Je suis en Grenoble.

It's in the southeasternish part of France, in a valley surrounded by dramatic mountains, quite close to Italy, which explains in part the incredible meal I had tonight at Angelos, a tiny restaurant off one of the squares in the old part of town.  I went several days ago with some other people, and had a great meal; we tried to return a few days later, but came just as the restaurant was closing.  Tonight I was alone, I had arrived too early and had to wile away about 40 minutes waiting for the restaurant to open.  Naturally I was the first to be seated.  Angelo remembered what I ate the other day (I had asked halfway through the meal for a side of garlicky chard, which one of my table-mates had ordered) and came to my table to ask me if I'd like it the same way again.  His wife (I assume) does the serving and the parmesan cheese grating, along with any sous-cheffery that is required.  So.  I had gnocchi with tomato sauce and parmesan, and a side of garlicky, tomatoey chard, and a 1/4 litre du vin rouge, which is about at the limit of what I can drink myself.  It is difficult to eat well when you're away from home, I find, and the relish I took in tonight's meal should not be underestimated.

Two days ago afforded enough of a break in the schedule to make an excursion into the mountains.  In walking distance from the hotel is a 19th century prison, the old Bastille, and it's a brisk little hike up to the top of the fortress, although not quite to the top of the ridge.  I'm looking at it now, through my open hotel window, gauzy white curtains blowing in a late spring breeze.  The view from the top (or, as high as we went) is impressive, to say the least.  Clumpy, rounded mountains, their sedimentary layers visible, piled on one side.  Sharp points on the other side, graduated, growing higher and sharper into the distance.  In the middle, a valley floor, cut by the river Isère, with the old city in a huddle of twisty streets by the river, and the rest of Grenoble surrounding this, gradually built up as it has been along straight roads with the ugliest run-down blockish architecture you can imagine, standing like a blight against the verdant mountains.  

I have decided that wherever I choose to live, finally, has to have some dramatic element to set it apart.  The Pacific Ocean, for example.  Or these Alps.  Basel, it has the river, that's something.  It may not be enough.  We'll see.  Paris, I think that's the problem with it.  Many internal draws -- the varied Arrondissements, things to see, people to watch, culture, shops, etc, but then only the river running through the middle, and I don't even think you'd want to swim in it, as in Basel.

 

Several views from the Bastille.

Meanwhile, en France, je parle français.  Pas très bien, et pas tous les temps, mais j'ai un peu de vocabulaire et c'etais bien pour moi à comprendre ce que les personnes disent.  Two nights ago, I had a conversation Entirely In French, for maybe 20 minutes.  I couldn't believe it was happening.  We didn't talk about anything terribly complicated, but my ability to pull words out of my head after a break of 14 years is astounding to me.  If only the German language could be so smooth for me.  Quel dommage.

Alors, the wine has gone to my head, and I feel over-eager to nod off.  I have been sleeping poorly the past few days, though I anticipate a good sleep tonight due in part to the quiet side of the hotel, and the window that opens.  Small things like the window end up making a gigantic difference to my personal happiness and well being, away from home.  I do, by the way, miss Basel.  I'm looking forward to getting back to my bicycle, the print shop, my brown rice-lettuce-carrot-toasted almond salads.  The excessive amounts of chocolate I was eating before I left.  And, in June, several visitors, for whose visits I am extremely excited.