a journal of...

A journal among friends...
art, words, home, people and places

Sunday, July 23, 2017

From Where I Sit

[Note:  I'd written this a few weeks ago and forgotten to publish it, so consider it a letter lost for a while in the mail...]

I sit here writing
The heat surge the last weeks feels almost August except for the fan above, cooling me. This porch is the best part of this house these days; it was inevitable that I'd add it on here, as all the houses I've inhabited have had a place like it where, thanks to breezes and shade, you could be in the garden but not among the bugs and heat.

People around here consider the porch a Southern thing, but I think that's a bit provincial.  Growing up, the porch on our first house made a play area in rainy weather out from under our mother's feet.  The front porch at the shore slept men coming in late from work at night (the women and children all crowded into the beds upstairs) and provided a good place to hide with a good book during the day on the swing.  It's still the place to chat, read, write letters, nap, enjoy tea, coffee, wine or a gin and tonic with people who drop in.  

When we taught in New Hampshire or visited my parents there on weekends, the porch in either house was the first place I'd take my cup in the mornings, whatever the season.  One memorable dawn, I looked out to a mother bear raiding the garden, while her cubs sat in the patio chairs below me, picking at the pillow ticking, obviously having been told to "be good and sit here now, while I get us breakfast".

At our old home in Washington, the open front porch quickly introduced us to the neighborhood, and the back screened porch became so much an extension of the kitchen that most of the year the door between them stayed wide open as we wandered in and out, to bring the day or the groceries in, do the crossword, plan the next garden shape or escape from a crowded kitchen.  On warm days in December, even, it was a place to retreat from winter.

front porch on main street

In quieter moments, I could paint there, the light perfect.  I did one of my best works at that table, a complication of watercolor, wire, screen and beads worked into a folding, falling-open sort of book I called Back Porch Journal.  (Amazingly, the fine art show judge that year actually got what it was...)

back porch journal, 2011
These days, sometimes at the near-end of a walk, I'll park myself on a bench in the arboretum, a kind of porch itself, to contemplate the quiet. 

view from a bench in the arboretum
The other morning, likewise, I stopped on campus to sit under the wide porch of one of the buildings, and talked to my aunt on the phone for a while.  There was a huge tree in front of me I couldn't name, but its arches made a kind of canopy over the sidewalk, and it gave me the feeling of facing a high foyer where summer's glare was kept at bay.

view from a porch bench on campus
 You can see all sorts of things from a porch, like looking out a window without frame.  Not only who or what passes by, but interior passages, too.  You can hear yourself think, and that's not a bad thing, especially these days, when (often deliberately) distracting noises from everywhere seem to cloud our brains.  You can hear others...really listen to children, friends, neighbors, passersby, whether you are the intended audience or not. You're not eavesdropping, but you are connecting with the world as it comes and goes.

The word from the porch or the street, the casual remark of a stranger in passing...they're all clues to the reality beneath the reality shows that seem to pass for what is.  Leaving aside the generalities of opinion polls and flash-talk, and listening instead to the personal and highly individual thoughts of people who speak and act as themselves, means that we can adopt the human values we practice one person at a time.  On the porch, they tend to come out in more reflective, considerate, and respondable ways.

We may not like everything we hear or see, but that vantage point, from where we sit, gives us leave to try to understand it and put it in perspective, whether we agree with it or not.  And then we can think about where we really stand.  And why. The three-second (or 10-word) spits we've been encouraged to adopt as communication too often tend to degenerate rational thought into fallacy. Porches slow us down, make us take a wider view of the neighborhood and the world where we belong.

Porches bring us back to calm reason and sense, and to belief.  They return us to ourselves.

Monday, July 10, 2017

Old Houses

These days I am in draft mode...everything I begin to write, except grocery lists, mostly fades off  the page unfinished.  Posts like From Where I Sit and Out of Grandmother's Kitchen lie in wait for reclamation, though from the first they seemed the word of the day--along with probably something else I've meant to say that's left the field now.  I blame the heat, but I think it's something more pressing I can't name.

Meanwhile, searching for inspiration of the tactile sort, I drift over the surfaces in my studio (lately invaded by youngsters seeking their own inspiration), picking over pieces of rusted wire, pink silk thread, mother-of-pearl buttons, copper fragments, and dried paint and glue, also waiting.

