Cutting through the fog

We stopped at a roadside Autogrill just after Savona, and Nando had a light lunch. Another brief stop to see friends in Monte Carlo. Then on and on and on to Marseille. At least there was no fog once we hit the coast. Many tunnels, twists and turns, and, as we approached Marseille proper, the clog of holiday shopper traffic clocked in late-afternoon dusk.

However, there was no other car in sight when we pulled up in front of Chateau Sylvaine at 5:30 pm. "Maybe we should be at the Institut du Santè?”, wondered my husband. I wondered the same. There were lights on in two of the five upstairs windows at the Chateau, though, so he rang the bell to ask, disappeared behind the thick wooden double doors, and was gone for several minutes.

Petit tour de Provence

We'll stop off in Monte Carlo to see friends and stretch our legs, then drive on to Marseille. Two days later, bandaged and blue, we will set out for a petit tour de Provence, visiting, not necessarily in this order, Aix-en-Provence, Arles,  Nimes, and Orange. Unless we or the weather is not up to it, we’ll conclude by driving from Aigues Mortes to St. Maries de la Mer, the two cities book-ending the Camargue. The winter is the only time to visit the Camargue because otherwise it is knee-deep in mosquitoes. Then we'll stop again in Marseille for my final check and to remove the stitches (arggh), and then in Monaco or a Carrefours (my favorite French superkmarket chain) somewhere to buy bread, smoked salmon, creme fraiche, Dijon mustard, Armagnac and champagne before heading back to Busto. So much for the weight loss dimension of the trip.

Cann-es-thesiologist

I had stumbled over the mention of "removing staples" and was circling round that phrase in my mind, not paying a lot of attention to the rest. But Nando DID want to go ahead. He was chafing at the bit. He couldn't wait. "This anesthesiologist -- can we choose someone in Milan? Do you work with someone in Northern Italy?"

Dr. Delos shook his head. "No. My anesthesiologist is here in Marseille, and accepts appointments only on Tuesdays and Wednesdays."

Today was Wednesday. We would be driving back to Cannes after our appointment, and I was tied up there the rest of the week, after which we'd be driving back to Milan. I wanted to arrive early enough Friday evening to pick up Homer from the kennel.

But Nando wasn't one to give up easily. "Do you work with any other anesthesiologists? In Cannes, perhaps? Nice? Monte Carlo?"

RSVP

I gave my name again and the sitting nurse checked a list in front of her. "Are you sure you are supposed to be here today?" she asked in French. I thought of the time I had made a reservation for my family at Alain Ducasse/Louis XV in Monaco, then ranked one of THE best restaurants in the world by the International Herald Tribune, and when we arrived, the maitre d’ had observed the inadequacy of our attire, the absence of headline value in our faces, and inspected the reservations for that evening, before announcing with haughty disdain that our names were not on the guest list. Desolé.

This time we were not to be put off so easily. "Yes, our reservation is for today," insisted my husband, and said our name slowly, in the French way. The second nurse scanned the list again and found us. We were official. A few questions for a file; these were done by computer. Another few questions answered by pen on paper. Then a nod, you may go in now.

My husband's advice

I had begun thinking about all this a few weeks before Mom died when Nando, my Italian husband (his full name is Fernando; "Nando" is his nickname), came back from a trip to the South of France in April, 2001. He had visited friends in Monte Carlo and couldn’t stop raving about a woman we both know, a woman a couple of years younger than I. He hadn’t seen her for about a year and was amazed by how rested and glowing she looked. Joan had confessed to him that she had recently gotten a facelift and she recommended it highly.

Nando was impressed by her honesty but didn’t want to press her for details at the time. It was more of a woman’s thing, he felt. He urged me to call Joan and find out more -- who, where, how much, how soon. "You should do it yesterday," he concluded.