Day 10 What does a Lake mean to you?

Day 10 Oct 24, 2008 Suite


We didn’t do well not being out and about so we are off to a big lake and surrounding “villages perchés” or perched villages. We certainly have been blessed with good weather. As I alluded to, we had one day of pouring rain, but even that day’s weather was kind to us when we investigated la Maison de Nostradamus.



What I find remarkable is that these villages are much the same as they have been for decades, even hundreds of years. We lack such concepts of age in America as we build a house with a 30 year life span for its existence in mind. Some houses survive to the hundred year mark, but most people don’t value such “history” and simply tear it down to build a new, “modern” structure that feels more “respectable” or “rich”.

I am probably the wrong one to be proselytizing for “old” as I personally have a negative visceral reaction to antiques, especially their smell. They all remind me of dead people. I think it has something to do with my grandmother Chamberlain, who had doilies and nick knacks around on tables that you weren’t suppose to look at, not even supposed to touch. What were they for? Was it just a trap?




When you are a kid, you think that nothing is truly sacred. If something is out to be picked up, then that is somehow an invitation to do so. I got into a lot of trouble picking up things I wasn’t supposed to, or “walking hard in front of the buffet.” There were “antiques” and “special dishes” that would get chipped if they bumped into each other. They were fragile and “sacrosanct”.

Have you ever noticed that we often don’t like things we don’t understand and are head-shaking about things that we personally don’t value. Like “Who the heck cares about those old dishes, nobody ever uses them anyway. What good are they?” I thought to myself many times. You would never dream of saying such things out loud.

You could never play in Grandma Chamberlain’s house. There was an air of sickness, or strange concern, like there was a terminally ill baby sleeping somewhere and if you woke it up it would die. It made me…. nervous, unsettled, uncomfortable. The smell seemed to be intrinsically tied to that feeling. It was that smell of old books, or attic cloth, or things carefully folded and never removed from drawers … for years.






Grandma Chamberlain had brand new things in drawers. She was saving them for some special occasion; table cloths, night shirts, handkerchiefs, and wrapping paper. Bras, she had three of four new bras with price tags still on them that were carefully stacked and waiting for… what?




I supposed you can tell I was a curious child. I waited until everyone was in the kitchen talking and then I would snoop in all the forbidden places. I had no ill intent, nor would I have ever considered taking anything, but I wanted to know what was in all the “hiding” places, places you were never invited to go, or things you weren’t privy to see. They were mysteries and although they almost always turned out to be things of little to no interest, they led to curiosity.


My grand parents were curious people. Perhaps all grandparents are. They are of different generations and zeitgeist then we are. They saw things differently than I ever would. They were products of the depression. As it turned out, I was a production of a recession, a large one, that made me do strange things even today.

I horde. I never want to be without toilet paper, for instance. So, I buy a case of it at a time and store it away like squirrels with nuts in the fall. Sometimes, like the squirrels, I don’t remember where I put a stash and so scared that I am getting down to the last roll, I will go to Sam’s club and buy another case, just for protection. I used to horde Kleenex, but I sneeze less and if it stored too long it takes on a smell, an old smell, like….like… antiques.

Here’s the interesting part, antiques smell different in other countries. I have no negative connotations attached to French antiques, including their smell. I could live in France with a whole houseful of their antiques and believe that it was quaint or charming or even lovely. But, if you tried to bring those same things back to the US or recreate that French antique feeling at home, it wouldn’t work. For me, they would return to the decrepit state and category of late attic that American antiques occupy here. And sooner or later they would start to smell. Smell like our antiques. Mon Dieu.

I have decided you can’t recreate your environment entirely if it is missing important pieces, like language for instance. Like - You have to speak French around ancient French chairs. Then they are worth their weight in gold. You see them in a château and immediately want to bring them home and recreate that luxury displayed in it original setting. It won’t happen. First try getting that chair on the plane.

On top of that I think it has something to do with what we eat. Americans imbibe in fast food, or casseroles, or carrot cake. We eat ham with slashes; cloves stuffed into the crisscrosses, with pineapple hanging off the side. We have peanut butter sandwiches with jelly, or sometimes with bananas, raisins, or even mayonnaise. We wash it down with root beer and a Jello chaser. There’s always room for Jello. But not for the French. The Jello would go in and probably come right back out. They hate Jello; its artificial color, artificial flavor and it action on the spoon coming at you blubble blubble.




The French eat things many Americans might have trouble keeping down; Goose liver paste, frog legs, snails, and some cheeses that smell and taste like dirty feet (don’t ask how I know how dirty feet taste). So, imagine years and years of these different food smells permeating sofa upholstery or table runners etc. Even wood absorbs smells.



I suppose you are wondering where I am going with all of this, and whether I have, in fact, finally fallen off the side of the cliff...

No. I am the same weird person that I have always been, but now I have more time to reflect on the contradictions of my attitudes or feelings toward things or ideas that made little sense to me when I had no time to ruminate.




For instance, why do I find the rooms in Versailles, or in any château, so alluring and desirable, rich and historic,

when my spirits fall and sometimes I am actually repulsed by “antiques” and old houses at home? I get it now. It is a difference in Gestalt. It is the whole package, not the sum of its parts that create the experience.










Haven’t you ever looked forever for just the right souvenir- picking one that had the best representative colors, or shape, was the “right “ size, or material. Then you get it home and say “What the hell did I buy that piece of junk for?” You put it in a drawer and later either regift it, or give it as a gag or throw it out. It was out of its place and by itself could not create the feeling that you left behind on that trip.






Well, pictures mostly fall in that category as well.

On trips I’ve taken to Europe,

I’ve seen kids who take pictures of the dumbest things; like a toe nail, or a friend’s knuckle. (Okay, I have taken such foolish pictures as well... like the one on the left.)










They show us all their cache of pictures and roll in laughter on the floor when they get to these inane shots. (Like the French (Frog) toilet holder picture at left.)

The owner of the toe nail or knuckle would often join the picture taker on the floor, laughing and guffawing, but the rest of us would look at each other and then at the rollers, imagining they must be on drugs.

The usual statement after they regained some composure was

“I guess you had to be there.”

But we were there and we don’t get it.



That’s because we are only looking at a piece which is apparently not enough to recreate the gestalt. Its value is simply a mystery to us.







A picture may be worth a thousand words, but is still is lacking ten thousand others. What the picture has for them is a auditory, kinesthetic, gustatory, olfactory, and visceral dimensions that we will never be able to gain even with a (detailed) explanation.





In other words, because we weren’t there, we don’t have built into our memories the warmth of the close bodies, the smell of fresh and sweet flowers, or the love, adventure, or giddiness, that those who were there combine with the visual elements.

A very fine story teller, can bring some of these elements to the listener but it takes a long, long story, and for the non-attendee of the initial event, it may seem like too much of a time investment or something that is never fully understood or appreciated.




Unfortunately, that’s how it is with blogging or picture viewing of trips or anything else when you weren't there yourself.

If you have not experienced it before, it probably does nothing for you. If you have been there before, with some well-chosen words, you might be able to return for another trip, a virtual one.








That’s my hope here to feel you were there with me.

I probably could have been more concise with this explanation,

but I was trying to create a gestalt.

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