Out My Window

Joan Baez in Paris

Joan Baez. Just saying her name conjures up civil rights, protest marches, Bob Dylan, folk songs, social justice, Vietnam and on and on. Joan Baez is a National Treasure. I should say International Treasure. The Parisians adore her.

I was waiting for the metro one day last October and saw a huge poster advertising 10 days of Joan Baez concerts in June 2018. The poster said it was her Fare Well Tour. I called my friend Barbara to see if she wanted to go with me. Yes, indeed, she did. So I bought tickets, made her put them in a safe place (I was afraid I’d forget where my safe place was) and last Sunday, we went to the Olympia in the 9th arrondissement to see and hear her.

I was fifteen years old when I went to my first Joan Baez concert. My family had just returned from a year living in Geneva, Switzerland. Some new friends took me to an outdoor stadium in the suburbs of Philadelphia. She mostly sang folk songs then and played only an acoustic guitar. I had two of her records and knew every song. Halfway through the concert, she introduced us to a friend of hers she thought we all should know: Bob Dylan. That was the summer of 1963.

I bought a guitar and tried to learn without taking lessons. I grew my hair long so I’d look like a real folk singer. I had a good voice so my parents let me play a song at family gatherings even if I only knew three chords on the guitar.

Over the years, she came in and out of my life. When the album Diamonds and Rust came out, a relationship had just ended. I played that album over and over and over. I still can’t hear Diamonds and Rust without picturing myself in that small apartment in Berkeley, Calif crying my heart out for a boy I deeply loved.

She got herself arrested at an anti Vietnam march and met David Harris, Peace Activist, who she married and had her son, Gabriel, with. “I went to jail for 11 days for disturbing the peace; I was trying to disturb the war.” Joan Baez, 1967 (Pop Chronicles interview.) Her passion inspired so many of us. I probably went to two more concerts over the five years following.

Last Spring, I went on YouTube and watched a concert she had given herself for her 75th birthday (She is 77 years old now). So she was in the foreground of my mind when I saw that poster. I kept telling people that Joan Baez was my first ever concert and now here it was 55 years later and she could well be my last concert. It is amazing to think that for 60 years, Joan Baez has been a beacon of social justice in the world and she has done it a lot through music. I don’t think she has ever slowed down.

The Olympia is a lovely venue in the 9th. It reminded me of the Paramount Theatre in Oakland, Ca but not as pretty. There is probably not a bad seat in the whole place. I had gotten seats in the 2nd section of the Orchestra and we had tons of leg room. After opening with Dylan’s Don’t Think Twice, It’s Alright, she played three or four songs I didn’t recognise. Then she sang “It’s all over now, Baby Blue.” Out of nowhere I got tears in my eyes and I couldn’t stop them for the rest of the concert. Every song from then on was an “oldie but goodie”. Some her’s, some Dylan’s, one Woody Guthrie and one Pete Seeger. I couldn’t tell you what I was crying about. Maybe the rush of memories when I had such a passion for social justice (I still do but can’t often show up and do the footwork), for marching in protest of Vietnam and segregation. And maybe a few tears because we had so much hope and nothing has changed, possibly it’s worse.

She sang two songs solo then brought out the rest of her “band”. Her son, Gabriel, a percussionist, and Dirk Powell playing so many different instruments, I stopped counting. Grace Stumberg, who has a strong country-like voice joined her for three songs and at the end for the encores.

Did I mention how much the Parisians love her!! I could see why. She spoke French as much as she could. With each song, she told the audience, in French, what it was about. They clapped at everything and, in the end, gave her a standing ovation making her come back out four times. All ten shows sold out and five more were added in February 2019 (this FareWell Tour could well last a very long time. No one wants to see her go). I tried to buy tickets when I got home and all five dates were sold out. I don’t think there is another city that had nearly this many performances.

I bought a good poster inside the Olympia then a cheapie outside on the street. They are now hanging on the inside of the bathroom door.

And for those of you who didn’t get to hear her but would love to, the Olympia has made it available to everyone. Enjoy and cry your own tears!!!

https://www.arte.tv/en/videos/083355-000-A/joan-baez-at-the-olympia-in-paris/

Joan Baez and Bob Dylan at the March on Washington, 1963

A bientôt,

Sara

Giverny

Is there anyone who hasn’t heard of the town of Giverny, 45 minutes west of Paris by train? Claude Monet, the only Impressionist painter who actually got rich in his lifetime, lived and painted in Giverny for most of his adult life, 1883 until his death in 1926. The gardens that he created are the most visited gardens in the world. It is estimated that 28,500 tourists visit his home and the famous water-lily pond every week during the seven month season that the gardens are open to the public.

