Dreaming of Peniches

  

On the train to Vernon, France, I spied my secret fantasy, sweet little peniches.  “Say what?”…I know what your thinking and that’s not it.  Don’t omit the “che” and keep your mind out of the gutter.  I have an ongoing  fantasy involving these little french barges “peniche” turned into “live aboard” boats.  Most of Europe and especially France has many canals were these little barges can explore much of “The Continent”.  These canals were used as a main transportation route throughout Europe for hundreds of years.  Carrying raw materials and manufactured items on these canals contributed to Europe’s industrial revolution. Now they are used mainly for recreational purposes and my secret inner fantasies.  Imagine a sophisticated trailer park (an oxymoron) meets Jacques Cousteau.  

I love the concept….kind of like RV-ing in a cultured and refined European way ….on water.  Most peniches are 100-year-old dutch transport carriers converted to homes.  I have read blogs where people purchase an older dated model in need of a lot repair.  They will update them adding furniture, appliances and decorating.  Live in them a couple of years then sell them for a profit covering their living expenses.  Then they will flip another, kind of like a floating home improvement project with a travel bonus.  

  

In my dream I would start with the smallest class peniche exploring the extra narrow canals and locks of France, Belgium and the Netherlands.  Then after a couple of years get a larger one that can handle Germany (I hear the Rhine is crazy) and the English Channel  for exploring the UK, Scotland and Ireland.   

I like to dream big and in Technicolor.  I know….but without dreams a mind goes numb and dumb.  I know that I would never have left  the comfort of my front porch without dreams.  So raise your glasses  to manifesting our dreams, Ching, ching.  But to manifest them you have first to imagine them in extra fine detail.   

My Ile St. Louis

  

  

Can you imagine waking each morning to the gentle lapping of a slow moving water, relaxing and peaceful.   Rising slowly, embracing the morning light, sipping hot french roast.  Riding your bikes to a quaint, picturesque village for lunch and buying groceries for a simple dinner of vin, fromage, ban (wine, cheese, bread) and fresh local fare.  An afternoon of music, painting, drawing, writing, reading and relaxing on the water.   Later cruising up the canal for a couple of hours, traveling through old locks with friendly, crusty lock-keepers with stories of haunted barges and secret fishing holes. Off to the next enchanted village, anchoring  for dinner and a romantic evening serenaded by french crickets and frogs.  

My Technicolor dreams have gone so far as to imagine a cat or a small dog tagging along under foot, chasing rabbits on a twilight walk.  Or sometimes I have a goose that follows my little peniche through my travels.  I feed it and it keeps me company.  I’m only one adult beverage away from a “Snow White” fantasy of woodland creatures doing my housework or should I call it bargework? and short, lock-keepers singing “Hi-ho, Hi-ho”  

On this trip I have seen several of these watery homes; in the country as well as in central Paris on the Seine.  I lust for them and the romantic lifestyle  they represent to me.  Simple, natural but combined with art and culture.  Maybe with some luck on my side I might be able to realize my European fantasy…. maybe one day when I win the lottery or write a best-seller.  Maybe a best seller about living on a barge in Europe……posssible titles….”Quiches On Peniches”, “A Good Peniche Is Hard To Find”, “Inside Secrets To Riding French Peniches”, “Any Peniche In A Storm”….Yes, I digress.  

I admit I lust for peniches — Yeah, I said it–and the romantic, passionate lifestyle they symbolize for me.  

http://barges.apolloduck.com/  

http://www.h2ofrance.com/

A Misty Day In Paris

 

Here I sit with Ilee painting watercolors at the Brasserie de l’Ile St-Louis, a very famous classic Parisian cafe that is about a block from our apartment.  We are sitting outside listening to an old Frenchman, weathered and worn playing a soulful accordion.  It’s sound is haunting and familiar.  It is lightly showering giving the air a moist and fresh smell.  The passers-by are starting to don umbrellas to keep the mist away.  Ilee and I are seated outside but safely undercover and warmed by a cafe’ lait and a nice glass of red.  A perfect afternoon in Paris, so romantic. 

This morning after sleeping in too late we went to Musee’ d’Orsay and spent a couple of hours with the French Impressionist.  The d’Orsay is my favorite museum in Paris. It exudes an air of understated sophistication and beauty.  The art is some of the most famous in the world.  Many of my favorites live here and I loved sharing them with my daughter.  Van Gogh, Gauguin, Lautrec, Monet, Manet, Degas, Renoir, I could go on forever.   It is such an inspiring place, it makes you want to create.  

