Yeah, day 2

It's actually a little depressing.

Or I am just tired.

Yeah. Just tired.

It's brick.

And, it's silica.

And, one day it will be covered again.
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Day 1: Scaffolding and homeless bees

On the ground.

"Why haven't you returned my calls?" was the first thing Joachim said to me, when they arrived in the garden around 11:30 this morning. I figured as much.

"You have to call the home number. My cell phone doesn't receive signal here." Oh. Enough said, never mind, say no more, say no more.

All is forgiven, there is only joy to see three men and know there was a truck outside.

Joachim. Georges. José. Since they are Portuguese, you pronounce the "J" in José "Zho". Georges just adopted the French equivalent. They seem like pleasant people to have around for the next half year.

What's that? You thought it was going to be three months, two for the exterior and one for the interior? Oh, well no, actually. A job done right takes time, you know.

....

Bees

So, down came the little shelter for the no longer existing water softening system (much needed, still!) in the entry courtyard on the kitchen wall. When I returned from taking a paper to the mairie that is needed for our approval (remember that we have the mayor's approbation to start ahead of official approval from the authority that approves projects in the historical zone of the Château de la Roche- Guyon), I saw Georges looking as pale as I have ever seen him (since late this morning).

He pointed to the wreck of the bump on the house and said, barely audibly, "Bees."

I tried my best to make light of it, assuring them that the bees are disturbed because, clearly, they had their nest there (I wondered from where the tens of bees in the lavender come, and now I guess I have my answer) and told them that as long as they kept to their business, the bees would keep to their own, which was trying to figure out where their home had gone. I think they wanted me to spray them to oblivion, but I told them I couldn't anyway because bees are a protected species. Were I to call the firemen to come and get rid of them, they would have to refuse. Politely, but firmly.

"Really, there are tons of them in the lavender and never has any one of us been stung. Ever." He looked very doubtful, considering the bees buzzing around the debris.

"There are at least 20. There were only 8 or so before," he peeped. I smiled brightly and encouragingly and limped back to the house.

....

The politics of the corner evergreen

For the evergreen at the corner of the house, they are making an effort to remove only as much as necessary to be able to do the work. They think it should just go. Audouin agrees that it should be cut to just under the balcony, but he would like to save it because it screens the view into the garden from the gate. Personally, it wouldn't make me sad to see it go because it isn't very attractive and it traps moisture.

One evening, Audouin and I went to get the crystal wine glasses my mother gave us -- those that happen to be stored in the cupboard on the inside of the wall behind the evergreen -- for a dinner party we were hosting, and we discovered that the cardboard boxes were covered in mold from the humidity. It took me a little while to realize that the evergreen was responsible.

I am convinced we can replace it with something more attractive that allows better air circulation, all while offering us the privacy to which we are accustomed, and Joachim understands now that it is better to proceed judiciously and politically, with patience, petit à petit, pas par pas, bringing Audouin to the conclusion for himself.

Tomorrow, I am off to get my hair cut, at long last. Audouin seconded the motion as soon as I brought it up. I am just sick of coloring my hair already, and I know I will cave in and do it again and continue in the vicious circle of color - love it - regret it - color - love it - regret it - color... ad infinitum.
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There's a hole in my sock, Dear Liza

And another one in the ball of my right foot.

Eeuw
(it smells worse than it looks, pee-euuuw)

Yesterday, taking a small break from filling plastic bags with dirt to prepare the planting bed for the hydrangeas, I was clearing out more tree branches when I felt an insane and wholly unexpected pain in my foot. I looked down in shock and realized that I had walked right onto the hoe, prongs facing upwards. One had gone straight through my rubber gardening shoes into the muscle. I lifted my foot up (the pain wasn't terrible yet, they say it's like that -- it's later that it gets really bad, like just a moment later) and removed my shoe, just to make sure that it really had pierced my flesh.

There was a perfect round of blood on the bottom of my dirt-encrusted sock with a hole right in the center.

Today my bottom hurts, right along with my triceps. Alas, it is not from physical exertion and exercise, but at least I am up to date on my tetanus shots.

I have crutches, but I get around better without them.

So, what's the next body part to be sacrificed?

