August 30, 2015
I have to pick up an English visitor, Matthew Haley, at the Carcassonne railroad station by 4:30 p.m., but otherwise, Sunday is mine to enjoy.
So I decide it would be fun to take Beau on a long walk in the mountains. At a few minutes of nine in the morning, Caunes and the vicinity are dead quiet, perhaps everyone is sleeping in after the last of the summer parties before the rentree. Well after midnight, I heard music coming from the heart of the village: La Mangeoire, a restaurant-cum-music venue, is closing, driven out by La Cantine du Cure, which also offers music --and less pricey food. So Saturday night was for last hurrahs, and Sunday for facing Monday.
While some people like being in a crowd, I prefer to be by myself, so the early mornings here are heaven for me, particularly today's. Beau and I walk up the road leading to the marble quarry, then move off it onto a mountain path which Beau manages easily; I clamber up, holding onto what scrub there is and digging in. We both make it, and find ourselves in front of the marble statue of the Assyrian lion on the road to the quarry. At the fork in the road, a ways down from there, I choose to go towards Citou, in the mountains, rather than to the marble cliffs. I walked part of the path with Beau a few weeks ago, but was turned back by rain. I want to see whether I can get to Citou, 9 kilometers away, and then back to Caunes.
The path is easy to walk, wide and meant for cars, the forest on both sides of us. Beau and I walk and walk as the path rises and rises. Soon I am looking across mountain valleys to mountains on all sides of me. I wonder whether the hike is ill-advised: it's boar hunting season. If I came upon a boar, I'd have to shout and scream, I decide, my first thought being of Beau. I am disabused of my fear, though, when I see a quartet of the physically fit coming towards me: two are women, jogging, two are men on mountain bikes. I ask how far it is to Citou and then Caunes, and am told Citou is another hour's walk, Caunes an hour from there. One of the cyclists tells me:
But instead of going to Citou, you can take a short cut to Bidaud, a hamlet off the path, a cluster of one or two houses. Walk about 2 kilometers until you see a fork in the road. There will be a sign on your left showing you the way to the path to Bidaud --there's a cross next to it.
I do just that, and pass another pair of mountain bikers, then a hunter in a truck with four hounds in the back. He stops, then tells me he's looking for two of his pack, who escaped while he was hunting earlier this morning. The dogs' names are Hector and Athos. I tell him I will look out for them, and indeed, I call their names several times on my walk, but they never cross my path.
It's obvious that the path I thought utterly unfrequented is not as isolated as I thought, which is good news. Beau and I walk along until I find the fork in the road and beyond it, the sign says "Caunes-Minervois", and points to a path through the trees. I leash Beau, for his safety --and mine. Now Beau and I are on a narrow, rocky path cleared on the mountain's edge. The path is no more than 18" wide. On my right is the slope, with its low-lying vegetation; on the right is the drop.
Beau is so surefooted I have to tell him "doucement, doucement" to get him to slow down. Nonetheless, his confidence bolsters mine, although I never look up from the path so long as there is no forest cover on my right. I know of someone who died instantly after falling three hundred feet, an experienced mountain climber, killed when the rock he was using to lift himself up the peak gave way. If I turn my ankle or Beau deviates from the path or injures himself, a casual hike could become an emergency. So I am very, very careful, and we make it down to Bidaud where we are joined by the owner of one of the two houses, taking his Newfoundland and his Labrador out for a walk in the woods.
The Newfoundland (called a Terre Neuve, in French) is a chestnut brown monarch-of-a-dog, the Labrador a handsome brown, too. The owner is wearing a t-shirt that says "Dogtown" and a baseball cap that says PS4 Clermont-Auvergne, and he is wearing very large-framed sunglasses tinted amber, that is, Blublockers, eyeglasses that filter out insomnia-producing blue light. In a word, as well as being a dog owner, he is a skateboarder, and a video gamer who spends long hours at his computer in Bidaud.
The man points me to the main road and explains that the path I've been on continues to the marble quarry in Caunes. I have had enough of mountain paths for today, so I thank him and negotiate my way around the fallen pine tree on the path at the level of the roof of his house (a good way of keeping the path to himself). I reach the main road, joining Beau, who has easily managed the descent ahead of me.
The road is for cars, although it is still lovely to walk along. There is a small bridge, said to have been built by the Romans, with a gite on the other side. There is another gite closer to Caunes, and within the outer limits of the village, the water mill. There I find Claire Dedecker, my Belgian friend, and her dog, Rustine.
There were 250 people at the concert on Friday night, she tells me. Claire was managing the gate Friday night and is involved with an association that organizes activities in Caunes during the summer. She continues:
So we made enough money to pay the musicians. We'll have lunch with them shortly and discuss whether to do the event again last year. They made the money they asked for --otherwise the association would have had to fill in the difference. There were two people who showed up under the influence of drugs --a young man, well-dressed, and a young woman whose exuberance could only be due to drugs.
The young people who came didn't like the music: they wanted hip-hop. The music the musicians played was --well, it was our generation's. So they didn't like that. And most of the people who came were English --Thank God for the English! The villagers don't spend, they're either cheap or just not interested in the music.
Earlier this summer, someone died during a "rave" in a house in the mountains. So it is not as though having more rock concerts --or hip-hop concerts-- would be introducing something unknown --rock; or rap-- or drugs, to Caunes. I can't help feeling though, that I would rather Caunes remain sleepy for as long as possible.
I much prefer worrying about wild boars to worrying about drug-using locals.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Saturday, August 29, 2015
The Inviolate Self
August 29, 2015
I have taken to driving to Saint Vincent church in Carcassonne for Mass on Saturday evenings. It gives me an opportunity to leave Beau alone for a few hours, continuing the training I started in June. Thankfully, the separation anxiety that scotched my summer cycling plans appears to be under control.
I could go to Notre Dame du Cros on Sundays at 6:00 p.m., but prefer to go somewhere I can be anonymous. And the organ at Saint Vincent is extraordinary, as are the organists.
I'd be less than honest, though, if I did not admit that having gotten to know the personalities that frequent the village church, I prefer to keep a respectful distance. There are some great gossips among the parishoners, people who greet you, then ask personal questions. Then there are people who just talk --and talk-- and talk. There's one woman who, whenever I see her, never ceases to try to engage me in a long limitless conversation. I always have to say I've got an errand to run if I'm going to break away.
Some lives are interesting, some are made interesting by knowing the business of others. In villages, that is a fact of life. There's a fine balance between being friendly and having everything about you broadcast around Caunes.
At Saint Vincent I see the same people from where I sit --off to the side, at the front. The eucharistic ministers sit together: a rotund woman with bright blue eyes and a ready smile who always wears a turban; a man with black hair, very tanned skin and large black eyes; and a woman with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, also tanned. She always goes up to the altar at the end of Mass to pick up communion for the homebound. They and the other parishioners are incurious about visitors, and I like that. They're "big city" folk, and know Carcassonne's churches are the object of great interest from tourists, so they've no need to investigate every new face.
In a small village like Caunes, the opposite is true. Someone new is an object of curiosity, particularly if they are not French. I have made wonderful friends in the village, but I have also learned that "good fences make good neighbors". Keeping my distance is a way of preserving my inviolate self, which remains American at its core. Much as I love France and the French, I always know that in speaking the language there is a level of nuance that I will always approximate, never master. It is wonderful that as many of the people I meet as I do seem to believe that for a foreigner, I have integrated myself into life in Caunes as well as I have.
From a French national, there is no greater compliment. The curious thing about the French is that they don't expect you to become French, just to respect to the fullest, French ways. Becoming French, that's a lifetime's work, if you would want to undertake it. Anyone who has succeeded at that --for instance, the British writer Julian Green-- has a statut (standing) of "more French than most French" --and will be honored by the government for exceptional promotion of French values.
So the French expect you to remain English, or American --or whatever country they associate you with. You earn their regard by managing to do two things at once: remain who you were born, but manage to adapt to France. So I can remain my inviolate, Americaine d'origine espagnole self (American with parents from Spain), while managing happily among the French. In fact, upon learning I was not a "pure" American, but had Spanish parents, a gentleman told me, "Ah, yes! I thought so --you have that imperturbability the Spanish have."
Perhaps it's a function of being the most visited country in the world, and the country at the top of almost everyone's "trip abroad" list, that gives the French the confidence to accept the national differences in their midst without feeling threatened by the number of foreigners who choose to make France either a second home or a primary residence, let alone the millions that visit as tourists. Foreigners bring money in, so they are welcomed, as long as they don't try to become French citizens. That is virtually impossible, even for those born of foreign parents but raised in France. From the point of view of many French, it takes generations to be fully French, and in some cases, not even then, if "foreign habits" persist. (A funny example: using granulated sugar rather than sugar cubes is Not French, and looked down upon as offering sugar you would bake with, rather than entertain with, a faux pas.)
So France is a great country to be a foreigner with some means who is happy to be nothing more than that. It's only when you try to pass yourself off as French that the inviolabillity of the pact between France and its foreign friends breaks down.
It's a little bit like Japan, in that sense, as the story of Lafacadio Hearn makes clear. Hearn was a gifted journalist and travel writer who started out in New Orleans. He travelled to Japan and fell in love with the country. Feted everywhere, he decided Japan was where he would live out the rest of his days and sought citizenship, which he received. However, once a citizen, he was no longer a guest and entitled to the hospitality he had so loved. Not being ethnically Japanese. he fell into the lowest status in the Japanese caste system. He died scorned by the country and the people he had celebrated.
I have taken to driving to Saint Vincent church in Carcassonne for Mass on Saturday evenings. It gives me an opportunity to leave Beau alone for a few hours, continuing the training I started in June. Thankfully, the separation anxiety that scotched my summer cycling plans appears to be under control.
I could go to Notre Dame du Cros on Sundays at 6:00 p.m., but prefer to go somewhere I can be anonymous. And the organ at Saint Vincent is extraordinary, as are the organists.
I'd be less than honest, though, if I did not admit that having gotten to know the personalities that frequent the village church, I prefer to keep a respectful distance. There are some great gossips among the parishoners, people who greet you, then ask personal questions. Then there are people who just talk --and talk-- and talk. There's one woman who, whenever I see her, never ceases to try to engage me in a long limitless conversation. I always have to say I've got an errand to run if I'm going to break away.
Some lives are interesting, some are made interesting by knowing the business of others. In villages, that is a fact of life. There's a fine balance between being friendly and having everything about you broadcast around Caunes.
At Saint Vincent I see the same people from where I sit --off to the side, at the front. The eucharistic ministers sit together: a rotund woman with bright blue eyes and a ready smile who always wears a turban; a man with black hair, very tanned skin and large black eyes; and a woman with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, also tanned. She always goes up to the altar at the end of Mass to pick up communion for the homebound. They and the other parishioners are incurious about visitors, and I like that. They're "big city" folk, and know Carcassonne's churches are the object of great interest from tourists, so they've no need to investigate every new face.
In a small village like Caunes, the opposite is true. Someone new is an object of curiosity, particularly if they are not French. I have made wonderful friends in the village, but I have also learned that "good fences make good neighbors". Keeping my distance is a way of preserving my inviolate self, which remains American at its core. Much as I love France and the French, I always know that in speaking the language there is a level of nuance that I will always approximate, never master. It is wonderful that as many of the people I meet as I do seem to believe that for a foreigner, I have integrated myself into life in Caunes as well as I have.
From a French national, there is no greater compliment. The curious thing about the French is that they don't expect you to become French, just to respect to the fullest, French ways. Becoming French, that's a lifetime's work, if you would want to undertake it. Anyone who has succeeded at that --for instance, the British writer Julian Green-- has a statut (standing) of "more French than most French" --and will be honored by the government for exceptional promotion of French values.
So the French expect you to remain English, or American --or whatever country they associate you with. You earn their regard by managing to do two things at once: remain who you were born, but manage to adapt to France. So I can remain my inviolate, Americaine d'origine espagnole self (American with parents from Spain), while managing happily among the French. In fact, upon learning I was not a "pure" American, but had Spanish parents, a gentleman told me, "Ah, yes! I thought so --you have that imperturbability the Spanish have."
Perhaps it's a function of being the most visited country in the world, and the country at the top of almost everyone's "trip abroad" list, that gives the French the confidence to accept the national differences in their midst without feeling threatened by the number of foreigners who choose to make France either a second home or a primary residence, let alone the millions that visit as tourists. Foreigners bring money in, so they are welcomed, as long as they don't try to become French citizens. That is virtually impossible, even for those born of foreign parents but raised in France. From the point of view of many French, it takes generations to be fully French, and in some cases, not even then, if "foreign habits" persist. (A funny example: using granulated sugar rather than sugar cubes is Not French, and looked down upon as offering sugar you would bake with, rather than entertain with, a faux pas.)
So France is a great country to be a foreigner with some means who is happy to be nothing more than that. It's only when you try to pass yourself off as French that the inviolabillity of the pact between France and its foreign friends breaks down.
It's a little bit like Japan, in that sense, as the story of Lafacadio Hearn makes clear. Hearn was a gifted journalist and travel writer who started out in New Orleans. He travelled to Japan and fell in love with the country. Feted everywhere, he decided Japan was where he would live out the rest of his days and sought citizenship, which he received. However, once a citizen, he was no longer a guest and entitled to the hospitality he had so loved. Not being ethnically Japanese. he fell into the lowest status in the Japanese caste system. He died scorned by the country and the people he had celebrated.
Friday, August 28, 2015
Woodstock in the Minervois
August 28, 2015
After another day of errands that took me from Caunes to Peyriac to Carcassonne, plus a meeting with an electrician about the set up for a mechanized awning on the terrace, I thought I would not have the energy to go out to the rock concert at the marble quarry at Villerambert tonight .
However, the meeting with the electrician went well --he will charge me about 80 Euros for his work, rather than the 500-1000 Euros the salesman suggested. I was particularly concerned to know the electrician's price for the work because all purchases and services in France are subject to a value-added tax. The tax is 10% for primary homes, but 20% for residence secondaires --which gets into money. In other words, in addition to the considerable cost of the awning unit (several thousand dollars), because the house is not my primary residence, one fifth of the awning's value is added on in tax, as is the case with the electrician's services. So a charge of 500-1000 Euros for electrical work would be subject to tax of between 100 and 200 Euros, not a derisory amount on top of the already high total cost of the awning unit.
The good news plus a trip to the gym and a shower lifted my spirits. Rock concerts are not my entertainment of choice, but the concert was well-publicized. And having attended classical music concerts at Villerambert with receptions in the courtyard of the chateau after, I thought at least the reception would be worth attending.
As it turns out, the concert was not where the classical concerts had been, but in a small corner of the quarry. And the food and drinks were not served in the courtyard of the chateau, but at the entrance to the quarry.
Still, I hoped for a Dionysian night, given that the main act, a band called 6'3", was fronted by Steven "Boltz" Bolton, who toured with The Who in 1989. I could certainly enjoy danceable music, and we were told that the 10 Euro ticket included two drinks.
