Soaking in the Rue Royale in Paris

While sight-seeing on the elegant Rue Royale in Paris, a short street lined with high-end stores (think Chanel, Gucci, and Dior), creamy classical French architecture gleaming in the summer sun, the Place de la Concorde visible at one end of the street, the Place de la Madeleine at the other, I had to pinch myself to believe I stood in the middle of such history and magnificence.  

Amazed and dazed I drank it in. Wrought iron balconies, arched doorways, gilded shop names on sparkling glass doors, exquisite ornamentation everywhere. In my hand was a green Ladurée bag containing the store's specialty macarons in various colors. Delight! At the pristine glass counter I had ordered the sandwich cookies in French, which always makes me happy. To be understood! To understand! In French!  

Rue Royale is elegance itself. Every bit of it.

As my family and I stood waiting for our ride to pick us up on Rue Royale, I noticed tourists with their eyes on their phones as they walked past gorgeous window displays, lush flowers and trees, artful street lights, everything. 

"Look up!" I wanted to shout. "You are in the most beautfiul city in the world and you are missing it!"

I felt terribly sad. Sad that social media and immediate gratification evaporates evocative experiences for all of us. They steal our attention, our time, even our joy and often we are completely oblivious to this high-tech mugging. 

Then and there, Paris gave me a lesson I needed just as much as anyone else. 

"Be in command of your time. Be in command of your attention. Be in command of your life."

"Participate. Pay attention. Pursue delayed gratification." 

This lesson stays with me. My life is richer for it.

Thank you, Paris! 

Joie de Vivre Moment #2 - Père-Lachaise and My 'Little French'

Pére-Lachaise Cemetery located on the northeast side of Paris boasts more than 5,000 trees on its 110 acres. It is both her largest park and largest cemetery. Estimates of people buried within her walls vary wildly between 300,000 and a million. It is in this eclectic place that Paris personally hugged me for the first time.

My daughter, Caroline, and I have a secret bond between us that I will keep secret. It concerns Gertrude Stein and her way with words. Because of our humorous connection to the writer, and because of her burial in Pére-Lachaise, Caroline and I included the ancient cemetery on our must-see list for our August 2022 Paris trip.

At the wheel of our huge gray van full of family, including a six month old granddaughter, my highly capable French son-in-law deftly parked on Rue de Rondeaux, outside Pére-Lachaise Cemetery's wall, down the street from one of its gates. Excited, our group entered the grounds en masse, for the very first time. I don't know that any in our group, which included native locals, had been there before. The massive grave markers, trees, and monuments overwhelmed us. In a good way, a sobering way. 

From my gray travel purse I pulled the map I'd brought from home, gleaned from a book. Unfolding it, I oriented myself, Caroline peeking over my shoulder. We quickly located the 'x' we'd made on Gertrude's site. Her grave was on the path currently underfoot. Yes! We headed in her direction, stopping often to examine holocaust monuments, other war memorials, and graves. Quite a place, somber and yet, somehow romantic.

Gertrude's grave was exactly where the map described, easy to find. A selfie was taken, bien sur. I placed a small pebble on her headstone, which joined hundreds already balancing there. It marks a visit, respect.

We continued down the walkway, discovering famous gravesites amidst the shambles-like atmosphere of the ancient French cemetery.

Occasionally I suffer from piriformis muscle pain. It is similar to sciatica, which can flare up into excruciating pain. Such pain overtook me right there on that beautiful dream-come-true day. I often describe my pain level to my husband in numbers, with zero representing pain-free and ten being I'm-going-to-die. In Pére-Lachaise the pain ratcheted up to a nine, a number I have only experienced once before at home. My leg was doing weird things which worried me; I needed to sit down. Not about to sit on a beautiful ancient grave stone in front of my family and dozens of tourists, I bit the bullet and persevered, trying to keep my face from grimacing. Not an easy task.

At last, my daughter and her husband said they had to go back to the van to feed the baby. My husband wanted to see Jim Morrison's grave as he promised the guys at work he'd take a picture for them. So, the Frenchies and Tom headed to the right and around the corner, soon out of sight. My stroller-pushing daughter, son-in-law, and baby granddaughter were already out of sight to the left and beyond. I remained standing alone, in the middle of the jumble of stones and paths and tourists and garish grave decorations, nowhere to sit that wouldn't feel like desecration. 

Tempted to rest on Edith Piaf's nearby grave, I resisted. I took a picture instead. Then, I began the walk back to the van. The pain was unbearable. I prayed. I know God makes things happen for a reason. I have been a believer long enough to know that God is trustworthy and will take care of me. I prayed for a bench. When I opened my eyes, there was a bench! How had I missed it before?

