My American Dream: Finding Its Way

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Brooklyn vs. Rochester

By Norma Jaeger Hopcraft

Someone I knew from New York City wrote to me yesterday with what seemed to be a snickering attitude.  

“What, Rochester?” he wrote, implying “Where the heck is that?” I can’t condemn him, I’ve had the same attitude, and still do, just a little.

I’ve lived near New York City, and the immense range of activity it offers, most of my life. Then, starting six years ago, I began a series of moves to places with a ton of caché: Mystic, Connecticut, then Paris and Barcelona. Then I fulfilled a life-long dream and moved into NYC itself: the Upper East Side of Manhattan (for two months), and Brooklyn (for four years). Brooklyn in its own right is such a storied city. I saw baseball caps with “Brooklyn” on them in France and Spain.

How Can I Search for the American Dream Here?

Where the heck, on the other hand, is Rochester? The downtown has two tall buildings and is dead at night. There is a more lively neighborhood of cafes and restaurants known as the Park Avenue neighborhood, and I’m searching for an apartment in it. But even that neighborhood doesn’t seem to have much “there” there, not after the electromagnetic force of Brooklyn.

I must suspend judgment of Rochester as a city, as a venue for the arts, as a place that fosters my creative inspiration, until the pandemic eases. It won’t feel like home until ballroom dancing resumes, and the theater group I want to be involved in (as a mere set painter, not as the superstar that I, in reality, am) springs into action again, and the Wild About Writing circle can meet in person. And in Rochester, I will be able to afford to hear live classical music regularly at the Eastman School of Music! Carnegie Hall was beyond my reach. 

I'm a snob

I do miss Brooklyn. Not so much living there, because life was tough, overwhelmed by tons of stressed-out strangers in a brick, asphalt, chain-link, and razor-wire jungle. But I miss being FROM there. I wrote on my Amazon author profile that I’m a writer who lived in Paris, Barcelona, and now Brooklyn. Those place-names have caché. I’m a sucker for caché. I’m a location snob, I admit it. 

“Rochester, New York” has ZERO cache. But maybe it should have a little. It is a unique epicenter of social justice. Harriet Tubman lived near here. Frederick Douglass lived here, wrote here, and delivered his famous speech here, "What to the Slave Is the Fourth of July?", delivered on July 5, 1852, addressing the Rochester Ladies' Anti-Slavery Society.  Women’s rights were championed by women in this area, notably Susan B. Anthony, who lived and wrote in Rochester. Another example of social compassion: Rochester Institute of Technology has a nationally recognized center for deaf students.

 
Brooklyn's advantages

Brooklyn had advantages. I could choose all kinds of organic fruits and vegetables at the Flatbush Food Coop, a 10-minute walk. I can’t find that variety here, and you have to drive to the grocery store. I could walk to three Indian restaurants, three Mexican, two burger joints. I could have lavender lattés at Café Madeline. I don’t know of a café in Rochester that has even dreamed of serving them. Prospect Park, with world-class design, was a 10-minute walk. 

In Brooklyn I lived near three international airports that could take me on direct flights to friends in France or family in small cities like Asheville, NC, Providence, RI, or Rochester, NY. I could easily grab a bus to visit family in Bethlehem, PA. I could easily take the train to Fire Island or to the Jersey Shore. Now that I’m in Rochester, I’m closer to one part of my family but have bigger hurdles to overcome to get to the rest. And getting to the Atlantic Ocean is a huge undertaking.

In Brooklyn, I felt I was in the center of the world. On Ocean Avenue, during my quarter-mile walk to do my laundry, I heard voices from Pakistan, Liberia, Panama, Jamaica, Barbados, Senegal, Kazakhstan. At any given moment on Church Avenue, I could make videos for my little grandson of trucks of every shape and size and function, and long, articulated city buses. 

Rochester contrasts

Here at this house in Rochester, it’s quiet. Once a week a garbage truck goes by. But I can do my laundry downstairs instead of trundling it a quarter of a mile each way.

