Sim Carter: Past Tense Imperfect

Pretty French Postcards My trip to France with Mindy in '89 was very different from my visit with my sister Nancy, sixteen years earlier, when I was twenty and she was just sixteen. When Mindy and I stayed in Paris, we stayed in a newish hôtel in the business district, an area called la Defense. Modern, comfortable, the kind of place that catered to business travelers. We could have been anywhere. Paris, France. Paris, Texas. New York City. What the hôtel lacked in character it made up for in amenities. A real front desk. A fax machine. A bar off the lobby. A bidet. The place that Nancy and I stayed at in the Pigalle had a fading painted number on the crumbling wall outside, a round black bell you pushed so the cranky old concierge, a French woman straight out of a novel, could open up and begrudgingly show you to your room, eyeing you suspiciously all the while. We barely knew what fax machines were in 1973 but if we had, our little no-name hôtel wouldn't have h...

The Blue Sea by Helen Galloway McNicoll 1829-1915 The following is a collection of memoir posts I wrote documenting a trip my younger sister and I took to Paris and the South of France in the summer of 1973. The summer I was supposed to be backpacking around Europe with my boyfriend Derek, except we’d we broken up when he decided to go with a friend instead. The louse! I know it's a lot to read all at once, maybe break it up, they way I did? Look for the ••••••••  If I ever do write a book, a collection of my own stories,  these posts would make up a big chunk of the French chapter.  "Pig Alley!" My sister, sitting on the wide windowsill of our hotel room in the Pigalle, was reading from the guidebook we'd consulted to find a cheap place to stay in Paris. We'd neglected to read the fine print.  At the first hotel we tried I'd been so nervous and unaccustomed to speaking the language, that I'd forgotten to say Bonjour before I asked—in my rusty ...

I've been linking up with  Dreaming of France  for the past fews posts, posting some newly recorded stories about a trip to France back in 1973. I was supposed to be backpacking around Europe with a boyfriend but since ' life is what happens when you're busy making other plans ' —and he was a two-faced lying schmuck—I'd ended up staying at my uncle's house in England  intending to have a look around London, before heading to the continent with my younger sister. We'd been to Paris , and taken the night train to Marseilles, but by happy accident we  ended up in Bandol. After a rocky start we were settling into a rhythm in Bandol.   Good morning we smiled at the proprietress of the pension, so cheerfully we almost curtsied. Bonsoir we greeted her, dipping our heads like novices in a convent, when we returned each afternoon to find the rows of tables newly set with fresh white linen tablecloths.  Bonjour! we cried to the owner of the little stand wh...

New on the Podcast Part 2 in a series. [ Part 1: Pretty French Postcards ] I’ve been writing and recording some of my memoir pieces and, in what some might call an extraordinary bout of egomania, posting them on SoundCloud and iTunes. It’s my way of marking my territory, tagging a wall, or like Kiljoy of yesteryear simply saying I was here.  This story is part of a series about a trip to France I took with my younger sister in 1973.  Thanks for listening, subscribing, and if you're feeling it, leaving a comment. Clean from our bath in the sea , awake and running on adrenaline, my sister and I hit the town in search of someplace to stay. Even back in 1973, the hotels overlooking the beach at Bandol, with their pea gravel patios set with painted wooden tables and colored umbrellas, were too pricey; even I didn't have to ask to know that, so we headed to the port side of town. Fronting the harbor, a row of shops, bars and outdoor cafes lined the road. Later wh...

I make a practice of walking down memory lane, frequently posting memoir pieces about the good old days. I'm mostly unapologetic about traveling back in time. What's the point of creating a life full of memories if remembering them gets you accused of living in the past? Regular readers may know some of those treks were to a small coastal village in the south of France. I first visited Bandol, between Toulon and Marseille, in 1973. I was twenty, on my first trip abroad, and swept completely off my feet by pretty boats bobbing in the harbor, sidewalk cafes, a soft sandy beach and a French boy with a charming accent and a swoop of dark hair across his forehead. You can read 'em if you want , my nostalgic bits and pieces, but the point of today's post (I'm getting there) is that my husband and I revisited Bandol while traveling in Europe last month. We spent a week on the Cote d'Azur and a couple of days in Bandol for my 64th birthday because my husband kne...