Lift Up Your Hearts!

Having written recently about my love of student recitals, I have to mention that we went to a Florida Symphony Youth Orchestra concert yesterday.  In my limited, and admittedly biased opinion, they are far and away the best student orchestra in the area.  Not perfect:  Depending on whose philosophy happens to be strongest at the time, the emphasis is sometimes more on education than on making music. As most of you know, I strongly believe that real learning more often takes place in an atmosphere of "let's do something wonderful and important together" than in a "Me Teacher, You Student" situation.

Be that as it may, the FSYO is the best game in town for a young person who wants to play good orchestral repertoire, and it's good listening, too. The only reason we don't attend more of their concerts is that there are so many other great things to do in life.

But we went yesterday, because it was the last concert of the season, and we hadn't been to one yet this year.  More than that, we went because the concert included three commissioned pieces, one of which (Mountain Air and Dance) was written by our friend John Dupuis.  Unfortunately, John's composition was for the Prelude Orchestra (third from the top of the four orchestras, one above the strings-only group of beginnners), which for various complicated reasons had not had enough time to practice it.  It was a bit of a stretch for them.  Still, there was a gorgeous melody in the middle, and in the rest I could detect an interesting piece that reminded me of why I fell in love with John's Atlantis many years ago.  (Atlantis, which was written with a particular group of FSYO musicians in mind, was recorded by the Seattle Symphony Orchestra and used by Universal Studios for the grand opening of their Islands of Adventure theme park.)

The Prelude Orchestra was interesting to hear.  (They did much better with their other pieces).  My experience with student orchestras has been that the winds are, as a section, better than the strings.  For one thing, the competition is more fierce (fewer positions); for another, good orchestral music tends to have very hard string parts.  But this time the situation was reversed, probably because the strings had a few really good players, and in the winds there's no place for a less confident player to hide.  Playing tentatively is a major mistake for an oboe or a trumpet, and these kids haven't yet learned to "sin boldly."  There was a lovely oboe solo in Edelweiss, however.  (Hmm, I did manage to work a flower into this post after all.)

The Philharmonia Orchestra's commissioned piece (Stephen Foster Song-Suite) was by Joe Kreines.  He may be world famous, but "Mr. Kreines" will always be remembered in our family as the person who came in occasionally to enliven band practice, and who could get more out of an ensemble that any other conductor.  He still can, as today's concert proved.

We don't know the composer of the Symphonic Orchestra's new work (Sojourn), Robert J. Brownlow, but I suppose two out of three is pretty good!  His work matched the ability of the orchestra best of all, I think.  The Symphonic Orchestra itself has been better.  Don't get me wrong—it was still very good, just not up to the standards of a few years ago, when it was absolutely stunning.

Not that I'm prejudiced in this matter or anything—but not one of the orchestras had a decent A to tune to.  I'm a bit particular when in comes to oboes.  Their solos were fine; it was just the A's.  A 440, 460, 415...whatever!

Being involved with student musical groups for so many years, it was impossible for us not to notice the frequent coorespondence between musical and general academic ability, today's Frazz comic—in which Caulfield asserts that we need arts education so the bottom half of the math class can do something for a living—to the contrary.  This year's FSYO graduates are no exception.  Take the assistant principal cellist of the Symphonic, for example.  Valdictorian of his high school, going off to Harvard to major in biochemical sciences, and scored a perfect 2400 on the SAT (on his first try, even).  Hmm, only assistant principal cellist?  The slacker!  Oh, wait, the principal is taking her cello to the Eastman School of Music next year, so I guess the competition was a bit stiff.  She, by the way, is graduating with a mere 4.7 weighted GPA....  C'mon folks, invest a little time and money (okay, maybe a lot of time and money) in your children's musical education.  It'll be great for their brains!

All in all, the concert was a delightful way to spend a Sunday afternoon, and we even ran into some friends we hadn't seen in ages. 

Now I must report on my first dissatisfaction with the Swiss transportation system.  The bus we rode from the airport could not take us back there, because it disappeared overnight!  Fortunately, observant Janet had noticed that the sign was conspicuously missing from the stop.  At first we assumed this was just another of the BaselWorld alterations to the city, but she did some investigating and discovered that that particular run was not popular/profitable enough, so off with its head!  This turned out not to be much of a problem, however, as we were able to take a tram to Basel SBB, the main train station, where we could catch another bus to the airport.

Janet generously accompanied us all the way to the airport, and even waited with us until it was time to catch the last bus that would take her to church on time.  Then we reluctantly said our goodbyes, with heartfelt gratitude.  I do believe being a tour guide takes more out of Janet than performing in front of an audience of a thousand, but she does a great job of it!

We checked in with British Airways, and were able to get boarding passes for the entire trip this time, which eased my mind.  Later we were to discover that two of the three passes were no good, but that did nothing to diminish my relief at this point.

After a pleasant flight, we landed at Heathrow.  (I never can type that without first typing "Heatherow" and having to correct it!)  Once again we faced the long, circuitous walk and the even longer, more circuitous bus ride, followed by security screening and the "one bag only" rule.  This we were expecting.  But going from London to the United States is more complicated than going from London to Basel, probably with good reason.  There was yet another security check at the gate, and we were issued new boarding passes for our next two flights, to replace the for-whatever-reason defective ones we already had.  The process was smooth and we had no trouble, but a connection time of an hour and a half is none too long and in some cases much too short, I'm sure.  We were very glad our flight from Basel had landed a little early.

The next leg of the flight ended in Chicago.  Porter was able to sleep much of the way.  I was not, and distracted myself by watching a movie:  Miss Potter, a reasonably-accurate-for-Hollywood story of the life of Beatrix Potter.  I'd left my book behind with Janet, and I wasn't in the mood for French lessons.

Our connection time in Chicago was two and a half hours, which turned out to be 'way more than we needed, but better safe than sorry.  I've written about our reentry shock before, so I won't repeat it here.  Our passports received their first official stamps of the trip.  There's no evidence there of our time in Switzerland, France, or Germany; not even any evidence that we left the United State.  But we now have proof that we returned!  Going through customs was not a problem.  Our flight to Orlando was delayed, but that didn't matter so much since our only remaining connection was to the rental car Porter had thoughtfully reserved in Orlando—a very good thing, as the buses had long since stopped running for the night, and it was much too late to call a friend outside of a life-threatening emergency.

