international political summit

My ability to discuss politics in French intelligently is seriously hampered by my inability to discuss anything in French intelligently. Up until now, I’ve pretty much limited my political ravings to blaming the Bush administration for the weather.   Obama still gets the benefit of the doubt.   I’ve been hoping that hope thing pans out.

I decide to use my next French/English session with Carole, my neighbor to discuss what’s happening on the geopolitical front.

We settle down with our drinks, pens, paper and dictionaries for a deep discussion of the world political situation… in the others’ native tongue

Carole Poletti-Blot, France

Lesley Stern, USA

Moi: Aime-tu Sarkozy?

Carole (making a face):   You no longer have Bush.   Now we have Sarkozy.   We have exchanged shames.

Moi: Ah, mais Bush est un grand, grand…shame (flipping through dictionary) HONTE.

Carole (correcting):  Bush ETAIT un grand, honte.

Moi: Etait.   Bush etait un grand, grand honte.   Huit annees de honte.   Mon Dieu!   Et Sarkozy?

Carole: He pretends…pretend? he possess the world.

Moi: He thinks he owns the world.

Carole: (repeating) He thinks he owns the world.

Moi:  or   he’s an entitled asshole.

Carole:  Say this again?

Moi (simplifying): An asshole.   (trying to explain it in shitty French)…Iil est un grand ane.   Ou …le hole…qu’est ce que c’est hole… (flipping desperately through dictionary) de derriere.

Carole: Connard!   I’ll est un connard!   Un trou de cul.    Oui.

Both Carole and I scribble our newly learned words down furiously.Moi: (repeating to self) trou de cul, trou de cul.  Connard. Connard.

Carole: (repeating to self) asshole, asshole, asshole.

Me: Oui tout les politicians …comme que dit suck?…Mauvais, mais plus mal…(thinking) .Les politicians est putains.

Carole laughs at my use of the curse word.

Carole (correcting): Sont putains.

Me: Les politicians sont putains.

Carole: The word again, please?

Moi: Suck.  All politicians suck.

Carole starts scribbling down the phrase

Carole: Please spell “suck”.

Moi: S…U….C….K.

Carole (reading what she just wrote): All politicians suck.

Moi (applauding her): Oui! Tout les politicians sont putains!

Carole (reading from her notes): Sarkozy is an asshole!

Moi: Oui! Tous les politicians sont connards!

Now that a consensus has been reached, we relax a bit, proud of all that we’ve accomplished. I certainly feel better having gotten all this off my chest and that my French partner and I have found some common ground. We move on to other pressing matters of the day.

Moi: Ou est se trouve en bon homme ici?

Carole: There is not a good man in the world.

We laugh together conspiratorially.

I think we may be on to something. This trying to speak in the others’ language without translators could be a good thing for international relations. Sure, our political conversation was a little limited. But when you get right down to it, I’m sure we resolved much more and found more common ground in an hour than the UN has in years.   Heck, maybe the US senate should try it.

a civilized afternoon tea

The plan for the day is to lay low, watch Jon Stewart reruns on the internet followed by a nap and a civilized afternoon cup of tea.    Which requires a pastry, of course.   I’m totally excited.

In order to put my plan into action, I must visit the patisserie.  I’m getting the same heady rush I used to get when I went to Barneys with a loaded credit card.

But when I reach the bakery, I see it’s dark and there’s a note on the door.   They’re taking the day off.   Merde!   I feel as though I’ve been punched in the stomach. This seems like a personal assault. My fabulous plans ruined by the snotty French bitches who run the bakery. I bet they closed for vacation just to spite me.   The injustice of it all washes over me in a tide of unspeakable woe.   It starts to rain and I look up to the heavens, cursing the powers that have thwarted my plans.     I want to collapse in a puddle of tears.   But I pull myself together.   I don’t need them.   I’ll show them.   I resolutely head towards the train tracks.

My gut says Pontoise is my best bet.   They’ve got patisseries up the wazzoo.

The monitor tells me the next train arrives in 28 minutes. Damn! Why am I constantly thwarted! In 28 minutes I could loose my nerve and go back home. I pace the platform. I stroll out into the parking lot. I study the railway map and schedules posted, I curse my fate.

Finally, the listing on the monitor flashes “l’approche”. Ten minutes later, I’m in Pontoise, studying the offerings at the Patisserie near the train station. I’m almost giddy with relief. Which makes choosing from the lavish selection all the more difficult. I’m a little gun shy after my recent Fraisette disaster, and realize that this decision could impact the rest of my pastry tasting career.

My eye keeps returning to the “assiette” which is a plate with an assortment of 8 little pastries for 6.50 Euros. No, I can’t. The average pastry is about E2.50, so spending E6.50 is outrageously self-indulgent and decadent. On the other hand, I’ve suffered immensely. Don’t I deserve a little extra something? And getting the assiette eliminates the risk of total disappointment. I’m positive there are at least four pastries there I’ll actually like. Also, if I divide the number of pastries I get into the cost, it’s actually way more cost efficient to buy the assiette. And lets not forget that I’m eating pastry for humanitarian purposes, after all. That clinches it.

For the sake of mankind I order the assiette s’il vous plait. Any guilt I may be feeling is overwhelmed by a pavlovian rush of endorphins. I tuck the box under my arm protectively and hurry back to the train station like an addict rushing home to cook up a fix. It’ll be so civilized. A nice cup of tea and a pastry tasting.

But when I get to the station, I’m thwarted again! 31 minutes until the next train to Auvers. I feel my rage building again, until I remember my precious cargo. Maybe I’ll have just one while I’m waiting.

I consider the options carefully. A tart is a no brainer, I know I’ll like it. On the other hand, something chocolatey might be in order. But there are only two chocolatey things, and I don’t want to waste one of them on a train platform.

The yellow one and the green glazed éclair with chocolate sprinkles are out, I’ve never tried either, so all my concentration will be required. The trick is to make sure a representative sample of all flavors remains when I get back to Auvers and am able to try them in an appropriate setting. Finally I settle on the strawberry tart.

I take a bite and I’m sure my eyes are rolling back in my head orgasmically. This is perfection. The cream is thick and slightly lemony and juuuuuuust right. The crust has a hint of almond in it and is perfect buttery flakey consistency. The Strawberries are more delicious than any strawberry I remember and the pistachio adds just the right kick. This has got to be better than sex.

