The Foam of Days (page 2 of 2)

You're one of those people you read with your mind wide awake and a smile on your lips. That’s precious. (See how Brittany is hospitable: it’s almost time for the fire and the Islay here too; and tomorrow’s Sunday, so there’ll be croissants 😉)

But you’re giving me quite the reputation:

Be careful what you write: a banality, a misstatement, a foolishness, and the backlash is guaranteed

Luckily, JojoOne gives me a chance to practice. 😇

@JojoOne

All that’s left is to hope that one day one of us solves his riddles so that Thebes might be freed

A bout of pedantry or acute subjunctivitis, I don’t know. But what’s certain is the zero in conjugation.

I wouldn’t write the same thing about hospitality in Brittany anymore. Over the past 10 years, the welcome has changed a lot; hoteliers and restaurateurs have finally realized that tourism and its clientele have evolved. However, hotel capacity hasn’t budged, which drives up prices in season due to demand. Plus, I think there’s a climate tourism phenomenon: people from the south of France are coming to Brittany to cool off.

I’ll try to defend JojoOne because I suspect their text is a *contrepet* (a French spoonerism). This kind of wordplay sometimes requires stretching conjugations a bit. "Fusse" probably becomes "fesse" (butt), and with "soit" (so be it), the whole thing would fall apart! I haven’t managed to crack the spoonerism yet—I used to be sharper at this.

Good croissants and even buckwheat Kouign Amann—pretty great! !

Not being able to grasp the stylistic choices of some, I still enjoyed tinkering with a tense I rarely use. I didn’t realize you wouldn’t pick up on the grammatical sarcasm, and I must say I’m more disappointed than surprised. Luckily, I’ve always had a kind of lightheartedness tinged with carelessness, which makes life much easier. Highly negative people—the poor souls—have always hated me for it.

On this Sunday as gray as my hair, I’ve come to read your latest posts. I can assure you, little jabs aren’t really helpful. Being a sarcastifleur doesn’t make anyone grow. Especially at our age, when we subtly tend to shrink. Luc, could you share one of your unsettling memories? Just one—I’m longing to experience only peaceful moments. Life in our world these past few months has been rather sad. __

Anyway, this morning we were at the ceremony of the Brotherhood of Saint Sebastian. I’d been promising myself for over twenty years that I’d go. The church in this little village is only a few car rides away, but laziness always wins out.

The brotherhood was founded in the 1500s, saving the region from the plague. It’s a bit like our Lyon 8th of December, which today is called the Festival of Lights. In my younger days, it was called the Festival of Illuminations, when thousands of little candles flickered on windowsills. Very different from today’s electric, consumerist fair.

When I stepped into that simple little village church, a light scent of incense and the rich smell of bread—so comforting—drifted through the air. In front of the altar were huge wicker baskets filled with *épougnes*, those golden loaves distributed by the former and current *bâtonnier* of the brotherhood to all participants at the end of the ceremony. In the absolute silence before the brotherhood entered, I even heard the faint crackling of the cooling bread.

A journey through time: men and women, all draped in chocolate-brown robes embroidered with a red cross, children holding candles carefully, and the *bâtonnier* carrying high the banner of Saint Sebastian. They all processed up the nave with slow steps.

Truly, yes—a beautiful ceremony of sharing and brotherhood. It was luminous.

As a result of this lovely moment, I forgot to tell you about the rat and the water leak. Does it really matter, though?

Noise and fury have been a habit in France for at least four centuries. Cavalier Marin, Venice’s ambassador, reported back to the Doge in flowery terms about what he discovered in France in 1615. If you're interested in the letter, I could copy it out—I love it.

Yes, our experiences with our children, grandchildren, and others are at the heart of our concerns, there you go:

Your account of your lived experience with Félix, your grandson who disappeared hidden in your big multi-purpose pot, instantly brings back memories that are at least worrying, if not downright traumatic. Five came to mind in the first flash. I’ll tell you one, but the others aren’t any less terrifying in their outcome:

In a distant period of another life, we lived in Fontainebleau and spent a good part of our time climbing in the forest, which is unique in the world—thirty thousand hectares teeming with rocky boulders, sandstone, one of the most challenging rocks for climbing. Our son Bertrand, aged 3, had quickly gotten into the habit of wandering around at the foot of the rocks, equipped with a beautiful cowbell around his neck. He wore it proudly. That way, we could locate him by ear.