Then we were home.  All was well, thanks in part to our good neighbors, and we gratefully collapsed into bed—though not until after we'd rebooted the water, electricity, telephone, and computers, and sent off an e-mail reassuring family of our safe return.

For all I dislike about much of our current culture, and fear about the direction our country has been headed for the last half century or so; for all I loved about our visit to Europe; with all my certainty that we have much to learn from other countries and cultures; still, the United States of America is a great place to live, and other countries and cultures could learn a lot from us as well.  Unfortunately, all they're likely to get is the very distorted view of our country presented by Hollywood and the news media.  One thing I got tired of quickly was the assertion, "Americans do/are thus-and-so," repeated all the more emphatically after I've stated that no, we don't do that and neither do many other Americans we know.  I'm more convinced than ever of the value of cultural exchange programs, in which real, ordinary individuals from one country get to know real, ordinary individuals from another—as I've written about here, here and here.  As we discovered in Japan, and again in Switzerland, France, and Germany, there's nothing like good conversation with people from different backgrounds for dispelling misconceptions and dissolving stereotypes (unless we intentionally retain them; see above), and for providing new insights into other cultures—and our own.

It was a great trip!  Danke, danke, Janet!  Merci, merci, our hosts in France (you know who you are)! And to those of you whom we would love to have visited but didn' this trip—there's a good chance that We'll...Be...Back.

Not long ago, a friend was lamenting to me about how tedious elementary recitals are.  Little piano and violin students plunking and scraping away on the same, boring pieces, making the same mistakes you've heard hundreds of times.  I couldn't disagree more.

She has a different perspective, mind you:  she's a music teacher, so no doubt that makes a difference.

But I love music recitals, elementary and otherwise.

Today we made up for our disappointment with the Tuileries by visiting Leu Gardens. It was delightful to wander amongst the palms, bromiliads, wildflowers, camelias, cacti, roses, and other Florida and non-Florida flora.  Especially the gardenias, which take me right back to my grandmother's garden.

Standing by the lake, watching the fish, a turtle, and a white heron—while watching out for alligators and water moccasins—we heard music.  Violin music.  Suzuki violin music.  Talk about natsukashii!  We had to investigate...at the main house there was a luncheon, for which a single violinist was providing entertainment, and she was working her way around the Suzuki repertoire—books three and four, if I had to guess; it's been a while.

Our first live Suzuki contact was made at Leu Gardens; we happened to be there when a group from the Suzuki Music Institute of Maitland was playing on the grounds.  For me, it was love at first sight (sound).  That great music coming from those tiny kids!

Well, that was the beginning for us of more than ten years of Suzuki music.  There were plenty of frustrating times, but one thing I never tired of was hearing the kids play.  I loved to hear our own children practice, I loved to hear all the students—not just ours—play at the recitals.  True, I no longer attend them, now that we've moved on, but truly, I wish the music we heard today had been a public group concert, so I could have heard once again the tiny kids and the old, familiar pieces.  Even Twinkle!

A day of rest, recovery, last-minute shopping, and…packing.  None of us wanted to think about the next day's departure; we weren't ready to part; and yet each of us was looking forward to getting back to "normal."  It was a fantastic vacation, but life is not, should not be, and cannot be, all vacation.  The pleasures and projects of "ordinary life" are the attractions that make the end of such a lovely time bearable.

This may be a good place to mention BaselWorld.  If you're planning a trip to Basel in 2008, don't even think of going in the first or second week of April.  When this watch and jewelry show comes to town, Basel is a different city.  They create new facades for the buildings, build temporary entrances complete with cascading waterfalls, haul in trees as well as tents, and take over the world.  It's a very good thing Janet's host family allowed us to stay at their house, because otherwise we'd have had to stay in Paris.  Or Luzern—that's how far you had to go to find a hotel room.  Actually, Porter's Diamond status with Hilton guarantees him a room anywhere, anytime—but it doesn't guarantee the price, so I'm sure it would have been astronomical.  I'm told that the restaurants in Basel use a different set of menus during the week of BaselWorld, ones with much higher prices.  When we went into town to one of Janet's favorite bakeries, she barely recognized it.

When Janet writes about this day, she may post a picture of us under a BaselWorld sign, which is the closest we got to a world where we SO did not fit in.  I mean, if Paris Hilton is there, should I be?  Besides, it cost about $37 to get in—the Louvre itself was under $12.  Not my kind of place.  This, by the way, was the only time we worried about pickpockets in Basel.  If I were a pickpocket, I'd plan a trip to Basel during BaselWorld—if I could find a place to stay.

Update: Here's the picture:

Speaking of pickpockets, the only place we really worried was in Paris, particularly in the high-tourist areas.  There were conspicuous signs in many places warning of them.  But I'm told that the problem has diminished significantly because of the many well-armed soldiers now present.  They're obviously there for fear of terrorism, and probably wouldn't bother to collar a pickpocket, but I can see how the sight of a machine gun might be somewhat of a deterrent to lesser crimes….

We even found time to watch a movie today:  Die Schweizermacher.  Otherwise known as The Swissmakers, it was a window into Swiss culture the way Swing Girls provided a glimpse into Janet's Japanese school life.  Both are comedies, and exaggerated, but contain enough truth to be insightful as well as amusing.  I'll write more about the movie in an upcoming post on my recent insights into socialization and homeschooling.

Today we finally managed to be together in the same room long enough to enjoy a chat with our hosts.  They even showed us their bunker, part of a legally-mandated system designed to provide safe, underground shelter to the entire Swiss population in case of emergency.  There's been a lot of grumbling recently, because the requirements add significantly to the cost of housing, and people are doubting both the necessity and the efficacy of the bunkers in this post-Cold War, suicide-terrorist age.  But to a Floridian without so much as a basement in which to ride out a hurricane, the bunker was very impressive.  If the Swiss response to potential disaster is overreaction, the American response of burying our heads in the sand cannot be any better.

You can tell it was a day of miscellanea when I'm reduced to philosophical ramblings rather than photos and stories.  But it was a good day, and when it was over we were packed and ready for an early start on our journey home.

