9 months to Paris, day 260. Giverny and Monet.

Snow, rain, sleet...bah.  I want to have spring.  I want the smell of freshly turned earth. I want the beauty of  5 pm light on the flowers and the green grass.  Je veux le printemps.

  I want to travel by train, from Gare Saint-Lazare in Paris to the town of Vernon, and then on to Giverny.  I want to walk the paths at Claude Monet's home, and marvel at the profusion of flowers there.  I want to wander the streets of this town, peering into gardens, and meadows.  I want to sit in a field of coquelicots, and admire the blue of the sky.  

My first trip to Giverny was a solo trip.  Actually the first time I went to Paris solo.  I mapped out the train schedules, and bought a ticket.  I remember the young woman in the seat next to me asking where I was headed.  Giverny.  I also remember her being kind enough to see that I got off at the right stop, and wishing me a bonne journee.  People ask me all the time, if the French are rude. I often think of that moment when that young lady touched my sleeve and spoke to me in French that it was my stop, and when I looked confused, she told me in what English she could manage.  No, I have been blessed by the graciousness of the French people that I have encountered. 

Off the train at Vernon, outside the station to the bus that is around the corner. 7,00 or so euros for a round trip.  Window seat.  A lone middle aged woman making the first independent trip of her life.  Exit the bus, follow the path and into the town.  Down a narrow street, following the signs to Monet's home.  Paid my admission, through the gift shop, and into the gardens.  And, oh what gardens!  Such an explosion of color, texture, and smell.  Irises, roses, tulips, and pansies.  Grouped by color. Pinks, purples, magenta.  Truly a color wheel of flowers.  A backdrop of a crushed pink brick house with green shutters. I must have spent 3 hours just wandering the gardens.  Follow the path under the roadway to the pond on the other side.  Yes, there it is. The Japanese garden with the bridge over a pond with those water lilies.  A wandering path, and every turn presented me a picture perfect setting.

Back under the road, and queue the line to tour the house.  Yellows, and blues. Japanese wood block prints.  Utterly amazing.  Claude Monet died in 1926, and left the house to his son, who left it to the Academie des Beaux-Arts.   It had fallen into disrepair and required 10 years to get the gardens and house back to what it looked like at the time of Claude Monet.  The house was painstakingly returned to its former self.  The 231 Japanese woodblock prints are a study by themselves.  Hokusai, Hiroshige and others are offered up.  It was interesting to me to see what a impressionist painter chose to decorate his own home, and even though many 18th century painters were influenced by Japanese art, it was still a bit of a shock to see so many.

Back through the gift shop, and yes I did buy some very nice note cards adorned with Monet's work.  Back into the street, with time to wander.  I had lunch in the garden of the Musee d'art Americain.  Yes, it was still called that back then.  It was a defining moment for me, as it was here that I had my very first Kronenbourg 1664 biere, and I realized that yes, you can have lunch by yourself in a beautiful town, in this amazing setting and enjoy it.  

After lunch I again wandered through the small town, down the Rue Claude Monet towards the Eglise Sainte-Radegonde de Giverny, a quaint country church.  Monet's family grave is here, and others.  The crew of a RAF plane that was shot down in World War II are interred here.  There is a monument to the crew of 7 there as well. French graves are a work of art in themselves.  Graves are adorned with pictures of loved ones, mementos from their lives, and flowers are planted and maintained by family members and loved ones.  

Back on the bus, back to the station and on the train returning to Paris.  Late afternoon sun beating in the window, and a destination ahead.  Memories made in a beautiful town just west of Paris.  La vie est bonne, et je suis beni!

9 months to Paris, day 278. Chocolat, Chocolate, and other traitement spécial.

So, you think you want some candy?  The very first time I went to Paris was in 2000. I was armed with my copies of Frommer's and Fodor's books about Paris. Mind now, these were not digital copies but rather full fledged books. And heavy.  I read them front to back. Twice. Packed them in my suitcase, and I decided that I was going to be Parisian in my quest for chocolate, and other candies.

Having spent most of my life in the South Central Pennsylvania heartland, I was a certified, tried and true Hershey bar lover.  I mean who doesn't love Hershey bars?  Yummy, smooth milk chocolate still made in the small town 25 minutes north of where I live.

Still, I was intrigued by the thought of Parisian chocolates. We wandered a lot, that first trip.  And I cannot possibly imagine the amount of miles we walked since it was new and we were unsure of our destination.  The first chocolate shop we ended up at, was on Rue St. Honore.  Godiva.  A name I knew but cost prohibitive in the United States.  We looked in the windows at the beautiful array of chocolates, and marzipan.  We decided to give it a shot.  Since we were in a rather well known shopping area, English was spoken.  We talked a bit, sampled a few, and I ending up purchasing some chocolates for my husband.  

