here’s to you mrs. robinson

When I meet a cute guy under thirty, my first thought is to check him out…for my nieces.   So when an attractive, very likable 24 year old American who  just moved to Antibes asks me out for a drink I figure he just wants the company and likes my sparkling personality.   So I go.   For my nieces.

He spent the past year or so at University in Paris and now works at a big tech company in Sophia Antipolis (the Silicon Valley of France). He’s smart, funny, open, interesting, interested, ambitious, and seems pretty worldly for a 24 year old American.

He passes the niece test with the only caveat being he might be a little young for the two of dating age (if he likes younger girls, he’ll have to wait for my niece Charlotte who is currently 11).   I begin to think it might be fun to have someone my emotional age to hang out with (as long as nobody mistakes me for his mother).

Then he goes and shatters my whole scenario.   He tells me he’s thinks I’m very attractive.   I preen a little, figuring he means it in an attractive in a well-preserved antique sort of way.   Then he tells me in so many words, that he’s ready willing and able if I am.

I’m floored.  My first words in response are:   Hammena hammena hammena… you’re kidding, right?

He isn’t.   As it begins to sink in, I’m torn between terror and doing the happy dance.

We discuss it a bit, and I can certainly see he has some valid points as to why this is the greatest idea ever, but still…I’m totally unprepared in every sense of the word (meaning I haven’t shaved my legs in weeks). I honestly wasn’t expecting to have sex again in my lifetime.  But now that he mentions it…

I need some time to stew on this (probably not a good idea at my age– wrinkles).

Here are some of the thoughts I’ve had so far:

• Quick, do it NOW before his vision returns!
• Quick, do it NOW before my ass falls.
• What if I break my hip when we’re doing it?
• Is there some kind of way we can do it without him seeing or touching my body, which would probably be disgusting to a 24 year old?Note to self:  look into that whole Mormons doing it through a sheet thing.
• Hey, if he finds me attractive, maybe someone more age appropriate will.   Yeah, right.   Men my age all want 24 year olds.
• He probably just wants to use me for my air conditioning.
• What if he dumps me for an older woman?
• This must be one of those guys on the French Riviera who scams old women out of their life savings I’ve heard about.   A Riviera grifter, as my friend Al calls it.
• I could use the exercise.
• I have a rule that I won’t get involved in a man who is younger than some of my bras.   I check my underwear drawer and I’m pleased to say we’re okay on that front.
• Dude, how good must I look to have a 24 year old attracted to me?   Like Demi Moore good…only better because she’s had plastic surgery and I’m a 100% natural…okay, 98%, my hair color is fake.   More preening.
• If I do it, does that make me a terrible aunt?
• Good Lord, this is a bad Lifetime movie in the making. It would probably star Heather Locklear and Zac Efron.
• Good Lord, this is a bad Comedy Central movie in the making.    It would probably star Betty White and Zach Galifianakis and involve a road trip.
• Does this fall into the category of a sweet May-December affair or statutory rape?
• If I don’t do it will it be just like the second helping of fried chicken I declined at the first grade class picnic, which I still regret to this day?
• This seems like it could only happen in France.   (I know it’s not necessarily true, but bear with me here).   If I were not to take advantage of this unique opportunity wouldn’t I be missing out on some of the rich experience of being here?
• This is kind of the equivalent of someone offering me an Hermes bag. I certainly never thought that owning one was within the realm of possibility.   I’m not sure what I’d do with one if I had it.  But hell, it’s a damn fine bag and I’d be a fool not to take it.  Right?   In fact now that I think about it, my life will be empty and meaningless without that bag.
• What if despite our best intentions one or both of us falls in love with the other? And what if when he publically humiliates me by cheating with several younger women I fall off the deep end and wind up getting excessive plastic surgery and ODing on whippets and Red Bull?
• It’s not like I haven’t been involved with younger men.   In fact,  I’ve been involved with a 24 year old before.   When I was 30.
• I know it’s perfectly acceptable to be a cougar nowadays.   Even hot.  But it’s a fine line between being a cougar and being a dingo stealing someone’s baby.
• I mentally play a bunch of math games, with questions like “Where will we be when he’s my age?” (answer:  he’ll be running a big successful company and traveling the world. I could well be dead).

I can’t help remembering a similar storyline playing out in The Graduate (on the other hand, it could be more like American Pie, and I’m the pie).

I re-watch The Graduate, feeling mildly queasy when I inadvertently muse that the last time I saw it was probably before he was born.

I realize now that Mrs. Robinson and I have virtually nothing in common.   I feel much more like Benjamin in this scenario.   I’d never have the balls to try to seduce a man young enough to be my … nephew.   Nor am I some sexual predator brazenly luring young men into bed for my own personal satisfaction with no thought of the consequences.

But isn’t it something to aspire to?

 

the soiree of terror

The day I’ve been dreading has finally arrived.    I received the above invitation a few weeks ago.

