everywhere in the garden. They leave the dirt mounded around the roses for the time which I don't understand because they are working quite hard with the secret production strategy which gives Bellemaison the absolute best roses in all of The 'Kan EWA. They take great pride in this known, but little-employed tactic that produces canes and canes and canes of lush, waxy foliage and handsfuls of fragrant, dewey roses.
roses at Bellemaison. P33t's the big dog, so he has been covering the shrub roses, some of which extend 8 feet in diameter. P33t says those roses are just like him: big and bushy. Cle has been working with the antique roses, the white ones, in fact. He, like me, just loves white roses and we have the same favorite: Jacquelin du Pre. Do', of course, has been taking care of all the red hybrid teas and Sylvie tends the Victory Garden, planted for the Portland Pilots. She says that's because she's loyal.
The hydrangea canes blow in the March winds and the rhododenrons stand by stoically, ready for action. Soon the secrets of the winter will be revealed.
the pew, putting the final goodbye in place and preparing to move on. We were all free from burden knowing that Pat died at home and deep in love, yet heavier knowing his place at the table will sit vacant.
excruciating mile, spring arrives with a wobble, and the daffodils shiver bravely in Bellemaison.
and black shoes. I'm off.
this: if you are an American, if you are a clueless American such as me, you take a lap around Notre Dame and pretty much get the entire of French history laid out in dazzling display, right before Mass. First, the dirt itself was the site of a Roman temple to Jupiter. Mon dieu! But true. The Catholics snatched it at a point and during the middle ages, Notre Dame was where the homeless slept and ate. Notre Dame survived the Revolution because it was rechristened, "Temple of Reason", the Catholic school there eventually chunking out a place called the Sorbonne. You see all this in sculpture and art all throughout the sanctuary. My favorite among the feast are the chancel screens. They tell a certain story magnificently. But you will see for yourself when you go.
I nip back out the door and keep going. I cut over past the new Forum des Halles to St-Eustache, where the midnight mass is better than Notre Dame, a man tells me. St-Eustache himself had quite a life as he was roasted alive with his family inside a bronze bull, a culinary tradition that's been discontinued here in Paris. St-Eustache is a very famous Parisian church and I slip in and listen as Mass continues with presence of a very vibrant parish life everywhere. The small children sit quietly with their parents, dressed in wool jumpers and jackets, with leather Mary Janes and oxfords. They are the quintessence of well groomed, well behaved children. French parents are completely in control of their families and I do not see crying, loud, rowdy children anywhere in Paris.
Out the door, my special, special treat for the day looms: Rue Montorgueil. Les Halles, as this neighborhood is known, was the great marketplace of Paris. The old market was torn down and the Forum des Halles was built, an enormous underground shopping experience of a kind. I do not know the particulars as I have never ventured there, always being absorbed with the sights, smells, and sounds of Rue Montorgueil. It is one of the few surviving streets of the market and still maintains cobblestone paving with fishmongers, meat markets, cheese shops, boulangeries and patisseries, wine and kitchen shops lining the sidewalks. It is the ultimate foodie experience.
Today booths are set up in the street and vendors sell an array of mouth watering dishes. I am dazzled by the lentils and sausage and the spicy paella. The man selling the chicken and rice out of huge flat pans tells me that I should have some of all. The chicken and rice is steaming hot, expertly seasoned and tastes like nothing I have ever eaten and it is chicken and rice with peas and little pieces of ham. I eaten just this a million times but never until today. To suspend my belief a little further, I select baba ah rhum for dessert and succumb completely 
to it's silky, potent flavor on my tongue and in my mouth. I need to go to confession. Maybe not. I do not order pigs' feet and onion soup, even though I want them badly. I am too full. I struggle down Rue Montmarte and head for St-Roch. It's the best baroque church in Paris and Louis XIV's gardener is buried here, but it's lost on me as I fall in love all over again with the neighborhood and Sunday afternoon in Paris.
I wander up and down the streets until I end up back at the Louve. I am bedazzled and befuddled. I decide to stop at a souvenir store to find out for sure: is absolutely every corner and moment of Paris drenched in light and beauty?
Inside the owner shows me the exact post card that I must buy. She and her dog wave good bye
and make me promise to come back in the summer. The light now heads for the beaches of Los Angeles and the late winter winds pick up. I head over the bridge to the red door once more and know, I know, that I have lived here and wandered through these streets for a thousand years and that I will be here for at least a thousand more.
JBelle
Bellemaison
The 'Kan EWA
