The Royer girls moved to California from Minnesota when they were in first grade. One twin was put into each of the first grade classes at Hopkinson Elementary School, in Rossmoor. My own twin brothers, Roger and Scott, burst into the house after school that day with the news that each had a new girl in his class. That day marked the beginning of friendship between Wojahns and Royers that has spanned these many years. Wojahn twins were invited to Royer twins’ Birthday Parties, because, after all, the fact that the Wojahn Dad worked for Mattel Toys was regionally known by then, and after all; the Royer girls were just coming of “Barbie Age” in those first years becoming childhood friends.

Families moved, students were allocated to new schools being built to accommodate the growth of Huntington Beach in the late ’60′s, and both the Wojahn and Royer twins lost touch only to reacquaint another year, in another school. By Junior High, much to my delight, I was somehow brought into the mix. Maybe by then my being a year younger didn’t have the stigma it had had during the previous decade. Anyway, my life was changed forever with the advent of the three way budship with those brilliant, talkative, delightful, identical twins. Here, I’d like to point out that these two girls, who so surpassed me in looks, intelligence, and popularity- things that were of major importance at that juncture in life- never ever made me feel as if they noticed this fact. From the beginning off our friendship, I was wholly accepted and embraced, in spite of my being inferior to them on every level.

At first, I thought of it as having a best friend, in duplicate. In fact, it was kinda’ exactly that. I never attended the same school as Susie and Margie, but on weekends and school breaks, we were inseparable. Of curse I still had to share them some of the time with my twin brothers, but that was indeed a small price to pay for the unmitigated pleasure of their company. We taught the Royers all the words to every song from “The Music Man”, and took them along with us on our annual Family trip Yosemite, where we worked hard to persuade the girls to assist us performing said songs, atop the Bus that cruised around the park. Roger and Scott taught Margie and Susie to play the piano, and Susie and Margie taught me how to wrap my hair around the circumference of my head, pinning as we’d stretch it, in attempt to aid me in having straight hair; even if it only lasted a few hours. The Royer girls loaned me their clothes, and stuffed toes of my borrowed shoes to make them fit. They let me plagerize archived history papers of theirs when I’d failed to complete my own assignment by the close of a weekend, in favor of spending a couple of days at their Family Cabin at Lake Arrowhead. When my parents moved to Cincinnati just before the start of my Junior year in High school, they deemed the fact that I’d made Cheerleader, an important enough fact to let me stay behind, and in fact move in with the Royer family.( Seriously? As if it could get any better.) Sure, I was now obliged to live according to the rules of the house, and pitch in, for example, with chores. None of that phased me, since what it really boiled down to was that now I had twenty- four hour a day access to Susie and Margie. I was in heaven. We chorused on our favorite songs from “Jesus Christ Superstar” nightly, while doing the dishes. The continuous “dropping by” of some of their friends from school, meant meeting and getting to date some of their cast- offs.

We grew up, and College, then life, separated us. We managed to see each other a few times as we were starting our families. Susie and Margie ended up marrying guys who’d been best friends in school, and both gals settled with their husbands in Denver, a mile apart. They continued to be as close as ever; setting the course of their lives to easily accommodate the bond that only identical twins could truly know. I kept up with them intermittently, and vicariously through Roger and Scott. Then one early morning several years ago, Scott called to deliver the terrible news of Susie being killed in a snowmobile accident. All of Susie and Margie’s kids were home from College, and the two families were in the mountains, celebrating Holiday time together. Even as I write this, it’s still unfathomable to me, that Susie isn’t here any longer. Of course she’s in heaven, and while that fact may offer her family some amount of solace, the fact is, that Margie’s life was impacted that day, in that year, forever.

I’m ashamed to say that each time I thought I had the courage to reach out, and get in touch with Margie, I failed. I failed Margie. I failed Susie, and I failed all that is in Friendship’s name. Not knowing what to say to someone, is no excuse for silence. No gesture, I now realize, is a gesture in carelessness, in laziness, and in selfishness. As years have passed, it seemed more and more difficult to figure out how to bridge the chasm that I’d let rest between me and my treasured friends. But because something seems hard to do, is never ever an excuse for… not doing, particularly when it concerns people who I claim that for me, mean so much. Neither the passing of time, or physical life or death, has changed my eternal love for my childhood friends, in duplicate.

