There are certain truths I’ve come to accept while vacationing here in France.

Follow a gaggle of tourists and you are pretty certain to hear conversations that go something along the lines of “it’s over there,” “no, it’s to the left”, “you’re wrong, it’s to the right”, “we saw it yesterday”, “I can’t remember, did we?’

So true. So sad. So reassuring.

Only ask google maps for directions. Locals will be accomodating and gracious, but lie to distance and time.

If you want gelato go to Italy.

Walking up and down hilltowns is not enough to justify eating your body weight in foie gras.

And lastly, when dressing for a days outing remember black knee socks and sandals are a  fashion statement don’t.

Interested?

There are a few pros and cons to consider…

Sadly, for some, it no longer comes with a prince.

It was hard to always keep things neat and tidy, and in tip top shape, as the previous owners had to fight off the Visigoth, Saracen and Frankish assailants from taking their possessions…not all at the same time, mind you, they took turns.

And drafty.

The views, however, are extraordinary. If you squint you can make out the snow capped Pyrenees way off in the distance.

Last renovation was probably around 1853. While not exactly a fixer upper, you would need to think about some of life’s basic necessities, like indoor plumbing and a kitchen.

I, sadly, will have to take a pass.

 I know that I really want a water view.

A moat could, I suppose, double as a lap pool but it just doesn’t offer the same cachet for me.

The town, if you want to investigate further, is called Carcassonne, in the Languedoc-Roussillion region.

I thought exactly the same thing.

Lets think about this.

My image is that of a frenchmen, riding a bicycle, a wicker basket perched on the front handlebars, and at least 2 or 3 loaves of hot and crusty pointing the way home.

Bagels in that basket? Quelle horror.

Next, one has to consider what they are going to wash that bagel down with. It appears that the fallen out of favor Bordeaux is no longer a good option.

This concern, however, seems to be targeted to a younger aged population of wine drinkers, so for those of you older imbibers of the wines of Bordeaux, sip away.

I’ll let you know, as I meander around the french countryside, if I espy any Zabar’s dotting the landscape. I wonder how you say “I’d like a schmeer” en francais?

Imagine a ^ over the i if you are a purist. I haven’t the foggiest notion as to how to make that happen. There it sits, hovering over the 6, waiting for someone clever to make use of it. I, si triste, am not one of those clever ones.

Anyhow, there we were, outside of St. Quentin de Baron, our little vil lage, (not a typo, mes amis, but getting you into a mind set ) winding our way to Libourne (think Union Sq. Market on steroids) food market. We are talking serious food market. Huge, big, overwhelming feast for the senses, food market.

Twas Jonathan Swift, I read somewhere, who was reported to have said, “it was a bold man who ate the first oyster.” I’d have been more impressed with watching that bold man open said oyster. Can you picture that while this guy was figuring out whether he could eat this thing there was another fellow sharpening a tool, creating mesh gloves, and mixing together a really yummy mignonette concoction?

Anyway, there we were choosing from amongst the zillion varieties displayed. Thinking that no aphrodisiac moment was in my future, I yielded to the choices of my companions. Pearls yes, love potions no.

Witnessed by the visual I have provided for you, they were tres bon.

Bonjour…

Stay tuned for snippets from afar.

Like from France.

Lots to do.

Dinner with the Sarkozy’s, meetings with the EU, collecting volcanic ash…

Will be closely adhering to the Mediterranean Diet and learning how to affect the scarf maneuver without looking like I’ve had a neck injury.

Avoir for now.

It seems to me that a great deal of "performance art" is much like rubbernecking at a highway mishap.

You aren't sure why you are staring so intently, chastise yourself for the amount of time you are spending staring, yet you can't seem to stop yourself. How come?

I imagine, if I googled, I'd find some research that has explored, examined, dissected, probed and poked the brain to answer that question. 

I do know though, for me, as it relates to performance art, it's my fascination with someone's ability to come up with some left of center idea, explore it down to within an inch of it's life, and then actually do it. It's the doing it part that really fascinates. Most of us mere mortals have these imaginative flights of fancy. You know, what would happen if I did___________fill in your own blank. Then, of course, we fail to execute.

Some can execute. Two current exhibitions are my case in point.

Marina Abramovic The Artist is Present, and Kate Gilmore Walk The Walk.

While I haven't seen the Bryant Park trot-a-thon I have been to MoMa for Abramovic's show. And, like the rubbernecking concept, couldn't take my eyes off of Marina while she sat at a table, not taking her eyes off of the person seated across from her, who was staring back at her. She sits all day. Doesn't get up for anything. Nary a bathroom stop, a drink of water, a hamburger. All day. Like in all day. For the entire time her exhibition is mounted. Week after week.

