Sunday, September 13, 2009
Miles from Nowhere
All in all, things went very well. No one got burned in the fire pit, no one got eaten by bears and there were only a few falls (mostly by kids other than ours). We bought a new family tent -- anyone who has been on "guy camping weekend" knows we needed one. The tent has 2 rooms (a zip up divider – kids on one side, us on the other.) They went to bed like angels because if you tire them out enough during the day and they will be begging to go to bed. The mornings were another story. They tended to wake up very early. Lance and I threw books, toys, stickers, anything in their general direction to try to keep them quiet. One of the mornings, after the fact, I remember hearing Ellie say "I'm going to cut your hair." Now, mind you, I was half asleep and I just assumed that they were pretend playing so I sort of dozed back off again...UNTIL I felt a tugging on my own hair. Immediately my eyes were wide open. Apparently the two of them had gotten into my travel toiletries kit and had found not only the eyeliner, the deodorant, the Chapstick, the band-aids, but also the travel nail clippers and mini scissors. When Ellie said “I’m going to cut your hair” she really meant it. I found a one inch piece of hair dangling from Cole’s forehead. Good thing it was not in that prominent a place. And apparently I was about to be her next victim, had I not woken my lazy butt up.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Dream the Impossible Dream
Monday, June 29, 2009
Monday
I should have taken note when shortly before midnight last night, the power went out. Things seemed generally lacking ill omen this morning, notwithstanding the myriad displays blinking “12:00” at me like so many groggy Monday eyes just passing the minutes until that first cup of coffee.
My mind focused intensely a bit later when I thought for a brief moment I may need to duck behind the dashboard in hopes that the engine would block any stray bullets from either the Cambridge or the Somerville Officer who, in a triumph of municipal cooperation, had surrounded a white sedan not 100 feet in front of me and were approaching with sidearms drawn.
Having survived the commute unriddled, I walked into our building – our beautiful, brand-new, “green” certified building and was greeted by hastily printed, hand-highlighted signs at the elevators and (it turns out) throughout the building declaring:
WET
FLOORS!
TRIP
HAZZARDS!
WATCH YOUR
STEP!
I would find walls drilled open and work crews running fans and dehumidifiers in an attempt to remediate the damage from what was apparently a burst water pipe. And yes, the same spelling error was made in all of the signs.
In the midst of the cleanup crews, I was greeted by an unyielding security pad that refused to unlock the doors despite repeated and enthusiastic waving of my “Temp” badge security card. I’m hopeful that, after a week here, someone might figure out how to get me my permanent card.
To cap off this glorious morning, I overcooked my instant oatmeal in the microwave and, while cleaning up that mess, realized that I’d left my lunch in the fridge at home.
This all before 9:30.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
I Fought the Law
Fast Forward to the city life version. We have the same problem with critters in Somerville, except these ones are little and have rodent-like qualities... all of them, actually... they are rodents. The problem is generally at the other end of the city but, understandably, the City of Somerville impossed an ordinance that required everyone to put their trash bags in a barrel on the street so that critters could not rip open the bags and maintain the food chain. Normally, Lance does the trash but one day I decided I would pitch in (Lance was at a job interview and I thought it would be a nice gesture). I pulled out the recycling bin and put the lone garbage bag on the street. It was kind of amazing that we only had one bag and I thought "Why bother pulling the barrel out when I can just plunk down the bag?" Lance came home and this was the exchange:
LD" "Thanks, honey but you know we need to put it in the barrel, right?"
AD: "No we don't. It will be fine."
LD: "There's a city ordinance, we can get a ticket."
AD (with all the CONFIDENCE IN THE WORLD): "What? That's ridiculous. How are they going to give us a ticket? (scoff)!"
To be honesy with you, it was sheer laziness. I just did not want to drag out the barrel and I thought I was RIGHT. So you can guess what happens next - I ate crow pie. I thought I was home free when I came home and there was not ticket in the mailbox. "See? it's fine." I confidentally proclaimed. Then, a few days later, a ticket arrived in the mail. Damn them!
I boldly appealled the ticket. So, today was the hearing at 5:30. I dragged the two kids with toys, snacks and drinks in tow for the sympathy vote. We arrived to a room full of people and signed in. We were #18. Seriously - there are this many people appealing trash tickets??????? So I embarked on feeding and entertaining the kids. I took notice of the "Man/Not Man" person sitting near us. If you know Lance and I, you know we play "Man/Not Man?" whenever appropriate. So the kid factor comes into play and we ended up getting called about 4 people before we should have as the kids were getting antsy in the stroller and the guy hearing office took pity on us. I go in to the hearing room and explained the situation. They had a photo of our trash on that day (thanks iPhone) sitting there, sans barrel. After hearing my story; that we thought we were doing a favor for my unemployed husband, the hearing officer clearly insisted that that garbage bag must not have been ours. When I had that confused moment and look on my face, he insisted even more. So he declared we were all clear. Oh city living.
