travels

Leaving Nice - Antibes - Menton

I spent a week in Nice and have the lay of the land, at least the dozens of blocks surrounding my hotel and the roads along the beach heading east and west. I like Nice, it‘s a resort town no doubt but it’s also a place where real people live real lives. I can’t imagine how they live them during the summer when everything I’ve read, everything I’ve heard, everything I saw pointed to the fact that the entire place is one teeming mass of humanity and their vehicles moving along an inch at a time in scorching temperatures. It was bad enough in April and apparently, that was nothing. It would drive me crazy.

Ok, confession time. I didn’t have a singular cultural experience in Nice. I didn’t go to any museums, I didn’t tour any of the sites, I didn’t learn any more of the history than I already knew from my guide books. There were four museums there that held interest for me – the contemporary, the Matisse, the Chagall, and the Asian Art. I’d heard the contemporary was ok, not nearly the quality of Maigt. I used that as an excuse for not going but the bottom line is that I’ve discovered I don’t like to see the sites. I just don’t. I like to walk endlessly around neighborhoods and avenues, I like to sit in cafes and watch people and write, I like to study my French for hours in the morning over coffee. I like to drive with the top down along the beach. But I don’t like visit buildings with stuff in them, I don’t like to shop, and I don’t like to walk around places where something happened but the only thing happening now is that people are walking around hearing about it.

My regular schedule now has me arising in the morning and hightailing it to wherever I have to go for café; sometimes in my room, sometimes in the hotel dining room. I’d hoped to do yoga first but I’ve found that it’s just too difficult to do anything before coffee. Ok, so I get my coffee and I grab the paper and my dictionary and I choose an article to read. I browse through the entire paper and then read one piece or maybe only a part because at the speed I read in French, it would take me an entire week to get through the paper. It’s fun to read the local papers. They are much like any other local rag: beauty pageants, police blotters, local and national politics, sport. Unfortunately, the first article I tackled was a review of the new Milan Kundera book which was tough going but I did get through it. Book reviews are dense things in one’s native language so it wasn’t perhaps the best place to start but I was really curious about the book. Other articles about a photograph at auction going for ten times the expected price, an editorial on the pending referendum for the European constitution and the race to see who would be crowned the Queen of Arles were easier. I also spend the morning studying a variety of things, verb tenses, vocabulary -whatever I feel is lacking at the moment. On good days I do yoga after study and then prepare myself for whatever the afternoon holds. So far my rule that I do only one thing per day has worked out well. I’ve learned the art of walking slowly and really seeing what surrounds me, I’m in no hurry so obstacles cause me no concern at all, I can sit in a café and take two hours to eat a small lunch. I can sit without listening to music, reading, or watching TV. This may not seem monumental for some but for me, it is. I’ve always had to fill my head with elsewhere it seems; now I can be, just be. It’s a good feeling. I have to say though, my favorite thing is to choose a local café with the right ambiance and write. I’ve written more than what I’ve posted here, just as I’ve taken many more pictures than I’ve shared (taking pictures is another thing I’ve found I love) and I battle with myself sometimes about whether it’s a good thing to sit and document my thoughts and experiences rather than going out and having more of them. Actually, I don’t battle that hard. I like this writing thing and I sure like sitting in cafes, so I do.

