Park it

Wherever I travel, I seek out parks. They're places to rest between sightseeing sorties, eat the lunch food in your backpack, and, especially, people watch. Because parks are open to all and because all people need places to relax, reflect, recreate and regroup, parks are truly windows onto a place's diversity. There are few better ways to sense the depth, richness and variety of a place's inhabitants than to spend an hour in one of its parks. Here, some people I enjoyed watching one sunny afternoon in Paris's Parc des Buttes Chaumont, a gorgeous green space whose centerpiece is a lookout belvedere atop a rocky, 100-foot-high hillock (click the images to enlarge) :









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Vagabond sunbirds

We in New England, like folks in many parts of the US, are having a rough winter. Snow that won't quit and brutal, sub-zero temps. ("These are good days to teach kids about negative numbers," said Joan, a yoga-mate and retired math teacher.) Meteorologists tell us we're looking down the barrel of our fourth major snowstorm in as many weeks.

Ever since we began traveling Mike and I have made mental notes of cities, towns or villages that would make nice havens in winter, knowing that at some point we'll want to flee Boston's cold for somewhere else's relative warmth. Every once in a while -- including recently, with cheap foreclosures flooding the market -- we've been tempted to buy a place in Florida. But we'd be tied to it, and that's not what we want.

Our plan is to spend the coldest months of our retirement years in various places, renting our way around the world. No mortgage, no furniture to buy, no taxes, no maintenance, no feelings of obligation to go or guilt if you don't. We'd rather find a beachfront cottage or apartment in some pretty place, pay a few months rent, and settle in for an extended stay, immersing ourselves in our temporary neighborhoods and living like the locals. Then, the next year, put down seasonal stakes in a new place.

The Mediterranean and Aegean will no doubt figure in our future sunbird plans. We've scouted beautiful, quiet places like Albufeira, Portugal; Menton, France; Italy's Ligurian coastline; Chania on the island of Crete; Nafplion in Greece's Peloponnese; history-rich Antalya, Turkey; and fishing villages like Spain's Calella de Palafrugell, pictured above.

It's February in Calella in these photos, yet warm and sunny enough for a stroll on the beach or a relaxing rest on a bench overlooking the harbor. It may not be sunbathing weather, but it sure beats shoveling.

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Under the cloak: Creepy crawlies

Wood carvings might be the world's most ubiquitous souvenir. You can find "traditional local crafts" made of wood nearly anywhere with trees and tourists.

My collection of wooden geegaws from around the globe includes a Buddhist prayer wheel from Nepal, a foot-long manatee from Belize and infant-sized clogs from Brittany.

But the Masai woman from Kenya, pictured here, cured me of carvings and is the last one I will ever buy.

When we returned home from Africa I displayed the carving on the sideboard in our dining room alongside other souvenirs of our travels. One night while we were eating I glanced at the sideboard and noticed that the top of it seemed to be moving.

I got up to inspect and let out a scream that made Mike drop his fork. "Bugs! Bugs are crawling out of this carving!" The Masai woman was alive with tiny critters that were spilling from behind the piece of intact tree bark that had been shaped into a cloak that ran down her back. I picked her up and threw her into the kitchen sink while Mike ran a Pledge-dampened rag over the sideboard to collect the insects.

I ran hot water over the infested carving and watched scores of beasties fall out of it and disappear down the drain. Scalding and drowning the bugs was probably sufficient, but for good measure I ground them up in the garbage disposal. Then I took the piece outside and pried the bark cloak that housed the critters off with a butter knife.

I scrubbed the area that had been under the bark with a Brillo pad, then shot half a can of Raid ant killer all over the carving, steps I later repeated.

It took a few hours for the wet, Raid-infused carving to dry in the July sun, but I kept it outside on our concrete stoop for a few days, checking it often for signs of life.

When I was satisfied that my eradication methods had been successful I returned the cloak-less lady to her perch on the sideboard.

I do like her but admit to feeling a hint of the heebie jeebies when I look at her.

There's a world of wood carvings out there waiting for us tourists, suckers for traditional local crafts. You've been warned; some harbor stowaways.

Caveat emptor. And if you do buy, keep the Raid handy.

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Flotsam, jetsam, seaglass and shards

There's a mosaic in my future.

All around my house, in glass vases, copper boxes and bowls that once belonged to Bedouins and Buddhist monks, are bits and pieces of flotsam and jetsam from bodies of water, sidewalks and trash piles around the world, and I value these as highly as any travel souvenirs I've collected.