Well, le tout Caunes was there (including the Mayor), but Woodstock-in-the-Minervois it wasn't. Firstly, one glance at the crowd-- mostly people in their sixties or older, retired English and French-- suggested the evening would be sedate Secondly, once past the entrance to the quarry, all alcoholic beverages were prohibited. My friend Chantal (with whom I attended the concert), had to down her wine and drop the plastic glass in a garbage bag before she could proceed, likewise me and my own non-alcoholic beverage. And the only drink that came with the ticket was a bottle of water. The concert was a "dry" one.
There were no toilets and nowhere to wash your hands, so that was like Woodstock. One of the ticket-takers joked that there were "men" bushes and "women" bushes to pee against --or behind, depending on your gender. And indeed, such was the case.
The first band, Bruise, was fronted by a woman, and played danceable music. There were folding chairs set up around the bandstand, although some people wisely brought their own --because there were not enough chairs for everyone who bought a ticket to the event. The band fronted by Steve Bolton, accompanied by a bass guitarist and a drummer, played "songs", rather than dance tunes.
By this point, Chantal and I called it quits. My sandals and feet were covered with marble dust, as was Beau. I'd had to "go" in the bushes, and we hadn't had seats. Neither Chantal nor me could enjoy anything other than water and listen to the bands at the same time. (Anyone who wanted a drink had to walk back to the entrance and consume it there, then walk back to the bandstand.)
Nevertheless, the audience in the seats was still there, no one moving, as Steve Boltz demonstrated his command of the electric guitar, riffs tumbling from his fingers, one after another. This was the act everyone would ask about the next day, the fame of The Who having travelled even to this remote corner of France. Which reminds me of hearing a young Frenchman tell me of his experience attending a rock concert with American friends in the United States:
During and after each song, his friends got up, screaming their approval and applauding furiously. He merely sat there and politely applauded. His American hosts were mystified:
Didn't you like the band's music? they asked.
Oh, yes, he replied.
Then why were you so restrained in showing it? they pursued.
Because in France we don't do as you do, we just applaud politely, he explained.
I wonder which group --the Anglophone ex-pats, or the French-- the audience mainly consisted of: that will determine whether the musicians feel appreciated or that they were just passing the time.
We had brought our dogs with us, and they were, a saving grace, allowed into the quarry. They frolicked gaily amid the marble, and both became covered with marble dust. They were far from the only dogs brought, and credit must be given where credit is due: I don't think dogs usually get to attend rock concerts, so thanks to the organizers for allowing them in. The dogs ran around everywhere, dug up the marble dust, and howled to the music. En bref, they were unbridled in their enjoyment and seemed to get the most out of the evening. They had a Dionysian experience, even if we didn't.
After another day of errands that took me from Caunes to Peyriac to Carcassonne, plus a meeting with an electrician about the set up for a mechanized awning on the terrace, I thought I would not have the energy to go out to the rock concert at the marble quarry at Villerambert tonight .
However, the meeting with the electrician went well --he will charge me about 80 Euros for his work, rather than the 500-1000 Euros the salesman suggested. I was particularly concerned to know the electrician's price for the work because all purchases and services in France are subject to a value-added tax. The tax is 10% for primary homes, but 20% for residence secondaires --which gets into money. In other words, in addition to the considerable cost of the awning unit (several thousand dollars), because the house is not my primary residence, one fifth of the awning's value is added on in tax, as is the case with the electrician's services. So a charge of 500-1000 Euros for electrical work would be subject to tax of between 100 and 200 Euros, not a derisory amount on top of the already high total cost of the awning unit.
The good news plus a trip to the gym and a shower lifted my spirits. Rock concerts are not my entertainment of choice, but the concert was well-publicized. And having attended classical music concerts at Villerambert with receptions in the courtyard of the chateau after, I thought at least the reception would be worth attending.
As it turns out, the concert was not where the classical concerts had been, but in a small corner of the quarry. And the food and drinks were not served in the courtyard of the chateau, but at the entrance to the quarry.
Still, I hoped for a Dionysian night, given that the main act, a band called 6'3", was fronted by Steven "Boltz" Bolton, who toured with The Who in 1989. I could certainly enjoy danceable music, and we were told that the 10 Euro ticket included two drinks.
Well, le tout Caunes was there (including the Mayor), but Woodstock-in-the-Minervois it wasn't. Firstly, one glance at the crowd-- mostly people in their sixties or older, retired English and French-- suggested the evening would be sedate Secondly, once past the entrance to the quarry, all alcoholic beverages were prohibited. My friend Chantal (with whom I attended the concert), had to down her wine and drop the plastic glass in a garbage bag before she could proceed, likewise me and my own non-alcoholic beverage. And the only drink that came with the ticket was a bottle of water. The concert was a "dry" one.
There were no toilets and nowhere to wash your hands, so that was like Woodstock. One of the ticket-takers joked that there were "men" bushes and "women" bushes to pee against --or behind, depending on your gender. And indeed, such was the case.
The first band, Bruise, was fronted by a woman, and played danceable music. There were folding chairs set up around the bandstand, although some people wisely brought their own --because there were not enough chairs for everyone who bought a ticket to the event. The band fronted by Steve Bolton, accompanied by a bass guitarist and a drummer, played "songs", rather than dance tunes.
By this point, Chantal and I called it quits. My sandals and feet were covered with marble dust, as was Beau. I'd had to "go" in the bushes, and we hadn't had seats. Neither Chantal nor me could enjoy anything other than water and listen to the bands at the same time. (Anyone who wanted a drink had to walk back to the entrance and consume it there, then walk back to the bandstand.)
Nevertheless, the audience in the seats was still there, no one moving, as Steve Boltz demonstrated his command of the electric guitar, riffs tumbling from his fingers, one after another. This was the act everyone would ask about the next day, the fame of The Who having travelled even to this remote corner of France. Which reminds me of hearing a young Frenchman tell me of his experience attending a rock concert with American friends in the United States:
During and after each song, his friends got up, screaming their approval and applauding furiously. He merely sat there and politely applauded. His American hosts were mystified:
Didn't you like the band's music? they asked.
Oh, yes, he replied.
Then why were you so restrained in showing it? they pursued.
Because in France we don't do as you do, we just applaud politely, he explained.
I wonder which group --the Anglophone ex-pats, or the French-- the audience mainly consisted of: that will determine whether the musicians feel appreciated or that they were just passing the time.
We had brought our dogs with us, and they were, a saving grace, allowed into the quarry. They frolicked gaily amid the marble, and both became covered with marble dust. They were far from the only dogs brought, and credit must be given where credit is due: I don't think dogs usually get to attend rock concerts, so thanks to the organizers for allowing them in. The dogs ran around everywhere, dug up the marble dust, and howled to the music. En bref, they were unbridled in their enjoyment and seemed to get the most out of the evening. They had a Dionysian experience, even if we didn't.
Thursday, August 27, 2015
L'Arrivet Haut-Brion Bordeaux And Other Wines
August 27, 2015
As I don't tolerate alcohol very well, I drink non-alcoholic wines and beers I find in the "big box" stores at the Pont Rouge shopping center. My first two years here, that meant a trip to Intermarche, now it's Carrefour. The Carrefour store is considerably larger than its predecessor in terms of floor space, and the selection of products is also much greater, and, it seems, of better quality, in most areas, but especially in the wine section.
That section has all the top-flight French wines, whether champagnes or Bordeaux or Burgundies, along with a wide selection of local wines. I can drink rose at lunch without too much risk of becoming ill, so I bought a few bottles of rose d'Anjou the last time I was at Carrefour. Also, almost no one here ever turns down the suggestion of a glass of rose --it's what chardonnay is in the United States.
Now roses can be made in many different styles --those of Provence tend to be dark pink with a strong perfume, those of Bordeaux dry and crisp. Then there are "fruit and wine" mixes (the bottom of the barrel, really): mediocre rose is made salable by the infusion of citrus fruit flavors, a sort of light-weight sangria without the pieces of fruit. A classic rose is rose d'Anjou, from the Loire Valley, with hints of strawberry and gooseberry.
So I buy a few bottles of rose d'Anjou and a few more of a Bordeaux rose made under Philippe de Rothschild's name. I think I cannot go wrong with either choice, but the Rothschild rose is being offered at 3 for the price of 2, an additional incentive.
Across the way, I see a section devoted to the most famous red wines by region: Medoc, Pauillac, Saint Estephe, Saint Emillion and Haut Brion. I catch sight of a single box of Haut Brion, only four bottles left. Haut Brion is grown in the village of Pessac-Leognan in a region called Graves, on the left bank of the Garonne River, southeast of Bordeaux. Haut Brion is famous for being the only wine from that area that was of high enough quality to make it into the classification of the finest Bordeaux growths in 1855, which remains the standard. I remember that when Bill and I were in Bordeaux we came back with a second growth of Chateau Dillon Haut Brion, which is made by the same family that produced Eisenhower's Secretary of the Treasury, C. Douglas Dillon. (You will still find notes with his signature as Secretary in circulation.) The wine cost about $45 dollars, I remember. We could not afford the first growth, so bought the second, which used to be called Chateau Bahans Haut-Brion, but beginning with the 2007 vintage, was renamed Le Clarence de Haut Brion, in honor of the Dillon family member who ran the investment house of Dillon Read when he was not growing wine. The family are of Irish descent and lived in France as "Wild Geese" (the term for the Irish who fled to France) and survived the Revolution.
The Haut Brion I am looking at however, L'Arrivet Haut Brion, is not in that league. It is unfamiliar to me, but I bet that in this price range (about $25USD), this is probably a very good Bordeaux. So I take the bottles (and the wooden box) home.
On arriving at the house I look up the producer on the Internet. A review from Le Figaro --a national newspaper that is an institution in France-- tells me all I need to know:
Complex nose with aromas of black fruits with roasted and toasted notes. The wine is dense, rich and flavorful. The final note is long and harmonious. The constant progress [in the development of the wine] achieved, as attested the excellent reviews given to the 2009 vintage, are just recompense for the revival of the brand. Unclassified in 1959, the [formal] classification still a work in progress, the wine approaches, step by step its great neighbors and continues to offer the wine lover a good perspective in terms of the relationship between quality and price. Average annual production is 150,000 bottles.
For all the challenges life in France presents, there are rewards, as the foregoing review attests. Some lucky guest of mine is going to enjoy a very good wine and I'll be able to serve it without flinching at the sticker price.
As I don't tolerate alcohol very well, I drink non-alcoholic wines and beers I find in the "big box" stores at the Pont Rouge shopping center. My first two years here, that meant a trip to Intermarche, now it's Carrefour. The Carrefour store is considerably larger than its predecessor in terms of floor space, and the selection of products is also much greater, and, it seems, of better quality, in most areas, but especially in the wine section.
That section has all the top-flight French wines, whether champagnes or Bordeaux or Burgundies, along with a wide selection of local wines. I can drink rose at lunch without too much risk of becoming ill, so I bought a few bottles of rose d'Anjou the last time I was at Carrefour. Also, almost no one here ever turns down the suggestion of a glass of rose --it's what chardonnay is in the United States.
Now roses can be made in many different styles --those of Provence tend to be dark pink with a strong perfume, those of Bordeaux dry and crisp. Then there are "fruit and wine" mixes (the bottom of the barrel, really): mediocre rose is made salable by the infusion of citrus fruit flavors, a sort of light-weight sangria without the pieces of fruit. A classic rose is rose d'Anjou, from the Loire Valley, with hints of strawberry and gooseberry.
So I buy a few bottles of rose d'Anjou and a few more of a Bordeaux rose made under Philippe de Rothschild's name. I think I cannot go wrong with either choice, but the Rothschild rose is being offered at 3 for the price of 2, an additional incentive.
Across the way, I see a section devoted to the most famous red wines by region: Medoc, Pauillac, Saint Estephe, Saint Emillion and Haut Brion. I catch sight of a single box of Haut Brion, only four bottles left. Haut Brion is grown in the village of Pessac-Leognan in a region called Graves, on the left bank of the Garonne River, southeast of Bordeaux. Haut Brion is famous for being the only wine from that area that was of high enough quality to make it into the classification of the finest Bordeaux growths in 1855, which remains the standard. I remember that when Bill and I were in Bordeaux we came back with a second growth of Chateau Dillon Haut Brion, which is made by the same family that produced Eisenhower's Secretary of the Treasury, C. Douglas Dillon. (You will still find notes with his signature as Secretary in circulation.) The wine cost about $45 dollars, I remember. We could not afford the first growth, so bought the second, which used to be called Chateau Bahans Haut-Brion, but beginning with the 2007 vintage, was renamed Le Clarence de Haut Brion, in honor of the Dillon family member who ran the investment house of Dillon Read when he was not growing wine. The family are of Irish descent and lived in France as "Wild Geese" (the term for the Irish who fled to France) and survived the Revolution.
The Haut Brion I am looking at however, L'Arrivet Haut Brion, is not in that league. It is unfamiliar to me, but I bet that in this price range (about $25USD), this is probably a very good Bordeaux. So I take the bottles (and the wooden box) home.
On arriving at the house I look up the producer on the Internet. A review from Le Figaro --a national newspaper that is an institution in France-- tells me all I need to know:
Le nez est complexe avec des arômes de fruits noirs et des notes torréfiées et toastées. Le vin est dense, riche et savoureux. La finale est longue et harmonieuse.
Les progrès constants accomplis, comme en attestent les excellentes appréciations données au millésime 2009, sont la juste récompense du travail réalisé pour faire revivre le domaine. Non classé en 1959, alors qu’il était encore en reconstruction, le vin se rapproche pas à pas de ses grands voisins et offre encore à l’amateur de bonnes perspectives en termes de rapport qualité/prix.
La production annuelle moyenne est 150.000 bouteilles.
For all the challenges life in France presents, there are rewards, as the foregoing review attests. Some lucky guest of mine is going to enjoy a very good wine and I'll be able to serve it without flinching at the sticker price.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Visiting the Brigade Gendarmerie
August 26, 2015
Starting in June, I had a variety of charges appear associated to the debit card of my French banking account. Starting with a charge for a toll affiliated with Montelimar, a town in Provence where I have never been. None of them for large amounts, but not ignorable, in my view.
So I went to the bank branch in the village and signaled the dubious charges. My old debit card was cancelled and a new one (with a different access code attached) ordered. The code was sent under separate cover to my address in New York City, while the bank card was sent to me here, delaying the activation of the card a few weeks.
The card and code obtained, I went to the bank yesterday to start the process of investigating the possible fraud on my account. What I learned was that I would have to go to the next village over, Peyriac-Minervois, to the Brigade Gendarmerie there and file an opposition, to initiate an investigation into the charges' source.
In France a bank card will cost you 45 Euros a year, and a replacement card 20 Euros. Unless the second card had to be issued on account of a suspected fraud, in which case you will be reimbursed the cost of the new card --but only when you return from the gendarmerie with a stamped copy of the allegation filed.
So I drove to the brigade gendarmerie in Peyriac with Beau. I have previously dealt with the Police Municipale about all questions having to do with matters in Caunes, such as how to protect the house from burglars, what my obligations are as a dog owner, noise issues. A charge of fraud, however, has to be formalized at the local gendarmerie.
The French gendarmerie is actually a branch of the Army, responsible for the internal security of the country. That status makes its existence impossible in the United States, where the law of posse comitatus forbids the use of federal military personnel in law enforcement. The existence of the gendarmerie is one more aspect of the highly centralized government of France. The brigade is a squad of ten to twenty gendarmes who are responsible for law enforcement in the countryside, and to whom the Police Municipale (who are unarmed) report.