....

Today is July 15

I got up early. Workers like to start early, right? Audouin was figuring 8 AM sharp.

It's 10:31 AM. I am about to call Joachim and see where on earth he is. Or Eric to ask where the heck Joachim is.

I am not having fun yet.
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The bac

Bréval
photo by Delphine Bédier

I was kneeling next to the lawnmower, the Super Glue tube leaking its contents on the paving stone, swearing at the handle lock on the grass catcher that had just broken, when I heard a shout of joy from the house. Now what? A fire sale at Galeries Lafayette, with 90% off on all his favorite brands?

I felt instantaneously grumpier.

"Mom!"

"What?" Said in that impatient and harried staccato tone best (and most often) employed by mothers everywhere.

"I got my bac results!"

Joy? Bac results? All impatience was gone in a heartbeat, and I was next to him at the computer in the next one. They are:

French written -- 13
French oral -- 12
TPE (research and presentation group project) -- 15
Earth Science -- 8

Average -- 12

That last was the sorry point in an otherwise glorious result for this young man, but this gives him 20 points advance for next year. Don't ask what that means. Maybe Sam could explain it, but I doubt he will be interested in trying.

For those who haven't followed my explanations and lamentations, the French grade out of 20 and each subject in a baccalaureate program has its own coefficient, meaning that those subjects that are most central to the subject, like French (4), History and Geography (5), and Economic Science (7) will have a higher coefficient in the Economic Science baccalaureat, "bac", than Earth Science (2), Math (5), languages (3), TPE (2) and philosophy next year (4?).

There are three "noble" baccalaureates: Science (considered the most noble, because it is determined by strength in math, and those who are best in math are generally the best in the other subjects sélon les français), Economic Science, and Literature.

There are, then, the technological baccalaureates that prepare students for careers and the "professional" baccalaureates (les bac pros), which are technical training programs.

Sam's results are considered, with the exception of Earth Science, which is also less important for him, quite good, but more importantly, they are reason for him to rejoice that he decided to repeat his year.

These results do several things for him.

First of all, they boost his ego, which can certainly use bolstering. The tendency in the "elite" private schools, and Sam's -- most interestingly, surprisingly and felicitously -- was ranked number 13 in France last year, is to grade very, very severely. It is hard for the students who don't get the best grades to know of what they are actually capable in bac results.

The teachers feel that this keeps them from being over-confident and protects them from resting on their laurels in the event that they happen to have an unreasonably difficult grader on the bac. The downside is that it demotivates and eats at confidence, depending on the person, particularly for those who, like Sam, respond well to positive reinforcement and deflate in the face of a poor result. Audouin's youngest son is the opposite, or at least he takes the hit to his pride of a poor performance as reason to buckle down and "show them".

Second, it shows his teachers that their confidence in his capabilities in not misplaced. They will continue to demand a high level work from him, while believing even more in him. It is possible that they will grade him more in line with what he actually produces, knowing that he has demonstrated a more than adequate level of success.

For Sam, however, it still isn't enough.

He wants to go to France's equivalent of the Ivy League for political science and liberal studies, Sciences Politiques, known as Sciences Po. However, a good result this year will help him keep on next year because he can see that the effort with Asmaa, the doctoral student in history who has given him his private tutoring in French this year, concentrating on methodology and style for written work, has earned him real results, and that continuing with her next year can put him within reach of the mention he will need to help him get in sur dossier.

Sur dossier means admissions by application like American universities, where the full set of grades from the last two years, those of the baccalaureate program, count, along with work experience, community service, sports or music, and the baccalaureate exam results.

If your grades and bac are not strong enough to get in sur dossier, a student can prepare for the entrance examination, where only those above a certain result will be admitted. This is very risky; it's much better to have a solid dossier.

I had told Sam in the weeks before that having decided to repeat the year was not reason not to prepare for the bac, since these grades will be overwritten by next year's, but to see what he could do after this year, with the work he did with Asmaa and the preparation he would put in. A good result would certainly be encouraging and give him the best possible start to next year, where he can but get stronger, and that starting from the strongest point possible.