Things I learned that first trip.  There were no clothing shops that carried the size that my rather tall husband needed his clothing to be.  Tall sizes? Qu'est-ce que c'est? So I decided that food, liquor, and candy would be his souvenirs of my trip.  Godiva had liquor filled chocolates.  Not those nasty, waxy bottle shaped liquors that are sold in the US, but incredible truffle shaped chocolates, with real liquor in them.  They literally melted in your mouth, with a burst of Cognac, Cointreau, Whiskey, and Rhum.  I promptly bought a box of them.  

While I enjoyed the Godiva, I had read in my tour book, of a small chocolatier that was not to be missed.  La Maison du Chocolat.  They had 2 locations in Paris. I set my sights on the one at Rue Francois, smack dab in the Golden Triangle.  I had no idea just what the "Golden Triangle" meant. Again, this was my first foray into Paris.  I had no real perception of the layout of the city.  No Plan du Arrondissement, tucked into my pocket.  I think we walked in circles till we found the store.

We walked inside, glad to be out of the chilly air, and took a deep breath.  The smell of the chocolate in that store was just indescribable . I felt like I had wandered into Wonka land.  Surely there had to be a chocolate river somewhere in this small building, hidden from view, only to appeal to your sense of smell.  I remember the young lady as extremely helpful even if she did not speak fluent English. She allowed me to sample several pieces to make up my mind.  This was when they would still allow you to sample their "Pave du Faubourg', a incredible dark ganache.  I bought a box of them, it didn't matter what it cost,  I had to have this, and bring it home for Erik to try.  Small batch European chocolates are in a class by themselves.  Their tastes are complex, layered, with herbs, and spices. They linger on your senses long after you eat them.  They take you on a sensory trip to exotic places, a taste of South America, or the Caribbean. 

Since that first trip, I have ventured into other establishments for chocolate.  Godiva no longer sells the liquor filled chocolates, and since they opened a plant in Wyomissing, Pennsylvania, their appeal has been lost to me.  The taste has been "Americanized" and not at all like the kind you buy in Europe, made in Belgium.  I have tried La Mere de Famille's chocolates, and while they are still far better than those Hershey bars, I tend to only buy their butter salted caramels.  If you have never had one, and you love caramel, splurge and treat yourself.  I have purchased Galler chocolate from their Blvd. Haussman location, and their Chocolat du Chats as gifts for friends in the food hall at Galleries Lafayette.  I refuse to buy these chocolates any where but in France. Determined to keep them as a special treat.  On my next trip I have made Henri Le Roux in the 9th a destination.

But I am always, always drawn back to La Maison.  Maybe it is those incredible eclairs that I have purchased as my lunch, to be eaten on the steps of the Palais de Chaillot, across the Seine from the Eiffel Tower, or shared with a friend, barely making it a block past the shop. Maybe it is the cocoa dusted truffles, eaten late at night in a hotel room, after an incredible dinner.  Or maybe, it just sneaked up on me.  An unspoken tradition.

Heartache and Wonderings.

I am a thinker.  I wonder about things all the time.  When an event happens, I analyze it, I dissect it.  I look at it from this angle and that angle.  I wonder what has made things happen just this way. Sometimes I can come up with an answer that will satisfy my curiosity.  Other times, the answer just eludes me. La page est vierge.  

My daughter Jacquelyn, has been trying to have a baby for the past several years.  She has no trouble conceiving.  I actually said to her at one time, that she should consider herself lucky that she can at least do that.  I wonder how those words ever came out of my mouth.  She miscarries before 12 weeks.  I have scoured the internet looking at others stories about the same issue.  I have read article after article, wanting to find an answer for her. I read blogs. I read medical papers.  I do this to make myself feel better.

I am her mother.  Damn-it.  The fixer of all things.  I patched up her skinned knees, I hugged her, and dried her tears when people were unkind.  I should be able to fix this. I never had any problem with my pregnancies. I wonder why she does not have it that easy.  I wonder why I cannot find an answer to why this keeps happening. I want to take her childhood magic wand and wave it.  Make all of this go away, and keep the baby here. With her, and Mike.  With us.  

And I am angry, and sad.  I watch the news and see another baby thrown away.  I wonder again.  I wonder what would ever make a Mother do something so horrific.  I wonder where the fairness is.  I wonder if those people regret their actions. I wonder why would you not offer this child up to someone else to love?  What makes someone be so selfish as to not want somebody else to love their child? 