As the taste wears off, I almost wish I could burp so I can taste it again.   I begin to worry. What if the other pastries in the box aren’t as good as this one? I don’t think I can take any more disappointment. I open the box and look at them. There’s no doubt about it…the lemon puffy one will definitely be as good as the strawberry tart. I definitely have that one to look forward to. So I might as well eat the Kiwi tart since I know what a tart tastes like and I don’t love Kiwis. I might as well get it out of the way.

The kiwi tarte isn’t as good as the strawberry, but it’s still delicious.

But now I want something chocolatey. 15 minutes until the next train. Maybe the chocolate choux looking thing. I’ve had a choux before so maybe it won’t require all my concentration. It’s light, with a slighty crisp, buttery shell. Two shells, the smaller one on top, both filled with a dense chocolate creamy custard filling. The beautiful frosting on top is almost overkill.  I think the pleasure is giving me blackouts because it seems like hours have passed, but when I check the monitor, it’s only been two minutes.

What will I do for the next 13 minutes? I might as well eat the raspberry tart. I’ve had a gazillion. I don’t need a tea ceremony for a raspberry tart. Would it be over dramatizing to say these raspberries are gifts from God?

Looking at the remaining chocolate pastry, I begin to worry that it needs refrigeration. God forbid it should go to waste, so I eat it immediately to save it. It’s something between a truffle, custard and ganache. With a cherry on top. Chocolate rushes through my veins. I leap up to check the monitor again…10 freaking minutes…I’d pace or jump up and down, but I don’t want to disturb the pastry.

Maybe I’ll have just one more. The Salumbo (the green éclair) is delicious, creamy and a delicate mélange of vanilla, pistachio with a slight crunch of chocolate. Pure heaven.

I decide it’s okay to eat the tan colored pastries since it’s not a very appetizing color. The cafe éclair is as light and creamy as tiramisu.

The one with powdered sugar and almond slices is filled with a dense, but very light hazelnut filling and the shell has just the right crisp to it. The French would describe it as “tendre.”

Finally the l’approche sign flashes and I jump up and race for the edge of the platform to watch the train roll in. I jump up and down in anticipation until I remember my pastry. I fearfully open the box and notice a ding in the one pastry left…the yellow one. Shoot, it’s ruined. Might as well eat it now.

As my teeth sink into it, my brain short circuits with pleasure…creamy…lemony…creamy…lemony…custardy…

I don’t remember getting on the train.  I get off at Auvers carrying an empty box and a smile.    Just in time for tea.

***

Embarking on a life of crime (how I went to Paris and fell in love…with French Pastry)

Lesley’s pastry guide (my useful guide to French Pastry, a work in progress)

if it’s 7pm tuesday, it must be belgium (again)-roadtrip to brugge, the shocking conclusion

I leave Ternuezen fortified by a full tank of gas, wafflenstroopen, chocomel and a good strong brew from the local coffee shop.  Any sense of direction I had when I arrived has mysteriously vanished.   Even with the vast North Sea guiding me, somehow I manage to take a turn that puts me on an exit-free path to the tunnel under the vast grey expanse orwater. This is particularly frightening since I can’t see any land where the end of the tunnel emerges.    But what really mortifies me is the possibility that there might be a toll on the other side of the tunnel.

My mind races hysterically as I hurtle towards the tunnel entrance.    I consider pulling over and waiting for the whole thing to blow over.   Or maybe a helicopter rescue.    Then next thing you know, I’m in the tunnel.   The first thing I think of is Princess Diana and slow down.   But there are no other cars in this tunnel and I’m in a hurry to get to Brugge, so I speed up.   It feels like I’ve been in this tunnel for years.   And frankly, the scenery sucks.   And I see no indication this tunnel ends anytime soon.   Dear God, what if this is some timewarp and I’ll end up back in 13th century England.   Or another planet.   Maybe I took a wrong turn and this is the Chunnel.   Maybe I’m dead and the vast expanse of water I’m driving under or through is the River Styx?   What if I’m the last person on earth?   What if I never make it to Brugge?   Who will take care of the kitties?

After what seems like an eternity, I spot the light at the end of the tunnel (or is it a mirage?).   Once I hit daylight, all I want to know is how to get off this thing.   And it looks like my only hope is the toll ahead.   I stop and tell the woman in uniform my plight.   I don’t want to be in Zeeland.   I took a wrong turn.   I want to go back (I point in the opposite direction my car is headed.   And I don’t want to pay the toll.   She takes my passport and tells me where to exit to get back on the highway.   They will give me my passport back when I get to the toll going the other direction.   It works and I’m back on the right side of the water again, looking for  a sign that I’m heading in the right direction.

I cheer when I pass a sign that tells me I’m back in Belgium. My anticipation builds as the kilometers to Brugge displayed on the signs dwindle down to a sign that says “Brugge”, followed by long stretch of road flanked by beautiful, shady green trees. The scene beyond is golden fields dotted by little oasis of trees and cute homes. I wait for the sign “centrum” to guide my way. And wait. And wait. I start to pass little hotels. A parking area, that I assume is for tourists. But no centrum sign. I see a church looming and figure this must be centrum. Old European cities always have an old church at centrum. But as I grow closer to the church, it looks cute and quaint, but nothing like the pictures I’ve seen. Where are the canals?

I know by now that I must resist every instinct I have to stop, turn around, consult the map, so I keep driving. I’ll know when I hit the Bruges I’m looking for. But this is quite a build up. It’s near 6:15 and I’m getting panicky. I keep going, cursing the Belgians again. But this is the freaking suburbs. Where the heck is Bruges? All these signs say this is Bruges, but where the hell is the damn Bruges I’m looking for? Just as I’m about to weep, I look ahead and see several towering, ornate church spiers like a mirage in the distance. Buses pass me with routes displayed that indicate I’m actually heading towards centrum! Oh happy day!

The old city of Brugges (zentrum) is actually a surrounded by a river .   Little cobbled bridges cross from new to old and I dare not cross them in a car, because even if cars are allowed in there, the streets will be very narrow and I don’t want to scrape my rent a car on some ancient building, so I find a place to park around the perimeter.   I head towards the bridge that crosses over to the fairy towers.

I cross over and enter the enchanted kingdom.   I stagger towards what I hope is the center of town, lightheaded with joy that I’ve finally arrived.   As it turns out, the lightheadedness is hunger. I need food. NOW! And though I’m weak and feeble with hunger, I do know for sure that I want to eat somewhere outside so I won’t have to miss a precious moment of daylight in Bruges. That caveat doesn’t narrow the choices down much. Once again, the important decision of where to eat ids determined by which establishment I almost faint in front of.

