Friday, July 31, 2015
If I lived in Toulouse, I would weigh much more than I do.
I decided to go to Toulouse in search of a tube to put posters in, deeming it much more likely that I would find what I was looking for in a big city than in sleepy old Carcassonne. Not that I didn't try to find what I needed in Carcassonne: yesterday I called the best known artists' supply store in the town and was put through to a man who told me I wanted a portfolio to lie documents flat in.
I am not patient by nature, but it does not seem logical to me to work in an art supply store and not know about poster tubes. However, that's Carcassonne for you: everyone seems to be just a little behind the times. So I decided I would drive to Toulouse, 90 minutes away.
The drive is now easy for me, as I've ferried friends back and forth from the airport and last year I visited the museums and had lunch in St. Cyprien, Toulouse's Greenwich Village.
The GPS led me to Place Esquirol, where Midica, Toulouse's home furnishings store, is located. Midica has an art supply department in the store which got good reviews on the Internet, so I thought I would stop there first, then go down the list of six art supply stores I found for the city. I parked in the underground parking lot, circling down to the level five stories below, found parking quickly and exited.
Midica not only had poster tubes, but it had a plastic carrier for posters, complete with carry strap. My errand completed, I walked back to the parking to leave the package there, and then decided to have lunch.
Last time I was in Toulouse I looked for a place to eat on a French website called Le Fooding. I have found the site a boon when visiting anywhere in France and searching for a good meal. Le Fooding led me to Les Temps des Vendanges, where I had a memorable meal, full of the flavors of fresh herbs. So it was there I wanted to go --but I did not have the address, and I do not own an IPhone or other hand-held device. However, I remembered it was over a bridge not far from a used bookstore across from the Foundation Bemberg, a short walk from the Place Esquirol.
Reader, I found the restaurant. It was just after noon and they were serving. I had a salad of green beans in vinaigrette topped with two small triangles of phyllo dough stuffed with cheese, garnished with bits of hard boiled egg. The main course was lamb from the Aveyron, a mountainous department north of Toulouse, served with sides of grilled tomato and ratatouille. I had a glass of rose from the Rhone, dry and solid. The cost of lunch? 23 Euros and 50 centimes, about $26 USD.
There are many good restaurants in Toulouse; in comparison, the food in Caunes is a notch below, although there are some very good restaurants if you are willing to drive about 45 minutes to an hour: l'Asphodel in Oupia, and La Table des Troubadours at the abbey of Fonfroide. However, I rarely do that, so temptation is well out of my path. If I lived in Toulouse --a modern, clean city with the dynamism of a great city-- temptation would be everywhere.
I decided to return home after lunch to do some preparations for my trip to Prades next week and walked back the way I came. On the way, I found a cageot, a wooden crate filled with old books. They included a French-Spanish/Spanish-French dictionary and a dark green leather-bound set of Paris/Match, the leather elaborately gold embossed. There was also a compilation of the best of 100 years of Le Monde, a book about Bordeaux chateaux, another about red wine in general, a children's novel in an expensive binding, and assorted guides to Mont Saint-Michel and Catalonia. Leaving behind a few books I had no interest in, I carried the entire box to my car. The temptation of visiting the past through the magazines was too great. When I'm done, I'll give them to a friend from Caunes who sells used books. Finding the box of books was a sort of lagniappe, an unexpected gift from Toulouse. I returned home happy from my brief excursion.
It's a little after seven in the evening now and it's raining outside, a steady, cool rain. I can't feel unhappy about the cooler temperatures, after the two heat waves earlier this summer. And to my mind, the rain is a harbinger of the change of seasons to come in a few weeks and the welcome resumption of activity. In the minds of most of the French, however, a day like today, coming as it does on a Friday that is the last day of the month of July, only underscores the sad fact that there is exactly and only one month left to summer. Bright and early September 1, the rentree --the return to classes and the end of the long vacation most French give themselves-- commences.
Friday, July 31, 2015
Thursday, July 30, 2015
Cheating On Beauregard; The Ponies Are Back
Thursday, July 30, 2015
I slept about twelve hours, needed. The temperature today is cool and it has been raining softly all morning. Being here alone without Beauregard is a guilty pleasure: no need to walk him first thing, to feed him, to exercise him, to attend to his afternoon outing, to feed him dinner and walk him again, once or twice, in the evening. I feel as though I am committing adultery, but the pleasure is too great for me to try to end Beau's sojourn at Chantal's, and I hope to avoid her so that I don't have to discuss whether to take Beau back. Moving about unobserved in a village as small as Caunes stands to be a challenge over the next few days.
Having Beau away gives me time to read, and I am ploughing through Patti Smith's memoir, Just Kids, and hoping I can read more before I need to leave for Prades Monday. Throughout the summer I have not had the time to read a thing, and the pile of books in English I ambitiously brought from New York remains unread. I actually thought I would read most of Saul Bellow's major works this summer, along with a biography of Nelson Rockefeller and three or four books in France. I'll be lucky to finish three or four over the next few days, I now realize. What a problem to have!
I did the laundry this morning. One of my chief pleasures here is hanging the laundry on the line to dry. I have always believed that laundry that dries in fresh air smells better than that from a dryer, and anyway, I don't have a drier. There is green all around me, and I am coming to realize that I prefer the countryside of France to its towns, whatever their attractions. From my bedroom window I look over the slope down to rue de l'Abbaye and see that the ponies who spent a few weeks here last year are back. Of various shades of brown, they function as lawn mowers for the owner of the undeveloped field below my house. They are lovely animals, with long manes and sweet natures.
The Hautes Pyrenees were fascinating to visit, a rugged environment where self-reliance is a given. I am sure I will return next year, if not for the next edition of Equestria, then to hike and see the Col de Tourmalet, the highest paved pass in the mountains, frequently a stop on the Tour de France. The beauty of the region is indisputable, but as my home-away-from-home, I prefer the gentle hillsides of the Montagne Noir and my creature comforts, I realize.
Home Sweet Home in Caunes-Minervois. It's good to be back.
I slept about twelve hours, needed. The temperature today is cool and it has been raining softly all morning. Being here alone without Beauregard is a guilty pleasure: no need to walk him first thing, to feed him, to exercise him, to attend to his afternoon outing, to feed him dinner and walk him again, once or twice, in the evening. I feel as though I am committing adultery, but the pleasure is too great for me to try to end Beau's sojourn at Chantal's, and I hope to avoid her so that I don't have to discuss whether to take Beau back. Moving about unobserved in a village as small as Caunes stands to be a challenge over the next few days.
Having Beau away gives me time to read, and I am ploughing through Patti Smith's memoir, Just Kids, and hoping I can read more before I need to leave for Prades Monday. Throughout the summer I have not had the time to read a thing, and the pile of books in English I ambitiously brought from New York remains unread. I actually thought I would read most of Saul Bellow's major works this summer, along with a biography of Nelson Rockefeller and three or four books in France. I'll be lucky to finish three or four over the next few days, I now realize. What a problem to have!
I did the laundry this morning. One of my chief pleasures here is hanging the laundry on the line to dry. I have always believed that laundry that dries in fresh air smells better than that from a dryer, and anyway, I don't have a drier. There is green all around me, and I am coming to realize that I prefer the countryside of France to its towns, whatever their attractions. From my bedroom window I look over the slope down to rue de l'Abbaye and see that the ponies who spent a few weeks here last year are back. Of various shades of brown, they function as lawn mowers for the owner of the undeveloped field below my house. They are lovely animals, with long manes and sweet natures.
The Hautes Pyrenees were fascinating to visit, a rugged environment where self-reliance is a given. I am sure I will return next year, if not for the next edition of Equestria, then to hike and see the Col de Tourmalet, the highest paved pass in the mountains, frequently a stop on the Tour de France. The beauty of the region is indisputable, but as my home-away-from-home, I prefer the gentle hillsides of the Montagne Noir and my creature comforts, I realize.
Home Sweet Home in Caunes-Minervois. It's good to be back.
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
Equestria; Pulling The Plug On Tarbes
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
I left Tarbes this morning at 8:15 a.m. It was my second night without much sleep. Michele's neighbors shout through the paper-thin walls and both her upstairs and next-door neighbors have children in difficulties. One has night terrors, the other is a terror during the day. The parents of the daily terror shout at him and each other, as I found out yesterday afternoon, when I tried to catch up on my sleep. It was all but impossible but for twenty minutes.
Fortunately, Equestria, the spectacle of horses which brought me to Tarbes, was more than worth keeping my eyes open for: not a demonstration of dressage, not a trick-riding show, it was a marriage of music, image, horses, riders, drummers and dancers. The horses and riders were from Spain and France, and each of the eight presentations featured different breeds, including miniature horses (put through their paces by a man not much bigger than them).
The show opened with a team of eight black miniature ponies pulling a carriage carrying the Master of Ceremonies and the aforementioned trainer of ponies. It was two hours of pure pleasure.
I struck up an acquaintance with the president of the festival, Pierre Lauginie, on entering the show tent: the ticket service I had used had sent me a ticket, but assigned no specific seat. M. Lauginie found me a seat at the top of the seating area at the center, where I could see all the action. Later, he explained to me that the site of Equestria, l'Haras National, is one of several centers of horse breeding in France. Owned by the government, Tarbes' is now empty of horses, and in the process of being sold to private bidders. M. Lauginie said that the hope is that sponsorship can be found so that l'Haras can be restored and horses brought back.
Tarbes was known for its Anglo-Arabian breed. Until a few years ago, there were horse auctions at l'Haras, with buyers from all over the world vying to buy colts that might make a Triple Crown, Ascot or Prix de Diane winner. The town would like to buy l'Haras, but can't afford to do so. Without private sponsorship that will allow renovation and maintain the property, the fate of Tarbes' Haras --like those everywhere else in France-- is in doubt.
Tarbes has seen better days, it's clear walking the streets. It's not that the buildings are dilapidated --as is the case in large parts of Carcassonne-- but there's no sense of economic activity, except at the most basic level. Yet this was a town frequented by Empress Eugenie, the wife of Napoleon III, as well as the Rothschild's, who kept stables here.
Today, Tarbes' population consists of not only the local French, but immigrants from North Africa, and, increasingly, asylum seekers from Africa and the Balkans. France has a commitment to placing the most endangered in war-torn countries, a policy that has intentionally placed them in smaller towns, rather than large cities, in the belief that they are more likely to integrate successfully in smaller communities. For that reason there are shops selling African goods, and a variety of restaurants serving the new immigrants, as well as the natives. Just a block from l'Haras is a store selling African clothing, and on a cul-de-sac on Avenue Foch, a principal artery, is a store selling clothes made in India.
The social service challenges are implicit, and explain why a building like that my airbnb host, Michele, lives in can include a private owner like her, but also transients, like the families that live around her. However, I was hoping to find in Tarbes a base from which to explore the Pyrenees and its noted villages. Gavarnie is one of the most famous, with a gap in the mountains at over 9000 feet known as La Breche de Roland, or La Brecha de Rolando in Spanish. It is a passageway between France and Spain.
Alas, it was not to be. Sharing one bathroom with four people and not getting enough sleep are not recipes for happy travel. I visited Lourdes this morning, taken in hand by Tatiana, a friend of Sandrine's, with whom I had pre-arranged the visit. I don't want to give "short shrift" (no pun intended) to this inexplicable place, but I am glad I had such a well-versed guide.
Tatiana has lived in Lourdes for twenty years and retired from work as a receptionist in hotels in Lourdes and many other places a few years ago. She is a volunteer tour guide who does what she does because she loves meeting new people who believe as she does. I saw all within the space of two and a half hours, confessed, did penance, then headed for Caunes. On the way I picked up a young man studying linguistics and anthropology in Toulouse, Joss. His conversation --he is very interested in mysticism-- kept me happy behind the wheel for three hours. Once I dropped him off near the Metro station, I grit my teeth and got home by 4:30 p.m.
No one knows I'm here: Beauregard is with Chantal, and I think I'll keep my presence a secret. It's too delicious to have at least one day to read, to drive to Toulouse to visit the museums if I want to, to remember what it is to live somewhere comfortable --and to give thanks for being able to do so.
I left Tarbes this morning at 8:15 a.m. It was my second night without much sleep. Michele's neighbors shout through the paper-thin walls and both her upstairs and next-door neighbors have children in difficulties. One has night terrors, the other is a terror during the day. The parents of the daily terror shout at him and each other, as I found out yesterday afternoon, when I tried to catch up on my sleep. It was all but impossible but for twenty minutes.
Fortunately, Equestria, the spectacle of horses which brought me to Tarbes, was more than worth keeping my eyes open for: not a demonstration of dressage, not a trick-riding show, it was a marriage of music, image, horses, riders, drummers and dancers. The horses and riders were from Spain and France, and each of the eight presentations featured different breeds, including miniature horses (put through their paces by a man not much bigger than them).
The show opened with a team of eight black miniature ponies pulling a carriage carrying the Master of Ceremonies and the aforementioned trainer of ponies. It was two hours of pure pleasure.
I struck up an acquaintance with the president of the festival, Pierre Lauginie, on entering the show tent: the ticket service I had used had sent me a ticket, but assigned no specific seat. M. Lauginie found me a seat at the top of the seating area at the center, where I could see all the action. Later, he explained to me that the site of Equestria, l'Haras National, is one of several centers of horse breeding in France. Owned by the government, Tarbes' is now empty of horses, and in the process of being sold to private bidders. M. Lauginie said that the hope is that sponsorship can be found so that l'Haras can be restored and horses brought back.
Tarbes was known for its Anglo-Arabian breed. Until a few years ago, there were horse auctions at l'Haras, with buyers from all over the world vying to buy colts that might make a Triple Crown, Ascot or Prix de Diane winner. The town would like to buy l'Haras, but can't afford to do so. Without private sponsorship that will allow renovation and maintain the property, the fate of Tarbes' Haras --like those everywhere else in France-- is in doubt.
Tarbes has seen better days, it's clear walking the streets. It's not that the buildings are dilapidated --as is the case in large parts of Carcassonne-- but there's no sense of economic activity, except at the most basic level. Yet this was a town frequented by Empress Eugenie, the wife of Napoleon III, as well as the Rothschild's, who kept stables here.
Today, Tarbes' population consists of not only the local French, but immigrants from North Africa, and, increasingly, asylum seekers from Africa and the Balkans. France has a commitment to placing the most endangered in war-torn countries, a policy that has intentionally placed them in smaller towns, rather than large cities, in the belief that they are more likely to integrate successfully in smaller communities. For that reason there are shops selling African goods, and a variety of restaurants serving the new immigrants, as well as the natives. Just a block from l'Haras is a store selling African clothing, and on a cul-de-sac on Avenue Foch, a principal artery, is a store selling clothes made in India.
The social service challenges are implicit, and explain why a building like that my airbnb host, Michele, lives in can include a private owner like her, but also transients, like the families that live around her. However, I was hoping to find in Tarbes a base from which to explore the Pyrenees and its noted villages. Gavarnie is one of the most famous, with a gap in the mountains at over 9000 feet known as La Breche de Roland, or La Brecha de Rolando in Spanish. It is a passageway between France and Spain.
Alas, it was not to be. Sharing one bathroom with four people and not getting enough sleep are not recipes for happy travel. I visited Lourdes this morning, taken in hand by Tatiana, a friend of Sandrine's, with whom I had pre-arranged the visit. I don't want to give "short shrift" (no pun intended) to this inexplicable place, but I am glad I had such a well-versed guide.
