A Walker in the Suburbs

Yesterday, the bells of Eglise St. Martin called worshippers to Mass. Dong, dong, dong, they sounded. From inside the church, where we were sitting, it felt like they were banging on my ribcage, pulsing with my blood. They rang briefly at the consecration and again at the end of the service, after a thrilling organ postlude (another auditory treat).

But I kept coming back to the bells, their clanging a poignant reminder of faith and time. I was remembering a book I read for class last year, Village Bells: Sound and Meaning by Alain Corbin, translated from French, so doubly appropriate to mention here.

“The bell was regarded as a support for collective memory, and with good reason,” Corbain writes. “The people long preserved the memory of its sonority.” Bells represented cohesion, community, the triumph of civilization over disorder.

For me, they are one more reason to love the European way of life, a life where (at least in the city of Colmar), bells mark the morning and the evening … and the magic of this place.

Our guidebook calls it the Bridge of Fannies because there are so many people crowded on it that at first all you glimpse is a sea of posteriors .

Make your way to the front of the span, though, and you’ll be rewarded with a view of Petite Venise, a neighborhood of colorful houses and cascading geraniums.

Canals were threaded through Colmar long ago, siphoning water from the river so farmers could barge their wares into town.

Now ducks ply these waters, and tourists photograph them — and everything else. How could they (I) not?

The café faced Église St. Martin, which we’d just explored. We had noted the glories of this Gothic church: its two organs, stunning altar, and vaulted ceilings. We dropped some change in its donation box, and then we sought nourishment at a café across the street.

I had my eye on a pastry I’d seen displayed in a case. St. Honoré, it was called. I rehearsed the words silently: “Bonjour, madame! Je voudrais une pâtisserie St. Honore, s’il vous plait.”

Miraculously, the server understood me. Miraculously, there was a slice of cake left. It was delicious, so beautiful to look at that a Dutch customer at the next table ordered one herself. Based on our shared love of pastries, we struck up a conversation and exchanged contact information.

Later on, I looked up the pastry, and learned that it’s named for the French patron saint of bakers, St. Honore. Only in France would there be a patron saint of bakers and a pastry named for him.

St. Martin. St. Honore. Two saints … and a pastry.

“The trail starts at the end of town. Walk until you reach the vineyards, keep going, and then you will see it,” said the woman at the tourist information office. We weren’t convinced. Earlier, this same person had told us that the trail started at the tourist office itself, which it did not.

Still, we had nothing else to go on, so we made our way through Eguisheim, once voted the most beautiful village in France. The grapes hung heavy on the vine and it was warm in the sun, but we pressed on, walking slowly but steadily uphill.

Finally, a stand of trees. It was the beginning of the park, the forest and a network of trails that, if I understand it correctly, could take us all over the area if we had the stamina to hike them.

We reached a bridge, a decision point. Would we continue up the steep path to the ruins of three castles? Yes, in fact we would. Up, up we climbed, making friends with our fellow hikers, including two sweet Australian shepherd doggies.

The climb wasn’t as strenuous as we feared, and within an hour we were standing on top of the world — or at least well above the Alsatian plain. The bells of Eguisheim wafted up to us from the village, striking the hour — one, two, three — as we clambered over the ruins of an 11th-century castle: stones that were quarried a millennium ago!

It was hard to leave, but we had no desire to spend the night up there. So we made our way slowly down, back to the village and civilization. Three castles, two tired walkers.

A few hours west of Paris lies the Alsace region of France, an area filled with castles, wineries and half-timbered houses.

We’ve only just landed here and begun to explore, but I knew the minute I opened my window that I would love this place. Old tiles dripping with vines, tiny dormers, pink walls, and glimpses of the city awaiting us — a pedestrian’s dream-come-true.

We’re tucked away on the third floor of an ancient building owned by a family that’s been growing grapes here since the early 16th century. Luckily, they also rent rooms and apartments. It’s a funky place that requires climbing two flights of rickety wooden stairs, but for the next seven days … it’s home.

It’s August in Paris, a time when vacationers throng the boulevards and Parisians flee the city, decamping to the Alps or the Riviera. For those who remain, there is Paris-Plage, a series of “beaches” along the Seine.

I saw them from above, strolling along the quay on a perfect late summer afternoon. People sauntering, sipping, basking in the sun.

It’s funny to think of Paris needing to sell itself as anything other than what it already is: a sophisticated European capital, site of the 2024 Olympics, a mecca for writers, thinkers and artists everywhere.

But, as I’m learning on this visit, it’s also a home, full of apartment buildings with plant-filled balconies, of neighborhood bistros and parks where you least expect them. I love seeing this Paris. It makes me appreciate the great city all the more.

If all goes according to plan we will be in Paris this morning. Paris, home to one of my dearest friends, who I haven’t seen in nine years.

The City of Light is popular this year, given the weeks-long advertisement for it that was last year’s summer Olympics. Whenever I caught one of the events, I remember thinking that the real winner was the city. Had Paris ever looked so radiant?

We’re here to find out. And much more. To chat, to catch up, to explore. The last time I saw Paris was during a European heat wave with my still-growing girls. The first time I saw Paris I was as an awestruck 20-year-old.

I’m much older now … but just as enthralled.

I’m better on some trips than others. Ironically, the longer excursions require more discipline, more ruthlessness. Packing light is not for the faint of heart.

But after lugging large suitcases up and down the stairs of broken escalators, after being unable to hoist my bag into the overhead storage unit, I’m determined that the next trip, which begins today, be a leaner, lighter one.

And so the winnowing has begun, began days ago, to be honest. I started out with a universe far larger than the final subset, made some calculations (no hiking boots, fewer shirts) and jettisoned. When I reached what I thought was a suitable compromise, I threw everything in my bag and picked it up. Not bad, so I pulled everything out to pack it properly.

I have time for one more round of belt-tightening, though. I’m hoping the bag I take to the airport in a few hours is lighter still.

(My old, much-battered, too-large suitcase — may it rest in peace.)

Monet, Manet, Cezanne, Renoir. The eyes rest where they will. And though they will marvel at the fabric arts, the silver and the ancient Buddhas, they will linger longest on the Impressionists.

The day before yesterday we wandered through the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) Museum. If Saturday’s concert was a treat for the ears — and it was, with haunting melodies and an obsessive need to listen to them again — then Sunday’s expedition was an equally delightful feast for the eyes.

It reminds me that one need not travel far to truly travel, an observation that others before me have shared. “I have traveled widely in Concord,” said Henry David Thoreau. I was only a few minutes away from Concord last week, and now am only an hour away from the National Gallery, with its Picassos, Rembrandts and Van Goghs.

Travel, true travel, never ceases.

We arrived during rush hour, as a steady stream of cars headed north on Route 119. Time for only a quick walk before dinner. There’s a pizza place across the street. Could it be the same one we patronized years ago? We didn’t enter to find out.

Up the hill from the inn is the First Parish Church, scene of our friend Kip’s funeral. Standing room only for that kind and friendly soul. I miss him still.

We searched for the post office, and found it … now an antiques shop. But the large white houses remain, and Hollis Street still angles off to the east.

It seems like a lifetime since we lived here. And in so many ways it has been.