We knew it was cold this morning when we could barely see out the frost-covered upstairs windows.
We didn’t even have to wait for more white stuff to fall for a snow day to be declared. My daughter learned, upon waking at 7:01, that today’s two-hour school delay (due to single-digit temperatures and below zero wind chills) had been changed at the last minute to a cancellation. She was briefly euphoric. Then she fell back into a deep sleep for several hours. I guess that’s part of her job as a teenager. I would have done the same thing, had I ever had the gift of a snow day. They were pretty rare in Atlanta when I was growing up.
My daughter’s celebratory cheers roused Kiko, who refused to return to his bed. We were out walking earlier than I would have preferred. Our porch thermometer read 8 degrees. Now that’s chilly. Even my little snow dog got more than he bargained for. His choice is to walk in the road if possible, but once weather-treated, the mix of salt and ice stings his paw pads. Every few steps, he picks up a foot pitifully and attempts to limp along. The going is particularly tough when he’s favoring two paws on the same side. I brush the yucky stuff off with my mitten and try to steer him onto the fresh, untreated snow. Sometimes he gives up completely and sits down, looking forlorn. Then he stubbornly struggles his way back onto the messy road, where the process begins again. With all these delays, my toes (and wet fingers) don’t feel so good either. Snowy day dog walking at its least enjoyable, I must say.
The first snow of 2015 arrived here in Northern Virginia in the early hours of January 6. This final, twelfth day of Christmas marks the visit of the Magi, who followed a star to worship and present their rare gifts to the baby King.
You could say, then, that we had a somewhat delayed white Christmas.
Much to the disappointment and astonishment of my daughter and other local kids, school went on as usual, without even a delay. After our ten snow days last year, we’ve come to associate even the slightest rumor of a snowflake with a school cancellation. The snowfall was heavier than predicted, so our winding old roads saw many accidents and delays. The elementary school bus in our neighborhood was so long in coming, and reports of road conditions so bad, that parents were discussing simply letting the children stay home.
The dog walking, however, was fine. Kiko and his friend Ziggy the ridgeback were playfully exuberant. Kiko had to show Ziggy how fast he can run, stop and turn, repeatedly. The temperature was in the low 20s, and the snow was the light, powdery kind that doesn’t clump and irritate furry paws. Both dogs looked festive in their wispy Santa snow beards.
Because of this morning’s extensive traffic problems, the kids can probably rest assured that the next time snow is forecasted in our area, it will come with a school closing. My daughter, no doubt, is betting on it.
This Christmas Eve here in Virginia dawned gray and rainy, as it did along most of the east coast. According to the weather forecast, the day will remain gray and rainy. The heaviest rain is likely to coincide with our church’s live outdoor nativity. There may be thunderstorms.
At last year’s nativity, for the first time, our human participants, that motley, multi-aged crew of holy family, shepherds and kings, were joined by several four-legged friends. These included a burro, a sheep and a goat. Kiko found the burro quite fascinating. The burro ignored Kiko.
But best of all, there was Samson the camel. Samson surveyed the scene with a majestic air of intelligence and calm. He seemed to enjoy nuzzling his many appreciative fans. He and his mate Delilah, who had another engagement, live on a farm in rural Virginia. Samson’s handler appears with him in appropriately Biblical costume and beard.
We all hope bad weather won’t keep Samson away. I doubt it will; he’s a sturdy sort. Last year, he was unperturbed in the face of a frigid, persistent wind.
We know with absolute certainly that nothing can extinguish the true light of Christ that dawns in our dark world. It’s the flame that glows within us, if we let it, all our lives, illuminating our paths and those of others with whom we share the road.
I wrote about that light in the darkness several years ago in a Christmas Eve post. It continues to express my thoughts for the day, and it can be found here.
This Christmas Eve, may we feel the warmth of the miraculous light, and may we keep it burning.
Thank you to those who are fighting, or have fought, our country’s battles for freedom and righteousness. Words are inadequate, your sacrifices immeasurable. On this Veterans’ Day and every day, you have our deep gratitude.
My father outside the Casserne in Regensburg, ca. 1947. Daddy served in the U.S. occupational forces following World War II.
My Uncle Bill, on the right, ca. 1945. My mother’s brother served as a frogman in the Philippines during World War II.
It’s been three years since I began my little blog. Like the tenacious wild trumpet vine for which it’s named, it keeps on creeping on.
Wild Trumpet Vine is, for me, a convenient, inexpensive form of therapy. It’s my way of taking stock of life. It helps me keep my perspective, helps me see beyond the tedious, insistent busy-ness of daily living. It reminds me of what’s real, important, worth contemplating, worth sharing with family and friends, worth remembering, worth passing on to my daughter. Sometimes, as I sit and think and write, I discover something I should have known all along.
