July 3, 2015
Annie Tempest's comic strip in Country Life, "Tottering By Gently", is among my favorites. "Dickie" and "Daffy" are a no-longer-young couple who live in a large pile in the English countryside. They are a stereotype of elderly country types, who drink too much wine, whose three dogs sleep in the bed with them, and who are utterly removed from what goes on in London, even when they are there on a visit to Dickie's club.
One of the memorable cartoon strips is about a bad guest, a fellow who drinks everything in sight and never stops talking about nothing of great interest. By the end of his stay, Dickie and Daffy's eyes reveal their real feelings about their guest, notwithstanding the veneer of bonhomie they feel obliged to keep up.
Recent visitors gave me reason to remember the cartoon, and to analyze why I was so grateful at they departure. In considering what irritated me, I realized that the series of maladdresses that characterized their visit are far from specific to them, but shared by many of my countrymen. As we approach the celebration of Independence Day, I offer my observations in apposition (but not opposition) to the generalized love of individual freedom that is quintessentially American.
First off, my visitors found the towels, robes and slippers I laid out on their bed not to their taste, and served themselves to my private stock;
Secondly, my visitors took over my kitchen, cooking what they bought and liked, making their own coffee and in doing the latter, damaging my coffee maker;
Third, my visitors camped on my upholstery, pushing chairs against the wall and leaving marks, as well as putting their sneakered feet on the sofa;
Fourth, my friends like drinking wine, consider themselves conoisseurs and pressed me to drink with them, despite my demurrals;
Fifth, knowing full well that I am a practicing "Roman", one of them lectured me about the logical connection between the celibate life Roman Catholic priests are asked to live and the pedophilia scandals in the Church;
Sixth, one of my visitors took her companion sternly to task in front of me on two occasions, airing dirty linen in public;
Seventh, at home, in the living room, my guests spent their time checking their e-mails, playing computer games, and contacting the office, all right in front of me, rather than in their rooms;
Eighth, my guests sought to persuade me to buy a property near them, a property belonging to friends of theirs;
Ninth, one of them made unwelcome inquiries as to my financial situation;
Tenth, they never spoke of anything other than themselves, their deals, their amazing trips and their well-connected friends. What they wanted to do when with me was drink, eat and shop limitlessly without regard to the realities of the French countryside, with its modest possibilities. And during their stay, they made me various gifts (a belt, a shopping cart's worth of food when we were at the supermarket) --a not-so-subtle way of letting me know that they thought that by doing so, they had settled their account completely.
My friends had a wonderful time. They ate omelettes with truffles (the latter provided by me), game (ditto), and charcuterie made by master butchers. They drank and bought great wines, took home table linens and clothes. They visited a chateau run by acquaintances of mine and offered to make them a connection with someone who might be interested in importing the " biologic" wine made there. If my acquaintances take up the offer, one of my guests will be the middleman.
Yesterday I sent my friends on their way to the hotel on the Cote d'Azur I recommended when they consulted me about their trip. They also left with a reservation I'd made for them at the best restaurant within an hour's drive, La Table de Fontfroide, at the abbey of the same name.
Of course, I got a one line e-mail thanking me as soon as lunch ended, sent from an iPhone while they were on the road towards what would be a considerably more luxurious experience consistent with their expectations of France.
A one line e-mail "Thank You" note --"Magnifique! The Abbey was awesome! Off to St. Maxime. So many thanks for your hospitality!-- will have to do. They are such busy people.
Friday, July 3, 2015
Monday, June 29, 2015
Gossip and Crime
June 29, 2015
Just how gossipy is Caunes? It depends to whom you talk, but in general I would say "very". This has a connection to the petty crime that happens, which plays out in a funny way.
I found out how gossipy in my particular case, some people are, on my way to the shops to do errands this morning. On my way, I ran into my elderly cycling partner coming back from the boulangerie and the butcher's on his bicycle. He greeted me in his usual cheerful way, and stopped his bicycle to chat. Within seconds, I learned that the cashier at the butchers had told him that she took care of Beau while I took communion at Mass yesterday evening.
This was true: I have taken to hiking to church, sitting outside with Beau so as not to disturb either my next door neighbors or parishioners at Mass. When I need to take communion, I either tie Beau to a nearby tree, or someone offers to hold him for me in the meantime.
Yesterday, the cashier at the butcher's --a woman my age who does not attend Mass, but drives her mother there and back each Sunday-- offered to take Beau. I like her, but she is not someone who can keep anything secret. "She and her mother are the biggest gossips in the village", a friend (who shall be nameless, as everyone but one in this post will be), cautioned me. "If there is anything personal you don't want spread around town, she's not the person to tell."
On the other hand, it is essential to be able to obtain information from trusted friends in order to be aware of who in the village might be a potential source of problems. And since it is now widely known that there is a drug market not far from my door, to know who might be affiliated, is to know whom not to share my opinions with, so as to avoid being "tagged" with a grudge by part of the gang.
And grudges abound in Caunes, as in any small community. I now understand why Agatha Christie found such inspiration in the small English village: people living close together become very aware of each other: their habits, their comings and goings and their personal lives.
For instance, I now know that one of my friends is detested by a young man affiliated with the drug trade, a grudge which began because she obtained an order that the road where he normally parks be closed off. The closure came on account of a wall in danger of collapse which is shared by my friend and an English couple. Arriving in his car a few days ago, concluding my friend had denied him his usual parking space by the wall, the young man hurled obscenities at my friend in front of the head of the village police, who was setting up the barricade. My friend in turn warned him that he was on notice that she would lodge a formal complaint if he verbally abused her in the future, and the policeman was her witness.