I wonder about Jacquie.  I wonder about her all the time.  I remember how when she was young, she was the most determined, and the most independent of my children.  I wonder if that was to prepare her for this stage of her life. I wonder how strong she must be when she tells me "it's okay, Momma" when I know it's not. I wonder if she breaks down when no one else it there to witness it.  I wonder how many pieces can a heart break into. I wonder if she will ever be okay. 

This was her last shot.  She and Mike decided this would be the last.  I wonder if that's a mistake.  I wonder how you could possibly want to try over and over for the same result.  I wonder why there is no miracle for them. I wonder how in the big scheme of the universe, that this was even considered.  I wonder how this has damaged their relationship.  I wonder if they will be alright.  I wonder how she will explain this, again, to his Mother. I wonder if his Mother will understand everything my child has done, to try to make this dream come true. I wonder if they will find a baby to adopt.  I wonder if it will be enough.  I wonder if she will ever have that little face to look up at her, and call her Momma.  I wonder if it will take all this pain away and make it okay, easier to bear.

I wonder when I look at Facebook.  I wonder how these people can complain about the little things their children do.  I wonder if when they complain about how miserable their pregnancy is, do they think about those who would love to have made it far enough to have a sore back, or swollen feet.  I wonder if they are thankful for that tiny miracle they carry. I wonder if they know how truly lucky they are.  I wonder about the others who have loved and lost like my daughter. I wonder how they make it through.

I wonder how I could have ever said you are lucky to be able to at the very least get pregnant. I wonder how I could have thought that would ever make it easier, just to say goodbye.  I wonder if she knows how much I love her.  I wonder, all the time,

9 months to Paris, day 282

There is a Basilique to the north of Paris.  The majority of people go to Paris and see the typical tourist items.  The Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Sacre Couer, Notre Dame, and Montmartre.   After all, these are the attractions most advertised, and recommended.  However, there is a Basilique in the Parisian Suburb of St. Denis.

This Basilique is on the end of metro line 13, to the north of Paris.  This large imposing edifice is home to 90%  of the Kings and Queens of France.  The area itself is blue collar, and not one which would bring the term tourist friendly to mind.  But, oh, once you come up from the Metro Station, though a small pedestrian area with the largest Carrefour market that I have ever seen, and you find this Gothic Church, any reservations you had about coming here are long gone.

You watch the short film in the visitor center, buy your self a ticket in the churchyard,  you push those enormous wooden doors open, and suddenly you are enveloped by this massive church that was built in the 12th Century.  You look towards the Nave, and the sun is streaming though stained glass windows, and even if there is not a religious bone in your body, you feel humbled.  The smell is a bit of incense that had been burned, a bit of dust, and the ever present Parisian smell of age.  You stand in awe.  There is no other way to say it, but awe.

You start to walk around.  You see Louis XVI and his Austrian wife, Marie Antoinette's crypt. You see Henri II and Catherine de Medici's. The sculpturing is of such magnitude that you can see the embroidery that would have been on Catherine's dress.  You stand there and wonder at the amount of time that it must have taken to produce this. Before you know it, you have spent several hours in this house.  You read of people that existed before your homeland was even a thought in anyone's mind. You wonder what these people have died from. You wonder at the unmarked tomb featuring the likeness of a beautiful woman.  Who was she? Why is there no mention of her name?

This is the Paris, the France that sucks me in.  The history buff in me wants to know about these people. I want to know how this church survived all these years, though two World Wars.  I want to know what the sculpture on the outside of the building means.  You walk a bit more, and resign yourself to what you have been able to see.  You leave, pushing that door open one more time. You walk back to the Metro Station, and wait for the train.  You arrive back in Paris, and you walk past Notre Dame, on the Ile de Cite.  The tourists are there in throngs.  The beggars are following them.  You push through the crowd and you want to scream to them, "You are in the wrong church!" "Come with me and let me show you where history is sleeping!"  But alas, you just walk on, over the Pont St. Louis, in the fading light of the day. Humbled.

9 months to Paris

So. Off again to the City of Light in November.  Saving and scraping, adding it to my Paris Fund.

People ask me, don't you want to go somewhere else? See other things?  It's complicated. My love affair with Paris. How do you explain to someone who has never experienced the taste of a buttery croissant, melting in your mouth?  The wind blowing your hair on Pont de la Tournelle? The buildings with the dust of history imbedded in them? The feeling that you have walked these streets for years and years?

I have been blessed with the ability to travel and experience so many different places. And while Strasbourg felt more like "home" to me, Paris fills my dreams.

For the next 283 days, I want to share Paris, and France with you. A bit of history, and a bit of everyday.  Paris?  She haunts me.