Under the Harvest Moon

It is vacation time in Europe. Parisians who like many of their French and European Union counterparts take advantage of a portion of their mandated 5 weeks (minimum) paid vacation sometime between July 14th and August 20th. There is a frequently circulated cartoon about Parisians and their summer vacation habits: in panel one labeled July 15 you see crowds of Parisians shoulder to shoulder marching along the sidewalks of Paris; panel two labeled July 17, one observes same said Parisians bumper to bumper on the highways out of Paris and in panel three, labeled July 18 there on the beaches of France you see thousands of Parisians on every available square inch of sand, shoulder to shoulder, enjoying “their” vacation. Très drôle, oui?


This past weekend, we didn’t hit the beaches but we did opt to get away from the crowds of tourists and the incessant city noise, in favor of the peace and quiet of a friend’s family home outside of Lyon. The famille Barbo, little dog included, boarded the TGV (high speed train) and a little more than 2 hours later, we were on our way to the bucolic countryside.

Our friend picked us up at the train station, tossed our overnight bags in the back of his car and off we went...passing fields of corn, sunflowers, rapeseed (canola) flowers and rows upon rows of lavender. Just gorgeous.

We pulled into the driveway of his 200+ year old farmhouse and longingly gazed at the pool in the side yard. I brought two books to read for the two day respite. I scoped out the lounge chair that would soon have an extended affair with my backside! But first, we put our stuff away in the guest rooms and took Reilly for a walk outside the fenced yard in an area just yards away from acres of wheat, waiting for harvest.

As we waited for the rest of our host’s family to return from the market, Cyril opened a bottle of wine and we sat around a large stone table in the courtyard next to the house. We relished the quiet. No busses, no sirens, no hollering...just quiet. We toasted the day and settled in to catching up since our last visit in March.

I cannot tell you how quickly the tension melted from my neck, shoulders and back. I hadn’t realized that I had been “carrying” the stress of city life there. I think I actually restored an inch to my height in those moments, letting the tension go and releasing the muscles in my upper body which for months have been clenched in some sort of protective, defensive posture against city life!

As we gazed into the bright, blue sky over the Rhone valley, a small, aircraft buzzed through the sky and for a brief moment, I was transported to my Groton backyard, hearing the drone of the small craft engine as it performed aerial acrobatics over our home...it was great.

Within the hour, the rest of the family returned from a trip to town and the boulangerie. Kisses, first one cheek and then the other were offered and our hosts’ two young boys scrounged through Reilly’s bag and found her tennis balls...from that moment on, she would not stop until it was time for us to go to bed. The boys took turns chucking the ball as hard as they could and laughed as they watched our dog speed along the grass to fetch the balls.

It was a wonderfully relaxing, family time and exactly what I needed to feel whole again.
We played games and Bill taught the boys card tricks. We ate and drank great wine. We sat by the pool and I read. On Sunday, we hiked through the vineyards where Cote du Rôti is grown. We climbed up hills to a medieval castle and from our perch we gazed down upon a small cruise ship as it sailed down the Rhone. It was a beautiful day.


We returned to the house for Sunday dinner...an all afternoon affair and then retired to poolside to talk and relax. As the late afternoon evolved into early evening, we decided to hop in the car for a casual tour through the historic streets and alleys of Vienne. After seeing the ancient Roman amphitheater, temple, aqueduct and churches, we headed back to the house for some more wine and quiet conversation...Reilly and the boys were thoroughly exhausted and were ready for bed until...

we pulled into the gravel driveway at the farmhouse and there to our left was a HUGE thresher machine preparing to harvest the field of wheat next to the house.

It was about 8pm, and the sun was setting amidst some building clouds. The farmer who leased the land feared that rain was on the way and would (pardon the pun) dampen his chances of getting the wheat harvested if he put it off until Monday morning. Needless to say, upon seeing the pick up trucks and thresher in fields, the boys got their second wind. They bounced from one fence to another, watching as the $250,000 piece of equipment set off to work. Cyril went over to talk to the farmer who was overseeing the project and a dream come true was about to be born. Being the third harvest at which they resided in the house, it was the first time the boys had actually witnessed the process. Last year, again with the threat of rain, the harvest actually took place in the middle of the night, ending as the boys awoke...so to be able to see this was quite exciting.

