Rich Dream Stew and Stinky Cheese

WARNING: THE FOLLOWING MATERIAL CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS, COMICAL ANTECDOTES AND TRAGIC TALES THAT CAN LEAD TO DARK AND DEEP ENVY ON THE PART OF THE READER.

And so my story begins.

When you walk into the Musee Louvre, there is the hall in which a large crowd has gathered. Our tour guide, James, warned us. Don't look in there! Keep going forward! With a warning like that and children in hand pulling and the magnetic forces of tourist curiousity, we all went over.

In that room, hung in all their absolute glory, are two paintings having a showdown. On the one end was the timeless and 'famous because she's famous' Mona Lisa. A highly protected beauty of less than a metre high. Her confident smile cast upon the hordes of digital camera bearing tourists. Talk about paparazzi! She's very gracious about the whole thing. Doesn't bat an eye or cast unsightly glance to all of her admirerers. Then on the other side, stands the ever so magnicificant, monumentous and grandious 'The Marriage at Cana', coming in at a mere 7 by 10 metres. To be standing in front of that is like spying through a great window of a palace watching a grande soiree taking place. The modest human eye can only take in a small piece at a time, something like hearing about another person's trip! The stories come in bits and pieces, only to create an emerging scene in one's head.

Lizzie in front of 'The Marriage at Cana'

Being in Paris for one week and then in Provence for another was like walking through this room, the Salle des Etats. We have 'The Marriage at Cana' staring down, imposing and incredible in one corner representing the City of Light. And at the other end, the 'Mona Lisa', with her emanating strength of character and subtle confidence. This is Provence.

PARIS

Thankfully for all of us, we had a most efficient and informed guide leading our wandering pack through the sites and sounds of Paris. That of course, is my sister, Marianne, who lived in Paris for a year as an 'au pair'. It wasn't until our last night there that I truly realized her agenda. She simply stated over an aperitif that she was grateful to be able to show us the Paris that she knew and loved. We are all grateful too.

Les Trois Petites Filles

If someone handed you a dictionary and said, Here study this, there's a test tomorrow, your mouth would drop open and you would stare increduously at them for sometime. That is mainly how I felt at first. There is so much to take in--through the history and sights. It is difficult to create memory folders that quickly in one's brain! But, Marianne had it all worked out. She had hired guides to take us through the streets each day, creating a piece by piece scene selection.

Steve took us up to the Mont Matre. Poor Steve! It was our first day in Paris and I do believe we were all rather distracted. He was patient as he guided us through the windy streets and attempted to feed us stories and facts. I think he was rather relieved when we all agreed it was time for a cafe stop.

But, to see the homes and territory of my favourite Impressionist painters was of course, impressive! And the beauty of the largest mosaic in the dome of the Sacre Coeur stopped one in their tracks. Now, on a side note, I watched three young girls transform from junkfood loving souvenir shopping North Americans to gourmand playful little eurofact sponges! There is nothing like hearing, We think it is time for un cafe and tartine, Mamans!

We played a nasty trick the next day on the little girls. The Eiffel Tower was on the agenda, and after getting off the metro, we walked up the stairs. Both Mari and I knew that the moment of truth was coming because as you walk around a museum which blocks the perfect view of the Tower, you are suddenly flattened by the scene of it. Of course, the girls were vibrating, but then Mari said, Oh no! It's not here! They must have taken it down! Emma's face has never been so pale. The sheer look of terror was perfectly timed as one more step forward, and there it stood against the sky and immaculate gardens. I don't know what was more stunning, the girls' faces or the Tower itself. We spent a glorious two hours climbing and enjoying the views of Paris.

One of the reasons we were all gathered in Paris was to watch John run the marathon! After we climbed down the 668 stairs (yes, the girls counted! Acutally Marianne made it into a contest!), we walked a block in hopes of seeing our famous runner come by! I do think it is mainly luck that we happened to find him in the crowd of 35,000! But, suddenly, like a flash of the camera, he came by and gave Marianne a big sweaty hug!

Pavel, John's friend from Prague, joined us and took us to a cafe for lunch. Now, don't get me wrong. I haven't said much about the food yet, not because it wasn't mentionable--AU CONTRAIRE!! It deserves a whole section to itself later.

