A brief respite...

For a brief time....

As I look into the future.... 

Moobs and Muffins

A new offering from Starbucks, perhaps?

Not exactly.

Muffins, in this case, refer to those singularly unattractive doughy things that somehow seem to overspill the tops of trousers, "menopaunches." "Moobs" is a conflagation of man and boobs. (Thank you Howard Jacobson of the London Independent).

My apologies, Jack...clearly not a camera ready pose.

What's a guy to do?

Spanx.

His and hers.

If having a honey caught rifling through your underwear drawer might have been grounds for divorce, it appears that this might no longer be the case.

He is looking to try on your "suck you in, lift you up, jiggle containment" garment. After all, if it works, why not?

Except, perhaps, as a prelude for an evening's amorous romp. As women have known for sometime, the truth spills out. 

Spill, unfortunately, is the operative word in that sentence. 

Return of the Native

Dotting the overhead landscape, colorfully flapping in the proverbial breeze, the "what we wore today" is on display.

See any tighty whities? 

Rarely. 

Perhaps some items are simply relegated to an inside area to dry. 

I ask you, do the neighbors need to know everything?

It depends.

I suspect if you were able to be sporting these you might have a change of heart about what the neighbors think.  

For two reasons.

It appears that in addition to activating any fantasies about what is under Pierre's denims, the coverage of his skivvies may just be the barometer  of economic growth.

Okay, I did take liberties with the undergarment story as this theory of correlation to economic growth has to do with bathing suits...but I imagine that if the theory were to hold true then wouldn't oversized boxers shrinking down to an itsy bitsy bikini type garment portend the same thing.

So the next time you are in Europe take note of the drying garments suspended overhead.  You might be able to figure out which way the Euro is headed.

Rose Colored Anything

Everything looks better in pink light, don't you think?

I think I heard somewhere that the Ritz, in Paris, has its dining room illuminated by pink bulbs, with pinkish shades and everyone looks fabulous.  

They have to look good, after all, it is the Ritz.  They don't allow, you see,  unattractive people to be seated ...I think the same thing is true for St. Bart's. When the boat comes into port there stands a sentry picking and choosing who can stay and who has to go back from whence they came.

Anyhow, as I was saying, pinkish light makes you look better.

Which is why I am moving to Roussillion.

Yeah, sure, it is a charming medieval village in the South of France. And yes, there are wonderful ancient sundials to see, beautiful bell towers to visit, and everywhere you turn, extraordinary views. 

But I am reasonably certain that the bus loads of tourists, who will start descending en masse in the coming months, arrive there because they know that the snapshots they take of one and other will show a youthful blush with nary an age spot or blemish in sight.

I'm moving to Roussillion.

Samuel Beckett, Andre Derain, Matisse, George Braque and Picasso, to name drop a few, all spent time in Roussillion. If anyone asks, tell them I moved there because I wanted to walk in the footsteps of those creative souls who came before me. 

And the bonus of all of this is knowing that my dewy glow is the result of my settling down here, and is not the result of a hot flash.

 

Sur le pont d'Avignon

And there I was. Sur le Pont.

 

Neither dancing on, under or near by, I'm way too inhibited. 

Nor would I allow myself to sing any of the verses, had I known any of the verses. So sad, but since I was old enough to be in a chorus I was told to just mouth the words. I think it had something to do with throwing off the rest of the kids.

Talk about the "bridge to nowhere." Does Sarah Palin come to mind?

Anyhow, what really struck me today is that I have been singing, okay mouthing, the words to Sur le Pont..forever.  Never did I  a) know what the words actually were and  b) knew that this was an actual real thing. Saint Benezet's Bridge.  Go know.

And there it was. 

This got me thinking about all the songs that we have sung, particularly rock and roll songs, where we thought we had it right only to find out that the words we were singing were all wrong. 

Except, of course, for MacArthur Park (...took so long to make it and we'll never have the recipe again...) where even if we did have all the correct words it still made absolutely no sense.

Anyway, in case you run into a small child and want to get it right, here is the first verse. You are on your own for the rest.

Sur le pont d’Avignon
L'on y danse, l'on y danse
Sur le pont d’Avignon
L'on y danse tous en rond

Name that Boulevard

Have you been to any of these places? 

Stroll/meander/saunter.

