Serendipity

Somewhere in the Loire Valley of France.  Don't ask me where because I was completely 

lost at this point

There are two kinds of people in this world – highway people and blue highway people.  Whoever designed the mind-numbing, butt-numbing stretch of I-70 between Indianapolis (or anyplace in Indiana, for that matter) and St. Louis were highway people to the extreme.  It’s strictly Point A to Point B driving.  The engineers forbade deviation on this path by erasing even the most gentle curves, making it 250 miles of Indianapolis 500 straightaways.  They built bridges where the road might feel an inclination to dip down with the natural undulations of the Midwestern landscape  and glance sideways at a creek.  They put up small signs in green just so you’ll know you’re passing over the Kaskaskia River or Big Walnut Creek since you’re too high above and passing by too fast to notice the riches of this land.

More and more I desire to get off the highway.  I’m not in a William Least Heat Moon kind of blue highway mood, but some days the destination just has to wait a bit so that I can enjoy the drive.  There’s that certain road.  You round a curve that opens to a sea of sunflowers.  You need to stop and you need to pull the car over.  It doesn’t matter if you should have been someplace an hour ago.  And it doesn’t matter that you really have no idea where you are right now or how to get where you want to be.  All you know is that you need to stop and you need to look.

Maybe you’re the first person who ever saw this curve in exactly this light.  Maybe a thousand people have stopped in this exact spot to fill their eyes and absorb the million little suns that exuded so much energy in that field – awakening the senses more than three cans of Red Bull.  Like you, they then drove on, certain now that the detour (intentional or not) was worth it.

The blue highway moments don’t have to be about jaw-dropping vistas.  I’m only ninety minutes from home after my visit to the Indiana State Fair with friends, but I know that if I don’t get off I-70 right now I’ll never survive this last stretch stuck in a tunnel of corn stalks and big rig trailers where the scenery never changes, just the truck stop chains promoted on the mud flaps and the bumper stickers explaining just who is and who isn’t an American.  So for no particular reason I exit to see what Altamont, IL has to offer besides relief from the hum of the highway.

A hand-lettered sign taped to the pole of a stop sign points me toward the antique stores along Main Street.  Stretching my legs in the aisles of one, I visit American history among the shelves lined with heavy depression glass of ruby reds and cobalt blues, well-used Boy Scout manuals, handmade lace doilies that adorned a grandmother’s dressing table, and the playful Shawnee pottery of Midwest corn stalks, pigs, and watering cans.  My reward for taking a break in my rush from Point A to Point B is a Blue Ridge Southern Pottery maple leaf-shaped cake tray painted with pastel flowers the color of spring – something to cool me off on this sizzling August afternoon.

The large man at the counter, sweating in the heat of the unair-conditioned antique mall, chats about his shop’s singular honor of having the cleanest bathrooms out of the five antique stores in town and his longing for a small refrigerator in the back to stock with cool drinks for these dog days of summer.  I tell him I hope Martha Stewart never discovers Blue Ridge pottery and puts it in her magazine or I won’t be able to afford it ever again.  He laughs, saying places like his live and die by Martha whims (a modern circle of life?).  I celebrate my find on the way out of town with a chocolate soft-serve cone at the Altamont Dairy Bar.  Sitting at the picnic tables between the walk-up window and the gravel lot, slowing sweeping my tongue around the mound of cold, chocolatey goodness, I count two cars driving by and three yellowjackets checking out the ice cream drips that coat the brown tabletop.  It’s now time to hit the road and make my destination before dinner.

The trick, of course, is finding the balance between highways and blue highways every day.  Charging through from morning to night might seem like moving closer to a goal, but I always have to remind myself doesn’t matter how fast I go if I’m going in the wrong direction.  On the other hand, watching a youTube video of a dog doing the samba – that’s not a blue highway moment.  That too easily becomes an endless loop of hitting the road with no map and no plan of ever getting anywhere.  Reading a bit of Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird or chatting with my husband about our days or pulling a few weeds – these are definitely detours that invigorate and set me up to keep moving toward my destination.  It’s on those backroads that I find many of my treasures.  I just can’t forget, though, to point myself toward the on-ramp eventually.