In any case, we, being my dad, Mari, the 3 girls, Pavel, Brian and I, all sat down to eat. Suddenly, I noticed Brian talking to a lovely red haired beauty at the next table. You are probably thinking that I was seething with jealousy, but once again--AU CONTRAIRE!! I was shocked to think that he could carry on a conversation in French! As it turned out, this lovely woman was from Saskatchewan and had just arrived in Paris to meet her son. She was waiting in the cafe, terrified to take the metro alone. Her son would be arriving any day for his leave as he was in the army fighting in Afghanistan. We promptly adopted Sherri and took her to see Monet's Water Lilies at the L'Orangerie, paintings that were actually done to fit into this beautiful building. Monet did these as an octogenrian and was slowly going blind.

As it had been 25 years since Marianne was living in Paris, she and her two friends Lynn and Lynda came for a reunion with their families. So, that and the fact that John ran the marathon and the fact that Hey, we are all together in Paris, was reason to have a big party at the Bamboo Apartment! This was our home for the week. One could only find it with secret insider information as it was up a narrow side street, and then behind iron gates. Once inside the corridor, you were surprised because suddenly there were all sorts of people living the attached buildings. And, our Bamboo house was gorgeous. It was an open multilevelled cement,iron and wood area with huge tall windows that looked upon a courtyard of bamboo plants.





And so, with a party, one must have the proper food! Mari and I went out to gather an assortment of cheeses, meats, breads, wines, and patisserie! When we arrived home, les odeurs pervailed. One or two cheeses leaves a fine aroma, but to our noses' delights, we brought home as many as 8! The party was a success of course, but we had left overs.













A scene from the French Pastry shop


The next day something extraordinary happened. Someone opened the fridge. Yes, the whole apartment filled with the pot pourrit of 8 cheeses. One or two makes fine art. Three or four is a rather large messy painting. But any more than that, you have apalling fart art! And, to make matters more difficile--you just can't throw out 8 expensive French cheeses! Of course the term, Who cut the cheese, is understood at all levels here, but the girls coined a new phrase for the fart smell--AHH! WHO OPENED THE FRIDGE?!! So, after that, when any of us, squished in the metro, or stuffed in the van slipped a little flatulence, a girl would yell it out.




One would think that a scenic walk through the sights of Paris would fulfill the touristic need, but Marianne upped the ante! Why not do a bike tour through Paris--with KIDS!! The day of the tour, which was to being at the southwest foot of the Eiffel Tower, turned into a rather pernicious event. Once again, our fearless leader herded us out of the Metro and we were rather in a hurry because moving the pack of us anywhere took added time. Just as we were about to walk out of the Metro, one of the girls needed to use Les Toilettes! Luckily there was a toilet located right there. I must interject with this point here--Which came first, the toilet or the pee? It seems that no little girls reeeaaally have to go to the watercloset until they see one.





In any case, this beautifully tiled toilette was looked after by a rather beautiful Madame and you had to pay. Wierldy though, the Monsieurs toilette was open-doored and one could see more than one wanted. Unless of course, you were in the Dames toilette and the view was that of 6 burly young gendarmes relieving themselves in a line. Brian was surprised that all of the gendarmes were there. He likes this sort of thing. Action!



We followed up the stairs, expecting to see the same view of the Eiffel Tower as we had previously, but were surprised to see a Tibetan protest in full swing and seethed with a tumultuous excitement. John and Brian started gathering up the girls, who were being handed small paper flags by monks and dreadlock wearing protesters! We pushed through video camera toting newspeople and kept moving.

This whole protest of course added to our stress of trying to get through to the bike tour. Then, as we approached the gate, the many gendarmes were NOT letting a single person through! How were we to know that the Olympic torch was on its way through and riots were to be expected. No one told us--I say sarcastically.





Well, panic erupts. Crowds are stirring. Streets are blocked. Rows upon rows of policier are parked. There is no way out. Now, here is where one is glad that they are runners! Marianne keeps her arm up so we can follow her. John, who had just ran a marathon the previous day, is now running again--God that must have hurt!! And Brian and I have children by the wrists and are attempting to jostle our way to keep up with them as they break into light speed and head towards a different bridge. All I can say is I was glad Dad had decided to stay back at the Bamboo Apartement to rest. Smart man!



After some serious autodarting, we hit a break away thinking that we might just make it for the bike tour afterall. Marianne is quite a distance ahead, running full speed in boots and with her backpack, John an impressive second place, then me with Lizzie and Emma and at the tailend, Brian and Bonnie.



