Giving Thanks

Lemons from my tree!

This Thanksgiving, I'm grateful for many people, places, and things. Family's my precious-s-s, and it's a given I appreciate each and every member. With one important exception, though, I'm not writing about family today.

I've cobbled together a list of ten people, places, or things I want to acknowledge. Sure, I've mentioned some of them before, but, hey, gratitude doesn't bubble up only once a year.

1. My cochlear implants. My hearing loss started sneakily and progressed slowly, but I hit profound deafness two years ago, and my coping skills gave out. I received my first implant on July of 2011 and the second in May of this year. Not only did I get hearing back, my confidence returned.

2. The backyard lemon tree. What a kick I'm getting out of this year's unexpected bounty! Today, in celebration of the harvest, I'll serve lemon mojitos.

3. This blog. Lark might be getting tired of me saying how glad I am she invited me to join her here, but I won't stop. You see, I'm a social media dud. I squeak by on Twitter, fail at Facebook, and can't remember my Goodreads ID. Yet I like blogging and reading blogs. 

4. Lucky the Cat. Lucky's the neighborhood stray we took in after he was mauled by another animal. Initially, my plan was to drive the cat to the vet, get him patched up, and release him to his wandering ways. After watching a wounded cat heal, how could I send him back outside? He's a Rosen now, and I'm the lucky one.

Lucky, resting up for his first Thanksgiving

5. The Women's Fiction chapter of Romance Writers of America. This online chapter has given me support, encouragement, and two new critique partners. 

6. The West Houston chapter of RWA.  This is the home of my in-person writer friends. I'm grateful for all of them but have to send an extra thankful shout-out to Lark, Pat Kay, Janice Martin, Jink Willis, Jerre Ferns, Sarah Andre, Kay Hudson, Jo Anne Banker, and Julie Pitzel. 

7. Luanne. I'm a parent, wife, sister, and friend, but the "tribe" I identify with most is the writer clan. That said, I recently met with a woman considering cochlear implants. We talked for hours, and it was energizing to be understood by someone else who's grappled with deafness. Writers get the angst of the blank page, but when the hearing impaired ask someone to repeat himself, we know the response might be a blank stare.

8. France. Oui, I'm grateful for a whole country. My trip to Paris and Uzes last April let me glimpse (and hear) the high school French teacher I was before my hearing went AWOL. My old love affair with France, the French, and the language recommenced, made poignant by the time we'd spent apart.

A street in Uzes. It's lovely, non?

9. Melanie, my sister-in-law. Four days after Hurricane Sandy struck, my parents took refuge at my brother's house. There, they had heat and light but worried they wouldn't be able to cast their November 6 votes at their designated polling place, an hour distant. My parents are Democrats. Melanie, my sister-in-law, is a Republican. Nevertheless, she's the one who promised she'd get them to the polling place. If we honor one another's views at the family level, surely we can accept and accommodate differences of opinion and work together in Congress. 

10. WANA. The acronym stands for We Are Not Alone, a book-turned-movement that focuses on blogging, social media and networking for authors. WANA is the brainchild of Kristen Lamb, and, while I've learned a lot from the book and the course, it's my fellow WANAs who have taught me the most. 

Happy Thanksgiving. I'm grateful to you for reading this post.

SEARCHING FOR THE PARACLETE

Convent of the Paraclete

Many years ago I discovered Books-on-Tape at my local library. I had an hour commute in each direction every day so the ten to twenty cassettes it took to record each book kept me entertained in the miserable traffic on I-45.

Listening to the library's offerings, I fell in love with a wonderful series set in medieval France—the Catherine LeVendeur mysteries by Sharan Newman, a medieval historian who also writes a darn good mystery with a bit of romance. The first book, DEATH COMES AS EPIPHANY, opens at the Convent of the Paraclete where Catherine is a young scholar under the Abbess Heloise (yes, the same star-crossed lover of Peter Abelard). The story weaves Catherine’s story in with the history of the famous lovers and their son, and brings the world of the convent, its people to life brilliantly. So, naturally, I decided that a pilgrimage to the Paraclete was a must for a road trip in France in 1998. Easier said than done.