So, third, they will perhaps help Sam to relax and allow himself to be a more cooperative element in class, which can only work to his benefit. It is easier to succeed with success behind him, rather than failure or poor performance. If he can look back and see success, perhaps he can produce more of it in class, which he absolutely needs if he wants to get into Sciences Po on dossier, and he has the opportunity to try for a better bac result next year.

The last hope has less to do the with bac results and is simply the element of time. More time to develop his skills, his work and study methods and his mastery of written French expression and mathematics.

For now, he can enjoy his summer and look towards some congratulations from his teachers next year. He has the same ones, which turns out to be a blessing, as far as I am concerned. They know him -- the good, the bad and the ugly. At the end of the year, they had their class dinner. The French, History and Geography, Economics and Math teachers were there, and they had a great time, laughing with the kids and Sam. He needs that to feel secure with his teachers, and he will have a whole year with them to get himself straight on track.
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Better in real life

Hydrangea Hovaria 'Ripple'

(and here) than any of the photos on-line,
and waiting for me to plant them.

In the inexcusable and sad absence of photos of the boys in France (they have to be downloaded) -- and there were some great ones in the garden of the Palais Royale of Sam, Pips, Justin and Victor --, I fall back on one of my recent acquisitions, one of the new hydrangeas. It is also called Hortensia Hovaria 'Ripple', with Hovaria being a trademarked name for this particular recent form of hydrangea, which is further classed both with the macrophyllas and the quercifolias, depending on the source.

It is probably a mix of both, since the balls of flowers conform to the form of the macrophyllas, while the leaves conform to the oak-leaf shape of the quercifolias, adding the charm of being bi-colored -- deep purple and dark green -- like the blooms themselves.

The one thing the Belgian horticulturists responsible for this variety did not foresee is the structural weakness of the stems, which bend to the ground under the weight of their tremendous burdens, these gorgeous balls of softest pink petals edged in deepest pink. From a distance, you see pink, but coming close, you begin to distinguish the markings of the individual petals and are treated to the soft gradation in color of each petal.

How to say it?

When you look at a pink ball of hydrangea flowers, you see the pink of the flowers. It is everywhere. It is, certainly and undeniably, beautiful, but the Hovaria 'Ripple' offers you the soft color of the petals and the deep pink of their borders, two presents for the observer. Taken together, they are merely pink, but seen from closer at hand, you delight in the surprise and the complexity of all the petals of each flower of every ball.

Their weight requires staking of the individual stems to help the shrub maintain its round and compact form.

Another high-maintenance plant.

Oh well. At least it offers its blooms from June to September, being quite long-flowering.

....

The boys

à l'Orangérie

I overcame the oppressive heat -- alright, so it wasn't much by Philadelphia or DC standards, but it was hot compared to the last days -- and glare of the day yesterday, as well as being completely worn-out, to get the benches and the dogs into the Voyager and high-tail it to Viroflay. It was nearly 4:00 PM before I arrived, and just past 5:00 PM when we arrived at the Place de la Concorde, where I heard Victor exclaim, "Look! Look, Justin, Jacqueline -- there!" My eyes left the windshield, where I was concentrating to get in the right "lane" to blend into the traffic so as to be able to turn for the parking lot entrance without creating a multi-vehicle pile-up, and followed his voice to the side of the car where he was looking out the window. There was a group of police officers, gathered protectively around a man lying on the pavement in a bright yellow helmet and his scooter, lying helplessly by him.

I recognized the helmet. Ferrari was written on it in black letters. It was the guy in a suit who turned onto the Voies sur Berges along the Seine in the 16th at the same time as we did. My eyes remained fixed on him as the car turned left around the place. Blood flowed from his nose as he tried to lift his head. His forearm moved up and down, as though that were all he could do to get up. A police officer knelt over him, certainly speaking reassuring words to him. A young woman, looking shaken, stood near the front of the small green car, whose front fender was severely dented and whose windshield had a hole in the passenger side the size of a helmeted head, crack lines radiating outwards. Another man sat astride his BMW motorcycle, a witness.

Only minutes before, he and I had traveled a stretch of road together, heading somewhere. He had no idea he would be lying injured, an ambulance on its way, his scooter destroyed, a young woman scared for him and herself, and what she might have done wrong, if anything.

