Thursday Evening, July 31, 2014
Notwithstanding my rough morning, this afternoon I come close to completing the last of the tasks associated with setting up house here. When I bought the house from the Lafitte's, they did everything they could to transfer over the utilities into my name; however, as we have seen with the example of the phone and internet, the French bureaucracy is mighty and thorny.
I have been receiving electricity and water since the house was transferred into my name September 5 of last year, but I have yet to receive a bill, or any communication from either l'EDF --l'Electricité de France; or Carcassonne Agglo, which supplies the water.
Carcassonne Agglo is actually an agglomeration of 73 communes in the Carcassonne area, representing villages like Caunes-Minervois and all the others I have previously mentioned, and then some. A "commune" is the smallest administrative unit of France. Caunes is both le village and le commune, the former when speaking of Caunes familiarly; the latter when discussing it as a political unit. The agglomeration was created in 2001 and has offices on rue Pierre Germain in Carcassonne.
I know the offices are near the banks of l'Aude, but I'm not sure exactly where, and wonder where I"ll park. It's too far from where I usually park --on the banks of the Canal du Midi-- so I'll just have to keep my fingers crossed that after I find where I need to go, I'll be able to park nearby.
Driving past Villegly, the first of the villages on the road to Carcassonne from Caunes, I spy a young woman hitchhiking, a sign for "Carcassonne" in her hands. I stop and pick her up. Her name is Fabienne, she is 42 years old, has four children aged 24 to 11 (two boys and a girl) and is on her way to Carcassonne to take care of a tax matter. She has to stop at Carcassonne Agglo and knows the location, having come to the area from Strasbourg twenty-five years ago. She leads me directly to the Agglo offices and we find parking down the street. She's only a brief question to ask, so she goes first and then, having completed her business, takes her leave, bound next for the tax collector's offices.
I explain to the receptionist that I want to set up an account for my water bill and, if possible, arrange for automatic payments. The young woman makes a phone call, and a stocky young man, Laurent Fauré, emerges from behind a door. He takes me into a nondescript room and asks what he can do for me. I explain as I did to the receptionist, adding that I would also like to take care of the electric bill similarly.
The water bill's not eligible for automatic payment, and I"ll have to contact the company that does the billing, he tells me. As to the electric bill, he gives me a phone number to call.
I dread such moments. There's rarely someone at the other end of the line and when there is, they usually don't see the point of my phone call. Mr. Faure seems friendly enough though, (he laughs when I say that his is the name of the great French composer), so I ask whether I can make the necessary phone calls in the lobby; and, if there's a problem because of my French --would he be willing to help me?
"Yes, yes" of course, he says, smiling. Before I know it, I am seated on a plastic chair making a call to the electric company.
It turns out that an account in my name has been established, and it is an automatic payment account, and payments have been received. I must have given my Caunes bank account information last year: there's nothing for me to do. "Tout est en order", the man on the phone says, the highest degree of praise a French bureaucrat is capable of. I quickly hang up before he finds something not exactly right.
Calling CompuSys, the company to which Carcassonne outsources the preparation of water bills, is not as pleasant an experience. The woman on the phone misunderstands the purpose of my call, and thinks that I want to pay the water bill before I have received it. She refers me to La Tresorerie --the Treasury of Carcassonne Agglo and eventually gives me the number. I call, but it's now a few minutes after 4:00 p.m., and the Treasury's afternoon hours and at 1600 hours. It's time to call in M. Faure.
Mr. Faure asks why I didn't give my address in New York to the woman at CompuSys. I say I tried to, but she referred me to La Tresorerie. "Let's take care of this right away", he says motioning me into his office.
"I need something with your address on it", and I pull out an old business card. He has some difficulty with how the address is given on the card ("I'll read the postal code slowly --it's a long one!"), but it seems the woman at the other end of the line gets it all down.
The bills are generally sent out at the end of August and the beginning of September, and then again in January and February. The first is an estimate of the amount due, the second, a its final calculation.
"But I won't be in New York until the first week in November. Will I have any problem sending out a check from my French account that will not arrive at La Tresorerie until, perhaps, December?" (I don't add "--knowing French mails" --although I am thinking it.)
"No, the question of penalties is a very slow process. It could take a year before you are identified as having paid late. You should have no problem meeting your obligations sending checks from New York. After all, that's how all those with second houses here have to arrange their payments."
Hurrah! The electricity and the water won't be shut off! Hurrah! I'm on the rolls of Carcassonne Agglo, l'EDF --and let's not forget Orange/French Telecom. What's left? To pay my property taxes, le taxe foncière and le taxe d'habitation. Those taxes, however, are paid at Les Services des Finances Publiques in nearby Peyriac. --And once I've made my first payment in person at those offices, I can arrange for all future payments to be automatically deducted from my French bank account, as my insurance on the house and my electricity are.
I can't wait to make my tax payments: it will mean I can leave Caunes and get away --at least in theory-- before closing the house and leaving for the year at the end of October, established as a part-time resident of Caunes and having mastered the intricacies of living here. Hurrah!
Hurrah! Hurrah!
P.S. Beau's blood test showed no signs of the rat poison: Hurrah! Hurrah!
Thursday, July 31, 2014
Mixed Bag
Thursday, July 31, 2014
From the look of Beau's turds this morning, he swallowed the entire packet of rat poison Tuesday. I spent a sleepless night listening to his breathing: very rapid and labored at times. The rat poison works by creating blood clots which kill via pulmonary embolisms. So if, 48 hours after probable or certain ingestion of the rat poison, a blood test confirms poisoning, treatment with vitamin K-1, an antidote, must begin immediately and continue for three weeks.
I drive to Rieux, two towns to the east of Caunes, for the 10:00 a.m. follow-up appointment with Dr. Mougin, who is rapidly becoming my favorite person.
"I will send you a text message this evening when I have the result, as I'll be out of the office. If it's positive, you have to bring him back tomorrow and we'll start the treatment. Even if it's negative, I'll do another blood test in eight days just to be sure there's nothing."
While Beau and I are in his office, Dr. Mougin also checks Beau's anal glands for inflammation (a common problem), looks at his paws (hairy, they attract burrs, particularly in the webbing between toes), and shows me how to clean spaniel's ears.
"The canal is like an 'L', and very long --there's no way you can put a nozzle in and reach the bottom", he tells me. "So you have to pull the ear up gently and dribble the solution in --then you take hold of the bottom of the ear canal, which is just above his eyes-- and you massage the area between your thumb and forefinger. When he shakes his head, out come the largest particles of ear wax. You take cotton balls, roll them onto your finger and wipe the inside of the ear to remove the rest." Beau has always fought me every time I've tried to get at his ears because I've done so clumsily. Dr. Mougin makes short work of the task.
Beau drools on car rides, constantly and thickly, no matter what precautions I take, so I take the opportunity to ask what I can do. He explains,
"It's like car-sickness in a child. If you're going on a trip, you give him this pill --he reaches for a packet in his medicine cabinet-- 30 minutes before and he will be fine. In fact, in many cases, once he has a nausea-free car ride, he never needs the medication again, because having had a pleasant car ride, he doesn't associate the car with illness. It's largely psychological"
That would be a relief, because presently, a large portion of my car is spotted with Beau's saliva --not to mention the clothes I wear in the car. I'm more upset about Beau's discomfort than having to launder my clothes, but if drool didn't fly everywhere when Beau is in the car, it would be nice.
Finally, Dr. Mougin warns me about laurier rose, the sweet smelling shrub that grows wild everywhere here.
"I've never had a case of intoxication, but it is poisonous --for humans as well as animals."
Laurier rose is otherwise known as oleander. It grows in front of my front door, a lovely effect, but now that I know, I've got to keep Beau from putting it in his mouth.
I leave Dr. Mougin grateful for having a vet so well-informed on all aspects of caring for a dog, and await his text message this evening. I'm now aware there's one more thing to be careful of --oleander; and, I'm concerned that the poison test results will be positive. On the latter account, I've a trip to Mèze tomorrow I'll have to call to cancel. And I need to go to Carcassonne this afternoon to track down the water and electrical companies: I haven't yet received a bill and must establish an account to be paid automatically from my bank account in Caunes before the services are turned off. Lots on my mind, I drive slowly back to Caunes and arriving within the village limits, down the hill designated rue Joseph Sicard. At the bottom of it is my street, and parking.
There is a parking space, the last, just at the beginning of Porte de Narbonne. Frazzled by concern, I misjudge the angle I need to slide into the space and scratch the door of the parked car adjoining:
Aaargh!
What to do? I've damaged my own car before, but never someone else's. I re-park the car, correctly, this time, and get Beau out, then head for my house. In the basement I have "deep scratch remover cream" and an accompanying microfiber cloth. I grab the stuff, then some paper towels and water and head for the parking area.
When I made my error in judgment, a man and a woman were talking animatedly behind me. I expected that they would look up from their conversation to say something about my mishap, but they kept talking, and shortly, moved off, without so much as a glance in my direction. My error seems to be known only to myself.
The car I've scratched is a navy blue Volkswagen, model "Golf", with "United Kingdom" license plates. Inside the car, between the front seats, I spy an enormous Blue Guide: France. Well, at least I'll be able to write the note informing the owners in grammatically correct English (which would be less likely in French, thereby adding another wrinkle to my worries). I wash down the point of impact, the driver-side front door: much of the evidence of the contact disappears, but I have scratched the car door some and can't make the marks entirely disappear. I apply the cream and rub it in with the cloth: more scratches disappear, but not all. Having done all I can to minimize the damage, I return to the house.
I look for a piece of paper and a pen, and having found them, write:
Dear Fellow-Driver:
I SCRATCHED your car inadvertently. If you need to contact me for insurance purposes, I live at 10, porte de Narbonne. If you leave me a note with your telephone number, I will contact you. I regret having created such an inconvenience. MARTA VARELA, 10 porte de Narbonne.
Grabbing my knapsack and Beau --who will shortly have the walk he was denied this morning on account of the visit to Dr. Mougin-- I close the door and walk down porte de Narbonne towards the place of the accident.
However, the Volkswagen Golf is gone. In its place is a silver Peugeot from which an older man and woman are exiting. He is carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers, no doubt a gift for those they are visiting. I put the note in a file I'm keeping in the car should I chance upon the owners --at least I can demonstrate that I tried to do the right thing.
Walking past the place d'Europe on the way to the soccer stadium where Beau always has his exercise, I realize it's market day in Caunes and decide to buy some fruit from my neighbor, Nicole Granier. There are no apricots to be had, nor any mirabelles; but there are white and yellow peaches, and those small, round, green plums known as Reines Claude --Queen Claudes. I buy a mix of the three, paying Lolita, the granddaughter of Julien, another grower and neighbor. Last time I saw her she was working at an internship at Caunes' tourist office. Her internship over, she helps Nicole on market days.
Buying the fruit makes me feel much better. As I walk towards the Stade I hear the noonday church bells ring and take in the day: it is sunny and gorgeous, dry and the wind is minimal. The day so far has been a mixed bag, but the cycles of the season don't change. The grapes are ripening on the vine, in a few weeks the recolte will begin. There's still a chance August, when everything closes and most French are on vacation, will live up to everyone's hopes. And then, maybe, the owners of the Volkswagen Golf will be far away, remembering their lovely holiday in France more than the damage I inflicted on their car.
From the look of Beau's turds this morning, he swallowed the entire packet of rat poison Tuesday. I spent a sleepless night listening to his breathing: very rapid and labored at times. The rat poison works by creating blood clots which kill via pulmonary embolisms. So if, 48 hours after probable or certain ingestion of the rat poison, a blood test confirms poisoning, treatment with vitamin K-1, an antidote, must begin immediately and continue for three weeks.
I drive to Rieux, two towns to the east of Caunes, for the 10:00 a.m. follow-up appointment with Dr. Mougin, who is rapidly becoming my favorite person.
"I will send you a text message this evening when I have the result, as I'll be out of the office. If it's positive, you have to bring him back tomorrow and we'll start the treatment. Even if it's negative, I'll do another blood test in eight days just to be sure there's nothing."
While Beau and I are in his office, Dr. Mougin also checks Beau's anal glands for inflammation (a common problem), looks at his paws (hairy, they attract burrs, particularly in the webbing between toes), and shows me how to clean spaniel's ears.
"The canal is like an 'L', and very long --there's no way you can put a nozzle in and reach the bottom", he tells me. "So you have to pull the ear up gently and dribble the solution in --then you take hold of the bottom of the ear canal, which is just above his eyes-- and you massage the area between your thumb and forefinger. When he shakes his head, out come the largest particles of ear wax. You take cotton balls, roll them onto your finger and wipe the inside of the ear to remove the rest." Beau has always fought me every time I've tried to get at his ears because I've done so clumsily. Dr. Mougin makes short work of the task.
Beau drools on car rides, constantly and thickly, no matter what precautions I take, so I take the opportunity to ask what I can do. He explains,
"It's like car-sickness in a child. If you're going on a trip, you give him this pill --he reaches for a packet in his medicine cabinet-- 30 minutes before and he will be fine. In fact, in many cases, once he has a nausea-free car ride, he never needs the medication again, because having had a pleasant car ride, he doesn't associate the car with illness. It's largely psychological"
That would be a relief, because presently, a large portion of my car is spotted with Beau's saliva --not to mention the clothes I wear in the car. I'm more upset about Beau's discomfort than having to launder my clothes, but if drool didn't fly everywhere when Beau is in the car, it would be nice.
Finally, Dr. Mougin warns me about laurier rose, the sweet smelling shrub that grows wild everywhere here.
"I've never had a case of intoxication, but it is poisonous --for humans as well as animals."
Laurier rose is otherwise known as oleander. It grows in front of my front door, a lovely effect, but now that I know, I've got to keep Beau from putting it in his mouth.
I leave Dr. Mougin grateful for having a vet so well-informed on all aspects of caring for a dog, and await his text message this evening. I'm now aware there's one more thing to be careful of --oleander; and, I'm concerned that the poison test results will be positive. On the latter account, I've a trip to Mèze tomorrow I'll have to call to cancel. And I need to go to Carcassonne this afternoon to track down the water and electrical companies: I haven't yet received a bill and must establish an account to be paid automatically from my bank account in Caunes before the services are turned off. Lots on my mind, I drive slowly back to Caunes and arriving within the village limits, down the hill designated rue Joseph Sicard. At the bottom of it is my street, and parking.
There is a parking space, the last, just at the beginning of Porte de Narbonne. Frazzled by concern, I misjudge the angle I need to slide into the space and scratch the door of the parked car adjoining:
Aaargh!
What to do? I've damaged my own car before, but never someone else's. I re-park the car, correctly, this time, and get Beau out, then head for my house. In the basement I have "deep scratch remover cream" and an accompanying microfiber cloth. I grab the stuff, then some paper towels and water and head for the parking area.
When I made my error in judgment, a man and a woman were talking animatedly behind me. I expected that they would look up from their conversation to say something about my mishap, but they kept talking, and shortly, moved off, without so much as a glance in my direction. My error seems to be known only to myself.
The car I've scratched is a navy blue Volkswagen, model "Golf", with "United Kingdom" license plates. Inside the car, between the front seats, I spy an enormous Blue Guide: France. Well, at least I'll be able to write the note informing the owners in grammatically correct English (which would be less likely in French, thereby adding another wrinkle to my worries). I wash down the point of impact, the driver-side front door: much of the evidence of the contact disappears, but I have scratched the car door some and can't make the marks entirely disappear. I apply the cream and rub it in with the cloth: more scratches disappear, but not all. Having done all I can to minimize the damage, I return to the house.
I look for a piece of paper and a pen, and having found them, write:
Dear Fellow-Driver:
I SCRATCHED your car inadvertently. If you need to contact me for insurance purposes, I live at 10, porte de Narbonne. If you leave me a note with your telephone number, I will contact you. I regret having created such an inconvenience. MARTA VARELA, 10 porte de Narbonne.
Grabbing my knapsack and Beau --who will shortly have the walk he was denied this morning on account of the visit to Dr. Mougin-- I close the door and walk down porte de Narbonne towards the place of the accident.
However, the Volkswagen Golf is gone. In its place is a silver Peugeot from which an older man and woman are exiting. He is carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers, no doubt a gift for those they are visiting. I put the note in a file I'm keeping in the car should I chance upon the owners --at least I can demonstrate that I tried to do the right thing.
Walking past the place d'Europe on the way to the soccer stadium where Beau always has his exercise, I realize it's market day in Caunes and decide to buy some fruit from my neighbor, Nicole Granier. There are no apricots to be had, nor any mirabelles; but there are white and yellow peaches, and those small, round, green plums known as Reines Claude --Queen Claudes. I buy a mix of the three, paying Lolita, the granddaughter of Julien, another grower and neighbor. Last time I saw her she was working at an internship at Caunes' tourist office. Her internship over, she helps Nicole on market days.
