The Rhone, the Mistral, & Roquefort

As my adventure in Ardeche was coming to a close, it tossed me one final travel freak out experience.  

The scenery was beyond lovely--along another route even more beautiful than the one I had seen on arriving.  This route ran parallel for a good distance along the Rhone, a river I had never seen, but which is legendary in France.  Birthplace of the mistral, the Rhone is notorious for harnessing a wind that can reach speeds of up to 90 kilometers/hour, and has inspired many a song and poem. 

Lost in the reverie of composing a mistral poem myself, and anticipating a final coffee with Catherine at the Grenoble train station, I suddenly snapped out of it.  The clock was ticking.  We were barely down the mountain, and had far more stops to make than time to make them, according to my calculations. 

I began timing the stops; at the rate we were going, I wouldn't arrive until at least 8:30 pm.  I was supposed to meet Catherine at 7 pm, and my GEM colleagues were picking me up at 8 pm for our ride into Germany the next morning...hmm....would I miss my rendez-
vous with Catherine?!

Was the bus driver inspired by the mistral, or the panicked look on my face?  I can't be sure, but as the Rhone came into full view, Grenoble tantalizingly on the other side, we began picking up speed.  Swerving around rotaries then at top speed (time-honored European trick designed to give you a workout while you sit for hours on end), the bus threw us from left to right as it zeroed in like a torpedo on the connecting bridge.  The tension of trying to hold my seat distracted me from the tension of possibly missing my friend.   

Next, stops were abandoned--first the random one or two, then whole dozens.  By 7 pm we were roaring into Grenoble, for an on-time arrival.  Amazing.  I released my white-knuckled fingers from the seat I had been gripping.    

I wish I could say I saw Catherine on the quai waving and smiling, but no.  It took another half hour for us to connect--and to call my GEM friends to ask for a delay in pick up!  (Sans problem!) 

Coffee was forthwith replaced by tapas, and Catherine and I had the luxury of sit-down wonderfulness  on the square behind the station--something we hadn't done in over a decade.   The cafe was all modern and cool, in complete contrast to what I had been seeing:

Which is actually pretty cool too.  Of course, any cafe in France is cool.  We thoroughly enjoyed ourselves, and then it was time to move on again.

But before we close this chapter on Ardeche, let me leave you with a final random factoid: Ardeche produces the prince of all cheeses, Roquefort!

Au revoir, L'Ardeche!

Place de La Paix

As you have surely guessed by now,  leaving was not easy.  Lunch was rushed (apostasy in France), so we could load the car and serpentine back down the mountain for another death-defying trajectory along the narrow two-lane, with Gilbert's missing sideview mirror.  Round and round the mountains we went, cars routinely passed us on curves, into oncoming trucks. 

We still had not figured out exactly which of the three Aubenas bus stops was the best bet to ensure tickets would be sold, buses would be running, and information would approximate reality.  In spite of Gilbert's misgivings, Place de La Paix was our best hope.  

He steeled himself for this most distasteful option, and I soon realized why.  We drilled our way into the labyrinthine city center, in the heat and traffic, foiled by one-way streets everywhere.  There was no parking anywhere near the ticket office, and it was probably 150 degrees.  That might be a tiny exaggeration, but the cigales were in complete cacophony, if that gives you any indication. 

While Josy harassed Gilbert with directions that would have broken laws in several countries, Gilbert sighed in exasperation that she had never learned how to drive, or she would know why he couldn't.  

"I grew up in this city!  I know this street takes us to Place de La Paix!" she shrieked as he drove by street after street she insisted he turn down. 

"You can't drive somewhere just because you can walk there!"  

Finally we worked our way to the small parking in front of the bus station, which was of course closed. 

Gilbert pulled over into the taxi lane to ponder next steps.  Josy hopped out with me to investigate matters at the cafe.  When we returned, a bus was pulling in, bound for Grenoble!  Could it be this easy?  We hurried over to ask if tickets were available on the bus--yes!  We couldn't buy or board for another hour; but we weren't going to budge.  For the next hour, we 'squatted' in the taxi lane, while Gilbert struck up a conversation with the bus driver.  

"He can talk to anyone," Josy fretted, sure that sunstroke was about to fell him any moment. "He shouldn't be out in this!"  I was having enough trouble in the shade of the car.

In another public transportation miracle, no taxis appeared in that entire hour.  We were able to sweat in peace, watch the little public dramas unfold around us in other waiting passengers, and wonder what Gilbert and the bus driver were talking about. 

But then the hour was up, my ticket purchased, my luggage loaded.  With hugs and bises we took our leave of one another, the doors closed, and off I went to Grenoble--3 hours away. 

