Tuesday, November 28, 2006
27 November 2006
I am sure many loved ones back
home have wondered, “Where in the world is Monique?” My previous entries left me enjoying a relaxed
life in the French countryside, but this lazy lyon can no longer lounge. In late October 2006, after my position with the French business
owners ended, I became employed as a Traveling Personal Secretary to a
VERY demanding high profile individual.
I interviewed in the South of France and traveled
to London to meet my new employer. A month later I find myself living in the city
that never sleeps, never sleeping and running around like a chicken with my
head cut off. I spend the days
frantically making dinner reservations at places like “Bungalow 8,” taking
dictation for correspondence to former presidents, and phoning "Gates,"
people to confirm meetings (all names and locations have been changed to
protect the privileged). Working 14-hour
days barely leaves time on the weekends to do my laundry. I feel much like
Cinderella as I discover that there is NO glamour this side of the glass
slipper. But there are some perks. As part of my employment, I am provided a
small penthouse closet studio on the West side with a great view of Central
Park. Living in New York is a dream come
true, so I do my best to enjoy living in such an exclusive neighborhood. As
the countdown to impending sea travel approaches, I feel a growing sense of
adventure mounting. In late December we depart for yachting in the
Caribbean, then down through the Panama Canal to my employer’s private island
in Central America for three months. We return to New York for the month of
March and then are off before the Summer Mediterranean yachting festivities
begin. I can't share more than those
small details, but I will be taking lots of pictures and writing as much I can
to share as much of the experience as I can with all of you. Try not to hold me to it though, this work
schedule has me exhausted at the end of the day and longing for the countryside
I left behind.
I began this journey, budding with dreams of travel and self- discovery. Through it all I have learned that healing is a process, not a destination. There is so much more of our beautiful green planet I wish to explore as I continue to the journey within. The most wonderful part of my experience in France was discovering to always follow your heart because true happiness lies in the fulfillment of one’s dreams.
More to come, I hope...
Saturday, October 21, 2006
Monique & the City
17 October 2006
Start spreading the news, I'm leaving today
I want to be a part of it - New York, New York
These vagabond shoes, are longing to stray
Right through the very heart of it - New York, New York
I wanna wake up in a city, that doesn't sleep
And find I'm QUEEN of the hill - top of the heap
These little VILLAGE blues, are melting away
I'll make a brand new start of it - in old New York
If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere
Its up to you - New York, New York
New York, New York
I want to wake up in a city, that never sleeps
And find I'm a number one top of the list, QUEEN of the hill
A number one
These little VILLAGE blues, are melting away
I'm gonna make a brand new start of it - in old new york
And if I can make it there, I'm gonna make it anywhere
It up to you - New York, New York....
Start spreading the news, I'm leaving today
I want to be a part of it - New York, New York
These vagabond shoes, are longing to stray
Right through the very heart of it - New York, New York
I wanna wake up in a city, that doesn't sleep
And find I'm QUEEN of the hill - top of the heap
These little VILLAGE blues, are melting away
I'll make a brand new start of it - in old New York
If I can make it there, I'll make it anywhere
Its up to you - New York, New York
New York, New York
I want to wake up in a city, that never sleeps
And find I'm a number one top of the list, QUEEN of the hill
A number one
These little VILLAGE blues, are melting away
I'm gonna make a brand new start of it - in old new york
And if I can make it there, I'm gonna make it anywhere
It up to you - New York, New York....
Saturday, October 14, 2006
My Journey: to be continued...
13 October 2006
The Journey
by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
The Journey
by Mary Oliver
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
On the Road Again?
6 September 2006
I have been struck dumb. About three hours ago Monsieur put an end
to my growing suspicion that all was not well in his marriage. Boisterous discussions being held in the room below mine have prevented me from enjoying undisturbed sleep the last few weeks. So it comes as no surprise that my employers are divorcing, but their needs have changed, meaning I have four weeks to secure other employment. From day one, I have been subject to a series of lectures and harsh rebukes for tasks as simple as loading the dishwasher or setting the dinner table. All along I could see the strain in Monsieur’s eyes and the unhappiness in Madame’s. In all my time here I have spent more time with Monsieur and the children than I have with the family as a whole. I've had a lot of fun, as there has been lots of boating, fishing, tennis and board games. I've been enjoyed such peace in Nature, however, life inside the villa
is far from it. I have thus far omitted this unfortunate fact from my writing out of a
desire to be a discrete employee, however, decisions have been made that now
directly affect my future. Monsieur and Madame decided to end their marriage after an unfortunate incident last week. It was the night I cracked my skull on my living room floor. The story begins like this…
This particular day I had charge of my employer’s eight and four-year-old girls for
two days while my bosses devoted their attentions to opening the restaurant. On
Wednesday I took them to a small amusement park and petting zoo in a
neighboring town. I thought the fun outing would win some quality time with the
children, but it did not go as I hoped. Instead of it being a bonding
experience, the girls ignored me and made faces at me the entire day. I sympathized with
them and remained calm while their rudeness glared in my face. I reminded
myself that this was the first time that they spent an entire day with a
stranger, but at 8pm, I was ready from some time alone. After putting the
children to bed, I retired to my room with a lovely glass of red wine. My
employers were working late at the family restaurant so I absorbed myself in
the fantasy of a French novel. I was getting sleepy after the long day and it
was beginning to be difficult to keep my eyes open. The grandfather clock
struck ten, then eleven; finally at midnight, so I decided to turn in. I
concluded that my employers went to bed after their children did, so could I. At half pass twelve I was jolted out of bed by the sound of the Madame
screaming and the girls crying. My first thought was that harm had come to
them. I jumped from my bed, ran through my suite and down a flight of stairs.