So today, as I am surrounded by people celebrating May Day, I am acutely aware of what I have celebrated on May Day, for most of my life. As the French mark the beginning of Spring, I am marking the end of my silence, regarding the passing of Susie Royer, and the end of the anguish I’ve felt over these past years for Margie’s loss, I’ve not conveyed to her. Today, I celebrate the Birthday of Susie and Margie Royer, I am reminded of a lyric of Scott’s, from his song, “Find the Words”. Scott claims that Greg, our younger brother who passed away a few years ago, is the one who taught him to live according to this principle;

“Say the things you’ve been meaning to say,
we may run out of tomorrows, today,
find the words”….

So very late and from a country far away, on your May Day Birthday, this is me, Susie and Margie… trying to find the words.

“Why Collioure?” was a frequently heard question. “Because it’s a town of painters, and galleries, and tourists coming in search of art.”

“Oh; so you’ve got a Gallery there that will be exhibiting your work?” “Well, no… I haven’t actually met anyone. I have made no inquiries, and haven’t established any Gallery representation. We’re simply following the desire of our hearts, which is to live in Collioure, and for me to sell paintings.”

I repeated this over and over, much to the befuddlement of most of our friends and family. I mean, who would do this at our juncture in life; at this age, and at this particular time in the world, when economies are plummeting, countries are flailing, and governmental foundations everywhere are crumbling? “How do you know that things will work out?”…. “Faith” was always my only response. Faith, Faith, and then some…

Many of you know, that the season in Collioure, while rife with logistical challenges, ended up being the most prolific season of my career as an artist, and the most prosperous. I painted and sold more originals during the high season in Collioure than I ever dreamed I could produce. I realize now, what I didn’t know then; that my SPEAKING what I’d hoped would take place, was fueling my faith, which in turn caused the manifestation of my hopes, desires, and dreams. I know much more now, about the relationship between the “Speaking, or calling those things that be not, (yet!) as though they were”, and those things actually showing up. I called and I spoke, over and over what I envisioned as a best case scenarios. My faith already told me that whatever I might desire, God desires that for me, but with even greater intensity of heart than I do!

With the upcoming release of Kirby’s and my second Children’s book ( “That Hat’s Fedorable”, the second in our “Bon Bon, Voyage” series of books/ music) I began planning the months I would spend in the USA, scheduling reading/ signing events to promote the new book. From late summer and through the fall, people coming into the Gallery in Collioure, would ask me about me departure date, my plans for the book, and for how long I’d stay in the USA. I spoke often about the many events we’d scheduled, particularly with Schools. My faith that this would be the case, fueled my speaking about my plans. The more often I spoke about how busy we’d be promoting the book, the more my faith increased, causing me to really KNOW that God’s grace would abound, and that our efforts around “Fedorable” would indeed, be blessed. I’ve been occupied every single week now, for the past two months, sharing, signing, and selling copies of “That Hat’s Fedorable”. We’ve been invited to more schools to share our books in these past couple of months, than we visited in the first two years of publishing! Before any events were “inked”, I spoke with confidence, about how widespread our events would be, and how much fun we’d have introducing children we hadn’t yet met, to our books! I spoke what by faith, I saw taking place, and… Voila! So it did!!!

Seriously, the further I go, the more I encounter the Hugeness of the concept; speaking life over a thing, and the power that our words carry, to bring about the manifestation of that thing. And the more I practice it, with amazing results, the stronger my conviction becomes. The stronger my conviction, the more I practice it. I’ve started taking the time to really revisit all the desires of my heart; my hopes, my dreams. In the years before I moved to France, my art had become quite licensed; my images appeared on tabletop, gift, and stationary items, sold all over the world. Licensing my work to companies had been a goal of mine, and I’d achieved that goal… The overall experience, however, left me quite dissatisfied, due in large part to many manufacturers practices of failing to pay me royalties owed, for products they’d sold. I’ve spent years perusing my “pirated ” images on the Internet, often thinking about how edifying the experience of having my work widely licensed, might have been, had I worked in that arena with honest, ethical people. I’ve mused about how differently I’d do things, if I had it to do over. When I speak about the experience lately though, instead of whining about the monies stolen from me, I speak about the restoration of all that’s been stolen, being delivered into my hands! But aside from the every now and then, it’s not a subject I dwell on. The cool thing is this; even when we may not realize that there is something our ” heart is desiring”, God does realize, does know, and has already made plans to see it through with a great result! ( I know; you’re seeing a trend here..) One morning days ago,I sensed God telling me that before the day was out, I would have a “Publishing Deal” in place. Wow, I thought… This must mean I’ll be contacted by a Book Publisher, indicating interest in taking over the publishing of our Children’s Books! Just hours later, I found myself looking up “Licensing Agents”, although I didn’t really know why. I hadn’t been consciously thinking about it. A company called “Out of the Blue popped up, and because I was intrigued by the name, I began forwarding samples of my work. By the day’s end, many emails had been passed between myself and the owner of “Out of the Blue”, resulting in an agreement being sent over by evening… After all these years spent reflecting about the disagreeable results of having licensed my work, and claiming that one day restoration of that income would be mine, God- quite out of the blue- urged me back into that very area, so that He could finally bless me by restoring what was rightfully mine! Incredible, yup!!! But that’s what I’ve come to expect as the result of speaking those GOOD things I desire to see, over any and every part of my life!!

