Unthawing my frozen hands above a bowl of lentil sausage soup, I look out from the winter garden atop Berlin's coolest store, KaDeWe, over the greyscale city as it subsists under the incessant snow and hypnotic red light of the Fernsehturm.

As the U-Bahn pulls out of Wittenbergplatz station, I think back to my first steps in this city just a few hours ago: getting off the bus in front of the screaming Chinese pagoda at Zoogarten, being swept along Kurfürstendamm by the -15°C Russian wind only to encounter that horrid steel spider, and in fine opening the door to my stylish room at the Mittendrin hotel on Nurbergerstrasse.

Abstieg bitte. I hop off the U-Bahn at Alexanderplatz and immediately stumble upon the Weltzeituhr. Fatigued by the distances travelled and by the overall lack of an aesthetic system (those fuschia gas pipes winding through the streets, for a start), I take a time out under the Weltzeituhr and pretend to wait like a true Berliner. Just before me sits the Cubixx cinema with its electric blue heart contained in a glossy onyx cube, stunning against the matte snow. On the S-Bahn tracks above, glowing letters. The pulse of the Fernsehturm is all-consuming. I walk round its cool cement base, frozen in time, in winters and ideologies past. Inside I run my hand along its pleated coarse walls, along its alkaline, surgical railing. In just ten seconds' time, I am catapulted to the command deck. In the distance, I spy westerners eating in the gilded bubble of the winter garden, probably listening to I'll Try Anything Once. 180° away, the Karl Mark Allee, in all its Stalinst grandeur, sustains successive waves of Russian winds and suddenly becomes my next objective.

Once on the Allee, I struggle on through the tundra to see what's playing at the Kino International. A lone passer-by nods me on with dilated cheeks. I continue on to Potsdamer Platz, the Berlinale epicenter. Crowds have gathered round Berlinale Palast in anticipation for the first screening of Les Adieux à la Reine, but the cold forces me back to the hotel, where after a long relaxing bath I retire to my bed with some delicious butter biscuits found at DM, a strong herbal brew and the news in German.

With the first morning light, I awake to snowflakes dancing in the garden. I don my woolly leggings and all the other requisite layers then hasten back to Potsdamer Platz for Berlinale Shorts tickets. I squint on in anticipation while a few French hipsters beside me use the zoom on their DSLRs to check the availability of screenings from the back of the queue. Tickets in hand, I make a right on Ebertstrasse and stumble upon the Brandenburger Tor on the Pariser Platz. To my left, the US Embassy; behind me, the French embassy, quietly tucked away in a bunker. A Congolese protest (or celebration?) erupts and spills over to the neighbouring Reichstag. I continue on down Unter den Linden, past the imposing Russian embassy and across the museumsinsel, topped with a certain Berliner Dom. Just behind the latter, the elegant Bode Museum floats on the River Spree, beaming in the setting sun. Atop the bridge to the mainland, peddlers shiver beside their treasured furs, cosy and sheltered under a tarp. On the adjacent embankment, I wander in the DDR Museum and inspect yellowed photographs of the asbestos-ridden Palast der Republik under one of the 1001 lamps which it once housed. Between my fingertips I contemplate the nonporous polyester fashions (which remind me of the green viscose blends of Brave New World) and finally take a rest in a Trabant.

On Saturday, I set off for Schloss Charlottenburg, getting off the U-Bahn at Mierendorffplatz and walking ten minutes west to cross the River Spree. Against a pale sky, skeletons of trees reach out to the stifled sun while a small boat decongests the icy river. Once at the snowy schlossgarten, I follow the winding paths past the marzipan Belvedere tea house and to the snow covered opaque lake, under the Prussian bridge and onto the buttercream Schloss herself.

Thirty minutes of U-Bahn later at Eberswalderstrasse in Prenzlauer Berg, I am at the height of the carnivore experience at Filetstück. Total silence, sinking with each sip, marbled fat as it bursts between the molars, spilling onto the tongue, exploding with éclats of sea salt and the warmth of blood. I browse a few vintage shops (though nothing compared dipping one's hand in the fifteen cent button basket at Humana Second Hand) before following the sleigh tracks to the Kaffee und Kuchen of my dreams at Frühstück on Raumerstrasse. As the sun sets I join the locals in calling it a day at the Kulturbrauerei, former brewery turned cultural mecca and host to a plethora of theatre and live music.

