Home from France: Tuesday, Sept 15

I wake and go into the kitchen for my breakfast. My own home feels foreign to me on this morning. I look out the window. Yes, there's some nice rose bushes to look at, but it's not quite the view of rolling hills from my uncle's house. I look in the fridge. Yes, there's everything I need in there, but it's lacking the fresh homemade preserves, rustic bread, organic milk and unbelievable cheeses and garden-picked fruit. Charles called and remarked how bland his Trader Joe's coffee tasted compared to French supermarket coffee. Or how the milk just didn't taste the same. I think we all went through noticing these things here and there that jarred our senses after getting used to the French versions for almost 2 weeks.

There was, however, one thing more positive in my observations: while driving to work the next day, I could see the planes coming in for a landing at LAX as I often do on my way to work. Several months ago, I looked longingly at those planes wishing so badly that I could just hop on one and finally be on my way to France. But it seemed too expensive and the logistics too nightmarish. Now, many months later, I could look at those planes and know that my wish had been fulfilled. I firmly believe in the saying, "Where there's a will, there's a way." And I've just proven it, at least to myself.

I had longed to see France again for so many years that I was afraid that I had built it up in my head more than the reality of it. But in fact, it had more than fulfilled my expectation to the point of intoxication. Making me even wonder if I would even go so far as to move my life to this other land. Charles and I had briefly mentioned it as speculation. My mother later asked me if I would ever live there. I answered, "Maybe." I do know that if we had never returned to the States when I was a child, I don't think I would have really missed Los Angeles. But that was the viewpoint of a child. Now I am torn. I am used to the eclectic variety I've grown up with in LA and enjoy all that there is to do here. But there are some basic ways of life that I've come to appreciate even more in France than I did before. Maybe it just seems less complicated there, but I know that can be an illusion too especially when one is vacationing. I was glad to be speaking English again, although I'm sure given enough time, I could be as fluent in French as in English.

The night we first arrived in Crest, I was asking my mother what the word for "home" was in French. I wanted to say that I felt that I had finally arrived "home." She kept saying it was "maison." But that wasn't the word I was looking for. I understood "maison" to be the physical site of a house, but I was looking for a more metaphysical definition of "home" as in a place you identify with as your own personal sanctuary. I never found the translation for this. But I did come across a quote from a book about "home":

"Home is not where you are from. Home is where you feel welcome."

—Abraham Verghese, "Cutting for Stone"

Crest and the Haute-Savoie region (where Excenevex is) would definitely fit that definition. Not that there aren't times were I feel welcome in LA. It's just on a different level. Unfortunately, maybe a more superficial one in many cases. Aside from a handful of close friends I keep in touch with (usually by email as they don't live nearby), many others are mostly acquaintances. You see them at parties or common events, but rarely sitting down for long and meaningful (or even memorable) conversation. I find that many people in LA are more interested in having fans than friends. Everyone is somehow related to or yearning to get into show business whether it's film, TV or theater. Sure, I like to primp and pose a good deal myself, but I also crave something a little deeper from my friendships and relationships. But I suppose that's just something that is a characteristic of this city.

Meanwhile, I do have one last memory to tell of my uncle. He and Suzanne gave me a little gift at the end of our trip to take home with me. It appeared to be a wrapped book. When I opened it at home, it was in fact, a photographic book on various walks in Crest in both English and French. I had wanted something just like it but couldn't find it on my own. But far more special than the book was the poem my uncle had written and included with the gift. I've done my best to translate the intention of his words here:

Carcavel Street

St. Francois Street

Street of the Old Prisons

And of course

The Rue Cote Chaude (the street they grew up on)

And much more

So many paths

That your mother and me

We tumbled down

While running

And ran back up less quickly

Huffing and puffing

Streets that heard

Our cries, our tears, and sometimes our laughter

Places that saw the passing of our childhood

Streets that you have discovered

In this September sunshine

And you may be able to recognize

Through the pages of this book

That we offer

In memory of this little stay with us

With all our affection and hoping we'll meet again someday soon.

Aunt Suzanne and Uncle Francois

An old postcard of Crest.

Excenevex as it looked during my childhood visit.