I know, too, that the red car always parked in front of the drug dealer's house is actually owned by the boyfriend of the young woman who cleaned for me last year, a young man who made bookshelves for me then. I know that the car is uninsured and that the police have warned the owner that if it is involved in an accident there will be hell to pay. (The cars are bought cheap on the black market.) I know too, that my former cleaning woman's car is, also, uninsured.
I felt violated by having my tires deflated, but I now know that last Saturday night, this young woman had her car broken into and the gas line damaged by an attempt to siphon off the contents of the tank. More, the intoxicated or drugged young man I met early yesterday morning and referred to in yesterday's blog, is believed by the police to be the person who vandalized the car.
And I know that my neighbor down the street had his car damaged a few weeks ago by someone trying to siphon gas; that an Englishwoman had the same thing happen last week; and that a man who raises burros and horses in Caunes' countryside was broken into: there is an angry sign posted on the farm gate, warning anyone thinking they would try to break in again that they will be met with the full force of his fury.
One of my friends heard someone trying to break into her restaurant last week: she stuck her head out the window of her garden and realized two young women and a young man had climbed on top of a garbage bin and were trying to enter the house through an open window. My friend had sang froid: she shouted out the window "I see you and I just took a photo of you, which I am taking to the police in the morning!"
The malefactors answered back, "Oh, it's nothing, don't be afraid!" and ran away. My friend recognized one of the girls as someone who had dropped off a resume, hoping for a waitressing job for the summer.
This morning when I spoke about all these events with the one person I will name in the post, Gilles Adiveze, the head of the municipal police; he told me that I was wise to put my car in my garage, despite the challenge of parking it. He also said I should never open my front door automatically because someone rang the bell. He advised me that I should either get a chain for the front door, or, when someone knocks, go up to the second floor and look out the window.
"It's disconcerting when they see someone, and if they meant any harm, they'll scram when they see you. And you have a dog, which is reassuring."
A male friend was more philosophic. "I never locked my door when I went out until recently. And I still leave my wares out for anyone to buy on the honor system. Some people think that's crazy, 'How can you do that?'.
"But if you start to be taken over by a paranoia then the bastards win. The bastards will win in the end, anyway, but they don't have to win because you gave into fear."
Just how gossipy is Caunes? It depends to whom you talk, but in general I would say "very". This has a connection to the petty crime that happens, which plays out in a funny way.
I found out how gossipy in my particular case, some people are, on my way to the shops to do errands this morning. On my way, I ran into my elderly cycling partner coming back from the boulangerie and the butcher's on his bicycle. He greeted me in his usual cheerful way, and stopped his bicycle to chat. Within seconds, I learned that the cashier at the butchers had told him that she took care of Beau while I took communion at Mass yesterday evening.
This was true: I have taken to hiking to church, sitting outside with Beau so as not to disturb either my next door neighbors or parishioners at Mass. When I need to take communion, I either tie Beau to a nearby tree, or someone offers to hold him for me in the meantime.
Yesterday, the cashier at the butcher's --a woman my age who does not attend Mass, but drives her mother there and back each Sunday-- offered to take Beau. I like her, but she is not someone who can keep anything secret. "She and her mother are the biggest gossips in the village", a friend (who shall be nameless, as everyone but one in this post will be), cautioned me. "If there is anything personal you don't want spread around town, she's not the person to tell."
On the other hand, it is essential to be able to obtain information from trusted friends in order to be aware of who in the village might be a potential source of problems. And since it is now widely known that there is a drug market not far from my door, to know who might be affiliated, is to know whom not to share my opinions with, so as to avoid being "tagged" with a grudge by part of the gang.
And grudges abound in Caunes, as in any small community. I now understand why Agatha Christie found such inspiration in the small English village: people living close together become very aware of each other: their habits, their comings and goings and their personal lives.
For instance, I now know that one of my friends is detested by a young man affiliated with the drug trade, a grudge which began because she obtained an order that the road where he normally parks be closed off. The closure came on account of a wall in danger of collapse which is shared by my friend and an English couple. Arriving in his car a few days ago, concluding my friend had denied him his usual parking space by the wall, the young man hurled obscenities at my friend in front of the head of the village police, who was setting up the barricade. My friend in turn warned him that he was on notice that she would lodge a formal complaint if he verbally abused her in the future, and the policeman was her witness.
I know, too, that the red car always parked in front of the drug dealer's house is actually owned by the boyfriend of the young woman who cleaned for me last year, a young man who made bookshelves for me then. I know that the car is uninsured and that the police have warned the owner that if it is involved in an accident there will be hell to pay. (The cars are bought cheap on the black market.) I know too, that my former cleaning woman's car is, also, uninsured.
I felt violated by having my tires deflated, but I now know that last Saturday night, this young woman had her car broken into and the gas line damaged by an attempt to siphon off the contents of the tank. More, the intoxicated or drugged young man I met early yesterday morning and referred to in yesterday's blog, is believed by the police to be the person who vandalized the car.
And I know that my neighbor down the street had his car damaged a few weeks ago by someone trying to siphon gas; that an Englishwoman had the same thing happen last week; and that a man who raises burros and horses in Caunes' countryside was broken into: there is an angry sign posted on the farm gate, warning anyone thinking they would try to break in again that they will be met with the full force of his fury.
One of my friends heard someone trying to break into her restaurant last week: she stuck her head out the window of her garden and realized two young women and a young man had climbed on top of a garbage bin and were trying to enter the house through an open window. My friend had sang froid: she shouted out the window "I see you and I just took a photo of you, which I am taking to the police in the morning!"
The malefactors answered back, "Oh, it's nothing, don't be afraid!" and ran away. My friend recognized one of the girls as someone who had dropped off a resume, hoping for a waitressing job for the summer.
This morning when I spoke about all these events with the one person I will name in the post, Gilles Adiveze, the head of the municipal police; he told me that I was wise to put my car in my garage, despite the challenge of parking it. He also said I should never open my front door automatically because someone rang the bell. He advised me that I should either get a chain for the front door, or, when someone knocks, go up to the second floor and look out the window.
