May Day!

It's May 1st, May Day, and that can only mean two things: 1) lilies of the valley, and 2) nearly everything is closed. OK, I exaggerate. A couple stores are actually open and do not have a sign in the door saying "specially closed on May 1st", but seemingly 99% of Paris is off-school, off-work, and off-duty -- except the people selling lilies of the valley on the streets.



If you want to know about one of the stinkiest cheeses known to mankind, or learn more about this holiday, and help me create the inevitable holiday to celebrate the official 35-hour work week here in France; or the 4-day school week; or the 6-weeks-on/ 2-weeks-off school schedule, check out A Year in Fromage.

Let's Clear the Air

They say there's something magic in the air in Paris. Well, if so, it's black magic at the moment.
Have you heard that there's an air pollution alert in Paris? I think it hit world news, but if you were here, you would not even need to read the news to know it. Frankly, it's the first time in three years of living here that I've seen the air around me -- actually, physically seen it.

 

While the worst of it seems to be over, we've had a couple relapses even since I posted this over at A Year in Fromage, where you can read and see (or not see -- it's pretty hazy) more about it.

Boom As We Speak

When I was in grade school, we went on field trips to the local historical reenactment village, one day each year. Once, we went to a pizza place owned by a classmate's father and were allowed to make our own pizzas. That is the extent of the field trips I remember. Gigi, meanwhile, is away for a week with her classmates in Valloire, France for the ultimate field trip -- a week of skiing in the Alps. As I write this, she's at her end-of-week "Boom" (that's a co-ed dance to you and me).

 

 

 

 above photos taken by chaperones on the ski trip

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Stay Away

Our second summer, our second trip to our friends in Bretagne. By now, it feels not only like a little slice of heaven, but a familiar one. I realize it also feels familiar because it reminds me in so many ways of the annual summer trips to my sister's house in coastal Maine. There are the rocky beaches with great tide-pooling, the coastal walks and bike rides, the fantasy mansions on the cliffs (let's just say I wouldn't sniff at the house all trimmed in white at left in the photo below).

 

 

 

 

Even beyond the excellent bakery breads and lack of blueberry/maple products, there are differences, of course. The little tents at Dinard look pure French, for example. And the Atlantic's noticeably warmer here than in Maine, as long as one is lucky enough to be here during a warm August. Last year we were in Bretagne in early July, and the water was so cold I only swam once -- and then simply because my friend Beatrice told me that was the only way I'd earn the right to be invited back. Well, this year, we are there in August, so I am able to swim every day; I practically feel like a native Breton.

 

And then there's the view out to the medieval walled cite of St. Malo, which doesn't exactly bring Maine to mind.

 

Also, instead of lobster, we have moules (muscles). But not actually ones that we find ourselves.

 

 

This year, in addition to seeing our good friends, and the beautiful coast, we also see a fox, right there next to the beach.

 

 

By the way, if you think it looks like we have nothing but gorgeous sun, blue skies, and warm summer weather, it is my obligation to tell you that it rains miserably and constantly the entire time we are here. I have promised our friends that we will do our part to keep the masses away by playing up the stereotype of the Breton weather. Somehow, we all manage to enjoy it anyway.

Break in Burgundy

After Guédelon, we drive deeper into Burgundy with our visiting friends to take a relaxing break from our previous break, picking wildflowers, a.k.a weeds, on the lawn of Sully castle, which dates roughly from the 14th century. It turns out to be a private residence, and we are 99% sure that the woman we meet going in and out of the imposing doors is the Duchess of Magenta. She explains the carvings of boar on the door, with a very posh Queen's English accent, saying that "the owners were very keen on hunting." At first I am very impressed with how well she speaks English. Then I learn she is Scottish. In any event, I feel I can now boast that I hobnob with royalty.

 

 

Then we visit the little town and castle of La Rochepot, so magical that the entire minivan literally gasps when it comes into sight. The 13th century castle itself is, to me, one of the more unusual and memorable in all of France, because of the colorful tiles typical of the Burgundy region.