There were other downsides to Brooklyn. In spite of my best efforts to build friendships and stay connected, I felt acutely alone. The streets felt dangerous. People were indifferent (of course they were, we were all strangers to each other). It broke my heart to see groups of young men hanging out, passing a joint, with tons of pent up energy and talent but lacking the education—and faced with racism in hiring practices—that prevented them from getting into a decent job, unleashing that talent, making a living wage, and making a contribution.  They could have run a company—or a country—but were trapped.

 
I felt a keen desperation in the atmosphere on the streets. I lived in a gentrifying neighborhood. As rents leapt upward, people were more and more worried about making rent that month. I could feel the anxiety in the air. So many people lived hand to mouth with no hope of a better life – and angry about that fact, and about the racism that locked them into this predicament, locked them out of the American Dream.

And then there was the dog poop. Many people did clean up after their dogs, but enough people didn’t that there was a hazard when out walking or pulling a cart full of laundry. I had to keep my eyes on the sidewalk. Which might have been just as well—looking at groups of young men passing a joint might get me in trouble, so I had to keep my eyes down anyway. Which I didn’t like. As an artist, I love to look around and notice things. I want to look at people and imagine their lives. In Brooklyn, that wasn’t wise to do because you might notice a crime. I really hated keeping my head down.

Starting over in Rochester

Here in this suburb of Rochester, I can smile and give a little wave to the people I pass when I’m out walking, and get one in return. We’re privileged to be living in a lovely neighborhood. I’ve nicknamed it “The Arboretum” because of the stately huge shade trees, and blooming trees, and shrubs. During the summer there were eight-foot-tall hydrangeas in some gardens, burgeoning with blossoms, exuding charm. 

So I’ll start life anew in Rochester.  I have to overcome my location snobbery and embrace the advantages this situation offers. One of them might be a sense of dislocation. Exile has proven to be good for my creativity in the past, especially in Paris and Barcelona, and it’s helping me again, I believe. 

I have discovered, to my joy, that I really love swimming in Lake Ontario. I thought the lake would never suffice, not after the joy of being in the Atlantic surf at Fire Island or the Jersey Shore. But the lake has its advantages—most days, it’s quiet enough for me to really swim without having to fear being inundated by breaking waves, as I would in the Atlantic. 

Also, in spite of the pandemic, I’ve made a new, in-person friend! She has put me in touch with working artists in the area, including a local set designer. I’m working on a novel about a set designer, so that interview will be very interesting! 

Brooklyn is a great place. I miss it, and I’m so relieved to be out of it.

How about you? Do you have mixed feelings about a place you used to live? Or that you live in now? Comment below! 

One Response to Today's Difficulties: Pausing

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A Pause Might Lead to Greater Creativity

By Norma Jaeger Hopcraft

How are you doing? What are you doing? Write to me at norma at normahopcraft dot com to let me know. Now that I'm working remotely, I'm no longer commuting an hour each way each day and I have extra time to respond. I'd love to hear from you! What's happening in your life?

I am doing okay -- I thank God, I was able to get out of Brooklyn in mid-March, when the sirens were already sounding all day all night. The sirens were very distressing, adding to the anxiety already in the air in my poor neighborhood, among people who worry every month about making rent -- what happens now, with so many jobs shut down?

I am blessed because I was welcomed to go to Rochester, New York, near Lake Ontario, where my daughter, darling son-in-law, and hilarious 2-1/2-year-old grandchild live.

"Social distancing is so much better with other people," a friend said. 

Very true. I'm grateful for the quiet companionship.

After one week in Rochester, I caught a cold--I don't think it was COVID because my temp never went up above 99.4. "If it's not 100.4 or above, it's not a fever," a nurse told me. I had a dry cough for three weeks afterward though. 

Other than that, I've been fine, cooking up a storm. I made chicken soup yesterday, and baked cornbread, for dinner. Actually, I put so much rosemary in my chicken soup, it's really rosemary soup. I love the flavor mysteries that that tortured herb puts into cooking. There's lots of white wine in my soup too -- a generous helping of Clos de Bois this time.

I'm calling my older friends who are stuck quite alone. I hope you'll do the same.

