Mr. Peiresc, Meet FaceBook! by Jane Tolbert

I stumbled across an interesting gentleman more than 20 years ago, attracted by his vision of the new science and collections of curiosities. During his lifetime, he worked in Aix-en-Provence, but he valued retreats to his family home in the country at Belgentier. Nicolas-Claude Fabri de Peiresc, a French magistrate and scientist, devoted hours each day to social networking, using both personal contacts and correspondence.

Although he frequented the movers and shakers and luminaries of the time, he also consulted artisans. His correspondents, scattered throughout Europe and the Levant, provided data (observations of a lunar eclipse for work on a method of terrestrial longitude), reports (natural history, culture, religion, philology) or artifacts and curiosities (talismans, crates of hooded chameleons from Tunisia, an Egyptian mummy and ancient Roman coins or manuscripts).

On a given day, this inquisitive polyglot could churn out as many as ten letters--some of which were 3500 words long with sections resembling the materials and methods of a lab report today. Needless to say, these letters were written in a painful scrawl and included marginal notations (Thomas D’Arcos said he was not circumcised). His letters also provided an amalgam of personal health (his hemorrhoids were acting up), weather conditions, politics (he preferred living in the South of France, at a distance from Paris with its scandals and machinations), recipes (the salubrious benefits of small melons or flamingo tongues), gossip and opinions about women.

Peiresc described himself a type of “midwife” in helping projects reach fruition. He promised rewards to those who participated in scientific ventures, most often tedious and time consuming.

He came to the defense of friends. He asked Cardinal Barberini to lighten up on Galileo or arranged ransom payments for a Barbary captive. He stressed the importance of tolerance at a time when science clashed with religious beliefs and the threat of the Inquisition loomed.

Even though Peiresc generously rewarded his correspondents, many did not reciprocate. When he requested telescopic observations, they used the naked eye or copied data from existing tables. The main point of the new science was the use of observation and inquiry to correct past errors and misconceptions. He sent lengthy missives, awaited responses and experienced mail delays caused by pestilence, pirate raids or wars and adverse meteorological conditions. Then some correspondents just disappeared from the radar.

Would FaceBook have alleviated Mr. Peiresc’s woes? He would scrupulously complete the sections of his profile, interests, hobbies and activities. His 500 or more friends would include cardinals, politicians, Copernicans, Aristotelians, renegades and freethinkers. He would send frequent “news feeds”-- “OMG Mass lasted too long. Missed transit .” “Thx for the orange trees .” He would “poke” his contacts and write on their “walls” (“Send data ASAP”) or read postings of others to learn who got “wasted” or feigned illness instead of collecting data. He would upload drawings of the gazelle, Alzaron, engraving of the lunar topography or videos of his dissections. He would be tagged in numerous photos.




Given the period in which he lived (1580-1637), Mr. Peiresc left an impressive legacy—notebooks of observations and a plethora of letters. What more could he have done with FaceBook, SMS and IM! Involved “friends of friends”? Sent reminders on Twitter? Or recognized that many collaborators then as now preferred trivial pursuits (ummm, slept late; shopped hard) to scientific investigations?
Photos: Belgentier
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For more information on Peiresc, visit this site: www.lesamisdepeiresc.fr

What did not fit in my suitcase! by Jane Tolbert

Travel is about experiences and memories. I used to collect souvenirs—salt and pepper shakers, mugs, ashtrays--but now I realize the most special parts of a trip are the intangibles (sights, sounds, smells, memories) and all those other things that just won’t fit in my suitcase--parasol pines, the azure and turquoise colors of the Mediterranean Sea and the cobalt blues of the mountains, the hillsides of poppies and olive trees.



Just to the west of Juan-les-Pins, the Boulevard Bijou Plage runs down to the beach, the Bijou Plage and the restaurant.


Starting in April, the ferries make frequent runs to the nearby Iles des Lerins, where the Man in the Iron Mask was imprisoned. But that is just one small incident in an area with a rich history of numerous civilizations.


Although Antibes offers an old city, a market, and port, my favorite place to visit is the Picasso Museum.


There, the Nicolas de Staël painting, “The Concert,” and the view from the terrace with the Giacometti statues leave me breathless. For obvious reasons, I could not put these objects in my suitcase. . . .