In a box at the edge of my work table, which my father had built when we moved into our old house in Washington twenty years ago, I find the watch face and works that my Aunt Sadie had given me a few weeks ago.  She took it from her jewelry drawer, saying, as she prefaces all such heritage, "And what am I going to do with this?"  She means for me to take it, and I do, along with the story of how it comes to be in this box, bare and unhoused for so many years.

"It was your grandfather's gold pocket watch," she tells me, "but during the Depression they had to sell all their gold..."  She doesn't remember who gave him the watch, or what the occasion, but his early history was so rich with possibilities that it could have been anyone, anywhere, whyever.  He'd traveled a good bit as a young man, seeking with his father homes for their family...Italy to Argentina, finally to New York and Philadelphia where, married by then, he began his own regeneration. For an engineer, as were the men in his family, a watch like this would be an important accessory.  But when the time came, it proved its worth by giving up its gold.

This is the kind of object which turns up often among my aunts' keepsakes, the kind I can never turn down.  This one creates in my mind, almost the instant she hands it to me, the book I will make around it, to make up for the housing it has missed for nearly 90 years. I can practically see it finished, though I haven't even started to gather the materials.  It's a book about time, and what time brings us forward and also back to.

Consider the clues in this time-in-a-box.  My aunt must have barely begun school then, those desperate transactions taking place as far beyond her ken as parental discretion would allow, though even she must have known what it cost to put a meal on the table.  She was the youngest of four children, and sometimes eating meant going down to their cousin Annie's farm, where other relatives gathered to help and to take nourishment in that generous place.  In photographs (I hope I can dig one up...it's around here somewhere), they look happy enough to be pictured among the greens and squashes at the edge of the field.  The stories of oatmeal for dinner and home lost, a good business suddenly curbed and other means invented to earn a bare living...sons having to leave school, daughters taking in piece work at night...they carry on generation by generation, so that, if only in the abstract, we understand what they endured.  And, more important, how the workings of life went on anyway, sans gilt.

So this watch, still its unhoused self in its box, comes to mean all that history and more...it also comes to mean, looking forward, that we are never without the possibility of privation, even in such spoiled-rich times as these.  Food on the table and a house to live in, a useful way of life, are always going to be the primary goals of our lives; everything else we believe we hunger for is needless, easily disposable.  It's ironic that our mechanism for timekeeping is also a reminder that there are timeless struggles--and ways of endurance--living invisibly among us, and it's well not to forget them.

Monday, June 19, 2017

At The Shore

My aunt tells me, "I'd like to see the shore once more..."  My uncle agrees that it would be good to have a break from the usual, their very nice but more restrictive apartment life in the retirement village they moved to last year.  My aunt will be 98 in a month, and with both sight and hearing challenges, and her heart giving us pause, a breath of sea air seemed understandingly appealing.

To be truthful, there was a lot of resistance, others wondering, protectively, at the sense of such a journey at her age and in her condition.  My uncle, too, also a late nonagenarian, might find it as difficult to be driven the three hours from their present home to their old one, and adjust to the different space.

But in all her years, she hasn't missed one shore stay for the 72 years the house has been in the family, and strangeness wasn't part of the equation for either of them.  So why not go once more to the place where, as my mother used to say, life was "easy in, easy out" and at the very edge of the world find some well-deserved peace and familiarity?  Sometimes, safety is a excuse we use (though with all good intention) to save others, and sometimes ourselves, from the risk of living well.

So off we went.  The weather for the most of our week was grand--beautiful blue skies, calm ocean, refreshing breezes even as the heat soared inland, the early-season pleasure before the vacation crowds began.  One day we even managed to sit on the beach, watching the waves roll in.  As the weekend approached, the wind shifted direction, the waves grew frillier, and the currents drew in their brows, promising rip tides.  But the sky only sprinkled now and then on us those days, leaving plenty of time to walk the boardwalk a few times a day, sit on the deck in sun or shade, shop for new shoes and beach clothes, meet with family we don't see often, and entertain visitors.  At night there were cards and cribbage, and the fishing boat lights and the corp of engineer dredgers at work (the effects of hurricanes linger) against the blackness. In other words, shore life as usual.

The week went quickly; I was sorry not to have scheduled us a bit a longer, as it was clear how invigorating it was to them.  They walked longer and longer; they took stairs more surely (and sometimes startlingly more independently), and were up for anything.  It was, as my aunt kept saying, "a good change".

And for me, it was a hopeful and instructive lesson in how to live.