Buying the fruit makes me feel much better. As I walk towards the Stade I hear the noonday church bells ring and take in the day: it is sunny and gorgeous, dry and the wind is minimal. The day so far has been a mixed bag, but the cycles of the season don't change. The grapes are ripening on the vine, in a few weeks the recolte will begin. There's still a chance August, when everything closes and most French are on vacation, will live up to everyone's hopes. And then, maybe, the owners of the Volkswagen Golf will be far away, remembering their lovely holiday in France more than the damage I inflicted on their car.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Kermesse
July 30, 2014
Last night was the organizational meeting for the kermesse on Sunday, August 24. Friday, August 15 is the Feast of the Assumption, but this year's kermesse --the church bazaar in favor of Notre Dame du Cros, the chapel historically associated with the abbey of Caunes-Minervois --and in fact, where Mass is said Sundays and weekdays -- is being held later. The abbey is used only for the Mass on the Feast of the Martyrs of Caunes; otherwise it is used as an exhibition space.
Notre Dame du Cros, however, has a devoted following. The waters of the adjacent spring are said to have healing properties, and the Romanesque marble statue of the Virgin is also a subject of devotions. The altarpiece was recently returned to its place at the center of the altar after having been taken to Provence two years ago for regilding. All the expenses of church upkeep are borne by a small group of dedicated parishioners from the surrounding area, not just Caunes. People come to Mass at "le Cros" from the nearby mountain villages of Citou, Lespinassière, and Félines, even further away, not to mention Laure and Villeneuve, on the way to Carcassonne.
Kathy Delpech, with whom I worked at last year's kermesse, invited me to the meeting, which coincided with my desire to make a contribution of articles belonging to the former owner of my house, the Curé Sibra, a professor of sacred music at the seminary in Carcassonne, who died in the 1960s. That which I intended to give are two rustic saws, large enough to fell an oak and for use by two men; and two headboards for small beds. The headboards were in the room opposite the grenier, or attic; the saws were in the cave, or cellar. They still bore the delivery labels, crumbling rectangles of paper onto which the delivery address and name of the destinee had been inscribed in flowing script from what was no doubt an ancient pen.
I was told that the meeting would be at the abbey, although where, I wondered. I arrived early and stood in front of the small square facing the church for a few minutes. All at once, a large car with two persons drove up and parked in front of one of the abbey's wide doors. It was a gentleman I'd met last year, the main organizer of the kermesse and his wife. They recognized me, and greeted me warmly. I regret to say I didn't catch their names, but immediately after he opened the door we put ourselves to work setting up the tables and chairs for the meeting. The room we were meeting in is a medieval one, the cold stones set off by a fireplace at the back of the room, which must have surely have been necessary in the winter, even in this temperate clime. I noted that a table and a wash sink in the back were made of slabs of Caunes' famous red marble. The lights were giant electric torches, cast-iron with glass cups, of a size and placement evocative of the Middle Ages. Chairs were placed around the table, and a bench behind one end, to accommodate those late-comers who could not find seats at the table. I wondered how many people would appear for the meeting and wondered whether it would be well-attended, as the organizers clearly expected.
In fact, there were nineteen attendees, and just enough seats, although no one sat in any of the chairs on either side of me, preferring to sit next to people they knew. Two people could not attend for various reasons, the gentleman in charge hastened to inform the group, and conveyed their regrets.
"And don't forget about my daughter --she'll help, but she couldn't make it tonight", one woman added. Duly noted.
The meeting was well-organized, everything from publicity for the event to provisions to drinks to stands and games being discussed in two hours, and in relative quiet. However, some items evoked an eruption of commentary which each time derailed the meeting from its otherwise orderly course.
The first of these was the question of who would donate the wine. With Languedoc-Roussillon having the highest per hectare cultivation of wine in all of France, it would seem that willing donors would not be in short supply. However, as Marcel --an older man with the shrewd manner that naturally delegated such a delicate subject to him observed,
It's a pain to have to go to the vintners and ask them, but they have to be asked, they won't just donate their wine freely. You would think that "X" [the name was given, but I prefer it be unstated] would give us two or three cases --it's his family's village, they're devotees of the Virgin of Cros-- but you have to go to him and ask formally. His cousin over in Azille [a nearby village] used to give to the nuns' bazaar there, but now that they've left, he'll donate --but you have to ask.
At which point everyone began talking to their neighbor, offering and exchanging their point of view on the question.
"Yes, you would think they were lords", the woman sitting next to me, said, laughing. She is a retired institutrice, or primary school teacher, Marie-Claire. Originally from Laure, the village across the road, she married a Caunois and changed her allegiance in doing so.
Notwithstanding the declared reticence of those organizing the bars à vins and the gallery's vocal protests at the vintners lack of donatory initiative, after about ten minutes the din calmed down and the meeting was able to proceed. The good will of everyone present seemed obvious to me: there were equal parts men and women --and I had expected the event to be dominated by females. The men were good natured, I have to say, without seeming to indulge in clichés about "simple, rural folk". When it was revealed that last year's "Loto" master of ceremonies had family troubles that meant he could not stand in all day, another man volunteered to relieve him, to applause from everyone else.
The kermesse is popular and brings in people from as far as Carcassonne, as well as the outlying villages. Whole families come, so there is a range of activities for young and old. "Loto" which, I learned last year, is wildly popular, has to be reconfigured: grains of corn can no longer be used as markers --C'est interdit!" the chairman of the meeting explained. Plastic markers will be used instead --much less dangerous.
Activities for children include "La Vache" --a mechanical cow that drops toys when its teats are pulled; and "Lapinodrome" --a rabbit race around a circular course which involves letting each numbered rabbit loose at a different point along the course and waiting to see which one completes --or comes closest to completing, the race.
"Lapinodrome" wasn't so popular last year, reported the chairman, which remark triggered various remarks about cruelty to rabbits, what to do with the rabbits after the race, and butchers.
"Well, let's just do one round, then", conceded the chairman, not wishing to give up the activity -which would have to be replaced by something else, requiring new organization-- altogether.
Finally, the brocante --the used goods sale-- was discussed. Roseline, my neighbor down the way is in charge and solicited help. I volunteered and made known my wish to donate the antiques I had inherited.
Well, look, everyone wants to give things no one wants. Old wood --everyone's got some, Roseline replied in the friendliest way. We'll have to have a look and see whether they're suitable.
I felt a bit deflated, but it hit me immediately that in an area where everyone hangs onto everything as long as possible out of necessity, when someone rids themselves of ancestral fixtures, it's because they have exhausted their utility. There may be antique collectors in Caunes-Minervois, but the likelihood is that my têtes de lit and skies (headboards and saws) will end up at la dechetterie: the town dump.
Roseline will be by Saturday morning to faire le tri-- sort out what's suitable for the brocante and what I can throw out. I can't wait, as I'm sure to learn more about the ways and days of Caunes as a result.
C'est beau contribuer!
Last night was the organizational meeting for the kermesse on Sunday, August 24. Friday, August 15 is the Feast of the Assumption, but this year's kermesse --the church bazaar in favor of Notre Dame du Cros, the chapel historically associated with the abbey of Caunes-Minervois --and in fact, where Mass is said Sundays and weekdays -- is being held later. The abbey is used only for the Mass on the Feast of the Martyrs of Caunes; otherwise it is used as an exhibition space.
Notre Dame du Cros, however, has a devoted following. The waters of the adjacent spring are said to have healing properties, and the Romanesque marble statue of the Virgin is also a subject of devotions. The altarpiece was recently returned to its place at the center of the altar after having been taken to Provence two years ago for regilding. All the expenses of church upkeep are borne by a small group of dedicated parishioners from the surrounding area, not just Caunes. People come to Mass at "le Cros" from the nearby mountain villages of Citou, Lespinassière, and Félines, even further away, not to mention Laure and Villeneuve, on the way to Carcassonne.
Kathy Delpech, with whom I worked at last year's kermesse, invited me to the meeting, which coincided with my desire to make a contribution of articles belonging to the former owner of my house, the Curé Sibra, a professor of sacred music at the seminary in Carcassonne, who died in the 1960s. That which I intended to give are two rustic saws, large enough to fell an oak and for use by two men; and two headboards for small beds. The headboards were in the room opposite the grenier, or attic; the saws were in the cave, or cellar. They still bore the delivery labels, crumbling rectangles of paper onto which the delivery address and name of the destinee had been inscribed in flowing script from what was no doubt an ancient pen.
I was told that the meeting would be at the abbey, although where, I wondered. I arrived early and stood in front of the small square facing the church for a few minutes. All at once, a large car with two persons drove up and parked in front of one of the abbey's wide doors. It was a gentleman I'd met last year, the main organizer of the kermesse and his wife. They recognized me, and greeted me warmly. I regret to say I didn't catch their names, but immediately after he opened the door we put ourselves to work setting up the tables and chairs for the meeting. The room we were meeting in is a medieval one, the cold stones set off by a fireplace at the back of the room, which must have surely have been necessary in the winter, even in this temperate clime. I noted that a table and a wash sink in the back were made of slabs of Caunes' famous red marble. The lights were giant electric torches, cast-iron with glass cups, of a size and placement evocative of the Middle Ages. Chairs were placed around the table, and a bench behind one end, to accommodate those late-comers who could not find seats at the table. I wondered how many people would appear for the meeting and wondered whether it would be well-attended, as the organizers clearly expected.
In fact, there were nineteen attendees, and just enough seats, although no one sat in any of the chairs on either side of me, preferring to sit next to people they knew. Two people could not attend for various reasons, the gentleman in charge hastened to inform the group, and conveyed their regrets.
"And don't forget about my daughter --she'll help, but she couldn't make it tonight", one woman added. Duly noted.
The meeting was well-organized, everything from publicity for the event to provisions to drinks to stands and games being discussed in two hours, and in relative quiet. However, some items evoked an eruption of commentary which each time derailed the meeting from its otherwise orderly course.
The first of these was the question of who would donate the wine. With Languedoc-Roussillon having the highest per hectare cultivation of wine in all of France, it would seem that willing donors would not be in short supply. However, as Marcel --an older man with the shrewd manner that naturally delegated such a delicate subject to him observed,
It's a pain to have to go to the vintners and ask them, but they have to be asked, they won't just donate their wine freely. You would think that "X" [the name was given, but I prefer it be unstated] would give us two or three cases --it's his family's village, they're devotees of the Virgin of Cros-- but you have to go to him and ask formally. His cousin over in Azille [a nearby village] used to give to the nuns' bazaar there, but now that they've left, he'll donate --but you have to ask.
At which point everyone began talking to their neighbor, offering and exchanging their point of view on the question.
"Yes, you would think they were lords", the woman sitting next to me, said, laughing. She is a retired institutrice, or primary school teacher, Marie-Claire. Originally from Laure, the village across the road, she married a Caunois and changed her allegiance in doing so.
Notwithstanding the declared reticence of those organizing the bars à vins and the gallery's vocal protests at the vintners lack of donatory initiative, after about ten minutes the din calmed down and the meeting was able to proceed. The good will of everyone present seemed obvious to me: there were equal parts men and women --and I had expected the event to be dominated by females. The men were good natured, I have to say, without seeming to indulge in clichés about "simple, rural folk". When it was revealed that last year's "Loto" master of ceremonies had family troubles that meant he could not stand in all day, another man volunteered to relieve him, to applause from everyone else.
The kermesse is popular and brings in people from as far as Carcassonne, as well as the outlying villages. Whole families come, so there is a range of activities for young and old. "Loto" which, I learned last year, is wildly popular, has to be reconfigured: grains of corn can no longer be used as markers --C'est interdit!" the chairman of the meeting explained. Plastic markers will be used instead --much less dangerous.
Activities for children include "La Vache" --a mechanical cow that drops toys when its teats are pulled; and "Lapinodrome" --a rabbit race around a circular course which involves letting each numbered rabbit loose at a different point along the course and waiting to see which one completes --or comes closest to completing, the race.
"Lapinodrome" wasn't so popular last year, reported the chairman, which remark triggered various remarks about cruelty to rabbits, what to do with the rabbits after the race, and butchers.
"Well, let's just do one round, then", conceded the chairman, not wishing to give up the activity -which would have to be replaced by something else, requiring new organization-- altogether.
Finally, the brocante --the used goods sale-- was discussed. Roseline, my neighbor down the way is in charge and solicited help. I volunteered and made known my wish to donate the antiques I had inherited.
Well, look, everyone wants to give things no one wants. Old wood --everyone's got some, Roseline replied in the friendliest way. We'll have to have a look and see whether they're suitable.
I felt a bit deflated, but it hit me immediately that in an area where everyone hangs onto everything as long as possible out of necessity, when someone rids themselves of ancestral fixtures, it's because they have exhausted their utility. There may be antique collectors in Caunes-Minervois, but the likelihood is that my têtes de lit and skies (headboards and saws) will end up at la dechetterie: the town dump.
Roseline will be by Saturday morning to faire le tri-- sort out what's suitable for the brocante and what I can throw out. I can't wait, as I'm sure to learn more about the ways and days of Caunes as a result.
C'est beau contribuer!
Monday, July 28, 2014
Beau Has A Close Call; Pro-Palestinian Agitation
Monday, July 28, 2014
I had intended to write about the recent demonstrations in Paris and its suburbs, but Beau stole center stage this afternoon by swallowing rat poison left in the cellar by the former owners of the house.
I have found plastic sealed packets of rat poison in different parts of the house, but never noticed any in the "cave", where I do the laundry. Beau followed me down and while I was putting clothes in the washing machine, found two packets of the poison. When I turned around, I caught him investigating a packet that was partly open, the pink block of poison still inside. I grabbed it immediately, but then my eye fell on another plastic wrapper, empty.
The next couple of hours went by very quickly. Not being able to reach Dr. Marc Mougin, our vet, I called the Carcassonne Animal Hospital. They told me it would be necessary to wait 48 hours before a blood test could be done to determine whether the poison (which kills by creating blood clots) had been ingested. They would be very anxious hours, for sure, so I tried Dr. Mougin's number again and was able to get through.
"Bring him in: we'll induce vomiting. Bang on the door, I'm in my office until 7 p.m.."
I arrived with Beau in tow within the hour. Dr. Mougin injected an emetic between Beau's shoulder blades, and within five minutes Beau was vomiting, first the food he had eaten minutes before he went down to the basement, but also part of the morning's meal --and a red substance that looked like the poison. And two good-sized pebbles.
As Beau will put anything in his mouth, I asked Dr. Mougin what I could do to try to keep Beau from inadvertently injuring, or even killing himself.
"He has 'pica' --ingesting items that are not food. How old is he?"
"He'll be eleven months at the end of this month."
"Well, if he hasn't been operated for 'pica', then it is likely that he will grow out of it", he said with a smile. "Most dogs with the syndrome swallow something that leads to a surgery, so if you haven't had to go that route, things look good. I had to operate on a big dog that cracked open an electrical adapter and ate everything inside. On the X-ray I could only see that what was in his stomach was a large mass. When I showed the X-ray to the owner, he said "Oh that's the adapter I was missing!"
Thursday Beau returns to Dr. Mougin's office, when he will be tested to see whether there are any traces of the poison in his bloodstream. Beau, while initially exhausted from the effects of the emetic, is now his frisky self again. Tomorrow (which happens to be the day my cleaner is coming) I'll make a thorough search of the cave and garage areas for any remaining poison packets.
***
Last week's unauthorized demonstration in Sarcelles, a suburb of Paris, ended in violence, arrests and a Molotov cocktail thrown into a neighborhood synagogue. Government officials deplored the anti-semitic turn pro-Palestinian demonstrations took, but subsequent demonstrations have been no less inflammatory. What is interesting is that joining the left-leaning militants now are young, relatively affluent muslims, or "bobo-muslims" for whom the pro-Palestinian demonstrations are a first.
In Paris, if you sympathize, it is now fashionable to sport a "keffieh", the heavy cotton, patterned scarf Palestinians traditionally wear. Saturday there will be another unauthorized demonstration in Paris, which Le Monde reports Paris is bracing for. Even in Carcassonne, just a thirty-minute car ride from Caunes, signs of the wave of pro-Palestinian sentiment are manifest: dropping off my last guest at the Carcassonne SNCF station Saturday evening, a pair of young men, not more than eighteen, of Arab descent and spotlessly dressed in summer wear that would not be out of place at a Hamptons bash, display large, bold-faced stickers on the fronts of their polo shirts:
"Palestine for the Palestinians"
Social networking has fed the fervor many young French of Arab descent feel. What the intersection of fundamentalist militants, the old French left and modern French-Arab youth will bring to the debate over the fate of the Palestinians in Gaza and the Israelis who fear it has become a launching pad for attacks against Israel is anybody's guess. Among the Jewish community in France there is a sense that France's history of anti-semitism means the country's leaders talk of "respect for different points of view", but refuse to take the necessary steps. The massacre of schoolchildren and a teacher in Toulouse just a few years ago, along with the publicly expressed anti-Semitism of Jean-Marie LePen, coupled with the government's inability to control pro-Palestinian demonstrators set on creating the conditions for riots does not seem like a passing phase in their view. Even François Hollande has been quoted as saying, "There's Ramadan coming up, it's the summer…it's going to be tense."