1977. Mom in Excenevex with my grandmother's house in the background. (This is the one that was torn down.)

Me and my aunt Anna on our stone perch by the lake in Excenevex when I was a kid.

Here's a verse from a song that vaguely makes me think of the shores of Excenevex whenever I hear it. It may have to do with this simple verse below:

"Blackwater, take me with you

To the place that I have spoken

I am leaving in the morning

For the land that I long to see again"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zCbzk-QTl7U

France: Monday, Sept 14

My cell phone vibrating alarm clock goes off from underneath my pillow. It's still dark and the sun hasn't risen yet. I tiptoe out of the bedroom and make my way upstairs to the kitchen, trying to be as quite as possible. No one is awake but me. I get my breakfast ready. Normally, in the interest of saving time, I would have just eaten my oatmeal and tea and be done with it. But this was the last morning. So I also take out my aunt's homemade preserves and a slice of their rustic bread, the real butter, the organic milk, and have a little of each. The peach preserves are especially flavorful. I watch the sky out the window as it turns from pitch black to gray. I can already feel the tears choking up inside of me. 

I go back downstairs to wake Charles and get ready. I pack the last few things. It's full daylight now and my aunt Suzanne has turned her car around so we can more easily pack it with our luggage. Charles lifts the large ones in. It doesn't fit. We keep rearranging until my aunt finally is able to shut the hatchback. Everything is ready. All that's left is saying goodbye. I have my small snapshooter ready for a few last photos in front of the house. We take turns being in the photos with my aunt and uncle. Finally, I say goodbye to my uncle. I try not to think about the fact that due to his age and certain medical problems, I may never see him again. He is all too aware of this as well. It is understood, yet not spoken. I try to express my gratitude in French to him. But my vocabulary is not so vast. 

We climb into my aunt's small car with luggage bursting everywhere and take off down the country road toward the train station at Valance. On the way, we stop in Crest to return the rental car. We thank the man at the garage and ask if we can take our photo with him. Back into my aunt's car. It's a 40 minute ride to the train station. I watch the small towns go by. There's a "traffic jam" due to some construction along the way. It only lasts for a few minutes. My mom has a brief conversation with Suzanne, but otherwise, it's a quiet ride. When we get there, it's cold and windy. We get inside the station and finally must say goodbye to Suzanne. I had practiced in my head how to say what I wanted to say. But even this consisted of merely saying that there were no words to express the deep gratitude in my heart. Suzanne being a hearty soul shed no tears, but still embraced us forcefully. 

Our train arrived and we settled in for the 3 hour ride to the airport. I tried to stay awake to watch the last of the French countryside go by, but my lack of sleep was already catching up with me. Still, I was able to see the last of the farm fields and stone houses and impress these final images upon my memory. 

Arriving at the airport, we searched for something to eat for lunch. But it seemed there was only a choice of high-end overpriced restaurants or a sandwich stand. So we ate at the sandwich stand only to discover more choices once we passed security on the way to our gate. One note about French airport security versus American: we did not have to remove our shoes, but we did have to display all electronic devices. Strange. 

Eight hours after leaving my uncle's house that morning, we finally boarded the plane for our 11 hour, non-stop flight home.  I had heard that the food on Air France, especially returning from France, was supposed to be pretty good. However, I had chosen special meals for my mom and I: bland for me and low-sodium for my mom. Apparently, they think that folks who need low-sodium love fish. Unfortunately, my mom doesn't like fish, but due to some mix ups, I got her fish and she was able to get a regular meal. Yes, there was even brie with the meal.

It was a long, long flight back home broken up only by a limited selection of films, solitaire, naps and bathroom breaks. Once we landed and our friend Suzy picked us up, I was suddenly, briefly energized as we told stories all the way home. But the fatigue set in as I was changing into pajamas and just couldn't keep my eyes open any longer. 

(Epilogue to follow soon.)

France: Sunday, Sept 13

This is our last full day in France. We met my cousins at their campground. As we approached the cabin, we could here the strains once more of children shouting, "The Americans are here!" The campground was quite pleasant with all levels of camping available from places to pitch a tent to spots to park an RV to modern cabins that could sleep 6 with a full indoor bathroom. Even dishware was included. My cousins rented three cabins for the lot of them. (That's my style of camping!) 