While I was at d’Orsay, I tried to checked in on Paul Gauguin, apparently he heard I was coming and left.  We had an argument last time I was in Paris.  If you look back through this blog’s archives you can read about this incident.  I was hoping we could make up….but no.   He and several of his impressionist buddies  are out touring the world while their home here at the d’Orsay is being remodeled.  Sounds like a good life…..even for a painting.  Maybe he and his buddies will come visit me in Chicago.  I hope he’s not holding a grudge. 

After lunch at a small sandwich stand we went back to the apartment, picked up our art supplies and headed here.  To this timeless cafe on the intersection of Rue Jean du Belley & Rue Saint-Louis en l’Ile.  La Brasserie de l’Ile St-Louis is everything you expect when you think of “classic French brasserie/cafe.” The old floors, the old tables, the old tin ceilings with years and years of paint, old everything – even a very imposing, antique espresso machine like the one you see in the Tolouse Lautrec paintings.  The Brasserie de l’Ile St-Louis is rumored to have been the location of a famous silver screen film.  Though I can’t seem to figure out which one.  It is very nostalgic and dreamy.   

 

Ilee's Masterpiece

I feel like I should know what was filmed here.   My youth was filled with hours watching the classics with my Mom.  I am likely more familiar with the films of Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart and Kathrine Hepburn than today’s stars.  I have memorized most of the Hitchcock classics.   As a teenager people would tell me I looked like Grace Kelly, I would imagine myself as her character’s of “Lisa” (the name fit too) in Hitchcock’s Rear Window or as ”Frances” in “To Catch A Thief” speeding in a convertible through the winding cliffs of the south of France. 

 

Grace Kelly in "To Catch A Thief"

I am absorbed in the ambiance of France, it’s like a familiar dream.  A little like my silver screen daydreams, for me there is no better place on earth.

Hammam-ing It Up

Paris Turkish Baths

What do you get when you cross a Massage Envy with a mosque and 40 crazy naked french women.  If you guess a Hammam also known as a turkish bath, your right.  I wanted to go to the Grand Paris Mosque Hammam the last time I was here in September but ran out of time.  Ilee was game for an adventure, as usual.  So we went down at 10am to La Monge Metro stop to check the place out.  It was closed until 2 but the gentleman at the desk was nice and it looked ok from the outside.  So at 3pm we hopped the metro next to our apartment and headed southwest to Paris’ Muslim community. 

Services just let out and the area was crowded; many of the women wearing veils/burka’s, very little skin showing.  Ilee and I wearing sundresses with lots of skin in comparison.  Ok, let’s be real.  Two fair-skinned, blondes wandering through a muslin community stick out like a sore thumb.  I thought this could be a good opportunity to show Ilee about other cultures and that people are people.  We all are one.  No matter what you wear, smell like  (Ilee can be particular about smell), or look like.

We arrived to a large crowd at the restaurant outside the hammam, not know ing were to go we waited in line to talk to someone who pointed us to the hammam door.

The door was old, painted bright aqua blue with solid colored stain-glass creating a simple design.  We entered in to a strange ancient world.  Brightly colored as a kaleidoscope.  Mosaic tiles and moorish designs set aglow with colorful Moroccan lanterns.  It was just stunning and about 100 years old.  Built for the French North African soldiers returning after World War 1.  We went up to the raised desk, I said Bon jour, Parle vous anglaise”  the response was “No”  Ok, I tried to explain and pointed to the menu of spa options. 

The menu I had seen translated online so I kind of knew that I wanted, the full package, which was the steam baths and dip baths, body scrub, 30 minute massage and mint tea.  The full experience.  Ilee just got the steam and dip with the tea.  I pointed to this option and hand over my visa, no problem.

Knowing what to do next was a problem……huh???   We were handed waterproof slip-on sandals and two towels and rounded the corner.  Wow, loads of naked women, lounging around, getting massages by scary elder (usually burka-ed) women.  Many of the women wore tongs, underwear, or bathing suit bottom, many were totally naked and a few wore bathing suits.  Ilee opted for the full suit, I , being in a semi adventurous mood went for bottoms only.  “When in Rome…..translated to when in Paris do as the Parisians.”  The majority of women were topless as well, I fit right in.  Ilee was only embarrassed for a minute or two. 

I saw more boobs today than I have ever seen in my life put together.  All shapes and sizes, old and perky young.  Ilee was by far the youngest here, I hope this was an ok idea.  I will refer, in the future, of this as an educational, body image lesson.  All bodies (mostly) are beautiful and even the ugly ones have a certain “I can’t look away” attraction.  Beauty is art –subjective, tastes are different.  My sweet daughter, alway know you are lovely and loved.  You’re beautiful.

