Yet another book about France...

My dear English friend (the one with 6 kids, not the one who teaches at school) has shared her copy of a new book by yet another Anglo-Saxon (this time English) about life in France. It is aptly named, The Secret Life of France.

It is amusing, and well-written. I'm mostly enjoying it. However, she makes some serious statements damning a nation's people when her experience is, well, limited to that of a wife of a wealthy and superbly well educated Frenchman of the definitely upper bourgeois class.

Apparently, in such a situation, finding marvelous and true and deep friendships amongst women is near impossible. They're all out to be the most elegant, sexy, alluring to the many (or too few?) men in their world and this competition crushes the possibility of true connection.

What a shame for her is this is her experience. I will testify that it took me some years to make good friendships with women in France, but this is more for their skittishness that you will leave. As a foreign-born woman, are you someone who they can hold in their heart for a life-time? Or will you skip out when the going gets tough? As such, there are perhaps a few more barriers to cross before these very special frienships are offered.

Yes, I do have dear friends. Friends I can count on. Friends I can confide in. Friends who shore me up when the times are difficult. Friends who are honest with me, supportive, at times critical, but with love. I can laugh, hug, cry with them.

As I work my way through the book, I learn that Parisians (of a certain class I assume) have different mores when it comes to sex within and ouside of marriage. Again, I didn't experience this in Provence. Outside of the capitol, fidelity is definitely the preferred way to live and divorce is often the result of infidelity. But then again, duplex apartments in the 16th and castles on the Loire are not being put at risk.

I'm still reading, and finding her observations about politics and other elements quite interesting, at times elucidating. I'm not finished. In any case, one of the details of her story that interests me is she in the end gave up on French men and married an Englishman. They live in France, so you could say she's got the best of both worlds.

Curious. I'll write more when I get to the last page.

A Broken Plate - Une Assiètte Cassée

Are you one of those people who fixes broken plates? Do you patiently conserve all the pieces till you've got a free moment, a new bottle of super glue and then sit down and put back together that puzzle? It's a very Humpty Dumpty moment.

Of course, there is a brief moment of satisfaction when you succeed, after holding it together, pressing carefully, lining up those edges. But then you use it as you use all things, and it gets food on it, and put in the dish washer, and put away in stacks. All as if it were truly as good as new.

But it isn't, and inevitably, the day will come when it breaks again. Do you try to repair it again? or do you toss it? I suppose each person is different in this. Feng Shui masters toss broken pottery. It is bad luck. But there are those of us with a rather tenacious nature, and endless belief in the possible.

Yes, I'm one of the latter. I can listen, respect and observe the other point of view, but when it comes down to it, I repair the broken and try again, often two or three times, before the inevitable catches up to me.

What is this leading up to? Can you intuit? Yes, at long last, a separation that might have been cleaner and done with back in October, that had another chance in February, finally occurred for good yesterday evening.

And so, I face the world again as a single woman. Though in many ways I've been such now for quite some time, I did enjoy simply being part of a couple and having the occasional bit of help around my house, garden, etc., It was nice to make reference to mon homme, mon vigneron, etc.,

However, I am far richer in friends and possibilities than before. The cracks in the plate had prepared me for this moment. And so onward. I will still dance -- the Salsa with my girl friend, Tango with the supremely friendly Avignon-based association l'Ilôt Tango. The weather is splendid -- I always have a sense of coming back to life in the spring. My rose bush will soon be blossoming, and I've lots of work touring coming up in the next couple of months.

I'm a bit disoriented, sad, out-of-sorts. As usual, I've lost my appetite. But this is passagère.

Along the way I told myself that apparently I chose this man and remained in this relationship to learn something. And I do think I have absorbed a few lessons. He is far stricter and more disciplined than I, nearly rigid, but honest and straightforward, nothing slippery. He had a deep sense of autonomy and required that of me. He was as clear as his mastery of language allowed him to be in stating what he was looking for and in communicating with me. This didn't always make things easy. Blunt communication not being a favorite of mine. Nuances have their value...

From him I also learned quite a bit socially and culturally about his part of the French world, the world of the land-owner in a small Southern town, the life and style of apaysan. A girlfriend points out that had he opened his heart to love my children, to help me raise them, that might have jeopardized his own childrens' inheritance -- his land. He would have been torn and that could not be allowed to occur. Thus, to prevent any betrayal of his own blood, simply avoid the issue. I was baffled and hurt by the behavior, finding it sad that it was impossible for him to even contemplate loving, or learning to love my children. But he felt he'd not been enough with his own, and dared not betray them in this way.

It is not an easy thing to be accepted into a land-owning family. There is no neutral ground. There is family, and there are the outsiders. You are allowed to be present, but not necessarily to speak equally. I'd heard tales about the Corsicans... but here I experienced a variation of the same. There was graciousness, pleasant gatherings where I was given the position of honor of preparing the meal, but... I was never truly a part of it all.

