Carpe Diem

In late March, we made a last-minute journey to Utah to see Jacqui and David and the girls. A side trip to the Rocky Mountains doesn't really fit in a blog about the South of France. But, of course, this isn't really a blog about the South of France. If anything, it's about taking a chance, plunging into life, and hoping things will turn out all right. "Carpe diem," Jacqui said, when I tentatively mentioned our idea to spend a year in Europe again.

Carpe diem, seize the day, because we don't know how many more we'll have.

We have a long tradition of skiing together from early days in Colorado, when the kids were little and we put them in ski school so they wouldn't slow us down. The photo above was taken at the top of the mountain in Breckenridge, in our younger days.

Now the kids barrel down blues and tackle black diamonds with alacrity. In the earlier days, as pictured, they had the most fun playing in the hot tub until we adults kicked them out because it was our turn.

[What is Luke holding and why does he look so mischievous?]

In some ways this last trip to Park City was just another ski adventure, with Luke ignoring my pleas to stop bashing into the girls and to stay with the group, and Dr goading us to increasingly difficult mogul-filled hills. "It's his plan," Esme explained, somewhat exasperated, somewhat admiring (although she won't admit that last part). "He takes us down really impossible runs where we fall the whole time and then he takes us on an easier but still difficult run and suddenly that one doesn't seem so bad."

The condo where they stayed had a hot tub on a screened in porch with a view of the mountains. As per our usual ski trips, we spent time in the hot tub. This time we didn't mind when the kids joined us. [Again, what is Luke holding and why does he look mischievous?] But as much as we enjoyed the trappings of just another holiday in the mountains, nothing was really the same. For one thing, Jacqui -- usually the most graceful one on the mountain -- couldn't ski anymore. Most days she could barely leave the living room. And when Dr and I rode the chairlift alone, the conversation turned somber. In fact, many of the conversations did.

"I want to die at home," Jacqui said, lying down on the couch, surrounded by Jeff and Dr and me. "I do, too," I added quickly, as if this were a theoretical conversation about an event that would take place in some distant time.

"I'm afraid it will be scary for the girls," Jacqui continued, her eyes closed so she didn't see that her husband had started to cry.

"It will be scary for the girls no matter what," Jeff said. "At least this way you'll all be at home and there will be people around who love them."

Jacqui could barely sleep during the nights because of the searing pain that kept her awake. As Dr increased the pain medication, he worried that she wouldn't be able to make the long red-eye flight back to New York.

But she did. And the night we spent together at their home felt like a celebration, complete

with the arrival of Laura H. and kids and a scrumptiously delicious wedding cake made by Marla just because Jacqui had said earlier that she craved one.

We left the next morning to fly back to France, and, as usual, we said our goodbyes and hugged each other in the kitchen, the ten of us, only to repeat the entire process in the driveway. "Goodbye!" "We love you!" "Goodbye!" The same as always, but not, because Laura H. had tears in her eyes. One more hug. And then never again the ten of us.

Goodbye, we love you, goodbye.

The LDB SoFr List -- in no particular order

1. Friday Market in Valbonne
Springtime in the South of France brought an abundance of jasmine and house guests. Val arrived in March bringing the sunshine with her. Given that her family's three-year sailing trip in the Caribbean inspired our year here, it seemed right that she came to visit.

Ever Friday Valbonne turns into an open air market. The man who sells olives and tomates sechees and a variety of tapenade is quick to give out samples so we linger a while around his stall.

Offerings from the vendors with their portable shops include soap from Marseille in flavors like peppermint and chocolate, earrings made from reeds, and colorful patterned tops like the one modeled by Nancy below.

In April, Nancy flew over (first class, mind you, thanks to Tammy's connections) with Tammy, Loretta and Jo Ann.

With more color and exuberance than a Niki de Saint Phalle sculpture, the women from Rhode Island stormed the Cote d'Azur. "Did they stay up past midnight again?" Luke asked each morning in amazement. Way past midnight... They laughed, they shopped, they made friends wherever they went.

2. Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild

We went the Villa Ephrussi de Rothschild, #1 on my friend Michelle's list of must-see places, and now a fixture on mine.

