So you think you’re a hepcat? You can’t touch the cool of these guys in Provence.
They own the town. You will be tolerated. . .or possibly ignored altogether.
We tried to talk to this guy (loved his beautiful racoon tail!), but he could care less about befriending us. (He was French, he was a cat, we were clearly below him.)
And we fared no better with his neighbor:
I am a cat, not a doorstop.
But we did run across a few cats who weren’t too cool to have a little fun:
I woke up this morning in my new house. I’ve been here about two weeks and been living out of a suitcase for over a month now. Often as not, I’ve been sleeping on a blow up bed on the floor.
This is part of the move madness that holds you in its grip when you stage a move from overseas—it’s a protracted madness, because when you move an entire household of furniture over the ocean, you move it on a slow boat.
So I woke up for the umpteenth day on the floor, and I had to use considerable effort to haul myself upright. I’ve developed a wicked catch in my side that Advil only dulls. I didn’t have that problem two weeks ago, so I think there is some cumulative wear and tear that this sort of living takes on you.
Then again, I wasn’t 50 a few weeks ago.
Glasses and graying hair– it’s no joke.
Over the hill jokes aside, I’m holding my own pretty well. My knees and ankles do click, and reading glasses, which are the bane of my existence, are paradoxically also my most valued possession at present.
Still, I have no real complaints. All in all, I’m feeling pretty youthful. . . and just a tad immature.
However, there has been another disturbing development. That new house I’m waking up in? It’s in a retirement community. (!!??!!) Believe me, I didn’t know this when we signed the contract. Had no idea. It’s just a slightly cruel twist of fate.
There are other families in this neighborhood, and some of them young, but the majority of my neighbors are retired. (Well, this is Florida.)
Before we signed a contract on this house, I Googled the general area. All the intel came back positive. After we signed the contract, I had more time to do the peripheral research– figure out exactly what our corner of the neighborhood was all about. I started by looking deeper into the neighborhood clubhouse and the many photos of it posted online–just hoping to get a better idea of any activities that might be going on, or a general vibe to the community. That’s when I began to have a creeping suspicion.
There was a New Year’s Eve party at the clubhouse last year. Photos were posted. I thought to myself, this is sure to reveal some neighborhood secrets! And, for sure, it was revelatory. By the looks of it, the party was attended by only the over 70 crowd. Still, this wasn’t shocking, because most people have other places to go on New Years. (This is what I told myself.)
Then I looked at the photos from Mardi Gras. The same senior (but somewhat randy) crowd, all wearing purple and gold. It seemed a little suspect. I Googled the demographics, and suspicions were confirmed: the average age here is over 66. I wrung my hands and reminded myself, “This is Florida—demographics will be skewed.”
Then we rolled into town last week and were happy to find that there are a few other families around. Haven’t seen a lot of other teens yet, but hopefully they are here. The good news about living in an older community is that the community pool isn’t over-run (I think that’s good; not sure my kids agree), and the homeowner’s association cuts your grass for you (that is worth the clicking knees any day!). But, I confirmed with a friend in town, this area is considered a retiree community on our side of town. *Sigh*
I won’t lie to you—there is a little sting to turning 50 and immediately moving into a retiree-rich community. There is a wicked, biting humor to it.
But I do love my neighbors– they are all friendly and eager to greet you with a bottle of wine and a smile. Also, I have a small beach and quiet pool down the block, and a grounds crew who cut the grass, so I think I can live with it. I’m just praying that my children don’t draw too many scolding looks for the tremendous noise they sometimes create . . . and that I never have to fend off a pass from the 85 year old crowd. There are not enough Geritol vitamins in the world to make that okay.
You know, I think I’ll avoid the Mardi Gras party at the clubhouse next year.
Today’s travel memory is brought to you by summertime heat–days that start out hot, become alarmingly hotter, and end in your body, bones and all, reduced to a puddle on the asphalt. If this sounds like the beginning of another post on my new home in Florida . . . oddly enough, it isn’t. Today’s memory is from Schloss Schonbrunn (Schonbrunn Palace), in Vienna, Austria. It was built in the 17th and 18th centuries, modified in the 19th century, and partially reconstructed after WWII (the palace took a direct hit in 1945)– so it is, in every sense, “one for the ages.”
