Knobs and Knockers. . .

. . . AND COOL ASS DOORS

A door from the 1600s

The little door within the door above

The door to the Montpellier flat

Colorful door in Collioure



Another door in Collioure



A shovel knocker

IT IS ALWAYS THE MOST INTERESTING DOORS THAT MUST REMAIN CLOSED, THE MOST KNOCKWORTHY KNOBS THAT MUST BE LEFT SILENT;

In the Middle of Somewhere

I realized I am not lonely
when I am alone
I am only
lonely
when I am very near
to someone who could hold me
"I'm right here"
Only lonely
when someone could tell me secrets and only I could hear
But the lips don't part
the arms don't start
Only lonely
when a hundred pass about me
But floating in a watery sea
Not lonely
but only
Standing between a fig and olive tree
Not lonely
Just only

England is too tight; France Toulouse

In the central square of Toulouse on my first night in France I spotted my first European hippie.  Abundant in California, this species doesn't do well in the cold and rain of Ireland and England. Here I found them powering their amps by the electricity generated from bicycles.  (now those people on the bike's are true groupies)

I was welcomed in Toulouse by complete strangers from couchsurfing.org.  A young couple who turned out to be the best hosts one could imagine having:  Elise and Brahim were awesome and I even got my own room.  Elise and I spent the days together since she wasn't working.  Thank God I had her help speaking french and trying to buy a cell phone.

Rest in Pieces



Up above the entrance to a tomb- this man looks down at you.  You really feel as though you are being judged.



Elise lives right by a huge cemetary.  Since I find contemplating time, death and corpses one of my favorite passtimes, I insisted we explore.  The diversity of graves was astounding.  There were statues of the deceased, photographs, stained glass doors and rusted iron crosses.






Then we stumbled upon some fallen head stones that seemed to have taken the brunt of time and in this area was a grave half sunken and half upended.  The massive stone that covered the top had fallen into the tomb and thus left open the opposite end.  Peering in, you could see the casket in which lies a body over 100 years old.  The flash from the camera captured the best view.  On death's doorstep.

Une Poeme

Some french may be
Like stinky cheese
They turn you off
at first you scoff
But take a bite
and they just might
Bring delight
and soon you feel
one must have them
with every meal

Its only good to be American when. . .

. . . your in a room with the English and French.

Several people have explained to me that the English and French dislike one-another.  The french dislike the English even more than Americans! (really shocking huh?) So in a room of just English and French, everyone likes me best.
Of course there is a long history for why this may be and I will not pretend to understand the historical, political and cultural contexts at play.  I can observe, however, that upon stepping foot onto french soil there was an obvious and dramatic difference just on a surface level.  

But lets back up to my first night in Bristol where I met David from the French Alps.  Wiry, small, wild hair, intense eyes, prominent nose, sparsely grown out facial hair, sandals and a wrinkled shirt slightly unbuttoned. (he would blend right in if he were in Santa Cruz)  He says what he thinks, likes pushing buttons, has a devious smile and definitely stands out from the English men. His movements are loose and fluid rather than statuesque. Yet he too is alluring in a different way.  It was the first and only night we hung out in Bristol sipping award-winning cider at room temperature in a pub called the Corinthian Tap (costing only about $3 a glass!)  He was heading back to France the next morning.  The pub was small and sunken into the ground.  It was all wooden and warm and therefore everything was in a sepia tone.  We talked about cheese in French while a jazz band played loudly in the corner.  All of Seico's friends were very nice.  But I didn't realize that I would be seeing David again.  

David was my first symbol of France before I set foot on their soil.  I hadn't met one person yet from France.  He stood in stark juxtapostition to the English.  Seico even explained to me that he reinforced the french stereotypes for their classmates, irritating but amusing.  Rumor has it, he received a poor lab grade simply because he refused to wear closed toed shoes.  While I enjoyed observing the British like a dramatic foreign film- I was ready for the rebellious and raw reality of the french. 

The soil in Bristol was clay; heavy and slippery. The banks of the river Avon glisten like freshly thrown pottery on a wet wheel. I longed to put my hands in it.  But I was on the road (err in the air) again.   I cried to myself upon leaving Seico, a little bit of intimacy among strangers, a little bit of home in a far away land.  It was interesting sharing in the town of Bristol with Seico knowing that she too was leaving just a few days after me. Knowing it will never be the same for her or for me.  Perhaps we will never return. All of this a distinct little package of time with its own feeling; its own weight and shape. Like a present neatly wrapped in shiny paper and elegant bows- once opened it is never as it was. A surprise found out.
 

