Merry Christmas from Barcelona

To all our friends and family,

We're having a wonderful holiday and celebrating it so far from home has been a powerful reminder of how much we miss each of you, and how much you mean to each of us.

From our family to yours, have a merry Christmas.

Love,

Andy, Ceil, Miles and Lee

Things I'll Miss About France... vol. 2

Wild Boar
These creatures have captured our imagination during the past few months. We've heard about them, been warned to stay away from them; we see hunters with large packs of dogs going after them this weekend, and every few days we hear about someone hitting a boar while driving; we've seen photos of them, and toured a castle with a huge room filled with stuffed boar, boars' heads, and boars' tusks.

And yet, we've only caught fleeting glimpses of them 'in the wild'. The boars have become mythic creatures for us... we're confident they exist, and long to see them, but we'd sure like to get a good look at one.

The district we live in is mostly farm-land, interspersed with forests and national forests, so we see lots of wildlife. Deer are so common that we only comment on them if they're gathered in a heard of twenty or more; foxes dart across the road almost every night; rabbits, mice and muskrats... yawn; and cows -- Lee likes to roll down the window and shout out to the cows, in their native tongue, as we drive past ("BONJOUR VACHE!!!"), so they still warrant our attention, but they're no longer novel.

But the boar... when we're in the car at night all four of us peer into the darkness intently, hoping to catch a glimpse of these creatures.

We saw a pack of them (a herd? a gaggle?) one night, but it was 2am and by the time I awoke the others, most of the boar had disappeared into the brush beside the road.

Two nights ago, I saw some cars pulled to the side of the road -- one had just hit a boar, and the creature (think "garbage can with hair" and you'll have a good sense of the size and shape) was lying, dead, on the shoulder. I didn't stop (what would I say?) but when I got home, the kids DEMANDED that we all pile in the car and return to the scene of the accident in hopes of seeing the creature more closely. Alas, by the time we got there, the carnage had been cleared and the cars were gone.

Earlier this week, my co-worker Jason was driving home on an especially foggy evening and saw a car actually hit a boar. The car was driving abreast of Jason on a two-lane section of highway, and Jason says he glimpsed the boar about half-a-second before it's demise. The other driver did not see the boar and hit it full-on at about 70mph. The damage to her car was extreme -- Jason described the front-end as being crushed, and indented as far back as the engine block. The airbags deployed and the driver, while un-injured, was understandably unnerved.

So we K NOW they're out there, but damnit, when will we get to see some? This sense of anticipation and wonder has enlivened my daily commute, and added a sense of purpose and excitement to any trips in the car after dark. I'll be sad to lose this sense of wonder and expectation as I climb into my car each night.

Cheers.

A Post by Ceil: Free Wednesdays

I have definitely embraced the weekend day in the middle of the week. It typically starts Tuesday night with a gin and tonic and than expands to Wednesday morning when Andy and Miles get up and go to school and work and Lee and I sleep in. This morning we enjoyed a leisurely morning at home. It started out with both of us sitting in the living room around a beautiful fire that Andy built before he left for work. We did a little emailing and a little game playing on the computer and progressed to what should we have for breakfast. Lee’s immediate response was crepes. Well we didn’t have a crepes mix so we headed to the internet to get a crepes recipe and than headed to the conversion tables to translate into the metric system. Next we went into the kitchen to check for ingredients and had everything except butter. Hard to believe that there is no butter in this house but we have been trying to clean out the fridge and not replace things and the butter was consumed earlier in the week and not replenished. But Wednesday morning crepes are special and we needed butter.

We ,or rather I, got dressed and Lee got wrapped up in a blanket and we headed to the local Vival in Arthon – the friendly little grocery store smaller than most of the small grocery stores in New York City but big enough to know that butter was only a few blocks away. We melted our butter and whisked it into our flour, milk, salt and egg mixture. The recipe recommended you let the batter sit for an hour but we had no interest in that recommendation. We got our small pan and cooked up crepes.

The first crepe got a low review from Lee – it needs to be cooked more. With a little practice and focused attention to the amount of batter being poured into the pan we achieved thin and even crepes. Lee was off with the jelly (the Nutella has been gone for a few days and no plans to replace it until after Christmas) and the plate of fresh cooked crepes.

We will head into Chateauroux at noon to pick up Miles from school and head home for some cleaning, packaging and relaxing by the fire.

Things I'll Miss About France... vol. 1

Driving in France:

1) Stay to the right. When driving on the highway in the US, I tend to put myself in the left-most lane and go like heck... which usually lasts thirty seconds before I run up against some bobo noodling along at 62mph on a 65mph speedway in the left-most lane. This does not happen in France. In the first instance, I and all drivers are expected to remain in the right-most lane. If you are in the middle (of three) lanes, it's only because you are passing someone going slower than you in the right-most lane. While out of the right-most lane, therefore, you will have your blinker on, indicating that you are passing. Even if one suspects they will pass every car ahead of them for the next 20km, one returns to the right-lane in between passing.

And what about the left-most lane (on a three-lane highway)? Again, it is well understood that only BMW 700-series and high-end Mercedes doing over 150mph will enter that lane. If I, with my stodgy Citroen C5, wander that far to the left to pass a passer, for example, it's no problem... but I am not to be surprised when a $65,000 sedan comes flying up behind me, flashing their high-beams and reminding me to stay to the right.

