The Value of Benches by Jane Tolbert

I remember buying a pair of shoes years ago in Paris. . . and hobbling from bench to bench in the Luxembourg Gardens in an effort to walk in these ill-fitting shoes. . . . Since then, I have retained a respect for benches. Benches provide a "soulagement" for those with pinched feet.



Benches like this line the Juan-les-Pins boardwalk, a zone with numerous sidewalk cafes or vendors. These benches are full of people on sunny days. Early in the morning, before the sun warms the air or sea, a few bathers can be seen emerging from the water and sitting on benches to brush sand off their feet before putting on shoes. At the end of summer, the tourists leave and locals and pets return to their "place" the benches.

Other benches, like the one shown below, are usually less crowded and offer spectacular views of the sea.






This view of the Mediterranean (at Juan-les-Pins) is from a bench just above a private beach and restaurant by the boules field at the pinede. You can usually find a private place to sit from which you can see but are not seen. The view is the the Port Gallice in the distance. These benches offer a type of therapeutic value.

The pinede (or pine woods) is a small park in the center of Juan-les-Pins with winding paths, a play ground and carousel, and of course, petanque fields. It is also the site of the jazz festival. Hotel workers sit on benches on their breaks and many light up a cigarette. Friends meet friends. Parents and grandparents watch over small children. Benches serve an important social function!



This empty bench is probably a bit too noisy given the proximity to the road (the western point of Juan-les-Pins) even though it overlooks the sea.

Benches in Gainesville range from those with spectacular views of Paynes Prairie, to the meditation benches near Lake Alice or the smaller and less significant. But right now, it's far too hot and muggy to enjoy a bench here unless . . . you have purchased a pair or ill-fitting shoes.




A bench overlooking a retention pond on the rails trails, Southeast Gainesville. This bench probably sees lots of activity in the cooler late afternoons or evenings if the Florida mosquitoes are not out!

In the land of [wall] outlets by Jane Tolbert

France, the land of outlets that take only one plug. . . .

Leaving my café terraces and boardwalks behind in France has always been difficult, but at least I know I will return to the land of plug outlets. For some reason, French plug outlets only hold one plug. Anecdotal evidence from France suggests that electricians charge per outlet, which makes the homeowner balk at numerous plug outlets in each room. As a result, each wall outlet can handle only one plug, which necessitates using a series of interconnected outlet strips that snake across the floor. Although we may cover these cords with rugs, these cords eventually snare the unsuspecting visitor or the inattentive resident.



Years ago, when we traveled abroad, we had to carry large, ungainly transformers as well as plug converters to use our US electronic devices that ran off of 110 volts. These days, everything is compatible and at most requires a plug converter. But compatibility does not preclude the problem of outlets. Although wireless networks address this problem to a limited extent, cell phones, laptops, cordless phones, camera battery packs still need to recharge. These plugs requirements add to the existing demands of the coffee pot, the land line, the TV, the iron (well, sometimes) and hair dryer. In France where companies like Orange, Alice and Bouygues offer great rates (such as unlimited calls to the US for free), our main problems has been keeping the phones recharged.




The two-outlet wall plates in the States have reduced this plug problem on the home front to some extent. But I still crawl and scramble under desks or chairs, or squeeze behind bookcases to connect electronic appliances. And my coffee pot. . . . Well, that’s another problem. Although sufficient outlets exist (on that multiple-plug strip), the cord is just a little too short.

The quest for the ideal balcony by Jane Tolbert

Balcony near the Cours Salaya, Nice



Balcony in Juan-les-Pins

In my dreams I am sitting on an opulent, turn-of-the-century balcony overlooking the Mediterranean. Geraniums overhang the balustrade. Lemon trees grow in large clay pots. It’s only a dream--it is not the typical French balcony for that period. Rather the older French apartments have spacious rooms and large, double windows that open onto a tiny balcony or more commonly, a grill in the window. Even the paintings of Matisse show iron-work grills in the window rather than large terraces with chairs. Residents in these older buildings do spend a lot of time learning on the grill or balustrade, watching passersby below. After all, their balcony space only enables the placement of a few pots of geraniums or a small line of laundry.

In contrast, the apartments I rented (circa 1970s and more recent) had large balconies and small rooms. A terrible irony emerged. My large balconies quickly filled with boxes, my bicycle, a laundry rack and numerous terracotta pots, which held live flowers at one time. This clutter left little room for those lemon trees, comfortable lounge chairs or visiting friends. At another apartment, the balcony facing north remained empty. It was too cold. Another ground-floor balcony overlooking a peaceful garden could not be used either—the apartment rules and regulations strictly dictated the type of furniture that could be displayed.