I collapse at the nearest table and face another decision my hunger leaves me too frail to handle. What to order.. Even though I’ve been fantasizing about Belgian waffles with maybe some strawberries, vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce, my metabolism currently screams out for some sort of protein. And lots of really cold, fizzy, sparkling refreshing beverages. A beer would actually be good now, but if I have a beer I will definitely die if I try to drive back home afterwards.

I pathetically order a croque monsieur, frites, some fresh orange juice and soda water. The only word I can find that describes my dining experience is “hoover.” I wait for the protein and carbs to kick in. It was an act of desperation. So American of me.

The young girls at the next table are talking and blowing smoke in my face. Now, thanks to my experience shifting and driving at the same time, I have the coordination to hate the girls, and watch the floor show that is Bruges simultaneously. It’s like a dollhouse. Not like Amsterdam where there’s a gritty looking bum or two amongst the picture postcard scenery (or a fat naked pseudo-chick in a window). It’s just pure picture card scenery. Even the people are all pretty. And more stylishly yet tastefully dressed than what I’ve seen in Paris or New York. This would be a great place to be rich and slightly innocuous. Hmmm, maybe this is where I should search for my new love interest. Hell, I’ll marry anyone who can offer me a life of wealth and innocuousness.

I love Bruges but I don’t LOVE it. But I do wish I could spend the night. At over E300/night, it’s not even a consideration. It’s almost 8PM now, growing cloudy and I begin to worry how to find my car since I have no idea how I got here. Either I must find a husband immediately, or start thinking about heading south.

I pay the waitress the E16.00 for the grilled cheese sandwich, fries and juice and figure I’m entitled to enlist her help. I don’t know what language these people speak, but it sure as hell isn’t French. I describe the entrance I used to enter Bruges and she gives me a map and draws some circles. Luckily, words like “fairy castle” and “moat” bridge the lingual chasm.

I take one last stroll, noticing among other things that my second favorite cookies in the world (Jules Destrooper, cinnamon butter biscuits)  that happen to be made in Bruges cost 15% more to buy in Bruges than they do in Auvers. What is wrong with these Belgians anyways? How can it cost more NOT to transport them? This place is really expensive. And E.30 every time you pee can really add up. Maybe that’s why it’s so pleasantly untouristed. Until now I just chalked it up to bad advertising. Or it could be a plan to keep the riff raff out. Which reminds me I have to leave.

At 9:30, I decide it’s time to head back in the direction the waitress and I believe the car is. I don’t want to drive when it’s dark, but am resigned to it. Miraculously, I find the car easily. Finding the right road back to Lille is another story. I’m halfway to Brussels before I realize I should have turned off at Belgian Gent. Obviously towns named Gent of any nationality town are a thorn in my side.

I head back towards Gent, cursing the Belgians yet again.

The rest of the ride back to Auvers is pretty uneventful. I drive towards a big storm which looks really cool with the cracks of lightening in the distance. But the actual stormed misses me by miles…no, kilometers. Trucks light my way. I piss off a woman at a rest stop for almost killing her children by mis-shifting (what a bitch!). I don’t get lost again and make it home by about one thirty in the morning. All in all, I think I drove about 6 hours longer than I had to, essentially doubling the road time. But I didn’t die. And I’m pretty sure the car is unscathed.

As a short side note, One difference in the three countries I visited could be seen clearly in my rear view mirror. The response to my driving mishaps and general slowness in France and Holland was generally tolerant amusement. In Belgium I could see a lot of inpatient finger tapping and “tsk”-ing going on. Occasionally a horn would burst forth. I reacted like any good American and flipped those drivers off. But I never once resort to headlight butting, at least not on purpose.

After a good night’s sleep, and some major dawdling, I return the car which has been a source of freedom, but also an incredible burden.

When the guy at Europcar finishes inspecting the car and tells me “c’est bien” I feel a burst of pride and accomplishment mingled with relief. It’s a heady combination. I leap up in the air, pump my fist a few times and shout “oui!, OUI.” The way I’m cheering, you’d think I just won the World Cup.

Tunnel notes: Turns out the tunnel I was trapped in is called the Westerschaldetunnel and at 6.6km (approx 4.1 miles).    It only seemed like the longest tunnel in the world.   The real longest tunnel in the world is the Laerdal Tunnel in Norway at 15.2 miles.

lost in the nether regions–roadtrip to bruges (part 2)

I wake up at 6:15. I refuse to even think about it, I’m going. I must liberate myself from this fear of stick shifts. I must see Bruges (Brugge). Today.

I’m on the road by 8:00AM. And lost by 8;15. I probably could have gotten lost sooner except there’s construction work being done on the familiar road from Auvers to Mery sur Oise across the bridge. I think I stalled in virtually every town in the Val d’oise region, from Taverny to Beauvais.

I finally find the right freeway at 9:30. By this time I’m exhausted and consider pulling over to take a nap. But I can still hit Bruges right around 12:30 if get moving now. I have no problems during the drive from the correct freeway entrace to Lille. The rest stops are lovely, the signs are clear and the freeway is uncrowded. Except for trucks which generally stay in the left lane and leave me alone.

I have a brief panic attack in Lille trying to reconcile the exit signs with the ones mapquest told me to use. Fortunately, I accidentally take the correct turn and find myself in Belgium, on the road to Gent. Which is according to my calculations, exactly where I want to be. It is now almost 12:30, and I should be in Bruges before 1:30, if I continue to drive like I have been (which is pretty much like a little old lady).

This is a beautiful country. Very green and manicured and well to do looking. On the down-side, the rest stops invariably charge .30 Euros to pee and there were condom machines in the ladies room, but no tampon machines. Aside from feeling inconvenienced, it strikes me as somehow sexist. I may never forgive the Belgians for this poor first impression.

When I hit Gent, I’m overjoyed. It should only be another 20 minutes to Bruges.

Wouldn’t it be ironic if I got hit by a truck now? I slow down a little and figure I’ll make it to Bruges in another hour. Right around 2:30. That should be plenty of time, especially considering it stays light until 10PM in these parts.

After driving another 45 minutes, I notice there’s another road sign to Gent. Have I been driving in circles? Where the hell is Bruges? Fortunately, according to the sign, I’m practically in Gent, so I should be able to figure out where I went wrong from there.

