Tossing and Turning

I’m not the only person who lays in bed at night thinking about the stuff that I’m too busy to think about during the day, right?  And it usually gets out of hand, true? 

Example:

Last night I was thinking about something I need to buy and, knowing it was going to rain today, I decided to first look on the Internet.   While I was musing about where to look, I took the next “thought step,” which was:  if everyone stays home tomorrow and uses the Internet to shop, the stores will be empty. (If that were true, by the way, even the rain couldn’t have kept me away.)

This is not an original thought, of course.   We all recognize that the mom-and-pop stores have all but disappeared thanks to the convenience and cost-effectiveness of using the big box stores.  As much as we long for the days of going to the little shop around the corner for our shoes, the reality is that the majority of us can’t afford it. 

But should the big box stores be worried now?  Are they being gobbled up by the mega-Internet?  How much Christmas shopping did you do online last year?  For me, it was almost 100%.  This year I might reach that percentage.  Especially if it snows J

How quickly will we become an insulated, stay-at-home society?  This is where my mind spiraled last night.   Toss:  We shop from home more and more.  Turn: The big-box stores gradually close (there are rumors that Best Buy is already on its way out).  Covers off:  If we don’t need to go out to shop, we don’t need cars—at least not our own, personal cars.  One car per household will be enough. 

Covers on: Everything comes to us.  We buy even more comfortable furniture.  Nesting is taken to its highest level.  The result?  We get fatter.  Maybe even the French get fat!  (Hit the floor and do a few happy shuffle steps.)

Burrowing back in: On the other hand, the Jewel Tea man, the Omar bread man, the milkman and the butcher used to deliver and they went the way of the nickel Hershey bar.  Why?  Was it because we wanted to get out?  We are social animals, after all.

Oh, wait, we can now socialize on the Internet.  Without taking a shower or putting on a bra.

Tonight I’ll work on world peace.

Good Cop, Bad Cop.

Our daughter’s thirteen-year old car bit the dust Saturday.  It coughed up its last noxious fumes shortly after she left the gas station, with a full tank, of course.  She asked her dad and I to go car shopping with her on Sunday.  Her parameters for purchase were simple:  Used, low mileage, good on gas, cheap.  Here’s the kicker:  She asked for her dad because he can (euphemistically) kick the tires.  She asked me because I’m the “bad cop.”  I’m the one who doesn’t care about the kids in the picture on the salesman’s desk.  I don’t care if Heather “looks good” in a blue car.  I don’t need a new best friend. And I’m not afraid to walk if the deal isn’t right or takes too long.

She was right, of course.  Historically, I’ve always been the hard-nosed realist.

“No, you can’t wear the jeans with a hole in the knees to Mass.  I don’t care if dad said you look cute.”

“No, you can’t eat an ice cream sandwich for lunch.  Yes, I know.  Funny daddy said it is a sandwich, after all.”

“Call when you get there so I know you’ve arrived safely.  Call me or I’m coming to find you.  Yes, I trust you but, unlike daddy, I can’t sleep until I know you’re safe.”

I cross-examined the boyfriends.  Dad played golf with them.

I wasn’t always crazy about my reputation with my kids as the bad cop, but I also silently loved that they had such a sweet relationship with their dad, too. 

This is the part of parenthood that gets better with time.  Instead of the tears or stomping feet or swishing hair or rolling eyes I got when she was a kid, I now get asked to use the bad cop part of my parenting repertoire. 

And here’s the best part:  I’ve raised a good negotiator.  She called today to say, “I told the salesman to put the car up on the rack and have it inspected (they don’t offer that at this small lot) and to put a full tank of gas in it, too (they don’t do that, either) if they want me to buy it.  And I want it in writing.  He agreed.“  Well done, grasshopper.

I guess that makes me a good “bad cop.”  

Who’s the “good cop” in your household?  I’m betting it’s the hub.  If it’s not, humor me and tell me it is, okay?

Goodness Gracious Me!

Tonight after dinner, the hub and I went for ice cream.  At one point I heard a lady say, “my goodness, this is really good.”  My first thought was, “who said this?”  My second thought was, “that was me!”

Do you get it?  Did you hear what I said?  my goodness, this is really good!  Twenty-year olds don’t say “my goodness.”  I don’t think fifty-year olds do, either.   But now I know sixty-year olds do.