As the sun set, a full harvest moon arose over the fields...and a negotiation was in the works. After a few strategic passes to assess the grain and layout a harvest grid, the thresher returned to the driveway side of the old farmhouse. Papa had arranged for his boys to ride in the thresher until the grain hold was full and together with the driver, the boys would be able to dump their cargo into awaiting containers, which would be hauled away by big trucks the next morning. If gravity can be defied, it was at that moment, when the driver opened the cab door and the boys, as if lifted by enthusiasm alone, flew into the cab. Waving furiously at us, they plunked down for the ride of their lives. For the 15 minutes or so they were in the cab, they asked questions about farming et al, non-stop. The driver was most impressed with the boys and after their stint in the thresher, told them he looked forward to seeing them again next year...and once again gravity was defied as the little boys walked on a cloud of delirium over to us. Cyril reached up to thank the driver, shaking his hand and before we knew it, he too was climbing into the cab for a turn in the behemoth machine. I ran into the farmhouse to fetch his wife, informing her that her “third child” was getting a ride too...she shook her head and laughed as we went out to wait and watch over the boys was they waited and watched for Papa.

Full Moon Rising

By now, the thresher had turned on its giant headlights and the full moon hung low in the sky, peeking out from the encroaching clouds. Cyril returned, as excited as the 6 and 9 year olds he had left behind for a short while. Together and I mean all at once, they told us about their observations and feelings...but their smiles told the story better than any words could.



As the boys prepared for bed, they each had decided what they would be when they grew up...one a farmer who would harvest the wheat (earlier her said her wanted to be a pizza maker) and the other still wanted to be a great baker, but now, the grain would come from his brother’s own harvests.

We all slept like logs that night. The boys dreaming of big machines and wide open spaces... I dreamt of the train ride back to the city and losing my doggie along the way...ugh.

Monday morning, we’re back in Paris...all of us...safe and sound and set to pick up the pace once again.

I Took Them For Granted

I have been in Paris for over 7 and 1/2 months now.  I have slipped into a new routine and found some adventures around corners hither and yon.

But, the other day it was so hot, there was no such thing as routine and forget hither and yonning.  I just sat with the fan blowing on me...reading a book and finding my mind wandering to the little things we left back in the US...comfort things...practical things and well, things.  On days like these, we lament leaving the central air conditioning of not only our home, but of all the other civilized places one finds oneself on a hot day...we miss our lovely garden and pool and even driving in an air conditioned car...here we hoof it because riding the Metro on a hot day is just too much for one nose to take.

High on my 'Missed' list is crushed ice.  Lemonade, diet cola and a really good shaken cocktail need crushed ice.  We have an ice cube tray.  It is 3 inches by 4 inches and makes 12 of the cutest, tiniest cubes...which melt almost instantly.  No crunching of ice...I know it is bad for your teeth, but crunching ice can be oh so satisfying on a really hot day.   My fridge back home has an automatice ice maker...more than enough ice for the perfect martini; chilled vodka, chilled shaker, chilled glass...aah.

Of the foodstuffs I miss, you will find bagels, corn on the cob, baked potatoes, a juicy New Jersey peach, granola, oatmeal and Christy's Greek salad dressing on the short list.  Oh yeah and prepared broths and stocks...I have returned to making my own...not hard, just not always as convenient as popping open a carton of Wolfgang Puck's low sodium chicken stock.  And now that it is summer, I miss Maine lobster...oh and ice cream from Kimball's and Johnson's.  Amorino Gelato is an excellent substitute however.  They are masters of design at Amorino, making each cone or cup look like a beautiful flower, bursting with color...and yummy too.

