Lemons. Oranges. Tons and tons of citrus fruit for sale at bargain prices. Some 140 tons were used to decorate huge, elaborate creations in Menton, the French city of lemons. Fruit is attached to metal sculpture frames, some reaching 9 meters or 30 feet in height, with about a million rubber bands.
The town’s annual two-week long lemon festival (Fête du Citron) starring the fruit masterpieces just ended. Usable leftovers can be purchased at a special market.
“Wonders of life” was the theme of the 2026 lemon festival.Above, Mother Earth.
The festival is a windfall for the Mediterranean town of 30,000. Tourists, about 300,000 this year, come from near and far. When the orange and yellow sculptures are dismantled, the parade stands torn down, and inner-city streets open again, locals breathe a huge sigh of relief. Menton is theirs again.
But they too enjoy the festivities. The Fête du Citron is much more than the awesome citrus constructions. Parades, a crafts market, orchard and garden tours, bands – all are on the festival agenda. And, orchids. The Palais de l’Europe, just adjacent to the gardens with the sculptures, houses a lavish orchid exhibit.
Orchids too are offered at reduced prices after the festival. I stood in line outside waiting for the sale to open, then followed the crowd to the long table where the beauties were offered.
Orchid sale and my prize, “Sunshine.”
Too many people. Too few orchids. Many must have been offered to staff before the public sale. Nonetheless I came home with a large specimen. I was told the blossoms won’t last much longer. My challenge – to get my treasure, whom I have named “Sunshine,” to bloom again next year. (Orchid tips welcome)
All manner of orchids, including air orchids, to admire. Those circles are an aquatic plant from the Amazon.
But it’s lemons, nor orchids for which Menton is famous. Not your ordinary grocery store lemons. Menton lemons are a protected, high-quality variety — too valuable and production too limited for display construction. Neighbor Spain is the source.
Mentonlemons and lemonade.
Lemon fame dates back centuries. The town’s mild microclimate made its lemons famous throughout Europe in the 19th century. The fruit was an important addition to the economy. And, since 1933 the yellow fruit has been honored with a Fête du Citron.
“In Menton, the sea is blue, the sun is gold, and the lemons shine like lanterns.”
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“It’s a blast.” He was enthusiastic, curious, at times in awe, and termed almost everything a “blast.” It was so much fun and gratifying to be with him, a blast for me too.
That’s my nephew, David Koester, who visited me recently, his first time to Europe.
Nephew David and Aunt Leah
“It was an eye-opening experience. I’ve never experienced another culture before,” David told me during a recent phone conversation. “I’ve been raving about the trip ever since I got back.”
David, 39, is an account executive with Logicalis, an IT consulting firm. He lives with his wife Sabrina and 8-year-old son Jonah in Louisville, Ky.
His buddy Matt had a business trip to Berlin. They decided to meet in Switzerland for a few days. He visited me in southern France prior to the Swiss rendezvous.
We had lunch here before David explored the old chateau in the Vieux Village of Roquebrune Cap Martin
His visit here was short, three days. We were on the move. First stop the Vieux Village (old village) of Roquebune Cap Martin. I live in the “new town.”
After an outdoor lunch in the town plaza, David explored, up to the old chateau, then up and down the skinny pedestrian alleys. Since I am now walking with a cane, I stayed back. “It’s so cool walking through these alleys, seeing the old architecture,” he remarked.
Old town Roquebrune Cap Martin
A favorite spot in the old village is the viewpoint overlooking Monaco. Another day, a very rainy day, we ventured to the principality and opted for the hop-on, hop-off bus which gives a good overview of Monaco.
Monaco
David, who is a financial wizard, informed me that Monaco’s Formula One makes more money than any other sporting event. “It was cool driving over the starting line,” he said.
Roquebrune Cap Martin is adjacent to Menton, a Riviera town on the border with Italy. It too has an old town, a maze of twisty alleys, as well as the imposing basilica of Saint Michael. David visited all, as well as the city’s market, my favorite.
The old town of Menton
David was impressed with Menton’s market hall. This is my bread stand where we bought some tasty goodies.