Madame was in the hall screaming. As I approached her she began yelling in French that upon their arrival they found in the girls in the kitchen crying. My first thought was, “I can never please them!”
In that moment I saw
black as the blood drained from my head, ten seconds later I was
unconsciousness. The only thing I remember is hearing a loud crack when my skull
met the marble floor. Next thing I know, Monsieur, for
the second time I’ve known him, is carrying me back to my room. My head pounds
violently as Madame resumes chastising me. But I can’t for the life of me I can't remember what she said. Monsieur rushes her out of the room so I can rest. Once the door closes I crawl to the
bathroom in a desperate search for painkillers. As I drift back to sleep a disturbing thought comes over me. What if I have a concussion? I began wishing that the whack on my head had put me into a comma because facing Madame the morning was going to be much more painful. In the end I count
myself lucky that Monsieur saw the truth. It was not my fault that the girls
got out of bed. When we discussed what would be required of me, Monsieur
clearly stated that I was, “Not supposed to be on duty until midnight.” Little
did I know that my sleepiness was what pushed them to end their marriage. Monsieur closed our chat by saying, “it’s good that you were here because it showed me that her unhappiness was not my fault. Even she realizes that you are brilliant and that the problem lies within her.” My heart goes out to the entire family at such a difficult time. Madame is actually a nice person, just unhappy.
So there you have it. I’ve been quietly living a dysfunctional
situation. As for where this leaves me. I am far from being ready to return
to the States! So as I devise a plan, I am resolved against being employed by
another family. The next adventure lies ahead! Wish me luck and cross your fingers for
me!
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Frolicking in the Forest
5 September 2006
Life
in the French countryside continues to be a series of wonderful new
experiences. I now know what it means to encounter a silence that is deafening
and almost painful to the ear. Being raised in a large family and in urban
cities, I never knew what nothing sounded like. Even when out camping
one hears wildlife. The acoustics in my room are such that the depths of the
night are deadly silent. My suite in the
villa is like a mausoleum and it entombs me every night. But every morning when I step outside ready
for my daily walk, I am greeted by nature’s soft symphony filling my ears.
Here, on the quaint outskirts of an old French village, there are no airplanes
or helicopters overhead, no street noise, just the gentle rustling of the trees
and soft blowing of the wind that only gets louder as I approach the forest.
Warning: this entry is not a story about jet setting or glamorous cocktail
parties or even meeting worldly, exciting people. This story is a simple story
about how a sickly city mouse was transformed into a robust country mouse. As you can see, the road
into the forest is picturesque.
Every
day is an adventure in the natural world. Today I discovered that the villas on
my chemin (country block) are all built from rock mined from the area.
Construction workers laying the driveway next door actually excavate pebble
from the vacant lot at the end of the road for gavel for the new driveway.
Gravel is not trucked in but constructed utilizing natural surrounding
resources.
The woodland path behind the villa is a patchwork of burnt red, bright peach and slate gray; colors of earth I have never seen before. I don’t know how old the road is, but its worn path seems almost ancient. At the opening of the thicket there is a weathered bridge built centuries ago to support a stream that no longer exists. The trail in some places is wide enough to fit a Suburban, of which I have yet to see while living in France, and in denser parts of the wood it is only a foot wide. This is a scene I’ve only experienced vicariously. Living at the entrance to a forest has brought me alive with childlike curiosity. I had never taken the time to look at a tree, let alone notice the sinewy veins in a leaf or the snowflake-like originality of its flower petal formations. The wood is a symphony of birds chirping, insects buzzing, and the billowing wind. The sky above is piercing blue sprinkled with wisps of brilliant white clouds. It is a different sky, much more clear than the one that hung over me growing up. There is no gray smog hanging overhead like a wet blanket, here there is nothing but blue sky. Sky and forest stretch for miles, and on a clear day one can spot the Mediterranean Sea.
The woodland path behind the villa is a patchwork of burnt red, bright peach and slate gray; colors of earth I have never seen before. I don’t know how old the road is, but its worn path seems almost ancient. At the opening of the thicket there is a weathered bridge built centuries ago to support a stream that no longer exists. The trail in some places is wide enough to fit a Suburban, of which I have yet to see while living in France, and in denser parts of the wood it is only a foot wide. This is a scene I’ve only experienced vicariously. Living at the entrance to a forest has brought me alive with childlike curiosity. I had never taken the time to look at a tree, let alone notice the sinewy veins in a leaf or the snowflake-like originality of its flower petal formations. The wood is a symphony of birds chirping, insects buzzing, and the billowing wind. The sky above is piercing blue sprinkled with wisps of brilliant white clouds. It is a different sky, much more clear than the one that hung over me growing up. There is no gray smog hanging overhead like a wet blanket, here there is nothing but blue sky. Sky and forest stretch for miles, and on a clear day one can spot the Mediterranean Sea.
The
wood is thick and dark in parts. When I take this path to the market I feel
just like “Little Red Riding Hood” walking through the forest. This is not the
kind of environment I imagined thriving in when I dreamed of life in the French
countryside, but it turned out to be just what I needed. This daily walk has
become the very cornerstone of my new life in France.
At times the forest calm hits me in waves and
gives me a newfound sense of peace. I
could never fully experience peace in the city. There was always too much noise. The noise of
the city and the noise of my life eclipsed any hope of cultivating tranquility.