Suddenly amongst the buzz of traffic, people and sirens, I hear Bonnie screaming! Motherly instincts kick in, and I stop. Half a block back, a knot in the crowd has gathered and Bonnie is crying. I rush back, only to find Brian laying on the ground holding his chest. This is it. My first thought is that he's having a heart attack, which wouldn't have been surprising given the circumstances. I rush over, just like in the movies, to claim my lover's last earthly minutes! The crowd steps back and he is moaning. What should we do? The gendarme comes over, and then an angel of a French woman descends upon us and says to me, I'll call an ambulance. Yes, yes you must, I yell! I ask Brian what happened but he is having trouble breathing. Then Bonnie says, Mom! He turned to see if we had left behind anyone and SMASH!!! Into a post. Oh THANK GOD!! It wasn't a heart attack.



So, the sweet angel woman tells me,---Madame!! You must look after your daughters! They are very scared. Yes, the three girls were sitting against a wall, tears dropping out of their eyes. The ambulance finally arrives, Mari and John return and there would have been no way to make the bike tour as all avenues are closed.
I take Brian to the hospital in the ambulance. That's another story for another time, but in the end, he's okay. A few bruised ribs.





At the Musee d'Orsay, one in which I was looking very forward to, Marianne suddenly had a quick thing to take care of. Hmm. I thought, what could my very organized sister have overlooked? She stated simply that there was a shocking picture in this museum, that might no be a good choice for young girls to see. Of course, I agreed that she run ahead and locate this but as most instinctive children do, the girls tuned into Mariannne's distress and headed after her! Moments later, she, with children in tow, returned to announce that it had been moved. PHEWWW. I didn't know what it was, but it must have been shocking for her to do that.





Our tour of the museum was quite calm and educational. Then, I promised the girls that I would take them into the giftshop. WHAT WAS I THINKING?!! Well, I secretly wanted to rack up my credit card with items covered in Impressionist paintings. After a few minutes of browsing, I heard a muffled pile of giggles in the poster section. Followed by some loud EWWWWS!! I knew that I was needed. It's funny how a mom can hear her own children in a rock concert!



I placidly paced over, pretending to not be the MOM of the laughing a gaggle of girls. But, when I approached them, they had located THE shocking painting! Yes, is full colour, in full view and in poster format. Well, let's just say that every female of childbearing age as this, down below. It was colourful, and rather detailed for an Impressionist painting, I must add. Lizzie asked, Aunty Beth, what is that? A crotch, I replied plain and simple. So, that became the name of the shocking painting--The Crotch. Wierdly, you could purchase that imprinted on a mug.






Le Marais in Paris was our next stop. Iris, our guide was smooth and silky with her stories and kept us all intrigued and sparked a passion in us for French history.



In the Jewish quater , we were literally pulled into a bistro by the waiters on the outside--not like they needed anymore customers because this was the busiest, most bustling business I have ever seen. You couldn't really tell who worked there, who was eating there, and who was doing repairs on the restaurant as they were all black and brown haired, gorgeous human beings! People just would come over, give you food, check on you, then Boom! Lunch was over and it was amazing.


We did make the Fat Tire Bike Tour the next day! After the torch blew through, a calm prevailed. We found David, our tour guide from Texas and after we all got on our bikes, he bravely rode us through many sights. Now, it was frightening enough riding bikes along the streets of Paris with a group of foreigners, but the most terrifying point came when we stopped and this youthful and fearless guide stopped us. Okay, he said. This next part is kinda like going through white water rapids. We are going to stop traffic, go against it and STICK TOGETHER! Sure, sounds easy enough. Expect for the fact that we were going to cross the PLACE DE LA CONCORDE! Where no traffic novice comes out alive. Strangely, this kind of stress causes diverse reactions amongst people. Dad calmly kept his eyes straight ahead. The Chinese guy lit a cigarette, Marianne and Lizzie laughed like hyenas, and I, well, just held my breath and started reciting Hail Marys. David just said, Ignore the yelling of the French drivers and stay in a pack. We did make it through successfully--he hasn't lost anyone yet. What a thrill!



As we passed the Louvre, David said that there are so many pieces of art there that if you stood in front of each one for one minute, you'd be there for 300 days.





We met James outside the Louvre for our private tour. An Oxfordbred art historian, he definitely knew what to say and the important things to choose for us to see. With only a mere two hours with him, I think I learned more about paintings than I ever knew. It is a bit like visiting a city. You can go on the whirlwind tour and end up with sore feet and a few mental snapshots, or you can sink into a few meaty parts and really learn about them. That is what he did for us.