Someday, when I have nothing to do, I'll gather in one place these intriguing chunks of detritus, along with my scores of stones and seashells spirited from dozens of beaches, and I'll design a mosaic that gives each nugget a special spot in some big, bold picture.

Each piece brings me back to the place where I acquired it: water-worn teacup handles and porcelain dinnerware shards washed up on Lake Como's rocky shore; a hunk of marble paving stone from an old Lisbon sidewalk; pieces of painted wall tile from a junk heap beside an 18th-century Porto home undergoing renovation; black rocks with white circles in their middles -- eyeball rocks, I call them -- found on the French shore of Lake Geneva; charms that once hung from strands of Mardi Gras beads thrown from floats navigating the streets of New Orleans; shells and coral from the Red Sea; shells and salty stones from the Dead Sea; fragments of pottery and pavement from Petra and ancient Argos; cooled lava from an ancient eruption of Chile's Mount Osorno; and green, white, blue, amber and yellow seaglass from oceans and lakes around the globe.

I'm thinking my mosaic will be a map of the world.

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Scuba Lisa: Paris for heretics

I may catch some merde for this from tourists whose itineraries are ruled by generally accepted and rarely questioned must-see lists gleaned from all the guidebooks and articles and websites ever written about a place and who feel incomplete if they leave items unticked, but I suggest you skip the following Paris sights should you have but a few days to a week to spend in the City of Light in high season.

In my humble but well-traveled opinion, the return on time required to see these sights like the guidebooks say you ought is low.

Unless you're an early riser and can get on line at these places well before they open so you can get in and out before the rest of the world shows up, don't see:

1. Versailles -- First, there's an hour train ride. If you're not on one of the first out of Paris in the morning, you're already behind the eight ball. Second, those incredible gardens that all the guidebooks say are free? They're not. On top of the 20-odd bucks you pay to tour the palace you pay another 11-odd bucks to walk around the kings' old backyard. Third, the only thing in Versailles with eye-popping, knock-your-socks-off "wow!" factor is the Hall of Mirrors -- it's what you go for, right? After I spent five-plus hours of my life and precious Paris time to see its chandeliers and dusty, etched-with-graffiti mirrors (I kid you not) I found myself wishing I had those five hours back, to do something else with.

Better idea: Google it.

2. The Eiffel Tower -- I'm not suggesting you miss the Eiffel Tower; in fact, it's impossible to miss, towering as it does over the city. Do take the metro to the Trocadero stop, where, from the elevated steps of the Palais de Chaillot, you get a superb view of the tower from top to bottom. Walk across the Seine to the tower and stand under it, admiring its lacy, iron skeleton.

But don't get on the line to climb the tower. You'll be on that line for so many hours before you finally reach the ticket kiosk from where you buy a ticket that lets you stand on another line to either climb the stairs or wait for a crowded elevator that you'll wish you'd a) packed several meals and b) skipped that extra cup of coffee at breakfast.

Better idea: Go to the top of ugly Tour Montparnasse. The skyscraper is an eyesore, but the views from its observation floor are the best in the city -- and include a full-on view of the Eiffel Tower.

3. The Louvre: I know I'm treading on super-sacred ground here, but I've come this far, so I'm going all in. Forget the Louvre. The inside, anyway. As Dana and I watched the thousands who were spending almost an entire day to see three things -- the Mona Lisa, the Venus de Milo and the Winged Victory; nobody really comes for the Egyptian stuff, and Paris's best paintings are in the Musee d'Orsay, which we did visit -- we chuckled as we enjoyed sunshine, architecture and people-watching in the adjacent Tuileries garden, concluding that "the best way to see the Louvre is from the outside."

Better idea: When you're at home, spend a day marvelling at the great art that's no doubt housed at a major metropolitan museum close to where you live -- art you've maybe never seen. When you're in Paris, get your Da Vinci fix from the hundreds of Mona copies smiling coyly from t-shirts, posters, billboards, fancy art reproductions and the sides of buses and thank your stars that you haven't lost hours making your way into the Louvre to stand, likely at the back of a crowd that can get ten deep, to peer at a small, dark painting under Plexiglas and then leave wondering what the fuss is all about.

Dana and I found a plethora of fake Giacondas around the city. Our favorite was Scuba Lisa, smiling from the wall of a bridge over the Canal Saint Martin in a fantastic neighborhood we wouldn't have had time for had we spent the whole day in lines at the Louvre.