Paraclete Now

Somehow the abbey had fallen into obscurity over the years and after hours and hours of pouring over travel books, all I found was a single mention in a list of historical sites in the Aube. Determined to visit the place that had captured my imagination, I examined page after page of maps at 1”=1/4 mi scale until I finally found in tiny print: Le Paraclet near the town of Ferreux-Quincey. Victory! I knew our detour would take a couple of hours and Steve navigated while I drove the narrow back roads, winding through countryside tourists usual by-passed. And then we were there. A sign in front of the stone wall informed us the abbey compound was open from July 1 to July 31. It was early June. Disappointed, we went on without even taking a photo-- something I now regret.

Paraclete

You might expect that with the massive amount of information now available in the internet, it would be easy to find information and photos of this place that was so famous in it’s own time. It isn’t. Wikipedia has a mention, a couple French websites gives its history  and visit information. Google images only had the old postcard painting above so I resorted to Google Earth for the current pictures posted here. I avoid France in July and so it's unlikely I’ll ever go there again when it’s open. Still, I find it ironic that the internet is filled with information on Dr. Newman and barely mentions the intriguing setting of her book.

Have you ever made an eccentric  “literary pilgrimage”? How did it turn out?

It's Their Vacation, Too

The Place aux Herbes in Uzes, France, is a shady oasis, a ring of restaurants, a lively gathering place, and a gracious town center. Every time I look at the photo of its fountain, my blood pressure drops.

I'd like to tell you more about my family's trip to Uzes, but my daughters have asked that I not blog about the city. Why? They want it to remain our little secret and are afraid it will be overrun with tourists. (Yes, they know they qualified as tourists there.)

Because my girls asked nicely, I won't write about Uzes. The two weeks, Hubs and I spent with our adult daughters in France reminded me of something I used to know but had forgotten: it's their vacation, too.

Parents of toddlers through teens chose locales and plan activities that entertain and educate their kids--while tiring them out. But as our children turn into adults and begin to share our interests, it's easy to forget that a few shared interests don't make our offspring clones of us.

Or so the Pont du Gard taught me.

The Pont du Gard is a bridge/aqueduct built by the Romans almost 2,000 years ago. It's part of a thirty-mile aqueduct system that delivered water from Uzes to Nimes for roughly 600 years. Two thousand years ago! (That explanation point tells you all you need to know about my reaction to the Pont du Gard.)

Near the bridge, Hubs and I went one way, and the girls went another after we agreed to meet in two hours.

Hubs and I walked over the Pont du Gard, looked up at it from the river and climbed a small hill to look down at it. Later, in the site's museum, we marveled at displays that showed how the Romans tunneled through hills, quarried and transported local stone and set it into place, using almost no mortar. Pulleys, cranes, and treadmills showed what everyday work at the site would have been like. At the replica of a quarry, a "pick, pick, pick" sound brought the scene to life. Reader, I spent more than an hour in the first century AD.

"This is one of the best museums I've ever seen," said Hubs. Too quickly, it was time to meet the girls, so we dragged ourselves from displays of gurgling water.

Outside, the girls waved. As they approached, one of them held out something wrapped in paper. "This crepe's filled with Nutella.

Did the girls get to the museum? No. They'd checked out the gift shop and had enjoyed every minute of their coffee-and-dessert break.

I started to tell them what a jewel they'd missed but stopped. They're responsible adults with demanding jobs and little down time. Who am I to say they didn't use their hours at the aqueduct well?

As Hubs put it, "Let them eat crepes."

You Snoozes, You Loses in Uzes

Uzes, a city of roughly 8,500 in southern France, boasts cobbled streets, medieval towers, and a cathedral destroyed and rebuilt twice—a victim of religious wars. Uzes also hosts a twice-a-week open air market that attracts locals and visitors from as far as Avignon and Arles.

It drew me like a fly to cheese.

I thought I knew what to expect of market day thanks to the Market Day in Nice post on Patricia Sands' blog. Her post even included a video and a soundtrack.

Nevertheless, market day in Uzes overwhelmed me with its bounty: dozens of types of goat cheese, a variety of olive oils, olives, jams, breads, fish, sausages, not to mention fresh fruits and vegetables. I walked, sniffed, and stared at the sensory banquet around me.

Lunch that day consisted of hearty bread, saucisson, goat cheese, olives, and fruit. It tasted of heaven.

I miss the market in Uzes, so tell me, do you have a favorite open-air market stateside? Where is it and what do you buy?

Tourists Do the Darndest Things

The tourist who has his nose in a guidebook instead of enjoying the sights around him is a cliche. In truth, some of us lose touch with reality long before we board that plane or train.