I’ve been noticing a lot of this “old lady” stuff about myself lately.  When I was on vacation last month I spent way too much time complaining about my knees, which, admittedly, were just singing with pain for most of the last two weeks.   So that’s a double dip of old lady:  complaining and pain. 

The good news is that I was totally annoyed with myself for feeling bad when I wanted to feel good.  For slowing down when I wanted to move faster.  For staying put when I wanted to walk up one more hill.  So I guess this means I haven’t given in to my old lady status entirely.  I mean, I’m not saying “well, of course, I can’t make that trek.  I’m no spring-chicken, you know.”  No, I’m still saying, “I can do this (ouch), wait, gimme a minute (ouch), okay, go, I’ll catch up with you later.” 

I was so pissed off at myself for feeling that I was less than I wanted to be that I made an appointment with my orthopedic guy from Paris!  I saw him on my return home and, after reviewing the x-rays, he said he thinks the arthritis is worse (really, doc?  Ya think?) but he wanted an MRI to see more.  Did the MRI last week and I’ll see my guy again on August 22^nd for the reading.  I’ll keep you posted.

And my face feels funny.  It feels scratchy.  Hmmmm.  So this weekend I went out and bought new facial scrub stuff and an anti-aging gel.  I used both, then took a 200 mile ride on the back of the hub’s Harley.  When I came home I felt a little chapped.  Looked in the mirror and my face was red and on fire.  But it was soft.  Hoping that it was a combination of the new products mixing with the sun and wind I’ll try again in a few days.  After the swelling goes down.  I don’t know if it will really improve the texture of my skin, but it definitely improved the quality of life for my credit card company, so someone will benefit.  I’ll keep you posted.

My toes are wrinkled.  Are yours?  They look like I just got out of the pool, but I haven’t been in a pool in over a month.  So I’ll increase my pedicure appointments and, in between, I think I’ll try that facial gel on them.  I’ll keep you posted.

All this is to say that I am taking charge of this aging thing.  I’m going to move more and take vitamins and work on my skin.  And I’m going to think before I speak so that little kids don’t start asking me for brownies and milk and my husband doesn’t buy me lavender toilet water for my next birthday.  Yes, indeedy bob, I’ll keep you posted!

There's No Place Like Home

When we arrived home late Thursday night from our trip I felt like I had just arrived on vacation!  For years, I’ve been the person who said, “If it weren’t for the kids and grandsons, I could gladly give up permanent digs and just roam the world for the rest of my life.”  Yet, this time, after only about 25 days away, I was anxious to be home.  Well, this was a surprise!

I started thinking about “home.”  Of course, it has different meanings for many, and I can only address my own, but what I’ve concluded is that “home” evolves.  Here’s how:

As a child, home meant Lake Avenue, seven people at the dinner table, birthdays with a favorite aunt and uncle, warm Christmas eves, one bathroom, sharing a bedroom, and the freedom to roam our small town in the summer.

As a teen-ager, home meant being answerable to annoying parents on Lake Avenue, missing brothers who were in the service, missing an older sister who had moved to North Jersey, babysitting a little sister, having my own room and my own phone and four around the big table at dinner.

As a young adult, married and living in Ohio, home still meant Lake Avenue.  We would go “home” every long weekend for years.  We would go “home” every Christmas.  Our apartment, even after the birth of our daughter, wasn’t “home” to me, I guess.

This went on for years.  Of course, I recognized that our houses were homes, especially the one in which we raised our two children.  For my kids, this was “home” and, though I really, truly thought of them as home, I continued to say “we’re going home” whenever we were headed to New Jersey.

My parents sold the home I grew up in and moved to Florida in 1981, shortly after marrying off the last of us.  I was appalled.  I’d been gone for ten years, yet I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that Lake Avenue would no longer be “home.”  I remember my daughter asking me why I was upset.  This 9-year old, to whom home was Melwood Drive in Columbus, couldn’t understand how I thought of an old house in New Jersey as “home.”  She was right, and from that point on, where I lived with my husband, children and dogs, was home.