My Blue Ridge pottery cake plate treasure

What is your favorite detour -- literal or figurative?  Please share it in the comments.

Let It All Hang Out

Laundry day on rue Jean Jacques Rousseau

I’ve lived with a constant concern on laundry days that I would lose my underwear into the private courtyard two stories down and never be able to retrieve it.  If I did, I just hoped it was some of my new stuff that would show me in a good light.  At least the blue ones, something with color, and not the practical white Jockey ones.  French women are neither shy nor practical when it comes to what is underneath – just barely.

I’ve felt practically puritanical while in France because my foundation is both ecologically sound (made from quickly renewable bamboo fibers) and meant to cover and be covered.  Before leaving home I went shopping for a new bra with straps appropriate for wearing with the cut of tank top sleeves.  And the saleslady convinced me to choose the “nude” (ugly no-color) one because it would be invisible under light-colored tops.

 Was that ever a wasted afternoon because none of those practical, American, rules apply to lingerie in France.  Bra straps were red, purple, brown, white, black.  They had bows and flowers.  Forget those smooth Playtex cups we were taught to covet because they were invisible under the tightest top.  In France, the elaborate appliqués and topstitching couldn’t possibly be hidden unless under a heavy wool sweater.  Wearing white pants with blue underwear?  No problem.

The fashion faux pas that seem to grip my American psyche disappear when seen through the filter of a new culture.  After a few days here I became less concerned about the times my bra straps were showing and more envious that they weren’t more beautiful and worthy of display.  But that doesn’t mean that this is an environment of  “anything goes.”

French women may sunbathe topless at the nearby lake, but they remain fully covered the rest of the day.  They may have some part of their undergarments showing, but it’s calculated and coordinated and colorful, not a dirty bra strap showing under a baggy tank top for that “I’m-just-running-into-the-grocery-store-so-I-don’t-give-a-crap” look.  And lingerie shopping is serious business, with more than one male standing outside of a dressing room curtain, holding a selection of bras on hangers and not being shy about giving his opinions to the unseen female on the other side.

I’ve mastered the French autoroutes and winding country roads.  I think next time I’m here I’ll finally have the courage to navigate the lingerie section of the department store or any of the dozen lingerie shops in downtown Dijon.  After all, travel is sometimes just about taking risks, throwing caution to the wind, and letting it all hang out.  Or at least peek out from where I used to hide it.

Lulu, one of my neighbors (which has nothing to do with my story)

What do you think will be the next risk you take?  Share it here in the comment section.

Tournez à droite

C'est France -- what else can I say?

“Tournez à droite à la deuxième sortie!  Tournez à droite à la deuxième sortie!”

Yes, this was a battle of wills between one determined traveler and a GPS tyrant.  “Ignore the prescribed course at your peril,” clearly sounded in the tone of the Renault oracle.  But sometimes I just didn’t want to turn right at the second exit, or instinct (or an actual paper map – you remember those, don’t you?) told me that the navigator didn’t always know the best route.  I would not be bullied, but I was willing to compromise with this overly-confidant French know-it-all.

In this country, if a road doesn’t lead to Paris it’s hardly worth consideration on maps or navigation programs.  For my first solo drive to visit my friends, Martine and Christophe, in the Loire Valley near La Roche-Posay, however, I wanted to head west out of Dijon and not take the rapid, but boring, autoroute system that led me first north to the City of Lights and then south to where I wanted to actually go.  With a good map of the country, some time, and the help of a great internet website I charted a course in which my kilometers would be marked not by forgettable highway rest stops but by cows that changed from white to brown as the French regions changed, hillsides of grape vines giving way to fields of sunflowers, and stone villages that believe you can never have too many purple petunias on a bridge.