Anyway, we eventually found a wonderful girl who spoke perfect English and French to help us.  She had just returned from a study abroad in Morocco.  She taught us how to use the steam baths and the mysteries of a hammam.  First, you must go to the hottest room you can handle and then move to the coolest. Then scrub, ending with a massage and shower. OK, we can do this.

We choose a room with medium heat, sometimes darting into the high heat room for a dip in the very cold jacuzzi sized tub.  The high heat room was like turning on your oven to its highest temperature and opening the door in your face.  Intense, and for those of you that think I maybe wimpy, please know that I have a huge, somewhat tacky  infrared redwood sauna in my bedroom and practically live in it during our intense Chicago winters.  I turn it up to 150 degrees fahrenheit, and toast for an hour or so.  I know heat.  Ilee and I braved the oven twice only for a couple of minutes, we’re tough.  Tougher than most of our buck naked comrades.

We found a corner in this beautiful room and set up camp.  You basically sit on a towel, if you’re somewhat hygienic, not all are here.  You have a little cubby with an antique marble sink, cold and hot water and a bucket.  You sweat, yes really sweat.  Then clean yourself with black middle eastern gel soap.  The smell we decided was not very attractive, but not completely unattractive either.  Ilee and I scrubbed each others backs, which we noticed was the custom and rinsed and repeated.  Our helpful friend came over and offer us some hammam mud, called  Rhassoul.  It is powder and you add water to it and mix.  We spread it all over ourselves, hair and all and let it soak in for about 10 minutes maybe longer.  Then we rinsed at our sink and then showered. 

After the shower I got in line for the body scrub.  When I signed up for this I assumed it was a body cream that you apply yourself.  No, this is an old woman who puts you on a wet table and scrubs you down with the pads used by the previous 10 clients.  My Public Health background started kicking in……no block that thought.  It’s all ok, just don’t think too much, which for me is challenging.  It was another when in Rome moment. 

I survived, with one less layer of skin and no worse for the wear.  Next the massage.  I have had many massages in my day and I can attest none have been like this.  You are in a room with 40 naked women lounging on large padded raised beds, watching as 4 elderly women in underwear massage all over you.  Breasts & ass included.  She took my bathing suit bottoms and tucked them between my checks for the ass rub.  This old woman was coming on a little too fresh for my tastes and I’m pretty easy-going.  What did I get myself into, Ilee sat on the side with a smug look that said “I told you not to get the massage.”  If you saw this lady on the street in full burka you would never guess that she douses strangers in gallons of oil, (not exaggerating) and rubs boobs.  These crazy arab women. 

As they rub you down they argue and chat among themselves and drink fermented milk.  Can anyone tell me what fermented milk is…possibly kefir??? As far a massages go this was pretty pointless other than it was something I will never forget.  I went home and showered again and I still smell strange.  I hope this scent wears off soon, everyone will be able to smell me from a mile away. 

I learned about another culture today and isn’t that what traveling is all about.  Experiencing something different, like trying on someone elses skin if only for short while.  In the end Ilee and I both thought it was cool. Yes, “different”…Ilee will tell you this in a dramatic, high-pitched voice, but still cool.  Everyone was nice and I know beyond a shallow of a doubt that it would never, ever pass US health inspection standards (That Public Heath degree again) but who cares.  We had fun, that’s what counts. 

http://www.la-mosquee.com/

London

Ilee & I on the London Eye

  

We arrived in London with such excitement.  We couldn’t wait to get off the plane…..but no.  One of those, why isn’t this line moving. What’s going on? Moments.  Anyone who knows me well can attest, I will stick my nose into it and find out “what’s goin’ on”?  The rumors flowed back to us in the very back of coach that the skybridge was broken and they were getting an engineer out to fix it.  We had to wait.  I had images of that plane years ago that was stuck on the tarmac for over 6 hours.  I would have organized a revolt.  I started planning.  Then good news came across the loud-speaker.  They would be using the back exit with an outside stair cart then bus us over to the terminal.  This sounded great.  We would have a little adventure at Heathrow and get to be one of the first off, as we were seated in the back. We would be able to see the underbelly of the airport, sure, lets do it.  Just get me off this plane, it has been 8 hours already.  10 minutes later another announcement.  We fixed the skybridge and will be de-planing from the front.  I think first class complained and insisted that they arrive before us underlings.     

