Stalactites and stalagmites. An under ground cave with 60 million years of earth history. A constant 56 degrees. What a treat after mostly 90 degree temperatures.
A geology lesson and a person who spoke English for the tour. I didn't realize that much of the stress I was feeling was from exerting so much energy trying to understand and to be understood.
The photo below are of drapes. Unlike the stalactites, they are solid. Whee taped on with a key, then make a musical sound. Different tones for different sixes drapes. The stalactites are flat in tone with no resonance.
Before the original entrance closed up, this cave was a home for bats. One did not make it out and is petrified on a stone.
Stalactites, Stalagmites and a pool of water.
Petrified baby bat
There's also a spot where the bat guano remains, dark against the creams and yellows of the stalactites and stalagmites.
I am sitting at an outdoor cafe in Sault. It was a wild drive up and around the mountains to reach this beautiful place filled with lavender fields.
It's lunch time. The view looks out and down to the fields; greens, golden hues, and light lavenders to deep purples.
Off in the distance is Mount Ventoux. It stands out cream colored against a pastel blue sky.
Here, as with all the other places I have visited, the swallows are busily flying about in search of food, and squealing all the way.
Across in the park, a group of men are playing bolles, (a giant game of marbles?) in the shade of the trees.
I took the "touristique" (scenic) route down. WOW! The photo below shows two tunnels through rock that I drove through. The road twisted and turned and switched back and came around with the rock climbing to my right and a deep drop off to the left. The road was just rode enough for two cars. It was both dizzying and and dazzling.
My last day in Paris, I traveled to Auvers sur Oise. This is the last place that Vincent lived before he died. Most people believe, from the stories they have heard, read and been taught, that he committed suicide. It is now believed that he was murdered. A book on my list to read fully is Van Gogh, the Life by Steven Naifeh and Gregory White Smith.
I started it, was pulled in by the beautiful writing, but didn't have time to read it all before leaving in this journey. At the very end in the appendix, there is a section about his death and what research has uncovered.
The short version is that there was a teenager from a local wealthy family who teased Vincent mercilessly. Vincent didn't try to stop him, he was already too tortured mentally, and only found solace in drink and paint. On the day that he was shot, it is thought that Vincent went out to paint, was actually inspired and feeling pretty good, the young man met up with him and teased him with a old gun that he had been given. They suspect it went off by accident and Vincent was shot.
The first part I wrote riding the train to Auvers sur Oise. It was cool and cloudy.
After the challenge of the second train never arriving, I caught an Uber the rest of the way. The driver dropped me off in front of the signs showing the places to visit; just a few steps from Vincent's room.
In front of the building sits a small table with two chairs two glasses and a bottle of red wine.
The town was mostly quiet except there were at least three school groups of children taking tours. As I sat across the street from the house, the last group passed by. They were happily singing a tune skipping along.
The tour of Vincent's room was interesting. They tell the story that he committed suicide. The room has been empty for 126 years. No photographs were allowed. But they told the story of a man who committed suicide. I wonder if that is a better sell for the visit than the possibility that someone shot him by accident?
The highlight was the last three stops on the walk. The church he painted, the wheat field and the cemetery where he and his brother are buried.
From the Musee D'Orsay
The Church in Auvers s/Oise
Vincent and his brother are buried side by side. Theo died 6 months after Vincent
These three spots made me feel like I was truly walking in his footsteps. It was a beautiful day. Beautiful clouds, the sun shining, and no major tours of people making selfie photos in front of each location. I guess not completely walking in his foot steps as I visited his grave, but peaceful and hi paintings came to life for me.
I was very fortunate to grow up seeing at in Chicago with school trips. It was there I was introduced to many artists and also where I fell in love with the impressionist painters. Claude Monet and Vincent van Gogh became my favorites. Why these two when there were so many, I'm not sure. I feel a connection, I love the colors, and their paintings resonate with me. Many years ago, as a teenager, I saw Monet's paintings of the Water Lilies of Giverny at the Art Institute. I remember walking into a dark room and the paintings stood under light long and huge reflecting a place of dreams and color.
