A couple of weeks ago the French celebrated the end of World War II (Thursday, May 8) and Pentecost and Pentecost Monday, which constituted, for many, a 5-day weekend! We decided to get into the spirit and took a drive to Nice and the Villa Ephrussi, which is on the Cap Ferrat peninsula south of Nice. On the way we drove past Cannes but the Film Festival hadn't started yet so we didn't see Uma, Brad, Harrison, or any of the usual crowd. Our lives are a little emptier for having missed them but maybe our paths will cross next time. We live in hope, dahling. The festival and its participants get an obscene amount of media coverage here. Even the local paper, La Provence, moves its soccer news off the front page for pictures of Angelina.
We chose Thursday to make the excursion because Mike had the day off, knowing full well that it was the day of remembrance of Victoire 1945 but failing to consider the ramifications. Like parades, which the French are extremely enthusiastic about, especially those with a military theme. Consequently, the main roads in Nice were blocked off in preparation and we were detoured away into a massive creeping, crawling traffic jam. After what seemed like at least 2 hours but which was probably half an hour or so, we escaped and headed down to the Villa Ephrussi. The villa was built in 1905 by the sole remaining descendant of one of the branches of the Rothschild family who had married into a wealthy Italian banking clan. I assume she was one of the richest, if not THE richest, women of the time. She already had, at the age of 19, four perfectly suitable villas in Monaco but she needed another one, I guess, and outbid, for the 7 acres, some other outrageously wealthy figure with whom I'm sure you'd be familiar if I could remember who it was. (Lois tells me it was the king of Belgium. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't.) The site is right in the middle of the peninsula so you can see the Mediterranean from the windows on both sides of the house. She donated the property to the French state when she died and the gardens have been enlarged since then, but even in her day they must have been stunning. Paul Allen, owner of the Portland Trail Blazers - oh, and Microsoft co-founder - has a little place nearby and I think I saw his yacht - a smallish ocean liner, really - moored out in the bay with some others only slightly less mammoth. Paul comes into Powell's with his entourage after almost every Blazers home game. Yeah, me and Paul (or Paulie, as I call him) go way back.
Sunday was American Mother's Day so we observed the formalities and treated Lois with the reverence she, and mothers everywhere, so richly deserve. Our annual celebration includes breakfast in bed, with, on one of the very few occasions in our household, BACON!, for the honoree and a plant for the garden, this year a lantana. Then we drove to Francois' and Maria's (and Elaine's and Matthew's) house in Le Castellet for the afternoon, which included a delicious home-cooked dinner and a visit to the village on the top of a hill. Francois tells me that this place is so picturesque, charming, etc., that it's busy all year because even the French are attracted and it's close enough for a day trip from Aix, Marseilles or Toulon.
Incidentally, FRENCH mothers' day (Fete de Meres) is next Sunday. The expectations in our house have not yet been made clear, but I think I'd better lay in some bacon just in case.
I'm not sure they even have a Fathers' Day here.
Pictured below, from left to right: Elaine, Francois, Matthew and Maria. From top to bottom: Francois, Elaine, Maria and Matthew.
Pictured below, from left to right, while slumming: Robert Redford, Frodo Baggins and Meryl Streep.
Then, on Tuesday, I think it was, I learned how to use the Macro close-up function on our camera. The wildflowers are exploding out of the ground around here and it's very exciting - something new almost every day. I took these during a jog, which lasted about twice as long as usual, of course, because I was stopping every few minutes to take pictures.
This is rapidly becoming one of the rainiest springs in local memory and the residents are very happy, because they've suffered 5 or 6 years of drought. There have been spectacular thunder/lightningstorms. I happened to look out the window at the right moment and, voila!, there was a rainbow, or arc de ciel. And a brown horse, or cheval brun.
I think I mentioned the poppies growing in the wheatfields. They grow in some but not in others and we wondered why. I just read it's because some farmers use herbicides, that's why. Duh! In fact, the organic food industry here is a pale shadow of its American counterpart. But they're trying.
When we arrived last July, the fields looked like they were covered with snow or ice or something. Closer inspection revealed a few trillion little white snails slowly oozing their way up every vertical surface from stalks of wheat to fence posts. As you can see, they're getting started already.
Here are the sexual organs of a poppy. Not even Monet in his most impressionistic flights dared to portray them!
I'm falling behind. Dear friends (more like sisters, really) Linda and Michaelene left today after a week's visit. We dropped 'em off in Cassis, where they'll spend 3 days before going on to Albi (history buffs will recall the Albigensian Crusade of 1215 or thereabouts, during which a French bishop, when reminded that there might be some innocents among the heretics seeking refuge in a church which he had ordered to be burned down, replied, "Burn them all! God will know his own." But I digress.) I'll have to recount their visit next time. I'll only say that as we left them they were heading out of Cassis harbor on a small, rickety tour boat just as the storm of the decade roared in from the Mediterranean. We look forward to seeing them on our return to Portland, if they're still speaking to us.I have mentioned the remote but startling possibility that our team, Olympique Marseilles (OM), could end up in third place at season's end after being in 19th place (out of 20 teams) in December. Well, the season ended Saturday night and, incredibly, they did it! (I didn't see the game - it was on cable - but I saw one of their goals on the news the next day. It was ridiculous! Djibril Cisse, a striker, had a penalty kick blocked by the goalie straight back toward him and he tapped it in with his forehead from about 5 feet away over the prostrate goalie. The final score was 4 to 3.) Which means that they'll be in the Champions' League tournament next season, and that's BIIIIG MONEY and bigtime competition! So naturally, in the spirit of enlightened modern sports management, they're going to sell two of their best players. Francois is a true fan. He tells me I'm too forgiving. I guess his heart's been broken once too often.
We're looking forward to seeing Lois' sister, Ellen, and our niece, Kristen, in a few days. That'll make it 3 nieces out of 4. The fourth is in too delicate a condition to travel, if you get my drift. (Congratulations, babe! And Mr. babe!)
Until next time, then, here's another Provencal sunset.
Au revoir.
Tom
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