"It's disconcerting when they see someone, and if they meant any harm, they'll scram when they see you. And you have a dog, which is reassuring."
A male friend was more philosophic. "I never locked my door when I went out until recently. And I still leave my wares out for anyone to buy on the honor system. Some people think that's crazy, 'How can you do that?'.
"But if you start to be taken over by a paranoia then the bastards win. The bastards will win in the end, anyway, but they don't have to win because you gave into fear."
Sunday, June 28, 2015
Facing Facts
Sunday, June 28, 2015
I have a garage, one big enough for my compact car to fit inside. I have refrained from using it because the garage is entered from the back of the house on a strip of land given as an easement by elderly neighbors just down the hill. Parking in the garage involves reversing in the very small space between the doors of the garage, backing into the garage ever so gently.
The terrace is immediately above the exterior of the garage. Last year I put up clothes lines in the space under the terrace. It seemed the practical thing to do: since the weather is dry and hot here in the summers: clothes dry in the midday sun in an hour or two.
I wlll have to figure out a way to string clothesline and take it down whenever I have to park the car from here on in. Another incident this morning persuaded me that it was best not to create an opportunity for further vandalism of my car.
This morning Beau and I joined Pipasa and Bija, two Japanese women friends, for a jaunt to the brocante/vide grenier on the outskirts of Carcassonne. We agreed to meet at 7:45 a.m. so as to have our choice of the pickings. Pipasa and Bija got in the car first, to give me time to give Beau a quick walk.
While I was walking Beau in the vicinity, a young man of about twenty, dressed in a pink Lacoste shirt and summer jeans, approached the car. Seeing that Bija and Pipasa were not French, he tried to speak to them in English. I approached, and asked the young man what he wanted.
He was obviously either drugged or intoxicated. He jumped a bit, in the way drug addicts and hard core alcoholics always do when someone steps back from further contact, as I did.
"You don't have to fear anything from me", he whined.
"Can I help you?" I said in French.
"I need five liters of gas", he continued, then mumbled something unintelligible.
"I'm sorry", I said in French and walked away. He stalked off towards the village talking to himself.
Last night I could hear lots of noise coming from the direction of the open air bar, La Cantine du Cure. Their license allows them to stay open until 2:00 a.m., and after yesterday's incident, I was more sensitive than usual to sounds. I spent a pretty miserable night thinking about whether I was doing anything to invite reprisals from anyone in the village, then decided that since I have a garage, I'm going to use it.
I parked the car in the garage late this morning, after Bija, Pipasa, Beau and I returned from the brocante. I asked Pipasa what she thought of the incident.
"It's nasty", she offered. "This never used to happen."
Pipasa helped me park today, and I'll just keep practicing this difficult parking maneuver. Knowing I won't let myself be victimized by drunken, drugged, or just malicious teenagers will make all the effort worth it.
--And I'm lucky to have a garage. An Englishwoman with a red license plate like mine had her car vandalized in the parking lot of the Place d'Europe last week, ostensibly as part of an effort to siphon out gas. She has to park outside, her house in the village having no space for a garage.
I have a garage, one big enough for my compact car to fit inside. I have refrained from using it because the garage is entered from the back of the house on a strip of land given as an easement by elderly neighbors just down the hill. Parking in the garage involves reversing in the very small space between the doors of the garage, backing into the garage ever so gently.
The terrace is immediately above the exterior of the garage. Last year I put up clothes lines in the space under the terrace. It seemed the practical thing to do: since the weather is dry and hot here in the summers: clothes dry in the midday sun in an hour or two.
I wlll have to figure out a way to string clothesline and take it down whenever I have to park the car from here on in. Another incident this morning persuaded me that it was best not to create an opportunity for further vandalism of my car.
This morning Beau and I joined Pipasa and Bija, two Japanese women friends, for a jaunt to the brocante/vide grenier on the outskirts of Carcassonne. We agreed to meet at 7:45 a.m. so as to have our choice of the pickings. Pipasa and Bija got in the car first, to give me time to give Beau a quick walk.
While I was walking Beau in the vicinity, a young man of about twenty, dressed in a pink Lacoste shirt and summer jeans, approached the car. Seeing that Bija and Pipasa were not French, he tried to speak to them in English. I approached, and asked the young man what he wanted.
He was obviously either drugged or intoxicated. He jumped a bit, in the way drug addicts and hard core alcoholics always do when someone steps back from further contact, as I did.
"You don't have to fear anything from me", he whined.
"Can I help you?" I said in French.
"I need five liters of gas", he continued, then mumbled something unintelligible.
"I'm sorry", I said in French and walked away. He stalked off towards the village talking to himself.
Last night I could hear lots of noise coming from the direction of the open air bar, La Cantine du Cure. Their license allows them to stay open until 2:00 a.m., and after yesterday's incident, I was more sensitive than usual to sounds. I spent a pretty miserable night thinking about whether I was doing anything to invite reprisals from anyone in the village, then decided that since I have a garage, I'm going to use it.
I parked the car in the garage late this morning, after Bija, Pipasa, Beau and I returned from the brocante. I asked Pipasa what she thought of the incident.
"It's nasty", she offered. "This never used to happen."
Pipasa helped me park today, and I'll just keep practicing this difficult parking maneuver. Knowing I won't let myself be victimized by drunken, drugged, or just malicious teenagers will make all the effort worth it.
--And I'm lucky to have a garage. An Englishwoman with a red license plate like mine had her car vandalized in the parking lot of the Place d'Europe last week, ostensibly as part of an effort to siphon out gas. She has to park outside, her house in the village having no space for a garage.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Change of Plans
June 27, 2015
There is a summer truffle festival going on as I write, about an hour away in Roullens en Malepere, a village southwest of Carcassonne. The Languedoc has long been famous for its truffles and the opportunity to visit a village devoted to them, to learn about them, to see the dogs used in the search for these earthy bits, was irresistible. Unfortunately, it was not to be.