I'm taking my grandson for walks around his neighborhood. I tell him to look for cats, for dogs, for the daffodils that are finally blooming in Rochester. The small pleasures are growing in importance as the playgrounds, library, the Museum of Play, have all been shut down.

He's learning the names of the flowers: snowdrops, crocus, primrose. He has a little-child lisp, so "crocus" comes out as "cwocuth."

I am cut off from the big excitements in New York City, like taking an acting class as part of the research I do on the theater for my next novel. Museums. Ballroom dancing. All closed.

But hearing my baby grandson say "cwocuth" takes away any regret over not having access to those grown-up pleasures.

I'm grateful for the quiet life I'm leading in the company of my family. Evenings are spent talking a bit, reading a bit. Jane Austen lived like this, and the Bronte sisters. I'm hoping that this quiet life leads to a focus of energy that results in great novel writing that I can leave behind in the world.

So there's an upside to this pause. I'm privileged to be able to enjoy an upside when so many people have lost loved ones and jobs. I thank my Higher Power and hope that people will see that they can get through everything with the help of their Higher Power.

I confess, I've also been watching TV a bit with my family. We're enjoying Shetland, a murder mystery series on Britbox. Except for one episode that I thought too graphic and violent (Season 3, Episode 2), it's been a huge pleasure. I may never get to the Shetland Islands, but I'm very happy to know that such a beautiful place exists.

One thing I can recommend to you is to enjoy Fire Island. I won't be able to go to my hiking club cabin this summer -- the cabin is shut due to Covid-19. But I have pictures for you from a stay there in 2012, just one month before Superstorm Sandy. The pictures will provide a mini-vacation at the beach for you, in time for Memorial Day. Check out the loveliness on my blog, here.

How about you? Any excellent shows to share? Do you see an upside to this quieter life we're living? Do you put lots of rosemary in chicken soup? Write to me at norma at normahopcraft dot com. I'd LOVE to hear from you! Or comment below! I'll be sure to respond.

French Things To Do in Confinement. Enjoy.

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The Search for the American Dream Gone French

By Norma Jaeger Hopcraft

I hope this blog post finds you safe.

My heart goes out to the many people affected deeply by the pandemic. I left Brooklyn on March 14, the day after my office closed. Thanks to the kindness and generosity of my daughter, beloved son-in-law, and 2-1/2 year old grandson, I can shelter with them in Rochester, NY. Ordinarily, I live in a studio apartment in one of the densest parts of Brooklyn, packed with six-story apartment houses where people are stacked in layers. The sidewalks are crowded--it's impossible to keep six feet away from everybody. The day I left, sirens were constantly sounding, adding to the feeling of anxiety. So to be here, in a roomy house, in a quiet neighborhood, with easy-going dear-hearts instead of all alone among millions of strangers, is a huge blessing that I'm very cognizant of.

I live in a vast neighborhood of six-story brick apartment buildings. They're "pre-war," which means they were built before WW II, and many apartments have parquet floors, high ceilings, and gracious proportions to the room. That's nice. But it makes my part of Brooklyn incredibly densely populated.

To live temporarily in these circumstances in Rochester, especially to have so much more time with my grandson, is a huge blessing. 

I'd like to share some blessing with you! 

Here's one way!

Please do take a look at this link by MyFrenchLife.org. There's a long list of free activities for adults and children. With the time you don't have to spend on commuting, learn more French! Or photography! Take a virtual tour of Versailles!  Binge-watch every single episode of The French Chef with Julia Child! 

Please take a look at the free possibilities here, provided in a neat list of links, at https://www.myfrenchlife.org/2020/03/20/myfrenchlife-live-resource-page-for-your-creative-pursuits-projects/

Credit where credit is due: My writing friend Gray, whom I met while I lived and wrote in Paris and am still collaborating with on writing projects, sent me the link.

Another possibility for you:

Macaron baking.

This is a really funny YouTube video that will help you overcome macaron-baking fear and to enjoy chocolaty macarons with a minimum of fuss and muss: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tsCvAijBn4Y. 