On Sonntag, after an early screening of Iron Sky at Cinemaxx, I take the U-Bahn to Platz der Luftebrücke and trek to the now-defunct Tempelhof airport. Standing in the middle of the umbrella-shaped structure, a hundred staircases descend before me. Below the command block, speechless letters.

I grab a quick bite to eat back in my favourite neighbourhood of Prenzlauer Berg, catch the bus at Zoogarten back to Tegel Airport and reflect on the weekend now past. Years of watching Arte's Franco-German comparative culture show, Karambolage, and regularly reading Der Spiegel couldn't have prepared me for Berlin's complex personality. I vow to return soon, hopefully this summer, to canoe to the Pfaueninsel and spend a few days lying in the thick grasses at Schloss Sanssouci. And I can't help but to think that, as travelling so often reminds me, in order to really understand, l'essentiel, c'est d'y être.

The Gare du Nord is ghostly at this hour. I make my way to platform 9, where the Thalys, in its deep crimson, awaits against the powder blue sky under a constellation of cables; I am consumed by the possibility of escape to an enlightened reality.

With a whisper we thrust into the imminent sunrise, past the chocolate Belgian row houses, the dome of the Palais de Justice, stout lambs grazing on melting fields under the rising Dutch sun. Past the mustard and royal blue GVB trains and finally the dangling hooks of the canal houses. Centraal station.

I make my way down Zeedijkstraat, lined with greasy Argentinian steak houses, Indonesian joints and cheap coffeeshops. In the breeze, weed. I leave my bag at Misc EatDrinkSleep, my temporary home, and don my favourite clammy blue cashmere wrap (which still hasn't recovered from Rock en Seine) and my old chestnut boots (which still haven't recovered from last winter's snow) to wander across the drawbridges and over to the market of old Leicas, vinyls and vintage clothes next to city hall.

After a vegetarian lunch at Puccini's on Staalstraat, I head over to Rembrandt's house and through the trompe l'œil faux marble wooden doorway, a surprising detail from such an honest artist. As it is nearing five, I hurry across Nieuwmarkt square to breathe the heavy damp air and tiptoe across the smooth tombs of the Oude Kerk. Just outside, drunken conversations between whores and the gaping passers-by clog the streets of de Wallen, the red light district.

From Prinsenstraat I can see the Jordaan, reputed to be the city's best place to live. Benches await before each house, basking in the warm glow emanating from the high-ceilinged salons; sills are stacked with pillows, books and cats. On Eglantiersstraat, at the Café t'Smalle, the waiter serves me a succulent lamb shank and three-tomato chutney. I make an honest attempt to comprehend my American friend as he defends proposed cuts to social services to reduce Western deficits but instead gaze out over the canal, over the clusters of bakfiets and into the glow of those tall salons and think how greater a civilisation we could be if we all knew this reality. Amid the talk of austerity measures, I savour this moment, just to know that I have known it.

The next morning I head down to the Rijksmuseum for an encounter with Vermeer's The Milkmaid and Rembrandt's De Nachtwacht and am left searching the museum shop in vain for dainty earrings like Moreelse's Princess. Right next door, at the Van Gogh museum, I marvel at the Japanese-inspired Almond Blossom and Caillebotte's From the Balcony and contemplate six volumes of letters between Theo and Vincent over lunch at the museum café. After sunset, the annual Jordaan music festival begins (held at a petrol station, of all places) and turns out to be just another reason to get drunk. I learn the very local art of dodging the unlit cellar steps before each canal house that take up half the walkway.

On my final day I wander the corridors of the Universiteit van Amsterdam, peering into classrooms and professors' offices. I walk across the shale courtyard of the Hermitage and into the Rubens and Van Dyck exhibition, then back outside across the blauwbrug to take refuge from the rain in several hoity-toity houses (Willet-Holthuysen and van Loon). The wet cobblestone streets mirror the pale sky like in one of Caillebotte's paintings. Back at Puccini's, the waitress serves me a warm goat cheese crottin with sun-dried tomatoes and pine nuts. Afterwards, I take notes on easy Dutch style just next door at BIEC – suede totes in somber hues, bright red polka-dotted German tops and bottle-green chunky cowl knits.