Afterwards, we found our lovely second adoptee, Dierdra. We actually knew her from last summer as we drove her to Montana. Long story--but she's a student in London and originally from Ireland, and we all love her to bits. And what a brave darling, for she accompanied us on our dizzy Disneyland Day! One can never have to many people to experience the thrill of rides with!
The girls loved it there. They survived La Maison Hauntee without tears. Kept up a strong endurance for line waiting. Dipped and dove on the big Thunder (which by the way, had an old mine cart from Butte, Montana!), scarfed burgers and fries and still had room for La Barbe (cotton candy). All in all it was a real treat--exhausting of course. But, the real vamboozle of all rides was Space Mountain. Lizzie just made the height restriction and she and I ended up in the front seat of the train. Imagine travelling at near light speed, through the darkness that never ends and on a track of unexpected twists and turns. I didn't hear Lizzie scream once and I'm sure that it was due to the fact that by the time you did scream, your voice was only being heard by the upcoming train behind. Similar to seeing a plane and then hearing the boom later. That's about as close to space travel as I ever want to experience, and I'm pretty sure that Marianne and Dad felt the same way. Nothing like an instant facelift!









Mickey and Minnie Mouse








Anyone want to buy a 3,200 dollar Louis Vuitton clutch purse? How about a 410,000 dollar wristwatch? At one point, we ambled down the Champs Elysees and did a bit of window shopping. I'm sorry, but I'd rather by 2,000,000 baguettes than the clutch purse! I didn't know that the L'arc de Triomphe was completely aligned to the Champs Elysees and then into the gardens before the Louvre and almost to the glass pyramid entrance to the Louvre. There's an interesting story here for those of you who would like to research it.






Our last day in Paris was spent exploring the L'ile de la Cite, the island on which the oldest and most central part of Paris lays. Our guide, Yita, took us through series of curving streets and told us tales of the King Louis' up to the Napoleaon times. Very interesting, indeed! I found it fascinating that King Louis XVII disappeared and the XVIIIth Louis was so large and ate so much that they had to move the Winged Victory statue in the Louvre up on a podium so that he wouldn't need to climb a set of stairs to view it. Rather portly I would say.






Our last dinner in Paris was chosen on the basis that it had a cat! Well, apart from the cat, Maurice, the food was extraordinaire to say the least! How can you explain taste? I don't think it's possible. The ambiance of the restaurant was strickly about food though. We all felt that we were in a fine dining experience only reserved for the fortunate Parisiens that were worthy. Then Marianne said, No, this is a family restaurant! Believe it! Only family restaurants have a children's menu. Sure enough, there was a child's menu--Sausage made in Auvergne, vegetables seared in goose fat and a veal cutlet. Nothing to turn your nose up at, unless of course, you are a kid. I watched Bonnie pick through the vegetables, sniff the sausage and grimace at the rawness of the veal. Lizzie on the other hand, dove in and delightfully enjoyed every savory morsel. She's definitely got the French spirit of eating! Then, sadly, Deirdra, fondly called 'Chickadee, dee, dee' by the girls, had to return to London and left.






We then walked down to the Seine river along the banks and watched the toasted university students drinking and playing on the bank. Some of them invited Lizzie to join in, but she politely declined their invitations. I wonder how many need rescuing from the vigorous current on a yearly basis. Our sojourn in Paris ended on that glorious note, with a view of Notre Dame Cathedral by starlight.



Of course, transportation is the key to success of any adventure. Plane rides, train rides, metro, bus, horseback and bikes...all aid in moving the accommodating tourist to move about. A couple of funny stories on this topic though. Firstly, taking the Metro in Paris is never dull. If you manage to have a boring ride, then you were in a coma! The accordian player, the Sunday morning whiskey flask carrying guy, the Andre Bocelli singing dad with his kids, the overtired backpacker and the beautiful Parisienne with long legs, long hair and a perfectly matched beauty mark to boot all created a dramatic backdrop for public transportation. But, the day of the People Packers was just too much.



