Category Archives: Family

Art and Architecture, Family, Parenthood, Travel

Back to the Cité Universitaire, Part IV (France with Husband and Parents)

June 18, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

Standing in the garden of the Cité Universitaire this past April, below the room that served as home during my college summer in Paris, I felt like I was in a time warp with tunnel vision. I could reflect on successive Paris life layers at once, one atop another. Today’s post concerns a time thirteen years after my travels in France as a grad student. It’s 2002. For the first time, I’m in France and I’m not a student. It feels strange. The responsibilities of adulthood have caught up with me. I’m a wife and mother, here in the city with my husband and my parents. We’ve left our nearly three year old daughter at home with H’s parents.

It had long been a goal of mine to accompany my parents to France. During my year in England, we had traveled together for three weeks, but we hadn’t yet done France. In the spirit of parental sacrifice, Mama and Daddy had repeatedly stayed home and paid, or helped pay my way. We had always said Sometime, we’ll all go. That sometime seemed to have arrived in 2002. We were all healthy and ambulatory. H, like me, was eager to return to France. Fourteen years had passed since his semester in Rennes. The overlap in the timing of our European student adventures had provided us with a point of commonality that may have been crucial in drawing us together initially. (See That French Connection, April 2014.) Ever the dutiful son-in-law, H didn’t complain about traveling with his wife’s parents, or sharing the tour-guide obligations.

Our daughter was old enough to understand that we weren’t leaving her for good. H’s parents were willing and able to care for her. Very briefly, we considered taking D with us. But I could see how the trip would unfold. She’d be continually preoccupied with something that seemed totally inconsequential to adult eyes. Under the fascinating spell of fallen leaves in the dirt, she’d be oblivious to the historic splendor all around her. My entreaties would go unheard: Look up, sweetie! Look at the beautiful towers. See those funny creatures way up high? Those are gargoyles. My mother would miss most of the sights she’d anticipated for so long. In an effort to make the trip proceed more smoothly for the rest of us, she’d devote her attention to placating her granddaughter. I’d feel guilty. We’d all be testy. Best to leave our toddler with Grandma and Grandpa at home, where she could enjoy, unimpeded, the pleasures of domestic leaves and dirt.

0243 — On our first day in France, May 2002: H and my parents at a crêperie near Notre-Dame.

My objectives for travel abroad have varied according to the stages of my life. As a student wearing the rose-colored glasses of youth and freedom, the realm of possibility was vast. Who knew what adventures, what fulfillments of fantasy lay ahead? Caprice, romance, astounding coincidence–while I didn’t take such winged creatures as my due, I also didn’t rule them out entirely. Who’s to say absolutely that I would not meet a sensitive, handsome young man as we admired the same obscure, underappreciated painting in the Louvre? Was it utterly impossible that he’d be involved in the thoughtful restoration of his family’s ancient and immense château? That my fresh American sensibility would invigorate him like a breath of fresh air? That we’d fall in love and live happily ever after among the rose-blanketed walls of honey-colored stone? That the surrounding village would be peopled by delightfully eccentric and charming characters, who would hold us particularly dear as Lord and Lady of the Manor? Such a scenario was clichéd, antiquated and extremely unlikely. But it wasn’t entirely impossible. After all, I was young. Anything was possible. And I’d experienced the unlikely before.

On this trip, it’s a different story. As a no longer young adult traveling with my husband and parents, my goals are considerably more modest and down-to-earth. I’m looking forward to seeing my parents appreciating my favorite French sights, and to comparing student experiences with my husband. I’m hoping for beautiful scenery, comfort, the avoidance of injury, illness and mishap. While my parents are hardly frail or weak, they are, obviously, even less young than I. A successful visit will be free of emergency room visits, crippling accidents, assaults and major transportation breakdowns. It will mean not losing Mama or Daddy temporarily or permanently on the Metro. Perhaps most importantly, it means an uneventful return that brings us back home safely to our little daughter.

