I didn’t realize how much I’d missed writing until working on this blog.

So, I have decided to continue with a new blog – this one more about the crazy, chaotic, full-to-the-brim life I lead here in Houston. I’ll include recipes and links, and I hope it will be interesting and a bit entertaining. What makes me think anybody would be remotely interested in reading about the life of a middle-aged, urban woman in one of the U.S.’s largest cities?This blog, after all, had a built-in fun factor: the journey through new and fascinating places.

At this point in the story, I could talk in platitudes about all of life being a journey, etc.

But the truth is … I just wanna write. And since I think I’ve gotten pretty positive reviews about my work as a writer, I’m going to go for it.

You all are welcome to go come along with me, to offer your own insights, to share recipes and jokes – whatever. To quote my older stepson, “It’s all good.”

Stay tuned in the next week for a link to the new site – and thanks again for following along in the journey!

As we had most of our trip to France, we spent the day walking – walking to the new town square, lined with upscale shops  and filled with tourists. Walking to Old Town Nice, lined with street vendors , cafes, and also filled with tourists. In the center of Old Town was an enormous flower market where Len bought me a bouquet of red roses.

The architecture of Nice reminded me a lot more of Italy than France – appropriate, as Nice had been part of Italy up until 150 years ago. (The day we were there, the Nicoise were readying a giant celebration in honor of the 150th anniversary of Nice becoming part of France.) The buildings are pastels of peach and gold and green. I remember sitting in one large, open-air cafe, drinking coffee, listening to the roar of the crowd as a goal was scored in whatever World Cup game was being televised. People spoke to each other in rapid French or Italian. Men smoked and relaxed back in their chairs and enjoyed the heat of a summer day.

Just across the street and a few hundred yards away, people sun bathed on the shore of what I can only describe as a truly glorious sea shore. The water was the bright, crystalline turquoise color of the Caribbean, and further away, the water was the dark color Homer described as “the wine-dark sea.”

Nice was hot, chaotic, crowded, beautiful. In the evening, we ate sea food and couscous, and later had drinks at the open-air bar atop the Meridien Hotel. Anniversaries come and go, but this one was particularly memorable, and sweet.

The next morning, we rose very early in our little hotel room, to begin the long journey back to the U.S., to the reality of our lives, to home.

We’ll go back to France someday – someday soon, I hope. Maybe by that time, my dear French teacher will have enabled me to speak to France a bit better. France will always speak to me.

Last night we had drinks at the Bar Americaine in the Hotel Paris. Hotel lore has it that the bar has been patronized by the likes of U.S. Grant, Alexandre Dumas (author of The Three Musketeers), Aristotle Onassis, Grace Kelly, and of course, Bond – James Bond.

Hotel de Paris is an elegant hotel built at the end of the 19th century. Its lobby is replete with marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and dark wood panelling. The bar has been updated, but you can still see the rich, dark wood and marble bar of the original structure. Waitstaff are all in impeccable suits, and you can barely put down an empty glass or petite bowl of snacks before it is discreetly whisked away and refilled. Across the room, we even saw, beneath one table, a small silver bowl of water for one bar patron’s little dog. (Yes, in France it is perfectly OK to bring one’s well-behaved doggie into any restaurant or bar. Tres civilized!)

As we prepare this morning to leave Monaco, I look out from our balcony into the harbor and see two baby ocean liners docked there – they are surely private yachts. If, as the saying goes, money talks, the language is Monégasque. Everywhere we went yesterday, there is evidence of opulence here, from the extremely high-end dress shops like Prada and Channel, to the Bentleys, Rolls Royces, and Porches that travel the streets. Of course, there are the tiny motor scooters and cars that also travel the roads – I guess the wealthy do need their people to wash windows, clean bathrooms, etc. There is not much of a middle class in Monaco that I can see.

Why is all this wealth concentrated into the small principality of Monaco? Bien sur – as our Parisian friends wryly pointed out before we left to come here – there are no taxes on wealth in Monaco!

The next time I hear someone prattle on about how the U.S. has become such a money-worshipping, consumer society – I will smile, and reply, “Mm, yes, but have you ever been to Monaco?”

One thing I’ve been struck by is the Monegasque definition of “jardins exotique.”