Every year at this time, French people try to get to know/reconnect with their neighbors in what is called “Fete de Voisins.”   The idea is to form bonds that will counteract the isolation of city living and build stronger communities.  So this little fete will include everyone in my small apartment building.   I’m pretty sure all the tenants here are French, except one family.   I’m also pretty sure their English is no better than my French.  In most cases worse (gasp!).   Naturally, I’m terrified.

I walk s-l-o-w-l-y down the three flights to the party.   On the way I bump into my only English-as-a-first-language speaking neighbor (Denise) and her four year old son (William).   Denise is very thoughtfully locking her door, and staring at it as if trying to remember something.  Turns out, she’s trying to remember a reason she can’t go to the party.   She’s as nervous as I am.  But she’s lived here for seven years, so she clearly has an advantage.   William, who is fairly fluent in both French and English and fearless because he’s 4 and there promises to be cake, he’s ready to partay.   At least now, I have a suitable escort.

We enter the apartment together, doing the whole introduction and kissing both cheeks thing.   Damn, these people talk fast!   I still don’t know what anyone’s name is because I can’t distinguish the words from the names.

The table overflows with food like some decadent still life.   I wish I brought my camera. There are about 11 guests ages ranging from 4-75.  The host and hostess are a 70-ish couple and live on the ground floor with an amazing garden with a small koi pond.   The husband speaks a petite peux of English (not as much as he thinks).

Representing the 1st floor a 60-ish couple ( think the man was a bit older).   They both only speak french, although the husband’s rapid-fire french is punctuated with seemingly random “OH MY GODs” (in English—maybe he’s trying to make me feel at home).

From the second floor we have Denise and William.   I’m the third floor.

From the top floor brings two female college students who are renting the apartment.   Also in attendance, the attractive 40-ish man who owns the apartment.  There’s also a woman I can’t place, but for some reason I think she has something to do with the top floor.

As much as Denise and I would prefer to sit in a corner and talk to each other in English, we know it would be cowardly and we must mingle.  I watch her dive bravely into the fray.   I’m intimidated by her ability to understand questions and answer them. I feel better when she tells one of the neighbors that her son, William is 40.

In the following three hours, I learn as much as I can about my neighbors and bond with them given my limited French skills.   Here’s what I managed to pick up:

The hostess quit smoking after 52 years and she said something about cocaine and morphine in the same sentence.   I’m assuming she said it was harder to quit cigarettes than cocaine or morphine.   Either that, or she used cocaine and morphine to kick nicotine.   Will have to delve deeper into that when my French improves.   In response, I tell her that she must have started smoking when she was two.   Well, I hope that’s what I told her.   She kind of clutched her hand to her heart, in what I hope was a gesture of gratitude or pleasure.

The man on the second floor feels very strongly (OH MY GOD!) that The painter Nicolas Stahl was very something.   So was Picasso.   He also said something about Collioures, which is a small fishermens village near the Spanish border where a lot of famous painters spent time.   I’ve always wanted to go there, so I nod enthusiastically.

First floor’s son got married in Santa Barbara.   He may also live there.   It’s very beautiful there.

The students on the fourth floor are studying at some school on Jules Grec Blvd .  I know where it is, so I nod enthusiastically.   They’re majoring in either agriculture, horticulture or quantum physics.  They are originally from somewhere in the north of France.  I know where the north of France is so I nod in knowingly.

The recipe for Gateau du thon (tuna cake, think meatloaf made with tuna instead of meat):   Tuna, lemon juice, capers, egg, salt pepper and a touch of mayo with Dijon mustard.   Bake at 350 for 30 minutes.

The proprietor of “Le sex shop” (a few doors up the street) is very charming.

David and his wife, Nikki  (the couple who own the apartment I live in) are lovely, and Nikki is both smart, beautiful and a bunch of other stuff that is said in a very positive manner.   Great.   I will always be compared to her.   I bet her French is perfect, too.   Bitch.

The crowing I hear from the building next door at about 10AM every morning is actually a chicken (I figured it was a lazy rooster)   They used to have three but two of them died.   Not sure if they ate them.

William wants his bubbles (as in to blow bubbles).   Bubbles in French ar “bulles de savon”.   I initially thought they said bulles de savant (bubbles of knowledge).   It took about 15 minutes to clear this up.

The tarte is delicious.   The hostess didn’t make it, she bought it at the bakery on the Rue de Republique

The rest of the evening, I’m pretty sure they were just saying bad things about me.

I used the phrase “lentment s’il vous plait” approximately 14 times.

I guess some would say this is a pretty lame example of my French skills if this is all I got from three hours of continual conversation.

On the other hand, a year ago here’s the sum total of what I would have picked up:

Cocaine.   Morphine.   Cigarettes.  Picasso.  Collioures.   OH MY GOD!   Santa Barbara.  North of France.    Tuna cake.   Salt and pepper.   They like Nikki better than me.   Chicken.   Dead.  The Sex Shoppe.  Knowledge.   The tarte is delicious.

I’m making progress!

the halfway point

Trogir and Split are the halfway point of this trip. This is officially where the Dalmation coast begins. Where North turns into South. This is also where the trip is halfway over. We’ve been tromping through foreign countries together for about a week and half now.

