Monday, December 27, 2010
I wonder where we'll be when the next one gets loose?
These photos are the ones that I will treasure when I'm older, when my kids are grown up and my own Daddy may be too frail to still be shooting bull's-eyes with incredible accuracy. When I look at them, even right now, my heart feels all warm and fuzzy. And I'm a Democrat from a blue state, so that's saying something big.
This is my youngest daughter, with her Grandpa, shooting a rifle for the first time. She is so small, she had to stand up on a wooden box to reach. (Like I said to my sister, "Only in Texas do they offer a booster for shooting...")
My dad, who wasn't born a Texan "but got here as soon as I could," gave the girls a safety lesson before we left the house -- he said they wouldn't focus as well on the range, and he wanted to be clear about what was expected from them so that everyone had a safe, fun time. Not only did the girls keep their attenuators (the headphones that muffle high-pitched sounds) on, they didn't fuss about the yellow goggles we had to wear. And they started to realize that shooting guns isn't just about mean people or gangland drive-bys, but can also be a sport of skill and accuracy.
But best of all, they were AWESOME. Emme shot 12 of 20 targets, still clicking the trigger with her finger after she'd run out of bullets. On the first try. Nina shot her first bullet about 1/2" off the bull's-eye. Marlowe stepped up onto her booster like a pro and listened to her Grandpa and gave it her best try. The accuracy will come, but the courage to try something new is in her heart. On the video I took, you can hear my dad turn to me and say, "You'd'a never done that at her age."
And that's who I still am. My dad loaded up a Civil War rifle for me, first adding the gun powder, then a piece of pillow ticking, then a huge 50 cal. bullet, then some real black powder onto the striking plate, which a piece of flint rock would strike to start the fire that would roar through the barrel to fire up the powder and send the bullet toward the target. (Can you believe that we fought a war in which all of these things would have to take place before a gun could be fired? No wonder so many died in the Civil War.) There are two triggers: the first sort of takes the "safety" off and the second is the "real" one. There's smoke and there's a loud boom. When my dad did it, he turned to me and said, "You next?"
I said yeah, but when I stood there with this machine in my hands, I got really nervous and ended up letting my sister have a go at it. See what I mean? My girls have Texas in their blood. Guts and glory. Mama's so proud.
Friday, December 24, 2010
I am only including these two photos of me and KP, even though there are many, many more from our capers around the hotel and casino, mall and environs. We had a scavenger hunt, for goodness' sake, and our list of things to do was extensive; a sampling:
* introduce yourself to a stranger
* take a picture with a statue (this was accomplished several times - extra credit)
* compliment a stranger on his/her hair
* take a picture with Elvis (statues, impersonators and velvet portraits all OK)
We also had the brilliant idea to make 3 "days" out of 2, by separating our days into shifts (9 am - 6 pm for shopping, gambling and spa, 9 pm - 3 am for dinner, fun and gambling, then sleep, then more fun in the morning). Hey, if you're a mom and you only have a few days in Vegas, you're gonna make the most of what you've got, right?
(Disclaimer: I talk big, but let me tell you that KP and I had the Brambleberry Fizz drinks -- in our hands in the pix to the left -- and we didn't drink any more after that.... we were both brambled and fizzed.... Some girls can't handle Vegas, I suppose!)
My parents live about an hour and a half east of Dallas, so it would be easy enough to fly from LA to Dallas, then drive a little to get to their place by dinnertime. But, and maybe it's the residual memories of the "Dallas" soap opera ("Who shot J.R.??") or the historic proximity to the grassy knoll where JFK inhaled his final breaths, I have a soft spot for the denim-n-diamonds city of Dallas. Our favorite hotel is the Fairmont, where the five of us can fit comfortably into a corner suite and decompress from a travel day before heading to Grandma and Grandpa's house.
What is it about this ritual that I love so much? Many years ago, I read a photojournalistic book called "the journey is the destination," and the phrase stuck with me. I mean, are any of us really going anywhere? Or are we firmly stuck in the "here" and the "now," which is all that we really have control over? In which case, we don't know if we will ever really reach "the destination," so we may as well relax and enjoy where we are, even if we are en route to a fabulous or far-flung or family place.