Curious it all is. For so many people attempting relationships at a later date, blending families, contemplating the children of another, it just isn't easy. And the history a structure brings to the table. If it is an American ideal that both individuals sell their former homes to purchase a new one together, and thus to start anew a life as one... I knew from the get-go that this would never happen for us.

Yes, we never truly built anything together. A repaired chicken coop, a few dinner parties, the new wine label... but no more. You can't get very far if you're stuck in second gear.

That Fisherman Metaphor

Remember the ancient Chinese prover? Give a man a fish and feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and feed him for a life-time?

Well, I think I'm living this metaphor. Or at least, that's one of the ways I'm currently viewing my relationship, living in France in general, and being a single woman. I accept and honor that I choose to be here and with this person.

And yet, (a big) part of me would just love it if someone (he) would take the load off, share the burdens of this life, let me sleep late, take care of repairing my car, be a strong presence in the life of my kids (wouldn't it be nice to share that educating and disciplining role?) etc.,

Ahhh I can dream. But, that's what you do for a child, not for an adult. Yes, it is far more lasting to be pushed to cope on my own, to learn how to fish, much as I squirm and resist at times. But clearly, I'm also aware of my learning curve in this area (somewhere in my subconscious).

I receive suggestions: "when you talk to your mechanic, list all that needs doing, and ask for an estimate (the all important word 'devis') before bringing your car to him." Done and handled, repaired and paid for. All by my lonesome. Goodness, I feel like I just added a year to my maturity level.

And I receive encouragement, and periodic praise as I do my best to raise my kids on my own : "tes enfants se sont bien comportés à table l'autre soir." Um, yeah, it's amazing what eating with your kids every night (or nearly) for two years can do... glad you noticed. And yes, I did it pretty much by myself with some help from the other kids I care for, my mother in the summer, ...

Okay, I can still be sarcastic. But fear where my kids are concerned is something I've learned to accept and carefully chisle away at... We're getting there: one weekend/evening/outing/meal at a time.

In the meantime, tourism has picked up. Lovely folks are coming to Provence, and I've a new neighbor with whom I can carpool. Yippee! Just call me an enthusiastic maturing adult with a very active inner child.

And actually, I'm a pretty good fisher woman -- my brother taught me long ago: I can filet, clean, behead, scale and de-fin with the best of them.

Friends to the Rescue

Yesterday I finished that last load of laundry and headed to Mireille's. My horse whisperer to the rescue. Hours later, and half a bottle quaffed of Beaurenard Châteauneuf-du-Pape white that I'd brought along, we were side by side chatting and exchanging and sharing. She's very good for helping reinforce my memories of all that wasn't going right. She is faithful, funny, generous, present, willing, and full of compliments and support for me.

Mireille is there to sooth me, to encourage me towards future pursuits, to suggest that my preference for being in a couple might not be the ideal solution for me (at least at the moment), and more simply Mireille is there for me.

I slept a short night, but lay in bed till the sun was properly up before heading out to greet my renters (lovely former b&b clients!), and then off to Carol's.

Carol, a darling Scottish friend is a yoga teacher, therapist and life-coach. She greeted me with a marvelous long walk, lengthy and easy talking, and a soothing Yin yoga session upon our return to her home. It was just lovely enough to do our yoga outside on the terrace (hard to imagine with the weather we'd been having!).

And here I am, all talked out, bathed, a fire roaring in her majestic stone fireplace, cozily sitting on a plush couch, Filou at my feet, a Crozes Hermitage Rouge in my glass, awaiting a lovely dinner of ginger and cider spiced pumpkin soup, spinach tart, and her daughter's birthday cake.

How extraordinary to be received, coddled, accepted into the homes of my friends. And how grateful I am. I am not a hermit. Hiding out on my own is not how I get through tough times. These moments are for re-connecting, reaching out to those who are there, and testing new possibilities.

Discussions for Provence Hiking and Yoga Retreats are on the table. Next? Perhaps the inspiration to put back a long morning hike and some meditative chanting into my life...

What is a definition of Love?

Love? Infatuation? Fascination? Crush? Passion? What are these?

One definition I share with a number of girl friends is if you truly love another you are willing to share and accept his/her worries and problems alongside all the joy, strength, potential, and more that he/she promises. If it is truly love, you can't help but want to help, and you don't dread being drawn in, you just act.

However, infatuation or fascination is more a sense of being drawn and held by another's physical beauty, sex, an ideal, even the wishful-thinking version of that person. In this dynamic, reality can be off-putting and disillusioning.