I had intended to write about the recent demonstrations in Paris and its suburbs, but Beau stole center stage this afternoon by swallowing rat poison left in the cellar by the former owners of the house.
I have found plastic sealed packets of rat poison in different parts of the house, but never noticed any in the "cave", where I do the laundry. Beau followed me down and while I was putting clothes in the washing machine, found two packets of the poison. When I turned around, I caught him investigating a packet that was partly open, the pink block of poison still inside. I grabbed it immediately, but then my eye fell on another plastic wrapper, empty.
The next couple of hours went by very quickly. Not being able to reach Dr. Marc Mougin, our vet, I called the Carcassonne Animal Hospital. They told me it would be necessary to wait 48 hours before a blood test could be done to determine whether the poison (which kills by creating blood clots) had been ingested. They would be very anxious hours, for sure, so I tried Dr. Mougin's number again and was able to get through.
"Bring him in: we'll induce vomiting. Bang on the door, I'm in my office until 7 p.m.."
I arrived with Beau in tow within the hour. Dr. Mougin injected an emetic between Beau's shoulder blades, and within five minutes Beau was vomiting, first the food he had eaten minutes before he went down to the basement, but also part of the morning's meal --and a red substance that looked like the poison. And two good-sized pebbles.
As Beau will put anything in his mouth, I asked Dr. Mougin what I could do to try to keep Beau from inadvertently injuring, or even killing himself.
"He has 'pica' --ingesting items that are not food. How old is he?"
"He'll be eleven months at the end of this month."
"Well, if he hasn't been operated for 'pica', then it is likely that he will grow out of it", he said with a smile. "Most dogs with the syndrome swallow something that leads to a surgery, so if you haven't had to go that route, things look good. I had to operate on a big dog that cracked open an electrical adapter and ate everything inside. On the X-ray I could only see that what was in his stomach was a large mass. When I showed the X-ray to the owner, he said "Oh that's the adapter I was missing!"
Thursday Beau returns to Dr. Mougin's office, when he will be tested to see whether there are any traces of the poison in his bloodstream. Beau, while initially exhausted from the effects of the emetic, is now his frisky self again. Tomorrow (which happens to be the day my cleaner is coming) I'll make a thorough search of the cave and garage areas for any remaining poison packets.
***
Last week's unauthorized demonstration in Sarcelles, a suburb of Paris, ended in violence, arrests and a Molotov cocktail thrown into a neighborhood synagogue. Government officials deplored the anti-semitic turn pro-Palestinian demonstrations took, but subsequent demonstrations have been no less inflammatory. What is interesting is that joining the left-leaning militants now are young, relatively affluent muslims, or "bobo-muslims" for whom the pro-Palestinian demonstrations are a first.
In Paris, if you sympathize, it is now fashionable to sport a "keffieh", the heavy cotton, patterned scarf Palestinians traditionally wear. Saturday there will be another unauthorized demonstration in Paris, which Le Monde reports Paris is bracing for. Even in Carcassonne, just a thirty-minute car ride from Caunes, signs of the wave of pro-Palestinian sentiment are manifest: dropping off my last guest at the Carcassonne SNCF station Saturday evening, a pair of young men, not more than eighteen, of Arab descent and spotlessly dressed in summer wear that would not be out of place at a Hamptons bash, display large, bold-faced stickers on the fronts of their polo shirts:
"Palestine for the Palestinians"
Social networking has fed the fervor many young French of Arab descent feel. What the intersection of fundamentalist militants, the old French left and modern French-Arab youth will bring to the debate over the fate of the Palestinians in Gaza and the Israelis who fear it has become a launching pad for attacks against Israel is anybody's guess. Among the Jewish community in France there is a sense that France's history of anti-semitism means the country's leaders talk of "respect for different points of view", but refuse to take the necessary steps. The massacre of schoolchildren and a teacher in Toulouse just a few years ago, along with the publicly expressed anti-Semitism of Jean-Marie LePen, coupled with the government's inability to control pro-Palestinian demonstrators set on creating the conditions for riots does not seem like a passing phase in their view. Even François Hollande has been quoted as saying, "There's Ramadan coming up, it's the summer…it's going to be tense."
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Neo-Ruralists In Arrière-Pays
Sunday, July 27, 2014
Le Monde has been carrying a series of articles under the header, Nouvelles Vies À La Campagne, focusing on individuals in different parts of France who have gone "back to the land", as we would say. Yesterday's article, Eloge de la frugalité --which many, including this author, would have translated as "Elegy to frugality" actually means "In Praise Of Frugality". (By the way, those of you reading who know that the first word in the title appears in the dictionary bearing an accent aigu over the first "e" will think I've forgotten it in transcribing the article's title. Not so: French rules of orthography for titles beginning with a capital "e" never carry one. How confusing is that?)
The article, a tale of grit and idealism, focuses on several farmers who began life as middle-class children in cities and became neoruraliens polyvalents, literally multi-tasking neo-ruralists. What that actually means is that these men and women make ends meet not by just farming, but by farming and engaging in other ways of making money. And they manage their farms in the arrière-pays --France's back-country, isolated, economically poor and hard-to-farm.
The photograph that graces the article is of Thomas Geidel, his partner in rural life, Malika, their two children and the family dog, set off against the mounds of hay they store to feed their lambs and kids. Thomas Geidel is 50, looks like Daniel Day-Lewis, and is German. At 22, while pursuing studies in economics at the university of Montpellier he became enamored of the wilds of northern l'Herault, and convinced he could set himself up as a farmer. To the great displeasure of his parents, both professionals-- he followed through on his intention, buying a ruined farm for about $12,000, as well as a donkey, a horse and four goats. He took a correspondence course on farm management and expanded his activities to meet his needs: he wrote articles for a regional German newspaper and published a book which sold well, followed by two books of poetry. He bought another farm --30 hectares of meadow, plus brush and tree-covered mountain. Bit by bit, he managed to establish himself as a breeder, although he continues to write --and act in a theatre in Marseilles a few months a year.
Malika is his second partner in rural adventures. She is a part-time elementary school teacher, but also studies dance and gives workshops in the area. The household, or ménage, makes its own bread, gets its vegetables from their potager (--vegetable garden) and uses wood from the trees on the farm's acreage to heat the house in the cold weather. Geidel is happy with his life, finding the farm chores not too onerous (he milks the lambs once a day) and the quality of life superior to what he might have expected had he pursued the career his parents wanted of him. His annual income is between 25,000 to 30,000 Euros, i.e., $30,000-$40,000. However, half of that amount comes, not from the farm or Geidel's other activities, but from government subsidies, which account, by his reckoning, for a little more than half of his yearly income.
"Without being lavish or formidable in principle, these subsidies allow family-based agriculture in the region to survive, and allows us to live with dignity, without becoming marginalized." The article also focuses on a Swiss woman of 66, retiring after thirty-eight years spent running a farm where she keeps 34 goats on 23 hectares; as well as on a young couple, aged 28 and 29, who also raise goats as well as growing "green" vegetables. All the households profiled are happy having chosen an arduous and frugal lifestyle "in magnificent surroundings" with "lovely personal interactions". Locals maintain informal and non-cash-based exchanges in a barter economy of which newcomers' happily become a part, enriching the community by their innovations.
If it all sounds to good to be true --it is. Without the subsidies, the newcomers would never have survived. Which raises the question: "Is a worthwhile purpose served via the conservation of family-based agriculture?" The subject is too complex to deal with adequately here, however, Le Monde is implicitly endorsing the movement "back to the land" by commissioning seven articles on the subject. Interestingly, the magazine of the weekend edition features another article on the "small is beautiful" theme, this time about private individuals' cottage industry enterprises, be they car rentals, laundry machine use, or airbnb. The article explains that although experiences using the French peer-to-peer car rental application, Drivy, vary, generally the customer satisfaction is higher than that registered by users of corporate car rental companies like Hertz or Avis. The personal touch (and lower cost) accounts for the forgiving nature of the clients, although there are aspects of the growing practice that present challenges for peer-to-peer entrepreneurs. For instance, airbnb requires potential lodgers to submit a profile that includes a photo, inviting racial discrimination. (A Harvard Business School study of airbnb found blacks received 12% lower returns on their offerings than other hosts.) Hosts offering cars, lodgings or other services rarely see income generated as meaning taxes ought to be paid; in fact, the appeal of peer-to-peer rentals is their black market nature. Those offering a room to a stranger in return for cash are often freelancers or the unemployed, trying to make ends meet.
What the article in Le Monde (which is the newspaper of France's left-leaning intellectual elite), points out is the irresistibility of the peer-to-peer market , which could not exist without the help of the computer applications developed by the original authors of the concept, many of whom seek financing for start-ups that operate in effect as holding companies for several peer-to-peer networks, in effect ending the enterprise's days "under the radar" of regulators. With expansion, come the lawyers.
However, in France, the popularity sites de partage --peer-to-peer sharing sites-- share with neo-ruraliens is based on the same premise: the faith that when people "make do" --away from the prying and rapacious eyes of the State-- something better and more human emerges. Which is understandable in a country where the state is so much more present than the U.S. and large-scale solutions to the country's long-term problems nowhere in sight. "Faire avec" --to make do with what is at hand-- is perhaps the best characteristic of the average Frenchman. So let us praise neo-ruraliens and those who say partager c'est gagner --to share is to win. They may be the country's best hope.
Le Monde has been carrying a series of articles under the header, Nouvelles Vies À La Campagne, focusing on individuals in different parts of France who have gone "back to the land", as we would say. Yesterday's article, Eloge de la frugalité --which many, including this author, would have translated as "Elegy to frugality" actually means "In Praise Of Frugality". (By the way, those of you reading who know that the first word in the title appears in the dictionary bearing an accent aigu over the first "e" will think I've forgotten it in transcribing the article's title. Not so: French rules of orthography for titles beginning with a capital "e" never carry one. How confusing is that?)
The article, a tale of grit and idealism, focuses on several farmers who began life as middle-class children in cities and became neoruraliens polyvalents, literally multi-tasking neo-ruralists. What that actually means is that these men and women make ends meet not by just farming, but by farming and engaging in other ways of making money. And they manage their farms in the arrière-pays --France's back-country, isolated, economically poor and hard-to-farm.
The photograph that graces the article is of Thomas Geidel, his partner in rural life, Malika, their two children and the family dog, set off against the mounds of hay they store to feed their lambs and kids. Thomas Geidel is 50, looks like Daniel Day-Lewis, and is German. At 22, while pursuing studies in economics at the university of Montpellier he became enamored of the wilds of northern l'Herault, and convinced he could set himself up as a farmer. To the great displeasure of his parents, both professionals-- he followed through on his intention, buying a ruined farm for about $12,000, as well as a donkey, a horse and four goats. He took a correspondence course on farm management and expanded his activities to meet his needs: he wrote articles for a regional German newspaper and published a book which sold well, followed by two books of poetry. He bought another farm --30 hectares of meadow, plus brush and tree-covered mountain. Bit by bit, he managed to establish himself as a breeder, although he continues to write --and act in a theatre in Marseilles a few months a year.
Malika is his second partner in rural adventures. She is a part-time elementary school teacher, but also studies dance and gives workshops in the area. The household, or ménage, makes its own bread, gets its vegetables from their potager (--vegetable garden) and uses wood from the trees on the farm's acreage to heat the house in the cold weather. Geidel is happy with his life, finding the farm chores not too onerous (he milks the lambs once a day) and the quality of life superior to what he might have expected had he pursued the career his parents wanted of him. His annual income is between 25,000 to 30,000 Euros, i.e., $30,000-$40,000. However, half of that amount comes, not from the farm or Geidel's other activities, but from government subsidies, which account, by his reckoning, for a little more than half of his yearly income.
"Without being lavish or formidable in principle, these subsidies allow family-based agriculture in the region to survive, and allows us to live with dignity, without becoming marginalized." The article also focuses on a Swiss woman of 66, retiring after thirty-eight years spent running a farm where she keeps 34 goats on 23 hectares; as well as on a young couple, aged 28 and 29, who also raise goats as well as growing "green" vegetables. All the households profiled are happy having chosen an arduous and frugal lifestyle "in magnificent surroundings" with "lovely personal interactions". Locals maintain informal and non-cash-based exchanges in a barter economy of which newcomers' happily become a part, enriching the community by their innovations.
If it all sounds to good to be true --it is. Without the subsidies, the newcomers would never have survived. Which raises the question: "Is a worthwhile purpose served via the conservation of family-based agriculture?" The subject is too complex to deal with adequately here, however, Le Monde is implicitly endorsing the movement "back to the land" by commissioning seven articles on the subject. Interestingly, the magazine of the weekend edition features another article on the "small is beautiful" theme, this time about private individuals' cottage industry enterprises, be they car rentals, laundry machine use, or airbnb. The article explains that although experiences using the French peer-to-peer car rental application, Drivy, vary, generally the customer satisfaction is higher than that registered by users of corporate car rental companies like Hertz or Avis. The personal touch (and lower cost) accounts for the forgiving nature of the clients, although there are aspects of the growing practice that present challenges for peer-to-peer entrepreneurs. For instance, airbnb requires potential lodgers to submit a profile that includes a photo, inviting racial discrimination. (A Harvard Business School study of airbnb found blacks received 12% lower returns on their offerings than other hosts.) Hosts offering cars, lodgings or other services rarely see income generated as meaning taxes ought to be paid; in fact, the appeal of peer-to-peer rentals is their black market nature. Those offering a room to a stranger in return for cash are often freelancers or the unemployed, trying to make ends meet.
What the article in Le Monde (which is the newspaper of France's left-leaning intellectual elite), points out is the irresistibility of the peer-to-peer market , which could not exist without the help of the computer applications developed by the original authors of the concept, many of whom seek financing for start-ups that operate in effect as holding companies for several peer-to-peer networks, in effect ending the enterprise's days "under the radar" of regulators. With expansion, come the lawyers.
However, in France, the popularity sites de partage --peer-to-peer sharing sites-- share with neo-ruraliens is based on the same premise: the faith that when people "make do" --away from the prying and rapacious eyes of the State-- something better and more human emerges. Which is understandable in a country where the state is so much more present than the U.S. and large-scale solutions to the country's long-term problems nowhere in sight. "Faire avec" --to make do with what is at hand-- is perhaps the best characteristic of the average Frenchman. So let us praise neo-ruraliens and those who say partager c'est gagner --to share is to win. They may be the country's best hope.
Thursday, July 24, 2014
The Grotto
Friday, July 24, 2014
One of the things I find most enjoyable about living in Caunes-Minervois is that I am always discovering new paths to walk and take in. Yesterday Matthew and I took Beau out on a walk that began with our walking down Côte de Montplaisir, a street a few feet from my door that slopes down towards Avenue de l'Abbaye. Avenue de l'Abbaye, as its name indicates, leads to the Benedictine Abbey that has stood in Caunes since the Middle Ages. The road on the other side of its beginning is just a country path Beau and I had walked many times: or so I thought.
The gradient of the land slopes downward, almost imperceptibly, with farmland on the left and two estates on the right. At one point the path narrows and it seems the only way to go further is to walk through the fields. I had always turned back at this point, believing I had gone as far as I could without trespassing on private property. This evening though, Matthew and I decided to take that path to see where it ended.
And it was a revelation: the path, which had been just gravel and dirt, became paved, evidently with cars in mind. The rows of vines, thickly planted on flat land, gave way to fruit trees, and then, on each side, to two large tracts of land above which a higher road, planted with large, bushy trees, towered. I heard a car behind me and turned: it was the "Police Municipale" patrolling the road. The policeman, Nicolas, cheerily engaged me in conversation and explained that the road lead to an underpass on the route to a bridge that had been wiped out by floods a few years ago. When the bridge functioned, it allowed vehicles to cross from the road to Trausse on the east side of Caunes' village limits to the west, the road to Carcassonne, without having to drive through the village. The bridge is supposed to be repaired, but when that will happen, no one knows, Nicolas concluded before continuing his patrol.
I walked another 300 yards or so and came upon not just the fallen bridge, but a grotto below the bridge and to the side. An older couple were watching the stream of water trickling beneath the grotto's rocks as well as keeping an eye on their dog, a black and white shepherd named "Amy". The man had an unlit, hand-rolled cigarette in his mouth, which seemed to have been there a long time. "Yes, the flood destroyed the bridge", the man said in response to my question. "About three or four years ago." He raised his arm as high as possible in the direction of the tree next to which he was standing. "The water was as high as that", he said, pointing to the top of the tree.
The underpass of the bridge was a bit further on the path to the left of the grotto. It was intact, so Matthew, Beau and I walked through it towards a path which led us to the high road on which I had seen the thickly-leaved trees. The road sloped upward and past a gorgeous house with exquisite formal gardens, an enormous pergola under which a very large dining table and chairs had been arranged, to the left of which was a lovely swimming pool. We would never have seen the house from the road leading out of Porte de Narbonne towards Trausse: it was nestled, far from prying eyes, in the slope of the land.
