The only way to approach French classes at Alliance françaises (“AF”) is to jump in – feet first. Immerse yourself. Wrap yourself in French, like a seran wrap dress. I originally signed up for two weeks of classes, two hours a day, five days a week. First day there, I knew that would be insufficient. I extended the time: one month, four hours a day. five days a week. No problem, or so I thought. Elizabeth was the professor. Students were from all over the world. First week went OK. Second week, more students joined the class, many of whom gave her a hard time. I was amazed at her patience. They irritated the hell out of me. After two weeks, I was exhausted, sick, cold, irritated, overwhelmed with Christmas grief, and stuck in a quagmire. Well, maybe that is an exaggeration, but I did get the flu. I needed time to get better at living life.

Mid-April, I returned to class. Everything was different. My teacher(s) was/were different. The students were great. The classroom was warm. The coffee was hot. The toilette was clean. My flu was gone. The sun was shining. Life was good. My teacher would be “Emilie” (pronounced “Emily”). 

Instead of Emile, “Tara” taught class the first week. I don’t know what Tara does ordinarily (I got the impression that she works in a supervisory position at AF), but for me, she made learning French more fun than I thought possible. Energy galore. AND, the students (from all over the world) were great. Polite, smart, fun. Everyone smiled a lot.

Instead of Tara, “Marlene” showed up Monday of the second week. Apparently, Emilie had returned from vacation sick. And, Tara was unavailable. It didn’t seem to bother anyone that Marlene was teaching another class that day. Somehow, she worked it out. When Emilie did not return on Tuesday, Marlene taught class. Tara reappeared on Wednesday. Marlene finished the week. Sound like a mess? Nope. Everything went smooth as silk. All of us got better. My classmates were the best! By the last day (for me and two others), we were all good friends. Names didn’t matter. Language skills didn’t matter. One day, a group asked me to join them for lunch. That made me happy. I declined.

There were two nuns from India (quiet, demure, studying French for four months),

a young woman from Mexico (lovely long eyelashes who liked missing class),

a fun-loving young woman from Libya (fun-loving and friendly with a twinkle in her eye), Luisa from Russia (beautiful, tall, intelligent, and athletic),

Siavosh from Tehran (a Persian designer and trendy photographer), Peter from the U.S. (an engineer who lives in Nice), two guys from China (intelligent, quiet, and friendly), a girl from China (adorable, quiet, friendly), Catalina from New York (sparkling eyes, warm smile, full of fun), and Sam, from the U.K. (personality galore, a jokester extraordinaire),

Cristiano from Brazil (great personality with big smile), and a girl – I think her name was Marisa, or something like that from Dubai (breathtakingly beautiful and sick the second week).  

None of us spoke French very well, you realize. Somehow, we communicated. We drew pictures and kept our translation apps handy – Chinese, Indian, Russian, Spanish, English. We gestured a lot. Tara did exaggerated acting demonstrations to explain things. Marlene did, too, but her style was different. She spoke quietly in French without slowing down, assuming we “got it”. We had to speak up if we had questions. Otherwise, it was full-steam ahead. NO ENGLISH ALLOWED. I later discovered Marlene trains AF instructors. She teaches the AF teachers. In fact, AF sends her to other countries to train AF instructors. I don’t know what Tara does, but I would think that she works in a leadership position. Both were outstanding. Great teachers by fluke. I plan to go back – maybe in the fall.

During Thursday of the second week, I took pictures during class. We were working on something that I had finished. Needless to say, it interrupted class. Marlene went with it. She let us have our fun. Lots of laughs. Not everyone is here. The two guys from China are missing, along with several others. But, you get the picture.  

BEST JAY

I cannot speak for the rest of France, but the French here in Nice have a unique way of doing things. Duh. Each day has been a learning process. Currently, I am focusing on the following:  1) pronouncing French words, especially the ones with an “r” in them; 2) going up and down a LOT of stairs, especially the ones without banisters; 3) walking to and from wherever I am going, especially when I have taken a train or bus; 4) finding parking lots in and around and outside of Nice Center; 5) finding a tuna fish or bacon/lettuce/tomato sandwich in town; and, 6) drinking and/or eating outside in a down jacket, especially when temperature is forty-eight degrees with wind coming off the sea.

