Two days in Paris have been incredible!

This is a quick post before we board our plane home. We've been in Paris for a little less than 48 hours and have packed much into our stay. It's a first for the both of us in this extraordinary city. Here are some things we've done. Each of these were the direct advice of friends ...

Yesterday we visited the Sainte-Chapelle cathedral and understood immediately why our friend said it was a "must-see." Incredible! This photo shows some of its amazing stained glass.



We also walked down the Seine, and crossed several of its famous bridges on foot (here again is a sample photo). We went even further and took a sightseeing boat down the river last night.

Everyone said we needed to visit the Eiffel Tower. This last shot is a view from it's second level:

Now it's time for me to start packing. We hope to have lunch before heading to the airport, at our favorite local bistro. It's appropriate that our last act in Paris -- and indeed in France -- will be eating and drinking. The food and wine have certainly been another highlight!

Farewell, Provence. For this visit, at least!

Yesterday we saw our guests off at the Toulon train station. But the day before we had one final adventure. Our last foray with our friends was into Hyeres, which is deceptively close. Why deceptive? Although only a 20-minute drive from our villa, the city is a world of difference from our high-altitude perch and the sleepy La Londe at its base.

We had traveled there with three goals. First, we wanted to see if its marshy bird sancuary was worth the visit. We also wanted to see if our guests could get train schedules, so they could plan their long trek back to Alba. And finally, we wanted one last bistro or tavern experience together – preferably one by the water. It would be a place to toast the conclusion of our wonderful, lazy week.

A lesson we’ve learned about Provence is there is an uncanny “wish fulfillment magic” in the air. It seems we simply make a determination of how we’d like to spend a particular afternoon, point our car in the proper direction with a modicum of planning, and Viola! Our desires materialize. This Monday in Hyeres was no exception.

We pulled into the city at about 2 PM. It was surprisingly large, and humming with mid-day activity. First was a stop at the Hyeres tourism bureau.

We left with a couple of city maps and some answers in broken English. For instance, we learned we could walk 10 minutes to get the train timetables we needed. We also got across to the earnest woman behind the desk that we were looking for a nature preserve. That wasn’t so easy, given the language barrier.

“Preserve” and “sancuary” got us nowhere. “Park” improved things, but “birds!” was the word that finally did the trick. She drew a bull’s eye on one of our maps, indicating a nearby peninsula.

But before driving there, we set out for the train timetables. This took us deeper into a clean, well-run business district. Beautiful, well-kept buildings from other centuries stood astride glass and chrome structures, both put to use for offices and apartments. Along a picturesque pedestrian-only street were rows of high-fashion clothing and shoe stores, interspersed with restaurants, news stands, bakeries and bars. And the train office.

Not only did Joe and Michele get the schedules they needed, they went ahead and bought the tickets, departing the next morning. Now it was certain. This day would be our farewell adventure together.

It turned out that the wetlands – and the promise of birds! (Julie and I are big bird geeks) – were an interesting drive but not much more. We were distanced from the tropical birds by a road that cruised efficiently down the peninsula, with no obvious place to stop and sightsee. This was mildly disappointing, but as if to comfort us, the road deposited us at Fulfilled Wish #3. We found the outdoor bar and restaurant we’d imagined. It faced a dock where ferries would transport people to a couple of the islands we had seen in our travels, and in fact, from the deck of our villa. These islands are part of the Iles d’Hyeres, each a destination unto itself.

There had been some deliberation in the morning about taking one of those ferries and having an “island day,” but we had decided against it, and at the bar, we were glad we had no schedules to keep. We lingered over wine, taking in the glorious views and fresh saltwater-scented air. Then we set out on foot (only 50 meters or so) to investigate the ancient, abandoned fortress on the craggy tip of the peninsula. Here are a few photos of it:






That was two days ago, a crowning end to our wanderings with Joe and Michele. Yesterday Julie and I, on our way back from dropping them off at Toulon, stopped back at Hyeres for a lunch at a completely different type of bistro – this one on a sunny corner near the city’s urban hub.

Just this afternoon, the two of us had a beach day, at yet another open-air restaurant. We had driven east, past Le Lavandou, and stopped where the beach looked most inviting. Here's a shot of the beach, from out table:



Here is a view looking "in," from our table. Julie loved the festive colors.



Our lunch was wonderfully relaxed, and as we were driving back, Julie made the observation that adequately summarizes our time here in Provence.

