Unutterable Gaul

Endings

2008-07-19T01:58:00.000-07:00

Lois' mother, Lillian Heinlein, passed away peacefully yesterday at the age of 92 with her daughters at her bedside. The sisters were singing hymns, some of which their mother would have sung during her years as a member of her church choir. Although she had been unconscious for longer and longer periods as the days passed, who knows but that the familiar melodies helped her transition in some way. I know that it was important to Lois and Ellen to be at their mother's side, and the rest of us will gather to pay our respects in just a few days.

Given this development, it feels awkward to be writing this post, but I also want to complete the record of our experience here. So please bear with me.

Mike and I are flying out of Marseilles tomorrow morning, July 20. Lois left on July 10 to be with Lillian. We'll be joining her and the rest of the family in New York for a few days before flying to Asheville to see my side of the clan. We just spoke with Lois and she believes the funeral is scheduled for Tuesday.

Monday, July 14, is, as all the world knows, Bastille Day! Earlier in the day before heading to downtown Eguilles for the civic celebration I took these pictures of what has been our back yard for the last year. I guess it's natural to start feeling nostalgic at the end of an experience like this, and I've been taking "memory book" photos for a couple weeks now. They may not have much artistic value, but they do have sentimental significance.

While Mike and I were sitting outside inspecting grasshoppers, one of the people who boards her horse on the farm came by for a training session.

During the day the musical aggregation pictured below was playing in the courtyard in front of the mairie, or city hall, which adjoins the church.

Shortly after sunset...

...we drove to town to revel with the populace. We were here for the celebration last year and Mike vividly remembered the carnival, or rather, the shooting gallery. We agreed on a limit to his expenditure ("It's my own money, Dad!") and he spent every centime of the sum blasting away at balloons. That's him in the white t-shirt. I guess it was worth it because he won, guess what, a BB gun! A more benign type than they had when I was a kid, with plastic BBs, but it sure looks real, like a Colt 45. I should say "looked", because it lasted about 2 days. Two days of extremely heavy use. And now, as we're cleaning the apartment, we're sweeping up dustpanfuls of little round yellow spheres from under all the furniture. (Mike tells me, and he's done his reasearch, that they make biodegradable BBs now!)

Then the citizenry assembled in the courtyard of the mairie for the piece de resistance - an artillery barrage. At least it seemed like it. They were setting off major fireworks right there in the middle of the crowd. Last year there was no wind and fiery debris was raining down on all of us. This year conditions were more normal and the howling wind was wafting the stuff southwards over town. It's amazing that no houses burned down.

Last year the display was accompanied by the thunderous strains of Carmen reverberating out across the square from a giant PA system. Yes, the opera IS about Spain, but it was written by a Frenchman, so I guess it qualifies as patriotic. This year I didn't recognize the music - something pseudo-classical - but it was just as loud!

The next day, we drove eastwards along the coast to Le Castellet to visit the Kratzes for one last time: Francois, Maria and Matthew - Helene was in Scotland. (In previous posts I've referred to her as Elaine. Well, that's what it sounds like! French is so confusing! Lois has already mentioned what a relief it is to be able to speak English all the time. Even in New Jersey, where they speak something very similar.) Earlier in the week we had lunch at the home of Edith (ay-deet) and her charming daughters in Gardanne. The friends we've made have been the best part of the trip.

That evening Mike and I took one of our last promenades through the garrigue (brushy forest) across the street. This rapidly became a family tradition which we inflicted on unsuspecting visitors, some of whom may recognize the pictures.

Next day we went to the library for the last time to get some movies. The library has been one of the high spots of our sojourn. It's amazing how much reading one can do when one doesn't have a job! By far most of their books in English are novels, so we read fiction almost exclusively this year: from Austin to Auster, Eliot to Ellis and Dickens to DeLillo. In my real life, I mostly read history books, so this was a change of pace for me, whereas Lois has always been an aficionado of the novel - an afictionado, so to speak.

I'm afraid I don't know the story behind these decorative monoliths, but they're somehow SO French, nezz pa?

And here is our landlord, Michel Olive. Great guy, virtually no English, constantly busy. He was another of the good things that happened to us. The French are pretty cagey about their material goods (centuries of dodging the tax collector, whether of Louis XIV, Napoleon or the Republic. Truly, taxes are forever!) and we could never find out exactly how much of the surrounding land he owns, but he also seems to spend time building or renovating apartments both here and in Marseilles, so he could very well be a man of considerable substance. But he still has fun driving his tractor!

There are a lot of things to like about France - art, architecture, fashion, style, scenery, the Tour - but when I glance down at my waistline I'm reminded of what has been really important. This was taken at our favorite brasserie on the Cours Mirabeau, where we went after the library.

And, in closing, a sunset, of course. The last French sunset for a while. Only in this final week of our stay have I learned that our little camera has a digital zoom function, which lets you get in way closer than the regular optical zoom allows. Think of all the great sunset pictures I could have taken! I really must start reading instructions! Which should be easier from now on, since they'll all be in English!

I can only repeat what I said last time: It's been fun; thanks for reading; and Au Revoir!
And this time I mean it!

Tom

The Sun Sets on Our Adventure

2008-07-13T08:05:00.000-07:00

Bonjour. Today is a dual saints' day, so Happy Sts. Henri's and Joel's Day (July 13)!

Since I last wrote, Lois decided to return to the States to help care for her Mother, whose recovery from surgery to repair her leg, which she broke in a fall, has not been going as well as had been hoped. She left on Friday the 10th, so Mike and I are on our own and will have to wrap things up here without the benefit of her gentle but firm guidance, and then we'll meet her in New York. We'll do the best we can here but there are bound to be lapses from her high standards. We just hope Lillian improves.

On a beautiful early-summer evening the week before last, the twin tutelary gods of commerce, who stand gazing out across the Cours Mirabeau in sleepless search of opportunities for profit maximization, were witness to a different kind of transaction. Six hundred elementary school students were singing their hearts out as part of the annual music festival, and we were there. Lois had gone downtown earlier in the day to visit a friend at an Indian art show and had noticed the preparations for the concert later that evening. Her enthusiasm inspired us all and we drove downtown after dinner to see what the fuss was all about. The stage was set up at the head of the Cours and the street was closed to traffic and was packed with spectators. You can imagine the sheer number of proud parents and grandparents alone. I mean, 600 kids. That works out to, um, let's see, figuring an average of 1.4 parents, weighted for the high French divorce rate, and .89 grandparents, weighted for the high French smoking-related cancer rate, that makes, well, beaucoup, anyway.

Here are the multitudes assembling, strolling up the Cours Mirabeau.

And here's the choir, all 600 of 'em, who were/was accompanied by a rock/jazz ensemble and a series of African singers and instrumentalists. The music was an interesting hybrid of all these influences.

After the concert and some ice cream we strolled back down to the other end of the Cours to the Rotonde, the hub from which the main streets of the old part of Aix radiate.

For some time we had been noticing wasps flying around the apartment, especially by the armoire (or whatever it is) in our room, and when I looked inside I saw a bunch of little cylinders made of dried mud clustered in one of the corners. I scraped them off and we opened one and, voila!, look what we found. Quite the science experiment! They're filled with little spiders, apparently still alive, and based on our vast field experience of watching the whole BBC Planet Earth series, not to mention several seasons of Nature on PBS, we deduce that these little arachnids have been paralyzed by wasp venom and are probably hosting wasp eggs implanted somewhere in their bodies. Yuck! But fascinating, in a macabre sort of way. That's life science!

We've driven through the village of Lourmarin many times on the way north to somewhere else and have always wanted to stop and explore, so we finally set aside a morning to do just that. Lourmarin has two main claims to fame: its fabulous weekly market and the fact that Peter Mayle lives there. Provencalians have mixed feelings about him. His books [A Year in Provence and its offspring] have drawn tourists here in their thousands, which is a mixed blessing. Like everwhere else, tourists are reviled by the natives despite [or maybe because of] the natives' economic dependence on them. While we were walking through the crowded market, we heard mainly German and the American dialect of English.

The strait and narrow primrose path to the village.

We bought some bread, cheese and sausage and had a plein-air pique-nique far from the madding crowd (well, not that far) down at the end of town near the chateau. There aren't very many chateaus in this part of France - that was a Loire valley thing.

On the way home we stopped at the Durance for a little fishing. Or, as I'm compelled to think of it in the complete absence of fish, "casting practice". Still, just standing knee-deep in a beautiful river on a glorious day is reward enough. The bed of the Durance is composed of loose round stones like those in the photo and has been completely rearranged since our last visit by the high water of the spring. I mentioned before that there were fears that the river would overflow its banks and flood warnings were issued to 20 or so towns along its course. The last time we were there, the path to the water ended at a steep dropoff which we had to clamber down, and, more significantly, back up. This time there was no dropoff and no sign of one ever having been there, which made the walk a lot easier.

If it was up to me, I would order a giant dumpster and throw everything we can't fit into our suitcases away. Including the car. But cooler heads, or head, prevailed. Lois found out how to participate in the weekly vide-grenier (literally, 'empty granary' and, by extension, 'empty attics or storerooms or basements or garages') which is held on the southern edge of downtown Aix, right by the Arc river. So we rented a space, got up, literally, at the crack of dawn and trundled a carload of stuff over there. It was another of those cultural experiences that we'll remember fondly. What struck me were the older North African men strolling around with shopping bags trying to recapture the experience of their youth in the souks and bazaars of Algiers or Casablanca. We quickly learned that bargaining is de rigeur. It's part of the etiquette. Once Mike accepted a guy's first offer for some jeans or something and, although the buyer agreed, he was obviously disappointed and told Mike, somewhat resentfully, that he should bargain more. He obviously felt cheated of one of the elements of a successful transaction, even though he got a better price.

Dawn breaks over the railroad bridge in Pont de l'Arc, and the vide-grenier begins to stir.

Setting up.

Remember the book 'The Material World', a photographic essay of families around the world and their stuff? The following picture would have fit right in.

The spiders wait patiently in their lair, and then...

...when the unsuspecting victim wanders in, strike with the speed of lightning! That'll be two euros, please. Oh, all right, one euro fifty. Merci.

Later today Mike and I are driving to Gardanne to deliver some of the things we couldn't sell to some friends who, we know, will give them a good home and put them to use. Tomorrow is Bastille Day (although the French don't call it that; to them it's Quatorze Juillet - July 14th) and we'll attend the festivities in Eguilles like we did last year (Yes, Mike, including the shooting gallery.) Then Tuesday the plan is to visit the Kratzes, who have appeared in these annals before (Francois, Maria, Helene and Matthew). We leave on Sunday, a week from today, which leaves time to follow the Tour de France on the tube and get a few more jogs in. And maybe go fishing. Oh, and lest we forget, to pack, clean, dump, ship, give away and otherwise dispose of the things we've accumulated during our sojourn.

I may not be writing another one of these communiques. It all depends. But if not, it's been great fun and thanks for reading. I know we'll be seeing many of you very soon and we can hardly wait. Until then,

Au revoir,

Tom

Nature Red in Tooth and Claw and Tentacle

2008-06-25T08:44:00.000-07:00

Bonjour and Happy St. Anthelme's Day, June 26,

As our time here draws rapidly to an end, we had the pleasure of welcoming the last of our visitors. (I don't mean, of course, that it's a pleasure because they were the last, but that they, like all our guests, bring pleasure.) Donna and Dennis, and Les and Betsy, stopped here for a few days at the midpoint of their transcontinental odyssey, which began in Bruges and will end in Rome, after stops in Paris, Nice, Genoa and Florence, among others. I'm sorry to report that, although when they arrived they were all in the very bloom of health (except for Les' old basketball knee), they looked more like that painting of the American Revolutionary soldiers swathed in bandages by the time they limped away over the horizon toward Nice. Or at least half of them did, maybe the drummer and the fife player (fifist?). The last time I saw them, we were in the pharmacy buying a crutch for Donna, who had slipped down a rocky hill while hiking on the plateau behind our house with Mike and Dennis. We had feared that her ankle might be broken, but the most recent word is that it was only (!) a severe sprain. And Les, in addition to everything else, had been stricken by Napoleon's revenge and was looking a pale shadow of his normally robust self. We did manage to do some of our favorite things, though, without serious mishap, like a walk through the country. This is the "before" picture. See, everybody looks pretty good.

It's spring, when young beetles' minds turn to thoughts of love.

And young spiders', like this one lurking seemingly in ambush on the underside of the flower above, to thoughts of lunch. What a dirty trick! In flagrante delicto, no less. It's like he's hiding under the bed.
Mike constructed a makeshift net with a stick and a plastic raspberry container and wrought havoc among the butterflies of the veldt, or whatever they call it here. Champs (pronounced "shomp"), I think.

Here's a wild orchid. It's the only one of its kind we've seen.

On one of the days, Les and I stayed home and everybody else went to Cassis. They enjoyed the usual activities: swimming, sunbathing, the boat tour of the calanques; but they did something entirely new and exciting which we've never tried before...

...Jellyfish Wrestling! That's right! Shown below are the nasty welts on Mike's arm after his first, and only, bout, which I guess you could say he lost. Thank goodness he was with Uncle Dennis, a veteran scubaist who's dived in exotic locations worldwide, and who had the experience and presence of mind to act calmly in such a stressful situation by marching him over to the lifeguard, where he (Mike) was slathered with some kind of soothing antiseptic balm.

And here's the whole crew, bruised, battered, bloody but unbowed, as they prepare for their departure. We went from here directly to the pharmacy where Donna bought a fancy adjustable crutch. A souvenir, so to speak, of Eguilles. We'll be seeing them all again in just a few (very few) weeks, by which time I hope everybody's fully recovered from their visit.

There are three horses who are usually in a field at the turnaround point of one of my jogging routes, and sometimes I take them apples. I'm such a city boy that this is a big "wild kingdom" adventure for me. The horse pictured below is the most vigorous of the three, probably the youngest, and has a disconcerting habit of chasing me after I've distributed the apple wedges. I assume his intentions are honorable, that he just wants to play, but when you feel the earth shaking behind you with the hoofbeats of something that outweighs you tenfold or so, it gives one furiously to think, as Hercule Poirot says. Mike, who has taken "Equitation", whatever that is, for one term and therefore thinks he's some kind of cowboy, makes fun of me mercilessly, but he also studied Greek mythology this year and I could swear there are some carnivorous horses featured in one of those stories. Anyway, from now on I'll make sure there's a fence between us when I feed them.
I mentioned our last visit to the Sorgue, when I forgot our fishing licenses. Well, we returned twice last week and it was as beautiful as we had anticipated, and although we know for a fact there are trout in there (we've seen them), we got nary a nibble on either occasion...

...not counting the ducklings.

Hilary, who I know through the Powell's network of acquaintance, came for a few days and we took her to the Sorgue on Sunday, which is when the famous market is held in Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. After strolling the market, Lois and Hilary joined Mike and me at riverside, where we had been fishing, for a picnic with all the wonderful things they had bought. The only even mildly exciting thing that had happened to us up to this point was my falling into the river and filling my waders with ice-cold spring water. But then, Hilary amazed us with her hitherto unguessed dramatic talent in her performance piece, "Venus Rising - the Scream!", an artistic fusion of Botticelli and Munch. (The water, as I have mentioned, is Cold with a capital, and italicized, C.)

The next day we all went to Cassis, but I forgot the camera. Summer has fallen with the abruptness of the guillotine. It's been in the 90's for the last few days, the papers are filled with ozone alerts and the electronic signs along the highways remind you that speed limits are significantly lowered to reduce emissions. I think I remember seeing one other driver during the drive to Cassis who actually decreased his speed. Must have been a foreigner. The French speed up.

It was a pleasure getting to know Hilary better, and we look forward to seeing her and her husband when we return. Her husband, Chad, is a pilot and she offered to ask him to take us flying sometime. Lois and I were a little, uh, hesitant but you-know-who is all agog.

Speaking of Mike, we received his report card in the mail and he did great! It was a challenging year, with a lot of new situations to deal with, and we're so proud of the way he handled everything. On top of which, he passed all his courses and has been promoted to the next grade, which is good news if he should choose to remain in France. And I'm sure that Sellwood Middle School will be impressed. Especially if they don't look at his Math grade!

This week of the Euro 2008 soccer tournament has been wild, wacky and wonderful, provided, that is, that you're not a fan of Portugal, Holland or Croatia (my deepest condolences, Milan, to you and all the Zupcic clan.) Turkey had appeared to be the team of destiny, winning improbably or taking the match into penalty shootout at the very last second, leaving their opposition psychologically shattered and incapable of making penalty kicks. But they, too, lost last night, fittingly at the last second, in the semi-final to Germany, who were pre-tournament favorites but had started out disappointingly. And tonight Spain meets Russia in the other semi-final.

I'm happy to say that we're enormously relieved this morning because we've received word from Lois' family that her mom, Lillian, who is 92, is doing well after surgery to repair her leg, which was broken in a fall. I always knew she had an inner toughness. And I'm not just saying that because she's my mother-in-law! When she woke after the anesthetic had worn off she said to the attending nurse, "Where's my ice cream?"

Hey, that's a good idea! I think I'll go rummage through the freezer and look for some butter pecan. And I think May Sarton, when asked at the age of 85 if she had any regrets, replied that she wished she had eaten more ice cream.

Until next time, Au revoir with a cherry on top!

Tom

School's Oh You Tee!

2008-06-14T11:17:00.000-07:00

Bonjour and Happy St. Herve's (with an accent over the second "e" - would that be "Herb's" in English?) Day, June 17,

After letting his hair grow for close to three years, Michael decided it was time for a new look, and I agreed to go with him for moral support. And because I needed a trim, too.

Before:

We went to the barber shop - sorry! Styliste, or Centre de Beaute - that I've been going to. Now, Mike has had only one barber shop haircut before this because I'd cut his hair for the first 9 or 10 years, so in addition to the trauma of the cut itself and the radical alteration in his appearance he had to confront tonsorium culture, so to speak. For example, he'd never had someone else wash his hair (other than us, of course, when he was younger.) It turned out to be an experience he won't soon forget, and since it's unlikely that he'll ever read this I can feel free to describe it. Two tres chic young French coiffeuses, one a trainee, were assigned to him by the owner, a hard-bitten woman of my age or thereabouts (who, incidentally, administered my haircut), and they spent over an hour hovering around him clipping, snipping and trying to engage him in conversation, but he was so embarassed, I guess, that he was mostly silent except for occasional brief muttered answers to questions like, "Do you live in Eguilles?" and "Do you speak French?". By the time they were done, everyone in the salon was watching and it felt like they were going to burst into applause when he got out of the chair.

After:

Here he is at the end of his last day of school.

The school held end-of-year festivities and a buffet on the evening of the last day. Michael had a speaking part in his class' production of "High School Musical"; that's Mike at the mike. He played a skateboarder and delivered his lines with authority. We could actually hear him. All the classes presented something, and there were a fashion show, some rock and roll bands and an awards presentation ceremony.

The moon was visible through the mimosas from where we sat.

Here are some of the proud parents. From left to right: Unidentified dog, Francois, Maria and Lois.

More proud parents, who have become friends. Charlotte; Christine and George, and their daughter. And, actually, I think the unidentified dog in the photo above belongs to them.
The culmination of the show was this: the teachers, bewigged, singing a version of an ABBA song with the lyrics revised for the occasion, like, "What went wrong? Homework used to be so gooood!", and "How can we go on after you've left?", and "What happened to the paper you promised me?". This was conceived and rehearsed in secret so the kids were astounded and the rest of us were in hysterics. The whole affair was well-managed, a pleasure to attend. For Mike, it was bittersweet, of course, because he'll probably never see most of these people again. We can all sympathize, I'm sure. Remember being 12 and 1/2? It was a pretty emotional time, as I recall.

The weather is still changing from hour to hour, from sun to showers.

Here's Filu, who belongs to the neighbors who own the horses (neigh-bors; horses; wow, an unintentional pun!) and who looks, from certain angles, a lot like our Lucy...

...speaking of whom, Betsy and Les, who are taking care of her while we're in France, and Donna and Dennis are here for a visit at the midpoint of their European odyssey. They started in Belgium and stopped in Paris enroute to us, and they'll be leaving for Nice and various places in Italy in a couple of days. I'll present photographic evidence and a more detailed description of their visit next time.

Meanwhile, another day draws to a glorious end in Provence.

And tonight, France plays Italy in the European championships. Both teams (who played for the championship of the universe at the last world cup, you'll remember) are, shockingly, in desperate straits, on the verge of elimination. They're in the same 4-team pool with Holland, who has emerged as the surprise juggernaut, and who crushed France and Italy by a cumulative score of 7 to 1 (France 4-1 and Italy 3-0). So, at the very best, only one of them will advance. And if Roumania, who's in 2d place in the pool, beats Holland, who, having already secured a place in the quarterfinals, will be resting their best players, then both of them will have to crawl back home with their tails between their legs and their fans pelting them with abuse. And maybe tomatoes. Dennis and Donna are big fans, and Lois is discovering a hidden streak of fandom, so we'll be glued to the tube. And I smell wondrous aromas emanating from the kitchen, where Les is busy working his culinary magic, so the evening promises to be a memorable one.

And I hope yours is too.

Au revoir.

Tom

Les Trois Chanteuses/The Three Altos

2008-06-09T10:32:00.000-07:00

Bonjour and Happy St. Guy's Day (June 12),

I've been telling you about the very un-Provencal weather we've been having and, indeed, the record for monthly rainfall in May was broken - 170-some mm, which is, what, 7 inches or so. That doesn't seem like much when it's written out like that, especially to an Oregonian, but it's undeniably been stormy. I took the picture below during a relatively peaceful interlude the other day. Looks like the eye of a hurricane or the cover of a Carl Sagan 'Birth of the Universe' book (Is it Cosmology? Or Cosmetology? Only profound interdisciplinary thinkers like Stephen Hawking and Estee Lauder know for sure.)

The last weekend in May Eguilles celebrated its age-old tradition of transhumance (sheep-herding to us landlubbers). There were a lot of subsidiary events, as there always are at these festivals, but we just went to the big show 'downtown' on Sunday. For some reason which wasn't completely clear to me, a major Corsican influence was evident, with Corsican singers and dancers clad in Corsican costume. This is the village square, the heart of Eguilles, bordered by three of the most important civic buildings: the Mairie (City Hall), the Church, and the Tourist Information Office. The Bar/Tabac, another key institution, is right around the corner, just a short promenade away.

When I looked at this shot later I discovered that our landlord, M. Olive, farmer, rentier and gentleman, was in the picture. That's him in the blue shirt next to the white banner, peering intently at the guitarist's feet. That pillar-like object behind him rises from the middle of the town fountain, which has spigots for both eau potable and eau non potable, and into which the sheepdog pictured below leaped for a refreshing dip after his exertions. When he jumped out and started shaking himself dry, the spectators scattered like wheat before the chaff. No, like chaff before the wind. No, that's not it either. The simile is eluding me. Like the sere leaves of autumn skittering across the barren pavement before the chill November gales. Oh, well. Never mind.

The photos are somewhat out of sequence. The first item on the agenda was a demonstration of a sheepdog herding his flock. It was quite impressive, but, having seen the movie "Babe" I'll never again be able to watch this kind of thing with the seriousness it deserves.

The main event, of course, was the procession through town and then back again of a herd of sheep estimated at 1700 head or thereabouts. (This is not something that I'd admit to just anyone, but I'm half Texan, and occasionally I slip into cowboy lingo.)

I'm still trying to learn how to use the Macro close-up function of our camera, and some of my experiments are scattered through this post. Just doing my part to fill up bandwidth with pointless trivia, unlike the important stuff on Facebook, and bring the whole internet crashing down around us! Mwah-hah-hah! OMG!

Then, this Saturday as the sun was sinking in the west...

...we went to the Salle George Duby in downtown Eguilles to attend the long-awaited concert of the Eguilles community choir, of which Lois is a prominent member. It was a smash! The program included world folk songs, something by Mendelssohn and 2/3 of Carmina Burana, with piano accompaniment. The hall was filled to overflowing with enthusiastic fans and we were well-rewarded with a great performance. A fitting culmination of months of hard work. Bravo!

There would be more pictures (certainly such an important artistic event deserves to be commemorated thoroughly) but an unfortunate philosophical and artistic difference of opinion has reared its unattractive head between the two generations of family photographers. Michael, perhaps not surprisingly in one so young, believes that movies constitute a more complete and convincing statement whereas I, staunch traditionalist, believe in the power of still photography. So if he gets his hands on the camera he uses up all the bytes or pixels or whatever in about 2 minutes and the ominous "Memory Card Full" message starts blinking on the display screen and, Voila!, that's it for the evening. So that's what happened. Although we do have a pretty good video, with sound, of a catchy Italian folk song they did for an encore, so all was not lost.

Okay, if you locate the fourth woman from the right in the front row and look carefully you can see the top of Lois' head sticking up behind hers.