I’m going to try to get down the basics of my time in Nice here, so I have it. Oh yes, I promised to tell you about being locked in a room with the pregnant, crying dachshund, so I’ll start there. After arriving in Nice I did my usual and tracked down an Internet café, so I could grab email, pay bills, and post. I found a place with access that was made up of two storefronts. When the WiFi didn’t work in the one place, Madam took me over to the other and set me up with a hard connection. After doing so, she rambled on rapidly in French that she was going over to the other place, that she could hear and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t catch. She left, locking the door behind her and me inside with the dachshund who immediately began whimpering. She was great with tiny dachshunds and I had no idea if she needed to go to the bathroom, whether she missed her mistress or whether she was preparing to give birth. I tried to let her out, finding of course, that the door was locked. I tried to finish what I was doing which was proofing a long email but her cries became more persistent. It was obvious she was feeling a great deal of discomfort around whatever it was that was bothering her. I start banging on the door to get the attention of Madam next door. Nothing. I banged on the adjacent wall. Nothing. It was very hot in the room and the dog, who was very dear and looked at me with large trusting eyes, and I were becoming increasingly more uncomfortable. After some time, I caught the attention of a passer by and motioned for her to tell the people next door that I needed them. The tiny, fifty something, blonde French Madam entered in a flurry of excuses. She could hear me, I should have done something else (I couldn’t quite figure out what it was she was saying I should have done.) I went on a mini French/English tirade about the dog about pounding and yelling and shouting to no avail. I stormed out as she asked innocently if perhaps I was finished. I didn’t send the email as my entire time was spent trying to figure out how to get me and the dog out of our predicament and I didn’t bother wondering if I was expected to pay for the privilege, I just left. I was worked up in a way I hadn’t been for some time so I spent the time walking it off. I discovered that a great deal of space in my neighborhood was a pedestrian mall with a plethora of cafes and restaurants. I slowed my pace and began taking pictures and adjusting to my previous state of contentment.

As I started to cool down, the weather changed and it began raining, hard and then harder. I headed for Le Prado, a café I’d seen before, one that didn’t look nearly as touristy as some of the others. I made it under the cover without getting too wet and ordered a panache, a lovely concoction of beer and lemonade (yes, I know it’ a shandy but they’re different here). I sipped my drink and watched as others made it through the rain in whichever way they do that particular thing. The best thing I saw and one for which I’ll always regret not having my camera ready was a man and a women, each pushing a stroller with a toddler in it, each with a tiny umbrella covering them. The café was half full and after a time, the group next to me engaged me in conversation. They were Nicoise and curious about where I was from and what I was doing in Nice. One young man was particularly attentive and while I had no interest in meeting men, I was interested in speaking French. He was willing to put up with my broken French and helped me find the right words. He was also interested in practicing his English so it was mutually agreeable situation. He was a painter and was born and raised in Nice. He loved the idea of the United States and made it very clear that he couldn’t care less about the current state of world affairs – that was politics and best left to the politicians. He told me he would love to show me around his town and we agreed to meet the next day.

As it was one of the first truly beautiful days, I wanted to take the convertible out for a spin so we headed to Antibes. Antibes is yet another charming, old Roman coastal town and we spent the afternoon wandering the streets and the port, taking in the numerous multi-million dollar yachts. Once again, I passed up wandering around the Picasso museum, though I did stop to view the building, an old chateau. We had a fabulous meal at the Vieux Mur (everything is a Vieux something here) and drove back home along the water.

I agreed to meet him again the next day for a trip to Menton, a coastal town past Monaco, bordering Italy. While I didn’t get to live my dream driving the grand corniche opting instead for the safer lower corniche along the water, the trip was extremely beautiful. As as in Antibes, there were snow covered mountains in the distance and steep hills towering over the very, very blue water. Both days were spent wandering aimlessly and speaking French. It was most enjoyable and it amazed me how much my French improved, having to speak it all day. It was all very nice and while I think Sami was interested in finding an American bride, I was grateful for the chance to improve so much.

The last couple days I spent wandering around old Nice, seeing a movie, doing laundry and eating leisurely meals. I plan to attend as many movies as is feasible as watching the movie in English and reading the French subtitles (since my reading ability vastly outstrips my listening ability) is a great learning experience and I get to catch up on the latest cinema to boot. I’ll probably try to take in a couple French films as well, though I get a lot of it on the TV. I noticed today that I reached a new plateau as I can follow conversations much more easily.

I’m in Avignon now, after a night in St Remy de Provence. I’m waiting for my friend Colin who arrives from Paris by train. More later with loads of photos. Love to all.