I woke early, got myself and Beau ready, making my way to the car by 9:15 a.m. The car was parked alongside the wall by the marble statue of a giant ear a hundred feet from my house, a legal parking space. I got Beau in the car, put his seat belt on, then mine, and pulled away.
As I pulled away, I felt the car move with difficulty. I moved on up the hill that intersects with the main road, Avenue du Minervois. The car continued to move with difficulty. I parked it a few yards down the top of Avenue du Minervois and realized why. Both of the tires that, in the parking space, had been closest to the wall, that is, those aligned with the front passenger seat, were flat --punctured or deflated. The passenger side of the car had also been scratched and slightly dented.
As I was taking all this in, Raymonde, a woman who works at the Mairie, crossed the street to see what I was looking at. "This was done intentionally", she said. "There's a lot of hooliganism now" she added.
And my car is a perfect target, as its red license plate indicates it is a rented car. When I picked up the car at Blagnac airport in Toulouse, the young man there advised me not to leave the vehicle registration document in the car. "Without that, they can't sell it very easily", he explained at the time. I took his advice and kept the document at home, except when I was using the car, when I carried it on my person.
I called the roadside assistance number for my car, a Citroen. The tow truck would be by in forty-five minutes to an hour. In the meantime, I went to the Mairie.
When I walked in, I was greeted by the Mayor, a young man in his mid-forties. He already knew about the vandalism because Raymonde told him when she walked in. I asked whether I could have a statement from the relevant authority for purposes of establishing a record of the incident for insurance purposes. He produced one within minutes, stamped with the Mairie seal and signed by him. "Have a good weekend --despite this", he told me with a wistful smile as he handed me the document in an official envelope.
What will happen is that I will be without a car until my car is repaired in the middle of the week. The leasing company will either have the car returned to me here, or will hire a taxi to take me to the garage where the repairs to the car will be done. Insurance will cover everything but to that end, the leasing agent for Citroen will require a copy of the statement from the Mairie, attached to an e-mail, sent by me as soon as possible. I don't have a scanner, so I walked down to La Marbrerie give my friends my news and to ask them, as a favor to me, to transmit the Mairie document and my cover letter.
When I got there, I got a clearer picture of what might have happened from Christine, who runs La Marbrerie day to day:
"Last night, I heard a car alarm go off at 2:00 a.m. And nearby,our chef --Luc-- heard some people outside near his door. He heard them fiddle with a car for a long time. So for sure, somebody went looking for a car to steal a car last night. Whoever damaged your car intended to steal it. Perhaps they were able to get inside, but when they looked for the certificat d'immatriculation and could not find it, they realized the car would be hard to sell. So they decided to take revenge by puncturing your tires and damaging the chassis, especially as it's a rented car.
"At least it's not personal. I thought at first that you might have parked in a parking space some creep thinks if his personal parking space. You would never have seen the end of that," Christine ended.
So Caunes, like everywhere else, has its petty crime. There is a small traffic in marijuana, active in the late evening, in front of a house a thousand feet from my door. Around 9:30 p.m. each night, one or two cars stop and wait quietly. One young man alone is believed to be behind the trade --a neighbor. I mentioned the fact to Gilles Adiveze, head of the municipal police, a few days ago. He told me everyone was aware of the traffic, that he dutifully sends in reports of it to the Gendarmerie (which is the ultimate authority in such matters). However, the amounts sold are small enough that even if the seller were arrested and found guilty no prison time would be ordered. So the trade goes on.
I see the dealer frequently, and always wish him "Good day", and him me. I wonder whether he might not have an idea of who did what to my tires, but I'm not going to ask him.
And as it turns out, my tires were not punctured, just the air let out of them. If I can get a taxi to Trebes, I can have the car back in my possession late this afternoon.
That will be something to be grateful for.
*****
Amazingly, the taxi arrives quickly, and takes me just as quickly to Trebes, half-way to Roullens-Malpere and the truffle festival. I arrive at 4:30 p.m., see the truffle-sniffing dogs, buy a truffle 3" across for 7 Euros, as well as a cheese --a tomme from the Pyrenees--and consider myself lucky. The day has been eventful, and far from a waste.
There is a summer truffle festival going on as I write, about an hour away in Roullens en Malepere, a village southwest of Carcassonne. The Languedoc has long been famous for its truffles and the opportunity to visit a village devoted to them, to learn about them, to see the dogs used in the search for these earthy bits, was irresistible. Unfortunately, it was not to be.
I woke early, got myself and Beau ready, making my way to the car by 9:15 a.m. The car was parked alongside the wall by the marble statue of a giant ear a hundred feet from my house, a legal parking space. I got Beau in the car, put his seat belt on, then mine, and pulled away.
As I pulled away, I felt the car move with difficulty. I moved on up the hill that intersects with the main road, Avenue du Minervois. The car continued to move with difficulty. I parked it a few yards down the top of Avenue du Minervois and realized why. Both of the tires that, in the parking space, had been closest to the wall, that is, those aligned with the front passenger seat, were flat --punctured or deflated. The passenger side of the car had also been scratched and slightly dented.
As I was taking all this in, Raymonde, a woman who works at the Mairie, crossed the street to see what I was looking at. "This was done intentionally", she said. "There's a lot of hooliganism now" she added.
And my car is a perfect target, as its red license plate indicates it is a rented car. When I picked up the car at Blagnac airport in Toulouse, the young man there advised me not to leave the vehicle registration document in the car. "Without that, they can't sell it very easily", he explained at the time. I took his advice and kept the document at home, except when I was using the car, when I carried it on my person.
