Mas Lafont
Through a string of mishaps and events that undid all my careful planning I have found a place where I feel that I belong…. as if there is some benevolent and far more intelligent agent that said "Stop trying to plan everything and just go there." The place is called Mas Lafont. I emailed a link with photos and I know some of you have looked at it. It is a beautiful place, but that is only part of it.
Part of my experience of being here is not knowing exactly what this place is…. it's story… or who is coming through the door next. It would 'help' if I spoke french and could ask lots of questions about everything. "Who are you? What do you do? Where are you from? What's the plan?" Many people come through the door. I do know that my host, Alain owns this property, that he is recently divorced and that he has decided to create a center for retreats and workshops here. Much beyond that and I am just a happy idiot.
Regarding the place: Mas, in French means 'country place/farm'. The property is apparently an old silk worm farm. An empty stone building situated down below the house that waits to be restored is the Menanieri (sp?) which was used to raise the silk worms. This area had a very significant silk industry into the 19th C from what I understand. The main house is built next to a spring that feeds several ponds draining into irrigation that runs down the hill and around the terraced hillside. Must be nice in the heat of summer. There is a pool and a number of different outdoor areas with different types of landscaping. A few palms and bamboo. A row of impressively large plane trees. The lawn and garden are under constant attack by wild boars, which come in the night and dig things up. My job is basically landscaping. For the moment that means working with a rake on leaf piles, collecting downed branches, some chain saw work, and burning. The house heats with wood… the kitchen and living room anyway. The upstairs is unheated, but it doesn't get that cold.
The house has 12 foot ceilings. Quite a stately building. Most of it is restored already but the downstairs is being opened up into a large hall for the retreat center use. It tends a little toward late 20th C bohemian in decor. Lots of artistic expression. Tempts me to call it a hippie haven, which is somewhat true. The people who come here are people who pursue their lives as a journey. They are people engaged with the arts, or healing, or some form of spiritual seeking. Shamanism seems like a theme here, perhaps partly because of Joel, who is a boyish 50 (or so) and lives in a yurt on one of the terraces. He has been following a vision for the past 5 years that involves building and playing and teaching drums for ritual and is some kind of partner in making things happen here. There is a sweat lodge planned in about a week. I will tend the fire. I'd like to participate, but I am also here to help and work. Everyone I meet has traveled much. Many musicians. I just met a woman who spent 2 months in the jungles of Peru living with a shaman. Another just back from Qatar with her drumming group. A couple of women from Marseille showed up one night. Don't know why they were here, but it doesn't matter. Always an interesting person. Nobody wants to sit around watching TV.
Speaking of TV, did I say that I came here by accident? I was staying with a couple guys from Vermont who I know through Kate and who have a place north of here (la Bouysseau). Beautiful house and they were quite good to me, but every night, and sometimes through the day the main activity seemed to be watching TV. As bad or worse than American boob tube. Something seriously lacking. Something in my mind was going…. "Gotta get out of here…. go back… I miss where I was". I needed a place to stay through New Years at which time I was supposed to go to start another workaway. My Vermont hosts had invited me for the duration, then said maybe they would take another trip after Dec 22, then said they wouldn't go, then finally decided they really had to go. Time for another plan, but what?
I sent a couple emails. I had a lead to follow up on and it worked out and I got an invitation from Alain here at Mas Lafont. I came here because Alain is a friend of Patrice (a guy from Quebec), who I met in Sauve, by way of Bertrand the carpenter who lives in Sauve and knows Patrice who doesn't really live there (he and his wife and boy are itinerant too) but often stays in Sauve in Frank's house (you remember Frank? The trapeze artist with Cirque du Soleil?) which is down the street from chez Bertrand, who I met because I was working with him on the house in Sommieres for Benoit and Sarah, who live in St. Quentin and were my hosts when I got here in December. Get it? And because Alain said, "Sure you can come here and work or just rest" (because I was still getting over the car wreck) There is no way to plan such a thing.
Once here it took a few days to figure out whether I had any place here or was just a temporary interloper. It really helped to be able to work and put my efforts into the place. There is an informality here that, once used to it, is very comfortable. No need to put on airs, but for the first few days I was worried about doing things, or not doing things, or doing things inappropriately. I'm over that. It feels like family… in a good way so far. Alain's 10 yo daughter, Judith, came for the holidays and she is a delight. We have fun even though we can't understand much of what each other says. It was nice to see her come with her dad to pick me up in town today at the bus stop on my way back from Paris. Same with everyone who I meet here. An easy feeling of community.