Tatiana has lived in Lourdes for twenty years and retired from work as a receptionist in hotels in Lourdes and many other places a few years ago. She is a volunteer tour guide who does what she does because she loves meeting new people who believe as she does. I saw all within the space of two and a half hours, confessed, did penance, then headed for Caunes. On the way I picked up a young man studying linguistics and anthropology in Toulouse, Joss. His conversation --he is very interested in mysticism-- kept me happy behind the wheel for three hours. Once I dropped him off near the Metro station, I grit my teeth and got home by 4:30 p.m.
No one knows I'm here: Beauregard is with Chantal, and I think I'll keep my presence a secret. It's too delicious to have at least one day to read, to drive to Toulouse to visit the museums if I want to, to remember what it is to live somewhere comfortable --and to give thanks for being able to do so.
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
"Cartier Populaire" in Tarbes
Tuesday, July 28, 2015
When you travel adventurously, "sleeping rough" is part of the package, I reminded myself this morning, after a mean night's lack of sleep.
The apartment of my airbnb host is on the ground floor, so street noises abound, which is not too different from what I hear at home in Manhattan. However, a steady tap-tap-tap from an unidentified source in my bedroom makes sleep almost impossible, despite the convivial dinner. More, the door to my room (which is off the toilet and bath at the end of a corridor) does not close snugly, and pops open throughout the night. In the morning I figure out that if I prop my suitcase against the door it will prevent it from opening.
Throughout the night I hear the to and fro of my roommates going to the bathroom. At 6:00 a.m. Jean-Noel performs his ablutions, followed by Sandrine, and much later, Michelle. Having propped my suitcase up against the door I get a bit more sleep, but rise at 9:30 a.m.
Thankfully, everyone is gone. I make a cup of coffee from the Senseo machine and turn on Radio Classique. Time to get started.
I am sure I will adjust once the tap-tap-tap is dealt with. I know Michele wants only that I enjoy my stay: she left me a note apologizing for not having shown me some things in the apartment I might want to make use of, and urges me to call her if I have any need. Her apartment off Place Marcadieu is next to a parking spot and across from Tarbes' market, in what might be called a cartier populaire, the French term for a working-class neighborhood. Yet there is a fine antiques dealer across the plaza and some of the buildings on the plaza are elegant indeed. The mix of high and low, popular and bourgeois seems typical of Tarbes.
Another cup of coffee and it's time to explore the town.
When you travel adventurously, "sleeping rough" is part of the package, I reminded myself this morning, after a mean night's lack of sleep.
The apartment of my airbnb host is on the ground floor, so street noises abound, which is not too different from what I hear at home in Manhattan. However, a steady tap-tap-tap from an unidentified source in my bedroom makes sleep almost impossible, despite the convivial dinner. More, the door to my room (which is off the toilet and bath at the end of a corridor) does not close snugly, and pops open throughout the night. In the morning I figure out that if I prop my suitcase against the door it will prevent it from opening.
Throughout the night I hear the to and fro of my roommates going to the bathroom. At 6:00 a.m. Jean-Noel performs his ablutions, followed by Sandrine, and much later, Michelle. Having propped my suitcase up against the door I get a bit more sleep, but rise at 9:30 a.m.
Thankfully, everyone is gone. I make a cup of coffee from the Senseo machine and turn on Radio Classique. Time to get started.
I am sure I will adjust once the tap-tap-tap is dealt with. I know Michele wants only that I enjoy my stay: she left me a note apologizing for not having shown me some things in the apartment I might want to make use of, and urges me to call her if I have any need. Her apartment off Place Marcadieu is next to a parking spot and across from Tarbes' market, in what might be called a cartier populaire, the French term for a working-class neighborhood. Yet there is a fine antiques dealer across the plaza and some of the buildings on the plaza are elegant indeed. The mix of high and low, popular and bourgeois seems typical of Tarbes.
Another cup of coffee and it's time to explore the town.
Monday, July 27, 2015
Dinner of Rabbit
July 27, 2015
Michele makes a delicious rabbit stew, which is supplemented by a home-made pork pate Sandrine, a friend who stays with Michele from time to time, has brought from her parent's farm. It is divine. Also joining us for dinner is Jean-Noel, a young hydraulic engineer who works for a company that supplies water to farmers. Jean-Noel is a Toulousain, but did his studies in Paris and is whip-smart. He is the father of a four year old boy and a one year old girl, but during the week he travels throughout the Languedoc, so he does not get to see them during the week.
He is well-aware of the controversy over the building of a dam in the Tarn, a project opposed by radical environmentalists and Greens that has been the site of skirmishes between them and the gendarmerie, the last of which led to the death of a young man. I ask Jean-Noel whether he can make sense of the different claims of the two sides, and he obliges me:
First off, the dam will be built. The dam needs to be built because the farmers face the problem of having too much water in the winter and too little in the summer. As a result, many both dam streams and sink wells in the resulting ponds to meet their water needs. So far, there are several hundred of these in the region. The problem if that continues is obvious.
Second, when the dam is built what it will permit is the regulation of the water such that the excess of the winter will be held in reserve for the summer. "Yes", building the dam will change the flow of the river from its present direction, but not to do so will leave the farmers at the mercy of their own devices. Those who oppose the dam want a return to a world that was slower and produced less, which is a utopian notion.
Despite Jean-Noel's realism about the prospects for the dam, he remains committed to notions of solidarite: he helped a neighbor dig a trench so that he would be able to lay pipes for water to reach the neighbor's garden:
The man was hauling water buckets the way they used to, with a board across his back and a bucket of water hanging from each end. He's sturdy, but he's ten years older than I am, and he was exhausting himself doing that. So I helped him, I told him what pipes to buy and then we hooked them together and put them in the ground. And I was glad to do it.
That's something that still exists in France. It's a way of opposing the larger forces, getting a group of friends together and figuring out a way of solving a problem the system has laid in our laps. It's social and it's communal. On the other hand, opposing the dam in the Tarn out of a belief that each farmer can find his own way of getting water and everyone will find his way is to defend utopian autarchy, a belief in everyone's capacity to be self-reliant that is not born out by the facts, however romantic it seems.
I do believe Jean-Noel has perfectly expressed the paradox of France: on the one hand it has the intellectual capital of its technocrats, a tiny percentage of the population, products of elite schools. On the other, it has a population that sees itself hindered by and interfered with by these same technocrats, a population that reverences the self-reliance of small farmers. The dream of the average Frenchman is not to get rich, not to receive honors, but to beat the system and the elites who run it, preferably via some idea dreamed up in concert with his copains.
It is the energy that goes into outsmarting the system and the zest with which the average Frenchman pursues that goal that make the French what they are. Think about de Gaulle's famous remark about the difficulty of governing a country with 246 cheeses --cheeses are made by individual artisans but the basic product comes from the milk of sheep, cows or goats. Only a country whose people see themselves as highly individual could produce so many varieties of the same product, and by logical extension, recipes for it.
Ideas about how France should be governed are like cheeses: there are so many of them competing for pride of place it is almost impossible to assert that one is better than another. Each Frenchman goes his own way to the extent the law and his ingenuity will allow. The recent demonstrations of dissatisfaction by farmers from Caen and Strasbourg, which in the first case led them to block access by tourists to Mont Saint Miehel; and, in the second, to block German trucks from entering France near Strasbourg, are cases in point. Restauranteurs at Mont Saint Michel lost several days' business while the trucks blocked access; those restaurants awaiting deliveries of German meat to serve their diners did not get it, which left them scrambling. So there is solidarite, although one has to ask whether sometimes it does not get in its own way.
(Incidentally, Tarbes is a redoubt of the French Communist Party. I saw the party office as I was driving to Michele's and asked her about it. She explained that the Pyrenees, being a poor region, was a party stronghold.)
Michele makes a delicious rabbit stew, which is supplemented by a home-made pork pate Sandrine, a friend who stays with Michele from time to time, has brought from her parent's farm. It is divine. Also joining us for dinner is Jean-Noel, a young hydraulic engineer who works for a company that supplies water to farmers. Jean-Noel is a Toulousain, but did his studies in Paris and is whip-smart. He is the father of a four year old boy and a one year old girl, but during the week he travels throughout the Languedoc, so he does not get to see them during the week.
He is well-aware of the controversy over the building of a dam in the Tarn, a project opposed by radical environmentalists and Greens that has been the site of skirmishes between them and the gendarmerie, the last of which led to the death of a young man. I ask Jean-Noel whether he can make sense of the different claims of the two sides, and he obliges me:
First off, the dam will be built. The dam needs to be built because the farmers face the problem of having too much water in the winter and too little in the summer. As a result, many both dam streams and sink wells in the resulting ponds to meet their water needs. So far, there are several hundred of these in the region. The problem if that continues is obvious.
Second, when the dam is built what it will permit is the regulation of the water such that the excess of the winter will be held in reserve for the summer. "Yes", building the dam will change the flow of the river from its present direction, but not to do so will leave the farmers at the mercy of their own devices. Those who oppose the dam want a return to a world that was slower and produced less, which is a utopian notion.
Despite Jean-Noel's realism about the prospects for the dam, he remains committed to notions of solidarite: he helped a neighbor dig a trench so that he would be able to lay pipes for water to reach the neighbor's garden:
The man was hauling water buckets the way they used to, with a board across his back and a bucket of water hanging from each end. He's sturdy, but he's ten years older than I am, and he was exhausting himself doing that. So I helped him, I told him what pipes to buy and then we hooked them together and put them in the ground. And I was glad to do it.
That's something that still exists in France. It's a way of opposing the larger forces, getting a group of friends together and figuring out a way of solving a problem the system has laid in our laps. It's social and it's communal. On the other hand, opposing the dam in the Tarn out of a belief that each farmer can find his own way of getting water and everyone will find his way is to defend utopian autarchy, a belief in everyone's capacity to be self-reliant that is not born out by the facts, however romantic it seems.
I do believe Jean-Noel has perfectly expressed the paradox of France: on the one hand it has the intellectual capital of its technocrats, a tiny percentage of the population, products of elite schools. On the other, it has a population that sees itself hindered by and interfered with by these same technocrats, a population that reverences the self-reliance of small farmers. The dream of the average Frenchman is not to get rich, not to receive honors, but to beat the system and the elites who run it, preferably via some idea dreamed up in concert with his copains.
It is the energy that goes into outsmarting the system and the zest with which the average Frenchman pursues that goal that make the French what they are. Think about de Gaulle's famous remark about the difficulty of governing a country with 246 cheeses --cheeses are made by individual artisans but the basic product comes from the milk of sheep, cows or goats. Only a country whose people see themselves as highly individual could produce so many varieties of the same product, and by logical extension, recipes for it.
Ideas about how France should be governed are like cheeses: there are so many of them competing for pride of place it is almost impossible to assert that one is better than another. Each Frenchman goes his own way to the extent the law and his ingenuity will allow. The recent demonstrations of dissatisfaction by farmers from Caen and Strasbourg, which in the first case led them to block access by tourists to Mont Saint Miehel; and, in the second, to block German trucks from entering France near Strasbourg, are cases in point. Restauranteurs at Mont Saint Michel lost several days' business while the trucks blocked access; those restaurants awaiting deliveries of German meat to serve their diners did not get it, which left them scrambling. So there is solidarite, although one has to ask whether sometimes it does not get in its own way.
(Incidentally, Tarbes is a redoubt of the French Communist Party. I saw the party office as I was driving to Michele's and asked her about it. She explained that the Pyrenees, being a poor region, was a party stronghold.)
In The "Hautes Pyrenees"
July 27, 2015
I was up early and out the door by 8:00 a.m., eager to be start my road trip through the Pyrenees, which will last eleven days and take me to Hautes Pyrenees from today through next Monday, when I will turn south and head for Prades, closer to home.
My base is Tarbes, the home of the Haras National, French center of horse breeding. I decided to come here this week when I saw an advertisement for Equestria, a week-long celebration of the horse which Tarbes has been sponsoring for the last 20 years. I have no particular plan here, except to visit the Musee Massey, a museum devoted to art and the history of the hussars, see the horse spectacle, and visit the museum devoted to Marechal Foch, the World War I general, all to be done tomorrow.
Wednesday I would like to go to "Pau" (pronounced like "paw", but with a shorter "a"), where Henry IV, the king who united his home province of Bearn with the rest of France, and in so doing, became one of France's most celebrated monarchs, was born. Pau is also the home of a well-regarded university and is said to be the loveliest town in the Pyrenees.
Thursday I think I will go to Lourdes, with some trepidation. I fear seeing desperately ill people seeking a miracle, but I am also intrigued by the idea of bathing in the famous waters. Whether you are Roman Catholic or not, Lourdes is held to be a lovely town in the mountains.
If I am feeing ambitious, Friday I will go to the end of the Pyrenees chain, to Saint Jean Pied-de-Port, where pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago begin their walk across the Pyrenees into Spain. I tried to walk the Camino from there in 2013, but got stymied by the SNCF, which had been reserved months before by parents planning spring holidays during the three weeks in April when schools all over France close.
For now, though, I'm relaxing at the apartment of my airbnb hostess, Michele Pico. She lives in a ground floor apartment on Place Marcadieu, a nice enough plaza across from which stands the town market building. Michele is making rabbit stew for myself and two other guests, one another airbnb visitor, the other a friend. Having been behind the wheel much of the day, it's very nice to have a home-cooked meal to start my stay.
I drove as far as Loudenvielle, high in the mountains, to spend a few hours at Balnea, a thermal spring that boasts having every type of bath developed by five civilizations --Roman, the American Indian, Incan, the Middle Eastern and Japanese. For 18 Euros a visitor is given a two hour pass and a towel, a very reasonable exchange, as the baths are a sybarite's dream. The Japanese baths are outdoors have three warm temperatures (the hottest being 40C) and are a maze of narrow channels; the Incan are outdoor pools with powerful upward propulsion of the mineral waters; the Amerindian are one big indoor bath, and the Roman are a series of hot and cold pools; the Middle Eastern contribution is a hammam, or sauna. After four hours on the road, it was the perfect way to take a break.
Before reaching Loudenvielle I stopped for a coffee and to write postcards in Arreau, a picture-perfect village that attracts hikers from July 15- August 15 and skiers from November through February. The day was cloudy and cool, making the green of the pines and the coldness of the stream that runs through the village sharpen the colors of the rocks. It was a big like being in Brigadoon: Arreau is beautiful, remote and other-worldly. I bought some cheese made by local fromagers and found a coffee at the London Bar down the street from the Mairie, enjoying writing postcards like any conscientious tourist, as well as the reward of a coffee.
Tarbes, well down the mountains from Loudenvielle, is a 19th century garrison town, with stable buildings and carriage houses with gables everywhere. There are plenty of modern low-rise apartment buildings, and a main shopping street, but I can't think why anyone would live here who was not associated with the French Army (this is the home of a garrison of parachutists) or the horse-breeding or one of the businesses that serves those communities. Nonetheless, walking around Tarbes streets it is easy to imagine light cavalry officers swaggering around town, making local daughters' hearts beat faster, and worrying their mothers.
I was up early and out the door by 8:00 a.m., eager to be start my road trip through the Pyrenees, which will last eleven days and take me to Hautes Pyrenees from today through next Monday, when I will turn south and head for Prades, closer to home.