Reaching the top of the slope and turning left, we found ourselves on the highland, looking down at the fields whose edges we had traversed earlier. We were high enough to see farms in the far distance, as well as La Montagne Noir and the faint outlines of the Pyrenées, still visible as dusk fell.
It was a longer walk home than I had originally anticipated, but I would not have missed it for the world.
One of the things I find most enjoyable about living in Caunes-Minervois is that I am always discovering new paths to walk and take in. Yesterday Matthew and I took Beau out on a walk that began with our walking down Côte de Montplaisir, a street a few feet from my door that slopes down towards Avenue de l'Abbaye. Avenue de l'Abbaye, as its name indicates, leads to the Benedictine Abbey that has stood in Caunes since the Middle Ages. The road on the other side of its beginning is just a country path Beau and I had walked many times: or so I thought.
The gradient of the land slopes downward, almost imperceptibly, with farmland on the left and two estates on the right. At one point the path narrows and it seems the only way to go further is to walk through the fields. I had always turned back at this point, believing I had gone as far as I could without trespassing on private property. This evening though, Matthew and I decided to take that path to see where it ended.
And it was a revelation: the path, which had been just gravel and dirt, became paved, evidently with cars in mind. The rows of vines, thickly planted on flat land, gave way to fruit trees, and then, on each side, to two large tracts of land above which a higher road, planted with large, bushy trees, towered. I heard a car behind me and turned: it was the "Police Municipale" patrolling the road. The policeman, Nicolas, cheerily engaged me in conversation and explained that the road lead to an underpass on the route to a bridge that had been wiped out by floods a few years ago. When the bridge functioned, it allowed vehicles to cross from the road to Trausse on the east side of Caunes' village limits to the west, the road to Carcassonne, without having to drive through the village. The bridge is supposed to be repaired, but when that will happen, no one knows, Nicolas concluded before continuing his patrol.
I walked another 300 yards or so and came upon not just the fallen bridge, but a grotto below the bridge and to the side. An older couple were watching the stream of water trickling beneath the grotto's rocks as well as keeping an eye on their dog, a black and white shepherd named "Amy". The man had an unlit, hand-rolled cigarette in his mouth, which seemed to have been there a long time. "Yes, the flood destroyed the bridge", the man said in response to my question. "About three or four years ago." He raised his arm as high as possible in the direction of the tree next to which he was standing. "The water was as high as that", he said, pointing to the top of the tree.
The underpass of the bridge was a bit further on the path to the left of the grotto. It was intact, so Matthew, Beau and I walked through it towards a path which led us to the high road on which I had seen the thickly-leaved trees. The road sloped upward and past a gorgeous house with exquisite formal gardens, an enormous pergola under which a very large dining table and chairs had been arranged, to the left of which was a lovely swimming pool. We would never have seen the house from the road leading out of Porte de Narbonne towards Trausse: it was nestled, far from prying eyes, in the slope of the land.
Reaching the top of the slope and turning left, we found ourselves on the highland, looking down at the fields whose edges we had traversed earlier. We were high enough to see farms in the far distance, as well as La Montagne Noir and the faint outlines of the Pyrenées, still visible as dusk fell.
It was a longer walk home than I had originally anticipated, but I would not have missed it for the world.
Narbonne Plage and Côte des Roses
Thursday, July 24, 2014
As I predicted yesterday, with the advent of my land line, the world has pushed in. My first unsolicited phone call was from someone calling on behalf of a voyant, a seer, whom --the caller informed me-- had been seen on television. I had no need of the services of a clairvoyant, I explained and hung up. At midnight the phone rang repeatedly, but I couldn't rouse myself to answer it --no one who knows me could possibly be calling at that hour.
Feeling the world was, perhaps, too much with me, I and my visitor, Matthew Haley, drove to Narbonne Plage. The weather in the area was predicted to be in the 90s with sun all day, a welcome change after the weeks of cold and wet. I had thought that only by going as far as Mèze, or Sète, about two to three hours away, could I find a decent beach. Checking photos of Narbonne Plage on the Internet though, it looked as though it might be a reasonable alternative reachable in half the time.
Armed with a picnic lunch, folding chairs, lots of sunblock and a change of clothes, Matthew and I set off, with Beau riding on Matthew's lap. From Olonzac we turned onto the road towards Lezignan-Corbières, then Narbonne. Shortly after exiting the town we reached the coast, which is set off against the sky by Le Massif du Clape, a succession of high rocky plateaus separated by narrow ravines extending almost 60 miles and dominated by garrigue, the lowland scrub of the Mediterranean. Again, I was reminded of how much the Aude resembles parts of the Ojai Valley of California, with its winding, two-lane roads and olive groves.
Cresting over a hill, the Narbonne Plage beach came into view: it was flat, broad and bordered by small residential developments built in yellow materials: a place families and retirees go. On a brilliant day like today, the sun gave everything a golden look. Not that it was deceptive: the town of Narbonne Plage is immaculately kept. There is a two-lane bicycle path along the length of the beach, and a pedestrian path as well.
Today was market day, so every sort of vendor was out hawking their wares. Not just bakers and cheese makers and olives sellers, but vendors of cheap beachwear, amazing mops, toiletries, sunglasses and Sudoku. The pedestrian path thronged with people there just for the market, which began early in the morning and ended by noon.
The beach was broad and immaculate, with master swimmers serving as lifeguards. Toilets though, were few and far between, although they were free. I found one a good ways away from where we camped, but once the person before me exited there was a twenty minute wait while the area was thoroughly cleansed. I walked to the next one (another considerable distance) and found the same situation. Finally, I begged the owner of a fast food place on the beach to let me use theirs, which he thankfully did. By the way, the Narbonne Plage public toilets are closed from 1:30 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. (I don't know why.)
The water was too cold to stay in long, but the waves were minimal and invited several plunges. Beau, covered with sand from digging all around our chairs, went for his first sea bath and swam, although I think he preferred dry land. A beach policeman on patrol stopped and told us that Narbonne Plage did not allow dogs. -Which was curious, because the Internet had said the opposite. However, the policeman said, there was another beach, about an hour from Narbonne Plage, where dogs were free to go. As we had already spent about two hours in the sun at that point, we picked up and left the beach, heading for the open showers at an entrance and exit to the shore before seeking out the new beach. There was a sign posted against the apparatus, and I was once again reminded of the particularity of France: Use of soap prohibited, it said.
We drove beyond the town limits of Narbonne Plage in the opposite direction from St. Pierre sur Mer at the other end and found ourselves circling around a more undeveloped beach area opposite a camping area, Camping d'Oc. It was Côtes des Roses, the beach area to which the policeman had directed us. Something like Fire Island, it was encircled by scrub with another part of Le Massif du Clape behind us. Unlike Narbonne Plage, there was no residential area nearby, just stands to rent windsurfers and sail carts. As we walked towards the water, we watched a young man turning a traction kite this way and that. The wind was strong enough that he kept both hands tightly on the board as he attempted to steer it. There were few people on the beach, and most of them were young and slender and either alone or in pairs. The sign at Section 6 of Côte de Roses reminds readers that Section 7 has no lifeguard and that anyone swimming there does so at their own risk. Indeed, a few weeks ago, someone disappeared off the coast of Narbonne Plage, so swimming in the Mediterranean is not without its risks, although Côtes des Roses seems to attract those who want to get away from the crowds at Narbonne Plage.
Is it possible that summer, with all its heat and light, has finally arrived? The luxury of leaving the countryside for the beach with Beau again in the next few weeks beckons. Half the pleasure of going to the beach on a sun-lit day is the knowledge that each year, the number of days it is possible is limited. The other half is feeling the sun seep into my bones, and feeling as if I were at a spa.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I'll have more than one trip to Narbonne Plage this summer.
As I predicted yesterday, with the advent of my land line, the world has pushed in. My first unsolicited phone call was from someone calling on behalf of a voyant, a seer, whom --the caller informed me-- had been seen on television. I had no need of the services of a clairvoyant, I explained and hung up. At midnight the phone rang repeatedly, but I couldn't rouse myself to answer it --no one who knows me could possibly be calling at that hour.
Feeling the world was, perhaps, too much with me, I and my visitor, Matthew Haley, drove to Narbonne Plage. The weather in the area was predicted to be in the 90s with sun all day, a welcome change after the weeks of cold and wet. I had thought that only by going as far as Mèze, or Sète, about two to three hours away, could I find a decent beach. Checking photos of Narbonne Plage on the Internet though, it looked as though it might be a reasonable alternative reachable in half the time.
Armed with a picnic lunch, folding chairs, lots of sunblock and a change of clothes, Matthew and I set off, with Beau riding on Matthew's lap. From Olonzac we turned onto the road towards Lezignan-Corbières, then Narbonne. Shortly after exiting the town we reached the coast, which is set off against the sky by Le Massif du Clape, a succession of high rocky plateaus separated by narrow ravines extending almost 60 miles and dominated by garrigue, the lowland scrub of the Mediterranean. Again, I was reminded of how much the Aude resembles parts of the Ojai Valley of California, with its winding, two-lane roads and olive groves.
Cresting over a hill, the Narbonne Plage beach came into view: it was flat, broad and bordered by small residential developments built in yellow materials: a place families and retirees go. On a brilliant day like today, the sun gave everything a golden look. Not that it was deceptive: the town of Narbonne Plage is immaculately kept. There is a two-lane bicycle path along the length of the beach, and a pedestrian path as well.
Today was market day, so every sort of vendor was out hawking their wares. Not just bakers and cheese makers and olives sellers, but vendors of cheap beachwear, amazing mops, toiletries, sunglasses and Sudoku. The pedestrian path thronged with people there just for the market, which began early in the morning and ended by noon.
The beach was broad and immaculate, with master swimmers serving as lifeguards. Toilets though, were few and far between, although they were free. I found one a good ways away from where we camped, but once the person before me exited there was a twenty minute wait while the area was thoroughly cleansed. I walked to the next one (another considerable distance) and found the same situation. Finally, I begged the owner of a fast food place on the beach to let me use theirs, which he thankfully did. By the way, the Narbonne Plage public toilets are closed from 1:30 p.m. to 5:00 p.m. (I don't know why.)
The water was too cold to stay in long, but the waves were minimal and invited several plunges. Beau, covered with sand from digging all around our chairs, went for his first sea bath and swam, although I think he preferred dry land. A beach policeman on patrol stopped and told us that Narbonne Plage did not allow dogs. -Which was curious, because the Internet had said the opposite. However, the policeman said, there was another beach, about an hour from Narbonne Plage, where dogs were free to go. As we had already spent about two hours in the sun at that point, we picked up and left the beach, heading for the open showers at an entrance and exit to the shore before seeking out the new beach. There was a sign posted against the apparatus, and I was once again reminded of the particularity of France: Use of soap prohibited, it said.
We drove beyond the town limits of Narbonne Plage in the opposite direction from St. Pierre sur Mer at the other end and found ourselves circling around a more undeveloped beach area opposite a camping area, Camping d'Oc. It was Côtes des Roses, the beach area to which the policeman had directed us. Something like Fire Island, it was encircled by scrub with another part of Le Massif du Clape behind us. Unlike Narbonne Plage, there was no residential area nearby, just stands to rent windsurfers and sail carts. As we walked towards the water, we watched a young man turning a traction kite this way and that. The wind was strong enough that he kept both hands tightly on the board as he attempted to steer it. There were few people on the beach, and most of them were young and slender and either alone or in pairs. The sign at Section 6 of Côte de Roses reminds readers that Section 7 has no lifeguard and that anyone swimming there does so at their own risk. Indeed, a few weeks ago, someone disappeared off the coast of Narbonne Plage, so swimming in the Mediterranean is not without its risks, although Côtes des Roses seems to attract those who want to get away from the crowds at Narbonne Plage.
Is it possible that summer, with all its heat and light, has finally arrived? The luxury of leaving the countryside for the beach with Beau again in the next few weeks beckons. Half the pleasure of going to the beach on a sun-lit day is the knowledge that each year, the number of days it is possible is limited. The other half is feeling the sun seep into my bones, and feeling as if I were at a spa.
I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I'll have more than one trip to Narbonne Plage this summer.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Connected
July 22, 2014
Yesterday afternoon, July 20, the phone line was at last functional. To make it so, that morning I had to drive to the Orange boutique in Carcassonne to buy a black plastic gadget with a T-shaped protuberance on one side, a gizmo I thought I saw in one of the boxes of gadgets associated with setting up phone, internet and TV, but could not locate. Bringing it home, I had to snap the T-shaped end of the piece into another gadget already plugged into the outlet for the phone in the kitchen, then snap a cord into the bottom of the gadget the other end of which I had to insert into the base of the mobile phone. The set-up is definitely France's version of a "Rube Goldberg", but once the interlocking parts were in place, Voila! --I could make unlimited calls to the U.S. and anywhere in "Europe" (not sure what that means).
I placed the original order for service in late April of this year. I spent hours on the telephone from New York, trying to set all up before I arrived. "Orange" has an anglophone line, but I never spent less than 90 minutes waiting to speak to someone --who usually put me on hold for an almost equally long period of time and who was never able to help me. I arrived in Caunes June 16, but the box with all the gadgets needed to set up the TV, phone and internet much later. A technician came two weeks ago, but said there was a problem with the line. A technician came yesterday and told me I just needed the black gadget, un embaut, and a fil téléphonique, to have service. I realize now that the local electrician who set up the internet and television last Tuesday, as well as trying to set up the phone, mistakenly plugged the cord which should have gone into the embaut into the phone base. He also told me to throw the embaut away as unnecessary, while warning me that I had to keep the boxes from Orange the cable box and other gadgets came in because when I gave up the phone line I would have to return the equipment to the company in them.
To test the line, I made a call to a family member and two calls to friends in New York. The reception was clear as a bell. Having international phone service, I suddenly felt as though the distance between Caunes and New York had shrunk to the length of the fil éléctronique --the electric wire plugged into the embaut. And as the phone rang with unexpected calls I leapt to grab, I knew a kind of vertigo, a swooning sensation, a sudden presentiment that by setting up a phone line on which the world could reach me, the world might crowd in. My isolation ended, I started to miss it.
Yesterday afternoon, July 20, the phone line was at last functional. To make it so, that morning I had to drive to the Orange boutique in Carcassonne to buy a black plastic gadget with a T-shaped protuberance on one side, a gizmo I thought I saw in one of the boxes of gadgets associated with setting up phone, internet and TV, but could not locate. Bringing it home, I had to snap the T-shaped end of the piece into another gadget already plugged into the outlet for the phone in the kitchen, then snap a cord into the bottom of the gadget the other end of which I had to insert into the base of the mobile phone. The set-up is definitely France's version of a "Rube Goldberg", but once the interlocking parts were in place, Voila! --I could make unlimited calls to the U.S. and anywhere in "Europe" (not sure what that means).
I placed the original order for service in late April of this year. I spent hours on the telephone from New York, trying to set all up before I arrived. "Orange" has an anglophone line, but I never spent less than 90 minutes waiting to speak to someone --who usually put me on hold for an almost equally long period of time and who was never able to help me. I arrived in Caunes June 16, but the box with all the gadgets needed to set up the TV, phone and internet much later. A technician came two weeks ago, but said there was a problem with the line. A technician came yesterday and told me I just needed the black gadget, un embaut, and a fil téléphonique, to have service. I realize now that the local electrician who set up the internet and television last Tuesday, as well as trying to set up the phone, mistakenly plugged the cord which should have gone into the embaut into the phone base. He also told me to throw the embaut away as unnecessary, while warning me that I had to keep the boxes from Orange the cable box and other gadgets came in because when I gave up the phone line I would have to return the equipment to the company in them.
To test the line, I made a call to a family member and two calls to friends in New York. The reception was clear as a bell. Having international phone service, I suddenly felt as though the distance between Caunes and New York had shrunk to the length of the fil éléctronique --the electric wire plugged into the embaut. And as the phone rang with unexpected calls I leapt to grab, I knew a kind of vertigo, a swooning sensation, a sudden presentiment that by setting up a phone line on which the world could reach me, the world might crowd in. My isolation ended, I started to miss it.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Tour de France Pedals Through Carcassonne
Monday, July 21, 2014
After a day of rest today, the Tour de France picks up again pushing off at Boulevard Barbès, just outside the southern end of La Bastide. La Bastide was built by King Louis following the defeat of the Cathars at the end of the Albigensian Crusades. The bastide, a fortified town, was meant to displace La Cité, the medieval fortress on the other side of the river Aude and a Cathar stronghold.
Tomorrow's cyclists will have to pedal hard should the wind --which is blowing mightily this evening as I write-- be against them. Their route will take them around Place Gambetta (and past the art museum), north to the street named after André Chenier (the poet who got on the wrong side of the Reign of Terror), briefly on Avenue Franklin Roosevelt, west past the airport and towards Montréal.