In the days leading up to my family's recent trip to France, I had plenty of work to do. Nevertheless, I convinced myself that weeding and putting down 76 cubic feet of mulch would persuade potential burglars someone was home—and likely to emerge with a roaring leaf-blower if anyone messed with the locks. (Update: No one broke into the house while we were gone. Was mulch the major deterrent? Hard to know for sure.)


If I acted like a tourist at home, you know I stood out in France. Like many others, I caught jump-in-front-of-monument disease—a virus that spurs visitors to leap into the air when posing for pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, and Notre Dame.


At home, it's rare that all my family members are seated and ready to go at the beginning of a meal, so it's pointless for us to raise our glasses in a toast, especially one glass is bound to be empty while another is so full it will slosh out its contents if lifted. In France, at every meal except breakfast, we toasted our luck in being together in a breathtaking country. Some onlookers probably considered us goofy. Other might have thought us easily pleased. No matter. We were together and in France—reasons enough to celebrate.


What about you? Ever do something nutty in the name of home security? What's the most touristy thing you've ever done?

WALKING OFF RE-ENTRY

Jules, Sue and David at St. Paul de Vence

Re-entry. After two weeks in the south of France, I’m back in Houston, back at my job and recovered from the 20 hour trip home. While I was gone my husband re-arranged and/or switched out all the furniture in the house including my office. He’s a brilliant architect and interior designer so this isn’t quite a weird as it sounds. Still, there’s a surreal quality to returning to find a different house from the one I left.

And yet, I too change whenever I travel abroad. The people I meet, things I do, places I see alter my perspective in large and small ways. This time I came back wanting to walk places like I had in France. Luckily Houston’s weather has cooled from its 100+ degree summer highs and walking is actually pleasant. Yesterday I walked three blocks to the Uptown Park shopping area at lunch for the first time, braving the Loop 610 underpass and aggressive traffic. Today, I’m considering walking the five blocks to Target to buy a birthday card. In a city where nobody walks, I feel oddly free—thankfully, since my husband has to use my car while his is in the shop.

Perhaps this weekend, I’ll explore my neighborhood on foot for the first time since spring, walk to Rice Village for coffee or to shop. So many choices in this fine weather. Just like Monaco or Nice or our little French village of Plan de la Tour!

How have your travels—near or far--changed your perspective?

THANKS FOR EVERYTHING, STEVE JOBS!

For the last two weeks I’ve been in the south of France—at first alone and then with friends. I brought plenty of clothes, but my carry-ons were most filled with electronics—netbook, digital camera, converter, chargers and one essential device I never leave behind—my iPhone.

Luckily, the French love wifi and everywhere I stayed I was able to access the internet on my iPhone and netbook. Practically, however, the iPhone was my device of choice for everything except writing and posting here.  Every day I video conferenced with my husband in Houston iPhone-to-iPhone via SKYPE. We could see each other, I gave him tours of our digs, and our entire group could join in on the visit. And it was FREE!! Yep. No charge at all.

I checked and responded to email—personal and work, checked and uploaded photos to Facebook, listened to music on house sound system, watched video clips, checked the weather, planned travel routes, proved points in trivia discussions and checked flight status.

Yesterday at St. Paul de Vence I heard and older American man comment to his friend as I took a photo on my iphone that he was surprised at how many “young people” used them in place of a camera. At that moment I had my Nikon digital in my bag and admitted my iPhone had better resolution than my older camera. I didn’t add, I could also directly upload to Facebook on the iPhone and had to download the camera pics first.

Okay, so this isn’t much a of tribute to a man who made a huge difference in the lives of so many people. But I am continually awed and grateful for Steve Jobs and the vision that changed the way I live my day to day life is so many ways! Thanks, Mr. J. You were one of the great geniuses of our time!

ROUGHING IT...FRANCE SUD, LAUNDRY AND ST. TROPEZ

The washing machine in our French house takes over two hours to do a single load. There’s no dryer so we’re hanging our clothes on the line out in the garden,  or at least we tried that and after six hours everything was still wet. This morning we draped our jeans and khakis over the pool furniture in the sun hoping they will dry in time to wear when we go out later.  Laundry in France just isn’t the easy process we Americans are use to. In contrast, the English of our party think this is totally normal.