My base is Tarbes, the home of the Haras National, French center of horse breeding. I decided to come here this week when I saw an advertisement for Equestria, a week-long celebration of the horse which Tarbes has been sponsoring for the last 20 years. I have no particular plan here, except to visit the Musee Massey, a museum devoted to art and the history of the hussars, see the horse spectacle, and visit the museum devoted to Marechal Foch, the World War I general, all to be done tomorrow.
Wednesday I would like to go to "Pau" (pronounced like "paw", but with a shorter "a"), where Henry IV, the king who united his home province of Bearn with the rest of France, and in so doing, became one of France's most celebrated monarchs, was born. Pau is also the home of a well-regarded university and is said to be the loveliest town in the Pyrenees.
Thursday I think I will go to Lourdes, with some trepidation. I fear seeing desperately ill people seeking a miracle, but I am also intrigued by the idea of bathing in the famous waters. Whether you are Roman Catholic or not, Lourdes is held to be a lovely town in the mountains.
If I am feeing ambitious, Friday I will go to the end of the Pyrenees chain, to Saint Jean Pied-de-Port, where pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago begin their walk across the Pyrenees into Spain. I tried to walk the Camino from there in 2013, but got stymied by the SNCF, which had been reserved months before by parents planning spring holidays during the three weeks in April when schools all over France close.
For now, though, I'm relaxing at the apartment of my airbnb hostess, Michele Pico. She lives in a ground floor apartment on Place Marcadieu, a nice enough plaza across from which stands the town market building. Michele is making rabbit stew for myself and two other guests, one another airbnb visitor, the other a friend. Having been behind the wheel much of the day, it's very nice to have a home-cooked meal to start my stay.
I drove as far as Loudenvielle, high in the mountains, to spend a few hours at Balnea, a thermal spring that boasts having every type of bath developed by five civilizations --Roman, the American Indian, Incan, the Middle Eastern and Japanese. For 18 Euros a visitor is given a two hour pass and a towel, a very reasonable exchange, as the baths are a sybarite's dream. The Japanese baths are outdoors have three warm temperatures (the hottest being 40C) and are a maze of narrow channels; the Incan are outdoor pools with powerful upward propulsion of the mineral waters; the Amerindian are one big indoor bath, and the Roman are a series of hot and cold pools; the Middle Eastern contribution is a hammam, or sauna. After four hours on the road, it was the perfect way to take a break.
Before reaching Loudenvielle I stopped for a coffee and to write postcards in Arreau, a picture-perfect village that attracts hikers from July 15- August 15 and skiers from November through February. The day was cloudy and cool, making the green of the pines and the coldness of the stream that runs through the village sharpen the colors of the rocks. It was a big like being in Brigadoon: Arreau is beautiful, remote and other-worldly. I bought some cheese made by local fromagers and found a coffee at the London Bar down the street from the Mairie, enjoying writing postcards like any conscientious tourist, as well as the reward of a coffee.
Tarbes, well down the mountains from Loudenvielle, is a 19th century garrison town, with stable buildings and carriage houses with gables everywhere. There are plenty of modern low-rise apartment buildings, and a main shopping street, but I can't think why anyone would live here who was not associated with the French Army (this is the home of a garrison of parachutists) or the horse-breeding or one of the businesses that serves those communities. Nonetheless, walking around Tarbes streets it is easy to imagine light cavalry officers swaggering around town, making local daughters' hearts beat faster, and worrying their mothers.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
The Precision Of French
Sunday, July 26, 2015
The French language can throw you for a loop, even if you have been studying it for some time. My own French is fluent, but hardly correct grammatically. There are too many fine points for a non-native speaker who began serious study late in life to absorb. I always find that I write or say something in French, only to realize, seconds later, my error. There will probably always be a dischronicity between what my mind initially leads my lips to say, or write; and, what, on reflection, I realize I ought to have said or put to pen.
Then there are subtleties which do not come easily to an English speaker. For instance, when you greet someone, you might say "Bon jour", or "Bon soir" depending on the time of day. However, on leaving them, you say "Bon journee", or "Bon soiree".
What is the difference?
Well, "Bon jour" and "Bon soir" are expressions of greeting. "Bon journée" and "Bon soiree", are the French equivalent of "Have a good day", or "Have a good evening", looking forward in time. It takes a while to get the hang of the four phrases, but it is the norm, so since everyone speaks this way, the correct forms come with practice.
However, there are more fine distinctions which can be flummoxing. For example, in English, the word "window" covers a great many types of panes of glass. In French, however, the distinction is made between vitre, vitrine, and vitrail.
What is the difference?
A vitre is a window in a residence.
A vitrine is a display window in a store or shop.
A vitrail is a window in a church, usually of stained glass.
The plurals are virtues, vitrines, and --vitraux!
All of which reminds me of the predominant British attitude towards many fine points French:
Distinctions without a difference.
To which a Frenchman would surely reply:
Chacun a son gout! (To each his own!)
The French language can throw you for a loop, even if you have been studying it for some time. My own French is fluent, but hardly correct grammatically. There are too many fine points for a non-native speaker who began serious study late in life to absorb. I always find that I write or say something in French, only to realize, seconds later, my error. There will probably always be a dischronicity between what my mind initially leads my lips to say, or write; and, what, on reflection, I realize I ought to have said or put to pen.
Then there are subtleties which do not come easily to an English speaker. For instance, when you greet someone, you might say "Bon jour", or "Bon soir" depending on the time of day. However, on leaving them, you say "Bon journee", or "Bon soiree".
What is the difference?
Well, "Bon jour" and "Bon soir" are expressions of greeting. "Bon journée" and "Bon soiree", are the French equivalent of "Have a good day", or "Have a good evening", looking forward in time. It takes a while to get the hang of the four phrases, but it is the norm, so since everyone speaks this way, the correct forms come with practice.
However, there are more fine distinctions which can be flummoxing. For example, in English, the word "window" covers a great many types of panes of glass. In French, however, the distinction is made between vitre, vitrine, and vitrail.
What is the difference?
A vitre is a window in a residence.
A vitrine is a display window in a store or shop.
A vitrail is a window in a church, usually of stained glass.
The plurals are virtues, vitrines, and --vitraux!
All of which reminds me of the predominant British attitude towards many fine points French:
Distinctions without a difference.
To which a Frenchman would surely reply:
Chacun a son gout! (To each his own!)
Saturday, July 25, 2015
Finding A Spiritual Home
Saturday, July 25, 2015
In my effort to be a good neighbor, I've given up cycling for the summer, hoping I'll be able to resume in the Fall. I've also started going to the vigil Mass at l'Eglise de Saint Vincent in Carassonne, so I don't have to sit outside Notre Dame du Cros with Beau for most of the rite celebrated there Sundays at 6:00 p.m.
This is all possible because my neighbor, Chantal, is willing to take Beau for a few hours Saturdays and Sundays. I pay her a modest sum and in return, Beau gets to play with her dog, Baboon, a black bear-like ten-year old of indeterminate ancestry. Baboon loves Beau, and the feeling is mutual, so everyone is happy.
Driving to Carcassonne for a few hours on Saturday is just the break I need. Saint Vincent was built between the 14th and 15th centuries, so it is not as old as 12th century Saint Nazaire, but it, too, is Gothic. Saint Vincent's organ has a sonority that reflects its later construction: the instrument can "sing" the high notes of Handel's Hallelujah Chorus, but it can also delve into its lowest registers and fill the lofty vaults of the church, over 150' high.
There is a free organ concert in Saint Vincent every Saturday at 11:00 a.m. There is another free organ concert at Saint Nazaire at 6:00 p.m. on Sundays. The vigil Mass and the Sunday concert are becoming part of my weekend routine. When I was in college, I learned that the vaulting ceilings in Gothic churches were constructed to help lead the faithful to contemplation of God's immanence and majesty. That was only a cliche to me, visiting neo-Gothic churches around New York. Here in the Languedoc, with its forty-eight abbeys and convents; and an equally impressive number of medieval churches, it all becomes much more real to me.
Case in point: I never fail to be impressed by the plaque commemorating the preaching of Saint Dominic at Saint Nazaire during Lent in 1213, eight hundred and two years ago. His subject was the error of Catharism, and he preached in the fourth year of the twenty-year Albigensian Crusade (1209-1221). Anyone interested in the subject would do well to read Jonathan Sumption's eponymous and wonderful book on the crusade that took its name from Albi, a town in the neighboring Tarn departement, another hotbed of Catharism.
History is alive in the Languedoc and celebrated. The French are often held to be too caught up with memorials and history, but there are few places where a very old past comes to life as vividly as it does in Carcassonne. I would be disingenuous to deny that I go to Saint Nazaire and Saint Vincent as much for the spur my imagination gets inside their walls, as for the Communion that heals my soul, and the music that lifts my heart.
In my effort to be a good neighbor, I've given up cycling for the summer, hoping I'll be able to resume in the Fall. I've also started going to the vigil Mass at l'Eglise de Saint Vincent in Carassonne, so I don't have to sit outside Notre Dame du Cros with Beau for most of the rite celebrated there Sundays at 6:00 p.m.
This is all possible because my neighbor, Chantal, is willing to take Beau for a few hours Saturdays and Sundays. I pay her a modest sum and in return, Beau gets to play with her dog, Baboon, a black bear-like ten-year old of indeterminate ancestry. Baboon loves Beau, and the feeling is mutual, so everyone is happy.
Driving to Carcassonne for a few hours on Saturday is just the break I need. Saint Vincent was built between the 14th and 15th centuries, so it is not as old as 12th century Saint Nazaire, but it, too, is Gothic. Saint Vincent's organ has a sonority that reflects its later construction: the instrument can "sing" the high notes of Handel's Hallelujah Chorus, but it can also delve into its lowest registers and fill the lofty vaults of the church, over 150' high.
There is a free organ concert in Saint Vincent every Saturday at 11:00 a.m. There is another free organ concert at Saint Nazaire at 6:00 p.m. on Sundays. The vigil Mass and the Sunday concert are becoming part of my weekend routine. When I was in college, I learned that the vaulting ceilings in Gothic churches were constructed to help lead the faithful to contemplation of God's immanence and majesty. That was only a cliche to me, visiting neo-Gothic churches around New York. Here in the Languedoc, with its forty-eight abbeys and convents; and an equally impressive number of medieval churches, it all becomes much more real to me.
Case in point: I never fail to be impressed by the plaque commemorating the preaching of Saint Dominic at Saint Nazaire during Lent in 1213, eight hundred and two years ago. His subject was the error of Catharism, and he preached in the fourth year of the twenty-year Albigensian Crusade (1209-1221). Anyone interested in the subject would do well to read Jonathan Sumption's eponymous and wonderful book on the crusade that took its name from Albi, a town in the neighboring Tarn departement, another hotbed of Catharism.
History is alive in the Languedoc and celebrated. The French are often held to be too caught up with memorials and history, but there are few places where a very old past comes to life as vividly as it does in Carcassonne. I would be disingenuous to deny that I go to Saint Nazaire and Saint Vincent as much for the spur my imagination gets inside their walls, as for the Communion that heals my soul, and the music that lifts my heart.
Friday, July 24, 2015
Less Transparency Than I'm Used To
July 24, 2015
At the bank this morning, Madame Aveze was more than cooperative when I pointed out the questionable charges on my debit card. Another charge on the Autoroute du Sud Vedene was made on June 5 at Exit 1. Exit 1 is at the beginning of the A7 in Lyon. Another place I was nowhere near when the charge was journaled. The charges were also made without a required authorization by PIN number.
Madame Aveze thinks ATM frauds are only for large amounts, but encourages me to block the card and open an inquiry. The problem is that Monday I am leaving for 11 days in the Pyrenees. So I decide to keep the card, take funds in small bills and try to pay in cash for gas and tolls rather than use the card, as has been my practice.
A new card is ordered which will be here by the time I return, at which time I can open the inquiry. Madame Azema thinks stations sometimes accumulate charges and submit them days after the charge is actually incurred. This does nothing to explain why stations in Montelimar and Lyon would be charging me fees for tolls.
It is at times like this that the sclerotic aspects of France come into relief. What an inquiry will reveal is yet to be seen, but I am going to open one on my return. In the meantime I will not only journal my receipts separately (as I always do for every expense), but keep the receipts to present at the bank upon my return, just in case there are any more mysterious charges on my debit card while I am away.
At the bank this morning, Madame Aveze was more than cooperative when I pointed out the questionable charges on my debit card. Another charge on the Autoroute du Sud Vedene was made on June 5 at Exit 1. Exit 1 is at the beginning of the A7 in Lyon. Another place I was nowhere near when the charge was journaled. The charges were also made without a required authorization by PIN number.
Madame Aveze thinks ATM frauds are only for large amounts, but encourages me to block the card and open an inquiry. The problem is that Monday I am leaving for 11 days in the Pyrenees. So I decide to keep the card, take funds in small bills and try to pay in cash for gas and tolls rather than use the card, as has been my practice.
A new card is ordered which will be here by the time I return, at which time I can open the inquiry. Madame Azema thinks stations sometimes accumulate charges and submit them days after the charge is actually incurred. This does nothing to explain why stations in Montelimar and Lyon would be charging me fees for tolls.
It is at times like this that the sclerotic aspects of France come into relief. What an inquiry will reveal is yet to be seen, but I am going to open one on my return. In the meantime I will not only journal my receipts separately (as I always do for every expense), but keep the receipts to present at the bank upon my return, just in case there are any more mysterious charges on my debit card while I am away.
Thursday, July 23, 2015
Debit Card Hacker Blues
July 24, 2015
My bank in Caunes had the ATM vandalized. That meant that last week, when I wanted to insert my ATM card into the slot, it did not go in completely. So I went to the bank today and asked for a print out of my checking account transactions. Arriving home I saw an entry for this past Monday that raised questions.
There was a charge for 44 Euros for gas purchased at station #18 at the Autoroute du Sud Vedene. Firstly, I never left the Caunes Monday on account of the heat; second, station #18 is on the road known as the "A7", near Montelimar in the Drome departement, as well as Vezelay and Le Puy.
Plugging into the Internet the identifying information for the gas station, I came up with an old entry, but a relevant one. Someone had written into an Internet bulletin board about what to do about a charge for gas at that station made on the writer's bank debit card by someone other than the cardholder.
Tomorrow I will have to go to the bank to have my ATM card blocked and a new one ordered. It will take a few weeks to arrive. As Monday I'm leaving on a trip to the Pyrenees, the fraud will complicate traveling: I'll have to pay tolls with cash rather than as I have been doing, with the ATM/debit card. And I'll have to carry enough cash to carry me through the trip, rather than making ATM withdrawals as I go along, as I usually do. That means I'll have to carry my funds in two or three different places, to protect myself against the risk of having it all disappear from one place.
To add insult to injury, looking at my statement, I also see that I was charged 40 Euros for the privilege of having an ATM/debit card.
Brave New World!
I'm just glad I caught the fraud within days of its occurrence and before embarking on my road trip. It's doubtful that I'll be reimbursed the charge, but if I can stop it happening again, that will be enough.
My bank in Caunes had the ATM vandalized. That meant that last week, when I wanted to insert my ATM card into the slot, it did not go in completely. So I went to the bank today and asked for a print out of my checking account transactions. Arriving home I saw an entry for this past Monday that raised questions.
There was a charge for 44 Euros for gas purchased at station #18 at the Autoroute du Sud Vedene. Firstly, I never left the Caunes Monday on account of the heat; second, station #18 is on the road known as the "A7", near Montelimar in the Drome departement, as well as Vezelay and Le Puy.