I miss the GPL...I am going through books at a pretty good clip now...not unusual as it is summertime...but I am buying most of my books at English book stores.  I have not tried to resell them at the one of a gazillion second hand bookstores in the area...still working up the courage to part with my books.  But I love libraries...the books, the space, the time, the freedom, the quiet companionship.  Public libraries are a great resource for so many things and probably one of the greatest human institutions ever conceived! There are libraries here too...the big American library and of course the free French libraries, but the former is extremely busy and not terribly conveninet and the latter lacks books in English...I have some books written in French and I muddle through them but summertime requires quick reads and Jules Verne's Paris au XXe Seicle...is going to take me a while.

Who would have thought Soft Scrub, baking soda and a gallon of white vinegar would be missed?  But they were staple household cleaners.  Soft Scrub is no where to be found and Arm and Hammer type baking soda can only be found in a few specialty stores.  I can get Bicarbonate of Soda here, but the texture is different and it doesn't seem to clean the same.  Large quantities of white vinegar, or anything for that matter are a real oddity and luxury here.  First of all, storage space is at a premium, so big bottles, cartons, boxes don't make sense in the city...and if you have to run out to the store every other day to buy milk, cream and vinegar to clean the hard water build up on your appliances and bathroom...you spend more.  I guess that is one way to keep the economy moving.  But please note that I am paying the same for a liter of milk as I would for a half gallon at home. $$$$

Speaking of bigger, I miss my appliances at home.  I wrote earlier about my crazy French washer/dryer and how it takes days to do laundry here...but how about vacuuming?  My central vacuum cleaner, affectionately known as Rod was so convenient and efficient.  The little Hoover canister vac I have here sucks...and not in a good way.  I have to empty the little canister after cleaning two rooms and the filters need to be washed and dryed after every 5 rooms...and you can only vacuum one room at a time as you must let the little engine that almost could cool down.  I don't expect that Hoover will last the year.  I may try a Dyson next.

Then there are the comforts of my home...my things.  I would say about 90% of the stuff in our furnished flat isn't mine.  We have our clothes, books, office/computer things and a few knick-knacks we brought from home.  We have made a few key purchases here as well...an espresso machine, a hand held mixer, chopper, food processor gadget, a lovely crystal pitcher and a new copper pot for my infusions.  But I left the majority of my cookware, utensils, good knives and beaucoup des cookbooks in my recently renovated gourmet kitchen...I miss that six burner range and my three ovens!!   I miss my specialty wine glasses...I just started collecting them as my love and understanding of wine developed...the type of glass really does matter.  My husband misses glasses that hold more than 6 ounces.  As I alluded to earlier...sizes are different here.  One buys beverages by the cl, ml and liter.  A bottle of beer holds 25 or 33 cl...same with a bottle of Coke...and that is about 8 ounces or  2/3 or 1/2  of what we are used to at home. 

Of the other things I miss, here are a few...the sound of "American" sirens although not a favorite sound... the haw-hee, haw-hee nerve shattering, all day long pealing of French sirens is merciless and annoying.  I miss Splenda.  Italian subs.  Driving.  Mowing the lawn.  Gardening.  Cooking on the gas grill.  Birdwatching. Sitting on the grass.  Talking to friends on the phone.  Jack Williams and the 6pm news.  I really, really miss the Red Sox. Local politics and lively discussion about said politics.  I miss our cat, Gracie.  I worry she will forget me.

I miss being able to just do stuff...here everything requires a plan and preparation.  How do you get there?  What will we say?  What happens if we or they don't understand?  How do we get it back to the apartment?  Do they have it? What is the procedure....and so on. It is funny...odd funny...none of us (Emily is here for the summer), like to do anything alone.  From walking the dog to going over to the Boulangerie to buy bread...we always ask each other...do you wanna come along?  I guess we still feel there is safety in numbers.  I miss just hopping in the car and hitting the Pheasant Lane Mall...better still...going on the internet to order stuff...it was all so easy at home.  Here not so much...language barriers, taxes, special delivery instructions...ugh.


Aside from all my dear friends and family, I think I miss my deck most of all.  I miss turning on the outdoor sound system, listening to some classical music or jazz and plunking down in my outdoor living room snuggling into my favorite rocking chair...alone, with the day's copy of the Boston Globe, a copy of Wine Spectator or tbe Dean and Deluca catalogue, a tall glass of iced tea and nobody but the dog and the birds of the backyard to keep me company.  There is a difference in being alone and being lonely.  I was never lonely in the backyard. 