I am lucky enough to be here for a week with the artist, photographer,writer and teacher Elizabeth Murray. Lizzie lives in the Bay Area. During the 1980’s, she visited the gardens, fell in love with them and furiously advocated to become a volunteer gardener. She was not only successful at that, by the time she left, she had nine gardeners working under her. After 30 years, she feels that she can now lead creative workshops here and give the gardens and the surrounding area the respect that this amazing place commands. She is able to talk and teach and transfer the love of every living thing here to her students.

The wheat fields, full of poppies, in the hills above Giverny

What is extraordinary is that she has maintained her relationship with the Gardeners and the mutual respect allows us, her students, to enter the gardens at 7am each morning and stay until the Gardens open to the public. We then leave, go back to La Reserve, where we are staying, and have classes, work on art or writing or go for a visit to a nearby town. At 6pm, we again have access to the gardens and can stay until 8pm. This, of course, means that the thirteen people that make up our group are alone in the gardens with only the gardeners. This is more than a private time, it is a sacred time. The birds chirp happily away once all the tourists are gone but other than that, it is the quiet of nature. You can hear the flowers welcoming the morning or saying good night to each other. Many of them fold their petals back into themselves as they ready for a night’s sleep.

I am not a watercolorist or oil or pastel painter. When I was young, I thought it would be so romantic to live in a Paris garret and paint. I would have starved quickly as I don’t have the requisite skills! But I did want to capture beauty that moved me and I turned to photography. It was always a hobby. I loved it and, today, am loving the ease and quality of the iPhone camera. All these photos were taken with my iPhone 8.

Rose trellis at the back of the first gardens

Looking through the arbors of the Grande Allee to Monet’s home.

Because we were present in the gardens in the early morning and again at the end of the day, we were able to appreciate the change of light, the very thing that Monet sought to understand and to paint.

My roommate painting with watercolors. Early morning.

These two boats were once use to maintain the water-lily pond. Now they sit and have become an iconic picture of the pond.

I had originally thought that I would use the inspiration of sitting in the gardens and drinking in the beauty to write. Lizzie told us that to paint would force us to really look, to really see what was in front of us. We had to bring the commitment to be present. And though, I didn’t do anything extraordinary, I sat. I looked. The time would fly by. Over the five days and ten times that we were in the gardens, my hand got better at expressing what my eyes saw.

The famous Japanese inspired bridge. On the other side, the pond opens up into hundreds of water lilies plants. They only open up their little heads when the sun is out. (Early morning)

One of our group who works only in pastels shows us an afternoon’s work.

Not many people, even those that live here in France get the opportunity to live for one week in Giverny. And much less to visit the gardens twice a day when there are no tourists present. It is an experience that I will savour for a lifetime. The lessons are only just beginning to be apparent.

I can’t close without mentioning where home was for the week. La Reserve is a beautiful large country home of five bedrooms situated in the hills above the little town of Giverny. There is also a Gite, a cottage with three more bedrooms, a living room and kitchen. Valerie and Francois Jouyet, the owners and our hosts, are some of the loveliest people I have met in France. Valerie is the cook and,oh boy, can she cook! Francois was ever present with a huge smile. There were also Flaubert, the giant dog, 2 cats-one 23 years old and one 2 years old, five rescue donkeys and a rescue pig!

http://www.giverny-lareserve.com/en/

For more information on Elizabeth Murray, her workshops and her art, please go to: https://www.elizabethmurray.com

A bientôt,

Sara

Eurostar

Once upon a time, if one had a reservation on the Eurostar to go to Paris or to London, you just had to show up a maximum of thirty (30) minutes before departure and all would be well. Three hours later you would debark in either London or Paris patting yourself on the back for saving all that time by not taking the plane.

Not anymore. Not in this era of Terrorism. The French and British may not have school shootings every week but both have suffered horrendous attacks authored by ISIS or those wanting to be connected to ISIS.

So the other day when I took the Eurostar to London, I knew to get to Gare du Nord an hour early. I immediately stood in a long line of travellers. First, we electronically checked in. Then we passed through French Border control. I handed the officer my passport. He looked at my name and photo. He went back and forth with a very serious look on his face. What was he looking for? I wanted to offer that I had a French residency card. I kept silent. It seemed the prudent thing to do. After what seemed like two or three minutes, he stamped my passport and I joined the snaking line of travellers moving slowly towards the UK Border Control. Everyone seemed calm. Some people chatted up the person in front of or in back of them. I heard some laughter but most people were like me, just wanting to get to the departures gate without bringing any attention to themselves.

Ten minutes later, having passed through Border Control without a problem, “How long are you staying?” and “Where will you go when you leave the UK?”, we had finally made it to Bag Security check. I didn’t have to take my shoes off. My titanium hip did set off the alarm bells. So I got the usual pat down.