Without incident, we check off the sights my mother the history buff had been waiting years to experience: Notre-Dame, the Sainte-Chapelle, the Louvre, Versailles, the Arc de Triomphe. (Daddy is sunnily content to go wherever she, H or I suggest.) We avoid misadventure but find ourselves on its heels several times, as when we stumble upon the aftermath of a purse-snatching and the apprehension of the thief. My parents are hardy, adaptable, unfussy travelers. They don’t even grumble when, after wandering the Versailles gardens and Marie Antoinette’s Petit Hameau, we miss the last passenger trolley and have no option but to walk for what seems like many miles. We enjoy several pleasant days in Paris before we head to the Loire Valley. Mama wants to see some châteaux.

We take the TGV train to Tours, where we rent a car. Although in 1988, Daddy drove Mama and me swiftly and confidently along Britain’s winding roads, this time he’s happy to yield the wheel to H. Our home base in the Loire Valley will be the picturesque little town of Amboise. The royal Château d’Amboise, a multi-turreted castle worthy of Sleeping Beauty, is the centerpiece of the town. It’s a short, lovely walk to the Château du Clos Lucé, where Leonardo da Vinci, as artist and inventor in residence and buddy to Francois I, spent his final years. The Châteaux of Chenonceau and Azay-le-Rideau are nearby.

00423 — On the grounds of the Château d’Amboise is the 15th-Century Chapel of Saint-Hubert, said to house the remains of Leonardo.

00515 — The town of Amboise seen from the Château ramparts.

Also within an easy walk from the center of Amboise are several so-called troglodyte homes built into the cliffs of soft tufa, a kind of limestone. The stone, evidence of a prehistoric sea that once covered the area, was quarried for local building. The resulting caves offered unique housing opportunities. Much sought-after, they’re typically equipped with most modern conveniences and need no heat or air conditioning.

From Amboise, we drive west to Rennes. Although it’s familiar territory for my husband, I’ve never been here. As we walk through the old town and the University section, he recalls his student days. I’d heard the stories, now I can experience the setting first-hand. He points out the buildings where his classes met, the cafés, parks and shops he frequented. As he shows me the route he took to school, I can see him riding through town on his moped, blonde curls visible under the helmet. Thankfully, he was wearing that helmet when a truck hit him one morning. Were it not for that helmet, it’s doubtful we’d be standing here together.

00420 — In old town Rennes, a pizza delivery cyclist loads up.

Although H had been in sporadic contact with his French host family since he stayed with them in 1988, he hadn’t told them our travel plans. Our time would be short, and a visit could be awkward since my parents speak no French. But on the road to Mont Saint-Michel, H realizes that we’re tracing his old route to town. Their home is so close. Seems like we almost have to drive by. H has no trouble spotting the house. As though on cue, his French parents are walking out the front door. They recognize H immediately, after fourteen years and no prior notice of his arrival. Monsieur and Madame Treguier welcome us warmly. They are merrily insistent that we return for dinner that evening. We find ourselves saying yes. Who knows when we’ll be back? My parents urge us to go. They’re invited, as well, but they’ll stick with dinner at the hotel. That’s probably a good decision, since Daddy tends to find any long conversation tedious, even if it’s in his own language.

That night, after a beautiful day with my parents at Mont Saint-Michel, H and I are treated to what feels like a homecoming meal. The Treguiers’ younger daughter lives in town and is able to join us. Of course she’s a grown woman now, but H remembers her as a little girl. Madame Treguier brings forth dish after delectable dish, seemingly effortlessly from her tiny kitchen, beginning with a dramatically heaping platter of bright red langoustines. I really don’t know how she does it. For H and me, it takes all our collective brain power to speak sustained, passable French for several hours. The constantly flowing wine helps, until it hinders, and we have to resort to covering our glasses with our hands. The Treguiers are as generous with their wine as H had remembered. In fact, as soon as we arrived, Monsieur Treguier had proudly showed us his brand new wine storage area, his “cave,” built under the garage.