The chef makes cute fun of the snobbiness that can surround macaron-making. His is a down-to-earth method, and the results will taste stupendous.

Lastly, how are you doing in these difficult times? Which French activities did you choose to look into? Please comment below and tell me about your circumstances, and any silver lining you may see. Or send me an email at norma at normahopcraft dot com. Thank you! Please, let's be in touch! I'd love to hear from you!

Chicken Wings and the American Dream

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A Window into a Life

By Norma Jaeger Hopcraft

"I've gotten used to the cold," he said, as if he wanted to comfort me, the person with plenty of heat in her apartment.

Yes, I've kept loose tabs on Mr. Kosher. 

He lives under a canopy of three layers of plastic tarps just outside of Brooklyn's Prospect Park. His campsite is a 20-minute walk from my place. 

It's now the last week of February, and he has managed to avoid going into a homeless shelter all winter.

He's managed to do that in spite of my best efforts.

The homeless man I'm writing about has lived outdoors outside the B and Q subway station, near this spot in Brooklyn's Prospect Park, all winter, at least so far.

In my previous post (see below), I described what happened when I took him a hot--well, warm--ham dinner. He turned down the dinner because he's Jewish and eats kosher.

I couldn't stop thinking about him. One bitter cold Saturday morning soon after, I felt that I just had to do something to give him some bit of comfort. Reluctantly I walked up to the three layers of plastic sheets that covered him in his wheelchair and that partially covered the three or four shopping carts jammed with stuff that surround him. 

I called a hello, to warn him, and found a small slit in all the plastic sheets. There he was, in hat and jacket. 

"Hi, would you like a hot cup of coffee or tea?" I asked.

"No, thank you," he said, politely enough. "But would you get me a plate of chicken wings and fries? From the deli right here?"

Since it was close by, I said I'd to it.

"And a two-liter bottle of ginger ale?"

"Okay."

"Tell the cook I want the wings cooked extra brown and the fries very lightly."

This guy had been sitting in his wheelchair outdoors for months. All spring, summer, autumn, and now all winter, in the cold day and night, hour after hour. He needed something hot. I said I'd do it.

As I walked towards the deli, I heard more instructions coming from under the tarps. "Chicken cooked real well," he said.

I went into the deli and placed the order.

"The fryer is being cleaned. I can't make french fries," the short-order cook, a Bangladeshi man, said.

"OK, make it rice." I hoped Mr. Kosher wouldn't complain--I didn't want to hear it. "And cook the chicken wings really well."

"Is this for the guy outside?"

I nodded.

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When the order was ready, I took it back to Mr. Kosher, planning to get his real name for the receipt in case the IRS ever asked. I handed the plastic container of food and the giant bottle of ginger ale through the crack between tarps.

"Thank you," he said sweetly.

"What's your name?"

"Hosea, like in the Bible."

He started talking about his life. The homeless say that one of their greatest hardships is that they're invisible, nobody talks with them. So I listened.

He told me he only has one leg (I couldn't see that because his lap was covered by blankets and another tarp). He told me that he's used to the cold, as if to comfort me. He spoke longingly, just for a moment, of wanting to take a shower. He smiled at me and asked me if I didn't have a place for him. He didn't know that the part of me that's like Don Quixote had thought of it, and the part of me that's practical had brought me to my senses.

I managed to break in to his flow of words for a moment to ask why he didn't go to a shelter to get out of the cold. That really set him off on a diatribe about the police being the enemy, stealing the drums he sold for a living; about the shelters housing people doing crack and ecstasy while he only smoked weed (he delivered that line with a sidelong glance at me and a little smile); and that the last time he was in a shelter, the previous winter, someone had stolen his two leather jackets.

Leather jackets? I don't feel I can afford a leather jacket (and it wouldn't look good on me : ). What was he doing living outdoors in the rain with two of them?

He said he had to get his stuff into storage, and then he'd go live with his son in the Bronx. Well, the weed explained why he hadn't managed to get his mind wrapped around his storage situation. 

I broke into his flow of words to say that I had to go.

