Then one day we rise and after coffee and a heaping plate of eggs are swept into the car and up the road towards Paris. We drive through lashing rain and arrive in time to meet Parisien friends of Alice and David's for a classically French lunch, with four delectable courses and a barrage of good manners. They are fascinating people, and very cosmopolitan Parisiens, and though we understand little of the conversation, we enjoy the plunge into yet another aspect of France. We then drive to Rue St. Julien-le-Pauvre, where we bid a fond farewell to Alice and David and greet Whitney and Savannah for another evening romp around the Marais neighborhood, home to wonderful vintage clothing and a real feel of Paris. And then we tear ourselves away from them as well and board a subway, then a bus, then a plane, and then a taxi driven by an angry Spaniard and we arrive in downtown Valencia at 1:00AM. And there after a long stretch of travel, we are met by the wonderful Mary Stubbs. Being reunited with her is inexpressably enjoyable, and despite the long hours of travel that have brought us each from our respective distant lands, we are filled with energy and happiness and anticipation for a week spent on the Mediterrannean. Nothing can compare to meeting her here, late at night and far from home, in a strange new city, when so much and so little has changed, in the middle of this strange and spectacular year. This may be a first for Gap Yah's, and it is a good one.

As our days in Grimault wind down to an end, we relish each moment. We relish rising in the crisp morning, creaking open the door to our private Studio, and leaping out into the bitterly cold day. We relish that first morning glance from the driveway where we are perched, out across the valley where the little village nestles. In the last few days the remaining vestiges of Christmas snow melt, the river settles and clears into a dulcet turquoise, and the grey trees mask vividly green fields. We have a bit of rain, which brings with it remarkably warm weather and, in moments without wind, it is almost warm. We relish stepping over the threshold into the warmth of the kitchen, a motion that requires a visual and aural overload and readjustment to the sounds of mandolin and guitar and the perfect haze of golden fire-light on rich, heavy colors. We relish the first glass of coffee, and the decadent and yet seemingly necessary and fitting almond croissant. The blazing heat of the shower and crisp clothes, and then the day has begun in earnest. We relish the momentary silence as the house vacates for the morning rush to fetch newspapers from nearby Noyers. And then the tentative first strummings and bowings on cold instruments with cold fingers, the first hesitant strokes which grow into wild motions and whirling melodies, gypsy dances and sicilian lullabies, and each song is inevitably joined to by each of us until it runs its course and a new inspiration, bluegrass or celtic, is stumbled upon. The music flares till lunchtime, when from nowhere there appears a feast of stew and sausage and delice cheese and a fresh Banette baguette and fresh pears and heaps of other delights. We relish the frantic stumbling process by which four people, four plates, four sets of cutlery, overflowing glasses, two newspapers, two dogs, and various other miscellany are flocked out into the little tent perched on the patio. We draw the curtain of the tent tightly closed and soak up the heat within, the transparent walls allowing the weak midday sun to form a greenhouse effect. We dig into the feast (lunch is universally declared the best meal, and somehow each day brings the best one so far) and between mouthfuls we declare and state and refute whatever accusations or protestations fill the papers or otherwise our minds. We reach the funnies section of the newspaper right as we have dessert (pear sorbet, with creme de marron, without fail). Bloated by a well-earned-and-hard-worked-for lunch (we have to tell ourselves that at least) we collapse onto the chaise-lounge and read for an hour or more. We relish the slumbering nature of this after lunch daze, when one can snatch a few words of a good book in between naps while the fire crackles and Casey's lazy finger picking spills across the room. And then up and out the door and into the car to somewhere, and though the location (either a market or an art store or a museum or a cathedral) changes every day, the mission has certain universal elements. There is fast driving across empty fields on narrow roads, the Willie Nelson blaring mournfully from the stereo, the blasting warmth from the heaters combatted by cold air that rushes through the windows, and the gratitude with which the car rolls to a stop back at its home at 12 Rue D'enfer, and the dogs come galloping over. We relish the glass of champagne (every night within a month of christmas qualifies as celebratory here) that appears as dinner is created, the repeat of the lunchtime rush and a meal that promises to supplant lunch as the greatest meal ever. Music plays in the kitchen, and another cup of coffee warms dessert-laden stomachs as we transfer back to our various homes in front of the fireplace to read, to call home, play music, or collect thoughts and things for our imminent onward travel. We relish the late bought of music that arrives dragging along the dregs of remaining energy into a bright footstomping tune and then an exhaustion-laden lullaby. We relish the quick rush across the cold driveway to our studio, the cold and heavy cloth of cotton night-gowns, the warmth of a small, well-heated room, and the satisfaction of heavy blankets. In the darkness we talk briefly, then turn on a lullaby, maybe Schubert of Bach or Bocherrinni, to lull us to sleep, before doing it again. As we fall asleep we feel full. Full not only of great food, but of great warmth, great satisfaction, comfort, and a sense of home. Full of hope and energy for the future, and delicately balanced love for the past. Full of camaraderie and full of music. Full.

