I’m multitasking. I am trying to absorb as much TV and Radio as possible and simultaneously typing my Blog. Currently it’s an episode of Trading Spaces which I miss terribly and some vague and indiscernible piece of music playing on a radio station that I can, also, not identify. I’m big on having background noise while I read, work etc.
We arrived in Illinois on Wednesday night and I went straight to sleep at 6 p.m. I awoke at 3 a.m. on Thursday morning full of energy, only to find little food in the house and the sudden realization that breakfast would be at least 2 hours away when the Kingsway opened.
I decided not to attempt to adjust to the time change, I decided to 'just do it'. This well-thought-out plan seemed to be working out fine and with no ill effects until yesterday afternoon when I was driving through town and came to a 4-way stop and stopped. Yes. That was good. The problem was that I forgot to keep going after that. I think I was waiting for a green light (?), but perhaps I really just fell asleep. I turned to see the woman at the cross street looking at me with arms raised in the obvious question ‘what the hell are you waiting for’. I moved on at that point but then wondered how long I had actually been there. Frightening. You should all consider yourselves quite lucky to be at work while I’m on the road.
Today is to be devoted to shopping and errands. Those who know me would think that this is a wonderful treat for me, but in fact, it’s not. I’m not shopping for fun, I'm shopping with a purpose and goal in mind and it’s really more like work. While still in France I, in all my anal-ness, created a shopping list. A shopping list in Excel. Yes with columns and formulas and colors and... and all that is missing is colorful 3-D pie charts. I first broke the list down by store. I listed items under the store in which I would purchase the item. Then I color coded the items on each list in 4 colors to signify level of importance. Then I 'shopped' on line to price out each item. I then put in formulas to give me a total for level one, then a total for level 1 plus level 2 items and so on, so that I could have a cost estimate by priority and also by store. (If I'd had time I would also have gotten dimensions for each item to ascertain whether it would all fit in my suitcases or not. Alas, time ran out)
So while shopping I’m supposed to, in theory, stick to the list. There are two reasons for this. First, obviously, is cost, but more importantly, I may have space issues. I brought my giant suitcase and inside it I put a smaller suitcase. I therefore have only two suitcases to put all this stuff into; this brings me to the next part of my traveling anomaly.
I packed lightly. Unbelievable but true. I arrived for a weeks visit without the usual 12 outfits and 6 pairs of shoes. I know La is reading this and laughing in total and complete disbelief, because she has seen many a time how I really travel. I packed exactly 2 ½ outfits and 1 pair of shoes (well 2 if you count the ones I was wearing.) I have to launder clothes every other day, but I damned well will be bringing every item on the list back to France with me.
One of the items on my list is my favorite coffee from Borders. Holiday Traditions. I went in to Borders today and CJ told me that he had just put it out a few days ago. I snatched up 6 bags of the stuff and asked him to grind it for me. (I hate having my coffee pre-ground, but my coffee grinder doesn’t work well on French electricity) CJ ground the coffee for me while I browsed. When he was done he came over to tell me that Borders is running a promotion where you get 1 cup of free coffee with every bag you buy. I thought cool, that’s 6 cups of coffee. That’ll last me the whole week I’m here.
“No, the coupons are good only for the day of purchase.”
“I love coffee CJ and I drink a lot, but even I couldn’t drink 6 cups in one day. But I’ll try”
I’m reading Douglas Adams’ The Salmon of Doubt again for probably the 10th time. It’s a compilation of stories, articles, quotes and ideas that were gleaned from his beloved Mac after his death. Have you read it? I highly recommend it. It’s of course in true Adams style, humorous, but also thought provoking and in a way sad. Sad because he’s gone and we will never be able to benefit from his quirky point of view again.
I’m quite frankly exhausted beyond all belief. This ‘just jumping into the new time’ idea is so far not working out for me. Oh, I’m doing it, but around 3 or 4 in the afternoon I find my mind keeps trying to shut down.
I want to see and talk with as many people as possible while I’m here because that’s what I miss the most. I know that La and Z and my Mom will never forgive me for not taking advantage of the weekend ‘Netsaver’ but I just couldn’t get on another plane, even if you put a gun to my head. I promise to spend at least 2 weeks with you in the summer though ok. I don’t actually want to be in France in August when the French seem to all lose their minds.
So far the oddest thing about this visit is people asking me what I’ve been doing in France. I’ve been there two months, and though I know they don’t mean it that way, I keep feeling that I must justify my existence there. That if I can’t account for every minute productively, I’m squandering an opportunity. I, however, cannot account for every minute productively. S and I have our weekend excursions, but the weeks are by and large dominated by domestic activities, Blogging and large, copious and mind boggling amounts of reading.
I haven’t read this voraciously in years. I used to read like this years ago when I had time. I had gotten out of the habit but I’m making up for it now. All those books I kept buying and stacking on my nightstand to read when I had a few minutes have now been read. Even the truly bad and completely unreadable books have been read, because I didn’t want to squander a single precious and rapidly dwindling word. I spent a small fortune on books (as well as coffee) at Borders yesterday because even though I can order from Amazon.com in France, the shipping is the price of another book and I cannot bear the loss.
Must sleep now.
Friday, October 31, 2003
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
The Cathars
S has decided that we must ’Discover the Sites of the Cathar Country’. (The left hand column has a pink section called ‘Pays Cathars’ click on the link that says 40 chateaux and then on the names of each chateau. From there click on the links labeled ‘banque d’images…) The Cathars were a religious group that splintered off of the Catholics back in the late 1100’s (?). This is a brief and inaccurate account of events but hopefully S will do a Blog on the Cathars and all will be clear on that point. ANYWAY, there are almost 20 of these fortified sites in the southeast corner of this country. These Chateaus as they are called are truly the remains of fortified castles some of which were built as early as the first century BC. Let’s be clear on where these sites are shall we.
If you were building a fortified and defendable castle you would not, of course, build it in the middle of say a picturesque little valley, oh no, especially if you live in the foothills of the Pyrenees. You would use these mountains to your advantage and build your home at the tippy top of one of them so you could see your enemies approaching for miles. And your enemies would have one hell of a time climbing up to kill you. Of course, inevitably they’d wait you out or more precisely starve you out, but never mind, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
S picked out three of these sites for us to visit on Sunday based on pictures in a brochure. He picked the three most remote castles of the bunch. I teased him saying that in my novel about France I would one day write, “Yes, I spent two years in France where my husband dragged me out every weekend from historic pile of rubble to historic pile of rubble”. He was not amused.
Sunday dawned windy and with the promise of rain in the air. (And that would be different from any other day how…) We got on the road and drove, it seemed, right toward the storm clouds. We arrived at the first chateau… wait this makes it sound like we just drove on over. What we actually did is drive down some amazing roads cut literally out of the side of the mountains. In some places the mountain hung ominously over the road, in others the road just tunneled right through solid rock.
The Chateau De Puilaurens sits on top of a mountain and you can see it from below. As you look up at it the outer battlements blend in with the stone of the cliffs it sits on. You drive up a 1 ½ lane road that curves in and out and switches back on itself until you’ve driven to within a half mile of the chateau. The rest is, you guessed it, straight up and on foot. S scampered ahead and took pictures and video footage of my struggle up the side of this mountain. I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO DIE!! And if I could have caught S and his camera, he would have. Once you trek through the forested path you finally reach the front steps of the castle. The steps, such as they are, (remember, made of stone over 1000 years ago or more; so calling them steps is really a bit generous.) switch back and forth, steadily climbing for another 5 minutes, (more like 10 in my case) and there you are, the front arch.
About the only thing still standing of this castle are the outer battlement walls. A few places to explore like some turrets and some doorways leading out of the walls to wind whipping, sheer drops and breathtaking (because of the wind in your face) views of the whole countryside.