See what I mean? 

Take words, for example. I can read the word “important” and instantly know what it means. I can say the word in French, and it sounds like “am por’ tawnh”. If I say it, I know what it means. If a French person says it, I haven’t a clue. And, they speak fast with idioms galore. So, I am back in class, again, studying French for two weeks – making up the two weeks I missed in January, trying to master what I consider one of the most beautiful languages in all the world. This time, it is better!  I’m better! Yes!  Well, during my three-month absence, I practiced. A lot. I listened to the app on my iPhone over and over; I met a French acquaintance for coffee one day a week for several weeks; I asked waiters to speak in French; I ordered food in French; I requested French menus, not English (most restaurants here have both); and I exchanged emails with a French friend in Paris – in French. OK, I used google/translate a lot, but so what. I am making progress – even though it is going slower that I thought it would. I can now carry on a conversation with a French person and understand what he/she is saying – some of the time. Haha. 

Reading French is no problem. I can read subtitles, magazines, news articles. I watched “Elle” without subtitles and knew what was going on (excellent film, by the way). I can read letters, advertisements, invoices.

Speaking is different. Pronouncing French words does not come trippingly off my tongue. If I try to say a word with the French “r”, some sound comes out that is foreign to all ears. Please take notice, I am working on it. In class and out.    

As far as stairs are concerned, I seldom see an elevator. And, if I do, it takes a while for me to figure out how to use it. Most of the buildings here were up and running prior to that invention. Ugh. And, I never know what floor I need. Is it 1 or 2 or -2, or -5 or 0. Stairs are everywhere – up to the front door, down to the toilette, up to the toilette, up to the dining room, up the hill, down the hill, down to the beach. Hopefully, there is a banister – or, a wall to touch. A wall helps, but it may not be there either. Ugh. Taking the train is a nightmare of steps. Up the stairs to the station, down the stairs to the tunnel to get to the track, and up the stairs to the track. With luggage. That is motivation to fly. (Easy Jet requires you to go down the stairs to get the the bus that takes you to the plane so you can go up the stairs to the door to the plane. Sigh.) Or, take the bus. Or, drive. Or, call Uber. I see people with walkers going up and down the stairs. Amazing. But, if I drive – which I am doing more and more, where do I park? There is no “valet park” around here, at least not at the restaurants. At the hotels, yes. So, I am learning about parking lots in Nice – where they are and where is the entrance and how do I get there and how does it work and is it near where I am going.  Things like that.

Regarding dining al fresco, I have thickened my blood. I’ve had to. The best tables are outside. The shops, Old Town, the Promenade, the Parks, the Med. Weather does not keep the French inside if they can be outside. They throw open the windows, doors, whatever, and heat the outside. The coveted tables are in the sun – summer or winter. Rainy days, not so much, but most days are sunny. COLD, but sunny. All of that changes in the summer, you realize. After all, this IS the south of France.

 

In conclusion, for the record – it is quite pleasant here. In fact, it’s great. Maybe not everyone’s cup of tea, but it works just fine for me. I wish Steve were here – I want him back.  So, here’s to you, Steve, my love! Thank you for 23 years of wonderful memories. Little did we know. Please take notice, I will love you forever.

Best, Jay

The dictionary defines a “stopgap” as a temporary way of dealing with a problem or satisfying a need. That is the way I am getting through this time without Steve. One stopgap after another and one day at a time.

My grieving process is unpredictable. It hits when it hits. When it does, I cry. I don’t care who sees or hears. Well, that is not true. But, I don’t try to stop myself. I just hope this condo has thick walls. Weekends are the worst. That is when Steve and I would get in the car and go somewhere. In Brentwood, Westwood, Encino, Palm Desert. Then, in Monaco, Antibes, Cannes, Ventimiglia.  St. Tropez, Marseille, San Remo, and Paris were overnights. It was fun.