Plugging into the Internet the identifying information for the gas station, I came up with an old entry, but a relevant one. Someone had written into an Internet bulletin board about what to do about a charge for gas at that station made on the writer's bank debit card by someone other than the cardholder.
Tomorrow I will have to go to the bank to have my ATM card blocked and a new one ordered. It will take a few weeks to arrive. As Monday I'm leaving on a trip to the Pyrenees, the fraud will complicate traveling: I'll have to pay tolls with cash rather than as I have been doing, with the ATM/debit card. And I'll have to carry enough cash to carry me through the trip, rather than making ATM withdrawals as I go along, as I usually do. That means I'll have to carry my funds in two or three different places, to protect myself against the risk of having it all disappear from one place.
To add insult to injury, looking at my statement, I also see that I was charged 40 Euros for the privilege of having an ATM/debit card.
Brave New World!
I'm just glad I caught the fraud within days of its occurrence and before embarking on my road trip. It's doubtful that I'll be reimbursed the charge, but if I can stop it happening again, that will be enough.
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
'Canicules' and 'Climes'
July 21, 2015
The word in French for "heat wave" is canicule. There are different temperature ranges for canicules, depending on the region of France. In the Midi, that range is highest, but even for the South of France, the heat over the course of last week has been excessive: it was 98.6F in Caunes today, with temperatures for the rest of the week to be only slightly lower.
Last year the weather was changeable, with days of clouds and even rain. The year before, too, it was never this hot. Everyone feels the heat, particularly as most people do not have air conditioning. My friend Chantal told me she had trouble sleeping last night. She awoke at 2:00 a.m. and took a cold shower, but it was not much help. Beau lies around all day, reviving in the evening.
As for me, I have been entertaining a guest from Switzerland, where the temperatures have also been higher than normal, although nothing like this. For the last few days I have taken to sleeping in the afternoon after lunch, a heavy, sodden sleep, notwithstanding the fan in my room and the air conditioning in the salon d'hiver. The heat in the bedroom on the top floor is even greater, although my friend insists that with the large fan I've provided it's quite comfortable. --He's just being gracious.
Chantal told me that when she was a girl in Marseille, at night, she and her sisters would sleep on the terraces of their house --rather like New Yorkers who slept on their fire escapes in heat waves before air conditioning was widely available.
France has a love-hate relationship with les climes, as air conditioning units are known. "They create sinus problems that never existed" Chantal tells me. On the other hand, everyone remembers that during the heat wave in 2003, 14,802 people, mostly elderly, died , as a result of dehydration. Which is why, today, French television runs adds urging everyone to drink lots of water, and the news carries stories featuring medical personnel repeating the same message and feeding the elderly water by the container.
As for me, I am awfully glad that in early June I installed des inverters, heat pumps providing alternately, air conditioning and heat. Without them, I would have been prostrate from the heat, which is not to say I am bouncing with energy with them. I have, however, concluded I am going to install another inverter in the top floor bedroom. It will be an act of mercy for my guests. Unfortunately for my present guest, the installation will not take place until September.
The word in French for "heat wave" is canicule. There are different temperature ranges for canicules, depending on the region of France. In the Midi, that range is highest, but even for the South of France, the heat over the course of last week has been excessive: it was 98.6F in Caunes today, with temperatures for the rest of the week to be only slightly lower.
Last year the weather was changeable, with days of clouds and even rain. The year before, too, it was never this hot. Everyone feels the heat, particularly as most people do not have air conditioning. My friend Chantal told me she had trouble sleeping last night. She awoke at 2:00 a.m. and took a cold shower, but it was not much help. Beau lies around all day, reviving in the evening.
As for me, I have been entertaining a guest from Switzerland, where the temperatures have also been higher than normal, although nothing like this. For the last few days I have taken to sleeping in the afternoon after lunch, a heavy, sodden sleep, notwithstanding the fan in my room and the air conditioning in the salon d'hiver. The heat in the bedroom on the top floor is even greater, although my friend insists that with the large fan I've provided it's quite comfortable. --He's just being gracious.
Chantal told me that when she was a girl in Marseille, at night, she and her sisters would sleep on the terraces of their house --rather like New Yorkers who slept on their fire escapes in heat waves before air conditioning was widely available.
France has a love-hate relationship with les climes, as air conditioning units are known. "They create sinus problems that never existed" Chantal tells me. On the other hand, everyone remembers that during the heat wave in 2003, 14,802 people, mostly elderly, died , as a result of dehydration. Which is why, today, French television runs adds urging everyone to drink lots of water, and the news carries stories featuring medical personnel repeating the same message and feeding the elderly water by the container.
As for me, I am awfully glad that in early June I installed des inverters, heat pumps providing alternately, air conditioning and heat. Without them, I would have been prostrate from the heat, which is not to say I am bouncing with energy with them. I have, however, concluded I am going to install another inverter in the top floor bedroom. It will be an act of mercy for my guests. Unfortunately for my present guest, the installation will not take place until September.
Thursday, July 16, 2015
The Upper Room
July 16, 2015
Preparing the bedroom on the attic floor for the visit of a close friend, I discovered the room was surprisingly cool on what has been a terribly hot day, the large metal fan providing more than enough air to blow the heat away.. Opening the windows, light poured into the room. The breeze, too, came in as I looked out over the foothills of the Parc Regional Naturel du Haut Languedoc. The view from that height eclipsed the sight of cars on the well-trafficked road in front of the house's front door
When I set up the room last year, I put half my music collection, (perhaps a hundred classical music CDs), in the room, all contained in two old apothecary cases lined up against the wall. On the wall perpendicular is the large arched window with its accompanying shutters, then the shelves for books I had built above the 1920s desk (as worn as everything else in the room), I brought from New York.
The biggest item in the room is the king-sized bed, which never fails to impress the French:
"Everything's big in America, isn't it?"
"Wow! Four people could sleep in that bed!"
--are among the memorable comments I've heard. The bed has a cast-iron frame that used to be painted an ivory color, but has lost some of its paint at the finials. Lying in the bed with the shutters open you can see the houses on the road opposite, which rises to the hills and the trees of the park.
I have a small portable CD player in the room, as the sound from the CD player below does not carry. So anyone staying in the room can choose a CD from the collection in the apothecary cases. An old wing-backed chair between the window and the cases makes a nice place to sit, but the desk, with its Windsor chair is another.
And of course, one could simply lie on one's stomach on the bed.
There was something about looking outside the window at the hills and listening to music on the tinny player in the luminous room I found so peaceful, so removed from even the very calm streets of Caunes.
Now that the room is finally furnished, it is one more place of escape to be enjoyed. In the colder weather, it will be warmer than the rest of the house, too. It is a place to be self-sufficient in for a few hours, to pick out a book to read from the shelves and listen to music, far from the madding crowd. it reminds me of attics in children's stories, where the heroes and heroines imagine their secret lives, far from the meddling eyes and ears of adults.
I love the nooks and crannies of the house, each room with its distinct personality. For someone who grew up in an apartment in Manhattan, in France, I'm becoming quite the homebody. This afternoon, I happily set out on the bed towels for my friend, along with a book I think he will enjoy. In doing so, I remember reading about Pauline de Rothschild, the chatelaine of the chateau de Ferrieres. Staying with her was said to be an exquisite experience, as the bedrooms and adjoining baths provided guests every comfort.
Building pleasurable surprise into the experience of visitors is, I am coming to conclude, the joy of having a country house, even my modest one.
Preparing the bedroom on the attic floor for the visit of a close friend, I discovered the room was surprisingly cool on what has been a terribly hot day, the large metal fan providing more than enough air to blow the heat away.. Opening the windows, light poured into the room. The breeze, too, came in as I looked out over the foothills of the Parc Regional Naturel du Haut Languedoc. The view from that height eclipsed the sight of cars on the well-trafficked road in front of the house's front door
When I set up the room last year, I put half my music collection, (perhaps a hundred classical music CDs), in the room, all contained in two old apothecary cases lined up against the wall. On the wall perpendicular is the large arched window with its accompanying shutters, then the shelves for books I had built above the 1920s desk (as worn as everything else in the room), I brought from New York.
The biggest item in the room is the king-sized bed, which never fails to impress the French:
"Everything's big in America, isn't it?"
"Wow! Four people could sleep in that bed!"
--are among the memorable comments I've heard. The bed has a cast-iron frame that used to be painted an ivory color, but has lost some of its paint at the finials. Lying in the bed with the shutters open you can see the houses on the road opposite, which rises to the hills and the trees of the park.
I have a small portable CD player in the room, as the sound from the CD player below does not carry. So anyone staying in the room can choose a CD from the collection in the apothecary cases. An old wing-backed chair between the window and the cases makes a nice place to sit, but the desk, with its Windsor chair is another.
And of course, one could simply lie on one's stomach on the bed.
There was something about looking outside the window at the hills and listening to music on the tinny player in the luminous room I found so peaceful, so removed from even the very calm streets of Caunes.
Now that the room is finally furnished, it is one more place of escape to be enjoyed. In the colder weather, it will be warmer than the rest of the house, too. It is a place to be self-sufficient in for a few hours, to pick out a book to read from the shelves and listen to music, far from the madding crowd. it reminds me of attics in children's stories, where the heroes and heroines imagine their secret lives, far from the meddling eyes and ears of adults.
I love the nooks and crannies of the house, each room with its distinct personality. For someone who grew up in an apartment in Manhattan, in France, I'm becoming quite the homebody. This afternoon, I happily set out on the bed towels for my friend, along with a book I think he will enjoy. In doing so, I remember reading about Pauline de Rothschild, the chatelaine of the chateau de Ferrieres. Staying with her was said to be an exquisite experience, as the bedrooms and adjoining baths provided guests every comfort.
Building pleasurable surprise into the experience of visitors is, I am coming to conclude, the joy of having a country house, even my modest one.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
A Medieval House, A Secret Garden, "Capricornes"
July 15, 2015
Someone boasted to me a few weeks ago that they lived in a "medieval" house. I have yet to see its inside, but I was in a medieval house last night.
The house is where my friend Chantal, the maker of fine embroideries, lives. I have been on the ground floor, where she displays her work, often. However, I never had reason to go to the upper floors until she invited me to dinner on Bastille Day.
If you have ever seen pictures of medieval illuminated manuscripts, you may have seen images of medieval houses out of the top window of which beautiful maids perch. Indeed, Chantal's house is of this type: there are three floors built around a square court yard. There is a balcony on the second floor and on the top floor a large outdoor terrace which looks both down to the courtyard but also over the adjoining rooftops and beyond to La Montagne Noir. It is a small space with no enfilade --no suite of rooms, aligned one after the other-- Chantal's bed, on the top floor, in the corner, faces the kitchen sink and oven. Beyond the kitchen there is seating area with two small sofas facing each other and a door to the terrace following. Once on the terrace it is possible to see the bell tower of the marie to the right and the mountains directly in front, the neighbor's wall in back.
That wall has three windows, two of which used to be closed off by plaster, but recently re-opened, to Chantal's chagrin. Her neighbors can now, should they choose, see Chantal moving about. The reopening of the windows in a historic structure ought to have been permitted, but of course, it was not, giving Chantal the right to question the re-opening.
However, what the placement of the windows suggests is how little privacy there was in the medieval world and how easy it would be for neighbors living alongside each other to know everything about the other's activities. Perhaps for this reason, gardens were enshrined as places of courtship, as in them it was possible to hide away from prying eyes.
Earlier in the day I saw the house of Claire, a Belgian woman whose home in Caunes is a the combination of two already large houses, also of ancient date. In joining the two houses, Claire's architect and builder created space for a tiny bathing pool and a garden that encircles it. This entirely private space could never be guessed at from the outside of the house, which is plain. Mount the front stairs, however, and the visitor is in another world, one welcoming to guests. The table in the kitchen is set for at least a dozen and bedrooms spill out from the sides of the two houses. It is the garden and pool, however, that offer that perfect seclusion, seclusion unguessed at by the uninvited world outside.
***
On my own turf, I have just received news that the basement of the house --the cave and garage-- as well as the attic-- are infested with capricornes.
Capricornes are insects whose larvae eat wood. After getting a list of names of companies that treat wood in houses against insects, I arranged a visit from the one with the best website and most responsive office. Two young fellows of Portuguese descent came by, spent 30 minutes examining the basement and the attic and informed me that I was in danger of loosing the supports of the ground floor and the roof to capricornes.
I actually thought I was having them come to tell me about whether I needed to spray against xylophages, another wood-eating insect. The former owners had told me they sprayed against them and that the wood needed to be treated every three years. Which is why my new Portuguese friends came over.
The news has not thrilled me, but it is a lot cheaper to stop the damage now than to pay for a new roof or floor support, let alone endure the dust and mess such a major renovation would entail. I asked around about whether it was necessary to spray and everyone told me that there was no requirement to do so unless I had an infestation, which I didn't think I had.
Though looking over the papers supplied by the sellers at the time we signed the contract of sale, it is clear that they highlighted that there were some issues about capricornes, even though they had treated the wood. The wood was treated at the time they put the house on the market, seven years ago.
The house went unsold for four years, in which time the original spraying lost its potency, and the bugs gained in strength, the problem left for me to address. If I were more able in matters concerning houses, I might have grasped that once I took possession I would have been wise to have the wood treated, but better late than never.
The treatment is guaranteed for ten years, yearly inspections are included in the fee, and there is even insurance against bankruptcy of the company, such that another specialist in treating wood would stand in the shoes of the company I will hire and fulfill the terms of the guarantee.
The treatment of the wood is done with "bio" ingredients which leave no smell, and takes, at most a week. Beau and I can continue to live in the house during the treatment of the wood, which will take seven days to penetrate fully.
Whether the capricornes will effect my planned renovations to the attic remains to be seen.
Someone boasted to me a few weeks ago that they lived in a "medieval" house. I have yet to see its inside, but I was in a medieval house last night.
The house is where my friend Chantal, the maker of fine embroideries, lives. I have been on the ground floor, where she displays her work, often. However, I never had reason to go to the upper floors until she invited me to dinner on Bastille Day.
If you have ever seen pictures of medieval illuminated manuscripts, you may have seen images of medieval houses out of the top window of which beautiful maids perch. Indeed, Chantal's house is of this type: there are three floors built around a square court yard. There is a balcony on the second floor and on the top floor a large outdoor terrace which looks both down to the courtyard but also over the adjoining rooftops and beyond to La Montagne Noir. It is a small space with no enfilade --no suite of rooms, aligned one after the other-- Chantal's bed, on the top floor, in the corner, faces the kitchen sink and oven. Beyond the kitchen there is seating area with two small sofas facing each other and a door to the terrace following. Once on the terrace it is possible to see the bell tower of the marie to the right and the mountains directly in front, the neighbor's wall in back.
That wall has three windows, two of which used to be closed off by plaster, but recently re-opened, to Chantal's chagrin. Her neighbors can now, should they choose, see Chantal moving about. The reopening of the windows in a historic structure ought to have been permitted, but of course, it was not, giving Chantal the right to question the re-opening.
However, what the placement of the windows suggests is how little privacy there was in the medieval world and how easy it would be for neighbors living alongside each other to know everything about the other's activities. Perhaps for this reason, gardens were enshrined as places of courtship, as in them it was possible to hide away from prying eyes.