And so it is that Dallas has become my Texas "rest stop." All the "work" has been done - for this trip, it means that the gifts have been wrapped and shipped from home and the kids' school is out, there is no work for Raf, no dishes or meals or laundry - and we can breathe and be together, watch a "still in theaters" movie on the hotel TV while snuggled up in the big fluffy bed, order room service that arrives with a side of the Southern charm and hospitality that we've come to know with the Fairmont staff. The kids take long baths and emerge, sparkly clean and fresh smelling, in white robes. We love it so much that we rarely ever even leave the hotel room.
When we do leave, the streets remind me that we aren't in California anymore. Shoe shine stands, BBQ joints with smoke curling up from the roof, the flagship Neiman Marcus department store, men strolling in cowboy hats and boots, lots of dusty pick-up trucks... as well as Starbucks and glitzy stores and well-turned-out ladies. I wonder, sometimes, what it's like to live there, but that thought defeats the purpose.
Be here now. How can I enjoy it as much as possible before moving on? With a healthy dollop of spicy Texas BBQ sauce and a nod from the brim of my hat, that's how.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Surprisingly, the last flight of the entire trip was the worst. We arrived at the Charles de Gaulle Airport with three hours to spare, planning to use the time for souvenir-shopping and breakfast. Instead, we waited for a half-hour in a line under a sign for our flight... which turned out to be the wrong line. 45 minutes later, I'd checked us in via the e-ticket kiosk, but we were stuck in a massive line for baggage check-in. We were shuffling behind a couple of men with B.O. so bad that I actually put my scarf around my face (oh, and one of them was quite fond of pointing, which spread the scent around). There were only 2 people working at the Air France counters because it was lunch time.... Hmmm.... 2 people for more than 500 travelers. It didn't make any sense. Not only that, but once we raced through the three security checkpoints, we had only 10 minutes before our flight, and had to settle for a slice of quiche, potato chips and some cookies on the way to the gate (no souvenir shopping, unfortunately, but we did manage to spend our last 20 euros easily on the snacks). One more 20 minute wait to get onto the plane (and another security check), and then we were stuck on the plane for an hour and a half while the REST of the passengers (who were held up in one of the crazy lines in the airport) and their luggage got on board. Insanity.
But once we got flying, it was fine. Air France had a bunch of great on-demand movies, so I saw four (and my kids and husband got to watch their own). All of us slept at least a little bit. And the flight arrived only about an hour late. We didn't have anyone waiting for us, so we could just take our time and find a taxi home. The girls fell asleep minutes after we got into the taxi and I realized that we were in the middle of our own "groundhog's day" -- we'd left France around 2:30 pm and had arrived in Los Angeles around 5 pm... So there had been no night while we'd flown "back in time." Very disorienting.
So now we're home. Raf is sick with a cold and the kids are already begging for me to do stuff with them, I'm doing a ton of laundry and have to restock our fridge and pantry, but we're doing well. I will continue to digest our trip and may post a little more as I go through pictures, but we are home sweet home in the land of ice, half-and-half and breakfasts that feature more protein than carbs. Viva Los Angeles!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Monday, July 26, 2010
Although I've been to Paris before, the Louvre was closed; the famous welcome pavilion, topped by glass pyramids, was being built and the foundation of the castle's medieval moat was being excavated. So though I'd seen countless Leonardo da Vinci works throughout my travels in Italy and in an amazing exhibit the last time I was at the Uffizi in Florence, I'd never seen the Mona Lisa for myself, up close and personal.