Several houses later, “home” has now morphed into another iteration.  Our present home is not as large as previous places, we’ve not as much property (in fact, a postage-stamp front yard) and the last piece of new furniture I bought was I-don’t-know-how-long-ago.  The days (years) of collecting the perfect pieces for each room are long over (embarrassing confession:  I bought a yellow striped velvet couch during the early 1970s “Mediterranean” phase).  I now have confidence in my own personal style.  Walking through the door Thursday night and seeing the things we loved enough to keep sitting companionably on bookshelves; climbing the stairs to the bedroom we carefully refined over the years, I knew I was home. 

True, we raised our kids in another home, cared for and said good-bye to a parent in another, prepared for a child’s wedding in a third and welcomed grandchildren to still another.  Momentous occasions all that should, by definition, be recalled as true “homes.” And, at the time, they each were.

But this place we are in now is definitely home.  Just the hub and I on a full-time basis but imbued with all the bits and pieces of our previous homes and re-animated as in earlier homes when family and friends gather here. 

It’s a cliché, I know, but home really is "where the heart is.”   Our hearts just define it differently at various stages of our lives.  At least, that’s the way I see it.

1962 on Lake Avenue. L-R: Mom, Collene,
Melaney, Jackie

50 years later.  2012 on Grand Strand Drive

And Then There Were None

Today was our last day in Paris.  I think we spent it well:

After breakfast at "home," we headed for the base of Montmartre to browse a few shops for last minute pressies to take home to friends. Then the metro to the Ile de la Cite to leave our "love lock" on the Pont de Arts bridge behind Notre Dame.  After securing our lock, making a wish and tossing the keys into the Seine, we headed to Restaurant Le Tournebievre for a late lunch.  With a view of the bookinistas, the Seine and Notre Dame, we had frissee with bacon and poached egg (me) and tomatoes with mozzarella (Gene) for starters then steak Tartare (me) and Lieu Jaune, or Pollack, (Gene) for plats.  Both excellent. 

After lunch we walked to the Ile St. Louis for Berthillon cones.  We both chose double dips of chocolate and caramel burre sel.  OMG.  I knew I had to wait until the last day for this treat or I'd have been in line at Berthillon's every day and needed a second seat on the plane home!

Tidying up the apartment (lest Le French poop tries to withhold our deposit) and packing this afternoon.   Of course, I tossed a few articles of clothing to fit the new stuff and gifts.  (Yes, THAT is how serious I am about carry-on only.)

Gene made a final run to the patisserie for our last baguette and croissants which, along with some leftovers in the fridge, comprised our dinner.

In the morning, a taxi to the airport at 8:00 am then home via Philly. Heather and Clay will pick us up at the airport in Columbus.  My palms are already itching to get my hands on them. 

Thanks for coming along on our adventure!  Please check back in a few days for pictures.  Then it will be on to postings that I hope will interest you.  Please don't forget to comment.  I love dialogue, remember?

Are you looking forward to the Opening Ceremonies of the Olympics this weekend?  I sure am!

Winding Down

Today we took it easy. Not that we've been running around like crazy the past week, just slower than normal.  Our usual style of vacation is to intersperse a few museums, exhibits or special activities in with a lot of just wandering around and becoming part of the scenery.  In other words, we're very good at doing nothing!

Today is a good example of this.  We were up and out by 10:30, hit Paul's up for almonde croissants and cafe creme and, with no destination in mind, we just walked in a new direction.   The ability to get lost is one of the reasons I'm not a fan of cruises.  You can only wander the ship so long before you end up back where you started, then you are out of new places to explore.

We walked to Ave Montaigne and window-licked the couture shops of Dior, Chanel, Valentino, etc.  Heres my Tip of the Day:  within two years we in the states will be wearing elephant bell trousers again--just like 1975.  Also, palazzo pants.  This is good news for those of us with big thighs.

 At one point I had to use the bathroom and, after wasting five minutes explaining to the hub that, no, I couldn't just ask the big guys in black suits in the doorway to Emilio Pucci to let me use the facilities, we walked at a faster clip a few blocks over to a more laid back part of Paris (there's a sentence I never thought I'd use) where we could use a cafe's WC for the price of a couple of diet Cokes or coffee.   By the way, both beverages are roughly $5.50 and no refills, which makes the privilege of ducking past an open urinal to get to a seat damned pricy.  

