Bishops and Bubbly

I love visitors. They come with wide-open eyes and inspire us with fresh motivation to explore. When our buddy Mike F. showed up in his zippy rental car a few days ago, he asked if we had any side trips we'd like to do. You bet. So, after Karl taught Mike how to wear all black and tie a scarf like a proper Frenchman, we motored off to the fine city of Reims.

To say the name right, hold your nose and say "rans" as in "ransacked." Which apparently, it was - several times. Yet, thanks to the ongoing restorations, the town is a veritable timeline of European history. It is marked by Roman ruins (here you see me too deep in thought next to the walls from a former granary, and archways from a temple to Mars below), churches from the very beginning of Christianity in France such as a 12th century abbey built into a 9th century Romanesque church, the centerpiece of the town Notre-Dame de Reims from the 13-14th centuries, and modern architecture from the rebuilding after the World Wars.

The cathedral in and of itself is a microcosm of history, a spectacular mixture of styles and eras. For example, I was delighted to find the Christian imaginary of 20th century Jewish painter Marc Chagall, realized in luminous stained glass, and housed in this Gothic cathedral. This church and city also has the distinction of being the spot where French kings were crowned and anointed for centuries. (Mike and Karl re-anact Clovis' crowning as the first Christian king of France in the 5th century.) These were times when they believed that kings were given a divine right to rule, authority passed directly to them by God. A bit hard for our postmodern, democracy-centered minds to grasp. But that's how it was. Just like we say a pastor is "called" to the ministry, a king was "called" to rule, and that came with a certain number of rights and privileges.

Besides bishops, there's the bubbly. This is the Champagne region, and there's a vendor of that most revered sparkling wine on nearly every corner.As legend would have it, Dom Peringnon popped open a forgotten bottle of stored wine, took a swig, and proclaimed: "I'm drinking stars!" Up until a couple of days ago, I didn't really understand what the fuss was all about. What? That glorified selzer water that they serve at celebrations? Well, all I can say is that if you think you don't like champagne, wait until you go to the actual region in France, taste it, and then tell me how you feel.

I totally fell for it. We had been wandering around the city all afternoon, soaking in intermittent sun rays and all that ecclesiastical history, when we decided it was time for a snack. Ducking quickly into a fine-looking neighborhood butcher, we watched as a friendly woman lovingly arranged chiffonade-thin slices of cured ham from the region. A trip to the boulangerie for fresh baguette and the store for fresh fruit rounded out the picnic. Now, all we needed was the much-touted champagne. Apparently, there was a cellar just around the corner...

The small, family-run operation of Martel was done with tours for the day, but they were happy to suggest a bottle of Charles du Roy Premier Cru Brut to accompany our tasty victuals, and soon we were triumphantly heading back to the gardens around the Benedictine Abbey of St. Remi to indulge our appetites for late-afternoon golden sun and the products of the terroir.

Yum.

5 Wise Runners and 5 Foolish Runners

Then the kingdom of God should be compared to ten runners who strapped on their water bottles and went out to run a marathon. Five of them were foolish, five of them wise. For when the foolish took their water bottles, they just took a little water, and not really any type of sodium replacement. But the wise mixed up their Gatorade well in advance and remembered to bring it, along with some energy gel packs for good measure. As the race continued, and the shadows grew longer, they all plodded along at about the same pace. But mid-afternoon, there was a cry from the sidelines: "Go runners! There's only 6 miles to go!" At that point, all of those runners reached for refreshment, to get a boost of energy before the final stretch. However, the foolish, having no water left, panted to the wise: "Give us some of your energy pack - we're dyin' here!" But the wise replied: "Perhaps there will not be enough for us and for you; rather, run to the grocery store just off the course, and see if they'll sell you a juice or something." While they went to buy, the wise finished the race. By the time the foolish made it back, the sag wagons had already through, and the trash collectors were sweeping up the last of the paper cups. The foolish begged the officials to let them finish, showing them their race numbers, and assuring them that they were legitimate. But it was of no avail. The officials simply replied that they had been disqualified, as no runner is permitted off the race course during the event. Besides, the finish line was closed.