And last but not least, I miss who I was planning on becoming...I think she will show up...a little later than expected and perhaps with a new flair, air or savoir faire but I miss all the things at home that steered me in a purpose driven way.  Now sans GPS, my tools, resources and stuff that I spent years acquiring so I could BE me...I have to sweat it out and do without...not a bad thing, just different...we'll see. 

Old Glory

In our apartment, I spend time every day in a small alcove off the living room .  We call this area the Bubble...as it is rounded and bubbles out of the apartment's boundaries and perches out over a terrace and the the rue Sommerad below.  From this spot I write...my blog, recipes, posts on Facebook wall and letters to loved ones.

It is from this vantage point that I look down the street to the Best Western La Tour Notre Dame and watch two American Flags, yet wave, to me, connecting me to the land of the free and the home of the brave.  It is hard to put into words the connection, the feelings I have when I look at those flags, but it is important that I see them.

A couple of days ago, I was putting the finishing touches on a blog and I glanced  down the street.  The wind was blowing a slightly more than gentle breeze and the US flags, along with their French and EU partners danced.  But something wasn't right.  I stopped writing and I stared at the flags.  One of the US flags was obscured by a French flag.  Its orientation was wrong.  At first I thought the flag must have been tangled on its angled pole.  I then realized that the flag was hanging incorrectly.  The field of blue with white stars was on the bottom left corner of the flag.  I looked and looked to see if my eyes were playing tricks on me.  I hoped a good gust of wind would fix the optical illusion.  No wind would fix this.  The flag had been hung upside down.  Being a military brat, I panicked a little.  A US flag hung upside down is a sign of distress.  And if not a call for help, then it can also be a message of disrespect.  I told Bill about it and he thought like me that the flag must be caught up on itself and we could check it out after dinner when we walked the dog. 
Well one thing led to another and the wind brought in the rain and we never made it over to the hotel that evening.  But all night long it bothered me.  Was there a problem at the hotel?  Was somebody intentionally disrespecting my flag and country.  In my head, I practiced how to say in French that the US flag was hanging incorrectly and ask that it please be fixed.  I was also stealing my nerve to go confront French people about my Patriotic angst.  I kept asking myself, "Why is this bothering you so much...why are you worried...what are you prepared to do?"

The next morning, the very first thing I did was to check to see if the flag had been properly display.  It had not.  I pointed this out to Bill and after fetching Emily at the airport and depositing her at home, we walked over to the hotel to ask why our flag was being displayed this way.

As stated before, this is a Best Western Hotel...and American franchise, owned and operated by someone here in Paris...but connected enough to the US to display American flags.   Of course they would be interested in knowing that one of the flags was hanging incorrectly, right...I kept talking to myself, assuring myself and practicing what I would say if the staff did not speak English. 

As we approached the main doors, we both looked up and confirmed that indeed Old Glory was still upside down.  We entered and there were three staff members watching us and looking at us in a bemused way.  I inquired, "Parlez-vous Anglais?" to which the young woman behind the reception desk said yes.  Okay.  I proceeded to ask if they knew if and why the US flag was improperly displayed.  She responded that she did not know why, but for a couple of days now, Americans had reported the situation to the hotel and the maintenance man had been informed but had not fixed it. I politely asked that she please ask that the flag be properly and respectfully displayed.  She smiled and said they would let maintenance know.  I thanked her and started to walk away.  But something, or more likely someone in the guise of my dad, the retired Coast Guard Captain, sitting on my shoulder, made me turn back and tell the staff members there assembled that the US flag as displayed was a warning signal...it indicates that there is distress or something is wrong at the hotel.  At least this is what I thought I said.  Bill told me later that he heard me say there is something wrong WITH the hotel.  I don't think I said that but maybe that is what people heard.

I watched and waited all day for the flag to be fixed.  Nothing doing.  At 10pm, I found a Best Western customer service e-mail address and sent of a quick note detailing my concern and the mini-adventure above.  I went to bed wondering if I should contact the US Embassy! 

