Lives

One of my favorite publications is the New York Times' annual "The Lives They Lived" edition.
It has really evolved from its origins some 10 years or-so ago; now recounting some lives in graphic novel format, others in simple illustrations, and even including the unfamous: this year's examples being the community of Paradise Park, N.J., decimated by Hurricane Sandy, and the sad tale of Najiba, an Afghani woman martyred by backward Afghan men.
I came away from this year's issue, partly devoured early on Sunday morning when I could not sleep, with these keepers: (All quoted from the Times.)
From Susan Jeffers: "We live in a society that teaches us to grasp for control, total control of everything. But perhaps the grasping only makes things worse." Susan wrote "Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway" and "Embracing Uncertainty."
From Erica Kennedy: "What does having it all mean? Does it mean having some fancy title, executive perks, making a lot of money, having your book on the New York Times best-seller list? Or does it mean waking up and looking forward to your day, whatever you make of it?" Erica  was an author who wrote "Bling" and "Feminista."
From Kitty Wells: "Sometimes maximum impact requires minimum drama." Kitty was a country music singer who wrote "It wasn't God who made honky tonk angels."
One of the bittersweet emotions that wells up upon reading the obituaries of strangers is the great sadness of not having known them, or known of them. Only now that they are gone do I know anything about Susan, Erica, Kitty, Najiba, Paradise Park and the people who made it so.
Thank you for your stories. And for your lives.
Love, Katy

The Snowflake Confluence

Just as I decide, two days before the winter solstice, to abandon my unreliable 36 Banksville bus -- which comes in the evening rarely on time, usually 20 minutes late, occasionally early; in sum total, totally unreliable -- and decide to cast my fate to the slightly more reliable light rail line, entailing a 1.3 mile walk home at the end of the ride, but Christ, at least the schedule is somewhat more dependable, because the train is on a track, so things have to keep moving -- it starts to snow.

And that's fine, because this was a snippy snow, wet and sharp, staying around only long enough to make night sidewalks icy. But does it have to pelt my face no matter which direction I turn? Does the wind shift the fricking flakes to torment me as I turn from main road to sidewalk? Well of course it does. It's dark. I'm walking home, into the teeth of the storm.

It's just that I can't remember the last time I stood and looked up into the sky and watched the snowflakes fall from under the constellations. Just quiet and peaceful.

Now I lay me down to sleep

I'm not familiar with the Book of Common Prayer, except to know that it is part of the Anglican and Episcopal liturgy.
Whatever the book contains, the title seems to me extraordinarily comforting; a reminder of the humbleness of daily life, no matter what its trappings.
Today, I ran errands that had me in the midst of holiday crowds. Some people were pleasant, some were pushy and I wondered, amidst the bustle, what we would all be like if our immediate world suddenly descended to chaos. Would any of us be true to our public personas?
And then I thought, the lucky ones never have to know the answer to that question.
Are they lucky? Or just blind longer than others?
I wish it was not a question that has to be asked.

November oddities

The weather is strange, too warm for the brief days. It should be really cold, so that it feels good to be snuggles up indoors in the early dark.
Instead, we sit outside in the dusk, on a bare patio, the golds and silvers of sunset making pretty outlines of bare trees.
The dog is  puzzled, because, though it's warm, her summer sleeping spot in the back yard is in shade, not sun. So we put a blanket down for her next to our chairs, which normally would be in storage by now, and then she's fine.

Looking west on Mayfair, late fall.

The nice thing about the warm weather is that Twist & I can still go to the park. Normally by about now, our walks stick strictly to the street and sidewalks, because fall rains and snow make the paths in the park a little dodgy.
So Saturday at dusk, we wandered down. As we ambled along, I caught sight of a slow moving person in white, a black dog bounding ahead. After a bit our paths crossed and it turns out the person in white was my old pottery teacher.
We exchanged news and she told me she was still teaching. I had quit lessons, in the early 90s, after four or five years, because I didn't feel I was making any progress. And why would I have? Throwing pots one day a week is like practicing piano one day a week.
I just broke one of my favorite pots from those days and I mentioned that to her. Of course, she said, the ones we love are always the ones we break.
I think it's time for me to throw pots again.  I'll probably never be any good at it, but stranger things have happened.

