blueVicar

Boulder has gone green. I’m not talking about being ecologically oriented; Boulder has been that way for a long time. I’m not talking about being envious; Boulder has some keeping-up-with-the-Jones issues, but probably less than many places. I’m not talking about being Irish; Boulder has no more emphasis on the land of shamrocks than any other cultural background. I’m not talking about being nauseated; Boulder folks are not more prone to emesis than others. I’m not talking about an influx of dollars; Boulder is pretty well off but fairly stable.

No, I’m talking about real green…green grass, green leaves. Boulder has gone green.

The burnt out summer foliage yielded to the deadness of winter, and now at long last, all that has been replaced by verdant green. And not just one uniform green, but hundreds of shades of green that blend with grays or yellows or reds or blues to form an infinite range of intensities. One glance across the field where the cattle graze shows so many greens that I can’t begin to describe them.

Years ago when we decorated the big house here in Boulder I employed an interior designer to help us. She suggested a palette for our decor that reflected the hillsides: sage green, various marons, rich taupes, accented by daubs of vibrant reds, yellows and blues. It was lovely, indoors and out.

Yesterday when I walked around the open space, I saw that palette again. Of course, the house is gone, the furniture dispersed, but the colors were all out there…in the field. I like them better out under the sun.

I remember last spring when we lived in France, I depended upon the city maintained flowerbeds to let me know that the seasons were changing. And I recall the shock I felt when I looked out at the garden (a.k.a. cemetery) beside the church in Nice and saw the lawn mowers out working over the grass. I hadn’t even seen any grass much less realized that it was long enough to need cutting! It was strange really, that the coastal cities and towns of the Riviera would be so cement covered that plants only grew in the assigned boxes and beds; there were few open spaces left wild. And yet it was heavy with shrubbery, palm trees, flowers…controlled and confined, lush and luxuriant. A paradox.

So the hillsides here are a welcome sight. Dozens of kinds of grasses, cactuses and other plants decorating the slopes in a thousand shades of color…and they all look green.

What hue catches your eye these days?

Déjà-vous…all over again. The folks in the townhouse moved out today and held a yard sale on Sunday. Then yesterday morning they put out what hadn’t sold with a big sign that said “FREE”; by last night it was all gone.

How many times have we down-sized as we’ve crisscrossed continents? I shudder to think.

It all started when we prepared to sell our big house in Boulder and keep just what would fit into a European sized apartment. It seemed like we got rid of much of what we owned: home and office furniture, memorabilia, business papers, toys, clothes, kitchen items, yard tools, tchotchkes and books. Some went in yard sales, some to friends, some as donations to thrift shops. It was somewhat traumatic as much of the stuff had been with us for years and years. The funny thing that I didn’t realize at the time, was that even as much as we shed, what we put in storage would never have fit in a typical French apartment. It seemed like such a little bit, but it would have easily furnished two, or even three, apartments the size of what we eventually inhabited.

Then in France Continue reading »

This was a welcomed sight yesterday as I pulled weeds in the flower bed in front of our townhouse. It is an earring that I lost six months ago while spreading mulch in preparation for the winter. I went out with two baubles and came back in with only one. As soon as I spied it was missing, I went back out and poked and prodded the mulch hoping that I might find it, but alas it was not to be.

Then yesterday after a long walk I paused to dislodge a dandelion and some spurge, stood to go in, and my gaze wandered across the way and there within inches of the edge, right next to the sidewalk, just beside the crocus greens, was the earring half covered with dirt, the other half glimmering in the sunshine. I screamed with joy and disbelief, ran and got the camera, pulled the jewel from its hiding spot, brought it in and ran water over it. It looked exactly like the one that wintered in my jewelry box.

I had had imaginings of it being raised up, pinned to a tulip emerging from the ground, the earring dangling from one of the sturdy leaves, placed there for me by the garden gnomes. This was just as good.

“I must have looked in that spot a thousand times” was all I could think. But a thousand and one did the trick.

Have you lost anything lately that you can’t believe you can’t find?

Didn’t take long did it? Squirrels and birds seem to be taking turns…for now.

How quickly would you have figured out the trick?

Now that spring is here, I am trying to resume a schedule that includes daily walks. The cold and wind of winter in Boulder dissuaded me most days from poking my nose out of doors. But now, the sun is out, the world is becoming a palette of greens and it is time to get some fresh air.

We are very fortunate to live in a lovely part of Boulder having beautiful trails and neighborhoods that lead right up into the mountains. There is even a farm down in the valley with cows, peacocks, horses and who knows what else. It’s fairly quiet, not too much traffic. In many ways, it is idyllic.