Beatrice de Rothschild had the house built on a promontory that juts out from the corniches along the most dramatic part of the coast between Monaco and Nice. She divorced her husband -- the Russian Ephrussi -- and, at the age of 47, devoted herself to a life of parties, art collecting, horse racing and gambling in the South of France keeping company with her dogs, monkeys and the occasional artist.

In May, Penny, Abby and Robyn came to visit, and so I found myself again enjoying Beatrice's villa and gardens. You could spend hours roaming through the Spanish, Japanese, Florentine and Rose gardens, to name a few.

Nancy and I posed in the Stone Garden with archways and fountains that give the impression of stumbling upon a crumbling tomb in a faraway jungle.

3. Biot

Biot -- pronounced bee-ott and not, as one would expect, bee-oh -- has been around since Roman times, originally as a potter's village and most recently as the place where they make the colorful bubbly glassware.

The French artist Fernand Leger lived in town for a few years and purchased a large tract of land that houses an extensive museum of his work. Val and I took the audio tour and then enjoyed a glass of wine in the Place des Arcades in the center of town.

4. Fragonard Museum in Grasse

Grasse is the perfume capital of the world, or so the city proudly claims. The actual growing and pressing of many of the flowers takes place in Egypt now, but the essence of many of the world's perfumes are still made in Grasse.

One of the oldest perfumeries here, Fragonard, gives free tours of its facilities. Luke and I went for the first time when my parents and Anthony were here in the fall. We learned about the delicate process of extraction, the rarity of a true "nose" and put our own sense of smell to the test. When everyone gave the experience a thumbs up, I added it to The List.

Did I mention that the free tour ends with a visit to the gift shop where you can buy Fragonard's exclusive perfumes, colognes, eau de toilette, and soaps at factory prices? Those pretty bags are not inexpensive.

But judging from the smiles, they're worth the cost. The ladies from Rhode Island picked up a few additional necessities on the way home, bread, dessert and, bien sur, more wine.

5. St. Paul de Vence

"Could we please not go to any more medieval hill towns?" Such was the plea from one of our visiting teenage boys as we descended from yet another of the ancient villages perched high above the valleys and the Mediterranean sea. St. Paul de Vence is my favorite. Yes, it's very touristy (there's a reason for that) and, true, Tourettes sur Loup is more authentic because it feels like real people actually live there, and Eze is a more perfect medieval movie set, and Mougins is smaller and somehow more beautiful but.. St Paul de Vence is still my favorite.

And if it's raining, then you don't have to worry about other tourists. The narrow, windy cobblestone streets host art galleries, shops and an old church built over the ruins of Roman temple dedicated to Mars. Plus St. Paul de Vence is home to what's become our favorite restaurant on the Cote d'Azur since Hannah stumbled upon it more than a decade ago -- La Columbe d'Or.

The Roux family has owned the place since the 1920s and over the years they gathered an impressive art collection from the painters and sculptors who would exchange their art for food and board. The food is delicious, the terrace has tables overlooking the valley below, and, afterwards, you can see the artwork. We're sitting in front of a mural by Leger.

6. Matisse and Picasso Chapels

Picasso and Matisse, rivals, admirers, friends, designed chapels within 30 kilometers of each other. The two masterpieces are more different than they are alike. Matisse's came first, inspired by the nun who was once his muse and then his nurse. His Chapel du Rosaire is first and foremost a place of worship. "Was Matisse religious?" I ask the nun designated to answer questions from the tourists who tromp in to marvel at the stained glass windows and the simple drawings of the Virgin and Child and Stations of the Cross. The nun nods and curls her lips just slightly. "Everyone asked him that question," she says. "Picasso could not bear the fact that Matisse devoted so much effort to something he did not believe. But Matisse used to say, 'When I'm painting, I believe.' "

For some reason, we usually go first to the Matisse chapel and only a day or so later -- if that -- to the Picasso chapel which is no longer referred to as a chapel but as a museum because the chapel was deconsecrated during the French Revolution. Which is probably the only condition under which Picasso would have painted it. He insisted that he didn't decorate a chapel but that he created a "Temple to Peace."

Picasso's War and Peace is dark and crude and feels like you're walking into a cave, especially after the light and tranquility of the Chapel du Rosaire. "I like the Matisse chapel better," is what I hear time and again after taking our guests to both.