Nobody slaves too hard. I feel that I am doing my part if I work 3 or 4 hours a day. Alain seems grateful for what I have done and am able to do. The rest of the day is mine. My room has a huge window that opens to a view of the valley of the Vidourle River, and beyond to two limestone topped peaks called 'the twins" which we all climbed last week. My room is a nice refuge if I need one. Afternoon nap maybe. Dinner around 8 or 8:30 and conviviality until 11 most nights. 7 KM down the valley to St. Hippolyte du Fort village and all that.
A few days before I left for Paris to see Dave I got an email from my Jan 1 host saying…"not a good time for you to come… maybe later would be better." I replied that I had an ideal place and 'later' would not work for me. My head was telling me "You made this plan, don't quit on them, work it out somehow… besides you might miss something" My heart was going "Fine… stay here… what could be better than this you idiot". So I listened to my heart and decided it was also not too late to cancel my Jan 15th gig as well. Why risk being isolated somewhere that might end up feeling like the place I was in the Dordogne?
Funny how I am not enchanted with the idea of changing my scene and traveling as compared with staying in one place and digging deeper into what is possible here. I am aware of my desire for belonging and to be part of a mission with others. There are a lot of other places I could have seen here, but so what. I don't know where this is leading (not that I don't have ideas.. helpful suggestions for whoever is in charge) but I trust it will be good.
Monday, January 2, 2012
We'll always have Paris
Paris
Came Thursday evening and found David's rented flat on Rue Custine. Close to Montmartre, on some kind of boundary between a predominantly black area and the upscale neighborhoods surrounding the high point in Paris renowned for it's Bohemian past. A past which has been repackaged for tourists. But first I got oriented to the little apartment. Small bedroom, small main room, small bathroom, small kitchen. Everything necessary. Out to dinner and a walk around the perimeter of the hill. At the cafe a couple was seated next to us, an older gent, a bit frail, with an air of sophistication tempered by the fact that he seemed half asleep, and a vivacious younger woman, 30's maybe, 40's possibly with a theatrical sparkle to her, all in black, plenty of makeup. She broke the ice with us and we began a conversation. The usual, 'no we do not speak French… Americans …. what do you do" led to the discovery that she is in cinema' and the gent, a certain Andre Labarthe, is a significant figure in the world of French new wave. Actor, director, but mostly, an interviewer and documentarian who had met..(long list including Huston, Cassavetes, Hitchcock, Truffaut,…. and on and on). Her name, Layla, addresses exchanged, maybe for Kim to catch up with some event to take place in new york on the new new wave. Or is it the old new wave? Made for an interesting intro to Paris and surprised by the warmth of the encounter. Actually I was sitting on a seat over a radiator and it was, indeed, quite warm. Went back and hit the computers to find out about laBarthe 81 yo. He really is a 'who's who'. Dave was vexed that he had bothered the guy for an autograph on the paper place mat only to leave it on the table.
Next day we climbed the Montmartre. A tourist zoo. Souveniers and couple dozen artists drawing portraits in the square. Dave got suckered by the gypsies canvassing 'for the handicapped' who get you to give them your personal ID (just in case they manage to pickpocket a credit card or two) and then demand money for having stopped to sign their fake petition. I know better having experienced this on a train in Spain (mainly on the plain). We did a lot of walking over the two days and ate at various cafe's, going back to the Cafe Franc….(?) a couple times. Friday night Dave booked tickets to a gypsy jazz artist in the jazz district, rue Lombard. Then thought he had booked it for Thursday and we had missed it. Lot's of pithy advice from me about how to let it go as he berated himself over and over. Turns out that he was looking the booking date, not the performance date and the gig was Friday after all. Dave and I have a lot of similar space out tendencies. And this compulsive way that we are always doing things 'the other' way, or putting something in a new spot only to forget where that new spot was. And then going into a panic the moment we think we have lost, or forgotten something again.
So Friday night we did make the show at Sunset/Sunside on Rue de Lombards. It really was the center of the jazz scene with the three venues that Mia from Paris who I met in St. Hippolyte, jotted down for me on my Iphone… all packed together on one small street. We had a nice dinner nearby and then packed ourselves into our seats. It was too close and I was so miserably uncomfortable that the first set was just unpleasant. I told dave that I really couldn't sit there again and would just stand at the back. Went outside and walked in the rain and then came back. It was better standing at the back or in the stairway, albeit smoky from the sidewalk cafe crowd up above. The music was better and as some people left I had a chance to sit and truly enjoy. Tremendous musicianship, not gypsy jazz, but based upon it with the rhythm guitar behind every piece.