At first, we took a walk down to the mountain creek where it joined the Drome river. The side with the Drome river was warm while water coming from the creek was very cold. Charles and a few cousins went wading. My mother sat on a rock next to the water where I took her photo. Michel wanted to show us the cascades further up the creek. We followed along the shore until we saw a beautiful spot of short, low cascades over flat, stepped rocks. Charles climbed up to the top of course. I only went to one or two steps up. And Michel pared down to his swim trunks and walked right into the water. At one point he backed up to one of the waterfalls and just let the icy water shoot over his shoulders. He was quite invigorated. 

We headed back to the cabin, but once we got there they had just realized that Laurent had left to catch his train and they didn't get to say goodbye to him. So everyone piled into various cars and drove to the train station about a mile away. Charles and I went with Michel in a tiny, well-used car similar to a vintage Datsun. It was like Mr. Toad's Wild Ride with Michel barely fitting into the vehicle and going about 50mph down small country roads. His hair still wet from the cascades and one side of it getting caught in the wind from the window. By the time we got to our destination, that one side of hair stuck straight out as it had dried during the short ride.

We saw Laurent in front of the station and we took some group photos. Then went inside to the tracks and waited with Laurent for about 10 minutes before the train came and we bid him farewell. I think he had the longest way to go; a good four hours of train travel ahead of him.

Once we were back at the cabin, we were finally ready for some lunch. We brought the usual cheese, bread, some sliced ham we had left over from Dugny. The others contributed tomatoes, olives, more bread and cheese, and the left over cake from the night before. Just some simple stuff to nosh on while we sat around a table on the porch and talked. I noticed that unlike in America, people did not seem to define you by your occupation. In fact, none of my cousins asked what I did for a living until this second day of conversation. I also told them of my interest in vintage clothes and historical events. I had some photos with me and they enjoyed seeing the various costumes as well as the New Year cards I invent each year.

In turn, I learned of their occupations: Sylvie was a classical pianist for some time before turning to teaching music and doing dream interpretation as therapy for people. We already knew that Michel is a musician. Alain is an engineer who is currently working with the government of Congo to help provide clean drinking water. And Laurent is a sound engineer working in film and TV. I don't think I ever found out what Jean-Paul does. He was very quiet most of the time. I think he enjoyed just watching the proceedings. 

The hours went by and finally they had to pack up and check out of their cabin. It was time for goodbyes. I kissed and hugged each one. I hugged Sylvie last and started to tear up once again. I told her I really wanted to keep in touch even if it was only once in a while. I felt isolated as a kid growing up in America, hardly having any relatives around outside of my immediate family. Other immigrant families that my parents knew were my extended family. Meanwhile, here in France, there was this whole clan openly welcoming me, even though we hadn't grown up together. I barely knew their names before traveling here.

It was now late afternoon. We headed back to Francois' house where we dropped my mom off. Charles and I went to fill up the car with gas, get a few last minute things and take one last walk around Crest. My mom was too tired to come along. We went to the hospital were my mom was born. We also walked a couple of trails nearby and tried to find the Three Crosses that we saw from the Tower. We found the sign and path for it, but it seemed to dead end into overgrowth and we never found out way there. There was also a tiny chapel somewhere in those hills. My mother thought she might remember how to get there, but I also remember going there as a kid. It was a very steep climb up a hillside and the abandoned chapel was up there on a plateau. How people got there for services, I'm not sure. 

Finally, it was close to dinner time and we headed back. Quiet and contemplative, we were both enjoying the last warm breezes of the day. Dinner, packing and an early bedtime. I had to be up before dawn. Not only is that not my forte, but there was little incentive to leave this experience so soon. 