Le Toilette Break

Home to rest my mushy knees by 2:30.   Back out at 8:00 for a lite dinner of spaghetti Bolognese, a bottle of pully fume and espresso. Walked to the Champs for an ice cream cone and home again by 10:30.

Tomorrow is our last full day and will be spent picking up the various things we promised to bring back for people.  Neither of us will be sorry to say good-bye to the little studio apartment and we're both looking forward to getting home, but I always hate saying good-bye to Paris and this trip, in particular, has been special because so much of it was spent with my special friends; my Jersey Girls.  

Le Tour de France and Other Significant Moments

Today, Sunday, July 22nd, the Tour de France concluded with a triumphant seven laps through the Arc de Triomphe and down the Champs Élysées.  We were front and center when Wiggins, trailed closely by a horde of muscular calves, sped by over and over again. We captured it on film, but that will have to wait for our return to be posted. 

At the same time, we were remembering with a ceremony earlier this week, the rounding up of over 4,000 French Jews on June 16, 1942.  Mainly children, they were dragged from their homes by the French police in cooperation with the German government who, although they had taken Paris, did not participate in the round-up.  This was strictly a French action, though the reasons have never been made clear. President Hollande, in remarks while laying a wreath at the site of the former Velidrome  a few days ago (where they were taken and held for ten days, in the heat, with no toilet facilities and little water before being transported to the death camps), repeated President Mitterand's apology of 1996, by taking responsibly on behalf of France.   Reportedly, less then 100 survived the camps.

I report this because I find it so ironic that this took place in an arena that was built for indoor bicycle racing and was, from the turn of the twentieth century until the 1960's, a place of pride for Parisian cyclists and fans.  Yes, they resumed using the Velidrome after the war.  It has been since torn down and only a small plaque marks its original spot in the Fifteenth Arrondissement.  For more information, read the fictional but historically accurate novel, Sarah's Key. 

Let's see, how to end this post on an upbeat note.   Oh, after falling four times over the course of this trip, my knees-already mush to begin with-have not given out completely.  But the local meds aren't worth the euros you pay for them, either.  Oops, not a Happy conclusion.  

Tomorrow we go to the exposition center at the Porte de Versailles to see the Tut exhibit.  12.90e on Mondays, 15.90e every other day. Now that's good news!  

Saturday = Flea Market Day

When in paris, Saturday morning is traditionally spent at the Porte De Vanves flea market.   Not to be confused with the overwhelming Marche de Puce at Clignoncourt, to which people are usually referring when they speak of "Paris flea markets."

This market takes place deep in the fifteenth arrondissement and is not a permanent site, like Les Puces, but a street about a mile long of vendors who dump their wares from the back of their vans onto the sidewalks.  In the past we've found some good stuff, but the days of collecting are over, I think, except on a small scale.  Today's haul?  An old metal Harley Davidson sign Gene got for 10e. I was proud of myself for passing over a sketch I really wanted.

A stop at Cafe Diderot to split a club sandwich and order of frites and it was back to 

the apartment to do laundry and, later, cook a dinner of scrambled egg sandwiches. Yes, we do travel glamorously, I know. Try not to hate. 

And Then There Were Two

The hub and I moved from the hotel to an apartment on Wednesday.  We decided to try  a new part of town since we were looking for very inexpensive digs near the terminus of the Tour de France on Sunday.  Although I always thought of the Champs Elysee and  surrounding area as very commercial, we settled on a small studio on rue Colisee, directly off the Champs.   Well, surprise, we love it!  Franklin Roosevelt has wonderful stores, patisseries and restaurants and the Metro is at the intersection of our street and the Champs.  (Tonight was the scheduled premier of The Dark Knight at the same intersection but, due to the tragedy in Colorado, it was cancelled. )

Inner Courtyard to our apartment

Eiffel Tower from apartment window

The one thing that would keep us from recommending this area is that the metro connections are not great. Only two lines run from our stop, which means lots of changing to get anywhere and a masters in puzzle-solving to do it without accessing the dreaded Chatalet stop!

Happy Hub!

Place d' Concorde

Place d' Concorde

Monday, Monday

Our last day as a group. Mary and Wayne decided to hold hands and explore Paris on their own.  I'm glad they found that "Paris is for lovers" is not just a cliche. The rest of us headed to Montmartre.  Before reaching Sacre Couer there were more scarf purchases, as well as postcards, magnets and the other assorted souvenirs one must bring home and dust regularly. 