So, as Gary and I prepare for our return to France a couple weeks from now, I let my imagination run wild, regarding any outstanding desires of my heart! I inventory my hopes, and dreams, some of those stored up for years, that have not yet materialized. I bring any of those ideas to the forefront of my thoughts, so that as I prepare for another season, a’ la France, I am sure to focus on, and speak from faith, what I HOPE to see happen! Like anything, practice makes perfect! The more I exercise this, the more those desires of my heart will manifest. The more my dreams and desires manifest, the Greater it makes God look. And if He’s getting the Glory for these amazing things that He’s taught me to see by faith, and speak by faith, then see and speak I will continue to do! He blessed this “Fedorable” time in the States, beyond anything I could have imagined, and I’m about to embark on this next chapter, with a Hatful of faith that even greater things are still to come!

Today, I write from a cozy corner of a Cafe’ in town, where I’m relishing these last few weeks I’ll spend here. October has ushered the crowds out, and the gray skies in to this corner of France. Beautifully written by Frances Cabrel (my favorite French singer) I offer these lyrics from his song, “October”;

“The branches will creak in the wind,
The mist will come in its white dress.
Everywhere, the leaves
will lie on the stones.
October will grasp its revenge.
The sun will barely show up.
Our bodies will hide under bits of wool….

I will offer you flowers
and colorful tablecloths
to escape October’s grasp.
We will climb high on the hills
and behold all that’s lit up by October.
My hands in your hair,
sharing the same scarves
in front of the surrendering world.”

I’m acutely aware that this amazing season is coming to an end. I’ve completed the last of the many paintings that have been inspired by this place. I’ve met scores of wonderful people, from all over the globe, many of whom will be etched in my memory for life. Life in Collioure has been in every way beyond all I could have asked or imagined.

Simultaneous to the delight I’ve experienced daily on the artistic front, I’ve also been experiencing preparation, both mentally and spiritually for what the next season holds. Now understand; I have been given a very light pencil drawing, as it were, of what lies ahead. Most of the colors, and details of the picture have yet to be revealed. This, friends, is the very essence of what the transitioning of seasons is about. Summer, with its long, leisurely days and c’est la vie attitude give way to the emerging Fall season, most gently and gradually, in a fashion meant to keep our systems from being shocked…

Had I known from the outset, that this beautiful and rewarding life in Collioure was meant to last only a season, would I have thrown myself into it with such abandon? Hm… I’m not sure… If I’d seen what was just up the road for me, would I have spent the energy of heart and soul- throwing caution to the wind- digging deep, to plant and cultivate this “Garden” of a life in Collioure? Would I have continually enriched the soil by growing and strengthening connections to many people around me? Not likely. That said, I would not change any of this. This season has produced an abundance of colorful, flourishing life, even if…only for a period….

So now October marches in; an interim “Commander in Chief” between what was, and what is to come. What I do know is that I’m being led out of the country, and back into the City. I’ll be exchanging sun and sea for towers and traffic. But I’m also armed with a new level of Faith, in which I take comfort, even as I am being led forward without much detail in the picture. My steps as I “climb high on the hills”, are confident, emboldened by my utter belief that this transition is purposed by an Almighty God, whose ability to see what lies on the other side the hill, encourages me to walk forward by faith…. since I can’t see all that He can.

“To everything there is a season”. I stand on a precipice, at the edge of a “surrendering world”, but I am completely at peace. I will continue to accept the offer of “flowers, and colored tablecloths” to make the transition sweeter, more gentle. But I will also continue to throw myself into every season of my life, with abandon. My trust is in The One Who purposes all under His Heaven, lights up October, and infuses every season with good things….

The kids dug spending time there, and I was always artistically, tres inspired by the city’s grandeur and elegance. The Italian influence in architecture, cuisine, and attitude, makes for magnificent ambiance. Sure, Nice had seen better days, many decades earlier, but underneath the shoddy facades of many of the City’s palaces, Nice’s former glory is still evident.