After a short visit to the Anne Frank house, I force myself back up Zeedijkstraat to Centraal. Lying next to the Thalys are the mustard yellow and blue trains, this one headed to Haarlem, that one headed to the North Sea beaches. I was supposed to meet up with a girl with a pearl earring but it seems that must wait. On platform 14, I step aboard, the crimson and periwinkle nightlights a testament to a sunrise three days ago that has moved me forever.

Le lendemain de mon retour à Paris, j'ai déjeuné dans un sushi près des Invalides.  Depuis une semaine j’en mangeais au moins une fois par jour, au même titre que l’houmous. C’était devenu notre petite tradition : se balader toute la matinée dans un nouveau quartier (Dizengoff, Neve Tzedek, Bograshov, ou bien Sheinkin, mon préféré), regagner la rue Ben Yehuda en passant par HaSushia, Moon, ou bien Super Sushi, une escale à l’hôtel où je piquais mon litre de jus de grenadine Spring de notre frigo et quelques pommes, et puis hop à la plage à déjeuner sous les ondes, le vent de la mer soufflant dans nos cheveux, et tous les dix minutes un genre d’avion que je n’avais jamais vu avant survolait le Tayelet, direction Sde Dov, le petit aéroport près du port où nous sommes partis pour Eilat il y a... deux jours.  Et me voilà revenue dans les nuances de gris parisiennes, le prix des sushi s’affiche en euros, tout me semble être si cheap (des déjeuners à 12 EUR au lieu de 35 shekels, dis !). Mais peu importe, mon esprit n’a jamais quitté Tel-Aviv.

Je me souviens toujours du moment émotif de l’atterrissage.  Nous voilà à bord un vol El-Al après les fameuses 21 questions de sureté, les autres passagers appartiennent largement à la communauté haredi et se lèvent pour prier en tefflin au moment où je prends mon dîner cacher (même à bord l’avion l’houmous est meilleur qu’en France).  Puis je perçois les collines de Jérusalem éclairées dans la distance, je me rends compte qu’avant ce pays n’était qu’un espoir lointain pour tellement d'âmes, et en l’espace d’une seconde on applaudit tous, on essuie les quelques larmes oblige, enfin on est loin d’être olim.

Une fois descendu du taxi au nord d’Allenby, on traverse la place de l’Opéra pour respirer la mer. De l’autre côté, dans le noir profond, l’Egypte est en plein révolution. Je pense à ceux rassemblés à Tahir, là-bas. Puis je tourne le dos et je vais prendre un houmous chez Maganda, dans le quartier Yémenite juste à côté. Ce soir-là il n’y pas grand monde, juste les chats errants et joggeurs habituels. Les chantiers de la rue HaKovoshim sont recouverts d’énormes draps translucides, orangés, soufflés par la mer. A chaque coin de rue fleurissent les hibiscus en framboise profonde. Avant de prendre congé pour la nuit, on passe par l’épicerie russe d’à côté, je prends quelques biscuits claires à la confiture et un gâteau roulé Lachmi dans la pure tradition ashkenaze.



Le lendemain on se retrouve au rez-de-chaussée de notre petit hôtel, on s’assoie à côté de la fenêtre donnant sur la mer, à côté d’un clémentinier. En train de peler un orange de Jaffa, petit et sucré, je me dis qu’on devrait aller à la conquête de cette fameuse ville blanche pour voir la Pagode.  Pour y arriver on emprunte la rue Allenby, désagréable et surtout répétitive (bijouterie, smoothie bar à 5 shekels, Pizza Party, cheap store). Quand je repense à ce jour là, je vois un kaléidoscope composé des mignons monstres du loto, je les vois en haut des petits guichets qui sentent fort le tabac dans la rue ou dans une pub sur Hot, je vois le bleu profond des mauvais yeux (« evil eyes ») accrochés un peu partout, je vois le jaune fluo des sherut à 16 shekels qui suivent (bizarrement) la route de bus. Le vintage partout, les céréales américaines (des vrais Cheerios !) côtoient des délicieux produits israeliens, français, anglais, et russes chez mon épicerie préférée, AM-PM. Et le mieux c'est que tout s'affiche en solde. Toute l'année.