I drive to Peyriac and find the Gendarmerie without difficulty. I have to be let in through an electronically operated gate, then through two electronic doors, to reach the public entrance. There is a stocky, young, bald man in uniform standing next to a man in a much more formal outfit, wearing a kepi, the cap with a horizontal peak. It is only when Beau and I actually enter that I realize I have been looking at a mannequin of the gendarmerie of a century ago. In two places there are signs specifying No Smoking, and a few "missing persons" flyers. Otherwise, the reception area is bare, and immaculate.
The gendarme listens to my explanation for the visit, then tells me I'll have to speak with his female colleague, who will take the report as soon as she's done with what she's now doing. The wait isn't long before a strongly built, pony-tailed woman, brunette, emerges, dressed identically to her male colleague.
She asks me whether my bank card has always been in my possession, which it has been. Then she explains to me that Montelimar is an administrative center for traffic toll collection, and that probably that is all that my suspicious debit card deduction is. And she explains that the large amount (36, 20 Euros) may well represent the aggregation of several charges related to my travel from Toulouse to Caunes via the toll road between that city and Carcassonne. Despite the geographic distance, the road between Toulouse and Carcassonne is part of the Autoroute du Sud Vedene at Montelimar. Also, she concludes, a charge can only be levied by the actual insertion of the card into the toll collecting machine, so it would be strange if the charges that raised my suspicion were not legitimate if the card was always in my possession. Notwithstanding, she makes copies of my bank statement, old debit card and driver's license. (Note: in France a driver's license is not always accepted as a piece d'identite; often presentation of a passport is required.)
And she has me fill out the complaint form and gives me the all-important stamped copy of it to take to my bank.
In who knows how long, after examination, a report about the merits of my complaint will be generated. It sounds as though I may have over-reacted, but before I leave the gendarme tells me that Swiss who visit France are often robbed via their debit cards, as the Swiss have not inserted a "chip" on their bank cards. You cannot be too careful.
The document in hand, I can now go back to my bank branch and have 20 Euros credited back to my account. I am better informed about how the system that manages traffic tolls works and less concerned that my bank card details have fallen into the possession of criminals. Although I still wonder why, rather than itemize the individual toll charges, France has to bundle them so that it is impossible to see exactly where they were generated and in what amounts.
The reason is probably administrative convenience --which always takes priority over the consumer in France, unlike the United States.
Starting in June, I had a variety of charges appear associated to the debit card of my French banking account. Starting with a charge for a toll affiliated with Montelimar, a town in Provence where I have never been. None of them for large amounts, but not ignorable, in my view.
So I went to the bank branch in the village and signaled the dubious charges. My old debit card was cancelled and a new one (with a different access code attached) ordered. The code was sent under separate cover to my address in New York City, while the bank card was sent to me here, delaying the activation of the card a few weeks.
The card and code obtained, I went to the bank yesterday to start the process of investigating the possible fraud on my account. What I learned was that I would have to go to the next village over, Peyriac-Minervois, to the Brigade Gendarmerie there and file an opposition, to initiate an investigation into the charges' source.
In France a bank card will cost you 45 Euros a year, and a replacement card 20 Euros. Unless the second card had to be issued on account of a suspected fraud, in which case you will be reimbursed the cost of the new card --but only when you return from the gendarmerie with a stamped copy of the allegation filed.
So I drove to the brigade gendarmerie in Peyriac with Beau. I have previously dealt with the Police Municipale about all questions having to do with matters in Caunes, such as how to protect the house from burglars, what my obligations are as a dog owner, noise issues. A charge of fraud, however, has to be formalized at the local gendarmerie.
The French gendarmerie is actually a branch of the Army, responsible for the internal security of the country. That status makes its existence impossible in the United States, where the law of posse comitatus forbids the use of federal military personnel in law enforcement. The existence of the gendarmerie is one more aspect of the highly centralized government of France. The brigade is a squad of ten to twenty gendarmes who are responsible for law enforcement in the countryside, and to whom the Police Municipale (who are unarmed) report.
I drive to Peyriac and find the Gendarmerie without difficulty. I have to be let in through an electronically operated gate, then through two electronic doors, to reach the public entrance. There is a stocky, young, bald man in uniform standing next to a man in a much more formal outfit, wearing a kepi, the cap with a horizontal peak. It is only when Beau and I actually enter that I realize I have been looking at a mannequin of the gendarmerie of a century ago. In two places there are signs specifying No Smoking, and a few "missing persons" flyers. Otherwise, the reception area is bare, and immaculate.
The gendarme listens to my explanation for the visit, then tells me I'll have to speak with his female colleague, who will take the report as soon as she's done with what she's now doing. The wait isn't long before a strongly built, pony-tailed woman, brunette, emerges, dressed identically to her male colleague.
She asks me whether my bank card has always been in my possession, which it has been. Then she explains to me that Montelimar is an administrative center for traffic toll collection, and that probably that is all that my suspicious debit card deduction is. And she explains that the large amount (36, 20 Euros) may well represent the aggregation of several charges related to my travel from Toulouse to Caunes via the toll road between that city and Carcassonne. Despite the geographic distance, the road between Toulouse and Carcassonne is part of the Autoroute du Sud Vedene at Montelimar. Also, she concludes, a charge can only be levied by the actual insertion of the card into the toll collecting machine, so it would be strange if the charges that raised my suspicion were not legitimate if the card was always in my possession. Notwithstanding, she makes copies of my bank statement, old debit card and driver's license. (Note: in France a driver's license is not always accepted as a piece d'identite; often presentation of a passport is required.)
And she has me fill out the complaint form and gives me the all-important stamped copy of it to take to my bank.
In who knows how long, after examination, a report about the merits of my complaint will be generated. It sounds as though I may have over-reacted, but before I leave the gendarme tells me that Swiss who visit France are often robbed via their debit cards, as the Swiss have not inserted a "chip" on their bank cards. You cannot be too careful.
The document in hand, I can now go back to my bank branch and have 20 Euros credited back to my account. I am better informed about how the system that manages traffic tolls works and less concerned that my bank card details have fallen into the possession of criminals. Although I still wonder why, rather than itemize the individual toll charges, France has to bundle them so that it is impossible to see exactly where they were generated and in what amounts.
The reason is probably administrative convenience --which always takes priority over the consumer in France, unlike the United States.
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
The Lives Of Others
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
As I'd hoped, I was allowed to bring Beau to the Cirque Caprani, given personal permission by the manager of the circus, the father of two little boys I found running around the circus tent this morning when Beau and I stopped by. One, the older, blonde and blue-eyed, was carrying a tiny kitten in his arms, the other, brunette, was following his older brother around.
Their father told me Beau would be welcome provided he did not bark. Which he did not, throughout the show.
There were no dog tricks this show, though, although there was a horse, a llama, acrobatic tricks, two doves, an athletic kitten, a clown who plays the trumpet, a magician who put knives through his "assistant" (the boys' mother), and locked her in a safe. There was an expert with the hula hoop (the mother again), and a father and son acrobatic demonstration featuring the eldest boy, who is called Luca and cannot be more than five years old.
The circus tent might have held 50 people, although tonight there were only about thirty, ten adults and twenty children. Adults paid 7 Euros a ticket, children 3. The children didn't seem to know what to make of the performances --perhaps watching the slick effects of video games has dulled their capacity to appreciate (for instance), how much balance and precision goes into being able to do handstands on precariously perched chairs perched atop other chairs without crashing to earth, and worse. The adults though (including me) took everything in good fun, clapping along to the music and applauding each performance vigorously.
The circus goes from village to village, year to year. It is just a family circus, a Mom-and-Pop operation: Christophe Landri plays all the male parts, his wife Emilie (Miss Emilie is her stage name) the distaff ones. Luca appears with his father for the brief acrobatic exhibition and sells postcards outside the tent at the close of the show.
The Landris are a sixth generation family of circus people. The latest generation to take to the big top includes Christophe and his brothers Yves (Cirque de Venise) and Louis (Grand Cirque de France-Zavatta). Originally from Italy, the Landris' great-grandfather emigrated to France with the circus and stayed here.
Running the Cirque Caprani (which gets around the country thanks to a giant Scania tractor-trailer) is a full-time job: Emilie runs the box office and sells popcorn and cotton candy (barbe a papa) at intermission, in addition to taking the female parts in the show and being ringmaster. Christophe attends to the set-up of the tent and the chairs inside and drives the truck.
At the end of the show, Christophe, dressed as the trumpet-playing clown, Marconi, held open the tent flap so his audience could exit, while Luca, opposite, offered souvenir postcards for sale for any contribution.
After paying my compliments to him I asked Christophe whether the circus stopped for the children to go to school.
No, they attend school through correspondence courses, he told me.
Well, they get to see their parents doing something they love doing, I said, not wanting to dwell on the unusualness of the children's lives. I admire you so much, I told Christophe, and I meant it. The dedication it takes to live on the road, to raise two boys on the road, not to mention the physical demands of the work --what if Christophe should have a mishap? --impressed upon me how different circus performers are from any other type of performer. Let alone how different a tiny family circus, struggling to survive, is from a "big top".
I had met Luca in the morning, and from where I was sitting during the show I saw him exit after his turn with his Dad. At intermission I saw him again, and complimented him on his performance:
It wasn't me, really, he said, modestly.
Oh, but you were in partnership with you Dad, and it was very good, I said. We exchanged a few more words --about the postcards for sale at intermission, and I gave him two Euros for two, which he would not take.
Oh you can buy them only at the end, he told me rather than take my money. So by the time I approached him outside the tent to see the postcards he was selling, we were already friends.
How much are they? I asked, catching sight of the bundle of colored cards in his hands.
Whatever you want to offer, he replied politely, then petted Beau.
Well, let's see....I said, taking the pile from him and counting out eleven cards.
I gave him 11 Euros for the pile.
You see you have fans! When will you be back in Caunes?
I don't know, he said shyly.
Well, until next time, I said, shaking his hand before leaving with Beau, happy we'd gone to the Cirque Caprani.
As I'd hoped, I was allowed to bring Beau to the Cirque Caprani, given personal permission by the manager of the circus, the father of two little boys I found running around the circus tent this morning when Beau and I stopped by. One, the older, blonde and blue-eyed, was carrying a tiny kitten in his arms, the other, brunette, was following his older brother around.
Their father told me Beau would be welcome provided he did not bark. Which he did not, throughout the show.
There were no dog tricks this show, though, although there was a horse, a llama, acrobatic tricks, two doves, an athletic kitten, a clown who plays the trumpet, a magician who put knives through his "assistant" (the boys' mother), and locked her in a safe. There was an expert with the hula hoop (the mother again), and a father and son acrobatic demonstration featuring the eldest boy, who is called Luca and cannot be more than five years old.
The circus tent might have held 50 people, although tonight there were only about thirty, ten adults and twenty children. Adults paid 7 Euros a ticket, children 3. The children didn't seem to know what to make of the performances --perhaps watching the slick effects of video games has dulled their capacity to appreciate (for instance), how much balance and precision goes into being able to do handstands on precariously perched chairs perched atop other chairs without crashing to earth, and worse. The adults though (including me) took everything in good fun, clapping along to the music and applauding each performance vigorously.
The circus goes from village to village, year to year. It is just a family circus, a Mom-and-Pop operation: Christophe Landri plays all the male parts, his wife Emilie (Miss Emilie is her stage name) the distaff ones. Luca appears with his father for the brief acrobatic exhibition and sells postcards outside the tent at the close of the show.
The Landris are a sixth generation family of circus people. The latest generation to take to the big top includes Christophe and his brothers Yves (Cirque de Venise) and Louis (Grand Cirque de France-Zavatta). Originally from Italy, the Landris' great-grandfather emigrated to France with the circus and stayed here.
Running the Cirque Caprani (which gets around the country thanks to a giant Scania tractor-trailer) is a full-time job: Emilie runs the box office and sells popcorn and cotton candy (barbe a papa) at intermission, in addition to taking the female parts in the show and being ringmaster. Christophe attends to the set-up of the tent and the chairs inside and drives the truck.
At the end of the show, Christophe, dressed as the trumpet-playing clown, Marconi, held open the tent flap so his audience could exit, while Luca, opposite, offered souvenir postcards for sale for any contribution.
After paying my compliments to him I asked Christophe whether the circus stopped for the children to go to school.
No, they attend school through correspondence courses, he told me.
Well, they get to see their parents doing something they love doing, I said, not wanting to dwell on the unusualness of the children's lives. I admire you so much, I told Christophe, and I meant it. The dedication it takes to live on the road, to raise two boys on the road, not to mention the physical demands of the work --what if Christophe should have a mishap? --impressed upon me how different circus performers are from any other type of performer. Let alone how different a tiny family circus, struggling to survive, is from a "big top".
I had met Luca in the morning, and from where I was sitting during the show I saw him exit after his turn with his Dad. At intermission I saw him again, and complimented him on his performance:
It wasn't me, really, he said, modestly.
Oh, but you were in partnership with you Dad, and it was very good, I said. We exchanged a few more words --about the postcards for sale at intermission, and I gave him two Euros for two, which he would not take.
Oh you can buy them only at the end, he told me rather than take my money. So by the time I approached him outside the tent to see the postcards he was selling, we were already friends.
How much are they? I asked, catching sight of the bundle of colored cards in his hands.
Whatever you want to offer, he replied politely, then petted Beau.
Well, let's see....I said, taking the pile from him and counting out eleven cards.
I gave him 11 Euros for the pile.
You see you have fans! When will you be back in Caunes?
I don't know, he said shyly.
Well, until next time, I said, shaking his hand before leaving with Beau, happy we'd gone to the Cirque Caprani.
Monday, August 24, 2015
A Hint Of Fall
Monday, August 24, 2015
Reading of the foiled attack on the Brussels-Paris train, I can only feel sad to think of the future attempts that may not be as readily foiled. I will be driving to Paris rather than taking the train this time --a decision I reached long before Sunday's incident-- but now there is one more reason to justify the decision. How many people like myself will decide that they will only travel by car, as trains and buses have become "soft targets"?
The weather has turned cool, and tonight's sky --rust red and slate grey-- is spectacular, and a reminder that summer is truly ending.
Outside my back window about 30 minutes ago, I heard the sound of a buzz saw and looked out my window. It was Pierre, the young neo-ruralien who grows his own vegetables on the abandoned land in the crevasse by the old walls of the village of Caunes. His Brittany spaniel, Timmy, a skinny thing, was tied to his old blue station wagon by a thick rope, also navy blue. I pursed my lips together and made "smooching" sounds out the window on seeing the dog, who turned his head this way and that, until he realized the sound was coming from my window.
I put on a jacket and shoes and left the house and headed for where Pierre's car was parked , with Beau in tow. Pierre came up a few minutes later and we chatted briefly. He grows vegetables all year round, as the climate is mild enough. Which is good, because Pierre lives on next to nothing. He tells me his Tinny has something wrong with his ear, but I daren't say anything about offering to pay for the dog to be seen by my veterinarian: Pierre won't even accept my offer to watch Tinny when he has to leave him at home because he can't bring him to the vineyards when he works bringing in the harvest. He lives in a basement underneath the building that houses the boulangerie, and I get the sense he didn't really want me to know that. He has chosen to live as he does rather than live outside Paris, where he was raised and where his family still lives. I see him at Mass at Notre Dame du Cros sometimes, a tall, blonde, slender young man with brilliant blue eyes. When I look at him sometimes he seems a big mad, a deeply tanned creature of the forest, slashing the shrubbery as he was doing tonight in pursuit of some unattainable, prelapsarian ideal.