When I finally made the decision a few years ago, to resettle in the south of France, I had criteria to adhere to. I was keen on putting a foot down in a place where artists were exhibiting high quality work; where an art “scene” was thriving. Nice was a city that as far as I knew, lacked only that particular characteristic. Trotting up and down the Mediterranean coast, my husband fell madly in love with Nice, and had we been aware of what was an emerging Galerie Row, in the heart of the Old City, we would’ve stopped searching immediately, and stayed. Oblivious to that fact, however, we headed for Collioure just this year. It’s been a great season of selling paintings, faster than I can paint. Collioure is quaint, and tranquil and lovely. But Collioure; as nice as it is, is not… Nice.

Last week we spent a few days in Venice. I wondered aloud to myself why I didn’t live, in fact, in Italy? I was reminded that the espresso is so much better than in France; that is, everywhere except Nice. There is much about the Italian culture that I love. Italy is beautiful, as are their shoes. Italians, cooking up real Italian cuisine; yum. We followed Venice with a few days in NiceVille, and exploded with delight. There’s nothing one could want for that is Italian in nature, that you don’t have in Nice. And I discovered, finally, in the course of our days there, a decidedly fabulous art “scene”. A several block area of Old Nice, has traded in less desirable restaurants and shops, for some spectacular Art Galleries/ Artist’s Ateliers, all surrounded by new, upscale restaurants, Cafes, and boutiques. This New Nice, has become just the Nice I have been searching for. The freshly scrubbed, artistically groovy city, has a newfound place in my heart, and my art, will be in that heart of Old Nice. I approached, and have been invited to permanently exhibit with an impressive Galerie, in this Art Quarter of the city.

I’m impacted anew by this city with which I have such sweet history, and Nice is already creeping into my work. A painting that I started a few weeks ago, I’ve just finished. It’s based on a favorite painting of mine by Balthus; a girl in a chair, reading. Initially the painting was an ode to my daughter Kirby; a writer, who is also a voracious reader. Starting back on the piece, it began to move in a new direction, the woman taking on characteristics of the black- haired women in many of Matisse’s drawings and paintings. Through an open window, the Italianate shutters prevalent throughout the city of Nice, are visible. A bird I’d sketched in when I began the painting, has become (my version of) a Morning Dove, which references a song my brother Scott wrote for Greg, just weeks before he died.

Embarking on this new relationship with Nice, ties together intense emotions and my best memories of Greg, and of my kids, passing summers on the Azure Sea. So I will write my love letters to this grand city, in paint, on canvas. Then in a few weeks, I will accompany these paintings to Old Nice, and deliver them to my new Galerie. And as I kiss this new Nice chapter of my life Hello, I’ll hug an olive tree, for old time’s sake…..

I actually depicted this very scene in a painting, several years ago. I recently fetched that original version from my Paris Galerie, and sold it a couple of weeks ago. During the few weeks it was in my possession, I pondered the aspects of the original painting that I’d change, should I ever decide to attempt another version. Bellying up to my easel last week, as I began this updated depiction of the dancing couple, I realized that I had a great sense of delight in that I could in fact, paint this very scene, again. I could recreate “The Fragile Dance” changing whatever I wanted to, from the “Version Originale”, as the French say…I had the opportunity for a “Do Over”, as a first- grader might put it. And Do Over, I did…

What’s been going through my head during the recreation of this scene, has been just these two things; the fragility of “The Dance” and the departure of “Art Imitating Life”, wherein, in this case, I had the chance to… do it over…

We’ve all heard it said, “All of Life’s a Dance”, and this is entirely true. As an artist, I humbly submit in paint, my personal commentary on this adage. As we dance through this life, we gauge others’ intentions and motives, to determine what our proximity to each one, should best be. We are caught between the desire to completely immerse ourselves in dancing; throwing aside all doubts and fears about what tomorrow might bring, and allowing ourselves to dance with abandon… We’ve all experienced a first dance with what seemed to be a good dance partner, only to find out a few songs later, that our partner is dancing to a completely different beat than the one we’re hearing, and that getting our toes stepped on, over and over again, makes for sore feet and ruined shoes. But to sit on the sidelines, and miss out on the “Fragile Dance” because it might not go well, or our current dance partner may not be so forever, is to miss out on the essence of life…

Yup; the dance of life is fragile. There are no guarantees that all will go smoothly, and that you’ll wind up like Ginger Rogers and Fred Astaire; making perfectly choreographed dancing magic. But as opposed to the dancers in my painting, in the dance that is life, there is no second chance; no opportunity to do it over, correcting the things you didn’t like in the original version. This dance is delicate, and subject to disappointing results. But dancing at arm’s length, we miss out on the sweetest aspect of the dance; to embrace and to be embraced, while moving in perfect time to whatever music is playing. And as opposed to these dancers on my canvas, once the music stops, the dance is over. The “Version Originale” is all we get in this life…. I highly suggest getting out of your chair, crossing the floor toward another would-be dancer, embracing each other and the opportunity fully, discarding caution, and dancing… with abandon….

