La vie à grande vitesse - Life in the fast lane

A rush-rush trip to France. A business trip of sorts. I arrive in Juan-les-Pins in mid September, my favorite time of year. But within hours after landing, my daughter and I have started work that involves her renovation projects in the South and Paris area. Life in the fast lane. Estimates. Rendez-vous. How does she keep track of everything! I begin to wonder how much help I will actually be. We take the TGV to Paris for a 24-hour séjour. The calm of our train stations at Cannes and Antibes contrasts with the Gare de Lyon, where we are pushed along quais by travelers and noisy suitcases and down into the métro. A change at Châtelet. Where is the escalator?

Just north of Paris, we are pushed and shoved by more crowds in rainy, chilly weather. No hot water in the apartment where we are staying to wash off the dust and soot of our work. In a little more than 24 hours, we return to the Gare de Lyon this time by taxi, hoping the SNCF will not be on strike. By now, I am succumbing to a cold. . . . Back to the Côte d’Azur. Now, appointments with governments agencies for that paperasse they always seem to need. Lines that resemble immigration at JFk with matching attitudes of employees. Even my daughter, experienced with the mentalité functionnaire, seems disconcerted. . . . . Even with a few setbacks, we are progressing but at a slower pace. It is the South of France, after all. And the next stop--the pharmacy. . . .

On Concierges, Hedgehogs and Life. . .

The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery (translated from French by Alison Anderson), 2006. The story is told by Madame Michel, a 54-year-old concierge, and through journal entries of Paloma, a 12-year-old super-intelligent rich girl. Madame Michel is self taught and cultured in the arts and philosophy. She tries to maintain that illusion of the “typical” French concierge with bunions, a television blaring and odor of cabbage soup emanating from the lodge.

Paloma, the daughter of a French politician, downplays her intellect, describes the difficulty in maintaining her illusion of being an ordinary student. At the same time, she plans to commit suicide on her 13th birthday because life has no meaning. Both the concierge and the young girl self fashion to fit social expectations. That is until the mid point of the book, when a new tenant, a Japanese named Kakuro Ozu, moves in. In his quiet, patient way, he disregards the rigid social hierarchy of the luxury apartment and introduces the concierge and Paloma. The story is filled with defining moments—a misplaced comma in a note, a book from the publisher Vrin in a net shopping bag, quotations from Anna Karenina, the ritual of cups of tea, the joy then discomfort of an invitation that defies social class. One of the most moving sequences occurs as Madame Michel reflects on her friends. At the end of the book, Paloma observes that life has the “odd moment of beauty where time is no longer the same. It’s as if those strains of music created a sort of interlude in time, something suspended, an elsewhere that had come to us, an always within never.” And the title? Paloma says the concierge has “elegance of the hedgehog: on the outside, she’s covered in quills, a real fortress. . but on the inside, she has the same simple refinement as the hedgehog: a deceptively indolent little creature, fiercely solitary—and terribly elegant.” A delightful story (to be enjoyed at many levels) that forces readers to examine their assumptions. . . .

Big wedding - Elope . . . .Jane Tolbert muses

Big weddings take a lot of planning and collaboration. Selection of location. Hotel group rates. Negotiations. Transport to and from events for guests. Menus for the rehearsal dinner and reception. Flowers. Table arrangements. Music. Hair-nails-gowns-tux. For a while, I was tempted to whisper, “Elope” or “City hall.” And I was the groom’s mother. What was the bride’s mother going through? Not to mention the bride and groom. . . . And the bride planned it all.

Already, pre-wedding events had been rained out or subjected to the Derecho that blasted the Northeast in late June. For the outdoor wedding on Sept. 7, Google weather showed black clouds and lightning bolts, anything but ideal. Then, the tux did not all fit, and the best man’s flight was delayed 24 hours. Somehow, the couple remained calm. . . . The tailors worked miracles. The ceremony was delayed 30 minutes to enable the best man to dress. The sun appeared. Stilettos did not sink in the ground. Family and friends arrived from all corners of the world.

In retrospect, this wedding was one of the most meaningful events in terms of joining a couple, renewing friendships and visiting with family. The bride’s mother has two other daughters. She’s hoping for a two-year reprieve before the next event takes place. And when my daughter decides to get married, I won’t even think “elope.” So now if anyone asks, I would recommend a big wedding. There are numerous ways to cut costs. After all, memories are priceless, and the times we get together are too rare.