(Here I would like to insert a brief note about the litigious society we live in. Well, that you live in, since I don’t live there for now. In the US, this site would have been off limits or your access would be severely limited. Whole areas roped off, signage everywhere DANGER, FALLING ROCK, DO NOT ENTER…etc. Hell, you would probably have to sign a waver exonerating the owners of all responsibility if you should fall and be maimed or killed! American society is big on placing blame, there seems to be no personal responsibility. The French have a different view on anything from choosing to drink hot coffee while driving to visiting these chateaus. You have a brain, you know the danger, if you choose to engage in these behaviors and you are, god forbid, injured, maimed or killed, it’s your own damn fault. You assume personal responsibility. A phrase that Americans should reacquaint themselves with.)
We did see one sign that said ‘DANGER’ but its placement was ambiguous. Did it mean ‘Danger don’t fall in that big hole there next to you’ or ‘Danger this arch your standing under is really old and could fall on you if you sneeze’, not really sure, but you can’t say you weren’t warned.
S took lots of photos, it was at this point however that I discovered the batteries in my camera were dead and I only had two spares. I needed four. You’d think I of all people would be better prepared. I would live to regret this unpreparedness when in the final and best stage of our journey S filled his media card and we couldn’t take anymore pictures. S’s camera is a new Nikon digital that uses a new technology for file storage. So where I had a Smart Media and Compact Flash card, he couldn’t use them in his camera and since his camera has an internal rechargeable battery, I couldn’t use his power source in mine. Really poor planning!
The climb down in some ways was more difficult than the climb up. This was compounded by the fact that the wind was really blowing and it had started to lightly drizzle. By the time we finally reached the car my legs felt like shaky Jell-O. It was not at all cool.
We drove down the mountain with me alternating between goggling at the sheer drops (no guard rails [personal responsibility]) and covering my eyes with my hands. I’d look down and say ‘Holy Cow (and other superlatives), look at that drop! No Don’t! You drive, I’ll look.”
On to the next! We next visited the chateau Queribus. I decided that I would sit this one out. I know, I know, not very adventurous, but my knee (Arthur-itis) was really screaming. So I sat in the car in the parking lot and read and S went up. From the looks of it the ascent to this one was not nearly as steep as the first one and I probably could have made it.
While I waited in the car a tour bus arrived. Yes a bus actually drove up the little mountain road. I don’t know what would happen if you met it on your way down the mountain, where the hell would you go? Reverse it back up to the parking lot? Out of the bus came about 40 Senior Citizens. This really pissed me off, because if these 40 people started to climb up to the castle I was going to have to go. They, however and thank God, did not. They took some photos and bought postcards and loaded back up on the bus. By the time they were ready to take off S was back and we headed down the mountain ahead of the bus.
This castle (as related by S) is currently being renovation. S had some difficulty taking photos and movies that didn’t have scaffolding or tools in it. It had probably less to see than the previous castle but a basic floor plan was evident and it looks like it may be quite something to see once the renovations are complete.
By the time we reached the chateau Peyrepertuse it was difficult to see it because the mountain top it sits on was mostly shrouded by clouds. By the time we reached its parking lot it was sprinkling and had gotten very foggy. I opted out of this climb too because I could see myself slipping on stone steps in the rain and not stopping till I reached the valley below. S put on his anorak and went for it.
This castle was the most complete of the 3 we visited. (Complete being relative) It also had the toughest climb and was the biggest. We will re-visit this one on a sunnier day and I’ll go up. The fog, however, made for some spectacular photos. S took some movies too. The pictures though are fabulous. The fog made everything look just a bit eerie and ghostly. S has a real eye for photography and he has taken some wonderful shots of architectural details as well as vistas. I can’t wait to share them with you all.
When S got back in the car we consulted our map and decided that since home was northwest, we would not go south back to the highway. We decided to take the mountain road we were on all the way north and catch the highway home up there. This was the best decision and led to the best part of our day.
We descended the mountain and followed this narrow winding road through valleys and around hills. Through small villages where the road meandered between buildings and out the other side. As we drove the wind began to clear up the fog and clouds and the sun came out. This is difficult to write without sounding completely sappy, but it was very emotional for me for some reason. Not that I’m EVER emotional. So, if you are offended by sappy, stop reading now.
As the sun came out, the sky behind the clouds was an incredible blue. The clouds were flying by, being blown away by the wind giving us peek-a-boo views of the white mountain cliffs with their toes hidden in forested hillsides and high meadows of a green so fresh it actually brought tears to my eyes to see it. Then I’d look across a valley and see the red terracotta roof tops of a village clinging to the side of a mountain. Near the villages I could see a few farmsteads where the grape vines were starting to turn a deep fall red. As we drove through these hills every turn around a bend brought another stunning view that would make me gasp with its beauty. Villages looked exactly as they might have a hundred or a thousand years ago in pristine landscapes that haven’t changed in all those years. Sometimes we’d come around a bend in the road to see a cloud had settled into the valley below and it felt like we were driving on a floating island. We drove through a pine forest whose trunks started so far below us we couldn’t see there bases and whose green tops were so far above we were driving in cool darkness. I close my eyes and can still see the vivid, intense, rain washed colors of the green trees and meadows, the polished copper sheen of the harvested fields being lit by slanting rays of sun and a sky of such a saturated blue that it looked as if it were a painting. If you come I’ll take you there, though I’m afraid that it will never look exactly that way for me again. I think we were lucky and that we stumbled on this at the exact right moment in time. One of those events that you could try to repeat your whole life and never succeed. I wondered earlier in the day how anyone could want to live someplace so remote, but those views would make it worthwhile. Once you’d seen it like that you might never want to leave again.
If you were building a fortified and defendable castle you would not, of course, build it in the middle of say a picturesque little valley, oh no, especially if you live in the foothills of the Pyrenees. You would use these mountains to your advantage and build your home at the tippy top of one of them so you could see your enemies approaching for miles. And your enemies would have one hell of a time climbing up to kill you. Of course, inevitably they’d wait you out or more precisely starve you out, but never mind, it seemed like a good idea at the time.
S picked out three of these sites for us to visit on Sunday based on pictures in a brochure. He picked the three most remote castles of the bunch. I teased him saying that in my novel about France I would one day write, “Yes, I spent two years in France where my husband dragged me out every weekend from historic pile of rubble to historic pile of rubble”. He was not amused.
Sunday dawned windy and with the promise of rain in the air. (And that would be different from any other day how…) We got on the road and drove, it seemed, right toward the storm clouds. We arrived at the first chateau… wait this makes it sound like we just drove on over. What we actually did is drive down some amazing roads cut literally out of the side of the mountains. In some places the mountain hung ominously over the road, in others the road just tunneled right through solid rock.
The Chateau De Puilaurens sits on top of a mountain and you can see it from below. As you look up at it the outer battlements blend in with the stone of the cliffs it sits on. You drive up a 1 ½ lane road that curves in and out and switches back on itself until you’ve driven to within a half mile of the chateau. The rest is, you guessed it, straight up and on foot. S scampered ahead and took pictures and video footage of my struggle up the side of this mountain. I THOUGHT I WAS GOING TO DIE!! And if I could have caught S and his camera, he would have. Once you trek through the forested path you finally reach the front steps of the castle. The steps, such as they are, (remember, made of stone over 1000 years ago or more; so calling them steps is really a bit generous.) switch back and forth, steadily climbing for another 5 minutes, (more like 10 in my case) and there you are, the front arch.
About the only thing still standing of this castle are the outer battlement walls. A few places to explore like some turrets and some doorways leading out of the walls to wind whipping, sheer drops and breathtaking (because of the wind in your face) views of the whole countryside.
