I'd rather be in France 7/7/17

Ah, splendid view

from a distance

up close

and

from the upper tiers

Wish

I was picnicking 

on the grass

Day break in Mississippi: 20 lb Madchen purrs atop my closed computer. Gave her the "fish-eye." Computer still won't forward, reply or compose. Cuss cat and computer.

Let Schatzie in. Refuses dry food. "Eat it. It cleans your teeth, so they don't fall out." Rebuttal meows. Give him tuna.

JB on the couch with a cigarette. Morning news: large company refuses to hire anyone who smokes. Yeah! That doesn't work here. Make him coffee.

Commercial: Lula says donuts and a bucket of Church's Chicken are one remedy for stress. I need a donut. Maybe several. Chicken later.

Clean up body and attitude. Smear face with Origins Active Charcoal Mask to clear pores. Lie down. Compose self. Go deep. Find my center. Ahhh

A comfortable 73 degrees. Dewy in and out: typical semi-tropical Southern morning. No mosquitoes . . . yet. No need to move fast. Swerve to miss street lump: lost pillow. Muster gratitude we aren't flooded and it isn't snowing.

Donut Shop on #61: Raspberry filled for JB, chocolate filled for me, and a short Cappuccino.

Retrace route. Donut scent tickles nose and taste buds. Tempted to pull over and eat both. Spot tall, shaded garden tomatoes on the vine. Market hopefuls. Temperature rose three degrees, headed to high nineties with Ozone warning.

Give Johnny his donut. Nibble and sip at my French table by the kitchen window. Open plantation blinds a sliver. Filtered sunlight decorates and dances on my table. Parisian sidewalk cafe, sans swooping-in purse snatchers. Ah, accordion music, and a Citron, "Get out of my way!" horn. French girl giving the waiter "Merci!" for a bottle of water. Aaahhh.

Stroll along the Seine. Sidestep doggy-do. Artists out early for the light. Appreciate their work. Tell them so. Love French Berets. Ride the subway to the Louvre. Underground wall art, not graffiti. Spending the day at the Louvre. I miss you Ms. Mona Lisa.

Along The Champs-Elysee: Catch a hint of an exotic fragrance. Stick my wrist out for a sample. Clerk, "Chanel No. 5, of course." To die for.

8 am CST. Begin work sans jet lag. Try to write complete sentences. First take a stroll through "Monet's Garden," my happiest place on earth.

Feeling inspired. Write a few.

Mid-morning break. Read a little of Janet Evanovich's "Smokin' Seventeen." Stephanie Plum, I can't make up my mind whether it should be you and Morelli, or you and Ranger.

Get serious. Write!

Microsoft ClipArt Photo
©Copy 2017  Red Convertible Travel Series

Le Monte Ste Michel

I couldn't believe this picture showed up on fb. And I'm thrilled someone told me how to copy it. Two Yah's!!

Without the causeway, access was limited. See my story posted 8/2/12.

2012 Red Convertible Travel Series

Le Mont Saint Michel, France

When a Divine Being appears it sets into motion a following of pilgrims to the site in hopes of blessings - God knows we all need them. In the 8th Century Ste. Michel appeared to Bishop Aubert of Avranges, Fance, asking him to build a small chapel on the Mont 300 miles northwest of Paris on the Atlantic Ocean. I wonder what the command felt like? Did he tingle or was he propelled into ecstasy? Did he doubt he could do it? It was no easy task, but it stands today as a testament to Ste. Michel's love and devotion to God and Bishop Aubert's obedience.

www.ot-montsaintmichel.com/en/accueil.htm  Paste, if you can't access.