A few days before we leave we drive to a town called Alesia, a small town perched high up on a hill overlooking the hills and fields of Burgundy. Placed even higher than the town itself, on the very top, the unprotected crest of the hill, is a ruin. It is closed for winter so we sneak in through the back gate and as a fierce winter wind pulls and howls we wander among the Roman ruin. There is an amphitheater, its form still clearly visible although much is covered with earth. There are the foundations of houses and the columns that once outlined the center of government. We walk the outlines of streets and go into what remains of shrines to Jupiter and chapels to Christ. There is the ancient sunken form of a bathhouse which seems still to swirl with steam among its crumbling columns. It is all perfectly preserved, bursting with life and history and flickering images of the past. Looking down what was once a street, I convince myself that I am there, among people and noises and life and Roman brilliance, art and technology and innovation and government and theater and society. But then the north wind drags such images away and I am left standing on a hill-top surrounded by ruins.


Afterwards we drive to a vast heroic statue of Vercyngetrix, the Gaul warlord who almost stopped the Roman invasion of Gaul, but was crushed like so many others. he stands forlornly with his hand on his sword, gazing down into the valley. As we stand in awe below, we are approached by a French gentleman, clearly an academic and, we learn, guardian of the historic ruins who wants to know if it was us that tresspassed. But of course Monsewer, we do not speak French, we did not know that it was closed and thought it natural to us an abandoned back gate. We are terribly remorseful but we remind him that it is actually His fault for not stopping us, besides we are poor grandchildren who have come all the way from America to see this ruin. Bashful and outmaneuvered, the Frenchman retreats and we return, victorious and satisfied, to Grimault.

BON ANNEE!! HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
We welcome the new year in Paris, speeding up from Burgundy in First Class (our grandparents generous New Years gift to us) on the TGV and screech into Gare de Lyon early on New Years Eve Day.

We spend the day wandering an overcast but cheerful Paris, drinking espresso and wandering around the Louvre and the Tuileries. We meet Whitney and make dinner, a stir fry of vegetables eaten again in the luxurious perch of the table right in front of the window looking out on the city. Paris is quiet in anticipation of the big night! I whip up some mulled wine, cloves and cinnamon and oranges, and we lounge for a couple hours before hitting the town.

We leap onto the metro and speed across the city, meeting Whitney's best friend Katherine, (the same one who we stayed with at Oxford) and speeding on the overground train past the sparkling Eiffel Tower. We look out of the train and peer into the windows of the various new years parties that are just getting started. Some look better than others.

We arrive at the party (hosted by a friend of Whitney and Katherines) and enjoy the New Years fesitivities with an eclectic group of American-Parisiens and French-Parisiens who have the good fortune to be both worldly and English speaking, a perfect combination. They are great people and we spend a fun evening, finding our way back on a Late night metro to the 6th Arrondisment thanks to Whitney's excellent guidance.

We sleep gratefully and happily and wake when the sun is already streaming through the windows.
We welcome the new dawn of the new day cheerily. We wait for Savannah Turley, Whitney's sister, to arrive (having flown across the Atlantic on New Years eve in order to spent some quality time with her sister, rudely interrupted by us). And the three of us go out and wander around for a few hours, buying supplies for an incredible dinner of Homemade Pasta (Savannah is a world-class cook) and not to forget Percy's amazing vinagrette. It was a FEAST eaten, in the French style at 11 oclock at night. Not because we were trying to be cosmopolitan, but rather because we had to painstakingly unroll each individual noodle. It was worth it. Definitely. After the meal we all fell into a coma and did not awake until late the next morning.