---

It has been my experience that not carrying enough fuel for a race or training run can have drastic consequences on the outcome. You can have a very high level of conditioning, but if you don't feed your body properly, all of that hard work building up your muscles and cardiovascular is not much help. In the one marathon that I have done so far - Paris 2007 - my body was finished at mile 20. No more oil in the lamp. I finished, but only under duress.

I have always been a minimalist when it comes to extra stuff for running. It is the simplicity of the sport that I appreciate - strap on your shoes and go. I also hate to be dependent on anything, so I've never trained on anything but water, and the occasional banana and dried fruit. But I thought I might try some of these new-fangled products they've got out there. So today, I threw a lemon-flavoured fizzy tablet in my water that would supposedly work wonders, and stuffed a mysterious silver pouch of "energy"labeled "Apple Flavour" in my sack. This would be interesting.

Whoa.

Two hours later, I whizzed into my finish spot, ready for more. Miles, that is. It was the fastest time I've ever recorded for that distance, and I still felt like a million bucks. It seems as if my conditioning had outpaced my fueling. Once I got that part in place, we were banging on all five cylinders. I felt so...energetic. (Duh.)

Okay, back to the kingdom of God; I find a similar dynamic in my spiritual walk with the Lord. It may be that I've got a certain level of conditioning - I've been taught how to pray, parts of the Bible are familiar, I surround myself with other people who encourage me. But I often forget that it is the fresh, regular intake of prayer and His Word that will carry me to the end. Maybe this is what the wise and foolish virgins...er, I mean runner....was all about. We know that they all started well. But which ones finished well? Those who were prepared.

How to be prepared for the end of the race? Let's find our daily strength in the One who ran ahead and waits for us at the finish line.

"I have seldom looked on the end-end of a church with more complete sympathy." (Robert Louis Stevenson, An Inland Voyage)

This were Stevenson's words in 1878, penned while gazing upon the sprawling cathedral with ragged edges in Noyon, France. It's not imminently clear if he meant that it was somewhat pathetic because of the ruins, or if he found great beauty there, but both are entirely possible.

When we embarked on a train to visit this town with our friends David and Karin two days ago, we found many occasions to have our "sympathies" stirred. The most obvious was our initial reason for the trip: this was the birthplace of John Calvin (ne Jean Cauvin), whose 500th birthday many protestants are celebrating this year. There is a museum devoted to Calvin and the 16th century reforms in a fine reconstruction of his house, a mere two streets over from the aforemationed catehdral.

His was an unlikely beginning for a rebel against the Catholic system. Noyon was an ecclesiastical and political nerve center, with the crownings of Charlemagne and Hugh Capet taking place here in the Middle Ages (the fountain at right has a plaque that celebrates these grand events). In Calvin's time, there were ten churches total, so many that the town was known as "la bien sonnee" (the ringing city). From an early age, Calvin's father worked at the main cathedral, Notre-Dame. His parents intended little Johnny for the priesthood, his mother also being a devout follower of St. Anne. Of course, all of this careful religious training would fall apart when the young man was in his twenties studying law in Paris, and began to read Luther.

The museum is dedicated to not only Calvin himself, but also the history of the Protestant Reformation in France. Of course, this ideology was quickly labeled as heretical, and all known profess-ors were chased out of town or burned at the stake. Personally, I was very touched by the portable pulpit, which was one of many used by preachers in secret locations in the forest over the course of the 16-18th centuries. We learned that one particularly grueling era during these centuries was called the "desert", since they were essentially in exile because of their beliefs.

Meanwhile, the silent, imposing giant at the center of Noyon still stood brooding.

"As it flanges out in three wide terraces and settles down broadly on the earth, it looks like the poop of some great old battle-ship. Hollow-backed buttresses carry vases, which figure for the stern lanterns. There is a roll in the ground, and the towers just appear above the pitch of the roof, as though the good ship were bowing lazily over an Atlantic swell." (Stevenson, An Inland Voyage)

My sympathies for this church were at first aroused when I saw the pockmarks and rubble from two world wars. "Old battleship" indeed. But as I gave it more thought, I saw a much greater sadness. That is, this gargantuan Gothic creation - for all of its wonderful, soaring buttresses and plays of light - is also a monument to the spiritual blindness of man's religious systems when the glory of God is trifled with and the free gift of salvation is offered as a marketable item.