"Would you exchange this Seagram's ginger ale for some Schweppes?"

"No, I can't." I really had to go, and I had no desire to hunt for a store that sold Schweppes.

"That's okay, I'll get somebody else to do it."

I've kept my eye on the overnight forecast for weeks. Twice, when the forecast was for overnight lows in the 20s, I called Department of Homeless Services. They checked on him and emailed me that he had refused services. When the temperature actually descends below 32, the DHS refers my calls to the police, who respond under "Code Blue." Code Blue allows them to take homeless people to local shelters, even if they don't want to go.

But Hosea had talked to me with such hatred of the police, I was sure that, when I called for them to help him, he was showering them with abusive speech. 

I called Code Blue three or four times. And I'd walk by his campsite the next morning on my way to work hoping he was gone, hoping he was finally warm, sitting in a hot shower for the first time in maybe a year, with a chance to stretch out full length on a bed.

Hosea was still there.

He's still there today. He's made it through a New York City winter so far, into late February. He's still there after two nights in a row when it went down to 14 degrees. Maybe he'll make it outdoors year-round. Is this a case of incredible human endurance against the odds? Isn't it also a case of incredible human stubbornness? Can the shelters really be worse than living for months in the cold, day and night?

I know he's getting help -- his campsite is littered with chicken wing bones, empty ginger ale bottles, plastic forks. When I brought him that plastic container of food, he placed it in his lap on top of another one.

What do I do about calling DHS and the police to help him? He's probably abusive to them. Do I keep calling and sending these public servants into an abusive situation?

I've gone back my previous position, thinking to myself, "Hosea, you're on your own, kid. I'm not meddling any more."

But I say a prayer or two for him.

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My American Dream Is Only Half Come True

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But My Search for My American Dream Has Given Me Unexpected Gifts

By Norma Hopcraft

Today I'm offering other people's links--selfless of me, I know. Actually, I do hope these links are highly useful for you as you plan your trip to Paris -- or dream of planning your trip, which is the foundational step to making it a reality.

I believe in dreaming big. As a kid who played piano diligently, thanks to my mother's influence, I one day decided, while watching an episode of the TV show The Name of the Game (glamorous sports cars, beautiful women, settings in the great capitals of Europe), that I wanted to live and work in Europe. The only means I had of making that dream a reality was my skill at the piano. So therefore I would study to be a concert pianist.

I practiced like crazy, four hours a day, for a year, and I mastered complex music by Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff, and many others. And then I changed my mind. But in that year I made huge strides as a pianist.

For the last 30 years, without changing my mind, I've been dreaming of being someone who is just about as rare as a concert pianist: an author who makes enough money on their books to quit their day job and just write. That's been my American Dream for three decades.

Another way to say it is my BHAG: a Big Hairy Audacious Goal. The United States had a BHAG, writes Jim Collins, who invented the phrase, when we decided to put a man on the moon. A simple, clear, memorable, compelling, engaging BHAG that can be expressed in several ways.

My BHAG: Have the financial and artistic freedom to write lots of novels that grab people's hearts.

In other words, "to publish my writing to critical and popular acclaim." Even more succinctly: "great reviews and bestseller sales."

I've known for those three decades, each jam packed with writing, that I was taking a risk pursuing this dream. I put hundreds of thousands of hours into writing, knowing my dream might not come true. But hoping. Plugging away anyway. I felt like I just had to write.

I think what my dream was really about was to earn the chance to feel good: the feeling that my life and my art really mattered, that my self-discipline to sit down every day to write had paid off, as I deserved. That my fans loved me and therefore I could finally, finally love myself and feel fulfilled and satisfied and loved.

In addition to satisfaction and fulfillment, I wanted a financial payoff. I wanted my writing to  provide for my old age, and also to free me from the daily grind of supporting myself in order to devote big chunks of time to writing.

I've gotten half my dream. I've gotten terrific reviews.

The second half of my dream, acclaim from the populace as shown in bestseller sales, has not come true. There's a chance that word of mouth will take off, but I'm not counting on it. When I look at the funds I'll someday retire on, I don't add in one single dollar from book sales. The royalties I make I plough directly back into Amazon Ads. 