Park yourself at some outdoor cafe, have an aperitif, cafe or some other liquid of your choice and people watch. 

And, more importantly, be confident that it's easy to remember where you've been since you've seen a zillion photos immortalizing the place.

Actually, for me, another reason I'm seen wandering aimlessly up and down these grand streets is it diminishes all fears I have that if I step off to wander around the smaller side streets I will never be seen again. My iphone would be helpful, I suppose, as a navigational device, but giving any appearance of being a tourist quickly negates that activity. 

Unlike My Cousin Vinny, I wish to blend.

So here's the deal. 

I think that I should tell you right now that I had a terrific time; saw everything there was to see; tasted the local fare; stepped inside of each and every church and museum. I will send you photos, postcards and buy local trinkets to give to you.

This is insurance. 

When I can't remember what I saw and where I was you'd have prompts. Alternatively, you could pass these remembrances onto others regaling them with where you've been and what you've seen, just to make them crazy jealous. 

Who's to know?       

Except for this place. My youthful stomping ground. Haven't forgotten a thing.      

 

Where should we go? What should we do?

There are certain truths I've come to accept while vacationing here in France.

Follow a gaggle of tourists and you are pretty certain to hear conversations that go something along the lines of "it's over there," "no, it's to the left", "you're wrong, it's to the right", "we saw it yesterday", "I can't remember, did we?'

So true. So sad. So reassuring.

Only ask google maps for directions. Locals will be accomodating and gracious, but lie to distance and time.

If you want gelato go to Italy.

Walking up and down hilltowns is not enough to justify eating your body weight in foie gras.

And lastly, when dressing for a days outing remember black knee socks and sandals are a  fashion statement don't.

For Sale- 600 rooms, 300 terraces, Southern Exposure

Interested? 

There are a few pros and cons to consider...

Sadly, for some, it no longer comes with a prince.

It was hard to always keep things neat and tidy, and in tip top shape, as the previous owners had to fight off the Visigoth, Saracen and Frankish assailants from taking their possessions...not all at the same time, mind you, they took turns.

And drafty. 

The views, however, are extraordinary. If you squint you can make out the snow capped Pyrenees way off in the distance.

Last renovation was probably around 1853. While not exactly a fixer upper, you would need to think about some of life's basic necessities, like indoor plumbing and a kitchen.

I, sadly, will have to take a pass. 

 I know that I really want a water view. 

A moat could, I suppose, double as a lap pool but it just doesn't offer the same cachet for me.

The town, if you want to investigate further, is called Carcassonne, in the Languedoc-Roussillion region.

au sujet "Pain"--

I thought exactly the same thing. 

Lets think about this.

My image is that of a frenchmen, riding a bicycle, a wicker basket perched on the front handlebars, and at least 2 or 3 loaves of hot and crusty pointing the way home.

Bagels in that basket? Quelle horror.

Next, one has to consider what they are going to wash that bagel down with. It appears that the fallen out of favor Bordeaux is no longer a good option.

This concern, however, seems to be targeted to a younger aged population of wine drinkers, so for those of you older imbibers of the wines of Bordeaux, sip away.

I'll let you know, as I meander around the french countryside, if I espy any Zabar's dotting the landscape. I wonder how you say "I'd like a schmeer" en francais?

Huitres-- day 2

Imagine a ^ over the i if you are a purist. I haven't the foggiest notion as to how to make that happen. There it sits, hovering over the 6, waiting for someone clever to make use of it. I, si triste, am not one of those clever ones.

Anyhow, there we were, outside of St. Quentin de Baron, our little vil lage, (not a typo, mes amis, but getting you into a mind set ) winding our way to Libourne (think Union Sq. Market on steroids) food market. We are talking serious food market. Huge, big, overwhelming feast for the senses, food market.

Twas Jonathan Swift, I read somewhere, who was reported to have said, "it was a bold man who ate the first oyster." I'd have been more impressed with watching that bold man open said oyster. Can you picture that while this guy was figuring out whether he could eat this thing there was another fellow sharpening a tool, creating mesh gloves, and mixing together a really yummy mignonette concoction?

Anyway, there we were choosing from amongst the zillion varieties displayed. Thinking that no aphrodisiac moment was in my future, I yielded to the choices of my companions. Pearls yes, love potions no.

Witnessed by the visual I have provided for you, they were tres bon.