The Tour kicks off at 10:45 a.m., but preparations will be underway shortly: by 3:00 a.m., the route will be cordoned off, open again only at noon. Flights will land at the airport only between 8:00 a.m. and 8:45 a.m. and from 9:50 a.m. to 10:20 a.m., with normal schedules returning only in the afternoon.
I would love to see the riders in the Tour go by: the route of the Tour changes every year, so who knows when the race will come through Carcassonne again. My first thought was that I would not be interested in seeing the start of the race, but catch the riders as they left Carcassonne via Salvaza airport on their way to Montréal. The signs I saw at the airport last week said that the area would be inaccessible from 8:00 a.m. to noon. While it would mean rising at a about 6:00 a.m., waiting amidst the other cycling fans, drinking my coffee with Beau at my side did not seem a bad idea if I could find a spot along Avenue Henri Gout, which runs parallel to Salvaza.
The first hint I got that it would not be as easy as getting up early was when I ran into my neighbor, Élodie, walking her dog past my terrace this evening.
"Everything's going to be blocked off in the City. If you are going, you are going to have to get up very early --and I'm not sure that you would even be allowed to stand along the route next to the airport."
Avenue Henri Gout is, indeed, a highway, albeit a two-lane one. I'd seen photos of fans standing next to their campers watching the Tour go by, of fans out-of-control getting too close and throwing cyclists off-balance, even injuring some seriously. It was not out of the realm of possibility that outside of Carcassonne the crowds would be smaller and I would have a chance at a front-row seat to the the spectacle.
When I looked at the fine print on the brochure though, I realized that to get to that point would mean driving along the northern road, D6113, and parking at Carcassonne Stadium, then walking across the airport grounds (if possible) to reach its southern border, exiting and stationing myself along the border of highway. When I read,
Circulation…interdit sur le parcours du tour de France… sur la route de Limoux…de 3H du matin à 12H.
I knew I was beaten. La route de Limoux is the route out of Carcassonne past Salvaza and through the village of Limoux on the road to Montréal. It would be locked down.
Last year I went to the bullfighting fiesta organized near Carcassonne Stadium. Coincidentally, I met the police chief of Carcassonne, who was very busy keeping the anti-corrida protesters away from the aficionados of the bullfight. The police were very efficient --and they were everywhere.
Tomorrow I would expect nothing less. My decision is made: I am sure the coverage on television will be great.
After a day of rest today, the Tour de France picks up again pushing off at Boulevard Barbès, just outside the southern end of La Bastide. La Bastide was built by King Louis following the defeat of the Cathars at the end of the Albigensian Crusades. The bastide, a fortified town, was meant to displace La Cité, the medieval fortress on the other side of the river Aude and a Cathar stronghold.
Tomorrow's cyclists will have to pedal hard should the wind --which is blowing mightily this evening as I write-- be against them. Their route will take them around Place Gambetta (and past the art museum), north to the street named after André Chenier (the poet who got on the wrong side of the Reign of Terror), briefly on Avenue Franklin Roosevelt, west past the airport and towards Montréal.
The Tour kicks off at 10:45 a.m., but preparations will be underway shortly: by 3:00 a.m., the route will be cordoned off, open again only at noon. Flights will land at the airport only between 8:00 a.m. and 8:45 a.m. and from 9:50 a.m. to 10:20 a.m., with normal schedules returning only in the afternoon.
I would love to see the riders in the Tour go by: the route of the Tour changes every year, so who knows when the race will come through Carcassonne again. My first thought was that I would not be interested in seeing the start of the race, but catch the riders as they left Carcassonne via Salvaza airport on their way to Montréal. The signs I saw at the airport last week said that the area would be inaccessible from 8:00 a.m. to noon. While it would mean rising at a about 6:00 a.m., waiting amidst the other cycling fans, drinking my coffee with Beau at my side did not seem a bad idea if I could find a spot along Avenue Henri Gout, which runs parallel to Salvaza.
The first hint I got that it would not be as easy as getting up early was when I ran into my neighbor, Élodie, walking her dog past my terrace this evening.
"Everything's going to be blocked off in the City. If you are going, you are going to have to get up very early --and I'm not sure that you would even be allowed to stand along the route next to the airport."
Avenue Henri Gout is, indeed, a highway, albeit a two-lane one. I'd seen photos of fans standing next to their campers watching the Tour go by, of fans out-of-control getting too close and throwing cyclists off-balance, even injuring some seriously. It was not out of the realm of possibility that outside of Carcassonne the crowds would be smaller and I would have a chance at a front-row seat to the the spectacle.
When I looked at the fine print on the brochure though, I realized that to get to that point would mean driving along the northern road, D6113, and parking at Carcassonne Stadium, then walking across the airport grounds (if possible) to reach its southern border, exiting and stationing myself along the border of highway. When I read,
Circulation…interdit sur le parcours du tour de France… sur la route de Limoux…de 3H du matin à 12H.
I knew I was beaten. La route de Limoux is the route out of Carcassonne past Salvaza and through the village of Limoux on the road to Montréal. It would be locked down.
Last year I went to the bullfighting fiesta organized near Carcassonne Stadium. Coincidentally, I met the police chief of Carcassonne, who was very busy keeping the anti-corrida protesters away from the aficionados of the bullfight. The police were very efficient --and they were everywhere.
Tomorrow I would expect nothing less. My decision is made: I am sure the coverage on television will be great.
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Dead Mice and Foxes
Sunday, July 20, 2014
Here in the Aude, in the Carcassonnais, between La Montagne Noir and Les Corbières, the natural world in all its goriness is everywhere, something it is easy to forget if your closest contact with nature is reading Country Life or Gun and Garden. Walking Beau along La Prade, the forest not far from my house, early this morning we came across a large dead fox, its head cracked open, dried blood staining its fur and marking the road. I could not say how it died. A predator powerful enough to kill a fox, the wild boars --les sangliers-- are not known to come down to the villages from the mountains. Perhaps the animal was killed by stray dog: dogs roam freely, and some of them hardy and aggressive enough not to be intimidated by a fox.
Cats roam freely, too, which puts Beau on alert, the felines, too. Many people have cut-outs in their doors so cats, too, can roam at will. Coming upon each other neither the cat nor the dog gives an inch, so it's always a matter of changing the route home, The Peaceable Kingdom not having been achieved just yet.
I imagine cats are kept to kill mice, which I never thought about, except to rid the house of the rat poison I found in the cellar and in the attic. I had to keep Beau from swallowing it. This morning, taking yesterday's laundry off the line, I noticed Beau, tentatively pawing something small, lying inches from the laundry. It was a dead field mouse, belly up. I scooped up the carcass and flung it into the grass before Beau could eat it.
Last year I was bitten by a horse fly while bicycling: it felt as though a needle the size of a splinter had pierced my skin and necessitated a visit to the doctor for cortisone and an antibiotic before the swelling went down. I notice now that the terrace has an area painted over with white wash: there is probably a wasp nest there, to be left undisturbed.
The starlings are everywhere: their chirps are music to my ears. Yesterday, trying to find my way to Domaine de Mazy on a dirt road, I roused hundreds settled in the shrubs. I caused quite a stir in the murmuration, I am both sorry and glad to say, as the birds flew all around, tiny, frightened, fluttering creatures, peeping sweetly.
Not so the local roosters, which one of my guests wore ear plugs to avoid hearing scream through the night. During a storm their cries are even worse, and their normal cry is like that a man would makes if his testicles were suddenly squeezed hard. I can't imagine how natural selection can be responsible for the sound.
Here in the Aude, in the Carcassonnais, between La Montagne Noir and Les Corbières, the natural world in all its goriness is everywhere, something it is easy to forget if your closest contact with nature is reading Country Life or Gun and Garden. Walking Beau along La Prade, the forest not far from my house, early this morning we came across a large dead fox, its head cracked open, dried blood staining its fur and marking the road. I could not say how it died. A predator powerful enough to kill a fox, the wild boars --les sangliers-- are not known to come down to the villages from the mountains. Perhaps the animal was killed by stray dog: dogs roam freely, and some of them hardy and aggressive enough not to be intimidated by a fox.
Cats roam freely, too, which puts Beau on alert, the felines, too. Many people have cut-outs in their doors so cats, too, can roam at will. Coming upon each other neither the cat nor the dog gives an inch, so it's always a matter of changing the route home, The Peaceable Kingdom not having been achieved just yet.
I imagine cats are kept to kill mice, which I never thought about, except to rid the house of the rat poison I found in the cellar and in the attic. I had to keep Beau from swallowing it. This morning, taking yesterday's laundry off the line, I noticed Beau, tentatively pawing something small, lying inches from the laundry. It was a dead field mouse, belly up. I scooped up the carcass and flung it into the grass before Beau could eat it.
Last year I was bitten by a horse fly while bicycling: it felt as though a needle the size of a splinter had pierced my skin and necessitated a visit to the doctor for cortisone and an antibiotic before the swelling went down. I notice now that the terrace has an area painted over with white wash: there is probably a wasp nest there, to be left undisturbed.
The starlings are everywhere: their chirps are music to my ears. Yesterday, trying to find my way to Domaine de Mazy on a dirt road, I roused hundreds settled in the shrubs. I caused quite a stir in the murmuration, I am both sorry and glad to say, as the birds flew all around, tiny, frightened, fluttering creatures, peeping sweetly.
Not so the local roosters, which one of my guests wore ear plugs to avoid hearing scream through the night. During a storm their cries are even worse, and their normal cry is like that a man would makes if his testicles were suddenly squeezed hard. I can't imagine how natural selection can be responsible for the sound.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Unseasonably Cool
Saturday, July 19, 2014
I slept in the smaller, second bedroom on the première étage last night for a change. Unlike the front room --which faces the road exiting Caunes from its east side and therefore, gets a lot of traffic-- the smaller room faces the back of the house and looks over the same expanse as the terrace overlooking the mountains. The front room's bed is bigger, so with Beau in the smaller bed, it's a tight fit, but the stillness more than made up for it. I went to bed early and slept like a rock, awakened refreshed.
First stop was the post office: the vet registered Beau for a Pet Passport, but the organizing body wanted documentation of all the vaccinations and the health certificate I needed to bring Beau into France. I made copies of the originals at Caunes' City Hall late yesterday afternoon with the intention of mailing the documents out first thing in the morning: the seat of village government is the only place you can make a copy of anything. The charge is 20 centimes and the copier sheets are a different, longer size than America's 8 1/2" X 11" sheets. With the mairie closed Saturday, I would have had to go to Carcassonne today to make copies if I did not make the short walk from the house there yesterday.
9
Similarly, the post office in Caunes opens at 9:00 a.m. and closes at noon on Saturdays (and Thursdays), so arriving when it opens is a must. The doors to the post office are glass, and you have to ring the bell to be admitted --and there is only one person behind the counter (who also works as a bank teller, because the French post office is also a financial institution serving depositors). Being served as I walked in was an elderly man wearing work pants with suspenders over his t-shirt, a farmer. He looked behind him to see who had entered and wished me Bon jour --as did the clerk. It's a normal politeness
My business at the P.O. completed, I came home to hang the laundry on the wash line outside. Few people have dryers in this area, relying on the heat and wind to take their place, and saving on the expense of having one. Frugality is the norm here: for instance, my neighbors across the way --real paygous, (hillbillies)-- have four chimneys on their roof, meaning they only heat the house with firewood, which is inexpensive here.
Hanging the clothes is rather fun: I have a plastic basket full of clothespins which has a hook which allows me to move the basket as I move across the line. If it's a hot day (like yesterday) everything dries crisply in an afternoon; on damper days it can take twenty-four hours. Few people seem to wear clothes that are ironed or particularly fashionable, I've noticed: there isn't enough leisure time for conspicuous consumption, most people work outdoors, whether in their gardens or on their domaines, pruning grape vines or olive trees, activity not suited to staying unrumpled. I think I should be a bit neater in my turnout, but it's all I can do to take a second shower and change most days, a luxury few locals indulge in.
Next stop: la dechetterie. I've an old vacuum cleaner, a bagful of empty mineral water bottles and a stack of cardboard boxes to leave. It turns out plastic bottles have to be inserted into the small hole atop the huge container one by one so that they can be recycled. Styrofoam --which is called polystyrene in French-- has to be dumped elsewhere. In all there are six dumps: bins for plastic bottles, for cardboard, for wood products, for vegetable matter, for glass, for magazines and newspapers, for metal. It's a good kilometer outside Caunes in the direction of Narbonne (in the opposite direction from Carcassonne), so I have taken to collecting as much refuse as I can safely fit into the car before making a trip there. Although the experience is never unpleasant: there are no foul odors and the staff --dressed in their fluorescent green pants and t-shirts, black reflector strips making them almost fashionable-- are always energetic, pleasant, and clean.
On to the eastern limits of Carcassonne: I have been having knee pains and I should be icing them. The pharmacy in Caunes could not help me so far as ice packs or wraps go, so I need to see if Decathlon, a national chain of high-end athletic gear might have them. If I strike out there, I'll have to try my luck at the Le Clerc superstore. It's a drive, but I enjoy shopping at Le Clerc, with its air of modernity. The lack of products I take for granted in New York --like ice packs in every conceivable shape and size-- which village stores in Caunes can't be expected to carry-- is compensated for by the existence of this one store, which seems to have almost everything.
Indeed, after spending forty-five minutes trying to find Decathlon in the La Bourriette shopping mall --inside the La Ferraudière shopping mall-- I end up finding even this high-end sports store lacking. They don't carry any kind of ice pack, although they have ten different ankle and knee supports. Le Clerc, on the other hand, has a German brand of muscle care products as well as a French one. Amidst several hundred toiletry products, I find my ice packs, as well as a spray that applies cold via an aerosol, arnica ointment, an antiseptic spray and decent band-aids.
Once I get home with my load and put it away, I have one more stop to make: Domaine Mazy. Marie de Mazy and her husband grow "bio" fruits, cereals and wine-producing grapes. Their farm is near Laure, where the fire burned Thursday night. I was Marie's guest for lunch last year and know they sell fig jam, preserved whole figs and wine made on the estate. Marie is the descendant of a Chouan, a counterrevolutionary from the Vendée in West-Central France, on the Atlantic Ocean. She is a devout Catholic with nine children, all (she is happy to say), now married. Her periwinkle blue eyes twinkle, although the blond hair has now gone completely white at the roots and it has been a long time since she last had it colored. The de Mazys are child-rich poor farmers, local talk has it, and indeed, their homestead is considerably more modest than that of the neighboring farm, with its light-colored stone buildings of recent vintage. With them charging only 6 Euros (about eight dollars) for a sixteen ounce had of the fig jam made on the estate, it's no wonder.
I ran into Martin, the eldest son, who works alongside his father, this morning. He remembered me from last year and he encouraged me to visit. Tall, dark and handsome, I see Martin at Mass, where he often reads. He looks like a prep-school product, with his Topsiders, khaki shorts and polo shirt, but after greeting me briefly on arrival, he returns to the fields to prune the de Mazy olive trees.
My car rumbles over the unpaved road to and from the farm and I am glad to get back on a paved road and away from the fields, where I always lose my sense of direction. I have to park near the Caunes primary school rather than by the house, because the influx of weekend visitors have taken all the parking spaces. In the Place d'Europe, the local wine growers and other artisanal producers are preparing to offer their products tonight, to the tune of a band hired to attract customers. There is a maker of patés selling a cassoulet of white beans and duck meat in a jar that I'd permit myself. Next to the jar are patés of every kind, including foie gras and its variations. I may look in on the event later.
As I walk to the house, I pass the home of Chantal, a woman I know chiefly because her big black dog, Bababoud, follows Beau around. Chantal has hung hand-embroidered sachet bags in her windows and invites their purchase. This is the first time I have seen them and the work is exquisite. I ring the bell and before I know it, Beau and I are inside her living room, which is jam-packed with hand-embroidered articles of every description.
"I used to live near the forest, east of the Var. I would go for three, four hour walks with Babbaboud: I loved it. But my means are limited, so when my oldest friend died, her daughter told me to live here until she made up her mind what to do with it. So I've been here two years, and I make a little money doing these things, which I was making anyway."
I buy a lovely message, Bienvenue, cross-stitched on sampler fabric, for the house. I also order a birthday gift for Max in Switzerland, an embroidered border on sampler fabric, a repeat with a border, showing little birds sitting on the backs of lambs. Chantal will embroider his name on the piece, which can be made into any number of things. The rustic images remind me of the Swiss Alps, another place where locals try to maintain the traditions of the farm.
It's unseasonably cool now, with storms battering the land to the north of Caunes. After yesterday's heat, the cool --with its promise of restful sleep-- is balm.
I slept in the smaller, second bedroom on the première étage last night for a change. Unlike the front room --which faces the road exiting Caunes from its east side and therefore, gets a lot of traffic-- the smaller room faces the back of the house and looks over the same expanse as the terrace overlooking the mountains. The front room's bed is bigger, so with Beau in the smaller bed, it's a tight fit, but the stillness more than made up for it. I went to bed early and slept like a rock, awakened refreshed.