It was five years ago today, that Greg, having felt really ill for over a week, was taken to the emergency room at UCLA Medical Center, and diagnosed with an incredibly aggressive form of Leukemia that would take his life, seven months later…

In the early hours of this morning, I found my typical exuberance diminishing, as I began recalling that gray day we received the devastating news of Greg’s illness. The vivid colors I live in both physically and emotionally, faded, and everything seemed to become… quiet…

Most days of my life, are packed with a genuine joy and gratefulness for the life I live. But today, I mourn, and I wanted to find comfort and validation in the words;

“There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die,
A time to plant, and a time to uproot…
A time to weep, and a time to laugh,
A time to mourn, and a time to dance”…

My heart breaks over and over, when I think about Greg, and losing him, as far as this world is concerned. My heart breaks hardest for Sue; his treasured love, his patient and constant companion cum nurse, his light when darkness set in, and for Jude; his beloved daughter, his triumph, his joy, his heart. These two people changed Greg’s life, delivering with their entrances, the best delights God could give a person. I mourn today for the hearts that Greg poured love into, that now know the void left by his passing. I’ve wept much today, and still weep, as I write, and that’s okay. It is in fact, the season; the appropriate time. I’m allowed this.

“However many years a man may live, let him enjoy them all.” Surely, the person writing this, must’ve known Greg. There was no other person on the planet like him. Greg planted. Greg laughed. Greg danced. Greg lived everyday not to the fullest, but to beyond the fullest, until his fullness burst out of his being, and spilled out over anybody and everybody in his company, or in his life.

As I look back (I know that much of what I’m saying here, I’ve said before, but when it comes to Greg, and what we can all learn from his life, it bears repeating.) I realize that God-who knew what ultimately was coming, when none of the rest of us could have guessed- devised and orchestrated a way for each of us closest to Greg, to have our own, private “season” with him. When my parents moved to Cincinnati, leaving Roger, Scott and I behind in California, they had a “season” of Greg, all to themselves. Karl and Joanne got to experience the pleasure of Greg’s company without the noise, uproar, and dividing of their attention required when they had all four of us under one roof. For a time, they were gifted their own personal comedian, who also daily delighted them with his constant playing of the piano, while truly befriending them in the process. A few years later Roger had a turn. Greg followed in his footsteps, to study Theology at Princeton Seminary. During that time, Roger and Greg developed a connection that was theirs exclusively. Roger’s wife, Jill, taught them to play tennis, and they spent countless hours playing, and excelling at the game. I try now to imagine all the memories of those days that Roger must have catalogued, to pull out, and refresh himself with on a day such as this, when Greg is so much missed. My dances with Greg were delivered into a couple of periods. I once won a trip for two to Hawaii, and had no significant other at the time. So Greg was traveling companion of choice. He rearranged everything, making the time and space in his life to accompany me. I will never forget that trip, and… dancing, with Greg… As I embarked on a new life in France, it was with Greg that I spent some of my first weeks. My first experience in the south of France was with Greg! He totally understood my affinity for France, and we shared a time when we both were living in Paris. Greg and I lived on opposite sides of the Seine, but would meet, and walk the streets of Paris together, bundled up in coats, stopping to warm ourselves in cheery Cafes. We shared new discoveries in French music, chatted about art exhibits we’d just seen, cognizant of how fortunate we were to be enjoying such an amazing city. During the last years of Greg’s life, when he’d finally met the love of his life, Sue, Scott was privy to spending more time in Greg’s company, than he had probably ever before. Terri and Scott welcomed Sue into their world, and made a point of getting to know this woman that made Greg so happy. Greg lived very near Scott and Terri those last few years and both Scott and Greg took great advantage of that physical closeness, to deepen a warm, very comfortable friendship. I’ve mentioned the “kidfest” years, when all of the cousins spent a weekend each year with Greg. They were all pretty young, but getting doses of Greg even at their ages, impacted them for life.

Greg was a man who enjoyed all his days on this earth, to be sure. His was a life lived to greatest capacity, regardless of what “a time” in his life, or a particular “season” called for. To be sure, he experienced “every season under heaven”, and bore up graciously, and with amazing fortitude, during the last and most painful season of his life. Because Greg chose to live as he did, every one of us who knew him, got to experience wonderfully rich seasons with him, and had great, great times “to laugh” and “to dance”…. Thank you, Greg….