The day after visiting Giverny and Monet's garden's I went first thing in the morning to the Musee de L"Orangerie where the Water Lily paintings hang in two large light oval shaped rooms.
The Water Lilies of Giverny
The paintings took my breath away again as they did many years ago.
I don't know that I always wanted to go to see Monet's home over all these years. I guess in a way, it never seemed possible until I started doing research for this trip. When I realized I could see the place, I purchased a ticket.
I took the early train to Giverny so I would arrive as the gardens opened for the day. The train leaves out of the Saint Lazare station one of the places that Monet painted when he was in Paris.
Saint Lazare Station today. No longer the smoke and steam from the trains.
Gare Saint Lazare as painted by Monet
Even arriving early at Giverny, on such a beautiful day, it was crowded, though I noticed that the lines to get in after lunch were much longer.
In his home, the rooms were filled with light and art. It was a place meant for work (painting and gardening, sleep, pleasure, and visitors. If there was no window, there were paintings hanging on the walls.
Monet's Studio
Monet's bedroom
View from Monet's bedroom window. Now that's a great way to wake up each day.
Noun: A person who wanders around observing society. I read about the flâneur in The Best Walk in Paris by John Baxter. It describes the way that I hope to take in France.
Crossing the Street
Arc de Triomphe in the Rain
I arrived yesterday. It was a long trip, but I had the opportunity to ride the train from London to Paris under the Channel. So tired, the mesmerizing speed of the train lulled me into a short nap. As we left London, the train went underground, came above, and went below several times. I am not sure when we went below and into the Chunnel after all the ups and downs, but I woke up just as we came back above ground on the France side. Beautiful country sped by; cows, horses, farms, and within an hour into Paris.
From Gare du Nord, a wild unsanctioned taxi ride to the apartment.
Lesson 1: Push hard to get past all the fake taxi drivers to get to a real taxi.
I started out this morning on a walk for breakfast and to wander around.
Lesson 2: It's easy to take get in 10,000 steps walking around Paris, even at a slow pace as a flâneur.
Lesson 3: Take your map. If you travel down small winding streets, you may become a bit confused. (I did only a few blocks from the apartment, phone map helped be get back on track).
Once back on track I found a place called Maison Pou. Lovely food, a long line to order, but worth the wait and nervousness or ordering in French.
Each treat wrapped in the perfect package
Layers of Goodness
For dessert: Macaron des Framboises du Maison
The last package is a slice of quiche for later. À bientôt: See you soon.
In my house, Christmas was about the surprise, buying just the right thing, wrapping it beautifully and then watching the recipient open the gift on Christmas day. The biggest or the smallest gift was not always the most thought out gift, it was the gift that you had no idea you were getting; the one that maybe you had asked for or commented on in March of that year and then forgot about until the wrapping paper was ripped and tattered around your feet.
The last few years of mom's life, she didn't have the energy to go shopping for Christmas. I would "take care of everything," but I know that it was one of the things that bothered her tremendously. Christmas of 2014, I wasn't sure if mom would live to see it. The early weeks of December were tough. Mom mostly slept and hardly ate. She made it. On Christmas Eve, we made plans for spending Christmas morning at Mom and Jane's house. As planned, we arrived with food and gifts. I went in to see mom but she wasn't feeling well. I got her to the bathroom, but that was all she could handle. She was too tired to go out to the living room. She felt so bad to be "ruining" Christmas. "It's OK," I said, We'll just have Christmas in here." She sat in her bedroom chair and I took care of a few things in the kitchen. She decided she felt well enough to be wheeled out to the living room. So we had Christmas together in the living room with all the traditional scattered and tattered wrapping paper. After the last resents were opened, mom asked me to get her walker that had a little pouch where she could carry her papers, money and what-not.
She asked me to pull out three envelopes; one for Jane, one for John, and one for me.
With the little energy she was able to muster during the night, she had put together three envelopes with the only thing she still had to give. I knew that I wanted to use the money for something special.
Not long after mom passed away, I started planning a trip to France. That trip will begin in less than a week. Somewhere along the way, I will do something with this little treasure to honor my mother's memory.