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Happy Bastille Day

Bastille Day is technically over where I'm at, although the Champ de Mars under the Eiffel Tower, and the Place de Trocadero across the Seine from it, will be hopping until well into July 15th. It's 12:30 AM on the 15th now in Paris, and Dana and I are happily ensconced at our Maison Zen digs after having participated in some of the Bastille Day festivities.

In the morning, the French air force, including several squadrons of sound barrier-busting Mirages, flew over the city -- and our building.

Then the army came out. As regiments and platoons waited their turns to make their way to the military parade down the Champs-Elysees, the soldiers posed for pictures and let little boys climb up on the tanks and look through the machine gun sights.



Night brought fireworks over the Eiffel Tower.

Paris: Random samples

I said I wouldn't blog from Paris, but since we ended up with an unexpected free internet connection in our cozy digs at the Maison Zen, I can shoot a few pics your way.

Today's random samples:


So many sardines, so little time...



With owners away, Smart Cars will play

Paris, zen and now

Dana and I are off to Paris tomorrow. I can't wait to see our apartment at the Maison Zen. (Click on France in the right sidebar for previous posts on our unique accommodation choice. I've decided I will definitely partake in some of the meditation sessions while at our Om Away From Home.)

I won't be blogging from Paris. Time spent blogging is time spent not seeing Paris.

I will, however, be seeking out free WiFi hotspots so I can check out the capabilities of the tiny new netbook I just bought. I bought an Asus, about the size of a paperback. Fits in my purse and weighs almost nothing, so I can tote it around all day and check my email or jump online anywhere in the city with an open connection. Even has a webcam. Two hundred and fifty bucks.

An editor I'm working with sent me a restaurant suggestion that sounds intriguing. She wrote in an email, "Have a great time, Lori. Do you know the restaurant Chartier? ( 7 rue du Faubourg in Montmartre). We spent a lot of time in France when my boys were small and before coming home we always had a week in Paris. We all came to love this old-fashioned place, which still has the wooden napkin boxes lining the walls. It’s not fancy...a big boisterous joint with great French waiters. Good poulet and very basic bistro stuff. It’s very popular even with the natives and there can be long lines. We learned to go on the early side (6:30 ish) to beat the crowds. The street is funky... we discovered some terrific costume stores. Bought a few masks that we still treasure. "

(How's your French? Visit Chartier via YouTube here. At least you'll understand "l'atmosphere historique," non?)

I've put Chartier on the list.

A bientot, mes amis. Jusqu' a la semaine prochaine.

www.LoriHein.com

Paris: Off the postcard track

I will show Dana all of the essential tourist sights of Paris. We'll see the Louvre, the d'Orsay, Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower, bateaux mouches plying the green Seine, the Latin Quarter, the Tuileries, Montmartre, the Champs Elysees, Versailles and all the other must-sees.

But I also want to explore some unique and lesser known sides of Paris and have come up with this list of off-the-beaten-postcard-track sights and activities:

Velib bike rentals -- Paris is one of the growing number of cities to offer low-cost bicycle rentals. Velib -- a meshing of velo, meaning bike, and liberte -- lets you rent a bike from one of many kiosks around the city for one euro for a full day. Cheap, fun, healthy (if you don't get hit by a Citroen). Says the Velib website, "La ville est plus belle a velo."

Covered passages and galleries -- More than a score of centuries-old covered arcades, passages and shopping galleries sit tucked away in a dozen Paris neighborhoods. Some of those I'll be on the lookout for include the passages Dauphine, Grand Cerf, Colbert, Brady, Verdeau, Jouffroy, Vero-Dodat and des Panoramas, and the galleries Vivienne and Lafayette.

Metro art -- Besides the Paris metro's 88 remaining Hector Guimard-designed Art Nouveau entrance signs and entrances, which you can admire from street level, many metro stations offer underground eye-candy worth seeking out even if you don't take a subway ride. Art, sculpture, treasured walls of graffiti, whimsy, sleek industrial design elements, even portholes Jules Verne would love -- it's all there underground.

Les Arenes de Lutece -- on the Left Bank, off the Rue Monge, sit the ruins of 1st century A.D. Roman amphitheatres, used now as a public park and often hosting groups of boys playing pick-up soccer games. One of the few places left to remind you (the Musee de Cluny is another) that Paris was once the epicenter of Roman Gaul.

Saint-Ouen Flea Market - I once lived in Paris for six months and never made it to Porte de Clignacourt for Paris's biggest and most famous marche aux puces, or flea market. This visit, I'm packing an empty collapsible tote bag to carry home the exciting used treasures I plan to unearth as I comb through Saint-Ouen's acres of stalls.