I start passing what looks like an endless industrial section, with huge plants and a vast grey expanse of water as far as the eye can see. It kind of reminds me of pictures I’ve seen of the Gulf Coast…in the middle east, I mean. This is weird because Gent seemed pretty well inland when I passed it the first time. Maybe Gent is bigger than I thought.

I head onward past miles and miles of really depressing terrain, until I hit a tiny little village at what appears to be the end of the world. It’s kind of dilapidated and lazy looking. Certainly not the Gent I’ve seen in photos. There’s even something vaguely Middle Eastern about this town…the slightly downtrodden edge to it. The barely decorated cafes that seem vacant except for a few guys out front smoking, drinking and chatting.   Maybe I got caught in some twist in the time/space continueim.

The road seems to end here. I go back and try every variation of the roundabout before getting here and either end up on another road with a sign that says it leads to Gent, a vast expanse of water or a kilometers long aluminum building with trucks in front too many to count. Or a toll bridge leading to Ooestepoopergarpen, or something.  All I know, it wherever it is, it must be north, which isn’t where I want to go.

I figure the little town at the end of the earth is my best bet and head back, cursing the Belgians for their crappy signage and cursing the radio station for playing that freaking “junk in my trunk (uh-huh-uh-huh-uh-huh) song (and I use the word ’song’ loosely) yet again. Are Americans responsible for bringing this retarded craftless ditty into culture? No wonder the world hates us. Obviously the DJ at this station is trying to provoke all out war against us. And if I hear this song one more time, I’d probably join the fight against us. Maybe that’s what happened to John Walker Lindh (American Taliban).

I storm into town…well, considering my mastery of the manual transmission, lurch is more like it. I stop at the nearest café and ask two guys sitting out front pretty much verbatim ‘where the hell am I and how do I get to Bruges?

Gent, Belgium

Gent, Netherlands

They patiently fill me in, draw me a map and show me which direction I should go to get to Bruges.

What I want to know is why nobody up until now mentioned the fact that there is a Gent Belgium and a Gent Holland and they’re within 45 minutes of each other (when you’re trying to get from one place to the other as opposed to by accident).

I can’t believe I’m in Holland. And now I’ll have to drive another hour backtracking to get to Bruges. Goddamnsonofabitch! Searching desperately for a bright side, I figure since I’m in Holland, I should really take the opportunity to find some of those delicious wafflenstroopen cookies I love. Two wafers filled with caramel that I’ve only tasted the like of in Holland.   I don’t know what makes them so delicious.   I’ve searched everywhere for them and have found only pale imitations. Now that I’m here, I’ll forever feel a gaping loss if I leave Holland without more of those cookies. But this town doesn’t even have an open grocery store. I figure I’ll hit a town on my backtrack and I can still be eating Belgium waffles in Bruges somewhere around 3:00.

I wind up in a town called Ternuezen which is on the water, but much more pleasant than Dutch Gent. I scour the town and finally find a store that sells the coveted cookies and am pleased to note they’re much cheaper here than in Amsterdam. These are called stroopwafels, but look and taste exactly the same. I get a couple of bags and congratulate myself on making the best of a bad situation. I figure I’ll make it to Bruges by 4:00.

On my way to the car, I pass a coffee shop and make a flash decision to make a better situation totally awesome.   I am in Holland, after all.   According to my calculations, I’ll can be in and out of there in 15 minutes and make it to Bruges by 4:30.

I leave the coffee shop on schedule.   An hour later, when I remember where I parked the car, I’m faced with a task more daunting than any I have faced before on this roadtrip—yes, I must fill the gas tank.

During my wafflenstroopen search, I spot a Texaco nearby, so I know which direction to head. The trick is finding a road that agrees with me.

A half hour later I pull up to the self service pump and spend fifteen minutes adjusting the side mirror views until I realize that it isn’t the mechanism for unlocking the gas tank (which is the key…duh).

I spend another 15 minutes trying to fit the nozzle in the gas tank hole until I realize that it’s the guzzle for trucks, not cars. I spend another 10 minutes trying to get the car in front of the right pump, and another 5 minutes adjusting the car’s position so the nozzle actually reach the place I need to insert it.

lunch

When I enter the place to pay, there’s a bunch of crappy seven eleven type food which awakens my stomach. Now that I think about it, I’m punchdrunk from a combination of hunger, stress and waking up too early for my delicate system. I’ll never make it to Bruges alive if I didn’t put something in my stomach now. Something more substantive than a wafflenstroopen. It has to be something I can swig down really fast and keep driving. Something that coats my stomach. That only leaves one option once I scratch pepto-bismol from the list: chocolate milk. In addition to their unparalleled wafflenstroopen, The dutch have a rich, creamy, delicious chocolate drink called chocomel that I totally forgot to crave until now. I swig the chocomel like a person who has been stranded in the desert introduced to her first water in days.

I head towards Bruges, feeling mildly bloated, but sure I can make it by 6:15 for my Belgian waffle.

stalling–roadtrip to bruges (part 1)

I’ve seen pictures of Brugge (or Bruges), Belgium and have always wanted to go there. They call it the Venice of the north, with picturesque ancient buildings flanked by canals. A town untouched by World War II. A gem. According to mapquest, it’s 168 miles away or a 2 hour and 48 minute drive from Auvers (they lie) or a 2 ½ hour train(s) trip from the Gare du Nord in Paris, so about 7 hours roundtrip.

If I take a train, it’s over 240 Euro round trip to get to Brugge. Flying might be cheaper, but there’s getting to the airport, security, waiting, fees… As opposed to the train, which is quick and painless. But I lose time in connections (ie: from Brussels to Gent to Brugge) and there’s that price thing.

I check the prices of a three day car rental and it’s a no-brainer. Three days unlimited mileage for more than half the price of a train ticket.   And this way, I can stop where and when I want.

But I quickly discover a catch…there’s a premium on cars with automatic transmissions. The difference in prices is huge. Which presents a huge dilemma.

The last time I attempted driving a car with manual transmission was in San Francisco (probably one of the world’s stupidest places to attempt such a feat). It was one of the most mortifying experiences of my life. Not only was I in constant fear of death by rolling backwards down a vertical hill, I was also constantly humiliated by my inadequacy in shifting—stalling at every intersection and being forced to stop people on hills and ask them to hold the car in place while I shifted. I think I lost half my weight in sweat that day. I swore I’d never touch a stick shift again.

But poverty does funny things to a person. I decide driving with a stick shift will be an exciting challenge. A new experience. And there aren’t a lot of hills up north. I gamely click “reserve”.