During this sunset, while I was taking the picture, there were bolts of lightning shooting from the grayish-whitish blurry cloud on the right. Crazy! Although I think I remember reading somewhere that lightning actually shoots from the ground upward. But I could, of course, be wrong. Like I was some weeks ago about the location of Mad King Ludwig's fantastic extravaganza of a palace. It's actually in Bavaria, not Bohemia, Batavia or Bulimia, or any other place that begins with a 'B' and ends with an 'a', which is what confused me. Like Dan'l Boone, who was never lost but admitted to having been temporarily confused a time or two.

The sunsets are amazing. Or at least they amaze me, but I may be easily amazed. I'm gonna have hundreds, if not thousands, of pictures like this one by the time we leave. I mean, every night is spectacular.

There's a big old abandoned farm or something out in the boonies on one of my jogging routes which is undergoing renovation. For the longest time I heard these piercing cries that I couldn't identify emanating from its grounds and which sounded like a litter of giant house cats either in heat or being tortured (love hurts, they say). Turns out to be peacocks. There's a flock of 6 or 8 and they wander around the area freely.

Years ago, when I was young, there was a public service anti-smoking advertisement which showed a leathery-skinned woman with bloodshot eyes, battered veteran of life's vicissitudes (sp?), crookedly smiling although toothless, with a cigarette dangling from her chapped lips, the caption of which was "Isn't Smoking Glamorous?" (or words to that effect.) It's inspiring to see that a new generation recognizes the importance of discouraging this evil addiction among its members and that prominent celebrities have taken upon themselves the responsibility of sending a clear and convincing message to this effect to their peers and admirers. Foremost among these socially responsible artists is Amy Winehouse, who took time out from her busy schedule of recording sessions, world tours and court appearances to pose for the new version of the old ad. If I hadn't quit smoking years ago, I would certainly seriously consider it after seeing the picture below. (I have a nightmare vision of Amy accidentally immolating herself in a cloud of hair spray while lighting up.)

And our Carla's next album is due for release soon, or maybe has already been released. Along with the book she just wrote (or at any rate, helped to write; or at any rate, gave permission for someone else to write in her name) about her whirlwind courtship and marriage with Nicolas. A reviewer has said that she claims in the book to have married Le Prez not only because of his sexual magnetism but also for his brains, of which she believes him to have "5 or 6", but the reviewer observes, and fairly, I believe, that her remarks may "lose something in translation". Looking at the photo below, the first thing that strikes one is that they don't make first ladies the way they used to. The first First Lady I can remember was Mamie Eisenhower. Also, a poll was taken recently and the majority (57%) of the French approve of Carla continuing to pursue her musical career. So it looks like she's beginning to win them over. Maybe it's the boots; like Nancy Sinatra, she's gonna walk all over you. And, of course, this IS the birthplace of the Marquis de Sade, so maybe she's put her finger, or her steel-tipped toe, on a chord of sado-masochism that runs through the French character. One might have guessed at its existence from the crippling pointy-toed, stiletto-heeled shoes that everyone staggers around in. And you should see what the WOMEN are wearing!

And then, after all is said and done, after the festivities, hoopla and reality shows, the political shenanigans, human inhumanity to humans and natural catastrophes, I sometimes just want to get a copy of this sign from the French Department of Roads, Bridges, Sidewalks (trottoirs) and Gutters and put it out in front of the house. I think it perfectly expresses, with characteristic French drollerie, at least one understandable response to Mugabe, et. al. And speaking of conscienceless bombasticators, how lovely to see, and hear, Billy Ray Cyrus back in the spotlight where he was meant to be. The cultural landscape has been so barren without him.

On the other hand, did I mention Euro 2008? Oh, yes, I think I did. World class soccer, European national teams, 2 games every evening on network TV available to all, even ignorant foreigners like me. I guess life is worth living, after all. Just for moments like seeing Holland crush Italy (the defending world champions) by the lopsided score of 3-0, as they did the other night.

Our time here is ticking away and soon we'll be back in terra cognita, where time is money, men get pregnant, and they play REAL football.

Au revoir until next time,

Tom

Matter and Auntie-Matter

2008-05-26T13:17:00.000-07:00

Bonjour and Happy St. Kevin's Day, June 3. JUNE 3!! Mon dieu! Already? We're thinking now in terms of weeks rather than months until our return. Beaucoup to do before then.

(And St. Kevin!? How does one pronounce that in French? Kuh-vanh, I guess.)

In the meantime, we've been enjoying visits from some of Mike's fantastic galaxy of aunts. He's a lucky boy! Aunt Kate was here, then Aunts Linda and Michaelene, then Aunt Ellen and Cousin Kristen, and soon Aunts Donna and Betsy (and Uncles Dennis and Les) will be arriving.

We took Linda and Michaelene to Cassis, as we take all our guests to Cassis.

As I mentioned last time, when Lois and I left them they were about to embark on a cruise to some of the calanques in the vicinity although there was a storm brewing on the horizon. The photo below is the last sight of them we had, and, although Michaelene seems to be bearing up well, Linda looks a little, uh, apprehensive.

I will always prefer to remember her as she appears below enjoying the good life that France has to offer. There are at least 3 desserts on her plate, that's a nearly empty ice cream tub off to the side and she's washing it all down with a glass of red wine. It's you, Linda! Bon appetit!

This is the flower bed outside our door.

A few days later Ellen and Kristen arrived (see their extremely photogenic selves below). On Sunday we all went to Isle-sur-La-Sorgue and divided into two groups: a shopping team and a fishing team. Perhaps you can guess who was on which team. The Sorgue river is a well-known and popular trout stream, a spring-fed river which emerges from the subterranean depths in Fontaine-de-Vaucluse and flows 25 or so miles (or maybe more) west to the Rhone. Like the Metolius in Oregon, or Boiling Springs in PA, which also spring full-blown from their underground sources, it's crystal clear and beautiful, although challenging because if you can see the fish then, ipso facto and QED, they can also see you. I had conscientiously packed all the necessary fishing gear, running through the mental checklist two or three times, and felt smugly secure that we were fully prepared. Which made the discovery that I had left our fishing licenses (cartes de peche) at home all the more bitter. So, after Mike had given vent to what I can only characterize as petty and unfilial recriminations, we walked upstream scouting out likely spots for our next trip. The trip WITH the licenses. (If you're caught fishing without a license here, especially in a Categorie 1 trout stream, you can be fined HUNDREDS of euros! Let's see - in dollars that's, uh, er, oh never mind, we'd just get depressed.)

One branch of the river runs along an island which is owned and farmed by a local family, the Meyers, and this stretch is maintained and managed for catch-and-release trout fishing. The next 2 pictures were taken from the same spot on the path; I just turned around.

Here's Mike watching fat brown trout swimming by thumbing (or finning) their noses at him, while he's shaking his head and wondering how I could have been so dunderheaded as to forget the licenses. I think I heard him muttering something under his breath, too, but I didn't ask.

Here is a portrait of the invertebrate beauty that makes it all possible. To a fly-fisher, mayflies are among the loveliest of creatures, and this is no exception. Stately, big and graceful, these were swarming in clouds of hundreds when we were there. They splash onto the surface of the water to lay their eggs and that's when the trout strike with a ripple and a gulp. I don't know which of the multitude of species these are, but they're the biggest mayflies I've ever seen - over an inch long! Yum!

After the market closed at noonish, we returned to Isle-sur-la-Sorgue to pick up the marketgoers. This Sunday market is famous, extolled by both Rick Steves and Ed Ruden, Michael's pediatrician, so the town is very crowded. We made our escape and headed for the Pont du Gard, a monumental 2000-year old Roman aqueduct which spans the Gard river not far from Nimes, Arles and Avignon. It's noted also for the amazingly lifelike statues of the Greco-Roman goddesses of umbrellas, the Kabathii, which grace the entrance.

Lois had visited with Linda and Michaelene and was very eager for the rest of us to see it. Frankly, I was thinking, "Ho, hum - another 2000-year old roman ruin. Yawn." But it was spectacular, even in the rain, and I'm so glad we went. She was right again. Why do I even bother doubting her?

The players have changed, the styles have changed, the language has changed and the boules are now made from high-tech metal alloys, no longer the skulls of vanquished enemies (I just made that up!), but the game goes on much as it probably did among the construction workers who built the aqueduct two millennia ago. The contest below must have been a serious one because, not only were there photographers, both still and video, protecting their expensive cameras from the rain under plastic shrouds, but the players on each 3-member team were wearing their little matching jackets, which they only do for important matches.

Then, continuing the great-circle tour, we went to Arles, another Roman city on the Rhone. Every so often, I find myself unwittingly caught driving through the ancient narrow crooked streets of the old part of town, whether in Aix, Marseilles, Tours, or wherever, like a bug drawn inexorably into the depths of a pitcher-plant or some other carnivorous organism, and I say, "Oh, no! Not again!" Well, it happened in Arles, but we managed to survive and eventually reached our destination. It's a good thing that I lost the capacity to hear hostile car horns shortly after our arrival in France, or I might have gotten rattled. Maybe it's a frequency thing, like dogs not hearing ... wait a minute, that's not right. It's just the opposite: they hear MORE, not less. Anyway, blaring horns roll right off my eardrums like water off an Oregon duck's back.

Our destination was the Musee Reattu, named after the 19th century neoclassical painter, Jacques Reattu, which contains some works by Picasso, Rousseau and Reattu himself, and which is currently featuring an exhibit of couture-related drawings, and the dresses, purses and jewelry itself, by Christian Lacroix, enfant terrible of French fashion. The juxtaposition of this wild vividly-colored modern stuff with the grayish classicism of Reattu was disorienting at first, but became really engaging as one got used to it. And the museum itself is housed in a beautiful, labyrinthyine 15th century building. There's another room around every corner. We were constantly saying, "Hey, we haven't been in here yet!"

Apparently Lacroix got his start in the outdoor advertising business, sculpting beautiful sign-holding figures known as Kristenelles.

Some of the guards prohibited picture-taking while others just ignored us - they were busy with their Blackberries or Gameboys - so I restrained myself, but I couldn't resist the following:

As you probably know from experience, culture vultures get very hungry. For that post-museum carbohydrate replacement, curators everywhere recommend an immediate infusion of ice cream and a stroll through the town square.

In the interest of journalistic verisimilitude, I must tell you about the sidewalk bar/tabac which you can see to the left rear in the picture above. I think I was the only one of our party to notice, but the outdoor patio was filled with scruffy, seriously drunk Arlesiennes, and in the 10 minutes or so that we were loitering in the plaza at least 2 outbursts occurred there. People would shout hoarsely, stand up abruptly, knocking their chairs over, gesture aggressively but drunkenly; others, equally loaded, would intervene, everybody yelling, and then all would sit clumsily down again. No actual blows were dealt, that I saw, but a lot of fingers were pointed. I felt that I was really getting to see the true heart of France at last. I shoulda taken pictures! And this was Sunday, no less!

It has really been raining a lot here. Flood warnings were issued a few days ago to about 20 towns and villages along the Durance river, which hasn't been necessary since 1949. Our neighbor, Jean-Remy, a Provencal native, is getting seriously depressed. I've told him he's welcome to visit us in Oregon, where it doesn't rain nearly as much, ha-ha. As I've mentioned before, southern France has been in a serious drought for 5 or 6 years so most people are happy about the precipitation. And the clouds are awesome, dude.

Lois took Ellen and Kristen to, guess where, Cassis the day before they returned to Paris en route for home.

And while they were there, two goddesses of the sea, the Parsippinads, rose from the foam, delighting the assembled beachgoers during their brief appearance before scurrying off to a nearby cafe, there to don warm coats and sip hot drinks in an attempt to stave off hypothermia. (Hey, hypothermia is a Greek word. See, it all fits together! In one great holistic, er, wholeness.)

Our printer's transformer burned out a couple of weeks ago and we're awaiting delivery of a new one. I went to 10 electronics-related stores and none of them had the part so we were reduced to ordering it on the internet from a French company. The deliveryman called yesterday because he couldn't find us - one of the disadvantages of living out in the country - and he said he'll try again today (at least, I think that's what he said). Anyway, I haven't been able to scan any pictures from the newspapers into the blog and I've been saving some which I hope to share with you next time. Provided, of course, that the delivery guy doesn't get frustrated and throw the package into the raging Touloubre, our neighborhood river.

Until next time ("prochaine fois"), Au revoir!

Tom

P.S. The pictures of the sky that I've included over the months are taken from the same window in our living room. The little cluster of trees and the roof and chimney of the neighboring building appear in most, or maybe all, of the photographs. Unconsciously inspired by Cezanne, maybe, who painted the same view of Mt. Ste. Victoire 150 times. Or maybe it wasn't 150. I may be confusing Cezanne with Van Gogh, who painted 150 pictures while he was in the hospital in St. Remy-de-Provence. (All these impressionists look alike.) But it was a lot.

P.P.S. The delivery guy just brought the transformer! I had to wait by the road at the bottom of the driveway and wave him down, but he got here. We talked about the soccer game on the tube tonight, France vs. Colombia. So next time I'll be able to include those photos I told you about.

Ciao!

A Little Bitty Tear

2008-05-16T01:21:00.000-07:00

Bonjour and Happy St. Ives' (Burl? I wonder. They do worship Jerry Lewis.) Day (May 19),

A couple of weeks ago the French celebrated the end of World War II (Thursday, May 8) and Pentecost and Pentecost Monday, which constituted, for many, a 5-day weekend! We decided to get into the spirit and took a drive to Nice and the Villa Ephrussi, which is on the Cap Ferrat peninsula south of Nice. On the way we drove past Cannes but the Film Festival hadn't started yet so we didn't see Uma, Brad, Harrison, or any of the usual crowd. Our lives are a little emptier for having missed them but maybe our paths will cross next time. We live in hope, dahling. The festival and its participants get an obscene amount of media coverage here. Even the local paper, La Provence, moves its soccer news off the front page for pictures of Angelina.

We chose Thursday to make the excursion because Mike had the day off, knowing full well that it was the day of remembrance of Victoire 1945 but failing to consider the ramifications. Like parades, which the French are extremely enthusiastic about, especially those with a military theme. Consequently, the main roads in Nice were blocked off in preparation and we were detoured away into a massive creeping, crawling traffic jam. After what seemed like at least 2 hours but which was probably half an hour or so, we escaped and headed down to the Villa Ephrussi. The villa was built in 1905 by the sole remaining descendant of one of the branches of the Rothschild family who had married into a wealthy Italian banking clan. I assume she was one of the richest, if not THE richest, women of the time. She already had, at the age of 19, four perfectly suitable villas in Monaco but she needed another one, I guess, and outbid, for the 7 acres, some other outrageously wealthy figure with whom I'm sure you'd be familiar if I could remember who it was. (Lois tells me it was the king of Belgium. Maybe it was, maybe it wasn't.) The site is right in the middle of the peninsula so you can see the Mediterranean from the windows on both sides of the house. She donated the property to the French state when she died and the gardens have been enlarged since then, but even in her day they must have been stunning. Paul Allen, owner of the Portland Trail Blazers - oh, and Microsoft co-founder - has a little place nearby and I think I saw his yacht - a smallish ocean liner, really - moored out in the bay with some others only slightly less mammoth. Paul comes into Powell's with his entourage after almost every Blazers home game. Yeah, me and Paul (or Paulie, as I call him) go way back.

Sunday was American Mother's Day so we observed the formalities and treated Lois with the reverence she, and mothers everywhere, so richly deserve. Our annual celebration includes breakfast in bed, with, on one of the very few occasions in our household, BACON!, for the honoree and a plant for the garden, this year a lantana. Then we drove to Francois' and Maria's (and Elaine's and Matthew's) house in Le Castellet for the afternoon, which included a delicious home-cooked dinner and a visit to the village on the top of a hill. Francois tells me that this place is so picturesque, charming, etc., that it's busy all year because even the French are attracted and it's close enough for a day trip from Aix, Marseilles or Toulon.

Incidentally, FRENCH mothers' day (Fete de Meres) is next Sunday. The expectations in our house have not yet been made clear, but I think I'd better lay in some bacon just in case.

I'm not sure they even have a Fathers' Day here.

Pictured below, from left to right: Elaine, Francois, Matthew and Maria. From top to bottom: Francois, Elaine, Maria and Matthew.

Pictured below, from left to right, while slumming: Robert Redford, Frodo Baggins and Meryl Streep.

Then, on Tuesday, I think it was, I learned how to use the Macro close-up function on our camera. The wildflowers are exploding out of the ground around here and it's very exciting - something new almost every day. I took these during a jog, which lasted about twice as long as usual, of course, because I was stopping every few minutes to take pictures.

This is rapidly becoming one of the rainiest springs in local memory and the residents are very happy, because they've suffered 5 or 6 years of drought. There have been spectacular thunder/lightningstorms. I happened to look out the window at the right moment and, voila!, there was a rainbow, or arc de ciel. And a brown horse, or cheval brun.

I think I mentioned the poppies growing in the wheatfields. They grow in some but not in others and we wondered why. I just read it's because some farmers use herbicides, that's why. Duh! In fact, the organic food industry here is a pale shadow of its American counterpart. But they're trying.

When we arrived last July, the fields looked like they were covered with snow or ice or something. Closer inspection revealed a few trillion little white snails slowly oozing their way up every vertical surface from stalks of wheat to fence posts. As you can see, they're getting started already.

Here are the sexual organs of a poppy. Not even Monet in his most impressionistic flights dared to portray them!

I'm falling behind. Dear friends (more like sisters, really) Linda and Michaelene left today after a week's visit. We dropped 'em off in Cassis, where they'll spend 3 days before going on to Albi (history buffs will recall the Albigensian Crusade of 1215 or thereabouts, during which a French bishop, when reminded that there might be some innocents among the heretics seeking refuge in a church which he had ordered to be burned down, replied, "Burn them all! God will know his own." But I digress.) I'll have to recount their visit next time. I'll only say that as we left them they were heading out of Cassis harbor on a small, rickety tour boat just as the storm of the decade roared in from the Mediterranean. We look forward to seeing them on our return to Portland, if they're still speaking to us.

I have mentioned the remote but startling possibility that our team, Olympique Marseilles (OM), could end up in third place at season's end after being in 19th place (out of 20 teams) in December. Well, the season ended Saturday night and, incredibly, they did it! (I didn't see the game - it was on cable - but I saw one of their goals on the news the next day. It was ridiculous! Djibril Cisse, a striker, had a penalty kick blocked by the goalie straight back toward him and he tapped it in with his forehead from about 5 feet away over the prostrate goalie. The final score was 4 to 3.) Which means that they'll be in the Champions' League tournament next season, and that's BIIIIG MONEY and bigtime competition! So naturally, in the spirit of enlightened modern sports management, they're going to sell two of their best players. Francois is a true fan. He tells me I'm too forgiving. I guess his heart's been broken once too often.

We're looking forward to seeing Lois' sister, Ellen, and our niece, Kristen, in a few days. That'll make it 3 nieces out of 4. The fourth is in too delicate a condition to travel, if you get my drift. (Congratulations, babe! And Mr. babe!)

Until next time, then, here's another Provencal sunset.

Au revoir.

Tom

From Barnardsville to Bouches-du-Rhone

2008-04-30T07:02:00.000-07:00

Bonjour and Happy St. Boris' Day!

(Actually, I'm resuming this now on Ste. Prudence' Day)

Speaking of Saints and Saintes, we recently had a divine visitation ourselves: my sister Kate. She polished up her French (it was nice to have someone fluent around), got all dressed up (Not really. She didn't have to because she's ALWAYS all dressed up!) and came down from the mist-shrouded hills of western North Carolina to come see us. We took her to some of our favorite destinations, places which we've taken other guests to, like Cassis and Roussillion. Just like we all have lists of spots at home to take visitors to, we've evolved a similar list here. Except that this time we explored a little further than usual. We started at the waterfront in Cassis. That's 2/3 of the Mathews kids in the picture, and the third is there in spirit. Who'd a thunk it when we were scrabbling in the dirt of Florissant, Missouri? Hey, "Florissant" is French, isn't it? Obviously our destinies were determined at an early age.

In addition to the usual coffee-drinking, waterfront-strolling and shopping, we headed out of town on the nearest and shortest calanque walk. Calanques are these narrow inlets bounded by sheer limestone cliffs which form much of the coastline between Marseilles and Cassis. Boat rides are a popular way to see them and, in fact, Lois, Mike and the Cohens went on one of these cruises during their visit. The picture below shows just the upper end of the calanque nearest to town. As you can see, it makes a perfect moorage for boats, sheltered as it is from Mediterranean storms.

These are more shots of Cassis. Incidentally, some of Kate's pictures are included in this blog.

Lois has gradually extended her daily walk out from the throbbing city center of Eguilles into the more pastoral rural environs. She and Kate took this walk and Kate took some pictures.

This is the house Lois and I agree we would like to live in if we had to stay here. It's in the middle of downtown Eguilles and you can see forever out the living room windows.

Below is a shot of St. Cannat, which may actually be the closest village to our house, if you're a crow. If not, you have to drive way out of the way, much further than from here to Eguilles, which is a straight shot down a good road. All of Mike's and my recent bike rides have somehow mysteriously ended up here. We emerge from the woods all disoriented and tired and, invariably, after a while of pedaling one of us says, "Hey! This looks familiar. Oh, yeah, there's the way to St. Cannat." I took this picture after one of these rides. While Kate was here, we discovered a truly superior bakery while driving through the village so we'll probably be spending more time here than we have so far.

The poppies (coquelicots) are blooming and the fields look just like the one portrayed in the painting by Monet, Les Coquelicots.

Mike was back in school during Kate's visit after having spent a week on Porquerolles, one of the Isles d'Or off the coast near Toulon, east of here. They went sea kayaking every morning after breakfast, did a lot of swimming among the jellyfish, hiked and explored old fortresses. The first two days were rainy, just like here, but after that the sun came out and he returned to us brown as a berry, as the phrase has it (although I personally have never seen a brown berry that wasn't rotten and mushy). So we had to make sure to return from our excursions in time to pick him up after school. On one of the days we went to Roussillion, which I've mentioned before as having been described by Rick Steves as having all the charm of Santa Fe on a hilltop. Again we added something to the usual itinerary by taking a hike through the ochre mines. I see what Rick means - it looks like one of those national parks in Utah or someplace.

And it was market day, which always adds excitement to these visits, even if we don't buy anything.

Kate took the following picture in Aix. The outdoor cafes are beginning to spread their wings after the winter and tables are appearing in the squares. The plane trees, which are pruned back heavily every year or two (pollarding), are leafing out and cigarette smoke fills the air. Ah, it must be spring.

On Saturday afternoon we went on a long hike through the neighboring countryside, much of which we think our landlord owns. The field below is kind of our front yard. It's at the bottom of the driveway to our house and the vast majority of our walks, jogs and bike rides begin here. We've seen it change from season to season and it's in its glory now. Since the picture was taken two weeks ago the poppies have blossomed and the field is now studded with red blooms. The green stuff is wheat, by the way, and very faint and far off in the middle is Mt. St. Victoire.

Then, Saturday night, we went to dinner at the home of some friends. Ingrid is German but has lived here for almost 30 years and Francis is French. There were 9 people at the party in their apartment, including our friends Monique and Alain at whose home we'd met our hosts. The apartment is the perfect size for 2 people but a little crowded for 9. There were never fewer than 3 conversations being conducted at any given moment, in any one or a mixture of 3 languages, and the, uh, coziness of the space made it feel at times like a pressure cooker reaching full boil, but it was a great fete. In the continental fashion, things didn't get under way until 8:30 or so and the French do NOT hurry themselves in these situations, so it got pretty late before it was all over. Even Alain, bon-vivant and battle-hardened veteran of a lifetime of French dinners, was visibly weakening, hoarse and yawning by midnight. The food and joie de vivre were wonderful, and our enjoyment was enhanced by the knowledge that we could sleep late the following morning.

Another nearby village is Lambesc, pictured below. We had gone to see a place our realtor/friend had mentioned as being quite impressive, a sort of park in a mountainous region just a couple kilometers north of the town which is a popular hiking area. It's named after a chapel, Ste. Anne's, which is up there somewhere and which we'll try to visit next time, but I got some panoramic shots from the summit of one of the hills. We can actually see that very hill and the tower atop it from our house. After our descent we stopped in Lambesc for coffee, tea, Coke (guess who!) and dessert at the Full Moon Cafe, which appeared to be the only business open on a Sunday afternoon.

The nightingales, or what we assume to be nightingales - rossignols en Francais - have begun their all-night serenades. I've never heard them before and am fascinated - they're so weird! But beautiful. We're looking forward to welcoming more friends next week, and we hope the nightingales are still singing and the poppies are still in bloom for their visit.