Labor Day--Not All is the Stuff of History Books

Many of us associate Labor Day with barbecues, last days at the beach, the start of school or department store sales. Until today, I hadn't given too much thought to the origins of Labor Day since fourth-grade history books. But I have had a nagging question. Why does the US celebrate Labor Day on the first Monday of September when other countries recognize May 1 as the international workers’ holiday? Labor Day was recognized as a federal holiday in 1894. The reason President Grover Cleveland selected September as opposed to May was to avoid association with the “radical roots in syndicalist labor history,” as pointed out by Jerry Elmer in an op-ed piece carried by Truthout.org. In France, the Fête du Travail (of May 1) commemorates the Chicago Haymarket Riots (the "radical roots" mentioned above) that began May 1, 1886, to bring about the eight-hour workday. It was a day of nationwide protests and strikes in which workers walked off their jobs, and in Chicago, police forces began shooting. Today, we're experiencing high rates of unemployment and underemployment. At the same time, corporate profits continue to increase. Will history books and department store sales enable future generations of fourth graders to have a better understanding of Labor Day. . . .Hummmm.

Musings about Edward Gorey or Another reason to visit Cape Cod

The World of Edward Gorey by Clifford Ross and Karen Wilkin (2002). This book is a MUST for all Gorey fans. It contains numerous illustrations, showing the Gorey humor, and an insightful interview by artist Clifford Ross and an essay by art critic Karen Wilkin. For me, Gorey has that appealing quirky humor that many viewers remember from his introductions to the PBS mystery series. A series of odd scenes juxtaposed—people in black having cocktails on a lawn while a dead man slides into a pond. A lady sighs atop a building while police inspectors beam their flashlights on the ground. . . . Wilkin characterizes Gorey’s stories as “disorienting,” not macabre or grotesque but more like “Victorian nonsense.”

The book provides an overview of many of Gorey’s works--the odd collection of drawings where boundaries are blurred between animate and inanimate, humans and beasts. Take the Doubtful Guest, a penguin-esque creature with a red and white scarf and sneakers, who arrived 17 years earlier in one household. . . .where it continued to reside. Sound like any of your guests? Or the curious Gashlycrumb Tinies, an alphabet of disasters that happened to children (“C is for Clara who wasted away” with drawings of a small child whose arm then head falls off). Not to mention those numerous drawings of contented felines. The interview reveals a non-assuming Gorey, someone with whom you would like to spend an afternoon. For people like me who are fascinated by this world, Gorey’s house in Yarmouth Port, Mass., is open to the public.

One of Florida's Best-Kept Secrets

When I moved to the Melbourne area years, people in the know called it “Florida’s best-kept secret.” When I mention Melbourne, everyone assumes Australia. . . . .No, I explain, the “other” Melbourne. . . .

What I like is the small-town appeal , numerous high-tech companies and a university combined with the coastal environment. We have wide beaches, many of which are nesting grounds for sea turtles, and the city lies on the Indian River Lagoon, the most diverse estuary in North America.

Other coastal communities offer more activities (yes, I would like more restaurants, tango halls and museums but we take vacations for that), but on a daily basis we have sea breezes, bike and pedestrian paths along waterways and spectacular sunrises and sunsets. Maybe not as many as St. Exupéry’s Little Prince claimed to have seen in one day from his tiny planet. . . .

And we are in the midst of a recession. But all that is missing is that critical mass (and some much-needed funding) and a smart-growth policy to get innovative projects launched and still maintain the identity of what has been one of Florida’s best-kept secrets.

Morning Run or Musings from the Back of the Pack

Stephen Kiprotich of Uganda won the marathon at the London Olympics Sunday with a time of 2 hours, 8 minutes and 1 second. . . . How many hours of training? Pairs of shoes? Anecdotes? I was always at the back of the pack on those morning or afternoon runs. . . .

Years ago, the morning run with the Florida Track Club in Gainesville took us from the track, along Southwest 34th Street , by Lake Alice and to the old museum. Most runners did a second loop. The afternoon run usually went through University of Florida agricultural test fields beyond No Name Road, through a pig farm and past houses with lots of mean dogs. Any of you beginning runners can empathize—you have barely enough energy to complete the run and hope you will not have one more, hill, curb or untied shoelace. Plus, many of the people on these runs were Olympians or world or national champions—Frank Shorter, Jack Bacheler, Marty Liquori, Jeff Galloway, Dick Endris, Barry Brown, John Parker, Ken Misner and Byron Dyce. . . to name a few. I was so far at the back of the pack that I only learned of the memorable moments much later (my sister Margaret was a distance runner and kept the pace). Why Jerry perfected his elephant call. What happened to the new guy who challenged Jack to a fast-paced workout. Who carried the eggs to throw at swerving drivers. And who left the fake rubber snake on the running trail. . . . I would love to interview Kiprotich and hear his training anecdotes.