Praising God, I sat down. For some reason sitting makes the pain go away for awhile, even after I get up again. I sat. A few tears of relief fell, but I kept myself under control, for the sake of others. There on the bench I thanked God for His constant presence. He never leaves me. Ever. (Don't get me wrong, I understood and supported the others who left for the van and Jim Morrison. No self-pity, no hard feelings. Only my husband knew how bad it was, and I assured him I could deal with it, sounding much braver than I felt.) 

As I sat, it dawned on me that I was going to need a rest room at some point and Paris does not have fast food restaurants on every corner as we do at home. Besides that, bistros, restaurants, and other businesses do not allow anyone but customers to use their rest rooms. I pulled my new-to-me iPhone from my purse and opened the map app. A public restroom was down the street! 

Feeling adventurous, my pain down to a three, I began walking to the gate we'd entered. It was up a sloping path and not a short way ahead. The pain began to creep up. It was hot outside. Sweat began to form on my brow, wiped away by the pink handkerchief I carry in my pocket when walking in hot weather. I was not relaxed. At all. But I was determined to do what needed to be done and do it on my own. I exited the tall navy blue gates and turned left, walking until I began to feel frightened for some reason. Bad vibes or something, I couldn't say.

I texted my son-in-law in the van telling him what I was doing and that I was scared. When he pinpointed where I was he immediately texted: Stop. Don't go down there. Come back to the van now!

Retracing my steps, I headed back to the gray van. Cement rounds in front of the cemetery gates looked inviting. I sat on one to relieve the pain again. As I sat, pain-free, I gazed down Avenue Père Lachaise, the road that jutted out in front of me. I saw friendly looking people, some families and couples, and some sidewalk bistros. Aha! I will tell Charles about this when I get back to the van.

I did. He said he didn't think they would let me use the rest rooms. He said we would soon be on our way to a restaurant for lunch. I would find the access I needed there.

I realized that since the rest of our group was still poking through graves beyond the tall walls, the lunch timeline was going to be too long for me. You know how it is. The more you know you can't, the more your body says, "Oh, but I must!" Yeah. That was happening.

I waited, quietly. Then, I said, "I think I need to find a solution pretty fast." 

Silence.

Then, Charles, who is the kindest and most competent person you could ever meet, said, in his gentle, patient French accent, "You know, Cherie, I think if you go into one of those bistros and use your little French, they will let you use the rest room." He'd been thinking about it, you see. My attempts at French do yield results, especially when coupled with hand motions, and sprinkled with a lot of English. It is my little French, my speaks-like-a-four-year-old French.

That was all the encouragement I needed. 

I opened the heavy van door and stepped back out into the sunshine of the sidewalk. I walked the Rue de Rondeaux until it intersected with Avenue Père Lachaise. My feet upon that friendly avenue, I strolled a couple of shop, bistro, and flower-laden blocks intending to select the friendliest bistro I could.

Finally, on the corner by a round-about, was a bustling bistro. A pleasant-faced customer sitting outside smiled at me. "Bonjour," I said. "Bonjour," he replied. A hopeful start to my adventure. With as much confidence and nonchalance as I could muster, I entered the busy bistro. 

Leaning over the bar was an in-charge looking man with a pencil and notepad in one hand, a phone in the other. Rumpled, but nice enough attire, messy hair, a sort of grumpy face, he was in business mode. The stereotypical French man, I thought. I found him delightful. He looked authoritative, so when he looked up at me as I walked past, I asked, "Où est le toilette?" He made a curving and pointing motion with his arm and hand, and went back to his papers and phone.

"Thank you, Jesus!" My mind exploded with praise and gratitude to God. I turned the corner, found the old, narrow, dark-wood door with its well-worn brass hardware. It creaked when I pushed it open. I was faced with a clean, tiny, functioning bathroom. Nothing fancy, but I have never been happier to meet a restroom in my life. Not only did I find relief, but I found it using my little French and all on my own, against all odds. 

France made room for me!

After washing my hands really well - the cool water felt delicious on my skin! - my heart sang in thankfulness to God and the bistro man. I reversed my snaking path from the bathroom to the wide corner entrance. With a merci beaucoup and a smile, I left the man sort of scratching his head as if he knew something unique had just happened.

I skirted my way through the patio tables to the sunny sidewalk of Avenue Père Lachaise. 

"What have I just done? What happened?"

"Why, I navigated Paris by myself,. Timid little old me. French people showed kindness and generosity. And, Cherie. Cherie! Look where you are! Look what you are doing! You are ambling along a street in Paris alone and you are not afraid. And nothing hurts!"