So I guess these trash problems digressed a bit but came back together in the end. Both were problems that had critters at the root and both were the result of lazy people. At least in this case, there was a lesson learned.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Can't Find My Way Home (Epilogue Part 1)
It was Spring in Provence, or at least the change of seasons was threatening. Harbingers sprung with every turn -- almond trees, once lost ugly skeletons randomly interrupting the brown winter viewscape, donned delicate white flowers and announced themselves as more than a crooked eyesore. Geckos skittered about the rocks in the courtyard, soaking every degree of sun into their cold scaly skin. And flowers. Flowers bloomed -- white crocus and beautiful purple iris, paying no mind to the calendar that still said "Février." Rows of what would soon be asparagus were covered in fresh plastic to capture the warmth and Vignerons raced against time to finish their winter pruning before the new season's vines burst from the noble old trunks. All of it seemed to say, "wait... don't leave yet, it's just getting good!"
Yet global financial crises, recession, depression, oppresion, the economic realities of our time, paid no mind to the seasonal benchmarks of a past age. It was time to come home.
Our adventure began on a Thursday morning, many days and even weeks of box and bag packing, weighing, shifting, and sealing having been spent. We drove to the airport south of Nimes, where we would collect our rented minivan. Having asked our friend Amy to speak with the rental company to ensure that we could pick up the car earlier than our 11:00 reservation provided (oh yes, we're open at 9:00, we were assured), we arrived at the terminal to find... nothing. No one. A giant, empty, polished tile ghost town with a sign at the car rental desk that said, "back at 11:15." Ah, the French.
Once we had van in hand we faced the dauting task of cramming all of our belongings into it. Now mind you, we came over with a full load and we also shipped three boxes to France. That's not to mention everything we'd bought there. We knew we were facing extra fees for our checked "bags" at the airline counter but first we somehow had to get it all to Paris. To this day, I'm still not certain how it really all fit but it did, and we have pictures to prove it.
Amy came over to help watch the kids (and bring coffee, tea, and snacks for the road, one last time earning her wings as our personal angel). She was particularly concerned with the highly uncertain manner in which we'd affixed the bike box to the roof (there being no roof rack) and ran home to get more rope and tie-down straps. Even after adding those, we were all a bit leary so she made us promise to stop at Mr. Bricolage for bungy cords, which we did, and thankfully so -- they did the trick. I could not see any mirror other than the driver's side and if I took a sharp right turn I had a suitcase in my lap but other than that it was perfectly safe.
So we said tearful goodbyes to Amy and Evelyne, took a few last pictures and, like a modern-day European Clampett family, we were off... on one of the most miserable drives of my life. Paris is a LONG way from the South of France, even if you aren't in an overloaded minivan with a giant wind-block tenuously strapped to the roof and two displeased toddlers in the back (with a wife wedged in bewteen them). It was white-knuckly driving the entire seven-plus hour journey, while rain threatened at any moment to turn the over-stuffed cardboard bike box into pulp and leave us with little hope of getting all of its varied contents home. But we drove. And drove and drove. Sometime around 11 PM (or 23H for those keeping European Time), we finally checked wearily into the Suitehotel CDG Paris Nord Deux.
We were pleasantly surprised by the room, though the promised and pre-reserved crib was nowhere to be found. After stealing it, with the assistance of the night clerk, from another room, we settled the kids into their beds, pulled the Asian-style divider that qualified the room for "Suite" status, then cracked open the bottle of wine we'd brought for the occasion (after another trip to the nightclerk for a corkscrew and a quick stop at the lobby computer to post an entry to this blog) and raised one last glass to our French adventure, though it was far from over, as the morning would soon prove....
Monday, May 18, 2009
Home Sweet Home
Needless to say, I have been a bit busy. BUT I am back. So my blog tonight is a microcosm of our return home. There are so many stories to tell (and they will be told) but this is what I've got for tonight. It's a story about Cole. In the cab ride home (Les had all our luggage in his car and Team Davis was in a cab together) I was eagerly anticipating Ellie's reaction (as she was the only one who had not been back to the U.S. during the whole time we were in France, and she was older) however, she fell alseep in the cab, they both fell asleep -- it was 2:00 AM for the kids --and I wasn't sure how they were going to be upon waking up at the house. Ellie rallied but it was Cole who provided the biggest surprise. Cole's reaction was priceless. He entered the house and while I was eagerly watching Ellie, out of the corner of my eye I saw Cole lie face down on the floor, rolling around, back and forth, giggling uncontrollably, on our living room rug! Our France house was beautiful but carpet was not a part of any of it, anywhere. It was made of stone floors and stone walls and "soft" or "comfortable" are not a words anyone would use to describe any of it. Apparently, even at 2 years old, there's nothing like a nice wool carpet.
With that, the Blog is back.
"...like an open book for the whole world to read."
Monday, May 4, 2009
All In My Grill
Bordering our slice of the American Dream is an old chain link fence. A beautiful relic in burnt sienna that, in the summer, dons an English Ivy boa weaved with wildflowers reflecting the finest in ex-urban backyard haute couture. Strategically low for half its span, it allows us an open connection with our neighbors who have an idyllic, over-sized backyard with flowerbeds that would make Martha Stewart stop and take note. Conveniently, the beds also make a stunning backdrop for the fully-lighted sound stage for live bands that they have been known to build for special occasions like milestone birthdays. It's an experience. We love them and always welcome, though occasionally marvel at, the energy with which they make full and celebratory use of their little paradise. God love the Irish... more stories there to follow.
Beyond their lot lay the backyard gardens of all of the houses on the next street over. We don't know these folks as well, being separated beyond any practical "hi, neighbor" over-the-fence chats. Rather, we know the characters by reference, like a post-modern Rear Window with fewer bricks and more patios. It is thus that we noted with sadness the absence of one of the regular characters, Mary, an elderly woman who we only saw on her regular trips to her little patch of concrete, wearing a light blue, flowered dressing gown, to hang or pull down from the line a seemingly endless supply of light blue, flowered dressing gowns.