Oh, and Nicolas Sarkozy (he of the plummeting popularity) went on national TV and admitted he'd made mistakes and asked for patience and forgiveness. I wonder if this will inspire other chief executives to make similar mea culpas. I don't think I'll hold my breath.

And the Champions' League final is being played by two English teams - Chelsea and Manchester United - in Moscow. (Chelsea is owned by Roman Abramowicz, one of Russia's leading billionaire oligarchs and a crony of Vladimir I.) The Russian government announced today that visa requirements would be waived for English fans so that ticketholders could make the trip without going through all the paperwork, which I'm sure wouldn't be completed by game-time anyway, thereby clearing the way for 30- or 40,000 lager-fueled Brits to interact with a like number of vodka-swilling Russkis in a large enclosed bowl-like structure surrounded by armed security forces. Sounds like the glory days of Rome. I hope it's on TV.

We who are about to say "Bye!" salute you!

Until next time, Au Revoir!

Tom

Leapin' Lisbon! It's Carla and the Cohens!

2008-04-19T03:00:00.000-07:00

Bonjour Mes Amis! And Happy Ste. Emma's Day!

Since we last spoke what seems like months ago (it's all my fault! Bad blogger!) a new era has dawned in Franco-British (or is that Anglo-French?) relations. And who is responsible for this dramatic breakthrough, you ask? Who else but our Carla! To prepare for her first state visit to London, she just borrowed one of her mother's dresses and a pillbox hat from the Jacqueline Bouvier-Kennedy-Onassis historical museum and, voila!, the Brits fell in love. One of the Times (London) woman columnists grudgingly admitted to finding herself actually kind of liking the Premiere Dame despite her own deeply held political and feminist beliefs, and compared her to a wicked but fascinating countess in a Victorian novel. Looks like Prince Philip agrees. He hasn't been this excited since the opening day of foxhunting season.

"She stoops to conquer."

The Windsors weren't the only ones to welcome jet-setting beautiful people into the bosom of their family. We were visited by some exalted personages, too: 3/4 of the Cohen family from El Cerrito, California: Jeff, Renee (pronounced Rini) and Dapper Dan. Sister Rivkah couldn't make it - something about studying in Latin America or something. We did some of our favorite things - trips to Cassis, the Camargue, Isle sur la Sorgue, etc. We also took in a soccer match pitting the local amateur team, AC Eguilles, against some other guys from I can't remember where now. Our team lost, as usual, but the spectators grinned and bore it.

Sunset in the driveway:

Eguilles civic stadium - artificial turf and everything!

The following shots were taken in Cassis, one of our favorite places on the Mediterranean. Rick Steves calls it "the poor man's St, Tropez." With the current state of the dollar, we qualify, I guess. Heck, we may be OVERqualified!

Baseball season just started and Jeff, a true Oakland A's fan, dressed for the occasion. I could imagine the French passers-by wondering, "Hmmm. Now where do you suppose HE'S from, cherie?"

Below is one of the all-day boules games that go on, even on Sunday, which is when we were there. Look at those spectators. Imagine the pressure. The players drift from one match to another, teams change, people come and go, but the game is eternal. At least until sunset.

The day after the Cohens left for Paris, we flew to Portugal to visit Jim and Barb. Jim and I used to work together at Wilf's. Then he ran off to marry Barb, who is a violist (maybe the principal violist, I'm not sure) in the Gulbenkian orchestra in Lisbon. We loved Lisbon and its environs, which is easy to do as you can see from the photos.

A shadow came over, though. I want to pay loving tribute here to Anne Nofield, of whose peaceful passing I learned when we arrived. She was an important figure in the lives of both Jim and myself, among many others, and an inspiration to all who knew her.

This is the market in Cascais, a suburb.

Tile, in all its manifold forms, is very big in Portugal. There are intricately inlaid sidewalks everywhere you look. This one is outside the tourist office in Estoril, which, incidentally, is where all the spies used to congregate, at the casino, during World War II. (Portugal was neutral.)

Barb got us tickets to the symphony. The cellist, who performed a Dvorak concerto, was the young boy in the movie "From Mao to Mozart", which you may remember if you're of a certain age. Here he is now 35 or so years later, an established virtuoso. That's Barb just beyond his right shoulder.

Calouste Gulbenkian became one of the richest people in the world early in the 20th century by organizing the oil industry in Iraq and taking 5% of the profits. He established a foundation, a museum and an orchestra, and who knows what else, all of which are still functioning. The museum is breathtaking and the orchestra is fabulous.

This is the beach in Sao Joao do Estoril, near St. Pedro where our friends live. Although that's the Atlantic Ocean you're looking at, the climate is mild. You can tell by the palm trees.

More tile. This is how they make their street signs and house numbers.

We were there for 5 days. On one of them Jim took us for a drive to Sintra, where this castle, Pena Palace, is located. It was designed by the same architect who created Mad King Ludwig's extravaganza in Bohemia (or was it Bavaria? No. Bohemia.). It is said that the castle in Disneyland was inspired by these towers.

This is a different palace in Sintra. We didn't go in, just admired it from afar.

On the way to Sintra, we stopped here, at the westernmost point of the European mainland. Cabo something.

The next day, Sunday, we took the train to Belem, which is where all the Portuguese explorers departed from. Two other local items of note are the monastery of Jeronimo (Jerome), which contains the tomb of Vasco de Gama, and the popular custard pastries which were invented here. (See picture of empty plate below).

Portugal was the first European power to have outposts in India and Portuguese art shows that influence. A lot of the sculpture has elephants and the pillars, even those in the monastery church below, look a lot like Hindu examples, with multitudes of busy figures carved on them.

On Monday, when both our hosts were working, we took the train to Lisbon. Lois wanted to buy some small pottery objects and Barb recommended the shop below. I walked around in there VERY carefully!

This is a grand plaza on the river Tagus, which widens into an estuary a mile or two across.
The river is crossed at a narrower point by a bridge which was designed by the same person who designed the Golden Gate bridge, and it (the Lisbon one) looks just like it (the San francisco one).

Here is the Castelo St. George, which sits on top of a high hill overlooking Lisbon. It's the perfect spot for a fortress and has been recognized as such by all of the many overlapping waves of inhabitants, from the neolithic, through Roman, Visigothic and Moorish, to Christians of the reconquista. We hiked up to it. Lisbon reminds me of San Francisco: water, pastel colors, big modern buildings and, not least, really steep hills (not to mention, which I already have, the Golden Gate bridge). The most exciting part of the hike was Lois' thwarting of an attempted purse-picking (hers) by a three-member team of scruffy, vacant-eyed young dudes on a crowded flight of steps. She felt a tug on the latch of her purse, which she was carrying backpack-style (Okay, maybe we should have known better) but the strong magnetic catch didn't open. She whirled around and yelled, then I yelled, and they took off down a side street and disappeared into the crowd. None of the numerous bystanders and pedestrians batted an eye. Maybe they didn't notice.

I just realized that the following was taken looking down the very street which issues out through the arch into the grand plaza shown above, but from the opposite direction, the back side, so to speak.

It was a great visit. Most nights Jim and Michael barbecued, which satisfied both Mike's pyrotechnic tendencies and the Portuguese requirement for meat at every meal. Barb's mother lives in Portland so we'll be seeing them when they visit in August. I've promised to barbecue burgers.

My sister Kate is arriving tomorrow and we felt it our duty as conscientious and concerned hosts to call her to suggest that she bring warm, waterproof clothing. We've had more rain in the previous 2 days than we've ever seen before, but things are looking more promising - today was just beautiful. Although rain is forecast for tomorrow.

Lois and Mike are in bed, and I'd better go too, since we have to get up and drive to the Marseilles airport in the morning.

Until next time, Au revoir!

Tom

P.S. This is one of the friendliest dogs we've ever met, despite the (tile) warning sign. There's a little one in there somewhere, too, so there are usually two heads sticking out, like a junior Cerberus.

Spring's the Thing!

2008-03-19T09:37:00.000-07:00

Bonjour, Happy First Day of Spring (Joyeaux Printemps) and, lest we forget, Best Wishes for a Felicitous St. Herbert's Day (March 20)!

The really big news here today and its effect are captured nicely in the opening sentence of the article from which the picture below is taken: "Ce matin, la France rigole". This morning, all France is laughing! I suppose, to be accurate, it should say "all France EXCEPT the fans of Olympique Marseilles is laughing", because our team, one of the most formidable in France, was eliminated from the Coupe de France tournament by Carquefou, a team which plays in an amateur league at or near the bottom of the multi-level soccer pyramid, several light years below OM. So one of the best teams in France, every one of whose starters is a full-time professional and millionaire, was beaten by a team some of whose members are: a real estate salesman, an administrative aide, a bartender, a bank employee, a student, a gym teacher and, the scorer of the only goal, a guy on unemployment.
This is not unlike the Yankees being beaten by the Sellwood Middle School team.

The prostrate figure in the photo below is Djibril Cisse, a native of Arles and therefore a home boy and favorite of the Marseilles fans, who is covered with tattoos and has a differently colored and styled coiffure every couple of weeks. He embodies the showbiz aspects of professional sports and he does a lot of posturing and finger-pointing. He's a striker, though, so I suppose a lot of that behavior comes with the position and he seems strangely likable. Paradoxically, although OM has played terribly in, and been eliminated from, every tournament it's been in this year it has played well and made a stunning comeback in the regular League 1 season. The team was plummeting into relegation (the bottom 3 teams at the end of the season are kicked down to the league below and the top 3 in that league come up to L1) but is now in 4th place, an amazing turnaround. As the noted American Philosopher of Sport, Al Michaels, has said: "Go figure!"

The dust is settling from the local elections, in which 36,700 municipalities of all shapes and sizes chose mayors and council members. If one of the candidates gets over 50% of the vote the first time around that candidate wins. If no one gets 50%, there's a second runoff election the following week - last Sunday. Apparently the vast majority of contests were determined the first week, with less than 4000 remaining to be determined by runoff (or second tour, as it's called). There was a slight shift to the left, as expected, in reaction against Nicolas Sarkozy and his party, the UMP, but nothing earth-shaking. I had to see the doctor this week and, speaking about the elections, he just laughed, shook his head and said something to the effect that "Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose" (the more things change the more.., etc.). Here in Eguilles the incumbent, a representative of the "center-right", was confirmed in his post by 56% of the first vote, so a second poll wasn't necessary.

I've mentioned the good fortune we've had at a couple of crucial junctures in meeting really great people who've contributed to making this whole adventure possible. One was the woman who found our apartment for us, Rebecca. We met on the internet and just took a leap of faith and it couldn't have worked out better. She's originally from Australia, as is her husband, but they've been living here for 9 years or so. We hadn't actually met tete-a-tete until a few days ago, when Rebecca and her infant son, Jamie, and Lois and I got together at a cafe in Lambesc, a neighboring village where they live. I took some pictures of the village but somehow, incomprehensibly and unforgivably, came away without getting any of them, two of the most photogenic subjects it's been my fortune to encounter on this (or any) trip.

It's cold and windy today, but the sun is shining and spring is obviously enroute. These wild orchids, Orchis Tachete with an accent over the 2d 'e', are growing alongside the driveway. They're a protected species.

It's been unusually quiet around here this week because Michael is in the Alps with 75 other kids from his school on their annual ski trip. This is his first time on skis but it sounds like he's having a blast and remains ambulatory and uninjured, at least as of last night when we called him. (I'm always taken aback by how deep his voice sounds on the phone.) They're divided into groups according to skill and experience and he's in the charmingly named "Debutants". He'll be returning tomorrow afternoon.

It's just as well that he has something of a vacation this week (although I think the mornings are devoted to schoolwork) because last week he had 6 or 7 major exams, the second installment of the dreaded Trimestrials, and our household was in a state of high anxiety and chaos, as is usually the case when there's serious studying to be done. (I guess I should have said that it's just as well that we ALL have something of a vacation this week). Below you can see us studying French during one of the relatively quiet interludes that arose periodically when we became exhausted from wrangling with each other, and during which we were able to rest and recover enough energy to resume wrangling. And by the way, look at the flipper on that kid! He WAS born in Oregon, Land of the Webfoot, after all.

Another contretemps, if that's the word I want, occurred last week due to my inadequate facility with the French language. Our phone company is constantly sending text messages to our cell phones in a never-ending attempt to sell us stuff we don't want, and we've just gotten in the habit of deleting without reading them. For one thing, they're hard to read and, as I say, we've come to realize that they're the equivalent of junkmail. Well, apparently they had been sending me a series of warnings for the last couple weeks that if I didn't provide them with a copy of my Titre de Sejour, or resident's permit that I recently received, they would shut off my phone service. (But not, for some unfathomable reason known only to themselves, Lois' phone or our internet connection, although they, too, are in my name!) The first I knew of this was when I received a letter from them, and the next thing I knew my phone was dead. I sent them the papers they wanted and have been forgiven and restored to their good graces. So you can call me now.

Although our stay is only 2/3 over and we have 4 months remaining, our thoughts are turning toward home. And not just our thoughts. Yesterday we visited a travel agency in Aix and bought our plane tickets for the homeward journey, which will include stops in NY and NC to see our families. We figured that the dollar - I don't want to talk about it! - is not suddenly going to get more valuable in the next 4 months, nor is the price of oil going to take a dive, so we'd better get the tickets early. (It looks like we did the right thing, because today's paper announced a bunch of fare increases to compensate for rising oil prices.) Then, intoxicated by spending so much money, we spent some more (it's hard to stop once you've started!) on a moderately expensive lunch (we haven't eaten out for months), came home and paid our taxes! Ouch! We haven't spent so much money in a single day since we signed the papers to buy our house, lo these many years ago. My heart is still palpitating (or, as a friend once said in reference to his heart-stirrings for a buxom bartendress, "palipitating".)

We're looking forward to the beginning of the visiting season. There are some of you reading this whose rosy cheeks I'll be kissing a la mode Francais in the near future. I can hardly wait.

And I hope that those of you to whom I will not be able to personally administer the aforementioned gesture of affection and respect will accept the electronically transmitted version I am now dispatching in your direction, with a kiss-kiss bisou, as they say here, first on the left cheek - smooch - and then on the right - voila! Merci!

Au revoir!

Tom

"I'm filled with shear terror," said the taxpayer sheepishly

2008-03-03T23:16:00.000-08:00

Bonjour and Happy Ste. Olivia's Day! (Today is March 5th. Yesterday was St. Casimir's Day.)

Spring is trying fitfully to make its appearance here, but is having some trouble. A couple days ago it was t-shirt weather, but now it's cold, cloudy and windy again. The flowering trees and bulbs are in bloom, though, and the wheat is several inches tall so it's only a matter of time.

And, as we all know, when spring is in the air a middle-aged American's fancy turns to thoughts of income tax. I spent most of Monday doing our return, which is always a chore, even with the help of Turbo Tax, but was even more so this year because it hadn't occurred to me to bring all our financial records, such as they are, over here. I guess I was so preoccupied with making sure we packed the necessary fishing gear that the trivial details got overlooked. But thanks to the internet I was able to dredge up the info I needed (like the Sellwood Community Center's phone number, for example - vital information without which Turbo Tax, that benevolent dictator, wouldn't have allowed us to submit the returns) and complete the process. Or, rather, the first part of the process. Now we just have to figure out how to pay.

Mike and I have been riding our bikes up on the plateau behind the house and last time we heard some bells clanking in the distance and rode over to see what was going on. I'd read about the long-distance shepherding (transhumance) that goes on here but hadn't actually seen any until now. The shepherds were a leathery young couple with several big dogs and an SUV and they're headed up north to their summer pastures. They must walk several hundred miles in the course of their annual migration.

Here's Mike bronco-bustin' a wild mountain bike.

Structures like this one are scattered through the hills and we assume they're shelters for the shepherds. Most are old and in disrepair. This is the newest one we've seen.

Here's the orchid show we went to in Eguilles at the village civic center, the Salle Georges Duby. (I just looked him up in Wikipedia. He was a historian of the middle ages and one of France's prominent "public intellectuals"). It was great fun. The place was packed with orchid-minded enthusiasts. We bought a beautiful little aromatic phalaenopsis (see below).

Here's our baby. It actually does have a faint pleasant aroma, which is unusual for orchids.

We had some friends over for dinner on Sunday, and one of the couples brought these mimosa flowers from their garden.

Our guests were Monique and Alain, and Maria, Francois and Matthew. Monique is a friend and fellow choir member of Lois' and Alain is her husband. I wrote about our visit to their house some weeks ago. Francois and Maria are Matthew's parents, and Matthew is a classmate of Michael's. I've become acquainted with them in the way that a lot of parents do, that is, while waiting outside the school for the kids to get out. Maria is Filipino, Francois is German/French, they met while studying in Japan and they've also lived in Bermuda and Hawaii as well as France.

We prepared a traditional old-fashioned American meal - homemade guacamole, chicken enchiladas, beans and rice, salad and chocolate cake a la mode. After the main meal we took a walk to settle things down and make room for dessert. We have this stroll down to the little Touloubre river that we inflict upon - I mean, "share with" - all our guests because we love it so much.

Local elections for mayors and council members are coming up in all the villages and towns in France, and the frenzy of the campaign season is reaching its climax. La Provence is filled with pictures of mayoral candidates and their teams, we keep getting campaign literature hand-delivered to our mailbox and one can't just walk down the village streets anymore without being buttonholed on every corner by someone running for something. Eguilles seems to be experiencing an increasingly heated race. The incumbent mayor, who is affiliated with the UMP, Sarkozy's center-right party, is being accused of autocracy, nepotism, cronyism, fiscal carelessness, at best, and downright corruption at worst. He, in turn, is lashing out at his detractors and accusing his rivals of amateurism, ignorance, slander, blasphemy and torturing puppies. (Just kidding about the puppies.) Interestingly, his main rival is a woman who was his deputy for several years and who, presumably, was privy to the inner workings and dirty secrets of his office, so he's taking her campaign very seriously. Of course, she may have been culpably involved in those inner workings and dirty secrets herself. We still have a couple weeks before the election and there's plenty of time for more shocking revelations, so we anxiously await developments.

I was accosted the other day on one of the village street corners by an older woman with whom I have a nodding acquaintance as she was handing out flyers in support of the incumbent. I haltingly explained that I wasn't a citizen, that I am in fact an American, and she asked who I'd be voting for in our presidential election. She mentioned Obama but I didn't think my French was good enough to explain that I'll vote for whichever Democrat gets the nomination, so I said I wasn't sure and proceeded to the boulangerie to buy a baguette. But then I became curious and stopped on my way back to ask her who she, and the French in general, would like to see elected. She switched to English (she had, in fact, been in New York just last fall) and vigorously expressed her hope that it would be Obama and said that most French agreed with her. Underlying her sentiments, of course, is the immense relief, shared by billions worldwide, that the current occupant of the office will soon be just an unsavory memory. Although, sadly, the effects of his misguided policies will be with us for generations.

I like to end these reports on a positive note, but it may not be possible this time. As if politics and the economy aren't enough unpleasantness, Olympique Lyon (rivals of our team, Olympique Marseilles, but at least they're French) were eliminated by Manchester United (English American-owned mega-team) last night in the Champions' League. So I'll just end with a pretty picture instead.

Au revoir until next time.

Tom

Hypertourism, or, If This is Tuesday I Need a Nap! And I've Lost a Day!

2008-02-19T07:59:00.000-08:00

Bonjour and Happy Ste. Aimee's (with an accent over the first "e") Day!

(The date that the blogspot machinery automatically assigns at the beginning of each post is when I begin loading the photos, which is sometimes a few days before I begin writing. These words, for example, are being processed on Wednesday, February 20.)

I have been describing at length the bureaucratic tribulations we've experienced in our pursuit of legal residency here, and I'm happy to report that, Mirabile Dictu and Hallelujah, we are as of noonish today fully fledged legitimate temporary inhabitants of France, and we have the laminated Titres de Sejour to prove it! The last pieces of the puzzle fell into place surprisingly quickly. Last Wednesday we went to Marseilles for our scheduled medical appointments and were treated to the French bureaucracy at its finest: friendly and helpful staff, relaxed atmosphere, minimal delay, efficient X-rays, modern facilities, and the doctor even spoke a little English. The best part, as always, was the waiting room where all of us sat chattering in several languages, admiring the different national costumes (I was clad a la mode Americaine - immediately identifiable - jeans and hiking boots - and, sticking out like sore thumbs, WHITE SOCKS!), smiling at the antics of the kids, cooing at the babies and just generally managing to
coexist peacefully without any politicians around to tell us how. After the physical we found a sandwich place down the street and ate at an outside table with giant semis roaring past and belching diesel fumes (the semis, not us!). This is near the stadium and the beloved Olympique Marseilles team had a game that night and preparations were already, by noon, well under way. Then we decided to visit Notre Dame de la Garde, the church on the highest hill in Marseilles, which we've been wanting to do ever since we first laid eyes on it months ago. Lois navigated us up the back side of the hill (it reminded us of San Francisco - that Mediterranean look, you know, as well as the precipitous incline) and, to our surprise, there was plenty of parking and no crowds. The church in its current incarnation isn't all that old and you can see the Byzantine influence in the photos. You can also see the breathtaking views. The exterior walls have big gouges sustained during the Battle for Liberation in 1944.

Michael is on vacation for 2 weeks, so we've been day-tripping hyperactively around Provence, flitting like bees from flower to flower, so to speak, hoping to offset the exorbitant gasoline expenditure by taking picnics from home, which we supplement with post-prandial caffeinated beverages at sidewalk cafes. It's not very warm, but we've learned to look for sunny, sheltered spots and, since we're wearing our winter coats and we sip swiftly, we've managed to avoid hypothermia so far. The photos below are of Glanum, a Roman community from the age of Augustus (2000 or so years ago) which was uncovered beginning in the 1920s. At its peak, 30,000 people lived there. Only a small part has been excavated, because there's a village, St. Remy de Provence, there now. St. Remy is the site of the hospital into which Van Gogh checked himself when he felt things getting a little a out of hand, and he painted 150 pictures during his stay. So there's a lot to see.

St. Remy and Glanum are in the region called the Alpilles, as is the medieval fortress of Les Baux which I have mentioned before.

That was Thursday. On Saturday we went to the Gorges de Verdon, the Grand Canyon of Europe, which is mentioned in every guide book ever written about France. It really is spectacular. We drove along the southern edge, the left bank or rive gauche, along roads lined with snow, roads which during the summer are bumper-to-bumper with traffic (the RVs are smaller here, but so are the roads).

On the way home we stopped in Sillane, a small village noted for the waterfall at the end of a well-trodden path about 1/2 mile away. Due to a gravitational quirk, the water falls horizontally. Some months ago we had stopped here to go fishing. I like the old stone wall around the village.

Sunday we stayed home, but Mike and I took a bike ride. There's a small hill behind us which ascends to a plateau. When you get to the other side of the plateau, about 2 miles away, you find yourself gazing down hundreds of feet over a vast panoramic vista, which is one of my favorite phrases and which I'm glad to have had an opportunity to use here.

The canal in the picture carries water from the Durance river north of us to Marseilles, which is south.

Then, on Monday, we put on our thong bikinis, sunglasses and spike heels, grabbed our Dolce & Gabbana handbags and went to THE RIVIERA, OH YEAH! ST. TROPEZ, HERE WE COME!

And there was nobody there. Just a couple busloads of paunchy middle-aged turistas. Like us, kinda, except for the paunches. But the area is beautiful and mild and much lusher (horticulturally speaking) than our part of France and I can understand why the beautiful people flock there. If I was beautiful I might flock there myself.

We went to the library in Aix yesterday, always one of the highlights of our week, and to one of the English-language bookstores (there are 2). Actually, this one is an English-, French- and German-language bookstore, AND the proprietress stocks strange foreign foods like peanut butter, maple syrup, marmite, Dr. Pepper and other exotica. Today we returned to Aix where Mike and I got cartes de peche (fishing licenses) and then we paid our 4th and, we hope, last visit to the sous-prefecture. We took a number, waited for about 15 minutes, handed over a small sheaflet of papers and a bunch of money and received in return our state-of-the-art, laminated, wallet-sized ID cards entitling us to legal residency until October (I felt like shouting, "At last we're legitimate, you b******s!").

Tomorrow we're going NOWHERE! It's just as well, because there's a great Champions' League soccer match on the tube tonight - Olympique Lyon (who've ruled the French Ligue 1 for several years now and whom we, as Marseilles fans, cordially detest) versus (Hold on now!) MANCHESTER UNITED, the quintessential English team and said to be the most popular on the planet. We don't have cable so I don't watch many matches, and I've NEVER seen Manchester United, who have some of the world's best players, so I'm pretty excited.

I think we'll be visiting Nimes and the Pont du Gard in the next few days, before the vacation comes to an end, and the Orchid Festival that was in Tarascon last week and which I wanted to attend but didn't, is coming to Eguilles this weekend so we'll be able to make it after all. I love second chances. If only all of life was like that.

