Sunny today again, and again the thermometer will climb into the low 20s. Very pleasant. Warmer than it was last week when I wore this comfortable combo. Yeah, I might be guilty of defaulting to sweats more often during Covid-19 than I used to do. . . .
And when I’m out and about on my neighbourhood walks, making the most of my surroundings, noting the abundant beauty I didn’t have to fly nine hours to find, my main accessory would be my earbuds — that’s a French podcast you can’t see in the photo. The M0851 pouch I permanently borrowed from my husband (it was his “entry man-bag” many, many years ago; he’s long since graduated to a full-size version). I rarely need a bag of any size these days, but the pockets in those sweatpants can’t quite hold my sunglasses, phone, keys, kleenex, and mask. . . .I tried. . .
The little park where those poppies grow has become a regular destination/turning-point if I want a quick walk (about 30 minutes there and back, with some time for photo-snapping). . . .
Along the way, I pass several community gardens. . . .The corner of this one is particularly picturesque, don’t you think? Although from what I know of buttercups, someone’s got hours and hours of weeding to do. . . .
I mean, it’s not Paris, nor Sicily, nor Rome. None of the places I’d have been visiting right now, if not for. . . well, you know. . . .
But it’s not too shabby. . . .
My thoughts do turn to travel, I’ll admit, despite my current contentment with my situtation. Yesterday, organizing my desk, I pulled out my most recent travel journal and wandered some Paris streets in memory. And I thought you might like to look over my shoulder. . . .
I’m writing the day after my arrival in Paris last December, plunged right into the transportation problems occasioned by a National Strike. An exhausting arrival, but I rallied, had a great evening, and then came back to frustrating, disappointing news. . . .
This was an entry that spanned a few meals in favourite spots, all within walking distance of a favourite little hotel in St. Germain. How completely overturned are all those patterns now. What will be happening at my friend’s neighbourhood hangout in the 13th, where I’ve been introduced to the owner, whose bistrot must support his young family? Or at the elegantly casual Les Cocottes on Rue Saint Dominique? Or the always bustling (except it’s not, always, now) Nemrod where I sat close enough on the banquette to observe the small drama of the couple next to me?
So much of the atmosphere I love while eating in Paris, to be honest, has to do with the way diners enjoy their meals in a proximity that’s sometimes uncomfortable for those of us from countries, cities at least, of much less density. But a proximity that’s rich in the way boundaries are unspoken but firm, an intimacy that doesn’t intrude. Over and over, we’ve experienced this, and Paul and I sometimes enumerate, from memory, some of the conversations we’ve had with a diner at the adjoining table. Yet never has the conversation been prolonged a sentence beyond what suited. . . (And once, I took home the most wonderful souvenir, the page handwritten in my journal by a gracious, elderly woman sitting elbow-to-elbow with us in a tiny bistro — I wrote about that in this post).
Hard to imagine how (or even whether) this ambiance, this way of life, the controlled expansiveness that cafés and restaurants and bistros and brasseries create and nurture, will return to Paris. Even in the few days I was there in December, it was evident that many businesses were badly stricken by the effects of the grève (or grèves, perhaps more accurately). I’m not sure how close they’d crept to recovery before the lockdowns of Covid-19. . .
But I know that I’m poised to return and do my part to support them as soon as that travel is again feasible. Meanwhile, they have my sympathy, for what it’s worth.
And I have my memories, stirred up by my travel notes. . .
As always, I’m happy to help you decipher a word or phrase if you find my handwriting too much of a challenge. . .
But isn’t it just the handwriting you’d expect from someone with a mop like this? (my stylist called last week — and I was able to book an appointment for June 23rd! Not complaining about the wait, especially given the extra work they have at the salon now, longer days so that they can style enough coifs to make a living, leaving twenty minutes between clients so that they can disinfect their stations and ensure a minimum of bodies in the room at one time. Front-line workers in their own right.)
(May I confide? It’s not just the deep naso-labial fold, nor those vertical indentations framing my mouth, nor the thinned upper lip, nor the puckering above it — unfair to a non-smoker, it seems to me — that I sometimes marvel at, in the mirror or in a photograph like this. The aging was always, obviously, inevitable. But what I never, ever expected was that my mother’s physiognomy would manifest itself in my very flesh. I mean, I understand DNA, theoretically, but I never thought, nor was I ever told, that I resembled her. But that mouth might have been photo-shopped directly from her portrait. So uncanny.)
Let me work my way back to where I began this post. . . .
now that I’ve taken you to pre-Covid Paris via my journal. . .
we will land right back in my neighbourhood park
Where there are poppies growing on a grassy hillside in the middle of a city. . .
and sometimes there is sunshine. . .
and sometimes simple goodness and joy. . . .
Happy Weekend!
Now that we are all Zooming and video messaging, I too am struck by my mother staring back at me on the screen. Eyes, it seems. And the strange neck that has been bequeathed by my father's side of the family. Not much to be done there, my brothers are the same. It's quite comforting in a way.
Loved reading this post…..not least because I have had some lovely lunches at both Nemrod (on Cherche-Midi, n'est ce pas?) and Les Cocottes. It's fun to read old travel journals. It transports us back to the place and also to who we were when we were there.
Also love how your hair is growing, looks wonderful from this vantage point. I have an appointment booked for June 10th and it can't come soon enough. I have been searching online for "edgy short hairstyles for women over XXX or for gray hair". The time before a haircut is always ripe with anticipation and fantasies about how it will look. My favorite Audrey Hepburn movies are the ones where she gets a new 'do, Sabrina and Roman Holiday!