In general, we all come with both. Right? Virtues are balanced by weaknesses. Worry is balanced by joy. Light is balanced by dark. Can you accept my weaknesses? or will they send you fleeing? Humanity is by definition flawed, right?

As I remember so well a teacher saying to me, "If we were perfect, we would not and could not love. It is in our imperfections that love can nest."

Nevertheless, and of course, we each have our limits. However, if your limits are so well defined that they cannot be wriggled around or through, how can you grow?

As my dear friends and I agree, I am porous. My limits are minimally defined. I am about saying yes, being there, adapting to situations, coping for myself, my friends, my family, my guests. You missed a train? ok, I'll come get you. You need a place to sleep tonight? Well, I've a mattress I can put on my bedroom floor. Your child needs to be picked up Wednesday? I'll make room, there's always enough for another person at the table.

I think that in a solid relationship I give, you give, I receive, you receive, and we're both stronger for it. No? I try to adapt without judgement. The universe throws me a curve ball and I tense my abdominals, flex my arms, and catch it, more or less gracefully.

And, while awaiting its appearance, I will revel and flourish in the love of my friends, the support and encouragement of my family, and in my two marvelous boys who think I smell good.

Mechanical devices and such

Once upon a time, I sought to be completely independent, competent and simply not-dumb around cars, stereos, drills, woodworking equipment, etc., I'm still ok with hand-sanders, drills and hammers (not to mention duck tape). I can set up a stereo, put up a make-do antenna... and perhaps there it ends. Oh yes, I'm fine with IKEA furniture, but that's not saying much.

In any case, I was going to be one of those women who could manage easily by herself and not have to have a man around to do things. Or, at the very least, I'd work along side him. But, then along came my marriage to a traditional man who was handy in all sorts of ways, and just a wee bit macho to boot. So, I made children and cared for them. Being the only one of the two of us who could manage a computer and type, not to mention with a couple of graduate degrees, I did all the marketing, the web site, the search engine optimization, the recipe writing, the communication, the calculating, the designing of programs... etc., I filled my days with the 'soft' stuff. And, hey, as there was a man in the house who knew how to do all those physical things, and, who had stone and plaster walls rather than wood, I let him hang the pictures, fix the plumbing, put in the light fixtures, manage the car, pay our taxes, parking tickets, etc., with more relief than oversight.

Yes, I fell into a traditional couple dynamic. I cooked, cleaned, raised and educated the kids, bought everyone's clothes, sorted out the house and got rid of all the old stuff every year, etc., He took care of all the physical manly stuff. And I was mostly okay with this. I wanted more help with the kids (and in the end got an au pair), the dishes and meal preparation (he was the chef after all). But mostly, I accepted the situation and simply got on with it.

When I met JP he seemed to want to be in that role of older male (something he'd never done before). I enjoy learning from (and occasionally leaning on) someone, and at the time, I was more than a bit fragile and out of sorts from my divorce and newly single state. Plus, here was a skilled mechanic, an outdoor's man, someone who knew how to do lots of things, or at the very least knew when they should be done and who to call and how much it should cost.

With such a person present, the urge to truly learn to cope on my own didn't need to be developped.

Ah, but now it does. And so to work.

At long last I've made the acquaintance of the mechanic around the corner. And at a timely moment. In the last two days I've replaced the battery, the back wheels, the spark plugs, every item linked to the brakes, and ... in two weeks he'll do a more complete diagnostic to see if there's more to do.

So, there I was relying on men to help me (still leaning just a bit on the ex-husband) and I was driving a car most definitely not in the best of shape. Guess what? I was no longer the responsibility of my ex-husband, and JP wasn't really into the idea of helping me out in this way. Lovely weekends? yes. Pay for dinner? yes. Take me dancing? yes. Take care of my car? no.

So, just in the nick of time I coped. And most of what I earned during my lovely month of outings in October? Now in the hands of the mechanic.

I admit it. I'm a humanist. I take care of people, children, guests, clients. I nourish, clean, write, market, pay bills, & keep my banker happy (the one who has my mortgage). However, I'm a home-owner and a car-owner, and I've got to learn to manage all of this. It's scary though. I'm pretty good at the first list, but these mechanical devices are rather frightening to me. There are days it is all simply overwhelming and over much. Thank goodness, at least the hot water heater should work for the winter. It seems to have a small leak... but it is functioning. And, my plumber is nearby and super-helpful. A man I can count on.

Choices for Women, for Single Mothers

Divorced mothers have choices. At times they are forced upon you. They can be painfully difficult, rife with conflicting sensations, awkward and more.