After the church we headed to--of course--Place du Tartes so the artists could tempt the tourists with quickly-rendered scenes of various monuments.  Though frequent visitors tend to turn their nose up at the commercialism of the Place, I think it's time we all  agreed that some are actually quite good and few of us can afford to buy from the studios on rue Josephine anyway.

Lunch at Le Cremillerie, an authentic Belle Epoque bistro from 1900 with a beautiful interior and decent food, and we were on our way down the hill to Pigalle for pictures of the Moulin Rouge. ("that's it?  Yup, that's it") and a discreet peek in the windows of the sex shops.   Oh, stop. You know you would have looked, too!

We then headed to the posher end of town, Place Vendome. Home of the Ritz, last stop for Princess Diana, and which will close at the end of the month for two years of renovations. 

A detour:  Gene was unable to get cash from the ATM.  We returned to the hotel and I  checked our account on my iPad.  Turns out we'd been cleaned out.   Wayne had also been taken for $300.  How did this happen?  Had to be a scanner set up at an ATM machine the guys used in Venice.  Several calls to our bank and the fraud department and, because we had told them we were taking our cards overseas, they agreed to reimburse our account within twenty-four hours.  However, before that could happen, we had to pay cash to the person who was leasing the apartment we were moving to the next day.  

Olivier, who shall be herewith called "Le French poop" wouldn't let us move in without it, even though our deposit covered the first night.  Seemed it would entail his meeting us to provide access and returning the following day for payment.  He lived twenty minutes from the apartment and didn't want to make two trips.  Let me note here that he does not have a job to work around. Leasing his apartments all over Paris is his full-time business.  So we spent another night in the hotel and paid for that night at both places.  Footnote:  it is now two days later and the bank hasn't reimbursed us, but our fabulous daughter floated us a loan.   I guess that this being the first incident of its kind in over  twenty years of overseas travel makes us lucky. 

Tip of the day:  of course you will tell your bank you are going to be away-and where-before leaving town, even if traveling within your own country.  But make sure you provide a good means of contacting you if necessary.  The bank flagged the card after the money was removed (from machines in Washington, D.C.) but left a message on our home phone, which was useless. Wayne, on the other hand, had provided an email address so they were aware as soon as they checked in with their mail. 

Our wonderful "Jersey" reunion was now coming to an end.  We gathered for a last dinner and drinks and said our good-byes.  The group would be leaving for the airport early the next morning and Gene and I would remain in Paris.

For those of you contemplating an adventure with old friends, let me assure you that it  can work.  It takes a little space, a lot of compromise and complete honesty about your expectations and your specific needs.  But, mostly (in my opinion), it just takes genuinely caring about each other and a great sense of fun and adventure. 

We're already strategizing about next year's trip. I think that says it all, don't you?

Paris, Thanks for the Warm Welcome!

Fireworks the day we arrived.  Who says the French are reserved?  Sure, it was Bastille Day, but we prefer to think this was all for us.  Kind of a merci for returning Lafayette from our revolution so he could start theirs, if you will.

I've been in Paris on New Year's Eve and this was much the same.  I love the joy with which they celebrate.  They drop their chip and are full of Bonhomme.   There were  a lot of restricted roads as they prepared for the fireworks, concerts and other celebrations so we walked in circles a bit, but we were able to be part of the crowds this way, so it was all good. 

We arrived too late for the parade down the Champs, but caught a bit live on tv before heading out to explore.  We went first to the Trocadero for the requisite pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower, only to find it was cordoned off.  We could get no closer to the Tower, either, and many of you know just how far the Troc is from the ET, so that gives you some idea of the security. 

Steps near the Troc, Paris

Heading for fireworks on Bastille Day, Paris

A drink before dinner on Bastille Day.  L-R: Pat, Diane, Jan

Mary at the Richard Lenoir Market, Paris

The army was out in force, but in friendly force.  They stood on Camouflaged tanks and hauled up children who wanted their pictures taken with real soldiers. They paraded down the streets all day and into the evening, waving out the windows of their jeeps and accepting the kisses and cheers from the spectators. The fervent show of patriotism  was a reminder of our own, just two weeks before.