My other favorite museum is the Maeght Foundation near St. Paul de Vence, which has an enviable sculpture garden and collection of Mirò, Calder, Arp, Giacometti's figures and animals, and Chagal as well as the Braque basin with the fish mosaic.

In Nice, the Monday morning flea market on the Cours Saleya has numerous stalls of books, furniture, glass chandeliers, toys and curiosities.

One vendor sporting large, round glasses, has a wonderful collection of Art Deco jewelry. But I am tempted by the larger and colorful chandeliers. The pragmatic concerns (e.g., airline excess baggage) deter me in my purchase. I end up by contemplating options from the terrace of a cafe.

In the streets of Valbonne, that red Ferrari would go well with my red shoes and, of course, THE red carpet at the Cannes Film Festival. For now, these are musings. I am not sure I could afford to fill up the Ferrari anyway.

Florida Storms by Jane Tolbert

In the late spring, the media go into “storm mode,” the countdown for the six-month hurricane season that begins June 1. Most Floridians would rather avoid the reminder. After all, the four hits in 2004 are still fresh in our minds even though most of the blue tarps covering damaged roofs have disappeared.

As we move into the summer, grocery stores issue storm-tracking maps printed on the sides of the brown paper bags. The bank provides hurricane survival lists. Weather forecasters show images of a storm forming off the coast of Africa. Day-after-day they track its development, predicting it will gain strength, become more organized and then intensify. Once the storm arrives in our proximity, reporters in nylon parkas appear on the scene, braving winds and rain against the backdrop of blowing palm trees. With our safety foremost in their minds, they promise to continue live broadcasts. Stay tuned.

Our garages provide a constant reminder of hurricane preparedness. Since many homes do not have permanent storm shutters, corrugated aluminum sheets or wooden planks remain stacked against the walls, some still bearing captions like, “Good away, Charlie” or “We’re ready, Ivan.”



Our cupboards contain jars of peanut butter and cans of beans with a long-past expiration date. The batteries stored on a closet shelf can no longer bring a flashlight to life. Our three-day supply of bottled water has gone the way of the gym. The emergency cash in the kitchen drawer has long since been used for more pressing purchases. Since that last storm when all the cell phones either died or the towers jammed, we have planned to buy the traditional cord phone. Our cars should contain a full tank of gas for an evacuation.

We had two hurricanes in rapid succession target the Melbourne area in 2004. We evacuated the barrier islands for Hurricane Frances along with 70 percent of the inhabitants. One neighbor loaded family heirlooms in a rental truck. Others felt a storm might be a way to get rid of unwanted belongings. We filled our Mustang with laptops, pets, a surfboard, a box of CheeseIts and our homeowner’s insurance policy. We headed up the coast then inland through the Ocala National Forest, following a stream of cars and horse trailers. Once with family in Gainesville, we waited for the storm to make landfall. There, most of the damage came from pine trees that snapped in high winds. Cleanup crews and utility trucks spent days clearing debris from the main roads. We joined neighbors armed with chain saws, ropes and pickup trucks to clear residential streets. We headed back to the Melbourne area, this time following utility trucks. Fragments of street lights, advertising signs and political campaign memorabilia littered the beachside roads and blocked storm sewers. Service stations had lost their awnings and covers. Grocery stores had no frozen or fresh products. Few canned goods remained. Beachfront hotels appeared gutted, the facades damaged or missing and plate glass shattered. Parking lots and Dumpsters now overflowed with water-logged mattresses. It looked like a war zone. On our street, tree limbs, shingles and planks created an obstacle course. The branches of my stately Norfork Island Pine now clogged a neighbor’s swimming pool. But our roof remained intact. A week or so after our electricity came on, Hurricane Jeanne targeted our area. But this time, 70 percent of the residents remained. And once again, our communities were plunged into darkness.