First stop was the post office: the vet registered Beau for a Pet Passport, but the organizing body wanted documentation of all the vaccinations and the health certificate I needed to bring Beau into France. I made copies of the originals at Caunes' City Hall late yesterday afternoon with the intention of mailing the documents out first thing in the morning: the seat of village government is the only place you can make a copy of anything. The charge is 20 centimes and the copier sheets are a different, longer size than America's 8 1/2" X 11" sheets. With the mairie closed Saturday, I would have had to go to Carcassonne today to make copies if I did not make the short walk from the house there yesterday.
9
Similarly, the post office in Caunes opens at 9:00 a.m. and closes at noon on Saturdays (and Thursdays), so arriving when it opens is a must. The doors to the post office are glass, and you have to ring the bell to be admitted --and there is only one person behind the counter (who also works as a bank teller, because the French post office is also a financial institution serving depositors). Being served as I walked in was an elderly man wearing work pants with suspenders over his t-shirt, a farmer. He looked behind him to see who had entered and wished me Bon jour --as did the clerk. It's a normal politeness
My business at the P.O. completed, I came home to hang the laundry on the wash line outside. Few people have dryers in this area, relying on the heat and wind to take their place, and saving on the expense of having one. Frugality is the norm here: for instance, my neighbors across the way --real paygous, (hillbillies)-- have four chimneys on their roof, meaning they only heat the house with firewood, which is inexpensive here.
Hanging the clothes is rather fun: I have a plastic basket full of clothespins which has a hook which allows me to move the basket as I move across the line. If it's a hot day (like yesterday) everything dries crisply in an afternoon; on damper days it can take twenty-four hours. Few people seem to wear clothes that are ironed or particularly fashionable, I've noticed: there isn't enough leisure time for conspicuous consumption, most people work outdoors, whether in their gardens or on their domaines, pruning grape vines or olive trees, activity not suited to staying unrumpled. I think I should be a bit neater in my turnout, but it's all I can do to take a second shower and change most days, a luxury few locals indulge in.
Next stop: la dechetterie. I've an old vacuum cleaner, a bagful of empty mineral water bottles and a stack of cardboard boxes to leave. It turns out plastic bottles have to be inserted into the small hole atop the huge container one by one so that they can be recycled. Styrofoam --which is called polystyrene in French-- has to be dumped elsewhere. In all there are six dumps: bins for plastic bottles, for cardboard, for wood products, for vegetable matter, for glass, for magazines and newspapers, for metal. It's a good kilometer outside Caunes in the direction of Narbonne (in the opposite direction from Carcassonne), so I have taken to collecting as much refuse as I can safely fit into the car before making a trip there. Although the experience is never unpleasant: there are no foul odors and the staff --dressed in their fluorescent green pants and t-shirts, black reflector strips making them almost fashionable-- are always energetic, pleasant, and clean.
On to the eastern limits of Carcassonne: I have been having knee pains and I should be icing them. The pharmacy in Caunes could not help me so far as ice packs or wraps go, so I need to see if Decathlon, a national chain of high-end athletic gear might have them. If I strike out there, I'll have to try my luck at the Le Clerc superstore. It's a drive, but I enjoy shopping at Le Clerc, with its air of modernity. The lack of products I take for granted in New York --like ice packs in every conceivable shape and size-- which village stores in Caunes can't be expected to carry-- is compensated for by the existence of this one store, which seems to have almost everything.
Indeed, after spending forty-five minutes trying to find Decathlon in the La Bourriette shopping mall --inside the La Ferraudière shopping mall-- I end up finding even this high-end sports store lacking. They don't carry any kind of ice pack, although they have ten different ankle and knee supports. Le Clerc, on the other hand, has a German brand of muscle care products as well as a French one. Amidst several hundred toiletry products, I find my ice packs, as well as a spray that applies cold via an aerosol, arnica ointment, an antiseptic spray and decent band-aids.
Once I get home with my load and put it away, I have one more stop to make: Domaine Mazy. Marie de Mazy and her husband grow "bio" fruits, cereals and wine-producing grapes. Their farm is near Laure, where the fire burned Thursday night. I was Marie's guest for lunch last year and know they sell fig jam, preserved whole figs and wine made on the estate. Marie is the descendant of a Chouan, a counterrevolutionary from the Vendée in West-Central France, on the Atlantic Ocean. She is a devout Catholic with nine children, all (she is happy to say), now married. Her periwinkle blue eyes twinkle, although the blond hair has now gone completely white at the roots and it has been a long time since she last had it colored. The de Mazys are child-rich poor farmers, local talk has it, and indeed, their homestead is considerably more modest than that of the neighboring farm, with its light-colored stone buildings of recent vintage. With them charging only 6 Euros (about eight dollars) for a sixteen ounce had of the fig jam made on the estate, it's no wonder.
I ran into Martin, the eldest son, who works alongside his father, this morning. He remembered me from last year and he encouraged me to visit. Tall, dark and handsome, I see Martin at Mass, where he often reads. He looks like a prep-school product, with his Topsiders, khaki shorts and polo shirt, but after greeting me briefly on arrival, he returns to the fields to prune the de Mazy olive trees.
My car rumbles over the unpaved road to and from the farm and I am glad to get back on a paved road and away from the fields, where I always lose my sense of direction. I have to park near the Caunes primary school rather than by the house, because the influx of weekend visitors have taken all the parking spaces. In the Place d'Europe, the local wine growers and other artisanal producers are preparing to offer their products tonight, to the tune of a band hired to attract customers. There is a maker of patés selling a cassoulet of white beans and duck meat in a jar that I'd permit myself. Next to the jar are patés of every kind, including foie gras and its variations. I may look in on the event later.
As I walk to the house, I pass the home of Chantal, a woman I know chiefly because her big black dog, Bababoud, follows Beau around. Chantal has hung hand-embroidered sachet bags in her windows and invites their purchase. This is the first time I have seen them and the work is exquisite. I ring the bell and before I know it, Beau and I are inside her living room, which is jam-packed with hand-embroidered articles of every description.
"I used to live near the forest, east of the Var. I would go for three, four hour walks with Babbaboud: I loved it. But my means are limited, so when my oldest friend died, her daughter told me to live here until she made up her mind what to do with it. So I've been here two years, and I make a little money doing these things, which I was making anyway."
I buy a lovely message, Bienvenue, cross-stitched on sampler fabric, for the house. I also order a birthday gift for Max in Switzerland, an embroidered border on sampler fabric, a repeat with a border, showing little birds sitting on the backs of lambs. Chantal will embroider his name on the piece, which can be made into any number of things. The rustic images remind me of the Swiss Alps, another place where locals try to maintain the traditions of the farm.
It's unseasonably cool now, with storms battering the land to the north of Caunes. After yesterday's heat, the cool --with its promise of restful sleep-- is balm.
Friday, July 18, 2014
Room At The Top
Friday, July 18, 2014
I drove my guests to Carcassonne, leaving at 6:00 a.m., so they could get an early train to their next connection. Beau sat in the back on the way there, next to me on the return. He seems to have recovered his comfort level in the car, which had not been good since the drive from Montpellier June 16, when I put him in the back seat.
Dogs perspire by foaming at the mouth, and some dogs perspire from fear. When I first drove with Beau from Montpellier to Caunes June 16, he was a study in panic: by the time we reached Caunes, his muzzle was drenched in white foam. It has taken a couple of weeks to reaccustom him to being in a car --and to train me to keep water nearby. However, he now sits in the car without the "doggie seat belt" I used when we first started driving together, and watches the world from the car window with interest.
He is lying on the king-sized bed on the top floor of the house as I write this post. I shipped over the bed because I knew it would be impossible to find an American-sized bed in the vicinity of Caunes. I could not imagine having visitors without providing beds close to what they sleep on at home (having slept on too many small mattresses in guest rooms in my time). There are people who travel to Toulouse to buy the kind of "memory foam"in imitation of the "Tempur-Pedic" brand, then cut beds to size, but I thought that beyond my capabilities. So the bed traveled here.
The day the container arrived, the bed being as large as it is, I discovered --somewhat anxiously-- that it none of its pieces were narrow enough to make it up the winding stairs from the first floor to the second; and assembled, the bed would never fit in any of the downstairs bedrooms. Fortunately, though,the shippers were able to hoist the two parts of the boxspring through the top-floor window. And the mattress itself is flexible, so the king-sized bed is now in the bedroom on the top floor, a room the previous owners rarely used and which I had no immediate plans for.
My guests who slept there having been the first to use it, I had no time to appraise the sleeping arrangement I had created. As they told me, it is delightful here, as the large, shuttered window looks up to the foothills near the Carrière du Roy and lets the sunshine in. Beau has taken to his new sleeping option and is enjoying an afternoon snooze, lying next to me. A rinky-dink CD player plays "Afternoon in Paris", jazz violinist Stephane Grappelli's homage to the City of Light, and we are well out of the steadily increasing heat of the day. All is well.
I drove my guests to Carcassonne, leaving at 6:00 a.m., so they could get an early train to their next connection. Beau sat in the back on the way there, next to me on the return. He seems to have recovered his comfort level in the car, which had not been good since the drive from Montpellier June 16, when I put him in the back seat.
Dogs perspire by foaming at the mouth, and some dogs perspire from fear. When I first drove with Beau from Montpellier to Caunes June 16, he was a study in panic: by the time we reached Caunes, his muzzle was drenched in white foam. It has taken a couple of weeks to reaccustom him to being in a car --and to train me to keep water nearby. However, he now sits in the car without the "doggie seat belt" I used when we first started driving together, and watches the world from the car window with interest.
He is lying on the king-sized bed on the top floor of the house as I write this post. I shipped over the bed because I knew it would be impossible to find an American-sized bed in the vicinity of Caunes. I could not imagine having visitors without providing beds close to what they sleep on at home (having slept on too many small mattresses in guest rooms in my time). There are people who travel to Toulouse to buy the kind of "memory foam"in imitation of the "Tempur-Pedic" brand, then cut beds to size, but I thought that beyond my capabilities. So the bed traveled here.
The day the container arrived, the bed being as large as it is, I discovered --somewhat anxiously-- that it none of its pieces were narrow enough to make it up the winding stairs from the first floor to the second; and assembled, the bed would never fit in any of the downstairs bedrooms. Fortunately, though,the shippers were able to hoist the two parts of the boxspring through the top-floor window. And the mattress itself is flexible, so the king-sized bed is now in the bedroom on the top floor, a room the previous owners rarely used and which I had no immediate plans for.
My guests who slept there having been the first to use it, I had no time to appraise the sleeping arrangement I had created. As they told me, it is delightful here, as the large, shuttered window looks up to the foothills near the Carrière du Roy and lets the sunshine in. Beau has taken to his new sleeping option and is enjoying an afternoon snooze, lying next to me. A rinky-dink CD player plays "Afternoon in Paris", jazz violinist Stephane Grappelli's homage to the City of Light, and we are well out of the steadily increasing heat of the day. All is well.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Almost Connected; A Fire
July 17, 2014
Tuesday following the Bastille Day holiday this past Monday, I planned to work tooth and nail to get connected to the Internet, as well as to get my phone and internet set up. Christine and Robert, my friends at "La Marbrerie, suggested I call Monsieur Chabbert, the electrician and appliance dealer in Trausse. I bought my washer and my dishwasher from Chabbert last year, which might be why that afternoon, when I called, his son, Clement was at 10 porte de Narbonne in 30 minutes.
Amazingly, Clement was able to set up my TV, phone and Internet in 90 minutes, using an additional piece of equipment his father drove to the house to drop off. I could not quite believe that it all worked out, and I still have not received the bill for the work.
Not that I got to use the services much, as my visitors, Claudia and Richard, flew in to Salvazza Tuesday morning, and they have kept me busy the three days. However, we had reason to turn on the television early this evening when we spotted the clouds of smoke from a forest fire burning in the direction of the villages of Laure and Villefranche, on the way to Carcassonne. The television had no information, the news focusing on the downing of a Malaysian jet bound for Kuala Lumpur flying over Ukranian airspace. Claudia and Richard stayed behind to start dinner, while I walked Beau and searched for information about the fire from the villagers.
Fréderic Guiraud, the chef and owner of the Renaissance hôtel, the D'Alibert --which he runs as a hotel and restaurant-- was sitting at his usual table in front of the hotel, relaxing before the evening dinner service had to be prepared. I asked him whether he knew anything about the fire.
"Oh, yes, it's a downed electrical tower."
"Is there any chance the wind might blow the fire here?"
Fréderic, who's a bit of a comedian, told me that if the fire were to get to Caunes, he would have been long gone.
"No, there's nothing to worry about."
Indeed, there was not, because throughout the next few hours, military planes carrying tanks of water on each wing doused the flames, circling around to drop off the canisters, then turning back to base to pick up more. There were at least eight planes in the air at any one time. After a few hours, looking on from the terrace at 10, porte de Narbonne, the smoke dissipated and it was as if nothing had happened. Unfortunately, that will surely not be the case in the immediate area of the fire.
With the summer sun turning everything around into firewood, the Service des Fôrets is vigilant, keeping fire watchers posted in the heights of La Montagne Noir and Les Corbières, the two mountain ranges between which Caunes and the Minervois of which it forms part, sit. I have come upon fire watchers standing in front of their trucks looking out across the forests while hiking past the Carrière du Roy. In other parts of the France, in the even more elevated regions of the Massif Central, the chain of mountains that stretches from the Cevennes (La Montagne Noir being the foothills thereof) to the Alps, men spend the day in giant towers constructed atop mountains to permit maximum visibility of anything that might look light the start of a forest fire. The hotter the summer, the more the forest becomes kindling.
I wonder whether the tumbling of the electrical pylon that started tonight's fire might be related to the collapse of my TV reception. All of a sudden I no longer have a signal strong enough to bring in the TV channels. So near, and yet so far…tomorrow I have to call Chabbert again.
Tuesday following the Bastille Day holiday this past Monday, I planned to work tooth and nail to get connected to the Internet, as well as to get my phone and internet set up. Christine and Robert, my friends at "La Marbrerie, suggested I call Monsieur Chabbert, the electrician and appliance dealer in Trausse. I bought my washer and my dishwasher from Chabbert last year, which might be why that afternoon, when I called, his son, Clement was at 10 porte de Narbonne in 30 minutes.
Amazingly, Clement was able to set up my TV, phone and Internet in 90 minutes, using an additional piece of equipment his father drove to the house to drop off. I could not quite believe that it all worked out, and I still have not received the bill for the work.
Not that I got to use the services much, as my visitors, Claudia and Richard, flew in to Salvazza Tuesday morning, and they have kept me busy the three days. However, we had reason to turn on the television early this evening when we spotted the clouds of smoke from a forest fire burning in the direction of the villages of Laure and Villefranche, on the way to Carcassonne. The television had no information, the news focusing on the downing of a Malaysian jet bound for Kuala Lumpur flying over Ukranian airspace. Claudia and Richard stayed behind to start dinner, while I walked Beau and searched for information about the fire from the villagers.
Fréderic Guiraud, the chef and owner of the Renaissance hôtel, the D'Alibert --which he runs as a hotel and restaurant-- was sitting at his usual table in front of the hotel, relaxing before the evening dinner service had to be prepared. I asked him whether he knew anything about the fire.
"Oh, yes, it's a downed electrical tower."
"Is there any chance the wind might blow the fire here?"
Fréderic, who's a bit of a comedian, told me that if the fire were to get to Caunes, he would have been long gone.
"No, there's nothing to worry about."
Indeed, there was not, because throughout the next few hours, military planes carrying tanks of water on each wing doused the flames, circling around to drop off the canisters, then turning back to base to pick up more. There were at least eight planes in the air at any one time. After a few hours, looking on from the terrace at 10, porte de Narbonne, the smoke dissipated and it was as if nothing had happened. Unfortunately, that will surely not be the case in the immediate area of the fire.
With the summer sun turning everything around into firewood, the Service des Fôrets is vigilant, keeping fire watchers posted in the heights of La Montagne Noir and Les Corbières, the two mountain ranges between which Caunes and the Minervois of which it forms part, sit. I have come upon fire watchers standing in front of their trucks looking out across the forests while hiking past the Carrière du Roy. In other parts of the France, in the even more elevated regions of the Massif Central, the chain of mountains that stretches from the Cevennes (La Montagne Noir being the foothills thereof) to the Alps, men spend the day in giant towers constructed atop mountains to permit maximum visibility of anything that might look light the start of a forest fire. The hotter the summer, the more the forest becomes kindling.
I wonder whether the tumbling of the electrical pylon that started tonight's fire might be related to the collapse of my TV reception. All of a sudden I no longer have a signal strong enough to bring in the TV channels. So near, and yet so far…tomorrow I have to call Chabbert again.