Change is most of the time good for us.  It's always a risk turning blind corners (all corners are blind, even the ones we think we can see around), not knowing how the future will turn out.  But it can also be a means of believing that, yes, we're still alive and up for anything.  That we still have the courage to face the unforeseen and the strength to accept it.

Especially when we're at the very shore of the biggest life event of all.

Meanwhile, the younger generation, still oblivious to the vulnerability of age, picks up where we leave off.  They're crabbing this afternoon, after dowsing each other with water balloons on the deck and shoveling their way to buried treasure in the sand.  Nights, they do puzzles, try bingo and an ocean version of Monopoly.  Just as we did.  Sometimes the years bring no change at all, a most welcome, most gratifying thing to behold...part of the pleasure of growing older.

Wednesday, June 7, 2017

This is the Song

Home now, I am listening to the soundtrack that some months ago my brother asked his brother-in-law Mo to put together and give us for his memorial this past weekend.

It's a peaceful, beautiful, still-cool June morning, sun filtering through the trees and warming up to the idea of warming us as the day grows.  I've waited until this moment to play it so I could hear it pure, if you will.  Elton John's on now.

My gift is my song and this one's for you...

As with the soundtrack of everyone's life, its lines are what we remember Tom for.

Keep Me in your Heart for a While
The Weight
Over the Hills and Far Away
Heart of Gold
How Long Will I Love You
Peaceful Easy Feeling
Uptown Funk
Message in a Bottle (I hope that someone gets my)
Closer to the Sun
Time of Your Life...

Lots more.  Two discs full.  I started, unintentionally, with disc 2, entitled Follow the Sun. 

But the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this song
It's for people like you that keep it turned on

Ironically, there wasn't much sun for our gathering; it rained every single day for a week, and in the few hours when a vague clearing allowed, we could walk on the beach, go for a swim, stretch our limbs a bit, keep umbrellas at the ready.

 All the other 90% of the time we were together in one house or another, where there was a lot of talk and a lot of food (we are who we are), some drama, some pain, a lot more things to laugh over, and much more than that to be thankful for, mostly each other.

And you can tell everybody, this is your song
It may be quite simple but now that it's done
I hope you don't mind that I put down in words...

And there was music, lots of music every night.

Music in the ceremony, music in the video his son and niece made for us to reflect on his life, music long into the night when we played, one by one or in twos and threes, and everybody sang.  My brother Charles had written a song for him, which Tom had gotten to hear back in February, and he sang it again for us.

I hereby apologize to poor Jean's neighbors for the din of forty grownups shouting Boardwalk at the top of their lungs, but I also admit I'm not sorry. For a moment, whoever we be on our own, we who gathered were singing the same song.

...how wonderful life is while you're in the world

In my mother's youth, every family event rang with piano, strings, voices...opera, folk, popular, dance. Meanwhile, children ran in and out, cooks cooked, aunts danced, men weighed matters, stories passed on.  She and her father would think ours was nothing new, but would surely be pleased that somewhere in the genetic material passed on to us, the impulse to song continues.

So, yes, we got the message in the bottle, Tom.  We know who you were and still are. We know who we are, too...the ones who keep playing your life, who keep it turned on.

There's a reason that our favorite time of day, the one we get up in the morning to meet, the one we take most photographs to keep, is sunrise. 

Even if on some days, as my sister's wall reminds her, you have to make your own sun.

Saturday, May 27, 2017


This past week, for five days straight, we have had heavy rain.  Finally the other day some blue, a lovely blue, began to show itself behind the thick cloud cover we'd gotten too used to.  I'd gone to visit Eileen and Jim last weekend when the rain began in earnest, so our usual treks to gardens and trails were reduced to a fast few hours at Biltmore between the drops.

Instead, we spent the weekend on two of our favorite indoor activities:  we did a puzzle (the one I brought, birdhouses in a mess of leaves sunny and shaded, drove us mad), and we baked.

Rainy days, it always seems to me, inspire filling the house with good aromas.  I will be quick to note that not all baking does well in damp weather (this from experience), but mostly the effort yields soul-satisfying results.

What we worked on were treats for our upcoming Florida return in early June for our brother Tom's memorial.  So much of the family will be together...a too-rare occasion...that we thought some family comfort would be welcome.  Tom's brilliant wife Jean had already sent us the message that mourning clothes were prohibited ("No suits and ties!" she wrote), only bright, cheerful array, please.  We were quick to agree.  It reminded me of another funeral seventeen years ago, when the dress I most wanted to wear (and did) was cardinal red; black just didn't seem to reflect what my heart was pounding out, no matter how devastated.