2) Identify the newcomers. Any driver who has held their license for less than two years must affix a sign to the back of their car... literally, a 'scarlet letter'... a capital A in bold red, indicating that they are an apprentice. Mind you, in order to even apply for your driver's license in France, you must be eighteen, and complete something close to 120 classroom hours, and score 95% or better on an hour-long exam. It is not easy to get a license. And once you do, you will be publicly identified as a newbie for two years.

(Having already earned my driver's license) this seems like an excellent system to me. If you come up on someone driving excessively cautiously, and you see the "A", you cut them some slack. If a cop comes up on some and sees them breaking the law, if there's an "A" on the car, their subject to bigger fines and loss of their license.

3) Traffic circles and round-abouts. While they do have traffic lights in France, they're only used at small intersections in the heart of town. Any time three or more truly busy or high-volume streets intersect, they install a round-about. Although initially intimidating (not as bad as some of the really big, multi-lane jobs in London or Paris), I've come to appreciate the fact that I rarely have to stop on my way home... I slow down a bit, and wait for my chance to "jump on the merry-go-round", but it's slow, on, circle, off and go. Ironically, in my neighborhood back home, traffic circles are designed to slow traffic. Over here, they keep things moving.

On the other hand...
1) No shoulders on most of the roads.

2) 50cc scooters... and cars share the road, despite not being able to achieve the speed limit.

3) Well-organized speed traps. There are two kinds of radar-based speed traps: automated installations which measure your speed, and if you're in violation, snap a photo and mail the ticket to your house. Ironically, these installations are clearly marked by large signs announcing their presence about 100 meters ahead of time. At first, this seemed strange -- kind of undermines the ability to catch speeders, no? It's begun to make sense though, as I've noticed that I (as does everyone) automatically slow down when I see these big signs. The point is not to send out dozens of tickets, but rather, to get folks to slow down.

The other kind of speed trap, though, does hand out dozens of tickets. A platoon of cops stake out a stretch of road. One guy, armed with a radar gun stands on the shoulder, far away from the cop cars, so he's very hard to see. He pings the cars as they approach him, and shouts over his shoulder to his comrades, "Take this one... leave this one... take this one." And here's the thing: they stop everyone who is speeding. They'll wave cars over to the side of the road and queue them up, waiting for the cops writing the tickets to get to them. I've seen (and waited in) a line of twelve cars idling at the side of the road, waiting for the cops to get to me and write the ticket. This is a completely different approach than the loan Highway Patrol man in a Ford Crown Victoria, parking along the median and picking off one speeder at a time. So many folks are speeding, it often seems like a lottery as to which motorist the cop will stop. Not in France: if you're speeding, and the cops are watching, you get nailed.

Recommended radio... 'This American Life'

One of my great joys while in France has been to down-load English language podcasts onto my iPod and listen to them in the car while driving to and fro. I get "NPRs Most Emailed Stories" and fast forward through them, swearing that I ever listened to what now seems like patently whiny and self-serving drivel. I enjoy excerpts from "NewsHour with Jim Lehrer", especially the segments with David Brooks and Mark Sheilds. And NPRs "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" is a favorite of the kids, and a somewhat effective way to stay caught up on the news.

But my favorite is "This American Life", a radio magazine produced by WBEZ in Chicago and hosted by Ira Glass. It's a great place for humor, satire, and commentary.

Last weeks show was the most powerful hour of radio I can recall, and I recommend you listen to it. The title is "Shouting Across the Divide" and it offers two stories examining communication (or lack thereof) between our nation and members of the Islamic world. Please consider making time in your day to listen to these stories. http://www.thislife.org/

Plans for coming home

Setting a date:
It's 99% certain that my last day of work in France will be Friday, Jan 26th. We're planning to travel to Brittany, Normandy and London before flying from Paris to NY. We'll fix it so that we get three or four nights in NY to catch up with friends and family there, before returning to Seattle. My best guess at this point says we'll arrive home on Feb. 10th.

Prepping to Pack:
When we rented this house, Mdm. Chautard explained that she'd love to have long-term tenants, especially during the low-season, but that she had already booked another family to stay in the house during the week of Christmas. So this week we're packing up all of our stuff and preparing to move out. Mdm. Chautard has graciously offered to let us store our stuff in the Chateau while we travel.

Although this is a hassle, especially for Ceil who winds up doing most of the work on this front, in the end, I think it'll be a good think. A rehearsal, if you will, for our actual return.

Although we did not avail ourselves of my company's offer to ship things over here, we will surely ship stuff home... partly because we've accumulated a certain amount of stuff (e.g. wine and... ummm... hmm... well, I think the kids have some things... hmm... and the wine, I guess) and also because we don't want to schlep all our goods around during our last week of traveling.

Christmas and New Years Plans
On Saturday, we'll check out of the house and move our belongings to the Chateau before making the seven hour drive to Barcelona, Spain where we've rented an apartment for five nights.

On Thursday, Dec. 28th, we'll get back in the car and make another 7-ish hour drive to Nice, France where we've booked another apartment through the New Year's holiday.

It turns out that there are hundreds of properties available for short-term rent throughout Spain and southern France. With the advent of RyanAir and EasyJet, Europe's answer to SouthWest, there's been an explosion in the number of folks able to purchase weekend homes, and plan brief get-aways from the UK, Germany, etc. to the warmer climes of the Mediterranean. A secondary effect has been lots of Brits buying places and looking to rent them while they're not using them, and of course, locals in places like Barcelona buying properties and leasing them out on a weekly or weekend(ly) basis.