Her absence was obvious because in her place was a glowing new picnic table with a table cloth and candles, tiki torches, and a shiny, black, old-school, -- fabulous -- charcoal Weber grill. Manning the coals was a man who was maybe 40. I noticed him not by sight but by the unmistakable smell of charcoals heating... getting ready for the main act. The beautiful part: he's been out there, firing up that grill for the past eight nights in a row. Eight nights in a row, cleaning out the ashes, loading new charcoal, building the fire and waiting until the coals are just right. Always just him... with a beer... a man and his grill. Solid.
So, here's to you, Brand-New Grill Guy.
It's great to be home.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
Hopefully, that is now going to change. After much discussion and a very flattering amount of encouragement from our readers, we've decided to revive this forum. Without the daily tribulations and inherent comedic trials of our existence in the backwoods of a foreign nation, the material may be more challenging to unearth.
However, I find that life with two small children and about 10 less hours in a day than we need just to accomplish the bare minimum to keep our heads above water tends to provide a regular stream of vignettes that, were we not to find the humor inherent therein, would regularly reduce us to a puddle of tears. So, you know... let's laugh about it.
After all, this is what it's all about, right? A Runaway American Dream?
So, in the coming weeks, you will see changes to this space. A new look, more frequent and (hopefully!) shorter posts, and, well, less stories about French people. If you think we've got it completely wrong, let us know. After all, if you the reader are not entertained, what's the point of putting this all down in kilobytes? We'd be just as well to sit on the couch and chat with each other over a nice glass of (really expensive) wine. Seriously though... the wine. How did we ever afford to drink this stuff? Where's that lady with the gas pump when I need her?
Monday, March 9, 2009
Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien
1. Family lunch. They send the kids home from school from Noon until 1:30 each day for lunch. They take lunch very seriously here. Nearly every day, Lance "came home from work" to sit down at the table to join us for lunch. It was really nice.
2. Drinking wine that was cultivated, harvested, and bottled by people we know personally and consider our friends.
3. The sweetest oysters you've ever tasted at less than 50 cents apiece, there for you every Wed and Sat at the Market.
4. Hearing Ellie say "Castle!" when she sees the church in Aubarne, as well as her joy at seeing "Kelsey," "her pony" every time I drive her back and forth to school. Although I have not had the heart to break it to her that her pony "Kelsey" is more like Kelsey Grammer than she realizes.
5. Stopping a telemarketer dead in their tracks by saying, "You're calling me in France right now, I am not interested." They are so confused because they are sure they dialed a US number.
6. Dark Dog Energy Drink. Sure it's just a knockoff of RedBull but "Dark Dog" is way cooler to say.
7. The baguettes. Actually, there were a lot of really mediocre baguettes in Southern France but, the good ones... oh the good ones. We will forever be in search for another baguette to match the "Sanilhacoise."
8. The croissants. Do I really need to say anything more? Okay -- just to drive the point home, in France we always needed to buy five croissants: one for each of us and an extra for Ellie. When she'd polished off her two, she'd start lobbying to finish Cole's. So our first morning back here, Lance went to Dunkin Donuts for bagels, coffee, and croissants. As usual, he bought two for Ellie. She sat up in her chair, took one bite, spit it out and said, "yucky, I don't like this croissant!" *sigh* refined tastes are hard to satisfy.
9. The markets. Two days a week, we'd head into Uzes (or whatever other town we'd find ourselves in on Saturday morning) and do some shopping at the market. Now, for most of the winter it was clear that the produce was being shipped in from somewhere -- Spain or North Africa in most cases -- but there was still a certain charm to heading into the Place Aux Herbes and stocking up on your greens and maybe a piece of fish, oysters, or lamb for that night's meal. We will anxiously await the opening of the Wednesday Farmer's Market in Davis Square.
10. Being able to order a demi-pichet of house wine at any little lunch spot and getting a solid, beautiful local wine for mere pennies.
11. The music. Okay, this entry may have a bit of sarcasm to it. While there are a few gems, like Christophe Maé or Asa, there are several hours of pure schlock played on the French radio. But, as though to make up for the suffering they've just put you through, they'll then go and spin some Barry White or Sir Tom Jones... and completely redeem themselves!"
11. The food. This is actually a point of contention amongst Team Davis. While we certainly had many excellent meals in France, Lance insists that nothing we ate there compares with his best meals in Boston. That may or may not be the case but the beauty of the food was the consistency. We could walk into any little place for lunch (which we frequently did) and at the very least have our choice of salads that would feed three people, pizzas that put 95% of American pies to shame, or a "menu" -- the prix fixe option -- that was, at the least, uniformly very good. These people take their food seriously.
