My vacations in France are not unstructured; while I'm not manic, I am "on-task," making the most of my annual week or so to see new sites, visit old faves, find restaurants, and walk, tour, walk. Sure, I'm relaxed -- this is activity of the most pleasurable kind for me -- and there are afternoons just wandering in and out of bookstores on the Boulevards Saint-Michel and Saint-Germaine, but, for the most part, it's not precisely down time.
A folksy story in the The Times (U.K.) about a sojourn in the Seven Valleys of the Pas de Calais demonstrates a different approach. A couple with baby rent a low-cost farmhouse in a "provincial backwater," and their days are filled with planning meals and --- it would seem -- little else. The story offers details that make you want to melt, like a mobile bakery which shows up on the visitors' doorstep every day to supply fresh bread and croissants. Perhaps I exaggerate the ease of the week -- there are visits to local villages and a memorable trip to a market. If desired, opportunities to explore the culture exist, like Agincourt, the Jardins de Valloires ("all Louis XIV in their symmetry and ostentation"), and Montreuil. Yet overall, it's a vision of a stay in France, in a less-traveled region, of the sort I don't allow myself, more akin to the time I might spend nearby on Cape Cod.
Another scenario to dream of...








Autumn, somber nombrilisme, and possible antidotes
October is the best month of the year in Boston. The days are still warm, the air is crisp and clear, the leaves colorful but not yet demanding a rake. The students who had returned last month (and who live near me) have released the exuberance that built up over the summer and have begun to exercise tentative control of their impulses. The Sox are winning, the Patriots are winning, energy is high. Life is good.
On the other hand, due to sad memories from my childhood during the first week of October, I usually fall into a mild seasonal affective disorder. Nothing serious, just a touch here and there of melancholy and disproportion. Using a wide-angle lens, political news (this week: Iran, torture, and child health care) makes me angst-y because I'm not chaining myself to the gates of the White House. If I put my universe under the microscope, typos become a reason for self-flagellation. Somewhere in the middle, professional situations make my mind swirl with martyrdom scenarios and conspiracy theories. Life sucks.
To combat my symptoms (which don't last too long, but whatever), I'm going dig into my trunk of Francophilia and find reasons to be cheerful.
Okay, now that I've given myself several reasons to be happy, I'm going to hide in the closet for awhile to avoid anything that will negate them. See you later when I emerge for a glass of wine.
Posted at 11:37 AM in Books, Commentary, Film, Music, Nord Pas de Calais, Politics, Trucs, Weblogs | Permalink | Comments (5)