France: Saturday, Sept 12

Slept in a bit later than usual. Charles went to mail some postcards and take a walk. When he came back we had lunch and then went out for a bit. We didn't stay out too long because we were expecting the arrival of my cousins for a large family dinner. I had never met any of them before to my knowledge. One by one, they started arriving. My uncle has six children

 currently ranging in age from their mid-40s to their mid-50s, some with children of their own. All but one was able to make it for the dinner. (My uncle surprised me with that fact, leading me to believe that perhaps only one or two would show up.) They live scattered around France and the one that did not make it lives in Germany. Her name is Amy and both her and her husband are doctors with a shared practice. Her husband Klaus had just suffered an injury of both a broken arm and broken thumb on the opposite hand. Amy was busy taking on his patients as well as her own and couldn't get away. They are also members of Doctors without Borders. 

I think the first cousin I met was Sylvie. As soon as she arrived, she started making two giant quiches and a huge salad. Slowly, the others arrived: Jean-Paul the oldest, Michel, Alain and Laurent. All but Laurent had children in tow. I was introduced to each one and their children as they arrived, kissing each person on both cheeks. This meeting had been awaited by both sides for a long time. Everyone immediately started working to get things organized for our dinner. The dining room table was expanded and augmented by another patio table brought indoors. Now I knew why they kept a lot of space around the dining room table. Throughout the house there was a flurry of activity.

We had some appetizers on the patio where I figured this was as good a chance as any to get a standing group shot of everyone. I took one with everyone, then kept paring down my subjects by family relation. First cousins, second cousins, separate families, etc. I'm always trying to archive in photographs.

By the time we sat down to dinner, there were 20 people at the table. The dinner was simple: a large green salad and vegetable quiches followed by a platter of 6 different cheeses, plenty of different wines and topped off with chocolate cake (with and without nuts). The point was not necessarily the complexity of the meal as much as the variety of the company. My uncle was slightly concerned that I would be overwhelmed by it all, but I told him that this was exactly what I had expected and, in fact, hoped for: a giant table filled with most of my cousins talking, laughing, eating and generally making a bit of a ruckus. He would look over at me from time to time at dinner, but as he saw me beaming and smiling at the scene of it all, he knew I was content and completely fine with it all. I tried to keep up with the conversations and translate here and there for Charles. Luckily, many of them knew a little English here and there. 

They were all so welcoming and made us feel at home, as if we'd known each other for years. The men opposite Charles were arguing over what wine they should pour for Charles to sample next. I wanted to get a group photo of all of us at the table. As Charles set the timer for me, everyone looked at the camera and they were all whooping and shouting for him to make it back to the table in time for the photo. At one point, a sub-family argument broke out between Michel and his daughter. Not completely understanding what it was all about (although it did not seem very serious), Charles (with a few glasses of wine in him) began to shout and pound his fist on the table as if to join in the commotion. This made everyone laugh and it was explained to us that it was really just a discussion of my second cousin's teen troubles.

After dinner, we adjourned to the patio where after-dinner conversations continued. It was difficult to get to talk to everyone, but at least I talked with a few different cousins trying to get to know what I could of them in one short night. Coffee, chocolate and cigarettes made the rounds as we talked late into the night. I discovered that Michel is a musician; a guitarist and singer, who is something of a free spirit. He was there with his German girlfriend and daughter. I talked with Sylvie's husband, Fred who told us about the years he spent as an olive farmer before he had to give up the farm due to two years of no crops. Now he works in the insurance industry. Their son also works with him, but also does a great deal of kitesurfing as well.

It was already getting late. My cousins had rented a few cabins at a nearby campground. They invited us to visit the next day for lunch. Since we had just barely started to get to know each other, I was glad of this invite and that our meeting was not completely over. One by one, I kissed them goodnight discovering that the southerners kiss three times, not just two. 

Charles and I retired to our bedroom where Charles commented how he wasn't sure just how he was going to describe this dinner with my cousins to his friends back home. Charles thought his own Irish-Italian family was a boisterous bunch, that is, until he met my cousins. It was certainly a memorable evening to say the least. 

France: Friday, Sept. 11

Our last morning in Dugny at Jeanette's farmhouse. After a good breakfast, we gather our things and pack up the car. Jeanette had bought us several cheeses which we had not the time to finish at her house so she insisted we take them back to Crest with us. There were also several vegetables from her garden we were to transport to my uncle Francois who she is also friends with. I really do wish we could have stayed and visited with Jeanette longer, but we were already giving up an extra day in Crest to visit Chamonix today. We sadly said our goodbyes. We also gave Romeo the donkey one more apple before we left.