Perhaps I'm getting a little too preachy, but I am mulling over these things mainly for my own benefit, since we are are all susceptible to making little of God rather than much. France has never really undergone the transformation that comes when God's glory is put first, since Calvin was more or less transplanted to Switzerland. Though it is true that non-Catholics in France are now allowed to worship in freedom, it is often with careful governmental surveillance.

The 16th-century library attached to the cathedral is still intact in its original form. It is rumored that the works of Calvin were placed under a section called "heretics." By some miracle, this church library survived the onslaught of German troops - twice - and four centuries of wear and tear. They only open the place to the public twice of year because of its fragility. Or perhaps they're afraid that people will discover the "heretics," blowing the dust off of some of the weightier tomes...

I hope they do.

Less than two months.

If you had just under two months in Paris, what would you do?

1. Go a final time to the Fleche d'Or, our favorite train-station-turned-rock-club in the 19^th arrondissment, before it closes at the end of the month.

2. Run all of the bridges in Paris (there are 33 with pedestrian access) in one day.

3. See the exhibition of William Blake's work at the Petit Palais. *

4. Perform music in the streets. *

5. Buy a summer-weight scarf. And a fine hat.

6. Grab one more bowl of Vietnamese noodle soup, Pho, at our favorite noodle joint in our old Chinatown neighborhood.

7. Buy the new, exquisite edition of a medieval classic, hot off the press with a preface by my prof at the Sorbonne. *

8. Visit the Musee de Cluny (Middle Ages museum) one last time, and get photos of the medieval gardens.

9. Peruse the stacks at the oldest public library in Paris, the Bibliotheque Mazarine.

10. Go to one uppity jazz club, New Morning or Duc des Lombards

11. Another bike trip in the countryside.

12. Sip espresso and write stories in cafes like it's going out of style. *

13. Eat enough French bread, wine, and cheese to hold me for a while. *

14. Get brave enough to try on “skinny jeans.”

15. Picnic on the Pont-des-Arts.

16. Go to Scotland for family, islands, biking, and, well, scotch.

17. Italy.

18. Make the rounds to thank our cheese guy Michel, our fruit and veg sellers, the coffee-roasting couple, and numerous other everyday friends.

19. Eat macarons from Laduree, which to my own shame I have never done.

20. Say au revoir, which means goodbye, but literally says “till the seeing again.”

* recently experienced, but subject to subsequent repetition.

Running in Both Directions

Now on the first day of the week Mary Magdalene came to the tomb early, while it was still dark, and saw that the stone had been taken away from the tomb. So she ran and went to Simon Peter and the other disciple, the one whom Jesus loved, and said to them: “They have taken the Lord out of the tomb, and we do not know where they have laid him”.

On that morning of all mornings, the sun had not yet peeked over the horizontal line that the Lord of all had fixed since anyone could remember. The people of God who had staked their claim on the Teacher from Nazareth were huddled in dark patches of shadow all across Jerusalem behind locked doors that they opened only to familiar voices. Exhausted, grieved in spirit, the Sabbath had been a much-needed rest. But now, no one knew for sure what would happen. The religious and political leaders were likely to strike His followers next. Jesus' words about rising on the third day seemed like a distant dream, the kind where you try to remember the details, but they hover just beyond your grasp.

In this uncertain atmosphere, I am not sure if I would have had the courage, curiosity and conviction of Mary, Peter, and John. Run headlong to the tomb? What if it were a trap? What better strategy to capture His supporters than to lure them with the disappearance of the body? I can just hear myself, reasoning with worldly gravity: “Well, you know that Joseph of Arimathea, on the Council? He paid for the tomb, but how do we know he isn't just posing as a disciple to take us all in? He might be just another Judas.” How mistrust and fear must have run rampant amongst the dismayed believers in these difficult hours, blinding their minds with unbelief.