Night of the Comet

I woke up early today, around 5 a.m.
Peeked out the window by the front door to see if the paper had been delivered.
Grabbed a jacket and slapped down the driveway to pick up the green Post-Gazette bag.
And then looked up.
The sky was like velvet, in deep inky blue-black. There was a wash of cloud across the dark, as if a great hand had dipped into translucent silver and slid fingertips across the bowl of the sky. Almost directly above was Orion's belt and as I gaped a falling star slipped across the night.
We are in the tail of Halley's comet (thank you Pete Zapadka), explaining the silver slip.
Then tonight, at the end of the dog walk, hanging low in the dusk was a golden, slim crescent of moon just above the treetops.
I don't believe that everything happens for a reason, because, the universe doesn't care. But I like taking randomness and ordering it, so, thanks to whoever, for the falling star and the golden crescent moon.
Love, Katy
(Also, a nod to our title sponsor )

Sundown

Some days, it's all you can do with your wise old self to just let things be.
Things that shouldn't bother you, do, despite your best, very best, efforts to remain in control of that thing you have control of: reactions.

Carnegie Museum of Art, Pittsburgh

So today, spent not very effectively, (except for a mind-blotting gym workout) in control of reactions ended with me walking Twist through the neighborhood at dusk, with a bare glimmer of sun casting cloud shadows in the western sky.
I love our neighborhood; we are on a small hilltop so the rays of the setting sun, most especially in fall, throw lovely horizontal light under the bare limbs of old trees. And those bare limbs, black and crooked, look especially lovely backlit against the silver, magenta and deep coral of autumn's evening sky.
Couldn't help it. Bummed about so many things, but how to be bummed when this particular October sunset is so gorgeous?
Tears flowed.
Much to Twist's puzzlement.

May I be excused?

Today, La Vie Catherine starts a new feature:

May I be excused?

As in, when I am at the gym and hear a TV commercial for toilet paper in the locker room that then asks me to vote for a "certain" type of TP on Facebook, I say: "May I be excused?"

Or when hordes and throngs of people swear to me that the restaurant/shop/cafe/paint store/whatever that they absolutely adore and I must try or be sentenced to loser-hood for the remainder of my days, I say: "May I be excused?

To the Steelers fans shouting at each other about the O-line, the D-line etc, ad nauseum, I say: "May I be excused?"

Not that I'm special, but if there are that many people out there voting for toilet paper, or boasting about the best whatever or fulminating that their take on the Steelers is the most authoritative one, then really, what do I have to add to the "conversation?" Such as it is.

So, yes, "May I be excused?"

Because, you know, I could be taking a nap!

Finis

The anticipation is as much fun as the journey.

Plus, it lasts longer.

We left Provence Friday morning, after saying goodbye to Pam, the caretaker for the apartment we rented in L'Isle sur la Sorgue. With our carefully plotted out map from Michelin, we were certain that a 9:30 a.m. departure would give us plenty of time to get to the Avignon TGV station in time for our 12:15 train back to Gare de Lyon on Paris.

The view from Pont Neuf on Friday, Sept. 14, 2012.

Of course it did.

 Just barely.

The map names bore little relation to the actual names on signposts, not to mention that the French don't sign intersections symmetrically.

As in, after crossing what turned out to be the D900 route to Avignon we wanted and finding ourselves deeper and deeper into (charming!) one-lane road farm country, we turned around. Back at that same road, there was the sign. D900! Yay! Why wasn't it there when we crossed the road in the opposite direction?

Anyway lots of fun sniping between driver and navigator and upon final arrival at Avignon TGV, Carl's words were: "I hate Avignon. I'm never coming back!"