When I finally got up the nerve to venture inside, I was flabbergasted. After all, I’m the Gal accustomed to the fine Expositions, Vernissages, and Art Musees of Paris. I’ve toured the Salons of the Grand Palais surveying Cezannes. The Musee Picasso in Paris was my “Home away from Home”. I visited it so frequently, that when so much as a single painting was moved, I could spot it. The Musee D’Orsay’s collection of Impressionist paintings, and the Centre Pompidou’s “Post Impressionist” and “Modernist” are both legendary…. A town not far from Collioure, Ceret, boasts and Art Museum filled with lesser known paintings and sculptures by Picasso and Chagall, both of whom lived and worked for short periods in the town. It was while living in Ceret’s neighboring town, Amelie Les Bains, that I discovered the Art Collection quietly guarded in Ceret.

Coming to Collioure, I knew that I was going to be in for a treat. After all, Matisse, Derain, and Braque were a few of the painters that collected on the shores of Collioure, and began painting in a previously unimaginable style, that earned the the unkindly reference of “Fauvists”; or “Wild Beasts”, coined by a journalist writing about their work after it was first exhibited in Paris. But nothing prepared me for the incredible Art-At-It’s-finest, magnificent collection of well known, lesser known, regionally known, and unknown painters that have been collected over the past fifty- plus years by the owner of Les Templiers.

I got my first “hit” when I finally mustered the nerve to enter the Coolest Cafe in town, where the REAL locals hang out, and where the ambiance is something like out of a movie…by now I recognize many of the regulars, from the tanned, wrinkled old sailor in his cap and espadrilles, laced around his ankles, to the group of Card Players that take a few tables in the back, and pound out some serious polker each afternoon, rain or shine, summer or winter… The ambiance in itself, could be the subject of a painting, although it’s difficult to describe. The most random selection of music plays constantly; Burl Ives, followed by Jao Gilberto, followed by The Mavericks. (How do they even know the Mavericks? Most Americans I know have never heard of the Mavericks, now defunct!) The Bar is a Boat; or, a part of a boat, at least. A real one. Made of wood. Beautiful, and now parked inside Les Templiers, along which people line up to drink coffee, or beer, or regional banyuls… It’s an extraordinary detail, to be sure. But that’s not even the thing. “the thing” is….

Les Templiers Art collection that lines the walls, is unlike anything I’ve experienced. Ever. Anywhere. And when I say “Lining the walls”, I mean covering, top to bottom, along almost every square inch of space. Above the Bar where your drink is rung up, or your Hotel bill is settled ( Oh; did I forget to mention that the Cafe is just the beginning of the Art Lover’s Dream?) It continues becoming Restaurant, then Hotel with AGAIN, every square inch of wallspace covered as you make your way from “etage to etage” up a winding staircase.) Near the Cafe Entrance a photo is hung of the Owner, and Picasso; arms folded, tanned, serious, genius. I would say the photo is circa 1960′s, and although for reasons of security, all the original Picasso’s have had to be removed from sight (They’re kept safe and sound, under lock and key, after an art fanatic attempted to steal one of the Spaniard’s masterpieces, some years ago.) There are plenty of “Picasso-esque” beauties to behold, as well as pieces that harken to everyone from Manet to Modigliani. The foyer is tiled along the walls and ceiling of tiles bearing names of Artists whose work is included in the collection..most of the names I confess, I don’t recognize. (“What’s a name, anyway?”, asked Shakespeare, after all…)

Sigh…. I tuck into one of the Leather booths almost daily, trying to choose a different location in the Cafe, so as to survey a different part of the collection… There is a life infusing character to the place; a sense of seeing into the souls of these artists, who lived, or worked, or sweated, or drank, or loved and lost. Scenes of old fishermen, pulling their near-breaking nets full of the night’s catch up onto the shore, reminds me that in this idyllic place, people have, and still do, work hard, with their hands and their ingenuity, to put food on somebody’s table. The antithesis would be the Renoir-like Impressionist paintings depicting ladies at leisure, books open on laps, high above the sea, longing for… nothing at all…

Les Templiers, and the Artistic secrets it boasts, is worth making a beeline for, should you ever find yourself in Collioure. Whether you consider yourself an art lover, aficionado, or are completely blase’ about art as a whole, trust me on this one. Stop in, order a Cafe Creme, or a beer, sit awhile, and bask in the stories of Collioure, lining the walls surrounding you, being told by painters from varied walks and experiences of life… If walls could talk, this would be the place you’d want to listen….