Montorgueil -- A Right Bank neighborhood north of Chatelet-Les Halles with vibrant street life and pedestrian-only sections that invite window-shopping, cafe-sitting and people-watching (although what part of Paris doesn't...).

Sundials -- In parks, gardens and courtyards, set into cobbles and affixed to the facades of buildings, Paris is full of cadrans solaires, many that have been casting their delicate gnomonic shadows for hundreds of years. Sundial spotting in the City of Light.

Promenade Plantee -- One of the reasons I chose the Maison Zen as our accommodation (see previous post) is its proximity to this three-mile long elevated pedestrian trail that runs from the Bastille almost all the way to the Bois de Vincennes. Dana and I need a good place to run while we're in Paris, and this is a great spot. The paved trail, complete with trees and plantings and benches, occupies the top of an abandoned railroad viaduct. Cyclists, joggers and walkers take to its elevated length while browsers and diners check out the Viaduc des Arts, a stretch of shops and cafes tucked between the viaduct's arches at street level.

Canal Saint Martin -- Our Om Away From Home is also not far from the Canal Saint Martin neighborhood, and I'm looking forward to taking a boat ride on the canal, which empties into the Seine to the south. For some part of its length, the Canal Saint Martin runs underground. Sitting in an open boat on a thin waterway in the middle of Paris and disappearing into a narrow black tunnel eliminates the need to even contemplate a visit to Disneyland Paris. Thank you, Canal Saint Martin.

Piscine Pontoise -- Paris is peppered with indoor swimming pools, but the one I want to splash in is this 1930s Latin Quarter art deco gem with a high glass ceiling. I have to remember to pack a bathing cap.

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Paris: Om Sweet Home

I just cashed in a wad of American Express points and scored two free tickets to Paris for me and Dana. We're going in July.

I'm excited to spend a quality week with Dana before she throws herself full tilt into the college application process, which will consume a big part of her summer.

I know Paris well, and I spent several weeks hunting online for accommodations with the perfect mix of location, quiet, affordability, character and safety.

In an upcoming post I'll share the search techniques I used. The Internet offers such a wealth of tools and information that there's no excuse anymore for checking blindly into a hotel or apartment; indeed the Web lets you virtually visit before you book. I had a blast exploring buildings, streets and neighborhoods before settling on what promises to be a unique and peaceful haven in the center of the City of Light: The Maison Zen.

We'll have to leave our shoes at the door -- and we can't host any loud parties -- but for less than $650 for a week, we have a studio apartment with a kitchenette on the top floor of the Paris Zen Center. The elegant building is in a gated location off the busy street, and the apartment windows give on to a quiet courtyard. We're a block from the Place de la Bastille.

Owned and run by Jakob Perl and his wife, artist Grazyna Perl, the Paris Zen Center is the European hub of the Kwan Um School of Zen, founded by a Korean Zen master. Both Jakob and his wife are Zen masters; Jakob is known as WuBong, and Grazyna is Bon Yo.

Kwan Um Zen employs meditation, sitting, chanting and sharing living space and meals to help followers attain a "clear and compassionate mind" that is able to "help all beings." As guests of Maison Zen, Dana and I are welcome to participate in the Center's activities but are not compelled to do so.

I'm not big on meditation; sitting still doing nothing tends to make me crazy, and yoga is about as far along the spectrum of zenishness as I've been able to get. But I'm thinking a little om at the end of a day of sightseeing might be refreshing.


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Traffic jam on Mont Blanc

One summer day a few years back we took the cable car from Chamonix up to the Aiguille du Midi, a dramatic rock pinnacle surrounded by needle-like formations, to take in the sweeping views of the French, Swiss and Italian Alps, including a face to face meeting with mighty Mont Blanc, Europe's highest.
The sight of wave after wave of white mountaintops rolling to the far horizon like an endless ice-pricked ocean was worth the rocky ride in the jam-packed telepherique -- think loud German guys on holiday greeting each swing up onto the bump-generating cable pylons with shouts of, "Alles, Hander hoch!", "Everybody, hands up!" and then busting with laughter as their huge feet and body weight remet the cabin floor after the pylon wheel spit us off its other side. I was sheet-white the whole ride and thought I might vomit on the Germans' shoes. I practiced my I'm sorrys -- whoops, tut mir leid -- in my head.

