote for my own wedding. I see them kiss and walk under the sabers of an honor guard. I see Laura get smacked in the butt by a saber as she is welcomed to the army and then I see Ben saber a bottle of champagne on the first try. I see Laura dance with her husband and then her father.

The most vivid image in my memory is also the most bittersweet. It took place when we were leaving the hotel for the ceremony. It is of Laura floating across the lobby of the Capital Hotel, employees rushing from the office behind reception and gasping as she passed. I held back and watched as she drifted away from me, toward … home.

I'm Hopeless

I bought sunflowers from the Russian Farmer at the Arkansas Certified Farmers Market this morning. I carefully selected each one for color and texture and took them to the aforementioned farmer to pay. Feeling like the Arky version of Mrs. Dalloway, I handed him the money. He looked at my, I thought, well put-together bouquet, held out his bear paw hand and said, “Geev them to me.” I obediently handed them over whereupon he added another sunflower, cut the stems, arranged them to his liking and put a rubber band around them. He thrust them back at me and said, “There, now they look ceevilized.”
I try to be an adult, I really do, but foreigners see right through me, because they really are adults and they‘re not putting up with any unruly sunflowers.

The 'Butt is Most Displeased

My son asked my husband and me to foster an abandoned dog that a friend of his rescued. We put up a brave show of resistance but of course we took the dog. They say he’s a Lab but I think he’s a Lab mix. Black Lab’s don’t normally have a white stripe on the chest. He also has some white toes on his back paws and is smaller than most the Labs I know. But, overall, he looks very Lab-like. His name is Ben – coincidentally the same name as my future son-in-law.

Chase and Emily brought the dog over last night to help us decide whether we would take him in. Of course, Ben didn’t leave with them. He’s a lovely dog and can do something we’ve never been able to get one of our dogs to do – he can catch objects in mid-air. He loves it … he really loves it. All our dogs would just sit there while balls, Frisbees, treats, whatever, bounced off their snouts but this guy is an ace. I can’t wait to play Frisbee with him.

Oh, and he wuvs the cat. He just wants to play with him and thinks it’s so cute when Tiggerbutt growls and hisses at him. Ben looks from us to the cat and it looks like he’s trying to say, “Look! Look how fluffy! I want him. Please, please, Puhleeve give him to me! We’ll have fun. Promise!” The cat makes a break for the door, imitating a pinball, never touching the floor. I swear to God it was like watching “Thunderdome.” That cat’s amazing. He ran on the wall. As long as Tiggerbutt doesn’t try to jump over Ben, he should be just fine. Right now the ‘Butt has taken refuge on top of one of the den bookshelves:



Who wouldn't want to play with that?

Sneezing Requires All My Concentration

My daughter is getting married. In six months. It’s serious get-to-work time. Of all the daunting things that can be thrown at a MOB (mother of the bride - nice, huh), the most disconcerting for me has to be the, almost as an afterthought, statement, “Oh, I need you to send me your measurements.” It’s not the measurements really, it’s the acknowledgement that I actually have a body. I’ve made a concerted effort over the last several months to totally ignore my body -- and that’s been working out okay. I really don’t even know how much I weigh, but now I must get out a tape measure and do the deed. I’m sure I will be appalled. I wish my daughter did not work in a bridal shop so far away. If I was getting my MOB dress close by, I could go in, request a blind fold, hold my arms out, have a lit cigarette placed in my mouth and stand there while a person I’ve never seen before and will never see again (specified in writing) wields the tape measure and whispers numbers (preferably metric - I’ve never figured out metric) to a tape recorder.

Confronting the inevitable, I was inspired this morning to go for a walk. Where I live, this time of year is pollen season. No, not pollen season -- that’s too innocuous for what occurs in my neck of the woods. It’s more like pollen Armageddon. Leave anything outside for five minutes and it will change color to yellow-green. I’ve always felt that it is particularly unfair that the first open window weather of Spring is accompanied by a dust storm of screen-mocking pollen. I’m one of the lucky people that doesn’t suffer from allergies but even I have my limits. I was near the end of my walk when the stuff got to me and I had to sneeze, which made me realize that sneezing requires all my concentration. I must come to a complete stop and focus my attention or, let’s just say, the rest of the walk will not be pleasant.

On the plus side, I just had an eye exam and my nearsightedness is actually being counteracted by age-induced farsightedness. Cold comfort is better than no comfort at all.