Simply, do you, can you, will you remarry or at the very least shack up with another man while your children are young? (or ever). And if you do so, will that man find it in him to love your children? Can he love children not of his own flesh and blood? Will he help you, support you, encourage you in that love and care, or will he be that which draws you away from them? Will he seem to, but then, if you have a child with him, will his own take precedence, and yours of another man be pushed away? And what do you do then? Can a woman choose between her first child, her choice of a mate and the second child they've had together? Why must she? I've seen this, and the pain and awareness of the situation in the eyes of the first child. I've heard the worry and strain in the voice of the mother on the phone. But what do you do? How can you choose? You don't leave a second marriage with a second child lightly... and if, God forbid, you are dependent financially on this second husband, and thus truly feel your hands tied... How do you cope? In this particular case, the elder child is now at a boarding school. Thus, the new husband and new child have been chosen over the first. A variation of Sophie's Choice.

In my own situation I've found some level of rhythm and sanity. It is not perfection, but it has its lovely moments. I have children I care for during the week, and a man who cares for me over the weekend. Rarely do they meet. However, as they rarely meet, I keep the moments of jealousy and weirdness to a minimum. My children do not need to compete for my attention, and I don't have a man who feels excluded when I care for them. They each get my undivided attention all to themselves, during their alloted time slots.

This is not perfect. When I heard the words carefully spoken from his mouth I felt like I'd been kicked in the belly. All hopes of making a new life, truly making a new life with this man evaporated. As how could I continue to love and adore someone who didn't find my children lovable? And yet I did love him, and I didn't want to end what we had. And I still do, but differently. I've put distance between us, learned to protect myself, put up some barriers, and just stopped looking for more from him than he is able to offer. I've stopped asking, stopped suggesting. I've learned to consider only the good, and push aside what hurts, for now.

Nevertheless, my children are of my flesh, they are also me. It's the package deal. How can you take one without the other? Apparently, it's not such an unusual situation. I am not alone in living this conflict, nor this arrangement. And so for the moment, I've accepted and adapted to it.

And yet...

Perfect would be a man who loved me, (ideally adored me) but also contributed to a stable family unit with me, who could be good to my kids, fun, fatherly (though not their father), attentive, concerned with their education, and collaborate with me so as to avoid conflict. Ideally we would have joint projects, and approach life as partners in crime. We would go forth together, and my boys would fully be part of our lives.

Is this simply a dream? A fragile mirage?

My mother never re-married after my parents separated. She worked and she raised me. If she saw any men, it did not encroach on our time together. I think I would have welcomed a love in her live, but, for the duration of my time in the family house, it didn't happen.

I've received comments from readers of this blog who simply found it easier to raise their children alone, and then go dating once the youngest was on her/his way out of high school. Mixing children and new love was just too stressful and fatiguing.

I certainly have my amazing au pair Hayley to thank for even being able to start dating my vintner. If she'd not been there after my first date, and my subsequent multiple sleepless nights -- Pandora's box of emotions and torment had just been opened within my heart/head/body making sleep just impossible, and eating too -- I couldn't have coped. She got my kids up, to school, to tennis, fed, while I slowly recovered from the emotion-struck vegetable I'd become. After a week I was newly vertical, but continued to be a highly distracted individual for another few months.

It was not an easy thing to mother my boys and start a new affair. If I'd not had help, could I have done it? When you know that you have a problem with sleeping beside a new man; that fun though making love will be, and joyous as it is to fall into that new man's arms, you'll be a total mess in the morning having not closed your eyes once throughout that night... can you allow that night to happen? If the kids are home and waiting for you, counting on you to be copacetic, on the ball, a proper mother...? I'm just not so sure.

And so I look around, I consider, I wonder. I see the world in shades of gray. There is an idea of the perfect situation, but can it happen? It doesn't for many. Perhaps I'm destined to simply raise my boys, do the best I can do, and through yoga, healthy eating habits and a bit of face lotion, keep up my looks and potential attractiveness so that when at last I'm fully available, men will still be interested. But if I choose this route, will I be depriving my boys of the potential presence of an interesting and interested man?

Feeling at Peace

Somehow, somewhere, some why, I'm feeling at peace. Many people have known me to be often hyper, often a bit distracted, and often deeply affected by swaying feelings and sentiments. I can be frazzled, toss and turn all night, you name it. For those of you who've read my more personal posts, I would think this comes across... just a bit? So, what a relief, and what a pleasure, to be well, calm, and coping.

Why? Who only knows. My kids are doing well, that's a blessing. Even as they shift and change, I can see where we've a clear understanding, where I've earned their respect and that they are sure of me. We have our rhythms, and into these we three welcome others. It works.

