Pirates and Dancing Girls

 After a couple of hours on the beach, this morning, and a last dip in the Caribbean Ocean, we met our friends for  lunch. The Waikiki Beach Restaurant on St Martin's, has been renovated since the Cyclone that tore through the area a few months ago. It's more modern and open than the version we visited two years ago. The view of the blue waves and passing boats is part of the experience. We're fascinated by the para-sailing and the skills of the tow-boats as they reel in the humans, hanging from a thread, and land them on the back of their craft, without getting their feet wet.

Sunday Brunch is a large affair, with Jet-Skis ferrying visiting yacht passengers ashore, and much celebration at tables ordering jeroboams of Tattinger and Moet.

There was a fashion show of bikinis, cover-ups and resort wear, from the adjoining Boutique, after which the music intensified and "Cue Pirate"; welcome eye-candy for those of us not drooling over the female Models. Our Pirate was on roller skates and got the dancing started right away. 

The Models returned, transformed into dancers, and encouraged Brunch guests to join them, on and off the tables. Those who cry foul when a furry cat paw dares to cross a table, seem to have no problem accepting humans in stilettos tramping around between the plates and glasses.

Our Pirate and his Hench-women twirled and Vogued and smiled for photos with the smitten.They danced vigorously for a long time.

The highlight of the whole experience, for me, was the Maitre d' firmly grasping the ear of an annoying little boy to remove him from the pathway of the servers. I had watched the boy earlier, on the beach, slyly kicking out at the family dog. If he'd done it one more time, it could well have been my hand on his ear.

We're headed back to the real world tomorrow. We hear it's been raining in California.
Post script: The rain and wind caused our flight home to be cancelled so we were stuck for an extra day in Paradise. We had to unpack our bathing suits and subject ourselves to one last evening of Old Rum, flavored with vanilla beans and home grown bananas. Life can be so hard sometimes:)

Shangri-La

Our weekend couldn't have distanced us further from the daily grind, even if it had a magic wand.
Friday had TAO responding to an invitation to present his work to a Foundation for the Arts, that recently opened in San Francisco. This group originated in France and are based in the hills that rise up behind Nice and Cannes, on the road to St Paul de Vence.
I volunteered to drive TAO and drop him off by the door of the Gallery as his knee is barely functioning now and it would be impossible for him to park and walk anywhere on his own. The fact that these are French speaking Gallery folks meant that I didn't have to go with him to translate and TAO could call my cell phone to be collected, when he was done. I do feel a bit like The Country Mouse when I have to broach the City. I had upgraded my look to include "interesting shoes" and a clean T-shirt, which is about as fashion forward as I can go.

How many posts have I written without mentioning hide, hair, nor hoof of a horse? I have finally carved out some acceptance, from those around me, of the fact that I need equestrian interaction on a semi-regular basis, if I am to fake it through the rest of life.
Initially more a case of recognition of this being one of my "Line in the Sand" moments that no amount of guilt tripping and sulking would change, we have reached the stage where TAO will tag along and enjoy the beauty that often surrounds horsy pursuits.
On Saturday morning we drove for an hour to reach a private ranch where Lusitano horses are bred and raised for Dressage competition. These big, beautiful Portuguese horses are often Grey with huge intelligent eyes and flowing manes. I was allowed to ride Leon, who is black. He's retired from competition and is the schoolmaster on which the owner of the horses can check out new riders without endangering her horses, or the humans who beg to ride them.
I was nervous the night before, worried in case I would not make the grade. They only take on pupils who are realistic about their own abilities and open to learning more of the science and art that is dressage. I had been warned that they did not take on beginners.
The young woman who worked with me and others who work full time nurturing and schooling these gorgeous beasts, are imports from Austria and Germany. The horses have stable areas with vibrating floors, heat lamps etc. and the hoses with which to wash them have warm water options.

The owner of the Ranch came out to meet us, with her flock of mismatched rescue dogs. She was extraordinarily kind to TAO and took him on a tour in her golf-cart. She brought him into the arena while I rode. There are huge, plush-cushioned seats and couches in and around the ring. One of the goats, that wander freely, pulled a cushion onto the floor and very nearly peed on it, but missed. A young Dromedary was enjoying the sun in a nearby paddock and a couple of Zebras' braying added to the impression of having passed through the looking glass.
Apart from a couple of involuntary Piaffes, when I was supposed to be asking for canter, Leon and I got along just fine. I could probably ride him for years and still have things that he could teach me. I am to be permitted to return to this magic kingdom to repeat the experience and even ride other steeds in the future.
As we drove away afterwards, I tried to explain to TAO the feeling that I have rejoined my Tribe, after a long absence, and I have been made welcome. 
We were done with the horse experience before noon and (having changed into clean clothes at the roadside) headed out towards the coast . We had lunch in Davenport, where the food is good. I had a leek and artichoke lasagna and TAO had the fish stew. We also allowed ourselves most of a bottle of a crisp Rose wine. I left my vehicle parked for a couple of hours and visited the beach after lunch, while TAO snoozed in the sun-slathered car.