"Alabama"

Vhat choo tink ’bout Alabama?

This question was asked of me by my Austrian step mother yesterday as I was trying to watch the delightfully surreal 1937 Jack Benny movie, Artists and Models. If there was ever a movie intended to be viewed while stoned, this is it. (I just ordered a copy.)

Turning my head toward her but with my eyes still on the screen, I replied, “Well, I think Saban’s turned the program around and they should have a good season next year.”

She said, “No, de president – Alabama.”

That got my attention, so I turned to her and said, “Well, he’s only been president a week…”

“He gonna bring socialized medicine. You vatch, he selling America.”

I just stared at her. This is the same woman that grew up with socialized medicine and has touted it over the American system of healthcare as long as I can remember. I pointed out that we practically had socialized medicine what with the HMOs dictating medical care now. I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about with the selling America statement. Experience has taught me not to pursue her more ludicrous pronouncements, e.g. “Silber Satin give you yeast infection.” (Silver Satin being some kind of liqueur). There’s no point arguing with her. She will never like “Alabama” because he’s a Democrat and black. Just like I never liked Bush because he was a Republican and a moronic Cheney meat puppet.

Theme Day

Some days, it’s just all about the ass.
· A co-worker fell and busted hers.
· I changed a 5 gallon water bottle and pulled mine.
· I was asked to catalog a model arm used to teach venipuncture technique to future nurses and phlebotomists.

Okay, I know that last one did not involve an ass but on the photocopied page of the teaching supply catalog there was a picture of a model ass below the picture of the model arm. The model posterior is an intramuscular injection simulator and I know it’s only a matter of time before I’m asked to catalog the ass.

What is this feeling?

For the past week I’ve noticed a persistent lightening of the spirit. Yesterday I realized I’ve been suffering from a malaise brought on by an absolute mistrust of the people running the country. I didn’t even know how much my psyche had been affected by Bush, Cheney, Rove, etc. until the election was decided. I lost the sense of resignation that I didn’t even realize had been weighing me down.

Obama and his administration will screw up too but I can’t believe it will be anywhere close to the massive incompetency and clandestine machinations we’ve been subjected to over the past two terms. It’s like grown-ups are in charge again – leaders that can put together coherent sentences with real words that actually convey complete thoughts. If that makes me a snobby elitist, I’m willing to accept that -- doesn’t make me a pseudo-American, Governor Palin.

That the American public cares so much about what the President-Elect can do before inauguration is testament to the debacle of this administration. Seriously, I can’t remember any other President-Elect being asked about anything, outside of staff and cabinet appointments, before inauguration.

So, I’m looking forward to the next four years as the country begins digging itself out of the hole it’s been plunged into.

WTF? over.

I don't get it. I just don't get it.

All we've heard about for two weeks is that if the bailout bill doesn't pass congress, and fast, we'll all be wishing we hadn't thrown away that refrigerator box.

Apparently the House didn't like the idea of spending $700 billion to save investment banks so they turned up their noses, crossed their arms and said, "no." Then the Senate got hold of the bill, added enough crap to it to bring the total up to $850 billion, passed it and sent it back to the House. The House's response, "NOW, THAT'S MORE LIKE IT!"

Hallelujah! ... Happy Days Are Here Again ... popping corks ... WOO HOO!

But wait a minute, what's up with the market? While the bill was being debated in the House, the Dow was up 300 points. After it passed, the Dow was down 157 points.

Erm, excuse me, what ...? I don't ...? Huh?

Suburban Agriculture

Gardening is not for wusses. Being a wuss myself, I can speak with some authority on this subject. I was dubbed the child with the green thumb at an early age and clung to the title. Being the third of four kids, I eagerly latched onto any characteristic that distinguished me from the pack. I lost my dog last year but gained a back yard. It was impossible to grow anything other than grass back there while Alistair was alive. Alistair of the toxic urine. He peed an apple tree to death for gosh shakes. And, he totally corroded the lower hinge on the gate. That hinge looked like it came up from the Titanic when it finally just crumbled. Don’t even ask about the air conditioner.