Emperor Leopold I had planned to build a palace that would rival, or surpass, Versailles. At the end of the day, Schonbrunn did not meet that goal, but its elegant lines and interiors still impress. The Palace has over 1400 rooms, but only 30-40 are opened for touring.
We visited on an outrageously hot day in July of 2015, when the mercury was hovering at around 100 degrees Fahrenheit. We toured the inside of the palace, which was impressive–but we were wilting in the un-airconditioned and little-ventilated space, along with a throng of fellow tourists, so our photos skew toward views of the garden, where at least we could catch a slight breeze. (Two days later, we’d find ourselves in Budapest and standing under the nozzles of misting trucks, brought out to offer relief from the extreme heat– relief that’s hard to come by in a region that so rarely deals with this sort of heat, and where air conditioning is the exception to the rule.)
The grounds are massive, and they boast not only beautifully manicured gardens, but plenty of shady spots for sitting, and a maze for your children (or you!) to test your wits in. (Being somewhat witless, and horrifically directionally challenged, I sent the children in ahead of me and then wandered in shady patches and took photographs.)
Schonbrunn is a very popular tourist destination, so if you go in the summer, you might consider purchasing tickets online ahead of time to avoid lines. Schonbrunn also hosts many concert series and has a zoo on its grounds, so there is lots to do. Plan on spending at least half a day there (better still, a whole day).
Finally, I’ll leave you with one of my favorite photos from the day: a bicycle in the gardens. Not sure why I love this photo so– maybe it brings a human scale to a massive palace and grounds, or simply offers a sense of adventure and movement (travel!) to a formal landscape.
There was a blog-space challenge making its rounds this week, for posts and photos of “The Things We Leave Behind.” There have been great photos of, and posts about, crumbling architecture, changing cityscapes, found objects, etc. The challenge catches me in a nostalgic mood, having just moved back Stateside, so my mind has lighted on personal memories– earlier travels when my children were little. I’ll share just a few of those photos here.
The first photos come from an early summer day in Yorkshire, England, when Chitty Chitty Bang Bang (the actual car from the movie) made an appearance at a local manor house one Saturday. The owner of the car, who had actually driven the car in at least one scene in the movie, was proudly displaying his picture-perfect auto and answering a frenzy of questions from fans of all ages.
One lucky person, whose name was drawn out of a hat, got to go for a ride in the car. We didn’t make that cut, but we enjoyed ogling the iconic car anyway. It was a magical day.
I look at the photos now, and it does feel like an era left behind: our lives in England, our children’s wide-eyed elementary and preschool years, and a certain fabled-space that those two things created in their synergy.
It’s funny, but when I looked at a number of old photos that I might post of “Things We Leave Behind,” I found that my present nostalgic filter made me see each of them differently. For example, this photo from Fountains Abbey, in Yorkshire. I went looking for a picture of the impressive ruins of the Catholic abbey that Henry the VIII closed down (but which partially stands proud to this day), but what I saw immediately in the photo was my son’s love of the Davy Crockett coonskin cap which he wouldn’t take off of his head, even in the summer heat. It was a funny phase. . . but eventually left behind.
When I looked at this photo of graffiti on the walls of Kings College Chapel, in Cambridge, England (some of it dating back to the 1600’s), I immediately remembered a lazy afternoon stroll along the Cam River and “the Backs” of the university with my daughter. And I also thought of the graffiti on the walls in the Tower of London, some of it from prisoners kept there hundreds of years ago, and I remembered my children’s amazement at it, and their love of British history when it was so solidly placed in front of them, and so brilliantly re-animated by the British book, TV, and stage series “Horrible Histories.” Living elbow to elbow with history is something that Europeans do very well, but Americans a little less so.
Maybe that’s just a matter of circumstance. Europeans simply have so much more history to steep in than Americans, and it’s in your face on every street corner. Still, it offers a certain long view of the world that is so very valuable–a sense that we don’t really “leave behind” things, so much as we build on and around them.
Like childhood and Chitty Chitty, there are certain things that we should never totally leave behind–and couldn’t, even if we wanted too.
Travels and Tomes: One Expat's Amblings and Ramblings 