And now the spaghetti is ready, the aroma is heady, and like a French yeti I must say Adieu!

Until next time,

Au Revoir!

Tom

Crustacean Shells and Wedding Bells

2008-02-07T10:47:00.000-08:00

Bonjour! Today is Notre Dame de Lourdes Day!

Last Sunday we had the pleasure of spending a long afternoon and eating a wonderful dinner at the home of Lois' friend and fellow chorister, Monique, and her husband Alain. There were several other guests and conversation was conducted in 3 languages: English, French and German. One of the neighbors, who was also a guest, had 2 kids, one of whom was a killer ping-pong player and we played in shifts on the table outside the living room in the front yard. Fortunately, the weather was beautiful. They also have a piano and Alain and I found ourselves playing, haltingly, piano/sax duets. After appetizers (2 types of tapendade on endive leaves) Alain, whose family comes from Martinique, prepared Caribbean shrimp and rice to follow red cabbage salad. Lotsa bread, a green salad, wine for those who so desired - delicious and plentiful. After an interlude for digestion, Monique whipped up 25 or so crepes and a pot of coffee for dessert. A long, relaxed afternoon. By the time we left, the conversation had turned to politics. We escaped just in time!

I had learned on Sunday morning that the Super Bowl was being broadcast here on public network TV. I had assumed it would only be on cable, which we don't have, so during our visit an internal debate was raging in the back of my mind: Should I or shouldn't I stay up till 4:00 to watch it? I decided in the affirmative and I'm glad I did. We got the game itself, but not the American commentators or commercials. The commentators were all obviously former players, giants with no discernible necks, but they were speaking French! Talk about cognitive dissonance! I still don't know where they came from.

In another sports note, I was at the bank trying to trace a check and when the clerk, a young man, noticed the word "Portland" in our records, he brightened up and said, "Oh, Trail Blazers, non?" (Actually, he said something unintelligible in a heavy French accent which I was only later able to translate.)

Later that morning there was a tremendous lightning/thunderstorm (or so I'm told - I was sound asleep, having been up all night) and we lost our electricity. We figured there was a switch somewhere that needed to be thrown, but we didn't know where, and we also figured that someone, most likely our landlord's daughter, would be home by early evening to take care of it. Through a fortunate fluke, I saw the woman who keeps her horses here and asked her if she knew where the switch was. She said no and further informed me that Patricia, the landlord's daughter, had gone up to Tours for a couple weeks, so she called Michel, our landlord, on his cell phone to report the situation. It's a good thing she did, because he was in Marseilles and hadn't planned on returning to Eguilles, but he made a special trip, flipped the switch (which is in his house downstairs), and we gave him dinner - Lois' homemade ratatouille, bread and cheese.

Mike is on vacation now - winter break - so we've vowed to make lots of day-trips. In pursuance of this objective, yesterday we went to Isle-sur-la-Sorgue in the Luberon district north of here, a destination which is mentioned in every guidebook to Provence. The Sorgue river splits and weaves two strands through the town - very picturesque - and its Sunday market is quintessentially Provencal. It received the highest recommendation possible: enthusiastic praise from Dr. Ruden, Michael's pediatrician and dedicated Francophile, so there was no way we were going to pass it up. I'm glad we went in February because it's notoriously crowded in the summer. Heck, it was crowded enough yesterday! Here are some pictures.

There are waterwheels scattered throughout the town. They're old, rusty and covered with moss. And the river is filled with fish that we couldn't identify. There are many species here that we don't have in the States.

There's the regular market and there's the brocante where antiques and collectibles are sold. It's way more interesting in a way, as you can imagine. Like Antiques Road Show in French.

As is often the case, this smallish village has a big, opulent church. And that's all I know about it.

We figure that as long as we're paying a jillion dollars every time we fill the gas tank, we might as well take the scenic route whenever possible, so we drove through the hilltop village of Bonnieux on the way back.

The local elections are coming up in a few weeks and the tempo and quantity of leafletting, rallying, name-calling and accusatory finger-pointing are rising to giddy heights. (Yes, sir, just like home!) And when one thinks French politics, one thinks You-know-who. There's no escape, really. He was in the news this week bigtime!

It seems like just a couple of months ago, doesn't it, that we were sadly observing the departure of Cecilia Sarkozy from the Elysee Palace.

And that's because it WAS just a couple of months ago. But in Sarkoworld time moves at a different speed and this week he and Carla Tedeschi-Bruni were officially married (see photo below). I've talked about this whole saga at length and have nothing further to add (unless and until something else newsworthy occurs, which is just a matter of time) except to share the most recent tidbit to drop from the divine Carlesque lips. In one of the spate of biographies being rushed into print, she is quoted as saying, "Je veux avoir un homme qui a la pouvoir nucleaire (I want to have a man who has nuclear power)". Whether she's referring to the French military capability or her lover's amorous capability, I don't pretend to know, but in either case it's a little scary. Especially, one would think, for the President himself. Go, Rocket Man! (He looks a little tired, doesn't he?)

Well, it's my night to cook and tonight I'll be featuring one of the highlights of New World Cuisine: cheeseburgers! So we can KETCHUP on things next time.

Au revoir!

Nobody Knows the Truffle I've Seen

2008-01-29T09:37:00.000-08:00

Bonjour and Happy Ste. Marcelle's (patron saint of smooth hairdos) Day!

Our first face-to-face (tete-a-tete) encounter with the French immigration authorities took place during spring break last year when we drove to the Bay Area to submit our applications for long-stay visas at the French consulate. The people working there were reserved, efficient and impressed with the conscientious preparation we (mostly Lois) had done - most pages had to be submitted in quadruplicate in both languages - so, octuplicate - for each of us - meaning, finally, sixteenuplicate. That's right! 16 copies of EACH page! Even then, we had missed something (I can't remember what) and had to get whatever it was when we got home, get it translated and fax it to them from Portland. Okay. Eventually our passports, with short-term visas attached, arrived, but not before we had bitten our fingernails down to the nub worrying about the time ticking away.

A few days after arriving here in July 2007, we went to the sous (sub)-prefecture in Aix, as instructed, where an appointment was made for us at the Prefecture in Marseilles in October, where we would be expected to submit another sheaf of documents, all or most of which we'd already given the consulate in San Francisco. I've described this experience in one of the early blogs.

The result of that visit was another appointment at the Sous-prefecture (in Aix) on January 3 to pick up (we thought) our finished long-stay visas. But when we presented ourselves, the clerk consulted the computer, shook her head, made this little combination puff of air/tsk-tsk sound that they do so well here, stamped our paper with her official seal and instructed us to return on January 30.

That was yesterday. We dropped Mike off at school and headed downtown for what we figured was the last visit to the Sous-prefecture. The place was almost empty, so we got in promptly and shoved our passports and the stamped document across the counter and under the (bulletproof?) glass, where another functionary, this one a longhaired man of about our age, checked the computer, shook his head, pursed his lips (by this time we know what follows the pursing of the lips as the night follows the day, so it came as no surprise), made the puff of air/tsk-tsk sound, stamped the paper and told us to come back on February 29 (after determining that this was a Leap, or Bisextile, year) and we discussed the U.S. presidential election. He's pulling for Obama.

Lois and I agreed that even if we had to come back every month for the duration of our stay, at least we'd have an excuse to drop into one of our favorite cafes (and, in fact, the very first we visited in Aix - on that first visit to the sous-prefecture, in fact. Beautiful symmetry or something there.) Then we picked Mike up, went shopping for ski clothes on sale for his ski trip in March, and came home. When we checked the mail we found two envelopes from the Republic of France, Agency of Foreigners and Migrations ( des Etrangers et des Migrations) informing us that we have mandatory appointments for medical examinations on the 13th in Marseilles and we have to bring vaccination records, pulmonary x-rays, eyeglass prescriptions, proof of insurance, etc., etc. Oh, and 275 euros each! I believe this is all de rigeur and I remember reading, a couple of years ago now, that a medical exam was part of the process but I'd sort of forgotten about it, and no one ever mentioned it during our multiple visits. Our sojourn is half-over now, and I must admit that the thought of just skipping the rest of the process flashed through our minds, but only for a second. (We know people who are living here and own houses and everything who haven't even applied for visas. "Yeah,", they say, "I heard something about that. What's the big deal with visas anyway?"). We'll go ahead and do what needs to be done and make our (if I'm counting correctly) SIXTH (6th) visit to the many-tentacled (it can get a lot more complicated than merely the right hand not knowing what the left is doing!) monster and hope for the best. But I'll bet we'll have to make at least one more trip, in a month or two, to pick the things up. And since it'll probably be the middle of spring by then, we'll be able to enjoy our coffee at an outside table. Et voila!

Industrial and commercial activities are clustered together here in their own areas, usually between towns, and they're clearly identified as such: Zone Industriel, Zone Commercial, Pole d'Activites, etc. There's a gigantic Zone Commercial called the Plan de Campagne between Aix and Marseilles but we'd never been there, although I had heard a lot, mostly in dazed tones, about it. I had confidently expected to spend our whole time here without ever setting foot in the place, but, wouldn't you know it, Mike was invited to a birthday party at a Laser Tag (!) place on the grounds on Saturday night. So! A couple of freeways instersect near there (coincidence? I think not.) but when I looked on the map I found that the little 2-lane road that we take from Eguilles when we're going north or south goes right to and through the Plan de Campagne. It was a nice drive, the sun was setting, lots of fields and the village of Calas enroute and finally, the road went up a hill through some trees, around a corner and ZAM!, there we were! In a giant traffic jam. And not even on the grounds yet. It took us longer to get from the roundabout at the entrance, to the laser tag place than it did to get from our house to the Plan itself. Unbelievable. Acres and acres, larger than I think I've ever seen anywhere, 200 or so stores, many of them their own separate buildings. I didn't dare use the car once we'd found the laser place (an adventure in itself) and a parking spot, so while the boys were blasting each other under parental supervision, I walked around for a while and watched the sun sink slowly into the west over the biggest agglomeration of neon in France. Very beautiful, and I figured out how to take pictures with my phone. And someday I'll figure out how to download them to the computer and then to this blog.

It wasn't all a waste of time, though. I bought my first (and probably last) pair of French running shoes, which feel good and look FAST! By the time the party was over, the traffic had thinned considerably and the ride home was easy, at least as easy as it gets on dark unfamiliar narrow country roads surrounded by manic Gauls passing you at high speed every couple minutes.

Lois had read about some interesting event - Oh, yeah! A mimosa festival - in some interesting-sounding village somewhere, but when we found it on a map it was way too far away - over by Cannes or Nice or someplace. So instead we went to one of our neighboring villages, a larger one called Pelissanne, for another truffle and olive oil festival. This time, though, we decided to BUY a truffle of our very own and I would use it in a dish to be determined later for dinner. Here are some photos of some of the things on display. They include yellow jars of duck pate, olive wood bowls and other items (Mike bought a small cheese-cutting board), herbs and sirops, terrine of ostrich (that's right!), pottery, woven mats, sausages, macarons, some big cookie things, and honey.

We became interested in this table of olive oils because they were displaying all these medals and things they had won at the California Olive Oil Exposition of aught-6 and aught-7, as well as other tastings and competitions. I opened discussion with my usual sophisticated gambit, to wit, "Desole! Je ne parle pas bien l'Francais, mais..." (Sorry, I don't speak French very well, but..). It usually gains me at least 30 seconds to work with, but in this case the guy responded immediately in perfect, colloquial (though slightly French-accented) English. His wife is American and they returned to his home, Salon-de-Provence, after 30 years in Wisconsin and started this olive oil (and tapenade) business. So we bought a bottle and have been getting all cosmopolitan dipping our bread in it and stuff.

The guy we bought the truffle from was a surly little stocky countryman with dirt-caked hands and he didn't look like he would appreciate having his picture taken. These people carry thousands of dollars worth of truffles around in little bags and they all have sophisticated digital scales (and probably sophisticated handguns) and the transactions are strictly cash. We bought one for 20 euros. It was a little smaller than a golf ball, dark brown, almost black, with a little fine mud caked on it. The smell of these things is very pungent and is aptly described as "earthy" and "gamy". Some people can't stand the smell, but we found it interesting, if not quite ambrosial. I was gonna make omelets, one of the classic truffle preparations, but realized that we like cheddar in our omelets, so I opted for something I found on, where else?, the internet - potatos anna with truffles. Easy: sliced potatos layered with olive oil, butter and truffles. Here's the truffle in the process of being sliced. It has a beautiful marbleized pattern, light brown veins in dark brown flesh.

Sitting at the table groaning and burping (from fullness [or repletion, a great word], not gastric distress) after dinner, we were able to look out the window and see another beautiful sunset, of which there have been quite a few lately.

Last time I mentioned in passing that although every community in France has something named in honor of September 4 (Quatre Septembre) I had no idea why. Thanks to my friend Diane, who was kind enough to link me up with the History channel, I now know more about that date than I would have thought possible. So I can now state unequivocally and with the authority of television behind me that the reason September 4th is so honored by the French is either because the western Roman empire ended when Odoacer deposed Romulus Augustus in 476, or because Los Angeles was founded in 1781, or Napoleon III was deposed and the 3rd Republic declared in 1870, or the world's first cafeteria opened in NYC in 1885, or Geronimo surrendered in 1886, or the first Boy Scout rally was held in the Crystal Palace in 1909. It's gotta be Napoleon or the cafeteria, don't you think?

I see that Adam Gopnick has written an article about Hyperpresident Sarkozy (AKA President Bling-bling) in the New Yorker, so I feel that my journalistic obligation to bring this wayward chief executive's behavior to the attention of an unsuspecting world has been discharged and I'm not going to write any more about him. Or Carla. Or Carla's interesting history of "relationships" (Donald Trump AND Mick Jagger? Not simultaneously, one hopes.) Or the 2000-euro shoes that his second ex-wife, Cecelia, claims that his sons from his first marriage are accustomed to wear. Or anything like that. People interested in that sort of thing will just have to consult the mainstream media. Actually, though, the President has been largely displaced in the news by the young Societe Generale trader who lost 7 billion euros, at last count, and the continuing revelations that seem to suggest that all the traders gamble - with our money - like he did all the time, but he just was unluckier than most. I think I'll get our meager funds out of Credit Agricole and put 'em under the matelas (mattress).

Until next time, assuming that a ship in the Mediterranean doesn't rupture a fiber-optic cable with its anchor, as happened yesterday and which resulted in blackout of the internet in much of the middle east and India, I bid you a fond Au Revoir.

Go Giants!

Tom

Good Night, Sleep Tight, Don't Let the Sea Urchins Bite!

2008-01-22T11:34:00.000-08:00

Bonsoir and Happy St. Barnard's Day!

I'm writing this just after putting Mike, who is fully recovered from his bout of strep throat, to bed and reading another few pages of the first book of Lord of the Rings, the Fellowship of the Ring, to him. Today is Wednesday, which is his half-day at school and which means that we spend several hours in the afternoon and evening immersed in 6th grade academic pursuits, i.e., homework and studying. So we're all a little dazed by bedtime. But his French is noticeably improving, and he loves history, and now in math they're studying geometry, which I liked and which he seems to grasp readily, so the family efforts have not been completely in vain. He has ANOTHER 2-week vacation coming up the week after next, which I'M having trouble grasping! I mean, I knew there was one impending sometime in the future but we just got finished with Christmas break, didn't we? There are, of course, a zillion places we haven't seen yet, and want to, so we've begun planning a series of day trips. It'll be fun.

On Sunday we decided to circumnavigate the Etang de Berre, the largest of the many shallow lakes or lagoons that dot southern Provence. I've mentioned before that this one is ringed with factories and is one of the most polluted sites in Europe, but there are still some unspoiled spots, especially around the western end and on the southern strip of land which separates the Etang from the Mediterranean. We drove west from here across the northern edge of the Etang and down, in a counter-clockwise (or anti-clockwise, if you're English) direction, through more of the seemingly endless supply of picturesque hilltop villages around here. Our first stop was Istres, a medium-sized town of 30-some thousand, which sits between the big Etang de Berre and the smaller and more pristine Etang des Oliviers, which appears in the pictures below. (See the clouds reflected in the water? I've always been a sucker for shots like that.)

(I don't remember exactly when the sunset picture was taken, but it was recently.)

Then we proceeded to Martigues, which is called, or calls itself, the Venice of Provence. (We've since learned that there's another town that claims to be the Venice of Provence. I think it's Isle-sur-la-Sorgue, a little farther northwest.)
There's a lot of water in and around Martigues; the channel that connects the Etang with the Mediterranean flows through downtown, and during the season it's a very popular tourist destination. Even as we sat at a cafe for post-lunch coffees (we have begun to take our own lunches with us - baguette, cheese, apples, cookies - because eating in these cafes can get expensive) in cloudy and chilly conditions, a giant tour bus pulled up and disgorged (does that sound contemptuous? I honestly don't mean it to) a crowd of seniors (that is, people not much older than us), who followed their guide around the waterfront like ducklings behind their mother.

There's been an onslaught of publicity for about 3 weeks in the papers and on radio and TV about the big annual Sea Urchin Festival that takes place on the south coast, the epicenter of which is Sausset-les-Pins, which was just a short detour from our route. We had been toying with the idea of going but hadn't reached any firm decision until we realized we were just a few kilometers away, so we said, "Oh, what the hey! Let's take a look." By this time we should have learned that these coastal villages are all huddled down on the beach at the foot of towering cliffs and there's usually only one road that tenuously connects them with the highways up above, and if that narrow serpentine way is somehow constricted - like, say, by thousands of sea urchin fanciers and their cars - you can be caught like a rat in a trap. (Actually, I'm reminded of the ant lions and their prey that I first saw in Florida many years ago when visiting my grandparents. The ants descend an innocent-looking slope and can't get out.) We should have guessed something was up when we saw cars parked alongside the road a couple of MILES above the town, but by then it was too late. The road that took us in was also the only road out and there was only one way to go - forward. One look at the madness around us and we didn't even stop - just kept going, inching along, until we got back up the hill at the other end. I had asked my friend Francois, "So how do you cook sea urchins, anyway? Boil 'em?" He just looked at me and said, "Cook? You eat 'em raw, of course!" Now we've all seen sea urchins on PBS, right?, and they look like little squids with those hard beaky mouthparts. Apparently you rip that part out, or something, and then just swallow the remaining soft parts down with a mouthful of wine. The leathery old sea urchin aficionados on the tube are all speaking Provencau, or Provenco, the essence of which seems to be that the first halves of words are French and the endings are Italian. Alas, another delicacy which I will never be able to bring myself to sample.

After our narrow escape, we continued a few kilometers further along and decided to check out Carry-le-Rouet, which was a little less crowded. We were able to get out, stretch, walk out on the jetty and take a few pictures. Including one, taken by Mike, of a sea urchin in its natural, still-living state. It's the dark brown object beneath the reddish filamentous object, which it might almost be wearing as camouflage. In one of the photos you can see the southern tip of Marseilles across the way, about, I don't know, 15 or 20 miles away. The village was jumpin', but with a subtly different type of crowd, and I later discovered that there's a big casino there, which might account for the uptown vibe. Also, there are some magnificent houses on the cliffs overlooking the sea that belong to big Marseilles executives. Or possibly gangsters.

A small but significant milestone has been reached in our family: Michael is now taller than Lois. In the photo below he might be standing on a rock, but I've measured them on level ground and he's definitely taller. "Never mind, dear," I tell her in my tactful, supportive way, "you still outweigh him."

I've been reading about this orchestra that is funded by the department and which offers a schedule of free concerts in communities throughout the area, from Rognes (pop. 400-ish) to Marseilles (pop. 840,000-ish). It's called L'Orchestre de l'Pays d'Aix and we had intended to go see them last week in Rognes (site of the famous truffle festival of several weeks ago), but Mike came down with what was later diagnosed as strep so we didn't. But I noticed that THIS week they were performing in St. Cannat (pop. a couple of thousand), the next village over, so I was able to go after we got back from our drive on Sunday, alone because Mike and Lois decided to stay home. It was great fun! The concert was in the Salle de Quatre Septembre (I blush to admit that I'm STILL not sure what happened on September 4th, but every community in France has at least one street or building named after it), a civic center and multi-use structure which looked, to my eyes, anyway, suspiciously like a gym, even to the basketball backboard looming over the string section. The place was packed and they had to supply more chairs, and even then there wasn't enough room to hold everyone who showed up. I just sat there bathed in the melodious sound of mostly incomprehensible French emanating from my fellow concertgoers until the music started. It was a program of excerpts from famous ballets, and the orchestra of 57 did a fine job. Unfortunately, no printed program was available so, while I sort of recognized many of the tunes, I may never know which ballets they came from.

Yesterday, after taking Mike to school, I dropped the car off at a garage in Eguilles (a different one, the third I've tried) for an oil change. I spent the ensuing hour and a half in the village, having a coffee and pastries and reading La Provence in the newly smoke-free tabac, stopping in another of the bakeries for a baguette, shopping for veggies at the weekly open-air market (see photo), and just walking around. I took some pictures from one of the scenic viewpoints, which is a street of old attached houses overlooking the Arc river valley and which is where, Lois and I agree, we would like to live if we lived here permanently. I ended up in the village cemetery (don't we all?), which is built around some ancient ruins. There's also a shot of Our Lady of the Pigeons.

Congratulations to the Giants for reaching the Super Bowl against all expectations, and to my brother-in-law Ernie, who has never wavered in his support though his heart was breaking (although his language got pretty colorful a time or two!), through thick and thin, taking the bitter with the sweet, from the ridiculous to the sublime!

Au revoir until next time!

Tom

P.S. I've just reread the above and I realize that, because we brought just one suitcase each, we're wearing the same clothes in every picture of us that has appeared in this now several-months-old blog. Good thing we have our own washer! I've also realized that our stay is half-over and we're definitely having mixed feelings.

A Saint is a Person in Your Neighborhood

2008-01-16T11:12:00.000-08:00

Bonjour and Happy Ste. Roseline's Day!

There is now an authentic Provencal calendar affixed to the wall by the computer, so henceforth when I stare blankly into the middle distance I have something interesting to look at, and it appears that every day of the year has its saint or sainte. Here, for example, is a list of some of the significant dates in the Mathews Family calendar, with patron demi-deities indicated:

January 3 - Ste. Genevieve
January 15 - St. Remi
January 18 (tomorrow?! Ohmigod! I have to go shopping right away!) - St.
Prisca
May 24 - St. Donatien
May 25 (Mother's Day here) - Ste. Sophie
June 26 - St. Anthelme
July 27 - Ste. Nathalie
August 5 - St. Abel
August 9 - St. Amour (appropriate for an anniversary, no?
Did you know about this when you chose the date, Esteemed Parents?)
August 16 - St. Armel
August 17 - Ste. Hyacinthe
August 28 - St. Augustin
September 13 - St. Aime with an accent over the 'e'
October 9 - St. Denis

Those of you born on January 13 might be interested to learn, if you don't know already, that your patron sainte is Ste. Yvette. Yvette? Is there a Ste. Fifi, too? How about Ste. Lulu? I'll have to check.

This week we didn't go anywhere special and we didn't do anything special. We just sat around coming to terms with how boring our lives have become and caring for our sick child, who was stricken with strep throat and needed our help ingesting the FIVE (5) different medications prescribed by our doctor - 4 to swallow, 1 to spray. I can't remember who wrote concerning French medical practice that the most frequently prescribed means of introducing medicine into the system was the suppository, but I'm relieved to report that it wasn't the case this time. After an unusually disease-free fall and early winter, the cold/flu/sick season finally hit last week and the French are dropping like flies (mouches). The papers are filled with stories about it and the word "epidemie" is being bandied about. Mike stayed home on Monday and Tuesday and several of his schoolmates are out today, and our landlord, hardbitten French farmer though he is, is sick as a dog (chien).

Actually, now that I think about it, the week wasn't totally devoid of memorable events. We celebrated our anniversary on Tuesday and Lois' birthday is tomorrow. Bonne Anniversaire, Cherie!

Since we didn't go anywhere I took the opportunity of walking around the farm and taking some photos of our immediate neighborhood. We live on top of a hill in a cluster of old farm buildings which have been divided into apartments. We're on the 3rd floor of the main building and our landlord (when he's not at his fiancee's) and his daughter (and her boyfriend on weekends) live on the bottom 2 floors. The building right across the courtyard is divided into 4 residences. The biggest belongs to another family (the overlapping ownership is very confusing - it must have something to do with inheritances being divided generation after generation for centuries) the members of which are only here for periods during the summer, and occasionally on weekends during hunting season. It has 3 other apartments which are inhabited by: 1. 3 twenty-something guys (Jean-Remy, Chris and David) who are smart, funny, fluent in English and have a heavy-metal band; 2. Celine, a single woman around 30 who seems to be here only intermittently; and 3. Christian, a 50-ish self-employed electrician who has 3 sons and 4 grandchildren, but whose wife, sadly, passed away after a long illness. Less than 100 yards away on the same hill is a newer and fancier house belonging to a middle-aged couple who have lived in the Bay Area, but no one around here seems to know anything about them. Or, knowing the French as we are beginning to do, they know plenty but aren't talking.