Yet I am the alone in my part of the
wood. Through the silence I have learned to detect the different sounds the
wood makes. At times one can hear a family setting the table for dinner miles
away or the crackle of gravel as someone pulls into their driveway. The beauty
of the countryside has taught me to take time, and no not smell the roses, but
take time to know myself, know who I am when I am alone, when no one is
watching.
There is so much about nature that has healed
me: mentally, spiritually and physically. I have found deep serenity, a
serenity that would have gone undiscovered for decades. I laugh out loud at the
realization that I have become somewhat of a nature buff. Something I would NOT
have associated with myself in the past. I hated camping and still do now. I remember the day I arrived, as my boss and I
were making dinner she asked me to set the table on the terrace and I shuttered
at the thought of eating al fresco. The little one laughed all through dinner
at the sight of me jumping and swatting every bug that buzzed in my general
vicinity. Entertaining for her, but
terrifying for me. I have never been
stung by a bee, and the thought of it scares me to this day. Thankfully, I am now
more comfortable in nature. Last week I added binoculars to my backpack to look
for birds. It tickles me to think of my transformation. My entire life I had found pleasure in the
discovery of say a vintage Halston suit, circa 1981, at the local vintage shop.
Here in the country I have learned to find aesthetic beauty in organic nature
fore there are no vintage shops in the countryside. I now experience joy in
observing the softness of a flower petal and no longer in the softness of fine
aged silks. Nature is a world I have never enjoyed before. Its beauty and majesty inspires me every day.
It has been almost maddening trying to
slow down and retrain myself from being hard core productive. Life in the country is almost like being
retired. Having just turned 28, I am nowhere near retirement, but this time has
taught me to slow down and enjoy the deep bitterness of dark chocolate or the
smoothness of rose wine as it refreshingly rolls down your throat on a hot day
or the lingering smell of sunshine in my laundry. I have learned to slow down. The most
beautiful aspect is that nature’s silent beauty has helped me discover the
world within me that I never knew. By
not allowing life to consume me I have been able to discover external as well
as internal beauty. This road is heaven and I wish I could take each of you
with me down the path, whether it be the wide and majestic or the narrow and
silently peaceful trail. For now try to slow down and yes smell that occasional rose for it holds
inconceivable and untapped beauty. I long for all of you to discover silent beauty in your lives today.
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
A Journey Towards Healing
August 22, 2006
Kidney stones are not a girl’s best friend! For my first birthday
in France, my body was kind enough to celebrate the day by giving me kidney
stones. I however, had quite a different idea concerning birthday revelry. Many
of you know that my medical history is a trail of doctor and hospital visits
and treatments that stretch practically to the moon and back. Well my medical
adventures continue in the fashion in the South of France. Most of you won’t be
surprised by the story I am about to tell you of how I celebrated my first
French birthday.
August 22nd, 2006 was a beautiful morning in La Cote d’Azur. The
sun softly glistened from the skylight in my chamber, warming my face and
causing me to stir and awaken. I was all packed and ready to hit the road for
an exhilarating mini-break in Barcelona. After living in France for over a
month, I was extremely excited about being in a country where I actually spoke
the language. My uncle kindly paid for me to stay at one of those ultra modern
hotels one kilometer away from El Mar. I bathed while enjoying happy thoughts
of discovering the country of my ancestors’ forefathers. I could almost smell
the paella and hear the deep and sensual rhythm of the tango. As I shampooed, a
vision of bronzing in the sun and sipping sangria poolside hypnotized me. All
it would take was one glass of sangria and my tongue would remember to lazily
roll my “rs” instead of gargle them at the back of the throat.
Then, out of nowhere, I am doubled over in pain. Pangs of stabbing
pain dug deep into my back and ricocheted down my right side. Once the pain
dulled, I optimistically brushed it off thinking I was still recovering from
the kidney infection that had me bedridden for seven days the week before.
Nothing was going to stop me from celebrating my birthday speaking a language I
didn’t have to think first to speak. I carefully finished getting dressed and
limped down the stairs for a glass of cranberry juice. And when I say limp, I
mean LIMP! It took me five minutes to make it to “le cuisine” to join my bosses
for breakfast. We were chatting lightly about my impending excursion and then
suddenly shots of burning pain in my right side so intense that that I knocked
the breadbasket off the table and into Monsieur’s lap causing him to wear his
breakfast. I would have normally been humiliated, but I didn’t give a damn
about anything but my aching side. After an agonizing ten-minute interchange
about the source of the pain, I reassured both Madame and Monsieur that I was
fine and that I was just experiencing a relapse. I almost had them convinced
until the shoot pain returned, causing me to go limp on the kitchen floor. The
last thing I remember is Monsieur carrying me up a flight of stairs to my
suite. Half an hour later I found myself in my bed riddled with fever and sadly
calling Hotel Vincci Condal Mar to cancel my three-night reservation. Hour
after insufferable hour my body raged with fever, then the chills, and the
fever again. After two days I could no longer endure the pain; I had to call
Madame at work. I agonizingly climbed back downstairs to fetch the number of
the family restaurant.
Monsieur was kind enough to return home an hour later to cart me
around to the doctor’s office. After a ten-minute symptom synopsis with Docteur
DuBois, he pressed the tender areas of my abdomen with great care. He suspected
kidney stones, but he sent me for tests to verify his theory. Being examined by
a French doctor was a considerably more comfortable experience; it was the
first doctor’s visit where I didn’t have to remove my clothes during any point
of the examination.