We arrived down at the Metro station, deep into the underground along with several thousand other people during the rush hour. I was a little worried when I saw people in flouescent vests cramming people into the trains and closing the doors. At first I laughed and said, Hey look! Security guards! But Marianne said, No, if fact those are People Packers. They stuff people and body parts and the occasion handbag into the train before the doors slide closed. It was true and those doors didn't waste a second on any slothlike behavior! The trains were arriving fast and furiously, one after another. Well, Dad and I shivered in our shoes, once again under the direction of my dear sister demanding that, Everyone grab a girl and hold on tight! Our train is here! As we moved like cattle towards the Metro, a wave of tired looking Parisiens poured out. That was our chance! Squishing towards the door, I heard the buzzing caveat that creates all passengers to push more to ensure their safety. And with that, the People Pushers approached and jammed us in to the train. For a moment, all one could hear is the sigh of relief that everyone lets out, then you realize that there is no personal space left on this Metro. No, not one single millimetre in which to spread out. You are face to face, armpit to face, and in Lizzie, Bonnie and Emma's case, buttcheek to face with complete strangers. Then the motion of the train starts. If you are lucky enough to have something to hold onto, you can retain your dignity. But, if you are like the girls, or me, you have to rely on the squish of the crowd to support you in your general relativity--thanks Einstein! We kept trying to see Lizzie and Emma, who may as well have been in the Rockies, but were closely padded by strangers with interesting smells. The giggling started and I think that within a few minutes, the contagious vibrations of little girls somewhere in armpits and briefcases, reveberated to at least a circumference of 5 people. The fun really started at the next stop though when at least another classroom of people pushed on with the aid of People Packers! I looked over at Dad, the trooper of all time, and said, Gee, it took me three dates to get this close to anyone before! And then I proposed that we invite them all over to the Bamboo apartment for stinky cheese. Hey, someone's got to eat it!







The trip to Provence, via Avignon was a sleepy trainride. We, well, I took the chance to close my eyes for 2 hours and let things rest. When we arrived at the station and proceeded to arrange our car rental. All was going as planned. Yes, you might think that this sounds like a bit of foreshadowing and you are right because we got about 2 miles away when smoke started to billow out of the hood. Even though we were on a major expressway, I yelled EVACUATE!! Panic prevailed and we all stood staring and coughing as the smoke diminished.


Of course, the sensible side of moms revealed itself and we said, Stop! Don't move and don't worry. Where's the cellphone?


I think that it may have been days since we last thought of that phone. Somewhere in the bottom of a bag perhaps. So the search began as cars whizzed past and Dad built an imaginary electric fence around the girls. Phone found, we dialed the emergency number on the Europcar contract. I wish someone had told us that British mobile phones do NOT work in France!





Ahhh, what next? I decided to go in search of help, grabbed the important phone numbers and documents and started off. I arrived at a forlorn looking building, but heard the sound of voices inside and ventured in. A group of Tunisian men stood there looking at me. Umm, help?





Actually, they turned out to be just the beginning of the very gracious people that we met on our journeys. I asked in my stumped French, could I borrow their phone? And as I looked around, I saw that they were in the midst of building a convience store. There were bottles of wine being arranged on the shelves, boxes of candy to be placed neatly and a box of tuna cans waiting. Sawdust and empty pop bottles strewn about somehow put me at ease. After what could have easily been 10 Euros on their phone bill, we made some progress and had a tow truck. Five hours later, and with the guidance of the 'garagist' we were in a new car and on our way through Provence.

Provence


Here's where the Mona Lisa comes in. The subtleness in the beauty of the landscape, the looming rocky Luberon mountains and the vastness of the vineyards tugged ever so gently upon our hearts. Long gone was the fast and vibrant pace of Paris. Bonjour les montagnes, les arbres et les plantes de lavandre! I could already smell the earthly pleasures of Provence as we pulled into our accomadation--a village farm with splendid 300 year old farm houses, horses, thick wooden doors and tanned farming hosts. What more could you ask?










Yves and Florence, along with their parents welcomed us for a week. When we walked into our new lodging, we were taken aback by the great depths of the building! Two foot thick stone walls, tiled floors, plastered ceilings with great wooden beams, and centuries of old stories invited us in. A silent and goodnight's sleep revived us from our day's journey




When one wakes up to the sound of goats' bells ringing and a dog's bark, you have to open your eyes. You have to get up and open the shutters to your medieval lodging and you have to breathe in a dream. That's what it was. A sheer dream. The blue sky, untouched by cloud clutter, the absence of car din and the crispness of a landscape rather untouched by everyman's hand.