Earlier in the day I saw the house of Claire, a Belgian woman whose home in Caunes is a the combination of two already large houses, also of ancient date. In joining the two houses, Claire's architect and builder created space for a tiny bathing pool and a garden that encircles it. This entirely private space could never be guessed at from the outside of the house, which is plain. Mount the front stairs, however, and the visitor is in another world, one welcoming to guests. The table in the kitchen is set for at least a dozen and bedrooms spill out from the sides of the two houses. It is the garden and pool, however, that offer that perfect seclusion, seclusion unguessed at by the uninvited world outside.
***
On my own turf, I have just received news that the basement of the house --the cave and garage-- as well as the attic-- are infested with capricornes.
Capricornes are insects whose larvae eat wood. After getting a list of names of companies that treat wood in houses against insects, I arranged a visit from the one with the best website and most responsive office. Two young fellows of Portuguese descent came by, spent 30 minutes examining the basement and the attic and informed me that I was in danger of loosing the supports of the ground floor and the roof to capricornes.
I actually thought I was having them come to tell me about whether I needed to spray against xylophages, another wood-eating insect. The former owners had told me they sprayed against them and that the wood needed to be treated every three years. Which is why my new Portuguese friends came over.
The news has not thrilled me, but it is a lot cheaper to stop the damage now than to pay for a new roof or floor support, let alone endure the dust and mess such a major renovation would entail. I asked around about whether it was necessary to spray and everyone told me that there was no requirement to do so unless I had an infestation, which I didn't think I had.
Though looking over the papers supplied by the sellers at the time we signed the contract of sale, it is clear that they highlighted that there were some issues about capricornes, even though they had treated the wood. The wood was treated at the time they put the house on the market, seven years ago.
The house went unsold for four years, in which time the original spraying lost its potency, and the bugs gained in strength, the problem left for me to address. If I were more able in matters concerning houses, I might have grasped that once I took possession I would have been wise to have the wood treated, but better late than never.
The treatment is guaranteed for ten years, yearly inspections are included in the fee, and there is even insurance against bankruptcy of the company, such that another specialist in treating wood would stand in the shoes of the company I will hire and fulfill the terms of the guarantee.
The treatment of the wood is done with "bio" ingredients which leave no smell, and takes, at most a week. Beau and I can continue to live in the house during the treatment of the wood, which will take seven days to penetrate fully.
Whether the capricornes will effect my planned renovations to the attic remains to be seen.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
Bastille Day 2015
July 14, 2015
We English speakers may call July 14 Bastille Day, but to the French it's just La Fete Nationale.
A highlight of the day is the parade featuring all the French military services and paramilitary services. All sorts of technical skills are on display during the broadcast, which tests the ingenuity of various newscasters: Michel Drucker flew his own Tigre helicopter alongside the squadron that starts the aerial display; another newscaster, a young woman, donned scuba gear to describe how underwater demoliton experts attached to the French army disarmed a bomb. The voice portion was not perfect, but it was impressive to see.
And no Fete Nationale would be complete without fireworks. The French are expert pyrotechnicians, with a long history of making elaborate fireworks displays. (The first fireworks display in France took place in 1615 upon the marriage of Louis XIII to Anne of Austria.) In little Caunes there was a fireworks display last night, as the big fireworks display is tonight in Carcassonne. Caunes' fireworks were lovely, multi-colored and in interrupted sequence, a pleasure to watch from my bedroom window. They were every bit as enjoyable as fireworks I've seen in New York.
I had dinner with a friend tonight and although we had planned to watch the fireworks from her terrace, I was too tired after three hikes with Beau in one day. (My way of celebrating La Fete Nationale.) So I came home turned on the television and Voila! The concert on the Champs de Mars by the Eiffel Tower was ending and the fireworks starting.
"Yes", every French village worth its salt, every town, every large city has fireworks on July 14, including Paris. Except that in Paris on Bastille Day, the Eiffel Tower is the backdrop for an hour's worth of son et lumiere plus fireworks.
And here is where the inventiveness of the French in matters of artistic really comes through. I cannot describe within the limitations of my vocabulary how astonishing the patterns the fireworks designers managed to arrange were, each built around a particular song and lighting changes on the Eiffel Tower. Fireworks shot out of the Tower's different levels as if it were a vertical machine gun, words appeared , iridescent colors poured out of the tower, like a rocket ship, the towers appeared about to take off at one point, and all the meanwhile Catherine Wheels, cloudbursts, shooting stars and pyrotechnically created "snowflakes" framed the tower. The music included the theme from "Skyfall" and other popular hits, a choir of whistles played La Marseillaise, then the music switched to salsa. At one point the skies over Paris were drenched in colored clouds of smoke. For a moment, the image of a bicycle rider (an homage to the Tour de France) appeared, and the tower lit up, lights glistening everywhere, the Tower shimmering like a dancer at the Folies Burgers.
And then a rocket, trailing a flume of smoke shot up to the theme from "Star Wars" and white rockets exploded everywhere. The End.
But don't just read about it here: find it on YouTube and see for yourself.
We English speakers may call July 14 Bastille Day, but to the French it's just La Fete Nationale.
A highlight of the day is the parade featuring all the French military services and paramilitary services. All sorts of technical skills are on display during the broadcast, which tests the ingenuity of various newscasters: Michel Drucker flew his own Tigre helicopter alongside the squadron that starts the aerial display; another newscaster, a young woman, donned scuba gear to describe how underwater demoliton experts attached to the French army disarmed a bomb. The voice portion was not perfect, but it was impressive to see.
And no Fete Nationale would be complete without fireworks. The French are expert pyrotechnicians, with a long history of making elaborate fireworks displays. (The first fireworks display in France took place in 1615 upon the marriage of Louis XIII to Anne of Austria.) In little Caunes there was a fireworks display last night, as the big fireworks display is tonight in Carcassonne. Caunes' fireworks were lovely, multi-colored and in interrupted sequence, a pleasure to watch from my bedroom window. They were every bit as enjoyable as fireworks I've seen in New York.
I had dinner with a friend tonight and although we had planned to watch the fireworks from her terrace, I was too tired after three hikes with Beau in one day. (My way of celebrating La Fete Nationale.) So I came home turned on the television and Voila! The concert on the Champs de Mars by the Eiffel Tower was ending and the fireworks starting.
"Yes", every French village worth its salt, every town, every large city has fireworks on July 14, including Paris. Except that in Paris on Bastille Day, the Eiffel Tower is the backdrop for an hour's worth of son et lumiere plus fireworks.
And here is where the inventiveness of the French in matters of artistic really comes through. I cannot describe within the limitations of my vocabulary how astonishing the patterns the fireworks designers managed to arrange were, each built around a particular song and lighting changes on the Eiffel Tower. Fireworks shot out of the Tower's different levels as if it were a vertical machine gun, words appeared , iridescent colors poured out of the tower, like a rocket ship, the towers appeared about to take off at one point, and all the meanwhile Catherine Wheels, cloudbursts, shooting stars and pyrotechnically created "snowflakes" framed the tower. The music included the theme from "Skyfall" and other popular hits, a choir of whistles played La Marseillaise, then the music switched to salsa. At one point the skies over Paris were drenched in colored clouds of smoke. For a moment, the image of a bicycle rider (an homage to the Tour de France) appeared, and the tower lit up, lights glistening everywhere, the Tower shimmering like a dancer at the Folies Burgers.
And then a rocket, trailing a flume of smoke shot up to the theme from "Star Wars" and white rockets exploded everywhere. The End.
But don't just read about it here: find it on YouTube and see for yourself.
Monday, July 13, 2015
Organ Concert At Saint Nazaire
July 13, 2015
I am glad to report that it is possible to get away from the mundane concerns my last posts have been peppered with, to the ethereal Gothic cathedrals of Carcassonne. There are nine churches in all in the town, and eight of them are medieval, the ninth 19th century. One, Saint Nazaire, is in La Cite, the medieval fortress and redoubt of Catharism, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
As such, La Cite and Saint Nazaire attracts tourists, and it is easy to forget that Saint Nazaire is also a parish church, with a base of supporters. Those supporters are responsible for a series of free organ concerts, les Estivals l'Orgue de la Cite. Yesterday the program featured, Araujo, Sola, Byrd, Gabrieli, Corrette, Rameau and Clement. The organist was Francois Clement, composer of the last pieces played.
While usually the cathedral is chock-a-block with tourists mumbling in despite of the request to keep the noise down, last evening it was full of respectful music lovers. I was able to find a place in the front row and as a result had a spectacular view of the Gothic vaults and the striking stained glass that encircles the altar.
The oldest of the stained glass of Saint Nazaire dates to the 13th century, and unlike many windows I've seen, there are few images of saints, Jesus and the rest of the holy crew. The windows behind the altar are strips of glass into which squares containing images of Jesus and the saints can be found, but those strips framing them are motifs rather than images, as is the case with the remaining glass in the cathedral.
So many repeating motifs in stained glass create an almost modern effect: rather than trying to "read" the images, I simply enjoyed them as the music played. The motifs are typical of the style of stained glass design in the south of France, although those of Saint Nazaire are considered among the region's most beautiful.
The organ is one of the earliest built in France, and dates from the 1500s, although it has been rebuilt several times. The sound of it is not deep and imposing, but flute-like. One of the pieces played on it for the concert was a gavotte, a piece of dance music. Another piece, "The Carman's Whistle", by William Byrd, is meant to imitate the sound of a man whistling --as carmen did: a carman transported goods, driving a cart with two horses, whistling to them to keep them moving.
In between the pieces a man placed at the altar of the church explained something about each of the pieces and the composers. He shared interesting information with his audience, for instance that Andres de Sola died in 1696 at the age of 62, while playing the church service for Holy Saturday in Oviedo.
De Sola died at the organ, reclining his head on the keyboard as life left him. The presenter described De Sola's death as tragic, but I have always thought that dying while doing what you lived for is anything but.
I am glad to report that it is possible to get away from the mundane concerns my last posts have been peppered with, to the ethereal Gothic cathedrals of Carcassonne. There are nine churches in all in the town, and eight of them are medieval, the ninth 19th century. One, Saint Nazaire, is in La Cite, the medieval fortress and redoubt of Catharism, now a UNESCO World Heritage Site.
As such, La Cite and Saint Nazaire attracts tourists, and it is easy to forget that Saint Nazaire is also a parish church, with a base of supporters. Those supporters are responsible for a series of free organ concerts, les Estivals l'Orgue de la Cite. Yesterday the program featured, Araujo, Sola, Byrd, Gabrieli, Corrette, Rameau and Clement. The organist was Francois Clement, composer of the last pieces played.
While usually the cathedral is chock-a-block with tourists mumbling in despite of the request to keep the noise down, last evening it was full of respectful music lovers. I was able to find a place in the front row and as a result had a spectacular view of the Gothic vaults and the striking stained glass that encircles the altar.
The oldest of the stained glass of Saint Nazaire dates to the 13th century, and unlike many windows I've seen, there are few images of saints, Jesus and the rest of the holy crew. The windows behind the altar are strips of glass into which squares containing images of Jesus and the saints can be found, but those strips framing them are motifs rather than images, as is the case with the remaining glass in the cathedral.
So many repeating motifs in stained glass create an almost modern effect: rather than trying to "read" the images, I simply enjoyed them as the music played. The motifs are typical of the style of stained glass design in the south of France, although those of Saint Nazaire are considered among the region's most beautiful.
The organ is one of the earliest built in France, and dates from the 1500s, although it has been rebuilt several times. The sound of it is not deep and imposing, but flute-like. One of the pieces played on it for the concert was a gavotte, a piece of dance music. Another piece, "The Carman's Whistle", by William Byrd, is meant to imitate the sound of a man whistling --as carmen did: a carman transported goods, driving a cart with two horses, whistling to them to keep them moving.
In between the pieces a man placed at the altar of the church explained something about each of the pieces and the composers. He shared interesting information with his audience, for instance that Andres de Sola died in 1696 at the age of 62, while playing the church service for Holy Saturday in Oviedo.
De Sola died at the organ, reclining his head on the keyboard as life left him. The presenter described De Sola's death as tragic, but I have always thought that dying while doing what you lived for is anything but.
Accolée au chœur, la Chapelle de Radulphe, est elle aussi une petite merveille du gothique.
Nous pouvons aller jeter un oeil à l'intérieur… C'est donc par la nef que l'on pénètre dans la Basilique. Elle est du plus pur style roman : voûtes en berceau dans les collatéraux, voûte en berceau brisé dans la nef, lourds piliers aux chapiteaux sculptés, quasiment aucune ouverture. Seules de petites fenêtres dans les collatéraux et de minuscules oculi sur la façade ouest laissent pénétrer de maigres rayons de lumière dans la nef.
Nous pouvons aller jeter un oeil à l'intérieur… C'est donc par la nef que l'on pénètre dans la Basilique. Elle est du plus pur style roman : voûtes en berceau dans les collatéraux, voûte en berceau brisé dans la nef, lourds piliers aux chapiteaux sculptés, quasiment aucune ouverture. Seules de petites fenêtres dans les collatéraux et de minuscules oculi sur la façade ouest laissent pénétrer de maigres rayons de lumière dans la nef.
Les grandes orgues de Saint Nazaire sont parfois considérées comme les plus anciennes de France. Elles étaient déjà là au 16e siècle. Bien sûr, elles ont subi de multiples restaurations et réinstallations au cours des temps.
Tous les dimanches de juin à septembre, de grands organistes du monde entier viennent animer les concerts gratuits qui sont offerts aux touristes et aux Carcassonnais.
Sur le bas-côté nord, la Chapelle de Rochefort, petit chef d'œuvre du 14e siècle. Il s'agit du tombeau de l'évêque, représenté entre deux archidiacres, et juste dessous, de petites niches figurant les chanoines assistant aux funérailles. Magnifique !
Tous les dimanches de juin à septembre, de grands organistes du monde entier viennent animer les concerts gratuits qui sont offerts aux touristes et aux Carcassonnais.
Sur le bas-côté nord, la Chapelle de Rochefort, petit chef d'œuvre du 14e siècle. Il s'agit du tombeau de l'évêque, représenté entre deux archidiacres, et juste dessous, de petites niches figurant les chanoines assistant aux funérailles. Magnifique !
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Car Follies (cont'd); Keeping The Neighbors Happy
July 12, 2015
After much thought, I now realize I have to park the car outside, the risk of having the car vandalized again be damned.
The scratches on the car have been minimized by the generous application of scratch remover paste and I can almost convince myself that the scratches are barely noticeable. Anyway, the insurance declaration from the Mairie notes scratches on the side of the car that were there before those I added, so I am probably covered for the damage.
However, last night, working again and again at trying to ease the car into the garage correctly, I heard the car touch one of the folding garage doors. These operate like shutters with several panels and fold back to reveal the garage. They are nice and new, thanks to the former owners.
Once I had parked the car, at last, I realized that it would take little for me to damage my garage doors. That is uncovered damage, and knowing the way things are done in the Midi, it would take months to repair or, more likely, replace them, whatever the cost.
The cost-benefit analysis is clear. If my car is vandalized, the damage is covered by the insurance.; if I damage my garage door, I'm stuck with the cost of repair.
Now that I have made the acquaintance of the Citroen garage and dealership in the village, if the car is again damaged, I can plead to use them instead of the garage in Trebes that did a half-job.
