Isle d'oleron, and the last night in st.georges

WELCOME BACK!

The fortress at Chateau du ISLE D'OLERON

Lunch at the very top of that fortress, just beyond the flag.

We apologize for the blip in the blog. All the photos are on my laptop, which couldn't be connected, for some reason, to the internet in Khaldia's Paris apartment, (which was off line for days, anyway. I would type in long blog entries in her laptop, then parisien gargoyles would gobble them up.) Maybe I was meant to tell the whole arc of the story from where we left off.

I'm home, a hot, sunny, muggy day in my beloved Brooklyn. Oldies are playing from the radio in the playground across the street. Children laughing, squealing in the fountains. I've got my wallet beside me. Scribbled in blue ink in my little notebook are notes we made on a long metro ride to the Concorde station to visit the Orangerie, 23 stops away from 'Ecole Veterinaire Alfortville'. I said to the girls, "Ok, lets remember all that we did since we came back to Paris. Saturday, what did we do then?" and the girls chimed in. So let's try time-machine mode, and pretend we're back traveling together day by day. Let's pretend it's those light summer days in France. The best, the most iconic photos are the girl's, funny and wonderful, now in a computer in Cambridge. I'll try to get them to you soon. Meanwhile, you can look through my eyes.

Let's go back to Saturday, August 8. No, the day before. You missed our trip to the Ile d'oleron, which took the entire half hour drive to learn to pronounce, a double swallow the tongue trick. Khaldia proposed the trip, all bright, cheery and hopeful, the day she was to go biking with us. Little trip. Not take long. I think she was hoping it would take quite long, shortening the terrifying prospect of a ride on the back seat of a tandem bike, a promise she made me at a moment of weakness. She showed me the map. An island to the north. Sure, I'm game. First things first, though. A drive into Royan to pick up Aicha's glasses. The evening before Khaldia had whipped us through the four optometry places she had noted in her few walks in town, and we found a place that would have the glasses ready today, not mid-September, and for less than the price of a Peugeut.

Aicha was pleased. Life was good, she could see again, be herself again.

So we piled in the car, and hoped for the best. Fortunately, except for a few side trips, the only place Royanians go to is the Isle, and vice versa, because all the signs were highlighted to both places, and you couldn't miss a single turn at the circles of major highways. [Not that there are major highways there. Mostly four pleasant lanes all the way, passing hectares of oyster beds, brown and damp, green hills now and then, a cow or two.] Or maybe they highlighted the signs because they knew I was driving.

So we arrived at the great bridge to the isle, cheering that I had managed that amazing feat of not getting lost, for once. It surely was a long and lovely bridge new and gleaming, leading to our storied 'Isle d'orleron'. Over mud. Gleaming mud, mind you. But mud it was, for the tide was out. "Now where?" I asked. Khaldia beamed at me. "You choose!" Oy.

It was like choosing where to go on Staten Island, which, for the uninitiated, is a similar huge land mass with signs to several towns, only in French. "Chateau d'orleon" said one. Chateau. Castle? That sounded promising. A road comfortingly hugging the coast, lessening the chance of losing my way back, seeing as the ocean was dependably there, and I was determined to get Khaldia on that bike. So, expecting a grand chateau of some kind, or at least a peek into the distant cathedral, I headed right. Soon the road led to a great ancient fortress wall, crumbling, gray, forlorn as a beached whale, looming over quaint fishing shacks. We found a parking space alongside other tourists, but the place was bustling with oystermen in their rubber boots; fishing boats rested on the mud, waiting the turn of tide and time.

We were starving. The grass on the high birm looked inviting. Families walked up there, snapping pictures, [of what? what's behind the wall?] managing not to plummet the eighty feet to their deaths. Looked quite inviting. We pulled out our cameras, the lunch sack, and headed out to find the way up.

I charged ahead, and turned back to take this photo. Up and up we climbed. The grass was by no means as soft as it looked from below, but other families had the same idea, so we made the best of it, and out came the sandwiches we'd bought in Royan, and then the cameras.

Now I'd love to dive into some intriguing history of this place, but as the signs were all in French, I have no idea what this place was, or why it was built. Had something to do with Napoleon, I think. It is a serious fortress, and if you look at it on a google map, you'll see it fortifies this entire curl of the island, something out of a Napoleonic engineer's imagination. Was this a dungeon for prisoners, or a magazine for rifles? Wish I knew.

Here comes my favorite picture. Some local has a treasred collection of WW2 items, and apparently got the town to let him set up some folding tables in the vast empty vaults of the fortress wall. It's an important collection. It's the purpose of his life to share it. So when he walks out and sees this little girl sitting in his vintage jeep he has a few sharp words to say. Khaldia had encouraged Aicha, I mean why would it be there if not for photo ops? Emma Nour knew better. She was dying. This is not a posed picture, at least not of EN. It's one of my all-time favorites.

I do not belong to this family, she thinks. I do not want to see this.



But we all did wander in, and looked around.