Arriving Nice

How many words are there for charming? Everywhere here in the South of France is so darn charming I don’t know what else to call it. The French language seems even more constrained for words that connote goodness, near as I can tell – tres jolie, tres agréable, tres chameaux. Nice is lovely, quaint, alive, bustling but in a relaxed way. The people are well turned out, not dressed up just well put together. Mostly jeans and shirts, jackets, and casual wear but with attention paid to detail. The women really do wear scarves in a multitude of ways and the men seem to have equal clothes savvy, more than once I’ve played gay or eurotrash. In general, you don’t see people wearing track suits or beach clothes anywhere except the track or the beach.

I went to a sushi restaurant this evening (written Saturday, April 23). I was looking for something lighter and I had a hankering for sake. I really, really like sake. And this sake was truly bad. It tasted how I imagine perfume would taste if one were a raging alcoholic on a bender with nothing else to consume. They serve it warm by default, I asked for it cold as that’s how I’ve always drank it. Perhaps served warm, one can’t tell how awful it is. I noticed they didn’t put it on my bill, so they must have some inkling. The sushi was ok but expensive, smaller than what we get in the US, and of exceedingly average quality. Ten pieces of sake, maguro, unagi, and tomago with a small bottle of water was 31 euro. Back to French food, methinks. It was nice to have raw fish and wasabi though.

[apologies to quelqu’un who originally got these words in a letter, at least I’m cribbing my own work]

I’m now happily residing at the Hotel Windsor which is very modest but truly wonderful. The staff is extraordinarily friendly and helpful and ma chambre is large, if not luxurious. Its finest features are the two 12” windowed doors that open onto the petit terrace overlooking the gardens. It’s located about one block down and five blocks into the old town from where I was at the Negresco. It’s funny, the Negresco failed miserably at being a fine hotel, and it showed in almost everything they did (except the art collection which really is something) The Windsor has very chic, modern common rooms and the guest rooms are simple and just a tad worn. But it’s fine because the hotel knows exactly what it is and that shabbiness makes it more charming.

Leaving St. Paul

[One in a series of catch up notes. I’ve not been able to find connection anywhere that didn’t involve being locked in a room with a pregnant crying dachshund. More on that later]

I left St. Paul this morning (written Saturday, April 23. Happy birthday Mom) and it was bittersweet. A new crop of people arrived at the villa the day before and they were wonderful, but it felt like a good time to turn the page. As was my impression from the first day, the entire experience was perfect. It didn’t feel at all like I was traveling alone as the owners, Ann and John, as well as the other guests, Sarah, Jim and their daughter Lilly and Jim’s parents Jules and Dorothy took me under their wing and made me one of them. I loved hearing Jules’ and Dorothy’s stories of working and raising a family in New York – from childhood to the post-war years to the present; about Sarah and Jim’s extensive travels and love and experiences with great art; Lilly’s many pursuits – learning French, studying the violin, taking riding lessons and Anne and Jim’s pending plans for summer travel to Scotland and Malta. All were just as interested in me as I was in them and we passed wonderful hours over the week chatting. Sarah, Lilly, and I spent a grand morning on my terrace practicing yoga with Baron on the iPod. Yoga drishti is much easier when your gaze point is a sailboat far away atop the Mediterranean. Most dinners were spent at the Vieux Roulin where Madam also took me under her wing and by the third night I was a regular with my habit of taking my coffee on the terrace well understood. Madam would come out to make sure I wasn’t cold and to admire the moon and the quiet and beauty of the village. I know it is very different in July and August and I’m thankful that I experienced it before it was overrun by the hoards. One very memorable dinner was spent with Ann and Jim in their kitchen. I’d decided that I really didn’t want to go anywhere when the phone in my room rang and it was Ann asking if I’d like to join them for a simple dinner John had prepared. It was a chicken and turkey tart with a light crispy crust and was served with a Provencal rose, a wine I’d never thought I’d drink and now I rarely drink anything else with my meals. The conversation was light but meaningful turning equally from politics to work to travel. When traveling alone, eating a family meal with two people who you would enjoy no matter the circumstance is a gift.