Once we got to the Aiguille du Midi viewing station, Mont Blanc's vast glacier-covered mass so close it covered us all in deep blue shadow, we found another traffic jam, the jam of climbers making their crampon-clad bids for Mont Blanc's summit or, having done so and hopefully succeeded, picking their way back down to Chamonix. At one point I counted nearly 30 climbers in a single eye sweep.

The cable car ride back to terra bassa was more interesting than the ride up because, in addition to us tourists there were gear-laden climbers, almost all of them men, and marvelously fit ones as you might expect, who'd conquered Mont Blanc but felt like riding back down.

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(I've redesigned my website. Please check it out, and forward the link to anyone you know who might have writing projects they need help with. I'm still pumping out magazine and newspaper articles but want to take on more business and copywriting gigs. Thanks.)

They eat horses, don't they?

In the spirit of summer vacation and not working much -- indeed, not working at all -- I'm taking the lazy route this week and recycling a story some of you may have read. To most it will be new fare. Don't forget the barbecue sauce:

The passage by the U.S. House of Representatives of the Horse Slaughter Prevention Act to "prohibit the shipping, transporting, moving, delivering, receiving, possessing, purchasing, selling, or donation of horses and other equines to be slaughtered for human consumption" may, if the Senate concurs, render illegal the work of Beltex, Cavel and Dallas Crown, the three foreign-owned horse slaughter plants located in the U.S that kill horses and ship the meat to France, Italy, Belgium and Japan, where people buy the flesh in restaurants and in their grocers' meat cases. (Appaloosa al fredo... pan-fried Friesian... Quarterhorse cutlets... marinated Morgan...)

Dana, my resident horse lover, has been to three of those four countries, and to five other countries where equine equals entree and, until our last trip to France, I’d been able to keep the awful horse-eating truth from her. “Cheval” in a store window? “Maybe they sell tack.” A horse head cut-out above a grocery store door? “The owners must love horses.”

Now that she’s older and can’t be fooled or fibbed to, Dana knows: People eat the animals she loves.

A few months ago we rented an apartment in Thonon-les-Bains on the southern, French shore of Lake Geneva, and we’d spend an hour of each day in the Intermarche, a big-box grocery store, stocking up on baguettes and brie, wine and water, and fun things to pack for lunches on the road and dinners on the patio. The four of us would fan out, and each person would scout down his or her desired comestibles. We’d meet at the grocery cart, throw in our finds, then continue until we’d covered all the aisles.

We weren’t two minutes into our first Intermarche reconnaissance mission when Dana found the shrink-wrapped styrofoam packages of horse steak, arrayed pleasantly between the beef and chicken.

“Cheval! This is HORSE!”

Yes, Dana, it is.”

“They eat horses here?”

“Yes, sweetie, they do.”

While Dana stared down at the flourescent-lit meat case and processed this evil news, Adam loaded up on beef. He was consistent in his Intermarche purchases, having zeroed in early on what he liked, then sticking with it for the whole week. Every day, he bought apricots, Pepsi and steak. I’d saute the thin steak in olive oil, and Adam would layer it inside a baguette. That saved me a little dishwashing over the course of the week, as he used little silverware. Nearly all his meals were eaten with one hand.

Near the end of our stay, on one of our last trips to Intermarcheland, Adam zoomed to the meat case for his beef fix. Dana went with him. He chose carefully. He picked up several packages, inspected them, then settled on the best-looking steak of the lot. Happy with his choice, he doubled back to produce to score a few apricots.

Dana let him get almost to the checkout lanes then said, “Adam, your steak is horse.”

“What, Dana?”

“Look at the label. Cheval. That means horse. You’re going to eat horse.”

Adam dropped foreign languages in high school as soon as he had enough credits to satisfy college entry requirements. He hadn’t read the meat package label, but couldn’t have deciphered it if he had. He’d chosen solely on the sweet, pink look of the meat.

“Gross," he said to Dana.

“Yeah.”

The horse went back to the meat case, and Adam replaced it with a piece of cow destined to be browned in olive oil and served on a baguette.

www.LoriHein.com

Bookstore souvenirs

I traveled to Cape Cod last night to see a dear friend and to sign books at a fundraiser for her daughter's school. The event was in Falmouth, one of my favorite Cape Cod towns, and was hosted by Inkwell Bookstore, a beautiful shop on Falmouth's Main Street. If your travels take you to the Cape, pop in and browse and say hello to owners Kathleen and Michelle.

