Medieval gardens

This was on a placard in a garden adjacent to the Musée de Cluny in Paris:

Medicinal simples

The Book of Medicinal Simples, attributed to 12th century physician, Platearius, is one of the main sources of medicinal medicine. Early in the 15th century it was adopted as a codex by the Parisian apothecaries. The expression “medicinal simples” designates “simple” remedies, i.e. those made from a single plant, as opposed to compound drugs.

The Middle Ages made extensive use of plants because of their real or imaginary therapeutic virtues, often linked to their name or shape. Thus, Salvia officinalis, reigned in every pleasure and kitchen garden because of the etymology of its Latin name, which means “the healing plant.” The “theory of signatures,” according to which nature has revealed a plant’s medicinal properties through its form, also explains many uses of samples: pulmonary, or lungwort, owes its name and its use in the treatment of lung diseases to its spotted leaves, which evoked the lung’s alveoli. Hyssop is a digestive, antiseptic, and expectorant plant which purified lepers and sinners, whereas rue was thought to repel snakes and evil spirits: medieval medicine did not separate treatment for the body from that for the soul, and plans could have spiritual virtues.

Use and symbolism were often associated in the Middle Ages… in most medieval gardens…vegetables, simples, and flowers grew in the kitchen garden, while simples mingled with flowers in pleasure gardens.

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View along Seine

This fabric is used as protection for passersby when a large building is under (re) construction and here Paris outdoes LA with immense graphics. That’s Notre Dame on the right.

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Parisian shops

There are thousands of often-tiny shops of every description. So many of them are a delight.

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Roland Godard on an overcast Saturday afternoon

This guy was playing this little rinky-dink piano on wheels, old stuff, Scott Joplin style, 20s tunes, a great version of All of Me, slightly out of tune notes, just perfect on the Deux Ponts Marie. We clicked — same age and all; a bro. I bought his CD. Roland Godard, Et Son Piano a Tout Faire…I’m listening to it this very moment.

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Canterbury Cathedral

Vault along the close (courtyard), adjacent to cathedral, around sunset. The photos ended up in looking like paintings, a photographer’s dream.

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Bazar d' Le Hotel de Ville

Hold a pen or pencil over the garish “BHV” and see how it defaces this wonderful building. Why doesn’t BHV (a department store) go green and get rid of the green? Then the architect could stop turning in his grave.

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California to Europe back to California

It’s a rainy Saturday morning in Paris, and we’re leaving for home on Monday; a fabulous trip, but we’re both more than a little homesick for California. I’ve shot thousands of photos, yet again presenting me the problem of finding context for content. I’m eager to get home and back to work. Each day we wander different Paris neighborhoods. Yesterday I took off on one of my high-speed city walks, went to the Pantheon (just one of Paris’ out-of-scale, hard-to-believe buildings), started sensing my way down the most interesting-looking streets, and ended up following L’ Estrapade down to a square (actually a circle) where five streets came in at odd angles, and there were people sitting at little sidewalk cafes; bakeries, tiny intriguing shops, very few cars on narrow cobblestone streets, therefore a lovely inner-city peacefulness. Da place felt good!

I’m surprised to find that I’m as overwhelmed by Europe as I was on a 7000 mile Lambretta motorscooter trip at age 22. for one thing, I feel, in varying degrees, like a savage. Many French men are dressed beautifully. I’m wearing cargo pants, running shoes, a lightweight North Face Summit series down jacket, and a homemade Merino wool watch cap. I mean, it’s the right outfit for getting around, but it just doesn’t have that Parisian zing.

Also eating: people are so deft placing food on the back of a fork held in the left-hand, it astounds me. My methods of getting food-to-mouth are much cruder. And on and on.

I’m also reminded from time to time that the people here in Europe stayed, whereas my ancestors crossed the ocean and headed west. I have a sense of coming back to the homeland(s) in Europe, a feeling of what I think is genetic familiarity; haven’t I been here before? Yet I’m so glad to be living where I do, where there’s a different kind of freedom (plus I’m homesick for Mount Tamalpais and the Pacific Ocean).

England, Ireland, Germany, France, it’s been a blast! (from the past). I love you, and thanks for the memories, and you’re still wonderful, but right about now I can hear somebody singing I’m going home home home home back home…

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