Changing Spaces

No time to mope as, the next morning, my new tenants started their moving in process. Lots of changes for me and for them. The apartment had been passed from English PhD candidate to English PhD candidate for the last 20 years. But, this time none were in need of a new apartment, it seemed. So my new tenants come from the Music Department and needed space for two cats, a harpsichord, a marimba, a vibraphone and assorted drums as well as themselves.
Negotiations and problem-solving took place during my March visit. There have almost always been cats downstairs -- though usually one at a time. Property managers frown on pets but I do not. I informed the manager that two pre-existing cats deserved a change of wording in the lease which had said, grudgingly, “One cat” It was up to Peter and Brian to find places for all their musical instruments and to assure me that all practicing would be done with mutes.
On July 16th, it made me feel good to see the happy smiles on their faces as they began to savor having left the student-filled apartment complex where they had been living. At last, they had a place of their own (except for me upstairs, of course.)
Day 1 was cleaning-and-painting day


Day 2 was the actual moving day – and, in the evening; introducing the cats to their new home.

Day 3 was moving-in-the-musical-instruments day.

Camm's room is now the harpsichord room.

Paul and Maggie's dining room is now the domain of Brian and his friends.

Lucy poses prettily.

Simon prefers to play.

Most subsequent days have been “trying-to-get-the-phone-to-work” days. And, of course, the Internet connection.( I am keenly interested in my tenants’ internet connection working properly as they are kind enough to connect me to their wifi, as did their predecessors, which allows me to communicate with all of you.) The first few days, we were caught up in a problem affecting half the city. An underground wire had short-circuited and fled up a nearby telephone pole melting wires and depriving half the city of phone service for up to two days. Last Monday, their phone was finally connected and we were all happy for several days.

Then, we had a private short-circuit, caused, perhaps by a lightening hit or perhaps by a hungry squirrel. The telephone guy, who was becoming our best friend, can’t be sure. But he swears he’s fixed it now. Fingers crossed.

"Bye Sandy"

My tenants moved last Wednesday. Of course, when you rent to grad students, they always move sooner or later. But this was a much bigger event for me than usual. For Maggie and Paul had become friends. We hit it off immediately even though I was old enough to be their mother. Whenever I was in town, there was much running up and down stairs, sharing treats and conversation and meals – a picnic or two in the summer, a pre-Christmas dinner at my place, a St Patrick’s Day dinner at their place ….
Then, too, Maggie and Paul were with me for five momentous years in their lives. I first met them as a young couple just moving in together. Soon afterwards, with my permission, they acquired a kitten called Biscuit. He spent his first and all subsequent Christmases with me, since a resident cat at Maggie’s parents’ house and a resident dog at Paul’s parents’ meant he could never be with them. Gradually, Biscuit considered my place a suitable refuge when the vacuum was running downstairs and learned he could meow at my door to be let in if his own family didn’t respond quickly enough.
In the summer of 2005, Maggie and Paul announced they were engaged and, soon, wedding planning and bridal showers alternated joyfully with dissertation-writing. I was pleased and flattered to be invited to the wedding which took place in Maine in July 2006.
At the pre-Christmas dinner that year, Maggie declined wine, claiming too much celebration in previous days. By spring, I knew the truth; I was to have a new tenant. And, in August 2007, Camm arrived to add another dimension to their lives and our relationship. It was a treat for me to hold him, feed him and, occasionally babysit. And, as he grew, he, too, came up the stairs to see me – with an attentive parent close behind. “Hi Sandy”, he’d say with a smile every time he saw me and “Bye Sandy” -- with an equally big smile -- when he left.
In December Paul’s years of hard work were rewarded with the offer of a great job in Florida. Ever since, they and I have alternated pleased feelings about the job with sad feelings at it being so far from Charlottesville. Too soon, the final countdown began.
Monday the packers came.

Tuesday the movers came.

Tuesday evening we had our good-bye dinner at my place with our next door neighbor and friend. Wednesday morning we shared doughnuts and coffee. The car was packed. A puzzled little boy and a yowling cat went into the back seat. Hugs. Promises to keep in touch. And they were off.


Confused Camm

Mad Biscuit

The house felt very empty the rest of the day. Several times I was sure I heard a cat meowing
at the door. And, in my imagination, I also heard a cheery little voice saying, “Bye, Sandy!”

Road Trip -- July 9th - 11th

I had barely settled in, when I was repacking for a Road Trip with friends. We were off to Southern Pines, North Carolina to visit Nancy’s mother-in-law. Nancy, of course, had been there many times and Jeanne had visited Grace, too. But, though I’d been invited regularly, I’d never worked up the courage to go. Oh, not because of Grace, but because of the trip. As most of you know, I don’t drive, so I’d have had to go by train – a trip about as long as my door-to-door trip from Paris to Charlottesville.
The train leaves Charlottesville at 7:20 in the morning—for Washington D.C. (For those whose geography is shaky, that’s north of here and Southern Pines is south.) After a 5 hour wait, I’d take another train back down south, arriving in Southern Pines nearly 8 hours after leaving Washington – assuming the train was on time. And, in this land that trains forgot, that is the only connection for the day. By car we made it in an easy five hours.
Grace’s house looks like it’s in the middle of a forest.

She welcomed us royally and had made many plans for our visit, including time just to relax and talk – something we all do well!
Southern Pines is a small town of about 11,500 people. It was incorporated in 1887 – about 20 years after my neighborhood in Paris – and was first settled by Highland Scots. The railroad arrived soon afterwards. (The train station dates from 1898.) Trains transported harvested pine trees out and visitors to the resort hotels in. The station is still in use but, alas, only once or twice a day.

Just a freight train passing through.