I am so glad that my friend Barb ordered me a mini-cab to take us to her home.  We would have long missed the last tube train out of Heathrow.  When Ilee and I rounded the last corner after a 26.7 mile marathon walk throught the airport.  We saw a nice gentleman holding a sign “LISA WAGNG”.  OK, close enough, when he walked us out to the Mercedes.  Brand new, large and sporty.  Mercedes EH class for extra hot.  I began to re-think the WAGNG part.  “Is this for me??”  “Really???” Maybe there is a Lisa Wagng walking around Heathrow looking for her ride, lost and confused and a man holding a LISA WAGNER sign wondering what happen to me.  So I asked if he had the address that we were going to.  “Yes”  and guess what, it was the right one.  Yes, this incredible car was for me.  WOW, and Michael new how to handle this car well.  It was great fun, I only wish I was driving.  After about an hour we arrived at Barb and Steven’s home in Islington in North London.  It was lovely.  A great combination of comfortable and cool.  Barb & Steven are the best.  Funny, charming, entertaining and so hospitable to taking in us adventuring Napervillians.  We stayed up until 3:30am London time (9:30pm Chicago time) talking and drinking incredible wine; a fun night.  I could not have felt more welcomed.     

The next morning I woke all a buzz about the day ahead.  We headed out to the tube station, about a 10 minute walk through a very quaint neighborhood.  Got our underground/tube day pass and headed to central London.    

Big Ben

  

When we arrived in Central London the weather wasn’t cooperating.  Typical London I hear.  Thank you Laura for the umbrella is was a life saver.  It felt a little like my childhood in the Pacific Northwest.  Blustery.  We decided to go to the London Eye first to get a birds eye perpective, before it clouded up to much.  The London Eye was very cool, except Ilee kept reminding me not to call it the “eye in the sky”  I must have called it this 4-5 times.   Ilee was getting frustrated with me.    It just wouldn’t sink in that it was the London Eye…. whatever?     

    

After the Eye we walked over to Big Ben, the weather was hell.  Rain coming down in buckets and blowing sideways.  We arrived at Westminster Abbey very wet and cold..  I’m surprised they took us in.  We must have looked like drowned rats. Westminster Abbey was glorious.  We got the audio tour and listen to the history of this 1000 year old abbey.     

This Abbey is permanent resting place for many historical figures. Kings and queens, friends and foe, poets & artists.  Many have their likeness carved out on top of their tombs.  Sleeping statues resting in peace for eternity.  Their faces molded from their death masks, for that perfect likeness.  Cool & creepy.     

At times, especially in the cloisters (courtyard, sort of)  I felt like I was on a movie set for Harry Potter.  It felt very regal, royal and slightly sinister.  Many of these permanent residences weren’t of the highest caliper.  Many killed one another, by poisoning, beheading and other creative tortures.  Harry Potter…. the scary true stories.  Nightmares for Ilee tonight.   We were at the abbey for several hours, it was fascinating.     

Hurry, Mom it smells like pee

  

Adjusting to the time difference didn’t hit me right off.  It hit about 5pm the on our London adventure.  We had enough energy to eat dinner and then head back to the house for an early evening.  We dragged ourselves to the closest Piccadilly line train and headed back.  A great day was had (saying it with and English accent)    

Tomorrow morning we are scheduled to take the Eurostar/channel tunnel train aka the Chunnel under the  English Channel essentially under the ocean to my Paris.  Paris is calling for me, my lover and friend. I can’t wait to show Ilee this enchanted place.    

3 more days in London at the end of the trip.

Finding your blankie…..on Gillian’s Island

Why do I like airplane blankets so much?  When you travel international, they come clean and pre-packaged with a pillow and the poorest quality earphone buds ever made.  It’s like a  nice little present wrapped in plastic waiting for you snuggle up to on your long  journey. 

American Airlines blankets are extra-large, warm and fleecy.  I’m contemplating stealing one, but my conscience and my 12-year-old daughter might not see this as a grand idea.  I have to set a good example.  I can imagine myself with blankie on my favorite bench on the Seine late in the evening drinking vin watching the evening cruises go by.  Blankie & I could cuddle with Ilee and create a cool fort in the Paris apartment to sleep in…..

Yes, your right, I’m writing this on 3.5 hours of sleep.  I’m a bit loopy.  I never sleep well the night before a trip so sometimes I don’t even try, like last night.  My brain just won’t shut down.  This trait can be a bit of a problem.  I may over think things.  I break everything down into it’s elementary pieces, then re-assemble it in my head.  In an effort to “get it”  Self inflicted psychotherapy.   Yes welcome to my mid-life crisis and the ramblings of a semi-comotose mom.  I am dealing with my issues through “travel therapy”  Great stuff I totally recommend it.  Thank you Ryan for your understanding. 

Done for now with the personal diatribe.  This trip is round 2 in my quest to put more than one stamp in my passport in a 10 year period.  I got a new passport last summer and discovered that the expiring one only had one stamp.  Sad. 