We’ve explored the rustic and the cosmpolitan. We’ve driven through forests and vineyards. We’ve dined on the beach, in the city, and overlooking breathtaking vistas. The wine and the food was always good – perhaps the only constant with all of this variety. We’ll be leaving for Paris by train tomorrow, with memories, a bit of cheese, and our last bottle of wine.

St. Tropez on a Saturday afternoon

Okay, let me get a couple of things out of the way right off the bat. First, during our day in St. Tropez, we saw no celebrities. Zero. And second, we saw no topless sunbathers. Which of course means we saw no topless celebrities. The St. Tropez Office de Tourisme has some serious explaining to do.

Nonetheless we had an incredible adventure. Based on the advice of our host, Ian, we drove there via the northern route. I was warned that the initial distance would be extremely winding, but that the twists and turns would be worth it. They certainly were!

On the left, breathtaking fields of grape vines, and beyond them, steep, tree-covered hills and jagged, craggy cliff faces. To our right, hugging the road’s shoulder, similar sheets of winding, clay-colored rock. Then, after a time, we leveled out and the rock formations to our right were replaced with rows of olive trees, or sometimes cork tree forests.

What beautiful symetry! On one side: miles of vineyards. On another: the trees whose bark is turned into wine bottle corks! And because drinking wine on an empty stomach is unwise, there are, later in our trip, miles after miles of olives -- green and black.

As we got closer to the beaches, traffic became more congested. It was understandable. This was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, and who wouldn’t want to head to some of the best places in France for sun, beaches and the gentle Mediterranean breezes?

Once we arrived, the two highlights were the Saturday Market and the Citadel.

The market there was naturally much large than La Londe’s, and offered a dizzying assortment of clothing, artwork and small household items ... and especially food. Here are two photos of the market. The second shot is of a display of garlic:




When we arrived we took a very brief review of the booths, but then headed to an ancient, shady tavern / restaurant facing the marketplace. There, we had beer and wine while we people-watched. This bar had towering ceilings, and was ornate in an old, not-quite-decrepit way. It oozed charm.

As the photo below conveys, this was a pleasant break from the signtseeing. In fact, it was a highlight.


Later we walked back to a booth selling wood-fired pizzas. We ordered one we could share, and waited 10 minutes for it to come out of the squat, chrome oven. Also, Michele bought ratatouille. She had remembered to bring some spoons in her backback, so we could eat this cold, eggplant-based dish on the steps of a bank, closed for the noon break. Joe and Michele are marvelous cooks, and they have treated us to some extraordinary meals, aided by the villa’s modern and well-equipped kitchen. Nonetheless, we all agreed this welcome meal was one of our best of the vacation so far.

St. Tropez was a key port city at one time. Having a strong navy and well-defended fort was important for survival. The Citadel was an amazing structure, surprisingly well-preserved. It conjured up all sorts of images of the French Foreign Legion movies I’ve seen over the years. Except this wasn’t in a desert. It was at the top of a steep hill overlooking the port. I was told by the villa's "Welcome Book" that the Citadel was the best place in St. Tropez for snapping photos. The snapshots presented here show you why.




Although we have no photos to document this, the Citadel was used to present an extraordinary modern art exhibit. The contrast between the historical and the avant garde made the experience all the more exciting.

The drive back was just as gratifying.

Again, following Ian’s recommendations, we drove south from St. Tropez, and then west, to head back to our villa along the coastline. It was gorgeous, and tomorrow Julie and I plan to retrace this route as far as La Croix for a lunch at a beachside bistro. Here's a sample of our view:


Overall, what was most striking about this excursion is the contrast between the rustic countryside and the sophistication of St. Tropez.

We also got an exciting surprise. Part of our visit involved Julie, Michele and I cooling our heels while Joe went off to investigate docking the sailboat for the winter in this paradise. (The boat is currently in port in Alba, Italy). He came back with unexpected news, considering the posh neighborhood. Wintering here is within their budget!

How exciting to imagine our good friends spending months here! If this were to come to pass, Julie and I would be able to experience this highlight of our vacation well into the cold Milwaukee winter, at least vicariously.

When the comforts of home are most appreciated

I'm writing this very early on Monday morning -- awake because I've caught the virus that Joe has been suffering from this past week. It's a disappointment, but I'm hoping the zinc tablets that I'd remembered to pack will help reduce the symptoms and the duration of this cold.