It’s a wonderful, celebratory evening. I get to peel back the layers of my husband’s life, just as I have my own. I see him as his host family remembers, as a very green, very American college boy. They recall fondly that when he first arrived, they secretly despaired. Would they ever be able to communicate with him? He had had only one year of college French, and his language skills were rudimentary. Fortunately, he showed remarkably swift improvement, and his charm was immune to the language barrier. Wow, I thought. With many more years of French study behind me, I’d lacked the courage to stay in a French household during my Paris summer.

Seeing H through the eyes of the Treguier family brings to light one of the traits I most admire about him: his quiet confidence. Whatever the challenge, if he considers it worthwhile, he’s up for it. Immerse himself in a totally French-speaking environment with minimal skills? He’ll manage it. Drive an enormous delivery truck through all the boroughs of New York City? Sure. Fix the car, any car? Easy. Repair the hole in the ceiling? Yes. Master windsurfing on his own? He’s done it. Teach his daughter to ski? Of course. Show her a better approach to that algebra problem? Certainly. Yet he’s never showy or arrogant. He has no ancestral château, but what a guy. Indeed, what a great guy. I can tell that the Treguiers agree.

That night in Rennes, the Treguiers’ deep affection for my husband is apparent. What’s more, they extend their high regard and good will graciously to me, and even to our daughter, back at home. They urge us to return in the near future, to bring her and spend more time with them. As we say our goodbyes, it’s like leaving a family reunion in some best of all possible worlds. It’s one of those times when the bonds of true friendship are revealed at their strong, resilient best, stretching across miles, years, languages and cultures.

00234 — Mont Saint-Michel in Normandy, one of my favorite spots in France. (See European Vacation ’75: Part II: Mont Saint-Michel, April 2013.)

Community, Family, Friendship, Travel

Back to the Cité Universitaire, Part I

May 21, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

00324 — 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.

001211 — 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.

Europe2014099 — 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.

00417 — 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.

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Parenthood, Travel

Paris: The Luxembourg Gardens

May 19, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

paris81 — 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.

Europe2014062 — 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.

Europe2014057 — The Italian Renaissance-style Palace was completed in 1627. It now houses the French Senate.

Europe2014504 — The central pavilion of the Palace.

Europe20140581 — 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.

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.

Europe2014066 — Our daughter claims a perch between French Queen and a local child.

Europe2014498 — 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.

Europe2014075 — 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.

025 — My father walking along a Garden path, May 2002.

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Parenthood, Travel

Paris: La Place de la Contrescarpe

May 8, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

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.

Europe 2014 372 — 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.

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.

Europe20142721 — 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.

Europe2014276 — Our favorite table at La Contrescarpe, with a view toward rue Cardinal Lemoine. The former Café des Amateurs is now the Café des Arts.

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Friendship, Travel

Back to Paris: In the Latin Quarter

May 2, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

For me, one of the great pleasures of travel is returning to a well-loved place. “My” Paris is the Latin Quarter I came to know as a college student. That summer, on weekday mornings, two friends and I would take the RER train from Cité Universitaire to the Luxembourg stop. We’d emerge into the lively bustle of Paris to that unique smell: car exhaust, of a distinctly Parisian type, mingled with the freshness of the new day. We’d walk past the elegant Luxembourg Gardens and the big corner cafés, glimpse the Panthéon at the end of rue Soufflot, and continue down the Boulevard Saint-Michel for a couple of blocks to the Sorbonne, where we had our classes. We’d pass a restaurant where a waiter, setting up his tables, would blow us a kiss and make the beating heart gesture. That kind of chivalric appreciation could brighten even a dismal day. And that summer, dismal days were few.

August 1982: Toward the end of our Paris summer, my friends and I posed for photos around the Latin Quarter, trying our best to look cool. Above, Joanne and I on rue Soufflot, with the Pantheon in the background.

