It’s been awhile since I’ve written. Although here in Charlottesville we haven’t had the scorching weather of other places, it’s still too hot to do much outdoors. Then today, I found a note on my phone—a journal entry if you will.

Pull up a chair. It’s time to catch up.

I’ve been back and forth to Paris this year. It’s neither optimal nor our intention to bounce between here and there, but I’m trying not to overthink things. We went in April because our grandson, Jack, and his parents went (and what a wonderful trip we all had!).

We returned in May because two of my favorite women in the world were there, and Paris is our meeting place. A crummy overnight flight is a small concession for this much fun.

In late June, I schlepped back through Paris alone for a few days on my way to a business trip to Bratislava. I needed to go, so I didn’t fret about it. Yet it was nice to have a spot to catch my breathe before moving on to here:

By the time I returned home to Charlottesville, I had frittered away my legally allotted 90 days in France and hence had to stay away for a few months.

That’s fine by me. I love Paris, but I love Charlottesville too. Besides, exciting things were brewing stateside.

In early August, we added a new baby to the Callahan clan. Our granddaughter Charlie now has a baby sister named Parker. They are both sweet and adorable.

Life is good.

During the last several weeks, I’ve been considering the future of this blog. It’s my last social media entanglement, and hence I could snip it and be done. Yet it’s hard to throw away the closest thing I have to a journal of the last 12 years.

So let’s see if I can breathe a bit of life back into this self-indulgent old beast. Here it goes.

Meaux, France. April 2023:

A chorus of birds, a handful of early morning dog walkers, statues to people I’ve never heard of. It’s shortly past seven AM in Meaux, France and I’m largely alone.

It’s both a charming town and a 25 minute train ride from Paris Gare de l’Est. But cute and convenient are side benefits. I came to Meaux for one reason—to sample its brie cheese.

Some months ago, I had taken a walking food tour of the north marais in Paris. During that tour, I learned about the AOC (Appellation d’Origine Contrôlée) of Brie de Meaux. It’s a herbaceous brie—a unique cheese that a connoisseur could readily identify by its village-specific terroir.

Suffice it to say, as I boarded the train, I was following my mouth.

In the Meaux train station, I stop for an espresso and (surprisingly good) croissant. Then with no particular agenda, and no particular time constraints, I wander.

The center of the old town is dominated by the cathedral Saint Etienne. To the side of the church is a gated courtyard, a cluster of buildings, and back beyond them, a garden. Since the church isn’t open yet, when a man slides the gate open, I walk down into the Garden of Bossuet.

A goose is honking in the yard beyond the stone wall. The cacophony makes me a bit self conscious. I’m not sure if I should be here this early, but the maintenance crew arrives and they don’t tell me to leave—so I stay.

Its a simple enough garden—square, a mix of grass, flowers and pebbled walkways. And yet, as I approach the center, I notice the soft-porn fountain—frolicking creatures that are half buxom young maidens and half … what? Bird? Dragon? I laugh at its ridiculousness. (At this point, I was going to christen the garden Tulips. and Titties. But Pat says I shouldn’t. So I won’t.)

The church bells strike 8; I make my way back to the cathedral.

The first service of the day, lauds, is starting; I enter and take a seat. The priest chants in a baritone while a congregation of five octogenarian sopranos warble a reply. The church bells ring and ring and ring … Sun shines through stained glass forming a kaleidoscope on the floor. Candles flicker along the altar. White lilies remain from Easter.

The service is finished in fifteen minutes. I leave the church to head out of town, climbing for a mile and a half from the village to a World War One museum on the outskirts.

The museum itself is squat and modern—perched over a large entry area. The sounds of planes and exploding bombs echo from the ceiling. A school class is entering with me. “Ecoutez!” one boy yells to his classmates. “Listen!”

The museum’s exhibits start in 1870 and move chronologically through the backstory of the times and then onto gas masks, weaponry, field ready port-a-potties. The exhibition rooms encircle a larger open space displaying transport vehicles, tanks, and recreated trenches.

I’m simultaneously interested in all of it and none of it. The detritus of war does not intrigue me, but the village and it’s history are captivating. Plus, all of it is part of the entire picture of France. And the entire picture of France is what I’m mentally constructing.

I head back to town passing no obvious battlefields. Rather, in the intervening years, a gently rolling suburbia has developed, including some handful of factories. I stop midway at the Brie de Meaux factory. Inside, a shop sells slabs of cheese sliced from wheels the diameter of a bicycle tire. I taste a sample, but I buy nothing. These are slabs meant for serious cheese eaters (aka The French). I’m not sure I’d eat that much brie over the course of my remaining lifetime.

With my mission unceremoniously accomplished, I continue back to Meaux.

Near the train station, I stop for lunch in a restaurant above a cheese shop. Freddie Mercury is singing Radio Gaga, and the women at the next table (thank goodness, not Americans) are singing along. It’s one of those random, quirky scenes (dare I say “cheesy”) that I live for in my travel life.

Lunch is cheese on cheese and it is delicious. I’m in no hurry, so I finish my notes. It’s been a lovely day. I’m glad I came.

But I doubt I’ll return. There are hundreds of AOCs strewn across a few thousand villages in France. My mouth and I have our work cut out for us.

That’s all for now. I have an exciting three months ahead of me. Let’s hope we keep in touch.

But first, some parting shots.

Categories: Life in Paris

Tags: AOC, cheese, Day trips from PAris, meaux France