We crossed the border for an Italian snack at Grotta. I love to stop there – Italian ambience, reasonable food and an enticing setting just above the coast.
Another must is nearby Sainte Agnes, a medieval village classified as “one of the most beautiful villages in France.” Reaching the burg, said to be the highest coastal village in France at an altitude of 760 meters (2,493 feet), is not for the faint of heart. Follow a treacherous, narrow mountain road — lots of hairpin turns and places where there is room for only one car. Someone may need to reverse. Fortunately, David was behind the wheel.
He drove my Suzuki Swift. I was still recovering from the San Francisco broken wrist (see previous post, “I lost my money in San Francisco”) and could not yet drive.
He found driving in southern France “wild.” He summed it up: “There are mopeds everywhere. Everything is very tight. You’ve got to be on our toes all the time…you need to be aggressive out there.” He did enjoy my humble car. “I haven’t driven stick shift in ages,” he said. “It was fun.”
The views from Sainte Agnes are worth the trip. David trekked up a steep path to investigate the ruins of a chateau.
A steep path leads to the ruins of a 12th century chateau above Sainte Agnes
A medieval garden and cemetery are part of the chateau site.
Lunch was a treat, a multi course meal at a popular, rustic, local restaurant: pork pate, followed by ravioli, and a main course of either wild boar stew or rabbit, all topped off with a slice of blueberry pie. He ordered rabbit. I went for the wild boar. We shared.
For David, food in France is “phenomenal, awesome.” He was impressed with the taste and presentation, and said it was much healthier than food in the U.S.
The plan was to leave Sainte Agnes and continue up the mountain to Col de la Madonne, a mountain pass my super cyclist friend Bridget had raved about. The route is popular with serious riders on two wheels.
We had three choices after leaving the village: a road down to where we had come from, another with a sign to the town of Peille, and a third unmarked. GPS was no help. We took the road less traveled – and too much adventure awaited.
No one has lived here recently — the only house we saw on our adventure into the hinterlands.
On and on we drove. Nothing. No signs. Few other cars. No civilization. The road deteriorated. Dirt. Bumps. Pot holes. Where were we? We charged on until we came to a fork with a gate /barrier blocking the road on the right. Yet, according to David’s GPS (now working), we should take that road. He got out and opened the gate.
I was nervous. This can’t be right. What if we get stuck? We are alone in the boondocks.
But on we went, deeper into nowhere. To my relief, my chauffeur decided to turn back and take the other road. There was little improvement, but it had to lead us out of this isolated back country.
Peille is another remote medieval village tucked in the mountains.
Hope: A sign to Peille, the town we had rejected when leaving Sainte Agnes. We gleefully took it, and realized we were retracing much of the territory we had just covered. ?? This road was not much better than the others and nightfall was coming. But, we were en route to civilization.
Peille is old and picturesque, a cluster of stone buildings below the main road where we parked and then headed downhill to check it out. Nothing was open except a funky, bar café. Perfect. We loved the cozy ambience, the local vibe, and the well-earned beer.
Our salvation: A bar that was open.
Downtown Peille: old stone houses, vaulted passageways.
David was good natured about this fiasco. He was a joy to be with – never complained and was thrilled with all. Mea Culpa. I will not subject future visitors to the search for the Col de la Madonne.
David continued to Switzerland where he spent a few days in the Grindelwald-Lucerne area with Matt. He called the country “the most beautiful place I have ever been to.” However, he found it very expensive.
The boys in Switzerland. Matt and David.
In an email after returning home, David wrote the following:
“I had such a great trip. I think about it all the time. It was so great to see you. I’m so excited to come back. I can understand why you made the life decisions you did. Seeing the world is so much fun. We are going to plan a family trip to Europe.”
I hope they will visit me. I can’t wait. I know it will be a blast.
David, Sabrina and Jonah
ALL PHOTOS ABOVE BY DAVID KOESTER
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MORE PHOTOS BY DAVID BELOW
David followed the coastal Corbusier trail near my apartment. The scenery is spectacular.
We split this veggie entree at a Menton restaurant. David found food here healthier than that in the U.S.
Peille by night
La Turbie, a town near Roquebrune.