Now, I try to stay busy by creating a project or doing work. I write – jayspeakblog, stevespeakblog, my novel, my blog book, my journal. I take photographs, walk in the park, walk to the beach, buy groceries, do taxes, update my accounts, change bios, clean-out, downsize.  Reading doesn’t work. At least, not yet. And, I don’t watch that much television or go to movies. That doesn’t work, either. 

After my birthday, I went into a funk. I didn’t feel like writing or walking or….  Somehow, I found myself looking for a picture of something – I don’t remember what. I pulled out the boxes of old pictures and – for some unknown reason – began looking at each one, remembering people, seeing places, and noticing things I had not noticed before.  

I remembered Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town” and the speech that remains indelible in my mind forever, “Let’s really look at one another!…It goes so fast. We don’t have time to look at one another. I didn’t realize. So all that was going on and we never noticed… Wait! One more look. Good-bye , Good-bye world. Good-bye, Grover’s Corners….Mama and Papa. Good-bye to clocks ticking….and Mama’s sunflowers. And food and coffee. And new ironed dresses and hot baths….and sleeping and waking up. Oh, earth, you are too wonderful for anybody to realize you. Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it–every, every minute? (Emily)” ― Thornton Wilder, Our Town

It was then that I decided to find and post at least one picture of something I was doing during the beginning year of each decade. The selection process was random and has nothing to do with importance. Plus, most photographs were not dated. Here are the results: (Please excuse the inconsistencies of color and spacing in this post. It was one of the ones affected by my learning curve with wordpress.com.)

 

 

1967 – AT AGE 30!

 

1977 – AT AGE 40!

1987 – AT AGE 50!

1997 – AT AGE 60! – IN Whittier Law School. I took a trip to the South of France that summer and stayed for two weeks in a time share, Roquebrune Cap Martins. I met a friend, Eleanne, of a U.S. friend, Phyllis Lycett. The two of them had been friends in Paris as dancers in the Follies Bergeres. What fun!! This is Monaco in 1997

 

2007 – AT AGE 70!

2017 – AT AGE 80!

Numbers play tricks with my mind. When I was growing up, I wanted to be twelve. At twelve, I wanted to be fifteen. Then, I wanted to eighteen. Then twenty-one. But, by twenty-four, all that stopped! Twenty-seven was all right, but after that – NO. I needed to stay eighteen. If not in real numbers, at least in my mind.

When I got to be twenty-nine, I freaked. How could I live after thirty? I wanted to be twenty-nine forever. Eighteen was too young. So, I decided to tell myself I was twenty-nine. That way, I could handle forty. At fifty, I decided to be thirty-five. I would be thirty-five forever.

At sixty, I didn’t have time to think about it. I was in law school and holding on for dear life. Believe it or not, I considered myself the peer of the students. By the time I was in Third Year law, I was so consumed with graduating and law clerking for a bankruptcy judge, that I did not have time to consider age. No one seemed to care, anyway. And, neither did I. My classmates and I decided the best plan was – pass the bar, get a job for five years in a big law firm, learn the ropes, then go out as a sole practitioner and fight for justice. I even made the effort to dress the way my classmates did – to fit in. Then, reality check – damn! I don’t have that long to live. No matter. It was great. I was one of them. And, I wore what they wore.

By the time I reached seventy, I had forgotten numbers. I was just beginning to live. I had my own law firm and was flying high. AND, I had the greatest husband in the world! It took a long time to find him, but find him, I did. He was my best friend. And, together, we were a team. We had places to go, books to write, and things to see. 

At eighty, I don’t know what to think. I feel great. OK, I have a few aches here and there. I miss Steve. And, I need to take a nap here and there. BUT, my knees work. No big deal. It doesn’t stop me. I look in the mirror and say to myself, “Hell, this is what eighty looks like.” Then, I shudder. I still have plans – places to go and things to do. But, eighty!