The media had provided blow-by-blow coverage of the hurricanes, but after several days of reporting on the financial cost, they moved on, often missing the poignant stories, a juxtaposition of good and bad. The firemen willing to help but the numerous blue tarps that remained for more than a year. The absentee insurance adjusters, the shyster roofers or tree cutters, or the shelters that closed, leaving many area inhabitants and their pets homeless. In some cases, families took in friends, and neighbors organized candle-lit dinners. Surprisingly, many things did not blow away--the mermaid figurehead on what was then the Pineda Inn on US 1, Mrs. Mango’s small house, known for its herbs and teas and for the county teachers, all those student essays that still needed to be graded.
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Inland on the Riviera

Grasse and the Gorges du Loup by Jane Tolbert

In past years when the crowds thickened and coastal traffic intensified on the Riviera, I used to seek respite in the hillsides of the backcountry. The inland villages, once strongholds against Saracen invasions, have replaced pots of boiling oil, bows and arrows and war machines with boutiques filled with perfumes, lavender honey or provençal herbs and pottery.

Grasse, once a city of tanners, gained renown for its perfumeries that developed after Catherine de Medici (16th c.) ordered perfumed gloves. Until recently, travelers needed to take a bus or drive here, but a train now links Grasse to the coastal cities. For the tourist, the city provides a cathedral with paintings by Rubens and Fragonard, museums, perfume factories, a labyrinth of old city streets plus the market and bistros on the Place aux Aires. Although ornate buildings and exotic vegetation give the old city a turn-of-the-century elegance, it continues to struggle to attract new businesses and year-round residents. The networks of narrow alleys and the lack of convenient parking within the city walls would probably discourage most of us from settling.

On a road that climbs inland from Pré du Lac to the 11th-century fortified village of Gourdon, I cross a few tour buses, quarry trucks and determined cyclists. This perched village, built high on a rocky crag, has withstood centuries of invasions but now caters to tourism. Instead of entering Gourdon, I head in the direction of the Plateau of Caussols, known for the CERGA observatory, and I turn off on the Chemin des Claps. The landscape is desolate, and I feel like I am at the top of the world. Below is Gourdon and a glimmer of the Mediterranean Sea. Paragliders hover, suspended in the in the air. Traces of the Via Aurelia, or Roman Road, and abandoned sheep folds are all but camouflaged in the rocky landscape, which contains ammonite fossils, hints of the marine environment once here. Tufts of wild lavender have gained a foothold, but small vipers also lurk here.

Returning to the entrance of Gourdon, I head in the direction of the Gorges du Loup (Loup Valley) along switchback turns that bring out the rally-car driver in us all. Signs point to Gréolières, a small, local ski station, then Bramafan, plunged in perpetual darkness because of its dismal history. According to legend, a 15th-century seigneur locked his wife away in a tower to die of starvation. Her cries were heard by villagers (hence the name, Bramafan, or “cry of hunger”). A large American ragtop, a relic from the days of cars with big fins, scrapes by on the narrow road. Pont du Loup, the end of the circuit, has a candied fruit factory, worth a detour to sample my favorites--the rose petal, fig or citrus jellies. From here, the courageous hiker—which has never been my case—may opt to climb a small footpath marked “Chemin de Paradis” (Road to Paradise) that leads upward to Gourdon. However, I remain in my car. Bar-sur-Loup is a small village directly below Gourdon with a micro-climate favoring the cultivation of citrus. The village has undergone a substantial facelift. The once-dark alleys now have brightly painted village houses, and the town boasts two gourmet restaurants--the Hostellerie du Chateau, opened by a former opera singer, and La Jarrerie, located on the main road. Historically, the village has ties to the States. In the American Revolutionary War, Admiral François-Joseph de Grasse, who was born here, played a critical role in the defeat of Cornwallis at the Battle of Yorktown. The village church (13th-15th c.) houses the “Danse Macabre,” or Dance of Death,” a painting depicting dancers dropping dead amidst festivities, surely a sign of divine retribution for revelers.

Over the years, even the backcountry has become increasingly populated on a year-round basis in part due to the development of the research park of Sophia Antipolis and its employees who seek housing. Although small corners of the region remain inaccessible to tourism, but they were likely already known to the Saracens or earlier invaders.

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Photos: Grasse, Place aux Aires. Bar sur Loup seen from the Chemin de l'Hubac.

A Year Abroad by Jane Tolbert

In my travels to France over the years, I have seen a lot of change. American expressions have entered the vocabulary, and more American products are available—not only diet soft drinks, but Skippy peanut butter and Doritos. McDonald’s and fast foods are firmly entrenched, but the French waistlines also have expanded.

