June blooms

Last weekend, I attended the high school graduation of someone very dear to me -- someone I have watched grow from a chubby little cherub to a poised and beautiful young woman.  She was the first baby in my circle of friends, and thus I am experiencing -- for the first time -- that particular generational changing-of-the-guard.

It is true that the graduate's mother and I dominated the dance floor all night long, but even though there is much life in us yet (it is to be hoped), that freshness -- what used to be described as "bloom" -- will not come again.  As pleased as I am for my young friend, I cannot help but feel a pang of envy for all of the choices and opportunities still open to her.

It's not that I regret the road I took, but I want the road-not-taken as well.  Is it possible to be satisfied and grateful . . . and yet a little bit greedy, too?

May: hymn of light, colour and leaf

May, in England, is extravagantly beautiful.

The garden is at its most demanding, but also its most rewarding.  A lesson in this?
Weeding, watering, feeding, and tweaking could take up every hour of the day, but on a sunny day those jobs are a pleasure.

May makes a person want to wax lyrical. 
Adam Nicolson, the heir to Sissinghurst -- one of the most famous gardens in the world -- wrote this:

This is a damp, lush country.  The late winters are grey and depressing. The spring is often a disappointment. But then in May, the condition of our life in these islands becomes heavenly.  "When I die," Monty Don wrote in The Ivington Diaries, published last year, "I shall go to May.  It will be green, actually the colour green in all its thousand shining faces.  Every moment will be like the arc of a diver breaking the waters of a green lake, a shifting, growing hymn of light, colour and leaf."

And yes, the world is so green . . . but full of other colours, too.
Lilac, wisteria, peony, allium, bluebell:  these are the May palette.

And horses kiss in a green, green field full of buttercups and white-blossomed May trees.

Shakespeare and Company

While the book doth live

and we have wits to read

and praise to give

Thou art alive still

Shakespeare and Company:  Is there a more storied bookstore in the world?

If you go to Notre Dame, and what tourist doesn't, it is just across the river on the Left Bank . . . so close to the Seine that a "well-thrown apple core will easily reach river water," says Jeremy Mercer, in Books, Baguettes & Bedbugs.

When I was 21, and visiting Paris for my first grown-up time, I read Ernest Hemingway's A Moveable Feast.  In that memoir to his Parisian salad days, Hemingway describes Sylvia Beach's Shakespeare and Company -- the gathering place for the literati of the time.  Beach, an American expatriate, was hosting her version of the Parisian salon -- with a capitalistic twist, aptly.  She became known for her friendships, for her encouragement of writers and for the frequent readings sponsored by the bookstore.  Like her friend Gertrude Stein, she was a lesbian -- and Paris created a space for her to be truly herself.  As Stein said, America is my country and Paris is my hometown.

When mainstream publishers wouldn't touch James Joyce's Ulysses, Sylvia Beach bankrolled its publication.  Although the novel didn't make her any money, it did add luster to the legendary bookstore.  A biography of James Joyce graces one of  the window displays and is one of many reminders of the bookstore's rich history.

The second World War closed the bookstore's doors for a decade, but in 1951 another American, George Whitman, bought some of Beach's book collection and opened a bookstore -- same name, different location -- with her approval.   Whitman kept many of the traditions -- readings, a gathering place for expatriates, the promotion of starving writers -- and then he added to them, just as he kept adding to the bookstore.  Although Beach created a "home" at her bookstore, Whitman actually allowed the writers and wanna-be writers to sleep over.

Jeremy Mercer's memoir is an intriguing glimpse into the life of the bookstore, fifty years after Whitman opened the current location on 37 rue de la Bucherie.  Mercer describes a constant parade of book lovers, camping out amidst the stacks.  It must be one of the most unique youth hostels:  room, and occasional board, in exchange for a few hours of work in the bookstore.  One of the few things that Whitman asks of his residents is that they attempt to read a book a day.

I've often fantasized about living in a bookstore, but I will readily admit that for all its charms, Shakespeare and Company is probably too bohemian for my taste.  As of the year 2000, when Mercer was living in the bookstore, there was no heat and little in the way of facilities or privacy.  (Mercer describes, humorously and horrifyingly, how residents managed to wash themselves and scrounge up meals.)  Although an English poet managed to bunk in the antiquarian room for more than five years, most of the residents are just passing through. 

Whitman started a tradition of having his temporary residents submit their "biographies."   Mercer describes it as "an archive of sociological wonders . . . a vast survey of the great drifters of the past forty years."  I wonder if the best bits will be compiled into a book someday? Although Whitman's daughter now runs the store, a bit of his biography is still posted outside the store -- almost like a manifesto.