We watched them the first time around the plaza, and the second time, after I missed being on the right side of the barriers in front of the Hotel Crion to be able to pull into the parking lot under the huge plaza. Down the entry ramp, I handed the boys cash for the entry fee, if there were one for them, and sent them scurrying to the Orangérie to see Monet's Nymphéas murals, the famous Water Lilies mural-sized paintings.

When I caught up to them, they were just heading into the rooms.

They were both hushed and startled by the quiet, the stillness and the sheer size and presence of these works, four to each ovoid room, the light of whose skylights is diffused by white fabric stretched across their openings at the ceiling. Victor went ahead to see just how many rooms there were, duly impressed and relieved by the restraint and simplicity of the museum: two identical rooms containing eight related works of art.

They loved them. They photographed them. They had themselves photographed in front of them. Victor talked and talked about them, their compositions and content, the colors, which he loved best. He talked to an English-speaking Canadian tourist from Hamilton, Ontario, who was admiring one in the first room, where we stopped second. Victor could talk about Monet's art in English.

Justin was quiet, listening to me and Victor, who was justifiably disturbed by the poorer quality of the transitions between the panels of one, Matin (you can click on each image for a high-definition version to open in a window), in the first room, which he was sure must have been an earlier attempt, and which was, nonetheless, one of his two favorites, along with Les Deux saules in the second room. For the transitions in Matin, Monet simply hadn't gotten it quite right yet, according to Victor. He also had a great deal to say about Soleil Couchant, understanding very well what it depicted.

Each of us had his or her own favorites. It was a little like being in a chapel of art, and it is such a sweet memory now.

à Montmartre

We sat down outside, on the rails around a tree in the late afternoon sun, and plotted our next move. We would take the car to Montmartre, enjoy the view and eat ice cream, which turned out to be a Nutella and banana crêpe in Justin's case. Then, I would take Victor home to see his last remaining friend, not yet departed on his vacation plans, before he would leave the next morning for the rest of the summer months. Audouin would come from the airport, meet us in Viroflay, and go to dinner -- a pizza in Paris made Justin's eyes light up -- , followed by a drive past Paris' great monuments lit against the blackness of the night sky.

Anne-So was reminded by her neighbor, when she crossed her in the street earlier that afternoon, that she had made plans that she had entirely forgotten.

"You haven't forgotten you are coming to dinner tonight, have you?" sang the neighbor.

"Non, non! Bien sur que non," she lied with a smile, thinking, "Oh merde!" We were all supposed to have dinner together.

They are gone now to the Mont St. Michel on the Brittany channel coast, and I am deprived of contact! I have to rely on news dispatches from Anne-So.

....

Sam's miracle at Lourdes

There must be some actual basis in truth for the place's powers, for Sam called the person who he considered the one friend who could most appreciate his being there, because his mother had taken him there before, and when Sam said, "Guess where I am? Lourdes," Franky immediately replied, "Me, too!" His mother had brought him again, although he had either known he was going and said nothing, or known nothing in advance because Sam had no idea he could be there.

They ended up going out together last evening with Pips, and having lunch today before the train departed.

Sam had called me yesterday evening, nearly as soon as he arrived at the hotel, "You'd love it here, Mom," he exclaimed, "it's so beautiful." He described the fortified castle with its chapel on the high peak of rock upon which Lourdes is situated, and the view out to the snow-capped Pyrénées.

They were able to find more HD tapes for his SONY video camera, which has finally found a useful purpose, and are satisfied with their work. I hope that Bessie and Pips' mother, the producer and writer, will be as much so.

Sam returns on the 23h14 direct train from Paris, and Pips, sadly, goes off to his room at the Holiday Inn Paris - Orly Airport hotel to put him near the airport for his 6:40 AM flight out of Orly Sud for Athens. I got kind of used to having him around.

Now, Lyca, you are going to have to keep me posted more closely of his doings, because you can't help but take a greater interest once you know someone better.
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Lourdes bound

"tawdry relics, the bric-a-brac of piety"
-- Malcolm Muggeridge, BBC

Sam is off to Lourdes, a fabled place to which I have never traveled, with Pips to continue filming for the documentary about Bessie Badilla, once a model for Balenciaga, well-known Philippina television personality and Queen of the Sao Paolo carnaval.