Monday, July 14, 2014
"L'Art de se taire" and Summer Silences
July 14, 2014
A French priest, l'abbe Dinouart, wrote L'art de se taire (The art of keeping your mouth shut) in 1771, and I think of it often in the face of the general loquacity of the French. In fact, the general talkativeness of the French is one of their great virtues, as if you can follow the flow of words you get a very clear idea of what makes them go. In a country where talk is prized, Dinouart's argument, with its Machiavellian thrust, is an exception. Most of the French are unrestrained talkers, I think, a belief I have confirmed again at the boulangerie, where I go to buy bread, but also to try to buy some of their small paper bags before it closes at noon for the holiday.
Making the reasons for my interest known, I get a complete picture of why I can't just buy baker's bags to substitute for the plastic bags brought from the States I have been using to pick up Beau's leavings. The baker's wife makes herself very clear:
"They are only available in wholesale quantities, and I could give you the wholesaler's address, but I think the company might not sell to private individuals."
"Well, would you be interested in selling me some?" I ask.
"Oh, no, I could not do that. If I were audited, the authorities would take note of every single bag I purchased and match up my sales against the number of bags I bought."
"It's dreadful", says the woman in line behind me.
"It's terrible", says the woman behind her.
"It's awful", says the baker's wife, "but that's the way it is".
"I understand", I say, backing away with my purchase.
"You ought to try freezer bags", says the woman behind me.
"You could try bags for vegetables", says the woman behind her.
Of course, it's amusing that a baker's wife in a small village thinks she can't sell me a few bags for fear the tax authorities will pillory her for doing so. Particularly in light of the fact that I have noticed that quite a few transactions are paid in cash, so there are no records of the exchange of work for payment, for instance.
Bring that up, however, and your partner in conversation will probably get quiet in a hurry. While the French take many things at face value, once their antennae are up, they react with a defensive reticence. Perhaps Dinouart's lessons have taken root, after all.
***
It is certainly quiet enough for the Abbe Dinouart in Caunes this Bastille Day. There is no organized activity today, as last night the town screened the World Cup Final, held fireworks and sponsored a dance, which was rained out. All the activity took place in the vicinity of the foyer, an auditorium found in every French village where all sorts of civic activities take place.
Beau and I arrived at the start of the final between Germany and Argentina, and found ourselves among the few watching. As the end of the match approached, the fireworks went off to the sound of the music prelude to the dance. However, just at that moment the clouds opened up and sent down volumes of drenching rain. All at once the foyer was as full as a Midwest High School auditorium during a tornado. The technicians who had set up the speakers and other equipment outside were forced to bring the items in out of the rain and set up on the stage at the back of the foyer.
My neighbor, Élodie, who brought her son Noam to see the fireworks, and ended up watching the match, offered a ride home,which I gladly accepted. The dance continued inside, although the drinks stands outside stayed where they were. People seemed to be enjoying themselves, although no one was particularly happy about the German victory. Noam was much put out, as was his Chinese-American friend, Jonathan. Although each admitted that the Germans had the world's best forward and the world's best guard on their team, they were "really irritated" by the German victory, they said.
The adults watching the match, too, seemed not to be German fans. When Goetze managed to make the ball that hit him in the chest and dropped fly into the Argentine scoring zone, one woman began booing enthusiastically and gesticulating "Thumbs down!" The French commentators onscreen were more professional, alluding to the youth of the German team (average age 26), their better physical conditioning and the superb skills of their best players. Despite having seen France eliminated a few games back, the commentators gave the Germans their due, an example of another very French characteristic, seeming to be realistic in appraising the merits of something, a quality associated with the logical detachment of France's great thinkers.
"The Germans played well", said the man next to me to his companion in the next seat. "The Argentines not so well."
***
This afternoon I found the time to bicycle to Felines, a village in the hills above Caunes near where the well-regarded wines of La Livinière are grown. For the first time in many days, the day was sun-drenched, making the views from the highland spectacular. I noticed with a bit of a shock, however, that I seemed to be the only human being for miles around. Occasionally a car passed me --I could hear it coming from quite a ways away-- and frequently, the driver honked, as drivers unfamiliar with local roads will coming upon a cyclist taking up their road.
I was surrounded by acres and acres of wine grapes ripening in the sun. A few weeks ago hail destroyed a good part of this year's plantings, so the sun is much needed. At the outskirts of Felines, I caught sight of a young couple tending their vines. I could hear her shouting over the sound of their tractor, communicating instructions to her husband, who was bald, burly and stripped to the waist. Hearing the sound of my pedaling, he looked up at me and I waved. He returned the wave and as they drove off, I waved again. The farmer smiled and returned the wave again. After all, we were the only humans out that afternoon not in a car. (And they don't count.)
A French priest, l'abbe Dinouart, wrote L'art de se taire (The art of keeping your mouth shut) in 1771, and I think of it often in the face of the general loquacity of the French. In fact, the general talkativeness of the French is one of their great virtues, as if you can follow the flow of words you get a very clear idea of what makes them go. In a country where talk is prized, Dinouart's argument, with its Machiavellian thrust, is an exception. Most of the French are unrestrained talkers, I think, a belief I have confirmed again at the boulangerie, where I go to buy bread, but also to try to buy some of their small paper bags before it closes at noon for the holiday.
Making the reasons for my interest known, I get a complete picture of why I can't just buy baker's bags to substitute for the plastic bags brought from the States I have been using to pick up Beau's leavings. The baker's wife makes herself very clear:
"They are only available in wholesale quantities, and I could give you the wholesaler's address, but I think the company might not sell to private individuals."
"Well, would you be interested in selling me some?" I ask.
"Oh, no, I could not do that. If I were audited, the authorities would take note of every single bag I purchased and match up my sales against the number of bags I bought."
"It's dreadful", says the woman in line behind me.
"It's terrible", says the woman behind her.
"It's awful", says the baker's wife, "but that's the way it is".
"I understand", I say, backing away with my purchase.
"You ought to try freezer bags", says the woman behind me.
"You could try bags for vegetables", says the woman behind her.
Of course, it's amusing that a baker's wife in a small village thinks she can't sell me a few bags for fear the tax authorities will pillory her for doing so. Particularly in light of the fact that I have noticed that quite a few transactions are paid in cash, so there are no records of the exchange of work for payment, for instance.
Bring that up, however, and your partner in conversation will probably get quiet in a hurry. While the French take many things at face value, once their antennae are up, they react with a defensive reticence. Perhaps Dinouart's lessons have taken root, after all.
***
It is certainly quiet enough for the Abbe Dinouart in Caunes this Bastille Day. There is no organized activity today, as last night the town screened the World Cup Final, held fireworks and sponsored a dance, which was rained out. All the activity took place in the vicinity of the foyer, an auditorium found in every French village where all sorts of civic activities take place.
Beau and I arrived at the start of the final between Germany and Argentina, and found ourselves among the few watching. As the end of the match approached, the fireworks went off to the sound of the music prelude to the dance. However, just at that moment the clouds opened up and sent down volumes of drenching rain. All at once the foyer was as full as a Midwest High School auditorium during a tornado. The technicians who had set up the speakers and other equipment outside were forced to bring the items in out of the rain and set up on the stage at the back of the foyer.
My neighbor, Élodie, who brought her son Noam to see the fireworks, and ended up watching the match, offered a ride home,which I gladly accepted. The dance continued inside, although the drinks stands outside stayed where they were. People seemed to be enjoying themselves, although no one was particularly happy about the German victory. Noam was much put out, as was his Chinese-American friend, Jonathan. Although each admitted that the Germans had the world's best forward and the world's best guard on their team, they were "really irritated" by the German victory, they said.
The adults watching the match, too, seemed not to be German fans. When Goetze managed to make the ball that hit him in the chest and dropped fly into the Argentine scoring zone, one woman began booing enthusiastically and gesticulating "Thumbs down!" The French commentators onscreen were more professional, alluding to the youth of the German team (average age 26), their better physical conditioning and the superb skills of their best players. Despite having seen France eliminated a few games back, the commentators gave the Germans their due, an example of another very French characteristic, seeming to be realistic in appraising the merits of something, a quality associated with the logical detachment of France's great thinkers.
"The Germans played well", said the man next to me to his companion in the next seat. "The Argentines not so well."
***
This afternoon I found the time to bicycle to Felines, a village in the hills above Caunes near where the well-regarded wines of La Livinière are grown. For the first time in many days, the day was sun-drenched, making the views from the highland spectacular. I noticed with a bit of a shock, however, that I seemed to be the only human being for miles around. Occasionally a car passed me --I could hear it coming from quite a ways away-- and frequently, the driver honked, as drivers unfamiliar with local roads will coming upon a cyclist taking up their road.
I was surrounded by acres and acres of wine grapes ripening in the sun. A few weeks ago hail destroyed a good part of this year's plantings, so the sun is much needed. At the outskirts of Felines, I caught sight of a young couple tending their vines. I could hear her shouting over the sound of their tractor, communicating instructions to her husband, who was bald, burly and stripped to the waist. Hearing the sound of my pedaling, he looked up at me and I waved. He returned the wave and as they drove off, I waved again. The farmer smiled and returned the wave again. After all, we were the only humans out that afternoon not in a car. (And they don't count.)
Sunday, July 13, 2014
The Customer Is Always Wrong
July 13, 2014
I have gotten to know how to get to the various shopping centers around Carcassonne in my efforts to furnish the house, although it has been difficult to sort out the different, but similar, names of some of the businesses --and even products. As I have a young lady cleaning for me and I want her to be happy with the work I offer, I have taken her suggestions vis-a-vis cleaning tools, which have cross-cultural aspects, I am learning.
I originally tried out another young lady who arrived in full make-up and jewelry. She cleaned the floors using a serpiette, a square piece of coarse fabric attached to a mop stick. The result was unsatisfactory on several counts. When Marion appeared, it was like a gift from heaven. She works at La Marbrerie, where she cleans the five guest rooms, as well as waitressing. A native Caunoise, she is glad for the work --as is her partner, Farid, a carpenter whose services I will see in action tomorrow, Bastille Day. The fact speaks for itself, they are glad for the work in a département of France where work is hard to find.
Marion asked that I purchase what I thought she called a "Swifter", the name of the American brand of dust-catching tissue. Marion recommended the product, as it is the one La Marbrerie uses to give its public spaces a lemon-scented clean. Searching for it at the Intermarché, I discovered the product is not American, but French, and it is called "Swiffer". And a mop, on the other hand, is called un balayeur espagnol --a Spanish mop.
With "do it yourself" enshrined in "la France profonde", (the hinterlands of the country), the shopping centers feature "home repair" stores. The French word to do home repairs yourself is bricoler, so all the French companies use the word in their names: Monsieur Bricolage, Brico-Marché, Brico Depot. And all have loyalty cards, of which I could make a collection.
Notwithstanding, the customer service is head-snappingly bad, as I found out when I bought a "BRITA" water filter at Brico-Marché at the Pont Rouge.
My friend, Max Gfeller, who drove all the way from his home in Zurich to help me set up, recommended that I purchase a water filter to sift out the minerals from the local eau. We went to the Pont Rouge to do so, but since I had an errand at Intermarché to run first, Max searched out the filter pitcher for me, meeting him there to make payment.
After I paid, he told me, "They don't sell replacement filters, but they say they can be purchased anywhere, although I am dubious. The French are always brushing objections under the rug, and if they don't have them, then we have to return the filter pitcher. Let's go see whether Intermarché carries them."
Of course, they didn't, which meant that I had to return the BRITTA to Brico-Marché. This is where it got interesting.
Carrying the receipt for the purchase, I approached Magali, the cashier with whom I had dealt before, informing her of my intention. Brico-Marché does not reimburse returns, giving only an avoir, a credit towards a future purchase --as I found out on an earlier occasion, when I bought three fans there, none of which worked.
Magali told me to leave my purchase with her, but I said I would carry it with me while searching for something to use up my avoir. In doing so, all hell broke loose, which I was made aware of when I returned to the check-out, a comparably priced item in my hands alongside the BRITTA.
The manager, a middle-aged man, took over the process of exchange from the check-out person and berated me sternly.
"You are violating the rules of the store by bringing your merchandise into the store. You leave the merchandise at the check-out counter. WE make the rules, and if I want to, I can deny you the credit," he said, his voice rising.
I found the entire proposition absurd and took a soothing tone with the man, who was unhinged. He was not to be dissuaded from his purpose of putting me in my place, however.
"The rules of the game, WE MAKE THEM, and that's the way it is."
Max, who had been standing outside watching the whole thing, approached the check-out counter, asking what the problem was. He got an interesting answer:
"Your wife, you had better tell her to behave herself. This is not the way to do business, OK?
I was so incensed by this point that I had it on the tip of my tongue to use the various French words of insult I had learned watching French film comedies, but thought better of it.
That was the last time I shopped at Brico-Marché, "Where the Customer is always wrong."
I have gotten to know how to get to the various shopping centers around Carcassonne in my efforts to furnish the house, although it has been difficult to sort out the different, but similar, names of some of the businesses --and even products. As I have a young lady cleaning for me and I want her to be happy with the work I offer, I have taken her suggestions vis-a-vis cleaning tools, which have cross-cultural aspects, I am learning.
I originally tried out another young lady who arrived in full make-up and jewelry. She cleaned the floors using a serpiette, a square piece of coarse fabric attached to a mop stick. The result was unsatisfactory on several counts. When Marion appeared, it was like a gift from heaven. She works at La Marbrerie, where she cleans the five guest rooms, as well as waitressing. A native Caunoise, she is glad for the work --as is her partner, Farid, a carpenter whose services I will see in action tomorrow, Bastille Day. The fact speaks for itself, they are glad for the work in a département of France where work is hard to find.
Marion asked that I purchase what I thought she called a "Swifter", the name of the American brand of dust-catching tissue. Marion recommended the product, as it is the one La Marbrerie uses to give its public spaces a lemon-scented clean. Searching for it at the Intermarché, I discovered the product is not American, but French, and it is called "Swiffer". And a mop, on the other hand, is called un balayeur espagnol --a Spanish mop.
With "do it yourself" enshrined in "la France profonde", (the hinterlands of the country), the shopping centers feature "home repair" stores. The French word to do home repairs yourself is bricoler, so all the French companies use the word in their names: Monsieur Bricolage, Brico-Marché, Brico Depot. And all have loyalty cards, of which I could make a collection.
Notwithstanding, the customer service is head-snappingly bad, as I found out when I bought a "BRITA" water filter at Brico-Marché at the Pont Rouge.
My friend, Max Gfeller, who drove all the way from his home in Zurich to help me set up, recommended that I purchase a water filter to sift out the minerals from the local eau. We went to the Pont Rouge to do so, but since I had an errand at Intermarché to run first, Max searched out the filter pitcher for me, meeting him there to make payment.
After I paid, he told me, "They don't sell replacement filters, but they say they can be purchased anywhere, although I am dubious. The French are always brushing objections under the rug, and if they don't have them, then we have to return the filter pitcher. Let's go see whether Intermarché carries them."
Of course, they didn't, which meant that I had to return the BRITTA to Brico-Marché. This is where it got interesting.
Carrying the receipt for the purchase, I approached Magali, the cashier with whom I had dealt before, informing her of my intention. Brico-Marché does not reimburse returns, giving only an avoir, a credit towards a future purchase --as I found out on an earlier occasion, when I bought three fans there, none of which worked.
Magali told me to leave my purchase with her, but I said I would carry it with me while searching for something to use up my avoir. In doing so, all hell broke loose, which I was made aware of when I returned to the check-out, a comparably priced item in my hands alongside the BRITTA.
The manager, a middle-aged man, took over the process of exchange from the check-out person and berated me sternly.
"You are violating the rules of the store by bringing your merchandise into the store. You leave the merchandise at the check-out counter. WE make the rules, and if I want to, I can deny you the credit," he said, his voice rising.
I found the entire proposition absurd and took a soothing tone with the man, who was unhinged. He was not to be dissuaded from his purpose of putting me in my place, however.
"The rules of the game, WE MAKE THEM, and that's the way it is."
Max, who had been standing outside watching the whole thing, approached the check-out counter, asking what the problem was. He got an interesting answer:
"Your wife, you had better tell her to behave herself. This is not the way to do business, OK?
I was so incensed by this point that I had it on the tip of my tongue to use the various French words of insult I had learned watching French film comedies, but thought better of it.
That was the last time I shopped at Brico-Marché, "Where the Customer is always wrong."
Saturday, July 12, 2014
Duck Fat And Bungee Cords
Saturday, July 12, 2014
There are trade-offs to living in France, as my previous posts indicate. While some can be anticipated --like the fact that what Anglophones would call the first floor of a house is called the "rez de chaussée" and the second called the first-- others must be adapted to, as I found out last night.
The shutters and windows on the second and third floors (in the English-speaking world) shook throughout the house all night, despite my having closed both firmly. Notwithstanding, in the middle of the night I was awakened by a sudden, grating sound --the noise of the shutter outside my room having slipped its stays. Shortly after, I heard the same sound above me --the shutter on the third floor doing likewise.