Playing cards from Napolean's time! Hand made and colored. Enough. Out into the air. A local artist had hung his works and set up his studio in another cavernous place, behind another red door. We wandered in and out quickly. Quite a few nudes among the earnest abstractions. Found our way out, under an archway. There was a date above, 1813, I think.





You had to wonder what it felt like in it's bustling heyday. All so grand and pompous, and now meaningless, guarding a blue sky and peaceful sea, a place for wandering tourists and gypsies. . .

and their donkeys. Three euros a ride.

Audio: two women and a sister, in various languages: "Aicha! What are you doing? Aicha! Come here! Put that down! Are you crazy?" Aicha, having taken the brush out in perfect calm, "They were doing it, so why can't I?" Click.

Turn around, walk on, find this sign by the exit. Lookie there. Which continent am I on? Here's a map of Canada ("new France") with pictures of Indians even. Ah. The French and Indian war. maybe this place was older than I thought.

We follow Khaldia, on a nice jaunt through the town, past pleasant seaside houses, gardens.

Into town, where there' a poste! Postes are good. You can change dollars to euros in Post Offices. Dollars for Aquaboulevard, maybe. EN parts with some of her precious hoarde, and while K waits in line, we settle at a little sidewalk place for soda, and look over the town.

There's a carousel here. There's carousels everywhere in France. in every town. Simple ones, double decker ones, donald duck ones in St. Georges, and here, one in which Cinderella's coach floats by among the horses. Now Aicha is really too old for carousels. She says. Or maybe not. Hard to know. It's a pretty carousel, though.

Emma Nour doesn't have those problems. Ten year old's don't. Wait for me!




So the tickets are bought and the steeds are chosen. But halfway through Aicha can't resist the ride on the coach, dismounts, and runs to finish the ride off there. The man yells at her, I'm sure Emma Nour yells at her. Never too old to get people excited. We see a park nearby. Never too old for swings.


Never too old to take the high road back to the car, when every
one else walks on the side walk. No matter who yells at you that you'll fall and break something.



And it's into a few of those fishing shacks, a weaver's studio, a souvenier shop. All that comes home with us is a special shell that Emma Nour found up on the birn, that she didn't fall off the cliff retrieving. Oh, and oysters. We took home oysters.

But there's a little matter of the bicycle ride first.

I managed to get us back to St. Georges Didonne in good time, the sea being dependably there as I'd hoped, this time filling the channels, reflecting the lovely late sky. The plan was to drop off Khaldia at the bike rental place, in the good hands of the staff, the young man who grew up in Virginia Beach, and moved here when he was eight, the sweet owner, a woman, who had great compassion on Khaldia and her bicycle panic. Drop her off, drive the two miles home, park the car, grab the bikes, bike back, turn in my beloved bike, then rent a tandem so we could show Khaldia the joys of the bike trail there, especially the one by the sea.

I did a careful turn back on the road by the sea, a road I knew well, and ran into a barrier. Big music fete that night. Go this way. I do, and end up all over creation. It's a half hour before we're home, another half hour before we pull up to the bike place. Khaldia is beside herself. Fifty minutes, just fifty minutes before they close! Is it worth it? How could it be worth it? she looks at me hopefully. Absolutely I said. Her face falls.

We make the bike switch and the girls watch on their bikes as the woman carefully helps Khaldia onto the back of the tandem. Khaldia's yelps and cries and laughs begin before I get even across the street. I ride at 3 miles an hour down a completely straight and level bike path by the beach, and the yelps, the laughs, and the Arabic cries continue. Why? I'm doing my best. I concentrate so hard on keeping the bike level I don't notice two little Cambridge imps riding back and forth, riding circles around her, tickling her when they can.

We make the turn down to the sea, zoom around and stop at a bench rimmed with flowers near the light house under the cliff. She gets off, howling with laughter, then catches her breath. We walk? I shake my head. Give me a few minutes! Then back we go, the long, torturous, endless fifteen minute ride back to the bike place. I let her off on a bench by the beach, where she collapses. The girls and I go to turn in the bikes and my friends look up anxiously. "How is she?" I grow serious. Pause.

"She's alive."

They laugh, and we do the usual fuss with my American card to pay the bill, rubbing it, tapping it, chanting over it, until it finally registers, and back go the girl's bikes, and back go their helmets.

"Hey! How do we get home?" It hits them, no bike, no car.

Walk. "Aw!"

And enjoy the music! A music festival, right at the beach, remember?

They know what that means. Enduring their adults make fools of themselves.

"Awww!"

It'll be fun.

A lovely walk home, the last night in St. Georges.

And even the girls couldn't help smiling at the band, who just now took off their long wigs after a try at a Beatles' song.

Great spirit. As we applauded, a bike came up to me, and my friend from the bike shop stopped in front of me. Startled I said Hi! She handed me my credit card. Ah! Merci! Merci! Biked off with a wave.

