where lemons grow
the lemon tree on our terrace is budding. we will miss the smell of occasionally picking a tight little bb of a blossom and crushing it between finger and thumb. the thought of leaving behind a budding lemon tree is making my husband very sad. he longs to live where lemons grow, and pick a little something from the tree out back to spritz over his plate of oysters. le pauvre petit…
lemons and lemon tree buds
i started to clean up today for our departure on sunday. while sweeping the terrace, i found several of these lunaria stems hiding in the corners and under the steps where the wind had carried them. i had photographed big, tall stems of these a few months ago, and apparently, i didn’t do a very good job of cleaning up after myself. lucky for me, i got a second opportunity to photograph these diminutive beauties. oh, by the way, the name latin name lunaria refers to the moon-like seedpods.
lunaria stems and seed casings (aka honesty plant)
this row of rocks reminds me of a shelf of books with two bookends. appropriate, i suppose, as we prepare to set a bookend at the far side of this trip, enclosing five months of life and its memories for future perusal and contemplation. i am officially ready to go home, but unsure how i will feel about it when i get there. i did just receive a video of our dog jack running in the snow, and i found him to be all that a long-lost dog should be. if nothing else, sitting by the fire with him will be worth the cold, the snow, and the somewhat jarring un-frenchness of urban minnesota in january.
beach rocks from roquebrune-cap-martin, france
Le Corbusier’s cabin
i am a realist, not a fantasist, as a rule. but i do have a persistent fantasy about a particular kind of living space. earlier in my life, it was an empty loft in new york city, with no furniture except a white desk, white curtains, a white bed, and two white side tables. i have a similar vision of a whitewashed stucco house on a rocky, isolated greek or italian island. and now there is le corbusier. the architect known for brutalist concrete slabs built a tiny, rustic, cabanon (or cabin) on the shore of the côte d’azur, just a few kilometers from the italian border. the cabanon is 144 square feet, sided with half-logs like a northern minnesota cabin, and full of built-in furniture he designed. as steve and i walked across the beach to see the cabin yesterday, i looked down and realized that everywhere i looked, there were striped beach rocks, maybe my favorite kind of beach rock after hagstones. so now, of course, i want to live in le corbusier’s cabanon, and create art by the sea, and gather gallons of striped beach rocks, and then maybe one day when i am very old, go out for my morning swim in the mediterranean, and just not come back.
striped (gneiss) beach rocks from Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, France
i finished this and thought about some goat-legged half-god in an olive grove, playing his lute and trying to seduce a forest nymph. i suppose it depends on how beautiful his song is, but mostly i’m cheering the nymph on to make good her escape.
bent eucalyptus twigs; autignac, france