Sunday Papers: Dalai Lama

"Happiness is not really made.  It comes from your own actions."


On the turntable:  "Tun Dun" (Sdtk) 

Knowing Tranquility VI (Omishima, Oshima, Majima)

I forego breakfast for the short climb up to Kōjō-ji, to gaze past its National Treasure pagoda into the direction of the day's ride.  Hirayama Ikuo had been here before me, of course, and dotted along the grounds temple were sketches he has made.  Simplistic and filled with brighter colors, I appreciate these far more than the larger works that made him famous.  The hour is early but people are already working.  A woman sweeps leaves in the narrow lanes of the village below, and some unseen hand has lit a fire that burns its way through the rubbish of the day before.

The streets are empty as I follow the shoreline in the direction of my elongated shadow, past stone Buddhas looking with steadfast gazes at the detritus of man turning somersaults in the tideline, and the larger more damaging monuments of industrial pollutants across the water.  I have my own dawn koyaanisqatsi moment on Sunset Beach, and it takes me a great deal of effort to pull myself away from the calm waters and their enticement to stay.

I repeat this on the far shore of Oshima, looking backward along the route I'd just pedaled.  I find myself thinking a great deal about bicycling, about how much I am enjoying myself, but that I still find it an inferior form of travel to walking, as the pace is too fast and I often find myself wheeling around to get a better look at something I'd whizzed past.  A large complaint is with the unfriendliness of the 'fraternity' of bicyclists.  When passing a fellow hiker on a trail, nearly all will return a greeting.  With bicyclists it is perhaps one-in-ten.  And the one who does smile back is inevitably clad in casual clothes like me, riding something equally shabby.  The more professional among us never even make eye contact.  Perhaps their spandex is too tight on the muscles to allow for the curt nod of the head, or the upturned edges of a grin. 

But I love being here, with the wind and the sun.  The weather is absolutely perfect as I follow Omishima's 'Island Explorer' course around the its northern corners, between the shimmer of water and the gentle colorful sway of the cosmos.   
I eventually arrive at Oyamazumi Shrine, one of Japan's three most important shrines, which along with my earlier visits to Izumo Taisha and Izu Jingu, completes a hat-trick for the year.  I wandered beneath the shrine's towering ancient camphor trees, trying and failing to remember a visit made here in 1997.  On that visit I chose to give the shrine's Treasure House a miss, something I later regretted after learning that close to 80% of its collection are National Treasures.  I won't make that same mistake today.  Victorious warlords would donate weapons here after an important victory, and it was fascinating to see all these names familiar from Japanese history.  Could that really be Kiso Yoshinaka's sword?  I wanted to believe it, although in his 2001 afterword to the later Stone Bridge Press edition of Inland Sea,  Richie mentions that what was Yoshitsune's spear today had been attributed to Benkei on Richie's visit three and a half decades before.  In a similar vein, this island's most famous daughter Tsuruhime Ohori (whose armor is here too) was renowned for near single-handedly repelling an invading force at age 16.  Unfortunately no records of her can be found prior to a novel written in 1968.  Like the branches of millennia-old trees, memory can be pliant, twisting and bending to the ravages of the winds, and to time.    

Over and across Hakatajima, an island on which I never actually set foot, as my feet never once leave my pedals.  Ōshima is next, and last.  After a quick lunch, I board a boat that takes me out amidst the powerful whirlpools that had been both a threat to the powerful pirate clans here, as well as a clever defense system for their fortress that once stood atop a trio of small islets between.  In order to move through the swirling water, a boat's engine need be powerful, and powerful it is, roaring so loudly that I can't make out the narration coming through the speakers.  So I choose to sit back and enjoy an hour out of the saddle.   The pilot cuts the engines from time to time, allowing us to pitch and spin within the eddies, before reengaging them just before we smash upon the rocks.  I can't help thinking that I've experienced a great deal in my life, but never have I been tossed about by a whirlpool.  Highly recommended. 

I make a quick visit to the Murakami pirate museum, a twin to the one I visited yesterday on Innoshima.  Apparently  a large number of the current residents of these islands bear this surname, so at least one of them must be among the workmen currently rebuilding the old fortress just across the water.  It is bound to be more interesting than this place, which doesn't really capture my attention.  Perhaps its because he day is growing late, and have a lot more riding to do. 