Leontine made our tour like a little treasure hunt, giving us insight into the kings who had lived at the Louvre before it was a museum as well as the history behind the art and the politics of the paintings and sculptures. For instance, Napoleon had the pope painted into his big coronation scene, even though the pope did not consent to actually crowning Napoleon as "emporer" (a self-imposed title by the tiny ruler); in another painting, Napoleon had the artist show him touching ill soldiers in Israel, though the truth is that he scorned the afflicted. All of it was propaganda. I especially liked the realization that none of this is "truth" -- I mean, was Jesus really crowned by a gold halo of light, and was each artist really there at the Last Supper? In one painting, the largest one in the Louvre (I think; after a while, it's very easy to get museum vertigo), Jesus sits at the head of the table at a Venetian wedding party. Naturally, he's in the garb of rich Italians from the era, and there are dogs on the table, a monkey on someone's arm, wine flowing (turned from water into wine by Jesus himself) and portraits of several monks from the monastery that commissioned the painting. I suppose it's not unlike Angelyne in Los Angeles having herself painted as young and beautiful on billboards...
Anyway, the mob around the Mona Lisa was rabid, very much like paparazzi. Flashes going off in all directions. I knew the picture wouldn't be incredibly good, whatever angle I took it from, so I chose instead to have my kids in it, to show them later on that they had been there. I can always buy a Mona Lisa postcard - even from our own LA County Art Museum, right?
And I'll say something snotty about the Greek and Roman statues, too... I've seen "better" in Naples and in Florence. The sculptures were gorgeous, of course. I'm a huge fan of the big M (Michelangelo), and I spent a long, long time at L'Accademia in Florence (and all around the city) just admiring the way in which his sculptures capture the way that blood flows through his subjects' bodies. They feel alive, vivrant, and I always expect them to just walk right off the marble slab and stand among us. The ones at the Louvre are no less spectacular -- and there was also a beautiful room at Versailles celebrating goddess statuary that I liked very much -- but when you've walked alone in a room stacked full of these statues (as I did at the Archeological Museum in Naples, Italy), you sort of expect the same thing. But that's not the French style. Instead, the sculptures are curated, given a wide berth to show off their significance. And I suppose that's the best way to truly appreciate their majesty in such a large museum that receives 7 million visitors a year; I guess I was spoiled by being able to truly experience Roman sculptures in a personal way.
The Venus de Milo -- what I was able to see of it from our vantage point at the edge of a Chinese tour group -- was remarkable in that it is an actual Greek statue, not a Roman reproduction of a Greek statue. It's beautiful, and its beauty is derived from its humble discovery by a Greek farmer in a field, as well as the fact that it has not been "restored" and is in the same condition (which is excellent) as when it was found over a century ago. There is another amazing statue, "Winged Victory," that I loved because the marble was sculpted to look like a sheer gauze rippling across Nike's body in the wind. I can't imagine how stone can be worked to look like movement or softness, but that's part of its mystery.
We didn't stick around after our three-hour tour. The kids were done, and Raf and I were dying for a break from art, too. I keep telling myself that it was for the kids' sakes that we had to leave and take a break, but the truth is that the Louvre is too much museum for a single day or a single visit. There's a lot to digest, so much to discover. Leontine said that it could take three years to see everything and I totally get it. Next time, I'll see a little more.
See? I have to come back.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
However, yesterday we rode through Versailles on rented bikes, creating our own version of the Tour and, inadvertently, a highlight of the trip.
I'd planned which day we'd visit Versailles from the moment we chose our dates for the trip. It's a short Metro/bus hop to Les Invalides, then a train switch to an RER train, then about a half-hour to Versailles, then a 10-minute walk to the palace, then long lines, long waits, and several places where you need to buy tickets to enter/pass through various areas (the gardens, Marie Antoinette's Petit Trianon estate, etc.). Needless to say, by the time we arrived at a spot where we could sit in the garden and eat lunch (bread-and-butter sandwiches, sliced meat, cheese, fruit and Oreos), the kids were wiped out and we hadn't even gone into the Chateau yet. The only thing they wanted to do was get ice cream and ride bikes. And so we found the bike rentals and took off.