Did you get that? 

The latest, and without doubt, takes the "you thought this up, really, really" award is called Glassphemy! Something about recycling being boring, this exhibition is making it more exciting. That concept is coupled with a dose of allowable aggressive behavior. Like throwing the soon to be recycled glass against a wall. In the vicinity of others. No casualties have been reported.

I, have to rethink what I consider performance art. Offering my seat, while on the subway to a pregnant woman, I thought wouldn't qualify. Even with my getting up, oh so gracefully and with such flourish.

Then, considering the look of shock and awe from my fellow passengers, once I had executed that maneuver apparently did qualify me as a performance artist. 

For the moment.

Peter, if you remember, doesn’t grow up. As in get older. It must be the fairy dust.

He does return, from time to time,  to the Darling household, in a feeble attempt to reengage the now aging Wendy for a little revisit to Never-never land. Sadly, she must decline.

Why?

It seems that she’s recently been booked to host the next segment on Saturday Night Live.

Wendy, clever girl, aware that the viewership, after Betty White’s evening as the host, was huge. Armed with this info she demanded compensation way above her usual day rate. And, of course, Lorne agreed.

After all Lorne, now 65, figures that he, like Peter, has to rethink what he needs to do to motivate anyone to keep coming back to Neverland.

Tinkerbell has been making infrequent guest appearances. Captain Hook has finally come out and is now encouraging others to follow suit.

Lorne was last seen imploring those who still believed in SNL to clap their hands. “Tune in next week”, he said, “to get there take the second star on the right and head straight on til’ morning.”

Until then, he sits, patiently waiting for the Lost Boys, or is it the Wild and Crazy Guys, to come and take him out for a spin.

I have never been selected for a focus group, solicited for a survey, probed, poked or queried for a scientific study.

I do receive phone calls asking for contributions to slightly shady causes. I'm pretty sure that doesn't count. And while being lauded for filling out my census form, I know that doesn't count either.

The latest study I wasn't included in was measuring creativity. Really. 

Scientists are spending their energy looking into the neurology of inspiration. Who are these people? Sensors measuring brain activity to define creativity? 

One of the definitions of creativity was "the ability to restructure one's understanding of a situation in a nonobvious way." 

Alrighty then. If that's the definition here's my vote for one of the creative thinkers of all time. 

The individual who shucked the first oyster, added some mignonette sauce, and sucked it down. I am pretty sure, however, he didn't make the cut for the study either.

Inspired by the reviews of IronMan 2,  I’ve decided I am going to be the next superhero(ine).

Really.

My legs are probably still good enough. Or so I’m told. Tights, additionally and cleverly, conceal any unsightly bumps, lumps and those insidious creeping, creepy veins. The cape, if draped carefully and dramatically, equally hides a multitude of problems. The latest Spanx should work much better than a pair of undies over the tights look, thus completing the ensemble.

Here’s my plan as to how to achieve these super human powers.

After removing my Paul Newman’s Own non butter popped Popcorn from my microwave I will brazenly stand in front of the rotating microwave dish, with my cell phone on and next to my ear. All those radioactive waves, working in consort with the tastefully selected silver jewelry I am sporting, should combine to create the new superhuman me.

Think about the possibilities.

“Put down that syringe of Botox” I’ll shout, swooping into Dr. Makeyoufeelyounger’s office, extricating Maude from his vice like grip. Maude, you see, is my soon to be side kick. The “E” I have carefully embroidered onto her consignment store bought, but designer sweater, is for her name, ExpressionlessGirl.  “Why” she implored, “if I am Expressionless Girl would you take me from the loving, supportive, molding me into looking like every other woman in his waiting room, hands of Dr Makeyoufeelyounger?”

Unable to answer that question satisfactorially, I returned her to his chair. “Inject away” I intoned.

“When you are finished with her,” I tell him, “we are making our way to the Social Security Office to aid and abet in how to make sense of the gibberish that no one can understand when having to fill out the forms they have just been handed. Then, we will continue on to repeat this action at the Medicare offices.”

Before returning home to resume our regular identities, I inform Expressionless girl of our last ‘save the day’ activity. It’s a toss up between finding the right bra, to itemizing what Anna Wintour eats during the day and publishing it for all who want to carefully follow it so they, too, can weigh the same thing as an underweight 10 year old.

A day well spent. What challenges await tomorrow?