The Avignon TGV is as sleek and modern as the Gare de Lyon is rusty and clackety. There is a lighted sign showing the "composition" of the train relative to spots A-Z on the track. You look at your ticket, see what your car number is then match it up to the letter so there is no rushing to get to your car.

That is if you are there on time. The TGV doesn't wait. Five minute max for people to get off, get on and stow luggage. We did actually arrive pres de l'heure, but threw in getting lost in the rental car drop off! lot to add to the excitement.

Back in Paris, we found our hotel in St. Germain des Pres, wandered for a bit and took in Notre Dame (outside only), Pont Neuf and a bit of the Left Bank. Had a nice dinner (escargots for Katy) and called it a night before heading out to Charles de Gaulle on Saturday morning.

High points of the trip:

* Most definitely Fontaine de Vaucluse and the beautiful source of the Sorgue River. I can't imagine I will ever see such crystal clear water again in my life.

* Notre Dame des Anges in L'Isle sur la Sorgue. Pictures inside were forbidden, so words will have to do: The interior of this ancient stone church is a marvel. Royal blue and gold-gilt surround the Italianate altar but the interior, a nave with six bays, is so cool and dark that the fantasy colors mute into humility. When we were there, sunlight from a high stained glass window threw a shadow on a sculpture of Mary, alone on a pedestal, highlighting her hair, upturned eyes and draped shoulders. It was a sin not to be able to photograph it, especially with the tiny dust motes drifting across the sunbeams.

* The Eiffel Tower with Carl. Even though we didn't go up, it was fun to see this masterpiece. It never gets old.

* Buying Preferred Access boarding ($30 per passenger here, only $26 per passenger in France. What gives?) We had one bag apiece (Pam, the caretaker, was impressed!), so we got on board early enough with PA to ensure room to stow our bags. Plus, you zip through security and check-in.

Less high points of the trip:

* I could say getting lost, several times, because of the crankiness that ensued, but that would be poor sportsmanship. We declined a GPS because we don't use one at home and tops on my list for vacation is: Not having to learn how to use a new machine.
* Paying for a US Airways Club day pass. Not because the club wasn't nice, but because we didn't have enough time to enjoy it. Note to self: Only buy if layover is 3 hours or more.

* Not flying first class. Oh well.

Hmm, anything else? Mais non!

Les photos:

 1) The love locks. Romantics the world over have locked their love onto the bridges of Paris. The Parisiens hate it. This is marked, I think, Totono and Pepples, Feb. 14, 2010. On Pont Neuf.

 2) Outside the hideous Georges Pompidou Center. Mnsr. Pompidou is spinning in his grave

 3) The Musee Carnevalet, which is about the city of Paris, near La Place des Vosges in the Marais.

 4) A famous cafe in Paris.

Photos by Katy Buchanan

 

Before & after

Two vacation books: "Bel Canto" by Ann Patchett and "We Were the Mulvaneys" by Joyce Carol Oates.

Both pivot on lives before and after an event that changes everything.

Today was our last day in L'Isle sur la Sorgue. There is a Thursday produce/flea market and it was held under a fiercely blue sky and buffetted by the famous Mistral winds of Provence and southern France. The Mistral had been blowing since yesterday really, then carrying with it rain, today, just turbulence.

Despite the breezy distraction, the day was gorgeous, and it is an understatement to use that word to describe the light. I had been starting to feel overwhelmed by the touristy-ness of the place and wondering if people who live here take its beauty for granted. Perhaps after the tourists, with their fanny packs and walking sticks and cameras, go home, their eyes open again.

We sat in Notre Dame des Anges this afternoon, a 13th century church that's been "remodeled" several times over the centuries and that has a lovely Italian pipe organ, at least the third one since 1530. There also is a moon dial on the front of the church, to help farmers tell keep track of the seasons -- spring, after spring, summer, after summer, fall and the winter months. There are six bays in the church along the nave leading to the main altar and I wondered about all the rituals those bays were once built for. Baptism, penance, buying contrition, burial, veneration of the saints; all kinds of thing that have been lost, more or less, to time.