The good news is that when I checked first thing this morning, the Star Spangled Banner was flying correctly.  I was happy again.  I don't know why it happened but I can let that go.

We are blessed to live in a country that proudly shows its colors.  White signifies purity and innocence; red, valor and hardiness and blue, vigilance, perserverance and justice.  For me, it is not just a flag, not just a symbol.  To me, our flag is home.

"A thoughtful mind when it sees a nation's flag, sees not the flag, but the nation itself. And whatever may be its symbols, its insignia, he reads chiefly in the flag, the government, the principles, the truths, the history that belongs to the nation that sets it forth. The American flag has been a symbol of Liberty and men rejoiced in it.


"The stars upon it were like the bright morning stars of God, and the stripes upon it were beams of morning light. As at early dawn the stars shine forth even while it grows light, and then as the sun advances that light breaks into banks and streaming lines of color, the glowing red and intense white striving together, and ribbing the horizon with bars effulgent, so, on the American flag, stars and beams of many-colored light shine out together . . . ."   Henry Ward Beecher


"There is no place like home."  Dorothy

I love our flag.

A Variation on Musical Chairs

I love music.


I miss my Bose radio/cd player and am on a mission to find a suitable replacement for the flat. But until my mission is accomplished, I am happy to say that Paris provides daily doses of music. From the lovely soprano who serenades diners at Aux Trois Mailletz to the Sunday concerts at Luxembourg, Paris resonates with les chansons d’amour.

Musicians perform in the Metro, on street corners and in plazas all over the city. There is the teenager who leans against the wall of the lycée (in which he should be seated) on Blvd St. Michel, playing an accordion for tips...he only knows one song, The Anniversary Waltz, but he plays it with gusto. My “friend” from NYC, plays selections from Handel’s Water Music and The Godfather on the steel drums on the bridges near Notre Dame. There are roving bands that pop up all over the place, like the brass and drum ensemble of a dozen 20-somethings who play everything from Louis Armstrong and Edith Piaf to Zydeco! I saw them over by the Louvre one day and in front of the Luxembourg the next! One of my favorites are the guys who wheel a piano out of their apartment to a bridge over on Ile de St. Louis, and with a bass, saxophone and sometimes drums, play so many golden oldie jazz favorites. Bill and I snag chairs at one of the cafes near the bridge, sip something cool while listening to something smooth.

The city is alive with the sound of music...ah...ah...ah...ah...

Recently, I have been so immersed in music that I was close to auditory overload...but I survived! My daughter Emily and I were pleasantly surprised and then a bit overwhelmed on the eve of the summer solstice when, as we strode outside for Reilly’s evening walk, only to find every street corner, restaurant and any open space available was occupied by musical ensembles. There were school kids with their electric guitars and drum sets banging out the latest Justin Bieber teeny-bopper be bop, hard core rock bands making LOUD music to hordes of head banging Gen Y/Gen Me/Gen Why Me-ers and we listened to soloists singing operatic arias, hushing the spectators, enticing them to listen to the delicate yet complex compostions. We came upon an Indonesian group playing La Vie En Rose, on bamboo thumb instruments...kind of like a hand held harp or xylophone, music made by striking a various sized tines sticking out of bamboo tubes...très cool. We were joined by hundreds of thousands of people moving from one street performance to another...our normally 45 minute routine with Reilly stretched to nearly 2 hours...I brought the dog in and Emily came in to change her clothes and head back out into the musical melee. I was a bit nervous for her, but, with the assurance that she had her cell phone and a promise she would stay out in the main street areas, Emily dove in! She lasted about another hour and then came in to join me in my boudoir perch above the Café...we had a dueling band concert right outside our window which lasted until 2am! Hopefully Bill will be back in Paris for next year’s fete du musique on the eve of the summer solstice!

A little over a week ago, Emily, my HS friend Alison, who now resides in Bretagne, and I went to see Les Miserables, Victor Hugo’s story of France, politics, love and redemption. The Andrew Lloyd Webber musical was presented in English (whew for me and Em) and with French subtitles on large screens around the stage for our fellow French theater goers. The performance was wonderful. It was here that we first noticed the French version of musical chairs.