Books make wonderful travel souvenirs. Forays into stacks and along shelves of booksellers around the world have netted me a collection of interesting and quirky titles. Among them:

From Jamaica: Mi Granny Seh Fi Tell Yu Seh: The A to Z of Jamaicanisms, with advice on topics like Grief, Family, Confidence, Patience and Aspiration. From the chapter on Opportunity: "Hog wash enna de fus wata 'im ketch." Translation: "A hog washes in the first water he sees/Take advantage of the first opportunity."

Also from Jamaica: A Code of Conduct For Police-Citizen Relations. The "Attitudes of Approach" section offers this advice for citizens approached by the police: "RUNNING AWAY: Whether you have committed an offence or not, irrespective of how frightened you may feel, DO NOT RUN AWAY! TO DO SO MAY MAKE YOU APPEAR GUILTY."

From China: A dutifully well-thumbed, pocket-sized copy of The Quotations of Mao Zedong, known in the West as the Little Red Book. I can't read the copyright date because it's in Chinese, but it's clearly Cultural Revolution-era, when carrying the book and studying it daily were compulsory. I bought it from a sidewalk bookseller and paid him his two dollar asking price without haggling. Pleased with the ease and profit of the transaction, he threw in a free antique porcelain teacup.

From a Bergen, Norway souvenir shop (photo) that stocked trolls and kiddy lit: colorful chapter books with blond, rosy-cheeked tots on their covers and Il-Vjaggi Ta' Gulliver. Gulliver's name's the same, but, being plurals, Lilliputians become Lilliputjani in Norwegian.

From an antique and used book shop in Eton, England, home of 15th century Eton College and a short footbridge walk over the Thames from Windsor Castle: How to Lay a Nest Egg: Financial Facts of Life for the Average Girl, copyright 1950. It begins: "Ladies, this book is about You. Some girls (that includes the author's wife) have long wished they could lay eggs instead of having children the cumbersome human way... But laying a nest egg is something else again; something quite within your power -- yours alone, no daddy required, not even a sugar daddy."

From Kenya: Wisdom of Maasai. The introduction tells us "these proverbs reveal the knowledge inherited by the speakers of Maa. It is good that the children read this wisdom so that they do not forget completely. Proverbs are an integral part of the Maasai language. A Maasai hardly speaks ten sentences without using at least one proverb." A sample from the "Conduct" chapter: "Menyanyuk enchikati enkutuk o eno siadi/ The odour from the mouth (words) is stronger than the odour from the arms."

In Perros-Guirec in Brittany, a region in northwest France that sits on the sea and has deep Celtic roots, I picked up a little green book of Breton proverbs, Krennlavariou Brezhonek. The book delivers its gems in Breton, French and English:

"A bep liv marc'h mat, A bep bro tud vat/ De toute couleur bon cheval, de tout pays gens de valeur."

Translation: "Good horses come in all colours, good people come from all countries."

Provence: Two traveler-tested villa rentals

My sister, Leslie, returned from an August trip to Provence with rave reviews on two properties she rented with her family. Renting abroad is one of my favorite ways to travel, so I thought I'd share Leslie's comments and links to the properties she rented. (See my June 14, 2007 post for tips on renting property abroad -- there is a key out there with your name on it.)

Said Leslie about her rental near St. Remy, France, where Vincent van Gogh painted Starry Night:

"Loved the hospitality of the host. And the place itself - you really need to see this place. It was huge - a big bastide or Provencal-style farmhouse. It had so much character, so much property, a great built-in pool and hammock and boules court. Just wonderful. Felt like we were living the Provencal life." Check it out at www.romanil.com:80/anglais.htm .

Of her rental in Nice, she said:

"Loved the location - across the street from the beach -- the Riviera -- on the Promende des Anglais and just down the street from the Negresco Hotel (photo) and great dining. Also, a fabulous kitchen and bathroom and an area outside where you could eat, relax, read. The water at the beach was gorgeous - bright blue and pristine." Check out this property at www.vrbo.com/9192 .

And, while you're checking out vacation rental listings, take a look at my sister's place in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. Available year-round, it's a beautiful base from which to enjoy foliage season or to ski, swim, golf, bike, hike, relax... Find it here: www.cyberrentals.com/NH/SullNHWV.html .

www.LoriHein.com

Playing with rocks: That's Nice

My sister and her family are heading to the south of France in August, and she asked my help in locating a rental apartment. I steered her to Interhome and to Vacation Rentals By Owner (VRBO), and she just booked, through VRBO, a ground floor unit with a front yard and garden on Nice's Promenade des Anglais, the broad, beachfront boulevard where everyone goes to see and be seen.

