Cordes-sur-Ciel, a city in the sky (12 Sept, 2008)

Last September I made a pilgrimage, so to speak, to Mont Saint-Michel, a UNESCO World Heritage site which loomed large on my Life To-Do list. It is the most-visited abbey (3 hours west of Paris) and sits majestically on a rock, surrounded by volatile and impenetrable tides, at the border of Normandy and Brittany. David, his sister Jan, her husband Richard and I spent a night on the Mont, feeling as if we were the only people in this Medieval time warp.

Cordes-sur-Ciel, near Albi, is also a popular tourist site and evokes a similar sense of time/space discontinuum, but it is much larger, more of an actual living city and extremely well preserved. The cobblestone streets snake steeply up the hillsides, lined with luxurious 14th and 15th century homes decorated with sculptures and other architectural details. There are façades and remnants that date from the 13th century when the fortified village was founded by the Count of Toulouse in 1222 to protect the Cathars.

I did not get the "whole story" on the Cathars, but apparently they represented strong opposition to the corruption of the Catholic Church. Priests and Bishops were getting married, pilfering riches and otherwise undermining confidence of the people who decided to form a grassroots movement and demand adherence to the faith. They were, of course, condemned by the pope and sought out and destroyed in a crusade which began in 1209. There are numerous churches, ruins and museums that attest to the Cathars' resistance efforts.

Cordes-sur-Ceil was considered an alchemist's stronghold. I wish I had time to explore the remnants of them. Today it boasts a high concentration of craftspeople in glass, wood, canvas art, sculpture, fabric, ceramics and so on. The feel of the place was magical and the two hotels we previewed would be delightful to visit, overlooking the pastoral valleys and the ancient stone spires.

The French Rental Car from Paris

In the pinky-blue sunrise of a crisp Santa Fe winter morning, I think back on five days in Paris and three days’ driving adventure around the west of France, soaking in images of rolling countryside, stopping in Giverny, Rouen, Honfleur, Mont Saint-Michel, Vouvry, Amboisie and returning to the insane traffic and confusion of navigating to Charles De Gaulle Airport, and how describing each rich and tasty encounter, each “aha” and delight, each ”ya gotta laugh” moment is like trying to stuff a king-sized down comforter into a quart-size bag; it’s impossible but you compress a corner and keep pushing.

I was in Spain for a week in November and I’m on my way today to ski Vail. I’ve researched, written and published articles, kept real estate deals moving forward, studied fractional ownership and website design, rearranged the house and spent time with friends. In the fast-forward mode, as the past rapidly receeds, the best I can do is make a brief recount, save the photos to disc and trust that someday the earth will spin slower and days will spread out before me with time to recollect, reflect and recount.

We left Paris on Friday morning in a rented Toyota minivan, but not without a story or two! I had made reservations online through Auto Europe/Hertz, for a 10 a.m. pick-up, and received a travel agent discount. Train stations seem to be the major pick-up/drop off points for rental cars in Paris. Not knowing how to best depart Paris for Giverny to the northwest, I randomly chose the Montparnasse station from a map because it was on the west side of the city. Not a bad choice. The taxi from our apartment on Rue du Seine dropped us at the Hertz office where a line of people snaked out the door and around half a block. Inside, there were two agents, taking an interminable amount of time with each reservation, an enormous amount of paperwork to fill out, questions to answer. This is crazy, we’ll be here all day!

My pushy New York self went into high gear and I “excuse-a-moi’ed” myself to the “gold club” reservation desk where one old gent kept up a lively conversation in French with the attendant as if there weren’t dozens of people waiting. I coughed, I made eye contact with the man behind the counter and finally, in desperation, I asked as nicely as possible, “Can you please help me?” Sure, he replied, folding the old gent’s papers into a folder and wishing him a good trip. He turned to me and began processing my reservation and within 10 minutes we were out the door, past the line of the terminally patient and looking for a car in some underground lot to which we were vaguely directed.

As there were several underground lots in that general direction, we wandered, schlepping our rolly bags behind us, frustration mounting. Finally we saw a small “Hertz” sign across the street, took an elevator down 4 floors and stumbled into the Hertz rental. Once in our minivan we followed the “sortie,” exit signs, powering out of the depths of the earth, descending, rising, going in tight circles until some 10 minutes later, exhausted from stress and carbon monoxide fumes, we emerged into the Paris streets and joined the stop-and-go traffic headed west to the Periferique (ring road) and the highway to Giverny.