For me, the halfway point is a time of taking stock. This is when I start counting how many days are left and wondering whether I can stretch 3 days worth of underwear into 7 days without washing anything. This is when I wonder if that tickle in my throat is allergies or a cold. Or bird flu (or whatever the next great plague will be). This is where I decide I don’t need to shave my legs again because nobody is looking at them anyways except in this case,  my mother (and yes, she is judging me).

The halfway point is where we start having heated arguments about which direction the airport was in Zagreb. Who had the lamb in that place between Ljubljana and Rovinj. Whether using the the word “Mongoloid” is racist when uttered with a pure heart. A vicious “discussion” about the relative merits of watching college football vs Oprah threatens to end my parents’ 51 year marriage.

This is always a dangerous juncture in any vacation because it’s usually the time where horrible secrets are revealed (my niece likes German boy bands), dreams, expectations are shattered (George Clooney does not have a villa here) and the wounds inflicted earlier in the trip (or in life) become scabs to be picked at.

if you’re traveling with relatives, It’s also the point where you discover great truths about them that explain why your family is doomed to an endless cycle of dysfunction.

One raging disorder reveals itself (again) when we check into the Villa Sikeaa in Trogir. In every hotel so far, my mother has wanted OUR room. Even if the rooms are exactly alike, there’s something about our room that looks better to her. If it’s bigger she wants it, if it’s smaller, she wants it. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, It seems totally reflexive.  Not a day has gone by where my mother hasn’t sighed several times a day and exclaimed “your room is better”. Katherine and I decide to conduct an experiment.

The minute Mom makes the inevitable comment that she likes our room better (often entering the lobby upon arrival), we offer her our room. She takes it gratefully. After we’ve moved rooms and it becomes hers, she’s happy for about an hour. The next time she comes to our room, she looks around and sighs “your room is better.” I’m sure there are deep psychological implications in this story, but I’ll ignore it for now because it makes me laugh (In a hysterical, rocking back and forth, emotionally scarred kind of way.)

Trogir is a great in between place. It’s a medieval village (what a surprise!) and UNESCO World heritage site. The entire old town is smaller than the Lobby of the Empire State building and surrounded by a small canal. It’s packed with tiny shops, a church, ice cream vendors and restaurants. .

On one side of the old town is the market. It’s not as “pretty” as the market in Rovinj, but it has its charm. Here, they recycle old bottles to bottle their homemade grappa and other herbal concoctions. A smart shopper can get a Croatian farmers’ homemade berry and lavender grappa in a classic coke, Herbal Essensence, or Crisco bottle for the equivalent of 3 Euro. In my opinion, that kind of souvenier gives you more bang for your buck than a “Simpsons in Trogir” tee shirt.

On the other side of the old town is the small harbor (a two minute walk), guarded by an ancient stone fort. Our hotel is across the harbor (a 5 minute walk) and affords a great view of the old town. Gorgeous boats park in the tiny harbor. Our room has a birds eye view and I shop for potential husbands in the comfort of my hotel room during the hot midday hours. We’re in the south now, so everything and everyone has a golden glow.

There’s something about Trogir that isn’t conducive to cultivating negativity or wallowing in psychological wounds. The only time I come close to crossing over to the dark side in Trogir is at night when those loud motorbikes blast by our hotel. I spend an hour parked at the window with a big glass of water, waiting to douse the next offender. Thankfully, my attention deficit disorder prevents me from spending the entire night poised at the window in ready-to-splash position.

Split on the other hand, has meltdown written all over it. There’s always a palpable tension in our car when nearing a city, When we round the bend and see Split’s sprawling metropolis, the tension rises into what can only be described as a shrill escalating siren sound in my brain.

I try to drown it out by engaging in a little genial rhetorical chit-chat with myself. “So, this is where Diocletian decided to retire back in 300 AD. Probably a shrewd real estate investment. Highly desirable location. It was probably a lot nicer back then. Without all the communist era buildings, rigs and industrial crap.”

The further into Split we go, the more panicky I become. Maybe we should turn back now. We’ll NEVER get out of here.. I don’t even know who Diocletian was, why the hell do I need to see his goddamn palace? And just when I think Split can’t get any more horrifying, we find ourselves at the gates of the old town, where cars dare not go. Our hotel is in here somewhere.

The pros of staying in the old city (which in Split is everything within the walls of Diocletian’s place) is you get the place all to yourselves in the evenings when the tour groups have departed. The con is finding your hotel once you find the old city. And as we recently learned, medieval villages and roman palaces were not built for driving.

I decide this is a good place to abandon the car along with everything in it. I clamor out and immediately become entranced by some shiny object at a nearby market stall flanking the old city wall. Mom and Dad are calling me, but I am hypnotized by the bright shiny object. Must watch bright shiny object. Cannot get back in car. Will see you later at hotel. Must. watch. shiny. object.