Naturally, I encounter the only hills on the Shimanami Kaidō, two coming in quick succession.  The busy road upon which I travel too conspires to making this one of the least pleasant parts of the journey.  I eventually find myself atop the four kilometer-long Kurushima-Kaikyo Bridge.  Three-quarters of the way across I come to a broad elevator, which brings myself and my bicycle down to Ma Island, which has a few roads but no cars.  My inn is the largest structure on the island (other than the massive uprights of the bridge itself), from which no other buildings are visible but those of Shikoku across the water.  I wander down to the beach with Richie's book and a beer, then eventually go up to my room, from where I watch the tankers and freighters head toward their Imabari moorings.  And later I sleep to the sound of lapping waves and humming engines.  When I awake briefly for my usual pair of nocturnal toilet visits,  I see through the window the dim lights of immense ferries as they cart their slumbering freight to Kyushu to the west. 


And that final morning brings an easy one hour journey into town, against a wave of workers bicycling to the shipyards beneath the bridge I've just crossed. Many have the darker faces of India, the Philippines, South East Asia, faces that never fail to turn toward me with a smile.   Just outside town I feel my pace slowing, and notice a middle-aged Japanese man riding my draft.  I ponder the etiquette here, as he doesn't know me but is purposely using me to my own  disadvantage.  I consider slamming on the brakes as I have done a few times in Kyoto in order to chastise a student doing the same.  But today, I merely swerve to the side and let him go onward into his day.

My own brings me to Imabari proper, a city in which I find little to hold my interest.  I must've spent some time here during my Shikoku pilgrimage in 2009, but I can't distinguish this place from any of the others that I passed through.  By that time I'd been on the road for two months, and each lurch of the foot was simply to propel me forward and to hell with what was beside me.  I have a vague recollection of the castle, but a closer look doesn't reveal much, certainly not the 'seafront castle' as I'd been promised, unless they refer to a sea of indistinct grey apartment blocks.  The rebuilt keep stands proud but is losing the battle to encroaching development. So I wheel then through an arcade called 'Ginza,'  which is fighting its own battle against a modern and more global economy.  

Then the station, to see a trio of mascots bobbing around and shaking hands more convincingly than any politician.  Without any irony they stand before a recruitment poster for the Self-Defense Forces, whose 61 year-old mascot status was just revoked last month by a parliament whose true visages are just as effectively hidden.

I can see where this line of thought is taking me, so I suppose it is just as well that this leg of the journey is complete. I board a train which carries me through the ruined landscape of northern Shikoku, as beside me a moth flits and bashes itself against an artifice of sky.


On the turntable:  "Verve/Remixed 2"
On the nighttable: Will Self, "Psycho Two"         

Knowing Tranquility V (Mukojima, Innoshima, Ikuchijima)

The weather has taken a turn.  It is no longer the heat of a hazy July afternoon, but the first stirrings of a chill borne upon an October morn.  This chill envelops me as I disembark the train in Fukuyama. Looking to bring some heat back into my body, I undergo a long search for a vending machine that has the tell-tale red strips which signify hot cans of coffee, its bottom shelves having switched from blue at the top of the month.   Forgoing the escalators I produce my own heat in the climb up to the platform, at the edge of which I stand with my face turned to a sun that promises Indian summer. 

Since my previous posts, I have jumped ahead a fair bit in Donald Richie's Inland Sea, though I suppose the more linear-inclined can find the blanks filled by the second half of this post from December 2009.  But Richie's travel narrative too was spliced together from a variety of trips over the years, despite the book's seamless flow.   He wrote a great deal on Onomichi, the town which I was currently headed toward.  While he had spent a fair number of pages detailing the ins and outs of its back-alleys, I'd merely be passing through, with only enough time in town to get on a rented bicycle and move myself toward the water. 

It's no real surprise that Richie had in Onomichi alluded so much to sex (a favorite topic of sorts that can be found throughout his writings), as the Chinese characters for Onomichi could be quite liberally read as 'the path on which to pursue tail.'  In a similar distortion of kanji, I find myself whistling the old WWI classic, "Over there," during my ten minute journey across the strait to Mukaijima.