Chateau in the old village of Roquebrune Cap Martin
Since I have been doing nothing exciting to write about, this will be mainly a photo blog.
The heat and humidity here in southern France have been too much for me. Fortunately, my apartment building has a TDF (to die for) pool. I swim and do my pool rehabilitation exercises every morning, then spend the rest of the day in the comfort of my air-conditioned apartment. It gets monotonous.
At 9 a.m. I am often the only one in the pool. Heaven!
Not just the heat, but the crowds also keep me home bound. I live in a vacation paradise. The beaches are packed. Finding a parking place is as challenging as finding a contact lens in the sea. A tranquilizer is required to negotiate the traffic.
Everyone is at the beach.
It is in the French DNA to take vacation in July or August, with August being the preferable month. This applies to all – not just families with children which is understandable.
A bachelor lawyer I know has closed shop for all of August. Friend Karen bought an apartment in the spring. She is having it renovated, but all work stopped in mid July and will not continue until September. Vacation time.
My physical therapist is “en vacance “ for the entire month. (The French get five weeks of paid vacation per year, plus lots of holidays.). It’s best not to get sick in France in August. Your doctor will likely be on the golf course or beach somewhere far off. Your favorite pharmacy, bakery, butcher shop – likely closed until September.
Fortunately, the “rentree” ( when kids go back to school) is around the corner. Life will return to normal soon.
Following are random photos retrieved from the innards of my computer. Most are from fascinating trips husband Bob and I had the fortune to enjoy. We loved to explore far off lands, learn about different cultures, and meet the locals. It was all fun and enriching.
Before long I hope the beach will be like this.Sri Lanka hills at sunsetFort gunnery platform, Nizwa, OmanDaisies – and beesPeillon, France. I went there on July 9 to commemorate the 1 year anniversary my beloved Bob’s death. We had been there many, many years ago.
Geraniums in Grimentz, Swizerland
Name this bird. Seen in Sri Lanka.Muscat, Oman, at daybreak.Mountain goat in Oman mountainsIn the medieval garden at the Chateau of St. Agnes, FranceMaldives
Wildlife in Sri Lanka
MemoriesBeauty in the canton of Valais, SwitzerlandOn safari in Rajasthan, India.
Classy mansion in Cap Martin, France.
Sultan Qaboos Grand Mosque, Muscat, OmanDalmatian coast, Croatia
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It has been too long since my last post. The lockdown prevented exciting excursions to new places which I like to discover and write about. But, all is looking much brighter. Restaurant dining is back – outdoors and indoors at 50% capacity. All stores, cinemas, gyms etc. are back in operation. Our curfew has been bumped up to 11 pm. It will vanish on June 30.
During many months of “confinement,” we were only permitted to explore and wander within 10 kilometers of our residence. We did. I took photos. Recently we were given liberty to travel within France, as well as nearby Italy with our vaccination certificate. And, soon we will be able to travel within the European Union. Eureka!
Basilica of Saint Michael Archangel in Menton
Following are random photos, mostly of our surroundings. The beauty around helped ease the pain of the lockdown.
Le Jardin Exotique (exotic garden) in Eze.
Market in Bordighera, Italy –our first visit to Italy after lockdown lifted.
More Eze Jardin Exotique, above and below.
First meal post lockdown in Italy: fabulous tuna
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A wee bit of travel on the horizon: a week at a spa (terme) in Abano, Italy. This promises an interesting tale for sure. Don’t miss it. If not a Tales and Travel follower, sign up. Your address is kept private –not shared
Who am I? Leah Larkin. Carol Larkin. Leah Koester. Leah Kulton Koester. Leah Carol Koester. Carol Koester.
I have been all. It’s a crazy, complicated tale. Read on.
If not interested in my name saga, scroll down for photos of my neighborhood in southern France.
The press interviewing the press, Leah Koester, at my recent naturalization ceremony.
Ever since my first marriage to Dennis Larkin, ions ago, I have been Leah Larkin. No more – at least not in France where I am now a citizen and Leah Koester. I am, however, still an American citizen, and still Leah Larkin for US purposes.