12. More than anything else though, we will miss our friends. It's hard to imagine that you could make such close friends over the course of just seven months but when things click, they just click. I know it's easy to say now, just a few short days removed, but I have little doubt that, in this age of Email, Skype, and Facebook, we will remain close, even though we may be an ocean apart. We wouldn't have made it without them.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Two of us
Spending someone's
Hard earned pay
You and me Sunday driving
Not arriving
On our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home
Two of us sending postcards
Writing letters
On my wall
You and me burning matches
Lifting latches
On our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home
You and I have memories
Longer than the road that stretches out ahead
Two of us wearing raincoats
Standing so low
In the sun
You and me chasing paper
Getting nowhere
On our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home
You and I have memories
Longer than the road that stretches out ahead
Two of us wearing raincoats
Standing solo
In the sun
You and me chasing paper
Getting nowhere
On our way back home
We're on our way home
We're on our way home
We're going home
We're going home
Better believe it
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Dirty Water
* Seeing our friends and family (this has been extremely hard).
* A dryer – soft clothes and towels (crunchy clothes and deformed, stretched-out shirts are not cool).
* Warmth – old stone farmhouses in Southern France are DRAFTY. A room that is well insulated and easily maintained at a comfortable 68 degrees. Heck, I'd settle for 65. We've been living life at 60 degrees. It's chilly. You could store meat in here.
* Not having to work hard to understand the gossip of people waiting to pick up their kid at school.
* Putting the kids to sleep in their bedroom with out having to walk the Somerville equivalent of the distance to our neighbors’ house to get back to the living room.
* Sushi, Greek, Mexican, Indian, BBQ, heck diversity of any kind in terms of food. While we’re on topic of food - a GOOD Steak! Cows over here are grass fed and are just… they’re not good.
* A practically-designed kitchen and OUR cooking equipment and related gear. The beautiful, stylish kitchen with only three burners and minimal workspace that looks like a Food Network studio kitchen is not necessarily the optimal cooking experience for us.
* And speaking of food, plastic wrap with an actual metal cutting edge – they have an inverted bread knife here to cut paper towels but when you buy a box of saran wrap there is but a flimsy cardboard corrugated ridge that is supposed to cut the wrap. It does not, of course, and you end up with a wrinkled ball of plastic in your hand and a mangled pile of cardboard on the floor. It’s not pretty.
* Being able to drive out of my driveway without having to roll down my window. Seriously, we’ve been here almost 7 months and I am the primary driver of this rather large car for European standards – you’d think I’d know it by now. The driveway in our hamlet has a weird turn and it VERY tight in one spot. I have to roll down my driver window and make sure I am not going to hit the side of the house. Now our city driveway is skinny, but not this bad!
* Rolling around on the floor with the kids and not coming away with bruises and a low-grade concussion from the stone floors. A rug… just a nice, soft rug.
* Stepping outside and seeing… life. People, cars, bikes, buses, just some indicia that the rest of humanity did not vaporize overnight.
* TV. I’m sorry but random celebrity talk/variety shows and dubbed-over reruns of CSI and Law and Order SVU does not constitute legitimate television.
I’m sure there has been a list of other things that we’ve barked at each other over the past seven months but somehow we can’t think of any more at the moment. For now, we’re buried in bags and boxes and counting kilograms and sitting on suitcases to get them zippered and it is nice to think about sitting in our warm, cozy living room and flipping on a Sox grapefruit league game. I just hope it isn’t snowing outside.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Day Tripper
Over the holidays we took the kids ice skating at the "patinoire" that was set up in the "esplanade" in Uzès. They actually truck in a portable rink, together with a small selection of midway rides and games and set it up outside from the circular boulevard that runs in the footprint of the old city walls. Impressive, although the rink isn't exactly Olympic size. In fact, it's probably a lot smaller than dozens of backyard rinks set up every year in the Metro Boston area. Nonetheless, it was close by and the best option we had. The high point was Cole taking to skates like a fish to water and then bringing the house down by flat out grooving to Day Tripper – on skates – as it blared over the sound-system.
A few weeks back we finally got around to visiting the Cathédrale Saint-Théodorit d'Uzès (when it wasn’t packed wall to wall with Christmas Eve worshippers). It’s a good thing it was empty this day because we spent about 20 minutes lying face down on the dank cold stone floor looking for Cole's lost shoe.
We’ve tried to make sure we drove around to some of the less well-known areas near our village… the ones that never make it into the Michelin Guides. On one such adventure, we found ourselves driving from little village to little village trying to find a restaurant open for lunch (we finally had to drive all the way to Bagnols-Sur- Cèze, where we ate Indian pizza… yum). On one back road in between two very not-open villages, we came upon what can only be described as the world’s greatest retirement home for tractors. Yup, you read that right.
Last weekend we headed into the Vaucluse to discover the source of La Rive Sourges. The Fontaine-de-Vaucluse, swollen from the recent rains, was a pretty impressive sight as it mysteriously swells from an unknown source deep inside a closed valley. The whitewater roaring away from the source made for an excellent kayak course and some sort of local club or team was practicing running gates while we watched. It was quite a sight.
That same day, we wound our way south to the village of Barben for a visit to Château Le Barben, the self-proclaimed “most beautiful castle in Provence.” What was amazing about this 10th century castle, other than its dramatic setting, was that, after being in the same family for over 500 years, it was sold in the sixties to a wealthy businessman who opened it up to the public. The amazing part, however is that *his family still lives there!* His daughter and her husband are both in the art/design/history professions and they have kept the Château maintained and open to the public. They live there with their family and on the day we visited, while waiting for our tour to begin, there was a gaggle of grandkids playing soccer in the castle gardens. Some life.
