Tulips and Dawg

Remember when Mary and I rescued some tulip bulbs from the dug-up gardens at Versailles? I think we each had five; I know I did. Three of Mary’s were taken by Customs (hope they planted them), but for some reason mine all came through even though I declared them. (I hope Customs people don’t read criminal blogs.)

Got them home, put them in dirt in an old yogurt container and set them on top of the fridge for safekeeping. Around September, they went inside the fridge so they could know that winter had come. About a month or six weeks ago, I planted them in the pot you see and waited. Waited. And now, look! They are coming up!

What will they look like? Worthy of Marie Antoinette? Or when they bloomed at Versailles, did they only look good because they were part of a mass of color in that classic garden?

The Little Prince (Saint-Exupery) searched for a way to protect his single rose, the one who gave meaning to his life, who complained about everything he did for her. Then he discovered a rose garden with five-thousand roses looking just like his rose. He was overcome with disappointment.

“I thought that I was rich, with a flower that was unique in all the world; and all I had was a common rose, and three volcanoes that come up to my knees – and one of them perhaps extinct forever . . . That doesn’t make me a very great prince . . .”

As he is crying, the fox comes and teaches him that “[My rose] is more important than all the hundreds of other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen . . . Because she is my rose.”

The fox’s final lesson: “It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

No matter what my tulips look like, they will be unique because of where they came from and because of all I went through to get them back here. They were wrapped in paper that had formerly held lemon tarts from the patisserie, then placed in a plastic sack like you get in grocery stores but not for much longer if cities or states outlaw them. Yes, Europe is rife now with plastic bags, having followed our lead there as in many other things.

It’s our music that’s played in restaurants and cafes, sometimes soft rock, country or pop, but more frequently, Frank Sinatra.

Why did Europe follow our lead in bad lending practices, too? I always looked up to England as older and smarter, right? Or at least too stodgy to buy into bad loans. Now Britain is going through an austerity program and soon Greece, birthplace of anciently smart people, will, too. How about us? Austerity? Should we? Sure, but never in an election year. Politicians don’t want the backlash.

So my tulips arrived safely padded by paper, plastic, and PJs. I planted them and now they are growing on a stand far from nibbling Nibelungs. I don’t know what a Nibelung is, but Wagner did and he made a ring of endless operas about them or for them.

My kind of Nibelung (kinds of Nibelungs?) are deer, which devoured tender shoots every year that we lived in Boulder, CO, leaving us with oddly crooked but still colorful tulips.

Here in the desert, everything animal, rodent or bird is a Nibelung, but particularly desert rabbits, those wild long-eared high-hopping fast-running guys that outdo Dawg every time. The other day, one popped up not 5 ft from Dawg, almost bumping into him as if saying, “Catch me if you can!” and loped off. Dawg ran after, but lost the race. It’s the running and not the catching that will keep him young.

He’s one of a kind because he’s tamed me.

Morning Wandering

I get up earlier than Mary or most people. Several women I know are early risers because we require an hour or two of quiet solitude before the world (children, jobs, whatever) presses in. Nothing beats being outside on a walk as the sun rises in the east with brilliant colors promising a good day. Mornings always hold the promise of a good day, just as a newborn baby promises joy and great achievements. Neither works out all the time for all mornings or all babies, but at least both start with pure joy.

In France where people stay up so late, even 7:00 a.m. is early. So around 7:00 on our last day in Lyon, I left the Grand Hôtel de la Paix (the left hand circle on the map) and wandered over to the Saône river but decided to go north along the quai rather than over the bridge. Only the street sweepers and some few others were about.

Look at those pictures! I didn’t know this marvelous “Mur peint La Bibliothêque de la Cité” (wall painted as the Library of the City) existed! [Did you notice that I’ve finally learned how to put the accents into French words? Yay me! Now they look right.] Yes, it’s on the map just off the Quai de la Pêcherie, but no guide book mentioned it, nor person, so how was I to know?

All the people on the balconies are characters from books! There’s the Little Prince and St. Exupéry. Every person and detail is painted, even the pedestrians and the shop fronts. Marvelous! I was enchanted – and no-one was there to interfere with my long time of gawking. Alone in this intricate, detail-perfect, street gallery full of surprises, I felt I had discovered a secret garden or perhaps my “laughing place.”

In another blogpost, I was confused about whether the river we crossed frequently was the Saône or the Rhone. It’s the Saône, on the right, with the Rhone on the left. You can see our hotel was halfway between both. Our bridge was Pont Alphonse Juin (a Marshall of France and war hero) leading to Vieux Lyon (old Lyon). The circle there is for the restaurant area where we had a couple of lovely late night dinners. To the left of that you see “Fourvière,” and the winding white path going up the hill to the Roman ruins (see earlier blog).

The outdoor Marché Saint Antoine, just south of our street on the Saône quai, is where we bought our fresh, exquisite, dearly missed now, brunch each day.

I believe the rooster is on Pont Bonaparte. We were intrigued by the many statues of roosters we saw, and later discovered that the rooster, or “Chanteclair,” is the national symbol of France. Wikipedia can tell you the whole story of how that came to be. Of less importance is that neither of the two people we asked knew the story. I’m sure it would be the same in the States if one were to ask about some of our taken-for-granted symbols.

Lyon is a city where one could spend many leisurely days wandering around, getting acquainted, settling in. Maybe next time . . .