(Here I would like to insert a brief note about the litigious society we live in. Well, that you live in, since I don’t live there for now. In the US, this site would have been off limits or your access would be severely limited. Whole areas roped off, signage everywhere DANGER, FALLING ROCK, DO NOT ENTER…etc. Hell, you would probably have to sign a waver exonerating the owners of all responsibility if you should fall and be maimed or killed! American society is big on placing blame, there seems to be no personal responsibility. The French have a different view on anything from choosing to drink hot coffee while driving to visiting these chateaus. You have a brain, you know the danger, if you choose to engage in these behaviors and you are, god forbid, injured, maimed or killed, it’s your own damn fault. You assume personal responsibility. A phrase that Americans should reacquaint themselves with.)
We did see one sign that said ‘DANGER’ but its placement was ambiguous. Did it mean ‘Danger don’t fall in that big hole there next to you’ or ‘Danger this arch your standing under is really old and could fall on you if you sneeze’, not really sure, but you can’t say you weren’t warned.
S took lots of photos, it was at this point however that I discovered the batteries in my camera were dead and I only had two spares. I needed four. You’d think I of all people would be better prepared. I would live to regret this unpreparedness when in the final and best stage of our journey S filled his media card and we couldn’t take anymore pictures. S’s camera is a new Nikon digital that uses a new technology for file storage. So where I had a Smart Media and Compact Flash card, he couldn’t use them in his camera and since his camera has an internal rechargeable battery, I couldn’t use his power source in mine. Really poor planning!
The climb down in some ways was more difficult than the climb up. This was compounded by the fact that the wind was really blowing and it had started to lightly drizzle. By the time we finally reached the car my legs felt like shaky Jell-O. It was not at all cool.
We drove down the mountain with me alternating between goggling at the sheer drops (no guard rails [personal responsibility]) and covering my eyes with my hands. I’d look down and say ‘Holy Cow (and other superlatives), look at that drop! No Don’t! You drive, I’ll look.”
On to the next! We next visited the chateau Queribus. I decided that I would sit this one out. I know, I know, not very adventurous, but my knee (Arthur-itis) was really screaming. So I sat in the car in the parking lot and read and S went up. From the looks of it the ascent to this one was not nearly as steep as the first one and I probably could have made it.
While I waited in the car a tour bus arrived. Yes a bus actually drove up the little mountain road. I don’t know what would happen if you met it on your way down the mountain, where the hell would you go? Reverse it back up to the parking lot? Out of the bus came about 40 Senior Citizens. This really pissed me off, because if these 40 people started to climb up to the castle I was going to have to go. They, however and thank God, did not. They took some photos and bought postcards and loaded back up on the bus. By the time they were ready to take off S was back and we headed down the mountain ahead of the bus.
This castle (as related by S) is currently being renovation. S had some difficulty taking photos and movies that didn’t have scaffolding or tools in it. It had probably less to see than the previous castle but a basic floor plan was evident and it looks like it may be quite something to see once the renovations are complete.
By the time we reached the chateau Peyrepertuse it was difficult to see it because the mountain top it sits on was mostly shrouded by clouds. By the time we reached its parking lot it was sprinkling and had gotten very foggy. I opted out of this climb too because I could see myself slipping on stone steps in the rain and not stopping till I reached the valley below. S put on his anorak and went for it.
This castle was the most complete of the 3 we visited. (Complete being relative) It also had the toughest climb and was the biggest. We will re-visit this one on a sunnier day and I’ll go up. The fog, however, made for some spectacular photos. S took some movies too. The pictures though are fabulous. The fog made everything look just a bit eerie and ghostly. S has a real eye for photography and he has taken some wonderful shots of architectural details as well as vistas. I can’t wait to share them with you all.
When S got back in the car we consulted our map and decided that since home was northwest, we would not go south back to the highway. We decided to take the mountain road we were on all the way north and catch the highway home up there. This was the best decision and led to the best part of our day.
We descended the mountain and followed this narrow winding road through valleys and around hills. Through small villages where the road meandered between buildings and out the other side. As we drove the wind began to clear up the fog and clouds and the sun came out. This is difficult to write without sounding completely sappy, but it was very emotional for me for some reason. Not that I’m EVER emotional. So, if you are offended by sappy, stop reading now.
As the sun came out, the sky behind the clouds was an incredible blue. The clouds were flying by, being blown away by the wind giving us peek-a-boo views of the white mountain cliffs with their toes hidden in forested hillsides and high meadows of a green so fresh it actually brought tears to my eyes to see it. Then I’d look across a valley and see the red terracotta roof tops of a village clinging to the side of a mountain. Near the villages I could see a few farmsteads where the grape vines were starting to turn a deep fall red. As we drove through these hills every turn around a bend brought another stunning view that would make me gasp with its beauty. Villages looked exactly as they might have a hundred or a thousand years ago in pristine landscapes that haven’t changed in all those years. Sometimes we’d come around a bend in the road to see a cloud had settled into the valley below and it felt like we were driving on a floating island. We drove through a pine forest whose trunks started so far below us we couldn’t see there bases and whose green tops were so far above we were driving in cool darkness. I close my eyes and can still see the vivid, intense, rain washed colors of the green trees and meadows, the polished copper sheen of the harvested fields being lit by slanting rays of sun and a sky of such a saturated blue that it looked as if it were a painting. If you come I’ll take you there, though I’m afraid that it will never look exactly that way for me again. I think we were lucky and that we stumbled on this at the exact right moment in time. One of those events that you could try to repeat your whole life and never succeed. I wondered earlier in the day how anyone could want to live someplace so remote, but those views would make it worthwhile. Once you’d seen it like that you might never want to leave again.
Friday, October 17, 2003
P.O.B.
I read Grisham’s new book Bleachers and though I enjoyed it, despite the fact that it was about a football coach/team, I really miss the old courtroom dramas. Although, I imagine it’s hard to come up with a new formula each time so your books don’t start to all sound the same…wait, they all did sound the same after a while didn’t they. Oh, well, his recent ones are such a departure for him that I find myself analyzing every sentence to see if the ‘voice’ is the same.
It’s been raining on and off for a week and when it’s not raining it’s windy. On my walks I fight the wind going down hill and then as I head home, loaded down with shopping, the sneaky thing switches direction and I fight it on the way up the hill too. Stupid wind. A couple days ago my neighbor Anne and her daughter Carla came by. They store their bikes in our garage since they don’t have one. They rang the bell to let me know they were going around to get the bike. (We gave them a key to our garage door so they could get their bikes if we weren’t home.) I asked Anne how she was doing and she said “Alright except for too much wine.” I was momentarily taken aback until I realized that she wasn’t confessing to being a lush she had actually said ‘too much WIND’. She has a lovely French accent when she speaks. I asked if she would be OK riding in such a wind storm. She assured me that she would be and told me that it will be windy like this most of the winter.
I remember reading in one of the many ‘living in France’ books I’ve read recently, that this is true. They call the wind the ‘Mistral’ I think and tell stories of how it makes people crazy or at the very least, after a couple of nonstop windy weeks, very crabby. I believe it, I’m crabby now and winter hasn’t even begun.
Alright, today we talk about the Post Office Beggar. A couple of weeks ago I went on one of my pilgrimages to the post office for stamps and to mail postcards etc. When I arrived at the front door to the post office (La Poste) there was a very scruffy and odiferous gentleman standing right at the door. As I approached (hesitantly) he opened the door for me and smiled. I smiled back said ‘Merci’ and went in.
(The inside of the post office you have to know is always stifling. Just hot and airless and smelling of all the hundreds of people who have come and gone for years.)