Driving no longer presents the white-knuckle experience. Many right of ways have been replaced by stop signs or traffic circles. Drivers seem more courteous, but the motorcycles and scooters swerve and weave like stuntmen from an action film. Among the worst offenders are the delivery boys for Mister Pizza. Both tiny cars and SUVs are more numerous. The dearth of parking spaces continues to force drivers to use ruse and stealth to snare a space.

Even with the emphasis on environmental protection and climate change, large development projects continue to spring up along the Mediterranean coastline, all but blocking the view, much like the condos on Florida’s beaches. Fields once filled with roses and jasmine for the perfume industries of Grasse have given way to villas and swimming pools. The inland region, with its rolling hills and olive trees, looks a lot like California.

In the post-war years, the French phone system seemed antiquated if it existed at all. But today, the telecommunications systems exceed my wildest dreams. For 30 euros a month, subscribers have a high-speed Internet connection, an excellent phone system with unlimited, free calls in France and to many foreign countries, as well as cable TV service. Healthcare is enviable. The “subscription” is based on an individual’s income rather than the flat rate charged by private health companies in the States.

More stores are open during the lunch hour. However, aside from a few cafés and North African groceries, little is open on Sunday afternoon, a time when I often ran my last-minute errands in Florida. A few rare service stations have mini-markets that carry wine, coffee, sandwiches, toilet paper and cat litter. The things that just can’t wait until Monday.

The post office and banks have maintained the traditional French schedule—mysterious operating hours, the two-hour lunch break and numerous holidays. Strikes, especially among railroad employees and university professors, continue to be prevalent. Shopping carts still do not roll in a straight line, and checkout counters in large supermarkets have the client elbowing their way through lines or diving to bag merchandise at it flies by on conveyor belts.

Singles are still welcomed by groups of friends, a much healthier social scene than the couples-only syndrome in the States. In the post-disco years, more Latin dance places have opened. And Argentine Tango is very popular. Its Tangueros look for any opportunity to dance at a variety of places—from Jack’s Blues jazz club to seaside parks.

In other ways France still maintains its uniqueness. Is it the fresh slivers of parmesan on my salad at the Café de la Plage? The hint of ground pepper in the vanilla ice cream from Fenocchio Glacier ? The tall, thin fluted glasses in which my peach kir is served at the Bamba? The way in which women dress up even for menial chores, and the interest the men show? The rows of fresh pastries that line the glass display cases? The sidewalk café terraces with dogs? The advertising with its humorous, sexual allusions?

I don’t know the answer. But fortunately in this world of change, France still retains an intangible quality of . . . Frenchness.

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Recessionista on the Riviera

Recessionista on the Riviera by Jane Tolbert

I was a recessionista before the term was coined. As a graduate student, I shopped at thrift and consignment stores, limiting pricey purchases to the occasional splurge on a Hermès scarf or Prada glasses. Now with the recession in full swing, the frugal approach to fashion has replaced ostentatious consumption of the fashionista era. Many artifacts of a consumer culture are now relegated to the back corners of a closet. No one wants to look the extravaganista now.

Even on the French Riviera, the recession has brought about a shift in the geography of spending. The Americans have long been displaced as symbols of affluence. After 9-11, even more so. But now even the British and Russians have faded from the landscape. Although a British investor is transforming an early 20th-century hotel at the edge of the Cap d’Antibes into luxury apartments and hotel suites, his fellow countrymen no longer lap up properties in the Mougins area. The Russian bodyguards who drove convertible Mercedes in front of the casino in Juan-les-Pins have vanished. In September 2008, the much talked-about sale of the Villa Leopolda in Villefranche to a Russian did not materialize—the selling price was to have been a heafty 500-million euros. Although the wealthy people here still live off their rentes—those private incomes and annuities, they have shortened their international trips. The locals with day jobs are cutting back on expenditures—less money goes to food, and this past winter, they bundled up in more sweaters to avoid paying a higher heating bill. Although the summer vacation is somewhat sacred here, the news media predict more families will be staying in camping grounds rather than at hotels or large resorts.

In an area in which tourism is a major source of income, the recession has affected the hotel business. Some hotels closed during the winter; others reported a 10 percent decrease in business. Some attempted to lure in new clients with offers of bargain weekends. In response to the downturn, swank restaurants began offering affordable noon menus.