Learning that nobody in this Southern, Seaside town works between the hours of Noon and 2:30, because that’s WHEN they LUNCH, is also a custom that takes getting, well, accustomed to… Okay, okay; some people work during the lunch hour, because as business ladies and gentlemen spend time leisurely enjoying a hot, three course meal, restaurant personnel are serving like crazy… But probably the most challenging situation that we’ve faced so far, has been the delay in our Internet/ phone service…

Correspondence from our Leasing agent assured us over a week before we were meant to arrive, indicated that all was “bien” as far as Electricity and Internet/ Phone service was concerned. Come to find out, “Bien” in this case translated to, “I’ve contacted the Electric company, and I clearly see that your Apartment indeed has proper plugs for Phone/ Internet.” Had anybody bothered to offer that once we chose our Internet Server, it would be ten days before we’d actually have service? Or more, had anybody thought to have the plugs tested in the Apartment, to be sure that aside from the delay of Ten Days, there’d be no further delay? Come to find out, phone service had never actually been established in our particular Apartment, which we only discovered When the tenth day had elapsed, and we still had…no Internet. We rushed down to the Agency to report our devastating, life-debilitating emergency… There was discussion, there was a rendezvous arranged with an Electrician, there was the pronouncement that in fact, the Phone Service had never been “opened”. The conclusion was followed by the shrugging of shoulders belonging to the parties (apart from ourselves) involved…

As we tried to relax our contorted faces, quiet our wincing, while begging an explanation as to the “why” and the “how” we were not made aware that this horrifically inconvenient possibility could even exist, we were met with that look… That phrase…

“Donc”…. Alors; c’est la vie, Uh?”

Really? REALLY? “C’est la Vie?” That’s it? That’s your response? “C’est la VIE?”

Bewilderment, as a description of what we felt at that moment, is an understatement… These French.. Really! Their stupid shrugs, the “pfuf” little blowing sound that says “Ah, well…. Whad’ya expect”… And again with it; that “C’est la vie” attitude…

Well, I spent a few hours walking around town…. I sat for a bit on a stone wall, overlooking the Mediterranean, and reflected on my many years already spent living in Paris, where that “C’est la Vie” I interpreted as “I’m not GOING to help you, Lady, even though I might be able to. I’m choosing not to give you assistance or comfort, just to annoy you. So there.” But gosh; this place is different…. This exquisite little Mediterranean town is sunny, and happy… People ARE friendly, and do seem to care about the plight of others; foreigners, or locals alike….

It took me a little while, but after calmer consideration, and a few minutes of basking in the beauty surrounding me, what I came to realize is that these people here don’t just throw the phrase around, uttering it in a nonchalant manner, (See; there’s another of their words! But that’s a whole other post!) but that they really, really mean it. The French don’t use “it” as just an excuse for things not going RIGHT, or according to plan… It’s not a phrase utilized to imply that there is no concern for an individual’s problem. They just happen to understand that, as opposed to waging war against the circumstances or situations that seem not to be falling in favorably, or as expected, it’s best to just let go and rest in “what is”.

And based on my observations, these people know what they’re talking about… They seem to “Get it” in a way that we Americans rarely grasp…. Nowhere in my midst, do I observe anyone “multi- tasking”. These small town French are not working while they’re lunching; they’re just lunching. Eating is an activity, deemed important enough to give it ample time without rushing, and undivided attention. Shopping for the daily basics requires stops in the cheese shop, the bread shop, and likely the “Boucherie”; not the one-stop shopping that Americans are accustomed to. If picking up a prescription is missed because the pharmacy is closed on Saturday afternoon, well, “C’est la Vie.” that’s just the way it goes. No need to get aggravated, or stew… Let it go… It’s not the end of the world…

By the time I’m finishing this post, I’m within 24 hours of having Internet/ Phone service activated; something that couldn’t be accomplished even by a service technician finally coming out. ( And, by the way, I had to set a phone “rendezvous” to set up an actual “rendezvous.”) my Internet company had to turn my plight over to the State Phone Company, who will ultimately “flip my switch”. But in the meantime, this whole experience has “flipped my switch” in another part of me…I am now prepared to fully embrace all the wisdom I’ve come to understood is contained in that familiar phrase, “C’est la Vie”, and to allow myself to begin to live accordingly…. There is indeed an art to this way of thinking, seeing, and living, and I mean to grasp it completely!!! Vivre la France, and the letting things…just be….

So I find myself for the time, on the East Coast. Litchfield, Connecticut, to be exact. I was here for a few days last April, as Le Printemps was commencing. My daughter Kirby and I were in town for a madcap week of events for our Children’s Book, so barely had time to soak up the scenery. I glimpsed the charm of little Litchfield only in passing. Duly noted was the fact that most signs around town indicating in what year a Library opened, or a Law School was Established, read “17something” as opposed to “19something”. Yup; this town is old, and I’m here in Winter. WINTER; that season Angelinos consider having never experienced, worthy of a badge of honor. And OLD; what those same Angelinos consider to be anything established prior to 1970.