Somewhere in Nice

My quest for the ideal balcony côté sud has taken me to coastal cities between Cannes and Nice as well as inland to Grasse. Those turn-of-the century apartments with small balconies or window grills for leaning seem to indicate a transformation of lifestyles. After all, we do have more conveniences (no need to rush to the outdoor lavoir to do laundry), so perhaps we do have more leisure! But many of these newer apartments are just outside of the centre ville and its activity—the passersby, the flirtatious encounters, the pets on their walks and the children. We commute to return to our newer and larger balconies that overlook parking lots instead of city streets.

Perhaps a loggia would be just the thing.



Moorish style house with Loggia near Bijou Plage, Juan-les-Pins

A Trip to Blue Springs by Jane Tolbert

Crazed end of the past week. Two unhappy cats rode in their carriers. Hours spent on automated phone systems for address changes. Additional time to set up accounts associated with a new job. A car crammed with last-minute stuff--my coffee pot, vouvray wine, tango shoes and music as well as my notebooks. I could survive anywhere.

After I arrived in Gainesville, my sister decided a trip to the springs would be just the thing to get my mind off of those details associated with a move.

On this hot, bright Florida day, Blue Springs (at High Springs) quickly filled with screaming, splashing kids. Watchful parents gave advice about safety, and many small kids wore life vests. Coolers and bags of gear lined picnic tables. Kids raced to the edge of the chilly waters with inflatable floats. Others waded along the narrow sand beach or jumped in from the diving platform. A few people rented those red canoes stored neatly under the boardwalk. The focal point of activity was the head spring, known for its opaline blue color.




The quarter-mile and slightly undulating boardwalk took us along cypress and dense vegetation with two deer. Turtles basked on partially submerged logs. Underwater stretches of white sand carried a bluish tint that appeared iridescent beneath thick areas of hydrilla, an invasive plant that has choked the waterways.

Further down, dense eelgrass, which my sister compared to a brocade tapestry, lined the run. Water lettuce and duck weed dotted the water’s edge. Small bass appeared motionless as if suspended. A larger, striped bass hovered with a crayfish in its mouth. The fish disappeared into the eelgrass, where we hoped the crayfish would escape its destiny.

--Nope, he just got eaten, one bather commented.

The kids with fishing poles--well mannered with “please” and “excuse me” as they hastened past—raced to the end of the boardwalk where a larger observation deck with benches overlooked the Santa Fe River. Tannin has left a coffee-colored translucent stain on the otherwise turquoise waters.

Those kids frolicked like crazy in what might have been their last trip to the springs before the start of school. For me, too, the trip provided a nice respite before my first day at my new job.

Staging by Jane Tolbert

Anyone walking into my house these days will marvel at the minimalist “look.” Gone are the scuffed tango shoes that lined the hall. The Bijou drawings and Post-It notes no longer cover the dining room table. A few live plants (that are truly alive) seem to thrive indoors. And the guest towels actually match.

Staging is a term I had associated with the theatre or military operations until my daughter and I watched reality shows in France in which realtors brought in professionals to prepare a residence for sale. The goal is to make a house look inviting, like people could live there without revealing a trace of the current residents.

What “staging” means is the pets can no longer shed hair. The springs paintings and Sirena series have come down. The nail holes have been filled with Spackle. Our lives have been reduced to cardboard boxes and suitcases stashed away in closets. We can’t find anything. My new employers ask for numerous types of documentation. These requirements differ from those for a Florida driver license. In the midst of the staging, I have misplaced . . . a few important pieces of paper.

Staging is not that easy. I purchased the wrong color of paint for touchups. Someone suggested tie backs for curtains, but they seem to require nail holes for hooks. We move furniture to discover baseboards that have never been painted. What seemed comfortable to us could appear mismatched or even. . . “ghetto” to anyone else. The house will never make the pages of Dwell or Metropolitan Home, but it is slowly changing.

The couch has pillows that complement the noncommittal brown. The wall oven, stove top and refrigerator have been cleaned. Please, no more cooking! I have scrubbed baseboards and washed windows. Even my brief stint in hotel work two years ago did not prepare me for this amount of cleaning. I’m almost ready for tomorrow’s inspection. Then WHOOSH. The road construction machinery has just spewed a coating of white dust on the cars in my driveway and on the front porch plants.

Now that I am through staging for today, I hope to work on the outline of a book. It’s a collaborative effort with a close friend. The little hand-written notes I need to update the computer files are in. . . that Tortilla chip box. . . . or . . . .have they, too, been staged?

