 |
| French pastries, breakfast-alvaradofrazier.com |
There is such a thing as too much pain du chocolate, pain ou raisins and baguettes.
We buy our staples, basically starches, water and wine at the reception area. Pastries can be ordered each evening for a morning delivery to the lobby. Guests take a morning walk from the small duplexes to pick up their baguettes and pain.
My mon ami (friend) Amada and I are craving the crunch of a sweet apple or carrot, the feel of ripe tomatoes, salad greens wet with tart balsamic vinaigrette.
We stroll down a grassy road towards the village, a bag tucked into a pocket, just in case we find vegetables and fruit. “We’ll put our quest for vegetables out into the universe,” Amada says. We will be just like the monks who go out each morning with an empty bowl, trusting that their needs will be met.”
My crooked smile gives me away, but I say “Okay.”
A dirt path detours toward a meadow next to the Seine. We follow it and soon find a woman pushing a pram, blue eyed baby inside, a red shirted young boy ahead, and a man at her side.
“Bonjour,” we greet each other. Through Amada’s French we learn the baby is named Angela, the boy Louie, the woman their aunt, the man her brother.
My craving for vegetables initiates the question about a grocery store.
“There are no stores in Connelles, no vegetable stands. Would you like some tomatoes from my garden?”
Mild shock on my face but I manage to nod several times and say “merci.”
“Knock at the gate when you’re ready,” the woman says, points to the gate. She turns back to the path.
“Please, there is no hurry,” Amada says. “Enjoy your stroll.”
The woman explains it’s cold for the baby. “Don’t forget to come over when you’re ready.”
 |
| french family-alvaradofrazier.com |
We smile and wave to the family that departs. “Merci Boucoup.”
Now is a good time to write. We sit on the bench on the bank of the Seine, pull out our journals. Mowed grass sits in mounds like miniature haystacks around the area. Violets dot the bank, fish jump to catch water spiders, doves coo, the odor of goats wafts by. We’re finished.
 |
| french hospitality-alvaradofrazier |
 |
| french garden-alvaradofrazier.com |
 |
| french vegetables-alvaradofrazier.com |
alvaradofrazier.com 