Anyway, the first thing we thought to make was, of course (family will understand this qualifier), biscotti.  Though over the years Aunt Sadie came to prefer Judy's Biscotti, a recipe she found in the newspaper, we relatively younger ones tend to start out with our grandmother's, the first one of three or four in the family cookbook.   This time, though I'm often caught tinkering with it, I stuck to the traditional recipe, which the occasion seemed to call for.

But variations are always so tempting.  Add grated lemon peel, add cranberries, add almonds, add walnuts, add chocolate...

To wit:  a few days later, just returning home, I found an email from Alda Widmer, a new friend from Milan, which prompted a dinner together the next evening.  Alda, a photographer, is planning a book that highlights her work with vegetables and fruits. When I met her earlier in the year, she and I had a linguistically challenging but entertaining chat about its possibilities, and I'd promised to help.  I'd also promised that, next time she and her husband Franco Bocci came to the US to visit their son Paolo and his family, they would come to dinner.  So I made good that promise first of all.

The rain still on its determined downfall, I decided to bake another batch of biscotti to welcome them.  The thought had occurred to me, even while I was at work on those traditional ones, that there would be nothing wrong with a savory version.  One could pretty easily cut the sugar and add herbs and/or spices and have something a little different.  Though Eileen seemed lukewarm about the idea ("Let me know how they turn out," was her comment...to the tune of I probably wouldn't do it), I set out to experiment on my company.  I'm sorry.  Despite advice to the contrary, I do that, I'm afraid.

With all this sky-fall, you can imagine how the herbs in my garden are proliferating, so I was, as the Scots say, spoiled for choice.  But as I also had some ginger in the cupboard, I reached for rosemary as a natural companion.  I left the sugar mostly out, along with the vanilla, and sprinkled in a little powdered ginger to go with the crystallized dice.  It worked, not only for me, but for my Italian guests and cousins who joined us.  With scoops of lemon ice and blackberries, the biscotti shone.

But that was later the next day.  While the biscotti cooled, I went on cooking as the ground outside soaked.  I'd gone to the only market I could think of that might have the main ingredient of what I really wanted to cook for my Italian friends...a ragu of coniglio...but, alas, rabbit was not to be found. Six or seven years ago, there would surely have been a package in my freezer, but (also alas) no longer.  So I picked up five lowly chicken breasts and made do with the same recipe.  It wasn't bad. In fact, I was pretty proud of the whole menu, if I say so myself.

Antipasto of marinated artichokes, tuna, and pickled beets
Tomato-ginger relish, goat cheese, and ciabatta

Ragu of chicken over polenta

Orange and fennel salad over mache 
with orange vinaigrette

Lemon ice with blackberries
Rosemary-ginger biscotti

In case you are thinking that guests, being guests, will, whatever they are served, politely compliment a host's dinner, I offer for proof the facts that, first of all, the conversation, in at least three languages, some unintended, was lively, and second, on the next day I fed the leftovers to my children and had no complaints whatsoever.

As far as I was concerned, the hit of the evening was what became of some spectacular heritage tomatoes--bright yellow, orange and burgundy--I'd grabbed on sale.  Beautifully ripe, they were.  So I thought more about that ginger and found online a recipe for tomato-ginger relish.  I tweaked it only a little to produce my prize.  (That recipe is now stuck in the family cookbook forever.) We could have made a meal just of the relish, the chunks of ciabatta I cut from the table basket, and a log of goat cheese, but I would never do that to dinner guests, at least not the first time a tavola.

Anyone who has been on the receiving end of what I've cooked knows too well that I am also capable of making spectacular culinary blunders, so please be generous in forgiving me for bragging a little.

I do think, however, that our upcoming neighborhood Memorial Day picnic will garner another success from my kitchen.  Look what I gathered at the Saturday Farmer's Market this morning.  Can you imagine the possibilities?