Of course, I had to buy some books while I was there.

I looked over the impressive selection of fiction, but in the end I settled for two books about the experience of living in Paris.  True Pleasures, by an Australian writer called Lucinda Holdforth, is a memoir of Parisian women -- not all of them French -- who have been inspired by and associated with the city.  Colette, Josephine and Madame de Staël are here, and so are Nancy Mitford, Edith Wharton and Gertrude Stein.  Her themes are intriguing:  "On Grown-Up Women" and "But Women Are Politics . . .".  As Stein said, It's not what Paris gave you but what it didn't take away from you that was important.

I read this book weeks after I left Paris -- when I was sick in bed, in fact -- but it brought Paris flooding back to me.  The author stays in the same area of the Marais that I did, and she visits Shakespeare and Company . . . which brings the journey full-circle in a satisfying way.  But then I have no doubt that all English speaking book lovers eventually find themselves there.

The other book that I bought from Shakespeare and Company was The Secret Life of France by Lucy Wadham.  Wadham, a British woman just a bit older than me, marries a Parisian and attempts to immerse herself in French family and culture . . . which is a very different thing to just admiring and appreciating the abridged tourist version of things.  It's a strange measure of how long I've lived in England, now, but I felt a strong identification with Wadham's point-of-view. 

In Wadham's view, the French admire the English, while the English tend to despise the French.  On the other hand, the French despise the Americans, who -- in their innocence -- admire the French.  By the way, Wadham also attempts to explain why the French are so rude; although I didn't really find them so.  Indeed, I found it charming how all of the waiters described themselves as "désolée" when they couldn't provide me with a table . . . even though my French accent is atrocious.

There is no frigate like a book, said Emily Dickinson, but at Shakespeare and Company you are more likely to travel by train.  Or are those old cinema seats?

The young American man who rang up my book purchases asked me if I wanted the special stamp in my books . . . I guess it's the Shakespeare and Company passport.

Luxembourg Gardens

Although I grew up in a smallish town, and now live in the countryside, I like to think of myself as a "city" person -- by inclination, if not location.  Whenever I entertain fantasies of moving to London, my husband and children respond with varying degrees of horror:  House prices! Noise! Filth! Crime! Traffic!

But wouldn't you miss the countryside and your garden, my friends say, with all of the scepticism of country converts.  Well, yes; but mostly no.  This morning, as I weeded and fed my many rose bushes -- a thankless and thorny task -- I thought longingly of Queen Mary's Rose Gardens in Regent's Park.  I was there just a week ago, admiring the vigour and health of hundreds and hundreds of shrub roses.  Unlike my straggling, deer-chewed specimens, these bushes are beautiful -- and they aren't even blooming yet. 

Frankly, I don't need ownership of rose bushes to delight in them.  In fact, it may be the other way around. I am content to wander through a public garden and enjoy the fruits of someone else's labour -- not to mention taking in the sights of people out and about.  A park is a great place to be alone, or to walk with friends.   It allows for all of the pleasures of anonymity, and yet there is something companionable about it, too. 

On the first fine day of spring, when the pale city-dwellers throng the park, the feeling of solidarity is almost palpable.   A park exists for no other reason than the human need for leisure -- and the emotional/physical benefits of fresh air.

These boys had flung down their backpacks in order to play football at the gates of Luxembourg Gardens.  I don't know if it was a lunch-time break, or if they were playing hooky just because the sun was shining.  Remember when running and kicking a ball was pure pleasure?

In the wilder, "English garden" section of the park, the older generation take the sun with their daily dose of news.   The bright yellow forsythia was in bloom, and drifts of narcissus were just emerging.

When I was in Paris at the end of March, the forecast was for rain:  one solid string of dark clouds.  Most fortuitously, on the day we planned to visit the Luxembourg Gardens, there was an unexpected break in the gloomy forecast. 

Just out of sight of these three are Jenni and I, sharing a jambon baguette and a quiche lorraine.  Lunch from the boulangerie is a veritable bargain . . . and you can splurge your savings on some ice cream, later.

Do you think these French gentleman rendezvous daily for boules?

It was warmer on that late March day than it is now, in early May.  If you double-click on the picture, you can see a coat-rack -- where some of the men have hung up their jackets.

Although my love for city parks is genuine, I will confess that I wanted to visit Luxembourg Gardens because of a book.  Several years ago, I read Adam Gopnik's brilliant tribute to Parisian expat life:  Paris to the Moon.

Gopnik writes this: There are two kinds of travelers.  There is the kind who goes to see what there is to see and see it, and the kind who has an image in his head and goes out to accomplish it.