For us, apartment living is an attractive alternative to setting up in a hotel. There tends to be a bit more room, a chance to close a door and get some distance from the kids and whatever chaos they're plotting; having a kitchen makes meal planning easier and less expensive (though I'm hell-bent on eating tapas and paella three times a day while we're in Spain, and conducting deep research in bouillabaisse while in Nice).

How will Santa Find Us?
He won't, so start lowering your expectations immediately. Plus, with Santa's hernia, he cannot carry very many things, or very heavy things to France. How heavy? Oh, I don't know -- say, anything too big or bulky to ship from France to the US -- how's that?

+++++++++++++

More to follow. Peace to all.

French women don't get fat... but American men...

Aside from the the never-ending stream of emails soliciting my advice on healing the divide between Post-Enlightenment Western Modernity and Fundamentalist Islam (a word to GW43@potus.gov and Benny16@vatcity.it - fellas, if you're not going to follow my advice, please stop asking for it!), the most common questions I hear involve my body: what shape it's in, how's my waist line, am I still looking as fine as I did the day I boarded Air France 007?

I want you all to breathe a collective sigh of relief -- despite five months in France, I am every bit as buff as the last time you saw me. Same wash-board (gentle cycle) stomach; same big-gun (.22 caliber) arms; still able to crush a walnut (cupcake) between my thighs.

So, you're asking, how have I stayed so fit, despite indulging myself in all the gastronomic delights Central France has to offer?

God only knows.

I have eaten like a pig: c-o-c-h-o-n, pig. I have yet to let a bottle of wine, plate of cheese, or side-board table of desserts pass by me unmolested. I have defended my spot on the couch, fending off all pretenders to my throne. My running shoes dried out from that rainy day back in August, and have not been put in harm's way since.

In short, I have done everything in my power to add 35 lbs. to my already Ruben-esque frame, and yet I can still slip into my trousers each morning without the aide of winches, come-alongs or hydraulic rams.

So what gives? Does my experience lend credence to the recent best-sellers regarding French women's resistance to weight-gain?

Who's to say? Let's review today's ingestions and see what we conclude.

Breakfast: two pain-au-chocolate (i.e. a pastry made from the same dough as a croissant, but containing a modest amount of semi-sweet chocolate) and an espresso.

Morning snack: none

Lunch: huge. I attended a catered luncheon at work and the fare is representative of a typical meal : a cold plate whereupon I found/devoured 1/2 roasted chicken breast, one slice of roasted pork, a slice of a salmon terrine, a thin slice of quiche lorraine, two pickles and a dollop of mayonaise. After the main plate, we passed the cheese (so to speak), and then a basket of fruit. Beverages included bottled water, medium bodied red-wine (two small glasses) and coffee.

Afternoon snack: none

Dinner: also huge. Ceil found a shop which approximates Trader Joe's, and we gorged ourselves on frozen delicacies, reheated in our oven: calamari rings, shimps, sweet and sour chicken and spinach canneloni.

Dessert: half of a chocolate pastry and a glass of red wine.

In short, I ate about 245,000 calories today... and this is typical. So why have I not ballooned?

My guesses:

1) no trans-fats: chips, crackers or bread baked more than 24 hours ago simply do not show up on the table!
2) no between-meal snacks: there are snack machines at work but I've yet to see anyone use them... and I won't be the first.
2) red-wine: sometimes in moderation
3) coffee: espresso is served after every meal... even late dinners.
4) an office on the second floor: can sixteen steps make a difference?
5) no television: sigh. Wonder how my NY Giants are doing?

What lessons will I take home?
1) kill the television: this time, I mean it
2) yes to the bagels, but no to the chips
3) yes to the red wine: what did you expect me to say?
4) find excuses to walk around at work: Store my stapler and paper clips on the third floor and the photo-copier in the basement

Here endeth this week's PSA.

Be well.

Catching up on posts: Ceil's Re-cap of our Italy Trip

At this point, I am probably considered a guest writer since I haven’t been very regular in my contributions to the blog. Nonetheless, I thought I would catch you up our trip to Italy since it hasn't had much coverage yet.

Italy was wonderful and we dragged the kids around and saw a lot. Yes, I do mean dragged. What crazy kid wants to sit in a hotel room when there is so much too see? I have two of them. We weren’t even staying in expensive hotels, we had the basics; beds, bathroom and t.v. with one station in English which was a sports station. They didn’t even show soccer-- it was usually a pool tournament. There was wifi in the Florence hotel so that was a major bonus for Miles. We left him home alone a few times by the end of the trip.

We arrived Wednesday night and checked into our hotel after a taxi ride from the rail station to the Jewish Ghetto. The cab ride was a little more intense than a NYC cab ride. I think in NY they drive faster and change lanes and cut off other taxis more but in Rome the intensity is all about the narrow streets, the number of other cars that are trying to fit on the street, the pedestrians that are oblivious of the cars (more so than New Yorkers), and thousands upon thousands of scooters driving wherever they please.

That night we went on a neighborhood walking tour looking for the best gelato place and also a restaurant to have dinner. It was 75 degrees in Rome, much warmer than I expected. I can’t imagine what it is like in the summer when it is the height of tourist season. All the guide books talk about the heat and the crowds in the summer and I thought it was hot and crowded in October.