The Hotel Negresco, an orange-domed, art deco confection, is a few doors down from the property, and the Baie des Anges, Nice's wide, crescent-shaped beach, is across the street.

The beach is covered not with sand, but with large, smooth rocks, not terribly comfy for sunbathing. People with money rent a chaise for the day at one of the many beach clubs that line the Promenade des Anglais. Those on a budget spread thick towels and shift their buttocks frequently, trying to carve out soft little culverts for their body parts.

Others, like this guy who'd likely be building sand castles were there any sand, take the when-God-gives-you-lemons approach and have some fun with the stones.

Ribbons: Happiness guaranteed

Paris: Bittersweet chocolate

As soon as we landed in Paris, I knew my experience would be different from the other students I’d flown across the Atlantic with. Their host families were waiting for them at the airport, smiling, shaking hands, offering help with luggage. My family didn’t show up.

After hours of waiting, the exchange program’s liaison tracked down the ex-husband of the woman I was to live with, and he came, grumpy and unwelcoming, to pick me up and deliver me to her apartment. He tore through Paris traffic, making no attempt to disguise his annoyance at being called away from the office. He hurled unforgivingly fast French at me, a 19-year-old college student who’d never been abroad. It dawned on me in those 75-kilometer-per-hour moments that I might be spending the next five months in survival mode. To show Monsieur that I wasn’t the easy target he assumed, I hurled the fastest French I could muster back at him. It wasn’t very good, but it was good enough to make my point. He stopped talking, and we never spoke again.

At the apartment, the first complete sentences my hostess uttered to me were, “Lori! Que faites-vous dedans la? L’eau coute comme le vin! – Lori! What are you doing in there? Water costs as much as wine!” This through the bathroom door as I washed my hands and face after my 10 hours in transit. Not 15 minutes inside my new home, I began coveting the other students’ families. Like Barry’s. While I was fated to having my tap water consumption monitored, Barry, lucky boy, scored a family that had greeted him at the airport with news about a Citroen and Normandy farmhouse they’d put at his disposal.

My hostess, as she would soon tell me, took in students only for the money. She got a stipend from my college, and for that, in addition to a room, she was to supply a minimum of two showers per week and 1,800 combined breakfast and dinner calories per day. That is exactly what she supplied.

She set up domestic devices designed to keep me from consuming any more water or food than she was required to provide. On every morning of the week save two that we agreed upon in advance, Madame would lay a mesh drying rack across the bathtub and cover it with sopping, just-washed laundry. She’d go to work confident that I couldn’t penetrate the clever barrier and steal a shower. To prevent me from helping myself to more than the prescribed caloric minimum, she’d lay out my breakfast – a roll, dollop of jelly, one tea bag and two sugar cubes – the night before. I had only to boil water, already measured out in the teapot on the stove, and pour the milk, also measured into a tiny carafe waiting on the top shelf of the fridge. At night, we took our dinner in the living room, in front of the television, and whatever was on my plate when I sat down was all there would be. To make clear her position on seconds, Madame kept the kitchen door closed until it was time to clear the table.

The hours I spent in my classes on art and history and literature were my best hours in Paris. When my mind was busy, I didn’t dwell on how lonely and dirty and hungry I was. So hungry that I took to lifting two or three cookies a day from Madame’s countertop jar, careful to remove the top cookies, take my few from underneath, then replace the top layer exactly as it had been, in case Madame had memorized the layout before she’d gone to work.

A raw January rain brought me to the Monoprix for the first time. My umbrella had blown inside out, and I had to replace it, cheaply. Whether I bought an umbrella that day I don’t recall, but I left with the first of what would become 20 eventual, precious bars of chocolate.

I’d looked at chocolate before, in other stores, but the price per bar was about four francs, then about a dollar, three decades ago a considerable sum for a student with no money and five months left to make it last. There in the Monoprix, on the lower level, one aisle from the shampoo and soap, sat rows of chocolate bars, including a stack in deep pink paper, stamped with a picture of ripe raspberries, and wrapped around a glittery skin of gold foil. These cost one franc, eighty centimes – less than 50 cents. I held one, ran my hand over its wrapper, brought it to my face and inhaled, imagining what it would be like to break off a piece and let it melt on my tongue.

From that day, the raspberry chocolate from the Monoprix basement became one of two positive constants in my Parisian life, the other the silent splendor of Notre Dame, where I’d often escape the city and sit in a back pew to watch the play of light through the cathedral’s soaring stained glass.