I'm both kinds of traveler, but I went to the Luxembourg Gardens in a sort of emotional homage to Adam Gopnik and his young son . . . who spent many hours riding the carousel in the park.  Adam and Luke Auden's visits to the Luxembourg Gardens become the emotional timeline of this wide-ranging book -- which covers philosophy, history, politics, family and cultural differences.  When the Gopnik family first arrives in Paris, Luke Auden is just a toddler -- only fit to ride in one of the "safe" inner chariots, with his father as protector.  By the time they leave Paris, five years later, he is a confident boy -- reaching out for brass rings.

Unlike many things in life, the carousel in Luxembourg Gardens was just as Gopnik described it.  I could almost see the cautious baby face of Luke Auden in this young girl.  Unsure about the experience, she kept looking for her mother.  Meanwhile, on a horse nearby, an older girl crowed with satisfaction each time she managed to pick off a brass ring with her little stick.  Childhood pleasures and progress are so welcomely predictable.

Gopnik describes the children's playground as a "designated bacchanal,"  and I thought of that rather fanciful description again when I saw statues of Pan and Baudelaire amongst various queens of France and Marie de Medicis.  A park is an outlet for controlled chaos.

''There, there is only order and beauty,

Luxury, quietness, and pleasure.''

(Charles Baudelaire)

Parisian Life

It's been a month, now, since I was in Paris.
How dream-like it seems now.  But isn't that the way with most breaks from real life?
I left for Texas less than 24 hours later, and have never really had time to process either the pictures or the memories from that trip.  Thank goodness that one (the pictures) leads to the other . . . because I only have to look at the face of this funny little dog to remember that Sunday morning at Le Marché des Enfants Rouge.  He hopped up to the counter, eyes bright and senses alert to all of the gustatory pleasures of the market.  Watching the denizens of Marais going about their Sunday business made me feel like I could almost slip into the skin of a true Parisienne.

I'd rather have a good baguette than all of the croissants, pain au chocolat, and dull, dry toast in the world. 

Fromage, anyone?  I could eat Salade Chevre Chaude for nearly every meal.

These pink parrot tulips were a shock of color in the city of gray stone and spring gray skies.

(Postscript on a tulip:  I couldn't wait to get home from my travels and see the tulips flowering in my own English garden.  Sadly, the deer couldn't resist them.  Only one pale green tulip escaped their voracious greed.)

The rather prosaic sight of a family walking in the rain.  And yet, what a grand backdrop! 
So much to look at on the street, but the eye is drawn upwards, too.

The sheer scope of Paris -- its historic sweep -- makes a person feel rather small.

Tourists are tiny dots of colour -- so minute, compared to even the Rose Window in Notre Dame.

Ours was a pedestrian adventure.
Maybe next time we will cruise down the Seine.

In the pursuit of falafel, near the Rue de Rosiers, we spotted this musician.
The lines are really long on a Sunday . . . so it's nice that entertainment is provided.

I can't remember what this guy was playing.  What I DO remember is that he jumped up and demanded a euro from me after I snapped his picture.  I obliged him, of course.

Putting on the Ritz near the Hôtel de Ville .
I was completely captivated by this charming performer.
She favored sensible shoes -- quite unlike some of the funky fashions we saw in the nearby shops.

The Marais is fab for window-shopping.
We didn't bother with the museums.  We were too busy watching the entertainment on the streets.

Teenagers huddled in packs outside of their lycées. Apparently, they use their breaks to work on their smoking skills.
Variations on the student uniform include black, stripes and plaid.
Bikes and backpacks are the student accouterments everywhere, I guess.

Even the cool grown-up kids wear black and sit outside . . so they can light up.
This homme is quintessentially Parisian to my eyes.

Happy Birthday, Jenni! 
Even though she was the guest of honour, she got stuck holding both umbrellas more than once.
(And she was a jolly good sport about it.)

The Café Charlot was our "local."  We were only in Paris for a few days, but we managed to drink there often enough to compare the café crème to the chocolate chaud.  Oh, and I may have had a Kir there as well . . . but not for breakfast.

My idea of bliss.

Rosebud

 

We arrived in Texas on March 31, just after the azaleas peaked, and left at the end of April . . . when the roses were blooming.

The yellow rose of Texas aside, I don’t really associate roses with Texas. But that’s my own bias, rooted in the fact that I didn’t really fall in love with them until I moved to England. Actually, there are plenty of roses in Texas – even if stereotypes are more likely to conjure up tumbleweeds.

One afternoon, when the children were at the Museum of Natural Science, I sort of “stumbled” upon the extensive rose gardens which flank the Houston Garden Center. (I was looking for a parking space, and the Garden Center is across the street from the Museum.) Surely, in more than ten years of living in Houston, I had managed to see the roses in bloom; but if I did, then I don’t recall it. Was I always too busy? Always driving around in my car, always pinned down to a schedule? In many ways, Houston is not a place where it is easy to stop and smell the roses.