April 2014: My daughter and I try to recreate the photo. The dome of the Panthéon is currently undergoing a massive re-stabilization.

Each time I’ve returned since then to Paris, the Latin Quarter has been home base. With each visit, I discover more to love. Twice now H and I have stayed at the same hotel immediately across from the Panthéon. This area is in the heart of historic Paris, with its roots in the Roman era, yet it’s a bit removed from tourist circuits. While the big tour buses swing past the Panthéon, on the sidewalks you’re likely to pass more actual Parisians than foreign sightseers. Many Americans are apparently unaware that there is a Panthéon in Paris. A typical comment is “I thought that was in Italy.” For the record, it’s a grand neoclassical building inspired by the classical Pantheon in Rome and situated on a hill known as the Montagne Sainte Geneviève. Begun as a Roman Catholic church dedicated to Geneviève, the patron saint of Paris, it was finished during the Revolution as a humanistic temple honoring the great men of France. It may look familiar to Americans because its majestic dome and portico were architectural sources for our U.S. capitol.

Surrounding the Panthéon on its Place, or square, are elegant buildings that function as centers for civic and student life. There is the Mairie, or Town Hall, of the fifth arrondissement, where locals marry, vote, attend concerts, meetings and special events. Opposite the Mairie is the University of Paris Law School. Another neighbor is the Bibliothèque Sainte Geneviève. This library’s arched reading room appears in many Art 101 textbooks because of its early use of structural cast iron. Near the library is the beautiful Church of Saint-Étienne-du-Mont, dating from the thirteenth through sixteenth centuries. Behind the Panthéon sprawls the historic Lycée Henri IV, which incorporates buildings from the medieval Abbey of Sainte Geneviève. Below are some of my favorite views in the old neighborhood I adore.

May 2002: View from our hotel of the Place du Pantheon. From left, the Law School, the Bibliothèque Sainte Geneviève, and the portico of the Panthéon.

April 2014: View from in front of the Panthéon looking down rue Soufflot toward the Luxembourg Gardens and the Eiffel Tower. The colossal bronze statue of a portly nude man was installed in January. A work by the Chinese artist Hong-Biao Shen and entitled Mongolian(Standing Position), it immediately became a popular photo-op destination.

The typical Paris street sign offers explanatory information.

April 2014: the entrance foyer of the Mairie.

In the light of sunset this past April, the buildings of rue Soufflot glow coppery gold.

Community, Family, Friendship, Travel

That French Connection

April 24, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

00227 — At the gates of the Cité Universitaire, July 1982.

As I’ve mentioned, I was lucky to receive an early formative introduction to France, its language and culture, thanks to a remarkably dedicated middle school teacher. See Vacation ’75: Part I: Paris, March 2013. Mrs. Correll emphasized the value of college study abroad, and I took her at her word. The summer after my junior year at UGA, I headed to Paris. Courses were held in the hallowed halls of the Sorbonne, where Mrs. Correll had received her Master’s degree. We had the option of living with a Parisian family, but I found the prospect of total immersion in French too daunting. My residence that summer was a dormitory at the Cité Universitaire, a complex for visiting international students.

0123 — Aren’t I original? With the gargoyles of Notre-Dame, July 1982.

My husband came to love France during his undergrad years at Union College in Schenectady, New York, a small liberal arts college that aims to turn out well-rounded students. Scientists as well as artists are encouraged to spend time in foreign study. H majored in mechanical and aerospace engineering, but he also studied French. He lived with a French family during a semester in Rennes, and before the program began, he and a buddy meandered through Europe by train. I distinctly remember telling a friend about H soon after we’d met as grad students, “He’s an engineer, but he speaks French!” My friend agreed that this was quite unusual. Maybe things have changed, but in the early 90s, the typical Princeton Ph.D. who toiled in the labs of the E-Quad did not speak French, unless it happened to be a native language.

00416 — H at the Loire Valley Chateau of Chenonceau, October 1, 1988.