As I walked the uneven paved path today into the center of town, I was struck by the beauty of the scenery. Towering trees with branches too numerous to count, line the streets, proudly boasting their nakedness. Without a leaf in sight, the branches take on a character of seeming strength, austerity, boldness; as if to say they know who they are. Autumn decorates trees with brilliant reds and golds, while spring speaks in Rosy-Cheeked pink, and Apple greens. But winter thrusts only solemn browns and grays against the bright blue skies, with quiet dignity.

The interiors of every Bar, Shop, or private Living Room feel exceedingly warm and inviting, by contrast. A cluster of Old Brick Buildings comprise the little Village-esque Town Center, and the Grand White Houses, with their Black shutters echo the wintry contrasts of cold versus warmth. The epitome of charm, radiates from every nook and cranny of my Hostess’s Home. An antique desktop serves as the stage for an artistic gathering of “Once Upon a Time” finds; beautifully bound books, hand painted trays, pewter frames surrounding yellowing photos of girls with bows in their hair. Everywhere I turn, interiors and exteriors speak the richness of this town’s history. That history is honored, and guarded closely as the treasure that it is.

I’m fascinated by, and intrensically drawn to this beautiful place, during this winter season. I’m utterly delighted by the character of this old, cold town. I’m warmed in heart and soul, by the charm of every detail I see and feel, and am inspired by the sharp contrast to the environments I am between. I’ve enjoyed my many years of bike riding along busy, noisy boardwalks of Southern California. I’m looking forward to settling into life in Southern France, and painting all the colors of my new Seaside town. But for the time, I’m madly in love with Litchfield, and wanted just to write this Love Letter, telling it of my true sentiments….

I look back on those years spent with my kids in Paris, knowing that with all of the challenges of finding our way as we forged through grasping a hold of the language, as well as all the aspects of French life that nobody can quite put into words, our lives were enriched beyond anything we could’ve imagined. Oh sure; there were the Metro Strikes, that precluded the kids attending school. There was the constantly annoying habit the French have of elbowing and shoving in order to board the train, or be next served at the bank. French men not only don’t hold the door open for a woman, but push ahead, to get through the door first, letting it slam behind them. But aside from, or in spite of these daily deterrents, we ultimately learned to see the bigger picture, and came to understand “Le secret” of the Frenchman’s “Joie de Vivre.” While Parisians in particular, are laden with the disruptions and difficulties presented to anyone living in a major city, they understand the importance of countering that by taking time for simple pleasures. The French sit for hours over a coffee, or a Kir, with nobody urging them to give up their table, and unencumbered by the sense that they need to be accomplishing anything else as they sit. Corporate executives often pass an hour or two during the afternoon, strolling through some of the Louvre’s galleries, briefcase in hand, relishing the beauty of great art, letting go of reports and budgetary concerns, in the process. On Wednesdays, children are excused from school after lunch, so that their studies can be broken up by passing an afternoon in the park with parents and siblings, taking in a puppet show, or a pony ride.

As I was preparing for my departure for France some eighteen years ago, dragging my three children from a life of friends, comforts, and predictability, to a foreign country where we knew nobody, and I could recite only one phrase in the native language, (“Father writes a letter.”) people questioned my sanity. “Why?”, they’d ask me. “But aren’t you… Afraid?”, was the most common question posed. As I look back, if I’d allowed myself to consider all the things I probably should have before making the move, I doubt that I would’ve taken the Paris plunge, diving headfirst into a life among the Frogs. Fortunately, I leapt, by faith, across the Atlantic. Landing on French soil, I immediately sensed that this new ground, with some serious digging, was very fertile, and might just produce some delightful new fruit for us to taste. My children gradually began to accept the major changes they daily encountered, even learning to take pleasure in some of those little customs. Ordering a Chausson Pomme, in a perfect french accent at our neighborhood Patisserie, gave them a sense of accomplishment. As they grew in their comfort with and appreciation for those aspects of the culture that makes it so rich, we bonded in a way we never would have, had we remained in the comfort of the of life in America.

I’ll spend a few more hours today, amending details of the painting that captures a family experiencing a slice of Parisian life that I’m blessed to know so well. As I finish up the piece, I can capture many of the details that convey what they will always remember about that sunny brisk day, sitting at an outdoor cafe table, that day in Paris. My only regret is that I have no means to depict in paint, that magical melody that I hear, that I love, and with which my heart is silently singing along…