On our walk throughout town, and to the Jardins mentioned above, I have seen golden and orange lantana cascading from apartment window boxes; I saw lantana as well in the Jardins, along with desert roses, Mexican heather, begonias, white, and lavender vinca, star jasmine that perfumes the air, and streams of bright, purple bougainvillea.

The flowers are all very, very lovely. And familiar.

Tonight, we are headed to the town of Cap d’Ail, to a well-rated restaurant that our Parisian friend Remy recommended – La Pinede.

I’m cleaning up from a breakfast of hot, crusty toast with butter (see previous post, purloined, Cafe de Paris, et al), cheese, and fresh cherries we brought with us from Provence. I also managed to make coffee using a French press – hadn’t done that for years – and it was pretty good, thick and black and rich with the cream we bought yesterday. Sitting out on our balcony, we could hear the voices of children from the street below as they waited for their school bus, and the constant drone of passing cars and motorbikes. We’ve decided our little street is one of the main arteries up and down the residential hill.

In the distance is the Mediterranean – it draws a wide swath of sapphire around the whole distance. I see a cruise ship in port. flanked by a couple of large yachts. Despite a restless night last night sans A/C, we are both making the best of all this, and enjoying the truly breathtaking views.

Before we left the Chateau Talaud in Provence, one of our fellow guests (also from America) commented that he found Monaco to be “a dirty little city” and didn’t bother to spend any time here when he’d driven up the coast with his wife earlier in the week.

I guess the Monaco I’ve seen – especially on the French side – is not as pristine as the Chateau or little towns of Provence, nor as sophisticated or upscale as St. Germaine de Pres in Paris. But there is something wonderful and earthy about it nonetheless. What if a neighborhood in France spent the week in Italy? You’d get Monaco, with its ancient apartment buildings and homes, their roofs of terra-cotta tile and clothe lines in the yard and mothers admonishing sobbing children in rapid French? Italian? and little motorbikes whizzing around tiny, winding streets at top speed.

The sun is full and high, and I’m dousing myself with sunscreen; I won’t bother with makeup. I don’t think anyone will bat an eyelash. Soon, we’ll be off to explore the French Blue Coast.

One thing that has been a bit trying was getting used to actually driving together on the open road, and in cities we’ve visited.

The other day, in Aux-au-Provence, for example, Len had to get out of the car and alternately coax, assure, and prod me to inch the four-foot-wide car into a four-foot-three-inch-wide parking space as I swore I could not do it and begged him to take me home (I meant to Texas).

Yesterday, on the way to St. Remy de Provence, I watched my mild-mannered professorial husband, who hasn’t lived full time in New York city for about 40 years now – morph into a “New Yawkuh” before my eyes – “Yeah, go fer it, buddy!” he cried as the little French cars alternately tailgated us, then whizzed by us. “Whassa ma? Where’s da fire?” “Yeah, and kiss my , pal; up yers!”

Today was yet another memorable driving experience as we came from Provence into Monaco.

As we drove up on the winding mountain highway, the sea glittering far below to our right, I frantically tried to convince our GPS system, dubbed “The Australian” because of the accent my husband and stepson chose for the voice – that we had indeed left the United States and Texas, and were now travelling through France and we really, really needed to find out how to get to our apartment in Monaco.

No luck. The Australian kept insisting that we execute a U-turn as soon as possible and head back to the route she planned for us to get back to Houston.

“I’ll give you 10 euros if you turn that off,” Len said.

I unplugged the GPS. He handed me a 10.

On we went, following the signs into the town of Beausoleil, the French side of Monaco (on the side nearer the sea was the Monégasque town of Monte Carlo).

When the signs indicated we should turn down from the mountain climb toward the sea and into the “centre ville” (city center), we both took a deep breath, and we turned the little car down. The road wound downward in hairpin turns at a 45-degree slant. Either side was lined with tiny, European cars and motorcycles, and there was always an obnoxious Frenchman riding our rear bumper, honking impatiently. Once, when I looked away from the road for a second, Len swerved and said “Oops!” and I felt the blood from my head rush to my feet.

Sidenote: The dreaded “Oops” word is usually uttered as the supreme understatement indicating that impact – is – imminent – the car had somehow crossed the median line and another car is barrelling headlong toward us, the right side of the car had hit the curb at 35 mph, etc.  After one particularly memorable “Oops,” I thought I saw the light around us flicker, and I had a vision of my long-deceased grandparents standing at a gate, beckoning to me.