I ran out, followed by little girls, to watch a daily ritual of the Monsieur waking the herd of goats and sheep for their daily grind. That of green rich grass and fresh air, that of neverending pastures and cherry trees in bloom. Now, I must tell you of the Monsieur, father of Yves. There are a few kinds of 'love at first sight', like that of your first glance at your husband to be, or your newly born child or le Monsieur. There he stood, with a staff in hand, a cap pulled over on eye, greying hair peeking out, and an old blazer over a shirt, and bright blue pants. Le Monsieur always welcomed my trifle conversation and let me practice my French with the understanding patience of a teacher. Yes, he told me many things--how his grandfather was once the berger (the herder), then his father, himself, and now Yves. I was a bit surprised of this though, as Yves was mostly seen driving one of his many big tractors around.




The second day, the girls and I decided to find him in the fields with the herd. We followed the goat droppings to find him standing with Mirzac, the dog and the herd peacefully amongst the cherry trees. We chatted and he asked me how we found him. I replied in French, On a suive les bulles bruns de fesses. He laughed and I asked if this was a good sentence. He said that I deformed my words sometimes, but it was always a pleasure. Then, I found out later that what I said translates to 'little brown balls of bum.' Close enough for him to understand. I did ask him what I thought meant, Does your herd provide you with meat and does Mirzac help keep the herd safe? He calmly replied, No, we don't eat dogs, only milk from the goats. Okay, I give up.



The villages engraved in the towering rocks are phenomenal. Truly remarkable. You drive up, park and wander through streets only wide enough for a few people. If you are lucky, you'll meet a tour guide as capable, agile and friendly as the one we met. He met us at the minivan, walked us up through the village streets of Viens, showed us his favorite hangouts, smells, sounds and cats. Took us to his favorite restaurant and patiently waited outside while we leisurely ate steamed artichokes, bagettes, cheeses, wine and la creme glacee in the provencial spring sun. And the best thing of all is that his fee was a simple pat on the head and a crust of bagette! Yes, he was a dog. Voodoo was his name, welcoming visitors was his game and he never left our side, even when we was caught by his owners, he escaped to find us in the cemetary. This though, was difficult, because we didn't feel that he belonged in such a place with his readiness to mark territory. So, Dad and I chased him amogst the stone above ground graves until I caught him and through him over my shoulder.

Our next few days were full of visits to other villages--Bonnieux, Roussion, and Gordes. The windy roads made travelling long and arduous, but one does not tire of the driving because the views are so extraordinary.








Markets. Must talk about this now. Imagine taking 5 badly behaved youngsters through a European market. They are yelling, pulling at your arms, causing a scene in all directions. Now, let me tell you that those five naughty youngsters are your senses. That's right. You have smell, touch, sight, sound and taste all wanting to have their immediate needs met. How can you survive? It was definitely a triumph of wills. First you see...the colours of the spice vendor, the fresh produce, hand made crafts. Then you let touch happen...the silkiness of the cloth and leather. Then, you let smell have a turn. The scent of lavendar, the baking and the cheeses. Then, little taste moves in. If you are lucky, you can move to the front of the line and sample the tapenades, jams and honey. Now, patiently waiting, is sound. You have made him sit back and be brave, but it is his turn. No moving, just listening. The haggling, the wind chimes, unknown languages, the dogs and children and the music of lone musicians. In the end, each naughty youngster becomes tame and suddenly all of them do what they are born to do. That's when Market ecstatsy takes over. What more can I say? Even the gypsies were beautiful and belonged there.



Arles was a most intriguing place. This is where Vincent Van Gogh cut off his ear and gave it supposedly to a 'lady of the night'. It was probably thrown into the Rhone river though.
There is a wind. Yes, the mistral it is called. A wind that has the strength to blow off one's hair, carry scarves afar, and basically torment everyone for either 3, 6 or 9 days. This was one theory that Van Gogh painted so frenetically. That wind is fierce and unforgiveable. We didn't experience it in Arles, but did a a blow of it in another village. After having reams of sand blow into our eyes, we decided to head for a cafe. While we sat there, the Monsieur had to run out and catch his metal sign that blew off!