Mary Magdalene had been momentarily blinded by her grief. She managed to have a short conversation with two angels and a “gardener”before she even realized that something supernatural was going on. Yet, full of courage and curiosity, she persevered in her pursuit of the Lord she loved, even if that meant walking into a threatening situation. Her persistence was rewarded by a dear reunion with her Friend and Savior in the garden, when He opened her eyes personally to recognize Him. She came running back with a firm witness: “I have seen the Lord.”

So Peter went out with the other disciple, and they were going toward the tomb. Both of them were running together, but the other disciple outran Peter and reached the tomb first....then the other disciple, who had reached the tomb first, also went in, and he saw and believed; for as yet they did not understand the Scripture, that he must rise from the dead.

When Mary returned with the first report, perhaps that nearly-forgotten dream flickered on the edges of their memories. Had He really said He would rise again? This conviction gave them courage to run towards something that appeared not only hopeless, but dangerous. One of my favorite paintings in the Musee d'Orsay depicts these two running disciples, their faces a complex mixture of fear, hope, and urgency. I can only imagine what conflicting feelings were pounding in their hearts as they approached the tomb of the Teacher they loved. In return, they received the happy news, and at least one of the two “believed.”

Sometimes I am like Mary. At first, I am unable to see Him because of the blur of tears. The difficulties of life and my longing to be with Him makes my spirit groan. But He enables me, even at the lowest points of grief, to move towards Him. He somehow makes room in my doubting heart for courage, curiosity, and even conviction. It is such a joy to run back to my friends time and time again, saying: “I have seen the Lord.”

Other times, I am like Peter and John. I vaguely remember His promises, but they're buried deep. Still, with the tiniest spark of life, He inspires me to run, resurrecting my hope in Him as I go. He rolls the heavy stone away from my heart. Every morning becomes a potential Resurrection Sunday, when I can peer into an empty tomb and believe anew.

The Way Home

I stumble in the semi-darkness over the ski clothes strewn around the living room after yesterday's adventures. Feeling around, I can detect the rubber soles of my running shoes under the mess. Bingo. Now I'm laced up, and ready to go. My sleeping husband, gently snoring, has to leave in a couple of hours. I make a mental note to be back in time to kiss him goodbye.

The air outside is colored and warmed by slanting sun rays, it smells like spring. This is a strange contrast to the fresh blanket - no, thick downy comforter - of snow piled in banks and on the trunks of trees. I sure hope the trails are navigable with my mesh sneakers.

It was our last morning in Germany after a week of playing in the snow. We had a 9-hour car trip ahead of us, and I figured I should stretch the legs a little bit. Ha. That would be an understatement.

The first climb was steep, and I took it slow. From the top of the hill behind our resort, I could just see the snow-covered peaks of the Austrian Alps beyond, the valley below was cloaked in early-morning fog. After this, lots of joyful, crazy little switchbacks back down, through farms and fields and forest. The turn-around point I had decided on beforehand was "Hinterhalden", and I muttered this magical-sounding word under my breath every mile or so, like some incantation that would spirit me away to that promised place. (By the way, I looked it up in a dictionary later on, and was much disappointed to discover that it meant "behind the rubbish heap". So much for my German fairy tale.)

Suddenly, I'll pulled up short by a glance down at my watch. It's been 45 minutes already? My hunt for Hinterhalden was, so far, futile. I nervously trotted a little faster, and then a little faster, hoping for a sign. Finally it came, along with a very helpful map. (I love Germany. Did I mention that already?) I had run clear past my objective, apparently, and was in the next village. Definitely time to do a 180. The valley was bubbling with a very exuberant creek, as happy as I was about the combination of recent snowfall and warmer temperatures. A heron and a hawk looked at me as I jogged past, but didn't seem too worried. All was well, until...