And so sometimes that disembodied voice would grow insistent that I turn and head back toward a large autoroute like any sensible person would do.  I would fight its urgings, and after a few kilometers, it would give in and reconfigure its course to fit my desires.  But to show me who’s boss it would seek revenge by saying, “Ok, if you don’t want to take A77, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”  Then it would send me down single-track roads not on the map.  It told me to turn onto “streets” no wider than a single car driveway and make me maneuver hairpin turns then scream hysterically “Passer impossible! Passer impossible!” when it guided me down blind alleys or roads that, quite literally, ended at the river edge.

So on this adventure I encountered “route barrée” signs with no further directions for how to otherwise escape a maze of medieval streets and tailgated giant farm combines hogging the two-lane roads at a leisurely 25 kph.  I relished the McDonalds I found with its quick service and clean bathroom as much as I enjoyed my travel respite at the bar with decorations just this side of a classy bordello.  I slammed on the brakes for two horses grazing beside a church in an unknown town.  And nothing can compare with driving through a tunnel of giant sunflowers dancing in the breeze, even if it is the wrong road.

This more complicated route that took twice as long as the mapping directions estimated just felt so familiar at this point in my life.  I know the destination I want to reach in my life right now, i.e., to earn the title of “writer.”  But I’ve definitely shunned the short and sweet route – that’s for those who start young and keep to the main road.  My way takes me down long, empty roads temporarily without a town in sight.  While I went the wrong way down a one-way street only once on my drive, I seem to do it on a regular basis as I reach for my goal.  Some days I’m lost in a country where I don’t speak the language well enough to even ask for directions.  Other days it seems life is screaming at me “passer impossible – route barrée!”  But every time I think about getting back on a straight highway I find a stone cabanon in a field of sunflowers and I don’t care how long it takes to get me where I want to go.

Friday night petanque tournaments in La Roche-Posay

Castles of the Loire -- Angles sur l'Anglin

What has been your most memorable drive?  Share it in the comments section here.

Selections from a French Life

Everyone goes to market on Tuesdays

-- I saw a man wearing a yellow straw skimmer with a black band having tea.  He had a very distinctive mole on the side of his face.

-- Walking home from dinner late one night I saw three men lift a small car and detach it from the large trash truck that had hooked it when trying to maneuver a tight corner on a narrow street.  Everyone went back to dinner without a further word.

-- Just because it’s beef bourguignon and it’s served in Burgundy, FR doesn’t make it always good.

-- Hallelujah! Coke Zero is everywhere here.  What’s up with the US?  They make it; why don’t they sell it?

-- My Blackberry is actually getting 3G internet service here.  In St. Louis I can’t even get a good phone connection in my living room.

-- The French must have their bread!  Bastille Day, everything closed except a few boulangeries for the early part of the day.  Line is outside the door and down the sidewalk at mine.  Exiting at various times: lady with small dog, lady with large dog, old man with three large baguettes (hey, where’s the party!), young man on roller skates.

-- The French make a very clear distinction between cocks and hens.  It is coq au vin NOT poulet au vin.

-- The French need a second revolution, or at least a nationwide strike, to improve public toilets.  You would think the country that houses the treasures of the Louvre would see the beauty in clean public toilets with porcelain thrones, not holes in the ground.

-- I truly enjoy having sun-dried laundry.  I don’t care if anyone sees my undies hanging on the line in my window.

-- If the French can grow the most succulent and beautiful fruits and vegetables you’ve ever seen, why do they only serve green beans or a few romaine leaves with an anemic sliced tomato with the meal?

-- I finished lunch at a brasserie and then sat there reading the paper and writing until the “happy hour” crowd started arriving.  A cup of tea will get you a table all day if you want it.