The next day, Sunday, we headed out on the Metro at 9:00 am for the Richard Lenoir street market.  Every Arrondissement has street markets, but on different days. The Lenoir, held at the Bastille on Sunday and Wednesday is, in my opinion, the best.  Probably a mile long, the sights and smells alone are enough to make you stop and say, "Paris, you really are a crowd-pleaser."  We bought scarves, shoes, grapes, pralines and, as it started to drizzle, several 5euro umbrellas.  Sadly, we had to pass on the roasting chickens with "drippy" potatoes, beautiful veggies, pates, breads and prawns because we no longer have a kitchen.  However, Gene and I are staying another ten days in a apartment so we'll be back next week. 

Chicken ala King, Richard Lenoir Market, Paris

Escargole

Richard Lenoir Market, Paris

A popular vendor

Fromage

Broiled Lapin

Lapin (rabbit)

After a morning at the market we headed for the Marais.  We wandered through the Place de Voges, where I purchased two water colors from an artist I have bought from before. The Place is the oldest park in Paris and so lovely in its symmetry.  We eventually found our way to the Hotel DeVille, where we caught a Metro back to our hotel.

That evening, Pat, Gene and I skipped the boat ride down the Seine, but the rest enjoyed it.  We enjoyed gorging on Profiteroles, which came three to a plate.  Decadent. Tip of the day:  in the summer, it doesn't get dark until after 10:00pm.  Wonderful if you like daylight but not ideal for viewing the "City of Lights" unless you can stay up and out past midnight.  We couldn't.

Paris When it Sizzles

Disclaimer:  I liked that title and thought it would be appropriate for a mid-July visit but it has been, in fact, cool and breezy, hovering around seventy degrees most days. But "Paris when it's balmy" just didn't work.

On Saturday, July 14th we bid farewell to John at the Nice Airport as he reluctantly headed home to Florida and the rest of us boarded our plane for Paris. By eleven in the morning we were in our taxi heading for our boutique (a euphemism for tiny, cheap two-star) hotel in the non-touristy Fourteenth Arrondissement.  We were already missing our friend, who was a great companion and conversationalist over the past week. John, can't wait to tell you what we're cooking up for next year!

After checking into our hotel, we went across the street to Cafe Rendezvous (seriously) for lunch. Hamburgers are becoming trendy here and those who ordered them gave the French version two thumbs up. I had onion soup that was exceptional. We then wandered around a bit and made plans to meet later for a little exploring before heading back to our rooms.  This was the first time we'd been truly separated in ten days. No communal kitchen or shared living room.

View from our Hotel Room - Hotel du Lion, 14th Arr. Paris

Night view from hotel room

Looking far right from hotel room, Paris

For my travel friends, a few words about the hotel:

We stayed at the Hotel Du Lions on Ave General LeClerc in the Fourteenth. Of course the rooms are small and there's a flight of steps to walk before reaching the lobby, but it's very clean and comfortable and staffed by very friendly people.  Only 33 rooms and once you reach the lobby they have the typical tiny elevator so no worries about winding staircases to a garrett.  Good metro stop directly in front (RER B from CDG), good neighborhood bistros and patisseries and a MickeyD's next door for cold coke with ice. I'll definitely look for an apartment in this area next time I'm in town. 

Consider this recommendation my Tip of the Day:  Ask for Ishmael.  

Eze Isn't Easy

Someplace along the Cote d'Azure, is a medieval town called Eze.  Perched high on a cliff, to get to it one must drive the twisty Corniche, risking death by going over the side just to let a stubborn sanitation truck past (though we actually had that same scare maneuvering the switchbacks to our place more than once).  Once you've arrived at Eze, you find a space to park among all the other tiny cars packed together like sardines and say a silent thanks once again that you purchased CDW (collision damage waiver) insurance. Then you walk. Uphill. For a long time. A really long time.  Have I reminded you lately that we're all 60?  When you get to what you THINK is the top, you find...