I made it to Departures with five minutes to sit if I chose to before the snaking line formed again to descend to Quai 5 and board the train. People politely stepped on board, stored their suitcase and found their seats. Never did I hear the heavy sighs of impatience that one often hears in the US, the pacing up and down of people feeling entitled to be different. You can see the wheels in their minds churning in resentment of being made to move like cattle through all the check points. But, if something horrible should happen, they’d be the first people on the horn, complaining that the government should be doing something about those terrorists.

I’ve grown to be quite grateful for all that these officers do to try and protect their citizens, ex-Pats and many visitors. It’s not convenient that’s true but I’ll take inconvenience any day over the alternative.

So if you are coming to France, the UK, and now Brussels and Amsterdam and plan on taking the Eurostar, be forewarned. Arrive at least an hour ahead of departure and you will not feel stressed!!

A couple of days later: I have arrived at St. Pancras an hour and a half early to return to Paris. Trying to get information is not fun. The Brits working here are not nearly as polite as the French. But, as in Paris, there is a long snaking line of quiet people who, for the most part, are not stressed.

It only took me thirty minutes to get through to the departures room and so had plenty of time to eat my dinner before we left for Paris.

A bientôt,

Sara

The Washington Decree

Jussi Adler-Olsen, author of The Washington Decree–a stand alone book, has written seven books in the Department Q series ‘starring’ lead detective Carl Morck (in Danish, that o has a line through it!). I reviewed one of them last Fall. They are definitely Danish Noir, gripping and full of social commentary. Often they are laugh out-loud funny which makes them real page turners in spite of the sometimes shocking murders. If you haven’t read them, I highly encourage you to read them in order but read them!!

The Washington Decree is Adler-Olsen’s latest social commentary and he takes on the United States and it’s government. In fact, it is an American horror story. Although the way things are going in the US, it sometimes felt too close for comfort.

In the Epilogue, he explains some of his motives for writing the book. FEMA (Federal Emergency Management Agency) was created during the Nixon administration primarily to deal with the effects of a nuclear war but also meant to be useful in the event of any natural catastrophe. When I lost my home in the Oakland Firestorm of 1991, FEMA was the government agency that came in and created different organisations to help us survivors out. Included were three months of support groups for those that wished to attend. At three months, we were told the money had run out and we were on our own.

According to Adler-Olsen, FEMA has a huge amount of funds, enough to build underground facilities, internment camps, train personnel to take over duties of elected officials and, it seems, an entire non-elected governing system could be established with a shadow cabinet and a shadow president.

The Washing Decree is Adler-Olsen’s attempt to describe the quick journey from Democracy to Autocrocy should such an event happen. In this book, the event was the murder of the incoming President’s wife. If it weren’t for the fact that he describes in detail all that FEMA can do and the Executive Orders at FEMA’s disposal, this book would seem fantastical, thrilling and a wonderful read but fantastical.

The book opens with a trip to China that brings five very different people together and then-Senator Bruce Jansen. After the murder of Jansen’s wife, the book jumps sixteen years and Jansen is the Democratic contender for President. All five of the people on the China trip have stayed close and stayed loyal to Jansen. One of them, Doggie Rogers, arranges for Jansen’s victory party to be celebrated at her father’s upscale hotel. Jansen is re-married to a beautiful and very pregnant wife who has charmed the American public. During the party, Jansen’s second wife is murdered. Doggie’s father is arrested and awaits sentencing. Shortly thereafter, President Jansen goes on TV and issues a Law and Order Decree that becomes known as the Washington Decree. It takes away civilian rights and installs a police state. From there, life in America descends into chaos. The vice-president resigns in protest and the chief-of-staff becomes VP. Militia groups start hoarding guns and ammunition. People in Jansen’s cabinet are being murdered. With each new event, another executive order is declared. America shuts down, no one knows who is friend and who is foe.

This is a thriller with a very bad guy. There is also a love story. One at a time, the five friends from China start getting suspicious and wonder if Doggie’s father is really guilty and if not him, who? It is a huge jig-saw puzzle to put together and each one of them starts fearing for his or her life.

I found the book slow going in the beginning. But this is Jussi Adler-Olsen! I was very willing to hang in there. And after the scenes were set, the pace picked up and things moved rapidly as I turned the pages. And always in the back of mind was the question “Could this really happen with a bad guy in charge?” It is all the more upsetting now that we have an unstable man in charge of the country.

I have looked up several websites to learn when Adler-Olsen began writing this book or if there was a particular purpose or statement he wanted to make. I couldn’t find anything. Having read all his Department Q series and one other stand alone, it is no stretch of the imagination to write that Adler-Olsen has a lot to say about the state of affairs in the world today. I find him an acute observer, an elegant writer and possessed of an amazing ability to make up stories that go right to the heart of what is happening in the world today. I am already looking forward to his next book.