I took a moment to look around, still walking slowly as I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself.  Excitement bubbled out of me. It was hard to contain. Flowers everywhere. Sidewalk cafés up and down the street. Friendly men, women, and kids. Straight ahead were the large, heavy, dark gates of the cemetery I had long dreamed of visiting, where so many notables are laid to rest. I was in Paris! I was happy! Thrilled! It was better than the movies; it was real. I could smell foliage, flowers, trees, soil, food, coffee, wine, pastries, bread. Oh, the bread! I felt the heat of the sun on my head, shoulders, and back. My mind comprehended French signs and window notices!  No translation necessary. I was immersed in France, and it felt terrific!

Paris embraced me! 

I floated my way back to the van, opened its unwieldy door, and hopped up into the passenger seat.

"I did it! I did it!"

Caroline and Charles, two of my staunchest cheerleaders, enthusiastically congratulated me and offered praise. Then, Charles said, "They let you in? They let you use the rest room?"

"Yes!" I answered excitedly. "Yes, they did. No problem." I relayed the entire experience to them.

With my objective met, we four settled into our seats, waiting for the rest of the gang to return. They had wandered into the furthest reaches of the cemetery and were trying to find their way out. About this time Charles began to think maybe he should visit the rest room since he had opportunity and time.

It was decided that Caroline could use a quiet moment in the van while Charles and I took baby Sylvie with us. I would show Charles the accommodating restaurant.

As we started down the rue, I told my son-in-law about a closer and friendlier looking establishment on the other side of the street that I had noticed as I floated home. We agreed to give it a go, though Charles was a little hesitant. He really didn't think it would work. But he is a learner and will try new things whether it's the French way or not.

We walked down the street and around the corner. I showed Charles the bistro with the pretty tables nestled amidst potted trees with a smattering of customers enjoying coffee and pastries en plain air. I told him I'd hold Sylvie. We'd be just fine. The owner or manager was very kind. Charles graciously asked if he could use the facilities and the man immediately directed him to the back of the room, no problem or hesitation at all. Then, he glanced out at me holding sweet little Sylvie, giving a nod of approval, an invitation to stay.

Sylvie and I relaxed in a red metal chair at a clean wooden table. Half-walls topped with flower pots and trailing vines separated us from the avenue. Pigeons flitted and flapped, some overhead, some walking around our feet pecking at food scraps. Sylvie craned her baby neck to get a good view of the pigeon-toed birds. They cocked their iridescent heads to look back at her. She looked at me and gave a huge toothless grin! I bounced her on my knee. Customers cooed at Sylvie, others smiled as they passed. Bonjour! Coucou! 

And I thought to myself, "I am sitting in Paris, down the street from Pére-Lachaise. I am bouncing my youngest daughter's daughter on my knee, at a sidewalk bistro. Pigeons are present. I hear French music! I hear the fast-paced French language. Soak it up, Cherie. Faites attention! Pay attention!" (Yes, my inner-narration was part in French, part in English. What can I say? It happens.)

Because I did pay attention, because I made myself be in the moment, because I soaked it all up and let it become a part of me, I remember every detail. Fondly. Vividly.

From excruciating pain to inexpressible joy sprinkled with serendipity, this joie de vivre moment rejuvenated my mind and soul. It reassured my belief in the kindness of family and strangers, refreshed my belief in God's provision during unusual circumstances, it reframed beauty and blessing in the everyday, and it emboldened me as a world traveler. 

For where are we without God? Where are we without the support and love of our families? And where are we, really, without the warmhearted souls all around us who open their lives in big and small ways to make ours just a little bit more comfortable.

Artful Day

An artful day introduces itself early, in the après dawn morning.

A heightened sensation of pleasure as I walk the hall gliding my warm fingers through silky clean hair, brow to nape, their tips gently massaging my scalp causing eyes to close, a smile to spread. Ah, life, health.

Warm water delights on my cheeks, eyes, nose, mouth, forehead, neck, drips like rain into the basin, swirls in rivulets down the drain as if merry in its journey. Soft creamy towel smells fresh, clean.

Crisp white luxurious bed sheets float and flatten, easily cooperate in bed making. Pillows seems to plump themselves, ordered, lying one upon another, pastel perfection. Smooth, ruffled, a parrot on a blue square pillow.

Bulging about-to-burst pear blossoms out the window, rain jewels sparkling along limbering branches, swaying ever so gently in the breeze, accepting the sun's intermittent rays, now here, now gone. And back.