I shouldn't feel poorly enough to curtail many of my plans for the rest of the two-week vacation, although I may find it unwise to swim laps in the villa's gorgeous swimming pool. I guess going for a run today would also not be the smartest thing to do. Rats.

The cold had only been at the stage where I had a scratchy throat, but I was awakened a few minutes ago with a cough. Oh well. I'm going to stay awake while the Cold-Eze dissolves under my tongue, and see if the zinc is able to prevent the cold from taking hold in my sinuses. I will say that waking up in this home-away-from-home is wonderful, even when I'm not feeling 100 percent.

First, it is easy for me, with three levels of villa to rattle around in, to keep out of earshot of my wife or our guests by sticking to the lounge / kitchen level. Second, I've been able to do activities here that are diverting but not physically taxing. For instance, last night Joe and I resumed our ongoing snooker match. Snooker is an odd game played on a huge table with far more balls than billiards.

The table is incredible, though. The cushions are "alive" and the felt is in great shape. I've played billiards regularly for years, and Joe is also a good pool player, so applying "English" to control the cue ball has been fun. We could only do that with an exceptional billiards / snooker table!

While Joe and I were on the lounge level, listening to the snooker room's amazing stereo system, our "better halves" were downstairs watching a DVD on the wide-screen TV.

Let me amend what I said about this being a home-away-from-home. My home is a somewhat cramped apartment, and Joe and Michele's is a sailboat. This is far better than home in many wonderful regards!

Okay, the Cold-Eze is nearly dissolved, and it's time to see if I can get more sleep. Wish me well in fighting this cold. And don't hate me for vacationing in the lap of luxury.

If I'm feeling up to it, I'll be finishing and posting a fairly lengthy account later today of our incredible adventures on Saturday in St. Tropez.

Three things I have learned while food shopping in Provence

1. Baguettes are best eaten the same day. A travel book tells me that the average Provencial family eats their bread four hours out of the oven. When they are fresh, baguettes are heavenly. Crisp on the outside, moist on the inside, they work well on their own, and wonderfully dipped in virgin olive oil or under a slice of aged, unpasturized cheese.
2. Some of the best banter from merchants can be heard under the tents at the ubiquitous Provence street markets. (Every town has a morning of the week where key streets are cordoned off and come alive with clothing, food and trinket merchants). The very best are from cheese vendors. This may be because the cheese sellers have a high-priced product that sells itself only once you taste it. I imagine a charm offensive is often required to seduce prospective customers into a sample. We bought a cheese this morning that was so good I nearly cried when I tried it. The vendor simply smiled.
3. You can buy a bottle of passable red wine in a grocery store here for 2.30 Euros (roughly $3.00 U.S.). A bottle of similar-quality, locally-produced rose costs at least twice that. A bottle of good rose, however, is worth this so-called “premium,” at least in this exquisite summery weather. Rose is served chilled, and its taste accompanies a warm, sunny Provence day the way a good bread enhances fine, aged cheese.

Here are a couple of photos from the La Londe Sunday market:

Mimosas on the rocks

Yesterday we visited Bormes les Mimosas, which has nothing to do with the combination of orange juice and sparking wine (as wonderful as that drink is), but has everything to do with other, headier delights. The village, roughly 20 minutes from our villa, begins casting its spell before you even see it. You must reach it via a lush, narrow, winding road, assending into the rocky hillside. Every corner of the drive revealed another bank of flowering bushes and picturesque homes and businesses.

We were told by our guidebook (and the brief mention on our villa site, Your Taste of Provence) that Bormes les Mimosas has Medieval roots. It stands to reason that a community would spring up and thrive in terrain easily defended against invaders. What is surprising is how it continues to thrive, both as a tourist destination and a haven for artists and artisans. Their wares are on display in dozens of cramped shops, arrayed along winding, sharply angled streets.

A botanical garden is another prize we discovered, as we made the considerable effort of scaling miles of hillside walks and stairs. This last photo shows a view from the top of the garden. In the distance are the rooftops of much of Bormes les Mimosas.

One benefit of exploring Provence at this time of year – after high season but still on the cusp of summery weather – is the dearth of other foreign tourists. That’s not to say this village was quiet. No, it was swarming with other sightseers. But they were mostly vacationing nationals. These French tourists were almost all far older than us, and it was impressive to see how well they scaled the city, albeit slowly.

Although are still struggling to make out even the simplest French sentences, I am fairly sure that on the whole, we were more vocal than our French elders about the work-out provided by this charming, centuries-old Stairmaster!