When we first began planning this trip, Porter's one goal in Switzerland (besides visiting Janet) was the Jungfraujoch experience, with its cog railway and ride through a glacier, because he remembered it with such pleasure from 40 years ago.  This week we gave up on that idea, deciding that it would be better done in colder weather.  Every day has been somewhat hazy, and if you're going to spend an unreasonable amount of money to climb a mountain, the view ought to be spectacular, not merely good.  If Janet ends up in grad school here, we may have another chance.

So we settled for "second best," a trip to Luzern (Lucerne) and a cog railway ride up Mt. Rigi.  That was a lot less expensive, and made for a very nice day trip from Basel.

After about an hour's train ride (punctual and pleasant, as usual), we arrived in Luzern, bought our tickets for the Rigi trip, and did a little sightseeing, first to an old church, and then across the Kapellbrücke, Luzern's famous old wooden bridge, much of which had to be restored after a fire in the 1990's.

The first part of our Rigi trip was by ferry.

It was so cold on the boat we were seriously regretting not wearing heavier clothing.  If it was this cold on the lake, how much worse would it be on top of the mountain?  Eventually we retreated from the lovely view for some hot drinks inside the cabin.

When the ferry landed, we transferred to the cog train.  It's been said that if you've only been to Basel, you haven't been to Switzerland.  But this is the Switzerland of Heidi.

No worries at the top, because it was not windy.  Warm, sunny, and just the spot for a picnic lunch, even though there was still some snow.

This was our picnic view.  Remember to click on the picture to see it all.

We went back a different route, this time via cable car, picking up the ferry at the little town of Weggis (pronounced "Vegas").  Say, what?  Palm trees and snow-covered Alps?  Strange, but true.

If it wasn't the Jungfraujoch, the Mt. Rigi trip is still enough glory for one day!

But the day wasn't over.

In one of those Small World events (cue music), Janet's piano teacher and friend from Eastman is now living in Luzern.  So we teamed up with Sergio for dinner and a grand walk around the city.  (I figure someone with his own promotional website won't mind being mentioned by name.)  It was a welcome reunion for Sergio and Janet, who only once excluded the old folks by speaking in German, and I believe that was to say something like, "We could have a private conversation by speaking German."

We crossed another wooden bridge, the Spreuerbrücke, which features a set of plague paintings called Dance of Death.

We took a small, private cog railway up to the hotel that Michael Jackson tried to purchase for his personal use, but the Swiss would have none of it, or so the story goes.

Some views at the top

We had a bit of an adventure getting down—more of a long wait than an adventure, but the instructions weren't clear and the upward train had started spontaneously and without warning, so even though we wanted to re-read the instructions, no one was particularly anxious to get out of the car for fear of being left behind.  But eventually we were at the bottom and on our way again.  Here are a few more pictures of the random beauty we found in Luzern.

 

Then it was time to part, and to depart.  We boarded the train and returned to Basel at a reasonable hour, because we were quite tired from two days of busy tourism.

What to do, now that we are back in Switzerland?  Let's visit another museum!  This time it was the Skulpturehalle Basel, which probably would have been more interesting if we'd seen it before going to the Louvre.  It is an extensive collection of copies of famous sculptures, including the Parthenon frieze…and many we had seen as originals less than a week before.  Even those were of some interest, however, as we could get a lot closer to the copy of the Winged Victory of Samothrace than to the real thing.  But mostly this museum seemed to be designed for educational presentations, another great homeschooling field trip.  Do you sense a recurring theme here?

As an unexpected bonus, the Skupturehalle turned out to be very near Janet's church, so we were able to see at least the meeting place of the people who mean so much to her.

Okay, now what?  I know, let's go to another country…or two!  And let's walk there!  So walk we did, through a beautiful park…

…right into Germany!  (The structure in the third picture could be a Tinguely sculpture, but it isn't.)

Then over the bridge…

…to France!

On the way we treated ourselves to Italian ice cream that was as good as Janet remembers gelato in Italy.  I had to have a double cone, strawberry and lemon, because that's what my former college roommate always raved about from when she lived in Italy.  She was right, it's wonderful.  But the lemon was the wonderfulest of all.

Germany is where the Swiss go shopping, because it's so much cheaper there.  So we shopped.  At a small health food store, and also at the store.  How to describe the latter?  The building is not a mall, exactly, but that's the closest word I can find to describe it.  Imagine a shopping mall in which one of the biggest stores is a grocery store, though not exactly a grocery store because it sells a lot more than just groceries.  Maybe a department store with food.  Maybe the next generation of Super Targets….

Whatever you call it, we loaded ourselves up with supplies, from laundry detergent to food for the next day's picnic lunch to Swiss chocolate (it, too, is cheaper in Germany).  Thus laden, we decided to take the bus home instead of returning through the park.  But first we had to get through border control.  Not for us—no one cared to see our passports at all.  For Janet, who needed to get some paperwork stamped.  If you buy stuff in Germany, and "export" it to Switzerland, if you fill out one set of papers at the store, and another at the border, and return to the store on your next trip, you can get back the tax you paid on your items.  Since the tax is something like 18%, it can be worth the effort.

This just in:  middle-aged men have no business stopping to chat with young people.  After all, the young and their elders have nothing in common, right?  No reason to talk to someone who is so different from you.  Certainly no reason to smile and speak to a stranger passing on the street.  Even if you both have dogs.

Here's the story.

The 43-year-old man was the subject of a police "be on the lookout" memo because two children said he spoke to them while they were walking their dogs. Police said no criminal activity had been reported.

I don't blame the police for being cautious.  Maybe the kids had been overly hyped to "stranger danger" by well-meaning parents and teachers.  Maybe they truly sensed something wrong.  In any case, I'm glad the police took them seriously.

If you read the article, you know that this is not the main thrust of the story.  What happened next was that someone obtained the man's personal, identifying information, and e-mailed it all around the neighborhood, with the implication that he was a child molester.