-- Sunday brunch with croissants and quiche and champagne in France brings you one step closer to heaven.  Especially if the gratin pomme de terre is clearly made with heavy cream and gruyère cheese.  And it’s eaten in a walled garden with a gurgling fountain.

A mountain of haricot verts

Market stop

What truths or observations have you come across in the past week?  Share your thoughts or comments here

Voilà!

Sidewalk graffiti on rue Chabot Charny, Dijon FR (probably some unkind reference to the town's symbol, the owl)

Late night.  Brad and I trudging home through the wall of heat and humidity down rue Chabot Charnay after an organ concert at église Saint-Pierre.  Platoons of bicyclists heading home along the car-free streets in centre-ville. A lone motorcyclist makes pedestrian heads turn as he throttles down and roars up the block at highway speed.  Faint rock music comes from an open window high above the street.

Then a flash of gold to the left out of the corner of my eye.  Above the tall iron gates that shut off from the street a courtyard to one of the Renaissance stone mansions populating the neighborhoods I see the pointed crown of a gleaming gilt mirror.  As elaborate as anything found in Versailles, it is carved with all the excessiveness of French pre-revolutionary abandon.  Just the top two feet of this piece of art are visible through that second-story window – a gentle peak that sweeps out and down like it wants to take off on its golden wings.  From the width, I imagine the mirror to be 8 ft. tall or more, but hardly dwarfed in a room with 15-foot ceilings and 10-foot windows open wide to entice in any evening breeze that the room could possibly capture.

“Look, up there,” I direct Brad.   Before he can even focus, though, an invisible hand extinguishes the light – and the 30-second view that will last a lifetime.

Look up.  Look right.  Mind the gap.  Interdit sauf livraisons.  Poussez. Tirez. The color of strawberries.  When I travel my eyes are wide open to the smallest objects.  Everything is new and interesting and delightful – even when it isn’t.  Travel gives a different perspective on the world.  Yes, of human relations, but especially on the ordinary space I move through every day.  Do I carry this awareness home like a treasured souvenir, un memoire?  Will I become a traveler through the quotidian of my own life when I'm surrounded by the familiar again?

The roof cat of Maison Millière, a classic

15th century building in Dijon (cat is 20th c.)

 

What have you seen lately that caught you by surprise?  Share your memoire in the comments here.  I love reading all of them.
 

Everybody Pogo!

Country singer Keith Urban jumps for joy

As I finished walking Skyler around the lagoon and Grand Basin at Forest Park and was heading back to the car, my eye was caught by bright mango yellow shirts shooting into the air in a fit of randomness in the shade of tall oak trees.  Despite the July St. Louis heat, a group of grade school camp kids were all exhibiting their most energetic jumping jacks before hopping on their bikes for a spin around the park.

When did I stop jumping?  When was the last time that I flexed my knees and then propelled myself into the air like a rocket again and again?  Do I always have two feet planted firmly on the ground?  And why is that seen as a good thing?  I remember hot summer nights after dinner when all the kids in the neighborhood competed to see who could bounce the highest or the most times on our pogo stick.  Onetwothreefourfive . . . onehundredandfive . . .  We jumped without a moment’s thought to bad arches, or aching sacroiliac joints, or old knees.  We pogoed the length of our street and shot into the stratosphere with little concern for balance or control.

We just jumped again and again for the sensation of escaping gravity and flying into the air.  Even if just for an instant before we were yanked back to the reality of solid ground.  Jumping jacks.  Hurdles.  High jump bars in gym class.  Puddles. Tops of front stoops to the sidewalk. Ledges and fences.  Hardly a day passed that we didn’t launch our body into space and hang there for one . . . two beautiful seconds before we collided with the earth, but then brushed ourselves off and kept moving.

Did I stop jumping because I grew old and my joints began to ache?  Or did I stop long before that?  Did I just get too busy to think about jumping?