The next two nights I spend studying maps and travel websites like I’m cramming for a final.

The night before I’m to pick up the car, the enormity of what I’m attempting hits me. I try desperately to come up with a reason, or find a sign that I should really cancel this whole junket. I’m sure I’m coming down with something. I can’t find my glasses. I can’t drive without my glasses. Oooooh, I have a bad cramp in my clutch leg. Where are the damn keys? Not being able to find the keys must be God’s way of telling me not to go. A black cat just crossed my path several times….THAT’s got to be a sign, even if it is Denzel.   Every little thing seems a warning of impending disaster.

I tell myself to calm down. It’ll be all right. I’ve got every conceivable route written out and mapped. How hard could it be? Less coordinated, dumber people than me have driven a stick shift. I temporarily ignore the fact that less coordinated, dumber people than me can also walk and use a cellphone at the same time and I’m totally incapable of that.

I mentally practice shifting until the xanax kicks in.

I must be maturing, because I don’t recall being tortured the by nightmares of sleeping through the alarm on the morning of my final exam or being at school naked. Only a few sane waking moments wondering whether seeing Bruges is worth dying for as I drift off to sleep.

When I wake up the next morning, I have that feeling I used to get before finals of being too tired and brain dead to cope with the task at hand. Being a trooper, I lumber towards my goal.

Armed with maps, instructions.credit cards, passport, drivers license, snacks and bottled water, I take the train to Pontoise, where I’m to pick up la voiture.

By 8:30 AM, I’m at the Pontoise Europcar. The car rental process itself is painless. The rental agent seems amused (in a friendly way) by my caveman French. The only rocky moment is when I sign the receipt and realize (after I signed it) that the number on it is E 500. Not the E116 I’d been quoted. The agent seems to notice that I’ve turned white and reassuringly tells me “c’est une deposit.” I’m relieved and terrified all at once. One false move and I’m broke. That’s worse than a fatal accident. I wonder if they’ll charge me for the day if I return it now?

No, I will hate myself if I don’t attempt to go to Brugge while I have this damn car. After stalling three times and almost backing into a Volkswagen Golf before getting out of the parking lot, I resolutely tell myself that I’m definitely driving up to Bruges while I have this goddamn car in my possession.

Just not today.

I stall 12 times on the 5 mile drive back to Auvers.   Fortunately, the French drivers are kind.   One person  honks when I stall at an intersection, but two jump out of their cars and offer to help.   In New York, I would have caused a riot.

The rest of the day, I intermittently practice driving the damn car interspersed with taking naps to recuperate from the physical and mental tension of practicing driving the damn car. My left leg will be very muscular from this experience. I have so many “my little goat moments”, I’ll be surprised if I don’t have permanent brain damage. I’m still trying to unfurl my hands from clutching the wheel in terror.

With a deep sense of foreboding, I make a delicious dinner of pasta with sausage, mushrooms and tomatoes before I go to bed. I figure it could be my last supper.

pastry of the day (or as I like to call it, dinner)

Fraisette

This is one of those pastries that falls under the category of too much. Beautiful to look at, but not entirely satisfying.

It’s a very thin layer of white cake, a layer of strawberry jam, a layer of cream and a very thick layer of vanilla meringue. Then the whole thing is covered with cream frosting and the thinly sliced strawberries.

When I dug my fork into it, I was surprised at how hard it was to cut…I thought it would be some light fluffy concoction. The meringue (while delicate and delicious in the chocolate macaroon) was like a chunk of crispy, sweetened styrofoam or a huge cube of sugar.

I would have been perfectly happy just eating the bottom layers of cake, jam and one layer of cream frosting which was only a sixth of the entire confection.

Me no likee.

Fortunately, I bought what I thought was yogurt at the grocery store earlier and it turned out to be a delicious creamy dessert. Phew! Disaster narrowly averted.

embarking on a life of crime

Don’t ask me why I didn’t consult the weather report before getting on the train to Paris. Maybe it was destiny.

The plan was to start in the Canal St. Martin area in the 10th arrondissement. It’s supposed to be an up and coming neighborhood. From there I’d cut through the Marais, and cross the Seine to the 6th and 7th arrondisements (which is ideally where I’d like my future husband to have a pied de terre).

After a short sweaty walk down the Canal St. Martin I head for the Seine…maybe there’s a breeze there. There isn’t. Which leaves two options. Jump in the Seine or find a nice air-conditioned establishment to seek refuge from the imaginary global warming. The refuge just happens to be Dalloyau Patisserie. Here I will cool off, get something to drink and reassess my game plan.

In the Sex in the City version of my life, there would be a handsome Frenchman also seeking shelter in Dalloyau. It would just be him and me and the windows steaming up. We’d start to chat, the windows would steam up some more, maybe there’d be a hot pastry sharing scene followed by a thunderstorm. Of course, we’d run through the rain to his fabulous nearby pied du terre. That doesn’t happen. It’s just the pastries and me.

Since I have a short attention span and am easily distracted by bright, shiny objects, I immediately forget my game plan. Oooooo, pretty tart…pretty puffy thing with cream and berries…pretty chocolately square… Since I haven’t set foot into any sort of boutique for months, all my most shallow consumer cravings are bursting forth here and now and I’m not sure if I have the self control to stop them.

I’ve always been a little stand offish about French pastry. Sure, there’s your croissant, your tarts, your pan au chocolat, éclairs, panniers, beignets…all delicious. But there’s a whole world of pastry out there I’ve never tried. The custardy things with apricots on top, the huge chocolate bombs, the things that look like opaque green jello, the napoleons of many stripes. Frankly, I never thought I’d like them. Most of them look a little too gooey, too sweet, too much (although right now, I’m sure my life will never be complete without consuming each and every one of them).

It doesn’t help that I’m afraid of the women in the Auvers bakery. I pretty much buy my bread, catch a quick glance of the desserts out of the corner of my eye and get out of there. No hemming and hawing trying to decide between the cannonball sized snowball rolled in shaved dark chocolate, the tried and true fruit tart with plump perfect raspberries, the white creamy looking cakes with imbedded strawberries…nope, she’s giving me a dirty look…she’s gonna yell at me…’un bagette s’il vous plait…une Ooops, desolee, UNE bagette, s’il vous plait.’ I always wind up skulking out in shame.