The primary concern seems to be that the information was released illegally, which is certainly a problem.  But I'm more concerned, overall, by the attitude revealed here that he had no business talking to the kids.  Believe me, as a parent I understand the terrible fears, but in defending ourselves against one horror, we musn't lose sight of the cost.  "If we can save just one child/woman/person from [insert particular horror here], it will be worth it," is often flung out like a banner, with little thought given to just what "it" is that we are sacrificing.  In a world where lost children hide from adults instead of seeking help, and where kindergarten teachers are afraid to hug their students, we must at least consider the question of how many children we hurt in our efforts to help others.

Then there's the bedrock of our legal system, the idea that one is innocent until proven guilty.  Frightening as the circumstances may be, this must apply to possible child molestors just as much as to possible murderers, shoplifters, and tax evaders, to Americans with possible connections to terrorists, and to Americans of Japanese descent during World War II, or it means nothing at all.  Note that if this man turns out to be other than the completely innocent person he appears to be, it does not change my argument.

After tearful goodbyes, we traveled with our host (who had business in Paris) on an early morning TGV back to Gare Montparnasse.  Porter managed to squeeze two small suitcases, a laptop bag, and a backpack (all our luggage except for my purse and Janet's small backpack) in one of the station's medium lockers, worth every cent of the seven euros because we were then free to explore more of Paris unencumbered.

We began by crossing the street to the Montparnasse Tower.  As I've mentioned before, if all you care about is the view, this is a much better choice than the Eiffel Tower.  Unfortunately, the day was a little hazy.  I was reminded of Japan, where warm weather was accompanied by haziness, and cold weather brought great views as compensation.

 

This is the train station, with tennis courts on top!

From there we walked past the Jardin du Luxembourg (without meeting any of Marius, Jean Valjean, or Madeline) to the Musée National du Moyen Âge, aka the Cluny.  On the way we found a tiny crêperie and enjoyed one final treat of crêpes and communication in French.

At the Cluny we feasted on Medieval tapestries and other works of art until it was time to retrace our steps, retrieve our luggage, and hail a taxi to take us to Gare de l'Est and our train to Basel.  I was quite proud of myself.  This driver had no trouble understanding our French, and when he learned we were going to Switzerland and tried to say that Gare de L'Est was the wrong station, I had enough confidence to assure him that this was what we really wanted.  (I appreciated his asking very much, however!)

The five-hour ride between Paris and Basel was much more restful this time, since I wasn't frantically planning and cramming French.  That also made it seem longer, however—or maybe that was because we didn't get in till after 11 p.m. and it had been a long day.  Still, it was pleasant.  I love train travel!

Much to Janet's surprise we actually had to produce our passports to reenter Switzerland; perhaps it was because of the late hour.

Today was another beautiful day.  We've had so many since arriving in Europe.  The week before our arrival was so cold that we brought hats, gloves, and scarves with us, and decided to rely on layers rather than heavy coats only because we were trying to travel light.

(The lady who checked us in at the Orlando airport marveled at how little luggage we were taking to Europe.  Two suitcases—one small, one medium; a laptop bag; and a backpack doesn't quite seem like a small amount of luggage to me, but I guess it could have been worse.  We were blessed by having convenient laundry facilities on this trip.)

Spring weather is always unpredictable.  When we were packing, I never would have guessed that I'd regret bringing only one short-sleeved shirt.  We carried our jackets with us almost everywhere we went, because early morning and evening were cool enough to need them, but hiking around at midday was sometimes quite hot.  The only rain we experienced the whole vacation was maybe a dozen drops while enjoying a café on the banks of the Rhine.  As a Floridian, I know that lack of rain can be a serious problem (we're in the middle of a drought cycle now), but as a tourist, I was grateful that it held off for our visit.

And today we were definitely tourists.  Our hosts drove us to Mont Saint-Michel, about two hours away.  It was a lovely drive through the French countryside, and the sight of Mont Saint-Michel suddenly there, rising in all its glory from the flat ground, reminded me—though on a different scale—of my first view of Mt. Fuji.  You can see a good full view of Mont Saint-Michel at the Wikipedia link above; ours have people in them, which is generally good, but not, as I said, for public blogging without consent.

Janet had broken her glasses in a little accident with a hammock, and our tape solution had to be renewed frequently.  When we returned to Switzerland we bought some glue that allowed a much more permanent fix, but in the meantime we were grateful that they could stay together for 15 minutes at a time.  Memo to self:  never travel without duct tape.  And a spare pair of glasses.

Here are some gargoyle shots for my sister

I call these my Tennyson pictures….

 

This structure predated by oh, about a millenium Porter's ingenious contraption for hauling heavy items to our roof.  I bet it was equally handy.

 

Random views

   

Sadly, this was our last night at the château.  We're now beginning the homeward leg of our journey.

Awaking before the rest of the household, I slipped outside to explore the grounds in the peaceful early morning light.  Just me, God, and the neighbor's cows.  It was what I needed after eight days of intense tourism.  We spent the morning enjoying our friends and their home.  Easter Monday is a holiday in France, and most places are closed, which was fine with us!

Later our friends took us to a nearby park.  We ate lunch at a small restaurant there, listening in on another group that was sitting on the steps and singing folk songs in French with an accordion accompaniment.  We enjoyed a leisurely walk past cliffs and climbers, and saw why this area was attractive to its very ancient inhabitants.  (There are cave paintings nearby, though we didn’t get to them.)

There are caves…

springs of clean water….

wildlife (okay, these are sheep, but there must have been plenty of game in such a place)…

and even beautiful butterflies.  They certainly took a shine to Porter while the rest of us were stretched out in the warm sunshine.

What more could a prehistoric family want?

Dinner that night was at a very fancy restaurant.  A very fancy French restaurant, and not just because we were in France.  I'm not a fancy restaurant type of person, but it's a nice experience to have on occasion, especially if you are sharing it with good company.

I should mention that the Fairy Princess is the daughter of an American mother and a British father, but she lives in France and attends a bilingual school.  I could have listened all night to her speaking French with the waiter.  It's not perfect French, more the French of a five-year-old.  But after all, she is only five.  I wouldn't want my grandchildren to be an ocean away—it's bad enough they're in Pittsburgh—but there are compensations, and the opportunity to grow up bilingual is certainly one of them.