That one stamp, I can bet most of you don’t have.  I went to Kiribati , a small island about two days sail south of Hawaii.  We (the family & I) went their 7 years ago as part of a Hawaiian cruise.  It was great.  Kiribati formerly known as Fanning Island is poor, isolated and incredibly beautiful.  Everyone has seen it though.  It’s famous as the closing shot at the end of Gillian’s Island. The one with the beach packed full of palm trees.  Yeah that’s right.  I have been to every kid of my generations fantasy vacation location.  I went looking for the Professor, Maryanne, the millionaire and his wife…but they must have been chased off by headhunters or something.  Missing their escape from paradise once again.

Right now, this very minute, Ilee and I have 2.5 hours left.  London here we come.  We are very excited for this new adventure.  I hope to show her that the world is a wonderous, beautiful, hopeful place.  That is meant to be embraced, explored and experienced.  We will likely get lost (weirdly looking forward to it), have to change our plans on the fly, have to seize an opportunity without much fore thought, and learn to go with the flow.  These are great lessons for a fertile mind. 

Live life to the fullest, dis-engage the autopilot.  Fill you life with life and teach your kids to do the same.  It’s my prescriptions for happiness, trust me it works.  You don’t necessarily need to go in an international trip.  Consider splashing in mud puddles, re-reading the classics, blasting your tunes loud and proud or planting a garden.  Things that nurture your soul, small things like blankies work too.

It’s strange how my mind works…

It’s strange how my mind works.  I couldn’t finish this blog and move on, I couldn’t bare to write about the last days of my trip.  They were great BTW.  It put to much of an ending to it and I didn’t want it to end.  It was the trip of a lifetime or at least my life so far and  it changed me.  Made me more me.  Evolved me.  Stretched me.  I can’t thank my family enough for the wonderful 40th birthday gift. 

I am going to have to do a lot more thanking for my 41st birthday too.  I am going back to Europe on Friday, May 28th, but I’m not going solo this time.  I am taking my12 year old daughter, Ilee. 

I have a strange way of getting things to happen for me, if I think about them enough I can often make it happen.  Maybe its luck, positive thinking or just the heavy duty prayer regiment my Mom has been on for years on my behalf.  Keep up the good work Mom, much appreciated.  Things seem to always work out, (I am knock on wood…no reason to jinks it) 

This impending new adventure has spurred me to complete my old one.  There may be some overlapping in my writing for these trips, but I will note this.  I truly apologize to my readers to not ending my story last time, it just wasn’t completed in my mind.  This may end up being a never ending travel blog, only completing one when another trip is planned.

Ilee and I are flying to London for 2 nites, then Chunneling (Channel Train) to Paris for 7 nites in my wonderful apartment, then flying to Dublin, Ireland for 2 nites and then back to London for the last 3 nites, totaling 2 weeks.  Taking Ilee to Ireland was manditory….for those of you out there not in the know.  Ilee’s given name is “Ireland Louise Wagner”  Her brother Callum “Cal” couldn’t pronounce “Ireland” at 2 years old and it came out “Ilee”.  It stuck, she’s Ilee now.  I think it’s cool.  Yes, we gave our kids weird names.  In the future they will either hate us for it or love us.  I’m hoping for the latter.  Wagner is just to common of a last name not to pair it with something interesting.  Ryan is mostly Irish with a sprinkling of German and Mexican and Germany and Mexico just didn’t suit a little blonde girl. 

I am so looking forward to going through immigration into Ireland with my Ireland.  She told me she’s already embarrassed.  What can I say….I did it on purpose just for this moment.  Fun for Mom.  Hey I could have named you Guinness.

I have already warned her that Mama & Guinness are good friends.  And I will be visiting this lover of mine in Dublin, first thing.  Yes, it’s strange how my mind works…

A Day of Chartres and Malcom Miller

Chartres Cathedral

Chartres Cathedral is the sister church to my Notre Dame and she is the most well perserved gothic cathedral in Europe…so I wanted to visit her.  Chartres had been recommended to me by friends, fellow travelers and Rick Steves. I had mentioned to Evelyne and Julian that I planned to go, they said that is was too far and maybe was not a good idea.  Best to stay closer to Paris.   

Yet, I was feeling adventurous so after studying Rick Steves guide-book, I decided to go for it.  The worst thing that could happen is that I get lost, miss the last train back to Paris..thus have to find local lodging.  Maybe get kidnapped by some group that try to sell me as a….I watched the Liam Neeson movie  “Taken” before I left for Paris…mistake.

 None of it seemed bad enough for me to avoid going, I wanted to see more of the countryside anyway. 

I knew that I needed to catch a regional high-speed train out of Montparnasse train station.  Getting to that train station was easy, via the Metro.  When I got to the Montparnasse station, I got  losted.  This place was a large maze of floors and tunnels. I wandered trying to find anything that looked like a regional train system and not the Metro.  