And another thing:  on this Memorial Day, don't forget to celebrate all the people who have given our lives their most valuable gifts...life, freedom, friendship, and a good table
to bring them together.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Garden Blues

once upon a time
This morning I set out to walk while the day was still cool enough--we've been having near 90-degree temperatures these past few days--and, remembering that rain is not expected any time soon, began to water the garden beforehand.  I've been putting in small plants to fill in the places where last year's triumphs have disappeared, so I am trying to keep the new ones hydrated while they take root.  Last week's rain was a gift to my efforts, but now the dry heat has them drooping a bit.   Mostly they are, besides, transplants from generous fellow gardeners, roadsides, and other places in my yard --Solomon's seal, violets, hostas, hellebores, ginger among them--so I'm keeping a good eye on them.
entrance to the deer dining hall
As I showered each root, passing the hose from the narrow end of the front slope slowly toward the newer plants, I suddenly saw that overnight the garden had been attacked.  What were once beautifully draped, bright green leaves of the hostas were reduced now to their lowest common denominator--stiff, bare stems with half a stripped leaf dangling from one of them.

 I knew at once who the culprits were, for only a few nights ago, coming out the kitchen door just as dark descended, I had surprised them stepping out of the trees and into the driveway toward trouble.  I halted them in their tracks, gave them a good talking to, and sent them back into the hollow where they came from.  Now the three large does and their teenage sidekicks, as well as their antlered friend from the next block over, had clearly returned when my guard was down.  Though they must pass through much more high-toned feeding grounds than mine, somehow they felt that my table, rudimentary as it is, was the most enticing.  They didn't, by the way, feed on the young new transplants; they chose the biggest, showiest plants I had just put in, front and center under the trees.  Pride goeth before the invasion.

and then there was one...

Depending on whether you are an optimist, pessimist, determinist, or fatalist, you could point out respectively that 1) at least they didn't eat all the plants; 2) I should have known better than to plant such delicious deer food...didn't I have enough experience earlier with the hydrangeas I adore and the jack-in-the-pulpits I was so proud of? 3) deer have to eat, too; 4) alas, there is no point in trying to defend a garden...nature just happens.
Cathy and Steve came over from across the street to commiserate (the hostas were culled from their yard, where they had been hitherto untouched), but Cathy pragmatically reminded me that there are strategies for dealing with such critters, which include a giant rabbit seen hither and yon in the neighborhood (including under my azalea).  Putting bamboo spikes among such susceptible plantings will quickly discourage curious noses from feeding, she told me.  There's always blood meal, too, applied freshly each time it rains (that's what saved what was left of the hydrangeas last year); or mothballs could be sprinkled liberally, my next door neighbor Anna suggested.

I don't think so...

Well, practically speaking, I could also cage the vulnerable plants in wire netting...not aesthetically what I want for my woodsy landscape (though if I were growing food for my own sustenance, it might be a different tale)...or construct high deer fences, as some fiercely dedicated gardeners have in another near neighborhood plagued with hungry wildlife.  Or, more philosophically, I could give up entirely and just let them forage at will.

Which is what I will probably do.  There is no way I can stand sentry at the kitchen door every evening to shoo away night feeders.  I have enough trouble picking off caterpillars from the basil and parsley leaves.  And fences, bamboo spikes, bloody ground, and poison seem too much like the imperialist weapons of war I'd like the world to learn to do without.

After garden duty, I walked up to the Coker Arboretum (where there is no sign of visiting deer), wandering among the healthy, prolific specimens that keep the campus a place of restful beauty.  I sat for a while thinking about...no, not gardens, but art, and in the quiet managed, like Newton, to wake up to a solution for my current project, which has had me stumped for a few weeks.  Inspiration, after all, is what gardens are for.

Thursday, May 11, 2017

A Traveling Life

Just before a daily reminder pealed on my phone this morning (Remember who you are), my sister Eileen sent me this reminder of who I was, from more than five decades ago.

This month we've all been raking through photos with my brother Tom in them so that his son and his cousin can make a video of Tom's life in pictures, and this one has him facing front, wondering at the intention of the photographer's lens.

I don't remember ever seeing this photo before, but it's clearly the day of my high school graduation, for there is my mother in the background, corsage in place on her summer frock, and Tom is two and a half, and there is my sister Ann, five, peeking wistfully around the chair.  And there I am, 18 and almost a half, opening a gift that will in turn open the world to me...the largest of a set of Samsonite luggage I received as a family graduation gift for my impending travel to college in the fall.

If you have come to know me only in the last 30 years, don't strain your eyes trying to recognize the me who is now in the me in the photo.  I've traveled far enough away from that pinpoint in time and space to make it impossible.  Likewise, I eventually lost the small white travel case when someone broke into my car in NYC one summer with my pearl necklace and a favorite scarf in it, but otherwise those cases served me well through college and beyond, as I flew off into my adventures with the world.