When our friends asked what our Easter traditions were, my immediate reaction was, "total exhaustion, following a glorious church service for which we had a good deal of responsibility, and into which we had put an enormous amount of time in preparation.  That was the truth for many of our favorite Easters, and it left little time and less energy for other traditions.  We had some, such as decorating eggs, having an Easter egg hunt (though not, as had been in my childhood, with the decorated eggs, as in Florida the real, hard-boiled eggs spoil too quickly in the often hot Easter weather), Easter baskets full of candy (jelly beans for me, SweeTart eggs, chicks, and bunnies for the girls, and chocolate for everyone; I couldn't interest anyone in marshmallow chicks).  More often than not, we shared the day with friends, in not-too-energetic pursuits.  As far as meals go, my family's Easter tradition was ham, and Porter doesn't care for ham, so we never really settled on anything in particular.  "Easy" was a good criterion.

We certainly did not have the tradition of spending Easter at a château in France, but I could get used to that!  We awoke to a big, chocolate chicken hanging (in a basket, nothing morbid here) from Janet's doorknob, and of course the Fairy Princess had her own wonderful Easter basket.

This may be a good place to mention that Janet and the Fairy Princess fell in love with each other almost immediately, and it was painful for both of them when we left.  It helps that the FP is not only well-behaved and charming, but that she also plays the harp!  Did I mention that this castle came equipped with a harp?  The two of them had great fun inspiring each other.

We went to church.  Not the big, fancy, English-speaking church in Paris, where we would have experienced all the beauty and glory of the biggest holiday of the church year.  Not even in the cathedral at Laval.  But in a small French Catholic church in a nearby village, and even though I believe the service wasn't much different from other Sundays (though with more joy and a few more Alleluias), it was certainly special for us, because it was, of course, all in French.  One advantage to being an Episcopalian is that the Catholic Liturgy is not so much different; we were able to follow along quite well.  Even our exposure to contemporary praise songs helped; I'm finally learning how to fake the tune when all the bulletin provides is the words.  Even when they're in French.  (Or Japanese.)

Remember what I said about my French being absolutely minimal?  It's true, and Porter's is even less.  But the priest deserves a lot of credit for clear diction, as we were able to understand a great deal of the words.  Of the words, mind you, not the sense.  In, say, a ten-word sentence, I might have understood five or even more of them, but the words I couldn't figure out were the key to the meaning of the sentence itself.  Oh, well, I was just happy to be able to understand enough to feel like a worshipper rather than a spectator.

Our hosts have an Easter tradition:  a big party with an egg hunt and a buffet full of incredible food!  I won't show many pictures, because so many have people in them, and I don't like to show people unless I'm pretty sure they won't mind. But here are a few.

Our contribution, with help of course from the Fairy Princess, was the deviled eggs; I had brought our recipe with that in mind.  It was our hostess's brilliant idea to dye the whites, though!

There were five children for the Easter egg hunt, which was just the right number.  We all agreed that the Easter Bunny (who curiously goes by the initials wpw) did a great job. Afterwards we enjoyed the fabulous buffet, and conversation with interesting people from as far away as New Zealand and as near as down the road a piece.

When the guests had all left, we approached that state of exhaustion that I mentioned as our own Easter tradition.  Porter and our host enjoyed watching Manchester United cream Roma in a very exciting football (aka soccer) match, while Janet and I joined our hostess in relaxing conversation.  The Fairy Princess, being a highly intelligent creature, was asleep.

Having slept off our Thanksgiving dinner-style museum orgy, and packed our suitcases for departure, we were ready to indulge in another museum, this time the Musée d'Orsay.  The Orsay begins where the Louvre leaves off, covering more recent (but not too recent) art.  You know, Rodin, van Gogh, Gauguin, Cézanne, Monet, Manet, Matisse, Homer, Renoir, and the like.  Being a converted train station, this museum is not as user-friendly as the Louvre; that is, it was much easier to get stuck in the middle of a hoard of other tourists.  I didn't mind so much waiting my turn to get in front of a painting, but when most of the people both ahead and behind me seemed impatiently intent only on snapping a photo with their cell phone cameras, it got rather annoying.  Besides, I'm not much better with crowds than I am with heights.

Still, it was a great visit (and free with our Museum Passes).  Even this much smaller museum has 'way too much to take in on one visit.  Paris would be a great place for a homeschool year abroad!

Porter and Janet graciously made allowance for my nervousness by planning to get to the train station much earlier than we really needed to.  This was Gare Montparnasse, not the station we had come into from Basel (which was Gare de l'Est), and I wanted plenty of time to check it out and for things to go wrong.  So we closed up the apartment, grabbed our bags, and walked to the bus stop.  (To give some credit to my insecure need for checking and rechecking, we did benefit from having rehearsed this earlier, since it turned out we needed to get a different bus from the one we had been planning on.)

The bus came quickly, and took us to the station in good time.  This one is much better organized than Gare de l'Est (which is under construction), and we were able to find our train on the schedule board (though it was too early for the track number to be up) and also the luggage storage area, which would be important on our return.  Then we settled down at a café to eat and wait.

Our train to Laval was the high-speed line, the TGV.  Porter, having seen what second class train accommodations were like his previous time in Europe, had pushed to get first class tickets.  But the TGV is expensive, even for second class, and Janet and I talked him into it.  Much has changed in 40 years, and second class was delightful.  Two hours later we were in Laval.  Our friend picked us up at the station, and soon we were here:

 

If it looks like a magical fairyland, it is.  We would have been happy to visit our friends and their young daughter fairy princess in a small shack, but this was beyond our dreams.  It's not everyone who can say that her birthday celebration included both a museum in Paris and a gourmet dinner at a château in the French countryside.  Speaking as her unprejudiced mother, if anyone deserves such a treat, it's Janet, and we are so thankful to those who made it possible.

And so to bed, to rest, to dream….

Ah, to wake up in Paris, and eat breakfast in the café next door!  So what if croissants/bread, orange juice, and tea/coffee/hot chocolate for three cost $40?  When you stay with friends rather than at a hotel, you can afford not to worry too much about the meals.  It was a lovely breakfast, and the orange juice was squeezed from real oranges seconds before being brought to the table.  The orange juice was part of the package, or I wouldn't have ordered it, since I'm a Florida snob who believes that the only real citrus juice is not only "not from concentrate," but hasn't been pasteurized, and that's impossible to get at a restaurant—unless the juice truly is fresh-squeezed.  So this was a delightful surprise.