As I look back, I see that our mutual interest in French was a primary factor in bringing my husband and me together. Now, after nearly nineteen years of marriage, we share so much: a home, a church, fundamental values, a daughter, family, friends, a dog and a turtle. But we began as two strangers with very little in common. When we met at that grad college barbeque, he was just beginning his engineering courses at Princeton and his research into “the thermal decomposition of nitrous oxide.” I was writing my dissertation on medieval illuminated manuscripts, having finished my coursework and research abroad. My funding had run out, and I was working as a professor’s assistant in Intro to Modern Art. Our interests, on the surface, could hardly have been more different. And then there was the age difference. He was a dewy twenty-two. I was about to turn twenty-nine. Those seven years appeared to stretch like an unbridgeable river. No betting person would have put money on our going on a second date. Maybe not even a first.

But there was that French connection. We couldn’t discuss manuscript illumination or the burning of nitrous oxide for very long, that’s for sure. But we could talk for hours about France and our experiences there. Did that French link make him think twice about me? Consider that I might not be a hopelessly artsy, aging pseudo-bohemian? Was it the point that convinced me of his unexpected depth, of some wisdom beyond his years?

French was, and still is, a fertile area of common ground between my husband and me. While neither of us makes any claim of fluency or expertise, our appreciation for the country and the language is genuine and heartfelt. We don’t sit around and speak French and think how sophisticated we are, or how cool we sound. We know we don’t sound particularly cool. But we find humor in what we consider the quirks and oddities of the French language. For example, to our American-trained ears, the word pneu (tire), sounds silly. And we find it amusing that a stick to stir coffee is called, rather formidably, “un agitateur.” But then we reconsider and agree that the word is decisive and definitive, unlike our American terms. (Is it coffee stir, or coffee stirrer, or stir stick? I really don’t know.) The French seem to have a specific word for everything, and we respect and admire them for that.

Our mishaps in speaking are a source of many laughs. A favorite story is from H’s student days in Rennes. He’d bought a little second-hand moped to take him from his family’s house into the center of the city. One night after late partying he locked it up near the university and got a ride back with friends. The next day it was gone. He reported the missing moped to the police, saying “Quelqu’un a violé ma mobilette.” He was asked to repeat his story to officer after officer, each of whom maintained a strenuously serious expression. H was pleased that his report was being received with impressive gravity, certain that swift action would be taken to retrieve his trusty vehicle. Only later did he realize he’d been saying that his moped had been violated, rather than stolen (volé).

00510 — H with friends at Chenonceau, 1988.

H and I first traveled to France together in the spring of 2002, with my parents. They had funded most of my several visits but had never set foot in France themselves. We thought about taking our daughter along. She wasn’t yet three. We didn’t consider it very long, since H’s parents were willing to take care of her. We’d wait until she was old enough to appreciate the wonder of being in a foreign country.

Then, as they tend to do, the years zipped by with lightning speed. We realized we were in danger of waiting too long for our family trip to France. Our daughter’s idea of the perfect holiday is no longer hanging around with her parents, even if it does happen to be in an exotic locale. And before long, she would be a young woman in college, no longer our captive child.

This past spring break, the three of us flew to Paris.

Community, Family, Friendship, Parenthood

Hooray, We’re Off to See Our Dentist!

April 4, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

My recent trip to Atlanta reminded me how fortunate I am to have parents who refrain from using guilt as a coercive tactic. When I went to see them, it wasn’t in response to complaints about my not having been there in ages (although that would have been true–I hadn’t come to Atlanta since the previous summer). My parents eagerly anticipate seeing me, my husband and daughter, but they don’t want us to feel obligated to visit. While we’re with them, they want us to feel like we’re on vacation. They cook our favorite meals and treat us to dinners out. They encourage us to rest, take it easy, or go out and do something fun.