Even the changing of the guard (as I think of the arrival of the new guests) was a treat; two more lovely sets of people with which to share stories and revelry. And I was happy to have their presence at my farewell gesture, where John taught me to open a bottle of champagne with a saber. When I say open, it doesn’t mean pulling the cork off, it means taking the entire top off. I have the glass bound cork to prove it. The history comes from the Napoleonic wars where the generals would celebrate a victory by using their sabers to open whatever champagne the pillaged or ported. It’s a unique feeling, one I had no idea existed and one I’m very glad I have in my cadre of experiences. If you’re wondering, the action doesn’t require strength, though I imagine it requires leverage even if it doesn’t feel like that either. It feels a bit like magic as the saber passes over the top of the bottle and the entire head goes flying into the swimming pool below.

During my time in St. Paul, I didn’t do much, though I accomplished what I wanted: finished a day of paperwork that was hanging over my head, seeing the collection at the Fondation, wandering around the old town, doing some laundry, getting my belongings reorganized, and napping at will. Those of you who can’t or won’t nap, I am sorry for you. It is a luxury accessible by anyone with a little extra time and the desire to step out for a moment. The copious amount of time I have here is beyond luxury for which I will be forever grateful. Thank you Macromedia and especially to whomever it was who thought it important enough that people of our ilk get the chance to step out for a moment and made it so.

St. Paul de Vence

I've posted new photos of St. Tropez and St. Paul where I am now.

I arrived in St. Paul de Vence Tuesday about 4 PM and I was grateful to be A: stationary and B: in such a beautiful place . For some reason (j'ai besouin de mon "navigator") I wasn't able to get on the A8 out of St. Tropez and ended up in what I call Dragon, which is actually Draguignan. I could have continued through Grasse to Vence but the hairpin curves were making me seasick, so I opted for the first exit to the A8 I could find, which I believe was the same as that we took from Moustiers on Friday night. The trip wasn't that long, either way, and when I arrived I found the hotel was owned by two Americans, who were perfectly content, if not relieved, to be speaking English.

The hotel is amazing and beautiful and I'm so glad to be here; so much so that I inquired about a fourth night which will be so. It is a modern structure with vaulted, airy great rooms, simple, clean lines with white walls, blue accents and marble and glass abounding. Pix are in the photo albums.

The town is another incredibly charming Romanesque ville with a history of artists painting here. The town is the size of a postage stamp and has 64 art galleries within its walls. I spent the day at the Fondation Maeght (really, do glance at the pix) and it was all that. I'd looked forward to seeing it and it did not disappoint. While I've wandered through the ville and the Fondation the last couple of days lunching at the Cafe de la Place (conceived, built and resided in by Yves Montand until his death) and supping at the Le Vieux Moulin, I've spent the time regrouping. The course was taxing, the demi road trip across the Cote d'Azur was fun but tiring and St. Tropez was lovely but not relaxing. At this place, here, I've studied, napped, and completely reorganized my belongings with the intent of shipping one entire suitcase home. (I don't recommend packing with a fever of 101.)

St. Paul is charming, for certain but it is also the first place I've experienced with the dreaded tour buses. I've seen more Americans en masse here (as well as Germans and Italians) than any of the other spots I've happened into. I don't care what country their from, people of one place entering en masse is not a pretty sight. The tour buses are gone by dinner but the presence of school groups and large slightly xenophobic travelers can nearly suck the charm right out of a place. As St. Paul has a surplus, it's ok but I'm glad that I will be travel ling back into the innards of Provence, where I'm less likely the encounter the same.

And while it's been really nice spending time with Ann and John here at the villa and the other group of guests - three generations (five total) of the same family from Brooklyn and Paris - speaking English all day has diminished the small bit of French I've acquired.I continue to study each day, however, and it does get easier.

