Quality of Life by Jane Tolbert

For many years, my parents handed us envelopes, which were labeled “quality of life” and filled with a wad of cash. Their families had known the Depression, and for them, quality of life meant the ability to purchase something frivolous such as shoes or bouquets of cut flowers rather than the more mundane groceries and necessities. My grandparents had also given us rolled up dollars and handfuls of coins each time we visited. No one could really afford to give us this “quality of life.” But they did, and they appeared generous.

Quality of life means enjoying the simple pleasure of life when the economy is bad, unemployment is high and the next paycheck is uncertain. In today’s recession, many of us seek activities that require little investment but have a high yield of memorable experiences. This year we have given up travel to the larger dance workshops that require nights in hotels and airfares. Instead we are riding out the recession, focusing on less expensive local dances or relatively free activities.


Quality of life isn’t about extravagant pleasures but about a perspective. This past year in France, my walks enabled me to savor details—the steep hillsides of Vallauris where orange trees nestle among turn-of-the-century villas or the wide boardwalk at Juan-les-Pins overlooking the Mediterranean. Local dances on the Mediterranean cost anywhere from 1 euro for the outdoors events to 10 euros for the clubs.







Rocky coast on the Cap d'Antibes


The occasional jaunt to see the yachts at the Antibes port and a hike along the rocky edge of the exclusive Cap d’Antibes allowed me to gauge how the very wealthy were making out in the recession.

This year in Melbourne, we meet at places with no cover charges--the Cove, a beachside restaurant with great dancing on Tuesday nights, or Lou’s Blues, a bar with a small dance floors. We take turns hosting dances at our homes or may splurge on an afternoon Argentine tango workshop. Biking along waterways, planning a picnic on the beach or attending free foreign films at the local university are activities that make us focus on that extravagant feeling associated with the quality of life rather than the perception that cash is the sine qua non of the quality of life. Like those times when my dad would throw dollar bills—not hundreds and hundreds of dollars—up in the air, we attempt to emulate that tradition, or perspective, of quality of life associated with those envelopes of cash. It’s not a million dollars but it seems like it.



Crane Creek, Melbourne, Florida

Dog Days on the Riviera by Jane Tolbert

Most of us want to return to this life as a French dog—loved and pampered and stay-at-home.

I adopted my first dog when I lived in the French countryside near Grasse. The masons who worked on my house had Brittany Spaniels, which they used for companionship and for the hunt (pheasants, water birds and others). They brought their dogs to work every day. Nana climbed ladders and would sit on the chimney while her master Robert worked on the tile roof. Roger’s puppy Sophia ran through wet cement, chased lizards or chewed the seats in his Peugeot 204.





One day the masons asked if I wanted a dog. Their friend planned to get rid of his Brittany, Pink, who had committed two egregious sins—she had eaten a tiered cake, which he had prepared for a wedding, and she had spent the last hunting season hiding under his car. Pink loved pastries, and she did not like guns. She became my companion and nanny to my two kids for many years. She rode in the front seat of the car, went on family vacations in Florida and continued to scarf down pastries. She took the bus with me to Grasse (dogs rode half price). Sometimes she wandered off to the village café, the Pergola, at Pre du Lac. Usually someone brought her home.




When we moved to Melbourne Beach, Pink moved with us. She wandered down to the beach one day. Since her tags still had a French address, my dad commented that anyone who found her would have marveled at the distance a Brittany could swim.

When I later returned to France to live in the city, it seemed the growing emphasis on clean public streets and the “no poop” policy had forced people to opt for smaller dogs just because of logistics. Toy poodles, papillons, terriers and chihuahuas, now the vogue, were in boutiques, cafes and even in backpacks on scooters.



In France, with its population of nearly 62-million people and an estimated 19-million dogs, canines are an integral part of life, as much as the apértif and baguette. Even on the coldest days, shivering pooches accompany their owners to the Monday morning flea markets in Nice or for a walk on the beach. Some watch passersby from shopfront windows in Juan-les-Pins. Still others sit on their owners’ laps on the boardwalk or wait patiently outside a grocery store. One dog even had a security clearance at the research park of Sophia Antipolis. Patrons bring dogs to cafes and restaurants, and both eye the menu with a hint of gourmandise. Sugar cubes? Two orders of croissants? One large café au lait and a hot chocolate followed by a walk in the sun.

As I prepare for an early morning commute to my day job, I realize a dog’s life sounds pretty good.