I called the roadside assistance number for my car, a Citroen. The tow truck would be by in forty-five minutes to an hour. In the meantime, I went to the Mairie.
When I walked in, I was greeted by the Mayor, a young man in his mid-forties. He already knew about the vandalism because Raymonde told him when she walked in. I asked whether I could have a statement from the relevant authority for purposes of establishing a record of the incident for insurance purposes. He produced one within minutes, stamped with the Mairie seal and signed by him. "Have a good weekend --despite this", he told me with a wistful smile as he handed me the document in an official envelope.
What will happen is that I will be without a car until my car is repaired in the middle of the week. The leasing company will either have the car returned to me here, or will hire a taxi to take me to the garage where the repairs to the car will be done. Insurance will cover everything but to that end, the leasing agent for Citroen will require a copy of the statement from the Mairie, attached to an e-mail, sent by me as soon as possible. I don't have a scanner, so I walked down to La Marbrerie give my friends my news and to ask them, as a favor to me, to transmit the Mairie document and my cover letter.
When I got there, I got a clearer picture of what might have happened from Christine, who runs La Marbrerie day to day:
"Last night, I heard a car alarm go off at 2:00 a.m. And nearby,our chef --Luc-- heard some people outside near his door. He heard them fiddle with a car for a long time. So for sure, somebody went looking for a car to steal a car last night. Whoever damaged your car intended to steal it. Perhaps they were able to get inside, but when they looked for the certificat d'immatriculation and could not find it, they realized the car would be hard to sell. So they decided to take revenge by puncturing your tires and damaging the chassis, especially as it's a rented car.
"At least it's not personal. I thought at first that you might have parked in a parking space some creep thinks if his personal parking space. You would never have seen the end of that," Christine ended.
So Caunes, like everywhere else, has its petty crime. There is a small traffic in marijuana, active in the late evening, in front of a house a thousand feet from my door. Around 9:30 p.m. each night, one or two cars stop and wait quietly. One young man alone is believed to be behind the trade --a neighbor. I mentioned the fact to Gilles Adiveze, head of the municipal police, a few days ago. He told me everyone was aware of the traffic, that he dutifully sends in reports of it to the Gendarmerie (which is the ultimate authority in such matters). However, the amounts sold are small enough that even if the seller were arrested and found guilty no prison time would be ordered. So the trade goes on.
I see the dealer frequently, and always wish him "Good day", and him me. I wonder whether he might not have an idea of who did what to my tires, but I'm not going to ask him.
And as it turns out, my tires were not punctured, just the air let out of them. If I can get a taxi to Trebes, I can have the car back in my possession late this afternoon.
That will be something to be grateful for.
*****
Amazingly, the taxi arrives quickly, and takes me just as quickly to Trebes, half-way to Roullens-Malpere and the truffle festival. I arrive at 4:30 p.m., see the truffle-sniffing dogs, buy a truffle 3" across for 7 Euros, as well as a cheese --a tomme from the Pyrenees--and consider myself lucky. The day has been eventful, and far from a waste.
Friday, June 26, 2015
Carnage in Isere and Tunis
June 26, 2015
It is hard to convey the sense of dismay French around the hexagon are feeling in the light of the news that the manager of a French gas company located in l'Ile d'Abeau was decapitated this morning. This is the first time that kind of brutality has occurred on French soil, which has not lacked for deaths due to radical Islam.
The suspect was en employee of the gas company into whose tanks he drove his car, precipitating an explosion. The chronology of the attack and the murder have not yet been established, although reporters have already visited the modest apartment complex where he, his wife and his three children lived.
The children are polite and well-behaved. The wife seems to have no idea of her husband's possible association with murderous Islam. The neighbors say the family was quiet; co-workers say the suspect was very much to himself, but polite. He had been on the radar screen of the French intelligence services, but fell off after 2008.
Meanwhile, at least thirty-seven foreign tourists (how many French as yet unknown), have been killed while lying in their beach chairs in a resort in Sousse, Tunisia. The country, which depends on tourism for its livelihood, has seen tourism fall off by 65% since attacks in March. The latest attack will be the "coup de grace" for the Tunisian economy and a boon to that of the Portuguese.
"The Portuguese are Judaeo-Christian, the Maghrebins are not", said an elderly friend who spent much of his career in Tunisia. "On New Year's Eve in Tunis, everyone went to the theatre. The plays were French --boulevard comedies by Sacha Guitry and Feydeau. The audience was 85% Tunisian, but they laughed in the same places we did. The Tunisians were always the nicest of the North African people, the Libyans the worst", my friend went on to say.
One of their daughters continues to live in Tunis, where she was brought up. Do her parents worry? They do.
People in their eighties remember living in North Africa pleasantly, remember most of the interactions with North Africans fondly. They now find themselves faced with a new order which leaves them profoundly ill at ease.
And those French that had the experience of living in North Africa and the Middle East are far more well-disposed to the peoples of North Africa, the Middle and Near East than the average Frenchman. And even the most hidebound Front National voter knows more about the people of North Africa and the Near and Middle East than most Americans. Most of these countries were, after all, French colonies, places where French felt at home. A recent article in Le Figaro reported on an archive of French newspapers and magazines in Alexandria, Egypt, a collection of papers that is a window into a vanished world in a cosmopolitan city.
The French remember a civilized world in which they held all the cards, for sure, but where someone who integrated into the French way of doing things could succeed. President Senghor of Senegal was one example: he is venerated alongside Voltaire and others in Le Pantheon in Paris, a signal honor. Sidney Toledano, the head of Christian Dior corporation, is of Moroccan Jewish extraction. Alongside them one can find many natives of North Africa who have distinguished themselves in France.