There's a lot I want to write about how to tell if someone is American by looking at their shoes, how gaggles of school children babble like brooks, equally stream and particle, and about the light in Provence. Much has been said about all, I believe, especially the light in Provence (it really is different) but my muse is sleeping, as must I maitenant.

Tomorrow I plan on beginning the day on my terrace, practicing yoga with my new friend Sarah and then perhaps lunch at the Colombe D'or, de rigeur for the new arrivals.

Phone, St. Tropez, and autre detritus

I received directions from mademoiselle at the front desk to a phone store, to le Geant, a WalMart with a French name. I drove out of town looking despairingly at the stalled traffic attempting to enter and found the phone store. (Not before seeing two camels grazing by the side of the road, apparently part of a fair. Hunter Thompson indeed.) The very nice man at the store attempted to fix my phone to no avail, I ended up purchasing a new, very cheap one; not at all like my tres moderne Razr but it works, which is very much better. Function before form, after all. The good news is that I conducted the entire day in French, getting directions and figuring out the phone. They understood me, I basically understood them and no one had to repeat themselves. I try to imagine what I sound like, imagining someone speaking heavily accented broken English, and hope that it's not too bad. I'm sure I get points for trying and I've achieved all my objectives so all is well.

On the way home, while sitting in traffic, I called Tim to check in and get Colin's number. Tim informed me that at that moment, he learned that Adobe and Macromedia had merged, which caused a long moment of silence on my part while I absorbed the information. It is not particularly surprising when one thinks of it, but I hadn't thought of it. I have six more weeks of travel, so it will be some time before I fully grasp the implications.

I am now in an Internet cafe - Le Giraffe - with a fine, hardwire connection and a panache (beer and lemondade). I’m going to take advantage of the connection and upload some photos for your visual enjoyment. Bon soir.

Phase 1.5

Phase 1.5

It began at dinner, where my classmate Simon was feeling ennui. Simon is a Brit and I’m sure pronounces his name exactly as you just read it - Si-mon - but we used the French pronunciation and called him See-mo - the name I will think of when I think of him. I asked him if he could do anything to cure this feeling, what would it be? To which he responded and for this I will always respect him, I want to go to Monte Carlo and lose all of my money on one hand of blackjack. As the world’s greatest enabler, I couldn’t let such a mission remain a wishful thought so I uttered the only possible response - Let‘s Go. We finished dinner and began the good-byes, final pictures, and remembrances that comprise one’s last evening with a group. I could tell that Seemo was going back and forth in his mind about the viability of such an excursion but eventually curiosity won out and he approached me and told me to be ready. It was really no big deal for me, I had just about packed and the only thing left to do was get a ride to Marseille the next morning to retrieve my car. (In the interest of full disclosure, as I write this, my mind is thinking both the words that I’m committing to this page and the French equivalent, which I’m sure are only partially correct, in pronunciation if not in structure.)

I went back to my room and finished throwing things into my bags, a process made easier by time being more important than good organization. I had hoped to escape into the night by telling only an organizer that I was leaving and leaving my good-byes for later emails but it was not to be. At least five other participants and one instructor waylaid us on the way to the car and I’m sure we were a hot topic at breakfast the next day. Who leaves at 10 PM and drives to Monaco? Well, Seemo and me for one; I hope that there are others.

Once again, I must describe my setting, as I probably will with each entry. It’s just too interesting not to. And that is the point of this blog, yes? I’m sitting in an outdoor cafe on the old port of St. Tropez. A busker just began playing guitar and singing at the cafe two doors down. He’s not bad in the singer songwriter way. For my guitar inclined friends, it looks like he’s strumming a Martin, so he must not do too badly. There are about eight boats that cost the GNP of a small country docked within sight. It’s colder than it should be for my optimistic skirt but just about right for my new sweater. The cafe has a modern motif, with the outdoor chairs facsimiles of the (Eames?) tulip chairs. It is Monday and there are many strolling around sporting more or fewer layers according to their optimism or temperament. There are enough school-aged children to make me think it is school vacation somewhere. I know it was last week in Provence, perhaps these families are squeezing in one extra day. The busker is now singing a song with a refrain that has St. Tropez in it, reinforcing my initial thought that he is kind of a French Jimmy Buffet.