I had hoped to see the palace and grounds in the same pink-hued softly punk-rock light as I'd admired in the Sofia Coppola movie Marie Antoinette. Now, I've lived in Los Angeles long enough to know that what you see in movies is not necessarily the truth and, in that respect, I wasn't disappointed by the lack of magic in and around Versailles. It's almost like I wanted to go home and watch the movie instead, preserving the sumptuousness of the era in my imagination rather than shuffling along with other rabid tourists toting cameras and speaking loudly in many foreign tongues. When I made our family lock up the bikes and go into Petit Trianon, it was like a hot maze of people wandering through empty rooms with blank walls... not at all the grand experience I'd hoped for. My imagination was at a loss to fill in the blanks, save for what I could remember from Sofia Coppola's movie. Very quickly, I realized that the "magic" would be in the experience, not in the place or the stuff.
And so we bought an orange juice (there are kiosks all around the grounds where they'll cut and squeeze fresh juice for you, memorializing the Sun King Louis the 14th, who built Versaille and even had an Orangerie where he had exotic orange trees grow even through the harshly cold French winters) and took off on our bikes. It was exhilarating to ride around the grounds unencumbered by people or signs or cars... We saw sheep and horses and goats. We got a firsthand feeling for how large the estate is, and we barely biked around the Grand Canal. For kids (and parents) who have been cooped up while traveling, it was a welcome burst of energy and fresh air.After we returned the bikes, Raf took Emme and Nina to the cafe while Marlowe and I quickly roamed through a few rooms of the main palace of Versailles, just because we were there and I knew I'd want to see it. But the magic was in the day itself, in the people I went with, and the Versailles that I'd already created as a figment of my own imagination.
Too bad it's closed on Sundays and Mondays!
The first tour was planned for the morning after our arrival in Paris, a three-hour walking tour called "Highlights of Paris." I thought it might be a lot of walking for the kids, that they'd be bored, etc., but from the moment we met Antoinette (the owner of the tour company and our guide for this tour), we knew that we were in good hands. Antoinette is a petite woman who walks fast and smiles easily. She speaks with a lilting British accent and was not at all condescending to the kids; in fact, she tailored many of her facts and stories to appeal to them, winning them over with tales of a scandalous poisoner named Mme. Brinvilliers and the grisly details of medieval and revolutionary Paris. We heard about heads rolling from the guillotine, robbers using the underground sewer system to steal gold... and we also saw the actual bone of St. Genevieve enclosed in a reliquary at a small church near the Pantheon!
Not only that, but Antoinette walked us through a brief but very interesting and informative tour of Notre Dame. We got to pass all the bored, tired tourists in line and zip around the church, noting the gorgeous "Rose Windows" and then circling around the exterior to see the Gargoyles and flying buttresses. From Notre Dame, she took us through the Latin Quarter and introduced us to a boulangerie (bakery) on St. Germain that makes chouquettes (little puff pastry balls rolled in either sugar or chocolate chips) that Marlowe can eat by the bagful. She pointed out the markets that I mentioned yesterday (the butcher, the baker, the fish monger...), where we bought our picnic lunch items, and then we followed her quick steps to Luxembourg Palace, a magnificent area of Paris that features playgrounds, flowers, boat races (for kids) and pony rides, as well as the model of the Statue of Liberty. After a brief talk about the gardens and the Queen who lived there (one of the de Medici's of Tuscany, who modeled the palace after the Pitti Palace in Florence), Antoinette left us to roam through the gardens and take it in like locals, with a picnic lunch.
Far from being a boring lecture that we'd forget immediately, the tour proved to be a valuable introduction to the beautiful neighborhood where we're staying. Thanks to Antoinette, the web of streets and alleys on our map of Paris have been untangled.
This is Antoinette, pointing out the architectural wonders of Notre Dame to Raf, Serena and Marlowe. She even had on the same sort of sparkly silver shoes that Marlowe was wearing. Love at first sight!
Saturday, July 24, 2010
They also use the freshest, best ingredients. American meat is outlawed here and has been for 30 years - why? Because hormones and additives are not allowed here. Neither are GMOs (genetically modified organisms; these are fruits and vegetables that have been chemically altered to produce larger or more "genetically favorable" results, such as thinner skins or frost-resistance); in America, many of our foods may be "organic" (farmed without the use of pesticides) but their seeds are genetically modified, so who knows what their chemicals are doing to us internally?