The Way They Do Life Here

I couldn't see much on arriving, as it was now dark in Balou, but after a quick dinner, I didn't want to see much more than the backs of my eyelids, from a horizontal position.  There were three buildings on Balou--mine was the renovated garage on the highest part of the property, and Josy accompanied me up with a flashlight and tucked me in for the night.  "Breakfast at 9!" she called out as she descended in the dark.  I think I fell asleep before she got back to her cabin. 

I woke to the sound of the cigales--French cousins of the hot bugs I love to hear in my native New York.  I opened the window to see the mountain in the distance--Mount Moriah, Gilbert called it, where Abraham had sacrificed Isaac.  Um...think Gilbert had his theology and his geography a bit tangled...

Breakfast at 9...I showered, flicked a slug off the bathroom sink to brush my teeth, then grabbed my camera to head down.   The mountain air was brisk, although the forecast was hot and humid in the afternoon.  It was too cool to eat outside - I found the Bouchers hunkered down in their tiny kitchen, toasting bread in a pan.  An array of homemade jams lined the table, and the big breakfast bowl of tea sat on my plate. 

Two hours, one pot of tea and massive quantities of French bread later, we arose and wobbled over to the phone to see about train tickets.  No information was forthcoming, to no one's surprise, so we decided we'd stop in town at the station before some sightseeing.  But first--lunch!  Ah bon...it would only take an hour, Josy assured me, and shooed me out to take some pictures and keep Gilbert out of her hair.

The property was lovely, and Gilbert took me on the grand tour, practically naming every flower or fruit tree he had planted, pointing out the ruins of the chateau dating back to the Renaissance, pulling weeds, and plucking a few figs.  He was dismayed at how damaged the long curving driveway was from recent rains.  They'd have to get that smoothed out, and the landscaper in...he prattled on while I snapped photos and ooo'd and aaah'd over every little flash of beauty.  "Oh yes, that's a good one," he would comment as I'd lean over some flower.

And then we were back at the table...this time for a full-on pork chop meal, with mashed potatoes and veggies, cheese and crackers, bread, nuts and local wine.  A stunning rice/apricot cake filled any microspace left in our stomachs, after which we went into food shock and needed more than sightseeing...we needed a nap!   

With the Gorge's Smile

I never get tired of staring out a window at new landscapes.  This one was no different, but I was not prepared for the beauty of the region I was entering.   Distracted by the logistics of how to get to the region, I was not prepared for anything other than a good long nap, as I began my third day of travel, with all of 10 hours sleep under my belt.

But as we left the Drome, crossing the Rhone into Ardeche, I sat upright.  OMG...From the graffiti-stained ghettos of Grenoble, I was being transported into God's Country.  We were rounding a bend and the earth dropped away beneath us in a fabulous...gorge?  crater?  valley?  Too pastoral for the drama unfolding before us.  Rivers, waterfalls and cliffs beefed up the beauty, as we serpentined down,  up, around, in and out of rock bridges and medieval towns.  I felt a sudden urge to reach for a travel guide.

And then the destination marquee caught my attention...there were 3, count 'em 3, Aubenas destinations.  Oh brother...which one was mine?!  (Note to self: I must learn to ask about this in future travels!) 

I studied each name as the 3 scrolled around.  Place de la Paix was out--Gilbert had been clear about that.  Gare Routiere--a distinct possibility.  Gilbert has said to get off at the old gare (station).  I turned to the woman behind me and asked if she was from Aubenas--yes!  She consulted with her boyfriend and they decided that yes, I should get off at Gare Routiere.  Good.  Back to the scenery.

A few minutes later she tapped me on the shoulder and said, no, we think it's actually the SNCF Gare...oh boy.  Should I trust these two or lurch up and ask the bus driver?  We pulled in then to Gare Routiere, and I decided this couldn't be it--it was brand spanking new, too far out of town, and no one was around...except that one elderly couple...could that be...I craned my neck as we left and hoped that wasn't the Bouchers.

Next stop: SNCF Aubenas, and off I jumped, looking around quickly while the door opened for luggage.  I heard my name and turned to see Josy, waving wildly and crossing the street without looking--, her characteristic enthusiasm intact at 80 something.  We were soon hugging and talking at once, while Gilbert waved his cane and laughed from the cafe.  We joined him for a quick drink before the last leg of the journey: a slow crawl through Pont de la Beaume, Thueyts (I dare you to pronounce it) and Barnas, where we turned off to the right and navigated another kilometer or two of cliffhanging switchbacks, to the tall green gate that was our entrance into Balou. 

I repented for wondering what in the world could be out here in Barnas-par-Thueyts.  And the French have it all over us when it comes to the gated community thing.  The property was modest but steep, with three structures perched on its incline.  My quarters were in the first, closest one: a renovated garage.  We dropped my luggage off, and continued on down a small switchback to land at their cabin.  Dinner would be served shortly. 
 

Recalculating...