Thus, I have made the decision to forget numbers relating to age. Especially mine. I cannot think about it. It doesn’t help anything. And, here in Nice, no one seems to care. So, from now on, neither do I. Besides, I don’t have time. I have to learn French, figure out the one-way streets in Nice, get better about driving in mountains, pay the income taxes, sign up for French taxes, get my work permit as soon as they’ll let me, teach English to French adults or teenagers who want my help, take a course in French real estate, take photographs, enter competitions, write my blog, post chapters of Steve’s books on Stevespeakblog, write my novel, write my blog book, learn Photoshop, learn how to make my own book covers, update all bios, sell Steve’s trains on the European market, learn the European eBay, sell clothes on Leboncoin.fr, walk to the sea, drive in Monaco, drive to Cannes, go to Paris, get an acting agent in France, lose weight, find a Rolfer within driving distance, learn to paint, visit Matisse Museum, visit Chagall Museum, swim in the swimming pool at the Grand Hotel on Cap Ferrat, practice the piano, ….. this list goes on and on and on……

Today, as you can see, I am posting pictures of inspirational sayings that speak to me. Thank you to all who originally posted them on Facebook.

Best, Jay

In my copious free time, I have been thinking about “conspiracy theories”. I hear these words a lot these days – on television, on the radio, in conversations, on the Internet (Facebook, Twitter, Linked-In, CNN, BBC, Euronews, France 24), which begs the question – must theories be political to deserve that label? Or, can there be conspiracy theories in all of our lives, personal and public? The Greeks and Romans in 5,000 B.C. had it down pat. Remember Euripides and Aeschylus? “Medea”? “Agamemnon”. Shakespeare’s tragedies were no walk in the park. “King Lear”? Wikipedia says conspiracy theories are frequently related to clandestine government plans and elaborate murder plots. 

My own definition goes something like this – “Conspiracy Theories” are those occasions when friends, family, neighbors, strangers, newscasters, magazine and newspaper articles come up with an explanation of an event or situation that evokes a conspiracy without warrant. In other words, someone makes it up. Facts be damned. Facts just get in the way. Maybe not. Maybe a real fact or three will remain. The show stopper for me is – people prefer the conspiracy theory!!! …saying, “where there is smoke, there is fire.” NO. NOT TRUE. Hello??

Early in my life, I became obsessed with truth. I wanted people to tell the truth – what happened (facts). Then, what happened as a result (facts). Not a lot of “reasons of why” or “how they felt” about it. This obsession started when I was age two. I woke up. I looked for my blanket. It was gone. I asked Mother if she had seen it. She told me she took my blanket away and burned it. I asked Daddy. He agreed with Mother. A year later, I found the blanket in a chest of drawers in the dining room. Of course, they felt bad; I felt bad. I wondered if they hated me. I didn’t believe much of what they said after that. Don’t know what they wondered. I think the truth would have been better. That was my first experience of family coming up with an explanation of an event that evoked a conspiracy without warrant. I know, I know, they meant well, bless their hearts. 

I still experience people fabricating explanations of events that evoke conspiracies without warrant. Truth is obvious, yet after the fabricated explanation, people more times than not choose the theory. Doubt is sewn. Damage is done. Truth is never the same. Painful memories include times when I told the truth – to my family, my friends, neighbors, strangers. Often to my own detriment. Nine times out of ten, another person would inject a fabricated version of the same events – usually to save face or cover tracks. The fabrication was popular; the truth was not.

I know, I know. Interpretation of the facts is in the eyes and ears of the beholder. However, I believe that it is the responsibility – the duty, if you will – of a person to be forthcoming with the truth. Be accurate. It complicates the process when the beholder doesn’t know what to believe. And, you can bet your bottom dollar that the beholder will choose the fabrication, or some version of it, as opposed to what is staring her/him in the face. Bless their heart.