Back at the farm, we decided to rent a pony. Yves said, Ah yes, I vill show you zee pony and then she is self service! I asked for a quiet pony as Bonnie was the only one with recent experience in riding. He said, Ah oui, and zee wind makes them spiritual! So, he brought the lovely Loulou. An older than prehistoric pony who was definitely NOT going to be spiritual and we saddled up zee ol' pony! She was now ours for four days. That just made Bonnie and Emma do backflips! Their own pony! I asked Yves if we could brush her and look after her. He replied in French, elles peuvent and il faut! Which means, they can and you must! I found out later why. With 40 some horses, ponies and variations of, one cannot give proper attention to them all. Loulou was the chosen one. The one who would ride to green pastures, nibble on new growth and return sweaty and happy to the stable. Off we went with each girl taking turns riding up the old Roman stone roads. Loulou was lucky and lovely, even with her patchy fur, missing teeth and the scent de 'Who opened the Fridge!' After returning each time we gently brushed her, combed her matted mane and guided her back to the stable with the other envious ponies.

It's a little like 'The Crotch' though, what happened next. Loulou suddenly had an extra limb! What is THAT? asked Lizzie in aversion. Umm. Well, that's a horse penis, I stated calmly. But, Auntie Beth, it is so big. Well, yes, Lizzie, horses are big animals. It helps them pee. C'mon what else could I say?! Loulou wasn't a Loulou anymore. He was a Louie.
One night after dinner, we were sipping the last of the Cote de Rhone red when Dad suddenly said, Hey Loulou just walked by. The girls and I ran out and put the pony back in the pen with the others. Two hours later, Emma yelled, Hey there's Loulou. Back to the pen. Then, the next day, we came home and guess what? There was Loulou wandereing around. We left her alone.

Funny though, one night we went to the field, and started to give the horses handfulls of grass. Suddenly, neigh spread, and every horse came running over for the crisp and delightful treat of fresh grass. Emma turned around and yelled, Salad for 40! We had our work cut out for us.

Then there was the pool. Why is it that no matter where in the world you are, children want to go swimming?! Marianne flatly and smartly said, No, it's not going to happen. I, on the other hand, said, Well, maybe if we can find a place. There were signs for 'Les Piscines' everywhere! Pools! Pools! Yes, but of course. It's Provence, where the average summer heat is 30 degrees Celcius in the summer. After following a sign through Apt, the city, we came to a pool! But, alas it was empty. Then we asked another kind woman. Her sad reply was, well no. There is one pool but it is closed because of students being on vacation. Didn't make sense but, oh well! So, we did what we always did in times of need, stress, fatigue--went to a cafe.


Did you know that the average French person eats a baguette a day? That's alot of bagette! But, we found out that it is not only the people that eat baguette. Mirzac, the herder dog, ate one a day, soaked in goat's milk. We went into the local pet shop and the guniea pigs, rabbits and birds were nibbling on bagette. It's a little like air. It's everywhere, you need it and so does everyone else.

You have to weigh your own fruits and vegetables in France. After choosing the ripest and most delicious speciman, you go to the scale, press the code and out comes a sticker with a price! The cashiers thought we must have been from Mars though when I put the peppers, apples and tomatos on the counter. The girls had weighed each one individually and stuck the stickers on to each piece. I wonder how much I'd be worth!

The signs for driving in France are quite interesting. Rather insulting at first though. Those signs treat you like a stupid foriegner that is having jokes played on you. First there's the sign that says 'Vous n'avez pas la priorite' which basically means you don't have the right. The right to WHAT? DRIVE? EXIST? We laughed. Then there is the 'Toutes Directions' sign. You could be driving around a traffic circle and each exit has this sign which means 'All Directions'. C'mon. What do you think we are? Stupid foreigners? Or perhaps the signs that point to the villages that you want to go to...signs at a corner that direct you each way to the place. To the left, the right, down? It was just sheer luck that we made it where we needed to go.

And lastly, just so all of you know. Nutella is a laxative. Plain and simple. Kids eat it, kids need bathrooms on airplanes. And with bagette, it is an accident waiting to happen.

To end our adventure I asked the girls what their top 3 things of the two weeks were. That's a hard question. Here's Bonnie's: Second level of the Eiffel Tower, Bike tour, Disneyland. Emma's: Space Mountain, All of the cafes,tartines and good food, and riding Loulou.

I can't say that I have any top three because it was all too wonderful. I think though that my number one was being able to enjoy this trip with my truly remarkable family. There is one thing left to savor and that is the rich dream stew that happened every night after a days worth of exploring. We all would get up in the morning and talk about our dreams that floated around in our night's sleep. I hope to keep having these for a loooonnng time.


Three girls snoozing at the Bamboo Apartment














Saying goodbye at the Airport



And to end this today I have a riddle: What do you call a person who jumps in the cold Seine River?