Anyway, the garden. It’s very small -- only 8’ x 10’. I planted it with tomatoes, okra, onions, lettuce, beans, peppers and zucchini. The zucchini was a bust. I got one before it died in captivity after putting up a rabbit-proof fence (more about that later). Zucchini does not like to be penned in. One plant apparently needs about 50 square feet to be happy. It didn’t go down alone, however. It launched a hostile takeover of the beans’ territory. While it was busy stunting them, it left its rear unprotected and that’s when the fence slipped in cutting off any chance for retreat. The zucchini chose death over surrender.

Back to the rabbit proof fence. It falls under the “Seemed like a good idea at the time” category. The fence lived up to its name and kept the rabbits out. Unfortunately the three foot high fence was more than my five foot frame could handle. The first time I fell trying to step over it was because my shoelace got caught in it. Fortunately, being only five feet tall, I don’t have far to fall. The second time I fell the fence teamed up with the bird netting I’d spread over the tomatoes. This time my foot got tangled in the netting as I was stepping over the fence with an armful of tomatoes and okra. I lost my balance as I was trying to free my foot. As I crashed through the fence the produce was flung into the air and rained down all around my prostrate body. My finger was caught in the netting and as I sat up, the tent stake anchoring the end of the fence popped out and came whizzing by my head. bugger. The netting ripped my fingernail off halfway down the nail bed. (You just cringed, don’t lie.) I looked at the nail and knew it was going to hurt and bleed like hell once it figured out what just happened. I was right. I gathered up my veggies and limped back into the house, trying not to drip blood on the floor. I made my husband cut the rest of the nail off, went to bed and slept for three hours. Proportionately I think the injury I sustained in my 8 x 10 garden is the equivalent of a farmer having his arm wripped off in a thrasher. We took the fence down and I have yet to see a rabbit in the garden. However, I do think I heard snickering coming from the bushes when I fell.

Catch-Up

I guess I should try to catch up some on da bloggin’. Let’s see since April I’ve:

· Visited my daughter in New York – all by myself.
· Taken a world literature course – aced it.
· Grown ‘maters and other veggies – without insecticides.
· Saved the lives of three birds so far that have gotten trapped in the bird netting covering the aforementioned ‘maters.
· Become grandmother to one dog and two cats – Delta, the chocolate lab adopted by my son and Marlon and Orson, the obese cats adopted by my daughter.
· Gone to a 4-day work week – love it, love it, loooovvvve it!

I’ll start with New York. A mere three weeks after returning from France, I was off to New York. My daughter’s roommate was out of town so I even had my own room. I booked Super Shuttle for the trip from the airport and, though it took a bit longer, cost less than half as much as a taxi from LaGuardia. While my daughter was at work the next day, I did a little grocery shopping (I emphasize little because the apartment is a 6th floor walk-up). In the store, I managed to bash my shin into a carton of canned goods while simultaneously getting a cramp in the other foot. I limped home and up the 5 flights of stairs and promptly got my finger wedged in the door jamb. Don’t ask me how. I was not off to a good start. I spent the rest of the day puttering around the apartment and managed to not injure myself any further.

That night I went, by myself, to a Broadway play – “August, Osage County.” I noticed when I emerged from the Time Square subway stop that there were a lot of sailors around. I wracked my brain; wasn’t there a reference to this in an episode of “Sex and the City?” What did they call it? Oh yeah, “Fleet Week.” There were sailors in their whites everywhere and most of them were easy on the eyes. The novelty wore off pretty fast because they were adding to an already crowded area and were in my way. I now really, really, really hate going to Time Square but, unfortunately, you have to if you’re going to one of the Broadway theaters. The play was fantastic and I got home a little after midnight.

I also saw a new musical, “Passing Strange,” this time with my daughter. It was very good also. The rest of the visit was spent going to the Metropolitan Museum, walking the Brooklyn Bridge, helping out with a wine & cheese party my daughter gave on the roof, going to dinner on Memorial Day at the apartment of friends (wonderfully cool people – and excellent cooks), shopping and just hanging out with my daughter in the city.

We were resting on a park bench when we encountered the most gimped-up pigeons I’ve ever seen. One of them had a foot problem (it was missing) that was cringe-worthy. Another had hairy legs. I shit you not. I started referring to him as the “werepigeon.” It was like they were trying to freak us out ‘cause they wouldn’t go away – and there was an old lady feeding pigeons on the bench across from us. I’ve posted a picture of the werepigeon.