While they’re watching the shiny object, I vanish behind the gates and into another world. Inside the walls, it’s like a fairy kingdom. Modern life coexists with 1800 year old ruins. Ice cream every two steps, . Blue water and sky peaking in through roman gates. Amazing ruins intermingled with fabulous boutiques!

There’s something about the old town waterfront that reminds me of Nice. The palm lined promenade. An air of grandeur tainted with a whiff of seediness. The ferry docks are right next to the harbor and the walls of the Palace, so the view is a more romantic if you blur your eyes a little bit.

At night the lighting in the old town is dramatic and some group is playing classical music near the entrance of the Palace. It’s not the least bit crowded. I can’t remember the last time I cursed a German. Since we’re staying inside the walls of the old city, we can ignore the rest of Split. We’re taking a ferry to the Island of Hvar tomorrow morning.

Try as I might, I’m not finding the angst here. I’m starting to wonder if I should do something to induce it, just to get it over with. But that wouldn’t be in keeping with my new “let life happen” philosophy and decide against it. I’m sure the meltdown will happen in it’s own good time.

Right now I’m perfectly happy sitting on the waterfront with my ice cream cone looking at a calm sea under a cloudless sky.

it’s 53 o’clock and the bell tolls for me

Lake Bled is timeless. Both figuratively and literally.

It’s a small crystal blue lake flanked by mountains, forest and tiny villages. A little island floats in the middle of Lake Bled. A stone stairway leads to the Spire of the Church of the Assumption which all emerges from the trees like some fairy tale.

Apparently, artifacts found on the island indicate that it’s been a holy sight for millennia and the destination of many pilgrimages. The church there today was built in 15th-17th century on 10th century remains.

There seems to be no rhyme or reason to when the church bells ring. I know, because I started paying attention when I noticed that they sound out at really strange times and intervals that don’t make sense in this time-space continuum.

They say that God has his own time for everything, so maybe that’s the answer. Or maybe He just doesn’t want us to sleep in too late or take afternoon naps. As I recall He seems to be a proponent of the work ethic.

Usually you can tell it’s lunchtime about an hour and a half after the bells indicate

it’s 26 o’clock. Maybe the bell ringer has an alcohol problem. Maybe he (or she, I don’t want to be sexist here) is a cross between Quasimodo(Quasimoda?) and Otis on the Andy Griffith show and the residents put up with him because (s)he’s a deformed drunk.

It’s not like Lake Bled is swarming with tourists. If Americans are any indication, nobody’s heard of the place. I think we’re the only ones. I’ve heard British accents, German and Japanese in the hotel, but that’s about it. Every now and then, a tour bus drives by (which Katherine and I immediately flip the bird, because we think packaged tourism is evil). But packaged tourists rarely spend the night at places like Bled (not enough shopping). So nobody seems to complain about the strange bells of the church.

There’s not a lot to do at Lake Bled, the scenery is the main lure. You can take the three hour walk around the lake, check out the monastery perched on the cliffs, wander through the tiny villages and feed the ducks on the lake. Or just perch on your balcony, read a book or take a nap (until about 30 o’clock when the bells start ringing again).

After an hour wander through the picturesque, tiny village, we begin to feel a little peckish. We spend about three hours hemming and hawing over which restaurant would be the appropriate dining experience. We come up with a range of excuse, including: “no, they have a tourist menu”, “no, I don’t understand the menu”, “they serve Pepsi, how unauthentic” and my personal favorite, “we can’t eat here, I see a fly hovering around the porchlight”.

We finally stagger into a Taverna type place with an outside deck. By this time, we’re too weak to act upon any of our rampant second thoughts (ie: “That waiter just gave me a weird look,” “this diet coke tastes funny,” “there’s a fly hovering around the deck light”)

Following a fervent prayer that none of the meat is horse, we enjoy a delicious mixed grill lunch. We might have enjoyed it more if we knew exactly what was in the “mix”.

After lunch, our stamina is up and we decide to row to the church and investigate the mysterious church bells for ourselves.

It’s about 200 meters to the island, but to non-sports people like us, it seems like the Atlantic. My father bravely rows, while Katherine and I dip our fingers in the blue waters, marvel at the fact that even at the deepest point we can see the bottom and enjoy views of the Karavanke Mountain Range and Mala Osojinica Forest that flank the lake. My mother gasps, groans and clucks with every splash and rock of the boat, which makes the noise pretty much persistant.

We scramble out of the boat and climb the stairs to the plaza where the church perches. We walk around the island to enjoy a 360 view of the lake before we enter the church to meet our maker (or at least the person ringing the bells). It’s empty.

I see a rope, but for some reason think it’s one of those emergency cords in hotel bathrooms only to be pulled if one has a bathing emergency so I steer clear. My dad, ever the explorer, boldly yanks it and low and behold, the bells ring out over the lake. He seems to enjoy the sense of power and keeps yanking.

So now we know the answer to the age-old question, “for whom the bell tolls?” Obviously, for anyone who wants to give it a good pull.

