The American and her husband had been invited to a party to celebrate the arrival of this year’s Beaujolais Nouveau, a rather uninteresting wine that is supposed to give people an idea of how the wine made in the same year will taste. It has become a reason for people to have parties and start drinking early in the morning of November 15th, when it is released.

 Unfortunately for the American, France was also having country wide strikes which involved the metros, buses and trains and getting around Paris was very difficult. It didn’t help that the party was a long distance from the apartment of the American and her husband. The cars on metro line one were so packed that the American couldn’t even scratch her nose and was unable to reach a bar to hang on to but it didn’t matter since there were so many people there was no danger of falling, much less moving. Getting off the train was very difficult as people wanting to get on were pushing, afraid they wouldn’t be able to board. Arrving at the metro stop for line 13, the American found many people waiting looking in the direction of the tunnel from which it was hoped a train would soon emerge. Thirty minutes later it still hadn’t shown up and then there was an announcement overhead that the train-the line split into two destinations-wouldn’t be going in the direction that the American needed. She went upstairs to the ticket office and asked what she could do. She was told to go to the stop right before the split and get off there and walk which was a matter of three metro stops, not too difficult except the American had been walking all over Paris the whole day and was tired and had aching feet. She was meeting her husband at the party and thought of canceling but carried on.

 The American arrived at the party with sore feet, no energy and a great need for a glass of wine. Everyone at the party was French although many could speak English. She decided, while sitting there resting her feet, while about 20 or so people milled about and talked, that she much preferred a dinner with four to six people around a table where talk was easy and the noise of a party didn’t make it difficult to understand English conversation, much less French.

The host of the American told her that a couple who lived in New York City were arriving. It turned out that, yes, they did live in NYC most of the time with three to four trips to Paris each year, but they weren’t Americans. He was from the Netherlands but had French citizenship, she was Italian but raised in West Africa and also, the American learned, a widow at a young age before she met her present husband. She told the American that she was twenty years older than her husband but she certainly didn’t look it, which the American told her. At first the American thought that they weren’t very friendly-she had sort of jumped at them like a friendly puppy when they arrived, yakking in English, babbling about how much she liked NYC-but later the American was sitting by her and heard about how they were in NYC when September 11th occurred and she said that it had changed her life forever. She no longer made long range plans, she had lost some of her dreams, she and her husband always had an emergency bag packed with extra cash if needed and plans of where to meet should they be separated if something happened and she never let her husband leave home without a kiss and telling him that she loved him. As she talked about it all, her eyes filled and a tear ran down her cheek.

 The American grazed at the table set up with ham, chacuterie, pickles, cheese and bread and drank a few glasses of wine. The host has three very handsome sons, one of which had married an American, and it was fun to talk to her. The young girl-25 years old-had made the jacket she was wearing and hoped to someday be a designer. The American thought her jacket was darling and very stylish and that the young girl was certainly in the right place to get something happening in the clothing world.

 Finally, the American found her husband and said she had to go home, that she was totally out of energy and it wasn’t even midnight yet. They walked outside into the cold air, down the blocks to the metro and finally made it home to their welcoming bed. The American thought that next year was going to be a good year, for both her and the wine sitting even now in barrels, doing their secret work, storing the taste of summer in the purple depths that would be tasted years from now with pleasure and the drinkers would hold the glass up to look at the color and say, “It was a very good year.”

I’m sure I will eventually call this post, “What we’re we thinking?” and when I told a friend what we were thinking of doing she said, “Are you sure? Why don’t you go back and read your blog about building your house in Provence or renovating your apartment?” But we are going to do it anyway–do a little more renovating of our apartment. It is very small, by American standards, and the living room is now what was a bedroom before we took out a wall and it is tiny and can barely hold a couch and coffee table so we decided to remove yet another wall, this time to our bedroom to enlarge the living room. This means that we have to move into the last remaining bedroom, once our guest bedroom and, before that, it was the original living room. There has never been a dining room here-just a space against a wall where we put our table and chairs.

 It was hard, by the way, to find someone to do this job. We finally got one man to come out and give us an estimate and it turned out that he was a Russian who, back in the USSR, was a veterinarian. What strange and unexpected changes life can give you. Maurice’s daughter was having some work done on her apartment and we finally settled on the guy who did the job for her. I suspect he isn’t French either although his French sounds like it is without an accent to me. The guys working with him all have accents that even I can hear, probably Hungarian, I think.

 Before the work can even start, we had to start moving and rearranging all sorts of things. We piled the twin beds, one on top of another against a wall in what will be our bedroom (anyone want to buy them?), moved our queen sized bed into the same room and then we were left with this huge armoir that we bought right after I moved here. Maurice was determined to move it. It must weigh a good 200 pounds. It is taller than the door way and, we found out, there is a decorative section on top with some lighting that makes the armoir wider than the door, so that had to be removed. Somehow we got the armoir on its side and, with some throw rugs underneath, were able to slide it across the hall into the bedroom and, I don’t know how, we got it upright and into place. Why one of us didn’t hurt our backs is a miracle.

 So, for the next couple of weeks we will be living on our bed in the bedroom. I have my computer and we have the TV in here and it is close quarters, I have to tell you. I know there will be dust all over the place and that my cat, always terrified of everything, will be totally traumatized. He usually goes into our only closet when guests arrive and I imagine that he will spend the next couple of weeks there. I know it will be a total pain, but it will be nice when it is all over and the dust, literally, settles.