I used to laugh...

I have been feeling happy today. It's strange to realize how unusual a feeling it is to be free of worry, or guilt, or anxiety. Libby was a catalyst for laughter. Once she gained confidence, she would show sudden outbursts of joy, that were unexpectedly hilarious from such a reserved and seemingly mature dog.
We came home from work at lunchtime today and Libby was very excited. There's an association between arriving home and dinner time, for sure, but Libby also loves the cat, and the cat comes to greet us every time we walk in the door.
Added to Libby being in good health, she's now more secure in her surroundings. The old girl zoomed around in circles, as though she had a fire in her caboose. In her eagerness to engage Slinkie, the cat,  in her madness, she playfully pawed her on the head. Between the dog's joy and the cat's disbelief, I was still laughing out loud when there was a knock at the door.
Libby's ride had arrived. Her first stage on a road trip to become a beach-bunny, and gentle companion to an older collie, down south near San Luis Obispo.
The lift I got from the laughter was as good as any much-lauded tonic could have provided. The sudden freedom to do something just for myself first led me clothes shopping, to the local mall, where bright colors and polkadots could not be resisted. It's been a long, long time since I shopped for fun. Then I switched my shoes for barn boots and visited with a few horse-friends of mine.
The days are getting longer and the Friday evening lesson will soon be reinstated. In addition, there's a new dressage-based lesson starting up on Sunday afternoons.
Libby's not the only one with things to look forward to.

Letters in the Sand...

In the latter portion of my Franco-British tour of friends and relatives; having unpacked my suitcase for the 5th, and penultimate, time in a fortnight; I find the familiar guest bedroom in the open-plan house of Chantal and Olivier, who qualify as both friends and family.
When I first met Chantal three decades ago in Southern France, I was her father's English girlfriend. Now, she introduces me, with a smile, as her step-mother. Last March, her 53rd birthday preceded mine by four days and her subsequent birthdays will continue to do so. The official description of our relationship matters little. We have a mountain of shared interests and memories in common.

The house is set into a gentle rise and the floor to ceiling windows look out over the tops of two thousand olive trees, past the grape vines below and onward to the large purple smudge of the Island of Porquerolle, just beyond a blue slice of Mediterranean.
The sliding glass doors are left open day and night at this time of year, which is why a rope barrier has been looped across the the accessible edges of the big wooden deck, to keep Pegase (Pegasus), the 36 year old bay horse, out of the house.

When we sit to chat or dine at the big teak table on the deck, Pegase keeps us company, his big rustic head nodding to dislodge any annoying flies that his long swishing tail fails to sweep away. The rest of the time Pegase can be found snoozing beneath the shaded overhang down by the olive mill, or persistently bumping the branches of the fig tree until the soft plop of a ripe fruit hitting the ground sends him bee-lining over to snuffle around and claim his prize.
After lunch and story-swapping for a while, I asked if Chantal wanted to go for a walk. She suggested a hike along the coastal path which sounded good to me. There are numerous little bays and coves around this part of the Mediterranean. Small beaches, with patches of sand or round, wave-smoothed pebbles. These inlets provide tranquil moorings for small boats and inviting, warm end of season water for sun-worshippers unfettered by school age children.

Some effort is required as there are uphill portions of the trail and even downhill it's wise to concentrate as there are tree roots and uneven wooden steps and much of the path is single file between shrubby undergrowth and only wide enough for a goat.

A hazy afternoon light isn't the best but it's impossible to resist some blatant photo-ops. As we clambered down to the next little beach, a couple with a serious piece of camera equipment are discussing his next frame. I offer to include both of them in a souvenir shot and they are pleased to accept. He quickly whips out a small point and click digital that I cannot harm and I snap the two of them by the water's edge, with the private island-fortress of Bregancon behind them. Summer retreat of French Presidents, the chateau on the island is visible from shore.
Monsieur Photographer reciprocates with pictures using my camera. His, unlike mine, show deliberate composition.