And those French who came from pieds noirs families --from French families who settled in North Africa-- are legion. Although most would think him quintessentially French, Albert Camus had a Spanish mother, a French father and was born in Algeria. Yves Saint Laurent was born and raised in Oran, Algeria. Enrico Macias, the singer, is from a Jewish family from Morocco, as is Gad Elmaleh (the partner of Princess Charlotte of Monaco). Kad Meerad, the popular actor, is French Algerian.
One estimate gives the number of Muslims in France at 7.5%. The number of Jews, in contrast, is 3.3%. What I notice, living here a good part of the year, is that the French are quite open-minded about new settlers, provided they accept French ways. The Portuguese are the most notable example of this, having started to come to France as low-wage workers in the 1950s. However, France continues to provide asylum to a variety of immigrant groups, including most recently, Malians and Libyans fleeing civil war in their countries. The government has set up shelters for these asylum-seekers in out-of-the-way places in the the country, where local concerns about unemployment and the French economy make resistance to government decrees is difficult. Notwithstanding, these townspeople have accepted their new neighbors, businesses appreciate the new customers, while volunteers teach them French.
In a word, the French see themselves as open to immigrants, and willing to help. Which makes today's attacks in Isere and Tunis a test of France's willingness to go on as before, in a spirit of openness.
It is hard to convey the sense of dismay French around the hexagon are feeling in the light of the news that the manager of a French gas company located in l'Ile d'Abeau was decapitated this morning. This is the first time that kind of brutality has occurred on French soil, which has not lacked for deaths due to radical Islam.
The suspect was en employee of the gas company into whose tanks he drove his car, precipitating an explosion. The chronology of the attack and the murder have not yet been established, although reporters have already visited the modest apartment complex where he, his wife and his three children lived.
The children are polite and well-behaved. The wife seems to have no idea of her husband's possible association with murderous Islam. The neighbors say the family was quiet; co-workers say the suspect was very much to himself, but polite. He had been on the radar screen of the French intelligence services, but fell off after 2008.
Meanwhile, at least thirty-seven foreign tourists (how many French as yet unknown), have been killed while lying in their beach chairs in a resort in Sousse, Tunisia. The country, which depends on tourism for its livelihood, has seen tourism fall off by 65% since attacks in March. The latest attack will be the "coup de grace" for the Tunisian economy and a boon to that of the Portuguese.
"The Portuguese are Judaeo-Christian, the Maghrebins are not", said an elderly friend who spent much of his career in Tunisia. "On New Year's Eve in Tunis, everyone went to the theatre. The plays were French --boulevard comedies by Sacha Guitry and Feydeau. The audience was 85% Tunisian, but they laughed in the same places we did. The Tunisians were always the nicest of the North African people, the Libyans the worst", my friend went on to say.
One of their daughters continues to live in Tunis, where she was brought up. Do her parents worry? They do.
People in their eighties remember living in North Africa pleasantly, remember most of the interactions with North Africans fondly. They now find themselves faced with a new order which leaves them profoundly ill at ease.
And those French that had the experience of living in North Africa and the Middle East are far more well-disposed to the peoples of North Africa, the Middle and Near East than the average Frenchman. And even the most hidebound Front National voter knows more about the people of North Africa and the Near and Middle East than most Americans. Most of these countries were, after all, French colonies, places where French felt at home. A recent article in Le Figaro reported on an archive of French newspapers and magazines in Alexandria, Egypt, a collection of papers that is a window into a vanished world in a cosmopolitan city.
The French remember a civilized world in which they held all the cards, for sure, but where someone who integrated into the French way of doing things could succeed. President Senghor of Senegal was one example: he is venerated alongside Voltaire and others in Le Pantheon in Paris, a signal honor. Sidney Toledano, the head of Christian Dior corporation, is of Moroccan Jewish extraction. Alongside them one can find many natives of North Africa who have distinguished themselves in France.
And those French who came from pieds noirs families --from French families who settled in North Africa-- are legion. Although most would think him quintessentially French, Albert Camus had a Spanish mother, a French father and was born in Algeria. Yves Saint Laurent was born and raised in Oran, Algeria. Enrico Macias, the singer, is from a Jewish family from Morocco, as is Gad Elmaleh (the partner of Princess Charlotte of Monaco). Kad Meerad, the popular actor, is French Algerian.
One estimate gives the number of Muslims in France at 7.5%. The number of Jews, in contrast, is 3.3%. What I notice, living here a good part of the year, is that the French are quite open-minded about new settlers, provided they accept French ways. The Portuguese are the most notable example of this, having started to come to France as low-wage workers in the 1950s. However, France continues to provide asylum to a variety of immigrant groups, including most recently, Malians and Libyans fleeing civil war in their countries. The government has set up shelters for these asylum-seekers in out-of-the-way places in the the country, where local concerns about unemployment and the French economy make resistance to government decrees is difficult. Notwithstanding, these townspeople have accepted their new neighbors, businesses appreciate the new customers, while volunteers teach them French.
In a word, the French see themselves as open to immigrants, and willing to help. Which makes today's attacks in Isere and Tunis a test of France's willingness to go on as before, in a spirit of openness.
Monday, June 22, 2015
Goat Cheese On Everything
June 22, 2015
France in 2015 remains a country of small farmers, cherished by their compatriots for bringing to French tables food that is largely made according to traditional, trusted methods. Not surprisingly as a result, any effort to industrialize the raising of animals for human consumption is met with a blistering hue and cry and determined opposition.
The French are well-aware that the methods their devoted farmers use are inefficient and costly. However, the possibility that cheaper, but inferior food may flood the market, driving out the small producers, remains a real fear in the minds of the French. That this is a national concern is demonstrated by a recent news program which featured a long segment on what went into developing "bio" chickens, comparing non-bio chickens to those bio chickens made for a supermarket, to those carried by a local butcher.