Alors, back to adventures with Seemo. After a little fussing about finding the right road, we began our adventure, wending our way down French country roads through small Provencal towns to the A8. As Seemo had some experience getting to and from Nice he basically knew the way. Radiohead was playing through the trusty Sony speakers, whose alarming lack of bass becomes apparent in the car but it was wonderful nonetheless. We both knew all the songs anyway so even a suggestion of a song was enough to satisfy us. As is the case with all good road trips, Thom would utter the perfect line that captured the exact moment. It would be eerie if I’d not experienced it before, as it was, I took it as a blessing. It rained on and off, not enough to make it dangerous, only atmospheric.

Eventually, we ended up in Monte Carlo. It was about 1 AM but who cares, as the casinos are open all night. We didn’t know, in any way, where we were or where we were going but as we turned a corner, there was L’Hermitage in all its glory. What could one do but enter and inquire if they had rooms available for the night? We did and they did; we inquired about the casinos. They were all closed, the monsieur assured us, all was closed. I thought it odd but perhaps my understanding of the place was in error. No, it was the day of Prince Rainier’s funeral and all was closed in his honor. The mission was delayed but the spirit was quite enough to keep us happy. The hotel was wonderful, the service impeccable and there was even a thunderstorm to watch from the terraces overlooking the harbor and the start/finish line of the F1 race.

The next day, I spent the morning lazing about whilst Seemo tried to find a casino to complete his mission. It was not to be as they opened at 5 PM and I needed to be in Marseille by 4 to pick up my car. The next few hours were spent traveling the A8 to Marseille and back to Nice, dropping off one car and picking up another. It was uneventful but a shame as it would have been better to spend the time seeing something of the Cote d'Azur. We ended up in Nice at 7 and found went to the Negresco, a hotel with a much better reputation than it deserves. It was fun nonetheless as we enjoyed a grande repas and a stroll along the water.

The next day, we had breakfast in the truly garish cafe in the hotel. It attempted to decorate itself as a carousel, with pink , green, and white icing, the booths little carousel seats and horses circling the perimeter. Every now and then music would sound and the horses would prance up and down on their poles while the . It was nightmarish and I felt the only way to truly experience it was a la Hunter Thompson. Fear and loathing in Nice.

After, I took Seemo to the airport, a task usually performed with only thoughts of pending travel but made more difficult by the very broken suitcase. When Seemo arrived, the French police decided his bag was a bomb threat and cut it open with a knife. Of course, there was no bomb and apparently they claim they could not employ the zipper to open the bag as it most certainly would have set off the imagined bomb. This made checking in and out of hotels amusing with the suitcase jury rigged with a strap holding it together and belongings threatening to exit at any moment but presented real difficulties for boarding the plane. All turned out well, as the nice woman in the airport office wrapped the suitcase in approximately 27,000 straps and air itself could not escape. At this point, Seemo was on his way and I was left to retrieve my car from the car park and head to St. Tropez. Le commencement a phase deux.

Phase Deux

Phase one of the adventure is over, phase two has officially begun. I may have actually moved to phase three or probably more accurately, there was a phase one and a half. I'll explain in a minute. Let me first explain my exterior and interior setting. My exterior is the Hotel Sube which is located smack in the middle of the old port in St. Tropez. The room is small, simple and comfortable. The double bed and its white cotton spread take up the majority of the room and the single window looks out onto a large palm tree. I'm sitting on the bed, lazily eating breakfast from a tray. The breakfast is typical and does not vary much from place to place - coffee, bread, jam, maybe a croissant or small pastry. The coffee is good and madam brought a small jug of fresh, warm milk which is so good I believe it to be unpasteurized. The iPod and his little Sony speakers are on random all and just moved from Sinead O'Connor's _Nothing Compares 2 U_ to White Stripes' _Cannon_. I didn't even know I had any Sinead O'Connor