A bientot,

Sara

Technology Hell

It started about three weeks ago when I was locked out of my e-mail account. I changed my password and twenty-four hours later, I was locked out again. This happened six times in eight days. I was so frustrated and felt so helpless that I decided to wait until I came to California, where I am now, to call the service company and find out what was going on. Then I got locked out of WordPress which is the platform I write this blog on. I couldn’t use my Vonage app to make calls to the United States. I suppose my antennae should have gone up but it didn’t. I was too busy being frustrated and feeling very isolated. It seemed that all my means of connectivity around the world had been cut off.

Yesterday morning, my first morning in California, I awoke to a text from my bank saying they were putting a hold on a credit card until I confirmed an expenditure. It turned out two credit cards had been hacked. Banks fortunately give you back your money. The sense of violation and fear that anything can happen, the bank couldn’t take care of. Today I tackled the e-mail account. What I learned was that my account was hacked and with the e-mail, the hackers had everything forwarded to another e-mail address. They must have gotten a lot of information as my PayPal account was breached, my Amazon account was breached and a couple of others. When they saw no money was involved, they just moved on.

May 21, 2018–I wrote that not knowing how bad the hacking had gotten. It involved many accounts. Fortunately all money was returned to me and my identity wasn’t stolen. But every call took 90 minutes as I was taken through hoops etc to secure my accounts. Microsoft was, without a doubt, the absolute worst company to deal with. Three times I had to call after I was told my account was secure but it wasn’t. They don’t even have a FRAUD department! MICROSOFT!! I couldn’t believe it. I am so glad I have had Macs all my life.

Anyway, it’s hopefully in the past. It’s five weeks later and I am on my way back home to Paris. They had gotten into this account also. Why? Sure beats me! But I can start up my blogs again. So dear reader, I look forward to greeting you from sunny and warm Paris.

A bientôt,

Sara

The Crack of the Bat

Away on this side of the ocean

When the chestnuts are hinting of green

And the first of the café commandos

Are moving outside for a fine

And the sound of spring beats a bolero

As Paree sheds her coat and her hat

The sound that is missed more than any

Is the sound of the crack of a bat.

–

There’s an animal kind of a feeling

There’s a stirring down at Vincennes Zoo

And the kid down the hall’s getting restless

Taking stairs like a young kangaroo

Now the dandy is walking his poodle

And the concierge sunning her cat

But the heart’s with the Cubs and the Tigers

And the sound of the crack of a bat.

–

In the park on the corner run schoolboys

With a couple of cartons for props

Kicking goals à la Fontaine or Kopa

While a little guy chickies for cops

“Goal for us,” “No it’s not,” “You’re a liar,”

Then the classical shrieks of a spat

But it’s not like a rhubarb at home plate

Or the sound of the crack of a bat.

–

Here the stadia thrill to the scrumdowns

And the soccer fans flock to the games

And the chic punt the nags out at Longchamp

Where the women are dames and not dames

But it’s different at Forbes and at Griffith

The homes of the Buc and the Nat

Where the hotdog and peanut share laurels

With the sound of the crack of a bat.

–

No, a Yank can’t describe to a Frenchman

The rasp of an umpire’s call

The continuing charms of statistics

Changing hist’ry with each strike and ball

Nor the self-conscious jog of the slugger

Rounding third with the tip of his hat

Nor the half-smothered grace of a hook slide

Nor the sound of the crack of a bat.

–

Now the golfer is buffing his niblick

And the tennis buff’s tightening his strings

And the fisherman’s flexing his flyrod

Like a thousand and one other springs

Oh, the sports on both sides of the ocean

Have a great deal in common, at that

But the thing that’s not here

At this time of the year

Is the sound of the crack of a bat.

Dick Roraback is a former sports editor of the Herald Tribune. His springtime elegy has appeared in this space since the 1960s.

Thursday afternoon was Opening Day for the Oakland Athletics Baseball team. Although I have missed the last three seasons, I have always gone back for Opening Nite. Not this year. Friends posted many photos on Facebook. As I looked at them, I could see the green grass, the blue sky, Jeanni in a sleeveless blouse (it’s still really cold in Paris), the smoke from Opening Day fireworks rising over the Coliseum. I felt such nostalgia. I could feel the sun on my shoulders, the happiness of the first day of the season when everyone is in 1st place. But I couldn’t hear the crack of the bat. What a sound that is. Every baseball fan loves it–the ball hitting the sweet spot and the absolute certainty that it will be a home run.. It’s only a sound but it’s more than a sound. It’s six months of the year. It’s Ken Korach’s voice rising in exhilaration at another A’s homer. They seem so much better at that than at small ball.