On Friday we visited a beautiful garden near Grace’s home and then the small downtown area not far away. Our vote for the most interesting place was the Creation Museum. Situated in the Christian Bookstore, it did have some displays relating to the creation and some quotes from the Bible. But mostly we saw old tools and examples of the taxidermist’s art. We all decided it was an ideal place to send husbands (even non-Christian ones) while their wives shopped.



On Saturday morning, Grace took us to visit nearby Pinehurst, developed by a Boston soda fountain magnate in 1895 as a health resort.


Biggest hotel in Pinehurst

Apparently Mr Tufts believed that golf was essential for health as he created 7 golf courses in his village which only became a public town in 1980. All golfers will have heard of Pinehurst as the Ryder Cup was held here in 1951 and the U.S. Open in 1998 and 2005. Grace and her late husband Bob loved to golf. They must have felt they’d come to paradise when they moved here over 30 years ago.
All too soon, it was time to get back in the car and head back to Charlottesville. But what a great way to start my American summer.Thanks, Grace for inviting me and thanks Nancy and Jeanne for getting me there and back so pleasantly and comfortably.


Grace and I say goodbye

Transition

From Paris

Several weeks before I'm due to go back to Charlottesville, I remind myself of the Pushmi-pullyu from Doctor Doolittle's books. I start checking the Charlottesville weather report and reading the local paper on-line practically every day. My friends there receive more messages than usual from me and sometimes even an impromptu phone call -- often for something that could just as easily have been said by e-mail. At the same time, I'm wistfully thinking of the various events I'm going to miss in Paris while I'm gone. And I have a hard time getting ready to leave. "I still have time," I say to myself. In the end the major things that have to be done are done and my taxi is at the door.

Since I don't like routine but I do like ritual, much of what happens on departure day is the same each time. I've known my taxi driver for 12 years and I always ride in the front next to him while he tells me of interesting clients he's had recently. Airport check-in has become easier since we can do it on-line and just drop off our luggage at the airport. Yes, I still have luggage. Some clothes wait for me in Charlottesville but not enough for my seven or eight week stays. Airport security has not become easier but the personnel in Paris are more polite and laid-back than those in Washington and we don't have to take off our shoes. This trial over, I make my way to a café near the departure gate for a ritual café and croissant. And soon it's time to board.

The actual flight lost its appeal for me when they installed individual video screens. The beginning is fine -- my celebratory champagne apéritif and the still decent Air France lunch. Sometimes my seatmate even takes off his or her headphones and is willing to chat while we eat. But, soon after lunch, the cabin is darkened so several hundred people can fix their gaze on a 7 inch by 7 inch screen and zone out. I don't enjoy movies on such a small screen; I can't read because the tiny reading light isn't strong enough and I don't want to sleep. So mostly I just play ridiculous video games, watch the map of our progress and wait for it all to be over. Don't get me wrong; even after all these years I find it amazing that I can have breakfast in Paris and dinner in Charlottesville. I just wish it were more fun in between.

At last, we are in Washington. If I'm lucky, there are fewer Americans than non-Americans on my flight and Immigration goes quickly. If I am luckier still, my suitcase isn't the last one unloaded. Both were true on this flight and I was saying hello to my American taxi driver 45 minutes after landing. She's been driving me for about 5 years. During the first part of the trip, she brings me up to date on family doings. Then, we fall silent and I look for familiar landmarks and signs that show a diminishing number of miles to Charlottesville. At last we pull in the driveway and I'm home again, 16 hours after leaving home -- a confusing concept, except to those who, like me, have a double life.

to Charlottesville

Les Vacances

Fortunately for everyone's sanity, the reward for living through June comes almost immediately -- the beginning of the lovely two month period known as "les vacances" when everything slows down to a gentle relaxing pace, even in the city. During the second part of June, you can sense it starting. The classical radio station I listen to has changed the names of its programs to "On the road to vacation", "A Classical summer" and "Summer afternoon". TV programs, particularly live ones, wish their viewers a happy summer and disappear, leaving not even reruns behind them, to be replaced by more lighthearted summer fare, often with a vacation theme. Magazine cover stories tend either to "Where to relax this summer" articles or "Great Philosophers" or "Great Moments in History" articles, assuming correctly or incorrectly, that their subscribers have more time to read and reflect during "les vacances". Gradually conversations at work and with friends drift to "So, when do you leave?" and "Where are you going?"
Because, even though "les vacances" lasts much longer than most people's summer vacation, getting away from it all is an important part of it, especially to Parisians and other urban dwellers.
Contrary to popular belief, all France does not shut down for the month of August. I'm not sure it ever did. The proof I always offer when asked about this is that there exist two nouns describing vacation-goers. "Juillettistes" are people who take their vacation in July or "juillet". "Aôutiens" are people who take their vacation in August ("aôut") Of course, some people take their vacation between July 14th (a public holiday) and August 15th (another public holiday). No special word for them except, perhaps, "clever" as it saves them two paid vacation days for the same amount of time away.
This said, fewer people are going away for an entire month now than when I first came to France. Two or three weeks seems to be the norm in summer. So although the first weekend in July, the July 14th weekend and the first weekend in August are known as "les grands départs", people come and go all summer. Despite public service announcements, most people leave between Friday afternoon and Saturday morning because weekly rentals start on Saturday afternoon and no one wants to miss a minute of their time, even if it means being stuck in traffic for hours.
And where are they going? The pictures at the top of this post should give you a clue. The favorite destination is the beach, with the mountains coming in second and the country a distant third -- although, of course, each destination has its passionate fans. Only about 10% of French people go abroad though that also, is more than when I first arrived.
So much more I'd like to tell you but the Tour de France is about to start -- another sure sign of "les vacances" . And when today's stage is over, I have to pack. The next post will be from Charlottesville.

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