My interior setting is a little jumbled. I awoke at 8:30 this morning after a long and much needed sleep. I spent most of the evening dozing with the very small television, perched on an equally small platform about a foot from the ceiling, tuned to dubbed British and American movies - Inspector Frost and some Lou Gosset stick. I was surprised at how much of it I could understand though I was so tired I watched only five or ten minutes at a stretch. My brain is still doing this split duty thing, thinking thoughts in English and immediately translating everything to French. I've even caught it thinking the first bit in French and translating it into English. It is now doing triple duty as it tries to craft readable prose out of its simple English thoughts. It's odd, as my mind works at creating thoughts in two langugages, it has no room or energy for extraneous words or thoughts. I cannot recall even the simplest memories, what actor played what role, the name of my favorite Beck song, or the more descriptive English words. I'm left with good, fine, can, can't, who, what, where, when, and how. It's serviceable, if not elegant. Yesterday, I discovered a little note on the tourist office, indicating that they are a WiFi hot zone, so I'm hoping the stretch of outdoor cafes along the port benefit from this and I can spend lunch time posting this and reading and sending emails. I'm a touch worried about my big bag, which is locked in the trunk of the car in the public parking lot; the hotel has no parking and no doorman, getting my bags from car to room was my task. I just couldn't schlep two months worth of my belongings across the crowded, cobbled streets, despite the wariness I had for leaving anything in the trunk. It is a crowded area though, full of yachts and people who like to look at them and the lot has security. I'm hoping for the best as one does after they've done something potentially stupid. The ultimate wisdom of the decision is in the outcome, which I won't know for a little while yet.

As I'm in St. Tropez the astute of you realize that I've finished my French course. It was a wonderful, wonderful experience; the people in the course and those who run it were, to a person, interesting, interested beings. I received my certificate and evaluation on Friday evening, which came as no surprise. My written and reading skills are reasonably high, I still struggle with listening and speaking. For starting at zero in June, I not terribly concerned and I have a few more weeks to practice. I've conducted a few scenarios completely in French, and though they were simple, I was pleased with myself.

Yesterday, I ate a small, very late lunch or early supper in a cafe just outside my hotel, then walked around a small part of old St. Tropez. It is a beach town with tourists and a disproportionate number of shops open on a Sunday evening. The sun peeked in and out of the clouds and I stopped to buy an off-white cotton and silk sweater to keep warm. Its texture and color reminds me of what you might throw on after a long day on the water, when the wind begins to chill your slightly sunburned skin. The streets are narrow, the shops luxe and there were at least five groups of men playing boules in the small park. I heard a smattering of English and German but mostly French. Today, I must contend with mostly practical matters, find a mobile phone shop to try to deal with my phone / SIM card issue. Despite a brand new SIM, I can't get it to work. I'd also like to find a leather shop to see if I can repair the little nubbin on my leather bag that holds down the flap over the pocket. It came off in a trick I could only attribute to a professional magician. This very large brass fitting escaped through a very, very small hole and I have no idea how to make it get back in there and do its job. I'd hoped to do laundry too but that seems a little ambitious due to the crowds, parking, hotel, luggage situation. I'm also planning on clearing up a little paperwork and studying a bit of French. Along with exploring more of the town, that should take up the day. It's a little cloudy today and I've not yet opened the window to figure out the temperature (il fait frois ou il fait chaud?) but I anticipate the high 50's low 60's it's been.

Ah - and about phase 1.5? I've reached my limit on prose and I anticipate you've reached yours as well. I'll leave it until next time. Suffice it to say that it began with a mission and ended in an airport two countries, three cities, two cars, and one very broken suitcase later.

To my family (and others who have written)

still struggling with the technology here. the sim card in my phone gave up the ghost and i'm pressed for time here in aix which means the following: i have read and very much appreciate your emails and even though i'm not responding today i will so you should keep writing them. i haven't received voice mails but will call as soon as humanly possible.