I practically have to wrestle my dad down to get him to relinquish the rope. I’ve got to say, bell ringing is not as easy as it looks. Maybe I’m exhausted by the vicarious rowing, but I have to put my whole weight into the effort before I get the bell going. But when I do, it’s hard to stop. We all have a turn.

At about 54 O’clock, we’ve had enough and tumble back into the rowboat, empowered by the experience. And who wouldn’t feel empowered accomplishing something that an hour earlier you thought a deformed drunk could do?

Dad rows energetically, mom clucks with renewed vigor and I stand up at the rowboat helm and shout “I’m the king of the world!” for all of Lake Bled to hear while Katherine heartily recoils in shame and horror.

Once we stop the boat from rocking, we hurry back to the hotel for our 55:30 nap.

observing another culture

I don’t often get a chance to spend a prolonged period of time with children Max and Maddie’s age. I find myself observing them in much the same way I watch people from a culture foreign to me– like the Dutch, or the French or Arabs or men.

Within seconds of meeting, Max volunteers that that Maddie can’t be trusted with scissors. She cuts everything in sight. Including her own hair. Her ponies do not have the haircuts they came with. Some have fringe. Some have large pieces chopped out of their manes like punk rockers while others have nicely feathered Farrah Fawcett 1970s looks.   Maddie sweetly agrees with Max, telling me she isn’t allowed to go near the grown up scissors any more. Then she coyly wonders aloud where the grown up scissors might be right now and if maybe I could figure it out.  She poses this almost as a challenge, but I’m not biting.

Max’s specialty is the unicycle. He’d been trying to master it for months unsuccessfully. But once Al offered him a Playstation to ride it, he was up and going within days. Now he fully appreciates the benefits of his skill. When we take a walk through the park (we walked, he rode), tourists were pointing their cameras at him, not the scenery. If worst comes to worse, put a tin cup in Max’s hand, put him on the unicycle in a touristed area and the Kellys could have a nice supplemental income.  Hmmm, maybe I should’ve had kids.

Like most kids, they’d prefer it if you paid 100% attention to them. But if you don’t, they happily go on their merry way, making a gnome out of an evian bottle, or serenading a dozen toy ponies. Leave them alone for long enough and they’d probably come up with the cure for AIDS. Or at the very least, build an army of colorful paper mache soldiers and their faithful pastel ponies.

When Maddie puts all her ponies into her backpack and zips them up, I overhear a conversation amongst at least eight ponies, each reacting to being put in the backpack in its own way. Some were frightened, while others soothing. It didn’t sound all that different from my inner voices.

And while kids may have very short attention spans, they can cling to a word or phrase and never tire of it. I hear Maddie repeat the phrase, “Hey, I have an idea”, at least 16 times to no one in particular before one of us got distracted and stopped counting.

Both Max and Maddie have the most astonishing ability to turn virtually anything into treasure. Max, Al and I went on the canal boat tour. As I watched and marveled at the beautiful buildings, bridges, and churches, Max was oooohing and ahhhhing behind me. I turned to share the moment and realized that he was oooooohing and ahhhhhing at a blob of really gross garbage bobbing in our wake. Max would LOVE New York.

Maddie on the other hand, fixates on my dental floss. She asks me if she can borrow it and promises to be very careful with it. Later, after Blake and Al put them to bed, Al asks me what the deal is with the dental floss. Apparently, Maddie listened to her bedtime story and drifted off to sleep, curled up with my little plastic box of dental floss as if it were the most precious, cuddly gift in the world. People anguish over what to give kids and turns out they’re perfectly happy with dental floss and some garbage. I’m sure there’s a moral here.

I guess when you think about it, being a kid is a lot like being a foreigner. You don’t understand the language. You tend to repeat words and phrases you know over and over and over. And the most basic things and actions seem new to you.

I apply this theory to myself and it works. Most of the time I don’t understand a thing people are saying to me. I’m totally repetitive –  Merci. bon journee. Merci, bon journee. Merci, bon jour….Even here in the Netherlands, I find myself repeating the only word of Dutch I know (stroopen—syrup) over and over and over and over to the point of distraction.

Now, if I could just experience that same joy in mundane, things Max and Maddie seem to have. Maybe then I’d be happy.

But I’m too tired to think about that right now. I curl up with a package of Stroopwafels, my new favorite cookie in the whole wide world, and drift off to sleep.

my own personal masterpiece (in L’Oreal Excellence, cuive d’or 7.3)

It’s that time of month again — my other monthly curse. The problem of what to do about my roots rears its ugly head again. A really ugly head with two stripes of roots in shades of red, as well as brown and grey. My hair is starting to resemble an archeological dig in that the layers reveal a rich history.

We’ve already established that I’m not returning to the cute little hair salon nearby. The truth is, I’m hesitant to hand over such an important job to a stranger ever again. If someone is going to screw up my hair, I want it to be me. If that makes me a control freak, so be it.

The closest I’ve come to dying my hair by myself was when I was 16 and I got one of those highlighting kits at the drugstore. My mother spent an hour with a crochet hook, painfully pulling out strands of my hair from the holes in the shower cap thing before I freaked out, changed my mind and abandoned the project despite the pain I’d already endured.