Today we go to San Tropez. What a wonderful way to spend a Saturday abroad!

The photo a passing wagonful of grapes took

Yesterday we went into the nearby La Londe. This is an old, modest village the likes of which the term quaint was coined. Given that this time of year is just after the high season, the four of us seemed to be the only tourists in town. I had wondered how we would be regarded. I need not have worried. We were invisible to them.

One of the reasons for going into town was to get groceries, at the Casino Supermarche. There we would buy practical, as well as the fanciful, provisions (the French version of quick oats, the cheapest beer we could find, two varieties of marinated olives and three of aged cheeses).

But pleasure before business!

First, we would walk the length of the main street, and along the way stop at a combination bar and ice cream parlor, with plenty of requisite outdoor seating. It seemed an odd combination – ice cream for the kiddies and booze for the parents. But we learned from Joe and Michele, our travel companions, that providing family fare was important in the bars and cafes of most of Europe.

As we sat sipping our beverages, we saw as many families around us as tables of exclusively adults (also, plenty of dogs sprinkled throughout). Clearly, cigarettes and alcohol aren’t considered substances that children should be overtly protected from, although it was reassuring to see on the labels of French beer a small and subtle, but nonetheless clear, warning. It was the silhouette of a pregnant woman bringing a beverage to her lips, with a circle and diagonal line arrayed to make the universal symbol of “Don’t.”

This reminds me of the naturalness I have read about, and now witnessed, with human sexuality in this part of Europe. It seems odd that although the U.S. culture seems to profess to be beyond Victorian thinking, I still cannot imagine a beer company placing such a silhouette on their product sold in my home country.

Every culture is defined by what scares them. Victorians were known to drape elaborate cloth coverings over the side tables and piano benches in “respectable homes,” lest the exposed wooden table legs inflame the lust of Victorian men. I believe some of that residue persists in "typical" Americans today, more in what they forbid than in what they cover up.

Here's what I mean: While many U.S. women continue their years of struggle to get public places to allow mothers to freely breastfeed, one of the first images greeting me in my brief layover in Paris was of a woman nonchalantly nursing her baby as she waited for a train. If I had found this sight erotic, I can tell you that it was deeply subconscious. Perhaps I'm just in denial. Come to think of it, I'm surrounded as I write this by the bare legs of many side- and coffee tables of the villa's lounge. It's almost too much for a mortal to bear. ;-)

Grapes in a wagon? Get our camera!

While we were chatting and people-watching at the bar of the Pelican Hotel, traffic slowly passed in front of us, on the main thoroughfare of town. Suddenly, an old, beat-up truck pulling a wagon brimming with grapes came to a stop in front of us! I asked Julie for the camera, but alas, we had left it behind.

“I have mine!” announced Michele. But by the time she had pulled it out of its case, turned it on and pointed it, the truck had driven off.

“That’s okay,” said Joe. “I can use the timer to take a picture of the four of us.” And so he did. We may not be as picturesque as the wagonful of grapes, but I think our expressions show the look of people who have encountered that, and other, pleasant surprises.

Our friends arrive with lessons to teach

Our friends Joe and Michele arrived by train at 10:00 last night. They had taken the train from where their boat is docked, in the Italian island of Alba, and spent the day making their way to us. We met them in Toulon, a town whose Centre looks extremely industrial, but also has amazingly beautiful old buildings and streets.

It is so good to see our friends again! For those who haven’t heard me talk about Joe and Michele, they are dear friends who we have not seen in six years. That was the year they sold their successful chemical adhesive company and bought a 38-foot sailboat called the Peregrine. They have since been sailing the Carribean, and more recently, the Meditaranean.

The difference in their world and our own is stark and fascinating.

A typical day for me involves going to work, managing employees and generally working with our interactive team to provide useful products and services. Conversely, a typical day for Joe and Michele involves going into town for drinkable water and enough food for a few days, as well as for other supplies to keep their floating home afloat.

There is only hot water when they heat it, and no refrigeration. A primarily vegetarian diet is more of an efficient imperitive than moral dictate.

I was thrilled to learn from Michele that she enjoys running. This morning we went for a run in the steep, winding roads leading to and from our villa. The view was amazing and the air, fresh, warm and fragrant.