The arbiter of the quality of poulet bio au grands surfaces, poulet bio au boucher and poulets non-bio was, appropriately, a well-known chef. The verdict: "bio" supermarket chickens were far better than "non-bio", but the "bio" chickens from small producers were even better. Why? Because the small farmer gave his chickens a combination of grains he prepared himself for their feed. There is a definite rapport qualite-prix --a connection between quality and price.
Yesterday, an opportunity to visit some of the farms of the neighboring region, the Val de Dagne, presented itself, so I and a neighbor went trawling the offerings. With our dogs, we visited three farms and one vintner. The first farm bred goats for cheese, offering ten varieties: goat cheeses marinated in olive oil and herbs, goat cheeses encrusted with red pepper or black pepper and others of varying sizes and moistness.
Female goats are friendly little creatures, not so billy goats, the kings of the herd. Watching one of them mount a female and seeing the many young goats around, I reflected on the prodigious result of his rather clumsy approach The more the merrier in farmland, though.
The farm offered lunch, grilled goat meat, or merguez, Moroccan-style sausages made with goat, instead of the traditional beef or lamb. My friend and I opted for the merguez, which was uncooked. We were pointed to the two grills on site and realized we had to cook the sausage ourselves. I managed to neither under, nor overcook the meat, which we ate with a salad dressed with --of course, goat cheese.
Our next stop was a vintners in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. Notwithstanding that the vintner was not one of the major producers the wine was superb, particularly the red they called Delicatesse: round, tannic and complex, I bought a half case, a price readers would only wish was available where they are reading this.
We next visited a large farm on a hill even more remote than our previous stops. This farm was devoted to sheep farming. Over 400 sheep slept (standing up, of course) as we made our approach. At 6:00 p.m. that evening they would be led up to their summer pastures by their shepherds, a caravan called a transhumance in France.
We were not able to visit every farm open that day, but finished our tour in another small village where syrups made of medicinal herbs, honey and products made of lavender were made. A demonstration of how the essence of lavender was distilled was in progress when we arrived; among the crowd, two Augustinian monks from the nearby abbey of Largesse watched, dressed in their ivory linen robes. I bought a tapenade spread of wild garlic, olives and olive oil. (Wild garlic is individually culled and tastes milder than that grown commercially.)
The farmer's life in France is relentless, but people who work as farmers or shepherds love the freedom of being their own boss, whatever the difficulties. While many prefer to work at a desk, for those who either inherit a farm or those who leave the city to run a farm (known as neo-ruraliens), the opportunity to be close to nature and to live far from the madding crowd makes it all worth it.
It can be difficult for young farmers to find wives, though. Such that there is actually a website and a television program which function as dating sites for farmers too busy to pick up girls at bars. A farmer's wife has to have no interest in a trendy lifestyle or vacations, because she'll have neither. She and her husband may, however, have the regard of their neighbors and the gratitude of their compatriots for perpetuating, for so long as it remains possible, the production on a small scale, of delicious foods envied the world-over.
France in 2015 remains a country of small farmers, cherished by their compatriots for bringing to French tables food that is largely made according to traditional, trusted methods. Not surprisingly as a result, any effort to industrialize the raising of animals for human consumption is met with a blistering hue and cry and determined opposition.
The French are well-aware that the methods their devoted farmers use are inefficient and costly. However, the possibility that cheaper, but inferior food may flood the market, driving out the small producers, remains a real fear in the minds of the French. That this is a national concern is demonstrated by a recent news program which featured a long segment on what went into developing "bio" chickens, comparing non-bio chickens to those bio chickens made for a supermarket, to those carried by a local butcher.
The arbiter of the quality of poulet bio au grands surfaces, poulet bio au boucher and poulets non-bio was, appropriately, a well-known chef. The verdict: "bio" supermarket chickens were far better than "non-bio", but the "bio" chickens from small producers were even better. Why? Because the small farmer gave his chickens a combination of grains he prepared himself for their feed. There is a definite rapport qualite-prix --a connection between quality and price.
Yesterday, an opportunity to visit some of the farms of the neighboring region, the Val de Dagne, presented itself, so I and a neighbor went trawling the offerings. With our dogs, we visited three farms and one vintner. The first farm bred goats for cheese, offering ten varieties: goat cheeses marinated in olive oil and herbs, goat cheeses encrusted with red pepper or black pepper and others of varying sizes and moistness.
Female goats are friendly little creatures, not so billy goats, the kings of the herd. Watching one of them mount a female and seeing the many young goats around, I reflected on the prodigious result of his rather clumsy approach The more the merrier in farmland, though.
The farm offered lunch, grilled goat meat, or merguez, Moroccan-style sausages made with goat, instead of the traditional beef or lamb. My friend and I opted for the merguez, which was uncooked. We were pointed to the two grills on site and realized we had to cook the sausage ourselves. I managed to neither under, nor overcook the meat, which we ate with a salad dressed with --of course, goat cheese.
Our next stop was a vintners in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. Notwithstanding that the vintner was not one of the major producers the wine was superb, particularly the red they called Delicatesse: round, tannic and complex, I bought a half case, a price readers would only wish was available where they are reading this.
We next visited a large farm on a hill even more remote than our previous stops. This farm was devoted to sheep farming. Over 400 sheep slept (standing up, of course) as we made our approach. At 6:00 p.m. that evening they would be led up to their summer pastures by their shepherds, a caravan called a transhumance in France.
We were not able to visit every farm open that day, but finished our tour in another small village where syrups made of medicinal herbs, honey and products made of lavender were made. A demonstration of how the essence of lavender was distilled was in progress when we arrived; among the crowd, two Augustinian monks from the nearby abbey of Largesse watched, dressed in their ivory linen robes. I bought a tapenade spread of wild garlic, olives and olive oil. (Wild garlic is individually culled and tastes milder than that grown commercially.)