Until it came time to go up again. Now, I knew exactly where I was (well, not the coordinates or anything, like my Dad can with his fancy Garmin) and where I needed to be, but the question was, how? There seem to be no marked paths climbing the valley, and it was too late to go back the way I came. I began to despair of seeing Karl before his departure. He was leaving in the first car to motor back to Paris early, and I wanted so badly to say goodbye. Alas.

At this moment, low in various respects, it somehow finally occurred to me to ask the Lord for help. Why it always takes me so long to ask an omnipotent God to give me a hand is beyond me, part of the human condition, I guess. I shot up a prayer, and within a couple of minutes, my eyes fastened upon a blessed arrow labeled "Malas - 10 min" which pointed a snaky trail up the hill. Glory be. The climb left me wet, laughing, exhausted, and deposited me directly in front of our hotel. I love curbside service.

I have seen this principle at work so many times in life - just when I think there is no possible way to get over the mountain, He opens up a new way. (With some of us, He has to show us quite literally.) Just like the old spiritual says:

So high, you can't get over,
So low, you can't get under it,
So wide, you can't go 'round it,
You must go in at the door.

He is with us in every stride and swoosh.

P.S. I did catch Karl before he left, for those of you still in suspense.

Friends in High Places

Who is God but the Lord?
And who is a rock, except our God...
He makes my feet like hind's feet
And sets me upon my high places...
You enlarge my steps under me,
And my feet have not slipped...
The Lord lives, and blessed be my rock.
(Psalm 18:31, 33, 36, 46)

The past week is a jumble of bright sun, snowflakes, laughing, bratwurst and bier, praying, and learning. Most of all, our week-long jaunt to the German and Austrian Alps took us out of our everyday routine and stuck us in a place where we could not be reached by the ebbs and flows of everyday concerns, Internet, and the like. Off the grid...

Waiting, every muscle in my body is tense as I wait for the right moment. Here it comes -I'd better not fall again, like last time in front of God and everyone - here it comes around, whoop! I made it. The chair swoops up into the blue and forward and back a few times, just enough to give me butterflies for a moment. Then, silence. I have the impression that the stately pines are staring me down as I glide up the hill. What is she doing here? The delicious feeling that nothing that beeps or rings can reach me here. I have time. Time to think. Or not.

The mountains grow bigger and bigger as we ascend. I attempt some small talk with the people I know and love, and we are eventually hushed by our majestic surroundings. It is the calm before the storm.

For an inexperienced skier like myself, the "storm" means the trip downhill. There is something about strapping long, immovable pieces of fiberglass and metal to my feet and catapulting myself down a steep snowy incline that incites some apprehension. For the guy who shared my T-bar on the way up, well, it's another story. Just bring up the subject of skiing, and his eyes start to gleam with anticipation. Swoosh.

So there I was, pausing and teetering at the top of the slope, realizing that there was no other way down. (That's the thing with chair lifts - how humiliating would it be to take one down the hill?) So, out of a mixture of pride and self-determination, I started the descent. About ten minutes, three bruises, approximately a dozen falls and slips later, I was finally at the bottom wondering if the effort was worth it.

Fast-forward about 24 hours.

The sun in shining like there's no tomorrow, and I'm surrounded by the snow-capped peaks of Austria. Heck, I'm ON one of them. I'm cruising down a blue run, when I notice that the piste takes a steep torn ahead. I flashback to the day before, and push the image away. A beautiful phrase - "he makes my feet like hind's feet and sets me upon my high places" - settles over my mind like a fresh coat of snow, and I repeat it under my breath over and over as I practice my turns (left, swoosh, right, swoosh), and before I know it, I at the bottom with one of my favorite experiences of my whole life under my belt. God is good.

More soon...

Let it snow

in an early hour,

when all is dark and blue,

i wonder how to be this still.

when the clamor

of the day already intrudes,

rude in the sweet quiet.

i slip on a coat,

a hat to deaden the inner din,

a scarf to silence my mouth.

in the frozen grey

i gasp to the chill, my breath

floats in midair, like my question.

looking to the sky,

i wait for a cloud to fly, while

one lands perfect on my sleeve.

squint now - it is so intricate.

i ponder the six-sided wonder,

something not wrought by me.

and soon they whirl free,

an answer coming out of that wind -

a mitten quick clapped over my lips.

woolly-white clings

to my sullen, soiled garments

till perfect light covers all my dark.

oh, the abundant pardons!

i’m bundled from head to toe

in this blustery joy.

then falling unafraid,

i join with the other angels,

arms and legs waving praise.