I will not have my own parking space and have to search for parking, but even if I have to park in the parking lot in the center of the village it will be a lot easier than trying to angle the car into my garage.
There is also another reason I want to go back to parking the car outside:
In my ham-handed parking attempts, I believe I have knocked down an iron stake attached to a chicken wire fence my neighbors down the road put in place to delimit the easement behind my house and their property. Two young men who use the easement to get to their chicken coop and cottage gardens also drive past the chicken wire fence, but they are experienced at getting in and out of the space. I certainly don't think they knocked the post and chicken wire down.
Living in a village means working out good relations with the neighbors. Just as I don't want my next door neighbors unhappy because Beau barks or howls when let alone too long, I don't want my elderly neighbors down the road unhappy I knocked down a boundary fence next to the easement they gave.
While in a big city like New York, there's an unspoken rule that if you have bad neighbors you ignore them or move away, in a village you don't have the option. In New York, you "grin and bear", the neighbors next door who fight periodically, so loudly you can hear it through the concrete walls; you try to ignore the neighbor on the other side of the apartment who shouts so loudly you know when he is intimate with his partner.
In the countryside, silence is golden, especially on Sundays. If I am to go to weekly Mass, that means I have two options: On Sunday, I can take Beau to Notre Dame du Cros for the 6:00 p.m. Mass and sit outside the church door, tying him up briefly when I go inside to take Communion. That is one solution, but it means that parishioners may be disturbed when Beau barks at being tied up while I am inside the chapel. (And parishioners will complain if this is my regular practice.) Or, 2. I can leave Beau at home late Saturday afternoon and go to Mass at one of the churches in Carcassonne.
That was what I did yesterday. I was rewarded by hearing Mass in a Gothic church that dates to 1247 and hearing a magnificent organ with 57-bell carillon. As a result, today I will keep my neighbors happy, at least until the late afternoon. (Incidentally, in New York, Beau has no problem being alone. It is not unusual for dogs to display different behaviors in different locations.)
By 4:30 p.m. I will be on the road, heading for Saint Nazaire, in La Cite in Carcassonne. There is a free organ concert there at 6:00 p.m. This will also be an opportunity to leave Beau alone for three hours, which is a practice to which I am slowly accustoming him. I will be back by 7:30 p.m., early enough that even if Beau barks or cries, the neighbors cannot complain too much, if at all.
After all, many people have dogs here. They are almost all barkers --even teeth-baring snarlers-- and people like them that way. For example, Yves, a Belgian man with a sweet Belgian shepherd bitch called "Pippa" (and one of Beau's girlfriends), is unhappy she doesn't bark. He wants a dog that will drive away burglars.
Most people live in detached houses with land around them, so if the dog barks, the neighbors will hear it, but perhaps not so much as my next door neighbors. "You cannot imagine how thin the walls are", Elodie tells me constantly. When she suggested that I might buy a citronella collar to deter Beau from barking, I quickly told her I would do so. You have to keep the neighbors happy, or risk having your name blackened throughout the village.
Anyone considering a move to a Midi village had best keep that in mind. If you think I'm exaggerating, I'll the true story --told me by a London barrister friend with a friend with a house in the South of France.
The house-owning friend had lived in the village for a number of years on what she thought were good terms, but something she did changed all that. As a result the cordiality she had come to expect in her daily rounds through the village disappeared. The situation deteriorated to the point where she ultimately picked up sticks, sold the house and moved back to England.
There was nothing she could point to that changed the attitude of the villagers towards her my friend told me. Her lack of perceptiveness proved fatal to her plans to retire in the Midi.
***
Postscript
Fate hands me a break a few minutes ago, when I went outside to try to repair the boundary fence.
As I struggle to drive the iron boundary post back into the ground with one hand and de-compress the chicken wire my car flattened with the other, out of his house comes Mr. Gimenez, the neighbor down the road, accompanied by his daughter, whose car is parked in front of his house.
I call out to them, "I'm trying to straighten out your "gate" --I don't know the word in French for this, French isn't my first language--"
Mr. Gimenez and his daughter walk over to where I am standing and his daughter says, "That's nice of you!" Her father says, "Oh, it's not serious, don't worry about it!"
He picks up the downed stake, and unable to ground it, lies it on its side next to the chicken wire, which I have managed to unfold. "It's not a problem", he says, smiling.
"Well, have a good Sunday!" I say, shaking his hand and his daughters in turn, they wishing me the same.
The neighbors down the road are happy. One pair of neighbors down, one pair to go.
Post-Postscript
However, my next door neighbors are still unhappy with Beau.
I learned this a few minutes ago in leaving a note that I would be out for 3 hours late this afternoon at their door. Samir, the partner of Elodie, opened the door and read my note while I stood there.
"Things are better, but I still heard him this week at 7:30 a.m. when I was trying to sleep. Elodie is on vacation and so is Nowan [their son]. Hopefully the citronella collar will take care of the problem.
"What I think you should do is leave him with someone, because you have no life if you cannot go to Mass and you cannot go cycling because he will bark.
"The problem is that you are here in the summer and the summer is when we are on vacation.
"When I'm awakened at 7:30 a.m., I'm in a bad mood for the whole day. We've been nice about all this, other families would not have been.
"The problem is that you are here during the vacation period, which is when we are on vacation. The best thing is for you to pay someone so keep Beau for you."
When I bought the house, the house now owned by Samir and Elodie had stood empty for a long time. And I did not have Beau, whom I am certainly not going to give up.
As must be obvious, if I don't bend to my neighbors' will, they will continue to complain.
So, just as I thought I had found a solution to two problems (the car, leaving Beau alone during the day), I realize I have not dealt with my next-door neighbors' desire to sleep late.
I thought that during the week, leaving for a bicycle ride would not be a problem because Elodie works, and Samir works off and on.
"'Yes', it's better now, especially on Sundays," Samir tells me.
"Well, I put my ear to the door when I leave to be sure he is not barking, and when I return, I put my ear to the door for the same reason" I rejoin. "I know he's not barking."
"He barks in episodes", returns Samir. "He stops for a while, then he starts again."
Perhaps the title of this post should be, "The Impossibility Of Keeping The Neighbors Happy"!
After much thought, I now realize I have to park the car outside, the risk of having the car vandalized again be damned.
The scratches on the car have been minimized by the generous application of scratch remover paste and I can almost convince myself that the scratches are barely noticeable. Anyway, the insurance declaration from the Mairie notes scratches on the side of the car that were there before those I added, so I am probably covered for the damage.
However, last night, working again and again at trying to ease the car into the garage correctly, I heard the car touch one of the folding garage doors. These operate like shutters with several panels and fold back to reveal the garage. They are nice and new, thanks to the former owners.
Once I had parked the car, at last, I realized that it would take little for me to damage my garage doors. That is uncovered damage, and knowing the way things are done in the Midi, it would take months to repair or, more likely, replace them, whatever the cost.
The cost-benefit analysis is clear. If my car is vandalized, the damage is covered by the insurance.; if I damage my garage door, I'm stuck with the cost of repair.
Now that I have made the acquaintance of the Citroen garage and dealership in the village, if the car is again damaged, I can plead to use them instead of the garage in Trebes that did a half-job.
I will not have my own parking space and have to search for parking, but even if I have to park in the parking lot in the center of the village it will be a lot easier than trying to angle the car into my garage.
There is also another reason I want to go back to parking the car outside:
In my ham-handed parking attempts, I believe I have knocked down an iron stake attached to a chicken wire fence my neighbors down the road put in place to delimit the easement behind my house and their property. Two young men who use the easement to get to their chicken coop and cottage gardens also drive past the chicken wire fence, but they are experienced at getting in and out of the space. I certainly don't think they knocked the post and chicken wire down.
Living in a village means working out good relations with the neighbors. Just as I don't want my next door neighbors unhappy because Beau barks or howls when let alone too long, I don't want my elderly neighbors down the road unhappy I knocked down a boundary fence next to the easement they gave.
While in a big city like New York, there's an unspoken rule that if you have bad neighbors you ignore them or move away, in a village you don't have the option. In New York, you "grin and bear", the neighbors next door who fight periodically, so loudly you can hear it through the concrete walls; you try to ignore the neighbor on the other side of the apartment who shouts so loudly you know when he is intimate with his partner.
In the countryside, silence is golden, especially on Sundays. If I am to go to weekly Mass, that means I have two options: On Sunday, I can take Beau to Notre Dame du Cros for the 6:00 p.m. Mass and sit outside the church door, tying him up briefly when I go inside to take Communion. That is one solution, but it means that parishioners may be disturbed when Beau barks at being tied up while I am inside the chapel. (And parishioners will complain if this is my regular practice.) Or, 2. I can leave Beau at home late Saturday afternoon and go to Mass at one of the churches in Carcassonne.
That was what I did yesterday. I was rewarded by hearing Mass in a Gothic church that dates to 1247 and hearing a magnificent organ with 57-bell carillon. As a result, today I will keep my neighbors happy, at least until the late afternoon. (Incidentally, in New York, Beau has no problem being alone. It is not unusual for dogs to display different behaviors in different locations.)
By 4:30 p.m. I will be on the road, heading for Saint Nazaire, in La Cite in Carcassonne. There is a free organ concert there at 6:00 p.m. This will also be an opportunity to leave Beau alone for three hours, which is a practice to which I am slowly accustoming him. I will be back by 7:30 p.m., early enough that even if Beau barks or cries, the neighbors cannot complain too much, if at all.
After all, many people have dogs here. They are almost all barkers --even teeth-baring snarlers-- and people like them that way. For example, Yves, a Belgian man with a sweet Belgian shepherd bitch called "Pippa" (and one of Beau's girlfriends), is unhappy she doesn't bark. He wants a dog that will drive away burglars.
Most people live in detached houses with land around them, so if the dog barks, the neighbors will hear it, but perhaps not so much as my next door neighbors. "You cannot imagine how thin the walls are", Elodie tells me constantly. When she suggested that I might buy a citronella collar to deter Beau from barking, I quickly told her I would do so. You have to keep the neighbors happy, or risk having your name blackened throughout the village.
Anyone considering a move to a Midi village had best keep that in mind. If you think I'm exaggerating, I'll the true story --told me by a London barrister friend with a friend with a house in the South of France.
The house-owning friend had lived in the village for a number of years on what she thought were good terms, but something she did changed all that. As a result the cordiality she had come to expect in her daily rounds through the village disappeared. The situation deteriorated to the point where she ultimately picked up sticks, sold the house and moved back to England.
There was nothing she could point to that changed the attitude of the villagers towards her my friend told me. Her lack of perceptiveness proved fatal to her plans to retire in the Midi.
***
Postscript
Fate hands me a break a few minutes ago, when I went outside to try to repair the boundary fence.
As I struggle to drive the iron boundary post back into the ground with one hand and de-compress the chicken wire my car flattened with the other, out of his house comes Mr. Gimenez, the neighbor down the road, accompanied by his daughter, whose car is parked in front of his house.
I call out to them, "I'm trying to straighten out your "gate" --I don't know the word in French for this, French isn't my first language--"
Mr. Gimenez and his daughter walk over to where I am standing and his daughter says, "That's nice of you!" Her father says, "Oh, it's not serious, don't worry about it!"
He picks up the downed stake, and unable to ground it, lies it on its side next to the chicken wire, which I have managed to unfold. "It's not a problem", he says, smiling.
"Well, have a good Sunday!" I say, shaking his hand and his daughters in turn, they wishing me the same.
The neighbors down the road are happy. One pair of neighbors down, one pair to go.
Post-Postscript
However, my next door neighbors are still unhappy with Beau.
I learned this a few minutes ago in leaving a note that I would be out for 3 hours late this afternoon at their door. Samir, the partner of Elodie, opened the door and read my note while I stood there.
"Things are better, but I still heard him this week at 7:30 a.m. when I was trying to sleep. Elodie is on vacation and so is Nowan [their son]. Hopefully the citronella collar will take care of the problem.
"What I think you should do is leave him with someone, because you have no life if you cannot go to Mass and you cannot go cycling because he will bark.
"The problem is that you are here in the summer and the summer is when we are on vacation.
"When I'm awakened at 7:30 a.m., I'm in a bad mood for the whole day. We've been nice about all this, other families would not have been.
"The problem is that you are here during the vacation period, which is when we are on vacation. The best thing is for you to pay someone so keep Beau for you."
When I bought the house, the house now owned by Samir and Elodie had stood empty for a long time. And I did not have Beau, whom I am certainly not going to give up.
As must be obvious, if I don't bend to my neighbors' will, they will continue to complain.
So, just as I thought I had found a solution to two problems (the car, leaving Beau alone during the day), I realize I have not dealt with my next-door neighbors' desire to sleep late.
I thought that during the week, leaving for a bicycle ride would not be a problem because Elodie works, and Samir works off and on.
"'Yes', it's better now, especially on Sundays," Samir tells me.
"Well, I put my ear to the door when I leave to be sure he is not barking, and when I return, I put my ear to the door for the same reason" I rejoin. "I know he's not barking."
"He barks in episodes", returns Samir. "He stops for a while, then he starts again."
Perhaps the title of this post should be, "The Impossibility Of Keeping The Neighbors Happy"!
Saturday, July 11, 2015
Gender Differences In Parking; Swallows Wake Me; Donkey Farm
Saturday, July 11, 2015
There are few areas in which I would yield to the stereotypes of women's abilities versus men. I think women can make excellent engineers, they just need to have exposure to the field and its possibilities. Similarly, I think women can make great pilots, great jockeys, great race car drivers. When it comes to me and my ability to park in a small space, however, I have to wonder whether there is any truth to canards about women's more limited spatial perception. At least where I am concerned.
Since the car was vandalized, I have been parking it in the garage that comes with the house. The garage is approached by a narrow path, an easement given by my neighbors across the way. Successful parking involves angling the car almost flush against one of the exterior walls of the garage, then straightening the car out and easing it in slowly, in reverse.
I have only been able to this once, yesterday. As a result, I have made a nice mess of the car, which is scratched in several places. Although the car is a rental, and my experience over the last three years has been that the leasing company has been indulgent, I wonder whether I have just been lucky. I have scratch remover paste which I will be sure to apply diligently before I return the car, but it's frustrating to try and try and try to get the maneuver right only to hear the grinding sound of the car chassis rubbing against the garage wall. What misery!
--At least I don't own the car.
*****
In the almost six weeks I've been here, I have put in heat pumps, and retained a contractor to put in a full bath on the top floor as well as turn the attic into an inhabitable space. I've paid my taxes, participated in the planning meeting for the church bazaar, had two pieces framed, entertained visitors and simultaneously kept up my Monday through Friday gym visits and added several cycling jaunts. I've been bitten by a dog, stung by a horse fly and struggled with the problem of having a dog that does not like being alone and neighbors that are quick to complain if he barks out of loneliness. The car has been vandalized and I've taken to parking it in the garage, an effort that always leads to tears.
You might ask "Why are you doing all this? Wouldn't it be easier to go back to New York, where you would have none of these concerns?"
Well, the truth is that every morning, swallows wake me. I hear them outside my window. I get up and look out towards the Pyrenees: I can't get that back in New York. On a clear night I can see hundreds of stars, the planets Venus and Neptune, too. And when I go for long walks (as Beau and I do every day), I pass some of the most beautiful rolling countryside in the world.