Off we went ascending into the Alps. The scenery was gorgeous along the way. I decided this was a good time to pop in the Andreas Vollenweider music. As we approached the town, we could see Mont Blanc on our right at a height of almost 16,000 feet. It looks so close, but people had told us how very long it takes to reach the top. I was already nervous about taking the many cable cars it would take. But once we found our parking, my mom started talking about something called "Mer de Glace" or Sea of Ice. We kept trying to find where to take the cable cars, but then my mom said we should be looking for a train. Finally, with the help of some other American tourists, we found the train to the Mer de Glace that my mother was talking about. This was an electric cogwheel train that climbs the side of the Alps and deposits you at the side of a glacier known at the Mer de Glace.

Although it was my first time seeing a glacier, and indeed the view was majestic, it didn't look as much like ice as I thought it would. In fact, a lot of it looked like dirt and I just figured it had melted a great deal. We had lunch at the 1880s hotel there. It had a beautiful view from the terrace, but it was both a little cold and my mother was being affected by the altitude so we went inside instead. Another gourmet meal and we returned outside. My mother insisted that we see the caves nearby, but being a little unnerved by the altitude she chose to stay behind.

Charles and I took the tiny cable cars down to a platform where there were an additional 350 steps to descend. (Back in the 1950s when my mother last visited the glacier, there was no need to descend as the glacier was much thicker then. She was able to walk across it to the 2 waterfalls on the other side of the mountain.) It kept looking like we were getting closer to the side of a giant rock, but as you got closer, you could see the blue ice showing through the dirt. Charles kept commenting on the odd color of the "dirt" until we were at the mouth of the cave. Finally, he realized we were going into the side of the glacier. The ice cave was amazing: colored lights illuminated sculptures of furniture, rooms and animals. It was unnerving though to realize it was melting under our feet and above our heads. There was a stand where a man was taking photos of tourists with a St. Bernard dog. I couldn't resist the cheesiness of it so we had ours taken...that is, after the large dog went after a small dog another tourist had brought into the cave with them.

As we left the cave and ascended the steps, we could see signs of where the glacier's height had been in 1990 and another indicating the 1980 height. The difference between the 1990 level and now is astonishing. We've also heard rumors that they are considering closing the caves due to the human effect on the environment. We met up with Mom at one of the cafes next to the glacier where she was contently sipping hot chocolate. By the time we got back down from the glacier and into the town of Chamonix, it was already getting late. But we stopped in one more souvenir shop to try and find the toy cable car for my great-nephew. We found it and started on our way back to Crest.

Taking out my map and Google directions again, we followed the route that Benoit had suggested the night before. Instead of taking the main expressways that would have gone a little out of the way, we took another road that cut across the mountains. We started ascending again and came through the town of St. Gervais. It was a beautiful ski resort town with a very Alpine flavor. Unfortunately, we were a little concerned about reaching the main highway before dark so we did not stop. It turned out this was probably a good decision since there was also a detour after that. It led us up into very narrow mountain roads reminiscent of a James Bond film complete with drivers speeding around blind curves. I followed along on the map and realized we were approaching a very winding stretch of road. I just kept telling Charles that we were almost at the highway as he nervously gripped the steering wheel. We even saw an 18-wheeler get stuck up there, but luckily had some space to move over and let others pass. This mountain driving went on for 2 hours before we finally reached the main highway. From there we had another 2 hours before reaching Crest, but at least now we were on a wide and straight road. Note to self: don't take directions from a Frenchman.

At the first rest stop, we decided to see what we had for a snack. We discovered the many cheeses Jeanette had packed for us, but unfortunately there was no bread. At the next rest stop there was a cafeteria. Charles was afraid to eat for fear of it making him too sleepy for the remainder of the drive. My mother and I had small, quick dinners. I was sure there would be something to snack on back at my uncle's, but my mother was unconvinced of this.

Finally, we made it back to my uncle's late at night. He was worried about us. Charles was exhausted from the drive. We had some snacks and fell into bed.