I hadn't given it too much thought in the US, just tend to try to buy organic, but here's what happened when my kids begged us to buy strawberries in the supermarche on the first day: the kids said, "Mom, why are the strawberries so little?" I shrugged but we bought them anyway, hoping they'd be okay. When they bit into the berries, they said, "They taste different." I grabbed one, saying, "Is it bad?"
"No, they're amazing!" The kids had red juice oozing from their mouths and the entire pound of berries was finished before we'd walked the single block back to the hotel.
What's the difference? Instead of being "meaty" and fleshy with a "strawberry" flavor like what we're used to, these berries were like perfumed gem-like candies, tasting like tiny bursts of juice. They don't even taste like strawberries... it's like a cross between a raspberry and a sweet plum... or a just-picked cherry... It's delightful. Not created for mass-consumption, just a revelation of berry sweetness.But the entire city is filled with stands like this, for every little thing. Antoinette (our tour guide) took us to a tiny block that has thrice-weekly produce markets and is surrounded by brick-and-mortar shops; the butcher, the baker, the candle-stick maker... Seriously. There was a fish monger, then a cheese store, then a butcher, then a bakery, then a gourmet sundry store... It was intense, this focus on the quality (not the quantity) of the food.
For an American with just a few days here, it is overwhelming. I want to try EVERYTHING. But it is enough to know that it's here and it has already changed my perspective on food. It makes me want to grow my own food and make everything fresh; a Sisiphyan feat for an American mom with kids who have typically American palates, but I am intrigued. If they can love strawberries like that and can appreciate the difference in the quality of the bread and butter we're eating, then maybe they can learn to want to eat differently. It's a start, anyway.
I only wish I had my running shoes so that I could (maybe) counteract my new love affair with food. I can now appreciate Julia Child's love for French cooking.
Friday, July 23, 2010
In Paris, the riverbanks look like little parks (at least during daylight and twilight hours), with people gathering to eat picnics, drink wine, sing songs (like the warbled Bob Marley "Satisfy My Soul" rendition that some French teens were belting out as we passed, or the kids who were humming the beginning notes of the Shins' "New Slang" on the Bateaux Mouches). Lovers kiss. Children roam and play. Tourists gawk and take pictures that are probably blurry or have people in them that they don't know. Ancient monuments hold the sky up.
I'll be honest: Paris scared me. I haven't been here for more than 20 years and I was a teenager in French Club when I was here the last time. I was in love and in love with love. I was crazy and stayed out too late and my French teacher (a short guy from Dallas) tried to reprimand me, but he was too nice to follow through. I lived in Italy at the time, a hedonistic and primitive place compared to the sophistication of Paris, and it never occurred to me that eating at McDonald's and wearing a red beret were lame choices. I remember being treated so rudely by a French waiter near the Musee d'Orsay, even though I spoke reasonable French with a fairly good Parisian accent. I didn't see the Louvre because it was closed (they were constructing the famous pyramids for the welcome pavilion). I went to Versailles but was bored to tears as we roamed aimlessly around the grounds. I almost didn't climb the Sacre Coeur in Montmartre because my boyfriend didn't (but I did do it and it was one of the highlights of my trip). Ahh... seventeen. So young. So naive. So long.
This time, my trip is vastly different and I am no longer living in Europe, so I was worried that it would be harder. I worried about my French being so rusty that we'd be scorned publicly, so Raf and I took French lessons last year (until my French teacher, a strict Quebecoise, made me feel inferior for not speaking the language 100% of the time with her). I fretted over my wardrobe and hoped that navy and white stripes would not be considered gauche or too cliche. I packed way too many pairs of heels. I read a little too much in my Rick Steves guidebook. I was about-to-vomit nervous in Toulouse before we left the airport.