At once I realized why the previous owners had tightly wrapped bungee cords around the closed shutters. The first thing I did in the morning was to find them from where I had naively consigned them and put them back.
While I don't mind the wind, which pushes the clouds away (when it is not shaping them into marvels of atmosphere), the first night in the house I had to get used to the sound of the wind barreling down the chimney, a sound like a slamming door next door, where my neighbors Élodie and Samir, a nice couple, live. It certainly becomes easier to imagine the vegetable world of the English and Scottish moors, of Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, having spent time here in Caunes. The beautiful landscape, full of broom grasses and low-lying shrubs flanked by evergreen forests, is not idyllic the way the Côte d'Azur is, but then the Minervois does not have the foothills of the Alps to keep away the wind and rain, guaranteeing good weather.
And this has not been a good summer for the Minervois, so far, anyway. "This is not summer", Jean, an elderly man who spends his days walking "Blackie", his equally-aged toy poodle, tells me. "The weather is terrible", say Christine and Robert, who naturally worry it will cut into their busiest season. "It's better than a sunburn", I say, smiling. Indeed, while drying clothes on a line (almost no one owns a dryer) takes longer, in the summer it is not a problem. On the other hand, the length of the wash cycle of my brand-new washing machine is getting on my nerves: it takes two hours to do an average wash. The machine is an energy-saver, highly-ranked on a host of environmental standards.
My dishwasher, too is ecological, perhaps a little too much so: the default wash cycle takes three hours. "Écolo"("Ecological"in France), seems to be synonymous with "snail's pace". Indeed, there is an anti-growth philosophy, decroissance, which encompasses a lifestyle where the fact that the pace of activity is inefficient is enshrined as a virtue. It is very popular with French young people disenchanted with globalization's possibilities.
Of course, decroissance has always been a fact of life in France, as attitudes hostile to large-scale production are entrenched and identified with American life, an undesirable alternative to life in France. However backwards the country is going, anything that smacks of the American is suspect.
The intersection of this attitude with other French habits makes for multiple paradoxes: Although a slower lifestyle is hallowed as being better for the general health, the preferences in food, operate in the contrary direction. Milk products, butter and animal fat are indispensable --the chef at La Marbrerie happily told me that where he is from --Brittany-- butter and mayonnaise are smeared on sandwiches-- and Christine, the châtelaine of La Marbrerie, confided that the reason their restaurant's French fries taste so good is that they are cooked in duck fat (and they are among the best I've ever had).
The belief that it is possible to hold back change is deeply embedded in the French psyche. Indeed, suspicion of new methods is always a factor in any proposed reform. Which is better, to emphasize efficiency and dynamism, or to enshrine hallowed traditions? That is the question France has been wrestling with since it began to lose its leadership role in the world at the start of the twentieth century. This year being the centennial of the start of the First World War, it seems particularly salient.
There are trade-offs to living in France, as my previous posts indicate. While some can be anticipated --like the fact that what Anglophones would call the first floor of a house is called the "rez de chaussée" and the second called the first-- others must be adapted to, as I found out last night.
The shutters and windows on the second and third floors (in the English-speaking world) shook throughout the house all night, despite my having closed both firmly. Notwithstanding, in the middle of the night I was awakened by a sudden, grating sound --the noise of the shutter outside my room having slipped its stays. Shortly after, I heard the same sound above me --the shutter on the third floor doing likewise.
At once I realized why the previous owners had tightly wrapped bungee cords around the closed shutters. The first thing I did in the morning was to find them from where I had naively consigned them and put them back.
While I don't mind the wind, which pushes the clouds away (when it is not shaping them into marvels of atmosphere), the first night in the house I had to get used to the sound of the wind barreling down the chimney, a sound like a slamming door next door, where my neighbors Élodie and Samir, a nice couple, live. It certainly becomes easier to imagine the vegetable world of the English and Scottish moors, of Wuthering Heights and Jane Eyre, having spent time here in Caunes. The beautiful landscape, full of broom grasses and low-lying shrubs flanked by evergreen forests, is not idyllic the way the Côte d'Azur is, but then the Minervois does not have the foothills of the Alps to keep away the wind and rain, guaranteeing good weather.
And this has not been a good summer for the Minervois, so far, anyway. "This is not summer", Jean, an elderly man who spends his days walking "Blackie", his equally-aged toy poodle, tells me. "The weather is terrible", say Christine and Robert, who naturally worry it will cut into their busiest season. "It's better than a sunburn", I say, smiling. Indeed, while drying clothes on a line (almost no one owns a dryer) takes longer, in the summer it is not a problem. On the other hand, the length of the wash cycle of my brand-new washing machine is getting on my nerves: it takes two hours to do an average wash. The machine is an energy-saver, highly-ranked on a host of environmental standards.
My dishwasher, too is ecological, perhaps a little too much so: the default wash cycle takes three hours. "Écolo"("Ecological"in France), seems to be synonymous with "snail's pace". Indeed, there is an anti-growth philosophy, decroissance, which encompasses a lifestyle where the fact that the pace of activity is inefficient is enshrined as a virtue. It is very popular with French young people disenchanted with globalization's possibilities.
Of course, decroissance has always been a fact of life in France, as attitudes hostile to large-scale production are entrenched and identified with American life, an undesirable alternative to life in France. However backwards the country is going, anything that smacks of the American is suspect.
The intersection of this attitude with other French habits makes for multiple paradoxes: Although a slower lifestyle is hallowed as being better for the general health, the preferences in food, operate in the contrary direction. Milk products, butter and animal fat are indispensable --the chef at La Marbrerie happily told me that where he is from --Brittany-- butter and mayonnaise are smeared on sandwiches-- and Christine, the châtelaine of La Marbrerie, confided that the reason their restaurant's French fries taste so good is that they are cooked in duck fat (and they are among the best I've ever had).
The belief that it is possible to hold back change is deeply embedded in the French psyche. Indeed, suspicion of new methods is always a factor in any proposed reform. Which is better, to emphasize efficiency and dynamism, or to enshrine hallowed traditions? That is the question France has been wrestling with since it began to lose its leadership role in the world at the start of the twentieth century. This year being the centennial of the start of the First World War, it seems particularly salient.
Friday, July 11, 2014
The Start Of The Bastille Day Weekend
July 11, 2014
This is a three-day weekend in France, as Monday is what English-speakers call "Bastille Day". No one in France calls it that --it's just "La Fête Nationale" --the national holiday. Monday there will be a huge parade in Paris, with all the armed forces marching, along with the just-graduated engineers of the École Polytechnique, marching in tricorned hats and uniforms with epaulettes.
In Carcassonne there will be fireworks over La Cité, the restored medieval fortress. To see them, it's a good idea to arrive in the early afternoon, park the car in the direction of the return trip by the banks of the Canal du Midi, and spend the day in town, visiting the outdoor market in Place Carnot, where goods normally sold in Carcassonne's shops will be on sale.
In Caunes, everyone will be recovering from the celebration of the night before. There will be fireworks in the soccer stadium at 9 p.m., followed by a dance at 10 p.m. At La Marbrerie, the chef here, a jolly young man, says he'll dance --and any woman there will be obliged to dance with him.
At my restaurant office, it will be business as usual, although opening and closing hours may be a bit more flexible. Chez Marlene, the tiny grocery opposite La Mairie --Caunes' City Hall --will be open in the morning. Caunes is a very quiet village anyway, so I am not sure that it will be any quieter than it is normally.
To give you an example of how quiet Caunes is, the post office closes at noon two days a week and does not re-open in the afternoon. The two boulangeries close at noon and only re-open at 4:00 p.m. Even La Marbrerie and Chez Marlene close for part of the afternoon every day.
It is only the grands surfaces --the big shopping centers-- that stay open through the afternoon --and not necessarily all shops do.
I have had an opportunity to compare the quality of goods and services over the last few weeks, returning by force of habit to the Pont Rouge, where there is an Intermarché "Hyper-Marché", along with an "Odobio", a "Mac-Dan", a "Brico Marché", a "Cap Cinema" and an "Aldi", among other stores. Drive a bit further towards the A61 toll highway and you can shop at the "Le Clerc" shopping center. Le Clerc began as an appliance store, but now offers clothes, entertainment media, books, concert tickets, travel, and everything else available at Intermarché, along with what looks like a good hairdresser's, a store carrying the latest French perfumes, and a newsstand that seem to carry every magazine published in France.
The difference between the two shopping centers is not so much in the products as in the quality of the service. Asking personnel to find any article at Intermarché is to come face-to-face with the schlumperei of young French without much to look forward to. At LeClerc, on the other hand, the personnel is middle-aged and energetic and knowledgeable. And "customer service" is not an oxymoron. Having had so many negative experiences with French products and services as I was setting up house, I feel as though this afternoon I saw a side of France I almost believed had ceased to exist.
In the news, the latest disastrous strike is that of the personnel working for a shipping company, SNCM, with responsibility for most of the trade between Marseille, Corsica and North Africa. The intransigence of the unions and years of mismanagement and corruption have brought the commerce to a stop, with the port of Marseille's shipping having been literally halted. Le Figaro called it a "national shame". That's the least of it.
This is a three-day weekend in France, as Monday is what English-speakers call "Bastille Day". No one in France calls it that --it's just "La Fête Nationale" --the national holiday. Monday there will be a huge parade in Paris, with all the armed forces marching, along with the just-graduated engineers of the École Polytechnique, marching in tricorned hats and uniforms with epaulettes.
In Carcassonne there will be fireworks over La Cité, the restored medieval fortress. To see them, it's a good idea to arrive in the early afternoon, park the car in the direction of the return trip by the banks of the Canal du Midi, and spend the day in town, visiting the outdoor market in Place Carnot, where goods normally sold in Carcassonne's shops will be on sale.
In Caunes, everyone will be recovering from the celebration of the night before. There will be fireworks in the soccer stadium at 9 p.m., followed by a dance at 10 p.m. At La Marbrerie, the chef here, a jolly young man, says he'll dance --and any woman there will be obliged to dance with him.
At my restaurant office, it will be business as usual, although opening and closing hours may be a bit more flexible. Chez Marlene, the tiny grocery opposite La Mairie --Caunes' City Hall --will be open in the morning. Caunes is a very quiet village anyway, so I am not sure that it will be any quieter than it is normally.
To give you an example of how quiet Caunes is, the post office closes at noon two days a week and does not re-open in the afternoon. The two boulangeries close at noon and only re-open at 4:00 p.m. Even La Marbrerie and Chez Marlene close for part of the afternoon every day.
It is only the grands surfaces --the big shopping centers-- that stay open through the afternoon --and not necessarily all shops do.
I have had an opportunity to compare the quality of goods and services over the last few weeks, returning by force of habit to the Pont Rouge, where there is an Intermarché "Hyper-Marché", along with an "Odobio", a "Mac-Dan", a "Brico Marché", a "Cap Cinema" and an "Aldi", among other stores. Drive a bit further towards the A61 toll highway and you can shop at the "Le Clerc" shopping center. Le Clerc began as an appliance store, but now offers clothes, entertainment media, books, concert tickets, travel, and everything else available at Intermarché, along with what looks like a good hairdresser's, a store carrying the latest French perfumes, and a newsstand that seem to carry every magazine published in France.
The difference between the two shopping centers is not so much in the products as in the quality of the service. Asking personnel to find any article at Intermarché is to come face-to-face with the schlumperei of young French without much to look forward to. At LeClerc, on the other hand, the personnel is middle-aged and energetic and knowledgeable. And "customer service" is not an oxymoron. Having had so many negative experiences with French products and services as I was setting up house, I feel as though this afternoon I saw a side of France I almost believed had ceased to exist.
In the news, the latest disastrous strike is that of the personnel working for a shipping company, SNCM, with responsibility for most of the trade between Marseille, Corsica and North Africa. The intransigence of the unions and years of mismanagement and corruption have brought the commerce to a stop, with the port of Marseille's shipping having been literally halted. Le Figaro called it a "national shame". That's the least of it.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Moved In
July 10, 2014
Almost six weeks after arriving in France in the midst of the longest railroad strike in years, I am settled in the house at 10 porte de Narbonne in Caunes-Minervois. Beauregard, my Boykin Spaniel, is in much better shape that his mistress: but then he hasn't spent the last five weeks unpacking boxes, cleaning, lifting furniture, buying lighting fixtures, learning how recycling is done locally and avoiding parking fines for blocking the red hexagonal "STOP" sign nailed to the side of my front door.
I am still trying to get and internet connection. Three and a half months after starting the process, I was finally visited by a technician from "Orange", formerly "France Telecom". The technician was of Chinese descent, so I had great hopes that I would actually be able to watch television, make phone calls on a landline and use my computer at home, thinking he might be less dilatory than native French government employees are. I was, however, let down, because despite the technician's diligent efforts, for some reason, the signal could not be retrieved. Which is strange, because the previous owners used all the services I would. A higher level of technical intervention will be required to procure the means to install my services.
Predictably, I never got the call the technician told me would notify me the technician was on his way. I have been getting my e-mails at "La Marbrerie", the one restaurant in the village that never closes --and the only one with WiFi-- so I am not unable to do business. Indeed, "La Marbrerie" has become my office, thanks to the welcoming nature of Christine and Robert, the owners, and their daughter, Pauline. So not having internet at home is inconvenient, but is not paralyzing my ability to stay in touch with the world outside Caunes. I am beginning to think, however, that it may take the entire summer before my internet connections are established. And just when I was patting myself on the back for being able to set up the new Samsung TV I bought in the States from a dealer who specializes in foreign TVs and DVD players. A set up which I managed even though the instruction booklet was written in --Indonesian. I could have no better proof than that that we live in a global world.
France, however, is still fighting to keep itself outside the global mainstream. The economy is fraught, with the Cour des Comptes --the French equivalent of the Office of Management and Budget-- warning that the size of France's debt is approaching the size of its Gross National Product. Manuel Valls, the tough-talking former Minister of the Interior, is now Prime Minister and in charge of advancing the government's plans to reform the economy. He spoke in Trèbes, a few kilometers from here, just last week, saying France would either reform or decline.
My own theory is that because France has lived under the rule of monarchs and presidents whose authority approaches that of kings, the French are used to finding their way around rules. However, with the economy is such bad shape, and the structure of so many French institutions abetting the country's move backward, whether popular sentiment will mobilize around the larger common interests --ending the "brain drain" abroad, providing a future for France's young people, encouraging small and large business-- and support the demands for sacrifice needed, is anybody's guess.
Almost six weeks after arriving in France in the midst of the longest railroad strike in years, I am settled in the house at 10 porte de Narbonne in Caunes-Minervois. Beauregard, my Boykin Spaniel, is in much better shape that his mistress: but then he hasn't spent the last five weeks unpacking boxes, cleaning, lifting furniture, buying lighting fixtures, learning how recycling is done locally and avoiding parking fines for blocking the red hexagonal "STOP" sign nailed to the side of my front door.
I am still trying to get and internet connection. Three and a half months after starting the process, I was finally visited by a technician from "Orange", formerly "France Telecom". The technician was of Chinese descent, so I had great hopes that I would actually be able to watch television, make phone calls on a landline and use my computer at home, thinking he might be less dilatory than native French government employees are. I was, however, let down, because despite the technician's diligent efforts, for some reason, the signal could not be retrieved. Which is strange, because the previous owners used all the services I would. A higher level of technical intervention will be required to procure the means to install my services.
Predictably, I never got the call the technician told me would notify me the technician was on his way. I have been getting my e-mails at "La Marbrerie", the one restaurant in the village that never closes --and the only one with WiFi-- so I am not unable to do business. Indeed, "La Marbrerie" has become my office, thanks to the welcoming nature of Christine and Robert, the owners, and their daughter, Pauline. So not having internet at home is inconvenient, but is not paralyzing my ability to stay in touch with the world outside Caunes. I am beginning to think, however, that it may take the entire summer before my internet connections are established. And just when I was patting myself on the back for being able to set up the new Samsung TV I bought in the States from a dealer who specializes in foreign TVs and DVD players. A set up which I managed even though the instruction booklet was written in --Indonesian. I could have no better proof than that that we live in a global world.
France, however, is still fighting to keep itself outside the global mainstream. The economy is fraught, with the Cour des Comptes --the French equivalent of the Office of Management and Budget-- warning that the size of France's debt is approaching the size of its Gross National Product. Manuel Valls, the tough-talking former Minister of the Interior, is now Prime Minister and in charge of advancing the government's plans to reform the economy. He spoke in Trèbes, a few kilometers from here, just last week, saying France would either reform or decline.
My own theory is that because France has lived under the rule of monarchs and presidents whose authority approaches that of kings, the French are used to finding their way around rules. However, with the economy is such bad shape, and the structure of so many French institutions abetting the country's move backward, whether popular sentiment will mobilize around the larger common interests --ending the "brain drain" abroad, providing a future for France's young people, encouraging small and large business-- and support the demands for sacrifice needed, is anybody's guess.
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