Our tour of the Château went fairly well, having wisely remembered to pack lollypops for the kids. Hard to scream when you have a “sucette” in your mouth. I do think the guide was a bit nervous when Cole decided to heave his pop across the room. Life moved in slow motion as it spiraled towards a 16th century Belgian tapestry. Oops. Sadly, we’d packed but one set of child silencers and as the tour entered the subterranean passages that housed the military defenders of the castle, things went poorly. We told Ellie that the costumed Knight leading this part of the tour was there to save the Princess. “Where’s the Princess??” Um… I think she’s at school. Cole entertained himself by rolling around in the 10th century dirt and throwing rocks at the ancient armaments and shields. “Ooh… sorry… no, I think that dent was already there.”
Monday, March 2, 2009
Mon Legionnaire
After dispensing with the requisite jokes at the expense of the French Military, I came to realize that there is actually quite a significant military presence in this area. In addition to the large outpost on top of the hill, there is a French Foreign Legion barracks in town and there is also an Air Force base just north of us. On any given weekday one has no trouble remembering the presence of these installations as the rattle of automatic weapons crackling off the 17th century stone walls is interrupted only by the thump-thump-thump of ordinance as the gunners take their target practice in vast firing ranges carved into the garrigues atop the plateau across the river from us, sending a tangible jolt through chest and window pane alike.
More frequent, however, are the flyboys – those French Top Guns in their delta wing Mirage fighter jets who dance across the Provencal sky at least two or three days a week. These modern-day flying aces stay at a high altitude, begging you to strain your eyes and your neck to catch a tiny flash of sun off of a wing before you can identify the source of the slow and lingering roar.
There are, however, exceptions. One clear morning I dashed outside and was able to spot two jets at altitude engaged in what looked like either a mock dogfight or some serious multi-million Euro showboating. It was an entertaining spectacle until I realized I was standing on our patio, staring at the sky, half dressed.
Of greater note, however, is Henri. Nearly every day when we first arrived last summer, and less frequently but still regularly now, an older, swept-wing fighter would roar over the house at a few thousand feet at best. Only the faint whine of the engine would provide a second or two of forewarning before the deafening thunder would shake house and soul and he’d be gone. He was always heading East to West when we saw him in the morning and West to East in the afternoon.
This strange linear pattern, so at odds with the regular pairs of jets we’d see at other times, convinced me that this clearly was a rogue operator. Some French Monsieur on his way to pick up a perfect baguette or to meet an acquaintance for an afternoon Pastis or, perhaps, a more amorous motive. We would see Henri from various places, when we were out in the vineyards picking grapes or on the bike in some village or another. But it was always the same pattern. Occasionally I would try to catch a glimpse under the canopy for, if I had, I am sure I would have seen an older Bonhomme, with a leather flight helmet and goggles, of course. His crisp white silk scarf would strike a dashing contrast to his dark elaborate moustache as old French music blared from his cockpit sound system.
I tried desperately to get a picture but no matter how closely I laid the camera, lens cap off, auto settings engaged, I was never quick enough and by the time I had viewfinder to eye all I saw was an empty sky. But, each time, as I stared after the fast-fading specter, I’m certain that I heard the haunting strains of Edith Piaf, hanging in the laden Provencal air.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Free
Monday, February 23, 2009
In The Gallery...
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Little Village
So, in the face of such unmitigated schoolyard politicking, we decided that the proper thing for us to do, as temporary expats and de facto ambassadors of the Obama era, was to drive to Roquefort ourselves. (Also, I never realized how close we were until I looked at the map and said, "Hey, we should go there!").
It turned out to be a surprisingly interesting and fun trip. The village of Roquefort is perched on top of a massive pile of rubble that formed when half a mountain collapsed eons ago. What was left was a series of chasms, with natural air shafts that allowed a perfect level of moisture to produce the famously moldy cheese. Legend tells of a young shepherd in Roman times who stowed his lunch sack in a cave and forgot about it, returning some time later to find his fresh cheese riddled with mold. Of course, just as you or I would have done, he promptly ate it and presumably ran back to the village to tell everyone how tasty his moldy cheese was.
Today, the commercial production of the cheese, together with the associated tourist spending, sustains the tiny village. It is a remarkably quaint industry -- special ewes, grazed in a governmentally designated area, produce milk that is turned by just seven producers into Roquefort cheese, a monopoly that was granted to the village by King Charles XI in 1411.
The most interesting aspect was that the cheese makers are all generally located along the one main road that snakes through the tiny hillside settlement. For a guided tour, you walk through the main door, off of the main road, and from the lobby, head directly downstairs into the caves. The village is literally sitting on top of the pile of prehistoric rubble. Underground is a stunningly complex and massive system of chambers, each filled with shelves on which the cheese is aged, having been seeded with mold spores carefully grown on loaves of sourdough bread. Each different cave imparts a distinct flavor to the cheese during the aging process. Sadly, we weren’t allowed to take pictures.(Oops... my finger slipped).
Before heading home, we took a quick detour (and paid 15 Euros in tolls) to pass over the Millau Viaduct, an amazing feat of engineering that spans the Tarn Gorge and is, by some measure, the highest bridge in the world. I first saw the bridge from the air on a flight in to Montpellier and promptly checked The Google to figure out what it was. Having suffered through a lengthy, detailed (in French) tour of the cheese caves, the kids got quite a kick out of driving over the big bridge twice.
So that was the day – down into the dark dank depths of the cheese caves, then flying high across the Tarn on a beautiful marvel of modern technology.