But I digress.

At last, we saw a sign for a public parking lot, and drove in, and down, down, down until we found a place tp park our fine little, warrior car. At last, we were able to contact the leasing agent for the apartment – we’d previously only gotten perfunctory text messages from her – and Len explained the situation. She agreed to drive her car down to the intersection above ground where we’d stationed ourselves, and we waited until she arrived. “Aloo,” she called from inside her car as we ran up to her window. We now had to go down, retrieve the car, come up the parking lot exit near that square, and follow her to the apartment.

That’s when the real fun started.

Let’s just say that several hours later – maybe some of the longest hours of our trip so far – we were sitting in the great, open-air cafe in front of the Casino Monte Carlo, the Cafe de Paris, enjoying coffee and dessert, and watching the waiters and managers and patrons talk and eat and laugh. I will take a little time tomorrow morning to describe in more detail what Monaco is like.

Len maneuvered and plowed ahead and persevered like the really bold and intrepid traveller that he is, and I salute him.

For now – tonight – we are tired and glad to be off the road. The A/C is not working in this brand-new apartment (and the property manager neglected to try it before we came). So, we’ve pulled the sofa bed immediately in front of the big, sliding glass door that opens onto a generous balcony facing the sea. The breeze is cool, and in another hour or so, it might just be bearable enough to sleep. Tomorrow, we’ll have coffee from a French press I found, some toast and butter I discreetly purloined from the Cafe tonight, and we’ll call the property manager again. Another good day to have been on the road with the guy I am lucky enough to go to sleep beside every night.

Alors … until tomorrow in Monaco -

After breakfast, on the advice of Hein, Len and I headed a bit south to the towns of St. Remy de Provence, and then to Le Beau.

On Wednesday mornings, there is an open-air market at St. Remy, and when we arrived, the little town was full of eager shoppers. Len drove (more on that in another post), and we even found a parking spot – a four-foot-six-inch-wide space into which Len somehow maneuvered a four-foot-wide car.

At le marche, Len spent some time talking to a lady who’s an artist; she was selling small paintings she did on ceramic tiles, and then they were baked into a glossy smoothness. We bought two of her little paintings, and headed on.

Next, there was a couple selling the most wonderful Provencal-print table linens ever! Yeah, I bought some – they were a good price – I bought a tablecloth in bright crimson and gold print, with 8 napkins, and a small, accent cloth for the table center.Later, we couldn’t resist buying a kilo of fabulous, fresh cherries before having a wonderful, Provencal pizza for lunch.

A word about the pizza here: it does not come from a Hut, and they don’t deliver.

I recall reading that when Wolfgang Puck was just starting out as a chef, he apprenticed himself to cooks in the Provencal region of France. There, he learned to make, among other things, the wonderful Provencal pizzas with imaginative toppings that later (when he came to the U.S.) really established his reputation.

Provencal pizzas are thin-crust and really crispy. They don’t have a LOT of cheese – just the right balance with the tomato sauce – and they are covered generously with any number/combination of creative toppings. The menu of little restaurant at which we ate at lunch at had one entire side containing listings of different types of pizzas you could order. And one innovation I particularly like: when you get your pizza, the server always gives you a bottle of hot-pepper-infused olive oil that you can drizzle over your pizza if you want something spicy.

After we finished our lunch, which included a pizza with thinly sliced, carmelized onions, pasta with olive oil and garlic, and finished with a rich cappucino (nobody eats “light” here; get over it), we headed off in the direction of the little mountains nearby, and Le Beau.

Le Beau is a little city that dates back to the 12th century, and is still inhabited today. What is special about Le Beau is that it is entirely carved out of a mountainside. The Lords of Le Beau recognized the strategic defensability of the mountains, it seems, so in one steep mountaintop, the people carved out a little church, shops, homes, etc. Think Anasazi Indians of New Mexico/Arizona. And it stood thus for centuries.

Modern Le Beau has evolved into a little bit of a tourist trap, of course – there are little shops everywhere, selling essentially the same “stuff,” and probably mostly main in China. But the history of the place, and the feeling you get when walking into the little stone church with its stained glass windows is really amazing.