But I don't. I love the Matisse chapel. It's beautiful and peaceful and now it makes me think of Jacqui because we went there together and she loved it, too. But Picasso's War and Peace feels like a testament to the good that humankind should do simply because we're able to, despite our lesser instincts. I like the fact that Picasso depicts War as nothing more than a barbaric act of inhumanity and that -- without the benefit of a belief in God -- he depicts Peace as a time when "everything is possible; a child could plough the sea."

Why We Drive

And it's not just because of Charlie.

Josh endured the long drive from Mouans-Sartoux to Marbella, nearly 1700 kilometers, with good humor and amazement. "I've never been been in a car this long," he announced. "Congratulations!" I replied. "You're now a road warrior." A dubious distinction, perhaps, but when you fly or train from place to place, you miss a lot.

We wouldn't have enjoyed orange juice in the middle of an orange grove in Valenica (it was delicious, by the way).

Or stopped in Nerja to revisit the Balcon de Europe, a place we'd enjoyed during our stint in Spain in '99. We ate breakfast on the square where we used to eat lunch and the children used to play hide and seek around the chalkboards promoting the menu del dia.

On the route back to France, we spent

a night in the seaside town of Cadaques, famous because Salvador Dali lived there,and, in our family, for the pale turquoise sea glass mixed in with the stones on the beach.

We walked along the edge of town and over to a small island and along the way we picked up glass, skipped a few stones, and scrambled over the rocks. We meandered back to town and enjoyed one last Spanish seaside lunch of boquerones, calamares, and cold white wine.

Then we hit the road again.

We headed to Montpellier -- we couldn't remember who had lobbied for this particular stop, and as we approached the shabby buildings on the outskirts of the city, no one wanted to claim that distinction.

It didn't help that our hotel turned out to be a suite in someone's apartment (a detail I overlooked on TripAdvisor) and that the owner of the apartment took my reference to the "gentle, well-behaved Golden Retriever" as a description of the 14-year old boy tagging along.

We quickly found a real hotel and as we walked through the narrow streets with polished cobblestones and ecru walls, we decided we liked Montpellier. The medical school that's been around for a thousand years was one of the first to open its doors to students without regard to their religious background.

The Italian scholar and poet, Petrarch, studied law in Montpellier in 1316-1320. He's also known as the world's first tourist -- someone who traveled simply because he wanted to see another place. Am sure that he would understand why we drive.

Moorish Spain

The Moors ruled the southern part of Spain -- Andalucia from the Arabic Al-Andalus -- for almost eight hundred years bringing poetry, art, writing and their distinctive architecture to the region.

They first came from Morocco and landed at the enormous rock jutting out of the sea next to the shores of Spain. The rock’s modern day name, Gibraltar, also comes from Arabic -- Tariq’s Rock --- named after the leader who came in 711 to conquer the Visigoths.

Jeff and I took the boys on a day trip to Gibraltar where we stood, literally, between two continents. “I can see Africa,” Luke said, looking longingly across the water to the mountains that beckoned. It would have been easy enough to charter a boat and captain to ferry across the Straits to Tangiers, but with the political upheaval sweeping across northern Africa, we thought we’d stay on the Spanish side of the Rock.

Despite its quaint British charms, Gibraltar offered its own exotic sights like the hundreds of monkeys who live and roam freely on the hilltop and the deep caves beneath the layers of rock where stalagmites and stalactites form a surreal labyrinth.

We spent most of our time in Marbella where we spent a rare week unfettered by much other than walking the beach, scouring for sea glass, playing tennis and deciding which beachside restaurant would be the best for lunch.

February in Spain isn’t the ideal time to actually swim in the sea, but that didn’t stop the boys and Charlie from a daily plunge.

One of the trip highlights was a visit to Al Hambra -- the elaborate lattice-dripped palace on a hillside where the Moors made their last stand.

We'd been there when Luke just a toddler.

This time instead of skipping through the rooms with barely a glance at the walls, he captured the intricacies of the place with his camera lens.

Washington Irving lived on the grounds during the years when the palace fortress was abandoned and dilapidated, but even then, the charms of the place entranced him.

"We crossed the threshold, and were at once transported, as if by magic wand, into other times and an oriental realm, and were treading the scenes of Arabian story."

Prayers and poetry grace the walls of the place. While most of the centuries old Arabic script proclaims "There is no victor but Allah," poetry also graces the walls of the place such as:

"Sublime work of art, fate wants me to outshine every other moment in history. How much delight for the eyes!" How true.