This morning I decided I would find the path that loops from the cemetery in Caunes around the vineyards to a donkey farm and back to its beginning near the ruin of a former chapel of the Carmelite order. Beau and I started out at eleven and were back by one. The path is behind the village foyer, a public space used for village events as well as private festivities. I had never fixed the cemetery on a map, so I wandered near the road to Carcassonne before doubling back and finding the path to the cemetery.
The cemetery is framed by cypresses, tall slender trees. The black-green leaves have a sombre tone, which is why they are ubiquitous in French cemeteries. Past the cemetery there are just fields, rows and rows of vines At one point there is a fork in the road and if you turn left you start your on you way back. Go on a bit further and you encounter two pastures for donkeys and a large house at the top of the hill on the property. It belongs to the owner who runs a business providing rides in the mountains on donkeys.
Where in New York City could I find something like that? So whatever the challenges of living here, they are more than made up for by the beauty around me.
There are few areas in which I would yield to the stereotypes of women's abilities versus men. I think women can make excellent engineers, they just need to have exposure to the field and its possibilities. Similarly, I think women can make great pilots, great jockeys, great race car drivers. When it comes to me and my ability to park in a small space, however, I have to wonder whether there is any truth to canards about women's more limited spatial perception. At least where I am concerned.
Since the car was vandalized, I have been parking it in the garage that comes with the house. The garage is approached by a narrow path, an easement given by my neighbors across the way. Successful parking involves angling the car almost flush against one of the exterior walls of the garage, then straightening the car out and easing it in slowly, in reverse.
I have only been able to this once, yesterday. As a result, I have made a nice mess of the car, which is scratched in several places. Although the car is a rental, and my experience over the last three years has been that the leasing company has been indulgent, I wonder whether I have just been lucky. I have scratch remover paste which I will be sure to apply diligently before I return the car, but it's frustrating to try and try and try to get the maneuver right only to hear the grinding sound of the car chassis rubbing against the garage wall. What misery!
--At least I don't own the car.
*****
In the almost six weeks I've been here, I have put in heat pumps, and retained a contractor to put in a full bath on the top floor as well as turn the attic into an inhabitable space. I've paid my taxes, participated in the planning meeting for the church bazaar, had two pieces framed, entertained visitors and simultaneously kept up my Monday through Friday gym visits and added several cycling jaunts. I've been bitten by a dog, stung by a horse fly and struggled with the problem of having a dog that does not like being alone and neighbors that are quick to complain if he barks out of loneliness. The car has been vandalized and I've taken to parking it in the garage, an effort that always leads to tears.
You might ask "Why are you doing all this? Wouldn't it be easier to go back to New York, where you would have none of these concerns?"
Well, the truth is that every morning, swallows wake me. I hear them outside my window. I get up and look out towards the Pyrenees: I can't get that back in New York. On a clear night I can see hundreds of stars, the planets Venus and Neptune, too. And when I go for long walks (as Beau and I do every day), I pass some of the most beautiful rolling countryside in the world.
This morning I decided I would find the path that loops from the cemetery in Caunes around the vineyards to a donkey farm and back to its beginning near the ruin of a former chapel of the Carmelite order. Beau and I started out at eleven and were back by one. The path is behind the village foyer, a public space used for village events as well as private festivities. I had never fixed the cemetery on a map, so I wandered near the road to Carcassonne before doubling back and finding the path to the cemetery.
The cemetery is framed by cypresses, tall slender trees. The black-green leaves have a sombre tone, which is why they are ubiquitous in French cemeteries. Past the cemetery there are just fields, rows and rows of vines At one point there is a fork in the road and if you turn left you start your on you way back. Go on a bit further and you encounter two pastures for donkeys and a large house at the top of the hill on the property. It belongs to the owner who runs a business providing rides in the mountains on donkeys.
Where in New York City could I find something like that? So whatever the challenges of living here, they are more than made up for by the beauty around me.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Le Copinage
July 9, 2015
In France it is often better to know someone than to know something, I am coming to learn. I have had reason to experience the difference in connection with the repair of my tires after a vandal deflated two of them a few weeks ago.
I am not someone who knows much about cars and who drives on four wheels and a prayer, if you will. So while my tires got re-inflated, afterwards there was an unexplained yellow exclamation point showing up on the tachometer of the car's dashboard.
I could not figure out why I was getting this signal, and thought it might be a new problem with the car. I took out the manual for the car from the glove compartment to try to find an answer. It was of course, only in French. Flipping through the tables of symbols for the different parts of the car, it appeared to me that the problem might be that there was not enough brake fluid in the car, a dangerous condition which could cause the brakes to fail. When I realized that I had been driving around on possibly compromised brakes, I realized I had to find a mechanic fast.
The question was whether to call the number for service as I had done earlier, or try a local mechanic. If it there was not enough brake fluid in the car, a mechanic could easily add some, but if I called the service number it would take at least a day for the problem to be sorted out. A local mechanic might be quicker, but I did not know anyone reliable, or how to judge anyone I found in the vicinity of Caunes. So what did I do? --I relied on le copinage, that is, my network of contacts, or cronies.
It was simple: I had a problem involving four wheels. Whom to ask? My cycling partners, all local men, with a long history in Caunes and the surrounding villages.
I got up early today to make sure I was at the meeting point first and waited. Sure enough, all three of the men who rode with me confirmed that there was a Citroen dealer in Caunes, which I had not known. My problem was resolved mid-morning, much sooner than it would have been had I called the service number on my lease contract.
What was the problem that caused the warning light to go on? Was it due to a problem with the brake fluid?
No. The problem was that the repairman who picked up the car when I called about the air having been let out of the two tires took the car to the garage and re-inflated the tires without resetting the gauge that measures the pressure on the tires back to the point where it had been. Consequently, the gauge indicated that the pressure on the tires was unsustainable, and the yellow exclamation point lit up. Thanks to the mechanic's carelessness, and because I could not make sense of the French manual, I enjoyed a free night of worry.
The French word insouciant means "carefree", as it does in English. But it also means "careless". And insouciance is very much a part of the mentalite of many French I encounter in business situations:
*The salesman who sells me my WiFi printer does not ask what level MacbookAir I have, so it is unclear whether the printer will be WiFi compatible with my laptop, which uses an operating system more advanced than those for which the printer was built. (I can use the printer by attaching it to the computer with a USB cable, but wanted to use it remotely);
*The saleswoman at La Grand Pharmacie de la Gare rings up three products part of a "buy 2, get the third one free' promotion, but refuses to give me a refund when it turns out one of the purchased products is more than the other --a fact not part of the boldface of the promotion. (She blames me for not looking at the virtually illegible fine print, even though before she rings me up,she makes me go back to the aisle from which I took the products to confirm that the promotion is still on);
These are just two examples to add to my experience with the mechanic that re-inflated my car's tires In stores, when you ask for a product, you had better hope that the sales personnel you ask is working the aisle where the product you need is located. C'est ne pas mon rayon ("It's not my aisle") is such a well-worn response in shops that it has entered the language as a catch-phrase for "no service".
At times, I find myself frustrated by the lack of energy and initiative and ask myself "Would I find this back home?" I have to say "Yes", as anyone who has ever had to find something in a Radio Shack or Best Buy can attest. The attitude of the clerks in New York is lackadaisical, and sometimes insulting, too.
On the other hand, I have never been insulted in a French store, just tested. The check-out clerk at La Grande Pharmacie de la Gare drove me crazy when she told me she could not give me a refund for the item I didn't want at a higher price, but I flummoxed her when I said "Next time, you'll point out the difference before you ring me up, right? --I'm counting on you, copine!"
In France it is often better to know someone than to know something, I am coming to learn. I have had reason to experience the difference in connection with the repair of my tires after a vandal deflated two of them a few weeks ago.
I am not someone who knows much about cars and who drives on four wheels and a prayer, if you will. So while my tires got re-inflated, afterwards there was an unexplained yellow exclamation point showing up on the tachometer of the car's dashboard.
I could not figure out why I was getting this signal, and thought it might be a new problem with the car. I took out the manual for the car from the glove compartment to try to find an answer. It was of course, only in French. Flipping through the tables of symbols for the different parts of the car, it appeared to me that the problem might be that there was not enough brake fluid in the car, a dangerous condition which could cause the brakes to fail. When I realized that I had been driving around on possibly compromised brakes, I realized I had to find a mechanic fast.
The question was whether to call the number for service as I had done earlier, or try a local mechanic. If it there was not enough brake fluid in the car, a mechanic could easily add some, but if I called the service number it would take at least a day for the problem to be sorted out. A local mechanic might be quicker, but I did not know anyone reliable, or how to judge anyone I found in the vicinity of Caunes. So what did I do? --I relied on le copinage, that is, my network of contacts, or cronies.
It was simple: I had a problem involving four wheels. Whom to ask? My cycling partners, all local men, with a long history in Caunes and the surrounding villages.
I got up early today to make sure I was at the meeting point first and waited. Sure enough, all three of the men who rode with me confirmed that there was a Citroen dealer in Caunes, which I had not known. My problem was resolved mid-morning, much sooner than it would have been had I called the service number on my lease contract.
What was the problem that caused the warning light to go on? Was it due to a problem with the brake fluid?
No. The problem was that the repairman who picked up the car when I called about the air having been let out of the two tires took the car to the garage and re-inflated the tires without resetting the gauge that measures the pressure on the tires back to the point where it had been. Consequently, the gauge indicated that the pressure on the tires was unsustainable, and the yellow exclamation point lit up. Thanks to the mechanic's carelessness, and because I could not make sense of the French manual, I enjoyed a free night of worry.
The French word insouciant means "carefree", as it does in English. But it also means "careless". And insouciance is very much a part of the mentalite of many French I encounter in business situations:
*The salesman who sells me my WiFi printer does not ask what level MacbookAir I have, so it is unclear whether the printer will be WiFi compatible with my laptop, which uses an operating system more advanced than those for which the printer was built. (I can use the printer by attaching it to the computer with a USB cable, but wanted to use it remotely);
*The saleswoman at La Grand Pharmacie de la Gare rings up three products part of a "buy 2, get the third one free' promotion, but refuses to give me a refund when it turns out one of the purchased products is more than the other --a fact not part of the boldface of the promotion. (She blames me for not looking at the virtually illegible fine print, even though before she rings me up,she makes me go back to the aisle from which I took the products to confirm that the promotion is still on);
These are just two examples to add to my experience with the mechanic that re-inflated my car's tires In stores, when you ask for a product, you had better hope that the sales personnel you ask is working the aisle where the product you need is located. C'est ne pas mon rayon ("It's not my aisle") is such a well-worn response in shops that it has entered the language as a catch-phrase for "no service".
At times, I find myself frustrated by the lack of energy and initiative and ask myself "Would I find this back home?" I have to say "Yes", as anyone who has ever had to find something in a Radio Shack or Best Buy can attest. The attitude of the clerks in New York is lackadaisical, and sometimes insulting, too.
On the other hand, I have never been insulted in a French store, just tested. The check-out clerk at La Grande Pharmacie de la Gare drove me crazy when she told me she could not give me a refund for the item I didn't want at a higher price, but I flummoxed her when I said "Next time, you'll point out the difference before you ring me up, right? --I'm counting on you, copine!"
Monday, July 6, 2015
Johnny Hallyday On The Road
July 6, 2015
Johnny Hallyday, France's only rocker, is on the road again. Seventy-two years old, he played Nimes and comes to Carcassonne later this week.
Hallyday fans (and they are almost all French) embrace Johnny as one of their own, notwithstanding that he was born in Belgium. Hallyday is a tall, strapping man, 6'1". He dresses like a gunslinger crossed with a motorcycle rider: black leather pants, sometimes fringed, showing off his long legs and shapely bottom. He wears black leather jackets to match his chaps and his shirts are always open to the sternum, accented by a circlet. Broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, he cuts a fine figure.
He wears his hair shorter now, and sports a goatee, but it is still a mane, now brown, but once shoulder-length and golden. Broad forehead, large nose, high cheekbones, a stance at once challenging and seductive, he is an idol and he knows it. Fans buy "Johnny Hallyday" beach towels with the image of their man on a motorcycle, head down, looking right at you, cruising down the highway. They are always in evidence at concerts, along with other "Johnny" paraphernalia
He sings in English and French and the beat is pulsing. "I love ya' honey" he belts, picking up the microphone with one hand and striding across the stage.
Mick Jagger is a shrimp. Johnny Hallyday is a shark. No Peter Pan, he celebrates his audience as well as himself, throwing out bits of clothing, the handkerchief he wipes his face with between songs.
Life, love, betrayal and rising from the ashes of all these are the stock in trade of his songs. The suggestion that "I don't give a damn" (je m'en fous) is part of Johnny's allure. His many fans are people in France whose lives allow them few pretensions, the gas station owners, the cafe proprietors and the people who work for them. Here are the lyrics of his song "Fool For The Blues":
Don't say you love me babe,
Johnny Hallyday, France's only rocker, is on the road again. Seventy-two years old, he played Nimes and comes to Carcassonne later this week.
Hallyday fans (and they are almost all French) embrace Johnny as one of their own, notwithstanding that he was born in Belgium. Hallyday is a tall, strapping man, 6'1". He dresses like a gunslinger crossed with a motorcycle rider: black leather pants, sometimes fringed, showing off his long legs and shapely bottom. He wears black leather jackets to match his chaps and his shirts are always open to the sternum, accented by a circlet. Broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, he cuts a fine figure.
He wears his hair shorter now, and sports a goatee, but it is still a mane, now brown, but once shoulder-length and golden. Broad forehead, large nose, high cheekbones, a stance at once challenging and seductive, he is an idol and he knows it. Fans buy "Johnny Hallyday" beach towels with the image of their man on a motorcycle, head down, looking right at you, cruising down the highway. They are always in evidence at concerts, along with other "Johnny" paraphernalia
He sings in English and French and the beat is pulsing. "I love ya' honey" he belts, picking up the microphone with one hand and striding across the stage.
Mick Jagger is a shrimp. Johnny Hallyday is a shark. No Peter Pan, he celebrates his audience as well as himself, throwing out bits of clothing, the handkerchief he wipes his face with between songs.
Life, love, betrayal and rising from the ashes of all these are the stock in trade of his songs. The suggestion that "I don't give a damn" (je m'en fous) is part of Johnny's allure. His many fans are people in France whose lives allow them few pretensions, the gas station owners, the cafe proprietors and the people who work for them. Here are the lyrics of his song "Fool For The Blues":
Don't say you love me babe,
I know you'd be lying
I can see it in your smile
It's like a drug now
You're addicted to them blues
Always getting high
Oh ! But the rain it falls
From the way I feel, the way I feel
Empty souls and empty hearts
We don't choose, I'm still a
Fool for the blues
Oh those bitter words
Do someone hurt you bad?
All this pain
We have inside all of us
From the love we never had
Oh ! And the rain still falls
But I know baby through it all
Oh ! They say time will heal
But I know from the way I feel, the way I feel
Empty souls and empty hearts we don't choose
I'm still a fool the blues
Empty souls and empty hearts we don't choose
I'm still a fool for the blues
I can see it in your smile
It's like a drug now
You're addicted to them blues
Always getting high
Oh ! But the rain it falls
From the way I feel, the way I feel
Empty souls and empty hearts
We don't choose, I'm still a
Fool for the blues
Oh those bitter words
How they hurt me baby
All this pain
We have inside all of us
From the love we never had
Oh ! And the rain still falls
But I know baby through it all
Oh ! They say time will heal
But I know from the way I feel, the way I feel
Empty souls and empty hearts we don't choose
I'm still a fool the blues
Empty souls and empty hearts we don't choose
I'm still a fool for the blues
Notwithstanding his image, Johnny is astute:he moved to Switzerland to reduce his tax burden, and maintains a home in Los Angeles, which he likes because he can live unrecognized, taking long motorcycle rides and staying in nondescript motels. Recently diagnosed with colon cancer , he was successfully treated. His review in last Sunday's Le Figaro indicates he can still put audiences in a frenzy : Johnny Hallyday; solide come un rock.