The island itself is essentially a suburb of the city.  I've always had a complicated relationship with Onomichi.  I greatly appreciate climbing the hills between its temples and along its 'path of literature.'  (I have a fond memory of walking the latter with a friend who struggled up the slopes on a leg crippled from polio, in a scene that could almost be found in one of Mishima's works.)  Despite that, I've always found it a godawfully ugly port city, whose unattractiveness can be seen even in 1953 in that marvellous closing shot of Ozu's Tokyo Story.  

But that is behind me now.  I make my way across the island, on a rented bicycle that bears the scars of multiple accidents.  Chipped paint, frayed wires, and a front basket misshapen like a gourd.  As I move along, the saddle wobbles a bit, but I am thankful for this play as it will spare me from a sore bum at the end of the day.  And most of its 24 gears are in good working order.  So it would be that on this machine I'll be spending the next three days, at an unhurried pace, over a route that could be covered in eight hours if done in one go.  Thus, I begin to follow the blue line toward Imabari on Shikoku. 

The first part of my journey is along a rather uninspired shopping street which eventually spills me out on the open waters of the bay. Amongst the boats anchored there is an old fishing boat with wooden cabin and neat triangular sail, which shines a fine white against the green and blue behind.  The sun shimmers off the water as I weave along the shoreline, stopping time and again to take photos.  Traffic along the road is thankfully sparse, and unhurried as it goes.  In contrast, vehicles move at great speed along the highway above, racing toward the first bridge which is beginning to loom up around the curves.  For us bicyclists, an access road has been built parallel, one that zigs and loops up through the fruit orchards toward the bridge's great height.  Mercifully, the road's pitch is kept at about 3 degrees, which allows for a slow but not terribly difficult ascent.  I reach the apex and am fed onto the bridge, one level down from all that speeding traffic overhead.  The bridge vibrates at their passage, which along with the height has me feeling a bit uneasy as I cross its kilometer-long span over the channel.

The road down the other side is a tight spiral, and before long I am back at the water's edge.  I wonder whether the bicycle paths were planned along with the bridge, or were an afterthought.  In any case, a good amount of concrete has been poured, no doubt to the delight of the LDP and the local construction industry.  I have often written of my disgust with Japan's concrete coated countryside, but I find that I don't particularly mind it in this form.  Rather than looking at roads to nowhere, I think I would quite enjoy riding similar paths through unkept forests and hills over the length of the country.

On Innoshima now.  I could cross the island in less than an hour, but decide to detour and look at its sights.  I had seen a trio of lighthouses from the bridge above, so try to seek them out.  I pedal up a steep mountain road, and notice the steps leading downward to structures so gleaming white that they once again bring out the comparison with Greece.  Climbing the steps is another bicyclist, spandex head to toe.  He is startled to see me, but once recovering, asks me where I am from.  I know the answer he is after, but I am feeling obstinate and say "Kyoto."  He mutters a bit after that, wondering why I am out here since Kyoto is such a beautiful place and has so much to offer.  People have to go somewhere, I suppose.  This encounter sets up a thematic tone for the next few days. Once again, the inhabitants in these remote corners rarely treat me as any different than they.  It is only the other travelers, those from the 'civilized' cities, who take note of the difference of my caucasial features.     

I nurse my 'wounds' with a coffee down at the water's edge, eyeing a lovely campsite edged up across the trees.  A few kilos further on, I pass a small hand written sign reminding riders to travel safely.  Beside the sign is a bouquet of cosmos and other wild flowers.  They are slowly drying in the sun, giving their lives for whomever lost theirs on this shaded curve in the road. 

I find my detour road to Shirataki-san, which twists upward at a 15 degree slant.  It isn't long before I am off the bike, pushing its heavy frame toward the sun.  Easier than riding, harder than walking.  I take a rest at a fork in the road, and eat a power bar.  I had very little breakfast this morning and am feeling it.  It must be affecting my judgement as well. As I return from scouting out a route down, I notice a crow atop my backpack, about to tear into my first aid kit.  I clap and holler to scare him off, but it is too late;  he's already gotten the rest of my snacks.  Just when I am calling him a murderous bastard (and things worse), I turn to see a pair of Australians with curious looks on their faces.  