Barcelona's Graffiti Wars

We went to to Spain for Luke's February break and cousin Josh joined us for the long ride down the coast. Our first spot: Barcelona, the invigorating capital of Catalonia. Jeff and I took the boys on a tour of Gaudi and the Gothic Quarter. They introduced us to the city's exuberant graffiti culture.

I used to equate graffiti with vandalism, but Luke's fascination with this, um, art form over the years has made me look again. In Barcelona, in response to the city's crackdown on the spread of graffiti, scores of shop and restaurant owners hire graffiti artists to paint the shutters that adorn their doors.

On their own initiative, Luke and Josh tracked down a graffiti gallery so we made the pilgrimage the next morning, with the boys clutching notebooks filled with their own bizarre and creative drawings.

Inside we met Robert, owner of Base Elements. "It's a war out there," he explained. "The city is trying to pass a law that would fine both the shop owner and the graffiti artist in those cases when the store hires the artist." He went on to tell us about the various artists whose work he sells, including Pez with his trademark big-toothed grinning fish (featured below) and Rallito-X whose signature feature is his original use of certain male body parts... The boys grinned as I politely flipped through the X-man's latest comic book.

What does it mean that graffiti, born in the modern era from protest and rebellion, is going commercial, almost mainstream -- from the streets of Barcelona to the movie, Exit through the Gift Shop, and even the Shepard Fairey t-shirts that Luke just bought?

I will leave my art historian friend, Mark L., to explain whether the graffiti explosion signifies the renaissance of an ancient form, or a new-found appreciation for crude shapes and garish colors.

Or maybe the embrace of graffiti reflects the

deep-rooted yearnings of the human psyche to rebel against the forced orderliness of society and to mark our place in a vast, chaotic universe....

Who will win the graffiti war in Barcelona?

I'm rooting for those who wield the spray cans.

Lenk

Lenk, a small village in the Bernese Oberland, seems an unlikely place for our first reunion with friends from the 'hood. But it so happens that our friend and neighbor, Matthew, is taking part in the Winter Term, a 12-week program for 8th graders that focuses on academics, Swiss culture & heritage, and... skiing. Judging by Matthew's fine form and speed as he led us down "his"mountain, the Winter Term is treating him very well. Plus, it's in his blood -- his dad, a former ski racer, roared down the hill behind him.

The journey to Lenk took us through Annecy, the capital of the Haute-Savoie, a romantic town built on the edge of a lake and canals. Suz and Ken took us there for the first time nearly ten years ago. It was summertime and they swam in the lake with Luke from the boat we'd rented. It was colder this time around, but the chill in the air didn't lessen the town's vibrancy.

(Photos by Luke.)

We lingered too long, and then lost our race against the sun as we made our way around Lake Geneva to the edge of the Alps. And so off we went through the dark for a game of hide-and-go-seek with the steep and windy roads marked with thin cables that probably wouldn't hold the weight of our car. It was almost a relief we couldn't see the sheer drop-offs below. We went up and down past small French-speaking hamlets nestled in the mountains, until finally the few signs along the road turned German. We were closing in on the Oberland.

We set a rendezvous with our friends the next day at the bottom of the rope-tow and spent a sun-soaked afternoon skiing down exceptionally wide runs among a panorama of snow-topped mountains. "Have you guys been to a lot of places like this?" Robb asked, gesturing to the spectacular view. We've skied a few times in the Rockies, and elsewhere in the Alps, but no, nothing quite like this.

"We hiked up there during the summer that I spent here," Ginny said, pointing to the Wildstrubel, the tallest peak. The people who run Winter Term are old family friends, and she had spent time at the school as a cook one summer. I wouldn't mind spending time in the kitchen either if it meant living in Lenk for a while.

Over plates of rosti and slices of meat, we caught up on life and compared Luke and Matthew's rigorous schedules of tennis and skiing respectively. How will they go back to the toil of an eight-hour school day?

The next day we were back on the road -- this time able to admire by daylight the unique geography of the valley towns and mountain peaks, complete with the occasional church along the side of the road that made us stop the car, more often than we'd planned. And so again we ended up losing our race against the sun. But isn't that one of the joys of traveling by car?