On the Move . . . A sense of déjà vu by Jane Tolbert

We all do it, but we all say, “This is the last time.” Circumstances change, and once again we find ourselves making a reservation for a rental truck.

Years ago, I had made two international moves. On one occasion, my family helped to construct a crate that was shipped out of Jacksonville and arrived in Le Havre. Years later, international moves became less complex. I could have a partial container. At the same time, the U.S. post office had a reasonable bulk shipping rate for books. Then, I enjoyed a hiatus—only one local move in a 10-year period. But the desire to travel kicked in. But in 2008, the moving companies did not return my calls about partial containers, and the post office no longer shipped books. It seemed all shipments were express (two day or overnight) and everything had to fit in a pre-paid box.



My belongings do not fit in a pre-paid box. . .

Because I wanted to take projects to complete and personal items that did not fit in the dimensions of a pre-paid box, I went the route of a consolidator. My shipment would arrive in Marseille in less than a month. . . . Friends offered to help me rent a truck and make the drive to the port. How complicated could it be?

The dock workers went on six-week strike. By the time the strike ended, the backlog of unloading had taken place at the port, and the notice arrived that I had several days to pick up my things or be charged storage fees, my friends could no longer help because of work commitments.

The drive to Marseille was only about 90 minutes from where I was staying in Grasse. But I had three stops to make at the port--pickup paperwork from the consolidator, then take those documents to customs and then go to a warehouse to pick up my things. I assumed the port would be small and manageable, and everything would be in the same proximity. And I could make those three stops before the two-hour lunch break.

The port at Marseille presented many challenges. I never found any directional signs, and the lines of trucks bent on quick delivery had little patience for the amateur. I had to stop at cafés on many occasions to ask directions. Most everyone was friendly, and I had to turn down many an offer for pastis. I did have a head-on confrontation with a bus driver on a very narrow street—no physical damage, just a slightly scathed ego.

When I exited the port area and asked directions for the A-8, the autoroute that would take me to toward Grasse, the toll lady understood my exhaustion, laughing, “Madame, vous êtes sauvées.” For the first time that day, I knew where I was going.

In comparison, yesterday’s move from Melbourne to Gainesville seemed relatively simple. . . . Still, I would rather not do it again.

Fermeture exceptionnelle by Jane Tolbert

A magnum bottle of Veuve Clicquot in front of La Cave, Juan-les-Pins

Given that I have my favorite watering holes in the South of France, the only missing ingredient to ensure my comfort may be considered something of a quirk with me--the opening hours of stores. Growing up in the States, one of our guiding principles is that at least one convenience store is open from 7 a.m. till 11 p.m.

In contrast, among the guiding principles that underlie French society (in addition to the culinary exigencies) have been that the journée continue was the rule rather than the exception, and dogs were admitted anywhere. Corporations close for a month in the summer. And restaurants and pastry shops generally close for a month in the late fall or early winter when tourism dropped and the weather turned dreary.

Some things have changed. Today, most of the larger supermarkets like Carrefour, Casino or LeClerc remain open at lunch. Some service stations have minimarkets.





La Cave is closed. . . exceptionally!

Although most stores remain open Monday through Saturday until about 8 p.m., Sunday morning remains the wild card—whether a store opens may depend on the town and season. In smaller towns like Vallauris, schedules varied for the library, grocery, the dry cleaner, museums and the post office (oui, on ferme à midi).

I arrived too many times to find the shop closed, and the hands of a little clock in the window indicating it would reopen at 14h. I kept a digital folder of opening hours that I consulted for various merchants. For example, I knew my wine merchant across from the Square Dulys in Juan-les-Pins would be open that evening when I planned to stock up on that wonderful dry white wine to use for my kir. But when I arrived at La Cave, the metal shutter was closed tight and carried a sign, Fermeture exceptionnelle. The store was closed. It was an unscheduled closure. I would have to check the wine selection at the corner gas station, Agip. Already that morning I had found the bakery across the street closed (fermeture annuelle).

Fortunately, the French feeling about dogs remains relatively unchanged. Or so I thought.


Dogs seem to be admitted nearly everywhere except in supermarkets. Pets remain outside, attached in pet-designated areas. Supermarkets, soit! But the bookmobile had a small sign indicating, “Les chiens ne sont pas admis.” Although pets can no longer check out books, at least they can travel. Mass transit still allows pets to accompany their owners, usually for half fare.





Dogs are not allowed in the book mobile



A dog awaits an owner at the Centre LeClerc in Antibes-les-Pins