Gift shops.  They were inside every little medieval nook and cranny.  Don't get me wrong.  The stone walls and fortifications were truly amazing and a reminder, once again, that we in the U.S. are the poorer for our "tear it down and replace it with glass" mentality when it comes to crumbling structures that represent the early years of our short history.  What do we have to show our children?  A replica of Plymouth Rock; a model of the Mayflower, a carefully (if beautifully) rendered recreation of the original settlement in Williamsburg, Virginia.  But I think I'd rather see the original footprint, even if only partially there, so see the craftsmanship originally used with cruder tools.

Moving on..and up. We were at Eze, but not yet totally within the walls.  To get to the gardens at the summit meant climbing many, many more winding flights of stone steps.  I say "many" because I gave up after the first few levels and almost everyone forged ahead without me.  They declared the view spectacular. I thought the cold diet coke I drank under a canopy of trees as I waited for their return spectacular.

Pat in Eze, stopping to smell the flowers

Eze.  A small community of people still
live in this medieval city, which must be
reached by climbing, climbing and still
more climing!

As for what i missed by not putting my knees through an additional hour of pain, I'll wait for the pictures.

Lunch in Eze, Fr. L-R: Diane, John, Wayne, Mary

Janice and John in Eze

The medieval hilltop town of Eze, France

Looking down from Eze, Fr. Note the Bentley and the Life-sized Chess Board

Eze, France

Eze, France

  

Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous

We were busy living the good life, talking about how we could not have rented this beautiful villa without all going in on this as a group.   Laying by the pool, eating in one of the three dining rooms, grilling out by the pool, walking the hill to the medieval town for cocktails and driving to the beaches for a dip in the Med.  And then we decided to go to the Rothchild Mansion on St-Jean-Cap-Ferrat and we saw what true decadence is.

Beatrice Rothchild, a daughter of one of the five brothers who came from Russia in the 1800's to build their fortune in the European banking industry was left a fortune on the death of her father.  Although she had homes all over Europe, she wanted to build the ultimate mansion in the perfect location. And she did. The mansion was built between 1905 and 1912 on a cliff at the bottom tip of the Cote d'Azure.  A pink wedding cake perched over the sea, she filled the home with treasures from her travels all over the world, not the least of which were some choice pieces from Versailles.  She hired a huge staff of gardeners to landscape seven separate theme areas, such as the Japanese, Spanish, French and desert vegetation.  I'm anxious to get pictures up, as this is truly an incredible place. 

But that wasn't enough to remind us that we weren't ready for prime time.  One evening a few of us went to Monaco to visit the Casino de Monte Carlo and gawk at the beautiful people and even more beautiful cars.  We're talking rows of Rolls Royce's, Bentleys, Mazaratis and Ferrarris.  Oh, and the eighty-year-old men with twenty-something's on each arm (yes, most had two).   The girls looked happy.  Ce la vie.

By the way, Gene won 6.5e so we left Monaco a little poorer. Not that they'd notice.  

Nice is Nice

At first glance, Nice Is not what it looks like in glossy magazines.  But then, it turns out neither are actresses and models, who are heavily air-brushed, too.   That's what I first thought as we drove through, "ah hah, so the mags airbrush more than just waistlines.". But, no, it appears that Nice just has a congested, rather soiled downtown district like any big city.  What it has over Detroit, however, is that you can leave the soot and diesel behind and within minutes be surrounded by the blue water of the mediterranean sea as you drive down the Promenade de Aglaise.  

Our destination one day was--wait for it--Miami Beach!  As you pass each section of plage you note that every two hundred yards or so the beach is renamed.  A good idea if you get separated and need to know what section of the Cote D' Azure you left your bathing suit top on after going in the water.   Diane had been here two years ago and liked this stretch of beach.  Now the big question for me became this:  why do people pay huge amounts of money to live and play on the French Riviera when the beaches are covered in stone???  It was awful, I tell you. You had to leave your shoes on and even wear them in the water.  But make sure they aren't flip flops or you risk having them float out with a wave and leaving you sinking into stones in two feet of water. This could further lead to the embarrassment of being pulled out of the ocean by a friendly Frenchman (yes, they do exist) and seeing one hundred pairs of eyes staring at you and feeling sure they know you're American and definitely not used to the finer things in life, such as shredded feet from rocky shores. But, no worries, they soon lose interest and go back to laying face up in their Speedos (men) and tiny suit bottoms (women). Oh, to be an uninhibited European, unafraid to expose your breasts, whether 22 or 82 years old, with your children, husbands of friends and in-laws. And, yes, I do mean that.  A little.  No tan lines, ladies.  But my feet, and my pride, are still a bit bruised.