So why with all of this beauty and nature do I mourn when I head out the door that I have so few options? I mean I can walk up the hill, down the hill, or across the hill, all lovely directions with trees, grasses, flowers, open space, gardens, sky.

But you know what’s on my mind? The Port, the Market, the Place de Gaulle, the shops, the beach, even the tourists. What an ingrate I am.

Why do I even think about those past alternatives when what I have is so good? It’s not like I’m pining every moment, yearning to be back in Antibes. Still, there’s something about stepping across the portal from inside to out that gives me flashbacks of the kinds of things that I used to see while walking.

I need a new attention setting, a shift from “urban splash” to “suburban trail.” I think it’ll just take time.

What is the setting of your attention meter?

So far so good, but we never know when these rascals will figure it out. They must wonder why we put those impossible to reach tasty treats out there for them. That is if they wonder at all…

And how about you? Had any baffling experiences lately?

I never saw anything like this in France. Oh yes, and nice license plate, huh?

K and I went to run an errand; she needed a fresh supply of face powder. We bought the perfect product in France last spring and we were optimistic that we could find it again since it came from Sephora. Incredibly, there are two of those French beauty shops within ten miles of our home.

We approached from the ideal parking spot right outside the door thinking the store here in our own 29th Street Mall looked very much like the one we used to visit on avenue Jean Medecin in Nice. Crossing the threshold, it felt quite familiar. The displays were very similar, only rearranged a little. All of the clerks were beautiful with perfect make-up, wearing black shirts and pants. The background music was the same sort of unrecognizable rock.

Yes, it didn’t take much imagination to believe we were back in France.

Smiling and friendly, a sales clerk approached us to see if we had any questions. Could she be the same young woman that helped us last year when we first bought this product? Same picture perfect face, hair, nails? She had the same porcelain skin as K, rare on the Mediterranean where it is difficult to find pale pink face powder, most skin there is darker in color with a browner tint so the beauty supplies reflect the population profile. Maybe Sephora encourages international exchange of clerks?

But no, as soon she opened her mouth, the spell was broken. She was definitely not French.

Still the experience was pleasant. We wandered through the perfumes to see if we could find Hypnose, a quite popular scent last spring. It didn’t appear on the shelf. We poked around the display of make-up brushes, finally wandering over to admire the awesome array of false eyelashes.

When there was nothing left to explore, we passed out of our new little France back into BoulderWorld, and I realized that this version of Sephora lacked one other feature of the store in Nice…at least three security guards wandered around protecting the premises there. I hadn’t really thought about it, but I don’t see those guys in the black suits in stores here.

It was an interesting interlude, visually if not auditorily, transporting. Now, if we can just get them to start baking baguettes…

Any “out of your world” experiences lately?

I’m spoiled rotten.

The other day I was driving off to a meeting across town. The snow was accumulating on the flowering tree branches but, thankfully, not the road. A damp cold was seeping into my bones.

I glanced over at the heater settings when my eye fell on that little roller button that sits low on the dashboard. I never had this particular feature in a car before, so I often forget about it. I rolled it up to “2” and within seconds felt the warmth spreading delightfully beneath me. Ahhh…a seat warmer. How did I ever live without this before?

Of course, there are other features on this car that I never had before: automatic windows, cruise control, remote door locking and opening, leather seats and steering wheel, a panel that tells me all sorts of things like the doors aren’t closed, the coolant needs checking, a headlight is burned out and any number of other messages that I haven’t yet needed. Once I was pushing various buttons investigating their functions and I rang up an emergency service that wanted to know if I was in distress. Yikes! I didn’t even know that was a possibility. After that, I read the manual before I pushed a button I couldn’t identify.

It’s amazing what cars can do these days. This one is truly a delight to drive. Our pal did us a great favor to pass it along to us when we returned from France.

Nothing like new-fangled technology to up the anty on “necessities”; I wonder if I can get a seat warmer for inside the house?

Have you found any new technological features that you can’t live without?

E. L. Doctorow once said that “writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.” You don’t have to see where you’re going, you don’t have to see your destination or everything you will pass along the way. You just have to see two or three feet ahead of you. This is right up there with the best advice about writing, or life, I have ever heard.

–from bird by bird, Anne Lamott, 1994

I wake slowly from my sleep in the early morning to the sound of one rooster in the one o’clock direction. He sounds old and steady always starting off in the dark to stir me first. He comes from a farm just a couple of yards over. They have geese and sheep and who knows what? A dark looking old farm on the edge of the fields. I can see it from the bedroom windows.