But I am also in a clearly more accepting state of mind. I've put aside my frustrations of last year, my sense of schizophrenia, my efforts to find a way to blend together my weekend life and my week life, i.e. my life with the vintner and my life with my children. The root causes that so disturbed me are still there: I live two lives, I'm alone raising my kids, and though he says he likes children in general, he doesn't much care for mine. These are all serious issues that are still present. And yet, for the moment, I'm able to simply enjoy what is good -- someone is tender, gentle, present and attentive to me over my weekends; my kids and I are doing well under my roof -- and temporarily let be what so upset me last year. There is a clear sense that what I'm living is ephemeral. But it has its virtues. It is pretty clear that the day I take it upon myself to choose more in my life--joint projects, finding someone who will love my children as well as me--I'll be free to do so. My vintner is a very lovely individual, and very good to me, but no, he'll never be a foster parent to my kids, nor is there truly space in his world for there to be an us that goes forth as a unit to create and build.

It's been a very intense few years. Not only in the area of sentiment and relationships, but also financially. I feel that there must be a parallel universe out there where my father left me an inheritance, and/or another one where the b&b sold easily. Somehow, two major events have converged to leave me rather short of funds, that might have, in all justice, been expected and considered reasonably mine to help me on my way in this life. But no. It was not to be. My karma is to make it on my own, at least for now. It's almost absurdly amusing and contrary. But if this is the way of it, I shall most definitely make the best of my particular hand of cards (and mix metaphors by the minute!).

I've received an extra nudge to be careful about resources, to conserve energy, to cook and bake from scratch for the kids, to explore a kitchen garden, to limit my time in the car, and to convey these values to my boys. Not such a bad thing, eh? As I keep telling myself: I've still got my house, and my banker has yet to make a personal phone call with bad news. So, by all means, let's look on the bright side. And bright it is. We are all in good health, my car hasn't broken down (touch wood), and I've managed to find odd jobs here and there so far to keep me afloat. It could be so very much worse.

Thank you Universe for this gift of peace, for moments of calm, and for nourishing friendships, opening doors and new perspectives.

Deep Roots or a Tumbleweed?

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel

What is it that keeps one person grounded, rooted in their local village, living out a life within view of their place of birth? And what is it, conversely, that sends another to the opposite ends of the earth, restless, eager, looking over and beyond the next hill? How did I end up living in so many cities (Kobe, Seattle, Paris, Arles, Avignon, New Rochelle, Princeton), and practicing so many professions? What was it that pushed a friend and colleague to build a boat, sail the seven seas, settle in Tahiti, then come back to France, renovate a barge, sell it, and set off yet again, this time to Australia for seven years? She's back in France now... but like myself, how rooted will she allow herself to become, or not? Some might say we're running away. But no, we did not flee failed love-affairs, or unhappy childhoods. Though for myself, I confess love can be the hook which decides the destination. She, I believe, like myself, has in her a need to conquer new lands, to test her adaptability and strength by learning new mores and languages. Once successful, there is an urge to move on to a new destination. It is not failure that sends us on our way, but more often, success and an accompanying restlessness.

In my Provençale life I've surrounded myself with artisans and farmers, individuals who chose their professions early, mastered them, and then settled into their activity and their village for the rest of their lives. In many cases, these are people taking over from their fathers, or their mothers and practicing a profession transfered to them from precedent generations. Roots, tradition, expectations, familiar rhythms. These have weighed heavily in their choices, their life's path. The piece of earth that they own, and in some cases where they were born, roots them. But also the mastery of an art and their position socially in their town. They are known, respected, accepted integrally as part of the world they live in. When you are the baker of Maillane, that is what you are. Or the organic winemaker up the hill, or the potter, or the chic chocolatier. You have a reputation, a role to play, you are a puzzle piece that lacking, would affect all who live in your sphere.

A classic attraction of opposites?

Somewhere, somehow, I chose to be outside, other, different. I conclude this, as why else would I have settled in a foreign land where I shall always be told "vous avez un petit accent." or "mais, vous n'êtes pas d'ici." Certainly, a WASP from NY would simply have blended in in a Manhattan bank, or a university faculty meeting, or in the marketing department of Ralph Lauren, or as a housewife in Connecticut. But I didn't reach for any of these possibilities. I chose to live in a land (for a year) where I towered over all and made everyone laugh with my wild hand gestures and creative use of their language (Japan). Then I went flying off to Paris and from there began my life as an expatriée for good, in a land where my optimism and enthusiasm are seen with indulgence as signs of my great naïveté. And where my freckles, height and blondish hair are visual clues to my foreignness.

I am far from alone. Many have come to Provence to settle, and whether you are from Paris or from Tokyo, you are considered an outsider by the locals. So, I cannot pretend that what I live is as disorienting say, as the daily existence of a young American growing up with his missionary parents in a tiny village in Hokkaido. However, I have had the regular jolt and daily reminder of adapting my cultural education to the local standards: the loudness of my voice to the softer French, my driving style to the constantly passing two lanes of the French national roads, a tendency to rush a quick errand to the necessity of taking my time. I've enjoyed the challenge, but I've also accepted that I shall forever not blend in. A curious fact. I simply stand out like a sore thumb, in particular when I speak to my children in public, or tell Filou to sit, or even when I conclude a purchase in a shop and they hear my accent.