Even during this visit, Mama would say routinely after a meal, “Now, I’ll clean up. You go relax. You have to clean up every night.” Daddy, recovering from surgery, was determined to carry my suitcase up the back stairs. It was hard to persuade my parents to let me lift a finger around the house. Mama finally thought of a few small tasks that involved a ladder. Even then, it was all I could do to keep Daddy from pushing past me and scampering up to the top. Last year, I would have let him, but the dent in his forehead from a fall in the hospital told me I’d better not.

Mama had only one real request, and even then she suggested it with no pressure. She had asked me earlier if I would mind driving them “out to see John.” John is their dentist, and they love him. My parents never dread a dental visit, as many people do. For them, it’s a social occasion with the added benefit of cleaner, better teeth. They look forward to seeing John. They’ve known him since he was sixteen. He was my first boyfriend.

The summer before our junior year, John appeared at a church youth group function with a friend. He was charming, witty and somewhat sophisticated. All the girls in MYF sat up and took notice. I expected he’d soon be cuddling in the church van with one of several girls I remember, perhaps inaccurately and unfairly, as serial boyfriend collectors. Any cute new guy was likely to pair up with one of them. But this boy liked me.

John seemed to think more than most boys his age, and he had varied interests. He played basketball but also read books, had a talent for art, and could talk about ideas without sounding dull or pompous. When I said I hated all 70s rock music, he brought over his Queen albums. I played Night at the Opera and Day at the Races over and over on my cheap stereo, and I still love Queen. I think I saw my first foreign film, Cousin Cousine, with him. He was no highbrow; we also saw Kentucky Fried Movie and The Spy Who Loved Me. We found out Elvis had died when we stopped by Baskin-Robbins after playing tennis at the crumbly old court behind Rock Springs Presbyterian Church. Even back then, John, like the elf in Rudolf, knew he wanted to be a dentist.

We were a couple for only a few months, but the timing was significant. Just before I met John, I’d had a few tense dates with a boy who was, to use a classic crossword puzzle word, a cad. He was dashing and handsome but as shallow as a driveway puddle after a quick summer storm. Thanks to John, I discovered early on that I didn’t need to waste my time with boys who were clearly not right for me. And I learned there was no truth to the adage that good guys have to be boring.

Our reasons for breaking up are hazy now. It probably had something to do with the fact that we were both sixteen and had most of our lives ahead of us. But we remained friends, and we were still in regular contact when John’s father suddenly got a new job that required the family to relocate to Charleston, West Virginia. It was February, in the middle of the school year, with less than two weeks left in the quarter. John moved in with my family so he could finish up schoolwork and take exams. He settled into the upstairs room off the attic. Because he attended a different school than I did, Daddy let John borrow the station wagon, while he took the bus to work. He made John’s lunch every day. I don’t think he really needed clothes, but Daddy bought him Levi’s at Charlie’s Trading Post, and my mother made him a shirt. John never lost his sense of humor even in the midst of his melancholy over the impending move. Mama understood and sympathized, and when John had trouble sleeping, the two of them sat up late together talking.

00162 — February 1978: John with me, Rebecca and Katie. My dog Popi looms in the foreground.

My parents became John’s patients after the retirement of our long-term family dentist, who was also a good friend. That was years ago, and they have followed John as his practice has moved farther away. Reaching his office now requires a twenty-five mile drive on I-85, an increasingly dicey adventure for my parents. On their last visit, they got lost when Daddy took an earlier exit. This was one of the incidents that prompted my husband to decide we had to set my parents up with a GPS system, as well as the reason Mama asked if I’d mind driving. Friends have wondered why they don’t find a dentist with a nearby practice. The answer is simple. That dentist wouldn’t be John.

00322 — John and I pose as ill-equipped runaways for our photographer friend Katie. With our similarly feathered hair, we were true children of the 70s.

My parents and I survived the drive to John’s office. I managed to follow the GPS directions despite Daddy’s persistent efforts to get me to take the earlier exit. Shortly after we arrived, John came out to greet us ebulliently, as if we were long-lost family, even though he was with a patient. He took the time later to sit down and catch up. We laughed about the old days when we were teenagers, as well as the current ones as parents of teens.

