Twists and turns

Dr. Mariani, who owns the kennel where Homer will be staying, is a veterinarian by profession. He was in a white surgeon's jacket when we arrived. A coincidence or an omen? He was "attending to" a dog, he said. An autopsy, Nando guessed. As usual Homer got the pole position box, the one with greatest visibility to humans who might be on the grounds. It's small consolation but it's something. As we drove away, he had realized what was happening and was throwing himself against the wire bars, crying plaintively.

It's a long drive from Busto to Marseille, and it feels longer in fog. A thick winter fog covered most of the autostrada from Milan to Genova, and I did something that never happened to me before in YEARS of driving from Milan to the South of France. I -- unbelievably! -- missed the turnoff after Tortona for Alessandria-Ventimiglia. We wound up obliged to traverse the Milan-Genova route: fewer tunnels but narrower with many twists and turns. Not pleasant for me, with a headache descending and me driving at that point, to endure an extra half hour of road time.

Medi-sins

Nando came back from France with the medications that both of us are supposed to take. He has one to take, I have three. Since the information is in French medicalese, I haven’t a clue what they actually DO, but they all appear to be for allergies, strangely enough. One of them is supposed to be taken for five days before the intervention. But Nando got back three days before, so I will be missing two days prior to the operation. Is this a bad start or what? All the medication is not to be taken with alcohol. No problem. I have lived in France and Italy for 15 years and still, if I drink a glass of wine a WEEK, that’s a lot. I do like to accompany great food with good wine, but if I had to choose between wine and mineral water at the table, I invariably opt for the latter.

French Camelot

Having just come back from Southern France, Nando assures me that the weather is great. Although the trip from Milan to the Italy’s Riviera Ponente (the Italian Riviera north of Genoa to the French border) is only 75 minutes, the weather changes dramatically in winter. It’s day and night. You can be driving through snow, fog and cold en route to Genoa and you pass through a series of tunnels to the Liguria region and suddenly you are in the land of eternal spring -- blue skies, clear air, birds chirping, expanses of green vegetation framing the blue of the Mediterranean. And the weather seems to improve the closer you get to France. Then you cross the border, with Monaco less than 10 miles away, and it’s as if Prince Rainier had ordained gorgeous weather for his little principality and its surroundings. I have made that drive hundreds of times and I always think of the lyrics from Camelot:
A law was made a distant moon ago here:
July and August cannot be too hot.
And there's a legal limit to the snow here
In Camelot.
The winter is forbidden till December
And exits March the second on the dot.
By order, summer lingers through September
In Camelot.

Pros, cons and calories

It’s true, there are plenty of lovely places to visit in Provence, but it's hard to make a decision:
1. We haven’t nailed down a budget so I am uncertain where to book price-wise. Hotels in France are generally less expensive than their counterparts in Italy, so one is tempted to trade up to a nicer place: flowers on a sunny balcony, fluttering lace curtains in the room, fresh croissants and steaming cafe au lait served in a breakfast garden. That is the image the tourist board wants to promulgate anyway.
2. But I don't know how I will feel. What's the point of an inn near the Camargue if I don't feel like walking? What's the point of an in-town relais if I look gasp-awful and don't want to be seen?
3. I don't know about the driving. Since my eyes are part of my intervention and ALL of Nando’s, we may not want to drive at all, and that would mean staying in Marseille the whole time.
4. I don't know about the eating. Nando is trying to lose weight (he needs to, for the diabetes) and me, well, the aftermath of an operation, ANY operation, is an ideal time to take off a few pounds. So is the hiatus before the holidays. Therefore, why pick a place known for divine food if we won't want to be tempted?

Considering the falloff in tourism just now, with everyone traumatized in the wake of 9/11, and given that early December is low season anyway, I may just bring a guidebook or two and wait till we get there -- then decide day by day.

S Day approaches

Between now and S-day (Scalpel Day), I could dedicate myself to straightening my study. Or ironing. Or trying to make progress on some long-term work projects. Or working up some alternatives for a summer vacation.

OR I could have fun figuring out how Nando and I will spend our time between post-op and follow-up appointment. As Angela pointed out by email, there are many wonderful inns in the south of France where we can stay.

Doctor, no!

Dr. Lorenzo had been on my mind for two reasons. First, I hadn't yet summoned the courage to call Dr. Delos. And second, last week I had finally motivated myself to go and see her to get my appointments nailed down for a mammography and pap test. As in Treviso (the Italian town in Veneto where I lived before Busto) -- and unlike the South of France, where I had lived before Treviso -- she can’t do a pap test in her office. That required one appointment, the mammo another, and she suggested a full-gamut blood test to establish a benchmark for me at this point. My last blood test had been in France, seven or eight years ago, and I don't remember the exact results. Besides, now I am in the throes of menopause, hot flashes that are downright intrusive and all the more wearing because of the heat wave this month.

Dog scars

I showed the jeweler’s wife my dog scars. Several years ago in Southern France, I was attacked by a neighborhood dog right in front of my home and the doctor had to put 14 stitches into my leg to staple it back together. Unlike the U.S., in France the amount you can receive as compensation for any resulting “pain and suffering” is mandated by law. If you are female, young, unmarried, and use your legs as part of your work (as a model, say, or an actress), you can ask for the maximum amount. If you are a women over 40, married, and your income potential is unrelated to the beauty of your extremities,  then you get the minimum. Over 40 means over the hill in the eyes of the law, in the teeth of a dog.

I explained to the jewelers that the experience hadn’t made me afraid of dogs, but that for a year or so, the sight of a large, black, furry dog had made me nervous.  “Still, you have to keep going,” I said. “You have no choice.”