Cool iron black French door handles twist and crunch, the door swings in. Brisk air brushes my face, lifts my hair, enters my nose carries welcome scents of wet garden soil, sun warmed cobblestones, damp foliage, and the neighbors' morning coffee. Bird song. Squirrel scamper. Shimmering tear-shaped raindrops blithely clutch the screen door's mesh as I slowly slide it left. Stepping onto the dark green wooden landing, my arms stretch up and outward, lungs fill with cool fresh air. Glorious! In my soft pink and gray plaid pajamas.

Vivid sensual offerings greet my every glance and turn. Lines of furniture, graceful light and shadows partnering in whimsical dance, my husband's wellies carefully positioned next to his loafers on the faded peach mud-rug by the front door, pointing north together, brown rubber and leather, resting like horses tethered in front of The Long Branch Saloon. Waiting to ride into the sunset. Or something.

Quiet. Not a car drives past. Not a neighbor strolls by. The refrigerator hums. The furnace clicks on with a faithful whoosh. 

Deep breaths. Eager reception of gifts always present, too oft unnoticed.

A good night's sleep, an observing mind, a cheerful mood.

Artfulness. 

An artful day, this. 

My our Artist God bless you with such abundance - and more - today and always.

Spring Fever, Mark Twain Quote

 

"It's spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want - oh, you don't quite know what it is you want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so!" ~~ Mark Twain

 

Grandpa Reads a Book

Little Iliana, my three year granddaughter, selected The Little Engine That Could from the shelf of children's books in my family room. Her grandpa, my Tom, knelt beside her as she pulled out first one book then another before settling on this classic. 

Grandpa suggested they sit in the living room to read, where tiny sister, Claire, age one, pushed herself along on her toy rolling horse, while holding a rainbow colored ball she found in the toy box. The wee ones' mama, our daughter, Cassie, and I were having a pleasant afternoon conversation while eating oatmeal raisin cookies made especially for this moment. 

Out the window a squirrel leaped from picket to picket along the fence. Crows squawked while perched in the newly-budding trees of the neighbor's yard. The sky was gray. Oregon gray. The air brisk. The day begged for homey child-play.

After snuggling into the soft sage sofa, his granddaughter beside him, Tom opened the hardback's cover. Having read this book to our four children, many many times, the pages were quite familiar. With expressive enthusiasm, Grandpa Tom read the old friend as if for the first time. Iliana's golden-curled hair framed her intent face as she leaned over the book, her chin on Grandpa's arm. 

My golden-haired husband read each page deliberately. With great care and interest he pointed out items in the illustrations, asking simple questions of Iliana, her answers quick, yet thoughtful. She remained riveted. 

From cover to cover the two traveled with the little engine that could meeting imaginary people and circumstances, all the while oblivious to Claire on her horse with her rainbow ball, to Mama munching a cookie, to Grandma smiling at the joy in the cozy living room, that room with its treasure trove of happy child-play memories spanning thirty-five years this May.

Joy, that balances the world. Sweetness, which softens the unpleasant. Love, which reminds us of the One who makes all things beautiful in His time.

Joie de Vivre Moments - French Cat and London Lemonade

Joie de vivre, a feeling of great happiness and enjoyment of life. 

How marvelous it is to curiously explore new places. In adopting the pace of a flâneur, casually ambling through cities, villages, and countrysides, joie de vivre moments reveal themselves. Little, larger, or life-changing, these unanticipated moments stop my tracks with something sweetly unusual, bewildering, fascinating. Concentration is required, rather than autopilot, to decipher this befuddlement. What am I seeing/hearing/smelling/feeling/tasting here? I don't understand. Do I have a frame of reference for this? What is going on? I like this! My curiosity is definitely piqued by what I consider a learning moment, a challenge, and so very often a petite plaisir, a little pleasure.

Or a big one. You never know. That's the fun of stumbling upon a joie de vivre moment. 

Examples of these intriguing moments are: the first time driving on the left side of the road (if that is new to you), learning to greet strangers with bonjour or buongiorno (and they respond in kind), passing mile upon mile upon mile of centuries old rock walls in Ireland's farmland (think of the hands and backs involved in gathering and laying all those stones), ubiquitous ancient castles strategically perched high in the crags (the history within those mighty fortresses), a full, honey-colored moon hovering above a hilltop Italian village (what this little village may have experienced in her lifetime?), and bell-tower bells counting the time, marking events, ringing invitations to pause together through those emotive ding-dongs.

Or, a joie de vivre moment can be as simple and as mystifying as a tethered cat.

Dogs tethered on ropes or leashes I have seen. I understand dogs need to be restrained. Horses, too, in certain circumstances.

But cats? 

