The journey? The destination?

Thanks to a combination of popular acclaim and some people's difficulty accessing my blog site, I am continuing with these emails, as well as trying to make them into a blog.
According to my friend Susie, it's the journey, not the destination. I am often of the other school, finding the journey to be the uncomfortable parts, the diesel fumes, the cramped airplane seat, the ugly streets and interminable standing in line on the way to the scenic attraction. But how do we distinguish a destination from a journey? Videy Island was a destination, but we wouldn't have had the chance to go there, nor even heard of it, if we had not stopped in Iceland simply as a break in the journey. The Notre Dame likewise: fabulous, but we were in Paris on our way to Poitiers. Though we had to fly into somewhere (that makes it a destination, right?) once we had determined that we would be there, we stayed a while and enjoyed it. And that's where we left off those emails, with me stumping around Paris with a cane and my brother suggesting I take my life in my hands and rubberneck from a Vespa.
We took a bus to Gare Montparnasse and a train to Poitiers, where Nels's friend Shauna picked us up and took us home to Lusignan. We had no idea she didn't live in metro Poitiers, but I am delighted.
I guess Lusignan counts as a destination. Paris and Barcelona are simply the airports we are using along the way. We wrote to the three people we know between us in Europe. One didn't respond. One was going to be away. Shauna said, "Come. Stay as long as you like."
Lusignan is a village of a few thousand people on the old pilgrimage route to St. Jacques de Compostelle. I have thought of walking that road, as it clearly antedates Christianity. Sitting on the train I was thinking that an hour on the rails would be several days walk. So I'm glad to touch it tangentially.
It's gorgeous here, with ruins of the old castle and a view over the wooded valley. The people here trace their heritage through Melusine, who was an ondine or a serpent goddess or I guess both. My kind of people.
From the train we see wheat fields, cows, red poppies, little islands of wooded land among the ploughed fields. Old farmsteads with courtyards enclosed in stone walls. Rural and small-town France seems to me the epitome of the good life, permaculture in action not applied remedially to industrial ugliness, but as carried forwards from a time when building a life that endures was the only practical - or perhaps even possible - way to behave. It can be constraining, of course. The new buildings mimic the old. But constraint is a necessity for life, and creates a visual harmony that highlights both the little variations of detail and the life that the stone walls enclose.
France is not as bad as Iceland for the air quality standards, but still not California by a long way. All these Peugeots and Renaults and Citroens. Why don't we have them at home? Do they not measure up? I miss my 404. Of course even here, those are so old one doesn't see them.
We took the train to La Rochelle, accompanied by Shauna's thirteen-year-old daughter as our translator and guide. Lucky for us she had stayed home from school with a tummy ache. Saw the old towers and wall that defended the harbor in the days before cannon. Walked barefoot on the little sand beach by the port, but couldn't actually get out of the inlet to the ocean.
Went for a fancy dinner in Poitiers for Nels's birthday. Walked around the town a little first, medieval church with someone practicing the organ, 15th century university (loved the old stone staircase, was happy to find the unlocked washroom underneath), hilly nonlinear streets of half-timbered houses, beautiful green river with big fish, Worried that we wouldn't be able to be seated in the tiny restaurant we had chosen, so we got a reservation, but as it turned out we had chosen wrong. I don't know whether the food was as bad as it seemed, or whether the ugly mural and cracking plastic menus affected my appetite. Oh well. It didn't bother him as much as it did me.
Almost 50 degrees north, three weeks before solstice, it stays light too late to enjoy the stars. Many weeds I don't recognize. Many local foods I haven't tried. Seems like we are mostly taking it easy and staying home, but tell that to my knee. Want to go canoeing in the local marshes and canals, but not alone, and I have no one to share paddling. Lindens coming into blossom sweeten the warm air. Swallows, woodpeckers, bats. Tomorrow we're off to see chaateauux.