The first pictures are of some wheatfields belonging to our landlord, Michel Olive. You can see the faint green which is beginning to appear in all the fields around here, giving a cruel and misleading illusion of spring. It's only mid-January, after all, and winter-cold, but being surrounded by all this beautiful new growth one can't help but be fooled into thinking that it's early May. Until one finds oneself scraping ice off the car in the morning, anyway. I think it's a crop of early spring wheat.

Every few days the wind picks up and howls for some days, in multiples of three according to local legend, and sometimes it is VERY strong. These are some of the recent casualties. The shallow-rooted ones topple over and others just snap right off, even though one of them is almost 2 feet in diameter. That's SOME wind!

The big stucco house in the distance is the neighbor nearest to our little hilltop compound. It's a family-owned vineyard called Villa Minna which, according to an article in La Provence, produces superior reds. Since we drive by every day we're able to witness the whole annual cycle of the grape. During the harvest, all the roads out here in the country are stained dark purple.

A friend of our landlord leases a big field right behind the house which is visible from our windows, and has divided it into smaller lots for her horses. She currently works in real estate but we understand that she wants eventually to operate an equestrian school, and is enlarging her stock accordingly. There were 7 when we arrived and there are about 10 now.

The poultry, mostly roosters, it seems, strut around the place scratching and pecking. During the winter we can't hear them when they go off at 4:00 or so, but during the summer the windows are always open and after a week or two of interrupted sleep we cordially detest them.
They are often accompanied on their perambulations by some rabbits. It's like those PBS nature programs where herds of different species congregate at waterholes.

Suddenly, the peaceful scene is shattered as a giant crocodile lunges out of the still water and seizes a baby rooster in its monstrous jaws and --- . Whoops! Sorry. I guess I've seen too many of those shows. Curse you, David ("Why Does Dickie Always Get the Knighthoods?") Attenborough!

The cat (can you find him?) just recently appeared and has been sort of adopted by the little community here. He's a great animal and Mike has fallen in love with him and wants him to live up here, but we can't, and that's final!

Well, WE may be leading a boring existence, but the French are having a helluva time! First, in an echo of the American experience of several years ago, the recently selected Miss France has been divested of her crown and tiara as a consequence of having been photographed in suggestive, blasphemous (there was some religious symbolism involved) and scantily-clad poses in ads for a lingerie company. (She was STRIPPED of her crown! Get it?). The first runner-up, who would normally have inherited, has already moved on to school or something and turned down the honor, so the second runner-up is now Miss France.

They take a lot of polls here, and the latest shows President Sarkozy's approval rating at its lowest ever, below 50% in fact. Some attribute this precipitous decline to one thing, some to another. His waffling on his campaign promise to do away with the 35-hour work week? His constant jetting around from one country to another like a hyperactive mosquito? (Although every time he makes one of these visits, the headlines trumpet the multi-billion- [milliard-] euro deals he has concluded with the various sheikhs, generalissimos and presidents-for-life shown shaking his hand and looking guilty.) His butting in and undercutting and contradicting the cabinet members he himself appointed? His lurid and increasingly public private life? (Cecilia, his recently divorced second wife, is quoted in a new unauthorized biography, the publication of which she tried to block, as saying that he has a "serious behavioral problem" and throws himself on women whose names he doesn't even know! I read a biography once of Napoleon III, who was a strange character, a demagogue who almost certainly wasn't actually related to the real Napoleon, who threw himself at every woman HE met [the book didn't mention whether he knew their names or not] and who led France to sudden and complete military collapse and abject surrender to Bismarck's Prussia.) As of today, no one knows if he and Carla Bruni are married yet or not - there are rumors of a secret ceremony being performed at the Elysee Palace, and all those who are supposed to know are being very cagey about it. It's considered a possibility because some of the countries he's scheduled to visit (India, for example) have expressed unwillingness to treat him and Carla like husband and wife. They feel the conservative sensibilities in their countries would be offended, so it would be a pragmatic political maneuver for Sarkozy to legitimize the relationship with her before their scheduled tour, thereby enabling him to continue his post-holiday sales of jet fighters and nuclear power plants. After all is said, done and analyzed in the papers, their president is beginning to make the French nervous. We can certainly relate.

The NFL Conference Champsionships are coming up (if you're not sure what they are, ask a football fan - there's one in every family, somewhere. Usually in front of the TV.) and I'm feeling all, like, sentimental. For years I've had the pleasure of hosting a guys-only (we INVITE the women and children, but, oddly enough, they always seem to have prior commitments) two-game double-header TV and sandwich extravaganza, a veritable ORGY of lunchmeat, chips and salsa! I wasn't able to follow the season with my usual obsessive scrutiny and was pleasantly surprised to find the Chargers and Giants still in contention, and I'll be pulling for them to meet in the Super Bowl. Also, like any true fan, I get a lot of satisfaction, unholy glee you might say, in seeing certain teams beaten. Or rather, crushed! Humiliated! Squashed like bugs!! Like Indianapolis. And Dallas. I like Brett Favre, but since he'll probably play till he's 60, he'll have a lot more chances to win the big one. Just not this year.

I watched, on the tube, my local soccer team, Olympique Marseilles, the most popular team in France, lose in the 91st minute last night (there was one minute injury time added on) at Auxerre literally seconds before the end. The referee, or whatever he's called here, actually had the whistle in his mouth to signal the end of regulation time and the beginning of overtime, when one of the dastardly opponents snuck right by a noble defender, who was taking a well-deserved short nap, and crossed to a sneaky forward who headed the ball into the net past the hard-working goalie, Steve Mandanda. (Speaking of good sports names, like Baskerville Holmes the basketball player, there's a soccer player [in England, maybe?] named Titus Bramble!). A bitter loss, very bitter. But I have every confidence that they'll pick themselves up, brush themselves off and start all over again blaming the weather, the officials, and the lousy visiting team buffet. Why? Because they're highly-paid professionals, that's why!

And now I'm going to pick myself up outta this chair, brush myself off (Lois baked cookies tonight and I'm covered with crumbs. Chocolate chip pecan!) and start all over on the long walk down the hall to the bathroom again. Until next time,

Au revoir!

Tom

P.S. I wonder if Judy Garland was born on Meet Me in St. Louis Day

We Didn't Take Our Niece to Nice...

2008-01-07T07:50:00.000-08:00

...but we did take her to Marseilles, Les Baux and Cassis. As I mentioned last time, Aja, one of our charming nieces, visited us for almost 2 weeks. She left yesterday (and arrived home safely, as we're informed by e-mail, though sans luggage, which will follow later today), but not before we dragged her across Provence from one end to the other. You know how it is - one feels a manic obligation to show visitors around to all the "sights", which works well for all concerned because you probably wouldn't ever go otherwise.

So after she returned from a short visit to Paris we spent a day in Marseilles, which was one of the places on her "must-see" list. We walked around the old port (vieux port), which is mandatory for visitors, and climbed up into a medieval fortress (St. Nicholas?) which guards the entrance to the harbor and is a perfect vantage point for the photographer.

Although Marseilles' unsavory reputation is overblown, it does still have a sort of raffish charm. It's one of the oldest cities around and has been a melting pot for a couple thousand years. We visited the Marseilles Historical Museum, which is in the basement of a fancy downtown mall!! Why a mall, you ask? Because during excavation for the first incarnation of the mall back in the '70s, a bunch of 2000-year old artifacts, like the walls in the photo and a sunken trading ship with cargo intact, were uncovered. (They sliced some of the amphorae in half and covered the cut surfaces with glass to display the contents. Our favorite is the one with 2000-year old salted mullets. The fish, not the hairdo. Although that would be interesting, too.) Apparently the original old port (the even older port) extended into and covered the area which is now dry land, and very expensive land at that. Marseilles is the second-largest city in France and you can feel that unmistakable "big city" energy, not to mention that unmistakable "big city" traffic craziness. Man, going around a traffic circle during rush hour is like being swept up into a maelstrom - it's a miracle that people survive and, even more, that they get out the right exit. I have nightmare visions of my emaciated body being discovered at the wheel of our car as it runs out of gas while going round and round and round...

And we had another in a long series of superior lunches in a brasserie across the Rue de la Republique from the museum. Aja and I sampled tarte tatin (apple tart baked upside down in caramel sauce and flipped over when served, hot, with creme fraiche and, when requested [which we do] ice cream!!) in restaurants across France, and we were never disappointed. I suppose it's theoretically possible to get a bad piece, just as it's probably theoretically possible to get a bad cup of coffee, but I haven't had one so far.

That was Friday. On Saturday we went to Les Baux, site of the 12th-century castle/fortress of the wicked lords of Les Baux! I don't know what they did that was so awful, but the legend of their iniquity has persisted through the ages. They fought the Saracens, North African Muslims who would sweep across southern France every so often, and the ruins resemble the crusader castles in Jordan or Lebanon. The castle and the village itself seem to grow right out of the rock. This is in a region called "Les Alpilles", or little Alps - appropriately so, as you can see from the panoramic vistas, even on a cloudy day. I've mentioned before how visiting popular tourist spots during the winter is so different from doing it in summer at the height of the season, and Les Baux is a perfect example. When our friends the Gaudette-Sigels were here in August, Lois and Mike brought them here and they had to park miles away and fight their way up the cobbled streets and risk being elbowed off the ramparts by the horde of tourists trying to squeeze onto the narrow, and STEEP, stone stairs. When we visited on Saturday, on the other hand, we parked right in the town and the place was virtually deserted.

The same thing was true of Cassis, our favorite beach town, where we went on Sunday. We had taken the Gaudette-Sigels there, too, during their August visit and the place was packed. The town has parking lots at the top of the hill overlooking the sea, about 2 miles away, and runs shuttle buses to the village square from morning till night during the summer, but on Sunday we once again parked in the middle of town (I hadn't thought that was actually possible) and strolled leisurely among the relatively sparse crowds. The weather was cold and rainy for most of Aja's visit but it was beautiful in Cassis. "See, Aja, the sun really does shine here!"

Mike and Aja really got along well, as is evident in the pictures. We love our nieces and I feel that Mike's lucky to have them as cousins, not least because of their civilizing influence. They don't put up with his adolescent guff - oh pardon me. "Issues", I should say - like we, as parents, do. While we're, like, all "There, there, your majesty, we know you have these feelings, and we wouldn't dream of saying anything that might impede your self-actualization, but some people might not consider it polite to break wind in a crowded Parisian restaurant," they just tell him to knock it off and punch him in the arm. I know he'll be a better man for it. We're looking forward to Kristen's visit in the spring. And maybe, if we're lucky, Micah, too. They say, don't they, that it takes a village of cousins to raise a child?

I guess that's about it for now. Aja's back home, Mike's at school, and we're settling back into our placid routine. For a few weeks, anyway, until Mike's next school break.

Until next time, Au Revoir!

Tom

Location, Location, Location: The Loire valley, Part 1

2008-01-03T09:30:00.000-08:00

Bonjour and a belated Happy New Year!

I'm so happy to be finally typing these words after wrestling with blogger.com for 3 and 1/2 days trying to load these photos. I'll never attempt to include so many again but this is a special case: we spent a long weekend in the Loire valley, which is like a giant real-life theme park of fantastic castles and gardens, and my trigger finger is still aching from the photographic orgy I indulged in - over 400 shots in 3 days. This blog will be in 2 parts, in roughly chronological order, and I'll let the pictures do most of the talking. Allons'y!

On Thursday, December 27th, our niece Aja arrived for a 2-week visit. The next morning we all boarded the TGV train for a 5-hour ride to Tours, the largest town in the central Loire valley. That evening we walked around Tours, past the cathedral (see photos), found a good little French Italian restaurant whose owner, we discovered, had spent time in Cleveland, and slept in a lovely small 2-star hotel (Hotel du Manoir) whose proprietors gave us 2 triple rooms for the price of doubles because that's all they had left. Okay, we said, if you insist. Up early the next morning, a hearty hotel breakfast under our belts, and off we went to Villandry, the first stop in our itinerary.

Villandry was built in 1536 by the French finance minister of the time
and was owned from the late 19th century by a Spanish/American family the matron of which had inherited a vast fortune from her Pennsylvania industrialist father. They spent much of the fortune renovating the place, especially the gardens, which are the highlight of the whole trip, in my opinion. A garden in winter may be kind of drab, but you can see the bone structure, so to speak, which is obscured during bloom season. I loved it and took way too many pictures, some of which follow in both this page and part 2. The picture above is of our Michael and his namesake, St. Michael, who is busily engaged in spearing a demon, for the sake of its eternal soul, no doubt. The fancy ceiling was originally in a castle somewhere else (Spain, maybe?) but the Carvallo/Colemans had it dismantled, shipped to France, and reassembled.

The weather during our visit was wintry, cold and rainy, which drastically reduced tourist traffic. We were the only ones in the gardens for most of the time. During the season, it's packed, as you can imagine.

Although we hadn't planned to, it would be fun to visit Villandry again next summer on our way home and see it in its full flower.

The other half of this post covers the rest of the trip.

Location, Location, Location - the Loire Valley, Part 2

2008-01-01T07:00:00.000-08:00

This is the second part of the blog and here, as promised, are some more shots of Villandry and its gardens.

After Villandry, which is west of Tours, we drove back through the city and continued in an easterly direction to Amboise, where Lois' friend and naturopath studied French. When we first began planning to spend this year in France, our first thought was to live in Amboise, but we couldn't find a suitable school for Mike. But we've been curious about the place ever since so it was fun to visit. It's a great little city and we had a superior lunch.

Then we drove south to Chenenceau (the town of Chenenceaux is spelled with an "x", the chateau isn't. No reason has ever been given for the discrepancy.) This one has an even more than usually checkered history, what with Catherine de Medici evicting her husband's mistress, Diane de Poitiers, and moving in herself, and, because it straddles the Cher river, which was the border between Occupied and Vichy France (until the Germans decided to abandon their franchise operation and assume direct control), it was the site of prisoner exchanges during World War II.

We left Chenenceau and drove through a pelting rainstorm east to the small, but charming (aren't they all?) village of Chaumont-sur-Tharonne, where we had reserved 2 rooms in a gite (B&B) called Le Petit Clos. We ended up here by a fortuitous accident, originally having intended to stay at a place in Amboise with the same name, but when Lois typed "Petit Clos" and "Amboise" into Google, we were directed to this one. As the proprietors, Thierry and Rene, explained later, because one of their rooms is named the "Amboise" room this happens all the time. The rooms were beautiful, the village was perfect, the neighborhood restaurant was good, and the breakfasts were a cut above. (Hint: Try making your french toast with brioche sometime!). We slept the sleep of the just.

Next morning we drove to the train station in Blois to get Aja a ticket to Paris, where she would spend a couple days with friends, and then on to Chambord, a true monument to excess. It's famous for having close to 400 fireplaces and, visiting on a cold winter morning, it was easy to see why. The place was freezing and turistas were clustered around the few that were in operation, rubbing their hands together briskly and complaining in many languages.

When visiting places like these, from the pyramids to the Biltmore estate in Asheville, one can't help but wonder about the social structures that have permitted one person to live in such superfluous, wasteful abundance while millions of others, including those who actually built the place, have almost nothing. We can admire the skill of the builders, craftsmen and artists who did all the work, but it can still be pretty disconcerting. Francois I, for whom Chambord was built, spent a month there once, and visited occasionally for the hunting at other times, and various deposed royals from elsewhere in Europe crashed there for varying periods, but, really, no one actually lived there in the commonly accepted sense. It was never anyone's home and must have been an enormous drag on the government's finances. But it's spectacular in its way, as you can see.

Leonardo da Vinci lived in France toward the end of his life (he died in Amboise) and did some work for Roi Francois, including designing the famous double-helix staircase at Chambord, shown below.

This incredibly ornate structure is called a "lantern" and sits on the roof atop the staircase. The roof is a forest of turrets and columns and towers, but this one really stands out. My photo doesn't begin to do it justice.

After Chambord, we went to Cheverny, which is, as you can see, much less glamorous and much smaller, but is noted for its interiors. It was privately owned for much of its history, even up until recently, and feels like a home, much cozier than the cold, echoing, empty magnificence of Chambord.

The next morning, the 31st, we dropped Aja at the Tours station at noon and went to Amboise
again - it's only about 15 miles away - for lunch. A lot of businesses in France are closed on Mondays, but we got lucky and were able to have lunch at the place we'd enjoyed a couple days earlier. These are some shots of Amboise, on the banks of the Loire.

We drove back to Tours (I forgot to mention that we had rented a car) past several gas stations, assuming that there would be plenty before we got to the car rental place. A dangerous assumption, as it turned out, but we did get to explore vast areas of Tours and the vicinity which we wouldn't otherwise have thought of doing. (I should state, for the record, that if we had taken the route Lois suggested in the beginning, we would have found a station within blocks, as we realized when we drove past it on the way back to the Hertz agency after exploring the outer reaches of Tours. But Mike and I had let ourselves be distracted by false hope and insisted on taking a different road. She was too kind to say anything directly, but we think we heard a smug chuckle from the back seat when that gas station loomed up on the horizon a mere 3 blocks from the train.)

After a 5-hour trip which included changing trains in Lyon, we arrived back at the Aix TGV station at about 10:30 and made it home in time to watch the New Year's Eve festivities on the tube. Unfortunately, they didn't show the fireworks at the Eiffel Tower, which Aja had gone to see, just some of France's celebrities looking beautiful and self-congratulatory. But on the arts channel we found a wonderful Venezuelan youth orchestra, so all was not lost. And then to bed.

We wish everyone a happy new year, with the hope that more good things happen during the year to come than has been the rule of late.

Bonne Annee!

Lois, Tom and Michael

Joyeux Noel!

2007-12-24T08:20:00.000-08:00

Bon soir!

There's a little voice in the back of my head which is always ready to pipe up and reinforce my natural inclination to procrastinate by saying,"Don't worry, you can always do it later/tomorrow/next year/etc." But since we won't be here next year, another voice has been making itself heard, and it subverts the other one by warning, "Hey, you've only got one chance to do this!" So this week we heeded the second voice and plunged into holiday activities with wild abandon. Here are pictures of some of the events.

Wednesday afternoon, Mike's music class sang during an outdoor Christmas market at his school.

Thursday night we attended a concert of 14th and 15th century carols from Italy, Catalonia and Spain in the Eguilles community center, but I forgot the camera. Friday afternoon Mike's school had their Christmas pageant, and his choir performed again, but I didn't really get any good pictures.

Saturday night we went into Aix to attend a concert by a youth choir in an ancient chapel, Chapelle des Oblats, which is located at the top end of the Cours Mirabeau, the main street. We were early so we walked around the festive byways for a while. This choir is a rigorously trained one and it seems that the kids have already decided on careers in music. They were accompanied by a harp, and sang interesting stuff: some Rig Veda hymns (!) by Holst and the Ceremony of Carols by Britten, with a Debussy piece for harp in between. They were fabulous! Chills up the spine, and all that. Even Mike was impressed.

The statue is of the legendary Good King Rene of Provence, who made Aix his capital.

On Saturday, we drove a few miles north to the village of Rognes for the truffle festival, along with several thousand other interested spectators. There were dozens of vendors selling everything you can imagine, including traditionally prepared pork (I couldn't resist this photo opportunity) and, of course, the festival's raison d'etre, truffles. As you can see from the sign beside the basket, demand for the "black pearls" is outstripping supply, and the price had been adjusted accordingly. Yes, that's 1400 euros (about $2000) per kilo, a mere $900 or so a pound. We stuck our heads in the baskets and inhaled deeply, for free, (the smell is so earthy and rich that it's almost like eating one) and ate scrambled-egg-and-truffle sandwiches for 7 euros each. We ended up buying a block of chocolate with hazelnuts, some tapenade, biscotti, apples, brioche and probably something else, so we feel we did our part to support the local economy.

We decided to forego midnight mass tonight, but in penance we attended an earlier mass in the village church in which local children act out the story of the nativity. The place was absolutely packed to the rafters with at least three generations of Eguillans and overflowing out into the square. There was no choir (they're saving themselves for Midnight Mass) but the congregation sang several hymns, in which we were able to join because the programs included some of the words. The priest spoke vigorously and with humor (or so I deduced from the chuckling around me), the kids paraded before us clad as the characters from the manger, communion was offered, carols were sung, etc. I haven't been in a catholic church for probably 40 years or so, but I'm glad we went.

We want to offer our best wishes for happy holidays to everyone, with the hope that we will all see more peace on earth and goodwill in the days and years to come. And we hope that you have something as sinfully delicious to indulge in during this season as the buche noel shown below, just moments before it was sliced up and sacrificed to our ravenous appetites.

Singing carols is hungry work.

Best wishes!
Joyeuse Fetes!
Lois, Tom and Mike

Get a Horse! Or a Reindeer! Or a 12 Million Dollar Bichon Frise!

2007-12-17T10:26:00.000-08:00

Bonjour,

On our first drive into Aix-en-Provence back in July, I accidentally drove our rental van uphill the wrong way up a long, cobblestone street lined with steel stanchions which was barely wide enough for a single car. I was still suffering jet lag and was in a state of severe culture shock (I hadn't had time yet to fully appreciate the unique French approach to driving and was distracted by the chaos unfolding before my windshield) and didn't realize what I had done until I was about halfway up the alley. Just as we managed to interpret the meaning of the "Do Not Enter" sign which I had blithely driven past and the enormity of the situation hit me I glimpsed a narrow slice of blue sky at the top of the hill in front of us and realized, with a pounding heart, that we just might make it after all if the gods smiled upon us. Though if I'd remembered Shakespeare, I'd have remembered that like flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, they tear our wings off for their sport (I'm paraphrasing) and would've been better prepared for what followed. For no sooner had hope flickered fitfully in my breast than a sleek, predatory-looking white sports car tore around the corner and came at us headfirst down the hill. The driver, a grizzled grey-haired guy who looked like a mafioso, screeched to a halt and glared at me in disbelief. I gestured in the universal sign-language of helplessness, hoping to inspire sympathetic understanding, hoping that he would back up just a little bit and let me out, but he just sneered and began driving slowly but inexorably toward us. After all, he was indubitably right and I was equally indubitably wrong, and there were signs all around to prove it. So what could I do? I started backing up. Down the hill backwards, narrowly missing the posts that lined the way (it was a rental VAN, remember), craning my neck, peering from one mirror to another, yelling for guidance from Mike in the back seat, I could see that my antagonist was becoming amused. A crowd gathered to watch. Finally I reached safety, slumped back exhausted in my seat, the spectators applauded (I don't know if they really did but they should have!) and my evil nemesis roared away in a cloud of exhaust, bound for one of Dante's deepest subterranean levels, I hope. I had thought that this nightmarish event would be the nadir of my driving experience while in France, never to be surpassed for sheer horror, but, gentle reader, how wrong I was.

There are 2 garages in Eguilles, Garage A, the authorized Renault service, and Garage B, an independent, somewhat scruffy-looking operation. Garage A had installed a new tailpipe and muffler for us some time ago, which I wrote about in an earlier blog, but it wasn't done right and a rubber gasket-thing kept falling off and the whole car would start rattling like it was in its death throes. I learned how to reattach the gasket, and didn't think it was important enough to take back for repair. Two months ago I had taken our car, a 1996 Renault Clio, to them for an oil change. Because we have to ferry Mike to and from school, it's absolutely essential that we have the car by 4:00 in the afternoon, a fact which I went to great pains to make clear to them. "Oh, sure!" they assured me. "It'll be ready." When I returned I got these surprised looks, as if to say "What? You thought we were serious?", and the information that they hadn't even started yet. So I drove off in a huff. At the earliest opportunity I took it to Garage B. They noticed that the windshield was cracked and that my insurance covered it in full, so they changed the oil and replaced the windshield. Oh good, I thought, a prompt, reliable mechanic. Since it doesn't rain very often here it was a good 2 or 3 weeks before we got in the car one morning after a heavy overnight downpour to discover that the blasted thing was leaking like a sieve. The seats were soaked, the felt-like material on the ceiling was dripping and every time we turned a corner, the centrifugal force caused a spate of cold water to fly out of the compartment on the ceiling which holds the inside passenger lights. When I turned right, the water flew out to the left, and when I turned left, vice-versa. So I kept meaning to take it in but hadn't gotten around to it when, a week ago Friday afternoon (of course! Does most car trouble occur on Friday afternoons, just when mechanics are closing up shop for the weekend? Why, yes, I believe it does.) the car died in the village as I was on my way to pick Mike up. I was able to leave it parked, take a bus downtown, rent a car from Hertz and pick Mike up on time, thereby minimizing the trauma. On the following Monday I had it towed to Garage A, they replaced the battery (and, incidentally, replaced the tailpipe gasket-thing) and I picked it up on Wednesday. The proprietor asked a few gentle leading questions and finally gave it as his opinion that this car was one of the thousands that been partially submerged during severe flooding in Nimes in 2003 and had then been eased surreptitiously onto the used car market. Aha! I had just been reading about this flood, and this revelation explained a lot, like how the tailpipe had rusted completely through. When your car has been up to its door handles in muddy water, there are bound to be problems.