John’s effervescence, rooted in empathy and sincerity, is contagious. He’s not one of those hollowly entertaining types that seems like great company until their arrogance becomes apparent. You realize you’re incidental, needed only as a spectator. John has real warmth; his joviality is not merely presentation but extends to those around him. A few minutes with him and your outlook improves. I agree with my parents. It’s worth the drive to see John.

0059 — John with his wife and children in 2002. My husband, daughter, my parents and I met up with John and his family at a church celebration that year.

Community, Family, Parenthood, Travel

In Atlanta, to be a Daughter

March 29, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

The Atlanta skyline, from the MARTA train, March 21.

Last Thursday I did something I hadn’t done in nine years: I flew to Atlanta, alone, to visit my parents. Ever since my daughter was born, she has been my constant travel companion. Even as a baby she was good company when we flew together. The joy she found in the adventure of airplane travel almost made up for the difficulties of managing the clumsy baby seat and all the various gear she required. As she got older she became a great help, as she has a natural bent for understanding automatic ticketing machines. With her assistance, I learned to buy and reload a MARTA Breeze card and to make my way through the stations. It felt strange to be leaving town without her.

The last time I went to Atlanta by myself, Mama had been very sick. This time, it was Daddy. In February he underwent a serious surgery that left him in a fragile state. Typically healthy, hearty and appearing far younger than his years, time was making sudden and unwelcome inroads. Fortunately, Mama was feeling pretty well. Her usual chronic health concerns were manageable, and Daddy’s illness spurred her into action. She had recently had cataract surgery, which improved her vision and gave her confidence to drive again (although only to familiar, nearby places–she wasn’t about to attempt I-85). It had been over twenty years since she had regularly set foot in a grocery store, because Daddy had done nearly all the shopping and errand-running.

My parents are blessed to have a strong caring network of neighbors and church friends, so my immediate presence hadn’t been an absolute requirement. I can’t say how grateful I am to the many who step in so graciously to help. While I offered to fly down at any time, I sensed that Mama preferred I wait until Daddy was feeling better and regaining some of his lost weight. That way he could better enjoy my visit, and I wouldn’t be as alarmed at his appearance.

Another view from the train, showing the gold dome of the Capitol between the twin “Sloppy” Floyd Towers. The cream-colored tower to the left is City Hall, which dates from 1930.

I tend to think my family in Virginia can’t get through the mornings without me. Who will make sure our daughter is really, truly awake and up in the pre-dawn darkness? Who’ll make her breakfast and lunch? Who’ll walk Kiko? I knew they’d be fine in the evenings. While there would be no cooking, they’d have no trouble eating. My husband would bring home Chipotle, Chinese or Thai. They’re capable of opening cans, jars, and boiling pasta. Those mornings, though, they’d be rough. Then it hit me. So what if the mornings are rough? That just means they’ll appreciate me all the more once I return.

So I went, and I’m glad I did. I’ll go back, too, with more frequency. As those of us of a certain age already know or are coming to realize (at least those lucky enough to have our parents still with us), sometimes the duties and rewards of daughterhood take priority over those of motherhood.

The back of the High Museum of Art, much expanded since I worked there in the 80s.

The High Museum with the Promenade building in the background.

The Four Seasons Hotel, as seen from the Arts Center Station.

I was very glad not to see any snow. While the weather was cooler than I had hoped, it was sunny, and there were real signs of spring, such as this dandelion in the mulch. There are no dandelions yet in northern Virginia.

Community, Family, Friendship

Young Love, Old Love Notes, Part II

March 19, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

I saved two more notes from my third grade year. These took an entirely different approach. One was typed on good-quality paper. An all-caps heading reads:

I LOVE YOU YOU PREETY GIRL.

Immediately below the heading are 59 lines that look like this:

1ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
(the number one, followed by 45 zeros)

At the bottom of the page, again in all-caps is one word:

TIMES.