***
Speaking of the pursuit of ideals, the circus has come to Caunes, Cirque Caprani, a small affair featuring a mottled brown and white horse, a black and white cow and an assortment of yappy dogs. They were in Villegly, the next village towards Carcassonne, last night and are going to be in Caunes for only one night, tomorrow evening. The show begins at 6:00 p.m., so it is definitely going to be for young children, but I might go, if they'll allow me to bring Beau. I would like him to see the show --I wonder what he would make of the dog tricks.
Reading of the foiled attack on the Brussels-Paris train, I can only feel sad to think of the future attempts that may not be as readily foiled. I will be driving to Paris rather than taking the train this time --a decision I reached long before Sunday's incident-- but now there is one more reason to justify the decision. How many people like myself will decide that they will only travel by car, as trains and buses have become "soft targets"?
The weather has turned cool, and tonight's sky --rust red and slate grey-- is spectacular, and a reminder that summer is truly ending.
Outside my back window about 30 minutes ago, I heard the sound of a buzz saw and looked out my window. It was Pierre, the young neo-ruralien who grows his own vegetables on the abandoned land in the crevasse by the old walls of the village of Caunes. His Brittany spaniel, Timmy, a skinny thing, was tied to his old blue station wagon by a thick rope, also navy blue. I pursed my lips together and made "smooching" sounds out the window on seeing the dog, who turned his head this way and that, until he realized the sound was coming from my window.
I put on a jacket and shoes and left the house and headed for where Pierre's car was parked , with Beau in tow. Pierre came up a few minutes later and we chatted briefly. He grows vegetables all year round, as the climate is mild enough. Which is good, because Pierre lives on next to nothing. He tells me his Tinny has something wrong with his ear, but I daren't say anything about offering to pay for the dog to be seen by my veterinarian: Pierre won't even accept my offer to watch Tinny when he has to leave him at home because he can't bring him to the vineyards when he works bringing in the harvest. He lives in a basement underneath the building that houses the boulangerie, and I get the sense he didn't really want me to know that. He has chosen to live as he does rather than live outside Paris, where he was raised and where his family still lives. I see him at Mass at Notre Dame du Cros sometimes, a tall, blonde, slender young man with brilliant blue eyes. When I look at him sometimes he seems a big mad, a deeply tanned creature of the forest, slashing the shrubbery as he was doing tonight in pursuit of some unattainable, prelapsarian ideal.
***
Speaking of the pursuit of ideals, the circus has come to Caunes, Cirque Caprani, a small affair featuring a mottled brown and white horse, a black and white cow and an assortment of yappy dogs. They were in Villegly, the next village towards Carcassonne, last night and are going to be in Caunes for only one night, tomorrow evening. The show begins at 6:00 p.m., so it is definitely going to be for young children, but I might go, if they'll allow me to bring Beau. I would like him to see the show --I wonder what he would make of the dog tricks.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Kermesse
Sunday, August 23, 2015
The new day dawned rainy, so the kermesse --the church bazaar-- for Notre Dame du Cros was moved to the village auditorium, the Foyer Francois Mitterand near the Narbonne road.
I got up early as planned and started walking towards the chapel at 8:30 a.m., making it to the turn-off to N.D. quickly. Just as I started my ascent I saw car coming towards me flashing its lights. It was Jean Lacroix, the retired gendarme, whom I've known since I started cycling with the C.C.C.M. three years ago.
Jean told me the kermesse had been moved to the foyer and would I like a ride there. As I was supposed to help with the preparation of the dishes to be served as appetizers, and was supposed to be ready to work by 9:00 a.m., I readily accepted the offer.
The foyer was a hive of activity, but not efficiency. The melons that, with some foie gras and sliced cured ham, would make up the appetizer, had not yet arrived. The bread had not arrived. There was some discussion as to whether the bottles of mineral water needed to go into the refrigerator or left out, to allow room for meat, which absolutely had to be kept cold.
The melons soon arrived, brought in on two hand trucks by a couple of farmers, a husband and wife. They brought in 10 cases each. As the wife passed me --she knows me because I sometimes buy fruit from her at the weekly market in Caunes-- she commented,
Well, it's been ten years since there was rain at the kermesse, so you have to accept that every single one will not take place on a beautiful day. It will be a success, anyway, no matter what.
Not everyone shared her optimism, but everyone went to work nonetheless, of course. Folding tables and chairs were lifted off their gurneys, opened and lined up in three long rows starting from the auditorium stage. Ten were taken away to use for tables where items donated would go on sale: at the entrance to the foyer the hand-embroidered lavender sachets, the antique embroidered bed linens, the handmade linen aprons made of antique linens, decorated with a pocket made of a piece of toile de jouy, antique linen and cotton night shifts and blouses. Also, vintage pocket books and scarves, ceramics, articles for traveling and for enjoying cocktails. At a table opposite were sold missals, rosaries and prayerbooks donated. The books were often in mint condition, bound in exquisite leathers and placed in decorative cases with their own locks. At the gourmet table, inside the auditorium at the back, in addition to home-made cakes and sweets, were sold home-made thyme jelly to serve on meat dishes, jams, home-made vinegars.
Although the Mass at N.D.C. would not begin until 11:00 a.m., and parishioners would not be expected at the foyer until about 12:15 p.m., people began arriving by 10:30 a.m.: the vide grenier --a village-wide yard sale in Villalier, fifteen minutes away, had been cancelled.
A vide grenier is a chance to find something you have wanted for very little money --a CD, a DVD, clothes, a bicycle-- so in France they set off something like a feeding frenzy. A church bazaar is a distant second. However, the animal rescue organization of Caunes was also having a vide grenier, albeit on a smaller scale than Villalier's, so the kermesse was where many people stopped to get directions to the animal rescue vide grenier, as their hopes of enjoying Villalier's were frustrated.
I spent an hour cutting melons and plating them, then chose a few items from the crafts tables. I needed to go to the bank to withdraw the cash to pay for them, so decided I would stop at the animal rescue event on my way.
The event was strictly small-scale, run almost entirely by Brits, who had donated used clothes, yarn for knitting, lots of British books and English language CDs. I hit the jackpot when my eye caught sight of an edition of Rembrance of Things Past in a giant six-volume edition published by The Folio Society --for 6 Euros for the lot. There was also another big book to take home, one about the loveliest English villages, a sort of traveller's guide with photos and directions. Rumpole of the Bailey stories, the autobiography of Sir Edmund Hilary, a memoir of life in Ireland, and another of life in France, and another Folio Society imprint, this about London, along with three others whose titles I can't remember, completed my book-buying spree.
The problem was that I now had a deadweight of books to bring home. I mused about this out loud for a moment, which was fortunate, because someone willing to bring the books over to me at the end of the day cheerfully presented herself. Her name is Laura, and she is coming by shortly. I was so astonished at her generosity that I immediately asked her if she would like to have a glass of wine when she came by.
"Oh, yes, that would be nice" she said, and I was glad.
"--Red or white?"
"Oh, white, please."
Nothing easier.
On the way out of the donkey farm where the vide grenier was held, I stuck out my thumb, hoping for a ride. I was picked up by an older man, M. Petit, who turned out to be a village councilman (conseiller villageois). He took me right to my door, and again, I gave thanks for my luck. I returned to the kermesse in a jiffy after stopping at the bank.
Qui paye ses dettes, s'enrichit, Roselyne said, taking my money. (He who pays his debts, enriches himself, an old French proverb.)
She put me to work selling to non-French speaking customers --and there were many: Brits, Germans, Dutch. There was one woman --she must be in her late seventies-- who bought quite a lot from me. She is Australian, brought to that country from Scotland by her parents when she was twelve and has no financial constraints, judging from the way she did her shopping --making bulk purchases of doilies, linens and lavender sachets. In appearance, she was a bit off-putting: she is as tanned and injected and dyed and diet-ed as any woman of her type in New York who lives comfortably between Manhattan and the Hamptons. She also bought five books from the table with religious articles, telling me that she wanted to buy them for her daughter with her first husband. He is French, and her daughter is taking care of him now that he has brain cancer. She bought a Marian Missal, a traditional missal, a book of prayers, a translation of The Imitation of Christ, and a child's Missal, along with a rosary, which I threw in for free.
"I know these will mean a lot to my daughter. She prays so much that my ex-husband will go peacefully", she told me as she completed her purchases. She lives in Caunes and is staying here until the end of October, so perhaps I will run into her again.
You can't judge a book by it's cover, is the moral of the story.
At the end of the day, the kermesse was a complete success. The crafts table took in well over 300 Euros, the tables were fully filled for the lunch and the gourmet table did a good business. And I --who am a terrible waitress, have found my milieu at the kermesse: trilingual saleswoman at the crafts table!
The new day dawned rainy, so the kermesse --the church bazaar-- for Notre Dame du Cros was moved to the village auditorium, the Foyer Francois Mitterand near the Narbonne road.
I got up early as planned and started walking towards the chapel at 8:30 a.m., making it to the turn-off to N.D. quickly. Just as I started my ascent I saw car coming towards me flashing its lights. It was Jean Lacroix, the retired gendarme, whom I've known since I started cycling with the C.C.C.M. three years ago.
Jean told me the kermesse had been moved to the foyer and would I like a ride there. As I was supposed to help with the preparation of the dishes to be served as appetizers, and was supposed to be ready to work by 9:00 a.m., I readily accepted the offer.
The foyer was a hive of activity, but not efficiency. The melons that, with some foie gras and sliced cured ham, would make up the appetizer, had not yet arrived. The bread had not arrived. There was some discussion as to whether the bottles of mineral water needed to go into the refrigerator or left out, to allow room for meat, which absolutely had to be kept cold.
The melons soon arrived, brought in on two hand trucks by a couple of farmers, a husband and wife. They brought in 10 cases each. As the wife passed me --she knows me because I sometimes buy fruit from her at the weekly market in Caunes-- she commented,
Well, it's been ten years since there was rain at the kermesse, so you have to accept that every single one will not take place on a beautiful day. It will be a success, anyway, no matter what.
Not everyone shared her optimism, but everyone went to work nonetheless, of course. Folding tables and chairs were lifted off their gurneys, opened and lined up in three long rows starting from the auditorium stage. Ten were taken away to use for tables where items donated would go on sale: at the entrance to the foyer the hand-embroidered lavender sachets, the antique embroidered bed linens, the handmade linen aprons made of antique linens, decorated with a pocket made of a piece of toile de jouy, antique linen and cotton night shifts and blouses. Also, vintage pocket books and scarves, ceramics, articles for traveling and for enjoying cocktails. At a table opposite were sold missals, rosaries and prayerbooks donated. The books were often in mint condition, bound in exquisite leathers and placed in decorative cases with their own locks. At the gourmet table, inside the auditorium at the back, in addition to home-made cakes and sweets, were sold home-made thyme jelly to serve on meat dishes, jams, home-made vinegars.
Although the Mass at N.D.C. would not begin until 11:00 a.m., and parishioners would not be expected at the foyer until about 12:15 p.m., people began arriving by 10:30 a.m.: the vide grenier --a village-wide yard sale in Villalier, fifteen minutes away, had been cancelled.
A vide grenier is a chance to find something you have wanted for very little money --a CD, a DVD, clothes, a bicycle-- so in France they set off something like a feeding frenzy. A church bazaar is a distant second. However, the animal rescue organization of Caunes was also having a vide grenier, albeit on a smaller scale than Villalier's, so the kermesse was where many people stopped to get directions to the animal rescue vide grenier, as their hopes of enjoying Villalier's were frustrated.
I spent an hour cutting melons and plating them, then chose a few items from the crafts tables. I needed to go to the bank to withdraw the cash to pay for them, so decided I would stop at the animal rescue event on my way.
The event was strictly small-scale, run almost entirely by Brits, who had donated used clothes, yarn for knitting, lots of British books and English language CDs. I hit the jackpot when my eye caught sight of an edition of Rembrance of Things Past in a giant six-volume edition published by The Folio Society --for 6 Euros for the lot. There was also another big book to take home, one about the loveliest English villages, a sort of traveller's guide with photos and directions. Rumpole of the Bailey stories, the autobiography of Sir Edmund Hilary, a memoir of life in Ireland, and another of life in France, and another Folio Society imprint, this about London, along with three others whose titles I can't remember, completed my book-buying spree.
The problem was that I now had a deadweight of books to bring home. I mused about this out loud for a moment, which was fortunate, because someone willing to bring the books over to me at the end of the day cheerfully presented herself. Her name is Laura, and she is coming by shortly. I was so astonished at her generosity that I immediately asked her if she would like to have a glass of wine when she came by.
"Oh, yes, that would be nice" she said, and I was glad.
"--Red or white?"
"Oh, white, please."
Nothing easier.
On the way out of the donkey farm where the vide grenier was held, I stuck out my thumb, hoping for a ride. I was picked up by an older man, M. Petit, who turned out to be a village councilman (conseiller villageois). He took me right to my door, and again, I gave thanks for my luck. I returned to the kermesse in a jiffy after stopping at the bank.
Qui paye ses dettes, s'enrichit, Roselyne said, taking my money. (He who pays his debts, enriches himself, an old French proverb.)
She put me to work selling to non-French speaking customers --and there were many: Brits, Germans, Dutch. There was one woman --she must be in her late seventies-- who bought quite a lot from me. She is Australian, brought to that country from Scotland by her parents when she was twelve and has no financial constraints, judging from the way she did her shopping --making bulk purchases of doilies, linens and lavender sachets. In appearance, she was a bit off-putting: she is as tanned and injected and dyed and diet-ed as any woman of her type in New York who lives comfortably between Manhattan and the Hamptons. She also bought five books from the table with religious articles, telling me that she wanted to buy them for her daughter with her first husband. He is French, and her daughter is taking care of him now that he has brain cancer. She bought a Marian Missal, a traditional missal, a book of prayers, a translation of The Imitation of Christ, and a child's Missal, along with a rosary, which I threw in for free.
"I know these will mean a lot to my daughter. She prays so much that my ex-husband will go peacefully", she told me as she completed her purchases. She lives in Caunes and is staying here until the end of October, so perhaps I will run into her again.
You can't judge a book by it's cover, is the moral of the story.
At the end of the day, the kermesse was a complete success. The crafts table took in well over 300 Euros, the tables were fully filled for the lunch and the gourmet table did a good business. And I --who am a terrible waitress, have found my milieu at the kermesse: trilingual saleswoman at the crafts table!
Saturday, August 22, 2015
Hunting Season/Cycles/Around the Vines
Saturday, August 22, 2015
Boar hunting season has begun again in the Minervois. The season may be more threatening to humans than the animals hunted, judging from the reaction of the young woman I encountered walking home along the road near the house Beau and I often take, la voie du Pont Casse --the path of the Broken Bridge.