So was being able to communicate in French!  I haven't mentioned that yet, but it was one of the most enjoyable aspects of this trip.  My French is of the three years in high school forty years ago variety, supplemented by some recent, desultory language tape practice.  Nonetheless, the French people were very patient and never switched to English unless it was necessary, and I experienced the thrill of actually communicating in another language!  Readers from other countries may find it hard to imagine that one can study a language without ever communicating, but language study in the U. S. tends to be much more theoretical than practical.  It was very exciting to understand and to be understood in another language, even if only at the most basic level.  I believe Americans would be much less resistant to foreign language study if they had the opportunity to experience this.  Saying "Bonjour, comment allez-vous?" to a fellow student does not count.

The Louvre.  We could have spent a week, or a month, or a year there, but we settled for all day today.  It was an easy walk from the apartment, and we got a good start by not having to wait in the long line at the entrance.  Because we spend so much time at the Louvre, instead of hopping from museum to museum, we didn't, in one sense, get our money's worth out of our Paris Museum Passes.  It would have been less expensive to pay direct admission.  But we highly recommend getting the passes anyway, because their true value lies in shunting you to the front of all those long lines.  (Actually, it's usually a separate line altogether.)  Too bad they don't work at the Eiffel Tower!

I. M. Pei's infamous Pyramid Entrance may not fit with the style of the Louvre, but it stands atop (and brings light to) a huge improvement in crowd-handling.  The underground hub also makes it easy to navigate from one wing to another of the huge museum, and is a great place to meet up if you've been separated.  I don't suppose most tourists think of the Pyramid as "just another work by the guy who designed Wilson Commons," but most tourists at the Louvre didn't attend the University of Rochester.

We split up, arranging to meet again at a café under the Pyramid in two hours to compare notes.  Janet wanted to be free to explore at her own pace, and rented an audio guide.  I went with Porter because I enjoy his commentary; we shared our mp3 player with Rick Steves' audio tour.   Actually, we quickly abandoned Rick, as his commentary didn't fit well with our style, and we had gotten out of sync anyway, because one of the exhibits had been moved.  Not to worry; there was plenty to see, read, and learn without help.

Speaking of help, this is as good a place as any to insert a plea to all parents of small children:  Do yourself and your kids a really big favor, and make every effort to familiarize them with great works of art, particularly while they are young and have not learned that museums are supposed to be boring.  (I could say the same about music, but right now we're at the Louvre.)  I don't mean dragging them to art exhibits (not at first), nor making "art appreciation" a formal topic of study.  But there are so many other ways to introduce them to famous art and artists, from showing Bits of Intelligence to babies (Jonathan loved them), to hanging art pictures all over the walls and talking about them together, to books and videos, such as the excellent ones by Mike Venezia.  (I didn't know until today that he has videos!  I'll have to investigate further.)  Talk about the art works with your child; it helps if you know something about them yourself, but even if you don't, you can still make comments; this will help your child notice and remember.  When you do visit a museum, try to get pictures of some of the works you will see, and let your child become familiar with them first.  Do what you can, but do it!  And the younger you begin, the better.  It's never too late, but early can be a lot easier.

Why am I so emphatic about this?  Because we found our visit to the Louvre to be so much more exciting and interesting for having watched Museum Masterpieces:  The Louvre, a Teaching Company course.  There's nothing like walking into a room and suddenly coming upon a painting that you "know," even if it's not one of the better-known works.  I believe the line at the Mona Lisa would have been a lot less long if it weren't just about the only work many tourists are familiar with.  How else to explain their ignoring the other famous da Vinci works just a few feet away?

Okay, back to our tour.  Porter and I spent our time in the Denon wing, mostly with French and Italian paintings; on the way, we caught the Venus de Milo and the Winged Victory of Samothrace.  We went at a much faster pace than we had at Basel's Kunstmuseum, but still were caught in the middle of a huge wing when it was time to head for our meeting place.  Janet, it turns out, had spent the whole time on the second floor of the Sully wing.  So we departed, planning to meet again in three hours.

I believe we more or less swapped wings, Janet heading for Denon and we for Sully, where we learned why she had spent so much time amongst the French paintings on the second floor.  We saw much else, as well, but museum fatigue was definitely setting in.  There is only so much the brain can handle all at once, not to mention the feet.

The Louvre is too much.  It has too much.  They can't take proper care of their immense store of treasures.  At the Kunstmuseum, the artwork is protected by an invisible, electronic barrier that alerts a vigilant guard if you inadvertently cross it.  At the Louvre, we saw many examples of people getting up very close, breathing on the delicate paintings, stroking the sculptures, touching frames and probably even the paintings themselves!  The museum generously allows photography in almost all of the exhibits, but asks that flash not be used.  This was in large measure ignored, with the paintings being subject to bright light after bright light.

I don't understand why so many people bother to come to the Louvre, only to view the art through a camera lens.  I did understand the men who wanted their pictures taken next to the Venus de Milo, but why take a picture of a famous painting (without even yourself in it to show that you were there, in the same room as that famous painting), when you could buy a much better picture of the same thing on a postcard in the museum shop?  Or even pull one off the Internet?  It's true there were a few things I should have taken pictures of, because they aren't famous enough to be on a postcard, but for the most part the effort seems a complete waste of time.

So, we were exhausted, dehydrated, and hadn't eaten anything since breakfast.  Probably not the best circumstances under which not to have a specific plan as to what to do next.  We wandered through part of the Tuileries, which I found disappointing, largely because I hadn't done my homework and was expecting more in the way of flowers for something with jardin in its name.  There we had a small bite to eat and the tensest moments of our entire trip, before and after.  But we got through it, and decided it made sense to split up again.  Porter, who was still gung-ho and energetic, walked to the Monnaie de Paris, a coin museum, while Janet and I went back to the apartment to rest.   The time actually wasn't very restful, as it was spent trying to plan the rest of the evening, but at least we were off our feet.