We jetted across the city to the Pere Laichez (incorrectly spelled, of course) cemetary and wandered the hauntingly beautiful avenues of sculptured memorials and graves. Angels and owls and elegant features gazed forlornly down at us, and lichen and ivy crawled over graves that had been there for hundreds of years. A three legged black cat gazed obliquely at us and we gazed into the abyss of graves that had been cracked wide open by prying tree roots. We visited the graves of Edith Piaf, Jim Morrison, and Oscar Wilde (Wilde's is adorned with a million lipstick prints). It was a bizarre and gorgeous monument to the dead. Haunting and lovely.

We then wandered back to Whitney's apartment and made a feast of omelettes packed full of vegetables. As we ate the sky over Paris cleared and when Casey and I departed and walked briskly back to Gare de Lyon, the sky was cold and clear over the magnificent city. We sped back on the train, and just before we arrived the conductor asked to see our tickets. They were, predictably, inadequate for some silly reason, but before he could demand more money from us, we slipped off the train at Montbard and rejoined our Grandmere and Grandpere. For further adventures.

We wrote a song for Alice and David that gives some attempt are describing this place, these people. If you don't know the tune and are reading this, you can make up your own and hum along.
Note: "Hell Road" refers to Rue D'Enfer, where the house in Grimault is situated.

Les Americain En Grimault
When you travel around the world,
You hear the strangest stories,

In mighty cities and tiny towns,

These myths and legends, well, they get around



In Paris they speak of Marie Antoinette

In Compiegne of Joan of Arc

In Dijon of course John the Fearless

And everywhere there’s Bonaparte



But there’s a story much stranger than this

That every Frenchman seems to know

About a couple of Americain

Who somehow landed in Grimault



She wears a beret and a flamenco gown

Dashes of paint and red wine

And he responds with a long black cloak

Cigar in hand and dogs by his side



So why don’t you go

Why don’t you visit the street of hell

Despite the fierce fire, the mellow music, and the sweet sorbet

You’ll end up thinking Quell Bordelle



She is an artist of the finest sort,

Dressed like a duchess in a royal court

And whats more than all of these,

She can lecture on Philosophy and History, psychology, geography, chronology, theology, meteorology, and don’t forget mythology.



Though he’s a musician with all his heart

In the list of talents that’s just the start,

He understands every aspect of humanity,

Better than most, at least better than me.



As for music well:

They play the blues

And some flamenco tunes,

Of course some piaf,

And the occasional waltz.



They wander every market and museum,

The catacombs of every church,

They seek the secret and the spirit of France,

It’s a never-ending search.



So why don’t you go

Why don’t you visit the street of hell

Despite the scenic snow, the cool costumes, and the wandering walks

You’ll end up thinking Quell Bordelle



They feast like peasants, which in France is better than Kings,

Pate, sorbet, fine cheese, fresh fruit, veal, pork, pastry, chocolate, pear juice, bread and ……

And of course the infamous Traditional Boeuf Bourguinon



But in this idyllic scene

There’s one man not so pristine

His voice is loud, his taste in music obscene,

You know we’re talking about Jean Louis



Now you know to end this song,

Without mentioning the dogs would just be wrong,

Grace and Fido are part of the family,

As much, if not more, than Percy and Me.



So why don’t you go

Why don’t you visit the street of hell

Despite the dramatic dancing, the killer cheeses, and the entertaining evenings

You’ll end up thinking Quell Bordelle



BRIDGE:

And if you two had not come along,

We wouldn’t have been able to write this song.



VIOLIN SOLO



So why don’t you go

Why don’t you visit the street of hell

Despite the warm welcome, and the fine friendship, and the soft singing

You’ll end up thinking Quell Bordelle

Waking late, long walks and long, luxurious meals, naps in front of the fireplace, playing music until late at night, reading and writing books and music and sculpting clay and painting and sketching portraits. These are the things that occupy each wonderful day in Grimault.