A stocky young woman, her hair in a pony tail, brunette, walking with a small knapsack on her back, smoking a cigarette, she stopped us:
Are you going beyond the bridge? she made a point of asking as she passed me.
I don't know --why? I replied.
It turns out that the hunters and their dogs were out in full force. The hiker (a local), was frightened by the pack of dogs that came rushing down a nearby hill beyond the bridge, towards her, baying at the top of their lungs.
What are they hunting? Rabbits? I pursued.
No, the hunters were hunting wild boar, the only animal that can be hunted this early in the season.
When she told me that I could understand her concern. Any dog that would take on a wild boar is not a house pet.
***
At my gym in Caunes, there is a family of bikers that comes in a few times a week. The mother is a good fifty pounds overweight and an admitted smoker of cigarettes. Her husband is thin as a reed, with straggly and greasy long hair. Their son, who is about fourteen, is already tall and solidly built. They always have their motorcycle jackets or vests on when they come in. The husband seems to come mainly because his wife does, as I have never seen him touch a machine. Their son has recently started coming, and he seems a nice boy.
The family are members of the "Freedom Motorcycle Club", based in the neighboring village, Rieux. They speak the dialect of the Languedoc: ends of words bitten off, lots of slang. In other words, I can barely understand them.
They are trying (or at least two of them are trying) to take up healthier habits, which "Jo", the gym manager, is all for. They are a far cry from his trim physique, but "Jo" wants to help them achieve a healthier lifestyle, so he gives them his full attention when they are there, especially the mother. He is trying to get her to give up smoking, which is an uphill battle.
Each time she shows up he puts her on one of the machines and has her work out a bit. Then he asks her whether she has stopped smoking, or cut down.
She just laughs at him and says "No!" as if he should know better than to ask.
This weekend "Freedom" is having their fifth annual party in Rieux. The poster advertising the event reflects a common sexual fantasy of bikers: An imposing motorcycle takes front and center in the poster, with a long-legged blonde straddling the motorcycle wearing a black leather cap, leather bra and leather shorts , a slightly curving belly adding a note of "realism" to the image. A rock band named "Lust" will play and there will be lots to eat and drink for the three day extravaganza.
A greater contrast to the church bazaar (with which it will overlap tomorrow) could not be imagined.
***
Also overlapping with the church bazaar will be a "vide grenier" to benefit the animal rescue organization of Caunes. It will be held near the donkey farm on the Chemin des Grands Oreilles next to the Carmelite chapel not far from the cemetery.
School beings the week after these events, specifically, Tuesday, September 1. So all the summer's activities are coming to a climax, followed by the wine harvest, which will last about a month. The rain that has appeared every few days has only been a boon to the crop, although vintners have been careful, too, to spray against the mildew that can attack the grapes if hot sun does not immediately follow rain.
The machines used for spraying the vines look like a headless Durga, the Hindu goddess with many arms. They have eight jets which range in size from smaller at the top, to larger at the bottom, a sort of trianglular form. They are made to be driven between the rows of vines, spraying the plants at the top, high middle, low middle and bottom. The smell is definitely that of a mild pesticide, which is just as well, as it allows you to steer clear of the machines when in use. If you are riding behind one of these on the local road, you definitely want to pass them when you have a chance, as they are poky machines that move very slowly.
Boar hunting season has begun again in the Minervois. The season may be more threatening to humans than the animals hunted, judging from the reaction of the young woman I encountered walking home along the road near the house Beau and I often take, la voie du Pont Casse --the path of the Broken Bridge.
A stocky young woman, her hair in a pony tail, brunette, walking with a small knapsack on her back, smoking a cigarette, she stopped us:
Are you going beyond the bridge? she made a point of asking as she passed me.
I don't know --why? I replied.
It turns out that the hunters and their dogs were out in full force. The hiker (a local), was frightened by the pack of dogs that came rushing down a nearby hill beyond the bridge, towards her, baying at the top of their lungs.
What are they hunting? Rabbits? I pursued.
No, the hunters were hunting wild boar, the only animal that can be hunted this early in the season.
When she told me that I could understand her concern. Any dog that would take on a wild boar is not a house pet.
***
At my gym in Caunes, there is a family of bikers that comes in a few times a week. The mother is a good fifty pounds overweight and an admitted smoker of cigarettes. Her husband is thin as a reed, with straggly and greasy long hair. Their son, who is about fourteen, is already tall and solidly built. They always have their motorcycle jackets or vests on when they come in. The husband seems to come mainly because his wife does, as I have never seen him touch a machine. Their son has recently started coming, and he seems a nice boy.
The family are members of the "Freedom Motorcycle Club", based in the neighboring village, Rieux. They speak the dialect of the Languedoc: ends of words bitten off, lots of slang. In other words, I can barely understand them.
They are trying (or at least two of them are trying) to take up healthier habits, which "Jo", the gym manager, is all for. They are a far cry from his trim physique, but "Jo" wants to help them achieve a healthier lifestyle, so he gives them his full attention when they are there, especially the mother. He is trying to get her to give up smoking, which is an uphill battle.
Each time she shows up he puts her on one of the machines and has her work out a bit. Then he asks her whether she has stopped smoking, or cut down.
She just laughs at him and says "No!" as if he should know better than to ask.
This weekend "Freedom" is having their fifth annual party in Rieux. The poster advertising the event reflects a common sexual fantasy of bikers: An imposing motorcycle takes front and center in the poster, with a long-legged blonde straddling the motorcycle wearing a black leather cap, leather bra and leather shorts , a slightly curving belly adding a note of "realism" to the image. A rock band named "Lust" will play and there will be lots to eat and drink for the three day extravaganza.
A greater contrast to the church bazaar (with which it will overlap tomorrow) could not be imagined.
***
Also overlapping with the church bazaar will be a "vide grenier" to benefit the animal rescue organization of Caunes. It will be held near the donkey farm on the Chemin des Grands Oreilles next to the Carmelite chapel not far from the cemetery.
School beings the week after these events, specifically, Tuesday, September 1. So all the summer's activities are coming to a climax, followed by the wine harvest, which will last about a month. The rain that has appeared every few days has only been a boon to the crop, although vintners have been careful, too, to spray against the mildew that can attack the grapes if hot sun does not immediately follow rain.
The machines used for spraying the vines look like a headless Durga, the Hindu goddess with many arms. They have eight jets which range in size from smaller at the top, to larger at the bottom, a sort of trianglular form. They are made to be driven between the rows of vines, spraying the plants at the top, high middle, low middle and bottom. The smell is definitely that of a mild pesticide, which is just as well, as it allows you to steer clear of the machines when in use. If you are riding behind one of these on the local road, you definitely want to pass them when you have a chance, as they are poky machines that move very slowly.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Gleaning --or Stealing?
Thursday, August 20, 2015
Many people know Millet's painting The Gleaners, but few people actually know what gleaning is.
In Millet's painting, peasants are bent over a field, picking up from the ground grains that have fallen after the harvest. At first glance, if you don't know, you might think that the three women with scarves around their heads are finishing up some last detail of the harvest. Not so.
The women are glaneuses, the French word for female gleaners. A gleaner is a person who picks up whatever is left lying on the ground after a crop is harvested. At the time of Millet's painting, a gleaner would have been a very, very poor person without land of his own on which to grow crops. Under French law anyone is allowed to enter agricultural land privately owned to take whatever part of the crop has fallen to the ground and left behind at the harvest. The law applies both to agricultural products and to the products of farm-raised shellfish, like oysters and shrimp.
Agnes Varda made a wonderful film, The Gleaners and I, about modern gleaners: dumpster divers, and just people who know a good thing when they see it. She makes reference to Millet's painting while drawing the analogy to poverty in France.
My friend Chantal is a gleaner --or perhaps a thief-- of fruit. She spies orchards that are untended, then takes their fruit off the trees when it is ripe. She reasons that if she does not take it, it will fall to the ground and rot, even if the fruit does properly belong to the owner of the orchard. The trees she takes fruit from are always on the side of the road, and she takes the fruit only for her personal use and that of neighbors to whom she gives a portion.
Early on in the summer she took cherries. Last night Beau and I joined her and her bear of a dog, Baboon, on a quest for figs. She gave me a small bag of figs and I scrupled not: they were delicious.
Today, Chantal told me that she had seen a group of almond trees, the fruit read to drop, near the marble quarry. Originally she thought she we might drive there, but decided she needed the exercise, so we walked, just as the sun was beginning to set. She carried a walking stick, which she put to good use in knocking the almonds off the branches by striking the fruit-laden branches hard with the walking stick. As she is not very tall, I lent my longer arms to the effort, becoming an accessory, perhaps. I would not venture deeper into the almond grove out of fear of deer ticks, so waited for Chantal to complete her gleaning --or stealing-- by waiting by a large block of marble lying by the opposite side of the road. Spread out against the sky was the panorama of the Minervois and, in the distance, the Pyrenees,
When Chantal had filled her bag, we walked down the hill back to Caunes. On our right as we walked, a man had parked a car near a small area belonging to the marble quarry. He was bringing a block of marble small enough for him to carry in his arms but large enough to make something rather large with, to his car.
He, perhaps, was gleaning, too.
Many people know Millet's painting The Gleaners, but few people actually know what gleaning is.
In Millet's painting, peasants are bent over a field, picking up from the ground grains that have fallen after the harvest. At first glance, if you don't know, you might think that the three women with scarves around their heads are finishing up some last detail of the harvest. Not so.
The women are glaneuses, the French word for female gleaners. A gleaner is a person who picks up whatever is left lying on the ground after a crop is harvested. At the time of Millet's painting, a gleaner would have been a very, very poor person without land of his own on which to grow crops. Under French law anyone is allowed to enter agricultural land privately owned to take whatever part of the crop has fallen to the ground and left behind at the harvest. The law applies both to agricultural products and to the products of farm-raised shellfish, like oysters and shrimp.
Agnes Varda made a wonderful film, The Gleaners and I, about modern gleaners: dumpster divers, and just people who know a good thing when they see it. She makes reference to Millet's painting while drawing the analogy to poverty in France.
My friend Chantal is a gleaner --or perhaps a thief-- of fruit. She spies orchards that are untended, then takes their fruit off the trees when it is ripe. She reasons that if she does not take it, it will fall to the ground and rot, even if the fruit does properly belong to the owner of the orchard. The trees she takes fruit from are always on the side of the road, and she takes the fruit only for her personal use and that of neighbors to whom she gives a portion.
Early on in the summer she took cherries. Last night Beau and I joined her and her bear of a dog, Baboon, on a quest for figs. She gave me a small bag of figs and I scrupled not: they were delicious.
Today, Chantal told me that she had seen a group of almond trees, the fruit read to drop, near the marble quarry. Originally she thought she we might drive there, but decided she needed the exercise, so we walked, just as the sun was beginning to set. She carried a walking stick, which she put to good use in knocking the almonds off the branches by striking the fruit-laden branches hard with the walking stick. As she is not very tall, I lent my longer arms to the effort, becoming an accessory, perhaps. I would not venture deeper into the almond grove out of fear of deer ticks, so waited for Chantal to complete her gleaning --or stealing-- by waiting by a large block of marble lying by the opposite side of the road. Spread out against the sky was the panorama of the Minervois and, in the distance, the Pyrenees,
When Chantal had filled her bag, we walked down the hill back to Caunes. On our right as we walked, a man had parked a car near a small area belonging to the marble quarry. He was bringing a block of marble small enough for him to carry in his arms but large enough to make something rather large with, to his car.
He, perhaps, was gleaning, too.
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
In My Own Bed
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
I have to be at Fiumicino airport by 8:30 a.m. to catch by 10:00 a.m. flight without undue anxiety. "Yes!" I arise at 5:00 a.m. as I planned, and am out of the apartment a few minutes before six a.m. to make sure I have enough time. The bus stop is down the street, and as I bought my ticket the night before, have only to wait at the bus station until the #8 bus arrives, which happens without delay. On the way, I meet two young Americans who join me on the ride out to the airport.
They are Mormons --which I can tell they admit expecting the worse. However, when I tell them that at my university one of the deans was Mormon, and that I lived in a house with lots of Mormons, and have had Mormon neighbors in my apartment building in New York, they relax. He is a university student in Washington, D.C., interning at the Department of the Treasury, she a Harvard School of Education graduate teaching high school in the capital. They are on their way to Croatia and Montenegro as part of a Grand Tour that had them in Paris and Rome before. We end up talking about 9/11 and two novels built around the event, Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, as well as Let The Great World Spin. I tell them my experience that day and then it is time to leave. It is certainly a better ride to the airport than most. I am at the airport an hour earlier than I needed to be, so I get to have a cappuccino and walk around the airport shops, which are already open.
By this time the rain, which was just a sprinkle when I left Rome, has started coming down in ropes. There is a flight to Zurich due to leave at 8:30 a.m. which is delayed until 10:00 a.m. and then departs, even though the rain is still coming down hard. Roman rain is heavy and unceasing and the clouds are dark and stubborn. My own flight is delayed 3 hours, until 1:00 p.m. Fortunately I have my copy of Marcus Aurelius' Meditations at hand. I am completely absorbed by the book, so the delay is put to good use. Like Gideon Bibles in hotel rooms, I think the Meditations ought to be given out free at the seating areas in airports. Marcus Aurelius' encouragement of stoicism in confronting difficulties would be a great aid to travelers facing delays.
By the time we board the storm has passed and the weather conditions are perfect. We fly high over the Mediterranean, descending over the Mediterranean near La Grande Motte, France's pyramidal resort on the Golfe de Leon. We coast onto the landing field and touch down. Within a few minutes we are off the plane and in the airport.
Walking along the glass covered passageway into the main terminal, I see a strikingly thin blonde woman with a crop of hair that looks like a coxcomb: actress Tilda Swinton, squeezed into a seat against the window, a teenaged boy (probably her son), next to her. She is wearing no make-up, but her Scottish coloring and unusual features are unmistakeable. I read an interview with her once in which she complained that she really didn't have very much money, that she and her husband live very simply in their place in Scotland. And it may be true: she had the look of someone who did not want to be noticed in the place and the way she was, stripped of all glamour, without attendants.
I left the car in long-term parking and wondered whether I would find it where I left it --or would it be towed or stolen? In answer to my prayers, the car was there, in the condition I left it. I quickly drove to Caunes and resumed my life here, a world away from Rome.
I have to be at Fiumicino airport by 8:30 a.m. to catch by 10:00 a.m. flight without undue anxiety. "Yes!" I arise at 5:00 a.m. as I planned, and am out of the apartment a few minutes before six a.m. to make sure I have enough time. The bus stop is down the street, and as I bought my ticket the night before, have only to wait at the bus station until the #8 bus arrives, which happens without delay. On the way, I meet two young Americans who join me on the ride out to the airport.
They are Mormons --which I can tell they admit expecting the worse. However, when I tell them that at my university one of the deans was Mormon, and that I lived in a house with lots of Mormons, and have had Mormon neighbors in my apartment building in New York, they relax. He is a university student in Washington, D.C., interning at the Department of the Treasury, she a Harvard School of Education graduate teaching high school in the capital. They are on their way to Croatia and Montenegro as part of a Grand Tour that had them in Paris and Rome before. We end up talking about 9/11 and two novels built around the event, Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, as well as Let The Great World Spin. I tell them my experience that day and then it is time to leave. It is certainly a better ride to the airport than most. I am at the airport an hour earlier than I needed to be, so I get to have a cappuccino and walk around the airport shops, which are already open.