So I paid the man and drove directly to Garage B to have the windshield, which was guaranteed, reinstalled correctly but on the way I noticed that the turn signals, which had always functioned perfectly, weren't working. Friday afternoon (this last Friday) Lois took the rental car to pick Mike up and drive to Aix to return said rental and I went to pick up our car from Gargage B. Windshield done, no charge, no problem. I call her from the middle of dense downtown Aix rush-hour traffic to tell her I'm just a few blocks away and to go ahead and sign the rental back in when - may the sky fall on my head if I'm not telling the absolute truth - I notice the dash lights getting kind of dim and the BLINKIN' CAR BLOODY DIES!!! Right by the entrance/exit to the largest public underground parking lot in Aix, at 6:00 on Friday!! The walls of Jericho would have fallen in 2 seconds flat to the cacophonous blast of horns that rent the evening air when traffic came to a halt and I put my flashers on. Hell hath no fury like a French commuter delayed, especially on the way to the weekend. I was able to push the car a couple of blocks (slightly downhill, thank goodness) with the help of a sympathetic passerby and find a parking spot, where I left it over the weekend with an explanatory note in the window. Fortunately, as I mentioned, I was near the Hertz office, where Lois and Mike had just returned the rental car. I called her and she re-rented the same car and we drove home and had pizza and watched some BBC nature DVD's. (Thanks, Donna and Dennis. We opened the present a little early. Hope that's okay.) Although, to tell you the truth, I was more than a little uneasy watching those innocent, unsuspecting big-eyed prey animals being savagely grabbed and gobbled up by sharks, crocodiles, tigers, wild dogs, etc. Reminded me too much of me at the mechanic's, if you know what I mean. On the drive home we had noticed that Garage A was still open so we pulled in and I told the boss what had happened. He told me to come back in Monday (today) and we'd have it towed in again.

So this morning, after dropping Mike off at school, I returned to the garage and rode with the tow-truck driver into Aix, after he dropped off a mangled Renault Twingo at another garage en route, and we retrieved our car. Frankly, I was pleasantly surprised that it hadn't been towed away by the gendarmes. The driver, Mumu (that's what he said) and I had a great time discussing politics (Mumu doesn't much care for W! Surprise!), kids, cars, and France. By "discussing" I mean he would rattle off a stream of mostly incomprehensible French while I nodded intelligently and then I would respond in broken Franglais to what I hoped he had said. It actually worked out pretty well. Surprisingly, we never got around to sports, although I DID learn that he himself is not a fisherman, but his brother is! By this afternoon the master mechanics at Garage A had determined that it needed, not just a battery, but an alternator and some other mysterious parts the translations of which I can't find anywhere, so I don't know what they are except that they're elements of the electrical system. The car'll be ready on Wednesday. If this doesn't fix it, we've resolved to give it to an automotive school or something and lease a car for the remaining 7 months of our stay. Well, thanks for letting me whine. I mean, "share". I certainly feel better. How about you?

I can't believe I forgot to mention, in the last blog, one of the true highlights of the Mimet village Christmas festival: a version of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" sung as part of the grand finale by the conjoined forces of the 5 adult choirs which had performed earlier in the evening. When I heard those unmistakable "A-weem-o-way"s, a chill ran up my spine. The words were in French, of course, and we couldn't really understand them, so it wasn't until afterwards that we found a program and discovered that they had actually been singing "Le Lion Mort Ce Soir", which is The Lion Dies This Evening, and which may, for all I know, be the authentic title in its original African language. It would be just like the American recording industry to sanitize it, presumably to protect us from the grim realities.

I read about the death of Peg Bracken, author of the "I Hate to Cook Book" and many others. She and her husband, her 4th, used to come into Wilf's when I was working there and I had the pleasure of waiting on them numerous times, and it was always fun, but one had to be on one's toes. She was very civilized but a real live wire, sharp as a tack, with a roguish twinkle in her eye. I guess former journalists are like that. More recently I had seen her in Powell's when she returned to Portland during visits from Hawaii, where she spent the last few years. I'm glad I got to know her a little.

The photo above accompanied an article in La Provence about a study conducted in Sweden, the astounding result of which is the discovery that Santa, to discharge his Christmas duties (to wit, 2.5 million stops, assuming delivery of toys to all children regardless of country of residency, ethnic background or religious preference) would have to travel at a speed of 5,800 kilometers per SECOND (that's about, uh, let's see, 3500 miles per second). This allows him 34 microseconds at each stop, total, to descend the chimney, deposit the presents, eat the cookies, drink the milk, ascend the chimney, and take off for the next stop. Pretty impressive. I wonder who funded the study. This article appeared next to one about Leona Helmsley's dog, to which she left 12 million dollars, and which eats gourmet food off of silver plates. I know (do I ever!) that the dollar ain't what it used to be, but really!! I guess it shouldn't come as a surprise, though. Leona was always so generous.

We bought a sapin de noel (christmas tree) today. They're pretty dinky and shockingly expensive, at least here in the south (they're imported from Denmark), but it's worth it; it's only been here a few hours and already the living room smells wonderful. Like home. I'll send pictures next time when it's decorated.

Mike and his music class are singing tomorrow at a school christmas fete, then again more formally on Friday, and we've talked about going to Midnight Mass in the village on christmas eve, as well as attending a village christmas carol party at the community center (Salle Georges Duby. I think he was a historian, but I'm not sure.) on Thursday. I'll let you know how things went in the next post.

It's been 2 months since Le Divorce, and President Sarkozy, like the champion fighter that he is, has kept us dazzled with his fancy footwork, feinting here, jabbing there, backpedaling, all the while concealing his true intentions and setting us up for the roundhouse right, which came out of nowhere on Monday. You've probably read about this already, but you can imagine the effect it's had here in La Belle France. He was photographed with the woman who may indeed be the next Premiere Dame of France, Carla Bruni, former supermodel and current singer. (Photographed where? Why, Eurodisney, of course.) This continues the disturbing trend noted in this space ere now of high-level French politicos marrying showbiz personalities. It makes you wonder, doesn't it? Clearly they more openly acknowledge the symbiotic relationship between politics and entertainment, which is after all just the newest incarnation of the tried-and-true bread and circuses approach to government. The appearance of the couple promenading through Never-Never Land was quickly recognized as another manifestation of what is becoming acknowledged as Sarko's overarching strategy, or modus operandus, that is, dazzle the unwashed masses with front page gossip while making the real decisions in secret. It's been referred to as publicizing his private life (the "peopleization" of politics) while privatizing the work of government, i.e., meeting with union leaders over lunch instead of in an official public forum. The decisions and agreements reached at these tetes-a-tetes affect the whole country, after all, but coverage of them is relegated to the back pages because the front pages are already full. The media is/are becoming aware that they're being cleverly manipulated and the editorial pages are very colorful lately. I think Carla would make a great first lady because of her what you might call vocational experience. She's had serious relationships with, among others, Mick Jagger; Arno Klarsfeld, the well-known activist lawyer and a friend of Sarko; editor Jean-Paul Enthoven; and then his son, philosopher Raphael Enthoven. How's THAT for a resume'?

I've tried not to complain too much about how cold it is here, but I must mention that an article in today's paper revealed that the French record for consumption of electricity in a 24-hour period was shattered yesterday, which is attributed to the unusual cold spell (or "cold wave", as they say here) we've been having. It's been below freezing for several nights and is expected to reach the mid-20's tonight. The photo below, though horizontal, shows me ready to depart for a jog through the countryside clad in my seasonal athletic garb. No, it's not gore-tex (I'LL show these people a thing or two about style!). Michael refuses to accompany me when I'm dressed like this for fear that someone will see us and... and what? Report us to the fashion police? Snicker in that annoying nasal French way? "I'll tell you what," I tell him. "You get rid of those calf-length camouflage pants and t-shirts with skulls on them and I'll get a new sweatsuit, OK?"

We hope you and your families have a relaxed but exciting, peaceful but festive week-before-the-holidays. Best wishes from our house to yours.

Joyeux fetes!

Lois, Tom and Michael

Dear Santa, What's That Reindeer Doing?

2007-12-10T08:48:00.000-08:00

Bonjour,

I wrote some time ago about the malls here exploding into Christmas frenzy just like the ones at home, and here are the pictures to prove it. These figures, the Santa and the multitude of others, most of which aren't shown here, have sophisticated animatronic capability so it's a dazzling spectacle of sound and movement. I only wish I could have captured on pixel the gentle bleating of the sheep wagging their little tails, the donkey braying and wiggling his ears, the chuckling of Santa as he rings his bell and turns his head from side to side surveying the passing multitudes ("Hey, you! Yeah, you with the grocery cart! Have you been good this year?"), and the contented lowing of the oxen as they chew their cud and defecate in their stalls. Oh, wait a minute! Sorry. They're ALMOST that realistic, but not quite. There are also a couple of shots of the exterior of the mall, and one of Conan the Adolescent Barbarian being let out for the day. See the cage to his right (your left)?

We had met the parents of one of Mike's classmates at a school party back in the fall and Lois and the mom, Charlotte, have been taking French class together and have become good friends.

Charlotte asked if we would like to attend one of the many functions being held this past weekend throughout France in conjunction with the annual Telethon in aid of kids with genetically-transmitted diseases, this one in the village of Mimet, to see her son (and Mike's classmate) Benjamin, perform. So, of course, we said we'd love to. The village is one of the highest around, perched precariously on a mountaintop about 20 or so miles from here with a view, I'm told, to die for (we were there in the pitch blackness of a winter evening, which is even darker out in the country - I think I saw some lights off in the distance!) We arrived at the Salle des Fetes, the civic center of Mimet, in time for the last few numbers of one of the five adult choirs which was performing, as well as the grand finale in which all five joined. Then it was the kids' turn and the fun began. There were at least 20 acts, ranging from gangly teenagers playing electric guitars to tiny three-year olds singing duets. Benjamin came on at the end, by which time it was past many of the stars' bedtimes, so the crowd had thinned considerably, and it's too bad because they missed the undeniable highlight of the show. He sang two songs, one a French pop song I don't know, and "Imagine" by John Lennon, and didn't hit a single false note, even those really high ones. Then, after a short break, he came roaring back with a scaled-down, but still impressive, version of Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer". He was great and received an ovation from the remaining crowd of die-hard music lovers. We feasted on baguette sandwiches, cold pizza, chips and pastries and a good time was had by all. Too bad I didn't take the camera. We achieved a notable "first" on the drive home: We didn't get lost! It was a lot less eventful than the drive from Charlotte's house, where we met, to Mimet. She was driving a new car with GPS for the first time and we were following. We were frequently reminded during the drive that the concept of the traffic roundabout ("rond-point") is a great one, in its accommodation of human frailties like indecision and slow reflexes; to wit, you can go around and around for as long as it takes to figure out which of the 4 or 5 alternative routes is the right one. And if it turns out not to be the right one, why, you just drive to the next roundabout, circle, and come back to try again.

The soap opera that has held all of France, and by now much of the rest of the world, in a sort of sick fascination, the Sarkozy presidency, has, just when you thought you'd heard everything, reached a whole new level. His Mother has spoken! As you can see below, her experience of his first two marriages has hardened her attitude toward the sacred institution of connubial bliss. One fears that her son's romantic tendencies may bring him into conflict with her expressed views, that even if he doesn't fall in love or succumb to the wiles of an ambitious temptress, the internal logic of the office of which he is the custodian may require a First Lady to fulfill its organic necessity, to bring it to completion. At first glance, it doesn't look good for the mother-son relationship. But that would be to underestimate his genius for the unexpected, for the grand gesture, the decisive action that comes out of nowhere and confounds all prognosticators. See below.

"In a shocking development which has caught the world completely off guard, President Nicolas Sarkozy proposed marriage to Generalissimo Moammar Khadafi today before a stunned press corps which had been summoned to the Generalissimo's traditional Bedouin tent, pitched on the lawn of the Elysee Palace during his state visit this week, and the Generalissimo accepted. When asked about the vigorous disapproval of Khadafi's visit expressed by members of his cabinet, the President responded, "They don't know what he's really like. Inside that cruel, megalomaniacal exterior he's just a sweet little pussycat. And anyway, my Maman thinks he's the best thing that could happen to me!" The world's newest "power couple" will wed in St. Tropez and honeymoon in Dubai.

Until next time.

Au revoir.

Tom

If Mickey Rooney was in charge, the world would be a better place

2007-12-01T06:33:00.000-08:00

Bonsoir,

No doubt you've read or heard about the riots that took place in Paris last week. The good news is that they only lasted 2 or 3 days and were strictly confined to 1 or 2 neighborhoods, unlike those in 2005 which spread to over 200 communities throughout France. The bad news is that the violence escalated to an unprecedented level, with rioters actually shooting at the police. Various commentators have pointed out that this is what defines a civil war. Although the French can seem to exaggerate the seriousness of some political developments (and underestimate the seriousness of others) this is quite scary. Apparently anyone in France can legally own a shotgun (rifles and handguns are another matter) and the gun shops in Paris were sold out in the course of those 2 days. Further bad news is that, despite the grand promises which were made at the time, not much has been done since 2005 to ameliorate the conditions in the banlieus (suburbs, which in France means the decaying high-rise ghettos ringing most cities) which, in the view of the Left, give rise to riots. (The Right blames it all on drugs and gangs.) Nicolas Sarkozy is President now but was the Interior Minister in 2005 and his remarks at the time are believed by many to have made things much worse than they would have been if he'd just kept quiet. Keeping quiet has not been one of his more conspicuous talents, but he does seem to be learning that it IS possible and even, sometimes, necessary. In many ways he's the antithesis of the typical French high-level functionary. He's the son of immigrants, he was abandoned by his father, was educated in schools considered distinctly inferior to those attended by the elites, has appointed ministers of North African descent to his cabinet and seems just idiosyncratic enough to confound everybody and do something really constructive about what is really a tangled mess. People who have lived in fear of dark-skinned Muslims for decades are now even more afraid of criminal gangs from Eastern Europe - witness the expulsion from Italy of thousands of Romanians after the commission of a brutal murder by one of their compatriots.

Whew! Okay! On a lighter note, we went to the neighboring village of Ventabren on Saturday because (1) we hadn't been there before, and (2) a Marche de Noel (christmas market) was being held in their civic center. En route, we stopped by the Aqueduc de Roquefavour pictured below. It was built in the 1840s and is part of the Canal de Marseilles, which carries water from the Durance north of us to that city. Also, and most significantly, it spans the Arc River which, as you can see, is a beautiful little stream on whose banks we'll probably be spending a lot of time once trout season opens. The village of Ventabren is perched on a big hill and offers magnificent views in all directions. (The time has come for my regular technological disclaimer:
I don't know how many photos will actually be visible to you at the end of this process. I up/downloaded 10, but as I'm typing on this draft screen, which is a whole different thing from the actual posting, I see 6 pictures and 4 little red xes.)

Last time I mentioned the French friend of our neighbors who was so helpful to us while we were making the arrangements for this sojourn (she's the one who likes "the malls"). She's also fascinated with Native American cultures, having studied them in university, and became acquainted with our neighbors through meeting one of their fathers during one of her visits to the Navajo reservation in Arizona, where he was a public health official. Anyway, she (Edit, ay-deet, Edith - these english keyboards don't have accents, more's the pity) and her 3 daughters came over for dinner Saturday night and we had a blast. Lois and I collaborated on an all-american meal of brined, breaded and fried chicken cutlets, cheesy scalloped potatoes, haricots verts - I mean green beans, salad and good ol' fresh baguette. Edit is completely bilingual but the girls (16, 14 and 11) are in various stages of learning English, nevertheless we all muddled through quite successfully, with the aid of the many dictionaries that are scattered around the house. The kids eventually seemed to get bored (imagine that!) with the adult conversation so they watched the beginning of "Princess Bride" on DVD in English with French subtitles and borrowed it to watch the rest.

Yesterday Mike, who's been playing rugby on Friday afternoons (and had the exciting experience of witnessing two of his equitation classmates being thrown from their horses today, one into the electric fence - "It's a good thing it wasn't turned on," he said. "She woulda been fried!") had a play date with one of his school friends. They walked into Aix with the friend's family to see a movie but got to the theatre a little late so decided to see it next week. The movie in question is "Beowulf", which I gather is a recent Hollywood 'treatment' of this oldest classic of english literature. I'm a little worried that my memory is finally going because I've read it a couple of times and can't for the life of me remember the Angelina Jolie character!

Be that as it may, fortunately for the frustrated cinemaphiles there was a christmas carnival in full swing right outside the doors of the theater at the Rotonde, which is the hub from which the main streets radiate, so they were able to meet their minimum movie requirement of truly horrible food - cotton candy (barbe a papa - papa's [or 'pope's?] beard) washed down with soda pop followed by Nutella crepes. (Nutella is a hypersweet viscous chocolate-hazelnut syrup! Like Pepsi, it can take the paint off cars. [Do you think that's true about Coke and Pepsi, or just a folktale? I've believed it for 50 years. Speaking of significant fractions of centuries, there was a great article about Mickey Rooney in yesterday's Times (the London one). He's 87, he's been married to his current wife, Jan, his 8th (that's EIGHTH), for thirty-five (35) years and he and she are currently appearing in a production of Cinderella at the Empire Theatre in Sunderland, England. His favorite foods are Waldorf salad, potato salad, spaghetti, piccalilli (I'm not really sure what that is) and ice cream, but I think the secret of his longevity is revealed in the following admission: "When I'm around the house I wear shorts and argyle socks." Gotta be the argyle. He closes the interview by saying, "When Jan and I finally settle down (he's 87, remember) I'd like to buy a boat." I think I have a new hero!]

Where was I? Oh, yeah. So I drove into Aix to pick Mike up and tried to take some shots of the truly spectacular lights, most of which came out too blurry to show anyone. Those little doll-like figures are Santons, traditional hand-carved (Sure! Made in China, I'll wager!) Provencal Christmas decorations. I guess the goal is to collect them over the years and then buy the houses, barns and other accoutrements that go with them. The ones shown here are unusually big, 8 to 10 inches tall. Most are much smaller, like 3 inches. Hey, look at that one in the middle! It looks like Mickey Rooney!

P.S. My friend and critic penguindevil (see his comment on the last post) points out that I didn't include any pictures of the mall that I was so enamored of (of which I was so enamored. When Winston Churchill was criticized for ending a sentence with a preposition, he replied, "That is the type of arrant pedantry up with which I will not put!" A great man.) last time. I'll try to get over there this week and immortalize it on film - or pixels.

Also, a reader (or at least someone who looks at the pictures) has requested information on Jacques (3 minutes, shower included) Chirac, the former president who is being interrogated about his role in some big-time financial hanqui-panqui which occurred during either his mayoralty of Paris or his presidency, or both. I'll try to get au courant with developments, but at this point I can only tell you that he's the saddest looking man I've ever seen. With bags under his eyes that are even bigger than mine! And that's saying quelque chose.

Here's looking at you, kids!

Tom

Appalled at the Mall

2007-11-26T05:45:00.000-08:00

Bonjour,

When we began planning this sojourn some years ago we were fortunate to have an invaluable resource to turn to as we wallowed in our ignorance: a French friend of our neighbors who lives in this part of the country and whom Lois met when she visited the States. She is opinionated and forthright and we had a lively e-mail correspondence wherein she gave us vital basic information and kept us from getting too hysterical and answered some of the thousands of questions we had. We soon learned to submit to her scrutiny any potential apartment rentals communicated to us by our realtor (another angel in human form whom we were lucky to meet on the internet) or, indeed, anything for which we needed an independent assessment. Whenever we sent her a copy of a letter from our realtor describing a place for rent, she would reply with a full and frank appraisal of the apartment, its location, the local schools, approximate driving times, mood of the locals, etc. One of her most important criteria for habitability was proximity to "the malls", as she called them. "Oh, you'll be just 5 minutes from the malls!", or "It's pretty there but it's too far from the malls." Of course we just looked at each other and thought, "WE"RE never going the malls! The whole reason for spending a year in France is to get AWAY from the damn things! WE"LL go to the local markets every day, the cremerie, the boucherie, the patisserie, the tabac, just like the natives do, etc., etc., etc."

So, guess what, we go to the mall every Monday, just like the natives do. By "we" I mean whichever of us is driving Mike to school that week. We do a big grocery shop for things that aren't readily available in the local village shops, like, uh, like potato chips, and, let's see, frozen pizzas, and, um, well, you know, stuff like that. This is my week to drive so I walked into the Geant Casino mall bright and early this morning and was stopped in my tracks by the over-the-top Christmas decorations. It looked like a miniaturized version of the Macy's Christmas parade was parked in the main concourse - all these float-like displays with animated giant plush beany-baby looking figures, angels, Santas, reindeer, oxen, the holy family, three kings, etc., nodding, ringing bells, mooing, looking from side to side. Hanging from the ceiling above them from one end of the vast hangar-like emporium to the other are giant swaths of fake pine boughs with ornaments, ribbons, blinking lights, candy canes, etc. I thought I was back home! This is the famous French taste? Gallic sophistication? I keep forgetting, and then keep being reminded, that these people consider Jerry Lewis a genius. Joyeux Noel!

Celebrating Thanksgiving here was a little different. Lois made a magnificent traditional meal, except that instead of stuffing a turkey she stuffed a chicken. Mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, stuffing, gravy, fresh baguette, it was great, but subtly French. The piece de resistance was a pie made, from scratch, from some variety of gourd or squash that LOOKS kinda like a pumpkin, although it's more deeply lobed, and which was fantastic - way better than a regular pumpkin pie, which is not my favorite anyway. Served with a soupcon of creme fraiche, it was the perfect end to a perfect meal. We called our families, which is always a delight, and pretty much took it easy (except for Lois, of course, who was slaving away in the kitchen!) I kept reflexively reaching for the remote, only to be brutally disappointed that there was no football on the tube.

Although I miss people and places in a sort of abstract way all the time, I always know that we'll be going home in July so the feelings usually remain comfortably theoretical. But this weekend I felt, for the first time, pangs of homesickness, and it reminded me of being a child. It's always disconcerting to bump into that kid again after 20 or 30 or 50 years and realize that he's still very much alive.

Mike is suffering through what are called his trimestrial exams - two solid days of tests, in all his subjects, on everything they've studied from the beginning of the year. We spent the weekend studying but needed to take a break before we all started throwing things, so yesterday afternoon we walked around the woods and fields surrounding the house for a couple of hours. Good humor restored, we renewed the struggle with the French language - present indicative, past indicative, participles, negatives, etc.

And there's a picture of a local bakery window, too.

Lois' younger brother and his wife, Al and Val, are Deadheads who, if the family legend is true, actually met at a Grateful Dead concert in Hollywood. Years later they were showing old photos to their daughter Aja, who was maybe 3 or 4 at the time and asking her if she recognized any of the people pictured. "Who's this, honey?" "Uncle Henry?" "That's right, dear! And how about this one?" "Oh, that's Uncle Ernie." "Right again! What a clever little girl. Now - " pointing to one of me when I had a beard - "who's this?" Pause. Furrowed brow. "Uh, Jerry Garcia's brother?" True story. Art Linkletter was right. They do say the darndest things. Well, Aja's grown up now and will be visiting us shortly after Christmas, so we're beginning to make arrangements for all of us to spend a few days in the Loire valley, which is where Louis XIV's toadying court aristocrats built their opulent chateaus. They wanted to be close enough to rush back to Paris to defend themselves and their prerogatives from attack by rival toadying aristocrats. The region is also one of the most important agricultural areas in France and the combination sounds intriguing. We'll be staying in and around Amboise. I always find this stage of a trip, figuring out train schedules, making reservations, etc., very exciting.

The strikes, walkouts and demonstrations have stopped now, at least for a while, and negotiations have begun between the government and the unions, but all is not well, as the photo below attests. This is the demonstration, which occurred last week, by the anti-non-smoking lobby, the tobacco retailers who want the law which comes into force on January 1 and prohibits smoking in public places to be "modified", or cancelled. I assume most of the people in the picture are Tabac owners and employees but none of them seem to be smoking. Maybe it was raining. One can't help but admire the professional-quality production values of the placard (no dripping spray-paint on torn cardboard here!) and the sentiment it expresses, a particularly daring one considering the current tense relations between the French president and Iran. He looks good in a beard, though.

