Memories of the Writing Workshop June 15-22

Now that I'm home, I want to share some of my writing workshop week. Oh my goodness, WHAT an unbelievable week this was. The setting was incredible - Le Manoir La Chaussee, a manor house with beginnings in the 11th and 14th centuries, far out in the French countryside. The manor is surrounded by spectacular gardens, Le Jardin Anglais, with over 20,000 varieties of plants, designed by Alan Mason, a leading English landscape designer.

We were told that the rose garden peaked early because it had been so warm. Well, we missed that! It rained most of the week we were there which was okay, since we were supposed to be inside writing anyway; however, the weather was also quite cool and the rain made the old stone house even colder. Coming from the Midwest where the summers are unbelievably hot, I had some trouble adjusting to the environment. I was told that these old houses were built to ward off the summer heat (and found it difficult to believe that there is any!) - that they could always warm them in winter; however, there were no blazing fires in the fire places, so we sat around in coats and sweaters with a tiny portable heater in our meeting room. I took this as part of the charm of the entire experience.

In attendance were two teachers, eight students, the conference organizer, and our two hosts from the Manor.











I, who live alone, was delighted to be in a house where there was constant conversation and instant companionship. Although my bedroom was over the parlor where people stayed up late into the night conversing (and I couldn't sleep), I just enjoyed their "presence" - telling myself that I can sleep when I get home. From the moment I walked in the Manor, I felt like I was in a movie ("The Big Chill" without the jerks).

Our two teachers were Robert Olen Butler and Michele Roberts. Each teacher led a three-hour session each day (which meant we were really working hard). How I loved sitting around that huge table with my teachers and fellow students. Amazing, amazing, amazing things happened.

Robert Olen Butler is a Pulitzer-Prize winning author and a fabulous teacher.He told us that he wrote a million words of "dreck" before he published his first decent novel. His workshops were very challenging and stimulating. It was a real honor to be in his presence. He's a very, very tough teacher and a very, very, very nice man. (His newest book is on Oprah's list and while we were at the conference he learned that a Canadian broadcasting company is going to serialize another of his books.) At our one-on-one session at the end of the workshop he was very encouraging about my writing.

Michele Roberts is a winner of the Booker Prize and is a wonderful teacher and a lovely woman. I read Michele's memoir prior to attending the conference and was looking forward to meeting her. She is a British and French subject and her "glory days" were in the 70's - living in communes, doing radical street theatre, and promoting feminism. She turned down an OBE from the Queen (being a small "r" republican, she thinks the monarchy should be abolished); however she accepted a Chevalier de l'Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, awarded by the French government.

Eight students - all women - were in attendance. This was a wonderful, wonderful group who worked so well together. Every person was lovely, with her own unique life experience and stories to tell. I don't think I've ever been in such a diverse group of people - it was fascinating! There was a LOT of talent in this group and nothing but support for each other. What with such phenomenal teachers and lovely students, the writing week was excellent in every way!

Beautiful, stylish Francesca, a New York magazine writer. (As a small child she was imprisoned with her un-recanting Roman Catholic father and mother in Ceausescu's Romania before managing to immigrate to America). Fran's boyfriend, James (an agent for photojournalists in NYC), also came to stay for the week. It was a vacation for him.

Kay - whose submission piece was about her experience of living on the wild side in Viet Nam with her husband who was a pilot for the CIA (and killed in action). She's a retired Texas teacher who is a fan of "W" (having taught his daughters).

Shaida, born in Pakistan (whose mother died when she was five and her father, when she was 12), now teaches in a secondary school in London. She is very involved in advancing the rights of women.

Natalie - an English woman with a lovely upper-class accent. I was so curious about her background and later in the week learned one parent is Swiss and the other from Sri Lanka (explaining her gorgeous features). She lives with her husband in Hong Kong and she writes for the Financial Times.

Mikyung - dear, dear Mikyung - born in Korea, raised in Japan, now living in Hong Kong with her Parisian-raised, Cambodian husband. She writes beautifully in English (her third language!).

Shaida, Natalie and Mikyung












Cindy - a Danish poet who has published at least three books of amazing poetry, and who could also write so very, very beautifully in English. (Imagine being so talented as to write creatively in TWO languages!)

Leslie, a New Yorker - whose lovely French husband Jean and adopted daughter Natalie (from China) were with her.

And then there was me, Dee Canfield, from Moline, Illinois.