Running with a map and an open spirit

Michele and Joe have told us many stories, but I’ll leave you now with this one, from Michele:

“The best running I ever did was in Seville. I would bring a map with me, but not look at it before I set out. Instead, I’d choose a direction and go where the roads took me,” she said. If a corner looked promising, she would take it and follow it to the next interesting turn. “When 30 minutes were up, I would find someone and have them point out on the map where we were. Then I’d use it to walk back to the boat.”

She also talked about finding a quiet church along the way to stop and meditate, since someone sitting and just “being” wouldn’t look so odd in a church. Joe also talked about the freedom of simply being.

They must have thanked us a dozen times already for welcoming them into this astounding villa and its many conveniences. (Cold milk! A clothes washer and dryer!) They needn’t have thanked us, of course.

If they were merely old, dear friends, without lessons to teach, they would still be welcome to share in this amazing luxury. The fact that they are more than this – that, to my surprise, they are teaching me valuable lessons in being open to new adventures, and retaining who you are throughout, is even more reward for their company.

Joe and Michele are very cautious. They could not have made it this far without care and circumspection. But what a revelation! To practice the simple, strong act of setting out in the morning, with a map in your pocket and no concern for where you are at any given moment. This is being alive! It's a lesson that holds regardless of where your life leads you, whether it is the streets of Seville or the business district of Milwaukee.

Sunday Market and more views from the villa

Our kind host, Ian, and the property managers, Alan and Pauline, all stronglly urged us to go into La Londe for Sunday morning market. We did and are glad for it.

First, it gave us a chance to practice our sad attempts at the language. It also gave us access to some extraordinary food. Next Sunday we'll go there with a better idea of the provisions we'll need. We'll also bring our camera.

In the meantime, here are more photos from the villa.

This first is of one of the many grace notes that our host Ian arranged -- at least in one sense of the word. I'm talking about the fresh flowers that were waiting for us in the lounge.

They were a lovely touch. Just behind the vase of flowers is a beautiful antique artifact from somewhere in Asia. The villa has many extraordinary antiques from around the world!

The pool is a central attraction in the villa. The shot above provides a good view of the villa and the valley from the pool deck.

Below is a better shot of the valley to the east:

In the photo below I was facing west. My view from the portico shows the sun just starting to set. This gives you an idea of the lovely tropical plants and flowers that adorn the villa. (Any of the photos can be enlarged by clicking on them.)

An apt photo to end with is this one, of the sun setting over the pool.

There is a thrill that we'd been told about, where you sit back and sip a wine from the very vineyards you're overlooking. I can tell you from personal experience that it's as intoxicating as you might imagine!

Our first two days in Provence

We made it! I haven’t had a chance to upload this until the Monday after our arrival (for reasons that will become apparent below), but we arrived without major incident and are loving our stay. I say that we arrived without major incident because traveling this distance requires quite a bit of stamina.

Automobile, Plane, Train, Automobile, BED!

We set out for our friend Sharon's house at noon on Friday. Thanks to her willingness to play taxi driver, we got curb-side service to O'Hare and were relieved of the hassles and expense of parking at this busy airport.

Our flight was of course delayed, so we weren't in the air until 6:15 PM Friday. We arrived in Paris at 9 AM the next morning. Although the sun told us otherwise, our confused internal clocks insisted we were still on Milwaukee and it was 2 AM. Four hours later (6:00 AM according to our progressively sleep-crazed brains) we boarded the train that was to take us from Paris to Toulon, in the south of France. The photo to the right is taken in our train car.

We were met coming off the train in Toulon by Pauline, who, with her husband Alan, is caretaker for the property. They drove us the last 30 minutes to our villa in the hills overlooking La Londe and the Mediterranean.

I would recommend taking the train from Paris to the south of France to anyone. It will be an enjoyable ride back to Paris; especially since we will have had a considerably more sleep than on the way south!

A friend had tipped us off to book a first class train car, and that was a smart idea. We were the most exhausted in those last hours of our trip, and traveling in extra comfort was a huge help, especially for Julie. It was a delight to watch the countryside slide past us while eating the best meal of our 17 hours of travel – a poulet salade sandwich from the dining car.

Riding the train was a treat. Catching the train was not. We arrived at the Paris train station with several hours to spare, but the station is not particularly easy to navigate if you don't understand the language (in fairness, I’m sure Chicago’s Union Station is just as confusing to those who don’t understand English). Comprehending what we needed to do in order to board the proper train was quite a challenge to our jet-lag addled brains.

It was also a lesson in the odd French affection for long queues.