France: Thursday, Sept. 10

I awaken at sunrise. Yes. Me. Sunrise. I opened the shutters and take a photo of the sun coming over the mountains and illuminating the lake. We dress and go down to breakfast on the patio. In addition to an authentic continental breakfast, we also had some delicious omelets.

Afterward, we went for a walk through Excenevex. We saw the fountain and stone tubs where we used to get our drinking water when I was a kid. The constantly running water came straight from the Alps. It was probably the first time I drank water willingly as a child as opposed to soda. Now, the fountain is a trickle and there is a sign saying "Non-potable water." Now, it's the tap water that is safe to drink, not the fountain water.

We ended up back at the gold leaf factory where my grandmother used to work. (She moved from the town of Crest in the south to Excenevex shortly after the war as there was more work to be found here than in the south.) If I haven't mentioned it before, it is the last gold leaf factory in France. They used to have a second factory in Paris. They were responsible for the gold leaf that adorns the flame on Statue of Liberty. I was actually trying to find another route down to the lake where I might be able to see my old stone perch, but were intercepted by a man who worked at the factory. I said I was interested in seeing the factory since my grandmother had worked there. He brought us inside and introduced us to his uncle who was, in fact, the son of my grandmother's boss. His name was Bernard and he was very interested in talking with me once he discovered who I was. He and his associate began looking around the office and pulling out old archives of company information and group photos of employees. He was trying to find a photo of my grandmother for me. But he couldn't find one right then. However, he was able to tell me her date of hire and when she retired.

He told us a little of what he remembered of my grandmother. She had a "strong character" as he put it. She was a loyal and dependable employee although headstrong at times. He also walked us over to their house next door and introduced us to "the Mother." My own mother had spoken of this woman, the wife of my grandmother's boss. My mother did not like her and referred to her as "cold." So here I was meeting "the Mother" who did rather eye me up and down upon hearing whose descendant I was. Regardless, it was still fascinating to talk with people that knew and worked with my grandmother. At least they acknowledged that her strong character was actually a necessity for the hard life she had lived: emigrating from Hungary, surviving war, poverty, starvation, disease, and raising four children, making sure each one not only survived the war, but thrived thereafter.

Bernard and I exchanged email information. He was also eager to hear of my mom's younger siblings since they were his old schoolmates. We promised to send each other any photos we came across, either of my grandmother or school photos of he and my mother's siblings. Before we left, we mentioned we were going to Yvoire to see the chateau where my mother used to work as a governess. He said we should look up one of the members of the Yvoire family (that still lives in the chateau). He gave us a name and where to find him in the town.

With that we thanked Bernard for the visit and continued on our walk. I was still trying to find a way down to my stone perch when we passed the empty lot where my grandmother's house once stood. I looked in the distance and felt I could almost see the edge of the hillside leading down to the lake. We had since found out that the mansion with the security guards was now owned by an Arabian oil princess. They also owned the lot where my grandmother's house used to be. But they had forgotten about it until a couple of years ago. That's when they razed the few little houses that were on it. I missed it by a few years.

I looked down at the fence in front of the property and noticed how very unstable it seemed. On one side, there was only a thick piece of wood holding it up from the backside. I looked around and kept thinking about how long I'd waited and how far I'd come to be at this place. Thirty-two years, 6000 miles. Finally, the wood magically nudged itself until that one side of the fence drooped down. Seeing that there was nothing telling us not to enter, I climbed over the corner of the fence and Charles followed me. We got halfway down the property before we were hailed by the next door security guards. They approached me and said I couldn't go further. It took some talking and telling them the story of wanting to see where my grandmother once lived, but they finally let me go to the edge of the hillside to see for myself.

We got to the edge and all we could see was years of overgrown bushes and trees so thick there was no way through. That was finally that. We turned to go back, but the guards would not let us return the way we came. There was already a truck at the fence looking it over for repairs. So they escorted us on the edge of the princess's lawn and had us climb over a waist-high fence on the far side. Afterward, Charles remarked and was impressed by what balls I had to attempt such a thing. Despite it all, we were invigorated by our adventures.