Saturday, New Year's eve. We got up and out too late for a breakfast so we had lunch back at 'our' cafe. Dave left his cap. Then a long wander around the opposite side of Montmartre to a train ticket boutique so I could get my ticket. Too much time frustration the night before and then the fares had gone up… doubled. Dave and I also tried to work out the car rental…without success. Finally settled on a plan of him coming 1/5 to Nimes and then rent, or just take the bus from there to St. Hippolyte. I may be able to come up with a car rental/borrow that will save money in the meantime. The train boutique was closed on NYE. Oh well. Dave got another hat and we found ourselves in front of Le Moulin Rouge where the hippest of touristic party goers could make an evening of it for a mere 650 Euros. I got a real coffee in a real paper cup at Starbucks across the street and we sat and watched the crowds. A mass of tourists standing on the traffic median snapping pictures of themselves in front of MR. Then to the train station where Dave and I got our tickets. A short extra wait for an English speaking agent who was friendly and relaxed, with a genuine big smile for us. Nice.
Trying to discuss music and such with Dave made me realize that I am really handicapped without a keyboard. He started leading me in the direction of using a midi controller and garage band or band in a box to compose and play. I did some searches and it looked interesting. So on the way to the train station we passed Star Music and I went in to check it out. Ended up getting an Alesis 49 key unit for about $100. No big risk in damage or loss. Making the move to get the keyboard made me realize how much of a deprivation it has been to be away from the piano and my daily ritual of playing, and how much I have ignored the feeling of missing it. A memorable moment at the turnstile as a old guy tried to us his pass card to no avail. I had bought 10 paper tickets for the metro and had a few still in my wallet. Pulled on out and gave it to him. Why not. Merci. No problem.
So last night we made dinner from frozen selections bought at a frozen food specialty market down the street. Kind of a rejection of tradition for the French, but the quality is a cut above Hungry Man. Dave set up my keyboard connection to the computer with the accompanying software and I got a first look at it. Tremendous possibilities. Then we watched Midnight in Paris on Dave's laptop … fifth time Dave has seen it. It may have something to do with his inspiration to come to Paris. I really enjoyed it, and seeing most of the places I had visited on the trip. Montmarte the steps and streets, the Seine, the Cite, Notre Dame, Shakespeare & Co., Moulin Rouge. A story of a character who feels pulled to a different life and time and the conflict of following. a satisfying story.
Then Dave fell asleep at the table and I decided to go out again. Not tired at all. Why not do NewYears from Montmartre. I wandered up to the crowds and then down a side street a bit until I heard live piano music. Decided, OK. A very modest place. I sat next to the piano and got the sound and the view of the player's hands. Incredible agility and fluidity, constantly moving into different variations. I envied him. When he stood up he moved stiffly as if almost paralyzed, except from the shoulders down. Be careful what you wish for. I would not really want to trade places with him. New Years came and people shouted and honked. A couple young men came in and gave everyone a good 'moi moi' and a toast. I raised my empty glass and the one poured some champagne into it. Happy New Year.
Came Thursday evening and found David's rented flat on Rue Custine. Close to Montmartre, on some kind of boundary between a predominantly black area and the upscale neighborhoods surrounding the high point in Paris renowned for it's Bohemian past. A past which has been repackaged for tourists. But first I got oriented to the little apartment. Small bedroom, small main room, small bathroom, small kitchen. Everything necessary. Out to dinner and a walk around the perimeter of the hill. At the cafe a couple was seated next to us, an older gent, a bit frail, with an air of sophistication tempered by the fact that he seemed half asleep, and a vivacious younger woman, 30's maybe, 40's possibly with a theatrical sparkle to her, all in black, plenty of makeup. She broke the ice with us and we began a conversation. The usual, 'no we do not speak French… Americans …. what do you do" led to the discovery that she is in cinema' and the gent, a certain Andre Labarthe, is a significant figure in the world of French new wave. Actor, director, but mostly, an interviewer and documentarian who had met..(long list including Huston, Cassavetes, Hitchcock, Truffaut,…. and on and on). Her name, Layla, addresses exchanged, maybe for Kim to catch up with some event to take place in new york on the new new wave. Or is it the old new wave? Made for an interesting intro to Paris and surprised by the warmth of the encounter. Actually I was sitting on a seat over a radiator and it was, indeed, quite warm. Went back and hit the computers to find out about laBarthe 81 yo. He really is a 'who's who'. Dave was vexed that he had bothered the guy for an autograph on the paper place mat only to leave it on the table.