The rest of the uphill goes quickly due to conversation.  I snap a few photos of them, then continue on my own, wandering over the hillside amongst the 700 stone Buddhas,  praising each and every one for such a clear day and rewarding views.  From this aerie I confirm my ride down, and before too long I am following it, around and to the south to a village where I get lunch at a kaiten sushi shop, inspired not in the least by the roundabout where I was raided by the crow.  From this encounter with a sanzoku (山賊) , I seek out the kaizoku (海賊), although here the pirates were called the euphamistic suigun, or navy.  I think back on the pirate lore of Megijima and others, but here is physical proof in the form of a castle keep standing on a hillock.  It is a rebuild to be sure, as a society as top-heavy as the Edo shogunate would never allow such blatant contrarians to exist, but it allows me an enjoyable half an hour to wander the displays of weapons and ships of yore, beneath the booming voice familiar from commercials and NHK.  

I loop back around to rejoin the path where I left it, then follow it off the island. Up and over now to Ikuchijima, pausing briefly for a mikan gelato on the way to Kosan-ji.  I have been here before, in a journey by car and ferry in those days before bridges.  Besides the kitschy entertainment of the passage through the Buddhist hells, all I remember is a bustling courtyard framed by gaudy architecture.  Today, it is lackluster, a bit forlorn, and I am nearly alone.  What a difference two decades makes.  It presents a wonderful example of mono-no-aware, and how poignant that a shrine built to the memory of a deceased mother has become so neglected at the death of the filial son.  There has been some attempt at resuscitation in the construction of the bright white marble 'Heights of Eternal Hope' that tops the hill behind.  Sadly, sometimes hope springs infernal, and perhaps they should add a new display to the passages through hell below, of death due to slow economic decline.        

I make one final stop for the day, at the adjacent museum of local artist Hirayama Ikuo.  I don't think much of his art (which might present better with black lights and lava lamps), but  am quite taken with his story, of a wanderer who covered a great deal in his time, along some rather remote pathways.  His steps took him far from this hometown of Setoda, a place of which Richie was quite critical in his book due to its crass commercialism, including his classic quote, “Travel hopefully broadens those who travel. It usually narrows those who have to deal with the travelers.”  Today, I find the place quietly charming, as my legs pump through their final revolutions of the day, coming to rest at my waterfront hotel.  

After dinner, I sit before my window and read.  Time and again, my attention is pulled by movement from outside.  Below me, water flows black through these narrow straits.  It carries along small water taxi along, which I watch until it disappears beneath the monochromatic rainbow of a small bridge.  It is only then that I realize how few boats I'd seen today.  I tend to associate the Inland Sea with the old ferries shunting residents from island to island.  How truly superfluous the bridges have made them, and the era in which the ruled. 

A high school girl is waiting in the light of the ferry terminal, to be eventually picked up by her mother.  I imagine that the mother too grew up on this island, with this scene repeated a generation before.  I compare her to the schoolgirl of a similar age who had served me dinner downstairs, in this hotel run by her family for countless generations.  Lives follow the lives of those who came before, time spinning like the movement of the eddies just offshore.     


On the turntable:  "MOM: Mother for our Oceans"
On the nighttable:  Sakuraba Kazuki, "Red Girls"

October 14 Elegy

Sunday papers: Donald Richie

“Travel hopefully broadens those who travel. It usually narrows those who have to deal with the travelers”   


On the turntable:  "Unwired from Around the World"

(untitled)

The clouds at Daisen's crown
Conjure up arboreal fashions,
To the envy of green waters.

On the turntable: The Beatles, "Revolver"
  

(untitled)

Storm-brought autumn morn.
Looking forward,
Looking back.

On the turntable: Boz Scaggs, "The Essential Boz Scaggs"
   

(untitled)

"Japan has great regard for itself, and unfortunately less for the rest of the earth."
--Gary Snyder

 

With the rising sun,
The river flows on
Cutting through concrete banks.

On the turntable: "We're a Happy Family; Tribute to the Ramones"
   

Sunday Papers: Henri Michaux

"The cinema, the phonograph, and the train are the real missionaries from the West."  (1930)


On the turntable: "Bondi Beach New Year's Party"
On the nighttable:  Henri Michaux, "A Barbarian in Asia"

(untitled)

Integrating concrete
With the beauty of four seasons.
Kurobe Gorge.

