Postcard from my travels
Wandering Paris and Arles with a group of writers takes me away from myself for a glorious, too-brief time.
I send this week’s missive from a desk in a little writing nook in a hotel room in Arles. This past week I have been traveling with and teaching a group of twenty-five MFA students in creative writing from Rosemont College in Philadelphia.
We began in Paris. Everything about the city fills me with hope. Mostly it’s everything I have left to know. Everything I encounter reminds me of something else I want to study, to learn, to see. On one of our first days we wandered the spectacular rooms of the flat where Victor Hugo lived for sixteen years, listening to stories about his life, and I felt a stirring of hunger, ideas whirling up inside me like a circle of leaves in a storm. Details caught my curiosity, called out for research. While I have been promising myself not to embark on another book that will require five years of research, I seem to have a germ of an idea that may require such research. Will I live long enough to write it? Who knows! Who ever knows? But it’s not as if I can just sit around scrolling Instagram while waiting for the axe to fall.
There is so much I want to say about Victor Hugo. Among the million other things, there are the relentless tragedies in his immediate family. His first child, Léopold, dead within months of birth; his daughter Léopoldine drowned at 19 with her new husband; his brother Eugene institutionalized for schizophrenia. His third child, Charles, became a photographer and the only one of his children to have children of his own. His fourth child, François-Victor, translated all of Shakespeare. All of Shakespeare. Died of Tuberculosis. His fifth child, called Adèle after her mother, was a pianist and composer who also fell ill with schizophrenia. She spent forty-five years in a hospital.
I listened to all of this and thought, yet he lived through it all, with it all, continued on. If he could do that, could bear of all that, surely I can bear my own darkness?
It is when I move away from myself that hope has room to breathe and grow. Our days have been so full, dense with conversation and activity, that my fears have not been able to find purchase on my soul. They scrabble their claws at me, begging for attention, but I have other things to do.
Theo accompanied me for this first Parisienne leg of the trip, treating it as a writing retreat. While I was teaching or exploring with the group, she sat in our hotel room writing a play. It made me so happy to have time with her, even if she did insist on moving her bed into the only space I could use to do yoga. On our last night together, I took her ice skating. I had hoped to take her to the vast Grand Palais Ice Rink, the largest indoor rink in the world, but by the time I looked for tickets, it was sold out. I left it to Theo to find something while I went off to teach.
We ended up at a little neighborhood skating rink in the far west of Paris, a couple inches of snow coating the ice (the French don’t seem to know how to clean ice), wobbly at first, getting faster and more confident as we skated. Even in the freezing rain that coated our jackets, the children around us laughed as they pulled or pushed each other on little blue frames, as they wrapped their arms around each other, gliding forward. The adults, not to be outdone in silliness, tried out fancy turns, falling over, their faces glowing. Christmas music still playing. Theo said there ought to be more New Year’s songs, so we didn’t need to keep listening to Christmas music in January. The staff gave Theo a free pair of gloves. As Theo put it, the vibes were good.
We took French classes at the Paris Language Institute, cruised the Seine, took walking tours of Hemingway’s Paris, of Victor Hugo’s Paris, stood outside the newly opened Notre Dame in awe of its shiny new exteriors. I liked our guide, despite the fact that he said “fun fact” about every three minutes. He told us stories about Hemingway, as well as Gertrude Stein and F. Scott Fitzgerald and Sherwood Anderson and others. All making it clear that we have missed the best Paris. We have missed the grit, the drama, the cheap rents, the fecund ground for creativity. Now it is clean and glossy, Olympics-washed, tourist-ready. Still beautiful, but….
We braved the Louvre on a Friday evening, when it is free. I would rather be trampled by a herd of a thousand llamas than ever do this again. The entire vast courtyard was packed with people. There were many different queues. Overwhelmed museum guards yelled at everyone, trying to herd them into the correct entrance. I don’t know how we ever ended up inside.
I’d seen the Mona Lisa before and was underwhelmed. Too crowded in her gallery, and to be frank, it’s not my favorite painting. There was no shortage of other works I wanted to see. But Theo reminded me it was her first time at the Louvre. She was keen to see the Mona Lisa, having heard so much about her in school. The last time I saw her was in 1989, and during that visit she was encased in plastic. This time she was unprotected, and we had a clear view. Theo was so thrilled that her excitement was contagious. She was even more excited about Winged Victory. After that, we wandered without a goal other than to escape the herds around the famous works. So much of the museum seems left unexplored due to the fame of a few pieces. It was disturbing. I was much happier in the deserted sculpture galleries we wandered.
My first days in Paris, I forgot that I was no longer in a village and kept saying “Bonjour!” to everyone I passed. Paris had many other small joys: the easy availability of gluten-free and vegan food, the glorious walking, the friendly interactions we had with Parisiens.
Theo headed home Sunday morning, as she went back to school Monday. When I returned to our room after taking her to the Gare de Lyon, I felt bereft. Our room was so empty without her. Just her towel hanging in the bathroom, her hotel slippers askew on the floor, the duvet heaped on her bed. I missed her hogging the bathroom and monopolizing the desk and her music and nonstop talk. I was very glad to be checking out and heading to Arles.
Our first day in Arles I was so exhausted I skipped the morning tour to work and wander along the Rhône. I had a peaceful day, and enjoyed being with the students during our workshop. It has been such a pleasure to meet and talk with this diverse group of students. Their writing, even their in-class exercises, impresses me enormously. I love listening to them read, hearing about their lives and work in Philadelphia, talking with them about writing. They infuse me with new energy.
Yesterday we met editors at Actes Sud, a publisher based here in Arles. Their professional journeys were fascinating, as was their office space.
9 January 2025
Yesterday, while my students set off for a day in the Camargue to commune with flamingos and horses, Tim picked me up in Arles and drove me to chemo in Montpellier.
I feel like Icarus, having flown too close to the sun. The crash to earth as I sat in the doctor’s office listening to her tell me that she saw remains of cancerous liquid between my lungs and liver was profound. Dr. D’Hondt had also told me the cancer was still there, as evidenced by my nonworking alimentary canal. But she hadn’t seen or at least hadn’t mentioned this remaining liquid.
Even before that, just entering the Hôpital de Jour sent my spirits plummeting. The reminder, lest I should be tempted to forget, of my reality.
There is no need to recount the details of the day—you know them by now. The ice, the reading, the brusque doctors. Tim delivered me back to Arles in time for dinner, joining us for a meal before heading home to Sauve.
I don’t want to end this week’s post with the swelling of that underskin sorrow. I tell myself to think of Victor Hugo. Of all who suffer far worse every moment of their days. It doesn’t make things easier, but it reminds me that I am not alone.
Tomorrow we return to Paris for our final weekend. I will walk around the city once more, an empty jug filling up with stories. The next time, I will study Hugo’s letters in the national archive. I will go back to the museums I love and find other, smaller gems. I will walk many more miles, find dark corners where literary ghosts lurk.
The next time, I keep thinking. The next time. And the time after that.
that last line...gorgeous writing--really killed me. I guess you must be a professional novelist. <3. Also...Doctors don't know everything. Love you, friend.
Glad the Rosemont gig went well!