In short, kidney stones attacked for the third time in my short
life. To celebrate my birthday I managed to dress in a few items from my
vintage collection and enjoy a nice luncheon before the strong painkillers took
hold. Kidney stones changed my birthday plans a bit, causing me to sip Perrier,
instead of Sangria and dine on quiche on the veranda, instead of poolside in
Spain, but as far as I am concerned, to enjoy a birthday living in France is
still a dream come true.
I can’t tell you much about the subsequent week because the hours
blended into days as I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Only daylight peaking
in from the skylight marked the time. I read Monsieur’s entire collection of
English books, most of which I was too delirious to remember, and took lots and
lots of antibiotics and painkillers. You may think the experience to be jolly,
doped up on Vicodin while relaxing in bed. Interestingly enough painkillers
prescribed by French doctors are not laced with opiates and yet are just as
affective. The focus of the medication is to dull the pain but allow one to
remain cognizant. A very different experience than in the States where
painkillers have been proscribed to me kill the pain, but keep me comatose.
That isn’t the only difference I have noticed between the French and American
medical field. My doctor impressed me greatly. He used my pain and symptoms as
a guide to find the underlying illness, and then treat it. I am accustom to visiting an array of
doctors who play the guessing game by masking the pain with pill after pill or
play Russian roulette by prescribing pills and hoping one of the hundreds
prescribed will provide the cure. The French climate and lifestyle have just about
cured me of most of my pain. I am glad that I am not as sickly as I thought.
Living cooped up inside cramped apartments and working in stuffy offices gave
little opportunity for nature to heal me. As it turns out sun, trees,
breathable air, and whole foods are all a body needs to heal itself. Having
made hundreds of doctors and hospital expeditions gives me an expert opinion.
It amazes me how it took ONE visit to the doctor to discover I had kidney
stones. Of the myriad of illnesses that I have suffered, even kidney stones,
many have gone misdiagnosed and undetected after at least two doctors and/or
hospital visits. While other symptoms still puzzle my doctors and have remained
unsolved mysteries to this day. I now see that there are other healing paths to
explore and this experience has inspired me to search out one that is right for
me.
Lesson one: when ill in a foreign country, pray that you are in
France, they have excellent healthcare. Lesson two: having kidney stones can be
rather productive. The pain was dull enough to unpack the remaining two days my
stone passed. I had quite a lot of time to unpack the last two boxes of
personal belongings, making my room a bit homier. All in all, kidney stones in
France were a painful, yet surprisingly educational experience.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Monaco--Soiree Blanc
August 12th, 2006
For one thing, planning was
key! Monaco is at most an hour's drive from my doorstep, but I have myself a
two-hour head start. It was a good instinct because I left just in time to sit
in traffic for two hours. I stopped en route to change at a gas station just
off the expressway. The station attendant was amused to see me go into the
bathroom workout attire and exit in full black tie vestments. This also turned
out to be a good instinct because I not only avoided wrinkling my party dress,
but I avoided expiring from suffocation due to a tight bodice, while sitting in
two-hour traffic. A successful twenty minutes in the loo produced me fresh for
the party. However, my back felt tight after such a long drive so I popped a
painkiller to keep my back from complaining about being jacked up in four-inch
heels.
It seemed like every
expensive luxury and sports car in Monaco were parked in front of my host’s
building. I smiled to myself as I maneuvered the convertible into a tight spot,
remarking on my luck at obtaining a space directly in front of the very swank
residence. My host calls home to one of the most exclusive apartment buildings
in Monaco. Just seeing it's golden encrusted façade was enough to make me
nervous. As I walked onto the elevator I steadied my nerves by reminding myself
that money isn't everything. Values like moral character, honor and family were
one’s true wealth. However, the opulence took some getting used to. Europeans
display wealth in a much different fashion. Beverly Hills, Bel Aire and Park
Avenue did nothing to prepare me for an evening on a Monaco rooftop but by the
end of the evening I found myself comfortably sipping Dom Perignon from a flute
in one hand and the other hand on the arm of a handsome Italian. But, I am
getting ahead of myself.
Nearing my destination, I
took comfort at the ease with which it took to spot my fellow partygoers. A
Bentley full of elegant fifty-somethings decked out in their finest designer,
and in once case couture, white summer attire pulled up in front of me. The
passengers noticed my white dress and assumed we were headed in the same
direction. The four older Frenchmen were complete gentlemen and took it upon
themselves to escort me to the party. Being the only American and the only
guest to arrive at the party alone, I found solace in their chivalry. I
clutched the arm of a lovely fifty-something-vineyard-heir as we stepped from
the gilded elevator onto the penthouse floor. A sign posted on the elegant
double door in three languages asked all guests to please enter and join the
soiree on the third floor balcony. In comparison, the downstairs lobby was
modest to say the least. Stepping into the reception area of the penthouse I
felt a rush of adrenaline from the exquisite ambiance of the home. Antiques
were delicately paired with a careful blend of Southern French and Parisian
décor. It was the kind of apartment that Robyn Leach guides you through on "The
Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous". Growing up in Los Angeles
desensitizes, displays of wealth are common among wealthy circles in my
hometown, which made it easy to not be impressed by wealth. However, seeing it
first hand was quite a surreal feeling. As I stood face to face with a
privately owned Renoir, I was sobered knowing that it was possible that my
life’s earnings would never equate to its' monetary value. In that moment my
personal values were strengthen. The image of success upheld by the Western mainstream media places an
individual’s value on their monetary holdings, rather than the quality of
person they are. However, I am enjoying taking a peak into “The Lifestyles of
the Rich & French”.