Then from behind my head, from behind the house, the old couple’s farm, just one yard over. The gardeners. I hear their rooster next. He joins the first rooster crowing . This Old French gardening farmer I see daily on various tractors on different parcels, working the fields. I think these folks own most of the area or did at some point. I always wave to him.

Two roosters, I roll over. The duo goes on crowing for a little bit. Then the third rooster, right on time, starts up and joins his neighbors. Three roosters crowing every French morning.

This third rooster starts going off after the sun Continue reading »

No man’s life can be encompassed in one telling. There is no way to give each year its allotted weight, to include each event, each person who helped to shape a lifetime. What can be done is to be faithful in spirit to the record and try to find one’s way to the heart of the man.

–from the movie Gandhi, Richard Attenborough, 1982

We went out for a wonderful meal Saturday night, a gift from my parents for Christmas. The eatery we selected served Mediterranean fare, though it would not be readily confused with a Riviera restaurant. Still, with a nice Côte du Rhone red it was a very pleasant dining experience.

And the food was delicious. The three of us divided our attention between fish (pistachio crusted halibut), meat (roasted lamb) and poultry (crispy duck breast), all bedecked with savory sauces, crispy fresh vegetables, and luscious sides like polenta, garlic potatoes or risotto cakes. And the desserts, well, let me just say that mine was such a pleasant surprise that I almost wept. Called Gateau Basque with figs, it arrived warm, a yellow cake hiding a creamy filling smothered in delectable figs. The other desserts weren’t lacking either, a date tart and a Chocolate Symphony (mousse, nougat, les langues des chats, ice cream and a pot au creme. Yep, it was all yummy.

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Two book resources have become my favorites since returning to Boulder: the public library and ordering used books online. Oh, I’ve made trips to the local bookstores steeping myself in the topics, the covers, the simple joy of so many new books waiting to be read. And I’ve gone to a few used bookstores where there‘s always a treasure waiting to be discovered.

But budgetary constraints and concerns of being too materialistic led me to the library as my first book haven. We have a good public library system here in Boulder. The main branch is downtown in a lovely setting not far from the Pearl Street Mall. Attached by a walkway across Boulder Creek, is a building with a large auditorium and ample space for art exhibits. Since they frequently host eclectic offerings, people are always milling about so there is none of that dead space feel of an empty hall. Our local branch is within walking distance…if you want a good long walk through a ho-hum neighborhood. Not very large, it serves as a good intermediary and has a better collection of DVDs than the main branch.

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A poem begins with a lump in the throat; a homesickness or a love-sickness. It is a reaching out toward expression, an effort to find fulfillment. A complete poem is one where an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found the word.

–from Robert Frost, born 26 March, 1874

I stopped by La France Profonde the other day and read Betty’s story about seeing (or not seeing) people around town reading books. What an interesting observation! I used to marvel how many folks read books while on the train or bus between Nice and Antibes in France. Here in Boulder, I rarely see anyone reading. Of course, in fairness, I don’t ride the bus or train nearly as often here. And I don’t spend a lot of time in cafés or other lounging places. Still, it does warm my heart to see someone nose-in-book, oblivious to the world.

I started thinking about the differences between where we lived in France and where we live now with respect to books. I started out writing just an observation or two. Then I thought of something else…and then another thing…and now this has turned into the first of a two-part series!

Let me say first that I love books. I love words. I love to read. When we first went to France we took so little stuff…and no books. We had reduced our personal library considerably and for the first two years put even that meager lot in storage. Just knowing that I had no books made my desire all the stronger; my yearning to find reading materials sent me on a search for resources.

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One of the things that I really like about being back in the USA is Netflix. Call me shallow, but I love movies. We don’t have cable, but we bought a TV just so we could watch movies more comfortably. It’s nothing fancy still it beats three adult sized people crowding around a notebook computer to regard the show.

In Antibes we discovered that the new local library had a lot of movies that could be checked out, many of which had English subtitles if not English dialogue. (We are lucky that our native tongue is the same as Hollywood productions.) So, I would visit the library quite often and go through the options; there was a lot of turnover so they changed frequently. We got to see some classics and a few newer shows as well that way. I had forgotten until writing this that the library sorted their movies alphabetically by director’s last name, not title. An interesting difference that emphasizes the artist instead of the production, hein? To my uninformed self, this meant that the assortment was virtually random.

But Netflix is hard to beat. They have wwwaaayyyyy more selection than I can consider; they even have a lot of obscure and foreign movies. The only one that I’ve checked for several times on the service and can’t find is Continue reading »