By this time the rain, which was just a sprinkle when I left Rome, has started coming down in ropes. There is a flight to Zurich due to leave at 8:30 a.m. which is delayed until 10:00 a.m. and then departs, even though the rain is still coming down hard. Roman rain is heavy and unceasing and the clouds are dark and stubborn. My own flight is delayed 3 hours, until 1:00 p.m. Fortunately I have my copy of Marcus Aurelius' Meditations at hand. I am completely absorbed by the book, so the delay is put to good use. Like Gideon Bibles in hotel rooms, I think the Meditations ought to be given out free at the seating areas in airports. Marcus Aurelius' encouragement of stoicism in confronting difficulties would be a great aid to travelers facing delays.
By the time we board the storm has passed and the weather conditions are perfect. We fly high over the Mediterranean, descending over the Mediterranean near La Grande Motte, France's pyramidal resort on the Golfe de Leon. We coast onto the landing field and touch down. Within a few minutes we are off the plane and in the airport.
Walking along the glass covered passageway into the main terminal, I see a strikingly thin blonde woman with a crop of hair that looks like a coxcomb: actress Tilda Swinton, squeezed into a seat against the window, a teenaged boy (probably her son), next to her. She is wearing no make-up, but her Scottish coloring and unusual features are unmistakeable. I read an interview with her once in which she complained that she really didn't have very much money, that she and her husband live very simply in their place in Scotland. And it may be true: she had the look of someone who did not want to be noticed in the place and the way she was, stripped of all glamour, without attendants.
I left the car in long-term parking and wondered whether I would find it where I left it --or would it be towed or stolen? In answer to my prayers, the car was there, in the condition I left it. I quickly drove to Caunes and resumed my life here, a world away from Rome.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Insalata Mista: Last Day In Rome
August 18, 2015
As I have seen so much of Bernini's work this week in Rome, it seemed entirely fitting to spend my last afternoon at the Vatican. However, the idea of visiting the Vatican is always overwhelming, and I'd only made up my mind to go Monday, so a private tour was out, even if I were willing to shell out the $300 one costs.
So I thought that, in the morning, I would visit another of Bernini's works in a corner of Rome tourists pass through on their way to bigger monuments, the obelisk and elephant statue in Piazza della Minerva, between the Pantheon and Piazza Navona.
It was a sunny day, but it was possible to beat the heat by going down the little vicolos, narrow little streets lined with Renaissance era houses. There were lots of pennant-waving tour guides moving groups along, most of them with the tread of people for whom viewing the sights tourists want to see has become almost as soulless an exercise as it is for the visitors on the tour.
I waded through the groups (wearing my knapsack on my chest, a necessary precaution in crowded areas in Rome), and came to Bernini's monument, which has a small obelisk from ancient Egypt riding atop a caparisoned, smiling elephant. The elephant's trunk is turned towards its rear; it was said that the position of the animal was deliberate: the rear end and trunk both point in the direction of the residence of one of Bernini's enemies. It is a charming statue.
Piazza della Minerva is also the home of the tailors to the Pope, Gamarelli. The sign above their door reads Sartori per Ecclesiastici. Google Images has some rather amusing photos of prelates exiting the shop, which also makes cardinal's caps. It's interesting to see that Gamarelli changes its window displays, sometimes featuring white outfits, other times red. And that is not the limit of colors that official vestments for high-ranking Vatican officials can be made in: dark mauve, too, is used sometimes. Photos of Papal Conclaves in the Sistine chapel have everyone in red and white, while a photo I saw of those attending Vatican II were all dressed in white with mitres on their heads. The fashion options of Catholic cardinals may be limited, but every one of them is wearing clothes laundered, bleached, pressed and starched within an inch of their lives.
It is noon by the time my visit to Piazza Minerva is over, and I decide to head home for lunch, like a good Italian. I have almost exhausted my stash from Volpetti, but not quite. I still have some dried tomatoes marinated in olive oil with onions and olives, and an entire mozzarella. The style of the mozzarella is fior di latte (the flower of the milk), and it is: the mozzarella is so tender it might be mascarpone, but for the ovoid shape. And the taste is delicate and the perfect accompaniment to the vegetables. Dessert is a few dried figs, succulent and dripping with sugar.
I have very much enjoyed eating food much better than I would have had at almost any restaurant in Rome. When travelling alone I find it difficult to sit down at restaurants. And as I have had so many places to see, eating at home has been a way of nourishing myself as I would wish to be nourished, but also an opportunity to recharge, washing up and resting before facing the street again.
I spend the afternoon walking as far as Ponte Margherita, the northernmost bridge in Rome and approaching the Vatican Museums by a street called Via Cole di Rienzo, a posh street of well-dressed people, both Italian and foreign and expensive shops. Here is where wealthy Romans desport themselves.
The Vatican Museums are always impressive: the Raphael Rooms, the Borghese Apartments, the Sistine Chapel. It is always, however, a sweat bath and dispiriting despite the beauty of the collections. If 17,000 people visit daily it is hard to know how to avoid the manufactured nature of the experience; and then the images of the Sistine Chapel have become so familiar as to be bowdlerized everywhere, degrading their visual impact --even if you have no issues with the restoration work, which has created controversy.
My most significant moment in the museums is the time I spent with a priest from Nigeria, Father Valentine, who has been posted in the middle of the gallery adjoining the Sistine Chapel. A little sign by the desk where he sits reads in Italian "Art and Faith". He is reading a book when I approach, but greets me warmly.
I proceed to have a ninety minute conversation with him, as it turns out that he is writing a doctoral dissertation on a subject I know something about: press freedom and legal protection for it. He is a gentle, discerning soul and the warmth of this personality gives meaning to the Vatican experience in a way nothing I saw could have. He tells me there is a way to get into Saint Peter's without having to queue and he accompanies me back to the Sistine Chapel to show me which way to go. He has spent time in Birmingham, Alabama, Houston, Texas and Jacksonville, Florida, which is interesting, because in the course of our conversation he tells me of an older friend of his, a priest who faced discrimination on account of his race in italy. I give him my e-mail address --he has an I-Phone-- and he promises to send me an e-mail with the citation for a case in Nigeria in which an archbishop sued a journalist for libel and won.
I leave Saint Peter's just as the sun is setting. The Vatican post office is still open, though, so I scurry over to buy postcards and 2 stamps printed with an image of Pope Francis --at $2.60 each. I send one of the postcards to myself: the idea of receiving a postcard franked by the Vatican is just too tempting.
Of course, the Vatican is a city state to which ambassadors are appointed, which seems unusual, given its size. However, the Vatican once ruled over a large territory stretching from Rome to the Adriatic, as well as Rome. The three basilicas I visited are distant reminders of the once-land rich papacy, which is now in possession of only the Vatican and the property consisting of the basilicas of Saint John Lateran, Santa Maria Maggiore and Saint Paul Outside the Walls. Nonetheless, the Vatican plays a backstage role in a number of international contexts, providing diplomats who cannot meet publicly for reasons of political conflict between their countries, a Vatican intermediary. Such was the case between Chile and Argentina, where John Paul II helped prevent war between the two countries; and, less successfully, between the Israelis and the Palestinians.
I walk back home along the Tiber, then happily turn in and eat what is left of my stash from Volpetti. It's time to pack and say goodbye to Rome: I have to be on my way to the airport by 6:00 a.m.
When I think of the Rome I have seen I think of the Rome of travelers, fictitious and actual. Of Henry James and his heroine Daisy Miller, an American girl who died of ignoring the advice of natives and ex-pat habitués of Rome to not go walking in the Colosseum at night, contracting and dying of a deadly fever she caught there. I think of H.V. Morton, my guide on this tour, and of the English visitors who stayed in pensione, some more --and some less- comfortable than they would have expected. I think of John Keats, who died here, and his loyal friend, Joseph Severn. Of Percy Bysse Shelley whose ashes are there, too: Cor Cordium --heart of hearts, is the inscription on his tombstone.
What gives me the greatest pleasure, though, is to think of the sun rising --or setting-- over the Janiculum Hill and of mounting Viale Glorioso, just a few steps away from here-- to begin my journey there.
I close citing the inscription (a quote from Sergio Leone, the director of spaghetti Westerns) on the plaque by the scalinata of Viale Glorioso, that piano-length series of steps ascending the Gianicolo:
Il mio modo de vedere le cose talvolta e ingenuo un po infantile come i bambini della scalinata di Viale Glorioso
My way of seeing things is at times ingenuous and a bit childish like the kids [playing on] the steps of Viale Glorioso.
--To Rome, with love.
As I have seen so much of Bernini's work this week in Rome, it seemed entirely fitting to spend my last afternoon at the Vatican. However, the idea of visiting the Vatican is always overwhelming, and I'd only made up my mind to go Monday, so a private tour was out, even if I were willing to shell out the $300 one costs.
So I thought that, in the morning, I would visit another of Bernini's works in a corner of Rome tourists pass through on their way to bigger monuments, the obelisk and elephant statue in Piazza della Minerva, between the Pantheon and Piazza Navona.
It was a sunny day, but it was possible to beat the heat by going down the little vicolos, narrow little streets lined with Renaissance era houses. There were lots of pennant-waving tour guides moving groups along, most of them with the tread of people for whom viewing the sights tourists want to see has become almost as soulless an exercise as it is for the visitors on the tour.
I waded through the groups (wearing my knapsack on my chest, a necessary precaution in crowded areas in Rome), and came to Bernini's monument, which has a small obelisk from ancient Egypt riding atop a caparisoned, smiling elephant. The elephant's trunk is turned towards its rear; it was said that the position of the animal was deliberate: the rear end and trunk both point in the direction of the residence of one of Bernini's enemies. It is a charming statue.
Piazza della Minerva is also the home of the tailors to the Pope, Gamarelli. The sign above their door reads Sartori per Ecclesiastici. Google Images has some rather amusing photos of prelates exiting the shop, which also makes cardinal's caps. It's interesting to see that Gamarelli changes its window displays, sometimes featuring white outfits, other times red. And that is not the limit of colors that official vestments for high-ranking Vatican officials can be made in: dark mauve, too, is used sometimes. Photos of Papal Conclaves in the Sistine chapel have everyone in red and white, while a photo I saw of those attending Vatican II were all dressed in white with mitres on their heads. The fashion options of Catholic cardinals may be limited, but every one of them is wearing clothes laundered, bleached, pressed and starched within an inch of their lives.
It is noon by the time my visit to Piazza Minerva is over, and I decide to head home for lunch, like a good Italian. I have almost exhausted my stash from Volpetti, but not quite. I still have some dried tomatoes marinated in olive oil with onions and olives, and an entire mozzarella. The style of the mozzarella is fior di latte (the flower of the milk), and it is: the mozzarella is so tender it might be mascarpone, but for the ovoid shape. And the taste is delicate and the perfect accompaniment to the vegetables. Dessert is a few dried figs, succulent and dripping with sugar.
I have very much enjoyed eating food much better than I would have had at almost any restaurant in Rome. When travelling alone I find it difficult to sit down at restaurants. And as I have had so many places to see, eating at home has been a way of nourishing myself as I would wish to be nourished, but also an opportunity to recharge, washing up and resting before facing the street again.
I spend the afternoon walking as far as Ponte Margherita, the northernmost bridge in Rome and approaching the Vatican Museums by a street called Via Cole di Rienzo, a posh street of well-dressed people, both Italian and foreign and expensive shops. Here is where wealthy Romans desport themselves.
The Vatican Museums are always impressive: the Raphael Rooms, the Borghese Apartments, the Sistine Chapel. It is always, however, a sweat bath and dispiriting despite the beauty of the collections. If 17,000 people visit daily it is hard to know how to avoid the manufactured nature of the experience; and then the images of the Sistine Chapel have become so familiar as to be bowdlerized everywhere, degrading their visual impact --even if you have no issues with the restoration work, which has created controversy.
My most significant moment in the museums is the time I spent with a priest from Nigeria, Father Valentine, who has been posted in the middle of the gallery adjoining the Sistine Chapel. A little sign by the desk where he sits reads in Italian "Art and Faith". He is reading a book when I approach, but greets me warmly.
I proceed to have a ninety minute conversation with him, as it turns out that he is writing a doctoral dissertation on a subject I know something about: press freedom and legal protection for it. He is a gentle, discerning soul and the warmth of this personality gives meaning to the Vatican experience in a way nothing I saw could have. He tells me there is a way to get into Saint Peter's without having to queue and he accompanies me back to the Sistine Chapel to show me which way to go. He has spent time in Birmingham, Alabama, Houston, Texas and Jacksonville, Florida, which is interesting, because in the course of our conversation he tells me of an older friend of his, a priest who faced discrimination on account of his race in italy. I give him my e-mail address --he has an I-Phone-- and he promises to send me an e-mail with the citation for a case in Nigeria in which an archbishop sued a journalist for libel and won.
I leave Saint Peter's just as the sun is setting. The Vatican post office is still open, though, so I scurry over to buy postcards and 2 stamps printed with an image of Pope Francis --at $2.60 each. I send one of the postcards to myself: the idea of receiving a postcard franked by the Vatican is just too tempting.
Of course, the Vatican is a city state to which ambassadors are appointed, which seems unusual, given its size. However, the Vatican once ruled over a large territory stretching from Rome to the Adriatic, as well as Rome. The three basilicas I visited are distant reminders of the once-land rich papacy, which is now in possession of only the Vatican and the property consisting of the basilicas of Saint John Lateran, Santa Maria Maggiore and Saint Paul Outside the Walls. Nonetheless, the Vatican plays a backstage role in a number of international contexts, providing diplomats who cannot meet publicly for reasons of political conflict between their countries, a Vatican intermediary. Such was the case between Chile and Argentina, where John Paul II helped prevent war between the two countries; and, less successfully, between the Israelis and the Palestinians.
I walk back home along the Tiber, then happily turn in and eat what is left of my stash from Volpetti. It's time to pack and say goodbye to Rome: I have to be on my way to the airport by 6:00 a.m.
When I think of the Rome I have seen I think of the Rome of travelers, fictitious and actual. Of Henry James and his heroine Daisy Miller, an American girl who died of ignoring the advice of natives and ex-pat habitués of Rome to not go walking in the Colosseum at night, contracting and dying of a deadly fever she caught there. I think of H.V. Morton, my guide on this tour, and of the English visitors who stayed in pensione, some more --and some less- comfortable than they would have expected. I think of John Keats, who died here, and his loyal friend, Joseph Severn. Of Percy Bysse Shelley whose ashes are there, too: Cor Cordium --heart of hearts, is the inscription on his tombstone.
What gives me the greatest pleasure, though, is to think of the sun rising --or setting-- over the Janiculum Hill and of mounting Viale Glorioso, just a few steps away from here-- to begin my journey there.
I close citing the inscription (a quote from Sergio Leone, the director of spaghetti Westerns) on the plaque by the scalinata of Viale Glorioso, that piano-length series of steps ascending the Gianicolo:
Il mio modo de vedere le cose talvolta e ingenuo un po infantile come i bambini della scalinata di Viale Glorioso
My way of seeing things is at times ingenuous and a bit childish like the kids [playing on] the steps of Viale Glorioso.