I had a couple of hours to wait for the next bus, which I spent in diligent homework over connections and station maps.  I first had to buy yet another ticket, de-code the transportation chaos: excursion buses hired by the train station--tickets sold at the train station not the bus station, connections dubious.  Scurrying back and forth to find all this out helped me locate the rest room and check that off the list.  Once I was planted safely on the appointed quai, and Catherine satisfied that I would indeed get off safely, we said our goodbyes.  In two more days, I would be making my return trip to Germany through here; perhaps we could get a cup of coffee together?!  

And then it was time to board, destination Valence.

"Which Valence?" the bus driver asked, as I handed him my ticket.

Um....."There are two Valences?"

"Valence TGV or Valence Ville?"

Gads.

"Do I have time to go check at the ticket counter?"

"No, get in, we'll go to Valence Ville."

Throwing myself to the mercies of bus drivers who know more than I do, I boarded and promptly fell asleep.   Valence would be dealt with later--after a good cat nap to take another layer of jet lag off.  I drifted off as we passed the white Chartreuse mountains and woke in Valence an hour later.  

I schlepped into the train station to find my connection.  Next stop: Montelimar, where I would get a bus to Aubenas, where the Bouchers would pick me up at the 'old station.'  Not the new, Place de la Paix, the old station, Gilbert had been careful to underscore. With a half hour wait to go on track 5, I milled with the French and their dogs, wilting in the heat.

When the train pulled in, on time, the crowd surged forward, but I hung back.  The sign was right, the track was right, the hour was right.  But this train was definitely wrong!  Not the sleek French bullet train we were all expecting, but a lumbering giant from Moscow!  What?! 

To add to the confusion, French conductors descended, to fend off the frenzied and perplexed mob, shouting things I couldn't understand in the uproar, but didn't need to.  I knew we weren't going to Moscow!  

While we all tried to decode this bit of fun (I think this is when my sense of the absurd kicked in), behind us and the lumbering gray from Moscow the bullet train whooshed to a discreet halt, and doors opened.  

The mob--this time including me--surged backwards and scrambled for correct car and seat (the bullets are notoriously brief in their station stops).  And promptly two minutes later, we were whisked away deep into the French interior, the Massif Central, geologically the oldest part of France.  Goodbye Valence--both of you!!!     

Getting to Balou

Next stop: chez les Bouchers, whose little country estate, named Balou, could be found (eventually) clinging to a mountaintop in Barnas par Thueyts.  But to get there, I would need nerves of steel, a good pair of sprinting shoes, and a patient bladder.  

You remember Eskia and the window washer, and the five-kid obstacle course Catherine and I navigated to the train station? That was only the beginning...

We arrived at the train station only to discover that all trains to the interior had been cancelled due to construction. Ah bon.  

I could get a bus to a train in the interior, and then a bus from the train to the more interior interior.  The line for bus tickets wove out the door, and I looked at the time: we had 6 min.  

Catherine shoved me in one direction, charged Rachelle with helping me with the luggage, and stormed off to buy tickets, calling over her shoulder, “Head for Track F!”    

On Track F, a shuttle train sat quietly, and empty. Hmm...in a transportation crisis, an empty means of transportation was never a good sign.  As the French would say, "One train can hide another."  

Was a shuttle train the same thing as a train, and therefore not running?  Or the provisional transportation for the real trains that weren't running?  I got in.  I got out.  I got back in.  There weren’t supposed to be any trains.  Did a shuttle count as a train?!  I had a few more seconds to crack the code.   

“What do you think, Rachelle?”  Although I wouldn't normally count on an 11-yr-old to bail me out, she was French, and well, any port in a storm.   She stared blankly at me and the shuttle, sweat pouring down her sweet little face, and shrugged.  

Just then Catherine sprinted up the stairwell, waving a ticket.  She looked at the train, or shuttle, and stopped dead.  

“Where’s the bus?”  

“I don’t know - you don’t think this is some kind of shuttle?”  

She studied the departure screen - “NO!  Get off!”  

I jumped, and as I did, we spotted a bus behind us, pulling out--headed for my destination.  Waving and shouting, we signaled the bus driver, along with others running with us, waving tickets.  He ignored us all, and a chorus of curses exploded as he picked up speed.  Moans and groans, wailing and gnashing of teeth...

Cell phones popped out all around, and I asked Catherine for hers--time to let the Bouchers know I had missed my train...

Fonts, Fruit & Pan Pastels

Ever see the movie ‘Helvetica?’ Yep, it’s all about the font.

There was a time when we didn’t even know what fonts were. Now I have a vocabulary of font names, as I’m sure you do. I download fonts. I sketch them in sketchbooks. Somehow this is pleasing to me. Whatever. For the moment it’s about the only thing I am finding on napkins….so until something else appears, fonts it is…fonts and fruit...with a touch of commentary. The Air Tran one is positively tacky, but at least it had a touch of color. Tried the new pan pastels on that one - and recommend them - neat new product. I love the minimalism of "Paul" and "Meert"--two napkins that came all the way from France to join the party.

