Travel to France: Provence, Grasse, Cabris and the Perfect B&B

Here is a piece about a terrific Inn in the south of France.  But first, a disclaimer:  I am not a travel writer.  Not only am I not a travel writer, I don’t read travel magazines or guides or books or websites dedicated to explaining where people should go and what they should see.  This is because I like to discover, meaning I would prefer to find a place worth seeing by turning down a small road without even a utility line strung alongside, while quite hungry, and it being late, and we not knowing where we are headed, but having an instinct we can find something interesting along the way.  It doesn't always work, of course.  We have suffered some pretty awful nights.  We have also come upon some true and unimaginably extraordinary experiences (and meals and views and places to sleep or hike or swim or rest).  And I don’t think the experience is the same if you haven’t found a place yourself.  And if you go to the places touted in the tour books guess what you find?  People who read tour books.  And I typically take the view, well, that these experiences are interesting in part because they are private and known only to self and those with whom we choose to share such experiences.  So I’ve not written about them.  But I am not sure about my decision to keep exploration so private.

dirt road ride with Cal

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2011 David Rocchio

Memorial Day, Loss and Rememberance

In the United States 30 May is Memorial Day.  It is a day for reflection, personal and public.  In the public corner, our little town marks the day well and quietly.  Each year the town hosts a small parade.  It is really just the high school marching band and veterans of wars walking at march pace from the center of the village to the cemetery on the edge of town.  The parade is managed with dignity and just enough fun.  The marching band is always prepared and poised.  The old soldiers, represented by the American Legion, take the responsibility for the day seriously.  The cemetery too is well maintained and ready for its close up.

This past Memorial Day my daughter and I barreled into town from the north just barely in time for the parade, and got firmly stuck in a line of cars just past the grocery store, the police having blocked Maple Street early, giving the marching band plenty of room to maneuver.  Antonia and I parked the car in the dirt along the edge of the pavement and raced toward Cemetery Road, she carrying the camera, me hanging on to my morning coffee.  We first saw the parade in the distance, a small swarm of figures coming our way, up the slight hill from the center of town toward Cemetery Road, band music echoing up the hill toward the blocked traffic.  Antonia began firing pictures.  She took so many they play back like an old-fashioned movie, each frame not capturing quite enough of the action but more than enough to tell the story.