After hunting for 30 minutes I saw a small sign that displayed a different train symbol.  I walk down a long, long desolate tunnel to come out into what appeared as a totally different train station.  Very open , bright and very clean.  Like walking thru the cave in the mountains and arriving in Shangri-La.  I found the ticket window.  Yes, they had a train to Chartres that was leaving in five minutes I paid for the round trip and ran to the train.  I think I was the last one on before it pulled out.

I made it on the train to Chartres...had to run.

The train was amazing, clean, smooth, very fast and sophisticated compared to any train I had been on in the states.  I sat and watched the french countryside pass by, the rolling hills colored with green and yellow hues.  Puffy clouds drifted above casting a dappled light on the landscape.  I could tell it was going to be an amazing day.

French countryside..taken from train

On the other side of the train I could hear an American English conversation…. tourist heading to Chartres as well.  They were discussing Hemingway’s ”A Moveable Feast”  (one of my favorite novels) and reading aloud to each other some of the most beautiful sections.  Then conferring over the poetry and artistry of the passage.  I liked them.  The type of couple that see romance and beauty all around them.  I eavesdropped for the hour long ride to Chartres, it was a beautiful conversation. 

When we were exiting the train I started talking to them.  They were Joe and ..I think Carol from my beloved Portland, Oregon.  Where I was born and raised.  I have a theory that the Pacific Northwest breeds a more soulful and prehaps romantic type of person than other parts of the country.  I think it is because we embrace the rain.  I love to walk in a misty rain, then go home to a fire, relaxing music, glass of  Oregon Pinot Noir and a good book to read snuggled up.  I love the sound of the rain, the smell…clean and earthy.   The gentle droplets on my face.  Rain is romance.  The best is the transition between the misty rainy day and the sun.  Rays of light that cast rainbows and far off views of clouds still soaking the ground below. 

Getting back to Chartres before I book a flight back to Oregon.

Joe and Carol had been to Chartres over 30 years before, in college.  They traveled frequently and were happy to return.   We walked up the hill together, heading to the most well preserved gothic cathedral in Europe.  It boast the largest collection of original stain glass in Europe from the middle ages.  The windows were the bible of its day.  Printing presses had yet to be invented and most couldn’t read.  Commoner to kings were trained to interpret a window, to learn the stories we read from the printed bible.

 

We arrived at the square in front of the church and I pull out my trusty Rick Steves guide and asked them about the Malcom Miller tour.  Friends in Naperville had recommended his tour.  They looked at me in shock, “there is no way that he is still here”, they said.  “Is he still alive?”  They had taken his tour 30 years before.  “Well, he’s in the Rick Steves book…Rick says the tour starts in 10 minutes, at 11″ I said, “Lets go find out”

Carol and Joe got really excited…”No way, if it’s true it would make the trip”  “Malcolm Miller what a treat…how old can he be?”  We walked in together and I headed to the information desk to ask.  Yes, I found out that the group of about 8 people standing by the gift shop were waiting for the tour.  Joe and Carol were gitty at this point.  We start talking to the group,  about 6 out of 8 people were as gitty as my friends.   Most had done this tour before and loved Malcom Miller. 

What can I say about Malcom Miller.  The man is full of no nonsense personality, he just says what ever is on his mind.  No edits.. I like this quality.  He’s real. He is spry and spirited.  He is a fount of information on the Chartres and undisputed expert on its Cathedral.  He was amazing to listen to…and funny.  Sometimes not meaning to be funny..we, his audience would sometimes have to hold back laughter when he would comment on the Asian tourist.  He’d wise cracked about how there are so many Chinese that they can’t keep them all in the country at the same time.  They are forced out to be tourist in 15 minute intervals and end up here crowding up the place.  “Look more are coming now, rotate please, we are starting to get to many here now”,  ” We need to start rotating them out of France, send them to America” 

Mr. Malcom Miller

We all giggled and waited for the next outrageous comment….I love this guy.  At one point he went after another tour guide for not following the rules and said that he could call the police and have him arrested.  He stopped the tour, went and got the guy in charge.  Complaining profusely.  Throughout the tour he would mumble about the other guide.  Kind of a bi-polar grandpa, that beamed with wisdom, enthusiasm and crankiness.  I loved the tour so much I stayed for the 1pm show.  Malcom is a character….charming, and grumpy, at th same time.  His side tangents and mumbling were hilarious.