We arrived at the theater Chatelet about 30 minutes before the scheduled start of the musical. Having not attended the theater in Paris before, we wanted to give ourselves plenty of time to stand in line and or find our seats. Visitors’ tip...many of the tourist attractions in Paris have on-line ticket purchasing. You may pay a bit more for the ticket, but not having to stand in line for a long time is worth the small investment. We had purchased our seats on-line and were able to jump the queue and go right on in to find our seats. Our ticket price would have been the same for the show if we waited in line for the box office, so we really lucked out. Back to musical chairs, part un.

We found our seats and admired the old theater. It reminded us of the Colonial Theater in Boston. We chatted for a while and Alison spotted a young man from her town a few rows away from us. This fall, he is going to be performing in the same production of Les Mis as her son and daughter...so off she went to say hello. About 5 minutes before the start of the play, a loud bell rang. Emily and I thought it was either a fire alarm or someone was stuck in an elevator. The patrons seated around us didn’t seem alarmed and the ushers kept ushering people to their seats. We did notice that small groups of people entered the balcony where we were seated and milled about the doors and around empty seats. We saw a few sit in an empty seat and the pop over a seat or two to another empty chair...curious. Alison returned and explained that the bell served as a notice that the play would start in 5 minutes...why the darned thing had to ring for the entire 5 minutes is beyond me...give me the gentle flicker of lights in our Boston theaters, any day.

An elderly couple arrived during the cacophony and sat two rows back from the hand carved balcony rail...atop which was a thin iron safety rail that sadly fell right in the line of sight of the old folks. Scooching up and down wasn’t going to cut it, so the old woman hopped out of her seat and took an empty seat in the first row. As the lights started to dim, a young woman was escorted to the front row by the usher and the old bird got bumped back to her seat. And the milling crowds, strategically scoping out open seats pounced on any available vacancies. No one bothered to check tickets...and well into the first ten minutes of the play, people were still shifting about the balcony and even on the floor below.



After a long first act...almost 90 minutes, it was time for intermission. People got up to stretch legs and get some refreshments. Because of the length of the acts, intermission was shortened and round two of musical chairs began. The people who were seated next to us returned with an extra person. The couple in front of us had empty seats on either side of them during the first act. When a couple of would-be seat usurpers asked them if they would mind moving down so they could take two seats together, the young woman told the encroaching gentleman that the seats were taken. Interesting tactic! Off to our right, a group of 6-8 students/tourists/budding actors filled in a whole section of now vacant seats. I can only assume that the previous occupants upgraded their seats in the seat swapping shuffle. The annoying bell rang for only 4 minutes this time...the scramble settled down as the lights lowered and the second act opened. After an engaging performance, the audience rose to their feet and offered a standing ovation. And then it was over. A lovely musical experience and bit of cultural quirkiness and then the exit...I am accustomed to people allowing the rows in front of them exit first and then you follow, safely, orderly, and politely. Well, as Emily and I were seated at the end of the third row from the front of the balcony, we politely waited for the folks below to exit, but the people next to us were having none of that...the man next to me started pushing us out into the aisle. I turned to look at him and ask him to wait ...remember the elderly couple with the safety rail obscured sightline?...they were on their way by us...but Mr. “I have to rush into the crush of humanity on the stairs only to stop right outside the exit in order to light up my cigarette” kept pushing. I held my ground, so he climbed over the seat. By the time his fait acompli was complete, Emily and I exited the row, followed by his seat mates and we made him wait. I could barely contain my snarky grin.