At the end of my visit, I Super Shuttled back to LaGuardia and that trip wasn’t quite as smooth as the one from LaGuardia. The shuttle was an hour late and it took forever to get to the airport. The fact that it was the handicapped van added, I’m guessing, about an hour to the trip. I still got to the airport in plenty of time. We sat on the tarmac so long before takeoff, I fell asleep. When I awoke I thought I’d slept through the whole flight and we’d already landed in Memphis. Nope, we were still waiting the take off. The pilot got on the intercom and bitched about how LaGuardia, like most of the east coast airports, had only two runways, a crazy amount of air traffic, and how we’d burned $1,200 worth of jet fuel waiting in line. I had to run to my gate in Memphis and was the last one on the plane, but I made it. Seriously, I can’t wait to go again.

Humbling experiences

A few humorous/embarrassing moments:

There’s a public toilet in Monaco close to the bus stop on the pier. I decided to avail myself of it before we began the trek up the hill to Monaco-Ville. I deposited my .30 euro and opened the door to the unisex facility noticing it was a hole-in-the-floor model -- my first. Then the door closed and I was in darkness. I guess the light was out. I tried the door handle but it was locked. I started groping along the walls feeling for a light switch. My eyes began to adjust to the dark and I could make out, with the help of a little light coming in along the floor a big red button next to the door. Pushing it unlocked the door. I opened it and used the light to size up the situation. The toilet was modern and clean and there was a horseshoe shaped bar that could be used as a toilet seat recessed into the wall that could be lowered by pressing a button and pulling the seat down. The sign also claimed the seat would raise automatically. When I felt secure enough in my surroundings I closed the door, lowered the bar, perched on the edge (it was high and I feared the seat would automatically snap back to it’s original position) and went about my business. Unfortunately, sitting so far forward, I was only in the general vicinity of the hole and let me tell you, there’s quite a splatter range when piss hits stainless from a height of about 2 ½ feet. I’m just glad I was wearing capris.

Yesterday on our sojourn back from Gordes we took a wrong turn in one of the little towns. When we were circling around to try again, a woman jumped out of the car in front of us leaving the door open with a child inside. She ran straight to Dan’s window and started asking for directions in French. We couldn’t manage a sound. All we could do was stare stupidly with our mouths open and shoulders hunched. It took her a split second to realize she’d picked idiots to ask and ran to the car behind us. As we drove away I realized I had a map open in my lap.

There’s a small circus going on in the park behind our hotel. We were walking by the motor homes where the circus folk live the other night on our way back from dinner and some of them were hanging out in what appears to be a communal outdoor gathering spot. They mocked us (I think it was just Dan really). Let me tell ya, there’s nothing quite as degrading as being mocked by a French carny.

Dan stepped in dog shit. It was bound to happen. He was walking down the drive here when a car came along and he quickly stepped over into the median to get out of the way. That’s where he hit it. It wasn’t so much the stepping in the crap that was funny so much as the little shitslip/slide to the side. Some people here do clean up after their dogs but they leave the bags-o-crap laying on the sidewalk. I guess they have shit pixies here that come by and pick them up.

Gordes

Our trip to Gordes in Provence was our longest car trip. It took about 2 ½ hours to get there driven mostly on the A8. This is similar to our interstates only it’s a toll road. When you’re traveling that far, the tolls really add up. I think the highest one we paid was 12.70 euro.

There was parking just on top of the hill so we didn’t have to climb into the town. We ate lunch at the café featured in the movie “A Good Year” and we photographed where various scenes were shot. The town is quite picturesque and we roamed around the very steep streets for a couple of hours. We had an ice cream and decided to go to see the bories which are dry stone huts -- some built centuries ago. We discovered there was one right in our car park so just photographed it instead of going to the historic borie village (saving us some euros). They all look pretty much the same.

We decided to drive back to Monaco on the N7 which is like our state highways and have no tolls. It was a much more enjoyable, if quite a bit longer drive. The highway was lined with old sycamores and vineyards most of the way. We passed a large field of purple iris. We went through town after town, all with a number of roundabouts. They were landscaped, some quite elaborately. Dan merrily pirouetted his way across Provence. He then drove on the Bord de Mer (the coastal highway) from St. Raphael to Cannes. This road was slow going, even though we seemed to be speeding along, with lots of hairpin curves along the sides of mountains with nothing but the Mediterranean below. We decided to get back onto the A8 at Cannes as the sun was beginning to set and a fog was rolling in off the water. Plus, I was getting nauseous. The trip back took about 5 hours.