Next day we climbed the Montmartre. A tourist zoo. Souveniers and couple dozen artists drawing portraits in the square. Dave got suckered by the gypsies canvassing 'for the handicapped' who get you to give them your personal ID (just in case they manage to pickpocket a credit card or two) and then demand money for having stopped to sign their fake petition. I know better having experienced this on a train in Spain (mainly on the plain). We did a lot of walking over the two days and ate at various cafe's, going back to the Cafe Franc….(?) a couple times. Friday night Dave booked tickets to a gypsy jazz artist in the jazz district, rue Lombard. Then thought he had booked it for Thursday and we had missed it. Lot's of pithy advice from me about how to let it go as he berated himself over and over. Turns out that he was looking the booking date, not the performance date and the gig was Friday after all. Dave and I have a lot of similar space out tendencies. And this compulsive way that we are always doing things 'the other' way, or putting something in a new spot only to forget where that new spot was. And then going into a panic the moment we think we have lost, or forgotten something again.
So Friday night we did make the show at Sunset/Sunside on Rue de Lombards. It really was the center of the jazz scene with the three venues that Mia from Paris who I met in St. Hippolyte, jotted down for me on my Iphone… all packed together on one small street. We had a nice dinner nearby and then packed ourselves into our seats. It was too close and I was so miserably uncomfortable that the first set was just unpleasant. I told dave that I really couldn't sit there again and would just stand at the back. Went outside and walked in the rain and then came back. It was better standing at the back or in the stairway, albeit smoky from the sidewalk cafe crowd up above. The music was better and as some people left I had a chance to sit and truly enjoy. Tremendous musicianship, not gypsy jazz, but based upon it with the rhythm guitar behind every piece.
Saturday, New Year's eve. We got up and out too late for a breakfast so we had lunch back at 'our' cafe. Dave left his cap. Then a long wander around the opposite side of Montmartre to a train ticket boutique so I could get my ticket. Too much time frustration the night before and then the fares had gone up… doubled. Dave and I also tried to work out the car rental…without success. Finally settled on a plan of him coming 1/5 to Nimes and then rent, or just take the bus from there to St. Hippolyte. I may be able to come up with a car rental/borrow that will save money in the meantime. The train boutique was closed on NYE. Oh well. Dave got another hat and we found ourselves in front of Le Moulin Rouge where the hippest of touristic party goers could make an evening of it for a mere 650 Euros. I got a real coffee in a real paper cup at Starbucks across the street and we sat and watched the crowds. A mass of tourists standing on the traffic median snapping pictures of themselves in front of MR. Then to the train station where Dave and I got our tickets. A short extra wait for an English speaking agent who was friendly and relaxed, with a genuine big smile for us. Nice.
Trying to discuss music and such with Dave made me realize that I am really handicapped without a keyboard. He started leading me in the direction of using a midi controller and garage band or band in a box to compose and play. I did some searches and it looked interesting. So on the way to the train station we passed Star Music and I went in to check it out. Ended up getting an Alesis 49 key unit for about $100. No big risk in damage or loss. Making the move to get the keyboard made me realize how much of a deprivation it has been to be away from the piano and my daily ritual of playing, and how much I have ignored the feeling of missing it. A memorable moment at the turnstile as a old guy tried to us his pass card to no avail. I had bought 10 paper tickets for the metro and had a few still in my wallet. Pulled on out and gave it to him. Why not. Merci. No problem.
So last night we made dinner from frozen selections bought at a frozen food specialty market down the street. Kind of a rejection of tradition for the French, but the quality is a cut above Hungry Man. Dave set up my keyboard connection to the computer with the accompanying software and I got a first look at it. Tremendous possibilities. Then we watched Midnight in Paris on Dave's laptop … fifth time Dave has seen it. It may have something to do with his inspiration to come to Paris. I really enjoyed it, and seeing most of the places I had visited on the trip. Montmarte the steps and streets, the Seine, the Cite, Notre Dame, Shakespeare & Co., Moulin Rouge. A story of a character who feels pulled to a different life and time and the conflict of following. a satisfying story.
Then Dave fell asleep at the table and I decided to go out again. Not tired at all. Why not do NewYears from Montmartre. I wandered up to the crowds and then down a side street a bit until I heard live piano music. Decided, OK. A very modest place. I sat next to the piano and got the sound and the view of the player's hands. Incredible agility and fluidity, constantly moving into different variations. I envied him. When he stood up he moved stiffly as if almost paralyzed, except from the shoulders down. Be careful what you wish for. I would not really want to trade places with him. New Years came and people shouted and honked. A couple young men came in and gave everyone a good 'moi moi' and a toast. I raised my empty glass and the one poured some champagne into it. Happy New Year.
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