I'm telling you all this because I've really wrestled with my Higher Power over the financial half of my dream. I tell him I've worked diligently for 30 years, I've done the right thing by developing my gifts, and I've exercised the Protestant work ethic (he who hustles wins). Not only that, the American Dream that I've grown up steeped in says that hard work will pay off financially. And I haven't seen it.

Have you felt this way, too? I've gotten really upset over it at times in the last six months, to be honest.

But after wrestling for six months, I've come to believe that my Higher Power is trying to wean me away from finding my fulfillment in "success" as I defined it in these previous paragraphs. Instead, he's asking me to look to him to provide the love, life satisfaction, self-acceptance and appreciation that I crave. As I sit with him each morning with spiritual literature, I do Step 11 from the Twelve Steps ("Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out"). Most mornings I get enough of a sense of his love for me that I'm filled up enough to go out and be kind, even on the overcrowded and frustrating streets of New York City.

I still feel sad that the financial half of the dream hasn't come true because I want so dreadfully badly to write several more books before I die. Right now, while I work full-time and commute two hours a day, I only get 600 words written per day. That's on a good day. A large number of days I accomplish 0. I'm a frustrated artist. I want to write! I want all aspects of my BHAG to be true right now!

But good things besides financial rewards have come to me because I worked toward my BHAG:

• I've lived more richly and fully as I've looked for insights and details about people, places, and things that I could use in my novels.
• I studied two topics that fascinate me for 30 years--writing, and the human psychology behind storytelling--and I made huge strides, just as I did in piano when I applied myself diligently.
• I delved into the world's greatest authors to deepen my own understanding and craft (and still do). 
• I took a journey around America on a bus. Never would have done that if I hadn't been enamored of John Steinbeck's classic, Travels with Charley.
• I finished a creative writing degree at New York University (magna cum laude, I might add).
• I lived in Paris for a year and wrote a novel there.
• I lived in Barcelona for three months and wrote several travel essays there.
• I've been part of writer's circles where I've gotten to know amazing human beings very well.
• Now, for my next novel, I'm interviewing amazing theater people and getting involved in productions. Fun!

None of that would have happened if I hadn't been dreaming my dream, pursuing my BHAG, developing the gifts my Higher Power gave me, and working diligently toward making my dreams a reality.

And lightning may yet strike my books. They're quite worthy of it -- and you're free to understand that two ways : )

So I believe in setting a BHAG.

I believe it's never too late.

I believe in dreaming big dreams, overcoming obstacles, and running the race. Not that I'm perfect at it.

My daily, real life is different from the dream I nurtured for 30 years. I am free to write, actually--not because I've been able to shed the day job but because I get up at 5:30 a.m. to carve out an hour to write.

That isn't to say I haven't been deeply frustrated with this. I've kicked against the goads. But lately I've decided to just accept what is and to get on with my writing BHAG.

Now, if your BHAG includes exploring Paris, I can help.

Some terrific links about Paris have come to my attention, and I've saved them up for you. I highly recommend these links as you dream, as you set your BHAG to be in Paris by X date:

The 25 Most Beautiful Places in Paris, from Conde Naste Traveler.
https://www.cntraveler.com/gallery/the-25-most-beautiful-places-in-paris?utm_source=nl&utm_brand=cnt&utm_mailing=CNT_Daily_PM_082619&utm_campaign=aud-dev&utm_medium=email&bxid=5c92ab7afc942d0bdffd2afb&cndid=29138620&hasha=b8e1d618699dc140ef8d724de26c7780&hashb=92c166ee0d1f598b6186d738cee7db1e4f48ee28&hashc=ced626f2dac9faee8de4511b015a1eb9a07a05c3409d94caa719e8fa28c2e2c8&esrc=SLVNA_16&utm_term=CNT_Daily

The 7 Best Places in Paris for Literature Lovers, from Newsweek:
https://www.newsweek.com/7-best-places-literature-lovers-paris-1456124?fbclid=IwAR0x8o1kms6NQlY6Z_Mtg3x0i9g1lNvTRGpdVMT3cLT7r-fNoczPzWTaddo

And for children, 5 Little Museums of Paris for Little Travelers, from the New York Times:
https://www.nytimes.com/2019/06/14/travel/5-little-museums-of-paris-for-little-travelers.html?fbclid=IwAR1fphU2hzf1bhEWFuryPoUofEZE_IJ4IILO5MRcFwLXQATJV1Orx4ewOnY

Au revoir, mes amies! Dream big! Comment below if you'd like a big dose of encouragement for your quest for a BHAG.