When I moved to Paris, all my friends in the Bay Area had the same two questions: “What about baseball?” “What are the Oakland A’s going to do without you?” No one could believe I would miss a season of Baseball. And that was when I was just coming for one year! This will be the fourth season I am missing.

Subscribing to MLB.tv turned out not to be an option for me. I could only get the A’s when they played on the East Coast and it was daytime. So I’ve been subscribing to audio. Last night as I was doing something else, a dialogue box flashed across my screen; ‘The Angels now lead the Athletics 1-0.’ Wow, the game was on! And I was awake. I hurriedly found all the right buttons and heard Ken Korach, one of most favourite people in the world, announcing the top of the 1st inning, Game 3: A’s vs Angels; Game 3 of the 2018 season.

We baseball fans, just like the players, are extremely superstitious when it comes to baseball. Within the first twenty minutes of listening, two A’s dropped the ball, blew two chances for a double play, missed an outfield fly ball and all in all played just like minor leaguers. By the bottom of the second inning, the score was 3-0 Angels. “Nothing has changed” I thought to myself. “Maybe it’s my fault and I shouldn’t listen to any more games” second thought.

But, as Marty Lurie says, every game is a new chapter in an unfolding book. No one knows who is writing it or how it will end. And that’s why we go to games. Because we love baseball, anything can happen and to hear the sound of the crack of the bat.

Thank you to my friend, Darcy, who sent me the poem Crack of The Bat.

A bientôt,

Sara

A birthday in Nantes–Part 2

Sunday morning, the morning after setting our clocks forward. Of course, I slept too late. But as it turned out, we had the perfect day to look forward to. The sun was out, it was warm and we were headed to the water and Ile de Nantes.

Ile de Nantes is somewhat like Ile de la Cite in Paris. The Loire river divides in two and goes around a large tract of land. Much of the old shipping and slave trade took place on the island. The shipping yards closed in 1987. Slave trade doesn’t exist anymore (there is a wonderful museum recounting the years that Nantes led Europe in slave boats that left this continent. We didn’t have time to go but it’s on our list for next time). Now there is a large park, Parc des Chantiers, and the fabulous Machines de l’ile. A Parisian friend had told me to be sure to see the machines that look like animals. That is all she said. A bit of an understatement!!! Nantes is the home of Jules Verne so it probably shouldn’t come as any great surprise to see wondrous creations out of all sorts of material. As we crossed the bridge, we saw the Carrousel des Mondes Marin–“a universe of strange and disturbing marine creatures which revolve in a huge three level structure” -Tourist brochure.

I wanted to see the Grand Elephant first. I love elephants, for many reasons, and one doesn’t get to see many outside of Stomper, the mascot of the Oakland Athletics baseball team. We wandered towards the gift shop and suddenly there it was before me: A majestic animal of steel and wood, 40 feet high, 26 feet wide and 21 feet long weighing in at 48.4 metric tons. I literally gasped. It looks like a real elephant. When it goes for a walk, it is “architecture in motion”-tourist guide. The trunk can blow like a trumpet and shoots water at a great distance. It seems to use the water to get children to move out of the way of it’s movement. It would not be fun to be stomped on by one of those huge feet. I took photos and videos and smiled like a kid. The eyes looked real and seemed to be looking at me as I walked backwards trying to get the best shots. I had wanted to take a ride but there was a line and I had so much fun just watching the elephant stroll.

We did buy tickets for the Carrousel, which opened in 2012, and went to all three levels to pick the marine animal we wanted to ride. Of course, we weren’t nearly quick enough. Children were fast and found their favourites. I chose the tortoise. I had to climb up tiny little stairs and swing my aging knees on either side of a saddle. The turtle was made of steel and had four distinct parts: the body that I was sitting on, the head that I could swing back and forth with a handle and two side handles that moved the front legs. By the time I figured out how to make the tortoise look like a live being, the ride was over! In front of me were two flying fish each one built out of a bicycle. Next to me were two giant horses pulling a carriage that held a family. Barbara rode a giant snail. She was sad because she wanted the horses. They rode up and down – about the only things that moved similar to the carousels you and I are familiar with.

Even after the ride was over, it was hard to leave. The park is an extraordinary creation. It was founded by Francois Delaroziere and Pierre Orefice. they are major figures in Street theatre and urban performance in Europe. Today, Pierre Orefice is the director of Les Machines de l’Ile. Francois is the art director of the company Les Machines and dreams up live performances. The structures are built in the workshop before the public’s eyes. The Machines first opened in 2007 and have given thousands of people, old and young, a great deal of pleasure. Go see it!