On the turntable:

(untitled)

Step by step
Up the Nakasendo
Through nature's many moods.

On the turntable: The Stranglers, "The Very Best of The Stranglers"
 

(untitled)

Weathered journeyman
Rests his heavy feet
Atop the pass.

On the turntable: Holly Cole Trio, "Don't Smoke in Bed"
  

(untitled)

What was once young and green,
Begins to bend toward the earth,
To which it will soon return.

On the turntable: Stump, "A Fierce Pancake"  

Sunday Papers: Francoise Sagan

"Art must take reality by surprise. It takes those moments which are for us merely a moment, plus a moment, plus another moment, and arbitrarily transforms them into a special series of moments held together by a major emotion."

On the turntable:  "Putumayo Presents Paris Cafe"

Sunday Papers: Honore de Balzac

"Our happiness, dear friend, will always fit between the soles of our feet and the crown of our head."

On the turntable:  "Putumayo Presents Mediterranean"
On the nighttable:  Peter Mayle, "A Year in Provence"

Sur la Route: Sud

I looked over the long rolling expanse of neatly trimmed grass, caring not a whit that it was now a golf course.  I was alone on the veranda of the Chateaux d'Augerville , allowing the coffee to bring heat into my body, surprised at the morning chill.  Above me, the soft light brought color into the trees.  

The sleepiness of this Sunday morning carried me along, as did the car through the open farmlands that would have been at home in the American Midwest.  I had a quick ironic smile as I passed through the village of Dimancheville, where little moved but the birds.  I imagined the Catholic inhabitants sitting idly in their homes, living the mantra of "never on Sunday."

The land stretched on, then began to rise and take on additional color.  This was Burgundy again, and the tendrils of vineyards looked ready to reclaim all before them.  (And metaphorically that might be true.)  Only the chapels and abbeys stood safe, perched as they were at the great heights of the hilltops.  We chose to take the backroads on this our return journey, bringing us into closer contact with the landscape.  At this closer range, we were charmed with the region's beauty, and began to talk excitedly of a return visit to deepen our acquaintance.  

As for tonight, we'd stay at the Chateaux d'Ige, nestled deep in a valley outside Mâcon.  Our room was atop the spiraling stone staircase in the turret of this old fortress, though the view from our window showed little to protect outside of seemingly infinite rows of that tantalizing grape.  The bells in the church tower began to chime, as if counting down toward a time when we could try out some of the region's famed Pouilly Fuisse. Most of our waking hours, we passed outdoors,  either reading out on the lawn, or dining beside a Japanese garden that was more Monet than Mirei.  

The following morning we took a brief drive through Mâcon, impressed with the line-up of buildings along its river. Within the spiderweb of narrow streets we found the famous Maison de Bois built entirely of wood, and within its roots we grabbed a take away coffee for the short drive to Lyon.

The caffeine began to rush through our systems as the traffic did just the opposite.  Moments after entering the auto-route, we came to a complete halt due an accident up ahead.  We tuned into traffic information on the radio, and at each repeat mention of the snarl, the number of kilometers blocked up was increased by three.  This was the main north-south artery in the country, and as such, France had had a stroke.  As if mocking the situation, just to our left, the Saône flowed cheerily on. 

We arrived in Lyon 90 minutes later than planned for our meeting with my old college friend roommate.   An incidental Facebook post a few days before had alerted my friend Derek to the fact that I was in Europe, and we soon realized that we'd both be in Lyon on the same day.  He didn't mind our late arrival, being both jet-lagged and aiming for a low-key day since he would be representing the U.S. in the decathlon at the World Masters Athletics competition over the next few days.  As it was, it was nice to spend a couple of hours together, strolling the lesser streets of the old city, catching up on eight years.  

It took LYL and I a little bit of time to escape Lyon's clutches, and once free, we made our way toward the Alps.  We paralleled them awhile before turning directly in after realizing that we'd chosen the wrong auto-route south.  It was a fortuitous mistake as the detour would take us through some spectacular scenery, including an incredible descent down a series of serpentine turns that dropped us a thousand meters down the mountain face.  The valleys which followed brought further delight, and it was easy to imagine that Napoleon too had been equally impressed by the Vercours landscape during his return from exile along these same roads.  Though the man may have had other things on his mind at the time. 