In the past week, I’ve been reminded of the many differences between the US and France. Outside of Paris, most places—businesses, stores—close between noon and 2:00 or even 3:00. Forget grocery  shopping at a supermarket during those hours, they’re not open. Restaurants are full of people having a leisurely multi-course meal. Fast food? A quick sandwich? Aside from the traditional filled baguettes, the French frown on such barbaric practices. Sure, McDonald’s has popped up in the larger towns but even then the menu is far different than in the US, offering wine, beer and filled baguettes along with burgers and fries.

Here in the south of France, the pace is slower than in Paris except for the abundance of motorcycles constantly weaving in and out of traffic at an alarming pace. Even though the summer season ended  September 1, one gets the impression everyone is either on holiday or catering to the holiday crowd. Yesterday we visited St. Tropez in the afternoon and found the area around the waterfront bustling with activity. Many of the impressive sailboats which participated in the races last week were still tied up at the dock along side of huge motor yachts. The day was sunny and hot. Only the sale signs in the shops indicated the season was over. The sale signs and the lack of celebrities. But the glamor and mystic remained—it was after all St. Tropez.

THE AGONY OF PACKING

In two days I hop on a plane to Nice, France. I love traveling and have been to France countless times, yet there’s always the rush of excitement when I realize I’m really going. Soon. This time the anticipation is tinted with disappointment that my husband won’t be able to go. For business reasons he had to cancel and now I’ll be on my own for a few days before I join up with friends. Traveling alone is no problem, I’ve been doing it for years, still we’d looked forward to the time together.

Funny thing about traveling for fun—I never quite know what to pack. Business travel—no problem—but deciding which jeans, sweaters, tees, shoes, jacket to spend my limited suitcase space on...totally, absurdly stressful. To use a favorite Texas expression, “This ain’t my first rodeo.” So what’s so hard about picking out what I’m going to want to wear for two weeks? EVERYTHING!!

First there’s the weather. The average temperatures this time of year are 50’s nights and 60’s days. This year is much warmer—mid 70’s to even low 80’s. Tees, jeans and sandals? Sweaters, jeans and boots? Two very different wardrobes. We’ve rented a house so we’ll have a washing machine (which in France takes about 5 hours to do 1 load!), and yet putting on the same white shirt and blue jeans, even clean, the fifth time is hard to take. There have been times when I retired clothing items or left them behind because I couldn’t bear to ever look at them again.

Second, French women are tiny and French clothes are very expensive. My sister wears an American size 2 and a French medium or even large sometimes. Extra large? Doesn’t exist. If I don’t pack it, I probably won’t be able to buy it.

Third, what are we going to do and what clothes will be appropriate? A stroll through the chic streets of St. Tropez requires different clothes than a hike in the countryside. A nice restaurant or Monte Carlo casino requires a more polished ensemble than a village bistro. Decisions, decisions. And don’t get me started on shoes!! Comfy walkers? Stylish pumps? Sandals? Boots? How can a girl choose?

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll it figure out or at least fill up a suitcase with things I think I’ll need and let go of the angst by the time my bags are loaded in the car. Still, why does it seem that everyone else brings exactly the right things while I agonize and hope that this time I got it right?

 Got any tips you want to share? Love to hear them!

OFF THE BEATEN PATH: THE TALLEST SAND DUNE IN EUROPE

At the end of a ten day sojourn in the Bordeaux region of France, one of our traveling companions proposed a visit to the tallest sand dune in Europe. The Great Dune of Pyla (in French: la Dune du Pyla) is located in La Teste-de-Buch in the Arcachon Bay area, 60 km from the city of Bordeaux.

I’ll admit I wasn’t enthralled with the prospect of climbing a mountain of sand, but enjoyed the drive along the coast where we stopped at quaint seaside towns along the way. Arcachon Bay is on the Atlantic coast of France where the water level varies dramatically with the tide. At high tide, boats large and small sail or motor merrily in the bay. At low tide, they list in the sand like beached whales miles from the sea—a curious and strangely disturbing sight.

When we finally reached the Great Dune, this is what we found:  

   

We climbed the stairs to the top along with a steady stream of people ranging from small children to old women. Some visitors wore shorts, tee shirts and sneakers; other arrived in their Sunday best (probably because it was Sunday.) From the peak the bay spread out three hundred feet below—a spectacular view worth the climb. On the sandy plateau families picnicked, couples napped, groups of teenagers played ball or Frisbee as though it was a beach.

The day was sunny and warm, but we didn’t stay long.  The slide back down the dune, a swift and exciting falling through fine white sand, beckoned and didn’t disappoint. All in all, the Great Dune was well worth the excursion—a memorable experience off the beaten path.