Things that were before.

Les photos:

 1) Random poster.

 2) The blue Provencal sky.

 3) Melons from Cavaillon from the Thursday market. We tasted these earlier in the week with jambon and the combination of sweet and salty was sublime.

 4) Sunflowers at the Thursday market in L'Isle sur la Sorgue.

5) Notre Dame des Anges, L'Isle sur la Sorgue, with clock and moon dial above the entrance.

6) The Virgin Mary, looking down from a smaller church tucked away in an alley.

Rain on a Roman holiday

Our last major excursion of the week got rained out. Rats.

We managed to see part of Vaison-La-Romaine, which has been settled since before the birth of Christ, but not all of it. Rain chased us out, but on the plus side, we ducked into a small cafe to stay dry and the waitress gave us a plate of greens & cheese sprinkled with walnuts and olives even though the kitchen had closed for the afternoon.

Vaison is in two parts, the Haute Ville, or High town, and the lower town, once home to a Roman settlement. They are split by the River Ouveze, which you can cross by a bridge dating to Roman times.
We saw the Haute Ville, a stone village built on and into a limestone cliff in the Dentelles de Mirailles, which is a small chain of mountains in the Vaucluse part of Provence. Haute Ville is a maze of narrow cobblestone streets and shaded alcoves of private homes, punctuated by fountains.

We made it to the top of the cliff to see the ancient eglise, dating to the 15th century, and it was worth the climb because the view was gorgeous. The church itself is off limits. The walk up was partly sidewalk and then you were on your own over the limestone escarpment. (I was wishing I had worn tennies, sandals didn't quite cut it, but then I wasn't the only one not dressed for hiking!)

Despite our disappointment, it was well worth the drive for what we did see. But the rain and the cool temperatures reminded us that September is drawing to a close.

Again I say it: Rats.

Les photos:

 1) Les Dentelles de Mirailles

 2) Out of the coop and pecking for snacks in Vaison-La-Romaine.

 3) Le Pont Romain over the River Ouveze.

 4) If you are interested in buying a vacation home, dial that number.

 5) The 15th century church over Haute Ville.

 6) Twenty-first century visitors to Haute Ville.

 7) The streets of Haute Ville all look pretty much like this. The arch is the main entrance.

The French underground

Something I did not know until today:

The United States stands second in the world in the number of caves and grottoes underneath its borders. China is first. France is third. Mammoth Cave in Kentucky is the longest subterranean grotto in the world.

We visited a rather shorter set of caves, Le Grottes Thouzon  just outside Le Thor, for our outing today. I've never been inside the Kentucky caves but this was impressive enough. Calcium carbonate pocked with flint bubbles and stalactites skinnier than your little finger.

Another thing I did not know until today: A cave, speckled as it is with air fissures, is a safe place during an earthquake because those fissures are a space for those movements of tectonic force to lose power.

The Thouzon caves were discovered in 1902 by road workers who had set off an explosion. From then until 1960, anyone could go in, according to our guide, unannounced and unguided. That means there is graffiti, but I couldn't see it. Some animal remains, fossilized bat guano and at least one set of human bones also have been found there; now just tourists.

Also, scorpions (Thanks for waiting until the tour was over to tell us, Mnsr. Le Guide!)

Before the grotto, we wandered in Le Thor for a bit and admired the lovely (from the outside, because we couldn't go it) Notre Dame du Lac, which sits next to the river Sorgue.
Les photos:

 1) Doors of Notre Dame du Lac in Le Thor.

 2) Bridge over the river Sorgue in Le Thor, heading toward Les Grottes de Thouzon.

 3) This is a hunk of flint in Les Grottes de Thouzon. The caves are filled with them, some of them attached to the cave walls only by thin stalactites. A little push and that heavy hunk of flint comes a-flying.

 4) These pools of water have a layer of calcium over them. When a drop hits the surface, the ripple pushes the calcium layer to the edge of the pool,  creating that wavy border. Over time, the border grows up to form a cone, filled with water. Part of a cone is at right in the photo.