Since the last blog post, we have been in Grimault, Burgundy, with our grandparents Alice and David for two weeks. I will try to stay roughly chronological.

Casey returned a few days before Christmas and he will soon update on his two weeks spent in France with Bianca Bisson and Chelsea Sarg. But we were all merrily reunited.

In the days leading up to Christmas we decorated the house with strands of multicolored lights, including a big strand on the hedge outside that looks like some exotic fruit. We also visited dozens of markets in the surrounding areas to stock up on all sorts of delicacies, including 4 different christmas cakes to be eaten at various festive times, gallons of champagne, and the usual breathtaking array of fine cheeses, meats, breads, and fruits. The open air markets in France are beyond compare, and the supermarche's are equally, but very differently impressive, with Massive vacuum packed hams and a cheese aisle that is over a mile long.

Christmas morning dawned bright and clear. It had snowed steadily all day on christmas eve, and then conveniently stopped and allowed the sun to come bursting out on Christmas morning. So we had miles of pure, undistrubed brilliant whiteness, transforming the already idyllic village into even more of a wonderous winter portrait. We had a cozy ceremony of exchanging gifts, and then spent the day in between playing with new toys (not quite in the literal sense as it would have been a few years ago, but essentially still the same), and lounging in the house. We feast on boeuf bourguinon and pasta and the aformentioned various cakes. Gluttony is a totally adequate term to describe our christmas. Otherhighlights include a long nap on the chaise-lounge in front of a crackling fire as Casey strums his guitar, and a long walk across a field that has not yet had a single disturbance in the snow. It is perfect, and undisturbed. Just like the whole day.

In the few days after Christmas we take a series of expeditions. We go to Epoisse, home of the delectable Epoisse cheese that is so incomparable. It is also home to a brilliant, snow bedecked chateau, with beautiful but now sparse gardens, and a massive tower that was once home to hundreds of pidgeons. The chateau is actually still lived in, and so has a marvelous, real-life feeling. We slip on treacherous ice, but don't really mind.

We go to Dijon, where we see the Well of Moses, a beautiful series of sculptures with massive but incomprehensible religious significance. We also go to the local museum, where Alice lectures eloquently on the art of medieval Burgundy and Flanders. The hundred little monk sculptures that are meant to adorn the tomb of the duke are on tour in America (ironic?) but the museums is still full of lovely wonders. We eat a decadent but very slow (typically French) lunch and then explore some of Dijon's music shops, buying violin strings and gypsy music.

We go to Auxerre, where we explore the vaults of a cathedral that echoes eerily and is full of brilliant illuminated manuscripts and other works of religious art. We also go to the local art store, where alice buys supplies of canvas etc. and Casey buys watercolors. We also buy a massive, communal lump of beautiful clay, out of which we all form some interesting sculptures over the next few days.

We go to Autun, an old town with a spectacular cathedral that we spend hours wandering. Grotesque carvings leer down from the arches, and we climb a tall bell tower and look down on the city. A cheerful creperie and a chocolatier await for lunch.

In the evenings, Alice cooks us decadent feasts and we play music. Occasionally neighbors will come over and demand to play music with us and we will acquiese because, even if we did not, they don't speak English and thus would not understand our refusal and would strum loudly and sing mournfully regardless. But we have cheerful jamming sessions and relax our musical standards ever so slightly.

The snow melts and the rivers flood and in 48 hours every trace of snow is gone and the whole landscape is running with water but is once again green. And lush. It is also warmer, but still hardly Californian. We are well adjusted now to the cold, but rarely miss an opportunity to pine for warm California.

Here is some of the music we play these days: Irish folk songs, Russian and Bulgarian gypsy folk music, Wagon Wheel by Old Crow Medicine Show, bluegrass tunes, and Mason Jennings. An eclectic mix, I know.

It is peaceful. Recuperation. Relaxation. Quality time spent in comfort and happiness spent with true friends. It could not be better. Not long from now we will surely look back on these days of warmth and decadence with nostalgia. But for now, we are happy to be having them.