***

After nearly three years with not so much as an inch of snow in which to squeeze snow angel, we were blessed with an abundance this year. And in three different countries: Germany, the USA (Minnesota), and France...in Paris, of all places! If this is what climate change is all about, I'm all about it. Here's an account of our first encounter.

Three tickets bought at a good price plus a whole lot of anticipation, with a healthy dose of Christmas excitement thrown on top: our first trip to Germany. On a whim, we bet on a city that none of us knew and won big. Freibourg is a small city just over the French border, about 4 hours' journey from Paris, and on the western edge of the Schwarzwald. A friend of ours, Diana, did some investigation, and it appeared as if the Weihnachstmakt (Christmas market) was especially nice there. She ought to know - it's her country. She grew up in East-Germany, however. This would be her first time to a region that was more or less verboten when she was a kid. It just so happened that we knew some mutual friends from our church in Paris, who were able to host us and help us around a bit. There's nothing quite like the family of God. Maybe you think I'm crazy, but I'm convinced there's something particularly wonderful about eating Schwartzwalder Kirschetorte with people who love the Lord Jesus.

Anyway.

We arrived in this charming town of Freibourg around lunch, just in time to start diving into the food and bier with ardor. The first stop was a Gasthaus (literally, guest house) - establishments that used to provide room and board back in the day, but have sine become restaurants with hearty, down-home cooking. We devoured steaming plates of Spatzle and Schnitzel, and a bowl of Gulaschsuppe and washed it down with the local pils. Now, in France, wine has a bouquet. In Germany, the beer has a flower. What a blessed continent. And as much as I love my vin francais, I have come to the conclusion that a Warsteiner with a decent blume can certainly be a comparable experience. The longer and stranger the words grew, the more delicious the food! And we devoured the language with as much enjoyment as the tasty comestibles. Bratwurst, dampfnudelen, schneeballen...you name it, we tried it.

Saturday was a dream. We took a train further into the Black Forest, which was (ironically) white with fresh snowfall. After a picknick in der Sohne, we strapped on some cross-country skis, and explored the territory. Breathtaking views, staggering walls of pines covered in fairy dust, and well-groomed trails that wove us in and out of ancient stands of trees. A truly magical day. Das ist schon hier.

I think we'll be back. Like, in February. And more about our snow adventures soon. Watch out, Abbey is back on the blogging scene.

Merci and Mercies

French word merci and the English word mercy seem to be something like fraternal twins separated at birth. They are both the progeny of the Latin word merces, which my dictionary tells me means "price paid for something, wages, reward." The meaning of our mercy in modern English is thanks to those innovators, the first followers of Christ:

"The early Christians of Rome used the word in a slightly different way. For them it meant the spiritual reward one receives for doing a kindness in response to an unkindness. The word came into early French as mercit or merci with much the same meaning as was later passed on to our Modern English word mercy." (Merriam-Webster)

If only the ancient Romans had known how common - and drained of its meaning - this word would become in modern French. Millions of people in Paris exchange it numerous times a day for a polite je vous en prie (you're welcome) without thinking about it too much. Someone hands us sandwich, and we say merci. Someone holds the door for us and we say merci. But I doubt if your average modern would say it if he were tortured for praying to the God he does. In fact, at first glance, it doesn't make any sense. But those early faithful had such a firm grasp on their own spiritual pardon before God, it compelled them to extend that pardon to others regardless of the way they were treated.

"What are you thankful for?" As we went around the dinner table, the responses were sincere and heartfelt - community, friends in a foreign land, food, family, etc. The Lord loves all thankful hearts. But I'm wondering how my little tribute would stand up next to a response from the Apostle Paul, Stephen and all those guys. They rejoiced that they were worthy to suffer for His name's sake. I rejoice that I've had a year fairly free of suffering. Hm. If my eyes shift even a little from physical benefits to the spiritual over the next year, I will be really thankful.