 5) Carl in the cave, before the lights went out!

From the depths of the earth

Clear water is as much the magic of Provence as sunlight.

Paper making, weaving, fishing, wine-making, life -- none would happen without water.

Today we visited a remarkable source, Fontaine de Vaucluse, roughly translated "Fountain of the closed valley."

There is a deep, deep hole, 300 or more meters, in Fontaine de Vaucluse, that gushes forth in spring and fall with rain and snowmelt from the Vaucluse Mountains. The hole, or well, or spring or whatever you call it, is quiet the rest of the year and the mystery is why the Sorgue flows so steadily 365 days out of 365. The hole has been explored by divers since the 19th century, and 20th century intrepids included Jacques Cousteau.

Like L'Isle sur la Sorgue, Fontaine de Vaucluse is a bit of a tourist trap, but because it is so lovely, with small flat plains along the green water side leading up to the mountain and the mouth of the Sorgue, it is also popular with campers. We parked in a lot full of RVs; the French appear to enjoy "le camping" as much as Americans do. Men with guts in open camp shirts and women in capris all sitting under the awnings of their campers, or in beach chairs by the water, smoking, chatting or playing cards.

It's a 30-minute walk up a mountainside path to the river source. Of course, at the top, there are signs warning visitors not to go past the fence because of slippery and/or falling rocks. And of course, the signs are ignored.

Stopped for a cheese plate and something to drink "a bord de l'eau" at a small cafe on the way back down, then visited a museum built around an old paper mill, powered by a water wheel. It's not functional, but amazing to see how people harnessed water to do their work. Like making banks of mallets pound rags into paper.

Then, on the way home, a passing car in our lane almost knocked us off the road. But we're still here!

Les photos:

 1) See, these guys are not supposed to be down there. You fall in and you may end up drowned in China. But hey, thanks for giving me some scale, dudes. This is the source of the Sorgue river.

 2) A nice French man took our photo. Merci monsieur!

 3) At the the Moulin Vallis Clausa, these giant wood mallets, powered by a water wheel, once hammered rags into a paper-precursor substance. Today these work for display only.

 4) Just an interesting structure along the Sorgue.

 5) Could not pass this up. We bought some water here, but, seriously WTF?

6) On the way from L'Isle sur la Sorge to Fontaine de Vaucluse. This is the "Conduit Caprentras." I'm guessing it's a water delivery system, either functioning or not, but the only information on it was the name. Carpentras is a nearby town.

Old things

When I was a little girl, I lived in France. We lived in lots of places, but the one I remember best is Les Arcades, a (then) sorta semi-ruined maison-chateau in Beaugency, a village in the Loire Valley.

The grounds were expansive, with orchards, a small greenhouse, a wine cave under the house, stream and pasture, twinned parterres covered in pea gravel and surrounded by boxwood, and off and up a walled hillside, the home of Mnsr. Pierre, the gardener. Tres, tres cranky, was Mnsr. Pierre, what with a bunch of unruly kids running around his jardins. But not so cranky as to prevent Mme. Pierre from bringing my mom a bowl of fresh cherries or whatever other fruit or veggie was in full fragrance.

The grounds were great, the house, a mess. But it was cheap and that's what my family needed. Hindsight (thanks Mom & Dad!) a tremendous choice. I adore the memory of those gardens.

Here in southern France, looking at mossy water wheels, ivy covered walls, boxwood hedges and parks with pea-gravel walks, I remember Les Arcades and the smell of boxwood, topiaries and mossy stone walls and a gruff Frenchman bewildered by an American invasion.

The people of Isle sur la Sorgue must feel the same way. The town is a lovely tourist trap, where you will hear Australian twang and German .... um ... something. Some of the locals are polite but abrupt, some just polite and some friendly, like the owner of La Renaissance, where we ate lunch today.