Bicycling the old Napoleon road seemed to be a popular summer pastime, and I too could see myself strolling these 300+ kilometers, as the River Durance brought me within nodding distance of a series of picturesque towns lined up between Sisteron and Digne.   It was due to the combination of such beauty and my growing fatigue that we decided to stop over for the night and enjoy the drive for another day.  We found an old silkworm farm to put us up, grabbing the last room at short notice though sadly on a day when its famous chef had a night off.  A meal had a short drive away proved to be sufficient, and before long we drifted to well-deserved sleep beneath a bizarre choice of wallpaper that depicted a 1940s Manhattan skyline.

I awoke to the last efforts of a morning rainfall, which ceased the moment we entered Provence, as befitting the season.  The heat never led up as we climbed and climbed, twisting and winding through the Gorges of Verdon.  A village in the middle was perfectly placed for lunch, then we were back into the hills again, through villages and town of no known fame, yet each one absolutely perfect.   They were sleepy in the midday, making even a coffee stop a formidable task. And at 4 p.m. they awoke again, and at 4:05, freshly caffeinated, so did I.   

The roads grew smaller and smaller, until we were alone on the road, shaded by the increasing olive and fruit groves.   The asphalt dropped away with the centuries to eventually become a dirt path, until it too thinned to enter a familiar gate that drew us in.  


On the turntable: "Groovy Instrumentals"
On the nighttable:  Francoise Sagan,  "Bonjour Tristesse"

Sur la Route: Nord

They've fenced in Antoine St. Exupery's airfield.  I came past on a summer's evening last year, on the way to a memorable meal at Auberge La Môle (Though in Provence, all meals are memorable).  The new stone wall would not have contained the wandering spirit of St. Ex, which often took flight from the dirt strip beyond, a spirit eventually lost to the waters just south of here.  As for my own wandering spirit, it would have to find satisfisfaction in keeping between the lines of a road stretching itself east along the Côte d'Azur.

The twisting road unwound itself at the old Greek trading post of Hyéres, the olive trees falling away as the auto-route took me through a landscape reminiscent of the work of Ansel Adams and Georgia O'Keeffe, rocky arid mounts rising toward the flawless blue sky of July, though here ancient fortified villages have replaced the stone spires.  Cezanne found great delight in this earth, in Montagne Ste-Victoire in particular, at whose foot lies the grave of Picasso, a man greatly inspired by his predecessor. 

Amidst this dry landscape there were fountains, drawing from the same spring that the Romans had used to soothe their battle-wounds.  The picturesque city/town of Aix-en-Provence has grown up around them, water gushing from each square, interconnected by narrow lanes choked today with the pressing bodies of tourists.  They meandered and dawdled, their steps taking them in unpredictable arcs, bisected by the lightning-fast straight courses traced by instrument-laden buskers moving as if late for work.  We escaped them and the heat for a meal in a small bistro, cooling our heels upon the colored tile.  Afterwards, LYL led me around the twisting maze of the city where she once attended university.   All roads lead to the Cours Mirabeau, where we sat for a coffee in the Deux Garçons, myself imaging what native sons Cezanne and Zola would have talked about when they took their positions beneath large, intricately framed mirrors.  Probably commenting on the passersby, as did we.    

The location of our hotel above the Cours Mirabelle ensured a poor night's sleep, mostly by the street cleaning crews at work in the soft light of daybreak.  But it also created a pleasant opportunity for a tourist-free retracing of steps through the city at dawn.  Afterwards,  we drove into the greener and more fertile rolling of hills that is the Rhône Valley.  It was the dreaded first weekend of the month-long summer holiday, and it seemed like all of France was on the move.  Or not, as the snail-pace of the auto-route allowed us a bit too much time to ponder the ugly architecture of the up-and-coming Confluence, where the Rhône and the Saône joined together after caressing the contours of Lyon.  It was refreshing to walk these streets at a pace slightly quicker than which we had driven, in a proper French city, along broad boulevards framed by tall 17th and 18th Century facades whose glassy street level floors were devoted to 21st Century capitalism.