I worried that he was also coming in and would stand directly behind me. I fleetingly wondered how long I could hold my breath or if I should leave and come back later. But he didn’t come in. I surreptitiously watched him as another woman approached the door and he opened it for her too. ‘Oh’ I thought ‘he must be waiting for someone’. I glanced around the busy lobby but couldn’t really see anyone who I believed a likely candidate to be traveling with this man. Finally I focused on one of the women at the counter and something about her disheveled dark hair made me decide that she must be who he was waiting for. ‘Good, he’ll be gone when I leave’, I thought with relief. When her business was concluded …
(I have to interject here that people at La Poste take forever. It’s like they’re up there socializing. Since I don’t understand much of what’s said and if I concentrate hard enough to get the gist they’d all look at me pointedly for eaves dropping, [can you see me standing there staring, mouth hanging open eyes vacant as I mentally translate what they said…] I can only make assumptions based on the few words I randomly catch. But it seems to me that they chit-chat for much longer than is strictly necessary considering the stuffiness and long and pungent line forming behind them. It doesn’t take me that long to say ‘J'ai besoin de 10 timbres de quatre-vingt-dix cent s'il vous plaît’, pay for my postage and be on my way.)
…the woman headed to the door where the man opened it for her. She left, but damn, he didn’t. As the line snaked along, and I began to run out of possible partners for this man, I noticed that he opened the door for every one as they left, men and women alike. I was truly puzzled, I began to wonder if he was waiting for me.
When I concluded my business I headed for the door which he opened for me, I said ‘Merci’ and as the words are coming out of my mouth and I’m moving away toward the steps, I register that in his hand is a tin can with some coins in it. He is a beggar and collecting tips for opening the door for people. Of course by the time this realization comes to me, I’m heading down the front steps. On subsequent trips to the post office at least 4 others in the last couple of weeks, he’s always there. Though I’ve never seen anyone give him so much as a penny and I admit that I haven’t either, he’s still there. What sticks in my mind is the unique approach. Where you usually see homeless people with signs detailing why they are forced to beg, this man is providing a service, a minute service to be sure, but a service none the less. On the other hand it puts me in mind of those men who stand on street corners and run out to wash your windshield at the red light, whether you want them to or not and whether it needs it or not and then have the nerve to be pissed when you don’t tip them for smudging up your window.
Don’t look for a moral to this story, there isn’t one, just a story about my days.
It’s been raining on and off for a week and when it’s not raining it’s windy. On my walks I fight the wind going down hill and then as I head home, loaded down with shopping, the sneaky thing switches direction and I fight it on the way up the hill too. Stupid wind. A couple days ago my neighbor Anne and her daughter Carla came by. They store their bikes in our garage since they don’t have one. They rang the bell to let me know they were going around to get the bike. (We gave them a key to our garage door so they could get their bikes if we weren’t home.) I asked Anne how she was doing and she said “Alright except for too much wine.” I was momentarily taken aback until I realized that she wasn’t confessing to being a lush she had actually said ‘too much WIND’. She has a lovely French accent when she speaks. I asked if she would be OK riding in such a wind storm. She assured me that she would be and told me that it will be windy like this most of the winter.
I remember reading in one of the many ‘living in France’ books I’ve read recently, that this is true. They call the wind the ‘Mistral’ I think and tell stories of how it makes people crazy or at the very least, after a couple of nonstop windy weeks, very crabby. I believe it, I’m crabby now and winter hasn’t even begun.
Alright, today we talk about the Post Office Beggar. A couple of weeks ago I went on one of my pilgrimages to the post office for stamps and to mail postcards etc. When I arrived at the front door to the post office (La Poste) there was a very scruffy and odiferous gentleman standing right at the door. As I approached (hesitantly) he opened the door for me and smiled. I smiled back said ‘Merci’ and went in.
(The inside of the post office you have to know is always stifling. Just hot and airless and smelling of all the hundreds of people who have come and gone for years.)
I worried that he was also coming in and would stand directly behind me. I fleetingly wondered how long I could hold my breath or if I should leave and come back later. But he didn’t come in. I surreptitiously watched him as another woman approached the door and he opened it for her too. ‘Oh’ I thought ‘he must be waiting for someone’. I glanced around the busy lobby but couldn’t really see anyone who I believed a likely candidate to be traveling with this man. Finally I focused on one of the women at the counter and something about her disheveled dark hair made me decide that she must be who he was waiting for. ‘Good, he’ll be gone when I leave’, I thought with relief. When her business was concluded …
(I have to interject here that people at La Poste take forever. It’s like they’re up there socializing. Since I don’t understand much of what’s said and if I concentrate hard enough to get the gist they’d all look at me pointedly for eaves dropping, [can you see me standing there staring, mouth hanging open eyes vacant as I mentally translate what they said…] I can only make assumptions based on the few words I randomly catch. But it seems to me that they chit-chat for much longer than is strictly necessary considering the stuffiness and long and pungent line forming behind them. It doesn’t take me that long to say ‘J'ai besoin de 10 timbres de quatre-vingt-dix cent s'il vous plaît’, pay for my postage and be on my way.)
…the woman headed to the door where the man opened it for her. She left, but damn, he didn’t. As the line snaked along, and I began to run out of possible partners for this man, I noticed that he opened the door for every one as they left, men and women alike. I was truly puzzled, I began to wonder if he was waiting for me.
When I concluded my business I headed for the door which he opened for me, I said ‘Merci’ and as the words are coming out of my mouth and I’m moving away toward the steps, I register that in his hand is a tin can with some coins in it. He is a beggar and collecting tips for opening the door for people. Of course by the time this realization comes to me, I’m heading down the front steps. On subsequent trips to the post office at least 4 others in the last couple of weeks, he’s always there. Though I’ve never seen anyone give him so much as a penny and I admit that I haven’t either, he’s still there. What sticks in my mind is the unique approach. Where you usually see homeless people with signs detailing why they are forced to beg, this man is providing a service, a minute service to be sure, but a service none the less. On the other hand it puts me in mind of those men who stand on street corners and run out to wash your windshield at the red light, whether you want them to or not and whether it needs it or not and then have the nerve to be pissed when you don’t tip them for smudging up your window.
Don’t look for a moral to this story, there isn’t one, just a story about my days.
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
Editorial note:
It has been brought to my attention by ‘an anonymous’ reader that I have been unfair to ‘Joy the Brit’. I, as I am reminded, have a tendency to sometime wear on my face a look that makes others stay away. When I am stressed, or thinking about other things, or contemplating the murder of the person currently annoying me, I tend to have an,.... um, ....unpleasant (?) look on my face. So since I didn’t actually speak much to Joy, I’ll admit that perhaps I harshly judged her and should have been a bit more open minded upon our first meeting. Ok? Ok.
Also she did have extremely beautiful smooth and flawless skin so perhaps she was under the influence of Botox and completely incapable of any facial expression.
Also she did have extremely beautiful smooth and flawless skin so perhaps she was under the influence of Botox and completely incapable of any facial expression.
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Hell In A Handbasket
Just a quick note this morning, before I go back to bed, now in a deep depression. I’m up at the ungodly and dark hour of 6am. Steady drizzle falling outside, which should have been my first warning… Does the whole world go crazy when I go to sleep? If I’m not awake to hold things together does it all go to hell? The Cubs lose by 1 stinking point to the fish and California has elected yet another actor, Governor! A State with an economy so vast that only five countries on the planet have larger economies. All this in the hands of a man who can’t even pronounce California! I’m climbing back into my bed and pulling the covers up way over my head for the rest of the day… Just after I have a cup of coffee.
Supplemental
Apparently the server that sponsored my comments section has left the planet or something. I will set them up again on a new server, but I’m afraid that this kind of thing may happen again. The Blogger people may soon have a solution but soon is relative. I may have to pay for a service but we’ll try the free route for now. Comments should be back up and running by Wednesday night on the outside. Thanks for the e-mails.
P.S. go to McDonalds France click on the link that says ‘Entrez’ you have to have quicktime on your computer and most people do. When the new page opens in the top banner there is a small picture of the lion king next to it a small picture of what looks like a piece of paper tacked up to something. Click on that box and you’ll see the entire lineup of McDonalds France new sandwiches. The McMexico, McArgentina, McIndia, McMadagascar and McMazoc. See, I wasn’t making it up!
