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I just received a note from a dear family friend in the hometown that is, quite truly, one of the best emails I’ve ever received (and I’m not just saying that because it’s complimentary to me! Or wait…maybe I am…). Anyway, this note is WHY I am writing this blog ~ to inspire in myself (and hopefully in others!?) an appreciation for adventure, exploration and those simple moments that make life worth living and laughing about.
With permission by the writer of this note, here it is:
Hi… I so enjoyed reading your comments about your trip. It is such a beautiful place to visit. I’ve never been to Nice, but Avignon is also in the south of France, and it was amazingly beautiful. You were very brave to go all alone, but you younger women have grown up in such a different world.
When I was your age, my “big adventure” when I separated from my husband was to go, by myself, to Monterey and check into a motel. In my whole life, I had only stayed in motels selected by my parents or my husband. My hand shook as I registered! The really funny thing was that, the next morning, there was a big earthquake centered in that area. Do you think God was displeased with me? Somehow I don’t think so, but the thought definitely crossed my mind as I held on tight to the bathroom sink! My second big adventure was to drive the “Bloody Bayshore” from Milpitas to near the SFO airport, with no mishaps! Now I want to take either a cruise by myself or maybe go to Seattle by myself. You are a model for me to emulate!
Continue to be you… we can all learn from you and live vicariously through your exciting experiences. Love, AD
Here’s to inspiring each other through our exciting experiences!
xo
Uptown Small Town
All of my grandparents passed while I was a child so, as I got older, I sort of just “adopted” new family members. Two people in particular, Jack and Jane (yes, those are their real names!), became my grandparents ~ not by blood, but by love.
Grandma Jane was a fairly prominent artist ~ she was the Artist in Residence in Yosemite, she was featured on The Today Show, etc., and when she died, Grandpa Jack invited my mom and I over to go through her paintings and pick one out. (!!!)
It was… one of those experiences I will never forget. It was like opening a book to someone’s visions and dreams, sitting on the floor with complete awe and wonderment propelling me through painting after painting after painting. Though I’d known Jane since I was a small child, I knew her better that day. And I loved her all over again.
The painting I chose is actually unfinished. She died before finishing it… but to me, it’s perfect.
It hangs in my bedroom and every night before falling asleep and every morning when the sun starts to stream in through my windows, I peek at it. And dream in it.
(Please forgive the picture of a painting!)
It’s no small wonder that I would choose the French Riviera to visit for vacation ~ I was craving what the painting was providing. Color and contrast and texture and light and shadow and history and calm confidence.
And on my first full day in France, I made it my mission to get absorbed into the feelings and rhythms ~ to find the color and contrast and texture and light and shadow and history and calm confidence of the Mediterranean city.
And find it, I did.
Though I’m not really a “leave something unfinished” sort of person (generally speaking…that’s not to say I don’t have ten books started and discarded for another day), I find beauty every day in what Grandma Jane left unfinished ~ it’s a painterly sort of unfinished. And her gift could never have been more complete.
*Disclaimer: Apologies in advance for the following post. Not my usual sort of story but fairly amusing nonetheless. Se distraire! (To amuse oneself)
A while back when I was living in NY, a friend of mine and I were at brunch and over eggs and bloody marys, she told me about her new cat.
Me: What’s her name?
Her: Well, I didn’t really know what to call her so I looked online and decided to call her Minou.
Me: That sounds cute, what does it mean?
Her: Well, that’s the thing. A friend of mine from France was over and he laughed when I told him her name. Apparently, not only is it the french word for “cat,” it also means “pussy.” So basically, I’ve named my cat after female anatomy.
Me: Hahaha.
So, now, cut to me at breakfast in France on Day 2 of my trip ~ Sitting at a lovely little garden cafe, devouring crusty bread, a delectable buttery croissant, and traditionally rich coffee with steamed milk. The adorable older French woman brought a glass of orange juice for me (she had asked if I wanted something but I couldn’t quite understand her so I just said “oui!” out of reflex as it sounds much better than “non!” so…apparently she had offered me orange juice. Thank goodness she hadn’t offered me a snail omelette or something tragic…) and while she was setting the juice on my table all of a sudden she yells out “Minou! Minou! Minou!”
And while I may wear pearls, I also seem to have a completely elementary/gutter-worthy sense of humor so I of course laughed. And assuming that I was not entirely understanding her properly (as with the orange juice), she pointed to the little black cat that had meandered into the garden, presumably looking for a handout of French pastry (smart cat), and repeated “Minou! Minou! Minou!” She smiled. “Jardin de Minou!”
First breakfast in France and I find myself in the Garden of Pussy. Terrific.
I woke after a total of 3 hours of sporadic sleep (too excited!) and headed to the SF airport to begin my 24-hour journey to Nice, France. Ahh….vacation on the horizon.
The goal of this trip was as follows: 1. Reconnect with feeling HUMAN. 2. Relax 3. Explore 4. Take pictures 5. Have my first solo journey to a foreign land and NOT get kidnapped and sold into a French Prostitution Ring (as my father was actually worried about).
So as I cozied myself into the seat of my second flight for the day that would take me from Philadelphia to Munich, a young guy– maybe early to mid 20′s– sat next to me. And almost immediately I got a strong sense of military. Not that he visibly appeared as though he were in the military– he was wearing jeans and sneakers– but there was just something about him…
Anyway, I settled in and opened up the book I’d purchased for the plane ride — Julia Child’s memoir, My Life In France,– and fell completely in love with this book. I didn’t know much about her as she was before my era of cooking show addictions, but wow… what an amazing woman. Textured, interesting, humble, enthusiastic, passionate, and someone who wove a great amount of integrity throughout her work. A delicious foray into France for me.