We ate at a nice restaurant and the kids enjoyed their first Italian meal with a primo (first course) pasta and secondo (second course) pizza and we found a tasty gelato store nearby. Day one we spent in Ancient Rome, starting at Michelangelo’s Campidoglio, Roman Forum, and Colosseum. We stopped for a late lunch more pizza and pasta and then the kids and Andy went on a city walking tour back to the hotel while I walked around more stopping at the Pantheon, Piazza Navona, Piazza Campo de Fiori.

Day two was the Vatican St. Peter’s Basilica and the climb to Michelangelo’s Dome and wandering around awestruck in the Basilica. Stopped for lunch than head to the Vatican Museums with a focus on the Sistine Chapel. Day three Andy and Lee went back to the Vatican and Miles and I did more walking around the Pantheon and that part of town – Trevi Fountain, etc.

The next day was more walking around in the morning and we caught a train to Florence in the afternoon. More churches and museums in Florence. In the Uffizi, Miles was heard to say, “Oh, and look, yet another picture of Mary and the baby Jesus!" We toured the Uffizi and enjoyed the exhibit on Leonardo da Vinci. The next day we went to the Galleria dell’Accademia and saw Michelanglo’s David. We climbed the dome at Il Duomo as well as the bell tower and did lots more walking and shopping in Florence and amazing food was had by all. I visited Santa Croce and will have to go back and visit because the altar was being renovated and was covered in scaffolding.

The kids weren’t fully committed to all the walking, churches and museums but we went and we saw everything, even if it was at a speedy rabbit’s pace. No tour groups for us, I would try and hear some tidbits from the American tour guides as I walked past and that worked well for me.

Escape from Paris: Guest Blogger - Adam Gavin

We were very sad to see the Gavins leave last week. I've related the story of our Thanksgiving weekend, and the Gavins brush with rioting firemen while making their way through Paris on the way to Chateauroux. Surely, their final days in Paris would be uneventful!? Au contraire mon frere.... Adam's email follows:

Andy,

Even though our trip back had some unexpected stops along the way, we are safe at home.

First of all, we took the Roissybus to the airport at 7:45a which would get us there 2.5 hours before boarding. We were tooling down the freeway when all of a sudden another driver began honking and waving and almost forcing the bus to the side of the road.

The bus driver got out and began screaming at the other driver -- but it turned out we had smoke billowing out of the back of the bus and the guy was trying to aid us.

Being French, the driver got back in and we continued on for a few more miles. In the words of Napoleon: what's the big deal about a little snow in St. Petersberg this time of year? Let's press on!

But soon the driver had to pull over again; maybe it was the smoke or maybe he had to get to a bus drivers' riot. Either way, we were all stuck on the side of the freeway (side being questionable since he didn’t get all four wheels off the road) waiting for another bus to pick us up AND the French Gendarme to escort us to the other bus when it came.

The French on the bus were fine with the waiting for the other bus, but when they were told that we had to wait for the police, you would have thought that the driver told them that Zidane played soccer like a poodle. They were so pissed and dismissive of the cops showing up anytime soon.

At this point, Maureen was getting agitated at me (for saving 20 euro by not scheduling a personal shuttle to the airport) and concerned thinking we were going to have to call you to come pick us up. Nevertheless, the next bus came along with the police and we were on our way.
One last thing before I go. We had our own “Hamburger” moment. We were in a restaurant in Paris having dinner. We asked the waitress for a bottle of water. She looked at me quizzically and I repeated myself a number of times, including saying aqua. Finally she said “Oh, wa-TER”. When we looked at each other and just laughed.

Thanks to the Ericksons for making our trip so special.

Adam

Our own Thanksgiving... avec les Gavins et foie gras

Having heard from Dan and his clan, I thought I'd describe our Thanksgiving. As our friends Adam and Maureen were in town, we decided to make a weekend of it.

On Thursday (Thanksgiving) we drove two hours south from Chateauroux to the Dordogne region. Our first stop was the caves at Lascaux, the site of the famous pre-historic paintings.

The tour guide led us down some stairs to an ante-chamber where he launched into his introductory talk, in French, naturally. I couldn't understand a word he said, but as with many situations, context offers plenty of clues on content. "Blah, blah, blah le blah avec le blah et après, le blah...", if said while pointing to a large map and moving one's finger along a bold, squiggly line annotated with directional arrows probably means: "We are here right now, and in a few minutes we're going to walk down this path and into the cave." (Clearly, there are other possibilities - "Once we're in the cave, stay on this side of the line, lest ye anger the rabid bats who live on the other side..." being one example.) I bent down to whisper my translation for the kids.

The guy continued, and for the most part, I (think I) got the gist of what he was saying. He'd say, "blah blah les blah sur la blah", while pointing to a model of a stalagmite, and I would translate, "Watch out you don't hit your head on the pointy rock things hanging down from the ceiling."

I confess that I occasionally had to riff a bit, fabricating comments to fill in the bits when the tour guide wasn't pointing to something: "And so the cave people probably had to walk to this site, because in those days the bus service didn't come this far out of town." Etc.

After his introductory schpeil, he asked if there were questions. None. He then said to us, in pretty good English, "What about you (mouth-breathing) folks in the back? Shall I repeat the highlights in English?" I think Adam was nodding yes, but I gave him a nudge and said, "Non, nous comprendons."