What next?!

My French blog is officially over...sigh...the French has slipped under the surface again, although I did meet someone last night who began speaking to me in French and asking if we could meet for lunch to speak more French! Man. I'd love to but where in the world do I crowbar that into the schedule?! In fact, last night, I got three invitations from one event, to add to another received by email. To add to the list of several from friends I need to catch up with after France. To add to the list of phone calls....blah blah blah...life in America.

As one dear friend wisely counseled, "Welcome to back to the USA where life moves quickly. Give yourself some intermittent moments of mentally drifting back to a lovely, slow moment of your vacation..."

And so I am...mulling over the next direction of this blog. I'm thinking of two: the Sketchbook Project (see Icon on the Sidebar) and Poems from the Boatyard. Both require my attention almost daily now, until deadlines are reached, and next week is some vacation time to devote chunks of time to them, rather trying to eke out an hour or two here and there, and I'll do that again in December over the Christmas holidays.

And I am setting up a separate blog for Poems from the Boatyard, which has taken on a life of its own. And not to compartmentalize my life, but I find it easier to think in different streams, so the waters don't get too muddied, but just splash over onto one another now and then.

Suggestions? Comments?! Input?!

Meanwhile, mentally drifting back to the slow, lovely moments of vacation in France, while enjoying a slow, lovely morning in Tyrone.

Paris Mosque

Take the metro to Place Monge, cross the little square, and few side streets over you will find the mosque. You will come to its entrance, in front of which a woman is begging. On the other side, at 39, rue Geoffroy Saint Hilaire, you will find the entrance to the tea room, restaurant, and hammam, which, if you haven’t already experienced somewhere in the Arabic world, you need!!!

I met a friend there for lunch (see photos on Facebook), and we checked the prices and protocol for the hammam (meaning, how naked did we have to get?! We’ve gotten caught more than once in compromising situations in other European spas!!!)

As it turned out, the hammam prices proved prohibitive, but lunch was affordable and copious, with sparrows flying through the air, picking up crumbs. Couscous and tajine, with some mint tea, and we were stuffed and happy! No dessert, because they didn’t ask, and we were too full anyway, in spite of a tantalizing platter of baklava and other honey-gooey goodies passing around under our noses.

A stroll around the 5th and 6th arrondissements on the beautiful fall day did not negate talking about some of the hard issues my friend is up against, and how to survive emotionally in a spiritually barren landscape. I recognize the signs in all too many of my friends there, because I lived it too. There are no easy answers, just some good old heart-to-heart conversation, listening and empathizing, with the occasional kick in the butt! Working in France is often an isolating experience, and without connections and community, one is quickly overcome.

Back to her house for dinner with her husband, and more conversation on the arts. A flicker of light came back on in my friend’s eyes as we talked. One of her dreams is to write a novel, and she has been working on one for some time. I shared my happy news that I’m about to be published, after 7 years of work, and encouraged her to not give up. I left them both with a list of resources, both online and live, in Paris and not, in hopes that God would take it from there.

Take it he did! The next day, who should I happen to be sitting with, but a novelist, telling me of her writer’s group, and where and when they meet, and the upcoming November writing challenge they were going to participate in! I quickly scribbled down the info, asked if I could introduce her to my friend, and fired off an email on my return to the hotel. They are now connected, and I trust my friend will now have a community of writers to help her get out that novel that is in her, just waiting to get out.

I barely had time to digest my coucous…some answers to prayer move more quickly than others!!!

The Poetry of Time

Jet lag is a dark morning, awake hours before the rest of the world, contemplating the gift of this trip, and the muscles aching after hauling luggage around the Paris metro system. There is a bagel for breakfast instead of baguette, and a good shower a few footstps from my bed.

The flight home took 9 hours and 40 minutes, and I needed every second to shift gears back into my American personality. (I'm not sure I made it.)

The flight was uneventful, and gloriously empty, so I could stretch, squirm, and breathe deep again in the expansiveness of American space, something I sorely missed in France. With no seatmate next to me, I created an in-flight studio, and worked steadily for several hours. (This caught the attention of one of the stewards, to whom I offered a portrait. He didn't take me up on it.)

But I sorely miss speaking in French too, and my morning walk around the Montparnasse neighborhood. On the other hand, no more bundling up under cloudy skies and unseasonably cold temps. A glorious sunset greeted me last evening curbside at the airport, and temps for the next few days will be in the 70's here.

Gone are the French pout, the vertical jaunt to their step (born of claustrophobic space), and the extravagant elixir they call coffee. I still don't quite trust the ubiquitous American smile, but it does make for a more pleasant environment overall. And I will head for Starbucks today for my welcome-home coffee.

I do not miss the bathroom down the hall, or the shower two flights up, or dodging the strikes. But after dispensing with the blow dryer in a country that invented bad hair day, I know I will have to be somewhat more well-groomed here in the South. And I cannot wear the same thing four days in a row.

