The robin-egg blue sky reminds me. Late last spring, I found a bird in the courtyard, wobbling and flailing across the stones. Already in the preceding days, I'd found three different baby birds who'd tumbled to their deaths from their nests; at least this one was still alive. (Bird mamas have a tough decision to make: high enough to keep the chicks from the predators--or low enough to avoid fatal crashes. It's fly from the get-go or die.) For some types of birds, there's at least an entertaining practice period, when they spend a few days alternating between unsteady swoops through the courtyard, and resting in a sort of discreet way, behind a flower pot or on a low rafter.
After a breathless call to my friend the local bird expert, I knew to calm this apparently uninjured bird by placing him under an overturned pot for some dark and quiet. After he'd rested, I caught the non-flying fellow. Following my bird-loving friend's succinct advice, I took the birdlet to the terrace, and, heart in mouth, I threw him into the sky. 
He flew. Every cell in my body was cheering him on, and I squinted after him until he was a speck in the blue, until finally there was nothing but the memory of the scissoring wings in my hands.
He flew. Every cell in my body was cheering him on, and I squinted after him until he was a speck in the blue, until finally there was nothing but the memory of the scissoring wings in my hands.
This was before I acquired chickens. These days I candle eggs. In the pitch black of night, you take a bright flashlight out to the chicken house, where the broody hen's in a sort of chicken daze, all but cross-eyed with weariness sitting night and day on her eggs because she is absolutely compelled to. You slip an egg out from under her warm breast, you cup your hand around the egg, and you hold it against the light. 
Remember the red semi-translucent glow your fingers would make when you held them up in front of a candle or a flashlight? (Was I the only one who tried to see through her fingers?) Candling eggs is like that. All those pin-prick holes in the egg--the ones the chick-to-be uses to breathe--they shine like stars in a pink firmament. You're staring into a glowing universe, condensed to the size of your palm, only you aren't seeking constellations, but rather the faint webwork of blood veins, which confirm that life is under construction, that this particular egg has indeed been fertilized.
Life is busting out all over, beyond the chicken house too. The neighbor's lambs are freshly born and capering, there's a tan calf resting in the clover of a nearby field, the woodpecker must be feeding a family (judging by the all-day percussion), the cuckoo is back and cuckooing, the swallows are chortling, the bumblebees are careening drunkenly from one source of nectar to the next. The frog mating chorus is in full nightly swing, augmented by the periodic sleepy whoot of the owls, while the fuzzy bats (no bigger than a tablespoon each) that live behind my window shutters have forsaken hibernation to resume their circular dining cruises through the deep, cool air.
They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so does it make this gone and disappeared band feel better that Liz Phair featured it on an album, and that even Coldplay covered it (at least once)? A hit single seems so much more ephemeral than, say, a tree. 
There's also the largest magnolia tree in Europe, sequoias, on-going often breath-taking natural art installations, an aquatic garden (note: April is too early in the season to see much in the way of the normally sensational water lily collection), a large Japanese garden, a labyrinth made of living bamboo, etc., etc. All this irrigated with five kilometers worth of elegant, narrow water canals. 
At first blush years ago, it seemed so odd that I'd keep coming across stands of bamboo in the Cevennes. I mean, it's the south of France, not southeast Asia, right? 
But for the very wealthiest some two hundred years ago, having a collection of exotic trees (sequoias brought in by ship from California, bamboo from China) was not only a trend but a way of flaunting a very particular status. On the larger properties in the Cevennes, you can still come across some extraordinary specimens. As my neighbor says: we don't plant trees for ourselves, we plant them for our grandchildren.
In the shorter term, we're getting near-summer weather here: the swallows are back in the eaves of the roof, and I've broken out the ice cream maker. First came the house standard, coconut ice cream. Then this custardy, ultra-decadent version of 
Small wonder, given its nine 
Plus Barcelona averages 330 sunny days per year, according to the Chamber of Commerce. How's that for a bit of vitamin D? (The sun-infused drink above is a sangria made with cava, the Catalan version of Champagne.)
Gaudí's esthetically and technically astonishing Sagrada Familia is expected to be completed in 2030 and really is worth the wait in line (detail of exterior above and part of interior below). 
There is much more to Barcelona's architecture than Gaudí's fluid, complex structures and modernisme (Catalan Art Nouveau), but you cannot fully grasp the city without experiencing those two essential elements. 
From the Gràcia district, where I was staying in airy rented apartment, I was within easy reach of some his more famous works, such as the Casa Milà, shown just above. But I was also even closer to the 
While the deservedly famous 
Barcelona is the capital of the province of Catalunya, which is very much part of Spain and very much its own province, with language, culture and foods quite distinct from Madrid and the rest of Spain. In this way, Barcelona brings to mind the 
Imagine wide, endlessly long avenues just meant for ambling and little neighborhoods with crooked alleyways designed to confuse. This is Barcelona. Beaches, sailboats, boys and surfboards in April. This is also Barcelona. I'd write more, but it's happy hour here in France, there are still some slices of chorizo and lomo de jabugo left, and my friends are waiting on the sun-drenched terrace...
I've an ear infection, I'm sore and I absolutely have to see my doctor tomorrow, but none of that matters, because I'm off to 
The canvas set up behind the raging tug'o'war (above) was made earlier in the day by hurling (real) eggs that had been filled with paint; the resulting "fireworks" bloomed on the canvas and a screaming good time was had by all. Imagine kids pedaling like lunatics to nowhere, their leg power making a paper arrow swing over an old map--a metaphorical Tour de France. The photos I took are by no means prize-winners, but in the general hilarity I'm frankly surprised they turned out at all; I hope you get a feeling for the bubbling merriment. 
There was cheering and a helping push or two for the soapbox derby.
Then there was a rollicking five-instrument band making folk music in French and the deep dialect of the region. The kids held sway for the first hour, twirling and stomping, swinging and parading, shining eyes and flush-faced to a one, from the three year olds to the fifteen year olds. 
They're what my nine year old wants to make (yes, that easy and quick...), when sunshine and exertions call for something that'll make you feel good.
I haven’t always lived in France. I was in the American Midwest for a time, in Madison, Wisconsin, up the road a bit from Chicago. If you didn't know it, Madison is one of the most 
Here in France, in the grueling smackdown that is summer, I do not understand the bikers. I mean, I truly do not comprehend. Where are these weekend warriors going in the hottest part of the day, when all the locals are most sensibly asleep? Is there a fantastically good restaurant I don't know about? The bikers wear lurid Lycra. And just looking at their helmets makes my scalp itch. These people do not smile, because they are in full, sweat-soaked suffering. I am somewhat surprised I haven’t yet come across one of the 50-something guys (on a holiday from his desk) in mid-heart attack.
I may just need to find an old bike after all. Think I'll pour another glass of 