He gave us a few minutes to look at the displays, during which time I did in fact, ask him a couple of questions, just to verify some of the bits I wasn't sure about. "You weren't talking about rabid bats back there, were you?" My debrief uncovered a few translation errors which I duly conveyed to the Gavins.

And so after another semi-intelligible presentation in second ante-chamber, we finally entered the cave. And it was amazing. Absolutely stunning. You gotta go see it. Most of the figures are bison, bears, deer and horses. Some of the images are five meters across, and they are unbelievably subtle and powerful. And, by the way, they are painted on the ceiling of the cave which is like twelve or fifteen feet up. To heck with their artistic prowess... how did these rock-knocking ancients build the scaffolding?

But here's the thing: the paintings you see on the wall are not the originals. In fact, if I understood the guy right (3 chances in 5), we were not even seeing the original walls of the cave. The whole thing had been re-built, with faux walls and ceiling hanging within the original space. They did this to protect the original paintings which were not holding up to the daylight, atmosphere, Diet Coke spills, etc. which came with the visitors.

Now, it may be that I've got this all wrong, and that what you see inside the cave is a reproduction of a different cave. I mean, think about it: in order to support all these erstatz walls and ceilings, you'd have to drill some big holes into the original surfaces, and that would surely mess with the paintings worse that the Bubblicious vapors brought in by the tourists. I tried to ask the guy for clarification on this, but in so doing, discovered the frontier of his English and confirmed that I was well beyond my capabilities in French. I guess I could look it up but, but why start worrying about accuracy at this late date?

One final Cliff-Clavin-esque story from the caves. We got to a narrow spot in the cave and the tour guide pointed to five smallish horses painted high on the wall. He asked if there was anyone from England on the tour. One girl (who turned out to be from New Jersey...???) raised her hand. So the guy turned to ME and says, "You translate this one for her, okay?" Ummm.... Uhhh... Twenty French tourists, not to mention my friends and family, turned and stared at me. "Oui. D'accord. Pas problem. (Gulp.)"

And he launched into a speech about the five horses, saying, "Blah blah comme blah alors blah blah LES BEATLES blah blah et blah GEORGE HARRISON blah blah blah HARD DAYS NIGHT...blah blah blah LES BEATLES."

I had not a clue what he was saying. There were FIVE horses, not four, so my mind started racing to come up with the name of the "fifth Beatle" - the drummer guy they had before Ringo. And why he referred to one of the horses as George Harrison, without naming the remaining Fab Three was not clear. I was stumped.

Nevertheless, I turned to the girl, who clearly wanted nothing to do with me or any of the other folks who were now staring expectantly, and I said, "They call these paintings the Beatles because there's four of them, and then there's a fifth one, kind of like that other guy who was almost in the Beatles."

At this point, two things become readily apparent: 1) the girl for whom I was translating was not sure who or what the Beatles were, and 2) the tour guide spoke English well enough to know that I had flubbed the whole thing... at which point he gave his talk over again in English, begging two questions: 1) (in my mind) why did he ask for my help translating, and 2) (in the girls mind) why are these people pointing at horses and talking about beatles?

(The tour guide was pointing to the five horses and saying that anyone who had seen the Beatles movie Hard Day's Night, might remember a scene in which George Harrison sits at a desk in an office, with a reproduction of these five horses hanging on the wall behind him. This in turn gave rise to a final question: "Who the h- cares?")

We left the caves and drove a few more kilos to our destination for the night, in Sarlat. We checked into the local Best Western, a hotel chain, I must add, which bears no resemblance to its eponymous counter-part in the US. If you go to a French town and want to stay in nicely restored, charming, well-appointed and moderately expensive hotel, look for Best Western. (The Gavins report a similar through-the-looking-glass situation in England where Holiday Inns are very fine, high-end destinations).

We spent a lovely evening walking around the medevial center of town, now given over to fashionable shops and restaurants. We found a restaurant that seemed to suit our price range, and more importantly, looked capable of containing the eight of us, and we sat down to dinner. We had a terrific time. The Dorgogne is know mainly as the source of most of France's foie gras, and I ordered what amounted to the "foie gras lover's special". It was heavenly.

(N.B.: I'm skipping quite a bit here, and for the remainder of this post, please know that when I say, "we found a restaurant and sat down to eat", I'm sparing you the tedium of hour-long negotiations with the kids: "There's a KFC. Why can't we go there?" I'm also sparing you the ennui of helping the kids order: "What do you want?" "What do they have?" "They have ham, steak, omelets or chicken." "I don't like any of those things." "Okay, so what do you like?" "I don't know. What do they have?")

We arose early the next morning and walked the town again before setting off towards Bordeaux. We made a few stops along the way: La Roque-Gageac, a heart-achingly picturesque little town built, literally, into the sheer face of a 400' tall cliff; Castlenord, a no-kidding-around castle, complete with trebuchets and a really cool flag on top; and lastly, Beynac et Cazenac, a slightly larger town incorporating the best features of the previous two stops.

We ate lunch in Beynac et Cazenac, and following the lead of other patrons, we ordered family-style -- a tremendous innovation given the decision-challenged junior-set within our company. The food was great and the staff went out of their way to accommodate the kids. Sated, we set off for a two hour drive east to Bordeaux, arriving well after sunset.