With time, I've become accepted as the individual I am. I don't think my closest friends think of me as their American friend anymore, I'm simply Madeleine to them. They've accepted my contradictions, my energy, my way of being.

If I stay here, and my children are raised here. Will they be "normal" or at least considered French? Or have I gifted them a bi-cultural existence along with their lingual proficiency? Will they be tempted to travel far and wide? or feel rooted as their father is, and as so many are in Provence. Many, including my vintner and their father sincerely believe they live in the most beautiful place in the world, to which many (myself included) have flocked. Thus why would they ever want to live elsewhere? Yes, paychecks are small locally, yes, there's very little mobility in the job market... so? Life is made of much more than a career, right? Family nearby, traditions, roots, familiar rhythms, not to mention the mountains, the beaches, the markets, the food, the culture.

Will my children be children of the world? or settle here. Will they want to explore their American side, be educated on the other side of the Atlantic and perhaps work there, or will they feel very French and want to stay put? The friend who spent time in Tahiti and Australia was followed back to France by two daughters, but not by her son. My cousin who married and raised her boys in England left them behind when she returned to her home-town in Massachusetts. And yet others can stay happily home and watch their children travel to the distant ends of the earth, settling in London, Tokyo, Berlin or Florence.

It takes all to make a world. But how interesting to have such different impulses in the hearts of our beings. And those of us who remain outsiders wherever we are, where in the end shall we land? Shall we graft onto others' roots? Shall we share the lift of our wings to carry others in our wake? Is it reasonable for a flighty, restless, traveling woman to be with a firmly rooted paysan?

Disneyland and Paris

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel


This is a mother and her kids' post. Culinarily speaking, the weekend was not truly up to snuff -- I'm not a fan of mediocre fries, starchy burgers, just small enough sweets to stimulate demands barely an hour later for more, not to mention sweet sodas. However, it was a weekend that stemmed from my children's very good behavior while I plowed through the hundreds of wine tasting notes for my translation earlier this year. I promised them a trip to Disneyland. I never thought I'd do such a thing. Nor did they. As I say to friends, my parents brought me to Europe! We never did Disney anything when I was little, and as a baby buster, I missed out on all the Disney films (I still haven't seen Snow White or Cinderella).

Why was I willing? Why such a change of heart? Well, at some point last year, JP mentioned that he'd enjoyed Disneyland with his children and that he'd be willing to go there again. You can imagine that hearing that once was enough to have it firmly registered on my brain. Financially, it is a chunk -- the TGV tickets, a hotel room, entry fees, food for the weekend etc., -- so I held off for a good long while. However, with the funds from my translation making their way to my bank account, I bit the bullet, and off we went.


An early train ride on Friday morning began the adventure. This brought us to Paris for a visit to my old haunts. Lunch at the Brasserie de l'Ile St. Louis where two servers from my years in Paris (1995-1997) were still there, and greeted me with kisses and that marvelous look of recognition that makes you feel warm and special inside. The Maître d'hôtel was clearly the son of the Patron of my time there. Lunch finished, I promised to return to see his father in the evening. Then we set out for an after-lunch walk down the Seine to the Jardin des Plantes, where we wandered into the dinosaur and animal skeleton exhibits -- an amazing collection dating to Victorian times. You can feel Darwin and his fellow curious scientists in the room, painstakingly putting together these fragile puzzles of bones. There were classes of art students positioned on the floor sketching craniums, back bones, tails, jaws, teeth. My boys were wistful that I hadn't brought paper and pencils so they might join them. As was I. We'd done some mellow sketching and at the exhibits of the New York Museum of Natural History, paper and pencils in hand, and this visit brought back those good memories.


I suggested, and JP was willing, that we walk everywhere -- from the Gare de Lyon to the Ile St. Louis, from there to the Jardin des Plantes, from there back to l'Ile for drinks with friends, and from there back to the Gare and off to our hotel out by Disneyland. Back when I lived in Paris I walked absolutely everywhere, vastly preferring being up on the streets to down in the metro underground. It seemed to me quite doable to walk amidst these relatively close destinations. But how one forgets. And how I underestimated the possible (or rather, what could be pleasantly possible as opposed to within the possible). In our life in Avignon, I move and walk a good bit, but nothing compared to my Parisian life, apparently. Oh how my legs are aching today! The boys were pretty out of whack from all that walking too. Jonas said the soles of this feet hurt. Leo complained of boredom, weariness, hunger, and his need for a toilet. It was pretty non-stop. And, on top of that, the fight to hold my hand was a constant for the entire weekend (JP holding the other one). Jealousy, bickering, getting my goat... I mostly kept my cool, but I was an easy target.