Musical Chairs, part deux: Summer is the season of the open air concerts in Paris. We are in the midst of the Paris Jazz festival, the Celebration of Latin America and the Caribbean, as well as the 200th anniversary of Chopin’s birth. Each weekend, several ensembles and soloists descend upon le Jardin du Luxembourg and from a large gazebo, enthrall hundreds of concert goers with superb musical interpretations. We have had the pleasure of listening to high school and collegiate bands, professional musicians and the occasional Next Nouvelle Star (French version of American Idol) wannabe...all gratis by the way. Here’s where we got to play in the next round of Paris Musical Chairs. A couple of Sundays ago, we decided to make a day of it up at Luxembourg. We packed up a few provisions and a towel for Reilly and headed up the street for a quiet afternoon of catching up on the English-language newspapers Bill brought back from recent travels and to finish up a book I was reading. We walked to the part of the gardens where dogs are allowed and looked for a premium spot to listen to the concert later in the day and maximize the shade for the afternoon, as it was too hot to sit in the sun. We found a lovely shade tree and Bill set off to find a couple of the famous Luxembourg chairs. Many of the large parks and gardens in Paris provide heavy metal lawn chairs for people to use whilst in the environs. There are straight back side chairs, arm chairs and the much prized slant backed lounge style...all painted a pale green and as heavy as the dickens and stamped with “Senat”for the Luxembourg chairs, Tulleries for the Tulleries chairs and JdP for Jardin du Plantes..the rightful locations for said chairs. I doubt it would be easy to steal one of these heavy things, but if found outside the garden, they could readily be returned. I suppose you would have some explaining to do if you knicked one of them. They are a precious resource in places where picnic tables are non-existent and benches are usually covered in pigeon poop.

So Reilly and I guarded our spot while Bill sought out 2 chairs. We observed that many a lone person had two chairs...one upon which to sit, another used as a footstool or side table. This type of hoarding of chairs is only tolerated for so long. We watched one woman sleep in her makeshift lounge for nearly 3 hours. The moment she awoke, someone came over to her and asked her for the chair being used as a footstool. She begrudgingly agreed, and remained in her chair for a long time after. Speaking of a long time, Bill made it back with two chairs and we settled in, ready to read and people watch. We developed a little game...Will the seat of this chair get cold? We counted the seconds from the time someone vacated a chair to the time the next person snagged it...the longest time was for 2 chairs not far from us...9 seconds...the shortest, 3 seconds!


As the afternoon wore on and the time for the concert grew near, Musical Chairs ramped up in intensity. People marched all over the gardens in search of chairs and carried the heavy prizes, sometimes dragging them, raising a gritty dusty cloud, toward the gazebo not 50 yards from where we sat, calm, cool and collected in the shade of our chestnut tree. At this point too, the tolerance level for one person using two chairs was nil and saving a chair was a big no-no. We witnessed a woman sitting with her children get up to chase an errant child only to return to her spot sans chaise...someone walked over and snatched it away while she was on her child hunt.

Reilly had her towel on the ground...dogs are not allowed on the grass...and people are restricted to a special grassy area, far from the gazebo. Seeing Reilly spread out on her little oasis amidst the grit, dust and detritus seemed puzzling and amusing to most passers-by...many an odd expression or comment were directed our way. But, more often than not, people smiled at the spoiled little tail-wagger and many a person stopped to scratch her behind the ears. A couple of children made their way over during the course of the day too, stealing a corner of the towel and patting the snoozing starlet.

At 5pm, the Chopin piano concert began. It was extraordinary. Much like the musical chairs at Les Mis, for the first 10 minutes or so of the concert, people moved chairs about to get a better view. If a chair closer to the piano opened up, there would be a quick darting of people to sit there. Only one would be victorious and such monkey-business would only be allowed for a short while. Free concert or not, this was a concert and etiquette must be observed. We witnessed two young women snipe a couple of chairs on the periphery of the concert area and one proceeded to make a phone call on her cell. The music grew louder and so did her voice and quite quickly, she was shushed by the folks around her. Her friend thought this was laughable...and laughed loudly at her friend...only to be quieted into submission herself, not by shushing, but by a multitude of angry French glares. It was most effective. The girls were met by some boys and they left the concert quietly. 3 seconds and the seats were filled.

After an hour of wonderful piano music, the concert ended and people applauded. Then they got up and walked away from the once precious chairs...precious enough to drag from one end of the garden to the gazebo...but not a soul returned the chairs to whence they had come. In the rhythm of this game of musical chairs, people would come from other parts of the park and drag a chair or two to a spot in the waning sunlight or to join a group ready to discuss a book or hot topic...the music stopped, but the chairs keep on moving.