The pastries here at Dalloyau look like jewels glimmering behind the glass. I get lost in them until reflexively, like a guilty dog, I look up at the woman behind the counter to see if she’s giving me a dirty look or about to smack me with a newspaper. She’s not. She’s smiling at me. I take this as a sign that fate brought me here for a bigger purpose than whatever my initial game plan was.

I should make it my business to try every pastry out there and write a thorough review. Sort of a verbal painting depicting the beauty of each pastry. I’ll be the like the Van Gogh of French Pastry description. If I try one pastry a day, I think I can still get every possible pastry in. There couldn’t be more than 90 french pastry varieties out there, could there?. I suppose if there are more, I’ll have to double up.

I know, it seems like an indulgence. A pastry a day can really add up. But it’s cheaper than lipgloss or a pack of cigarettes, both of which I’ve given up. And my efforts will serve mankind as a guide to what sort of pastries they may like and dislike. Yes, I’ll do it in the name of helping my fellow man navigate the intricate world of French pastry. And for art. Now that’s a lasting legacy.

Of course, the venture does involve critical risks. Like spending my hard borrowed money on deserts I may not even like (and where will that leave me when I crave something sweet and I blew my wad on some lavish frou-frou concotion that sickened me earlier?) And the capital risk is enormous considering that at this very moment, I only have 5 Euros. How will I afford a pastry AND get back to Auvers? And what about tomorrow? Will I be forced to beg for pastry? Will I become poor AND fat? Nobody feels sorry for a fat homeless person. Now I’m sweating out of pure stress.

But sometimes, you’ve just got to go for it. At least I know I won’t have to shoot myself in a field when my time here is up. I can just have a heart attack on my way up to the field. Nobody can say I didn’t consider all the angles.

I order a chocolate macaroon. A relatively safe bet being chocolate and only 3 Euros. Now, this isn’t your classic coconut cookie you think of in America. Not even close. It looks like a scooter pie. It’s two chocolate almond merinque cookies sandwiching a thick layer of dark chocolate ganache. I hold my breath and take a bite….ahhhhh, this is decadent.

It’s like the world’s biggest truffle, with a slightly crispy coating that crackles like a thin layer of ice and melts into the ganache. How could heroin possibly be more addictive than this? There’s that pure chocolate endorphin rush, but there’s also the taste…no, not just taste, it’s bigger than taste, it’s a feeling. It almost engulfs the brain. I’m in Paris and I’m eating the most chocolately delicious thing in the world and I’m soooooooooooo happy!

When I come to, I’m already wondering how when and where I’ll get my next fix. And do I really want to try those custardy things? Maybe I should limit myself strictly to macaroons. Seriously, I haven’t even dented the surface of macaroons. There are caramel, coffee, vanilla, strawberry, green ones, chocolate noisette.…

No, that would be the cowards way out. I must explore the entire pastry realm. But damn, I could go for another chocolate macaroon right now. Maybe I should marry a Patisserier. I nonchalantly check the back kitchen of Dalloyau to see if Mr. Right is back there. He’s not. I guess that would just be too easy.

I gather my remaining two euros, thank the girls behind the counter profusely and step out out into the torture chamber. I was going to walk back to Gare du Nord and save myself the Metro fare but I forgot how hot it is. I fear I’ll become one of those elderly woman heatwave death statistics if I do. And how tragic would it be to die after experiencing such happiness only an hour before? On the other hand, perhaps THAT’s my destiny. Nahhhh. The metro entrance is about 50 yards away.

As I walk briskly toward my train, I don’t even notice all the handsome men I’m sure must be checking me out. I’m deep in thought, ticking off my options methodically. I hope I could be mistaken for a high powered businesswoman (wearing “don’t socra-tease me” toenail polish) making a career altering decision as she rushes to her train for the burbs. Nobody has to know what I’m really thinking: “I could try the chocolate cannonball next, but maybe I should try something fruitier. Or would it be smarter to bite the bullet and get one of those things that look like jello with berries out of the way. Hey, there’s probably something for two Euros at the bakery in Auvers.”

I jump the turnstiles and head for my train.

bridging cultural chasms

The other day when I was watering the yard, the neighbors were coming home. We smiled said bonjour and I returned to my watering. I nearly jumped out of my skin when the husband said “I have a question.” I think this is the first complete sentence I’ve ever heard in Auvers, except for Henri and Alan when they were here. He invited me for drinks. I accepted and I have both looked forward to and dreaded this day arriving.

I don’t know why I’m so fearful of the language barrier thing. I’ve spent time with Japanese people who don’t speak English, dined with Italians who don’t speak English, had drinks with Dutch people who don’t speak English, Americans who don’t speak English, and always had a perfectly good time. Nonetheless, I’m nervous as I walk up there with a lovely, hand-picked, hand- arranged bouquet of flowers.

Okay, flowers and weeds. But in the weeds’ defense, they would have cost at least $6.00 in the US. Maybe they’ll think it refreshingly humble for an American to bring something personally crafted. Or that I’m a cheap bitch. It’s a huge responsibility going next door for drinks. I represent America. The Lubattis don’t count because they’re American, but also French. They speak French, they have roots here (not the kind of roots I have). They know how to behave.

So much to worry about. Will there be cheek kissing? If so, how many times does one kiss each cheek? And are you actually supposed to kiss the cheek or do an air kiss thing? Chhhhhhh. Merchk –ci. Je pouvais. Je pouvons. How long am I supposed to stay? I suppose I’ll have to drink something. What should I drink? Should I have brought wine? Will there be food? What the hell are their names?

Within minutes, Carole and I are planning to meet on Wednesdays so she can help me learn French and I can help her learn English. If this doesn’t improve my French, I’m afraid my one remaining hope is enrolling in French kindergarten and learning it the way children do.

There are important things I learn at this meeting that need to be shared in order to help bring about an understanding between our two cultures. For example, I learn that the women in the bakery don’t hate ME, they’re like that to everyone. The French don’t curse like we do. When we say “merde” as a curse, we don’t sound French. We sound like Americans trying to sound French. The French equivalent is of our “C” word is probably “putain” which sounds like it’s got a lot more syllables when pronounced correctly (kind of like (pchkwuuuueeeeetaeeeen. When Carole says it, it sounds really vile…like the worst thing in the world you can say. If someone called your mother that, you’d have to punch their lights out (or at least give them a good head butt in the solar plexis). When I say it it sounds like Porky Pig. The French often feel uncomfortable in America because there are signs everywhere telling people not to do things. I’m sure 75% of that is the no-smoking signs everywhere.