Across from L’Ile de Nantes sat the Belem, originally a merchant ship and now berthed for all to see on the Quai des Fosses. Right behind the Belem was a 40 foot sailing boat that belongs to Antoine and Marion, friends of Barbara’s oldest son, Mathieu. They are getting ready to leave on afive year trip around the world. They invited us on and into the cabin of their boat for a coffee. Marion showed us where she is renovating the ceiling with wood which she will then paint. Antoine was working the outside. I asked them if all this had to be finished before they left. They said the proverbial answer: it is a work in progress!!

I applauded them their courage to do a trip like this before they start building careers and a family. I also took a couple of years off between university and Graduate School and hitchhiked around Europe. My parents thought I was crazy and it’s true that it is a luxury to be able to take off like that. Not everyone can. I have never regretted it.

We left in time to get ready for our final adventure of the day: dinner at La Cigale. Our AirBnB host had told us not to miss it. It is Art Nouveau at it’s most extreme. Barbara had made a reservation when she was told she couldn’t have her birthday dinner there. La Cigale was built by Emilie Libaudiere and opened in 1895. It quickly became the place to meet and greet for the bourgeoisie, aristocracy, dancers and actors. It is now an historical monument. In 1961, it was chosen as the film set of ‘Lola’ by Jacques Demy.

We walked in and were seated near a window looking out on the Cours Cambronne, a beautiful terraced walkway. We quickly ordered then both of us were up taking photos of everything. The waiters didn’t blink an eye. They must be terribly bored of seeing all the tourists repeating the same things over and over again day after day. But it is an eyeful. Tiles everywhere of cigales and family shields and basic blue and yellow strips. An old wooden standing clock perched on the bar and was topped with a Cigale. The Cigale is good luck in Provence but has brought it’s luck to this restaurant.

We ordered cabillaud again and bar and grilled vegetables. It was good but so was my dinner that I’d cooked the night before!! But I couldn’t top the atmosphere of fun at La Cigale. When we left, we walked to Place Royal and were able to see it without the stalls. A centre fountain was bathed in blue light and again, I thought of Rome.

The next morning, we went full circle. We walked back to the Chateau and strolled along the ramparts getting a good view of the city. It was impossible for me to imagine what the scenery would have looked like in the 15th century and what a person standing on the ramparts would look out on. As we came down into the Courtyard, Barbara realised that with all the photos we’d taken, we had none of the two of us together. So, in French, she asked a woman who was sitting next to us to do the honours. “I am English and would be happy to take your photo!”

With that, we went to get our suitcases and take the bus to Gare de Nantes. Two and a half hours later, we arrived at Gare Montparnasse. For me, I love to visit everywhere in France and I love coming home.

After you hear the elephant roar, turn the sound down, it’s a poor choice of background.

A bientôt,

Sara

A birthday in Nantes–Part 1

On the train riding home from Nantes yesterday, I asked my friend Barbara, should I title my Blog ‘Nantes’ or ‘Barbara’s Birthday’ and with that cheshire cat smile of hers, she said ‘Barbara’s birthday in Nantes’. So I compromised. For no good reason, I just like the title!!

Nantes, the sixth largest city in France, holds a unique place in French history. Originally in Bretagne, it is now the administrative seat of Loire-Atlantique department. In the mid-20th century, France changed the regions of France and made Rennes the centre of Brittany and created Pays de la Loire with Nantes as its centre. The vast majority of Nantes would prefer to be Brittany and consider themselves Bretons. Pays de la Loire says it could not exist without Nantes as it’s largest city and port.

Whatever its history, Barbara picked Nantes to spend her birthday and off we went last Friday. We stayed in an AirBnB in the heart of Nantes, walking distance to all the attractions, of which there are many. We could have easily stayed another 2 or 3 days.

One of the drawbridges and the moat surrounding the Chateau

Our first stop was to the Chateau des Ducs des Bretagne or Chateau d’Anne of Brittany. It was late in the day after the trip from Paris and rather than take the 10euros tour to the large and informative museum inside, we opted to walk over to the Tourist Office–Barbara’s favourite first stop! We stood in the courtyard and knew we’d like to walk the ramparts at some point. The chateau has been completely renovated.

At the tourist office (french tourist offices for those that don’t know are a must stop. Kind people will pull out a map and show you how to get to suggested sites. There is usually a gift shop with wonderful postcards and things from the region. I always leave with lots of little booklets that I end up tearing apart and putting the photos in my journal!), we decided we’d return in the morning and take a self-guided tour with a talking box.

We headed “home” stopping at Monoprix, which was conveniently placed on the RDC of our building, for good food that would make a quick dinner. After eating, out came the map and the booklets and we plotted when we would do what.

The next morning, Barbara’s birthday, I called on Paul McCartney to serenade her with “You say it’s your birthday” in true rock and roll style. Then I looked out the window. Everywhere I looked, every space of sidewalk, every inch of street and concrete was full of tents and floating stores. It was the once a year Braderie de Nantes/Giant Sidewalk Sale.