Bon Voyage Seico!!!

A salty dream

I am not sure if I actually woke up this morning.  I stretched and grabbed my basket and some funny colored money and went out onto a narrow pink street.  There were no cars or people, just a little road made of stones that declined just enough to draw me comfortably down it.   I popped out onto a little boardwalk with a merry go round and children playing on strange shaped swings. Behind them, a sparkling bright blue ocean lapped against a pebbled beach and brushed its soft shoulders against a menacing wall of stone at the base of several tall towers.  I walked along the wall with the a content and sleeping ocean on my right.  A fig tree stretched out from the ancient wall and at places large rocks emerged sharply from the bricks and morter.  It was as though the cliffs were slowly pushing their way through.


I crossed an arched wooden bridge and watched a little boy standing by bobbing red boats. He held a string with a piece of bread tied to one end.  Tossing the string out into the shallow clear water a shimmering school of fish followed the bread in swirls and clumps. They looked just like the magnetic flecks on an Etch A Sketch, pulled to your pen as you drag it across the surface.

I walked into an open area with a market.  Men stood behind fresh fish on ice, with long curled mustaches and deep thought wrinkles between their eyebrows.  Whole legs of pigs hung by the hooves, wheels of cheese were split open with flesh the color of cantaloupe.  Piles of figs and small bright red strawberries covered the tables.  I filled my basket with fruit and nuts and returned home to eat a plate full of these little treasures and whole sheep's milk yogurt.

With a content heart and belly my dream went on. I wandered back through the streets, past an old stone church and down to a beach hugged by the church walls on one side and another stone wall extending way out into the water like a jetty.  

I laid on my back in the warmest sun and coolest breeze.  The waters were quiet for me.  In the bowl of blue above me just the top of the old lighthouse came into view.   As I looked across the small bay, peach houses were nestled amongst the dark green hills.  The mountains were so close, I could swim across to them. They climbed steeply up into the wildness.

I walked out into the pebbled shore and my feet sank in deeply.  The little sailboats tickled the water.   The sea reached my waste but I could still see the fish, nearly a foot long looking at my toes.  Then I swam. Out into the harbor, with depths below and depths between me and the shore.  I flowed with the water past the church and lost sight of my basket.  I swam and watched the horizon.  I floated and watched my toes.  I spent an eternity.

As I moved back toward the small beach, a boy in a little fairy tale sail boat drifted by me, hand on his rutter.  He passed a few feet away. Looking at me for a while he finally said "bonjour"
and off he went into his adventure leaving me to mine.

When I awoke the next day, the little road was still at my door. My upper lip tasted salty and I realized this was not a dream.  This was Collioure.   

The old lighthouse, now a Catalan Catholic Church.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My breakfast from le Marche

The old fortress/castle on one side of the harbor

The walkway in front of the fortress wall

     

Cologne and Cashmere in Clifton

Lets talk about British men. Why not women, you ask? Because men have captured my attention more-their style and demeaner more pronounced.  Perhaps it is because women`s styles overlap across the western world due to the influence of movie stars and magazines and a general interest in fashion. Or perhaps it is because, my man is far away and so a little eye candy gets me through my day. Or perhaps it is because British men are distinctly sharp.

Even in jeans, men had nice shoes and expensive jackets.

British men are upright, tight and tucked. They are clean shaven, with crew cuts and collars. Their shoes are shiny and their sense of style something to be rivaled with. As an American woman, you have to look as good as your friends, but here you have to look as good as your man. The men have edgy bold glasses and soft knitted sweater vests. AND they are tall and sexy and fulfill a peculiar Cambridge fantasy, I didn't know I had.

Somehow they manage to look both intellectual AND successful something I think many American men fail at.  To me, monetary success with American men is inverseley correlated with intellectuality.  If your thinking big thoughts and opening doors your a nice guy who finishes last.   Taking your time to dress nice and think before you speak is not respected enough in American culture.





Of course, there are many kinds of men in England as well as the U.S. who don't fit this; just like there are many species of plants that make up a landscape.  But from one landscape to the next there is still a distinct texture, hue and odour all its own.  As I walk around Bristol, this landscape is in full bloom.