For the next week or more, we cooked with Roquefort about 42 different ways but I think my favorite remains a simple, small, salty morsel on a thin slice of fresh bread. It is… so good. The cheese of Kings, the King of Cheeses. Now... if we could do something about those tariffs....
Thursday, February 19, 2009
C'est Ma Terre
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Take it With Me
*There are very few 18 wheeler trucks and the ones that we have seen usually have the soft canvas sides rather than the travelling metal boxes you see in the US. Must save a ton on gas as the truck is so much lighter.
*Gatorade scoop -- though here it is called "Hydra Endurance" or some such. The key is, the plastic scoop that comes in the container is narrow and tapered in such a way that you do not dump it all over your counter... even when pouring it into a narrow bottle. Brilliant!
*Pickle jar pull up dispenser - The pickle jars have dispensers in them that you pull up from the middle and it raises the pickles up on a plastic tray the width of the jar so that you do not have to fish around with a fork (or, gasp, your fingers) to get the last pickle out. How did we live without it?
*Deli meat is amazing here. Now when I say deli meat, I mean, of course ham or salami... because those are the choices... ham or salami. And really just ham. There are about 12 different kinds of ham for your choosing, from super high-end stuff to perfectly affordable everyday ham. The best part is that even the cheapest jambon is very good quality wheras the cheapest ham in the US is in the shape of a square and looks like SPAM. Let's change the subject. None of that here.
*While it's not an everyday deli item like it might be at home, the dried packaged meat is worth noting. You can buy a pre-packaged selection, with prosciutto, saucisson sec, and serrano. Just open it up and serve with wine, cheese, and a crusty baguette. So tasty.
*Orangina - enough said.
*Lardons - are the word for bacon but in France it really is more like chopped salt pork. It is such an important cooking staple that they sell them in pre-packaged containers already cut up and ready to put into your frying pan with oil, garlic and shallots as the way to start every dish. And I mean, *EVERY* dish.
*Cereal - is not all that different or special except that it is cheap. Seems like pure, unsweetened granola in the States is like six dollars a box. And for that you get one of those mini boxes that is only half full. Here, you buy a full-sized box of store-brand Muesli and you get no less than six dried fruits with crunchy granola. It's fantastic. Lance may never be able to eat another cereal again. I'm not kidding. (No really, she's not kidding. You have no idea how fantastic the cereal is here).
*Credit card toll booth - They do have something here similar to "Fastlane" or "EZPass" like we have in the States, but we do not have it in our car. However, we were pleasantly surprised when we pulled up to the toll booth manned by a French woman and realized that they took credit cards. THEN, to top it off - your credit card is faster than using cash - I am not sure how they run the card that fast but literally it is seconds! We got brave the next time through and went to the unmanned, automated lane. No problem... insert your ticket, then your credit card, gate opens, your card spits back out, and on your way you go. It's just freaking brilliant. I can't say enough about it.
*Booze. Okay, some of the liquor here is really (REALLY) bad. To that end, don't ever, EVER, drink rum in France. Just take my word on it. Instead, drink Gin or Vodka. Even the hypermarche store brand is quite excellent. Really, it's fantastic. If you don't believe me, instead pick up a bottle of Armagnac. It will make your belly very happy.
There are more things we will miss, I know. Perhaps we will need yet another "things we like about France" posting, but this is the list we have at the moment and it seemed like a good time to share it with you. There are many things I'd like to take with me. These are a few.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Immigrant Song
So, in order to get over here all four of us had to apply for long-stay Visas (yes, even the one-year old) even though none of us would be working in this country or, frankly, staying here for all that long. So we go through the annoying process while we were still in Boston where we had to produce more documents than a tax audit, together with a large check but, finally, after several trips to the Consulate we obtained our "Long Stay Visas."
In addition, we knew might have to apply for a Carte de Séjour once we arrived in France (which apparently is a residency permit and the equivalent of a "long stay Visa." Residency Permit… wait a minute, we don't want residency so why would we need this? Wow this seems like a hose job). I say we "might" have to apply because the information you can find on-line is about as clear as the assembly instructions that come with a cheap Chinese tricycle. So, we consulted many people once we got here and the jury was still out as to whether we even needed to do it. Some people thought that such a thing didn't exist anymore since the opening of borders under the EU, others said "lay low and you'll be OK," and others, "if you leave the country every three months and get your passport stamped..." etc., etc. My lawyer husband would have no part of that so we dutifully submitted our painfully detailed applications at the local Mairie, and waited... and waited... and waited... With no news, no proof that we'd even applied within the prescribed two months of entering the country, and with me needing to travel in November, we went back to the Mairie and demanded (politely) some evidence that we'd handed in our paperwork. The woman sent us off to the supermarket (yes) to get pictures from the little photo booth, which she then stapled to a letter saying we'd handed over our dossiers in a timely manner.
Finally, we received an "official" receipt of our application in the mail. Then, soon after, we received two additional letters, one saying something about stamps and the other telling us that we had to appear in Montpellier for an examination by a French government doctor. Goody.