When I was studying drama at the University of Georgia, we had to read the play by Fay Kanin (a friend of mine from Women in Film) and Michael Kanin, “Rashomon”. It had won three Tony Awards, in 1959. It was adapted for Broadway from the famous stories of Akutagawa. The wife of a Samurai officer is assaulted and her husband killed by a roving bandit. Contradictory versions of what happened are reenacted at the trial by the bandit, the wife, and the dead husband who speaks through a sorceress. Each version is true in its fashion. So, that disputes everything I just said, bless my heart. Everything I am saying can be argued. I don’t pretend to be an expert at this. This week, I have given it thought. Just sharing some musings….

Best, Jay

I make lists. Many a night when I cannot sleep, I make lists of everything. Usually in the “Reminders” app on my IPhone or Ipad. I have a list of things I need at the pharmacy, things I want to tell or ask my friend Andrea, furniture and things that belong to my landlord Aoua that I want to purchase – if she will sell them to me. I list ideas for blogs, authors (of books) to try, things to sell (on eBay, leboncoin.fr, Angloinfo.com, Nice Buy-and-Sell), things I MUST have in my next condo. I list random thoughts I like, things to do, things to do TODAY, idea for blogs, ideas for other writings, former friends, former addresses. Ideas for blogs…

• What Determines Worth?
• One Hand Clapping
• The Normalization of Extremism
• …and, nobody knows what to do about it.
• You won’t know you’re ok until you get there.
• Small People
• Ear of the King
• My Take on Practicing Law
• Secrecy is security and security is victory.
• Count on change.
• My Purchases at the Le Negresco Hotel in 1997, when I vowed to return to Nice.
• Numbers – at any age.
• The Click
• The French and their Stairs
• Baseball Caps
• Lemonade from Lemons
• Timelines
• Objective vs Subjective Camera

Needless to say, there are many mornings when I wake up exhausted. But, it helps me get through long nights without Steve. I miss him very much. I want him back. This minute. At least I am beginning to do things we loved to do together. I avoided a lot of them for six months. Today, after my physical therapy session (knee problems) and lunch, I walked from the Port to the Flower Market. First, I had lunch at Delibo – one of our favorite restaurants. Then, I walked the pathway we frequently walked together, taking pictures of everything. I am posting a few of my favorites. My way of making lemonade.

Best, Jay

It’s DONE!!  I just submitted eleven photographs to the International Photography Contest, sponsored by Les Alliances françaises de Nice, Rio, and Venice. At first, I was told – one photo. That changed to ten. I submitted eleven. We’ll see what happens. For those who just tuned in, let me explain.

The Carnival of Nice, one of the largest carnivals in the world and the highlight of the French Riviera in winter, took place this year from the 11^th of February until the 25^th – 15 days. There were seventeen tanks, some with a height of twenty meters that told the story of the King of Energy. Activities took place on three Saturdays, two Tuesdays, two Wednesdays, and one Sunday. On Saturdays, Wednesdays, and Sunday, there was a Battle of Flowers. On the first two Saturday and Tuesday nights, they lit up Corso Carnavalesque. On the third Saturday night, they incinerated the King. Even though I did not go to the activities, I felt the excitement. Thus, when asked by my school – Les Alliances françaises de Nice – to enter its international photo contest, I said yes.

The contest started February 11 and will end March 10. Participants must send one or several photos made during the Carnival to the Alliances françaises of their city, which will then select ten winning photos to present to an International Jury. The International Jury will select the three winning photos. Winners will be announced on May 19. Judges are looking for 1) relevance to the contest subject; 2) the choice and the originality of the subject and the point of view adopted; 3) the quality of photos – framing, originality, treatment of light, aesthetic considerations; and 4) compliance with the technical specifications mentioned above. First prize is 1500 euros; second is 700 euros; and third is 300 euros.

I submitted eleven photographs, posted below. Thank you very much to the friends who helped me with the selections – especially to Carole at Maxwelton. Wish me luck!

Best, JAY