Then came dinner service for the flight which looked even more mundane than usual seeing that I’d been absorbed in a memoir about a woman’s love affair with fine, fresh French cooking, but it’s airplane food… it is what it is! I opened up the salad and started eating when I noticed the guy next to me again: He had such precision with his movements– the way he would unwrap butter, spread butter onto roll, eat roll. He would uncover his chicken dish, then eat chicken. He would unwrap dessert then eat the dessert. When he was finished, his tray was tidy and he’d wasted nothing.
And his manners were impeccable. He was very conscientious of his space– he was not at all sloppy with his movements, as if, along with wasting no food, he wasted no energy. And I suppose this may make him sound robotic and I don’t mean to imply that at all. Quite the contrary really. He seemed so in tune with simple life, as if he were not the kid with a jumbo box of crayons who scribbled, but rather the kid with a mere 4 colors who would draw something absolutely lovely.
Then he stood up and I saw the side of his head– there was a scar about 4 inches long, looking as though it covered something rather deep.
And I melted.
I sat there very much attempting to swallow back tears– literally melting in my seat. There was just something so human and heartbreaking about this guy… and yet, we hadn’t spoken many words to one another outside of pleasantries of “please” and “thank you.”
Any residual feelings of work/life stress disappeared in my 9-hour long journey to Germany. Sitting next to this guy, I felt so silently connected to simple humanity and purely humbled. I’m sure he had no idea what me and my admittedly sensitive, crazy self was feeling, but what a gift this guy was. It’s amazing how one person can effect another in so many ways… and most likely never even know it.
So between Julia Child’s memoir and sitting next to a German soldier (I spotted his army bag on our way off the plane), day 1 of my trip saw the reaching of goal #1: Reconnect with feeling Human. And I reconnected whole-heartedly (and managed to not actually break down crying!) to being a human with my little metaphysical box of 4 crayons.
I traveled, I explored, I took pictures (coming soon!), I ate delicious food, I swam in the Mediterranean, I got lost in Monaco, I ate gelato and went on walks at dusk along the shore, I listened to little French children singing little French songs, I sipped wine from Provence, wandered through a medieval village, laid in the warm riviera sunshine, read books, drank delicious coffee, I let a bikini and sundresses be my official ensemble, I breathed in life.
But the best part? Returning Home to the Hometown.
Home to coffee in the morning on mom’s deck surrounded by grape-leaves, BBQ at dad’s, s’mores by a campfire with a friend.
As much as I love adventures, I love coming home from them even more.
Bon Voyage, my friends. I’m jetting off to the sea and the sunshine that I dream of… as depicted in this drawing I discovered in my notebook at work (thanks to LB). 
“What he needed, Arnaud often told himself, was a wife.
He had one in early August, unfortunately not his own.”
Hahah. That is my favorite line, thus far, in the book Encore Provence by Peter Mayle. In preparation for my first “real” vacation in a ridiculously long-stretching dusty dry path of two years, today I purchased the book about the South of France as I’ve spontaneously decided that I am going to the South of France to explore my lil’ petite self along the Cote d’Azur. Tres enthousiaste!
My morning preparatory measures involved three missions:
1. Purchase homeopathic remedy to combat jet lag.
This morning I received a call from a family friend/hair stylist in my hometown.
She said: Hi honey! I’m here with your mom, doing her hair, and she told me about your trip to France– so excited for you! Now, you must go get this homeopathic remedy so you don’t get jet lag or it will ruin your whole trip.
I said: Oh, wow, thank you! I hadn’t actually thought of that…
She said: Well, do you have time today to find some? If you don’t find any, let me know, I have some and I’ll overnight it to you on Monday.
I said: Yeah, this is San Francisco. I don’t see it being any trouble at all locating homeopathic remedies.
She said: Okay great! Well, have fun and we love you!
I have a ridiculous love for conversations like this ~ homegrown love from the hometown. Nothing beats it.
(Remedy found at WholeFoods!)
2. Travel Guide + French book to provide path for the feeling of France to awaken within me.
It’s not hard for me to connect with the feeling of France. I do have some French ancestral roots in me and quite a few times it’s been assumed that I’m French… by fellow Americans. (a bit odd but it makes me smile every time.) Anyway, I wanted to read some sort of travel memoir about France to provide proper mood alignment. Sound weird? Maybe. I actually did this with New York too. One day I read the book The Devil Wears Prada (not my usual sort of book but entertaining nonetheless) and within 4 weeks I was living in NY without having had any real previous conscious thought about moving there.) (I’ll send postcards if I decide to move to France while there– promesse!)
Also purchased travel guide and pocket translator — essential dining translations necessary to avoid such things as duck meat cooked in flaky butter pastry. (Leave the flaky butter pastry, s’il vous plaît, remove the duck.)
3. Première Passe packing
This first pass at the packing thing involves:
~ Drag sun dresses out from back of San Francisco closet.
~ Decide that packing for the French Riviera is fantastique. Love one-dress-wonder packing.
~ Try on bikini and determine that… good lord almighty. I clearly work indoors for entirely too many hours a day. Any tan gleaned from the 4th of July has disparaitre. Oh well. C’est la vie!
So, now I return to my preparations for spontaneity… South of France, here I come mon amour.