Dee and Leslie











Nancy was the organizer of the event and she was always in the kitchen cooking meals for us. Every morning she prepared a delicious breakfast and every evening she prepared a gourmet dinner. More importantly, she was the conference organizer who brought all these wonderful people together and made this amazing week happen.

Darius and Michele

The owner of the Manor House is Michele - from Israel - half German, half Dutch (whose mother was at Auschwitz). Michele is a very interesting woman and was a delightful host (who, one evening, sold me a gorgeous lapis lazuli bracelet she had made from stones that she and Darius had traveled to Jaipur to buy).

Darius is a wonderful artist, whose works adorn the Manor. He is also a gardener who tends the surrounding gardens and parks. He is a lovely, kind man, with a cultured English accent who reminded me of a sexy, aging English rock star. And the stories he could tell - fascinating! (By the end of the week I really wasn't sure which stories were true, which were embellished, and which were complete fabrications, but I was charmed, I'm sure!)














































Puccini (one of Michele's three little dogs) and the garden











The gardens are large and little pathways and bridges lead one into charming nooks and crannies. In fact, while walking alone one night, I became disoriented and felt quite panicky. It was getting on 10 pm and beginning to rain and I couldn't make my way out. The next day I went around the gardens again to see where I had gone wrong. I discovered that at one point I had been very, very close to the manor house; however, that I had ended up backtracking my way all the way to the other end of the garden, near the poplar trees, where I had exited and then walked up the broad, open expanse, back to the manor house.



















My thoughts, as written on the last day of the workshop:

Today is the end of the week-long writing retreat. I am standing at my bedroom window overlooking the gorgeous garden. I look up and see a large continent of bright, white cloud majestically moving across a deep aquamarine sky. There is sweet birdsong in the air and I have a feeling of deep gratitude in my heart.

After I have written a piece that works I often fear that I can't ever do it again.For example, in applying for this workshop I submitted a couple of pieces of my best writing, and when the workshop began I entered into the writing exercises hesitantly because underneath it all I felt that I would not be able to match the writing that I had submitted to get here in the first place.

The creative spark is in all of us and I believe it is in this way that we are in the image of God. So if this spark manifests through all things (including the workings of my own subconscious) why do I harbor such fears and accept such limitations? From where does such arrogance arise? I say "arrogance" because words and images are gifts and I am the receiver. I do not will good writing, nor is it born conceptually. As long as I am open and faithful (and as long as I practice, practice, practice - not just writing, but listening and visioning from that place from where I dream), the act of creating will continually work its magic. I have found that sacred place within myself this week and I am thankful, thankful, thankful.

Disaster in London

I managed to capture this shot as Big Ben began to fall over, smashing the Prime Minister's Bentley, 17 Italian tourists, and Boudicca's runaway horse.
















Across the street, Churchill remained calm and composed.





The London Bobbies were on duty and in a few minutes all was put right again.






We wanted to get into a particular tour of Westminster Abbey (that would whisk us past the lines of tourists), but were unsuccessful in meeting the guide at the designated point (because I didn't realize what the designated point was until five minutes after starting time for the tour). At the Abbey there were lines and lines and lines of tourists and all around the City of Westminster there were throbbing, thundering hordes - oceans and masses and conglomerations of people. (There are 8 million residents in London and it seems like there's 8 million tourists as well!) it is a hot day and the subways are like public steambaths, with emanations, aromas and odors; and being packed in like sardines - eyeball to armpit - makes it difficult to avert one's nose..

Rather than standing in horribly long lines to go in to the Abbey as paying tourists, we opted for the Communion Service at 12:30 and went right in to the little chapel and afterwards thought we could just sneak a peak at what was on the other side of the screen, but an observant and diligent public servant caught us. When she asked "excuse me ladies, were you here for the service?" Karen said "no" and I said "yes" and she informed us that we had to leave immediately.

And I must be nuts. My suitcase weighed 35 pounds at O'Hare and I could barely carry it and today I bought at least 10 pounds of souvenirs and Christmas gifts for my kids (I've completed Christmas shopping for one child and have a good start on two others). BUT I have NO clue as to how I'm going to manage the suitcase on all of the up and down staircases and escalators to get to the tube connections out to Heathrow. I don't know how to do anything the easy way. But when one sees (what one thinks are) perfect gifts, how can one resist? One can only hope one's children appreciate the fact that their mother is willing to be a pack-horse. Perhaps Boudicca - Queen of the Iceni - will give me a ride in her chariot?

(A note to Sarah and David: I mailed a postcard to each of you today; however, I haven't found any ear rings yet.)