The retail businesses found little relief with the Christmas season. For a few months this winter, the Rue d’Antibes in Cannes seemed devoid of people with shopping bags. The Cap 3000 had a full parking lot, but clients made only modest purchases. Department store sales, formerly limited to twice a year—July and January--extended to entice reluctant customers.

Some signs of opulence remain. Luxury cars still abound on the Riviera—Maserati, Aston Martin, and the ever-present Ferraris and some Lamborghinis. The smaller cars—the Smart and the retros (the Fiat 500 and the Mini)--have also become popular. After all, you can fit a shopping bag in the backseat if necessary. But a true sign of a firmly entrenched recession would be chic Vespas cluttering street corners. With a Vespa, a pair of stilettos and a billowing skirt, and a shopping bag between the knees, anyone would look the true recessionista.


With predictions of the French economy shrinking by 3 percent in 2009, it has become fashionable, even on the Riviera, to be recessionista. Before I returned to the States, I planned a day of shopping at friperies and dépôts ventes (thrift and consignment), all within proximity of the palatial Cannes hotels, where I hoped to find that little soupçon of luxury. Would that gently used D & G handbag now be affordable?

The day I went to Cannes, the rain dampened my enthusiasm for shopping. I visited only one consignment store where I tried on a D & G cotton dress that carried a tag for 100 euros, likely 20 percent of the original price. I planned to return another day with more enthusiasm. But the rains continued, and instead I went to the Cap 3000 where 100 euros bought much more at the H & M. Cannes would have to wait. But perhaps when I returned another year, the recessionista would have also gone the way of the fashionista. And perhaps we would all go shopping with our Vespas.
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From Istanbul to Vallauris by Jane T. Tolbert

Last August, my sister told me she was sending me a jacket she bought in Istanbul. She wanted the address of the studio I was renting in Vallauris, France, so she could mail it to me.

After a week of living to the north of the city made famous by Picasso, I received an “avis de passage” in my mailbox. I was certain this was my Istanbul jacket, although the notification did not specify the sender. It only provided the times at which the package would be available. I took the Rue Notre Dame, darted across a busy intersection and headed in the direction of the Picasso Museum, the market square with its “Homme au Mouton” statue by Picasso, and the Café Llorca. From there, I walked down a narrow street toward the Chapelle de la Miséricorde, which serves as an exposition hall for the arts. After several more blocks, I arrived at the post office.

Two long lines had formed at the counters. Each transaction seemed complex. The clerk shuffled books, opened cabinet drawers, checked information on a monitor, and made trips to a back room. Didn’t anyone want just one postage stamp? Many people still use the post office for financial transactions—for savings and checking accounts or to send money back to their families in North Africa. The lines swelled. Women with shopping caddies, others with babies in strollers. Men with large packages in plaid bags. Couples with fresh product from the market. Would I reach the front of the line before the two-hour closing for lunch?

The line inched forward. I was next. No! A buxom woman walked to the front, claiming she had a priority card for a physical infirmity. The others waiting in line rolled their eyes, but no one said anything.

I handed the clerk my notification, explaining it was probably bulky. But she returned with a small taped box, asking that I sign the receipt. This was not my jacket! It was my high-speed internet connection box.

Months passed. I received other notifications, but I did not receive my jacket. The post offices in Turkey and France are reliable. What could have happened? I moved to Juan-les-Pins, and I left the post office a forwarding address. But after nearly eight months, I assumed the jacket had been lost in transit. When my sister asked if she should mail my birthday presents to my new address, I said to wait until I returned to the States. I’d rather not risk losing another jacket.

Now after nearly a year, my sister is back in Istanbul. The other day she left me a cryptic phone message that she had great news. Then she asked if I remembered the “brick joke.” I assumed she referred to a commission for a major project. But I didn’t see the relationship to the joke. Later, she explained she had not called about a commission, but about my jacket. She was staying at her favorite hotel, the Troya. The concierge had a package for her. She had addressed the jacket to me in Vallauris, but she indicated the Hotel Troya in Istanbul as the return address. The concierge kept the package, knowing she would return one day. He would have kept it for forty years if necessary.

“Do you want me to mail it?” she asked.
“Let’s not risk it. I will get it when we both return to the States.”

As for the brick joke, best to ask my sister about that one.
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