Upon checking in, I discovered that I had booked us for the wrong nights. I took umbrage at the tone / demeanor of the receptionist at the hotel, and after many months of watching French people engage in seemingly heated shouting matches with clerks and shop-keepers, I tried my hand at raising my voice and demanding recompense. There was no getting out of the extra night I had booked us for, but in the end, after a bit of arm-waving (literally) I got the same cheap rate for the night I had not booked. In return, I agreed to fill out the silly forms the receptionist demanded I complete, although I listed the other travelers in my party as Shawn Kemp, Paul Voelker, Gustav Mahler, Tonya Harding, and JoJo-The-Dog-Faced-Boy. I felt vindicated, but adrenaline swirled through my blood for the rest of the night.

On Saturday, we visited St. Andre's Cathedral (despite my first name, no special welcome was in the offing for your correspondent), a museum and the main shopping district. We ate lunch in a great little café (see note, supra.), and split up for the afternoon. The girls got Lee's ears pierced (a long awaited ceremony commemorating her ninth birthday) and bought shoes; the boys shopped for wine (separate post to follow). All were successful and Bordeaux's economy surly felt an unexpected surge of off-season revenue.

On Sunday we drove home to Chateauroux, taking an indirect route through Poitiers. I recommend Poitiers highly. It's absolutely charming, though like most French towns it is absolutely deserted on Sunday. With no other options, we gave in to the kids demands and ate lunch at McDonald's. Being the group's self-appointed (not to mention self-righteous) translator, I was the intermediary between Joey, Miles, Katherine, Lee, Ceil, Adam and Maureen and the staff of the Poitiers McDonalds. I was not prepared to order with sufficient specificity (e.g. extra pickles, no mayo, etc.), nor was I able to pronounce complex French phrases like "McNuggets" - and in the end, all went away feeling frustrated and ill-used.

We finally staggered home around 4pm, played a quick game of Petanque (separate post to follow) and collapsed.

Alas, the Gavins were off early the following morning. For those of you who enjoyed the story of their arrival in Paris, the story of their departure is equally amusing (separate post to follow), but the gist is that they arrived home safe and sound.

With visits from my family and the Gavins behind us, we have turned our attention to plans for our holiday trip to Spain. In the mean time though, we're going to relish a very quiet and sedentary weekend or two in our home-away-from home.

Thanks for reading. Love to all.

Thanksgiving in France (a guest posting by Dan F)

My friend Dan is leading a team, similar to the one I am part of, at a company near Bordeaux, France. He and his wife Trish, being braver than Ceil and I, are home-schooling their three children (so... braver on at least two counts). Dan sent this note along describing their Thanksgiving celebration. I thought you might enjoy it...

We celebrated Thanksgiving this past weekend and as you can imagine, it was a bit tougher to put together the traditional meal in a foreign country. With some perseverance and a bit of luck, we managed to do it though. This year we celebrated the event on Saturday, since both Thursday and Friday were work-days in France. We invited our landlords to enjoy a Thanksgiving feast. They are from England and we had a great time explaining to them what Thanksgiving was all about. We even had the boys do some research on the first feast as part of their school work and write a report to give to our guests.

The first part was getting the turkey…not as easy as it sounds. We started a couple of weeks ago calling butchers to reserve the bird. No luck…turkey is not available here until Christmas time. After many attempts, one of the people in the office here was able to arrange a special order from her hotel chef. The chef had to drive 30 miles each way to get the bird and we made a special trip north to pick it up on Friday. With the special order, tip, etc, the bird was about 70 Euros (about $85) and weighed somewhere around 15 pounds. Trish cooked home-made stuffing with French bread, spices and toasting it in the oven. All in all, it turned out very well.

The next part was the dessert. Trish made an apple pie, but we wanted pumpkin as well. No luck finding pumpkins in the local stores, but when we mentioned our dilemma to Ruth and Ken (our landlords), they said that their neighbor had a pumpkin on their doorstep. When they asked about it, their neighbor gave it to us for our dessert.

The rest of the meal was much easier…and we enjoyed a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings.

I write then next part knowing that you have had miserable weather for the past few weeks [in Seattle]. On Sunday, the weather turned from windy and rainy to warm and sunny. It was mid-60's with a nice breeze coming from the SE. We decided to go a local island called Ile de Oleron which is about 10 miles from where we live. We it the beach, played in the sand and flew a kite. It was a beautiful day and we enjoyed the fresh air.

I hope that you are doing well, that you enjoyed your Thanksgiving and that you are smoothly gearing up for the Christmas season.

Take care,

Dan

Martha and Betty Leave, the Gavins Arrive

On Tuesday, I drove my mother and sister to the airport -- a close-run thing, given the unexpected (by noone but me) traffic around Paris. But we got there with many minutes to spare, and I found a parking spot (on the side-walk) and the ladies got checked-in quickly. By all accounts, it was a long journey home, but they arrived safe and sound, warmed by memories of Miles and Lee.

Miles and Lee, meanwhile, spent the day whipping themselves into a frenzy of anticipation: THE GAVINS ARE COMING TONIGHT!! Indeed, our friends Adam, Maureen and their kids Joey and Katherine, arrived in Chateauroux at 7pm for a five day stay.