Yes, a weekend outing with my boys is not something I've often attempted. Plane trips, airports, these we know well. The promise of being at Grandma's house when we arrive helps these long waits pass relatively easily. But cultural outings to cities are something I haven't much attempted -- beyond NYC's Chinatown at Christmas. Nor have I insisted they come along for adult outings, drinks with friends, restaurants, etc., So how much of the difficulty of all this stems from lack of experience? and how much is simply Leo's constant need to be stimulated?

That I had planned a short Paris time for us all before Disneyland was a bit hard for them. Leo is still learning that not every moment of the day is designed for his personal enjoyment. Jonas is easier. He can be genuinely physically tired, but he's rarely the vocal complainer that Leo is. A short rest on a park bench eases his weariness, and we can set off again. I'm not the only mother to have such different children. Variety is the spice of life, right?

Personally, having purchased tickets to Paris, I could not not take advantage of that Parisian feel and look and ambiance. Thus, a lesson to Leo: Sometimes we simply go along knowing that the person we're with is having a good time. We graciously accept that what we want to do is not always on the top of the list. Is eleven too young to learn this?

At last, Saturday morning we headed over to the land of fantasy, rides and haunted houses. Once the entry fee is paid, all is available to you. Star tours, and roller coasters, the underground hideaway of the Pirates of the Caribbean and the tree house of the Swiss Family Robinson. A favorite was the battle of Buzz Lightyear and Zorg: mobile video game battles and targets, complete with lazer pistols. The kids were amazed that we were there, and but for the 45 minute wait to get into the old mining shaft roller coaster were pretty well behaved. The directive "separate" seemed to work. Leo was willing to move to JP's side and stop (for a second or two) tapping Jonas, though that didn't mean that Jonas didn't continue to provoke his brother, who felt honor-bound to have the last word/hit/tap/pinch in their never-ending battle.



Seeing them happy and having fun was great, and joining them on all these rides (even the loop the loop of the Indiana Jones' Temple of Doom with Leo! -- eyes closed for most of that very long minute) pretty special. As every parent no doubt feels at the end of an extraordinarily exhausting day amidst Disney characters, extremely pleasant and multi-lingual ride managers, expensive junk food and endless walking, please may this not to be repeated extravaganza turn into a really good memory for them.

We had our glitches. After the Dream Parade, during which I fully understood how heavy Jonas currently is when seated on my shoulders, Leo ran off ahead disappearing completely into the crowd. I found him an hour later when the employee he approached called me on my cell phone. I'd been more annoyed than panicked, reassured somewhat by the fact that he knew my cell number. What the Hell was he thinking running off like that? We could never run through these dense crowds and keep up with him. He thought yelling back at us something unintelligible amidst the noise and density was sufficient. However, none of the three of us had heard where he was headed. We had simply an idea of the general direction. So I spent my last hour in Disneyland searching for him, and he me while JP took Jonas to see some ancient Mickey cartoons. Not the best end to an otherwise fun day. Hopefully another lesson learned? I had clung to Jonas' hand amidst all this insanity, knowing full well that he has yet to memorize my number, and if we lost him, I would be a complete wreck. But at eleven, Leo is both old enough and not. It's that ambiguous age that blends a certain amount of reason and responsibility, with the spontaneous gestures of an excited child. What do I expect of him? and vice versa? Each month seems to bring yet another occasion to test limits, at times expanding them is appropriate, at times we refine the terms.

Disneyland is a land of perpetual enjoyment, and employees trained to make sure you stay happy: giving directions, but gently. As I followed and/or led my children throughout this enormous complex I kept thinking of the many specialized professions that contributed to its existence. The roller coaster engineers of course, the fake stone, stalagmite and tree bark masons, but also the waiting line sociologist/psychologist who carefully plotted out 65 minutes' worth of weaving amidst an interesting decor and carefully delineated paths, keeping you unsure how much further you have to go till at last you're there. How to keep so many people pleasant and relatively entertained and content amidst such incredible crowds and potential frustrations? How to fleece them of a maximum of their hard-earned cash? Oh the occasions to pay 3E for a donut or a crêpe, to buy expensive t-shirts and hats, princess gowns, crowns. Clearly, the money behind the endeavor is immense (as we all know), but also the plotting/thinking/calculating down to the tiniest detail. For all this, bravo. However, I do believe this is my first and last visit.


Exhausted, we climbed into the TGV and headed back to Avignon, and not quite three hour trip, arriving sleepily in a cold and rain soaked landscape at 10:55pm. And then, at long last, we were abed. Ahhhhh.