Ah, Paris

This is such a meeting place for the world. One hears so many languages on the street. I'm not nearly as embarrassed by my poor French as I was, nor is it as necessary as last time. So many people speak English, locals and tourists alike. Of course we are immediately spotted as English speakers. We were standing in line at the Notre Dame and the gentleman in front of us asked us whether we spoke English; he had some questions. I asked where he was from: India. And I laughed in sympathy with a tired middle-aged Asian woman in the Orangerie elevator. Not knowing her language I didn't comment aloud. But she spoke to me in English. She was from Hong Kong. Then we struck up a conversation on the bus with a couple with a strong accent, who were complaining about the heat. That surprised me; they sure looked Indian. But having lived in Minnesota for over 25 years, 90 degrees was as wilting to them as it was to me.

The scooters are bigger than they used to be; I keep mistaking them for motorcycles. And now there must be helmet laws. It amazed me to see a woman wearing a motorcycle helmet and rhinestone sandals. 

Fewer people smoke, and it doesn't seem to be all Gauloises. And in fact, it appears to be an outdoor activity. Maybe it's no longer OK indoors.

Last time I was here I was struck by the uniformity of dress. It seemed there was one general look, and every woman wore a variant of it. Now I'm hard put to find any commonalities. Every possible skirt length and dress shape, A few possible themes I notice, or make up out of what catches my eye. The color of the season seems to be a brilliant vermillion orange. Sheer black overskirts or tunics over shorter black garments can look either graceful or absurd. And it seems torn jeans will never go out of fashion, especially over fishnets. or other underlayers. But perhaps the most noticeable to me was a young man (20's? 30's?) in what looked like a fairly form-fitting (nice butt) toddler's sunsuit in a print like a geometric tie.

So what's the difference between a 55 euro dinner and a 110 euro dinner?

For one thing, one claims 8 courses, brings 4 at once, then two separately, then two together, for a total of 4. Okay, five with the bread.

The other claims 6 courses, and brings 16 separate items, one at a time. Well, it's true I'm counting the bread, but they brought three successive breads, and butter with the first, for which we had to ask at the other place. 

I loved the fancy one. Nels preferred the somewhat more simple one. A treat to try both. Our neighborhood restaurants seem consistently good also.

The Orangerie at last. Monet's Water Lilies. The last time I was here was 49 years ago with my father, who adored Monet's work. I believe I can see more in the canvases now, despite my ageing eyes. No wonder my dad was excited about those canvases. They were contemporary with his youth (painted 1920 -1926). I had thought they were historic, even to him.

There were two things I like better in Reykjavik than in Paris - the botanic garden and the weather. It's in the 90s here the past couple of days. The peonies were barely in bud in Iceland, and already lost their blossoms here. Ah, Paris. Was walking home from the botanic garden. Got tired, found a cafe, ordered ice cream and tea, looked up and across the river, there was Notre Dame. Pulled out the binoculars, studied the details of the part we could see between the trees. Later went inside. While we were looking at the carvings they started playing the organ and singing. And we walked out into the sound of bells ringing for mass.

Nels likes it here, we briefly imagine living here. Then I realize how I would miss my garden.

Dorothy, we're not in Iceland any more

Was walking across the Seine, footsore, when we realized that the long spring evenings were fooling us and it was dinner time. So instead of getting on a bus and heading home, we kept walking, looking for a place to eat.

Just as I was thinking I couldn't go any further, the next restaurant we saw seemed to exude an air of calm that drew us in - possibly because it was somewhat more expensive, so it had fewer patrons than the ones we had passed. First we sat outside to watch the street life and enjoy the evening breeze, but soon we realized that the evening breeze was 80% cigarette smoke and the street life consisted of motorcycle noise. So we moved inside and found an Art Nouveau fantasia of wood and mirrors and paintings and tile, with wrought iron coat hooks and a stained glass ceiling. The waiters dashed about so briskly I felt I was watching a floor show. Nels liked the food better than our fancy meal yesterday, but I would choose the other any time!

I walked with my cane yesterday, which helped somewhat and also got me a seat on a crowded bus (thank you!). Still walking more than I ought, but I hate being left behind. And my idea of visiting a city is to wander about. Maybe I can take more busses.

I think the jet lag has caught up with me. I got up this morning around 7, and went yawning back to bed at 9, which would be midnight back home, and slept for hours.