Oh, la.la, Paris.

This is a summer of day trips and short getaways.  I've been exploring Essex county with my camera in hand, or have hopped on the train to New York City for a couple of nights.

But last year I was packing for Paris right about this time.  I had seen the Woody Allen movie with Owen Wilson and Gene Kelly's American in Paris, and read The Paris Wife.

Then I got there.  There's a line in Midnight in Paris where the vapid fiancee complains about it raining again.  She was right.  It rains.  And while that misty, moisty mysteriousness adds oh so much atmosphere to a plot line, it wreaked havoc on my wardrobe and mood.  Thank goodness for hotel laundry services. 

I also found that the guide provided by the tour company had rather elastic ideas about distances.  I became suspicious when everything was just half an hour away.  I was encouraged to take Le Metro, but didn't feel comfortable doing so.

A group of us went and the subway was clean, clearly marked and inexpensive.  But I had only one good arm last year, so hanging onto a pole and my belongings was a problem.  That not so minor fact made it walking or taxis for me.

I realize my trip experience was probably colored by having had surgery just three weeks before.  But still, it rained.

I had loved the south of France the year before.  The bright light dazzled the colors, the sun was warm, the small towns were friendly, and it didn't rain.

I've offered the advice that every experience is a learning experience.  And in retrospect, what made all those books and movies interesting were the people in them.  The Paris Wife talked mostly about the cast of characters that made the city interesting in the Twenties.  Owen Wilson's character raved about meeting Hemingway and Fitzgerald. 

Perhaps if my hotel had been in a different area I would have been more charmed.  I loved Isle St. Louis and the Left Bank.  The Place my hotel was located on also had a MacDonald's, KFC and a pizza place.  It could have been Kenmore Square without the jet lag.

I had been warned about traveling in August that it would be crowded, and it was.  And being urban, the people weren't as warm as in the south.  But I have been in other cities, and live in a small one, so those factors shouldn't have been as overwhelming as they were.  I was jet lagged and in minor pain, niether of which are mood enhancers.

So maybe, just maybe, I'll try Paris again another time.   I'll just be more careful of the hotel location and the time of year.  And, of course, try to go when it doesn't rain.

Garden hopes

Each spring the gardener looks through the catalogs, wanders the aisles at garden centers, makes and breaks plans, and purchases what she hopes will be the plants that will make the season.  Brave souls start with seeds. Others, like myself with a container garden, go for the plants, those six packs of annuals that promise color quickly and constantly throughout the summer.

We all know that we are at the mercy of the growers and the weather, and the plant choices we make.  Yes, I have a southern exposure with no shade, but pansies may last longer than spring (no, they never do).  But each year I plant my flowers, my herbs and my one patio tomato, hoping for a bumper crop and no aphids or mites.

My one signature plant I use each year is blue lobelia. The window boxes up in Bar Harbor were full of them back when we visited in 1986, and they made an obviously lasting impression. I can usually plant so that they have some shade and make sure they are well watered so that they last as long as possible.

Gardeners are optimists.  Yes, there will be enough sun, the temperature not too hot or cold, I'll remember to water, and yes, I will have a garden to enjoy.  And those annuals whose flowers keep coming all summer seem to agree with me.  This year's early spring had me starting weeks before Memorial Day, my traditional start date.  I've had to replace those pansies with begonias that love that sunshine.  And also my pinks  that somehow over-wintered and came back this spring finally petered out and needed replacing. 

Heading back to the garden center is no hardship in mid-July.  Plants are now on sale and there's no sign yet of mums.  I have to say I hate mums.  They are the signal for fall and the end of gardening.  I'd rather have the last of my summer flowers than plant mums.

But we're still at the height of the growing season.  I'm still enjoying my flowers, harvesting tomatoes and herbs for cooking, making notes of what has worked and what hasn't.  A seed, a plant, seem to be nature's promise that life renews.  It doesn't always stay the same, but it stays.  I just keep that watering can handy and keep tending my garden.