After a pow-wow, we thought there was no way we could do the self-guided tour. We’d be caught up in a sea of people wherever we turned. We thought we’d brave the crowds immediately and go to Passage Pommeraye.

Paris’ many passages had nothing on this three story passage. As with the Chateau, it had been completely renovated and cleaned up. In fact, what struck me during the entire day was how clean and new Nantes looks. Nantes’ city centre was destroyed by American bombs during WWII. The Allies eventually took back the city but the decades following weren’t kind to Nantes. It wasn’t until 1989, under a new Mayor, that Nantes finally experienced economic growth and developed a rich cultural life. And in the years since 2010, Nantes has been cleaning to show off it’s rich history. Between the cleaning and the 20th century building, Nantes has the feeling of a newer, contemporary city. It’s median population is the youngest in France. But Nantes puts money into small everyday things to keep the city clean. At the end of Saturday, around 10pm, I looked out the window and there wasn’t a trace left of the huge sale. Fifteen boxes were piled up at the corner to be taken away by the garbage truck and a machine with rolling brushes was covering the sidewalk, vacuuming into its insides any debris that could have possibly been missed. Very impressive.

From the Passage we went to Place Royal but there were too many stalls and too many people so we pushed through that and found our way to the Musee d’Arts de Nantes, another icon that has recently undergone a huge renovation. The museum houses art from the 13th century to the 21st century. The modern art is located in a part of the museum appropriately called the Cube and looks nothing like the rest of the museum. It is large enough for installations yet paintings and photographs don’t get lost.

220px-Cathédrale_Saint-Pierre_de_Nantes_-_façade.jpg

From the museum, we worked our way up to Cathedral de St. Pierre et St. Paul. We really wanted to make it to the Prefecture by 4pm at the latest. I had learned that there would be a March for our Lives in Nantes and both Barbara and I were anxious to be there and march. So we gave the Cathedral short shrift as they say. Our hearts weren’t in it.

So we wound our way to the Prefecture and spotted a small crowd of people huddled together. There were probably 20-25 of us but that is a lot when you think it’s France and not Paris where most people are paying attention to American politics.

In fact, we didn’t march at all but formed a circle while Alison, the head of DA, read moving excerpts from speeches, from the surviving HS kids and a wonderful letter from the Obamas to Parklands School. As I stood there listening, I was remembering that it was 50 years ago that I was protesting the war in Vietnam, campaigning first for Gene McCarthy and then Bobby Kennedy, that MLK was murdered in April or May of ’68 and Kennedy in June. I prayed that these High School kids could do for Gun control and murdering children what my generation did to stop the war in Vietnam.

Extraordinary statistics were cited. Since 2001, the number of school killings in each country one by one were mentioned. The largest being five, I think. Whereas in the US, we have had 217 since January 1, 2018. It’s hard to write that.

We made our way back to the apartment a bit thoughtful. Stopped at Monoprix for the birthday dinner (we wanted to go to La Cigale but it was full so you will have to wait to hear about that wondrous place till tomorrow).

Le Menu:

Cabaillaud cooked in demi-sel beurre and herbes de provence.

Roasted rutabaga cut up to look like french fries.

Green salad with dressing of oil, vinegar, and mustard.

The final present of the night was that we lost an hours sleep BUT no longer had to do mental acrobatics trying to figure out how to align with the US who changed clocks two weeks ago.

Stay tuned for Nantes–Part 1

A bientôt,

Sara

The most famous rock star you’ve never heard of (unless you are French)

Two weeks ago, I was invited to the Mona Bismarck Centre for a screening of a documentary “The Second Act of Elliott Murphy”. Because I’m a member, I could bring someone with me: two for the price of one! I invited Barbara. She was so excited and told me she had followed him for a long, long time. Really? There is a rock ‘n roller that she knew about and I didn’t? How could that be?

As we waited in the bar to go into the screening, a man stuck his head out the door. I turned to Barbara “There’s a guy back there. I’m sure I know him. But I don’t know how I know him.” I ran through a long list of acquaintances in different parts of my world and landed ……in Paris! I’d seen him a gatherings of my friends a number of times over these past four and a half years. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked Barbara. “Just wanted to surprise you.” She had a cheshire cat look on her face.

The documentary was terrific. I kept thinking that I’ve known this guy and no one ever mentioned he was a musician. The film narrated the story of Elliott and his brother who played music together from their teens. After a bad car accident, the brother never played again but became Elliott’s agent. Both Billy Joel and Bruce Springsteen, good friends of Elliott’s, talked about him throughout the film.