The Gavins flew in a week or more ago, and having spent a few days in Paris, they decamped to London for five nights. They traveled from London to Chateauroux yesterday, and we will all leave today for a long-weekend in Boredeaux. (They have wine there? I'm shocked...)

It was great to see the Gavins at the train station. Clearly, it had been a long day for them, but as clearly, they have enjoyed their vacation, and the kids jumped about, twitching with tics of joy at being re-united. We took them back to our place in Arthon (they thought the journey ended in Chateauroux... ha!) and had a great dinner, debriefing each other on the events of the past four months.

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Just to relate one scene from the Gavin's journey from London to Chateauroux:

The EuroStar train from London arrives at Gare Nord in Paris. The train to Chateauroux leaves from Gare Austerlitz -- across town, but an easy, 10 minute cab ride. On most days.

Adam, Maureen and the kids have about 1 hour to make the connection. They catch a cab, the driver speaks no English, and for that matter, very little French, but by pointing at maps, guidebooks, and railway time-tables, Adam makes himself understood. The cabbie sets out towards Austerlitz.

But the traffic is terrible. Gridlock. Lots of police cars squeezing past, up on the curb in some cases, all heading in the same direction. Even the guys on scooters, who normally drive between the lanes imperiously, and seemingly, imperviously, have come to a stop.

The cab moves forward a bit, and then stops; then forward a bit, and stops. The cab driver, gesturing wildly, speaking unintelligibly, makes himself understood -- "This is not the usual Paris rush-hour... we may not make your train... sell me your wife and children...name a price."

After 30 minutes, the Gavins have covered about 5km of the 7km journey -- they've packed light enough that walking the rest of the way is an option, but their sense of Parisian geography is dicey... do they take a chance and head-out on foot? Dare they stay with the cab any longer? Decision time.

Man-of-action, Adam tells his clan, "All right, we're walking." (I can only imagine the look of incomprehension and indignation from Joey at this point... "let me get this straight: we're abandoning a perfectly functioning automobile to walk for 2km? I'm reading here... I've got my Gameboy going... you want me to do what?")

Dolling out pearls of encouragement to his kids, and waggling his two fingers at the cab driver to indicate "proceed on foot", Adam makes himself understood (alas, in the cabbie's country of origin, this gesture means, "That's a fair price, I accept your offer, you may have my wife and children; do you want them now or shall I bring them around?"). Train leaves in 25 minutes.

And so our heroes set out. They march past three blocks of immobile traffic, push through crowds of people on the sidewalk, ignoring "walk / don't-walk" signs (as is the way in Paris).

It's important to your correspondent that you have a clear mental image here -- a small caravan of Gavins, heads-down, suitcases in tow, Adam in the lead, Maureen and Katherine close behind with looks of concern, Joey lagging slightly, his head swiveling in search of bookstores and/or places to eat. Adam will not be denied -- he's squeezing past folks, "s'cuse me, s'cuse me, out of the g-dd--m way-Frenchie! Joey, keep up! Katherine, stop crying! C'mon!" Train leaves in 15 minutes.

And suddenly, they burst through the crowd and find themselves in a patch of open ground -- daylight! Thrilled, they break into a ragged sprint... "we're gonna make it!" Train leaves in 10 minutes.

I can only imagine the next few moments, and unburdened by actual facts, I'll weave a tableau largely based on how I hope it happened:

Joey, still on the lookout for a mid-day crepe or maybe a fresh baguette, notices a phalanx of policemen, dressed in riot-gear, arrayed on their right... "Hey, dad..."

Katherine, deeply concerned about their fate, should they miss the train, notices a rather large and unruly crowd on their left: a crowd of folks busily building a pile of trash and wooden pallets, some of whom are carrying bottles with rags hanging out the top... "Hey, dad, what are those..."

Maureen, still a bit unsettled by the looks she was getting from the cab-driver, and curious about what Adam and the cabbie were negotiating, notices the cops and the rioters simultaneously... "Holy s--t, Adam, you've lead us into the middle of..."

And Adam, spying the clock atop the train station, less than 100 yards away, is filled with hope... "We're gonna make it..." The train leaves in eight minutes.

All four realizations come crashing together in the collective Gavin-mind, and as one, they form-up, tightening their ranks, and in a stunningly graceful, swift parade ground maneuver, they wheel right, facing the riot police -- the last obstacle between them and the train (and, I might note, the closest protection from the rapidly forming riot on their left). Adam and Joey in the fore, heads lowered, Katherine and Maureen close behind, like half-backs following lead-blockers through the line -- they form a family-sized flying wedge and put on speed, surging towards the line of shield-and-baton-wielding, visor-and-helmet-wearing riot police.

The police commander is stunned. He came out today, expecting to face unruly Parisians -- but he now faces a more formidable foe, a foe bread of sturdy mid-Western US stock, a foe unified by a common goal, a foe unwavering in their commitment... in short, a foe which will stop at nothing until they reach their objective. He was not expecting this.

The police commander opens his command manual to page one, and reads aloud to his charges: "Surrender! Run away! Hide! We give up!" (Not sure how many pages there are in the commander's manual -- tomes on French military strategy tend to be slim.)

And so the police line parts, the Gavins pass through, triumphant. Flush with adrenaline, they make the last two blocks in record time... arriving with time to spare. (Joey: "Can we get a snack to eat on the train?")