Jerome and Carole also float a theory as to why so many Americans are perceived as arrogant and narrow. Europeans are constantly exposed to different cultures because there are so many different little countries so close together. Americans, not so much. Americans is huge and homogenous for the most part. the limits of what we’re exposed to as a result of our size is what makes us come off how you say, xenophobic. I never really thought about it, but that makes sense. I also give them credit for giving more thought to justify our being assholes than we do. And nothing creates a warmer bond than a mutual hatred for German tourists. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

On a practical level, I learn that a Kir is quite refreshing and makes me feel much happier than a diet coke does.

After about two hours of pleasant conversation, I feel we have made vast inroads mending the French/American relationship. I also feel like I’m making friends with the neighbors. I thank them very much for having me. They thank me for coming and for the flowers, c’est tres jolie. And I say je vois vois en mercredi. She says haltingly “at six o clock.” I leave feeling really good about the whole thing. Like maybe I will learn French. And make French friends. And feel like I really live here (if only when I have to leave/shoot myself in a field.)

This is a critical step in breaking down walls and stereotypes and re-establishing that deep friendship between France and America that seems all but lost these day of ruthless political expediency. Maybe we can live side by side again as brothers and sisters. Maybe I’ll even have someone to feed my kitties when I go to Croatia! This is promising. But wait, I hear Carole say something to Jerome that’s too fast for me to make out and they laugh….Did that French snob just call me a “pchkwuuuueeeeetaeeeen?”

impressionist and other works of art

Since my hair is now as colorful as a Van Gogh (especially the roots), I decide it’s a good time to go into Paris and re-visit the Musee D’Orsay with new perspective.

I catch my favorite train from Auvers transferring in Valmondois which travels through the beautiful countryside into what I imagine is the riot ravaged section of North Paris into Gare du Nord. I bravely decide to take the metro to the Musee D’Orsay despite the fact that I know all metros are under terrorist threat. Somehow, the Paris metro is so much more civilized than the New York subway I let down my guard and forget to be afraid. My fellow passengers and I survive.

I get off at St. Germain and prompty walk in the wrong direction. When I reach the Odeon, I realize my mistake and backtrack, passing a gazillion gorgeous food stores. At least I know if I get lost I can follow the trail of my drool back the way I came. I resist the urge to enter and continue past the fashion boutiques (also drool inducing) and down the Rue Jacob past the small galleries until I reach the Musee. The line is virtually non-existant and I’m inside in a flash.

It’s a beautiful museum, a converted railway station, with art instead of bums. I head straight for the impressionists, trying not to notice the art lovers critiquing my hair.

The first room alone is more impressive than MOMA and the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam by a long shot. And it keeps going. Rooms of impressionist paintings, many of which are scenes that looks strikingly familiar, maybe because so many were painted in the Val d’Oise. Pissarro, Corot, Sisley, Monet, Manet, Degas, Renoir, Cezanne and Van Gogh are well represented. There are numeous paintings done in Auvers, I notice with pride (as if I had something to do with it). Views of Pontoise, Argentueil, Sannois, the Oise, Chaponval are as plentiful as if I were at the Chateau Auvers looking down on the valley. And not all that different.

I like Renoir more than I remember and Monet less (although I’m still fascinated by his series of the views of the cathedral in changing light). I still think Pisarro is underrated and feel my rage rising at the injustice of it.

But I’m immediately soothed by the room of Van Goghs. He may have been a douche and a drama queen, but man, I love his paintings. They’re brighter and more striking than I remember. I can’t keep my eyes off the picture of that quack Dr. Gachet and can almost understand why that Japanese industrialist who bought one of the two portraits Van Gogh painted of him wanted to be buried with it. Dr. Gachet looks depressed. His hair is very red. I wonder he went to the same hair salon in town that I did.

I can’t help noticing the scarcity of English speaking people here in the Museum. Where are they? Are they boycotting France because of our refusal to take part in the Iraq war? Whatever it is, I’m grateful, as the museum is uncrowded and pleasant.

Until I go to the ladies room and realize, this must be where the Americans have been hiding. The line here is longer than the line into the museum and virtually everyone in line is an American. Maybe we have smaller bladders than the French?

Only one of the two stalls has toilet paper and rather than take toilet paper from another stall when it’s empty, the women in line choose to wait for the stall with toilet paper to become available, which doubles their wait time. When a woman leaves that stall, I cut ahead to take some toilet paper and go into the free one. The women act as though I’ve just invented the paper clip or something. I begin to understand why the US is no longer a center of innovation any more.

Once I’ve finished my business I take a look at a pre-impressionist work of art—Paris itself. The view from the D’Orsay balcony is spectacular, even when it’s overcast.

By now it’s almost 3:00 and time to wander over to the Place de Madeline and Opera, which I haven’t seen since I floated by in the 80’s high on painkillers from a tooth infection (I have searched vainly for whatever that painkiller was ever since). I walk through the Tuilleries and up the Rue de Fauborg Honore to the Opera. It’s as impressive to me now without narcotics as it was while under the influence.

Then, I don’t know what possesses me, maybe a narcotic flashback, I walk to the Boulevard Haussman to Galleries Lafayette. I recommend this neighborhood to anyone homesick for New York. Here English is more prevalent than French. And I experience the pushing and shoving I’ve so missed. I hate it and rush out. Until I remember that the food hall is supposed to be an epicurian oasis.

I’m not disappointed. It’s the Musee D’Orsay of food. And it’s not nearly as crowded as the rest of the store…in fact it’s downright pleasant.

This place makes Eli’s in New York (the best and most overpriced food emporium in NYC) look like Safeway, except the prices of course, which are high, but still comparatively reasonable. The options are infinitely more mindboggling than Eli’s (which only boggled my mind with the prices). There are all sorts of prepared foods to take out, or eat at little counters set up at each section. There’s the Italian deli section, the Petrossean section, the tapas section, the dim sum section, the meze section (the take out meze platters are so beautiful, I consider them to be art on par with a Van Gogh), the Indian section, the oyster section. There’s also fresh produce, meat, seafood, bakery, candy and grocery sections that includes everything I’ve ever craved and some things I’ve never imagined to crave but will start immediately.

My budget allows me a smoked salmon on blini sandwich for 4 Euros which is tasty, but leaves me longing for more. I take one last slow, tortured lap and decide I better leave before I find my credit card buried in my bag and create a deficit at the dim sum counter that’s bigger than the US debt to China.