Lyon is both famous and infamous for the deliciousness of its food, and our steps seemed to take us from table to table.  In between we wandered gingerly over the cobblestones of the old town, where the tourists were protected by machine-gun toting soldiers whose armored bodies looked as if they have arrived from a century all their own.  We left all of them when we crossed over to an affordable-looking artistic quarter marked by a series of murals standing above the river.  Beyond the photogenic Robert Bresson primary school to Place de la Comedie, marked by a grand fountain designed by Bartholdi, looking nearly as grand as the Statue of Liberty that he had designed a decade earlier.    As we were admiring her waters, we were politely asked to step back so that a film crew could shoot what might go on to be the latest hit in Bollywood. 

That evening we ate in a culinary school set up by renowned chef Paul Bocuse, housed conveniently on the ground floor of our hotel facing the Place Bellecour.  As I sat at my window-side table, I noticed that I was drawing a fair bit of attention from passersby, who would either stare, or give me a thumbs up.  This would be repeated throughout our travels over the next few days, making me begin to wonder what French celebrity they were mistaking me for.  

Another early start, from one wine producing region to another.  But Burgundy would wait for another day, and before long its vineyard studded hills would flatten out as we drew closer to Paris.  We would stop fifty kilometers short, at Fontainebleau, to stretch our legs amongst the Chateau's 1900 rooms.  Napoleon and Louis XIV had slept here, in one or two of them, built over a series of centuries.  Whomever the Emperor, he must have had a hard time sleeping beneath the busy patterns of wood, and stone, and tapestry.  After two decades amongst the Zen aesthetic of Japan, I found it all headache inducing after awhile.  So the chateau's vast open grounds were a relief and a delight, a series of simple demarcated right angles looking quite...Zen.    

We ourselves slept at another Chateau that night, preempted by a stop at the midway point between them for a party which had served as the catalyst for the entire road trip.  LYL's friend was holding the party for her daughter's 40th birthday, and as the light was softening from the day, we found ourselves on the lawn of an old longére French house which stretched across what would be a full city block.  We sipped from glasses of vin blanc while listening to a guitar driven chamber orchestra playing through their repertoire of 1950s light jazz.  A quintet of Moroccans served up an assembly line couscous, as a lamb spun lazily over an open fire behind.  As our host had once been an Ambassador, we were in a rather colorful and diverse crowd of expats from whatever their country of origin.  No one was where they had once belonged, as if a jigsaw puzzle had been spilled across the grass.  I had the best of conversations, I had the worst of conversations, and after one too many of the latter,  LYL discreetly pulled me away in the direction of the car. 

Not long afterward we pulled up before our chateau, our shadows elongating toward its well-lit facade.  I half imagined that it truly was ours, with the staff waiting inside to bid us goodnight and to count down the hours until the first coffee of dawn.    

On the turntable:  "Colors of the World"
On the nighttable:  Colette, "Break of Day"

Fragments of France

(I began this fragment back in July, intending to contrast it with mornings spent England later in the trip.  The passage of quiet days in those respective countrysides apparently lulled me into forgetfulness.) 

Slow quiet simmering days book-ended by strong coffee and delicate rosé.  The morning was the only time that the heat was down.  Evening too I suppose, but by then I was too wilted to do much.

In France at the height of summer I was reminded once again of how civilized daylight savings time is, in that you can arise at a reasonably late hour when the day is still cool, and in the evening enjoy long meals outdoors as the clock ticks toward double-digits.  My frustration built once again at the  stubborn refusal of Japan to adopt it, forcing us all indoors at the peak of our energy, until four a.m. rolls around, and we find ourselves yet again awake in a pool of our own sweat.

In that villa above the village of La Môle, the days passed in near carbon copies of each other.  As is my usual habit, I'd still rise with the sun, but here that usually meant around seven.  LYL would need another hour or so of sleep, so I'd pass the time with a book and a cup out on the terrace, until I'd go back inside to wake her.  


On the turntable: "Cafe del Mar, Vol. 9"

Sunday Papers: John Hillaby

"News, somebody pointed out, is literature in a hurry."

On the turntable, "The Rough Guide to Italy"
On the nighttable:  Collette, "Break of Day"

(untitled)

On the weathered shores
From once a proud navy sailed,
Cats sleep.

On the turntable: Madness, "Seven"