The lovely host greeted each of us at the door with a flute
of Dom Perignon in one hand and a welcoming outstretched hand. I was guided up
two flights of stairs to the balcony. My brand new four-inch Valentinos still
needed to be broken in, so I was grateful for the steadying elbow of my very
kind escort. Out in the patio garden the party was in full swing. Knowing only
one other person at the party, I asked quickly where the young lady could be
found and headed over to that general location. The sun was beginning to set as
I made my rounds, gaily chatting and drinking my way through the party. Nerves
automated my movements as I unconsciously sipped the champagne. Donned in white
tuxedos, the very capable wait staff magically replaced each empty flute I
produced. I caught myself, but possibly too late. I put down the champagne
flute and continued enjoying the party by making light conversation, taking
photos and employing deep breaths. In a moment of pure happiness I remarked at
seeing Monaco alight like a starry night sky. The fascinating, worldly company
made me ponder if this would be the last time I get to enjoy such surroundings
as a guest.
At about nine o'clock, I started feeling
a little light headed and excused myself and retired to one of the guest
bathrooms for ten minutes to get my bearings. At the precise moment I was
reapplying my lipstick I remembered that I had taken a painkiller at 3:30pm.
Needless to say, it was a magical evening
until I realized that I mixed prescription pain medicine with champagne. The painkillers in my bloodstream mixed quickly with the
Dom Perignon and I carefully
headed back to the balcony for some fresh air. As I inhaled the fresh sea
breeze a beautiful Italian voice bid me “Buonasera”. I look over and see two
handsome Italian men smiling welcomingly. The host appeared out of nowhere and
kindly introduced me the gentlemen as "the American". The tall,
gorgeous gentleman paid me a compliment, saying, "I looked very much like
Sophia Loren this evening”. Blushing, I tried desperately to conceal my
intoxication and asked if the three of us could move our conversation to one of
the garden benches. They obliged and with much refinement, one gentleman
extended his arm to escort me and the other took my champagne flute from my
hand. I couldn't tell you the length of time I conversed with my new Italian
friends, but I believe it was a span of an hour. The extent of my intoxication
was becoming slightly evident. The host and the two gentlemen accompanied me to
the lower living room to rest for a moment. As we descended the staircase, my heel caught on the fabric
of the silk jacquard curtains adorning the entrance of the balcony patio.
Luckily my escort held me steadily or I would have tripped and fallen down a
flight of stairs and smashed headfirst into the wall below. I supposed it
wouldn't have been so painful because I was anesthetized almost completely,
only kidding. But I digress; I was fortunate enough to reach the chaise under
the Renoir safely. It was then that one of the lovely Italian men realized how
truly ill I was becoming. I sat in the living room terrified by the fact that
it was becoming apparent that I was unable to make it back to the villa.
I would have normally never
done something as naive as to accept an invitation to stay in a stranger's
flat. Upon the host’s recommendation and assurance that this
friend of his, like every single person invited to the party was at one time
either in business with or a friend of the host. He assured me that he, as a
businessman trusted everyone in the room; I was the only new face. Since there are no Holiday Inns or Best Westerns in Monaco, I
allowed myself to be driven to the very first destination in my drive to Italy
two weeks before, Bordighera. There I slept peacefully in a suite of my own for
six hours, long enough to rest for my return to Cannes. Like all my travel
adventures, focusing on the lessons learned are the true jewels along the
journey. Lesson one: remember what medications are consumed before imbibing large quantities of expensive champagne. Lesson
two: whenever possible enjoy the company of wealthy individuals because when an
emergency presents itself an exciting and luxurious solution is quickly
discovered. Most importantly, when merriment is in full swing, meet as many
rich men as possible!
I would have never imagined that my day trip to the local village
of Mougin last Sunday would have proven to be so fortuitous. I spent Saturday
evening at the penthouse apartment of the billionaire I met at lunch. It was
his annual "Soiree Blanc Avec les Etoiles” (White Party Under the Stars)
thrown for a hundred of his closest friends and business associates. Having
just met him and his lovely Australian companion once, receiving such an
invitation two days later was a very pleasant surprise. Needless to say, three
shopping trips to Cannes and Nice produced the only suitable white frock. I donned
a French designed classic dress with a tight bodice, scoop neck and a full
circle skirt reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn’s vestments in Sabrina. At 40 Euros,
the designer dress was a steal after the four-inch white Valentino sandals I
purchased to complete the look. The invitation said to dress conservatively so
I paired the ensemble with a very sweet black Agnes B bolero cardigan I found
at the Nice shopping mall. I topped the ensemble off with an up do and a black
vintage cocktail hat I found on Melrose Blvd.
Having my party clothes prepared ready gave me a little solace. As
the day of the party neared I wondered
what was an American Afro-Latina to do in such a setting. I had no idea what to expect. I was to be surrounded by the
Rivera's richest residents with not a clue on how to conduct myself so I
trolled the Internet for helpful etiquette tips.
When in France, Sunbathe Topless
August 9, 2006
August 9, 2006
So, the children are gone.