Top photo is from the drive on the N7 showing the sycamores and the bottom is the town of Gordes from a flanking hill.

Street singer in Antibes

We climbed up to the old part of the town (Monaco-Ville) where the Palais Princier, Musee Oceanographique, cathedral and tourist shops. We toured the palace where the royal family still resides. The part on the tour is opulent and includes the throne room where, among others, there is a huge portrait of Prince Rainier, Princess Grace and their children. The tombs of the past princes are in the cathedral. Flowers are left on Prince Ranier’s and Princess Grace’s -- mostly roses on her's.
We got a couple of sandwiches and sat on a bench across from a low wall overlooking the Mediterranean. There are large gulls here, or maybe they’re albatross’ and one landed on the wall next to a couple across from us that were also enjoying a picnic. They were sitting on the wall with their food spread out between them. The gullatross sat on the wall behind the woman for a little while until shooed away. He then landed just on the other side of the wall so that his head and neck were all that was visible sticking up just behind their food. I half expected him to say, “Mine!” like the stupid gulls in Finding Nemo. I was hoping the couple would look away so that I could see him steal some of their lunch but it didn’t happen. He really was a pretty bird. His head was snow white and there was a red half circle on his lower beak.

The next day we drove to Antibes, a town on the Riviera with a huge port where large yachts and a multitude or sailboats are docked. There was a fabulous food market set up in the main square. We wandered around cobblestone shop-lined streets and came upon a lady singing in the style of Edith Piaf. She accompanied herself on guitar and a tamborine she worked with a foot pedal. She was singing “La Vie en Rose” as we walked up but by the time we thought to video her, she was singing a song I’m not familiar with and not even sure if it’s French. Of course, when we got about half a block away, I heard her start the song from the movie that Edith Piaf used for her comeback.

We had lunch then walked along the piers ogling the boats. The largest yacht had its own helicopter complete with a custom cover.

The top picture is the market in Antibes and the bottom is the seaside view of the Musee Oceanographique in Monaco.

Glassmaker Pascal Guyot

Grasse and Biot

Grasse is about an hour drive from Monaco. We hit the public WC and were engulfed by a student protest march as soon as we got back on the street. The French sure know how to put on a march. Apparently they love bringing everything to a standstill without accomplishing a damn thing. This is according to Phillipe, the chef and owner of a restaurant in Paris that Rick Steves recommended. We were his first customers of the evening so we had the place and him to ourselves. While we were perusing the menu, I notice him take a bottle of Johnnie Walker Red and pour about four fingers over rocks then place the glass over the bar into his kitchen workspace. As soon as he served us he went into the kitchen then reappeared with a plate of steak tartare and mashed potatoes and proceeded to sit down to eat and converse with us. He lived in Philadelphia for 3 years where he owned a French takeout place. He’d been back in Paris for about 7 years. He was very funny and I was sure he was gay but then this beautiful child glided in and gave him the 3 cheek kiss saying, “Bonjour Papa.” She was probably 11 or 12 with braces but just absolutely gorgeous. It seems French girls do not have an ugly stage. I heard her talking to Phillipe in the kitchen and repeating, “What are you doing?” in English. They then walked out and asked us how we say, “What are you doing?” which word to accent. We were a little confused as to what they were asking but then I threw my hand out in front of me and said, “What’re ya doin?” The child said “Oui, that’s eet!” and proceeded to mimick it perfectly over and over. It was for her English class apparently. She then left us, going to their home above the restaurant. But … I digress.
Grasse is the perfume capital of France. We had a coffee in the square next to the fountain and did some window shopping before going to the Fraconard museum and perfume factory. I was so impressed, I bought perfume … and I seldom wear perfume. We went back to the square, had lunch, and wandered the narrow streets a little more before getting back on the road headed for Biot.
Biot is known for it’s glassmaking and ceramics. We parked at the foot of the hill and proceeded to scale the side to the top where the old village is. Like on the Eifel Tower, I had to stop a few times. But was it ever worth it! At the top were these very narrow passages with doorways that were framed in potted flowers and vines. The stuff of every romantic picture I had in my head of one of these hilltop villages. There were old public sinks that still were in use. When we got to the square the first shop we saw was Verrerie du Village with creations by Pascal Guyot. The shop was situated at the juncture of two streets, one higher than the other. On the upper street you could look through an open window down into the glassblowing shop. On the lower street you were on the same level as the glassblowers. I could have watched all day except it was really hot because of the furnace. I bought a necklace in the shop. We wandered around, had a beer and decided Biot was our favorite place since leaving Paris.