Dogs and Cats

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel


When I first met my vintner, he had a wonderful hairy mutt with a lot of German Shepherd in her. Sally would bark intimidatingly at any intruder, or simply at the arrival of anyone on the property. Over the years of my visits with clients, I came to know Sally, and was able to reassure her quickly of my presence, my good intentions, my calm. She had an intimidating presence, but in fact, was a loving and gentle dog once you got to know her. Long before Jean Paul and I got together as a couple, I had a great relationship with Sally. She welcomed me, accompanied me when I walked through the vineyards, leaned against me, sat on my lap (a rather awkward position, but I was nicely settled on the grass when she came over and decided that my lap was a better surface than cool grass). Or was she simply holding me in place till her owner arrived? I preferred the alternative possibility: when you're feeling romantic, it is an easy extrapolation to say, if your dog likes me, you could too...

Before I divorced, but on the road to it, I got a dog myself, Filou. A small, fluffy cross between a poodle and a bichon. Living in the city of Arles, with no grass out our door, and with the prospect of flying back to the US frequently, a small being seemed the best choice. Not to mention, I was raised in a family of poodle owners, so I had a sense of how he would be in our home and with the kids.

Filou, though nominally joining our family closer to Leo's birthday than mine, became my dog and my responsibility, and accompanied me everywhere. This being France, that includes all cafes, elegant restaurants, the hair-dresser's, and yes, to all the artisans' homes and workplaces, be they grape vines or potter's studios. Filou, if you want to take a psychological/Freudian tack, was also my replacement for affection in my life. My marriage was pretty dismal at this point, I wasn't misbehaving nor taking a lover in any way, and my children were old enough to not be in my arms all day long. So, for warmth, devotion, affection, cuddling, I had my puppy.

My dog-loving clients were in heaven with this sweet fluffy being on their laps -- as were my au pairs. But when a non-dog lover was along, I tried to oblige by leaving him at home. Being with me all the time, he grew into a calm and pretty well behaved beast. However, that said, those poodle genes bred true, and he does have moments of yapping, at a particularly horrible high pitch that brings on head-aches. Nobody's perfect.

Thus Filou met all my artisans' dogs, the sheep dogs, the dogs at the potter, and Sally when he was still a puppy. You could say I socialized him early. He got along with everyone, yipping and jumping all over the older more sedate canines, who tolerated these intrusions of a pert child kindly.

Jean Paul wasn't duped, he saw the role Filou had in my life, and, quite familiar with animals himself, he set about letting Filou know that he was top dog, not Filou, and, that he was also a source of affection, food, water, etc., So, though you would think my children were more part of the package of me than my dog, at this point, it is my dog who has been welcomed/tolerated in Jean Paul's home with the most ease. But we have our moments. Back in my maternal life in Avignon, Filou sleeps at my feet, keeping me warm in my minimally heated house, and follows me from room to room, knowing his place is at my side. When Jean Paul is there, or when I'm in his house, Filou has learned that his place is on the floor, and, he'll often stay in a room that I've left, if Jean Paul is still there.

Last year, just before a trip to Japan, Sally being clearly very sick, Jean Paul had to put her down. The mas has changed personalities. Sally was in many ways his soul-mate, joining him in the vineyards while he worked, greeting him with joy, protecting his home and his family. Her loss was deeply felt, and perhaps surprisingly, also very strongly by me. I felt supported and appreciated by her, welcomed and warm. Her departure saddened us all.

Over the year that has passed since, Filou has taken his place as the announcer of approaching cars. He doesn't scare anyone, but he is efficient as a look-out. He has his bed in the living room, his bowl by the wood stove, his blanket on the floor of the bedroom. This is in contrast with Sally, who, in the fashion of many a farm animal, had never been an indoor dog, never been brushed, nor clipped. She ate and slept in the garage, coming into the warmth of the house only the last months of her life, as her illness rendered her feeble.

All this said, Filou and I are only here at the winery on weekends and over certain vacations. So, in the meantime, a former renter's cat has come into Jean Paul's life. Just to keep things lively, Filou goes tearing after her, sending her into hiding at his ferocious (not) barking. In the house, she sits on the couch and glares. She smells Filou's food and tears into the bag, no longer content with her bowl down in the garage. More often, I find Filou tries to be mellow and discreet, sitting at our feet while we eat, etc., and the cat simply takes umbrage at his existence. But, with time, they seem to have come to somewhat mutually tolerate each other. At this moment, I've the cat curled up against my thigh while I write, and Filou is in his bed across the room under the piano. The wood stove is burning brightly, warming us all. A pretty happy domestic scene. Though I've yet to completely adopt the cat -- I'm being a bit resistant, annoyed that her hissing takes precedence over Filou's desire to play. But, slowly, I'll be won over.

T'will be interesting if Jean Paul gets a new puppy one of these days...