Occasionally, I write something that strikes a chord with another person, and I hear about it. I love it when that happens. Sometimes it’s from someone unexpected–perhaps a childhood friend I haven’t seen in thirty years or so. This is a real gift. It’s proof of the resiliency and elasticity of the ties that bind us in a web of community.
Many thanks to all my WTV readers! And many thanks for reaching out!
Arriving in London’s St. Pancras station after a twenty-five year absence, the first of many changes that had overtaken the city since then began to wash over me like a wave. In 1989, work on the Channel Tunnel, following decades of planning, discussion, and ongoing set-backs, was in its very early stages. Back then it was still called the “Chunnel,” and its progress, or lack thereof, was daily tabloid fodder. The media eagerly fanned the flames of unease about the possibility of a land link to the Continent opening up a deadly rabies pipeline. Enormous, rambling St. Pancras had sat largely derelict. With its brooding red-brick towers and aura of neglect, it could have been mistaken for a Victorian mental asylum. It was gratifying to see how beautifully the station had been restored and updated to accommodate the Eurostar line. Had it been in a U.S. city, it more likely would have met the wrecking ball than renovation.
Emerging onto the streets of London, a less welcome transformation confronted me. The classic, classy black cabs–those timeless Hackney carriages–where were they? I knew they still existed, in a somewhat updated form, and in colors other than black. But the streets outside the station swarmed with garish purple and orange minivans. We could have been in Cleveland. We settled for one such vehicle to take us to our hotel on Grosvenor Square. Oh well.
One thing that had not changed, however, was the near-anarchic state of London’s traffic, which tends to be particularly alarming upon first arriving. Cars, motorcycles, bicycles and pedestrians are constantly darting aggressively from unexpected directions, especially at round-abouts. About half the vehicles appear to be confused by the concept of left-side driving. Our driver was frequently outraged at the ignorance and rudeness of others on the road. Some things, then, never change. In comparison, Paris’s streets were those of a sleepy backwater.
As we made our way through the chaotic congestion, in sudden fits and stops, I caught a glimpse of the new British Library next door to St. Pancras. When I left the U.K, it had been no more than a hazy, perhaps-some-day project. Most of my daily dissertation research had taken place in the manuscript room of the old library, then part of the British Museum on Great Russell Street. Less often, I worked under the vast grand dome of the historic main reading room. The new facility, perhaps a model of sleek twenty-first century efficiency, struck me as lacking in charm.
But it didn’t matter. It’s highly unlikely that I’ll ever turn the brightly painted and gilded pages of a fourteenth-century Apocalypse again, in the new library or elsewhere. I had abandoned my academic ties, let all those bridges quietly smolder away to ashes. I’d come to the conclusion, as I was finishing my dissertation, that a career in college teaching wasn’t for me. That was fortunate, since jobs in my field were extremely rare. I have no regrets about the course my life has taken. Do I? No, I don’t.
But I do miss the chance to page through those amazing medieval books, written and illustrated by hand. Their quirky images, typically more humorous than frightening, despite the accompanying text of Revelations: the dragons that resemble perky, pointy-eared dogs sitting for treats (in my mind, now, I see Kiko in every one), and the New Jerusalem descending from heaven, looking like a Gothic princess’s dream doll house. I can point out some of the books to my daughter, although they’ll have to remain safely inside their hermetically sealed glass display cases. See this one? I studied it. I had it in front of me for an entire week. It was removed from display so I could examine it! I think she’d be impressed. Someday, I’ll show her. But probably not on this trip.
My friend Nancy and I attempt attitude-filled poses at the Cité Universitaire, July 1982.
I had not been back to the Cité Universitaire since I lived there that summer thirty-two years ago. (See That French Connection, April 2014.) I hadn’t expected to return on this trip. I thought it would hold minimal interest for my husband and daughter. But on our first day in Paris, a Saturday during spring break, we found ourselves engulfed in crowds. The area in front of Notre-Dame Cathedral was a roiling sea of humanity. The line for the Sainte-Chapelle stretched for blocks. We expected Palm Sunday at all the expected sites to be equally busy. This factor may have persuaded H and D that we should visit the Cité, located in an unfashionable area at the bottom of the Paris map. Tourists would certainly not be flocking there.
I had remembered the Cité as being far removed from the city center. I was surprised to see that it was only three stops from Luxembourg on the RER. I was also surprised to see the complex looking almost exactly as I recalled it, but spruced up and considerably less seedy. It wasn’t exactly run-down in 1982. Perhaps indifferently maintained is a good way to describe it. The grounds were wild and weedy, closer to messy than pristine. Litter was common. This past April, the Cité was looking comparatively fresh, fit and clean. The plantings were lush and well-tended. The buildings were grander and more imposing than I had remembered. And there were fewer shady characters skulking about.