I asked him how he ended up the expert on Chartres Cathedral.  He sighed (I could almost hear him thinking….I have answered this a million times..just buy the stupid book)  He told me that he studied french in college back in England and for his final he had to go to France and teach french elementary kids english “stupid kids, how can you all stand them”  and for his paper he wrote about the windows of Chartres Cathedral.  He started giving tours in english during this time and just never left.  He has done this for over 52 years.  My friend’s were right, he is an icon.

Carol and Joe were in seventh heaven, they were all smiles.  They stayed for the second tour with me. Stating that they had no choice but to stay, you never know how much longer this legend of Chartres would be sharing his unique wisdom.   It was a gift and they were going to experience it fully.  The smiles on their faces were full and told the story of past memories of an enchanted Chartres trip; now freshed with new experiences that were very reminiscent of 30 years before.  It was rejuvenating, they said, giving them recaptured memories of youth.  I was happy for them.  Maybe in 30 more years Malcom will still be diligently giving his tour and I will have a similar memento.

For all of his gruffness, I couldn’t help but love is guy.  He exuded charm and class.  A little Archie Bunker with a touch of Queen Elizabeth wrapped in a college professor.  So interesting.  Please don’t ever change Mr. Miller, you are perfect.

The Song of the Count–Bleep

Watch this…I couldn’t stop laughing.

In the presence of the Divine

As I have said before Notre Dame is my neighbor and became my close companion.  I love wandering thru the sanctuary daily.  She speaks to me, engages me and calms me. 

On my first day in Paris I noticed a flyer for a Gregorian Requiem on September 29th at Notre Dame.  I knew that I had to go.  An evening of Gregorian chants & organ at the very place they were perfected, a 1000 year old cathedral.  What a glorious event.

That evening I got ready early; wore a skirt and dressed the nice church girl part.  I headed down 45 minutes early to get a good seat.  When I arrived I was shocked to see a huge line stretching the length of the square in front of the church.  I thought that this could only be the hordes of regular tourist that gather here every night thinking that this is the only way into the church for the regular tour.  They couldn’t all be here for the concert. 

Passing through the line I heard American English voices.  I walked toward them trying to get information.  They were about 15 feet in front of me and walking fast.  I had heels on and found it challenging to walk on the aged cobble stone.  They were heading for a different entrance, the ticket holders entrance (I eventually discover), OK, if I finesse this right I can avoid the line….. all they can do is send me back.  Right?  I don’t want to stand in line, my feet hurt already.  They walk in and I pulled a “I know what I’m doing, I belong here act.”  It worked. 

Inside was filled with orderly chaos.  The ticket line stretched many yards into the building and they were collecting tickets farther inside.  I walked confidently up to the ticket booth smiling at the agent and the person I was cutting in front of and mumbled something…..yes I was trying to pull a fast one.  A fast one in a church…dammed I am.

No one gave me any problems and with a general seating tickets in hand I walked confidently to the front to find a single open seat.  There were several, most people are not solo.  I sat 3rd row from the front, by some very nice French grandmas.  I later discovered that I was in the reserve section, sitting with the high ups.  Many people around me pulled out huge musical scores and followed along.  I was in with the professionals, I didn’t belong here.  But if no one was going to tell me to leave in English, I was going to stay.  Try to look like I belong.  I wanted the full experience.

The evening started with my favorite Cardinal, Andre the 23rd.  He spoke in French…..for a longggg time, maybe 45 minutes.  Andre’…what the @#%%!   Shut up and let’s get this party started.  Dammed I am…..again.  You are no longer my favorite Cardinal, and by the looks on the French grandma’s face they agree with me.  He eventually ended his soap box rant,( which was likely very inspirational to a French listener) Then I heard a choir of angels in the distance.

Angels

The angels were singing a Gregorian hymn as they slowly entered the Cathedral.  The grand old building came alive with a surreal ancient quality.  Over 35 royal blue robed choir members took their places at the front of the sanctuary.  They were singing Maurice Durufle Quatre Motets sur Themes Gregoriens & Requiem op.9 pour soli, Choeur et orgue.  Can anyone out there translate this?? Plus an Organ Solo written and performed by Thierry Escaich, Dedicated to Maurice Durufle his mentor.

It was beautiful, sung in Latin and it filled the church.  I felt as if I were a feather, being lifted to the top of the rafters, floating down, and then being lifted again.  A magical experience, in my rare moments for lucidity I looked around the huge cathedral.  Everyone I saw had the same look on their faces, most with their eyes closed, transfixed by the celestial songs.  In this 1000 years old darken church, listening to the voices of angels I feel closer to God.  I smell the candles and the incense, God is here.  He is listening too, encompassing the space.  Coating each one of us in sacred knowledge of his presence.  We feel through the music; the connection, encircled.  There was a dream like quality to this experience, it’s one of my most cherish memories of Paris. 