Happily reunited, we decided we couldn’t possibly do all we wanted to, and would "settle" for some bread and cheese in the apartment and a return to the Louvre.  This time we saw a little more of each other, as we both had missed parts of the first floor of the Denon wing, and also wanted to get to the Richelieu wing.  In the latter, Porter spent the most time amongst the Dutch painters, and Janet was amazed by (among other things), Napoleon III's apartments.  She'll have to tell you about it, though, as we didn't get there.  You can't see everything in a day.  You can't even walk by everything.  But I think we did very well for the time we had.

Today was Good Friday, and though we didn't spend it as we usually do, we certainly saw enough paintings that did not let us forget the significance of the day.

Transition!  We took the tram to the train station, where we bought drinks to go with the food we had bought yesterday to eat on our trip to Paris.  Janet knew exactly what to do and guided us to the train—it helped, too, that the signs were clear and the station logically organized.  "Did you notice the border control?" she asked, as we neared the train.  Well, no, we hadn't, unless you counted the big sign labelled "FRANCE," and that was her point.  Apparently we were technically in French territory at that point, but no one had asked for our passports, nor did they when we reached Paris.  Eventually the conductor did take our tickets, but that was all.

[Update:  Here is a Gmaps Pedometer view of our train trip. ]

We left shortly after 8 a.m., and the five hour trip flew by, probably because I spent much of it either pouring over our Paris and France guidebooks trying to make some decisions, or else doing last-minute cramming of useful French phrases.  The announcements were all in French, and I caught enough to conclude we didn't really need to know what they were saying until we arrived at Paris (at Gare de l'Est), and then all we did was follow the crowd.

Into mass confusion.  The French could learn a bit from the Swiss about transportation systems.  (I'm not particularly knocking France; I expect most everyone could learn a great deal from the Swiss about transportation systems.)  We had planned to pick up some euros at the train station, but even though one was clearly marked on the directory, it was equally clearly not there.  We finally gave up and went to find a taxi, but as soon as we exited the station, Janet noticed something across the street:  a bank building with an ATM.

(Note to anyone planning to visit Europe:  a debit card from your bank is a very good thing.  There were several places where our ATM cards did not work.  Our credit union had suggested we get a debit card, as they work in more ATM machines than the regular cards do.  In Paris we were very glad we had followed that advice.  We didn't use credit cards nearly as much as we have done before when traveling, as they now charge a significant foreign transaction fee, which the credit union does not.)

Flush with euros, we stood in line at the taxi stand, and it wasn't too long before it was our turn, and I gave the address in my well-rehearsed and best French.  I also had it written out, because my best French is none too good.  It was probably just as well, because I'm fairly certain French wasn't the cab driver's native language, either.

It was an exciting (okay, harrowing in places) ride through the streets of Paris, and we couldn't stop looking back and forth from window to window.  Janet followed our progress on our little pop-out map of Paris.

Soon we were there, on the narrow street,

 

walking through the flower shop (are you sure this is right?),

keying in the secret entrance code (it worked—we must be in the right place),

 climbing the winding stairs,

 

 passing through the next set of doors,

tentatively ringing the doorbell of what we guessed might be the right apartment.

It was!  Our host was on his lunch break from work, but took time to introduce us to the necessities of the apartment and the neighborhood.  Then we were on our own—we didn't see him again till he picked us up at the train station in Laval.  (There I am, getting ahead again.)  Did I mention that these gracious friends not only welcomed us into their home in the French countryside, but gave us free rein in their Parisian flat?

At some point I suddenly realized that we were in an artist's apartment in Paris!  What a romantic notion!  This was far from a garret, however, but a beautifully designed, comfortable, and highly functional use of a very small space.  The Maggie P. with a French accent.  (Our friend is an artist, and I'll publish a link to her works if I get her permission.  She's rather well-known, but alas doesn't yet command the kind of prices that will allow Janet and Heather sell the sketches she made of them years ago and never have to worry about money again.  Someday, maybe!)

So there we were, on our own in Paris!  What to do first?  Well, how about a walk to the Louvre, only a few blocks away?  What a huge building!  Time enough to see it tomorrow, let's cross over to Ile de la Cité.  Here are Janet and Porter on Pont Neuf.

Hmm, very nice walk.  Oh, there's a nice place—Sainte-Chapelle.  A long line to wait in, but not as long as the Louvre will be tomorrow, let's buy our Paris Museum Passes here.  Oops, unlike Basel, where the pass is good for 48 hours, this one is only good for two days, so if we activate it tonight we don't get much out of it.  Better save it for tomorrow and Saturday, and pay separately to get into Sainte-Chapelle.  Very good to have the passes, though, and avoid the lines tomorrow.

Sainte-Chapelle was built by Louis IX (okay, he ordered and funded it; a lot of other folks built it) in the middle of the 11th century.  The lower section, built for ordinary folks, is beautiful enough, but the upper, royal floor has the spectacular stained glass windows Sainte-Chapelle is famous for.  The altar area was shrouded in plastic, undergoing some restoration work, but there was enough to see in the rest of the room!  Many of the windows are original, but extensive repair was also necessary because of vandalism during the French Revolution.  We recently watched an excellent Teaching Company course on Western civilization that portrayed the French Revolution in what I thought was quite a positive light, but there was a very dark side as well.  It would be interesting to do a comparative study of the French and the American revolutions, because I get the impression that—granted there were knaves and heroes on both sides—ours was less destructive, less angry and hate-filled, more about constructive change than random, violent destruction.  But that may be ignorance and prejudice on my part.

Next stop, Notre Dame!  It must be very difficult to maintain a working church and a tourist attraction at the same time, especially during Holy Week.  Notre Dame was beautiful, of course, and interesting, but I was beginning to suffer from Tourist Fatigue.  That is, I was tired myself, as a tourist, and I was very tired of being surrounded by so many other tourists.

So we took a much-needed break and walked to the Pompidou Centre.  We didn't go inside, having had our fill of ultra-modern art yesterday.  But we did marvel a bit at its exoskeleton (like a lobster, its bones—plumbing, electrical, HVAC fixtures—are on the outside) while enjoying crêpes (note to Janet—you're not crazy; it turns out savory crêpes are traditionally made with buckwheat flour!) at a nearby café.