In this view of the back of the Fondation des Etats-Unis from July 1982, I’m the red blotch on the balcony, fifth window from left, one floor from the top.
My little room was perfectly adequate, and I loved my balcony that looked out onto the big evergreen tree, the then-scruffy garden, and the Mexico building. On the top floor were much sought-after artists’ lofts, with high ceilings and skylights.
The Fondation, April 2014.
In the photo above, the open balcony door at the right suggests that the current resident was in my old room. The same red-orange draperies adorn the windows. The tall tree still flourishes in the courtyard.
July 1982: I do laundry in my room. Trying, and succeeding, in looking pitiful.
Although the institutional décor left something to be desired, I enjoyed that humble, well-worn room. In addition to the vinyl-covered armchair, there was a decent bed, desk, and a reading lamp with a shade covered in peeling contact paper. The open balcony doors provided all the air conditioning needed. Not a single mosquito, gnat or fly ever flew in. Toilet cubicles and showers were down the hall, of course. There was no adjusting the water pressure or its temperature in the shower. You pushed a button, which triggered a quick burst of water that lasted about three minutes. Luckily, the button could be pressed multiple times, or I never could have rinsed the shampoo from my hair. The atmosphere was classic Paris student.
The sight of those bare shelves in that room reminds me of how lightly and simply I traveled that summer. Some aspirin, soap, toothbrush, a little make-up, some paper, pens and pencils, a book or too. My address book and airmail envelopes for letters to the States. I did bring a travel iron, at my mother’s insistence, which I don’t think I ever used. Its adapter was nearly as large as the iron. No cell phone, iPod, iPad, no laptop. From the looks of the trash bin at my feet, I had recently polished off two boxes of French crackers. My friends and I snacked on packaged melba toast-like crisps and La Vache qui Rit cheese. For further between-meal sustenance, I had brought a large supply of grape Tangy Taffy from home.
Thirty-two years later, as I stood there in the garden behind the building, my husband and daughter by my side, looking up at the open door to my old room, the memories swirled around me. Some were vivid, others were just out of reach, like dreams upon waking. The experience was unsettling. I understood then why some prefer never to return to such places. As for me, though, I’ll go back. Those chances to glimpse the present through the eyes of the past, and vice-versa–they add a richness to life that I want to savor. Even if there may be bitter along with the sweet.
View of the Pantheon from the Luxembourg Gardens, July 1982.
From the Pantheon and our hotel, it’s an easy walk down rue Soufflot to the grand gated entrance to the Luxembourg Gardens, a green oasis in the heart of Paris’s streets of stone and brick. The name is proof that the French don’t forget their history. In the early seventeenth century, the land was owned by the Duke of Luxembourg. The palace and gardens owe their existence to Marie de’ Medici. After the assassination of her husband, Henry IV in 1610, the Italian-born Queen needed a change of scenery and a move from the Louvre. She bought the land in 1612 and commissioned a palace and gardens inspired by her memories of Florence’s Pitti Palace and Boboli Gardens.
The circular lawn panel.
The fifty-five-acre park features expanses of perfectly manicured lawn, bordered by allés of carefully tended horse-chestnut trees and bright flowers that change with the seasons. Many statues accent the greenery.
The Italian Renaissance-style Palace was completed in 1627. It now houses the French Senate.
The central pavilion of the Palace.
A popular spot in the park is the eight-sided pond known as the Grand Bassin. While children sail sturdy rental boats, parents may relax in the rows of green garden chairs.
Pelouse interdite.
Lawns are scarce in Paris and highly prized. Early on during my Parisian student summer, our group was picnicking in a park. We noticed an approaching gendarme, gesticulating enthusiastically. We thought he was happy to see us. Soon it became evident that we had mistaken his exasperation for overt friendliness. We learned then that the pelouse is typically interdit. In the Luxembourg Gardens, some of the lawns are preserved by alternating pedestrian access. While the above panel was off limits, a nearby one was populated by picnickers and sun-seekers.
Our daughter claims a perch between French Queen and a local child.
The Medici Fountain dates from the time of the Palace.
One of my favorite spots in the city is the Gardens’ Medici Fountain. The strangely beautiful, grotto-like structure reminds me of something I’d hope to see in a dream. It stands at the end of a short allée of chestnut trees. Even on the hottest summer days, by the fountain it’s cool and quiet in the welcome shade.
You take some of this park with you when you go. Your shoes will be coated with a tell-tale layer of fine white dust.
Many significant Paris attractions were within easy reach of our small hotel by the Pantheon. Typically, we’d begin our excursions by heading down rue Soufflot. One afternoon during our visit twelve years ago, my husband and I took an opposite route. For us, and perhaps for the typical tourist, it was the road less traveled. We followed the narrow streets behind the Pantheon, down the hill for several blocks, to emerge onto a lively little square. The upper stories of the old buildings leaned in all around, as though in intimate discussion. We had stumbled upon La Place de la Contrescarpe.