Her story is not mine to tell, but their subject, "Queen Bessie", has reason beyond her own beliefs as a Catholic to return to Lourdes.

Perhaps the documentary will tell. Perhaps not.

They took the train this morning, 5 hours to the very edge of France where it touches Spain in the Hautes Pyrénées to this unremarkable 19th market town made sacred to millions by Bernadette Soubirou's vision of the Virgin Mary in the grotto of Masabiel, and through which the Tour de France will pass on Bastille Day, on the leg to Pau, perhaps to partake of the healing waters, which, as of yet, have not been classified as an illegal substance for the cyclists.

And, yes, that is Saint Bernadette, Bernadette Soubirous. Her miraculously preserved body was exhumed after 30 years in 1909, and provided with a wax mask, she has been treasured as a relic in a case of glass and gold in keeping with this former Catholic tradition, like the bones of the companions of Saint Denis, the priest Rusticus and the deacon Eleutherius, and the saint himself.

I think she is far more beautiful than St. Florent in Corsica. Besides, he was a guy, and a knight.

I'll return to add a picture of him I took when we visited the church built to house him during our travels in Corsica in 2004.

Speaking of relics, I still have a baby bird to bury, and of miracles and unexplained events, durnst I not hope for Sam to have an epiphany of his own in this place among places and make the long-hoped-for turn-around next year?

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Justin and Victor

The Franco-American Exchange continues in Viroflay-Paris before leaving tomorrow morning for the Mont St. Michel en route to Brest for the gathering of several thousand old ships in the harbor to celebrate Bastille Day as part of Brest 2008.

I am late. I am expected in Viroflay, and I haven't even taken a shower or reattached the benches in the Voyager to travel with the dogs. They positively cannot stay home alone for another 12 hour stretch.

I have absolutely got to go.

PS: Sh! Don't tell anyone, but it's Anne-so's 40th birthday on the 14th!

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PPS: Will O'Wisp

Today marks one year that she has been with us.

I have to call the vet for news about Chloé.

Now, I really have to go.

....

Note: None of these photos were taken by me. They are from Wikipedia and the Queen Bessie website.

July, it's official

Gloom

(Yes, the picture is from just a few minutes ago.
You may feel quite sorry for us.)

This will make five Julys that the month begins shrouded in clouds and rain. I would say, "and ends", but I am attempting to be optimistic.

Worse, my nephew is visiting Paris in these lousy atmospheric conditions. At least they had the Musée d'Orsay in mind.

Update: They are visiting the area around the Louvre, the Palais Royale, meeting my brother-in-law for lunch in a Corsican restaurant near his offices at the Bank of France, and then heading to the Orsay, which is, unlike the Musée du Louvre, open on Tuesday.

Weather update: The luminosity if increasing. The clouds might open. It is supposed to be nicer in the evening.

Interpersonal update: American nephew has quite good understanding of French, is willing to speak some, and will surely only be more and more willing. French nephew talks in English as fast and as completely as any 16-year-old does in French, only with far fewer four-letter words! Making allowances for excitement of arrival, exhaustion from jet-lag, which is worse coming from the States as opposed to from Europe, Justin appears to be quite at-ease.

He was very enthusiastic about going to Versailles (as opposed to coming out to Moose-sucks to see his dear Aunt) yesterday, which impressed Anne-so. We met up in the gardens, going in by the free gates down by the Great Canal, since everyone was arriving late, and to our delight we found the whole garden open to us at no charge! There was a spectacularly dramatic sky, with the West facade of the château alight bright evening sunshine against impossibly dark, steely blue clouds, and Justin used over 1 Gig of his memory card there alone! (He'll download, of course.)

And now, I must run, stopping only to say that Pips and Sam will likely shoot video later with Bessie, and, Peggy, I have not improved my skills at saving young birds, or any birds.

He made it through the afternoon and evening, but he drew his last breath and left this world, after so brief a stay, during the night.

And the rain falls in the fish basin.

Happy Birthday, Mom.
....