Hungry for lunch, we walked to the beach (the only one on Lake Geneva) and had some delicious crepes at a little spot with a great view of the sand and water. We watched as many kite-surfers had come out to enjoy the breezy conditions. Upon returning to the hotel, we talked a bit with some other visiting folks. We inquired about visiting the town of Chamonix in the French Alps but weren't sure just how far a drive it was. They said it was only an hour or so away. We decided to stay an extra day at Jeanette's and take my mom there since she had been talking a lot about it. The last time she was there was as a teenager on a camping trip. She had always wanted to go back ever since. We called my mom to let her know we would be staying another night and to check with Jeanette if that was okay. My mom let out a scream. She was as giddy as a child at the thought of seeing Chamonix again. Jeanette was more than fine with us staying another night although joked with us about how we'd have to stay in the barn with Romeo.

Finally, we packed up and I said goodbye to my little village. We passed by things that reminded me of my childhood: the paddle boats, the miniature golf course, although the trampolines my brother used to spend so much time on were no longer there. We continued on to the next town of Yvoire where Bernard from the gold leaf factory said we could find one of the grown Yvoire children that my mom might have known. Yvoire is a small medieval village right on the lake's edge. There still exists some of the original battlements in town. Although we were there the night before for dinner, I wanted Charles to see it in the daylight. It is a bit of a tourist trap now with it's restaurants and souvenir shops, but still worth seeing. The chateau is still beautiful and there's a dock where the cruise boats come to pick up and drop off tourists.

We went to the Garden of the Five Senses which is where we were told we could find one of the Yvoire descendants. I asked a lady at the garden gift shop and she had me leave a note to be delivered to Mr. Yvoire's secretary. We continued looking around the village, but it was starting to get late and we returned to see if any response came of my note. Unfortunately, we discovered Mr. Yvoire was out of town at the Protestant festival being held that day in Geneva. But they would still give him my note upon his return.

With the help of our wonderful, borrowed GPS, we made our way through country roads and eventually back to a larger town called Douvaine where we stopped to buy some gift wines to give to my uncle and Jeanette's neighbors. Finally back at Jeanette's my mom and Jeanette had spent the day recounting their life stories to one another. They had 50 years to catch up on. But they joined us as we went to the neighbor's house to give them their wine. We were invited in by Christine and Benoit to sit at their table. (It seemed like we were often invited into people's houses for drinks and snacks where ever we went.) We talked, took photos and consulted with Benoit on the best driving route for the next day, especially for returning back to Crest from Chamonix. He suggested we take the regular road and not the expressway back to Crest. It seemed to make sense on the map....

We also went to Kristin's house to return the GPS she had lent us. We also gave her and her husband a bottle of wine as well for their help and generosity.

Returning back to Jeanette's for dinner, Benoit hinted to Jeanette not to feed us too much. One of the topics of discussion at Benoit's was a dessert called Iles Flottante (Floating Islands). My mother loves it and hadn't been able to find it in a restaurant yet. So while we ate dinner, Benoit was busy whipping up this dessert: Islands of meringue floating in an egg custard covered in hot caramel. Just as we finished dinner, he walked into Jeanette's kitchen with the dish and my mother's eyes just lit up. Jeanette had also made an apple tart earlier that day. It was delicious too.

I'm so glad we didn't leave Jeanette's that afternoon since this was our only chance to really sit and enjoy her company. She was such a delight. And Benoit and his wife Christine joined us for dessert too.

France: Wednesday, Sept 9

Today is my 40th birthday. I wake up with a migraine. Fortunately, it was mild and after a good breakfast and shower, I started to feel better. This morning I just wanted to relax and spend time walking around the farm, maybe snapping a few pictures. (In fact, now that New Year's Day 2010 has passed, I can reveal that my morning was actually spent shooting the photos for my annual New Year's card. Yes, I brought along my costume, wig, tripod and a borrowed SLR specifically for this reason. I did not know what the farmhouse would look like ahead of time, but Jeanette's description over the phone sounded perfect for this year's concept of Alpine Anna's Travel Postcard. Although we tried to be discreet, there was still the odd look of a passing farming neighbor as his drove his tractor by our scene.) As we were winding down the shoot, we visited with Christine, the next-door neighbor, while she oversaw the numerous children she took care of daily in the village. It must be so wonderful for local working parents to know that their kids are being looked after, yet still get to hang out and play so close to their own homes.