Sarko was laying low for a while during the strikes, and we were all worried, but, thank goodness, he's back, he's bad and he's everywhere! The photo below was in today's London Times. This kind of thing probably wouldn't appear in a French paper because the Fourth Estate (I think it's the fourth estate. Journalism, anyway.) here still clings to vestiges of the old-fashioned belief that organs of information have a duty to protect the privacy of public figures. (Oh, I think there may be some strict laws or something involved, too.) The Brits, of course,
howl with laughter at this idea from the back seats of their motorcycles as they chase celebrities
into churches, hospitals and morgues, and no one howls louder than Rupert Murdoch and his minions, who produce the Times. The woman on the left of Le President is Tinka (really!) Milinovic, a Bosnian "television presenter and singer", and she below is Laurence Ferrari, a "glamorous, newly divorced television presenter" (is there a pattern here?) with both of whom he's recently been romantically linked.

There IS a pattern here. According to the article, Sarkozy's girlfriend during his previous separation from Cecilia was a journalist, the current foreign minister and ecology minister are married to television journalists, the Socialist party leader and longtime companion of presidential candidate Segolene Royal was dumped by her because he had an affair with a journalist, and the former finance minister (and current president of the IMF) is married to "another media figure." And among other interesting presidential items in the article are the following:
Francois Mitterand would sometimes visit three (3) mistresses in an evening; he called them his "starter, main course and pudding" (I hope that sounds more romantic in French!); and Jacques Chirac's nickname when he was Mayor of Paris was "Three minutes, shower included." Yes, little Jean-Pierre, you too can grow up to be President of France.

Speaking of the Times, I think I mentioned that they were running a contest to find a slogan for England in 5 words or less and that my favorites were "At least we're not French!" and "At least we're not American." The winner was announced this week and I must admit it's pretty good: "No motto, please. We're British."

Hope you all had a good Thanksgiving. And to my friends at Powell's: Don't worry, it'll simmer down a little by, oh, say 10:30 on Christmas Eve! And when it does, you'll be stronger.
As will we all.

C'est comme ca!

Tom

Hey! What's that white stuff?

2007-11-17T09:59:00.001-08:00

Well, another sunny day in Provence. Ho-hum. I think I'll just take a lazy look out the dining room window and - What the...!? That looks like...No, it can't be... Let me just clean my glasses and...Mon Dieu! It IS! A blizzard! These pictures were taken from our apartment last Thursday afternoon, shortly before I had to drive the 12 miles to pick Mike up from school. (Despite the date indicated at the heading of this post, I'm writing this on Monday the 19th.) Fortunately the snow wasn't sticking very much on the roads but my fellow drivers were quite traumatized and driving VERY slowly (which is a welcome change from their usual habits!). After all, some of them (the younger ones, anyway) may never have encountered snow before - this doesn't happen every year. (Forgive me. I sound just like one of those people from Wisconsin or Saskatchewan or similar arctic wilderness [among them some dear friends] who, although practically perfect in every other way, have the unfortunate habit of sneering in a superior manner at the winter driving skills of us Oregonians every time it snows.)

(This picture downloaded (or is it 'uploaded') mysteriously. It is of one of the fields I jog through and was taken the day after the snowfall, and it has nothing whatever to do with the narrative above. Or below.)

Yesterday we went hiking on Mt. St. Victoire, the famous fault-block mountain (like Steens in Oregon) which dominates the horizon and supplies the water for Aix-en-Provence. We went expecting to find peace, quiet and solitude but it turns out to be a very popular place. Our hike was a circular route encompassing two reservoirs which was supposed to be about 6 miles long, but we made a couple wrong turns (what else is new?) and ended up walking

at least 7. There are some BIG hills on the route, so our calves are letting us know about it today. ("Oh, really, Tom? What, are they mooing?")

(Hydrological and Literary Note: The lake in the picture below was created by the installation of a dam which was built by Emile Zola's father!)

It's interesting to write things for all y'all in the States without knowing what kind of coverage French current events are receiving over there and what you already know about. I assume you're aware of the symphony of strikes which began last week and is building to a crescendo by the end of this one. It's hard to judge the sentiment of the majority. The Right (this is actually how the French media refer to the political poles - Le Droit and Le Gauche, like Whig and Tory or Democrat and Neanderthal. Oh, sorry. It just slipped out.) claims that the majority oppose the strikes, believing the unions to represent spoiled minorities like the railroad workers whose early retirements and generous pensions are elitist and detrimental to other workers and to the French economy in general. In fact, there was a demonstration in Paris yesterday against the strikes. Some of the unions want to negotiate, some have already agreed to work longer before retirement, but the hard core is as militant as ever. I'd say they trust Sarkozy about as far as they could throw him, but he's pretty small and some of these railroad guys are big, so I'll just say they don't trust him.

The chart below appeared in La Provence last week. It's a public-spirited attempt to present the many confusing, intertwined issues in a clear, graphic reader-friendly format, telling us who's protesting, how and when. Among its many notable features are the bold characterizations of various occupational groups, from train drivers (cheminots) to bureaucrats (fonctionnaires) and including (just look at that drawing!) opera singers. Also, one can't help but notice that the judges are walking out on the 29th, which offers the interesting possibility of hundreds of picketers being arrested and held for trial, but no one behind the bench to hear the cases because they're all out picketing. Meanwhile the students at universities nationwide are striking to protest a new law which is seen as a step on the road to privatization of higher education.

So, as you see, there's plenty going on to engage the attention of the French public. But the issue that is REALLY agitating the citizenry, which appeared on the front page of La Provence yesterday, and which was referred to in a revised version of the chart which appeared today, is the fact that on January 1 all smoking in public places will be banned! This includes the Tabac, that unique smoke-filled French institution which strives to be, and largely succeeds in being, all things to all people: community center, bar, coffee shop, lottery vendor and source for magazines, newspapers and, of course, tobacco. (I went into our local tabac to buy the papers Sunday morning, I was inside for maybe 2 minutes, and when I reentered the car Mike said, "Eew, Dad, you stink!" I think, and hope, that he was referring to the miasma of cigarette smoke which clung to me.) Appearing in the revised version of the chart, among new notices of walkouts by the Bank of France, postal workers and the meteorologists' union (which reminds me, there are some very interesting weather "presenters" on the tube over here), is a notification of "une manifestation nationale" by the "debitants (retailers) de tabac" to protest (denoncer) the prohibition of smoking in public places. It'll probably be one of the shortest protest marches in history. "Liberte, Egali - hack - te, Frat - cough -erni - splutter-gasp." I speak as a former addict whose most satisfying smoke was always the one right after a 4-mile run. Is that sick, or what?

We attended our first parent-teacher conferences at Mike's school on Saturday morning. It was bitterly cold and painfully early, like 8:00, but at least it wasn't snowing. There were no unpleasant surprises. He's popular, well-behaved (!) in class, attentive and his work is improving. Whew! What a relief. The consensus is that these first years of middle school are a challenging time for most kids, even his peers at Sellwood, without the additional burden of a new worldview, culture and language, so we're delighted with his performance. (Performance? Sounds like a trained seal or something.) He likes it there and has a bunch of good friends from many different backgrounds. But 12-year old boys are remarkably similar whatever their origin. They're ALL crazy! The week after next is midterms, or their French equivalent, so we'll be doing a lot of studying.

On a final, completely irrevelant note, the Times of London, a Rupert Murdoch production which we're stuck with sometimes if the other english-language papers are sold out (but which, in fairness, has a great sports section and crossword puzzle) is running a contest to find a slogan for England of 5 words or less which will help the beleaguered PM, Gordon Brown, define his vision of a New, Bold and Progressive England. The response has been overwhelming and the suggestions run the gamut from the treacly nationalistic to the insanely irreverent. My favorite so far is, "At least we're not French!" Ah, that droll British humor, so refreshingly sane, so perceptive. (There has been another submission on the same theme, but which, somehow, isn't as funny, in fact is downright maladjusted: "At least we're not American!" Poor, pathetic Brits, still suffering from collapse-of-empire malaise and bitter xenophobia.)

Until next time, Pip-Pip!

Tom

Flustered Flamingos and Omnivorous Outhouses

2007-11-06T10:39:00.000-08:00

Bonjour Messieurs et Mesdames,

We're back to our normal routine today after a busy two weeks. First we went to Paris, as I described in the last blog post, and then we had the pleasure of welcoming visitors: our niece Heidi, a pastry chef (patissiere), formerly of Parsippany NJ, now working at a Ritz-Carlton in Florida, and Bob and Donna Cynkar from Portland. Donna and Lois shared a classroom many years ago when Lois reentered the teaching profession after a hiatus of several years. Each taught a half-day kindergarten class and the bond which was forged then in the fires of elementary education has never been broken. We enjoyed their visits immensely and had many adventures, some planned and others unexpected, some which brought a smile to the lips of all concerned and others which caused those same lips to tighten in fear and trepidation, some which produced a warm glow, others which precipitated cold sweat. Read on, if you dare!

Bob and Donna were a little late arriving by car, and we were beginning to worry a bit as the hours rolled by (actually, ONE hour), and it got dark, but in the end they were just demonstrating that it doesn't take special talent or experience, ANYONE can get lost on the roads around here. And all this time we thought it was just us. They were at the end of a 4 or 5-week sojourn during which they visited family in Pittburgh and Buffalo and their son who is studying in Madrid, which must have been a letdown after their first two destinations, but they were very tactful about it. Heidi is on a whirlwind vacation of about 10 days. She started in Switzerland to see the same relatives (Kurt and Heidi) who so graciously hosted us when we visited (see blogpost #1), then she was here and now she's in Paris staying with an old friend who's studying there. The joint was jumpin' while they were all here but now we've returned to the usual routine. Mike's 2-week vacation is over so he's back at school, which means, among other things, that I can now get to the computer to work on this blog, pay the bills, reply to e-mails, burn CDs, check football scores, etc.

The weather while our guests were here was autumn-perfect! Crystal clear, chilly, invigorating. We all agreed that we'd like to see the Camargue, so on Sunday we formed a small convoy and drove down. This is a low-lying sparsely-inhabited region a little southwest of here famous for its black bulls, white horses, salt and birds, especially flamingos. We visited the Parc Ornithologique thinking we'd see a lot of migratory birds on their way to Africa but there weren't many. For one thing, the mistral had sprung up and the winds were gale force, so the prudent ones had remained on the ground. The few we saw aloft were being blown across the sky like dry leaves. Fortunately, the flamingos were out in force, wading around on their stilt-like legs, squawking and squabbling.

When we had become sufficiently cold, windblown and hungry we drove a few kilometers south to Stes. Marie de La Mer, whose attitude toward tourism is perfectly expressed, I feel, by this statue, which stands (contrary to the photo, it really does stand) prominently in the town square, overlooking the petanque players. Or maybe she'd bet the maison on the favorite and he (almost all the boules players are men) had blown it. The town is on the southern tip of the Camargue, bordering the Mediterranean, and is a VERY popular tourist destination. It seems to have a continuous schedule of bullfights and festivals, all of which draw big crowds. The whole area is home on the range for the French cowboys, or gardians, who have every bit as great a mystique as the American variety. I'm sure they're just as contemptuous of soft city folk as Texas cowpokes are but I venture to assert that none of them has endured the blood-chilling trauma that your humble correspondent experienced when
trapped by a carnivorous french self-cleaning pay toilette like a bug in a venus flytrap! (See below. Looks innocent enough, doesn't it? And check out those blissfully ignorant turistas standing around yukking it up. Oh, wait a minute, never mind. That's Donna, Lois and Heidi.) Anyway, the whole unfortunate incident is directly related to the plunge of the dollar in relation to the euro so cunningly engineered by the present administration. In short, it's Bush's fault. I was just trying to save a few pennies by slipping into the toilette without paying as Mike emerged. That thrifty common sense championed by Ben Franklin. But apparently the toilette has a mind of its own and uses the intervals when it thinks it's uninhabited to perform this weird automated self-purifying ritual, which involves clouds of steam, floods of water and the withdrawal of the toilet bowl itself into the wall for sterilization, and its reemergence, THREE (3) separate times! So just as I was getting all comfortable and meditative, my small self-contained world suddenly burst into frenzied activity. One can't help but admire the ingenuity of the French engineering mind, of course, which has given us the Eiffel Tower, the TGV and the Maginot Line, but I would have preferred to admire from a safer distance. In the midst of the hissing and spraying (sounds like a male cat, doesn't it?), headlines flashed through my mind: "TOILETTE CLAIMS TOURIST", "PEEING PORTLANDER POACHED", "SARKOZY FLIES TO CAMARGUE TO DEDICATE MONUMENT TO MEMORY OF OREGONIAN - CALLS FOR FRANCO-AMERICAN UNDERSTANDING - "AFTER ALL, WE'RE A NATION AND URINATION!" I'm sure I needn't go into too much detail - you have vigorous imaginations - other than to note that (1) I was at a distinct disadvantage, being as it were a captive audience of sorts, (2) Horses aren't the only thing you can't change in midstream, and (3) I'm glad my needs weren't such that I was SITTING on that toilet when it disappeared into the wall behind it. Talk about having the rug pulled out from under you! In the end I emerged uninjured, just a little damp from the steam, with wet shoes, slightly hysterical, laughing edgily. The passers-by gave me that look and pulled their children away, but they're always doing that.

(Note: I recently received an ill-considered request to write less about sports and politics and more up-close-and-personal, touchy-feely stuff. The foregoing should put an end to THAT type of request!)

As if that wasn't enough excitement for one day, on the way home the tailpipe of our car became detached from the muffler and began dragging on the autoroute -speed 120 kph, about 80mph -creating a dazzling cascade of sparks in the evening gloaming for the edification of our fellow travelers. Bob, Donna and Lois were following in the Cynkars' rented Peugeot and got to see the whole spectacular thing. We were able, finally, to find a parking area and reattach things with the aid of, I'm not kidding, a rock which Mike and I used both to reshape the end of the tailpipe and to hammer it back into the muffler.

The next day (Monday) we divided our forces. Bob and I drove to Figueres, Spain, a distance of close to 300 miles, to return the Peugeot, thereby saving a transfer fee of 500 something, euros or dollars. We returned home along the Mediterranean coast via 3 trains and a bus. The pictures below were taken on this trip, including the interesting old husk of a hotel by the tracks. Or is it, as Bob suggested, something left over from the set of Blade Runner? It reminds me of one of the starships from Star Wars - or even more, the one from Spaceballs. We had a 1 1/2 hour layover between trains in Cerbere, just inside France, so we strolled around the village, much of which consisted of hotels and restaurants closed for the winter. As a former waiter, I couldn't help but admire the regal bearing of the serveur who stood (again, it is only my stone-age technical incompetence which makes it appear as if he's lying down on the job) at our side ("Bonjour, je m'appelle Woody and I'll be your waiter today.") and his ingenious method of communicating the day's specials. Chic chapeau, too!

Meanwhile, the rest of the crew dropped our car off at the local Renault garage for repair and took a bus into Aix, where Lois rented a car for our use. Heidi had a ball going into at least 8 patissieries, taking photos, talking to her fellow culinary artists, sampling and buying desserts and other confections. Mike bumped into two of his friends out on their own and joined them for a couple of hours. I don't know what they did and I don't wanna know, but I think it involved candy, crepes, video games and fireworks. I'm sure I'll look back fondly on these innocent pursuits in years to come when they're teenagers out prowling the streets. Hmm. Maybe it's not too late for military school.

On Tuesday Heidi left via TGV for Paris. The rest of us went into Aix to go to the library, run some other errands and have lunch. Bob hadn't been there yet, so we walked around and in the process discovered some parts of town we hadn't yet seen, including the cathedral and part of the university quarter. Speaking of which, the students voted yesterday to go on strike and blockade the faculty offices to protest the new law which reduces financial aid or something (I don't understand the intricacies, given that I read the paper with one hand and clutch a dictionary with the other). (Or rather, I read the paper with one eye and clutch a dictionary with the other. Oh, well, you know what I mean.) They're already being shamelessly gouged by landlords in and around Aix and I guess they've reached the breaking point. The pictures in La Provence remind me of the '60s. Right On, Etudiants!

These pictures are of Aix. It's a beautiful town in every season.

I took Bob and Donna to the Marseilles airport at the crack of dawn yesterday and we've received an e-mail from them to the effect that they made it back to Portland safe and sound.
Heidi's living the high life in Paris, and we're readjusting to being just the three of us again. What a relief! All that forced politeness was driving us CRAZY!! It's just not us.

Actually, it's unnervingly quiet around here now.
But it's almost Saturday and the hunters will start blasting away at first light, so we'll enjoy the tranquility while we can. And we hope you do too.

Au revoir.

Tom

Americans in Paris - Page 4

2007-11-02T15:51:00.000-07:00

**SPECIAL EXPLANATORY, CLARIFICATORY AND APOLOGETICAL NOTE**
Your humble technophobic correspondent had to assemble this dispatch in four parts because after all this time he still can't make the googleblog monster obey his commands. Or even his tearful sniveling pleas, for that matter. And now that they're posted, he finds, to his dismay, that they've come out in a confused non-sequential order!! So, to find even that minuscule structural logic which is usually inherent in these productions, it is recommended that you begin with Page 1, second from the bottom, and proceed in a sequential manner, hopping forward, backward or even sideways, when necessary, through Pages 2 and 3 to Page 4, which appears before Pages 3, 2 and 1. Or, to be perfectly accurate for a change, before Pages 3,1 and 2. (Let's see - I think I've got that right!) Thank you.

There are lots of spectacular churches in Paris. These were taken in Ste. Chapelle, which was built in just 6 years for King Louis the IXth, otherwise known as St. Louis for his devotion to the crusades, his bigotry and his perpetration of genocide, but all in a good cause; the Conciergerie (Okay, not really a church, but it feels like one) which was the court, prison and last stop on the way to the guillotine during the Revolution; and St. Germain l'Auxerrois, about which I know absolutely nothing except that it's across the street from the Louvre. Ah, the Louvre, the Louvre! One of those simple looking french words that's impossible to pronounce.
Loov? Lurv? Loov-ruh? Who knows? We visited it twice and barely scratched the surface. But we did see IT! You know, IT! HER!! The Mona Lisa. We clawed our way through massed ranks of Japanese tourists, gazed upon her enigmatic features and came away changed. I had a nasty welt over my right eye and Mike was missing a shoe. Oh, yeah, we saw some other stuff, too.

Here's a beautiful artistic shot taken from the Pont Alexandre (the II, I think, czar of Russia, 19th century predecessor of the present incumbent, Vladimir I). We had rain, we had sun, we had pain, we had fun, we had life, love and laughter, we had Paree! It was fun to be tourists. We were reminded that, although this whole thing of living in France for a year sounds thrilling and exciting and adventurous, much of it is just routine humdrum daily living. When we're at home in Provence we have car trouble, arguments over homework, dishes to do, bills to pay, etc. It's just like being at home in Portland. I don't know if I find that comforting or disturbing or both, but that's how it is. C'est comme ca!

I was woefully out of touch with current events during our sojourn, so I fear I don't have any insightful political commentary to offer today. But maybe next time. There's always something!

Like the Red Sox winning the Series. Man, that was quick!

Au revoir! Tom

Americans in Paris - Page 3

2007-11-02T15:35:00.000-07:00

Since we (they) couldn't climb the tower we walked over to the Musee d'Orsay, which I like but which Adam Gopnick accuses of pandering to dilettantes. He's one of the more recent of the long string of exceptional writer/reporters the New Yorker has had working in Paris since its inception way back when, starting with Janet Flanner and including Mavis Gallant (Paris Stories). Gopnick wrote "Paris to the Moon", which I believe panders to New Yorker readers. The museum is in a gorgeously refurbished train station from the golden age of steam. It's only been around since the '80s (remember them?) and is a temple of Impressionism.

This is the southern end of the Rue Mouffetard market, which we were fortunate enough to stumble upon (those cobblestones can get pretty slippery!) right down the block from our hotel. It extends up the pedestrian-only street to the Place Contrescarpe at the top of the hill and includes a wide variety of shops and many restaurants, so we didn't have to go far to find decent food at a reasonable price. Which was just as well because by dinner time we had had enough walking for the day and were quite happy to ooze on down the hill to our beds. So we had a chance to sample four different places. Oh, and lest I forget, there is, if I can bring myself to mention it, a Starbucks in the neighborhood. And, I blush to admit it but, yes, we did go there, but only once, and only because the little dining room at the hotel was full to capacity for breakfast one morning. Mike chose what he thought was a pre-made bagel with cream cheese but, to his surprise, it turned out to be a bagel with smoked salmon and tzatziki. C'est la vie, mon ami!

Americans in Paris - Page 1

2007-11-01T11:04:00.000-07:00

Bonjour!

We returned yesterday from a three day visit to Paris. We had a wonderful time being tourists, i.e., walked miles and miles, got museum passes - a great deal which gets you into about 30 museums and monuments for one price and enables you to avoid the long lines by using the
group entrances - rode the metro, ate at cafes, etc. We stayed at a nice little 2-star hotel near Rue Mouffetard in what's called the Contrescarpe district (at least it's called that by Rick Steves, whose hotel recommendations we've had good luck with) called Hotel L'Esperance.

Luxembourg Palace Luxembourg Garden

These photos are among the HUNDREDS we took during our visit (4 overnights). We're succumbing more and more to the "fire at will, if it moves shoot it, you can always delete it" mentality engendered by the digital camera. We took the laptop and downloaded the pix each evening, then recharged the battery overnight and voila!, didn't miss a single photo op.

This installment of the blog is in 4 parts because I'm a helpless victim of technology and can't for the life of me figure out how to make it do what I want it to. It (the technology) has decided in its infinite wisdom that it will only load a few pictures onto each page, and who am I to argue?

So just consider this a 4-page letter.

Onward!

Americans in Paris - Page 2

2007-11-01T10:46:00.000-07:00

Here's Notre Dame, which we made the mistake of visiting during Sunday Mass. The place was packed with every practicing Catholic in Paris (there aren't all that many - France is a catholic country where nobody actually goes to church) as well as the usual swarm of tourists, whose numbers were swollen by French families enjoying the fall school vacation. But the choir was singing and the organ was resonating and it was very impressive, almost, like, spiritual or something. Lois is standing by the fountain in the small square nearest to our hotel, where Rue Mouffetard meets a couple other streets. It's a great neighborhood, a working-class residential area filled with the majestic 6-story apartment buildings from the era of Napoleon III (a curious personage who probably wasn't actually related to the Emperor, but was the fruit of one of the Emperor's brothers' wife's amorous liaisons). During his reign he directed his minister of urban affairs, Baron Hausmann, to raze vast areas of the city and build wide straight streets to facilitate the efficient dispatch of the forces of law and order to whatever quarter to quell any public manifestations of urban discontent that might arise. The width of the streets also made it difficult, if not impossible, for the alleged perpetrators of said discontent to indulge in the time-honored Parisian custom of building barricades. Pretty clever, no? Hausmann also designed these wonderful apartment buildings and filled the city with them. They are responsible, in large part, for the elegant and unique appearance of the city.

We visited the Eiffel Tower but the crowds were so gigantic that Lois and Mike couldn't even get near a ticket booth. They wanted to take the elevator to the top (I'm afraid of heights so I was going to find a cafe, drink coffee and read the papers), but since that was impossible we went and had lunch instead, which is always a viable alternative, no matter where one is.

I KNEW I should've brought long underwear!

2007-10-21T08:40:00.000-07:00

Brrr!

Winter has descended without warning like the cold blade of the guillotine, SNICK!, and the faces around us wear expressions of offended surprise not unlike those I imagine to have been worn by that revolutionary machine's victims, our neighbors' ancestors. We live among their descendants, whose demeanor says as clearly as that of an aristocrat on the tumbril, "How dare they do this to ME!" , 'they' being in this case the weather gods. We wouldn't mind so much, but our landlord, among many others, was taken by surprise and the heating oil hasn't been delivered yet, so we're clad in multiple layers shivering in our apartment. The boiler should be fueled, up and running by Wednesday, we've been assured by the landlord's daughter, a charming and friendly young woman who also invited us to come downstairs (we live on the top, third, floor of their old stone farmhouse) and huddle in front of the fireplace. She's as cold as we are, but whereas we wear sweats and hoods, she, because the French have certain standards to maintain, swathes herself in elegant scarves. Saturday was the first cold day (today is Monday) and Sunday we took a long walk through the woods and fields surrounding our house (see photos). We're heading off to Paris (doesn't that sound just too too jet-set?) for a few days at the end of the week, during Mike's first school break, and, wouldn't you know it, it's REALLY cold there.