One evening, as dusk was falling, we were the last ones left, stubbornly clinging to what some consider a pointless activity—climbing up only to come back down. As we were about to leave the site, but where is he? We strain our ears—no sound, no jingling. We each head off in a different direction through the maze of rocks, calling out to him—nothing. Panic sets in quickly, accompanied by its usual train of anxiety and guilt. Darkness takes over, inevitable and heavy with vague threats. The area slopes downward, and in desperation, we head toward the steepest part, where large rocks populate the slope. Despite our increasingly frantic calls, he doesn’t answer, and not a single chime from the bell gives us a direction. The minutes feel long—no need for Einstein’s relativity to realize that time is a relative concept. After twists and turns, growing more terrified by the second, relief hits us out of nowhere. At the foot of a massive boulder, a small sandy patch—he’s there, sitting in the middle, drawing in the sand as inspiration strikes. He’s at home, one with the spirit of the forest now swallowed by darkness, clearly an object of terror only for his parents.

Some time later, we’re climbing in one of the great Meccas of climbing, the Verdon. At the Lapalud campsite, we meet a Canadian. As the conversation flows, of course, Fontainebleau comes up—its worldwide reputation known to this Canadian, just like to so many foreign climbers. As often happens, the ritual question arises: do we have kids? A photo pops out of a wallet. Our Canadian lets out a cry: “But I know that kid! I saw him passing at the foot of a rock in Franchard.” He admits he’d been very intrigued by this child alone with his big clanging bell.

Mamido, can we play a little longer? Come on, please.

Here, look, some spoonerisms for grandkids: 1/ I slipped in the pool 2/ Hi, buddies 3/ Better late than never (this one should ring a bell) 4/ A saintly cheese

@Zorba

because I suspect his text is a spoonerism, "fusse" probably becomes "butt"; with "soit" everything would fall apart!

Fine! But I haven’t found anything better than « Six barrels six crates... ». What about you?

@JojoOne Go on, without having Chimène’s eyes, I don’t hate you (that much). 🙂

Thanks Luc for this little story with a happy ending.

Incredible, these unpredictable and amazing encounters. Amazing too that your little one stayed so still that the cowbell didn’t ring.

I’ve scoured the topic.

My urge to travel has taken a leave of absence. I’m done with beds that are too soft, too hard, and pillows so flat my neck can’t nestle into them. Done with packing, unpacking, repacking, and thinking about the right adapter. Forgotten are the noisy rooms, too small, too impersonal, or those that only have charm in their name. Over are the fifteen days or three weeks of going here and there, renting a car, checking it for scratches or damage. Over is reading reviews about this or that hostel. Over is searching for tickets with or without layovers, this or that airline, this or that terminal. No more check-ins, no more lines.

Now I leave—elsewhere—for several months, and the couch of elsewhere becomes as cozy and familiar as my own. I’m probably driven by other dreams, other desires, and that’s surely why, here on this forum I’ve loved so much, today, I’m bored. Just as my urge to travel has taken a leave, I’m quietly taking my leave too and will return—who knows—later....

Life is a tale that glorifies the everyday, offering the magic of reinventing oneself, and I have a passion for tales.

I truly hope you’ll bounce back like a boomerang… until your next armchair adventures on your flying sofa.

The aspiring resident lives in Javel! !

Magic thought blew gently, and for the briefest dream, the old grimoire creaked open. Impressions of a bygone past slipped out. With wisdom, like the seasoned poet full of experience and reason, it quietly closed the little window again—for an undetermined interval, a decade, a century...

Dear Pondy,

I’m thinking of starting a new travel journal in a few months, where I’d love to share what’s inspired me to explore the Elsewhere. It’d be a bit like the flip side of your current feelings—or maybe the intro after your conclusion. Why not?

Happy are those like Alice who’ve seen a beautiful landscape While beneath Mirabel Bridge the Saône flows As our loves dissolve into the ozone Until the next thrilling and blissful journey 😎