The platters were prepared and placed before the six unsuspecting folks sitting around the table. All the necessary ingredients to put together your very own, to your liking, Taco.

“Go on” the hostess said gleefully, “make it however you’d like it.”
Was that a gleeful statement I thought, or did I detect a sinister tone? A test, I thought. How dexterous are you?

Not very.

Besides, I like my food, like my clothes, already assembled.

Which is why when I came across this article, What Do You Make of This Outfit, I realized that the hostess of the ‘ill fated make your own Taco party’ was, without question, the evil twin sister of Ruth La Ferla, fashion editor of the New York Times. Clearly, both were in cohoots to figure out new ways to humble and humilate.

Coming apart at the seams, she’s come undone, she’s unraveling are all my favorite descriptors for assessing one’s mental state.

Their satorial state, not so much.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HDe7E9KeubE&w=480&h=390] 

Don Kirshner the music producer and publisher, who passed away this week, was quoted as saying something along the lines of "I can't tell you how good my life story is, but my songs will make a great sound track." 

Pre Beatles, in an around 1961 (which Mad Magazine called the "upside down year" as the numerals which form the year look the same when rotated upside down, a bizarre factoid) I listened and evaluated every nuance of my life by the lyrics I heard on the radio or on my 45's. Remember 45's?

 "Up on The Roof" and "Under The Boardwalk." I could recite every word of both songs, knowing full well, however, that I did not participate in either of those activities.  A lifelong fear of heights precluded my contemplating life's vagaries from the top of my apartment building and, for the latter, then (and now) a full body dermabrasion wasn't really attractive to me. 

Neil Sedeka sang to me. Had I had someone to break up with, I was pretty clear that it would be really really hard to do. I don't think I ever wanted Neil Sedeka, specifically, but am certain that because of Davy of the Monkees, I sang, on a daily basis, "I'm a Believer."  What I believed in was insignificant.

I desperately wanted to be riding along with Connie Francis, or was it Connie Stevens, to someplace in Florida, for spring break, because that's "where the boys are", one waiting for her and one for me.

I probably hadn't thought about these tunes for years, and while I can't remember what I had for dinner last night, as I listened to these tunes as part of the eulogies commemorating Don Krishner's musical contributions, I vividly recalled who I was with, what I was doing and where I was. 

Splish Splash.

For a brief time….

As I look into the future….

Everything looks better in pink light, don’t you think?

I think I heard somewhere that the Ritz, in Paris, has its dining room illuminated by pink bulbs, with pinkish shades and everyone looks fabulous.

They have to look good, after all, it is the Ritz.  They don’t allow, you see,  unattractive people to be seated …I think the same thing is true for St. Bart’s. When the boat comes into port there stands a sentry picking and choosing who can stay and who has to go back from whence they came.

Anyhow, as I was saying, pinkish light makes you look better.

Which is why I am moving to Roussillion.

Yeah, sure, it is a charming medieval village in the South of France. And yes, there are wonderful ancient sundials to see, beautiful bell towers to visit, and everywhere you turn, extraordinary views.

But I am reasonably certain that the bus loads of tourists, who will start descending en masse in the coming months, arrive there because they know that the snapshots they take of one and other will show a youthful blush with nary an age spot or blemish in sight.

I’m moving to Roussillion.

Samuel Beckett, Andre Derain, Matisse, George Braque and Picasso, to name drop a few, all spent time in Roussillion. If anyone asks, tell them I moved there because I wanted to walk in the footsteps of those creative souls who came before me.

And the bonus of all of this is knowing that my dewy glow is the result of my settling down here, and is not the result of a hot flash.

And there I was. Sur le Pont.

Neither dancing on, under or near by, I’m way too inhibited.

Nor would I allow myself to sing any of the verses, had I known any of the verses. So sad, but since I was old enough to be in a chorus I was told to just mouth the words. I think it had something to do with throwing off the rest of the kids.

Talk about the “bridge to nowhere.” Does Sarah Palin come to mind?

Anyhow, what really struck me today is that I have been singing, okay mouthing, the words to Sur le Pont..forever.  Never did I  a) know what the words actually were and  b) knew that this was an actual real thing. Saint Benezet’s Bridge.  Go know.

And there it was.

This got me thinking about all the songs that we have sung, particularly rock and roll songs, where we thought we had it right only to find out that the words we were singing were all wrong.

Except, of course, for MacArthur Park (…took so long to make it and we’ll never have the recipe again…) where even if we did have all the correct words it still made absolutely no sense.

Anyway, in case you run into a small child and want to get it right, here is the first verse. You are on your own for the rest.

Sur le pont d’Avignon
L’on y danse, l’on y danse
Sur le pont d’Avignon
L’on y danse tous en rond

Have you been to any of these places?

Stroll/meander/saunter.

Park yourself at some outdoor cafe, have an aperitif, cafe or some other liquid of your choice and people watch.

And, more importantly, be confident that it’s easy to remember where you’ve been since you’ve seen a zillion photos immortalizing the place.

Actually, for me, another reason I’m seen wandering aimlessly up and down these grand streets is it diminishes all fears I have that if I step off to wander around the smaller side streets I will never be seen again. My iphone would be helpful, I suppose, as a navigational device, but giving any appearance of being a tourist quickly negates that activity.

Unlike My Cousin Vinny, I wish to blend.

So here’s the deal.

I think that I should tell you right now that I had a terrific time; saw everything there was to see; tasted the local fare; stepped inside of each and every church and museum. I will send you photos, postcards and buy local trinkets to give to you.

This is insurance.

When I can’t remember what I saw and where I was you’d have prompts. Alternatively, you could pass these remembrances onto others regaling them with where you’ve been and what you’ve seen, just to make them crazy jealous.

Who’s to know?

Except for this place. My youthful stomping ground. Haven’t forgotten a thing.

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.