P.S. go to McDonalds France click on the link that says ‘Entrez’ you have to have quicktime on your computer and most people do. When the new page opens in the top banner there is a small picture of the lion king next to it a small picture of what looks like a piece of paper tacked up to something. Click on that box and you’ll see the entire lineup of McDonalds France new sandwiches. The McMexico, McArgentina, McIndia, McMadagascar and McMazoc. See, I wasn’t making it up!
Heat and Links
I’m noticing this morning that I don’t see the comments links on the Blog pages. I dumped all cookies and temporary internet files last night from Precious and defragmented, so I’m not sure if the problem is on my computer only or not. If someone out there could tell me 1) if the comments links are still showing up on the Blog pages, 2) if when you click on them you can still leave a comment and 3) if you click on them and you can’t leave a comment, what does happen. E-mail me this info please, I would really appreciate it.
I’m sure you noticed in yesterdays post that I started linking sites that I talk about. I went back and did it for some of the older posts too. Just entertaining myself.
That brings me to some fun stuff for today. Have I ever given you the link for Visual Thesaurus?
In the top left hand corner where it says Look It Up, type in a word. The result is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. It is such a unique and lovely way to show the relationships between words. I love this site and could play with it for hours. Clicking on any word in the web leads to entry’s for the word. Also try clicking and holding a word and dragging it around a bit, then let it go. It springs back like a rubber band. Or find a central dot and drag it around a bit. It is so cool. Obviously some words will have far more entries than others. Try typing in ‘good’ or ‘happy’ or click on any sub word and go from word to word that way. There is a key on the right side of that window. Also resting the cursor on the dots before the words will give you usage of that word. (Ky, if you type in choleric I think you’ll see that you probably did use it properly.)
Trying to get some warmth in this house today. Could not for the life of me figure out how to turn the radiators on. The radiators themselves have knobs that appear to be on, but no hot water. Went into the scary water heater cupboard and saw a knob on it that is set to the picture of the water faucet. I switched it to the picture of the water faucet and radiator and it appears to be working. The radiators appear to be warming and nothing is blowing up yet. We’ll see what happens.
I’m sure you noticed in yesterdays post that I started linking sites that I talk about. I went back and did it for some of the older posts too. Just entertaining myself.
That brings me to some fun stuff for today. Have I ever given you the link for Visual Thesaurus?
In the top left hand corner where it says Look It Up, type in a word. The result is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. It is such a unique and lovely way to show the relationships between words. I love this site and could play with it for hours. Clicking on any word in the web leads to entry’s for the word. Also try clicking and holding a word and dragging it around a bit, then let it go. It springs back like a rubber band. Or find a central dot and drag it around a bit. It is so cool. Obviously some words will have far more entries than others. Try typing in ‘good’ or ‘happy’ or click on any sub word and go from word to word that way. There is a key on the right side of that window. Also resting the cursor on the dots before the words will give you usage of that word. (Ky, if you type in choleric I think you’ll see that you probably did use it properly.)
Trying to get some warmth in this house today. Could not for the life of me figure out how to turn the radiators on. The radiators themselves have knobs that appear to be on, but no hot water. Went into the scary water heater cupboard and saw a knob on it that is set to the picture of the water faucet. I switched it to the picture of the water faucet and radiator and it appears to be working. The radiators appear to be warming and nothing is blowing up yet. We’ll see what happens.
Monday, October 06, 2003
American's In Toulouse
Well, I now know more about foie gras than I ever wanted to. Good lord. But let’s not start there shall we. Let’s start with some meaningless chit chat first OK.
On Friday night S returned from Biarritz early and we headed for the ‘commercial center’. Hard to believe but we went to IKEA, yes again. We find that there are still some things around the house that are not quite finished and so we go to our favorite place, IKEA. I love that store, it’s huge and crowded and overwhelming, but you have to admit they have a solution for almost any furnishing dilemma.
Anyway, we hit IKEA and decided that since A) we had plans for Saturday and B) shopping at the grocery stores on Saturday is a nightmare at best, we would do our grocery shopping on Friday night. It was wonderful, no crowds, no long lines, that’s how we’ll always shop from now on.
We were both pretty tired by 21hr and decided to breakdown and eat at ::gasp:: McDonalds (I know, I know) but it was right there in the mall it was almost like we had no choice.
The French McDonalds experience was entertaining. The menu items are almost all in English. Hamburger, Cheeseburger, Big Mac etc. Fries are just ‘frites’ (no ‘French’ in there because THEY ARE NOT FRENCH). There is a burger called the ‘Enorme 280’ which is apparently a burger made with 280 grams of beef which is equivalent to about .6 pounds (No I didn’t have that). The more interesting menu items were the McMexico and McArgentina. I kid you not. I don’t know what these burgers are but they were on the menu. You can also get gazpacho. The Value Menu is called the ‘Best of’ menu and it includes your burger, your choice of medium sized drinks and a choice between fries, potato wedges or a salad. Ok enough about McDonalds.
Last night we went out for Chinese. There are two local restaurants and we’ve eaten at both. When you sit down at your table there is a plate full of these white poofy round things. They look almost like pork rinds in the way they’re puffed, but they are absolutely white, perfectly round and taste like chicken soup. It’s the strangest thing and I cannot figure out what they are. (Nor am I sure that I want to know. They could after all be something like deep fried tofu or something, eewww). They are yummy and I eat every one that S doesn’t snatch from me. This Chinese dining experience includes a salad to start off with, usually sprouts, lettuce, some assorted julienned vegetables and crab meat with a vinaigrette dressing. Wine with the main course. The main course includes some items which have some of the same names of what you’d order in the states but don’t look or taste anywhere near the same. And then you get dessert, coffee and you can finish off the meal with a quick shot of Sake. Altogether a different dining experience, but good none the less. And of course my meal always includes duck in some shape or form, last night it was kabobs.
Ok, Americans in Toulouse. First of all the club name is a bit of a misnomer. In actuality it is the ‘English-speaking ex-pats living in Toulouse’ club. I would have to say that at least half of the people we met on Saturday were British.
We met the group at a small village about an hour from our house. Gilbert, our guide is a French man who has some history with this group, but I don’t know what it is. The organizer of this outing, Sue, is quite a history buff and loves to organize these ‘peek into the past’ events. If we had known this wee fact before we registered, we might have abstained, though it wasn’t as bad as all that. We walked around the first village, Cologne, where we heard the history of the village and some background thirteenth and fourteenth century politics and facts about the role of the Catholic Church. The village was absolutely picturesque and we took lots. (of pictures… because it was picturesque…Ok, moving on then).
We moved on to the Abbaye de Planselve which is in the countryside not far from Cologne. It is currently going through some renovation (more like reconstruction). The two men who have started a trust and are taking on this project, very proudly showed us around. The main entry to this abbey, which is completely walled around the perimeter, has a model of what the original compound looked like. However, only the pigeonnier and a dormitory are still standing. The rest is rubble and some of the most beautiful parts of the abbey are currently residing at an abbey museum in New York (they had pictures). That seems to have been the fate of many ancient and historic French landmarks. They were sold off to other countries.
So the tour was decidedly long winded and full of historical trivia and there really wasn’t much to see. While everyone else packed into the small round pigeonniers (“We will all fit in here, come on in”) (No Thank You) I spent a good deal of time speaking to a quite elderly British woman who did not want to climb the stairs and go in either and who I think was a bit confused. She kept wondering where the animals were, didn’t abbey’s include a farming enterprise? And why were the pigeonniers not housing pigeons currently? Was she ‘having a go at me’ or was she slightly senile? She was old but not old enough, I’m thinking, to have any first hand abbey experience. I’m not sure but she kept me amused and awake so I played along. We did in the end find some cattle in a corner of the place, grazing contentedly. This invited a milking story and something about her brother who is buried on the family farm back in England. And oh yes, the short stone walls that delineated the pastures, reminded her of the time she visited Scotland and why are these places so rocky. I wanted to ask if England isn’t pretty rocky too, but was afraid to set her off on another tangent.