Pipedream or Paradigm? by Jane Tolbert

Rails to Trails Overlook


South Rim

When we think of ideal biking locations, the Northwestern United States or Europe come to mind. But ever so slowly networks of greenways are inching across the American landscape, offering the possibility of biking on off-road paths or little-traveled highways. What might have seemed a pipedream years ago is becoming the new paradigm--a shift from the automobile-based lifestyle of recent generations to one that focuses on exercise. Let’s hope this trend continues.

In the Melbourne – Cocoa area, cyclists meet at Viera or Cocoa Village for a 25-to-35-mile loop that follows the Indian River Lagoon. Some of these roadbikers in brightly colored jerseys have such a competitive gleam in their eyes that I know this loop is not for amateurs. I’ll ride at my own pace and maybe meet them later at Ossario’s Café. I’ve trailed other cyclists who gather near Mather’s Bridge to pedal a 10-mile circuit on South Tropical Trail along the Banana River and taken a predawn ride along Riverside Drive between the Eau Gallie and Melbourne causeways.


Mather's Bridge

Biking technology has really changed since the days my sister Margaret and I shared ‘Thunderbird,’ our first bike. The massive-framed green bike had coaster brakes, streamers on the handle bars and a clattery kickstand. We got our thrills from riding with feet on the handlebars or pedaling furiously up and down neighborhood streets of Virginia. And it probably took both of us to lift the cumbersome Thunderbird to an upright position. Today, we don’t even have to stand to pedal uphill. The lightweight frames, comfortable seats and gears make bikes easy to ride.

Weekend activities are planned around meeting friends for a bike ride. In the Gainesville area, we biked the popular 16-mile Gainesville-Hawthorne Trail. Other times I have joined friends at Split Rock, the South Rim or the San Felasco Hammock, all of which provide miles of sandy paths as well as encounters with deer, bird and, if not the cougars or bear themselves, at least their paw prints.

So why isn’t everyone biking? The network of trails still needs to be linked. Portions of many bike routes contain a mixture of high- and low-congested areas and roadside debris, conditions that preclude many commuters or school kids from biking. One my favorites workouts in Melbourne is to ride the causeway bridges that link the mainland to the barrier islands. But an element of fear offsets the salubrious benefits of a cardio workout. I dodge road debris within feet of speeding pickups, towed boats or SUVs.

The combination of exercise, outdoors and chats with friends make biking somehat addictive—enough to get me out before 8 a.m. on weekends. It’s unlikely I’ll ever ride more than 15 or 20 miles, but I am looking forward to the day when I can access a greenway from my neighborhood, ride my bike and feel like a kid.

Promises, Promises by Jane Tolbert

Chapelle de la Garoupe, Cap d'Antibes


Imagine the setting. You are a captive in some dank prison in a foreign land. You vow to perform an incredible feat if you ever gain release and return home. Faced with adversity or in a moment of duress, individuals often made wild promises. Take for example the Knight of Blacas, captured by Saracens during the Crusades, who vowed that upon his release he would hang a star over the provencal village of Moustiers Sainte Marie. No one is quite certain when the actual feat took place, but the star hangs today about 690 feet in the air on a chain that spans a chasm more than 675 feet across. What was he thinking! The knight could have made a more modest vow--the restoration of a chapel or a generous financial contribution to ransom other captives. Instead, he chose a way to give thanks for his liberation that captivates our imagination to this day!

Sailors make vows and offer prayers for a safe passage on tranquil seas or deliverance from shipwreck. On the Cap d’Antibes, the small, 13-16th century Chapelle de la Garoupe has an eclectic collection of ex-votos--drawings of the Virgin Mary, paintings of flowers and ships, model ships and marble plaques. In other areas, roadside shrines to the virgin or a patron saint enable passersby to make small votive offerings.



The numerous ex-votos in chapels suggest even to the skeptic that there may be something to these offerings. . . or is there? What about those individuals who made vows but nevertheless succumbed to a crisis or perished in a dank prison? As scholars Jörg Rüpke and Richard Gordon have pointed out, “Failed vows produced no votices; the system renders its failures invisible” (Religion of the Romans, 2007, 164).

Still, school-age children may want to play it safe not only in the pre-Christmas season when they prepare their wish list for Santa but throughout their K-12 years. To complement their studious efforts and hours devoted to study, they may want to make a promise to the patron saint of homework assignments. Rumor has it that a patron saint of parking meters exists in New Orleans. Impressive! But has anyone beaten Blacas' record of the star on the chain?