So the 'bilan' (resume) is in progress, the laundry will start soon, and emails will be beaten back. No more standing on my head, walking around a facility, waiting for one more bar to get a fluid internet connection. I am back in Tyrone, to continue to cultivate the stretch of Kingdom the Lord has given me here.

A Facebook friend posted this little bit of fun: http://parisvsnyc.blogspot.com/ and I highly recommend Eric Maisel's A Writer's Paris. Whether or not you're a writer, he has masterfully captured the essence of time spent in Paris, and some quirky little fun spots to check out.

I don't enjoy having to make these huge psychological shifts as I go back and forth between cultures, because I never feel like I have enough time to make the shifts. Duty calls, phones ring, invitations come, emails clobber, and there is a manuscript of poems are waiting to be organized. But there is a poetry of time too, as this ad in CDG airport reminded me; a time to stop and notice: what did God do? I don't want to miss that. And I want to thank him, deeply, for the gift he just gave me. Otherwise I am the child on Christmas morning, ravaging open gifts, barely seeing what I open, in my eagerness to get to the next one. Just another toy on the toy pile.

I close with my mantra for these journeys, with their paradoxical mingle of joy and sorrow: ‘Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”—Dr. Seuss

Departure

Ok, made it to Charles deGaulle Airport with a minimum of inconvenience, with some very helpful folks along the way, and with enough time for a last blog post, cup of coffee and pain au chocolate!

Charles de Gaulle has had a facelift, at least in my neck of the woods of this enormous airport. I’ve been dropped into a bubble of affluence, cleanliness…dare I say efficiency?!

The law for retirement was passed yesterday, unblocking some of the gas distributors, and thus canceling some strikes. This week, in contrast to the first two weeks, the French seem less aggressive, less angry, at least in my little slice of perception. This is a vacation week in France, so folks are less likely to want to strike. In spite of the continuing strikes, the French seem happier than when I last left them.

In a bit more time, most likely, France will calm down even more, and enter winter with its focus on the holidays, the cold, and perhaps another strike or two around Christmas. This is the rhythm of life in France.

I leave filled to overflowing with amazement. It seemed that every encounter, each person I planned to see, was a divinely scheduled appointment. There were some meetings off the agenda of course, but equally if not more potent for their unexpectedness. I was able to make some connections I hoped for, others morphed into something else, and some new ones opened up.

And while I arrived feeling like a ‘stranger’ (as the French would put it), within two weeks I felt ‘back home.’ Language was flowing, cultural cues had emerged, and some of my favorite foods ingested.

It will all go underground again in a matter of minutes. I’m organizing my final photos while waiting for my flight, which is expected to be on time. Yes, life is good.

Villa Seurat

Just off the rue de la Tombe-Isseoire, you can find the Villa Seurat, with its little houses built for artists and sculptors. It was the home of Georges Seurat, and Henry Miller also lived here, from where he wrote such masterpieces as Tropic of Cancer and Max and the White Phagocytes. As he describes Villa Seurat:

"The whole street is given up to quiet, joyous work. Every house contains a writer, painter, musician, sculptor, dancer, or actor. It is such a quiet street and yet there is such activity going on, silently, becomingly, should I not say reverently too? This is how it is on my street, but there are hundreds of such streets in Paris. There is a constant army of artists at work, the largest of any city in the world. This is what makes Paris, this vast group of men and women devoted to the things of the spirit. This is what animates the city, makes it the magnet of the cultural world."--Henry Miller

This cultural magnet was destroyed during World War II and with the construction of the towering and incongruous Montparnasse tower, the tallest office building in Paris (which has a law that buildings can only be built to a certain height, in order to keep the city ‘intimate’—not sure how Montparnasse slipped through!). But the area continues to draw the culturati and is a lively, café- and theatre-filled quartier.

And so I met my artist friend for raclette and a complimentary kir here in the midst of Montparnasse, not far from the hotel (where Sartre and deBeauvoir lived for a time, by the way). After a catch-up and rabbit-trail-laden conversation, we ditched our original plans to museum hop, and went to her studio instead. What a delightful time seeing her artwork, brainstorming and dreaming, and sensing another piece of the puzzle of arts ministry going into place. Stay tuned for that one…

Late again getting home, I merged back into the black-robed Parisians in rush hour, thankful that this part of French life is almost over for me.

So now I’m packing and consulting alternate routes to get to the airport. France is calling for a general strike tomorrow, and that will surely make things interesting in the morning…stay tuned for that one too!