The farmer's life in France is relentless, but people who work as farmers or shepherds love the freedom of being their own boss, whatever the difficulties. While many prefer to work at a desk, for those who either inherit a farm or those who leave the city to run a farm (known as neo-ruraliens), the opportunity to be close to nature and to live far from the madding crowd makes it all worth it.
It can be difficult for young farmers to find wives, though. Such that there is actually a website and a television program which function as dating sites for farmers too busy to pick up girls at bars. A farmer's wife has to have no interest in a trendy lifestyle or vacations, because she'll have neither. She and her husband may, however, have the regard of their neighbors and the gratitude of their compatriots for perpetuating, for so long as it remains possible, the production on a small scale, of delicious foods envied the world-over.
Friday, June 19, 2015
The Battle of Waterloo --LIVE!
June 20, 2015
The Battle of Waterloo is going on as I write this (for tomorrow's post).
Tonight, BFMTV, the French 24-hour news station, is carrying live the first part of the battle, the French attack.
The actual battle was fought two days earlier one hundred years ago, on June 18 2015. However, the organizers of this spectacle held anniversary celebrations on Wednesday, as the public began to arrive and the re-enactors prepared to go through their drills. Fifty thousand people were involved in putting on this spectacle (which will last four days) together. Five thousand men, dressed in costumes designed as exact replicas of those the combatants wore, form the armies. There are horses and flags, rifles, cannons, smoke and funny hats. French newspapers and magazines have been full of stories about the re-enactment, which will not be repeated until 2025. Tickets have sold well, at 15.75 Euros each.
Needless to say, you have to be obsessed with Napoleon to spend what it costs of participate, let alone participate as a combatant. And what of the man who is Napoleon for the length of the four days? That would be Frank Samson, who will be retiring as Napoleon (a distinction he has held for six years) after this tour. At 47 years of age, Samson is the same age the Emperor of the French was when he was definitively defeated by the armies of the Grand Alliance.
His wife Delphine is his Josephine. Their two sons are participating, too: one is a page, the other a customs official. (The family that re-enacts together, stays together.) French television carried a clip of Frank and Delphine visiting a master costumer putting the finishing touches on their outfits. "People are bigger now", the costumer tells the reporter, "an average man was much smaller than the average man today." Which means more silks and ribbons to sew, happy news for a master costumer, when a historically accurate, complete costume can cost over $25,000.
It is now 10:00 p.m., and the battle is still raging on the plain of Waterloo. The sun has set, but darkness will not descend for another half hour. Re-enactors are feigning battle wounds, complete with evacuation on litters and treatment of injuries as would have been done at the time. Within limits of course: no gangrenous legs will be sawed off.
The re-enactment of the Battle of Waterloo is the largest re-enactment in Europe. And a passionate interest in the event whose consequences changed the face of Europe is not limited to the French. There are 1400 Brittaniques, and as many Canadians and Australians participating alongside the French, Belgians and other nationalities. The "bravest of the brave", as Napoleon called him, Marechal Ney, is incarnated by Franky Simon, a Brussels bookseller.
And what of Frank Samson, why has he devoted so much of his life to pretending to be Napoleon, mastering the general's smallest gestures, moues and attitudes? It takes his mind off his work, he says.
And what does Frank Samson do when he's not incarnating Napoleon?
--He's a attorney specializing in traffic regulations.
The Battle of Waterloo is going on as I write this (for tomorrow's post).
Tonight, BFMTV, the French 24-hour news station, is carrying live the first part of the battle, the French attack.
The actual battle was fought two days earlier one hundred years ago, on June 18 2015. However, the organizers of this spectacle held anniversary celebrations on Wednesday, as the public began to arrive and the re-enactors prepared to go through their drills. Fifty thousand people were involved in putting on this spectacle (which will last four days) together. Five thousand men, dressed in costumes designed as exact replicas of those the combatants wore, form the armies. There are horses and flags, rifles, cannons, smoke and funny hats. French newspapers and magazines have been full of stories about the re-enactment, which will not be repeated until 2025. Tickets have sold well, at 15.75 Euros each.
Needless to say, you have to be obsessed with Napoleon to spend what it costs of participate, let alone participate as a combatant. And what of the man who is Napoleon for the length of the four days? That would be Frank Samson, who will be retiring as Napoleon (a distinction he has held for six years) after this tour. At 47 years of age, Samson is the same age the Emperor of the French was when he was definitively defeated by the armies of the Grand Alliance.
His wife Delphine is his Josephine. Their two sons are participating, too: one is a page, the other a customs official. (The family that re-enacts together, stays together.) French television carried a clip of Frank and Delphine visiting a master costumer putting the finishing touches on their outfits. "People are bigger now", the costumer tells the reporter, "an average man was much smaller than the average man today." Which means more silks and ribbons to sew, happy news for a master costumer, when a historically accurate, complete costume can cost over $25,000.
It is now 10:00 p.m., and the battle is still raging on the plain of Waterloo. The sun has set, but darkness will not descend for another half hour. Re-enactors are feigning battle wounds, complete with evacuation on litters and treatment of injuries as would have been done at the time. Within limits of course: no gangrenous legs will be sawed off.
The re-enactment of the Battle of Waterloo is the largest re-enactment in Europe. And a passionate interest in the event whose consequences changed the face of Europe is not limited to the French. There are 1400 Brittaniques, and as many Canadians and Australians participating alongside the French, Belgians and other nationalities. The "bravest of the brave", as Napoleon called him, Marechal Ney, is incarnated by Franky Simon, a Brussels bookseller.
And what of Frank Samson, why has he devoted so much of his life to pretending to be Napoleon, mastering the general's smallest gestures, moues and attitudes? It takes his mind off his work, he says.
And what does Frank Samson do when he's not incarnating Napoleon?
--He's a attorney specializing in traffic regulations.
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