But this time, there can be no turning back, I’ve got hideous roots to cover.

So the next logical step is to find the right hair color, which requires a trip to a big grocery/everything chain like monoprix, eclerc or casino. The drugstores here are tiny and don’t carry a great variety. Often they don’t even carry hair color. There are no Duane Reades, Walgreens or CVSs here.

I figure while I’m there, I can also pick up things like dental floss which is surprisingly hard to find.

I do a little research before I go. To see if any particular brand of hair color is hailed by makeupalley users. Turns out, the only one that gets a good rating is discontinued. This is not promising. I’m on my own here. And my course is fraught with dangers. Sure, there’s bad color, but there’s also the possibility of damaging or frying my hair. I find the thought of Armageddon far less frightening.

I face a daunting wall of hair color products. All sorts of shades that are just slightly different from the other. And while the differences between the colors may seem small, one wrong hue can ruin your life.

There are brands I’ve never heard of like Schwartzkopf which I decide against because the German accent scares me.

When you get right down to it, I’d rather trust my hair to a French company because they invented the word “salon”, forgodsakes. They must know what they’re doing.

Which leaves me with L’Oreal, Garnier and Posay A woman with bedraggled looking hair takes a box of Posay and it’s narrowed down to two. I finally decide on L’Oreal Crème Excellence because I don’t like the looks of the girls on the Garnier cartons—a little too hookerish for my tastes. Now we’re getting somewhere.

Choosing the shade is the true test of nerves. Every time I think I have the right color in my hands, I begin to tremble and start having second thoughts. Is hair color like perfume in that the same scent can comes out differently on different people? What if this lovely golden caramel color on the girl on the box turns out candy corn orange on me? Maybe I should go darker…it would be kind of a French thing to do. And maybe that would cover mistakes…or make them worse. No, lets not try anything drastic for a debut effort. I try matching my hair with the colors on the box, but it’s difficult getting my hair at a distance that I can actually see it. It also doesn’t help that the names of the colors are in French…I know d’ore is gold, but what the heck is cuivre? Isn’t that an eating utensil? I feel like I need to lie down. Ugh, I feel clammy and icky and sweaty. I hope I’m not having a stroke. Or is it a hotflash? Or just anxiety? And who can blame me? This is a life altering irrevocable decision. Well… for three weeks anyways.

By this time, I’m sure the cashiers think I’m either insane or a shoplifter. Feeling no more enlightened than I was two hours ago, I tell myself it’s just hair and grab number 143, blond d’ore, I don’t consider myself blond, but the color of the girl’s hair on the cover looks about right.

On my way to the cash register, I remember to get the dental floss. But when I see the options, I’m plunged into indecision again. The large roll, the medium roll the waxed or unwaxed, J&J or the cheaper generic kind…thank Dieu they don’t have flavored or I’d still be there. Generic waxed medium is the verdict..

I have to avert my eyes from the lip gloss aisle or I risk falling off the wagon. I’m a glossaholic…I can’t resist buying a new lip gloss whenever I see one. I’m always sure that the one I’m buying will be the answer to all my prayers with the perfect balance of color, emollient, shine and taste. Even when I think I’ve found it, I’m immediately on the lookout for the next one. I’m a total lipgloss whore. When they started coming out with lip plumping glosses, I knew I was going to have to leave the country. I’ve been clean since I’ve been here in France which is quite an accomplishment when you consider how many new, untried lip glosses there are for me to be tempted by here. It’s excrutiating. I remain strong.

I pay and send out a short prayer: I’m sorry I was pissed at you yesterday, but please let this be a decent color and please don’t let me screw it up. Do whatever you want to the Middle East, but please spare my hair.

Back at the house, I’ve got instructions, the various little bottles, the rubber gloves and the box spread out before me. Here’s something that hadn’t occurred to me…the directions are in French. I panic briefly until I realize that it’s French for idiots. And with the helpful little pictures, I can pretty much piece it together. It looks pretty cut and dry. Nevertheless, my hands are shaking, and consider this might be a good reason to put it off another day. I mean should one really dye hair with shaking hands? I tell myself to shut up. It’s not like I’m performing a circumcision here. And frankly, judging by my roots, I don’t have a moment to waste.

I hold my breath, put on the gloves and dive in, mixing and applying it to mes raciness. I try to remember how Brad’s assistant, Lexie used to run the nozzle over the parts in my hair and rub it in.   I try to imitate her. Then I wait.

I stand in front of the mirror the entire twenty minutes watching closely (my nose must be about two inches from the mirror) trying to figure out what the dye is doing. I’m unreasonably calm. The color of the dye is going from white to a kind of brown color. I don’t really know what’s going on underneath the dye, but I do know that looking at it doesn’t give me the sick feeling I was trying to stave off at the hair salon last month.

The big test is when I rinse it all out. When I do, it looks fine.

The really big test is when it dries. Which it does and it looks fine. No, come to think of it, it’s not fine, it’s FABULOUS (to quote Brad). I dyed my roots and they match the rest of my hair, my hair looks healthy, and shiny, the color is very nice and I did it all by myself. In France!