They left with Madame this morning. She is driving them to Brittany to stay
with relatives for two weeks. Thus my summer holiday begins. The master of the
house slept in while I took my daily hike in the woods behind the villa and
swam laps in the pool. Monsieur commented over lunch that I am becoming quite
the French woman. I have conquered French traffic, become a lover of fine
French wine, and you will be happy to know that I finally tried le stinky
cheese. It was what I expected, very, very strong. No wonder the French enjoy
wine with pungent cheese, it dulls your senses and makes you jolly no matter
what you consume
While Monsieur was taking
his daily after lunch siesta (something as French as sunbathing topless), I
decided to take another dip in the pool. Yes, I know, tough job. After a few
laps I decided the sun was perfect to even out my farmer’s tan, so I nervously
slathered on some suntan oil, turn on my iPod and grabbed a glass of chilled
vin rose for courage. Ten minutes later my boss was off for the day and so was
my bikini top. Allow me to preface, if you don’t know me well enough, I am very
bashful. I don’t change my clothes in front of girlfriends, share dressing rooms,
or feel comfortable in revealing clothing. I have sisters that would have
whipped off their tops their first day in France, but I blush if someone sees
too deeply down my top. I can only imagine what my mother is thinking as she
reads this, but going topless while sunning oneself is one's God given right in
France. Just the other day I took the kids to the beach and most women were
basking in the sun without tops in full sight of an audience of all ages. In
France little girls swim in only bikini bottoms until they are 6, then, as I
have noted from observation, they resume this dress in their adult years as
they see fit. So in actuality, I am not all that brave, sunbathing topless in
the total privacy of the villa's sun deck makes me a bit of a prude by French
standards. The villa is secured on all sides by seven feet tall hedges, so
there was no danger of peeping toms. French women of all sizes are proud of
every inch of their bodies, no matter the shape. A bit of that is beginning to
rub off on me because feeling comfortable enough in my own skin to sunbathe
topless gives a sense of accomplishment. I didn’t have to wait until I was a
size 4 again to feel at ease in my own skin. I inhale and exclaim aloud, “the
boss is right, I am becoming more and more a French woman every day”.
As the warm summer sun and Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" gently lulls me to sleep. Suddenly I am awoken by a man standing over me, telling me in French that he is the plumber and asking where my employers were. I don't know how long he stood over me, but I quickly noticed that he was gentlemanly enough to cover me up before waking me. I can hear my mother giving me a good old-fashioned "I told you so" and "what would your great grandmother think" but I wasn’t as embarrassed as I thought I would have been and neither was the plumber. The older gentleman was so matter-of-fact about the whole experience that I suspected he only covered me as not to frighten the unliberated American. After he fixed the sink he bade me "bonjour", I resumed my topless sunbathing, reminding myself to be sure to lock the main gate and turn on the intercom before whipping off my top.
August 9, 2006
As the warm summer sun and Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" gently lulls me to sleep. Suddenly I am awoken by a man standing over me, telling me in French that he is the plumber and asking where my employers were. I don't know how long he stood over me, but I quickly noticed that he was gentlemanly enough to cover me up before waking me. I can hear my mother giving me a good old-fashioned "I told you so" and "what would your great grandmother think" but I wasn’t as embarrassed as I thought I would have been and neither was the plumber. The older gentleman was so matter-of-fact about the whole experience that I suspected he only covered me as not to frighten the unliberated American. After he fixed the sink he bade me "bonjour", I resumed my topless sunbathing, reminding myself to be sure to lock the main gate and turn on the intercom before whipping off my top.
A Sunday in Mougin
August 6th, 2006
I find myself enjoying the sunshine and old world charm on a quaint
restaurant terrace in Mougin one beautiful Sunday. This charming village was
once the home of Cubist painter Pablo Picasso. The view from the town square is
breathtaking; it’s no mystery why Picasso was drawn to this town. A look around
the old village is enough to fill anyone with artistic inspiration. The thing
is, I don't really know how I ended up here. I got in the car this morning with
every intention of seeing the beautiful beaches of St. Tropez. But something
drew me first to the old village of Mougin.
Miraculously I found parking right in front of the bustling Sunday
antique flea market. As I got out of the car a beautiful old wardrobe caught my
eye. I walked over to the lovely old Frenchman standing guard over his prized
antiques. As I drew closer and saw the 1200 Euro price tag, I turned sadly on
my heels.
All the dealers, mostly older men, were enjoying an
elegant five-course meal, complete with real silverware and crystal wine
glasses amid the bustling chaos of the flea market stalls. One case in
particular caught my eye because it held a beautifully delicate piece of
jewelry. My eye first gazed upon this gorgeous antique ring. An elegant silver
ring with 19 pinhead-sized amethyst encrusted in a sinewy facade. The lovely
dealer, Chantal, at once said that the ring was a hard sell due to it being
"trop petite," or too small. I asked her politely to allow me to try
it on, and wouldn't you know it, the ring slipped right onto my finger. I
bought it right away for 30 Euros, a steal considering it is a sixty-year-old
ring. Chantal explained that in France a piece is considered an antique only
after it is at least a century old. So I got quite a buy!
As I wandered through the village, I felt a distinct sense of culture
shock. The sound of heavy freeway traffic and the hum of busy Melrose shoppers
would be out of place in this centuries old village. The culinary world I grew
up in was the LA restaurant scene, equipped with polite, attentive service and
elegantly uniform dishes. Angeleno waiters are quick to stand at attention in
their black slacks and starched white shirts, but they would be out of place in
this relaxed French country setting. There is no place for a uniform in this
quaint village in the South of France. Here the waiters serve in casual slacks,
hugging ever so sexily to their hips. White is the last color seen here. Tables
are dressed in every color of the rainbow, delicately coordinated to the theme
of each sidewalk cafe. The rustic old fountain in the courtyard subdues the
buzz of French families discussing their day’s excursions, providing a backdrop
of tranquility. Once I get settled at my
table, it finally hits me, "we aren't in Los Angeles anymore."