The train ride back to Auvers is uneventful. I watch the countryside go by now with the eyes of an artist—the slashes of green, gold, and red of the passing fields as vibrant as the tabouli salad at galleries Lafayette.

Once again, I feel a kinship with Van Gogh, despite my desire not to. I stop at the grocery store on the way home and linger over the wine section since absinthe is no longer legal. I decide against buying a bottle, since like Van Gogh, I’m short on cash. What would Van Gogh do? It seems I have two choices. One involves cutting, the other painting.

I head back home to paint my hair.

keeping up avec les jones

I knew my good old American consumerism would take effect in one form or another. It was just a matter of when, what and how much.

In NYC, every time I went out in public, I was subjected to a barrage of ridiculously expensive things that my life would be incomplete without. Life was a constant bombardment of I need a pedicure, double mochafrappucino, boob job, hepa air purifier, krispy kreme and brown purse. And that was just in one block. As my income spiraled downward, I managed to maintain the rampant desires, but scale them down to size. A one block stroll became I need nail polish, a candy bar, a lightbulb, lipbalm, allergy pills and ant traps or my life won’t be complete. I believe that’s called adaptation.

Since I’ve been in Auvers, that looming hole in my soul that could only be filled with something I have to buy, has been surprisingly unobtrusive.

Sure, there’s the occasional deep yearning for a lamb brochette tempting me in the boucherie window. There’s the tarte frambois beckoning from the boulangerie. Since I haven’t read any magazines telling me what to covet, I wouldn’t know what will make my life complete if it slapped me in the face.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I do find myself coveting gardens (I believe Freud called it ‘Garden Envy’).

The flowers here in Auvers are spectacular. From week to week, a new batch of flowers crops up just as another one dies. And every week I think this week can’t possibly top last week’s, but it usually does.

I even covet the weeds.

It’s obvious people put a lot of care and expense into their yards. Some are overwrought, some are painstakingly wild, others look more English and overgrown and sometimes just the part spilling out into the street looks like I wouldn’t mind spending time, breathing the air and enjoying the view with a nice tall cool glass of something.

Every house is a statement. From the shutters, to the window boxes to the outer walls. So it’s been bothering me a little that my yard isn’t saying it with flowers as eloquently as I see everywhere else.

I mean, when the parking lot nearby has more flowers and greenery than your yard, you start to get a complex. Even if you don’t own the yard.

What to do? Obviously, I’m broke. I came here to cut down on expenses, not spend it on something as temporary as annuals.  Isn’t that more foolish than spending it on fashion? On the other hand, a few plants are cheap compared to fashion. . I briefly consider stealing a few plants that appear to be wild. Scratch that, they probably belong to the town and I’ll be arrested or something. On the other hand, jail would be rent free and I could stay in the region when my time here is up. But when I imagine my prison cell, I definitely think it needs flowers, which brings me back to my original problem.

Maybe if I gave myself a $30 limit? When you think about $30 to spruce up a house, even for only six months, is a bargain! An opportunity that can’t be missed!

I’ve been quietly pricing plants in my journeys. (I also covet the bloomenmarket in Amsterdam, by the way). Little boutiquey plant stores are out of the question, especially if they have the FTD logo in front—a sure sign they’re overpriced. The Thursday/Saturday market is okay, price-wise, but I should be able to do better. The Isle Adam market is on par with Auvers. So for the time being, I focus my energies on buying food.

But while on a trip to Epluches, St. Ouen to survey Le Clerc, a French hypermarket (a big huge supermarket with everything from booze, to cereal, to garden furniture to underwear to travel agent at cheaper prices—sort of a French Costco, I imagine.), the pangs of crass consumerism start to rumble. So many different cookies, cheeses, desserts…of course, I must try them all. In the spirit of discovery, of course. This is an integral part of French culture afterall. Shall I start with the Bon Maman citron madelines or the Laiterie Pots au crème chocolat? Or both? But my musings are interrupted by a feeling–something powerful and impossible to disregard. Like a hunter dog getting a whiff of prey, my every nerve is on alert. My inner paws are pointing frantically. Then I realize what they’re pointing at– the leclerc also has a centre de jardin

Culinary exploration be damned! I’m off and running.

A flat of petunias for E 6. 10 trailing geraniums for E 7. Now we’re talking. I contemplate the flowers like I used to consider a blazer at Barneys: After what seems like hours of mixing, matching and trying out every conceivable combination, I load up on pinks, cream, yellow and purple accents, keeping in mind the allotted funds available to me.

The woman at the cash register speaks to me. I nod and smile and say “oui” or “non, merci” depending on the tone of her questions. She rings them up. I almost have a heart attack when I see the number—196.000. Mon dieu…I can’t afford this and there’s no way I’mn proficient enough in French to explain it, especially since this seems to becoming a my little goat moment. I’m either having a hot flash or some sort of panic attack (I’m not sure which would be worse) and any moment a drop of sweat from my forehead will fall on the counter, compounding my humiliation. Maybe if I act like I’ve forgotten something (I’m good at that hit my forehead and emitting a sigh of exasperation thing). Then I can pretend like I’m going back to get whatever it is I forgot and skulk off like the loser I am. But the cashier says “vingt six, and I realize that the first number was in Francs. I giggle with relief as I pay her.

I load my new possessions into my bags and make it to the train station just as my train is arriving (surely a sign that buying these plants was the right thing to do).

When I get home I immediately put the flowers in the windowboxes. I wind up with a total of five. The problem is, I don’t have enough dirt to fill the boxes. I figure I can go back for that later. In the meantime, I put the lovely window boxes in the windows. It looks much better. I can almost hold my head up high. I’m very proud that I’ve been able to satisfy my crass consumer cravings for under 30 dollars.

But now that I really look at the gestalt of it, the window boxes just make the lawn and the rest of the yard seem…well, lacking. there are a couple of spots in the garden bed that could use an nice annual or two. I guess when I go back for dirt I can pick them up.

And why does the neighbor’s lawn seem so much greener than mine? I wonder if there’s something wrong with my lawn. I’m sure there’s something I can get for that. And those little red bugs are a real problem, What sort of spray do I need to get rid of them?

I start to write a shopping list. Sure, it’ll cost some money. Sure, I can’t afford it. But if this yard doesn’t fulfill its potential, I’ll feel as though I’ve missed an opportunity. This is about experience, not a gross desire to acquire stuff. And I’m pretty certain that there will always be something incomplete about my experience here in Auvers, if I don’t make this yard the best yard it can be. At the very least, I’ve got to make it better than the yard next door.