The other week at the gym I tried some tentative jumping jacks.  There was no mighty leap, legs and arms spread wide.  It was more a shuffle and a lifting of the heels, but not quite both feet off the ground simultaneously.  Before I even crouched for the attempt, the brain cringed and said, “You know this is going to hurt.  This is high impact aerobics.  Your feet will ache for a week.  Watch that your knee doesn’t give out when you touch down.  And what about your shoulder?  All that swinging up and down is definitely going to inflame that shoulder again.”

It’s no wonder with such anticipation of pain that I looked like an elephant attempting “Swan Lake” instead of someone jumping for joy.

My favorite performer, Keith Urban, has a moment in every concert – just when you think the show is over and he’s about to strike the last chord – that he regroups, ups the tempo, and starts leaping across the stage on an invisible pogo stick while shredding on his guitar.  Everyone in his band starts jumping like they’re twelve and it’s a warm summer evening.  Pretty soon 10,000 people in the audience are doing the best they can to keep up with him.  For those few seconds everyone is truly jumping for joy and with abandon.

How many other ways in an average day or week do I convince myself that I can’t “jump”?  In how many ways do I hold myself back from something that could be wonderful because that little voice keeps telling me that some pain will surely follow any leap into the air?  I let the landing mean more than the flying.

As you read this, I’ll be on my way to France.  I can predict any number of opportunities to leap.  For one, I have a car and a map and will navigate a solo trip to the Loire Valley.  And I can imagine the hurdles and cliffs I may trip over on the way, considering I speak very bad French.  But it seems as good a time as any to start focusing more on flying and less on landing with a painful thud.  “Just jump,” I’ll remind myself every time I encounter a fence or a puddle.  As my French friend Martine said to me, “C’est l’aventure!”

Keith Urban and Friends 

When was the last time both of your feet left the ground (literally or metaphorically)?  Share your best "jumps" in the comment box.

The Five Best Things Ever Said To Me

Brad enjoying his lunch along the Burgundy canal last year

The most memorable lines aren’t always uttered by honored politicians or literary giants.  Sometimes it’s the small moments that stick with us and make us feel the world is a good place.

#5 – “It doesn’t do you justice”

This spring I was flying out of the Atlanta airport.  As I went through the security line I handed the agent my driver’s license.  She looked at it a little longer than I thought was necessary, then she looked at me, then looked back at the license.  She returned it with that memorable line.  And she made the day of this often-frazzled 50+ female.

#4 – “You don’t know me, and you might think this is strange, but would you maybe like to go out for a drink with me sometime?”

This line is not so unusual, but when you’ve been married about 20 years and have two kids, and you’re out walking your dog in the neighborhood, and someone you’ve never seen before pulls his car up to the sidewalk next to you and rolls down his window to ask this question, well, it sorta sticks with you.  So right now I’m working furiously at my diet to get back down to the weight I was when these kinds of things last happened to me.

#3 – “Sure, sweetheart”

Omaha.  July 28, 2007.  Backstage with Keith Urban.  There is a very large sorority of Urbanites who know what a rare treasure it is to have those blue eyes look at you and to have him smile and direct a “sweetheart” toward you in that soft Australian lilt with just a hint of a lisp.  I got mine at the end of our meeting when I asked if I could give him a hug because his music means so much to me.  Of course, I’m forever jealous of my friends who’ve had longer conversations or more than one meeting so they’ve gotten multiples of his famous “sweethearts.”  One will have to do for me.  And yes, it’s true (as anyone who’s ever been within three feet of him can attest) – he smells sooooo good.

#2 – “I’ll do that, Mom”

This is for any time that one of my children has voluntarily stepped in to do something without me asking.  No need to elaborate further.

#1 – “I do”

Said by my husband of 25 years on May 18, 1985.  Happy Anniversary, Brad!!!  And here’s hoping for 25 more.  I love you.

As for you my readers, what memorable lines have you had directed toward you over the years?  Share them in the comment box.