So this is where the fiasco starts. Our appointed time was while Lance's Mom, Sandy, was here on her visit so we turned it into a day trip. We found ourselves crammed into the Immigration Office with all ages, races, sizes... and let's just say it was very well heated but not that well ventilated. They told us to sit and wait. Lance and I finally got called for our physicals and they let us come in together. The nurse took our basic information and took us on our word that our vaccinations were up to date (they are but… seriously?). She then explained that we would have to have an X-ray to check for Tuberculosis. Yikes. More waiting. At this point, Lance went back to check on the kids who we’d left with Sandy, playing happily in a slightly larger waiting room next to the small waiting room, which was equally filled with people. Lance strode right through the closed door and sat down next to Sandy before realizing that he was interrupting a presentation by an immigration official to a room full of French citizenship hopefuls. Sandy had been caught unaware and unable to escape before the presentation started. I’m pretty sure she can now vote in France.
With Lance rescued, we were called into the exam room and… without getting into too many details, PRIVACY is a foreign concept to them and apparently not something we were entitled to at this moment. At one point some random woman walked into the room while I was disrobed and began rifling through the desk drawers and no one else seemed to think that was the least bit unusual. "oh don't worry, she's a doctor." Um... okay.
Even though Sandy was with us and was watching the kids for part of it, both Ellie and Cole ended up loosing it at various points, such that the four of us ended up in the doctor's office together as the kids crawled around on the dirty floor. Meanwhile, Sandy listened to the immigration speech… again.
Apparently since we had not pre-purchased our five 55 Euro stamps (totaling about $330 US dollars for each of us) that were supposed to have been affixed to that other letter we received, we would not be able to get our Carte de Séjour that moment. But as soon as we bought our over-priced stamps and took our paperwork to the Préfecture in Nîmes, we would be all set. If we desired to do it immediately, we could have gone to the "Tabac" shop around the corner and purchased the stamps there… at the newsstand… 700 dollars worth of immigration stamps… (I am skeptical as to whether that truly would have happened as there surely was more waiting and more paperwork to be exchanged).
On the car ride home Lance and I debated as to whether we were ever really going to do finish the process, with me of course saying "No way I'm paying for this – it's ridiculous" and the ever-so-righteous lawyer insisting we play it by the book. So days and weeks went by with me saying nothing (hard to believe, I know). Of course, life intervened and now look at us – on our way home in 3 weeks and $660.00 richer because we never got around to buying the stamps and are no longer required to do so!
Friday, February 13, 2009
All You Need Is Love
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
So Close, So Far Away
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Fire
Friday, January 30, 2009
La Vie en Rose
a.k.a. - Cole
Tuesday at the Crèche Cole had a Roulé de Saussice (a sausage roll) and Soufflé de Fois for lunch. When I asked him about the Roulé de Saucisse and how he liked it, he said that is was a mild sausage in a light and flaky pastry, and quite enjoyable. Likewise about the soufflé he said that the liver had a nice flavor and the soufflé had not fallen. Yesterday, he had paella, which I am sure had real saffron in it as we are so close to the Mediterranean. Again, he eats better than we do! That is all we have from here.
Apologies again for the mass quanity of pictures in France Round 8 but we have to get current soon as we have limited time! Enjoy new pics to the left.
Workingman's Blues #2
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Rescue Me
In one last ditch attempt I had sent an email to US Airways Customer Relations on Sunday and pretty much begged. Two days later Mavis Bailow responded and she is now our hero. Not only did she get us home, she did it free of charge. Now, our itinerary is not pretty, but it gets us home Friday, March 6, 2009. We fly from Paris to Philly (right over Boston), then take a 45 minute flight to D.C., then back up to Boston. But WHATEVER, we’ll be home!
It's worth acknowledging US Airways' willingness to be a company with a heart, even in these tough times. That does not happen enough these days and when it does, it deserves credit.
We made sure to thank Mavis for her help and this was her response:
"I was happy to help you out. I would only hope if I was in your shoes someone would show my family the same kindness."
Do unto others...
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Bittersweet Symphony
Last week was an amazing week and a crappy week all in one. The Inauguration was just thrilling to see. But as many of you already know, on that historic day we received the news that Lance was going to be a part of the next round of layoffs at his company. This was not entirely surprising given the state of the global economy and the fact that he has survived some half dozen of these in the past three years. And, it's not terrible that Lance will be leaving this company, as it was a very different company than it was when he joined and we've had many conversations about when to think about looking elsewhere, but the timing could have been better for sure (I guess no one ever thinks the timing on this type of thing is ever good). So, the "sweet" part of the equation is that we are heading home early (March instead of June)! With this comes a mixture of emotions as we are excited to be coming home to our friends, family, home, neighborhood, etc., but we are sad to be leaving under these circumstances. We will have been here about seven months and it has been an adventure that we will never forget. We are very lucky and thankful that LPS (my employer) has a spot open for me to return to work and the kids to return to day care due to the excellent timing of my good friend Jen's pregnancy (guess someone was looking out for us, somewhere)!
In addition, a few days after finding out Lance is being laid off, we received some news about a close friend who is going through a tough time and I wonder if this is one of the many reasons why we are coming home (we are needed elsewhere). I am very thankful that I will be home to help her get through this latest challenge. The week ended with us playing a five hour game of "it's not our problem call the other company" with both US Airways and Lufthansa, trying to plead with them to change our ticket (as we have already commenced travel, they are both refusing and we're looking at having to buy new one-way tickets home), which only ended because we had to take a trip to the Nimes hospital once more (for those keeping score at home, that's now Cole: 1, Ellie: 1). Ellie took a tumble on a set of 400 year old stone stairs that put a nice little cut on her chin. We hemmed and hawed about how bad the cut was but in the end took her to the hospital so they could put a stitch in her chin and hopefully avoid a bad scar. She'll always have a little scar by which to remember France and her free falling escapade.