As we continue up and over one more time my phone rings. "You'll never guess what just happened to me" is a familiar harbinger of trouble from The Artistic One, whom I have left to fend for himself in California. "My car was just stolen out of the driveway. I saw it go by the window while I was having breakfast, a few minutes ago."
7 am California time and I'm at least an hour's walk away from anything. How to find the number of the local Sheriff's Department back home? I try dialing 411, the information line, with the international prefix for the USA but that doesn't work. I tried Lovely Daughter and a couple of friends but it's too early. No one is answering their phones. Finally we call Olivier and he gets a number from his computer. Chantal scratches it onto a rock with a pebble and I dial. The recorder message says business hours don't start for another hour and gives a number to call for immediate help. I give Chantal some digits to memorize and try to retain the rest. When I finally get through to a Deputy to make a report, Chantal wanders away, strips down and takes a swim.  I'm standing by the edge of the path, afraid to move and lose my connection. It feels very inappropriate to be talking on the phone amid such serenity.

I start by explaining the complicating factor that I'm calling from Europe as my husband speaks French. I am able to describe the vehicle year, make and color and give the name of our insurance agent and the home address so that someone can go out and take a statement from the victim.  We don't have the license number, without accessing the files in my office or until I can get hold of my insurer, as soon as his day starts. I promise to call back with that information.
TAO is calling again. He's found a photo of his car that shows his license plate. He rattles off letters and numbers. Whoa there! I have nothing to write with, which he seems not to comprehend in his excitement. This beach is all pebbles. I use my finger to scribe the information but it's barely legible as the little rocks roll down and quickly blur the outlines. Chantal, who is done swimming and has dried in the sun and redressed, comes back over to help and once again, I call the Sheriff's Dept. This time I connect with a female dispatcher who doesn't appreciate that I don't have my full case number at hand and she keeps stopping me to complain about the background noises. I do my best not to lose patience as I repeatedly explain that I'm inches away from the waves, which are not only noisy, but every ripple threatens to erase the information I need to impart.
TAO is on the line once more, asking me to call an employee to collect him and get him to our place of business. I first remind him he's supposed to wait for someone to take his report and then start racking my brain for a source who might help me find the phone number I need. Funnily enough, I don't have any employee files with me here.
I leave a message with one person who's number I have, who has borrowed a helper from us once or twice. I ask him to text me when he gets my call. Finally, I think of a neighboring fork-lift repair business, whose number I know by heart and who start work early. They immediately promise to go over and pass along the message that TAO needs rescuing. I'm glad that I've bought them chocolate cakes a couple of times as I try hard never to exceed the goodwill quota of neighborliness.

Balance

Yesterday was so special; a Monday off; a day when some are working and some are not. We call them Mickey-Mouse Holidays and usually do not partake. Last year I even had occasion to work on Independence Day thanks to a very needy, Maserati-owning client. California Whine Country
This Fourth of July we headed out for the beach. The forecast was for a warm fog-free coast. They lied! After half a day on the sandy shore; fully dressed and wrapped in towels to keep warm, we had lunch at Margarita-Ville, served by a "Fourth of July Barbie" with cowboy boots on, then sat in the nice, comfortable, and wind sheltered, car reading our beach novels for an hour or so, until the buzz from the Mexican coffee had worn off and it was safe and legal to drive.
The road back to blue skies made us smug as those who were late heading out would still be in traffic two hours later and be watching the primordial grace of flights of pelicans  looming and fading in the mist, rather than slathering on the sun-block.
This morning dawned with no painful sunburn, no tiredness from a late night of partying and a whole day to play with.
I rode at 8:30, the air still a pleasant temperature making my exertions possible. A new youngster at the stables, Macho is four years old; a large and well proportioned thoroughbred with great natural balance and head carriage. His trot felt more like a German horse, full of "schwung", if lacking consistent tempo. Nice natured too, I can't wait to ride him again.
It was still early when I got back home and I exchanged my boots and breeches for tennies and shorts and took myself for the walk I used to make when I had the foster dogs for motivation. I knew we were planning a lunch with Lovely Daughter and her man and I was trying to pre-empt the calories, or at least mitigate the guilt.
Basic salad, grilled steaks and mashed potatoes, followed by home made crumble/cobbler of blackberries, apples and rhubarb, and a nice Chateau Margaux, had us lounging around in a wonderful torpor for the rest of the afternoon.

A Suit of Armour-This Years Beach Fashions

-Having, as yet, not fully unpacked my long-anticipated rowing machine.

-Having delivered foster-dog, and planned exercise-partner, to new forever home.

-Having just had lunch at Stacks Pancake House.

-Being unwilling to face the idea of anything small, brightly colored and SPANDEX as acceptable public attire.

-Being often disinclined to shave my legs.

-Having toes which are purple; not through the endeavors of the hot-rock wielding maidens of the nail salon; but due to stubbed toes and other gardening injuries.

-Realizing that, even though we are having a couple of grey, coolish days, tomorrow could suddenly be summer-hot.

My brainwave for today offers you, and myself, a new season's metallic beach fashions. Complete with complimentary sword to use on any boom-boxes or other rotten, skinny beach-going annoyances.