And what was beside the café?  The Stravinsky Fountain, another creation of You-Know-Who!

Thus refreshed, we enjoyed the sights from the #69 bus, which we took to the Eiffel Tower.  And I thought there were too many tourists at Notre Dame!  The Eiffel Tower is romantic, and taking the could-be-scary elevator to the top is a must-do, IF you are a romantic person and can get there when there's no line.  It's like Disney World—only worth doing when other people aren't.  We had hoped to see the sunset from the top, but we passed from daylight to dark in the long, snaky line.  It didn't help that there was some event going on that caused certain people to be cut into the front of the line, people who were probably famous rock stars or something, given the number of photographers and autograph-seekers hounding them.  At least we enjoyed talking with our neighbors in line.

At last we bought our tickets and were inside.  Gotcha!  Again, like Disney, more lines, more waiting.  Then you take the elevator up part way, and get out—to wait in another line for another elevator to the top.  The view from the top was very nice, with the city lights and all, and we were determined to enjoy it after all that waiting.  I maintain I got more for my money than the others, because in certain circumstances I find mere height to be scarier than the best roller coaster I've ever ridden—so I got the tourist sights and a thrill ride, too.

Despite the lines, it was an enjoyable visit, until it came time to go down.  The first elevator ride was fine, but we then found ourselves trapped on the second level.  You see, those same bigwigs that cut in front of us at the entrance, were all leaving their private party and had taken over the elevators.  Every elevator that came opened its doors on their side first, and then only had room for a couple—more usually, none—from our side.  This went on, and on, and people finally started to get angry.  I began to wonder what the French Revolution had accomplished.  Didn't they want to get rid of aristocratic privilege?  Was it time for another one?  Porter, along with many others, finally decided to reduce the number of those waiting for the elevator by taking the stairs, but Janet's knee was bothering her and she didn't want to pull up lame at the very beginning of our stay in France.  So we waited.  The chief problem was the same as it was in the Superdome during Hurricane Katrina:  lack of information from those in charge.  No signs, no announcements, no explanations, no advice, nothing.  All the other elevators, and most of the stairs, were closed down.  We really had no idea what to do.  Finally, two of the angry folks (an Italian lady and a British man) made enough of a nuisance of themselves that some workers took pity on us and took us out through the "employee only" elevator, thus ending our three and a half hour ordeal visit to the Eiffel Tower.  My advice:  if you're not the romantic type mentioned above, skip La Tour Eiffel altogether and go to the top of Tour Montparnasse.  It's much quicker, less expensive, and has a great view.

We were down, but we weren't home yet.  The buses had long ago stopped running for the night.  There were no taxis to be seen.  We decided to hoof it.  About halfway home, near Les Invalides, we saw some taxis, and I pleaded for relief.  We found taxis to be surprisingly inexpensive in Paris.       The only thing wrong with this ride was that we had our one and only encounter with a rude person.  I'm tired of hearing how rude the French—especially Parisians—are.  In all of our other experiences they were friendly and helpful.  And even the taxi driver got us home.

I thought our Sunday was exciting, until I read about the Daleys'!

It was Sunny on Sunday here, too, at least for the morning.  Porter put our bikes on the back of the car and the skies were blue and clear as we headed out for 8:00 church.  The service was glorious, with lots of great hymns—we needed to double up on the hymn board!  The 8:00 service at Messiah rocks!  (Though not literally.)  Afterwards there's always a great breakfast, at which we fortified ourselves for our adventure.

After changing into cooler clothes, we hopped on our bikes and headed to the West Orange Trail.  It was our first time on this trail, and covering new ground is always fun.  The day was hot, but not unpleasantly so as long as we kept moving.  Our plan had been to travel about five miles westward to the beginning of the trail, and return to the eastern leg at another time.  You will not be surprised to learn that we got sidetracked.

The first diversion came when we decided to drop in on some friends we hadn't seen since before we moved to Boston.  They used to host a wonderful bed and breakfast place, and it's now for sale.  It would be a great place to live for someone who could afford it, i.e. had won the lottery or else had recently sold a small shack in California or Boston.  In any case, they were very gracious about receiving unplanned guests this morning, and it was great to see them again and catch up a bit.  I'm still sorry they no longer run the B&B, though.  :(

On the road trail again, we thoroughly enjoyed the breeze, the sun, the shade from the giant oaks, passing field and forest, cute buildings, tiny towns, dirt roads, and major highways.  And many other travelers, enjoying the trail by bike, skates, foot, and stroller.  We came all too soon to our goal, and the conspicuous "End of Trail" sign.  But it wasn't!  Feeling a little like the Swallows passing the Beach End buoy, we continued on the paved trail with no end in sight.  It turns out that only a few days ago the South Lake Trail had been completed, linking the West Orange with the Lake Minneola Scenic Trail in Lake County.  We pedaled on for another couple of miles before reluctantly turning back, not without making definite plans to return.  As it was, we stayed out longer than we had planned, and perhaps made a little too much vitamin D.  We should have stopped somewhere and put on sunscreen, but we survived with only a very mild sunburn in a few places.  It was a good reminder that we've entered the season when the Florida midday sun is not to be trifled with.  And that haircuts leave vulnerable skin that had previously been protected.

As we drove home, hot, tired, and happy, we noticed that the once-blue sky had turned grey, and not the sky only but the air all around was shrouded in a smoky cloud.  This happens occasionally in the dry season, when smoke from a Central Florida wildfire spreads our way.  We wondered if this might have been from Wekiva Springs Park, where they keep the occurance wildfires down with controlled burning, but sometimes they happen anyway.  Turns out this smoke was from just a little further away—the Okefenokee Swamp!  I hope Pogo and Porky Pine are being careful....

We topped off the day by having a friend for dinner.  I don't mean that quite the way it sounds.  We had lasagne, salad, cheese bread, and fruit (apple/blueberry/peach/rhubarb) crisp, accompanied by good conversation.

I commented this morning that I should have pre-cooked the fruit a bit, because the apples and rhubarb were not fully cooked.  It was still good, I added, but I like my crisp a little softer. We laughed almost as much as we did over the "It's only a little wet" incident.