Chez Moi

I am back in Paris. When I arrived at Gare de Lyon, I had it in my mind that the first thing I should do is find out what the problem was with my Metro pass. So I stood in line at the ticket window and explained that there was a problem. They tested the card and said, "No, no, it is fine." And it was. It worked as it always had.

What to make of that? So curious. My sense at the time—on Friday when I was having trouble making it work, was that it was important I go south. I find that it's not unusual to have problems of some magnitude pop up when I'm trying to accomplish something of significance. You know—interference, as if there are forces at play opposing me, or opposing good things in my world, hoping I'll get discouraged and give up.

Certainly, I had a wonderful and meaningful stay in Provence. It was different than any of the other things I've done since arriving in France. First of all, the emotional connection I made was powerful. I fell in love with Janine and her family. It was hard to say goodbye. I feel like the connection we made is deep and potentially lifelong, rich—possibly leading me in a whole new direction.

Being there also gave me the opportunity to interact with a French family. And in that way, taught me a great deal about what goes on, on a daily basis with one French family, anyway. But as valuable as that is, I don't think it's the reason why the negative forces that like to spoil good things when they can got stimulated. I think it was bigger than just learning things. I think it was about establishing important, lasting relationships and perhaps even a professional association.

I played with the idea of my coming back to do a writers workshop somewhere in Provence. Because of Janine's knowledge and connections, it seems like something we might be able to make happen. She makes her living managing properties and the people who come to stay in them. She arranges vacations and organize events, mostly for foreigners who are rich enough to afford luxury. She's set a number of workshops and events in motion, including a set of culinary classes. The only thing that would be different in this configuration for her, would be the element of organizing it around writing.

At first glance, the idea that I might be able to bring a group of writers to the South of France for a week of writing seems little more than a delightful fantasy. But maybe I can. I've taught and produced writing workshops in Mendocino, and I do have experience organizing, promoting and facilitating retreats and week long events. Between us, we have a combination of skills that seem to dovetail nicely—a combination of experience and knowledge that goes together well. As I think about taking the steps to make it work, I see that Janine and I have the resources to pull it together. If we were to approach it in a systematic way, taking each step—we might actually be able to pull it off. What an idea!

I don't know, but certainly in meeting Janine, I have met the route by which I am most likely to return. We even talked about horses. We have connections there as well. There are wild horses in Provence. I didn't see them, but they're there, waiting for another time. And Janine has arranged horseback riding for people in the area.

And the pictures? I took them at the Provence Market in Arles. There was an artist there and he'd created a kind of window display of an old-fashioned studio, of the objects that would clutter an artist's studio. I took the pictures thinking I should study them closely, that they will help me write about Delcaroix and Géricault, even Ary Scheffer, the man who painted Géricault in his death bed and who hosted salons that were attended by Chopin and George Sand.

I've thought about possibly living in Avignon and apparently, my friend Toni as been having similar fantasies, thinking about the possibility of buying an apartment in Avignon, or something along those lines. None of this is clear, of course. It's just dreaming, but the dreams are pleasant and have the feel of something that could take root.

I only have a few days left in Paris. I fly home now in less than two weeks. That's kind of disturbing. I'm feeling less and less ready to leave as the day of departure rolls relentlessly closer. Tomorrow is Monday. On Friday I am taking a day trip to Normandy. I'm not sure whether that's time and money well-spent, but these decisions to travel seem to be pressing in on me in interesting ways.

As far as what else I must do in Paris, like I said, there's a day to be spent in Montmartre. I'm not sure which day that will be. Perhaps next Saturday. I want to have someone paint my portrait and I want to photograph some of the more common sights that I take for granted in my neighborhood. I want to feel the pavement under my feet one last time and think about where each establishment sat in relationship to the others: the paint store, the studios, the cabaret, the guinuette, and, yes, Louise Farrenc's house. These are her streets too.

One of the other things I said I would do, which I have not done, was to go back to Père Lachaise in the rain and weather—so that I feel winter there. I haven't gone to Delacroix's grave, either. And certainly, I must return to Géricault's and leave a rose for him or some other remembrance. These are things I must do and the time is short. Oh yes, and drink the absinthe. We can't forget that.