The sea rises and falls at the base of the Mont. Unpredictable high tides swept many a pilgrim from the path into a watery grave before the causeway was built in the late 1800's. Years ago my sister and I walked half a mile in the gloom, and damp wind on the last leg of out pilgrimage of thousands of miles by air and hundreds by car. Among the pilgrims were bereted old men, accompanied by old women with head scarves and substantial shoes, mingling with children and grandchildren working their way toward the chapel at the top. Not all would make it, just being inside the fortress counted.
Having walked off our breakfast croissant, the first place we saw to eat was Madame Poullard's. thebluechef.blogspot.com/.../famous-omelet-from-la-mre-poulard.ht...   
Seated by a window, outsiders peered at us zoo-like. A white-coated man rhythmically whipped eggs with a long-handled whisk in a large copper bowl. He didn't just whip them twenty or thirty times, he beat the daylight of them. Veggies, cheeses, and meats or seafood are ala carte. Each omelet filled a platter and stood several inches high. The waiter served it as if it were a pricelsss piece of art. The price confirmed it. A leg of salt-meadow lamb was recommended for the second course. I passed. I was full of omelet air.

We wound through narrow streets and small businesses featuring souvenirs of candles, prayer cards, pictures and whatever would remind pilgrims of Ste.Michel 's love and devotion to God and Bishop Aubert's obedience. The further we walked, the less crowded it was.

Quietly we entered the silent, empty stone Chapel more than 500 feet above the sea. A few vigil candles burned confirming previous visitors. The sun broke through the gloom and slid through the lead-glass windows splashing color around us.

At an old wooden pew I knelt and thanked God and Ste. Miche and Bishop Auberge for listening and obeying. I'd come to listen, too. Maybe it is in the air, but a message unfolded, as if pre-recorded. In my heart I felt "I need to trust God to direct my life, believe, and have faith that Thy will is best."

Atop the chapel stands a gold statue of Ste. Michel with his wings spread, his sword raised, and his left foot stomping on the dragon symbolizing darkness overcome, hope and justice. He's our fierce defender, patron saint of perils at sea and policemen; the friend I take with me everywhere. If I could, I'd have a two-story stained glass window of Ste. Michel. Working as a cable lady, I pulled over to ask a man for directions. He stopped his weed whacking, and pointed to the back of the lot. Then he turned back to me and said, "Don't go there, he's been drinking all day." I thanked him and Ste. Michel.

We stepped out through the portal we came in, wrapped our coats close to shut out the cold wind and headed across the windy, treeless sand with threads of sea strung out, as if waiting to be woven. And then I realized, Ste. Michel and Bishop Auberge were weaing faith and trust into us.

2012 Red Convertible Travel Series

Ste. Quentin, France - No money, no room

Driving into France from the east we stopped at Ste. Quentin to exchange dollars for francs and find a room. We don't speak French, and we didn't recognize a bank name. At the Post a man held the door for Minnie. She thanked him. He responded, "You're welcome," in English.

"Stop! Please. We can't find a bank." He paused, looked us over, and asked if we'd follow him. We nodded. At the third bank, Credit Agriculture, he negotiated a VISA draw of dollars for francs. Thank God.

"Where are you staying?" he asked. We didn't have a reservation. "Oh, I can help with that." Taking charge, he called an Auberge near an American cemetery and reserved us a room. Thank God. He smiled, successful a second time.

"What do you plan to see and do?" We were open to suggestions. "You're traveling without destination too?" Shocked, his expression said 'you need a keeper'. Our go-with-the-flow philosophy needed explaining. Each day we put God first and let him lead us. That did it. He realized God was working through him to help us, smiled, took our map, spread it on the hood of our car, and pointed out places of interest. Thank God. Thank you three times Mr. Cache.

We bought him coffee and sat a spell. Between chocolate pastry bites, he shared that he liked visiting San Francisco. We all agreed this wasn't an accidental meeting. By putting God first, everything we needed was provided.

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series

Saint Teresa of the Child Jesus, The Little Flower

In Saint Peter's Cathedral at Lisieux, France I knelt at an old wooden pew to give thanks, pray, contemplate Saint Teresa's contribution to life, and wonder how saints are made. The air smelled damp, musty. The incense said, "You are in church."

I hoped something magical would happen, and it did. I opened my heart to soak up "the momentum of application," the energy of accumulated prayerful activity. Saint Teresa's gracious, loving presence came through. In my heart I felt, "Copy me. Make room for Him in your life, to live with and walk with you always, careful to stay positive so he can work with and through you for all. Trust God all the time. Love without exception."

copyright 2005 Red Convertible Travel Series