Ha! The telephone just rang and I picked up to hear a recorded message about Parliament's new laws allowing me to eliminate debt. Now THAT could be very useful.

I'm off to pack my suitcase now. Wish me luck.

Beautiful Sunday

This morning we went to a service at St. Paul's. It was profoundly beautiful. At one point I realized I had risen up to tip-toe as I was singing - hearing the voices of the choir boys just behind me and music from the majestic, powerful organ as it resonated through stone and the empty, high vaulted spaces. It was as if the building itself was an instrument, lending its voice to the communion of all the saints present and past and especially those whose hearts and minds and hands had helped to create such magnificence. Today's service honored artists and the beginning of a week-long artistic festival. I really appreciated the sermon which elucidated the idea as to how we are created in God's image - that when we are creative, imaginative and dynamic we are reflecting the image of the Creator. (How about THAT?)


After church we went down into the crypt and had a very nice little lunch. Then to the gift shop where I saw several beautiful things. (I think I'm going to go back and buy a couple of Christmas presents for two sons and a daughter-in-law.) Afterwards, we headed out, via the tube, to Kew Gardens. It was quite a long haul. In addition to the fact that it's quite a long distance out, we had some trouble getting on the right train at a couple of points. The Underground system was not quite so straightforward out there; but it was worth it. It was lovely to get out into that vasty field of green parks and open spaces and trees - away from the hustle and bustle of London for a while.

A Happy Saturday

This afternoon we saw Simon Callow in his one-man play, "Being Shakespare." What a delicious treat!

We bought our tickets at one of the half-price booths at Picadilly Circus and then walked to the theatre at Trafalgar Square. The weather had turned bright and sunny and it felt like there were a million people at Trafalgar - people of all ages and races and nationalities - individual performers with crowds around them - individual performers performing for themselves alone - people in costume - living statues (men who appeared to have been sprayed in gold or silver and arrayed as knights; a tall Neptune all in blue) - all in front of the National Gallery and under the watchful eye of Lord Nelson.

We were standing on the portico of the Gallery and heard someone singing into a loud speaker. We turned to our right and there, wending its way through a winding side street was an ocean of people - "The Jesus Army" - with colorful banners and streamers and balloons. At the front of the parade was a large group of young people in khaki pants and black t-shirts with large orange crosses on them. They were hopping and dancing to the music that was blaring. Behind them were groups of people - some with purple t-shirts and purple balloons - some with green clothes and green banners - purple - orange - red groups followed - some with large banners - mostly young people, but also children, parents pushing strollers and some oldsters as well. The human ocean wended its way into the Square, followed by an old, battered big red bus covered with silken banners and carrying elderly riders. By the time the end of the parade was wending its way into the square the first group of young people in khakis and black shirts were up on the stages hopping and jumping and dancing. Even though this wasn't my "style" of worship, it made me feel very elated to see such jubilance and joy.

After the play we went back through the crowds and into the National Gallery. Another incredible, almost overwhelming place in terms of size and treasure. I was particularly struck by a gorgeous Renoir. It was so vivid and pulsating with color and light. I stepped back so I could get out of the glare of sunlight on the painting, but then I realized that what I thought was glare was simply paint on the canvas. SO beautiful.

We walked over to St. Martin in the Fields Church and sat and listened as musicians were rehearsing for a concert that night. We went down into the cafeteria in the crypt and had a huge supper - pork chop, new potatoes, zucchini and red cabbage, and then went into the gift shop where I was SO SO tempted by a Lindisfarne tile. I didn't buy it, but I'm still thinking about it.

At Charing Cross Station, after we had walked/escalated all the way down to the platform, we saw a note that the connection we wanted to Holburn was closed. We got on the train and I calculated a new route with connections via the Picadilly and Central Lines and we made our way home with no bother. Cool! i'm beginning to navigate like a Londoner (well, almost).

Tomorrow we're going to church at St.Paul's Cathedral and then we'll see what the afternoon brings. If it's sunny we may find our way to Kew Gardens, if not - another play perhaps?

Cheerio!

The Best-Laid Plans (can be changed)

It's a rainy, drizzly day in London and our plans have yet to be made for the day. We had agreed last night that we would arise early and get to Westminster Abbey when it opened at 9:30 and before it became crowded. The Abbey is the kind of place that's best enjoyed when one can absorb the atmosphere in a somewhat meditative manner.