The first picture is one of the passages in Biot. The second is the fountain in Grasse.

On Sunday we flew Air France from Paris’ Orly airport to Nice. The Orly terminal was confusing. It was a huge round space with ticket agents lining the sides, electronic self check-in in the center and security screening just beyond. On the other side of security were the gates making up the other half of the circle. A ticket agent checked us in at a self serve kiosk then pointed us to where to check in our luggage. They have a 32 kilo limit on bags (our heaviest was 17). The baggage agent told us to go through security at 10:30 for our 11:00 flight. We thought we’d misunderstood but we had plenty of time before our flight so we walked around the attached shopping for a while. When we got back security had cleared out so we went through. One of the screeners remarked that we were early so apparently they prefer to have a huge crush of people all at once.

We picked up our rental car at the airport and hit the road. Fontvielle was about a 30 minute drive. We got lost finding the resort but not for long and fortunately it was Sunday so there wasn’t much traffic. This place is practically right on the pier. In fact, you drive right on the dock to get to the parking garage. A bunch of little Italian kids followed us on their skateboards. One little guy jumped in front of our car and put his hand up for us to stop at a speed bumb so they could skateboard over it. I thought they were pretty cute. Dan’s had it with Italians.

We got settled in and mercifully spread out in our unit then went to an English pub that the receptionist suggested. It was cold and rainy but warm and snug in the small pub where we watched Manchester City play Portsmouth with Italians, French, English and Scots.

On Monday we tackled the supermarket. Note: Don’t go to a supermarket on Monday morning in France. Most are closed on Sunday so along with a whole lot of customers, they were restocking. I spent a good part of the day doing laundry and found out how ventless dryers work. I want one. It was kinda nice relaxing and just doing domestic stuff like laundry and cooking.

The picture at the top is the view just off our balcony.

Stroll through Paree

Central Paris is a wonderful place to just walk. Just make sure you have a guidebook. We started off from our hotel in a new direction and first of all encountered a Japanese film crew setting up a scene on a busy avenue almost across from Napoleon’s Tomb. We stuck around to watch for a while as the film crew rushed around setting up the shot. There were cameras on a crane and also on the ground. The director was placidly sitting behind us looking uninterested.

As we walked toward the tomb the golden statues on top of Pont Alexandre III came into view to our right. I’d been wanting to see this bridge since we arrived so it was a pleasant surprise. We took photos then continued to walk along the Left Bank until we reached the Musee d’Orsay.

We turned at the museum and walked through the St. Germain area. This is a shopping area full of designer clothing, jewelry, and furniture stores. We walked past the Brasserie Lipp where Hemingway is said to have written much of A Farewell to Arms. It’s practically catty-cornered from the cathedral St. Germain-des-Pres which is the oldest church in Paris dating from the 11th century. A Christian church has stood at this sight since the fall of Rome. The original was destroyed by Vikings during the 885-886 siege. We stepped into the cool dark and listened to the chanters as we rested for a while.

After this respite we set out for Ile de la Cite in search of the bouquinistes along the Seine. They started as used book sellers in the mid 1500’s. The waiting list to become one of the 250 bouquinistes is 8 years. They each have 4 boxes attached to the stone wall along the river. They sell more than books but three of their four boxes must be books. They pay rent only on the stone their boxes rest on (less than 100 euro/yr.).

We browsed the bouquinistes without buying then caught the metro back to our hotel. We figure we walked about four miles.

My husband pointed out that I say “merci” a lot like Gomer Pyle said “golly.” MAYRsee. I just say messy now.

A couple of negatives I’ve noticed about Paris:
A lot of owners don’t clean up after their dogs.
Fromageries smell like restaurant dumpsters. The first one I encountered on Rue Cler, I smelled long before we got to it. I was looking all around for a dumpster or sewer grate. The lines from Sweeny Todd’s “Pirellis Miracle Elixer” (“Pardon me sir, what’s that awful stench. Are we standing near an open trench?”) kept running through my mind.