The Ghosts of the 14th

I am in the 14th arrondissement, an artistic and literary center about 100 years ago. Gertrude Stein, Picasso, Seurat, Hemingway, Cocteau, Giacometti, Matisse, Modigliani, Miller….the names are everywhere, on cafés, bookstores, buildings, cemeteries. The statue of Balzac by Rodin stands near the Metro Vavin, where I had a cup of coffee with a friend on Monday. But the Brancusi statue eludes me…although my second visit to the cemetery yielded this find of Charles Pigeon’s tombstone!

It’s a bit staggering to walk around in so much cultural history, stamped into such a little bit of geography. The ghosts of artists past are haunting discussions with artists today. Is it possible for Christians to even approach what these artists accomplished last century?

That’s the question we’re asking—me and the artists I’m meeting with daily now. Why are we so mediocre in comparison to these surpassing talents? It’s an enigma. I have a hard time believing I’ll see the church reach these heights, but I’ll be darned if I’m going to give up. “The kingdom of God is forcefully advancing, and forceful men take hold of it."

So today I walk past these ghosts, and board the metro in a sea of black-garmented Parisians during rush hour. The sky is still dark, the moon is up, the eyes are mostly at half-mast. I travel out to the eastern suburbs of Paris, eyeing the frost on the ground, and regretting that I have not added another layer of wool. I am following up on our SALT attendee Paul Dixon, meeting with OM France leadership, other team members, and one couple considering joining OM Arts.

After a full day of meetings and meals, we inch forward, and a stake is very definitely in the ground. Some of these artists have persevered for over 20 years. Some are afraid, some broken, some mystified as to how to proceed. Or all of the above.

But we can do nothing else. As the disciples responded to Jesus when so many deserted him, and He asked if they were going to quit too, so we respond: “Where else can we go, Lord? You have the words of eternal life.”

Montparnasse, the Grand Palais & Rodin

What a delight to start a crisp autumn Sunday with a slow wander through the incredible Montparnasse cemetery, where such luminaries as Guy de Maupassant, Alfred Dreyfus, Andre Citroen, Brancusi, Saint-Saens, and Baudelaire are buried. My goal was to see Brancusi’s “The Kiss” (a response to Rodin’s “Kiss”) but this is the nature of the larger Paris cemeteries: huge and labyrinthine, requiring a map. Which I had, but…well, an hour later, I was done with the cemetery. Since it’s practically across the street from my hotel, maybe I’ll try again tomorrow…

My ultimate goal was the new exhibit at Grand Palais, on the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. On the way, I was seriously derailed by finding an art flea market, and spending some time talking with a number of the artists. Serendipity! What a pleasure, treat and delight to meet these artists and see their work, discuss their process.

For a peek at one of the artists, go to www.szal.fr. I made the ultimate error of picking out three of her pieces, having read the price wrong, and then having to tell a very excited artist that I couldn’t afford any of them! Sigh….I hate that.

Onward and forward. Metro over to Place Concorde, one of the most stunning places in Paris, if not France, if not the world. One of its arteries spins off into the Champs Elysee. Up I went with hordes of other tourists, in the direction of the Grand Palais, stopping first for a hot dog (I know, shameful) to bolster flagging energy levels.

Why did I imagine I would saunter into a major museum featuring a new exhibit on a Sunday?! I saw lines I’ve only seen once before—at the Louvre—and quickly abandoned Plan A. Heading in the opposite direction of the crowds, I crossed the Alexandrine bridge, an incredible beauty that makes you stop and watch the Seine underneath, and the occasional Bat-O-Mouche.

Crossing over to where the Assemblee Nationale stands, I found myself a cozy little café for some coffee, a bathroom and the development of a Plan B. As it turns out, I had wandered close to the Musee Rodin, one of my favorites in Paris, so that was my next stop.

The museum had its own little line, paltry by Grand Palais standards, but a line nevertheless. The bonus: an expo by Henry Moore, a British sculptor I first discovered in Lille, who does monumental work. One of his works, “Warrior with a Shield”, has an interesting history. As Moore describes it, “The idea for the warrior came to me…very early in 1953. It evolved from a pebble I found on the seashore in the summer of 1952, and which reminded me of the stump of a leg, amputated at the hip…”

Only an artist could write that!

After a couple of hours, my legs instituted Plan C, which meant sitting down a lot! A few sketches of the extraordinary sculptures in that museum, and I was ready to make my way back to the hotel.

And so, feet now up and contemplating a new work week about to start, I marvel again at the privilege I have, and the wonders I have seen. Yet the desire remains to do only what I see my Father doing. I’ve been on the look out, but no particular spiritual bonanzas have been apparent. Maybe tomorrow…

Epsom

I have made a new friend in France, and his name is Epsom.

At my most recent stop, in Villeneuve D’Ascq, I stayed with two friends, who shall remain nameless. One of these friends lost her sight in a car accident almost 20 years ago; the other friend took her in, enabling her to transition from normal life to life without sight.

This year, my blind friend moved into an apartment to live independently. (The other friend is also staying with her temporarily while some work is done in her home.) The move included some training in how to live alone, and the arrival of Epsom, the guide dog.