Next was lunch. It was nice to sit and eat with a noisy group of people who spoke English. (Of course Americans are known to be loud, so we were in fact fulfilling our role) Is was good to sit and talk and not feel that as S and I were chatting the people at neighboring tables were looking knowingly at each other and mouthing the word ‘Americans’ with a hint of disapproval. Not that we’ve run into any of that but still that is the picture that forms in my head. Anyway, there were 26 of us AIT people and we sat at three large tables.
We met Mike and Colleen who are from the U.P., Colleen has a slight Midwest/Michigan accent and worst of all, she’s a vegetarian, but I liked her anyway. We met a nice British couple whose names, I’m sorry to say, completely elude me now. We met Marylyn who came alone and her husband stayed home with the children. She is also often a widow, but she has kids, so she figured it was time for him to take a turn with the kids. Her husband works for a seed company too. Mike and the British gentleman work together at some firm that has something to do with aviation I think. It was comforting to hear the stories from the other women in the group. They were nice and very helpful. Most of the people at our table have been in Toulouse for at least 2 years. Mike and Colleen have been everywhere. Hong Kong, England, all over the states too. We met a British woman named Joy, who wasn’t. A beautiful woman named Lisa who spoke wonderful French and who could’ve been French. I didn’t talk much to her but she seemed to just radiate niceness and calm.
The meal of course was just delightful salad with goose, duck and mashed for the entrée, wine, bread, dessert was some kind of ice cream heavily doused with brandy I think. Then off to the Château de Caumont.
The Chateau was far more impressive from the outside. On a hilltop surrounded by a garden. On the inside it was in tremendous disrepair and we were only allowed into 4 rooms and the basement kitchen. The guide was hard to listen too. She just spouted off dates and names and blah, blah, blah, blah…
(Having a slice of lemon cake that I made yesterday. It was from a box mix, that I bought here, that had the instructions in French, that had measurements for ingredients in metric. Have you ever had to cook with a dictionary and calculator by your side? Or this conversions site is helpful. Yeah, a huh, I’m pretty damned awesome, I know)
One thing that did stick with me was a portrait of a little boy. A very small Spanish boy, under the age of seven. We know that he was under the age of seven because he was wearing a dress in the portrait. Boys didn’t wear pants until after they turned 7. And there are very few portraits of children in dresses because most children didn’t live to be 7. This also showed that he came from a wealthy family because they paid to have his portrait done when they didn’t even know if he’d live past 7. I thought that amazing, in our day when we have our children’s pictures taken every month their first year and at least every year after that. Where there is never a doubt (except in rare and sad circumstances) that our children will grow to be well over 7. How must it have felt to be a mother then, could you possible steel your heart for the inevitability that only 1 in 4 of your children would likely grow to adulthood.
Well, now we come to the part of the day where we visit the foie gras farm. First, bear in mind that we have been going all day. On our feet most of it.
We get to the farm where we meet the duck farmer. A nice short gentleman with a very friendly open smile and very earnest manner. He was there to teach us a procedure from start to finish and he meant to do a good job of it. Of course he was an expert in his trade and his is one of the most sought out ‘brands’ of foie gras in southern France. He most wanted to impress upon us that stressed or unhappy ducks make bad foie gras. These ducks are not harmed in any way (well aside from the obvious unhappy end they will all meet) no matter what it looks like to us, the ducks are never harmed. Well this was the important message for the day, though Colleen the vegetarian looked dubious. I have to admit that there are parts of it that had me thinking, yeah right, the duck doesn’t mind when you do that?
(Hey good news, I’m an Aunt again! For the 6th time. David (no middle name yet) G#### was born at 2 am weighing 7lbs. 13 oz. 20 inches long. Congrats Z and Jav! Of course it’s now 10 am in California and I’m just hearing about it from La, but ok, I won’t be mad. But hey, send details woman, details!)
Ok, where was I, oh yeah. Do you sense foot dragging on this topic? Yeah, I guess I am a little reluctant to re-tell the experience. Ok, the adorable little ducklings start their short life on the farm, delivered at 1 day old. They spend their first few weeks in the warm and comfy nursery. Then they make the first of several transitions. They are moved to the main building where they are coddled for another few days and then transitioned to the outside world, where they can roam the huge yard freely and eat whenever or whatever they want. At about seven weeks they are moved to the second large pen and barn where they have no room for roaming and where they are fed only grain and only twice a day. At about 10 weeks they are moved again to the next pen and barn where they are fed only once each evening. This causes the ducks to lose some weight for what is ahead. A few weeks of that and then they are once again moved to where they are fed twice a day but as much as they can eat. You see the lesson of the previous weeks was that they are not sure when or if they may get fed again or if food may be withheld. The ducks stuff themselves at feedings causing them to fatten up and also causing their livers to get bigger. Also they begin to prepare for a migration that is not going to happen. They fatten up until in the last few weeks of their short, sad lives, they are moved to small pens where there is barely room to turn around, about 15 to a pen and the most bizarre part of their lives begins. The ducks are force fed. Yes ladies and gentlemen, force fed. The previous fattening process has also expanded their stomachs; this is helpful in the force feeding process.
The Force Feeding Process: A man sits on a stool, grabs a duck and holds it between his knees. He then takes a funnel that has grain coming to it from an outside source, and inserts said funnel with long hose attached into the ducks throat. The long tube at the end of the funnel reaches into the ducks stomach. Large quantities of grain are then deposited directly to the ducks stomach. The man monitors the size of the stomach with his hand on the outside of the duck and when he feels that the stomach is distended enough he releases the duck and moves on to the next.
The grain has been slightly cooked to soften it and a small amount of salt is added to the grain, obviously not for flavor since the duck never tastes it, but to make the duck thirsty so he’ll drink water, thus aiding the digestion process. This is done about three times a day. The duck handler/feeder guy feels for the stomach on the ducks belly and if it still feels slightly full, he doesn’t feed that duck again until later. Of course the ducks do not mind this process (right). I have to say that they were rather quiet about it all, no quacking or flapping. I’m not saying they enjoyed the process but rather that they all had that resigned air of inevitability about them. They seemed to accept their lot in life with ducky good grace. Of course they have no idea what is yet to come so they can afford to be complacent about their bizarre little lives.
Alouette, gentille Alouette Alouette, je te plumerai. Je te plumerai la tête Je te plumerai la tête Et la tête, Et la tête, Alouette, Alouette, O-o-o . . .
Alouette, gentille Alouette, Alouette, je te plumerai. Je te plumerai le bec, Je te plumerai le bec, Et la tête, Et la tête, Et le bec, Et le bec, Alouette, Alouette, O-o-o . . .
(Continue adding the following with each new verse...)
le cou le dos les ailes la queue les jambes les pieds
Those of you who know the meaning of the words to this song explain it to your neighbor who doesn’t. If neither of you knows, drop me a line and I’ll explain.
You can guess what happens next. I do not have the heart to go into detail about that. Let’s just say that the result is some of the most delicious foie gras you’ve ever tasted. Happy ducks make good foie gras!
On Friday night S returned from Biarritz early and we headed for the ‘commercial center’. Hard to believe but we went to IKEA, yes again. We find that there are still some things around the house that are not quite finished and so we go to our favorite place, IKEA. I love that store, it’s huge and crowded and overwhelming, but you have to admit they have a solution for almost any furnishing dilemma.
Anyway, we hit IKEA and decided that since A) we had plans for Saturday and B) shopping at the grocery stores on Saturday is a nightmare at best, we would do our grocery shopping on Friday night. It was wonderful, no crowds, no long lines, that’s how we’ll always shop from now on.