While we had some sandwiches for lunch, Jeanette arrived home from the hospital. (I must have been a sight as I was still in my costume from the shoot.) She seemed in good spirits as if she had just gotten back from a short trip instead of minor surgery. My mother spent time talking with her while I was gathering my things for our stay at the hotel that night. After lunch, we took my mom shopping in Thonon-les-Bains. She was trying to find a toy cable car like the ones they use for ascending the Alps. She wanted to give it to her great-grandson. We went from shop to shop, but couldn't find anything, although I was collecting more postcards along the way. My sister called me on my cell phone to wish me a happy birthday and we talked awhile. Finally, we abandoned our search for the cable car hoping to find it later in another town.

We dropped my mom off at home with Jeanette and continued on to the Hotel de la Plage for a romantic evening by the lake in my little village of Excenevex. Our room was perfect: spacious with two windows that overlooked the lake. There was a breeze running through. We took a walk down below on the lakeside and continued to the beach briefly. Soon it was dinnertime and we took a table on the patio so we could look at the lake. Although I can get by in conversational French, the menu was a challenge with all of its cuisine terminology. After a while and a few consultations with my dictionary, we decided on our choices. Unfortunately, the wind had really picked up in a short time and it was getting cold. The waitress moved us to the inside dining room with the last table next to a window. It was a perfect spot.

Charles started with an unusual salad containing green beans, quinoa and smoked duck that was as thin as prosciutto. The duck tasted out of this world. My appetizer was perch fillets perfectly cooked in a light meuniere sauce. For our main entree, Charles had the veal on the bone with chanterelle mushrooms. Mouth-watering. I was going to try pigeon legs for the first time, but they informed me they had just run out. So I chose another veal dish: "ris de veau aux morilles," which I thought was something with rice, veal and mushrooms. ("Rice" would have been "riz," not "ris.") I didn't realize it at the time, but it was actually veal sweetbreads. It came in a filo pastry dough with an amazing sauce and morel mushrooms which I'd never had before. (In fact, the "filo dough" turned out to be something called omnasum, the third stomach of a cow that looks similar to filo dough.) Whereas Charles' veal was quite savory, my veal entree had a more sweet taste. I'm rather glad I didn't know exactly what it was because I would have never guessed how good it would have tasted.

Our meals were finished off with decadent desserts: a chocolate tart for Charles which was of a solid and rich consistency I hadn't seen before. I had a more exotic dessert with a baked banana in it's skin accompanied by three small scoops of gelato (dark chocolate, strawberry and mango) with chocolate syrup and a bit of homemade cream on the side. It was a jaw-dropping meal, especially for the price. We spent a good deal of time just savoring each bite of the meal and enjoying our view of the glittering lake at night. I was in heaven and still a little teary-eyed as I was realizing that I had finally made it to where I so longed to be for so many years...and enjoying it in the most amazing way possible. Later that night, Charles gave me a gift of beautiful vintage beaded gloves. They fit perfectly, of course. Although his being there with me for this trip was what really meant so much to me.

I also received a text message from my friend Bob back in LA wishing me a happy birthday. I texted back that I was spending my birthday having a gourmet meal whilst overlooking Lake Geneva. He wrote back simply, "You're never coming back, are you?" Shortly after, we noticed fireworks going off on the shore of the lake a few towns away. It was amazing timing. Seemed like the stars were all aligned to give me the best birthday ever.

Before going to sleep, I realized the shutters of the windows were still open. With the wind whipping about, I didn't want to be wakened by a banging shutter in the middle of the night. So I opened the windows and tried to pull the shutters closed. It felt like one of those fleeting, surreal moments when I leaned with my body halfway out of the window and was enveloped in the wind while reaching for the shutter handle. I stayed halfway out the window for a few minutes, just letting the wind whip around me. Although it was cool, I felt like I could have just stepped out onto the tile rooftops where I would sit in the wind and bright moonlight, just watching the waves all night.