I feel powerful, deeply talented, courageous and strangely liberated. It’s hard to explain, it’s like all these years, I thought I’d be totally incapable of dying my hair and it turns out, I’m capable. I’m actually pretty good at it. Much better than those chicks who charged me 52. Euro.

It was Vincent Van Gogh who said “What would life be if we had no courage to attempt anything?” I should really take that to heart. Maybe there are other things I can do that I thought were impossible. I consider the implications. Imagine all I can accomplish! The new things I can try. The joy of potential future successes. Hey, maybe tomorrow I’ll get a highlighting kit.

***

For more hair care experiences in France:

fear of dying (grappling with getting my hair dyed in France)

back to my roots (getting my hair dyed in France, a horror story)

van gogh’s room

I’m ashamed to admit it, but I’ve been here several months and I still haven’t been to the Auberge Ravoux  to visit the room where Van Gogh lived and died.  It’s practically across the street.

The only real excuse I have is I didn’t want to spend the 5 Euro to get in (his grave is free.)   I guess I just figured, his room will always be here, unlike that tarte myrtille in the patisserie window.

But time is running out and I’d be mad at myself if I didn’t do more than peer into the courtyard and dining room.

auberge ravoux dining room

I read somewhere that just being in Vincent’s room brought someone to tears, the connection was so powerful.

Once when I was visiting one of the Virgin Mary’s supposed death sites near Ephesus, Turkey, a woman who was obviously religious or insane went into convulsions, wept, has weird spasms, and spoke in tongues (of course, it could have been Turkish). Maybe I’ll feel a similar…whatever the hell that was…when I visit Vincent’s chambre du mort.   Maybe then I’ll understand why he shot himself in that field.   Better yet, maybe I’ll start babbling in fluent French.

I make the long journey across the street without mishap and pay the 5 euros to go into a dead guy’s bedroom.   Well, it’s not just his bedroom, it’s a courtyard with plaques with pictures and facts about Van Gogh.   A side door leads to a dark stairwell to tiny, tiny dark rooms.   Van Gogh’s is the worst because there’s no window, only a skylight.

vincent's room

Suddenly, it all becomes very clear to me. This room is tiny. It must be 5×5 ft. with a really low ceiling that slants in certain parts of the room so  you have to hunch over or whack your head. The room he painted in Arles was huge by comparison…hell, the painting of his room in Arles was probably bigger than this room.   I thought NYC apartments were bad! I’d go insane in here. I wonder if poor Vincent was tall. That would just make matters worse. Sure, the fetal position is fine every now and then, but I wouldn’t want to make a lifestyle of it.

I’m beginning to have an inkling of what might have induced Vincent to kill himself. I can totally relate to looking up at my pathetic life after slaving all day on something that nobody may ever see or appreciate and wondering dear God, is this all there is?  I can see how that might cause a more compulsive personality to trudge to up the hill to the field and put a bullet in his stomach ( I probably would have forgotten where I was going about half way up the hill).

It still doesn’t explain why he shot himself in the stomach (not the place I’d aim for if I wanted to die).   Some theorize that the force of the shot made the gun move from the heart to the stomach.   My favorite explanation is Carole and Jerome’s:   “he was very creative”

Is it possible he wasn’t trying to end his life?    Maybe He just wanted to go to a hospital where he’d have a bigger room.

***

Auberge Ravoux website

bringing van gogh to prime time

Van Gogh’s life story has everything we American viewers love:  sex, drugs, violence, mystery and intrigue.   The best part is, since it’s historic and educational, it’s guilt free viewing.  We’re talking ratings winner!

I’ve come up with several versions targeted towards different networks.  Each one tailors the basic facts of Van Gogh’s life a little differently in order to appeal to the specific network’s audience.   Please forgive the wonky spacing.   WordPress seems to be acting up.

HBO

An intelligent, well-shot bio-pic that chronicles Van Gogh’s life and death.   It will delve into his health issues, addictions, relationships with women, Theo, Gauguin and Dr. Gachet and the world in general.   It will be based on fact, well written to create a complex character who we can empathize with, sometimes like and sometimes hate.    My casting choice would be Hugh Laurie because he looks like Van Gogh only much, much hotter.    He’s also an actor capable of evoking deep, primal emotions such as love, sympathy, contempt,  laughter and a raging desire to jump his bones.

 

Showtime

This rendition of Van Gogh’s life examines the close, almost unnatural bond between  Vincent and his brother Theo.    We’ll delve into the psycho-sexual traumas they shared that drove Van Gogh and his brother Theo to acts of depravity that led to syphilis, insanity and ultimately, further acts of depravity.   While Theo was able to recover in the sense he had a wife and child and a “normal” life,  their shared demons drove them to an early grave within six months of each other.   Vincent could be played by Michael C. Hall and Theo by David Duchovny.   Not recommended for viewers under the age of 18.