The big reveal? It's positively the most wonderful part of our trip. I am in heaven. EVERY girl and woman (and man) that we pass on the street is both stylish AND wearing navy and white striped shirts... and many of them (women AND men, straight AND gay) are wearing slim-cut denim with the cuffs folded up twice just above their ankles. French words and phrases are coming back to me; I can communicate with nearly everyone and my accent is at least understandable enough to order food, shop, get directions. My high heels have been surprisingly comfortable on the cobblestone streets (and cute, too). Although it's been incredibly helpful, I've also found that I'm reaching beyond what Rick Steves can show me. My nervous stomach was gone as soon as our kind driver Fabrice met us at the airport and began to encourage me to speak French as much as possible. "Your accent is not as bad as many I've heard," he said. That was enough for me.
We're staying at the Citadines Apart'Hotel in the St. Germain-de-Pres area, which is in the middle of EVERYTHING we want to see. Not only is it conveniently located (just off the Seine on the Left Bank, two blocks from the St. Michel metro station, a bridge walk and a block or two from the Louvre on one side and the same distance from Notre Dame on the other side), but it's a one-bedroom apartment with a fully-equipped kitchenette and plenty of space for our cinq personne family. That may not seem like a big deal, but we were able to walk to a supermarche on the first afternoon and then come home and cook veggies for our kids (the first they'd had in nearly two weeks). There's a laundry room downstairs, free coffee in the lobby 24/7 and free internet in each room. Heaven.
Raf had told me that I had nothing to worry about, except maybe someone mistaking me for a local and asking me for directions, which I scoffed at. And then it happened last night. We were leaving the supermarche Carrefour in the Latin Quarter with the kids around 10:45 pm (I know, we're living on Euro time), baguette in hand, and watching a few street performers break dancing. Two young French girls approached me with a map asking for help in finding the St. Michel station. I answered them in Franglish, even though I knew the words in French - I was scared to send them in the wrong direction, which I think I may have anyway (but where better to be lost than in the 6th arrondisement in Paris?). Just go toward the Rue des Grands Augustins, I advised. Find the Seine and go right. St. Michel is just a few blocks down. Can't miss it.
"See?" Raf said. "I told you."
And so he did. I could get used to this city.
On the drive to LAX, Raf tried to grab it and make it come out, but it held steadfast to its moorings.
"Marlowe, where will we be when your tooth comes out?" I asked her and she shrugged, smiling.
Each time we arrived in a new city, our whole family took turns feeling the looseness of that tiny tooth. "Come on, Mar! Barcelona!" we said as we rode the aerial cable car high above the city. In a few days, we said, "South of France!"" Finally, in the Toulouse Airport, en route to Paris, we all sort of came to the conclusion that the little tooth was to come out in our new house, like the other one.
Oh, but Paris has a magical hold on all of us and that tooth decided to pop out and see the city by night with the Tooth Fairy. On the very first night, no less. That oh-so-cosmpolitan Tooth Fairy left three American dollars and 2 Euros. How she found us, we'll never know.
Au revoir, petit dent!
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Frances repeats the line to explore its spiritual meaning, and I will, too:
We haven't located us yet.
Known as La Cite, Carcassonne is at least 1200 years old - you read that right, a thousand years older than our dear America! It's so old that even the "New City" (outside the walls of the fortress and down the hill) dates from 13th century. It's so old, it was defeated during The Crusades. I read that people have occupied the area since Neolithic times, and the Romans built the first wall, upon wich the bigger medieval wall was constructed (and then the "new" wall was built in the 1300s). Charlemagne and his troops besieged La Cite for several years as well.Although we had fun wandering this Shrek-like world, we are an American family that is now craving pizza and TV and air conditioning, so I was not at all surprised when Raf
Carca-Khan, let me rock you, it's all I wanna do.
While I was wandering with Emme and Marlowe, enchanted, through the mosaic wonderland, following the sound of music wafting from the pavilion below, Serena decided to stay behind and sit on a bench. Raf turned to tell her to keep up and that we'd grab dinner afterward, but it was too late. She'd already sat on the bench and, inadvertently, on a wasp.