Onward.

down the empty bike path,

past the beaches, and the folded cabanas and closed trampolines, the ecole de nata something

chasing ducks off the quay,

past the patisseri, not quite closed yet,

past the houses shuttering close,


under the blooms of the street lights,


past the patient windows,

with a last farewell to the old light house, the shed door locked, now,

to finally give in to the temptation offered by the restaurant's sign,

degustation', a restaurant known for their prune tarts. I buy one for dessert, something Khaldia makes sure we are never without, and carry it home warm in my hands, fragrant,



past the flowers by the roadside park by the sea,

around the bend, and home. We eat green salad and oysters. EN and I conquer the tough ones, though we've never opened one in our life. We manage to find the secret hinge in the craggy shell, give thanks. They're as fresh as the day.

Tomorrow we'll wake early, pack the car, (after I lock the key inside, and cause Khaldia yet one more harrowing moment as we wait for the men to come to open it), and board the trains to Paris. Another chapter for another day.

Much love,

diane

Aicha at the cafe which, for an hour or so, let me do my blog. She's carefully editing it. I love this picture. 'Oh, Grandma, the word for whipped cream is chantilly".


Meanwhile Khaldia reads the sports pages. Djelloul, I know you'll smile at this. They had a thrilling time seeing the English cup together once.



Meanwhile, EN is affectionately stretching the limits of Dragon's tail. Sad to report he lost part of it yesterday, after 1000 slaps of swirling it on the sidewalk. Amazing creature. She tied it on. Good as new.




The beach scene at St. Georges. It's all family. All sweet fun.





Khaldia's photo of the view from our balcony.

We stopped at the cyber cafe before the zoo. EN wanted to check on the dollar/euro values. Better than Paris, but not by much. She's the keeper of the purse, and we depend on her for all transactions. She is incredibly responsible.

While waiting for them to finish, I took these shots of the streets of Royan. There's the cafe.

Here's a woman hanging clothes out on her balcony. No one has dryers except the rich and the laundramats.

This is the post man. He tried delivering a letter, it wouldn't go into the slot. He shrugged and biked off to the next house.

This family came out of the doorway across from me. I could see a hall and some bikes. The older boy had a unicef tee shirt! He took the stroller from his mom, fondled the hair of his little brother and waited for his mom before they took off. Vacation time is family time. I saw dads playing with their little girls on the beach, tossing a ball, moms playing with their teenage sons, an adolescent boy hanging his arm over his mom's shoulderand giving her an affectionate peck before running off to talk to his dad. There's commercialism, in all the sites for kids, the theme parks and all, but it all means the kids are cared for. I met an American in St George, after buying my bagettes, and he said "kids are king here.So taken care of." He was an art teacher in CA and fell in love when he was here as a soldier long ago. He said in his broken french, 'you are the most beautiful girl in the world, only the word he used for 'world' was 'trash can'. He says he looks over the wall of the cemetary each time he passes where she's buried, and his place is next to hers. A cheerful man and he's engaged in politics with his california children.

We've loved the sunsets. Aicha's carefully recording one.

With EN's suggestions.

Also needed by Khaldia.

Ah, the bike ride. So many wonderful trails by the beach. Here's where you peddle by the boats, on the way to the path on the side of the shoreline sidewalk, streching on for miles.

This is my favorite part of the path. I went a couple of times early in the morning, spotted an egret in the low tide, loved the light on the cliffs and the town.

Fleur de France. Aicha took these. I don't know half of them.

And the flowers spilling out of the town plaza in St. Georges. Also by Aicha.

Now I'm sitting in the cybercafe in Royan for the last time. Girls are intensely working on computers, Khaldia is her incredible patient self, reading a magazine. The train leaves for Paris in 30 minutes, so lets see what I can manage to get on. It's a lovely, sunny day, but misty this morning. Aicha had wanted to do a wondrous obstacle course at the pine woods at the edge of the beach this morning, and I got up early to do my study, then wake her up. She said she'd rather sleep, so to help out Khaldia I went to clean out the car. The mourning doves, or the french version, were singing away. Only they don't sing the poignant 'Oh, why why why?' the way ours do. It's a relentless bon JOUR you, bon JOUR you. bon JOUR you. bon JOUR you. The air is clean and sweet. I passed hollyhocks and so many other flowers in bloom, and said hellow to the pale blue ocean and pale sky. Unfortunately, I did a good sweeping out and locked the key in the car.

Made things a little tense, but we cleaned up the apartment, packed, the girls got dressed and ready and helped, then the tow truck pulled up with a tall arab and his two pre-teen son, who strode to the ford, expertly eased the window open with black balloons, and voila! No prob.

So here we are. The church bells at the protestant center just rang 2pm. Soon the big cathedral bells will follow. I don't know who's behind or who's ahead, but it always makes me smile.

Aicha will now edit my post, and we'll be off. Much love to all,

Aicha, Emma Nour, Diane and Khaldia.

Here's the photos from the day before the zoo trip, and some extra thoughts about France.