I allowed myself one chocolate bar a week, savoring it and making it last as long as I could. I’d break off the first square – one of the little pillows that held the raspberry cream – and celebrate the passing of another week. One more down, only so many to go. Then I’d fold the gold foil over the chocolate, slide the pink wrapper back on, and place the bar in the outermost pocket of my book bag, on top, where it wouldn’t be crushed.

Some days, I’d carry my chocolate to Notre Dame. Sitting in a quiet corner, folding back the gold foil, smelling the butteriness before I took a taste, I felt peace, and sometimes joy. I was in my sanctuary, bathed by the color streaming from my windows, relishing my raspberry cream and the brown richness that wrapped it.

Thirty years later I can taste it still.


www.LoriHein.com

Sky-high streets: The stone villages of Provence

I take you to a beautiful corner of the French Riviera in this month's Go World Travel magazine. From our base in seaside Menton (above), my family and I explored a string of ancient towns perched in the Maritime Alps, which begin their rise just miles from the Mediterranean.

Click here to read the story, "Sky-high streets: The stone villages of Provence." (Before you click, let me apologize for the half-dozen or so editorial errors. Phrases like "we our car" and "as I we eased the car pushed upward" never sprang from my keyboard. Editors are busy people, and, well, stuff happens. You grin -- or not -- and bear it. )


LoriHein.com; Read Ribbons of Highway: A Mother-Child Journey Across America on your computer screen. Download the e-book.

La Sainte Chapelle: Poetry in glass

Notre Dame's rose window gets all the attention, but stained glass junkies looking for an exquisite fix should head around the corner to La Sainte Chapelle, which, like Notre Dame, sits on the Ile de la Cite, ancient center of Paris.

Now surrounded by the Palais de Justice, Sainte Chapelle was built from 1246-1248 by Louis IX, France's "Crusader King," to house what Louis believed were pieces of Christ's cross and crown of thorns. The soaring gothic chapel has two levels. The lower chapel was built for the king's servants and contains impressive sculpture and woodwork, but it's the upper chapel that knocks your socks off. Adam climbed the staircase first, and, on entering the royal family's sanctuary, bathed in technicolor sunlight, let out a loud, laudatory "Wow!" The 13th-century windows start at the floor and keep going, and they embrace you on all sides. To stand in Sainte Chapelle on a brilliant afternoon is to indulge in an overwhelming visual feast.

Louis IX, who became Saint Louis, went on two crusades, which earned him the epithet "Most Christian King." In a letter to his oldest son, Philip, he offered advice on how to live and rule in a Christian manner. Pieces of his advice, including "...you should permit all your limbs to be hewn off, and suffer every manner of torment, rather than fall knowingly into mortal sin," sound like hilarious soundbites from Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Other pieces (see article 32 -- very scary) are downright anti-Semitic, and certainly not very Christian.

But his windows are pure poetry.

Brittany: The march of the crabs

A Breton proverb:

E-lec'h ma vez tre ha lanv
E c'hell pep hini lakaat e anv.

La ou il y a flux et reflux,
chacun peut inscrire son nom.

Where there is ebb and flow,
everyone can write his name.

We'd rented a house on France's Rose Granite Coast in Brittany, a Celtic world in a Gallic country. We'd had previous success with rental agency Interhome and booked through them again, and they did not disappoint. For less than the price of two double hotel rooms for the week, our family of four lived regally in a seven-room house on a grassy hill above a beach in Louannec, part of the larger municipality of Perros-Guirec (Perroz Gireg in Breton).

The tide outside our back door was a magical, organic part of our Louannec days, and we found ourselves using its movements like a natural metronome. As it ebbed and flowed, we waded, walked, wandered, swam, sat and dreamed according to whether the water was full in, moving out toward the open sea, gone a mile or more from the shore, or on its way back toward us. The tide's rhythm guided our own and shaped our daily routines.

Each morning, Dana would skip down to the bay with a plastic orange bucket and a spatula she took from a kitchen drawer and collect the dead crabs exposed by the water's dawn retreat. She arranged the most colorful and interesting of the empty shells, picked clean of their meat by seagulls, in a line on a garden table that sat outside the kitchen window. Each morning, the line grew longer.

After we returned from the neighborhood boulangerie with our day's supply of soft, warm, luscious-smelling baguettes, she'd open the kitchen window and wave a baguette baton at the crabs, leading them in an imaginary march.