The word Thanksgiving (pronounced tanks-geeving-eh) is less of a linguistic mystery, having been borrowed quite recently into French vocabulary. They tried to float the idea of le jour de l'action de grace (lit., the day of the action of thanks) for a while. Alas, the French are too much in love with English these days for that sort of thing, and they preferred to swallow the real thing whole, with all of the zeal of a 10-year-old attacking his pumpkin pie. There is even a store named Thanksgiving, where you can buy jellied cranberry sauce for 5 euro a can. I hear you can also order a whole turkey in advance, but we weren't quite organized enough to plan ahead this year.

Which left me cruising around the city for most of Wendesday afternoon from butcher to grocery store to butcher, looking for a bird. No, madame, it is much too early. The farmers haven't even given them to us yet. (It's a Christmas dish here.) Finally, at the eighth stop or so, I was elated to see one handsome specimen in a shop window, the last one. She was magnficent, complete with long black tail feathers and head hanging down, as if she knew her fate. 15 minutes later, she was trussed and prepared, and with profuse merci's to the kind staff, I happily carried her away like an oversized football under my arm. Score! It was probably one of the best turkeys I've ever had. I don't know if you're like me, but I love how almost all elements of a Thanksgiving meal (sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, stuffing, cranberry sauce, olives and pickles, etc.) can mingle on my plate and still taste amazing. Any other meal, and this is not okay with me. Must have something to do with gravy.

Yes, this was about as authentic a Thanksgiving as you can create when in a foreign land, far from loved ones. We were with dear friends and collegues, re-created the foods we love. We even piped in live football via the Internet and let Bing Crosby sing in the background. The two English and one Aussie who joined made us a bakers' dozen, and were fascinated and delighted by the whole spectacle. We even thought about doing a re-enactment of the "first" Thanksgiving in 1621, but everyone was too full to move. After recounting the details we knew, the story morphed into something of a fractured fairy tale, where Squanto was trying to save Pochahontas while the lone vegetarian was trying to rescue the turkey from certain doom. It was hilarious.

All in all, a terrific evening. As Ray (our friend and landlord) mentioned, it's a sign of a good party when people aren't worried about running out the door to catch the last metro or train home. Gee, I hope they got home ok.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of our loved ones everywhere!

What happened next

Montpellier. We arrive early in the morning. Most of the city is still fast asleep. The street cleaners are washing the smooth, cream-colored stretches of marble of the centre-ville, and a lone cafe worker alternates between pulling espresso shots for the recent train arrivals and unstacking the towers of wicker chairs that by noontime will serve as perches for the large flocks of people that settle down on the Place de la Comedie. It is hard to believe that all of those cafe tables will be occupied in a few hours, but it's true. Sort of a daily miracle. It is not sunny like in the photograph at right.

For now, the mood is so still, it's almost sad. I don't know that we arrived expecting official fanfare and city celebration on our behalf. But there is something slightly disappointing about arriving too early for holidays in France. The shops are still closed, their security screens pulled down like a blanket over the sleepy eyes of an ornery teenager who insists on sleeping in.

But there's also something exciting about this quiet. It's a void that still waits to be spoken into. It's kind of like the early, dark hours on Christmas morning, when my brother and I used to sit around the Christmas tree and enjoy the quiet anticipation of gifts and smiles and coffee and Christmas breakfast.

I digress. But we had a lot to think and talk about while we waited for the Tourist Office (and everything else) to open at ten o'clock. Our hotel room was not ready yet, either - but the kind lady did allow us to leave our luggage in the storage room, and before we left to explore, we caught a glimpse and a whiff of the breakfast being served. We were not particularly hungry, having already succumbed to the heady smell of baked pain au chocolat. There is a sandwich shop near the train station with a little pastry oven turning tasty morsels that would tempt me on my way to class when I was here eight years ago. The aroma still makes me weak.