--To Rome, with love.
Monday, August 17, 2015
4 Things I Find Odd About Rome
Monday, August 17, 2015
Having enjoyed Rome so much on this, my fourth visit, I still find some things about the city odd:
1. The post office will not sell you stamps. They will frank a letter with stamps and take it from you to mail, but they will not sell you stamps to take away;
2. The price of postage is very high: The price quoted me by the newsdealer the day I tried and failed to buy stamps at the post office, about 2 Euros and a bit more, is the same as the price offered at the post office;
3. The postal clerk who told me they had no stamps to sell me may well have run out of international stamps.
Here's are a few other items:
All over the city a black and white calendar with a large photo of a young priest is being sold as a Calendar Vaticano.
When I first saw the image of a dark-haired, dark eyed young priest with a winning half-smile, I thought perhaps he was someone who had lived an exemplary life and was being proposed for Vatican recognition. However, the name on the photograph was that of Paolo Pazzi. I turned over the calendar and found a total of twelve photographs --a priest for each month, each young and fetching.
After doing some research on the Internet, I found the following story by a "Variety" reporter, Nick Vivarelli :
Having enjoyed Rome so much on this, my fourth visit, I still find some things about the city odd:
1. The post office will not sell you stamps. They will frank a letter with stamps and take it from you to mail, but they will not sell you stamps to take away;
2. The price of postage is very high: The price quoted me by the newsdealer the day I tried and failed to buy stamps at the post office, about 2 Euros and a bit more, is the same as the price offered at the post office;
3. The postal clerk who told me they had no stamps to sell me may well have run out of international stamps.
Here's are a few other items:
All over the city a black and white calendar with a large photo of a young priest is being sold as a Calendar Vaticano.
When I first saw the image of a dark-haired, dark eyed young priest with a winning half-smile, I thought perhaps he was someone who had lived an exemplary life and was being proposed for Vatican recognition. However, the name on the photograph was that of Paolo Pazzi. I turned over the calendar and found a total of twelve photographs --a priest for each month, each young and fetching.
After doing some research on the Internet, I found the following story by a "Variety" reporter, Nick Vivarelli :
Casting call … Seeking: hunky Roman Catholic seminarians for calendar sold from Seville to Sydney.
Italo photog Piero Pazzi claims he indeed shoots real priests for Calendario Romano — known in Rome as the Vatican beefcake calendar — which has become such an international cult item that Rizzoli recently snapped up rights to publish an American edition.
Bolstering his claim, Pazzi has posted casting calls in four languages on his website, calendarioromano.org. And while they don’t say hunkyness is required, the English version oddly states that “single clergymen” are being sought for the shoot.
“It’s just intended as a souvenir,” Pazzi tells Variety, noting that he gets plenty of orders for the calendar from Protestant female ministers in Sweden, Norway and Denmark.
The shots “are mostly pictures of real priests, which I take during my travels. But sometimes I do get Catholic priests who respond to the casting call,” he says.
As for hunkyness, “I pick them young to signal that their calling is still very much alive,” is all Pazzi would concede.
Pazzi’s clever cottage industry, of course, has no ties to the Vatican, but he does seem to have a tacit Holy See seal of approval: Copies of Calendario Romano were being handed out in June by organizers of World Youth Day in Sydney as an unofficial marketing tool for the massive Roman Catholic teen shindig.
But more recently the Vatican chastised an Italian priest with a similar initiative: a beauty contest for nuns between 18 and 40.
Father Antonio Rungi made Italo headlines in August when his planned Sister Italia pageant was shot down by his superiors despite his claims that it would help “boost sagging vocations.”
***
I wonder how the priests photographed feel about being used in this way. The traffic on the Internet reveals that the calendar fulfills a homoerotic fantasy.
I suppose the best way to approach the whole thing is to ignore it, if possible. --Which reminds me of the story about Pope John XXIII at a dinner party:
Before Angelo Roncalli became Pope, he was a cardinal attached to the church of Santa Prisca as well as Patriarch of Venice. He was much in demand at lay functions in addition to his priestly duties. One night he was invited to a dinner party and seated opposite a woman in a scandalously low cut dress, considering the presence of the Cardinal. Cardinal Roncalli was accompanied by a priest who was there to attend to him and seated next to him.
Seeing the woman in the low-cut dress, the priest, horrified, whispered to Cardinal Roncalli:
"Do you see that woman? Her dress is causing scandal! Everyone is talking about it and looking at her, it's so inappropriate."
Unperturbed, Cardinal Roncalli replied to his aide-de-camp as follows:
"Oh no, you are incorrect. Everyone is not looking at her. They are looking at me to see whether I am looking at her!"
Outside The Walls Of Rome And Then Some
Monday, August 17, 2015
I remember reading that Wilfred Thesiger, the explorer of Saudi Arabia's empty quarter, the trackless desert where oil was discovered years later, walked so much the arches of his feet had to be rebuilt. I don't know, relative to Thesiger, what the condition of my feet and legs are after almost a week walking everywhere in Rome, but I would say they have been pushed to the limit of their capacities. Today, having visited all three of the non-Vatican papal basilicas plus San Sebastiano Fuori Le Muri, my pilgrimage is almost over. Tomorrow I have a 3:00 p.m. ticket to the Vatican Museums and will stop at Saint Peter's, a fitting end to my travels in Rome.
I only realize in retrospect how ambitious my plan was: San Paolo Fuori Le Muri is outside Rome, near the autostrada. Notwithstanding, coming upon the basilica and its enormous plaza, I'm struck by the monumentality of the papal basilicas: no church in New York, Paris or London I've seen compare in size --no church I've seen anywhere does. I also realize that you don't have to go to Ravenna to see beautiful mosaics: Rome's churches are full of them.
From San Paolo I take the Metro to Circo Massimo, the nearest stop to San Sebastiano Fuori le Muri, my next stop. I want to go here because it was one of the "seven pilgrim churches of Rome" until John Paul II conferred the distinction on the Chiesa del Divino Amore down the road on the Appian Way.
"Yes, I said 'the Appian Way'". The ancient way is still traveled, although I had no idea how far it was from the Circo Massimo. I ask for directions near the Aventine road (via Aventina), and again, as everywhere I have gone in Rome, the native indicates it is a long way off. By this time I know that if the natives say it's a long way off, it's a long way off. I walk along the road towards the Appian Way and spy a bus stop heading in the same direction. Looking at the list of stops, I see that one of them is San Sebastiano. I wait about twenty minutes, chatting with an older Italian woman who tells me about which churches in the area are open and which are rarely open and I pass the time until the bus arrives.
It turns out that Via Appia is much further than I would be able to walk, much further. The bus takes us through the countryside and onto the road, whose square tiles make the bus bounce and vibrate. As I look out the window I see one religious shrine after another: Divino Amore (which has a neon sign, unlit); San Calixto, known for its catacombs, and finally, San Sebastiano.
Most people go to San Sebastiano to visit the catacombs, but there is another reason: it is the home of the last of Bernini's great works of sculpture, the larger-than-life bust of Christ known as Salvator Mundi. It is worth seeing.
There are mosaics on a frieze above the entrance columns and inside, the church is equally splendid, although smaller than the basilicas. I am heading for the catacombs and see that a tour in English is about to begin. At 8 Euros for 30 minutes it's pricey, but in H.V. Morton's A Traveler In Rome I've read of the catacombs discovered here by a Irish priest in the 19th century. Also I've read that many pilgrims still visit San Sebastiano, even if in Jubilee years they have to visit Divino Amore as well to get their indulgence.
The tour is led by an erudite man, blonde and tall with an accent I think might be Polish, but turns out to be Lithuanian. He knows Greek and Latin and he knows lots about the catacombs and the early Christian church. I learn that bodies were buried and quicklime put into the tombs to kill all infections. Quicklime slaked with water dries out the tissues (which stink on decomposition), and made the cemeteries relatively safe from the perspective of public health (I wonder when sanitation increased to the point where a body could be buried without having to resort to quicklime?) During the years of Christian persecution, believers met in the catacombs to say Mass, as being ceremonies associated with the dead (broadly speaking), the rite was permitted under Roman law. Romans were usually cremated, although if someone converted, their remains could be placed in a columbarium, a repository for ashes.
The tour involves descending into the cool depths of the church's foundations and being guided through a maze of tunnels. Drops of moisture cling to the walls and it is cool enough that I am glad I have a shirt over my shoulders. An elderly man and equally elderly, but more frail woman are on the tour, which is a physical test for the woman, whose back is curved with age. Nevertheless, she goes everywhere everyone else does on the tour, and I admire her fortitude, although the strength with which she grips my hand as I help her husband to help her down the stairs suggests she is not going to give up the ghost any time soon. They are Dutch, and accompanied by a clergyman who seems decidedly Calvinist.
The guide on the catacombs tour tells me that if I want to go to Saint John in the Lateran, I should walk through the arch towards the catacombs of San Calixto and catch the #218 bus back to the city. I just make a passing bus and in seconds, am bounding along the Appian Way, back to Rome. The giant statues of the Lateran look on from their perch at the opposite end of the plaza from where the bus stops, and I know I have arrived at the second of the papal basilicas.
Saint John Lateran is overwhelming, giant statues of the apostles in equally large niches lining the sides of the basilica. Again, the gilding and mosaic work are spectacular.
From the Lateran I have one more basilica to visit, Santa Maria Maggiore at the end of Via Merulana. I walk the whole way. I have already seen the basilica, but I was so struck the last time I saw it, I want to see it again. Also, I now know that Bernini was buried there, and I want to see the stone over his grave. I am confirmed in my appreciation of this embracing structure. I walk around its chapels searching fruitlessly for Benini's tombstone. Spying two sets of tourists photographing in a chapel near where I'm told the stone should be, in a chapel where only prayer is permitted and photographs are specifically not permitted, I lose my temper. I upbraid the tourists, one Chinese, the other an older German couple in a loud voice. I can't help myself: it seems disrespectful. The lyrics to Noel Coward's Why Do The Wrong People Travel? come to mind. With the help of a kindly guard, I find Bernini's inconspicuous tombstone to the right of the altar
My pilgrimage is complete, now I have to get to my lodgings. By this point --it is 2:45 p.m. in the afternoon-- my legs and feet will do nothing more for me. I walk over to a bus stop for the #75 bus and see that it will practically take me to my door, the Dandolo-Casini stop. Overjoyed, I settle in for a long wait. After 30 minutes of this, I ask the driver of another bus whether the #75 bus stops there. He tell me it doesn't, the sign notwithstanding, and takes me to the right bus stop. I wait another 15 minutes, but the bus arrives and I am chauffeured back to my apartment.
Fortunately, in the refrigerator I have a number of tasty items I bought at Volpetti on via Marmorata last Friday, as well as a large Peroni beer. They are the manifest reward for my efforts, but I also feel a great personal satisfaction for having cast my net in Rome so widely.
One more day to go.
I remember reading that Wilfred Thesiger, the explorer of Saudi Arabia's empty quarter, the trackless desert where oil was discovered years later, walked so much the arches of his feet had to be rebuilt. I don't know, relative to Thesiger, what the condition of my feet and legs are after almost a week walking everywhere in Rome, but I would say they have been pushed to the limit of their capacities. Today, having visited all three of the non-Vatican papal basilicas plus San Sebastiano Fuori Le Muri, my pilgrimage is almost over. Tomorrow I have a 3:00 p.m. ticket to the Vatican Museums and will stop at Saint Peter's, a fitting end to my travels in Rome.
I only realize in retrospect how ambitious my plan was: San Paolo Fuori Le Muri is outside Rome, near the autostrada. Notwithstanding, coming upon the basilica and its enormous plaza, I'm struck by the monumentality of the papal basilicas: no church in New York, Paris or London I've seen compare in size --no church I've seen anywhere does. I also realize that you don't have to go to Ravenna to see beautiful mosaics: Rome's churches are full of them.
From San Paolo I take the Metro to Circo Massimo, the nearest stop to San Sebastiano Fuori le Muri, my next stop. I want to go here because it was one of the "seven pilgrim churches of Rome" until John Paul II conferred the distinction on the Chiesa del Divino Amore down the road on the Appian Way.
"Yes, I said 'the Appian Way'". The ancient way is still traveled, although I had no idea how far it was from the Circo Massimo. I ask for directions near the Aventine road (via Aventina), and again, as everywhere I have gone in Rome, the native indicates it is a long way off. By this time I know that if the natives say it's a long way off, it's a long way off. I walk along the road towards the Appian Way and spy a bus stop heading in the same direction. Looking at the list of stops, I see that one of them is San Sebastiano. I wait about twenty minutes, chatting with an older Italian woman who tells me about which churches in the area are open and which are rarely open and I pass the time until the bus arrives.
It turns out that Via Appia is much further than I would be able to walk, much further. The bus takes us through the countryside and onto the road, whose square tiles make the bus bounce and vibrate. As I look out the window I see one religious shrine after another: Divino Amore (which has a neon sign, unlit); San Calixto, known for its catacombs, and finally, San Sebastiano.
Most people go to San Sebastiano to visit the catacombs, but there is another reason: it is the home of the last of Bernini's great works of sculpture, the larger-than-life bust of Christ known as Salvator Mundi. It is worth seeing.
There are mosaics on a frieze above the entrance columns and inside, the church is equally splendid, although smaller than the basilicas. I am heading for the catacombs and see that a tour in English is about to begin. At 8 Euros for 30 minutes it's pricey, but in H.V. Morton's A Traveler In Rome I've read of the catacombs discovered here by a Irish priest in the 19th century. Also I've read that many pilgrims still visit San Sebastiano, even if in Jubilee years they have to visit Divino Amore as well to get their indulgence.
The tour is led by an erudite man, blonde and tall with an accent I think might be Polish, but turns out to be Lithuanian. He knows Greek and Latin and he knows lots about the catacombs and the early Christian church. I learn that bodies were buried and quicklime put into the tombs to kill all infections. Quicklime slaked with water dries out the tissues (which stink on decomposition), and made the cemeteries relatively safe from the perspective of public health (I wonder when sanitation increased to the point where a body could be buried without having to resort to quicklime?) During the years of Christian persecution, believers met in the catacombs to say Mass, as being ceremonies associated with the dead (broadly speaking), the rite was permitted under Roman law. Romans were usually cremated, although if someone converted, their remains could be placed in a columbarium, a repository for ashes.
The tour involves descending into the cool depths of the church's foundations and being guided through a maze of tunnels. Drops of moisture cling to the walls and it is cool enough that I am glad I have a shirt over my shoulders. An elderly man and equally elderly, but more frail woman are on the tour, which is a physical test for the woman, whose back is curved with age. Nevertheless, she goes everywhere everyone else does on the tour, and I admire her fortitude, although the strength with which she grips my hand as I help her husband to help her down the stairs suggests she is not going to give up the ghost any time soon. They are Dutch, and accompanied by a clergyman who seems decidedly Calvinist.