The Rugby World Cup is over and France has been put out of its misery, but not before a lot of pain, false hope and humiliation. They played in the 3rd-place game, a disappointment in itself, against Argentina, who had already beaten them once, and they lost again. The French team is the perennial bridesmaid of the world cup: always close but have never caught the bouquet. The match was sloppy, mean and ill-tempered on both sides from kickoff with a lot of stupid penalties and outbursts of violence. (Outbursts of violence? In rugby? How could you tell the difference?) That was Saturday. On Sunday South Africa won the cup by defeating England in another less-than-artistic, defensive struggle. England, although the defending title holders, had become the cinderella team of the tournament because of their steady improvement since having been annihilated 36-0 by S. Africa a few weeks ago during the round-robin pool phase. But in real life, I guess the slipper doesn't always fit. That's why we have fairy tales!

My sudoku-playing friends and relatives (Yes, you, Dad!) will be interested to learn, as I was, that the village about which I wrote so glowingly a couple weeks ago, La Roque d'Antheron, has another jewel in its crown that I didn't know about at the time. Turns out they are the proud hosts of one of the regional sudoku elmination tournaments (that's IN ADDITION to the classical music festival! What a hotbed of culture!) that leads on to the next round, which leads on the next round, etc., until the French National Sudoko Championnat. The winners of which move on, I assume, to the, European, International and Intergalactic championships. I was working at Powell's when the sudoku monster devoured America, and it was amazing, and instructive, to see it happen. One day, there were 2 sudoku books, the next day there were 2000. And half were by Will Shortz. I personally have never even attempted one. The aficionados extol its addictiveness, but since I'm already strung out on the Guardian and London Times crosswords, I dare not risk it.

The nationwide transportation strike, more of a demonstration, really, happened last Thursday, with aftereffects lasting until Saturday. The trains were most affected, a few flights were cancelled and everyone got home in time to watch Les Bleus lose on Friday. Some of the unions are hard line, but a couple have expressed a willingness to talk things over with the government, which these days means Nicolas Sarkozy, so it'll be interesting to see what happens. Will the labor movement be split? Sarkozy's cabinet, to which he appointed people of various political stripes, even socialists, is beginning to show signs of strain, too. And how about Iran? And Russia? All these questions, all these problems. But, to tell the truth, in the mind of the French public they all fade into insignificance before the REALLY IMPORTANT ISSUE of the day:

LE DIVORCE and its aftermath.

I'm not going to dwell on this sordid subject. I believe that politicians are people too, sort of; and that they have feelings that we can recognize as such with a little effort, deeply hidden maybe, a little twisted, but feelings nonetheless; and that they have a right to a private life away from the constant scrutiny of the public, so they can loosen up and reclaim their authentic personal narrative, even if it includes chapters of fraud, chicanery, adultery, nepotism, blackmail, egomania, etc. So, as I say, I'm not going to dwell on it. The photo below, from the front page of La Provence, says it all anyway.

Cecilia is getting a lot of sympathetic press. She's being described as a private person who can't handle the constant limelight and who made an honorable and honest attempt to patch things up after their separation a couple years ago, but it didn't work out. One of my favorite quotes (which I forgot to cut out and will therefore paraphrase) was from Cecilia regarding life with Nicolas after he was elected president. It was something to the effect that "it was like giving a violinist a Stradivarius. All he wants to do from then on is play his fiddle."

But the French move quickly and are already asking, "Et maintenant?" ("What now?"). For example, in one of the recent newspapers appeared a photo (which I also forgot to cut out) of a noted French yachtswoman - I should say a "noted, statuesque, French yachtswoman" - running toward the camera from out of the surf, like Aphrodite herself. She was smiling, windblown, sun-bronzed and her thin cotton dress clung like a wet t-shirt. She was identified as a "friend" of the president, who, according to the book written about him on the campaign trail, is quite flirtatious himself. C'est la vie! C'est l'amour! We anxiously await developments.

That's it for now. I guess I can put my mittens back on. Au revoir.

Tom

The grapes are in, the Bleus are out!

2007-10-14T12:55:00.000-07:00

Instead of gallivanting off to another exotic locale this Sunday for our weekly field trip, we decided to explore our home village, Eguilles. We had begun to suspect that there was more to the place than we'd thus far discovered, and, indeed, when we went a block or two off the main drag a whole new world opened up. We stayed in the older part of the village, around the top of the hill, where the streets are narrow and crooked and the houses are multi-storied and butt right up against each other. The newer neighborhoods which surround the central core are on flatter land and mostly covered with the French equivalent of subdivisions, or tracts, filled with the middle-class Frenchman's idea of the good life: single-family houses surrounded by walls, many on dead-end streets. Unlike the classic American style of a big open front yard, which seems to say welcomingly,"Hey, c'mon in. Don't pay any attention to those bars on the windows," the French home remains aloof, distant, and mysterious, pointedly suggesting that it would be best if you just kept on walkin'. I suppose the style has evolved from the fortresses which made life possible during two millennia of invasion and war, both civil and foreign, like many European buildings
which present a forbidding aspect to the passer-
by but have beautiful gardens behind the walls.

These are some shots we took on our walk.
Lois and Mike are sitting on the patio of the

local Tabac, a key local institution which

dispenses newspapers, magazines, alcohol,

tobacco, coffee, etc., and is the real nerve center of Eguilles.

The grapes have been harvested and the growers are painstakingly pruning the vines by hand and burning the debris, which generates dense irritating smoke. This carcinogenic cloud blankets the whole area. It's bad enough that we're close to the Etang de Berre, a sort of giant
lake or inland sea, which is ringed by factories and is one of the most polluted areas (both air and water) in Europe. You'd think the wind would disperse the smog but it just seems to drive it into every corner of the province. A common sight in the mornings as we drive Mike to school is the leathery grape farmer standing out in the fields by his fire, stirring the embers while wreathed in its smoke and puffing away on a cigarette.

This is a picture of Sam Rindy, a French artist of Cambodian descent who planted a big kiss on a painting by some guy named Twombly while it was being exhibited in Martigues or Avignon or somewhere in the vicinity. You may have heard about this where you are. The painting (not the one in the photo), valued at 2 million euros or dollars or cowrie shells, I forget which, is pure white, Sam was wearing thick red lipstick, and IT WON'T COME OFF!! This is a BIG SCANDAL here, and her adventures in court have been reported and followed avidly since they began a couple of months ago. She claims that she was overcome by artistic passion, that the smooch was her tribute to the artist, and it seems to have evoked the sympathy of the court, because she's only being fined a paltry 4500 euros, or maybe wampum belts (which, at the exchange rate currently in operation courtesy of the financial wizardry of the Bush administration, is about $30,000,000. ) Ars longa, vita brevis, I think the phrase is.

I was reading "Beloved" by Toni Morrison this week when I suddenly realized why I like sports. Because it's one of the rare human activities that, although taken "seriously" by the participants and fans, doesn't involve people trying to kill, enslave, lie to, sell snake oil to or steal from other people. It's always a relief to reach the sports section of the paper, of whatever country, after wading through War, Politics, Bizness, Beautiful Celebrities, etc. So that's my epiphany and I'm stickin' to it.

Speaking of sports (a subtle segue, no?), the picture below says it all. What a headline!

What a photo! What a disaster! The French rugby team, Les Bleus, went down to defeat at the hands, and feet, of the perfidious Albionese - the Brits. I supported Les Bleus, of course, in my position as an honorary temporary Frenchie, and was shocked to discover that my son, whom I've sheltered in my bosom, so to speak, all these years was actually rooting for the English! (My English friend Jon says that the phrase "rooting for" isn't used in the same sense in England as in the colonies, i.e., as a synonym for supporting, encouraging or championing. He says it has an altogether different and obscene connotation. And knowing him as I do, I'm sure he knows whereof he speaks.) Actually, the English Lions are my second favorite. Against all odds they've had an inspiring cup run and will meet their nemeses, the Springboks of South Africa, in the final. I was hoping they'd meet, and the Lions would get their revenge, in the third-place match and that France and Argentina, who lost to S. Africa in the Sunday semifinal, would meet in the final. So I got the matchups I wanted, at least.

France's number one sports fan, Nicolas Sarkozy, who was seen leaping into the air with joy after the victory of Les Bleus over New Zealand (at least I think he was leaping. It's hard to tell with a guy who's 5'4"), has certainly experienced his share of ups and downs lately, also. He met with Vladimir Putin, czar of Russia, at their joint induction into the Hall of Fame of Big Statesmen in Small Bodies, joining Attilla the Hun and Napoleon, where they tried to divide up the world but were stymied by their differing views on human rights, Iran and solid neckties vs. striped. (Although they were in complete agreement on the dark gray suit issue.)

Hard on the heels of that disappointment, the various official organs of the French government have begun to acknowledge what everyone else has known for weeks, that the President and First Lady Cecilia Sarkozy (referred to by some of the press as the "Invisible Woman" for her conspicuous absence from official functions since her husband's election)

will be getting a divorce in the near future. Constitutional scholars have been poring over the records to see if there is a precedent for the divorce of a head of state while in office. On top of everything else, the mid-term local election campaign is in full swing and the UMP, Sarkozy's party, may not do as well as anticipated, due in part to his own diminishing popularity among the voters. Not to mention the one-day transport strike (our first French strike! I'm so excited!) scheduled for Thursday.

To combat this plague of bad news and evil omens, the President today unveiled a new strategy which he believes will reassure his conservative supporters by underlining his commitment to traditional values: human sacrifice.

"It worked for our ancestors, the Gauls," he said after the first implementation of the new policy (see below), "it worked for Salome, it worked for Robespierre, and I see no reason why it shouldn't work for us today."

PRESIDENT SAYS DIVORCE IS FINAL

"THIS oughta cure her headaches ",

enthuses concerned husband

Au revoir!

Tom

Mon Dieu, what a week!

2007-10-08T11:24:00.000-07:00

On Thursday we drove to Marseilles for our long-awaited appointment with destiny, i.e., the French immigration department, to see if we would be deemed worthy of continued residence on Gallic soil. We had, of course, in what is becoming routine preparation for all bureaucratic encounters, spent a couple days scanning and printing multiple copies of every piece of paper we could find which might serve as evidence, however slight, of our identities, financial condition, place of domicile, children, if any, insurance coverage (VERY important), state of

PHOTOGRAPHER RISKS LIFE LEANING
OUT OF DINING ROOM WINDOW TO CAPTURE SUNRISE IN PROVENCE

health, etc. etc. We had taken photos of ourselves in one of those little coin-operated booths, 4 identical copies, passport-size. We collated, paper-clipped, stapled and folded sheaves of documents. It all began to feel eerily familiar, like deja-vu. Hmmm! How strange. I wonder what - wait a minute! We did all this before, a few months ago when we applied for our visas, even to the hectic drive into the bowels of a major city during rush hour (in that instance, San Francisco), even to the identical, passport-sized photos. What do they think - that we've changed so much in 6 months they need new up-to-date portraits? Actually, they're right. I've aged prematurely from all the paperwork.
I must say, seriously, that, despite what we'd heard

TROMPE L'OEIL AND SURREALISM IN
MARSEILLES - WHICH IS WHICH?

about French officialdom ("unfriendly", "rigid", "sadistic", "the inspiration for the works of Kafka", etc.) we have always found the people with whom we've dealt to be truly helpful. They are thorough, professional, formal in the French
manner, and this can seem unfriendly, but when they see that you're taking it all seriously enough to at least try to get it right, they warm up, become supportive and a sense of humor emerges. (There, that should get me in good with their surveillance agencies).

Being there (the immigration bureau) was in some ways like reliving what I imagine our immigrant ancestors experienced on Ellis Island. There were people from all over the world, the big rooms had that universal "government office" feel, we all stood there nervously clutching our little sweat-stained bundles of papers, hoping, hoping. I really felt a sort of helplessness, like that described by Kafka, of a powerless nonentity at the mercy of unknown, probably malign, forces. The "take a number and be seated until you're called" machine was out of order, a nice touch, but somehow everyone muddled through, there was a shared commiserative we're-all-in-this-together feeling and no one stormed out in a rage.

The upshot is that it looks like we'll be permitted to enjoy the privilege of staying here for another 10 or so months.

But enough about us. We're just tiny protoplasmic microcellules in the vast universal organism which has evolved for billions of years in order to produce that crown of creation, the Rugby World Cup, and those most divine participants in the essence thereof, the French national team, Les Bleus. The world of rugby was shaken to its foundations on Saturday, first by England, who won the last World Cup 4 years ago by beating Australia in the final, but who have been stumbling ever since and who were shut out 36-0 in this one by S. Africa during the round-robin opening phase. They were counted out by everybody but have been slowly coming together and beat an overwhelmingly favored Australia AGAIN Saturday morning in the sudden-death quarterfinals. Major trauma down under. But wait! There's more! A few hours later, France, who are hosting the Cup but who lost their opening match against Argentina, played (cue the fanfare) NEW ZEALAND, the Gods of Rugby who are always favored whenever and whomever they play, and Sacre Bleu! they beat THEM too! I actually read in the paper today that the stock markets in NZ and Australia are expected to slump and coaches have already quit in disgrace. So next week France and England will meet in one semi-final and Argentina and South Africa, both very good teams, will meet in the other. I'd like to see France and Argentina in the final with Les Bleus getting sweet revenge for their opening defeat, and England getting THEIR revenge against South Africa in the 3rd place game. Allez Bleus!

Oh, I forgot! When we were walking down the Rue de Rome in Marseilles after our interrogation by the immigration people, we passed within arms' length of 2 of England's players, Mike Catt and Matt Stevens, who are about the size of a linebacker and a defensive tackle, respectively, (my attention was first drawn to them because Stevens weighs 260 and has NO NECK). They were casually strolling along, shopping bags in hand, clad in these pedal-pusher, capri-style mid-calf-length pants that seem to be all the rage now, at least here, where males of all ages are wearing them. Even guys older than ME! With tank tops.

The local soccer team, Olympique Marseilles, continues its Jekyll/Hyde season. They were expected to contend for the league championship but started out terribly, the coach was fired, a new one was hired, a faint hope was kindled which burst into a mighty blaze of optimism when OM beat Liverpool, a perennial power, in Liverpool in a Champions' League match. The relief was short-lived, however, because they then proceeded to lose another French Ligue 1 match and are now in danger of (horrors!) relegation to Ligue 2 next season. That's sports for ya'!

On Sunday we drove to Salernes, a village in the Haut-Var about 50 miles or so northeast of here noted for its ceramics. All the pottery places were closed but the market in the square was in full swing and we walked around, had lunch, walked around some more and fished the La Brecque on the way home. Autumn is just gorgeous here, and we discovered an extremely scenic route home along the base of Mont St. Victoire.

And then there's politics. Or rather, the soap opera that politics have become. Up until recently the private lives of politicians were shrouded from public view by an unspoken understanding between the bigwigs and the press, which allowed all kinds of weirdness, corruption and hanky-panky to flourish in the shadows. Government officials had secret bank accounts, parallel families, scandalous affairs, and little of it became public knowledge. (That's 'knowledge' as opposed to 'suspicion". The French have a deeply-ingrained, permanent suspicion of all government and its funtionaries.) Lately, though, they've gotten in step with the march toward celebrity culture (or anti-culture) as perfected by the unholy marriage of Showbiz and Marketing in the States, and now there are no secrets anymore. And the situation the last year has provided plenty of grist for the rumor mills. First, Nicolas and Cecilia (the Prez and First Lady, or Premiere Dame) briefly separated 2 years ago and she was hanging out with some American advertising executive (Perfect! She's a former model and TV personality.) until her husband flew over and brought her back (dragging her by the hair? Naah.). Sarkozy's main rival for the presidency was Segolene Royal, a Socialist who had lived with her party's chairman, Francois Holland, for years, long enough to have had 4 kids together. During the campaign, though, one of the big periodicals (Paris Match, maybe) assigned a beautiful young woman reporter to cover Holland's activities and, voila, they fell in love, he was photographed kissing her feet at the beach (I'm serious, I saw the picture) and he left Segolene. She recently declared herself recovered from the trauma and ready to re-enter the political arena. Now, Cecilia Sarkozy is coming under increasing criticism for some erratic behavior, especially her propensity to absent herself from official functions under some lame pretext. She snubbed the Bushes when on vacation in New Hampshire this summer, pleading illness to avoid a Bush Family Barbecue (Now doesn't that sound like fun?) but was seen shopping; she didn't turn up for the official dinner of the G8 ruling powers; and just the other day she skipped a visit to Bulgaria with Nick where she was to be honored for her part in getting some Bulgarian nurses freed by Libya. Now rumors are swirling to the effect that the First Couple is on the brink of another separation or divorce, and the electorate is eating it up. But we here at Unutterable Gaul are happy to be able to lay these rumors to rest. Our exclusive sources have informed us that Cecilia has rejoined her husband on the campaign trail (see last week's post) and is brimming over with the milk of human kindness.

WILL CECILIA BE PUT OUT TO PASTURE?
PRESIDENT DEFENDS WIFE AGAINST

CHARGES OF BULLYING - "UDDERLY

RIDICULOUS! SHE'S NOT BOSSY!"

Au revoir until we meat again. Tom

Love at first sight and other sports

2007-10-01T11:53:00.000-07:00

It's a common enough story: Middle-aged man visits foreign country, falls madly but inappropriately in love and suddenly the life he's been living ever since he can remember seems pointless, empty and impossible to bear any longer. You've read it in novels, seen it in theaters and heard it discussed on daytime TV, but I assure you it really happens. It happened to me.

Yesterday we visited La Roque d'Antheron, a smallish village north of here on the banks (or almost) of the Durance, a village seemingly identical to dozens of others we've visited with no noticeable after-effects, but this time I lost my heart! Maybe it was the charming town square, the Place de la Republique (most communities regardless of size have one), the renowned classical music festival which runs for several months each year, the imposing chateau which seems to have been ingeniously converted into a Clinique Dietetique (what used to be called a fat farm), or the adolescent pizza-eating bacteria (see below). Anyway, it seemed to epitomize everything I'd want in a place to call home (did I mention the fishing in the Durance) if for some reason I was cruelly exiled from Portland and cast out onto foreign shores, there to eke out a meaningless existence far from friends and family. (But not, thank god, from Italian food)

The virtues of La Roque had been extolled to us by the mother of one of Mike's classmates at a wine and cheese party which was held at the school on Friday night. We had been somewhat apprehensive about attending but it was great fun. Many of the people there had moved frequently about the world due to their own jobs or, in childhood, the work of their parents, or both, so it was a very cosmopolitan gathering. Many of the couples were bi-cultural, the woman from one country (Malaysia, for example) and the man from another (say, Scotland). The english-speakers gradually ended up clustered together near one of the outdoor heaters (it was held outside under pollarded plane, or sycamore, trees) and got delightfully silly, conversing raucously in variously-accented English, the new lingua franca of the age. A good time was had by all, in part, I'm sure, because we all left the kids at home! We were free, freed from the shackles of parental respectability for one glorious evening! And what a relief to meet some kindred spirits because we know some of the parents at this school are, well, clearly suffering, and not in silence, from terminal affluenza, poor things!

Lois has been actively integrating herself into the local scene, finding and joining activities that interest her. As I write this on Monday evening, she's at her first choir practice with an amateur choir composed of residents of our village, Eguilles. They are beginning preparation of Carmina Burana for presentation later in the season. She attends yoga class on Tuesdays in Aix and just signed up for Intermediate French for Parents offered by Mike's school. Vous allez, Grrl!

We're planning our first family trip to Paris at end of October during the first of Mike's two-week school breaks. We think we'll take the high-speed TGV train and spend 4 days in Paris, after which we have the pleasure of welcoming some friends and our niece Heidi for a visit with us.

And now the important stuff: The French rugby team, Les Bleus, have advanced to the quarter-finals of the World Cup!!! That's the good news. The bad news is that they have to play the fearsome New Zealand All-Blacks, who are overwhelmingly favored to win it all. However, there's more good news: the All-Blacks have been overwhelmingly favored to win it all every time the World Cup has been held (every 4 years since 1987) and they've only won it once, in its inaugural year. But then there's more bad news: the match is being held in Cardiff, which I think is in Wales, despite France being the host. Inscrutable are the ways of the International Rugby Federation. The round-robin, or pool, stage is over and the matches from now on are sudden-death, so the drama is heightened to an almost Euripidean pitch. (Pitch? Is that a pun?) There are 8 teams remaining so there will be 2 matches on Saturday and 2 on Sunday, all broadcast on free TV, available even out here in the sticks, so Mike and I and most of France are agog with anticipation.

It's been a quiet week for our favorite continental chief of state, Nicolas Sarkozy. True, he did address the 6 billion inhabitants of Planet Earth via the United Nations, lectured the world's leaders on their economic and environmental responsibilities, visibly lost his patience with some interviewers (hey, they're only journalists, y'know) and threatened Iran with nuclear annihilation, but that left a couple days free, so he went to the country to promote his reforms. The old campaigner hasn't lost his touch, as the photograph below, an Unudderable Gaul exclusive, demonstrates. He had the audience eating out of his hand. Alfalfa, maybe. C'est comme ca! Tom

SARKOZY TAKES BULL BY THE HORNS
Steaks future on reform mooovement
"Voice of the people will be herd!", he vows

What is ochre, anyway? Let's ask the President!

2007-09-24T09:27:00.000-07:00

Bonjour to all from this little farm in Provence, where we're renting the third floor of a 300-year old stone farmhouse. The hot water ceased to appear today, the evening air is redolent with the aroma of horse manure, one is almost suffocated by clouds of horseflies and yellow-jackets when one ventures outside, the French are still driving like that, and we're muddling through.
Quite nicely.

Among the many books we read in preparation for this sojourn was a highly-regarded work by a sociologist named Philip Wylie called "A Village in the Vaucluse", which was written shortly after WW II and is still, 50 years later, selling well. He called the village "Peyrane" but that was just a pseudonym; the actual name is Roussillon and we visited there yesterday. It's about 40 miles north of us in the Luberon, which is more mountainous and more heavily wooded than our part of Provence.

(Geographical note: France is divided into 100 Departments, roughly equivalent to counties, which are then clumped together in groups of 4 to 6 to form Regions. The old historical names, Aquitaine, Burgundy, Gascony, etc., are familiar and still used in a loose sense, but they weren't precise enough for Napoleon, who implemented the reorganization described above. For example, although we say we live in Provence, and that's good enough for most purposes, we actually live in the Department of the Bouches-du-Rhone, in the Region of PACA (Provence-Alpes-Cote d'Azur). The Luberon is one of those old informal historical areas in the Vaucluse region. There! Clarity itself, non?)

The area is famous for its ochre quarries - I had no idea ochre was ever such an important commodity - and the dominant color of the surrounding hills is burnt orange, or, yes, that's right, ochre. The village has become a very popular tourist destination due to its mention in Wylie's book, its grand outdoor markets, which weren't in session when we went, and, not least, its description by Rick Steves as "having all the charm of Santa Fe on a hilltop." We've learned never to underestimate the power of Rick Steves (ot Peter Mayle, for that matter, whose home village of Lourmarin we drove through enroute to Roussillon.)

Mike and I had taken our fishing gear in hopes of finally getting into a French river, in this case the Durance, which officially divides the Bouches-du-Rhone and the Vaucluse, so on the way back we stopped and got our feet wet for the first time since our arrival. We caught and released a couple of unfamiliar French fish, but mostly just enjoyed the beauty of the Durance and of some fellow fishermen - paunchy, hairy Frenchman wearing thongs (not the footwear)! Why don't they print pictures of THOSE guys in L. L. Bean catalogs?

Speaking of hairy men expressing themselves, I mentioned previously the French rugby player

Sebastian Chabal, who has become the reigning idol over here, and the impact he's making on

French culture. As you can see from the photo below, I was not exaggerating! When streakers start impersonating you, you know you've made it! At this rate he may end up in the pantheon of immortals with Jerry Lewis!

The world may have lost Marcel Marceau, but we still have Nicolas Sarkozy. Whether they love 'im or hate 'im, and there are plenty in both camps, the French watch their hyperpresident with a sort of sick fascination. There's been plenty to watch, too, from his marriage, breakup and reconciliation, to the "Love Handle Scandal" ('poignees d'amour'). Paris Match, a leading popular (think "People" in the States) magazine owned by one of his friends, airbrushed into nonexistence the unsightly protuberances dangling over the waist of the Presidential swimming trunks captured on film during his controversial New Hampshire vacation this summer (If you haven't already, you can see the 'before' and 'after' pictures on the web). And one of France's most eminent playwrights, Yasmina Reza, accompanied him, at his request, during the presidential campaign and wrote an honest, not very flattering book, finding him vain, insecure, domineering and sarcastic. Imagine! A vain, insecure politician!

But his moment of truth, the long-awaited confrontation with the unions, is fast approaching! Others may have doubts, but as the photo below indicates, the man is ready!

HE'S GOT THE WHOLE WORLD IN HIS HANDS

"Je ne suis pas un monstre!", says French president

Vows to greet union chiefs with "a big hug"

Adieu!

Tom

rugby