Feeling light and free, we try not to notice the grey skies, and poke our way through the ups and downs of the cobblestones in the oldest part of town. The narrow passageways are rather unoccupied at the moment, but crawling with history. The Faculty of Medicine is one of the oldest universities in Europe (est. 1180), is where Nostradamus and Rabelais studied. We circled around a tower reaching straight up out of nowhere in a calm square. The Tour des Pins, one of the two surviving towers from the original city wall. - we learn later that there used to be twenty-five. History is hard on things. For Nostradamus, the future was hard on things. Apparently, he climbed these very steps, and declared that the destruction of the city would occur when the two imposing pine trees nearby died. When they did, in fact, die shortly thereafter, the city quickly replanted pines, which are still there to this day. I guess it worked, because Montpellier exists, but my, has it changed!

We also let our eyes run over the impressive Couvent des Ursulines, the 14-century Cathedrale de St-Pierre, and the Aqueduct of St.-Clement, and finally settled down next to a courtyard for some delicious Italian food. (Notice in the photo a shop that is called "Lud 'M" - we couldn't stop laughing at the ressemblance to Lud and Em, our brother and sister-in-law!) With full stomachs, our bodies suddenly started groaning under the punishment of night trains and early mornings. We somehow wrapped both sets of long limbs around one green park bench near the Esplanade and took a snooze.

"C'est une petite chambre que j'aime bien". (It's a little room that I like so very much.) This was what the owner of the B&B said when I had made the reservation the week before. You know when hotel proprietors speak of their rooms with such tenderness, that it's probably going to turn out okay. It was in fact a jewel of a place, full of charm, decent prices, and extremely clean. We decided that this bed was much more comfortable than a park bench.

The crowning experiences of this trip were the gastronomic ones. The first evening, we found an amazing little French place called "Le Boeuf Agile". Small operation, lots of love. They wove us an evening of wild mushrooms, frog legs, grilled fish freshly-caught that morning, a delicate white wine from the nearby Cevennes, and two desserts to finish off the ordeal. The price? 32 euros. Gasp. This was half the price of Paris. It was going to be an excellent weekend.

Still hungry for the sun they always talk about in the Sud, we sought our fortunes in the nearby fishing town of Sete. Bingo! It was still a cool November day, but delightfully warm in the faithful sunshine. We strolled along the little canals that crisscross the city, vaguely reminiscent of Amsterdam or Venice. Around lunchtime, we bellied up to a portside restaurant and didn't leave until a couple of hours later. A boat of mussels, prawns, oysters, and whelks (escargot of the sea) pulled into our table, along with a bottle of chill vin rose. These flavours, the salty air, and the sun will remain indelibly fixed on my memory.

Which is a good thing, since I absentmindedly left our camera on the beach a few hours later. Crazy with the sight of the sea, I had decided to go for a gasp-inducing dip in the water which was a perfect turquoise blue. As were my lips when I emerged ten minutes later grinning from ear to ear to rejoin my husband, who had stood on the rock and laughed at me the whole time. Why didn't we think to take a picture? Might've remember the camera. Oh well, like I said. Good memories (almost) make up for it.

Later, we climbed to the top of the city and saw lights to the left and an eerie ocean spread out to the right, where the moonlight would glint from time to time. Captivating. So much so that we lose track of the time, and miss the train. How to get back to Montpellier? Tired, hungry, cold, we reviewed the options over and over. My Goretex jacket wasn't quite sexy enough to stop a motorist, so hitchhiking wasn't really going to work.

One taxi ride later. Gee, appreciating beauty can get rather expensive.

The remainder of our days were devoted to exploring Montpellier a bit more, and Avignon on the way back to Paris. Yes, we walked across the bridge of Avignon, where "they're all dancing, they're all dancing," though bridge dancers are harder to come by in the chilly winter months. Thankfully, so are tourists, so we had many of the sites to explore uncrowded.

I love the South. But there's something about coming back to Paris that is always so inviting. A place I know. A home of sorts.

N.B. The photos I owe to Google Image search and our previous quick stop in this city last summer. It just seemed like a forlorn post without some color.