La Place de la Contrescarpe, seen from our entry point on rue de l’Estrapade.
It was a warm day in May, and we quickly settled into an inviting outdoor table at La Contrescarpe, one of several cafés bordering the square. We sipped our beers and watched locals running errands and socializing. The school day had recently ended, and the square was abuzz with activity and the musical sounds of French conversation. Teenagers from nearby lycées headed to the cafés or chatted by the fountain in the leafy center of the square. Parents and younger children paused for gelato, pastries and baguettes at the many small shops.
La Contrescarpe.
Because we discovered the square near the end of our trip, we didn’t get a chance to return. When we discussed plans for this visit, my husband and I agreed that we should go early and often to our favorite little Place. On our first day back in Paris last month, after leaving our bags at the hotel, we set off down the familiar streets for lunch at the café.
The square was just as we had remembered it, just as authentically French, still relatively untrodden by throngs of international tourists. Because the weather was sunny but chilly, we took an outside table within reach of an overhead heater. Thanks to these, April in Paris is more comfortable than ever. H and I ordered our celebratory “cinquantes,” 50-cl draft beers that we associate with an unhurried afternoon in France. Our daughter sampled her first Croque Monsieur. Or did she have the Croque Madame, topped with a fried egg? One of those, which she heartily enjoyed, along with her Orangina. The food was tasty, and the service was efficient and polite. The waiter understood our French without any apparent trouble. What’s more, he continued to address us in French, something we’ve learned to take as a compliment. It was quite the pleasure to be back.
La Contrescarpe became our local café, our destination for rest and refreshment after hours of sightseeing. It was a prime spot for viewing Parisian street theatre, which continued unabated. Several featured players, quirky character actors, as it were, returned again and again. Occasionally, when they became overly boisterous, they were courteously but firmly shooed away by the café staff. We enjoyed the feeling of being part of the scene.
View of La Place de la Contrescarpe from our outdoor café table.
I didn’t realize until after we had returned home that the Contrescarpe area, traditionally a working class district, has a rich historical association with writers. Rabelais frequented the area’s taverns. Balzac set much of Le Pere Goriot in the neighborhood. Victor Hugo’s Jean Valjean haunted its streets in Les Miserables. James Joyce wrote Ulysees there. George Orwell lived and worked in the neighborhood.
Its most evocative literary ties, however, may be with Hemingway. Just steps from the Place, and within sight of our table at La Contrescarpe, is the apartment at 74 rue Cardinal Lemoine, where he and his first wife lived in cheerful poetic poverty. On the opening page of A Moveable Feast, Hemingway writes how “the cold wind would strip the leaves from the trees in the Place Contrescarpe.” He rented a small garret room for writing around the corner on rue Descartes, in the same building where the poet Verlaine died in 1896.
I had generally avoided reading Hemingway because I wasn’t drawn to tales of bullfighting, fishing, boxing, or war. But A Moveable Feast, a memoir of his early years as a writer in Paris during the 1920s, had been on my to-read list seemingly forever. About two years ago, I read it. Hemingway’s Paris, so vividly and often comically evoked, was the Latin Quarter. “My” Paris. I remember appreciating the many references to my favorite spots, to the names of streets I traversed as a student. Like Hemingway, my friends and I were always on the lookout for cheap places to eat and drink. We were familiar with his Paris, of great beauty, bare-bones accommodations and inconvenient plumbing.
But the repeated mentions of La Place Contrescarpe, I’m disappointed to say, rang no bell of recognition. I recall thinking the unusual name sounded vaguely familiar, but I didn’t realize Hemingway’s first Paris home was immediately off that very same square H and I had enjoyed so much. I had no idea that as we sat at our favorite café table, we were facing the writer’s former “flat at the top of the hill.”
Hemingway avoided the café that adjoins the house he lived in. Then known as the Café des Amateurs, he described it as “the cesspool of the rue Mouffetard,” “a sad, evilly run café where the drunkards of the quarter crowded together.” While we didn’t sample the current café in that location, preferring our post across the street, it looked perfectly pleasant, neither sad nor evil. Obviously times change. I can’t help but be relieved, however, that it wasn’t La Contrescarpe or a previous incarnation that received such a bad review. I like to think there were spring evenings when Hemingway, happy after a successful day of writing, joined his wife Hadley at an outdoor table there on the Place de la Contrescarpe. Should he have appeared during our visit, “Midnight in Paris” style, my family and I would have been glad to clink glasses with him in a contented “Salut.” I know he would appreciate the cinquante as much as H and I did.
Our favorite table at La Contrescarpe, with a view toward rue Cardinal Lemoine. The former Café des Amateurs is now the Café des Arts.
A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.