Finally a reliable connection - in Aix

I'm sitting in a lovely little cafe in Aix-en-Provence coiffing a beer and working on my very own computer. The folks who run the course were kind enough to offer an outing today (Saturday) and brought a number of us to Aix; the others are on a hike around the Gorge du Verdon. Since I was jonesing for a connection and a little city life, I chose Aix.

Things are going well, I continue to struggle with the language though I'm improving. I can understand the gist of most conversations but I sure don't speak so well. I'm in this twilight place where I'm thinking simultaneously in French and in English and you can imagine that my thoughts have slowed down considerably as I translate in my mind. Everyone is very nice to me and patient as I take my time forming sentences.

Mornings are in the classroom, which I love. It's the right speed and the right material and it gives me hope. Afternoons, we go on outings: Tuesday we hiked to Les Moustiers, Wednesday we visited the L'Occitane, Thursday we hiked to Riez to visit a beekeeper, Friday we visited a man who cultivates truffles. Each outing was conducted, as is everyday, entirely in French. It's amazing how much one can understand without understanding each word. Everyone who has been good enough to show us their work has been amazingly kind and truly interested in imparting what information they can. The gentleman with the truffle farm was especially sweet. He first took us through a PowerPoint presentation that explained the history of truffle cultivation, the horticultural aspects of it and the ups and downs of the business. As he says, it's not an occupation, it's a passion. No one would be crazy enough to do it for the money. After we viewed the presentation, we went out with his dog to hunt truffles, which the dog found immediately (small ones, as it's quite off-season) then we visited the fields of small oak tress that are home to the malady that creates truffles. With all that he does to cultivate them, the actually process is a mystery - it's magic, he tells us. After the tour, we repaired to a picnic table where he served us (on platters, with proper drinking glasses) Muscat and bits of toast with butter and truffles. It was a moment. I forgot my USB cable or I would upload the photos - those will come later.

It's interesting, I wondered who I would be as I lived without the weapon of language and it turns out I'm just me. I certainly can't verbalize much of what I want to but I know that the people I'm with have a very accurate sense of who I am. It makes me wonder what it is that gives people a sense of person, as it's clearly not just language.

Here in Aix, I spent this afternoon with a lovely woman from our course who is originally from Scotland and England but has spent most of her life in Canada. She now lives in the South of France, on the Cote d'Azur. We spoke English, spending a large amount of time with me and only speaking French would drive one crazy. I'm so glad we did as I was able to hear her life's story. At least as much of it as one can fit into a couple of hours. I was facinated she spoke of her begninings in theatre at the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre (now the Royal Shakespeare Company) where she worked alongside Gielgud, Olivier, Redgrave, Leigh, Ashcroft and all the other luminaries of English theater. She emigrated to Canada in the late '50's where she worked in theater in Toronto, Stratford, and Ottawa. She worked for the Canada Council for the Arts producing theater for the Centenial, she worked for the CBC finding new writers to produce, she directed and produced and generally spent her life in the arts in the '60s, 70's, 80's and onward. I know that I was exposed to only the broadest strokes of her life but I want desperately to hear more. I'm hoping we can sneak off somewhere next week to speak English again. I urged her to write it down and my mission before I leave is to convince her of the importance.

Tomorrow I do laundry and study; I have to make a ten minute presentation on Monday which will take me a good bit of work to prepare. Next week I'll continue my struggles and will come out the other end and begin my travels.

Arrgh, it lost my post

I just finished a very long post about my experiences so far and the connection went down as I saved it. UGH. I don't want to leave my faithful readers without a little more information, so I will create a synopsis.

French improving but it's very, very difficult. À Etats-Unis, je suis intelligent; à France; je suis un idiot. The setting is beautiful, the people are very nice and the food is amazing (trés jolie, trés gentil, trés, trés bonne). Yesterday we hiked about 6k across the mountains to the local village (Les Moustiers) and I learned the words for the flora and fauna, the animals, and the local history. Now I study (fais de devoirs).