Life at the Water's Edge in Paris

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By Norma Hopcraft

On my recent adventure to Paris this summer, I found myself gravitating toward the Seine.

To me, it's the most fascinating aspect of Paris--flowing through the city with its abundance of  péniches.  

These are barges. Some are work barges--family businesses carting coal and many other products around the canals and rivers of France.  

Some were converted to pleasure craft. Families live on them and cruise the canals and rivers of France for fun. Or they tie up in Paris (with permission of the authorities) and live within walking distance of Le Louvre and the many other treasures of Paris.

The canals and rivers of France offer a pleasure-boater 5,000 kilometers to explore.  In France, it's known as the patrimoine fluvial, or the fluvial heritage--an incredible gift from past generations, who dug the canals and connected the rivers. You can wind past ancient stone villages, through cities, past quiet fields of wheat or cows. My friend Cris Hammond did this -- please see the link at the bottom.

The  péniches that are converted look absolutely delightful. I've been welcomed on board two of them, and that experience is part of my novel, The Paris Writers Circle.  I'll show you some incredible péniches, below.

I couldn't get the whole boat into the picture! But you can see it has a gangplank (in the center; it's raised) and bikes on the deck. Under the deck -- cabins! I'd love to be living in one of them!

Here's the other end of the barge. It has seating on the bow.

Here's the seating area -- curved wicker chairs. Can you imagine the wonderfulness of sitting out there, watching Seine boat traffic go by, or tied up on a river or canal in the countryside, watching the sun go down behind an ancient church?

Bikes ready to explore Paris. I biked in Paris--once! Nearly killed myself.

Look at all the wires, cables, pulleys, winches.

The gangplank is raised, and iron bars hold the barge away from the embankment, meaning that this family and the things they have left on the deck are quite safe -- a floating island.

The masts have to be lowered to pass under bridges. These are the mechanics for doing that.

Here are the mast supports and stays (thin steel lines that run from the hull to the top of the mast).

Not easy to manage all this equipment.

This is the cabin, in the stern, where the captain operates the barge.

The barge is held off of the stone embankment by iron bars. The waters of the Seine are choppy with all the boat traffic making wakes, and without these iron bars, the hull would be damaged by the stones.

A view of the stern.

The gangway is huge! 

Pont Neuf, "New Bridge," is in the background. It is now the oldest across the Seine, but it was new when it was built in 1578-1607.

The bridge is lined with gargoyles. They are 400 years old. Think of the generations that have walked across this bridge!

The gargoyles.

There's constant traffic under the bridge, not just boats but people walking and on bikes on the embankment.

Near Pont Neuf is Notre Dame, now shrouded in scaffolding. A symbol of resilience (my specialty). If you read my novels, you'll see my characters in all kinds of trouble -- most of that is from my own life! 

This is the bow of a working barge. The boat is extremely long -- you'll see that over the next four pictures.

Here's more of the hull...

Still more of the hull...

Still more of the hull....

Still more of the hull...

And the cabin in the stern. Please note that there are curtains on the windows and a small life raft on the cabin roof. Some barges have cars on the roof (and a boom to lift them and swing them onto land). How about you? Would you like to travel around France on a barge? You can experience it vicariously by reading my friend Cris Hammond's humorous, delightful book about his first year doing exactly that! Read the first 3 chapters here: https://www.amazon.com/Here-Paris-laid-barge-France-ebook/dp/B00H055PNU/  Cris and I didn't talk about this--it's a surprise!