Janice in the Med

Miami Beach, Nice, Fr.

Miami Beach, Nice, Fr.  sunning on the rocks

Pat, during her thorough investigation of the south of France, found that there is a stretch of beach hidden away and not crowded that has real sand beaches--Juan le Pins.  We hurried over there tout suite.  I guess you can take the Jersey girls out of Ocean City, but you can't make them spread a towel on rocks.  

And Then There Were Eight

Seven of us arrived in Nice around ten o'clock and we picked up two rental cars before settling in to wait for our eighth classmate, John, to arrive from Florida via Atlanta and Paris.

Six hours later he arrived at the villa by taxi (you didn't think we were going to kill a day in Nice sitting in an airport, did you?  Please.  He's a big boy!). He had horror stories about Air France that topped our U.S. Airways tales.  Must the French try to outdo us in everything?  Isn't it enough that the women can eat foie gras and drink wine and still lose weight?  And is scarf-tying taught during toilette training?  I digress...

We spent the weekend swimming in the pool, lounging on the terrasse(s) and trying not to lose anyone in the 426 rooms.   Seriously, this is a beautiful villa perched on the hillside below the medieval town of St. Jeannette, just a ten minute walk up the hill. Well, that's what the books say. If you're 60 years old it takes twenty minutes and a Peaugot.  But it's worth the jog, especially after two Mohitos and a midnight trek down the dark streets to get home.

The vistas are incredible, the pizza is lousy and the weather is perfect.  In other words, we don't want to leave. Please send money.

Our Villa at St. Jeannett, France

View from our Villa

View from our villa

One of many incredible flowers growing on our "home"

entryway

Mary and John chillin' by the pool

Janice and Diane

Living room of the villa

One of the terraces in the villa

Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here

We've been having too much fun living our adventure to write about it!  Now we're not, so it's time to post.      JUST KIDDING!

Here are the players in our adventure:

Patricia McLaughlin Everwine

Janice Jones Beane

Diane Kelley

Mary McLaughlin Fisher

Wayne Fisher

Melaney Mulvenna Jordan

Gene Jordan

Joining us in Nice:  John Tockstein

We met up at the airport in Philly mid-afternoon for our early evening direct flight to Venice, Italy.  The U.S. Airways flight was smooth, the food was bad and the little old ladies of undetermined origin were out of their seats, visiting each other and blocking the movie screens most of the night.  In other words, a typical trans-Atlantic flight.

Quick and easy immigration line and we were ready for the Aliliguna boat to take us into Venice.  So we waited on the dock.  And we waited.  And waited.  And sweat. And sweat. And bitched. And moaned.  And sweat some more.  The boat arrived, we got on with the other 427 damp people and enjoyed our one hour boat ride.  At our stop, we were met by the Caretaker of the apartment we rented and shown up the four winding floors to our apartment. Then up one more to the main area then up another floor to the loft bedroom and the rooftop terrace.  Yeah, lots of stairs.  63, but who's counting.  Great apartment, though.  We didn't have enough air conditioning units for the entire place so it was really hot most of the time, but what a view of Venice!

Venice - laundry day

Venice - off the tourist shuffle

Venice - The Bridge of Sighs

Venice - Setting up Shop at 6:00 a.m.

Venice - Laundry Day

Early Morning Arrivals in Venice

We spent the next day and half exploring beautiful Venice. Most of the gang took an evening gondola ride and we were up early the next morning (around six) to walk before the heat and crowds descended.  We walked back through the narrow, cobblestoned streets and saw the vendors sweeping the area in front of their stands using handmade brooms of thick twigs tied to a broomstick. Much more efficient then straw brooms, I think. 

During that one sweltering day in Venice, some took in the Doge's Palace and others braved the  crowds at San Marco Basilica.   One,who shall remain nameless, purchased FIVE leather pocketbooks in various colors and is still searching for the perfect hobo bag in Tiffany Blue.   Can you say late-blooming fashionista?

Saturday morning at 5:00 am we were all up, smiling, (not), happy to roll our luggage down to the dock to pick up the boat that would return us to the airport for our short flight to Nice and the French Riviera.