We were both pretty tired by 21hr and decided to breakdown and eat at ::gasp:: McDonalds (I know, I know) but it was right there in the mall it was almost like we had no choice.
The French McDonalds experience was entertaining. The menu items are almost all in English. Hamburger, Cheeseburger, Big Mac etc. Fries are just ‘frites’ (no ‘French’ in there because THEY ARE NOT FRENCH). There is a burger called the ‘Enorme 280’ which is apparently a burger made with 280 grams of beef which is equivalent to about .6 pounds (No I didn’t have that). The more interesting menu items were the McMexico and McArgentina. I kid you not. I don’t know what these burgers are but they were on the menu. You can also get gazpacho. The Value Menu is called the ‘Best of’ menu and it includes your burger, your choice of medium sized drinks and a choice between fries, potato wedges or a salad. Ok enough about McDonalds.
Last night we went out for Chinese. There are two local restaurants and we’ve eaten at both. When you sit down at your table there is a plate full of these white poofy round things. They look almost like pork rinds in the way they’re puffed, but they are absolutely white, perfectly round and taste like chicken soup. It’s the strangest thing and I cannot figure out what they are. (Nor am I sure that I want to know. They could after all be something like deep fried tofu or something, eewww). They are yummy and I eat every one that S doesn’t snatch from me. This Chinese dining experience includes a salad to start off with, usually sprouts, lettuce, some assorted julienned vegetables and crab meat with a vinaigrette dressing. Wine with the main course. The main course includes some items which have some of the same names of what you’d order in the states but don’t look or taste anywhere near the same. And then you get dessert, coffee and you can finish off the meal with a quick shot of Sake. Altogether a different dining experience, but good none the less. And of course my meal always includes duck in some shape or form, last night it was kabobs.
Ok, Americans in Toulouse. First of all the club name is a bit of a misnomer. In actuality it is the ‘English-speaking ex-pats living in Toulouse’ club. I would have to say that at least half of the people we met on Saturday were British.
We met the group at a small village about an hour from our house. Gilbert, our guide is a French man who has some history with this group, but I don’t know what it is. The organizer of this outing, Sue, is quite a history buff and loves to organize these ‘peek into the past’ events. If we had known this wee fact before we registered, we might have abstained, though it wasn’t as bad as all that. We walked around the first village, Cologne, where we heard the history of the village and some background thirteenth and fourteenth century politics and facts about the role of the Catholic Church. The village was absolutely picturesque and we took lots. (of pictures… because it was picturesque…Ok, moving on then).
We moved on to the Abbaye de Planselve which is in the countryside not far from Cologne. It is currently going through some renovation (more like reconstruction). The two men who have started a trust and are taking on this project, very proudly showed us around. The main entry to this abbey, which is completely walled around the perimeter, has a model of what the original compound looked like. However, only the pigeonnier and a dormitory are still standing. The rest is rubble and some of the most beautiful parts of the abbey are currently residing at an abbey museum in New York (they had pictures). That seems to have been the fate of many ancient and historic French landmarks. They were sold off to other countries.
So the tour was decidedly long winded and full of historical trivia and there really wasn’t much to see. While everyone else packed into the small round pigeonniers (“We will all fit in here, come on in”) (No Thank You) I spent a good deal of time speaking to a quite elderly British woman who did not want to climb the stairs and go in either and who I think was a bit confused. She kept wondering where the animals were, didn’t abbey’s include a farming enterprise? And why were the pigeonniers not housing pigeons currently? Was she ‘having a go at me’ or was she slightly senile? She was old but not old enough, I’m thinking, to have any first hand abbey experience. I’m not sure but she kept me amused and awake so I played along. We did in the end find some cattle in a corner of the place, grazing contentedly. This invited a milking story and something about her brother who is buried on the family farm back in England. And oh yes, the short stone walls that delineated the pastures, reminded her of the time she visited Scotland and why are these places so rocky. I wanted to ask if England isn’t pretty rocky too, but was afraid to set her off on another tangent.
Next was lunch. It was nice to sit and eat with a noisy group of people who spoke English. (Of course Americans are known to be loud, so we were in fact fulfilling our role) Is was good to sit and talk and not feel that as S and I were chatting the people at neighboring tables were looking knowingly at each other and mouthing the word ‘Americans’ with a hint of disapproval. Not that we’ve run into any of that but still that is the picture that forms in my head. Anyway, there were 26 of us AIT people and we sat at three large tables.
We met Mike and Colleen who are from the U.P., Colleen has a slight Midwest/Michigan accent and worst of all, she’s a vegetarian, but I liked her anyway. We met a nice British couple whose names, I’m sorry to say, completely elude me now. We met Marylyn who came alone and her husband stayed home with the children. She is also often a widow, but she has kids, so she figured it was time for him to take a turn with the kids. Her husband works for a seed company too. Mike and the British gentleman work together at some firm that has something to do with aviation I think. It was comforting to hear the stories from the other women in the group. They were nice and very helpful. Most of the people at our table have been in Toulouse for at least 2 years. Mike and Colleen have been everywhere. Hong Kong, England, all over the states too. We met a British woman named Joy, who wasn’t. A beautiful woman named Lisa who spoke wonderful French and who could’ve been French. I didn’t talk much to her but she seemed to just radiate niceness and calm.
The meal of course was just delightful salad with goose, duck and mashed for the entrée, wine, bread, dessert was some kind of ice cream heavily doused with brandy I think. Then off to the Château de Caumont.
The Chateau was far more impressive from the outside. On a hilltop surrounded by a garden. On the inside it was in tremendous disrepair and we were only allowed into 4 rooms and the basement kitchen. The guide was hard to listen too. She just spouted off dates and names and blah, blah, blah, blah…
(Having a slice of lemon cake that I made yesterday. It was from a box mix, that I bought here, that had the instructions in French, that had measurements for ingredients in metric. Have you ever had to cook with a dictionary and calculator by your side? Or this conversions site is helpful. Yeah, a huh, I’m pretty damned awesome, I know)
One thing that did stick with me was a portrait of a little boy. A very small Spanish boy, under the age of seven. We know that he was under the age of seven because he was wearing a dress in the portrait. Boys didn’t wear pants until after they turned 7. And there are very few portraits of children in dresses because most children didn’t live to be 7. This also showed that he came from a wealthy family because they paid to have his portrait done when they didn’t even know if he’d live past 7. I thought that amazing, in our day when we have our children’s pictures taken every month their first year and at least every year after that. Where there is never a doubt (except in rare and sad circumstances) that our children will grow to be well over 7. How must it have felt to be a mother then, could you possible steel your heart for the inevitability that only 1 in 4 of your children would likely grow to adulthood.
Well, now we come to the part of the day where we visit the foie gras farm. First, bear in mind that we have been going all day. On our feet most of it.
We get to the farm where we meet the duck farmer. A nice short gentleman with a very friendly open smile and very earnest manner. He was there to teach us a procedure from start to finish and he meant to do a good job of it. Of course he was an expert in his trade and his is one of the most sought out ‘brands’ of foie gras in southern France. He most wanted to impress upon us that stressed or unhappy ducks make bad foie gras. These ducks are not harmed in any way (well aside from the obvious unhappy end they will all meet) no matter what it looks like to us, the ducks are never harmed. Well this was the important message for the day, though Colleen the vegetarian looked dubious. I have to admit that there are parts of it that had me thinking, yeah right, the duck doesn’t mind when you do that?
(Hey good news, I’m an Aunt again! For the 6th time. David (no middle name yet) G#### was born at 2 am weighing 7lbs. 13 oz. 20 inches long. Congrats Z and Jav! Of course it’s now 10 am in California and I’m just hearing about it from La, but ok, I won’t be mad. But hey, send details woman, details!)