Epsom is only 18 months old, and needs a couple more years to be fully adapted to my friend, and to being a seeing eye dog. For the time being, he knows the basic commands, and must learn to adapt to my friend—her rhythm, her voice, her commands, her routes. But he is easily distracted; as we went out for several walks, Epsom kept looking at cats, children, other dogs, and me, as if I was the seeing one in this group, and surely I should take charge of the situation!

As we walked through one park, I was disturbed to see how many people let their dogs run loose, creating quite a challenge for Epsom and my friend. Time after time, Epson ‘broke ranks’ and charged after a dog on the loose, who would come running up to him to do that sniffing/aggression thing, to determine the alpha dog in the routine.

And although I had to be very circumspect in not responding to Epsom’s doleful brown eyes, and let my friend instruct him, one intervention proved necessary: when Epsom led my friend under a sign, walking through the bars while she would surely have endured a face plant if I had not grabbed her arm.

Entering my friend’s world was eye-opening (no pun intended!). Her courage in the face of incredible challenges, and her spirit in attacking one after another with simplicity and good humor, humbled me. And as schedules turned out, we had some long stretches of time to explore our spiritual landscapes, and bolster each other’s faith. At the end of my time with her, we planned skype calls and a vacation together in Atlanta as soon as possible.

Northern Cuisine

Ok, I have to bring you up to date on the eating thing, but because eating in French is such a big deal, such an art form, such a delight, and I got to do a lot of it with my friends in the North.

Let’s start with the chicons—endives—a staple in the northern diet. They are nothing like the pitiful offerings you may see in your grocery store, for exorbitant prices. The northern version is a plump and hefty torpedo that goes fresh into salads (especially good with walnuts, blue cheese and a vinaigrette), or gets steamed into casseroles on a regular basis. Or you could try them baked in an oven, wrapped in ham and covered with grated emmental cheese, with a hollandaise sauce.

Then there’s the leeks, as plump and sweet as the American version is small and bitter. They usually accompany any fish dish, and I ate them almost daily when I lived here.

Raclette, a cheese you melt in a special apparatus and pour over potatoes, or cooked eggs or cold cuts, or whatever you want for that matter, is a convivial treat for friends to enjoy together, sort of like a fondue.

Coquilles St. Jacques—scallops in a cream sauce with basil, or a white wine sauce—yep, had that the other day too.

“Moules Frites” is THE northern signature dish: mussels and French fries, usually accompanied by a good local blond beer. The mussels arrive in a black pot, unless you get them gratinée, or some other way, and piles of shells are a local folkloric sight, especially during the Braderie, the local flea market, one of the largest in the world. It takes place the first weekend in September, when it is time to eat mussels again, after the summer months, when the mussels aren’t good.

Of course, incredibly good wines accompany all these dishes, and an apero is part of the social encounter.

A plate filled with a variety of cheeses arrives after the main course, followed by dessert, then coffee. I will be rolling onto the plane soon, happy as a clam, but probably fasting and dieting as I get home!

Oh, and there’s nothing like a square or two of Cote D’Or chocolate, eh Francophone friends?!

Chez Chantal

You will not find a better garden than the garden chez Chantal. And actually it is not Chantal’s garden but her husband’s. Each morning I’ve been looking out over the most beautiful scene, eating the most wonderful breads and jams, and drinking tea. We talk at least an hour, and sometimes longer, before launching into our days. What a way to start the day.

And I couldn’t have arrived at a better time: the annual weekend of the Artist’s Open Studios! The day was spectacularly, unusually, filled with sunshine—crisp temperatures notwithstanding. I wandered the old section of Lille, to find the artists, but unfortunately did not have much luck. The tourism office no longer had the guide book, so I had to look for the posters in windows that signaled an artist’s studio, and only found two.

Others I knew of were either closed or gone. But the day was still a wonder of wandering old streets I had fallen in love with, glancing into some of my favorite shop windows (closed now on Sunday), and finding my way home at sunset. (Only slightly aggravated by the transportation strike.)

Dinner with Chantal and Yves, after an apero around a lovely fire with some port and nuts, is also a peaceful feast around a candlelit table. Each evening after the meal, Chantal and I continue to talk until we fall into bed, and the last three evenings have been particularly amazing, as we have invented a story: The Tale of the Tea Woman. Watch for it in your bookstore in about, say, seven years!

And speaking of writing, I’ve also been hunkered down working on my manuscript, in order to meet the publisher’s deadline coming up November 5. It’s been a bit of a juggle to keep up with the publisher’s requests and visits--It’s been a bit of a juggle to keep up with the publisher’s requests and visits—but I manage to sneak off to visit someone I haven’t seen in years, and these have been joyful reunions.

I move today, over to two dear friends who live in nearby Villeneuve D’ascq. Saturday, strikes permitting, I leave for Paris. The whirlwind continues!