Unbeknownst to Adam et al, in their wake, the rioters are also suffering a crisis of confidence. "Mon dieu! Did you see that, Jacques? Those four folks were crazed! What the heck can we do that compares with that? Maybe we should call this thing off... oh, hey, look, a cafe serving that smelly cheese I like... c'mon, let's go... yes, now... I'm hungry! It's lunch time anyway: you can't riot during the lunch hour." The mob, chastened by the example of the Gavins, dissolves in moments.

And, thus, the Gavins set out on the final leg of their journey to Chateauroux.

And if you don't believe it, click here. It turns out that the Gavins had gotten between the cops and a group of 10,000 French firemen -- on-strike, demanding a pay-raise, retirement with benefits at 55, and a dramatic reduction in the amount of open-flames and smoke in their work-place.

++++++++

All for now... we're off to Sarlat-le-caneda and then on to Bordeaux. Back on Sunday with pictures, hang-overs and more tall tales. Peace.

Martha and Betty Arrive

My mother and sister arrived on Friday for a 10 day visit. I wanted to go to the office on Friday, so Ceil and the kids went ahead to meet our visitors at the airport. We'd rented a van for the month -- affording us more space to transport our guests -- but alas, no GPS. Ceil did a fine job using directions from Mappy.com, fine that is, until the last little bit. Lee was calling me on the cel phone periodically throughout the journey:

"We're almost there, Dad. Mom is fine."

"We're getting close, Daddy, I can see the airplanes. Mom is okay."

"DADDY, WE'RE LOST!... COME FIND US... yes, Mom's okay, BUT I'M NOT!!!"

All was well in the end... Ceil found the terminal and she and the kids met Betty and Martha right as they entered the terminal. They had a quick rest for pictures and then back into the van to battle rush-hour traffic into down-town Paris. Ceil and Betty reported that the drive was VERY frustrating, but that Martha, ensconsed in the back of the van with her grand-children seemed utterly content.

After checking into the motel, Martha turned in for a late nap which became an early bedtime. The rest of us connected with our friend Camille who is spending her junior year in Gonzaga's Paris program.

We spent the next day in and around the Louvre. Not sure of Martha's stamina, we brought a wheel chair along, and right away, it paid dividends, as the security guards escorted us to the head of the line waiting to enter the museum. Miles and Lee took turns pushing Grandma. Although there were a couple of near-misses, rumors that Miles bounced Martha down some steps are wild exaggerations. Or so Miles assures me.

More naps in the afternoon followed by dinner with Camille (Japanese food) and a walk through the Latin quarter for freshly-made crepes. I was pleased to make it back to the room in time to watch the second half of the New Zealand vs. France rugby match, which the All Blacks won handily.

We we're up early (by Betty and Martha standards) the next day. Ceil, Miles and Martha took a couple of hours in the D'Orsay museum. Martha felt perfectly strong enough to walk, but Miles had no intention of waiting on lines and INSISTED that she get back in her chair.

Lee, Betty and I took a driving tour through Paris, in search of Diddl paraphernalia, to pass the time.

It was a long drive home. There's a post in the offing about French White Trash -- rest-stops are a great place for viewing the phenomenon. Give me a few days to pull my thoughts together.

We got into town late, but not too late for a tour of the place and some take-out pizza.

Thanks to all who have said prayers for Martha and Betty during their trip -- they arrived safe and sound, with luggage intact, and no hassles from security along the way.

Peace.

Ok... I think we're up and running

As fate would have it, we cut our Italy vacation short to rush home and... sit in the dark.

Around 8pm Friday night, the power cut out. Thankfully, Ceil had stashed some matches and candles, and I had exercised enough foresight to empty several bottles of wine, so we had ready-made candle holders. The kids we're a bit anxious, but I re-assured them that we had plenty of candles, and that I was capable of creating more candle holders quite rapidly.

The gas cook top continued to work, so instead of roasting potatoes, we pan-fried them. We cooked up a kilo or two of mussels, and hauled ice cream out of the freezer. We gorged ourselves by candlelight. Ceil led the kids in a few hands of cards, while I double-checked the supply of candle-holders.

The blackout gave us an excuse tp try out one of the fireplaces in our house. The landlord has several cords of firewood stacked behind the barn. After a few trips to the woodpile, and a setting light to a week's worth of the International Herald Tribune, we had a roaring fire. We kept it going most of the night, and re-lit it early the next day. It was very therapeutic. And we're really prepared for the next outage, having set aside several new candle-holders.

On Saturday afternoon, we managed to call the house-keeper -- a lovely woman with less English than I have French. It's hard enough to communicate in person, but speaking with her over the phone feels like playing charades in a very dark room. I seemed to get my point across, however, and she drove out to meet us.

Turns out it was not a general power failure, or wild-cat strike by the local utility workers -- the problem was limited to our house. Apparently, we were running too many appliances (and laptop computers) simultaneously, and managed to trip the main fuse for the property. Madame Gerrard showed us the fuse box (about 40 yards down the drive-way), and we re-set it.

As I walked back to the house to see if the lights were back on, I heard some terrifying shrieks through the windows -- I feared the worst: some accident involving a child catching on fire, or worse, one of my laptops being broken. But not to worry: the sound I heard was Miles celebrating our return to the 20th century -- running through the house, hooting and flipping switches on and off.

So, we're back on the grid: Internet, electricity, running water. All the comforts of home... except the ability to pick-up the phone and speak to someone in English... sigh.

Miss you folks.