Johnny Hallyday, 18 platinum albums, the French 'Elvis'. Vive le rock francais!
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Greeks Vote "No", not "Nai"
July 5, 2015
The Greeks have voted "No" rather than "Nai" ("Yes" in Greek), massively rejecting the terms of lenders. Tomorrow, Angela Merkel and Francois Hollande will have a long day's working session, trying to navigate the news.
The idea of Merkel, the right-leaning daughter of an East German clergyman; and Hollande, the left-leaning well-fed son of an attorney from Correze; trying to manage the politics of a renegade Greece, that gave the raspberry to the financial parameters of EU membership, beggars the imagination.
However, both are forced by circumstances to find common ground on Greece. Each of their countries are the biggest lenders to Greece, and if "Grexit" happens, it will be on their necks.
Hollande's Socialist leanings mean that he must publicly demonstrate sympathy for the Greeks; Merkel, on the other hand, must bow to the rigor Germans expect in financial matters. Both know that the Greek economy is now in no better shape than it was when the country joined the EU, and that the interest rates demanded will keep Greece a sort of "banana republic" for the foreseeable future.
No German banker (--and perhaps no German) would have agreed to the terms of Greece's entry into the EU. However, German and French bankers saw money to be made from Greece and they lent the Greeks money on that supposition. That the Greeks have turned out to be like the "lay-away" customers in ghettos --never arriving at the means to discharge their debt-- does not mean that the return on assets lent has been negligible.
Alex Tsipras has shrewdly played on not just Greek nationalism, but that of nationalist parties in Europe. Thus, a "No", is a way of saying "The contract you made us sign was a contract of adhesion to which we were not equal parties. So we want the contract re-made."
The dilemma is that Spain, Ireland and Portugal took the bargain and the pain when their economies were unable to deliver the benefits on which the loans were predicated. The fear across Europe is that these countries will exit the Euro out of anger that the Greeks are handed special terms.
What to do? The European Union was supposed to evolve into a force that could compete with the U.S. economy, which for purposes of the argument, was supposed to be taken as a major player in the global economy. Events of late are transforming the "European Project" into a squabble between the member countries as a group, outdistanced by countries with populations much more willing to sacrifice for the future of their children.
Whatever the merits of the Greek case for relief, the resulting arrangement will leave Europe as a whole far behind the rest of the world, which is taking a page from the experience.
The Greeks have voted "No" rather than "Nai" ("Yes" in Greek), massively rejecting the terms of lenders. Tomorrow, Angela Merkel and Francois Hollande will have a long day's working session, trying to navigate the news.
The idea of Merkel, the right-leaning daughter of an East German clergyman; and Hollande, the left-leaning well-fed son of an attorney from Correze; trying to manage the politics of a renegade Greece, that gave the raspberry to the financial parameters of EU membership, beggars the imagination.
However, both are forced by circumstances to find common ground on Greece. Each of their countries are the biggest lenders to Greece, and if "Grexit" happens, it will be on their necks.
Hollande's Socialist leanings mean that he must publicly demonstrate sympathy for the Greeks; Merkel, on the other hand, must bow to the rigor Germans expect in financial matters. Both know that the Greek economy is now in no better shape than it was when the country joined the EU, and that the interest rates demanded will keep Greece a sort of "banana republic" for the foreseeable future.
No German banker (--and perhaps no German) would have agreed to the terms of Greece's entry into the EU. However, German and French bankers saw money to be made from Greece and they lent the Greeks money on that supposition. That the Greeks have turned out to be like the "lay-away" customers in ghettos --never arriving at the means to discharge their debt-- does not mean that the return on assets lent has been negligible.
Alex Tsipras has shrewdly played on not just Greek nationalism, but that of nationalist parties in Europe. Thus, a "No", is a way of saying "The contract you made us sign was a contract of adhesion to which we were not equal parties. So we want the contract re-made."
The dilemma is that Spain, Ireland and Portugal took the bargain and the pain when their economies were unable to deliver the benefits on which the loans were predicated. The fear across Europe is that these countries will exit the Euro out of anger that the Greeks are handed special terms.
What to do? The European Union was supposed to evolve into a force that could compete with the U.S. economy, which for purposes of the argument, was supposed to be taken as a major player in the global economy. Events of late are transforming the "European Project" into a squabble between the member countries as a group, outdistanced by countries with populations much more willing to sacrifice for the future of their children.
Whatever the merits of the Greek case for relief, the resulting arrangement will leave Europe as a whole far behind the rest of the world, which is taking a page from the experience.
Cloistered
July 5, 2015
The Languedoc has forty-eight monasteries and convents by one count, and France many more. So it's not surprising that in French, the verbs "to cloister" --cloitrer) , or "to cloister oneself" --se cloitrer-- (both bearing an accent circonflex over the "i" I'm unable to reproduce here)-- are used more frequently than in English.
As I learned to my surprise hearing a news report about the heat wave on one of the major stations. The presenter --contrasting the behavior of tourists, out in full strength in Paris and other tourist centers, notwithstanding the intense heat-- said the French response to the high temperatures was "to cloister themselves".
Which explains why, when you are anywhere in France on a particularly hot summer afternoon, all the windows and doors are shuttered. When they are closed, French houses, many made of stone, with heavy tile floors, are surprisingly cool, even in the hottest weather. (My own house is always ten degrees colder than it is outside. ) Shuttered windows look unwelcoming, but it is the custom here. And those locals who keep some windows open during the day shutter them religiously at night, the sound of groaning latches audible throughout the village once the sun has set. In the winter, the same logic prevails, in reverse: energy is to be conserved, heat kept in. Many people still heat their houses using fireplaces with ducts from which heat rises to the upper floors to heat their houses. The former owners of my house did so, supplementing the heat from the one fireplace with portable electric heaters for the coldest days. As do the old couple down the road from me, whose three chimneys supply all the heat for their home.
Picture windows, air conditioning and central heating are not features of old French houses. Those features are available in new construction, in planned developments that cater to well-off people, not the average. Which means that the average French home is a place where entertaining is frequently limited to close family members. The French are very social, but because few people have the money to spend on modern conveniences for their homes that many Americans take for granted, much of social life is conducted in public spaces. For instance, today, the Anti-Cancer League in the village is hosting a day dedicated to educating villagers about the disease. Tuesday, in Villefranche --the next village towards Carcassonne-- there will be a party with music and food, a subscription event. Next month, the chapel where I go to Mass will hold its annual picnic and bazaar. The price of all events is 15 Euros, food included. These events are how most of the French meet their compatriots.
The France of intimate dinner parties and champagne toasts is limited to the gratin, the upper crust in Paris and big cities such as Toulouse, Nice and Lyon. On the rare occasions when one is invited to a meal at someone's house, it's usually a lunch on Sunday, and the table is set for a large group. At lunch, the French talk and talk and talk about not much of anything, the whole purpose of the gathering being to enjoy good food and wine in the company of others. Serious subjects are banned, unless they concern food. After a long Sunday lunch, everyone goes home and takes a sieste, an afternoon nap.
Most of the time, however, everyone makes do without much fuss. An elderly local woman and her husband live in a very old house whose back stands behind the old village walls, walls that date from the time when a much smaller village, before the village expanded beyond the walls. The house has little light, but there is a walled back garden, a place where the owners plant some flowers, some herbs and some tomatoes. It is their pride and joy, and it was a signal honor to have been invited inside to see the house and garden.
What do they do on a hot day? After a bit of lunch they take a sieste, the television in the sitting room lulling them to sleep. They are perfectly happy. The house has been in the family for generations, it is where their son and his wife and their two young children will move while renovations are being done to their house. Neither the older generation nor the younger has any desire to live anywhere other than Caunes. They know all about picture windows and such modern conveniences, but they see no need for them.
Their homes in Caunes are their cloister. In their homes they escape the world. Not for them and the other villageois the bustle of cities. The Caunois work hard, and they are not unaware of what is going on in the world beyond Caunes, but they prefer to keep away from the madding crowd, and have little desire to know more of it.
"The French have a remarkable capacity for minding their own business" wrote the author of Instructions for American Servicemen in France, a guidebook for U.S. Servicemen serving there during World War II.
As so much of what is contained in the book reminds me of the villagers of Caunes, I quote from it here:
You have certainly heard of gay Paree. Yet the French have far less the regular habit of pleasure than we Americans. Even before the Nazi occupation, when the French were still free to have a good time, they had it as a special event and managed it thriftily. A whole French family would spend less on pleasure in a month than you would spend over a weekend. The French reputation for gayety was principally built on the civilized French way of doing things; by the French people's good taste; by their interest in quality, not quantity; and by the lively energy of their minds. The French are intelligent, have mostly had a sensible education, without frills, are industrious, shrewd and frugal.
The French are not given to confidences, or to telling how much money they make --or used to make --or bragging. And they think little of such talk in others. The French have a remarkable capacity for minding their own business. Even in the days when they used to travel, before the Nazis shut down on it, the French never used to sit down in a railway station and tell their private affairs to a total stranger. They are observant, don't think they won't notice what you do. But they have little curiosity.
All the author writes rings true in my experience. The longer I live here, the more I realize how much happier these folk --cloistered in their modest homes-- are than many of their urban counterparts. The idyllic landscape, the fertile land, the dominance of agriculture still in the hands of families, the resulting slow pace of life, seems to make for greater happiness, the limitated cultural possibilities notwithstanding. Everyone has to entertain themselves, but there is no shortage of people who do so successfully: women who embroider beautifully, lending their talents to the church bazaar, people who read, who tinker, who cook, who garden. Not everyone has the self-reliance to live here, but those who do are, I believe, happy.
--Thoreau would have liked Caunes. For after all, wasn't Walden a cloister, when you come right down to it?
The Languedoc has forty-eight monasteries and convents by one count, and France many more. So it's not surprising that in French, the verbs "to cloister" --cloitrer) , or "to cloister oneself" --se cloitrer-- (both bearing an accent circonflex over the "i" I'm unable to reproduce here)-- are used more frequently than in English.
As I learned to my surprise hearing a news report about the heat wave on one of the major stations. The presenter --contrasting the behavior of tourists, out in full strength in Paris and other tourist centers, notwithstanding the intense heat-- said the French response to the high temperatures was "to cloister themselves".
Which explains why, when you are anywhere in France on a particularly hot summer afternoon, all the windows and doors are shuttered. When they are closed, French houses, many made of stone, with heavy tile floors, are surprisingly cool, even in the hottest weather. (My own house is always ten degrees colder than it is outside. ) Shuttered windows look unwelcoming, but it is the custom here. And those locals who keep some windows open during the day shutter them religiously at night, the sound of groaning latches audible throughout the village once the sun has set. In the winter, the same logic prevails, in reverse: energy is to be conserved, heat kept in. Many people still heat their houses using fireplaces with ducts from which heat rises to the upper floors to heat their houses. The former owners of my house did so, supplementing the heat from the one fireplace with portable electric heaters for the coldest days. As do the old couple down the road from me, whose three chimneys supply all the heat for their home.
Picture windows, air conditioning and central heating are not features of old French houses. Those features are available in new construction, in planned developments that cater to well-off people, not the average. Which means that the average French home is a place where entertaining is frequently limited to close family members. The French are very social, but because few people have the money to spend on modern conveniences for their homes that many Americans take for granted, much of social life is conducted in public spaces. For instance, today, the Anti-Cancer League in the village is hosting a day dedicated to educating villagers about the disease. Tuesday, in Villefranche --the next village towards Carcassonne-- there will be a party with music and food, a subscription event. Next month, the chapel where I go to Mass will hold its annual picnic and bazaar. The price of all events is 15 Euros, food included. These events are how most of the French meet their compatriots.
The France of intimate dinner parties and champagne toasts is limited to the gratin, the upper crust in Paris and big cities such as Toulouse, Nice and Lyon. On the rare occasions when one is invited to a meal at someone's house, it's usually a lunch on Sunday, and the table is set for a large group. At lunch, the French talk and talk and talk about not much of anything, the whole purpose of the gathering being to enjoy good food and wine in the company of others. Serious subjects are banned, unless they concern food. After a long Sunday lunch, everyone goes home and takes a sieste, an afternoon nap.
Most of the time, however, everyone makes do without much fuss. An elderly local woman and her husband live in a very old house whose back stands behind the old village walls, walls that date from the time when a much smaller village, before the village expanded beyond the walls. The house has little light, but there is a walled back garden, a place where the owners plant some flowers, some herbs and some tomatoes. It is their pride and joy, and it was a signal honor to have been invited inside to see the house and garden.
What do they do on a hot day? After a bit of lunch they take a sieste, the television in the sitting room lulling them to sleep. They are perfectly happy. The house has been in the family for generations, it is where their son and his wife and their two young children will move while renovations are being done to their house. Neither the older generation nor the younger has any desire to live anywhere other than Caunes. They know all about picture windows and such modern conveniences, but they see no need for them.
Their homes in Caunes are their cloister. In their homes they escape the world. Not for them and the other villageois the bustle of cities. The Caunois work hard, and they are not unaware of what is going on in the world beyond Caunes, but they prefer to keep away from the madding crowd, and have little desire to know more of it.
"The French have a remarkable capacity for minding their own business" wrote the author of Instructions for American Servicemen in France, a guidebook for U.S. Servicemen serving there during World War II.
As so much of what is contained in the book reminds me of the villagers of Caunes, I quote from it here:
You have certainly heard of gay Paree. Yet the French have far less the regular habit of pleasure than we Americans. Even before the Nazi occupation, when the French were still free to have a good time, they had it as a special event and managed it thriftily. A whole French family would spend less on pleasure in a month than you would spend over a weekend. The French reputation for gayety was principally built on the civilized French way of doing things; by the French people's good taste; by their interest in quality, not quantity; and by the lively energy of their minds. The French are intelligent, have mostly had a sensible education, without frills, are industrious, shrewd and frugal.
The French are not given to confidences, or to telling how much money they make --or used to make --or bragging. And they think little of such talk in others. The French have a remarkable capacity for minding their own business. Even in the days when they used to travel, before the Nazis shut down on it, the French never used to sit down in a railway station and tell their private affairs to a total stranger. They are observant, don't think they won't notice what you do. But they have little curiosity.
All the author writes rings true in my experience. The longer I live here, the more I realize how much happier these folk --cloistered in their modest homes-- are than many of their urban counterparts. The idyllic landscape, the fertile land, the dominance of agriculture still in the hands of families, the resulting slow pace of life, seems to make for greater happiness, the limitated cultural possibilities notwithstanding. Everyone has to entertain themselves, but there is no shortage of people who do so successfully: women who embroider beautifully, lending their talents to the church bazaar, people who read, who tinker, who cook, who garden. Not everyone has the self-reliance to live here, but those who do are, I believe, happy.
--Thoreau would have liked Caunes. For after all, wasn't Walden a cloister, when you come right down to it?
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