Chez Les Barrauds

Catherine was the first friend I made when I moved to the North of France in 1995. We met while attending a meeting of the French-American Club; after talking for a while, we exchanged phone numbers, and I wasn't quite sure if she would call, or if I should call, but before I had the time to think about it much, Catherine called. She had passed some years of study in the States, and retained a love for the American culture. Maybe I could help her keep up her English?

Apart from English, we shared a love of art, psychology, and faith. We began a Bible study together, and passed several years discussing the great questions of the faith.

In 1996, Catherine met Fred, and I got to know him too as a great tease, a connoisseur of wine and good food, and an adept businessman. They visited me in the US when I was home on furlough in 1997, to ask me to be a witness of their marriage, which took place in 1998. I was speechless at the honor, but happily accepted.

And in 1998, I traveled to the family vacation home in Charentes, near Bordeaux, discovering that region with great delight. The wedding truly was magical and romantic, among the vineyards that produce some of the great wines of the region, and a specialty called Pineau de Charentes. I felt like I was in a movie most of the day. And this was the day before digital cameras, when almost all my film was lost in a developing error. But the memories are untouchable.

Now Catherine and I continue to plunge into conversations about art, psychology and faith, often during a long walk around whatever neighborhood they happen to be living in at the time. Fred and I discuss politics, economics, wine and the French culture. The kids ask me questions in English, and we watch “Raiders of the Lost Ark”; I read them stories at night.

Life is simple, if hectic with five kids, and I am grateful there is no TV in the house, no grand airs. Just good old-fashioned friendship, around a good walk, or a table of good food, with good conversation. Le Bonheur, quoi?!

Fifteen years, one husband, and five children later, Catherine remains a loyal and astonishing friend. How many women do you know who can raise five children, work, not be on Facebook, and still find the time to communicate with me on a regular basis?! Merci Catherine! Je t’embrasse! Et Fred, ben, merci pour les bonnes bouffes, les bons vins et astuces sur la culture francais, et tes blaques :) Bonne continuation avec le troupeau!

Off to the North I go...

Au Revoir Le Camp

Time to leave Camp des Cimes…the Moores head out at 7:30 am for bus, trains and planes. I leave later in the afternoon, after some final photos of another beautiful fall day, and after lunch with the Guffeys, our colleagues of many years.

Hard to come down from the mountain!!! To leave such beauty, such good friends, with conversations too short, and the mountains speaking volumes in their grandeur and solidity. Hard to believe it’s been 20 years since my first trip to France, to this camp. Hard to end long final glances to soak in the beauty, to get in the car to leave. I could easily stay another week.

Allison drops me off in Bourg d’Oisans, to catch the bus to Grenoble, a lovely slow descent with the sunbeams, from the mountains into the valley that Grenoble sits in. Arriving at the bus station, I spot the Barrauds—all five children, and Catherine, smiling and waving. Bisous, bisous, bisous…followed by much jumping up and down of five children who either don’t know me, or barely remember me, greeting me as if I was their long lost best friend. Then off to find the toilets, and hit the road; this is a day of strikes, when public transportation strikes force many to take their cars, and we anticipate traffic jams getting out of the city.

An hour later, we arrive at Sillans, where the Barrauds live, a lovely pastoral village. I discover I have been sitting on a chocolate cookie in that hour…agh!!!!...so first order of duty is a quick change and laundry. A chaotic dinner follows, then bundling the kiddies off to bed. Catherine crashes too, to read, and I take a deep breath, and switch gears. I’ll be here for three days, renewing our friendship, getting to know the kids, and no doubt running interference for exhausted parents from time to time. I think I’ll turn in early myself…

A "God Moment" with Rose

Rose has been a worker here for so many years…and become a dear friend with whom I share a few commonalities: a love of healing, counseling, and the arts, hanging out one on one and going deep over a cup of coffee or tea, and a passion to speak truth into peoples’ lives. Although we see each other rarely, we pick up where we left off each time, and go further.

I wandered down the path to Rose's house on the camp property, and stopped in for a visit before leaving, and as we talked, we had a “God moment.”

It has long been a dream of mine to host a healing retreat here at the camp. The facilities are perfect to accommodate a large group (rare in France), and the beautiful setting would be soooo conducive to healing. But then I took a detour into the arts ministry…or so I thought.

As the arts ministry develops, I have seen the acute need for healing retreats for artists, and have been mulling that over for some time. The need was apparent again during our SALT conference this summer, and I thought again of the camp.

This morning, as Rose and I caught up on our lives, and began dreaming together, I had the sense that one day in the not too distant future, we will probably be working together, that God has something up his sleeve that is going to be quite special for us in the future. Rose is fast approaching the empty nest, and as time frees up for her, and I develop materials and experience in the healing power of the arts, there will no doubt be convergence. I look forward to the possibilities!