I never imagined I would long to hear the flat American
accent chopping up the beautiful flow of the French language. After three weeks of sign language, I would
love nothing more than to chat in my native tongue. And in response to my homesickness, I suddenly
hear the sweet droll of a southern American accent. I presumptuously introduce myself. Brian is in France on business, but is lucky
enough to have an old French college buddy to show him the hidden jewels of the
French Rivera. I realize we are being
watched and look over to see other diners sneer at our audacity at speaking
English so freely. I take little notice of their superiority because my
excitement at meeting another American will not sway me into embarrassment. His kind companion Emerique quickly encourages
my homesickness by informing me that his wife is American. He very neighborly
asks for my card in order to pass along to his wife and their group of American
expatriates. I am suddenly comforted with the possibility of making American
friends. Yes, that was no typo...I was
excited about the possibility of making AMERICAN friends. As they depart,
Emerique tells me to make sure to take their phone calls because his wife, Danielle,
would love to show me around Mougin. I adore the French but the language
barrier makes me slow to make local friends.
I enjoyed the most fabulous omelet lunch. As a vegetarian, I find it
refreshing to have another culinary choice at any meal. I felt so inspired by
my surroundings that as soon as the handsome waiter cleared away my meal, I
pulled out my laptop and began blogging about my day trip to Italy. I was deep
into the article when a lovely Australian accent inquires if I am a
professional writer. I blush with embarrassment and inform her that those are
my aspirations. Her companion, a silvered-haired gentleman of great refinement,
interjects to introduce them both. He is a wealthy businessman visiting from
Monaco, and she is his guest from out of town. He explains that he has held an
annual White Party for all his friends and business associates for over twenty
years. As he mentions the party I find
myself fantasizing about attending it. He
must have sensed my desire and asked for my contact information in order to
send along an invitation. Shortly after our meeting the billionaire and his
beautiful Australian companion departed for their return to Monaco. As I walked
back to the car I remarked at the auspiciousness of the day! I wonder when my invitation will arrive?
I drove home grateful that I was able to enjoy an afternoon not dominated
by the language barrier. My employers greeted me at the door with a glass of
red wine and stories of their adventures as expatriates. I discovered that they
were once in my shoes. The family lived in America for eight years in the 1990s
and their support has been valuable in helping me acclimate into the French
culture.
I drove home grateful that I was able to enjoy an afternoon not dominated
by the language barrier. My employers greeted me at the door with a glass of
red wine and stories of their adventures as expatriates. I discovered that they
were once in my shoes. The family lived in America for eight years in the 1990s
and their support has been valuable in helping me acclimate into the French
culture.
Daytrip to Italia
July 30, 2006
Yesterday, Sunday, was my weekly day off. I have been feeling more confidence as a driver, so the family gave me full use of one of the cars, a convertible. So, what does one do when Italia is only an hour's drive away??? Take a day trip of course!
Ah, how can I express the
beauty of the drive? With a handsome Frenchman as my guide and the local French
band blaring their audes of love, I cruised down the Cote d’Azur at 100km/hr
with the top down, heading towards a wonderful adventure.
It wasn't until noon that
we hit THE spectacular sight of Nice's plage (beach), I have NEVER seen a bluer or more beautiful
ocean. Nice tops Cannes in a second! The winding road hugs the French Rivera
all the way to Italia. Monaco was the first stop. The Palais de Monaco is
breathtaking.
It is built on the remnants of a medieval castle that once stood hundreds of years ago. There is a jardin (garden) with beautiful ponds and flowers so abundant that the air about the palace is thick with perfume. Just as mass was in session, I popped my head into the cathedral where Princess Grace was married. Just beyond the chapel, there is a spectacular view that overlooks the coastline where one can see all the way to Italy. The marina below show the only signs of life, aside from us tourists, the wait staff on board the sleek yachts docked in Monaco’s marina busily clearing up lunch the remnants of their employers’ lunch. It seemed all of Monaco was enjoying their daily siesta.
After a leisurely stroll through the deserted town we were off once again. Next stop Bordighera, Italia. Weeks after the World Cup the festivities were still in full swing. There were hundreds of beautiful Italians running down the beach waving their patriotic flags, some even bathed in the nude! A huge crowd of partiers stopped traffic at one point to play in the ancient fountains along the route through the city.
Traffic being backed up we decided to take a dip in the Italian Rivera's crystal blue ocean. I found myself a charming bluff to dip my toes in the water and contemplate the beauty of the sea. It was a scene of movie or travel specials. The coast wound around for miles, speckled with naked bodies as far as the eye could see. The only structures visible were gleaming white villas gently nestled into the jagged cliffs. The view was so clear, one could see clear past San Remo, the final stop.
Yesterday, Sunday, was my weekly day off. I have been feeling more confidence as a driver, so the family gave me full use of one of the cars, a convertible. So, what does one do when Italia is only an hour's drive away??? Take a day trip of course!
