A Brief Moment in Venice

A precious and marvelous couple of days spent in a magical city. Friendly restaurant and wine bar owners, winding tiny streets, many many little bridges, handsome and snappily-dressed gondoliers, expensive prices, glass beads and antique shops aplenty, brisk and cool air off the water. Une ville minérale with remarkably little greenery. The locals do as they might with window boxes, potted trees, etc., Enormous public squares, piazzas. Lovely and easy to drink wines, many a variation of salt cod, shell fish laden pasta, black squid ink, creamy polenta, thick and sweet chocolate, hotels up five flights of stairs. And everywhere, tourists like us -- many French speakers, many English, a few German and Dutch... No, we didn't blend too well with the locals, often with our guides and maps in hand. But, we moved and swirled about this tiny island, shared the crowded boats, and took in the otherness of this city caught between the Byzantine and Europe.

A rainy weekend in the Cévennes

A chance to get away, a chance to see other horizons. Stone houses in every direction. Windy roads. Vast vistas, closed and tiny spaces, little perched villages overlooking the valleys. A hike up to the top of a peak, cold, buffeted by the chilly and moist wind, scrambling over rocks, leaving the tree line below. A cozy fire in the b&b, friendly hosts, low ceilings, rain pouring down, muddy dirt roads to navigate on foot and in the car. Simplicity, quiet, otherness. Streams running into rivers, ancient stone bridges crossing over them.


The Protestant history is never far away. Though currently it is more a question of the neo-ruraux (i.e. the newly settled country-folk) and the long-time residents vying for power at the local Mairie, town hall. The former wish to renovate and safe-guard the ancient patrimony, the latter want to at long last get some money from that scrap of land Pappi left them, and to hell with the view.


Here, you are far away from all the major cities (by an hour or so) and yet there are yoga teachers, horse clubs for the kids, mountain biking, donkey rides, choir practice, mushroom picking hikes, and much much more. Out of the way, but not culturally isolated. Not a bad way to live. Though taking the car out every time you leave to go anywhere could get rather tiresome fast. Not to mention having a windy and lengthy ride to any activity so desired. Careful to have your brakes checked!

Exploring the Flora in the Cévennes

the orange is called bacon and eggs by the British

une campanule

This past weekend I was whisked away by bus to a women's retreat high up in the Cévennes hills. The retreat was hosted and organized by the Nîmes CIBC (Centre Inter-Institutionnel des Bilan des Compétences) and its PAC (special women's programs) team. When the he Nîmois and Montpellierains want to get away from the city air, they head to the Cévennes. In my past incarnation as an Arlesienne we used to get away to the Alpilles hills to the east, or to the Mediterranean coast by Cassis. My neighbors in the Vaucluse, and around the city of Avignon go up to the plateaux surrounding the Mont Ventoux. To each his little corner of paradise. Since dating a vintner in the Gard (Vauvert is just 20 minutes south of Nîmes) this world of hills and hamlets to the west has been opened up to me.

la scabieuse et la silène enflée

The weekend dangled me in many worlds: from a workshop in vowels and breathing, to a short half-hour of laying on of hands, to a session consecrated to visualizing myself as a child, where I see myself today, how others see me and where I'd like to be tomorrow. It was a time to breath, to share experiences with other women, to wonder at where I've come from, and where I'd like to go (at least in the next year or so, I'm not looking too far ahead at this point). It was also a time to compare notes, to offer advice and assistance amongst ourselves, and perhaps, to plan projects many of us can participate in. Having all received the counseling sessions, workshops and excursions free due to very generous local government and private assistance, what can we give back? How can we combine our many forces and create -- while also coping individually on our often complicated or rather 'complex' lives?

A last excursion before Sunday lunch and our departure took me away from the center (and out of my head) into the fields and woods with a naturalist/hiking guide. I brought my camera along -- it rarely leaves my side now, which is rather marvelous as once, in a past life, I was a photographer. I photographed people far more than natural surroundings... but, simply aiming the small silver object at the world helps me to see it more clearly, and capture a tiny detail to bring home.