One sunny morning in France, my husband, Tom, and I were strolling the streets of old Beynac, the ancient village just outside the walls of the castle, admiring architecture, shops, little restaurants, and galleries when suddenly I saw an intent feline, watching the world go by. Then, I noticed the leash. That is the moment my mind had to consciously catalogue what it saw. I stood there, transfixed, as my mind's gears and wheels did their work.

Questions immediately came to mind. Why? What would happen if the cat had no tether? Would it run away? Would it hurt someone or damage something? Was the cat not at its regular home but being cared for away from home thus requiring restraint for some reason? Was the cat ill? Was there a danger to the cat against which it was being protected?

No sure answers appeared for there was no one to ask nor was any information available.

Who cares that I don't know the why, I thought? This was the discovery of something unusual. 

A cat on a leash seems insignificant, I know, but the uniqueness of it jolted me with wonder. No, seeing a leashed kitty didn't make me happy. It was that I'd never seen it before, this scene before me. That cat was perfectly content, a pretty animal. My mind was bathed in the clarity of the brand new, the wonder-full. Here something completely foreign introduced itself to me. I saw all of it, without presumption. The child-like quality of my encounter conceived enjoyment.

A single month-long trip contains dozens of moments like this if I include even smaller things like counting out foreign money - each time a little less challenging - discovering new-to-me products while doing everyday shopping in supermarkets (toothbrushes with replaceable heads), the differences in the working of paid parking devices (why can't they all be the same?), and the deliciousness of street-vendor crépes.

Another example of a joie de vivre moment which intruded upon me all of a sudden, ocurrred while I was pleasantly engaged in conversation around a table in a little pub in London. An ordered glass of refreshing lemonade arrived by a busy server's hand. I had automatic expectations of how it would look and taste. As I absent-mindedly chatted, I took a sip. Brain jolt!. What is this?  I froze as my focus naturally went into deduction mode. What is this delicious flavor I have never experienced until this very minute? It is lemon, yes, but so light. Such tiny bright bubbles. My mind immediately began to process my questions and answers to pin down my personal conclusions, what is different, what is the same, do I like it? 

I more than like it, I love it. This is not like American lemonade, but it is every bit as tasty and refreshing.

The world slows nearly to a stop during joie-de vivre moments. Collisions with merry unexpectedness change me. Forever. Life's innate drudgery ebbs away replaced by color, brightness, happy satisfaction. Yes, even little things like counting foreign money, never heard of products in the aisles of French big-box stores, and  paying for parking while others wait for me to figure out the curmudgeonly machine. 

Eyes to see and ears to hear. A tongue to taste and skin to feel. A nose to smell. Soak in those moments, my friends. They are the sugar and spice of life.

More joie de vivre moments to come, including my encounter with French parking machines.

Bonne Journée, mes amis!

* photo of lemonade was taken in Sarlat, France, but London lemonade is just as lovely

You, Me, and a French Bench

Daydreams kick start my day. 

Friday morning, here, and I have yet to enjoy breakfast.

Daydreams and wishes gently couple and sway in a mind remembering.

My face is peaceful, relaxed.

Fond memories erupt one upon another, scenes from last summer, of Monet's Giverny garden. 

Crunching gravel paths underfoot. Endless varieties of floral offerings both dainty and colossal. Shimmering pink blossomed lily ponds and trickling streams.

Colors subtle and bold. Aromas sweet and spicy. Air humid and zephyrean.

In the rambling, welcoming maison, freshly painted sunlit rooms of pale yellow, sky blue, lavender, and Monet green rise from patterned tile floors and Persian rugs. Sheen-polished wooden antiques prompt musings, and masterful canvassed artwork overtakes high walls in the artist's gallery. 

As if existing in a painting, my senses immersed in loveliness, immense gratification floods my spirit.

With today's memory-beckoned daydream in mind, I welcome March. And with it hope of my own garden already sprouting, soon to flourish with surprise and expectation, serendipity and excitement. 

In my daydream, you join me on Monet's French bench in Giverny. Here we rest our feet and legs after crunching, inspecting, and sniffing our horticultural wonderland. Deep contended sighs from fresh-air filled lungs breathe in and out. Speaking in whispered tones so as not to disturb the bees and birds, even serenity herself, we gleefully design our own seasonal gardens.

In our whimsy, let's imagine today is the third of June rather than March. The cobblestones are warm, so is the bench. Blue sky overhead, greenery all around, with every color of flower floating above and within Monet's impressionist sea. Bird song. Humming bees. Giggling children. We find ourselves refreshed, rejuvenated, rejoicing in the enchantment of a friendly day in a lush and lovely place. 

Here we are, together, in le jardin de Monet. . .

. . . where dreams come true, their memory sweetly relived in daydreams.