It seems as if, especially these days, I am always on the road or in the skies.  ("When I talk to you, I'm always safe saying Welcome home!", my friend Leonard says.)  Mostly, as I've mentioned before, it's travel to family occasions, but there was Paris, too, in early spring, and that journey brought back to me the pleasure and fulfillment of being in a place where everything is new and yet to be discovered.  I can't wait to return, for at my trip's end I felt as if I were only beginning to know that city.  I can't wait, as well, to go on to other new places, as many as I can.  My suitcases may have changed to the lighter variety, but they still take me abroad perfectly well.

So, Paris.  

What did I do in Paris, everyone asks?  I walked.  Walked and walked, through streets and parks, by shops and beautiful houses, around corners, by the Seine, room to room in museums and bookstores, up and down the stairs of palaces and the Opera, to cafe's, to gardens.

Each morning, I took to the streets in one direction or another, to see what I could find.  In the first few days, I had my old friend Will with me, who joined me on the Eurostar from London to Paris. The Eurostar prefaced Paris the way once the cruise on the ocean would preface the Grand Tour.  I'd visited him and Dorothy in their London house for a few nights before, including a day of exploring a really intense--in color and mood and fascination--Vanessa Bell exhibit in the charming English village of Dulwich.  (My short London excursions will have to be the subject of another post.) Will and I go back to early graduate-student days, but he's lived in London for nearly 30 years.  He was wonderful company, not least because, having spent most of his career guiding students abroad, he was a superb guide both in London and Paris, and while we searched Paris for our favorite cafe's, we had a grand time catching up on life since our days of endless coffees in the student union between classes,

Paris on my own was amazing.  I know, I know...that word has become a weak participle, not worthy of real use, but here it finds its true definition, which means that Paris led me into its maze and astounded me.  It's a beautiful city, with fascinating small neighborhoods--each with its own culture--just behind the grand boulevards.  And architecture which, despite its formidable grandeur, draws one into a welcoming, comfortable parlor.  Its aberrations, the tall Montparnasse tower one finds one's direction with, for instance, slide into view only for their practicality.  It is easy to navigate, once one memorizes the landmarks rising above, and beauty is around every corner, so it's also easy to get lost, and when one does, there is even more amazement at what one finds.

I set out each day from the small, homey Hotel de la Paix, just around the corner from the Cimetiere Montparnasse, and after the first foray among those sometimes eccentric, but always dignified and storied, tombs, I used every opportunity to walk its paths to wherever I was going.

I would walk a while, getting my bearings, and then sink into one of those ubiquitous herringbone seats outside cafes to drink cafe' creme...and once or twice indulge in a viennoiserie amond because, although I don't do pastry at home, when en Paris one doesn't dare resist.  Sipping my cup, I'd look over the map to plan what I'd like to see or what route looked interesting, though frankly, I would more often end up wandering off route toward some other horizon.  Par example.

On either side of the Seine, invitations to discover were rife.  There near the Orangerie, where Monet's enormous Water Lilies curve around the oval walls, the great wheel rises and buses line up exuding tourists; the spring crowds, even at the end of an afternoon, lounge, thinking of dinner.  But there are tucked away places more inspiring, like the chapel at the very old Sainte-Sulpice, which offered concerts like the one we attended in Sainte-Chapelle with its glittering stained glass, the spectacle of glass more impressive than the quintet. Medieval history echoes in the Sainte-Etienne du Mont, where, in the quiet, dark shadows and more human proportions call art closer to prayer.  And then there are the bridges between.

Walking past the long lines at Notre Dame one morning, we came to the back of the cathedral, its gardens more welcoming.  And then we found perhaps the most hauntingly beautiful of the spiritual: the Holocaust Memorial, across the street from Notre Dame, and across universes from it in style and grace.  Built into the side of the slope to the river, in the magnificent, plain stone building one walks down into, light shadows dark, austerity shadows strength in open rooms and long corridors with only benches for furnishing, and words etched in the white stone walls to reflect on, to pray over.  I don't have a photograph of it to show you, but, even if I'd have had my camera then to take one, I probably would have refrained.  It isn't a place for such image-mongering. 