NBC, ABC, The CW

We know that Van Gogh was a tortured artist.   We know he killed himself.   But we don’t know why.   Here, the mystery is revealed.   Van Gogh was a vampire.   After 30+ years of intransigence and savagely (but ambivalently)  feeding on human blood,  Vincent settles in Auvers sur-Oise where he falls in love with a mortal (Dr. Gachet’s daughter, Marguerite).   Knowing the only way to fulfill his tragic love is to bite her and doom her to an eternity of guilt and shame, he shoots himself in a field, which doesn’t kill him, because he’s a vampire.   It’s Dr. Gachet  who drives the final stake through his heart back at the Auberge Ravoux.   Casting suggestion:   Robert Pattinson, or some other young hottie with piercing eyes.

CBS — CSI Val d’Oise

It’s never a mistake to latch on to an already successful franchise.   So in the CBS version of Van Gogh’s life,  the original CSI agents travel back in time to solve the death of Vincent Van Gogh which they suspect was not by his own hand.   The prime suspect is Dr. Paul Gachet, Van Gogh’s doctor and “friend.”   The evidence includes the sketch Gachet drew of Van Gogh at his deathbed (shouldn’t he have been administering?), the fact that Gachet immediately removed all of Van Gogh’s art from his room when Vincent expired, and suspicions that the artist had an illicit affair with Marguerite, Dr. Gachet’s daughter.   Vincent’s past lovers, other artists, his brother Theo are also investigated and questioned.   In a surprise twist, the murderer is Dr. Gachet’s son, Paul, an aspiring artist and greedy, talentless little turd who is jealous of Van Gogh’s gift.

The Lifetime Network

This version is told from the point of view of Rachel, the syphlitic prostitute to whom Van Gogh gave his ear.   It takes place a few years after his death.   We open on a portrait of Rachel Van Gogh painted.   We pull back to reveal Rachel who lapses into reverie.    She relives her abusive relationship with Van Gogh, how she tried to help him, loved him and put up with his “moods.”    She recounts how finally, after years of torment and anguish, the ear incident was the final straw and she broke free.   She goes on to become a successful independent business woman.   Her reminiscences are interupted by a child toddling in to show her the painting he did which is as brightly colored and splashy as a Van Gogh.   Coincidentally,  the child has red hair.   We are left to wonder if Van Gogh’s only legacy was his art.   Casting suggestion:   Melissa Gilbert as the prostitute and David Caruso plays Van Gogh in flashbacks.

Comedy Central

A pair of wacky, absinthe quaffing, aspiring artists with very different personalities move in together in a pastoral French village and attempt an artistic revolution.   Masterpieces and hilarity ensue.   In this version, Van Gogh doesn’t really die.   They just pretend he’s dead for the insurance money.   Suggested casting:   Seth Rogen as Van Gogh and James Franco as Gauguin.   Alec Baldwin occasionally shows up as the wizened and cranky Monet.  Will Ferrell plays a side-splittingly inept Dr. Gachet.

Bravo:   The Real Artists of Auvers

Since this is Bravo, it will probably have to be shot as an extension of the Real Housewives franchise.    Slade Smiley as Van Gogh leads a cast of unknown reality stars as we  follow the day to day lives of the artists who lived in the Val d’Oise.       We follow the turbulent love/hate relationship between Gauguin and Van Gogh (similar to Vicki and Tamra, Jill and Bethany, NeNe and Kim in the real housewives series).  We’ll watch Cezanne and Pissarro passive aggressively snipe at one another leading to a scene where Cezanne uncharacteristically flips a table and shouts incoherent obscenities at Pissarro.    We’ll also get an inside look at them promoting their careers with grand Salon openings and shows (think “she by sheree”).     We’ll see them struggle with poverty and homelessness.  The only real difference between this show and the actual Real Housewives on Bravo is that in this show, the main characters actually accomplish something in their lives.

FOX entertainment

Combining the successful elements of their major hits (American Idol and The Simpsons), this will be an animated version of American Idol for painters.   Cartoon versions of Van Gogh, Gauguin, Cezanne, Pissarro, Monet, Lautrec and other artists from the commune will compete.   Each week, they’ll have to paint a different genre, but in their own inimitable style..   One week it’s a landscape, next a still life, next a studio portrait.   They may even have to dabble in other media, such as sculpting and photography to prove their diversity.   Judges will be cartoons of Rembrandt, Leonardo Da Vinci and Andy Warhol (he’s the crazy one).

Spike TV

A classic buddy movie that despite the action, is ultimately about the relationship between Van Gogh and Gauguin.   The main characters, played by Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn spend their days painting and their nights whoring and fighting.   But together they revolutionize the art world.   They’re the Butch and Sundance of Impressionism   And they’re definitely NOT gay.  Not that there’s anything wrong with it.

CBN (Christian Broadcast Network)

This adaptation focuses on Van Gogh’s early calling and career as a preacher.  Here the focus is on how when he abandoned God to become a painter, he lost the grace of the Almighty, which ultimately led to his tragic downfall.   Kirk Cameron can play Van Gogh.

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For background on the main characters click here.