One line (of many to come) lasted 30 minutes. I was impressed at how patient everyone was as they stood with us watching civil servants behind desks. I’m sure these people are fine individuals, good to their parents and loyal to their friends. But their level of commitment to the job at hand is one I have only attained after taking too large a dose of Vicodin.

All down the long line of desks, agents were discussing tickets and schedules with travelers in what appeared to be slow motion, each transaction orchestrated to further shake your confidence in getting free before your train pulls away. To make matters more challenging, when I finally did get to the front of the line, I got none of the languorous back-and-forth, stamping and filing routine I’d been observing before me. Perversely, seeing everyone else receiving lengthy instructions and ticket-stampings gave me hope that once I reached my turn there would be a rewarding sheaf of red tape in store for me as well. This would somehow be gratifying. Instead, the woman behind the counter told me in broken English that my ticket was in order, and sent me to a platform number. How anticlimactic!

What’s more, she sent me to a platform that didn't exist (could she really have said 406, when there is only a platform Four and another platform Six?). What followed this revelation were two other train station employees giving us other conflicting directions.

I've spent much of my adult life catching buses and planes, but I've never been more relieved to finally find myself on the correct ride, at the proper time, heading in the desired direction.

Several of France’s greatest philosophers and thinkers wrote about the general futility and meaninglessness of life. After waiting in many of France’s impressively winding and glacial queues I can definitely relate. But conversely, I realize that this vacation has already taught me an important lessen -- in the only manner possible, I suppose, considered the advanced nature of my ignorance. It has taught me that the upscale American practice of hurrying, planning and struggling are all distractions from life, not means to discovering it.

Lunch hours in this part of the country run well into the afternoon, and weekends are selfishly guarded leisure times. Perhaps this is why standing in line isn’t such a hardship for the French. After a surprisingly brief amount of time in this country, I’m coming around to their way of thinking.

Posting This Blog, Resetting Our Clocks

Our villa has every manner of electronics – several large, flat-screen televisions, a Bose sound system wired throughout the compound, DVD players in every major common area.

But no internet connection. None. Correction! Later I learned that I did have access to a dial-up connection. Ian, our host, mentioned that better internet access is on its way as well. That's a smart idea for any vacation property, in my opinion. Even one in the "land of the sprawling queues."

Thus the need to find an internet café to send this blog post off. And because we arrived on a Saturday, and nearly everything in the nearby towns shuts down tight until Monday, I’m not actually finishing this post until two days into our stay.

It has been time well-spent. I can say that the advice I received from a friend was quite sound. She suggested we stay awake during the flight over, fighting the urge to sleep. Two days after this “clock-resetting,” I feel like I am fully acclimated -- without really skipping a beat.

Staying awake during my flight would have been far more difficult if I hadn’t been so engrossed in a wonderful novel. I managed to read it in its entirety while in the air, finishing the last few pages just as we touched down in Paris. The book is Eleven Minutes by the Brazilian author Paulo Coelho. The novel is one of these two things: Either it’s the most spiritual story of sex I’ve ever read, or the most explicitly sexual spiritual book I’ve ever read. Many of the lessons that the protagonist, a Brazilian prostitute working in Geneva, Switzerland, are extremely Buddhist. It’s a beautiful book I already plan to reread.

Our First Sunset in Provence

By 6 PM on Saturday we were in our villa but too weary to do much other that snap a few photos and tuck into the food that our host's son left for us before he moved on a few days earlier. It was a feast. As we sat on one of the many terraces of this hillside haven, we watched the sun set and ate a meal of smoked salmon, pasta with red sauce, and for “dessert,” a baguette with chicken pate. Our wine was a chilled rose from a neighboring vineyard. The photos below show our view while we ate, the plastic glass of rose at my feet. (All photos can be explanding by clicking on them.)

This last photo is the hillside the next morning, as the sun was rising. Exquisite.

Converting voltage, dollars and thoughts

Tomorrow is the day of our flight, and the last of the preparations are over! On Monday, over a bottle of wine (domestic), Julie and I got a lesson in survival French from a friend. Her most memorable advice: "Don't trust my pronunciations!"

Yesterday over my lunch break I bought a voltage converter ... very important if we're going to operate my laptop in our villa in Provence! I also got some great advice on when and how to convert our dollars into Euros.

Now all I need to do is convert my mind. I need to stop thinking about getting work done, and focus on pleasure reading, exploring, drinking and eating. It's not as easy as one might think, sadly enough. But give me time. I have two weeks!

Stay tuned.