From Genéve

Yesterday, Scott, Alexandre, Mathieu, and I drove from Epinay to Genéve, a drive of about five hours, mostly on the A6, which is a freeway much like ours in America, but bordered by rolling green farmland, thick forests, and many road-sign images of impressive churches considered to be of some historical or architectural significance. Since arriving in France, I have observed an abundance of Catholic churches, many of them nearly as old as twelfth-century Notre Dame. This morning, walking in the old sector of Genéve, we saw the Catholic Cathedral that was overtaken by the fathers of the Protestant Reformation sometime in the 1600s. The Cathedral's Catholic origins are unmistakable, however, all vaulted ceilings, towering arches, and stained-glass.

Mathieu is Scott's oldest son and my 6'1" godson, who turns twenty in ten days. Alexandre is fourteen,the same age as my godson Joe. In the backseat on the way to Genéve, Mathieu was reading George Orwell and Alexandre William Golding's "The Lord of the Flies," in French, of course. We are staying in the apartment of Scott's long-time girlfriend, Christine, who is remarkable with food: le petit dejeuner, dejeuner, et aussi le diner. Toutes! We've also picnicked a lot, which I love. For those of my readers who want to know more about breakfasts in particular (you know who you are), les petits dejeuners in France are about one thing only: plaisir. This morning, for example, Alexandre had first some pure butter on his fresh bread, and next some softened chocolate. (Chocolate is bounteous here in a way that I have never seen.) A French breakfast table is, above all, colorful, and liable to be filled with fresh long baguettes, toast, croissants, pain du chocolat, brioche, many jars of all sorts of jams, perhaps some red apples, and finally, importantly, butter. The French breakfast celebrates abundance and companionship, forgives and discourages any guilt surrounding food. This has been my experience every morning since I arrived.

My last blog ended with the propitious sign of the full moon rising over Paris. As we drove through the mountains surrounding Genéve in the rain yesterday -- low mountains that Scott called "the pre-Alps" -- a massive rainbow displayed itself across the road. Is my trip blessed, I wondered? Was it also a sign of good fortune that I started my own relationship with Paris at Point Zero?

Before leaving for France, I had read in a guidebook about Point Zero, a spot ill-described but supposedly situated somewhere at Notre Dame andserving as the mark for the exact center of Paris. In centuries past, all measurements to and from Paris used Point Zero as their fulcrum. So, perhaps having a nature that prefers beginning at the beginning, I made note of this Point Zero. What better place to begin? Shortly after arriving, after enjoying my first dejeuner of fresh tomatoes and mozzarella under the arbor in Scott's backyard, he asked me if I'd thought about what I'd like to see in Paris. "Well, there's Point Zero," I said. "Point Zero? What's Point Zero?" he said. Although living in and near Paris for twenty years, Scott had no idea what I was talking about, neither did anyone else sitting at the table. I felt a bit ridiculous. Several hours later, however, in the square at the front of Notre Dame, we suddenly looked down and spotted an age-polished, large, round plaque with the barely legible letters spelling Point Zero. I had arrived.