Some men were giving a demonstration of how a middle-ages catapult worked in a large plateau area nearby – of course, Len commented that he couldn’t look at the catapults without thinking about Monty Python, but the darned thing really did hurl a fair-sized ceramic ball quite a distance. I imagine attackers would’ve done some damage with those.

As we were looking around on the plateau, and taking pictures of the beautiful valley below, of olive orchards and vineyards, we endured a nearly gale-force wind coming from the south. Finally, we left to make our way back to the Chateau, and to a special meal being prepared by a chef that Conny and Hein employ to fix a dinner once a week for them and for the guests.

In Paris, there is no scrimping on flavor or richness, either, although portion size is more moderate – more realistic – than a typical American restaurant or even private home portion. Still, most restaurants and homes serve dinner in multiple courses through an entire evening – there is an entrée, which is an appetizer course – this may be a simple salad or a fine pate. Next, there is a main course – always a meat (the French are mainly confirmed carnivores) served with some potatoes and vegetables. Next comes the cheese course, which is always my favorite – usually a selection of three or more cheeses, served with a basket of crusty French bread. And sometimes, if the cheese course is not taken as the last course, a dessert, which is a very small portion, and exquisite – the finest chocolate, rich creme brulee, a fine tarte of fresh berries or apple – you get the picture – and served at last with coffee and/or liqueur.

When you are dining out, or dining in a French home, if you don’t finish your entire meal, the waiter or your host will probably ask you (with some consternation) if something is wrong! (I don’t know about other women following this blog, but in Houston, I am the queen of the doggie bag; I seldom finish an entire dinner – not here in France!)

So how in the world do the Parisians do it? Not by going to the gym; I only saw an ad for one “gymnasium  de fitness” in Paris, and if you ask a Parisian if he or she “works out,” they just look at you uncomprehendingly.

I got a clue when I came down to the French countryside of Provence, and began seeing overweight people on the streets, in restaurants … and a few were pretty obese. The diet down here is much the same as in Paris – the Provencals also dine in multiple courses, as described above (although I do not see many cheese courses on the menus). The portions are the same, and the chefs here are obviously making a point not to be outdone by their Parisian counterparts for richness or imagination.

The only difference I can discern is … the walking.

Parisians, I am guessing, easily log at least 5 miles per day just walking around the city. Not powerwalking … but brisk, purposeful walking from point A to point B and beyond. Despite a wonderful Metro system, they usually prefer to walk if the walk’s not more than 20 minutes … and it shows.

Here in the provinces, I am guessing here, the villages are small and there is no need to walk 20 minutes across town to meet friends or get to work or shop. There are no shortages of cars here, either, while Parisians may not even own a car because of the trouble to park anywhere on the crowded French streets. So, I am thinking the Provencals eat pretty much the same – drive much more – walk much less – and are experiencing some of the same problems that we in America are experiencing in terms of weight, health, lifestyle.

Although I walked every day in Paris until my legs literally ached … I am driving much more as well in Provence, and walking less … so I am scaling back on the dessert option and (alas) the cheese as well. And that is a tough one, because those of you who know me well know that I am a notoriously picky eater, having sworn off red meat some years ago, and having a livelong aversion to eggs in any identifiable form.

So, here I am, in meat-and-egg land.

The other evening, at a really fine little French cafe, I ordered the dinner that I thought consisted of a salad appetizer, then morrel mushrooms in sauce, then a mild whitefish, then a dessert.

I got a serving of pate (which Len, who was given my portion to eat, assures me was really quite wonderful, if you eat pate, which I do not); then I got the sauce on which morels were arranged all right; when I plunged my spoon into it, I also discovered a poached whole egg beneath the sauce, and I almost fainted. I managed not to pass out, carefully ate the mushrooms (because by then, damn, I was hungry), and was really grateful when the next course was, indeed, fish.

So, even though there is no such thing as “eating light” down here, I doubt I will be in much danger of gaining a lot of weight. No, I am not even overindulging in all the fabulous wines of the region … when you are driving in a foreign country in an unfamiliar car down tiny, winding roads that are dark by the time you are ready to go home … you don’t drink much.

Vive le France!