 (By the way, you will notice that there aren't many photos with closeups of people in them, either.  I loved the faces and gestures and expressions of people I saw each day...the children in their best-dressed modes were priceless, especially...but, sorry as I was not to capture them for you to enjoy and for me to remember, it seemed an intrusion.)

The spaces art inhabits also fascinated me, the glassed station of the D'Orsay or the former house and gardens where the Rodin and Camille Claudel sculptures live so evocatively, the elegant Musee Jacquemart-Andre whose rooms and terrace are as much to explore as its holdings (and in its cafe' find the art of dining itself).

Among the museums Will and I or I on my own visited were small gems, and in more than a few of them, temporary exhibits--like the bookmaker's dream, below, at the Rodin one morning where I found Anselm Kiefer's Die Valkerie, hanging "pages" made of glass, paper, metal, and minerals, and his "revisionary" watercolors of the famous cathedrals with provoking washes of nudes sprawled over them--were worth the visit themselves.

In between, there were everywhere les parcs, petites et grandes, where I watched people from everywhere, the Parisians especially with their coiffed and styled children and dogs, their slow, arm-in-arm gaits making me smile.  Large famous parks and green spaces, tiny floral parks in the elbow-crooks of old buildings...along the Seine, along the boulevards, behind quiet streets.  The Parc Luxembourg, especially, only a few block south of my hotel, was a wonderful respite in the perfect weather Paris offered me.  On a sunny afternoon there, a Norwegian photographer and I conversed in three languages on living in Paris (expensive), great photography (Sally Mann, Ansel Adams), new art (had I seen?  yes! had he seen? aha!), the composition of a photograph, politics (the world on the precipice of idiocy), a Norwegian hermit/mystic who predicts people's futures.  There are always places to sit, and chairs to pull together or apart for companionship or solitude; few of those carefully manicured green, flowered spaces were without room for a few more visitors.

On another day, the Luxembourg palace, guarded by calm, neatly uniformed (and visibly armed) police, gathered the grayness of the day into its pensive stonework.  On yet another, I watched beekeepers draw honey from the hives in the park; along with vegetable and flower nurseries, the park is a working part of the lush gardens, not only their showplace.  Mostly, I sat and contemplated my enormous pleasure in simply being there.

The park is, besides, a children's place, and Paris' prettiest playground.  Tennis and bouls courts, pond for sailboats, chess tables and chairs to play, watch and learn, kiosks for ice cream, coffee,  pastries, crepes, hot dogs (yes), and statues of the people France loves best of its history and its romances.

I dropped into small places for lunch or supper and found the best of Parisian cuisine...not the fanciest but the most tasteful, the most relaxing, the most local.  Will had his favorites, too, one of which became mine...Les Foux de L'Ile (The Fowls of the Isle) on L'Ile de Cite.  Crowded with brunch-seekers when we arrived early in our stay, it seemed like the place I would like to return to every week if I lived there.  But in fact I never did return, because, walking in Paris, there were so many other neighborhood cafe's on the streets to distract me.

The cafe's in Paris are places to settle, lean pensively over coffee, sparkling water or wine, regroup, and consider life.  They are places to watch people, eat well, chat with friends or meet strangers. One's place, alone or in a crowd, is one's place...for half  the day, if you want it.  It's a civilized way to live, and I miss it here.

We strolled the markets, for both art and food, and at the Saturday marche' near the hotelI met a painter I enjoyed a funny conversation with, not only about art but also about her trips to the Grand Canyon.  I bought one of her paintings for a gift, and looked longingly at another artist's beautiful photography I thought I'd go back for (and, sadly, didn't).

At the Daguerre market, around the corner from Will's hotel, I returned time and again and took away sweet, creamy, pungent, delicious cheeses, fruits, tomatoes, and lettuces to take on picnics.

At the Place de Vosges, where we found the elaborate remnants of Victor Hugo's life and feasted on one such picnic, there were also shops to nose into, including Dammann, Freres, where a cathedral of tea greeted us.  Delicious and fragrant teas of the sort one doesn't buy unless one first has sniffed the leaves, tasted the tea, and gone mad trying to choose among them, only to walk out with far too few of them (they are, after all, expensive).

Well, shopping.  I didn't do much inside the shops, except for gifts to bring home, but I'm not much of a shopper, anyway.  One day, needing an extra bag to carry on day trips, I walked into Bon Marche', rode up and down the elevators and reconsidered my mission.  Beautifully decorated and arranged, it seemed another world.  Mostly, I wandered the side streets, where the windows kept me fascinated.  The Parisians consider style the key to marketing, it seems.  These two displays of shoes in quite different shops caught my fancy, like 1930's dancers waiting for partners:

And these next two windows I laughed out loud over, the first making a humorous play on its wares (Attention, Gorillas!) and the second taking itself a bit too seriously (though maybe tongue-in-cheek?)