But London is exhausting and Karen is still asleep as I write this at 9:51 am. I got seven hours sleep last night, awaking at 7;30; however, about an hour ago she popped out of her bedroom and said she could sleep for another three hours. I said that since we're on vacation, she should do what she wants. She doesn't always sleep very well and I'm glad that she's sleeping in. I hear movement now, so that's encouraging.

Last night we went to see "The 39 Steps" at the Criterion Theatre at Picadilly Circus. I have read John Buchan's book (of the same name) two or three times and have watched Hitchcock's 1935 movie version more than once as well and I was wondering how on earth one would make a comedy out of the story. Well, I got to see the comedy version last night and it was absolutely fabulous. Very entertaining. Four actors portrayed many, many characters - I forget how many, exactly - in a slap-stick, vaudevillian style, and it was really terrific.

I had been worried about riding the tube back home late at night (thinking we might be in solitary situations); however, the stations and cars were just as crammed-packed full of people as they had been during rush hour, so if I end up going to a show or two alone, I will have no worries (other than the usual bit of discomfort of figuring out the Underground system and making sure I'm on the right train).

So now I'm going to fry up some scrambled eggs with fresh salmon, and we'll eat it for breakfast, along with tea and marmelade and toast, and we'll see what the rest of the day brings.

King's Cross Station and the British Museum

Well, Karen's thrill was seeing Platform 9-3/4 at King's Cross Station; and although she did not get through to realize her long-time ambition of being the librarian at Hogwart's, her disappointment was assuaged by one or two minor diversions at the British Museum. As for me, I was thrilled to see the Rosetta Stone and many fabulous Celtic artifacts. The Museum is absolutely astounding.

We spent hours walking and riding the subway (and sometimes walking to find the right trains in the Underground). I admired the 1920's art deco style of the Russell Square tube stop; however, when we saw the long queue at the lift, we decided to climb steep, narrow, winding stairs up. It was a long, long climb. We stopped at one point to rest and that was the worst of it for me. What with the constant stream of people filling up the stairway, the stuffy air and a claustrophobic feeling, my heart began to pound even more and I felt a bit of panic. Rather than standing there, it was much better to be climbing and doing something to keep my mind off of what I was doing.

Right now we're in our apartment having a bit of a rest before going to the theatuh this evening.

Minor Details And Serendipity

After such an intensive (and wonderful) writing week, it's good to be back in the mundane world once again (if one can call London "mundane"). All through this trip I've been posting about the beauty and glory that I've experienced; however, in addition to all the glorious moments, travel also includes many exhausting details and mundane moments and I figure that, now that I'm back to the real world, I'll do a posting regarding some of the exhausting and mundane.

Karen and I are now watching an episode of Sex and the City before we head to our respective bedrooms to rest up after our first day together in London. (She flew in yesterday from Chicago, where she had to sit in the plane for two hours as 85 mph winds blew through the airport.)

And I just barely made it here - almost missing my first train of the day yesterday. Yesterday was one of my most trying traveling days on this trip. My train trip was supposed to be an easy one. I was scheduled to catch a train from the little village of Redon all the way to Lille and then take a second train through the Chunnel to London.

I made my reservation for this trip in Illinois and I had my printed out reservation form, showing that I had paid for my ticket. I had had several opportunities to purchase the actual ticket using the reservation number on the form, but for some reason never remembered to do this when I happened to be in French train stations during other legs of this journey. As I prepared for yesterday's journey I was regretting this fact (because, instead of just getting on the train, I had to take time to get my ticket), but it turns out that this was a very, very good thing.

Yesterday I went to the ticket agent at the station in the little village. The man spoke no English and my French wasn't sufficient to answer his questions. The clock was ticking and I was getting nervous. Fortunately Cindy (the Danish poet who was at my writing workshop) was out in the station and she came in and helped me. He puttered and puttered around and ended up printing out tickets that did not match my reservation form. Turns out my train to Lille had been canceled and he booked me on the 8:18 train to Rennes, with connections to Le Mans and then finally to Lille.

I was walking out of the station with my ticket, passport and cash in hand, my daypack on my shoulder and wheeling my suitcase behind me when the conductor blew his whistle, indicating the train was getting ready to leave. We quickly glanced at the tv screen and realized that THIS was the train I had to get on. Kay (another writer) was also traveling and it turned out that she was also scheduled for the 8:45 train that had been canceled (and actually had her ticket. If I hadn't gone in to get mine and learned of the canceled train, she would never have realized that her train wasn't coming and that she was also to get on this 8:18 train), We ran along the platform, desperately looking for the car designated on my ticket. The whistle blew again and I said "come on! let's just get on." I jumped up and hoisted my heavy suitcase in the car. Kay had a heavy suitcase and three heavy small bags. I reached down and grabbed her suitcase and Cindy literally pushed Kay up and into the car just before the doors closed.