 

 

 

Here, a view from the castle into the town:

Since the children are less than thrilled with any more historical sites ("Oh, noooooo! Not another castle!"), we find we need to take frequent breaks from the break we are taking. After an arduous half-day of touring around and eating ice cream, the hotel swimming pool is a welcome relief. Even our hotel looks like a little castle, however, with gorgeous grounds, and an indoor-outdoor pool, all in an adorable little village with several excellent restaurants less than 20 steps away. I just have to put a plug in and say that at around 70€ per night, the Logis de Trois Maures in the town of Couches (pronounced "koosh" not like the word that means "many sofas") may be the biggest hotel bargain I've ever come across.

 

 

 

 

One of those neighboring restaurants, La Tour Bajole, is in a monastery from the 12th century, converted at some point within the last 900 years into a restaurant. Food -- delicious; service -- friendly; ambiance -- jaw-dropping.

 

 

Even the children appreciate it to a degree and also admit, begrudgingly, that this little town of Semur-en-Auxois out-Disneys Disneyland. This is high praise indeed, but we get this concession from them only as long as what we do here is simply eat ice cream, and not actually go inside any historical buildings.

 

 

 

One day, we take a break from relaxing to try to educate ourselves by visiting the city of Autun, which is supposed to have "rivaled Rome" in its heyday. But rivaled Rome in what, we ask? Watermelon seed spitting contests? Armpit farting? Because it sure wasn't about the constructions or the ruins. There are the remains of an amphitheater, with excellent acoustics, and two remaining gates to the city. Supposedly, there is also a Temple to Juno, but no amount of GPSing, sign-post following, or asking directions from locals can get us there.

 

 

Perhaps our favorite day in Burgundy is spent biking along old train tracks that have been converted into a "voie verte" or "green track". It's relatively flat, with beautiful French countryside, almost no traffic to worry about except at a couple small crossings, and views of the occasional castle popping up in the distance. ("Shall we ride to the castle, kids?" "Nooooooo!!!!") But at one point, Pippa's brakes break. We have the tool kit on our rental bikes; but as it is only us two non-mechanical moms and four kids, we very nearly call the rental company to come help us. Luckily, just before that happens, we swallow our pride and ask a man riding by in full racing gear for help. Within seconds he realizes that Pippa has accidentally wound the brake cable around her handlebars. He twists her handlebars around, and we're good to go. It is embarrassing, but much better than it would have been if we'd made somebody drive out to us from the rental shop.

 

Swanny River

The "Ile aux Cygnes," which means Swan Island, sits in the middle of the Seine, on the Western edge of Paris, between the 15th and 16th arrondissements. If you want to see our local Statue of Liberty, that's the place to go. But if it's the swans you're looking for, you should come by our island -- Ile Saint Louis.

 

I know, I know, don't feed the birds, but I have to say that the kids love coming here with stale bread chunks.

 

Once walking on the right bank, I see six swans flying in formation over our island, winging their way over the Seine. Even the Parisian friend I'm walking with says, "I've never seen that before." And that's saying something.
 

Strategically Placed

Ah Provenceneyland™...land of lavender, poppies, flower-covered markets, flower-covered fields, and even flower-covered cheese.

 

But as Van Gogh knew, if there's one thing that just takes your breath away here in Provence, it's the fields of sunflowers. When you see a big field like this gleaming in the sun, you really must pull over and celebrate the moment. Trina here knows how to stop and smell the roses, so to speak.

Then James goes and makes a joke about me cavorting topless among the sunflowers. And, well, perhaps you know how much I love to titillate (pardon the pun) and how little I care about modesty. So I actually do it. Oh, don't get your knickers in a twist. James graciously returns to the car and Trina's the one who takes the photo, even though, frankly, we're all such old and good friends, I can't imagine any of us would really have cared. Nice sunflowers, eh? Too bad we didn't also take a photo of me strategically holding the two cantaloupes....