The guide on the catacombs tour tells me that if I want to go to Saint John in the Lateran, I should walk through the arch towards the catacombs of San Calixto and catch the #218 bus back to the city. I just make a passing bus and in seconds, am bounding along the Appian Way, back to Rome. The giant statues of the Lateran look on from their perch at the opposite end of the plaza from where the bus stops, and I know I have arrived at the second of the papal basilicas.
Saint John Lateran is overwhelming, giant statues of the apostles in equally large niches lining the sides of the basilica. Again, the gilding and mosaic work are spectacular.
From the Lateran I have one more basilica to visit, Santa Maria Maggiore at the end of Via Merulana. I walk the whole way. I have already seen the basilica, but I was so struck the last time I saw it, I want to see it again. Also, I now know that Bernini was buried there, and I want to see the stone over his grave. I am confirmed in my appreciation of this embracing structure. I walk around its chapels searching fruitlessly for Benini's tombstone. Spying two sets of tourists photographing in a chapel near where I'm told the stone should be, in a chapel where only prayer is permitted and photographs are specifically not permitted, I lose my temper. I upbraid the tourists, one Chinese, the other an older German couple in a loud voice. I can't help myself: it seems disrespectful. The lyrics to Noel Coward's Why Do The Wrong People Travel? come to mind. With the help of a kindly guard, I find Bernini's inconspicuous tombstone to the right of the altar
My pilgrimage is complete, now I have to get to my lodgings. By this point --it is 2:45 p.m. in the afternoon-- my legs and feet will do nothing more for me. I walk over to a bus stop for the #75 bus and see that it will practically take me to my door, the Dandolo-Casini stop. Overjoyed, I settle in for a long wait. After 30 minutes of this, I ask the driver of another bus whether the #75 bus stops there. He tell me it doesn't, the sign notwithstanding, and takes me to the right bus stop. I wait another 15 minutes, but the bus arrives and I am chauffeured back to my apartment.
Fortunately, in the refrigerator I have a number of tasty items I bought at Volpetti on via Marmorata last Friday, as well as a large Peroni beer. They are the manifest reward for my efforts, but I also feel a great personal satisfaction for having cast my net in Rome so widely.
One more day to go.
Sunday, August 16, 2015
La Bocca Della Verita --Or, Time Plays Tricks
Sunday, August 17 2015
It is one of the most disconcerting experiences to return somewhere a strong memory was created and be unable to reconstruct the memory with what is in front of you. So I felt this afternoon when I tried to find Sant' Eligio degli Orefici, the goldsmith's church. Bill and I attended Mass there our last Sunday in Rome on our last visit there, perhaps fifteen years ago, even twenty.
The day began with my rising at 6:00 a.m. to get to the Janiculum Hill in time to make Mass at San Pietro in Montorio, next to Bramante's Tempietto and the Real Academia de Espana. I walked in, passing a local who was the lector during the Mass. I sat myself in the front row, as no one else was in the church: I cannot understand worshipers who cluster in the back of the church, as far from the priest as possible, as if they were afraid of him. I want to hear what is said, particularly because it is in a foreign language. If I'm far away, I have no hope of making out what is said, so I sit as close to the altar as possible.
By 8:00 a.m. there are only a few more worshipers in the church, perhaps ten in all, all seated in the back. The priest looks like a product of the mezzogiorno --he is walnut-skinned, from Sicily or Naples, perhaps. Yet he speaks a clear Italian, and I understand most of what he says about the value of the Eucharist as a communal meal, not a magic trick, not just a purification.
By 9:00 a.m. I am back at the apartment, and it has just begun to rain. It is so cool now --so long as I have the shutters and windows wide open. However, they are so large that when they are opened, the room --which tends to bottle up heat-- quickly cools down. I latch the shutter and keep the windows open and take a nap for two hours.
When I awake I feed myself the third course of yesterday's ferragosto meal, which tastes delicious. By then it is noon and I am out, headed towards Sant'Agata in Trastevere, one of the churches on my list.
No one knows where it is, though, even though I have the address. Off Viale Trastevere, though, I find San Francesco a Ripa, the street that leads to Santa Maria in Trastevere, the next church on my list. Although when I arrive, it is closed until after lunch. Nonetheless, I get to see the beautiful mosaics on the exterior, above the colonnade.
I turn around and go back to Viale Trastevere, set on taking a trip down memory lane and finding the goldsmith's church, the hotel Bill and I stayed in and La Bocca della Verita, all within easy walking distance of each other, as I recall. In front of me is Sant' Agata, which is the way it is in Rome.
After stopping in Sant' Agata and picking up some information about the people associated with it who are in the running for Vatican recognition whether by being venerable, beatified or canonized, I walk to the Tiber. When I reach the Tiber I turn right and proceed along the lungoteveri on the Trastevere side of the river: Lungotevere Anguillara, Lungotevere Alberteschi, past Ponte Garibaldi and Ponte Cestio, and crossing the Tiber at Ponte Palatino. This area is another of my favorites in Rome, perhaps because the spaces are open, the streets wide and the buildings and ruins set apart from each other, creating a dignified effect. I easily catch sight of Santa Maria in Cosmedin: there is a long line of tourists waiting to have their photos taken in front of the famous man-hole. There is no line to enter the Byzantine basilica.
As I enter, a guard tells me my shorts --which go half-way down my thighs-- are too short. He points to plastic bin with lightweight white sheets of synthetic material to indicate that I have to cover my legs. I wrap the sheet around my waist sari-style, and go in.
The church was an old granary, as the height of the ceiling and its plain wooden beams attest. The mosaics of saints are Eastern in style and there are hanging lamps, as would be the case in any Eastern rite church. The floor is also made of mosaics, circular patterns in the nave against squares and rectangles bordering. Underneath the present day church is an underground church, a low-ceilinged cave, a small space with side vaults and an altar. Nearby are stones from the tomb of Pope Hadrian I. I buy a photo of Pope Benedict greeting Pope Francis (lots of white to see), and a "pin-up" of Pope Francis surrounded by Saint Peter's. This sort of tourist tat has a strange appeal for me --I am developing quite a collection of papal memorabilia (--alongside my collection of souvenirs of the British Royal Family).
Now that I have placed myself in the area of the hotel Bill and I stayed in, I want to find the hotel, but see nothing that looks like the glamorous place we stayed in. At the time it had just opened, so we were able to stay in a suite on the fifth floor, the top floor, with a terrace looking out over the Temple of Vesta and Santa Maria in Cosmedin. Not finding it, I abandon the search, thinking Sant' Eligio will be easier to find. But where is the goldsmith's church? I find myself asking after thoroughly combing the area on both sides of Santa Maria in Cosmedin.
My memory is that the nearest church, San Nicola in Carcere, across the street, was closed, but I found Sant' Eligio down a little street. It was our last morning, and we had to make it to the airport, but hoped, as it was Sunday, we would be able find a church where to go to Mass. I think I went looking on my own while Bill completed his packing. I was triumphant to find the little church open for Mass --it was open only one Sunday a month and we happened to be there on that Sunday.
We passed through a heavy red velvet curtain into an opulent, operatic environment. I remember seeing two crossed tools on a plaque near the altar on the right. Later I discovered they were the symbol of the goldsmiths' guild, which commissioned the artist Raphael to design it.
Years later, searching for Sant' Eligio turned out to be a wild goose chase for a good hour. I had an address of Viale Cenci, but after walking all over that area, found nothing. I even stopped in the carabinieri station in Piazza Farnese, near via Giulia. The handsomest policeman answered my knock and told me to consider walking to Lungotevere dei Tebaldi and even as far as Lungotevere dei Sangallo, as he thought it was closer there.
Heading in that direction I passed a hotel with an invitingly open door and a front desk attendant willing to help me. I needed to go to Via Eligio, a tiny street between Via Giulia and Lungotevere Tebaldi , a few minutes away. I walked Via Giulia and then Lungotevere Tebaldi and found the church, visible from the Lungotevere, from which I descended a few steps to the church.
The sign on the door said the church was open from Monday through Friday from 9:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. by pre-arrangement (prenotazione). There was a phone number to call, but as I have no cellphone I can use in Italy, it was pointless to take it down. I would not get to see the interior of the church except in images on Google.
In retrospect, what is most astonishing to me is that I found the church at all twenty years ago. I was walking without knowing of its existence, yet I found it and was able to lead Bill back to it. None of the places where I thought it was were any where near where the church actually stands: my memory was that I found a church --which was San Nicola in Carcere, and finding it closed continued to look and found Sant' Eligio degli Orefici. I must have continued along the lungoteveri until I saw the little church and descending, found it open, the sacristan preparing for Mass.
Our hotel was Hotel "47", on via Petroselli, two minutes from Santa Maria in Cosmedin, I discover after an Internet search. It is a non-descript building that looks like a government office, easily overlooked unless you know where you are going. it is less than a twenty minute walk from the goldsmith's church.
It is one of the most disconcerting experiences to return somewhere a strong memory was created and be unable to reconstruct the memory with what is in front of you. So I felt this afternoon when I tried to find Sant' Eligio degli Orefici, the goldsmith's church. Bill and I attended Mass there our last Sunday in Rome on our last visit there, perhaps fifteen years ago, even twenty.
The day began with my rising at 6:00 a.m. to get to the Janiculum Hill in time to make Mass at San Pietro in Montorio, next to Bramante's Tempietto and the Real Academia de Espana. I walked in, passing a local who was the lector during the Mass. I sat myself in the front row, as no one else was in the church: I cannot understand worshipers who cluster in the back of the church, as far from the priest as possible, as if they were afraid of him. I want to hear what is said, particularly because it is in a foreign language. If I'm far away, I have no hope of making out what is said, so I sit as close to the altar as possible.
By 8:00 a.m. there are only a few more worshipers in the church, perhaps ten in all, all seated in the back. The priest looks like a product of the mezzogiorno --he is walnut-skinned, from Sicily or Naples, perhaps. Yet he speaks a clear Italian, and I understand most of what he says about the value of the Eucharist as a communal meal, not a magic trick, not just a purification.
By 9:00 a.m. I am back at the apartment, and it has just begun to rain. It is so cool now --so long as I have the shutters and windows wide open. However, they are so large that when they are opened, the room --which tends to bottle up heat-- quickly cools down. I latch the shutter and keep the windows open and take a nap for two hours.
When I awake I feed myself the third course of yesterday's ferragosto meal, which tastes delicious. By then it is noon and I am out, headed towards Sant'Agata in Trastevere, one of the churches on my list.
No one knows where it is, though, even though I have the address. Off Viale Trastevere, though, I find San Francesco a Ripa, the street that leads to Santa Maria in Trastevere, the next church on my list. Although when I arrive, it is closed until after lunch. Nonetheless, I get to see the beautiful mosaics on the exterior, above the colonnade.
I turn around and go back to Viale Trastevere, set on taking a trip down memory lane and finding the goldsmith's church, the hotel Bill and I stayed in and La Bocca della Verita, all within easy walking distance of each other, as I recall. In front of me is Sant' Agata, which is the way it is in Rome.
After stopping in Sant' Agata and picking up some information about the people associated with it who are in the running for Vatican recognition whether by being venerable, beatified or canonized, I walk to the Tiber. When I reach the Tiber I turn right and proceed along the lungoteveri on the Trastevere side of the river: Lungotevere Anguillara, Lungotevere Alberteschi, past Ponte Garibaldi and Ponte Cestio, and crossing the Tiber at Ponte Palatino. This area is another of my favorites in Rome, perhaps because the spaces are open, the streets wide and the buildings and ruins set apart from each other, creating a dignified effect. I easily catch sight of Santa Maria in Cosmedin: there is a long line of tourists waiting to have their photos taken in front of the famous man-hole. There is no line to enter the Byzantine basilica.
As I enter, a guard tells me my shorts --which go half-way down my thighs-- are too short. He points to plastic bin with lightweight white sheets of synthetic material to indicate that I have to cover my legs. I wrap the sheet around my waist sari-style, and go in.
The church was an old granary, as the height of the ceiling and its plain wooden beams attest. The mosaics of saints are Eastern in style and there are hanging lamps, as would be the case in any Eastern rite church. The floor is also made of mosaics, circular patterns in the nave against squares and rectangles bordering. Underneath the present day church is an underground church, a low-ceilinged cave, a small space with side vaults and an altar. Nearby are stones from the tomb of Pope Hadrian I. I buy a photo of Pope Benedict greeting Pope Francis (lots of white to see), and a "pin-up" of Pope Francis surrounded by Saint Peter's. This sort of tourist tat has a strange appeal for me --I am developing quite a collection of papal memorabilia (--alongside my collection of souvenirs of the British Royal Family).
Now that I have placed myself in the area of the hotel Bill and I stayed in, I want to find the hotel, but see nothing that looks like the glamorous place we stayed in. At the time it had just opened, so we were able to stay in a suite on the fifth floor, the top floor, with a terrace looking out over the Temple of Vesta and Santa Maria in Cosmedin. Not finding it, I abandon the search, thinking Sant' Eligio will be easier to find. But where is the goldsmith's church? I find myself asking after thoroughly combing the area on both sides of Santa Maria in Cosmedin.
My memory is that the nearest church, San Nicola in Carcere, across the street, was closed, but I found Sant' Eligio down a little street. It was our last morning, and we had to make it to the airport, but hoped, as it was Sunday, we would be able find a church where to go to Mass. I think I went looking on my own while Bill completed his packing. I was triumphant to find the little church open for Mass --it was open only one Sunday a month and we happened to be there on that Sunday.
We passed through a heavy red velvet curtain into an opulent, operatic environment. I remember seeing two crossed tools on a plaque near the altar on the right. Later I discovered they were the symbol of the goldsmiths' guild, which commissioned the artist Raphael to design it.
Years later, searching for Sant' Eligio turned out to be a wild goose chase for a good hour. I had an address of Viale Cenci, but after walking all over that area, found nothing. I even stopped in the carabinieri station in Piazza Farnese, near via Giulia. The handsomest policeman answered my knock and told me to consider walking to Lungotevere dei Tebaldi and even as far as Lungotevere dei Sangallo, as he thought it was closer there.
Heading in that direction I passed a hotel with an invitingly open door and a front desk attendant willing to help me. I needed to go to Via Eligio, a tiny street between Via Giulia and Lungotevere Tebaldi , a few minutes away. I walked Via Giulia and then Lungotevere Tebaldi and found the church, visible from the Lungotevere, from which I descended a few steps to the church.
The sign on the door said the church was open from Monday through Friday from 9:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. by pre-arrangement (prenotazione). There was a phone number to call, but as I have no cellphone I can use in Italy, it was pointless to take it down. I would not get to see the interior of the church except in images on Google.
In retrospect, what is most astonishing to me is that I found the church at all twenty years ago. I was walking without knowing of its existence, yet I found it and was able to lead Bill back to it. None of the places where I thought it was were any where near where the church actually stands: my memory was that I found a church --which was San Nicola in Carcere, and finding it closed continued to look and found Sant' Eligio degli Orefici. I must have continued along the lungoteveri until I saw the little church and descending, found it open, the sacristan preparing for Mass.
Our hotel was Hotel "47", on via Petroselli, two minutes from Santa Maria in Cosmedin, I discover after an Internet search. It is a non-descript building that looks like a government office, easily overlooked unless you know where you are going. it is less than a twenty minute walk from the goldsmith's church.
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