Carl has a good history of drawing people out, and his fumbled response to the owner's "Finis?" question had all of us laughing. "He speaks no French?" he asked me. I shook my head. "OK, I thought he was finished but when he said 'No' I thought OK, I'll just let it go!"

Later, C made the proprietor of a cigar stand laugh!
He'll be here all week, folks! (Veal. Waitress. Etc., etc.)

Anyway, lunch was lovely. Then we looked at lovely antiques much, much older than Mnsr. Pierre.

Les photos:

 1) Lunch at La Renaissance.

 2) Poster outside an antiques store dealing in Mid Century Modern furnishings.

 3) Interior of a room of Hotel Donghier Antiquities. Isle sur la Sorgue is lousy with antiques dealers. Where does all this stuff come from?

 4) Fishing was done here in boats called "nego chin," which roughly  translated means "dog drowners." Boats not used any more, at least for fishing, or dog drowning, hopefully. Now just for photo ops.  Lovely though.

 5) Awesome dragon man statue outside of Robert Juan Antiquities, dealing in Asian and south Asian art.

 6) A rather old book at Carli Antiquities. This was actually open and you could flip through the pages, as were quite a few others.

7) River life on a Sunday afternoon in Isle sur la Sorgue.

And Vwahhh-lah

So. The Southern French have accents, too. In Paris, Voila is  Vwa_LaH! You say it fast and are done with it. In Provence it's Vw-a-a-hh_La-h-h and descending on that last Lahh. It's like the difference between You All and Y'all.
Isle Sur La Sorgue is a lovely little town, full of tourists slapping sandals on ancient cobble-stoned streets. But with good reason. It has an old history of fabric and paper making, of fishing and mysterious things to do with the papacy at Avignon way back when. (Tres complique!)
The River Sorgue is clear and a constant (13C) temperature all year long, springing from the earth at the Fontaine de la Vaucluse. There is a deep hole that the river wells forth from that's been probed at least since the 19th century by men wearing primitive scuba gear all the way to Jacques Cousteau & company. The annual water flow is constant, from rain and snow melt in the mountains above.
We dipped our feet in today, there are lots of spots where you can sit close to La Sorgue. The cool water is delightful. It's a Class 1 fishing river.
There also are water wheels, about 15 of them, relics only. They don't function to serve any fabric or grain industry any more. They are lovely nonethless.
Sunday is the antiques market, which IslS is known for.
Les photos:

Notre Dame des Anges, Isle sur la Sorgue

 13C all year long (great for cooling hot feet & crystal clear).

Cafe of the Umbrellas (Made up name!)

Our feline neighbor.

 Beautiful water wheel. These are so cool, in more ways than one.

Graffitti. Can't help it!

Sculpture Town

Paris is so old that there are three or four Parises under the one we wandered in today. You can descend into the catacombs to see the bones of previous wanderers and climb the Eiffel Tower to see the sprawl of city that living souls inhabit today.
The dead have left their marks though, in the art built into the structure of Paris. Sculptures in stone and metal, bridges and domes, cobbled streets, parks and allees. Most of what we saw today was of the monumental scale. La Tour Eiffel, of course. Pont Alexandre III, Le Petit Palais. It's just as much fun to sit at a sidewalk cafe and watch the river of life flow by.
Today's highlight, the Eiffel Tower. I've been to the top as a little girl but we skipped the trip this time because the lines were as long as the tower is high. Spent the rest of the day making our way back from Trocadero to La Bastille, wandering and stopping and admiring the sculpture.
Feet tired. Also, I got sunburned. ;)


Les autres photos:

 1) La Tour Eiffel

2) Queue for La Tour, multiply this by a billion for the size of the actual line.

 3) Sculpture at Le Palais de Chaillot at Trocadero. Imagine a left parentheses with a notch in the middle. That's the Palais. You round the outside of the upper part of the palais, turn left into the notch and there, across the Pont D'Iena is La Tour Eiffel. It's truly a magnificent view.

 4) Sculpture, Palais de la Decouverte

 

  

5) Column, Pont Alexandre III

6) What to do in Paris!