And that was not the only time that day that one of our kids bled from the face. Earlier in the day Cole was standing on a chair and tipped it over backward. He broke his fall with his face/nose for a nice little nose bleed in the library (a very dangerous place, of course). Man it was a bad week!
At the end of the day, while we're disappointed to be leaving a bit early, we can certainly look back and appreciate everything that we've seen and learned during this adventure. We sat down the other day to make a list of things we want to do/see before we leave and it wasn't that big a list. There are many things we would have enjoyed, certainly, but we've already packed so much into this short time that we'll have very few regrets. Of course, the adventure is not over yet and I'm sure there will be many more stories to tell (so stay tuned!).
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Pride
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Signed, Sealed, Delivered, I'm Yours
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Scenes From An Italian Restaurant
Sunday, January 11, 2009
We Three Kings
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Long As I Can See the Light
The second chapter of Peter Mayle's iconic A Year in Provence, to which this space owes both its subtitle and its spirit, begins with a description of the ho-hum daily content of Le Provençal, the local paper. Mayle continues:
This traditional mixture was put aside, one morning in early February, for a lead story which had nothing to do with sport, crime, or politics: PROVENCE UNDER A BLANKET OF SNOW! shouted the headline with an undercurrent of glee at the promise of the follow-up stories which would undoubtedly result from Nature's unseasonable behavior. There would be mothers and babies miraculously alive after a night in a snowbound car, old men escaping hypothermia by inches thanks to the intervention of public-spirited and alert neighbors, climbers plucked from the side on Mont Ventoux by helicopter, postmen battling against all odds to deliver electricity bills, village elders harking back to previous catastrophes -- there were days of material ahead....
That was the only mention we’d heard of snow since embarking on this adventure – lost among warm reminiscences of sunny January afternoon lunches in the yard and laughing assurances that we’d never need snow boots here. Sadly, we’d resigned ourselves to a leaf-clinging, Mistral blowing, rain spitting, smoke curling, blanketed gray green brown winter of thick wine and hot-potted leek and fowl and apple of the earth and, perhaps, more wine after that. All of that changed Wednesday.
The Midi Libre, our local paper, proclaimed, THE MIDI IS PARALYZED BY SNOW! detailing the *one thousand* cars that were stuck on one of the main roads leading out of Nimes, just to the south of us. Compounding the matter, no doubt, was that yesterday was the first day of the “soldes” – the bi-annual government-authorized sales that rival any Black Friday madness back home and brought surely no less than thousands to the commercial sprawl on the southern outskirts of the city in search of that most-precious pair of boots at a price too good to be true. We too joined the masses and came away with a not humble trove before turning into the gathering storm and driving north for what should have been a twenty minute drive home. Two hours later, having detoured to the East and weathered roads that would have been better suited to take the kids for an afternoon skate than to navigate in an outdated rear-wheel drive faded luxury wagon, angry north winds whipping white across each roundabout in what even the most literal meteorologist would have called blizzard conditions, we arrived at the dark, cold, old, powerless stone farmhouse that is our home.
The lack of a functional electrical system was, of course, a surprise. We would spend the next 26 hours learning how the men, women, and children who build this old house actually lived in it some 400 years ago, mind you in much smaller rooms, and with far less concern for fire safety or knowledge of air quality issues.
While we waited to see whether the power company could manage to get a truck to our side of the hill in any reasonable timeframe, Ellie and I put on our warmest boots and thickest mittens and took off into the snow to document this Provencal rarity and throw a few snowballs at each other.
The whole dramatic event left but an inch or so on our hillside, barely enough for a proper Bonhomme de Neige, though we did our best, makeshift beret and all.
Restoring power was a greater challenge than one might have expected. After a few hours and with the day fading quickly, I walked to one of our two neighbors to see if they had power. They did, which meant we were in trouble because the problem was likely isolated to our house. This neighbor speaks no English so I fumbled through a bit of a conversation and he tried calling the power company for us, to no avail as, surprisingly given that all of the South of France was being ravaged by a winter storm the likes of which had not been seen in recent memory (they haven't seen any snow in four years in our village), all operators were busy at that time. Without a phone ourselves, thanks to the electrical needs of our IP phone, and without a functional cellular signal in our snug little hillside hamlet, we were dependant on friends and acquaintances to do our bidding for us. They did and the man with the headlamp and bag of black tape and fuses finally arrived like a tradesman's comic book superhero this afternoon to find the rogue fuse that had caused us to sleep in three layers and find every blanket in the house last night for the kids.
After spending a night by candle light, playing cards, and chatting, it was with a twinge of regret that we saw the clocks on the appliances flicker to life... a twinge that lasted exactly as long as it took us both to get our computers booted up and our noses firmly buried therein. Ahh, life in a rural farmhouse in the South of France.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
History Repeating
Monday, January 5, 2009
Cold, Cold Night
Coldest night of the year so far for us last night. The mercury plummeted to a ghastly 27 degrees. Not sure how people ever survive these harsh, unforgiving winters. It was so bad that the water in the pool froze over! The forecast calls for a slight chance of flurries by Thursday. We're heading out today to stock up on batteries, water, and canned goods. Pray for us.