Ok, where was I, oh yeah. Do you sense foot dragging on this topic? Yeah, I guess I am a little reluctant to re-tell the experience. Ok, the adorable little ducklings start their short life on the farm, delivered at 1 day old. They spend their first few weeks in the warm and comfy nursery. Then they make the first of several transitions. They are moved to the main building where they are coddled for another few days and then transitioned to the outside world, where they can roam the huge yard freely and eat whenever or whatever they want. At about seven weeks they are moved to the second large pen and barn where they have no room for roaming and where they are fed only grain and only twice a day. At about 10 weeks they are moved again to the next pen and barn where they are fed only once each evening. This causes the ducks to lose some weight for what is ahead. A few weeks of that and then they are once again moved to where they are fed twice a day but as much as they can eat. You see the lesson of the previous weeks was that they are not sure when or if they may get fed again or if food may be withheld. The ducks stuff themselves at feedings causing them to fatten up and also causing their livers to get bigger. Also they begin to prepare for a migration that is not going to happen. They fatten up until in the last few weeks of their short, sad lives, they are moved to small pens where there is barely room to turn around, about 15 to a pen and the most bizarre part of their lives begins. The ducks are force fed. Yes ladies and gentlemen, force fed. The previous fattening process has also expanded their stomachs; this is helpful in the force feeding process.
The Force Feeding Process: A man sits on a stool, grabs a duck and holds it between his knees. He then takes a funnel that has grain coming to it from an outside source, and inserts said funnel with long hose attached into the ducks throat. The long tube at the end of the funnel reaches into the ducks stomach. Large quantities of grain are then deposited directly to the ducks stomach. The man monitors the size of the stomach with his hand on the outside of the duck and when he feels that the stomach is distended enough he releases the duck and moves on to the next.
The grain has been slightly cooked to soften it and a small amount of salt is added to the grain, obviously not for flavor since the duck never tastes it, but to make the duck thirsty so he’ll drink water, thus aiding the digestion process. This is done about three times a day. The duck handler/feeder guy feels for the stomach on the ducks belly and if it still feels slightly full, he doesn’t feed that duck again until later. Of course the ducks do not mind this process (right). I have to say that they were rather quiet about it all, no quacking or flapping. I’m not saying they enjoyed the process but rather that they all had that resigned air of inevitability about them. They seemed to accept their lot in life with ducky good grace. Of course they have no idea what is yet to come so they can afford to be complacent about their bizarre little lives.
Alouette, gentille Alouette Alouette, je te plumerai. Je te plumerai la tête Je te plumerai la tête Et la tête, Et la tête, Alouette, Alouette, O-o-o . . .
Alouette, gentille Alouette, Alouette, je te plumerai. Je te plumerai le bec, Je te plumerai le bec, Et la tête, Et la tête, Et le bec, Et le bec, Alouette, Alouette, O-o-o . . .
(Continue adding the following with each new verse...)
le cou le dos les ailes la queue les jambes les pieds
Those of you who know the meaning of the words to this song explain it to your neighbor who doesn’t. If neither of you knows, drop me a line and I’ll explain.
You can guess what happens next. I do not have the heart to go into detail about that. Let’s just say that the result is some of the most delicious foie gras you’ve ever tasted. Happy ducks make good foie gras!
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Observation:
I found some Lay’s Barbeque Potato Chips in the grocery store. I bought them, since they are my favorites. It made me wonder why the store carried them. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining. I’m grateful to be able to find these items. However, from all angles you hear how the French hate everything American yet you find Coca Cola/Pepsi and McDonalds here. Lay’s, Nestle’s Quick, Skippy peanut butter (ok Skippy is a bad example since it is actually marketed in the foreign foods section) Quaker Oats, Pantene, Heinz Ketchup (no Hellmann’s Mayo though, I’ve e-mailed Hellmann’s about that and am awaiting an emergency shipment from them any day now.) the list is long. I think that somewhere along the line the French news makers have failed to inform the average French Joe that they hate everything American. McDonalds is hopping every time I go past it. Do they not know that McDonald’s is the anti-christ?
Just re-heated my morning coffee in my new microwave. Baked scones yesterday and am having one for breakfast. They are really yummy.
Spoke to J this morning before she went to sleep. Sending warm thoughts and comfort to her. Mom will be back soon darling. Chin up.
Looks like it’s going to be a bright sunny day. S will be home early today so I can steal the car for a bit to shop. He is leaving tonight for a couple of days. Again.
We received the following e-mail from Americans in Toulouse:
A DAY IN THE GERS WITH GILBERT (Adults Only)
(NOTE: Children will not be catered for on this occasion)
Saturday, 4 October, 10:15 – Cologne, Abbaye de Planselve, Gimont, Caumont, Cazaux-Saves, Foie Gras farm near l’Isle-Jourdain
There is no need to always take your visitors to Carcassonne or Cordes! This day with Gilbert will give us the opportunity to become acquainted with treasures close to home, beginning with the thirteenth century bastide village Cologne where we will meet near the covered market at 10:15. We will then follow Gilbert to the Abbaye de Planselve with its wonderful pigeonnier cum mediaeval ice house and learn about its important links with America before a brief tour and lunch in nearby Gimont at Le Coin du Feu which is offering for 16 euros per person a seasonal lunch of Assiette de Rillettes d’oie, Cuisse de Canard Vigneronne et sa garniture, Glace Pruneaux Armagnac, vin et café (vegetarian alternatives available on request).
After lunch, we will head for the magnificent sixteenth century Chateau de Caumont (again with strong American ties) and the adjacent mediaeval village Cazaux-Saves before ending our day with an introduction to the Gers’ most famous export - Foie Gras! For those with the time and inclination to continue, Gilbert will lead us to a duck farm close to l’Isle-Jourdain, where we will watch the birds being fed, and afterwards be treated to a tasting of foie gras made on the premises.
I’m all on board until the foie gras part. (Sorry Ken) But S will want to do that part I’m afraid. Well, we received our confirmation e-mail, so now we’re committed (or should be).
Just re-heated my morning coffee in my new microwave. Baked scones yesterday and am having one for breakfast. They are really yummy.
Spoke to J this morning before she went to sleep. Sending warm thoughts and comfort to her. Mom will be back soon darling. Chin up.
Looks like it’s going to be a bright sunny day. S will be home early today so I can steal the car for a bit to shop. He is leaving tonight for a couple of days. Again.
We received the following e-mail from Americans in Toulouse:
A DAY IN THE GERS WITH GILBERT (Adults Only)
(NOTE: Children will not be catered for on this occasion)
Saturday, 4 October, 10:15 – Cologne, Abbaye de Planselve, Gimont, Caumont, Cazaux-Saves, Foie Gras farm near l’Isle-Jourdain
There is no need to always take your visitors to Carcassonne or Cordes! This day with Gilbert will give us the opportunity to become acquainted with treasures close to home, beginning with the thirteenth century bastide village Cologne where we will meet near the covered market at 10:15. We will then follow Gilbert to the Abbaye de Planselve with its wonderful pigeonnier cum mediaeval ice house and learn about its important links with America before a brief tour and lunch in nearby Gimont at Le Coin du Feu which is offering for 16 euros per person a seasonal lunch of Assiette de Rillettes d’oie, Cuisse de Canard Vigneronne et sa garniture, Glace Pruneaux Armagnac, vin et café (vegetarian alternatives available on request).
After lunch, we will head for the magnificent sixteenth century Chateau de Caumont (again with strong American ties) and the adjacent mediaeval village Cazaux-Saves before ending our day with an introduction to the Gers’ most famous export - Foie Gras! For those with the time and inclination to continue, Gilbert will lead us to a duck farm close to l’Isle-Jourdain, where we will watch the birds being fed, and afterwards be treated to a tasting of foie gras made on the premises.
I’m all on board until the foie gras part. (Sorry Ken) But S will want to do that part I’m afraid. Well, we received our confirmation e-mail, so now we’re committed (or should be).
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