It described his move to Paris in the late 70s and he has never left. His French fan club is huge. He married a french woman and now has a grown son who is also a musician. And all through the film, we were treated to his music.

After the documentary, we stayed for a concert. Elliott was accompanied by Melissa Cox playing an electric violin. His tunes are catchy and many are uplifting. The violin lent a dreamy air to the music. He finished by playing “On Elvis Presley’s birthday” which he said is his most popular song. I liked it but liked some others better.

At the end of the concert, he announced that the following weekend was his birthday and that he would be playing at New Morning, a jazz club in the 10th. Barbara and I bought tickets. The concert was to be at 8pm so we showed up at 7:15pm hoping to get good seats. The club hadn’t yet opened and a long line was building up. We waited and waited. It rained a little and still we waited. The doors finally opened up at 8:10pm. Is that called building up the excitement? We found good seats on the right side. By the time Elliott came out with his long time guitar player, Olivier Durand, the place was packed. People were standing everywhere. There was very little English spoken. He indeed has a French fan club.

Elliott and Olivier played three or four songs together and then out came, as Elliott called them, the Murphy Family band. Gaspard, his son, was on the electric bass. Although I had only heard some of the songs once, I was humming along as if I knew them by heart. The French were ecstatic, singing with him, screaming, clapping along, jumping up and down. It was wonderful. There is a quality of total happiness about Elliott’s songs and singing and the french response make it only more so.

Want to know more about Elliott? http://www.elliottmurphy.com

If you get the chance, go hear him. You’ll find yourself grinning and dancing—just like the old days!!! You too will fall in love with the greatest rock star you’ve just now heard of!!

A bientôt,

Sara

La Foire de Chatou

Outside of Paris, to the west, in the middle of the Seine is a small island called Ile des Impressionistes. Twice a year, le Syndicat National du Commerce de l’Antiquitie, de l’Occasion et des Galeries d’Art Moderne et Contemporain (SNCAO-GA) rent the island and stage the Foire de Chatou. I wrote about Chatou a year and a half ago but focused on two women who make a living going from Brocante to Brocante.

This year, The 96th Foire de Chatou opened Friday, March 10 and ends Sunday, March 18. There are 700 stands selling nic-nacs, good silver, good bone china, paintings old and new, vintage clothing, furniture old and new, beautiful old books that one buys for the way they look on the outside and many many other things that you didn’t even know existed. The first time I went to Chatou was with a friend and her mother. My friend, Alicia, knew to take her caddy along with her. Smaller purchases went inside the caddy. Alicia took her time at every stall. She picked thru all the boxes laden with goodies, she stood in front of paintings one at a time and carefully thought through her purchases. Sometimes I would skip ahead of her but always find her again as she would leave her caddy outside a stall for me to see. I don’t have Alicia’s patience. I did come home with some lovely purchases that year. My favourite was a small Afghani rug that is probably a prayer rug.

Alicia and her family went back to California that summer and I went alone to Chatou the following Fall. Alicia and I had made a friend of one of the women who run the stalls: Mary Cook. Her stall is Tinker Tailor. She goes to the UK where, I believe, she is from and brings back lovely bone china and beautiful silver. I have bought some wonderful things from her that I use every day. I had bought a sugar bowl that I loved and dear Bijou broke it in her phase of “let’s break everything that Sara owns”. I told Mary and I’m sure I looked very sad. So that Fall, I went to her stall first thing to say hello. She had a sugar bowl with a small crack in it and had saved it for me to buy at a small price!! Now when I go by myself, Tinker Tailor is my first stop. I feel like I have a friend there and I can come chat if I get tired of walking around.

**Tinker Tailor**. Look carefully and you will see a silver toast holder upper left corner. They are wonderful to hold cards, checks, bills, etc.

There are brocantes all over Paris every weekend and they often will spill over into Mondays or start on a Friday. Now that Spring is supposed to be arriving, there will be any number to go to. But Chatou is the largest by far. One time as I was chatting with Mary, I met an American woman who had brought over five other women just to shop at brocantes, particularly Chatou and the famous Flea Market at Clignancourt which I’ve never been to. Either they find things that cannot be found anywhere in the US or they just like to shop in Paris but Chatou is not cheap and neither is shipping back to North America.

I’m partly writing this blog for Alicia as she will be sitting in San Francisco reading it wishing she was here spending money at Chatou. And I miss her. Chatou is more than twice the fun if you go with another person. Alicia is the best of all persons to with!

At the end of a tiring day, Chatou provides a navette (shuttle) back to Reuil-Malmaison where I can take the RER A back into Paris. This year, I only bought a vase and a wooden duck. Both I love!! I didn’t see much else that grabbed me. But that won’t stop me from going again next September when Foire de Chatou returns to Paris.

A bientôt,

Sara

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