It is built on the remnants of a medieval castle that once stood hundreds of years ago. There is a jardin (garden) with beautiful ponds and flowers so abundant that the air about the palace is thick with perfume. Just as mass was in session, I popped my head into the cathedral where Princess Grace was married. Just beyond the chapel, there is a spectacular view that overlooks the coastline where one can see all the way to Italy. The marina below show the only signs of life, aside from us tourists, the wait staff on board the sleek yachts docked in Monaco’s marina busily clearing up lunch the remnants of their employers’ lunch. It seemed all of Monaco was enjoying their daily siesta.
After a leisurely stroll through the deserted town we were off once again. Next stop Bordighera, Italia. Weeks after the World Cup the festivities were still in full swing. There were hundreds of beautiful Italians running down the beach waving their patriotic flags, some even bathed in the nude! A huge crowd of partiers stopped traffic at one point to play in the ancient fountains along the route through the city.
Traffic being backed up we decided to take a dip in the Italian Rivera's crystal blue ocean. I found myself a charming bluff to dip my toes in the water and contemplate the beauty of the sea. It was a scene of movie or travel specials. The coast wound around for miles, speckled with naked bodies as far as the eye could see. The only structures visible were gleaming white villas gently nestled into the jagged cliffs. The view was so clear, one could see clear past San Remo, the final stop.
I had
heard about the quaint and charming Italian boarder town of San Remo from Film
Noir filmsettings and travel references, but being there live was an enriching
experience. We found ourselves trolling along the charming cobblestone streets
as a symphony of mouth-watering aromas aroused the appetite. As I stopped for
my first REAL European meal I contemplated my dilemma. My strict vegetarian
diet prevented me from really enjoying the potency of French cheese or the
richness of French sauces or deserts. After a few weeks in France, my diet was
confined to nothing more than a raw food diet of fresh salads and freshly baked
bread, so you can imagine my hunger. Tucking in, as my fellow British travelers
say, to authentic spaghetti with clams and a glass of local Chianti was a meal
to remember. I have refrained saying too much about my French companion until
now because dinner was the first time we could actually make conversation. It
is amazing how much one can communicate by employing a translation dictionary,
body language and universal hand gestures. I enjoyed so much of the Italian
wine and the sangria that only a strong Espresso and a brisk walk along the
Italian coast could cure my haze and prepare me for the return drive back to
France.
After a
nice stroll, we found our way back to the car through the old city square. The
blood was pumping in my ears as we drove with the top down at 130km/hr. This
was the perfect ending to such a long and exciting day. With a full moon to
light the highway, I felt myself feel more at ease behind the wheel along the
long winding road back to France. Midnight greeted us as we pulled into the
villa's main gate, thus ending one of the most beautiful and exciting days of
my life. It isn’t every day that a California girl like me can enjoy two
European countries in one day. The Mediterranean Rivera is one of the most
beautiful places in the world.
I wish
all of you could see how beautiful the view from the villa is; I still
can’t believe how with such a humble beginning ended up in such lush
surroundings. I often ask myself, "What has this French Adventure taught
me so far?" My heart responds, "Take as many calculated risks in life
as possible, work hard and above all remain true to one’s heart and your path
will always converge on the desires of your heart."
Living
here is wonderful, but it is also the most challenging experience of my life. I
just want to thank you all my friends and family back home. I would not be
sitting in such blessing if it were not for every single person reading this. I
hope that these experiences are not conveyed in a boastful tone, but in awe ad
gratitude with all I have been blessed with. I have come to realize that these
blessings did not begin 10 days ago, but weeks, years, and in some cases
decades ago. These blessings began with sharing a special moment with every one
of you. It is my hope that you are encouraged through the conveyance of
the blessings I now enjoy.
Love from
France,
Monique
"Bonjour" from The South of France
July 25th, 2006
Sunday will mark my one-week anniversary in the South of France. Not a day goes by that I do not think of all of my friends and family back in the States and miss you all dearly.
Life in the French countryside continues to amaze me. I drove today for the first time in ten days. It was quite interesting. The French have a reputation for being risky drivers, but the roads are akin to a well-choreographed waltz. The steep twist and turns on every road ruined my hopes of a refreshing country drive. I was besieged by frequent heart palpitations and near misses. I finally made it home in one piece, but just barely. It seems I still need to get my LA tango in sync with their French waltz. (CAUTION: Foreign automobile passengers should be sure to employ an eye mask when riding in a vehicle in any part of France.)
The following day I decided that using my legs might be the best way to enjoy my adventure at this stage. So, I went for my first walk in the French countryside. I explored the trail behind the villa, following the beautiful melody of a guitar and mandolin playing deep in the woods. I timidly drew closer to a charmingly aged villa where two old men sat in a beautiful, flower-filled garden playing to chickens enjoying an evening meal at their feet. The purple and red sunset behind them illuminated their wrinkled, but happy faces. Suddenly a light rain began, refreshing the warm summer ground. The rain woke me out of the trance that the music had put on me. I sprang to life and took cover under an ancient oak tree. I realized that if I stayed any longer I would risk walking back to the villa in the dark. I arrived back home just in time to see darkness cover the hillside like a blanket.
The next day I ventured to Cannes with the family, thankful I did not have to drive the way there. It was like a dream. The city and seascape are beautiful, more breath taking than the photos or films. I could almost see Cary Grant and Grace Kelly lounging on the floating platform with the other swimmers, as in “To Catch a Thief”.
The language seems to be my biggest challenge living in paradise. It is quite a challenge thriving in a country where one can’t be understood and not be understood in turn. Thankfully, French class begins on Tuesday. The youngest in my care continues to complain to her Maman that she can’t do what I ask because she doesn't know what I am saying. The best way to learn a language is, under threat of being ignored.