We lugged our suitcases through car after car until we found the seat I had been designated. We had just enough time to look at my tickets and figure out the train number and time of the train we had to transfer to when we got to Rennes. We only had 10 minutes between trains. We had both been to the Rennes train station and were dreading it. Getting from one platform to another entailed lugging our suitcases up a huge, long flight of stairs and down another - an impossible feat for Kay to do in one trip. When we got to Rennes I rushed to the tv camera and, boy, did we luck out. Turns out the train was leaving from just the other side of the platform a few feet away.

We got on the train - once again in the wrong car - once again lugging our heavy luggage through car after car - the really, really hard way to get to your seat. There are signs on the platform, indicating where each car number will approximately stop; however, not wanting to miss THIS train, we just jumped on the first car we came to. It was embarrassingly obvious - almost as if we were wearing a blinking sign: "Americans coming through!!" Now we were on a high-speed train to Le Mans, and after checking each of our connections (Kay was going on to Chartres, I was going to Lille), we had an hour or so to catch our breath.

We said our goodbyes at Le Mans, and, after lugging my suitcase through about six cars, I sat down for the two hour ride to Lille where I caught the Eurostar connection to London without too much ado (finally - I got into the right car this time on the first try!) But I thought it was odd: the train was scheduled to depart Lille at 3:05 and arrive in London at 3:24 - a 19 minute train ride? After we had been traveling for 20 minutes and hadn't even left the Continent it finally dawned on me. Ahhhh! Paris is one hour ahead of London. (Scary, isn't it, my being out here in the world all alone?)

I had booked an apartment online and my instructions were to call the apartment manager when I arrived in London to notify him of my arrival so he would be sure to be here to let me in. As we neared London I went out to the end of the car to collect my suitcase and wait for the train to arrive. During a brief conversation a gentleman he learned I needed to make a call. He was in a rush to keep an appointment he said and we wouldn't be able to get a signal until the train stopped and we were out of the train. When the train pulled in he dialed the number, handed me the phone, and as I was alighting from the train and he was taking our suitcases down and putting them onto the platform I spoke to the manager's answering machine, informing him of my whereabouts. I finished my message at the moment he finished with the suitcases and immediately handed him his phone and he went dashing off. As was the case in so many other instances, the right person just happened to be there when I needed help (and willingly volunteered assistance). For example, as I have been lugging my suitcases up and down train station stairways, SO, SO many times someone has come along - male or female - French or English - African or Muslim - and would simply take it from my hands and lug it up (or down) the stairs for me. So kind!

Arriving in St Pancras Station I felt as if I was a world away from a 14th century manor house, far out in the French countryside AND I was! There were thousands of people in that station. I managed to make my way to the tube station and found the underground train to Liverpool Street Station without any ado at all. (And have navigated through the Undergound system twice today without any problems or having to ask anyone for help - yay!) And all throughout London today there were thousands and thousands of people for several blocks deep in several different locations. It's truly astonishing.

I had gone on the Internet and drawn myself a map of the route from Liverpool Street Station to our apartment and I found the apartment with no problem - it's just a five minute walk away and I just happened to meet Karen as she was unlocking the door to our apartment building. What a total surprise. I was walking along, seeking our address and thought I'd ask the woman in blue up ahead if she could help me. She turned around as I approached the steps and she said "I just never know where I'm going to run into you" and it took me a moment to register that this was a person I knew (which is even more odd, because a couple of blocks earlier I had been daydreaming, thinking to myself wouldn't it be funny if that person in blue up ahead was Karen). What a very funny moment.

We took a tour bus around London. We were both pretty pooped and I thought this would be an enjoyable way to sightsee without exerting too much energy. We went all around the city, stopping at Harrods for lunch, and later at the half-price theatre ticket booth at Picadilly Circus and bought two tickets to see "39 Steps" tomorrow night. We're going back on Saturday to see if we can get tickets for Simon Callow(!!!) in "Being Shakespeare" on Saturday.

I DO adore travel. I adore London (and I'm beginning to get a little bit excited about coming home).

(Not bad for being on top of a fast-moving tour bus!)

Signing Off from Exterior Contact for a Week

I arrived at my writing workshop - we're at an old, old manor house (part of which was built in the 11th century) - way out in the French countryside. Every time the phone rings Internet service is interrupted, and it takes a while to get reconnected.