CASEY, Paris, Grimault, and Lyon:

biancas arrival and the streets of lyon
at this point my excitment for biancas arrival was beyond words. her plane arrived at charles de gaule air port at 7am, so in order for me to be there waiting at the gate to welcome her i had to take a train into paris and check my self in at the closest airport hotel that i could find. peice of cake. that night i couldnt sleep, it felt like i was a little boy again, trying to fall asleep on christmas eve night. aka impossible. i was so excited! so that morning i woke up at 6, giving my self plenty of time, of course the shuttle to the air port was 45 min late, but once i was on i was getting more and more nervouse, i had it all planned out in my head perfectly, i was going to be at the gate when she arrived and we would have a long imbrace and then walk off to our hotel. but the damn shuttle was taking way too long and i was starting to panic, i wasnt going to make it! AAHHHHH! to be continued....... just kidding i made it! there plane was like 20 min late or something, haha. so needless to say we had the long loving imbrace and i think that it was hard to believe that we finally had each other again, it took a while to set in for me, i had had so many dreams about that moment that it didnt seem real. ok anyway we got to our hotel via train and found that our room would not be ready until 3, it was 11 in the morning and bianca was really jet lagged, so we just miandered around paris for a long time until we found a little park where we sat and watched this little girl in her inosent little school uniform steel a scooter from a little boy half her size, poor kid. eventually we got into our room and slept for a long time. we would wake up in the middle of the night and talk about what our lives have held since we left each other, it was a very piece full (perfect) night. our time in paris seemed to fly bye, but while we were there we did alot, we walked form notre dame to the arc de triumph and then from the arc de triumph to the eiffle tower and then back to our hotel. now if you have been to paris you should know that this is no walk in the park, (not litterally) it is quite the hike, oh boy where we tired. so we stoped by an out door market, got some snacky food and went up to our room munched on some fresh fruit and bread and took a nap. after our nap we went out to explore the paris night life and unfortunatly it was pretty dead, so we just decided to call it a night and hit the hay.

The next day we packed our bags and met my grandparents alice and david at a near by cafe, it was pretty cold that day so we got some mulled wine (warm wine) The entire lunch was lovely, after that we drove to grimault (grandparents home town) Grimault is a small town in the middle of the cuts, so it was about an hour and a half long drive. it was an amusing drive for me because i could tell that bianca really wanted to fall asleep (on the count of not getting used to the time change soon enough) but she wouldnt because she wanted to see the french country side, haha gotta love her!

we spent 3 nights in grimaultm, one night in noyers, which is a neighboring town and one night in montbard, another neighboring town. our time together was great. like i said before, it was a dream come true!

the night we spent in montbard was our last night before we saw chelsea (montbard is where the train station was) so we woke, got on the right train and made our way to lyon to meet a dear freind. the train ride was about an hour and a half but it felt like 15 min. i swear being with bianca makes time fly by. anyway we get to lyon and sure enough, there is chelsea waiting for us in her trendy french wear.
now chelsea and bianca and i had a couch surfer lined up for us to stay with, the moment that we called to see where this guy was he told us that him and all his freinds were having an early christmas party, and he told us to come and party with him. I think it would have been rude to say no so we abliged and made our way to some random house with alot of yelling and laughing pouring from it, we knew right away that this was the place, whether we liked it or not. he welcomed us in and much to our suprise there were about 30 french young adults, drunk and having a great time. true at first it was alittle akward, we slowly got in the groove and made some freinds. our host was a great guy he took great care of us and his roomates were great too. our time in lyon went by so fast. chelsea, bianca and i did so much, we went to a zoo, we explored lyon at night, we went to out door markets, oh the list go's on. but it ended way to quick for me to realize that this wasnt a dream, it was real. damn!

it ok, dont feel bad......it has a happy ending. well kind of, on our 5th day i think, it was time for me to go, so i packed my bags and said goodbye to my love and my dearest freind. it was hard having to say good bye for a second time, but it was all worth it.

so that is my lyon story. i hope you liked it, i kept it short....ish, simple and sweet.

talk to yall later

much love, casey