We are staying at simply the most beautiful B&B we’ve ever been, or at least one of the top 3. It is Chateau Talaud, and their Web site really doesn’t do it justice, so here are some photos that other guests have posted on TripAdvisor. The main house is quite large, divided into two areas – one for the couple who own and run the place, and the other side for guests. The Chateau is now owned by a very pleasant Dutch couple, Hein and Conny Deiters-Kommer, who have enhanced and cared for this property with much love and grace that permeates every step.They own two big Sharpei dogs – sisters – who are friendly and who prance around to greet the guests, then settle down on one of the little dog beds placed in the front yard where guests are taking the sun in one of the loungers. It is so quiet – you can only hear the trickle of water from the fountain feeding the pool, or the whoosh of the Mistral blowing through the leaves of the tall trees.

Across the little driveway that borders the main house and the guest houses, there are acres of vineyard – Hein has also created a thriving wine business. His wines have evidently won a number of awards, and he is currently marketing and exporting them to, of all places, Africa. We will be tasting some of them Wednesday night at a dinner at the main house.

[Vivian, as a sidenote: I the first morning we were here, and were having our breakfast at a sunny table on the front lawn, I asked Conny what was her favorite espresso maker. I had noted that in our apartment, she has carefully placed only the finest, from table linens to china (Villeroy & Boch) to comforters, so I knew she would have an opinion. She loves her - guess what? - Nespresso machine! She raved about it - says she has had it for 2 years, it's so clean, makes great coffee, never has had a problem with it ... I don't know ... we may yet become Pod People ...]

I really love this place – here is a picture of the apartment in which we’re staying, the Talaud. It is quiet, tastefully decorated with the finest, and every detail has had loving attention. Conny says they are booked for the next 8 months … I don’t doubt it for a minute.

The clouds were still low and gray when he woke up, but we headed out anyway, and visited L’Orangerie museum, near the Tuileries and the Louvre.

I haven’t mentioned the Tuileries or the Louvre in this blog, I guess – we went through the both during our last visit to Paris a few years ago. The Louvre was at one time the royal palace of the French kings – think Louis XIV, a.k.a. The Sun King. He loved the best of the best in life, and the beauty of the building and all the wonderful art he collected and that had since been collected inside the Louvre reflects that. I saw the Mona Lisa in the Louvre, for example, and much more.

And what can I say about the Tuileries? It was the royal garden of Louis XIV, and bien sur, it is large and filled to the brim with roses, fountains, trees, shrubberies and topiary. The French love their gardens to hold an abundance of fragrance and color, a cacophony of beauty that is envisioned, planned achieved and maintained, like a piece of fine art or sculpture. They come to this place often, to sit quietly on one of the park benches and read a book, or talk to a companion, or just to be with nature in the middle of the city. In the midst of Paris, here is this marvellous garden that reflects the French aesthetic mirrored in any Renoir, any da Vinci.

The Orangerie was also very worthwhile. It contains many Renoir, Gauguin, Van Gogh. When we walked into the first room, I caught my breath: Each of the large, white walls of the room displayed a wall-size iteration of Monet’s water lilies. You may know that Monet had a home in Giverney, in the French countryside, and there, he tried to understand the subtle nuances of light and color as it changed natural scenes on his estate from season to season, and from time of day to time of day. So, he painted a number of versions of a large bale of hay, for instance – and I saw several of these in an exhibit that went through Houston about 10 years ago. Each beautiful – pale in snow in the winter, warm and golden in late summer sunshine.

But Monet’s waterlilies really became internationally famous – placid, elegant, and sometimes mysterious. And here were four, wall-sized paintings of the lilies, surrounding and engulfing me. I have seen the lilies when the pond is a rich shade of sapphire, catching the waning rays of a July afternoon and reflecting the green branches of trees overhead in its depth. And I have seen the lilies floating in water that is more like a mirror, a silvery gray and absolutely still, as if they are floating in time, during that brief space of dawn after the darkness of night and before the full sun of day. An amazing moment.

Early Monday morning we packed up our bags, pulled them out to the Taxi queue on the street, and headed back to de Gaulle airport, where we caught a flight to Marseille in southern France. There, we picked up our rental, silver BMW (with automatic transmission!), and headed off to the next phase of our adventure – Provence.