Gosh I am jealous of your hair, Frances. Mine is hearkening back to the mop I had as a child. Heavy, curly in places, lumpy in others. Thank goodness for hats. I'm writing a post today about trying to find tops that look okay with my changing colour… is it blonde, white, brown-ish? Or all three? Ha.
Love that walk you take. Part of the benefits of living in a lovely urban environment. xo
Must admit, my US penchant for space has always made me uncomfortable about the close seating in UK/European restaurants. But last year, my daughter and I were in London and one experience changed my mind. We had tickets for the ballet and found a French restaurant just steps away from the theatre for a pre-performance dinner. V. close-seating–practically elbows touching. Next to us–another mother-daughter couple–though we didn't know it at first. But they were gregarious and funny; it wasn't long before our conversations became intertwined. The mother asked if we'd been to the UK before. Explained that I grew up there; my mother was British. She asked where and I indicated several locations in London and a small village in the Essex countryside. She asked which village. I named it and she broke out in laughter. Turns out she lived only a couple of miles from where there. Talk about serendipity.
Your posts during this quarantine time are so enjoyable…..Paris is a city dear to my heart and I love reliving so many similar experiences that you describe in your sketches and in your prose……Rome is an entirely different city but also one dear to my heart and I enjoy reading about your adventures there as well. But, your Vancouver adventures and images are just as amazing! After visiting your exciting city and walking every city street that our legs would continue to carry us, we were simply stunned by it's cleanliness, vibrancy, friendliness, variety of culture. You are so fortunate to "stay at home" in such a beautiful place. I know you appreciate it as well. I live in Michigan and feel lucky, too! Janie
Yes, yes! I feel as though we've both treasured and taken for granted those travel social interactions…who knows what form they will take in the coming months and years? But human nature being what it is, I think we have an innate desire to connect, and will find a way.
And you don't look any different than the Frances I first met 11 (!!!) years ago next month. But I can relate to the "I look just like my mother" shock. DNA will out. 😉
I think your "mop" is something that lots of people would pay lots of money to achieve.
Zoom screens are very harsh, I've found, except to the few whom the camera loves and I'm not one of them. That close up photo of you is very youthful and your hair looks wonderfully relaxed. "Relaxed" – perhaps that's the term we need to adopt about our no-hairdresser haircuts. On ageing, I somehow accepted I would (hoped I would, since my mother didn't) get old, but that it was only other people who experienced the saggy neck, vertical non-smoker upper lip lines etc. What a shock to discover them happening without so much as a by-your-leave. Nothing for it but to go with the flow and keep moving! I have become my father, and my grandmother – both redoubtable characters which I am not. So while you have your mother's looks, do you feel you have her character?
You are making me think of keeping a travel diary when travels restart. I have had such immense pleasure during lockdown reading the weekly letters I wrote home during my teaching year in France. France on the cusp of the 1980s, all the people I'd forgotten about, all the chance conversations on long train journeys, all the generous invitations by French families, trips to Italy. Just think, when we are too old to travel (perhaps at around 104 years of age), what fun we can have reading back through these diaries.
You've inspired me to go back and read my travel journal. We had to cancel our trip to Spain in May and most likely will cancel our trip to Portugal in November. BTW, you were the reason we ate at Les Cocottes!
slf
Annie: The surprise for me is that my looks were always more associated with my dad's side. But it's quite startling to see the maternal resemblance now. Wish I could point it out to her . . .
Adele: It is! Cherche-Midi and Saint Placide, a great spot for people-watching if you get a seat at a table outside. . . . Sigh . . .
I've just read a great passage about hair styles (hopes and resignations!) in Barbara Grizzuti Harrison's Italian Days — I'll have to include it in an upcoming post. . .
Sue Burpee: Keep in mind that I am probably not snapping photos of my hair when the heaviness of its current length is dragging the top down but doing nothing to minimize the frizz. . .
Mary: I can't pretend it didn't take some getting used to, the proximity to other diners, but I came to like it. . . memories like the ones you're speaking of are very much part of that. What a delightful coincidence and connection!
Janie: I'm so pleased you're enjoying the posts. (It's easy to feel there's nothing new to say, in these current conditions.). . . Paris, Vancouver, somewhere in Michigan — if we slow down and look, there are revelations all 'round, right?
Susan B: Has it really been 11 years?! And we'd already been blogging a couple of years! Pretty sure you were the first blogging friend I met "IRL"
Marsha: Ha! For that "just got out of bed" look! (insert eye-roll and wink)
Linda: Honestly, I find all the wrinkles and collapsings and doublings fascinating to watch. I do wish I still had my former lips — but I'd probably choose my former, more mobile hips, if I could turn a dial backwards but had to pick. As for looks/character re my mother, I've realized and accepted that there might be more of her character in me than I thought, or ever wanted, and I've come to see some of that as a good thing. It's complicated.
SLF: I highly recommend travelling again through your journal. Surprising how fresh those memories can be. And wasn't/isn't Les Cocottes lovely? I found it so nurturing and elegantly casual, great when my husband and I went and equally good when I sat by myself at the counter table. . .
I love the juxtaposition of flowers blooming and growing, and your pages of writing. Emotionally, they feel connected.
Facebook reminded me this morning that I arrived in Paris for the first time 10 years ago today. My husband took a shot of me on the bridge near Notre Dame, and I was just beaming, despite the long flight and the jet lag – it fairly leaps out of the picture.
It's good to have those memories and the journals, photos and ephemera that reinforce them, isn't it? Especially now, when we wait…