Near the top of the page on the otherwise blank right side is this message:

IF GREG TOL
D YOU ANY
THING DO NOT
BELEAVE HIM

YOU

I LOVE YOU

I found this note impressive then, just as I do now. I’m impressed at the time and effort needed to type so many lines of zeros. I’m impressed at the absence of mistakes–only one typo in the numbers. Quite a lot of work went into it, especially for a little third-grader. And I’m touched by its rather odd tack. For an elementary school love note, it falls far from the realm of the expected. I like that very much.

Interestingly, the note has no signature. I had always assumed it was from Danny. When I asked him if he remembered creating the typed masterpiece, it didn’t ring a bell. Once he saw a photo of the note, a long-forgotten memory began to crystalize. He could see his young self in his mother’s office, experimenting with her new high-powered typewriter.

As for the cryptic reference to Greg, and what he may have told me–the message I shouldn’t believe–Dan can’t recall. Greg couldn’t shed any light on that matter, either. As in the earlier note, he can’t remember having been involved.

The third note is handwritten in pencil on notebook paper. It follows the same numerical theme. Perhaps it was a precursor to the typed note, a sort of rough draft. The numbers appear on the top half of the page, below the words I love You, written in cursive. Also at the top, printed in what appears to be a different hand, are these words: Look on Back and from Danny.

The entire bottom half of the page is taken up with the following message, printed in huge letters:

LOVE!!!!
Baby love!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This handwritten note, both Dan and I have come to agree, must represent a combined effort. I can imagine Danny showing his half-finished letter to a friend, perhaps the omnipresent but forgetful Greg, or someone else. That boy grabbed the note playfully and wrote the emphatic Love Baby Love message on the blank lower half of the page. Like the Kiss me after school demand on the earlier note, it’s completely out of character for shy Danny. Then, for good measure, the second boy wrote in Danny’s name, but used printed letters instead of Danny’s typically careful cursive.

Such a scenario fits in with my recollections of elementary school. I’m fairly certain I never wrote any love notes during these years, and I know that if I had, I would not have signed my name. But I’m very familiar with a similar type of conspiratorial collaboration, the back of forth of who likes whom, the ongoing gossip concerning which boys were cute, which ones were funny, which ones were worth our daydreams. In those old days, the real fun of “liking someone” had very little to do with an actual boy. Instead, for my friends and me, it simply offered hours of amusing conversation, a pleasant distraction from schoolwork and our childhood responsibilities. I assume it was no different for the boys. I’m not kidding myself that these notes offer proof of true young love. But at the very least, they suggest that my name was among those discussed, on occasion, by the third grade boys. I was noticed. I was not invisible. And maybe I wasn’t considered entirely crazy. Thank you, Dan. After all these years, your efforts and creativity are more appreciated than ever.

For kids today, I have this piece of advice. If, in this age of texting, Snapchat and Instagram, you’re lucky enough to receive an old-fashioned paper love note, save it. If it doesn’t bring you happiness now, just wait a few decades.

Community, Family, Nature, Parenthood

Snow Day # 10

March 17, 2014 Wildtrumpetvine

Just as predicted, more snow. And yes, schools are closed again. This is a gorgeous, fluffy snow, the kind that appears to coat tree branches with cotton puffs. While I got my fill of the white stuff several snow days ago, this one occurs at a welcome time. My daughter returned yesterday morning from her annual drama trip to New York City. It’s a twenty-four hour excursion, from 4 AM Saturday to 4 AM Sunday. They saw the musical Pippin, did an improv workshop, toured the theatre district and went to the Top of the Rock. D slept until early afternoon but was still exhausted. Today is a much-needed catch-up day, a time to ease back, slowly, into her regular schedule. A 5:30 wake-up in our house is never pretty, but it would have been frightfully ugly this morning. Thank you, St. Patrick’s Day snow!

On a sadder note, the kids may be in school until mid-July.

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.