Dans la bouée du petit matin du mercredi, à la gare Arlozorov on monte dans un bus Egged (n° 421) pour un trajet direct à la mer morte. Notre bus passe par les plantations de palmiers et par le site d'exploitation des fameux produits Ahava avant d'arriver à Ein Gedi, une source naturelle en plein désert. Je voulais tant y nager mais le bus ne s'arrête pas et finalement on descend à Ein Bokek, la plage de la mer morte la plus touristique. Une bouée turquoise, violette, pèche flotte au dessus de l'eau, chaude et apaisante. Tous les cinq minutes des avions de chasse survolent la frontière avec la Jordanie et plus tard en cherchant un bus pour rentrer à Jérusalem, on remarque qu'il y a bien plus d'avions de chasse que de bus.





Le bus arrive enfin et on monte à bord avec une vingtaine de soldats de l'IDF et autant de M16. Même aux Etats-Unis je ne nous connaissais pas si armés ! Quand le bus arrive en gare de Jérusalem, les soldats exclament « Yeroshalim ! ». On descend direction la vieille ville mais finalement l'énergie de Tel-Aviv nous manque et on repart aussitôt.

Sur le chemin de l'hôtel toujours sur Ben Yehuda, on s'arrête devant une galerie d'art, Studio Mikaël, tenu par un artiste français qui nous accueille comme des compatriotes. Son art incarne l'esprit de Tel-Aviv: optimiste, populaire, multiculturel avec des couleurs qui vibre, rappellent celles des Nabis ou de Gaugin. Je n'y achète rien par souci de ne pas pouvoir le transporter dans la valise.



Vendredi, on fuit la pluie à Tel-Aviv pour le soleil et la mer rouge à Eilat. L'aéroport étant à dix minutes à pied de la plage, on s'installe vite après notre vol de 7h00 à la plage de Herod à côté de la frontière avec la Jordanie. La radio du café derrière joue  « I want the world to stop » de Belle et Sébastien. Les vagues de la mer rouge projette une brume agréable et je m'endors pendant cinq heures sous le soleil. Plus tard quand on reprend l'avion je dois enlever de mes poches le corail et le verre de mer que j'avais ramassé au contrôle de sureté. Cédric se fait engueuler à cause du sable sur ses sandales qu'il avait mis dans la machine à X.







De retour à Tel-Aviv, on a tout un weekend plein de soleil et d'inspiration devant nous. Je me réveille avec un juteux orange de Jaffa et Haaretz sous les yeux. J'entends la belle prière de la Mosquée de Yafo. L'ambiance de Tel-Aviv est contagieuse, le Tikkun Olam, les fruits, tout le diaspora avec sa richesse, son histoire, ses valeurs, c'est trop.



Je passe mon dernier soir à nager dans le coucher de soleil à la piscine municipale Gordon, non loin de l'Hôtel Dan. « Ne laissons pas le soleil se coucher!! ». A côté de nous plein de Telavivim s'entrainent au Ping Pong, au surf, à la planche à voile, ou sur les machines d'exercice que la ville a prévu.

Dimanche se termine bien trop vite, finalement avec un bagel chez Banana Beach, au Tayelet. Dans le taxi avec les fenêtres descendus je jette un dernier regard amoureux sur les grands trottoirs de promenade ombrés au milieu de Sderot Rothchild, le chauffeur écoute la radio sépharade, la légèreté souffle mes cheveux, éclaircis par le soleil et la pureté de toutes ces mers. Je regarde des pubs en hébreu sur les gratte-ciel, je regarde les gens qui promènent leurs chiens, les buses Egged à destination de Jérusalem, le bus Dan qui passera devant notre hôtel, le train tout neuf dans son beau bleu, les orangers fertiles, et puis... Ben Gurion. Cet endroit que je redoutais plus que tout.