My love of music, adds a richer quality to my life.  A sound track if you will; an every life needs a soundtrack.  I don’t think there is a type or style of music I don’t like.  It all has its place, it all has value.  The beauty of music is its ability to make you feel….. happy, sentimental, sexy, angry, mournful, energetic, loved etc..  Music is my Prozac without the side effects except possible hearing loss.  Opening up your listening palate is a gift.   Music is a language, not just something to sweep you away and coddle you in its lyrics…it is more, it has a soul.  Connecting with its spirit is a deepening moment.  Listening to Maurice Durufle music that night, I connected. I felt in the presence of the Divine.

Ilegal Activity

Wozzeck-- Bastille Opera House Paris

I like change.  I like to go with the flow.  So when an opportunity presents itself I don’t stay on the same path.  I yell Carpe diem..latin  for “seize the day”….not really, not out loud, but you get it.

So when I got dressed up to go to dinner at Renee’s recommended Chez Janou restaurant on Wednesday I was open for anything.  I caught the bus off my island and headed north towards the Bastille.  I have public transportation mastered.  I was wearing a black ensemble (as usual, my wardrobe is funeral ready at any moment.  Black is the constant theme, with variations into grey and brown….boring, but Parisian) with a trench coat and heels. 

The bus takes me thought the Marais district to the Bastille area.  It  is a   flurry of activity, people coming home from work, families running errands and an interesting heated argument with the bus driver and a passenger.  Yelling and cussing in french…I can attest the French are a passionate people. 

I find my stop an exit to a large crowd standing outside an auditorium.  I poke around and discover that an opera is starting in 10 minutes.  I didn’t even know that Paris had more than one opera house.  This was a new modern one called the Opera Bastille de Paris.

OK….yes I’m hunger and it’s 7:30…. 19:30 to the French, but maybe I can get tickets, it would be fun.  Then I see a young guy make a sly transaction out of the corner of my eye.  Oh yes, I recognized it.  The international art of scalping.  I have experience here. 

I don’t know what I was thinking, I know I wasn’t thinking….it’s illegal.

I carried 3×5 note cards in my purse and a sharpy. (If you travel to another country these cards are my best advice, they saved me many times.  I basically play Pictionary with the french until they get my jist.  I also wrote out many email addresses of new friends, and scribbled notes to use in this blog)  So I pulled out a card and my dark black sharpy; I scribbled out a large, bold “1″ and confidently held it up.  I waved it around smiling at the well dressed french in evening gowns and suits.  I got a bite right away.  A handsome older gentlemen in a grey suit, smiled and spoke to me in beautiful french.  uh uh, Parlez-vous anglais? oui, oui.  Yes, he spoke perfect English and told me that he had excellent tickets on the main floor, dead center, and that they were 89 euro….what!!!  That’s about $150 us.  I didn’t even know the name of this opera, and it was turning into an expense impulse.  Too rich for me….I offered him 20 euros, he said sold.  

Carpe diem!!!  I was going to see a German opera, with French subtitles called Wozzeck.  Wozzeck was not what I expected.  When I think of opera, I think large sets, detailed period costumes, plump women and high drama.  The only one I got right was the high drama. 

Bastille Opera House Paris

Wozzeck stage is set with a contemporary, temporary (rhyming) tent like structure posing as a cafeteria/daycare.   You can see through the sides of the structure where there’s play ground equipment and kids running amuck on a blow up jumper.  The time period is now, no lavish attire, no big hair or dramatic phantoms playing scary organ music.  Yet I can’t say that I was disappointed.  The music was filled with breathtaking emotion mostly pain. It was tense …tragic.  unpretentious, anguished, raw… so not what I expected.  The story appeared to be about a former soldier, Wozzeck, that was about to have a nervous break down…..eventually he does and kills his cheating girlfriend.  The story follows themes of morality, revolution, disillusionment and complete solitude.  It was moving, distressful, biting and pungent.  A broadening experience for me.  I would like to see it again with English translations.  I know that I am just scratching the surface of “getting it”.   I can feel the undercurrent of a layered proverb..a caveat of wisdom.  It’s hard to deconstruction something into its primal parts without the full understanding of the experience.  If Wozzeck comes to Chicago, I plan to go, English subtitles…. please.

Sitting in the dark of the Paris Opera house I would glanced at my fellow  attendees.  Their faces tortured, many with tears.  Opera is absorbing, takes you in, you feel the story, you live it for a couple short hours.  I think that I am beginning to “get” opera a little more.  It’s the crescendo our culture, combining the arts of music, poetry, singing, acting, dance, storytelling, painting, costuming, performing, writing, lighting and design.  Building it into the ultimate artistic medium.  What more could you want?