For that reason (but mostly because of the fact that I came here for a writing workshop to write other sorts of things) I'm not going to blog every day. There could be times when I really need a break and will write; however, I'm going to really enjoy being in this amazing old manor, surrounded by gorgeous, unbelievable gardens, working with two amazing writing teachers, sharing conversations with really interesting people and searching the "white hot center" of my unconscious to listen to what is waiting to be written. (Does that sound literary enough? Really, this is going to be an incredibly wonderful time. Wow!)

J'ai une rouge chapeau!

I just went a little nuts and paid an exorbitant amount for a little red hat. Although dear Faye is no longer physically present she must have been here in spirit because I could just imagine her telling me that I could NOT go home without it!

I am now in St Malo (on the northern coast of Brittany) after spending a few days in Laval, with family friends. Behind me is one of the renovated ships of the Corsairs (the pirates who owned this place years ago).








































I arrived by train late last night from a weekend in Laval with our family friends. WHAT an unbelievable weekend! I am utterly and completely exhausted. I feel like I lived about six days in the space of about 36 hours. After Friday night's arrival we attended a cousin's confirmation on Saturday (and a family gathering afterwards) and on Sunday I got to go to see (some of) the 24 hour race at Le Mans!!! (as well spending time at a smaller family gathering in the afternoon).

After Eddie's cousin's confirmation on Saturday everyone returned to Eddie's uncle Eric's and Aunt Aoud's (sp?) house where we nibbled on foie gras and caviar and several other exotic delicacies and drank champagne for two or three hours BEFORE we sat down to a meal! We were eating for at least six hours on Saturday. These people really love each other and they love good food and wine and they REALLY like to talk and they talk non-stop. I can't tell you how exhausting it is, just to listen to them! Not just because I only understand about 5% of what they say, but because they expend such energy and enthusiasm and passion and the conversations literally go on for hours.

Yesterday seven of us were at Edouard's maternal grandmother's home in the country. It is a huge, square house, built in the style of a Scottish castle, with a carriage house (used for large gatherings and parties), beautiful grounds with tennis courts and swimming pool and surrounded by seven hectares of woodlands. As rain drizzled against the windows we took tea in the drawing room in front of a large fire. Eddie was speaking with his uncle Jean-Paul and his father Bruno. They were having quite an impassioned discussion. At moments Beatrice would give me brief updates on what was being said. Eddie is incredibly bright; however, he is quite opinionated and when he thinks he is right his words come shooting out like bullets from a gun and he won't listen to what anyone has to say. He goes non-stop. His father and uncle did their best to try to get him to listen to their points of view on the topic and they became quite, quite animated too. Although the decibel level rose quite high, it wasn't an unpleasant conversation or an "ugly" argument - just an argument filled with impassioned words and excited gesticulations.

At times Eddie's aunt Chantal would look apologetically at me and smile. After a time, his elderly grandmother went to the kitchen and returned with a pan and metal spoon and beat on the pan and called out loudly, trying to get them to stop. She was so excited she accidentally dropped the pan (which caused much laughter) and then SHE started an animated conversation with Eddie, and Beatrice turned to me and said "they're all the same!"

Well, it so happens that this weekend was the 24-hour Le Mans race. The race draws several hundreds of thousands of people (my companions couldn't agree on an exact number) and all segments of society were represented - from jetsetters whose private jets were parked on the airgrounds - to those in trailer parks and campgrounds spread all around the huge compound. The track is several miles long and extends around the countryside and the eldest uncle in the family (Patrick) is an official with the race who gave us passes which allowed us admittance to places "up close and personal" with the track. There I was, bumping around in a huge van with uncles and brothers and cousins, stopping at famous strategic places on the racecourse and viewing the race from sometimes as close as about 25 feet away! It was a fabulous experience. I kept saying "Je suis chanceux" (I'm sure I didn't spell that right - but spelled (and pronounced) correctly, it means "I am lucky!")

So here I am in St Malo (northern Brittany) after arriving by train last night. I'm here until Wednesday, then I take the train to southern Brittany for a writers' workshop for one week. There's SO much more to write about; however, I'm too tired to write anymore. (By the way, many thanks to those who are sending me emails or FB messages [as well as a few of you posting comments on the blog] to say you're reading. I'm really writing this as my personal journal [and I would do it even if nobody responded]; however, when I write I imagine I'm talking to you and I love it when you respond - it's like I'm traveling with a companion. So, keep those comments coming!)

Cheers!