Unlike the pastel multi-petalled English roses in my garden, these roses were bold and brash hybrid teas. These are not subtle roses; the blooms are huge, and the colours are vivid and richly saturated. One golden yellow rose was named Strike It Rich – appropriate for a state whose fortunes were transformed by the discovery of “black gold.” Houston is not really a subtle town. Hermann Park may be a green oasis in its center, but the city is ringed by miles of vast motorways and the cars are all huge. You can’t help but notice that the place is fiercely devoted to consumerism.  The first thing we do when we get to Houston is eat Mexican food.  The second thing?  Go shopping.

My annual trip to Texas is a touchstone for me. I reconnect to my Texas roots -- family and friends, tastes and twang.  Roses are different in Texas; I can't help wonder if I am, too.  A couple of years ago, I wrote about the many ways that “you can’t go home again,” and that remains true. Still, we try, and every visit is devoted to doing as many of the old things and visiting as many of the old places as possible.

At my parents’ house, in the country, there are certain rituals:  fishing, playing in the creek, having a cook-out in the fire circle, going for long cedar-scented walks, playing chicken foot dominoes and visiting the drive-thru Sonic for slushes. My children still love these rituals, and still insist on them . . . but for the first time, perhaps, my mother and I were aware of the shadow of change on the horizon. Even my youngest daughter, who loves to be outside – and enjoyed many happy hours creating a habitat for the turtle she fished out of  the creek – also spent hours checking in on Facebook. Growing up is the nature of things; but in some nostalgic way, I want our visits to Texas to always stay the same. Ironic, really, as Texas doesn’t stand still – not even for its homesick expatriates.

Two years ago, I wrote this:  Houston is always, always changing. As my friend Laura said, (borrowing from that genius Joni Mitchell), "they paved Paradise and put up a parking lot." If Houston is about anything, it is about the future. It is about constant construction and the need to widen yet another freeway. Every year, new places spring up while others are torn down. Yes, I know this happens everywhere . . . but in Houston it seems to happen in double-time.  In the past year or two, Upper Kirby, where I used to play tennis, has been turned into a block of high-rises.

Speaking of parking lots, one of my favourite haunts – the Buffalo Grille on Bissonnet – is being torn down because the new HEB grocery store wants to exercise their parking lot rights. (Houston is famous for its lack of zoning laws, but apparently there are a few caveats.) I have been eating pancakes and BLT sandwiches at the Buffalo Grille since I was a student at Rice University, and so have many other people – but no; apparently this beloved institution has to find a new place to live.

Another Houston institution which is closing its doors is the old Five and Dime Store in West University Village. I doubt that there are many Inner-Loopers who haven’t visited this venerable place, but there is no denying that some of its stock seemed to be as old and dusty as the store itself. It was a place that, in the words of Nanci Griffith, made a person want to fill up her suitcase with unnecessary plastic objects. The children and I took one last turn around those old checkerboard linoleum floors and couldn’t resist buying a few unnecessary things: a puzzle, some sewing elastic, a plastic pool toy and a wooden yo-yo – the really good old-fashioned kind. The place is still brimful of junk and treasures; apparently, when the store closes its doors in June, any left-over stock will be offered to the old dime store in Fredericksburg. At least in Texas, that store will be the very last of its kind.


Childhood can’t last forever, whether it’s your own – or your children’s. My oldest daughter’s friends have all started driving now and everyone is talking about college.

Maybe it is because we were there for nearly a month, unexpectedly grounded by the volcano in Iceland, but for the first time we left Texas without looking back. For the first time since we’ve been going back to Texas, I drove to the airport without the children crying and carrying on. My oldest daughter tuned the satellite radio to BBC’s Radio 1; she couldn’t wait to fly home and be reunited with her English friends.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may. I keep telling myself that.

Grounded

After three weeks of travelling, I was meant to be flying home today.

However, there is a huge cloud of volcanic ash hovering over the UK and it looks like I will be grounded in Texas a little while longer.  Hopefully, the tulips won't be finished before I get home.

School and work will have to wait, and so will my younger daughter's appointment to get a retainer.  Thank goodness my older daughter had the foolhardy notion foresight to bring an entire suitcase of GCSE books and materials.  Meanwhile, we have the great big silver lining of more time with Texas friends, more Mexican food, and more sun.  As we wait, we may have to adopt a semblance of "normal" life -- meaning, time for homework, homecooked meals, and hopefully, a return to the blogworld.