The guide was a man who's lived in the Cévenne hills for nearly thirty years. He told of as well of the years he lived in Northern Africa, and his general biography as a man passionate for the outdoors, and perhaps a simpler way of living on this earth. As we did a tour of the center, and then walked gently down the winding road leading away from it, he told us about the vegetal history of these hills. He pointed out and emphasized the many ways it has been altered by man. There are no virgin forests, and what is there by a very large majority, was replanted after 1850. Between 1750 and 1850, the region was far more populated than it is now. The industries of silk and silkworm raising, coal mining, and glass blowing brought wealth to the region, but also presented a need for heat. The cheapest and most available source was to be found in the surrounding woods. A concurrent rise of sheep herding and animal husbandry, helped along by fierce winds and frequent rain storms helped keep the hills bare of trees, brought erosion and indirectly caused devastating mudslides and floods in the cities of the valleys below.



the vaulted stone arch from a former sheep house, or bergerie

The tree planting programs favored quick growing trees, and did not necessarily involve careful attention to local varieties. Thus, there is now a wide range of pines that are not indigenous to the region. However, these are interspersed with a variety of acacia called the Robinier (wonderful for the bees as it has early flowering blossoms), chestnut (appreciated both for its fruit and for the beauty of the wood in furniture making), elm (regularly used for re-foresting, its bark has anti-fever qualities), weeping willow (in humid land, its bark is the source for aspirin, and its berries and leaves can be simmered to make a sedative), hickory (amongst the preferred woods for burning) green oak (a Mediterranean variety), and a tree I hadn't known before, the frêne or European Ash. This latter was as still is very useful to the sheep herders and dairy farmers as its branches and leaves can be fed to the animals -- a useful stop-gap when the supply of hay ran low. It is currently still used for pharmaceutical purposes, the leaves having anti-rheumatism, diuretic and laxative qualities, the bark is a tonic and anti-fever, the berries are eaten by many a bird in winter.



At our altitude (under 1000 meters) we were in a zone on the cusp -- trees which range from 500-1000 meters in altitude were alongside those that grow in 900-1500 meters altitude. There is a point as well, when the tree line stops and the open hill tops are barren, with just the small shale covered paths along the crests (the French love using the word "crêtes" to describe the hill top paths that take you along the tops, giving you options to descend, but continuing on the heights).

le myosotis (blue) et les carrotes sauvages

While my guide discussed trees, bugs, schist and granite stones (thus the ease of making schist slate roofs, flat rock stacked walls, and heavy granite lintels above doorways), the return of otters and wolves to the area, and more, I focused my camera on the local flora. I was very interested in the discussion, and tried to follow it, but was often distracted by what I saw at my feet. However, I do remember that he stressed that the Cévennes actually encourage and seek to maintain a certain number of sheep and goat herds in the area as pasteurage, i.e. open fields with a multitude of species, are slowly disappearing as the once small forests are expanding daily into the open land. With the growth of the trees, the undergrowth dies away, and a completely different eco-system is put in place.



Where possible, I'll name the flowers below... but the tour focused on trees and animals, far more than on the lovely and colorful gifts at my feet.

What Grows in a Rock?

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

An Outing to the Cévennes

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



Off the west, and not particularly far, are the Cévennes hills. This part of France is riddled with small villages, teeny hamlets, groupings of stone homes perched on high, and one street towns edged by the Gardon River to one side, and stone cliffs to the other. House after house, with windows only on the wall facing the street.



This is a land rich in history. At the time of the Wars of Religion, many Protestant communities found a semblance of peace in these hard to reach areas. And more recently, the silk industry made of many of the towns, wealthy centers of the bourgeoisie. The remains of the mulberry trees dot the landscape, as do long three story stone buildings in which the silk worms were raised and where their spun silk was transformed into valuable threads for the clothes of Europeans far and wide.



The silk industry left behind tasteful and elegant architecture. The Protestant influence is far more durably felt in the discreet inhabitants, sturdy and self-reliant, minimalist in their needs, restrained in their demeanor. Red and dark gray stones, plentiful in the soil, are the material of choice for all the homes. The windows are small, the doors often quite old and hand-built.




The Cévennes, inexpensive and out of the way, was a haven of choice for the "soixante-huitards" or flower children as we'd call them in the US. The back to the country trend that swept up many a baby boomer in France helped re-populate the region with organic farmers, goatcheese makers, potters, alternative educators, active Green party members and others who prefer long hair, beards, natural childbirth, vegetarian diets and harem pants in ochre, preferably from India. These relatively new arrivals have enriched the social life immeasurably. To someone like myself that is. On the doors of the Mairie/Town hall you can find posters announcing hikes to discover medicinal plants, projects to build eco-conscious houses, pottery classes, and informational debates on the environment, the Green Party, the European Union projects and more.





To get there, we left Vauvert and drove towards Alès and then went straight west, winding our way up and up into the hills. The roads are tight and filled with curves. Rivers flow below, clear as a bell, tumbling over stones and sharp drop-offs. Driving fast is both impossible and terribly dangerous should you attempt to do so. So, simply take it easy, and wind your way to your chosen village and one of the many bed and breakfast in the area. Bring your hiking shoes along as every village has beautiful hikes branching off from it into the hills. Once away from the bustling cities of Nîmes and Avignon, revel in the slower pace and say hello to the grandfathers tending their kitchen gardens. Potatoes were the plant of choice in most of what I saw. A staple for the year to come.

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.