As always at the end of holiday, I struggle with a palpable sadness. It overwhelmed me today as I was relaxing in a conclave beach pouffe at a seaside watering hole, L'Ecume des Jours. The server waltzed over to me with a bottle of Orezza while above the leafy roof bustled and patches of sunlight shone through my tortoiseshell sunglasses.

Ajaccio. The lazy city. Where the bus driver routinely takes five minute smoke breaks in the middle of the route, and the stores re-open at five in the afternoon (maybe).

We spent the whole week except Tuesday here. On that day, my birthday, we rode the rusty island train north to Corté. Under the rain we walked along the highway from the station to the town entrance, marked by the highly politicised Pascal Paoli University. We trekked up the rocky mount into the town center between crumbling buildings botched with mould patches in all colours of green and grey and bandaged with electricity cables. Next to a cream-coloured feeble church, I tasted a slice of Fiadone, the traditional Corsican cheesecake made of Brocciu, the local soft cheese, and bits of lemon confit.

Most of our time, though, was spent with our toes in the sand on the Trottel beach. Vainly I attempted to paint in my watercolour travel book, but there was too much roasting cement around and it kept drying up my ideas.

This evening, without appetite, we found ourselves wandering through the aisles of Carrefour looking for something to cook for dinner. I examined a tinted glass jar of whole crystalized lemons under the glow of supermarket halogen. I've eaten the most tender, most alive meat here: huge faux filets, marbled entrecôte, and juicy hamburger (not to mention that Bastian chicken). Clementine, myrtle, and fig preserves line the shelves of even the tiniest stores. And with these jams they fill their crostada.

It seems that a seastorm is brewing again in the bay. All the shutters are clanking and air currents are slamming doors. It was in a similar storm on Monday that my favourite cotton scarf was ripped from the balcony and forced out into the violent night never to be returned. Ajaccio is above all a wild place where the streets are lined with soothing aloe and prickly cacti. In ten minutes everything may change: the bathers may come to shore, the bakery may finally reopen, a plane will surely take off. And soon squishing fallen figs under our birkenstocken will become just another forgotten pastime, once during a summer holiday under the Corsican sun.

Lardy, the small village that, come tomorrow when the moving van rolls in, will no longer be my own, offers quiet nights with a view of the stars, a lazy river, la Juine, from which salad is harvested, and moss that grows on everything.

In its forests, I have discovered sand dunes, ancient caves, Roman roads, tombs, and lookout towers.

In the village proper, I have traveled each morning past the elementary school where my husband learned to read his first sentence. And many a letter have I sent to my mother in its quaint little post office, boasting a yellowed "Touche pas à ma Poste!" sign.

At the general store, Caprice, a wild caramel-coloured cat with long black wisps swirling around his body, gave me the evil eye this week when I dropped by to pick up some empty boxes for the move. Boxes with Petit Lu and Kleenex logos, soon to be filled with our affaires de nomad.

"So where are you moving to?" the grocer asked me.
"Dans le 15ème," I mumbled.
"Ah, ben, ça va alors!" he assured.

After a quick promenade, I've said my goodbyes to Lardy this morning. Nothing but white walls and boxes remain for company. Friqué, cliché, Paris, here we come.

I saw you lying there
Enrobed in chestnut fuzz
Alone on a yellow plateau,
So I poked you,
Felt your soft belly,
And brought you along
For dessert.

Last weekend Cédric, Hélène, and Jérémy set my little world abuzz with their love for all things cultural. Apart from the requisite flanning in antiquated Vieux Lyon, we mainly lazied around my apartment taking in lots of films and music, comparing photographs, and drawing. Cédric, whose history of incessant art instruction puts mine to shame, suggested a Saturday morning drawathon. And in the end, as I think you'll agree, our styles are not comparable: he's a Realist and I'm an Impressionist. And of course, just like in the old days of Miss Humbarger's class, we feasted on the pears and cookies afterward.







Cédric's rendition:


and mine:

A beautiful poem heard yesterday over at The Writer's Almanac..