Update:The work was supposed to start today, Thursday, but they weren’t finished with another job and didn’t arrive until 4:30 PM with some equipment to start the job tomorrow. The empty rooms are cold and echoing. We left two guys here to await the equipment while we ran to the grocery store. When we returned one of them was smoking! The nerve! My French failed me but I made a motion with my hand as if I were firing a gun at him and I think he got the hint that he won’t be able to smoke here. I’m sort of used to smoke having lived here so long but I don’t want it in my own personal apartment.

  We are back in Paris, probably until March. We arrived on probably one of the last TGV’s that will be running for a while due to all sorts of strikes that are going to start on Wednesday. Sarkosy is trying to make many changes and they aren’t very popular. So, for who knows how long, 50 out of 700 TGVs and trains will run, 1/10 of buses and metros will be available, to be followed by other sorts of strikes. This is the part I hate about France-all of those strikes that inconvenience millions of people but it just seems to be a part of life here and I guess it started with the Revolution and the passion for taking to the streets just hasn’t stopped. Sarkosy should be glad that the people aren’t setting up guillotines at Place de la Concorde.

 I’ve been reluctant to post the following, afraid I might jinx something but I think it is going to happen. “What?”, you ask. My middle son and his family, the one I just babysat for in Texas, are moving to Switzerland. It is really incredible how it all happened-sort of makes you believe in “The Secret” where you make a wish and it happens. I can’t tell you how happy it will make me to have at least part of my family actually in Europe. Maybe the rest will follow. My son had a job with a university installing the largest computer system in the world. That’s all I know about his job. Anyway, he has long been saying that he isn’t happy with the American culture and that he would love to raise his children somewhere else. His wife, without telling him, sent off his resume to a Swiss company and they need someone with his skills and he got the job! They won’t be right across the border from France, darn it, but near Italy in a city called Lugano which is in a beautiful setting with a lake and just miles from Milan. The cost of living is high there and many go across the border to buy groceries. So now they need to sell their home and move three sons and their belongings to Switzerland, probably as soon as January. I can’t wait.

 My daughter is expecting my 7th grandchild and it is yet another boy. My son, the one moving to Switzerland, and his wife are expecting what will probably be another boy. That will make, can you believe it, eight! Anyway, my daughter might have to have a c-section due to the placenta being in the wrong place but it could move as the uterus grows so I sure would appreciate good thoughts and prayer out there in the blogging world. I will be back in the States in February to babysit for my oldest son’s children and then hang around for the birth of Number 7. Life is pretty interesting right now. I’m going to venture out into Paris and see how it is trying to get around. I may end up walking alot.

 You know how you sometimes are at a grocery store and buy something you think you will use for a lunch or a dinner and then it sits, neglected and forgotten on a shelf for weeks, maybe months? That’s how it was with a box of French lentils that I bought.(at least it wasn’t a fresh vegetable moldering in the back of the refrigerator) Maurice really loves lentils and often will use canned lentils in a vinegarette for a sort of salad, especially when he is jogging or getting ready for a marathon. I finally decided that I had to make something and looked in several cookbooks for a good recipe before I found one in my trusty, now out of date, cookbook called The French Recipe Cookbook. And it turned out to be really tasty. I took a photo of the finished dish but it wasn’t very exciting, just sort of…brown. I really liked the taste of bacon in it but I’m sure you could use cooked carrots instead, should you happen to be a vegetarian, and that it would be great.

             Lentils With Bacon (Lentilles Braisees aux Lardons)

Put 2 /12 cups brown or green lentils, well rinsed and picked over ( I used 1 cup) in a large saucepan and cover with cold water. Bring to a boil over high heat and boil gently for 15 minutes. Drain and set aside.

Cook 1/2 pound bacon(I used 1/4 cup), diced in 1 tbsp olive oil and cook until crisp and transfer to a plate.

Stire1 onion, finely chopped, into the pan and cook for 2-3 minutes until just softened. Add 2 garlic cloves, finely chopped, and cook for 1 minute, then stir in 2 tomatoes, peeled, seeded and chopped( I never peel or seed), 1/2 tsp dried thyme and 1 bay leaf, salt and pepper and the lentils.

 Add about 1 cup of beef broth and cover the pan. Cook over medium low heat for 20 to 30 minutes, stirring occasionally. Uncover the pan and allow any excess luquid to evaporate. Add the reserved bacon and heat. Serve hot with a scattering of chopped parsely on top.

 Very tasty and not too much work

  I was just awarded the Thinking Blogger Award. I’m not sure if I make anyone think, in the academic way. I know many people visit here and think or dream about living in France, so that makes sense. In any case, merci beaucoup, Rosie, I appreciate it.

 Rosemary, a former neighbor of my sister, Dianne-small world-has her blog at:LIVING AS ROSA She is in the process of redoing her kitchen, bless her heart, and it is fun watching how she decorates and does those crafty things that I can only look at and marvel as I don’t have that gene. I just appreciate it.

 When it is summer and the sun doesn’t even begin to set until 10 PM or so and you can swim without goosebumps, when the sun shines and you wear sandals and shorts, well, I sort of hate to see it end. I don’t want autumn to arrive with the rapidly shortening days, lack of summer fruit and vegetables and the change of daylight savings time, but it arrives anyway. And then I remember that I love autumn. The days get cooler and the leaves start turning and I love that delicious slant of the sun, so different from summer. I missed the beginning of autumn while in the States (you don’t see much in Texas) so it was sort of a surprise to arrive in Provence and find autumn well underway.

Some red leaves on a vine covering a house in our village.

A view from up the mountain looking at the vines all dressed in gold.

Just about the only gold leaves near our house-the rest are the brown leaves you see on Oak trees.

 Our ruined chateau in the background of the yellow vines. It just makes you want to say, “Job well done!” to the vines, “You can rest now.”