What's fun about window-shopping in Paris is the small shops which specialize (sometimes within specialties) in one kind of item only--a flower market, a yarn shop where the proprietess and I exchanged ideas about scarves, and a store full of socks of every color and design imaginable.  And flowers, carefully arranged each morning to make a garden of potted beauties.  Yes, chocolate, too.

As for those famous houses of style, I wasn't much into them, though Sonia Rykiel's window caught my eye...at first glance, it looks like a bookstore with mannequins ready to gather for a reading group.

Will and I made a bow to the second Shakespeare and Company, this time a real bookstore, complete with cafe, where I bought two books and a French dictionary to tide me over. Between the dictionary (French-French) and the banners on the news programs I watched each morning, I managed some rudimentary lessons.  And I tried, with every breath, to speak the French I'd practiced for so long.  The Parisians were, every one, affably patient with my stumbling, tumbling words (one dismissive clerk in a shop on the Champs Elysees, where I'd gone one Sunday just to say I had walked the famous strand, walked away, claiming not to understand me, but she doesn't count).
I guess I haven't mentioned yet that, first thing on this trip, I'd lost my phone stepping off the plane at Heathrow.  On it were what I considered my essentials:  French vocabulary lessons and--c'est dommage!--my camera, the best one I've ever had.  After the first panic (one half a day), I slowly became attuned to being without that appendage, and, interestingly, resisted the need to communicate.  There was a kind of relief in not wanting even to take photographs of what I saw; after all, it was my trip, my experience, my reflections, and, happy with the pleasure of the present tense, I wrote in my journal at night, or made notes in the tiny black notebooks I carried each day.  But.  Halfway into the trip, giving in to my daughter-in-law and sister's long-distance email pleas (the hotel, bless them, let me use their office computer to check in at home), I broke down and bought the camera these photos were taken with...not as good as the one on my phone, but at least I'd have images to share.  

Anyway, one of the books I bought in S and Co., Simone de Beauvoir's Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter, fed me, along with her early life, some intriguing history about the very streets where I was staying.  De Beauvoir, buried with Jean Paul Sartre in the Cimetiere Montparnasse, had also lived nearby, variously around the corner, and down the street, and several blocks away at different times in her life, and had walked the same streets and commented on the same landmarks I saw each time I left the hotel.  I was living them at once au courant and in her early years 80 years before.  Just because of that, I stopped in at Le Dome, at the intersection of the boulevards just south of the hotel, to see where her parents' generation thought fit for her father to spend his evenings, and looked across Blvd. Montparnasse at the "upstart" Le Ronde where in those same days more disreputable types congregated.  I saw with some irony little difference between them now.  

On one of my last nights in Paris, I took myself to the Opera Garnier to see the ballet, performed by a group of young dancers in old and new works. I'd tried in vain to get tickets for the last night of A Midsummer Night's Dream at the Opera in the Bastille, but attending the Garnier is theater itself, it's own work of art, an upward spiral of gilt and old velvet, crystal and that marvelous Chagall ceiling where the romantic icons of opera swirl in vibrant and pastel shades.

Here's what I didn't do:  go up the Tour Eiffel (too touristy), go to the Louvre (crowded with piles of school children; anyway, I'd already seen the Mona Lisa on its trip to the Metropolitan many years ago), go to Versailles (there was too much to do in the city to spend a day's trip there), take the train to Nice (I really wanted to, but I'd need a whole week for that, and Paris caught me unyieldingly in its graceful trap), ride the boat down the Seine (I thought about it for a minute, but kept walking over those marvelous bridges), walk through Montmartre and the view from the Sacre Coeur (just didn't get there...this time).  The Musee Carnavalet, where the history and social consciousness of Paris resides, was, disappointingly, closed for renovations until 2020 (Will and I would certainly go back for that.)

But there is plenty more to say, with more reflection (and perhaps introspection) about this journey. We'll see what surfaces from memory's store in the future.  Au revoir.

Oh, and by the way, my phone came back to me by Fed Ex the other day...would you say, the travel sprites were trying to tell me something...about how to travel well?