At the time I married Dennis, I was embarking on my career as a journalist. My first job as a reporter was at the Louisville Courier-Journal. Up until then, I had gone by my middle name, Carol. Carol Koester (my maiden name) became Carol Larkin. My boss at the newspaper was Carol. There was another “Carol” reporter. And, I now had a sister-in-law, also called Carol Larkin. Too many Carols.
Leah Larkin, Courier-Journal reporter.
Carol Sutton, my boss at the C-J declared, “You will be Leah Larkin.” Not a bad byline. I liked it.
Once during a telephone interview, after introducing myself as “Leah Larkin,” my interview subject responded: “Give me a break, lady. Why not tell me you are Lois Lane.”
At the time of my divorce from Dennis, I asked for nothing, just his name. He was happy to oblige. When I married Bob Kulton, I did not become Leah Kulton. I remained Leah Larkin. It is the official name on my US passport, with Social Security, on all credit cards, membership cards etc.
Married Bob Kulton, but remained Leah Larkin
We moved from Germany to France 14 years ago. No name problems in Germany since all documents were through the US military. I was Leah Larkin at the newspaper Stars and Stripes where I worked, and Leah Larkin on the initial French documents – residency permit, health insurance card etc. But then, I decided to apply for citizenship. Little did I know what lies ahead.
Lots of paperwork and patience required. I persisted, and after several years, it worked. I got a letter – you are French. However, more time and paperwork before I could get the official documents, a French passport and ID card. That is when the Merde hit the fan.
Stars and Stripes reporter Leah Larkin interviewing Vidal Sasson – long. long ago..
My name is Leah Larkin. I assumed I could continue to be Leah Larkin. Wrong. In France a woman is legally known by her maiden name all her life. She can have a second name, “nom d’usage,” (user name), but it cannot be any name. It must be the name of her current spouse. It is illegal to use the name of a previous spouse. Now I had a French passport and French ID card with the name “Leah Koester,” and “nom d’usage, Kulton.”
How will anyone know that Leah Larkin and Leah Koester are the same person? I was worried. This looks suspicious. I could be a spy, a terrorist.
If I go to use a credit card, or carry out a transaction at the French bank where I am still Leah Larkin, and then I show a French ID card with the name Leah Koester, problems could arise. I envisioned other scenarios where this could be a catastrophe.
Why couldn’t I get a legal document certifying that Leah Larkin and Leah Koester are one and the same, that I am not a spy, nor a terrorist? I checked with a lawyer. No way.
The only path to legally be Leah Larkin in France requires hiring a lawyer and going to court. My identity fate would be up to a judge. I envision hefty legal fees, lots and lots more paperwork, and then perhaps the judge would not rule in my favor. And, if he did, yet again more paperwork to apply for a new passport and ID card.
Just getting this far has required ample time and energy. I am burned out. I am happy to have dual citizenship. I will live with dual identity. Maybe it could be an advantage. Am I too old to become a spy? How about heading to Russia to get the real dirt on you know who?
Leah Carol Koester singing in the rain.
Name confusion and change started in my childhood. My mother insisted I be called “Leah Carol.” Double names were the thing back then. In the 8thgrade, a boy said I had queer name. He made fun of it. That was a different era – what boys thought was important. I went home, crying to my mother. We can fix that, she said. You can be “Carol.” Throughout high school and university and Peace Corps, I was Carol Koester. Some folks who knew me back then still call me Carol, including one of my three brothers.
Confused? Me too.
Carol Koester, second from left, at Northwestern University with fellow members of our dorm French corridor where we were all supposed to speak French at all times. Whoever thought I would become French?
For the record, Leah Larkin and Leah Koester are one and the same. Leah Koester is proud and honored to be French. Leah Larkin would be even prouder.
Scroll down to see photos of Leah Larkin’s — no, Leah Koester’s –new neighborhood on the Riviera.
Beach at Roquebrune Cap Martin — before the tourist season.
Back in the Luberon, I photographed lavender. Here it is bougainvillea. Both are exquisite.
Bust of Le Corbusier along the seaside trail named for the architect.
Mt. view from our apartment.
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Who am I? Leah Larkin. Carol Larkin. Leah Koester. Leah Kulton Koester. Leah Carol Koester. Carol Koester.
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