The information guides at Park Guell were very sweet and offered to help us with a doctor, a medical kit, water, anything, but we know Serena. Okay, yes, she was stung and it hurt, but she is prone to -- how you say in English? -- dramatics.
The guides (three different ones) each told us to get some dirt, mix it with water, and make a tincture to take the sting away, so we did it and Raf and Nina waited for me and Emme and Marlowe to quickly finish up our love-fest with Park Guell.
I'm happy to report that she was better by the time we made it back to Hotel Neri. Because secretly, and I know this won't win me a "Mother of the Year" title, I was worried that it would swell up and we wouldn't make it to France.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
When we arrived, fresh from two trains and a warm drive in a rented Mercedes, our kids hadn't eaten anything but toast and chips in nearly a day and we were alarmed to discover that our 1st floor suite didn't have air conditioning. There was only a half-roll of toilet paper (and I'm on my period - sorry to announce that, TMI, I know, but that's why the TP mattered so much to me... that, and my plan to get my kids to eat a hell of a lot of fruit in France, and you know what that means...). But the reception we got from the girl behind the desk was warm and welcoming and the room was spotless (if a little less than modern... not suprising after our stay in the ultra-hip Hotel Neri), so what the heck, right?
Raf took off with Emme and Nina to find sustenance in the next town over, Trebes, while Marlowe dragged me to the pool. It wasn't as large as I'd imagined from the picture on the website, but it was something to cool off in, so we jumped in... and it was FREEZING! Okay, I'm dramatic, but it was not just cool to the touch, it was cold. After a moment or two, it became "refreshing" and then, by the time I was used to it, I was ready to bask in the sun and then go back in. Right, so not so bad.
The receptionist had asked if we'd wanted dinner reservations and we accepted. Expecting the sort of gourmet-but-untouchable menu we'd had at the Hotel Neri, we were surprised that the food was more rustic French cooking, with buttery vegetables and melt-in-your-mouth meats and fish. Yummy with the local wine we'd selected. The kids' menu had beef, fish or chicken served with either rice or pasta, fresh fruit, yogurt or ice cream -- but the kids pooped out before dessert, so the waitress asked if she could deliver their fruit to the room (across the terrace) for us. Heavenly. Raf and I had our own dessert of crisp crepes (sort of like a crepe taquito) filled with sliced bananas and a dark chocolate sauce, along with coffee and milk.
Normally, this is not the kind of place we would choose. It's not modern and hip, it's not old-school luxurious, it doesn't offer any sort of amenities that we (as Americans) are used to. Room service is really just calling the front desk and then watching through your windows as the receptionist runs to the lounge and pops the caps off some cold beers or sparkling water bottles and walks carefully with them on a tray to the corresponding room. The pool cafe (mentioned on the website and in the room info) was closed. There isn't a spa. The gym (also mentioned on the website) is really just the swimming pool and the tennis court, as far as I can tell. Last night, Raf saw a giant bug with pinchers crawling up the sheet that covered Emme's leg and startled himself by swatting her hard; he didn't tell her what it was, just let her think he was play-fighting with her, but he slept with Marlowe's blanket over his head to keep the bugs out. Our inside joke is that we're camping our way, in the South of France, at an estate with pressed French embroidered linens on the beds. (Even the girls' beds have exquisite dust ruffles, embroidered with the alphabet - perfectly pressed and whiter than white, obviously dried in the sun to attain maximum brightness.)
But there's something to this vacation-within-our-vacation. Far from the bustle of Barcelona and before our foray into Paris, the Chateau offers a lavender-scented solitude that we didn't know we needed. This morning, after we ate fresh croissants and drank a pot of delicious French coffee and orange juice that I squeezed in the breakfast room myself, we took the girls for a swim in the icy water of the pool, which we had to ourselves. I got a suntan and read French magazines while Raf started a new novel and the girls wandered back through their "secret garden" terrace to the room to watch "Up" (the DVD of which Raf bought as "La-Haut" at the SuperU market). The citrusy lavender air, the sparkling blue sky, the sound of the gypsy breeze that blows through the Langeduc-Rousillon region of France... it's all quite heavenly.